by James Luceno
Under the vigilant gaze of several Yuuzhan Vong guards, Randa sidled closer still, until he was practically belly to nose with the battered human imprisoned within the force field.
“I saw Skywalker once, long ago, perhaps as far back as thirteen of your years, during that sorry business involving Durga and his so-called Darksaber Project. Not that I had anything to do with Durga. I just happened to be visiting the Mulako Corporation Quarry when Skywalker—traveling incognito—showed up in the company of a slender, short-haired human female who seemed to be his paramour. Whatever became of that one, hmmm?”
The prisoner expelled a laugh through his broken nose. “I hear Mara Jade arranged for her permanent disappearance.”
Randa planted his hands on his belly and guffawed. “So are you in fact who Chine-kal says you are—or, should I say, his war coordinator says you are?”
Wurth Skidder’s split upper lip curled. “What do you want, Randa? Or have you just come here to gloat?”
“Gloat? Surely not, Jedi. Rather I’ve come to offer my sympathies. Not only for what Chine-kal has planned for you, but for what the Yuuzhan Vong have planned for the New Republic.”
“I suppose we should all follow your parent’s lead and roll over, is that the idea?”
Randa feigned weariness. “We all serve someone, Jedi—even you. What’s more, you misunderstand us. Though we command a significant volume of galactic space—as is only appropriate for beings of such size and longevity—we have never been empire builders. You insist on thinking of us as warlike, when in fact we share much with the reclusive Hapans.”
“Correction, Randa. The Hapans aren’t outlaws. They’re not interested in smuggling spice or organizing criminal activities wherever they set foot—or tail.”
Randa responded with elaborate chagrin. “Is this the voice of the moral minority I hear? Such vehemence makes me wonder if you aren’t one of those Jedi allied with Kyp Durron, who seems to be on a personal crusade to make the space lanes safe for all law-abiding citizens—despite the fact that many of the smugglers and pirates he has set his sights on served the New Republic in their own way.”
Skidder’s eyes, nearly swollen shut, managed to narrow slightly. “How long do you think the Yuuzhan Vong are going to tolerate your illicit ventures?”
Randa grinned. “My sense of the Yuuzhan Vong is that they have more tolerance for ‘outlaws,’ as you say, than they do for followers of the Force.” He laughed resonantly. “How does it feel to be seen as the chief impediment to progress, a purveyor of rampant evil? Soon, perhaps, you’ll know what it’s like to be hunted and preyed upon, as the Hutts have been in times past.”
Skidder returned Randa’s grin. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and the Yuuzhan Vong will turn that matter over to Borga.”
“Wouldn’t that be the height of irony—that the Hutts should be entrusted with safeguarding the peace and ensuring that justice triumphs?” Randa laughed again. “So long as we can continue to supply spice, I don’t suppose it would be too arduous a responsibility.”
“Your mother would be proud of you, Randa.”
“Your mother,” Chine-kal interrupted as he stormed into the hold, “has succeeded in spoiling my surprise.”
Perplexed, Randa pivoted to the commander.
“Actually, I have you to blame, Randa,” Chine-kal said when he reached the inhibition field. “You told Borga that I had managed to flush out a Jedi, and in turn Borga told my immediate superiors, who now wish to deprive me of the honor of presenting this one”—he gestured to Skidder—“to my superior’s superior.”
Randa’s eyes grew wide. “You mean that he is to be removed from the ship?”
“Presently.”
“But what of your plans to use him to tutor the yammosk in the ways of the Force?”
Chine-kal shrugged. “I will propose as much, and, who knows, this one may yet return to my care. In the meantime I’m certain that Supreme Commander Choka will find other uses for him.” He took a step back to gauge Skidder. “It might be prudent to break you before we surrender you to him. Early in our campaign, the Praetorite Vong applied the breaking to one of you, but that one tried to escape and had to be killed before the process was brought to completion. Did you know him, Jedi?”
Skidder tested the vigor of the dovin basals by moving to the edge of the field. “He was my friend.”
“Your friend?” Chine-kal said in surprise. “And now here you are. Perhaps you came to avenge him?” He paused, then smiled in revelation. “You did. You purposely allowed yourself to be captured on Gyndine, intent on seizing an opportunity to avenge him. But how could you have known that we had a yammosk aboard? And no wonder the yammosk took to you the way it did! Here I thought that my experiment was succeeding brilliantly, when you were effectively running your own experiment.”
Skidder said nothing.
Chine-kal looked at Randa. “I was under the impression that vengeance was outside the operating parameters of the Jedi Knights. Or is this one of the dark side?”
Randa shook his head. “He is not of the dark side, Commander. He and his kind simply take a more liberal approach to defending the peace.”
Chine-kal grew serious. “In that case, it is incumbent on me to purge him of some of his hatred before he is released. I won’t have Supreme Commander Choka getting more than he bargained for.”
Chine-kal turned and headed for the passageway. “Finish your business with him, Randa,” he added without turning around. “It’s unlikely you will see him again.”
Randa watched the commander leave the hold, then he pressed himself as close to the inhibition field as possible. “They’re planning to betray me!” he whispered harshly. “To subject me to the yammosk as they did with you! Help me, Jedi. Save me from them, and I will do anything you ask of me!”
TWENTY
“They forged what?” Han asked.
Baffle’s auditory sensors were capable of perceiving the merest whisper, but the question—-pumped up by puzzlement—could be heard over the clamor in the spaceport terminal.
“Travel vouchers of some sort,” Baffle said distractedly.
Hardwired into a columnar data bank, the droid returned to accessing information, while all around them—in a frenzy of clashing colors and commingled smells—scurried mixed-species groups of refugees, pilots, translators, and uniformed officials.
“From what I can ascertain,” Baffle updated a moment later, “Droma’s clanmates are accused of having forged documents of transit that permitted several hundred exiles—including all thirty-seven Ryn who were housed at Facility 17—to depart Ruan aboard a commercial freighter.”
Han ran his hand down his face. Depart! He and Droma had arrived too late. The Ryn were gone, and now Droma was under arrest—just for being a Ryn.
“See if you can get the name of the ship.”
Baffle made adjustments to the hardwire’s retrieval regulator. “The vessel is called the Trevee,” he announced as if reading from a display screen, when in fact the data was going straight to his neural processor. “It has a Nar Shaddaa registry.”
Han groaned, then tightened his lips in negation. Maybe it wasn’t the Tholatin group. All sorts of relief groups were in the legitimate business of providing transport to stranded refugees, and the Trevee might belong to any one of them, despite its Hutt space registry. The Ryn had probably thrown in with a group of desperate exiles, and had resorted to forgery only to secure onward passage.
“Why would Salliche care about a group of refugees traveling on forged documents?” he asked at last. “The whole idea is to get everyone relocated, right?”
Baffle divided his attention between Han and the rapid flow of data. “Even though Salliche Ag has been earnest in its attempts to entice refugees to remain onworld, the company wouldn’t ordinarily demand retribution for such an offense. In this instance, though, the Ryn are accused of conspiracy in addition to forgery. It seems that the captain and crew of the Trevee are
themselves suspected of fraud. In recent months, instead of discharging their obligations to provide safe passage to other worlds, they have been known to abandon their passengers at destinations other than those promised.”
Grumbling to himself, Han stormed through a circle on the heavily scuffed floor. Tholatin’s security chief had said that refugees were often marooned on worlds subsequently targeted for attack by the Yuuzhan Vong, which meant that Droma’s clanmates might have flipped themselves inadvertently from the cooker to the heating element.
“See if the Trevee filed a flight plan with Ruan control.”
Baffle set himself to the task. “Yes, here we are,” he said, photoreceptors brightening. “The Trevee launched for Abregado-rae.”
Han’s brows beetled. He could see where Abregadorae, another Core world, might be more desirable than Ruan as a place to be stranded. But in terms of the Yuuzhan Vong, the place had less strategic value than Gyndine or Tynna.
“That’s odd,” Baffle said suddenly.
“What? What’s odd?”
The droid turned away from the column to look at him. “A notation appended to the flight plan states that the Trevee’s actual hyperspace jump was better suited to a destination Rimward of Abregado-rae along the Rimma Trade Route—perhaps to Thyferra or Yag’Dhul.”
Han considered it. Yag’Dhul, tempestuous homeworld of the exoskeletal Givin, made even less sense than Abregado-rae. But Thyferra—the galaxy’s principal source of bacta—clicked as both a tempting destination and a potential target, albeit a well-defended one.
He began to pace. If he left immediately for Thyferra, he stood a good chance of finding Droma’s clanmates long before the Yuuzhan Vong hit the world, but there was no telling what might happen to Droma in his absence. By contrast, remaining on Ruan for Droma’s sake could jeopardize the lives of the thirty-seven missing Ryn.
“Thyferra seems infinitely preferable to Yag’Dhul,” Baffle remarked casually.
Han glanced at him. “I thought you said you’ve been on Ruan since your activation at Fondor.”
“That’s true—to the best of my knowledge. Though I do wonder sometimes if I may have traveled more than I realize.”
Han’s eyes narrowed. “But you’re certain you never studied the workings of war droids with a Ruurian named Skynx?”
“I’m almost certain I haven’t.”
“Almost,” Han snorted. “For a labor droid, you’re pretty good at data retrieval.”
“Ah, but that’s easily explained,” Baffle said. “Before I was delegated to drive, I worked at district headquarters, overseeing the reassignment of droids retired from agricultural field work.”
“Desk job.”
“Not really, since I performed most of my tasks standing up.” Baffle paused briefly, then said, “Sir, if you wish, I could be of some assistance in freeing your partner from captivity.”
“He’s not my partner,” Han snapped.
“Your travel companion, then.”
Han stared at the droid for a moment, then exhaled forcefully. “Okay, let’s hear it.”
Baffle didn’t respond immediately, and when he did there was a note of gravity in his tone of voice that hadn’t been evident earlier. “Sir, can I trust that you will refrain from disclosing any of what I’m about to tell or show you, no matter what decision you reach regarding the Ryn?”
Han laughed through his nose. “Labor droid, my eye.”
“Do I have your word, sir?”
“Sure,” Han said. “I’m terrific at keeping secrets.” He watched Baffle make another adjustment to the hardwire regulator. “Now what are you up to?”
“I’m simply alerting some of my comrades that we’ll be joining them.” Baffle unplugged from the data column and began to move off, then stopped. “If you’ll follow me, sir.”
As surreptitiously as possible, they slipped through an innocuous-looking doorway in the terminal’s east wall and rode an ancient cable-operated car down through several basement and subbasement levels. Exiting the lift, Baffle led Han past banks of deafening turbine power plants, then into a maze of service corridors that coursed beneath the spaceport’s landing platforms and docking bays. Along the way, two other droids joined them, a lanky, vaguely humaniform 8D8 blast-furnace operator and an arachnidlike systems control droid propelled by a set of telescoping legs. Ultimately, they entered a heavy-doored and dimly lighted storage room, in which no fewer than thirty droids of various types were already gathered.
Scanning the machines, Han spotted an old P2 unit, with mangled grasper arms emerging from its domed head; a helmet-headed military protocol droid; a U2C1 housekeeping droid, with long pleated hoses for arms; an asp, whose head resembled a welder’s mask; an insectile-eyed J9 worker; two tank-treaded, trash-barrel-bodied C2-R4s; even a skeletal and long-obsolete Cybot LE repair droid.
Han felt as if he’d been swallowed by a Jawa sand-crawler, but he kept the thought to himself.
A few moments of lightning-fast machine code was all it took for Baffle to bring the others up to speed on Han’s predicament. Sprinkled among the subsequent chatterings, Han heard what sounded like the word Ryn—at least the way machines might articulate it. Eventually, heads and sensor appendages of wide assortment swung to observe him.
Slightly unnerved, Han uttered a short laugh. “Hey, it’s been a while since I’ve spoken droid, fellas.”
Baffle apologized for the lot of them. “We sometimes forget that the speed of the flesh-and-blood brain lags far behind that of our processors.”
Han scowled. “Skip the sales pitch, Long Reach, and tell me what I’ve gotten myself into.”
Baffle gestured toward the globe-headed systems control droid who had rendezvoused with them in the maintenance tunnels. “Pip here has succeeded in locating Droma. As I might have surmised, he is not being held at Facility 17, but at Salliche Ag’s district headquarters, where he is to be arraigned on charges and sentenced.” The droid paused to attend to chirps from the P2 unit. “If convicted of conspiracy, the minimum sentence is five years of hard labor.”
Squatting on its several legs, the systems control droid projected a faintly blue hologram of a sprawling complex, built into a hillside that overlooked a far-reaching quilt of cultivated fields.
“The area where Droma is currently being held is denied to droids,” Baffle went on, “but a human—such as yourself—should have no trouble reaching him.”
A highlighted portion of the hologram expanded into a close-up of the foot of the hill, where a system of containment pools and aqueducts directed water into a labyrinth of deep irrigation ditches.
“What am I supposed to do, just march in there and grab him?” Han asked.
Baffle chittered to Pip, who immediately displayed holograms of uniforms and identity badges, some of which were emblazoned with Salliche Ag’s corporate logo.
“We can provide you with the necessary clothing and documentation,” Baffle elaborated, “along with maps and whatever else you may require to familiarize yourself with the layout of the district headquarters and its immediate surroundings. We can also arrange for authentication by the security devices you will encounter, although it will be your responsibility to persuade the flesh and bloods with whom you come in contact that you are indeed whom your credentials describe you to be. It will also be your responsibility to locate and rescue Droma, and to make your escape by whatever route you see fit to take.”
Chin in hand, Han circled the holographic projections. “I’d need a concealable weapon.”
“A weapon can be provided.”
Han stopped and glanced around. “Not to seem ungrateful, but I get the feeling you’re not doing this out of the goodness of your programming. What’s the catch?”
The droids toodled and buzzed for a moment.
“In return for our assistance,” Baffle said, “we would ask that you do something for us.” New holograms resolved in midair, showing detailed views of the interior of the headquarte
rs building. “In a room on the fifth level of the east wing are the master controls for a transceiver/rectenna array that serves as a monitoring system for this district’s several thousand droid workers—all of whom are outfitted with shutdown sensors that can be remotely activated.”
Han studied the holo of the master controls. “So the transceiver functions as a kind of remote restraining bolt.”
“That would describe it.”
Han grinned. “And you want me to disable it.”
“I might have used the word sabotage,” Baffle said.
Han circled the new hologram. “If you can arrange to get me past the building’s security scanners, why can’t you do the job yourselves?”
“The transceiver is a stand-alone apparatus, and the entire east wing is accessible only to flesh and bloods. Entry requires a palm print—”
“Which you can provide,” Han said, wishing Droma were there to hear him say it. He stopped to scrutinize the holographic controls. “Is there a code that will disarm the system?”
“Because we have never had access to the transceiver, blunt trauma might be the most effective course of action. However, we would be happy to provide you with a data card containing a machine virus that should serve the same end.”
“What happens then?”
“With the transceiver disabled, the thousands of droids Salliche Ag has already deactivated will be free to escape imprisonment.”
Han glanced from droid to droid in growing misgiving. “Let me get this straight,” he said into an eerie silence. “Salliche has a bunch of droids—er, you folks—on ice. Why?”
“Salliche Ag would have everyone believe that the employment of flesh and bloods allows them to boast of providing ‘handpicked’ foodstuffs. But in fact, the company is phasing out droid workers as a means of demonstrating compliance with the antimachine tenets of the Yuuzhan Vong. Tens of thousands of deactivated droids will be Ruan’s welcome gift to the invaders when they reach the Core.”