by James Luceno
Anakin grew pensive, then looked at Marcha. “You make it sound like everything is already set. It doesn’t sound like I’m really needed here.”
Marcha smiled faintly. “I wish that were so. But, in fact, the success of the strategy rests very much with you.”
Ebrihim explained. “The Defense Force has had their best people working nonstop to bring the entire network on-line, including the repulsors housed on the Five Brothers—Corellia, Drall, Selonia, Talus, and Tralus. The goal now is to slave all five planetary repulsors to Centerpoint itself, providing it with even greater power and range than it already enjoys from tapping the gravitic energies of the Double Worlds. Theoretically, the station will then be capable of creating interdiction fields wherever Admiral Sovv and the rest desire them to be created. Centerpoint would also have the ability to alter the course or location of distant planets, or cause stars to explode, as occurred twice during the crisis.”
“But the scientists have not yet been able to realize their ambitions,” Marcha emphasized. “As was the case during the crisis, the mysteries of Centerpoint continue to elude everyone. The station remains unpredictable and unstable, and at this point no one is certain that it can re-create a massive interdiction field, let alone that it can incite a distant star to go nova.
“And this is where you and you alone figure in the scheme, Anakin, because many of the scientists are convinced that the system still bears the imprint you imparted to the repulsor here on Drall, and that such a network can be brought into synchronization only by you.”
Ebrihim reinforced it. “Eight years ago you were responsible for disabling Centerpoint. Now you may be the only person who can successfully rehabilitate it.”
Concern shone from Anakin’s eyes. “Jacen sensed this from the beginning, but …” He glanced at everyone. “It’s not that I don’t trust what you’re telling me, but I have to go to Centerpoint and see for myself. I might be able to reenable it as a shield only. That way, Corellia and Drall and the rest can at least protect themselves from attack, no matter what plans the Defense Force or any others devise.”
Marcha smiled sadly. “Yes, perhaps you’ll be able to do just as you say, Anakin. But a word of warning before you go: When it came to reactivating the repulsors and the station, Coruscant had no choice but to call on many of those who were directly involved in fomenting the crisis.”
Anakin nodded. “The Sacorrian Triad, you mean.”
“Along with several others who played a role in those events,” Ebrihim said.
Marcha looked from her nephew to Anakin and Jacen. “It’s just this, boys: You may not like what you’re going to find on Centerpoint. Therefore, you must take care. Think carefully before you agree to anything.”
TWENTY-TWO
“We’ve got an inspector here from Comestibles and Curatives,” the sentry posted at the entrance to Salliche Ag’s district headquarters said into his comlink. “Human. Yeah, I already told him that we’d had some CCA folks through here last week, but he claims it’s a spot inspection. Yeah, all his documentation checks out.”
With his hair and beard dyed jet-black and a brimmed cap tugged low on his forehead, Han acted nonchalant while he waited outside the security booth. Baffle, who had dropped him at the gate, had assured him that the pale-green lightweight suit was standard issue for Comestibles and Curatives Administration inspectors, and in fact, the corpulent human sentry had scanned the computer-coded identity card with the indifference of one who had seen hundreds in his day.
“What areas you interested in seeing?” the man asked suddenly.
Han adopted an officious smile. “Divulging that information would effectively undermine the nature of my visit.”
The sentry frowned. “He isn’t saying,” he muttered into the comlink mouthpiece. “Claims it’ll spoil the surprise. No, I didn’t laugh either. Okay, he’ll be here when you arrive.” He switched off the comlink and returned the identity card to Han. “Sit tight, pal. An escort’s on the way.”
The casually dressed man who arrived moments later in a four-seater landspeeder was even heftier than the sentry and had the same sunburned and stubbled farmboy toughness. Both men were a world apart from the aristocratic Harbrights, who ran Salliche Ag and were apparently intent on throwing in with the Yuuzhan Vong. The escort took in Han as he approached the landspeeder, an alloy case dangling from his right hand.
“Surprised they haven’t retired you yet, old-timer,” he remarked. A name tag stitched to the pocket of his untucked shirt identified him as Bow.
So much for the deceptive qualities of hair dye, Han thought as he climbed into the rear seat of the speeder. “With any luck, this will be one of my last assignments.”
“You know, Salliche has never had a problem with you people,” Bow said around what remained of a toothpick protruding from between his front teeth. “We pay good money to see to that.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Han said, blinking. “I’m simply carrying out my assignment.”
“Fine. Just make sure you’re quick about it. I don’t have all day.”
Han forced a nervous laugh. “I’m as eager to have this over with as you are.”
They set off, but had traveled only a short distance when the Salliche man brought the landspeeder to a halt alongside a large map and directory. With some difficulty, Bow rotated in the front seat to face Han.
“Where to first? We can sample produce from a couple of nearby fields, or you can run your tests on random samples that have already been harvested.” He pointed north. “Shipping is over that way, in case you’re interested in cargo container decontamination procedures.”
Han pretended to study the map, then said, “Suppose we begin at product enhancement.”
Bow’s bushy brows knitted. “You’re kidding.”
Han cleared his throat. “Is there some problem?”
“No problem. I just hope CCA is paying you well.”
The landspeeder flew down narrow dirt roads, many of which twisted through fields of burrmillet waiting to be harvested. As tall as trees, the slender umber stalks of grain formed palisades to either side. Han’s nose alerted him to the fact that they were nearing the fertilizer works long before a sign announcing product enhancement came into view. At yet another checkpoint he was issued a disposable jumpsuit and a rebreather helmet with a tinted face bowl. Similarly outfitted, Bow led the way toward an enormous, flat-roofed warehouse, whose loading bays were crowded with banthas, rontos, and other beasts of burden, waiting to receive cargos of fertilizer.
Baffle had already explained that, in keeping with Salliche’s aim to please the antitech invaders, the company was in the process of switching over from machine-produced nutrients to live production; so Han wasn’t as surprised as he might have been to see thousands of craw-maws, wingles, and nightseers—genetically manipulated to be wingless and mute—being force-fed in cages and perches that lined the interior of the building. Beneath the cages, and filled to the brim with the avians’ abundant droppings, were wide troughs that funneled the manure to the loading bays for eventual dispersal. Other areas of the warehouse were given over to water tanks crammed with stink fish and fingerfins dredged from Ruan’s bountiful seas. Mashed by mallet, the fish were being tossed into the troughs to serve as a fertilizing additive.
Considering the debilitating effect it was having on some of the bare-faced Gotals, Bimms, and hapless others whose task it was to gather and shovel excrement overspill into the troughs, Han could well imagine the stench. But he could only guess at the offenses, real or trumped up, the former refugees had committed to have earned themselves such punishment. Among one group, knee-deep in the grounded avians’ ordure and leaning feebly against the wooden handle of his shovel, stood Droma.
“I’m going to run a few quick tests,” Han told Bow through the rebreather’s annunciator. He popped open the carry case and made as if to extract one of the test kits Baffle’s coterie of droids had provided, then stopped abrupt
ly and pointed to Droma in elaborate incredulity. “Is that … is that a Ryn?”
The Salliche man stared, then nodded his head. “Yeah. He’s new here.”
“New or not,” Han continued, growing more agitated as he spoke, “doesn’t anyone realize that Ryn have proscriptions against bathing and other habits most sapients consider essential to good health?”
“But he’s working with manure.”
“That is hardly the point. Do you know what would happen if word leaked that Salliche Ag has Ryn on the premises?”
“It’s only one Ryn,” Bow started to say.
“He’ll have to be removed this instant. I demand that he undergo a complete medical evaluation before he is permitted to return to work—even work of this sort.”
Letting his exasperation show, Bow prized a slim comlink from his shirt pocket and, raising the face bowl of his helmet, began to speak briskly into it.
Han wondered what Salliche Ag was going to do about replacing its comlinks and landspeeders if and when the Yuuzhan Vong showed up.
“All right,” Bow told Han a moment later, “we’re cleared to bring him to medical in the east wing.” He swung angrily toward Droma. “Ryn! Leave your shovel and get over here.”
Droma looked up, set the tool aside, and clomped toward them, shaking one leg, then the other, then his tail, in an effort to rid himself of some of the gray filth clinging to him.
“Whatever you do, don’t touch him,” Han warned Bow, “or you’ll have to be evaluated along with him.”
Reeking of dung, Droma stopped a few meters away, clearly without recognizing Han behind the rebreather mask.
“Hose him down!” Bow ordered a nearby worker.
Han winced as the high-pressure flow from a thick hose nearly swept Droma off his feet. “Ill-starred creatures,” he said, loud enough for the Salliche man to hear, “forever getting themselves into trouble.”
Bow puffed out his lips and nodded grimly. “You can say that again.”
With Droma dripping wet and looking hopelessly forlorn, Bow snapped stun cuffs around his wrists and shoved him toward the warehouse exit. At the checkpoint, Han surrendered the rebreather, deposited the jumpsuit into a shredder/recycler, and followed Droma into the rear seat of the landspeeder. Downcast, Droma didn’t glance at him until they were under way, and even then he didn’t recognize Han immediately. Then his eyes widened appreciably and his jaw dropped.
“Please, hurry,” Han shouted to Bow before Droma could ruin everything with a surprised outburst. “I find it quite distasteful to have to share a seat with this … malefactor.”
“East wing’s dead ahead,” Bow said over his shoulder.
Han exchanged veiled glances with Droma, but didn’t look at him again until the three of them were in a turbolift car, descending for the east wing’s sublevel-one medical lab. Then, throwing Droma a warning look, he drew a small blaster from the durinium shoulder holster the droids had fabricated, and pressed the weapon’s emitter nozzle to Bow’s temple.
“Do exactly as you’re told and you’ll walk away from this.” When the big man nodded in a manner that mixed surprise and anger, Han added, “Stop the lift and move to the far corner of the car, then key the stun cuff remote.” He cut his eyes briefly to Droma, then told the turbolift to ascend to level five.
Rubbing his freed wrists, Droma glanced at him. “We’re going up?”
“I’ve got a job to do.” Han gestured with his chin toward Bow. “You’ll have to deal with this one. Take him down to the maintenance sublevel and find a closet to stick him in. If he gives you any trouble, shoot him. Then meet me on level five.”
Bow worked his jaw, but managed to keep from saying anything that might provoke Droma to take Han at his word.
While the lift was climbing, Han stripped off the pale-green suit to reveal an expensive business suit beneath it. Droma’s curiosity was palpable.
“No time to explain,” Han said. Handing Droma the bundled-up suit and the open stun cuffs, he added, “Hold on to these; we’re going to need them later.”
At level five, he slipped a sheer glove onto his right hand and headed down a broad, gleaming corridor toward the transceiver room. In his left hand he palmed the fatal data card the droids had given him.
The handprint reader was housed in a niche alongside the control room door. When Han laid his gloved hand on the pad, the device’s screen identified him as Dees Harbright, cousin once removed of Count Borert Harbright and senior vice president of marketing for Salliche Ag, whom the black-bearded, finely tailored Han resembled—sufficiently, at any rate, to bring the half-dozen control room technicians to their feet as he entered.
“Sit down, everyone, sit down,” he said in the most cavalier tone he could muster. “I just wanted to have a look at our deactivation system. Are we operating on schedule?”
“One thousand two hundred fifty droids have been shut down and warehoused this quarter, sir,” a whip-thin female tech chirped. “During the same period, personnel acquisition division has succeeded in recruiting over three thousand refugees, who have agreed to remain on Ruan as employees.”
“Splendid, splendid,” Han said, moving about the room, the data card still palmed in his left hand. While the female tech went on to offer additional statistics, Han—with his back to a peripheral device he hoped would prove the path of least resistance—slotted the disk, which Baffle promised would literally disappear once it had worked its sorcery.
“We’re expecting to have at least fifteen hundred more droids warehoused by the end of the next quarter,” the cheerful woman was saying when the computer system loosed a series of strident tones that struck Han as the machine equivalent of a distress cry.
“System crash!” another technician shouted in obvious disbelief.
At every duty station, lights began to blink out, display screens went gray, and technicians did all but tear their hair out in an effort to resuscitate the system before it crossed over to wherever machine minds went when they crashed. So desperate were their efforts, Han experienced a twinge of guilt—at least until he reminded himself that the machine had been responsible for deactivating thousands of droids.
The mounting panic made it easy for him to slip out of the room unnoticed. The corridor was as quiet and brightly lit as it had been moments earlier, betraying nothing of the chaos ensuing in the control room. Adjusting the fit of his fine jacket, Han sauntered toward the turbolift, nodding with genteel suffrage to everyone he passed. As he neared the lift, Droma appeared from behind a plasteel pillar that had obviously served as his hiding place, the pale-green suit draped over one arm.
“Try not to look so guilty,” he whispered.
Han’s tight-lipped smile held. “Just get in the lift and put on the stun cuffs,” he said without moving his lips.
Once inside, though, his calm and well-mannered facade collapsed. Quickly, he slipped back into the inspector’s suit, then took the blaster from Droma and made certain it was armed.
“I won’t even venture a guess as to how you managed this,” Droma said as he donned the stun cuffs.
“Yeah, but it’d be fun to hear you try.” Han slid the blaster into his jacket pocket. “As soon as we hit the lobby, we make straight for the nearest exit, got it? Pretend you’re in my custody.”
Han stood facing the lift doors. When they parted, he couldn’t see across the lobby for the hundreds of droids that were rushing about and chattering incessantly, many of them hastening for the exits.
“I can’t help thinking you had something to do with this,” Droma said.
“Indirectly.” Han gestured to the closest exit that wasn’t completely blocked by droids. “That way.”
They stepped into the throng and were just short of the transparisteel exit doors when a gruff voice shouted, “There they are!”
Han failed to keep himself from turning around. Zeroing in on the voice, he saw Bow, now in the company of several security guards, pointing at him.
“I thought I told you to lock him away!” Han said.
“I did,” Droma argued. “I stuck him inside a room filled with deactivated droids.”
Han muttered a curse and drew the blaster. “No time for subtlety.”
Scarcely aiming, he placed a quartet of beams close enough to the guards to send them scurrying for cover. Crouching, he and Droma weaved their way through a tight press of droids and stumbled outside. Han spied Bow’s landspeeder and steered Droma toward it, as a mob of prattling droids spilled from the east wing and began to fan out across the surrounding lawns and parking lots. Throwing himself into the driver’s seat, Han grinned broadly.
“One thing you can always count on with farmboys,” he said to Droma, who had removed the cuffs and was settling into the passenger seat. “They never lock their vehicles.”
Han started the speeder’s repulsorlift engine. With both hands clamped on the steering wheel and his feet on the pedals, he maneuvered the speeder through a quick turn and shot for the frontage road.
“No use trying for the main gate,” he shouted above the whine of the triple turbines. “It’s sure to be shut tight by now! We’ll have to use the service roads. Some of them have to lead to the fields we passed on the way to Facility 17!”
“Better choose quickly,” Droma said, studying the small scanner display affixed to the passenger-side console. “We’ve got seven, make that eight vehicles converging on us from north, east, and west.”
Gritting his teeth, Han glanced at the towering stalks of grain that lined both sides of the frontage road. “Ah, who needs a road,” he said at last, veering due south, straight into the field.
The satellite feed to the district headquarters security section provided an unobstructed aerial view of the landspeeder pursuit. It was as if the cams were positioned one hundred meters above the ground rather than in stationary orbit, halfway to Ruan’s closest moon.