by James Luceno
Before Han could call out to him, the speeder was carried over the top of a sluice gate and down through a stretch of cataracts where the landscape was terraced. Droma disappeared under the rapids, then surfaced, only to disappear once more. Ultimately he heard Han’s call over the noise of the rain and echoing thunder and lifted one arm free of the current in a panicked wave.
Precariously balanced in the pitching vehicle, Han stretched out both hands and grabbed hold of Droma as the landspeeder shot past him. The weight of the waterlogged Ryn almost dragged Han out of the cab, but Droma helped by hooking his tail around a rear seat headrest and hauling himself aboard.
“You can just drop me at the next intersection,” he said, collapsed onto the seat and panting.
“How far do you figure the river is?” Han shouted.
“Close,” Droma said, tugging himself into a sitting position. “I’m just glad to be out …”
A persistent rumbling noise erased the rest of it. Han glanced at the sky, then put the edge of his hand to his brow and peered over the bouncing nose of the speeder. The rain and the tall stalks of grain to either side made it difficult to see anything, but dead ahead the fields seemed to end abruptly.
“What’s that noise?” Droma asked suddenly.
Han whirled on him. “You said that the map showed this ditch running directly into the river?”
Droma nodded uncertainly.
“Think hard: Was it a topographical map?”
Droma tugged on his mustache in thought. “Come to think of it, it was.”
“And were there a whole bunch of parallel lines where the ditch met the river?”
Droma’s eyes opened wide.
“Hold on!” Han yelled, even as the landspeeder was tipping forward.
The waterfall was no more than fifteen meters high, but the strength of the current was such that the speeder was propelled right out of the water as it went over the brink. For the briefest moment it seemed as if they would nose-dive into the swollen river below, but then the stern of the landspeeder began to tip forward inexorably, and a heartbeat later the vehicle was upside down, spilling its contents of passengers and porridge into yet another muddy deluge.
Han made his body rigid as he fell, breaking the water with his feet and letting momentum carry him along. Above him he heard the concussive report of the landspeeder slamming into the river facedown. Ascending, he feared that he might surface directly under the inverted cab, but as it happened he and Droma emerged with the landspeeder between and slightly ahead of them.
Han raised his hand and pointed to the southern bank, which was not only closer but also a lot less steep.
“Can you make it?”
“I’m not a very strong swimmer!” Droma replied with a note of desperation.
Han maneuvered alongside him and hooked his left arm around Droma’s waist. “Just kick like mad. Leave the steering to me.”
Droma nodded. “Just be sure to miss those rocks.”
Han twisted around to see them closing fast on whitewater rapids, made all the more perilous by protruding boulders. He let go of Droma and rolled over onto his back, paddling hard to keep his head above water. Caught in the current, there was nothing to do but surrender to it and hope for the best.
The first drop took them across the face of a water-smoothed boulder and down into a pocket, from which they were quickly flushed down another drop. Skirting the edge of a froth-covered whirlpool, they rode a sinuous course between tall rocks, then plunged several meters into a swirling pool. Off to Han’s left the landspeeder rammed into a sloping rock, went airborne in an end-over-end flip, and wound up impaled on a sharp-topped rock. Droma followed, barely missing the same rock and falling like a stone into the pool.
As suddenly as they had appeared, the cataracts were behind them, but the current was still strong enough to keep the swimmers from reaching the bank. Allowing the current to buoy him, Han craned his neck to get a look at what lay ahead. More white water came into view, but this time without rapids. Instead, a line of turbulence stretched clear across the river, as if the flow was being impeded by something just below the surface. Blinking water out of his eyes, Han saw through the rain that they were headed straight into a fine-mesh net strung bank to bank.
The resilient net gave as they struck it, but the current pinned them in place. Han was trying to claw his way along the net to the closer shore when a new sound from upstream compelled him to look over his shoulder. Soaring toward them on repulsorlift power a meter above the river was what might have been a flying garbage bin, except for the fact that it was equipped with a pair of reverse-articulated manipulator arms, which ended in padded jaws. Lights on the garbage bin’s front panel blinked and tones sounded, as if in excitement at locating what it obviously had been sent to retrieve.
The same panel bore the corporate logo of Salliche Ag.
The three-meter-tall box slowed and hovered directly over the net. Han and Droma squirmed to avoid the thing’s extending arms, but with scant effort the padded jaws succeeded in clamping around their waists and plucking them from the mesh. Lifting them out of the river, the arms swung inward. Hatch doors on the machine’s dorsal surface hissed open, revealing a dark interior chamber waiting to receive them.
They alighted on a cushioned floor. The hatch doors closed before either of them could scramble out, and the garbage bin began to move away from the river in a southerly direction. In the amber glow of telltales, Han ran his hands over the walls, bringing them to a halt at an arrangement of sprayer nozzles. Then he cursed in sudden recognition of just what had captured them.
“This is a Scout Collector!”
“A what collector?” Droma asked, distressed even in ignorance.
“A biological specimen collector. We’re going to be flash-frozen!”
They got to their feet and began to leap up and down, pounding their hands ineffectually on the underside of the compartment doors. Giving up on the effort, Droma dropped down on his haunches, breathing hard, and eventually Han joined him.
“The hand of fate,” Droma said nastily. “But you still owe me one life.”
Han turned to him. “What are you talking about?”
“I saved you aboard the Queen of Empire when Reck made you jump into the drop shaft, then I freed you from the Falcon’s escape pod when Elan was trying to kill you.”
“Yeah, so who just yanked you out of the drainage ditch?”
“That’s the one I’m counting,” Droma said.
“What about my getting you out of district headquarters in one piece?”
“That was a rescue, not a life-save. We don’t know that my life was endangered, so the best we could say is that you rescued me from imprisonment.”
Han shook his head and laughed. “All right, I still owe you one.”
“Then pay up now—get us out of here.”
Han clapped Droma on the back, then grew serious. “Listen, in case we don’t get out of this, it’s been good flying with you.”
“I know,” Droma said flatly, then added, “You mean that—about flying together?”
“I did mean it. Now I’m not so sure.”
Han heard the Scout Collector’s repulsorlifts cut in, and he stood up. “We’re landing. If they open the hatches before our frost bath, we go for them, agreed?”
Droma extended his hand and Han shook it.
The Collector settled down to the ground. Noises could be heard from outside, then the hatches began to open. Han and Droma prepared themselves.
“Thank goodness you’re alive,” a droid voice said.
Han stared, waiting for his eyes to adjust to bright, overhead lights. “Baffle?”
A ladder was lowered into the interior, and Han and Droma clambered out. The Collector had put down in a spacious indoor facility. Overhead rumbles told Han that they were underground. Dozens of droids were about, articulating greetings in their own fashion.
“These must be the friends you menti
oned,” Droma surmised, shaking water off himself like a howlrunner.
“How the heck did you find us?” Han asked.
“We have been monitoring all developments,” Baffle said. “Security scanners, security team exchanges, satellite-supplied real-time opticals, even the irrigation and sluice-gate control systems. When we ascertained that you were being carried to the river, we quickly arranged for the net and Scout Collector—a vehicle that has been in storage for some time.”
“Where are we?” Droma asked, once beyond his astonishment.
“Beneath the spaceport.” Baffle indicated a nearby tunnel. “This leads directly to the bay where your freighter is docked.”
Han looked at Droma and grinned smugly.
“Thank you for all you have accomplished,” Baffle said, speaking for all the droids.
Han nodded in dismissal, then narrowed his eyes. “Listen, if you were monitoring us, then so was Salliche. They probably have satcam recordings of exactly what happened at the river. All of you had better clear out of here—fast.”
“Our capture won’t matter. Our goal has been accomplished. Already we are in the process of removing the remote restrainers from many of the droids you freed, and our protest demonstration is moving from the planning stage to actuality.”
“Protest demonstration?” Droma asked.
“I’ll explain later.” Han turned to Baffle. “After what you’ve done, I almost hate to ask, but were you able to gather any data on the Trevee?”
“Yes. Our original supposition that the ship was headed for a destination Rimward of Abregado-rae was correct. That destination, however, is neither Thyferra nor Yag’Dhul, but the very place of my activation: Fondor.”
The name practically screamed to Han. An industrial planet in the system of the same name, Fondor was famous for its huge, orbital construction facilities. During the Rebellion, Fondor’s shipyards had turned out several Super-class Star Destroyers.
Han turned to Droma. “Fondor is where we’ll find your clanmates.”
Droma looked puzzled. “Then they’re obviously not at Facility 17.”
Han shook his head. “We got here too late. They cut a deal with the Tholatin crew. The Trevee is their ship.”
Droma stared at him in anguished disbelief.
“If I might make a suggestion, sirs,” Baffle said. “You could save yourselves three hyperspace jumps by using the seldom-used Gandeal-Fondor hyperlane. It was originally blazed by the Empire to move ships efficiently between Fondor and Coruscant, and I’m certain we could provide you with the necessary jump coordinates.”
Han smiled broadly. “You’re some droid, Baffle. I hope your message gets out.”
“Oh, it will, sir. With the HoloNet attention our protest receives, droids throughout the galaxy will stand up for their rights.”
“They’ll have you to thank for it.”
“I am merely a part of a greater whole,” Baffle said, without affect. “It is my duty to do all I can for my comrades.”
Han and Droma traded brief glances. “And ours,” Han said.
* * *
Fixed in place by a dollop of organic adhesive, Wurth Skidder tracked Chine-kal as the commander completed his second circle around him. Concentric to Chine-kal’s circuit stood a dozen guards armed with amphistaffs and other weapons.
“I’m surprised that your powers don’t allow you to break free of our blorash jelly,” Chine-kal mused as he glanced at Skidder’s immobilized feet. “Perhaps you’re not as powerful as we think you are.”
In a flash of anger Skidder drew on the Force to create a vacuum around the Yuuzhan Vong’s head.
Chine-kal gasped, and his hands flew to his throat. “Very good,” he rasped when the Force bubble dissipated. “Very good.” He breathed deeply. “Show me something else.”
The venomous look in Skidder’s eyes was proof that he was at least considering it, but the look was shortlived and soon replaced by a disdainful smile.
“You don’t want to hurl me off my feet?” Chine-kal asked. “Put words in my mouth? Fasten me to the deck as I have you?”
Skidder said nothing.
“Can you levitate yourself as easily as you do objects?” When Skidder couldn’t be goaded into responding, Chine-kal heaved a purposeful sigh. “Your reluctance to fight is as disappointing as it is incomprehensible. You—the Jedi—are a threat to us, and we are eager to exterminate you. And yet while we’re a clear threat to you, you do little more than slink about, offering support or intelligence, but never really participating as warriors. Is that why you term yourselves guardians rather than soldiers?”
Chine-kal waved a hand to signal that he was being rhetorical. “Since you and our yammosk already have a relationship, I’ll have to think of a different method of breaking you. But you will be broken in the end.” He fell silent for a moment, then said, “Let me show you something.”
The commander moved to the membranous bulkhead that was actually the outer wall of the starship and voiced a command that rendered a portion of it transparent. A gibbous planet of blue seas and green and brown landmasses hung in the blackness. Closer was a moon of fair size, what could be seen of its bright-side hemisphere dominated by a domed city.
“Do you recognize it?” Chine-kal asked. “The planet is Kalarba, and the moon is Hosk. The domed city is called Hosk Station, and is apparently something of a technological wonder, filled with droids and other machine aberrations.” He turned to Skidder. “To us, the Jedi are no better than the machines the sundry species of this galaxy befriend as if they were living beings. The Jedi are as much a profanation of nature as Hosk Station is a desecration of the moon it has overwhelmed. I am therefore going to order the moon destroyed. You may consider the destruction indicative of the horrors that await your mind during the breaking.”
Chine-kal turned to one of his junior officers. But before he could utter another word, the hull suddenly returned to its opaque state and the ship was jolted strongly enough to send everyone but the jelly-secured Jedi to the deck. A subaltern staggered into the hold while Chine-kal and the guards were struggling to regain their footing.
“Commander, we are under attack!”
Chine-kal blanched. “Attack? There was no sign of New Republic warships when we entered this system.”
“The aggressors are starfighters, Commander. They were lying in wait behind the second of Kalarba’s moons.”
“Then why aren’t our escort ships repelling them?”
“With eight coralskippers already destroyed, some of the starfighters are succeeding in reaching the ship.”
“Where is the vessel Supreme Commander Choka dispatched?”
“It has not yet arrived.”
Another powerful explosion rocked the ship. Hurrying to Chine-kal’s side, the subaltern barely managed to keep him from stumbling to the deck.
“The pilots are targeting our dovin basal drivers, Commander.”
“Our drivers?”
“Their intent is to cripple us.”
Chine-kal swung to Skidder, who was deep in contemplation. “They’ve come for you. But how could they know we were here? Unless, of course, they are Jedi.” He stared at Skidder, then shook his head. “No, not even you have the ability to call across space to your confederates.” He glanced at his subaltern. “But this sneak attack is no accident.”
“Commander,” the junior officer said cautiously, “Supreme Commander Choka’s villip communication originated on Nal Hutta.”
Chine-kal took a moment to consider it, then scowled in revelation. “The Hutts divulged our location.” He squared his shoulders and adjusted the fall of his cloak. “Ready the ship for lightspeed. We’ll rendezvous with the fleet in the target system.”
The subaltern’s hands flew to his shoulders, but he remained where he was. “Commander, is it advisable to show ourselves in advance of the fleet?”
Chine-kal glowered at him. “Would you risk allowing the yammosk to sustain damage here
, at the hands of a group of would-be rescuers?”
The subaltern offered a second, chastened salute. “No, Commander.”
“Then do as I say. And one more thing: See to it that Randa and his bodyguards are confined to their chambers. We’ll deal with him once we have the protection of the fleet.”
Close to Hosk, Kyp Durron urged his X-wing on, even though he knew that he would not be able to overtake the accelerating Yuuzhan Vong clustership.
“It’s going to jump,” Ganner told him over the net.
“My droid’s telling me the same thing,” Kyp responded. He opened the net to the rest of the Dozen. “Listen up, everyone. Set your navicomputers to record vanishing bearings and calculate possible course projections. Deak, see if you can’t tag that ship with a hyperspace beacon before it gets away.”
“I’m on it, Kyp.”
Not a moment later the enemy vessel vanished. Kyp fixed his eyes on the cockpit display screen while the craft’s astromech unit went to work on plotting the vessel’s possible destinations. Shortly, a list of star systems resolved on-screen, the most probable one highlighted in blue and flashing.
“I’ve got a high-confidence objective,” Ganner reported.
“Likewise,” Deak and a couple of the others added.
“Let’s hear it,” Kyp told them.
“Fondor,” five voices said in unison.
In Hutt space, Nas Choka, Malik Carr, and Nom Anor stood on the bridge of the supreme commander’s helix battleship watching a villip-choir feed of the fleet mobilization.
A subaltern interrupted their captivation.
“Supreme Commander,” he began, saluting, “a message from the commander of the craft sent to collect the captured Jedi. Coralskipper pilots encountered at Kalarba report that the Crèche fell under attack by a battle group of New Republic starfighters. Endangered, Commander Chine-kal’s vessel fled the fray.”
Nas Choka stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Fled to where?”
“To the target, Supreme Commander. To Fondor.”