by Troy Denning
The commander stepped closer. “You think that would matter to me?”
“Of course not.” Lando sneered with more confidence than he felt. “Even a space boulder like the Exquisite Death would destroy this barge in about three seconds. And what a pity that would be—no sacrifices for Yun-Yammka, and no more Jedi deliveries for your warmaster.”
“More Jeedai deliveries?” The blue beneath Duman Yaght’s eyes grew brighter. “You can bring more?”
“Only if Talfaglio is spared—I’m not doing this because I like you,” Lando said. “If you knew to intercept me here, then you know who I am. You know I can deliver.”
Duman Yaght lowered his chin in a vague nod. “I heard your message, yes.”
In the message, sent to what the Wraiths had identified as a Yuuzhan Vong listening post, Lando had claimed to be a Talfaglion native active in the Great River Jedi rescue organization. He had given just enough details of past operations to sound like a low-level pilot, then rambled on for a few minutes about how the Jedi were betraying him by allowing Talfaglio’s destruction. He had finished by naming a time and place and promising that anyone meeting him would be well rewarded.
Duman’s eyes remained fixed on the datapad, where the Jedi were beginning to discuss something in low tones. “You must know I cannot make promises on the warmaster’s behalf.”
“Then go ask for authority and meet me at the rendezvous,” Lando said. The next step had to be the Yuuzhan Vong’s; the mark had to think he was the one pushing things. “I’m not turning them over until I have his promise.”
The Yuuzhan Vong considered this a moment, then said, “You won’t make it that far.” He tapped the vid display with a blackened fingernail. “Your Jeedai are nervous. Let me take them now, and we will see what happens. The warmaster is certain to be interested—I can promise you that.”
“I don’t know,” Lando said, setting the hook. “I don’t see how you can handle so many Jedi aboard that little rock.”
“How we handle the slaves will not be your concern,” Duman Yaght said.
“It will be when they escape and hunt me down,” Lando said.
“They will not escape. You may be assured of that.”
“Sure I can,” Lando scoffed. Now that he had his mark pushing him, he could afford to take a few risks, and he wanted to know why Duman Yaght had been so quick to confirm he was carrying Jedi. “Maybe I should just go to the rendezvous point—”
“That is not one of your choices.” Duman Yaght’s voice remained mild. “You may turn them over to me and know that they will reach the warmaster, who may or may not be sufficiently impressed by your token of faith to spare Talfaglio’s refugees. Or you may release that button and be assured that when we die, a million of your people will die with us.”
Lando looked down and stroked his lip, not feigning his thoughtfulness at all. Duman Yaght’s confidence in his ability to control the Jedi concerned him, but he had pushed his quest for information as far as he dared. He could release the function key on his datapad and sound the abort alarm; he would almost certainly die, but they had planned for just such an emergency. The transfer deck’s inner hatch would seal automatically, then the detonite charges concealed in the exterior hatch of the air lock would explode into the boarding shuttle. Duman Yaght and the boarding party would be sucked out into space, and the Lady Luck would shoot around the comet and be in hyperspace before the Exquisite Death realized what was happening.
But the mission would be lost, more Jedi doomed—and why? Because Lando had an uneasy feeling about something Duman Yaght said? He shook his head in resignation.
“If you put it like that,” Lando said. It was not his place to abort the mission—not with so much riding on it, not even with the children of his best friend at risk. “But I’m no fool. I know how this works.”
“Good,” Duman Yaght said. “Then you also know that the lives of your fellows will rest on your shoulders. I’ll give you a villip so you can contact me when the next delivery is ready.”
Lando’s only response was a sigh of disgust.
“No need for rude noises.” Duman Yaght grabbed the back of Lando’s neck in what may have been a gesture of domination or friendship—or both. “This will work out well for both of us.”
The Yuuzhan Vong waved his subaltern and the boarding party forward, but Lando quickly blocked their way.
“No, I’ve got this all planned out,” he said. “My ship, my way—or you might as well call the volcano cannons down.”
The subaltern glowered, but looked to his commander for orders.
“As he wishes,” Duman Yaght smirked. “His ship, his way.”
Jacen had sensed only the single stirring in the Force, but everyone else had felt it, too, and now it was gone. He lifted another spoonful of green thakitillo to his mouth, but hardly tasted the zest of the dissolving curds. Even without Alema’s abrupt paleness and fluttering lekku, he would have recognized the burst of hungry agitation. Cilghal theorized that the initial disturbance came from the voxyn reaching out to find its prey, but Jacen wondered if it might be something simpler. To him, it felt more like raw animal excitement.
It was a feeling surprisingly close to that held by a number of Jacen’s fellow Jedi. The members of the strike team had opened their emotions to each other the instant they sensed the voxyn, and he could feel the eagerness of Ganner, Zekk, the Barabels, Eryl Besa, even Raynar to destroy the creature. Others—Tahiri, Lowbacca, Tekli, Ulaha—were surprised at how fast things were happening. Alema Rar was terrified—more of herself than the creature. Tenel Ka was grimly determined, Anakin absorbed in concerns about everyone else, Jovan Drark eager to begin the game. To Rodians, everything was a game.
Only Jaina, whose feelings Jacen could always sense through their bond as twins, seemed calm. Whatever came, warning or no warning, voxyn or not, they would handle it—or not. They had cast their fate to the Force, and now they had no choice but to trust where it carried them. It was a strange sort of composure born of battle and death and suffering, the grim serenity of the soldier, who was both maker and victim of the all-devouring cataclysm.
Jacen put another spoonful of thakitillo in his mouth. Beyond the dining area, he could feel the crew’s fear, Lando’s apprehension about something unknown to him, Tendra’s guilt as she approached the cabin door. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and crushed the curds, then savored the tangy explosion of their melting.
The galley door hissed open. Yarsroot, the ship’s Ho’Din chef, stepped into the dining cabin with his human assistant, both holding blasters behind their backs. It was the signal to follow the primary plan. Jacen extended himself to the other Jedi, going beyond the simple emotional connection the Barabels had taught them to a much deeper level, melding with the others until it seemed to him that he was them and they were all him. As the meld coordinator, he was to a certain extent trusting the others with his body; they had discovered that, at times, he might become so consumed by the sensations and feelings of others that he forgot to keep track of himself.
Lando’s tall wife entered the dining room from the main cabin, a nasty G-9 power blaster cradled in her arms. Zekk and Jovan instantly pushed away from the table and reached for their lightsabers. Tendra loosed a flurry of blue stun bolts, blasting both Jedi and red-haired Eryl into the wall—all as planned. Lowbacca and Krasov tried to rise and were dropped by stun shots from Yarsroot and his assistant, also as planned.
Feeling the impact of each bolt through the team’s battle meld, Jacen groaned and would have tumbled from his chair, had Tenel Ka not steadied him.
That was not part of the plan.
Tendra flipped her power blaster to full automatic/lethal. “Anyone else moves—or even looks my way—you all die.” She glanced at Ganner, supporting the role he was to play as the decoy leader. “That clear?”
“As transparisteel.” Ganner kept his eyes fixed on the center of the table. “Do as she says.”
The two crew members started around the table, unclipping the strike team’s lightsabers and tossing them down the food disposal chute—along with Lowbacca’s protesting translation droid, Em Teedee. Jacen experienced a moment of panic from Anakin and realized they had just run into their first problem. The disposal chutes still led to the flushlock instead of their weapons pod; they had intended to make the changeover after the evening meal. Jacen reached out to Jaina and moved some of her serenity toward Anakin. Nothing to be done about it. Follow the Force.
“Tendra, what’s all this about?” Ganner asked. This wasn’t in the script, but Ganner knew what was needed—Jacen could feel it. Ganner always knew. “Haven’t we been good guests?”
“The best,” Tendra replied. “Fitzgibbon just doesn’t like cowards.”
Jacen did not even feel Yarsroot’s assistant remove his lightsaber; he only saw it go down the chute with the others.
“Cowards?” Ganner asked. “What are you—”
“Talfaglio,” Tendra said simply. A native of nearby Sacorria, she did not need to work to make herself sound angry. “Now shut that fly hangar of yours and stand up. There’s someone who wants to see you—all of you.”
Back to the script. Jacen felt himself stand and turn toward the door, Tenel Ka close behind. She would be his watcher, her one arm strong enough to carry them both. Tendra stepped aside and motioned the strike team through the door. Down the corridor past the guest cabins and up three stairs onto the transfer deck. Things would be crowded—air lock, escape pods, who knows how many Yuuzhan Vong. Would the voxyn be there? Probably not—nobody could feel it yet.
Alema began to tremble, frightened not of the Yuuzhan Vong—she had killed dozens with her own hands, eluded hundreds more—but of herself. She had not expected to encounter a voxyn on the transit ship. Could she face one again, knowing what the first had done to her sister?
Jacen fed her the feelings of Raynar, who was comforting himself with the knowledge that the Twi’lek had done this stuff many times before. She had denied the Yuuzhan Vong New Plympto. She would get them through this. Alema’s lekku stopped shaking, and Jacen followed the unconscious Jedi—who were being levitated by five of their fellows—past Lando’s suite toward the guest cabins.
A door slid open behind Tenel Ka, and something blunt caught her between the shoulder blades. Jacen dropped to his knees and started to black out, then realized it was Tenel Ka’s body he was feeling and reached out to the others, calling upon their strength to keep them both conscious. When his vision cleared, Yuuzhan Vong filled the corridor.
At the head of the line, Ganner lunged for Lando. “You double-crossing—”
The blunt edge of an amphistaff caught the big Jedi across the back of the head, dropping him into a dark pit before Jacen could call on the others to keep him conscious. Not in the script—but probably for the best.
Point thirty: The crew departs. Tendra and Yarsroot retreated into the ship, leaving the strike team in the hands of the Yuuzhan Vong. There were only six guards on the transfer deck with Lando. The rest were down in the access corridor behind Anakin, flanking the long line of Jedi. Tesar Sebatyne, who was second in line, hesitated at the transfer deck and stared down at Ganner’s unconscious form.
A Yuuzhan Vong warrior, a large one with a spindly fringe of black hair, grabbed the Barabel and shoved him into the boarding suite. “Forward—all of you!”
Anakin suppressed a smirk and stepped over Ganner’s unconscious form. Tesar had played his role perfectly, forcing the Yuuzhan Vong to order the strike team to do exactly what the strike team wanted to. Anakin followed the Barabel to the far end of the deck and took his place across from the weapons locker. Tahiri and the other Jedi crowded after him, packing themselves just tightly enough to make room for the whole team—and not much else.
So far, events were proceeding more or less as planned. True, their lightsabers had been dropped into the flushlock. But Tendra and Yarsroot had taken extra “precautions” during the turnover to give the war droids time to retrieve the weapons. Anakin could feel the strike team’s confidence growing with every success. The empathic sharing strengthened everyone’s resolve and bound them to a common purpose, just as the Barabels had said it would, and Jacen was keeping him in touch with the group. Anakin sensed Alema Rar’s resolve harden and shared Tenel Ka’s surprise when she was struck from behind, and now he perceived Lowie’s mind stirring. No sooner had Anakin begun to worry about how a groggy Wookiee would impact their plans than he sensed Jacen reaching out to calm their waking friend. This was going to work great.
Once the crew was safely out of sight, Lando turned to a scar-faced Yuuzhan Vong and gestured at a fiberplast crate in front of the Lady Luck’s escape pod. “Perhaps the commander of the Exquisite Death would allow me to present him with a small gift?”
It was a subtle variation on point thirty-one, but a useful one. No one had expected the commander of the transit ship to supervise the transfer personally. This officer was an eager one.
When the enemy commander did not object, Lando removed several pairs of stun cuffs from the crate. Anakin expelled a long calming breath, using a Jedi relaxation technique to let a spike of anxiety flow out with it.
Lando held the cuffs in front of the commander. “A little something to keep the prisoners in line, Duman Yaght.”
Duman Yaght regarded the cuffs with a sneer. “What are those profanities?”
“Wrist restraints.” Lando opened a metal sleeve and displayed it proudly. “You see, I’ve thought of everything.”
Duman knocked the stun cuffs aside. “We have our own bindings.” He glared at Ganner’s unconscious form, which one of the strike team had levitated and placed in the center of the transfer deck with the other unconscious Jedi Knights. “Bindings that teach as well as restrain.”
Point thirty-two: The enemy acknowledges the offer. Anakin turned his palm toward the weapons locker and reached out with the Force, buckling the door panel inward. Lando and the Yuuzhan Vong spun toward the screal of crumpling durasteel. Ulaha closed the pressure hatch at her end of the transfer deck, sealing the rest of the enemy boarding party out in the access corridor.
Anakin twisted the door free and slammed it into Duman Yaght’s head. One Yuuzhan Vong warrior stepped over to defend his stunned commander, and the others—finding the space too cramped for amphistaffs—reached for their coufees. The strike team counterattacked in a flurry of kicks and blows, taking full advantage of the battle meld to keep the enemy too busy dodging and blocking to actually draw a weapon.
With the Force, Anakin jerked the blaster pistols from their locker mounts and hurled them across the transfer deck into the grasps of ten waiting Jedi. From the other side of the sealed hatch came muffled shouts and metallic thuds as the rest of the boarding party tried to break into the transfer deck, then Tesar half turned, whipping his thick reptilian tail into the ankles of Duman Yaght and his defender and sweeping both Yuuzhan Vong off their feet. He leveled his blaster at the commander’s head.
“Call off your scarheads,” the Barabel rasped.
Duman Yaght’s eyes flared with anger, and his guard, now lying behind Tesar, reached for his coufee. Anakin started to shout a warning, but Jacen had already felt his alarm and relayed it through the battle meld. The Barabel pivoted and brought his heel down, a long spike folding out to pin the warrior’s hand to the durasteel floor.
The tumult on the other side of the hatch suddenly fell silent, and Anakin guessed the situation on the transfer deck had been relayed to the officers of the Exquisite Death. He leveled his blaster pistol at Duman Yaght’s wounded protector and began to count. The war droids would need at least a thirty-second distraction to slip out of the Lady Luck’s disposal lock with the equipment pod and attach to the enemy shuttle. Anakin would have liked to give them a safety margin of t
wice that, but sixty seconds seemed like an eternity.
Tesar took his time pulling his heel spike out of the guard’s hand, then pressed his blaster to Duman Yaght’s face.
“Tell your warriorz to drop their weaponz,” the Barabel rasped.
Duman Yaght surprised Anakin and everyone else by responding with an admiring smirk. “Impressive. The reputation of the Jeedai is well deserved.”
Tesar’s only response was a hiss. If not for the battle meld, Anakin would have thought the Barabel confused, but he sensed through Jacen that Tesar was only stalling for time.
Two seconds later, Tesar snarled, “This one wantz surrender, not complimentz.”
“Then you are to be disappointed,” Duman replied. “You must know that before allowing seventeen Jeedai to escape, I’ll destroy this ship and everyone aboard it—myself included.”
“Wait a second,” Lando objected. He stepped forward, and Anakin’s count reached eight. “There’s no call for—”
“Silence! If you know anything about the Yuuzhan Vong, then you know we have no fear of death.” Duman looked back to Tesar. “You have five breaths.”
Finally, something they had not planned for. Desperate to thwart the deadline, Anakin stepped over and kicked the villips off the commander’s shoulder, crushed them beneath his foot.
“That will not save you,” the commander said. “I have a personal villip on the bridge of my ship, relaying every word I say.” He looked back to Tesar. “Three breaths.”
Though Anakin’s count had barely passed ten seconds, he knew better than to challenge the commander’s word. Having proclaimed his willingness to die, it was now a matter of honor to follow through. He watched Duman Yaght’s chest rise and fall two more times.
Lando must have been watching, as well; after the second breath, he snorted loudly. “Nobody’s going to slag my ship.” He started across the transfer deck to the inner hatch. “Not when there’s no reason for it.”