Already, Lemelisk found himself longing to be alone with his plans and his dreams. But to make his brainchild a reality, he had to make certain sacrifices.
As always, Bevel Lemelisk would do his duty, even if it cost him his life … again.
CHAPTER 30
The New Republic fleet engaged in out-system/in-system speed trials and maneuverability runs. Ackbar’s ships leap-frogged Wedge’s squadrons as they pushed their piloting skills to the limits, always remaining on call should trouble arise for the Chief of State.
Fortunately, everything had been quiet for several days, and it did not appear that the Hutts were going to be a problem. Leia sent word that she believed her mission would be over in a day or two, so General Wedge Antilles, taking the opportunity to apply for some rest and recreation, accompanied Qwi Xux down to the Smugglers’ Moon.
“You always take me to such interesting places, Wedge,” Qwi told him, staring around at the seedy sections of Nar Shaddaa, her indigo eyes filled with amazement, and drinking in details.
Wedge laughed. “Well, this isn’t exactly one of the more … romantic places I’ve shown you.”
Qwi shrugged and tossed her head. Her hair was like a mass of spun crystal fragments, pearly white strands made of fine feathers that sparkled around her head. “No, but it’s still fascinating,” she said. She had an elfin appearance with a faint blue tinge to her skin that gave her an exotic charm—yet she looked and acted completely human.
Qwi Xux had been brainwashed as a child to become a weapons designer for the Empire. In Maw Installation she had helped design the original Death Star with Bevel Lemelisk, and she had developed the Sun Crusher by herself. She remembered little of that, however, because young Kyp Durron, flooded with dark side powers, had erased much of her memory in a disastrous attempt to make it impossible for anyone to re-create such weapons. Despite her many ordeals, Qwi retained a childlike sense of wonder at discovering new things. Wedge found it endearing, and he loved her more with each day he spent at her side.
They left their small shuttle at the Port Authority and paid a fee to guarantee its protection—an exorbitant enough price that Wedge was reasonably sure they would have no troubles. He wore no uniform, only a nondescript jumpsuit in the pockets of which he had stashed an assortment of weapons, communicators, and locator beacons. They should be fine.
Nar Shaddaa was a nightmare of decrepit buildings, empty warehouses, and closed doors marked “Keep Out” in numerous languages. Low-level fliers cruised across the sky, belching smoke from poorly tuned engines. Industrial processing centers spewed toxic wastes into the air and down drainage pipes.
The atmosphere itself was murky and oily, laden with vapors that made visibility equivalent to looking through a glass of dirty water. The planet Nal Hutta filled much of the stained sky, a bruised green, blue, and brown sphere, rising halfway over the horizon like a heavy-lidded eye.
Wedge and Qwi strolled along the stuttering glidewalk, looking at flashing signs that advertised bizarre services. Giant, open repair bays yawned wide, full of dismantled parts stolen from ships that hadn’t paid exorbitant protection money, as Wedge had done. The Smugglers’ Moon seemed like a world-size mechanics’ shop, dingy and grease-stained, filled with discarded components that might eventually find some use, or just as likely might remain forgotten in a corner until the end of the universe.
Vendors wedged their carts into alleys under waterproof canopies that deflected the droplets drizzling from overhead gutters. A plantlike alien sold sizzling hunks of bluish meat on a stick; beside it, a fanged carnivore sold sliced vegetables. The two glared at each other with animosity.
They passed gambling establishments and card-reading cubicles, where fortunes were told, or made, or lost. Qwi blinked as she watched a random game of blinking lights and metal spheres hurled by the players. If the players managed to strike one of the lights while it was illuminated, they won some sort of prize, usually a coupon to play another round of the game.
Wedge found the nuances incomprehensible, but as Qwi absorbed them she slowly shook her head. “The probabilities make this game extraordinarily difficult to win,” she said.
Wedge smiled. “Now you’re starting to understand.”
A pair of rickety old starships roared overhead, and the sounds of explosions made Wedge glance up. The two ships fired upon each other, and the pursuing ship exploded into a cloud of shrapnel that rained down on the buildings. Across a yawning open space, Wedge watched patrons seated on an outdoor balcony run for their lives as smoldering chunks of metal pelted the building. The victorious ship continued to limp away, its damaged engines faltering; then, with a hollow-sounding boom, the engines gave out, and the ship spiraled down into the distance, where it crashed.
In a parking area for maintenance vehicles, Qwi stopped to inspect a vendor’s table of trinkets and exotica, including boots made from rancor leather and glistening claws that he claimed came from wampa ice creatures.
“How do we know these are real?” Qwi asked the vendor, a reptilian creature with a long tapering forehead and three eyes across his brow ridge.
“You have my word on it,” the vendor said.
“No thanks,” Wedge said, and took Qwi by the elbow, leading her to a small self-serve café under the fluttering awnings of an open-air bazaar. Wedge ordered samples from the few recognizable items on the menu, carrying a tray laden with fizzing colorful drinks and glossy dessert pastries.
“This place is different from Coruscant,” Qwi said, summarizing her feelings. “Much more … lived in, less polished.”
Wedge raised his eyebrows, “You can say that again.”
Qwi blinked at him. “Why should I?”
“Never mind,” he said, smiling indulgently.
They selected a table far from where two enormous, gray-skinned brutes were bellowing at each other in what seemed to be either a blood feud or an argument; the longer Wedge watched, however, the more he realized that this was merely their method of conversation.
The torn umbrella over their heads leaked some of the residue drizzling from above, so Wedge and Qwi moved to the opposite side where the table was relatively clean. They stared out across the crowded streets and saw a long wall of identical-looking warehouses, some guarded, some merely locked.
Qwi sipped her drink and sat up, startled, as the fizz bubbled around in her mouth. She swallowed, drew several quick breaths, and gasped, “That’s very good, but I shall have to restrain myself!”
“Just take a sip at a time,” Wedge said, “and you’ll enjoy it.”
Qwi looked at her dessert pastry and spoke distractedly. “You’ve shown me so many places, Wedge. Maw Installation is still a blur, though I can remember what it was like … at least since you took me back there. It was much smaller than this place, not so many people. Quiet and private and clean. Everything in its place, regimented, easy to find.”
“But without much freedom,” Wedge pointed out.
“I believe you’re right,” Qwi answered. “Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. I didn’t know much of anything. You’ve already given me far more worthwhile memories than I lost,” she said. “There are times when I think Kyp Durron simply removed the bad parts from my brain, leaving room for you to show me more wonders.”
“So you don’t think your past will ever come back?” he said.
“The pieces that are missing are gone,” Qwi said, “but those that remain are vivid images, bright pieces that I’m able to connect in my mind. I can string them together, so that it seems like I remember, even though much of it is just my imagination.” Qwi stared across at the warehouses, intent on something.
Wedge watched her. He liked looking at her face, liked seeing her reactions to new things, and it made him see old familiar places with a new eye. He found it refreshing.
Suddenly Qwi’s body went rigid, and she gave an absurd high-pitched whistle as she sucked in a little gasp of air. Qwi stood up too quickly a
nd bumped her drink, spilling the foaming liquid across the tabletop.
“What is it?” Wedge grabbed for her thin wrist.
Qwi pointed across at the warehouses. “I just saw him—there! I recognized him.”
“Who?” Wedge said, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.
Qwi had better eyesight than he did—he knew that from long experience—but none of the figures moving toward the warehouses seemed distinctive: an assortment of surly-looking humanoids, a few hardbitten aliens, and a paunchy man, all of whom disappeared into the murky building.
“I know him,” Qwi insisted. “I worked with him. Bevel Lemelisk. We designed the Death Star together. He’s here. Why is he here? How could he be here?”
Wedge held her, and her entire body was trembling. “Come on, Qwi—that couldn’t possibly be him.” He lowered his voice. “You can’t see anything clear enough from here. We were just talking about your old memories. It must have sparked something in you. Don’t let your imagination run away with you.”
“But I’m sure it was him,” Qwi said.
“Maybe it was,” Wedge answered doubtfully, “but if so, what does it matter? Maw Installation is no longer a threat. The Empire is gone. Maybe he’s fallen in with some smugglers.”
Qwi sat down, still troubled. “I don’t want to stay here anymore,” she said.
Wedge handed her his drink. “We can share mine. Drink up,” he said. “We’ll go back to our ship”—then he added with a wry smile—“unless you want to go find one of those Hutt bathhouses I’ve heard so much about?”
“No thanks,” Qwi said.
Bevel Lemelisk went with his entourage through the back streets of Nar Shaddaa until they reached the warehouse sector. Lemelisk kept pausing to rub his feet on cleaner patches of the pavement, trying to remove the sticky residue and slime he stepped in every time he averted his eyes from the path.
The Twi’lek captain drew his blaster and stomped toward an old, ugly warehouse. The towering, corroded door stood locked; giant letters painted across its riveted surface proclaimed RESTRICTED and TRESPASSERS WILL BE DISINTEGRATED—but then, Lemelisk realized that everything on Nar Shaddaa was restricted, so the warning hardly mattered.
As they waited for the Twi’lek to access the heavy door, Lemelisk looked around at the brooding, shadowy city. His skin prickled with the creepy feeling that someone was watching him. He turned and looked, but noted nothing out of the ordinary. When the Twi’lek opened the door into the cool and musty-smelling warehouse, Lemelisk ducked down to be the first inside.
The Twi’lek switched on a bank of glowpanels. One flickered and died, but the remaining four cast their dirty light into the crate-filled warehouse. Cargo containers stood high against the far wall, stenciled with an indecipherable language; many of their sides were cracked and oozed a noxious-looking substance.
The human copilot gestured to Lemelisk and grunted, taking him to a pair of crates in the center of the room. From the footprints on the dusty floor Lemelisk could tell that the crates had been placed there recently. The wording on their sides marked them as “Sewage Inspection Systems—Quality Control Samples.”
The Gamorrean guards tore open the crates, spilling out the self-digesting packing material and exposing a pair of large computer cores, antique cybernetic systems, slow and long obsolete.
Lemelisk stifled a laugh. This was the best Sulamar could do with his great Imperial connections? He went forward and brushed at the ID plates, scanning for their numbers. These things had been old when Maw Installation was built—but if he had no other choice for the Darksaber … Lemelisk began to consider the possibilities. It was a challenge, and he liked challenges.
The computer cores would need extensive modifications and upgrading, but Lemelisk was up to the task. The Darksaber had only a thousandth of the systems the original Death Star had required, without surface defenses or living quarters for a million personnel. The Darksaber only needed to move itself and to fire its weapon—that was all. Even those two tasks might prove daunting for such prehistoric computer cores, but perhaps Lemelisk could make it work.
As he studied the equipment, the lowlifes behind him suddenly stood at attention. The Gamorrean guards grunted and turned around.
“Hoo-hoo, will they function, Engineer Lemelisk?” Durga the Hutt asked, emerging from the shadows on his repulsorsled.
Startled, Lemelisk brushed packing material off of himself and tried to compose his response. “Lord Durga, this is a surprise! I didn’t know you’d be here personally.”
“Will they work?” Durga repeated.
Lemelisk answered cautiously. “They can be made to work. I don’t know what Sulamar told you, but these are bottom-of-the-line junk. I believe they can be sufficiently upgraded, though. I’ll give it my highest priority.”
“Good,” Durga said. “I have made my excuses to the New Republic’s Chief of State and called our diplomatic meeting to an end. I’m anxious to get back and see what progress you have made on my superweapon.”
“I think you’ll be pleased, Lord Durga,” Lemelisk said.
“I had better be,” Durga answered. “We will take my own ship back to the asteroid belt,” he said. “I want to be where I can watch my Darksaber.”
Lemelisk nodded in full agreement. “I’ll be happy to get away from Nar Shaddaa,” he said, leaning over and whispering conspiratorially to the bloated Hutt. “There are too many unsavory types here!”
CHAPTER 31
Piloting the Millennium Falcon with only the assistance of Artoo-Detoo, Chewbacca brought the modified light freighter out of hyperspace as close to the Nal Hutta System as he dared. With the bank of sublight engines flaring white behind them, Chewbacca cruised toward the Smugglers’ Moon.
He had no trouble flying the ship by himself. He had logged enough hours on the Falcon to make most space pilots envious of his experience. But he still felt alone without Han Solo. Long ago Chewbacca had sworn a life debt to the human, and though his obligations had certainly been discharged by now, the Wookiee still considered Han’s life to be in his care.
He had visited Nar Shaddaa with Han more than once, and they had nearly lost their lives. Right now Han was in the Hutt System as well, engaged in one of the inexplicable diplomatic rituals that Leia performed, so Chewbacca had accepted his assignment with good grace, eager to poke around and learn what he could about Durga’s underhanded activities.
As Artoo kept track of the in-system traffic, Chewbacca slipped into the flow of other unmarked vessels approaching Nar Shaddaa. The New Republic war-gaming fleet showed up conspicuously on the sensors: large battleships engaged in mock attacks, shooting low-powered turbolasers at fake targets. Chewbacca watched the blips on the screen. Han was either aboard one of those warships, or down on the big, bruised-looking planet below.
Artoo warbled in alarm, and Chewbacca snapped his attention back to the piloting controls, avoiding a collision with a large ore freighter that had lumbered into the system.
Chewbacca couldn’t risk contacting Han to inform him that they had arrived. He and Artoo had to remain completely invisible, slipping in as just another anonymous visitor to Nar Shaddaa. They had to find out the real story of the Hutt secret weapon—not the diplomatic lie Durga would likely tell Leia.
Chewbacca landed the Falcon in one of the astronomically priced docking bays in the grimy heavy-traffic sectors. As Artoo trundled down the boarding ramp, Chewbacca took out decoy beacons, warning lights that signified the Falcon was poison-encased in a deadly protection field, The beacons were fake, of course, but they looked real and eliminated the need to pay the exorbitant protection surcharges many of the docking barons charged, which foolish and unprepared visitors were forced to pay.
Chewbacca snuffled with his damp nose, detecting the acrid odors of engine coolant, fumes from propellant systems, decaying engines in need of repair, and the bodies of a thousand species mingled with the exotic spiced substances they consumed for nourishmen
t.
He and Artoo moved purposefully away from the Falcon, plunging into the grease-encrusted, machine-humming metropolis. They had credits to spend and information to buy—and Nar Shaddaa was the place to be.
* * *
Artoo jacked into the nearest “tourist information kiosk”—a thinly disguised directory of available black-market services and vendors. The smugglers didn’t even try to hide their real activities, though some of the cryptic descriptions seemed ominous indeed.
Artoo chugged through the electronic listings, searching for anyone willing to provide detailed information about the Hutts—but because Nar Shaddaa was a Hutt-controlled world, those willing to offer such dangerous assistance were extremely few; only one of the information centers listed Durga specifically as a resource.
Chewbacca attempted to decipher a grid map of the upper levels of the city. He and Artoo spent the better part of an hour tracking down the center connected with Durga and were disappointed to discover in the end that the office was merely a public relations front for the Orko SkyMine Corporation.
They endured a holographic propaganda presentation about the wonders that Orko SkyMine would bring to the galaxy. When Chewbacca began to ask the toadlike bureaucratic representative about Durga, the assistant flailed his long-fingered hands and curved his fat lips into a smile.
“You must understand, my Wookiee friend, that all information about Lord Durga’s activities is strictly confidential, to protect the identity of Orko SkyMine’s largest investors.” He blinked his lantern eyes and gave a thick-lipped smile again. “However, if you wish to donate a million credits, you could become one such investor and gain access to all of our files.” His leathery skin furrowed on his forehead in falsified hope.
The Wookiee and the little droid left indignantly.
Chewbacca decided to forgo the black-market services directory and began asking likely-looking vendors on the streets. He went through a hundred credits, bounced from one scrap of information to another—until in a narrow, dim alley he and Artoo finally found a decrepit old slicer whose face was a mass of oozing blemishes and flaking skin. The slicer carried his own portable terminal and a laser welder that he used to cut into the power sources and splice his input cables into computer systems, through which he would scrounge for information, undetected for a few hours or a day; then he would slip off to find another place to work.
Star Wars: Darksaber Page 21