The slicer took their credits and didn’t seem to care why they wanted information about the Hutts: he merely verified that the money was good and began tapping into the Nar Shaddaa computer systems.
“No listings,” the slicer said. “Nothing for Durga.”
Chewbacca growled a question.
“I didn’t mean there aren’t any,” the slicer said, speaking through swollen lips and scowling at his keyboard. “I just can’t find the files. They must be coded or passworded. No way I could get at them, unless I knew exactly what they were.”
Artoo gave a disappointed whistle.
“Wait a minute—let’s stand this on its head,” the slicer said, rubbing a finger along his lower lip, causing even more skin to fall off. He squinted his beady eyes in the dimness. “I was looking for files about Durga, but let’s do a broader-based search, track down anybody who’s selling things to Durga.” His fingers, though scabbed with sores and armored with calluses, flew over the keypad. A blur of numbers scrolled up, and the slicer began cackling. He held out his hands for more credits. Chewbacca growled, but willingly paid, hoping the information would be good.
“I’ve found a major customer for Durga,” the slicer said, then lowered his voice. His words came out in a whisper. “An Imperial customer.”
Before Chewbacca could growl a new query, another bulky creature strode into the mouth of the alley: a large cylindrical torso surrounded by waving tentacles and eye stalks protruding from the top. A gurgling alien voice came from the creature’s mouth orifice.
“I’m busy,” the slicer said. “Can’t you see I got a customer? Come back later, and I’ll be happy to run a search.”
But the tentacled creature insisted on its answers now and lunged forward, flailing its tentacles threateningly, as if it wanted to lash the slicer into submission.
Chewbacca roared and stood up tall, his tan fur bristling. He grappled with the alien creature and, after a short brawl, managed to tie five of its tentacles into knots. With a grunt, the Wookiee sent the moaning, impatient creature on its way down the street, where it stumbled along burbling for assistance in untying its tentacles.
Chewbacca squatted next to the slicer and motioned for him to continue. “Yes, an Imperial customer, somebody selling to Durga,” the slicer said. “It’s a major expenditure: computer cores, powerful ones. I can’t imagine what a Hutt would need them for. Especially such old models.”
Chewbacca, feeling exhilarated after the scuffle, listened intently.
“The man’s name is a General Sulamar, apparently working with the Hutts. He is somehow connected with Imperial deserters, people who left the service of the Empire and went into business for themselves. According to these files,” the slicer continued, tapping the screen, “this Imperial General Sulamar is the big boss in charge of everything the Hutts do around here.
“If that’s true, they’ve kept it a secret from me,” the slicer said, raising his eyebrows. More dead skin flaked off and fell to the ground. “Durga is supposedly just a minor partner in the operation,” he cackled.
Artoo whistled a question, and Chewbacca reinforced it.
“Who is this Sulamar?” the slicer asked. “Is that what you want to know? He doesn’t hide his credentials. In fact, he types them all in capital letters, claims to be an Imperial military genius. Takes all responsibility for the Massacre of Mendicat. Calls himself the Scourge of Celdaru.”
Chewbacca groaned. He paid the slicer again, then stood up, gesturing for the droid to follow him. He strode along on long, hairy legs as Artoo hurried to keep up. The little droid whistled anxiously, squealing his alarm. They had to get back to the Falcon where they could pass their news to Coruscant. They had learned more than they had ever expected to.
Chewbacca felt a bestial rage rising within him as he considered the ominous possibilities. If the Empire and the Hutts had indeed teamed up, they would make a formidable enemy.
This threat was far worse than they had feared.
CHAPTER 32
Standing on the auxiliary command deck of the Galactic Voyager, General Crix Madine, Supreme Allied Commander for Special Forces, studied the screen that showed the bright green tracer he had planted on Durga’s private ship. He scratched his brown beard and watched his best female commando, Trandia, double-check the readings.
“Still hasn’t moved, sir,” Trandia said. She had long strawberry blond hair knitted into a complex braid that hung neatly at her back, pretty but serviceable—Madine suspected she let it hang loose while she was off duty. Her face was scrubbed clean and flushed with concentration as her blue eyes stayed riveted on the computer.
“He departed from Nal Hutta several hours ago, sir, and landed on the Smugglers’ Moon. No word since. We could contact the Yavaris,” Trandia suggested. “General Antilles has taken some time off to visit the moon. Perhaps he could keep an eye out.”
Madine shook his head. “Too dangerous. We have the tracer planted, and Durga suspects nothing. Let’s just see where he goes. The Chief of State says he ended their meeting rather abruptly, so he must be on his way back to his hiding place. We’ll find it. Be patient.”
Madine wandered across the auxiliary command chamber. There were no windows to stare through, only status screens. The secondary bridge was designed to function as an alternate bridge if the Star Cruiser’s main forward compartments were somehow put out of commission.
Madine paced restlessly, anxious to do something. A driven man, he had given his utmost strength and imagination to the New Republic for the past nine years, ever since he had defected from the Imperial military. He felt good to be working with the Rebel Alliance, a cause he could believe in—and the more he devoted himself to serving the New Republic, the more Madine could distract himself from the lingering guilt that still had not gone away.
Long ago he had given an oath to uphold Palpatine’s New Order and to serve the Emperor, and he had meant it. Crix Madine did not give oaths lightly, nor had he ever broken one before his defection. He hoped he never had to make such a conscience-rending decision again.
At one time his future had seemed golden with the Empire. His rank increased on a fast track, indicating important things to come. Madine had been given heavy responsibilities, remarkable accolades, medals, and citations. The Emperor himself had commented upon his brilliance and impeccable service.
He had been deeply in love with the daughter of an important ambassador; they were going to be married. His fiancée, Karreio, was devoted to the New Order, spouting propaganda about the frailties of the Old Republic, but blind to the excesses of the Empire. In his military service Madine had seen and done much that would have revolted her—such as using his elite storm commandos to plant the seeds of Candorian Plague on the uncooperative world of Dentaal.
That last horrendous mission had nearly twisted and pulled free the underpinnings of Madine’s moral character, and he had chosen to sacrifice everything rather than give up his own beliefs. Such vicious retaliation was wrong. He had discarded his bright, guaranteed future. He had tossed aside his own rank, telling Karreio nothing of his plans, because that would have made her an accomplice to his treachery, and she would have been forced either to report him or to suffer a traitor’s fate.
During wilderness exercises on Dentaal, leading his team of storm commandos, Madine had just … vanished into a series of caves. Later, after a week of hard survival in the jungle, he had made it back to the temporary Imperial base and commandeered a shuttle, stealing archives filled with Imperial encryption schemes, classified data, secret plans.
He had fled into the starry sky of the Mid-Rim without the least idea of where he was going. He simply hoped that he could track down a representative of the Rebel Alliance before the Imperial headhunters found him.
In all the time since, he had never dared to send a message back to Karreio, never attempted to see her again. He hoped that she had survived without him … hoped that she believed the stories branding hi
m a betrayer of the Empire—and that she had found someone else to love.
When the Rebels did indeed recapture Coruscant after a long and bloody battle, Madine had haunted the personnel archives, searching the records to find Karreio, to make certain that she was safe. Instead, he learned that she had died in the attack, an unnoticed name on a long list paired with ID numbers and casualty descriptions. So many civilians had been killed in the battle that only the letter D for “deceased” burned beside Karreio’s name.
Crix Madine had much to feel guilty for. One of his first missions after defecting to the Rebel Alliance had been to plan the successful commando raid on Endor that took out the shield generator and allowed the Rebel fleet to destroy the second Death Star. Thus Madine’s own actions had resulted in the death of Emperor Palpatine, the man who had once issued him a citation for his exemplary service and commendable loyalty.
For Madine the time for second thoughts was long past. The decision had been made. He had not had any doubts, regardless of the consequences. Threats continued to harry the New Republic, and Madine could not rest until his chosen government was safe.
He feared that meant he would never rest.
The motion of the green blip on the diagram of Nar Shaddaa startled him out of his reverie. Trandia sat up straighter. “Sir, the target ship is departing. Tracking now.”
“So, he’s on his way,” Madine said, and laced his fingers together in anticipation. He took a deep breath before snapping into motion. “All right, we’re ready to pursue. Trandia, I’d like you on my team—and Korenn,” Madine said, thinking of the enthusiasm and unquestionable talent of the sandy-haired boy who looked far younger than his experience and skill suggested. “Let’s get prepped. Ackbar has given us three scout A-wings. We’ll streak in and see what Durga is up to.
“But,” Madine said, extending a finger, “we’ll also implant emergency transmitters, because we may be pressed for time. Wherever this hidden weapon is, if we see a chance to sabotage it, we must take it. We can’t afford to let the Hutts complete their own Death Star.”
Madine stood in the launching bay, admiring the three trim A-wing fighters. Trandia came up to him, moving with the lithe grace that had convinced him she would be good in covert operations. She wore a flightsuit now, her braid tucked beneath the collar. She carried a helmet in the crook of her arm. “Ready to depart, sir,” she said, “as soon as you give the order.”
A moment later Korenn. the other young member of the team stepped up. His eyes sparkled with excitement, and his sandy hair was spiky and unruly. Korenn popped a helmet on his head.
“Do we have our destination yet?” Madine said.
Trandia flashed a faint smile. “The Hoth Asteroid Belt, sir. That’s where Durga’s gone to hide.”
Madine raised his eyebrows. “Interesting. Asteroids will call for some tricky flying.” He fixed his gaze on Korenn and Trandia. “How’s your piloting?”
“Excellent, sir,” they responded in unison.
“Good,” Madine said. “Let’s go then.”
HOTH
CHAPTER 33
The ice creatures lunged in a mass of white fur, spread claws, and flying blood.
“Watch your back, Callista!” Luke yelled, slashing as a white-furred monster bore down on her. His lightsaber opened a sizzling, blackened gash through its rib cage, and the wampa fell to the snow, gurgling hot bile.
Callista lunged, decapitating another creature as it leaped toward Luke, its fanged mouth open and ready to tear flesh. “I’ll watch my back if you watch yours,” she said, raising a challenging eyebrow.
Burrk, the former stormtrooper, fired until he emptied his second blaster pistol. His face held a haggard hopelessness, yet a foolish determination. Luke knew he would keep fighting until the wampas took him down.
“You—Jedi!” Burrk shouted, “we’ve got to get back to the base. Can you clear us a path with your lightsabers?”
Luke and Callista both nodded curtly. The heavy shield door under the icy overhang was their only sanctuary. Luke felt a sudden relief that they had left the shield door partially open so they could dash back inside.
One of the Cathars, Nodon, fired the last trickle of charge from his blaster rifle, just as a huge wampa rose before him, muscular arms dangling to its knees and curved claws extending a dozen centimeters beyond. Nodon yowled and spat a primal feline sound and thrust the blaster rifle toward it like a blunt spear, punching the attacking monster below the sternum. The creature roared in pain and lashed out to knock Nodon to the snow, his shoulder ripped in a sequence of parallel furrows, spraying red.
The Cathar’s brother hissed in fury and leaped to Nodon’s aid. Nonak sprang onto the back of the attacking wampa and slashed with his own claws, tearing into the wampa’s neck with sharp fangs. The monster forgot about the wounded Cathar and bellowed, reaching behind him to pluck away the vicious feline alien. Nodon, wounded, backed away, trying to scramble to his feet as his blood stained the snow.
From the rocky outcrop where he directed the battle, the one-armed brute roared something incomprehensible. Other wampas turned on Nonak, who still fought with the wampa who had injured his brother. The wampas came in, focused on a single target.
They tore Nonak apart.
“Follow me!” Drom Guldi bellowed without the slightest trace of terror or even tension in his voice. Sinidic, his aide, huddled under the protection of his muscular master’s rifle, a high-powered brand-new hunting weapon. Drom Guldi still had charges left, and he fired with slow precision: no random spraying of high-energy bolts, but surgical shots that killed or injured an ice creature every time he pressed the firing stud.
The big Baron-Administrator trudged toward the base doors, not hurrying, making sure the others followed. Nodon got to his feet and wailed at seeing the bloody remnants of his brother. Burrk grabbed him by the fur on his neck and yanked Nodon around. “Come on!” he shouted.
Luke and Callista flanked Drom Guldi as they fought their way back to Echo Base. With their lightsabers they each killed another creature. The base doors seemed immeasurably far away, but Luke and Callista pushed forward.
Drom Guldi blasted three more wampas that blocked the open shield door. As they kept moving, his aide Sinidic seemed paralyzed, stumbling along because his master told him to. Sinidic tripped over the smoldering body of an ice creature. Without pause, Drom Guldi grabbed his aide’s collar and yanked him to his feet as if he were no more than a rag. The Baron-Administrator reached the shield door and shoved Sinidic into the waiting darkness.
Burrk helped Nodon inside Echo Base, pushing the wounded Cathar ahead of him, though the feline obviously wanted to throw himself back upon the monsters in a frenzy and die ripping them to shreds.
Luke and Callista waited in the cold outside the door, driving back the last of the wampas.
“Get in here, Jedi!” Burrk said. “Now!”
Luke and Callista jumped into the waiting darkness. Burrk hit the shield door controls, and the heavy door ground shut. At the last instant, the wampas pushed forward, grabbing at the durasteel door with their claws, but the relentless pistons were too powerful even for these creatures.
In the sparse light of the few functioning glowpanels, Luke, Callista, and the four survivors slumped against the hard-packed snow walls as the sudden loss of adrenaline hit them, leaving only exhaustion. Everyone trembled in silence for several moments, shielded at last in the temporary safety of walls.
Then came a scratching sound, muffled howls, and a repeated pounding from outside. Burrk turned bloodshot eyes toward the sealed door. Sinidic glanced up in terror, and then looked to Drom Guldi for comfort.
“They can knock, but they can’t come in,” Drom Guldi said.
Callista got up and went to the picked-over supplies, finding discarded Rebel uniforms she could tear into bandages to tend Nodon’s wounds; but the Cathar’s healing abilities had already stopped the blood flow. As he sat in silence, staring with slitted
eyes toward the blank white wall of packed snow, Nodon’s feline claws repeatedly extended and sheathed themselves as he wrestled with inner anger.
Outside, the monsters kept pounding, foolishly trying to find a way in, though the base was impenetrable. Night was falling on Hoth, and the temperature would soon plummet. All living creatures should be taking shelter until the meager warmth of sunlight returned—but the wampas were relentless. They had their quarry cornered.
Drom Guldi’s tanned, sculpture-beautiful face wore a contemplative look. “Think of all those prize pelts out there,” he said, shaking his head. “What a waste.”
A loud clang reverberated against the thick door. The wampas had picked up a rock chunk … but they could batter uselessly for years without breaking through the durasteel.
Burrk’s gaunt face was filled with exhausted resignation. “Now would have been a perfect time to use those perimeter guns,” he said, looking pointedly at Luke and Callista.
“Let’s move away from the door,” Luke said. “That pounding will only wear us down.”
Weakly, they shuffled into the dim briefing room where Burrk had told his terrifying story. The former stormtrooper took a quick inventory. “My blaster pistols are out of charge. Nodon’s rifle is drained. Drom Guldi, what have you got left?”
The big-game hunter inspected his weapon. “Ten shots,” he said, as if that was all they could possibly need.
“And we’ve got your two lightsabers,” Burrk said to Luke and Callista.
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