by James Luceno
STAR WARS
CLOAK OF DECEPTION
by JAMES LUCENO
For KarenAnn, one of the few people I know who has made a true difference
in the world--most assuredly in mine
Luxuriating in the unfailing light of countless stars, the Trade
Federation freighter Revenue lazed at the edge of Dorvalla's veil of alabaster
clouds.
Indistinguishable from its myriad brethren, the freighter resembled a
saucer, whose center had been pared away to create two massive hangar arms and
a stalked centersphere that housed the great ship's hyperdrive reactors.
Forward, the curving arms fell short of each other, as if in a failed attempt
to close the circle. But, in fact, the gap was there by design, with each arm
terminating in colossal docking claws and gaping hangar portals.
Like some gluttonous beast, a Trade Federation vessel didn't so much load
as gobble cargo, and for close to three standard days, the Revenue had been
feeding at Dorvalla.
The outlying planet's principal commodity was lommite ore, a major
component in the production of transparisteel viewports and starfighter
canopies. Ungainly transports ferried the strip - mined ore into high orbit,
where the payloads were transferred to a fleet of self-propelled barges,
tenders, and cargo pods, many of them as large as shuttles, and all bearing
the Spherical Flame sigil of the Trade Federation.
By the hundreds the unpiloted crafts streamed between the Dorvallan
transports and the ring-shaped freighter, lured to the breach in the curving
arms by powerful tractor beams. There the docking claws nudged the crafts
through the magnetic containment fields that sealed the rectangular maws of
the hangars.
Safeguarding the herd from attacks by pirates or other raiders flew
patrols of bullet-nosed, quad-thruster starfighters, wanting shields but armed
with rapid-fire laser cannons. The droids that piloted the ships answered to a
central control computer located in the freighter's centersphere.
At the aft curve of the centersphere stood a command and control tower.
The ship's bridge occupied the summit, where a robed figure paced nervously
before an array of inwardly inclined viewports. The interrupted view
encompassed the distal ends of the hangar arms and the seemingly ceaseless
flow of pods, their dorsal surfaces aglow with sunlight. Beyond the arms and
the rust-brown pods spun translucent-white Dorvalla.
"Status," the robed figure hissed.
The Revenue's Neimoidian navigator responded from a throne-like chair set
below the burnished floor of the bridge walkway.
"The last of the cargo pods is being taken aboard, Commander Dofine."
Neimoidian speech, while lilting, favored first syllables and elongated words.
"Very well, then," Dofine replied. "Recall the starfighters." The
navigator swiveled in his chair to face the walkway. "So soon, Commander?"
Dofine ceased his relentless pacing to cast a dubious look at his shipmate.
Months in deep space had so honed Dofine's natur-ral distrust that he was no
longer certain of the navigator's intent. Was the navigator questioning his
command in the hope of gaining status, or was there some good reason to delay
recalling the starfighters? The distinction troubled Dofine, since he risked
losing face by airing his suspicions and being proven wrong.
He decided to gamble that the question had been prompted by concern and
contained no hidden challenges.
"I want those fighters recalled. The sooner we leave Dor - valla, the
better." The navigator nodded. "As you will, Commander." Captain of the
Revenue's skeleton crew of living beings, Dofine had a pair of front-facing
red oval eyes, a prominent muzzle, and a fish-lipped slash of mouth.
Veins and arteries pulsed visibly beneath the surface of puckered and
mottled pale-green skin.
Small for his species--the runt of his hive, some said behind his back--
his thin frame was draped in blue robes and a tufted, shoulder-padded mantle
more appropriate for a cleric than a ship's commander.
A tall cone of black fabric, even his headpiece suggested wealth and high
office.
The navigator was similarly attired in robes and headpiece, though his
floor-length mantle was solid black and of a simpler design. He communicated
with the devices that encircled the shell-like pilot's chair by means of data
readout goggles that cupped his eyes and a disk-shaped comlink that hid his
mouth.
The Revenue's communications technician was a jowled and limpid-eyed
Sullustan. The officer who interfaced with the central control computer was a
Gran - comthree-eyed, with a hircine face. Beaked and green-complexioned, the
ship's assistant bursar was an Ishi Tib.
Dofine hated having to suffer aliens aboard his bridge, but he was
compelled to do so as an accommodation to the lesser shipping concerns that
had allied with the Trade Federation; small companies like Viraxo Shipping,
and powerful shipbuilders like TaggeCo and HoerschKessel.
Humaniform droids saw to all other tasks on the bridge.
Dofine had resumed his pacing when the Sullustan spoke.
"Commander, Dorvalla Mining reports that the payment they received is
short one hundred thousand Republic credits." Dofine waved his long-fingered
hand in dismissal.
"Tell her to recheck her figures." The Sullustan relayed Dofine's words
and waited for a reply. "She claims that you said the same thing the last time
we were here." Dofine exhaled theatrically and gestured to a large circular
screen at the rear of the bridge.
"Display her." The magnified image of a red-haired, freckle-faced human
woman was resolving on the screen by the time Dofine reached it.
"7 am not aware of any missing credits," he said without preamble.
The woman's blue eyes flashed. "Don't lie to me, Dofine. First it was
twenty thousand, then fifty, now one hundred. How much will we have to forfeit
the next time the Trade Federation graces Dorvalla with a visit?" Dofine
glanced knowingly at the Ishi Tib, who returned a faint grin. "Your world is
far removed from normal space lanes," he said calmly toward the screen. "As
far from the Rimma Trade Route as from the Corellian Trade Spine. Your
situation, therefore, demands additional expenditures.
Of course, if you are displeased, you could always do business with some
other concern." The woman snorted a rueful laugh. "Other concern? The Trade
Federation has put everyone else under." Dofine spread his large hands. "Then
what is a hundred thousand credits, more or less?" "Extortion is what it is."
The sour expression Dofine adopted came naturally to his slack features. "I
suggest you file a complaint with the Trade Commission on Coruscant." The
woman fumed; her nostrils flared and her cheeks reddened. "You haven't heard
the last of this, Dofine." Dofine's mouth appro
ximated a smile. "Ah, once
again, you are mistaken." Abruptly, he ended the transmission, then swung back
to face his fellow Neimoidian. "Inform me when the loading process is
concluded." Deep in the hangar arms, droids supervised the disposition of the
cargo pods from traffic stations located high above the deck. Humpbacked craft
with bulbous noses that gave them an animated appearance, the pods entered
through the hangars" magcon orifices on repulsorlift power and were routed
according to contents and destination, as designated by codes stenciled on the
hulls. Each hangar arm was divided into three zones, partitioned by sliding
bulkhead doors, twenty stories high.
Normally, zone three, closest to the centersphere, was filled first. But
pods containing goods bound for destinations other than Coruscant or other
Core worlds were directed to berthing bays in zones one or two, regardless of
when they were brought aboard.
Scattered throughout the hangars were security automata toting modified
BlasTech combat rifles, some with dispersal tips. Where the worker droids
might be hollow-bodied asps, limber - necked PK'S, boxy GNK'S, or flat-footed
binary loadlifters, the security droids appeared to have been inspired by the
skeletal structure of any number of the galaxy's bipedal Life forms.
Lacking both the rounded head and alloy musculature of its near cousin,
the protocol droid, the security droid had a narrow, half-cylindrical head
that tapered forward to a speech processor and, at the opposite end, curved
down over a stiff, backwardly canted neck. What distinguished the droid,
however, was its signal boost backpack and the retractable antennae that
sprouted from it.
The majority of the droids that comprised the Revenue's security force
were simply appendages of the freighter's central control computer, but a few
had been equipped with a small measure of intelligence.
The foreheads and chest plastrons of these lanky commanders were
emblazoned with yellow markings similar to military unit flashes, though less
for the sake of other droids than for the flesh and bloods to whom the
commanders ultimately answered.
OLR-4 was one such commander.
Blaster rifle gripped in both hands and angled across his chest, the
droid stood in zone two of the ship's starboard hangar arm, halfway between
the bulkheads that defined the immense space.
OLR-4 was aware of the activity around him--the current of cargo pods
moving toward zone three, the noise of other pods settling to the deck, the
incessant whirrs and clicks of machines in motion - comb only in a vague way.
Rather, OLR-4 had been tasked by th e central control computer to watch for
anything out of the ordinary--for any event that fell outside performance
parameters denned by the computer itself.
The resounding thud that accompanied the roosting of a nearby cargo pod
was, given the size of the craft, well within those parameters. So, too, were
the sounds emanating from inside the pod, which could be ascribed to a
shifting of whatever cargo the pod contained. But the same couldn't be said
for the hissing of pressure relief valves or the metallic clanks and
stridencies that prefaced the slow rise of the pod's uncommonly large,
circular forward hatch.
OLR-4'S long head pivoted and his oblique optical sensors fixed on the
pod.
Magnified and sharpened, the captured image was transmitted to the
central control computer, which instantly compared it to a catalog of similar
images.
Discrepancies were noted.
Even as OLR-4'S photoreceptors were scrutinizing the rising hatch,
additional security droids were already hurrying to assume positions on all
sides of the suspect pod. OLR-4 planted his bootlike feet in a combat stance
and leveled his blaster rifle.
The open hatch should have revealed the interior of the pod, but instead
it exposed what seemed to be yet another hatch, sealed shut. OLR-4 did succeed
in identifying the composition of the inner hatch, but the droid's puny
processor was not up to the task of making sense of what it was seeing. That
was the province of the central control computer, which was quick to solve the
puzzle--though not quick enough.
Before OLR-4 could move, the inner hatch had telescoped from the pod with
enough force to launch two security droids and three worker droids halfway
across the hangar. Immediately, OLR-4 and three others opened fire on the
battering ram and the cargo pod itself, but the blaster bolts were deflected
and sent ricocheting through the hold.
A pair of droids leapt onto the wide-bodied pod, hoping to attack the
striking device from behind, but their efforts were in vain. Blaster bolts
found them first, quartering one, and all but obliterating the other.
It was only then that OLR-4 realized, in his limited capacity, that there
were unfrlies behind the battering ram. And judging by the precision of the
bolts, the intruders were flesh and bloods.
With cargo pods gliding overhead and a hundred labor droids continuing to
tend to their tasks, oblivious to the firefight occurring in their midst, OLR-
4 rushed to one side, firing steadily and intent on gaining a better vantage
on the intruders. Bolts sought him as he moved, sizzling past his head and
shoulders, and streaking between his pumping legs.
In front of him two security droids lost their heads to well - placed
shots. A third droid remained intact, but dropped to the deck nevertheless,
hopelessly dazzled by untamed, coruscating electrical charges.
OLR-4'S internal monitors told him that his blaster was overheating and
close to depletion.
Though obviously aware of the droid's predicament, the central control
computer did not countermand its orders; so OLR-4 kept firing while he
attempted to angle behind the battering ram.
Off to his right another droid was blasted from the top of the pod, its
torso sent twirling in clumsy circles as it flew off into the hangar, only to
collide with a settling cargo pod. A droid with a missing leg hopped as it
shot, until its sound leg was blown out from under it, and it fell, skidding
across the deck, sparks flying from its vocoder chin.
OLR-4 shifted left and right, dodging blaster bolts. He had almost
reached the pod when a bolt caught him in the left shoulder, spinning him
through a complete circle. He staggered, but somehow managed to remain
upright, until a second bolt struck him in the opposite shoulder. Spun through
another circle, he landed on his back, with his legs wedged beneath the pod.
Looking up, he had a glimpse of the armed force that had infiltrated the
freighter a dozen or so bipedal flesh and bloods, sheathed in mimetic suits
and black body armor, their faces hidden behind rebreather masks, whose oxygen
recyclers resembled fangs.
OLR-4'S photoreceptors focused on a human with long black hair that fell
in thick coils to his broad shoulders. The servomotors of the droid's right
hand tightened on the blaster's trigger bar, but the fatigued and overheated
weapon's only response was a mo
urnful whirr, as it powered down and shut off.
"Uh-oh," OLR-4 said.
Glimpsing him, the long-haired human swung and fired.
OLR-4'S heat sensors redlined and his overloaded systems wailed. Circuits
melting, he relayed a final image to the central control computer, then winked
out of existence.
The reassuring hum of machines on the Revenue's bridge was interrupted by
a grating tone from the scanner array. Gliding across the command walkway,
Daultay Dofine queried the droid stationed at the scanner.
"Long-range monitors report a cluster of small ships advancing all speed
on our position," the droid answered in a metallic monotone.
"What? What did you say?" The Sullustan elaborated.
"Authenticators identify the ships as CloakShapes and one Tempest-class
gunship." Dofine's jaw dropped. "An attack?" "Commander," the droid intoned,
"the ships are continuing to advance." Dofine gestured wildly to the outsize
display screen. "I want to see them!" He had started for the screen when
another worrisome tone sounded, this time from the station of the systems
officer, which was also set below the walkway.
"The central control computer is reporting a disturbance in zone two of
the starboard hangar arm." Dofine gaped at the Gran. "What sort of
disturbance?" "The droids are firing on one of the cargo pods." "Those
brainless machines! If they ruin any of the cargo--was "Commander,
starfighters are onscreen," the Sullustan reported.
"It could be nothing more than a glitch," the Gran went on.
Dofine's blinking red orbs darted from one alien to the other in mounting
concern.
"Starfighters changing vector. Breaking into two elements." The Sullustan
turned to Dofine.
"Flying the imprint of the Nebula Front." "The Nebula Front!" Dofine
rushed to the display screen, then raised his long, fat forefinger to indicate
the jet-black gunship. "That ship--was "The Hawk-Bat" the Sullustan said in a
rush. "The ship of Captain Cohl." "Impossible!" Dofine snapped. "Cohl was
reported to be at Malastare only yesterday." Jowls quivering slightly, the
Sullustan regarded the screen. "But that is his ship. And where the Hawk-Bat
ventures, Cohl is not far behind!" "Starfighters are forming up for attack,"
the droid updated.