by Kathy Tyers
Yes!
At that moment, Anakin fired. A blast of pale-blue webbing shot hissing out of his weapon.
Mired by gooey residue, the Yuuzhan Vong managed to fling two more razor-edged living disks. One circled Mara’s head, diving and spinning. The other went for Anakin. She dispatched hers as the warrior fell, struggling against the web’s stun charge. Finally, she drew her blaster. It whined as she fired off a stronger stun burst from practically on top of her target.
Even that didn’t quiet him. Evidently they couldn’t be stunned—at all. She closed down her lightsaber, got a good grip, and whacked his temple.
He collapsed.
Anakin sprinted close. “Let me unmask it,” he exclaimed.
Mara stepped back, still gripping her lightsaber, and let youthful determination take over. She opened and closed her left hand cautiously. It still tingled, but it hadn’t lost sensation.
The warrior’s face seemed to be bleeding white where she whacked it. Cautiously, Anakin fingered a faint line along the creature’s nose. The skin started rippling, as if something was moving under its surface—then peeled back from the motionless face, taking the wounded spot along with it. The living ooglith masquer shrank into the throat of the Yuuzhan Vong’s restaurant uniform, making slurping noises as it pulled free of its carrier’s pores.
Underneath, the alien was pale-skinned, with little flesh on its face. Bluish sacs hung under both eyes, with one upper cheek burned almost through, leaving a scar that showed bone. Tattoos like concentric energy bursts crossed its forehead. The exposed cheekbone showed a network of healed, jagged fractures.
The masquer created a rolling bulge as it shrank toward the warrior’s legs. The Stokhli web finally trapped it near its owner’s knees.
“Good idea, the Stokhli stick,” Mara murmured.
Anakin stuck it in his belt. “New model, short range. Almost concealable.”
“Surprised me,” she admitted. It bothered her that he’d found one before she’d even heard of it. As he beamed, she pulled out her comlink. “Enforcement? Mara here. We’ve got our infiltrator.”
CHAPTER SIX
With the captured Yuuzhan Vong laid out on an examining table and the wounded masquer contained inside a transparisteel tank, Mara folded her arms and rested against a wall. New Republic Intelligence would take over from here, but she lingered. Anakin hadn’t gone far, either.
Exobiologist Dr. Joi Eicroth had pulled back her fair hair into a tail. She spread an array of tools and drug ampules on a tray near the table, then stood, shaking her head. “We know only enough about their physiology,” she said, “to know that we don’t know enough.”
Mara pushed away from her wall. “At least we found out that a stun burst won’t bring them down, no matter how close we get.”
“I doubt,” Eicroth said, “that many people will want to get that close.”
The Yuuzhan Vong had been draped with a poncho after medics confirmed she was female. Tufts of black hair grew here and there on her skull, and half her body was tattooed with concentric designs like the ones on her forehead. Eicroth pointed out a focal point that looked vaguely like a living creature. Claws protruded from her knuckles. The exobiologist had anchored restraint bands over her forearms and across her legs and torso.
Cilghal stood with Mara. She’d examined Mara’s hand, taking skin and blood samples for the other medics. Then she tried to revive the Yuuzhan Vong. Neither inhalants nor mild shocks worked. By invitation, she, too, lingered.
Belindi Kalenda of NRI—recently demoted to Lieutenant Colonel, over the misinformation flap—strode into the room, and Eicroth straightened. Lieutenant Colonel Kalenda was small and dark-skinned, and she wore her tightly curled hair in a bunch at the nape of her neck.
She got a good look and frowned. “I’m impressed,” she said. Tricked by the alleged Yuuzhan Vong defector, then again by their feint at Corellia, at least Kalenda hadn’t been drummed out of the service. “I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to get one of these alive.” She shot one more glance at Dr. Eicroth. “You’re recording? We can’t waste this.”
“If we get anything,” Mara said. She’d faced enough of these aliens to expect a fresh surprise every time.
Above the table hung a full-body scanner. This time, there’d be body-fluid analyses, readings of organ functions, maybe even a map of the body’s microelectric fields. A chem readout might hint at what drugs could affect them. Personally, Mara would appreciate information on their nervous systems—especially what might bring them down, besides whacking their temples.
She stared at the alien warrior, half wishing they might’ve spoken woman to woman, instead of as predator and prey, captor and prisoner. Mara knew what it felt like to slowly realize she’d been raised by the wrong side.
The Yuuzhan Vong warrior stirred. Mara stepped closer. Kalenda eyed the overhead readouts.
The warrior’s eyes opened. She recoiled from the machinery above her, working her face violently.
Mara stretched out a hand. “We don’t want to harm you,” she insisted. “I know you know Basic. I saw you at work in the Leafy Green. Let us help you. We’ll send you back to your people, if—”
The prisoner interrupted, shrieking out a long, unintelligible speech, maybe to her gods. As she did, her body arched, fighting the bonds. Dr. Eicroth edged back. Anakin stepped closer, one hand on his lightsaber.
From the warrior’s right hand, a claw stretched to four times its sessile length. It slashed the steelfab forearm bond as if it were flimsiplast. Then with one arm freed, the warrior balled a fist.
Anakin ignited his blade with a snap-hiss.
“No!” Mara shouted.
Without hesitating, the warrior slashed her claw across her own throat. Black blood spurted. Cilghal sprang forward, pressing a wad of synthflesh to the wound with one broad, webbed hand while reaching aside for fluid packs. Another aide restrained the prisoner’s free hand. A surgical droid that Cilghal had parked out of the prisoner’s sight rolled close and went to work.
Mara exhaled, hoping the readouts would provide some usable information. She’d gotten a bit of data herself—even more respect for those fighting claws. She would make sure that information went out in Dr. Eicroth’s report.
An hour later, as midnight passed, she sat at a light table rerunning that report and Cilghal’s medical scans. The prisoner had managed to bleed to death, and Mara sent Anakin home in his skimmer. Luke stood at her shoulder, tracing with one finger the lines of multiple skull breaks. Mara watched him sidelong, trying to read his reaction. His face had been savaged years ago by a wampa ice creature. Would these people accept bacta treatment, since the only technology it required was a tank to contain the organisms?
Probably not. They wore their scars proudly.
“The claws are creatures, too,” she observed out loud. It was late enough that she no longer cared she was rambling. “Parasites, embedded deep into bone. That’s got to hurt.”
“They cherish pain,” Luke murmured.
Mara shook her head. Loosed from her hood, redgold hair flopped over her shoulders. “This wasn’t worth what we risked for it.”
“You took one Yuuzhan Vong operative out of commission,” Luke pointed out. “And found a way to kill the amphistaffs.”
“Not enough.”
“Mara,” he exclaimed, and she heard the exasperation in his voice. “Just having you on your feet is almost a miracle. Can’t you be thankful for small accomplishments?”
Trim from years of lightsaber drills and self-imposed gymnastic training, he’d picked up a scar or two himself, and his right hand was only a re-creation. His exquisite empathy gave both hands a powerful sensuality, though.
“You know me better than that,” she muttered, turning back to the scans. “Look at the nervous system. The microelectric fields are fully redundant. If they like to suffer, they’re built for it.”
“That must be why they can’t be stunned.”
Half smiling, he leaned closer to the readout. “She didn’t have as many bone breaks or scars as the one they scanned on Bimmiel.”
“That isn’t hard to figure out. They give low-ranking youngsters undercover work to prove themselves.” Mara fought back a yawn.
Luke stared pointedly at the Yuuzhan Vong female.
“Thanks,” Mara said dryly, “but you don’t have to pretend not to notice. I have a good reason to be tired. Let’s get some sleep.”
Luke had parked a skimmer on the rooftop pad. He slipped in first, claiming the pilot’s seat. Mara let him. From the Intelligence complex, it was a short hop—mostly open-air—back to their part of the Imperial Palace. Mara stared over a solid line of wing- and taillights.
“Reminiscing?” Luke asked.
She pulled her vest closer, hoping her sudden shiver was due to the evening chill. Several times, close proximity with the Yuuzhan Vong had seemed to spark relapses of her illness.
“Hardly,” she said.
He’d learned to respect her silences, and the times when she simply didn’t care to explain. She kept quiet as he slipped the skimmer into a parking slot as smoothly as any other pilot with fighter status. He’d retested, kept up his hours, and was still legally qualified to fly almost anything the New Republic could scramble against the Yuuzhan Vong, short of a Mon Cal battleship.
Count on Skywalker to do everything legal and square.
The corridors in their part of the palace were lined in exotic woods, sculpted with intricate swirls to deaden the echoes of feet hustling up Wayland marble tiles. Mara hung back, keeping both hands in her vest pockets, and let Luke open the door. It was plainer than most, but a good meter taller than either of them.
She sent the door shut and dropped her long vest over a service droid. From her left, a greeting tootled from the data/recharge station. Luke greeted his mechanical friend with an equally friendly chirrup. “Hi, Artoo.”
Their suite was small but elegant, and she liked living in a central location. Ahead, down three steps, a transparisteel vista window looked out over Coruscant. The spires of a new construct stuck up between Mara and the moonset.
She yawned. Leaning against a wall, she stared out at the large moon, watching as it crept lower, seeming to grow larger and duller as it slipped into city haze. Even a simple moonset looked ominous nowadays. If the enemy remade Coruscant, as they’d done to Belkadan, what color would these moonsets turn?
Warm arms slipped around her from behind. “Bed?” Luke murmured against her ear.
She closed her hands over his. “In a minute.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” That was her knee-jerk reaction, and Luke knew it. For some silly reason, he still asked. “I feel almost obnoxiously well.”
“You’re … uneasy, though,” he said. “And, no, I didn’t use the Force to see it. I just know you.”
“Well done,” she muttered, not in a mood to smart-mouth him. “It’s not for myself. Look out there. How many thousands of homes do we see? How safe are they, really?”
His chin rested on her shoulder. He didn’t answer, but his arms tightened on her waist.
“All over the Rim, they’ve lost homes. Whole worlds. Closer in, they’re not thinking about anything but how to survive. What kind of life is that?”
She meant it as a rhetorical question, and he didn’t answer. You’ve learned, Skywalker! she thought wryly. Since he didn’t argue, she had to press on. “We’re Jedi.We protect life. That’s worthwhile, but it has nothing to do with the kind of life they live.”
“We can’t make choices for them. How long have you been telling me that?”
“Years. And I’m still right. But people who live in constant terror and grief—how much better are they, really, than the slaves sprouting coral all over their bodies?”
He simply tightened his arms around her middle, so again, she had to answer herself. “Better, of course,” she admitted. “They aren’t in agony. But don’t you ever wonder … or maybe you can tell me … what is the effect on the Force of all this violence and desperation? The threat of invasion brings out fear and anger. The dark side gets stronger. What counters it?”
“Little hopes,” Luke answered. “Little joys.”
Mara stared at the shrinking moon. “It’s like our situation,” she admitted, “but it’s everywhere.”
He raised one hand to stroke her shoulder.
Her head drooped. “Just preserving those who are alive feels like a dead end. But what choice do we have?”
“Only to go on serving, with every day we still have life in us.” Luke’s voice was softer than the dying moonlight. “To defend people who can’t defend themselves. To die for them, if we must. Like Chewie did.”
Mara leaned back against his chest. “I outlived the Empire,” she muttered. “The loss of my livelihood—a man I loved and served. I could outlive the New Republic. I love stability and ease … and you, incidentally.”
His hand tightened.
“But simply … staying alive isn’t everything. Don’t you see? We’re only trying … to prevent the subtraction of life.”
“You’ve added to mine, Mara,” he said softly, dryly. “Come get some rest.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Crowded around a tracking screen in the hardened control shed, Jacen, Han, and the Ryn Piani watched a small blip grow on the tracking screen, while Randa sulked in a corner and Droma stared out the viewbubble. A tickling sensation finally thrust itself into the back of Jacen’s mind.
“It’s Jaina,” he confirmed.
Han crossed his arms, frowning. “How is she?”
Jacen examined the feeling. “Mad,” he concluded.
One of Thirty-two’s snakelike cofferdams was extended to the med runner. Jacen and Han stood at the foot of its landing ramp as the hatch opened. First off was a Mon Cal pilot, wearing the tri-circle insignia of the New Republic medical service. She had long, feminine webbed hands. “Captain Solo?”
Han stepped forward. “You’ve got my girl, I hope.” His voice echoed oddly inside the cofferdam.
“Her attendant’s helping her forward. Sign here, please.” The pilot thrust out a datapad.
“Nope,” Han said. “Not till I see her.”
Watching over his father’s shoulder, Jacen spotted a dark gray coverall, dark hair chopped surprisingly short, and his sister’s face, half covered by some kind of mask.
Jaina batted away her droid-attendant’s extended limb. “I can walk down a ramp. Hi, Dad. Hello, Jacen. Thanks for coming to pick up the pieces.”
She walked down, limping slightly. Han embraced her, rocking from foot to foot. Then Jacen slipped his arms around her shoulders. Until he knew more about her injuries, he didn’t want to squeeze.
“I’m not a skeleton leaf,” she growled, tightening her grip. Her fingers dug into his triceps.
“Here are your instructions.” The medical droid presented Han with a second datapad.
Jaina turned away. Two curved, darkened lenses hung from a soft headband, with several connectors alongside. Jacen hoped the meds hadn’t had to implant anything under her scalp to make the thing work.
“You can see well enough to recognize us,” he said. “That’s not bad.”
“I can tell you apart through the Force. What I see is shadows and darker shadows. It’s getting better.” She shut her mouth firmly, but only for a moment. “I can already make out shapes on a threat board. Sending me here was a waste of fuel—unless you’ve heard something I haven’t.” She folded her arms and glared at Jacen. “Am I terminal or something, and they just haven’t told me?”
“No,” Jacen exclaimed. He couldn’t resist stretching out through the Force. His sister’s presence pulsed red-hot—an ember, not a flame. “No, you’re healing well. They just didn’t want to risk you in combat. Or risk that you’d endanger someone else,” he added, trying to push her anger away. Standing
beside her made him edgy, almost as if the ground were vibrating.
“Not you, too.” Jaina pulled off her mask and pushed her face closer to his. Her eyes did look cloudy, the pupils faintly gray.
Finished with the medical team, their dad clapped an arm around her shoulder. “Come inside, sweetie. I’ll get you settled before I head back to the pumping station.”
They found her a cot in a hut with an elderly Ryn woman, whose husband had died on the Jubilee Wheel over Ord Mantell, and who was glad for company. As Han hurried off, Jaina grudgingly let Jacen stow her belongings under the shelter’s second cot. She turned her head toward the small window.
“I can see fine, if there’s enough light.”
“That’s a problem in Thirty-two,” Jacen admitted. “The cloud cover doesn’t let much in.” And these SELCORE shelters had just one door and one window. “A little light gets in through the roof panels,” he added, gesturing upward.
These huts were suited only for domed environments. One good storm would blow off the roofs, then wash the mortar out from between mud bricks that reinforced the synthplas walls.
“How long did it take to get used to the stink?”
Jacen’s face warmed. He glanced at the older woman seated on the other bunk. Jaina wasn’t just smelling Duro’s atmosphere. The Ryn had this odor …
“That’s partly me,” the Ryn said bluntly.
“Less than a day.” Jacen got the words out quickly. “And, Clarani, you know it’s not you in particular. Your people just have a different body chemistry.”
Jaina shook her head slowly. “Sorry,” she muttered. “You’re generous to take me in. The last thing you need is an ungrateful kid in your house.”
“Don’t worry.” Clarani gestured left and right, taking in the door they’d left open for light—and the small window, with its primitive shelf-row storage. “I’m tired of sleeping alone.”
When Jaina raised a hand to adjust her mask, Jacen spotted a tremor. She really had been through it.
“So bring me up to speed,” he said casually. “What have the Rogues been up to, and who fried your X-wing?”