by James Luceno
C H A P T E R 6
The waving alien trees shied back like some sort of huge tentacles from the landing area, and with the barest of bumps Han set the Millennium Falcon down on the uneven ground. “Well, here we are,” he announced to no one in particular. “Bimmisaari. Fur and moving plants a specialty.”1
“None of that,” Leia warned him, unstrapping from the seat behind him and running through the Jedi relaxation techniques Luke had taught her. Political dealings with people she knew were relatively easy for her. Diplomatic missions with unfamiliar alien races were something else entirely.
“You’ll do fine,” Luke said from beside her, reaching over to squeeze her arm.
Han half turned. “I wish you two wouldn’t do that,” he complained. “It’s like listening to half a conversation.”
“Sorry,” Luke apologized, climbing out of his seat and stooping to peer out the Falcon’s nose window. “Looks like our reception committee coming. I’ll go get Threepio ready.”
“We’ll be there in a minute,” Leia called after him. “You ready, Han?”
“Yeah,” Han told her, adjusting his blaster in its holster. “Last chance to change your mind, Chewie.”
Leia strained her ears as Chewbacca growled out a curt reply. Even after all these years she still couldn’t understand him nearly as well as Han could—some subtle level of harmonics in the Wookiee’s voice, apparently, that she had trouble picking up.
But if some of the words were less than distinct, the overall meaning came through crystal clear. “Oh, come on,” Han urged. “You’ve been fawned over before—remember that big awards thing back at the Yavin base? I didn’t hear you complaining then.”
“It’s all right, Han,” Leia put in over Chewbacca’s response. “If he wants to stay aboard with Artoo and work on the stabilizers, that’s fine. The Bimms won’t be offended.”
Han looked out the nose window at the approaching delegation. “I wasn’t worried about offending them,” he muttered. “I just thought it’d be nice to have a little extra backup along. Just in case.”
Leia smiled and patted his arm. “The Bimms are very friendly people,” she assured him. “There won’t be any trouble.”
“I’ve heard that before,” Han said dryly, pulling a comlink from a small storage compartment beside his seat. He started to clip it to his belt; changed direction in midmotion and fastened it to his collar instead.
“Looks good there,” Leia said. “Are you going to put your old general’s insignia on your belt now?”
He made a face at her. “Very funny. With the comlink here, all I have to do is casually switch it on and I’ll be able to talk to Chewie without being obvious about it.”
“Ah.” Leia nodded. It was a good idea, at that. “Sounds like you’ve been spending too much time with Lieutenant Page and his commandos.”
“I’ve been spending too much time sitting in on Council meetings,” he countered, sliding out of his seat and standing up. “After four years of watching political infighting, you learn the occasional value of subtlety. Come on, Chewie—we’ll need you to lock up behind us.”
Luke and Threepio were waiting when they got to the hatchway. “Ready?” Luke asked.
“Ready,” Leia said, taking a deep breath. With a hiss of released airseal the hatchway opened, and together they walked down the ramp to where the yellow-clad, half-furred creatures waited.
The arrival ceremony was short and, for the most part, unintelligible, though Threepio did his best to keep up a running translation of the five-part harmony the whole thing seemed to have been written in. The song/welcome ended and two of the Bimms stepped forward, one of them continuing the melody while the other held up a small electronic device. “He offers greetings to Distinguished Visitor Councilor Leia Organa Solo,” Threepio said, “and hopes your discussions with the Law Elders will be fruitful. He also requests that Captain Solo return his weapon to the ship.”
The droid said it so matter-of-factly that it took a second for the words to penetrate. “What was that last?” Leia asked.
“Captain Solo must leave his weapon aboard the ship,” Threepio repeated. “Weapons of violence are not permitted within the city. There are no exceptions.”
“Terrific,” Han murmured into her ear. “You didn’t tell me this one was coming.”
“I didn’t know this one was coming,” Leia countered quietly, giving the two Bimms a reassuring smile. “Doesn’t look like we’ve got any choice.”
“Diplomacy,” Han growled, making a curse out of the word. Unfastening his gun belt, he wrapped it carefully around the holstered blaster and set the package up inside the hatchway. “Happy?”
“Aren’t I always?” Leia nodded to Threepio. “Tell them we’re ready.”
The droid translated. Stepping aside, the two Bimms gestured back the way they’d come.
They were perhaps twenty meters from the Falcon, with the sounds of Chewbacca sealing the hatchway coming from behind them, when something abruptly occurred to Leia. “Luke?” she murmured.
“Yes, I know,” he murmured back. “Maybe they figure it’s just part of the proper Jedi’s outfit.”
“Or else their weapons detector doesn’t read lightsabers,” Han put in quietly from Leia’s other side. “Either way, what they don’t know won’t hurt them.”
“I hope so,” Leia said, forcing down her reflexive diplomatic misgivings. After all, if the Bimms themselves hadn’t objected to it … “Good skies, would you look at that crowd?”
They were waiting where the path exited the trees—hundreds of Bimms, standing perhaps twenty deep on both sides of the way, all clothed in the same tooled yellow. The official reception committee shifted to single file and started down the gauntlet without giving the crowd a second glance; bracing herself, Leia followed.
It was a little strange, but not nearly as uncomfortable as she’d feared it would be. Each Bimm reached out a hand as she passed, touching her with a feathery lightness on shoulder or head or arm or back. It was all done in complete silence, and complete order, with the aura of perfect civilization about it.
Still, she was glad that Chewbacca had decided not to come. He hated—rather violently—being pawed by strangers.
They passed through the crowd, and the Bimm walking nearest Leia sang something. “He says the Tower of Law is just ahead,” Threepio translated. “It’s the location of their planetary council.”
Leia peered over the heads of the leading Bimms. There, obviously, was the Tower of Law. And next to it … “Threepio, ask what that thing is beside it,” she instructed the droid. “That building that looks like a three-level dome with the sides and most of the roof cut away.”
The droid sang, and the Bimm replied. “It’s the city’s main marketplace,” Threepio told her. “He says they prefer the open air whenever possible.”
“That roof probably stretches to cover more of the dome framework when the weather’s bad,” Han added from behind her. “I’ve seen that design in a few other places.”
“He says that perhaps you can be given a tour of the facility before you leave,” Threepio added.
“Sounds great,” Han said. “Wonderful place to pick up souvenirs.”
“Quiet,” Leia warned. “Or you can wait in the Falcon with Chewie.”
The Bimmisaari Tower of Law was fairly modest, as planetary council meeting places went, topping the three-level marketplace beside it by only a couple of floors. Inside, they were led to a large room on the ground floor where, framed by huge tapestries covering the walls, another group of Bimms waited. Three of them stood and sang as Leia entered.
“They add their greetings to those given you at the landing area, Princess Leia,” Threepio translated. “They apologize, however, for the fact that the talks will not be able to begin quite yet. It appears that their chief negotiator became ill just moments ago.”
“Oh,” Leia said, taken slightly aback. “Please express our sympathies, and ask if there’s anything we c
an do to help.”
“They thank you,” Threepio said after another exchange of songs. “But they assure you that will not be necessary. There is no danger to him, merely inconvenience.” The droid hesitated. “I really don’t think you should inquire further, Your Highness,” he added, a bit delicately. “The complaint appears to be of a rather personal nature.”
“I understand,” Leia said gravely, suppressing a smile at the prim tone of the droid’s voice. “Well, in that case, I suppose we might as well return to the Falcon until he feels ready to continue.”
The droid translated, and one of their escort stepped forward and sang something in reply. “He offers an alternative, Your Highness: that he would be eager to conduct you on a tour of the marketplace while you wait.”
Leia glanced at Han and Luke. “Any objections?”
The Bimm sang something else. “He further suggests that Master Luke and Captain Solo might find something to interest them in the Tower’s upper chambers,” Threepio said. “Apparently, there are relics there dating from the middle era of the Old Republic.”
A quiet alarm went off in the back of Leia’s mind. Were the Bimms trying to split them up? “Luke and Han might like the market, too,” she said cautiously.
There was another exchange of arias. “He says they would find it excessively dull,” Threepio told her. “Frankly, if it’s anything like marketplaces I’ve seen—”
“I like marketplaces,” Han cut him off brusquely, his voice dark with suspicion. “I like ’em a lot.”2
Leia looked at her brother. “What do you think?”
Luke’s eyes swept the Bimms; measuring them, she knew, with all of his Jedi insight. “I don’t see what danger they could be,” he said slowly. “I don’t sense any real duplicity in them. Nothing beyond that of normal politics, anyway.”
Leia nodded, her tension easing a little. Normal politics—yes, that was probably all it was. The Bimm probably just wanted the chance to privately bend her ear on behalf of his particular viewpoint before the talks got started in earnest. “In that case,” she said, inclining her head to the Bimm, “we accept.”
“The marketplace has been in this same spot for over two hundred years,” Threepio translated as Han and Leia followed their host up the gentle ramp between the second and third levels of the open dome structure. “Though not in this exact form, of course. The Tower of Law, in fact, was built here precisely because it was already a common crossroads.”
“Hasn’t changed much, has it?” Han commented, pressing close to Leia to keep them from getting run down by a particularly determined batch of shoppers. He’d seen a lot of marketplaces on a lot of different planets, but seldom one so crowded.
Crowded with more than just locals, too. Scattered throughout the sea of yellow-clad Bimms—don’t they ever wear any other color?—he could see several other humans, a pair of Baradas, an Ishi Tib, a group of Yuzzumi, and something that looked vaguely like a Paonnid.3
“You can see why this place is worth getting into the New Republic,” Leia murmured to him.
“I guess so,” Han conceded, stepping to one of the booths and looking at the metalware displayed there. The owner/operator sang something toward him, gesturing to a set of carving knives. “No, thanks,” Han told him, moving back. The Bimm continued to jabber at him, his gestures becoming sharper—“Threepio, will you have our host tell him that we’re not interested?” he called to the droid.
There was no response. “Threepio?” he repeated, looking around.
Threepio was staring off into the crowd. “Hey, Goldenrod,” he snapped. “I’m talking to you.”
Threepio spun back. “I’m terribly sorry, Captain Solo,” he apologized. “But our host seems to have disappeared.”
“What do you mean, disappeared?” Han demanded, looking around. Their particular Bimm, he remembered, had worn a set of shiny pins on his shoulders.
Pins that were nowhere to be seen. “How could he just disappear?”
Beside him, Leia gripped his hand. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” she said tightly. “Let’s get back to the Tower.”
“Yeah,” Han agreed. “Come on, Threepio. Don’t get lost.” Shifting his grip on Leia’s hand, he turned—
And froze. A few meters away, islands in the churning sea of yellow, three aliens stood facing them. Short aliens, not much taller than the Bimms, with steel-gray skin, large dark eyes, and protruding jaws.
And, held ready in their hands, stokhli sticks.
“We’ve got trouble,” he murmured to Leia, turning his head slowly to look around, hoping desperately that those three were all there were.
They weren’t. There were at least eight more, arrayed in a rough circle ten meters across. A circle with Han, Leia, and Threepio at its center.
“Han!” Leia said urgently.
“I see them,” he muttered. “We’re in trouble, sweetheart.”
He sensed her glance behind them. “Who are they?” she breathed.
“I don’t know—never seen anything like them before. But they’re not kidding around. Those things are called stokhli sticks—shoot a spraynet mist two hundred meters, with enough shockstun juice to take down a good-sized Gundark.” Abruptly, Han noticed that he and Leia had moved, instinctively backing away from the nearest part of the aliens’ circle. He glanced over his shoulder—“They’re herding us toward the down ramp,” he told her. “Must be trying to take us without stirring up the crowd.”
“We’re doomed,” Threepio moaned.
Leia gripped Han’s hand. “What are we going to do?”
“Let’s see how closely they’re paying attention.” Trying to watch all the aliens at once, Han casually reached his free hand toward the comlink attached to his collar.
The nearest alien lifted his stokhli stick warningly. Han froze, slowly lowered the hand again. “So much for that idea,” he muttered. “I think it’s time to pull in the welcome mat. Better give Luke a shout.”
“He can’t help us.”
Han glanced down at her; at her glazed eyes and pinched face. “Why not?” he demanded, stomach tightening.
She sighed, just audibly. “They’ve got him, too.”
C H A P T E R 7
It was more a feeling than anything approaching an actual word, but it echoed through Luke’s mind as clearly as if he’d heard it shouted.
Help!
He spun around, the ancient tapestry he’d been studying forgotten as his Jedi senses flared into combat readiness. Around him, the large top-floor Tower room was as it had been a minute earlier: deserted except for a handful of Bimms strolling among the huge wall tapestries and relic cases. No danger here, at least nothing immediate. What is it? he sent back, starting for the next room and the staircase leading down.
He caught a quick vision from Leia’s mind, a picture of alien figures and a vivid impression of a contracting noose. Hang on, he told her. I’m coming. All but running now, he ducked through the doorway to the staircase room, grabbing the jamb to help with his turn—
And braked to an abrupt halt. Standing between him and the stairway was a loose semicircle of seven silent gray figures.
Luke froze, his hand still uselessly gripping the doorjamb, half a galaxy away from the lightsaber on his belt. He had no idea what the sticks were his assailants were pointing at him, but he had no desire to find out the hard way. Not unless he absolutely had to. “What do you want?” he asked aloud.
The alien in the center of the semicircle—the leader, Luke guessed—gestured with his stick. Luke glanced over his shoulder into the room he’d just left. “You want me to go back in there?” he asked.
The leader gestured again … and this time Luke saw it. The small, almost insignificant tactical error. “All right,” he said, as soothingly as possible. “No problem.” Keeping his eyes on the aliens and his hands away from his lightsaber, he began to back up.
They herded him steadily back across the room toward another archway an
d a room he hadn’t gotten to before Leia’s emergency call had come. “If you’d just tell me what you want, I’m sure we could come to some sort of agreement,” Luke suggested as he walked. Faint scuffling sounds told him that there were still some Bimms wandering around, presumably the reason the aliens hadn’t already attacked. “I would hope we could at least talk about it. There’s no particular reason why any of you has to be hurt.”
Reflexively, the leader’s left thumb moved. Not much, but Luke was watching, and it was enough. A thumb trigger, then. “If you have some business with me, I’m willing to talk,” he continued. “You don’t need my friends in the marketplace for that.”
He was almost to the archway now. A couple more steps to go. If they’d just hold off shooting him that long …
And then he was there, with the carved stone looming over him. “Now where?” he asked, forcing his muscles to relax. This was it.
Again, the leader gestured with his stick … and midway through the motion, for a single instant, the weapon was pointed not at Luke but at two of his own companions.
And reaching out through the Force, Luke triggered the thumb switch. There was a loud, sharp hiss as the stick bucked in its owner’s hands and what looked like a fine spray shot out the end.
Luke didn’t wait to see what exactly the spray did. The maneuver had bought him maybe a half second of confusion, and he couldn’t afford to waste any of it. Throwing himself back and to the side, he did a flip into the room behind him, angling to get to the slight protection afforded by the wall beside the doorway.
He just barely made it. Even as he cleared the archway there was a stuttering salvo of sharp hisses, and as he flipped back to his feet he saw that the doorjamb had grown strange semisolid tendrils of some thin, translucent material. Another tendril shot through the doorway as he hastily backed farther away, sweeping in a spiral curve that seemed to turn from fine mist to liquid stream to solid cylinder even as it curved.
His lightsaber was in his hand now, igniting with a snap-hiss1 of its own. They’d be through that doorway in seconds, he knew, all efforts at subtlety abandoned. And when they came—