Scourge

by Jeff Grubb

  The hairs on the back of Mander’s neck stood up in a way that they had not in the presence of the older Hutt. The younger creature was in better shape, and although smaller, he seemed more malignant than his parent. His flesh had a bluish sheen, and even in this light Mander could see that his eyes were red and rheumy. Too much of the hokuum.

  “Mighty Zonnos, may his digestion always be sound,” said the droid, and the Wookiees behind them gave a laugh.

  Mander said nothing, and Zonnos spat out a string of guttural noises, rounded by drink and almost impossible for Mander to translate. The droid put in, “Kindly Zonnos wants to wish you good luck on your mission and tell you that he has no hard feelings over an outlander being chosen to aid the family. This is a dangerous situation, and Zonnos wants you to know you have the support of the clan.”

  “I appreciate kindly Zonnos’s concern, and that of clan Anjiliac,” said Mander.

  Another slurred garble, and the droid hesitated. One of the Wookiees smacked it across the back of the head, and it spat out, “Mighty Zonnos wants you to know that even if you fail to find his brother or—Ardos forbid—are too late to save him, you will still have an ally among the Anjiliacs.”

  Zonnos waited for the droid to finish, then managed a lazy, single wink. It laughed, and for a moment Mander’s blood ran cold. Then the Wookiees grabbed Mander by the shoulders and forcefully escorted both him and the droid back into the hallway.

  “That went better than usual,” said the droid, touching its head casing where the Wookiee had smacked it. “Let us get back to the others.”

  When they returned, both Reen and Eddey were rubbing their shoulders from the ball-shaped medical droid administering a vaccination with a wicked-looking needle. Vago had returned as well. “Where did you disappear to?” asked the Hutt in her native language.

  “Zonnos wanted to talk to me,” said Mander, not waiting for the droid to translate. He figured that direct honesty was the best approach. Vago would cross-examine the droid in any event.

  The Hutt factotum harrumphed and said in rapid Huttese, “Then I should make this a double dose. Exposure to Zonnos is sometimes fatal. I have included information on Endregaad, Mika, the disease itself, and what we know about the quarantine blockade.” Vago focused Mander’s attention so that he did not notice the ball-droid swooping around and quickly injecting him with a vaccine.

  “There should be no problems with the vaccine,” Vago said. She looked at the Bothan and added, “If there are any odd symptoms, contact us at once. The Threepio unit will see you are returned to the spaceport.” Eddey just growled at Vago’s back as the Hutt left, the medical droid swept up behind her.

  “What just happened?” said Reen.

  “Let’s talk about it later,” said Mander. “Are you ready to go?”

  “I’ve got a ship, I’ve got a cargo, and I’ve got a lot of questions to be answered,” said Reen. “Ready as I’ll ever be. I’ve even named the ship.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “New Ambition,” said Reen with a smile.

  “Just ignore the fact,” added Eddey, “that the old Ambition is now so much scrap. Otherwise it is not an auspicious name at all.”

  “The one you hunt is named Mander Zuma,” said Koax to the ghostly image. “He is a Jeedai of middling years and equally middling ability. Unlike most of his breed, he is surprisingly light in legends of daring that seem to accrete to these monks. He is, in short, a nondescript. Hardly a challenge for one such as yourself.”

  Across from the Klatooinian hovered the image of Hedu, matriarch of the Bomu clan. She was a thin, wasp-like female, made even more ethereal by the holographic projection. Behind her lurked the flickering of others shifting just at the edges of the image field—relatives acting as bodyguards, in the Rodian fashion.

  The Rodian matriarch let out a long, wheezing sigh. She contained more air than her phantom image suggested. Even so, she managed to exhale a question. “You are sure he is the one? The one who killed my clanchildren on Makem Te?”

  “I have confirmed it,” said Koax, politely. “He made little point in concealing his identity, as the Jeedai priests are wont to do. He apparently was the teacher of the other Jeedai—the one you poisoned.”

  “On your orders,” said Hedu.

  “On the orders of the Spice Lord,” said Koax, pulling her authorization around her like a cloak.

  The Rodian matriarch made a gurgling, chugging noise that Koax assumed was laughter. “Perhaps the Jeedai hunts for his own vengeance.”

  Koax considered the Rodian’s worldview, one of continual revenge against slights real and imagined, and thought that in this case it had merit. “Perhaps,” she said. “One of his companions, definitely so.”

  “You have learned of his companions?” said the Rodian, her trumpet-belled antennae practically quivering.

  “A Pantoran spacer, Reen Irana,” said Koax. “Sister to the Jeedai you … we had killed.”

  The matriarch let out a long angry hiss, and Koax wondered if the Rodian leader had been dipping into her own private spice supplies. “Yes, that makes sense. The Jeedai seeks vengeance, and brings along others of a similar mind.”

  From everything that Koax had learned, that seemed unlikely, but she said nothing to dissuade the Rodian. “And a Bothan. They were the ones who killed your clanchildren and burned your stocks.”

  “Bothan,” said the Rodian, and let out a string of curses. “You can always find one of them wherever there is trouble. Where are they now?”

  “They are guests of a Hutt clan lord, aboard his yacht, in orbit over Makem Te,” said Koax.

  The matriarch stroked a few long hairs on her chin. “A carefully timed shuttle, loaded with explosives, could bring down any yacht.”

  “No,” said Koax. “That will not do.”

  The matriarch seethed through the holographic connection, “The Jeedai has killed my clanchildren! Nothing else should stand in the way of vengeance.”

  “They are on a Hutt ship,” said Koax calmly. “Do you think that the protection that my lord offers is sufficient to protect you from a Hutt patriarch? It is bad enough that we have to worry about the Jedi Order. I do not want a Hutt mercantile clan prying into our business.”

  The ancient Rodian rocked back, hissing in displeasure, and almost disappeared from the holographic view entirely. Koax wondered if the refusal to condone the bombing had given the old raptor an aneurism. The Rodian recovered herself, though. Measuring her words as carefully as if they were grains of Tempest itself, she said, “What would you have us do?”

  “I want your vow that you will not act against the Hutts,” said Koax.

  “As long as we have a chance against the Jeedai and his allies,” responded the matriarch.

  “Fair enough,” said the Klatooinian. Her long fingers danced over the keys of the display. “They are making for the Endregaad system, in a Suwantek freighter. I am giving you the coordinates where they should appear.”

  Matriarch Hedu’s eyes lit up at the sight of the figures, and Koax remembered that the ancient bird had been a spacer as well. She probably could outfly most of her clan. “I know these coordinates. Who is this Jeedai, that he walks such secret paths?”

  “One favored by a Hutt consortium,” said Koax. “And for that reason, if for no other, you should tread carefully. Intercept their ship on the way in. Do not do anything that would bring the Hutts down on top of our profitable trade.”

  Hedu chugged a deep laugh again, “Because our Spice Lord does not want to share with the Hutts, I suppose?”

  “You may suppose as you see fit,” said Koax, covering her lies with a thin smile.

  Someone to the right of the old woman handed her a datapad. “Endregaad,” she said, scanning the information. “Corps are all over it. Quarantined. Interdicted. Bad business.”

  “All the more reason to catch their ship on the way in, and leave nothing but debris for the Corporate Sector to find.” Koax glare
d at the matriarch with her good eye. “Are we agreed?”

  Matriarch Hedu of the Bomu clan pulled her snout inward, trying to physically stave off her acquiescence as long as she could. At last she said, “We are agreed. I can have one of our raiders in that sector within the day. There will be no survivors.”

  “Good,” said Koax, and reached to disengage the screen. Before she could do so, though, Hedu added quickly, “I have but one question.”

  “Yes?” said Koax, her own patience thin now. It was always the last question, the last bit of information that created new problems. Thinking of the late Dejarro, whose death was now laid at the feet of the Jeedai, Koax realized it must be a genetic tic of the clan, to ask one question too many.

  But the matriarch just smiled. “How did you discover all this information? Names, ship ID, coordinates? You must have some contacts among their Hutt patrons to know all this.”

  “The Spice Lord is mighty,” said Koax, “with a great reach and powerful allies. Keep that in mind if you choose to go beyond my orders.” And with that she broke the connection and the horrid, reed-thin Rodian flashed out of existence.

  Koax let out a deep sigh. Would that all of her problems could disappear so easily. Tempest was now extant on half a hundred worlds, and while the Spice Lord had proven capable of meeting that great demand, there were always small matters to deal with: The local authorities. Rival gangs. Nosy interlopers trying to create, or steal, their own supply. Half a hundred worlds, half a hundred tasks too small for the Spice Lord … but fit entirely for that most trusted servant, Koax the one-eyed Klatooinian.

  She turned back to her guest in the small room. A deactivated 3PO unit, its metallic casing the color of the green evening sky on her homeworld, was partially collapsed in one chair. Hours before, she had “borrowed” it from its Anjiliac masters as it oversaw the loading of medical supplies for Endregaad. She had walked up to it, asked it for directions, and then spoke the override code that the Spice Lord had given her. The 3PO unit froze up for a moment, then entered into a fugue state. After that, it had easily allowed Koax to walk it to a quiet quarter and find out what was going on aboard Popara Anjiliac’s ship. Then she let it collapse in the chair while she did business with Matriarch Hedu.

  She spoke another series of words now, and the droid reactivated, its eyes lighting up and its body suddenly shocking itself out of its dormant state.

  “I’m sorry,” it said, then repeated itself as its diagnostics kicked in. “I’m sorry. One moment. Something has gone wrong. Was I offline?”

  “I think so,” said Koax. “I found you wandering near the landing bays about an hour ago. You seemed confused. Do you remember who you are?”

  “I am an H-Threepio unit in service of the Anjiliac clan. I report to Vago Gejalli. I am charged with …” It paused for a moment, and looked at Koax. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Koax. “I brought you here, and was just about to crack your housing and see if anything had worked loose.” She held up a pair of calipers as proof of her intentions. “Then you started up again on your own. You gave me a start.”

  “Oh,” said the droid, adding that information to its datafiles. “I need to return to my post. They will be missing me.”

  “I don’t doubt they will,” said Koax. “Should I take you back to where I found you?”

  The droid tilted its head slightly, then shook it. “I need to return to my post. They will be missing me.” Gently it rocked forward and rose, as if trying to regain its bearings. It waddled to the door in the shuffle that all protocol droids seemed cursed with. It turned at the last moment and said, “Thank you.”

  “Do not mention it,” said Koax. “But do yourself a favor and have your master run a full scan on you. Some of your couplings may be loose.”

  The droid nodded and was gone; back to oversee the loading, its newly rebooted subroutines still trying to understand what had happened to it. Koax had no doubt that the droid would remember nothing—she had done this before, but the slightest glimmer of possible recognition made her uncomfortable.

  She went to the door and watched the droid move through the crowds of Swokes Swokes and other aliens, its movements getting more sure as it went. No, there would be no problem.

  One more of the half a hundred things that had to be handled on the behalf of Koax’s lord. Perhaps there would be a day where it would all just move smoothly. The arrival of the pallets of pressed and cut drugs, the distribution, the credits trickling back up through a dozen false fronts. Perhaps the Spice Lord would not need a fixer—a repair woman—someone who had the ability and coldhearted resolve to do what needed to be done to keep everything moving smoothly.

  It would be nice if it happened, even for one day, Koax realized. But it was an unlikely dream, and the Klatooinian returned to her half a hundred other tasks.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  TO THE PLAGUE PLANET

  That evening Mander Zuma had a familiar dream, one that returned to him again and again over the years.

  He was on Coruscant, in the great Jedi library, situated near the flat-topped peak of the Jedi Temple. Here were the computer terminals, here the hallways leading to the holocron vaults, here the long shelves of holographic records, here the busts of the Lost Twenty—Jedi who had left the Order. Yet something was wrong. The great-vaulted rooms were empty, and somewhere in the distance a bell tolled in long, heavy peals.

  In the dream he walked. Sometimes it was hours, sometimes it only felt like hours. He met no one. Was this when the library was shut down, during the time of the Galactic Empire, when only the Emperor had access to the stacks, corrupting its volumes to meet his infernal needs? Was it sometime later? Where were the other Jedi? Would he find Master Tionne here?

  But there was nothing except his own footsteps and the sound of the bell.

  And then he noticed that the glowing holorecords of the stacks were slowly going out. Darkness was overtaking them, their blue illumination swallowed by oblivion. Turning, he saw that the rooms behind him were consumed by darkness that had now caught up with him. Around him the holorecords were dying.

  Mander in his dream reached for his lightsaber, and it felt scaly and cold in his hand. Looking down, he saw that it had been replaced by a serpent, which now coiled around his wrist. The snake opened its mouth, and in the place of fangs there were twin lightsabers, glowing with a deep ruby light.

  And then he awoke and he was on Makem Te again, the heavy sun just poking up over the horizon and flooding his room. He blinked and gathered himself. The dream was the same, and it left him with the same feeling each time—a feeling of sadness, or insufficiency. Was there something he could have done in the dream? Was there something that he should have done? It did not feel prophetic, but rather accusatory. That he had been judged and found, not guilty, but merely unsatisfactory.

  The Imru Ootmian had left the previous night, its next port of call wherever Popara’s business took him. The New Ambition, as Reen had christened it, was at berth X-13, and she and Eddey had already moved into it, running every diagnostic they could think of. Reen had insisted on taking a full day to sweep the ship, stem-to-stern, for any type of bug. She would have taken another day if Mander had not made clear that they needed to be on their way to Endregaad.

  Mander dressed and slowly packed his few belongings into a shoulder satchel: a spare set of clothing and the more formal robes he had worn to meet with Popara. He hefted his lightsaber.

  Once again he thought about how little affinity he had for the weapon. He had built it himself, harvesting the crystal at its heart and meditating over it, imbuing it with the Force. Yet he never felt he had the connection with the device, the extension of one’s own self into it. It was not a serpent, yet it wasn’t a part of himself, either. It was a thing, a tool that could be used.

  Mander Zuma shook his head and attached the lightsaber to his belt. Reen and the Bothan would be waiting for him. He shove
d the dream to the back of his mind, where it would wait for another night to haunt him. Hoisting his satchel, he went to join his crew on the New Ambition.

  “The ship’s clean,” said Reen, coming back from the cargo hold. They had lifted off from pad X-13 at the Makem Te spaceport and were now heading to the initial jump point pre-programmed into the navigation system.

  She threw herself into the copilot’s chair in a frustrated tangle. Eddey was at the main controls, and Mander, his magnaspecs pinching his nose, was fussing with the jump calculations, trying to make sense of the program. He had spent much of the previous day at it, and realized that Reen was correct—despite his knowledge of space navigation in theory, the complexities of implementing a real-world example were a challenge. Reen said it looked okay. He would have to trust that the calculations were correct.

  Reen continued, “I’ve checked the cargo, the holds, and everywhere I would think to put a secret compartment. There’s nothing except what they claim to be there. The medicinal spice is standard issue, though I will admit that it is of a superior grade. Nothing illegal there. Went over the ship with a bug-buster, and no trackers or listening devices. Ditto the computers. Everything is just as it is supposed to be.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy,” said Mander. He removed the magnaspecs, folded them in on themselves, and placed them in his robe pocket, over his heart.

  “I’m not,” replied the Pantoran, pushing an errant dark hair out of her eyes. “These are Hutts. There has to be something going on here that they are not telling us.”

  “There is probably much they didn’t tell us,” said Mander, “as well as all the things they did not tell us until the last moment.”

  Reen looked over at Mander. “And maybe there’s more.”

  “Maybe,” said Eddey, “no one has ever tried these coordinates before.”

  Mander blinked and looked at Reen. She shrugged and walked over to the Jedi’s station, pointing at the unspooling code. “I’m not so sure. Most of this stuff looks like it was improvised. Pure seat-of-the-pants flying, nothing you could normally get a droid or a navbot to do. Droids are too linear in their thoughts. This is much more like the recording of a spacer who got herself into trouble and was shocked and surprised to find that she lived through the experience. But I checked the figures three times. It should work.”