by Jeff Grubb
Reen and the others had been busy earlier, while he had been on the bridge. The catwalks were blackened with blasterfire, and large rents had been furrowed into the bulkheads. Pipes of Varl fluid were shattered and spewing over decks, reducing them to slick pools. Droid chassis were scattered everywhere, and what asp droids were still functional were flailing about at the limitations of their programming, some trying to reactivate the ship’s systems, others trying to contain the spills of semi-refined Tempest, and still others continuing to move containers from one place to another. Mander and Reen encountered one of the ancient war droids, now damaged and walking in a circle, one leg shattered and useless, its weapons depowered.
The pair arrived where the escape pod was supposed to be, but only found Angela Krin pulling herself off the deck. Of the escape pod or the adviser to the Anjiliac clan there was no sign.
“After you left,” she said, “Vago slammed me into a wall and took the pod.” She shook her head. “I’m an idiot.”
“Yes,” Reen said. “Yes you are. And I’d like to remind everyone about what I told them about trusting a Hutt.”
Angela’s eyes were slightly unfocused, and Mander realized that Vago had hit her hard. “We tried to raise you by the comm,” she said, then her eyes tightened and she saw Mander’s wounds. “What happened?”
“Bad things, but better now,” said Reen, tapping on her own comm. “Time to go to plan B. Eddey, where are you?”
The handheld communications unit crackled and Eddey Be’ray’s voice chirped through the static, “I had to duck a Hutt patrol ship or two. My ETA is about seven minutes.”
“Make it three if you can,” said Reen. “We’re flying a rock right now, and it’s going to crash very, very soon.”
Four long minutes later Eddey positioned the New Ambition alongside the stricken ship-turned-factory and unspooled an umbilical between the two. Angela Krin went first, then Mander, and Reen brought up the rear, helping the Jedi when he stumbled. Varl loomed below them, the thin atmosphere already warming up the hull of the stricken ship.
“All on board,” shouted Reen, sealing the door and jettisoning the umbilical bridge.
“Hold on to something,” shouted Eddey. “We’re already very low and very fast.” Even with the warnings, the three had to grab their seats as the Bothan pulled the ship out of its steep dive. Varl, which was filling the forward viewport, moved slowly out of their way. A white streak against the dead world showed the path of Mika’s ship—and the trajectory of the Hutt’s ambition.
Mander slumped into a chair and surrendered to the darkness. As unconsciousness took him, he still thought he heard the screams of Mika the Hutt, burning in the thin atmosphere as his ancestors’ home planet rushed up to embrace him.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
NEW MANAGEMENT
“Mighty Vago, may her wisdom never ebb, will see you now,” said the newly polished jade-green H-3PO unit at the doorway. If it recognized Mander Zuma from previous encounters, it gave no sign. The door irised open behind it.
They were aboard the Imru Ootmian, perched on the borders of Hutt space. Off the port bow hung the heavy presence of the Resolute, about as close to the Hutt worlds as it could be without creating a diplomatic incident. After the action over Varl, Mander was sure that Lieutenant Commander Angela Krin had every weapon aboard trained on Vago and the Hutt’s luxury yacht.
Mander Zuma flexed his fingers as he followed the droid into the audience chamber. His wounded hand had mostly healed, but he still felt a dull pain when he made a fist. He resolved to avoid making a fist.
The room was as before, yet different. The three alcoves were still there, but only the central one was apparently in use. Nikto guards were present, but no Wookiees or Twi’lek servants now. The only other beings present were several other gleaming H-3POs, and they all looked like they had just been uncrated.
In the center of the room was a holographic projection of a burial shrine, probably on Nal Hutta. It showed a great vault cut into the mountainside, overshadowed by a hulking statue of Popara Anjiliac. In the foreground, surrounded by Hutt mourners, were three bandaged ovoid forms readied for internment: one large, one of medium size, and one that seemed too small for a Hutt.
Mander knew that only the middle-sized form contained a real body, that of Zonnos. Of Popara there was only enough to load into a burial effigy, and Mika’s ashes were haunting the poisoned atmosphere of Varl.
Vago said, “Gon kodowin pumba mallin,” and the droid on her flank immediately translated it to “Your efforts were sufficient.” Vago knew that Mander understood her, but let the droid translate anyway.
“It is good to see that the Hutt patrol ships found your escape pod,” said Mander, keeping his tone light and level. “We could not remain long to ascertain your safety.”
Vago the Hutt let out a rolling belch, and the droid was not far behind with the translation into Basic: “Mighty Vago has no regrets for her opportune departure. She states that it was imperative that one of our group survive to report back. Your status was unknown, and the others would not leave without you.”
“The lieutenant commander wishes to convey that she holds no harsh feelings for your actions,” lied Mander, but he followed it with a truth. “She is more concerned with the status of the Tempest trade.”
“The Tempest trade is no more,” said Vago, through the droid. “The Hutt Council of Elders has been informed only that unscrupulous individuals have been landing on our blessed original homeworld. The council has appreciated the notification and is reevaluating its security measures, replacing certain officers, and redoubling its patrols.”
Mander bowed slightly. “But the knowledge of Tempest manufacture still exists.”
“Only a few know of the full matter,” replied Vago.
“All others have been silenced, one way or another.” She nodded at the droid, who blissfully translated without understanding that its own memory had been wiped. “A CSA officer, two spacers, and a Jeedai.”
“And you,” said Mander.
It was the Hutt’s turn to bow slightly. “One who is indebted to Mighty Popara Anjiliac Diresto, and one who would not think of doing anything that would blacken his name or weaken his family’s power.”
Mander blinked at the mention of Popara’s full name. Almost all carried that final personal name to the grave. A Hutt identified with three names was dead, or legendary. Popara was both.
“Still, the Tempest is out there,” said the Jedi. “It exists on half a hundred worlds.”
“In ever-diminishing amounts. The Spice Lord …” Vago paused here, and Mander saw that the Hutt—loyal to the Anjiliac clan to the last—could not use Mika’s name with his crimes, even now. “The Spice Lord was already very effective in covering most of his tracks. His efforts were sufficient in that particular matter. Officially …” Here again she paused, such that the droid waited for her to resume, which she did after a beat. “In the family histories, it will be simply stated that Young Mika discovered and eradicated the founders of the Tempest trade, though at the cost of his own life.”
“Which is true, so far as it goes,” said Mander.
“Popara leaves a legacy of honesty,” said Vago. “I intend to preserve that legacy.”
“There will be a lot of Tempest addicts going into withdrawal,” said Mander.
Vago gave a rippling shrug that cascaded the length of her body. “There may be other types of spice. Spice that is less pleasing, perhaps, but less damaging to the user and to the social fabric.”
“Spice that the Anjiliac family would be willing to deal in,” said Mander. He was greeted with another shrug.
“Mighty Popara, may his name ever be venerated, was happy to aid others,” said Vago through her droid. “Wise Vago sees no point in deviating from this sage practice.”
“Wise Vago faces a great challenge,” observed Mander. “While the holdings of the Anjiliac clan are extensive, it has lost not just its leader, bu
t that leader’s two official heirs. The logical remaining choice to take control will have a tough road ahead of her, and the last thing such a leader would need would be others investigating a renewed trade in hard spice.”
Vago was silent for a moment, then unleashed a passionate string of verbiage, translated again by the droid: “Wise Vago sees that your interests parallel with her own. There will be no resumption of the Tempest trade, and those who seek to do so will be rebuffed. In addition, as a show of kindness, the aid to the addicts will be made at cost. No profit will be taken.”
“Our interests parallel each other,” agreed Mander, and bowed slightly. “Unless the Tempest spice reappears, we have no reason for our paths to cross again.”
“Agreed,” said Vago and held up a hand to silence the droid. In Huttese she said, “Now if you will excuse me, I have a commercial empire to rebuild.” And with that the audience was over, and the droid motioned for Mander to accompany it. The Jedi stepped out of the audience room, and had one last glimpse of Vago the Hutt. She was looking at the holo of the funeral of her adopted family, and Mander could not discern the emotions behind her dispassionate face. Then the droid irised the door shut and the Hutt was gone.
The shuttle returned Mander to the Resolute and he was escorted by Lieutenant Lockerbee to the landing bay where the New Ambition was being prepped for takeoff. Droids and support crew were detaching the last of the hoses. Eddey was visible in the ship’s cockpit, going over a final checklist on his datapad. Reen came up to the Jedi.
“The lieutenant commander says we’re supposed to drop you wherever you want,” she said. “Where would that be?”
Mander looked around. “Yavin Four, I suppose,” he said, though the prospect of returning to the Jedi Archives seemed to pale slightly.
“Thought as much,” said Reen. “Course already laid in. We’re just waiting for you.”
“I’m surprised,” said Mander, then looked at Reen and started again. “I thought that the lieutenant commander would be here to see us off.”
“She’s been busy ever since we got back,” said Reen, a smirk on her face. “I think she saw herself as being in control, being the one pulling the strings. It came as a bit of a shock to discover that she was the puppet and not the master. I don’t think she trusts Hutts that much anymore.”
“Or Jedi,” said Mander.
“Or Jedi,” repeated Reen, and the two looked out over the sprawling shuttle bay. The last of the support droids pulled away from the ship.
Reen let out a deep sigh and said, “I salvaged something from Mika’s factory-ship,” she said, “when you were talking to him, at the end. I was thinking of keeping it myself, but I think you’re going to have better use for it.” She reached beneath her cloak and pulled out Toro’s lightsaber. She held it out, pommel-first, to the Jedi.
Mander looked at it for a long heartbeat, and then reached out. His injured hand closed around the shortened grip, and it felt like he was shaking hands with an old friend. He hefted it aloft, thumbed the activator switch, and the blade sprang from the emitter. He flicked it easily from side to side, and it was as if the blade were an extension of himself.
“How’s it feel?” asked Reen. Up in the cockpit, Eddey impatiently motioned for them to come aboard.
Mander thought for a moment, then said, “Good. It feels very good.”
BY JEFF GRUBB
Star Wars: Scourge
Read on for an excerpt from
Star Wars®: X-Wing: Mercy Kill
by Aaron Allston
Coming soon from Del Rey Books
RYVESTER, MERIDIAN SECTOR
13 ABY (31 YEARS AGO)
Imperial Admiral Kosh Teradoc paused—irritated and self-conscious—just outside the entryway into the club. His garment, a tradesman’s jumpsuit, was authentic, bought at a used-clothes stall in a poverty-stricken neighborhood. And the wig that covered his military-cut blond hair with a mop of lank, disarrayed brown hair was perfect. But his posture—he couldn’t seem to shake off his upright military bearing, no matter how hard he tried. Loosening his shoulders, slumping, slouching … nothing worked for more than a few seconds.
“You’re doing fine, Admiral.” That was one of his bodyguards, whispering. “Try … try smiling.”
Teradoc forced his mouth into a smile and held it that way. He took the final step up to the doors; they slid aside, emitting a wash of warmer air and the sounds of voices, music, clinking glasses.
He and his guards moved into the club’s waiting area. Its dark walls were decorated with holos advertising various brands of drinks; the moving images promised romance, social success, and wealth to patrons wise enough to choose the correct beverage. And they promised these things to nonhumans as well as humans.
One of Teradoc’s guards, taller and more fit than he was, but dressed like him, kept close. The other three held back as though they constituted a different party of patrons.
The seater approached. A brown Chadra-Fan woman who stood only as tall as Teradoc’s waist, she wore a gold hostess’ gown, floor-length but exposing quite a lot of glossy fur.
Teradoc held up three fingers. He enunciated slowly so she would understand. “Another will be coming. Another man, joining us. You understand?”
Her mouth turned up in the faintest of smiles. “I do.” Her voice was light, sweet, and perhaps just a touch mocking. “Are you the party joining Captain Hachat?”
“Um … yes.”
“He’s already here. This way, please.” She turned and led them through broad, open double doors into the main room.
Teradoc followed. He felt heat in his cheeks. The little Chadra-Fan—had she actually condescended to him? He wondered if he should arrange an appropriate punishment for her.
The main room was cavernous, most of its innumerable tables occupied even at this late hour. As they worked their way across, everything became worse for Teradoc. The music and the din of conversation were louder. And the smells—less than a quarter of the patrons were human. Teradoc saw horned Devaronians, furry Bothans, diminutive Sullustans, enormous, green-skinned Gamorreans, and more, and he fancied he could smell every one of them. And their alcohol.
“You’re upright again, sir. You might try slouching.”
Teradoc growled at his guard but complied.
There was one last blast of music from the upraised stage, and then the band, most of them nonhuman, rose to the crowd’s applause. They retreated behind the stage curtain.
Moments later, the noise of the audience, hundreds of voices, changed—lowered, became expectant in tone. A new act filed out onstage. Six Gamorrean men, dressed in nothing but loincloths, their skin oiled and gleaming, moved out and arrayed themselves in a chevron-shaped formation. Recorded dance music, heavy on drums and woodwinds, blasted out from the stage’s sound system.
The Gamorreans began moving to the music. They flexed, shimmied, strutted in unison. A shrill cry of appreciation rose from Gamorrean women in the audience, and from others, as well.
Teradoc shuddered and vowed to sit with his back to the stage.
Then they were at their table, only a few meters from the stage. A human man sat there already. Of medium height and muscular, he was young, with waist-length red hair in a braid. Costume jewelry, polished copper inset with black stones, was woven into the braid. He wore a long-sleeved tunic decorated with blobs of color of every hue, mismatched and discordant; it clashed with his military-style black pants and boots. He stood as Teradoc and his guard arrived.
“Captain Hachat?”
“The one and only.” Hachat sat again and indicated the guard. “Who’s your friend? He looks like a hundred kilos of preserved meat.”
The Chadra-Fan seater, satisfied that she had discharged her duty, offered a little bow. “Your server will be here in a few moments.” She turned and headed back to her station.
Teradoc glared after her and seated himself, facing away from the stage. He waited until his guard was in a c
hair before continuing. “Your messenger hinted at names. I want to hear them now … and to see proof.”
Hachat nodded. “Of course. But, first—would it help you to stop smiling? It looks like it’s hurting your face.”
“Um … yes.” Teradoc relaxed, realized that his cheek muscles were indeed aching. He glanced around, noted the postures of many of the patrons around him, and slid down a little in his chair to match their slouches.
“Much better.” Hachat sipped his drink, a poisonous-looking yellow concoction that glowed from within. There were two glasses, mostly empty but with a similar-looking residue at the bottom on the table. “All right. I run a private space naval operation specializing in covert operations, especially retrievals.”
Teradoc suppressed a sigh. Why can’t they ever just say, “I’m a pirate, a smuggler, a low-life piece of scum with something to sell?” Honesty would be so refreshing.
“We recently found a prize vessel … one whose value could enable us to retire in luxury.”
Teradoc shrugged. “Go on.”
“The Palace of Piethet Brighteyes.”
“I thought that was what your messenger was hinting at. But it’s preposterous. In the centuries since it disappeared, the Palace has never been sighted, never reported. It will never be found.”
Hachat grinned at him. “But it has been. Abandoned, intact, unplundered, in an area of your sector well away from settlements or trade routes.”
“If you’d found it, you’d be selling off its jewels, its furnishings, all those paintings. Through a fence. Yet you come to me. You’re lying.”
“Here’s the truth, Admiral. The vessel’s antipersonnel defenses are still active. I lost a dozen men just getting into a secondary vehicle bay, where I retrieved one artifact and some lesser gems. Oh, yes, I could fire missiles at the palace until it cracked … but I would prefer to lose half its contents to a worthwhile partner than to explosions and hard vacuum. At least I’d get a partner and some good will out of it.”