Outbound Flight

by Timothy Zahn

  "Or refugees," she said, the disapproving edge growing a lit­tle sharper.

  "And the missiles?"

  "They didn't do the passengers much good, did they?"

  "No, but it wasn't from lack of trying." Thrawn turned to Qennto. "And you, Captain? What's your reading of this?"

  "I don't know," Qennto said calmly. "And I don't especially care. They fired first, right?"

  Thrawn shrugged microscopically. "Not entirely true," he said. "One of the sentries I had stationed here happened to be close enough as they came through to disable their hyperdrive. Car'das? Your opinion?"

  Car'das looked around at the faded and motley walls. He might not have had a lot of schooling before running off to space, but he'd had enough to know when a teacher was still looking for an answer he hadn't yet gotten from anyone else.

  But what was the answer? Maris was right; the ship did in­deed look like it was falling apart. But Thrawn was right about the missiles, too. Would refugees have weapons like that?

  And then, suddenly, it struck him. He looked behind him, locating the nearest alien body and doing a quick estimate of its height and reach. Another look at the wall, and he turned back to Thrawn. "These aren't the ones who did the repairs, are they?"

  "Very good," Thrawn said, smiling faintly. "No, they aren't."

  "What do you mean?" Qennto asked, frowning.

  "These aliens are too tall," Car'das explained, pointing to the wall. "See here, where the sealant pattern changes texture? That's where whoever was slopping it on had to go get a ladder or floatpad to finish the job."

  "And whoever that worker was, he was considerably shorter than the masters of this vessel." Thrawn turned back to Maris. "As you deduced, the vessel has indeed been repaired many times. But not by its owners."

  Maris's lips compressed into a hard, thin line, her eyes sud­denly cold as she looked back at the dead bodies. "They were slavers."

  "Indeed," Thrawn said. "Are you still angry at me for killing them?"

  Maris's face turned pink. "I'm sorry."

  "I understand." Thrawn's eyebrows lifted slightly "You of the Republic don't condone slavery yourselves, do you?"

  "No, of course not," Maris assured him hastily.

  "We have droids to handle most menial chores," Car'das added.

  "What are droids?"

  "Mechanical workers that can think and act on their own," Car'das explained. "You must have something of the sort your­selves."

  "Actually, we don't," Thrawn said, eyeing Car'das thought­fully. "Nor do any of the alien cultures we've met. Can you show me one?"

  Beside Maris, Qennto rumbled warningly in his throat. "We didn't bring any on this trip," Car'das said, ignoring his captain's thunderous expression. Qennto had warned him repeatedly not to discuss the Republic's technology level with the Chiss. But in Car'das's opinion this hardly qualified. Besides, Thrawn had surely already examined the Bargain Hunter's records, which must show a dozen different types of droids in action.

  "A pity," Thrawn said. "Still, if the Republic has no slavery, how is it you understand the concept?"

  Car'das grimaced. "We do know a few cultures where it ex­ists," he admitted reluctantly

  "And your people permit this?"

  "The Republic hasn't got much pull with systems that aren't members," Qennto put in impatiently. "Look, are we done here yet?"

  "Not quite," Thrawn said, gesturing toward the door he'd just come through. "Come and look."

  More bodies? Steeling himself, determined not to go all woozy again even if the whole place was piled high with them, Car'das stepped past the commander and through the doorway.

  And stopped short, his mouth dropping open in amazement. The room was unexpectedly large, with a high ceiling that must have stretched up at least two of the ship's decks.

  But it wasn't piled high with bodies. It was piled high with treasure.

  Treasure of all kinds, too. There were piles of metal ingots of various colors and sheens, neatly stacked inside acceleration web­bing. There were rows of bins, some filled with coins or multi­colored gems, others stocked with rectangular packages that might have been food or spices or electronics. Several heavy-looking cabinets against one wall probably held items that would have been too tempting to leave within easy reach of the slaves or perhaps even the crew itself.

  There was also a good deal of artwork: flats, sculpts, tressles, and other forms and styles Car'das couldn't even categorize. Most of it was stacked together, but he could see a few pieces scattered around throughout the room, as if some of the loaders either hadn't recognized them as art or else hadn't much cared where they put them.

  There was a sharp intake of air and a slightly strangled gasp as Qennto and Maris came in behind him. "What in the worlds?" Maris breathed.

  "A treasure vessel, carrying the plunder of many worlds," Thrawn said, slipping into the room behind them. "They were not only slavers, but pirates and raiders as well."

  With an effort, Car'das pulled his eyes away from the treasure trove and focused on Thrawn. "You sound like you already know these people."

  "Only by reputation," Thrawn said, his almost gentle tone in sharp contrast to the tightness in his face as he gazed across the room. "At least, up until now."

  "You've been hunting them?"

  A slight frown creased Thrawn's forehead. "Of course not," he said. "The Vagaari have made no move against the Chiss As­cendancy. We therefore have no reason to hunt them."

  "But you know their name," Qennto murmured.

  "As I said, I know their reputation," Thrawn said. "They've been moving through this region of space for at least the past ten years, preying mostly on the weak and the technologically primi­tive."

  "What about their slaves?" Maris asked. "Do you know any­thing about them?"

  Thrawn shook his head. "We haven't found any aboard this vessel. From that, and from this room, I presume they were en route to their main base."

  "And they off-loaded the slaves to keep them from finding out where that base is?" Car'das suggested.

  "Exactly," Thrawn said. "The crew complement is smaller than one would expect for a vessel of this size, as well. That indi­cates they weren't expecting trouble, but instead intended to go straight home."

  "Yes, you mentioned back on the bridge that they were undercrewed," Car'das said. "How did you know that?"

  "I deduced it from the fact that their defense was sluggish and mostly ineffectual," Thrawn said. "They did little but launch missiles, all running The same countermeasures we'd already seen. A fully crewed vessel would have had laser gunners in place and would have shifted the defense patterns of their missiles. Clearly, they were expecting their escort to do any fighting that became necessary."

  "And boy, were they wrong," Qennto muttered. "You had them outclassed from the start."

  "Hardly outclassed," Thrawn told him. "I merely noticed that in both of their attacks a laser salvo preceded their missiles in a distinct and predictable pattern. When they launched their third attack, I was able to fire back just as the tubes' protec­tive doors opened, detonating the missiles before they could be launched. Fighters that size never have sufficient armor to with­stand that sort of internal blast."

  "You see?" Car'das said drily. "Nothing to it."

  Qennto's lip twisted. "Yeah," he said. "Right."

  "So what happens now?" Maris asked.

  "I'll have the vessel towed back to Crustai for further study," Thrawn said, giving the room one last look before turning back to the door.

  "Question," Qennto put in. "You told Car'das you'd be giving us some extra stuff as payment for teaching you Basic, right?"

  "That wasn't precisely the way I stated it," Thrawn said.

  "But that's essentially correct."

  "And the longer we stay, the more extras we get?"

  Thrawn smiled faintly. "That may be possible. I thought you were in a rush to return home."

  "No, no, there's no hurry," Q
ennto assured him, giving the treasure room a leisurely sweep of his eves. His earlier impa­tience, Car'das noted, seemed to have vanished without a trace. "No hurry at all."

  5

  Come, Padawan," C'baoth said tartly, half turning to throw a glare behind him. "Stop lagging."

  "Yes, Master C'baoth," Lorana said, picking up her pace and hoping fervently that at her increased speed she'd be able to get through the early-morning marketplace crowds without running down any of the shoppers. Up to now the browsing Brolfi had been able to get out of C'baoth's way as he strode through their midst, but she suspected part of that was the fact that he was as hard to miss as an approaching thunderstorm. She, unfortunately, didn't have nearly the same commanding presence, and there had been some near misses already.

  The frustrating part was that there was no need for them to walk this fast in the first place—they still had plenty of time before the day's negotiations began. No, C'baoth was simply angry: angry at the stubborn Brolf negotiators, angry at the equally stubborn Corporate Alliance representatives, angrier still at the careless drafters of the original mineral-rights contract who had left matters open to multiple interpretations in the first place.

  And the angrier C'baoth got, the faster he walked.

  Fortunately, the Force was with Lorana, and she made it to the end of their particular market segment without bowling any­one over and crossed onto one of the wide promenades that di­vided up the marketplace. One more segment to go and they would climb the steps to the wide western door of the city admin­istration center where the negotiations would soon resume.

  Unfortunately, C'baoth responded to the open area by pick­ing up his pace all the more. Grimacing, Lorana sped up as much as she could without breaking into a trot, which she knew would bring an instant rebuke as being undignified and unbecoming of a Jedi.

  And then, without warning, C'baoth braked to an abrupt halt.

  "What is it?" Lorana asked, stretching out with the Force as she came to a stop beside him. She could detect no danger or threat nearby, only C'baoth's own suddenly heightened annoy­ance. "Master C'baoth?"

  "Typical," he growled, his hair and beard rustling against his robe as he turned his head. "Nervous and distrusting, the whole lot of them. Come, Padawan."

  He strode off toward the market square to their right. Lo­rana craned her neck to look as she followed, trying to figure out what he was talking about.

  And then she saw two men coming toward them through the crowd: a Jedi and his Padawan, both of them familiar looking, striding confidently through the ordinary people like lights amid a swirl of dead leaves.

  She frowned, the mental image suddenly catching her con­scious attention. A swirl of dead leaves .. .

  When in the worlds had she started to think of non-Jedi that way? Surely that wasn't how she'd been brought up to think of the people she had dedicated her life to serve. Could it be an at­titude she'd picked up from some of the people she'd traveled among since becoming C'baoth's Padawan? Certainly many of them had seemed to consider themselves inferior to those who carried the lightsaber,

  Or had she picked it up from C'baoth himself? Was that how he thought about people?

  C'baoth stopped a few meters from the edge of the square and waited, and as the two figures threaded their way around the final group of shoppers and continued toward them Lorana fi­nally matched their faces with their names. "Master C'baoth," Obi-Wan Kenobi said, nodding in greeting as he and his Pada­wan, Anakin Skywalker, walked up.

  "Master Kenobi," C'baoth greeted them in turn, his voice and manner polite but with an edge of intimidation beneath the words. "This is a surprise. Have you come all the way from Cor­uscant just to shop for prisht fruits?"

  "It is said that Barlok horticultural techniques produce the best specimens," Obi-Wan replied calmly. "And you?"

  "You know perfectly well why we're here," C'baoth said. "Tell me, how is Master Windu?"

  Kenobi's lip twitched slightly. "He's well."

  "That's good to hear." C'baoth shifted his attention to the young teen standing at Kenobi's side, and a slight smile finally touched the corners of his lips. "Master Skywalker, isn't it?" he said in a friendlier tone.

  "Yes, Master C'baoth," Anakin said, and Lorana couldn't help but smile herself at the earnest gravity in the boy's voice. "It's an honor to see you again."

  "As it is likewise an honor for me to meet once more with such a promising Padawan," C'baoth replied. "Tell me, how goes your training?"

  Anakin glanced at Kenobi. "There's always more to learn, of course," he said. "I can only hope my progress is satisfactory."

  "His progress is more than satisfactory," Kenobi put in. "At this rate, he'll be a full Jedi before he's twenty."

  Lorana winced. She herself was already twenty-two, and C'baoth had made no mention of recommending her for Jedi Knighthood anytime soon. Was Anakin that much stronger in the Force than she was?

  "And yet he began his training so much later than usual," C'baoth pointed out, smiling almost fondly at the boy. "That makes his development even more impressive."

  "Indeed," Kenobi said. "In hindsight, I think it's clear that the Council made the right decision in permitting me to train him."

  There was just the slightest emphasis on the word me, and for half a second a dark cloud seemed to hover at the edge of C'baoth's face. Then the darkness faded and he smiled again. "This has been a pleasant meeting," he said. "But the negotia­tors are assembling, and I have work to do. I trust you'll excuse me if I go and deal with legitimate Council business."

  "Certainly," Kenobi said, his cheek tightening slightly at the implication that he and his Padawan were not, in fact, on legiti­mate Council business themselves.

  "But I forget my manners," C'baoth continued. "This is a full and rich city, and you and Master Skywalker will undoubtedly wish to sample its amusements while you're here." He gestured to Lorana. "My Padawan, Lorana Jinzler, would be honored to escort you on your explorations."

  "Thank you, but that won't be necessary," Kenobi said, throwing Lorana a measuring look. "We'll be fine."

  "I insist," C'baoth said, and there was no mistaking the com­mand in his tone. "I wouldn't want you getting in the way of the talks, or accidentally running afoul of any of the negotiators." He looked at Anakin. "Besides, I imagine Master Skywalker would enjoy the company of another Padawan for a while."

  Again, Anakin looked at his teacher. "Well . . ."

  "And I'd take it as a personal favor, as well," C'baoth added, looking back at Kenobi. "There's really nothing for Lorana to do in the negotiations, and thus no real reason for me to keep her there. I'm sure she'd prefer to be out and about, and I'd feel better knowing she was touring the city with someone reliable."

  Kenobi's lip twitched. He wasn't at all happy about this­ Lorana could see that even without the Force. But he'd been outmaneuvered, and he knew it. "As you wish, Master C'baoth," he said. "We'd be honored to have your Padawan's company for the present."

  "For as long as you wish," C'baoth said. "Now I must go. Farewell." Turning, he strode away.

  Lorana watched him go, her throat tightening. She'd been perfectly content to sit behind C'baoth during the negotiations, and up to now he'd seemed equally content to have her there. Had she done something to displease him?

  Still, whatever the reason, she had her orders, even if they'd been largely unspoken. Bracing herself, she turned back around.

  To find Kenobi and Anakin gazing expectantly back at her. "Well," she said, wincing at the inanity of the word. A Padawan of Jorus C'baoth's should be more urbane and eloquent than that. "I've only been in the city for a day, but I did pick up a guide card for visitors at the spaceport."

  "So did we," Kenobi said, lifting his eyebrows slightly. Clearly, he wasn't going to make this easy on her. "Master Kenobi—"

  "You know anyplace to get good tarsh maxers?" Anakin spoke up hopefully. "I'm hungry."

  Kenobi smiled at his Padawan, and wh
en he looked back at Lorana she could feel the tension between them fading away. "Actually, that sounds good to me, too," he agreed. "Let's hunt down a diner."

  Seated on the balcony of his hotel room, Doriana watched as the three of them headed off toward one of the city's more mid-scale restaurant districts, scowling as he followed their leisurely progress through his macrobinoculars. So the Jedi Council had pulled a fast one on him, sending Obi-Wan Kenobi and his up­start Padawan to keep an eye on C'baoth. That hadn't been part of Sidious's plan.

  But then, these two seemed to be making a career of that sort of thing. He remembered vividly Sidious's anger after the Naboo incident and the unexpected defeat of his Trade Federation al­lies. Their army should have been able to occupy the planet for months or years, creating a turmoil and paralysis in the Senate that Sidious and Doriana could have used to devastating effect.

  But all that had been lost, thanks to Skywalker and his dumb luck in taking out the Trade Federation's Droid Control Ship. Darth Maul's death at the hands of Kenobi and Qui-Gon Jinn had been equally devastating, short-circuiting a quiet reign of terror that would have distracted the Jedi even as it pruned the edges of their close-knit group.

  And now here they were on Barlok, threatening to interfere with Sidious's plan to eliminate Jorus C'baoth.

  He set his lips firmly together. No—not this time. Not if Kinman Doriana had anything to say about it.

  Inside his pocket, his special comlink beeped. Still watching Kenobi and his companions, he fished out the device and flicked it on. "Yes?"

  "Defender?" a hoarse Brolf voice asked.

  "Yes, it is I, Patriot," Doriana said. "I have returned as I promised to help you in your time of need."

  "You are late," the other growled. "The negotiations have al­ready begun."

  "But nothing is yet decided," Doriana said. "There's still time to send a message that the Brolf people will not be cheated. Has everything been prepared according to my instructions?"

  "Almost," Patriot said. "The final components should be on the way. The question is whether you've brought the contribu­tion you promised."

  "I have it right here," Doriana assured him.