Star Wars: Planet of Twilight

by Barbara Hambly

  She swung her bike in a long loop, heading toward the high-standing Newcomer houses with their bright lamps.

  She was right, of course, thought Luke. But he doubted her opinion was that of the majority of Newcomers, nor should it be. They had a right to live in comfort, to have their children grow up with proper medical attention, to avoid the grinding, horrible labor of primitive agriculture and stagnant economy.

  They were a minority on the planet, the majority of whose population did not want their world to become part of the Republic. Nothing Seti Ashgad said to the Republic’s representatives would alter that.

  But while their speeders were tinkered together from scrap and their clothing consisted of makeshifts and hand-me-downs, somebody, Luke noticed, had thought it worth his while to provide every single one of those Newcomers with the very latest in blasters, rifles, and ion cannons.

  6

  INCOMING - 77532 - CCNP-XTTN-5057943, QQ7 to RRNP-XXY79 SCRAMBLE CODE 9 RT. HON. EXLCY LEIA ORGANA SOLO EXTREMELY URGENT - RESPOND AT ONCE

  INCOMING - 77539 - CCNP-XTTN-5057943, QQ7 to RRNP-XXY79 SCRAMBLE CODE 9 RT. HON. EXLCY LEIA ORGANA SOLO EXTREMELY URGENT - RESPOND AT ONCE

  INCOMING - 77601 - CCNP-XTTN-5057943, QQ7 to RRNP-XXY79 SCRAMBLE CODE 9 RT. HON. EXLCY LEIA ORGANA SOLO EXTREMELY URGENT - RESPOND AT ONCE

  INCOMING - 77610 - CCNP-XTTN-5057943, QQ7 to RRNP-XXY79 SCRAMBLE CODE 9 RT. HON. EXLCY LEIA ORGANA SOLO CRITICAL - IMMEDIATE RESPONSE IMPERATIVE

  “Son of a …” Han Solo tapped back to the beginning of the message queue and scanned it again. Twelve scramble 9s. He punched into the first of them, though he knew the comm screen would give him nothing but gibberish, and he was right.

  “Where’s Goldenrod when you need him?”

  At the far end of the terrace, Chewbacca groaned a question.

  “Nothing.” Solo paged through the queue again, as if he thought a message would manifest itself saying, DON’T WORRY ABOUT A THING, WE’RE 50 HOURS LATE BECAUSE THE ENTIRE DIPLOMATIC MISSION JUST STOPPED OFF ON CYBLOC XII SO I COULD BUY MYSELF A PAIR OF SHOES. HOME SOON. LOVE, L.

  In my dreams, thought Han.

  He glanced at the chronometer. It was a few hours after noon, the bright, misty daylight of the resort moon Hesperidium already losing its strength. Above the dark-leaved trees with their neon-bright clusters of gold and scarlet fruit, the sky was fading to its characteristic rosy lavender, the dark edges pricked already by the more prominent stars.

  There was no possible way he could continue to deceive himself. Even taking into account the worst imaginable outcome of the conference with this Ashgad character, even taking into account an emergency detour to Coruscant, even taking into account an unscheduled Council session and a harangue by Councillor Q-Varx of the Rationalist sympathies and inexhaustible rhetoric—and why wouldn’t she have at least sent a message to that effect?—Leia was late.

  Very, very late.

  Chewbacca hauled himself out of the terrace pool and shook, spattering water in all directions. Behind him among the realistically engineered rocks, Winter glided fishlike with the giggling twins in the mild water while Anakin patted solemnly all around the pinkly glowing field of his confinement bubble. Jaina had lately become fascinated with knotting and braiding, and the long feathering of the Wookiee’s mane and arms bore random macramés of her efforts. Dripping, Chewbacca padded to Han’s side. He growled another query, his voice low, for the twins understood Wookiee almost as fluently as did their father.

  “I can’t even do that,” replied Han softly. “That was part of the cover. She’s supposed to be here with us, not in the middle of the Meridian sector meeting with a guy who isn’t even the elected representative of his planet.”

  Chewie asked something else, tilting his great head, blue eyes glittering worriedly under the overhang of his brow.

  “What would Ackbar be able to tell me?” Han spread his hands. “If he knew anything he’d have contacted me already. With a leak someplace in the Council, and the Rationalists and the Rights of Sentience Party ready to split the Council in half, he can’t go through regular channels any more than we can.”

  The Wookiee rumbled deep in his chest.

  “I know.” Han closed his fist, brought it down with surprising restraint—softly, a slow-motion blow—on the thick glassite of the tabletop beside which he stood.

  The small villa that had housed a succession of the Emperor Palpatine’s concubines—one of several retained by the government of the New Republic to shelter diplomats it wanted to impress—had been thoroughly swept for listening devices before Leia and her family went to stay there for an ostensible vacation on what was arguably the most beautiful moon of the Coruscant system, but Han still felt easier talking on the terrace. The gurgle of the fountains among mossy stones and the soft singing of the warbleflowers, would have baffled even a long-range directional listening device.

  “She should have listened to Callista,” he said. “She should have listened.”

  In his heart, of course, he knew that Leia couldn’t have heeded the warning. The Rationalist Party had spent too many months setting up the secret meeting with Ashgad—and had too much influence both in the New Republic and in the various fragments of the old Empire—for the whole matter to be jettisoned at the last minute on the strength of an anonymous note. Q-Varx, the Calamari Senator who headed up the party on that watery planet, had pointed out that, on the one hand, the case of the Newcomer minority on Nam Chorios could very well turn into a test case for the whole issue of planetary self-determination and, on the other, though Moff Getelles of Antemeridian was in no position militarily to go against the Republic fleet in the Meridian sector, it was too much to hope that he would not find some way of turning disaffection on that world to his advantage.

  That was the problem, reflected Han, with power.

  Even before he’d come into contact with actual power, he’d concluded that people who wanted to rule the galaxy—or even some weedpatch township on Duroon—were idiots. As Lando Calrissian had discovered on Bespin, power tied you down. You could no longer follow your instincts or act on the spur of the moment.

  All Leia could do, when Callista’s message had reached her, was include her Noghri bodyguard in the party and run the risk of the hideous scandal that would result if they were discovered. Every precaution that could be taken had already been taken.

  She should have run. Han touched the keypad again, and watched the long parade of scramble 9s—there were fifteen of them now—scroll past.

  The face of Luke’s beloved—the soft oval contours, the strong chin and full, decisive lips, the rain-colored eyes that were at once so old and so innocent—returned to his mind. The light, husky alto voice that was like a teenage boy’s and the gawky grace of her long-boned body.

  She’d disappeared almost a year ago. She knew Luke would go after her, thought Han. She wouldn’t resurface lightly.

  All that, Leia had known.

  And had gotten on the Borealis shuttle anyway.

  It was a kind of courage Han frankly wasn’t sure he possessed.

  He said again, out loud this time, “She should have run.”

  The screen blinked again. Another scramble 9. From Coruscant, this time, a long block of text, in the purple lettering that meant very, very urgent. At the same time a green light went up over the fancifully carved, moss-padded stone doorway that led from the terrace to the house, and in what looked like an antique stone niche a decorative statue revolved to admit a round TT-8L droid on the end of its jointed limb.

  The bronze lid blinked as the blue glass optical adjusted to read who was on the terrace. Then a very pleasant voice announced, “Two visitors in the vestibule, Captain Solo. They have declined to present credentials. Would you like them to be admitted or would you prefer an observation first?”

  “Admit ’em.” Han hated spying on his guests. If they came out the door shooting, he and Chewie could probably deal with the situation.

  �
��It will be my pleasure.”

  Chewie grumbled something and shook his mane. He disliked vestibule observation as much as Han did, and disliked tattletale droids, if possible, even more. Han laughed, and agreed, “Yeah, can’t you just see all his little diodes sparkling with sheer delight?”

  The laughter wiped from his face a moment later as the automatic door slid quietly back into its quasi-stone slot, and he saw who his visitor was.

  He had a bad feeling about all this.

  “Well, well.” The door of the airlock slipped open. “What have we got here?”

  See-Threepio, who had advanced with hands extended in near-ecstatic welcome, pulled up short at the question. “As I explained over the viewscreen,” he reiterated, “this is a scout vessel detached from a … a major disaster, and we are on our way to the fleet base at Cybloc XII.” As he spoke he was analyzing the broad-shouldered, fair-haired man with the scar on his lip who stood in the doorway, the man who, half an hour previously, had identified himself on the viewscreen as Captain Bortrek of the Pure Sabacc.

  “Our pilot is unfortunately deceased …” He followed Captain Bortrek down the corridor to the bridge, the young man swaggering ahead, looking around him thoughtfully and whistling a little through his teeth.

  “He the only crew?” Bortrek paused in the doorway of the tiny lab, where Yeoman Marcopius lay cramped into the stasis box.

  “Of course. Had there been anyone else to navigate us into the Durren roads, we could have …”

  “What’d he die of? Anything catching?”

  “I believe so, yes, sir, but the stasis box is certified for full-spectrum biological security.” Though scrupulously programmed to have no personal opinions about humans whatsoever, Threepio could not help comparing this young man to Captain Solo as he had been when Threepio and Artoo had first encountered him in company with Master Luke. This man seemed to have a far more casual attitude about things, however, and to walk with more of a swagger, aside from dressing in a fashion that Threepio recognized as both flashy and not in the best of taste. “Eighty percent of the crew had perished by the time we were able to … Here, sir, what are you doing?”

  “What’s it look like I’m doing?” demanded Captain Bortrek irritably, pausing in the midst of ripping the stasis box’s connectors free of the walls. “Gimme a hand getting this to the other airlock, Goldie—over there, you stupid hunk of junk! Antigrav lifters!”

  Threepio automatically filled in—as he was programmed to do—the context and gesture to mean, Bring me those antigrav lifters under the cabinet. He could not but compare the man’s tone to Master Luke’s—and Her Excellency’s—invariable use of polite nonessential grammatical elements such as Please and Thank you—not that any protocol droid worthy of his battery packs would take offense at being referred to as a hunk of junk or even by the patently untrue epithet stupid. Threepio knew quite well that he was not stupid.

  But it was contrary to his programming to correct the man’s deeply inaccurate estimate of his mental capacity, as it would have been for him to object to Bortrek’s manhandling of the stasis box onto the antigrav lifters and shoving it out into the corridor with the patent intention of dispatching Yeoman Marcopius’s mortal remains into the outer vacuum, box and all. Captain Bortrek was a human.

  Thus Threepio kept his reflections to himself, as he assisted the captain in maneuvering the detached box into the smaller, secondary airlock. Marcopius had been a loyal retainer of Her Excellency’s, a good pilot, and, as far as Threepio was capable of judging, an admirable young man. Though Threepio personally saw no reason why human remains should not simply be jettisoned, burned,or for that matter stewed and eaten by other humans in an emergency (provided they were certified free of harmful bacteria first and, if possible, aesthetically prepared), he was acutely aware that neither Her Excellency, the young man’s family, nor the deceased himself would have considered this send-off at all respectful. Respect and custom being the foundation stone of protocol, Threepio was deeply offended.

  Not nearly as offended as he later became, however.

  “Nice ship,” remarked Bortrek again, turning from the airlock door before the cycle had even cleared.

  “My counterpart informs me that it is a top-of-the-line scouting vessel designed for short-range deep-space travel and limited hyperdrive,” replied Threepio helpfully. “It has ten-point-two engines and a hull capacity of thirty-five hundred cubic meters.”

  “What,” grunted Bortrek, “you trying to sell it to me?” He passed a hand close to an auxiliary door on the way down the passage, nodded with approval of the opening speed without going in. “Sure beats hell out of the old Sabacc. Pity it’s not bigger.”

  Having seen the Pure Sabacc as the large, ramshackle Y164 had maneuvered into docking position on the scout, Threepio was inclined to agree, though he knew his own judgment on such matters was limited. Artoo had checked the Sabacc by scanner and had confirmed the opinion: The other vessel’s power output ratios were all far lower, and though clearly a long-distance hyperdrive vessel, she appeared to be less maneuverable as well.

  “The engines of this vessel were seriously damaged by collision with debris during the recent battle,” Threepio went on, still trailing Bortrek as the man made his way around the little ship, flicking readouts to life, tapping walls, bending to look into access hatches. “It is imperative that my counterpart and I obtain passage to the fleet installation on Cybloc XII. Although I have no official clearance, I can assure you of a high probability of reward, to be forwarded to you after our arrival on Coruscant at whatever address you wish to give.”

  Bortrek halted in the middle of the bridge, looking from Threepio to Artoo-Detoo, who was still linked into the main navicomputer, absorbing readings and information whose echoes flashed across the screens all around him. Though, as Threepio had said, the guidance systems of the scout vessel had been damaged by collision with debris—rendering drift into interplanetary space almost inevitable had not Bortrek picked up their distress signal—the comm lines were still open. Artoo tweeped a string of information that made Threepio exclaim, “Good heavens!”

  “What’s he say?” Bortrek was tallying up the burned-out consoles with a knowing eye.

  “There are reports of revolt from Ampliquen and King’s Galquek, and according to Artoo, plague has broken out on the Durren base as well. This is terrible!”

  “Terrible enough for me to get my tail out of here, anyway, Goldie.” Bortrek crossed to where Artoo stood and rapped with speculative knuckles on the little droid’s domed cap. “What model R2 is he, Goldie? Dee?”

  “A dee, yes. They’re quite good models, and extremely versatile, though sometimes a little erratic. For any type of sheerly astromechanical or stellar navigation, one cannot better the records of the R2 series in general, and the dee models in particular—or so I’m told.”

  Bortrek knelt and flipped open Artoo’s back panel, reaching in with an extractor he’d produced from the pocket of his reptile-leather vest. “So you are told that, are you?” Artoo emitted a little squeak, then withdrew his data jack from the port. “Well, Goldie, I been told that, too. So I’ll tell you what. You and him just head on back to the primary lock and wait for me on the bridge of the Sabacc. I’ll be over in a while.”

  “We really are very fortunate, you know,” Threepio said, as he and Artoo crossed through the narrow neck of the port-to-port tunnel that linked the two ships. “With trade being turned away and rebellion on the planet, and now plague as well, no ships of hyperspace capability are going to be leaving the Durren system for quite some time. The Meridian sector is very thinly inhabited and well out of most trade routes. We could have drifted for years—centuries, perhaps—before we were discovered. By that time, goodness knows what might have befallen Her Excellency.”

  Artoo vouchsafed no reply. Threepio guessed that Captain Bortrek had disabled a portion of the little astromech’s motivator, a wise precaution, perhaps. Artoo was unaccountabl
e sometimes and might have refused to abandon the patently useless scout.

  “Once we reach Cybloc XII, we can notify the proper authorities of Her Excellency’s whereabouts. I doubt it would be safe to do so from this ship or in fact to let Captain Bortrek know of the matter at all. Grateful as I am for the rescue, one cannot be sure of such a man’s loyalties. But I’m sure that we can put in a voucher to the Central Council to make ample remuneration to him for his trouble …”

  He broke off, leaving his speculation unfinished, as they emerged from the Pure Sabacc’s lock into her main holding bay. Strongboxes were stacked casually against the walls—one of them, open, showed bundles of bearer-bonds and a considerable quantity of gold coins. Another was filled beyond closing point with platinum and electrum cast into shapes that Threepio immediately identified as sacred to four of the six main faiths currently fashionable on the planet Durren: Reliquaries, monstrances, jeweled prayer-wheels tumbled at random and bent to accommodate the confines of the chest. Items too large for easy storage—statues and pieces of furniture clearly valuable for their workmanship and materials—were tumbled and shoved in corners, along with roughly tied masses of embroidered velvets and precious stohl fur, and more sacks that had the unmistakable shape of coinage.

  “Good heavens!” Threepio exclaimed in surprise. “Judging from the latest market valuation statistics of gold and platinum, there must be several million credits in this hold alone! Whatever is a man like Captain Bortrek—who does not appear to be of the more prosperous classes, nor is he even a native of the planet Durren—doing with all this wealth?”