by James Luceno
The midwife who had swaddled Jyn brought Galen out of his reverie.
“You can remain with Lyra and the child or give them a few moments to rest.”
Lyra nodded to indicate that rest was preferable.
He gazed at her. “I don’t know if I have the strength to leave.”
“Don’t fret,” one of the handmaidens said, “you’ll be permitted to stay for the night.”
In naked relief, Galen leaned over to kiss Lyra on the forehead, Jyn on the crown of her head. She was a beautiful girl, a good weight and size and very healthy, according to the midwife who had assessed her. Dark curls were plastered to her scalp, and Galen could already see that she had her mother’s mouth.
Two of the doting handmaidens escorted him to the chamber’s massive wooden door. In a room directly across the wide hallway, Nurboo, Easel, Tambo, and the rest of his colleagues from the Zerpen facility were waiting to congratulate him with embraces and hard claps on the back—and of course to get him drinking. All of them were eager to see Jyn but the midwives wouldn’t permit it, calling them rumpled, germ-ridden, miscreant wizards—though all in fun.
From out of nowhere a mug was pressed into Galen’s hand and quickly filled with a viscid white liquid and the toasts began, with long swallows following each of them. Galen was near drunk in no time, which would have been the case even if he had been consuming his accustomed calories and hadn’t been awake for the past twenty local hours. The drinks, the torchlight, the cheery faces of his friends worked the most nourishing kind of magic on him.
“I thought you were going to name her after me,” Nurboo said.
“Now, how would that sound?”
“I’ll have you know that Vallt has as many female Nurboos as it does males.”
Galen didn’t doubt it. Nurboo—like Tambo and Easel—was a day designation. The entire planetary population chose among scarcely two dozen names.
“Perhaps the next child?” Nurboo persisted.
“I’ll confer with Lyra.”
Everyone fell suddenly silent. Galen turned to find Chieftain Gruppe standing behind him. Her stern face broke into a broad grin and she embraced him harder than the others had and accepted a flagon of the homebrew, which she downed in one lengthy swallow.
Galen knew the danger of feeling affection for one’s jailer, and had gone to great lengths to maintain a safe emotional distance from Gruppe or any of the others. And yet tonight he felt a warmth spread through him that had less to do with the alcohol than a sense that he was among family. As reckless as it was, he had formed a strong bond with the Valltii—even his captors, even with Gruppe.
“You know we’re not your enemy,” she said after a loud, appreciative belch.
“I’m trying not to think of you that way, but the walls of my cell keep reminding me that I’m a prisoner.”
“It’s simply circumstance.”
Galen showed her a wry smile. “Even so, Chieftain, no one likes to be a victim of that.”
She returned a solemn nod. “A short time ago Vallt was a Republic member world; now it supports the Separatists. And yet, what does any of that have to do with us?”
“It certainly had a lot to do with my ending up in Tambolor prison.”
Her eyes narrowed in begrudging agreement. “Our deal with the Separatists seemed reasonable enough at the time: support for the coup in exchange for our turning you over to their custody. Now, however, we’re not sure we want to lose you.”
More manipulation? Galen wondered. “I’ve grown on you, is that it?”
She snorted a laugh. “Your co-workers maintain that the research has continued in your absence. Have you considered simply working for us, Galen—for Vallt? Converting the facility into a power station to supply the Keep and the entire city?”
“I’m not certain how that would be perceived by Zerpen.”
“Yes, I’ve read the terms of your contract. No involvement in local matters, let alone local politics.
“Unfortunately true.”
“And yet where is Zerpen now? Why haven’t they reached out to us?”
“Do they even know?” Galen asked.
Gruppe laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “The laboratory droid—Assis—was debriefed. We know all about the burst transmission sent to Zerpen in the Salient system.”
Galen frowned. “Then I’ve no idea why they haven’t reached out.”
“Again, we are not your enemy. We have nothing against you personally. Our issues are with the Republic Senate and Palpatine.”
“I also have issues with them.”
“Then where is the harm? Remain with us, help Vallt develop, raise your child away from the strife and noise of the Core. We’ve come to think of you as one of our own. Especially now that Jyn is a Valltii, a citizen of our world.”
“You pose a good argument, Chieftain.”
She poured him another drink. “Rumor has it that the Tribunal will be hearing your case shortly, and”—she lowered her voice—“that you will be exonerated.”
Galen stared at her, afraid to get his hopes up. “And then?”
“Your confinement in Tambolor will come to an end. You and Lyra and the baby will be reunited.”
“And permitted to leave Vallt?” he asked with caution.
“It is too early to promise that. Perhaps Marshal Phara will grant you absolution. A pardon.” Gruppe’s shoulders heaved in an elaborate shrug. “Eventually there will be another coup, a new leader. This is the way of all worlds, not only Vallt.”
“The vicious circle.”
Gruppe sniffed and called for another flagon. “Who knows, Galen, maybe Count Dooku or your Palpatine will find a way to break the cycle, once and for all.”
—
Two white-armored clone troopers escorted Has Obitt from the cofferdam that linked his small freighter to the Republic Cruiser. He had thought about turning tail the moment the cruiser had appeared on the scanners, but declining an invitation from a warship that had placed itself directly in his path hadn’t seemed the brightest idea.
“When do I get to learn where I’m going?” he hazarded to ask the clone troopers.
“When you get there,” the one on his left said.
Has smirked. “You guys are never less than predictable.”
“Yeah, we’re made that way,” the other clone said.
A native of remote Dressel, Has was a dark-complected, tall, and hairless humanoid with a furrowed face and a deep cranial groove that ran from the bridge of his nose all the way to the nape of his thick neck. He had been told by humans that his mouth was disproportionately large, but that he had soulful eyes. The rest of him was similar enough to humans that they weren’t uncomfortable in his company—nor he in theirs.
The clone troopers led him down several broad corridors and through several right-angle turns until they arrived at an open hatchway, which they flanked after motioning him into the cabin beyond. A human officer was standing inside, slightly shorter than Has, but erect and sinewy, with light-brown hair and a narrow face humans probably considered handsome. He wore a white tunic over black pants tucked into lustrous knee boots. In a corner of the observation bay behind the human Has could see the short wings and broad fantail of his ship, aboard which his new crew had to be wondering what their captain had gotten them into.
“Welcome aboard, Captain Obitt,” the officer said.
“Thank you.” Has’s uneasy inflection turned it into a question. “Commander…”
“Krennic. Lieutenant commander actually, but thanks for noticing.”
The human seemed slightly out of place aboard the cruiser—his uniform was all wrong—so Has allowed himself to relax. Probably another request for information about Separatist ship movements or distribution. Has made a point to glance around him. “My first time aboard one of these,” he said in a casual way.
“And?” Krennic said, as if hanging on Has’s reply.
“Uh, impressive to be sure, but col
d.”
Krennic’s brows beetled in interest. “Do you mean cold as in chilly or cold as in austere?”
“Austere?”
“Severe. Lacking in comfort,” Krennic explained.
“Well, I haven’t really seen enough of the ship to comment—”
“Perhaps we can arrange for a personal tour after we’re done here,” Krennic said, cutting him off. “It’s for sale, in any case.”
Krennic’s dead-serious tone made the remark even more outlandish. “A bit out of my league.”
Krennic adopted a look of surprise. “Don’t tell me business hasn’t been good.”
Again, the disparity between the words and the tone left Has feeling slightly flummoxed. “Business has been all right.”
Krennic frowned. “Just all right? Are you saying that that supply run to Ryloth didn’t earn out? Or that the jump to Hellenah to deliver munitions didn’t pay off? Certainly that clever workaround at Christophsis turned a profit.”
Has started to reply, then thought better of it and began again. “I’m not too proud to admit when I’ve been outsmarted.”
The corners of Krennic’s mouth went up. “Good for you. Pride is an overvalued quality.”
“You obviously know more about me than I do about you.”
“Indeed I do, Captain. But let’s even things up, shall we? What is it you wish to know about me?”
Has decided he had nothing to lose by asking. “I guess I’d like to know which Republic agency I’m dealing with, since your uniform tells me this isn’t your ship.”
“Very observant of you. I’m with the Corps of Engineers.”
Maybe, Has thought. But that wasn’t the full answer.
“Have you by chance ever put in at Regalia Station?” Krennic said.
“You probably already know that I have.”
Krennic smiled broadly. “We’re beginning to understand each other. Regalia is mine. Not mine, of course, but I was chief of the design and construction teams. Have you been to Coruscant recently?”
“Not recently, no.”
“I’ll give you a list of which of my works to visit on your next stopover.”
It was Has’s move, but he declined. “What does the Corps of Engineers want with me? When you hailed us, you said something about a friendly chat.”
“I’m sorry, have I said something to contradict that?”
Has waited.
“It’s simply that I have a proposition for you.”
Has wished he could plug his ears. Providing intelligence was one thing, but propositions usually led to trouble. “We’re only taking small jobs at the moment.”
Krennic was undeterred. “I’d classify this one as small, as these things go.”
Has exhaled with purpose. “Look, Commander, I’m just a smuggler trying to earn a living, like a thousand others in this sector alone.”
Krennic appraised him. “You’re actually going to play the humble card? Has Obitt, who has worked with the Jedi Order on several occasions? Who has earned a reputation as a pilot to trust with all make and manner of cargoes? Who has extricated himself from any number of tight spots?” He paused briefly, then added: “Who is known to make periodic deliveries to Merj?”
Has said nothing.
“You’re aware of course that Merj is a Separatist world, aren’t you, Captain?”
Has swallowed and found his voice. “We don’t deliver anything in the way of weapons or proscribed merchandise. Strictly equipment and supplies.”
Krennic scowled. “I’ll give you that one. But I want to know how these allegedly innocent supplies are delivered.”
Has shook his head. “I don’t follow.”
“Walk me through it,” Krennic said. “You arrive at Merj…”
“Merj spaceport control clears us to land,” Has began. “We land. We off-load the supplies—”
“Do you actually carry them off or do you use droids?”
“We do it ourselves.”
“With lifters?”
“We use antigrav containers. Two crewmembers to a container, and normally no more than four containers each delivery.”
“How large are the containers?” Krennic motioned to the office bench seat. “As large as this?”
Has considered the question. “They’re standard repulsorlift containers. Two meters by one meter, one-point-five deep.”
“Do you conduct them into the research facility that adjoins the spaceport, or do you hangar them?”
Has’s curiosity increased apace with his anxiety. “We guide them in. Why are—”
“You’re in and out?”
“Usually, yes.”
“How many personnel on the ground?”
Beads of sweat were forming on Has’s grooved brow, but he managed to keep from wiping them away. “At the port? Six, sometimes as many as eight or ten.”
“Are the containers inspected?” Krennic pressed.
“Infrequently,” Has said, eager to be done with it now. “At least, not lately.”
“What about when you leave?”
Has added new wrinkles to his face. “Why would they?”
“Yes or no?”
“Early on, yes, they were inspected,” Has said with more force than he intended. “Now that we’re regulars, no.”
“Very good, Captain.” Krennic’s spirited smile returned. “I, along with a couple of my comrades, would very much like to become members of your crew—provisionally of course.”
Has’s heart sank, and he compressed his plump lips. “Commander, Merj has been a good deal for me. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize a relationship that took a long time to build.”
Krennic glared at him. “You don’t want to jeopardize your popularity with the Separatists. Is that what you’re telling me?”
Has groped for clarification. “I try to steer clear of taking sides. I’m just a—”
“Yes, yes,” Krennic said in dismissal, “we’ve been through all that. But suppose I could promise you that, in exchange for your service, the Republic would be willing to overlook some of your more questionable activities.”
It wasn’t the first time the offer had been made, but Has understood that this one couldn’t be refused. “Get out of jail free, is that it?”
“We’ll simply shrug and look the other way.”
Has asked the question he didn’t want to. “What if I decide the job’s not for me?”
Krennic swung to the observation bay and stretched out his arm. “Pick a planet.”
Has stared at him. “What, any planet?”
“The one you want your remains shipped to, Captain.” Krennic’s laugh ended as quickly as it began, and he took a few steps in Has’s direction. “You’re wondering just what you’ve gotten yourself into, is that it?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
Krennic whacked him playfully on the upper arm. “The big time, Has. The big time.”
WHEN HAS OBITT HAD TOLD Krennic that he and the handpicked members of his team were going to have to wear transpirators while on Merj, Krennic assumed that caustic vapors from the Morseerian laboratory complex posed a health risk. That, however, wasn’t the reason.
“Morseerians are methane breathers,” Has explained.
Krennic reproached himself for having forgotten, but had ultimately decided that breath masks wouldn’t affect the operational status of the mission. And in the end, masks became critical to the finalized plan.
Has had also informed Krennic that Morseerians didn’t distinguish among human faces, so they wouldn’t be able to recognize undercover clone troopers. Yet he was surprised to find that the team Krennic had assembled was made up of non-clone special ops soldiers assigned to Republic Intelligence. Perhaps members of the Corps of Engineers received only limited combat training, and Krennic refused to allow himself to be ordered around by clones. Whatever the case, the direct action operatives chosen by the lieutenant commander were former Republic Judicials who had participate
d in numerous peacekeeping operations before the war and plenty of mobility missions since. The six were commanded by a young Coruscanti named Matese, who was a skilled sniper and demolitions expert—and may or may not have been responsible for the assassination of several high-value targets throughout the Core. Tall and layered with muscle, Matese was as humorless as they came, but Has observed that he never questioned Krennic’s orders and was clearly capable of getting any job done.
Has had yet to make peace with having been drafted into Republic service, despite Krennic’s assurances that he expected nothing more than grudging cooperation. Has’s crew was even unhappier about being replaced, until Krennic had doled out enough slush-fund credits to finance a few standard weeks of R&R on Ralltiir, where the crew exchange had been made.
The Good Tidings, Has’s able and agile light freighter, was perfect for slipping through blockades, equipped with a Class Two hyperdrive and a pair of infrequently used but meticulously maintained laser cannons. Krennic had performed a thorough inspection and sensor sweep on boarding the ship, and was comforted to see firsthand that Has handled the Good Tidings with a skill sharpened through decades of piloting. Has’s easy rapport with Merj’s spaceport control agents also convinced Krennic that he was as trusted as any smuggler could be.
Matese and the rest of the rangers were dressed in versions of the environment suits Has and Krennic were wearing. Sophisticated comlinks had been engineered into the design of the transpirators that covered their mouths and noses. The cargo—already packed into the cushioned interiors of the antigrav shipping containers the crew would guide through customs into the Separatist research complex—was made up of chemical reagents, laboratory equipment, and vacuum-packed vials of live viruses.
Krennic had expressed concern that an all-human crew would arouse suspicion among the immigration and customs agents, but Has had guaranteed that he had employed human crews in the past, and that there was no need for worry. In fact, the Morseerian spaceport officials—four-armed bipeds with translucent skin and conical heads covered with multihued scales—did little more than glance at the shipping manifests Has provided and rap their knobby knuckles on one of the alloy containers. Cleared through customs, the eight-member group steered the cargo through hermetically sealed doors and into a wide corridor that led to the research complex. Has had already provided detailed intel on the number of officials to expect, as well as the layout of the arrivals area and the corridors beyond, and Krennic complimented him, commenting that what he glimpsed along the route was almost identical to the picture he had formed in his mind.