Star Wars: New Jedi Order: Agents of Chaos I: Hero's Trial Page 17

  Han howled and twisted the ship up on end, narrowly avoiding laser beams and what would have been a sure collision. Lifting his eyes as the yacht tore past them, he caught a quick glimpse of the occupants of the cockpit and slammed his fist on the console.

  “I’ll bet anything that was Big Bunji’s ship!”

  “What are friends for,” the Ryn remarked.

  But just then, one of the pursuing coralskippers took a laser bolt from the yacht and exploded. “Well, there you go,” Han said, shaking his head in wonderment.

  “That still leaves one,” the Ryn reminded.

  “Wanna bet?”

  The shuttle leapt toward the Wheel, but Han didn’t trust that he could outfly the surviving Yuuzhan Vong pilot with more over-and-under maneuvers. Instead he angled for the uncompleted portion of the outer rim, where construction gantries, hover platforms, and a scattering of inert drone ships created a kind of obstacle course.

  Clasping both hands around the control stick, he threw the shuttle into a vertical swoop to dodge a platform, then rolled out to port to bring the shuttle beneath the longest of the open-framework gantries. Halfway along, however, a plasma discharge from the coralskipper slagged the gantry, forcing Han to veer sharply for the hub. Along the way, he came close to losing a wing to a rectenna projecting from the underside of one of the spokes, but the real problem was the enemy pilot himself, who was as accurate with his weapons as he was skillful with his craft.

  With console indicators screaming arid flashing, Han powered the shuttle through a circle concentric to the hub, cheating the turn tighter and tighter yet, then vectored outward, accelerating back toward the skeletal arc of the outer rim.

  Tugging himself upright, the Ryn leaned toward the viewport in obvious misgiving. “You can’t be serious!” he stammered.

  Han studied the skinless rim, and the exposed ribs and structural members through which he planned to steer the shuttle. “There’s ho skin on the far side, either,” he said in the most reassuring tone he could muster. “I checked.”

  “You checked? When?”

  “Earlier,” Han said nonchalantly. “Trust me, there’s clear space on the other side. Just hang on.”

  The shuttle’s instruments went into a panic, screeching and blinking warnings of impending doom, but Han did his best to ignore them. With the coralskipper pasted to the shuttle’s tail, he increased speed. Then, just short of the rim, he feinted a climb by goosing the forward attitude adjustment jets. The skip pilot took the bait and soared upward. Realizing his error, the Yuuzhan Vong tried to increase the angle of his ascent and execute a backward loop, but he was too close to the rim. The skip clipped girder after girder, losing pieces of itself with each impact, then careened off to one side and smashed into a curve of unyielding hull where spoke and rim met.

  Five degrees to port, committed to his original plan, Han took the shuttle straight into the rim, slaloming through a forest of reinforcing ribs, beams, stanchions, and struts. But just as he had surmised, the outer face of the rim had yet to be walled in, and clear space was only a heartbeat away.

  “See, that wasn’t so bad,” he started to say, when something slammed deafeningly into the transparisteel viewport.

  Han’s and the Ryn’s arms flew to their faces. Han was certain the ship had sustained major damage, but when he looked he found only a protocol droid, spread-eagled on the viewport and hanging on for dear life.

  “Hitchhiker,” the Ryn said.

  Several options presented themselves for dislodging the droid, but Han didn’t act on any of them. “Where’s the harm,” he said.

  He held the shuttle to an unswerving course until they were some distance from the Wheel, then banked through a long, descending curve. The area was free of coralskippers, and the Yuuzhan Vong warship was beginning to move off, its dovin basals devouring most of what the Star Destroyer and a pack of starfighters were hurling at it.

  “Plot us a course to Ord Mantell,” Han said at last. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Ryn nodding approvingly.

  Han grinned. “I—” he started to say and stopped himself.

  The Ryn stared at him questioningly.

  “—have my moments,” Han completed quietly, but by rote and absent any emotion.

  In fact, it wasn’t at all like old times. Roa and Fasgo were either captive or dead, and the hand Han had clamped about the shuttle’s control stick was trembling uncontrollably.

  From the overbridge of the Erinnic, Vice Admiral Poinard and General Sutel watched a projectile-shaped shuttle wend through debris surrounding the Jubilee Wheel and make haste for Ord Mantell. Out beyond the planet’s moons, what remained of the Yuuzhan Vong flotilla was in full retreat.

  “Sirs, technical command reports that shields have been badly damaged,” an enlisted-rating said from the starboard crew pit, “and does not, repeat not, advise pursuit.”

  “Affirmative,” Poinard said. “Tell technical command that we will stand pat. Secure from general quarters.”

  “Maybe it’s for the best,” Sutel remarked. “Seeing their forces limping home might give the Yuuzhan Vong pause.”

  Eyes riveted on the withdrawing ships, Poinard didn’t respond.

  “Sirs, after-action reports coming in,” the same crewmember said. “In addition to the cruiser, we lost one escort frigate and three gunboats.” She paused briefly. “Battle assessment estimates enemy losses as significantly high. The Jubilee Wheel is rattled but holding together. Ord Mantell describes extensive damage to some inland population centers, but adds that shields protected the coastal cities from the worst of it and that fires are under control.”

  Sutel turned to his comrade in arms. “That has to cheer you some, Admiral.”

  Poinard grunted noncommittally, then swung away from the observation bay. “Advise headquarters that their intelligence was not unfounded,” he instructed his adjutant. “I’m not certain how, but we managed to chase them off.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Moving with cocky assurance, Reck Desh, black-haired, streamlined, and newly tattooed, stepped into the Nebula Orchid and took in the room at a glance. Patrons in the popular Kuat City eatery included the usual boisterous mix of human and nonhuman technicians, engineers, and shipfitters, many on surface leave from Kuat Drive Yards’ orbital starship construction facilities, along with a dozen or so civilians. Among the latter were three veiled telbuns in heavy purple-and-red robes and tall cylindrical hats-mates-in-training for the spoiled daughters of the Kuati elite. Flesh-and-blood and droid waiters dashed about, taking orders and delivering overpriced platters of artistically styled meals.

  “Where are you supposed to wait?” the larger of Reck’s two cohorts asked.

  Reck nodded his lantern jaw toward the booths that lined the back of the room. “Number six.”

  The big man counted the booths out loud, head bobbing as he moved left to right from tall windows that overlooked the street. “Six is empty.”

  “Then we’re off to a good start,” Reck remarked.

  “You and Ven grab seats where you can keep an eye on me. But stay put. Don’t do anything unless I give a sign.”

  “Got it,” Wotson said as he and his partner headed for an unoccupied table in the center of the room.

  Reck hitched up baggy trousers, crossed the room, and folded himself into booth six. Booth five was also empty, but in seven sat a lone telbun whose facial veil covered all but his eyes. Reck settled back against the padded seat to wait for his mystery contact to turn up. He was about to hail a waiter when the telbun sitting back-to-back with him spoke up.

  “Don’t turn around, Reck,” the Kuati ordered in the neutered tone typical of a high-priced voice scrambler.

  Reck barely managed to sit still. In his mind’s eye he replayed his brief look at the telbun, and he reassessed the conclusions he’d naturally drawn. The rich robes and tall hat could conceal a being of any of a wide variety of species, and the voice scrambler made it impossible to know
if the speaker was male or female.

  “You the genuine article, or are you just on your way to a masquerade?” he asked after a moment.

  The stranger ignored the sarcasm. “Signal your associates that everything is in order, Reck.”

  Reck leaned his head back, almost touching the telbun’s, “What’s to stop me from calling them over here and ripping that veil off your face?”

  “Not a thing. But you’d be a fool to think I’d come here without backup.”

  Reck’s hazel eyes leapt about, searching for likely candidates. Bluff or no bluff, there was little harm in hearing the telbun out. He turned partway in the booth and waved an okay to Ven and Wotson.

  “Nicely done,” the telbun said. “As I mentioned when we spoke by comlink, I have some information for you.”

  “Good for you,” Reck said. “But first I want to know how you knew where to reach me.”

  “The simple explanation is that the activities and current whereabouts of the Peace Brigade are known to more people than you might imagine.”

  Reck blew his breath out sharply and gave his head a mournful shake. “That either means we’re working for the same people or you have access to sensitive data. And since I doubt we’re on the same team, you’re either military security or New Republic Intelligence.”

  “You don’t need to know that just now.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no, but I came all the way from Nar Shaddaa for this meeting.”

  “And I’m sure you’re already homesick for the Hutts.”

  “All I’m saying is that you’d better have something worthwhile.”

  The telbun took a moment to respond. “You run with the Peace Brigade, but you answer to Yuuzhan Vong operatives.”

  Reck took a moment, as well. “You already know that or you wouldn’t have asked me to come here.”

  “Correct response. I’m something of a stickler for honesty.”

  “Get to the point,” Reck hissed. “What information do you have?”

  “I know a way to put you in good stead with your bosses.”

  “Yeah, so you said when you made contact. But what makes you think I’m not in good standing?”

  “You showed up here. I wasn’t sure where you stood when I comlinked you, but I know now. You’re ambitious and you’re intrigued.”

  Reck snorted again. “I’ll let you know when I hear the rest of what you have to say.”

  “The New Republic has a Yuuzhan Vong defector in custody. She’s an elite—a priestess of some sort. She jettisoned from an enemy ship destroyed in the Meridian sector. The Yuuzhan Vong have already made an attempt at retrieving het, and after what just happened at Ord Mantell I suspect they’ll double their efforts.”

  Reck’s brows knitted. “What happened at Ord Mantell?”

  “Based on intelligence provided by the defector, a New Republic task force thwarted a Yuuzhan Vong attack.”

  Reck loosed a surprised whistle. “So this priestess is now a hot property.”

  “She’s traveling with a mascot. The two are being transferred from the Mid Rim to Coruscant for safekeeping. I know the route they’re taking.”

  Reck checked an impulse to turn around. “I’m not sure I follow you.”

  “Think about it. Whoever returns the defector to the fold will be doing the Yuuzhan Vong a tremendous favor.”

  “Now I get it. I make everyone happy, and maybe earn myself a reward. But what’s your payoff in this? You want a piece of the action, right?”

  “Wrong. In exchange, you keep me apprised of the Peace Brigade’s future dealings with the Yuuzhan Vong.”

  “And if I refuse to keep my side of the bargain?”

  “I’ll bring everyone down on you—military and New Republic Intelligence. After the stunts you’ve pulled, you’ll be lucky to get a life sentence on Fodurant.”

  “Cards on the table, huh? So why do you want to see this defector returned?”

  The telbun laughed shortly. “Did you throw in with the enemy only for the credits, Reck?”

  “Credits scammed are twice as sweet as credits earned.”

  “That’s cute, but I don’t accept it. Doubtless, credits figured into your decision, but you know as well as I that there are larger issues at stake.”

  “What larger issues?”

  “The New Republic is going to lose this war, and there’s nothing to be gained by being on the losing side. Play this right, Reck, and both of us will come out winners.”

  “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a tempting offer,” Reck said tentatively. “But since you had no trouble getting to me, that must mean that NRI already has the Peace Brigade under surveillance.”

  “You leave that to me.”

  “To you. . . And when do I get to know who you are?”

  “When the time’s right—and I make that decision.”

  Reck took a slow breath. “All right,” he said at last. “I’m willing to give this a shot.”

  “You won’t be sorry.” The telbun paused briefly. “The defector and her companion are being relocated to Bilbringi aboard an old starliner called Queen of Empire. I’ll furnish you with their travel plans and keep you updated on additional details as I learn them. But I suggest you grab them before they reach Bilbringi.”

  “You leave that to me,” Reck said, glad for the chance to even the score.

  “One more thing: you keep quiet about where you received this information—even with your Yuuzhan Vong controllers. For the time being, this is strictly between you and me, and your two cronies.”

  “I can do that—on a trial basis anyway.”

  “I know you won’t disappoint me, Reck.” A hand touched Reck’s shoulder. Then, with a rustling of fabric, the telbun stood.

  “I’ll be in touch. Don’t attempt to follow me.” Reck stayed put but his eyes swept the room for signs of the telbun’s accomplices. When no one rose to follow the robed figure out the restaurant’s back entrance, he swung to Ven and Wotson. “Quick—after him!”

  Reck was one step beyond the pair as they plowed through the rear doors, only to confront a sunken courtyard filled wall to wall with identically attired telbuns.

  Warbling sirens signaled an all-clear as C-3PO hurried past the open-air launch pads of Ord Mantell’s primary spaceport. Defense shields had protected the city from aerial bombardment, but to the north—in the direction of the planet’s renowned junkyards—thick columns of oily black smoke climbed into a smudged sky.

  “Thank the maker,” C-3PO muttered as he walked. “Thank the maker.”

  Secreted with her vigilant Noghri bodyguard, Mistress Leia had tasked C-3PO with assuring that their spacecraft hadn’t suffered damage during the Yuuzhan Vong attack, and indeed that had proved to be the case. But several ships had been caught unawares, and the sight of their scorched and punctured hulls had given C-3PO an unshakable flutter.

  He shuddered to think what might have been his fate had the New Republic task force failed to foil the enemy attack. Why, he might well have ended up in a scrap heap or, worse yet, at the bottom of a pit filled with incinerated droids, such as he had witnessed on Rhommamool, after a brief but disquieting encounter with the late Nom Anor.

  “Your existence offends me,” the political troublemaker had told him, with a minatory look that was permanently burned into C-3PO’s memory core.

  It was one thing to be shunned by Gotals, whose impressionable sensory organs tended to become overloaded by the energy output of droids, but it was quite another to be singled out for deactivation or annihilation. Of course, there had been cases where a droid was actually responsible for instigating antidroid sentiment, such as when a MerenData EV supervisor droid serving under Lando Calrissian on Bespin had destroyed one-quarter of Cloud City’s droid population. But EV-9D9’s ignominious acts were hardly typical of droid behavior.

  More to the point, what could droids, or a single droid, have possibly done to fill Nom Anor with such hatred? In searching for precedent’s,
C-3PO could recall instances of droid enmity coming from humans forced to wear artificial parts. But many humans were perfectly comfortable with harboring nonliving parts. C-3PO couldn’t recall a single instance of Master Luke railing against his replacement hand.

  It was all so baffling!

  C-3PO had had more than his share of personal brushes with annihilation. An arm torn off by Tusken Raiders, traumatic dismemberment by Imperials on Cloud City and rioters on Bothawui, an eye yanked out by Jabba the Hutt’s Kowakian monkey-lizard. . . But only to be reassembled after each calamity, defragged and degaussed, bathed in oil—a droid’s bacta tank—and polished back to his auric splendor.

  Those periodic resurrections made actual deactivation inconceivable, or at the very least, challenging to contemplate. In effect, ceasing-to-be was shutting down permanently—eternally. But how could that be? And how torturous it must be to suffer forced deactivation at the hands of adversaries!

  “We’re all doomed,” C-3PO muttered aloud. “It’s the lot of all sentient beings, metal and otherwise, to suffer.”

  But exactly why was deactivation such a frightening prospect to ponder?

  Did the fear owe to a desperate desire to remain activated, to sustain awareness indefinitely and at all costs? Or did it owe to an unnatural attachment to existence? An attachment that, if surrendered, would take with it all fears of ceasing-to-be—

  The revelation discombobulated him momentarily, and he came to so sudden a halt on the permacrete landing field that a protocol droid not entirely unlike himself rear-ended him.

  “E chu ta to you!” C-3PO said, throwing the droid’s rude expletive right back at him.

  The nerve, he told himself as he resumed his pace. To disrespect one who had seen so much in his time, who had traveled so widely, who had amassed so much knowledge since his first job of programming binary loadlifters—