New Threat (5 page)

Blllaaaerghhh
…

A sound came from the fungal tree, a disgusting moan of pleasure that Boba interpreted as “dinnertime!”

“Not yet,” he grunted. He clenched his hand again, his fingertips grazing the spray stick. He had no way of taking aim at the fungus, no way of adjusting the spray mist net or the
electrical charge it delivered. If it backfired, Boba would find himself entangled all over again, still unable to move—

Not that it would matter!

Aaaaergghhhh!

A pale purple tongue protruded from the mushroom’s slobbering mouth. Flecks of foul-smelling saliva splattered across Boba’s helmet. With every ounce of strength he had, Boba focused
on moving his finger toward the spray stick.

Just an iota, just the merest fraction—

And—

There was a muffled report. At Boba’s side the spray stick shuddered as though it would explode—and then it did!

“Gotcha!” crowed Boba.

A shimmering mist erupted from the stick’s tip. It surrounded Boba, but it did not adhere to him. Instead it fixed itself to the slimy membrane that wrapped him like a cocoon. It formed a
second web, a net strong enough to hold a charging myntor.

A powerful electrical surge pulsed through the spray mist net.
Good thing I have my helmet and body armor!
Boba thought.

As the pulsing charge stunned its prey, Boba flung himself for ward. Around him the fungus membrane slackened then recoiled.

He was free!

He heard an unhappy slurping sound, then a sort of sizzling groan. The next instant he was on the ground, rolling away from the mushroom tree. He stopped himself, then clambered to his feet. His
hand felt for the stun stick, disabling it.

“Well, that came in handy,” he said.

A few meters off, the mushroom tree quivered and moaned. The stun-net covered its mouth. Its pale tongue poked pathetically at the webbing, while above it the tree’s umbrella crown
drooped. “Only a great bounty hunter could have pulled that off!” boasted Boba as he brushed himself off. “And—”

He stiffened. His hand hovered above his blaster as he turned, as slowly as he dared, to face the creature behind him.

“And only a fool would have approached a flimmel tree during feeding hours,” it said coolly.

“Who are you?” demanded Boba.

But he might have asked,
What are you?

The creature regarded him calmly. It was reptilian, a little taller than Boba and with long, muscular arms and legs clad in what looked like a camo uniform of purple and gray. Its large,
almond-shaped eyes were coldly intelligent, its lipless mouth curved in a slight smile to reveal sharp teeth. Its wiry forearms were curled around a blaster rifle.

And the blaster was pointed right at Boba Fett.

“Who am I?” repeated the creature. “On Xagobah, we like to ask questions before we answer them. But—”

The roaring whine of a missile passed overhead. Boba flinched. A moment later the missile impacted a short distance away, sending him falling to his knees. He looked up to see the creature
staring down at him, still eerily calm.

“But we seem to find ourselves on the same side for the moment,” the creature went on, as though nothing had happened. The muzzle of its blaster remained fixed on Boba as it motioned
for him to get up.

“And what side is that?” snapped Boba.

“The wrong one,” retorted the creature, as another missile whizzed overhead. “Quickly!”

It jammed the blaster rifle into Boba’s side, gesturing toward the mushroom forest.

“No way!” Boba shook his head. “I’ve already made dinner plans, and they don’t include being the main course!”

The creature made a low growling sound. Boba stiffened, then realized the thing was laughing. “Dinner plans!” it repeated. “That is good! Feeding time is over—” It
poked him again, harder this time. Reluctantly, Boba began moving toward the fungi forest.

“The flimmel trees share an underground root system,” the creature continued. “They are thousands of years old, and when one is hurt, they all suffer. And that one was very
badly hurt!”

It indicated the flimmel tree that Boba had escaped from. Its canopy had retracted completely. It looked like a closed—and very mournful—umbrella.

“None of them will be hungry for a little while.” The creature shot Boba an admiring glance. “That was a good jolt you gave it.”

“Thanks,” said Boba. He regarded the creature warily. But its own expression as it stared back at him was mostly curious. Boba positioned his hand so that it was near his
blaster.

What’s the best way to deal with this thing—whatever it is?
he wondered.

The alien was armed, but so was Boba. He could blast it—but what if there were others nearby?

He looked at the alien from the corner as his eye. As he did, the echo of laser fire made the surrounding mushroom forest shake as though a gale tore through it.

I don’t even know what side of the conflict it’s on,
Boba brooded.

A sudden staccato burst of comm static made up his mind.

That was way too close,
Boba thought. And he could tell from a glance at the alien that it felt the same way. Boba decided to take matters into his own hands. He adjusted his helmet,
squaring his shoulders to make himself seem as tall as possible.

“We better find shelter—fast,” he said.

To his surprise, the alien nodded. “This way,” it said, turning to lope into the forest. Boba followed, trying not to trip over clumps of dimly glowing mushrooms like tiny, domed
cities scattered underfoot. He kept his hand on his weapon, scanning the shadowy fungus-growth around him for signs of an ambush.

Thankfully, he saw nothing, save the clusters of gleaming mushrooms and the occasional flimmel tree. They ran for several minutes. A second burst of comm static sounded—much closer this
time. Boba could even make out words:
Tambor Angalarra, Ulu, Suspect Ambush…

Suspect ambush. Boba’s grip on his blaster tightened. Scant meters ahead his reptilian guide paused in front of an enormous mushroom tree the color of demonsquid ink. Like the flimmel
tree, it was topped by a parasol-shaped crown. Unlike the flimmel tree, this one had wobbly limbs protruding from it. They reminded Boba of the spokes of a wheel—if the spokes had started
to melt.

“This way!” hissed the alien. It made a running leap and nimbly swung its clawed forearms over the lowest branch. The entire fungus seemed about to keel over. Almost immediately the
plant straightened, its limbs coiling and uncoiling like fingers.

“Hurry!” the alien called urgently. “Come here!”

Boba stared up at it. Its lidless jade-green eyes stared back. Then it turned and began clambering farther up the fungus stalk. As it did it made a soft clicking sound, as though it were talking
to the mushroom.

The entire tree shuddered as a low rumbling sound shook the air.

“Uh, thanks, but no thanks!” Boba yelped. He started to back away. Before he could move, the tree’s lowest branch snaked toward him. It looped itself around his waist, firmly
but gently; then quick as lightning pulled him into the air.

Kaflooom!

Fragments of dirt and shattered fungus pelted him. Boba stared at the ground in horror. Where he had stood, there yawned a mortar hole the size of a speeder. Flickers of flame ran around its
perimeter. He smelled the ozone stink of a pulse grenade.

“That was way too close!” exclaimed Boba. Beside him the alien nodded.

“Indeed,” it said.

Boba blinked. For the first time he realized where he was: halfway up a huge fungus, with an armed and possibly hungry reptile next to him. He was outnumbered, at least for the moment.

Better play dumb,
he thought.

“Uh, I know you don’t like to answer questions—but can you tell me exactly what’s going on?”

The alien regarded him with its calm, intelligent eyes. It looked him up and down, taking in his Mandalorian body armor and helmet, his weapons. One of its clawed hands absently stroked the
stalk of the fungus tree.

After a moment it spoke—but not in answer to Boba’s question. It gave a series of clicks and growls, seemingly directed to the tree. The tree responded by extending a long slender
tendril toward Boba’s head.

Ulp!
he thought, but stood his ground. The tendril touched his helmet, then his chest. It remained there, pressed against the smooth body armor. Boba could feel his heart pounding.
After a moment he realized the tree could feel it, too.

It’s checking me out!

Boba felt a sneaking admiration. The alien reptile looked at Boba and nodded. Its mouth parted in a razor-toothed smile.

“The fungus has a primitive sensory system that responds to heat and motion. It detects an elevated heart rate. Your garb indicates you are a warrior and, I suspect, a mercenary one
intending to attack me. I am not a warrior.”

The alien leaned against the fungus stalk. Its jade eyes grew clouded. “But I have learned to bear weapons, as you see. My name is Xeran. I am a Xamster. My family has been bound to this
malvil-tree, Malubi, for one thousand turns of Xagobah. Once hundreds of us lived here and harvested Malubi’s spores. Now only I remain.”

Xeran’s voice grew sad. “War has come to Xagobah. Though we wanted no part of it, still war claimed us. Many of my people have been forced to serve one side or the other. Many others
fled, only to be shot in flight. Our malvil-trees are dying of neglect and loneliness. And now I am caught between two armies—” It lifted one clawed hand and pointed. “There. Can
you see them?”

Boba strained, but even adjusting his helmet’s focus didn’t help. “No,” he replied.

The alien made another series of clicks. The fungus tree—Malubi—extended another tendril. This one was thicker and less rubbery. The alien hopped onto it, then motioned for Boba
to do the same. He did, and the alien grasped him as the tendril bore them up, up, up, until they were at Malubi’s very top.

“Wow,” breathed Boba in amazement.

Up here they were above the velvety haze of purple spores. Boba could see the canopy of the mushroom forest waving gently beneath. He could see the little clearing where he had left
Slave
I
, though of course his ship was invisible to him behind its cloaking device.

And—

Boba’s breath caught in his throat. He grasped tightly at Malubi’s rubbery appendage. He was glad Xeran could not see his face behind his Mandalorian helmet. Because the top of the
malvil-tree also gave him a clear and terrifying view of what he had come here for.

From the air, the Republic’s trenches had looked like slashes in the ground. Now Boba saw how carefully constructed they were. Each held a line of thirty or so clone troopers, heavily
armed. Waves of fire erupted from the trenches, arching through the air toward the fortress. With each bombast, a group of clone troopers would charge from the trenches—

Only to be met by an opposing charge of droids!

Boba whistled. The Republic’s forces were impressive—he figured there were hundreds, maybe a thousand, clone troopers arrayed on the battle field below. But the citadel was so
well-defended that Boba could not suppress a gasp.

“Jabba was right about Wat Tambor,” he muttered.
A master of defense technologies
, the gangster had said of him; and now Boba could see how true that was. Through the haze
of spores and laser fire, Boba got his first glimpse of the Separatist’s droid army: lines of battle droids marching relentlessly, tirelessly, toward the clone troopers to breach the
Republic’s lines.

That looked bad enough. But what made Boba’s hand tighten on his blaster wasn’t the clashing armies.

For the first time, he could clearly see Wat Tambor’s citadel.

“So that’s it,” murmured Boba.

“Yes,” said Xeran. “The Mazariyan Citadel. The cause of all my troubles.”

“And the beginning of mine,” Boba replied, trying not to shiver.

Mazariyan rose from the planet’s surface, unimaginably immense, a looming dull black. Its sides were stepped, like the sides of an ancient pyramid of Yavin. But even from this distance
Boba could tell that the edifice was not just a building.

The dull black, smooth surface seemed to pulse with life. Flickers of energylike lightning ran up and down its sides. On the levels above, shining black spines protruded. The spines were twice
the length of Boba’s body and as sharp as javelins. He could see where dark shapes had been impaled upon them. Even as he watched, one of the spines began to slowly retract, like a machine.
Boba watched in horror as a limp form slid from it, falling and bouncing down the fortress’s side.

“The tyrant who is holed up there has twisted the evolution of Xagobah’s life-forms,” said Xeran. His tone was steady, but Boba saw that the alien’s face was strained.
“He has taken fungus that were benign, feeding only on bacteria. He has taken our gentle malvil-trees. He has bio-engineered them so that they are now perverted and kill things without
feeding on them.”

“Things like humanoids,” said Boba in a low voice.

“That is correct,” agreed Xeran. “And Xamsters.”

“What is this tyrant’s name?” asked Boba.

But he already knew what the answer would be.

“Wat Tambor,” said Xeran. “He is evil. And as you can see, he has brought evil to us—”

Xeran pointed to where a dark mass stretched about five hundred meters from the citadel in its long shadow. “Those are just some of the Republic’s troops gathered there. They have
laid siege for weeks now. No matter how many arrive, few are able to gain entrance. And when they do, we hear rumor of what they find inside. Wat Tambor’s command of technology has made him
ruthless. There are no prisoners inside his citadel. And no survivors.”

Boba looked back at Mazariyan. He found he could not take his eyes from the sight, horrible as it was. “The Republic’s using clone troopers,” he said, more to himself than
Xeran.

“Yes. Sometimes the Republic has forced my people to fight, paying them well. Yet the Republic has lost many non-clone fighters. Fighters they could not afford to lose. So their chiefs
have sent in a Jedi General named Glynn-Beti to lead their forces.”