Rebel Stand: Enemy Lines II (24 page)

Kyp sniffed dubiously at his glass. “Paint thinner?”

“We’re not that lucky,” Jag said. “While we’ve been waiting, I’ve been determining its effects on local insects. One hundred percent deadly.”

“Hush,” Jaina said. “This is the finest example of the Borleias distiller’s art. It’s dereliction of duty to be drinking it when another Vong barrage might start at any minute. That means it’s going to taste wonderful.” She took an experimental sip.

To her credit, she did keep her reactions from her face. But through the Force Kyp could feel her physiological reaction as nerve endings in her throat protested the intrusion of the homemade brew.

Though blind to the Force, Jag had to be familiar enough with Jaina to sense what she was experiencing. His shoulders shook with silent laughter.

“Anyway,” Jaina said. Her voice sounded as though she’d suddenly transformed into an elderly mechanic. “We’ve got a problem, Kyp. You and me and Jag.”

“I wasn’t aware of any problems.”

“Then why do you yank yourself out of our Force connection the instant it’s not absolutely vital to our current task? It’s like dancing with a partner who jumps back past arm’s length and brushes himself off at the end of every dance.”

“That’s … an interesting comparison.” Kyp glanced at Jag, but the younger man hadn’t reacted to Jaina’s
phrasing, and Kyp couldn’t see his face. “Maybe you and I should talk about this some time. Privately.”

“And maybe not. Jag’s part of this situation. He was the one who suggested this talk.”

Kyp felt himself grow annoyed, and became even more annoyed with himself for indulging in such a predictable reaction. “He did, huh? Direct confrontation. That is the Fel family approach, isn’t it?”

Jag took a sip of the homebrew and made a noise that suggested he’d just been punched. After a moment, he said, “I come from more than one family line, Kyp. Some of them are sneakier than others.”

“What does that mean?”

“That means … that whatever you expect this meeting to be, it probably isn’t.”

“A nice enigmatic reply.” Kyp sipped from his glass. Whatever the fluid was, it seemed to be part alcohol, part pepper, part rotted fruit. His eyes watered. “Wait a second. You two took the antidote before I came up here, didn’t you?”

Jaina snorted. “Would you mind if I cut straight to the power cable?”

“Go right ahead.”

“A while back, you manipulated me. I didn’t like it. On Hapes, I dragged you into some situations you didn’t care for. I gave you plenty of trouble. We both lied to each other about what we intended and what we meant. Well, I thought, when you decided you wanted to join my squadron, that it meant you’d forgiven me. When I accepted, it meant I’d forgiven you. Did it mean that, or didn’t it?”

“It did.”

“So are we partners, or aren’t we?”

“Well, we are. At least so long as Twin Suns Squadron holds out.”

“No, don’t do that.” Jaina let some exasperation creep into her voice. “Every time we link through the Force, I can feel you preparing yourself for the day you have to cut loose and run. Believe me, I understand that. I was doing the same thing until just a few weeks back. For reasons equally as dumb. And you break the link fast so that I won’t know what you’re doing, not that it’s done you any good. I want you to quit doing that. I want you to quit thinking about going off and being by yourself. I know your brother’s dead, your family’s dead, your last squadron is dead, and I’m sorry. But you don’t have to leave, and you don’t have to be alone.”

“Uhh …” Kyp struggled to come up with an answer, the right answer. “I also don’t want to be in the way. In your way. Between you and, you know.”

Jag extended a hand. “Colonel Jagged Fel. Glad to meet you.”

“Shut up, you. Jaina, it’s uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, I know. Jag and I are partners, too, and something more besides, and you’re here, and you were sort of chasing after me for a while, and it’s got to be confusing. It is to me as well. Is it going to make you leave?”

“It should.”

“Then you should leave now and stop wavering.”

Kyp stood. “You’re right. I’m sorry I—”

“
Sit down!
”

Surprised at the strength in her voice, Kyp sat before he realized it. He gaped at her.

“That’s better,” Jaina said. “Jag, why are males so stupid?”

“Biological predisposition. Here’s an example.” Jag took another sip. Even in the darkness, the ripple of anguish that moved from his neck to his feet was clearly visible.

Jaina sat up, her pose a mirror of Jag’s. “Kyp, it’s uncomfortable because partnerships are uncomfortable. Families are uncomfortable. I know mine is. You have to put up with the discomfort because the only alternative is to lose everything.

“Once upon a time, you were kind of a kid brother to my father. I don’t care about that. That relationship didn’t make you my uncle. You have a relationship with me. It’s not boyfriend-girlfriend. It’s no longer Master-apprentice. I think we both know that neither of these is right. It’s partners, whatever that means. Whatever we figure out for it to mean. If we’re partners, it’s something that lasts until one or the other of us is dead. And whether that pains Jag or not, he’s keeping it to himself, because he’s smart enough to know that he can’t control my relationships for me.

“So—once again—are we partners, or do you go off to die alone?”

Kyp sighed. “I see you inherited your father’s considerable powers of negotiation.”

She ignored the jibe at Han’s style, so very different from her famous mother’s.

“That’s right. So?”

“So we’re partners.”

“Good.” She hoisted her glass. “Drink to it.”

“Do we have to?”

“We have to.”

Jag chuckled. “It’s a drink that makes death-duels with Vong pilots pale in comparison.”

Commander Eldo Davip, captain of the
Lusankya
, the greatest New Republic ship engaged in the defense of Borleias, took the turbolift down to the Beltway.

The Beltway was a central corridor running the length of the Super Star Destroyer, from stern to prow. It was not a corridor for pedestrian traffic; the octagonal shaft featured a tracked hauler at the top, allowing it to be used for transportation of heavy equipment. It was wide enough that skilled pilots could have flown paired X-wings wing-to-wing along its length.

As the turbolift slowed to a halt, he pulled on a pair of darkened goggles. When the lift doors opened, the precaution proved to be an appropriate one; directly in front of him, mechanics were welding another section onto the apparatus that now filled the forward portions of the Beltway, blocking all movement forward of this point.

The outer shell of the apparatus was rolled metal meters thick. Each section of the shell was a hundred meters
long, open at either end, with the prow end slightly narrower than the stern, allowing the sections to be installed in an overlapping fashion. The mechanics welded them together at the overlaps.

Inside the shell were metal cables drawn in intricate weavelike patterns through hardy metal rings on the interior surface of the shells. The pattern of the cables, their carefully monitored tensions, was not only to keep the shell straight and durable along its length; as soon as they were in place, cargo-box-sized containers were situated among them, tied off by more cables, instrument packages attached and carefully attuned.

The apparatus now stretched a third of
Lusankya
’s length, hidden away in this access shaft. None of the Vong’s extraordinary visual sensors could detect its fabrication; none of their strategists could anticipate its use.

Davip sighed. Its use would mark the end of his most prestigious command. But prestige wouldn’t mean a thing if the Yuuzhan Vong won, so he watched the continued manufacture of the apparatus, and wished it well.

   On the planet below, on the second floor of the biotics building, Captain Yakown Reth set his dinner tray down at a table, allowing it to clatter, and sat heavily on the bench before it. He didn’t bother to keep his disgruntle-ment from his face.

Opposite, Lieutenant Diss Ti’wyn, who flew in Reth’s squadron as Blackmoon Two, smoothed down fur that had suddenly risen on his neck. A brown-and-gold-furred Bothan, Diss was unusually attractive by both Bothan and human standards, and received an enviable amount
of attention in social situations. “What crawled down your flight suit and stung your butt?” he asked.

Reth snorted, amused despite himself. “We’re in real trouble here on Borleias.”

Ti’wyn gaped at him. “Really? I thought we were winning.”

“Stop kidding. I mean, in trouble worse than being outnumbered, besieged, and doomed.”

“Oh.” Ti’wyn speared a cooked slice of hardy local tinfruit and popped it into his mouth. “So vent already.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. No, Diss, this is no joke.” He lowered his voice so his words would not carry to the next table. “I think we’re in real trouble at the command level.”

“General Antilles? He has a great reputation.”

“Bear with me. You know who’s commanding
Lusankya.
”

“Eldo Davip.”

“A first-rate foulup if ever there was one.”

“Granted … but he did do all right during the big Yuuzhan Vong push a few weeks back.”

“A fluke, I’m sure. Anyway, Ninora Birt escorted a shuttle out to
Lusankya
’s repair station. She said that repairs weren’t going well. Whole banks of turbolasers and ion cannon batteries were still out of commission. I didn’t think
Lusankya
got that badly hammered in the last engagement. Did you?”

“Not really.”

“Which points to colossal mismanagement on Commander Davip’s part, which General Antilles either doesn’t know about, or hasn’t corrected, which doesn’t speak well of his skills.”

Ti’wyn shrugged, noncommittal, but he no longer looked as cheerful.

“That’s just the start. You remember when the Advisory Council visited?”

“Very hush-hush. They had a meeting with Antilles and his general staff, then rushed off.”

“A mechanic who’s just been transferred to Blackmoon Squadron was in the hallway when they left. He says Counselor Pwoe was furious. Pwoe was saying that Antilles had refused command of Borleias, and only relented after making demands to the Council.”

“What demands?”

“I don’t know. What demands would
you
make?”

“Pleasure yacht, a lifetime pass to the
Errant Venture
 …”

Reth eyed the sliced sausage swimming in spice sauce on his plate. That, as much as this talk, was going to cost him his appetite. “Stop kidding around. And then there’s this Jaina Solo thing.”

Ti’wyn nodded in agreement. “If we have to circle one more time just because her squadron always gets first clearance to land—”

“She and her pilots are getting special treatment in every category there is. First access to spare parts, first access to bacta, full proton torpedo loads, first repairs to starfighters and astromechs … Have you ever seen one of them eating here?” Reth gestured around at the rest of the mess hall, crammed with tables, ringing with noise.

“No.”

“They have their own lounge, and rumor says they have their own chef off
Rebel Dream.
”

“Her mother’s old ship.”

“Her mother’s old ship. Twins Suns hasn’t done anything Blackmoon Squadron hasn’t, and can’t do anything we can’t, except show off names of important mommies and daddies.”

“Keep it calm, Yak. There have got to be political reasons behind this. With politics, nothing runs right … but without politics, nothing runs.”

Reth nodded grudging agreement. “It just keeps piling up, and I have to question Antilles’s competence.”

“Keep it down, will you? You’re starting to sound like a mutineer in training.”

Reth flashed his second-in-command a broad grin. “Nothing like that. I’m just trying to figure out whether I should put in for a transfer, try to get in with a squadron in one of the other fleet groups. I’m not sure what to do yet. If you hear anything along the lines of what I’ve been saying … well, you’ll just keep your ears open, won’t you?”

Ti’wyn waggled his pointed, oversized Bothan ears. “Always do.”

Wrapped in the concealing folds of her cloakskin, willing her shaper’s headdress to remain still so as not to give away her caste to observers, the Shaper Nen Yim followed the Warmaster Tsavong Lah out onto the ganadote tongue.

Ganadotes were immobile creatures. Born as a flat, long shell about five paces long and wide and a pace high, they were little more than a mouth, an anus, a large
canal connecting them as well as opening into side stomach chambers, and a tongue.

But when grown to maturity and trained in their masters’ wishes, they made magnificent entryways and viewing-boxes. Kept fed by servants bringing clip beetle shells and other nutritious waste and dropping those foods straight through their stomach valves, shaped by hormones to change their dimensions, ganadotes could be transformed into domed or spherical vestibules. The tissues that lined their intestinal tracts were beautifully iridescent, and a proper diet kept excretion to a rare event.

But it was the tongue that made the ganadote such a charming architectural feature. One trained in its use could step out onto it and, by leaning or toe pressure, cause it to extend, lower, raise, position its tip anywhere in relation to the creature’s body.

And that was what Tsavong Lah did. Once Nen Yim was in place, he coaxed the ganadote tongue out over the large chamber at the heart of this living ship, over the crowd, short of the fibrous leaves that blocked off the far exit from the chamber.

Tsavong Lah threw up his hands, tossing his cloak back over his shoulders. “Priests and shapers, devotees of the Great God Yun-Yuuzhan, I salute and welcome you. Soon, you will be taken from this place to nearby Borleias, where my sire, Czulkang Lah, drives the infidels into dejection and defeat.”

The listeners, perhaps thirty, castes evenly divided between shapers and priests of Yun-Yuuzhan, raised their voices in noises of celebration, appreciation.