Authors: Troy Denning
“If you tease Yun-Yammka, he will want lives,” Vaecta warned. “Many lives.”
“Of course.” Though Tsavong Lah felt certain the god of war would understand the value of a good feint, it was better to be safe about these things. “He shall have eight thousand.”
“Twenty thousand would be better,” Vaecta retorted.
“Twenty, then.”
Tsavong Lah turned and left the sanctum, already adjusting his plans to accommodate the ritual. The extra sacrifices would
require a full escort instead of a single ship, putting an unnecessary strain on his already overextended logistics train.
Vergere waddled up to his side. “Why take that from Vaecta? Even with reinforcements, the New Republic can’t hold Arkania. Capture it and make a fool of her.”
Tsavong Lah whirled on Vergere. “You question my judgment?” He raised his foot as though to kick her. “You think you know better than I how to win battles?”
Vergere gave his leg a contemptuous glance, then bristled her feathers and moved a step closer. “If you have a better idea, all you need do is say so.”
It was all Tsavong Lah could do not to burst out laughing. “Around you? I think not.” Supreme commanders and high prefects trembled at his slightest frown, yet Vergere, this ugly little bird, dismissed his fury as though it were nothing. “You, I must watch. It will amuse me, if nothing else.”
Lando let his sweaty palm brush against his pant leg, then transferred the datapad to the somewhat drier hand and displayed the screen to the subaltern of the Yuuzhan Vong boarding party. The picture showed seventeen young Jedi Knights crowded around the
Lady Luck
’s dining table. Though their bowls were filled with green thakitillo—Lando had ordered his chef to serve only the finest fare on this journey—none of the Jedi were eating. Most were not even holding their spoons.
“They seem agitated,” the subaltern said. A brutish warrior with a fringe of spindly black hair, he stared at the datapad from arm’s length, as though keeping his distance would prevent the instrument from defiling him. “You are sure they do not know we are here?”
“They’re Jedi,” Lando answered, feigning irritation at a foolish question. “They can certainly sense my crew’s apprehension, but I won’t claim to know what’s in their minds. All I can say is the viewports have been closed the entire trip.”
After a moment, the subaltern nodded to himself and turned to an unarmed—but heavily armored—superior waiting outside the
Lady Luck
’s air lock.
“
Eia dag
lightsabers,
Duman Yaght. Yenagh doa Jeedai.
”
The superior stepped out of the red-ribbed transfer tunnel. A little smaller than his subordinates, this one had sculpted his face into a gridwork of raised scars. Like the subaltern of the boarding party, he wore two small villips on his shoulders instead of the usual one. He stopped across from Lando and looked expectant.
“This is Fitzgibbon Lane, holder of the
Stardream,
” the
subaltern said, supplying the false names Lando was traveling under. “He is the one who sent the message.”
Lando stared at the subaltern and waited for him to introduce his leader. When the warrior grew uncomfortable and looked down, Lando shifted his gaze to the superior and continued to wait. As nervous as he was about this particular swindle, he knew better than to open negotiations on anything less than equal footing.
After a moment, the superior said, “I am Duman Yaght, commander of the
Exquisite Death
. You have some
Jeedai
for me?”
“For your warmaster,” Lando corrected. Taking the commander’s presence as a sign of eagerness, he turned the datapad toward the Yuuzhan Vong and dangled the bait. “I have seventeen, in fact.”
The subaltern scowled and reached out to knock the profane instrument aside, but the commander raised a hand.
“No. This I must see for myself.”
Duman Yaght peered into the vidscreen, where Anakin and a few others were halfheartedly spooning thakitillo into their mouths. The strike team had not been warned about the boarding, in part because Lando wanted their reactions to appear genuine, in part because the Yuuzhan Vong had come so quickly. The
Lady Luck
had been drifting along beside an outbound comet, waiting for the nav computer to plot the final leg of their journey, when the boarding shuttle came swinging out of the tail. It had headed straight for the docking portal, a wormlike transfer tunnel already extending to make contact.
There was barely time to alert Tendra before the bridge alarm announced contact at the air lock. Lando authorized equalization and rushed back to find the subaltern already opening the exterior hatch. A check on his datapad revealed a corvette-sized coral ship swinging over the comet to cover the shuttle’s approach, and Lando realized the vessel was lying in wait when he entered the system. He had almost felt foolish—until he realized what the clever maneuver told him about the eagerness of the Yuuzhan Vong commander.
“Satisfied?” Lando asked. “I’d ask them to levitate, but that might give us away.”
“That won’t be necessary. We have already confirmed their nature.”
“Really?” Lando did not like the sound of that, but knew better than to ask for details. “If you want them, let the Talfaglion hostages go.”
“If I want them, I will take them,” Duman Yaght said.
Lando raised his datapad and depressed a function key. “We both know what seventeen Jedi can do with warning. Don’t make me release this button.”
The commander stepped closer. “You think that would matter to me?”
“Of course not.” Lando sneered with more confidence than he felt. “Even a space boulder like the
Exquisite Death
would destroy this barge in about three seconds. And what a pity that would be—no sacrifices for Yun-Yammka, and no more Jedi deliveries for your warmaster.”
“More
Jeedai
deliveries?” The blue beneath Duman Yaght’s eyes grew brighter. “You can bring more?”
“Only if Talfaglio is spared—I’m not doing this because I like you,” Lando said. “If you knew to intercept me here, then you know who I am. You know I can deliver.”
Duman Yaght lowered his chin in a vague nod. “I heard your message, yes.”
In the message, sent to what the Wraiths had identified as a Yuuzhan Vong listening post, Lando had claimed to be a Talfaglion native active in the Great River Jedi rescue organization. He had given just enough details of past operations to sound like a low-level pilot, then rambled on for a few minutes about how the Jedi were betraying him by allowing Talfaglio’s destruction. He had finished by naming a time and place and promising that anyone meeting him would be well rewarded.
Duman’s eyes remained fixed on the datapad, where the Jedi were beginning to discuss something in low tones. “You must know I cannot make promises on the warmaster’s behalf.”
“Then go ask for authority and meet me at the rendezvous,” Lando said. The next step had to be the Yuuzhan Vong’s; the mark had to think he was the one pushing things. “I’m not turning them over until I have his promise.”
The Yuuzhan Vong considered this a moment, then said, “You
won’t make it that far.” He tapped the vid display with a blackened fingernail. “Your
Jeedai
are nervous. Let me take them now, and we will see what happens. The warmaster is certain to be interested—I
can
promise you that.”
“I don’t know,” Lando said, setting the hook. “I don’t see how you can handle so many Jedi aboard that little rock.”
“How we handle the slaves will not be your concern,” Duman Yaght said.
“It will be when they escape and hunt me down,” Lando said.
“They will not escape. You may be assured of that.”
“Sure I can,” Lando scoffed. Now that he had his mark pushing him, he could afford to take a few risks, and he wanted to know why Duman Yaght had been so quick to confirm he was carrying Jedi. “Maybe I should just go to the rendezvous point—”
“That is not one of your choices.” Duman Yaght’s voice remained mild. “You may turn them over to me and know that they will reach the warmaster, who may or may not be sufficiently impressed by your token of faith to spare Talfaglio’s refugees. Or you may release that button and be assured that when we die, a million of your people will die with us.”
Lando looked down and stroked his lip, not feigning his thoughtfulness at all. Duman Yaght’s confidence in his ability to control the Jedi concerned him, but he had pushed his quest for information as far as he dared. He could release the function key on his datapad and sound the abort alarm; he would almost certainly die, but they had planned for just such an emergency. The transfer deck’s inner hatch would seal automatically, then the detonite charges concealed in the exterior hatch of the air lock would explode into the boarding shuttle. Duman Yaght and the boarding party would be sucked out into space, and the
Lady Luck
would shoot around the comet and be in hyperspace before the
Exquisite Death
realized what was happening.
But the mission would be lost, more Jedi doomed—and why? Because Lando had an uneasy feeling about something Duman Yaght said? He shook his head in resignation.
“If you put it like that,” Lando said. It was not his place to abort the mission—not with so much riding on it, not even with the children of his best friend at risk. “But I’m no fool. I know how this works.”
“Good,” Duman Yaght said. “Then you also know that the lives of your fellows will rest on your shoulders. I’ll give you a villip so you can contact me when the next delivery is ready.”
Lando’s only response was a sigh of disgust.
“No need for rude noises.” Duman Yaght grabbed the back of Lando’s neck in what may have been a gesture of domination or friendship—or both. “This will work out well for both of us.”
The Yuuzhan Vong waved his subaltern and the boarding party forward, but Lando quickly blocked their way.
“No, I’ve got this all planned out,” he said. “My ship, my way—or you might as well call the volcano cannons down.”
The subaltern glowered, but looked to his commander for orders.
“As he wishes,” Duman Yaght smirked. “His ship, his way.”
Jacen had sensed only the single stirring in the Force, but everyone else had felt it, too, and now it was gone. He lifted another spoonful of green thakitillo to his mouth, but hardly tasted the zest of the dissolving curds. Even without Alema’s abrupt paleness and fluttering lekku, he would have recognized the burst of hungry agitation. Cilghal theorized that the initial disturbance came from the voxyn reaching out to find its prey, but Jacen wondered if it might be something simpler. To him, it felt more like raw animal excitement.
It was a feeling surprisingly close to that held by a number of Jacen’s fellow Jedi. The members of the strike team had opened their emotions to each other the instant they sensed the voxyn, and he could feel the eagerness of Ganner, Zekk, the Barabels, Eryl Besa, even Raynar to destroy the creature. Others—Tahiri, Lowbacca, Tekli, Ulaha—were surprised at how fast things were happening. Alema Rar was terrified—more of herself than the creature. Tenel Ka was grimly determined, Anakin absorbed in concerns about everyone else, Jovan Drark eager to begin the game. To Rodians, everything was a game.
Only Jaina, whose feelings Jacen could always sense through their bond as twins, seemed calm. Whatever came, warning or no warning, voxyn or not, they would handle it—or not. They had cast their fate to the Force, and now they had no choice
but to trust where it carried them. It was a strange sort of composure born of battle and death and suffering, the grim serenity of the soldier, who was both maker and victim of the all-devouring cataclysm.
Jacen put another spoonful of thakitillo in his mouth. Beyond the dining area, he could feel the crew’s fear, Lando’s apprehension about something unknown to him, Tendra’s guilt as she approached the cabin door. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and crushed the curds, then savored the tangy explosion of their melting.
The galley door hissed open. Yarsroot, the ship’s Ho’Din chef, stepped into the dining cabin with his human assistant, both holding blasters behind their backs. It was the signal to follow the primary plan. Jacen extended himself to the other Jedi, going beyond the simple emotional connection the Barabels had taught them to a much deeper level, melding with the others until it seemed to him that he was them and they were all him. As the meld coordinator, he was to a certain extent trusting the others with his body; they had discovered that, at times, he might become so consumed by the sensations and feelings of others that he forgot to keep track of himself.
Lando’s tall wife entered the dining room from the main cabin, a nasty G-9 power blaster cradled in her arms. Zekk and Jovan instantly pushed away from the table and reached for their lightsabers. Tendra loosed a flurry of blue stun bolts, blasting both Jedi and red-haired Eryl into the wall—all as planned. Lowbacca and Krasov tried to rise and were dropped by stun shots from Yarsroot and his assistant, also as planned.
Feeling the impact of each bolt through the team’s battle meld, Jacen groaned and would have tumbled from his chair, had Tenel Ka not steadied him.
That was not part of the plan.
Tendra flipped her power blaster to full automatic/lethal. “Anyone else moves—or even looks my way—you all die.” She glanced at Ganner, supporting the role he was to play as the decoy leader. “That clear?”
“As transparisteel.” Ganner kept his eyes fixed on the center of the table. “Do as she says.”
“Good.” Tendra motioned two crew members behind her into the room. “Now sit very still and no one gets hurt.”
The two crew members started around the table, unclipping the strike team’s lightsabers and tossing them down the food disposal chute—along with Lowbacca’s protesting translation droid, Em Teedee. Jacen experienced a moment of panic from Anakin and realized they had just run into their first problem. The disposal chutes still led to the flushlock instead of their weapons pod; they had intended to make the changeover after the evening meal. Jacen reached out to Jaina and moved some of her serenity toward Anakin. Nothing to be done about it. Follow the Force.