Read Star Wars: Scourge Online
Authors: Jeff Grubb
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Space Opera, #Science Fiction, #Adventure, #Action & Adventure
Reen and the others had been busy earlier, while he had been on the bridge. The catwalks were blackened with blasterfire, and large rents had been furrowed into the bulkheads. Pipes of Varl fluid were shattered and spewing over decks, reducing them to slick pools. Droid chassis were scattered everywhere, and what asp droids were still functional were flailing about at the limitations of their programming, some trying to reactivate the ship’s systems, others trying to contain the spills of semi-refined Tempest, and still others continuing to move containers from one place to another. Mander and Reen encountered one of the ancient war droids, now damaged and walking in a circle, one leg shattered and useless, its weapons depowered.
The pair arrived where the escape pod was supposed to be, but only found Angela Krin pulling herself off the deck. Of the escape pod or the adviser to the Anjiliac clan there was no sign.
“After you left,” she said, “Vago slammed me into a wall and took the pod.” She shook her head. “I’m an idiot.”
“Yes,” Reen said. “Yes you are. And I’d like to remind
everyone about what I told them about trusting a Hutt.”
Angela’s eyes were slightly unfocused, and Mander realized that Vago had hit her hard. “We tried to raise you by the comm,” she said, then her eyes tightened and she saw Mander’s wounds. “What happened?”
“Bad things, but better now,” said Reen, tapping on her own comm. “Time to go to plan B. Eddey, where are you?”
The handheld communications unit crackled and Eddey Be’ray’s voice chirped through the static, “I had to duck a Hutt patrol ship or two. My ETA is about seven minutes.”
“Make it three if you can,” said Reen. “We’re flying a rock right now, and it’s going to crash very, very soon.”
Four long minutes later Eddey positioned the
New Ambition
alongside the stricken ship-turned-factory and unspooled an umbilical between the two. Angela Krin went first, then Mander, and Reen brought up the rear, helping the Jedi when he stumbled. Varl loomed below them, the thin atmosphere already warming up the hull of the stricken ship.
“All on board,” shouted Reen, sealing the door and jettisoning the umbilical bridge.
“Hold on to something,” shouted Eddey. “We’re already very low and very fast.” Even with the warnings, the three had to grab their seats as the Bothan pulled the ship out of its steep dive. Varl, which was filling the forward viewport, moved slowly out of their way. A white streak against the dead world showed the path of Mika’s ship—and the trajectory of the Hutt’s ambition.
Mander slumped into a chair and surrendered to the darkness. As unconsciousness took him, he still thought he heard the screams of Mika the Hutt, burning in the thin atmosphere as his ancestors’ home planet rushed up to embrace him.
“Mighty Vago, may her wisdom never ebb, will see you now,” said the newly polished jade-green H-3PO unit at the doorway. If it recognized Mander Zuma from previous encounters, it gave no sign. The door irised open behind it.
They were aboard the
Imru Ootmian
, perched on the borders of Hutt space. Off the port bow hung the heavy presence of the
Resolute
, about as close to the Hutt worlds as it could be without creating a diplomatic incident. After the action over Varl, Mander was sure that Lieutenant Commander Angela Krin had every weapon aboard trained on Vago and the Hutt’s luxury yacht.
Mander Zuma flexed his fingers as he followed the droid into the audience chamber. His wounded hand had mostly healed, but he still felt a dull pain when he made a fist. He resolved to avoid making a fist.
The room was as before, yet different. The three alcoves were still there, but only the central one was apparently in use. Nikto guards were present, but no Wookiees or Twi’lek servants now. The only other beings present were several other gleaming H-3POs, and they all looked like they had just been uncrated.
In the center of the room was a holographic projection of a burial shrine, probably on Nal Hutta. It showed a great vault cut into the mountainside, overshadowed by a hulking statue of Popara Anjiliac. In the foreground,
surrounded by Hutt mourners, were three bandaged ovoid forms readied for internment: one large, one of medium size, and one that seemed too small for a Hutt.
Mander knew that only the middle-sized form contained a real body, that of Zonnos. Of Popara there was only enough to load into a burial effigy, and Mika’s ashes were haunting the poisoned atmosphere of Varl.
Vago said,
“Gon kodowin pumba mallin,”
and the droid on her flank immediately translated it to “Your efforts were sufficient.” Vago knew that Mander understood her, but let the droid translate anyway.
“It is good to see that the Hutt patrol ships found your escape pod,” said Mander, keeping his tone light and level. “We could not remain long to ascertain your safety.”
Vago the Hutt let out a rolling belch, and the droid was not far behind with the translation into Basic: “Mighty Vago has no regrets for her opportune departure. She states that it was imperative that one of our group survive to report back. Your status was unknown, and the others would not leave without you.”
“The lieutenant commander wishes to convey that she holds no harsh feelings for your actions,” lied Mander, but he followed it with a truth. “She is more concerned with the status of the Tempest trade.”
“The Tempest trade is no more,” said Vago, through the droid. “The Hutt Council of Elders has been informed only that unscrupulous individuals have been landing on our blessed original homeworld. The council has appreciated the notification and is reevaluating its security measures, replacing certain officers, and redoubling its patrols.”
Mander bowed slightly. “But the knowledge of Tempest manufacture still exists.”
“Only a few know of the full matter,” replied Vago.
“All others have been silenced, one way or another.” She nodded at the droid, who blissfully translated without understanding that its own memory had been wiped. “A CSA officer, two spacers, and a
Jeedai
.”
“And you,” said Mander.
It was the Hutt’s turn to bow slightly. “One who is indebted to Mighty Popara Anjiliac Diresto, and one who would not think of doing anything that would blacken his name or weaken his family’s power.”
Mander blinked at the mention of Popara’s full name. Almost all carried that final personal name to the grave. A Hutt identified with three names was dead, or legendary. Popara was both.
“Still, the Tempest is out there,” said the Jedi. “It exists on half a hundred worlds.”
“In ever-diminishing amounts. The Spice Lord …” Vago paused here, and Mander saw that the Hutt—loyal to the Anjiliac clan to the last—could not use Mika’s name with his crimes, even now. “The Spice Lord was already very effective in covering most of his tracks. His efforts were sufficient in that particular matter. Officially …” Here again she paused, such that the droid waited for her to resume, which she did after a beat. “In the family histories, it will be simply stated that Young Mika discovered and eradicated the founders of the Tempest trade, though at the cost of his own life.”
“Which is true, so far as it goes,” said Mander.
“Popara leaves a legacy of honesty,” said Vago. “I intend to preserve that legacy.”
“There will be a lot of Tempest addicts going into withdrawal,” said Mander.
Vago gave a rippling shrug that cascaded the length of her body. “There may be other types of spice. Spice that is less pleasing, perhaps, but less damaging to the user and to the social fabric.”
“Spice that the Anjiliac family would be willing to deal in,” said Mander. He was greeted with another shrug.
“Mighty Popara, may his name ever be venerated, was happy to aid others,” said Vago through her droid. “Wise Vago sees no point in deviating from this sage practice.”
“Wise Vago faces a great challenge,” observed Mander. “While the holdings of the Anjiliac clan are extensive, it has lost not just its leader, but that leader’s two official heirs. The logical remaining choice to take control will have a tough road ahead of her, and the last thing such a leader would need would be others investigating a renewed trade in hard spice.”
Vago was silent for a moment, then unleashed a passionate string of verbiage, translated again by the droid: “Wise Vago sees that your interests parallel with her own. There will be no resumption of the Tempest trade, and those who seek to do so will be rebuffed. In addition, as a show of kindness, the aid to the addicts will be made at cost. No profit will be taken.”
“Our interests parallel each other,” agreed Mander, and bowed slightly. “Unless the Tempest spice reappears, we have no reason for our paths to cross again.”
“Agreed,” said Vago and held up a hand to silence the droid. In Huttese she said, “Now if you will excuse me, I have a commercial empire to rebuild.” And with that the audience was over, and the droid motioned for Mander to accompany it. The Jedi stepped out of the audience room, and had one last glimpse of Vago the Hutt. She was looking at the holo of the funeral of her adopted family, and Mander could not discern the emotions behind her dispassionate face. Then the droid irised the door shut and the Hutt was gone.
The shuttle returned Mander to the
Resolute
and he was escorted by Lieutenant Lockerbee to the landing
bay where the
New Ambition
was being prepped for takeoff. Droids and support crew were detaching the last of the hoses. Eddey was visible in the ship’s cockpit, going over a final checklist on his datapad. Reen came up to the Jedi.
“The lieutenant commander says we’re supposed to drop you wherever you want,” she said. “Where would that be?”
Mander looked around. “Yavin Four, I suppose,” he said, though the prospect of returning to the Jedi Archives seemed to pale slightly.
“Thought as much,” said Reen. “Course already laid in. We’re just waiting for you.”
“I’m surprised,” said Mander, then looked at Reen and started again. “I thought that the lieutenant commander would be here to see us off.”
“She’s been busy ever since we got back,” said Reen, a smirk on her face. “I think she saw herself as being in control, being the one pulling the strings. It came as a bit of a shock to discover that she was the puppet and not the master. I don’t think she trusts Hutts that much anymore.”
“Or Jedi,” said Mander.
“Or Jedi,” repeated Reen, and the two looked out over the sprawling shuttle bay. The last of the support droids pulled away from the ship.
Reen let out a deep sigh and said, “I salvaged something from Mika’s factory-ship,” she said, “when you were talking to him, at the end. I was thinking of keeping it myself, but I think you’re going to have better use for it.” She reached beneath her cloak and pulled out Toro’s lightsaber. She held it out, pommel-first, to the Jedi.
Mander looked at it for a long heartbeat, and then reached out. His injured hand closed around the shortened grip, and it felt like he was shaking hands with an
old friend. He hefted it aloft, thumbed the activator switch, and the blade sprang from the emitter. He flicked it easily from side to side, and it was as if the blade were an extension of himself.
“How’s it feel?” asked Reen. Up in the cockpit, Eddey impatiently motioned for them to come aboard.
Mander thought for a moment, then said, “Good. It feels very good.”
B
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RUBB
Star Wars: Scourge
Read on for an excerpt from
Star Wars®: X-Wing: Mercy Kill
by Aaron Allston
Coming soon from Del Rey Books
RYVESTER, MERIDIAN SECTOR
13 ABY (31 YEARS AGO)
Imperial Admiral Kosh Teradoc paused—irritated and self-conscious—just outside the entryway into the club. His garment, a tradesman’s jumpsuit, was authentic, bought at a used-clothes stall in a poverty-stricken neighborhood. And the wig that covered his military-cut blond hair with a mop of lank, disarrayed brown hair was perfect. But his
posture
—he couldn’t seem to shake off his upright military bearing, no matter how hard he tried. Loosening his shoulders, slumping, slouching … nothing worked for more than a few seconds.
“You’re doing fine, Admiral.” That was one of his bodyguards, whispering. “Try … try
smiling
.”
Teradoc forced his mouth into a smile and held it that way. He took the final step up to the doors; they slid aside, emitting a wash of warmer air and the sounds of voices, music, clinking glasses.
He and his guards moved into the club’s waiting area. Its dark walls were decorated with holos advertising various brands of drinks; the moving images promised romance, social success, and wealth to patrons wise enough to choose the correct beverage. And they promised these things to nonhumans as well as humans.
One of Teradoc’s guards, taller and more fit than he
was, but dressed like him, kept close. The other three held back as though they constituted a different party of patrons.
The seater approached. A brown Chadra-Fan woman who stood only as tall as Teradoc’s waist, she wore a gold hostess’ gown, floor-length but exposing quite a lot of glossy fur.
Teradoc held up three fingers. He enunciated slowly so she would understand. “Another will be coming. Another man, joining us. You understand?”
Her mouth turned up in the faintest of smiles. “I do.” Her voice was light, sweet, and perhaps just a touch mocking. “Are you the party joining Captain Hachat?”
“Um … yes.”
“He’s already here. This way, please.” She turned and led them through broad, open double doors into the main room.
Teradoc followed. He felt heat in his cheeks. The little Chadra-Fan—had she actually
condescended
to him? He wondered if he should arrange an appropriate punishment for her.
The main room was cavernous, most of its innumerable tables occupied even at this late hour. As they worked their way across, everything became worse for Teradoc. The music and the din of conversation were louder. And the smells—less than a quarter of the patrons were human. Teradoc saw horned Devaronians, furry Bothans, diminutive Sullustans, enormous, green-skinned Gamorreans, and more, and he fancied he could smell every one of them. And their alcohol.
“You’re upright again, sir. You might try slouching.”
Teradoc growled at his guard but complied.
There was one last blast of music from the upraised stage, and then the band, most of them nonhuman, rose to the crowd’s applause. They retreated behind the stage curtain.
Moments later, the noise of the audience, hundreds of voices, changed—lowered, became expectant in tone. A new act filed out onstage. Six Gamorrean men, dressed in nothing but loincloths, their skin oiled and gleaming, moved out and arrayed themselves in a chevron-shaped formation. Recorded dance music, heavy on drums and woodwinds, blasted out from the stage’s sound system.
The Gamorreans began moving to the music. They flexed, shimmied, strutted in unison. A shrill cry of appreciation rose from Gamorrean women in the audience, and from others, as well.
Teradoc shuddered and vowed to sit with his back to the stage.
Then they were at their table, only a few meters from the stage. A human man sat there already. Of medium height and muscular, he was young, with waist-length red hair in a braid. Costume jewelry, polished copper inset with black stones, was woven into the braid. He wore a long-sleeved tunic decorated with blobs of color of every hue, mismatched and discordant; it clashed with his military-style black pants and boots. He stood as Teradoc and his guard arrived.
“Captain Hachat?”
“The one and only.” Hachat sat again and indicated the guard. “Who’s your friend? He looks like a hundred kilos of preserved meat.”
The Chadra-Fan seater, satisfied that she had discharged her duty, offered a little bow. “Your server will be here in a few moments.” She turned and headed back to her station.
Teradoc glared after her and seated himself, facing away from the stage. He waited until his guard was in a chair before continuing. “Your messenger hinted at names. I want to hear them now … and to see proof.”
Hachat nodded. “Of course. But, first—would it help you to stop smiling? It looks like it’s hurting your face.”
“Um … yes.” Teradoc relaxed, realized that his cheek muscles were indeed aching. He glanced around, noted the postures of many of the patrons around him, and slid down a little in his chair to match their slouches.
“Much better.” Hachat sipped his drink, a poisonous-looking yellow concoction that glowed from within. There were two glasses, mostly empty but with a similar-looking residue at the bottom on the table. “All right. I run a private space naval operation specializing in covert operations, especially retrievals.”
Teradoc suppressed a sigh.
Why can’t they ever just say, “I’m a pirate, a smuggler, a low-life piece of scum with something to sell?” Honesty would be so refreshing
.
“We recently found a prize vessel … one whose value could enable us to retire in luxury.”
Teradoc shrugged. “Go on.”
“The Palace of Piethet Brighteyes.”
“I
thought
that was what your messenger was hinting at. But it’s preposterous. In the centuries since it disappeared, the Palace has never been sighted, never reported. It will never be found.”
Hachat grinned at him. “But it has been. Abandoned, intact, unplundered, in an area of your sector well away from settlements or trade routes.”
“If you’d found it, you’d be selling off its jewels, its furnishings, all those paintings. Through a fence. Yet you come to me. You’re lying.”
“Here’s the truth, Admiral. The vessel’s antipersonnel defenses are still active. I lost a dozen men just getting into a secondary vehicle bay, where I retrieved one artifact and some lesser gems. Oh, yes, I could fire missiles at the palace until it cracked … but I would prefer to lose half its contents to a worthwhile partner than to explosions and hard vacuum. At least I’d get a partner and some good will out of it.”
Teradoc rubbed at his temple. The
boom-boom-boom
from the sound system on stage behind him was giving him a headache. He returned his attention to Hachat. “Don’t use my rank. Don’t speak my name here.”
“Whatever you want.” Hachat took another sip of his drink. “You have access to Imperial Intelligence resources, the best slicers and intrusion experts in the galaxy. They could get past those defenses … and make us both rich.”
“In your original message and tonight, you mentioned an artifact.”
“I have it with me. A show of faith, just as you proposed.”
“Show me.”
“Tell your bruiser not to panic; I’m only reaching for a comlink.”
Teradoc glanced at his guard, gave a slight nod.
Hachat pulled free a small device clipped to his shirt collar and pressed a button on the side. “All right. It’s coming.”
They didn’t have to wait long. A meter-tall Sullustan male in the blue-and-cream livery of the club’s servers approached, awkwardly carrying a gray flimsiplast box nearly as tall as himself and half as wide and deep. He set it on the table beside Hachat’s empty glasses. Hachat tipped him with a credcoin and the Sullustan withdrew.
Teradoc glanced at his guard. The man stood, pulled open the box’s top flaps, and reached in. He lifted out a glittering, gleaming, translucent statuette, nearly the full height of the box, and set it down in the center of the table. Hachat took the empty box and set it on the floor behind his chair.
The statuette was in the form of a human male standing atop a short pedestal. He was young, with aristocratic features, wearing a knee-length robe of classical design. And it was all made of gemstones cunningly fitted together like jigsaw puzzle pieces, the joins so artful that Teradoc could barely detect them.
All the color in the piece came from the stones used to make it. Cloudy diamond-like gems provided the white skin of the face, neck, arms, and legs. Ruby-like stones gave the eyes a red gleam. The robe was sapphire-blue, and the man’s golden-yellow hair, unless Teradoc guessed incorrectly, was inlaid rows of multicolored crystals. The pedestal was the only portion not translucent; it was made up of glossy black stones.
The piece was exquisite. Teradoc felt his heart begin to race.
There were
oohs
and
aahs
from surrounding tables. Teradoc noted belatedly that he and Hachat were now the object of much attention from patrons around them.
Hachat grinned at the onlookers and raised his voice to be heard over the music. “I have a cargo bay full of these. They go on sale tomorrow in Statz Market. Twelve Imperial credits for a little one, thirty for a big one like this. Stop by tomorrow.” Then he turned his attention back to Teradoc.
The admiral gave him a little smile, a real one. “Thus you convince them that this piece is valueless, so no one will attack us outside in an attempt to steal it.”
“Thus I do. Now, are
you
convinced?”
“Almost.” Teradoc reached up for his own comlink, activated it, and spoke into it. “Send Cheems.”
Hachat frowned at him. “Who’s Cheems?”
“Someone who can make this arrangement come true. Without him, there is no deal.”
A moment later, two men approached. One was another of Teradoc’s artificially scruffy guards. The other was human, his skin fair, his hair and beard dark with some signs of graying. He was lean, well-dressed in a suit. Despite the formality of his garments, the man seemed far more comfortable in this environment than Teradoc or the guards.
His duty done, the escort turned and moved to a distant
table. At Teradoc’s gesture, the man in the suit seated himself between the admiral and Hachat.
A server arrived. She was a dark-skinned human woman, dressed, like the Sullustan man had been, in a loose-fitting pantsuit of blue and cream. Her fitness and her broad smile were very much to Teradoc’s taste.
She played that smile across each of them in turn. “Drinks, gentlemen?”
Hachat shook his head. The man in the suit and the guard did likewise. But Teradoc gave the server a smile in return. “A salty gaffer, please.”
“You want a real bug in that or a candy bug?”
“Candy, please.”
Once the server was gone, Hachat gave the new arrival a look. “Who is this?”
The man spoke, his voice dry and thin. “I am Mulus Cheems. I am a scientist specializing in crystalline materials … and a historian in the field of jewelry.”
Teradoc cleared his throat. “Less talk, more action.”
Cheems sighed. Then from a coat pocket, he retrieved a small device. It was a gray square, six centimeters on a side, one centimeter thick. He pressed a small button on one side.
A square lens popped out from within the device. A bright light shone from the base of the lens. Words began scrolling in red across a small black screen inset just above the button.
Cheems leaned over to peer at the statuette, holding the lens before his right eye. He spoke as if to an apprentice. “The jewels used to fabricate this piece are valuable but not unusual. These could have been acquired on a variety of worlds at any time in the last several centuries. But the technique … definitely Vilivian. His workshop, maybe his own hand.”
Teradoc frowned. “Who?”
“Vilivian. A Hapan gemwright whose intricately fitted
gems enjoyed a brief but influential vogue a few centuries back. His financial records indicated several sales to Piethet Brighteyes.” Cheems moved the lens up from the statuette’s chest to his face. “Interesting. Adegan crystals for the red eyes. And the coating that maintains the piece’s structural integrity … not a polymer. Microfused diamond dust. No longer employed because of costs compared to polymers. Beautiful, absolutely beautiful.” He sat back and, with a press of the button, snapped the lens back into its casing.
Teradoc felt a flash of impatience. “Well?”
“Well? Oh—is it authentic? Yes. Absolutely. I believe it’s the piece titled
Light and Dark
. Worth a Moff’s ransom.”
Teradoc sat back and stared at the statuette. The Palace of Piethet Brighteyes—with that fortune in hand, he could resign his commission, buy an entire planetary system, and settle into a life of luxury, far away from the struggles between the Empire and the New Republic. A warmth began to suffuse his body, a realization that his future had just become very, very pleasant.
The dark-skinned server returned and set Teradoc’s drink before him. He smiled at her and paid with a credcoin worth twenty times the cost of the drink. He could afford to be generous. “Keep it.”
“Thank you, sir.” She swept the coin away to some unknown pocket and withdrew—but not too far. It was clear to Teradoc that she was hovering in case he needed special attention.
Teradoc glanced back at Hachat. “I’m convinced.”
“Excellent.” Hachat extended a hand. “Partners.”
“Well … we need to negotiate our percentages. I was thinking that I’d take a hundred percent.”
Hachat withdrew his hand. Far from looking surprised or offended, he smiled. “Do you Imperial officer
types study the same ‘How to Backstab’ manual? You are definitely doing it by the book.”
“Captain, you’re going to experience quite a lot of enhanced interrogation in the near future. You’ll endure a lot of pain before cracking and telling me where the palace is. If you choose to antagonize me, I might just double that pain.”
“What I don’t get …” Hatchat said, shaking his head wonderingly, “… is this whole Grand Admiral Thrawn thing. Every hopped-up junior naval officer tries to be like him. Elegant, inscrutable … and an art lover. Being an art lover doesn’t make you a genius, you know.”