Refugee: Force Heretic II (16 page)

The image died with the villip and the Shamed One a split second before the amphistaff came crashing down. The last thing Nom Anor saw of the antechamber was the twisted and hateful snarl of the warrior.

“She wasn’t supposed to say anything about the Jedi,” he said, using the infidel pronunciation he had become accustomed to during years of undercover work. A rising tide of anger was hard to contain. They had been so close!

“At’raoth was devoted to the cause,” Shoon-mi said. He stood to one side of Nom Anor’s new throne, situated in a hiding place that was far removed from the last one. The former Shamed One was clearly uneasy in the aftermath of their failed attempt to infiltrate Shimrra’s chambers. “She went willingly, knowing that she might die.”

“But whether she died the
right
way remains to be seen,” Kunra said. “Will she be captured and tortured? Will they learn about us?”

“No!” Shoon-mi seemed shocked by the suggestion. “She will have taken the appropriate precautions.”

Nom Anor was certain his highest acolyte was correct. “The appropriate precautions” meant, in this case, breaking the false tooth at the back of her mouth and swallowing the irksh poison they had provided her with. It would have killed her instantly. Her fanatical loyalty to the cause guaranteed that she would have obeyed that last command.

But even suicide might not be sufficient to avoid disaster,

Nom Anor thought. The spy had openly declared her allegiance to the Jedi heresy, so Shimrra would certainly be alerted now to attempts to infiltrate his walls. It would be even harder to get in next time—and riskier.

That didn’t mean he’d give up trying, though. He didn’t care how many acolytes died in the attempt. Information on his enemy’s activities was vital. Any campaign, covert or overt, depended on intelligence, which meant he needed to get someone on the inside of those walls—and
soon
. If he couldn’t, then he wouldn’t know what measures were being taken against him, and that left him unacceptably vulnerable.

“We did well just to get this far,” Kunra said. It was a desperate attempt to make good out of a bad situation, but there was no hiding his weariness. “At’raoth made it farther than any of the others.”

“I believe I even heard voices,” Shoon-mi said.

Nom Anor nodded. He had heard voices, too, from within the chamber on the far side of the threshold the spy had attempted to cross. He was sure that those voices had belonged to High Prefect Drathul, High Priest Jakan, and Lord Shimrra’s abominable puppet Onimi. Someone had been arguing with them—one of the warriors, perhaps. The argument had been too faint to discern any actual words, but it had been close. Had At’raoth made it just a few steps closer …

He growled an ancient oath under his breath. Mistakes risked the ruin of everything he was trying to achieve. The heretical movement was still too weak to survive a concerted purge.

“We have to try again,” he said shortly. “We need access to those chambers.” Frustration boiled inside him like a magnetic storm. He missed his old networks, his chain of informers, the many spies who had fed him information. Bloated on data, he had not known how fortunate
he’d been before his fall. Starved, weakened by ignorance, he longed for a return to those glory days. “If we can’t get a villip inside, then we will need an informer.”

“But who?” Shoon-mi asked. “And
how?”

“Our numbers are increasing,” Kunra said by way of reply. “Word is rising up the ranks. It’s only a matter of time before we infiltrate the upper echelons.”

“I cannot wait that long!” Nom Anor snapped. “The closer we get to the top, the riskier it becomes for us. Without knowing what Shimrra knows, we are like one of his sacrifices: on our knees with a coufee at our throats, waiting for the killing blow to finish us off.” He shrugged under his robes. Lately in his dreams he found himself fleeing a band of warriors bent on his destruction. He never saw them, but he could always sense them close behind, and could always hear them. In his dreams, he was nothing more than an animal being hunted.

He shook his head; the waking hours were no time to waste on nightmares.

“I will not die down here,” he said. “I will not become like the corridor ghouls: blind and vulnerable to anyone with light.”

“It will not happen, Master,” Shoon-mi said lamely. “We would let no such thing happen to you.”

Shoon-mi’s attempts to reassure him were like those he would use on a child, and Nom Anor brushed them aside with the contempt they deserved.

“Enough!” He stalked back to the throne and collapsed into it. “Find me another volunteer. We will try again; we will
keep
trying until we have achieved our goal! We must crack Shimrra’s security before he cracks ours. It’s either that, or perish.”

Shoon-mi swallowed and backed away, bowing. He didn’t know anything about the spy they’d captured at their last headquarters, but he understood the reality of their situation. They were heretics, anathema to Shimrra
and the priests, a contamination to be purged. A
rust
, Nom Anor thought, remembering his musing on the rotting of iron he had observed in the belly of Yuuzhan’tar before adopting the mantle of Prophet.

“It will be done, Master.”

“Make certain of it,” Nom Anor said. His glare fell upon Kunra, also.
“Both
of you.”

Kunra nodded grimly, not needing to say that there were only so many volunteers left to be wasted on such hopeless missions. The more that failed, the fewer there were to choose from next time. Sacrifice needed a
point
to be noble.

But he, too, understood the harsh reality of the situation. It was either kill or be killed. If the most the Shamed Ones could gain was to choose the manner of their passing, then that, at least, was something. It was certainly more than Shimrra had ever offered them.

Jaina crouched behind a stone balustrade on the roof of a warehouse across the road from the penitentiary. She kept herself low to avoid being spotted by the powerful floodlights sweeping the area. Regular patrols around the perimeter of the prison she had expected, but the Ryn hadn’t warned them about the swarm of G-2RD sentry droids that accompanied them, and she hadn’t anticipated them. The Bakurans’ usual dislike of droids had obviously been overcome by pragmatism in this case. Surveillance of the area was frequent and random, making it difficult to predict when sweeps would next take place. Worst of all, she had tripped some sort of concealed alarm when she’d dared make her first dash for the rear entrance. The entire compound was now on full alert, ready and waiting for someone to break in.

Half an hour’s careful observation convinced her that it was unlikely she could sneak in unobserved. And if the security on the inside was as stringent as that on the outside,
then she wasn’t going to last a minute in there—let alone reach the cell she needed. No, she was going to have to try another way …

Slipping out from her hiding space, she crossed the roof of the warehouse and descended a narrow ladder fixed to the far wall. The laneway at its base was cluttered with rubbish, suggesting it was rarely used. Following it to its end, she allowed a trio of deep and calming breaths to fill her with a sense of control and authority.

I am not a covert agent
, she told herself.
I am the representative of visiting dignitaries, and the people here are our allies
.

With a brisk, measured pace, she walked around the corner and into full view of the security droids. A spotlight instantly hit her full in the face, but she didn’t break step—the slightest hesitation could destroy the illusion she was trying to create.

Two G-2RD droids swooped from emplacements in the high ferrocrete wall that was the rear of the prison. Floating spheres equipped with several means to inflict discomfort, they converged on her, buzzing furiously like agitated insects.

“Halt!” exclaimed one. She couldn’t tell which.

She stopped within three meters of the rear entrance, radiating patient obedience.

“State your name and purpose here,” ordered the other, its voice a nasal whine probably designed to irritate.

“My name is Jaina Solo,” she replied easily. “I’m here to speak with Malinza Thanas.”

Both droids buzzed as they performed a quick check on her clearance. After a couple of seconds, one of the droids advanced with its stun prod crackling. “No such visitation has been authorized.”

“Please don’t threaten me,” she said, sending the small droid into a spin with a push from the Force. “I really don’t take too kindly to things like that.”

The second droid emitted a piercing wail that Jaina was quick to cut short. She reached deep into the droid’s circuitry with the Force and fused its vocabulator.

More droids and spotlights converged on her. She couldn’t have drawn more attention to herself if she’d wanted to. Nevertheless, she maintained her calm exterior and kept her hands well away from her lightsaber.

“I am here to speak with Malinza Thanas,” she repeated, patiently and firmly. “Please let me through.”

The first droid recovered from its spin and faced her again, this time speaking with a different voice, that of a guard from within the compound, obviously watching through the droid’s sensors.

“I’m sorry, but we cannot allow visitors without authorization.”

She folded her arms in front of her. “Then I suggest you get it, because I’m not going anywhere until I’ve seen Malinza. And I have no intention of leaving quietly. I’ll give you one minute to comply.”

The droid buzzed, bobbing up and down as though itching to be given the okay to attack her. She watched it warily while counting from one to sixty in her head.

At the end of the minute, she heard hurried footsteps coming toward her from around the nearest corner.

“I can’t wait all night, you know,” she said, brushing the droids easily aside and taking three more paces toward the rear door that the Ryn had specified in his message. There she spoke the code word she’d been given.

“Fringe dweller.”

The door instantly hissed open, lifting sharply up into the ceiling. She strode through into a glowing white corridor that led as straight as a beam of light into the heart of the building.

A chorus of buzzing from the droids followed her. A new voice issued from the nearest droid’s casing.

“This is a flagrant disregard for regulations!” There was no disguising the guard’s annoyance. “Whoever you are, I must insist that—”

“As I have already explained,” she said, “my name is Jaina Solo, and I’d appreciate it if you could make up your minds as to whether you intend to assist me or arrest me. I really have no desire to fight you, but if you force my hand then I—”

“You can’t expect to just walk in here and see any prisoner you like! Ever heard of protocol?”

“You ever heard of a diplomatic incident?” she shot back. “Because that’s what you’re going to get if I don’t get to see Malinza Thanas.”

The pause was longer this time, and she sensed the droids backing off slightly. A squad of guards had appeared behind them, and waited uncertainly to see what she would do next.

“Well?” she prompted after a while. “What’s it to be?”

“Please wait where you are.” The voice seemed more cowed than it had been a moment before, and Jaina suspected the guards had been instructed by their superiors to let her through. “An escort will arrive shortly.”

No sooner had this been said than four Bakuran security guards came hurrying around the corner—their weapons, she noted, carefully holstered.

“Come with us,” ordered the one nearest to her. He spoke firmly, gruffly, but there was no escaping the fact that he was a little uneasy. Jaina allowed herself a slight smile at this; they weren’t as good at hiding their nervousness as she was.

She didn’t move. “Not until I know where you’re taking me.”

“You’re to be taken to see the prisoner,” he replied. “As requested.”

There was derision in his tone, but it was all bluster
and show. He knew that Jaina had the upper hand in this situation.

Her smile widened. It never hurt to boost respect for Jedi on outlying worlds, and respect wasn’t always earned at the end of a lightsaber.

She offered a polite bow of her head in the direction of the droids, knowing that whoever had authorized her would no doubt be watching. There would be no further need for any aggressive posturing this evening—not unless she was provoked, of course. “I apologize for this inconvenience. The sooner I can see Malinza Thanas, the sooner I can be out of your hair.”

Her senses finely attuned for any sign of deception, she let herself be shepherded by the four guards deep into the heart of the penitentiary. The high-security wing was identical to the regular wings except for G-2RD droids stationed at every junction. They hummed menacingly when she passed, as though warning her not to try the same tricks she had employed on their fellow sentries. She tried to memorize every turn and corridor as she went, but it wasn’t easy. They all looked the same to her, and the cell numbers didn’t seem to follow any particular pattern.

Finally they arrived at Cell 12-17. The door looked like all the others they’d passed along the way: sterile white with no window or openings. One of the lead guards keyed a short code into a keypad, then stepped back as the cell door slid open with a dull grinding sound.

Inside, on a narrow cot, sat a thin, dark-haired girl of about fifteen years. Despite the gray prison uniform and the bruises to her face and arms, she still had a defiant look about her—but there was also exhaustion behind that defiance.

“What now?” the girl asked.

“A visitor,” the first guard said, motioning Jaina to
enter. He indicated a green touchpad by the door. “When you’re done, just hit the
CALL
button.”

“Kinda late for visitors, isn’t it?” Malinza said, looking Jaina over suspiciously.

Jaina stepped into the brightly lit cell. “My name is Jaina Solo,” she said as the door closed behind her. She examined the girl quickly, wondering what sort of treatment she’d been subjected to.