Refugee: Force Heretic II (48 page)

“What’s wrong, Dad?”

“Well, it’s not exactly the best of places to be visiting. It’s a tough place, filled with all manner of lowlifes. I just don’t want anyone getting their expectations up that this trip will be some sort of romantic holiday or something.”

“Han, we had our first kiss in the belly of a space slug,” Leia said. “Believe me when I say that my expectations of doing anything remotely romantic with you have never been particularly high.”

She smiled at her husband, and was glad to see him lose his somberness and smile back. Then, placing an arm about her shoulder, he made to leave with her. “Come on, Your Worshipfulness,” he said wryly. “You need to talk to Luke before he goes off to call Ben.”

“Wait.” She turned to Arrizza. “What about Tahiri?”

The Kurtzen shrugged again. “I do not know how long it will take for her to heal. It might be one hour; it might be a year. She might never heal at all. I’m sorry that I cannot give you a definite answer. All you can do is wait and see.”

Leia looked at the girl on the bed once more. She hadn’t moved the entire time they’d been in the room. No, wait—that wasn’t quite true, Leia realized. She
had
changed: the young Jedi’s eyes were now closed, as though she was sleeping. What that meant, exactly, Leia didn’t know, but she hoped that it was a positive sign, at least.

Dream well, Tahiri
, she sent into the quiet dark that was Tahiri’s mind.
Dream well and come back strong
.

The small shuttle rattled out of hyperspace just on the border of the Ssi-ruuvi Imperium. Its holds were almost empty, as was its flight deck. In total, it carried eight passengers. Only one of them was alive.

Cundertol watched from the commander’s station as the shuttle performed a cursory sweep of the space around
it. He had changed its original settings shortly after leaving Bakura, immediately upon assuming control of the ship. This was a destination he had visited just once before. The event that had quite literally changed his life had taken place not far away, in a small research base left behind by the New Republic during its extended offensive against the Imperium. Abandoned for many years, it had been easy pickings for someone looking for a secret operations center.

The shuttle’s scan picked up the station and a modified Fw’Sen-class picket ship parked nearby. He set the shuttle on an intercept vector for the latter, broadcasting a preplanned signal.

A response came within seconds. The picket ship extended docking grapnels and, once they were near enough, mated the two vessels together. A booming
clang
resounded through the ship around him, announcing contact.

Grunting in satisfaction, Cundertol climbed from the commander’s chair and headed for the air lock, stepping over the bodies of the P’w’eck crew as he went. The stump of his severed arm had healed over perfectly, leaving a smooth patch of skin that was barely tender to the touch.

“I have been waiting,” said the Ssi-ruuvi general whom Cundertol knew only as E’thinaa. His words came in the Ssi-ruuvi language, which the makers of Cundertol’s body had preprogrammed him to understand.

“I came as soon as I could.” Cundertol executed the smallest bow he could deliver without seriously offending the general. There were no guards in the bare stateroom, but he didn’t doubt that he was being watched. “There were … complications.”

The thick black ridge that was E’thinaa’s eyebrows lifted in disapproval. “The Keeramak?”

“Is dead,” Cundertol reported instantly and without
emotion. “I have its body onboard the shuttle as proof.” He didn’t mention that the shuttle had originally been intended to deliver the body to Lwhekk as a placatory gesture, or that he’d been forced to stow away on the craft in order to redirect it—and to survive.

The general nodded his approval, his scent-tongues tasting the air. “As long as this objective has been achieved, then everything else is unimportant.”

“I must admit that I don’t understand why you wanted this, above all else,” Cundertol said. “Your people regard the Keeramak as some sort of god. Surely killing it will cause chaos and civil war—more disruption than the Imperium can possibly withstand. You’ve spent so long rebuilding things. Why destroy them now?”

The general’s massive tail thumped the ground once, as if demanding silence. “You are not required to understand anything, human. You stink of lies.”

Cundertol nodded, averting his gaze from the general’s stare. He’d heard too many stories about the persuasive powers of the Ssi-ruuk to risk being caught now. His HRD body might be physically strong, but it couldn’t protect him against the many traps that might befall his mind.

But …

His mind tripped on the general’s words. How could E’thinaa have detected the scent of deception when the tissue comprising the outer layers of his new body had been specifically designed to release scents identical to a natural, nonstressed human, no matter what his state of mind or what lay beneath the facade? The general had to be bluffing, he told himself dismissively.

It wasn’t, however, so easy to shake himself free of his sudden suspicions. The Ssi-ruuk didn’t often bluff, after all. They were usually more direct in their approaches to and manipulations of what they regarded to be “lesser” species.

And now that he thought about it, the superior olfactory
senses of his new body were picking up something odd about the
Ssi-ruu
…

He suddenly felt distinctly uncomfortable, wanting to leave there as soon as possible. Something wasn’t quite right, and he didn’t like it one bit.

“I’ve met my side of the bargain,” he said, glad that he had retained his sabacc face, after the transfer. “Now, how about you?”

“You have your new body. What more do you want?”

“You know what I want. You said you’d refund half the money I paid for this body if I delivered you Bakura. I’ve done that, so now I’d like what you promised me.”

The general began to pace the room with clicking strides, his tail sweeping menacingly. “It is my understanding that Xwhee is no longer part of the Imperium.”

“It
has
been consecrated—”

“And the P’w’eck traitors have taken it for their own, no?”

“Yes, and you can fight for it now. You can send troops without fearing for their souls—”

The general cut him off with a chopping gesture of one mighty arm. “You have not delivered your side of the bargain, yet you expect me to keep mine!” he roared close to Cundertol’s face, spraying him with spittle. Cundertol flinched, and the general straightened. “I am disappointed, but I can’t say that I’m surprised. Your species is not known for its honor.”

Cundertol could feel his control over the situation quickly slipping away. “Listen, we’re both doing a job here, and as you know, sometimes it’s not possible to meet every expectation. I’ve taken you halfway there—”

“As we have taken you halfway,” the general interrupted. “You have your new body; you have your bottled soul. Surely that is enough.”

And maybe it was, Cundertol thought. With his mind safely ensconced in its new HRD home, he was free from
aging and disease. He really could live forever, if he was careful. With the right contacts, he could get his arm fixed, establish a new power base somewhere else, begin building himself up to where he had been. There were thousands of opportunities in a galaxy this large. All he had to do was—

Cundertol stopped the thought in its tracks. What was the point of dreams without money to bring them into reality? Without money, he would never be able to replace his missing limb or buy new contacts; he wouldn’t even be able to refuel the shuttle after its next stop. There was no point being immortal if you couldn’t do anything—or worse, if you ended up drifting through space, heading nowhere.

“I’m not leaving here without the payment I deserve,” he said slowly and firmly, staring the big lizard right in the eyes.

“No?” The general squared off and flexed his powerful muscles. “Would you combat me for it?”

Cundertol felt the strength coursing through his artificial body. What were flesh and blood against poly-alloy bones and enhanced biofiber muscles? If he could outfight a Jedi, then a Ssi-ruu should be no trouble whatsoever.

Cundertol nodded. “I will,” he said, “and I will crush you as I would an insect.”

The general laughed. “The hatchmate returns to destroy his mother!”

“I’m serious.” Cundertol clenched and unclenched his fists with a mix of anger and nervousness. “Give me my money.”

The general took up the challenge unflinchingly as he stepped forward, pinning Cundertol with his stare. With lethal deliberation, he said: “The only thing you shall get from me is death.”

Cundertol braced himself for the fight, and suddenly found that he was unable to move. He was rooted to the
spot, every muscle of his body rigid as though he were nothing more than a statue. He couldn’t move his eyes, his mouth—he couldn’t even breathe! And then, in mid-stroke, the beating of his heart stopped.

The general’s leering visage came so close that he could feel the alien’s breath on his face. Twin scent-tongues tasted him, licking at the fear surely emanating from his synthflesh.

“You are a fool, human,” E’thinaa said. The general’s breath stank, but Cundertol couldn’t turn away from it. “Did you honestly think that we wouldn’t be ready for you? Do you believe us to be so stupid? We have learned much of your vile machines since coming to your galaxy. We know how to encourage your filthy technologists to perform for us, to build restraining bolts that activate on hearing a particular phrase. We are perfectly capable of stealing that which we require to reach our goals—goals you helped us attain. You sowed chaos; now we shall reap the rewards.”

Cundertol yearned to pull away …

Since coming to your galaxy …

Panic flooded through him.

The alien’s hideous face seemed to melt and peel away. The long snout folded back and rolled down the long neck, taking the triple-lidded eyes and scent-tongues with them.

Beneath lay a face more horrible than any Cundertol had ever imagined. A long, sloping forehead swept down to two gaunt, tattooed cheeks. Purple sacks bulged under cold, black eyes. Deep scars carved the gray flesh like the cracks of an ice moon, and sharp teeth grinned at him as he realized his mistake.

“You are nothing to me,” hissed the voice of the impersonator. “Perhaps, had you remained alive, we might have taken you as a slave or a sacrifice; but as you are, you are worthless, unliving filth. We have destroyed the machine
that made you and purified the hands that touched it with the blood of a thousand captives. We would never deign to deal with dead stuff such as you are now made of. Life is tissue; it is soil; it is blood.” The creature paused, then, and smiled. “It is death.”

The face that would be the last thing Cundertol ever saw pulled back out of range. So profoundly was he frozen by the restraining bolt, he couldn’t even focus his eyes. Everything beyond a meter remained a blur—a blur that filled with dark shadows as more of the vile creatures entered the room. They swarmed around him, twisting and writhing in impossible shapes.

The only thing you shall get from me is death
. So E’thinaa—or whatever the alien’s real name was—had said, and with those words he had been condemned. The last thing Cundertol felt was the powerful sting of amphistaffs striking him and tearing his artificial body apart. He couldn’t move, but the aliens had ensured that he could still feel pain. The agony was blinding, too much to truly comprehend.

When Cundertol’s containment fields finally dissolved and his mind fell away, it came as pure relief.

In the end, there was just one.

Klasse Ephemora was an isolated system on the side of Chiss space opposite the galactic Core. Named after the explorer who had first charted the system, centuries ago, it had once housed a small gem-mining operation around its one gas giant, a bloated monster hovering just inside the star’s habitable zone. Severe atmospheric disturbances had prevented the gem station from ever being profitable, however, so it had been abandoned more than fifty standard years earlier. Klasse Ephemora had lain fallow ever since: lacking terrestrial worlds that might have encouraged colonization; too remote to warrant commercial interest, and yet too far away from the Chiss border
to justify even a token military presence. Every few decades, an automated probe would sweep through the system to update astronomical charts and ensure that the navigational anchor points left behind by the initial survey were still true. Beyond that, it was completely ignored.

And so it might have remained forever, had not the last probe to pass through some twenty-five years earlier happened to note that the sole gas giant in the system, Mobus, had acquired a new satellite. This satellite joined a family of seventeen other satellites around Mobus, but exceeded their combined mass more than ten times over. A world in its own right, it was shrouded in clouds that prevented a visual survey as the probe flew by. The presence of water vapor might have warranted further investigation, but the probe was not programmed to change course for something so nebulous. Had there been clear signs of intelligent life on the moon-world, the probe might have braked into an orbit around Klasse A and observed the new moon in more detail, then reported the findings back to its superiors in the CEDF. But the planet emitted nothing on the subspace channels, nor were there any transmissions on the electromagnetic spectrum. So the probe simply noted the moon’s appearance, then continued on its way.

The fact of the moon’s existence had languished in the Chiss Expeditionary Library ever since, filed with all the myriad other reports from thousands of identical probes. As rare as the orbital capture was, it wasn’t startling enough to attract the attention of the astronomers who studied the data on the probe’s return. There were countless more interesting discoveries waiting in the Unknown Regions. So what if an abandoned system acquired an extra moon or two?

Jacen stared at the pictures of the moon brought back by the probe with a feeling bordering on profound awe.