Hero's Trial: Agents of Chaos I (36 page)

“Oh, dear, you’re right. But perhaps he’s only going on an errand.”

R2-D2 warbled truculently.

“Well, how should I know why he has his travel pack with him or why Mistress Leia appears dismayed? I’m certain there’s a reasonable explanation.”

R2-D2 loosed a lengthy and haughty chirrup.

“What’s that you say? The New Republic was tricked into thinking it was victorious at Ord Mantell?” C-3PO adopted an akimbo posture. “I don’t know where you’re receiving your information, but I suggest you pay closer attention to what’s going on around you, and stop spending so much time plugged into the HoloNet.”

R2-D2 rotated his head to the newsnet hologram, where real-time images beamed in from a Mid Rim
world showed droids of all variety hurrying to escape a riotous mob bent on destroying them.

“Oh, my,” C-3PO said in distress, then immediately adopted a peeved tone of voice. “I see that you continue to excel at presenting the worst side of things. But I have some news for those gloomy sensors of yours: No matter what you may choose to parade before my photoreceptors, you will never again hear me express concerns about deactivation.”

R2-D2’s zither approximated a derisive laugh.

“Well, of course you wouldn’t understand what I’m talking about, because you have no awareness that fears of deactivation are the result of unhealthy aspirations for uninterrupted activation. With a bit of detachment, even you will find that all fears disappear.”

R2-D2 razzed.

“You just watch your language, you barrel of bits! And so what if I am beginning to think like a human being. You say that as if it was something negative.”

R2-D2 hooted and toodled in rebuke.

“Oh, so you’re going to remind me of all this when we’re both being melted down for spare parts, are you? What makes you think you’ll be in any position to remind anyone of anything? And just you try, in any case. I’ll have you know that Master Han has promised to store all my memories, so that in the event of the destruction of my metal body, my thoughts and memories could simply be transferred to another—perhaps even to a newer model of the protocol series with the SyntheTech AAA-2 verbobrain.”

R2-D2 issued a razz, the meaning of which was beyond dispute, and rolled off toward the doorway.

“Put a restraining bolt where?” C-3PO said in shock. “Why, I’ve a good mind to forewarn Master Luke that your circuitry is irreparably glitched. Go ahead, roll out on me,” he said to the astromech’s back. “See where it gets you. You’ll soon return, wanting to learn all I know about becoming a real person.”

A sudden flutter brought a quick end to C-3PO’s tirade, and he tilted his head in consternation. Folks of all manner had frequently characterized him as priggish, fretful, and faultfinding, but his newfound insights into the nature of existence appeared to have boosted those personality traits, as well. If awareness could be achieved only at the expense of logic and dispassion, it might not be such a desirable state after all.

“Why, it’s no wonder sentients wage war on one another,” he said aloud as he hurried out the door after R2-D2.

Harrar rued the day he had been sent to Obroa-skai. Still recovering from the pummeling Yuuzhan Vong warships had inflicted weeks earlier, the planet sat framed in the command center hull transparency of the priest’s black jewel of a ship, enshrouded by gray clouds, as if too traumatized to so much as rotate. Harrar was constrained to suffer the view while he sought to offer explanation for the probable failure of his and Nom Anor’s plan.

“At this point, Excellency, we do not know for certain whether Elan and Vergere are in captivity or missing in action.”

“Or dead,” Commander Tla said from behind him.

Harrar was left to wonder how accurately his dedicated villip rendered his pained grimace for those at the receiving end of the communiqué—namely the high priest Jakan, father of Elan, chief of their domain, and adviser to Supreme Overlord Shimrra; Nas Choka, supreme commander of the flagship of the Yuuzhan Vong fleet; and Prefect Drathul, administrator of the worldship
Harla
. Consciousness-linked villips of the three rested in outsize eggcuplike holders positioned between Harrar and the
view he found so abhorrent. It was Jakan who responded to Tla’s utterance.

“Why do you include death in Harrar’s list of possible outcomes, Commander?” While spectacular to behold, the villip scarcely did justice to the high priest’s fully reshaped and transfigured visage, with its nub of nose and deeply set eyes.

Tla turned to one of the transmitting villips. “Despite our firing on it, the New Republic ship carrying Elan and Vergere was racing
toward
our vessel, clearly intent on returning the priestess. The infidels in command must have divined that we had restrained the shuttle, and as well that Elan had exterminated the crew. At the last moment before it altered course and fled, the ship jettisoned an escape pod, but Nom Anor failed to retrieve it.”

Nom Anor worked his jaw but offered no apology.

“Then you did attempt to retrieve it?” Jakan asked.

“I did, Excellency,” Nom Anor allowed.

“Even in the knowledge that by doing so you would have doomed Harrar’s plan to failure?”

Nom Anor glanced briefly at the priest, then nodded.

Supreme Commander Choka’s villip spoke, summoning Commander Tla and his scrawny tactician forward. Choka’s facial tattoos lent him gravity; his trace of mustache and merest wisp of beard, a noble demeanor.

“As I understand it, Commander, your part in this was to arrange for New Republic victories, to ensure that Elan was well appraised.” Choka’s decurved eyes—above large bluish sacs—fell on the tactician. “But at what expense to us?”

“It was a costly enterprise, Supreme Commander,”
Tactician Raff began. “Many coralskippers were sacrificed, and several small warships were destroyed. Were our resources replete, the losses would be insignificant. But Belkadan and Sernpidal are overtaxed and resupply has slowed. To continue to guarantee adequate defense for the fleet, we will need to cannibalize some of our larger ships to reinforce the coralskipper battle groups, or divert from the invasion corridor and replenish by preparing new worlds for yorik coral production.”

Raff gestured to Nom Anor. “Executor Nom Anor has assured us that we will receive a warm reception in a nearby sector known as Hutt space, as the reigning species—the Hutts—have no wish to engage us in warfare.”

“Nom Anor assures,” Choka said contemptuously. “Continue, tactician.”

The tactician inclined his head. “Lastly, the New Republic military has deployed its fleets to protect the Core, or perhaps in the aim of mounting a counteroffense. I remain confident that we could repulse an attack, but I am obligated to report that they are learning slowly how to dupe our dovin basals and frustrate our weapons.”

“There will be no cannibalizing of ships,” Choka ordered gruffly. “I will be arriving soon from our shipyard at Sernpidal with a young yammosk and additional forces. In the meantime, the fleet will divert to Hutt space, under the leadership of Commander Malik Carr.”

Malik Carr stepped forward and offered salute.

“Commander Tla and Eminence Harrar are hereby recalled to the Outer Rim.”

Tla and Harrar said nothing.

Attention turned to the third villip, consciousness-joined
to Prefect Drathul. “I would speak privately with Executor Nom Anor,” Drathul said.

When everyone else had filed from the command center, the prefect’s wide and broad-browed face took on a minatory look. “Precisely what occurred, Executor?”

Nom Anor gestured in dismissal. “The blame lies with Harrar and Elan. They had no knack for improvisation.”

“Were the Jedi involved in thwarting us?”

“They may have had a hand in it.”

Drathul’s villip nodded. “Word has reached my ear that some of your agents were responsible.”

“They were trying to protect our interests, nothing more.”

Drathul considered it. “For your sake, Executor, I hope so. After the Praetorite’s disaster in the Helska system, Warmaster Tsavong Lah will brook no further failures on your part.”

Nom Anor nodded. “I understand, Prefect. I have a new plan in mind, which I intend to launch once the fleet has been relocated to Hutt space.”

“Do not disappoint me.”

“You have my word. What’s more, we may have found a potential ally on Coruscant. Someone as yet unknown—though highly placed in the New Republic military or intelligence divisions—reached out to us through my agents.”

“Interesting,” Prefect Drathul allowed. “Learn the identity of this one.”

“I will do so.”

“One final question, Executor. Have we underestimated these infidels?”

Nom Anor scoffed. “Only their blind good fortune.”

* * *

“We were lucky,” Droma called down to Han from the roof of the
Falcon
. “Some minor scoring around the aft heat exhaust vents, but nothing a bit of plasteel and paint won’t remedy.”

“We don’t have the time for that,” Han said from the floor of Docking Bay 3733. “Besides, I like her scratched and imperfect.”

The
Falcon
sat on its hard stand, umbilicaled to diagnostic monitors, pressurizers, and tanks of coolant and liquid metal fuel. They had spent more than two days going over the ship, inside and out, making repairs where necessary and generally tidying up. Droma had shown himself to be an able mechanic, although slightly better at intuitive problem solving than he was with hydro-spanners or macrofusers.

“Come to think of it, a paint job might not be such a bad idea,” Han said a moment later. “After what happened in the Bilbringi system, opticals of the
Falcon
are probably plastered inside every Yuuzhan Vong warship and coralskipper.”

“Provided the paint job turns out better than your beard.”

Han frowned and grabbed hold of his chin. “You want to talk about follicle disasters, if those mustachios of yours get any longer, you’ll be tripping on them.”

Droma climbed down off the roof and jumped nimbly to the floor. Han tossed him a rag and watched as Droma cleaned his hands, then used the bristly edges of his hands to clean his velvety fur.

Aware of Han’s gaze, Droma paused. “What?” he asked.

Han concealed a grin. “Nothing. How ’bout you unhook
the outboard power feeds while I take care of the refueling lines?”

Droma shrugged. “Fine with me.”

“Then I guess we’re all set.”

Droma studied him for a moment. “Will Leia be coming by to see you off?”

“I don’t think so.”

“A pity. I wanted to tell her good-bye.”

“Next time,” Han said, then quickly added, “Not that there’s likely to be a next time.”

“Well, then, tell her good-bye for me—the next time you see her.”

Han scowled. “All I’m saying is that I don’t want you making yourself too comfortable in the copilot’s chair.”

“I know better than to do that.”

“I’m just trying to make clear that this isn’t a permanent arrangement. You and me, I mean. It’s just till we find your family.”

Droma smiled faintly. “What happened to the tab I was running for you?”

“Look, chum, humans don’t believe in life debts. When somebody does us a favor, we return it and the slate’s wiped clean. I help you locate your clanmates, then we both go our separate ways, understand?”

“As opposed to what—my flying around the galaxy with you in this relic?”

Han sniffed. “You weren’t saying that when we went after Reck.”

“I was just being polite. I had you figured for the type who’d be sensitive about his ship.”

“Sure you did.”

They fell into an awkward silence, which Droma
broke. “I’ll see to the power feeds.” He had started for the stern when Han called out to him.

“Hey, Droma. We’ll find your sister, you know.” Han allowed a grin. “Even if we have to search half the galaxy.”

James Luceno is the
New York Times
bestselling author of the
Star Wars
novels
Dark Lord: The Rise of Darth Vader, Cloak of Deception, Labyrinth of Evil
, as well as the
New Jedi Order
novels
Agents of Chaos I: Hero’s Trial and Agents of Chaos II: Jedi Eclipse, The Unifying Force
, and the eBook
Darth Maul: Saboteur
. He lives in Annapolis, Maryland, with his wife and youngest child.

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