Balance Point (11 page)

“It isn’t coming,” a deep voice rumbled.

Randa had positioned his belly in front of the control board. Two older humans sat cross-legged on the floor, playing a tile game. Beyond them, the viewbubble looked out on the landing zone’s blast crater.

“Any word out of Nal Hutta?” Jacen asked gently.

“The Glorious Jewel,” Randa fumed, “is under remote bombardment. Missiles are bursting in her atmosphere. They are causing no damage my people’s sensors can pick up from remote stations, but we know what the enemy did to Ithor.”

Jacen frowned. “Did your people evacuate?”

“Many of my kajidic had already left for Gamorr and Tatooine. Rodia, too.” Randa’s broad slash of a mouth pulled aside. “But now Rodia’s under attack.”

Jacen shook his head.

“Noble news out of Kubindi, though. Tragic, but noble.”

“Oh?” Jacen leaned one arm against the comm board. News from outsystem was getting rare enough to tolerate listening to Randa relay it.

“Word is out that Kyp’s Dozen—”

Jacen clenched a hand at that name, but he didn’t interrupt.

“—held off a Yuuzhan Vong attack force long enough that the Kubaz got every spaceworthy ship offplanet. You cannot call that anything less than heroic.”

Grandstanding
came to mind, but Jacen held his peace. “I thought he was over at Bothawui.”

“Exactly. Anticipating their attack, he made the long trek—”

“Listen, Randa.” Jacen frowned. “I just don’t admire Kyp the way you do.”
And Kyp has no patience with Hutts
—but Jacen didn’t say that. “He killed millions.”

Randa waved a stubby arm. “Long ago. He was young—”

“Well, I’m young now. And I don’t approve.”

“Tragic,” Randa said softly. “The way the Jedi are dividing. Supposedly, Jedi protect others. I see none of that from you, Jedi Solo. Take Wurth Skidder. He was a warrior.” He recited the story again: Skidder’s bravery on board the Yuuzhan Vong clustership; Skidder’s attempt to communicate with the hideous yammosk war coordinator; Skidder dying in bitter agony, sending the rescue crew off without him. Randa had vowed to avenge himself on the Yuuzhan Vong, honoring Wurth Skidder.

Jacen wondered what the young Hutt really wanted.

“As far as I can see,” Randa concluded, “Durron is the only Jedi who truly is carrying the fight to the Yuuzhan Vong.”

“That’s only half true,” Jacen said carefully. “The Jedi based on Coruscant are working just as hard as Kyp, without calling attention to themselves. No fanfares, no tricks flying into battle—”

Randa spat toward a bucket he’d placed in the room’s darkest corner. The tile-game players startled, then returned to their game.

“How long,” he rumbled, “will Coruscant hold out if the Yuuzhan Vong attack?”

“That’s the last place the fleets would let them take.” But Jacen had wondered the same thing. That really would be the end—and Uncle Luke had stood near Coruscant in his vision. “Listen, Randa. Master Skywalker is right—we have to be cautious about using the Force. We have to resist anger, hate, and aggression. Those will tempt us into an evil that’s just as dangerous as the Yuuzhan Vong.”

Randa grumbled in Huttese.

“It’s right for us to gather intelligence,” Jacen pressed. “To protect and advise others. To heal their hurts. That’s the force of good, Randa. Kyp’s people … maybe they haven’t slipped over to the dark side, but they’re sliding.”

Randa clenched his tiny hands and puffed up to his full size. “Spare me your dark side and light side. If you’re a Jedi, act like a Jedi, or get out of the way and let other Jedi do what this war requires … to protect others!”

“I’m working on that,” Jacen insisted.

Abruptly, Randa turned conciliatory. “Of course you are,” he soothed, but not before Jacen made one more mental note about Randa Besadii Diori’s flattery: It could turn ugly in an instant. The Hutt was a spice merchant, a manipulator. “Here is my vision,” Randa said. “My fantasies have matured, and you could find glory helping me fulfill them.”

Jacen rolled his eyes. “Go ahead.”

Randa moistened his lips with his fat, wedge-shaped tongue. “I see myself,” he said, “as a pirate chieftain, wreaking havoc on the Yuuzhan Vong … with Kyp Durron as my example.”

Jacen wondered how Kyp would react to a Hutt using him as an example.

“Who better to head my squadron than a Jedi? And fate has delivered a Jedi to me, one who has withdrawn from their normal operations. You see, Jacen, all I need is to somehow get an influence over you, then convince you to do what I want.”

Surprisingly frank, for a Hutt. “There isn’t a single ship here at Thirty-two that would suit your purposes.”

“No,” the Hutt admitted. “But over at Gateway, there are faster vessels. Ours for the taking.”

“No, Randa. I won’t steal, I don’t want to be a pirate, and I don’t believe in your vision. I’m sorry. Now, I need a GOCU line.”

Sighing heavily, Randa slid away from the main comm board. Jacen settled in at the ground-orbit comm unit, drumming his fingers on its edge while he waited for his call to go through. He wondered if Randa might resort to intimidation, once it grew obvious that flattery wouldn’t produce what he wanted.

Jacen’s first call raised the Duros military, as usual. The Duro Defense Force was a nervous bunch these days. Admiral Wuht’s comm team was on the job this morning. Negotiating the usual runaround took most of Jacen’s next hour. Randa thrust his huge head through the door three times, demanding progress reports.

“Waiting for Admiral Dizzlewit,” Jacen murmured each time.

Finally, Jacen talked himself far enough down the line to reach a shipping clerk who seemed willing to check records. Yes, the shuttle in question had arrived at Bburru City. CorDuro Shipping had taken charge of the transfer. A CorDuro pilot had taken off with it, bound for Urrdorf City—the smallest Duros orbital city.

Stolen! “I know these routing checks are inconvenient for you,” Jacen said tightly. “You’ve done an incredible job, getting me this much. Many thanks.”

He cut the connection and flicked his comlink. “Dad?”

After several seconds, he got an answer. “Find it, Junior?”

“The Duros diverted it.” Randa’s monstrous head poked through the door again. Jacen pushed his chair aside and beckoned the Hutt forward, still explaining. “Dad, I think this would justify spending the fuel to go up and talk to them.” Han had taken Thirty-two’s outdated
I-7 Howlrunner shuttle up to Bburru twice that first week, talking to Admiral Wuht.

“No,” Han said firmly. “They don’t want to talk. We’ll think of something. Borrow supplies from Gateway, maybe.”

Jacen knew exactly what his dad meant when he said “borrow.”

An unexpected transmission called Tsavong Lah away from
Sunulok
’s villip choir. In that chamber, signal villips fashioned optical fields that showed long arcs of space, sent by villips positioned for relay. Images from Nal Hutta showed the seeding of microbes that would reshape the scum-ridden, pestilent planet—and its ghastly moon, covered with technological monstrosities—back into something fertile and lovely. Some of the organisms, bred by master shapers, would digest Nar Shaddaa’s metal and transparisteel into dust that would settle into lower strata. Other microbes would break down both worlds’ duracrete into sand for new soil. Still other bacteria would attack organic matter, including the Hutts’ bloated corpses, to enrich that soil. Buried under natural terrain, the world and its moon would live again.

There was also the matter of Mujmai Iinan, a lieutenant who had proposed taking Kubindi with half the usual number of coralskippers. Disgraced by the substantial evacuation of Kubindi, Iinan waited in a meditation chamber. In less than an hour, the gods would receive him.

Tsavong Lah was not pleased to be called away, but the executor’s report was worth hearing. Seated in the coral-lined privacy chamber, he glared at the villip’s rendition of Nom Anor’s dumbfounded face. “Not one
Jeedai
, but three?”

Nom Anor’s eyes widened even farther. It was unusual
for a warmaster to repeat information. “Yes, Warmaster. Three have been spotted now.”

The warmaster drew up to his formidable height, squaring his spiked shoulders. “Not by you.”

“By my agents. I scrupulously avoid their presence.”

“Their names,” Tsavong ordered, relaxing.

“Leia Organa Solo remains supervisor of this dome. My assistants alert me whenever she approaches the laboratory.”

“Your assistants approach worthiness.”

“I wish I could convey your compliments.”

“When Duro is liberated, you may offer them yourself.”

The villip showed Nom Anor’s head nod in gratitude. “You honor us all. The other two Jedi came to my attention only this morning. My agents on Bburru have monitored a number of outsystem calls from Settlement Thirty-two. They finally identified a passenger who arrived by medical evacuation ship as Organa Solo’s daughter, Jaina. CorDuro Shipping reports dealing with another, at Thirty-two—Jaina’s brother, the cowardly Jedi who went missing from Coruscant—”

Perplexed, Tsavong Lah interrupted, “Is this family in blood feud? Avoiding one another, to prevent embarrassment?”

“I find no evidence of either. It seems possible, though almost unbelievable—even for this godless race—that the offspring have no idea of the mother’s location, nor she of theirs. The coward’s name—”

“Name me no coward. He is not worthy to be known.”

“Then may I offer a suggestion?”

Tsavong Lah nodded.

“I have developed a new organism.”

Tsavong Lah frowned. Nom Anor fancied himself a shaper, dabbling in others’ sanctified specialties.

“When we need to break down these abominable domes and let in living atmosphere,” Anor continued, “it should be useful. Meanwhile, I would like to test it in the two younger Jedis’ dome.
Bruk tukken nom canbintu.”
He quoted the adage: to weaken the hinges of the enemy’s fort.

“Why not your own?” It would be an honorable self-immolation.

“Belek tiu
, Warmaster.” Nom Anor apologized, and the warmaster let him continue. “This research complex serves our long-term purposes, and Jedi Organa Solo helps other workers make maximum use of resources. For that reason, this dome’s destruction should be delayed.”

Tsavong Lah could not fault the executor’s reasoning. “Only so long as she remains ignorant of your presence. Somehow, these
Jeedai
recognize us through ooglith masquers. I have little faith that your new gablith masquer would deceive her.” Jedi magic worked without sacrifices to the Yuuzhan Vong gods, which made it almost as abominable as the infidels’ technology. “The priests,” he added dryly, “change their minds daily, whether the portents identify these
Jeedai
as abominations too evil to even sacrifice, or worthy enough to offer individually. But do not encounter her in person.”

“I serve you with my life and death,” Nom Anor answered.

Tsavong Lah touched his villip. Nom Anor’s face faded, shrank, and was sucked back into the villip’s interior.

Tsavong Lah sat for another minute, stroking his frayed lip with a finger claw. Destroying Duro’s ship-crafting facility would deny his enemies warships and
matériel. Cutting their trade routes again would wreak economic havoc.

And at Duro, he would make an example that the galaxy’s surviving inhabitants would not dare to ignore.

Mara sat with Luke at a long briefing table, in a sequestered room protected by sonic containment fields. At the table’s head, Ayddar Nylykerka—chief of Fleet Intelligence—stood beside a three-dimensional galactic map that gleamed over the table’s modulasers. Most of its star field shone faintly blue, but a substantial slice starting near Belkadan had been reprogrammed to shine red, those systems that had been taken by the Yuuzhan Vong.

Nylykerka swept his laser pointer through that sector. “As you see, our hyperspace probes are returning limited information. Kalarba, Druckenwell, and Falleen are lost. Even if we could retain Rodia,” he said, glancing at Rodian Councilor Narik, “the Corellian Run is cut.” He swept his pointer through that hyperspace lane. “Our scouts report having found several more points seeded with dovin basal interdiction mines.”

Councilor Narik’s ears swiveled toward Chief of State Fey’lya. “Once again, a Mid Rim world is sacrificed in the name of protecting the Core … or Bothawui,” Narik said angrily.

Mara frowned. The Bothan chief of state had managed to keep the remains of the Fifth Fleet deployed at home, but he looked twitchy. Defensive. Ripples danced almost constantly across his furred face.

“With such grave damage to Fondor, we are equally concerned with protecting Kuat Drive Yards,” Councilor Triebakk of Kashyyyk said through his translator droid. He gestured toward the Advisory Council’s newest member, Senator Viqi Shesh of Kuat, who nodded acknowledgment.

“Centerpoint Station,” Fyor Rodan of Commenor said, “is ideally positioned to defend Kuat. But what is Centerpoint’s current status? Can we count on Corellia?”

Chelch Dravvad shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. Mara didn’t envy him. Corellia had been used as a trap, a target to tempt the Yuuzhan Vong into Centerpoint’s range. Now the Corellians had back-blading in mind.

“My report isn’t good,” Dravvad answered. “After Centerpoint was fired toward Fondor, there was some kind of interior malfunction, probably due to Sal-Solo’s mishandling. That information must not reach the Yuuzhan Vong, though. As long as they consider Centerpoint operational, it provides a deterrent for this entire region.”

Mara sensed uneasiness around the table. Several heads nodded somberly.

Fey’lya crossed his arms over his tunic. “And now Corellia threatens to act alone, making the Centerpoint weapon its rallying point.” He glanced aside at Councilor Dravvad.

“Without Fondor’s shipyards,” the Corellian said, “New Republic forces could not have used Centerpoint as planned anyway. The HIMS devices, which would’ve allowed our forces to maneuver in and out of the interdiction field, were built there.”

Admiral Sien Sovv, the Sullustan fulcrum of the New Republic Defense Force, had been threatened with a
senatorial vote of no confidence after the Centerpoint catastrophe. He’d barely survived. “Chief Nylykerka,” he asked, “what news from Kubindi?”