Balance Point (19 page)

Leia straightened her white head wrap. “I’m glad you’re here, Jacen. A CorDuro freighter we just offloaded is missing a third of its cargo. Think you could get anywhere with CorDuro’s administration?”

Jacen gaped. “I haven’t got much experience with negotiating.”

Leia shook her head. “No, but you’re a Solo, and that ought to impress them. I haven’t got time to fly up to Bburru, and your dad says you’re trying to get more involved in non-Jedi activities. I can sympathize with that.” Her left cheek twitched. “More than you know.”

“I guess you probably can,” Jacen admitted. His mom would understand that not everyone who showed Jedi
talent was destined to follow that path. She’d shown him that not every life had enough time for Jedi disciplines.

He’d tried to tell his dad about his vision, and how it confirmed his decision to hold back. Han had turned away, shaking his head, confused.

“Want to try something new?” Leia asked.

Jacen ran a hand over his strangely smooth head. “Droma just brought Thirty-two’s Howlrunner over. I could take it up to Bburru, see what I can do.”

“I’d appreciate that. Be careful, Jacen.”

“Always, Mom.”

“May the Force be with you—anyway.”

“You, too.”

Randa Besadii Diori propelled himself up Gateway’s main street, relieved to put the admin building—with its rough, dry detention cell and glaring lights—behind him. He’d tried to explain to Jedi Jaina Solo that he only wanted to evaluate Gateway’s ships, but she was as self-righteous as her brother.

So far, he’d evaded their mother.

He passed a pair of shaved-down Ryn, standing outside their tent wearing snug blue flight suits. Their vests and culottes hung limp over lumpy blue leggings.

Even after he’d served his detention—which he had every intention of protesting, after the fact—he had been temporarily excluded from the communication area, the one place where he finally could hope for decent transmission equipment! He
must
contact Borga. He
would
find a way to get off this drab, impoverished world and rejoin her.

He wet his lips. He needed a pilot, of course. He still might convince the young Solo female. As his people said,
Where persuasion fails, bribery prevails
. His kajidic had wealth on worlds the Yuuzhan Vong hadn’t
touched. The young Jedi must have a weakness—jewels, shimmersilk—better yet, a ship of her own.

Encouraged by his thoughts, he hurried up the sandy lane to the SELCORE shelter he’d been issued, a miserable blue tent in Gateway’s Tayana ruins district. He could hear the continual grinding of Gateway’s rock chewers underfoot.

Pausing inside his door flap, he caught an odd odor. He clenched his little hands, furious at the intrusion. He snuffled, following the scent to his sleeping mat. He had used his flimsy bedcovers as additional padding. Beneath them, he spotted an unfamiliar lump.

Reaching around with his tail, he flicked off the covers.

A leathery ball—not quite the size and shape of a human head—lay on the sleeping mat.

It was a Yuuzhan Vong villip, like the ones he’d seen on board the clustership. Borga had come through for him quickly.

Then he trembled from head to tail tip. Too quickly, actually. For this villip to show up in his dwelling so soon, the Yuuzhan Vong must have an agent inside the Gateway dome, masquerading as human. An agent who now knew where to find him.

Undaunted, Randa picked up the leathery creature and sank onto his rumpled mat. His plan, to lure key Yuuzhan Vong personnel here where the New Republic could trap them, still seemed ill-formed—but he had promised Borga he’d try to bargain. One Jedi for the world of Tatooine? The idea created an inner sensation he didn’t quite understand, since he’d never experienced it before: a twinge of vague pain, as if this might not be an appropriate use of someone who wouldn’t do this to him. Maybe this was what humans called
guilt
.

He dismissed it. His loyalty was to Borga. Even if Jacen wasn’t using the Force, he wouldn’t be taken easily.

Randa stroked the villip, then set it down, wondering who would answer. While he waited, he sealed his door flaps. Gateway was too bright for his taste. Thinking of Nal Hutta, and the painstaking planetary development that the Yuuzhan Vong were even now destroying, made his eyes feel thick and pleasantly moist.

Features appeared on the villip—a prominent brow ridge, splayed nubs of nose, cheeks with deep sacs under the eyes. “Randa Besadii Diori,” it said. “Finally, you report.”

Randa didn’t recognize the face’s fiercely chiseled features or the imperious baritone voice. He tipped his head respectfully toward the villip. “You have an advantage of knowledge on me, my lord.”

“I am Warmaster Tsavong Lah. Can you truly offer a Jedi?”

“I can,” he answered.
Warmaster?
His feelers had brought in a prize catch! Now, to lure him to Duro, for the New Republic to snatch. “His name is—”

“Useless Hutt,” the warmaster said, “your parent told me what you want in return. Know this. The Hutts betrayed us. Only exemplary service will win back our trust.”

“I know and respect your caution, Warmaster. I remember, though, your kinsman’s fascination with Wurth Skidder, on board the slave ship with which I traveled too briefly. I would be pleased to deliver this Jedi to you—to you personally, Warmaster. As for my request … what use to you is Tatooine? A forsaken world, barely able to sustain life—”

The villip’s rendition of the warmaster’s eyes looked like unfathomable black holes. “Why,” he demanded,
“should I value your sense of honor enough to come personally to Duro?”

This, Randa admitted, was the gaping hole in his net. “You would honor me deeply,” he began, “and be honored in return—”

“You,” the warmaster said, “are not worthy of honor. Nevertheless, I will take this Jedi. Arrange to deliver him, and I will consider your request. Fail to deliver, or offer the slightest deceit, and I shall flay the hide from your body with my coufee.”

The villip softened, its features retracted, and Randa was left to wonder what he had done. The aliens’ agent here in Gateway could grab Jacen—or stab Randa in his sleep. Had he just made a terrible mistake?

Was there really any way he could hand Jacen over? Surely the young Jedi would come to his senses, sweep out his lightsaber, and fight back.

What Randa really needed, then, was an extra layer of defense. Duro was protected by one cruiser, a few snub-fighters, and the orbital cities’ planetary shields, which also protected whatever was immediately below them on the surface. If the New Republic brought an additional battle group closer to Duro, Randa would be defended—the bargain would have to be canceled—

He burst out of his shelter, headed back to the admin building. There, he found two communication techs—a human and a small, toothy Tynnan—talking to a half-size holo of a magnificent, dark-haired woman.

Elated by his good fortune, he muscled the furry Tynnan aside. “Senator Shesh,” he gasped, “I have discovered a traitor on Duro! The Yuuzhan Vong have planted an agent here, surely a scout for a future invasion. You must double our defenses, or all these refugees surely will die. You are in a position to send help from the military. Send it quickly!”

Senator Viqi Shesh turned her head slightly away. “Haven’t we spoken once before, sir?”

He bowed deeply. “I am Randa Besadii Diori, and—”

“You say you have unmasked a Yuuzhan Vong agent inside the Gateway dome?”

“Not unmasked,” he said boldly, “but discovered irrefutable evidence of his presence.”

“Then we thank you, Randa Besadii Diori. Deliver your evidence to Gateway’s administrator, Ambassador Organa Solo. I have just been apprised of her presence. Her security force will investigate.”

“I thank you for your time and attention, Senator. Here again are the people with whom you were conversing.” Randa swaggered out of the building. He would do just as the senator suggested: give Leia Organa Solo the villip and let
her
deal with it. His prompt action—realizing he’d made a mistake—had just saved him, and maybe Gateway itself, from a grim fate.

How clever he was.

Senator Viqi Shesh of Kuat shut down the holoprojector and reached for her maggot-textured villip.

This would not wait. Business, like diplomacy, required making concessions, and she had no qualms about reporting one young Hutt’s treachery.

She stroked the repulsive alien object, detaching her attention from her right hand by eyeing the curtained wall across from her private office’s comm unit. Her servants swept those curtains three times daily for listening devices. Sometimes, they neglected to straighten the folds when they finished. She needed to speak with them—again.

Viqi Shesh had no doubt that the Yuuzhan Vong would soon wrest this galaxy away from the New Republic, just as the New Republic had won it from the
Empire. Rapid change created opportunities. There would be a thousand worlds to govern, and Kuat might be treated better if a Kuati held a high position under the Yuuzhan Vong governors. Certainly
she
would fare better.

The warmaster reacted predictably to her report. “But he has not identified anyone as this operative?”

“Not according to his report, sir.”

The villip’s alien face pulled its scalloped lips to one side in a sneer. “Our experience with Hutts has shown us nothing but treachery,” it said. “We will deal with Randa and his clan. You were correct in reporting him.”

Viqi bowed her head silently. For an instant, she considered mentioning the news about Centerpoint.

No. As soon as the Yuuzhan Vong knew Centerpoint was malfunctioning again, they might strike Coruscant. She had too much to accomplish before that day arrived.

It was unusual for Kubaz to visit Bburru, the largest orbital city in the Duro system. But nowadays, Bburru’s docks were so crowded with offworld construction workers, shippers, and camp followers that the dark, short-trunked trio who arrived—trailed by a bronze astromech droid—attracted little attention in the off-loading area.

The Bburru Docking Authority agent eyed their credentials. According to the datapad, these weren’t typical refugees from Kubindi’s recent invasion. This family had holdings in the Core Worlds, and they were looking for trade. That explained the fine yacht they’d docked in Slip 18-L.

“Everrrything seems to be in order, gentles.” The tall Duros official momentarily mated their datapad with one of his own, programming a map from Port Duggan to CorDuro Shipping’s main office at Duggan Station.

Oddly, a minute after they had passed from sight, he had no memory of their arrival.

Mara found the hooded cloak, trunked mask, and goggles stifling, but she took advantage of the disguise to observe Duros’ reactions as Port Duggan’s long rideway carried them up the dockyard arm to Duggan Station. She caught red-eyed glares, lowered brows, and stares; and if Duros had noses, she didn’t doubt they would’ve
wrinkled in distaste. Tresina Lobi had hinted that the Duros, like other species on worlds the Yuuzhan Vong hadn’t reached, resented the refugee influx. On Duro, that might be complicated by general nervousness about the political tensions at Corellia.

They’d arrived from Coruscant in Mara’s newly modified ship, a yacht Lando had picked up for a song—so he claimed—as soon as he realized how easily its broad aft cargo bay could be modified to carry an X-wing. Other hands had shaped this ship, too. Lando’s wife, Tendra, just back from an extended visit to her Saccorian kin, named it
Jade Shadow
after admiring its nonreflective gray hull. Talon Karrde and his connections had found the retractable laser cannons, camouflaged torp launchers, and shields to make
Shadow
almost a match for the
Jade’s Fire
that Mara had sacrificed at Nirauan.

Carrying Luke’s fighter in the bay, and escorted by Anakin in his own X-wing, she brought the
Shadow
over Duro’s south pole, using one of Ghent’s universal transponder codes. Groundside, they locked down Anakin’s X-wing, and R2-D2 rerouted Anakin’s shields to draw on a stack of spare power supplies, setting them to pull just enough power to protect the X-wing from Duro’s atmosphere. Then they all boarded
Shadow
again. Flying with Luke as copilot, Mara made a microjump outsystem, changed transponder codes, and they arrived at Duro as a well-heeled Kubaz family.

Drall and Selonian refugees, leaving Corellia while they still were considered first-class citizens, mingled with dockworkers of half a dozen other species retooling the civilian shipyards for military use. A horned Devaronian shouldered past three gray-skinned, long-faced Duros natives. A massive silver-tipped Wookiee plodded in the other direction. Mara caught a whiff of exotic perfume
and spotted a comely Trianii swaggering up the corridor, drawing stares with her feline grace.

Mara still hadn’t felt anything unbalanced or unhealthy about the cluster of cells dividing, differentiating, digging ever more tightly into her body—none of the gut-wrenching signs of abnormality she’d felt in so many diseased cells. She was determined to take every day without ominous developments as a gift, and not worry how many more she might be given.

There’d been nightmares, though.

She eyed Anakin’s slightly slumped posture as he stood to one side of the rideway. She’d coached him in the characteristic Kubaz whirring accent, their cultured speaking style, and their gait, after nixing Luke’s idea of disguising themselves as Duros. It was always hard to pass for a native.

The rideway decanted them in a broad open area that their datapad labeled Duggan Station.

“Straight across,” Luke whirred at her, steering an elegant old luggage float.

At the other side of the open area, a Duros stood on a knee-high platform. She spoke through a powerful amplifier, addressing a crowd of fifty or sixty: almost exclusively Duros, but Mara spotted a Bith and two turquoise-skinned Sunesi.

Luke, walking point, halted and turned his face—what Mara could see of it—toward the speaker. “Listen to this,” he murmured, standing just a little closer than he usually did. Another woman might not have noticed, but Mara was exquisitely aware of her personal space.