Star Wars: The Truce at Bakura Page 4

  But then the Emperor died. There would be no bargain. The traitorous humans had abandoned them to get home as best they could, with the fleet’s energy almost spent. Admiral Ivpikkis had come ahead with the battle cruiser Shriwirr and a small advance force, only half a dozen attack ships with supporting entechment equipment. The main fleet hung back, waiting for news of success or failure.

  If they could take a major human world, that entechment equipment—Master Firwirrung’s domain—would give them the human Empire. Bakura, when it fell, would provide the technology to construct dozens of entechment chairs. Each enteched Bakuran would power or shield a battle droid fighter or vitalize some critical ship component on one of the large cruisers. With dozens of entechment teams trained and equipped, the Ssi-ruuvi fleet could take the humans’ populous Core worlds. There were a dozen thousand planets to liberate. So much kindness to accomplish.

  Dev almost worshiped his masters’ courage in coming so far and risking so much for the good of the Ssi-ruuvi Imperium and the liberation of other species. If a Ssi-ruu died away from a consecrated home world, his spirit roamed the galaxies alone forever.

  Dev shook his head and answered, “Outside, I sense only the quiet winds of life itself. Aboard the Shriwirr, mourning and confusion in your new children.”

  Firwirrung stroked Dev’s arm, his three opposable claws barely reddening the tender scaleless skin. Dev smiled, empathizing with his master. Firwirrung had no clutchmates on board, and the military life meant lonely hours and terrible risks. “Master,” Dev said, “maybe—some day—might we return to Lwhekk?”

  “You and I might never go home, Dev. But soon we will consecrate a new home world in your galaxy. Send for our families …” As Firwirrung glanced at the sleeping pit, a whiff of acrid reptilian breath trailed across Dev’s face.

  Dev didn’t flinch. He was used to that smell. His own body odors sickened the Ssi-ruuk, so he bathed in and drank special solvents four times daily. For special occasions, he shaved all his hair. “A clutch of your own kind,” he murmured.

  Firwirrung cocked his head and stared with one black eye. “Your work brings me closer to that clutch. But for now, I am weary.”

  “I’m keeping you awake,” Dev said, instantly repentant. “Please get your rest. I’ll come along soon.”

  Once Firwirrung lay nested in his cluster of pillows, with his body warmed by below-deck generators and triple eyelids sheltering the beautiful black eyes, Dev took his evening bath and drank his deodorizing medication. To take his mind off the abdominal cramps that always followed, he pulled his chair over to a long, curved desk/counter. He withdrew an unfinished book from the library and loaded it into his reader.

  For months, he’d been working on a project that might serve humankind even better than he served it now (in fact, he feared that the Ssi-ruuk would entech him into circuits to complete this work rather than into the battle droid he hoped to earn).

  He’d known how to read and write before the Ssi-ruuk adopted him, both letters and music. Combining those symbologies, he was devising a system to write Ssi-ruuvi for human usage. On the musical staff, he noted pitches. Symbols he’d invented signified labial, full-tongue, half-tongue, and guttural whistles. Letters showed vowels and final-click blendings. Ssi-ruu required a full line of data: The half-tongue whistle rose a perfect fifth while the mouth formed the letter e. Then a puckered labial whistle, down a minor third. Ssi-ruu was the singular form. The plural, Ssi-ruuk, ended with a throat-click. Ssi-ruuvi was complex but lovely, like birdsong from Dev’s youth on the outpost planet G’rho.

  Dev had a good ear, but the complicated task invariably overwhelmed him at the late hour of his free time. As soon as the cramping and nausea passed, he shut down his glowing reader and crawled in the dark toward the faint fetid smell of Firwirrung’s bed pit. Too warm-blooded, he stacked a pile of pillows to insulate him from the quarters’ below-deck heat. Then he curled up far from his master and thought of his home.

  Dev’s abilities had caught his mother’s attention from a very early age, back on Chandrila. A Jedi apprentice who hadn’t completed her training, she’d taught him a little about the Force. He’d even communicated with her over distances.

  Then came the Empire. There’d been a purge of Jedi candidates. The family fled to isolated G’rho.

  Barely had they settled in when the Ssi-ruuk arrived. Her Force sense vanished, leaving him far from home and bereft and terrified of the invading spaceships. Master Firwirrung had always said that his parents would’ve killed Dev if they could, rather than let the Ssi-ruuk adopt him. Terrifying thought—their own child!

  But Dev had escaped death on both counts. The Ssi-ruuvi scouts found him huddling in an eroded ravine. Fascinated by the giant lizards with round black eyes, the undersize ten-year-old had taken their food and affection. They’d shipped him back to Lwhekk, where he had lived for five years. Eventually, he learned why they hadn’t enteched him. His uncanny mental abilities would make him an ideal scout for approaching other human systems. They also allowed him to calm entechment subjects. He wished he remembered what he’d said or done that revealed his talent.

  He’d taught the Ssi-ruuk all he knew about humankind, from mind-set and customs to clothing (including shoes, which amused them). Already he’d helped them take several human outposts. Bakura would be the key world … and they were winning! Soon, the Bakuran Imperials would run out of fighting ships and the Ssi-ruuk could approach Bakura’s population centers. A dozen P’w’eck landing craft carried paralysis canisters, ready to drop.

  Over a standard hailing frequency, Dev had already announced to Bakurans the good news of their impending release from human limitations. Master Firwirrung said it was only normal that they resisted. Unlike Ssi-ruuk, humans feared the unknown. Entechment was a change from which there was no returning to report.

  Dev yawned mightily. His masters would protect him from the Empire, and some day reward him. Firwirrung had promised to stand beside him and lower the catchment arc himself.

  Dreamily, Dev stroked his throat. The IVs would go … here. And here. Some day, some day.

  He covered his head with his arms and slept.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Star streaks shrank on Luke’s triangular forward viewscreen as the Flurry and her seven escorts dropped out of hyperspace. Once he’d checked deflector shields, he swung his chair to get the master computer’s insystem status report, while Captain Manchisco’s communications officer scanned standard Imperial hailing frequencies. Luke felt better, so long as he moved slowly.

  Scanners showed eight planets, none at the spot in its orbit where Alliance MasterNav had projected. Now he was glad Manchisco had overruled his impatience, planned cautiously, and dropped out of lightspeed in the outer system. She shot him a meaningful look. He touched one eyebrow in salute, then nodded at the Duro navigator, who blinked his huge red eyes and gargled unintelligibly.

  “He says you’re welcome,” translated Manchisco.

  Half a dozen blistered ovoids clustered around the system’s third world, surrounded on his screens by a virtual sandstorm of small fighters. They all gleamed red for “threat,” but they maneuvered crazily on the screen, breaking formation and regrouping, approaching and fleeing. Obviously they weren’t all on the same side. He glanced at General Dodonna’s brainchild, the Battle Analysis Computer. He’d agreed to bring along a BAC prototype, and now he needed data to run it.

  “Looks like a party, Junior,” came Han’s voice from the speaker at his elbow.

  “I’m with you,” Luke answered. “We’re hailing the Imperials now. No sense—”

  “Sir,” interrupted the communications man.

  “Hang on.” Luke swiveled away from Han’s speaker and got a leg cramp for his trouble. He was almost healed. “Did you raise someone?”

  The young, broad-shouldered Virgillian pointed at a blinking green light on his console. Someone had given the go-ahead to transmit. Luke cleared
his throat. Before they left Endor, Leia had offered a list of things he might say. They just weren’t his style.

  Besides, he wouldn’t be dealing with a diplomat or a politician. This was an embattled commander who could spare only seconds for each decision. “Imperial Navy,” Luke said, “this is an Alliance battle group. We have the white flag out for you. Looks like you’re in need. Would you accept our help, as between fellow humans?” Sure, there were aliens among the rebels besides Chewbacca and Manchisco’s Duro navigator. One Gunship was crewed by seventeen Mon Calamari. But the human chauvinist Imperials didn’t need to know yet.

  The speaker crackled. Imagining some seasoned Imperial veteran frantically scrolling through a tutorial for standard Rebel-contacting procedures, Luke switched to an Alliance frequency. “All fighters, maintain defensive formation. Shields up. We don’t know what they’re going to do.”

  Musical fragments and garbled voices echoed across the Flurry’s bridge, and then: “Alliance battle group, this is Commander Pter Thanas of the Imperial Navy. Declare your purpose here.” The brassy voice rang with authority.

  For three days in hyperspace, Luke had vacillated between pretending ignorance and admitting the real situation. Captain Manchisco raised an eyebrow as if to ask, “Well?”

  “We intercepted a message Governor Nereus sent to the Imperial Fleet, which is, ah, mostly in airdock at the moment. It sounded like serious trouble. As I said, we came to help you if possible.”

  Luke cut transmission and realized from spasms shooting down his calves that he’d stood up. Frustrated, he lowered himself onto the big chair again. He’d rested plenty in hyperspace. On his intergroup channel, the Gunships checked in. Their pips showed blue on the black status board. Outside his viewscreen, they formed up in pairs.

  Near his elbow, Leia’s voice spoke softly from over on the Falcon. “Luke, be subtle. You’re dealing with Imperials. They’re going to see us as hostiles and chase us away.”

  “They’re not chasing anybody at the moment,” Luke pointed out. “They’re about to be wiped—”

  “No wonder nobody picked up the standard distress transmissions,” said the dry, crisp voice of Imperial Commander Thanas. “Alliance battle group, we would be grateful for assistance. I am coding a status report twenty cycles below this frequency.”

  “Well, all right,” observed Han.

  Only someone who already considered himself beaten would accept marginally identified reinforcements. Luke glanced at Communications Officer Delckis, who opened the channel Thanas indicated. Within moments, a small percentage of the swirling dots on the status board turned yellow-gold for the Imperials. Luke whistled softly. All six ovoids and most of the sandstorm still gleamed threat red.

  The BAC started spitting information. Commander Thanas had less firepower than the invaders, and 80 percent of it was concentrated in a single Carrack-class cruiser. Not a big ship, with only a fifth of the crew that a Star Destroyer carried, but it outgunned the Flurry several times.

  “You sure you want to do this?” muttered Manchisco.

  Luke touched a call button that would send Rebel pilots scrambling up ladders. Fueled and pulled out into the bays during the last day in hyperspace, the fighters were launch ready.

  “Reading your formation,” Luke told his Imperial counterpart. He wasn’t sure how to proceed. Calming, he reached inside himself for a leading from the Force. A hunch, as others called it …

  Thanas said, “Can you—stand by—” A weird warbling whistle drowned out the Imperial commander.

  Luke drummed his fingers against the console. When Thanas came back, his voice still sounded smooth and controlled. “Sorry. Jamming. If you could throw a cone of ships into the gap between the Ssi-ruuk’s three central cruisers, it could inspire them to retreat. It would buy us time.”

  Ssi-ruuk. Luke filed the aliens’ name at the back of his mind. Something underneath consciousness finally made a suggestion. “Commander Thanas, we’re going to sweep down from solar north just spinward of those three cruisers.

  “Set course,” he murmured aside.

  Captain Manchisco’s navigator reached for his nav computer. “Valtis,” the Duro gargled in Standard around thin, rubbery lips, “establish eight-seven norrrth, six spinwarrrd.” The Virgillian pilot finger-hopped corrections onto his computer. Luke felt the Flurry break dormancy. Deck panels transferred engine vibrations to his feet and command chair. The access hatch, which they’d left open for ventilation, slid shut.

  Thanas spoke again after another minute. “That’s within our sphere of greatest need, Alliance group. Come in … and thanks. Just keep it away from the gravity well.”

  “What do you think, kid?” Han’s voice filtered through the speaker at Luke’s elbow. “Doesn’t look good.”

  “I’ve got to get to Bakura,” Leia insisted over the same speaker. “I have to convince this Governor Nereus to declare an official truce. Otherwise they have no reason to work with us. You can’t end-run the entire Imperial Navy.”

  “Han,” Luke answered, “did you read how we’re going to move?”

  “Oh, yeah.” His friend sounded amused. “Good luck, hero. I’m afraid our only trained diplomat is going to wait this one out.”

  “Good idea,” said Luke.

  “What?” Luke heard exclamation points follow Leia’s question. “What are you talking about?”

  “Excuse us.” He pictured Han turning aside, trying to reasonably explain an unpleasant truth to the more stubborn Skywalker twin. Maybe her brother ought to step in.

  “Leia,” he said, “look at the board. Bakura is blockaded. All communications out must be jammed—we haven’t heard a peep except some scatter from entertainment bands. You’re too valuable to risk in the battle zone.”

  “And you’re not?” she retorted. “I have to talk with the governor. Our only hope is to persuade him that we’re coming in as nonaggressors.”

  “I agree,” answered Luke, “and we could use the Falcon in a sweep, but we’re not risking you. Be thankful you’re on your own gunship.”

  Stony silence. Luke called out more orders, maneuvering his carrier group into a loose carpet formation for the tricky intersystem jump.

  “All right,” Leia grumbled. “The sixth planet isn’t far from this vector. We’ll head in that direction. If it looks safe, we’ll land and wait for a rendezvous.”

  “Planet Six sounds good, Leia.” Luke could feel her indignation, and it wasn’t directed only at him. She and Han must learn to resolve disagreements. Develop their own system.

  He shut her sense out of his perception. “Be in touch, Han. Use standard Alliance frequencies, but monitor the Imperial ones.”

  “Affirmative, Junior.”

  Luke watched the light freighter swing out of formation through his viewscreen. The blue-white arc of its engines shrank in the black distance. According to his status board, his fighter pilots stood by, mounted and ready, with Wedge Antilles running squadron checks. He didn’t belong up here. Today his cold X-wing would sit in a dark hangar bay, and Artoo in his quarters, linked through the Flurry into the Battle Analysis Computer. Maybe next time, he could rig Artoo to link him with the carrier’s command deck and run things from a fighter … except where could he install control and status boards?

  “Calculations are in,” he announced. “Prepare to jump.”

  The blue picket ships’ lights turned green.

  Luke clutched the arms of his seat. “Now.”

  Han Solo kept an eye on the Falcon’s sensors as he swung the nimble freighter aside. Too experienced to get caught in the battle group’s jump hyperwash, he couldn’t resist watching until Luke’s carrier—imagine the kid commanding a carrier group—winked out. Leia flinched.

  Now he was back where he belonged, on board the Falcon. Alliance repair teams had wasted no time getting his beloved freighter back into service after Lando rattled her around inside the second Death Star (—but no hard feelings, Lando. It was for
a good cause). He belonged in this cockpit, with good old Chewie in the copilot’s seat.

  But even that wasn’t the same. Leia sat behind the huge Wookiee, wearing a gray combat coverall belted around her waist, leaning forward as if she thought she ought to be copilot instead.

  Well. He’d give Leia everything he owned, the whole galaxy if he could swing it, but she wouldn’t bump Chewie out of that chair. Yeah, she’d handled the Falcon just fine during a couple of emergencies. But even a smuggler drew the line somewhere.

  Threepio occupied the other back chair, his golden head swiveling from side to side. “I am so thankful you reconsidered, Mistress Leia. Although my expertise will be wasted more seriously than usual out here in the system’s far reaches, our safety is of paramount importance. May I suggest—”

  Han rolled his eyes and said mock-menacingly, “Leia?”

  She hit the off switch at the back of Threepio’s neck. He froze in position.

  Han whooshed out a noisy sigh of relief. Chewbacca added a chuckling growl and shook his black-tipped cinnamon fur. Han reached for his control panel. “Seven minutes to close approach.”

  Leia unstrapped and pushed up to stand closer to the console, pressing her warm leg against his. “Imperials can’t be far. Where are the scanners?”

  Han shot a hand forward and turned them on. The sixth planet filled the scanner displays. Chewbacca barked several grunts and rrowps. “Dirt and ice,” Han translated for Leia. “Bakura system’s got only one gas giant and a whole flock of accreted-comet types trailing off behind it.” He paused. “If the Falcon’s warm at all, she’ll melt herself right to the surface.”

  “Look,” said Leia. “Settlement of some kind near the terminator.”

  “I see it.” Han held his course toward the cluster of regular shapes. “But there’s no communication or defense satellites, and we’re not picking up any transmissions.” Chewie howled agreement.