Star Wars: The Truce at Bakura Read online

  Governor Nereus ran a hand over his dark hair. He tried to mimic a classic Old Republican politician, using minimum threat of force to keep the population in line. Consequently, he’d built a new order suzerainty far from Imperial Core shipping lanes, with minimal open violence … after those bloody purges, three years back.

  Nereus smiled blandly. “The action I have ordered merely ensures that Rebels will not strike at Bakura.”

  “Did Rebels disable the Dominant, or did the Ssi-ruuk?”

  “I do not yet have full reports, Senator Belden. It appears that—for now—your factory is safe. I shall send over three defense squads from the garrison.”

  Belden wouldn’t like that. Prime Minister Captison stood again. The deep green shoulders of his tunic seemed to float at the top of his perfectly straight back. Gaeriel had been stunned to find his hair white when she came back from the university. Captison’s dignity shamed Nereus’s posturing. He flicked two fingers against his trouser seam: placate. Apparently Belden saw it too. He sat down slowly, deferring to the P.M.

  “Thank you, Senator Belden,” said Prime Minister Captison. “Evidently, for the moment the Rebels are between us and the Ssi-ruuk. Perhaps that’s the best place for them.” He looked around the table. Forty senators, human except for two pale Kurtzen from the Kishh district, stared back. Like the senate, Prime Minister Captison had lost authority every time he crossed Imperial wishes. “Let us support Governor Nereus,” he said without enthusiasm, “and confirm his withdrawal order.”

  He called the vote. Gaeri extended an open palm with the majority. Only Belden and two others closed their fists.

  Gaenel sighed to herself. Belden wasn’t a follower of the Cosmic Balance. He could not bring himself to believe that when he graciously allowed fate to diminish him, others were exalted. The wheel always turned, too, and those who humbled themselves for the present would one day reap rich rewards.

  “Thank you for your support,” purred Nereus. His beetly escorts followed him out.

  Gaeriel stared after him. Before the Empire arrived, Bakura had been governed by a prime minister and a senate—and no set of three individuals in the government could ever agree on a program. Schools had run half-year when Gaeri started attending, then shifted to “tumble month” schedule, two on and one off; then someone scrapped the entire curriculum. If the government couldn’t agree on a school calendar, even a child knew it wouldn’t agree on anything else. As a senator’s daughter and the prime minister’s niece, she’d overheard unending machinations and bickering about other subjects—social justice, repulsorlift exports, and taxation.

  Most important, no two senators had ever agreed on a defensive strategy. Consequently Bakura fell quickly to the Empire.

  She straightened her shoulders. Perhaps that easy conquest explained why Governor Nereus had left so much of the original government in place. Her experience on Imperial Center had taught her to keep her mouth shut about Bakura’s senate. Other systems’ residents reacted indignantly to its existence.

  Imperial peace compensated Bakura for the autonomy it had lost, or so Gaeri’s admittedly limited experience told her. It had ended the chaos and civil infighting, and brought Bakuran trade goods out onto stellar lanes.

  Yet many older senators disagreed, and when they spoke quietly, Gaeri listened.

  Speaking of dissidents, she’d better head for the Beldens’ apartment. She slipped her shoes back on—again—and headed for the roof port.

  Dev generally spent battle time in his master Firwirrung’s quarters, working feverishly on his translation project to keep from feeling enemy fighters’ fear when tractor beams caught them. Today, though, Master Firwirrung had asked him to carry food trays and a packet of drink bulbs from the galley up a brightly lit corridor to the command deck.

  Busy defending the advance force, Admiral Ivpikkis had ordered the empowerment of additional battle droids instead of refilling the Shriwirr’s normal complement of internal droid servants—except the security droids who guarded the bridge itself—so Dev filled a servant role different from his usual post. The Shriwirr’s captain held back out of battle, protecting Ssi-ruuvi lives and holding open communication lines that stretched along a string of subspace beacons all the way back to the main fleet.

  Whenever human prisoners were brought on board, Dev took secret comfort in their company … for a little while. They were always enteched so soon, their Force presences focused inside battle droids. He wouldn’t deny them that joy for the sake of his own psychological comfort, but secretly—selfishly—it saddened him. Unbeknownst to his masters, he sometimes reached out through the Force during battles and fondled whole human presences. Feeling guilty but compelled, he stretched out now …

  And touched power. Gripping the steering surfaces of his repulsor cart, he stood motionless. Someone—somewhere off the Shriwirr—had the deep, placid strength he’d always associated with his mother. His eyes flooded. Surely she hadn’t come back for him? Could that be? He’d heard of visitations, but—

  No. If this were the sense of a human—and the human was clearly not on Bakura, from its proximity—then this was the sense of an enemy. It was far stronger than his mother, too. He’d heard the admiral mention an incoming group in passing, almost as if it were beneath his notice, but this enemy made him think of … of home. The Outsider was concentrating on the combatants, too, but not with the same shade of passion Dev felt. Dev reached deeper. Their likeness beckoned and seduced him. The Outsider seemed not to notice his probe.

  Dev gave the repulsor cart a push. He shouldn’t think about it. He hoped the feeling wouldn’t come back.

  He paced onward. He had almost reached the bridge when a warbling whistle sounded over the general alarm system. Emergency: Harness for reorient.

  Startled, Dev released his cart. He plunged through the nearest open hatchway and spotted several ceiling-to-deck emergency hammocks. Large russet Ssi-ruuk and small brown P’w’ecks struggled into the nearest harnesses. Dev spied one that hung limp. He dashed over, seized the red cord at its edge and held it against his breastbone, then twirled to surround himself. Now more than ever, he wished for a massive Ssi-ruuvi body. Slender and tailless, he had to twirl half a dozen times before the webbing enclosed him securely.

  Then he had several seconds to think above the alarm trill. To try to remember if he’d netted the nest pillows this morning. He’d also left a laden cart in the corridor.

  Worse, the invincible Shriwirr was accelerating unexpectedly for hyperspace. Surely this wasn’t retreat. They’d been so close to victory. They’d—

  The near bulkhead became deck, then ceiling. Dev’s stomach protested violently. Acceleration smashed his face into six layers of netting. Unable to brace against the deck, he dug his fingers through the webbing and spun out of control. He clenched his eyes shut and begged it to end.

  When gravity came from the deck again, the alarm whistle cut off. Dizzily, Dev struggled to unwind.

  “What’s going on?” one of his neighbors asked. “I don’t remember an emergency reorient since Cattamascar.”

  The answer came in a disturbingly familiar voice. “We lost a cruiser. Nearly all the new drone fighters are gone. We’re having to waste humans to protect our remaining ships. We must analyze the newcomers’ tactics before going in again. This group is different. Different ship types, different command style.”

  Command style? Did the new group have a Force-strong commander? Perhaps a … a genuine Jedi, who’d finished the training his mother had only begun?

  But the Empire had purged Jedi. Hunted them down.

  Yes, and the Emperor was dead. A true Jedi might dare to show himself.

  That was all supposition. Finally unwound, Dev stepped out of his hammock. Standing in front of him, staring down with liquid black eyes, stood the massive Ssi-ruu who performed his comforting “renewals”: Sh’tk’ith, the elder they respectfully nicknamed Bluescale. Bluescale had sprung from a different Ssi-ruuvi
race from Firwirrung’s: brilliant tiny blue scales, narrower face, longer tail. Bluescale’s race dominated on the home world as Firwirrung’s dominated the military.

  He should tell Bluescale what he’d sensed … but that would mean confessing his guilty secret habit. Dev blinked down at the deck. “I greet you, Elder—”

  “What is amiss?” Bluescale demanded. His black scent tongues flickered, tasting the air. Of all Ssi-ruuk, he seemed most sensitive to subtle changes in human scent due to stress.

  “Such … tragedy,” Dev said cautiously, “that many battle droids lost. Those poor humans—their new lives, their new happiness, was cut so short. Let me mourn for my … for other humans, Elder. How sad for them. How sad.” The boldness of his lie staggered him.

  Triple eyelids blinked. Bluescale let out a guttural honk, the Ssi-ruuvi equivalent of a thoughtful “hmm.” Tapping his foreclaws, Bluescale answered, “Later, then. After you have contemplated their deaths, return to me. I will renew you for happier service.”

  “Thank you, Elder.” Dev’s voice cracked as he backed away. “I must clean the corridor. Labor will give me time for thinking.”

  Bluescale waved a foreclaw and dismissed him.

  Dev fled back out through the hatchway, feeling guiltier than ever. Had he endangered the advance force? Surely not. Admiral Ivpikkis would succeed. Dev’s immediate problem was to hide that moment’s touch in his memory, before Bluescale called him in and convinced him to confess.

  Cold food splattered the bulkheads, and drink bulbs littered the gray-tiled deck. Dev hurried downship to a supply locker. Cleanup was P’w’eck work, but he felt responsible.

  He had never been able to fool Bluescale. Wasn’t hiding thoughts treasonous? His masters had saved him from starvation and death. He owed them so much.

  Yet he’d never had so strong a reason before. His mind had touched a kindred soul. He couldn’t betray it yet.

  He flung open the supply locker, seized up a galleyvac and hurried upship toward the nearest dribbling glob.

  CHAPTER

  6

  Safe conduct to Salis D’aar, the capital city. Controllers will talk you down,” finished a spaceport flunky’s voice on the Falcon’s transceiver.

  “Thank you.” Han cut the connection and leaned back.

  Leia exhaled. “So. We can get to work.”

  Han arched an eyebrow. It seemed to him they’d been working already.

  Leia didn’t notice. “We have to decide what to do next.” She smoothed one of the braids that circled her head.

  “Right,” he answered, glad to see her thinking sensibly. “Do we use this safe conduct and land on Bakura, or not? They’re in better shape now. This might be a good time to take our troops and get out.”

  Leia stared at the Falcon’s deck. “That wasn’t what I meant, but you’re right. I can’t help wondering if we’ll be able to deal with Imperials directly.”

  On link from over at the Flurry, Luke spoke up. “Leia, aren’t you feeling well?”

  She cleared her throat and leaned toward the control board. “I’m uneasy, Luke. Maybe I’m starting to think like Han. I don’t feel quite right about this situation. I’m more nervous than usual.”

  Han eyed Chewie, who whuffled softly. Yeah, maybe she was picking up a sense of self-preservation. Skywalkers seemed to be born without it.

  “We’re all nervous,” answered Luke’s voice. “Something’s going on here besides what shows on the surface. I have to figure it out.”

  Han peered through the Falcon’s port at the Flurry. It hovered, looking lumpy and awkward, near the Falcon in a parking orbit outside the Imperial defense web. “You sure, kid?” he asked. “It’d be a good time to head home.”

  “I’m sure. Leia, you’re in charge of negotiations. Do you want to shuttle over and make a dignified landing in the Flurry’s transport?”

  “Wait a minute.” Han straightened his back. “I’m not landing anything but the Falcon. I want this bucket planetside, in case we need to make another fast getaway.”

  “Another?” asked Luke. “What happened?”

  “Later.” Leia tapped her thumbs over clasped fingers. “What about the impression we’ll create, landing in … well, think what the Falcon looks like if you don’t know her.”

  Thanks a lot, Your Highness. “That’s camouflage.”

  She spread her hands. “This will be the Bakuran Imperials’ first impression of our group, Han. We want them as allies. Think in the long term.”

  “First we have to survive the short term.”

  Luke cleared his throat. “The Falcon won’t fit in the Flurry’s hangar bay. It’s full.”

  Leia glanced at the immaculate control panel, then over at one bulkhead wired together with leftover circuitry. She gave him a long, somber stare. At last she said, “Okay, Luke. Come on over. We’ll land in the Falcon … but only if everybody dresses up.”

  Han clenched a fist on one hip. “Well, I’m not—”

  “Except you, Captain.” Her voice sounded sweet, but he saw an evil gleam in her eye. “It’s your bucket. You’d better look the part.”

  Some time later, Leia stared out the viewport at cloud patterns on a stunning azure world. Chewie examined the boards and then stood, looking satisfied, to head up the corridor.

  Luke appeared with damp, tousled hair. He’d taken her account of events at Planet 6 calmly, then said something about scrubbing down. “Feel better?” she asked.

  “You bet.” He plunked down in the oversize copilot’s chair. “Let’s see if we can raise Commander Thanas again.”

  “I still say it smells like a trap.” Han slid back into the pilot’s seat. “Maybe Thanas thinks he’s being a nice guy, offering to let us into that defense web. But if we split our forces, we’ve got half tied up for some Imperial desk jockey and only half on alert where they ought to be.”

  Luke tapped a pattern onto the console. “Their ships are going to need longer repair breaks than ours. What I saw had been shot up pretty badly.”

  “And we still don’t know what those aliens are up to,” Leia said. She glanced sidelong at Luke. She could swear that he knew more than he was telling. “I have a very bad feeling about it.”

  “It’s our necks in the noose, now,” Han joined in, “along with the Bakurans.”

  “That was the idea,” Leia agreed. “To prove we’re with them by sharing their danger.”

  “Alliance Forces?” rumbled Commander Thanas’s voice from the speaker.

  Leia leaned over Luke’s shoulder. Nearly dry already, his hair caught dim cabin lights like an aureole. “On frequency, Commander Thanas,” Luke answered.

  “I’ve cleared Alliance ships to join the defense web in the positions you requested, while your party conducts negotiations at Salis D’aar. I look forward to meeting you in person.”

  “It’s mutual. Alliance out.” Luke paused for a second after switching from the Imperial frequency to another. “Got all that?”

  “Locked into the BAC,” Captain Manchisco answered through the speaker. “Have fun down there.” Luke blew out a long breath.

  “You’re going to have to tell the Imperials who you are sooner or later, Luke.” Han made a wry face.

  Leia started. No you’re not!

  “I’d rather do it face to face,” Luke said calmly.

  Oh. They only meant revealing his name, not his ancestry. She hurried to agree. “He’s got better control, better … discernment in person, Han. He can feel if they’re covering up.”

  Han snorted softly. “It still smells like a trap. I don’t like it.” But he reached for the control panel. Luke relinquished Chewie’s seat and took one in back.

  “And Luke’s a Jedi,” Leia reminded him.

  Luke nodded at her. “We’ll keep our eyes open.”

  The Falcon vectored out of position in parking orbit toward an approach for the Bakuran capital city, Salis D’aar. Passing through the defense web, Leia spotted a huge repair st
ation: saucer-shaped, not spherical, thank goodness. They’d had enough Death Stars. Han made a tight descent, all dive and no sightseeing. Leia peered between Han and Chewie’s seats at the scanner display.

  Between the twin rivers, an enormous outcrop of pure white rock sparkled in low-angle light. It dazzled her eyes.

  Blinking, Han punched in a visual filter. “Better?”

  “Look at that,” Leia whispered. Where the outcrop took a southeastward bend, an entire city sat perched on its width. South of the city, she made out a double ring of large craters surrounding a tall metal tower. Civilian spaceport, she guessed.

  She glanced north again, to the city. Radials and concentric circles of its road system gave it a web pattern, and considerable aircar traffic cruised on and off several sharp towers near its midpoint. “What’s the local time?” she asked.

  “Just after dawn.” Han rubbed his chin. “Going to be a long day.”

  Irregular green blotches suggested that luxuriant parks had been created in pockets of soil on the rocky white outcrop.

  “Look.” Luke pointed a kilometer south of the spaceport. Inside a circle of barren black artificial surface, enormous turbolaser turrets guarded a hexagonal complex.

  Leia folded her arms. “Standard design for an Imperial garrison.”

  “It’s going to be crawling with stormtroopers down there,” Han observed.

  “What was that?” Threepio called from his usual station in the gaming area. “Did someone see stormtroopers?”

  “Don’t overload a circuit,” said Han. “They’re going to be everywhere.”

  Threepio’s answering mutter had the rhythm of, “Oh dear, oh dear.” Luke unharnessed and slipped out of the cockpit.