33

Den Dhur sat by himself in the cantina and brooded.

He had finished drafting his piece on the mutating bota, and, all modesty aside, he considered it one of his best efforts. He’d managed to tie some being-interest angles into it, by examining the potential ways in which various species would be affected by the loss of the miracle adaptogenic, using a number of case studies verified via the HoloNet. In addition, he’d worked in a hard-hitting bit on the irony of fighting a war for a plant that then mutates and makes said war pointless.

All in all, it was the kind of journalism that garnered notices. His byline on something like it could very well put him back on the radar again, land him an assignment someplace less… exciting than Drongar. Or, if he did indeed return to Sullust and take Eyar up on her offer, it would be a great story to go out on.

There was only one problem. Upon reflection, he didn’t see how he could file it.

Once it became common knowledge that the bota was useless, Den foresaw two things happening. The second thing would be the cessation of hostilities and eventual evacuation of Drongar, since there would be nothing else on this simmering dungball to fight over. Which was just fine with him.

The first thing, however, would be a no-holds-barred final battle between the Separatists and the Republic over the last viable patches of the plant. Since bota grew pretty much only in this one area of Southern Tanlassa—about a thousand square klicks—the fighting would be concentrated all around them. The fifteen Rimsoos charged with the duties of caring for the wounded and, in the cases of Rimsoo Seven and a few others, of harvesting bota, as well, would be overrun by enemy troops. Battle droids, droidekas, mercenaries of all kinds, and just about anyone else with dreams of quick wealth would come howling over the barricades like a swarm of swamp shoats. It wouldn’t be pretty.

He’d realized from the moment he’d heard the rumor that such was going to happen. Still, the story would break anyway, sooner or later—why shouldn’t he be the one to reap the benefits?

But he knew the answer to that, much as he hated to admit it. Somehow, during his sojourn here, he’d become infected with a germ more deadly than any bug to be found in Drongar’s pestilential ecosystem: a conscience.

Den could get the story out secretly, he knew that. But he would be at least partially responsible for a shipload of bantha poodoo falling on the people he’d come to consider his friends.

Den sighed gustily, dewflaps fluttering in vexation. Whether the leak came from him or someone else, the calamity was certain to come eventually. And when it did it would be the sort of thing best viewed from a few parsecs away. Which meant he should be finding a bunk on an outbound vessel. Soon. Which is why the thought of accompanying I-Five on his journey to Coruscant was quite appealing. It would be easy to connect from there to Sullust or just about anywhere else.

Den was still undecided on the whole retirement issue. In fact, compared to him, a two-headed Troig was a paragon of single-mindedness. Chuck it all and become the patriarch of Eyar’s warren-clan? Or hurl himself back into the job he’d done all his adult life? There were still good stories to uncover, after all.

On the other hand, Eyar was a most lovely and desirable fem…

He would have to decide soon. I-Five was leaving on his mission for Barriss Offee. There would be no problem with Den going along—he was a noncom, a civilian, free to come and go as much as was practical. They could reach the Core worlds in forty-eight standard hours, maybe less.

There was no reason for him to stay, unless it was to risk almost certain death by remaining to report on the last chaotic hours. And, as he’d pointed out more than once to just about anyone who’d listen, he was no hero.

But something about going, about leaving people like Jos, and Barriss, and Tolk, Klo, Uli… it just didn’t go down easily.

How had things gotten this bad? That he suddenly had all these people to care about?

As one of The Silent, getting up to MedStar was easy. Religious and meditative orders—particularly ones that had beneficial effects on the ill and wounded—were usually given preferential treatment. Once on board and checked in properly, Kaird took his travel case and proceeded directly to the main bay. Since The Silent didn’t speak, he handed the guard a stat flimsi with his request, flashed his false identichip, and was allowed to proceed. Ostensibly, the departing Silent was going to stow his luggage on a military transport that was leaving for the Core worlds in another day or so. There would be a guard there, too, but since the guard wasn’t expecting company—at least, not company like Kaird in his disguise—the robed figure of The Silent passing by would mean nothing.

The admiral’s ship was berthed away from the other shuttles and transports, which wasn’t surprising. One had to approach it down a long and private corridor.

There wasn’t a guard posted at the bay, because there was no perceived need for one: without the codes, you couldn’t get into the ship, or operate it, or bypass Flight Control, or get past the picket ships, and the only people who had the codes were the official pilots, so—why worry?

Kaird moved slowly, with the preoccupation of someone meditating constantly on weighty matters. He knew that there was a dead zone ahead, right where the corridor turned—he’d found it while studying the MedStar’s plans, for which he had paid dearly—and there were no cams covering the spot. It was a small area, only a few meters by a few meters, but that was all he needed.

When Kaird reached the spot, he looked around, didn’t see anyone, and quickly shucked his robe. Underneath, he wore one of Bogan’s uniforms and a simple human skin mask. The mask was generic—it looked like a human, and wouldn’t fool anybody up close into thinking he was the real Bogan, but it should if viewed by a surveillance cam at a distance. The only thing that might be remarked on was the filtration mask he had to wear, which had been hollowed to accommodate his beaklike mouth. His other human disguise had been fleshy enough to disguise its three-centimeter jut; Bogan, however, was an exomorph, and so Kaird had had to be a bit more creative. Still, such masks were common sights aboard MedStar, especially in the wake of the explosion, since trace amounts of dust and possibly toxic particles lingered in the ship’s atmosphere.

The last hundred meters was the most dangerous part of his trip. If anybody happened to pass him in the final steps, he would have to kill them fast and run for it. He didn’t expect to meet anybody, however, and as he reached the ship’s lock, he began a sigh of relief.

“Hey, is that you, Bogan?” somebody yelled from behind.

An icy shard of fear stabbed Kaird, killing the relief stillborn. He took a quick breath, and turned just enough to allow a glimpse of the mask. He waved at the speaker, who was thirty meters away. Then he quickly entered the access code on the keypad.

“Don’t hit the walls on your way out!” the speaker called, ending in a laugh.

Kaird made a hand gesture of questionable taste, and the voice laughed again, louder.

The hatch unsealed and opened. Kaird moved hurriedly up the steps. Once inside the ship, he dropped the case of bota and hurried to the cockpit area. He punched in the security codes, powered up the mains, and began the launch sequence checks.

Flight Control came on the comm: “A-one, this is Flight Control; we show you powering up. That you, Lieutenant Bogan?”

Here was another tricky part, but one that Kaird had planned no less carefully than the rest. He could imitate Bogan’s voice—humans were easy, with their limited vocal cord system—but doing a mask good enough to fool somebody looking at you on a ship’s holocam was problematic at best. On Coruscant, with a face-mold and a good skin artist to do the hair and coloring—and a few hours of makeup time—it would be no problem, but here in the wilds Kaird didn’t have that option, and they would want to see his face. Bogan’s face, rather.

He quickly loaded a chip and tapped a control. The image of the human pilot, wearing the air mask, appeared on the comm’s monitor, fuzzing in and out.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Kaird said in Bogan’s voice. “I—kark! The cam’s messing up.” With that, he cut the transmitter off. It had only been on a couple of seconds, just long enough so Flight Control could glimpse a human face. That, along with Bogan’s voice, should be enough to convince them that it was who they thought it was.

“You’re just gonna have to imagine my handsome face, Flight.”

The controller chuckled; a human female, Kaird realized. “I’ve seen nerf herders who were more handsome. In fact, I’ve seen nerfs who were.” The voice grew more serious. “What are you doing, Bogan? We don’t show any flight plans for the admiral today.”

“I need practice time,” Kaird replied as Bogan, “if I want to fly commercial liners after I get out of the navy. I’ll only be gone a couple hours. A few loops, a couple of rolls, I get to log it, everybody’s happy.”

“And the admiral doesn’t mind?”

“He said he wasn’t going anywhere. I think he was headed for the soak tubs after I saw him, but you can call him and clear it, if you want.”

“Get the admiral out of a soak tub? Yeah, right. Give me the airlock codes.”

Kaird grinned his raptor’s grin and rattled off the code.

“Check,” Flight replied. “Cleared to vacuum chamber.”

The doors between the pressurized chamber and the airlock opened. A slight breeze stirred bits of trash as Kaird rolled the ship into the gigantic lock. The massive doors shut behind him, a warning siren hooted, and a red light flashed. The comm’s autovox said, “Warning, warning— hold depressurizing. All unprotected personnel must clear the chamber immediately. Warning, warning—”

The voxbox repeated its alert drone until the siren stopped and the red light went out. After another moment the outer doors opened, revealing the blackness of space, with its pinpricks of distant stars.

“A-one, give me your launch codes.”

Kaird complied.

“A-one, you are cleared for launch. Try not to hit the walls on the way out.”

Kaird grinned again, and reached for the controls. The ship began to ease out of the lock. He was leaving Drongar, by the Cosmic Egg, and bearing valuable gifts for his masters—gifts that would soon free him, and let him go home at long last. What could be better?