Han wrapped an arm around Leia’s shoulders and pulled her close, momentarily resting his chin on her white turban. “Take care of yourself, then.”
“You, too.”
Jacen’s parents kissed each other—barely a peck at first, and then Han leaned into it. Leia went up on her tiptoes. Jacen lowered his eyes, caught Jaina’s glance, and half smiled.
She nodded.
But Han’s expression was grim as he and Droma headed back up the entry. Jacen watched until they disappeared. His memory fled back to Belkadan and a marsh full of villips, and he wondered what the Yuuzhan Vong would do with the Thirty-two reclamation project. Maybe they had creatures who could live in poisoned water.
Leia stared at her feet, grimacing.
“Mom,” Jacen said gently. “You don’t look real diplomatic.”
She raised her head. “You don’t think you three get all your grit from your father, do you?”
“Whatever you’re going to try,” Jaina said, “I’m with you.”
Leia’s smile reflected Jaina’s. For three seconds, all the gaps and irritations between them fell away. They looked like conspirators. Sisters.
And since they thought Jacen had gone soft, he said, “So am I.”
Leia wrapped a hand around his forearm and one around Jaina’s, and squeezed. “First …” She raised her voice. “Mezza, Romany, we did drill out some other bolt-holes, and I have three maps. I need someone to get to that transmitter and someone else to pull people out of those holes. Either to here or to the admin building, and from there to the haulers. We’ll have to ask for volunteers—”
A Sullustan girl rocked forward and stood up. Her mother—or grandmother?—opened her mouth, then plainly decided against objecting. Then several others volunteered.
Leia distributed her datapads, keeping one back for Mezza and Romany. Close by, the rhythmic tick-clink of picks went on as the volunteers headed out.
Then Leia crouched beside Jaina and Jacen again.
“I’ve got an idea,” Jaina said softly. “We could do a lot of damage with that mining laser, if the Yuuzhan Vong haven’t found it.”
Leia nodded, then glanced up at Jacen.
“Is that too violent for you?” Jaina demanded.
“It’s rescue,” he said. “It’s defense. As long as I’m not manipulating the Force—”
“If the repulsor cart hasn’t been sabotaged, you won’t have to.” Leia peered up the side tunnel, at the refugees packed inside.
To Jacen’s surprise, Leia’s sinuous gray shadow-guard slipped forward. “Think about this,” Olmahk said in a low, mewling voice. “If the laser is fired, that will bring the Yuuzhan Vong down on us. That post should be mine. I claim it as my due, Lady Vader.”
Leia’s frown twisted sideways. “You’re probably right,” she said, but Jacen guessed she had every intention of firing it herself.
His memory served up a vivid image of the galaxy, tipping toward darkness. “Look,” he murmured, “I know you all think I’m crazy. But are you sure there’s no chance of negotiating? Mom, you’re a professional—”
“So I know when it won’t work,” Leia said wearily. “When your contact parties don’t come back alive, the enemy won’t talk. You don’t waste more contact parties.”
Still, maybe he could …
“Don’t even try it,” his mother added darkly.
Maybe she wasn’t a fully trained Jedi, but she had no trouble reading him.
She pushed up to stand again, then beckoned the Ryn clan leaders closer. “Mezza, Romany, you’ve done an excellent job of gathering people. If I don’t see you again, thank you. You’re in charge. May the Force be with you.
“Jaina, you’re with me. Jacen, you follow.”
Olmahk came alongside Jacen. They hurried back to the slabs that concealed their entryway.
Han listened carefully from under the fallen duracrete slab for two minutes before deciding to poke his head out. When he did, it was with a blaster alongside his ear.
Under the big emergency lights, nothing moved.
He knew exactly what Leia wanted to do: sabotage the Yuuzhan Vong operation herself, no matter what it cost her—or him. Call him selfish, but he wanted her alive. Not a dead hero. With or without that gorgeous hair, she had the spark that lit a fire in him.
He looked all around, then clambered out. He eyed all corners of the ruined building while Droma pulled himself out of the bolt-hole.
Then he edged close to the door and glanced out. The dome that had previously been a hive of activity was almost still. He heard clanking and crashing noises from some distance away, but the hum of voices had ended. He didn’t see any motion close by, either. He would have given a lot for a life-forms sensor.
And while he was wishing, a turbolaser would be nice.
Droma came up alongside him.
“It’d be shorter to cut close to the admin building,” Han murmured, “but …” He didn’t bother finishing the sentence. By now, he just expected Droma to do that.
“Safer along the dome’s edge.” Droma holstered his blaster.
Han did the same. The Yuuzhan Vong were probably wearing battle armor anyway. One shot, and they’d hear him—and all come down on him.
He paused, shocked by his own thoughts. Where was the old Han Solo who would’ve charged right in?
Maybe he had died with Chewbacca. “Right,” he said. “Keep me in sight, but if they get me, tell Leia …”
Droma didn’t finish that one.
“Nah,” Han said.
Bending low, he sprinted to the next ruin, then slipped inside. One room was dusty; the other, cluttered with someone’s abandoned possessions. At least it had a back door. He emerged on the other side.
This time he spotted a massive, muscular-looking figure in black armor sauntering past, carrying an armload of survival gear—looked like two lamps and a small cooker. Han ducked back inside, spotted Droma slipping in through the front door, and caught his glance with a head shake.
He waited until the looter passed, then hustled on.
They made their way to the end of ruined Tayana, then stealthily through the tent city. At one point, hearing footsteps, he flattened himself on the ground and peered out a tear in one tent’s wall. A line of prisoners shuffled past, heads down. Someone was crying. Three Yuuzhan Vong followed the column—armored, unfortunately. Han clenched both fists, longing for the good old days, for Imperial stormtroopers with known weak spots in their armor—and for Chewie.
He’d lost half himself, but he still had his luck. They made it to within sight of the dome’s northwest entry. The last good cover was a power station, luckily still standing.
As Droma eased into its shadow behind him, Han observed, “They must not be knocking out everything technical until they can bring in their own power source—”
“Whatever that is.” Droma nodded.
From this point, they had a clear view toward the research and construction area. A crowd milled in the open street. Han spotted humans, Ryn, Vors, a few Sullustans, and a family of horned Gotals. Several black-armored aliens came into view, dragging a brick-loading machine. Han gaped at their strength. As they drew even with the milling crowd, their leader slipped out of position and got behind it, pushing with the others. Abruptly it vanished. Two seconds later, there was another loud crash.
“Not everything,” he muttered, “but they’re getting a good start.”
He turned back toward the gate. Three humans lay sprawled on the ground, looking to Han as if they’d been shot from behind, trying to reach the gate.
Had the Vong posted a sniper, or were these bodies left from the enemy’s arrival?
“May they dance the stars in joy,” Droma murmured.
Dance the stars? That was a new one. Han knew Droma’s people were a bunch of romantics—
Then he saw the creatures. Coiled around Gateway’s construction shed was something like a gigantic snake, darting its head from side to side, feeding. A second creature clung to its top coil with powerful rear pincers. Like a stretched-out Hutt with armored white segments, it reared up, flailing stubby front legs against the construction shed, and then it lowered its huge head to crash against the duracrete shed. Debris tumbled down on both of them. Out of the upright creature’s mouth lashed dozens of tentacles. It looked for all the thousand worlds like an everted Sarlacc as it gobbled up the shattered duracrete.
“Sithspawn!” Droma whispered.
If Han had been even remotely tempted to go in that direction, he wasn’t now. Turning back toward the northwest gate, he picked up a stone and chucked it out into the open area.
Nothing happened.
“I think,” Droma said, “we’re better off to run for it.”
Han clasped Droma’s forearm, wordlessly closing his hand on the bristles. Then he sprinted for the arched tunnel where gray dome met sandy ground, pausing only to scoop up the environment hood that one fallen human clutched in a stiffening hand. He flung it on as he ran.
He’d nearly reached the gate when something whizzed past his ear. Panting, Droma plunged into the cramped airlock alongside him. He too wore a hood. Han slapped the cycling control, seating his air mask.
A palm-sized creature zoomed past his ear, sprang off the lock’s rear wall, ricocheted off the front, then whizzed toward him again. It grazed his hood as he swung his blaster like a club.
Got it! It fell to the floor, hissing and sizzling as it spun. Its edges looked like sharpened steel. He patted his head and came away with a hank of hair, cut through with the hood and helmet. If he hadn’t dug out this ridiculous helmet, he’d be bleeding like a stuck gornt.
He stomped the creature as the gate’s outer door slid aside and Duro’s ugly gray fog swirled in.
Droma gingerly picked up the biggest remaining piece. “Might need a knife. This’ll do.”
Then they were running for the bluff’s edge. From behind came weird, watery-sounding cries.
Han turned, aimed, fired. He caught the lead warrior guard square in the face, at the very center of a star-shaped thing that looked like a growth on its face. The alien jerked and tumbled backwards.
Another weak spot! His luck was holding. Encouraged, he sighted on the next one in line, fired, dropped that one, too.
At that point, he expected the rest to turn tail and run. Instead, they rushed him.
Hey, this isn’t fair! Han shot the breath creatures one at a time. If these people wanted to die, he didn’t mind obliging them. He just didn’t intend to let them return the favor.
He followed Droma down the bluff, bearing east over tumbled rocks. He hadn’t seen Leia’s big marshes before. From this slightly elevated vantage, they looked like a double line of square and triangular curbs that enclosed raised ponds. The nearest ones were green, the farthest ones toxic orange or eerily glowing brown, and between them he could see all shades in the process of changing. Alongside those marshes, he spotted a pale-green pile of mowed grasses.
The cargo hauler should be underneath. Droma reached the pile and burrowed in without hesitating. Han followed, depending on his breath mask to keep out hay dust. Within moments, he was buried so thickly that his worst fear was suffocation. He flailed deeper, then even deeper. It’d better be here!
His left hand hit something hard. On a hunch, he ducked down and crawled forward, pushing hay away in front of him, kicking it out behind him. It reminded him of swimming.
Moments later, the debris thinned out. He emerged into a square, metal-roofed cavern.
“Droma!” he shouted. Down here, his voice took on a slight metallic twang. He could see the Ryn’s silhouette, a darker smudge against grass-filtered light. “Get down here!”
The air actually smelled good through his mask. In such a toxic environment, there probably weren’t many bacteria of the right kind to rot clippings.
“Come on!” he called again. “Move your fuzzy tail!”
Finally the Ryn flailed down into the low cavern. He crab-crawled sideways to where Han lay. By then, Han had taken a good look.
“If I’ve got my guess,” he said, “it’s an old TaggeCo WQ 445. A big box-shaped scow. Sitting flink.”
“Not my first choice for a getaway ship,” Droma said.
“Mine either. But it’s all they’ve got.” Han frowned. Leia hadn’t said whether she had anyone to fly this bucket, and he was itching to get to the Falcon. “The engine ought to be about there,” he said, pointing past his left foot. “And the service hatch should be …” He scooted three meters to the right. “Not much farther this way.”
It took Droma a few moment’s deft work, using the dead razorbug, to pry open the access hatch. After that, Han was in his element. He found an emergency cache next to the hatch, pulled out a pair of pocket lights, tossed one down to Droma, then started for the cockpit. First things first: Run the diagnostics, see if this beast really could be trusted with a couple thousand lives.
Remembering the captive mob outside the research building, and the pit into which machinery was being flung, and the monsters at the construction shed, he swallowed hard. There wouldn’t be many lives to save if he didn’t hurry. “Come on, Bristle-face. Move.”
A rasping Duros voice guided Mara to dock the Jade Shadow in slip 16-F, back on Bburru’s familiar Port Duggan arm. The same voice instructed her to power down all onboard systems.
“If they’re scanning for life-forms, you might be in trouble,” she said quietly.
Luke crouched beside R2-D2, finishing a few final programming details. Normally, Shadow’s onboard computer handled security. With the ship powered down, R2-D2 would fill that gap.
“I don’t think so,” Luke murmured, straightening. “Just hurry back.”
“You don’t need to say that twice.” She hesitated, getting a good look into his eyes, checking his emotional state.
He raised one eyebrow. “Take care …” he began.
She frowned.
“… of the little one.”
Her mouth quirked sideways. “I’ll accept that as a polite way of saying, ‘Get here on the double, mother-of-my-child.’ ”
Luke touched her shoulder with one hand. She also felt a more subtle caress. She returned it.
Then she hustled out through the hatch, slapped the external hatch control for the sake of Bburru’s visual monitors, and strode up the Port Duggan arm.
No more figures in CorDuro brown patrolled. She saw only a Rodian, hurrying inbound like herself. Then she passed a security post, manned by two of the CorDuro guards that Luke and Anakin had encountered.
“Where you docked?” the skinny Rodian demanded.
“Sixteen F,” Mara said sharply.
Another guard slipped out of the post, headed back the way she’d come.
She smiled grimly. That hatch release had peculiar camouflage. They could go at it with a laser torch and still not get on board.
When she stepped off the shipyard corridor’s rideway, the big open area was also deserted. Even Ducilla’s podium stood empty.
She turned around and spotted a transparent lift tube. R2-D2 had shown her a readout of Duro Defense Force’s command post, located on a superstructure over Duggan Station. She stared up the lift tube—way up—to a small platform just under the habitat’s main structural supports. Two tall, gray guards stood outside the tube’s base.
“I need to speak with Admiral Wuht,” she said.
“He is not available,” the near guard answered.
“So I assumed.” Mara glanced upward again. Too far to jump—maybe Luke could make this one, but she couldn’t.
“Listen,” she said quietly. “I only want to talk with him. I’m not going to harm him, but if you insist on getting in my way, I can promise you I will hurt you.” She added an overlay of Force energy. Too much was at stake, too many lives on the line, to hold back. “Let me through,” she said firmly, barely raising her hand to gesture.
One guard touched the lift control, opening the door. The other pulled out a comlink and turned aside.
Mara tossed her head, marched onto the lift, and punched for the command level.