Crucible: Star Wars Page 23

  Han could only shake his head in disbelief. “You two are insane,” he said. “Killing, what, five innocent beings just to be sure you got the right one?”

  “Fifteen innocent beings, actually,” Marvid said. “There were quite a few minor suspects.”

  “And did I say we killed them?” Craitheus asked. “I hope we haven’t led you to believe we are that merciful, Captain Solo. We destroyed them. We took their treasure, their friends, their family—”

  “Stop there.” Han was growing angrier by the moment. “You two must have a death wish if you think you’re going to make threats against my friends and my family.”

  “Those are not threats, Captain Solo.” Again, a tight smile came to Marvid’s withered mouth. “After you survived the assassination attempt at Sarnus, we decided to try a more … careful approach.”

  “Assassination attempt?” Han echoed, reeling from the implications. “You dropped that asteroid on Sarnus … to get at me?”

  A lipless sneer came to Marvid’s mouth. “Does that make you feel guilty, Captain Solo?”

  “What it makes me is mad,” Han said, coming out of his chair. “You kill almost thirty thousand people for a twelve percent shot at aarrrrggh!”

  Han’s outburst came as a blast of electricity tore through his head. When it finally subsided, he dropped back into his chair, quivering and half paralyzed.

  Craitheus moved his powerbody so close that the air grew stale with the smell of actuator oil and Columi sweat. “A good plan works on many levels, Captain Solo,” he said. “Your arrival merely added a new dimension to our plan to handle Calrissian—one that persuaded us to act sooner rather than later.”

  Han glared at the Columi. “You’re … d-d-done,” he said, speaking through teeth that were still half clenched. “You know th-that, right?”

  “Because Luke Skywalker is coming?” Marvid’s tone was mocking. “I doubt that very much. He’s already dead, as is your wife. Savara Raine ambushed them both at the Ormni.”

  “And we used you to bait the trap,” Craitheus added.

  “Sure you did.” Han’s retort was more hope than conviction, since his greatest fear all along had been that Leia and Luke would get themselves killed trying to rescue him. “That’s why you ran out here to hole up.”

  “You are quite mistaken,” Marvid said. “Mind mapping requires the proper equipment. That is why we have been here so long.”

  Han snorted. “Give me a break. You’re hiding from Luke and Leia, and your problems are only getting worse.” He cast a look toward the still-open door, where two Nargons continued to stand guard. “By now half the Jedi Order is on its way here—with a fleet of Hapan Battle Dragons to back them up. If you had any sense, you’d surrender to me. Maybe I can convince them to lock you away someplace nice for the rest of your lives.”

  Marvid’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “A skeptic, I see,” he said. “Well, you shall have proof of your wife’s death soon enough.”

  Han waved a dismissive hand. “It’s easy to make promises you don’t mean to keep.” He turned away. “They’re kind of like bets that way.”

  Marvid fell silent to consider his reply, and Han knew he had struck a nerve. He fixed his attention on Barduun, intending to ask how his fellow players felt about shirkers, but was cut short when Marvid finally replied.

  “You can be quite persuasive when you wish to be, Captain Solo.” Marvid turned to the torture droid. “Our guest is right, I do owe the pot the pain of a burned eye. If he fails to win the hand, inflict it on him.”

  “What?” Han demanded, starting to rise again. “You can’t bet someone else’s paiagggrrh!”

  Again, Han’s objection ended in a debilitating shock as one of the Qrephs sent a jolt of electricity through his head. He dropped back into his chair, shaking and weak.

  “Apparently, I can,” Marvid said, leading his brother toward the door. “Enjoy your game.”

  Han heard the door hiss shut behind him, then looked over to find Barduun watching him with a hungry grin.

  “A nose,” Barduun said. “Jhonus Raam raises to a broken nose.”

  Han rolled his eyes. “Fine.” When Barduun reacted to his call with an involuntary nose twitch, he quickly added, “And I raise you to … death.”

  “Death?” Barduun asked. “You cannot bet death.”

  “But I can bet any kind of pain I want to,” Han said. “And that’s what I’m betting—what it feels like to drown to death.” He turned to the torture droid. “You can do that, right?”

  “Of course.” The droid floated a little higher and hovered over the edge of the sabacc table. “But there is a seventy-six percent probability the subject will fall into a temporary coma. He will certainly become unconscious.”

  A dusky veil passed over Barduun’s face again, and Han knew his opponent wouldn’t call. Whatever Barduun was, he was feeding on other people’s fear—and comatose players didn’t fear anything. He held Han’s gaze for a moment, then shot him a sneer of grudging respect and turned to the only other player still in the hand: Ditto.

  “It seems Captain Solo is going all-in,” he said. “Do you call?”

  Ditto’s eyes grew even rounder than normal, and she turned to the dealer. “He can really do that?”

  “Sure I can,” Han said, keeping his gaze fixed on Barduun. “I just did.”

  “Actually, you can’t,” Gev said. “That was a string bet you made.”

  “String bet? No way!” Despite Han’s objection, Gev was right. After seeing Barduun’s reaction to his call—when he said the word fine—Han had quickly added a raise. That was a string bet, it was cheating, and, under the circumstances, he didn’t care. “You’re just sore because I gave you a bent beak.”

  Gev’s eyes narrowed. “My nose has nothing to do with it. I’m enforcing the—”

  “Then what’s the deal?” Han asked, cutting her off. With the Qrephs out of the room, the time had come for the inmates to take over the asylum. “What do the Qrephs have on you, anyway?”

  “They pay,” Gev said. “They pay very well.”

  “Yeah … right,” Han snorted. He pointed at the torture droid. “Not even a Mandalorian would do that for money. If those two bigheads didn’t have something on you, you wouldn’t be here. What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  Gev made a point of holding Han’s gaze across the table, which was how he saw her eyes light when he mentioned the Qrephs. They didn’t frighten her. There was something about them that she actually liked—and Han knew of only one thing that could be.

  “Come on, you don’t believe they can really clean the nanokillers out of Mandalore’s atmosphere, do you?” Han asked. Gev’s expression clouded with anger, and he knew he was on the right track. “Not even Columi are that smart.”

  Barduun’s gaze snapped toward Gev so fast his neck popped. “That is why you took this contract?”

  The fact that Barduun did not ask for details suggested that he knew exactly what Han was talking about. During the Second Civil War, a group of Imperial Moffs had released a genetically targeted nanokiller on Mandalore. It was designed to kill Gev and her famous grandfather, Boba Fett, if they ever again breathed Mandalorian air. The pair had been trying for years to find a way to disable the nanokiller so they could go home, and now it appeared that Gev had turned to the Qreph brothers.

  “I asked, is that why you brought us here?” Barduun demanded. “So you and the Mandalore can return home?”

  Gev finally turned to meet Barduun’s gaze. “What, the money isn’t good enough?”

  “For that?” Han scoffed, gesturing at Barduun. “Even I know Mandalorians well enough to realize your crew didn’t sign on to be lab rats for a couple of crossed circuits like the Qrephs.”

  Barduun’s expression flashed from deranged to hurt, prompting Gev to turn back to Han.

  “That’s enough, Solo,” Gev said. Her finger hovered over a control button on the table. “Leave my people out
of this.”

  “Sure, if you say so—but you need to ask yourself how hard the Qrephs are really trying to deliver.” He glanced over at Barduun and gave him a conspiratorial wink. “After all, we just saw how they feel about honoring their bets.”

  “I said”—Gev’s finger stabbed down on the button, and the probe needles in Han’s head unleashed a torrent of white, debilitating pain—“enough!”

  Eighteen

  After several minor surgeries, a skin graft, bacta wraps, and a three-day healing trance, Luke was beginning to feel almost fit. His wounds were closed, his burns had healed into red blotches, and his ankle felt ready for action.

  Leia looked much better, too. It would be some time before her hair returned to its normal length. But her burns had faded to inconspicuous scars that would vanish entirely after a few more bacta treatments. And when she turned her body, it was with a natural grace that suggested the gashes on her back no longer troubled her.

  In short, Luke and Leia were ready to take the fight to the enemy—just as soon as Omad Kaeg actually found the enemy. Assisted by R2-D2 and C-3PO, Omad was on the Falcon’s flight deck, flying blind from one long-lost repeater beacon to another. Luke felt fairly sure that the young tug captain was completely adrift navigating in the Bubble. Still, he admired the way Omad answered any inquiry about their location with a broad smile and cheery Almost there!

  It kind of reminded him of Han.

  Everyone else was gathered in the crew lounge, developing a plan to rescue Han and neutralize the enemy. Given the group’s many disadvantages, Luke was fairly certain that neutralize would end up meaning kill. But they were trying to keep their options open. Jedi were supposed to be the good guys, after all.

  “Five Bessies isn’t much of a squadron, but it’s more than we have,” Lando was saying. “There’s no question—we have to hit the hangars with a couple of concussion missiles on the way in.”

  To emphasize his point, he tapped the square marked HANGAR on the schematic that Dena Yus had drawn of the Qrephs’ secret base.

  Tahiri thought for a moment, then put her finger on the long rectangle that abutted the hangar.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “That hangar is pretty close to the barracks annex. If that’s where they’re keeping Han—”

  “It won’t be,” Yus interrupted softly. She was seated in front of the engineering station on the other side of the lounge, slumped in her chair and looking even worse than when they had brought her aboard the Falcon. “Captain Solo will be across the courtyard from the hangar, in the laboratory wing.”

  “The laboratory wing?” Leia demanded, looking up from the schematic. Her expression grew stormy. “Why there?”

  “Because the Qrephs don’t take prisoners, and they’re too arrogant to believe they need hostages.” Yus did not flinch as she said this. “If they still have Captain Solo, it’s because they are using him for an experiment.”

  “What kind of experiment?” Leia asked.

  Yus shook her head. “If I knew, I would … tell you.” It seemed to take all of her energy just to say that much—which was strange after so many days of medical care. Her blaster burns showed no sign of infection, but she was growing weaker and more jaundiced, almost by the hour. “Trust me.”

  Leia glared at her for a moment, then looked back to the schematic. “So, on the first pass, we dump a couple of concussion missiles on the hangar and drop two YVHs on the residential annex.”

  “Battle droids?” Ben asked. He was kneeling on the deck adjacent to the table, tinkering with some cables and circuit boards. He looked up at Lando. “You brought YVHs?”

  “Of course I brought YVHs,” Lando said, frowning. “This is Han we’re talking about.”

  Ben winced. “Sorry, I guess I meant … what are they doing in the Rift?”

  “They were for a decoy program that Lando hoped to launch against the pirates,” Yus said.

  “Yeah,” Lando said. He shot her a glare. “I guess now we understand why the program never made it past the pilot stage.”

  Yus dropped her gaze. “I am sorry.”

  A moment of awkward silence followed as the apology went unaccepted.

  Then Tahiri said, “Anyway, about these YVHs. How many and what series?”

  “Only six,” Lando replied. “But they’re YVH-Eight, S-series.”

  Tahiri whistled. “Space assault models.” She smiled and turned to Lando. “I could kiss you.”

  Lando’s expression brightened. “Well, under the circumstances, I don’t think Tendra would—”

  Tahiri laughed. “Later.”

  “Back to the plan,” Leia said, clearly irritated by the diversion. “On the first pass, we drop two YVHs on the residential annex, then take the other four and do a hot-drop into the laboratory wing ourselves.”

  “What targets do I program into the YVHs?” Lando asked.

  “Anything with green scales or beskar’gam armor,” Luke said. “But not the Qrephs or their Sith friends. Those, we need to handle ourselves.”

  “I can do that,” Lando said. “But do we really need a hot-drop? That courtyard looks big enough for a landing, and we’ll have the Falcon’s laser cannons to cover—”

  “Sorry, Lando,” Leia said. “We need you and Omad flying top cover.”

  “Top cover?” Lando sounded insulted. “Just because I don’t have the Force—”

  “And aren’t trained in Jedi assault tactics,” Ben interrupted.

  “Okay, that, too,” Lando said. “But let’s assume Dena is right about the Qrephs letting only a few Mandalorians know about this place. You’re still going to be outnumbered four-to-one by Mandos—and at least twenty-to-one by Nargons.”

  “Which is why we need you to be sure our getaway ship stays in one piece,” Leia said. She rose on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Lando, I love you for wanting to come, but … my husband, my plan.”

  Lando fell silent, then finally dropped his chin and nodded. “Okay, but you’d better come back.” He cast a sidelong glance at Ben, then added, “All of you.”

  Luke clamped a hand on Lando’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll do our best, I promise.” He turned to Ben. “What do you have for us? Anything yet?”

  “Sure—take a look at this.”

  As Ben spoke, the holograph of a black angular shape—two pyramids stuck base-to-base—appeared in front of R2-D2’s projector.

  Ben looked across the lounge to Yus. “Does that thing look like what you’ve been calling Base Prime?”

  “Yes, but Base Prime actually sits on its surface,” Yus said, looking surprised. “The Qrephs refer to the thing itself as the artifact.”

  “The artifact?” Luke asked. “What did they mean by that?”

  Yus shrugged. “They didn’t discuss it with me,” she said. “Sometimes I heard the Mandalorians call it ‘the station,’ but to the Qrephs it was always just ‘the artifact.’ I’m not sure that any of them actually knows what it is.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Lando said.

  Yus’s brow rose. “Why not?” she asked. “Do you know what—”

  “Why don’t you let us ask the questions?” Leia interrupted.

  Yus studied Leia in silence for a moment, then said, “I thought I might have won a little trust when I helped you and Master Skywalker escape the Ormni.”

  “We’ll talk trust when I have Han back,” Leia said. “Until then you’re still the lying sleemo who helped the Qrephs murder thirty thousand beings. Clear?”

  Yus’s expression grew even sadder. “I understand why you blame me. But you must also realize by now that I have every reason to help you rescue Captain Solo—that I must help you.”

  “Why would that be?” Leia asked. “And don’t expect me to believe you’ve suddenly grown a conscience.”

  Yus looked confused. “You really haven’t figured it out?”

  “Figured out what?” Luke asked.

  “That I am one of th
e Qrephs’ creations—a biot,” Yus replied. “My only hope of survival is to help you find Base Prime.”

  Leia’s eyes narrowed. “How convenient.”

  Luke motioned for Leia to be patient, then asked, “And a biot is what, exactly?”

  Yus dropped her eyes. “You’ve already had several fights with the first generation,” she said. “The Nargons were designed as soldiers. But they lack the judgment to work on their own, so the Qrephs had to hire Mandalorians to oversee them.”

  Lando scowled and looked past Luke toward Leia. “Are you buying this?” he asked. “She looks as much like a Nargon as I do.”

  “Not on the outside,” Yus said. “But on the inside I’m basically the same thing as they are: a sentient being, grown on a vanalloy skeleton, with fiber-optic filaments for nerves—and a cybernetic memory chip embedded in my brain.”

  “You’re some sort of cyborg?” Ben asked, incredulous.

  “You can’t expect us to believe that, either,” Luke said. “Your Force presence would feel … well, more different than it does.”

  “Because I’m not a cyborg,” Yus said. “A cyborg is an organic being enhanced by technology. A biot is a living being grown around an inorganic core.”

  Everyone fell quiet, no doubt trying to imagine—as Luke was—the unconscionable applications of such technology.

  Misinterpreting their silence, Yus said, “I’ll prove it to you.” She motioned to the captured 2-1B droid, then extended her arm. “Show them.”

  The droid quickly injected her forearm with an analgesic, then produced a scalpel and began to cut. When red blood spilled from the wound, Leia let her hand drop toward the lightsaber hanging on her belt.

  “Nargon blood is blue,” she said. “That looks just like mine.”

  “Because I am supposed to look human,” Yus replied. “I am supposed to blush. I am supposed to bleed and feel pain. I am supposed to pass.”

  The droid used its suction attachment to draw the blood out of the wound, then peeled back a small flap of skin. Yus shakily raised her arm, and Luke saw the silver gleam of vanalloy.