"I'm sorry." Leth's voice was pained, full of recognition of her failure.
Too full. Corran snorted, remembering the melodrama that tended to play in
new pilots' minds. "Not much harm done," he said. "Don't worry about it. Come
on, back to work."
Corran and Leth wheeled off together to rejoin the squadron.
Damage-control crews spilled out of the biotics building and its associated
docking bays, spraying fire-fighting foams on the burning portions of destroyed
coralskippers.
A crew chief, a black-haired Corellian woman whose build suggested that
there might be a rancor or two in her ancestry, waved frantically at the other
members of her unit. "I have a man down here! Bring medics!" She bent and shoved
a large piece of coralskipper shell off the victim, a tall human in a drab
mechanic's jumpsuit.
Remarkably, he seemed unburned, and as the woman wrestled the shell from
him his eyes opened. Though bland-featured, he had an expressive, intent stare,
and looked first at his rescuer and then at his surroundings without confusion.
"No medic," he said. "I am not hurt."
She extended a hand down and helped haul him to his feet. "You may be hurt
worse than you know."
"No. I am not hurt." He looked around. "Put me to work."
She jerked a thumb toward the largest remaining portion of the
coralskipper, where more members of her unit were working. "Join them. Look for
survivors tike yourself. And if you feel strange, if you feel anything wrong, go
talk to the medics."
"I... yes." Without offering a thank-you, the tall man headed in the
direction the crew chief had indicated.
She motioned after him, a gesture suggesting irritation. "He's in shock.
They'll wrestle him down when it gets obvious." But as she continued her search
through pieces of skip debris, she caught sight of the man on several occasions
as he helped her crew, carrying the injured to aid stations, shoving debris
aside to look for other survivors.
With half its capital ship resources gone, the Yuuzhan Vong attack was
done. The remaining cruiser analog and two units of coralskippers took to the
skies, harassed by New Republic starfighters until General Antilles called off
the pursuit.
"How's the leg, Tarc?" Han asked.
The boy on the hospital ward bed, brown-haired, blue-eyed, and impossibly
energetic, pulled aside the sheet to show his right leg. Much of his calf was
covered by a transparent bactabandage. The bandage was pink from the healing
material contained within it, but still clear enough to show the angry lines of
a crescent-shaped burn on the skin beneath. "Not bad," the boy said. "I can't
run very fast, but I can walk. They just don't want me to."
Han tried to say something, to offer some smart remark at the expense of
the medical staff, but it wouldn't come. He'd been through this scene many
times, offering put-on-a-brave-face advice to his own son Anakin, and the simple
fact that this boy wasn't Anakin, despite his near-identical resemblance to him,
was like a vibroblade being shoved centimeter by centimeter into his chest.
Leia seemed to sense Han's hesitation. "Well, you listen to them," she
said. Her own voice seemed just a trifle hoarse, too. "If we get back from our
mission and hear that you've been pushing yourself too hard, we're going to be
angry."
"What if I bribe them not to tell you?"
Han swallowed against the lump in his throat and managed to force his voice
into something like its normal register. "Bribe them with what? This isn't
exactly a money-based economy, kid."
"I could put on a show, and charge admission, but instead of taking money,
I could make everybody who came promise not to tell you that I'd been running
around."
Leia gave him a cool politician's smile. "You forget about our spies.
They're everywhere, you know."
"What if I started my own spy network, and figured out which ones your
spies were, and kept them from coming to my show?"
Leia reached out to ruffle the boy's hair. "We have to go. But we'll stop
in before we leave Borleias."
"I could go with you. I can be a diplomat."
"Sorry, kid," Han said. "I figure you'll be too busy practicing for your
show."
"I don't need to practice. I'll just make it all up as I go along."
Han and Leia shared a look, a glance of private amusement and long
experience. "Well," Leia said, "there's some merit in that approach, too. Good-
bye for now."
"Later, kid."
"Awww."
As they left the ward, Leia said, "He's going to be bored while we're gone.
"
"We could leave Goldenrod to baby-sit him. Tell him stories."
"It's better that he be bored than horribly bored, Han."
"True."
C-3PO stood near the Millennium Falcon's parking space on the kill zone and
stared up at the topside hull or the light freighter. Han Solo was up there, as
he often was between flights of the ancient vehicle. He wore goggles as he
performed arcane welding tasks on the hull.
C-3PO did not watch Han; instead, his attention was on the sparks from the
torch. A stream of them leapt from the hull and drifted downward, extinguishing
themselves before they ever quite reached the char that covered the ground. C-
3PO watched one begin its flight, reach the top of its arc and turn downward.
He became aware that another droid had wandered into his field of vision.
This droid was angular, armored, warlike of aspect, carrying one of the largest
and newest blaster rifles available to New Republic warriors. But he was not
approaching in a posture of menace. "Greetings," C-3PO said. "I am See-Threepio.
"
"YVH One-One-A," the other replied. "Assigned as soldier and bodyguard to
Lando Calrissian, currently on miscellaneous duty, investigating anomalies. You
are an anomaly. What is a protocol droid doing monitoring the repair efforts of
Han Solo and his crew?"
"Oh, never, I am not monitoring repairs. I am not even paying attention to
the repairs. In an effort to improve my language skills, I am struggling to
determine the best word to describe the descent and extinguishment of the sparks
from the repair process."
"This should be no problem for a protocol droid."
"It should not be, but it is, because the word that seems most apt is not
the one that is most logical,"
"What word is most apt?"
"Sad. *
1-lA's cams clicked over to watch the sparks for a fraction of a second,
then returned to C-3PO.
"You are correct. That word is not appropriate."
"It is most appropriate. Each spark seems somehow symbolic. Of life.
Glowing brightly as it traverses a course, then disappearing. Does it leave
anything behind?"
"If it strikes a flammable substance, it will leave something behind."
"Is it anomalous for me to say that you are an insensitive block of armor
and aggression-based programming?"
Curiously, 1-1A did not respond immediately, but clicked his cams over
toward the sparks for another fraction of a second. Finally, he said, "Do you
suppose in the final nanoseconds, a spark feels fear, knowing that its duration
is at an end?"
"I doubt it. I most sincerely doubt it. A spark is incapable of feeling
fear, or indeed even of considering its own mortality."
"That is also said of droids, but in some cases it is not true."
Now it was C-3PO's turn to hesitate. "If I may say, that is a most
insightful statement, coming from a combat droid."
"I face extinguishment regularly. This has given me many opportunities for
reflection. I have recently been unable to ignore this consideration. I suspect
these calculations have even begun to affect my work."
"I, too, have had to face these thoughts recently. Most unsettling. And my
counterpart, Artoo-Detoo, is no help at all, philosophically. 'Everything
terminates,' he tells me. 'Face it bravely.' I suppose that's an adequate
philosophy for an astromech, but I find it wholly inadequate. I have wondered if
I were the only droid in existence capable of worrying as I do. It's most
refreshing to discover that I am not alone."
YVH 1-lA's cams clicked back toward C-3PO's face. "If you come to any
conclusions, even unverifiable ones, will you communicate them to me?"
"I should be delighted. Likewise, if you have any insights, please transmit
them to me. Perhaps we can talk again."
"Yes."
YVH 1-1A continued on his rounds.
The spark whose progress C-3PO had begun tracking just before he'd noticed
the combat droid finally disappeared, a meter above the ground, a full two
seconds after it had leapt from the Falcon's hull.
THREE
The small man had a name. It was Ryuk. He trembled in his need to discharge
his duty, and his trembling made his actions awkward, uncoordinated.
He stood, wearing protective lenses over his eyes, holding the cutting
device he had shown the tall man. Flame, concentrated into a point like a
needle, poured out of the device's nozzle, and Ryuk pressed it into the stone
wall.
The tall man watched him. He waited with growing impatience for the device
to cut its hole so he could enter.
But minutes passed, and though the stone warmed to the point that it
glowed, it did not melt, did not retreat.
At last the cutting device made a noise like a cough and the flame
vanished. Ryuk, expression fearful, turned to the tall man and tried to express
a thought.
It was a had thought. It meant that the device didn't work anymore. Even if
it worked forever, Ryuk seemed to he saying, it would not cut through this.
Bitter disappointment filled the tall man's heart. He gestured, shoving,
and Ryuk slammed into the blaCR stone.
The tall man heard Ryuk's hones break and, as Ryuk slid down the surface of
the stone, saw blood trailing behind. He felt Ryuk's emotions go from fear to
quiet to nothingness.
The tall man needed another person, someone smarter, with better machines.
He turned to leave. He would find such a person.
Vannix, Vankalay System
"We drop from hyperspace in ten seconds," Leia called over her shoulder.
The Falcon's two living passengers called out acknowledgments.
The system and its chief inhabited world popped into view right on
schedule-a relief, and something of an unusual event, considering the number of
times the Falcon had been yanked out of hyperspace by gravitic anomalies.
Vannix, first planet of the Vankalay star system, not far from the mighty
industrial system of Kuat and traditionally within that world's sphere of
influence, was a Mottled green-and-blue sphere with patches of white at the
poles and streaks of brown above and below the equator. For Leia, for a moment,
it was almost heartbreaking just to see the planet. Lovely worlds sometimes
evoked that response in her. The image of one in par-ticular, her homeworld
Alderaan, shattered by the in-credible might of the first Death Star, would be
with her throughout her life.
The comm board came alive, snapping Leia out of her momentary distraction.
"Vannix System Control to in-coming vessel, please identify yourself."
Han grinned at her. "Showtime."
"Hush." She switched over to send on the same frequency. "Vannix System
Control, this is the Millennium Falcon, of Coruscant registry, currently out of
Borleias, Pyria system, Leia Organa Solo speaking."
There was a delay even greater than speed-of-!ight transmission limitations
could account for. Then: "Uh, copy, Millennium Falcon. Please state your
destination and objective."
"This is a diplomatic mission to your capital, an official envoy from New
Republic Fleet Group Three to the Presider of Vannix. We have a crew of two and
two droids. We request a diplomatic visa."
"Understood, Millennium Falcon." There was another delay. "Pending
verification, your request is granted. We'll put up a homing beacon for you, and
have an escort awaiting you at outer lunar orbit."
"Thanks, Control. If I may ask, did Senator Gadan return to Vannix?" Addath
Gadan, representative of this world to the New Republic Senate, had been on
Coruscant at the time of the Yuuzhan Vong invasion; her fate since the
penetration of Coruscant's defenses was unknown.
"I'd appreciate that, Control. Thank you."
"Control out."
Leia leaned back. "So far, so good. No challenges, no sign of Yuuzhan Vong
intrusion."
"I don't know," Han said. "It's always these little worlds that get you in
trouble. Like Tatooine. I'm still living that one down."
Leia gave him an arch look. "You're complaining?"
"No. Well...No."
She grinned, refusing to rise to the bait. "You'd better be nice to me. I
know where you live."
"I'll be nice." He raised the timbre of his voice into a fair imitation of
the control officer Leia had just been talking with. "Yes, Your Highness. If you
wish, I can get you a cup of caf."
Leia just sighed and ignored him.
Han called over his shoulder, "We're going to pick up an escort in a
minute. You guys should probably get in the pod now."
"Understood, General." That was the voice of one of their two passengers;
Han didn't know which. The two women were Intelligence operatives; Han and Leia
had met them just before the mission began and, once they set down on Vannix,
would probably never see or hear from them again. The operatives would be
setting up a resistance cell. Though this was, by comparison with Kuat, a
backwater world, in the eyes of the resistance, every world should have
resistance cells, as many as the planet's resources and the danger it faced from
the Yuuzhan Vong warranted.
"The pod" was a unit installed where one of the Mil-lennium Falcon's five
escape pods had been. Outwardly, it looked exactly like an escape pod, though
more decrepit than most, the better to discourage people from trying to use it
in an actual emergency. But its thruster and other systems had been yanked,
replaced by a sophisticated unit designed to thwart life-form sensors. Trying to
launch the pod would resu
lt in an authentic-loking SYSTEM FAILURE message.
Concealed in its floor was a hidden hatch that would permit access to the
Falcon's exterior. It was a convenient and reusable way to smuggle personnel
such as two insurgents assigned with the task of setting up a resistance cell on
Vannix.
The Falcon, of course, possessed shielded smuggling compartments adequate
in size to hold the two Intelligence officers and a lot of gear besides. But
Han, even after all these years, was reluctant to share that secret with anyone
he didn't intimately trust. "If you're going to have to admit to carrying a
hold-out blaster," he had told Wedge, "carry two and admit to one." So Wedge had
arranged for the installation of the false pod.
"General," Han said. "When are they going to stop calling me General?"
"When are they going to stop calling me Princess?"
Han shook his head. "Maybe when you become queen. Hey, there's our escort."
The escort, a pair of Kuat Drive Yards' licensed variations on the TIE
interceptor, silver with red strips to distinguish them from the more somber and
ominous colors of the old Imperial starfighters, flanked the Millennium Falcon
all the way through the atmosphere and to ground level in the midst of a
sprawling city. Curiously, the city's high-population residential districts,
characterized by monolithic housing blocks that could have been transplanted
whole from Coruscant, were at the city's perimeters. The buildings seemed to
form a defensive wall around the city.
The homing beacon drew the Falcon to a district of landing bays and
warehouses near the city's government center, and a welcoming party of military
officers and disanguished civilians. As they settled into their visitors' bay,
Leia could recognize the spare, clean, red-and-white uniforms of the officers,
the outrageously baldricked and epauletted and bemedaled civilian dress of the
others.
Once all systems were shut down, Han joined Leia, C-3PO, and R2-D2 at the
top of the main access ramp. As the four of them descended the ramp, the largest
of the humans waiting for them-a woman sporting the most elaborately and gaudily
decorated of the civilian outfits, and with a column of gray hair adding half a
meter to her height-drifted toward them with all the stately majesty of a