| abstract
| - Deep space was ordinarily a forbidding destination for spacers. Dark and isolated, with no sign of shelter in the starry void, it offered no comfort, no refuge in case of a system failure. No indications that civilized life had ever passed through those particular coordinates. Of course, Hobbie reflected, that was a positive if you were on the run from an enemy that was apparently intent on destroying said civilized life. The tattered convoy of refugee ships from Chalacta floated in the midst of interstellar space. They were a ragged convoy of perhaps twenty-eight ships in all, the remainder of the people that Hobbie and his volunteers had managed to rescue from the doomed planet and its Yuuzhan Vong overseers. All of them bore evidence of battle damage. “Storm Leader, this is Recon Six,” came a Devaronian voice that sounded diabolical to Hobbie even through the comm distortion. “All wing pairs have finished reporting in.” “And?” Hobbie asked. “Transmitting results now,” Recon Six replied. Hobbie frowned as the display screen in his X-wing lit up with lines of glowing green text. His frown deepened as he scrolled down. “Just great,” he said mournfully. “I suppose I’d better go tell the viceroy.” After obtaining permission to dock from the largest ship in the fleet, a bulk cruiser that had been repurposed as a refugee hauler, Hobbie soon found himself out of the cramped cockpit of his X-wing where he’d been assisting with standard patrols and walking through the cramped corridors of the cruiser, trying to avoid stepping on the refugees sitting or leaning against the walls in groups. His initial relief at being out of the rank confines of his fighter, which hadn’t had much of a chance to air out since they’d blasted off Chalacta, was soon suppressed at the realization that packing hundreds of people into a ship in close quarters and little to no opportunity for hygiene created a similar odor intensified ten times over. At least in his cockpit, the noises had been comforting, reassuring, familiar—here, they was the raucous din of a dozen conversations taking place at once, complete with squalling kids. If he wanted that kind of noise, Hobbie figured, he’d have gone to the Senate. Finally, he managed to make his way to a large room that had been set aside as quarters cum conference room for the viceroy, his family, and his closest advisors. As he entered, Hobbie saw that General Undukjavi, Colonel Previthevi, and Storm One were already there, clustered around a holotable while the viceroy and his daughter watched from their seats across the room. All five heads popped up as he strode into the room. “We’ve received reports from the wing pairs that surveyed Chalacta,” Hobbie announced. “And?” the general asked. “As expected, not good,” Hobbie admitted. “There’s a sizable Yuuzhan Vong fleet in orbit around the planet, along with several slaveships. They’ve probably started enslaving the remaining populace.” “This is your fault, offworlder,” thundered General Undukjavi. “You and your meddling have brought this upon us!” From her position by the holotable, Storm One, better known as Anja Gallandro, snapped a quick retort. “You think it wouldn’t have happened to you eventually, General?” she shot back. “Seems to me that the Yuuzhan Vong aren’t exactly known for keeping their word. How much longer do you think you could have avoided that fate?” Gallandro crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the Chalactan military officer. She was tall and lanky, her attire decidedly non-military, her long brown hair tied into a ragged ponytail. Her posture bespoke defiance, but the well-worn blaster belt and the hardness around her eyes conveyed toughness and pure grit. General Undukjavi didn’t deign to look her way, keeping his focus—and his ire—fixed on Hobbie. “You let your subordinates speak so boldly, Colonel?” he asked. Hobbie crossed his arms and returned the general’s stare. Anja Gallandro, originally an employee of Tendrando Arms, a defense company run by Lando Calrissian, had impressed him when he was first putting the Storm Riders together. She’d originally been his liaison to the company, but her prior combat experience and some natural talent made her a good fit for his ground unit. After some coaxing of Lando and a short chat with her, Hobbie had managed to lure her over to his volunteers. She’d proven to be a capable leader of half of his ground complement, and if she voiced an opinion about something, however heated, he generally listened. Especially if, like now, he agreed with her. “I think you’re ignoring the fact that she’s right,” Hobbie tossed out casually. “And General, might I remind you that she and her team were on the ground buying time with their lives for all of us to get into space?” “A sacrifice that would have been unnecessary were it not for your misguided attempt at invasion,” blazed General Undukjavi. “Peace, General,” interrupted the viceroy. He’d been sitting quietly to the side; as aged and revered a dignitary as he was, Ghavasa Berecca had no military experience to speak of. However, he was the one person who could command utter respect from the irascible head of Chalacta’s defense forces. “Colonel Klivian and his volunteers did their best to help us and our people,” he said in his oddly lilting accent. “They do not deserve ingratitude, given all they sacrificed in their attempt.” “Yes, viceroy,” General Undukjavi grumbled. “We should not dwell on the past; in such a dire situation, our concern should be the present and what is to come,” spoke up his daughter, Shara. Hobbie glanced over at her, surprised that she would offer an opinion. Just like her father, Shara had no military experience and everything he’d observed about her in their brief and distant interactions had indicated to him that she’d lived a sheltered life, sequestered in the palace for the most part. She was striking, certainly, her long black hair flowing down her shoulders, with large, deep brown eyes that seemed piercing and yet perpetually sad. Hobbie found her comely on a surface level, even though he knew he could have nothing but a passing interest in a woman so obviously cultured, refined, and insulated from the real galaxy. “She’s right,” agreed Colonel Previthevi. “We should consider our next move.” “And quickly,” put in the viceroy. “I understand that supplies are limited.” “That they are,” Hobbie said. “We have food and water for less than a week, but the air supplies are a greater concern. Most of the ships are dangerously overloaded. We’ll need to make landfall within a few days before we all start dying.” General Undukjavi started to protest, but the viceroy cut him off with a hand gesture. “Colonel Klivian, is there any world near here where we could land and replenish our supplies?” he asked. He considered, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “The easiest friendly planet to get to would be Kashyyyk,” he said. “It’s in the New Republic, reasonably well-defended, and the Wookiees are good allies to have. Not to mention close. It’s where we staged from, in fact, but there is a problem.” “Oh?” Undukjavi inquired, one eyebrow arching up fiercely. “To get there, we have to make a layover at Yitabo,” Hobbie told him. “Which is under Vong control. Coming to Chalacta, we used a secret hyperroute to bypass their minefields and get us into the Yitabo system and transited out to Chalacta too fast for them to react.” “So, can we not use this hyperroute again?” the general inquired. “We could,” Hobbie admitted. “If there wasn’t a giant Vong fleet waiting in the Yitabo system to introduce us to some very unfriendly people. That route is the logical course, the easy course. It’s almost certain that they’ll be watching us.” “What do you suggest, then, Colonel Klivian?” Colonel Previthevi inquired. Hobbie’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re stuck between getting eaten by a rancor and jumping across a canyon to escape it, you take the jump,” he said. “My navigator says we can use a partial route to get from here to Keldooine. We can put down there to get air, if nothing else.” “Keldooine?” protested General Undukjavi. “That’s inside Hutt Space.” “What used to be Hutt Space,” Anja corrected him. “Seems the Hutts have been more or less overrun by the Yuuzhan Vong.” “Where would you go from there, Colonel?” Ghavasa asked. “If Hutt Space has also been invaded, we will find no refuge there.” “No,” Hobbie admitted. “We’ll have to keep moving. My navigator, Ryrlacca, says that if we can stop off at Keldooine, we can keep skirting the edge of Hutt space and get into the Oktos Nebula. From there, our best bet is to try and get onto the Kaaga Run and make it to Bothawui.” “Reaching Bothawui could take weeks,” General Undukjavi rumbled. “Weeks of creeping through Vong-patrolled space. All the major hyperroutes will be mined.” “Which is why we don’t use them,” Hobbie countered. “I’m not promising it’ll be easy. I’m not promising it’ll be fast. But if you ask me, it’s better to crawl our way to safety than to run our way to death.” “I disagree,” General Undukjavi countered. “Viceroy, we should attempt to skirt Vitabo and return to Kashyyyk. It will be safer and faster. The offworlder’s route is perilous and unknown. We at least know that Vitabo is a hazard and can act accordingly.” “Viceroy?” Colonel Previthevi asked. The viceroy stroked his chin thoughtfully as he considered, glancing at the two leaders standing in front of him. He had known General Undukjavi for years, had detailed knowledge of the man’s competence, whereas the offworlder in front of him was largely an unknown quantity. Still, it had not been the general who had attempted to liberate his world from the Yuuzhan Vong. Nor did the general seem to understand how to fight the Yuuzhan Vong as the offworlder did. It was that factor that concluded his decision-making process. “We will proceed to Keldooine,” he said. “Colonel Klivian is right; we cannot risk the remnant of our people by flying into a known trap at Yitabo.” “As you wish, Viceroy,” grumbled a clearly unhappy General Undukjavi. Hobbie said nothing, but inclined his head in a slight bow, then turned and strode out of the meeting room, Anja falling in behind him. “Well, that went better than expected,” Anja said. “If by that you mean we’re not dead, sure,” Hobbie said gloomily. “The Vong aren’t going to let us go, Anja. They’ll hunt us from planet to planet until our heads decorate a bunch of amphistaffs.” “Maybe flying through Hutt Space will throw them off our trail. It’s the last thing I’d expect my enemy to do if I were them,” she suggested. “Temporarily,” Hobbie said. “But last I heard, the Hutts were offering considerable resistance to the Vong. We’ll probably run into one of a Vong pacification group and then it’ll be over for us.” “We’ll just have to be sneakier than that,” she persisted with faint optimism. He shook his head, his customary dour appearance becoming even more hopeless. “With a convoy full of refugee ships in tow?” he reminded her. “Get some sleep, Gallandro. You’re not thinking straight.” “Just trying to look on the bright side, sir,” she told him. “And for what it’s worth, you look like you could use some sack time, too.” “You’re probably right,” Hobbie admitted. “But instead I’ll be up in astrogation with Ryrlacca plotting crazy courses that nobody else could devise so we might have a chance at escaping this one.” “Sounds even more tiring,” she pointed out. “When are you going to rest, sir? This convoy needs you.” “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” Hobbie answered grimly. “And given our current situation, that might not be too far away.” He strode off, leaving a bewildered Gallandro behind, unsure if her boss was just exuding his usual pessimism or if his words conveyed some deeper meaning. Naboo “Welcome to our humble establishment,” the aged Human attendant intoned as the two cloaked figures entered the gambling establishment. They stood at the entrance, surveying the dark, smoky room. It was well-furnished, with a casual luxury evident in the adornments, yet not obtrusive. Dark browns and reds predominated in terms of décor; even the ceiling was a muted ochre. Soft music tinkled through the room, emanating from an Ortolan nargolan player in one corner. Situated oddly off-center from the room was a round sabacc table, where three other individuals were seated, holding sabacc cards in their hands as a somber-looking Umbaran dealer stood by, watching. “Pass,” said the farthest figure, an elderly Human male dressed elegantly, his voice resonant and rich. “I’ll take a card,” said the next sabacc player, a rumpled-looking Sullustan. He accepted a card from the dealer as play progressed to the final player, a distinguished-looking Gotal. Just as the Sullustan picked up his card, the randomizer activated, changing the values of all the cards still in the hands of the players. When the cards had finished fluctuating, the Gotal spoke, his voice was sibilant but reserved, projecting a quiet tone of power. “Sabacc,” he announced, laying down his cards to show a Four of Flasks, Demise, and Moderation. The Four of Flasks, combined with the two face cards, totaled to an impressive negative twenty-three, a winning hand that would earn him both the hand pot and the sabacc pot. The Gotal had just won, and judging by the credit chits on the table, he had won several thousand credits. The others looked disgruntled, but threw down their hands and surrendered the winnings to the victor, who merely favored them with a thin smile. “Good game, gentlemen,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “Care for another?” The portly Sullustan shook his head. “I’m out,” he said. “I’ve lost enough for one night.” “Just bad luck, I’m sure,” replied the Gotal smoothly. “You’ll do better next time.” The Sullustan shook his head, then headed out by the only corridor that led into the room. On his way, he stopped by a sizable rack, where the attendant handed him a dark hooded cloak that he swept around his form before departing. The Gotal turned to regard the newcomers, welcoming them with an opportunistic leer. “Excellent timing,” he said, a dark gleam twinkling in his eye. “Lord Morri, you arrived just in time to inject some new blood into a game that is in need of some variety in participation.” “I think I have time for a game or two,” admitted the newcomer. “Then, please, leave your cloaks on the rack and stay awhile,” the Gotal said with a smirk. The two newcomers shucked their cloaks and handed them to the waiting attendant, who placed them on the rack. Zeyn Kraen, wearing a stylish four-piece suit that included dark purple coat, vest, trousers, and a gray high-necked shirt complimented by a burgundy waist sash, returned the cold smile of the Gotal as he advanced towards the sabacc table. Putting his arm out, he felt Ariada’s arm interlock with his as she fell into step alongside him. For her part, the Wroonian had also dressed for the occasion in a sheath dress that alternated between black, purple, and dark blue patterns accented with silver spangles. She was wearing heavy coverup, particularly dark eyeshadow, and her hair was bobbed to create a boyish appearance enhanced with large amounts of jewelry. She appeared decorative, her expression blank as she fell into step with Zeyn. Both the Gotal and the other Human turned their eyes on her as Zeyn and Ariada approached the table. “Might I say, Lord Morri, that you show particularly good taste in your companionship?” the Human commented. “Thank you,” Zeyn answered, his own understated dress diminished in light of Ariada’s very conspicuous appearance. “Shall we deal?” the Gotal asked with a wave of his hand towards the table. “Of course,” Zeyn said with a polite nod as he and Ariada settled in at two chairs that were there waiting for them. “Just one question before we begin. You see, you have me at a bit of a disadvantage, given that you know my name and all, but I don’t know yours.” “I apologize for my rudeness,” the Gotal answered. “I am Sh’aalam Psykith and this Human fellow over here is Zarzex Hariscon.” “Pleased, I’m sure,” Zeyn said insincerely. This was all part of the familiar formality regarding a friendly game of sabacc. However ruthless the game ended up, a façade of politeness was always maintained at the beginning. Zeyn kept a broad smile on his face even as he turned to order drinks from an attendant, knowing the perils of what he was about to get himself into. “Shall we begin?” “Of course,” Sh’aalam replied. “Let’s start the ante at one thousand credits, shall we?” Nodding amiably, Zeyn tossed two credit chits each worth one thousand credits out from his vest pocket, one to the hand pot and one to the sabacc pot. It was a lot of money, but every gamble demanded some risks be taken, and he had no qualms about doing so. The other players followed suit. “Go ahead, dealer,” Sh’aalam prompted. The stony-faced Umbaran turned and dealt three cards to each player. Zeyn immediately began contemplating his hand. He had been given the One of Coins, the Queen of Air and Darkness, and the Ace of Staves; a disappointing hand whose total ended up as only fourteen in a game where twenty-three or its negative counterpart were the winning values. He shifted slightly as he looked over his cards, knowing they could randomize at any time. “I’ll take a card,” he said to the dealer. The Umbaran handed him the Mistress of Flasks, which brought his total to twenty-seven, a busted hand. Disgusted, he threw down his cards. “I’m out of this hand,” he said. “I’m sure your luck will turn next time,” purred Sh’aalam. Zeyn remained impassive, his smile barely diminished. In a game like sabacc, appearances were everything and losing one hand was hardly enough to break his composure. Instead, he stroked Ariada’s arm idly while watching the rest of the hand play out. Zarzex won a few exchanges later, his cards only worth twenty, but better than Sh’aalam’s eleven. About that time, the attendant returned with his drink, an Antakarian Fire Dancer, strong liquor that Zeyn detested. His choice of such a noxious beverage was deliberate; he’d be less likely to consume something distasteful and have his senses dulled by the intoxicants. He threw down another credit chit casually as he was dealt into the next hand, relaxing into the familiar rhythms of the sabacc game. Zeyn was playing to win, but he was also fishing for something more valuable—information. For now, though, he played it cool, the role of the gambler ensconced around him. The fickle luck of the cards ebbed and flowed, but remained recalcitrant in giving a winning hand to any of the three players. Sh’aalam took one hand, then Zarzex the next two, but Zeyn persevered. Part of sabacc was knowing when to stick your cards and when to fold, and he wasn’t done with this house yet. Everything seemed to flow around him in slow motion, his eyes and ears taking in the slightest details. He noted the way each player held their cards, the way they almost imperceptibly moved based on what hand they held, the slight gestures that were unconscious in most sentients. For example, Zarzex had a tendency of just barely rubbing the tip of one card with one finger when he had a good hand. The Human probably didn’t even notice it, but Zeyn’s Lorrdian heritage and years of training had instilled in him a keen observation and understanding of body language. Simultaneously, he had to maintain a calm, relaxed, amiable appearance. He could not use the Force to sense the other players; the presence of Sh’aalam meant that the Gotal could possibly detect Force-usage. Additionally, Gotals were supposed to be empathic, capable of sensing emotions in others, so he and Ariada had to remain calm and composed. In his case, that meant focusing on the game and perhaps thinking of a midnight speeder jaunt across Naboo’s plains as befitting a talented young noble’s whims. “Gentlemen, I suggest we stop wasting our time with this one thousand credit ante. Let’s make things more interesting—how about ten thousand minimum?” Sh’aalam suggested. Zeyn smiled broadly, showing a flash of white teeth as he did so. “Now we’re talking,” he said. “Bold words from someone who has yet to win a hand,” Zarzex commented. Zeyn took the retort in stride, not missing a beat. “Perhaps my luck is about to turn,” he returned smoothly as he counted out the credit chits and tossed them onto the table. It didn’t that hand, and Zeyn lost again when he received the Ace of Flasks and the Mistress of Staves, along with a Ten of Coins, which created another busted hand for him. He’d almost had a winning hand, but his Endurance card and its negative eight had shifted to the Ace of Flasks unexpectedly courtesy of the randomizer. Zarzex took that one also with a minus twenty-two that for him was clearly a disappointment. “I should have locked in my cards,” he said with a scowl. “Could have had a sabacc and cleaned you all out.” “Perhaps,” Zeyn remarked. “Luck of the deck.” It was a remarkably offhanded remark from someone who had already thrown in 28,000 credits into a game where the first one to claim sabacc would gain a handy 42,000 credits. Still, Zeyn seemed unruffled by his series of bad luck, despite the fact that he only had enough credits for one more hand. He took a sip of his Fire Dancer and grimaced against the foul taste of the liquid in his mouth. “Deal me in,” he said to the Umbaran, tossing in two more ten-thousand credit chits onto the table. The silent alien acknowledged him by placing three cards in front of him. Zeyn picked them up to reveal the Master of Coins, a positive fourteen, Endurance again, and the Eight of Sabres. Not a great hand, but Zeyn decided that he wanted to keep Endurance around. He tossed it into the interference field, face down, locking its value and preventing it from changing. Sh’aalam passed and Zarzex smiled as he placed two cards in the interference field, but Zeyn noted that he hadn’t seen fit to thumb the edge of his cards. Zeyn returned his smile and took another card, picking up an Eight of Staves. This put him a positive twenty-two, an excellent position as long as nobody had a pure sabacc up their sleeve. Sh’aalam passed yet again, and Zarzex seemed poised to up the ante. “I’ll bet ten thousand credits that this hand is mine,” he pronounced. Zeyn was not so easily coerced. Tossing all his remaining cards into the interference field, he crossed his arms. “Match and call,” he said, sliding forward his last ten thousand credit chit. The Human’s lip twitched as he threw down his cards to reveal the Queen of Air and Darkness, Demise, and The Idiot, a hand worth only negative fifteen to Zeyn’s positive twenty-two. Since he was closer to twenty-three, he won thanks to having called Zarzex’s bluff. The thirty thousand credits he’d picked up would go a long way to keeping him in this game. He smiled coolly back at Zarzex, whose sabacc face was clearly beginning to tire. For his part, Sh’aalam gave Zeyn a carefully evaluative look that Zeyn pretended to not see. The dealer started the cycle again, but now Zeyn felt confident enough to initiate some conversation. “So, what led you two to invite me and my companion back to this private room?” he asked. “Looking for another easy mark, or simply wanting a fresh face?” “Curiosity,” Sh’aalam replied. “You seemed to be doing quite well against most of the locals in the main casino rooms, but perhaps this game is bit too much of a challenge for you.” “Not at all,” Zeyn answered lightly. “I’m just getting started.” Zeyn won that hand also, knowing that Sh’aalam was playing into his hands. He’d casually used the Force in the earlier hours of the evening, just barely enough for the Force-sensitive Gotal to detect him without betraying his true nature. His relatively amoral act of cheating at cards would belie any chances of him being a Jedi and he knew that Sh’aalam would eventually invite him back if he sensed another Force-user whom he could possibly subvert. Now it was time for him to get cocky and to clean Zarzex out. He sensed that Sh’aalam would probably help him, especially if Zeyn let slip a few tendrils of Force energy. It was a dangerous game, though, particularly since the Gotal might detect his true nature. He had to seem sloppy and untrained in his use of the Force even while hiding his light side presence. Zeyn was confident that he could accomplish it, though. It was a risk he was willing to take. Four hands later, he and Sh’aalam had utterly collapsed Zarzex’s winnings like a house of cards. The Human was sweating profusely, his face red. Zeyn had won four more and Sh’aalam twice. The ante was now twenty thousand credits, enough to buy a small starship and all three players had been playing conservatively, avoided raising in the middle of a hand, content to wait for the perfect hand before doing so. That had gone on long enough, Zeyn figured. It was time for one last hand to finish off the elder Human. Zeyn took one more sip of his potent drink as the dealer handed out the cards. It was time to go all-in, to throw everything he had out there to conclude this game. Beside him, Ariada stirred restlessly even as she’d been watching with a bored expression that Zeyn knew concealed a keenly observant mind. Accepting his cards, Zeyn saw a One of Coins, a Two of Sabres, and a Six of Flashs, a disappointing hand. Based on his read of Zarzex, the other Human’s hand wasn’t much better. Sh’aalam had been difficult to read based only on body language, obviously a skilled enough player to avoid giving out much. His own Force talents had no doubt told him that Zeyn was relentlessly scrutinizing him for the first sign of a tell and the Gotal had reacted accordingly. This time, he went first and Zeyn took another card, landing Balance and its negative eleven, worsening his hand. Just as he did, though, they shimmered and changed, giving the players drastically different hands. Zeyn now had a Commander of Sabres, Endurance, the Ace of Staves, and the Two of Coins, which gave him a positive twenty-one. It was close, very close, but he had to know if it was close enough. Stretching out with the Force, he found that Sh’aalam was very alert, using the Force and his own empathic abilities to monitor his opponents. Zeyn’s clumsy probe discerned little before the Gotal closed off any attempts to sense information from him, but he did sense confidence. Glancing over at Zarzex, Zeyn didn’t even need the Force to tell that the Human had a weak hand. He held off for now, hoping for a better hand. Sh’aalam stood pat, throwing two of his cards into the interference field, while Zarzex picked up another card. Now it was his time to choose. Just as play passed to him, Zeyn saw the cards shimmer again as the randomizer altered their values. Now he was staring at The Star, Endurance, the Ace of Sabres, and Balance, which left him at minus twenty-one. It was a good hand, but not unbeatable. Broadening his incessant smile slightly, he turned to Ariada. “Would you select a card for me?” he asked her. “Certainly,” she replied, the first words she’d spoken all game. She turned to the Umbaran dealer, who silently handed her a card for her to pass to Zeyn. Zeyn looked at it, realizing she’d given him the Queen of Air and Darkness, which brought his new total to negative twenty-three. He had an almost perfect hand. Quickly, he slid all five cards into the interference field to protect them, but paused before calling sabacc. Instead, he gauged his opponents’ reaction with the Force. From Zarzex he sensed despair, a realization that he was probably about to lose, to the tune of about one hundred thousand credits. From Sh’aalam, Zeyn caught the hint of that same quiet confidence, which was not the reaction of someone who knew his opponent was almost certainly holding a game-winning hand. That meant that Sh’aalam had the Idiot’s Array. Composed of only three cards, the Idiot, and a two and three of the same suit, it was the ultimate trump in sabacc. Zeyn had two options. He could fold and take his winnings, or could lose in an attempt to win Sh’aalam’s attention. But if the Gotal was sensing his emotions, he knew that Zeyn probably was aware of his predicament and would disparage him for knowing he was facing a superior hand and yet blazing forward recklessly in spite of it. Zeyn took the smart choice, knowing that he’d earn more respect from the Gotal for making a wise, patient, decision. He’d ended up winning money anyway, a scarce two thousand credits, but a profit nevertheless. “Gentlemen, I think I’m out of this,” he said calmly as he collected his meager winnings. “Thank you for a prolonged and enjoyable game, though.” Zarzex frowned at his unexpected move. “What in space were you hiding then?” he protested. Zeyn froze in the middle of standing up, then leaned slightly over the table. “You pay to see the cards,” he said. “Now, if you want to see my hand, then put some money down, or make it more interesting and bet yours against mine.” Zarzex scowled at him, then shook his head. “I believe it’s your move, Sh’aalam,” the Human told the Gotal. “Indeed,” the Gotal said flatly as he flipped his cards over. “Sabacc.” Zarzex slumped as Sh’aalam revealed the Idiot’s Array that Zeyn knew he’d been holding. “Confound it, this was an expensive evening,” Zarzex muttered, obviously exasperated. “I would have thought you were the weaker player tonight, Sh’aalam. You only won three hands out of twelve.” “But he won when it counted,” Ryion pointed out, which earned him a glare from the irked Zarzex. “Sleep on that.” “I’m almost of a mind to suspect you of something,” Zarzex scowled. “You had five cards in the interference field and walked away from it, almost as if you knew what Sh’aalam was holding.” Zeyn gave him a hard stare. “We’ll never know, now will we?” he asked. “I gave you the option of calling my hand for the usual bet and you decided not to take it. It was my decision to fold, and my reasons are my own, unless you’re willing to provide sufficient motivation in the form of another twenty thousand.” “You’re a dirty murglak,” Zarzex replied irritably. “Is that the best you’ve got?” Zeyn said, brushing off the insult. “If you can’t handle losing in sabacc, you really shouldn’t play. Oh, and don’t worry, that advice was free. Take it to go, in fact.” An irate Zarzex tried to muster the words to retort to Zeyn, but came up empty, leaving him there to fume. Sh’aalam said nothing as he collected his winnings, but Zeyn saw his cold, gleaming eyes dart over in his direction more than once. For his part, though, Zeyn had to act casual. “Come, dear,” he said to Ariada. “The night is young and I’m sure this town has many more diversions for us to enjoy and I have some drinking money.” She smiled demurely and rose to join him. Zarzex stormed huffily past them, snatching his cloak from the attendant, leaving Zeyn, Ariada, and Sh’aalam temporarily alone. “Lord Morri, do you play pazaak?” Sh’aalam asked him just as he was about to exit. “I enjoy many kinds of games of chance,” Zeyn said, emphasizing the word chance a bit too much. “Pazaak is one of them.” “I’m sure you do,” Sh’aalam answered. “Would you be interested in a game of pazaak, tomorrow evening at my estate?” “Sure,” Zeyn said. “I’m looking forward to it.” “Me too,” the Gotal told him evenly. “I think we have a great deal to discuss as well.” With that, he turned to collect his own cloak while Zeyn and Ariada pulled on their cloaks and filed out of the casino. They sauntered across the street, strolling past various venues as they took in the nightlife on Theed. Their conversation was hushed, muted, with Zeyn whispering things into her ear and Ariada smiling coyly and replying in lowered tones meant for him alone. It was very typical for a young, rich, aristocrat and his companion, and very convincing. It was also an act. After half an hour of wandering down a few streets, Zeyn and Ariada bought a pair of pannien sandwiches from a vendor, then headed over to a sizable parking garage where Zeyn’s luxury speeder was parked. As they approached, Ryion, serving as chauffeur, stepped out of its fully-enclosed interior to open the door for them. Once they were all inside and confident of not being followed or observed through the tinted windows, Zeyn and Ariada abandoned their pretense; Ariada immediately released Zeyn’s arm and he sat away from her. “Well, that was fun,” Zeyn commented, mopping sweat from his brow. “Maybe for you,” Ariada said. “This dress isn’t exactly comfortable and looking bored and decorative for two hours is less than stimulating.” “The price of beauty, my dear,” Zeyn answered, his sultry tones a momentary return of his Lord Morri persona. “You looked ravishing.” “I don’t understand why you wanted me to serve as the escort—,” Ariada started before Zeyn cut her off. “Arm-candy,” he interrupted. She gave him a look, then acquiesced. “Fine,” she said. “Why was I the arm-candy instead of Qedai? She actually likes sabacc, for one.” “Can you imagine her sitting still for two hours?” Ryion asked from the driver’s seat as he pulled the hoverlimo out of its parking place. “I didn’t think so.” “Guys, I’m right here,” Qedai reminded them from her position tucked away into the back seat, clad in a black outfit that had allowed her to quietly lurk near the casino as backup. “Besides, Qedai is a bit too aggressive, too deliberate. She probably would have started flirting with the other players, trying to draw their focus off, and that wouldn’t have gone over well for our mission,” Ryion continued, seemingly oblivious to her remark. “Keep it up, Ryion Kraen, and I’ll show you just how aggressive and deliberate I can be,” Qedai retorted. “I am still here, you know.” “Oh, are you? My mistake,” Ryion answered facetiously. “Guys, there’s no need to get testy,” Zeyn cut in. “We’re all back, safe and sound. Ariada and I have a meeting with Sh’aalam tomorrow at his estate, and best of all, I have drinking money. Everything’s going well.” He held aloft the two thousand credits he’d won. “See? We can enjoy a night of irresponsible reverie and good cheer tonight and attend to business tomorrow.” “Or we can plan out how we’re going to handle getting you into Sh’aalam’s mansion and back out tomorrow,” Ryion answered. “Preferably with some snatch-and-grab included.” “That sounds like far less fun,” Zeyn said. “Are you sure we can’t put that one off until tomorrow and just party tonight?” Ryion knew his cousin was only half-serious, but as team leader, he had to keep things in perspective. “That depends,” Ryion replied. “How would you like to be seated in front of a dark-side-using Gotal in his house where he’s got weapons and servants at his disposal with your life on the line, telling him that he’s under arrest when we’re tired and have no plan for dealing with all his nasty little surprises?” Zeyn winced. “Well, since you put it like that, I suppose we can do mission planning instead. Just this once.” Yuuzhan Vong Grand Cruiser Bloodthirster He sat in the corner by a blaze bug display, watching as the insects whirred and floated around, representing ships during a space battle. Some of the blaze bugs conglomerated in the shape of Yuuzhan Vong warships, others were clumped in imitations of New Republic warships. He was the only warrior there; the others had shown no interest in standing by him while he studied the conflict. That was fine with him. He didn’t need the philosophies and opinions of many of the latest generation of Yuuzhan Vong warriors polluting his study. They were many skilled tacticians among them, but they were too aggressive, wasteful in their employment of ships and resources that were best used in the service of the gods when intact and capable, not smashed against fortifications. His name was Qad Skell, but he was more commonly known by another name, Tsaruuk. Translated into Basic, it meant “The Efficient One,” which many Yuuzhan Vong warriors misinterpreted as a derogatory term, designed to imply cowardice and a lack of fervor in pursuing his duty. However, it was rare for anyone to deride him to his face; Tsaruuk was known for his skill with an amphistaff and had already killed five who’d dared accuse him of cowardice or dishonor. He bore neither and for him, the moniker was a compliment bestowed on one who preferred to preserve the implements of Yun-Yammka, the Slayer God, instead of needlessly sacrificing them. None of his subordinates dared approach him; save for those from his own domain who believed as he did, most other Yuuzhan Vong warriors were loathe to befriend one with such seemingly unorthodox views. So Tsaruuk stood by himself, engrossed in his study, his arms crossed in front of him as his brow furrowed in concentration. Like most Yuuzhan Vong, he was taller and broader than a standard Human and his spiky vonduun crab armor gave him a fearsome appearance. Scars and disfigurements showing his advancement to the rank of commander lined his face and exposed hands, and the tattoos of his domain had been carved into his face. However, unlike most Yuuzhan Vong, he retained his hair and had grown it out so that it hung down on either side of his head in lanky tresses. Furthermore, his vonduun crab armor was specially grown, fed with compounds peculiar to his domain, so that instead of its usual dark hues, it was tinted more like amber. He remained motionless, watching the blaze bugs shift and reposition themselves as the battle progressed. Of course, this was no real battle. It was a recording that the ship’s brain had preserved for future study. Otherwise, he would have been surrounded by subordinates awaiting his every word, listening for his commands. In this environment, Tsaruuk could soak in the knowledge of the battle, allow his mind to focus solely on the representation of the conflict. However, he was not so focused that he was oblivious to the other Yuuzhan Vong warrior marching up to him and bowing deeply in his direction, arms crossed over his chest. The other warrior was thinner, his face and skin less marked by tattoos and signs of advancement. Tsaruuk knew him; it was his second-in-command, Subaltern Kroi Taak. He gestured for his subordinate to straighten. “What is it, Subaltern?” Tsaruuk asked. “You are required for an audience,” Kroi Taak told him. “With whom?” “The warmaster.” Tsaruuk kept his facial expression placid. He had anticipated something like this happening after the overwhelming attack on Coruscant that had cost so many warriors and ships to take. Any subsequent action would have to be taken conservatively while losses were replaced and that meant that his services would most likely be needed even though he was normally spurned. “So, Tsavong Lah needs Tsaruuk now. What a surprise,” he murmured aloud. Then, as if reminded that Kroi Taak was still there, the commander turned back to his subordinate. “You may go,” he said. “I may have further orders for you later.” Kroi Taak bowed and headed away from his superior, while Tsaruuk stalked over to the villip choir. Turning to the villip officer, he barked out a curt command. “Bring me the warmaster’s villip.” The order was carried out swiftly and soon Tsaruuk was stroking the creature, causing it to evert, showing a representation of the hideously scarred and mutilated head of the Yuuzhan Vong warmaster, Tsavong Lah. Whereas the infidels of the galaxy used their profane technology to communicate across long distances, their methods were inefficient and susceptible to disruption or interception, not to mention blasphemous. Villips communicated with each other across infinite distances telepathically, projecting a representation of the correspondents. They were impossible to disrupt, intercept, or jam. Tsaruuk bowed deeply, his arms crossed in front of his chest in a show of fealty as he waited for the warmaster to beckon him. Unsurprisingly, Tsavong Lah allowed him to remain bowed for several minutes, no doubt to reinforce his own superiority. A needless display, but it was not his place to argue with the leader of the Yuuzhan Vong warrior caste. “Rise,” the warmaster uttered at last. Tsaruuk straightened, still silent as protocol demanded him be until the warmaster spoke. “It has been long since you have had a command of your own,” Tsavong Lah commented. “Perhaps too long.” Still no response. “Would you like to command ships and warriors in battle once more, Qad Skell?” “I would, Warmaster, but only if that is where the Yuuzhan Vong need me the most.” Lah sneered at him. “You have no thought of personal advancement, of seizing glory for your victories? What kind of warrior are you?” “One who serves the gods and the Yuuzhan Vong first, Warmaster,” Tsaruuk replied evenly. “I hear the call of Yun-Yammka, but whether that call is best answered by my serving here as an analyst or in glorious battle is not something I concern myself with.” “Then you would rather stay back and play with your blaze bugs?” Tsavong Lah asked, his voice laced with contempt. “I thirst for battle, as does any true Yuuzhan Vong warrior,” Tsaruuk told him, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. “But I do not seek to place my own goals before those of the gods, or of yours.” “Very good,” Tsavong Lah said with a thin smile. “You will have your command, a small one. Prove faithful in this and you will be rewarded.” Tsaruuk bowed again. “I am honored,” he said. “What would you have me do?” “A group of infidels recently landed on one of our worlds, Chalacta, and attempted to seize the world from us.” Tsaruuk looked surprised but made no reply. Chalacta was fairly deep inside Yuuzhan Vong-held space. That the infidels would attempt something so daring after the fall of their capital was a surprise indeed. “They were crushed, of course, and while we were lenient in our treatment of the planet before, our intendants will not be so sparing this time. The Chalactans will embrace the gift of the gods. However, some of them escaped, along with those who invaded the world. You will hunt them down.” “As you wish, Warmaster.” “I have sent you the knowledge you need about their last course after escaping Chalacta and the ships you will be given. They appear to be hiding in Hutt Space. Your thoughts?” That was also a surprise. Hutt Space had been taken by Supreme Commander Nas Choka and, despite pockets of resistance, was more or less subdued as a threat. The gastropod aliens and their minions still resisted full occupation, but the Yuuzhan Vong fleets roamed virtually at will through the space that had once been dominated by the Hutts. “It is an unexpected move, Warmaster,” Tsaruuk replied. “Far more difficult to retreat from, and into space we mostly control.” “Apparently they seek to escape the fleets we mobilized to cut off their obvious escape routes,” Tsavong Lah said. “We cannot afford to waste our warriors chasing a few thousand refugees, but this sacrilege must also not go unpunished. Hunt them down and sacrifice every one of the infidels you do not kill.” Tsaruuk smiled in anticipation of doing exactly that. “I obey, Warmaster,” he said simply, not wishing to betray the enthusiasm coursing through his veins at a chance to command in battle once more. Tsavong Lah gave a curt nod, then the villip reverted, leaving Tsaruuk to contemplate his new assignment and prepare his plans to capture those who had so boldly defied the gods.
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