CHAPTER
SIX

TEL BOLLIN

They left the New Ambition a short distance from Tel Bollin. Mander set some security monitors along the perimeter of the camp while Reen and the Bothan unfurled long strands of red-tan camouflage netting and draped the ship in it. It wouldn’t stop a determined searcher, but the odd passerby or aerial patrol would not give it a second look. Then the pair readied the Ubrikkian Bantha III from the cargo hold. The Bantha III was a lightweight repulsorlift skiff that could carry them and a young Hutt, if need be. It had the smooth lines common to most of the Ubrikkian pleasure craft products, and it did not surprise Mander that Popara had put one in the ship’s hold.

Mander watched the Bothan and Pantoran working together quickly and efficiently. There was a minimum of words between them, yet one would have a tool ready when the other needed it. They seemed to fit naturally into the world, as if assembling a cargo skiff on a plague-ridden planet while hiding from the Corporate Sector Authority were the stuff of everyday life.

It was never like that with Toro, Mander thought. From the start the young Pantoran was hidden from him—not particularly secretive, but not open, either. The young man was so intent on becoming a Jedi—so driven to live up to the image from the holofilms and the legends—that he found the older archivist, with his magnaspecs and dusty old records, to be a bit of a disappointment. He said nothing at the time, but to Mander the young man was clearly crestfallen when they first met, expecting something more heroic.

And the disappointment remained even after their first sparring session, when the youth rushed at him and Mander dispatched him easily. The older Jedi sidestepped every charge, blocked every attack, and met the young Pantoran’s passionate fury with a calm response. But it did little to remove that doubt. Now in the young student’s eyes Mander Zuma was a mystery to be solved, a puzzle to be unlocked. The older man held secrets that belied his unassuming appearance, and Toro wanted to learn them. Indeed, how could an unassuming person such as Mander Zuma defeat a dedicated opponent, if not by Jedi magic?

For his part, that first mock duel was equally troubling to Mander. Yes, he had beaten the youth calmly and handily, but wasn’t that what was expected of a Master? And even then he could feel the Force within the youth, impatient though he seemed. It was clear that with the proper training, Toro Irana could be a powerful Jedi.

The proper training. Mander shook his head. Perhaps that was Mander’s ultimate failure. He had calmed the fury of the youth, but had never taught him to master it. Toro was always challenging, both in training and in philosophy. He was always questioning, always pushing, always looking for a weak spot. The ability to see a weakness in a plan or an opponent was invaluable as a Jedi, yet Toro would always go for that weak spot immediately, often ignoring caution.

Was that what led his former student to Tempest? Perhaps he was looking for something even more powerful to master than the philosophies of his teacher. He wanted to prove himself better. He wanted one more advantage on others. It was a common enough road to destruction, and Mander had read enough tales in the Archives to know that it was a tempting trap.

Mander set the last of the perimeter monitors and watched the sky, a dusty inverted bowl lightening only slightly with the dawn, the ruddy brown stain of the sky darkening with pollution in the direction of Tel Bollin. The cloud cover would keep them safe from most observers above the atmosphere, but a determined scan would punch through the clouds and find their ship with little problem. The question, he thought, was how determined any search would be. The lieutenant commander was headstrong enough to pursue them, even if it meant breaking a few directives of the CSA—directives that Mander had found in his own research. And while her obvious intelligence made Mander feel that she was aware of those directives, he hoped that her dedication would keep her from violating them too blatantly.

While he was in thought, Reen had come up with a bundle of cloth. “Here,” she said. “Put this on.”

Mander unraveled a poncho-like cloak. “It’s a zerape,” she explained. “Local coloring out here in the Outer Rim worlds. Even if Krin is too busy to scan for us, she probably has told people what to look out for.”

“We are a Jedi, a Bothan, and a Pantoran,” said Mander. “I don’t think we’re going to be able to blend in with the local population too much.” Still, he took the garment and shed his outer robe. The zerape was little more than a blanket with a neck-hole, but it fit well enough, and left his arms free.

“I don’t know—it’s not like you’re what I expected from a Jedi,” said Reen.

Mander started. Her words mirrored his own dark thoughts. “You’ve met other Jedi?” he asked. “Other than your brother, I mean.”

“No,” said Reen, “And I didn’t see Toro after he left to join your Order. But the holofilms. The old epics and the news reports from the war. The Jedi were always moving, always attacking, always taking risks. Heroic. You seem too …”

“Insufficient?” suggested Mander, and the dream rose in the back of his mind.

“Ordinary,” Reen suggested, but the word gave Mander little solace. “Normal. You were more willing to talk than fight me when we first met. You were polite to Popara and his people. And you surrendered the medicine to the CSA.”

“They will be better at distributing it than we would,” noted Mander.

“Fine. But I still expected you to brandish your lightsaber, or throw someone across the room, or use your mind control powers to make them dance,” Reen said.

“What makes you think I can’t do any of that?” said Mander, smiling—and hoping that the smile would turn aside further questions.

It did not. “What do you do as a Jedi?” she asked.

“Different Jedi have different roles,” suggested Mander.

“But what is yours?” Reen insisted.

“I was Toro’s Master,” said Mander. “I taught him in the ways of the Force.”

“Yes, I know,” said Reen. “And when he mentioned you in his messages, he spoke well of you. Is that all you do, teach young Jedi?”

Mander gnawed his upper lip. “There are few teachers and many who need instruction,” he said. “But no, I do have other tasks.”

“Such as?”

Mander let out a deep sigh. “I go where I am sent by the Order. Currently, I am overseeing the Jedi Archives on Yavin Four. One of my tasks is to track down texts and holos throughout that region of the galaxy and compare them against those in the Jedi library on Coruscant. During the Galactic Civil War, many of the vital records were corrupted—”

Reen interrupted, “You’re a librarian.”

“Archivist, if you please,” said Mander.

“Librarian,” said Reen, with a small laugh.

Mander felt himself redden with embarrassment. “I served as an apprentice to the great Jedi historian Tionne Solusar. She has been trying to restore the Archives in the old Jedi Temple, and my work has been vital in identifying and confirming lost texts.”

Reen beamed a wide smile, and Mander would have called it a playful and winning smile if the woman weren’t being completely insufferable. “A librarian!” she laughed. “My brother never told me that. But I should have guessed. He complained you were always sending him to this text or that volume for some quote from an old Jedi philosopher who was dead long before the Republic was created!”

The Jedi wanted to respond, to point out the fallacies in her argument, but Eddey hollered from outside the ship. The Bothan had closed up the cargo bay and was already at the control pedestal in the floater’s stern. Reen moved at his call, and was down the hillside and clambering onto the skiff.

Mander let out a frustrated sigh and wondered why he let her get under his skin. Probably because she was very much like her brother. The Jedi pressed the last security code into the monitors and followed her.

The skiff was open-topped, in the Ubrikkian style, and Eddey skated along the dry wash at a good rate of speed, such that any conversation of less than a shout was lost in the swirling dust they kicked up. They passed between a pair of sentinel rocks and were out of the wash and into the open bottomland that held Tel Bollin. Mander turned to confirm where they had come from. The dust in their wake shifted from red and tan to a lighter shade, and the Jedi realized that the city was built on an evaporated lakebed, probably the remnant of when the planet last saw rainfall millennia ago.

The town itself was a dirty smudge on the horizon that did not look much better close up. Like most miner worlds, the place had a temporary look about it, the walls made of precast concrete dropped in from orbit and supplemented by mud bricks. Nothing was more than two stories tall, and all the edges were worn away into soft curves. Were the city to be abandoned, it would disappear into the lakebed within a generation.

It seemed to be well on its way already. Most of the outlying buildings were empty, open doors and windows staring blankly out at the world. Some were scorched around the entrances from fire. Some were marked with a crimson skull and a number underneath. Plague houses, indicating the number of bodies found inside. There was no movement on the streets, and if there were inhabitants, they were watching weakly from the shade.

Eddey slowed the skiff and Mander said, “Find a place to set this down, and we’ll go farther into the city on foot. We’ll stand out on this skiff. After all,” he added for Reen’s benefit, “we want to blend in.”

Eddey chose a location that was either an abandoned scrap yard or a multivehicle pileup. The scrap yard’s office, if it had been the former, had been gutted by flames, and smoky stains marked the walls. Mander made sure no one was about while Eddey secured the skiff. Reen adjusted her blaster, setting it to ride low on her right hip.

From eye level, the city did not improve in the least. As they moved deeper into Tel Bollin, there were finally people—dust-covered wretches moving through the morning light. It would normally be the time when people would be abroad, before it got too hot, but the inhabitants were few and far between. Small beads rattling in a much bigger box. One of them staggered by—a miner, by his look—and Mander hailed him, asking where he might find the Skydove Freight offices. That was Popara’s business, and that was where they should start.

The man looked up suddenly, as if Mander had manifested himself out of the desert air. His eyes were red and rheumy, and thick deposits of white crust hung from the corners of his eyes and mustache. For the first time, Mander wondered about the efficacy of Popara’s proposed vaccinations. The miner’s mouth worked a few moments but nothing came out. Instead he pointed in a general direction, to the right of one of the metal towers in the center of the town. Mander thanked him and pressed a few credits into his hand. When he looked back at the end of the block, the miner was still standing there, looking at the credits in his hand as if Mander had given him beetles.

“Try using Huttese money next time,” suggested Reen. “A couple of wupiupi will do.”

Mander nodded and said, “Sixteen wupiupi to a trugut, and four truguts to a peggat, which is worth forty standard credits. So a wupiupi would be worth about two-thirds of a credit.” Reen made an exasperated noise, and Mander regretted immediately sharing the information. He had learned the conversion rates back on Yavin 4, when he had first known he would be dealing with Hutts, but what truguts and wupiupi he had brought were unused in his pocket.

There was a whine of engines behind them, and the few people on the street quickly sought the safety of nearby doorways. The trio was on a low sidewalk beneath a veranda, so they turned to look.

Half a dozen swoop bikes—low, lean machines—screamed up the city street. Unlike their surroundings, they were brightly colored and well maintained, their riders deeply tattooed and grinning as they carved up furrows of dust in the empty street. They didn’t wear any unified colors or uniforms Mander could notice, but clearly shared a love of the noise and the effect it had on the natives.

Mander folded his hands in front of him to watch them pass, and realized that Reen and Eddey had melted back into one of the doorways. As the repulsor bikes flared past, kicking up dust, one of the riders flung a bottle in the Jedi’s general direction.

It did not seem intentional, and the throw was wide in any event. Mander did not flinch as it struck the wall a few feet to his right. Then the swoop gang was gone, swallowed again by the city, and the natives emerged, moving around as if nothing had happened.

“We’re trying to keep a low profile,” said Reen. “You should have stayed in the shadows with us.”

“I didn’t realize you were gone until it was too late,” said Mander. “Besides, the one with the bottle had terrible aim.” Still, the Jedi pulled at his zerape to shake the dust loose.

They were encountering shops now, run by merchants who looked like they were uninfected or survivors of the plague. Still, they were haggard and worn, and had little more than information to sell. They got better directions to Skydove Freight, though, as well as a warning to stay clear of the center of town. The CSA was rounding people up, an old woman selling discolored fruits said. Mander dropped a couple of wupiupi into her hand. She nodded but shot Eddey a sharp, nasty glance before retreating to the back of her shop.

Two blocks later a landcruiser bearing CSA markings rattled around the corner. This time Mander followed the local customs and pulled far enough off the street not to attract attention. The craft looked a little battered, and its forward weapon was obviously plugged and nonfunctional. The pilot behind the wheel was in a CSA uniform, but Mander noted that he was wearing a full breathing rig. Obviously the CSA had concerns about the usefulness of their own vaccine stores.

A landcruiser of this type could carry a squad of troops, but this one had been kitted out with a loud-hailer, which blared in Basic, Huttese, and a few other languages. Medicine was available, barked the loud-hailer. It would be distributed at the slingball pitch to the south of the city center. Only those with CSA-provided identity tags would receive vaccinations. All citizens should have tags. Those without tags would be violating the law and given tags. Please proceed in an orderly fashion. Be sure to bring your tags. The landcruiser shifted to another language and continued to lumber on, ignoring the people on the streets. For their part, the citizens seemed to be in no rush to take the CSA up on their offer.

“The distribution has begun,” said Mander. “That should help us. More people on the street.”

“And it may be that we’ll find the Skydove offices to be empty,” Reen said, “because they’re all out getting the medicine we could have brought them.”

The office of Skydove Freight was empty, but it seemed unlikely that the workers were out for a vaccination break. The front door was caved in, the barred windows smashed into jagged shards. Inside, the place was a mess—overturned desks, their electronics hanging out of them, rendering them inert and useless. Smashed datapads and crystals crunched underfoot. Interior closets were vandalized and chairs reduced to kindling. What might have been a safe was now a large hole in the floor, with drag marks leading to the door.

And across one wall, written in dark paint, were words in Huttese script.

Mander read the glyphs aloud. “ ‘The Fallen Warrior.’ Is that a reference to Mika? A testament to his protectors?”

“I don’t think of Hutts as warriors,” said Reen. “Probably a brag from the people who did this. Maybe a group of them, like the swoop gang we saw.”

“Odd name for a group,” said Mander. “You two look about. See if any of the datapads survived. I’m going to ask the neighbors.”

There were no neighbors—just another handful of empty offices. Some were vandalized, but others were left untouched. He did find a young man sulking in one of the doorways.

“Spice, spice,” the young man said as Mander approached, low and indistinct.

“You have spice?” asked Mander.

“I have medicine,” said the man. “Fell off the back of a loader this morning. CSA is swimming with it, not that they want to share it without all their red tape.”

“Let’s see it,” said Mander, and the youth produced a grimy vial filled with yellowish crystals. It looked like the medicinal spice they had brought the same way that Mander looked like the Jedi of Reen’s imagination.

“Good quality,” lied Mander, “but what I really need is information. The Fallen Warrior.” He tilted his voice with just a bit of the Force, enough to keep the young man talking.

He hissed. “You don’t want to go there.”

“So it is a place,” said Mander, keeping the Force in his voice. “Tell me why I don’t want to go there.”

“It’s a cantina for nonhumans,” said the youth. “Non-humans brought the plague, some say. They weren’t getting sick. The Hutts, the Toydarians, all of them. Early on, when things got bad, people drove them away.”

That was why Eddey was getting strange looks. When society was under pressure, they blamed people who were different. Aliens. Outlanders. He recalled the holoconversation he’d had on the Resolute with the young officer stationed planetside. “They drove a Hutt away?” asked Mander.

The youth paused, and Mander wondered if he was trying to answer correctly or fighting the Force-powered command in the Jedi’s voice. At last he shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know. There was a Hutt here. Didn’t see him later. Could be dead. Could be at the Warrior. There was a Nikto that came in before things got bad. He was here after they looted the place. Lousy aliens.”

Mander found the youth irritating. “Where’s this place I shouldn’t go?”

The young man told him, then blinked at him and said, “You want that spice?”

“That’s not spice,” said Mander, scowling now, throwing the Force fully into his voice.

The youth took a step back, then shrugged. “It’s not really spice.”

“What you should do is get vaccinated.” He brought the Force up hard with the command, and the youth almost staggered back a step.

“I really should get vaccinated.”

“And tell others to do so as well.”

The youth nodded, his eyes vacant now. “I should tell the others.” And with that he turned away and disappeared down the street, his feet slowly carrying him away as his brain tried to figure out what had happened.

Mander frowned. He hadn’t needed to do that, but after being needled by Reen, the urge to demonstrate a little Jedi mind power was too strong—even if she didn’t see him do it. A momentary weakness, he realized, like a child kicking over an anthill. And just as mature, especially since he had already gotten what he needed.

He returned to the office to find the others making a desultory search. “They were thorough,” said Reen. “There are not enough functioning chips here to light up a droid’s eye sensors.”

“I found out that the Fallen Warrior is a cantina about ten blocks from here,” Mander said, “and that the locals are blaming nonhumans for the plague. So we should be careful.” The others said nothing, but, as they stepped back into the sunlight, both the Pantoran and the Bothan were looking up and down the street for potential trouble.

The Fallen Warrior was built like a bunker, and Mander realized that it would be a good sanctuary if the mobs were looting nonhuman businesses. Its walls were the original permacrete of the colony, built up with additional layers of mud. Low stairs led up into the building itself, which was set apart from the other structures by broad alleys and a large plaza. There were a couple of obvious side exits as well.

Mander also noticed, parked beneath a huge but bare-leafed tree, a collection of brightly colored swoop bikes.

The gang was inside, claiming half of the bar and driving the alien clientele to booths along the sides. A stern-looking, statuesque, white-haired woman was behind the bar itself, and gave them a nod that, in one motion, welcomed them, demanded to know their business, and instructed them that the business had better involve drinking.

Mander and the others scanned the rooms, blinking as their eyes adapted to the darkness. A bleary-eyed Ithorian sprawled forward over one table. A couple of Neimoidians were talking to a Duros cousin in another booth. No Rodians, which made Mander offer thanks for small favors. Some Chiss who pulled back a beaded curtain of their booth to give the new arrivals a once-over, then returned to their plotting.

And one Nikto: an Esral’sa’Nikto, also called the Mountain People among their species. This one had the traditional flat features common to all Niktos, but bore a set of facial fins that dominated his pale gray features. The Nikto was at the far end of the bar, asleep or drunk or both, his back against where the bar met the rear wall.

The tattooed swoop gang had made the Nikto a target for their game. In turn, each would slide a half-filled mug down the length of the bar, toward the inert alien. The idea was apparently to get as close to the Nikto as possible without dropping the drink in his lap. Of course, eventually they would.

“That’s probably our Nikto,” said Mander. “We should stop this.”

“What are you going to do,” said Reen, “talk them to death?” Mander ignored her and motioned for the pair to stay by the door.

One of the swoop gang, a big thug in a broad-brimmed hat, gave his mug too hard a push. It slid down the length of the bar, sloshing a pungent, frothy liquid as it spun. It caromed off another glass and right toward the Nikto’s lap.

And Mander was there to pick it up, settling himself on the stool next to the Nikto, raising the mug in a toast to the swoopers, and then setting it down on the bar. “Sorry to interrupt the game,” he said, “but I need to talk to this one. I’ll let you get back to your fun in a moment.” He turned to the Nikto and shook the alien by the shoulder. “Wake up. I am looking for Mika the Hutt.”

“Hey!” shouted a voice behind him, and the swooper who had flung the most recent glass stormed down to their end of the bar. Mander turned and realized that he had made a mistake. The swoopers were not tattooed. Instead the dark lines on their faces were veins. Dark veins, standing up from the flesh.

Tempest, he thought. But what Mander said was “Leave us in peace for a moment,” throwing as much of the Force as he could quickly muster behind his request.

The thug should have stopped in his tracks and spat something about leaving them in peace. Instead, he raised a massive fist and smashed Mander across the jaw.

Surprised, Mander dropped to one knee, the room swimming in his vision. When he looked up, the other swoopers had descended on Reen and Eddey, three thugs apiece. No weapons had been drawn, but Reen had already knocked out one opponent, while Eddey was fending off his trio with a chair.

The big one standing over Mander had a chair as well, raised above his head to bring it down on the Jedi. Mander’s head cleared in an instant, and he reached across his body to pull his lightsaber, only to get it tangled in the folds of his zerape. He rolled out of the way as the thug brought the chair down on the space where he had been, the Jedi pulling himself fully upright.

Mander brought the lightsaber out, but had it backward. He could have easily flipped it in his hands, but instead he drove the butt-end of the device into his attacker’s belly. The air rushed out of his opponent’s lungs, and Mander, not stopping, brought the metal hilt of his blade straight up, connecting with the swooper’s jaw. Now it was the big thug’s turn to fall backward from the force of the blow.

Mander looked up at the others. Reen had downed a second one, and Eddey had lost his chair, but one of the swoop gang was collapsed at his feet. Still, there were more swoopers than allies.

The big one was struggling to his feet, the veins rich and dark on his face, a purplish crust at the corners of his eyes. Now Mander spun the lightsaber around in his hand, igniting it as he did so. It crackled to life like caged lightning. The bully brought himself up centimeters from the tip of the blade. The others, alerted by the noise, stopped fighting immediately. Everyone stared at the lightsaber glowing like a beacon in the darkened cantina.

Fear drained the face of the lead swooper. He suddenly looked very pale in the light of the weapon.

“I think you should go,” said Mander. He did not need to put the Force into his voice to make his point. “Now.”

The lead swooper took a step back, then a second, and a third. Then he turned and bolted for the door, his still-conscious allies following him. There came the satisfying sound of swoop bike engines engaging, then fading into the distance.

Reen motioned the barkeep over to discuss damages and what to do with the unconscious gang members. Eddey picked up the big swooper’s wide-brimmed hat and tried it on. It fit passably enough. Mander turned back to the Nikto, who was now awake and plastered in fear against the back wall.

“Mika the Hutt,” said Mander softly. “We’re looking for him. I’ve been sent by his father.”

The Nikto stammered something in Huttese, then gulped a deep breath of air and said in Basic, “Yes, yes. I will take you to him. He’s to the north, in Temple Valley.” He rose unsteadily to his feet and almost pitched forward.

Mander helped the Nikto out of the cantina, and saw that three of the bikes had been left beneath the dead tree. He made for them, Reen and Eddey behind him. He set the Nikto behind him on one of the bikes while Eddey broke open the security system on the ignition systems.

“That went well,” said Reen. “You know, I didn’t expect you to really try to talk him to death.”

“I know,” said Mander, covering his own discomfort. “But you saw the dark blood vessels. The rage.”

“I saw it after the fight started. Tempest.”

“Well, apparently it interfered with my Jedi mind tricks.” Mander looked at Eddey, who bypassed the security on the last swoop bike and fired it up. The engine revved satisfactorily and the Bothan gave him a thumbs-up.

“It interfered with your abilities. That’s a bad thing,” said Reen.

“That’s a very bad thing,” agreed Mander. “Let’s get back to the cargo skiff. We can leave the bikes there for their original owners to find and take the skiff to Temple Valley.”

By the time they had gotten back to the skiff, the Nikto had recovered enough to apologize to all of them for abandoning his post and being found drunk. He had been entrusted to watch over the office when Brave Young Mika chose to abandon the city. That was early on, when the deaths were rampant and people were blaming the outlanders. He had been living in the office after Mika left, until a mob broke in one night. He had escaped, but the place was ruined. So he had left a note as to where he could be found. Now that help had arrived, he would take them to Temple Valley.

Temple Valley was one of the more pleasant locations on Endregaad, more rolling hills than sharp-walled arroyos. Still, great rock formations had erupted from the landscape like partially buried cathedrals, giving the region its name. The Nikto’s directions were exact, and they topped the last rise to see an unexpected sight.

It was a crashed spaceship, its engines ripped from their mounts by the force of the impact. A shallow trench and debris field stretched from the ruins about a kilometer to the west, with large fragments dotting the landscape like metal altars to a forgotten god. The main body of the ship was cracked almost in half lengthwise, and the port side had plowed into the hillock.

Beneath the starboard wing a small collection of tents had been set up against the heat, using the ruined ship and a parked luxury skiff as supports. As they approached, Niktos stirred from the shade of the ship—Red, Green, and Mountain subfamilies, all descended from a common stock. All of them were armed, but when they saw the Nikto with Mander, they set up a cheer.

Eddey settled their skiff and they debarked, the Mountain Nikto explaining in rapid Huttese to the others what had happened. He was going too fast for Mander to make out everything, but the phrases “Wise Popara” and “Jeedai” were used a great deal.

Mander looked over at the camp beneath the ship’s wing, and another large shape moved into the sunlight. This was a Hutt, smaller than the others he had seen, his flesh a pale yellow-green with a lighter underbelly. It was wearing an incongruous zerape made out of a large blanket, and had a broad-brimmed hat shielding its eyes. Mander stepped up to the Hutt, meeting it halfway.

“I am Mander Zuma,” Mander said in Huttese. “If you are Mika the Hutt, I should tell you that your father is concerned.”

“I am Mika Anjiliac,” said the young Hutt in educated, precise Basic. “My father has every right to have been concerned. Welcome to ground zero for the Endregaad plague.”