Hero's Trial: Agents of Chaos I (26 page)

Han carefully lifted his two cards and forced them apart: twenty-one.

Almost immediately the randomizer struck, reducing the value to thirteen.

He threw the Commander of flasks, worth twelve, into the interference field—just short of another strike, which
converted the one of coins into the Idiot, with a value of zero.

He asked for a card and drew the Evil One, valued at negative fifteen, leaving him with a total value of negative three. Whispered disappointment spread through the crowd.

Tension mounted as Han studied the shoe, glanced at the randomizer, then studied the shoe some more. When he announced that he would stand, the audience gasped in unison. A twelve in the interference field and a negative fifteen on the table; he was either an inspired player or a born loser.

The Bith turned over the house’s two cards, the one of staves and the Commander of coins, for a total of thirteen. House rules required the dealer to draw a third card on a twelve or thirteen.

The Bith’s hand went to the shoe and the crowd held its breath. A ranked card would put the house on the wrong side of twenty-three, and a face card could very well drop the house into the negative. Han appeared to have a fighting chance. A rivulet of sweat coursed down the side of his face and dripped from his jaw.

But when the bearer’s paddle lifted the card, Han caught a glimpse of its reflection in the interference field.

The nine of sabers.

A twenty-two for the dealer.

Han’s heart sunk.

In the same instant the randomizer struck for an unprecedented third time. Han’s Evil One became the Mistress of staves, increasing his total to twenty-five! But then the Idiot transformed, as well—to the Queen of Air
and Darkness, valued at negative two, for a total of twenty-three.

Pure sabacc.

Sitting tall in the chair once more, Han showed his hand. Wild applause erupted behind him. He had won again.

The banker shoved Han’s winnings forward and closed the table. As the disheartened players left and the crowd dispersed—save for a Twi’lek woman trying desperately to attract Han’s attention—Han counted out his initial buy-in stakes and pushed the hefty remainder to Droma.

“Here,” he snarled, “buy yourself a new outfit—something that doesn’t shout.”

Droma grinned and swept the credits into his two-toned beret. “I know some folks on the lower decks who can use this.”

Han showed him a gimlet stare. “You knew I’d win.”

“I may have had a hunch,” Droma allowed.

“So you’re a player.”

Droma shook his head. “But I am familiar with the cards. The Ryn invented them. The ranked and face cards, that is.”

Han made a face. “This I gotta hear.”

“Each card embodied certain spiritual principles,” Droma went on. “In sum they were a training device for spiritual growth, you might say—but never meant to be used in a game of chance.”

He reached across the table for one of the discarded decks. Fanning the deck in one hand, Droma rid it of the suit cards numbered one through eleven. The rest he spread in a semicircle on the tabletop.

“The ranked cards—Commander, Mistress, Master, and Ace—represented individuals of specific inclination, with the staves corresponding to spiritual enterprise, the flasks to emotional states, the sabers to mental pursuits, and the coins to material well-being. But regard the eight pairs of face cards and ask yourself why a game would include such titles as Balance, Endurance, Moderation, Demise.”

Droma plucked the Master of staves from the semicircle and placed it in front of Han. “You,” he said. “A dark-haired man of formidable strength and intuition, but often brash and self-absorbed. Despite his years, he charges boldly into every situation, regardless of the odds, sometimes banging his head on things. And yet he is at heart a seeker of knowledge.”

“Hokey religions,” Han said under his breath, but deliberately loud enough for Droma to hear.

Grinning, Droma leaned away from him, twirling the left tip of his mustache. “Think so? Let’s see what we can see.”

Leaving the Master of staves undisturbed, he gathered the rest of the ranked and face cards, shuffled them deftly, performed a one-handed cut, and set the abridged deck on the table. Peeling a card from the top of the pack, he placed it faceup below the Master of staves.

“The Master of flasks,” Droma said. “A father figure, protector, or close friend. Loving, dedicated, loyal to a fault.” He fingered another card from the pack, placed it on top of and perpendicular to the Master of flasks, and frowned. “Crossed by the Evil One. A harmful addiction in some cases, but more often a powerful enemy.”

Han swallowed, but said nothing.

The third card—Demise—crossed Han’s card in the same way. Han felt Droma’s gaze on him.

“You lost a friend—a protector?” Droma asked.

Han put on his best sabacc face. “Go ahead, finish with your little divination.”

Droma placed a card to the left of the Master of staves. “The Idiot. The start of a journey or quest, usually down an unknown path. A sometimes unsettling plunge into the unknown.” The next card crowned the Master. “Moderation—but inverted. A craving for retribution or vengeance.”

Han nodded and snorted. “You’re good, you’re really good. You watch and you pay close attention to what people say. That way you get a sense of who someone is or what someone’s going through. Then you put it all in a nicely wrapped package”—he indicated the spread of cards—“and feed it right back. Just like your second-guessing what someone’s about to say.”

Droma made his face long in feigned astonishment. “I’m simply laying out cards.”

Han gestured in dismissal. “You arranged the cards when you shuffled. Or maybe you’re dealing seconds.”

Droma lifted his hands to his shoulders and nodded to the deck. “Draw four cards in rapid succession and line them up alongside the Master of staves.”

Han hesitated, then did so. But before Droma could speak, he jabbed his finger at the first of the quartet. “Don’t tell me what it means, just tell me what the location stands for.”

“Someone who might be affected by your actions.”

Disquiet tugged at the corners of Han’s mouth as he scrutinized the card. “The Commander of sabers,” he
said quietly. “Maybe a younger version of the Master. Headstrong, clever …”

“And brave,” Droma added. “An able fighter.”

Anakin
? Han asked himself. He moved his finger to the next card.

“It occupies the place of unforeseen consequence or hidden danger,” Droma supplied.

“The Queen of Air and Darkness,” Han mused, examining her depiction for clues. “Could be a person hiding something. Or a delusion, maybe.”

Droma nodded. “Something unrevealed.” He indicated the next card in the line. “How best to proceed.”

“Balance,” Han said. “Being able to stay on your feet when the going gets rough and the ground around you’s shaking.”

“Adjustment to what life dishes out,” Droma elaborated. “Persistence in the face of adversity. And spiritual power.”

Han’s finger fell on the final card. “The future?”

Droma rocked his head back and forth. “A likely outcome. In this case, what the Idiot may find.”

Han scowled and regarded the card. “The Star. But upside down—inverted.” He glanced at Droma. “Not all it could be. Less than a complete success.”

Droma smiled with his eyes and nodded. “Congratulations, Roaky. Fortune has granted you a glimpse of its innermost designs.”

Above a gibbous Obroa-skai, Harrar’s faceted ship hung in the shadow of the most recently arrived of the Yuuzhan Vong’s yorik coral battleships, under the command of Malik Carr. Where the one dazzled the eye, the other looked to have been cast fully formed from the churning bowels of some impossibly gargantuan volcano.

In the command center of the smaller vessel, Malik Carr, Nom Anor, Harrar, Commander Tla, and his chief tactician studied a holographic swirl of star systems given life by data fed to the war coordinator lodged in Obroa-skai’s mutilated surface, and relayed to the faceted ship by signal villip. In dimly lighted recesses, attendants and acolytes stood still as statues.

“The auguries are encouraging,” Commander Tla was telling his peer. “Our campaign proceeds apace. In addition, a group of captives fresh from Ord Mantell’s orbital station is being assigned to a special project that may provide us with new insights into the species that dominate this galaxy.”

Commander Malik Carr nodded in approval. “Warmaster
Tsavong Lah will be pleased to learn.” A tall male whose incised face and bare upper torso touted an illustrious military career, he wore a vibrant turban, which conformed closely to his elongated skull. His shoulders and hips bulged with newly acquired bone and cartilage, from which hung a resplendent command cloak. “Where do the auguries direct us next?”

Tactician Raff answered. “The environment is rich with targets, Commander Malik Carr.” He instructed the signal villip to enlarge and enhance specific sectors within an area of space referred to by the New Republic as the Colonies. “In anticipation of our striking at the Core, the enemy has deployed its fleets at hyperspace egresses throughout this region. The worlds that lie along our side of the frontier—Borleias, Ralltiir, Kuat, and Commenor—all make for excellent staging areas for an eventual assault on Coruscant, the capital world.”

“The auguries suggest caution, however,” Harrar interjected.

The tactician concurred. “At this moment in the perpetuation, careful thought must be given to the battle plan. Advance too slowly and we provide the New Republic with an opportunity to initiate counterattacks along our flanks. Advance too quickly and we run the risk of encountering more resistance than we are prepared to overcome.”

Malik Carr grunted. “Additional warships are forthcoming from Sernpidal. With those we will be able to engage and occupy the enemy on numerous fronts. At the same time, we may be able to discover a more subtle approach to Coruscant.” He looked at Nom Anor. “What
of these Hutt creatures I’ve been hearing about, Executor? Do they pose a threat?”

Nom Anor advanced a step. “I have had several meetings with Borga the Hutt—in my guise as intercessor, of course—and am delighted to report that the Hutts are more interested in reaching an accord than in going to war, even in defense of their territory. Their sector of space is extensive, and includes numerous worlds that can easily be remade to provide us with yorik coral and other resources, one of which they have already placed at our disposal. Thus, a brief detour into Hutt space would not be unwarranted. I have also tasked some of my agents to sow disinformation in advance of your arrival.”

“Duly noted,” the battleship commander said. “And what of the Jedi?”

Harrar vouchsafed a thin smile. “Their days may be numbered, as well. We have taken steps to provide the Jedi with a crisis, by infiltrating one of our own among them—Priestess Elan.”

“We have even gone so far as to provide the New Republic with minor victories in the Meridian sector and at Ord Mantell to substantiate the peerless value of our operative,” Commander Tla added.

Harrar intruded eagerly. “It is our belief that Elan is en route to a meeting with the Jedi even now.”

The priest stopped himself when he saw a herald appear at the entry to the command center, bearing a villip in his folded arms. Approaching Nom Anor, the herald stroked the villip’s ridge, inducing it to evert. Nom Anor gestured for one of his own dedicated villips to be brought forth, and watched as the transforming
villip took on the aspect of one of his Yuuzhan Vong underlings.

“Executor,” the subaltern’s facsimile began, “a group of your agents—those enlisted in the Peace Brigade—have apparently taken it upon themselves to return something seemingly lost to us.”

Nom Anor’s eyes grew wide. “Not Elan,” he said in false hope.

“She, Executor.”

“What?” Harrar said in alarm. “What’s this?”

“How is this possible?” Nom Anor asked. “The Peace Brigade was never made aware of Elan’s feigned defection. What’s more, you yourself informed me that the Peace Brigade was occupied in Hutt space.”

“As they were, Executor—at least until they learned of Elan’s defection and capture.”

Nom Anor’s face contorted in mortification. “From whom?”

“I have not been able to ascertain.”

“This is ludicrous,” Harrar shouted. “How do they plan to retrieve her?”

“Apparently they have been apprised of the means by which she is to be relocated to Coruscant.”

Nom Anor’s villip mirrored his rancorous expression. “Impossible. Even I had difficulty sorting through the New Republic’s subterfuges. Even within the Intelligence division the route is a closely guarded secret.”

“I know only that the Peace Brigade is planning to move against a passenger ship bound for Bilbringi,” the subaltern said. “They have persuaded at least one of their immediate controllers to assist them. And they have a dovin basal in their possession.”

“We must see to it that they are prevented from interfering.” Harrar became angrier as he spoke. “At any cost.”

Nom Anor induced his own villip to return to normal and dismissed the herald. Commanders Tla and Malik Carr were watching him and the priest closely.

“Is anything wrong, Executor?” Malik Carr asked at last, raising a faint eyebrow.

Nom Anor traded quick glances with Harrar. “A possible setback involving our operative,” he conceded. Regaining control of his indignation, he gestured negatively and fixed his gaze on Malik Carr. “Nothing we can’t handle. Though I may have need of your swiftest frigate, Commander.”

“We’re husband and wife,” Showolter told the Askajian officer stationed at the most forward of the
Queen of Empire
’s starboard boarding gates. The starliner was in stationary orbit above the planet Vortex. “Recently displaced from Sernpidal.”

“Where the moon came down?” the officer asked.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“What was it you folks called that moon? I remember hearing on the newsnet …”

“Tosi-karu.”

“That was it.” The stout near-human regarded Vergere. “Is … he with you?”