Scourge Read online

  Star Wars: Scourge is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2012 by Lucasfilm Ltd. & ® or ™ where indicated.

  All Rights Reserved. Used Under Authorization.

  Excerpt from Star Wars: X-Wing: Mercy Kill © 2012 by Lucasfilm Ltd. & ® or ™ where indicated. All Rights Reserved. Used Under Authorization.

  Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

  This book contains an excerpt from Star Wars: X-Wing: Mercy Kill by Aaron Allston. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-53443-9

  www.starwars.com

  www.delreybooks.com

  Cover design: Scott Biel

  Cover art: Larry Rostant

  v3.1

  To Kate, my Lovely Bride, who is known in the better parts of the galaxy as Dr. Bunny Pierce, and who is legendary for hitting golf balls off the flight deck of her Imperial Star Destroyer.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The events in this book were first detailed in the Tempest Feud game product for the Star Wars Roleplaying Game, from Wizards of the Coast, written by Jeff Grubb and Owen K. C. Stephens and edited by Christopher Perkins and Duane Maxwell. They occur in 19 ABY, in the time period between the founding of the Jedi praxeum on Yavin 4 and the coming of the Yuuzhan Vong.

  The author would also like to thank Olivia Luna and Scott Hungerford for additional feedback and comments.

  Do not attempt Jedi mind tricks at home.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Dramatis Personae

  Prologue: Death Of a Jedi

  Chapter One: A Mystery On Makem Te

  Chapter Two: Negotiations

  Chapter Three: Popara the Hutt

  Chapter Four: To the Plague Planet

  Chapter Five: Planetfall

  Chapter Six: Tel Bollin

  Chapter Seven: Mika the Hutt

  Chapter Eight: Repercussions

  Chapter Nine: A Night On Nar Shaddaa

  Chapter Ten: Pursuit In the Depths

  Chapter Eleven: Beneath the Smugglers’ Moon

  Chapter Twelve: Trial and Terror

  Chapter Thirteen: Calculations

  Chapter Fourteen: The Trail Of the Tempest

  Chapter Fifteen: Dealings

  Chapter Sixteen: The Rodian Matriarch

  Chapter Seventeen: Voyage to Varl

  Chapter Eighteen: The Heart of the Tempest

  Chapter Nineteen: The Spice Lord of Varl

  Chapter Twenty: Fall of the Hutt

  Chapter Twenty-one: New Management

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Star Wars: X-Wing: Mercy Kill

  Introduction to the Star Wars Expanded Universe

  Excerpt from Star Wars: Death Troopers

  Introduction to the Old Republic Era

  Excerpt from Star Wars: The Old Republic: Fatal Alliance

  Introduction to the Rise of the Empire Era

  Excerpt from Star Wars: The Han Solo Adventures

  Introduction to the Rebellion Era

  Excerpt from Star Wars: Tales from Jabba’s Palace

  Introduction to the New Republic Era

  Excerpt from Star Wars: The Black Fleet Crisis: Before the Storm

  Introduction to the New Jedi Order Era

  Excerpt from Star Wars: New Jedi Order: Vector Prime

  Introduction to the Legacy Era

  Excerpt from Star Wars: Millennium Falcon

  Excerpt from Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Outcast

  Star Wars Novels Timeline

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  Angela Krin; lieutenant commander, CSA, and captain, Resolute (human female)

  Eddey Be’ray; spacer (Bothan male)

  Hedu; matriarch of the Bomu clan (Rodian female)

  Koax; aide to the Spice Lord (Klatooinian female)

  Mander Zuma; Jedi Master and archivist (human male)

  Mika Anjiliac; businessbeing (masculine Hutt)

  Popara Anjiliac; Hutt lord (masculine Hutt)

  Reen Irana; spacer (Pantoran female)

  Toro Irana; Jedi Knight (Pantoran male)

  Vago Gejalli; adviser to Popara Anjiliac (feminine Hutt)

  Zonnos Anjiliac; businessbeing (masculine Hutt)

  A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.…

  PROLOGUE

  DEATH OF A JEDI

  The Pantoran Jedi Toro Irana was angry. He had been waiting on this hellhole planet for weeks now, and as his former Master, Mander Zuma, was all too fond of telling him, Toro’s patience was never his most admirable trait. Meetings had been set up, canceled, rescheduled, moved to new locations, and canceled once again. And now, on top of everything else, his contact was keeping him waiting, in this rooftop restaurant, forty stories up and overlooking a planetary graveyard. By this time, Toro’s patience had worn thin.

  Toro could feel his blue skin itch and his lips swell. He reached for the bottle of scentwine to pour himself another round.

  Even at the best of times a late arrival, a delay from decision and action, would frustrate him. Now, on the world of Makem Te, it drove Toro to distraction. The air of this planet reeked of smelter dust and desiccated meat. The world itself was dominated by the Tract, a huge iron-shod necropolis that from space resembled an ice cap. The restaurant windows commanded a sweeping view of the crypts and mausoleums of the Tract, which to Toro resembled nothing less than rows of odd-shaped peg teeth rising from skeletal jaws. Even a setting sun, blue-green through the swirling dust, could do nothing to improve the view. And as for the planet’s inhabitants …

  Toro suppressed a shudder and looked over at the Swokes Swokes milling around their dining troughs. His first opinion upon making planetfall was that they were huge lumps of malformed flesh, and increased familiarity did nothing to change that opinion. They looked more melted than crafted by any environment, their pale, sagging flesh spilling from their horned heads directly to their bodies, with no visible sign of a neck. Their teeth looked like the necropolis outside, except the Swokes Swokes spent less time maintaining them, and their incisors canted outward at all angles. Their faces were otherwise flat, with a random number of nostril holes and bland white eyes set into shallow black sockets. It would give them a comical look were the species not, to the last member, bullies and thugs.

  In short, they were the perfect species for this backrocket planet, the perfect caretakers of this tombstone world. And right now, every last one of them was getting on his nerves. The restaurant for this meeting catered primarily to the lumpy natives, and the tables were dominated by long troughs, into which the host poured a noxious concoction of spice-leavened boiled meats mixed with what looked like shed shinga scales and live sandbugs. There were smaller, more traditional tables around the perimeter of the room, near the windows, but he and a couple of Nikto traders two booths over were the only customers who used them—and the only customers who didn’t look half melted. The temperature was set comfortable for the Swokes Swokes, which was too cold by half for Toro, and the sound of the creatures eating would frighten the old Emperor himself.

  Toro downed the scentwine, since its aroma killed most of the rest of the smells in the room. He waved for the waiter, who shambled toward him.

  “More of these beetle-things,” said Toro, pointing to the pile of now-empty black shells. “And some of the loc
al swill as well.”

  “Timasho payen,” burbled the waiter, and then shifted from Swoken to a slurred, sloppy Basic. “Pay now, blue-skin.”

  “I’m waiting for someone,” said Toro. “Run me a tab.”

  The Swokes Swokes burbled something else in Swoken, then provided a rough translation. “Going off my shift, blue-skin. Pay now.”

  Toro swung in his iron chair and let his robe fall open, revealing the gleam of his lightsaber. His hand drifted down to touch it, but not to grasp it.

  “I said,” he growled, “that you should run me a tab. My contact will cover it.”

  The Swokes Swokes frowned, or at least tried to frown through its rolls of ash-gray fat, but it backed off and a short time later another plate of broiled beetles and a two-handled mug of the local alcohol—potent but, like everything else in this place, imbued with a mild flavor of dust and spice. Still, if he rationed out the remaining purplish scentwine, it could mask most of the stench.

  Toro examined the bottle. A Rodian brought it, along with his patron’s apologies. Unavoidably delayed and all that garbage. Toro was sure that it was only a gambit to establish power and control in this situation, but knowing that made the young Jedi even more irritated. Still, the wine was a rose in the junkyard, a bright floral smell among the rest of this iron-shod planet. Had to have come from offworld, he realized. Another symbol of power and control from his contact.

  Across the room, two Swokes Swokes started howling at each other in high-pitched screeches. Religious argument, guessed Toro, since most of the arguments on this planet were about religion and death. Toro wondered if it would come to blows. Not that it mattered. Swokes Swokes could regenerate all but the most grievous of damage. It was one reason members of the species were prized as mercenaries, guards, and leg breakers.

  Toro could feel his temples throb at the guttural shrieks across the room. Enough. Finish the drink and he would be done. His contact would have to learn that he was not the only one with power in this relationship.

  Something heavy and soft slammed into Toro from behind, throwing him forward across the table. The last of the scentwine spilled from its glass, and the bottle toppled and rolled out of his grasp, falling to the floor on the far side of the table with a brittle thump, along with the double-handled swill mug.

  Toro turned in his chair, to find that his assailant was another Swokes Swokes, its body bedecked in jewelry set over the vital spots. This one was higher caste, but still had the soggy, blank-faced look of the rest of its species.

  The Swokes Swokes spat out something that could have been an apology, but was more likely a warning.

  Toro stood up, and for a moment the room swayed beneath his feet. “Watch where you’re going,” the Jedi snarled.

  The bejeweled alien snapped something sharp. Definitely an insult, from the way the other Swokes Swokes with it reacted. It drew itself up to its full height, about a head taller than Toro. The two stared at each other for a long moment. Then the Swokes Swokes raised a four-fingered hand to push Toro out of the way.

  Drinking or not, angry or not, Toro’s reflexes snapped into a set response. Half a step backward to put distance between them, his hand effortlessly unsheathing the lightsaber and bringing it up in a smooth, practiced move, thumbing the switch and deploying the blade in a single action. The Swokes Swokes had only a second to regret its action before Toro brought the blade up and cut through the creature’s forearm.

  The Swokes Swokes shuddered but did not cry out, instead looking at the cauterized stump of its arm with puzzlement. Right, thought Toro, the species not only regenerates, but it also lacks local pain centers. Another reason they make good leg breakers. The injured Swokes Swokes let out a howl, more from indignation than pain.

  Everyone turned in their seats to see the blue-skinned Pantoran, wielding a lightsaber, and his injured opponent. As one, the aliens rose from their meals, some grabbing iron dining forks as they did so, others hefting the heavy iron stools. They converged on the pair.

  The injured Swokes Swokes pushed forward, its good arm raised like a warty club. Toro danced backward, up over the iron chair and onto the table itself, bringing the lightsaber around in a smooth, level arc. The Swokes Swokes’s head separated at the approximate intersection of its neck and body, spilling backward into the surging mob.

  “Regenerate that!” Toro said. The death of the high-caste alien gave half the group pause, while it infuriated the other half. Toro noted that the two Niktos from the other table were already heading for the door—along with the waiter—but that was all he had time to notice before the mob was on top of him.

  Toro spun with the lightsaber, cutting through flesh and iron with equal ease. One of the attackers had thought enough to duck beneath the sweeping blade, and grabbed Toro’s sword-arm in a soft but unrelenting embrace. Toro tossed the lightsaber to his left hand and brought up a booted foot into the alien’s face. The entire face gave in like soft putty, which did not seem to trouble the creature in the slightest, but the grasp on Toro’s arm lessened. The Jedi drew his blade through the attacker’s arm and the detached limb loosened its grip fully now, vanishing into the tumult.

  Something heavy and dark flew toward him, and Toro reached up and split an iron-shod stool in two with his blade, the pieces caroming off the window supports behind him. Two more Swokes Swokes grabbed at Toro’s feet on the table, but he leapt up, spinning and dragging his blade across the table’s surface, separating hands from arms as he did so.

  Now makeshift missiles showered Toro—stools, eating utensils, two-handled goblets and bits of food. The Jedi wove his blade through the air, cutting down the more dangerous, dodging the merely disgusting. The glass behind him spidered from the heavier missiles, but did not break. Assailants would try to get close, but he would spin and leave these missing a few appendages for their trouble. Where they wore embedded jewels, signs of status among their people, the Jedi treated them as targets, carving them from too-soft flesh.

  Toro realized that he was cursing now, cursing at this planet and its people and his contact and the uncaring universe that would put him in this place at this particular time. His chin was wet, and when he wiped his sleeve against it, it came away with a bubbling, bloody froth on it. Had he been injured? Had one of these melted, horrible creatures gotten lucky against him? He snarled and his vision seemed coated in blood as well. They would all pay for attacking him.

  There was movement behind him, and Toro spun and lashed out without thinking. The table, already weakened from his assaults, collapsed, pitching him forward. Toro leapt, slashing as he did, and only then realizing that he had mistaken his opponent. His foe was only his reflection in the window, caught by the dying sun.

  But then it was too late and he was through the window itself, the fury of his blade sharding it into a thousand daggers from the blow. He twisted to catch the ledge but he had leapt too far, and he spun out into open, dust-strewn air, forty stories above the necropolis.

  The entire way down, all Toro could feel was the anger.

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  A MYSTERY ON MAKEM TE

  Mander Zuma pursed his lips as he moved through the back alleys of Makem Te. He was far from the Tract, far from the necropolis that dominated this world, far from the site of Toro Irana’s death.

  And far from satisfied with what he had discovered so far about the death of his former apprentice.

  Word had reached Yavin 4 and the new Jedi Order in the form of a complaint from the Congress of Caliphs that ruled Makem Te, of a blue-skinned Jedi who had killed a Caliph’s nephew. Apologies were made through the New Republic’s diplomatic channels, but Mander was pulled from his regular duties in the Archives and dispatched to find out what had really happened.

  His assignment made perfect sense to Mander. He had taught Toro in the ways of the Force, and had monitored the young Jedi’s own reports back to the Order. His own skill set dovetailed nicely with Toro’s assigned mi
ssion. Yet the older Jedi was still reluctant to leave behind the Archives, to leave Yavin 4 after years of diligent and productive research.

  What Mander found on this planet surprised him. Not that Toro had gotten into a fight—the young man had been headstrong and easily riled even when he had been his apprentice, and the Swokes Swokes were by all reports a prickly species to deal with. But the idea that Toro had gotten into an argument so easily, or that he had made such a fatal mistake in combat, troubled Mander deeply as he made the long trip from Yavin to Makem Te. As he stepped off the shuttle and breathed the dusty air of this world, the questions swirled within him. What had gone wrong? Had it been his training that had been at fault? Had Mander prepared him insufficiently? Or were there other factors at work?

  As a student, Toro had been a superb warrior—limber and smooth, a blue-fleshed blur in combat. More important, he bonded with his lightsaber, treating the blade as an extension of his self. Even in training, Mander was impressed with the young Pantoran’s skill and confidence.

  Mander himself had none of that easiness in combat. The Force was strong in the older Jedi, but it was directed elsewhere. He could feel the energy moving through him, but his own lightsaber often felt like an alien thing, a lump in his hand. He had come to the Force late in life, as did many in the later years of the Empire, and it showed.

  Toro was better with a lightsaber, and Mander was sure that he would have become a fine Jedi Knight. A better Jedi Knight than he. But now Toro was dead and Mander was not sure why.

  Mander’s first stop was to claim the body and examine it, a rented medical droid at his side burbling commentary. The dried flecks of blood on his apprentice’s lips and the broken bones along one side of his body spoke of a sudden, violent end. But there was also a darkening of the young man’s veins and arteries—violet against the sea-blue of his flesh—that had not be present in life, and pointed to an external agent at work.

  Further, purple crystals budded at the corners of Toro’s eyes. Mander was not sure if this was natural to the Pantorans in death, but he assumed it was not, and took a sample of the material. It had a pungent aroma, more cloying than the acrid dust of Makem Te’s air. There were similar crystals in the dead Jedi’s darkened veins, now stilled of pulsing life. Something had been injected or ingested, he decided.