Star Wars - Planet Of Twilight by Hambly Barbara

Author:Hambly, Barbara
Language: eng
Format: epub

He had meant it then as a lure, a come-on--use your anger in combat--a fool's trick.

But now Luke truly released his anger, let go of it let it rise like steam, to be absorbed and defused by the stars. There was entirely too much anger afoot that night anyway, deliberately being stirred up, raised like a magician raising power back in that house. Rid of it, Luke was able to think clearly again, to ask questions. And the chief question was What does Seti Ashgad stand to gain?

Under pouring rain, the port of Bagsho on Nim Drovis crawled with troops.

Han had alerted the Med Center from orbit that he had fifteen critical cases of radiation sickness on board. Ism Oolos, the Ho'Din physician he'd talked to over subspace, awaited him in the docking bay with an emergency team, surrounded by a squad of uniformed Drovians who seized Han's arms the minute he came down the Falcon's ramp, shoved him up against the nearest wall, and searched him none too gently.

“Is this really necessary?” demanded Dr. Oolos indignantly; Han also expressed himself to the head of the Drovian squad along the same lines but with considerably greater emphasis.

“Doc, if you'd seen some of the armaments coming in for the Gopso'o tribes, you wouldn't be asking that.” The Drovian sergeant pulled out its esophageal plug to make the remark, and shoved it back in with a squish. Since the onset of high-tech civilization in the wake of Old Republic military bases, most Drovians--who had been a pastoral network of tribes when contacted--had acquired the habit of sucking zwil--a cake-flavoring agent common to Algarine cuisine--through the mucous membranes of their breathing tubes via fist-size spongy plugs saturated with the stuff. Four-fifths of the soldiers wore plugs of various sizes and the air was thick with the dreamy, cinnamon-vanilla scent, where it wasn't heavy with the odors of wet vegetation, mildews inadvertently imported from every corner of the galaxy, and the oily smoke of burning.

“You must excuse us.” Dr. Oolos ducked his bright-tentacled head as he accompanied Han, the sergeant, two troopers, and the med team back up the ramp. “The Gopso'o have been restless for months--ances-tral enemies of the Drovians . . .” He lowered his soft voice and his twenty-five-meter height to speak without the sergeant hearing. “Not a particle of difference between them, you understand, except that they have been at blood feud for, literally, centuries. I have heard the original issue was whether the root word for truth is in the singular case or the plural, but so many atrocities were committed on both sides that, of course, it barely matters now. The Drovians were the ones who made interstellar contact first, so, of course, they're the dominant tribe, but . . .”

“They're killing each other over a festering grammatical construction?”

Han couldn't keep his voice down. Dr. Oolos winced and gestured him quiet, but it was too late. The Drovian sergeant grabbed Han's arm in a viselike pincer "I'm killin'

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