Star Wars: Sanctuary (A Bad Batch Novel)

Chapter One

Piproo Auction House, Hosnian Prime

Clone Force 99 knew all about challenging missions. Tackling and overcoming arduous tasks was what they were made for. However, even after all these years of fighting through muck and mire and beating unbeatable odds, Hunter could not recall a set of parameters he loathed more than what lay before him now. The mission was the mission, though. Each of them had a role to play. Failure was not an option.

“These jogan fruit are not peeled properly,” a looming multilimbed culinary droid said.

Hunter faced his “superior” and used a poorly maintained paring knife to strip the last bit of rind off a seeping orb that stained his hands purple. He dropped the fruit into the bin with the dozen others he’d worked on since slipping into his cover as a lowly caterer. “You wanted them not to have peels. They don’t. What’s improper about it?”

The droid’s posture went rigid in the face of mild insubordination. Hunter felt that his defiance followed Phee Genoa’s advice on this kind of laborious subterfuge—“Put a little bit of yourself into the ruse to make it more believable!”—as much as he cared to.

He never took a dressing-down well, even when deserved. And this was not deserved. He’d peeled the blasted jogan fruit! The task assigned to him—or rather assigned to the laborer he had subdued and now impersonated—was one of many in the sweltering, bustling auction house kitchen.

While the droid took issue with Hunter’s blade work—something no one else had ever questioned and lived to tell—it somehow missed more serious offenses throughout the evening that should’ve drawn its ire. Like the Volpai dishwasher who seemed incapable of keeping the stubby digits of his lower left hand out of his ear—disgusting. Or the Ikkrukkian pastry chef who’d snuck nibbles from several sweet tarts and covered the trespass with fresh frosting.

Yet this droid, a COO cook model with multiple arms and as many annoyances, had the nerve to treat Hunter as if he were the problem.

“A correct peeling,” the droid said, “would not exceed a width of 4.5 millimeters and is ideally done in a single coiled strip to preserve the rind as an aesthetically pleasing garnish . . .”

The tedious spiel continued, but Hunter’s attention shifted to the crackling audio from the microcomlink in his ear.

Through the device, Tech said, “Do not dismantle him. He is correct about the proper technique for crafting a jogan garnish.”

A second voice crackled through the comlink, instantly dulling the sharp edge of Hunter’s temper. Omega said, “I think it’s a fine-looking peel, Hunter.”

Hunter glanced over the culinary droid’s shoulder and spotted Omega with a freshly refilled tray, crossing the threshold from the kitchen to the ballroom, where the galaxy’s elite (criminals) milled about. She was dressed in black pleated trousers and a matching waitstaff shirt. She wore a dark wig to disguise her blond locks, just as a sheen of makeup concealed Hunter’s face tattoo for the day. Omega, the shortest waiter on staff, was easily identifiable among the sashaying robes and polished dress armor of the auction’s wealthy attendees.

She balanced a tray of Daruvvian champagne while holding Hunter’s gaze. He gave a curt nod, signaling he was fine and would not be tearing this droid limb from limb, so she could go about her duties and not blow her cover. She offered a drink to the nearest attendee, who accepted it greedily as the kitchen door slid shut. These beings accepted everything greedily, even what they had no rightful claim to. Thus, the mission.

The culinary droid droned on and on about proper slicing, hand position, leverage, and so on, and Hunter tuned it out, secure in his knowledge of what he could do with any blade, dull or otherwise. The droid stopped abruptly, perhaps sensing its tutelage was not getting through.

“Upon further consideration,” it said, “I think a tool more suited to your skill level is appropriate.”

The droid plucked the paring knife from Hunter’s hand, then presented his new instrument: a safety peeler, suitable for a child who’d been allowed in a kitchen for the very first time.

Droid, be thankful I’m letting you believe you’re the expert, Hunter thought, taking the peeler. This is the last time I let Phee plan anything! Ever!

Hall of Treasures, Pabu

Four Days Ago . . .

Phee Genoa’s umber skin took on a violet sheen in the hazy glow of the holographic floor plans she orbited while attempting to get the team on board. She was animated as she spoke, hands passionately chopping the air. “. . . and then we stroll right out. No muss, no fuss.”

Hunter stood, his arms crossed, his scowl fixed. “Why am I in the kitchen?”

Instead of stating the obvious—that Hunter’s natural disposition was not well suited for the social aspects of an undercover con job—Phee took a more diplomatic approach and reminded him of the other option. “You could wait on the ship with Mel.”

MEL-222, Phee’s cylindrical and eager power droid, had been freshly refurbished with junk parts and a memory backup after a rough outing on Skara Nal got her old body smashed to bits. She zipped to Hunter’s side on mismatched treads, chirring enthusiastically about a possible collaboration.

“Everyone else is going in, so I’m going in,” Hunter said, dismissing the suggestion and triggering a series of disappointed beeps from MEL-222.

Everyone else wasn’t going in, though. Wrecker, for example, would be outside playing the role of a valet, keeping an eye on the auction house’s exterior while ensuring they had transport and a clear escape route should things go awry. But Hunter didn’t really mean everyone. He meant Omega.

The young clone was sharp-eyed, taking in every detail, her enthusiasm radiating to the point she seemed to vibrate. “I’ll maneuver through the crowd,” Omega said, confirming her understanding of her role, “with the auto-slicer strapped to my ankle. For every bidder I get close to—”

“Mel-Tootootoo’s crude code will upload to their assigned bidder datapads and initiate a moderate credits siphon from their auction house accounts into ours,” Tech finished, sounding miffed.

MEL-222 chirped, also miffed. How dare Tech call her code crude!

“Easy, you two!” said Phee.

Tech said, “I would’ve written a much more elegant program. And foolproof.”

The droid had a few more choice beeps and burrs for Tech.

“Hush. He didn’t mean anything by it,” Phee told the droid, clearly a lie. Then she said to Tech, “You might have done it differently, but you have to admit it will work.”

“Given the available intel, with no deviations, it will probably work. Still—”

“Still nothing,” Phee said. “We all play our parts. And you have yours. Care to recap?”

Tech sighed deeply. “You and I will portray a married couple that has built a sizable fortune through beverage distribution—and an ancillary business smuggling blasters. I am to appear friendly.”

“Easy work for you, Brown Eyes,” Phee said.

Wrecker, with his brow creased from deep concentration, spoke up for the first time in an hour. “Maybe I should be in the kitchen. Because the food’s there.”

“Valet!” Phee said, refusing to go down this path again.

Wrecker’s shoulders slumped, but he did not argue.

“Look, I know this isn’t your usual kind of gig,” Phee said, attempting to ease the resistance in the room. “Way less pew-pew”—she mimicked firing rifles—“and boom-boom”—she spread her arms in a wide arc over her head for a pantomimed explosion that tugged a big grin from Wrecker—“but Pabu needs this.”

As if on cue, a slight tremor rumbled through the floor and their bones, an aftershock from the once-in-a-lifetime groundquake that sent a sea wave smashing into the island last month. A drizzle of dust shook loose from the rafters overhead. Though the aftershocks were less severe than in the first days after the sea wave the island’s recovery had been slow and uncertain. Immense progress had been made on repairs through the combined efforts of every single resident chipping in and applying whatever skills they possessed—from engineering to carpentry—but the reality of such a damaging natural disaster still held true: Pabu may never be exactly what it was.

Especially if they couldn’t secure the resources and credits for deep structural repairs and levees to prevent catastrophic damage from future surges.

Another tremor shook the Hall of Treasures, knocking Phee’s holoprojector disk off the table, which tipped the floor plans sideways as it fell. Omega leaped forward nimbly, catching the disk before it hit the ground, deactivating it. The hologram winked out of existence.

The tremor persisted for another few moments. When it finally ended, Phee said, “Maybe it’s time for a break.”

Wrecker raised his hand.

Phee did not need to hear the question. “Yes, you can go eat.”

He left the conference room in a run.