Crisis at Crystal Reef

4

After years of running the spice mines of Kessel, Chief Administrator Nien Nunb finally thought that the place felt like the warrens of home. The dim winding tunnels with their cool rock walls seemed much like the crowded burrows that honeycombed the crust of Sullust, where mousy-faced, large-eyed Sullustan families preferred to live together. Nien Nunb often went back home to visit his family, whenever he could spare himself here.

The spice mines had once been a feared place, an Imperial prison planet and work camp. But over a decade ago Lando Calrissian had purchased the mines, setting up his friend and copilot Nien Nunb as their administrator. Together, they had turned the once-dreaded mines into a productive industrial facility that held few of the grim connotations that Kessel formerly had. They’d found a way to turn it into a true credit-making enterprise.

By choosing alien species who were comfortable underground, who preferred living in tunnels and in darkness, Nien Nunb had made the place an efficient working environment. Spice production had increased greatly in the past ten years. Nien Nunb and his old friend Lando liked to joke that the mines were one of Calrissian’s few ventures that actually turned a profit, although the initial investment for extensive revamping and new equipment had cost an emperor’s ransom.

In his younger years, Nien Nunb had led a life of adventure, tagging along with Lando on smuggling runs, breaking through Imperial blockades and delivering much-needed supplies to restricted planets. In the Millennium Falcon, borrowed from Han Solo, Nien Nunb had served as copilot when Lando made his desperate run to destroy the second Death Star. Nervous by nature, Nien Nunb had been certain they would die in the attempt … but somehow the Falcon had survived, and Lando had gone on to become a hero of the New Republic.

But the Sullustan copilot had had enough excitement in his life, and now he was content just to work here in the calming twisted tunnels beneath the cold surface of Kessel. He liked running a business. He thought it much better than getting shot at every other day.

Kessel was a small, low-gravity world, roughly potato-shaped, with a very thin atmosphere. Like Sullust, the planet was habitable only belowground, behind the sealed entrances to the dark tunnels. Large cities and giant atmospheric generation plants had been established to stabilize the amount of air clinging to the surface, but Kessel’s gravity was simply not strong enough to keep all of the atmosphere from escaping into space.

Whenever he looked through the panoramic viewing ports up into the sky, the Chief Administrator could see a ring of broken meteors strewn out about the planet, shards from Kessel’s companion moon. They orbited, glittering with reflected light, and even during dim daylight, a sparkling show of meteors rained down to pound the surface of the mining planet. Fortunately, no one lived out there in the hazardous zone.

The Death Star prototype had destroyed Kessel’s moon during the resurgence of Imperial activity many years before. Since that time, though, Kessel had been a quiet place, as if the whole planet had decided to take a deep breath and regather its energy.

Because of the spice’s desirable effects—a burst of energy or telepathic enhancement—many black-market entrepreneurs sold spice illicitly. Spies, smugglers, and information brokers used it, as did thrill seekers. As a result, the substance became rare and too little was left for the legitimate users throughout the New Republic. Spice was vital for many medical treatments: to save weakened patients, to restore the memories of amnesia victims, to enhance communication in deeply impaired individuals, and so on.

Because of the long and well-established tradition of illegal spice distribution, Nien Nunb had taken years to crack down on the edge-of-the-law traders. His kindheartedness had paid off. Happy workers had rewarded the Chief Administrator by finding a rich new strike of andris spice on the far side of Kessel. Nien Nunb was exceedingly pleased.

Andris, a rare form of the drug, was as valuable as glitterstim or ryll. Its properties were further enhanced by exposure to extreme cold. Much andris had already been excavated here on Kessel, bringing excellent financial returns on the new mine. Seeing the opportunity to increase the potency of the andris (and their profits as well), Nien Nunb and his workers had recently completed installing a carbon-freezing facility in the main processing center.

Today was just another day at work, as the Sullustan accompanied his Second Administrator, Torvon, on their weekly inspection tour. Together, the tall administrator and the short, mousy manager entered a main work chamber.

In the enormous hollowed-out room below the surface, holding pits and carbonite generators bubbled and steamed under a rocky ceiling. Cold white mist oozed out of exhaust valves on a rattling conveyor. Blind beetlelike creatures worked with multiple claws, packaging and sealing the purified andris before it was sent into the hissing vat of pure carbonite that had been freshly delivered from the rings of the Empress Teta system.

Torvon’s high shiny forehead was split into hemispheres that implied an increased cranial capacity. The tall secondary administrator had solid pale green eyes with no pupils Nien Nunb could see. Torvon had come highly recommended after serving as a high-ranking administrator in no less than six other financially successful industrial facilities. The man was so tall that the Sullustan’s shoulders barely came up to his knobby knees.

As he walked beside his secondary administrator, Nien Nunb studied the details with his huge black eyes, which glinted as he flicked his gaze along the assembly line. The blind beetles seemed perfectly happy with their work. They were well fed, well paid, and lived in a community in abandoned glitterstim tunnels on the far side of Kessel. They asked for little else.

Lift platforms carried sealed, code-numbered crates of processed andris up to the surface, where a domed spaceport received the cargo for shipping. Armed vessels flew off to deliver the treasure. Each cargo ship received a percentage, and the remaining credits were transmitted back to Kessel.

Ventilation ducts and piping thrummed around the generators and cold-storage receptacles. Machinery protruded above and below, fitting together in a jigsaw puzzle of controlled chaos that offered a variety of small crannies and hollows to be used for equipment storage. Nien Nunb noted ways to make more efficient use of space. Perhaps employees from other areas could bring their storage items in here.

He studied the monitor panels and controls as the brooding Torvon stepped close beside him, towering like a tree. The Sullustan manager glanced at the pressure gauges of flowing raw carbonite and noticed that many of the needles had edged up into the red zones. He muttered in alarm and tapped one of the dials, double-checking the reading. Torvon reached up out of sight and fiddled with one of the controls. Nien Nunb assumed he had seen the same problem and was working to correct it.

Suddenly the gauges jumped. The readings went much higher—much too fast. What had Torvon done?

Nien Nunb gave a loud squawk of alarm. He heard a faint creaking groan, saw that one of the coolant pipes close to him was bulging, buckling with the strain. He cried out and instinctively dove headfirst into a protected cranny between two huge pieces of equipment.

Torvon’s knobby legs appeared, striding closer to where Nien Nunb had taken shelter. The Sullustan yelled for the secondary administrator to get out of the way, but instead Torvon bent over, his unreadable pale green eyes flashing. He reached into the cranny, trying to grab Nien Nunb. Couldn’t Torvon see the danger? What was he doing? The Sullustan couldn’t understand why he didn’t get out of the way. A moment later, Torvon’s hands clutched Nien Nunb’s vest and began to drag him out.

Torvon was going to haul him into the line of the accident!

Just then, though, the groaning pipe burst. Too soon.

Gushing, infinitely cold vapors blasted Torvon’s legs, right where he’d been trying to pull Nien Nunb. The carbonite instantly froze the tall administrator’s joints, turning his lower legs into poles of solid ice. Torvon howled in shock and tried to move out of the way, but his feet were stuck to the floor. The tall man bent over, tugging at his feet, but his legs, like sticks of brittle kindling, shattered. Torvon fell face-first into the blast of ultrafrigid gas.

The carbonite did its work, even as the murderous administrator’s broken body fell, freezing his head and body core absolutely solid in the fraction of a second it took for him to tumble the remaining distance to the hard stone floor. When he struck the unyielding surface, Torvon smashed into a million glittering pieces. His hand still clutched Nien Nunb’s vest—not frozen, but no longer alive.

The Sullustan manager backed up to huddle in the cranny again, terrified but unhurt.

Alarms sounded. Lights flashed. Automatic systems sealed off the breached carbonite tube, preventing further loss of the precious freezing substance.

Within moments the air would clear, though Nien Nunb didn’t know if he would ever be able to drive away the chill in his heart. He had trusted Torvon—and Torvon had tried to kill him. Hadn’t he? Nien Nunb shook his head to clear it. He didn’t know what exactly had gone on here, and he doubted anyone else would give him the answers—but the Chief Administrator knew for certain that this was no mere accident.

Torvon had died, but the actual target must have been Nien Nunb himself.