by Timothy Zahn
“I mean that attacking Coruscant and carrying off Organa Solo by brute force is impractical,” Thrawn said. “Sending in a small group to kidnap her, on the other hand, is perfectly feasible. I’ve already ordered Intelligence to assemble a commando team for that purpose. It should be ready within the day.”
“A commando team.” C’baoth’s lip twisted. “Need I remind you how your Noghri have continually failed you in this matter?”
“I agree,” Thrawn said, an oddly grim note to his voice. “Which is why the Noghri will not be involved.”
Pellaeon looked down at the Grand Admiral in surprise, then threw an involuntary glance at the door to the command room anteroom where Thrawn’s bodyguard Rukh was waiting. Ever since the Lord Darth Vader had first duped the Noghri into their perpetual service to the Empire, the gullible gray-skinned aliens had insisted on putting their own personal honor on the line with each mission. Being pulled off an assignment, especially one this important, would be like a slap in the face to them. Or worse. “Admiral?” he murmured. “I’m not sure—”
“We’ll discuss it later, Captain,” Thrawn said. “For now, all I need to know is whether Master C’baoth is truly ready to receive his young Jedi.” One blue-black eyebrow lifted. “Or whether he prefers simply discussing it.”
C’baoth smiled thinly. “Am I to take that as a challenge, Grand Admiral Thrawn?”
“Take it any way you like,” Thrawn said. “I merely point out that a wise tactician considers the cost of an operation before launching it. Organa Solo’s twins are due to be born any day now, which means you would have two infants as well as Organa Solo herself to deal with. If you’re not certain you can handle that, it would be best to postpone the operation.”
Pellaeon braced himself for another explosion of clone madness. But to his surprise, it didn’t come. “The only question, Grand Admiral Thrawn,” C’baoth said softly, “is whether newborn infants will be too much for your Imperial commandos to handle.”
“Very well,” Thrawn nodded. “Our rendezvous with the rest of the fleet will be in thirty minutes; you’ll transfer to the Death’s Head at that time to assist in their attack on Woostri. By the time you return to the Chimaera”—again the eyebrow lifted—“we should have your Jedi for you.”
“Very well, Grand Admiral Thrawn,” C’baoth said. He drew himself up again, smoothing his long white beard away from his robe. “But I warn you: if you fail me this time, you will not be pleased with the consequences.” Turning, he strode across the command room and through the door.
“It’s always such a pleasure,” Thrawn commented under his breath as the door slid shut.
Pellaeon worked moisture into his mouth. “Admiral, with all due respect—”
“You’re worried about my having promised to get Organa Solo out of possibly the most secure place in Rebellion-held territory?” Thrawn said.
“Actually, sir, yes,” Pellaeon said. “The Imperial Palace is supposed to be an impregnable fortress.”
“Yes, indeed,” Thrawn agreed. “But it was the Emperor who made it that way … and as in most things, the Emperor kept a few small secrets about the Palace to himself. And to certain of his favorites.”
Pellaeon frowned down at him. Secrets … “Such as a private way in and out?” he hazarded.
Thrawn smiled up at him. “Precisely. And now that we can finally insure that Organa Solo will be staying put in the Palace for a while, it becomes profitable to try sending in a commando team.”
“But not a Noghri team.”
Thrawn lowered his eyes to the collection of holographic sculptures surrounding them. “There’s something wrong with the Noghri, Captain,” he said quietly. “I don’t yet know what it is, but I know it’s there. I can sense it with every communication I have with the dynasts on Honoghr.”
Pellaeon thought back to that awkward scene a month ago, when that painfully apologetic envoy from the Noghri dynasts had come aboard with the news that the suspected traitor Khabarakh had escaped from their custody. So far, despite their best efforts, they’d been unable to recapture him. “Perhaps they’re still fidgeting over that Khabarakh thing,” he suggested.
“And well they should be,” Thrawn said coldly. “But it’s more than that. And until I find out how much more, the Noghri will remain under suspicion.”
He leaned forward, tapped two controls on his board. The holographic sculptures faded and were replaced by a tactical map of the current position of the major battle planes. “But at the moment we have two more pressing matters to consider,” he continued, leaning back in his seat again. “First, we have to divert our increasingly arrogant Jedi Master from this mistaken notion that he has the right to rule my Empire. Organa Solo and her twins are that diversion.”
Pellaeon thought about all the other attempts to capture Organa Solo. “And if the team fails?”
“There are contingencies,” Thrawn assured him. “Despite his power and even his unpredictability, Master C’baoth can still be manipulated.”
He gestured toward the tactical map. “What’s even more important right now, though, is that we insure the momentum of our battle plan. So far, the campaign is reasonably on schedule. The Rebellion has resisted more firmly than anticipated in the Farrfin and Dolomar sectors, but elsewhere the target systems have generally bowed to Imperial power.”
“I wouldn’t consider any of the gains all that solid yet,” Pellaeon pointed out.
“Precisely,” Thrawn nodded. “Each depends on our maintaining a strong and highly visible Imperial presence. And for that, it’s vital that we maintain our supply of clones.”
He paused. Pellaeon looked at the tactical map, his mind racing as he searched for the response Thrawn was obviously waiting for him to come up with. The Spaarti cloning cylinders, hidden away for decades in the Emperor’s private storehouse on Wayland, were about as safe as anything in the galaxy could be. Buried beneath a mountain, protected by an Imperial garrison, and surrounded by hostile locals, its very existence was unknown to anyone except the top Imperial commanders.
He froze. Top Imperial commanders; and perhaps—“Mara Jade,” he said. “She’s convalescing on Coruscant. Would she have known about the storehouse?”
“That is indeed the question,” Thrawn agreed. “There’s a good chance she doesn’t—I knew many of the Emperor’s secrets, and it still took me a great deal of effort to find Wayland. But it’s not a risk we can afford to take.”
Pellaeon nodded, suppressing a shiver. He’d been wondering why the Grand Admiral had chosen an Intelligence squad for this mission. Unlike standard commando units, Intelligence units were trained in such nonmilitary methods as assassination.… “Will a single team be handling both missions, sir, or will you be sending in two?”
“One team should be adequate,” Thrawn said. “The two objectives are well enough interlocked to make that reasonable. And neutralizing Jade does not necessarily mean killing her.”
Pellaeon frowned. But before he could ask what Thrawn had meant by that, the Grand Admiral touched his board and the tactical holo was replaced by a map of Orus sector. “In the meantime, I think it’s time to underline the importance of the Calius saj Leeloo for our enemies. Do we have a follow-up report yet from Governor Staffa?”
“Yes, sir,” Pellaeon said, pulling it up on his data pad. “Skywalker left at the same time as the decoy shuttle, and is presumed to have followed its vector. If so, he’ll reach the Poderis system in approximately thirty hours.”
“Excellent,” Thrawn said. “He’ll undoubtedly report in to Coruscant before he reaches Poderis. His subsequent disappearance should go a long way toward convincing them that they’ve found the conduit for our clone traffic.”
“Yes, sir,” Pellaeon said, keeping to himself his doubts as to their chances of actually causing Skywalker to disappear. Thrawn presumably knew what he was doing. “One other thing, sir. There was a second follow-up to Staffa’s original report, one that came in under an Intelligence encry
pt code.”
“From his aide, Fingal,” Thrawn nodded. “A man with Governor Staffa’s casual loyalties practically begs us to assign him a quiet watchdog. Were there any discrepancies with the governor’s report?”
“Just one, sir. The follow-up gave a complete description of Skywalker’s contact, a man Staffa had indicated was one of his own agents. Fingal’s description strongly suggests the man was, in fact, Talon Karrde.”
Thrawn exhaled thoughtfully. “Indeed. Did Fingal suggest any explanation for Karrde’s presence in Calius?”
“According to him, there are indications that Governor Staffa has had a private trade arrangement with Karrde for several years,” Pellaeon said. “Fingal reports he was going to have the man picked up for questioning, but was unable to find a way to do so that wouldn’t have alerted Skywalker.”
“Yes,” Thrawn murmured. “Well … what’s done is done. And if smuggling was all that was involved, there’s no harm. Still, we can’t have random smugglers buzzing around our deceptions and perhaps accidentally poking holes in them. And Karrde has already proved he can be a great deal of trouble.”
For a moment Thrawn gazed in silence at the Orus sector map. Then, he looked up at Pellaeon. “But for now we have other matters to deal with. Prepare a course for the Poderis system, Captain; I want the Chimaera there within forty hours.” He smiled thinly. “And signal the garrison commander that I expect him to have a proper reception prepared by the time we arrive. Perhaps in two or three days’ time we’ll have an unexpected gift to present to our beloved Jedi Master.”
“Yes, sir.” Pellaeon hesitated. “Admiral … what happens if we get Organa Solo and her twins for C’baoth and he’s able to turn them the way he thinks he can? We’d have four of them to deal with then instead of just one. Five, if we’re able to capture Skywalker at Poderis.”
“There’s no need for concern,” Thrawn said, shaking his head. “Turning either Organa Solo or Skywalker would take C’baoth a great deal of time and effort. It would be even longer before the infants are old enough to be of any danger to us, no matter what he does to them. Long before any of that occurs”—Thrawn’s eyes glittered—“we’ll have come to a suitable arrangement with our Jedi Master over the sharing of power in the Empire.”
Pellaeon swallowed. “Understood, sir,” he managed.
“Good. Then you’re dismissed, Captain. Return to the bridge.”
“Yes, sir.” Pellaeon turned and headed across the room, the muscles in his throat feeling tight. Yes, he understood, all right. Thrawn would come to an arrangement with C’baoth … or he would have the Jedi Master killed.
If he could. It was not, Pellaeon decided, a confrontation he would like to place any bets on.
Or, for that matter, be anywhere near when it happened.
CHAPTER
4
Poderis was one of that select group of worlds generally referred to in the listings as marginal: planets that had remained colonized not because of valuable resources or convenient location, but solely because of the stubborn spirit of its colonists. With a disorienting ten-hour rotational cycle, a lowland slough ecology that had effectively confined the colonists to a vast archipelago of tall mesas, and a nearly perpendicular axial tilt that created tremendous winds every spring and autumn, Poderis was not the sort of place wandering travelers generally bothered with. Its people were tough and independent, tolerant to visitors but with a long history of ignoring the politics of the outside galaxy.
All of which made it an ideal transfer point for the Empire’s new clone traffic. And an ideal place for that same Empire to set a trap.
The man shadowing Luke was short and plain, the sort of person who would fade into the background almost anywhere he went. He was good at his job, too, with a skill that implied long experience in Imperial Intelligence. But that experience had naturally not extended to trailing Jedi Knights. Luke had sensed his presence almost as soon as the man had begun following him, and had been able to visually pick him out of the crowd a minute later.
Leaving only the problem of what to do about him.
“Artoo?” Luke called softly into the comlink he’d surreptitiously wedged into the neckband of his hooded robe. “We’ve got company. Probably Imperials.”
There was a soft, worried trill from the comlink, followed by something that was obviously a question. “There’s nothing you can do,” Luke told him, taking a guess as to the content of the question and wishing Threepio was there to translate. He could generally pick up the gist of what Artoo was saying, but in a situation like this the gist might not be enough. “Is there anyone poking around the freighter? Or around the landing field in general?”
Artoo chirped a definite negative. “Well, they’ll be there soon enough,” Luke warned him, pausing to look in a shop window. The tail, he noted, moved forward a few more steps before finding an excuse of his own to stop. A professional, indeed. “Get as much of the preflight done as you can without attracting attention. We’ll want to get off as soon as I get there.”
The droid warbled acknowledgment. Reaching to his neck, Luke shut off the comlink and gave the area a quick scan. The first priority was to lose the tail before the Imperials made any more overt moves against him. And to do that, he needed some kind of distraction.…
Fifty meters ahead in the crowd was what looked to be his best opportunity: another man striding along the street in a robe of similar cut and color to Luke’s. Cautiously picking up his pace, trying not to give the appearance of hurrying, Luke moved toward him.
The other robed figure continued to the T-junction ahead and turned the corner to his right. Luke picked up his pace a bit more, sensing as he did so his shadower’s suspicion that he’d been spotted. Resisting the urge to break into a flat-out run, Luke strolled casually around the corner.
It was a street like most of the others he’d already seen in the city: wide, rock-paved, reasonably crowded, and lined on both sides with graystone buildings. Automatically, he reached out with the Force, scanning the area around him and as far ahead as he could sense—
And abruptly caught his breath. Directly ahead, still distant but clearly detectable, were small pockets of darkness where his Jedi senses could read absolutely nothing. As if the Force that carried the information to him had somehow ceased to exist … or was being blocked.
Which meant this was no ordinary ambush, for an ordinary New Republic spy. The Imperials knew he was here and had come to Poderis equipped with ysalamiri.
And unless he did something fast, they were going to take him.
He looked again at the buildings around him. Squat, two-story structures, for the most part, with textured facades and decorative roof parapets. Those to his immediate right were built in a single solid row; directly across the street to his left, the first building after the T-junction had a warped facade, leaving a narrow gap between it and its neighbor’s. It wasn’t much in the way of cover—and the distance itself was going to be a reach—but it was all he had. Hurrying across the street, half expecting the trap to be sprung before he got there, he slipped into the opening. Bending his knees, letting the Force flow into his muscles, he jumped.
He almost didn’t make it. The parapet directly above him was angled and smooth, and for a second he seemed to hang in midair as his fingers scrabbled for a hold. Then, he found a grip, and with a surge of effort pulled himself up and over to lie flat along the rooftop.
Just in time. Even as he eased one eye over the edge of the parapet, he saw his tail come racing around the corner, all efforts at subtlety abandoned. Shoving aside those in his way, he said something inaudible into the comlink in his hand—
And from the cross street a block away, a row of white-armored stormtroopers stepped into view. Blaster rifles held high against their chests, the dark elongated shapes of ysalamiri slung on backpack nutrient frames across their shoulders, they cordoned off the end of the street.
It was a well-planned, well-executed net;
and Luke had maybe three minutes to get across the roof and down before they realized their fish had slipped out of it. Easing back from the edge, he turned his head toward the other side of the roof.
The roof didn’t have another side. Barely sixty centimeters from where he lay, the roof abruptly became a blank wall that angled steeply downward for perhaps a hundred meters, extending in both directions as far as Luke could see. Beyond its lower edge, there was nothing but the distant mists in the lowlands beneath the mesa.
He’d miscalculated, possibly fatally. Preoccupied with the man shadowing him, he’d completely missed the fact that his path had taken him to the outer edge of the mesa. The slanting wall beside him was one of the massive shield-barriers designed to deflect the planet’s vicious seasonal winds harmlessly over the city.
Luke had escaped the Imperial net … only to discover that there was literally nowhere else for him to go.
“Great,” he muttered under his breath, easing back to the parapet and looking down into the street. More storm-troopers had joined the first squad now and were beginning to sift through the stunned crowd of people caught in the trap; behind them, two squads from the other direction of the T-junction had moved in to seal off the rear of the street. Luke’s erstwhile shadow, a blaster now gripped his hand, was pushing his way through the crowd, making for the other robed figure Luke had noticed earlier.
The other robed figure …
Luke bit at his lip. It would be a rather unfriendly trick to play on a totally innocent bystander. But on the other hand, the Imperials obviously knew who they were looking for and just as obviously wanted him alive. Putting the man down there in deadly danger, he knew, would be unacceptable behavior for a Jedi. Luke could only hope that inconveniencing him wouldn’t fall under the same heading.
Gritting his teeth, he reached out with the Force and plucked the blaster from the shadow’s hand. Spinning it low over the heads of the crowd, he dropped it squarely into the other robed figure’s hand.