by Timothy Zahn
"Since Grand Admiral Thrawn took command," Brasck said bluntly. "I've heard stories of this warlord, Par'tah. It was he who forced my world under the Imperial shroud."
"That ought to be a good reason for you to stand up to him," Gillespee pointed out. "If you're afraid of what Thrawn might do to you now, just think what'll happen to you if he gets the whole galaxy under the Imperial shroud again."
"Nothing will happen to us if we don't oppose him," Brasck insisted. "They need our services too much for that."
"That's a nice theory," a voice spoke up from near the back of the group. "But I can tell you right now it won't hold a mug's worth of vacuum."
Karrde focused on the speaker. He was a big, thick-built human with dark hair and a beard, a thin unlit cigarra clenched in his teeth. "And you are . . .?" Karrde asked, though he was pretty sure he knew.
"Niles Ferrier," the other identified himself. "And I can tell you flat out that minding your own business isn't going to do you a blame bit of good if Thrawn decides he wants you."
"And yet he pays well," Mazzic said, idly stroking the hand of his female companion. "Or so I've heard."
"You've heard that, huh?" Ferrier growled. "Have you also heard that he grabbed me off New Cov and confiscated my ship? And then ordered me out on a nasty little errand for him aboard a bomb-rigged Intelligence bucket? Oh, and go ahead and guess what the penalty was going to be if we couldn't do it."
Karrde looked around the room, listening to the gently sloshing water in the Drinking Cup behind him and holding his silence. This was hardly the way Solo had described Ferrier's involvement; and all other things being equal, he would probably trust Solo's rendition over the ship thief's. Still, it was always possible Solo had misinterpreted things. And if Ferrier's story helped convince the others that the Empire had to be opposed . . .
"Were you paid for all your trouble?" Mazzic asked.
" 'Course I was paid," Ferrier sniffed. "That's not the point."
"It is for me," Mazzic said, turning back to look at Karrde. "Sorry, Karrde, but I still haven't heard any good reason for me to stick my neck out this way."
"What about the Empire's new traffic in clones?" Karrde reminded him. "Doesn't that worry you?"
"I'm not especially happy about it, no," Mazzic conceded. "But I figure that's the New Republic's problem, not ours."
[When does iyt become our problem?] Par'tah demanded. [When the Empiyre has replaced all smugglers wiyth these clones?]
"No one's going to replace us with clones," Dravis said. "You know, Brasck is right, Karrde. The Empire needs us too much to bother us . . . provided we don't take sides."
"Exactly," Mazzic said. "We're businessmen, pure and simple; and I for one intend to stay that way. If the New Republic can outbid the Empire for information, I'll be happy to sell it to them. If not—" He shrugged.
Karrde nodded, privately conceding defeat. Par'tah might be willing to discuss the matter further, and possibly one or two of the others. Ellor, perhaps—the Duro had so far stayed out of the conversation, which with his species was often a sign of agreement. But none of the rest were convinced, and pushing them further at this point would only annoy them. Later, perhaps, they might be willing to accept the realities of the Empire's threat. "Very well," he said. "I think it's clear now where all of you stand on this. Thank you for your time. Perhaps we can plan to meet again after—"
And without warning, the back of the Whistler's Whirlpool blew in.
"Stay where you are!" an amplified voice shouted through the din. "Face forward—no one move. Everyone here is under Imperial detention."
Karrde squinted over the heads of his suddenly frozen audience to the rear of the building. Through the smoke and dust he could see a double line of about thirty Imperial army troops crunching their way across the debris where the back wall had been, their flanks protected by two pair of white-armored stormtroopers. Behind them, almost obscured by the haze, he could see two Chariot command speeders hovering in backup positions. "So they came to the party after all," he murmured.
"With a big hammer," Gillespee agreed tightly from beside him. "Looks like you were right about Ferrier."
"Perhaps." Karrde looked over at Ferrier, half expecting to see a triumphant smirk on the big man's face.
But Ferrier wasn't looking at him. His attention was slightly off to the side; not looking at the approaching troopers, but at a section of wall to the right of the new hole. Karrde followed the line of his gaze—
Just in time to see a solid black shadow detach itself from the wall and move silently up behind one set of flanking stormtroopers.
"On the other hand, perhaps not," he told Gillespee, nodding slightly toward the shadow. "Take a look—just past Ellor's shoulder."
Gillespee inhaled sharply. "What in hell's name is that?"
"Ferrier's pet Defel, I think," Karrde said. "Sometimes called wraiths—Solo told me about him. This is it. Everyone ready?"
"We're ready," Gillespee said, and there were echoing murmurs from behind them. Karrde swept his gaze across his fellow smugglers and their aides, catching each pair of eyes in turn. They gazed back, their shock at the ambush rapidly turning to a cold anger. . . and they, too, were ready. The shadow of Ferrier's Defel reached the end of the approaching line of Imperials; and suddenly one of the stormtroopers was hurled bodily off his feet to slam crosswise into his companion. The nearest troopers reacted instantly, swinging their weapons to the side as they searched for the unseen attacker.
"Now," Karrde murmured.
And from the corner of his eye he saw the long muzzles of two BlasTech A280 blaster rifles swing up over the rim of the Drinking Cup and open fire.
The first salvo cut through the center of the line, taking out a handful of the Imperials before the rest were able to dive for cover among the empty tables and chairs. Karrde took a long step forward, tipping over the nearest table and dropping to one knee behind it.
An almost unnecessary precaution. The Imperials' attention had been distracted away from their intended prisoners for a fatal half-second . . . and even as Karrde yanked out his weapon the entire room exploded into blaster fire.
Brasck and his bodyguards took out an entire squad of the troopers in the first five seconds, with a synchronized fire that showed the Brubb hadn't forgotten his mercenary background. Par'tah's entourage was concentrating on the other end of the line, their weapons smaller and less devastating than Brasck's heavy blaster pistols but more than enough to keep the Imperials pinned down. Dravis, Ellor, and Clyngunn were taking advantage of that cover fire to pick off the remaining troopers one by one. Mazzic, in contrast, was ignoring the nearer threat of the troopers to blast away at the Chariot command speeders outside.
A good idea, actually. "Aves! Fein!" Karrde shouted over the din. "Concentrate fire on the Chariots."
There were shouts of acknowledgment from the edge of the Drinking Cup behind him, and the rifle blasts sizzling past his shoulder shifted their aim. Karrde eased a little over his table, caught a glimpse of Mazzic's female companion—her plaited hair down around her shoulders now and her face no longer blank—as she hurled the last of her enameled needles with lethal accuracy at one of the troopers. Another Imperial lunged up out of cover, bringing his rifle to bear on her, falling backward again as Karrde's shot caught him square in the torso. A pair of shots hit his cover table, sending clouds of splinters into the air and forcing him to drop to the floor. From outside came the sound of a massive explosion, echoed an instant later by a second blast.
And then, suddenly, it was all over.
Carefully, Karrde eased up over his table again. The others were doing likewise, weapons held at the ready as they surveyed the wreckage around them. Clyngunn was holding an arm gingerly out from his body as he dug in his beltpack for a bandage; Brasck's tunic was burned away in several places, the body armor beneath it blackened and blistered. "Everyone all right?" Karrde called.
Mazzic straightened up. Even at this distance K
arrde could see the white knuckles gripping his blaster. "They got Lishma," he said, his voice deadly quiet. "He wasn't even shooting."
Karrde dropped his gaze to the broken table at Mazzic's feet and the Gotal lying motionless and half hidden beneath it. "I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. He'd always rather liked the Gotal people.
"I'm sorry, too," Mazzic said, jamming his blaster back into its holster and looking at Karrde with smoldering eyes. "But the Empire's going to be a lot sorrier. Okay, Karrde; I'm convinced, Where do I sign up?"
"Somewhere far away from here, I think," Karrde said, peering out the shattered wall at the burning Chariots as he pulled out his comlink. No one was moving out there, but that wouldn't last. "They'll surely have backup on the way. Lachton, Torve—you there?"
"Right here," Torve's voice came. "What in space was all that?"
"The Imperials decided they wanted to play, after all," Karrde told him grimly. "Sneaked in with a couple of Chariots. Anyone stirring in either of your areas?"
"Not here," Torve said. "Wherever they came from, they didn't start at the spaceport,"
"Ditto here," Lachton put in. "Garrison's still quiet as a grave."
"Let's hope it stays that way for a few more minutes," Karrde said. "Pass the word to the others; we're pulling back to the ship."
"On our way. See you there."
Karrde flicked off the comlink and turned around. Gillespee was just helping Aves and Fein pull themselves out over the lip of the Drinking Cup, the web harnesses that had held them suspended just beneath the rocky edge trailing behind them. "Nicely done, gentlemen," he complimented them. "Thank you."
"Our pleasure," Aves grunted, popping his harness and accepting his blaster rifle back from Gillespee. Even with the water level at its lowest, he noticed, the turbulence had still managed to soak both men up to their knees. "Time to make ourselves scarce?"
"Just as soon as we can," Karrde agreed, turning back to the other smugglers. "Well, gentlefolk, we'll see you in space."
There was no ambush waiting for them by the Wild Karrde. No ambush, no fighter pursuit, no Imperial Star Destroyer lurking in orbit for them. From all appearances, the incident back at the Whistler's Whirlpool might just as well have been an elaborate mass hallucination.
Except for the destruction to the tapcafe, and the gutted Chariots, and the very real burns. And, of course, the dead Gotal.
"So what's the plan?" Dravis asked. "You want us to help hunt down this clone pipeline you mentioned, right?"
"Yes," Karrde told him. "We know it goes through Poderis, so Orus sector is the place to start."
"It once went through Poderis," Clyngunn pointed out. "Thrawn could have moved it by now."
"Though presumably not without leaving some traces we can backtrack," Karrde said. "So. Have we an agreement?"
"My group's with you," Ferrier put in promptly. "Matter of fact, Karrde, if you want I'll see what I can do about getting your people some real fighting ships."
"I may take you up on that," Karrde promised. "Par'tah?"
[We wiyll assiyst iyn the search,] Par'tah said, her voice about as angry as Karrde had ever heard it. The death of the Gotal was hitting her almost as hard as it had hit Mazzic. [The Empiyre must be taught a lesson.]
"Thank you," Karrde said. "Mazzic?"
"I agree with Par'tah," he said coldly. "But I think the lesson needs to be a bit more eye-catching. You go ahead and do your clone hunt—Ellor and I have something else in mind."
Karrde looked at Aves, who shrugged. "If he wants to go slap their hands, who are we to stop him?" the other murmured.
Karrde shrugged back and nodded. "All right," he said to Mazzic. "Good luck. Try not to bite off more than you can chew."
"We wont," Mazzic said. "We're heading out—see you later."
At the far starboard edge of the viewport, two of the ships in their loose formation flickered with pseudomotion and vanished into hyperspace. "That just leaves you, Brasck," Karrde prompted. "What do you say?"
There was a long, subtly voiced sigh from the comm speaker; one of many untranslatable Brubb verbal gestures. "I cannot and will not stand against Grand Admiral Thrawn," he said at last. "To give information to the New Republic would be to invite his hatred and wrath upon me." Another voiced sigh. "But I will also not interfere with your activities or bring them to his attention."
"Fair enough," Karrde nodded. It was, in fact, far more than he had expected from Brasck. The Brubbs' fear of the Empire ran deep. "Well, then. Let's organize our groups and plan to reconvene over Chazwa in, say, five days. Good luck, all."
The others acknowledged and signed off, and one by one made their jumps to lightspeed. "So much for staying neutral," Aves sighed as he checked the nav computer. "Mara's going to have a fit when she finds out. When is she coming back, by the way?"
"As soon as I can find a way to get her here," Karrde said, feeling a twinge of guilt. It had been several days since he'd gotten the message that she and Ghent were ready to rejoin him, a message that had probably been several more days in reaching him in the first place. She was probably ready to bite hull metal by now. "After that last raise in the Imperial price on us, there are probably twenty bounty hunters waiting off Coruscant for us to show up."
Aves shifted uncomfortably. "Is that what you think happened down there? Some bounty hunter got wind of the meeting and tipped off the Imperials?"
Karrde gazed out at the stars. "I really don't know what all that was about," he admitted. "Bounty hunters generally avoid tipping off the authorities unless they already have a financial agreement. On the other hand, when the Imperials go to the effort of carrying out a raid, one expects them to do a more competent job of it."
"Unless they were just tailing Gillespee and didn't know the rest of us were there," Aves suggested hesitantly. "Could be that three squads of troops and a couple of Chariots is all he rates."
"I suppose that's possible," Karrde conceded. "Hard to believe their intelligence was that spotty, though. Well, I'll have our people on Trogan make some quiet inquiries. See if they can backtrack that unit and find out where the tip-off came from. In the meantime, we have a hunt to organize. Let's get to it."
Niles Ferrier was smiling behind that unkempt beard of his, Pellaeon noticed as the stormtroopers escorted him across the bridge; a smug, highly self-satisfied type of smile that showed he had no idea whatsoever why he'd been brought to the Chimaera. "He's here, Admiral," Pellaeon murmured.
"I know," Thrawn said calmly, his back to the approaching spaceship thief. Calmly, but with a deadly look in his glowing red eyes. Grimacing, Pellaeon braced himself. This wasn't going to be pretty.
The group reached Thrawn's command chair and halted. "Niles Ferrier, Admiral," the stormtrooper commander stated. "As per orders."
For a long moment the Grand Admiral didn't move, and as Pellaeon watched, the smirk on Ferrier's face slipped a bit. "You were on Trogan two days ago," Thrawn said at last, still not turning around. "You met with two men currently wanted by the Empire: Talon Karrde and Samuel Tomas Gillespee. You also persuaded a small and unprepared task force under one Lieutenant Reynol Kosk to launch a rash attack on this meeting, an attack which failed. Is all this true?"
"Sure is," Ferrier nodded. "See, that's why I sent you that message. So you'd know—"
"Then I should like to hear your reasons," Thrawn cut him off, swiveling his chair around at last to gaze up at the thief, "why I should not order your immediate execution."
Ferrier's mouth dropped open. "What?" he said. "But—I've gotten in with Karrde. He trusts me now—see? That was the whole idea. I can dig out the rest of his gang and deliver the whole bunch to you . . ." He trailed off, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.