A New Dawn

by John Jackson Miller

  “I’m only the messenger. The Emperor wants immediate assurance you can make this year’s thorilide quota,” the young man said.

  “My plans will yield all the Emperor requires—providing you don’t talk him into raising the totals again.”

  “Count, I’m hurt. I would never—”

  “Spare me. I’m about to send His Imperial Majesty the report.”

  “Wonderful. If you would copy me on that—”

  “I will not. This is my domain, not yours.” A pause. “If you want the responsibility so much, Baron Danthe, fine. After I successfully meet the Emperor’s targets this year I’ll ask that he transfer management of Gorse to your office.”

  “That’s generous, my lord. I don’t know what to—”

  “Say nothing. Just stay out of my affairs!” The image of the baron disappeared.

  “Boy, they don’t like each other at all,” Kanan said. “Did you catch the smirk on that baron guy’s face? I wouldn’t trust him to hold the door open for me.”

  “It makes sense,” Hera said. “The Emperor’s leaning on Vidian to make a quota, so Vidian’s got to crack Cynda like an egg. He gets a year’s worth of thorilide, so he makes his quota. And by the time it runs out prematurely, Danthe will be left holding the bag!”

  “Evil,” Kanan said, regarding the motionless Vidian. “I knew he had it in him.”

  “Wait a minute,” Skelly said. “The Emperor wouldn’t take Vidian’s word on this report. Vidian’s a management guy, not a scientist. What’s the name on that report?”

  Hera looked at the screen again. “I can’t believe I missed this. Lemuel Tharsa!”

  Kanan blinked. “That name again. Who was he?”

  Hera whipped out a datapad from her pocket. “I found that earlier. According to the HoloNet, for fifteen years Lemuel Tharsa has served as chief analyst with Minerax Consulting, producing studies on raw materials for private and, more recently, Imperial government use.”

  Zaluna perked up. “That’s the man someone on the Star Destroyer asked us about. There wasn’t much on the data cube about him—just the standard bioscan at customs.”

  Hera looked at her. “Check Moonglow’s refinery, twenty or so years ago. I found he’d been issued entry credentials.”

  “Ah,” Zaluna said. She opened her bag and produced Hetto’s data cube. Switching off the link to Vidian’s visual memory, she connected the cube to the terminal she was working at. “Moonglow was Introsphere then. We were definitely monitoring the building.”

  Skelly rolled his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “A lot of this old material hasn’t been mined—we probably didn’t know where to start, when the inquiry came in.” Zaluna’s nimble fingers flew across the console. “I’m running a visual search on the name, limited to security badges.”

  “What can’t you do?” Kanan rubbed his forehead. Hiding his Force talents even from himself made a lot more sense, now.

  “Got him,” Zaluna said. “Here he is.” The holoprojector activated again, and a human male appeared. Kanan stood and approached the life-sized image.

  The biometric data Zaluna had found in the customs files said the man was just shy of thirty at the time of the visit, but he looked far older: like a harried middle manager, prematurely balding, with a few tufts of rust-colored hair hanging on. His suit was dingy, his shoes scuffed. He could have been anyone.

  And yet Kanan thought there was something oddly familiar about Lemuel Tharsa. His posture, his gestures as he ranted to an executive who clearly couldn’t have cared less what he was saying. “What is he saying?” Kanan asked.

  “Looks like we only caught a snippet.” Zaluna pressed a button.

  “… don’t have to tell you people again what the guild’s safety rules are. It’s the same everywhere in the trade. You’ve been doing it wrong. Forget the old way!”

  Skelly laughed. “There’s old Vidian’s motto, before Vidian said it.”

  Kanan and Hera looked at each other, at the prone count, and then back at the image. The voice was different, for sure, but the intonation was similar. Hera rose and approached Zaluna. “You said there were biometrics on Tharsa?”

  “Right here.” Zaluna punched them up on the console. “We do a little work with them at Transcept. The main spaceport requires them of all arriving visitors.” Kanan bristled, glad he’d arrived on a tramp freighter that avoided that routine.

  “I can’t believe I’m going to ask this.” Hera glanced over at Vidian. “Is Vidian’s biodata in that medical console?”

  “It should be.” Catching Hera’s drift, Zaluna ran a comparison. The results appeared on her screen. “Genetic markers are identical with Tharsa’s sample on entry. No way to compare eyes, voice, or prints—but somewhere in there, that’s the same guy.”

  “Whoa,” Skelly said, looking between Vidian and the image of Tharsa. He scratched his head. “No, no. That’s wrong. I saw the biography piece on the HoloNet. Vidian was a defense contractor, nearly died of Shilmer’s syndrome. He wasn’t some safety inspector.” He chuckled. “How ironic would that be?”

  “Very,” Hera said, studying the results. “But that’s him.”

  Skelly was stunned. “Then Vidian’s war bio was a hoax? He was supposed to have been a whistleblower, helping the troops!”

  Hera gave Skelly a sympathetic look. “Come on, are you really surprised?”

  Skelly threw up his hands. “It’s more fun when I think of the conspiracies.”

  “So Tharsa got sick and became Vidian.” Kanan crossed his arms. “Was that on Gorse, too? Are there medcenter records?”

  “The Republic had privacy laws, then,” Zaluna said. “It was the one place we didn’t have access. The only records would be on the site.”

  “Or not.” Hera’s brow furrowed. “Vidian had a medcenter demolished on his visit. But I don’t know why he’d care about covering his tracks now—or why someone on the Ultimatum would be asking about Tharsa.”

  Kanan looked at her, puzzled. “That’s not the only thing I don’t get. Why wouldn’t he keep his original name?”

  Hera thought for a moment—and brightened. “Because he wanted to keep Tharsa alive. He’s still on the Imperial rolls as an adviser, remember?” She rushed back to the terminal on the far side of the room. She pointed at the screen. “And look what he’s been responsible for!”

  Kanan stepped behind her and read. It was a long list of things, some dated recently. “I … don’t get it. What are these?”

  Hera ran her finger down the entries on the screen. “Technical reports from Minerax Consulting. Tharsa’s name is on many of them as the preparer.” Her eyes scanned the titles. “There are dozens of worlds, dozens of projects. Some are things Vidian worked on for the Empire—and some are before, from back in the Republic days.”

  “He’s his own independent auditor?” Skelly hooted. “There’s an efficient way to bilk your customers. Do your own fraudulent research!” He leered at Vidian’s motionless body. “I’m impressed. You’re the master. Really.”

  Kanan nodded. Things were falling into place. If some Imperial was asking around about Tharsa, maybe Vidian had covered his tracks on Gorse to keep anyone from making the connection. Tharsa’s name would still be good with the Emperor, providing he didn’t suspect anything; Vidian’s plan to destroy the moon would sail through.

  Hera squinted. “There’s another file here tagged with Tharsa’s name—older, but accessed today. But I can’t get it open.”

  “No problem,” Kanan said, turning. “Zal?”

  “Reporting,” Zaluna said, skipping over the cable attached to Vidian’s head.

  Hera stood up and stepped over to Kanan. He smiled at her. “This is something, right?”

  “It’s something,” she said, looking around at the outer doors. “I’m just not sure what.”

  “We send the correct version to the Emperor, that’s what,” Kanan said.

  “Not on that system,” Hera s
aid. “And I don’t exactly think the Emperor checks his own messages—particularly not ones from random dissidents.”

  She turned her eyes to the ceiling. She had that look again, the one that said she was five moves ahead of him in whatever game it was she was playing. He liked the look, even if it made him a little uncomfortable. He looked back. “Any luck, Zal?”

  “I can’t decrypt it,” Zaluna said. “I’m not a slicer. Kidnap one of those next time.”

  Kanan looked over at Vidian. Time was running out. They could dose the count again—but someone would be around for him eventually.

  Kanan looked at Hera. “You really think there’s something important in that file?”

  She nodded. “It’s the only one protected like that. And,” she added, cautiously, “I’ve got a feeling.”

  “Good enough for me,” Kanan said. He walked back to Vidian’s table. “Get that medical droid back over here. I’ve got a plan.”

  “Step lively, there! If you were loading torpedoes on my ship, I’d be launching you, next!”

  The orange-clad workers began moving marginally faster, but now they were walking so as to avoid Sloane, negating any increase in speed.

  It wasn’t going well. Three of the miners from Gorse had dropped canisters, causing coolant leaks that cleared the floor for ten minutes each time. And while the repair workers had removed the fool droid that had somehow gotten itself crammed into the pneumatic tube, they had put a long gash on the inner cushioned wall in the process. Now that was being repaired. Civilians!

  At least this experience gave the lie to a little of Vidian’s legend, she thought. If Calcoraan Depot was supposed to be the domain of the man who saw everything and kept everything moving, he was sleeping on the job.

  There’d been no sign of trouble otherwise. Aware that the bomber from Gorse might be among the workers drafted to load explosives, she’d accepted a pistol and holster from the stormtroopers. It hadn’t been necessary. Neither had any of the workers tripped to what they were really assisting in: the possible destruction of their own homes. That, she thought, could get ugly.

  Her comlink beeped. She reached for it. “Sloane.”

  “Captain,” droned a familiar voice.

  “Count Vidian,” she said briskly. “The loading is almost complete. We’ll be ready to return to Gorse shortly.”

  “I need you. Report to my executive chambers—alone.”

  Sloane’s brow wrinkled. “Is it something about the report to the Emperor?”

  “You could say that,” came the reply. “Come at once.”

  “Yes, my lord.” She snapped off the comlink. She was growing tired of being at Vidian’s beck and call—but Ultimatum’s regular captain could show up to reclaim his command at any moment, sending her back to the waiting list with everyone else. She had to do as told.

  She passed a lieutenant as she marched toward a waiting tramcar. “Tell Commander Chamas to monitor the loading,” she said. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  Vidian’s antechamber was lavishly appointed, but the workplace’s occupants seemed oblivious to their surroundings. Two dozen men and women of various species, all “enhanced” with cybernetic computer implants, wandered the opulent room like monastics, nodding as if listening to music. Not one noticed Sloane’s arrival. Each was tuned in to events many systems away, all managing the flow of goods and services vital to the functioning of the Empire in Vidian’s managerial domain. Sloane wondered if anybody had ever walked into an open elevator shaft while his or her mind was on moving widgets from Wor Tandell.

  Identifying herself to the stormtroopers standing guard, she entered a long hallway. The double doors at the end opened as she reached them. The room beyond lay in darkness.

  Sloane rolled her eyes. More weirdness. Taking a deep breath, she took a step inside. “Count Vidian?”

  Another step—and the doors behind her clanged loudly shut. Sloane heard movement in the dark. She reached for her sidearm—only to feel pain in her wrist as someone kicked the blaster from her hands. The weapon clattered off in the dark. A lithe, shadowy figure whisked by to her right: her assailant. The captain reached again, this time for her comlink—when someone grabbed her arms tightly from behind, spun her around, and shoved.

  Sloane didn’t hit the floor, or anything else. She heard the hum in the air above, felt the strong pull of an invisible force holding her body in place. It was a stasis field, like the ones in her brig. The person who had pushed her walked ahead in the dark before turning and shining a bright portable light in her face.

  “Captain Sloane?” It was Vidian’s voice, coming from the direction of the light.

  “Count Vidian? What’s going on?”

  The light shifted—and Sloane saw that while Vidian’s voice had indeed spoken to her, the man himself was strapped to a table, motionless. The light traced slowly across the count’s form. There was a dark recess in his neck ring where his electronic speaker belonged.

  “Glad you got my message.” This time, Sloane realized the voice was coming from the person with the portable light—and squinting, she could just make out the figure pressing something against his own neck. “Nifty little doodad. Triggered by the throat muscles.”

  “You impersonated him!”

  “And well,” the speaker said, still using the device. His light shifted back toward Vidian, and the speaker turned his back to her. “Get this hooked back up,” she heard him say to someone in a different, softer voice. Someone else in the room shuffled toward the table.

  Sloane strained to see, to move, to do anything.

  “Release us now,” she said in her most commanding tone. “You won’t get away with this!”

  No answer.

  “The count had better be alive and unharmed, or you’ll have a death mark in every system in the galaxy!”

  Still no answer.

  Sloane grew concerned. Fanatics like the bomber on Gorse might not care about getting away. After a short silence, she decided on another tactic.

  “Look,” she said more calmly, “I can get your grievances a hearing. But that’ll only happen if you let me and the count walk out of here right now.”

  The figure with the light directed it at her again. “Oh, don’t go so soon. This is our first date!”

  She recognized that voice. Gawking, she said, “You’re the mouthy pilot!”

  He moved the light underneath his chin and flashed a devilish smile. “Nice to be remembered.”

  Sloane was flabbergasted. “We checked your badge back on Gorse. Kanan something.”

  “Kanan Something will do.” He shone the light on her again.

  She put the pieces together. “A pilot at Moonglow. That’s how you got here.” She glared into the light. “You’ve wandered off the tour, mister.”

  “I had to see you,” he said, voice sugary. “You missed me, right?”

  “Kanan!” came a loud whisper from the shadows.

  Sloane’s eyes darted to the speaker. “Ah. The co-worker.” She was the person who’d kicked at her, she realized. And there were other shadowy figures in the darkness, including a slender person at the table fiddling with Vidian’s vocoder. “Did you all come with him? You’re accomplices. What did he ask you to do?”

  “Forget about them,” Kanan said. “Haven’t you figured it out? I am an infiltrator—but on a mission you’ll approve of. I serve the Emperor.” He paused, before adding: “Directly.”

  Sloane stared down at Kanan for several seconds. Then she burst into laughter. “You, an agent of the Emperor?”

  “What?” Kanan scowled. “It’s possible.”

  Sloane struggled to stop laughing. “I think he can do better than you! What do you suicide fliers do, drink your way from port to port? Did you wander off from your keeper?”

  Kanan thumped his chest. “I’m a man with a mission.”

  “You’re an oaf with a delusion. Do you know what the penalty for impersonating a personal agent of the Emperor is?�
��

  “No.”

  “A personal agent of the Emperor would!”

  “You’re wrong. There is no penalty—because nobody would ever do such a thing.” Kanan sat the lamp on the floor, angled to point up at Sloane. He walked to a control panel near where she was suspended and touched a dial. “Now listen to what’s going to happen. I’m going to give you my message, and be on my way. The stasis field’s timer will release you with enough time to do what you need to do, before Vidian wakes up. Is that understood?”

  “Let me tell you what will happen instead,” Sloane said. “You’ll let me down, turn on these lights, release Vidian—and then we’ll march you down to the detention block. You can do your talking to an interrogator droid.”

  “That would be a mistake.” Kanan began pacing around the darkened room. “I have information that’s vital to you—and to the Emperor.”

  “If you’re the Emperor’s agent, you’re already reporting to him directly. What do you want from me?”

  “Vidian controls all communications from this depot. I can’t afford to have this intercepted. I need an Imperial captain, with her own resources.” He looked at her cannily. “You are resourceful, aren’t you?”

  “I can tell when I’m being played.” She strained against the stasis beam. “Enough of this. Someone is going to come looking for me.”

  “Then I’d better talk fast,” Kanan said. “And you’d better listen. Like your life depends on it.”

  Back in his hazmat suit, Kanan heaved another baradium-357 canister off the hovercart and onto a shelving unit in Expedient. “The seed’s planted.”

  Through her mask, Zaluna looked at him. “That was both the most exciting thing I’ve ever done in my life—and the most exhausting. What do we do now?”

  He locked the cylinder into a magnetic support. “Ditch these forever,” Kanan said, peeling off his hazmat mask and throwing it to the deck. Once the canisters were secured, the bulky protective wear could be dispensed with.

  As Zaluna pulled off her mask, Kanan saw that the Sullustan woman looked winded. “I meant, what if what you did doesn’t work?” she asked. “With the captain, back there?”