Slyyth had assured him the Imperials wouldn’t be there for another half hour, so he could just walk into the transport, snatch the bags, and hurry out. That obviously wasn’t going to be the case. Yet despite the chance of being caught, Ezra didn’t leave. His instincts told him to stay. He trusted these inner feelings more than anything or anyone else, since they always nudged him to pick the deepest pockets and guided him through rough and risky circumstances. They compelled Ezra to wait, so he did, ducking behind chemical barrels to see if an opportunity would arise.
The opportunity did when Lyste pulled an unfortunate cadet out of line and berated her. Ezra sprinted out, took her place, and marched into the transport.
“Overslept, forgot my uniform,” he whispered to the cadets around him. “Hopefully there’ll be one on the transport. Last thing I want is disciplinary action from Lyste.”
“Got that right,” said a cadet. “If I get one more bad mark on my record, he’s threatened to transfer me to the spice mines of Kessel.”
Kessel. It was one place Ezra never wanted to visit. Other than death, being sent to its spice mines was as bad a punishment as the Empire could deliver.
Once they were aboard the transport, a cadet tossed Ezra an extra uniform from a crate. Ezra flipped him a credit in thanks and then grabbed the two bags that corresponded with the ones that contained helmets on Slyyth’s manifest. Excusing himself to change into the uniform, he veered into the ship’s corridor, found a portside hatch, and exited.
He came out near the refueling hose and crouched behind it to slink back to the emergency door. When Lyste’s eyes were elsewhere, he opened the door and dashed out, hastening down the access corridor, away from the docking bay.
He dropped off the bag that was Slyyth’s cut in a rusty refuse bin and trekked across the spaceport lots to his jump bike. The bag fit in the storage compartment behind the seat, and Ezra was off, zooming down the freeway and into the grasslands toward his hideout.
Soon the old communications tower came into view, rising over the prairie like a lighthouse. Ezra slowed the bike. Once this tower had been linked to a vast grid that coordinated air travel between the planet’s scattered settlements, until it was supplanted by a more advanced Imperial network. Now what stood was little more than a rusted relic, stripped of valuable equipment long before by scrap thieves and overgrown by green daisies.
All this made the tower the perfect hideout.
Ezra didn’t need access to high-tech communications systems. Contact with the outside world was the last thing he wanted. Located outside the capital city, the tower served as his personal sanctuary from the urban chaos. Here Ezra could be by himself—and be himself. The tower was the one place he could call home.
He parked the bike inside the garage and got off the seat, his legs a little numb from the ride. Bits of technology, most of it of Imperial manufacture, littered the floor like in a mechanic’s shop. Ammo-less blasters and stormtrooper rifles dangled on a rack. A shuttle stabilizer had been shoved between cargo containers, while the base of a Treadwell droid, missing its tread, occupied the corner with two broken jump boots. Other components, from power couplings to circuit boards, in various states of disrepair cluttered a workbench.
None of that stuff really mattered to Ezra. His most treasured possessions were his Imperial helmets, neatly arranged on shelves and lockers as if for a museum display. His most recent acquisition, a TIE fighter pilot’s helmet, hung front and center atop a jacket rack.
Now he had more to add. He pulled out the bag from the bike’s storage compartment, untied it, and turned it over. Instead of helmets, holopads spilled out.
He almost kicked himself. He hadn’t had time to check the bags. He’d just assumed what the manifest declared was correct. He sifted through the holopads, finding nothing else, not even blaster packs or biker goggles. He didn’t understand it. What would a military supply transport be doing with holopads?
He picked up one of the holopads and thumbed the tiny button. A three-dimensional image of two happy parents and their son was projected from its surface. “You, too, can be part of the Imperial family,” announced a pompous voice from the holopad’s micro-speaker. “Don’t just dream about applying for the Academy; make it come true. You can find a career in space—Exploration, Starfleet, or Merchant Service. Choose from Navigation, Engineering, Space Medicine, Contact/Liaison, and more.”
Having heard the same commercial at the spaceport over the years, Ezra knew the words by heart. “If you have the right stuff to take on the universe and standardized examination scores that meet requirements,” he recited along, mimicking the adult voice and its upper-crust accent, “dispatch your application to the Academy screening office, care of the Commandant, and join the ranks of the proud!”
Ezra clicked his tongue along with the concluding drumroll, then stopped, realizing that he was parroting Imperial propaganda. He lifted his thumb in sudden revulsion. The picture disappeared and the micro-speaker silenced, though the words stayed in his head. The ad was like a bad tune you couldn’t forget, which was the point. The Empire wanted everyone in his generation to think the same, dream the same, be the same, like little Imperial droids.
He tossed the holopad onto his workbench. Ezra wouldn’t be one of their droids. He wasn’t anyone’s droid.
His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten. He reached into a soldier’s helmet that he’d repurposed as a fruit bowl and found he had only one jogan left when he thought he had two. The fruit was squishy and overripe, but he was hungry enough to eat grass at this point.
Ezra jammed the jogan under his arm and climbed the ladder to the observation deck, where he could eat in peace and watch the stars come out.
Many kilometers above Lothal’s night sky, a shuttle departed hyperspace. Yet the thousands of lights that greeted the shuttle weren’t the twinkling dots of the cosmos. They shone from the massive triangular form of the Imperial Star Destroyer Lawbringer, which floated against the planet’s blue-green sphere like a vibrospear poised to stake fresh ground.
The shuttle’s pilot grinned. He had come out from hyperspace at the precise location he’d calculated—right over the Star Destroyer’s bridge, where its captain would be standing, frozen in shock.
“Unknown shuttle, identify yourself immediately, or be blasted,” barked a voice over his subspace comm.
The pilot spoke calmly into the comm, not rattled by the threat. “Agent Kallus of the ISB, requesting permission to dock.”
There was hesitation on the other end; then the comm officer spoke in a more respectful tone. “Please hold, sir.”
Kallus swooped the shuttle to fly over the bridge a second time. The Star Destroyer’s turbolasers tracked him, but wisely the gunners never fired. The mere mention of the Imperial Security Bureau made men think twice about what they were doing.
Another voice came over the comm, with an aristocrat’s accent. “This is Captain Zataire of the Lawbringer. I offer my sincerest apologies, Agent Kallus. We weren’t expecting you. It doesn’t appear that you were on the flight schedule.”
“I wasn’t,” Kallus said. He was never on the schedule. His visit, like all his visits, was meant to be a surprise. “Where shall I dock?”
Zataire’s voice quavered. “The aft hangar. I will be there to meet you. Cut your sublight engines so the tractor beam can get a lock.”
“No need to use the tractor beam. I will land the shuttle myself.”
“As you wish. It will be a pleasure to have you aboard.”
Kallus knew that pleasure was the last thing the captain was feeling right then. Dread would be the more appropriate emotion. For the ISB to board your ship was not exactly an honor any commander wanted. Though he held no military rank, as a full executive agent, Kallus had the authority to countermand any of the captain’s orders if it helped fulfill his mission to hunt down and catch potential rebels.
The Star Destroyer’s bay doors opened. Kallus glided hi
s shuttle toward them, maintaining a slower-than-average speed. Every second of his approach would amplify Zataire’s dread. Every second would remind the captain that he had just lost his ship.
The Lawbringer was, for all practical purposes, now Kallus’s to command.
Captain Hiram Zataire loved his emerald wine. He poured glass after glass during the dinner he hosted for Kallus in his ornately decorated cabin. Zataire spent most of the meal detailing the qualities of his favorite vintages, commenting that for as green as Lothal was, its emerald grapes often tasted as sour as Hutt punch. Kallus sipped his wine and nodded politely, offering an occasional question to keep the captain babbling. Small talk frequently revealed more about a man than direct interrogation did. Before Kallus made his next move, he had to learn if Zataire was whom his Imperial datafile said he was, a somewhat fussy yet fiercely loyal officer of the Empire. He needed to know if the captain could be trusted.
Zataire twice brought up his vineyard on Naboo, of which there was no record in his datafile. The file did report that Zataire owned a couple of large plantations on the planet, so Kallus assumed the vineyard was part of those properties. The file also noted that Zataire had a wife and three children, two daughters and a son. The captain spoke glowingly of his wife, who stayed married to him even while he was away on these long assignments, and his daughters, who were the dearest things in his life. The eldest shared his passion for wine and ran the vineyard, while her sister had followed his footsteps into the armed forces and was serving as a lieutenant aboard Lord Tion’s flagship, the Devastator.
Of his son, he made no mention.
As they ate, Kallus surveyed the cabin in quick glances and long, pensive looks. He had trained himself to assess people’s loyalty by profiling everything around them. He took note of their possessions, the arrangement of their habitation spaces, the quality of their cutlery, how and where they hung their hats—anything unique that made them stand out, or, even better, the things that didn’t. Because in Kallus’s experience, the things that didn’t stand out in plain view were often the very things people wanted to hide.
The captain’s refined tastes went beyond emerald wine. Ivory bantha bone framed a floor-to-ceiling viewport that offered a gorgeous vista of Lothal. A chromatic chandelier hovering above the dining table cycled through variations of colors that complemented the planet’s blue-green glow. Shelved along the wall, and sorted by topic and author, were books—not datatapes or flimsiplast replicas, but collector’s hard copies, ink printed on paper. Kallus had never seen so many of them outside a library. Dust even lingered on a spine or two.
These furnishings made for impressive quarters. Zataire was evidently a man of independent means, as a captain’s pay grade could never afford such extravagances. Kallus judged he most likely served the Navy for the privilege of his rank rather than any financial gain. Such men were rarely disloyal, since they feared risking the respect they had gained among their peers. In fact, they made some of the Empire’s best commanders—wealthy citizens who were not bluebloods by birth but had joined the upper classes by climbing the military ladder.
The only thing that stood out to Kallus was the wine.
When Zataire went to refill their glasses, Kallus made his move. “I must ask, Captain, if you despise Lothal’s emerald wine so much, why do you keep pouring it?”
Zataire’s hands shook almost imperceptibly as he held the bottle. Kallus continued before the man could answer. “Might it be because the wine is not a vintage from Lothal at all, but one from Alderaan?” He sneered when he said the name of the world. Alderaan had been a constant thorn in the Empire’s side. The planet’s government, led by the House of Organa, had repeatedly argued against the military crackdowns required to maintain order. They claimed to champion peace but in reality only fomented anarchy.
Zataire’s voice trembled with his hands. “I...did not realize you, too, were a wine connoisseur.”
“My job necessitates I be an expert at many things. Let me have that before you drop it.” Kallus took the bottle of wine from Zataire. The label showed it came from a vineyard on Lothal, but Kallus peeled that off to reveal another label beneath.
“Just as I thought. From the Organa Ranch on Alderaan,” Kallus said.
“I dare not serve a man of your standing the local Hutt punch,” Zataire said. “That was the only bottle I had that wasn’t from Lothal, a gift I recently received.”
“From that rebel you call a son, perhaps?” Kallus casually asked.
The stem of the wineglass snapped in Zataire’s hand. Bright green liquid spilled all over the tablecloth. “Are you accusing me of disloyalty, Agent Kallus?”
“Captain, I haven’t accused you of anything. That is something I do only when the facts give me reason to. As an agent of the ISB, I follow the letter of the law.”
Zataire held the broken wineglass in his hand, his mouth half open. Kallus poured the last of the bottle into his own glass, which he then offered to Zataire. “You should enjoy this while you can. As bothersome as Alderaan may be, I agree, her vintages are the best. But one wonders how much longer her grapes will grow.”
Zataire took a moment to accept Kallus’s glass. “Please know I despise my son’s political views,” he said. “But I love him and could not refuse his gift. It is what any good father would do.”
“Of course it is. And as a good Imperial, you have provided me the location of your rebellious child. You know we have been looking for him for years.”
Zataire sighed. “My son has a big mouth and is prone to outrageous speeches, but he’s not a rebel. He’ll see the value of the New Order when he grows older. Please do not hurt him.”
“Captain Zataire, the Imperial Security Bureau was created to protect the Empire’s citizens, especially the children of a decorated officer like yourself. The last thing we’d ever want is for him to be kidnapped for ransom, or, worse yet, tortured and killed. As you are probably well aware, Alderaan can be a rough place, with all the anti-Imperials lurking about.”
Zataire swirled the wine in his glass, then put it down without drinking. He did not look at Kallus when he spoke. “Might there be a way to guarantee my son’s safety?”
Kallus paused, as if considering Zataire’s request. In truth, he had already gamed out this conversation—and what he could offer in return for Zataire’s full support. He didn’t need to offer anything, since his jurisdiction gave him the authority to order the captain to do whatever was required to accomplish the mission. But going over the captain’s head would make Zataire an enemy, one who would stall in securing him any necessary resources. And Kallus didn’t come to Lothal to battle fellow Imperials. He came to root out rebels.
“The galaxy is a dangerous place, as you well know, and safety can never be fully guaranteed. But the letter of the law allows, shall I say, a certain flexibility in both of our duties.” Kallus leaned toward Zataire. “If you give me your fullest cooperation, without any bureaucratic nonsense, I will do my utmost to personally ensure that your son’s big mouth does not get him into further trouble.”
Zataire stared into his wine before finally lifting his head and looking Kallus in the eye. “You’ve always had my fullest cooperation, Agent Kallus.”
“Which I never questioned. You are a fine Imperial, Captain Zataire. If we end the subversive activity on Lothal, you will be commended. But first things first. Have the Lawbringer descend through the atmosphere to hover over the capital city. The locals should tremble when they see the magnificent weapons we wield.”
“You want us to leave orbit? The planet will go unprotected.” It was the only time during the dinner Zataire had raised his voice, a sign that he took his duty seriously.
“Unprotected from whom? There is no imminent threat of invasion anywhere in the galaxy. Like never before, space itself is at peace, because of the Empire’s might.”
Kallus turned in his chair toward the viewport. Since he had boarded the Star Destroyer, Lothal had
made a half rotation, bringing dawn to its other side. Now its major continents blazed a brilliant green.
Kallus narrowed his eyes like lasers at the planet. “The one and only danger to our beloved Empire, my dear captain,” he said, “lies not from without, but from within.”
To eliminate rebel activity once and for all on Lothal, he would bleed those lands red.
Ezra woke to the rumble of thunder. He staggered to his feet, woozy after having spent the whole night asleep on the observation deck. It wasn’t raining yet, so he blinked away the last bits of sleep from his eyes and went over to the tower’s edge. Leaning his arms against the railing, he looked out at the dawn.
Green daisies had sprouted around the tower, waiting to bloom. Insects buzzed about the flat prairie, some snatched from the air by swift paws of furry rodents. In the distance loomed Capital City, where smokestacks pumped pollutants into the sky. The morning cloud layer glowed its usual purple haze. Oddly, Ezra didn’t see any sign of rain, though the rumbling continued. Some of it came from his stomach, which craved more than the previous night’s jogan. But most of the rumble came from above. Ezra tilted his gaze—and dropped his jaw.
An Imperial Star Destroyer soared overhead.
The ship was colossal, far bigger than it appeared on news reports. Over a kilometer and a half long, it darkened the sky and seemed endless. Giant turbolaser batteries projected from its armor-plated belly, all pointed in one direction—toward Capital City.
Ezra pictured the city’s well-to-do citizens cheering the oncoming craft while the poorer denizens scurried into whatever hole they could find. They were the wise ones. An Imperial Star Destroyer approaching one’s home was not generally a positive sign.
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