by Timothy Zahn
“Like that losers’ mob outside?” Cav’Saran asked acidly; and with that, all traces of levity were gone from his face. “Good; because along with the fines already levied, you’re now under arrest for sedition and incitement and unlawful assembly.” He raised his eyebrows. “And for that, I think we’ll confiscate your ship.” He gestured contemptuously. “Whisteer, dump him in a cell.”
“Fine with me,” LaRone said calmly. “A public trial would be most enlightening.”
“Good point,” Cav’Saran agreed as Whisteer strode forward. “You’re not worth that kind of risk. Whisteer? Dump him in a swamp instead.” He smiled maliciously. “Thanks for pointing that out.”
“And thank you for confirming the charges I’d already heard from some of the citizens,” LaRone said. “I hereby place you and your entire patroller contingent under arrest.”
Cav’Saran smiled. “Really. You and who else?”
It was the perfect opening, and Marcross had the flair to take him up on it. From behind LaRone came the soft clicking of armored boots on marble—but even without the sound he would have known the other stormtroopers had made their grand entrance. The sharply inhaled breaths, the jerking of heads and bodies, and the sudden widening of eyes were all the clues he needed. “In the name of the Empire,” he said formally into the brittle silence as he drew his hold-out blaster, “you and your men are ordered to surrender your weapons.”
With a muttered curse, Whisteer yanked his blaster from its holster.
Or rather, yanked it halfway out. Brightwater’s shot caught him squarely in the chest, dropping him before he could so much as gasp.
Across the room to the right, three of the men LaRone had pegged as possible troublemakers went for their own weapons. LaRone was ready, dropping two of them as Marcross took out the third. There was a quick double shot from LaRone’s left, and he looked up to see the two officers in one of the balconies fold themselves limply over the railing, their blasters dropping from limp fingers to clatter onto the floor below.
And with that another, even more brittle silence descended on the room.
“That’s six who’ve chosen to opt out of the legal system,” LaRone said. “Any others?”
For a moment no one moved. Then, without warning, Cav’Saran grabbed the arm of the closest patroller with his right hand, pulling the man in front of him. Hooking his left arm around the other’s throat to keep him there, he drew his blaster.
Without even appearing to aim, Grave shifted his blaster slightly and sent a shot sizzling past the living shield’s ear to blow a hole in Cav’Saran’s face.
LaRone waited until the body had finished clattering its way across one of the desks and onto the floor. “Anyone else?” he called.
There wasn’t. An hour later, it was over.
“We’ve collected the ones who were out on patrol,” Atmino reported as the last of the former patrollers were escorted to the bulging holding cells. “Weren’t too many of them, as it turned out. I guess Cav’Saran was more interested in being ready to grind our protest into the dirt than he was in actually protecting the city.”
“You’ll want to mention that in your report,” LaRone said. “You have enough former patrollers on duty now to handle things?”
“I think so,” Atmino said. “Though I’m a little confused as to why we need them. Aren’t you taking over security duty?”
“No, that’s your responsibility now,” LaRone told him. “We’re not in the business of taking over from the locals unless there aren’t any other options. The mayor and city council are backing you, aren’t they?”
“Oh, sure, now that Cav’Saran and his thugs are safely locked up,” Atmino said, an edge of contempt in his voice. “Though to be fair, I don’t suppose any of the rest of us have been showing much backbone lately, either.”
“Then you should be all set,” LaRone said. “All the council needs to do is send official word to Shelkonwa about what’s happened. They’ll either approve it directly or suggest some modifications.”
“As long as the modifications don’t involve putting Cav’Saran back in,” Atmino said. “You get back your bait all right?”
“Our what?”
“The speeder bikes,” Atmino said. “You were just dangling them out there so that Cav’Saran would pull that illegal confiscation, right?”
“Of course,” LaRone said. It was amazing sometimes how hindsight enabled people to jump to such incredibly wrong conclusions. “Yes, they’re in the speeder truck.”
“Good,” Atmino said. “Incidentally, I don’t know if you’re interested, but we’ve dug up an odd connection between Cav’Saran and some big pirate gang called the BloodScars. Had you heard about that?”
“No, we hadn’t,” LaRone said, frowning. A corrupt patroller chief and a pirate gang? “What kind of connection?”
“We don’t have that exactly nailed down yet,” Atmino admitted. “But we found a data card in his office with contact information for one of their message drops and an encryption system for him to use.” He dug a data card out of his pocket. “I made you a copy in case you wanted to follow up on it.”
“Thank you,” LaRone said, taking the card and tucking it away. Offhand, he couldn’t think of anything lower on their priority list than chasing down a group of pirates, unless it was going on a tour of the Imperial Palace. “Seems to me this falls more within the sector government’s purview, though.”
“Oh, I’ll be sending them a copy, too,” Atmino assured him.
“Good,” LaRone said, holding out his hand. “At any rate, we need to get going. Congratulations on taking back your city.”
“We couldn’t have done it without you,” Atmino said, taking the proffered hand in a brief but firm handshake. He looked at the four armored men as if wondering if he should offer his hand to them, apparently decided against it. “Incidentally, I never did get your unit number.”
LaRone felt his throat tighten. For the past few hours, in the rush of defeating Cav’Saran’s men and bringing justice back to Janusar’s people, he’d almost been able to forget their situation. Now Atmino’s comment had brought it flooding back. “What do you need it for?” he hedged.
“So I can file an appreciation with your superiors,” Atmino said, sounding puzzled that LaRone would even have to ask.
“Ah,” LaRone said. “Actually, we’re on special assignment and don’t have an official unit number.”
“Oh,” Atmino said, a little taken aback. “But you must have some designation.”
“Of course,” LaRone said, trying to kick his brain into gear. But nothing was coming. Nothing except—“We’re known as the Hand of Judgment.”
“Ah,” Atmino said, his eyes flicking to the other stormtroopers. “That’s … different. Definitely suits you, though.”
“We like it,” LaRone said, trying to sound casual and relieved that the relative darkness would cover up any reddening of his face. What a lame thing to say. “Well, we’re off. Good luck.”
They’d driven two blocks, and none of the others had said a word, when LaRone finally couldn’t stand it anymore. “All right, I give up,” he said. “Somebody say it.”
The others let the silence drag on another few seconds before Grave finally spoke up. “Okay,” he said agreeably. “The Hand of Judgment?”
LaRone winced. It sounded even worse coming from Grave than it had when he’d said it. “I know, and I’m sorry,” he growled. “My brain froze up.”
“You could have just picked a unit number at random,” Quiller pointed out. “It’s not like he could have checked before we got offplanet.”
“Fine,” LaRone said, his embarrassment spilling over into grumpiness. “Next time you can be the officer and group spokesman.”
“Great,” Quiller said blandly. “Does that mean you’re promoting me from finger to thumb?”
“No fair,” Grave said, in the exaggerated tone LaRone remembered all too well from growing up with two younge
r brothers. “I want to be the thumb.”
“All joking aside, LaRone, there’d better not be a next time,” Brightwater put in. “I know we needed to get our speeder bikes back, but we were pushing our luck way too far on this one.”
“Actually, I don’t think we were,” LaRone said.
“Trust me,” Brightwater said. “Stormtrooper armor may carry a psychological edge, but even at that five against three hundred shouldn’t have worked.”
“Except that it never is only five of us,” LaRone reminded him. “That’s the point. The presence of even a single stormtrooper always implies an organization of men and weaponry lurking somewhere in the shadows behind him. They saw five of us and assumed there were hundreds more.”
“Which only works up to the point where someone calls our bluff,” Quiller warned.
“At which point they die,” Grave countered.
“Maybe,” Quiller said. “By all rights, though, we still should have had our skins handed to us. The sooner we leave this whole sector behind us, the better.”
Marcross stirred in his seat. “What’s your hurry?” he asked.
“What’s our hurry?” Quiller retorted.
“He still wants us to go to Shelkonwa,” Grave reminded him.
“Actually, I was thinking more about this connection between Cav’Saran and the BloodScar pirates,” Marcross said.
“What about it?” LaRone asked.
“Remember that swoop gang we dusted on Drunost?” Marcross asked. “I thought those shoulder patches they were wearing looked a little too classy for that kind of lowlife, so I did some checking after we got back to the ship. Turns out the lower section of the patch is basically the BloodScars’ twisted-thorn insignia.”
“Small galaxy,” Quiller murmured.
“Or maybe not so small,” Marcross said. “The BloodScars may be trying to branch out.”
“What, into swoops and law enforcement?” Grave asked.
“Go ahead and laugh,” Marcross said darkly. “But look at where both these groups were positioned. The swoopers were sitting on top of a Consolidated Shipping hub, which is a perfect carrier for small to medium quantities of valuable or sensitive material. Cav’Saran set up shop in a city only a few hundred kilometers from an Incom plant turning out I-7 attack starfighters. Anyone else noticing a pattern?”
There was a moment of silence. “Hiring three hundred thugs is an expensive proposition,” Brightwater said at last. “I doubt swoop gangs come cheap, either, even ones as amateurish as that lot were. If the BloodScars are expanding, they must be doing very good business.”
“Or are being funded from the outside,” Quiller said quietly.
“Exactly,” Marcross said. “And who’s the most obvious money source that would also have an interest in fighters and clandestine shipping?”
“The Rebellion?” Grave asked.
“Who else?” Marcross said.
“I don’t know,” Brightwater said, sounding doubtful. “Pirates are an awfully low form of life to associate with. Even for Rebels.”
“They’re trying to destroy the Empire and tear down the New Order,” Grave reminded him.
“Sure, but hitting military targets is a far cry from piracy against civilians,” Brightwater countered.
“Which is why we’re trying so hard to stop them,” Marcross said, a little tartly. “Or maybe the BloodScars aren’t a real pirate gang at all. The name and reputation could be a cover label for a Rebel cell.”
“I think Marcross is right,” LaRone said. “It’s something that should be looked into.”
“So send an anonymous note to the nearest Imperial garrison and let them handle it,” Grave suggested.
“A nice thought, but impractical,” Marcross said. “You heard what Krinkins said—it’s been eight years since they even had Imperial visitors here, and that was almost by accident. In fact, as far as I know the Reprisal is the only Star Destroyer in the entire sector. Shelsha is pretty low on everyone’s priority list.”
“It didn’t sound like Shelkonwa was all that interested in this part of their territory, either,” Grave said.
“No, it didn’t,” LaRone agreed. “Maybe that’s why the BloodScars have decided to set up shop here.”
“We, on the other hand, happen to have some time on our hands,” Marcross said. “At the least we could see if we can find a connection between the BloodScars and the Rebellion. At best we might be able to follow the links and give Shelkonwa and Imperial Center an actual military target to aim at.”
“Which brings up the point that we’re something of a target ourselves,” Quiller reminded him. “I thought we were supposed to be looking for a place to hide.”
“I’m not talking anything high-profile,” Marcross assured him. “Just a little soft probe into enemy territory. No matter what our current circumstances, we’re still Imperial stormtroopers.”
“Who other Imperial stormtroopers are currently hunting,” Quiller persisted.
“We took an oath to protect the people of the Empire,” Marcross said doggedly. “Rooting out a Rebel cell is well within that job description.”
“How do you suggest we start?” LaRone asked.
“We go back to Drunost,” Marcross said. “Cav’Saran was stupid enough to leave an incriminating data card behind. I doubt those swoopers were any brighter than he was.”
“Of course, the people of Drunost have already seen us and the Suwantek,” Quiller reminded him.
“No, the people of one store saw us,” Grave corrected him. “And even that group only saw LaRone and me.”
“As for the ship, we can certainly afford to burn another of the fake IDs that ISB left us,” Marcross said. “LaRone?”
LaRone waited a moment before answering, as if he were carefully thinking it through. It was all for show, though—he’d already made up his mind. “It’s worth the risk,” he said. “Even if someone actually recognized us and called it in—which I think is unlikely—we’d still have several hours to poke around before anyone could make trouble.”
“And if the trail’s already cold?” Quiller asked.
LaRone shrugged. “We can leave for the Outer Rim from Drunost as easily as we can from here.” They had reached the docking bay, and he let the speeder truck roll to a halt by the Suwantek’s starboard cargo lift. “Are we in agreement?”
“I’m in,” Quiller said.
“Me, too,” Grave said. “If the Rebels are consorting with pirates, I want them and the pirates nailed to the wall. Brightwater?”
“I still don’t like it,” Brightwater said heavily. “But I don’t like shredded grum on flatcake, either, and I learned to eat it. If you really think we’ll find something useful, I’m game.”
“Then we’re on,” LaRone said. Pushing up the swing-wing door, he climbed out and stepped to the turbolift control. “Let’s stow this thing and get moving.”
“Drunost,” Han said flatly.
“Oh, come on, Han,” Luke cajoled. “It can’t be that bad.”
Standing a little way off at the foot of the Falcon’s entry ramp, Chewbacca made a soft urf sound. “Sure it can,” Han growled, sending a warning glare at the Wookiee. “I was there once. It’s all farms and ranches and mines and a few company towns. A few very well-organized company towns.”
“We’ll stay as clear of the towns and companies as we can,” Luke soothed with that irritating farm-boy cheerfulness.
“Sure,” Han said, knowing full well it wouldn’t happen. “Why can’t we just meet this Porter guy out in deep space like Leia’s doing?”
“Because Porter hasn’t got a ship of his own,” Luke said patiently. “Drunost is where he lives, that’s where his team is, and that’s where he wants to meet.”
“It’s also where those stormtroopers of his popped up out of nowhere,” Han reminded him.
“And then left.”
“According to him.”
Luke cocked his head in a look of strained
patience that was almost as irritating as his cheerfulness. “If you don’t want to do this, I can go alone,” he offered. He looked sideways at Chewbacca. “Or Chewie and I could do it.”
“Just get in the ship,” Han growled. When he’d agreed to this whole thing, the plan had been to take a quick trip out to Shelsha sector, nose around a few cantinas and pick up a few leads, then head for home.
But after Luke and Rieekan and Her Royal Plush Gowns and Hair Fashions had gotten through with it, the mission was looking to turn into a major diplomatic tour, complete with talks with the local Rebel leader.
In other words, politics. Exactly what he’d backed out of Leia’s trip to avoid.
Except that on this one Leia wouldn’t be along to at least keep things fun.
A movement at the far end of the hangar caught his eye, and he grimaced. Typical. The minute he started thinking about her, there she was.
She was dressed in a practical tan jumpsuit, apparently getting ready for her own departure. For a moment their eyes seemed to meet, though it was hard to be sure at that distance. She stirred, her shoulders moving as if she was thinking of coming over to him—
“Hey, guy,” a cheerful female voice came from the other direction.
Han turned. It was one of the new X-wing pilots—Stacy something, he vaguely remembered. “Hey,” he said, watching Leia out of the corner of his eye as he walked over to the pilot. Leia’s shoulders weren’t moving anymore, and she seemed to be standing stock-still as she gazed across the hangar at him.
“You and the big guy off again?” Stacy said brightly as she strolled over toward him.
Han suppressed another grimace, forcing it into a friendly grin instead. And he thought Luke’s cheerfulness was irritating. “You know how it is,” he said. “There’s a problem, and they need someone to fix it.”
“So they call you,” she said with a knowing smile. “Well, have fun.”
“Everywhere I go,” he assured her, flicking a finger through the edge of the girl’s hair. If Leia wanted a show, she was going to get one. “You hold things down here, okay?”
“Sure,” she said. With another smile, she sauntered away.