by Timothy Zahn
“As he said: everything.” For a few steps Odo was silent. “Tell me, Commander. Have you ever heard the saying ‘The choices of one shape the futures of all’?”
“Yes, I believe so,” Pellaeon said. “Jedi, isn’t it?”
“The Jedi may have stolen it,” Odo said. “But it was originally from the Song of Salaban. The point is that each person’s decisions affect everyone around him. Friends, family, business associates—even total strangers. You ask what happened to Sorro? That’s what happened. He made bad decisions—many of them. In the process, he lost everything he held of value.”
“I’m sorry,” Pellaeon murmured. “What will he do now?”
“That’s entirely up to him,” Odo said. “I rather hope he decides to fight to get it back.” He motioned toward his cabin’s door. “In here.”
Odo’s original rooms were a set of junior officers’ quarters, with two beds, a refresher station, and a few small pieces of furniture. The five travel cases the Chimaera’s crewers had brought across from the Salaban’s Hope were already clustered together on a floating repulsor cart in the center of the room.
And in the middle of the group of bags were two new items: a pair of meter-long cylinders about fifteen centimeters across with long shoulder straps attached. The specialized equipment, apparently, that Odo had brought back from Wroona.
Stepping to the cart, Odo retrieved the cylinders from among the other bags. “You will guide the cart, Commander,” he said, gesturing to the cart’s control panel.
“As you wish, my lord,” Pellaeon said as he keyed the cart off standby. “You can put those back if you wish,” he added, nodding to the cylinders. “The cart can handle the entire load.”
“I know that,” Odo said, looping one strap around each of his shoulders. “Follow me.”
The rest of the trip to the command section was made in silence. Most of the junior officers they passed seemed a bit startled at the sight of a senior bridge officer driving a cart, but none of them said anything. The crewers, in contrast, studiously ignored the odd procession as being none of their business.
One lone petty officer was brave enough or conscientious enough to offer his assistance, and though Odo turned him down, Pellaeon made sure to memorize the man’s face and duty sector. The next promotions list would be opening soon for officer recommendations.
As Pellaeon had anticipated, Odo led them to the visiting-dignitary suite two corridors aft of the bridge. What Pellaeon hadn’t expected was that Captain Drusan would be waiting there for them. “Lord Odo,” the captain said, his eyes flashing oddly at Pellaeon as he bowed to Odo. “Thank you for your willingness to move your quarters. I’m sure you’ll find these more than satisfactory.”
“I’m certain I will, Captain,” Odo said, looking around the room, his eyes lingering for a moment on the display and repeater board, which the occupant could use to monitor nearly all of the Chimaera’s systems. “Commander Pellaeon was kind enough to assist with the move.”
“So I see,” Drusan said, giving Pellaeon that same odd look. “I would have been happy to assign you a crewer instead.”
“I was more than happy to offer my assistance,” Pellaeon said.
“Yes,” Drusan murmured, his gaze dropping from Pellaeon’s face to the cluster of bags on the cart. “But I’m sure we can handle things from here. Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.” Pellaeon inclined his head to Odo. “Lord Odo.”
A minute later he was on the turbolift heading back toward officers’ country. Now would normally be the time for a meal, some reading, and then sleep. But today the meal and sleep could wait. Suddenly his brain was churning with possibilities.
He still didn’t know who or what Lord Odo was. But finally he had a fresh idea of where to look.
“Here we go,” Han muttered, and pushed back the hyperdrive levers. In front of him, the mottled hyperspace sky flashed with starlines and then the stars of the Poln system.
For a minute he let the Falcon coast, heading generally inward as he studied the twin planets ahead. Even without their size difference it would have been easy to tell the two worlds apart. Poln Major was all shades of blue and green and white, with scattered clumps of glittering lights on the night side. Poln Minor was mostly browns and grays, with a bare handful of lights. Probably the entrances to the various spaceports, he decided, or else the markers of underground storage and maintenance facilities. And if Rieekan was right, the holes where a whole lot of smugglers, pirates, and other fringe types were hiding.
Beside him, Chewie rumbled. “Yeah, I see it,” Han said sourly, eyeing the flashing lights of the Golan I Space Defense Station in high orbit over Poln Major. Rieekan had assured him that the Golan was mostly an empty shell these days, running with maybe 30 percent of its normal crew and rated firepower.
But even 30 percent of a Golan still left it as a serious obstacle for any Alliance forces trying to move in. On the other hand, if it could be taken intact, that same firepower would then be on the Alliance’s side. He made a mental note to suggest that Axlon make the station one of his demands to Governor Ferrouz.
There was the sound of footsteps behind him.
“Are we there?” Axlon asked.
“Yeah,” Han confirmed, setting his teeth firmly together. Four days of riding together in a cramped light freighter—four days of the man finding a way to get on every single one of Han’s nerves—had left him with a powerful urge to open the hatch to clean air again. Or maybe just to find a convenient piece of vacuum and toss his passenger out into it.
Axlon was polite, but in a subtly superior way that even Her Worshipfulness Princess Leia couldn’t match. He asked obvious and irritating questions, and continually gave the impression that Han should be happier about answering them. He was an avid but unskilled sabacc player, and every time he lost it was clear he thought Han had cheated. Even when he hadn’t.
But worse even than all the surface irritants was what was simmering behind the man’s eyes. There was a swirl of anger, tenacity, and nervousness back there, in a fluid and ever-changing combination that set Han’s teeth on edge. He’d seen that kind of personality before, and it usually got the offender and his pals chased out of a cantina or off a world at a high rate of speed.
Or it got them all killed.
Chewie had noticed it, too, even though the big Wookiee was too polite to mention it. Still, when something bothered Chewie, Han had long ago learned it was worth keeping an eye on.
Chewie rumbled again.
“What?” Han asked, snapping out of his reverie.
Chewie repeated the comment, this time pointing to the aft sensor readout.
Han frowned. The Wookiee was right—there was a Z-95 back there, about half a minute behind the Falcon and twenty degrees to starboard.
There were still plenty of Z-95s running around the galaxy, especially out here at the edges where security services couldn’t afford newer fighters, or didn’t want to put the more expensive hardware at risk. And the ship was definitely not showing Alliance markings.
But it was coming in on more or less the same vector as the Falcon, though that twenty-degree spread meant the pilot was trying not to look like he was coming in on that vector.
And something about the way the pilot was handling the fighter strongly reminded Han of Luke.
Han felt his eyes narrow. Rieekan had told him that Luke was going to be handling some of the follow-up fighter stuff. But Rieekan didn’t exactly have a spotless record as far as lying through his teeth was concerned. And now that Han thought about it, he remembered that when he and Axlon had said good-bye to Luke, the kid had been pretty vague about what he was going to be doing for the next few weeks.
Chewie rumbled. “Yeah, yeah, I see him,” Han said.
“See who?” Axlon asked, a little too quickly.
“Chewie was just wondering about the Golan out there,” Han said, casually easing the Falcon to the right. If that really was Luke out ther
e, he wouldn’t want Han getting close enough to get a clear look through the canopy.
Sure enough, Han had barely begun to close the gap when the Z-95 started a drift of its own, heading the same direction and at the same speed as the Falcon.
Muttering under his breath, Han drifted the Falcon back onto her original vector. This time the Z-95 didn’t try to match the maneuver, but simply continued easing to starboard as if that had been the pilot’s plan all along. Even Luke wasn’t inexperienced enough at this sort of thing to look like he was trying to play follow-my-twist with the Falcon. Especially when he was obviously trying to keep his presence here a secret. Him, Rieekan, and everyone else.
Including Axlon? “So it’s just the three of us, huh?” Han commented. “Three against a whole Imperial garrison?”
“Oh, please,” Axlon scoffed. “It’s hardly going to come to that. Don’t you get it? Governor Ferrouz wants us here. He’s not going to do anything to jeopardize this deal.”
“Yeah,” Han muttered. “Right.”
THE THING THAT’S SO FUNNY ABOUT THIS,” THE CHEERFUL-VOICED MAN commented into the darkness that surrounded LaRone, “is how easily you were caught.”
LaRone didn’t answer. He hadn’t been answering, in fact, for the past three standard hours or so, the full length of time he and the others had been sitting here with binders on their wrists and blindfolds across their eyes. Partly because he didn’t want to dignify the other man’s ramblings. Mostly because there really was nothing he could say.
And because Cheerful was right. LaRone had walked right into the trap, his eyes open, his blaster still in its holster.
And now, much sooner than he’d anticipated, the Hand of Judgment’s run really was all over. Their attackers had taken all five of them, and as far as LaRone could tell, they had done it without firing a single shot.
He still didn’t know who these men were, whether they were mercenaries, Imperials, or just some local criminal gang. But it didn’t really matter. LaRone and the others would either be killed outright or turned over to the Empire, which amounted to the same thing.
Whatever his motivation, whatever his plan, the man gloating at LaRone from across the room had every reason to be cheerful.
Still, LaRone was becoming increasingly puzzled by the fact that they’d been sitting here all this time with no attempts at questioning or torture other than having to listen to the man talk. Did he simply want them in pristine condition when he turned them over to the Imperial Security Bureau? The thought of that made LaRone’s skin crawl.
Somewhere across the room behind Cheerful’s voice, a door opened. “There you are,” Cheerful said, sounding decidedly less cheerful now. “About time.”
“Is this them?” a cold voice—male—demanded.
“Most of them,” Cheerful confirmed. “I admit they’re not much to look at—”
“Take those off,” Cold Voice interrupted. “I want them to see me while I explain the realities of life to them.”
“Not sure that’s a good idea,” Cheerful warned. “They may not look it, but I’ll bet they’ll get real talky once they get to the other end of their one-way ride.”
“You may have things to hide, Doss,” Cold Voice said. “I don’t. I want to look them in the eye.”
“Fine,” Cheerful said with a sigh. “You’re the boss. Kinker, Shippo—you heard the man.”
There was a brief patter of footsteps, and a dull light blazed suddenly in LaRone’s eyes as the blindfold was ripped off his face. For a moment he squinted against the light, and then his eyes adjusted.
They were in some kind of office, probably the customs building he’d seen from the Suwantek on their way in. The place was typical of this size landing field: small and somewhat decrepit, with a couple of scan tables, two desks, and walls that were lined with shelving and equipment cabinets. At least half of the shelving LaRone could see from his position was bare, and he suspected most of the cabinets were empty, as well.
Four men faced them from across the room. One, a large, evil-looking man with brown-and-white-striped hair, was sitting casually on one of the scan tables. Standing stiffly beside him was a somewhat older man in a dark business tunic and matching trousers. The other two men—Kinker and Shippo, LaRone assumed—stood off to the sides between them and LaRone, four blindfolds hanging loosely from their hands. At the far end of the room, a third guard lounged by the building’s only visible door.
LaRone felt himself stiffen as a stray fact belatedly caught his attention. Kinker and Shippo were holding four blindfolds?
Trying to seem casual, he looked to either side of him. Marcross sat in the chair to his right, his hands shackled like LaRone’s behind his back. To Marcross’s right was Quiller; to LaRone’s left was Grave.
Brightwater was nowhere to be seen.
“You’re right, Doss, they really don’t look like much,” the businessman said in the same cold voice as he eyed the stormtroopers. “Do they have a leader?”
Beside LaRone, Marcross stirred. “That would be me,” LaRone spoke up. “And you?”
“What, you don’t even know my name?” the other retorted. “You came to this sector intent on overthrowing me, and you don’t even know my name?”
“Of course we do,” Marcross said calmly. “You’re Bok Yost, recently elected to the post of chancellor in the Skemp District on Elegasso.”
LaRone suppressed a grimace, embarrassment momentarily eclipsing his quiet dread of the future looming over them all. He should have recognized Yost right off, even if he wasn’t wearing the official robes of office the way he’d been in all the holos they’d seen of the man.
“That’s right,” Yost said. “Recently and legally elected.”
“I said you’d been elected,” Marcross corrected mildly. “I didn’t say it had been legal.”
“I warned you about these jokers,” Doss murmured. “Self-righteous clear down to the marrow.”
“Yes, aren’t they?” Yost said, his voice going even colder. “And I see that trying to explain the realities of life would be a waste of time.”
“Realities, as in if you bribe someone enough, he’ll go away?” LaRone suggested.
“Exactly,” Yost said with a thin smile. “I was going to offer you a substantial sum of money to come over to my side. You’re clearly highly competent—Doss’s list of your accomplishments over the past few months makes that impressively clear. But I see now that such an offer would be a waste of time. I suppose the only question now is what we do with you. Doss?”
“Easiest part of all,” Doss said, his voice all cheerful again. “All you have to do is whistle up the Pickerin garrison and hand them over to them. Did I forget to mention they’re military deserters?”
“As a matter of fact, you did,” Yost rumbled, eyeing LaRone with a new gleam in his eye. “I was wondering where they’d found stormtrooper gear to steal.”
“Now you know,” Doss said. “So get on your comlink and call the garrison.”
Yost snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a government official now. I can’t do that.”
Doss threw the other a confused look. “Of course you can,” he said. “You being an official will add a whole lot more weight to the charges—”
“And being an official,” Yost cut in, “I can’t accept rewards for the return of deserters.”
Doss’s frown cleared. “Ah. No, I guess you can’t. I suppose you’ll want half?”
“I want two-thirds,” Yost corrected. “You and your men can have the rest.”
“What, an entire third for us?” Doss said sarcastically. “Very generous of you.”
“Don’t be ungrateful,” Yost admonished. “Don’t forget that I’m the one who identified the threat and came up with this ridiculous pottery rumor for you to lure them in with. The fact of the matter is that I’m being more than generous. Especially since you’ll also keep your very hefty fee.”
For a moment the two men glared at each other
. “For whatever it’s worth,” LaRone offered into the stiff silence, “whatever he’s paying, Doss, we’ll double it.”
“Shut up,” Doss growled. “Fine. A third of the reward plus our fee. And we get to keep their ship.”
“Agreed.” Yost looked over at LaRone. “Well. Let’s bundle them aboard your ship and go wake up the Imperials.”
“No need,” a quiet voice said from somewhere to LaRone’s right. “We’re already awake.”
LaRone twisted his head around toward the voice. A young woman was standing in the shadows by a bank of dusty storage lockers twenty meters away. Behind her, one of the locker doors hung open, as if she’d been hiding inside the whole time. She was wearing a peasant’s tunic over baggy trousers and low boots, the rustic outfit topped off with a short hooded cloak. The hood was pulled low over her forehead, covering her hair and concealing the upper half of her face.
In impressive unison Doss’s three guards snatched out their blasters.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Doss demanded as all three weapons swung to target the woman. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“You’re Mikhtor Doss, aren’t you?” the woman asked, taking another step toward Doss and Yost before coming to a halt. “I’ve read about you and your mercenaries.” She cocked her head. “Or are you actually pirates? The reports are a bit vague.”
“Who is this creature?” Yost demanded. “Doss, if this is some trick—”
“Shut it,” Doss cut him off, his eyes on the woman. “Whatever rumors you’ve been listening to, it’s all nonsense. We’re a fully licensed paramilitary group, cleared by the sector governor himself.”
“Which means nothing,” the woman said calmly. “Especially in this sector, where the governor’s office is long overdue for a cleaning.”
“It’s the times,” Doss said philosophically. “What about you? Haven’t you and your associates ever skidded across the line?”
The woman shook her head. “I have no associates. I work alone.”
Doss clucked his tongue. “Wrong answer,” he said. “Kill her.”