by Timothy Zahn
Pellaeon swallowed a curse. Geronti better have a really good reason for this. “Lieutenant Tomslin, you have the bridge,” he called to the second duty officer as he headed for the turbolift.
Two minutes later, the car came to a halt. The door opened to the sound of tinny, mechanical music, and Pellaeon stepped out into the vast control room that served as the nerve center for the Chimaera’s huge sublight ion drive engines.
And came to a sudden, startled halt.
Gliding across the control room floor were a dozen MSE-9 droids, their squat little boxy shapes weaving back and forth like some sort of strange mechanical ballet. They were also, he realized now, the source of the strange music cutting across the hums and muted rhythmic throbbings of the massive engine machinery a couple of bulkheads away.
The mastermind behind the bizarre display wasn’t hard to identify. Sorro was standing off to one side, waving his arms in slow, dreamy movements, as if conducting a genuine orchestra or chorus.
Like any good ballet, the performance also had an audience. All thirty crew on duty in the vast room were sitting or standing frozen at their posts, gazing in fascination at the droids crisscrossing one another’s paths.
Again, Pellaeon bit back a curse. Crewers on duty were supposed to be on duty, sitting at their stations, watching their monitors, and not being distracted by every eye-catching thing that happened by. The fact that the sublight engines were on standby while the Chimaera traveled through hyperspace was totally irrelevant. He took a deep breath, preparing a command-class bellow that would be loud enough to be heard three decks away—
“I’m not sure when he arrived,” Geronti said from beside him.
Pellaeon turned, temporarily canceling the bellow as he realized with embarrassed chagrin that he hadn’t even noticed Geronti’s arrival. The MSEs’ dance was strangely hypnotic. “You’re not sure?” he growled. “How in the Empire could you miss that?”
“I’m not talking about Sorro,” Geronti said, pointing across the room. “I’m talking about him.”
Frowning, Pellaeon looked in that direction. Walking slowly but purposefully in the relative shadow of a bank of control junction boxes was Lord Odo. “What’s he doing here?” he asked.
“As far as I can tell, giving himself a walking tour of my control room,” Geronti said nervously. “I tried to ask him what he wanted, but he just walked away. I know Captain Drusan ordered us to give him access to any area he wanted, but this is just—” He broke off. “I didn’t want to wake the captain, so I called you.”
“Yes,” Pellaeon said, watching Odo. The other paused, apparently studying the readouts on the junction boxes, then moved on toward the mixture-feed control station, whose three crewers were staring in complete oblivion at the droid ballet. “Well. Let’s go talk to him.”
They were halfway to the mix station when the crewers there suddenly seemed to notice the approach of senior officers. They spun back to their stations with guilty speed, followed by a collective twitch of their shoulders as they apparently only then noticed Odo’s presence, as well. One of them glanced back at Pellaeon, made as if to speak, seemed to decide that the officers would deal with the situation, and turned back to his post without a word.
Odo had finished his inspection of the mix station and was moving on when Pellaeon and Geronti caught up with him. “Lord Odo?” Pellaeon said. “May I ask what you’re doing here?”
“Captain Drusan has given me full access,” Odo said, not breaking stride in the least. “I assumed you were aware of that.”
“I am,” Pellaeon said. Taking a few quick steps, he passed Odo and then turned sharply, putting himself directly in the other’s way. “That’s not what I asked.”
Odo stopped just short of running into him. “I’ve given you all the answer you need, Commander,” he said “You will remove yourself from my path.”
“No,” Pellaeon said firmly. “You may have free run of this ship, but the Chimaera is still a warship of the Imperial fleet. You and your pilot are currently turning it into a Mon Cal opera, and I want to know why.”
The blank eyepieces in Odo’s mask seemed to bore into Pellaeon’s face. Pellaeon forced himself to stare back, and after a moment Odo’s shoulders twitched in a shrug. “Very well,” he said. “Have you ever heard of the Troukree?”
Pellaeon searched his memory. The name wasn’t familiar, but there were so many alien species. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Should I have?”
“Not yet,” Odo said. “But if Warlord Nuso Esva has his way, you soon will.”
“Warlord who?” Geronti asked.
Pellaeon gestured him to be silent. “Why is that?” he asked Odo.
“Because the Troukree are Nuso Esva’s stealth weapon of choice,” Odo said. “Expert saboteurs, dangerous warriors, cunning and deceitful beyond measure.”
“Sounds like they’ll be worth keeping an eye on when they surface,” Pellaeon said. “What does this have to do with you and Sorro?”
Odo inclined his head. “I believe the Troukree may have infiltrated the Chimaera.”
A shiver ran up Pellaeon’s back. “That’s impossible.”
“Is it?” Odo countered. “Even in the Empire there exist creatures like the Clawdites with limited mimicry of face and form. Who’s to say what secrets of stealth or disguise the Troukree may have developed or been given?”
Pellaeon pursed his lips. On the surface, it was a ludicrous claim. Even the most expert of Clawdite shape-shifters would have severe difficulty getting through the security procedures of a modern warship.
But Odo was right. There were many strange peoples in the known galaxy. What even stranger creatures might exist in the unexplored darkness outside the Empire’s boundaries? “And this performance?” he asked, gesturing behind him toward Sorro and his musical droids. “This is supposed to draw these Troukree out?”
“The performance is to distract and bemuse them.” Odo brought his left hand out from a concealing fold of his cloak. “This is to identify them.”
Pellaeon focused on the object in his hand. It was a metal sphere, about ten centimeters across, with a pair of sensor antennas, a large circular visual scanner, a small air analysis grille, and a triad of repulsorlift ridges. “Looks like a vintage seeker,” he said.
“It is indeed,” Odo confirmed. “An Arakyd Mark Two, to be precise. An old one, as you say, and not in the best of shape. The repulsor drive no longer works, but the sensors are still functional. I’m traveling about the critical parts of the ship searching for traces of Troukree biomarkers.”
“And if you find them?”
A sound that an imaginative man might have deciphered as a chuckle came from behind Odo’s mask. “Never fear, Commander,” he said. “I’m not a being of personal action and violence. If I detect the presence of the Troukree, be assured that I will immediately communicate that information to Captain Drusan and the commanders of the trooper and stormtrooper forces aboard the Chimaera.” He lowered his hand back to his side, concealing the seeker again beneath his cloak. “If your curiosity is satisfied, may I now be permitted to continue?”
“Yes, of course,” Pellaeon said, stepping aside.
“Thank you.” Odo continued on his way, heading now toward the fusion-feed controller station.
“Did any of that actually make sense to you, sir?” Geronti murmured.
“Enough of it, yes,” Pellaeon said grimly. “More than enough, in fact.”
“I see,” Geronti said. “I presume I’m to keep everything I’ve heard strictly confidential?”
“Extremely so,” Pellaeon confirmed, watching as Odo paused by the fusion controller. “Do me a favor and keep an eye on him. He can go where he wants, but keep an eye on him. I’d appreciate it if you’d also pass that word—quietly—to the rest of the duty officers.”
“I will, sir,” Geronti said.
“And take down the register numbers of those MSEs,” Pellaeon added, pointing toward Sorro’s c
ollection. “When Sorro’s finished with them, I want each and every one of them examined, down to their wiring and microgears. And make sure they’re reprogrammed back to whatever they were supposed to be doing when Sorro hijacked them.”
Geronti nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m heading back to the bridge,” Pellaeon said. “Let me know if you find anything out of place in the droids, or if anything else odd happens down here.”
“I will, Commander,” Geronti said. “Sorry to have disturbed you.”
Pellaeon looked across at Odo’s back. “That’s all right,” he said. “I’m not sorry. Not at all.”
The first group of shops Luke had seen at the end of the apartment complex didn’t include any clothing stores. But half a block away he found a small secondhand shop that had two full racks of cast-off clothing. A few minutes and twenty credits later, he emerged wearing a blue tunic and yellow sash, a set of gray military-style trousers from some army and war he’d never heard of, and a hooded poncho that not only concealed his hair and shadowed his face but also conveniently hid the stormtrooper utility belt now looped around his shoulder.
The sounds of the mob at the palace had faded away during the time he’d been inside the shop. Just the same, he knew better than to go back in that direction anytime soon. Sticking to the quieter residential side streets, he headed farther out into the central part of the city, looking for a place where he might have a little privacy.
He found it four blocks away: a small park with benches and trees with interlocking branch canopies. There was a low wall around the park and, more useful for Luke’s purposes, several stands of aromatic, meter-high plants with bright pink-and-orange flowers, multicolored leaves, and furry stems. Sitting down on the soft grass a meter away from one of the stands, turning his back to the rest of the park and the city beyond it, Luke slipped the stormtrooper belt off his shoulder and began opening the pockets.
Brightwater had said there might be items in there that Luke would find useful. He’d been right. Along with three days’ worth of emergency rations, there were two ion flares, a syntherope dispenser and grappling hook, a medpac, two small key-locked grenades of unknown type, a compact electromonocular, a glow rod, and a spare comlink. There were also two spare blaster power packs, somewhat less useful given that Luke didn’t have a blaster to go with them, and an old coin that looked a little like the druggats they sometimes still used back on Tatooine.
Setting aside the rest of the equipment, he picked up the comlink. Finally, he could check in with Cracken.
Only, to his chagrin, he discovered that he couldn’t. The comlink wasn’t a standard, general-use model, but was binary-linked to a single comlink system—presumably the system Brightwater and LaRone were working on.
Luke rolled the comlink across his hand, wondering what he was supposed to do now. A city this size would have a few public comm stations scattered around, mostly for the use of citizens whose own comlinks had been lost or damaged. But Rieekan had warned repeatedly against using anything that wasn’t running an Alliance encryption. Especially public comms that were probably under regular governmental surveillance.
Of course, he also doubted that Rieekan would approve of Luke calling anyone on a stormtrooper’s comlink. But right now, he was out of ideas. Bracing himself, he keyed the comlink.
LaRone answered almost instantly. “LaRone,” he said in a clipped, professional tone.
“It’s Skywalker,” Luke identified himself.
There was just the briefest pause, as if LaRone had been expecting someone else and was having to reset his brain to this new reality. “Skywalker,” he said, a little flatly. “You all right?”
“Yes, thanks to Brightwater and the others,” Luke said. “I wanted to call and thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome,” LaRone said. “I hope you’re on your way out of the city.”
“Not yet,” Luke said. “I was hoping—”
“Well, then, get out of the city,” LaRone interrupted him. “They’re trying to frame you for Governor Ferrouz’s murder.”
Luke felt the breath catch in his throat. He’d hoped all that stuff the mustached man was shouting had been nothing but mob rhetoric. “He is dead, then?” he asked.
“Actually, no, he’s not,” LaRone said, his voice suddenly sounding odd. “Hold on a second—someone else wants to talk to you.” There was a moment of silence as the comlink apparently changed hands, a murmur of distant conversation too faint to hear—
“Skywalker?”
Luke felt his jaw drop. “Master Axlon? What are you doing there?”
“Staying alive, thanks to your friends here,” Axlon said grimly. “I don’t know how or why you met up with Imperial stormtroopers, and I don’t think I want to. But never mind that. Where are you?”
“Somewhere in the city,” Luke said, looking around for a street sign. There was nothing visible from where he was sitting. “Where are you?”
“In a tapcaf,” Axlon said. “It’s the—what’s the name here? It’s the Whistling Wind, about three blocks south and west of the palace gate. You need to get here as quickly as you can.”
“Wait a minute.” LaRone’s voice cut back in, and Luke had a quick impression of him snatching the comlink from Axlon’s hand. “Cancel that, Skywalker. You aren’t to come anywhere near this place.”
“What are you talking about?” Axlon demanded, his voice faint. “We need as much help as we can get.”
“We don’t want—”
LaRone’s voice broke off, and Luke heard a faint scuffle as if he and Axlon were fighting for the comlink.
“Luke, listen to me,” Axlon said. “No, Governor Ferrouz isn’t dead. But he’s injured, and we could be under assault at any time by the people who tried to kill him. I appreciate the fact that LaRone’s trying to protect you, but the fact of the matter is that we need you here. More than that, I’m your superior and I’m ordering you here. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Luke said, grimacing. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Have you heard anything about Han and Leia?”
“Not since you called me about them last night,” Axlon said. “But if you’d like, I’ll give Chewbacca a call as soon as we’re done. Hopefully, I’ll have some news by the time you get here.”
“Good enough,” Luke said. “See you soon.”
He keyed off the comlink and clipped it onto his new sash. He was under Axlon’s authority, and if Axlon wanted him at the Whistling Wind, he had no choice but to obey.
But he’d also seen LaRone and the others in action. If they didn’t want Luke there, there had to be a very good reason for it.
So he would go to the Whistling Wind as he’d been ordered. But he would go there very carefully and very watchfully, using every bit of observational skill and subterfuge that he had.
Which wasn’t all that much. But he had the Force. Maybe that would be enough.
He looped the utility belt over his shoulder again beneath the poncho and stood up. Adjusting the hood to hide his face, he got his bearings and headed out.
Axlon clicked off the comlink and held it out toward LaRone. “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate it.”
“I wish I could say the same,” LaRone said, holding hard on to his temper. “What possessed you to tell Skywalker to come here?”
“We need him,” Axlon said in a tone of strained patience. “We need all the fighters we can get.” He waved a hand. “Or are you depending on this to keep us safe?”
He had a point, LaRone had to admit as he looked at the redoubt they’d hastily put together. Ferrouz, stretched out on his couch, had drifted back to unconsciousness, and LaRone and Marcross had laid the pieces of their armor across him to protect him as best they could.
Two meters in front of the couch they’d set up a row of meter-tall metal kegs, with the two-meter gap allowing them enough space to crouch, shoot, and reposition themselves if necessary. Stacked together on the stairs were thirty bottl
es of the highest-proof liquor they could find, ready to be blasted and their contents ignited to create a fire barrier between them and any attackers from that direction. Marcross had questioned the wisdom of that, but LaRone had pointed out that enough of the cellar was permacrete and other nonflammable material to ensure that any fires they started shouldn’t get out of control. More bottles had been gathered behind their keg barrier to serve as makeshift grenades, along with all the actual grenades the team had carried in their utility belts. More bottles, should they need them, were close at hand in the floor-to-ceiling rack rising behind Ferrouz’s couch. Finally, Marcross and Brightwater had created a pair of trip wires with their syntherope, one each in front of the stairs and across the room by the lift.
It was a decent enough redoubt, given the materials they’d had to work with. And it would certainly slow down any assault.
But it wouldn’t stop it. Not if the attackers were determined.
“You’re right, we could use some more fighters,” he told Axlon as he set his BlasTech E-11 on one of the kegs of their barrier and started laying his spare power packs beside it. “But Skywalker’s not the one we need. More to the point, we don’t want him here.”
“How do you figure that?” Axlon countered. “He’s a Jedi, isn’t he? The Jedi were supposed to be good fighters.”
“He’s not a Jedi yet,” Marcross said, his elbow crooked with his own E-11 pointed at the ceiling as he walked over from the stairs to join the conversation. “At least, not as of three months ago.”
“Things change,” Axlon said, circling the end of the barrier and going over to peer at Ferrouz’s closed eyes. “The point is that, until Jade comes back, Skywalker’s our best bet.”
“Our best bet for what?” Grave asked, straightening up from behind the barrier where he’d been rearranging their stack of alcohol bombs.
“Weren’t you listening?” Axlon growled, turning to face him. “For defense, of course.”
“Are you sure that’s why you want him here?” Grave asked.
“It’s not because of his sparkling personality,” Axlon said acidly. “You been wearing your helmet too tightly or something?”