by Timothy Zahn
“Don’t move,” Mara ordered, and headed across the small room toward the door.
She was halfway there when the door was thrown open and one of the men loomed in the doorway, panting from his climb up the stairs. Lifting his blaster, he opened fire—and died instantly as Mara deflected the bolt into the center of his chest. He jerked, his blaster going flying, his body slamming into the man behind him and sending them both tumbling backward off the landing and halfway down the first flight of stairs.
Swearing viciously, the second man shoved the body of his companion away and lifted his own blaster. He fired, his curses turning to a scream of rage and pain as Mara caught the bolt on her lightsaber and sent it back into his weapon, shattering both the blaster and the hand gripping it.
Another shot came at Mara from the floor. Crouching down on the landing, she looked over the guardrail.
Any reasonable kidnappers would have realized by now that it was over and would be heading down the vehicle tunnel in a frantic attempt to get away. But not this bunch. This bunch was still heading for the stairway, still firing their blasters, still apparently convinced that they could salvage something out of the mess.
Even if it was just to kill one of the people who’d wrecked their plan.
She looked down. Skywalker was still crouched beside the ore car, the blaster she’d sent him silent, his lightsaber gripped in his hand but not ignited. Waiting for them to come to him.
Mara grimaced. She had no idea who he was, or how it was LaRone knew him. But he’d been helpful, whether he’d really planned to be or not, and he’d played his own small part in saving the governor’s family. She couldn’t just stand here and let him die.
From this distance, with no weapon other than her lightsaber, there was no way she could kill the rest of the kidnappers. But maybe she could do something to dissuade any further action. Just past the vehicle tunnel, between Skywalker and the kidnappers, was the stack of barrels she’d noted earlier, the ones emblazoned with FLAMMABLE warnings. Standing up, she locked her lightsaber on and threw it toward the stack.
The weapon arced through the air, its blade spinning like a child’s twist toy. Mara stretched out, using the Force to guide the weapon’s path as best she could, sending the blade slicing through the bases of three of the barrels. They burst open, and a gush of thick, evil-looking liquid flowed out.
She had no idea whether the stuff was still flammable. If it was left over from the mine’s heyday, probably not.
But she would bet heavily that none of the men down there knew whether it was flammable, either. Even thirsting for Skywalker’s death, maybe they would decide they weren’t thirsting for it enough to face the possibility of going up in flames.
With that, they finally got the message. Even as Mara stretched out to call the lightsaber back to her hand, they slowed and then stopped. Their blasters were suddenly silent, their eyes no longer on Mara but on the stream of bubbling liquid flowing across the cavern in front of them.
All of them except one. Stelikag didn’t even slow down, his eyes still burning toward Skywalker as he splashed unheeding and apparently uncaring through the stream.
And with no blaster within her reach, there was only one thing Mara could do. “Shoot it!” she shouted at Skywalker as her lightsaber flew the last couple of meters into her hand. “Shoot the pool. Now!”
“Shoot the pool!” the voice shouted from above Luke, the words echoing in the cavern. “Now!”
He glanced at the power indicator on his blaster. There were perhaps two shots left. Not nearly enough to stop the entire group of kidnappers who’d been charging at him moments before. But maybe enough to ignite the pool of liquid.
But could he do that? Could he deliberately spark a fire that he knew would kill someone?
And as he looked at Stelikag, splashing across the liquid, Ben Kenobi’s words seemed to echo in his mind. For over a thousand generations the Jedi Knights were the guardians of peace and justice in the Old Republic.
Justice …
Stelikag was a kidnapper. He’d tried to murder an Imperial agent with his booby-trapped stairway, and he was involved with the plan to murder Governor Ferrouz and his family. If he’d had the chance, he would certainly have carried out those murders.
And at this immediate moment, he was planning to kill Luke.
Luke wasn’t a Jedi yet. He might never become one.
But the pursuit of justice was something even non-Jedi could choose.
Raising his blaster, he fired.
With a thunderous roar, the liquid on the cavern floor below exploded.
The shock wave slammed into Mara, throwing her back through the door into the control cabin. The whole structure, maybe even the whole cavern, shook as she retreated across the room and grabbed the woman and girl, pulling them to the floor and wrapping her arms protectively around them. There was a crack from above, and she winced as part of the ceiling near where she’d cut her way in fell with a crash. There was a second, somewhat softer explosion from below.
And then the echoes of the blast faded into a distant crackling.
“Stay here,” Mara ordered the others. Getting to her feet, picking up her lightsaber from the floor where she’d apparently dropped it, she made her way to the door and cautiously looked out.
The stuff had been flammable, all right. Nearly half the floor below was roiling in bright yellow flames and a black, evil-smelling smoke. At the far corner of the cavern, she caught a glimpse of the remaining kidnappers pressed together against the far wall, as far away from the flames as they could get.
There was no sign of Stelikag. Blinking against the smoke, she looked down toward the ore car where Skywalker had been crouching. But the roiling smoke was too thick now for her to see whether he was still there or not.
What she could see was that the slope of the cavern floor had directed most of the blazing liquid away from the vehicle tunnel. A few more minutes to let the fire burn down, and she and the former captives would be able to get out of here.
Returning her lightsaber to her belt, she pulled out her comlink. While they waited, she would give Governor Ferrouz the good news.
Taking a quick three-step run, LaRone jumped up onto the keg and from there up to the edge of the shaft. He dropped his E-11 out onto the duracrete and simultaneously grabbed the edge with both hands, pulling himself up. His swinging legs made it to the top, and with a final heave he got his torso up, as well. He grabbed his E-11 from where he’d dropped it, rolled away from the opening, and came to rest on his stomach with his blaster aimed down the alley.
As he heard Marcross repeat the procedure behind him, he discovered to his stunned disbelief that it was all over.
At the end of the tapcaf, right where Brightwater had said they would plant the explosives, three of the yellow-eyed aliens were lying stretched out in the alley beside a half-assembled shaped charge. On the ground beside the explosives was the familiar boxy shape and oversized antenna of a Sanchor III comlink jammer. Standing over them were the two Troukree who had been thrown up out of the shaft a minute ago, the ones LaRone had tried to stop, the ones he’d assumed had gone straight to their deaths.
Beside those two Troukree were three more, all of them hefting heavy blasters.
With an effort, LaRone found his voice. “Clear,” he called.
“Likewise,” Marcross called back, his voice sounding as stunned as LaRone felt. “LaRone—”
“Yeah, me neither,” LaRone conceded. The Troukree were looking back at him, and he suddenly realized his E-11 was still pointed at the group. “Mind you, it’s nice to occasionally have some of the heavy lifting done by somebody else,” he added as he lowered his blaster and stood up.
There was the patter of running feet below him, and Vaantaar suddenly came flying out of the shaft, landing with casual ease on the duracrete beside LaRone. Without a word, he strode down the alley toward the group of Troukree.
Marcross stepped up to LaRon
e’s side. “Any idea who they really are?”
“Not a one,” LaRone said, turning and looking past Marcross’s shoulder. There were three more Troukree at that end of the tapcaf, guarding two more yellow-eyed alien bodies. “But I would say that Vaantaar’s got some serious explaining to do.”
To his mild surprise, there was a ping from his helmet comlink. Apparently, while they were shutting down the attackers the Troukree had also shut down the jammer. “LaRone,” he said.
“Jade,” the Emperor’s Hand’s voice came. “The governor’s family has been secured.”
LaRone breathed a sigh of relief. “He’ll be very happy to hear that,” he told her. “We seem to be in the clear, too. Do you need any assistance?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “We’re just waiting for the fire to die down a little before we head out.”
“All right,” LaRone said, frowning. That didn’t sound like a very secure situation to him. Still, Jade usually knew what she was doing. “Have you seen anything of Skywalker?”
“He the one with the lightsaber?”
“That’s him.”
“He was helpful,” she said. “If you’re in contact with him, tell him to clear out. He’s closer to the fire than we are, and he’s probably roasting by now.”
“We’ll call him,” LaRone promised. “You want us to take Governor Ferrouz back to the palace?”
“You should probably call General Ularno first and arrange an escort,” Jade said. “We still don’t know who else Nuso Esva might have suborned. Make sure Ularno brings men he can trust.”
“Acknowledged,” LaRone said. “We’ll see you there.”
“Good.” The comlink clicked off.
Down the alley, Vaantaar had finished his discussion with his fellows and was heading back. “Marcross?” LaRone called.
“Call Skywalker and get him out of there,” Marcross said, nodding. “Got it.”
He turned away, and LaRone heard him key his comlink. Pursing his lips, LaRone headed toward Vaantaar.
They met halfway. “I think you owe us an explanation,” LaRone said evenly.
“And an apology,” Vaantaar agreed, ducking his head in an abbreviated bow. “But the rules of engagement forbid us to fire upon an enemy without positive identification. With all other communications blocked, any counterattack had to wait until my warriors could physically appear and indicate the proper targets to our backup.”
“Very responsible of you,” LaRone said. “The fact remains that you didn’t tell us who you really were. Why not?”
“All beings have secrets,” Vaantaar said. “And in truth, we were no more dishonest with you than you were with us.”
LaRone felt his throat tighten. “Meaning?”
“Meaning you are deserters,” Vaantaar said bluntly. “As such, you carry the death penalty from the leaders of your Empire.”
“Only if we’re caught,” LaRone said through clenched teeth. If he reset his E-11 for stun, and fired fast enough to drop Vaantaar and the others …
“You have already been caught,” Vaantaar said. “I know. So do others.” He cocked his head slightly. “So does our master.”
“This master being …”
“The great one,” Vaantaar said. “The leader of we who consider ourselves the true Chosen.”
A shiver ran up LaRone’s back. One of the yellow-eyed aliens lying dead over there had used that same term. “Does this great one have an actual name?”
“Of course,” Vaantaar said. “Soon you will learn it, for he wishes greatly to meet you.”
LaRone leaned his head slightly to look over Vaantaar’s shoulder. The rest of the Troukree back there had spread out now, no longer in range of an easy burst shot, their weapons not quite pointed at him. “Sounds exciting,” he said. “When?”
“Now.”
“And if I refuse?”
Vaantaar cocked his head again. “I would prefer not to insist,” he said. “Please gather the others. A vehicle is waiting to take us to the spaceport.”
The Chimaera came through its last small turn into the battle line, and as it did so Pellaeon finally saw with his own eyes what the tactical had already shown him.
Nuso Esva’s fleet filled nearly the entire bridge viewport: twenty-eight Firekilns, plus nearly a hundred of the smaller escort ships, arrayed against the Admonitor, the Chimaera, the Sarissa, and a handful of cruisers. Hopeless odds, by anyone’s reckoning.
But at least the enemy missile ships that had been lurking on Poln Minor were gone. He’d received that bit of good news from Commandant Barcelle only ten minutes earlier. All fifty had been destroyed, thanks to Barcelle and some timely assistance from a mysterious Major Axlon whose place in the fleet’s overall chain of command Barcelle had seemed a bit hazy on.
But if Axlon’s role was hazy, the effect of the missile ships’ destruction on Nuso Esva had been anything but. The alien warlord hadn’t said much, but it was only after Thrawn had reported the incident to him that the last four Firekilns and their escorts had finally jumped in from hyperspace.
Nuso Esva meant to destroy the Imperial ships. That much was abundantly clear.
What wasn’t clear was why Thrawn continued to taunt him about it.
“Twenty-eight Firekilns against two Star Destroyers,” the senior captain commented as the final group began to deploy to their spots in the battle line. “Are you so frightened of me, Nuso Esva?”
“I fear nothing,” Nuso Esva ground out. “You may hide behind your Imperial underlings if you wish, aboard that freighter, and allow them to die before you. But you will die. And when you are dead, I will batter the worlds below you into rubble.”
Pellaeon winced as Nuso Esva launched into a detailed description of what exactly that battering would consist of. He wasn’t bluffing, either, Pellaeon knew. There were a handful of other ships in Governor Ferrouz’s sector fleet, but they were old and weak and even if Thrawn somehow got them here they would make little impact. If the Firekilns were as powerful as Nuso Esva claimed, once they’d destroyed the Imperial force, they could slag Poln Major’s surface at their leisure.
Unless they weren’t that powerful.
Was that what Thrawn was banking on? That the Admonitor and Chimaera still had surprises Nuso Esva wasn’t ready for?
Then, suddenly, he understood.
The TIE fighters. Both Star Destroyers had hangar bays full of the small, deadly, starfighters.
Pellaeon smiled tightly. No wonder Thrawn hadn’t wanted him to launch the TIEs to check out the Poln Minor explosion. The TIE fighters had been the key in taking down many a Rebel ship. They could do the same to Nuso Esva’s arrogant Firekilns.
“Sir?” the comm officer spoke up quietly. “Something’s not right here.”
Pellaeon stepped back and looked down into the crew pit. “Explain.”
“The Lost Reef’s putting way more power into his current transmission than he needs to,” the officer said, pointing to one of his displays. “What’s even stranger is that he’s also echoing Nuso Esva’s part of the conversation in the transmission, not just transmitting his own side.”
Pellaeon frowned. That made no sense. Why spend power sending Nuso Esva’s arrogant boasts farther than they were already going? “How far does his signal reach?”
“That’s the other thing, sir,” the officer said, pointing to a different display. “I’m also getting the edge of a relay. A powerful relay. Someone out there is taking Captain Thrawn’s signal, boosting it, and kicking it out into the Unknown Regions.”
“Monitor it,” Pellaeon ordered. “See if you can locate that booster.” Turning back to the main viewport, he tuned back in on Nuso Esva’s ravings.
Apparently just in time for the end. “… as will all who dare oppose me,” Nuso Esva finished with a verbal flourish.
“You assume the people below us are your enemies,” Thrawn pointed out. “I am, certainly, but they may not be. The people of this sector have no par
ticular love for the Empire. If given the chance they may choose to become your allies, as have the Stomma and Quesoth.”
“Allies?” Nuso Esva made a sound that sounded like he was spitting. “You have allies, Thrawn. All to me except the Chosen are mere tools. They can be useful tools, or they can be broken tools.”
“Interesting,” Thrawn said. “I imagine the Stomma and Quesoth leadership will be interested to learn what their true positions will be should they choose to join your realm.”
“I imagine in turn that you would delight in telling them,” Nuso Esva said. “Not that they would believe you.”
“There’s no need for them to believe me,” Thrawn said calmly. “They can hear it from your own mouth. In fact, they’re hearing it right now.”
For a moment, Nuso Esva was silent, and Pellaeon permitted himself a small, grim smile. So that was where the boosted signal was going. Thrawn had taunted Nuso Esva into personally sowing distrust between him and some apparently hoped-for partner species.
“Your cleverness is wasted,” Nuso Esva said coldly. “Once we’ve dealt with you, my fleet will travel to the Stomma homeworld and I will once again make them useful tools. Your time is ended, Thrawn. My ships are now in their places.”
“They are indeed,” Thrawn agreed. “And the time is indeed ended, Nuso Esva. Signal cherek, signal esk, signal krill.”
Pellaeon looked over at the comm officer. Cherek, esk, krill—that wasn’t any Imperial code he was familiar with. It certainly wasn’t a TIE fighter launch order. What in the Empire was Thrawn up to?
“Commander!” the sensor officer snapped, his voice barely recognizable. “New signals coming in from hyperspace.” He looked up from the crew pit, his eyes wide. “Sir, it’s—” He broke off, pointing at the viewport. Frowning, Pellaeon turned to look.
There they were, flickering with pseudomotion as they decanted from hyperspace. Coming into the Poln system in perfect synchronization, into perfect attack positions behind the wall of Firekilns.
Star Destroyers. Six of them, their names already the stuff of legend across the Empire. Devastator. Accuser. Stalker. Adjudicator. Tyrant. Avenger.