by Timothy Zahn
She didn’t like missing LaRone and the others. It felt weak and vulnerable, and she didn’t like it at all.
But she missed them just the same.
And what made it all the worse was the hard and bitter knowledge that whatever had happened to them had happened because of her. She was the one who’d ordered them here, and had then left them to stand alone against Nuso Esva’s agents while she went after the governor’s family. If she hadn’t done that …
She sighed. If she hadn’t done that, who could tell what might have happened? Ferrouz’s family would probably be dead. The stormtroopers might still be dead.
Mara herself might be dead.
My child?
Mara closed her eyes and stretched out to the Force. My lord, she called back.
Is all well?
Mara hesitated, suddenly wanting very badly to tell him of her loss, to feel his strength and to be comforted.
But he was the Emperor. His responsibilities spanned a galaxy. He had no time for the softness of emotion or sorrow.
And she was the Emperor’s Hand. Neither did she.
All is well, my lord, she told him. Governor Ferrouz has been cleared.
Excellent, the Emperor said. Return to Imperial Center.
Yes, my lord, Mara said.
The connection was broken. With a sigh, Mara keyed the panel for engine start-up. She would take the Suwantek out to where they’d left her shuttle, she decided, take it in tow, and head back to Imperial Center. There, she would return the Suwantek to its rightful owners in the ISB.
Or maybe she wouldn’t. The ISB didn’t know she had it, after all. Maybe she would instead stash it away somewhere in an out-of-the-way system, just in case she ended up needing it someday.
Or in case, somehow, LaRone and the others came back.
The odds were small, she knew. But in this crazy universe, one could never be sure.
Grave’s injuries had been severe, and interrupting his bacta treatment hadn’t helped matters any.
Fortunately, their current home’s medical facilities were far better than the subminiature tank Chewbacca had lugged across Whitestone City from the Suwantek. Grave was out of the tank, dressed, and comparing scars with Quiller when Vaantaar arrived with the news that his master was ready to see them.
Given the name of the ship, and the crewers LaRone had seen during their three days aboard, he wasn’t really surprised to learn who that master was.
“Welcome aboard the Admonitor,” Senior Captain Thrawn greeted them gravely as the stormtroopers filed into his command office. “I’m told your injuries have been successfully treated.”
“Very well treated, sir, thank you,” LaRone assured him.
“But your curiosity remains,” Thrawn continued. “It’s very simple, Squad Commander LaRone. I brought you here because Vaantaar tells me you’re excellent stormtroopers. I want you in my command.”
LaRone felt his mouth go dry. It was a very flattering offer, especially coming from a commander who had so deftly turned certain defeat into a resounding victory.
But if Thrawn put in the request through the proper channels, there would be alarms going off all over Imperial Center. And the minute the ISB got wind of it …
Marcross was obviously thinking the same thing. “We appreciate the offer, Captain,” he said. “But there are a few problems with our situation that you may not be aware of. Our current position in the fleet—”
“Is that you have no position,” Thrawn finished. “Technically, you’re deserters. One of you—” His glowing red eyes shifted back to LaRone. “—is technically a murderer.”
And with that, LaRone knew, it was finally over. They’d gotten past Jade, and they’d even gotten past Vader.
But now they were caught. And in some ways, it was almost a relief. “It was self-defense, sir,” he said, though he wasn’t sure why he was even bothering to try. The ISB wouldn’t care what the circumstances had been. “As to the desertion, I forced the others to go along with me.”
Thrawn raised an eyebrow. “Vaantaar?”
“I spoke to you of their loyalty to one another,” the Troukree said. “This is but one more example.”
“Indeed,” Thrawn said. “But as you may recall, Squad Commander, I said you were only technically a murderer and deserter. I’ve seen the various reports, plus a quiet inquiry that was done by the Emperor’s Hand, and I believe I understand what happened.”
LaRone looked at Vaantaar in sudden understanding. “Is that why you had Vaantaar kidnap us? So that you could keep all of this off the record?”
“Exactly,” Thrawn said, sounding pleased. “You did excellent work on Poln Major. All of you did.”
“For whatever good it did,” LaRone said ruefully. “From what I saw in the ship’s after-action reports, the only reason Nuso Esva wanted to kill Ferrouz was to get you over to the Poln system so he could spring his trap. But the palace went ahead and issued the directive anyway.”
“Which I was happy to comply with,” Thrawn said. “As for what you accomplished, you helped save the life of a good and valuable man, along with the lives of his family.”
“At the cost of another being’s life,” Brightwater murmured, looking at Vaantaar.
“Which he was more than willing to give,” Vaantaar said gravely. “As were we all.”
“Beyond that, though, you need to understand the full scope of Nuso Esva’s plan,” Thrawn continued. “If Governor Ferrouz had been murdered on schedule, his Poln Major squad and their Whisperlike fighter would have been on Poln Minor when the full nest of missile-armed ships were launched. Their presence at the crucial moment might have saved some or all of those ships from destruction. But because you first delayed and then destroyed that particular squad, the other Whisperlikes were in fact destroyed.”
He smiled tightly. “But even more important is the fact that with the Poln Major squad destroyed, the Whisperlike you retrieved at the spaceport was abandoned and therefore could be retrieved intact by Vaantaar and his warriors. Studying it will give us vital insights into Nuso Esva’s technology and warship philosophy.”
“I see,” LaRone said, feeling somewhat better. Maybe all their sound and fury hadn’t been as useless as he’d been thinking.
“But warships are only part of the equation,” Thrawn continued. “Releasing Nuso Esva’s slave peoples from his grip will also require ground troops. Not just any troops, but Imperial stormtroopers.”
LaRone glanced at the others. They seemed as underwhelmed by the offer as he was feeling. “Once again, we appreciate the offer, sir,” he said, looking back at Thrawn. “But we’ve seen enough action. Possibly more than enough.”
Thrawn shook his head. “You misunderstand me, Squad Commander,” he said. “I don’t want you to fight. I want you to train.”
LaRone felt his eyes widen. “To train?”
“Specifically, to train people like Vaantaar,” Thrawn said, gesturing to the Troukree. “Their world has suffered greatly under Nuso Esva’s domination, and the few who escaped have been strong and able allies. That was why I chose them to go to Poln Major in the guise of refugees, to watch and report on the movements and activities of Nuso Esva’s agents.
“But while they are excellent soldiers, they and I both agree that they can become better. They can become true Imperial stormtroopers.”
The image of the Troukree’s sacrifice in the tapcaf cellar floated back to LaRone’s mind. “I have no doubt of that, sir,” he said. “But surely the Admonitor already has its share of capable stormtroopers.”
“So it does,” Thrawn said. “What it doesn’t have is capable stormtroopers who can deal honestly and enthusiastically with the idea of aliens joining their ranks.”
And suddenly, it all made sense. LaRone looked at the others again, then turned to Vaantaar. “This is something you want?”
“We do,” the Troukree said firmly. “The Empire that Senior Captain Thrawn is carving into the evil that pe
rvades our worlds is not the Empire you chose to leave. His is an Empire of justice and dignity for all beings. His Empire is one we gladly serve.” He looked at Thrawn. “One we are willing to die for.”
“The choice is of course yours,” Thrawn said. “We’re still three days from my base. Think on it and discuss it. I will await your decision.”
They were following Vaantaar back toward their quarters when Grave broke the thoughtful silence. “I think we should name the new unit the Five-oh-First,” he said.
“I thought Vader had that one locked down,” Quiller pointed out.
“I somehow doubt Vader will ever know,” Grave said. “I’m sure not going to tell him.”
“Wise choice,” Marcross said. “Any particular reason you want that unit number?”
Grave shrugged. “They’re supposed to be the best. If we’re going to take this job, we might as well aim high.”
“If we take the job,” LaRone said.
“I don’t think we’ve got a choice,” Quiller said soberly. “You read the reports, LaRone—you saw how Nuso Esva operates. Kidnapping children, suborning Imperial officers, threatening to slag entire planets. The guy has to be stopped.”
“And if people like Vaantaar are going to fight him anyway, someone has to make sure they’re the best fighters they can be,” Marcross agreed. “That someone might as well be us.”
“Hence, the new Five-oh-First,” Grave concluded. “Like I already said.”
LaRone looked over at Brightwater. The other was staring at the deck beneath them, his forehead wrinkled with concentration or perhaps regret. “Brightwater, you’re being awfully quiet,” LaRone said. “You having a problem with any of this?”
“Um?” Brightwater asked, his eyes refocusing on LaRone. “Oh, no, I’m good. I was just wishing we’d had a chance to see Skywalker one last time before we left.”
“Skywalker?” LaRone asked, frowning. “Why?”
Brightwater waved a hand. “He’s still got my lucky coin.”
Rieekan was sitting behind his desk, studying a datapad, when Han arrived at his office. “Leia said you wanted to see me,” he said.
“Leia said you wanted to see me,” Rieekan said, laying down the datapad. “I take it this is about the Poln mission?”
“Yes,” Han said, planting himself in front of the desk. “You still want me to be an officer?”
“I’ve always wanted that,” Rieekan said, taking Han’s bluntness in typical calm stride. “Especially now.” He gestured to the datapad. “I’ve been reading Colonel Cracken’s report. He was very impressed by you, and he doesn’t impress easily.”
“Yeah, I know,” Han said. “So okay. You want me, you’ve got me.”
“Wonderful,” Rieekan said, eyeing him closely. “Any reason in particular for this change of heart? Aside from your irritation at being left out of all the fun meetings?”
“You told me leadership brings responsibility,” Han reminded him. “It’s looking like I’m getting loaded with the responsibility anyway. I might as well get the stupid rank bars, too.”
“Okay,” Rieekan said. “I’ll get the datawork started right away.” He held out his hand. “Congratulations, Lieutenant Solo.”
Chewie was waiting by the Falcon, the ship’s torn-apart swivel blaster cannon on the deck at his feet, when Han got back to the hangar. “We’re in,” Han confirmed, peering up into the cannon’s now-empty compartment. “Go ahead and put in for the upgrade. I can sign for it now.”
The Wookiee warbled a question.
“I don’t know,” Han said, nudging the blackened pieces of the old cannon with his toe. “Something by BlasTech—I’ve always liked their stuff. Maybe a Ground Buzzer, either the Ax-108 or III. Just make sure you get something that isn’t going to overheat and burn out the couplings every fifty shots.”
A movement from across the hangar caught his eye. He looked up to see Leia walking toward the rows of X-wings, Luke and Wedge with her, both of them smiling as she waved her hands in emphasis to whatever it was she was telling them.
Beside Han, Chewie rumbled.
“Absolutely,” Han agreed, watching as the others disappeared behind one of the other ships. “Come on, let’s get back to work.”
Read on for an excerpt from
Star Wars®
RIPTIDE
by
Paul S. Kemp
The follow-up to New York Times bestseller
Star Wars: Crosscurrent
In stores Fall 2011
THE PRESENT
JADEN FOUND HIMSELF ON HIS KNEES, THE ROOM SPINNING. BLOOD leaked from his right temple, spattered the floor in little crimson circles. More blood oozed from the stumps of his fingers. Pain blurred his vision, clouded his thinking. The short, rapid shrieks of an alarm blared in his ears, rising and falling in time with the dim flashes of overhead backup lights. Strange lights. Like little starbursts buried deep in the green resin of the ceiling. A haze of black smoke congealed near the ceiling and darkened air that stank of melted plastoid, rubber, and ozone. He thought he caught the faint stink of decaying flesh but could not be sure.
Gingerly he placed his unwounded hand to his right temple, felt the warm, sticky blood, the small hole there. The blood was fresh; the wound recent.
The rapid flashes of the lights made his movements seem herky-jerky, not his own, the stop-starts of a marionette in unpracticed hands. His body ached. He felt as if he’d been beaten. The stumps of the fingers he’d lost on the frozen moon throbbed, the wounds somehow reopened and seeping pus. His skull felt as if someone had driven a nail through it.
And he had no idea where he was.
He thought he felt eyes on him. He looked around the dark corridor, his eyes unable to focus. He saw no one. The floor vibrated under him, as if coursing with power, the rale of enormous lungs. He found the feeling disquieting. Filaments dangled like entrails from irregular gashes torn in the walls. Black scorch marks bordered the gashes. A control panel, a dark rectangle, hung loose from an aperture in the wall, as if blown out by a power surge.
He found it difficult to focus for long on anything before his field of vision started to spin. His bleary eyes watered from the smoke. The flashing lights and the wail of the siren disoriented him, would not let him gather his thoughts.
The pain in his head simply would not relent. He wanted to scream, to dig his fingers into his brain and root out the agony. He’d never felt anything like it.
What had happened to him?
He could not remember. Worse, he could not think clearly.
And then he felt it: the faint tang of dark-side energy. Its taint suffused the air, greasy on his skin, angry, evil. He swallowed down a dry throat.
Had he been attacked by a Sith?
With an effort of will, he pushed the touch of the dark side away from his core, held it at arm’s length. Having an enemy gave him focus. He steeled himself against the pain in his head and stood on weak legs. Each beat of his heart felt like a hammer blow to his skull. Pound. Pound.
He tried to hold his ground but the room began to spin more rapidly, the alarm loud in his ears, the floor growling under him, the ringing, spinning, whirling. He wobbled, swayed. Nausea pushed bile into the back of his throat.
Without warning, the pain in his temple spiked, a white-hot flash of agony that summoned a prolonged scream. His wail rebounded off the walls, carried off into the darkness, and with the scream as a sound track, a flood of memories and images streamed across his consciousness, rapid flashes of colors, faces, a series of half-remembered or half-imagined things. He was unable to focus for long on any of the images, unable to slow them down; they blazed in and out of his awareness like sparks, flashing for a moment, then gone, leaving only a shadowy afterimage.
He squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his mouth closed to cut off the scream. The pain would not stop. His head was going to explode, surely it was going to burst.
He was teetering, his head pounding, his stoma
ch in his throat, his eyes watering.
Unable to keep his feet, he sagged back to the floor. The spinning began to subside. The pain, too, began to fade. He sagged with relief. He would not have been able to bear much more.
Clarity replaced pain, and as his head cleared, images and events refitted themselves into the jigsaw puzzle of his memory, reconstituted him from their fragments. He sank into the Force, found comfort there. He closed his eyes for a time and when he opened them, he looked about with what felt like new eyes.
He sat in the middle of a wide corridor. The dim, intermittent flashes of the strange overhead lights showed little detail. The walls, ceilings, and floors were composed of a substance he’d never seen before, light green, semitranslucent. At first he thought it was some form of plastoid, or hued transparisteel, but no, it was a resin of some kind. For the first time, he realized that the floor was not merely vibrating under him, it was warm, like flesh. Faint lines of light glowed deep within it, barely visible, capillaries of luminescence. The arrangement looked ordered, a matrix of some kind, and the pattern of their flashes was not random, though he could not look at it long without its flashes disorienting him.
He tried to make sense of what he was seeing. The architecture, the technology it implied.…
Where was he?
A word leapt to the forefront of his mind, a flash that came and went without explanation.
Rakatan.
He leaned forward, trying to remember, feeling as if he were on the verge of some revelation. He tried to pull the word back, to force it to take on meaning and make sense, but it eluded him.
“Rakatan,” he said, and the word sounded strange on his lips. Saying it aloud triggered no more memories.
But more and more memories were clicking into place, connecting names, events, and faces, the backstory of his life being told just below the level of his consciousness. He must have been hit on the head, hit hard. Understanding would come eventually, or so he hoped.
Yet he knew he could not sit still and wait for it. The dark side was all around him. Palpable anger polluted the air, pressed against him. Alarms were wailing. The vibrations in the floor rose and fell like lungs, lurching, not so much like ordinary breathing as a death rale. He had to get away from wherever he was.