by Timothy Zahn
"There aren't any water conduits," Wedge said thoughtfully. "Water and food are supposedly brought in from outside and triple-scanned for contaminants." He looked at Corran. "Power, though, is another matter entirely."
"You might be onto something," Corran agreed, frowning as he drummed his fingers softly on the table. "Each shield generator is supposed to have its own self-contained power supply. But it's referred to as a backup supply, which implies the primary power source comes in from the outside."
"Where are you getting all this stuff from, by the way?" Moranda asked. "Not Bothan propaganda, I hope."
"No, we pulled it from New Republic military files," Wedge told her. "Unfortunately, what we had was a little skimpy on details."
"Typical Bothan paranoiac closemouthness," Moranda grunted. "I don't suppose you'd have any idea where exactly the conduits are located."
"Not even a guess," Wedge told her.
"Well, that's our second order of business, then," Moranda said. "Getting the complete schematics of that building."
Corran cocked an eyebrow. "I hope you're not expecting the Bothans to just give them to us." Moranda snorted. "Of course not," she said. "That's why it's our second order of business. We can't very well go visit the construction records building during the day." Wedge exchanged looks with Corran. "The building's only open during the day," he pointed out carefully.
"That's right," Moranda said, smiling encouragingly. "You catch on fast." Wedge looked at Corran again. "Corran?"
The other made a face, but then he shrugged. "We do have our orders," he reminded Wedge.
"And this isn't just to protect the Bothans, remember."
"I suppose," Wedge said reluctantly. So much for the mystique of command; so much for command at all. Still, Moranda was making sense. Unfortunately. "So if that's the second order of business, what's the first?"
"I thought we'd go pull the records for the last few days' worth of outgoing transmissions," Moranda said. "If Vengeance is plotting something, their group here probably has to report in every now and again."
Wedge felt his mouth drop open. "You want to go check message traffic? Do you have any idea how much of that there is from this planet?"
"That's exactly why they won't worry about it," Moranda said cheerfully. "They'll figure no one would be crazy enough to bother sifting through it all."
"Present company excepted, obviously."
"Well, of course." Moranda held up a hand. "Now, wait a minute, it's not as bad as it sounds. We can cut out all transmissions from major or established corporations—even if one of them was involved, they wouldn't send out anything under their own name. We can also cut out any nonencrypted messages, and we can cut out any message over, say, fifty words. That ought to give us something manageable."
Wedge frowned. "Why everything over fifty words?"
"The shorter the message, the harder it is to decrypt," Corran explained, sounding as dubious as Wedge felt. "One of the things I learned in CorSec. My question is, if we aren't going to be able to read it, why bother looking for it in the first place?"
"To find out where it's going, of course," Moranda said, draining the last of her liqueur. "The guys at this end can be as cagey as they want; but if they've got a sloppy contact down the line, we can still nail them. All we need is a likely system and I can call Karrde's people down on them from that end."
"It still sounds crazy," Wedge declared, looking at Corran. "What do you think?"
"It's no crazier than breaking into the construction records building after hours," Corran pointed out.
"Thanks for the reminder," Wedge sighed. "Sure, let's give it a try. I just hope the computer on our shuttle is up to a job like this."
"If not, the one on my ship can handle it," Moranda assured him, getting to her feet. "Come on, let's get moving."
* * *
"Captain?"
Nalgol turned away from the unremitting blackness hanging in front of the Imperial Star Destroyer Tyrannic. "Yes?"
"Relay spark from the strike team, sir," Intelligence Chief Oissan said, coming to a parade-ground halt and handing the captain a datapad. "I'm afraid you're not going to like it."
"Really," Nalgol said, giving Oissan a long, hard look as he took the datapad. Given the Tyrannic's blindness out here, it was unarguably nice to receive these brief reports from the Imperial Intelligence strike team on the Bothawui surface. But on the other hand, any secret transmission, even an innocuous one sent to an unobtrusive relay buoy, simply gave the enemy one more handle to latch on to.
And for that potentially dangerous transmission to contain bad news...
The message was, as always, brief. Now ten days to completion of flash point. Will keep timetable updated.
"Ten days?" Nalgol transferred his glare from the datapad to Oissan. "What is this ten days nonsense? The report two days ago said it would only be six days."
"I don't know, sir," Oissan said. "All messages to us have to be kept short—"
"Yes, I know," Nalgol cut him off, glowering at the datapad again. Ten more days in this clytarded blindness. Just exactly what the crew of this twitchy ship needed. "They just blazing well better be keeping Bastion better informed than they are us."
"I'm sure they are, Captain," Oissan said. "Paradoxically, perhaps, it's much safer to send out a long transmission on a commercial frequency via the HoloNet than it is to send a short-range spark to us out here."
"I'm fairly well versed in communications theory, thank you," Nalgol said icily. A prudent man, he reflected darkly, would have found a way to beat a hasty retreat after delivering news like this. Either Oissan wasn't as prudent as Nalgol had always assumed, or he was twitchy enough himself to be spoiling for a fight with his captain.
Or else this was part of a private evaluation of his captain's mental state. And much as he would like to deny it, Nalgol had to admit this idleness and isolation were getting on his nerves, too. "I was simply concerned that the delay not upset Bastion's master plan," he told the other, forcing calmness into his voice. "I also wish I knew how in blazes they could lose six whole days out of a two-month timetable."
Oissan shrugged. "Without knowing what exactly their job is down there, I can't even hazard a guess," he said reasonably. "As it is, we'll just have to rely on their judgment." He lifted his eyebrows slightly. "And on Grand Admiral Thrawn's own genius, of course."
"Of course," Nalgol murmured. "The question is whether all those armed hotheads around Bothawui will be able to hold off another ten days before they start shooting. What's the warship count up to, anyway?"
"The latest probe ship report is in that file, sir," Oissan said, nodding toward the datapad. "But I believe the current number is one hundred twelve."
"A hundred and twelve?" Nalgol echoed, frowning as he pulled up the report. There it was: a hundred and twelve. "This can't be right," he insisted.
"It is, sir," Oissan assured him. "Thirty-one new warships have come in, apparently all in the past ten hours."
Nalgol scanned the list. A nicely matched set, too: fourteen pro-Bothan Diamalan and D'farian ships to seventeen anti-Bothan Ishori ships. "This is unbelievable," he said, shaking his head. "Don't these aliens have anything better to do?"
Oissan snorted under his breath. "From the news reports the probe ships have been bringing in, it's only because most of the New Republic does have better things to do that we haven't been buried by three times as many ships," he said. "But don't worry. I have faith in the New Republic's diplomatic corps. I'm sure they'll keep things calm until we're ready to move."
"I hope so," Nalgol said softly, turning to gaze out at the blackness again. Because after all this waiting, if he didn't get a clear shot at this alien-loving Rebel scum, he was going to be very angry. Very angry, indeed.
* * *
The annoyingly cheery door chime of the Exoticalia Pet Emporium rang, and Navett stepped in through the back-room doorway to see Klif close the door behind him. "Business
is booming, I see," he commented, glancing around the customer-free store as he walked between the rows of caged animals to the service counter.
"Just the way I like it," Navett said, leaning an elbow on the counter and gesturing the other to a chair. "You get those messages off?"
"Yeah." Klif circled behind him and dropped into one of the seats. "But I don't think any of them are going to like it."
Navett shrugged. "They can join the club. It's going to be awkward for us, too, you know—we're going to have to delay the delivery date for those three mawkrens. But there's not a lot any of us can do about it. It was the Bothans' idea to start keeping their techs locked in the shield building for six days at a time, not ours."
"Yeah," Klif said heavily. "I suppose we can't be expected to send our little time bombs in with the next shift any earlier than the next shift goes on duty."
"Don't worry about it," Navett soothed him. "Our cover is plenty secure, and it won't hurt Horvic and Pensin to wash dishes for the Ho'Din awhile longer. We can hover an extra six days without any trouble."
"Maybe not," Klif said darkly. "Guess who I spotted at the comm center while I was checking for messages."
Navett felt his eyes narrow. "Not our two New Rep military types?"
"In the skin and twice as pompous." Klif nodded. "And they had company: some old woman in a hooded cloak who seemed to know her way around better than they did. A fringe type, no doubt about it."
Navett scratched his cheek. "You think she's the one who got their wallets back from the Bothan lifters?"
"Well, they had their wallets with them," Klif said. "So I'd say, yeah, she's probably the one."
"Um." New Rep military types with a fringe lifter. Interesting. "Were they picking up or delivering?"
"Neither," Klif told him. "They were pulling a list of all outgoing transmissions for the past five days."
"Interesting," Navett said, drumming his fingers gently on the countertop. "Analysis?"
"They're on to us," Klif growled. "Or at least, they know someone's here." He lifted an eyebrow.
"And they suspect it has to do with the Drev'starn shield generator, or they wouldn't have spent so much time hanging around there."
"Recommendation?"
"We vape them," Klif said bluntly. "Tonight."
Navett shifted his eyes past him to the display window across the store, gazing at the hundreds of pedestrians and dozens of vehicles hurrying past. Drev'starn was an immensely busy city, made all the more frantic by the presence of those warships overhead. Humans and aliens rushing around all over the place... "No," he said slowly. "No, they're not on to us. Not yet. They suspect something is in the works, but they don't know for sure. No, our best plan right now is to lay low and not let them draw us out."
Klif's lips puckered, but he nodded reluctantly. "I still don't like it, but you're the boss. Maybe all they're trying to do is get a handle on Vengeance; and they're not going to look for a group that big in a little pet store."
"Good point," Navett agreed. "We could even consider staging another riot for their benefit if they seem to be getting too close. If you're up to another performance, that is." Klif shrugged. "Two riots on Bothawui might be pushing our luck," he said. "But I can get one going if we have to."
Across the room, one of the animals squawked twice and then fell silent again. Probably one of the pregnant mawkrens, Navett decided, muttering in her sleep. He'd better get those injections started if he didn't want a mess of tiny lizards running around underfoot six days before he needed them. "I just wish we knew who our opponents were," he commented.
"Maybe we can find out," Klif said, pulling out a datapad. "I followed them back to the spaceport and their ship. A surplused Sydon MRX-BR Pacifier, as it turns out." Navett grimaced. The Pacifier had been the Empire's scout vehicle of choice, able to seek out new worlds and deliver a devastating pounding to them if it proved necessary. Considered by the New Republic to be too provocative for the delicate sensitivities of frightened primitives, their use had been summarily discontinued. Just one more reminder, if he'd needed it, of how badly things had been falling apart since Endor. "You get a name?"
"And a registration code," Klif said, handing him the datapad. "It's the woman's ship, unfortunately—she was the one who unlocked it—but we might still be able to backcheck them through it."
"Excellent," Navett said as he took the datapad. "The Fingertip Express, eh? Sounds like a lifter's ship, all right. A smart-mouth name for a smart-mouth lifter." He handed the datapad back. "There should be a Bureau of Ships and Services office somewhere in Drev'starn. Find it and see what you can pull up."
* * *
"Aha," Moranda said from her ship's tiny computer alcove. "Well, well, well." Sitting in the lounge just off the alcove, Wedge turned his eyes away from the expensive contour sculp on the wall in front of him, and his thoughts away from contemplation of how Moranda might have come into possession of such a prize. "You found something?" he asked.
"Could be," Corran said. Arms crossed and leaning against the wall, he'd been watching over Moranda's shoulder for the past two hours. "Three messages, all short and encrypted, have gone out in the past five days." He looked over at Wedge. "The last one just this morning."
"What time this morning?" Wedge asked, getting to his feet and crossing to the others.
"About ten minutes before we got there," Moranda said, peering at the display. "I guess we shouldn't have lingered over that drink. Too bad."
Wedge grimaced, a bad taste in his mouth. Too bad wasn't the half of it. With Corran and his Jedi skills along, they might actually have been able to identify and tag the sender if they'd been there in time.
If. "Where were the transmissions headed?"
"Toward Eislomi sector," Moranda said. "Specifically, in the direction of the Eislomi III HoloNet relay station."
Wedge suppressed a sigh. "In other words, a dead end."
"Looks like it."
"Still, if they've already sent three messages, they might send more," Corran pointed out. His voice was calm and controlled, without any trace of the frustration and disappointment Wedge knew he must also be feeling over this near-miss. "If worse comes to worst, we could always stake out the place."
"A waste of time," Moranda sniffed. "If they've got any brains at all, they'll spot a loiterer upwind from sixty paces away with their eyes closed."
"That depends on how the loitering is done," Corran countered stiffly. "And on who's doing it."
"What, you?" Moranda scoffed, looking him up and down. "Right. Like you wouldn't stand out like a stormtrooper at an Ewok roast."
"I thought it was like a Wookiee at a Noghri family reunion."
"No, no—you're versatile enough to do both."
"Oh, thank you," Corran growled. "Thank you very much."
"Both of you simmer down," Wedge interrupted sternly. "Corran's right, Moranda—he's exceptionally good at stakeouts. However, Moranda's right, too, Corran—we don't have the time or the troops to cover all outgoing transmissions, even if we were sure they'd use the same center again."
"At least we now know for sure that someone's operating here," Moranda offered. "That's something."
"Not much, though," Corran muttered.
"It occurs to me, though," Wedge said, raising his voice, "that there's still one route we haven't tried. Assuming Vengeance isn't homegrown—and considering its anti-Bothan sentiment, I think we can assume that—they'll have to have found some place local to set up shop. Question: where?" Moranda snapped her fingers. "A business. Has to be some kind of business."
"She's right," Corran agreed, his frustration and miffed professional pride suddenly forgotten. "An apartment wouldn't work—too risky to have lots of people coming and going at odd hours. With a business, you can always cover it as deliveries or cleanup crews."
"And working for someone else doesn't give you enough privacy when you need it," Moranda added. "And it'll have to be something fairly recen
tly set up, and probably as close to the shield generator building as they can get."
"My thoughts exactly," Wedge said. "And since we can't hit the construction records building until later anyway...?"
"What are we waiting for?" Corran demanded, detaching himself from the wall and heading for the hatchway. "Someone in Drev'starn must have a list of all new businesses. Let's go find him."
CHAPTER
19
"No," Captain Ardiff said, jabbing his fork for emphasis. "I don't believe it. Not for a minute."
"What about the news reports?" Colonel Bas countered. "Even stuck out here we've pulled in, what, five of them? If this thing's a hoax, it's a kriffing good one. If you'll pardon the language, sir," he added belatedly, looking with some embarrassment at Pellaeon.
"Language pardoned, Colonel," Pellaeon said, suppressing a smile. Bas had clawed his way up through the TIE pilot ranks to become the Chimaera's fighter commander; and though he tried hard to fit in with the generally more cultured men who made up the officer corps, the saltier language of his youth did periodically intrude.
Personally, Pellaeon rather liked that. Not the expletives per se, but the fact that the man's language was an outward sign of honest and straightforward opinions or emotions. Unlike some Pellaeon had dealt with, Bas seldom if ever tried to hide his thoughts or feelings behind polite slip-talk.
"They're rumors, Colonel—that's all," Ardiff said, shaking his head. "Face the facts: Thrawn died. Admiral Pellaeon was there to see it. Now, if that was some trick—" Pellaeon lowered his eyes to his plate and forked another bite of the braised bruallki, mentally tuning out the discussion. It was the same endless argument, with the same opinions and speculations, that had been playing its way around the ship in the week since Lieutenant Mavron had returned with the story of Thrawn's supposed appearance in the Kroctar system. Everyone from Ardiff on down had his own opinion on whether or not it was true, none of them could prove their opinion to anyone else, and the entire ship was about as tense as an overwound throwbow.