Shield of Lies

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

“Not under institute registry—sorry.”

  “Explore other options,” Stopa said shortly. “This has the highest priority. Stopa out.” He signaled the pilot to end the link. “Now you’d better get me Krenjsh at New Republic Intelligence. They need to know there’ll be a delay getting them what they asked for.”

  There was little talking among the quartet trapped in the vagabond’s airlock. Everyone had a job to do.

  Artoo searched for the inflow vents, while Threepio made entreaties to the vagabond’s masters. Lobot analyzed the acceleration and astrographic data while he inventoried the equipment on the equipment sled. And Lando returned to the control handle in the corner of the compartment to see if it would respond to him.

  The handle proved immovable, and Lando’s touch alone elicited no detectable response from the ship. But through his efforts, he realized that his bare hand was puffy, stiff, and aching—the pressure from the wrist collar was compounding the damage done by the decompression.

  “Do we have any sample bags?” Lando asked, returning to where Lobot and the equipment sled floated.

  “Yes. Six small, six large, and two capsules of free-form sheet gel.”

  “The bags—they’re self-sealing, right?”

  “Yes, Lando.” He paused. “I’m sorry—I don’t have any more information. Do amnesiacs know that there are things they cannot remember? If so, then I know how it feels to have amnesia. What I know best is making links and browsing for information. I do not seem to have much other expertise.”

  “Save the self-examination for another time,” said Lando. “Grab one of those small sample bags and see if we can’t improvise a mitten for me.”

  Before long, they managed to attach the mouth of the sample bag above the wrist lock for the missing gauntlet. By squeezing the locking pins, Lando was able to make the wrist cuff relax. Almost immediately the swelling in his fingers began to subside.

  “I do not know if the bag or the adhesive is strong enough to withstand another depressurization,” said Lobot.

  “I’m not counting on that,” Lando said. “I just don’t want to lose consumables, or the use of my hand. The odds are bad enough already. Did you get anything out of Artoo’s data?”

  “I believe I have our heading prior to the jump to within half a degree,” Lobot said, then rattled off the numbers. “I apologize for the imprecision.”

  “That would put us on a course toward Sector One-Five-One,” Lando said.

  “Yes. The boundary is eight light-years from our original position.”

  “Is there anyone out in ’Fifty-One who might be able to help us?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Lobot. “Artoo has navigational data only. There is no geopolitical or sociological data.”

  Lando nodded. “Stop apologizing for what you can’t give me. We haven’t the time to spare. How far is this road open?”

  “The imprecision of the heading becomes more significant the farther out we look, of course,” said Lobot. “The nearest body that is close enough to the center flight path and has a large enough gravity shadow to force a ship out of hyperspace is forty-one-point-five-three light-years away.”

  Frowning, Lando said, “That doesn’t help me much. Turn the question around—how far to the spot along this flight path that’s the farthest from everything else?”

  Lobot closed his eyes and concentrated. But the answer came from Artoo-Detoo as a long series of beeps and chirps.

  “Artoo says that in twelve-point-nine light-years, this vessel will enter the most isolated region along this flight path,” Threepio offered. “At that point, there will be no charted bodies larger than a class five comet for nearly nine light-years in any direction.”

  “Sounds like a good place to make a course change,” said Lando. “And far enough out to give us a little time to work with.”

  “But we do not know how fast this vessel is capable of traveling in hyperspace,” Lobot pointed out. “That region could be twelve hours away, or eight, or six—or even fewer. The conventional upper limit on hyperspace velocity may be technological rather than theoretical. And there’s something else—”

  “What?”

  “If we do clear that gravity shadow forty-one light-years from here, we’ll be heading straight for the border of the New Republic, in the general direction of Phracas, in the Core.”

  “All the more reason not to just stand around waiting,” said Lando. “Artoo, what did you find?”

  Artoo beeped, and Threepio translated. “Master Lando, Artoo says that there are no inflow vents anywhere in this chamber.”

  “What? Then how was this chamber repressurized?”

  “According to Artoo, the atmospheric gases are passing through the bulkheads molecule by molecule. He says that most of the surface area of the compartment is involved.”

  “Let me get this straight—these bulkheads are porous?”

  Artoo chittered, and Threepio offered the answer. “No, Master Lando. Artoo says that molecules of gas simply appear on the surface.”

  “Curious,” said Lobot. “I wonder if the bulkheads could be actually producing the gas.”

  “Artoo, is there any area that’s more involved with this process than the rest?” asked Lando.

  The little droid jetted down to the center of the chamber and illuminated a band across the inner bulkhead with a beam of orange light from his holographic projector.

  “Got it. Threepio, give me a report on your progress.”

  The golden droid cocked his head. “Sir, so far I have hailed the masters of this vessel in eleven thousand, four hundred sixty-three languages, offering our abject apologies and asking for their assistance. There has been no reply on any band I am capable of detecting.”

  “Do those six million languages of yours happen to include the Qella?”

  “Alas, Master Lando, they do not.”

  “Do you have any information at all about the Qella language? Maybe it’s related to some other language you are fluent in—the way that if you know Torrock, you can almost get along in Thobek or Wehttam.”

  “I’m sorry, Master Lando. I am completely at a loss.”

  “What about matching up geographically?”

  “Sir, it is a standard first contact procedure to attempt contact with regional languages when the native language is unknown,” Threepio said with a note of indignation. “I began with the eight hundred seventy-three languages spoken in the sector where Qella is located, and continued with the three thousand, two hundred seven languages with direct links to those linguistic families.”

  “And now you’re just going A to Z on the rest?”

  “I am continuing by astrographic proximity.”

  “How long will it take you to try them all?”

  “Master Lando, by reducing the wait time to the minimum specified by my protocols, I will be able to complete the initial series in four-point-two standard days.”

  “That’s about what I figured,” said Lando. “Lobot, dig out the cutting blaster. We’re going to have to make our own door.”

  With a grim expression on his face, Admiral Hiram Drayson sat on the edge of his desk and studied the final contact report from Colonel Pakkpekatt at Gmir Askilon.

  The recordings from the spotter ships were dramatic and alarming. Moments before the vagabond broke away, a ring of six rounded bumps—accumulator nodes or beam radiators, Drayson thought—appeared at the forward end of the ship. A fierce blue light began to dance over the bow.

  Moments later, twin beams of energy shot out from two of the nodes and scissored back through the gap between the vagabond and Lady Luck, slicing them apart. Another pair of beams knifed out from two other nodes and carved through the interdiction generator on the underbelly of the picket Kauri. The blowback surge from the fully charged generator destroyed Kauri’s power compartment and left the ship afire and dead in space.

  The instant Kauri was neutralized, the vagabond began to move, turning away from Lady Luck and accelera
ting out past the disabled picket’s position, well clear of the remaining interdictors. Just forty-two seconds after it began, it was over, the vagabond vanishing into the center of a hyperspace cone.

  The final tally for the contact:

  One drone ferret destroyed.

  One interdiction picket disabled and abandoned, with twenty-six casualties, including six fatalities in the power compartment.

  One yacht recovered and returned to a mooring on Glorious’s hull, undamaged except for the primary airlock.

  One successful boarding of the target.

  One successful escape by the target.

  One expedition armada scattered across space, with four ships in pursuit of the target and the others pulling ambulance or cleanup duty.

  And, most troubling of all to Drayson, one contact suit gauntlet recovered in the debris—right hand, in Lando’s size.

  The report contained some positive information as well. It was beyond dispute now that the vagabond’s weapons were compound—the intersection of two or more beams did the damage, probably through some sort of harmonic resonance. Unless there were more weapon nodes concealed amidships, it seemed as though six targets were all the vagabond could handle. Possibly as few as four ships, properly spaced, might overwhelm its defenses.

  But first Pakkpekatt would have to find the vagabond again—a task that had taken two years the last time.

  Drayson called up the chart of the pursuit and studied it closely. Three ships were racing for search stations along the vagabond’s last heading: Lightning ten light-years out, Glorious twenty, and Marauder thirty. The improvised plan called for them to drop sensor buoys with hypercomm repeaters at those entry points and then begin making short jumps out to the limits of sensor range, hoping to catch a glimpse of their quarry.

  The precision of the plan did not mask its weakness—its slim chance of success depended on the vagabond’s making a single short jump. If it followed a short jump with a second jump on another heading, where there were no eyes to see or sensors to track—or if it carried the first jump out fifty, a hundred, five hundred light-years, beyond the borders of the New Republic and into the chaos of the Core—

  Drayson knew that Colonel Pakkpekatt had addressed an urgent appeal for more ships to both New Republic Intelligence and the Fleet Office before Glorious jumped out from Gmir Askilon. He also knew the likely answer to that appeal.

  “The only real chance for us to catch her lies with you, Lando,” Drayson said softly. “You must help us find you.”

  But it was not Drayson’s way to abandon someone he had sent into danger. His fingers danced over his controller, bringing an inventory of Alpha Blue’s assets in Sector 151 to the screen. There might be little he could do, but he would do what he could. And there was always some way to alter the odds.

  The habits of the Senate’s Council on Security and Intelligence were not unlike those of the institutions over which it reigned. It announced no meetings, released no public reports, and met only in closed session in the field-shielded Room 030, deep in the subbasements of the old Imperial Palace.

  So earnestly secretive were the seven sitting members that, in Coruscant’s own dialect of Basic, the phrase “CSI agenda” had become a benchmark for the unattainable, the impossible item on a scavenger hunt. Discouraged suitors would despair that they had “a better chance of taking a CSI agenda home.” Subordinates handed a daunting task could comfort themselves with the thought It could be worse—he could want a CSI agenda, too.

  Even Drayson found it difficult to discover when the CSI would take up Pakkpekatt’s request. And when he finally did learn about that session, it was too late to find a way to listen in.

  “Last item on the agenda is the Teljkon expedition,” said General Carlist Rieekan. “May I assume that you all received your copies of the report?” He waited a moment, then, hearing no dissent, went on. “Discussion, please.”

  Senator Krall Praget of Edatha, chairman of the CSI, leaned back in his chair and combed his fingers back through his skulldown. “What is there to decide? The mission was a failure. Close the books.”

  “Lando Calrissian and his team are still aboard the vagabond,” Rieekan reminded him gently.

  “What reason do you have to think they’re still alive?” Praget asked. “Why would any captain capable of acting as surely and decisively as the captain of the vagabond did in escaping make the mistake of not repelling boarders with equal vigor?”

  “It is possible that they were taken prisoner,” said Rieekan. “It is even possible that they escaped capture.”

  Praget pulled his datapad toward him. “How do you account for the contact suit gauntlet found by the recovery teams? It’s Calrissian’s, I believe.”

  “I don’t have an explanation,” Rieekan admitted.

  “General Rieekan,” said Senator Cair Tok Noimm. “Do I understand correctly that the gauntlet is undamaged and there is no blood on it?”

  “That’s correct.”

  She nodded. “In that case, this gauntlet does not seem to me to be reason enough to abandon these people to their fate.”

  “It’s not clear to me what we can do for them,” said Senator Amamanam, who represented the Bdas on Coruscant. “Unless Senator Noimm would like to lead us in prayer to the Star Mother—”

  The laughter around the table was cold, but Noimm’s eyes were colder. “There are two lives at stake here—the lives of two valuable friends of the New Republic. And please remember that the droids are of no small value, either—they had their own role in making it possible for there to be a New Republic. I doubt there are any droids anywhere who are better known than these two—or better loved, for that matter.”

  “If they are so important to the New Republic, they should be in the museum, along with all the other beloved icons,” said Praget curtly.

  “Along with Luke Skywalker, to whom they belong?” asked Senator Lillald. “I must agree with Cair Tok. I would not want to face the questions that would come if these four were to disappear in our service and we were to make no effort to recover them.”

  “In our service? Have you read the account of how they came to be on that ship? They can hardly be said to be in our service,” said Senator Amamanam. “General, could you kindly explain to us how it is that the Baron Calrissian and the others came to be involved in the first place? I don’t recall there being any mention of them in the expedition plan you brought to us.”

  “General Calrissian was representing the Fleet on this mission, at the request of the Fleet Office,” Rieekan said deliberately. “The others comprise his support staff, apparently assembled specifically for this mission.”

  “This is all so absurd,” Praget fumed. “If it were Hammax and his men on board the vagabond, as it should have been, we would not be having this discussion. Either they would have disabled the ship, or we’d be sending our regrets to the families of the missing in action.”

  “Senator—”

  “But Pakkpekatt allowed these meddlers, these outsiders, these amateurs, to intervene, and suddenly it becomes impossible to write off our losses in a professional manner.”

  Rieekan tried again. “Senator, have the reports from Colonel Pakkpekatt led you to reevaluate the potential gain if we succeed in recovering the Qella vessel?”

  “No, General,” said Praget, with a touch of impatience at being handled. “I’m still quite convinced that this artifact is worthy of our interest. But I don’t see that the circumstances justify sending a Force Two armada wandering through a thousand cubic light-years on what is very likely to be a futile effort.”

  “With all the uncertainty in Farlax, we could surely find better uses for those ships than chasing a phantom,” said Senator Amamanam. “The vagabond will turn up again.”

  “Will you be personally handling the apologies to Luke Skywalker, then?” Senator Noimm asked cuttingly. “Will the chairman make himself available to the news-grids to explain exactly under what circumstanc
es these notables disappeared?”

  “If I might make a suggestion—” Rieekan began.

  “By all means,” said Praget.

  “A contact suit isn’t designed for long endurance. Its recycling systems are simple and relatively inefficient. Its consumables, if managed wisely, might last the wearer perhaps two hundred hours—certainly no more than two hundred and twenty,” said the intelligence director.

  “So we simply wait a few days to declare them dead, is that your point?”

  “Not quite,” Rieekan said. “If they are still alive, the general and his team will be highly motivated to act expeditiously. Anything they can do to impede the flight of the Qella vessel, they will do in the next several days. So it seems only prudent to me to allow Pakkpekatt to continue the search for, say, another fifteen days.”

  “If nothing else,” said Senator Amamanam, “doing so would cut the heart out of the charge that we abandoned the Baron to his fate.” He glanced expectantly down the table toward Senator Noimm.

  “If you’d truly like to protect yourself, I suggest you go one step further and propose that we send Pakkpekatt the additional vessels he requested,” said Noimm. “Otherwise the search might be seen as the token gesture it is.”

  “No, no, no,” said Praget. “Pakkpekatt gets no more ships. That incompetent Hortek spook—what he ought to get is a review board and a dishonorable separation. But I suppose I’ll have to settle for the general’s finding a deep, dark hole to drop him in once this is over.”

  “I wouldn’t support sending additional ships,” said Rieekan, ignoring Praget’s other comments. “The way I see it, we now have assets aboard the target vessel. That changes the tactical equation. We’re not going to be trying to run it into an interdiction net, or firing on it. We just need to find it and be on hand to pick up our people.”

  “I see Pakkpekatt only has four vessels actively committed to the search at this point.”

  “That’s right,” said Rieekan. “So I think we can reasonably talk about downsizing our commitment to this project. If everyone will look at page fifteen in the mission outline, the ship assignment list—”