Star Wars: The Hand of Thrawn II: Vision of the Future

by Timothy Zahn

  · · ·

  “Good night, Mara,” Luke said softly. Softly, and uselessly—she was already sound asleep.

  Is she going to die? an anxious voice asked from beside him.

  Engrossed in Mara’s injury and the setting up of the healing trance, he hadn’t noticed Child Of Winds’s arrival. Some Master Jedi. “No, she’ll be all right,” he said. “The wound isn’t dangerous, and I have some healing abilities.”

  Child Of Winds sidled a little closer, peering with unblinking eyes at the woman stretched out at Luke’s side. Was it my fault, Jedi Sky Walker? he asked at last. Did I not open the door quickly enough?

  “No, not at all,” Luke assured him. “It had absolutely nothing to do with you.”

  Then it was the Qom Jha who failed you.

  Luke frowned at the young Qom Qae. Given the annoyingly persistent rivalry between the two groups, he would have expected a note of condemnation or at least lofty superiority in Child Of Winds’s judgment. But there was nothing there but regret and sadness. “Perhaps,” Luke said. “But it may not really be their fault, either. The Threateners may have detected our arrival and put together an ambush. And don’t forget that cave-dwellers like the Qom Jha probably don’t see as well in lighted rooms as you or I would.”

  Child Of Winds seemed to consider that. If the Threateners laid a snare, they may enter this place to search for you.

  “They might,” Luke agreed. “If they even know about it, of course. They might not—all the dust in here would indicate it hasn’t been used for quite a while.”

  Still, they may know even if they do not use, Child Of Winds reminded him. Your friend-machine and the Qom Jha watch and wait below. Should not someone also watch and wait above?

  “That’s a good idea,” Luke agreed. “Go tell Splitter Of Stones I want him to send two of his hunters to stand watch at the next stairway exit above us.”

  I will obey, the Qom Qae said, stretching out his wings. But he will need send only one hunter. I will go myself to watch with him.

  Luke opened his mouth to object; closed it again. Child Of Winds had been chafing under the casual contempt of the Qom Jha ever since they’d reached the cave. This was something useful he could do that probably wouldn’t be too dangerous. “All right, Child Of Winds. Thank you.”

  There are no thanks needed, Child Of Winds said. It is only what is right for me to do for the Jedi Sky Walker. He cocked his head for one final look at Mara. And for his beloved companion.

  Spreading his wings, he flapped away into the darkness of the stairway, leaving that last comment echoing uncomfortably in Luke’s mind. Beloved companion. Companion. Beloved …

  He looked down at Mara, her familiar features thrown into starkly contrasting areas of light and shadow by the beam of the glow rod. Beloved …

  “No,” he murmured to himself. No. He liked Mara, certainly. Liked her very much. She was smart and resourceful, with a mental and emotional toughness he could rely on, plus a sharp humor and irreverence that made for a refreshing contrast with the automatic and unthinking awe too many people held him in these days. She’d been a trusted ally through some very hard and dangerous times, sticking with him and Han and Leia even when the rest of a hostile New Republic hierarchy had declared her untrustworthy.

  And perhaps most important of all, she was strong and capable in the Force, with the ability to share his thoughts and emotions in a way that even a couple as close as Han and Leia couldn’t experience.

  But he wouldn’t love her. He couldn’t take that risk. Every time in the past that he had allowed himself the luxury of caring that deeply about a woman something terrible had happened to her. Gaeriel had been killed. Callista had lost her Jedi abilities and finally left him. The list of tragedies sometimes seemed endless.

  Still, if Mara’s theory was right, all of those disasters had happened while he was still under the lingering effects of his brush with the dark side. Would things be different now? Could they be different?

  He shook his head firmly. No. He could try all the logic in the world—could come up with reason after reason why he could perhaps allow himself to have feelings like that again. But not now. Not with Mara.

  Because hanging like a dark specter over all of this was the memory of that vision he’d had barely a month ago on Tierfon. The vision where he’d seen Han and Leia in danger from a mob; where he’d seen Wedge and Corran and Rogue Squadron in the heat of battle; where he’d seen himself on the Cejansij balcony from which he would later be taken to Talon Karrde and learn of Mara’s disappearance.

  And where he’d seen Mara surrounded by craggy rock and floating motionlessly in a pool of water. Her eyes closed; her arms and legs limp. As if in death.

  He gazed down at her again, a quiet ache in his heart. Perhaps that was her destiny, an end to her life that he could do nothing to prevent. But until that was proved, he would tear his own life apart if necessary to prevent it from happening. And if part of that sacrifice was to keep her out of the shadow of destructive dark side influence he had had on so many others, then that was a sacrifice he would have to make.

  But for now what she needed most was to be healed. And that would take no sacrifice, merely time and attention. “Good night,” he said again, knowing she couldn’t hear him. On impulse, he leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips. Then, stretching out on the cold stone next to her, he rested his head beside hers on a corner of his folded jacket and laid his arm across her chest where his fingertips could touch the area around her burned shoulder. Easing himself into a sort of half trance to aid in concentration, he stretched out to the Force and set to work.

  CHAPTER

  18

  It took a few minutes’ searching, but Wedge finally found the others at a small, open-air tapcafe half a block down from the space traffic registration office. “There you are,” he said a little accusingly as he dropped into the third seat at the table.

  “What’s the problem?” Moranda asked, sipping at the pale blue-green liqueur that had been her constant tapcafe companion ever since they’d met her. “I told you we’d be down the street here.”

  “You’re right—I should have guessed where exactly down the street you meant,” Wedge countered, throwing a sour look at her drink. “Aren’t you starting a little early in the day?”

  “What, this?” Moranda asked, lifting the glass and turning it this way and that in the morning sunlight. “This is nothing. Anyway, you wouldn’t be so heartless as to deny an old woman one of the last remaining pleasures of her declining years, would you?”

  “That ‘old woman’ excuse is starting to wear a little thin.” Wedge shifted his attention to Corran and the aromatic mug he was cradling. “And what’s your excuse?”

  Corran shrugged. “I’m just keeping her company. I take it the incoming-ship search went badly?”

  “It didn’t go at all,” Wedge growled, glaring at Corran’s mug. Now that he thought about it, a drink actually sounded pretty good. But after that rather self-righteous tirade he could hardly beckon a droid over and order something himself—

  There was a movement at his side, and a mechanical hand set a mug down on the table in front of him, spilling a few drops first in the ancient annoying Bothan custom. “What’s this?” he asked.

  “We ordered it when we saw you coming down the street,” Moranda said. “Figured that after dealing with Bothan bureaucracy you’d want something a little stronger than hot chocolate.”

  Wedge grimaced. So much for the grand mystique of command. “Thanks,” he said, taking a sip.

  “So what happened?” Moranda asked. “They wouldn’t let you look at the records for incoming ships?”

  “Not without fifteen forms of authorization,” Wedge told her. “It’s crazy. Doubly crazy given that everything on those lists is technically a matter of public record. If I wanted to sit at the spaceport and write down the names of every ship as it came in, I could do it.”

  “They’re gett
ing nervous,” Corran murmured, swirling his mug. “Worried that Vengeance might start taking potshots at their best customers.”

  “Whatever, there’s no point in kicking against a bureaucracy,” Moranda said. “Let’s think this through logically.”

  Wedge waved a hand in invitation. “We’re listening.”

  “All right.” Moranda took a sip of her drink. “I think we can all agree that if someone is after the Drev’starn shield generator, a frontal assault is out. Unless they brought a portable proton torpedo launcher with them, that building is far too well protected.”

  “Which means they’ll have to rely on subterfuge,” Corran agreed. “Fairly obvious so far.”

  “Don’t rush me,” Moranda admonished him. “Now, we can also assume they won’t be able to suborn any of the techs or other people who work inside. But how about planting something on one of them?”

  “You mean like a bomb?” Wedge asked doubtfully. “I doubt it. That’s a big area down there. Any bomb strong enough to do any serious damage would be easily detected.”

  “Besides, if they have any brains at all, they have the workers change clothes before they go into the actual generator areas,” Corran added. “That also protects against spy monitors being slipped onto anyone.”

  “So the workers are out,” Moranda said. “What about the various underground conduits that bring in power and water?”

  “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?”