by Timothy Zahn
Karrde smiled. “We could consider it my fee. Unless you don’t think we’ve earned it?”
Leia shook her head in mock-resignation. “Sometimes I forget what dealing with you is like, Karrde. Lead on.”
• • •
The last readable page scrolled a second time across the display, giving way to the randomly scattered bits and blanks of the ruined sections of the datacard. Carefully, Leia set the datapad down on a corner of Karrde’s desk, feeling her heart pounding in her throat. Suddenly the private office, which had seemed so snug and warm only minutes ago, felt very cold.
A movement caught her eye as she stared into the distance: Karrde, now seated in the high-backed chair on the other side of the desk, reaching over to the datapad. “Well,” he said soberly as he swiveled the device around to face him. “At least we now know why our Bothan friend Fey’lya was so anxious that Mount Tantiss be thoroughly destroyed.”
Leia nodded silently, that scene from ten years earlier flashing back to mind. Councilor Borsk Fey’lya, standing outside the Wild Karrde in the Imperial City on Coruscant, all but pleading with Karrde to fly Leia to Wayland to help Han and the others destroy the Emperor’s Mount Tantiss storehouse. Warning darkly that there were things in that storehouse that, if found, could bring disaster to the Bothan people and the galaxy.
Lak Jit had found it. And Fey’lya had been right.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance the record is a forgery,” Karrde said, gazing thoughtfully at the datapad. “Something the Emperor might have created with an eye to someday blackmailing the Bothans.”
“I doubt it,” Leia said. “The royal library on Alderaan had a great deal of information on the attack that burned off Caamas. Details that were never made public knowledge.”
“It’s hard to believe anything about Caamas could have been kept secret,” Karrde said. “The outrage at the time was certainly widespread enough. Worse even than when your own Alderaan was destroyed.”
Leia nodded mechanically, her mind’s eye drawn unwillingly back to the horrifying holo images she’d seen as a child in the history records. The destruction of Caamas had happened before her time, but the pictures were as vivid as if she’d witnessed the aftermath of the event in person.
The attack had been sudden and thorough, with a viciousness that had made it stand out even against the widespread devastation of the Clone Wars that had preceded it. Perhaps that was what the attackers had banked on, that a populace weary of war would be too emotionally drained to even notice, much less care about the fate of a single world.
But if that was indeed their strategy, it turned out to be a serious miscalculation. The Caamasi had been a good and noble people, with an artistic bent and a gentle wisdom that had won them a deep respect even among their adversaries. Their unwavering belief in peace through moral strength had been a strong influence on the political philosophies of many worlds, including Alderaan, while their firm support of the principles of the Old Republic had made them a rallying point for all such supporters during the political chaos of that era.
It was still not known who the attackers had been who had come out of nowhere to systematically and ruthlessly burn off the planet. None of the Caamasi’s political opponents had claimed credit—indeed, all of them had joined in the universal condemnation, at least verbally—and the Caamasi’s surviving records of the battle were too badly damaged to be of any use in identification.
But with Lak Jit’s datacard, at least one piece of the puzzle had now been solved.
“They were an almost universally beloved people.” Leia sighed, bringing her attention back to the present. “Still are, those few who are left.” She blinked back tears. “You wouldn’t have known, but there was a large Caamasi refugee group on Alderaan when I was growing up, living in the South Islands in secret under my father’s protection. They were hoping that someday when they were strong enough they could return to Caamas and try to rebuild.”
“Interesting,” Karrde murmured, absently stroking his beard. “As it happens, I did know about that group—I used to smuggle in foodstuffs and medicines they needed that were on Alderaan’s forbidden-import list. I always wondered why your customs people never seemed to notice me.”
“My father didn’t want anything official showing up in any import records,” Leia said. “He’d always suspected Palpatine’s involvement in Caamas’s destruction, either directly or through intermediaries, especially when it became clear as to the direction Palpatine was trying to twist the Republic. The Caamasi would never have stood for it, and they would have been much quicker to recognize and respond to the threat than we on Alderaan were.”
“Hence, they had to be eliminated,” Karrde said heavily. “As you say, obvious in hindsight.” He gestured toward the datapad. “But I would never have guessed there were Bothans involved.”
“It’s going to surprise everybody,” Leia said, wincing. “And it couldn’t have come at a worse time. With tensions and brush wars cropping up all over the New Republic, I’m not at all sure we’re in any shape to deal rationally with something like this.”
There was a flicker of presence from outside the office, and she turned as the door slid open. “The alert’s out,” Mara said, coming into the office and sitting down next to Leia. “All our ships and ground stations, and I got word to Mazzic’s and Clyngunn’s people, too. If Lak Jit gets near any of them, we’ll have him.” She nodded at the datapad. “Was there anything else on the datacard?”
“Nothing readable,” Leia told her. “Maybe the techs on Coruscant can pull something more out of it. I doubt it, though.”
“We were just trading bits and pieces of information on Caamas and the aftermath,” Karrde said. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything to add, would you?”
Mara threw him a cool look. “You mean like the names and clans of the Bothans who sabotaged Caamas’s planetary shield generators?”
“That would be a good start,” he agreed.
Mara snorted gently. “I’ll bet it would. Unfortunately, I don’t know anything more than what’s on that datacard. Less, actually, since I didn’t know there were any Bothans involved. Don’t forget, Caamas was long gone by the time the Emperor found me and trained me to be his Hand.”
“He never mentioned the attack?” Leia asked. “Bragged or gloated about it? Anything?”
Mara shook her head. “Not to me. The only time he even mentioned the Caamasi was once when he was convinced they were stirring up Bail Organa against him and was thinking about sending me to do something about it. But then he changed his mind.”
Leia felt her heart tighten inside her. “He must have decided he had something better to use as an object lesson. The Death Star.”
For a long minute no one spoke. Then Karrde stirred. “What are you going to do with the datacard?” he asked.
With an effort, Leia pushed back the memories of her shattered home and lost family and friends. “I don’t have any choice,” she told him. “Lak Jit’s already read it, and he’s bound to spread the story, out of spite if nothing else. All I can do is try to get word back to Coruscant before that happens. At least give the High Council some time to prepare for the uproar.”
Karrde looked at Mara. “What’s our schedule look like?”
“Busy,” she said. “But we’ve got time to drop her off first.”
“If you’d like a ride, that is,” Karrde said, turning back to Leia. “Though with Solo and the Wookiee off somewhere in the Falcon I suppose you don’t really have much choice.”
Leia made a face. “Was I the last one on the planet to find out Han had left?”
Karrde smiled. “Probably. But then, information is my business.”
“I remember when it used to be mine, too,” Leia said with a sigh. “Yes, I’d be very grateful for a ride. Do you have room for my children and Khabarakh’s team?”
“I’m sure we can squeeze them in,” Karrde assured her, reaching across his desk to the comm. “Dankin? Ge
t us ready to fly. We’ll be picking up Councilor Organa Solo’s children and honor guard at the Noghri’s Mount Tantiss settlement and then heading out.”
He got an acknowledgment and switched off. “Cakhmaim said Lak Jit found six datacards,” he said, eyeing Leia closely. “Was there anything of this magnitude on any of the others?”
“There was one that might be,” Leia said mechanically, a sudden thought jabbing like a blade into her. Mara Jade, once a secret and powerful agent of the Emperor’s … known only as the Emperor’s Hand.
She turned to look at Mara, found those brilliant green eyes gazing with equal intensity back at her. The Emperor’s Hand. The Hand of Thrawn …
A memory sparked: ten years ago, soon after the birth of Jacen and Jaina, the two women facing each other in a small room in the Imperial Palace. Leia, staring into those same green eyes as Mara calmly announced her intention to kill Leia’s brother Luke.
Even then, she’d recognized Mara’s abilities in the Force. Now, with practice and some of Luke’s own training, those powers were even more in evidence. She could feel Mara’s thoughts probing at her own, testing her mind and trying to discern what it was that was suddenly troubling her. And it occurred to her—or was perhaps wordlessly suggested—that Mara with her unique Imperial background might already know who or what was meant by the Hand of Thrawn.
But she couldn’t ask her. Not now. Mara and Karrde she considered friends; but this was something that the High Council of the New Republic should hear about first. “I can’t say anything about it,” she told them. “Not yet.”
“I understand,” Karrde said, his eyes flicking thoughtfully between the two women. He knew that something was going on beneath the surface, but was too polite to press the point. Besides, he’d be able to find out about it later from Mara, anyway. “No harm in asking.”
He lowered his eyes to the datapad. “It does occur to me, though, that we might be worrying more than necessary about this whole Caamas thing. That was a long time ago, and it could be that no one will care anymore who was to blame.”
Leia shook her head. “I don’t believe that for a minute.”
“Neither do I,” Mara said.
Karrde grimaced. “No. Neither do I.”
CHAPTER
4
He laid it out for them; all of it, in complete and painful detail. And when he had finished, they were, as he’d expected, outraged.
“You must be joking, Admiral Pellaeon,” Moff Andray said, his voice icy.
“I agree,” Moff Bemos said, fingering the massive codoran ring on his finger. “We are the Empire, Admiral. The Empire does not surrender.”
“Then the Empire dies,” Pellaeon said bluntly. “I’m sorry, Your Excellencies, but that is the end line of all this. The Empire is beaten. With a negotiated peace treaty, we can at least—”
“I’ve heard enough,” Moff Hort spat, sweeping his datacards off the table into his hand with a grand gesture and pushing back his chair. “I have important business waiting for me back at my sector.”
“As do I,” Moff Quillan joined in, standing up with him. “If you ask me, a man like this has no business leading our military forces—”
“Sit down,” a quiet voice ordered. “Both of you.”
Pellaeon focused on the man who’d spoken, seated at the far end of the table from him. He was short and slender, with receding silver hair, piercing yellow-flecked blue eyes, and clawlike hands that were far stronger than they looked. His face was lined with age and bitterness, his mouth twisted with cruelty and smoldering ambition.
He was Moff Disra. Chief administrator of Braxant sector, ruler of the new Imperial capital planet code-named Bastion, and their host here in the conference room of his palace. And of all the eight remaining Moffs, the one Pellaeon trusted the least.
Quillan and Hort were looking at Disra, too, their intended grand exit suddenly faltering into uncertainty. Hort made as if to speak; then, silently, both of them resumed their seats.
“Thank you.” Disra shifted his gaze to Pellaeon. “Please continue, Admiral.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency.” Pellaeon looked around the table. “I don’t blame any of you for being upset with my recommendation. I don’t make it lightly. But I see no other way. With a negotiated treaty, we can at least hold on to the territory we still have. Without one, we will certainly be destroyed.”
“Can we hold on to our territory, though?” Moff Edan asked. “The New Republic has perpetuated the lie that we rule by terror and force. Won’t they insist on our destruction, treaty or not?”
“I don’t think so,” Pellaeon said. “I believe we can convince even the most rabid of them that the worlds currently under Imperial rule remain with us by their own choice.”
“Not all of them do,” Moff Sander rumbled. “Some in my sector would leave in a moment if offered the choice.”
“Certainly we’ll lose some systems,” Pellaeon said. “But on the opposite side, there are undoubtedly systems currently within New Republic borders whose inhabitants would prefer to live under Imperial law if given that same choice. As matters stand, there’s nothing we can do about such systems—we don’t have the ships or manpower necessary to defend them, nor could we maintain supply routes to them. But under a peace treaty such systems could be invited to rejoin.”
Quillan snorted under his breath. “Ridiculous. Do you really believe the New Republic would just meekly release their stolen systems back to us?”
“On the contrary, Quillan: they’d have no choice in the matter,” Moff Vered put in dryly. “Their sole claim to authority is that the systems of the New Republic willingly accept their authority. How could they then turn around and forbid systems to renounce that authority?”
“Exactly,” Pellaeon said, nodding. “Especially with all the small conflicts that have flared up recently. Forbidding systems to leave the New Republic would be handing us a major propaganda weapon. The Almania incident is certainly still fresh enough in their minds.”
“Still, if things are so unstable there, why do we need to do anything at all?” Bemos suggested. “If we bide our time, there’s a fair chance the New Republic will disintegrate on its own.”
“I’d say the chances are better than just fair,” Andrey said. “That was the whole philosophic basis for the Emperor’s New Order in the first place. Alone of all those in the Imperial Senate, he understood that so many diverse species and cultures could never live together without a strong hand governing them.”
“I agree,” Pellaeon said. “But at this point the argument is irrelevant. The New Republic’s self-annihilation could take decades; and long before they destroyed themselves they would have made sure to grind the remnants of the Empire to dust.” He lifted his eyebrows. “All of us, needless to say, would be dead. Killed in battle, or else executed under their current concept of justice.”
“After being paraded as war prizes before crowds of cheering subhumans,” Sander muttered. “Probably stripped and staked out—”
“There’s no need to be so graphic, Sander,” Hort growled, throwing the other Moff a glare.
“The point needs to be made,” Sander countered. “The Admiral is right: this is precisely the right time to open negotiations. While they can be persuaded that cessation of hostilities is in their own best interests.”
The debate ran on for another hour. In the end, showing the same deep reluctance Pellaeon himself felt, they agreed.
The lone guard standing in front of the ornate double doors leading to Moff Disra’s private office was tall, young, and strongly built—the very antithesis, Pellaeon thought irreverently as he approached him, of Disra himself. “Admiral Pellaeon,” he identified himself. “I wish to see Moff Disra.”
“His Excellency left no word—”
“There are surveillance holocams all along this corridor,” Pellaeon interrupted him brusquely. “He knows I’m here. Open the doors.”
The guard’s lip twitch
ed. “Yes, Admiral.” He took two steps to his side; and as he did so the double doors swung ponderously open.
The room was fully as ornate as the doors that sealed it, with the kind of luxury Pellaeon hadn’t seen in a Moff’s palace since the height of the Empire’s power. Disra was seated at a glassy white desk in the center of the room, a youngish military aide with short-cropped dark hair and wearing major’s insignia standing behind him. The aide had a pack of datacards in his hand; apparently, he’d either just arrived or had been preparing to leave.
“Ah—Admiral Pellaeon,” Disra called, beckoning him forward. “Do come in. I’d have thought you’d have been busy organizing your peace envoy.”
“We have time,” Pellaeon said, glancing around the room as he walked toward the desk, mentally adding up the values of the various furnishings. “According to our Intelligence reports, General Bel Iblis won’t be arriving at the Morishim starfighter base for another two weeks.”
“Of course,” Disra said sarcastically. “Surrendering to Bel Iblis is for some reason more palatable than humiliating yourself before anyone else of that rabble?”
“I have a certain respect for General Bel Iblis, yes,” Pellaeon said, stopping a meter away from the desk. It was made of culture-grown ivrooy coral, he noted; from the color, probably of pre-Clone Wars origin. Expensive. “You seem rather bitter at the prospect of peace.”
“I have no aversion to peace,” Disra countered. “It’s the thought of groveling that turns my stomach.”
The aide cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Excellency,” he murmured, laying his stack of datacards on the desk and turning to go.
“No, stay, Major,” Disra said, holding up a hand to stop him. “I’d like you to hear this. You know my aide, Admiral, don’t you? Major Grodin Tierce.”
The corner of Tierce’s mouth might have twitched. Pellaeon couldn’t tell for sure. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, nodding politely to the major.
“Ah. My mistake,” Disra said. “Well. We were discussing capitulation, I believe?”