by Timothy Zahn
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 rightI 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 getting 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 corporationseven 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?"
&nb
sp; "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 knowwe'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 l
izards 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, unfortunatelyshe was the one who unlocked itbut 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."