Star Wars: Choices of One Read online

  “The deal, of course,” Axlon said, throwing an odd look at him. “The Anyat-en complex for our base and storage. The Saras-ev enclosed landing area for transport, loading, and unloading. All the rest of it. Weren’t you paying attention?”

  Luke shook his head. “I was trying to read Governor Ferrouz.”

  “Trying to read him?”

  “Through the Force,” Luke said, frowning. “Isn’t that what you brought me along for?”

  “Well, yes,” Axlon said, stumbling a little on the words. “Yes, of course. I just didn’t think you could … never mind. What did you find out?”

  “Not much,” Luke had to admit. “There’s a lot of turmoil in him.”

  Axlon grunted. “Not surprising, under the circumstances.”

  “There was one thing, though, that I got very clearly,” Luke continued. “It was a sense of betrayal.”

  Axlon stopped short. “Betrayal?”

  “Yes,” Luke said. He stopped, too, and turned to face the other.

  And felt his muscles stiffen. The look on Axlon’s face … “But it may not mean he’s going to betray us,” he hastened to add. “It could be he’s feeling betrayed by the Empire. Or he’s worried that some of his people might betray him.”

  “Yes,” Axlon said, some of the sudden dark tension fading from his face. “Yes, that could certainly be it. The Imperial Security Bureau might very well have planted an agent or two within the palace to watch him. We’ll need to be careful when we go there.” Glancing around, as if suddenly concerned about eavesdroppers, he started walking again.

  “What was that about, there at the end?” Luke asked, falling into step again beside him. “We’re going to the palace?”

  “I am,” Axlon said. “Whether you go with me is up to you. Weren’t you listening to any of it?”

  “No, I already told you,” Luke said. “I was—”

  “You were using the Force,” Axlon finished for him, an edge of exasperation in his voice. “Sometimes I wonder how the Jedi lasted as long as they did. Or how the Republic lasted with Jedi running the show.”

  Luke felt his face flush. How dare Axlon talk about the Jedi that way?

  He took a deep breath, stretching out to the Force for calm the way Ben Kenobi had taught him. There is no emotion; there is peace. Anger was as much a trap as fear, Ben had warned.

  Besides, Axlon was speaking out of ignorance, not animosity. It was up to Luke to show him what Jedi were, what they could be, and what they could do.

  Once Luke figured all of that out himself, of course. If he ever did.

  He sighed. In the all-too-short time he and Ben had had together, the old Jedi had taught him a great deal about the Force. But there was so much more he still had to learn.

  Vader had taken Ben away from him, just as Vader’s stormtroopers had taken his uncle and aunt. Like Alderaan, more scores that would someday need to be settled.

  “Let’s get back to the ship,” Axlon said into his musings. “See if Solo’s calmed down yet.” He paused. “By the way. Do you think Ferrouz was telling the truth about having pulled all his people out of the Anyat-en area?”

  Luke frowned. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not—I can’t read thoughts that way. That’s not how it works. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” Axlon murmured. “No reason at all.”

  CAPTAIN DRUSAN LOOKED UP FROM THE DATAPAD. “AN ARKANIAN,” HE said flatly.

  “I believe so, yes,” Pellaeon said, trying to read the other’s expression. But the mottled hyperspace sky flowing across the bridge viewport at the captain’s back was throwing just enough shadow over his face to make that impossible. “His height and mass are well within the species range. The mask would cover the distinctive white eyes, and it would be child’s play for an Arkanian to gather all those biomarkers—”

  “Why Arkanian?” Drusan interrupted. “Why not someone from any of a dozen other species?”

  “Because he quoted me a line from something called the Song of Salaban,” Pellaeon said. “It’s an ancient Arkanian legend about a man whose family and village were captured by an enemy force, who then force him to go on a quest of sacrifice to win their release.”

  “So Lord Odo studies ancient legends,” Drusan said with a shrug. “Grand Admiral Zaarin has a passion for music. Senior Captain Thrawn is insane over art. I knew a colonel once who collected different versions of sabacc cards. There are eccentrics all across the galaxy.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” Pellaeon said. “But there’s more. On the assumption that Odo was, in fact, Arkanian, I checked the ISB’s at-large criminal registry for that species. It turns out that there are five major Arkanian criminals currently unaccounted for. All five are wanted for medical atrocities, and any one of them would have both the ability and the arrogance to fake an order with an eye toward getting aboard the Chimaera.”

  Drusan shot a look over Pellaeon’s shoulder—possibly checking to see whether any of the bridge crew was close enough to overhear them, but more likely making sure Lord Odo was still at the computer console in the aft bridge where he’d been when Pellaeon arrived a few minutes ago. “Are you suggesting that we have a monster aboard?”

  “That is indeed my fear, sir,” Pellaeon said. “Under the circumstances, I respectfully recommend that you exercise your rights under the Captain’s Authority directives and find out exactly who and what Odo is. At the very least, we should take another look at his authorization to be aboard this ship.”

  Again, Drusan looked over Pellaeon’s shoulder. “Very well, Commander,” he said, lowering his voice. “I wasn’t supposed to share this with you or anyone else aboard the Chimaera. But under the circumstances … Lord Odo’s orders didn’t come from Imperial Center.”

  Pellaeon nodded. “Yes, sir, I know.”

  Drusan seemed taken aback. “You know?”

  “I backtracked the routing,” Pellaeon explained, wondering uneasily if he shouldn’t have said that. “I thought it prudent, given the unusual circumstances.”

  “I see,” Drusan murmured. “And where exactly did that backtrack take you?”

  “The order came from somewhere in the Outer Rim,” Pellaeon said. “I wasn’t able to locate it any more precisely.” He hesitated. “My original thought was that perhaps Odo had been sent by Grand Admiral Zaarin, since he’s reported to be somewhere in that general region. But I’m wondering now if Odo simply used an Outer Rim origination to make it look like the orders came from Zaarin.”

  Drusan hissed out a breath, and some of the stiffness seemed to leave his spine. “I’m impressed, Commander,” he said. “I truly am. Not many officers, even senior officers, would have taken it upon themselves to follow this course in the first place. Even fewer would have stayed with it long enough to reach a conclusion.”

  He paused, and this time, despite the flowing hyperspace sky, Pellaeon could see the tight smile on the other’s face. “Even more impressive, most of your conclusions were accurate,” Drusan continued. “Lord Odo is Arkanian; and his orders did come from the Predominant.”

  “Are you certain of that, sir?” Pellaeon asked carefully. He was treading on dangerous ground, he knew, pressing the same point over and over to a superior officer. “Orders have been faked before. Codes and encryptions have been stolen.”

  “True enough,” Drusan agreed. “But the one communication no one can fake is a personal transmission from the Emperor himself.”

  Pellaeon felt his eyes widen. “The Emperor?”

  Drusan chuckled. “Yes, that was my reaction, too,” he said. “It seems that the Emperor has joined Zaarin in his quiet tour of the Outer Rim.”

  “And he contacted you? Directly?”

  “Very directly,” Drusan said, his smile turning into a grimace. Pellaeon winced in sympathy—conversations between the Emperor and his subordinates tended to be not very pleasant. “No, Commander,” the captain continued quietly. “Whatever mysteries still hover around Lord Odo, rest assured th
at he and his mission have been sanctioned at the absolute highest level.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pellaeon said, feeling a flush of embarrassment. He should have known that Drusan would have made sure Odo didn’t pose any danger to the Chimaera. Especially since a threat to Drusan’s ship would also be a threat to his career. “May I ask what his mission is?”

  Drusan snorted. “Really, Commander. One confidential security breach isn’t enough for you? You want me to commit a second, as well?”

  Pellaeon winced again. “My apologies, sir.”

  “That’s all right,” Drusan said drily. “How can I complain about your persistence when I’ve just finished praising you for it?” He pursed his lips. “I’ll tell you this much. Lord Odo has evidence of an agreement in progress between the Rebel Alliance and an alien warlord named Nuso Esva from the Unknown Regions. There’s also a strong possibility that the agreement is being brokered by the Candoras sector’s Governor Ferrouz himself. The Emperor has asked Lord Odo to look into it, and assigned the Chimaera to provide him transport and any support he may need.”

  “I see,” Pellaeon said, feeling his stomach tighten. An Imperial governor, dabbling in treason? That was unheard of. “And he chose an Arkanian because Rebel spies wouldn’t be as quick to track the movements of an outsider as they would someone from the fleet or Imperial court?”

  “Yes,” Drusan said, eyeing him closely. “Yes, exactly. Once again, Commander, your insights do you proud. None of this is to be repeated, of course. To anyone.”

  “Understood, sir,” Pellaeon said. “Again, my apologies for pressing a matter that was none of my business.”

  “The safety of this ship, the fleet, and the Empire is the business of all Imperial officers,” Drusan countered solemnly. “So are persistence and initiative. Well done, Commander. The fleet needs more officers like you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Drusan gave a curt nod. “Dismissed.”

  Lord Odo was no longer at the computer console when Pellaeon retraced his path down the command walkway to the aft bridge. He signaled for the turbolift, wondering where the other had gotten to.

  It was as Pellaeon was stepping into the turbolift car that an odd question suddenly struck him.

  Arkanians had a reputation for arrogance, along with an attitude of racial superiority that even the Hutts would be hard-pressed to match. Most Arkanians that Pellaeon had met firmly believed that they could do anything any other species could do, and that they could do it better.

  So why would one of them lower himself so far as to employ a human pilot to fly his ship for him?

  For a brief moment, Pellaeon was tempted to go back to Drusan and ask. But then the door slid shut, and the car started toward Pellaeon’s quarters and the soft bed he’d spent far too few hours in lately. And he’d pushed security protocol enough for one day.

  Besides, there were still four days to the Poln system. There would be plenty of time for him to find an opportunity to put that question to the captain.

  “You really should stop that,” Thrawn commented from his seat at the computer console.

  Car’das frowned. “Stop what?”

  “You should stop pacing,” Thrawn said. “It doesn’t gain you anything.”

  Car’das grimaced. Lost in thought, he hadn’t been aware that he was pacing. “It helps me think,” he said. “I always pace when I’m trying to solve a problem.”

  “You never did before.”

  “Well, I do now,” Car’das growled. “Is it a problem for you?”

  “Not at all,” Thrawn said, his glowing red eyes seeming to burn into Car’das’s pale face. “Is this problem something I can help with?”

  “No,” Car’das told him shortly. He turned his back and started pacing again.

  And abruptly stopped. With four days to Poln Major and whatever unknowns were waiting for them there, it was time he finally brought this into the open. “Yes, actually, there is,” he said, turning around again. “You can tell me why we’re here.”

  Thrawn tilted his head slightly. “Why we’re here?” he asked.

  “Fine,” Car’das ground out. “Why I’m here. It makes no sense. I don’t have access to information you might want, I’m rotten company, and you’re at least as good a pilot as I am. Why didn’t you just leave me where I was?”

  Thrawn’s blue-black eyebrows rose. “You mean on the run?” he asked pointedly.

  Car’das took a careful breath, his lungs and chest aching with the expansion. “I’m dying, Thrawn,” he said quietly. “I know I don’t look it right now, but I am. I’m living on stims and patchworks, and that’s not going to last much longer.” He gestured vaguely toward the vast universe lying beyond the ship. “There’s only one place in the galaxy where I was told I might be able to find a cure. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. Maybe all I’ll find is some answers. You blame me for trying to get there?”

  “Of course not,” Thrawn said. “What questions are you looking for answers to?”

  Car’das sighed. “I don’t even know that.”

  For a moment silence returned to the room. “Yet when I called, you came,” Thrawn said. “If you were so eager to leave, why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

  “I don’t know that, either,” Car’das admitted. “Maybe I figured I owed you.” He shook his head. “Maybe because this is my last chance to do something useful for the rest of the galaxy.”

  “You’ve done any number of useful things,” Thrawn reminded him. “Including the saving of my life.”

  “Ancient history,” Car’das said, his stomach tightening with shame and guilt. “For years I’ve done absolutely nothing except build up my smuggling organization. Not to help anyone, the way I used to send information to Imperial Center to help the government root out criminals and traitors. It was all just for my own aggrandizement and power.” He shook his head. “I’ve wasted my life, Thrawn. These last years … I’ve wasted them all.”

  “Perhaps,” Thrawn said, his voice quiet. “Yet the need to create is a drive that lies deep within each of us. We all strive to build empires, whether of stone or people or words. Empires we hope will survive us. In the end, though, each of us must necessarily leave our creations behind. All we can hope for is to also leave behind a worthy successor to continue our work. Or who can at least maintain it for a season.”

  “Perhaps,” Car’das said. Thrawn was right, of course. He usually was. And Car’das had indeed left behind such a worthy successor, a trusted lieutenant named Talon Karrde.

  The crucial question was whether Karrde would survive the seeds of chaos Car’das had also left behind.

  But it was too late to worry about that now. The future of his organization was already in motion, and even if Car’das went back right now there would be no way for him to restore order.

  But then, the future was always changing. All futures were.

  “I notice, though, that you haven’t answered my question,” Car’das said. “You’re here to protect the Empire from Warlord Nuso Esva. But why am I here?”

  “Because my forces are busy in the Unknown Regions, tied down with the defense of my allies,” Thrawn said. “Because I’m alone, and it’s always useful to have an extra set of eyes or hands.”

  “But why me?” Car’das persisted. “You have the Emperor’s ear. Why not a Royal Guard, or some brilliant junior fleet officer?” He snorted. “Why not Vader himself? If you could stand his company.”

  Thrawn smiled … and to Car’das’s amazement, there was sadness in the other’s normally calm expression. “Because,” he said quietly, “you’re the only one I trust.”

  Car’das stared at him, some of his own self-pity fading away into a fresh pool of shame. Thrawn had left everything: his home, his people, his prestige, his life. He’d dedicated himself to protecting the civilized parts of the galaxy against pirates, warlords, and distant, nameless nightmares that Car’das could barely even imagine.

  And yet, in t
he end, all that work and sacrifice had come down to this. The greatest military mind of the age, with only a single, solitary, worthless man whom he could trust. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  “No apology needed,” Thrawn assured him. “I’m the one who should apologize. With luck, this should be over in two or three weeks, and then you can continue your journey.” He tilted his head. “Or we could return to the Executor and I could release you now.”

  Car’das made a face. “Thanks, but I have no intention of turning you over to Vader’s tender mercies. Aside from everything else, he has a reputation for capriciousness even the Hutts can’t match. What if he suddenly decides to renege on your deal?”

  “He won’t,” Thrawn assured him. “Impulsive or not, Lord Vader has a strong personal agenda, plus as much enlightened self-interest as anyone. I have no doubt he’ll play the role I’ve assigned him.”

  Car’das shivered. A fleet captain talking openly about Darth Vader playing an assigned role was normally how first officers got sudden promotions. All the more reason not to leave the two of them together any longer than absolutely necessary. “I’m sure he will,” he said. “I’m hungry. You want anything?”

  “No, thank you,” Thrawn said, his voice distant, his attention already back on the computer monitor.

  Mentally, Car’das shook his head as he levered himself out of his seat. Blunt conversations like this were probably why Thrawn didn’t have anyone else in the Empire he could trust. The fleet, like the Imperial court, thrived on evasion, politics, and smiling masks. Anything approaching openness was looked upon with suspicion.

  Still, he had to admit as he headed down the corridor, maybe Thrawn’s straightforward honesty wasn’t such a bad thing. Certainly Car’das himself felt better than he had in weeks. Maybe even in months. He’d thought this trip was his last chance to do something fine and noble. Now he was sure of it.

  He could only hope he would live long enough to see it through to the end.

  The Seventh Octant’s tunnel system was about as convoluted a noodle-bake as Han had ever seen. But Axlon’s maps were good ones, and after a couple of hours of weaving back and forth, Han finally had them on course for the Anyat-en mining area again.