Star Wars: Heir to the Empire Page 2

  Pellaeon spun back to him. “Admiral—”

  Thrawn cut him off with an upraised hand. “Come here, Captain,” the Grand Admiral ordered. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

  He touched a switch; and abruptly, the art show was gone. Instead, the room had become a miniature bridge monitor, with helm, engine, and weapons readouts on the walls and double display circle. The open space had become a holographic tactical display; in one corner a flashing sphere indicated the invaders. The wall display nearest to it gave an ETA estimate of twelve minutes.

  “Fortunately, the scoutships have enough of a lead not to be in danger themselves,” Thrawn commented. “So. Let’s see what exactly we’re dealing with. Bridge: order the three nearest sentry ships to attack.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Across the room, three blue dots shifted out of the sentry line onto intercept vectors. From the corner of his eye Pellaeon saw Thrawn lean forward in his seat as the Assault Frigates and accompanying X-wings shifted in response. One of the blue dots winked out—

  “Excellent,” Thrawn said, leaning back in his seat. “That will do, Lieutenant. Pull the other two sentry ships back, and order the Sector Four line to scramble out of the invaders’ vector.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tschel said, sounding more than a little confused.

  A confusion Pellaeon could well understand. “Shouldn’t we at least signal the rest of the Fleet?” he suggested, hearing the tightness in his voice. “The Death’s Head could be here in twenty minutes, most of the others in less than an hour.”

  “The last thing we want to do right now is bring in more of our ships, Captain,” Thrawn said. He looked up at Pellaeon, and a faint smile touched his lips. “After all, there may be survivors, and we wouldn’t want the Rebellion learning about us. Would we.”

  He turned back to his displays. “Bridge: I want a twenty-degree port yaw rotation—bring us flat to the invaders’ vector, superstructure pointing at them. As soon as they’re within the outer perimeter, the Sector Four sentry line is to re-form behind them and jam all transmissions.”

  “Y-yes, sir. Sir—?”

  “You don’t have to understand, Lieutenant,” Thrawn said, his voice abruptly cold. “Just obey.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pellaeon took a careful breath as the displays showed the Chimaera rotating as per orders. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, either, Admiral,” he said. “Turning our superstructure toward them—”

  Again, Thrawn stopped him with an upraised hand. “Watch and learn, Captain. That’s fine, bridge: stop rotation and hold position here. Drop docking bay deflector shields, boost power to all others. TIE fighter squadrons: launch when ready. Head directly away from the Chimaera for two kilometers, then sweep around in open cluster formation. Backfire speed, zonal attack pattern.”

  He got an acknowledgment, then looked up at Pellaeon. “Do you understand now, Captain?”

  Pellaeon pursed his lips. “I’m afraid not,” he admitted. “I see now that the reason you turned the ship was to give the fighters some exit cover, but the rest is nothing but a classic Marg Sabl closure maneuver. They’re not going to fall for anything that simple.”

  “On the contrary,” Thrawn corrected coolly. “Not only will they fall for it, they’ll be utterly destroyed by it. Watch, Captain. And learn.”

  The TIE fighters launched, accelerating away from the Chimaera and then leaning hard into etheric rudders to sweep back around it like the spray of some exotic fountain. The invading ships spotted the attackers and shifted vectors—

  Pellaeon blinked. “What in the Empire are they doing?”

  “They’re trying the only defense they know of against a Marg Sabl,” Thrawn said, and there was no mistaking the satisfaction in his voice. “Or, to be more precise, the only defense they are psychologically capable of attempting.” He nodded toward the flashing sphere. “You see, Captain, there’s an Elom commanding that force . . . and Elomin simply cannot handle the unstructured attack profile of a properly executed Marg Sabl.”

  Pellaeon stared at the invaders, still shifting into their utterly useless defense stance . . . and slowly it dawned on him what Thrawn had just done. “That sentry ship attack a few minutes ago,” he said. “You were able to tell from that that those were Elomin ships?”

  “Learn about art, Captain,” Thrawn said, his voice almost dreamy. “When you understand a species’ art, you understand that species.”

  He straightened in his chair. “Bridge: bring us to flank speed. Prepare to join the attack.”

  An hour later, it was all over.

  The ready room door slid shut behind the wing commander, and Pellaeon gazed back at the map still on the display. “Sounds like Obroa-skai is a dead end,” he said regretfully. “There’s no way well be able to spare the manpower that much pacification would cost.”

  “For now, perhaps,” Thrawn agreed. “But only for now.”

  Pellaeon frowned across the table at him. Thrawn was fiddling with a data card, rubbing it absently between finger and thumb, as he stared out the view port at the stars. A strange smile played about his lips. “Admiral?” he asked carefully.

  Thrawn turned his head, those glowing eyes coming to rest on Pellaeon. “It’s the second piece of the puzzle, Captain,” he said softly, holding up the data card. “The piece I’ve been searching for now for over a year.”

  Abruptly, he turned to the intercom, jabbed it on. “Bridge, this is Grand Admiral Thrawn. Signal the Death’s Head; inform Captain Harbid we’ll be temporarily leaving the Fleet. He’s to continue making tactical surveys of the local systems and pulling data dumps wherever possible. Then set course for a planet called Myrkr—the nav computer has its location.”

  The bridge acknowledged, and Thrawn turned back to Pellaeon. “You seem lost, Captain,” he suggested. “I take it you’ve never heard of Myrkr.”

  Pellaeon shook his head, trying without success to read the Grand Admiral’s expression. “Should I have?”

  “Probably not. Most of those who have been smugglers, malcontents, and otherwise useless dregs of the galaxy.”

  He paused, taking a measured sip from the mug at his elbow—a strong Forvish ale, from the smell of it—and Pellaeon forced himself to remain silent. Whatever the Grand Admiral was going to tell him, he was obviously going to tell it in his own way and time. “I ran across an offhand reference to it some seven years ago,” Thrawn continued, setting his mug back down. “What caught my attention was the fact that, although the planet had been populated for at least three hundred years, both the Old Republic and the Jedi of that time had always left it strictly alone.” He cocked one blue-black eyebrow slightly. “What would you infer from that, Captain?”

  Pellaeon shrugged. “That it’s a frontier planet, somewhere too far away for anyone to care about.”

  “Very good, Captain. That was my first assumption, too . . . except that it’s not. Myrkr is, in fact, no more than a hundred fifty light-years from here—close to our border with the Rebellion and well within the Old Republic’s boundaries.” Thrawn dropped his eyes to the data card still in his hand. “No, the actual explanation is far more interesting. And far more useful.”

  Pellaeon looked at the data card, too. “And that explanation became the first piece of this puzzle of yours?”

  Thrawn smiled at him. “Again, Captain, very good. Yes. Myrkr—or more precisely, one of its indigenous animals—was the first piece. The second is on a world called Wayland.” He waved the data card. “A world for which, thanks to the Obroans, I finally have a location.”

  “I congratulate you,” Pellaeon said, suddenly tired of this game. “May I ask just what exactly this puzzle is?”

  Thrawn smiled—a smile that sent a shiver up Pellaeon’s back. “Why, the only puzzle worth solving, of course,” the Grand Admiral said softly. “The complete, total, and utter destruction of the Rebellion.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  “Luke?”
>
  The voice came softly but insistently. Pausing amid the familiar landscape of Tatooine—familiar, yet oddly distorted—Luke Skywalker turned to look.

  An equally familiar figure stood there watching him. “Hello, Ben,” Luke said, his voice sounding sluggish in his ears. “Been a long time.”

  “It has indeed,” Obi-wan Kenobi said gravely. “And I’m afraid that it will be longer still until the next time. I’ve come to say good-bye, Luke.”

  The landscape seemed to tremble; and abruptly, a small part of Luke’s mind remembered that he was asleep. Asleep in his suite in the Imperial Palace, and dreaming of Ben Kenobi.

  “No, I’m not a dream,” Ben assured him, answering Luke’s unspoken thought. “But the distances separating us have become too great for me to appear to you in any other way. Now, even this last path is being closed to me.”

  “No,” Luke heard himself say. “You can’t leave us, Ben. We need you.”

  Ben’s eyebrows lifted slightly, and a hint of his old smile touched his lips. “You don’t need me, Luke. You are a Jedi, strong in the Force.” The smile faded, and for a moment his eyes seemed to focus on something Luke couldn’t see. “At any rate,” he added quietly, “the decision is not mine to make. I have lingered too long already, and can no longer postpone my journey from this life to what lies beyond.”

  A memory stirred: Yoda on his deathbed, and Luke pleading with him not to die. Strong am I in the Force, the Jedi Master had told him softly. But not that strong.

  “It is the pattern of all life to move on,” Ben reminded him. “You, too, will face this same journey one day.” Again, his attention drifted away, then returned. “You are strong in the Force, Luke, and with perseverance and discipline you will grow stronger still.” His gaze hardened. “But you must never relax your guard. The Emperor is gone, but the dark side is still powerful. Never forget that.”

  “I won’t,” Luke promised.

  Ben’s face softened, and again he smiled. “You will yet face great dangers, Luke,” he said. “But you will also find new allies, at times and places where you expect them least.”

  “New allies?” Luke echoed. “Who are they?”

  The vision seemed to waver and become fainter. “And now, farewell,” Ben said, as if he hadn’t heard the question. “I loved you as a son, and as a student, and as a friend. Until we meet again, may the Force be with you.”

  “Ben—!”

  But Ben turned, and the image faded . . . and in the dream, Luke knew he was gone. Then I am alone, he told himself. I am the last of the Jedi.

  He seemed to hear Ben’s voice, faint and indistinct, as if from a great distance. “Not the last of the old Jedi, Luke. The first of the new.”

  The voice trailed off into silence, and was gone . . . and Luke woke up.

  For a moment he just lay there, staring at the dim lights of the Imperial City playing across the ceiling above his bed and struggling through the sleep-induced disorientation. The disorientation, and an immense weight of sadness that seemed to fill the core of his being. First Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru had been murdered; then Darth Vader, his real father, had sacrificed his own life for Luke’s; and now even Ben Kenobi’s spirit had been taken away.

  For the third time, he’d been orphaned.

  With a sigh, he slid out from under the blankets and pulled on his robe and slippers. His suite contained a small kitchenette, and it took only a few minutes to fix himself a drink, a particularly exotic concoction Lando had introduced him to on his last visit to Coruscant. Then, attaching his lightsaber to his robe sash, he headed up to the roof.

  He had argued strongly against moving the center of the New Republic here to Coruscant; had argued even more strongly against setting up their fledgling government in the old Imperial Palace. The symbolism was all wrong, for one thing, particularly for a group which—in his opinion—already had a tendency to pay too much attention to symbols.

  But despite all its drawbacks, he had to admit that the view from the top of the Palace was spectacular.

  For a few minutes he stood at the roof’s edge, leaning against the chest-high wrought stone railing and letting the cool night breeze ruffle his hair. Even in the middle of the night the Imperial City was a bustle of activity, with the lights of vehicles and streets intertwining to form a sort of flowing work of art. Overhead, lit by both the city lights and those of occasional airspeeders flitting through them, the low-lying clouds were a dim sculptured ceiling stretching in all directions, with the same apparent endlessness as the city itself. Far to the south, he could just make out the Manarai Mountains, their snow-covered peaks illuminated, like the clouds, largely by reflected light from the city.

  He was gazing at the mountains when, twenty meters behind him, the door into the Palace was quietly opened.

  Automatically, his hand moved toward his lightsaber; but the motion had barely begun before it stopped. The sense of the creature coming through the doorway . . . “I’m over here, Threepio,” he called.

  He turned to see C-3PO shuffling his way across the roof toward him, radiating the droid’s usual mixture of relief and concern. “Hello, Master Luke,” he said, tilting his head to look at the cup in Luke’s hand. “I’m terribly sorry to disturb you.”

  “That’s all right,” Luke told him. “I just wanted some fresh air, that’s all.”

  “Are you certain?” Threepio asked. “Though of course I don’t mean to pry.”

  Despite his mood, Luke couldn’t help but smile. Threepio’s attempts to be simultaneously helpful, inquisitive, and polite never quite came off. Not without looking vaguely comical, anyway. “I’m just a little depressed, I guess,” he told the droid, turning back to gaze out over the city again. “Putting together a real, functioning government is a lot harder than I expected. Harder than most of the Council members expected, too.” He hesitated. “Mostly, I guess I’m missing Ben tonight.”

  For a moment Threepio was silent. “He was always very kind to me,” he said at last. “And also to Artoo, of course.”

  Luke raised his cup to his lips, hiding another smile behind it. “You have a unique perspective on the universe, Threepio,” he said.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Threepio stiffen. “I hope I didn’t offend you, sir,” the droid said anxiously. “That was certainly not my intent.”

  “You didn’t offend me,” Luke assured him. “As a matter of fact, you might have just delivered Ben’s last lesson to me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Luke sipped at his drink. “Governments and entire planets are important, Threepio. But when you sift everything down, they’re all just made up of people.”

  There was a brief pause. “Oh,” Threepio said.

  “In other words,” Luke amplified, “a Jedi can’t get so caught up in matters of galactic importance that it interferes with his concern for individual people.” He looked at Threepio and smiled. “Or for individual droids.”

  “Oh. I see, sir.” Threepio cocked his head toward Luke’s cup. “Forgive me, sir . . . but may I ask what that is that you’re drinking?”

  “This?” Luke glanced down at his cup. “It’s just something Lando taught me how to make a while back.”

  “Lando?” Threepio echoed, and there was no missing the disapproval in his voice. Programmed politeness or not, the droid had never really much cared for Lando.

  Which wasn’t very surprising, given the circumstances of their first meeting. “Yes, but in spite of such a shady origin, it’s really quite good,” Luke told him. “It’s called hot chocolate.”

  “Oh. I see.” The droid straightened up. “Well, then, sir. If you are indeed all right, I expect I should be on my way.”

  “Sure. By the way, what made you come up here in the first place?”

  “Princess Leia sent me, of course,” Threepio answered, clearly surprised that Luke would have to ask. “She said you were in some kind of distress.”

  Luke smiled and shook his he
ad. Leave it to Leia to find a way to cheer him up when he needed it. “Show-off,” he murmured.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  Luke waved a hand. “Leia’s showing off her new Jedi skills, that’s all. Proving that even in the middle of the night she can pick up on my mood.”

  Threepio’s head tilted. “She really did seem concerned about you, sir.”

  “I know,” Luke said. “I’m just joking.”

  “Oh.” Threepio seemed to think about that. “Shall I tell her you’re all right, then?”

  “Sure,” Luke nodded. “And while you’re down there, tell her that she should quit worrying about me and get herself back to sleep. Those bouts of morning sickness she still gets are bad enough when she isn’t worn-out tired.”

  “I’ll deliver the message, sir,” Threepio said.

  “And,” Luke added quietly, “tell her I love her.”

  “Yes, sir. Good night, Master Luke.”

  “Good night, Threepio.”

  He watched the droid go, a fresh flow of depression threatening again to drag him down. Threepio wouldn’t understand, of course—no one on the Provisional Council had understood, either. But for Leia, just over three months pregnant, to be spending the bulk of her time here . . .

  He shivered, and not from the cool night air. This place is strong with the dark side. Yoda had said that of the cave on Dagobah—the cave where Luke had gone on to fight a lightsaber duel with a Darth Vader who had turned out to be Luke himself. For weeks afterward the memory of the sheer power and presence of the dark side had haunted his thoughts; only much later had he finally realized that Yoda’s primary reason for the exercise had been to show him how far he still had to go.

  Still, he’d often wondered how the cave had come to be the way it had. Wondered whether perhaps someone or something strong in the dark side had once lived there.

  As the Emperor had once lived here.. . .

  He shivered again. The really maddening part of it was that he couldn’t sense any such concentration of evil in the Palace. The Council had made a point of asking him about that, in fact, when they’d first considered moving operations here to the Imperial City. He’d had to grit his teeth and tell them that, no, there seemed to be no residual effects of the Emperor’s stay.