Star Wars: Choices of One Page 2

  “And we aren’t likely to see anything else, either,” Drusan growled. “We have orders to hold position right here until Lord Odo returns.”

  “There he goes,” Pellaeon said, pointing at the glow of the Salaban’s Hope’s drive as the freighter emerged from beneath the Chimaera’s long prow. The freighter headed toward the planetary horizon ahead, its image fogging briefly as it circled past the edge of atmosphere, and then vanished.

  “What do you think about that mask of his?”

  With an effort, Pellaeon dragged his mind away from the mystery of where they were to the mystery of who Odo was. “He definitely doesn’t want anyone knowing who he is,” he said.

  “Who or what,” Drusan said. “I had Environmental Services do a scan of the air outflow from his quarters. I thought—”

  “You what?” Pellaeon interrupted, aghast. “Sir, the orders made it clear we weren’t to question, interfere, or intrude upon Lord Odo’s activities.”

  “Which I haven’t,” Drusan said. “Keeping tabs on my ship’s systems is part of my job.”

  “But—”

  “Besides which, it didn’t work,” Drusan said sourly. “There are fifty different species biomarkers coming off him, at least eight of which the computer can’t even identify.”

  “Probably coming from his mask,” Pellaeon murmured, remembering now the sets of parallel slits set into the mask’s curved cheekbone areas. “I assumed the cheek slits were merely decorative.”

  “Apparently, they’re stocked with biomarkers,” Drusan said. “Clever little flimp, isn’t he? Still, whatever the reason for his visit, it should be over soon and we’ll be able to take him and his ship back where we found them.”

  “Unless he wants us to take him elsewhere,” Pellaeon pointed out.

  “What does he need us for?” Drusan countered. “He’s got a ship and a pilot. Let him go on his own.” He exhaled noisily. “Well, there’s no point standing around waiting for him. I’m heading back to my quarters. I suggest you do likewise, Commander.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pellaeon said. Giving the planetary horizon one final look, he followed Drusan back down the command walkway.

  “Well?” the Emperor asked.

  For a moment Senior Captain Thrawn didn’t answer, merely continued to gaze out the viewport at the forested landscape stretched out below. “An interesting situation,” the blue-skinned Chiss said at last.

  Seated at the helm of his freighter, Jorj Car’das kept his gaze straight ahead at the moon’s horizon, wishing fervently that he was still in his self-imposed exile from the rest of the universe. Thrawn clearly didn’t need him here. The Emperor clearly didn’t want him here.

  But Thrawn had quietly insisted. Why, Car’das didn’t know. Maybe Thrawn felt he owed Car’das. Maybe he thought he was doing Car’das a favor by bringing him back into contact with the high and mighty this way.

  Car’das also didn’t know why the Emperor hadn’t chosen to make an issue of his presence aboard. Maybe he regarded Thrawn highly enough to forgive the other’s little quirks. Maybe he was just amused by Car’das’s obvious discomfort.

  Car’das didn’t know. Nor did he really care. About anything.

  “First of all, the multifrequency force field you have set up should be more than adequate to protect the construction site,” Thrawn said, gesturing past Car’das’s shoulder at the huge half-finished sphere floating above the moon’s surface. “I trust the generator has redundant energy sources, plus an umbrella shield to protect it from orbital attack?”

  “It does,” the Emperor confirmed. “There are also a number of fully crewed garrisons in the forest around the generator.”

  “Has the moon any inhabitants?”

  “Primitives only,” the Emperor said contemptuously.

  “In that case multiple garrisons are an inefficient use of resources,” Thrawn said. “I would recommend burning off the forest for a hundred kilometers around the generator and putting a small mechanized force of AT-ATs and juggernaut heavy assault vehicles under the umbrella shield. Add in point support from three or four wing-clusters of hoverscouts, and the rest of the troops and equipment could be reassigned to trouble spots elsewhere in the Empire.”

  “So you would suggest I make the generator completely unassailable?” Palpatine asked.

  “I assumed that was the intent.” Thrawn paused, and Car’das glanced back in time to see the captain’s glowing eyes narrow. “Unless, of course, you’re setting a trap.”

  “Of course,” the Emperor said calmly. “You of all my officers should understand the usefulness of a well-laid trap.”

  “Indeed,” Thrawn agreed. “One final recommendation: don’t dismiss too quickly those natives you mentioned. Even primitives can sometimes be used to deadly effect.”

  “They will not be a problem,” the Emperor said, dismissing the natives with a small wave of his hand. “They don’t like strangers. Any strangers.”

  “I leave that to your judgment,” Thrawn said.

  “Yes,” Palpatine said flatly. “And now, I sense you have a request to make. Speak.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” Thrawn said. If he was surprised or discomfited by the Emperor’s casual reading of his mind, it didn’t show in his voice. “It concerns a warlord named Nuso Esva who has become a serious power in the Unknown Regions.”

  Palpatine gave a small snort. “I wonder sometimes if you focus too much of your attention in those far reaches, Captain.”

  “It was you who authorized me to make such surveys,” Thrawn reminded him. “And properly so. The Rebellion is a threat, but hardly the most serious one facing the Empire.”

  “In your opinion.”

  “Yes,” Thrawn said.

  There was a short pause. “Continue,” the Emperor said.

  “Warlord Nuso Esva has become one of those threats,” Thrawn said. “He possesses an unusually strong spacegoing navy, along with many slave and tributary worlds stretching into Wild Space and to the edge of the Empire. I believe he is even now planning to extend his influence into Imperial space.”

  “An alien, I presume,” Palpatine said, his voice dripping with disgust. “Can he be bought?”

  “Not bought, bargained with, or allied with,” Thrawn said. “I’ve sent several communiqués to him suggesting each of those options. He’s turned down all of them.”

  “And what makes you think he wishes to extend his reach into my Empire?”

  “He’s begun a campaign against some of the worlds at the edge of the territories I’ve pacified,” Thrawn said. “His usual pattern is to use hit-and-fade tactics on shipping, or attempt to bribe or otherwise suborn the officials on those worlds.”

  “All of whom are also aliens,” Palpatine said with a sniff. “I’ve warned you before that such beings cannot be molded into any sort of permanent political structure. The history of the Republic proves that.”

  “Perhaps,” Thrawn said. “The point is that Nuso Esva is using these raids to pin down my forces, and the only targets I can see that are worth such efforts are in Imperial space. Obviously, this cannot be tolerated.”

  “Then deal with him,” the Emperor said flatly.

  “I intend to,” Thrawn said. “The difficulty is that my forces are already overextended and overcommitted. In order to deal a crushing blow I’ll need a minimum of six more Star Destroyers.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Car’das saw the Emperor’s eyes narrow. “Do you seriously believe I have six Star Destroyers to spare, Captain Thrawn?”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” Thrawn said evenly. “It’s not just the border sectors that are at risk, either. There are indications he may also be making overtures to the Rebellion.”

  “Then perhaps you should speak to Lord Vader,” the Emperor said. “The Rebellion is his special interest. Perhaps he can give you the Star Destroyers you require.”

  “An excellent suggestion, Your Highness,” Thrawn said, inclining his
head. “I may do just that.”

  “It would be interesting to hear what the two of you have to say to each other.” The Emperor gestured. “We’re finished here, pilot. Return us to the Predominant.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Car’das said. Getting a firm grip on the yoke, he put the ship into a smooth curve and headed for the Star Destroyer orbiting in the near distance behind them, wondering distantly if Thrawn realized what he was getting himself into. Sitting here with the Emperor and a silent pair of Imperial Guards behind him was bad enough.

  But Vader was even worse. Ever since Yavin, every report Car’das had picked up had indicated that the appropriately titled Dark Lord of the Sith had grown a whole lot darker. The thought of asking him for anything, let alone six Star Destroyers, was something Car’das’s mind wasn’t up to.

  It hadn’t always been that way. Once, Car’das had been head of an organization that had spanned the galaxy, a network of smugglers and information brokers who had serviced everyone from the Hutts to the highest levels of the Imperial court. Car’das himself had been to the edge of Chiss space with Thrawn, back before the Clone Wars had savaged the Republic. He’d worked with the young commander, watching as he defeated forces far larger than his own. Later, as Car’das’s organization grew, he’d had many occasions to speak directly with some of the most powerful men in Palpatine’s new Empire. In those days, standing before Darth Vader would have been little more than an unusually interesting day.

  But that had been before Car’das’s nearly fatal encounter long ago with that Dark Jedi. Before his subsequent illness and weakness and impending death. Before his abrupt decision to abandon his organization and leave it helpless before the infighting that was probably tearing it apart at this very moment.

  Before he’d given up—on everything.

  Still, even with his past burned behind him and his future lying bleak and formless in front of him, Car’das could feel an unexpected and unwelcome flicker of old curiosity stirring inside him.

  It really would be interesting to hear what Thrawn and Vader had to say to each other.

  Pellaeon had returned to his quarters, and had been asleep for nearly six hours when he was awakened by the insistent buzz of his intercom. Rolling over, he tapped the key. “Pellaeon.”

  “This is the captain.” Drusan’s voice was practically quivering with suppressed emotion. “Report to the bridge immediately.”

  The rest of the senior bridge officers were already assembled across from the aft bridge turbolift when Pellaeon arrived. He eased his way through toward the front, noting uneasily that the group also included all the off-duty engine room officers and the senior commanders of the Chimaera’s TIE fighter, trooper, and stormtrooper contingents. Whatever was going on, it was big.

  He found Drusan waiting stiffly beside one of the consoles. Beside the captain, standing silent and still, was Lord Odo.

  “Now that we’re all assembled,” Drusan said, his eyes flicking to Pellaeon, “I have an announcement. We’ve been selected for the honor”—he leaned on the word just a bit too hard—“of acting as Lord Odo’s personal transport on a special assignment.”

  His lip twitched. “As part of that assignment, Lord Odo will be in ultimate command of the Chimaera,” he continued. “I trust all of you will respect his position and give him your full measures of skill, effort, and obedience. Questions?”

  The first officer, Senior Commander Grondarle, cleared his throat. “May I ask the nature of this assignment?” he asked.

  “It’s important,” Odo told him evenly. “For now, that’s all you need to know.”

  There was a brief, awkward silence. “Have you orders for us, my lord?” Drusan asked at last.

  Odo’s hand came up from beneath his cloak, a data card in his gloved fingers. “Here’s our new course,” he said, offering the card to Drusan. “Our first stop will be the Wroona system.”

  “And what exactly is at Wroona?” Grondarle asked.

  “Commander,” Drusan said warningly.

  “That’s all right, Captain,” Odo said. “There’s some specialized equipment that I’ll need to fulfill our mission. The equipment is at Wroona. As it won’t come to us, we shall have to go to it.”

  Grondarle’s eyes narrowed. But he knew better than to rise to the bait. Better officers than him, Pellaeon knew, had been shunted to nowhere stations for reacting to the sarcasm of superiors. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Take this to navigation,” Drusan said, handing Grondarle the data card. “Get us moving as soon as the course is loaded.”

  “Yes, sir.” Taking the card, Grondarle strode through the pathway that opened up for him and headed through the archway into the main bridge.

  “The rest of you, as you were,” Drusan continued, looking around the group. “The watch change is coming up. Don’t miss it.”

  He looked at Odo. “Our new commander,” he added, “wouldn’t like it.”

  Pellaeon was back in his quarters by the time the Chimaera made the jump to lightspeed. There was, he judged, enough time for him to grab another two hours of sleep before his next shift.

  But sleep wouldn’t come.

  Lord Odo wasn’t human. That much was pretty well guaranteed by the extraordinary means he’d taken to disguise himself, with the mask and the confusing mix of biomarkers. Pellaeon himself didn’t have anything against aliens, and in fact had known and worked with quite a few whom he’d greatly respected.

  But the Emperor wasn’t like that. His opinion of aliens was well known, and while he was willing enough to make alliances with aliens when it served his purposes, there were virtually none in the senior positions of the court or the military. The only exception Pellaeon knew of was Senior Captain Thrawn, and even he was frequently sent away into the Unknown Regions to get him off Imperial Center for a while.

  So who was Odo? That was the question that kept chasing itself around Pellaeon’s brain. Who was Odo, and what was this mission that was important enough to take the Chimaera off patrol duty and put it under an alien’s command?

  Pellaeon didn’t know, and it was clear that Odo himself wasn’t going to tell them.

  But maybe there was another way. The Empire, after all, was the greatest repository of information the universe had ever known. Maybe Odo had left a trail somewhere that could be followed.

  Getting up, Pellaeon put on a robe and went to his desk. He turned on the computer and keyed the intercom for the duty security officer. “This is Commander Pellaeon,” he said when the officer answered. “Where are Lord Odo and his pilot?”

  “Lord Odo is on the bridge,” the officer replied. “Sorro is in their shared quarters.”

  “When was Sorro last out?”

  “One moment … it appears that when they returned from their planetary excursion, he went to the bay officers’ mess while Lord Odo went to the bridge.”

  “Lord Odo doesn’t eat on the bridge, does he?”

  “He hasn’t so far,” the officer said. “Sorro typically brings food back to their quarters for him.”

  “Any particular types of food?”

  “There’ve only been three meals, so I can’t make any generalizations,” the officer said. “But so far it’s been a different menu each time. Would you like a list?”

  “Yes, send it to me,” Pellaeon said. A person’s taste in food and drink could be useful clues in establishing his identity. “And set up a standing order to inform me whenever Sorro leaves his quarters. I presume Captain Drusan has already told you to keep track of them both?”

  “Yes, sir, he has.”

  “Good. Carry on.”

  Pellaeon keyed off the intercom, and for a moment he gazed off into space. Then, settling himself in his chair, he began punching computer keys. Somewhere on his way to gaining the Empire’s trust, someone had to have crossed official paths with Odo, Sorro, or the Salaban’s Hope.

  Wherever and whenever that was, Pellaeon was going to find it.

 
THE CRAWL SPACE UNDER THE MINING OPERATIONS COMPLEX HAD BEEN tricky to find. It had been even trickier to get into, and it had been trickier still to find the right junction box.

  But it had been worth it, Han Solo decided with satisfaction as he poked his probe around the tangle of wires. Even with the dirt and the heat.

  Even with the company.

  “Han?” Luke Skywalker murmured from behind him—for at least the fifth time. “How’s it going?”

  “It’d go faster if I didn’t have to keep stopping to answer your questions,” Han growled, easing a group of wires aside with his probe. The kid was good enough in a fight, but he had a bad habit of talking too much when he was nervous.

  “Right,” Luke said. “Sorry.”

  Han grunted, blowing a drop of sweat off the tip of his nose as he pushed his way past another knot of wires. Why Imperials couldn’t keep their wiring nice and neat and easy to track through was beyond him. Not a Hutt’s curse worth of pride in their work.

  Still, if the workers had had any pride, they probably wouldn’t have put a nice convenient junction box down here beneath the complex’s reactor heat exchanger where anyone with half a brain could get to it. In which case he and Luke would have had to do this the hard way.

  “I just wanted to remind you that I’m ready whenever you are,” Luke said.

  “Great,” Han said. “I’ll let you know.” There it was: the junction he was looking for. Keeping the other wires out of the way with his probe, he maneuvered his jumper clip into the gap. A little delicate maneuvering, a little gentle touch …

  And without even a spark, he had it sealed.

  “Also, Leia just called,” Luke continued. “She said we’re pushing the timing here—”

  “All done,” Han said, easing the probe back out of the box.

  “Great,” Luke said.

  And with a sudden snap-hiss, the blue-white blade of his lightsaber flared into the narrow crawl space.

  “Hey—watch it!” Han snapped, flinching back from the blade hovering way too close over his head and arm. “I said it’s done.”