by Timothy Zahn
From the comm came an amazed whistle. “You weren’t kidding, were you?” Gillespee commented.
“No, I wasn’t,” Karrde said. “Now get going, will you?”
Gillespee laughed out loud. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Karrde. I’m not alone, either.”
And suddenly, barely visible through the haze of laser fire hammering at the Wild Karrde’s viewports, the exhaust glows of nearly twenty ships suddenly veered off their individual courses. Sweeping in like hungry Barabel, they converged on the second Lancer.
“So, Karrde,” Gillespee continued conversationally. “At a guess, I’d say neither of us is going to get much business done at Chazwa this time around. What say we continue this conversation somewhere else? Say, in eight days?”
Karrde smiled. “I’ll look forward to it.”
He looked back at the Lancer, and his smile faded. Standard Lancer crew was 850; and from the capable way that one was holding off the rest of the ships, he would guess they were running with full complement. How many of them, he wondered, had been freshly created at Grand Admiral Thrawn’s clone factory? “By the way, Gillespee,” he added, “if you happen to run into any of our colleagues on the way, you might want to invite them along. I think they’d be interested in what I have to say.”
“You got it, Karrde,” Gillespee grunted. “See you in eight.”
Karrde switched off the comm. So that was it. Gillespee would broadcast the word to the other major smuggling groups; and knowing Gillespee, the open invitation would quickly transmute into something just short of a command appearance. They’d be at Trogan—all of them, or near enough.
Now all he had to figure out was what exactly he was going to say to them.
Grand Admiral Thrawn leaned back in his command chair. “All right, gentlemen,” he said, his gaze flicking in turn to each of the fourteen men standing in a loose semicircle around his console. “Are there any questions?”
The slightly rumpled-looking man at one end of the semicircle glanced at the others. “No questions, Admiral,” he said, his precise military voice in sharp contrast to his civilian-sloppy appearance. “What’s our timetable?”
“Your freighter is being prepped now,” Thrawn told him. “You’ll leave as soon as it’s ready. How soon do you expect to penetrate the Imperial Palace?”
“No sooner than six days from now, sir,” the rumpled man said. “I’d like to hit one or two other ports before taking the ship in to Coruscant—their security will be easier to breach if we have a legitimate data trail they can backtrack. Unless you want it done sooner, of course.”
Thrawn’s glowing eyes narrowed slightly, and Pellaeon could tell what he was thinking. Mara Jade, sitting there in the middle of Rebel headquarters. Perhaps at this very moment giving them the location of the Emperor’s storehouse on Wayland … “Timing is critical in this operation,” Thrawn told the commando leader. “But speed alone is useless if you’re compromised before even entering the Palace. You will be the man on the scene, Major Himron. I leave it to your judgment.”
The commando leader nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you, Admiral. We won’t fail you.”
Thrawn smiled fractionally. “I know you won’t, Major. Dismissed.”
Silently, the fourteen men turned and filed out of the command room. “You seemed surprised, Captain, at some of my instructions,” Thrawn commented as the door slid shut behind them.
“Yes, sir, I was,” Pellaeon admitted. “It all made sense, of course,” he added hastily. “I simply hadn’t thought the operation out to that end point.”
“All end points must be prepared for,” Thrawn said, keying his board. The lights muted, and on the walls of the command room a sampling of holographic paintings and planics appeared. “Mriss artwork,” he identified it for Pellaeon’s benefit. “One of the most curious examples of omission to be found anywhere in the civilized galaxy. Until they were contacted by the Tenth Alderaanian Expedition, not a single one of the dozens of Mriss cultures had ever developed any form of three-dimensional artwork.”
“Interesting,” Pellaeon said dutifully. “Some flaw in their perceptual makeup?”
“Many of the experts still think so,” Thrawn said. “It seems clear to me, though, that the oversight was actually a case of cultural blind spots combined with a very subtle but equally strong social harmonization. A combination of traits we’ll be able to exploit.”
Pellaeon looked at the artwork, his stomach tightening. “We’re attacking Mrisst?”
“It’s certainly ripe for the taking,” Thrawn pointed out. “And a base there would give us the capability to launch attacks into the very heart of the Rebellion.”
“Except that the Rebellion must know that,” Pellaeon said carefully. If C’baoth’s ongoing demands for an attack on Coruscant had finally gotten to the Grand Admiral … “They’d launch a massive counterattack, sir, if we so much as made a move toward Mrisst.”
“Exactly,” Thrawn said, smiling with grim satisfaction. “Which means that when we’re finally ready to draw the Coruscant sector fleet into ambush, Mrisst will be the perfect lure to use. If they come out to meet us, well defeat them then and there. And if they somehow sense the trap and refuse to engage, well have our forward base. Either way, the Empire will triumph.”
He reached to his board again, and the holographic artwork faded into a tactical star map. “But that battle is stil in the future,” he said. “For now, our prime goal is to build a force strong enough to ensure that ultimate victory. And to keep the Rebellion off balance while we do so.”
Pellaeon nodded. “The assault on Ord Mantell should go a long way toward accomplishing that.”
“It will certainly create a degree of fear in the surrounding systems,” Thrawn agreed. “As well as drawing away some of the Rebel pressure on our shipyard supply lines.”
“That would be helpful,” Pellaeon said with a scowl. “The last report from Bilbringi said the shipyards there were running critically low on Tibanna gas, as well as hfredium and kammris.”
“I’ve already ordered the Bespin garrison to step up their Tibanna gas production,” Thrawn said, tapping his control board. “As for the metals, Intelligence recently reported locating a convenient stockpile.”
The report came up, and Pellaeon leaned forward to read it. He got as far as the location listing—“This is Intelligence’s idea of a convenient stockpile?”
“I take it you disagree?” Thrawn asked mildly.
Pellaeon looked at the report again, feeling a grimace settling in on his face. The Empire had hit Lando Calrissian’s walking mining complex on the superhot plane Nkllon once before, back when they needed mole miners for Thrawn’s assault on the Sluis Van shipyards. That other raid had cost the Empire over a million man-hours, first in preparing the Star Destroyer Judicator for the intense head at Nkllon’s close-orbit distance from its sun, and then for repairing the damage afterward. “I suppose that depends, sir,” he said, “on how long we’ll be losing the use of whichever Star Destroyer is detailed to the raid.”
“A valid question,” Thrawn agreed. “Fortunately, there will be no need this time to tie up any Star Destroyers. Three of our new Dreadnaughts should be more than adequate to neutralize Nkllon’s security.”
“But a Dreadnaught won’t be able to—ah,” Pellaeon interrupted himself as he suddenly understood. “It won’t have to be big enough to survive in open sunlight. If they can take over one of the shieldships that fly freighters in and out of the inner system, a Dreadnaught would be small enough to stay behind its umbrella.”
“Exactly,” Thrawn nodded. “And capturing one should pose no problem. For all their impressive size, shieldships are little more than shielding, coolant systems, and a small container ship’s worth of power and crew. Six fully loaded assault shuttles should make quick work of it.”
Pellaeon nodded, still skimming the report. “What happens if Calrissian sells his stockpiles before the assault force gets there?”<
br />
“He won’t,” Thrawn assured him. “The market price for metals has just begun to rise again; and men like Calrissian always wait for it to go just a little higher.”
Unless Calrissian was suddenly overcome with a swell of patriotic fervor toward his friends back in the New Republic hierarchy and decided to sell his metals at a reduced price. “I’d still recommend, sir, that the attack be carried out as soon as possible.”
“Recommendation noted, Captain,” Thrawn said, smiling slightly. “And, as it happens, already acted upon, The raid was launched ten minutes ago.”
Pellaeon smiled tightly. Some day, he decided, he’d learn not to try to second-guess the Grand Admiral. “Yes, sir.”
Thrawn leaned back in his chair. “Return to the bridge, Captain, and prepare to make the jump to lightspeed. Ord Mantell is waiting.”
CHAPTER
7
The beeping from his board prodded Luke out of his light doze. Blinking away the sleep, he gave the displays a quick scan. “Artoo?” he called, stretching as best he could in the tight confines of the cockpit. “We’re just about there. Get ready.”
A nervous-sounding warble came in acknowledgment. “Come on, Artoo, relax,” Luke urged the droid, settling his fingertips around the X-wing’s hyperspace lever and letting the Force flow through him. Almost time … now. He pulled the lever back, and the starlines appeared and collapsed back into stars.
And there, directly ahead, was the Noghri home world of Honoghr.
Artoo gave a soft whistle. “I know,” Luke agreed, feeling a little sick himself. Leia had told him what to expect; but even with that warning the sight of the world lying in the X-wing’s path was a shock. Beneath the sparse white clouds floating over the surface, the entire planetary landmass was a flat, uniform brown. Kholm-grass, Leia had called it: the local Honoghran plants the Empire had genetically modified to perpetuate their systematic destruction of the planet’s ecology. That deceit, combined with first Vader’s and later Thrawn’s carefully limited aid, had bought the Empire four decades of Noghri service. Even now, squads of Noghri Death Commandos were scattered around the galaxy, fighting and dying for those whose coldblooded treachery and counterfeit compassion had turned them into slaves.
Artoo warbled something, and Luke broke his gaze away from the silent monument to Imperial ruthlessness. “I don’t know,” he admitted as the droid’s question scrolled across his computer display. “We'd have to get a team of environment and ecology specialists out here before we could tell. Doesn’t look very hopeful, though, does it?”
The droid chirped—an electronic shrug that turned suddenly into a startled shrill. Luke’s head jerked up, just as a small fast-attack patrol ship shot past overhead. “I think they’ve spotted us,” he commented as casually as possible. “Let’s hope it’s the Noghri and not an Imp—”
“Starfighter, identify yourself,” a deep, catlike voice mewed from the comm.
Luke keyed for transmission, reaching out with the Force toward the patrol ship that was now curving back into attack position. Even at this range he should have been able to sense a human pilot, which meant that it was indeed a Noghri out there. At least, he hoped so. “This is Luke Skywalker,” he said. “Son of the Lord Darth Vader, brother of Leia Organa Solo.”
For a long moment the comm was silent. “Why have you come?”
Normal prudence, Luke knew, would have suggested that he not bring up the matter of his power cells until he had a better idea of how matters stood politically with the Noghri leaders. But Leia had mentioned several times how impressed she’d been by the Noghri sense of honor and straightforward honesty. “My ship’s primary power cells have been damaged,” he told the other. “I thought you might be able to help me.”
There was a soft hiss from the comm. “You place us in great danger, son of Vader,” the Noghri said. “Imperial ships come to Honoghr at random times. If you are sighted, all will suffer.”
“I understand,” Luke said, a small weight lifting from him. If the Noghri were worried about him being spotted by Imperials, at least they hadn’t completely rejected Leia’s invitation to rebel against the Empire. “If you’d prefer, I’ll leave.”
He held his breath as, behind him, Artoo moaned softly. If the Noghri took him up on his offer, it was questionable as to whether they’d be able to get anywhere else on the power they had left.
Apparently, the Noghri pilot was thinking along the same lines. “The Lady Vader has already risked much on behalf of the Noghri,” he said. “We cannot permit you to endanger your life. Follow me, son of Vader. I will bring you to what safety the Noghri can offer.”
According to Leia, there was only a single small area on Honoghr that had been made capable of supporting any plant life other than the Empire’s bioengineered kholm-grass. Khabarakh and the maitrakh of the clan Kihm’bar had kept her, Chewbacca, and Threepio in one of the villages there, managing with skill and more than a little luck to hide her from prying Imperial eyes. Leia had included the location of the Clean Land along with the coordinates of the system itself … and as Luke followed the patrol ship down toward the surface of the planet, it quickly became apparent that they weren’t going there.
“Where are we headed?” he asked the Noghri pilot as they dipped beneath a layer of clouds.
“To the future of our world,” the alien said.
“Ah,” Luke murmured under his breath. A double line of jagged cliffs could be seen ahead, looking a little like stylized dorsal ridges from a pair of Tatooine krayt dragons, “Is your future in those mountains?” he suggested.
There was another soft hiss from the comm. “As the Lady Vader, and the Lord Vader before her,” the Noghri said. “You also read the souls of the Noghri.”
Luke shrugged. It hadn’t been much more than a lucky guess, actually. “Where do we go?”
“Others will show you,” the pilot said. “For here I must leave you. Farewell, son of Vader. My family will long cherish the honor of this day.” The patrol ship cut sharply upward, heading back toward space—
And in perfect synchronization, two combat-equipped cloudcars rose from seemingly nowhere to settle into flanking positions. “We greet you, son of Vader,” a new voice said from the comm. “We are honored to guide you. Follow.”
One of the cloudcars moved ahead to take the point, the other dropping back to rearguard position. Luke stayed with the formation, trying to see just where they might be headed. As far as he could tell, the cliffs were as barren as the rest of the planet.
Artoo chirped, and a message scrolled across Luke’s display. “A river?” Luke asked, peering out his canopy. “Where—oh, there it is. Emptying out from between the two cliff lines, right?”
The droid beeped an affirmative. It looked to be a pretty fast-moving river, too, Luke decided as they flew closer and he could see the numerous lines of white water indicating submerged rocks. Probably explained why the gorge between the two cliff lines was so sharp and deep.
They reached the end of the cliff lines a few minutes later. The lead cloudcar turned to portside, lifting smoothly over a set of foothills and disappearing around the side of one of the higher crags. Luke followed, smiling tightly as an old memory came to mind. You’re required to maneuver straight down this trench.… Guiding the X-wing around the foothills, he flew into the shadow of the cliffs themselves.
And into an entirely different world. Along the narrow banks of the river the ground was a solid mass of brilliant green.
Artoo whistled in startled amazement. “They’re plants,” Luke said, realizing only after the words were out of his mouth how ridiculous they sounded. Of course they were plants; but to find plants on Honoghr—
“It is the future of our world,” one of his escort said, and there was no mistaking the grim pride in his voice. “The future which the Lady Vader gave us. Continue to follow, son of Vader. The landing area is still ahead.”
The landing area turned out to be a large, flat-t
opped boulder jutting partway into the swift-moving river about two kilometers along the gorge. With a cautious eye on the racing water beneath him, Luke eased the X-wing down. Fortunately, it was larger than it had looked from fifty meters up. The cloudcars waited until he had touched down, then swung around and headed back down the gorge. Shutting the X-wings systems back to standby, Luke looked around.
The greenery, he saw now, was not as monochromatic as he’d first thought. There were at least four slightly different shades represented, intermingled in a pattern that was too consistent to be accidental. A pipe could be seen angling down into the river at one point, its other end disappearing up into the plant growth. Utilizing the pressure of the current, he decided, to bring water up over the bank for irrigation. A few meters downstream from the boulder, hidden from view by a rock overhang, he could see a small hutlike building. Two Noghri stood just outside its door: one with steely-gray skin, the other a much darker gray. Even as he watched, they started toward him.
“Looks like the reception committee,” Luke commented to Artoo, hitting the switch to pop his canopy. “You stay put here. And I mean stay put. You fall in the water like you did that first trip to Dagobah and you’ll be lucky if we can even find all the pieces.”
There was no need to give the order twice. Artoo warbled a nervous acknowledgment, then an equally nervous question. “Yes, I’m sure they’re friendly,” Luke assured him, pulling off his flight helmet and getting to his feet. “Don’t worry, I won’t be going far.” Vaulting over the X-wing’s side, he headed toward his hosts.
The two Noghri were already at the edge of the landing boulder, standing silently watching him. Luke grimaced to himself as he walked toward them, stretching out with the Force and wishing he were skilled enough to get some reading—any reading—on this species. “In the name of the New Republic, I bring you greetings,” he said when he was close enough to be heard over the roar of the river. “I’m Luke Skywalker. Son of the Lord Darth Vader, brother of Leia Organa Solo.” He held out his left hand, palm upward, as Leia had instructed him to do.
