More red lights flashed on the X-wing’s flight-board and laser-scored gray metal filled the viewport. Squadron leader Makintay’s R2 droid squealed and chattered alarms, telling him they’d just lost their port-side firepower. The laser tip assembly snapped off as the S-foil barely cleared the Imperial carrier’s under-belly.
“We can do it. Hang in there,” Mak urged, willing his small fighter free. Red-gold light filled the cockpit, the X-wing very nearly consumed by the carrier’s burning exhaust. Mak squeezed his eyes shut, then in the next breath, the glare was gone. The starfield welcomed him as he swooped up and out, accelerating toward the jump point.
“Green Leader,” his wingman called, “Are you okay?”
“Dammit, Dallin,” Mak snapped, “Obey orders. Go!” Both Green and Blue squadrons should no longer be visible. They’d been given a pre-set hyperspace vector to jump out of the battle zone. Mak noted their Corellian corvette companion had jumped to safety. They’d hoped to see her board the Imperial carrier. Mak cursed; no chance of that now. Somehow the carrier had by-passed the Rebels’ jamming signals to recall its TIE fighter escort.
Responding to their commander’s orders, Dallin and the six fighters following him in a tight V formation winked out into hyperspace.
Makintay gave one quick glance behind, a farewell to the young pilot he had tried to save. Spinning ever deeper into space, Gifford’s X-wing had been reduced to fragmented debris. “Damn you, Dru,” Mak cursed, his voice rough with restrained emotion, “I told you to leave it.” He had no time for further eulogy. The TIEs rounded the carrier, bearing down on him, seeking another kill.
Mak punched the hyperspace jump and the starlight blurred further with his filmed vision. Gifford too had known how badly their Rebel friends back at Eyrie Base needed those supplies. The ground crews were listless and tired as much because of meager rations as a crippling work schedule. The Hoth disaster hadn’t helped matters. Eyrie had come to the aid of the survivors, giving what little they could spare to aid the Alliance’s Central Command in establishing a new base.
It was a vicious circle that grew more so with each passing day — they desperately needed to capture an Imperial supply ship, or raid one of their bases, but ever more X-wings were grounded for want of replacement parts. Curse the luck. They’d had that stray carrier almost completely disabled, the ventral engine the only one still burning when those TIEs had returned.
So near yet so far, and worse. Gifford was dead, another X-wing lost to them. Mak had tried so hard to save the boy, risking his own life. He’d diverted two of Gifford’s pursuers, thrusting his fighter into the fray as the foolhardy, brave Rebel dared one last blast at the carrier’s engine. Mak had imagined his X-wing as a defending sword in his fist, flashing down to intercept the enemies’ blades.
In the high-tech worlds beyond Makintay’s native planet. Hargeeva, the sword was considered an archaic weapon. Mak snorted. No, even at home in Arginall City the sword would be considered hopelessly out-of-date these days. But 20 years ago. on his eighth birthday, Mak had been sent for the customary training with his fathers Palace Guard. Little more than an infant, he’d still been bowed and scraped to, called. “M’Lord” by grizzled, battle-hardened soldiers. Lord Stevan Makintay, elder son and heir. It seemed impossible those days could have belonged to the one lifetime.
Disinherited by an enraged father, all that stayed with Mak was his useless expertise with a sword. Still there was much in fencing moves that could be adapted to battle strategies even when an X-wing was your weapon. Maks pilots liked to joke about his frequent sword-references. They assumed he’d earned his famous scar in one of his native-world’s aristocratic duels. Mak smiled and touched a gloved hand to that thin white line running from the corner of his right eye to the earlobe. No way would he ever reveal it was a jealous lover had given him that cut. Ketrian Altronel was definitely not the forgiving kind.
It had to have been years since he’d last seen her. He often wondered if she ever asked after him. But no, he knew she’d have lost herself to her work. He’d never known anyone who could become so passionate about metal alloys. She was a brilliant metallurgist; he’d heard she’d recently been promoted to head of her department. Working for the Empire. And probably devoted to the Empire, too. Anyone who could back her revolutionary scientific theories with generously funded research grants would certainly win her favor.
Stars alone knew what she might have invented by now, she rarely knew what day it was when some idea had hold of her. It was as well she could find solace in her work. Mak mused, feeling the accustomed twinge of guilt. Maybe he should have tried harder to contact her, to explain. It had hurt him to think she believed he’d abandoned her.
A beeping from his flight computer brought Mak out of his reminiscing. His R2 unit informed him they were coming up on Karatha. As the star lines streaked back into place about him. Mak could find none of his usual relief to be safely home. Ahead of him, just about to disappear into Karatha’s blue-green atmosphere, Mak counted one fighter missing. For all his stern discipline, Mak loved his men, did his best to protect them. He’d been proud of his low casualty rate. Until today.
Mak’s hand trembled as he checked his sensors, grief evaporating in a white-hot inferno of pure rage. There were those responsible for Gifford’s death, complacent, safe in their command council seats, sending young men to battle with failing equipment and even worse intelligence reports. It looked to be a lovely bright day down there, a new day Gifford would not see.
Early morning sea-fogs had melted away from the towering limestone cliffs that held the Eyrie. That was the pilots’ name for the natural sink-hole that housed the base’s main hangar two levels above the living quarters that bordered the sandy beach below. A far cry from the icy nightmare Mak recalled before his transfer here from Hoth. But they’d had more food, more fuel, more personnel on Hoth.
Mak’s rage peaked as he remembered the pre-dawn call-up by fighter command. They’d had word from intelligence of a straying Imperial supply carrier. All the squadrons were excited about that, but Mak and his fellow leaders had been refused the extra fighters they believed they would need to ensure the carrier’s capture. They couldn’t afford the time needed to finish repairs on those downed X-wings — even if they had the necessary parts. Intelligence had assured them they would meet little opposition. Now Gifford was dead, and they were returning empty-handed.
Today would be the last time they would be sent out underprepared. Mak swore it would not happen again. Swinging his X-wing about so that it swooped home along the sea-cliffs like one of the native birds of prey, Mak determined to deliver that oath to Intelligence Commander Baran without delay. Slag the orders! Fighter command could wait to debrief him. Who knows? He might even have cooled down a little by then, but he doubted it. One glance at Gifford’s empty place would be enough to insure that.
He took savage pleasure in rehearsing a blistering speech, his R2 droid doing much of the work as the X-wing was guided down and into the hangar. Mak was climbing up and out of his seat as soon as the canopy slid back.
“Sorry, Mak,” he heard someone say softly behind him as his boots met the tarmac. “Dallin said you did all you could.”
“Yeah?” Mak snarled. He swung about, confronting Merinda, the tiny female tech who was leader of his ground crew. Even the genuine concern in her ovoid green eyes could not cool his temper. “Well, it wasn’t enough,” he shouted. “And this time,” he hefted an accusing forefinger, “those incompetent chair-polishers aren’t getting away with it.” He stormed off toward the turbolift that would take him down to Command Center.
“Wait, Mak!” Merinda jogged to keep up with him. “Think!” She grabbed at h
is arm, slowing him a little. She knew that even in a rage he was too much of a gentleman to push her aside. The turbolift was full and she took her chance as he was forced to wait. “What good will it do you to get demoted again? You remember what happened last time.”
Mak glared at her, ready to tell her he didn’t care. But that wasn’t true; not being squadron leader left less able men to protect his pilots. “Slag it. Merin,” he said, suddenly weary. “I’ve got to do something!” Frustrated, he ran a hand through his disarrayed hair.
“I know,” she said sympathetically, “and I agree. But you need a plan if you’re to have any real impact on that idiot. Barren-Brain.”
The familiar disparaging name for Commander Baran brought a faint smile to Mak’s lips. “A plan, huh?” he said. He waved his chief tech into the turbolift as it opened for them. “You’re up to something. Give!”
She did so, laying out her ideas for confronting command with a scheme to secure experts who could manufacture needed replacement parts on Karatha rather than having the squadrons go raiding for them.
“It sure beats anything Baran’s come up with lately,” Mak agreed as they stepped out of the lift again.
“Thanks a million,” Merinda said sourly. “A newt-worm could out-think Baran.”
“I didn’t mean … ” He saw her grin and realized she was teasing again, trying to trigger his “highfalutin’ manners.”
“It’s just that I know what Baran will say.”
“Me, too.” She imitated Baran’s prim and proper tone. “And just where are all these eager-to-defect experts you’ve been hiding from us, Chief? Under your bed? In your tool kit?”
“Expert!” Mak exclaimed, coming to a halt so suddenly that Merinda collided with him. “That’s it. I should have thought of it sooner.”
“What?” she demanded.
“Not what. Who,” he declared, smiling. “Ketrian Altronel.”
He looks nothing like his son, Ketrian thought sourly. She stood on the far side of Arginall Refinery’s small office, observing Imperial Governor Makintay’s expression as he tried to comprehend the computer diagnostics. Never did, but all those dinner parties aren’t helping.
“Pompous old fool,” Alikka Nolan whispered to Ketrian. “He hasn’t the faintest idea of what he’s looking at.” As personnel supervisor she was expected to be present for the evaluation of Altronel’s alloy sample.
“No,” Ketrian replied, leaning down to her shorter fair-haired friend, “but he sure does.” She indicated the middle-aged uniformed Imperial seated beside the governor.
Major Nial Pedrin was commander of the Arginall garrison attached to the refinery. Also a qualified geologist, he’d been given this posting when the Empire discovered Hargeeva’s mineral wealth. Variety and individuality were Pedrin’s pet hates. Naturally his only other interest was geology — stone never changed. Or at least it did not unless it was brought in to one of Ketrian’s laboratories.
Today’s sample was the result of her work on a mineral known as ostrine. After months of trying various combinations, Ketrian had uncovered the correct trace elements and come up with a revolutionary method of crystalline and plas-bonding that made the raw ostrine about as different as it could get. Pedrin’s eyes widened further with each line he read. He picked the alloy sample up from the desk, his fingers almost seeming to caress it.
Alikka shifted impatiently. Pedrin glanced up at her, his space-black eyes funereal beneath his thin brows, penetrating. Alikka held his gaze steadily. The two shared as much mutual animosity as did Ketrian and the governor.
“Well?” Governor Makintay prompted. “It seems suitable to me.” Pedrin’s burning eyes moved to him and the older man flushed. Makintay may be governor, but it was Pedrin who wielded the true power on Hargeeva. “Of course, you’re the expert.” Chastened, Makintay lowered his double chin onto his red satina-clothed chest. Pedrin disapproved of the Hargeevan aristocracy’s traditional dress.
Pedrin put the alloy back on the desk, and lifted his forefinger to press down his already smooth mustache. “A remarkable piece of work,” he said. His eyes gleamed with reflected computer light as he looked up at Ketrian. “Remarkable.”
Not since her university days had Ketrian heard such open praise. “Thank you. Major,” she said. She could feel herself blushing and knew her face must match her hair-color. “Finding the exact formula to increase the heat absorption ten-fold like that was … ”
“No doubt,” he interrupted, getting to his feet. His stormtrooper guard moved to open the door behind the women. “As of now these findings are classified top secret. You understand?” They nodded. “Top secret,” he repeated, his hard eyes settling on Alikka. “Not a word to anyone outside this complex. There are severe penalties for loose talk. I would not want to have to remind you of those penalties a second time. Supervisor.”
Alikka’s gray eyes flashed defiance. “And just who do you think would be interested? You’ve already imprisoned … ”
“You’ll want to relay those diagnostics to your superiors immediate. I suppose?” Ketrian changed the subject.
Pedrin nodded, his eyes still on Alikka.
“Then we’ll leave you to it. It’s all there, ready for downloading. Alikka and I have a dinner appointment in town.” She took her friend’s arm.
“The Lantern Inn again?” Pedrin asked.
Ketrian sighed irritably. “Yes. Must you have your men follow us wherever we go?”
“It is for your own protection,” he said, “never forget that.”
Ketrian’s small apartment adjoined the refinery complex, as did all the living quarters. She found that convenient, but Alikka complained it was like living in a prison. There was only one gate in the surrounding, high duracrete walls, always heavily guarded. Up on the walkways the troopers’ white armor was burnished by the setting sun.
Ketrian opened her front door and left Alikka in the living room. She had bought a new dress and was eager to change out of her coveralls. Moments later, straightening the vee neckline and adjusting her unpinned hair, she left the bathroom. “Well?” she asked. “Do you think your mystery spacer merchant will like it?”
Alikka replaced the coralline sculpture she had been admiring. She’d told Ketrian the merchant carried new stock, and arranged this meeting. “Oh, yes. Very much.” She smiled then turned back to the shelves lining the living room. “Are you sure you can find room for any more?”
Ketrian laughed as she picked up her coat. “There’s always room for more.”
“Maybe if you moved all those awful swords and knives from the other wall?”
Ketrian moved to it, considering. She reached out to touch one of the smaller swords, a fencing foil. The first time she’d seen Stevan Makintay he’d been giving a demonstration with that sword. He moved with all the sure grace of a feline.
Watching the softening of Ket’s expression, Alikka wondered if she were doing the right thing, deceiving Ket. But Ali had to do her best to aid the Rebellion.
“No,” Ketrian said, “too many memories.” She’d bet Mak never spared her a thought. His only true love was the stars. He’d certainly been eager to abandon her for them. “Come on,” she pulled on her coat, “we’ll be late.”
They stepped outside and into their waiting speeder, annoyed as always to see another speeder a short distance behind. Pedrin’s watchers.
When they arrived at the Lantern Inn, Ketrian was further annoyed to find Grathal, a familiar antiques dealer, waiting for them. He explained that the interstellar merchant didn’t like to display his wares in public — especially with Imperial officials nearby. Customs excise could ruin him. Grathal showed them a back exit through the storage cellar.
“I don’t know about this,” Ketrian said nervously as they stepped out into the damp night air.
“Oh, come on,” Alikka urged. “Where’s your spirit of adventure? He’s a smuggler. How romantic.”
“Well,” Ketrian decided as Grathal guid
ed them to his speeder, “it will be good to get away from Pedrin’s clowns for a while. They’re probably just coming in the front door now.”
Grathal drove them deeper into the more squalid sectors by the river and finally stopped in a gloomy alleyway by a dilapidated warehouse. Grathal opened the speeder door, letting in the foggy air.
“People disappear in these parts.” Ketrian said sourly, “then their bodies wash up in the harbor.”
“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic.” Alikka pushed her out. “Aren’t you the one who’s so good with knives?”
“Yes. But I don’t wear them with a dress.”
Grathal guided them to the warehouse’s side door and they stepped inside. The room was low-ceilinged, closed in by cracked rust-metal walls, and smelled of damp and fish. In the center stood a rickety table over which hung a single glow rod. About the table stood two men and a youth in various ill-matched drab clothing. On the table stood some datacards, a holo-projector, and datapads.
“Who are they?” Ketrian asked Grathal. “I thought this was an exclusive showing? Where are the samples?”
There was a creaking as a rear door opened. A tall man in a blue jacket entered — Ketrian surmised he was the merchant. He wore a blaster low on his right thigh. Ketrian checked and noted that the other people were similarly armed.
“Hello, Ketrian,” the merchant said, turning to her. There was a thin white scar high on his cheek. “It’s been a long time.”
“Mak!” Ketrian exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” She turned angrily to Alikka. “Did you know about this? What’s going on here?”
“I knew,” Alikka admitted somewhat guiltily. “He said he needs to talk to you, to explain … ”
“Explain!” Ketrian snapped. “Explain what? That he’s fooled you the way he fooled me. Is that the truth of it, Mak? Are you here to start another peasant revolt? Didn’t you have your fill of blood and death last time? I see you’ve found more martyrs for your cause.” She waved an arm at the group by the table. “Are they ready to die just so you can get even with your father?”
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