“Threepio, tell us the scores one more time,” Lando said.
“Calculating for the last rules change, sirs, the total is ninety-three points for Master Solo and eighty-seven for General Calrissian.”
Han and Lando glared at each other. “Last hand, buddy,” Han said.
“Enjoy your remaining few seconds of ownership, Han,” Lando said.
“Corellian Gambit rules, last-hand special case,” Threepio announced.
Han felt his head pounding, trying to remember what happened in the last hand of the Corellian Gambit. Then he saw Lando locking in the denomination of only one of his cards, making ready to place his hand into the flux field in the center of the sabacc table.
Han studied his high-ranking face cards, Balance and Moderation, either of which would nudge him over the total score of a hundred. He pushed the retainer button on Balance, for eleven points, then thrust the rest of his hand into the flux field.
Han and Lando leaned over, staring in suspense as the images on the cards swirled and changed, flickering from one value to another in a blur until they stabilized, one by one.
Lando stared at low-demonination numeric cards, nothing at all spectacular, while Han got the best deal he had seen throughout the entire game. All face cards, Demise, Endurance, The Star, and The Queen of Air and Darkness, along with the Balance card he had kept. His score handily passed the goal, leaving Lando in the dust.
He cheered at the same instant Threepio declared another “Change of rules!” Han glared at the golden droid, waiting.
“This hand will be scored under the Ecclessis Figg Variation,” Threepio said.
Han and Lando looked at each other, mouthing the words. “What is the Figg Variation?”
“In the final round the scores of all odd-numbered face cards are subtracted instead of added to the final score. This means, Master Solo, that while you gain ten points for Endurance and The Queen of Air and Darkness, you forfeit a total of forty-one for Balance, The Star, and Demise.”
Threepio paused. “I’m afraid you lose, sir. General Calrissian gains sixteen points for a total score of one hundred three, while you are left with a final score of sixty-two.”
Han blinked in shock at his half-empty glass of spiced ale as Lando pounded the tabletop in triumph. “Good game, Han. Now go on off to fetch Leia. Want me to come with you?”
Han kept staring at the table, at his ale, at anything but Lando. He felt hollow inside. Not only had he learned of Leia’s tragedy today, but he had also lost the ship he had owned for more than a decade.
“Take her, she’s yours,” Han mumbled. He finally looked up to meet Lando’s eyes.
“Come on, Han. You’re distraught. You never should have made the bet in the first place. Just—”
“No, the Falcon is yours, Lando. I’m not a cheat, and I made the deal going into the game.” Han stood, turning his back on Lando, leaving the rest of his ale untouched. “Threepio, authorize a change of registration for the Falcon. And you’d better get in touch with central transportation control. Arrange a diplomatic transport for Leia. I won’t be picking her up after all.”
Lando shifted uncomfortably. “Uh, I’ll take good care of her, Han. Not a scratch.”
Without another word Han went to the door of the lounge, unsealed it, and walked out into the echoing halls.
4
With black-gloved hands clasped behind her back, Admiral Daala stood at attention on the bridge of the Imperial Star Destroyer Gorgon.
In front of the bridge viewport, brilliant gases illuminated by a knot of blue-giant stars turned the Cauldron Nebula into a spectacular light show. Beside her in parking formation hung the Basilisk and the Manticore. The ionized gases played havoc with ships’ sensors, making the nebula a perfect hiding place for her three fully armed battleships.
Daala heard a tentative bootstep behind her and turned to face Commander Kratas. “Yes, Commander?” As she moved, her olive-gray uniform clung like a second skin, while her mane of coppery hair trailed behind her like the tail of a comet.
Kratas snapped off a perfect salute and remained standing one step below her observation platform. “Admiral,” he said, “as of oh-nine-hundred hours we have completed our assessment of the losses suffered during our battle at Kessel.”
Daala formed her lips into a tight, emotionless line. Kratas was a short man, recruited into the Imperial Navy from an occupation force on one of the conscripted planets. He had dark hair trimmed to regulation length, wide watery eyes set under beetling brows, and a jutting chin that hung below almost nonexistent lips. The best part of Kratas, though, Daala thought, was that he always followed orders. He had been trained well in the Imperial Military Academy on Carida.
“Give me the breakdown, Commander,” Daala said.
Kratas did not blink as he rattled off the numbers from memory. “Together, we lost a total of three TIE squadrons, and of course all hands and resources on board the Hydra.”
Daala felt a cold stab of anger at the mention of her wrecked battleship. Kratas must have seen something in her expression, because he flinched, though he did not move aside.
The Hydra, Daala’s fourth Star Destroyer, had been torn apart in one of the Maw cluster’s black holes. It had been Daala’s first significant loss in combat, one fourth of her destructive capability wiped out by Han Solo and the traitorous scientist Qwi Xux, who had stolen the Sun Crusher superweapon and fled the Empire’s closely guarded Maw Installation.
“However,” Kratas continued. His voice quavered the smallest bit, then he straightened. “Forty TIE fighters from the Hydra did manage to reach safety inside the other Star Destroyers, which makes up somewhat for the other losses.”
Daala’s Star Destroyers had emerged from the Maw cluster, expecting to engulf and obliterate Han Solo—but her ships had run headlong into Kessel’s ragtag fleet like frenzied battledogs. Though her Star Destroyers had defeated nearly two thirds of Kessel’s ships, the Basilisk had suffered severe damage and had to be linked with the Gorgon’s navicomputers for escape to a secret location in the Cauldron Nebula.
“What is the status of repairs to the Basilisk?” she said.
Kratas clicked his heels smartly as if pleased to give good news. “Three of the four damaged turbolaser cannons have been refurbished and are now operational. We expect to finish repairs on the fourth battery within the next two days. Armored spacetroopers have completed work on the breached external hull. Decks 7 through 9 are airtight again, and we are currently replenishing the atmosphere. The damaged flight-control circuitry has been rerouted, and the navicomp and targeting consoles are now fully operational.”
He drew in a deep breath. “In short, Admiral, I believe our entire fleet is ready for battle again.”
Daala leaned closer to the observation window, curling her long fingers around the simulated wood of the railing. She tried unsuccessfully to stop a smile from creeping across her lips. The metallic smell of the air comforted her. She had lived on the Gorgon for over a decade now. The air had been reprocessed and replenished until pungent organic odors had been scoured away, leaving only sterile smells, the tang of metal and lubricating oils, the reassuring scent of pressed Imperial Navy uniforms and polished stormtrooper armor.
“If I might ask a question, Admiral,” Kratas said, glancing around to see the other personnel at their stations, every head turned studiously away from the conversation, pretending not to listen. Daala raised her eyebrows, waiting for him to continue.
“With the information we gained from interrogating Han Solo, and with transmissions we’ve received, we know that the Emperor is no longer alive, that Darth Vader and Grand Moff Tarkin are also dead, and that the Empire has fragmented into civil war.” Kratas hesitated.
Daala spoke for him. “You are wondering, Commander, who our Commander in Chief is?”
Kratas nodded vigorously. “Grand Admiral Thrawn has been killed, as has Warlord Zsinj. We know of several commanders still fighti
ng over the remnants of the Empire, but they seem more interested in destroying each other than in battling the Rebellion. If I may make a suggestion? The Imperial Military Academy on Carida still appears to be stable and loyal, with a great many weapons at their disposal. Perhaps it would be best to—”
“I don’t think so,” Daala said sharply, turning from him to smother her scowl. She had been trained and trounced in the harsh military academy on Carida. Because she was female, Daala had been passed over for promotion after promotion; she had been given the worst assignments. She had been brutalized. And that had only increased her drive to succeed.
Finally she had created a false identity for herself through Carida’s vast computer networks and used that identity in combat simulation rooms. She had won repeatedly, creating breakthrough tactics that had been adopted by many of the Imperial Army’s ground assault forces. After Moff Tarkin had discovered Daala’s true identity and realized her talent, he had secretly whisked her away, using his new authority as Grand Moff of the Outer Rim territories. He had promoted her to the rank of admiral—as far as she knew, the only female admiral in the entire Imperial Fleet.
Yet because of the Emperor’s own prejudices against women and nonhuman races, Tarkin had kept the truth about his new admiral a secret. Daala and Tarkin had become lovers, and to keep her from coming to the Emperor’s attention, he had given her command of four Star Destroyers assigned to guard the supersecret think tank inside the black hole cluster.
But now that she had come out with her battleships, ready to devastate any planet loyal to the Rebellion, Daala could not conceive of handing over that authority to her former persecutors on Carida.
She took a deep breath again and faced Commander Kratas. He stood without moving, still waiting for her response. Around the bridge other crew members looked up from their stations; but when Daala glanced at them, they quickly found other things to do.
“Since the factions seem to have forgotten that our true enemy is the Rebellion, I think we will set an example for them. We must focus their attention on the appropriate enemy—the Rebels who killed Grand Moff Tarkin, who destroyed the Death Star, who murdered the Emperor. Since Grand Admiral Thrawn was the only person in the Imperial fleet with a rank higher than my own, I must assume that my rank is now at least as high as any of the pretenders.”
Kratas’s eyes widened, but Daala shook her head. Her long hair swirled like flickering flames. “No, Commander, I have no intention of putting in my bid for what is left of the Empire. That’s not a job I would relish. We’ll leave that to the petty dictators. I just want to cause damage. Lots of it.”
Her lips curled in a snarl, and her voice grew husky. “I think our best chance is to rely on hit-and-run tactics, guerrilla warfare. We have three Star Destroyers. That’s enough to wipe out the civilizations on any number of worlds. We must hit fast and run fast. We will continue to pound the Rebels for as long as we can.”
She glanced around the bridge to see that all personnel stood staring at her, some with wide eyes and gaping mouths, others grinning. Her crew had been bottled up for so long in the Maw, ready to fight but denied any chance at action because they were forced to guard the group of prima donna weapons scientists.
Daala glanced out at the Cauldron Nebula, saw the bright lights of other star systems piercing the haze of ionized gas. Many targets waited out there.
She turned to the navigator’s station. “Lieutenant, I want you to plot a course for the last-known shipping lanes closest to our position.”
“Yes, Admiral,” the lieutenant said, practically leaping toward his station.
“Inform all personnel on the three ships,” Daala said. A bold grin lit her face; she felt as if her blood had become molten copper. Her green eyes seemed to sparkle with laser bolts ready to be fired on unsuspecting prey.
The fight was about to begin.
“Let’s go hunting,” Daala said, and a spontaneous cheer erupted from the bridge crew.
Deep in space, the pack of Imperial Star Destroyers waited, sensors alert and scanning for the ripples of approaching ships. They hung at a hyperspace node on the far end of the Corellian Trade Spine, where all ships bound for Anoat or Bespin or other planets along the line would drop out of hyperspace to recalibrate their course and set off on a new vector.
Daala paced the Gorgon’s bridge, keeping her gaze moving, watching her personnel as they waited. Waited. Her scrutiny kept them on edge, nervous, intent on performing flawlessly. She was proud of her crew. She felt confident that they could wrench a proud victory from the Rebel scum.
One of the lieutenants straightened at his sensor console. “Admiral! Fluctuations indicate a ship arriving in hyperspace. Tracking … it’s coming through.”
Daala snapped commands. “Full alert. Instruct Basilisk and Manticore to power up their turbolaser batteries.”
Commander Kratas whirled from his station to delegate tasks. The intense alarm signal whooped through the decks of the Star Destroyer. Stormtroopers rushed to their posts, armor and boots clattering.
“Gunners,” Daala shouted through the intercom, “target to disable only! We must take the ship.”
“Here it comes!” said the lieutenant.
Daala spun to stare at the black emptiness of space, at the stars hanging motionless in complex patterns. A ripple appeared, like a scratch on black-painted glass, and a midsized ship broke through into normal space and hung at a preprogrammed halt for navigational recalibration.
Daala smiled, trying to imagine the expression on the captain’s face as he suddenly found himself blockaded by three Imperial-class Star Destroyers.
“A Corellian Corvette, Admiral,” Kratas said, as if Daala could not identify it herself. She glanced at the distinctive hammerhead shape of the bridge section and the bank of twelve enormous hyperdrive and sublight rocket motors glowing blue-white with exhaust. “They’re the most common galactic transports. Might just be merchants.”
“What does that matter?” Daala said. “Prepare to fire. Let’s test the Basilisk’s repaired turbolaser batteries.”
“Admiral, the captain of the Corvette is signaling us,” the comm officer called.
“Ignore it. Basilisk, open fire. Two surgical shots. Take out the rear hyperdrive units.”
Daala watched, feeling the electric thrill of command, Two blinding green arrows lanced out. The first bolt spattered and diffused against the Corvette’s increased shields, but the second blast punched through the weakened area and crippled the rocket engines. The Corvette rocked in space, then slowly spun like a dead rodent on a wire. Red-yellow glow diffused from a ruptured power core.
The three Star Destroyers loomed over the crippled ship.
“The Corvette’s captain is signaling surrender,” the comm officer said.
Daala felt a brief twinge of disappointment but brought it under control. She could not allow herself to make stupid mistakes. She had already been overeager in pursuing Han Solo and the stolen Sun Crusher—and that zealousness had caused her to lose the Hydra.
Commander Kratas stepped behind her, lowering his voice. “What if this ship is not part of the Rebel Alliance? Many smugglers also use Corellian Corvettes.”
“A point well-taken,” Daala said. Long ago Tarkin had impressed upon her that a good commander always listened to the opinions and suggestions of her trusted officers. “If the captain has connections with a smuggling network rather than the Rebellion, then perhaps we can put him to work for us. We could hire some spies, saboteurs.”
Kratas nodded at the suggestion.
“Engage a tractor beam,” Daala said. “Open the lower-bay doors, and we’ll draw the Corvette into our hangar.”
Daala toggled the narrow-beam comm system by her station, and an image of an Imperial Army general rose from the holo dais. His form flickered blue at the fringes from transmission distortion. Daala bent over the image, like a giant contemplating a toy. “General Odosk, prepare your boarding party. Ha
ve you briefed your troops?”
“Yes, Admiral,” came the filtered voice. “We know what to do.”
Daala whisked his image into thin sparkles of static. It would be fitting to let survivors from the Hydra be the boarding party of their first captured ship.
The crippled Corvette, still leaking thermal emissions from its breached power core, rose on invisible strings of the Gorgon’s tractor beam. The lower bay of the Star Destroyer slid open like the jaws of an enormous carnivore.
The comm officer spoke again. “Admiral, the captain of the Corvette continues to ask for instructions. She sounds rather distraught.”
Daala snapped around. “She? The Corvette has a female captain?”
“It’s a female voice, Admiral.”
Daala tapped her fingers together, pondering the new information. Women seemed to have a much easier time at gaining command in the Rebel Alliance—but the extra burden of brutal struggle had made Daala stronger.
“Keep her in suspense.”
“Capture complete, Admiral,” Commander Kratas said. “The Corvette offered no resistance. Boarding parties are ready.”
“Close the hangar-bay doors,” Daala said. “Send a slicer team to drain the prisoner’s computer core for information. We need maps, history tapes. We have too much to learn.”
“Didn’t you just order General Odosk and his special crew to board the ship?” Kratas said.
Daala frowned sharply at him. “They have other orders. You follow yours.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Kratas said in a small voice.
“Bring the captain of the Corvette to the interrogation chambers. We may need to encourage a bit of truthfulness.” Kratas nodded and walked briskly off the bridge.
The door of the grim interrogation room sighed open with a discouraging hiss. When Daala entered, she was disappointed to see the captured captain: a short, mouse-faced Sullustan with thick rubbery jowls hanging around a weak chin. His great glassy eyes, pitch-dark and glittering, reminded her of the black holes in the Maw cluster.
Star Wars: The Jedi Academy Trilogy II: Dark Apprentice Page 5
