by James Luceno
“Ah.” She nodded, sipping at her wine. “And I’m sure most of your people are so very grateful for that reminder.”
Karrde smiled. So much, he thought, for the unusual setting and scenario throwing her off balance. He should have known that particular gambit wouldn’t work on someone like Mara. “It does often make for an interesting evening,” he agreed. “Particularly”—he eyed her—“when discussing a promotion.”
A flicker of surprise, almost too fast to see, crossed her face. “A promotion?” she echoed carefully.
“Yes,” he said, scooping a serving of bruallki onto her plate and setting it in front of her. “Yours, to be precise.”
The wary look was back in her eyes. “I’ve only been with the group for six months, you know.”
“Five and a half, actually,” he corrected her. “But time has never been as important to the universe as ability and results … and your ability and results have been quite impressive.”
She shrugged, her red-gold hair shimmering with the movement. “I’ve been lucky,” she said.
“Luck is certainly part of it,” he agreed. “On the other hand, I’ve found that what most people call luck is often little more than raw talent combined with the ability to make the most of opportunities.”
He turned back to the bruallki, dished some onto his own plate. “Then there’s your talent for starship piloting, your ability to both give and accept orders”—he smiled slightly, gesturing to the table—“and your ability to adapt to unusual and unexpected situations. All highly useful talents for a smuggler.”
He paused, but she remained silent. Evidently, somewhere in her past she’d also learned when not to ask questions. Another useful talent. “The bottom line, Mara, is that you’re simply too valuable to waste as a backup or even as a line operator,” he concluded. “What I’d like to do is to start grooming you toward eventually becoming my second in command.”
There was no chance of mistaking her surprise this time. The green eyes went momentarily wide, and then narrowed. “What exactly would my new duties consist of?” she asked.
“Traveling with me, mostly,” he said, taking a sip of wine. “Watching me set up new business, meeting with some of our long-term customers so that they can get to know you—that sort of thing.”
She was still suspicious—he could tell that from her eyes. Suspicious that the offer was a smoke screen to mask some more personal request or demand on his part. “You don’t have to answer now,” he told her. “Think about it, or talk to some of the others who’ve been with the organization longer.” He looked her straight in the eye. “They’ll tell you that I don’t lie to my people.”3
Her lip twisted. “So I’ve heard,” she said, her voice going noncommittal again. “But bear in mind that if you give me that kind of authority, I am going to use it. There’s some revamping of the whole organizational structure—”
She broke off as the intercom on his desk warbled. “Yes?” Karrde called toward it.
“It’s Aves,” a voice said. “Thought you’d like to know we’ve got company: an Imperial Star Destroyer just made orbit.”
Karrde glanced at Mara as he got to his feet. “Any make on it yet?” he asked, dropping his napkin beside his plate and stepping around the desk to where he could see the screen.
“They’re not exactly broadcasting ID sigs these days.” Aves shook his head. “The lettering on the side is hard to read at this distance, but Torve’s best guess is that it’s the Chimaera.”4
“Interesting,” Karrde murmured. Grand Admiral Thrawn himself. “Have they made any transmissions?”
“None that we’ve picked up—wait a minute. Looks like … yes—they’re launching a shuttle. Make that two shuttles. Projected landing point …” Aves frowned at something offscreen for a moment. “Projected landing point somewhere here in the forest.”
Out of the corner of his eyes, Karrde saw Mara stiffen a bit. “Not in any of the cities around the edge?” he asked Aves.
“No, it’s definitely the forest. No more than fifty kilometers from here, either.”
Karrde rubbed his forefinger gently across his lower lip, considering the possibilities. “Still only two shuttles?”
“That’s all so far.” Aves was starting to look a little nervous. “Should I call an alert?”
“On the contrary. Let’s see if they need any help. Give me a hailing channel.”
Aves opened his mouth; closed it again. “Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath and tapping something offscreen. “You have hailing.”
“Thank you. Imperial Star Destroyer Chimaera, this is Talon Karrde. May I be of any assistance to you?”
“No response,” Aves muttered. “You think maybe they didn’t want to be noticed?”
“If you don’t want to be noticed, you don’t use a Star Destroyer,” Karrde pointed out. “No, they’re most likely busy running my name through ship’s records. Be interesting to see someday just what they have on me. If anything.” He cleared his throat. “Star Destroyer Chimaera, this is—”
Abruptly, Aves’s face was replaced by that of a middle-aged man wearing a captain’s insignia. “This is Captain Pellaeon of the Chimaera,” he said brusquely. “What is it you want?”
“Merely to be neighborly,” Karrde told him evenly. “We track two of your shuttles coming down, and wondered if you or Grand Admiral Thrawn might require any assistance.”
The skin around Pellaeon’s eyes tightened, just a bit. “Who?”
“Ah.” Karrde nodded, allowing a slight smile. “Of course. I haven’t heard of Grand Admiral Thrawn, either. Certainly not in connection with the Chimaera. Or with some intriguing information raids on several systems in the Paonnid/Obroa-skai region, either.”
The eyes tightened a little more. “You’re very well informed, Mr. Karrde,”5 Pellaeon said, his voice silky but with menace lurking beneath it. “One might wonder how a lowly smuggler would come by such information.”
Karrde shrugged. “My people hear stories and rumors; I take the pieces and put them together. Much the same way your own intelligence units operate, I imagine. Incidentally, if your shuttles are planning to put down in the forest, you need to warn the crews to be careful. There are several dangerous predator species living here, and the high metal content of the vegetation makes sensor readings unreliable at best.”
“Thank you for the advice,” Pellaeon said, his voice still frosty. “But they won’t be staying long.”
“Ah.” Karrde nodded, running the possibilities through his mind. There were, fortunately, not all that many of them. “Doing a little hunting, are they?”
Pellaeon favored him with a slightly indulgent smile. “Information on Imperial activities is very expensive. I’d have thought a man in your line of work would know that.”
“Indeed,” Karrde agreed, watching the other closely. “But occasionally one finds bargains. It’s the ysalamiri you’re after, isn’t it?”
The other’s smile froze. “There are no bargains to be had here, Karrde,” he said after a moment, his voice very soft. “And expensive can also mean costly.”
“True,” Karrde said. “Unless, of course, it’s traded for something equally valuable. I presume you’re already familiar with the ysalamiri’s rather unique characteristics—otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. Can I assume you’re also familiar with the somewhat esoteric art of safely getting them off their tree branches?”
Pellaeon studied him, suspicion all over his face. “I was under the impression that ysalamiri were no more than fifty centimeters long and not predatory.”
“I wasn’t referring to your safety, Captain,” Karrde told him. “I meant theirs. You can’t just pull them off their branches, not without killing them. An ysalamir in this stage is sessile—its claws have elongated to the point where they’ve essentially grown directly into the core of the branch it inhabits.”6
“And you, I suppose, know the proper way to do it?”
“Some of
my people do, yes,” Karrde told him. “If you’d like, I could send one of them to rendezvous with your shuttles. The technique involved isn’t especially difficult, but it really does have to be demonstrated.”
“Of course,” Pellaeon said, heavily sardonic. “And the fee for this esoteric demonstration …?”
“No fee, Captain. As I said earlier, we’re just being neighborly.”
Pellaeon cocked his head slightly to one side. “Your generosity will be remembered.” For a moment he held Karrde’s gaze; and there was no mistaking the twin-edged meaning to the words. If Karrde was planning some sort of betrayal, it too would be remembered. “I’ll signal my shuttles to expect your expert.”
“He’ll be there. Good-bye, Captain.”
Pellaeon reached for something off-camera, and once again Aves’s face replaced his on the screen. “You get all that?” Karrde asked the other.
Aves nodded. “Dankin and Chin are already warming up one of the Skiprays.”
“Good. Have them leave an open transmission; and I’ll want to see them as soon as they’re back.”
“Right.” The display clicked off.
Karrde stepped away from the desk, glanced once at Mara, and reseated himself at the table. “Sorry for the interruption,” he said conversationally, watching her out of the corner of his eye as he poured himself some more wine.
Slowly, the green eyes came back from infinity; and as she looked at him, the muscles of her face eased from their deathlike rigidness. “You’re really not going to charge them for this?” she asked, reaching a slightly unsteady hand for her own wine. “They’d certainly make you pay if you wanted something. That’s about all the Empire really cares about these days, money.”
He shrugged. “We get to have our people watching them from the moment they set down to the moment they lift off. That seems an adequate fee to me.”7
She studied him. “You don’t believe they’re here just to pick up ysalamiri, do you?”
“Not really.” Karrde took a bite of his bruallki. “At least, not unless there’s a use for the things that we don’t know about. Coming all the way out here to collect ysalamiri is a bit of an overkill to use against a single Jedi.”
Mara’s eyes again drifted away. “Maybe it’s not Skywalker they’re after,” she murmured. “Maybe they’ve found some more Jedi.”
“Seems unlikely,” Karrde said, watching her closely. The emotion in her voice when she’d said Luke Skywalker’s name … “The Emperor supposedly made a clean sweep of them in the early days of the New Order. Unless,” he added as another thought occurred to him, “they’ve perhaps found Darth Vader.”
“Vader died on the Death Star,” Mara said. “Along with the Emperor.”
“That’s the story, certainly—”
“He died there,” Mara cut him off, her voice suddenly sharp.
“Of course.” Karrde nodded. It had taken him five months of close observation, but he’d finally pinned down the handful of subjects guaranteed to trigger strong responses from the woman. The late Emperor was among them, as was the pre-Endor Empire.
And at the opposite end of the emotional spectrum was Luke Skywalker. “Still,” he continued thoughtfully, “if a Grand Admiral thinks he has a good reason to carry ysalamiri aboard his ships, we might do well to follow his lead.”
Abruptly, Mara’s eyes focused on him again. “What for?” she demanded.
“A simple precaution,” Karrde said. “Why so vehement?”
He watched as she fought a brief internal battle. “It seems like a waste of time,” she said. “Thrawn’s probably just jumping at shadows. Anyway, how are you going to keep ysalamiri alive on a ship without transplanting some trees along with them?”
“I’m sure Thrawn has some ideas as to the mechanics of it,” Karrde assured her. “Dankin and Chin will know how to poke around for details.”
Her eyes seemed strangely hooded. “Yes,” she muttered, her voice conceding defeat. “I’m sure they will.”
“And in the meantime,” Karrde said, pretending not to notice, “we still have business to discuss. As I recall, you were going to list some improvements you would make in the organization.”
“Yes.” Mara took another deep breath, closing her eyes … and when she opened them again she was back to her usual cool self. “Yes. Well—”
Slowly at first, but with ever-increasing confidence, she launched into a detailed and generally insightful compendium of his group’s shortcomings. Karrde listened closely as he ate, wondering again at the hidden talents of this woman. Someday, he promised himself silently, he was going to find a way to dig the details of her past out from under the cloak of secrecy she’d so carefully shrouded it with. To find out where she’d come from, and who and what she was.
And to learn exactly what it was Luke Skywalker had done to make her so desperately hate him.8
C H A P T E R 4
It took the Chimaera nearly five days at its Point Four1 cruising speed to cover the three hundred fifty light-years between Myrkr and Wayland. But that was all right, because it took the engineers nearly that long to come up with a portable frame that would both support and nourish the ysalamiri.
“I’m still not convinced this is really necessary,” Pellaeon grumbled, eyeing with distaste the thick curved pipe and the fur-scaled, salamander-like creature attached to it. The pipe and its attached frame were blasted heavy, and the creature itself didn’t smell all that good. “If this Guardian you’re expecting was put on Wayland by the Emperor in the first place, then I don’t see why we should have any problems with him.”
“Call it a precaution, Captain,” Thrawn said, settling into the shuttle’s copilot seat and fastening his own straps. “It’s conceivable we could have trouble convincing him of who we are. Or even that we still serve the Empire.” He sent a casual glance across the displays and nodded to the pilot. “Go.”
There was a muffled clank, and with a slight jolt the shuttle dropped from the Chimaera’s docking bay and started its descent toward the planet surface. “We might have had an easier time convincing him with a squad of stormtroopers along,” Pellaeon muttered, watching the repeater display beside his seat.
“We might also have irritated him,” Thrawn pointed out. “A Dark Jedi’s2 pride and sensibilities are not to be taken lightly, Captain. Besides—” he looked over his shoulder “—that’s what Rukh is for. Any close associate of the Emperor ought to be familiar with the glorious role the Noghri have played over the years.”
Pellaeon glanced at the silent nightmare figure seated across the aisle. “You seem certain, sir, that the Guardian will be a Dark Jedi.”
“Who else would the Emperor have chosen to protect his personal storehouse?” Thrawn countered. “A legion of stormtroopers, perhaps, equipped with AT-ATs and the kind of advanced weaponry and technology you could detect from orbit with your eyes closed?”
Pellaeon grimaced. That, at least, was something they wouldn’t have to worry about. The Chimaera’s scanners had picked up nothing beyond bow-and-arrow stage anywhere on Wayland’s surface. It wasn’t all that much comfort. “I’m just wondering whether the Emperor might have pulled him off Wayland to help against the Rebellion.”
Thrawn shrugged. “We’ll know soon enough.”
The gentle roar of atmospheric friction against the shuttle’s hull was growing louder now, and on Pellaeon’s repeater display details of the planet’s surface were becoming visible. Much of the area directly beneath them appeared to be forest, spotted here and there with large, grassy plains. Ahead, occasionally visible through the haze of clouds, a single mountain rose above the landscape. “Is that Mount Tantiss?”3 he asked the pilot.
“Yes, sir,” the other confirmed. “The city ought to be visible soon.”
“Right.” Reaching surreptitiously to his right thigh, Pellaeon adjusted his blaster in its holster. Thrawn could be as confident as he liked, both in the ysalamiri and in his own logic. For his part, Pella
eon still wished they had more firepower.
The city nestled against the southwestern base of Mount Tantiss was larger than it had looked from orbit, with many of its squat buildings extending deep under the cover of the surrounding trees. Thrawn had the pilot circle the area twice, and then put down in the center of what appeared to be the main city square, facing a large and impressively regal-looking building.
“Interesting,” Thrawn commented, looking out the viewports as he settled his ysalamir backpack onto his shoulders. “There are at least three styles of architecture out there—human plus two different alien species. It’s not often you see such diversity in the same planetary region, let alone side by side in the same city. In fact, that palace thing in front of us has itself incorporated elements from all three styles.”
“Yes,” Pellaeon agreed absently, peering out the viewports himself. At the moment, the buildings were of far less interest to him than the people the life-form sensors said were hiding behind and inside them. “Any idea whether those alien species are hostile toward strangers?”
“Probably,” Thrawn said, stepping to the shuttle’s exit ramp, where Rukh was already waiting. “Most alien species are. Shall we go?”
The ramp lowered with a hiss of released gases. Gritting his teeth, Pellaeon joined the other two. With Rukh in the lead, they headed down.
No one shot at them as they reached the ground and took a few steps away from the shuttle. Nor did anyone scream, call out, or make any appearance at all. “Shy, aren’t they?” Pellaeon murmured, keeping his hand on his blaster as he looked around.
“Understandably,” Thrawn said, pulling a megaphone disk from his belt. “Let’s see if we can persuade them to be hospitable.”
Cupping the disk in his hand, he raised it to his lips. “I seek the Guardian of the mountain,” his voice boomed across the square, the last syllable echoing from the surrounding buildings. “Who will take me to him?”
The last echo died away into silence. Thrawn lowered the disk and waited; but the seconds ticked by without any response. “Maybe they don’t understand Basic,” Pellaeon suggested doubtfully.
