by Timothy Zahn
“It’s the accelerator pedal linkage,” Brightwater said. “This’ll be my third fix on the thing.”
“And the other speeder bike isn’t in any better shape, is it?” Marcross asked.
Brightwater shrugged. “A little. Not much. I might also mention that the stash of credits the ISB was kind enough to leave aboard this ship is likewise starting to run thin.”
“Ditto for the stash of ship IDs,” Quiller put in reluctantly. “We’re burning through those like Hutt promises.”
“Even if we weren’t, all the fancy IDs in the galaxy aren’t going to help us if enough people figure out the connection between us and this ship,” Marcross added. “There aren’t that many Suwanteks still flying around this part of the galaxy.”
“I know,” LaRone said, an ache in his heart that had nothing to do with the burns throbbing on his arms and chest. Ever since they’d left their posts aboard the Imperial Star Destroyer Reprisal—he still couldn’t bring himself to use the word deserted, not even in his own mind—he and the others had been fighting their own private crusade against evil and corruption in this corner of the Empire.
The fact that they’d survived as long as they had was due partly to their own combat skills, but also in no small part to their good luck in having grabbed an Imperial Security Bureau covert ship on their way off the Reprisal. Thanks to the ISB’s extensive weapons upgrades to the Suwantek and its hidden caches of equipment and money, they’d been able to take on injustice wherever they’d found it. Mercenaries, swoop gangs, pirate bases—none of them had been able to stop the Hand of Judgment.
But the others were right. The end was rapidly approaching. Once the supplies and money ran dry, they would be finished. They would have no choice but to do as that Imperial agent Jade had ordered them three months earlier back on Shelkonwa: stay out of sight, and out of trouble.
And their private war for justice would be over.
“None of which is to say we’re ready to hit the escape pods quite yet,” Quiller said into his thoughts. “We’ve still got at least five IDs we haven’t used, and we can probably recycle some of the older ones that we haven’t used for a while.”
“That won’t help with the armor,” Marcross pointed out. “We’ve got, what, a couple of fresh sets each, and that’s it?”
“Plus we still have the damaged ones,” Brightwater said. “I don’t know about yours, but I can probably cobble another set of scout armor out of the various bits and pieces.”
“We can probably do the same,” LaRone said. “But that’s not really the point. The point is that, no matter how carefully we stretch our resources, we can definitely see the end ahead of us.”
For a long moment, no one spoke. “It’s been a good run,” Grave offered at last. “I’ve got no regrets.”
“Me, neither,” Brightwater seconded. “We’ve helped a lot of hurting people over these past few months.”
“A lot more, I daresay, than we did when we were official stormtroopers,” Marcross murmured.
“Agreed,” Quiller said. “So what’s the plan, LaRone? We skip that stolen-election thing on Elegasso and start looking for someplace to go to ground?”
“I hate to pass up something that blatant,” Grave murmured. “It’s small enough, and they’re mostly just armed politicians. We should be able to show up in armor and frighten them into backing off and calling a new election.”
“Which they might steal again,” Brightwater pointed out.
“I doubt it,” Grave said. “There’s something very persuasive about having a BlasTech E-11 stuck in your face while an Imperial stormtrooper warns you that he’ll be watching your political ethics from now on.”
“Which we won’t be,” Marcross pointed out. “But of course they won’t know that.”
“Grave’s right,” LaRone decided. “I think we can handle that one before we retire.”
“What about that pottery thing I told you about?” Brightwater asked.
LaRone scratched his cheek. The pottery thing was a report one of the farmers back there had heard about from his cousin on another world. A small group of dirt-poor artisans had found a patch of exotic, one-of-a-kind clay and had finally started making a successful living by creating striking and marketable sculptures from it.
Or they had been until the local government had gotten wind of the operation and decided to take it over for their own profit. Since the bureaucrats didn’t have a gram of artistic skill themselves, their solution had been to turn the genuine sculptors into slave labor.
LaRone knew nothing about art, and even less about sculpture. But he knew a lot about greed and oppression, and didn’t much like either. Neither did his four comrades. “I don’t see why we can’t do both,” he told Brightwater. “Pickerin’s only a few hours from Elegasso, and it’s more or less on the way.”
“There’s also a decent Imperial database on Pickerin,” Quiller said, peering at his data display. “Maybe we can sneak in there after we break the sculptors loose and get some ideas of where we can … you know.”
“Bury ourselves away from the universe?” Brightwater suggested.
“Something like that,” LaRone conceded. “Quiller, go ahead and set course for Pickerin. If we’re going out, we might as well go out with a bang.”
The landing field they were directed to on Pickerin was about as small and isolated a place as LaRone had ever seen. Still, it was only a few kilometers from the town where the enslaved artisans were producing their statues under the guns of their oppressors. Quiller landed the Suwantek, keyed the systems into lockdown standby, and lowered the landing ramp for the customs officials and the usual brief questionnaire and collection of landing fees.
LaRone was waiting at the top of the ramp, their latest set of forged ship’s documents in hand, when the ramp area erupted with a blast of cold, bitter-smelling gas.
“Cover!” LaRone snapped with his last breath, grabbing for his blaster as he dived for the ramp control.
He was unconscious before he reached it.
LORD ODO’S PREVIOUS TIME AWAY FROM THE CHIMAERA, DURING HIS mysterious meeting at the unknown world, had lasted over five hours. His visit to Wroona lasted precisely one.
“Signal from Lord Odo, Commander,” the comm officer announced. “The Salaban’s Hope has reached docking position and is being tractored aboard. Lord Odo requests that we set a course for the Poln system in Candoras sector, and that we leave as soon as the freighter is secured aboard.”
Pellaeon nodded. “Navigation?”
“Running the calculation now, sir,” the nav officer confirmed. “It’ll take a few minutes.”
“Acknowledged,” Pellaeon said. Turning, he walked back along the command walkway to the aft bridge and keyed the Poln system into the computer console there.
He was skimming through the summary when the turbolift door hissed open and Captain Drusan appeared. “Report?”
“Lord Odo is on his way back from Wroona, sir,” Pellaeon told him. “We’re to leave for the Candoras sector and the Poln system once he’s aboard.”
“Candoras?” Leaning over Pellaeon’s shoulder, Drusan peered at the display. “What is there that anyone could find interesting?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Pellaeon gestured toward the screen. “I was hoping I might find a clue here. So far, though, nothing’s jumping out at me.”
Drusan grunted. “What about that computer search you’ve been doing?” he asked, lowering his voice. “Any luck?”
“Not yet, sir,” Pellaeon said, wincing a little. He’d thought his search had been more discreet than that. “But I’ve only made it through the top three data tiers. There are at least four more to go, plus the obscure singlesystem ones that are already half legend.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Drusan insisted. “Someone with lord attached to his name should be right there on the top tier. Yet you say he’s not. So where exactly does his title come from?”
“Possibly
one of the smaller systems,” Pellaeon said. “Some of those are very big on titles and general pageantry.”
“Maybe.” Drusan lowered his voice still further. “What do you think of him, Commander? Do you think he can be trusted?”
“I hardly think my opinion matters, sir,” Pellaeon said carefully. “Someone in authority clearly trusts him.”
“Maybe,” Drusan said again. “Well, I suppose we’ll just have to see how matters unfold. Are the watch reports finished?”
“Yes, sir, I believe so.”
“Good.” Drusan turned and stalked through the archway into the main bridge.
Pellaeon was still trying to find something interesting in the Poln system when the turbolift door once again opened and the masked, robed figure of Lord Odo swept onto the bridge. “Commander Pellaeon,” he said, greeting Pellaeon briefly as he turned to look down the command walkway at the stars still filling the viewport. “I gave orders to leave as soon as the Salaban’s Hope was aboard.”
“The delay was my decision, my lord,” Drusan said, reappearing through the archway. “I wanted to make sure your errand had been successful before we left the region.”
“It was,” Odo assured him coolly.
“The equipment you required has been brought aboard?” Drusan persisted.
“It has,” Odo said. “You will speak to the helm now.”
Drusan seemed to draw himself up. “Helm?” he called. “Engage new course setting. Activate hyperdrive.”
“Acknowledged,” the faint call came back. Across the bridge, the stars exploded into starlines, and the Chimaera was on its way.
“Thank you.” Deliberately, Odo walked over to the captain, stopping bare centimeters away from him. “The next time I give an order, Captain,” he said, his voice low but curiously carrying, “I expect it to be carried out.”
Drusan’s lip twitched, but to his credit he stayed where he was instead of backing up. “Understood, my lord,” he said.
For a long moment, Odo held his pose. Then he turned his mask to Pellaeon. “I believe your watch is over, Commander Pellaeon,” he said. “You may go about your other activities.”
Pellaeon looked at Drusan. Technically, only the captain had the authority to dismiss the senior bridge officer from his watch.
But Drusan had apparently had enough confrontation for one day. His head bobbed once and then jerked microscopically toward the turbolift. “Yes, my lord,” Pellaeon said. Stepping a bit gingerly past the robed figure, he headed to the turbolift and escaped.
He was nearly to his quarters when his comlink signaled. “Commander, this is Lieutenant Tibbale, duty security officer,” the caller identified himself. “As per your standing order, I wished to inform you that Lord Odo’s pilot has left his quarters and is currently in the bay officers’ mess.”
“Thank you,” Pellaeon said, and keyed off. Returning the comlink to its holder, he reset the turbolift’s destination.
Odo had told him to go about his other activities. He’d never said those activities couldn’t include a meal.
The Chimaera’s various mess rooms always did a brisk business in the first hour after a watch change, but Sorro’s civilian outfit made him stand out of the crowd. He was sitting alone at a two-person table against the rear bulkhead. Working his way through the crowd, Pellaeon reached his side. “Good day, Master Sorro,” he said. “May I join you?”
Sorro looked up from his tray, and it seemed to Pellaeon that the lines around his eyes hardened a bit. “Commander Pellaeon, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice neutral.
“Yes,” Pellaeon confirmed. “May I join you?”
Sorro’s eyes flicked to Pellaeon’s empty hands, then back up to his face. “If you’re looking for information about our mission, you’ll have to ask Lord Odo. I’m just the pilot.”
“And I’m just the third bridge officer,” Pellaeon reminded him. “Mission coordination is Captain Drusan’s job, not mine. I simply wanted to talk to you for a few moments.”
Sorro shook his head. “Sorry. I’m not really in the mood for company.”
He returned his attention to his food. Pellaeon stayed where he was, and after a few more bites Sorro looked up again. “Didn’t you hear me?” he growled. “Go away.”
“My ship, Master Sorro, not yours,” Pellaeon reminded him. “What are you afraid of?”
“I didn’t say I was afraid,” Sorro countered. “I said I wasn’t interested in company.”
“Then you picked the wrong job,” Pellaeon said. “Bringing an Imperial lord aboard an Imperial Star Destroyer guarantees you lots of company.”
For another handful of seconds Sorro glared up at him. Pellaeon returned the gaze, not moving or speaking.
With a sigh, Sorro lowered his eyes. “It’s said that patience is a virtue, Commander,” he said, waving at the chair across from him. “So is persistence. What did you want to talk about?”
“Nothing mysterious or ominous, I assure you,” Pellaeon said as he sat down. “I mostly wanted to inquire as to whether you and Lord Odo were being treated properly. Your quarters, for instance—are they satisfactory?”
“Lord Odo hasn’t complained,” Sorro said. “They’re certainly no better or worse than one would expect to find aboard a warship.”
“Hardly what you and his lordship are used to, though, I assume?” Pellaeon suggested.
Sorro looked down at his tray. “I’ve seen worse,” he said. “I can’t speak for his lordship.”
“Ah,” Pellaeon said. “My mistake. I was under the impression that you were Lord Odo’s permanent pilot.”
Sorro shook his head. “Nothing about my life is permanent anymore,” he said in a low voice. “Nothing permanent. Nothing stable.” He opened his right hand and gazed into the palm as if there was some clue or memory there that only he could see. “Nothing pleasant.”
“I’m sorry,” Pellaeon said. “So then Lord Odo merely brought you in for this particular job?”
Sorro’s lip twisted. “You could say that.” He gazed into his hand for another second, then closed it into a tired-looking fist. “Have you ever lost everything, Commander Pellaeon? No—stupid question. Of course you’ve never lost everything.”
“Not everything, no,” Pellaeon said. “But I’ve had my share of losses.”
“What, promotions?” Sorro scoffed. “The last dessert cube in the mess line?”
“Battles,” Pellaeon said evenly. “Subordinates. Comrades. Friends.”
Sorro’s throat tightened. “Yes, I suppose you have,” he said, gesturing to Pellaeon’s uniform. “But at least you have your priorities straight.” He opened his hand and again gazed into it. “Not everyone does.”
“No, they don’t,” Pellaeon agreed. “But it’s never too late for a man to recognize his shortcomings and change them.”
Sorro shook his head. “I wish that was true. But it isn’t. Not always.”
“Yes, it is,” Pellaeon said firmly. “Where there’s life, there’s the hope of change.”
Sorro snorted. “Please. Neat, clichéd phrases never solved anything.”
“Not if they remain nothing but neat clichéd phrases,” Pellaeon said. “They have to spark regret, resolve, and action.”
Abruptly the mess room chatter around them vanished into a taut silence. Frowning, Pellaeon looked up.
Lord Odo was standing just inside the doorway, his masked face pointed at Pellaeon and Sorro.
“My lord,” Sorro said hastily, starting to get to his feet.
Odo made a small gesture, and Sorro broke off the movement, sinking down again into his seat. “May I help you, Lord Odo?” Pellaeon asked, standing up.
“My quarters are being changed, Commander Pellaeon,” Odo said. If he was annoyed to find one of the Chimaera’s officers having a private conversation with his pilot, it wasn’t audible in his voice. “I wished Sorro’s assistance.”
“Of course, my lord,” Sorro said, again starting to get up.
“But since he’s in the middle of a meal,” Odo continued smoothly, “perhaps you would assist me, Commander.”
Pellaeon hesitated. Moving trunks and equipment was hardly something a senior officer should be doing. Odo surely knew that.
On the other hand, this might be Pellaeon’s best chance of getting a look at the things Odo had brought aboard the Chimaera. Not to mention the chance to speak privately with Odo himself. “I would be honored, my lord,” he said, stepping away from the table.
“Excellent,” Odo said. His mask turned slightly. “When you’re finished, Sorro, make your way to the bridge. They’ll direct you to our new quarters.”
Pellaeon waited until he and Odo were walking along the corridor before speaking again. “May I ask what the problem is with your quarters?”
“There’s no problem,” Odo assured him. “Now that we’re en route to our final destination and will have no need for quick access to the Salaban’s Hope, I wished to be closer to the bridge. Captain Drusan has therefore assigned us new quarters there.”
Pellaeon felt his stomach tighten. The only quarters available near the bridge were for visiting dignitaries: sector governors, Grand Moffs, or special Imperial agents like Darth Vader. “I’m sure you’ll find them more convenient,” he murmured.
“Indeed,” Odo said. “What do you think of him?”
Pellaeon frowned. “Who?”
“My pilot, of course,” Odo said. “You were interrogating him, weren’t you?”
“Not at all,” Pellaeon said hastily. “Ironically enough, I’d been asking him if your quarters were satisfactory.”
“Indeed,” Odo said. “You may also have noticed Sorro’s deep unhappiness.”
“It was a bit hard to miss,” Pellaeon conceded. “What exactly happened to him?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“Just vague hints,” Pellaeon said. “He asked if I’d ever lost everything. What exactly did he lose?”
