Star Wars: Choices of One

by Timothy Zahn

  “It’s the higher altitude that snipers have to work at,” Quiller said, slapping a fresh power pack into his blaster as he came up beside Grave.

  “Maybe that’s it,” Grave said. “Because there’s something here I’m still not getting. Maybe you can explain it to me.”

  Axlon sighed. “I’ll do my best. What’s the problem?”

  “It was something that happened just before the riot started,” Grave said. “Someone in the crowd shouted that Governor Ferrouz was dead, then grabbed Skywalker and his lightsaber and announced that Skywalker was the one who’d done it.” He cocked his head. “What I don’t understand is why anyone would think the governor had been killed with a lightsaber.”

  The cellar was suddenly very quiet. “Obviously, he heard somehow that Jade was in town,” Axlon said. “Probably from Major Pakrie, whom we know is working with them.”

  “Only Pakrie was stunned and out of commission at the time,” Marcross pointed out thoughtfully. “LaRone and I watched Jade do it.”

  “I didn’t say he heard about Jade today,” Axlon said. “You’ve been in town at least a couple of days, right?”

  “True,” Grave said. “Let me rephrase the question, then. How did he know to claim right then that the governor had been—”

  Without a word, Axlon pulled a small blaster from his tunic and shot him.

  It was so unexpected that for a heartbeat LaRone found himself frozen. A long, fatal heartbeat. Axlon shifted aim, blazed a shot into Quiller’s leg that sent him tumbling to the floor beside Grave, then swiveled ninety degrees and fired a third shot over the barrier, this one hitting and shattering the power pack on Marcross’s E-11 and sending shards of plastic and metal scattering.

  And as LaRone belatedly grabbed for his blaster, he found Axlon’s weapon pointed directly at his face. “Easy, stormtrooper,” the Rebel said softly. “You don’t have to die. None of you has to. Put down the blaster, and you can all live.”

  LaRone didn’t move, his hand on the grip of his E-11, his mind dropping belatedly into tactical mode. Axlon’s blaster was already centered, while LaRone’s was still a good half second from pick up, aim, and fire. Trying to beat out the Rebel would almost certainly mean his death, but he might get off a dying shot that would save the others.

  Axlon might have been reading his mind. “Don’t try it,” he warned. “I don’t want to kill you—I don’t want to kill any of you—but I will if I have to.”

  LaRone took a deep breath. “Grave?” he called, keeping his eyes on Axlon.

  “He took one in the right abdomen,” Brightwater reported grimly, and out of the corner of his eye LaRone saw the other kneeling over the wounded man. “Low down, possible kidney graze. Doesn’t look immediately life threatening, but he’s going to need a bacta tank.”

  “The sooner this is over, the sooner you can get him to one,” Axlon said.

  “Quiller?” LaRone asked.

  “Right thigh,” Quiller said, the words coming from between clenched teeth. “I’ll be okay. Pulls his shots to the left, I see.”

  “That assumes he was going for my blaster and not my head,” Marcross said. He still had his now useless E-11 pointed at Axlon, a couple of trickles of blood running down his cheek from the burst power pack.

  “Of course I was going for your gun,” Axlon said, starting to sound a little angry. “I could have killed all three of them, LaRone. But I didn’t. Consider it a gesture of good faith.”

  “So I’m the only one you want to kill?” Ferrouz asked weakly from behind him.

  LaRone tensed in sudden anticipation. If Axlon turned even partway around toward the governor …

  But the Rebel wasn’t foolish enough to make such an obvious mistake. “Awake again, are we, Your Excellency?” he asked, his eyes and blaster still rock-steady on LaRone’s face. “How’s your head?”

  “You mean where you shot me?”

  Axlon shrugged fractionally. “My apologies. Of course, you were already unconscious, since I had to slam your head against the side of the desk in order to get your blaster away from you. No, please, don’t try anything. I helped stack that armor, remember? You can’t move more than three centimeters without bringing one of the pieces clattering down.”

  “What do you want, Axlon?” Brightwater asked.

  “I want you to lower your weapons and relax,” the Rebel said. “Just until Skywalker arrives. Once he’s here and we’ve completed a little business, you’ll all be free to go, and to take your wounded with you.”

  “That business being the murder of Governor Ferrouz?” LaRone bit out.

  Axlon’s lips compressed briefly. “For whatever it’s worth, it wasn’t supposed to go this way,” he said. “I was told that the Emperor would almost certainly send the young lady known as the Emperor’s Hand to investigate Ferrouz’s treason. She was supposed to kill him. Skywalker was simply supposed to take the blame.”

  “I’m sure he’d have been thrilled,” Marcross said.

  “He killed nearly a million men aboard the Death Star,” Axlon said tartly. “I seriously doubt one more death will be a burden to his reputation.”

  “You might be surprised,” LaRone said. “There’s a huge difference between combat death and murder.”

  “This from the people who destroyed Alderaan?” Axlon snarled. “You think those were combat deaths, stormtrooper?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, LaRone saw Brightwater start to ease back to his feet from beside the two wounded men. “And you can hold it right there, Brightwater,” Axlon ordered, the brief flash of anger back under control. “I can still kill all of you if I have to, you know.”

  “No, actually, you can’t,” LaRone said. “You need us alive and looking more or less normal when Skywalker arrives.”

  Axlon’s eyebrow twitched. “Very good,” he said. “You’re smarter than I would ever have given a stormtrooper credit for. Yes, that’s what I want. But we don’t always get what we want, do we? If I have to, I can explain to that naïve fool why all of you are dead. Certainly long enough to get hold of his lightsaber.” He shrugged. “No matter how it goes down, it’ll certainly be safer than waiting for Jade to come back and trying to get hold of hers.”

  “Why do you care about Skywalker’s lightsaber?” Ferrouz asked, his voice still weak. “You have a blaster. Why not just shoot me?”

  “Because everyone has blasters,” Axlon retorted. “Aren’t you listening? I need to guarantee that the Rebellion gets the credit for Ferrouz’s death. The only way to do that is to use a lightsaber and then blame it on a known lightsaber-carrying Rebel.”

  “Yes, we’ve got that part,” Brightwater said. “But why do you care that the Rebels get the blame?”

  “You really want to know?” Axlon countered. “I’ll make you a deal. Lower your weapons to the floor and you, Brightwater, get over there on the other side of the barrier with LaRone and Marcross, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “What about Grave?” Brightwater asked, still crouched beside the two wounded stormtroopers. “He needs a pair of burn patches. My medpac’s right there by that keg—let me treat him, and then I’ll do whatever you say.”

  Axlon’s eyes flicked briefly to them, unfortunately not long enough for LaRone to make any move of his own. “I think right now Quiller’s as functional as I want to have on this side of the barrier,” he said. “Hand him the medpac, and he can do whatever patching is required. After you and the others are together where I can keep an eye on you.”

  Brightwater sighed. “Fine,” he said. Reaching past Grave, he retrieved the medpac and handed it to Quiller. Murmuring encouragingly in the other’s ear, he put his hands on top of his head and got to his feet. Giving the wounded men one final, lingering look, he turned and walked around the end of the keg barrier.

  And as he came around to their side, he flashed LaRone a look.

  LaRone felt his heart pick up its pace. Brightwater hadn’t just given up. Not that easily, certain
ly not with that look in his eye. He was up to something.

  Only what? He was walking with a slight limp, LaRone noticed, dragging his right foot across the floor as he walked. Had he caught part of one of Axlon’s shots?

  “You two, same as him,” Axlon ordered, twitching his blaster at LaRone and Marcross. “And take a long step back while you’re at it. I don’t want any heroes trying to throw themselves over the kegs at me.”

  Silently Marcross laid his E-11 on the keg in front of him and took the requisite step backward. He put his hands on his head, sending a sideways look at LaRone as he did so, a look that said that he, too, had picked up on Brightwater’s subtle attitude. Reluctantly, LaRone released his grip on his own E-11, placed his hands on his head, and stepped back. Brightwater, still dragging that foot, came up to Marcross’s side. Axlon, his eyes and blaster still on the three of them, moved up to the barrier and picked up LaRone’s E-11, then backed up all the way to the rack of bottles and propped the blaster rifle by the foot of Ferrouz’s couch where it would be within easy reach. “Fine,” Brightwater growled. “How about that story now?”

  “In a moment,” Axlon said. He glanced briefly to his left at the governor, to his right at Quiller and Grave, then finally returned his gaze to LaRone and the others. “I first need to make a call,” he continued, pulling out his comlink. “I have to make sure Skywalker gets the proper reception.”

  His lip twisted. “And only the proper reception.”

  THE TRAITORS, TO MARA’S MINOR REGRET, HADN’T GATHERED IN THE corridor outside the governor’s emergency safe room.

  More surprising was that no one had gathered in Ferrouz’s office, not even the security men who should have been there trying to figure out what had happened to the governor.

  The man sitting at Ferrouz’s desk with his back to Mara was the likely reason for that. “Hello,” he said, not turning around. “Is he dead?”

  “Should he be?” Mara countered, focusing on the man’s white hair and gray-green army uniform. She couldn’t see the rank bars from her vantage point, but she was pretty sure who this was.

  “I don’t know,” the man said. “If you’re who I think you are, you only appear when treason is involved. Yet there’s no body. What should I assume from that?”

  “You can assume that my investigation is still ongoing,” Mara said. “Where is everybody?”

  “You mean the security investigators?” the man asked. “I sent them away, of course. As soon as they ascertained the governor had been taken and that a lightsaber was involved.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged slightly. “I assumed you wouldn’t want anyone … stumbling into you.”

  “Very thoughtful,” Mara said. “You know, it’s considered polite to face a person when you’re speaking to them.”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d want that,” he said. “I’ve heard that to look on you is to look on death.”

  “Not always,” Mara said. “Turn around, please.”

  For a moment the man didn’t move. Then, with obvious reluctance, he swiveled his chair around.

  One glance at his face and rank bars was all the confirmation Mara needed. “Certainly not in this case, General Ularno,” she said. “What do you know of Governor Ferrouz’s recent activities?”

  “A little,” Ularno said, his eyes still avoiding Mara’s face. “Not much. Should I have known more?”

  “You know what you know,” Mara said. “I’m looking for information, General. There’s no right or wrong answer.”

  He smiled sadly. “Of course there are right and wrong answers. This is the Empire.”

  Mara felt her stomach tighten. So this was the legacy of the ISB and men like Vader and Grand Moff Tarkin. Not the rule of law or justice, but of fear. “I’m an interrogator, General, and a dispenser of Imperial judgment,” she said. “But first and foremost I’m an investigator. All I want from you is the truth.”

  Carefully, Ularno lifted his eyes to her face, and for a moment he looked at her in silence. Then he gave a short sigh, the kind that came from a man who has nothing left to lose. “Governor Ferrouz has been having quiet communications with various persons,” he said. “Persons very likely unfriendly to the Empire.”

  “Rebels?”

  “Some were Rebels,” Ularno said. “I wasn’t sure what to make of that, but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. I hoped it was some officially sanctioned operation, that he was trying to lure the Rebels into a trap.”

  “I see,” Mara said, keeping her voice neutral as she stretched out to the Force. Ularno was seriously worried about his own skin, but she could sense no hint that he knew about the kidnapping of Ferrouz’s family. “You said some of his contacts were Rebels. What about the others?”

  “He’s also spent a great deal of time recently bringing in various alien groups that have drifted to Poln Major and Whitestone City over the past few years. Those talks were always in private, and he was always vague afterward whenever I asked him what they’d talked about.”

  Mara nodded. That one, too, made sense. Once Nuso Esva had made his move, Ferrouz would naturally try to find out as much as he could about the warlord. Travelers and refugees coming in from the Unknown Regions would be an obvious source of such information. “What’s your opinion of Major Pakrie?”

  That one got a snort. “In a word, ambitious,” Ularno said. “He’ll do anything necessary to advance his own career and fortune.”

  “Up to and including murder?”

  Ularno grimaced. “You’re referring to the circumstances under which he achieved his most recent promotion. Yes, some of us wondered about that. But no one ever found proof that it was anything but an accident.”

  Mara felt a sudden flicker of hope. If they’d suspected Pakrie of murder … “Did these interested parties include Security Chief Bonze?”

  “Very much so,” Ularno said. “Colonel Bonze is very conscientious about the quality of the men under his command.”

  “Excellent,” Mara said, smiling grimly. “That means he’ll have run a complete profile on Pakrie, including full tracks on his activities, his travel, and his communications.”

  “Probably,” Ularno admitted. “You’d have to ask him about that.”

  “Or we could skip a step and tap into the security files,” Mara said, waving Ularno back as she walked toward him. “A little room, please.”

  Ularno’s eyes widened briefly. Apparently, the thought of doing anything so outrageously out of protocol was a shocking and disturbing one. “But I don’t know the colonel’s passwords,” he protested, hastily getting up out of the chair.

  “That’s all right,” Mara said. “Governor Ferrouz was kind enough to give me all the codes.” She stopped beside the chair and looked Ularno in the eye. “You interested in finding some truth, General? Or would you rather go back to your duties and pretend you never saw me?”

  Ularno drew himself up, as if from a permanent slump he hadn’t even realized had become a part of his bearing. “Thank you, Agent,” he said softly. “I’d very much like to stay.”

  “Call me Jade,” Mara invited, seating herself and turning on the computer. “Let’s see what we can find.”

  If sheer volume of collected data was any indication, Colonel Bonze had been seriously suspicious of his newly minted Major Pakrie. He’d run Pakrie’s entire life under the scanner, from his finances and friends to his eating and drinking habits, his casual associates, and his taste in desserts.

  Moreover, the security chief hadn’t limited his investigation to the period immediately before and after Pakrie’s promotion. Instead, he’d continued it all the way up to the present day, with the last entry time-stamped that very morning.

  Pakrie apparently spent a lot of off-duty time visiting cantinas, gambling halls, and recreation dens. But all such activities were legal, and as far as Mara could tell none of them took place in a location where a halfway competent kidnapper would feel safe stashing his victims. Not
surprisingly, there was also no mention in any of the files of anyone named Nuso Esva.

  But there were several references to Pakrie’s recent association with someone named Dors Stelikag. Bonze’s file on the man was sketchy, but it included holos of him and several of his gang. It also suggested that one of Stelikag’s goals in life was to quit the low-rent thug business and carve out a second career acting as intermediary or recruiter among the Poln system’s various criminal and semi-criminal types. Making a mental note to look further into that when she had a chance, Mara went back to the log of Pakrie’s recent activities for a more detailed look. “Any idea where Pakrie is now?” she asked Ularno.

  “As of half an hour ago, he hadn’t checked in,” the general told her. “I know because that was when Colonel Bonze ordered a search for him.”

  “Do you know if they’ve checked the area above the interrogation room access hallway?”

  “I believe the interrogation suite was the first place they looked,” Ularno said. “That was where he was supposed to be going when the … when you came in.”

  Mara frowned as a line on the log caught her attention. “Do Pakrie’s duties involve the governor’s residence floor?”

  “What do you mean?” Ularno asked, leaning closer.

  “Pakrie seems to have spent a lot of time in that area,” Mara said, pointing to the display. “Particularly during business hours, when Ferrouz is in the business part of the palace.”

  “That’s not what you think,” Ularno said, sounding faintly embarrassed. “The governor’s wife and daughter aren’t there at the moment. They went to their country estate about three weeks ago for some quiet relaxation.”

  Mara nodded as she keyed for a different page. It was an obvious but reasonable enough cover story, one that Ferrouz could come up with quickly and which most people would accept at face value.

  Except that there was no record in the vehicle log of airspeeder travel between the palace and the estate during that time period, official or otherwise. What was there was a record of Pakrie again being on the residence floor the day Ferrouz’s family disappeared. Not just once, but twice.