Star Wars: Choices of One

by Timothy Zahn

  “Signal from the Admonitor,” the comm officer called. “Captain Parck reports that his task force has arrived safely.”

  “The entire force?” Drusan asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Confirmed,” the sensor officer spoke up. “We have the Admonitor and the six cruisers from the Teptixii engagement to portside, along with five light cruisers and three heavy cruisers of unknown configuration.”

  Drusan grunted. “Aliens,” he said under his breath. “None of our business, I suppose.” He raised his voice again. “Signal the Admonitor that all ships are to move into close planetary deployment. Sensor officer, any other warships in range?”

  “No warships, sir,” the other said. “But the shadow has reappeared and—”

  “Belay that!” Drusan snapped, spinning around to glare at the man.

  Pellaeon turned, too, in time to see the sensor officer wince back from the captain’s sudden anger. “Yes, sir,” he said in a subdued tone.

  “Shadow?” Pellaeon asked, looking at Drusan.

  The captain grimaced. “You weren’t supposed to know,” he said reluctantly. “No one was. We’ve had a ship shadowing us ever since our last pass through the Poln system.”

  Pellaeon felt his mouth drop open. Ships didn’t follow Imperial Star Destroyers just for the fun of it. “What kind of ship? Who’s aboard?”

  “It’s a simple, low-threat freighter,” Drusan assured him. “A modified Mon Cal DeepWater class. Decent armor, decent shields, nothing special. Certainly nothing to be concerned about.”

  “But what’s he doing there?” Pellaeon asked. “And he’s a Mon Cal?”

  “It’s a Mon Cal ship,” Drusan corrected tartly. “I didn’t say there were any Mon Cals aboard.” He grimaced again. “Actually … Lord Odo thinks it’s one of Warlord Nuso Esva’s people. Possibly even Nuso Esva himself.”

  Pellaeon shot a look out the viewport. “Here?”

  “So Odo thinks,” Drusan said, frowning as he looked around the bridge. “I assumed we would be finding out for certain … comm officer, signal Lord Odo. He was supposed to have joined us by now.”

  “Yes, sir.” The officer bent to his board. A few seconds ticked by—“Sir, Lord Odo’s not responding, not to his comlink or the comm in his quarters.”

  “Find him,” Drusan ordered darkly. “Security teams to all likely places aboard ship.” His glaring eyes flicked to Pellaeon. “You—Commander—go and help them.”

  “Me?” Pellaeon asked disbelievingly. Hunting down wayward crewers or passengers was hardly the sort of duty a senior bridge officer was supposed to be handed.

  “You’ve spent as much time with him as any of us,” Drusan growled. “And you’ve spent more than the rest of us with that little weasel pilot of his. Find Odo, or find Sorro and have him find Odo. Just get him here.”

  Pellaeon suppressed a grimace. “Yes, sir.”

  Turning, he headed down the command walkway at a fast walk, annoyance simmering inside him. He would find Odo, all right. And the arrogant masked figure had better have a good excuse for leaving Drusan hanging this way.

  A really good excuse.

  The stealthy footsteps had been moving about the tapcaf above the stormtroopers’ sanctuary for several minutes before the attack actually began. When it finally did, it was with an equally stealthy opening of the cellar door.

  LaRone got just a glimpse of the blaster, the unshaven face, and the startled look before the shot from his E-11 blew the man back.

  And as pandemonium erupted from the other three men who’d been silently gathered by the door, LaRone and Marcross stepped through the opening, their armor gleaming in the sunlight coming through the tapcaf windows, and opened fire.

  The battle was short. But not quite as short as LaRone had expected it to be. The four men standing stupidly by the cellar door turned out to be only the sacrificial decoys, probably drifters or thugs that Stelikag’s men had hired off the street on their way over. Even as the last one fell, his blaster firing uselessly into the ceiling, the men crouched behind the tapcaf’s tables and half concealed in its booths opened fire.

  But they weren’t shooting at helpless citizens or fellow smugglers now. They were targeting Imperial stormtroopers, and Imperial stormtroopers were light-years better at this sort of thing than they were. With Marcross firing coolly at his side, LaRone systematically cleared out the attackers on his side of the zone, ignoring the shards of plastic and metal scraping across his armor from the near-misses, ignoring even the sudden twinges of pain as a better-aimed shot or two or three made it through his armor and burned into the skin beneath.

  Ninety seconds later, it was over. Two of the attackers had managed to get out more or less unscathed. The rest lay dead.

  “Let’s hope the next one is that easy,” Marcross commented as they headed across toward the bodies, their E-11s sweeping back and forth just in case Stelikag had been clever enough to add a third layer to their attack.

  “It won’t be,” LaRone told him as they reached the first pair of bodies. He began turning a slow guard circle, running his helmet’s vision enhancements for any signs of trouble as Marcross holstered his own E-11 and checked the blasters of their late opponents. “The minute the survivors get out from under their own comlink jamming they’ll be screaming for help. If Stelikag’s capable of learning, the next batch will be way more professional.”

  “Good,” Marcross said with a grunt as he stood up with a pair of scavenged weapons. “Maybe it’ll clear out the hostage cavern enough for Jade to get in there.”

  “Maybe,” LaRone agreed, grimacing behind his faceplate. Of course, a situation like this was very much a zero-line game. The fewer opponents Jade ended up with, the more LaRone and Marcross and the others would be facing.

  But then, that was the job they’d taken on when they joined the ranks of the Imperial stormtroopers. To fight, and to eventually die, so that others might live. “Make it fast,” he urged Marcross. “We need to get back and get those bottles back up on the stairs.” He bent over and picked up another of the attackers’ blasters. “And if we get enough weapons for all of the Troukree, we might want to rethink our fire-line arrangement a bit.”

  “In what little time we have to make any alterations,” Marcross warned.

  LaRone grimaced. “Yes,” he conceded. “There is that.”

  Han had the Falcon on course for the Golan when Chewie rumbled a sudden warning. Han frowned, peering out the canopy.

  He felt his jaw tighten. The distant sky was filling up with ships.

  Not just any ships, either. Imperial warships. The readout tagged a pair of Strike-class medium cruisers, four Carrack-class light cruisers, a few more ships of unknown alien design—

  —and two Imperial Star Destroyers.

  Chewie growled again.

  “Yeah, I see them,” Han growled back, staring out at the newly arrived task force. So it had been a trap all along. Just like he’d thought, and just like he’d told Rieekan.

  “What is it?” Toksi asked from the passenger seat behind him.

  “Trouble,” Han said, frowning out at the distant ships. On the other hand, if this was a trap, it was a pretty incompetent one. The whole Imperial force had come out of hyperspace together, all of them grouped in a screen formation on the same side of Poln Minor instead of in a proper encirclement pattern. Even the Dreadnought that was supposed to watch over Poln Minor was currently on the far side of the planet near the rest of the Imperials. If Cracken had been ready to go, the transports could have just lifted off Poln Minor and burned space in the opposite direction, with nothing but an undermanned Golan between them and a clean escape.

  Of course, Cracken wasn’t ready to go. Maybe that was the point. Maybe the Imperials knew they had plenty of time to reconfigure and still catch the Rebels on the ground.

  “What kind of trouble?” Atticus asked from the other passenger seat.

  “The Imperial kind,” Han told him. “Tw
o Star Destroyers plus escorts, thirty degrees to starboard. Quiet and let me think.”

  “What’s there to think about?” Atticus demanded. “We need to get back and help Cracken—”

  Chewie snarled over his shoulder. This time, Atticus got the message and shut up.

  Han drummed his fingers on the control board, alternating his attention between the distant Imperials and the much closer Golan. One of the Star Destroyers had left the group now, its pointed bow turning toward the Falcon and Poln Major. But the rest of the ships were still just sitting over Poln Minor, moving slowly inward but showing no signs of breaking formation. At the very least the Strikes and Carracks should be running for the planet’s far side by now to cut off any escape in that direction.

  Was it possible that the Imperials didn’t know the Alliance was here? Because they sure weren’t acting like it. In fact, it was almost like the newly arrived ships and the governor’s palace weren’t even talking to each other.

  Maybe they weren’t. Chewie had said that LaRone had Governor Ferrouz in protective custody. Maybe in all the chaos on Poln Major no one down there was talking to anyone at all.

  And if the palace wasn’t talking to the Imperial ships, maybe it wasn’t talking to the Golan, either.

  Abruptly, he came to a decision. “We’re going in,” he told the others. “Same plan.”

  “We’re what?” Atticus demanded. “Solo—”

  “We’ve still got the pass, and so far no one’s challenging us,” Han cut him off. “And we still need to buy the others some time.”

  “What about that Star Destroyer?” Toksi asked, pointing over Han’s shoulder at the incoming ship. “It’s heading straight for us.”

  “Sure is,” Han agreed. “You rather be out here or inside a big metal battle station when it gets here?” He craned his neck to look over his shoulder. “Or I could just let you off here,” he offered.

  Atticus glared at him. “Just do it,” he growled.

  Han turned back to the massive station now almost filling the canopy and keyed the comm. “Golan Defense Platform, this is Major Axlon aboard the civilian freighter Gateling,” he said. “Acknowledge.”

  “Gateling, Golan acknowledging,” a young-sounding voice responded. “Please confirm identification.”

  “Major Axlon,” Han repeated. “Don’t bother looking me up on your complement listing—I’m not there. Clear your number one port for immediate docking—I’m coming aboard.”

  “Ah … one moment.”

  The comm went silent, and Chewie warbled a question.

  “Just keep going,” Han told him. “Make it look like we’ll ram the port if they don’t open it.”

  There was a click—“Major, this is Commandant Barcelle,” a cautious new voice came on. “May I ask your business aboard?”

  “Not on an open comm,” Han said. “Open port one and meet me there.”

  “Yes,” Barcelle said uncertainly. “Ah—”

  “And do not call anyone to confirm my presence,” Han said coldly. “This is a highly sensitive operation, and I will not have it compromised by loose talk or careless name-dropping. No one—no one—except Governor Ferrouz knows I’m even in the Poln system. Now stop stuttering and get that port cleared.”

  “Yes, sir,” Barcelle said, his voice abruptly gone both briskly efficient and quietly terrified. “Sending docking data to you now.”

  With a flick of his wrist, Han cut off the comm. “Okay, we’re in,” he told the others.

  “So who exactly does he think we are?” Toksi asked suspiciously.

  “Imperial agents, or maybe ISB,” Han said. “Either way, no one he wants to mess with.”

  Atticus grunted. “Let’s hope he’s still in terrified awe of us when he sees that all we’ve got for ID is a pass from the governor.”

  “We’ll make that jump when we get there,” Han said, throwing another quick look at the approaching Star Destroyer. No problem—the Falcon should be at the station long before the ship reached firing distance. “Let’s just concentrate on getting there in one piece.”

  Leia had always known that T-47 airspeeders weren’t exactly overgenerous in the accommodations department. But as she snuggled into the gunner’s seat at the rear of Wedge’s vehicle, she realized she’d had no idea of how cramped the things really were.

  “You all right?” Wedge called back to her.

  “I’m fine,” Leia assured him, struggling to get her straps fastened. “It’s just cozy, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, they are,” he agreed. “This isn’t really necessary, you know,” he went on. “We have the location. You don’t have to come with us.”

  “I’m the only one who’s actually been there,” she reminded him. “That may turn out to be useful.”

  Besides which, she’d never liked the idea of sending men and women into danger without having someone in authority share it with them. Her father Bail had never flinched from standing on the front lines with his men, and she wasn’t going to, either.

  “Well, we’re glad to have the company,” Wedge said diplomatically. “Here we go.”

  With a lurch, the airspeeder lifted from the cavern floor and headed for the tunnel that she and Cracken had calculated would give them their best approach to the missile ships. Behind her, Leia could see the rest of their ten-ship raiding party lift and flow into following positions.

  She grimaced. She’d never liked riding backward, but it had been so long since she’d had to do it that she’d completely forgotten the queasy feeling it always stirred in the pit of her stomach. Next time she ended up in a T-47, she promised herself, she would make sure she was the one facing forward and doing the actual flying.

  She looked out the side of her canopy at the rocky wall shooting past the airspeeder’s wingtips. On second thought, maybe not.

  With a grimace, she settled back into her seat, gazing at the long line of dark airspeeders trailing behind her and sternly ordering her stomach to calm down.

  It was going to be a very long trip.

  Pellaeon’s first thought was that Odo might have returned for some reason to his old quarters near the bay where the Salaban’s Hope was docked. His second thought was that he might have gone back to one of the engine control rooms, either the main or one of the secondaries, for a repeat of the MSE droid ballets that had so disconcerted Lieutenant Commander Geronti and his techs. His third thought was that he or Sorro had gotten someone to unlock the docking bay and gone aboard the Salaban’s Hope itself.

  But the first two options came up dry, and the docking bay was locked. Wherever they’d disappeared to, they’d done an extremely good job of it.

  Pellaeon was back in the turbolift, wondering what he was going to tell Captain Drusan, when the emergency alarms suddenly began blaring.

  He had his comlink out in an instant, keying to the emergency channel. “Pellaeon,” he snapped. “Report.”

  “Massive explosions in all engine-control centers,” the damage-control officer snapped back. “Possible thermal detonators; massive damage; massive casualties. Contact has been lost with the bridge; no indication of explosions there. All command level doors have been sealed; all turbolift cars are frozen and locked down.”

  Pellaeon frowned, his eyes flicking to his car’s indicator. His car wasn’t frozen. “I’m about five seconds from the bridge,” he told the other. “Stay on this link—I’ll report again once I’ve assessed the situation.” He jammed the comlink, still on, into his belt as the car came to a halt. The door slid open.

  And a cloud of thick white smoke burst in through the open door.

  Pellaeon lunged toward the control panel, trained fire-response reflexes sending one palm slamming into the emergency-close button as he grabbed for his nose and mouth with the other. The slight whiff he’d gotten before he got his nose covered had identified the smoke as vertigon gas—nonfatal, but a couple of lungfuls would wreck his sense of balance and send him gasping to the deck. His only chance
to avoid that fate was to get the door closed and hope the car’s ventilation system could clear out the gas before he needed to breathe again.

  Only the door wasn’t closing. Pellaeon hit the emergency button again, harder this time. Still nothing. His lungs were starting to ache now, the tendrils of gas pressing at the fingers pinching his nostrils and covering his mouth. He hit the emergency button one last time.

  And then, abruptly, he remembered the emergency firefighter pack fastened to the wall to the right of the turbolift. A firepac that included a full-face breath mask and an emergency oxygen supply.

  Squinting against the swirling smoke, he sidled out of the car, keeping a hand on the wall lest he get disoriented in the white nothingness and lose his bearings. The firepac, he remembered, was about two meters from the edge of the turbolift …

  Sooner somehow than he’d expected, there it was: a bright orange rectangle faintly visible even through the smoke. Pellaeon punched the release, popping open the cover, and ran his hand across the contents until he hit the familiar form of the breath mask. He snatched it out and slapped it over his face, pressing it tightly against forehead, nose, and mouth as he twisted the oxygen valve. The cold delicious air flowed across his skin and into his nostrils, filling his lungs and banishing the last hints of the gas that had suddenly and inexplicably invaded the Chimaera’s bridge.

  He was securing the mask’s straps when he caught a flicker of light from his right and heard the sharp crack of a blaster shot.

  He spun around, his heart pounding suddenly in his chest. Another shot cracked, its light again showing faintly through the smoke.

  And in that single heartbeat, everything changed. This wasn’t some accident, or group of accidents. The Chimaera had been sabotaged.

  The Chimaera was under attack.

  Two more shots cut through the smoke and stillness as Pellaeon stumbled backward. What had happened to the pair of troopers who’d been on guard when Pellaeon had left the bridge earlier? Were they the ones firing? If so, what were they firing at?

  Or had the troopers merely been the first ones to die?