Star Wars - Black Fleet Crisis 1 - Before the Storm

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  “It would be nice to know.”

  “Wouldn't it? But I don't. Chances are you'll end up finding out and telling me, instead of the other way around.” Drayson rubbed his eyes, then finger-combed his short black hair. “But here's something I keep thinking about. The Yevetha had just achieved interplanetary spaceflight at the time of the general survey. Very bright, technically clever, rather proud of themselves, but no threat to anyone.”

  “Then the Empire shows up.”

  “And puts the Yevetha to work for a few years in Imperial shipyards, building and repairing vessels which represent a big leap beyond what the Yevetha had been doing on their own. Whether or not the Yevetha acquired any ships or shipyards from the Empire, they almost certainly acquired the knowledge of how to build them.”

  “They could have created their own Black Fleet.”

  “Indeed,” Drayson said. “How's your memory, General?”

  “Why?”

  “I'm going to teach you a code,” Drayson said. “If you begin a message with it, that message will come to me without ever being seen at Fleet Headquarters. And if I send you a message, that same code will decrypt it.”

  “I don't like this,” said A'baht, frowning deeply.

  “And I don't believe I like you, Admiral. If Admiral Ackbar hadn't spoken up for you, I would wonder at your loyalty. Now I find myself wondering at his judgment. **** Are you asking me to conspire with you to conceal information from the president or from Fleet Command?”

  “Let me answer your question with a question—do you trust Leia's judgment where the viceroy and the Yevetha are concerned?”

  A'baht looked away and remained mute.

  “That's why,” said Drayson. “The purpose of the code isn't to conceal anything. Just the reverse—it's meant to ensure that you can get the information you need, and that you can provide us with the same in turn. Information that might otherwise be filtered out by the prejudices of those who control the comm channels.”

  A'baht drew a deep breath and sighed. “This is the real reason for this meeting.”

  “Only one of several,” said Drayson. “I want you to have everything you need to do your job out there, General. I want you and your people maintaining a high level of alertness through the whole deployment. I want you to see the punch coming, if there is one. I want you to come back without ever having had to open your gun ports. But if you do have to open them, I want you to know who you're trying to kill, and why.”

  “Is that all? I have people waiting for me.”

  “No,” said Drayson. “There's one more thing. I understand you know Kiles L'toth, the associate director of the Astrographic Survey Institute.”

  “We served together in the Dornean Navy.”

  “More than that, you were friends. Perhaps he even owes you a favor.”

  “Now I'm sure I don't like you. You know too much.”

  “You're not the first to think so, or say so,” said Drayson.

  “I want a better answer than that, Admiral. What does Kiles have to do with this?”

  “Nothing, yet,” Drayson said. “I just think it's been much too long since you and Kiles talked. A pity there's so little contact between the Fleet and the civil service. Sometimes I think they're two completely disconnected worlds.”

  The bark in A'baht's voice betrayed his growing anger. “Speak plainly! What are you getting at?”

  “The Institute is a long way from the Fleet Office, or the Palace,” said Drayson. “About as far away from the Senate and the president and the inner circle as could be. It must be nice not to have everyone breathing down your neck. It must be nice to be able to just do your job, without anyone questioning your every move. And they've been given everything they need—a whole fleet of astrographic and survey vessels.”

  A'baht stared, struck silent.

  “Maybe you should call him before you leave,” Drayson suggested softly.

  A frown hardened A'baht's gaze still further as he weighed the implications. “I don't like you, no, sir,” he growled at last.

  “You don't have to.”

  “No, I suppose I don't,” said A'baht, and hesitated. “But I suppose you'd better teach me that bloody code after all.”

  “Kiles.”

  “Etahn? What are you doing calling at this hour?”

  “Calling in a debt,” A'baht said.

  “I'll be glad to have it paid,” said Kiles, touching the stump of his right leg unconsciously. “Long overdue. What do you need?”

  “How many of your ships can you put together quietly, without attracting a lot of attention?”

  “How quickly?”

  “Very.”

  “Well—six, maybe. Possibly seven or eight, depending on where you need them.”

  “Farlax Sector.”

  “Ah. Not much out there right now. Six is the best I could do without rolling some people out of bed, and that can't be done quietly.”

  “Then six will have to be enough,” A'baht said.

  “Kiles, I need an updated survey of the Koornacht Cluster and its immediate neighborhood. The old survey just won't do. I can't tell you why—”

  “I didn't ask.”

  “I can't even make this an official request.”

  “I figured out that this was unofficial on my own,” said L'toth. “You know, Etahn, things don't really change out there all that fast.”

  “The things I'm worried about change all too fast,” A'baht said.

  “It's not navigation that concerns you.”

  “No. It's all the little flags—the who, the what, and the where.”

  “Will my people be at risk out there?”

  “I don't know, Kiles,” A'baht said. “I just know that if it turns out that they are, it'll be the most important work they've ever done.”

  “All right,” Kiles said. “I can live with that.”

  “I'd take my own people there if I could. You know that.”

  “I do. I know you that well. You hate to ask for help from anyone. I was starting to think I was going to carry this debt to my death.”

  “I need your help now, Kiles.”

  “You'll have it. I'll start diverting the ships right away.”

  “Thank you, old friend.”

  “Good luck, Etahn,” L'toth said. “Watch your back out there—watch it better than I did.”

  The Fifth Fleet had marshaled at an orbital parking site called Zone 90 East. It lay just outside Coruscant's planetary shield, but within sight of the vast military space station which served it, and through which the Fleet's crews and supplies flowed.

  As the time for departure neared, there was little sign of sentiment or ceremony, either on the station or the ships of the Fleet. All the tearful and earnest goodbyes had been said at the Eastport, Westport, and Newport gates, most of them days ago. Almost every one on the crew rosters and everything on the manifests were already aboard.

  Only the stragglers of the last watch to be recalled from liberty were aboard the tail-sitting shuttles that rose from the surface to the station. Only the most urgent supplies joined the stragglers aboard the tenders and tugs that moved back and forth between the station and the Fleet like scuttling insects.

  “You should have just gone on up without me,” said Skids, peering worriedly ahead through the view-port for the carrier Imperious.

  Tuketu's long limbs were sprawled casually across three of the tug's tiny passenger couches. “The heck with that,” he said, his tone light. “I never go anywhere without my triggerman.”

  “We're both going to get black-marked for sure. We'll be lucky if we both don't get taken off the flight roster.”

  “Well—we've been pretty lucky together, right?”

  Skids shook his head, only half listening. “I had it all timed out to the minute—exactly when I had to leave Noria's to get back to Newport. How was I supposed to know that a Duraka gang was going to hit the resort exchange?”

  “No way you could, Skids
. So stop sweating it.”

  “The police kept everything bigger than a bird on the ground for almost eleven hours, till they caught them. And then I get pulled down over Surtsey for speeding, trying to make up time—over Surtsey, mind you. If they've got enough aircops to patrol Surtsey, you think they'd be able to catch a couple of four-foot-tall jewel thieves a little faster—”

  “There she is,” Tuketu said, pointing toward the upper right corner of the viewport.

  “What? Where? Oh—all right. Be there in no time now,” Skids said, settling down in an empty seat. “You think they'll move Hodo up to squadron commander? I'd rather it was Hodo than Miranda, myself. I don't know how you feel—”

  “Skids—”

  “What?”

  “You're babbling.”

  “Am I? Okay. You're right, I am. I'll stop,” Skids said, his expression sheepish. “I just feel so bad about all this, is all. I can't believe it happened.” He glanced at his watch. “Almost twelve hours late—the captain's going to stuff us in a drone and use us for target practice. Next time, don't wait for me. Just leave me there and go on up by yourself!”

  Standing inside the hatch of the four-seat shuttle he had flown up to the Glorious, General Han Solo tugged unhappily at the stiff fabric of his uniform, vainly trying to make it more comfortable. He had gained weight on two months of regular family meals, which only made matters worse. He heard Leia's voice telling him, You look dashingly handsome, dear. It's your head that is uncomfortable in uniform, not your body.

  Sighing, he surrendered and pushed the hatch release.

  The flight-deck crew already had an egress ladder in place for him, and the deck officer was waiting at the bottom of it.

  “Lieutenant,” Han said. “Permission to come aboard.”

  “General Solo, sir! Granted—welcome aboard. I hadn't heard that you were coming to see us off, sir.”

  “I'm not,” said Han, smartly descending the ladder. “I'm coming along for the ride. Have my gear brought off, and then get one of your ferry pilots to take this thing back to the station before you lock down, would you?”

  “Yes, sir, right away.” The lieutenant's startled look quickly gave way to the slightly worshipful eagerness Han had learned to expect, but never to accept.

  “I'm just sorry you didn't come up in the Falcon, sir. I would have liked to see her.”

  “I'd kinda like to see her right now myself,” said Han. “Where is General A'baht?”

  “The general is not aboard, sir. We're expecting him at any time. Captain Morano is on the bridge. I'd be happy to show you the way.”

  Looking past the lieutenant, Han scanned the cruiser's bay, making a quick inventory of its contents.

  “Looks like a tight pack,” he said with a nod.

  “Yes, sir. Capacity plus. Took in half a dozen more E-wings this morning. But we can still get things moved around when we need to, so it's not too bad.”

  “Make sure you can get them launched in a hurry,” said Han. “That's what counts most in a scrap.”

  “Yes, sir. Would you like that escort to the bridge now?”

  “If you could just find out where my quarters are, that would do for now,” Han said, tugging at the tight collar of his shirt. “Oh, and let me know when General A'baht comes aboard.”

  Han lay bare-chested on his back in the bunk of what until recently had been the quarters of the ship's surgeon. His shirt hung from a wall clip nearby, and his shoes made a pile at the foot of the bunk.

  It had been a long day, and Han's body wanted sleep. But the ship, like the station, was on Standard Time, eight hours out of sync with Imperial City. Han knew from experience that the best way to adjust to it was to extend his day further still, and turn in with the first watch. He had left the overhead lights on as insurance against falling asleep.

  But his body welcomed the quietude, and his eyes needed rest from the light, and his mind wanted relief from the thoughts that gnawed at him.

  Nothing felt right—being away from Leia and the kids, going off alone without Luke or Chewbacca, resenting Leia for asking when she knew he could not refuse her, hating his own inability to say no. Somewhere he had lost the independence he had once cherished as his most precious possession, and the worst part was that he knew he had given it up freely.

  No—the worst part was that here he was, on his own, and he couldn't remember how to enjoy it. It didn't feel right to be alone.

  Han flung an arm across his face and tried to make it all vanish. In a little while, it did.

  General A'baht climbed out of the Poranji jumper with respectable limberness for someone his age.

  “General,” the deck officer said, saluting smartly.

  “Good to see you, sir. Captain Morano's in conference with the task force captains, and the XO is on the bridge.”

  “Thank you,” A'baht said, jumping down and jerking a thumb in the direction of the jumper. “Find someplace to strap this down, will you, Marty? It's borrowed, but I've taken kind of a fancy to it.”

  “Yes, sir. Will do.”

  There was something about the deck officer's demeanor—something in his voice, or the way he held his mouth—that wasn't quite right. But it wasn't until A'baht turned to walk forward toward the exit that he got a clue as to what it was. That was when he saw that fully half the bay's crew had stopped work to look his way. Several seemed to be wearing either funereal regret or indignant distress on their faces.

  “Marty, what's going on?”

  The deck officer swallowed hard. “Sir, General Han Solo showed up a couple of hours ago—”

  “Did he,” A'baht said thoughtfully.

  “Yes, sir. I figured that he was here to see us off, but the captain put him in Dr. Archimar's quarters.”

  “Did he.”

  “Yes, sir. I— General, there's talk that Solo's here to take over the Fleet.”

  “If he is,” A'baht said evenly, “then Captain Morano gave him the wrong quarters. Where is General Solo now, Marty?”

  “I can find out for you. He asked to be notified when you came aboard, sir.”

  “Find out for me,” said A'baht, nodding. “But let me be the one to give him the message.”

  A smile cracked the deck officer's mask of concern.

  “Yes sir.”

  The first that Han knew he had fallen asleep was when he was startled awake by a sharp noise. Sitting bolt upright, wild-eyed, he found a tall Dornean in a Fleet Command uniform looming over him. The age lines on the Dornean's face showed that he was over a hundred years old. The bars on his jacket showed that he was General A'baht.

  “General Solo” A'baht said. “There's a rumor all over the ship that I'm out and you're in. Want to tell me what that's about?”

  “I don't know what that's about,” said Han, swinging his feet over the side of the bunk and grasping for his shirt. Still half addled by his nap, he needed three swipes to grab it away from the clip. “You're the commander of the Fifth Fleet. Nothing's changed.”

  “You're here,” A'baht said, settling back against the vanity. “That's a change.”

  Han shrugged into his shirt and began struggling with the buttons.

  “Tell me about it,” he said. “Look, General, I know you don't want me here, and the truth is I really don't want to be here. Maybe if we give each other some breathing space on that understanding, this won't be too bad for either of us.”

  “I see I was prepared to give you too much credit on your reputation,” said A'baht.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Among the Dornean, a male is expected to know when it is time to put down his babies and take up his weapon. But to be shamed into that duty by his female—”

  “Yeah, well, tell it to someone who cares,” Han said, annoyed. “I've done my turn, and then some—and if it's not enough to satisfy you, ask me if it's gonna cost me any sleep. You're not exactly diving on the Death Star in a snub fighter yourself, you know.”

&n
bsp; A'baht laughed. “At least you have enough teeth left to bite back,” he said. “Can I see your orders?”

  “There wasn't enough time for formalities,” Han said, pushing the tail of his shirt down into his waistband. “Look, I'm no diplomat—ask anyone. Let's try talking plainly and see where that gets us. I'm not here to replace you. I wouldn't begin to know how to fight this task force, and I wasn't planning on taking a crash course.”

  “Very well. Why are you here, if not to replace me?”

  “Now I'm giving you too much credit. I thought you could figure that one out on your own.”

  “I do not enjoy the princess's full confidence.”

  “Right. But I do. So if I tell her everything's fine, she'll believe it.”

  “No, there must be more,” said A'baht. “I don't enjoy the princess's full confidence—but she couldn't find a reason to justify replacing me. If you're not here to replace me, are you here to find her that reason?”

  “I'm here to help you not do anything stupid,” said Han. “If it turns out you don't need any help with that, that's fine with me. I'll sharpen up my barlaz game in your rec hall, find where your quartermaster keeps the medicinal dragonjuice, and catch up on my sleep.”

  “She still fears an incident with the Yevetha.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Perhaps she should fear the Yevetha instead,” said A'baht. “I'd like to hear your opinions concerning the Black Fleet.”

  “Outside my jurisdiction,” said Han.

  “And you said you were no diplomat.”

  Han grinned crookedly. “I guess Leia's been more of a bad influence on me than I thought.”

  “Is there enough of the soldier left in you—”

  “I was never, ever a soldier, General, even when I was wearing one of these,” Han said, tugging at the front of his shirt. “Too independent-minded—taking orders was never my strength. I was a Rebel.”

  “And now?”

  “I'm—a patriot, I guess. If that's what you call someone who thinks the New Republic has the old Empire beat all hollow.”

  “Very well,” said A'baht. “Then I ask the patriot in Han Solo to let me share with him a soldier's view of why we are taking this ship to Hatawa and Farlax.”