by Laurie Burns
“Make yourself at home.”
“Always do.” She grinned her thanks.
Settling into the small editing cubicle, Kella spent the next hour and a half going over the vidclips she’d collected during the past two weeks. In the face of the new direction the story had taken, with the focus shifting from the alliance to the assassination, most of them were unusable, but a perverse sense of curiosity made her study all the ones pertaining to Barayel again.
Perhaps they’d show some clue that revealed the way he’d planned to vote, or some hint he’d known things were about to blow up. Just in case she’d missed anything important —
About halfway through, she discovered she had.
The clip came from the datacard she’d used yesterday when, as usual, after a curt “no comment” from Barayel, she’d gone on to corner his assistant. The hover-cam showed that she’d caught him near his chief’s chair in the Council Chamber, and they’d spent several minutes chatting.
But as she watched, it gradually dawned on her that the real item of interest in the interview wasn’t the conversation itself. Rather, it was what she could occasionally glimpse going on in the background.
Someone was messing around with something at Barayel’s place at the table. The place that, a mere 26 hours later, had so messily erupted in the chief councilor’s face.
Hitting the hold button, she froze the image and studied the screen. Visible beyond the assistant’s shoulder, someone dressed in the blue uniform of Council Authority crouched in front of Barayel’s spot at the head of the long U-shaped council table. The back of the chief’s comm and voter panel was removed, and while she couldn’t quite make out what the man was doing, she did recognize who it was.
On his knees, again, was Darme, the same Authority who had shot Aden.
Kella sat back and frowned thoughtfully at the screen. She’d seen so many of the blue-coated guards at the Council Hall the past few weeks that she’d ceased to even notice them anymore. In charge of security, they were everywhere, all the time, doing all sorts of things. Above notice, and above suspicion.
But given the current circumstances …
Running the vidclip back to where the hover-cam had begun recording the interview, she circled a spot on the viewscreen with an editing pen and that section instantly magnified. Though of poor quality, the image was clear enough to see what Darme held in his hand and, heart suddenly pounding, she advanced the clip forward click by click.
And as she watched, she smiled.
Some beings thought the best way to hide something was to just put it out in plain sight. It looked like Barayel’s assassin agreed. Quite by accident, she’d caught Darme placing a tiny but powerful bomb inside Barayel’s comm panel. And as far as she knew, she was the only reporter who knew about it, much less had a visual recording of it.
TriNeb, eat your heart out!
Thumping the console with excited delight, she leapt to her feet and flung open the editing booth door. It slammed against the wall, startling everyone into looking up.
“Take a look at this!” she yelped, and disappeared back inside. Juloff and Crislyn glanced at each other questioningly, but Nostler hit the hold button on his holoclip and followed, leaving an Ithorian entertainer suspended mid-warble over his desk. Both reporters strained to follow the conversation filtering out the open door.
“You know that old saying about hiding out in the open?” Kella asked Nostler. “Well, check this out!”
A brief silence, then — “What in blazes? Is that what it looks like?”
“It’s a bomb,” she confirmed. “And that guy there is the same Authority who shot and killed L’varren’s aide. The one they found the detonator on,” she added significantly.
Out in the newsroom the reporters exchanged glances. “This I’ve got to see,” Crislyn said and got up to stand in the editing booth doorway, peering over the pair’s shoulders. Juloff waited a few moments to make sure they were all engrossed. Then, pulling out his comlink, he headed for the bureau door.
Excited by Kella’s discovery, no one in the editing booth even noticed that he’d left.
Satisfaction still sang through her veins a short time later as Kella left the bureau, hover-cam humming behind like a tethered vartlett. After some discussion, she and Nostler had agreed they couldn’t simply turn the vidclip over to the Council Authorities. If one guard were involved in the assassination, others could be too, and they didn’t want to chance it ending up in the wrong hands.
That left just one other person that Kella thought might be able to help: L’varren. With the New Republic being blamed for Barayel’s death, the ambassador might have a certain interest in helping her make sure her datacard — and its evidence to the contrary — got to the proper people.
Her report, waiting in the bureau newsbank for the courier to arrive within the next hour or so, included the incriminating clip, and a second copy was nestled among the cards littering the bottom of her datatote. If she hustled, she might have time to add an update.
L’varren and his diplomatic entourage were staying in the same hotel as she was, just a few blocks from the GNN bureau, and paying only cursory attention to the light evening traffic bustling past. Kella mentally ran down her reporter’s checklist as she walked. The who, what, when, where, and how of the explosion seemed clear, but not the why.
She was still mulling over possible motives when a blaster shot sizzled a mere meter overhead, cracking against a marbled storefront and spattering hot stone chips down about her shoulders.
Kella was on the ground before it really even registered — fortunate, since a second, lower shot followed the first, a bright shower of sparks striking the wall where her head had been. A sharp crack to her left made her look, and with a chill, she realized that a stone planter full of perky flowers had just saved her life.
Hissing for the hover-cam to get down, she wiggled further into the limited cover and tried to assess the situation. She thought the shots were coming from somewhere across the wide street, but wasn’t sure of the exact direction, and didn’t dare stick her head up to take a look. Pinned down like this, she was horribly vulnerable. The few pedestrians she could see nearby weren’t going to be much help — like her, they’d hit the walkway, or ducked into nearby doorways. Nobody seemed to be raising an alarm.
The tiny hairs on her arms prickled. Even now as she hesitated, her attacker could be moving into position for the kill. She reluctantly decided to draw her blaster and try to lay down some covering fire while making a desperate dash for safety when, just a couple of meters away, a door swung open and a man in an amazing purple suit stepped out, demanding to know just what in the galaxy was going on out here?
Kella saw her chance. Crab-like, she scuttled past him, scurrying through the ornate doorway and bursting, not into a store as she’d expected, but a fancy eating establishment. A golden droid with a black bow tie gaped at her as she crouched in the tastefully-decorated foyer, and well-dressed diners goggled in astonishment as she got to her feet and meandered through the tables toward the back of the building. She caught quick glimpses of fancy red tablecloths and gleaming flatware as she searched for another door. There should be a rear entrance through the kitchen area, and from there, she could make a run — where?
Bursting through a door at the back, she narrowly avoided a waiter droid loaded down with a tray of steaming entrees. Flattening herself against a counter to squeeze past, she spotted another door, this one labeled “exit” in blocky Basic, and emerged into a poorly-lit alley, startling some leathery-skinned rodent nosing through an overflowing waste bin. Wrinkling her nose at the unappetizing smells wafting up from the sticky pavement, she hurried down the narrow passage with the hover-cam whirring along behind her.
There was still no sign of pursuit by the time the alley emptied into a street a few hundred meters later, so Kella stayed in its concealing shadows while she caught her breath and pondered her next move.
W
ith the datacard and its incriminating clip in the bottom of her datatote, it wasn’t hard to figure out why somebody was after her. What was a mystery was who, and how they’d found out what she had.
Her thoughts flicked to Nostler, and the other two reporters back at the bureau. She hated to think one of her own might be involved in this, but there weren’t many alternatives. Grimly running through her options, she decided to stick with the original plan of contacting L’varren. At least he had a bevy of security officers who could offer some protection while she and the ambassador decided what to do with the vidclip.
Cautiously peeking out of the alley, she uneasily identified at least a dozen potential hiding spots for a sniper. But there was no other way. Hyper-alert to every little flash of movement, she started down the street. Ten tense minutes later, she arrived at the hotel.
Rising majestically into the the night sky, it was a thoroughly modern transplant which towered over its surrounding stone companions. While an impressive sight, it was the crowd milling about on its steps which caught Kella’s eye. Pausing at the foot of the long sweep of stairs leading up to the entrance, she surveyed the scene ahead.
Placard-carrying protesters provided visual fodder for the hover-cams floating up and down the steps, while their reporters interviewed some of the demonstrators — or lounged around on stone planters, apparently prepared to wait all night, if necessary, to catch L’varren and wring a quote out of him regarding this new development. A few choice placards stood out, and Kella wryly noted that the “Indu Imperialists,” as she’d privately dubbed the business consortium she’d talked to earlier, were making the most of the day’s events to register their anti-New Republic sentiments. The newsnets seemed eager to help them fan the flames.
We’ll just see about that, she thought smugly, starting up the steps. Intent on her destination, hurrying through the lobby and heading for the turbolifts beyond, it didn’t register at first.
But then her eyes snapped back in startled recognition to the man standing next to a decorative holosculpt at the front of the lobby. Juloff, one of the reporters from the bureau. And next to him —
Darme.
They’d seen her. Her heart sank with belated realization. Of course, they’d probably been waiting for her. Juloff nodded in response to something Darme said, and as they began to purposefully weave through the lobby toward her, Kella studied their implacable expressions and knew she was in trouble.
Well, that’s that, she thought, and bolted for the turbolifts. A car was just unloading as she arrived, and she shoved through the departing passengers, slapping the “close” button as soon as she was inside. A couple who hadn’t had time to get off the lift stared in alarm as she drew her blaster and punched L’varren’s floor number on the call panel.
As the doors slid shut, she caught a glimpse of her pursuers angry faces, and as the lift accelerated upwards. Kella pulled out her comlink and did what she’d swore she’d never do again after that incident last year — keyed in L’varren’s personal frequency.
He answered on the second beep, sounding guarded. “L’varren.”
“Ambassador, it’s Kella Rand,” she identified herself. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but I need to see you right away.”
“Kella?” he asked doubtfully. “I’m a bit tied up at present. Perhaps tomor —”
She recognized the hedge, rushed forcefully to cut it off. “Sir, I apologize, but I need to see you now.” Briefly, she wondered how to explain the situation, then just bluntly plowed ahead. “I have some pretty good proof that your aide didn’t kill Barayel, and who did, and why. Surely that’s worth a moment of your time.”
“Proof?” the diplomat questioned sharply. “What sort of proof?”
“A vidclip,” she said, “showing the bomb being placed. Not by Aden, either. This guy’s very much alive, and after me as we speak. Unfortunately, he’s not too far behind.” Across the lift, the couple’s eyes widened and they shrank back against the wall. “Sir, I’m on my way up. I can show it to you.”
“I’d like to see it,” he assured her dryly. “Have the Authorities been notified?”
“There’s a slight problem with that,” Kella told him. “At least one Authority was involved.” Briefly she wondered if their conversation was being monitored, decided that at this point it didn’t really matter.
“I see,” he said. “Well then, I’ll see you in a moment, Kella. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Likewise,” she muttered under her breath. Shutting down the comlink, she dropped it into the tote, where it made a tiny clink against the incriminating datacard. A quick glance up at the turbolift indicator showed they were nearly there, and she wondered uneasily just how far behind her pursuers were. She hoped she wouldn’t have to try to outrun them — or a blaster bolt — down the long hallway to L’varren’s corner suite.
A sudden idea struck, and she hit the “halt” button on the call panel. Her unwilling passengers tensed to make their escape, but were visibly disappointed when the lift stopped between floors and the door remained closed.
“Hover-cam, down,” she snapped, digging out the precious datacard. As the device hummed closer to the floor, she flipped up its access panel and pulled out the fresh, unused datacard it was carrying, slipping the other datacard in its place. A light on the hover-cam’s rim began blinking red, indicating the datacard was full and couldn’t record any more information. She routinely fixed all her cards after use, so there was never any danger of accidentally recording over them.
In this case, if she didn’t make it to L’varren’s suite, the hover-cam’s blinking light would alert them there was something there to be seen.
Tapping the turbolift’s release and flipping the hover-cam’s panel back down, she ordered it. “Go straight to Suite 44-1.” Almost as an afterthought, she reset her blaster’s setting to stun. If there was any shooting, she didn’t want anybody killed. Dead assassins couldn’t confess.
When the doors slid open, she cautiously stuck her head out and glanced both ways down the corridor. The path looked clear. Taking a firmer grip on the blaster, she stepped out, but before she got past the other turbolifts doors, they opened, and with startling speed, Darme lunged out and grabbed her.
He captured her gun hand with professional ease, and pressed a painfully strong arm across her throat, dragging her back into his turbolift. Gasping, Kella saw the hover-cam whirring down the hall towards L’varren’s suite. The doors slid shut and she gasped again as he wrenched her wrist, sending a white-hot flare of pain up her arm, followed by numbness. She only knew she’d dropped the blaster when he kicked it to the other side of the lift and it skittered to a halt against the wall. With a fresh surge of awareness, she realized he held a vibro-knife near her face.
“How about you be smart and hand over the vidclip, huh?” he said softly in her ear, and she shivered to hear such a cool, conversational tone from a man holding a knife to her throat.
Forcing a calm to her voice that she didn’t feel, she carefully agreed. “If you insist on it.”
“I do,” he said. Switching the weapon to his other hand, he reached around and slipped his fingers into the datatote at her side. Acutely aware of the vibrating blade so close she could practically feel it snipping off strands of hair, she stiffened but kept silent as he conducted his search. Her identi-credcard, datapad, room key, and some local currency were raised for his inspection before being unceremoniously dropped to the floor.
The handful of datacards he kept, shoving her away and stuffing them into his jacket in the same quick motion. Kella stumbled into the lift’s wall, turned around, found him scooping up her blaster and pointing it at her. She froze.
“It really won’t do you any good, you know,” she told him, unable to suppress a sudden spurt of defiance. “Just getting rid of my copy of the vidclip won’t get rid of the one I already filed in the newsbank. Once the courier picks up the message packet, you won’t be able to cover this u
p, no matter what you do to me.”
He smiled, a mere showing of teeth. “The report you filed no longer exists,” he corrected politely. “When the newsdroid arrives, there will be no report on this incident at all from the infamous Kella Rand.”
She frowned at him.
“A tap of the keypad here, a deletion of a file there …” He shrugged. “It’s not so hard to make a report disappear. Especially with the help of someone with the proper access codes.”
Juloff, of course. So the bureau reporter truly had betrayed her. Somehow, making her news report disappear seemed even worse than taking potshots at her on the street.
“Why?” she asked. “Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s a loyal citizen of the Empire,” Darme said flatly. “Just as I am. And no upstart Rebel government is going to set up shop on Indu San, or get its slimy fingers into our people. Not while we have any say about it.”
She stared at him blankly, then the why suddenly fell into place and realization dawned. “Is that what this is all about?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said. “And it’s working brilliantly, too.”
And it was.
Nostler had said that before they’d been forced out, the Empire’s rule hadn’t been that unpopular: and Kella had seen for herself that the Empire still enjoyed some support, such as that from the business consortium she’d so aptly dubbed the “Indu Imperialists.” By actively supporting the Empire, the Imperialists made more credits, both through excess profits gouged from their own citizens, and from contracts and contacts gained through Imperial intercession.
Here was a group that would clearly adore seeing the New Republic discredited. What better way to accomplish that than to pin an assassination on them?
Kella briefly remembered the grisly scene in the Council Chamber. “But why kill Barayel?” she asked. “All indications were that he was going to vote no to the alliance.”
