by Timothy Zahn
“And implied that a horrible retribution would fall upon us if he’s not there when that happens,” Thrawn growled. “Yes, I know the routine well. And I’m getting rather tired of it.” He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “Very well, Captain. The next time C’baoth calls, you may inform him that the Taanab operation will be his last for the immediate future. Skywalker isn’t likely to make it to Jomark for at least two more weeks—the little pot of political confusion we’ve stirred up in the Rebellion high command should occupy him at least that long. As to Organa Solo and her unborn Jedi … you may also inform him that from now on I’ll be taking a personal hand in that matter.”
Pellaeon threw a quick glance over his shoulder, to where the Grand Admiral’s bodyguard, Rukh, stood silently near the aft bridge door. “Does that mean you’ll be taking the Noghri off the job, sir?” he asked quietly.
“Do you have a problem with that, Captain?”
“No, sir. May I respectfully remind the Grand Admiral, though, that the Noghri have never liked leaving a mission uncompleted.”
“The Noghri are servants of the Empire,” Thrawn countered coldly. “More to the point, they’re loyal to me personally. They will do as they’re told.” He paused. “However, I’ll take your concerns under advisement. At any rate, our task here at Myrkr is completed. Order General Covell to bring his force back up.”
“Yes, sir,” Pellaeon said, signaling the communications officer to relay the message.
“I’ll want the general’s report on file in three hours,” Thrawn continued. “Twelve hours after that I want his recommendations as to the three best infantry troopers and two best mechanized operators in the assault. Those five men will be transferred to the Mount Tantiss operation and given immediate transport to Wayland.”
“Understood,” Pellaeon nodded, dutifully logging the orders in Covell’s file. Such recommendations had been part of standard Imperial procedure for several weeks now, ever since the Mount Tantiss operation had begun in earnest. But Thrawn nevertheless still periodically went out of his way to mention it to his officers. Perhaps as a not-so-subtle reminder of how vitally important those recommendations were to the Grand Admiral’s sweeping plan to crush the Rebellion.
Thrawn looked out the viewport again at the planet beneath them. “And while we await the general’s return, you’ll contact Surveillance regarding that long-term team for Hyllyard City.” He smiled. “It’s a very large galaxy, Captain, but even a man like Talon Karrde can run for only so long. Eventually, he’ll have to come to rest.”
It wasn’t really deserving of its name, the High Castle of Jomark. Not in Joruus C’baoth’s estimation, anyway. Short and dirty, its stonework ill-fitting in places and as alien as the long-gone race that had built it, it squatted uneasily between two of the larger crags on what was left of an ancient volcanic cone. Still, with the rest of the rim circling around in the distance, and the brilliant blue waters of Ring Lake four hundred meters almost straight down beneath him, C’baoth could allow that the natives had at least found some good scenery to build their castle on. Their castle, or temple, or whatever. It had been a good place for a Jedi Master to move into, if only because the colonists seemed to hold the place in awe. Then too, the dark island that filled the center of the crater and gave the lake its ring shape provided a suitably hidden landing site for Thrawn’s annoyingly endless stream of shuttles.
But it was neither the scenery, nor the power, nor even the Empire that held C’baoth’s thoughts as he stood on the castle terrace and gazed down into Ring Lake. It was, instead, the strange flicker he’d just felt in the Force.
He’d felt it before, this flicker. Or at least he thought he had. Threads to the past were always so hard to follow, so easily lost in the mists and the hurryings of the present. Even of his own past he had only glimpses of memory, scenes as if from a history record. He rather thought he remembered someone trying to explain the reasons to him once, but the explanation was long gone in the darkness of the past.
It didn’t matter anyway. Memory wasn’t important; concentration wasn’t important; his own past wasn’t important. He could call upon the Force when he wanted to, and that was what was important. As long as he could do that, no one could ever hurt him or take away what he had.
Except that Grand Admiral Thrawn had already taken it away. Hadn’t he?
C’baoth looked around the terrace. Yes. Yes; this wasn’t the home and city and world he’d chosen to mold and command as his own. This wasn’t Wayland, which he’d wrested from the Dark Jedi whom the Emperor had set to guard his Mount Tantiss storehouse. This was Jomark, where he was waiting for … someone.
He stroked his fingers through his long white beard, forcing himself to concentrate. He was waiting for Luke Skywalker—that was it. Luke Skywalker was going to come to him, and Luke Skywalker’s sister and her as-yet-unborn twins, and he would turn all of them into his followers. Grand Admiral Thrawn had promised them to him, in return for his help to the Empire.
He winced at the thought. It was hard, this help that Grand Admiral Thrawn wanted. He had to concentrate hard to do what they wanted; to hold his thoughts and feelings closely in line, and for long periods at a time. On Wayland he hadn’t had to do anything like that, not since he’d fought against the Emperor’s Guardian.
He smiled. It had been a grand battle, that fight against the Guardian. But even as he tried to remember it, the details skittered away like straws in the wind. It had been too long ago.
Long ago … like these flickers in the Force had been.
C’baoth’s fingers slipped away from his beard, to the medallion nestled against the skin of his chest. Squeezing the warm metal against his palm, he fought against the mists of the past, trying to see beyond them. Yes. Yes, he was not mistaken. These same flickers had come three times before in the past few seasons. Had come, had stayed for a time, and then once again had gone dormant. Like someone who had learned how to utilize the Force for a time, but then somehow forgotten.
He didn’t understand it. But it was of no threat to him, and so wasn’t important.
Above him, he could sense now the Imperial Star Destroyer entering high orbit, far above the clouds where none of the others on Jomark would see it. When night fell, the shuttle would come, and they would take him off somewhere—Taanab, he thought—to help coordinate yet another of these multiple Imperial attacks.
He wasn’t looking forward to the effort and pain. But it would all be worth it when he had his Jedi. He would remake them in his own image, and they would be his servants and his followers all the days of their lives.
And then even Grand Admiral Thrawn would have to admit that he, Joruus C’baoth, had found the true meaning of power.
CHAPTER
2
“I’m sorry, Luke,” Wedge Antilles’ voice said over the comm, the words punctuated by occasional spittings of static. “I’ve tried every handle I can think of, including pulling all the rank I’ve got and some I haven’t. It’s still no go. Some data pusher up the riser somewhere has issued orders that the Sluissi’s own defense ships have absolute top priority for repair work. Until we can find this guy and talk him into a special dispensation, we’re not going to get anyone to touch your X-wing.”
Luke Skywalker grimaced, feeling four hours’ worth of frustration welling up in his throat. Four precious hours wasted, with the end still not in sight, while on Coruscant the future of the entire New Republic was even now teetering on the edge. “Did you get this data pusher’s name?” he asked.
“I couldn’t even get that,” Wedge said. “Every line I’ve tried has disappeared about three layers up from the mechanics themselves. I’m still trying, but this whole place has gone kind of baffy.”
“A major Imperial attack will do that to you,” Luke conceded with a sigh. He could understand why the Sluissi had set their priorities the way they had; but it wasn’t like he was just going off on a joyride, either. It was a good six-day flight fro
m here to Coruscant as it was, and every hour that he was delayed was one more hour the political forces trying to oust Admiral Ackbar would have to consolidate their position. “Keep trying, okay? I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Sure,” Wedge said. “Look, I know you’re worried about what’s happening on Coruscant. But any one person can only do so much. Even a Jedi.”
“I know,” Luke agreed reluctantly. And Han was on his way back, and Leia was already there … “I just hate sitting around being out of it.”
“Me, too.” Wedge lowered his voice a bit. “You’ve still got one other option. Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t,” Luke promised. It was certainly an option he’d been tempted to take his friend up on. But Luke wasn’t officially a member of the New Republic military anymore; and with the New Republic forces here at the shipyards still at full alert, Wedge could face an immediate court martial for handing his X-wing over to a civilian. Councilor Borsk Fey’lya and his anti-Ackbar faction might not want to bother making an example out of someone as relatively low in rank as a starfighter wing commander. But then again, they might.
Wedge, of course, knew all that better than Luke did. Which made the offer that much more generous. “I appreciate it,” Luke told him. “But unless things get really desperate, it’ll probably be better all around if I just wait for mine to get fixed.”
“Okay. How’s General Calrissian doing?”
“He’s in roughly the same boat as my X-wing,” Luke said dryly. “Every doctor and medical droid in the place is tied up treating battle injuries. Digging minor bits of metal and glass out of someone who’s not currently bleeding is kind of low on their priority list at the moment.”
“I’ll bet he’s really pleased with that.”
“I’ve seen him happier,” Luke admitted. “I’d better go give the medics another push. Why don’t you get back to prodding the Sluissi bureaucracy from your end—if we both push hard enough, maybe we can meet in the middle.”
Wedge chuckled. “Right. Talk to you later.”
With one final crackle of static, the comm cut off. “And good luck,” Luke added softly as he got up from the public-use comm desk and headed off across the Sluis Van Central reception area toward the medical corridor. If the rest of the Sluissi equipment had been damaged as much as their in-system communications, it could be a long time indeed before anyone had enough spare time to put a couple of new hyperdrive motivators into a civilians X-wing.
Still, things weren’t quite as dark as they could have been, he decided as he maneuvered his way carefully through the hurrying crowds that seemed to be going in all directions at once. There were several New Republic ships here, whose work crews might be more willing than the Sluissi themselves to bend the rules for a former officer like Luke. And if worse came to worst, he could try calling Coruscant to see if Mon Mothma could expedite matters any.
The drawback to that approach was that calling for help would probably give the appearance of weakness … and to show weakness in front of Councilor Fey’lya was not the right signal to be sending now.
Or so it seemed to him. On the other hand, showing that he could get the head of the New Republic to give him personal attention could as easily be seen instead as a sign of strength and solidarity.
Luke shook his head in mild frustration. It was, he supposed, a generally useful trait for a Jedi to be able to see both sides of an argument. It did, however, make the machinations of politics seem even murkier than they already were. Another good reason why he’d always tried to leave politics to Leia.
He could only hope that she’d be equal to this particular challenge.
The medical wing was as crowded as the rest of the huge Sluis Van Central space station, but here at least a large percentage of the inhabitants were sitting or lying quietly off to the side instead of running around. Threading his way between the chairs and parked float gurneys, Luke reached the large ward room that had been turned into a waiting area for low-priority patients. Lando Calrissian, his expression and sense hovering somewhere between impatience and boredom, was sitting off in the far corner, holding a medpack desensitizer against his chest with one hand while balancing a borrowed data pad with the other. He was scowling at the latter as Luke came up. “Bad news?” Luke asked.
“No worse than everything else that’s happened to me lately,” Lando said, dropping the data pad onto the empty chair beside him. “The price of hfredium has dropped again on the general market. If it doesn’t come up a little in the next month or two, I’m going to be out a few hundred thousand.”
“Ouch,” Luke agreed. “That’s the main product of your Nomad City complex, isn’t it?”
“One of several main products, yes,” Lando said with a grimace. “We’re diversified enough that normally it wouldn’t hurt us much. The problem is that lately I’ve been stockpiling the stuff, expecting the price to go up. Now it’s done just the opposite.”
Luke suppressed a smile. That was Lando, all right. Respectable and legitimate though he might have become, he was still not above dabbling in a little manipulative gambling on the side. “Well, if it helps any, I’ve got some good news for you. Since all the ships that the Imperials tried to steal belonged directly to the New Republic, we won’t have to go through the local Sluissi bureaucracy to get your mole miners back. It’ll just be a matter of submitting a proper claim to the Republic military commander and hauling them out of here.”
The lines in Lando’s face eased a little. “That’s great, Luke,” he said. “I really appreciate it—you have no idea what I had to go through to get hold of those mole miners in the first place. Finding replacements would be a major headache.”
Luke waved the thanks away. “Under the circumstances, it was the least we could do. Let me go over to the routing station, see if I can hurry things up a little for you. Are you finished with the data pad?”
“Sure, take it back. Anything new on your X-wing?”
“Not really,” Luke said, reaching past him to pick up the data pad. “They’re still saying it’ll take another few hours at least to—”
He caught the abrupt change in Lando’s sense a second before the other’s hand suddenly snaked up to grip his arm. “What is it?” Luke asked.
Lando was staring at nothing, his forehead furrowed with concentration as he sniffed the air. “Where were you just now?” he demanded.
“I went through the reception area to one of the public comm desks,” Luke said. Lando wasn’t just Sniffing the air, he realized suddenly: he was sniffing at Luke’s sleeve. “Why?”
Lando let Luke’s arm drop. “It’s carababba tabac,” he said slowly. “With some armudu spice mixed in. I haven’t smelled that since …” He looked up at Luke, his sense abruptly tightening even further. “It’s Niles Ferrier. Has to be.”
“Who’s Niles Ferrier?” Luke asked, feeling his heartbeat start to pick up speed. Lando’s uneasiness was contagious.
“Human—big and built sort of thick,” Lando said. “Dark hair, probably a beard, though that comes and goes. Probably smoking a long thin cigarra. No, of course he was smoking—you got some of the smoke on you. Do you remember seeing him?”
“Hang on.” Luke closed his eyes, reaching inward with the Force. Short-term memory enhancement was one of the Jedi skills he’d learned from Yoda. The pictures flowed swiftly backward in time: his walk to the medical wing, his conversation with Wedge, his hunt for a public comm desk—
And there he was. Exactly as Lando had described him, passing no more than three meters away. “Got him,” he told Lando, freezing the picture in his memory.
“Where’s he going?”
“Uh …” Luke replayed the memory forward again. The man wandered in and out of his field of vision for a minute, eventually disappearing entirely as Luke found the comm desks he’d been hunting for. “Looks like he and a couple of others were heading for Corridor Six.”
Lando had punched up a station schematic o
n the data pad. “Corridor Six … blast.” He stood up, dropping both the data pad and the desensitizer onto his chair. “Come on, we’d better go check this out.”
“Check what out?” Luke asked, taking a long step to catch up as Lando hurried off through the maze of waiting patients to the door. “Who is this Niles Ferrier, anyway?”
“He’s one of the best spaceship thieves in the galaxy,” Lando threw over his shoulder. “And Corridor Six leads to one of the staging areas for the repair teams. We’d better get out there before he palms a Corellian gunship or something and flies off with it.”
They made their way through the reception area and under the archway labeled “Corridor Six” in both delicate Sluissi carioglyphs and the blockier Basic letters. Here, to Luke’s surprise, the crowds of people that seemed to be everywhere else had dropped off to barely a trickle. By the time they’d gone a hundred meters along the corridor, he and Lando were alone.
“You did say this was one of the repair staging areas, didn’t you?” he asked, reaching out with Jedi senses as they walked. The lights and equipment in the offices and workrooms around them seemed to be functioning properly, and he could sense a handful of droids moving busily about their business. But apart from that the place seemed to be deserted.
“Yes, I did,” Lando said grimly. “The schematic said Corridors Five and Three are also being used, but there ought to be enough traffic to keep this one busy, too. I don’t suppose you have a spare blaster on you?”
Luke shook his head. “I don’t carry a blaster anymore. Do you think we should call station security?”
“Not if we want to find out what Ferrier’s up to. He’ll be all through the station computer and comm system by now—call security and he’ll just pull out and disappear back under a rock somewhere.” He peered into one of the open office doorways as they passed it. “This is vintage Ferrier, all right. One of his favorite tricks is to fiddle work orders to route everyone out of the area he wants to—”
