Shield of Lies
By Michael P. Kube-McDowell
Black Fleet Crisis - Book 2
Black Fleet Crisis
01 - Before the Storm
02 - Shield of Lies
03 - Tyrant’s Test
Dedication
For Matt, Amanda, and Gwen,
in gratitude for
their love, support, and understanding.
And for all the twelve-year-olds
everywhere and anywhen
who, like me,
believed they would journey into space someday—
most especially for those who really did,
and for those who still believe.
Acknowledgments
The STAR WARS universe has been so greatly expanded and enriched in the years since Return of the Jedi appeared that even the best-intentioned of us can hardly hope to master all its details unaided.
I’m therefore grateful for the assistance of the many writers and fans in the extended STAR WARS community online—on Genie, CompuServe, and the Internet—who took the time to answer (and even undertook to research) my questions. In particular, Kevin J. Anderson, Roger MacBride Allen, Matt Hart, Robert A. Cashman, Laurie Burns, Jim Fisher, Cathy Bowden, Tim O’Brien, Wm. Paul Sudlow, and Steve Ozmanski each added at least one page of helpful facts to my reference binder this time around.
Other invaluable references included Bill Slavicsek’s A Guide to the Star Wars Universe, Shane Johnson’s Star Wars Technical Journal, Dan Wallace’s planet research, and the various timelines, lexicons, and concordances provided me by Sue Rostoni of Lucasfilm, Ltd., and Tom Dupree at Bantam.
Once again, I owe a great debt of thanks to my family and first readers, all of whom made sacrifices so that I could devote my time and attention to this project. Without Gwen, Matt, Amanda, Arlyn, and Rod aiding and abetting the effort, this book would still be a work in progress, and my editor and agent would have even more gray hair than I’ve already given them.
Finally, I remain grateful to George Lucas for giving me a chance to add a few pages to the continuing saga of the STAR WARS universe. It’s been a pleasure and a privilege to serve as a de facto historian for the maturing New Republic and biographer for some of its legendary figures.
—Michael Paul McDowell
February 6, 1996
Okemos, Michigan
Dramatis Personae
On Coruscant, capital of the New Republic:
Princess Leia Organa Solo, president of the Senate and chief of state of the New Republic
Alole, aide to Leia
General Han Solo, on detached duty
Admiral Hiram Drayson, chief of Alpha Blue
General Carlist Rieekan, head of New Republic Intelligence
First Administrator Nanaod Engh, administrative director of the New Republic
Senator Behn-Kihl-Nahm, chairman of the Defense Council and friend and mentor to Leia
Senator Tolik Yar of Oolidi
Senator Tig Peramis of Walalla
Senator Cion Marook of Hrasskis
Ayddar Nylykerka, chief analyst for the Asset Tracking Office, Fleet Intelligence
Plat Mallar, sole survivor of the Yevethan raid on Polneye
Belezaboth Ourn, extraordinary consul of the Paqwepori
With the Fifth Battle Group of the New Republic Defense Fleet, in Farlax Sector:
General Etahn A’baht, Fleet commander
Captain Morano, commander of the Fifth Fleet flagship Intrepid
Esege “Tuke” Tuketu, K-wing bomber pilot
With the Teljkon Task Force:
General Lando Calrissian, Fleet liaison to the expedition
Lobot, chief administrator of Cloud City, on vacation
See-Threepio, protocol droid
Artoo-Detoo, astromech droid
Colonel Pakkpekatt, expedition commander, New Republic Intelligence
Captain Bijo Hammax, foray commander
On N’zoth, spawnworld of the Yevetha, in the Koornacht Cluster, Farlax Sector:
Nil Spaar, viceroy of the Yevethan Protectorate
Eri Palle, aide to Nil Spaar
Vor Duull, proctor of information science for the viceroy
Outbound from Lucazec in the skiff Mud Sloth:
Luke Skywalker, a Jedi Master
Akanah, an adept of the White Current
On Kashyyyk, homeworld of the Wookiees:
Chewbacca, attending coming-of-age ceremonies for his son Lumpawarump
Part I: Lando
Chapter One
The Teljkon vagabond was on the run once more. But this time, there were hitchhikers aboard.
“Hyperspace?” See-Threepio echoed in a dismayed tone as he struggled to free himself. The droid’s limbs were tangled up with Lobot, R2-D2, and the equipment sled in one corner of the vagabond’s airlock—a chamber that had suddenly become a spacegoing prison. “You must be mistaken, Master Lobot.”
“I am not mistaken,” said Lobot, pushing a flailing golden leg away from his faceplate. “All my data links terminated at the same moment, in exactly the same manner I associate with a hyperspace jump.”
“There was a course change, too, during the acceleration,” Lando said from the opposite corner of the lock. He flexed his ungloved right hand, trying to drive the bone-chilling cold from his aching fingers.
“Master Lando!” See-Threepio cried in his most plaintive voice. “Can’t you make it stop?”
“I didn’t make it start, Threepio,” Lando snapped.
“With all respect, Master Lando, you most certainly did,” Threepio said huffily. “Now, you just reach back in that hole and undo whatever you did, and quickly, too. Colonel Pakkpekatt will be most upset with us for running off with his starship.”
“Colonel Pakkpekatt is probably inventing new words in Hortek right now,” said Lando. “But at least he’s on a ship that he can boss. We’re not. Any damage over there? Lobot? Artoo-Detoo?”
The little astromech droid emerged from the jumble of bodies and chirped once.
“Artoo-Detoo reports that all his systems are operational,” said Threepio.
“I’m uninjured, Lando,” said Lobot. “My suit took the impact of the equipment sled. But my data links are still all down, and I am finding it disorienting.”
Lando nodded. “Artoo, can you help Lobot out?”
Rotating in midair with the aid of its microthrusters, the droid chittered disagreeably.
“Don’t be rude,” Threepio chided.
“What’s going on?”
“Master Lando, Artoo says that he prefers to keep his systems private.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like telepaths, either, Artoo,” said Lando. “But I’d sure like to be able to think at the colonel right now. Give Lobot a link to your event log. There might be something in there we can use to figure out what happened. Does anyone see my right glove?”
Lobot was clinging with one hand to the equipment sled. “I think your glove blew out the airlock in the decompression.”
“Just perfect.” Lando looked at his purpled hand, then at the inflated wrist cuff that was keeping his suit sealed. “What’s the pressure in here now?”
“Six hundred forty millibars,” said Lobot. “Repressurization began after the entry sealed.”
“Repressurization? That’s interesting. From where?” Lando craned his head and looked at the seamless, featureless bulkheads. “Artoo, see if you can find the vents.”
The droid acknowledged the order with a beep and rose to begin cruising along the bulkheads at close range.
“All right—here’s the way it looks to me,” said Lando. “We’re no longer invited guests and welcome visitors. She shook off Lady Luck and tried to sp
it us out. Probably would have succeeded if she hadn’t been trying to run away from the task force at the same time.”
“Which raises a question,” said Lobot. “Why didn’t she know?”
“I’m listening.”
“It appears to be a misjudgment. Two defense routines were activated without consideration of their combined effect. The repressurization of this compartment appears to be another inconsistency.”
“Do you have an explanation?”
“These events suggest to me that the ship is either under the control of systems with limited intelligence, or under the control of beings with limited intelligence.” When he saw Lando’s expression, Lobot added, “At this point, it’s not possible to distinguish between those possibilities.”
“Maybe if we figure that out, we’ll know something that can help us get on top here,” said Lando. “I’m sure of this much—that lock closed because of the jump, not as any favor to us. We’re not wanted here. And if we’re not clear of this compartment by the time the vagabond leaves hyperspace, I don’t think too much of our chances.”
“Master Lando, I am certain Colonel Pakkpekatt and the armada are pursuing us,” said Threepio. “The sooner we leave hyperspace, the sooner they can rescue us.”
“Yeah, they’re going to be looking for us,” said Lando. “But finding us—we could pop out five light-years from where we were, or fifty, or five hundred. And normal evasive tactics would call for an immediate course change, then another jump. Once that happens, you might as well be playing hide-and-seek with the Ewoks on Endor.”
“But, Master Lando—there must be some way they can rescue us. Surely they wouldn’t abandon us. If they do not come for us, we are all doomed to perish as prisoners, lost in space—”
“Threepio, we can’t afford to wait for them.” Lando tapped his faceplate to remind the droid why. “The chrono’s already moving. Lobot and I could be dead before this ship even decides to leave hyperspace. That’s why we have to act now. We can’t count on any help from the armada, unless we can figure out some way to give them some help finding us first. Until then, we’re on our own.”
Threepio raised his arms and his voice together. “We apologize,” he called to the ship. “Please, believe me, I never meant to harm anyone—”
“Shut up, Threepio.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lando,” said Lobot.
“What?”
“It couldn’t hurt,” said Lobot. “Someone might be listening.”
Lando frowned. “As far as this ship is concerned, we’re pirates, burglars, tomb-robbers, or worse. Not too likely they’ll forget that just because we suddenly develop better manners after breaking down the front door.”
“The probability of success may be low,” said Lobot. “But diplomatic words are the tool Threepio is best equipped to wield. And perhaps an apology will prove to be the key that will open the next door.”
Sighing, Lando waved his gloved hand toward See-Threepio. “All right. But, Threepio, a little dignity, please.”
“Of course, Master Lando,” the droid said, a hint of defensiveness in his tone. “I am programmed to conduct myself in a dignified manner at all times. Why, it’s one of the fundamental principles of etiquette and protocol—”
“Right,” Lando said, cutting him short. “Just get to it. We have no idea how much time we have. Use the secondary comm channel so Lobot and I can still hear each other.”
“Very well, Master Lando,” Threepio said, then seemingly fell silent.
“Lobot, you have access to Artoo’s event log?”
“Yes, Lando.”
“See if you can figure out our new heading from his gyro and accelerometer readings leading up to the jump. Maybe that, plus Artoo’s astrographic database, can tell us something about how much time we have—”
New Republic ferret IX-26 came out of hyperspace close enough to its destination for the planet to fill most of the forward viewscreen.
“Check the coordinates,” Kroddok Stopa ordered, frowning. “Absolute reference.”
“The astrogator says forty-four, one-niner-six, two-one-oh.” The pilot spun the index wheel on the ship’s log with a swipe of his palm. “Yeah, that’s what you gave me.”
“Those numbers came directly from the Third General Survey.” Stopa pointed at the astrogation display. “But if I’m reading your board correctly, it says that this planet is Maltha Obex. That’s a Tobek name.”
The pilot cocked his head toward the astrogator. “Maltha Obex, that’s right.”
Stopa, expedition chief for the Obroan Institute’s mission to Qella, shook his head as he studied the data coming in from IX-26’s sensors. “My stars. What happened here?”
Glancing up at the viewscreen, the pilot said, “Why, what d’ya mean? Looks just like ten thousand other iceballs.”
Josala Krenn, the other half of the Obroan expedition, moved forward from her station. “That’s just it. The Three-GS survey mission reported this as a temperate world. It had a population of seven million and a primary ecosystem rated provisionally at complexity two.”
Shaking his head, the pilot said dryly, “We must have missed the summer season.”
“That was expected,” Stopa said. “When the Three-GS contact mission came here, they found a third of the landmass glaciated.” He left unspoken that the contact team had found the planet dead, the Qella civilization in ruins.
“When the Tobek came, they must have thought this world was theirs for the taking, and gave it a claiming name,” said Josala.
“What difference does the name make? This is where you wanted to be, right? What am I missing?”
“The last Three-GS contact was a hundred and fifty-eight years ago,” Stopa said. “The planet should have begun its recovery by now.”
“I still don’t see the problem.”
“Yes, you do,” Josala said. “The problem’s all we can see. The problem is the ice.”
“Try me again.”
Josala sighed. “Where’d you pick us up?”
“Babali,” the pilot said. “Wait—you don’t have ice drills? Snow shelter? Cold suits?”
“Babali’s a tropical dig. For some reason, ice drills weren’t on the equipment list,” said Josala wryly. “Our rover isn’t even rated for this kind of weather.”
The pilot whistled sympathetically. “Now I see the problem. But why’d they send you, then?”
“We were the best solution to a two-variable equation,” said Josala. “The nearest bioarchaeologist and the fastest available transportation.”
“It is not all bad,” Stopa said thoughtfully. “We were sent here to recover biological samples. The glaciation virtually ensures that good samples still exist to be recovered.”
“Unless what triggered this climatic episode was a dirty war—with incendiaries, or surface-burst weapons,” Josala pointed out.
“Not much atmosphere left, but I can drop a probe to take a sniff,” said the pilot. “We ought to be able to settle that question pretty quickly.”
“No,” said Stopa. “Put us in a mapping orbit. Let’s have a look at the other side. We only need one landing site—a few grams of material. There could be a geothermal field, or some other sort of hot spot—a warm current from a deep vent, perhaps, that kept a portion of some seacoast ice-free. If so, surely the Qella would have fled there before the end.”
“You don’t expect to find anyone alive, do you? Look at the surface temperature readings.”
“No, not alive,” Stopa said. “But I would be grateful for a single corpse that is not buried under three hundred meters of ice.”
“Mapping orbit it is,” said the pilot, reaching for the controls. “Maltha Obex, here we come.”
“Qella,” Josala amended quietly. “If at least a little bit of this planet doesn’t still belong to the Qella, we’re going to be a big disappointment to the folks who sent us here.”
From the close vantage of a standard mapping orbit,
Qella’s face proved no more inviting. The land was blanketed in ice to a depth of up to a kilometer, while the shrunken oceans, too salty to freeze, were thick with bergs and growlers.
“That’s it,” said Stopa, studying the data from the final pass. “Some of the Qella might have tried to live on the ice—we might get lucky and find their remains only fifty or a hundred meters down. It’s something we can work on while we’re waiting for reinforcements. But we have to assume the worst, and call for help.”
“Maybe we can get Dr. Eckels’s team,” said Josala. “They were supposed to be finished with the Hoth excavation by now.”
“We can try. Open a hypercomm link to the Obroan Institute,” Stopa said.
“Ready,” said the pilot.
“This is Dr. Kroddok Stopa, verification code alpha-eager-four-four-two. I want Supply and Dispatch in on this call.”
“Done. Go ahead, Doctor.”
“I have an urgent requisition for additional equipment and staff for my current assignment.” Stopa quickly rattled off the detailed list he had composed. “Have all that?”
“Supply here—I have it. We’ll get working on it right away.”
“We also need a crack cold-site team out here. Is Dr. Eckels’s Hoth crew available?”
“They reported back yesterday. I don’t know what their status is,” said the dispatcher. “But I’ll send this up to the committee right away, and get you an answer pronto.”
“Assuming that they are available, what’s your best estimate of when we see them and the gear out here?”
“If we can push the turnaround on Penga Rift and get the team and gear aboard by midnight—you’re looking at sixteen standard days. Add on hour-for-hour for any delays getting off.”
“Is anything faster than Penga Rift available?”
Shield of Lies Page 1
