Luke pulled a credcard from his pouch and handed it over. “Thirty seconds,” he said.
The Neimoidan half bowed again. “In anticipation of close timing, I left the turbolift on standby.” He gestured upward, to the top of the shelving directly above Luke’s head, and then he turned and ran.
Luke snorted, amused.
Mara leapt up and, with a little propulsion boost through the Force, landed, seated, on the top shelf.
What the Neimoidian had found was obvious. In his search, he had removed a ceiling panel that provided access to a series of data cables and water pipes. Spliced into one of those cables was a commercially available datapad. Mara brought out her electronics tools and got to work on it.
Luke remained at floor level. “Is it a trap?”
“Of course.” With gloves, tongs, and tools, she already had the exterior panels off the datapad. “The battery compartment has a smaller-than-standard battery, plus an explosives charge, just enough to destroy the datapad and blow your hand off.” Belatedly, she felt a little twinge of sympathy and looked down at her husband. “Oops, sorry, farmboy.”
Luke glanced at his new hand. “That sounds like a small charge from someone as dedicated to overkill as she seems to be.”
“It is.” She returned her attention to the device. “That’s because it’s backed up by poison. Trihexalon beneath a very thin layer of spray-on sealant. How nice that I didn’t touch it. I’d be dead, the bomb would go off, the rest of the poison would go gaseous, the explosion would breach the air duct, the duct would draw the gas in …”
“Economical.”
“Got it. Defused. Now …” She set the poison and explosives package aside, then swiftly cabled in her own datapad. After a brief analysis she said, “A simple intercept-and-redirect. Communications from three hundred seven-twelve alpha to three hundred seven-twelve beta are intercepted and redirected—to neg three four-thirteen.”
“Basement level three? Is that bedrock level?”
“Yes, or close to it.” Mara disconnected her datapad, restored the panel over Lumiya’s ’pad, and placed the explosives and poison package into a self-sealing container. Then, tools and container in hand, she dropped to the floor. “I think we need to see another set of quarters.”
chapter ten
The bedrock-level quarters were far less impressive than those on upper stories. The hallway walls were plascrete painted a neutral blue and otherwise undecorated; the ceilings were low; the doors were flimsy-looking metal with large package delivery slots beside them. There was a smell to this level, an inescapable odor of a chemical sanitizing agent, suggesting an attempt by management to combat the leakage of sewage or industrial runoff.
As Mara was performing her check of the electronics on the door into the suspect quarters, Luke saw two beings—a Gamorrean and a human—leaving other sets of quarters. Both were clad in blue jumpsuits emblazoned with the Zorp House apartment tower logo; they barely glanced at the Jedi before heading off toward the turbolifts.
“Looks as though this floor is mostly quarters for building workers,” Luke said.
Mara nodded. “Mostly or entirely. Which makes me wonder how Lumiya got a place here. Did she forge an ID and records, which is certainly within her capabilities, or did she bribe the building manager and it’s just a little detail he’s conveniently forgotten? Oh, here we go, stand back.” She stepped away from the doorway, and though he felt no presence of danger, Luke did likewise.
The door slid aside with a scraping noise suggesting that it needed to be realigned on its rails. The Jedi waited a moment for traps to spring, then cautiously entered.
This set of quarters wasn’t a hovel, but it was primitive. The main room, four meters by five, opened via a curtained doorway into a short hall; doors there accessed two bedrooms, a kitchen with minimal facilities, and a refresher. The walls and ceiling were the same blue as the halls outside, and the floor was covered by a thin, springy, off-white pad, scuffed here and there but clean. There was no furniture other than a sleep-mat in one bedroom and a chair in the main room.
Luke and Mara moved cautiously from room to room, inspecting every closet and cabinet, turning the chair over, unscrewing panels from walls to see if anything was hidden.
In one bedroom closet were two Zorp House apartment tower jumpsuits in Lumiya’s size. Mara paused while looking through them. Luke saw her nostrils flare, and then she pulled the garments from the closet, tossed them to the floor, and leaned in to study the back of the closet.
“Something?” Luke asked.
“A hidden panel concealing a locking mechanism. I think the whole back of the closet is a doorway. You?”
“The alert diode on the package delivery slot was disabled. Something was delivered since the last time she was here—a datacard.”
“Go ahead and run it. I’m going to be a minute or two here.”
Luke slid the unlabeled card into his datapad and watched a password prompt and a couple of lines of analysis text pop up on his screen. “Encrypted,” he said. “We’ll need to run it on a computer with some decryption muscle.”
Mara’s reply sounded like muttered swearing in Huttese. Luke didn’t know whether she was reacting to his statement or to the persistent unwillingness of the lock she was working on to be opened.
“And speaking of encryption,” he continued, “while I was getting at the datacard, I was forwarded a message by the Temple comm system. An encrypted recording from Leia.”
Mara glanced back at him, her brows up. “How is she?”
“So-so, I think. She didn’t mention Jacen shooting from the Anakin Solo and killing her bodyguards. She did mention that Han was getting back to normal from the blaster shot he sustained.”
“Good.”
“And she asked me to do something.” In a few words, he outlined Leia’s request about putting a word in Jacen’s ear regarding the Errant Venture.
Mara turned her attention to the locking mechanism as she considered. “Sounds like a good tactic. But if you do it, you’ll be conspiring with an enemy of the GA. I know how you like to keep your nose clean.”
Luke offered her a dismissive little sniff. “Han and Leia aren’t enemies of the GA—they’re suspects in an investigation. If they’re ever captured and charged, they’ll be cleared.”
“That’s true. Our justice system is particularly fair and rational these days.”
“Also, getting to the truth is always a good idea … no matter how it hurts. Besides, if you’re ever strapped for credits, you can always turn me in for the reward.”
Mara turned again to smile at him. “Luke, you always know the right thing to say.”
“I do.”
She turned back and made one final adjustment to the locking mechanism. “Ah, here we go.” There was a faint rumble from the closet and Mara abruptly bent over backward, flexible as a gymnast, catching her fall with one palm on the floor.
A dart—if a meter-long shaft of polished durasteel could be termed a dart—flew from the closet, passing over her at waist level and burying itself in the wall opposite.
Luke’s tone was exactly what he’d use to order a meal he wasn’t interested in eating. “Look out, a trap.”
“Thank you.” Mara rose.
The doorway in the back of the closet opened onto blackness and admitted warm air, pungent with the smells of Coruscant’s undercity: native and Yuuzhan Vong plant life, standing water, plascrete so old that it was going to powder in places, distant sewage.
Luke and Mara lit glowrods and entered. The access led to a utilities and repair tunnel; the Jedi explored it for thirty meters in one direction, twenty in the other, just far enough to confirm that its connections to bigger, more traveled tunnels were blocked by new plascrete plugs that looked solid but featured hatches cunningly textured to look like surrounding materials.
“Her own private means into and out of the building,” Luke said. “Chiefly as escape route, probably, since we know
she didn’t use it when she returned here after killing Master Lobi.”
“But knowing that doesn’t offer us anything.” Mara sounded annoyed. “The datacard had better give us something. Or we visit the Neimoidian and get our money back.”
CORUSCANT JEDI TEMPLE, OFFICE OF THE ALEMA RAR TASK FORCE
Curiously, considering the rigid militarism of his back-ground, Jag Fel ran his task force very informally, and there were times when Jaina was quite pleased with the fact.
Such as now. The office Luke had assigned them was large enough for several desks, floor-to-ceiling displays, and other gear. There was even room for a speeder berth, had the office been equipped with a hatch to the outside, and Jag had filled it with exercise equipment. Today both he and Zekk were shirtless, doing chin-ups, while Jaina sat at a terminal and watched them surreptitiously.
The competition—and it was a competition, though neither man would ever have admitted it—was surprisingly even.
Zekk could draw on the Force to boost his reserves of vitality, but he was taller and, though lean, heavier than Jag—it took him a trifle more effort to perform each chin-up. And he was still recovering from his wounds. Surgery, bacta, Jedi healing techniques, and simple rest had worked wonders, leaving a broad, facing scar on his torso the only visible evidence of his injury, but the damage was not entirely healed.
Jag, shorter and more compact, was in better shape, his muscles more clearly defined, and though he could not call upon the Force, he could call upon the stubbornness for which his ancestors, the Fel and Antilles clans, were both known.
Jag paused at the top of a chin-up. “So. Time has gone by and we’ve seen no sign of Alema. We’ve added our monitoring program to the security systems of the Temple, the portions of the Senate Building that would permit it, the building where the Skywalkers keep their civilian quarters, and other places where they are occasionally seen, and we haven’t seen a single flag drop. Zekk, we’re doing this all wrong.”
“We should be doing sit-ups instead?”
Jag scowled, then lowered himself and began another ten repetitions. “Jedi humor. No, that’s not what I mean.”
“He means,” Jaina said, “that Uncle Luke isn’t Alema’s current target; otherwise she’d have been detected. Meaning that Mom’s the target.”
“Ah.” Zekk finished his set, then dropped to the floor and reached for a towel. “So we track your mother down.”
Jaina shook her head. “If it were that easy, Alema would have done it already.”
Jag, grunting his way through one more group of ten—which would put him, Jaina noted, exactly and deliberately ten ahead of Zekk—nodded, finished his set, and dropped to the floor. “We need to get the monitoring software installed in places where your parents might show up. Smugglers’ havens, casinos, and trouble spots—here, around the galaxy, even on Corellia.” He paused to consider that last possibility. “I wonder if Galactic Alliance Intelligence could swing that.”
A current from the vent on the far wall carried air to Jaina, and she wrinkled her nose. “It won’t take Intelligence to figure out where that smell comes from. You both need to head to the refresher for a sanisteam. Not to put it too delicately, you stink.”
Jag looked at Zekk and gestured toward the door. “After you.”
“No, after you.”
“I’m smaller, so I stink less. A logical calculation. After you.”
Zekk frowned but—obviously seeing no way to slide past Jag’s stubbornness or superior rank—wrapped the towel around his neck and left.
Jaina sighed to herself. Zekk had declared that he was over her, but as he’d recovered, he had grown increasingly reluctant to leave her alone in Jag’s company. He didn’t need to bother. Jag clearly tolerated her only because it was his job; he had as much told her so the day Luke had assigned her to him.
And yet, since the discomfort of their first couple of meetings, he had grown less icy, his words less punitive. She wondered if he had begun to forgive her for her role in costing him—well, everything. About the only things he still possessed were his body and his skills—
—not that she hadn’t always admired both—
She stomped on that intrusive thought as though it were a bug in the kitchen. Things were finished with Zekk except for friendship, partnership. Things were finished with Jag except for professional cooperation—and, she hoped, a respect that would someday overcome the resentment he felt.
She was done with men. She was lucky in war, unlucky in love. And she was the Sword of the Jedi. It might take her a lifetime to learn what that meant, what her destiny was, and she couldn’t afford to lose her focus just because she was tempted to jump into another doomed love affair.
She became aware that Jag was still standing, waiting. “Was there something else, Colonel?” Inwardly, she winced. Even to her own ears her tone sounded dismissive—and she’d addressed him by the military rank that had been stripped from him, as if it had been her intent to rub salt into an injury.
Jag flipped his towel across his neck, his action mimicking Zekk’s, and showed her a forced smile. “Colonel. I suppose not, Jedi Solo.” He turned and strode from the room.
She rose to follow, then stopped herself. She hadn’t meant to sting him-she had inherited her mother’s sharp tongue but lacked the diplomatic skills that Leia used to keep it in check when appropriate. But perhaps it was better this way.
She needed to keep him at bay. But she didn’t want to hurt him. She didn’t know how to achieve both goals.
She didn’t even know whether she wanted to achieve both goals, or either. Sometimes she wanted to hurt him. Sometimes she didn’t want to keep him at bay.
Blast him for getting past her armor.
COMMENOR PRESIDENT’S RESIDENCE
The holotransmission was in the image of a woman—a beautiful woman, her features aristocratic and refined in the inbred Hapan fashion, almost to the point of anonymity. She’s a generic Hapan, Fyor Rodan told himself, and the startling thought made him more suspicious of her.
“Your War and Intelligence Ministers argue and delay,” the woman was saying. She shook her head in sad sympathy, sending her golden curls swaying. “Knowing that your fleet will be wiped out by the Galactic Alliance forces if they make a misstep. And that would be catastrophic. But delaying will also be disastrous. Corellia will fall soon, and then attacking would be suicide. Soon the GA will turn its attention to Commenor, to what it perceives as Corellia’s treason, and you will fall, too.”
Rodan snorted. “You’re clearly proficient at cutting through the layers of disinformation we surround ourselves with to keep people like you from taking up too much of our time, but that doesn’t make you correct in your assumptions. Yes, the government of Commenor has spoken out against Alliance aggression and for Corellian independence. That’s not an act of war—as readying a fleet would be.”
The unnamed woman gave him a slightly superior smile. “For a man, you’ve done a superb job of instituting on Commenor the kind of government you advocated for the New Republic. There are no loose turbocannons like the Jedi order rolling around on your decks. But the same caution that convinced you to keep the Jedi at bay could doom you now. Though I don’t think it will. You’re clever.”
“For a man,” he added, mockingly.
“For a man.” Her reply was straight-faced. “I’m going to do you two favors. I’m now transmitting a package of data I have obtained from my sources within the Galactic Alliance Guard. Favvio?”
The next voice belonged to someone not in the holocam view: “Transmitting, Mistress.”
Rodan forced himself not to grimace. He imagined the speaker as a Hapan drone male, his body perfectly maintained through exercise regimens for the pleasure of the woman he called Mistress, his mind stunted by the pampered life he led.
The woman continued, “These are the plans by which the GA will conquer Commenor, exactly one month after the fall of Corellia.”
“
I see,” Rodan said, keeping his voice neutral.
“Your people will analyze them and confirm their authenticity,” she continued. “Establishing my authenticity. Then, in a few days, I will transmit you the time and movements of other fleets that will be moving on Corellia. Fleets that, by themselves, perhaps cannot prevail. Fleets that, with the aid of Commenor, must prevail.”
“Thank you for your transmission, my lady,” Rodan said.
She smiled. Her image winked out.
Rodan checked his comm display to make sure that the transmission had been cut, and that the data package was intact and in his computer. Then he sat for long moments, still on the outside, vibrating on the inside.
Much of what the woman had said was true, especially the part about his ministers’ dithering. If the woman also spoke truly about the conquest plans, Rodan had to act, his ministers had to act.
“Vee-Ell Eight,” he said.
Instantly his secretary droid was beside him. “Yes, sir.”
“Transmit that datafile to the Ministers of War and Intelligence, plus to everyone on our top military analysis list. Encrypt it to top levels and attach a note saying that it must be evaluated. Then set up a meeting for me and all those parties for midday tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
STAR SYSTEM MZX32905, NEAR BIMMIEL
Lumiya waited until her medical droid was set up beside her reclining chair. She was healing well—she should be fit to return to physical activities within a few days. She was still weak, though, and wanted care to be instantly available if this task caused her to collapse.
She closed her eyes and let the dark side power that suffused the asteroid roll over her, through her.
Then she began looking, through the Force, for a distant target—a mind she had touched many times and reshaped during those contacts, a mind she had made so familiar and distinct she could find it even halfway across the galaxy.
It helped that she knew on what world the mind was to be found, but even so it was long, wearying minutes before she found it—to her inner eye it was a distinctive yellow glow, surrounded by tiny gleaming sparks of red. Fewer sparks than before; the efforts of the enemy to diminish her influence had apparently been successful in part.
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