Star Wars - Black Fleet Crisis - Shield Of Lies

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  "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

  al-pha-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 are looking at sixteen standard days. Add on

  hour-for-hour for any delays getting off."

  "Is anything faster than Penga Rift available?"

  "Not under institute registry--sorry."

  "Explore other options," Stopa said shortly. "This has the highest

  priority. Stopa out." He signaled the pilot to end the link. "Now

  you'd better get me Krenjsh at New Republic Intelligence. They need to

  know there'll be a delay getting them what they asked for."

  There was little talking among the quartet trapped in the vagabond's

  airlock. Everyone had a job to do.

  Artoo searched for the inflow vents, while Threepio made entreaties to

  the vagabond's masters. Lobot analyzed the acceleration and

  astrographic data while he inventoried the equipment on the equipment

  sled. And Lando returned to the control handle in the corner of the

  compartment to see if it would respond to him.

  The handle proved immovable, and Lando's touch alone elicited no

  detectable response from the ship. But through his efforts, he

  realized that his bare hand was puffy, stiff, and aching--the pressure

  from the wrist collar was compounding the damage done by the

  decompression.

  "Do we have any sample bags?" Lando asked, returning to where Lobot

  and the equipment sled floated.

  "Yes. Six small, six large, and two capsules of freeform sheet gel."

  "The bags--they're self-sealing, right?"

  "Yes, Lando." He paused. "I'm sorry--I don't have any more

  information. Do amnesiacs know that there are things they cannot

  remember? If so, then I know how it feels to have amnesia. What I

  know best is making links and browsing for information. I do not seem

  to have much other expertise."

  "Save the self-examination for another time," said Lando. "Grab one of

  those small sample bags and see if we can't improvise a mitten for

  me."

  Before long, they managed to attach the mouth of the sample bag above

  the wrist lock for the missing gauntlet. By squeezing the locking

  pins, Lando was able to make the wrist cuff relax. Almost immediately

  the swelling in his fingers began to subside.

  "I do not know if the bag or the adhesive is strong enough to withstand

  another depressurization," said Lobot.

  "I'm not counting on that," Lando said. "I just don't want to lose

  consumables, or the use of my hand.

  The odds are bad enough already. Did you get anything out of Artoo's

  data?"

  "I believe I have our heading prior to the jump to within half a

  degree," Lobot said, then rattled off the numbers. "I apologize for

  the imprecision."

  "That would put us on a course toward Sector One-Five-One," Lando

  said.

  "Yes. The boundary is eight light-years from our original position."

  "Is there anyone out in 'Fifty-One who might be able to help us?"

  "I'm sorry," said Lobot. "Artoo has navigational data only. There is

  no geopolitical or sociological data."

  Lando nodded. "Stop apologizing for what you can't give me. We

  haven't the time to spare. How far is this road open?"

  "The imprecision of the heading becomes more significant the farther

  out we lo ok, of course," said Lobot.

  "The nearest body that is close enough to the center flight path and

  has a large enough gravity shadow to force a ship out of hyperspace is

  forty-one-point-five-three light-years away."

  Frowning, Lando said, "That doesn't help me much. Turn the question

  around--how far to the spot along this flight path that's the farthest

  from everything else?"

  Lobot closed his eyes and concentrated. But the answer came from

  Artoo-Detoo as a long series of beeps and chirps.

  "Artoo says that in twelve-point-nine light-years, this vessel will

  enter the most isolated region along this flight path," Threepio

  offered. "At that point, there will be no charted bodies larger than a

  class five comet for nearly nine light-years in any direction."

  "Sounds like a good place to make a course change," said Lando. "And

  far enough out to give us a little time to work with."

  "But we do not know how fast this vessel is capable of traveling in

  hyperspac
e," Lobot pointed out. "That region could be twelve hours

  away, or eight, or six--or even fewer. The conventional upper limit on

  hyperspace velocity may be technological rather than theoretical.

  And there's something else--" "What?"

  "If we do clear that gravity shadow forty-one light-years from here,

  we'll be heading straight for the border of the New Republic, in the

  general direction of Phracas, in the Core."

  "All the more reason not to just stand around waiting," said Lando.

  "Artoo, what did you find?"

  Artoo beeped, and Threepio translated. "Master Lando, Artoo says that

  there are no inflow vents anywhere in this chamber."

  "What? Then how was this chamber repressurized?"

  "According to Artoo, the atmospheric gases are passing through the

  bulkheads molecule by molecule. He says that most of the surface area

  of the compartment is involved."

  "Let me get this straight--these bulkheads are porous?"

  Artoo chittered, and Threepio offered the answer.

  "No, Master Lando. Artoo says that molecules of gas simply appear on

  the surface."

  "Curious," said Lobot. "I wonder if the bulkheads could be actually

  producing the gas."

  "Artoo, is there any area that's more involved with this process than

  the rest?" asked Lando.

  The little droid jetted down to the center of the chamber and

  illuminated a band across the inner bulkhead with a beam of orange

  light from his holographic projector.

  "Got it. Threepio, give me a report on your progress."

  The golden droid cocked his head. "Sir, so far I have hailed the

  masters of this vessel in eleven thousand, four hundred sixty-three

  languages, offering our abject apologies and asking for their

  assistance. There has been no reply on any band I am capable of

  detecting."

  "Do those six million languages of yours happen to include the

  Qella?"

  "Alas, Master Lando, they do not."

  "Do you have any information at all about the Qella language? Maybe

  it's related to some other language you are fluent in--the way that if

  you know rock, you can almost get along in Thobek or Wehttam."

  "I'm sorry, Master Lando. I am completely at a lOSS."

  "What about matching up geographically?"

  "Sir, it is a standard first contact procedure to attempt contact with

  regional languages when the native language is unknown," Threepio said

  with a note of indignation.

  "I began with the eight hundred seventy-three languages spoken in the

  sector where Qella is located, and continued with the three thousand,

  two hundred seven languages with direct links to those linguistic

  families."

  "And now you're just going A to Z on the rest?"

  "I am continuing by astrographic proximity."

  "How long will it take you to try them all?"

  "Master Lando, by reducing the wait time to the minimum specified by my

  protocols, I will be able to complete the initial series in

  four-point-two standard days."

  "That's about what I figured," said Lando. "Lobot, dig out the cutting

  blaster. We're going to have to make our own door."

  With a grim expression on his face, Admiral Hiram Drayson sat on the

  edge of his desk and studied the final contact report from Colonel

  Pakkpekatt at Gmir As-kilon.

  The recordings from the spotter ships were dramatic and alarming.

  Moments before the vagabond broke away, a ring of six rounded

  bumps--accumulator nodes or beam radiators, Drayson thought--appeared

  at the forward end of the ship. A fierce blue light began to dance

  over the bow.

  Moments later, twin beams of energy shot out from two of the nodes and

  scissored back through the gap between the vagabond and Lady Luck,

  slicing them apart. Another pair of beams knifed out from two other

  nodes and carved through the interdiction generator on the underbelly

  of the picket Kauri. The blowback surge from the fully charged

  generator destroyed Kauri's power compartment and left the ship afire

  and dead in space.

  The instant Kauri was neutralized, the vagabond began to move, turning

  away from Lady Luck and accelerating out past the disabled picket's

  position, well clear of the remaining interdictors. Just forty-two

  seconds after it began, it was over, the vagabond vanishing into the

  center of a hyperspace cone.

  The final tally for the contact One drone ferret destroyed.

  One interdiction picket disabled and abandoned, with twenty-six

  casualties, including six fatalities in the power compartment.

  One yacht recovered and returned to a mooring on Glorious's hull,

  undamaged except for the primary air-lock.

  One successful boarding of the target.

  One successful escape by the target.

  One expedition armada scattered across space, with four ships in

  pursuit of the target and the others pulling ambulance or cleanup

  duty.

  And, most troubling of all to Drayson, one contact suit gauntlet

  recovered in the debris--right hand, in Lando's size.

  The report contained some positive information as well. It was beyond

  dispute now that the vagabond's weapons were compound--the intersection

  of two or more beams did the damage, probably through some sort of

  harmonic resonance. Unless there were more weapon nodes concealed

  amidships, it seemed as though six targets were all the vagabond could

  handle. Possibly as few as four ships, properly spaced, might

  overwhelm its defenses.

  But first Pakkpekatt would have to find the vagabond again--a task that

  had taken two years the last time.

  Drayson called up the chart of the pursuit and studied it closely.

  Three ships were racing for search stations along the vagabond's last

  heading Lightning ten light-years out, Glorious twenty, and Marauder

  thirty. The improvised plan called for them to drop sensor buoys with

  hypercomm repeaters at those entry points and then begin making short

  jumps out to the limits of sensor range, hoping to catch a glimpse of

  their quarry.

  The precision of the plan did not mask its weak-ness--its slim chance

  of success depended on the vagabond's making a single short jump. If

  it followed a short jump with a second jump on another heading, where

  there were no eyes to see or sensors to track--or if it carried the

  first jump out fifty, a hundred, five hundred light-years, beyond the

  borders of the New Republic and into the chaos of the Core-Drayson knew

  that Colonel Pakkpekatt had addressed an urgent appeal for more ships

  to both New Republic Intelligence and the Fleet Office before Glorious

  jumped out from Gmir Askilon. He also knew the likely answer to that

  appeal.

  "The only real chance for us to catch her lies with you, Lando,"

  Drayson said softly. "You must help us find you."

  But it was not Drayson's way to abandon someone he had sent into

  danger. His fingers danced over his controller, bringing an inventory

  of Alpha Blue's assets in Sector 151 to the screen. There might be

  little he could

  Shield of Lies 17

  do, but he would do what he
could. And there was always some way to

  alter the odds.

  The habits of the Senate's Council on Security and Intelligence were

  not unlike those of the institutions over which it reigned. It

  announced no meetings, released no public reports, and met only in

  closed session in the field-shielded Room 030, deep in the subbasements

  of the old Imperial Palace.

  So earnestly secretive were the seven sitting members that, in

  Coruscant's own dialect of Basic, the phrase "CSI agenda" had become a

  benchmark for the unattainable, the impossible item on a scavenger

  hunt. Discouraged suitors would despair that they had "a better chance

  of taking a CSI agenda home." Subordinates handed a daunting task

  could comfort themselves with the thought It could be worse he could

  want a CSI agenda, too.

  Even Drayson found it difficult to discover when the CSI would take up

  Pakkpekatt's request. And when he finally did learn about that

  session, it was too late to find a way to listen in.

  "Last item on the agenda is the Teljkon expedition," said General