Specter of the Past

by Timothy Zahn

  Pellaeon glanced back at Tierce. But after that maybe-twitch the major’s face had gone impassive, giving no clue to his thoughts. “I’m still open to suggestions, Your Excellency.”

  “You already know my suggestions, Admiral,” Disra bit out. “To send in teams to help foment the rising tide of interplanetary and intersector conflict within the New Republic. To use this cloaking shield of yours to plant forces where they’ll be able to take full advantage of such clashes. To expand our military forces wherever and however we can, using whatever means are available.”

  Pellaeon felt his lip twist. They’d been over this same ground time and again. “We are the Imperial Fleet,” he told Disra stiffly. “We do not hire mercenaries and pirate gangs from the fringe to fight our battles for us.”

  “I suggest you reread your history, Admiral,” Disra shot back. “The Empire has always made use of such scum. Moffs have hired them, so have Grand Moffs—even the Lord Darth Vader himself, when it suited his purposes. And so have the senior officers of your precious and righteously upstanding Fleet. Don’t come on all over-sanctimonious with me.” He flicked his fingers impatiently. “I’m quite busy, Admiral, and you have groveling to prepare for. Was there something you wanted?”

  “One or two things, yes,” Pellaeon said, making a supreme effort to hold on to his temper. “I wanted to talk to you about those SoroSuub Preybirds you’ve been supplying to the Fleet.”

  “Yes,” Disra said, leaning back in his chair. “Excellent little starfighters, aren’t they? Not quite the same psychological presence as TIE fighters, perhaps, but perfectly adequate in their own way.”

  “Adequate enough that I wondered why we hadn’t seen more of them over the years,” Pellaeon said. “So I did some checking. It turns out that SoroSuub never really got the Preybird project going, but wound up shutting down the line after only a few production models. Which leads to an interesting question: where are you getting them from?”

  “I don’t see why the source should matter to anyone, Admiral,” Disra said. “As long as they show the traditional SoroSuub quality—”

  “I want to know who the Empire is doing business with,” Pellaeon cut him off. “Who I am doing business with.”

  Under the silver eyebrows, Disra’s eyes seemed to flash. “A group of private investors bought up the Preybird production line and restarted it,” he growled. “I have a business agreement with them.”

  “Their names and systems?”

  “It’s a group of private investors,” Disra repeated, enunciating the words carefully as if talking to a young child.

  “I don’t care,” Pellaeon said, matching the other’s tone. “I want their names, their home systems, and their corporate connections. And the means you’re using to finance this deal.”

  Disra drew himself up. “Are you suggesting there’s anything improper about any of this?”

  “No, of course not.” Pointedly, Pellaeon let his gaze sweep across the room. “Certainly a man of your obvious means has access to a great number of financial resources.” He looked back at the Moff. “I merely wish to make sure the entire Empire is benefiting from the deal.”

  He’d rather expected Disra to take offense at that. But the Moff merely smiled. “Rest assured, Admiral,” he said softly. “The entire Empire will indeed benefit.”

  Pellaeon stared at him, feeling a slight frown creasing his forehead. There was something in that expression he didn’t care for at all. Something ambitious, and vaguely sinister. “I want the names of your investment group.”

  “I’ll have the list transmitted to the Chimaera,” Disra promised. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Major Tierce and I have work to do.”

  “Of course,” Pellaeon said, trying to put a touch of condescension into his voice. The Supreme Commander of Imperial forces should not leave the impression that he could be summarily dismissed that way. Not even by a Moff. Not unless he himself chose to go. “Good day, Your Excellency.”

  He turned and headed back toward the double doors. Yes, he would have Intelligence look into the names of Disra’s private investment group, all right—he’d put Commander Dreyf and his team on it immediately. And while he was at it, he’d have them look into the Moff’s personal finances as well. There might be some very interesting connections there to be dug up.

  But in the meantime, he had a diplomatic mission to prepare. And, with luck, a war to bring to an end.

  The double doors closed behind Pellaeon, and for a moment Disra permitted his face to show a small portion of the contempt he felt for the departing Admiral. Contempt for Pellaeon as a man and an Imperial officer. Contempt for his inability to win against this motley collection of alien-loving Rebels. Contempt for his faceless attitude of appeasement.

  The moment passed. There were more pressing matters to deal with right now, matters that required a clear mind. Besides, if things went as planned Pellaeon would very soon be reduced to an irrelevancy. Swiveling his chair halfway around, he peered up at Major Tierce. “Interesting conversation, wouldn’t you say, Major?” he inquired mildly. “Tell me, what were your impressions?”

  With obvious effort, Tierce dragged his eyes from the doors where Pellaeon had exited. “I’m sorry, Your Excellency, but I really don’t know,” he said. His shoulders were curled slightly with the humility of a man who knows his limits, his expression earnest but simple. “I’m just a Fleet adjutant. I don’t know much about these political things.”

  It was an extremely competent bit of role-acting, Disra had to admit, one which had apparently fooled dozens of civilian and military commanders over the past fifteen years, including Disra himself. But he knew better now … and the performance was about to come to an abrupt end. “I see,” Disra said. “Well, then, let’s leave politics out of it and have the military opinion of a military officer. You heard my suggestions as to how the Empire can avoid this capitulation the Admiral seems to want so badly. Comments?”

  “Well, Your Excellency, Admiral Pellaeon is the Supreme Commander,” Tierce said reluctantly. The stolid expression was still there, but Disra could now see a hint of tightening around the eyes. Did he suspect that Disra knew? Probably not. Not that it mattered. “I would presume he knows best our strategic situation,” Tierce went on. “Again, I’m afraid my own knowledge of grand strategy is also very limited.”

  “Ah.” Disra shook his head, reaching down to the side of the desk to touch the personal-coded switch grown into the ivrooy there. There was a click, and the hidden drawer built into the bottom of the writing surface slid open. “You disappoint me, Major,” he said, fingers ruffling through the half-dozen datacards there, his eyes steady on Tierce’s face. “I would have assumed the Emperor would have insisted on only the best.”

  No mistake this time: Tierce’s eyes definitely tightened. But he wasn’t ready yet to give up the charade. “The Emperor, Your Excellency?” he asked, blinking with bewilderment.

  “Only the best,” Disra repeated, selecting one of the datacards and holding it up for Tierce’s inspection, “to serve in his Royal Guard.”

  Disra had expected the other to pull a burst of surprise or bewilderment from his acting repertoire. But Tierce just stood there, his eyes locked on Disra’s twinlike turbolaser batteries. Disra held the gaze, forcing back a sudden twinge of doubt. If he’d miscalculated—if Tierce decided his continued anonymity was important enough to murder an Imperial Moff for—

  Tierce exhaled softly, the hiss of a poisonous snake. “I suppose there’s no point in making loud noises of protest, is there?” he said. He straightened up from his usual slouch—

  And Disra found himself pressing involuntarily back in his chair. Suddenly the diffident and marginally competent Major Tierce who’d served as his military aide for eight months was gone.

  In his place stood a warrior.

  Disra had once heard it said that a discerning person could always recognize an Imperial stormtrooper or Royal Guardsman, whether he stood before you i
n full armor or lay dying on a sickbed. He’d always discounted such things as childish myths. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  “How did you identify me?” Tierce asked into the silence.

  It took Disra another moment to find his voice. “I did a search of the main Imperial records library after it was moved here to Bastion,” he said. “Duplicates of the Emperor’s private records are also stored there. I was able to find a way to access them.”

  Tierce lifted an eyebrow. “Really. Those files were supposed to be absolutely secure.”

  “There’s no such thing as absolute security,” Disra said.

  “Apparently not,” Tierce said. “Well. What now?”

  “Not what you’re expecting,” Disra assured him. “I have no intention of denouncing you as a deserter or whatever it is you’re worried about, even presuming I could find anyone with the appropriate authority to denounce you to. The Empire can hardly afford to waste its best people.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Speaking of which, I have to ask. How did you escape the destruction of the second Death Star?”

  Tierce shrugged, a fractional lift of the shoulders. “For the simple reason that I wasn’t there. We of the Royal Guard were periodically rotated to regular stormtrooper units to keep us in fighting trim. I was on Magagran at the time, out in the Outer Rim, helping to break up a Rebel cell.”

  “And the rest of your unit was destroyed?”

  “By a single Rebel cell?” Tierce snorted contemptuously. “Hardly. No, we completed our mission and were ordered back. There were all sorts of rumors raging around at the time as to whether or not the Emperor had died at Endor, so as soon as we got within range of Coruscant I jumped ship and went to see if there was anything I could do to salvage the situation.”

  Disra felt his lip twist. “I remember those months. Pure chaos, with the Rebels gathering pieces that might as well have been handed to them on serving trays.”

  “Yes,” Tierce said, his voice and face bitter. “It was as if the whole Empire was unraveling from the top down.”

  “Perhaps it was,” Disra agreed. “Pellaeon mentioned once that Grand Admiral Thrawn had a theory about that.”

  “Yes: that the Emperor had been using the Force to drive his troops,” Tierce said. “I remember similar discussions aboard the Chimaera. Perhaps he was right.”

  Disra frowned. “You were on the Chimaera?”

  “Of course,” Tierce said. “What better place for a Royal Guardsman than at the side of a Grand Admiral? About a month after he returned from his service in the Unknown Regions, I was able to arrange a transfer to the Chimaera’s stormtrooper detachment.”

  “But then—?” Disra floundered.

  “Why did he die?” Tierce’s jaw tightened. “Because I guessed wrong. I was expecting an attack on the Grand Admiral when we encountered unexpected numbers at the Bilbringi shipyards. But I was expecting it in the form of a commando team boarding the Chimaera in the confusion of battle. Luke Skywalker had penetrated the ship that way once before, to rescue the smuggler Talon Karrde, and I thought they might try it again. So I put my stormtrooper unit on station near the hangar bays.”

  “Ah.” Disra nodded, a stray bit of history from that battle falling into place. “So it was your unit that intercepted and killed the Noghri traitor Rukh after he murdered the Grand Admiral?”

  “Yes. For what cold comfort that was.”

  “Um.” Disra eyed him. “Did Thrawn know about you?”

  Tierce shrugged again. “Who could ever tell what a Grand Admiral knew or didn’t know? All I can say is that I never identified myself to him, and he never confronted me with my past.”

  “Why didn’t you identify yourself?” Disra asked. “I’d have thought a Royal Guardsman would be entitled to certain—ah—special assignments.”

  “Don’t ever suggest such a thing again, Disra,” Tierce said, his voice quiet and deadly. “Don’t even think it. A Royal Guardsman never seeks special privileges. Ever. His entire goal in life is to serve the Emperor, and the New Order he created. His goal in life, and his desire in death.”

  “Yes,” Disra murmured, taken aback in spite of himself. It was becoming increasingly clear that the reputation of the Royal Guard—a reputation he’d always assumed to be the spun-frosting product of the Emperor’s propagandists—had in fact been quite honestly earned. “I beg your pardon, Guardsman.”

  “Major,” Tierce corrected. “Just Major. The Royal Guard no longer exists.”

  “Again, your pardon, Major,” Disra said, a touch of annoyance seeping through the awkwardness. He had intended to stay on top of this conversation; yet, at every turn, it seemed, he was losing control of it. “And I am to be addressed as ‘Your Excellency.’ ”

  Tierce frowned, and for a painful moment Disra held his breath. Then, to his relief, the other’s lip twitched into an ironic smile. “Of course,” he said dryly. “Your Excellency. Have you properly satisfied your curiosity, Your Excellency?”

  “I have,” Disra said, nodding. “The past is past, Major. Let us now consider the future. You heard my suggestions to Admiral Pellaeon. What do you think?”

  Tierce shook his head. “The Admiral is right: it won’t work. The numbers are too heavily slanted against us.”

  “Not even with the New Republic busy with dozens of internal conflicts?”

  “No.” Tierce gestured at Disra’s desk. “Not even with the interesting report filed under ‘Lak Jit’ on the third datacard down.”

  “Oh?” Disra frowned, pulling out the datacard from the stack Tierce had brought in. All these reports were supposed to be private, encrypted with a special Imperial code reserved for top Intelligence officers and the Moffs themselves. Obviously, Disra wasn’t the only one who’d been doing some high-level slicing. Sliding the datacard into his reader, he keyed for decryption.

  It was an Intelligence report, purchased from a Devaronian freelancer named Lak Jit, concerning the discovery in the Mount Tantiss ruins of a partial record of the destruction of Caamas. “This is perfect,” he told Tierce as he skimmed through it. “Exactly what we need.”

  Tierce shook his head. “Certainly it’s useful. But it’s not enough.”

  “Ah, but it is,” Disra said, feeling a tight smile tugging at his lips as he reread the crucial parts of the report. “I don’t think you fully understand the political situation the New Republic finds itself in these days. A flash point like Caamas—especially with Bothan involvement—will bring the whole thing to a boil. Particularly if we can give it the proper nudge.”

  “The situation among the Rebels is not the issue,” Tierce countered coldly. “It’s the state of the Empire you don’t seem to understand. Simply tearing the Rebellion apart is not going to rebuild the Emperor’s New Order. We need a focal point, a leader around whom the Imperial forces can rally. Admiral Pellaeon is the closest thing we have to such an authority figure, and he’s obviously lost the will to fight.”

  “Forget Pellaeon,” Disra said. “Suppose I could provide such a leader. Would you be willing to join us?”

  Tierce eyed him. “Who is this ‘us’ you refer to?”

  “If you join, there would be three of us,” Disra said. “Three who would share the secret I’m prepared to offer you. A secret that will bring the entire Fleet onto our side.”

  Tierce smiled cynically. “You’ll forgive me, Your Excellency, if I suggest you couldn’t inspire blind loyalty in a drugged bantha.”

  Disra felt a flash of anger. How dare this common soldier—?

  “No,” he agreed, practically choking out the word from between clenched teeth. Tierce was hardly a common soldier, after all. More importantly, Disra desperately needed a man of his skills and training. “I would merely be the political power behind the throne. Plus the supplier of military men and matériel, of course.”

  “From the Braxant Sector Fleet?”

  “And other sources,” Disra said. “You, should you choose to join us, would serve as the ar
chitect of our overall strategy.”

  “I see.” If Tierce was bothered by the word ‘serve,’ he didn’t show it. “And the third person?”

  “Are you with us?”

  Tierce studied him. “First tell me more.”

  “I’ll do better than tell you.” Disra pushed his chair back and stood up. “I’ll show you.”

  Judging from Tierce’s lack of reaction, the supposedly secret corridor between the private office and Disra’s quarters came as no surprise to the former Guardsman. The camouflaged doorway halfway along it, however, did. “Installed by the palace’s previous owner,” Disra explained as they walked down a narrow passageway to an equally narrow turbolift car. “It goes down fifty meters. From there you can then go either to the torture chamber beneath the dungeon level or to a secret exit tunnel in the hills to the north. I’ve sometimes wondered which direction he used the most.”

  “Which are we using today?” Tierce asked as the turbolift car started down.

  “The one to the torture chamber,” Disra said. “It’s the most private and secure place in the palace. Or anywhere on Bastion, for that matter. The third person of our group is waiting there.”

  The car stopped and the door slid open. Two narrow, rough-carved tunnels branched off the open space in front of the turbolift; brushing aside a stray strand of cobweb, Disra led the way down the rightmost corridor. It ended in a dusty metal door with a wheel set into its center. Gripping the edges of the wheel, Disra turned; and with a creak that echoed eerily in the confined space the door swung open.

  The previous owner would hardly have recognized his onetime torture chamber. The instruments of pain and terror had been taken out, the walls and floor cleaned and carpet-insulated, and the furnishings of a fully functional modern apartment installed.

  But for the moment Disra had no interest in the chamber itself. All his attention was on Tierce as the former Guardsman stepped into the room.

  Stepped into the room … and caught sight of the room’s single occupant, seated in the center in a duplicate of a Star Destroyer’s captain’s chair.