by Timothy Zahn
Tierce froze, his eyes widening with shock, his entire body stiffening as if a power current had jolted through him. His eyes darted to Disra, back to the captain’s chair, flicked around the room as if seeking evidence of a trap or hallucination or perhaps his own insanity, back again to the chair. Disra held his breath …
And then, abruptly, Tierce straightened to parade-ground attention. “Grand Admiral Thrawn, sir,” he said with laser-sharp military formality. “Stormtrooper TR-889, reporting for duty.”
Disra shifted his attention to the room’s occupant as he rose slowly to his feet. To the blue skin, the blue-black hair, the glowing red eyes, the white Grand Admiral’s uniform. The glowing eyes met Disra’s; then he turned back to Tierce. “Welcome back to duty, stormtrooper,” he said gravely. “However, I’m afraid I must tell you”—he glanced again at Disra—“that I’m not who you think I am.”
The first hint of a frown crept across Tierce’s face. “Sir?”
“Allow me,” Disra said. Stepping across the room, he took hold of the white uniform sleeve and pulled the man a step closer to Tierce. “Major Tierce: allow me to present my associate Flim.
“A highly talented con artist.”
For a long minute the room was filled with a brittle silence. Tierce stared at the white-uniformed impostor, disbelief and disappointment mixing with anger and betrayal in his face. Disra watched the play of emotions, his pulse pounding unpleasantly in his neck. If Tierce let his pride take charge here—if he chose to take offense at the deception they’d just played on him—then neither Disra nor Flim would be leaving this room alive.
Tierce turned his gaze onto Disra, the emotional turmoil retreating behind a mask of stone. “Explain,” he said darkly.
“You said yourself the Empire needed a leader,” Disra reminded him. “What better leader could we have than Grand Admiral Thrawn?”
Slowly, reluctantly, Tierce looked back at the false Grand Admiral. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“As His Excellency told you, my name is Flim,” the other said. His voice was subtly changed, his manner no longer the powerful, almost regal air of a Grand Admiral. Precisely the same transformation, Disra realized suddenly, as the one Tierce himself had gone through a few minutes ago up in the private office, except in reverse.
Perhaps Tierce recognized that, too. “Interesting,” he said, taking a step forward and peering closely at Flim’s face. “It’s uncanny. You look exactly like him.”
“He should,” Disra said. “It took me nearly eight years of searching to find someone who could pull off such a masquerade. I’ve been planning this a long time.”
“So I see.” Tierce gestured. “How do you do the eyes?”
“Surface inserts,” Disra said. “Self-powered to provide the red glow. The rest is just skin and hair coloring, plus a remarkable voice control and natural acting ability.”
“I’ve done many such impersonations,” Flim said. “This is just one more.” He smiled. “Though with considerably greater potential for reward.”
“It’s remarkable,” Tierce said, looking back at Disra. “There’s only one problem. Thrawn is dead, and everyone knows it.”
Disra lifted his eyebrows. “Ah, but do they? He was reported dead, certainly, but that may or may not mean anything at all. Perhaps he was merely comatose from Rukh’s knife wound. Perhaps he was taken to some secret place where he has spent the long years in recovery.” He nodded toward Flim. “Or perhaps it was actually an impostor like Flim who died on the Chimaera’s bridge. You said you were expecting an attack on him at Bilbringi; perhaps Thrawn was, too, and made private arrangements of his own.”
Tierce snorted. “Farfetched.”
“Of course,” Disra agreed. “But that doesn’t matter. All we need to do is present Thrawn, and wishful thinking will do the rest. The entire Empire will rush to believe in him, from Admiral Pellaeon on down.”
“Is that your plan, then?” Tierce asked. “To present the Grand Admiral to Pellaeon, reinstate him aboard the Chimaera, and use him as a rallying point for the Empire?”
“Basically,” Disra said, frowning. “Why?”
For a moment Tierce was silent. “You said you had other resources besides the Braxant Sector Fleet,” he said. “What are they?”
Disra glanced at Flim. But the con man was merely looking interestedly at Tierce. “I have an arrangement with the Cavrilhu Pirates,” he told the Guardsman. “They’re a large and highly sophisticated group working out of—”
“I’m familiar with Captain Zothip’s gang,” Tierce said. “Not particularly sophisticated, to my mind, but certainly large enough. What sort of arrangement?”
“One of interlocking interests,” Disra said. “I use Imperial Intelligence reports to locate useful New Republic shipments, which Zothip then attacks. He gets whatever booty he can; we get further destabilization of our enemy.”
“And a share of the SoroSuub Preybirds being turned out by Zothip’s production line?” Tierce suggested.
Disra pursed his lips. Either Tierce knew a great deal more than he should about the Moff’s secrets, or he was a lot sharper than Disra had expected. Either way, he wasn’t sure he liked it. “We’re getting all the Preybirds, actually,” he said. “Zothip has all the starfighters he needs.”
“How are you paying for them?”
“With the kind of expert assistance Zothip can’t get anywhere else,” Disra said, favoring the other with a sly smile. “I’m loaning him some very special warrior-advisers: groups of Thrawn’s own Mount Tantiss clones.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing Tierce’s jaw drop a fraction. “There are still some of them left?”
“There are whole nests of them left,” Disra told him sourly. “Our clever little Grand Admiral scattered groups all over the New Republic under deep cover. What he intended to do with them I don’t know; there wasn’t anything in his records specifically concerning—”
“You found Thrawn’s records?” Tierce cut him off. “His personal records, I mean?”
“Of course,” Disra said, frowning slightly. For an instant there had suddenly been something electric in the Guardsman’s expression. “How else do you think I knew how to find where he’d hidden all those clones?”
The flash of interest had already vanished behind Tierce’s mask. “Of course,” he said calmly. “What else was in there?”
“There was the outline of a grand strategy,” Disra said, watching him closely. But whatever had sparked that flicker was buried again. “His plans for the next five years’ worth of campaigns against the New Republic. Incredibly detailed; unfortunately, at this point, also completely useless.”
“I’d be careful about dismissing anything Thrawn ever did as completely useless,” Tierce reproved him mildly. “Anything else?”
Disra shrugged. “Personal memoirs and such. Nothing that struck me as militarily interesting. You’re welcome to look through them later if you want.”
“Thank you,” Tierce said. “I believe I will.”
“I take it,” Flim put in, “that you’re considering something more ambitious than simply using my Thrawn as a rallying point?”
Tierce inclined his head slightly to the con man. “Very perceptive, Admiral,” he said. “Yes, I think we can do better than that. Much better, in fact. Is there a computer terminal down here?—ah; excellent. I’ll need the datacards we left on your desk, Your Excellency. Would you mind getting them?”
“Not at all,” Disra murmured. “I’ll be right back.”
Already busy at the computer terminal, Tierce didn’t bother to answer. For a moment Disra gazed at the back of his head, wondering if he might possibly have miscalculated. Major Tierce, former Royal Guardsman, would be a useful servant. He would not be an appreciated master.
But for right now, they all needed each other. Swallowing his words, and his pride, Disra stepped out into the tunnel and headed back toward the turbolift.
CHAPTER
5
Councilor Borsk Fey’lya looked up from the datapad, his violet eyes dilated, his cream-colored fur flattened tightly against his body. “So it has finally come to light,” he whispered.
“Yes, it has,” Leia said. “And it demands an explanation.”
Fey’lya shook his head. “There is nothing to explain,” he said softly. “It is true.”
“I see,” Leia said, feeling a heaviness settle across her shoulders. She hadn’t realized how hard she’d been hoping that Karrde had been right about the Caamas record being a forgery. “You’re certain?”
“Yes,” Fey’lya said, his gaze drifting away from Leia to the datapad again.
“Then you know who was involved.”
“No,” Fey’lya said. “That is the core of the problem, Councilor Organa Solo. And the reason we have been silent over this for so long. We know only what you now know: that a group of Bothans helped agents of Senator Palpatine gain access to the Caamas shield generators. We don’t even know the clan involved, let alone the specific individuals.”
“Did you try to find out?” Leia asked bluntly.
Fey’lya’s fur rippled. “Of course we did. But Palpatine had covered his trail far too well. It was only long after the event, in the early days of the Rebellion, that the chief clan leaders even became aware of Bothan complicity at Caamas. It was our shock at that revelation, in fact, that moved us to dedicate our people to the Rebel Alliance and Palpatine’s downfall. But the trail was by then too old to follow.”
Leia sighed. “I understand.”
“You believe me, don’t you?” Fey’lya persisted. “You must believe me.”
For a moment Leia didn’t speak. Gazing into his face, reaching out with the Force, she searched as best she could for any hint of deception. But if it was there, she couldn’t find it. “I believe you’re telling the truth, at least as far as you know it,” she told the Bothan. “Unfortunately, I’m not the only one you’ll have to convince.”
Fey’lya shivered, random clumps of his fur stiffening across his body. “No,” he agreed soberly. “There will be many who will believe we are merely protecting the criminals in the name of Bothan solidarity.”
Leia picked up the datapad, suppressing a grimace. He was certainly right about that. The Bothan approach to interstellar politics was far more biting and pop-and-topple than many in the New Republic cared for. Even species who thought nothing of all-out physical combat between themselves generally tried to moderate their approach when dealing with outsiders. The fact that the Bothans were either unable or unwilling to do likewise had earned them more than their fair share of ill will in diplomatic circles. “I agree,” she said. “All the more reason to get this resolved as quickly as possible.”
“But how?” Fey’lya asked. “The Bothans have searched long and hard for a list of those responsible, both in the official clan libraries on Bothawui as well as on all our colony worlds and enclaves. It simply doesn’t exist.”
“It existed here,” Leia pointed out, pulling the datacard from the datapad. “I’m convinced it did. We can see if the techs can reconstruct it; if they can’t, we’ll just have to locate another copy somewhere. At least now we know what to look for.”
“We can try,” Fey’lya said doubtfully. “But in the meantime, what do you plan to do?”
Leia fingered the datacard. “I can’t just forget the whole thing, Councilor Fey’lya—you have to understand that. I have to at least take it to the rest of the High Council. But I’ll do what I can to persuade President Gavrisom that it shouldn’t be made public. At least not until the techs have had time to see what they can do with the ruined sections.”
“I see,” Fey’lya said, his fur and emotions both rippling. “Whether the techs will keep silent is of course another question. More important, what about the smuggler Talon Karrde? You said he also knows.”
“He’s given his promise that he won’t say anything,” Leia told him. “And he has a message out to the rest of his people to watch for the Devaronian who found the datacard. Maybe they can catch up with him before he tells anyone else.”
Fey’lya sniffed. “You really think he hasn’t already told others? After the way you and Karrde treated him?”
“We did what we deemed necessary at the time,” Leia said, sternly ordering down her sudden flash of annoyance with the Bothan. “Would you rather he had left Wayland with the datacard?”
“To be blunt: yes,” Fey’lya said stiffly. “Clearly, we were his intended recipients. He would have demanded a tremendous sum of money from us, and we would have paid him, and it would have been over.”
Leia sighed. “It wouldn’t have been over, Councilor. It won’t be over until the whole truth is known and those responsible punished.”
“That is indeed all that is left to us now,” Fey’lya said, standing up. “Thank you for your courtesy in giving me this private briefing, Councilor Organa Solo. I will go now to prepare my defense.”
“You’re not on trial here, Councilor,” Leia reminded him.
Fey’lya’s fur flattened. “I will be,” he said softly. “As will the entire Bothan race. You will see.”
• • •
The Dona Laza tapcafe was about as crowded as Shada D’ukal had ever seen it, packed almost literally wall-to-wall with beings of a dozen different species and every social class from lower-middle on down. “Popular place tonight,” she commented to her boss, sitting close beside her at the table.
“It’s their turn at the floating Boga Minawk tournament,” Mazzic explained, idly stroking the back of Shada’s hand. “You wouldn’t believe how crazy they go for the game around here.”
“You suppose that’s why he chose this place?” Shada asked. “Because of the crowd?”
“Don’t worry, Cromf will bring him in okay,” Mazzic soothed her. “Pass him enough money and he becomes positively reliable. Especially when the second half of the payment doesn’t come until delivery.”
Shada looked at the beings pressing around their table. “I’m more concerned about whether we’ll be able to pull him out of here quietly with this many people watching.”
“There’s no rush on that,” Mazzic said. “Considering all the trouble we’ve gone to, we ought to at least hear this deep dark secret he wants to tell us. After that, we can see about putting the restraints on him.”
Shada looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Karrde won’t be happy about that,” she warned. “He was very specific about Lak Jit not talking to anyone.”
“We’re not on Talon Karrde’s paylist,” Mazzic reminded her tartly. “What with Cromf’s finder’s fee, we’re not going to break even on this as it is. If this little secret has any market value, we deserve to get a cut of it.”
Shada turned away from him, a wave of blackness flowing over her already dark mood. That was always what it came down to in the world of smuggling: profit, and more profit, and doing whatever scheming and back-blading it took to get as much of it as possible. Concepts like loyalty and honor—
“Oh, come on, Shada,” Mazzic chided, stroking her hand again. “These bursts of personal guilt have got to stop. This is how the game is played. You know that.”
“Sure,” Shada murmured. She knew, all right. What hurt the most was that for the past twelve years she’d been a willing participant in it. Willing, and very able.
Sometimes, late at night, she wondered what had happened to the galaxy. Or perhaps it was just her.
At the near edge of the crowd a young Garoos appeared, easing himself and his loaded tray gingerly between a pair of loud and wildly gesticulating Ishori. He made it without spilling the drinks, and wilted into the seat across from Mazzic. “When!” he half-whistled, picking up one of the four drinks from the tray, his purple-tinged gillis flaps undulating rhythmically as he breathed. “Dint think I was gon make it.”
“And a fine job you did, too, Cromf,” Mazzic assured him, selecting two of the other glasses and setting
one in front of Shada. “Any sign of our quarry yet?”
“I dint see him,” Cromf said, sipping carefully at his drink and looking nervously around him. One ear cluster opened briefly as someone nearby gave a raucous laugh, then closed down again. “I dont like this, Maz’k. Too man’ here watch.”
“Don’t worry,” Mazzic soothed. “You just get him to the table. We’ll do the rest.”
Beside Shada’s left ear, one of the decorative lacquered needles twisted into her hair gave two soft clicks. “Signal from Griv,” she told Mazzic. “Possible make.”
“Good,” Mazzic said. “Go get him, Cromf—side entrance. Concentrate on the other half of your finder’s fee.”
The Garoos half-whistled as he got up from the table and disappeared again into the crowd. Shada took a deep breath, settling into combat mode, and gave the area around them a final examination. If the Devaronian smelled trouble and tried to bolt, he would probably head to his left …
And then Cromf was back, a horn-headed Devaronian in tow. “Wheh!” he half-whistled, sitting down beside Mazzic. “Crowd in here. This Lak Jit. This smug’ Maz’k.”
“Pleased to meet you, Lak Jit,” Mazzic said, offering him the fourth glass from the tray. “You drink Vistulo brandale, I trust?”
“When someone else is paying,” Lak Jit said, taking the seat across from Mazzic. “I want you to know first, Mazzic, that though what I am about to tell you is true, I know I cannot ask for money in exchange. I no longer have tangible proof, only the evidence of my own eyes.”
“I understand,” Mazzic said, setting his hand down in the center of the table. He withdrew it, revealing the short stack of high-denomination coins. “Still, a respectable gentleman should be willing to pay for value received.”
Lak Jit smiled his thin Devaronian smile and reached for the coins—
And found his wrist locked solidly in Mazzic’s grip. “For value received,” Mazzic reminded him coldly. Reaching out with the other hand, he slid the stack of coins back to the edge of the table in front of him. “Now,” he said, releasing the Devaronian’s wrist. “Let’s hear what you have.”
