by Timothy Zahn
“Quiet,” Leia cut him off, braking to a halt a few meters from the door. Suddenly something felt different out there; a hint of evil purpose flickering at the edges of the simmering anger and resentment of the crowd. She stretched out with the Force, trying to pin it down—
And then, to her horror, an all-too-familiar sound split through the rumble like a crack of lightning through distant thunder.
The sound of a blaster shot.
There was no warning. None whatsoever. One minute Han was looking out over the crowd, wondering if he should call Leia and suggest she come out here and talk to them; and then the next minute there it was, making a sound like a boot in wet mud as it came out of nowhere to hit the wall by his left shoulder. He half turned to look at it, got just a glimpse of a mass of a soft-looking gray clay with a small tube connected to a multifaceted crystal embedded in the middle—
And suddenly it seemed to explode in a brilliant flash of blaster fire.
He wrenched back, twisting his face away from the flash as a needle-jab of pain stabbed into his left shoulder. From somewhere below him came a scream of pain, and even as he dropped behind the minimal protection of the balcony’s guardrail he heard the sound and caught the flicker of reflected light from a second shot. Yanking his blaster from its holster, blinking around the hazy purple blob floating in front of his eyes, he tried to see where the attack was coming from.
Wherever the gunman was, he didn’t seem in a hurry to give away his position by shooting again. But his first two shots had already done enough damage. Below and ten meters ahead, the crowd had opened a circle around a Mishtak writhing in agony on the ground. A few meters behind him, in the middle of another circle, a Leresai lay still.
With the two shots the crowd had gone deathly quiet. A motion caught the corner of Han’s eye: someone moving on a rooftop a block away. He half stood up, lifting his blaster—
“There he is!” someone shouted.
Han looked down again. Someone in the crowd was pointing up; but he was pointing at Han. “Wait a minute—” Han began.
“There he is!” the man shouted again. “There’s the murderer!”
And as if on signal the crowd suddenly came to life again. Roaring like a hundred berserk rancors, they surged forward beneath the balcony.
And with a slam that shook the whole building, they threw open the doors.
• • •
“Han!” Leia blurted as the second blaster shot rang out. If he’d been the target—
No, she realized with a flood of relief. She could still feel his presence, alert and tense. But somebody out there had been hit; she could sense the waves of pain. Stretching out with the Force, she tried to locate it.
And then, suddenly, there was a horrendous roar from the crowd outside—
And in front of her the doors slammed open and a solid wall of beings poured into the atrium.
“Oh, my!” Threepio gasped. “Mistress Leia—”
“Get behind me!” Leia snapped, taking a long step to the side and grabbing for her lightsaber as she threw a quick glance at the ceremonial stairway at the other end of the atrium. With some serious effort, she should be able to reach it ahead of the crowd.
But Threepio didn’t have that kind of speed. And if she abandoned him to the mob …
“Get behind me,” she ordered the droid again, igniting the lightsaber. She had come here to talk, and she had better get started. The nearest of the crowd shied away as the lightsaber blade blazed into existence, many of them probably only noticing her for the first time. “Citizens of the New Republic,” she shouted, holding the lightsaber high. “I’m New Republic Councilor and Jedi Knight Leia Organa Solo. I call on you to stop.”
The people nearest Leia faltered in their charge, many of them coming to an almost reluctant halt. Or rather, trying to do so. The rest of the crowd behind them, unaware of Leia’s presence, were still pushing forward. Jostling those in front or forcing their way around and past them, they continued to flow into the building.
But at least the momentum of the crowd had been slowed, and Leia had the beginnings of an attentive audience. Now if she could project her voice to enough of them—and could find the right words to say with that voice …
She took a deep breath, running through her Jedi strength enhancement techniques, and opened her mouth—
And at that moment there was a shout from the Bothan guards grouped at the foot of the stairway, and a half-dozen blaster bolts flashed into the crowd.
And the whole thing went straight to chaotic hell.
Leia had thought the crowd had been at the peak of its noise level. She’d been wrong. The screams from the injured were all but lost in a roar of fury and terror so loud it hurt her ears. The front rank of the crowd fell apart, many of the beings trying to hide behind the short trees and bushes or else scurrying madly for cover toward the offices lining the atrium’s edges. Others simply froze where they were, unwilling to turn tail and run but equally unwilling to walk into massed blaster fire.
The Bothans fired again, sparking more screams; but this time the shots were answered. From a dozen places in the crowd blasters opened up, and six of the guards toppled to the floor.
“That’s it!” a voice from the mob shouted over the roar. “Everyone—get them!”
“Wait!” Leia shouted. “Stop!”
But it was too late. The crowd, mindless with rage, was rolling forward now like a flash tide, blasters firing freely as the atrium suddenly became a war zone. Even those whose advance had been slowed by the sight of Leia’s lightsaber were no longer listening, and in fact most had already deserted her or been dragged away by the mob. Twice she had to lift her lightsaber high over her head as the buffeting and shoving nearly sent someone into the blade. Dimly over the noise she heard Threepio wail something, but by the time she was able to turn around he had vanished. A Khil bounced toward her, whistling excitedly through his hullepi and waving a blaster toward the stairway, completely oblivious to the lightsaber blade he was drifting toward—
And with a dark recognition of defeat, Leia shut down the weapon, using the Force to keep the Khil from slamming into her. There was nothing more she could do here. Those who were still firing were halfway across the crowd, impossible for her to reach, and none of the beings nearest her had done anything to deserve the death or dismemberment that was the only punishment her lightsaber could mete out. Too many minds here for her to quiet—too many flailing bodies for her to move aside with the Force—and all that was left was for her to try to keep from getting trampled.
And then, through all the chaos that surrounded her, she caught a faint hint of something different. Someone not far away; someone quietly terrified for her safety.
Han.
She strained to see, but without the blazing lightsaber blade to keep them at bay the crowd had closed in and was now pressing too close for her to be able to see anywhere but up. For a moment she searched the silent windows facing down into the atrium as she fought to keep her balance, but if Han was up there she couldn’t spot him.
But there was something there, almost directly above her head now: a thick tendril of borscii vine jutting out from the atrium wall. Pushing through the crowd in that direction, using the Force to ease people aside when necessary, she maneuvered herself beneath it. Then, stretching out again to the Force, she bent her knees and jumped.
The tendril was no more than two meters above her, an easy jump for a Jedi. She made it with half a meter to spare, grabbing on to the tendril and using it to pull herself to the main body of the borscii vine where it clung its meandering way up the wall. From her new vantage point she was able to see Han now: crouched beside the railing on the ceremonial balcony, his blaster pointed down the stairway, his eyes searching anxiously through the mob for signs of his wife. Flanking him on either side, looking ready to dive off the balcony into the crowd if and when it became necessary, were Barkhimkh and Sakhisakh.
How and when th
e two Noghri had managed to sneak into the building Leia didn’t know. But at the moment it didn’t matter. The Bothan guards at the foot of the stairway were down, shot or trampled, and the entire weight of the mob seemed to be pressed against the static barrier a few steps up.
But it wouldn’t hold them back for long. Even at this distance she could see the faint sparking that meant the barrier was about to go down … and when it did, it would be a disaster for everyone. If Han and any hidden Bothan guards opened fire as the crowd stormed up the stairway, the result would be the slaughter of dozens or even hundreds of people.
But if they didn’t open fire, there would be an equally callous slaughter of the Bothans who had escaped to the upper two floors. One way or another, a large number of people were about to die.
Unless …
One of the Noghri had spotted her now, pointing the others’ attention her direction. Han half rose from his crouch, his mouth working with shouted words she couldn’t hear. I’m all right, she thought desperately toward him, risking her grip to try to wave him back. If he or the Noghri headed down into that chaos, they’d probably get torn apart.
But no—he understood. Sinking back into his crouch, he waved the Noghri back, his eyes locked on hers across the atrium. All right, that expression seemed to say, if you don’t want us to come get you, what do you want?
Here, she thought toward him, risking her grip again and unhooking her lightsaber. For a moment she fought against the bushy tendrils trying to entangle it; then she got it free and held it up. Cocking her arm over her shoulder, she threw it across the atrium, catching it midway in a Force grip and guiding it the rest of the way to drop into Han’s hand. For a few heartbeats he fingered the weapon, frowning across the distance at her. She gestured and sent her thoughts toward him …
And abruptly he got it. Nodding his understanding, he ignited the weapon and turned the blade to point down.
And began cutting the stairway free from the balcony.
The action hadn’t gone unnoticed. Someone in the crowd roared, and a pair of blaster bolts lanced out, missing Han by bare centimeters as he ducked away. The Noghri at Han’s side—the second Noghri, Leia noticed with mild surprise, had somehow pulled a vanishing act—fired back, and the other blaster went silent.
Something brushed the back of Leia’s head. She twisted around, her mind flashing back to the deadly vine snakes of Wayland—
But it wasn’t a vine snake, or for that matter any other kind of creature. It was a length of synthrope, dangling from one of the windows directly above her.
With Barkhimkh’s anxious face looking down at her from behind it.
Grabbing the rope, she started to climb. She was nearly to the window when, behind her, the stairway crashed to the floor.
“Admiral Pellaeon?”
With a jolt, Pellaeon snapped awake, the disturbing dream vanishing into the darkness of his quarters. “Yes?” he called.
“Major Tschel, sir,” the bridge officer’s voice came from the intercom. “There’s a transmission coming in for you, marked with your personal encrypt.”
“Understood,” Pellaeon said, heaving himself wearily from his bed and padding over to the computer station. “Transfer it down here, Major,” he ordered, dropping into the chair.
“Yes, sir.”
The comm light went on, confirming the connection, and Pellaeon began keying in the proper decrypt code. Traveling around the Empire trying to beg, argue, or cajole acceptance of his peace initiative was tiring enough; but having to then endure these nightmares on top of it was only making the situation worse. Tonight’s edition had featured Grand Admiral Thrawn, reproving him in a calm but bitter voice for allowing what he’d created to slip away …
The computer beeped acceptance of the decrypt, and a quarter-sized image appeared on the hologram pad. “Admiral Pellaeon, this is Commander Dreyf,” the figure identified himself. “I have a preliminary report for you on my backtrack of Lord Graemon and his finances.”
“Very good,” Pellaeon said, suddenly fully awake. “Continue.”
“To be blunt, sir, the man’s a snake,” Dreyf said, not even bothering to hide his contempt. “He looks to have a finger in every stewpot from Muunilinst to Coruscant and back again. We’ve already uncovered fifteen separate lines to New Republic financial and commodities interests, and we haven’t even scratched the surface yet.”
Pellaeon nodded grimly. Yes, that fit the expected pattern. For Moff Disra to operate this way they had to have equally shady counterparts to Graemon on the New Republic side of the political borders. “What about connections to known pirate gangs?”
“Nothing specific with Graemon yet,” Dreyf said. “But we have a pretty solid connection between General Kyte and someone who is definitely linked to the Cavrilhu Pirates. Kyte sent a transmission to the contact right after your meeting with the Muunilinst defense hierarchy eleven days ago. We’re following it up.”
“I see.” So Kyte was indeed a part of this. Despite all the indicators, Pellaeon had hoped he was wrong. To have Fleet officers involved in treasonous activity was doubly painful. “Have you been able to backtrack Graemon’s contacts the other direction?”
“Not yet,” Dreyf said. “He’s not the top of the stack, though—that much I’m sure of.”
“No, he’s not,” Pellaeon agreed. Still, whatever the connection was between him and Disra, it would be well hidden. Too well hidden, perhaps, for Dreyf and his limited resources to dig out. “Keep at it,” he continued. “I want the facts, and I want the evidence.”
“Yes, sir,” Dreyf said. “If I may make a suggestion, Admiral, all these business connections to the New Republic ought to be enough to bring down Lord Graemon, if that’s what you want.”
“I have no particular interest in bringing any specific person down,” Pellaeon said, not entirely truthfully. “Trade with the New Republic may be technically illegal, but you know as well as I do that we need the resources too badly for anyone to actually bother enforcing the laws.”
Besides which, he added silently to himself, if and when his peace initiative succeeded all that official isolationism would have to be changed anyway. But of course Dreyf had no idea any of that was in the works. “What I want—and all that I want—is to find out who’s been manipulating Imperial personnel and funds this way and have them stopped,” he added aloud. “Clear?”
“Perfectly, Admiral,” Dreyf said. “Don’t worry, sir; no matter how deep they’ve buried themselves, we’ll dig them out.”
“I’m sure you will, Commander,” Pellaeon assured him. “Was there anything else?”
“Actually, sir, yes,” Dreyf said, consulting a datapad. “I just got word from one of my people on Bothawui who was tracking down one of Lord Graemon’s connections there. He says there’s been a bad riot over at the Combined Clans Building in Drev’starn, apparently over this Caamas Document thing.”
Pellaeon frowned. “Any other details?”
“Only that there were definitely casualties,” Dreyf said. “No idea of the number yet. Apparently it’s just happened—the news hasn’t even hit the various services yet. It’ll probably take them a while to sort things out, but I thought you’d like to know.”
“Yes, thank you,” Pellaeon said. “Anything else?”
“No, sir, not right now.”
“Very good,” Pellaeon said, nodding. “Keep me informed, Commander. Out.”
For a few minutes he remained seated at the computer station, gazing at the empty display as he turned that last bit of information over in his head. The New Republic is unstable; ultimately, it has no choice but to self-destruct. How many times, he wondered, had that thought been hurled at him in the three weeks since he’d begun this campaign to persuade the leaders of the Empire that it was time to concede defeat? A hundred times, it seemed, maybe more; and each time he’d stood against it, repeating his same list of arguments over and over again to the point where their precise and polished phr
asing now came automatically to his mind and lips.
And yet …
He’d read the reports of the riots that had been springing up over this Caamas revelation and controversy; had skimmed the Intelligence summaries of the increasingly heated debates taking place in the New Republic Senate and various sector assemblies; had read the threat analyses of the growing belligerence between ancient rivals all across the galaxy.
Was he wrong and all the rest of them right? Was the New Republic on the verge of destroying itself?
And if it was, what in the Empire was he doing trying to make peace with them?
With a sigh, he levered himself out of his chair and crossed back to his bed. No, it didn’t seem reasonable right now; but then, nothing ever seemed reasonable in the lonely stillness of the deep night. He’d had good and proper reasons to start on this path, he knew, and he could only assume that those reasons would still seem valid when he examined them again in the light of day. And if this controversy over the Caamas Document got in the way of the process—
Pellaeon frowned in the darkness, the memory of a comment Thrawn had once made flickering to mind. Examine all obstacles carefully, the Grand Admiral had admonished him. With a little ingenuity, they can often be turned into levers.
If the Caamas Document was tearing the New Republic apart … what might they offer in exchange for the Empire’s help in putting that controversy to rest?
Reaching across the bed, he snagged his datapad and keyed for his list of upcoming meetings. Returning to Bastion was out; aside from the disruption it would cause in his schedule, any attempt to pull a copy of the Caamas Document out of the Imperial Library there would undoubtedly be relayed directly to Disra, and he had no interest in giving the Moff any advance warning of his intentions.
