Treason - Timothy Zahn

by Star Wars

  “You’re making a mistake,” Eli insisted, trying desperately to think. Sisay’s men were lined up in front of them, far enough back that he’d never make it to any of their weapons before they could shoot. There was nothing nearby to throw, nothing they could hide behind, and with their backs to the foyer wall there was nowhere any of them could run.

  “Not nearly as big as yours,” Sisay said. “You see, a few minutes ago I got a call. Seems an Imperial Star Destroyer has suddenly arrived and taken up position over our lovely little town.”

  Eli felt his mouth drop open. A Star Destroyer? Here?

  His first fleeting hope was that it might be Thrawn, come in the nick of time to rescue them. But an instant later he knew that was impossible. There were pirates and Grysks out there, and Thrawn wouldn’t allow himself be distracted by anything else until he’d finished dealing with them.

  But if not Thrawn, then who?

  “What does that have to do with us?” he asked. “Anyway, you told us that Savit is cleaning out the pirate nests. Tiquwe is probably just next on his list.”

  “Or maybe he got nervous when your little group disappeared off his sensors,” Sisay countered. “Hmm?”

  “We’re not with Savit,” Eli insisted. “Or with any other Imperials.”

  “Sure,” Sisay said. “But there’s a Star Destroyer overhead, and we need to get back to tweak our records before the stormtroopers arrive, so we’re out of time. You want to tell me who you are? Or are you going to make me wonder for the rest of my life who it was we killed today?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mole breathed, holding his hands up palms out. “Ms. Sisay—I don’t—you can’t—Mr. Parpa—”

  “Oh, relax, Mole,” Sisay said in a tone of strained patience. “We’re not killing you. You want to run back to Parpa, go ahead. We don’t need you anymore.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks. Uh…” Mole licked his lips. “There was—you said something about a hundred credits. Right? I mean, you said if I read the data card—”

  “Oh, for—” Sisay clamped her teeth around the rest of the sentence. “Brackis, give him his damn hundred credits. And then you get the hell out of here.”

  “Yes, yes. Sure.” Mole sidled quickly to Brackis, wincing away from the other’s blaster as the man dug a coin from his pocket. He slapped it into Mole’s hand—

  And in a single smooth motion, Mole grabbed the hand, yanked Brackis off balance toward him, and twisted the blaster out of his other hand.

  Before Eli could do anything more than gape in disbelief, Mole slammed the blaster across Brackis’s throat, then swiveled around on one foot and snapped the edge of his other foot in quick succession into Grimkle’s knee, ribs, and head. Grimkle was still collapsing from the triple blow when Mole leaned toward him, snatched his blaster from his now slack grip, and sent it spinning squarely into Skulk’s face, knocking him backward. Another snap kick into Porff’s stomach and a backhand smash with Brackis’s blaster into the other man’s face, and he spun around to level his blaster at Sisay. “Drop it,” he ordered.

  For a frozen second Eli thought she was going to obey. Her blaster was still pointed at Eli, and she must have known that there was no way she could turn it toward Mole in time.

  But with the rest of her team sprawled unconscious or twitching in pain at her feet, she also must have known that it was over. And for some people, taking a few of the other side with them at the end was worth the effort. Eli saw her finger start to tighten on the trigger—

  And with a screeching scream that sounded incredibly loud in the foyer’s confines Mole’s blaster bolt slashed through her.

  Her body collapsed to the floor, and for a long moment the only sound Eli could hear was the echo of the shot in his memory. “Too bad,” Mole said, lowering the blaster.

  Only it wasn’t Mole. Not anymore. Not the Mole they’d met in Sisay’s office, anyway. There was no twitchiness or nervousness in his voice. His stance was straight and confident, his shoulders unrounded, his eyes cool and calm and measuring.

  He measured each of them in turn—long, perceptive looks that took no more than a quarter second each—and then his gaze returned to Eli. “You must be Vanto,” he said, lowering the blaster but keeping it ready. “Which would make you Assistant Director Ronan,” he added, giving Ronan a microscopic nod.

  “Yes,” Ronan breathed, clearly struggling to take it all in stride and not quite succeeding. “And you?”

  “Call me Dayja,” he said. “Imperial Security Bureau. Colonel Yularen called and said Grand Admiral Thrawn had asked for one of his agents to drop by and keep an eye on you. I was already on the scene, so I got the job.”

  “But you were here undercover?” Ronan said. “Isn’t that…gone now?”

  “Yeah.” Dayja shrugged. “No big deal. It was really just a favor to Grand Admiral Savit. He’s on a campaign against the pirate gangs in this sector and wanted ISB to help him figure out the best places to dig. So what do you want to see Savit about, anyway?”

  “We don’t,” Eli said. “What we want is to get into the Imperial part of the port and check on a certain freighter.”

  “There is really a back door, isn’t there?” Ronan added.

  “There are always back doors,” Dayja assured him. “This freighter got a name?”

  “The Brylan Ross.”

  “Okay,” Dayja said. “Let’s get you inside, and see what was worth burning a cover identity for.”

  “It doesn’t have to be burned,” Pik pointed out. “These are the only ones who know. Four more shots, and you can go back with any story you want.”

  Dayja regarded him thoughtfully. “Let me guess. Death troopers?”

  Pik inclined his head slightly. “And just so you know, we were going to take them down as soon as you were out of our way.”

  Ronan’s eyes went wide. “You’re death troopers?”

  “You have a problem with that?” Pik asked, looking darkly at him.

  “No, I just thought—no,” Ronan finished, his voice trailing off.

  Pik shifted the glower to Dayja. “How about you?”

  “No problem,” Dayja said calmly. “But as for your suggestion, we’re not tanking them in cold blood. I don’t work that way. We’ll tag them and leave them here for Savit’s people to pick up.”

  “Whatever you want,” Pik said. “They’re your prisoners. But they’re pirates, and they deserve to die.”

  “I prefer to think of it as ISB’s interrogators deserving some interesting work,” Dayja said coolly. “Give me a minute to tag ’em, and we’ll hit the road.” He pulled a small pack of tracking needles from inside his jacket lapel and set to work.

  Eli turned to Ronan. “By the way, that was a pretty amazing performance back at Sisay’s place. Going from Assistant Director Ronan to, well, to nobody.”

  “Thank you,” Ronan said stiffly. His lips puckered, and some of the attitude faded away. “I wasn’t always an Imperial bureaucrat, you know. Not exactly a nobody, but pretty close.”

  “All set,” Dayja said, standing up and putting the needle case away. He cocked an eye at Eli—“Oh, and by the way, Vanto, the Hutts don’t mark their operatives. She put that mark on herself when she dropped behind everyone. Probably figured she could get one last shot at tripping you up. Next time you go undercover, try to research your role a little better.”

  “I’ll do that,” Eli promised, smiling to himself. Earlier, he’d wondered how Thrawn would have handled this kind of situation. Now he knew.

  Thrawn still would have walked into the trap. He simply would have made sure there was backup waiting.

  There is no Grysk art available. That lack creates limitations, perhaps fatal ones. Perhaps Grysks do not create in that way.

  But there is art from their victims. It will have to suffice.

  The
curves and lines are well remembered. The abandonments and hesitations are likewise so. Much of the art points to their creators, but there are commonalities that may point to Grysk characteristics.

  There is the sound of movement from the resting part of the office suite. A shadow appears and shifts position.

  “Admiral Mitth’raw’nuruodo?” Vah’nya asked. Her voice holds weariness and some fear.

  “Yes. Did I wake you?”

  “No.” She takes two steps through the doorway from the resting area and stops. Her eyes move around the group of holograms, lingering on one before moving on. “Admiral Ar’alani says you like art.”

  “I study it. Do you like art?”

  “A little.” Her voice still holds weariness, but now also holds interest. “I like music better.” Her eyes return to the sculpture they focused on a moment ago.

  “Music is seldom of use to me. Do you like this sculpture?”

  “No,” Vah’nya said. “But it reminds me of something.”

  “Something you’ve seen? Or perhaps something from Un’hee’s memories?”

  Vah’nya hesitates. Her expression and body stance hold confusion. The confusion fades away. “Yes,” she said. Her voice holds discomfort. “Un’hee saw something similar in her Scratchling master’s quarters.”

  “The Grysk client species is called Scratchling?”

  “She doesn’t know their true name.” The discomfort held in her voice is joined by a deepening dread. “She thinks of them as Scratchlings because of the sound of their voices. Are you going to send me away? Admiral Ar’alani said she would take me back to the Steadfast aboard a shuttle when I was finished guiding your ship.”

  “So she also said to me. She fears for your safety. Do you wish to go?”

  “No.”

  “Do you not fear for your safety?”

  She hesitates. Her expression holds concern and the uncertainty, perhaps the apprehension, of the risks taken by lying to a command officer. The uncertainty fades. “Yes, very much.”

  “Then why do you wish to stay?”

  Her expression stiffens. The muscles of her throat and shoulders hold a mix of fear and determination. “Un’hee feared and hated the Scratchlings and their Grysk masters. She has nightmares about them.” Her eyes narrow. Her expression now holds sympathy and quiet rage. “I want to remain so that I may watch you destroy them.”

  The art flows with meaning. It carries hidden clues, subtle hints. It speaks of the Grysks, reflecting arrogance, confidence, and cunning.

  “And so you shall. Come with me, Navigator Vah’nya. You shall face the enemy.

  “And we shall destroy them together.”

  * * *

  —

  The first wave of TIEs was nearly to optimal viewing position when Thrawn returned. Navigator Vah’nya, to Faro’s surprise, was trailing along behind him.

  And as Faro watched the pair approaching, she thought she could detect a new confidence in Thrawn’s step, a focus and direction that had been missing when he retreated to his office to think and meditate.

  He was onto something.

  Faro met them at the aft end of the command walkway. “Admiral,” she said, stiffening to attention. “Orders, sir?”

  “Orders indeed, Commodore,” he said, his eyes sweeping the bridge. “Prepare my ship for combat.”

  “Yes, sir,” Faro said, hiding her surprise. The original plan had called for the Chimaera to first gather data from the fighters’ recon before bringing the ship to combat mode. “May I remind the admiral that bringing us to full battle readiness will require us to abandon stealth mode?”

  “It will indeed,” Thrawn agreed. He looked past her shoulder to where Ar’alani was gazing out the forward viewport. “We must give our enemies a reason to communicate with their superiors. Commander Hammerly, status of our target?”

  “No change, sir.”

  “Its rotational speed is unchanged?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Agral, take over monitoring of target rotation,” Thrawn ordered, tapping his datapad. “Here is an algorithm to add to your navigational sensor analyzers. Use it to find the locations I’ve designated as Points One and Two. When the target changes rotation, use it to recalibrate.”

  “Yes, sir,” Agral said, clearly surprised at being handed part of Hammerly’s sensor duty, but taking it in stride.

  “Commander Hammerly, switch your full attention to the occultation programs,” Thrawn continued. “The Grysk warship is somewhere along a line thirty kilometers directly above and thirty kilometers directly below the joined ships. When you locate it, feed the coordinates to Senior Lieutenant Pyrondi and her turbolaser gunners.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Grysk ship is above the conjoined ships, sir?” Faro asked, frowning.

  “Or below it,” Thrawn said, gesturing forward. “Come.”

  He continued forward along the walkway toward Ar’alani. Faro dropped into step beside him, noting as she did so that Vah’nya was still behind them.

  Ar’alani was waiting when they reached her. Her glowing red eyes flicked behind Thrawn and Faro to Vah’nya, hardening noticeably as they then shifted to focus on Thrawn. “You were going to return us to the Steadfast before entering battle,” she said darkly in Sy Bisti.

  “Navigator Vah’nya wishes a memory of this day,” Thrawn said. “One she will then be able to share with Navigator Un’hee.”

  Ar’alani looked back at Vah’nya. Whatever she saw in the girl’s face was apparently enough for her to drop the subject. “You have a combat strategy?” she asked instead.

  “I do. You’ll recall our unanswered question about the communications triad?”

  “The question was hardly unanswered,” Ar’alani said. “We concluded it could only be on one of the nearby planetary moons.”

  “No,” Thrawn said. “What we concluded was that the distances between the poles had to remain stable, which would preclude simply placing them in individual orbits.” He raised his eyebrows slightly. “But if they weren’t in simple orbits…?” He paused expectantly.

  Faro frowned, trying to think. Not in simple orbits. Rotational algorithms. The ship directly above the conjoined ships…

  And then she got it. “The conjoined ships don’t just have one of the triad poles,” she said. “They have two of them. The poles are outside the ships, anchored on long tethers stretching to both sides.”

  “With the joined ships doing a slow rotation to ensure that the tethers remain taut,” Ar’alani said, nodding. “Thus maintaining the required distance.” She flashed a look at Faro. “The third pole must then be aboard the warship.”

  “Exactly,” Thrawn said. “The poles will be a considerable distance from the conjoined ships and thus difficult to see.”

  “Especially since an enemy’s attention would be focused mainly on the ships themselves,” Faro said. “Leaving the poles unnoticed and ignored unless someone was specifically looking for them.”

  “As Lieutenant Agral is doing now,” Thrawn agreed.

  “Not a particularly clever arrangement,” Ar’alani said. “If the warship is away, or even just out of position, long-range communication is impossible.”

  “You believe it foolish because you aren’t accustomed to working with slaves,” Thrawn said, a dark edge to his voice. “On a forward base such as this, where Grysk overseers are undoubtedly outnumbered, a successful revolt would still leave the slaves helpless, unable to either escape or call for assistance.”

  “They can’t leave because of the conjoined ships’ bow-to-stern configuration,” Faro said, nodding to herself. “Which the Grysks needed in order to get the triad poles rotating properly in the first place. Keeping the ships from leaving in a crisis was just an extra bonus.”

  “We assumed the c
onfiguration was for our benefit, a way to make their bait more attractive,” Thrawn said. “Warriors rarely make such elaborate arrangements purely for the sake of their enemies. Their plans will always first and foremost benefit their own interests and goals.”

  “Yes, sir,” Faro said. “I’ll remember that.”

  “As should we all.” Thrawn raised his voice and switched back to Basic. “Lieutenant Agral?”

  “A moment, sir…yes! Got them, sir!”

  “Excellent,” Thrawn said.

  Faro suppressed a smile. Agral was the youngest of the senior bridge crew, and sometimes his youthful enthusiasm bumped into the more sedate official protocol.

  Fortunately for him, Thrawn appreciated enthusiasm from his subordinates. “Put it on the tactical,” Faro ordered.

  Two new marks appeared on the displays: the triad poles tracing out their distant circles in harmony with the conjoined ships’ rotation.

  Faro checked the scale. Five kilometers each from the ships, putting them ten kilometers apart. “Commander Hammerly, your target is—” She ran the triangle calculation in her head. “—approximately eight point seven kilometers above or below the conjoined ships.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Not so hasty, Commodore,” Thrawn said thoughtfully. “Consider that the Grysks are certainly aware that their outrider poles might be discovered, and that the purpose might be recognized, and the location of the third pole might therefore be easily deduced.”

  And also consider that the Grysks aren’t fools, Faro added silently to Thrawn’s list. “So they won’t just be sitting where an enemy would know to shoot at them,” she said. “At the same time, they won’t want to be too far out of communication. So they’ll be close to that nine-kilometer spot, but far enough away that a targeted spread will miss them.”

  “Very good,” Thrawn said. “I believe I have also detected a hitherto unrecognized trait hidden in the artwork that has been created around their species. They are interested observers, wishing to see all, and especially eager to see and savor moments of their own triumph.”