Treason - Timothy Zahn

by Star Wars

  Director Krennic, Ronan knew, would not be happy about the situation. But for now, the lack of decent security was working in their favor.

  Assuming, of course, that Thrawn and Vanto were right about this ship.

  “You have an inventory list to check against?” Dayja asked as he headed aft toward the main hold. “Or do you need me to pull one up for you?”

  “I don’t care what’s supposed to be here,” Ronan growled, dropping his carrybag by the hatch and following. “I only care about what’s actually in the boxes.”

  “Okay,” Dayja said. “Fine. Just lead the way, and tell me what you want me to do. I get paid no matter what.”

  Glowering, Ronan pushed past him in the narrow passageway and stomped into the hold. Probably nothing in there but food, clothing, and cooking supplies. Vanto had been the one who claimed there were turbolaser parts, and Ronan had just seen how glibly Vanto could lie when he wanted to.

  In fact, this whole soap bubble was probably just Vanto trying to get in good with his former commander while making Ronan and Director Krennic look bad in the bargain. He’d probably never expected Thrawn would actually send him to Aloxor.

  The crates were lined up neatly on both sides of the hold’s center aisle, six high, crash-webbed in place. “Where do you want to start?” Dayja asked.

  “Anywhere you want,” Ronan said. The easiest ones to get to would be those on the top, he decided. He could grab one of the loadlifters racked underneath the tool bar at the back of the hold, move it to the top box, use something to carefully pry open the top—

  He jerked as the sound of splintered plastic came from behind him. He spun around to find Dayja casually slicing into the front of one of the crates second up from the bottom with a fold-up knife. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “Stop that!”

  “Top one’s too obvious,” Dayja said calmly, ignoring the order. “Lazy inspectors start there and work down a couple before they lose interest and pass on the rest.”

  “Dayja—” Ronan started toward him.

  And stopped abruptly as Dayja lifted his knife away from the crate and waved it casually in Ronan’s general direction. “Careful—flying splinters,” he warned. “Clever inspectors sometimes start at the bottom and work their way up, but it takes so long to shift the crates that they usually only get through the bottom row before they run out of time.”

  He finished cutting into the crate and pulled off the front, revealing what looked like the parts of a disassembled laser cooker. “A really suspicious inspector might start at the middle, and a conscientious one will look at everything,” he continued, peering at the cooker’s pieces and carefully inserting the tip of his knife between two of them. “So I usually start with second or third up from the bottom. That’s where smart people like to hide things.”

  “I don’t suppose it occurred to you,” Ronan said between clenched teeth, “that if it turns out there’s nothing there, one look at that and the port inspectors will lock the ship down so fast it’ll make the Emperor’s head spin.”

  “Careful,” Dayja warned. He leaned on the knife hilt, and a small radion tube popped out of the packing material. “In some quarters, that could be seen as treasonous talk. Anyway, you’re the one who said there was contraband.”

  “I did not say that,” Ronan insisted, wincing as the tube clattered onto the deck. “It was Vanto and Thrawn who said it.”

  “My mistake,” Dayja said, flicking on the knife’s tiny spotlight and peering into the opening. “I guess Vanto and Thrawn get all the credit, then.”

  “All the—what?”

  “The credit,” Dayja said, reaching into the opening and pulling out a heavy-looking double-flared cylinder, “for spotting this. I don’t know what it is, but it’s sure as hell not part of a laser cooker.”

  Ronan stepped forward, his frustration evaporating into sudden dread. “Does it have a part number?” he asked as he pulled out his datapad.

  “Yeah,” Dayja said, turning the cylinder over and angling his light. “It’s a TRL-44. Serial number—”

  “Never mind that,” Ronan murmured, staring at the cylinder. Vanto had been right. Vanto and Thrawn both.

  Stardust had been compromised.

  “You want me to open any of the others?” Dayja asked. He was gazing at Ronan’s face, his flippant tone gone.

  “No,” Ronan said. He looked at the rest of the crates, his stomach churning. How many others, he wondered, were hiding stolen turbolaser parts? “No, that’s good enough.”

  “Hey!” A distant voice drifted back from the bow.

  Ronan tensed, relaxed again as he recognized it as Waffle’s. “Back here,” he called.

  “Come to portside,” Waffle called. “Vanto wants to show you something.”

  Vanto and Pik were waiting beside the midships portside thruster when Ronan and Dayja arrived. The outer shielding sleeve had been taken off, and some of the wires had been pulled out of their cable trays. “We’re here,” Ronan said shortly. “What is it?”

  “Take a look,” Vanto said, pointing at the opening. “That’s supposed to be compressed argon gas for the maneuvering jets.”

  Ronan looked in. There was a long cylinder nestled in just under where the sleeve would be, green with angled white lines. “I’ll take your word for it,” Ronan said. “Are you saying it isn’t?”

  “Closer,” Vanto said, tapping the tank with a finger. “See those small grooves?”

  “Look like normal seams to me.”

  “But they’re too deep,” Vanto said. “I know how maneuvering tanks are supposed to be laid out—my family runs a shipping business. A little extra heat from this coil—this one right here—and that seam would pop.”

  “So some argon leaks. So what?”

  “It’s not argon.” Vanto shone a light at the underside of the tank, and Ronan saw that he’d scratched a line through the coating shell along the length of the cylinder. “The cylinder’s been painted over. See the markings? Red, yellow, red, white, red. That’s Clouzon-36, not argon.”

  Ronan looked at Dayja. “He’s right,” Dayja confirmed. “I know the markings—hijacked Clouzon-36 is on our permanent watch list.” He ran a finger over the green coating. “You’re not supposed to be able to paint over this kind of marking, though. Other coloration isn’t supposed to stick. Interesting.”

  “Must be something new on the market,” Pik said.

  “Must be,” Dayja agreed. “Pirates and smugglers always get the good stuff first.”

  “There’s more,” Vanto said, again pointing into the opening. “Here are the control and power cables from the hyperdrive, right alongside the Clouzon-36 tank. That’s the theory on the missing ships, right? That the grallocs start digging into the power cables and trigger the hyperdrive by accident?”

  “Yeah, I see,” Dayja said, peering closer. “The cables have been reinforced with extra shielding.”

  “A lot of extra shielding, actually,” Vanto agreed. “So at the proper time the crew fires up the heater and lets the Clouzon-36 leak out. A gralloc smells it, comes roaring in, and attaches itself to the hull so it can eat the gas. The crew goes into panic mode, screams that the gralloc is shorting out the hyperdrive control—”

  “Yes, yes, I got it,” Ronan snapped. Damn him.

  Damn all of them, for that matter. Vanto and Thrawn and Tarkin and Haveland and everyone else. So Stardust’s equipment had been stolen and the equipment managers made fools of. So everything Director Krennic had thought about the gralloc problem was wrong. That didn’t mean Vanto had to rub Ronan’s nose in it.

  He forced back the reflexive anger. No, that wasn’t fair. Director Krennic had challenged Thrawn to eliminate the gralloc threat. The fact that he’d uncovered a criminal conspiracy instead was hardly a reason to resent or hate him.

  But it al
so wasn’t like this was over. Far from it. Ronan was sitting on proof of subversion, theft, and treason, and unless he moved quickly he would likely find himself facing down people who desperately wanted to remove that proof from existence. Along, probably, with anyone who’d seen it.

  He looked up. The Star Destroyer was still sitting up there, trolling for pirates and smugglers.

  Or was it? Had Grand Admiral Savit sent it to clean out the Tiquwe spaceport, like Sisay had thought?

  Because Ronan couldn’t see any shuttles full of stormtroopers dropping from the hangar bay to cause havoc. Was that instead one of Governor Haveland’s warships, sent to watch for trouble with her next to-be-stolen freighter?

  Or could it be both? If Haveland and Savit were working together…

  Mentally, he shook his head. Paranoia, he chided himself.

  But the lesson was clear. There was no one he could trust. No one except Director Krennic. Certainly none of the men currently standing beside him.

  That problem, at least, would be easy to solve. “All right, I’ve seen enough,” he said. “Dayja, can you call someone from the port inspector’s office? No, wait,” he added, as if a new thought had just occurred to him. “Better not put this on the comm system. Go find someone with authority and get them over here. Quietly. Vanto, you and the others stay here and watch this part of the ship. We don’t want someone wandering by and wondering why that sleeve has been taken off or, worse, taking a hammer and wrecking the proof.”

  “What about you?” Dayja asked.

  “I’m going to take some holos of the contraband,” Ronan said. “We’ll need proof to show the inspector if we’re going to get anyone to take this seriously.”

  “Will you be safe in there alone?” Vanto asked. “Maybe you should take Pik with you.”

  “I’d rather he watch things out here,” Ronan said. “Don’t worry—I’ll lock the hatch behind me.” He gestured to Dayja. “Well, don’t just stand there. Go get someone before this thing blows up in our faces.”

  “Right,” Dayja said. “Back in five. Make sure you lock that hatch.”

  A minute later Ronan was inside, the hatch securely locked behind him. A minute after that he was in the cockpit.

  Ten seconds after that he had keyed the start-up sequence.

  Vanto would be furious, he knew. So, probably, would Dayja.

  Ronan didn’t care. There was no one in the entire Aloxor system he could trust right now. The only way to keep this discovery and the evidence safe was to get the freighter to Scarif and Director Krennic.

  “Going somewhere?”

  Ronan twisted around in his seat. Dayja was standing at the cockpit hatchway, leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. “What are you doing here?” Ronan demanded.

  “Oh, come on,” Dayja said scornfully. “You may be able to fool a kid and a couple of death troopers, but really?”

  “It’s the only way I can keep the evidence safe,” Ronan said, trying desperately to think. He’d heard that freighter captains sometimes kept blasters in the cockpit in case the ship was attacked and boarded. But where it would be hidden on this one—

  “I agree,” Dayja said. Unfolding his arms, he continued into the cockpit, squeezed past Ronan, and dropped into the copilot’s seat. “I’m thinking Coruscant and ISB headquarters.”

  “I’m not,” Ronan said, eyeing him uncertainly. “What about Vanto?”

  “I told him there was a secure comm in the data transfer node around the corner,” Dayja said. “He’s on his way to whistle up my partner.”

  “You have a partner?”

  Dayja shrugged, a little too casually. “Not recently.”

  “What about the death troopers?”

  “One’s with Vanto, the other’s watching the ship,” Dayja said. “Don’t worry about them—they’re unarmed, and all the muscle and martial arts training in the world won’t do much against a ship hull. I trust you know how to pilot this thing?”

  Ronan snorted. “Of course.”

  The final red light winked green, and he eased in the repulsorlifts. A glance out the side viewport showed Waffle standing well back from the freighter, staring openmouthed as it rose into the sky. Ahead, Ronan caught a glimpse of Vanto and Pik charging around the corner toward him. Their expressions were too distant for him to make out, but he could guess the basics.

  He looked back at the navigational board, feeling a sudden and unexpected twinge of guilt. Vanto might be a deserter, but abandoning him in the middle of a spaceport was still a pretty shoddy thing to do.

  But he didn’t dare take Vanto or the others along. Anyway, the shuttle they’d flown to Aloxor should still be okay. It would be a long walk back there, but the pirates had their own problems right now, and he doubted the death troopers would have any trouble clearing a path for the three of them.

  As for Thrawn…well, Thrawn would be angry, too. But again, Ronan didn’t care. Once the Death Star was up and running, there would be enough slack in the navy budget again to get his Defender project funded. That should keep him happy.

  “So where are we going?” Dayja asked.

  “For the moment, that’s classified,” Ronan said, wincing. It was a good question.

  Because as far as he knew, Dayja wasn’t cleared to know about Stardust or anything else that was happening at Scarif. If Ronan flew directly there, it was a good bet that Director Krennic would order Dayja put into detention on general principles until the Death Star was operational and off on its first mission. Maybe he’d hold on to him even longer.

  Yularen wouldn’t be happy about losing an agent’s services that long. Dayja himself would no doubt be furious.

  Ronan sighed to himself. He was making more enemies today than he’d probably accumulated in his entire career. But it didn’t matter. Director Krennic would be pleased with what he’d accomplished, and his approval was all that mattered.

  Still, there might be a way to keep Yularen and Dayja off that new-enemies list. Ronan could stop somewhere along the way to Scarif, drop Dayja, and then take off again. Someplace under strong enough Imperial rule that a lone ISB agent without a support system wouldn’t be in any danger, but disconnected enough from Stardust that no one involved in this plot would be there. Ord Pardron, maybe, or Radnor. A quick swing by one of those—

  “Freighter Brylan Ross, this is the ISD Stormbird,” a harsh voice burst from the cockpit speaker. “Identify yourself and your crew.”

  “What in space are they picking on us for?” Dayja muttered. He reached for the mike key.

  “No,” Ronan snapped, slapping his hand away.

  “What’s the problem?” Dayja asked, his voice suddenly suspicious. “You’ve got all the ID you need, right? Assistant Director Ronan?”

  “It’s not that easy,” Ronan said, visions of plotters with shadowed faces and small but deadly knives flashing through his mind. “I need to know who this Stormbird is assigned to.”

  “Why?” Dayja asked, pulling out his datapad.

  “Because this rot goes all the way to the top,” Ronan said, looking out the viewport. There were other ships in the air, coming from all sectors of the spaceport, apparently going about their business without interference or challenge. The Star Destroyer had definitely and specifically targeted the Brylan Ross. “Thrawn thinks Governor Haveland herself is involved. If that ship is part of Haveland’s sector group, we need to get away from it.”

  “Good luck with that,” Dayja said, punching keys. “It’s really hard to outrun a tractor beam.”

  “Brylan Ross captain, identify yourself or prepare to be brought aboard for inspection,” the voice said.

  Ronan hunched his shoulders. Dayja was right. Tractor beams were hard to dodge and impossible to outrun.

  But they could sometimes be distracted.

&nbs
p; He did a second, more careful visual sweep of the area. The spaceport itself was fairly flat, but there were some tall buildings along the rim. If he could get into the shadow of one of them, maybe zigzag between two or three more, the tractor operators might lose him long enough for him to angle away and hide among the other ships streaming out into space. Resettling his fingers on the yoke, he keyed the thrusters to full power and angled toward the nearest of the tall buildings.

  “Brylan Ross, you are ordered to hold station!”

  Almost there. Ronan braced himself for the jerk that would mean the Star Destroyer had grabbed him—

  Abruptly, the freighter jerked to the side. Ronan swore, twisting the yoke over, trying to break the pull.

  No response. He yanked the other way.

  Only then, as he glanced down, did he realize his side of the board had gone dark.

  Dayja had taken over control.

  “What the hell—?”

  “You ever flown something this big?” Dayja cut him off. He spun the yoke the other direction, forcing Ronan to grab for his seat’s armrests. “I didn’t think so. You want to get out of this? Then sit back and let me handle it.”

  Another twist, and Ronan was yanked the other way as Dayja sent the freighter cutting in a tight circle around the building Ronan had been aiming for.

  Only instead of weaving around it and then heading toward another building as Ronan had planned, he did a complete 360 and headed back over the spaceport. “What are you doing?” Ronan demanded.

  “You go weaving around the city and the local patrollers will shoot you down like a grumf,” Dayja said. “Three things you have to remember about tractor beams.”