The Last Command pt1

Star Wars

The Thrawn Trilogy

Book 3

The Last Command

by Timothy Zahn

updated : 11.XI.2006

###############################################################################

Chapter 1

Gliding through the blackness of deep space, the Imperial Star Destroyer Chimaera pointed its mighty arrowhead shape toward the dim star of its target system, three thousandths of a light-year away. And prepared itself for war.

"All systems show battle ready, Admiral," the comm officer reported from the portside crew pit. "The task force is beginning to check in."

"Very good, Lieutenant," Grand Admiral Thrawn nodded. "Inform me when all have done so. Captain Pellaeon?"

"Sir?" Pellaeon said, searching his superior's face for the stress the Grand Admiral must be feeling. The stress he himself was certainly feeling. This was not just another tactical strike against the Rebellion, after all—not a minor shipping raid or even a complex but straightforward hit-and-fade against some insignificant planetary base. After nearly a month of frenzied preparations, Thrawn's master campaign for the Empire's final victory was about to be launched.

But if the Grand Admiral was feeling any tension, he was keeping it to himself. "Begin the countdown," he told Pellaeon, his voice as calm as if he were ordering dinner.

"Yes, sir," Pellaeon said, turning back to the group of one-quarter-size holographic figures standing before him in the Chimaera's aft bridge hologram pod. "Gentlemen: launch marks. Bellicose: three minutes."

"Acknowledged, Chimaera," Captain Aban nodded, his proper military demeanor not quite masking his eagerness to take this war back to the Rebellion. "Good hunting."

The holo image sputtered and vanished as the Bellicose raised its deflector shields, cutting off long-range communications. Pellaeon shifted his attention to the next image in line. "Relentless: four point five minutes."

"Acknowledged," Captain Dorja said, cupping his right fist in his left in an ancient Mirshaf gesture of victory as he, too, vanished from the hologram pod.

Pellaeon glanced at his data pad. "Judicator: six minutes."

"We're ready, Chimaera," Captain Brandei said, his voice soft. Soft, and just a little bit wrong. . . .

Pellaeon frowned at him. Quarter-sized holos didn't show a lot of detail, but even so the expression on Brandei's face was easy to read. It was the expression of a man out for blood.

"This is war, Captain Brandei," Thrawn said, coming up silently to Pellaeon's side. "Not an opportunity for personal revenge."

"I understand my duty, Admiral," Brandei said stiffly.

Thrawn's blue-black eyebrows lifted slightly. "Do you, Captain? Do you indeed?"

Slowly, reluctantly, some of the fire faded from Brandei's face. "Yes, sir," he muttered. "My duty is to the Empire, and to you, and to the ships and crews under my command."

"Very good," Thrawn said. "To the living, in other words. Not to the dead."

Brandei was still glowering, but he gave a dutiful nod. "Yes, sir."

"Never forget that, Captain," Thrawn warned him. "The fortunes of war rise and fall, and you may be assured that the Rebellion will be repaid in full for their destruction of the Peremptory at the Katana fleet skirmish. But that repayment will occur in the context of our overall strategy. Not as an act of private vengeance." His glowing red eyes narrowed slightly. "Certainly not by any Fleet captain under my command. I trust I make myself clear."

Brandei's cheek twitched. Pellaeon had never thought of the man as brilliant, but he was smart enough to recognize a threat when he heard one. "Very clear, Admiral."

"Good." Thrawn eyed him a moment longer, then nodded. "I believe you've been given your launch mark?"

"Yes, sir. Judicator out."

Thrawn looked at Pellaeon. "Continue, Captain," he said, and turned away.

"Yes, sir." Pellaeon looked at his data pad. "Nemesis . . ."

He finished the list without further incident. By the time the last holo image disappeared, the final check-in from their own task force was complete.

"The timetable appears to be running smoothly," Thrawn said as Pellaeon returned to his command station. "The Stormhawk reports that the guide freighters launched on time with tow cables functioning properly. And we've just intercepted a general emergency call from the Ando system."

The Bellicose and its task force, right on schedule. "Any response, sir?" Pellaeon asked.

"The Rebel base at Ord Pardron acknowledged," Thrawn said. "It should be interesting to see how much help they send."

Pellaeon nodded. The Rebels had seen enough of Thrawn's tactics by now to expect Ando to be a feint, and to respond accordingly. But on the other hand, an attack force consisting of an Imperial Star Destroyer and eight Katana fleet Dreadnaughts was hardly something they could afford to dismiss out of hand, either.

Not that it really mattered. They would send a few ships to Ando to fight the Bellicose, and a few more to Filve to fight the Judicator, and a few more to Crondre to fight the Nemesis, and so on and so on. By the time the Death's Head hit the base itself, Ord Pardron would be down to a skeleton defense and screaming itself for all the reinforcements the Rebellion could scramble.

And that was where those reinforcements would go. Leaving the Empire's true target ripe for the picking.

Pellaeon looked out the forward viewport at the star of the Ukio system dead ahead, his throat tightening as he contemplated again the enormous conceit of this whole plan. With planetary shields able to hold off all but the most massive turbolaser and proton torpedo bombardment, conventional wisdom held that the only way to subdue a modern world was to put a fast-moving ground force down at the edges and send them overland to destroy the shield generators. Between the fire laid down by the ground force and the subsequent orbital assault, the target world was always badly damaged by the time it was finally taken. The alternative, landing hundreds of thousands of troops in a major ground campaign that could stretch into months or years, was no better. To capture a planet relatively undamaged but with shield generators still intact was considered an impossibility.

That bit of military wisdom would fall today. Along with Ukio itself.

"Intercepted distress signal from Filve, Admiral," the comm officer reported. "Ord Pardron again responding."

"Good." Thrawn consulted his chrono. "Seven minutes, I think, and we'll be able to move." His lips compressed, just noticeably. "I suppose we'd better confirm that our exalted Jedi Master is ready to do his part."

Pellaeon hid a grimace. Joruus C'baoth, insane clone of the long-dead Jedi Master Jorus C'baoth, who a month ago had proclaimed himself the true heir to the Empire. He didn't like talking to the man any more than Thrawn did; but he might as well volunteer. If he didn't, it would simply become an order. "I'll go, sir," he said, standing up.

"Thank you, Captain," Thrawn said. As if Pellaeon would have had a choice.

He felt the mental summons the moment he stepped beyond the Force-protection of the ysalamiri scattered about the bridge on their nutrient frames. Master C'baoth, clearly, was impatient for the operation to begin. Preparing himself as best he could, fighting against C'baoth's casual mental pressure to hurry, Pellaeon made his way down to Thrawn's command room.

The chamber was brightly lit, in marked contrast to the subdued lighting the Grand Admiral usually preferred. "Captain Pellaeon," C'baoth called, beckoning to him from the double display ring in the center of the room. "Come in. I've been waiting for you."

"The rest of the operation has taken my full attention," Pellaeon told him stiffly, trying to hide his distaste for the man. Knowing full well how futile such attempts were.

"Of course," C'baoth smiled, a smile that showed more effectively than any words his amusement with Pellaeon's discomfort. "No matter. I take it Grand Admiral Thrawn is finally ready?"

"Almost," Pellaeon said. "We want to clear out Ord Pardron as much as possible before we move."

C'baoth snorted. "You continue to assume the New Republic will dance to the Grand Admiral's tune."

"They will," Pellaeon said. "The Grand Admiral has studied the enemy thoroughly."

"He's studied their artwork," C'baoth countered with another snort. "That will be useful if the time ever comes when the New Republic has nothing but artists left to throw against us."

A signal from the display ring saved Pellaeon from the need to reply. "We're moving," he told C'baoth, starting a mental countdown of the seventy-six seconds it would take to reach the Ukio system from their position and trying not to let C'baoth's words get under his skin. He didn't understand himself how Thrawn could so accurately learn the innermost secrets of a species from its artwork. But he'd seen that knowledge proved often enough to trust the Grand Admiral's instincts on such things. C'baoth hadn't.

But then, C'baoth wasn't really interested in an honest debate on the subject. For the past month, ever since declaring himself to be the true heir to the Emperor, C'baoth had been pressing this quiet war against Thrawn's credibility, implying that true insight came only through the Force. And, therefore, only through him.

Pellaeon himself didn't buy that argument. The Emperor had been deep into this Force thing, too, and he hadn't even been able to predict his own death at Endor. But the seeds of uncertainty C'baoth was trying to sow were nevertheless starting to take hold, particularly among the less experienced of Thrawn's officers.

Which was, for Pellaeon, just one more reason why this attack had to succeed. The outcome hinged as much on Thrawn's reading of the Ukian cultural ethos as it did on straight military tactics. On Thrawn's conviction that, at a basic psychological level, the Ukians were terrified of the impossible.

"He will not always be right," C'baoth said into Pellaeon's musings.

Pellaeon bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, the skin of his back crawling at having had his thoughts so casually invaded. "You don't have any concept of privacy, do you?" he growled.

"I am the Empire, Captain Pellaeon," C'baoth said, his eyes glowing with a dark, fanatical fire. "Your thoughts are a part of your service to me."

"My service is to Grand Admiral Thrawn," Pellaeon said stiffly.

C'baoth smiled. "You may believe that if you wish. But to business—true Imperial business. When the battle here is over, Captain Pellaeon, I want a message sent to Wayland."

"Announcing your imminent return, no doubt," Pellaeon said sourly. C'baoth had been insisting for nearly a month now that he would soon be going back to his former home on Wayland, where he would take command of the cloning facility in the Emperor's old storehouse inside Mount Tantiss. So far, he'd been too busy trying to subvert Thrawn's position to do anything more than talk about it.

"Do not worry, Captain Pellaeon," C'baoth said, all amused again. "When the time is right, I will indeed return to Wayland. Which is why you will contact Wayland after this battle is over and order them to create a clone for me. A very special clone."

Grand Admiral Thrawn will have to authorize that, were the words that came to mind. "What kind do you want?" were the ones that inexplicably came out. Pellaeon blinked, running the memory over in his mind again. Yes, that was what he'd said, all right.

C'baoth smiled again at his silent confusion. "I merely wish a servant," he said. "Someone who will be waiting there for me when I return. Formed from one of the Emperor's prize souvenirs—sample B-2332-54, I believe it was. You will, of course, impress upon the garrison commander there that this must be done in total secrecy."

I will do nothing of the sort. "Yes," Pellaeon heard himself say instead. The sound of the word shocked him; but certainly he didn't mean it. On the contrary, as soon as the battle was over he'd be reporting this little incident directly to Thrawn.

"You will also keep this conversation a private matter between ourselves," C'baoth said lazily. "Once you have obeyed, you will forget it even happened."

"Of course," Pellaeon nodded, just to shut him up. Yes, he'd report this to Thrawn, all right. The Grand Admiral would know what to do.

The countdown reached zero, and on the main wall display the planet Ukio appeared. "We should put up a tactical display, Master C'baoth," he said.

C'baoth waved a hand. "As you wish."

Pellaeon reached over the double display ring and touched the proper key, and in the center of the room the holographic tactical display appeared. The Chimaera was driving toward high orbit above the sunside equator; the ten Katana fleet Dreadnaughts of its task force were splitting up into outer and inner defense positions; and the Stormhawk was coming in as backstop from the night side. Other ships, mostly freighters and other commercial types, could be seen dropping through the brief gaps Ground Control was opening for them in Ukio's energy shield, a hazy blue shell surrounding the planet about fifty kilometers above the surface. Two of the blips flashed red: the guide freighters from the Stormhawk, looking as innocent as all the rest of the ships scurrying madly for cover. The freighters, and the four invisible companions they towed.

"Invisible only to those without eyes to see them," C'baoth murmured.

"So now you can see the ships themselves, can you?" Pellaeon growled. "How Jedi skills grow."

He'd been hoping to irritate C'baoth a little—not much, just a little. But it was a futile effort. "I can see the men inside your precious cloaking shields," the Jedi Master said placidly. "I can see their thoughts and guide their wills. What does the metal itself matter?"

Pellaeon felt his lip twist. "I suppose there's a lot that doesn't matter to you," he said.

From the corner of his eye he saw C'baoth smile. "What doesn't matter to a Jedi Master does not matter to the universe."

The freighters and cloaked cruisers were nearly to the shield now. "They'll be dropping the tow cables as soon as they're inside the shield," Pellaeon reminded C'baoth. "Are you ready?"

The Jedi Master straightened up in his seat and closed his eyes to slits. "I await the Grand Admiral's command," he said sardonically.

For another second Pellaeon looked at the other's composed expression, a shiver running up through him. He could remember vividly the first time C'baoth had tried this kind of direct long-distance control. Could remember the pain that had been on C'baoth's face; the pinched look of concentration and agony as he struggled to hold the mental contacts.

Barely two months ago, Thrawn had confidently said that C'baoth would never be a threat to the Empire because he lacked the ability to focus and concentrate his Jedi power on a long-term basis. Somehow, between that time and now, C'baoth had obviously succeeded in learning the necessary control.

Which left C'baoth as a threat to the Empire. A very dangerous threat indeed.

The intercom beeped. "Captain Pellaeon?"

Pellaeon reached over the display ring and touched the key, pushing away his fears about C'baoth as best he could. For the moment, at least, the Fleet needed C'baoth. Fortunately, perhaps, C'baoth also needed the Fleet. "We're ready, Admiral," he said.

"Stand by," Thrawn said. "Tow cables detaching now."

"They are free," C'baoth said. "They are under power . . . moving now to their appointed positions."

"Confirm that they're beneath the planetary shield," Thrawn ordered.

For the first time a hint of the old strain crossed C'baoth's face. Hardly surprising; with the cloaking shield preventing the Chimaera from seeing the cruisers and at the same time blinding the cruisers' own sensors, the only way to know exactly where they were was for C'baoth to do a precise location check on the minds he was touching. "All four ships are beneath the shield," he said.

"Be absolutely certain, Jedi Master. If you're wrong—"

"I am not wrong, Grand Admiral Thrawn," C'baoth cut him off harshly. "I will do my part in this battle. Concern yourself with yours."

For a moment the intercom was silent. Pellaeon winced, visualizing the Grand Admiral's expression. "Very well, Jedi Master," Thrawn said calmly. "Prepare to do your part."

There was the double click of an opening comm channel. "This is the Imperial Star Destroyer Chimaera, calling the Overliege of Ukio," Thrawn said. "In the name of the Empire, I declare the Ukian system to be once again under the mandate of Imperial law and the protection of Imperial forces. You will lower your shields, recall all military units to their bases, and prepare for an orderly transfer of command."

There was no response. "I know you're receiving this message," Thrawn continued. "If you fail to respond, I will have to assume that you mean to resist the Empire's offer. In that event, I would have no choice but to open hostilities."

Again, silence. "They're sending another transmission," Pellaeon heard the comm officer say. "Sounds a little more panicked than the first one was."

"I'm certain their third will be even more so," Thrawn told him. "Prepare for firing sequence one. Master C'baoth?"

"The cruisers are ready, Grand Admiral Thrawn," C'baoth said. "As am I."

"Be sure that you are," Thrawn said, quietly threatening. "Unless the timing is absolutely perfect, this entire show will be worse than useless. Turbolaser battery three: stand by firing sequence one on my mark. Three . . . two . . . one . . . fire."

On the tactical hologram a double lance of green fire angled out from the Chimaera's turbolaser batteries toward the planet below. The blasts struck the hazy blue of the planetary shield, splashed slightly as their energy was defocused and reflected back into space—

And with the desired perfect timing the two cloaked cruisers hovering on repulsorlifts beneath the shield at those two points fired in turn, their turbolaser blasts sizzling through the atmosphere into two of Ukio's major air defense bases.

That was what Pellaeon saw. The Ukians, with no way of knowing about the cloaked cruisers, would have seen the Chimaera fire two devastating shots cleanly through an impenetrable planetary shield.

"Third transmission cut off right in the middle, sir," the comm officer reported with a touch of dark humor. "I think we surprised them."

"Let's convince them it wasn't a fluke," Thrawn said. "Prepare firing sequence two. Master C'baoth?"

"The cruisers are ready."

"Turbolaser battery two: stand by firing sequence two on my mark. Three . . . two . . . one . . . fire."

Again the green fire lanced out, and again, with perfect timing, the cloaked cruisers created their illusion. "Well done," Thrawn said. "Master C'baoth, move the cruisers into position for sequences three and four."

"As you command, Grand Admiral Thrawn."

Unconsciously, Pellaeon braced himself. Sequence four had two of the Ukians' thirty overlapping shield generators as its targets. Launching such an attack would mean that Thrawn had given up on his stated goal of taking Ukio with its planetary defenses intact.

"Imperial Star Destroyer Chimaera, this is Tol dosLla of the Ukian Overliege," a slightly quavering voice came from the intercom speaker. "We would ask you to cease your bombardment of Ukio while we discuss terms for surrender."

"My terms are quite simple," Thrawn said. "You will begin by lowering your planetary shield and allowing my forces to land. They will be given control of the shield generators themselves and of all ground-to-space weaponry. All fighting vehicles larger than command speeders will be moved to designated military bases and turned over to Imperial control. Though you will, of course, be ultimately answerable to the Empire, your political and social systems will remain under your control. Provided your people behave themselves, of course."

"And once these changes have been implemented?"

"Then you will be part of the Empire, with all the rights and duties that implies."

"There will be no war-level tax levies?" dosLla asked suspiciously. "No forced conscription of our young people?"

Pellaeon could imagine Thrawn's grim smile. No, the Empire would never need to bother with forced conscription again. Not with the Emperor's collection of Spaarti cloning cylinders in their hands.

"No, to your second question; a qualified no to your first," Thrawn told the Ukian. "As you are obviously aware, most Imperial worlds are currently under war-status taxation levels. However, there are exceptions, and it is likely that your share of the war effort will come directly from your extensive food production and processing facilities." There was a long pause from the other end. DosLla was no fool, Pellaeon realized—the Ukian knew full well what Thrawn had in mind for his world. First it would be direct Imperial control of the ground/space defenses, then direct control of the food distribution system, the processing facilities, and the vast farming and livestock grazing regions themselves; and in a very short time the entire planet would have become nothing more than a supply depot for the Imperial war machine.

But the alternative was for him to stand silently by and watch as his world was utterly and impossibly demolished before his eyes. And he knew that, too.

"We will lower the planetary shields, Chimaera, as a gesture of good faith," dosLla said at last, his tone defiant but with a hint of defeat to it. "But before the generators and ground/space weaponry can be turned over to Imperial forces we shall require certain guarantees regarding the safety of the Ukian people and our land."

"Certainly," Thrawn said, without any trace of the gloating that most Imperial commanders would have indulged in at this point. A small act of courtesy that, Pellaeon knew, was as precisely calculated as the rest of the attack had been. Permitting the Ukian leaders to surrender with their dignity intact would slow down the inevitable resistance to Imperial rule until it was too late. "A representative will be on his way shortly to discuss the particulars with your government," Thrawn continued. "Meanwhile, I presume you have no objection to our forces taking up preliminary defense positions?"

A sigh, more felt than really heard. "We have no objections, Chimaera," dosLla said reluctantly. "We are lowering the shield now."

On the tactical display, the blue haze surrounding the planet faded away. "Master C'baoth, have the cruisers move to polar positions," Thrawn ordered. "We don't want any of the drop ships blundering into them. General Covell, you may begin transporting your forces to the surface. Standard defensive positions around all targets."

"Acknowledged, Admiral," Covell's voice said, a little too dryly, and Pellaeon felt a tight smile twitch at his lip. It had only been two weeks since the top Fleet and army commanders had been let in on the secret of the Mount Tantiss cloning project, and Covell was one of those who still hadn't adjusted completely to the idea.

Though the fact that three of the companies he was about to lead down to the surface were composed entirely of clones might have had something to do with his skepticism.

On the tactical hologram the first waves of drop ships and TIE fighter escorts had exited the Chimaera and Stormhawk, fanning out toward their assigned targets. Clones in drop ships, about to carry out Imperial orders. As the clone crews in the cloaked cruisers had already done so well.

Pellaeon frowned, an odd and uncomfortable thought suddenly striking him. Had C'baoth been able to guide the cruisers so well because each of their thousand-man crews were composed of variants on just twenty or so different minds? Or—even more disturbing—could part of the Jedi Master's split-second control have been due to the fact that C'baoth was himself a clone?

And either way, did that mean that the Mount Tantiss project was playing directly into C'baoth's hands in his bid for power? Perhaps. One more question he would have to bring to Thrawn's attention.

Pellaeon looked down at C'baoth, belatedly remembering that in the Jedi Master's presence such thoughts were not his private property. But C'baoth wasn't looking at him, knowingly or otherwise. He was staring straight ahead, his eyes unfocused, the skin of his face taut. A faint smile just beginning to crease his lips. "Master C'baoth?"

"They're there," C'baoth whispered, his voice deep and husky. "They're there," he repeated, louder this time.

Pellaeon frowned back at the tactical hologram. "Who's where?" he asked.

"They're at Filve," C'baoth said. Abruptly, he looked up at Pellaeon, his eyes bright and insane. "My Jedi are at Filve."

"Master C'baoth, confirm that the cruisers have moved to polar positions," Thrawn's voice came sharply. "Then report on the feint battles—"

"My Jedi are at Filve," C'baoth cut him off. "What do I care about your battles?"

"C'baoth—"

With a wave of his hand, C'baoth shut off the intercom. "Now, Leia Organa Solo," he murmured softly, "you are mine."

The Millennium Falcon twisted hard to starboard as a TIE fighter shot past overhead, lasers blazing away madly as it tried unsuccessfully to track the freighter's maneuver. Clenching her teeth firmly against the movement, Leia Organa Solo watched as one of their escort X-wings blew the Imperial starfighter into a cloud of flaming dust. The sky spun around the Falcon's canopy as the ship rolled back toward its original heading—

"Look out!" Threepio wailed from the seat behind Leia as another TIE fighter roared in toward them from the side. The warning was unnecessary; with deceptive ungainliness the Falcon was already corkscrewing back the other direction to bring its ventral quad laser battery to bear. Faintly audible even through the cockpit door, Leia heard the sound of a Wookiee battle roar, and the TIE fighter went the way of its late partner.

"Good shot, Chewie," Han Solo called into the intercom as he got the Falcon leveled again. "Wedge?"

"Still with you, Falcon," Wedge Antilles' voice came promptly. "We're clear for now, but there's another wave of TIE fighters on the way."

"Yeah." Han glanced at Leia. "It's your call, sweetheart. You still want to try and reach ground?"

Threepio gave a little electronic gasp. "Surely, Captain Solo, you aren't suggesting—"

"Put a choke valve on it, Goldenrod," Han cut him off. "Leia?"

Leia looked out the cockpit canopy at the Imperial Star Destroyer and eight Dreadnaughts arrayed against the beleaguered planet ahead. Clustering around it like mynocks around an unshielded power generator. It was to have been her last diplomatic mission before settling in to await the birth of her twins: a quick trip to calm a nervous Filvian government and demonstrate the New Republic's determination to protect the systems in this sector.

Some demonstration.

"There's no way we can make it through all that," she told Han reluctantly. "Even if we could, I doubt the Filvians would risk opening the shield to let us in. We'd better make a run for it."

"Sounds good to me," Han grunted. "Wedge? We're pulling out. Stay with us."

"Copy, Falcon," Wedge said. "You'll have to give us a few minutes to calculate the jump back."

"Don't bother," Han said, swiveling around in his seat to key in the nav computer. "We'll feed you the numbers from here."

"Copy. Rogue Squadron: screen formation."

"You know, I'm starting to get tired of this," Han told Leia, swiveling back to face front. "I thought you said your Noghri pals were going to leave you alone."

"This has nothing to do with the Noghri." Leia shook her head, an odd half-felt tension stretching at her forehead. Was it her imagination, or were the Imperial ships surrounding Filve starting to break formation? "This is Grand Admiral Thrawn playing with his new Dark Force Dreadnaughts."

"Yeah," Han agreed quietly, and Leia winced at the momentary flash of bitterness in his sense. Despite everyone's best efforts to persuade him otherwise, Han still considered it his own personal fault that Thrawn had gotten to the derelict Katana fleet ships—the so-called Dark Force—ahead of the New Republic. "I wouldn't have thought he could get them reconditioned this fast," Han added as he twisted the Falcon's nose away from Filve and back toward deep space.

Leia swallowed. The strange tension was still there, like a distant malevolence pressing against the edges of her mind. "Maybe he has enough Spaarti cylinders to clone some engineers and techs as well as soldiers."

"That's sure a fun thought," Han said; and through her tension Leia could sense his sudden change in mood as he tapped the comm switch. "Wedge, take a look back at Filve and tell me if I'm seeing things."

Over the comm, Leia could hear Wedge's thoughtful intake of air. "You mean like the whole Imperial force breaking off their attack and coming after us?"

"Yeah. That."

"Looks real enough to me," Wedge said. "Could be a good time to get out of here."

"Yeah," Han said slowly. "Maybe."

Leia frowned at her husband. There'd been something in his voice. . . . "Han?"

"The Filvians would've called for help before they put up their shield, right?" Han asked her, forehead furrowed with thought.

"Right," Leia agreed cautiously.

"And the nearest New Republic base is Ord Pardron, right?"

"Right."

"Okay. Rogue Squadron, we're changing course to starboard. Stay with me."

He keyed his board, and the Falcon started a sharp curve to the right. "Watch it, Falcon—this is taking us back toward that TIE fighter group," Wedge warned.

"We're not going that far," Han assured him. "Here's our vector."

He straightened out the ship onto their new course heading and threw a look at the rear display. "Good— they're still chasing us."

Behind him, the nav computer beeped its notification that the jump coordinates were ready. "Wedge, we've got your coordinates," Leia said, reaching for the data transmission key.

"Hold it, Falcon," Wedge cut her off. "We've got company to starboard."

Leia looked that direction, her throat tightening as she saw what Wedge meant. The approaching TIE fighters were coming up fast, and already were close enough to eavesdrop on any transmission the Falcon tried to make to its escort. Sending Wedge the jump coordinates now would be an open invitation for the Imperials to have a reception committee waiting at the other end.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance, Your Highness," Threepio offered brightly. "As you know, I am fluent in over six million forms of communication. I could transmit the coordinates to Commander Antilles in Boordist or Vaathkree trade language, for example—"

"And then you'd send them the translation?" Han put in dryly.

"Of course—" The droid broke off. "Oh, dear," he said, sounding embarrassed.

"Yeah, well, don't worry about it," Han said. "Wedge, you were at Xyquine two years ago, weren't you?"

"Yes. Ah. A Cracken Twist?"

"Right. On two: one, two."

Outside the canopy, Leia caught a glimpse of the X-wings swinging into a complicated new escort formation around the Falcon. "What does this buy us?" she asked.

"Our way out," Han told her, checking the rear display again. "Pull the coordinates, add a two to the second number of each one, and then send the whole package to the X-wings."

"I see," Leia nodded her understanding as she got to work. Altering the second digit wouldn't change the appearance of their exit vector enough for the Imperials to catch on to the trick, but it would be more than enough to put any chase force a couple of light-years off target. "Clever. And that little flight maneuver they did just now was just window dressing?"

"Right. Makes anyone watching think that's all there is to it. A little something Pash Cracken came up with at that fiasco off Xyquine." Han glanced at the rear display again. "I think we've got enough lead to outrun them," he said. "Let's try."

"We're not jumping to lightspeed?" Leia frowned, an old and rather painful memory floating up from the back of her mind. That mad scramble away from Hoth, with Darth Vader's whole fleet breathing down their necks and a hyperdrive that turned out to be broken . . .

Han threw her a sideways look. "Don't worry, sweetheart. The hyperdrive's working fine today."

"Let's hope so," Leia murmured.

"See, as long as they're chasing us they can't bother Filve," Han went on. "And the farther we draw them away, the longer the backup force'll have to get here from Ord Pardron."

The brilliant green flash of a near miss cut off Leia's intended response. "I think we've given them all the time we can," she told Han. Within her, she could sense the turmoil coming from her unborn twins. "Can we please get out of here?"

A second bolt spattered off the Falcon's upper deflector shield. "Yeah, I think you're right," Han agreed. "Wedge? You ready to leave this party?"

"Whenever you are, Falcon," Wedge said. "Go ahead—we'll follow when you're clear."

"Right." Reaching over, Han gripped the hyperdrive levers and pulled them gently back. Through the cockpit canopy the stars stretched themselves into starlines, and they were safe.

Leia took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Within her, she could still sense the twins' anxiety, and for a moment she turned her mind to the job of calming them down. It was a strange sensation, she'd often thought, touching minds that dealt in emotion and pure sensation instead of pictures and words. So different from the minds of Han and Luke and her other friends.

So different, too, from the distant mind that had been orchestrating that Imperial attack force.

Behind her, the door slid open and Chewbacca came into the cockpit. "Good shooting, Chewie," Han told the Wookiee as he heaved his massive bulk into the portside passenger seat beside Threepio. "You have any more trouble with the horizontal control arm?"

Chewbacca rumbled a negative. His dark eyes studying Leia's face, he growled her a question. "I'm all right," Leia assured him, blinking back sudden and inexplicable tears. "Really."

She looked at Han, to find him frowning at her, too. "You weren't worried, were you?" he asked. "It was just an Imperial task force. Nothing to get excited about."

She shook her head. "It wasn't that, Han. There was something else back there. A land of . . ." She shook her head again. "I don't know."

"Perhaps it was similar to your indisposition at Endor," Threepio offered helpfully. "You remember—when you collapsed while Chewbacca and I were repairing the—?"

Chewbacca rumbled a warning, and the droid abruptly shut up. But far too late. "No—let him talk," Han said, his sense going all protectively suspicious as he looked at Leia. "What indisposition was this?"

"There wasn't anything to it, Han," Leia assured him, reaching over to take his hand. "On our first orbit around Endor we passed through the spot where the Death Star blew up. For a few seconds I could feel something like the Emperor's presence around me. That's all."

"Oh, that's all," Han said sarcastically, throwing a brief glare back at Chewbacca. "A dead Emperor tries to make a grab for you, and you don't think it's worth mentioning?"

"Now you're being silly," Leia chided. "There was nothing to worry about—it was over quickly, and there weren't any aftereffects. Really. Anyway, what I felt back at Filve was completely different."

"Glad to hear it," Han said, not yet ready to let it go. "Did you have any of the med people check you over or anything after you got back?"

"Well, there really wasn't any time before—"

"Fine. You do it as soon as we're back."

Leia nodded with a quiet sigh. She knew that tone; and it wasn't something she could wholeheartedly argue against, anyway. "All right. If I can find time."

"You'll make time," Han countered. "Or I'll have Luke lock you in the med center when he gets back. I mean it, sweetheart."

Leia squeezed his hand, feeling a similar squeeze on her heart as she did so. Luke, off alone in Imperial territory . . . but he was all right. He had to be. "All right," she told Han. "I'll get checked out. I promise."

"Good," he said, his eyes searching her face. "So what was it you felt back at Filve?"

"I don't know." She hesitated. "Maybe it was the same thing Luke felt on the Katana. You know—when the Imperials put that landing party of clones aboard."

"Yeah," Han agreed doubtfully. "Maybe. Those Dreadnaughts were awfully far away."

"There were probably a lot more clones, though, too."

"Yeah. Maybe," Han said again. "Well . . . I suppose Chewie and me'd better get to work on that ion flux stabilizer before it quits on us completely. Can you handle things up here okay, sweetheart?"

"I'm fine," Leia assured him, just as glad to be leaving this line of conversation. "You two go ahead."

Because the other possibility was one she'd just as soon not think about right now. The Emperor, it had long been rumored, had had the ability to use the Force to exercise direct control over his military forces. If the Jedi Master Luke had confronted on Jomark had that same ability . . .

Reaching down, she caressed her belly and focused on the pair of tiny minds within her. No, it was indeed not something she wanted to think about.

"I presume," Thrawn said in that deadly calm voice of his, "that you have some sort of explanation."

Slowly, deliberately, C'baoth lifted his head from the command room's double display circle to look at the Grand Admiral. At the Grand Admiral and, with undisguised contempt, at the ysalamir on its nutrient frame slung across Thrawn's shoulders. "Do you likewise have an explanation, Grand Admiral Thrawn?" he demanded.

"You broke off the diversionary attack on Filve," Thrawn said, ignoring C'baoth's question. "You then proceeded to send the entire task force on a dead-end chase."

"And you, Grand Admiral Thrawn, have failed to bring my Jedi to me," C'baoth countered. His voice, Pellaeon noticed uneasily, was slowly rising in both pitch and volume. "You, your tame Noghri, your entire Empire—all of you have failed."

Thrawn's glowing red eyes narrowed. "Indeed? And was it also our failure that you were unable to hold on to Luke Skywalker after we delivered him to you on Jomark?"

"You did not deliver him to me, Grand Admiral Thrawn," C'baoth insisted. "I summoned him there through the Force—"

"It was Imperial Intelligence who planted the rumor that Jorus C'baoth had returned and been seen on Jomark," Thrawn cut him off coldly. "It was Imperial Transport who brought you there, Imperial Supply who arranged and provisioned that house for you, and Imperial Engineering who built the camouflaged island landing site for your use. The Empire did its part to get Skywalker into your hands. It was you who failed to keep him there."

"No!" C'baoth snapped. "Skywalker left Jomark because Mara Jade escaped from you and twisted his mind against me. And she will pay for that. You hear me? She shall pay."

For a long moment Thrawn was silent. "You threw the entire Filve task force against the Millennium Falcon," he said at last, his voice under control again. "Did you succeed in capturing Leia Organa Solo?"

"No," C'baoth growled. "But not because she didn't want to come to me. She does. Just as Skywalker does."

Thrawn threw a glance at Pellaeon. "She wants to come to you?" he asked.

C'baoth smiled. "Very much," he said, his voice unexpectedly losing all its anger. Becoming almost dreamy . . . "She wants me to teach her children," he continued, his eyes drifting around the command room. "To instruct them in the ways of the Jedi. To create them in my own image. Because I am the master. The only one there is."

He looked back at Thrawn. "You must bring her to me, Grand Admiral Thrawn," he said, his manner somewhere halfway between solemn and pleading. "We must free her from her entrapment among those who fear her powers. They'll destroy her if we don't."

"Of course we must," Thrawn said soothingly. "But you must leave that task to me. All I need is a little more time."

C'baoth frowned with thought, his hand slipping up beneath his beard to finger the medallion hanging on its neck chain, and Pellaeon felt a shiver run up his back. No matter how many times he saw it happen, he would never get used to these sudden dips into the slippery twilight of clone madness. It had, he knew, been a universal problem with the early cloning experiments: a permanent mental and emotional instability, inversely scaled to the length of the duplicate's growth cycle. Few of the scientific papers on the subject had survived the Clone Wars era, but Pellaeon had come across one that had suggested that no clone grown to maturity in less than a year would be stable enough to survive outside of a totally controlled environment.

Given the destruction they'd unleashed on the galaxy, Pellaeon had always assumed that the clonemasters had eventually found at least a partial solution to the problem. Whether they had recognized the underlying cause of the madness was another question entirely.

It could very well be that Thrawn was the first to truly understand it.

"Very well, Grand Admiral Thrawn," C'baoth said abruptly. "You may have one final chance. But I warn you: it will be your last. After that, I will take the matter into my own hands." Beneath the bushy eyebrows his eyes flashed. "And I warn you further: if you cannot accomplish even so small a task, perhaps I will deem you unworthy to lead the military forces of my Empire."

Thrawn's eyes glittered, but he merely inclined his head slightly. "I accept your challenge, Master C'baoth."

"Good." Deliberately, C'baoth resettled himself into his seat and closed his eyes. "You may leave me now, Grand Admiral Thrawn. I wish to meditate, and to plan for the future of my Jedi."

For a moment Thrawn stood silently, his glowing red eyes gazing unblinkingly at C'baoth. Then he shifted his gaze to Pellaeon. "You'll accompany me to the bridge, Captain," he said. "I want you to oversee the defense arrangements for the Ukio system."

"Yes, sir," Pellaeon said, glad of any excuse to get away from C'baoth.

For a moment he paused, feeling a frown cross his face as he looked down at C'baoth. Had there been something he had wanted to bring to Thrawn's attention? He was almost certain there was. Something having to do with C'baoth, and clones, and the Mount Tantiss project . . .

But the thought wouldn't come, and with a mental shrug, he pushed the question aside. It would surely come to him in time.

Stepping around the display ring, he followed his commander from the room.

Chapter 2

It was called the Calius saj Leeloo, the City of Glowing Crystal of Berchest, and it had been one of the most spectacular wonders of the galaxy since the earliest days of the Old Republic. The entire city was nothing more or less than a single gigantic crystal, created over the eons by saltile spray from the dark red-orange waters of the Leefari Sea that roiled up against the low bluff upon which it rested. The original city had been painstakingly sculpted from the crystal over decades by local Berchestian artisans, whose descendants continued to guide and nurture its slow growth.

At the height of the Old Republic Calius had been a major tourist attraction, its populace making a comfortable living from the millions of beings who flocked to the stunning beauty of the city and its surroundings. But the chaos of the Clone Wars and the subsequent rise of the Empire had taken a severe toll on such idle amusements, and Calius had been forced to turn to other means for its support.

Fortunately, the tourist trade had left a legacy of well-established trade routes between Berchest and most of the galaxy's major systems. The obvious solution was for the Berchestians to promote Calius as a trade center; and while the city was hardly to the level yet of Svivren or Ketaris, they had achieved a modest degree of success.

The only problem was that it was a trade center on the Imperial side of the line.

A squad of stormtroopers strode down the crowded street, their white armor taking on a colored tinge from the angular red-orange buildings around them. Taking a long step out of their way, Luke Skywalker pulled his hood a bit closer around his face. He could sense no particular alertness from the squad, but this deep into Imperial space there was no reason to take chances. The stormtroopers strode past without so much as a glance in his direction, and with a quiet sigh of relief Luke returned his attention to his contemplation of the city. Between the stormtroopers, the Imperial fleet crewers on layover between flights, and the smugglers poking around hoping to pick up jobs, the darkly businesslike sense of the city was in strange and pointed contrast to its serene beauty.

And somewhere in all that serene beauty was something far more dangerous than mere Imperial stormtroopers.

A group of clones.

Or so New Republic Intelligence thought. Painstakingly sifting through thousands of intercepted Imperial communiques, they'd tentatively pinpointed Calius and the Berchest system as one of the transfer points in the new flood of human duplicates beginning to man the ships and troop carriers of Grand Admiral Thrawn's war machine.

That flood had to be stopped, and quickly. Which meant finding the location of the cloning tanks and destroying them. Which first meant backtracking the traffic pattern from a known transfer point. Which first meant confirming that clones were indeed coming through Calius.

A group of men dressed in the dulbands and robes of Svivreni traders came around a corner two blocks ahead, and as he had so many times in the past two days, Luke reached out toward them with the Force. One quick check was all it took: the traders did not have the strange aura he'd detected in the boarding party of clones that had attacked them aboard the Katana.

But even as he withdrew his consciousness, something else caught Luke's attention. Something he had almost missed amid the torrent of human and alien thoughts and sensations that swirled together around him like bits of colored glass in a sandstorm. A coolly calculating mind, one which Luke felt certain he'd encountered before but couldn't quite identify through the haze of mental noise between them.

And the owner of that mind was, in turn, fully aware of Luke's presence in Calius. And was watching him.

Luke grimaced. Alone in enemy territory, with his transport two kilometers away at the Calius landing field and his only weapon a lightsaber that would identify him the minute he drew it from his tunic, he was not exactly holding the high ground here.

But he had the Force . . . and he knew his follower was there. All in all, it gave him fair odds.

A couple of meters to his left was the entrance to the long arched tunnel of a pedestrian bridgeway. Turning down it, Luke stepped up his pace, trying to remember from his study of the city maps exactly where this particular bridge went. Across the city's icy river, he decided, and up toward the taller and higher-class regions overlooking the sea itself. Behind him, he sensed his pursuer follow him into the bridgeway; and as Luke put distance between himself and the mental din of the crowded market regions behind him, he was finally able to identify the man.

It was not as bad as he'd feared. But potentially at least, it was bad enough. With a sigh, Luke stopped and waited. The bridgeway, with its gentle curve hiding both ends from view, was as good a place as any for a confrontation.

His pursuer came to the last part of the curve. Then, as if anticipating that his quarry would be waiting there, he stopped just out of sight. Luke extended his senses, caught the sound of a blaster being drawn— "It's all right," he called softly. "We're alone. Come on out."

There was a brief hesitation, and Luke caught the momentary flicker of surprise; and then, Talon Karrde stepped into sight.

"I see the universe hasn't run out of ways to surprise me," the smuggler commented, inclining his head to Luke in an abbreviated bow as he slid his blaster back into its holster. "From the way you were acting I thought you were probably a spy from the New Republic. But I have to admit you're the last person I would have expected them to send."

Luke eyed him, trying hard to read the sense of the man. The last time he'd seen Karrde, just after the battle for the Katana, the other had emphasized that he and his smuggling group intended to remain neutral in this war. "And what were you going to do after you knew for sure?"

"I hadn't planned on turning you in, if that's what you mean," Karrde said, throwing a glance behind him down the bridgeway. "If it's all the same to you, I'd like to move on. Berchestians don't normally hold extended conversations in bridgeways. And the tunnel can carry voices a surprising distance."

And if there were an ambush waiting for them at the other end of the bridgeway? But if there were, Luke would know before they reached it. "Fine with me," he said, stepping to the side and gesturing Karrde forward.

The other favored him with a sardonic smile. "You don't trust me, do you?" he said, brushing past Luke and heading down the bridgeway.

"Must be Han's influence," Luke said apologetically, falling into step beside him. "His, or yours. Or maybe Mara's."

He caught the shift in Karrde's sense: a quick flash of concern that was as quickly buried again. "Speaking of Mara, how is she?"

"Nearly recovered," Luke assured him. "The medics tell me that repairing that kind of light neural damage isn't difficult, just time-consuming."

Karrde nodded, his eyes on the tunnel ahead. "I appreciate you taking care of her," he said, almost grudgingly. "Our own medical facilities wouldn't have been up to the task."

Luke waved the thanks away. "It was the least we could do after the help you gave us at the Katana."

"Perhaps."

They reached the end of the bridgeway and stepped out into a street considerably less crowded than the one they'd left. Above and ahead of them, the three intricately carved government headquarter towers that faced the sea could be seen above the nearby buildings. Reaching out with the Force, Luke did a quick reading of the people passing by. Nothing. "You heading anywhere in particular?" he asked Karrde.

The other shook his head. "Wandering the city," he said casually. "You?"

"The same," Luke said, trying to match the other's tone.

"And hoping to see a familiar face or two? Or three, or four, or five?"

So Karrde knew, or had guessed, why he was here. Somehow, that didn't really surprise him. "If they're here to be seen, I'll find them," he said. "I don't suppose you have any information I could use?"

"I might," Karrde said. "Do you have enough money to pay for it?"

"Knowing your prices, probably not," Luke said. "But I could set you up a credit line when I get back."

"If you get back," Karrde countered. "Considering how many Imperial troops there are between you and safe territory, you're not what I would call a good investment risk at the moment."

Luke cocked an eyebrow at him. "As opposed to a smuggler at the top of the Empire's locate-and-detain list?" he asked pointedly.

Karrde smiled. "As it happens, Calius is one of the few places in Imperial space where I'm perfectly safe. The Berchestian governor and I have known each other for several years. More to the point, there are certain items important to him which only I can supply."

"Military items?"

"I'm not part of your war, Skywalker," Karrde reminded him coolly. "I'm neutral, and I intend to stay that way. I thought I'd made that clear to you and your sister when we last parted company."

"Oh, it was clear enough," Luke agreed. "I just thought that events of the past month might have changed your mind."

Karrde's expression didn't change, but Luke could detect the almost unwilling shift in his sense. "I don't particularly like the idea of Grand Admiral Thrawn having access to a cloning facility," he conceded. "It has the long-term potential for shifting the balance of power in his favor, and that's something neither of us wants to see happen. But I think your side is rather overreacting to the situation."

"I don't know how you can call it overreacting," Luke said. "The Empire has most of the two hundred Dreadnaughts of the Katana fleet, and now they've got an unlimited supply of clones to crew them with."

" 'Unlimited' is hardly the word I would use," Karrde said. "Clones can only be grown so quickly if you want them mentally stable enough to trust with your warships. One year minimum per clone, as I recall the old rule of thumb."

A group of five Vaathkree passed by in front of them along a cross street. So far the Empire had been only cloning humans, but Luke checked them out anyway. Again, nothing. "A year per clone, you say?"

"At the absolute minimum," Karrde said. "The pre-Clone Wars documents I've seen suggest three to five years would be a more appropriate period. Quicker than the standard human growth cycle, certainly, but hardly any reason for panic."

Luke looked up at the carved towers, their sunlit red-orange in sharp contrast to the billowing white clouds rolling in from the sea behind them. "What would you say if I told you the clones who attacked us on the Katana were grown in less than a year?"

Karrde shrugged. "That depends on how much less."

"The full cycle was fifteen to twenty days."

Karrde stopped short. "What?" he demanded, turning to stare at Luke.

"Fifteen to twenty days," Luke repeated, stopping beside him.

For a long moment Karrde locked eyes with him. Then, slowly, he turned away and began walking again. "That's impossible," he said. "There must be an error."

"I can get you a copy of the studies." Karrde nodded thoughtfully, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. "At least that explains Ukio."

"Ukio?" Luke frowned.

Karrde glanced at him. "That's right—you've probably been out of touch for a while. Two days ago the Imperials launched a multiple attack on targets in the Abrion and Dufilvian sectors. They severely damaged the military base at Ord Pardron and captured the Ukio system."

Luke felt a hollow sensation in his stomach. Ukio was one of the top five producers of foodstuffs in the entire New Republic. The repercussions for Abrion sector alone— "How badly was Ukio damaged?"

"Apparently not at all," Karrde said. "My sources tell me it was taken with its shields and ground/space weaponry intact."

The hollow feeling got a little bigger. "I thought that was impossible to do."

"A knack for doing the impossible was one of the things Grand Admirals were selected for," Karrde said dryly. "Details of the attack are still sketchy; it'll be interesting to see how he pulled it off."

So Thrawn had the Katana Dreadnaughts; and he had clones to man them with; and now he had the ability to provide food for those clones. "This isn't just the setup to another series of raids," Luke said slowly. "The Empire's getting ready to launch a major offensive."

"It does begin to look that way," Karrde agreed. "Offhand, I'd say you have your work cut out for you."

Luke studied him. Karrde's voice and face were as calm as ever, but the sense behind them wasn't nearly so certain anymore. "And none of this changes your mind?" he prompted the other.

"I'm not joining the New Republic, Skywalker," Karrde said, shaking his head. "For many reasons. Not the least being that I don't entirely trust certain elements in your government."

"I think Fey'lya's been pretty well discredited—"

"I wasn't referring only to Fey'lya," Karrde cut him off. "You know as well as I do how fond the Mon Calamari have always been of smugglers. Now that Admiral Ackbar's been reinstated to his Council and Supreme Commander positions, all of us in the trade are going to have to start watching over our shoulders again."

"Oh, come on," Luke snorted. "You don't think Ackbar's going to have time to worry about smugglers, do you?"

Karrde smiled wryly. "Not really. But I'm not willing to risk my life on it, either."

Stalemate. "All right, then," Luke said. "Let's put it on a strictly business level. We need to know the Empire's movements and intentions, which is something you probably keep track of anyway. Can we buy that information from you?"

Karrde considered. "That might be possible," he said cautiously. "But only if I have the final say on what I pass on to you. I won't have you turning my group into an unofficial arm of New Republic Intelligence."

"Agreed," Luke said. It was less than he might have hoped for, but it was better than nothing. "I'll set up a credit line for you as soon as I get back."

"Perhaps we should start with a straight information trade," Karrde said, looking around at the crystalline buildings. "Tell me what started your people looking at Calius."

"I'll do better than that," Luke said. The distant touch on his mind was faint but unmistakable. "How about if I confirm the clones are here?"

"Where?" Karrde asked sharply.

"Somewhere that way," Luke said, pointing ahead and slightly to the right. "Half a kilometer away, maybe—it's hard to tell."

"Inside one of the Towers," Karrde decided. "Nice and secure and well hidden from prying eyes. I wonder if there's any way to get inside for a look."

"Wait a minute—they're moving," Luke said, frowning as he tried to hang on to the contact. "Heading . . . almost toward us, but not quite."

"Probably being taken to the landing field," Karrde said. He glanced around, pointed to their right. "They'll probably use Mavrille Street—two blocks that direction."

Balancing speed with the need to remain inconspicuous, they covered the distance in three minutes. "They'll probably use a cargo carrier or light transport," Karrde said as they found a spot where they could watch the street without being run over by the pedestrian traffic along the edges of the vehicle way. "Anything obviously military would attract attention."

Luke nodded. Mavrille, he remembered from the maps, was one of the handful of streets in Calius that had been carved large enough for vehicles to use, with the result that the traffic was running pretty much fore to aft. "I wish I had some macrobinoculars with me," he commented.

"Trust me—you're conspicuous enough as it is," Karrde countered as he craned his neck over the passing crowds. "Any sign of them?"

"They're definitely coming this way," Luke told him. He reached out with the Force, trying to sort out the clone sense from the sandstorm of other thoughts and minds surrounding him. "I'd guess twenty to thirty of them."

"A cargo carrier, then," Karrde decided. "There's one coming now—just behind that Trast speeder truck."

"I see it." Luke took a deep breath, calling on every bit of his Jedi skill. "That's them," he murmured, a shiver running up his back.

"All right," Karrde said, his voice grim. "Watch closely; they might have left one or more of the ventilation panels open."

The cargo carrier made its way toward them on its repulsorlifts, coming abruptly to a halt a short block away as the driver of the speeder truck in front of it suddenly woke up to the fact that he'd reached his turn. Gingerly, the truck eased around the corner, blocking the whole traffic flow behind it.

"Wait here," Karrde said, and dived into the stream of pedestrians heading that direction. Luke kept his eyes sweeping the area, alert for any sense that he or Karrde had been seen and recognized. If this whole setup was some land of elaborate trap for offworld spies, now would be the obvious time to spring it.

The truck finally finished its turn, and the cargo carrier lumbered on. It passed Luke and continued down the street, disappearing within a few seconds around one of the red-orange buildings. Stepping back into the side street behind him, Luke waited; and a minute later Karrde had returned. "Two of the vents were open, but I couldn't see enough to be sure," he told Luke, breathing heavily. "You?"

Luke shook his head. "I couldn't see anything, either. But it was them. I'm sure of it."

For a moment Karrde studied his face. Then, he gave a curt nod. "All right. What now?"

"I'm going to see if I can get my ship offplanet ahead of them," Luke said. "If I can track their hyperspace vector, maybe we can figure out where they go from here." He lifted his eyebrows. "Though two ships working together could do a better track."

Karrde smiled slightly. "You'll forgive me if I decline the offer," he said. "Flying in tandem with a New Republic agent is not exactly what I would call maintaining neutrality." He glanced over Luke's shoulder at the street behind him. "At any rate, I think I'd prefer to try backtracking them from here. See if I can identify their point of origin."

"Sounds good," Luke nodded. "I'd better get over to the landing field and get my ship prepped."

"I'll be in touch," Karrde promised. "Make sure that credit line is a generous one."

Standing at the uppermost window of Central Government Tower Number One, Governor Staffa lowered his macrobinoculars with a satisfied snort. "That was him, all right, Fingal," he said to the little man hovering at his side. "No doubt about it. Luke Skywalker himself."

"Do you suppose he saw the special transport?" Fingal asked, fingering his own macrobinoculars nervously.

"Well, of course he saw it," Staffa growled. "You think he was hanging around Mavrille Street for his health?"

"I only thought—"

"Don't think, Fingal," Staffa cut him off. "You aren't properly equipped for it."

He sauntered to his desk, dropped the macrobinoculars into a drawer, and pulled up Grand Admiral Thrawn's directive on his data pad. It was a rather bizarre directive, in his private and strictly confidential opinion, more peculiar even than these mysterious troop transfers the Imperial High Command had been running through Calius of late. But one had no choice under the circumstances but to assume Thrawn knew what he was doing.

At any rate, it was on his own head—not Staffa's—if he didn't, and that was the important thing. "I want you to send a message to the Imperial Star Destroyer Chimaera," he told Fingal, lowering his bulk carefully into his chair and pushing the data pad across the desk. "Coded as per the instructions here. Inform Grand Admiral Thrawn that Skywalker has been on Calius and that I have personally observed him near the special transport. Also as per the Grand Admiral's directive, he has been allowed to leave Berchest unhindered."

"Yes, Governor," Fingal said, making notes on his own data pad. If the little man saw anything unusual about letting a Rebel spy walk freely through Imperial territory, he wasn't showing it. "What about the other man, Governor? The one who was with Skywalker down there?"

Staffa pursed his lips. The price on Talon Karrde's head was up to nearly fifty thousand now—a great deal of money, even for a man with a planetary governor's salary and perks. He had always known that someday it would be in his best interests to terminate the quiet business relationship he had with Karrde. Perhaps that time had finally come.

No. No, not while war still raged through the galaxy. Later, perhaps, when victory was near and private supply lines could be made more reliable. But not now. "The other man is of no importance," he told Fingal. "A special agent I sent to help smoke the Rebel spy into the open. Forget him. Go on—get that message coded and sent."

"Yes, sir," Fingal nodded, stepping toward the door.

The panel slid open . . . and for just a second, as Fingal stepped through, Staffa thought he saw an odd glint in the little man's eye. Some strange trick of the outer office light, of course. Next to his unbending loyalty for his governor, Fingal's most prominent and endearing attribute was his equally unbending lack of imagination.

Taking a deep breath, putting Fingal and Rebel spies and even Grand Admirals out of his mind, Staffa leaned back in his chair and began to consider how he would use the shipment that Karrde's people were even now unloading at the landing field.

Chapter 3

Slowly, as if climbing a long dark staircase, Mara Jade pulled herself out of a deep sleep. She opened her eyes, looked around the softly lit room, and wondered where in the galaxy she was.

It was a medical area—that much was obvious from the biomonitors, the folded room dividers, and the other multiposition beds scattered around the one she was lying in. But it wasn't one of Karrde's facilities, at least not one she was familiar with.

But the layout itself was all too familiar. It was a standard Imperial recovery room.

For the moment she seemed to be alone, but she knew that wouldn't last. Silently, she rolled out of bed into a crouching position on the floor, taking a quick inventory of her physical condition as she did so. No aches or pains; no dizziness or obvious injuries. Slipping into the robe and bedshoes at the end of the bed, she padded silently to the door, preparing herself mentally to silence or disable whatever was out there. She waved at the door release, and as the panel slid open she leaped through into the recovery anteroom—

And came to a sudden, slightly disoriented halt.

"Oh, hi, Mara," Ghent said distractedly, glancing up from the computer terminal he was hunched over before returning his attention to it. "How're you feeling?"

"Not too bad," Mara said, staring at the kid and sifting furiously through a set of hazy memories. Ghent—one of Karrde's employees and possibly the best slicer in the galaxy. And the fact that he was sitting at a terminal meant they weren't prisoners, unless their captor was so abysmally stupid that he didn't know better than to let a slicer get within spitting distance of a computer.

But hadn't she sent Ghent to the New Republic headquarters on Coruscant? Yes, she had. On Karrde's instructions, just before collecting some of his group together and leading them into that melee at the Katana fleet.

Where she'd run her Z-95 up against an Imperial Star Destroyer . . . and had had to eject . . . and had brilliantly arranged to fly her ejector seat straight through an ion cannon beam. Which had fried her survival equipment and set her drifting, lost forever, in interstellar space.

She looked around her. Apparently, forever hadn't lasted as long as she'd expected it to. "Where are we?" she asked, though she had a pretty good idea now what the answer would be.

She was right. "The old Imperial Palace on Coruscant," Ghent told her, frowning a little. "Medical wing. They had to do some reconstruction of your neural pathways. Don't you remember?"

"It's a little vague," Mara admitted. But as the last cobwebs cleared from her brain, the rest of it was beginning to fall into place. Her ejector seat's ruined life-support system; and a strange, light-headed vagueness as she drifted off to sleep in the darkness. She'd probably suffered oxygen deprivation before they'd been able to locate her and get her to a ship.

No. Not they: him. There was only one person who could possibly have found a single crippled ejector seat in all the emptiness and battle debris out there. Luke Skywalker, the last of the Jedi Knights.

The man she was going to kill.

YOU WILL KILL LUKE SKYWALKER.

She took a step back to lean against the doorjamb, knees suddenly feeling weak as the Emperor's words echoed through her mind. She'd been here, on this world and in this building, when he'd died over Endor. Had watched through his mind as Luke Skywalker cut him down and brought her life crashing in ruins around her head.

"I see you're awake," a new voice said.

Mara opened her eyes. The newcomer, a middle-aged woman in a duty medic's tunic, was marching briskly across the room toward her from a far door, an Emdee droid trailing in her wake. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," Mara said, feeling a sudden urge to lash out at the other woman. These people—these enemies of the Empire—had no right to be here in the Emperor's palace. . . .

She took a careful breath, fighting back the flash of emotion. The medic had stopped short, a professional frown on her face; Ghent, his cherished computers momentarily forgotten, had a puzzled look on his. "Sorry," she muttered. "I guess I'm still a little disoriented."

"Understandable," the medic nodded. "You've been lying in that bed for a month, after all."

Mara stared at her. "A month?"

"Well, most of a month," the medic corrected herself. "You also spent some time in a bacta tank. Don't worry—short-term memory problems are common during neural reconstructions, but they nearly always clear up after the treatment."

"I understand," Mara said mechanically. A month. She'd lost a whole month here. And in that time—

"We have a guest suite arranged for you upstairs whenever you feel ready to leave here," the medic continued. "Would you like me to see if it's ready?"

Mara focused on her. "That would be fine," she said.

The medic pulled out a comlink and thumbed it on; and as she began talking, Mara stepped past her to Ghent's side. "What's been happening with the war during the last month?" she asked him.

"Oh, the Empire's been making the usual trouble," Ghent said, waving toward the sky. "They've got the folks here pretty stirred up, anyway. Ackbar and Madine and the rest have been running around like crazy. Trying to push 'em back or cut 'em off—something like that."

And that was, Mara knew, about all she would get out of him on the subject of current events. Aside from a fascination with smuggler folklore, the only thing that really mattered to Ghent was slicing at computers.

She frowned, belatedly remembering why Karrde had ordered Ghent here in the first place. "Wait a minute," she said. "Ackbar's back in command? You mean you've cleared him already?"

"Sure," Ghent said. "That suspicious bank deposit thing Councilor Fey'lya made such a fuss over was a complete fraud—the guys who did that electronic break-in at the bank planted it in his account at the same time. Probably Imperial Intelligence—it had their noseprints all over the programming. Oh, sure; I proved that two days after I got here."

"I imagine they were pleased. So why are you still here?"

"Well . . ." For a moment Ghent seemed taken aback. "No one's come back to get me, for one thing." His face brightened. "Besides, there's this really neat encrypt code someone nearby is using to send information to the Empire. General Bel Iblis says the Imperials call it Delta Source, and that it's sending them stuff right out of the Palace."

"And he asked you to slice it for them," Mara nodded, feeling her lip twist. "I don't suppose he offered to pay you or anything?"

"Well . . ." Ghent shrugged. "Probably they did. I don't remember, really."

The medic replaced her comlink in her belt. "Your guide will be here momentarily," she told Mara.

"Thank you," Mara said, resisting the urge to tell the other that she probably knew the Imperial Palace better in her sleep than any guide they had could do in broad daylight. Cooperation and politeness—those were the keys to talking them out of a ship and getting her and Ghent out of this place and out of their war.

Behind the medic the door slid open, and a tall woman with pure white hair glided into the room. "Hello, Mara," she said, smiling gravely. "My name is Winter, personal aide to Princess Leia Organa Solo. I'm glad to see you on your feet again."

"I'm glad to be there," Mara said, trying to keep her voice polite. Someone else associated with Skywalker. Just what she needed. "I take it you're my guide?"

"Your guide, your assistant, and anything else you need for the next few days," Winter said. "Princess Leia asked me to look after you until she and Captain Solo return from Filve."

"I don't need an assistant, and I don't need looking after," Mara said. "All I really need is a ship."

"I've already started working on that," Winter said. "I'm hoping we'll be able to find something for you soon. In the meantime, may I show you to your suite?"

Mara hid a grimace. The usurpers of the New Republic, graciously offering her hospitality in what had once been her own home. "That's very kind of you," she said, trying not to sound sarcastic. "You coming, Ghent?"

"You go on ahead," Ghent said absently, gazing at the computer display. "I want to sit on this run for a while."

"He'll be all right here," Winter assured her. "This way, please."

They left the anteroom, and Winter led the way toward the rear of the Palace. "Ghent has a suite right next to yours," Winter commented as they walked, "but I don't think he's been there more than twice in the past month. He set up temporary shop out there in the recovery anteroom where he could keep an eye on you."

Mara had to smile at that. Ghent, who spent roughly 90 percent of his waking hours oblivious to the outside world, was not exactly what she would go looking for in either a nurse or a bodyguard. But it was the thought that counted. "I appreciate you people taking care of me," she told Winter.

"It's the least we could do to thank you for coming to our assistance at the Katana battle."

"It was Karrde's idea," Mara said shortly. "Thank him, not me."

"We did," Winter said. "But you risked your life, too, on our behalf. We won't forget that."

Mara threw a sideways look at the white-haired woman. She had read the Emperor's files on the Rebellion's leaders, including Leia Organa, and the name Winter wasn't ringing any bells at all. "How long have you been with Organa Solo?" she asked.

"I grew up with her in the royal court of Alderaan," Winter said, a bittersweet smile touching her lips. "We were friends in childhood, and when she began her first steps into galactic politics, her father assigned me to be her aide. I've been with her ever since."

"I don't recall hearing about you during the height of the Rebellion," Mara probed gently.

"I spent most of the war moving from planet to planet working with Supply and Procurement," Winter told her. "If my colleagues could get me into a warehouse or depot on some pretext, I could draw a map for them of where the items were that they wanted. It made the subsequent raids quicker and safer."

Mara nodded as understanding came. "So you were the one called Targeter. The one with the perfect memory."

Winter's forehead creased slightly. "Yes, that was one of my code names," she said. "I had many others over the years."

"I see," Mara said. She could remember a fair number of references in pre-Yavin Intelligence reports to the mysterious Rebel named Targeter, much of the politely heated discussion centering around his or her possible identity. She wondered if the data-pushers had ever even gotten close.

They'd reached the set of turbolifts at the rear of the Imperial Palace now, one of the major renovations the Emperor had made in the deliberately antiquated design of the building when he'd taken it over. The turbolifts saved a lot of walking up and down the sweeping staircases in the more public parts of the building . . . as well as masking certain other improvements the Emperor had made in the Palace. "So what's the problem with getting me a ship?" Mara asked as Winter tapped the call plate.

"The problem is the Empire," Winter said. "They've launched a massive attack against us, and it's tied up basically everything we have available, from light freighter on up."

Mara frowned. Massive attacks against superior forces didn't sound like Grand Admiral Thrawn at all. "It's that bad?"

"It's bad enough," Winter said. "I don't know if you knew it, but they beat us to the Katana fleet. They'd already moved nearly a hundred and eighty of the Dreadnaughts by the time we arrived. Combined with their new bottomless source of crewers and soldiers, the balance of power has been badly shifted."

Mara nodded, a sour taste in her mouth. Put that way, it did sound like Thrawn. "Which means I nearly got myself killed for nothing."

Winter smiled tightly. "If it helps, so did a lot of other people."

The turbolift car arrived. They stepped inside, and Winter keyed for the Palace's residential areas. "Ghent mentioned that the Empire was making trouble," Mara commented as the car began moving upward. "I should have realized that anything that could penetrate that fog he walks around in had to be serious."

" 'Serious' is an understatement," Winter said grimly. "In the past five days we've effectively lost control of four sectors, and thirteen more are on the edge. The biggest loss was the food production facilities at Ukio. Somehow, they managed to take it with its defenses intact."

Mara felt her lip twist. "Someone asleep at the board?"

"Not according to the preliminary reports." Winter hesitated. "There are rumors that the Imperials used a new superweapon that was able to fire straight through the Ukians' planetary shield. We're still trying to check that out."

Mara swallowed, visions of the old Death Star spec sheets floating up from her memory. A weapon like that in the hands of a strategist like Grand Admiral Thrawn . . .

She shook the thought away. This wasn't her war. Karrde had promised they would stay neutral in this thing. "I suppose I'd better get in touch with Karrde, then," she said. "See if he can send someone to pick us up."

"It would probably be faster than waiting for one of our ships to be free," Winter agreed. "He left a data card with the name of a contact you can send a message through. He said you'd know which encrypt code to use."

The turbolift let them out on the President's Guests floor, one of the few sections of the Palace that the Emperor had left strictly alone during his reign. With its old-fashioned hinge doors and hand-carved exotic wood furnishings, walking around the floor was like stepping a thousand years into the past. The Emperor had generally reserved the suites here for those emissaries who had fond feelings for such bygone days, or for those who could be impressed by his carefully manufactured continuity with that era. "Captain Karrde left some of your clothes and personal effects for you after the Katana battle," Winter said, unlocking one of the carved doors and pushing it open. "If he missed anything, let me know and I can probably supply it. Here's the data card I mentioned," she added, pulling it from her tunic.

"Thank you," Mara said, inhaling deeply as she took the card. This particular suite was done largely in Fijisi wood from Cardooine; and as the delicate scent rose around her, her thoughts flashed back to the glittering days of grand Imperial power and majesty. . . .

"Can I get you anything else?"

The memory faded. Winter was standing before her . . . and the glory days of the Empire were gone. "No, I'm fine," she said.

Winter nodded. "If you want anything, just call the duty officer," she said, gesturing to the desk. "I'll be available later; right now, there's a Council meeting I need to sit in on."

"Go ahead," Mara said. "And thank you."

Winter smiled and left. Mara took another deep breath of Fijisi wood, and with an effort pushed the last of the lingering memories away. She was here, and it was now; and as the Emperor's instructors had so often drummed into her, the first item of business was to fit into her surroundings. And that meant not looking like an escapee from the medical wing.

Karrde had left a good assortment of clothing for her: a semiformal gown, two outfits of a nondescript type that she could wear on the streets of a hundred worlds without looking out of place, and four of the no-nonsense tunic/jumpsuit outfits that she usually wore aboard ship. Choosing one of the latter, she got dressed, then began sorting through the other things Karrde had left. With any luck—and maybe a little foresight on Karrde's part—

There it was: the forearm holster for her tiny blaster. The blaster itself was missing, of course—the captain of the Adamant had taken it away from her, and the Imperials weren't likely to return it anytime soon. Looking for a duplicate in the New Republic's arsenals would probably be a waste of effort, as well, though she was tempted to ask Winter for one just to see the reaction.

Fortunately, there was another way.

Each residential floor of the Imperial Palace had an extensive library, and in each of those libraries was a multicard set entitled The Complete History of Corvis Minor. Given how unexceptional most of Corvis Minor's history had been, the odds of anyone actually pulling the set off the shelf were extremely slim. Which, given there were no actual data cards in the box, was just as well.

The blaster was a slightly different style from the one Mara had lost to the Imperials. But its power pack was still adequately charged, and it fit snugly into her forearm holster, and that was all that mattered. Now, whatever happened with either the war or New Republic infighting, she would at least have a fighting chance.

She paused, the false data card box in her hand, a stray question belatedly flicking through her mind. What had Winter meant by that reference to a bottomless source for crewers and soldiers? Had one or more of the New Republic's systems gone over to the Imperial side? Or could Thrawn have discovered a hitherto unknown colony world with a populace ripe for recruitment?

It was something she should probably ask about sometime. First, though, she needed to get a message encrypted and relayed out to Karrde's designated contact. The sooner she was out of this place, the better.

Replacing the empty data card set, the comforting weight of the blaster snugged up against her left arm, she headed back to her suite.

Thrawn raised his glowing red eyes from the putrid-looking alien artwork displayed on the double display ring surrounding his command chair. "No," he said. "Completely out of the question."

Slowly, deliberately, C'baoth turned back from the holographic Woostroid statue he'd been gazing at. "No?" he repeated, his voice rumbling like an approaching thunderstorm. "What do you mean, no?"

"The word is self-explanatory," Thrawn said icily. "The military logic should be, as well. We don't have the numbers for a frontal assault on Coruscant; neither have we the supply lines and bases necessary for a traditional siege. Any attack would be both useless and wasteful, and the Empire will therefore not launch one."

C'baoth's face darkened. "Have a care, Grand Admiral Thrawn," he warned. "I rule the Empire, not you."

"Do you really?" Thrawn countered, reaching up behind him to stroke the ysalamir arched over his shoulder on its nutrient frame.

C'baoth drew himself up to his full height, eyes blazing with sudden fire. "I rule the Empire!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the command room. "You will obey me, or you will die!"

Carefully, Pellaeon eased a little deeper into the Force-empty bubble that surrounded Thrawn's ysalamir. At those times when he was in control of himself, C'baoth appeared more confident and in control than he ever had before; but at the same time these violent bursts of clone madness were becoming more frequent and more vicious. Like a system in a positive feedback loop, swinging farther from its core point with each oscillation until it ripped itself apart.

So far C'baoth hadn't killed anyone or destroyed anything. In Pellaeon's opinion it was just a matter of time before that changed.

Perhaps the same thought had occurred to Thrawn. "If you kill me, you'll lose the war," he reminded the Jedi Master. "And if you lose the war, Leia Organa Solo and her twins will never be yours."

C'baoth took a step toward Thrawn's command seat, eyes blazing even hotter—and then, abruptly, he seemed to shrink again to normal size. "You would never speak that way to the Emperor," he said, almost petulantly.

"On the contrary," Thrawn told him. "On no fewer than four occasions I told the Emperor that I would not waste his troops and ships attacking an enemy which I was not yet prepared to defeat."

C'baoth snorted. "Only fools spoke that way to the Emperor," he sneered. "Fools, or those tired of life."

"The Emperor also thought that way," Thrawn agreed. "The first time I refused he called me a traitor and gave my attack force to someone else." The Grand Admiral reached up again to stroke his ysalamir. "After its destruction, he knew better than to ignore my recommendations."

For a long minute C'baoth studied Thrawn's face, his own expression twitching back and forth as if the mind behind it was having trouble maintaining a grip on thought or emotion. "You could repeat the Ukian fraud," he suggested at last. "That trick with cloaked cruisers and timed turbolaser blasts. I would help you."

"That's most generous of you," Thrawn said. "Unfortunately, that, too, would be a waste of effort. The Rebel leaders on Coruscant wouldn't be as quick to surrender as Ukio's farmfolk were. No matter how accurate our timing, they'd eventually realize that the turbolaser blasts hitting the surface weren't the same as those fired by the Chimaera, and come to the proper conclusion."

He gestured to the holographic statues filling the room. "The people and leaders of Woostri, on the other hand, are a different matter entirely. Like the Ukians, they have a strong fear of the unknown and what they perceive to be the impossible. Equally important, they have a tendency to magnify rumors of menace far out of proportion. The cloaked cruiser stratagem should work quite well there."

C'baoth's face was starting to redden again. "Grand Admiral Thrawn—"

"But as to Organa Solo and her twins," Thrawn cut him off smoothly, "you can have them whenever you wish."

The embryonic tantrum evaporated. "What do you mean?" C'baoth demanded warily.

"I mean that attacking Coruscant and carrying off Organa Solo by brute force is impractical," Thrawn said. "Sending in a small group to kidnap her, on the other hand, is perfectly feasible. I've already ordered Intelligence to assemble a commando team for that purpose. It should be ready within the day."

"A commando team." C'baoth's lip twisted. "Need I remind you how your Noghri have continually failed you in this matter?"

"I agree," Thrawn said, an oddly grim note to his voice. "Which is why the Noghri will not be involved."

Pellaeon looked down at the Grand Admiral in surprise, then threw an involuntary glance at the door to the command room anteroom where Thrawn's bodyguard Rukh was waiting. Ever since the Lord Darth Vader had first duped the Noghri into their perpetual service to the Empire, the gullible gray-skinned aliens had insisted on putting their own personal honor on the line with each mission. Being pulled off an assignment, especially one this important, would be like a slap in the face to them. Or worse. "Admiral?" he murmured. "I'm not sure—"

"We'll discuss it later, Captain," Thrawn said. "For now, all I need to know is whether Master C'baoth is truly ready to receive his young Jedi." One blue-black eyebrow lifted. "Or whether he prefers simply discussing it."

C'baoth smiled thinly. "Am I to take that as a challenge, Grand Admiral Thrawn?"

"Take it any way you like," Thrawn said. "I merely point out that a wise tactician considers the cost of an operation before launching it. Organa Solo's twins are due to be born any day now, which means you would have two infants as well as Organa Solo herself to deal with. If you're not certain you can handle that, it would be best to postpone the operation."

Pellaeon braced himself for another explosion of clone madness. But to his surprise, it didn't come. "The only question, Grand Admiral Thrawn," C'baoth said softly, "is whether newborn infants will be too much for your Imperial commandos to handle."

"Very well," Thrawn nodded. "Our rendezvous with the rest of the fleet will be in thirty minutes; you'll transfer to the Death's Head at that time to assist in their attack on Woostri. By the time you return to the Chimaera"— again the eyebrow lifted—"we should have your Jedi for you."

"Very well, Grand Admiral Thrawn," C'baoth said. He drew himself up again, smoothing his long white beard away from his robe. "But I warn you: if you fail me this time, you will not be pleased with the consequences." Turning, he strode across the command room and through the door.

"It's always such a pleasure," Thrawn commented under his breath as the door slid shut.

Pellaeon worked moisture into his mouth. "Admiral, with all due respect—"

"You're worried about my having promised to get Organa Solo out of possibly the most secure place in Rebellion-held territory?" Thrawn said.

"Actually, sir, yes," Pellaeon said. "The Imperial Palace is supposed to be an impregnable fortress."

"Yes, indeed," Thrawn agreed. "But it was the Emperor who made it that way . . . and as in most things, the Emperor kept a few small secrets about the Palace to himself. And to certain of his favorites."

Pellaeon frowned down at him. Secrets . . . "Such as a private way in and out?" he hazarded.

Thrawn smiled up at him. "Precisely. And now that we can finally insure that Organa Solo will be staying put in the Palace for a while, it becomes profitable to try sending in a commando team."

"But not a Noghri team."

Thrawn lowered his eyes to the collection of holographic sculptures surrounding them. "There's something wrong with the Noghri, Captain," he said quietly. "I don't yet know what it is, but I know it's there. I can sense it with every communication I have with the dynasts on Honoghr."

Pellaeon thought back to that awkward scene a month ago, when that painfully apologetic envoy from the Noghri dynasts had come aboard with the news that the suspected traitor Khabarakh had escaped from their custody. So far, despite their best efforts, they'd been unable to recapture him. "Perhaps they're still fidgeting over that Khabarakh thing," he suggested.

"And well they should be," Thrawn said coldly. "But it's more than that. And until I find out how much more, the Noghri will remain under suspicion."

He leaned forward, tapped two controls on his board. The holographic sculptures faded and were replaced by a tactical map of the current position of the major battle planes. "But at the moment we have two more pressing matters to consider," he continued, leaning back in his seat again. "First, we have to divert our increasingly arrogant Jedi Master from this mistaken notion that he has the right to rule my Empire. Organa Solo and her twins are that diversion."

Pellaeon thought about all the other attempts to capture Organa Solo. "And if the team fails?"

"There are contingencies," Thrawn assured him. "Despite his power and even his unpredictability, Master C'baoth can still be manipulated."

He gestured toward the tactical map. "What's even more important right now, though, is that we insure the momentum of our battle plan. So far, the campaign is reasonably on schedule. The Rebellion has resisted more firmly than anticipated in the Farrfin and Dolomar sectors, but elsewhere the target systems have generally bowed to Imperial power."

"I wouldn't consider any of the gains all that solid yet," Pellaeon pointed out.

"Precisely," Thrawn nodded. "Each depends on our maintaining a strong and highly visible Imperial presence. And for that, it's vital that we maintain our supply of clones."

He paused. Pellaeon looked at the tactical map, his mind racing as he searched for the response Thrawn was obviously waiting for him to come up with. The Spaarti cloning cylinders, hidden away for decades in the Emperor's private storehouse on Wayland, were about as safe as anything in the galaxy could be. Buried beneath a mountain, protected by an Imperial garrison, and surrounded by hostile locals, its very existence was unknown to anyone except the top Imperial commanders.

He froze. Top Imperial commanders; and perhaps— "Mara Jade," he said. "She's convalescing on Coruscant. Would she have known about the storehouse?"

"That is indeed the question," Thrawn agreed. "There's a good chance she doesn't—I knew many of the Emperor's secrets, and it still took me a great deal of effort to find Wayland. But it's not a risk we can afford to take."

Pellaeon nodded, suppressing a shiver. He'd been wondering why the Grand Admiral had chosen an Intelligence squad for this mission. Unlike standard commando units, Intelligence units were trained in such nonmilitary methods as assassination. . . . "Will a single team be handling both missions, sir, or will you be sending in two?"

"One team should be adequate," Thrawn said. "The two objectives are well enough interlocked to make that reasonable. And neutralizing Jade does not necessarily mean killing her."

Pellaeon frowned. But before he could ask what Thrawn had meant by that, the Grand Admiral touched his board and the tactical holo was replaced by a map of Orus sector. "In the meantime, I think it's time to underline the importance of the Calius saj Leeloo for our enemies. Do we have a follow-up report yet from Governor Staffa?"

"Yes, sir," Pellaeon said, pulling it up on his data pad. "Skywalker left at the same time as the decoy shuttle, and is presumed to have followed its vector. If so, he'll reach the Poderis system in approximately thirty hours."

"Excellent," Thrawn said. "He'll undoubtedly report in to Coruscant before he reaches Poderis. His subsequent disappearance should go a long way toward convincing them that they've found the conduit for our clone traffic."

"Yes, sir," Pellaeon said, keeping to himself his doubts as to their chances of actually causing Skywalker to disappear. Thrawn presumably knew what he was doing. "One other thing, sir. There was a second follow-up to Staffa's original report, one that came in under an Intelligence encrypt code."

"From his aide, Fingal," Thrawn nodded. "A man with Governor Staffa's casual loyalties practically begs us to assign him a quiet watchdog. Were there any discrepancies with the governor's report?"

"Just one, sir. The follow-up gave a complete description of Skywalker's contact, a man Staffa had indicated was one of his own agents. Fingal's description strongly suggests the man was, in fact, Talon Karrde."

Thrawn exhaled thoughtfully. "Indeed. Did Fingal suggest any explanation for Karrde's presence in Calius?"

"According to him, there are indications that Governor Staffa has had a private trade arrangement with Karrde for several years," Pellaeon said. "Fingal reports he was going to have the man picked up for questioning, but was unable to find a way to do so that wouldn't have alerted Skywalker."

"Yes," Thrawn murmured. "Well . . . what's done is done. And if smuggling was all that was involved, there's no harm. Still, we can't have random smugglers buzzing around our deceptions and perhaps accidentally poking holes in them. And Karrde has already proved he can be a great deal of trouble."

For a moment Thrawn gazed in silence at the Orus sector map. Then, he looked up at Pellaeon. "But for now we have other matters to deal with. Prepare a course for the Poderis system, Captain; I want the Chimaera there within forty hours." He smiled thinly. "And signal the garrison commander that I expect him to have a proper reception prepared by the time we arrive. Perhaps in two or three days' time we'll have an unexpected gift to present to our beloved Jedi Master."

"Yes, sir." Pellaeon hesitated. "Admiral . . . what happens if we get Organa Solo and her twins for C'baoth and he's able to turn them the way he thinks he can? We'd have four of them to deal with then instead of just one. Five, if we're able to capture Skywalker at Poderis."

"There's no need for concern," Thrawn said, shaking his head. "Turning either Organa Solo or Skywalker would take C'baoth a great deal of time and effort. It would be even longer before the infants are old enough to be of any danger to us, no matter what he does to them. Long before any of that occurs"—Thrawn's eyes glittered— "we'll have come to a suitable arrangement with our Jedi Master over the sharing of power in the Empire."

Pellaeon swallowed. "Understood, sir," he managed.

"Good. Then you're dismissed, Captain. Return to the bridge."

"Yes, sir." Pellaeon turned and headed across the room, the muscles in his throat feeling tight. Yes, he understood, all right. Thrawn would come to an arrangement with C'baoth . . . or he would have the Jedi Master killed.

If he could. It was not, Pellaeon decided, a confrontation he would like to place any bets on.

Or, for that matter, be anywhere near when it happened.

Chapter 4

Poderis was one of that select group of worlds generally referred to in the listings as 'marginal': planets that had remained colonized not because of valuable resources or convenient location, but solely because of the stubborn spirit of its colonists. With a disorienting ten-hour rotational cycle, a lowland slough ecology that had effectively confined the colonists to a vast archipelago of tall mesas, and a nearly perpendicular axial tilt that created tremendous winds every spring and autumn, Poderis was not the sort of place wandering travelers generally bothered with. Its people were tough and independent, tolerant to visitors but with a long history of ignoring the politics of the outside galaxy.

All of which made it an ideal transfer point for the Empire's new clone traffic. And an ideal place for that same Empire to set a trap.

The man shadowing Luke was short and plain, the sort of person who would fade into the background almost anywhere he went. He was good at his job, too, with a skill that implied long experience in Imperial Intelligence. But that experience had naturally not extended to trailing Jedi Knights. Luke had sensed his presence almost as soon as the man had begun following him, and had been able to visually pick him out of the crowd a minute later.

Leaving only the problem of what to do about him.

"Artoo?" Luke called softly into the comlink he'd surreptitiously wedged into the neckband of his hooded robe. "We've got company. Probably Imperials."

There was a soft, worried trill from the comlink, followed by something that was obviously a question. "There's nothing you can do," Luke told him, taking a guess as to the content of the question and wishing Threepio was there to translate. He could generally pick up the gist of what Artoo was saying, but in a situation like this the gist might not be enough. "Is there anyone poking around the freighter? Or around the landing field in general?"

Artoo chirped a definite negative. "Well, they'll be there soon enough," Luke warned him, pausing to look in a shop window. The tail, he noted, moved forward a few more steps before finding an excuse of his own to stop. A professional, indeed. "Get as much of the preflight done as you can without attracting attention. We'll want to get off as soon as I get there."

The droid warbled acknowledgment. Reaching to his neck, Luke shut off the comlink and gave the area a quick scan. The first priority was to lose the tail before the Imperials made any more overt moves against him. And to do that, he needed some kind of distraction. . . .

Fifty meters ahead in the crowd was what looked to be his best opportunity: another man striding along the street in a robe of similar cut and color to Luke's. Cautiously picking up his pace, trying not to give the appearance of hurrying, Luke moved toward him.

The other robed figure continued to the T-junction ahead and turned the corner to his right. Luke picked up his pace a bit more, sensing as he did so his shadower's suspicion that he'd been spotted. Resisting the urge to break into a flat-out run, Luke strolled casually around the corner.

It was a street like most of the others he'd already seen in the city: wide, rock-paved, reasonably crowded, and lined on both sides with graystone buildings. Automatically, he reached out with the Force, scanning the area around him and as far ahead as he could sense—

And abruptly caught his breath. Directly ahead, still distant but clearly detectable, were small pockets of darkness where his Jedi senses could read absolutely nothing. As if the Force that carried the information to him had somehow ceased to exist . . . or was being blocked.

Which meant this was no ordinary ambush, for an ordinary New Republic spy. The Imperials knew he was here and had come to Poderis equipped with ysalamiri.

And unless he did something fast, they were going to take him.

He looked again at the buildings around him. Squat, two-story structures, for the most part, with textured facades and decorative roof parapets. Those to his immediate right were built in a single solid row; directly across the street to his left, the first building after the T-junction had a warped facade, leaving a narrow gap between it and its neighbor's. It wasn't much in the way of cover—and the distance itself was going to be a reach—but it was all he had. Hurrying across the street, half expecting the trap to be sprung before he got there, he slipped into the opening. Bending his knees, letting the Force flow into his muscles, he jumped.

He almost didn't make it. The parapet directly above him was angled and smooth, and for a second he seemed to hang in midair as his fingers scrabbled for a hold. Then, he found a grip, and with a surge of effort pulled himself up and over to lie flat along the rooftop.

Just in time. Even as he eased one eye over the edge of the parapet, he saw his tail come racing around the corner, all efforts at subtlety abandoned. Shoving aside those in his way, he said something inaudible into the comlink in his hand—

And from the cross street a block away, a row of white-armored stormtroopers stepped into view. Blaster rifles held high against their chests, the dark elongated shapes of ysalamiri slung on backpack nutrient frames across their shoulders, they cordoned off the end of the street.

It was a well-planned, well-executed net; and Luke had maybe three minutes to get across the roof and down before they realized their fish had slipped out of it. Easing back from the edge, he turned his head toward the other side of the roof.

The roof didn't have another side. Barely sixty centimeters from where he lay, the roof abruptly became a blank wall that angled steeply downward for perhaps a hundred meters, extending in both directions as far as Luke could see. Beyond its lower edge, there was nothing but the distant mists in the lowlands beneath the mesa.

He'd miscalculated, possibly fatally. Preoccupied with the man shadowing him, he'd completely missed the fact that his path had taken him to the outer edge of the mesa. The slanting wall beside him was one of the massive shield-barriers designed to deflect the planet's vicious seasonal winds harmlessly over the city.

Luke had escaped the Imperial net . . . only to discover that there was literally nowhere else for him to go.

"Great," he muttered under his breath, easing back to the parapet and looking down into the street. More stormtroopers had joined the first squad now and were beginning to sift through the stunned crowd of people caught in the trap; behind them, two squads from the other direction of the T-junction had moved in to seal off the rear of the street. Luke's erstwhile shadow, a blaster now gripped his hand, was pushing his way through the crowd, making for the other robed figure Luke had noticed earlier.

The other robed figure . . .

Luke bit at his lip. It would be a rather unfriendly trick to play on a totally innocent bystander. But on the other hand, the Imperials obviously knew who they were looking for and just as obviously wanted him alive. Putting the man down there in deadly danger, he knew, would be unacceptable behavior for a Jedi. Luke could only hope that inconveniencing him wouldn't fall under the same heading.

Gritting his teeth, he reached out with the Force and plucked the blaster from the shadow's hand. Spinning it low over the heads of the crowd, he dropped it squarely into the other robed figure's hand.

The shadow shouted to the stormtroopers; but what had begun as a call of triumph quickly became a screech of warning. Focusing the Force with all the control he could manage, Luke turned the blaster back toward its former owner and fired.

Fired safely over the crowd, of course—there was no possible way for him to aim accurately enough to hit the Imperial, even if he'd wanted to. But even a clean miss was enough to jolt the stormtroopers into action. The Imperials who'd been checking faces and IDs abandoned their task to push through the crowd toward the man in the robe, while those guarding the ends of the street hurried forward into backup positions.

It was, not surprisingly, too much for the man in the robe. Shaking away the blaster that had inexplicably become attached to his hand, he slipped past the frozen onlookers beside him and disappeared into a narrow alleyway.

Luke didn't wait to see any more. The minute anyone got a good look at the fleeing man's face, the diversion would be over, and he had to be off this roof and on his way to the landing field before that happened. Sidling to the edge of his narrow ledge, he looked down.

It didn't look promising. Built to withstand two-hundred-kilometer winds, it was perfectly smooth, with no protuberances that could get caught in eddy currents. Nor were there any windows, service doors, or other openings visible. That, at least, shouldn't be a problem; he could cut himself a makeshift doorway with his lightsaber if it came to that. The real question was how to get out of range of the Imperials' trap before they started hunting him in earnest.

He glanced back. And he had to do it fast. From the direction of the official landing area at the far end of the city, the distant specks of airspeeders had begun to appear over the squat city buildings.

He couldn't drop back down on the street side without attracting unwelcome attention. He couldn't crawl along the narrow upper edge of the shield-barrier, at least not fast enough to get out of sight before the airspeeders got here. Which left him only one direction. Down.

But not necessarily straight down . . .

He squinted into the sky. Poderis's sun was nearly to the horizon, moving almost visibly through its ten-hour circuit. Right now its light was shining straight into the eyes of the approaching airspeeder pilots, but within five minutes it would be completely below the horizon. Giving the searchers a clear view again, and leaving behind a dusk where a lightsaber blade would be instantly visible.

It was now or never.

Pulling his lightsaber from beneath his robe, Luke ignited it, making sure to keep the glowing green blade out of sight of the approaching airspeeders. Using the tip, he carefully made a shallow cut to the right and a few degrees down across the slanting shield-barrier. His robe was made of relatively flimsy material, and it took only a second to tear off the left sleeve and wrap it around the fingertips of his left hand. The padded fingers slipped easily into the groove he'd just made, with enough room to slide freely along it. Getting a firm grip, he set the tip of his lightsaber blade into the end of the groove and rolled off the ledge. Supported by his fingertips, the lightsaber held outstretched in his right hand carving out his path for him as he went, he slid swiftly across and down the shield-barrier.

It was at the same time exhilarating and terrifying. Memories flooded back: the wind whipping past him as he fell through the center core of the Cloud City of Bespin; hanging literally by his fingertips barely minutes later beneath the city; lying exhausted on the floor in the second Death Star, sensing through his pain the enraged helplessness of the Emperor as Vader hurled him to his death. Beneath his chest and legs, the smooth surface of the shield-barrier slid past, marking his rapid approach to the edge and the empty space beyond. . . .

Lifting his head, blinking against the wind slapping into his face, he looked over his shoulder. The lethal edge was visible now, racing upward toward him at what felt like breakneck speed. Closer and closer it came . . . and then, at the last second, he changed the angle of his lightsaber. The downward path of his fingerguide shifted toward horizontal, and a few seconds later he slid smoothly to a halt.

For a moment he just hung there, dangling precariously by one hand as he caught his breath and got his heartbeat back under control. Above him, its edge catching the last rays of the setting sun, he could see the groove he'd just cut, angling up and to his left. Over a hundred meters to his left, he estimated. Hopefully, far enough to put him outside the Imperials' trap.

He'd find out soon enough.

Behind him, the sun dipped below the horizon, erasing the thin line of his passage. Moving carefully, trying not to dislodge his straining fingertips, he began to cut a hole through the shield-barrier.

"Report from the stormtrooper commander, Admiral," Pellaeon called, grimacing as he read it off his comm display. "Skywalker does not appear to be within the cordon."

"I'm not surprised," Thrawn said darkly, glowering at his displays. "I've warned Intelligence repeatedly about underestimating the range of Skywalker's sensing abilities. Obviously, they didn't take me seriously."

Pellaeon swallowed hard. "Yes, sir. But we know he was there, and he couldn't have gotten very far. The stormtroopers have established a secondary cordon and begun a building-to-building search."

Thrawn took a deep breath, then let it out. "No," he said, his voice even again. "He didn't go into any of the buildings. Not Skywalker. That little diversion with the decoy and the blaster . . ." He looked at Pellaeon. "Up, Captain. He went up onto the rooftops."

"The spotters are already sweeping that direction," Pellaeon said. "If he's up there, they'll spot him."

"Good." Thrawn tapped a switch on his command console, calling up a holographic map of that section of the mesa. "What about the shield-barrier on the west edge of the cordon? Can it be climbed?"

"Our people here say no," Pellaeon shook his head. "Too smooth and too sharply angled, with no lip or other barrier at the bottom. If Skywalker went up that side of the street, he's still there. Or at the bottom of the mesa."

"Perhaps," Thrawn said. "Assign one of the spotters to search that area anyway. What about Skywalker's ship?"

"Intelligence is still trying to identify which one is his," Pellaeon admitted. "There's some problem with the records. We should have it in a few more minutes."

"Minutes which we no longer have, thanks to their shadower's carelessness," Thrawn bit out. "He's to be demoted one grade."

"Yes, sir," Pellaeon said, logging the order. A rather severe punishment, but it could have been far worse. The late Lord Vader would have summarily strangled the man. "The landing field itself is surrounded, of course."

Thrawn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "A probable waste of time," he said slowly. "On the other hand . . ."

He turned his head to gaze out the viewport at the slowly rotating planet. "Pull them off, Captain," he ordered. "All except the clone troopers. Leave those on guard near the likeliest possibilities for Skywalker's ship."

Pellaeon blinked. "Sir?"

Thrawn turned back to face him, a fresh glint in those glowing red eyes. "The landing field cordon doesn't have nearly enough ysalamiri to stop a Jedi, Captain. So we won't bother trying. We'll let him get his ship into space, and take him with the Chimaera."

"Yes, sir," Pellaeon said, feeling his forehead furrow. "But then . . ."

"Why leave the clones?" Thrawn finished for him. "Because while Skywalker is valuable to us, the same is not true of his astromech droid." He smiled slightly. "Unless, of course, Skywalker's heroic efforts to escape Poderis convince it that this is indeed the main conduit for our clone traffic."

"Ah," Pellaeon said, finally understanding. "In which case, we find a way to allow the droid to escape back to the Rebellion?"

"Exactly," Thrawn gestured to Pellaeon's board. "Orders, Captain."

"Yes, sir." Pellaeon turned back to his board, feeling a cautious stirring of excitement as he began issuing the Grand Admiral's commands. Maybe this time Skywalker would finally be theirs.

Artoo was jabbering nervously when Luke finally charged through the door of their small freighter and slapped the seal behind him. "Everything ready to go?" he shouted over his shoulder to the droid as he hurried to the cockpit alcove.

Artoo trilled back an affirmative. Luke dropped into the pilot's seat, giving the instruments a quick once-over as he strapped himself in. "Okay," he called back. "Here we go."

Throwing power to the repulsorlifts, Luke kicked the freighter clear of the ground, wrenching it hard to starboard. A pair of Skipray blastboats rose with him, moving into tandem pursuit formation as he headed for the edge of the mesa. "Watch those Skiprays, Artoo," Luke called, splitting his own attention between the rapidly approaching city's edge and the airspace above them. The fight with those clone troopers guarding the landing field had been intense, but it had been far too brief to be realistic. Either the Empire had left someone totally incompetent in charge, or they'd let him get to his ship on purpose. Carefully herding him into the real trap . . .

The edge of the mesa shot past beneath him. Luke threw a quick glance at the rear display to confirm that he was clear of the city, then punched in the main sublight drive.

The freighter shot skyward like a scalded mynock, leaving the pursuing Skiprays flatfooted in its wake. The official-sounding orders to halt that had been blaring from the board turned into a surprised yelp as Luke reached over and shut the comm off. "Artoo? You all right back there?"

The droid chirped an affirmative, and a question scrolled across Luke's computer screen. "They were clones, all right," he confirmed grimly, an uncomfortable shiver running through him. The strange aura that seemed to surround the Empire's new duplicate humans was twice as eerie up close. "I'll tell you something else, too," he added to Artoo. "The Imperials knew it was me they were chasing. Those stormtroopers were carrying ysalamiri on their backs."

Artoo whistled thoughtfully, gave a questioning gurgle. "Right—that whole Delta Source thing," Luke agreed, reading the droid's comment. "Leia told me that if we couldn't get the leak closed fast, she was going to recommend we move operations out of the Imperial Palace. Maybe even off Coruscant entirely."

Though if Delta Source was a human or alien spy instead of some impossibly undetectable listening system in the Palace itself, moving anywhere would just be so much wasted effort. From Artoo's rather pointed silence, Luke guessed the droid was thinking that, too.

The distant horizon, barely visible as dark planet against dark but starlit sky, was starting to show a visible curvature now. "Better start calculating our jump to lightspeed, Artoo," he called over his shoulder. "We're probably going to have to get out of here in a hurry."

He got a confirming beep from the droid's position and turned his attention back to the horizon ahead. A whole fleet of Star Destroyers, he knew, could be lurking below that horizon, out of range of his instruments, waiting for him to get too far from any possible cover to launch their attack.

Out of range of his instruments, but perhaps not out of range of Jedi senses. Closing his eyes to slits, flooding his mind with calmness, he stretched out through the Force—

He got it an instant before Artoo's startled warning shrill shattered the air. An Imperial Star Destroyer all right; but not cutting across his path as Luke had expected. Instead, it was coming up from behind, in an atmosphere-top forced orbit that had allowed it to build up speed without sacrificing the advantages of planetary cover.

"Hang on!" Luke shouted, throwing emergency power to the drive. But it was a futile gesture, and both he and the Imperials knew it. The Star Destroyer was coming up fast, its tractor beams already activated and tracking him. Within a handful of seconds, they were going to get him.

Or at least, they were going to get the freighter . . .

Luke hit his strap release, opening a disguised panel as he did so and touching the three switches hidden there. The first switch keyed in the limited autopilot; the second unlocked the aft proton torpedo launcher and started it firing blindly back toward the Star Destroyer.

The third activated the freighter's self-destruct.

His X-wing was wedged nose forward in the cargo area behind the cockpit alcove, looking for all the world like some strange metallic animal peering out of its burrow. Luke leaped to the open canopy, coming within an ace of cracking his head on the freighter's low ceiling in the process. Artoo, already snugged into the X-wing's droid socket, was jabbering softly to himself as he ran the starfighter's systems from standby to full ready. Even as Luke strapped in and pulled on his flight helmet, the droid signaled they were clear to fly.

"Okay," Luke told him, resting his left hand on the special switch that had been added to his control board. "If this is going to work, we're going to have to time it just right. Be ready."

Again he closed his eyes, letting the Force flow through his senses. Once before, on his first attempt to locate the Jedi Master C'baoth, he'd tangled like this with the Imperials—an X-wing against an Imperial Star Destroyer. That, too, had been a deliberate ambush, though he hadn't realized it until C'baoth's unholy alliance with the Empire had been laid bare. In that battle, skill and luck and the Force had saved him.

This time, if the specialists back at Coruscant had done their job right, the luck was already built in.

With his mind deeply into the Force, he sensed the locking of the tractor beam a half second before it actually occurred. His hand jabbed the switch; and even as the freighter jerked in the tractor beam's powerful grip, the front end blew apart into a cloud of metallic shards. An instant later, kicked forward by a deck-mounted blast-booster, the X-wing shot through the glittering debris. For a long, heart-stopping moment it seemed as though the tractor beam was going to be able to maintain its hold despite the obscuring particle fog. Then, all at once, the grip slackened and was gone.

"We're free!" Luke shouted back at Artoo, rolling the X-wing over and driving hard for deep space. "I'm going evasive—hang on."

He rolled the X-wing again, and as he did so a pair of brilliant green flashes shot past the transparisteel canopy. With their tractor beams outdistanced, the Imperials had apparently decided to settle for shooting him out of the sky. Another barrage of green flame scorched past, and there was a yelp from Artoo as something burned through the deflectors to slap against the X-wing's underside. Reaching out again to the Force, Luke let it guide his hands on the controls—

And then, almost without warning, it was time. Reaching to the hyperdrive lever, Luke pulled it back.

With a flicker of pseudomotion, the X-wing vanished into the safety of hyperspace, the Chimera's turbolaser batteries still firing uselessly for a second at where it had been. The batteries fell silent; and Pellaeon let out a long breath, afraid to look over at Thrawn's command station. It was the second time Skywalker had escaped from this kind of trap . . . and the last time he'd done so, a man had died for that failure.

The rest of the bridge crew hadn't forgotten that, either. In the brittle silence the faint rustling of cloth against seat material was clearly audible as Thrawn stood up. "Well," the Grand Admiral said, his voice strangely calm. "One must give the Rebels full credit for ingenuity. I've seen that trick worked before, but not nearly so effectively."

"Yes, sir," Pellaeon said, trying without success to hide the strain in his voice.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Thrawn looking at him. "At ease, Captain," the Grand Admiral said soothingly. "Skywalker would have made an interesting package to present to Master C'baoth, but his escape is hardly cause for major concern. The primary objective of this exercise was to convince the Rebellion that they'd discovered the clone conduit. That objective has been achieved."

The tightness in Pellaeon's chest began to dissipate. If the Grand Admiral wasn't angry about it . . .

"That does not mean, however," Thrawn went on, "that the actions of the Chimaera's crew should be ignored. Come with me, Captain."

Pellaeon got to his feet, the tightness returning. "Yes, sir."

Thrawn led the way to the aft stairway and descended to the starboard crew pit. He walked past the crewers at their consoles, past the officers standing stiffly behind them, and came to a halt at the control station for the starboard tractor beams. "Your name," he said quietly to the young man standing at rigid attention there.

"Ensign Mithel," the other said, his face pale but composed. The expression of a man facing his death.

"Tell me what happened, Ensign."

Mithel swallowed. "Sir, I had just established a positive lock on the freighter when it broke up into a cluster of trac-reflective particles. The targeting system tried to lock on all of them at once and went into a loop snarl."

"And what did you do?"

"I—sir, I knew that if I waited for the particles to dissipate normally, the target starfighter would be out of range. So I tried to dissipate them myself by shifting the tractor beam into sheer-plane mode."

"It didn't work."

A quiet sigh slipped through Mithel's lips. "No, sir. The target-lock system couldn't handle it. It froze up completely."

"Yes." Thrawn cocked his head slightly. "You've had a few moments now to consider your actions, Ensign. Can you think of anything you should have done instead?"

The young man's lip twitched. "No, sir. I'm sorry, but I can't. I don't remember anything in the manual that covers this kind of situation."

Thrawn nodded. "Correct," he agreed. "There isn't anything. Several methods have been suggested over the past few decades for counteracting the covert shroud gambit, none of which has ever been made practical. Yours was one of the more innovative attempts, particularly given how little time you had to come up with it. The fact that it failed does not in any way diminish that."

A look of cautious disbelief was starting to edge into Mithel's face. "Sir?"

"The Empire needs quick and creative minds, Ensign," Thrawn said. "You're hereby promoted to lieutenant . . . and your first assignment is to find a way to break a covert shroud. After their success here, the Rebellion may try the gambit again."

"Yes, sir," Mithel breathed, the color starting to come back into his face. "I—thank you, sir."

"Congratulations, Lieutenant Mithel." Thrawn nodded to him, then turned to Pellaeon. "The bridge is yours, Captain. Resume our scheduled flight. I'll be in my command room if you require me."

"Yes, sir," Pellaeon managed.

And stood there beside the newly minted lieutenant, feeling the stunned awe pervading the bridge as he watched Thrawn leave. Yesterday, the Chimaera's crew had trusted and respected the Grand Admiral. After today, they would be ready to die for him.

And for the first time in five years, Pellaeon finally knew in the deepest level of his being that the old Empire was gone. The new Empire, with Grand Admiral Thrawn at its head, had been born.

The X-wing hung suspended in the blackness of space, light-years away from any solid mass larger than a grain of dust. It was, Luke thought, almost like a replay of that other battle with a Star Destroyer, the one that had left him stranded in deep space and had ultimately led him to Talon Karrde and Mara Jade and the planet Myrkr.

Fortunately, appearance was the only thing they had in common. Mostly.

From the droid socket behind him came a nervous warble. "Come on, Artoo, relax," Luke soothed him. "It's not that bad. We couldn't have made it anywhere near Coruscant without refueling anyway. We'll just have to do it a little sooner, that's all."

The response was a sort of indignant grunt. "I am taking you seriously, Artoo," Luke said patiently, keying the listing on his nav display over to the droid. "Look—here are all the places we can get to with half our primary power cells blown out. See?"

For a moment the droid seemed to mull over the list, and Luke took the opportunity to give it another look himself. There were a lot of choices there, all right. The problem was that many of them wouldn't be especially healthy for a lone New Republic X-wing to show up at. Half were under direct Imperial control, and most of the others were either leaning that way or keeping their political options open.

Still, even on an Imperial-held world, there were sensor gaps a single starfighter could probably slip through. He could put down in some isolated place, make his way on foot to a spaceport, and buy some replacement fuel cells with the Imperial currency he still had left. Getting the cells back to the X-wing could be a bit of a problem, but nothing he and Artoo couldn't solve.

Artoo chirped a suggestion. "Kessel's a possibility," Luke agreed. "I don't know, though—last I heard Moruth Doole was still in charge there, and Han's never really trusted him. I think we'd do better with Fwillsving, or even—"

He broke off as one of the planets on the list caught his eye. A planet Leia had programmed into his onboard nav system, almost as an afterthought, before he left on this mission.

Honoghr.

"I've got a better idea, Artoo," Luke said slowly. "Let's go visit the Noghri."

There was a startled, disbelieving squawk from behind him. "Oh, come on," Luke admonished him. "Leia and Chewie went there and got back all right, didn't they? And Threepio, too," he added. "You don't want Threepio saying you were afraid to go somewhere he wasn't afraid of, would you?"

Artoo grunted again. "Doesn't matter whether or not he had a choice," Luke said firmly. "The point is that he went."

The droid gave a mournful and rather resigned gurgle. "That's the spirit," Luke encouraged him, keying the nav computer to start the calculation to Honoghr. "Leia's been wanting me to go visit them, anyway. This way we kill two dune lizards with one throw."

Artoo gave a single discomfited gurgle and fell silent and even Luke, who fully trusted Leia's judgment of the Noghri privately conceded that it was perhaps not the most comforting figure of speech he could have used.

Chapter 5

The battle data from the Woostri system scrolled to the bottom of the data pad and stopped. "I still don't believe it," Leia said, shaking her head as she laid the data pad back down on the table. "If the Empire had a superweapon that could shoot through planetary shields, they'd be using it in every system they attacked. It has to be a trick or illusion of some kind."

"I agree," Mon Mothma said quietly. "The question is, how do we convince the rest of the Council and the Assemblage of that? Not to mention the outer systems themselves?"

"We must solve the puzzle of what happened at Ukio and Woostri," Admiral Ackbar said, his voice even more gravelly than usual. "And we must solve it quickly."

Leia picked up her data pad again, throwing a quick look across the table at Ackbar as she did so. The Mon Calamari's huge eyes seemed unusually heavy-lidded, his normal salmon color noticeably faded. He was tired, desperately so . . . and with the Empire's grand offensive still rolling toward them across the galaxy, he wasn't likely to be getting much rest anytime soon.

Neither were any of the rest of them, for that matter. "We already know that Grand Admiral Thrawn has a talent for understanding the minds of his opponents," she reminded the others. "Could he have predicted how quickly both the Ukians and the Woostroids would be to surrender?"

"As opposed to, say, the Filvians?" Mon Mothma nodded slowly. "Interesting point. That might indicate the illusion is one that can't be maintained for very long."

"Or that the power requirements are exceedingly high," Ackbar added. "If the Empire has learned a method for focusing nonvisible energy against a shield, it could conceivably weaken a section long enough to fire a turbolaser blast through the opening. But such a thing would take a tremendous power output."

"And should also show up as an energy stress on the shield," Mon Mothma pointed out. "None of our information suggests that was the case."

"Our information may be wrong," Ackbar retorted. He threw a brief glare at Councilor Borsk Fey'lya. "Or it may have been manipulated by the Empire," he added pointedly. "Such things have happened before."

Leia looked at Fey'lya, too, wondering if the thinly veiled insult to his people would finally drive the Bothan out of his self-imposed silence. But Fey'lya just sat there, his eyes on the table, his cream-colored fur motionless. Not speaking, not reacting, perhaps not even thinking.

Eventually, she supposed, he would regain his verbal courage and a measure of his old political strength. But for now, with his false denunciation of Ackbar still fresh in everyone's minds, he was in the middle of his species' version of penance.

Leia's stomach tightened in frustration. Once again, the Bothans' inflexible all-or-nothing approach to politics was running squarely counter to the New Republic's best interests. A few months earlier, Fey'lya's accusations against Ackbar had wasted valuable time and energy; now, when the Council needed every bit of insight and resourcefulness it could muster—including Fey'lya's—he was playing the silent martyr.

There were days—and long, dark nights—when Leia privately despaired of ever holding the New Republic together.

"You're right, of course, Admiral," Mon Mothma said with a sigh. "We need more information. And we need it quickly."

"Talon Karrde's organization is still our best chance," Leia said. "They've got the contacts, both here and on the Imperial side. And from what Luke said in his last message, Karrde sounded interested."

"We can't afford to wait on the convenience of a smuggler," Ackbar growled, his mouth tendrils stiffening with distaste. "What about General Bel Iblis? He was fighting alone against the Empire for several years."

"The General has already turned his intelligence contacts over to us," Mon Mothma said, a muscle in her cheek twitching. "So far, we're still integrating them into our own system."

"I wasn't referring to his contacts," Ackbar said. "I meant the General himself. Why isn't he here?"

Leia looked at Mon Mothma, her stomach tightening again. Garm Bel Iblis had been one of the early forces behind the consolidation of individual resistance units into the all-encompassing Rebel Alliance, and for years had formed a shadowy triad of leadership with Mon Mothma and Leia's own adoptive father, Bail Organa. But when Organa died with his people in the Death Star's attack on Alderaan—and as Mon Mothma began subsequently to draw more and more power to herself—Bel Iblis had left the Alliance and struck out on his own. Since then, he had continued his private war against the Empire . . . until, almost by accident, he had crossed paths with fellow Corellian Han Solo.

It was Han's urgent request that had brought Bel Iblis and his force of six Dreadnaughts to the New Republic's aid at the Katana battle. Mon Mothma, speaking words about burying past differences, had welcomed Bel Iblis back.

And had then turned around and sent him to bolster the defenses in the outer sectors of the New Republic. As far from Coruscant as he could possibly have gone.

Leia was not yet ready to ascribe vindictiveness to Mon Mothma's decision. But there were others in the New Republic hierarchy who remembered Bel Iblis and his tactical genius . . . and not all of them were quite so willing to give Mon Mothma the benefit of the doubt.

"The General's expertise is needed at the battlefront," Mon Mothma said evenly.

"His expertise is also needed here," Ackbar retorted; but Leia could hear the resignation in his voice. Ackbar himself had just returned from a tour of the Farrfin and Dolomar defenses, and would be leaving in the morning for Dantooine. With the Imperial war machine on the move, the New Republic couldn't afford the luxury of burying their best line commanders away in ground-side offices.

"I understand your concerns," Mon Mothma said, more gently. "When we get the situation out there stabilized, I fully intend to bring General Bel Iblis back and put him in charge of tactical planning."

If we get the situation stabilized, Leia amended silently, again feeling her stomach tighten. So far, the offensive was going uniformly the Empire's way—

The thought broke off in midstride, a sudden belated awareness flooding in on her. No—it wasn't her stomach that was tightening. . . .

Ackbar was speaking again. "Excuse me," Leia cut him off, getting carefully to her feet. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I need to get down to Medical."

Mon Mothma's eyes widened. "The twins?"

Leia nodded. "I think they're on their way."

The walls and ceiling of the birth room were a warm tan color, with a superimposed series of shifting lights that had been synchronized with Leia's own brain wave patterns. Theoretically, it was supposed to help her relax and concentrate. As a practical matter, Leia had already decided that after ten hours of looking at it, the technique had pretty well lost its effectiveness.

Another contraction came, the hardest one yet. Automatically, Leia reached out with the Force, using the methods Luke had taught her to hold off the pain coming from protesting muscles. If nothing else, this whole birth process was giving her the chance to practice her Jedi techniques.

And not just those having to do with pain control. It's all right, she thought soothingly toward the small minds within her. It's all right. Mother's here.

It didn't really help. Caught in forces they couldn't comprehend, their tiny bodies being squeezed and pushed as they were driven slowly toward the unknown, their undeveloped minds were fluttering with fear.

Though to be perfectly fair, their father wasn't in much better shape.

"You all right?" Han asked for the umpteenth time since they'd come in here. He squeezed her hand a little more tightly, also for the umpteenth time, in sympathetic tension with her hunching shoulders.

"I'm still fine," Leia assured him. Her shoulders relaxed as the contraction ended, and she gave his hand a squeeze in return. "You don't look so good, though."

Han made a face at her. "It's past my bedtime," he said dryly.

"That must be it," Leia agreed. Han had been as nervous as a tauntaun on ball bearings ever since the labor started in earnest, but he was making a manly effort not to show it. More for her sake, Leia suspected, than for any damage such an admission might do to his image. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Han threw a look to the side, where the medic and two Emdee droids were hovering around the business end of the birth bed. "Looks like we're getting close, sweetheart."

"Count on it," Leia agreed, the last word strangled off as another contraction took her attention. "Oh . . ."

Han's anxiety level jumped another notch. "You all right?"

Leia nodded, throat muscles momentarily too tight to speak through. "Hold me, Han," she breathed when she could talk again. "Just hold me."

"I'm right here," he said quietly, sliding his free hand into a comfortable grip under her shoulder.

She hardly heard him. Deep within her, the small lives that she and Han had created were starting to move . . . and abruptly their fluttering fear had become full-blown terror.

Don't be afraid, she thought at them. Don't be afraid. It'll be all right I'm here. Soon, you'll be with me.

She wasn't really expecting a reaction—the twins' minds were far too undeveloped to understand anything as abstract as words or the concept of future events. But she continued anyway, wrapping them and their fear as best she could in her love and peace and comfort. There was another contraction—the inexorable movement toward the outside world continued—

And then, to Leia's everlasting joy, one of the tiny minds reached back to her, touching her in a way that neither twin had ever responded to her nonverbal caresses before. The rising fear slowed in its advance, and Leia had the sudden mental image of a baby's hand curled tightly around her finger. Yes, she told the infant. I'm your mother, and I'm here.

The tiny mind seemed to consider that. Leia continued her assurances, and the mind shifted a little away from her, as if the infant's attention had been drawn somewhere else. A good sign, she decided; if it was able to be distracted from what was happening to it—

And then, to her amazement, the second mind's panic also began to fade. The second mind, which to the best of her knowledge had not yet even noticed her presence . . .

Later, in retrospect, the whole thing would seem obvious, if not completely inevitable. But at that moment, the revelation was startling enough to send a shiver through the core of Leia's soul. The twins, growing together in the Force even as they'd grown together within her, had somehow become attuned to each other—attuned in a way and to a depth that Leia knew she herself would never entirely share.

It was, at the same time, one of the proudest and yet one of the most poignant moments of Leia's life. To get such a glimpse into the future—to see her children growing and strengthening themselves in the Force . . . and to know that there would be a part of their lives together that she would never share.

The contraction eased, the grand and bittersweet vision of the future fading into a small nugget of ache in a corner of her mind. An ache that was made all the worse by the private shame that, in all of that flood of selfish emotion, it hadn't even occurred to her that Han would be able to share even less of their lives than she would.

And suddenly, through the mental haze, a bright light seemed to explode in her eyes. Reflexively, she clutched harder at Han's hand. "What—?"

"It's coming," Han yelped, gripping back. "First one's halfway out."

Leia blinked, the half-imagined light vanishing as her mind fumbled free of her contact with her children. Her children, whose eyes had never had to deal with anything brighter than a dim, diffuse glow. "Turn that light down," she gasped. "It's too bright. The children's eyes—"

"It's all right," the medic assured her. "Their eyes will adjust. All right: one last push."

And then, seemingly without warning, the first part was suddenly over. "Got one," Han told her, his voice sounding strangely breathless. "It's—" He craned his neck. "It's our daughter." He looked back at Leia, the tension in his face plastered over with the lopsided grin she knew so well. "Jaina."

Leia nodded. "Jaina," she repeated. Somehow, the names they'd decided on had never sounded quite the same as they did right now. "What about Jacen?"

"Offhand, I'd say he's anxious to join his sister," the medic said dryly. "Get ready to push—he looks like he's trying to crawl out on his own. Okay . . . push."

Leia took a deep breath. Finally. After ten hours of labor—after nine months of pregnancy—the end was finally in sight.

No. Not the end. The beginning.

They laid the twins in her arms a few minutes later . . . and as she looked first at them and then up at Han, she felt a sense of utter peace settle over her. Out among the stars there might be a war going on; but for here, and for now, all was right with the universe.

"Watch it, Rogue Leader," the voice of Rogue Ten snapped in Wedge's ear. "You've picked up a tail."

"Got it," Wedge told him, cutting his X-wing hard over. The TIE interceptor shot past, spitting laser fire as he went, and attempted to match Wedge's maneuver. Blurring in barely half a second behind the Imperial, a pursuing X-wing blew him into a cloud of flaming dust.

"Thanks, Rogue Eight," Wedge said, blowing a drop of sweat from the tip of his nose and checking his scanners. Temporarily, at least, it looked like their little corner of the melee was in the clear. Putting his X-wing into a slow turn, he gave the overall battle scene a quick assessment.

It was worse than he'd feared. Worse, for that matter, than it had been even five minutes ago. Two more Victory-class Star Destroyers had appeared from hyperspace, dropping into mauling position at point-blank range from one of their three remaining Calamari Star Cruisers. And at the rate the Star Destroyers were pouring turbolaser fire into it— "Rogue Squadron: change course to twenty-two mark eight," he ordered, turning onto the intercept heading and wondering how in blazes the Imperials had managed this one. Making so precise a jump was difficult under ideal circumstances; to do so into the heat and confusion of a battle should have been well-nigh impossible. Just one more example of the Empire's incredible new talent for coordinating their forces.

There was a warning twitter from the astromech droid riding in the socket behind him: they were now registering too close to a large mass to jump to lightspeed. Wedge glanced around with a frown, finally spotted the Interdictor Cruiser hovering off in the distance, keeping well out of the main battle itself. Apparently, the Imperials didn't want any of the New Republic ships sneaking out of the party early.

Dead ahead, some of the Victory Star Destroyers' TIE fighters were sweeping up to meet them. "Porkins' Formation," Wedge ordered his team. "Watch out for flankers. Star Cruiser Orthavan, this is Rogue Squadron; we're coming in."

"Stay there, Rogue Leader," a gravelly Mon Calamari voice said. "We're too badly overmatched. You can't help us."

Wedge gritted his teeth. The Mon Cal was probably right. "We're going to try, anyway," he told the other. The advancing TIE fighters were almost in range now. "Hang on."

"Rogue Squadron, this is Bel Iblis," a new voice cut in. "Break off your attack. On my mark cut thirty degrees to portside."

With an effort, Wedge suppressed the urge to say something that would probably have earned him a court-martial. On his list, as long as a ship was in one piece, there was still hope of saving it. Apparently, the great General Bel Iblis had decided otherwise. "Copy, General," he sighed. "Rogue Squadron: stand by."

"Rogue Squadron . . . mark."

Obediently, reluctantly, Wedge swung his X-wing to the side. The TIE fighters shifted course to follow; seemed to suddenly get flustered—

And with a roar that carried clearly even through the tenuous gases of interplanetary space, an assault formation of A-wings shot through the space Rogue Squadron had just exited. The TIE fighters, already in motion to match the X-wings' maneuver, were caught flat-footed. Before they could get back into barricade position, the A-wings were past them, heading at full throttle for the embattled Star Cruiser. "Okay, Rogue Squadron," Bel Iblis said. "Your turn. Clear their backs for them."

Wedge grinned tightly. He should have known better of Bel Iblis. "Copy, General. Rogue Squadron: let's take them."

"And then," Bel Iblis added grimly, "prepare to retreat."

Wedge blinked, the grin fading. Retreat? Turning his X-wing toward the TIE fighters, he looked back at the main battle area.

A few minutes earlier, he'd realized the situation had looked bad. Now, it was on the edge of disaster. Bel Iblis's force was down to barely two-thirds of the fifteen capital ships he'd started with, with most of those huddled into a last-ditch bastion formation. Surrounding it, systematically battering at its defenses, were over twenty Star Destroyers and Dreadnaughts.

Wedge looked back at the approaching TIE fighters; and, beyond them, to the Interdictor Cruiser. The Interdictor Cruiser, whose gravity well projectors were keeping the beleaguered battle force from escaping to lightspeed . . .

And then they were on the TIE fighters, and there was no more time for thought. The battle was sharp, but short—the sudden appearance of the A-wings from Rogue Squadron's shadow had apparently thrown the TIE fighters just enough off stride. Three minutes, maybe four, and Rogue Squadron was again in the clear.

"What now, Rogue Leader?" Rogue Two asked as the squadron re-formed through the debris.

Mentally crossing his fingers, Wedge looked back at the Orthavan. If Bel Iblis's gamble hadn't worked . . .

It had. The A-wing slash had distracted the Victory Star Destroyers' attack just enough for the Star Cruiser to catch its breath and go back on the offensive. The Orthavan had both its extensive turbolaser and ion cannon batteries going, scrambling the Imperials' systems and pummeling away at their hulls. Even as Wedge watched, a geyser of superheated gas erupted from the midsection of the nearer Star Destroyer, sending the ship rotating ponderously away. Pulling under the derelict's hull, the Star Cruiser moved away from the battle and headed for the Interdictor Cruiser.

"Change course for the Orthavan," Wedge ordered. "They may need backup."

The words were barely out of his mouth when, shooting in from lightspeed, a pair of Dreadnaughts suddenly appeared at the Orthavan's flank. Wedge held his breath, but the Star Cruiser was already moving too fast for the Dreadnaughts to get more than a wild shot at it. It passed them without pausing; and as they turned to follow it, the A-wing squadron reenacted their earlier slash maneuver. Once again, the distraction's effectiveness was vastly out of proportion to the actual damage inflicted. By the time the starfighters broke off, the Orthavan was beyond any chance the Dreadnaughts might have to catch up.

And the Imperials knew it. Behind Wedge, the astromech droid beeped: the pseudogravity field was fading away as the distant Interdictor Cruiser shut down its gravity well projectors in preparation for its own escape to lightspeed.

The Interdictor Cruiser . . .

And belatedly the explanation struck him. He'd been wrong—those Victory Star Destroyers hadn't needed to rely on any half-mystical coordination technique to jump in so close to the Star Cruiser. All they'd had to do was fly in along a hyperspace vector supplied to them by the Interdictor Cruiser and wait until the edge of the gravity well cone yanked them back into normal space.

Wedge felt his lip twist. Overestimating the enemy's abilities, he'd been taught a long time ago, could be just as dangerous as underestimating them. It was a lesson he would have to start remembering.

"Interdictor gravfield is down," Bel Iblis's voice came in his ear. "All units: acknowledge and prepare to retreat on your marks."

"Rogue Squadron: copy," Wedge said, grimacing as he turned onto their preplanned escape vector and looked back at what was left of the main battle group. There was no doubt about it: they'd been beaten, and beaten badly, and about all Bel Iblis's legendary tactical skill had been able to do had been to keep the defeat from turning into a rout.

And the price was likely to be yet another system lost to the Empire.

"Rogue Squadron: go."

"Copy," Wedge sighed, and pulled back the hyperspace lever . . . and as the stars flared into starlines, a sobering thought occurred to him.

For the foreseeable future, at least, underestimating the Empire was not likely to be all that much of a problem.

Chapter 6

The starlines shrank back into stars, and the Wild Karrde was back in normal space. Straight ahead was the tiny white dwarf sun of the Chazwa system, not all that distinguishable from the bright background stars around it. Nearby and a little to one side, a mostly dark circle edged by a slender lighted crescent, was the planet Chazwa itself. Scattered around it in the darkness of space the exhaust glows of perhaps fifty ships could be seen, both incoming and outgoing. Most were freighters and bulk cruisers, taking advantage of Chazwa's central transshipment location. A few were clearly Imperial warships.

"Well, here we are," Aves said conversationally from the copilot station. "Incidentally, Karrde, I'd like to go on record as saying this is an insane idea."

"Perhaps," Karrde conceded, shifting course toward the planet and checking his displays. Good; the rest of the group had made it in all right. "But if the Empire's clone transport route does indeed run through Orus sector, the Chazwa garrison should have records of the operation. Possibly even the origin point, if someone was careless."

"I wasn't referring to the details of the raid," Aves said. "I meant that it was crazy for us to be getting involved in the first place. It's the New Republic's war, not ours—let them chase it down."

"If I could trust them to do so, I would," Karrde said, peering out the starboard viewport. Another freighter seemed to be sidling slowly in the Wild Karrde's general direction. "But I'm not sure they're up to the task."

Aves grunted. "I still don't buy Skywalker's numbers. Seems to me that if you could grow stable clones that fast, the old clonemasters would have done it."

"Perhaps they did," Karrde pointed out. "I don't think any information on the cloning techniques of that era has survived. Everything I've ever seen has come from the much earlier prewar experiments."

"Yeah, well . . ." Aves shook his head. "I'd still rather sit the whole thing out."

"We may discover we don't have a choice in the matter." Karrde gestured to the freighter still moving up on them. "We seem to have a caller. Would you pull up an ID on him?"

"Sure." Aves threw a quick look at the freighter, then turned to his board. "Not registering as any ship I've ever heard of. Wait a minute . . . yeah. Yeah, they've altered their ID—simple transponder overlay, looks like. Let's see if Ghent's magic decoder package can untangle it."

Karrde nodded, the mention of Ghent's name sending his thoughts flicking briefly across the galaxy to Coruscant and the two associates he'd left there under New Republic care. If the timetable their medical people had given him was correct, Mara should be about recovered by now. She should be trying to get in touch with him soon, and he made a mental note to check in with the contact pipeline as soon as they were finished here.

"Got it," Aves said triumphantly. "Well, well—I do believe it's an old friend of yours, Karrde. The Kern's Pride; the slightly less-than-honorable Samuel Tomas Gillespee, proprietor."

"Is it, now," Karrde said, eyeing the ship pacing them a hundred meters away. "I suppose we'd better see what he wants."

He keyed for a tight-beam transmission. "This is Talon Karrde calling the Kern's Pride," he said. "Don't just sit there, Gillespee—say hello."

"Hello, Karrde," a familiar voice came back. "You don't mind if I figure out who I'm talking to before I say hello, do you?"

"Not at all," Karrde assured him. "Nice little overlay on your ship ID, by the way."

"Obviously could have been nicer," Gillespee said dryly. "We weren't even close to slicing yours yet. What are you doing here?"

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Karrde said. "I was under the impression you'd been planning to retire."

"I did," Gillespee said grimly. "Out of the business for good, and thanks for everything. Bought myself a big chunk of land on a nice little out-of-the-way world where I could watch the trees grow and stay out of everything that smelled like trouble. Place called Ukio—ever hear of it?"

Beside Karrde, Aves shook his head and muttered something under his breath. "I seem to remember hearing that name recently, yes," Karrde conceded. "Were you there for the Imperial attack?"

"I was there for the attack, the surrender, and all the occupation I could stomach," Gillespee growled. "Matter of fact, I had about as good a front-row seat to the bombardment as you could get. It was pretty spectacular, I'll tell you that."

"It could be profitable as well," Karrde said, thinking hard. As far as he knew, the New Republic still didn't have a handle on what exactly the Empire had done at Ukio. Hard data on the attack could be invaluable to their tactical people. As well as commanding a hefty fee for both witness and finder. "I don't suppose you took any readings during the attack."

"I've got a little from the bombardment part of it," Gillespee said. "The data card from my macrobinoculars. Why?"

"There's a good chance I can find you a buyer for it," Karrde told him. "It might compensate somewhat for your lost property."

"I doubt your buyer's got that much to spend," Gillespee sniffed. "You wouldn't have believed it, Karrde—you really wouldn't. I mean, we're not talking Svivren here, but even Ukio should have taken them a little longer to overrun."

"The Empire's had a lot of practice overrunning worlds," Karrde reminded him. "You're lucky you made it out at all."

"You got that one right," Gillespee agreed. "Faughn and Rappapor popped me about half a jump ahead of the stormtroopers. And half a jump behind the workers they sent to turn my land into a crop farm. I'm telling you, that new clone system they've got going is really creepy."

Karrde threw a look at Aves. "How so?"

"What do you mean, how so?" Gillespee retorted. "I don't happen to think people ought to come off an assembly line, thanks. And if they did, I sure as mynocks wouldn't put the Empire in charge of the factory. You should have seen the guys they had manning the roadblocks—put a shiver right straight through you."

"I don't doubt it," Karrde said. "What are your plans after leaving Chazwa?"

"I don't hardly have any plans before I get there," Gillespee countered sourly. "I was hoping to get in touch with Brasck's old contact man here, see if they'd be interested in taking us on. Why, you got something better?"

"Possibly. We can start by sending that macrobinocular data card on to my buyer, drawing payment for you against a credit line I have set up with him. After that, I have another project in mind which you might find both interesting—"

"We got company," Aves cut him off. "Two Imperial ships, heading this way. Looks like Lancer-class Frigates."

"Uh-oh," Gillespee muttered. "Maybe we didn't get off Ukio as clean as I thought."

"I think it more likely that we're their target," Karrde said, feeling his lip twist as he keyed an evasion course into the helm. "It's been nice talking to you, Gillespee. If you want to continue the conversation, meet me in eight days at the Trogan system—you know the place."

"I can make it if you can," Gillespee countered. "If you can't, don't make it too easy for them."

Karrde broke the contact. "Hardly," he murmured. "All right; here we go. Nice and easy . . ."

He eased the Wild Karrde into a shallow portside drop, trying to make it look as if they were planning to cut past the planet itself and pick up a new hyperspace vector. "Do I alert the others?" Aves asked.

"Not yet," Karrde said, giving his displays a quick look and setting the nav computer to work calculating their jump to lightspeed. "I'd rather abort the mission and try again later than tangle with a pair of Lancers who were serious about fighting."

"Yeah," Aves said slowly. "Karrde . . . they're not changing course."

Karrde looked up. Aves was right: neither Lancer had so much as twitched. They were still heading on their original vector.

Straight for the Kern's Pride.

He looked at Aves, to find the other looking back at him. "What do we do?" Aves asked.

Karrde looked back at the Imperial ships. The Wild Karrde was a long way from being helpless in a fight, and his people were some of the best. But with weaponry that had been designed to take out enemy starfighters, two Lancers would be better than an even match for the group he'd brought to Chazwa.

As he watched, the Kern's Pride suddenly made its move. Rolling into a sort of mutated drop-kick Koiogran maneuver, it took off at high speed at a sharp angle from its original course. The Lancers, not fooled a bit by the ploy, were right behind it.

Which left the Wild Karrde completely in the clear. They could continue on to Chazwa, hit the garrison records, and be out before the Lancers could make it back. Fast, clean, and certainly preferable as far as the New Republic was concerned.

But Gillespee was an old acquaintance . . . and on Karrde's scale, a fellow smuggler placed higher than any interstellar government he didn't belong to. "Apparently, Gillespee didn't get off Ukio as cleanly as he thought," he commented, bringing the Wild Karrde around and keying for intercom. "Lachton, Chin, Corvis—fire up the turbolasers. We're going in."

"What about the other ships?" Aves asked as he activated the deflector shields and punched up a tactical display.

"Let's get the Lancers' attention first," Karrde said. The three men at the turbolasers signaled ready; taking a deep breath, he threw power to the drive.

The Lancers' commander wasn't anyone's fool. Even as the Wild Karrde drove toward them, one of the Imperial ships broke off its pursuit of the Kern's Pride and turned to confront this new threat. "I think we've got their attention," Aves said tightly. "Can I call the others into the party yet?"

"Go ahead," Karrde told him, keying his own comm for a tight beam to the Kern's Pride. "Gillespee, this is Karrde."

"Yeah, I see you," Gillespee came back. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Giving you a hand," Karrde said. Ahead, the Lancer's twenty quad laser batteries opened up, raining green flashes down on the Wild Karrde. The turbolasers fired back, their three groups of fire looking rather pathetic in comparison. "All right—we've got this one tied down. Better get out before that other one finds the range."

"You've got him tied down?" Gillespee retorted. "Look, Karrde—"

"I said get out," Karrde cut him off sharply. "We can't hold him forever. Don't worry about me—I'm not exactly alone out here."

"Here they come," Aves said, and Karrde took a moment to glance into the rear display. They were coming, all right: fifteen freighters strong, all zeroing in on the suddenly outgunned Lancer.

From the comm came an amazed whistle. "You weren't kidding, were you?" Gillespee commented.

"No, I wasn't," Karrde said. "Now get going, will you?"

Gillespee laughed out loud. "I'll let you in on a little secret, Karrde. I'm not alone, either."

And suddenly, barely visible through the haze of laser fire hammering at the Wild Karrde's viewports, the exhaust glows of nearly twenty ships suddenly veered off their individual courses. Sweeping in like hungry Barabel, they converged on the second Lancer.

"So, Karrde," Gillespee continued conversationally. "At a guess, I'd say neither of us is going to get much business done at Chazwa this time around. What say we continue this conversation somewhere else? Say, in eight days?"

Karrde smiled. "I'll look forward to it."

He looked back at the Lancer, and his smile faded. Standard Lancer crew was 850; and from the capable way that one was holding off the rest of the ships, he would guess they were running with full complement. How many of them, he wondered, had been freshly created at Grand Admiral Thrawn's clone factory? "By the way, Gillespee," he added, "if you happen to run into any of our colleagues on the way, you might want to invite them along. I think they'd be interested in what I have to say."

"You got it, Karrde," Gillespee grunted. "See you in eight."

Karrde switched off the comm. So that was it. Gillespee would broadcast the word to the other major smuggling groups; and knowing Gillespee, the open invitation would quickly transmute into something just short of a command appearance. They'd be at Trogan—all of them, or near enough.

Now all he had to figure out was what exactly he was going to say to them.

Grand Admiral Thrawn leaned back in his command chair. "All right, gentlemen," he said, his gaze flicking in turn to each of the fourteen men standing in a loose semicircle around his console. "Are there any questions?"

The slightly rumpled-looking man at one end of the semicircle glanced at the others. "No questions, Admiral," he said, his precise military voice in sharp contrast to his civilian-sloppy appearance. "What's our timetable?"

"Your freighter is being prepped now," Thrawn told him. "You'll leave as soon as it's ready. How soon do you expect to penetrate the Imperial Palace?"

"No sooner than six days from now, sir," the rumpled man said. "I'd like to hit one or two other ports before taking the ship in to Coruscant—their security will be easier to breach if we have a legitimate data trail they can backtrack. Unless you want it done sooner, of course."

Thrawn's glowing eyes narrowed slightly, and Pellaeon could tell what he was thinking. Mara Jade, sitting there in the middle of Rebel headquarters. Perhaps at this very moment giving them the location of the Emperor's storehouse on Wayland . . . "Timing is critical in this operation," Thrawn told the commando leader. "But speed alone is useless if you're compromised before even entering the Palace. You will be the man on the scene, Major Himron. I leave it to your judgment."

The commando leader nodded. "Yes, sir. Thank you, Admiral. We won't fail you."

Thrawn smiled fractionally. "I know you won't, Major. Dismissed."

Silently, the fourteen men turned and filed out of the command room. "You seemed surprised, Captain, at some of my instructions," Thrawn commented as the door slid shut behind them.

"Yes, sir, I was," Pellaeon admitted. "It all made sense, of course," he added hastily. "I simply hadn't thought the operation out to that end point."

"All end points must be prepared for," Thrawn said, keying his board. The lights muted, and on the walls of the command room a sampling of holographic paintings and planics appeared. "Mriss artwork," he identified it for Pellaeon's benefit. "One of the most curious examples of omission to be found anywhere in the civilized galaxy. Until they were contacted by the Tenth Alderaanian Expedition, not a single one of the dozens of Mriss cultures had ever developed any form of three-dimensional artwork."

"Interesting," Pellaeon said dutifully. "Some flaw in their perceptual makeup?"

"Many of the experts still think so," Thrawn said. "It seems clear to me, though, that the oversight was actually a case of cultural blind spots combined with a very subtle but equally strong social harmonization. A combination of traits we'll be able to exploit."

Pellaeon looked at the artwork, his stomach tightening. "We're attacking Mrisst?"

"It's certainly ripe for the taking," Thrawn pointed out. "And a base there would give us the capability to launch attacks into the very heart of the Rebellion."

"Except that the Rebellion must know that," Pellaeon said carefully. If C'baoth's ongoing demands for an attack on Coruscant had finally gotten to the Grand Admiral . . . "They'd launch a massive counterattack, sir, if we so much as made a move toward Mrisst."

"Exactly," Thrawn said, smiling with grim satisfaction. "Which means that when we're finally ready to draw the Coruscant sector fleet into ambush, Mrisst will be the perfect lure to use. If they come out to meet us, we'll defeat them then and there. And if they somehow sense the trap and refuse to engage, we'll have our forward base. Either way, the Empire will triumph."

He reached to his board again, and the holographic artwork faded into a tactical star map. "But that battle is still in the future," he said. "For now, our prime goal is to build a force strong enough to ensure that ultimate victory. And to keep the Rebellion off balance while we do so."

Pellaeon nodded. "The assault on Ord Mantell should go a long way toward accomplishing that."

"It will certainly create a degree of fear in the surrounding systems," Thrawn agreed. "As well as drawing away some of the Rebel pressure on our shipyard supply lines."

"That would be helpful," Pellaeon said with a scowl. "The last report from Bilbringi said the shipyards there were running critically low on Tibanna gas, as well as hfredium and kammris."

"I've already ordered the Bespin garrison to step up their Tibanna gas production," Thrawn said, tapping his control board. "As for the metals, Intelligence recently reported locating a convenient stockpile."

The report came up, and Pellaeon leaned forward to read it. He got as far as the location listing— "This is Intelligence's idea of a convenient stockpile?"

"I take it you disagree?" Thrawn asked mildly.

Pellaeon looked at the report again, feeling a grimace settling in on his face. The Empire had hit Lando Calrissian's walking mining complex on the superhot planet Nkllon once before, back when they needed mole miners for Thrawn's assault on the Sluis Van shipyards. That other raid had cost the Empire over a million man-hours, first in preparing the Star Destroyer Judicator for the intense heat at Nkllon's close-orbit distance from its sun, and then for repairing the damage afterward. "I suppose that depends, sir," he said, "on how long we'll be losing the use of whichever Star Destroyer is detailed to the raid."

"A valid question," Thrawn agreed. "Fortunately, there will be no need this time to tie up any Star Destroyers. Three of our new Dreadnaughts should be more than adequate to neutralize Nkllon's security."

"But a Dreadnaught won't be able to—ah," Pellaeon interrupted himself as he suddenly understood. "It won't have to be big enough to survive in open sunlight. If they can take over one of the shieldships that fly freighters in and out of the inner system, a Dreadnaught would be small enough to stay behind its umbrella."

"Exactly," Thrawn nodded. "And capturing one should pose no problem. For all their impressive size, shieldships are little more than shielding, coolant systems, and a small container ship's worth of power and crew. Six fully loaded assault shuttles should make quick work of it."

Pellaeon nodded, still skimming the report. "What happens if Calrissian sells his stockpiles before the assault force gets there?"

"He won't," Thrawn assured him. "The market price for metals has just begun to rise again; and men like Calrissian always wait for it to go just a little higher."

Unless Calrissian was suddenly overcome with a swell of patriotic fervor toward his friends back in the New Republic hierarchy and decided to sell his metals at a reduced price. "I'd still recommend, sir, that the attack be carried out as soon as possible."

"Recommendation noted, Captain," Thrawn said, smiling slightly. "And, as it happens, already acted upon. The raid was launched ten minutes ago."

Pellaeon smiled tightly. Some day, he decided, he'd learn not to try to second-guess the Grand Admiral. "Yes, sir."

Thrawn leaned back in his chair. "Return to the bridge, Captain, and prepare to make the jump to lightspeed. Ord Mantell is waiting."

Chapter 7

The beeping from his board prodded Luke out of his light doze. Blinking away the sleep, he gave the displays a quick scan. "Artoo?" he called, stretching as best he could in the tight confines of the cockpit. "We're just about there. Get ready."

A nervous-sounding warble came in acknowledgment. "Come on, Artoo, relax," Luke urged the droid, settling his fingertips around the X-wing's hyperspace lever and letting the Force flow through him. Almost time . . . now. He pulled the lever back, and the starlines appeared and collapsed back into stars.

And there, directly ahead, was the Noghri home world of Honoghr.

Artoo gave a soft whistle. "I know," Luke agreed, feeling a little sick himself. Leia had told him what to expect; but even with that warning the sight of the world lying in the X-wing's path was a shock. Beneath the sparse white clouds floating over the surface, the entire planetary landmass was a flat, uniform brown. Kholm-grass, Leia had called it: the local Honoghran plants the Empire had genetically modified to perpetuate their systematic destruction of the planet's ecology. That deceit, combined with first Vader's and later Thrawn's carefully limited aid, had bought the Empire four decades of Noghri service. Even now, squads of Noghri Death Commandos were scattered around the galaxy, fighting and dying for those whose coldblooded treachery and counterfeit compassion had turned them into slaves.

Artoo warbled something, and Luke broke his gaze away from the silent monument to Imperial ruthlessness. "I don't know," he admitted as the droid's question scrolled across his computer display. "We'd have to get a team of environment and ecology specialists out here before we could tell. Doesn't look very hopeful, though, does it?"

The droid chirped—an electronic shrug that turned suddenly into a startled shrill. Luke's head jerked up, just as a small fast-attack patrol ship shot past overhead. "I think they've spotted us," he commented as casually as possible. "Let's hope it's the Noghri and not an Imp—"

"Starfighter, identify yourself," a deep, catlike voice mewed from the comm.

Luke keyed for transmission, reaching out with the Force toward the patrol ship that was now curving back into attack position. Even at this range he should have been able to sense a human pilot, which meant that it was indeed a Noghri out there. At least, he hoped so. "This is Luke Skywalker," he said. "Son of the Lord Darth Vader, brother of Leia Organa Solo."

For a long moment the comm was silent. "Why have you come?"

Normal prudence, Luke knew, would have suggested that he not bring up the matter of his power cells until he had a better idea of how matters stood politically with the Noghri leaders. But Leia had mentioned several times how impressed she'd been by the Noghri sense of honor and straightforward honesty. "My ship's primary power cells have been damaged," he told the other. "I thought you might be able to help me."

There was a soft hiss from the comm. "You place us in great danger, son of Vader," the Noghri said. "Imperial ships come to Honoghr at random times. If you are sighted, all will suffer."

"I understand," Luke said, a small weight lifting from him. If the Noghri were worried about him being spotted by Imperials, at least they hadn't completely rejected Leia's invitation to rebel against the Empire. "If you'd prefer, I'll leave."

He held his breath as, behind him, Artoo moaned softly. If the Noghri took him up on his offer, it was questionable as to whether they'd be able to get anywhere else on the power they had left.

Apparently, the Noghri pilot was thinking along the same lines. "The Lady Vader has already risked much on behalf of the Noghri," he said. "We cannot permit you to endanger your life. Follow me, son of Vader. I will bring you to what safety the Noghri can offer."

According to Leia, there was only a single small area on Honoghr that had been made capable of supporting any plant life other than the Empire's bioengineered kholm-grass. Khabarakh and the maitrakh of the clan Kihm'bar had kept her, Chewbacca, and Threepio in one of the villages there, managing with skill and more than a little luck to hide her from prying Imperial eyes. Leia had included the location of the Clean Land along with the coordinates of the system itself . . . and as Luke followed the patrol ship down toward the surface of the planet, it quickly became apparent that they weren't going there.

"Where are we headed?" he asked the Noghri pilot as they dipped beneath a layer of clouds.

"To the future of our world," the alien said.

"Ah," Luke murmured under his breath. A double line of jagged cliffs could be seen ahead, looking a little like stylized dorsal ridges from a pair of Tatooine krayt dragons. "Is your future in those mountains?" he suggested.

There was another soft hiss from the comm. "As the Lady Vader, and the Lord Vader before her," the Noghri said. "You also read the souls of the Noghri."

Luke shrugged. It hadn't been much more than a lucky guess, actually. "Where do we go?"

"Others will show you," the pilot said. "For here I must leave you. Farewell, son of Vader. My family will long cherish the honor of this day." The patrol ship cut sharply upward, heading back toward space—

And in perfect synchronization, two combat-equipped cloudcars rose from seemingly nowhere to settle into flanking positions. "We greet you, son of Vader," a new voice said from the comm. "We are honored to guide you. Follow."

One of the cloudcars moved ahead to take the point, the other dropping back to rearguard position. Luke stayed with the formation, trying to see just where they might be headed. As far as he could tell, the cliffs were as barren as the rest of the planet.

Artoo chirped, and a message scrolled across Luke's display. "A river?" Luke asked, peering out his canopy. "Where—oh, there it is. Emptying out from between the two cliff lines, right?"

The droid beeped an affirmative. It looked to be a pretty fast-moving river, too, Luke decided as they flew closer and he could see the numerous lines of white water indicating submerged rocks. Probably explained why the gorge between the two cliff lines was so sharp and deep.

They reached the end of the cliff lines a few minutes later. The lead cloudcar turned to portside, lifting smoothly over a set of foothills and disappearing around the side of one of the higher crags. Luke followed, smiling tightly as an old memory came to mind. You're required to maneuver straight down this trench. . . . Guiding the X-wing around the foothills, he flew into the shadow of the cliffs themselves.

And into an entirely different world. Along the narrow banks of the river the ground was a solid mass of brilliant green.

Artoo whistled in startled amazement. "They're plants," Luke said, realizing only after the words were out of his mouth how ridiculous they sounded. Of course they were plants; but to find plants on Honoghr—

"It is the future of our world," one of his escort said, and there was no mistaking the grim pride in his voice. "The future which the Lady Vader gave us. Continue to follow, son of Vader. The landing area is still ahead."

The landing area turned out to be a large, flat-topped boulder jutting partway into the swift-moving river about two kilometers along the gorge. With a cautious eye on the racing water beneath him, Luke eased the X-wing down. Fortunately, it was larger than it had looked from fifty meters up. The cloudcars waited until he had touched down, then swung around and headed back down the gorge. Shutting the X-wing's systems back to standby, Luke looked around.

The greenery, he saw now, was not as monochromatic as he'd first thought. There were at least four slightly different shades represented, intermingled in a pattern that was too consistent to be accidental. A pipe could be seen angling down into the river at one point, its other end disappearing up into the plant growth. Utilizing the pressure of the current, he decided, to bring water up over the bank for irrigation. A few meters downstream from the boulder, hidden from view by a rock overhang, he could see a small hutlike building. Two Noghri stood just outside its door: one with steely-gray skin, the other a much darker gray. Even as he watched, they started toward him.

"Looks like the reception committee," Luke commented to Artoo, hitting the switch to pop his canopy. "You stay put here. And I mean stay put. You fall in the water like you did that first trip to Dagobah and you'll be lucky if we can even find all the pieces."

There was no need to give the order twice. Artoo warbled a nervous acknowledgment, then an equally nervous question. "Yes, I'm sure they're friendly," Luke assured him, pulling off his flight helmet and getting to his feet. "Don't worry, I won't be going far." Vaulting over the X-wing's side, he headed toward his hosts.

The two Noghri were already at the edge of the landing boulder, standing silently watching him. Luke grimaced to himself as he walked toward them, stretching out with the Force and wishing he were skilled enough to get some reading—any reading—on this species. "In the name of the New Republic, I bring you greetings," he said when he was close enough to be heard over the roar of the river. "I'm Luke Skywalker. Son of the Lord Darth Vader, brother of Leia Organa Solo." He held out his left hand, palm upward, as Leia had instructed him to do.

The older Noghri stepped forward and touched his snout to Luke's palm. The nostrils flattened themselves against his skin, and Luke had to fight to keep from twitching away from the tickling sensation. "I greet you, son of Vader," the alien said, releasing Luke's hand. In unison, both Noghri dropped to their knees, hands splaying out to the sides in the deference gesture Leia had described. "I am Ovkhevam clan Bakh'tor. I serve the Noghri people here at the future of our world. You honor us with your presence."

"I am honored by your hospitality," Luke said as both aliens rose again to their feet. "And your companion is . . . ?"

"I am Khabarakh clan Kihm'bar," the younger Noghri said. "The clan of Vader has now doubly honored me."

"Khabarakh clan Kihm'bar," Luke repeated, eyeing the young alien with new appreciation. So this was the young Noghri commando who had risked everything, first in bringing Leia to his people, then in protecting her from Grand Admiral Thrawn. "For your service to my sister Leia I thank you. My family and I are in your debt."

"The debt is not yours, son of Vader," Ovkhevam said. "The debt rather belongs to the Noghri people. The actions of Khabarakh clan Kihm'bar were only the first line of repayment."

Luke nodded, not really sure of what to say to that. "You called this place the future of your world?" he asked, hoping to change the subject.

"It is the future given to the Noghri people by the Lady Vader," Ovkhevam said, waving his hands in a circular gesture that took in the entire valley. "Here with her gift we cleansed the land of the Empire's poisoned plants. Here will someday be enough food to provide for all."

"It's impressive," Luke said, and meant it. Out in the open, all that greenery would have stood out against the background kholm-grass like a bantha at a Jawa family gathering. But here, with the twin cliff lines blocking the view from everywhere except more or less straight up, there was a good chance incoming Imperial ships would never even suspect its existence. The river supplied ample water, the lower latitude implied a slightly longer growing season than that at the Clean Land itself; and if worse came to worst, a number of properly placed explosives could dam the river or bring down part of the cliffs themselves, burying the evidence of their quiet rebellion against the Empire.

And the Noghri had had barely a month to plan, design, and build it all. No wonder Thrawn and Vader before him had found the Noghri to be such useful servants.

"It was the Lady Vader who made it possible," Ovkhevam said. "We have little to offer in the way of hospitality, son of Vader. But what we have is yours."

"Thank you," Luke nodded. "But as your patrol ship pilot pointed out, my presence on Honoghr is a danger to you. If you can provide my ship with replacement power cells, I'll be on my way as quickly as I can. I would pay, of course."

"We could accept no payment from the son of Vader," Ovkhevam said, looking shocked at the very idea. "It would be merely a single line of the debt owed by the Noghri people."

"I understand," Luke said, stifling a sigh. They meant well, certainly, but all this guilt about their service to the Empire was going to have to stop. Races and beings far more sophisticated than they were had been equally taken in by the Emperor's deceits. "I suppose the first step is to find out whether you have spares that'll fit my ship. How do we go about doing that?"

"It is already done," Khabarakh said. "The cloudcars will carry word of your need to the spaceport at Nystao. The power cells and technicians to install them will be here by nightfall."

"Meanwhile, we offer you our hospitality," Ovkhevam added, throwing a sideways look at Khabarakh. Perhaps feeling the younger Noghri should let his elder do the talking.

"I'd be honored," Luke said. "Lead the way."

The hut under the cliff overhang was as small as it had looked from the landing boulder. Most of the available space was taken up by two narrow cots, a low table, and what appeared to be the food storage/preparation module from a small spaceship. But at least it was quieter than outside.

"This will be your home while you are on Honoghr," Ovkhevam told him. "Khabarakh and I will stand guard outside. To protect you with our lives."

"That won't be necessary," Luke assured them, looking around the room. Clearly, it had been set up for long-term occupancy. "What do you two do here, if I may ask?"

"I am caretaker to this place," Ovkhevam said. "I walk the land, to see that the plants are growing properly. Khabarakh clan Kihm'bar—" He looked at the younger alien, and Luke got the distinct impression of a grim humor in the glance. "Khabarakh clan Kihm'bar is a fugitive from the Noghri people. Even now we have many ships searching for him."

"Of course," Luke said dryly. With Grand Admiral Thrawn threatening to subject Khabarakh to a complete Imperial interrogation, it had been vital that the young commando "escape" from custody and drop out of sight. It was equally vital that knowledge of the Empire's betrayal be passed on to the Noghri commando teams scattered around the galaxy. The two objectives dovetailed rather nicely.

"Do you require food?" Ovkhevam asked. "Or rest?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Luke said. "I think the best thing would probably be for me to go back to my ship and start pulling those power cells out."

"May I assist?" Khabarakh asked.

"I'd appreciate that, yes," Luke said. He didn't need any help, but the sooner the Noghri worked out this supposed debt of theirs, the better. "Come on—tool kit's in the ship."

"There is further word from Nystao," Khabarakh said, moving invisibly through the darkness to where Luke sat with his back against the X-wing's landing skid. "The captain of the Imperial ship has decided to complete minor repairs here. He expects the work to take two days." He hesitated. "To you, son of Vader, the dynasts express their apologies."

"No apology necessary," Luke assured him, looking up past the shadow of the starfighter's wing at the thin band of stars shining down amid the otherwise total blackness. So that was that. He was stuck here for two more days. "I knew when I came here that this might happen. I'm just sorry I have to impose further on you."

"Your presence is not an imposition."

"I appreciate the hospitality." Luke nodded toward the stars overhead. "I take it there's still no indication they might have spotted my ship?"

"Would the son of Vader not know if that happened?" Khabarakh countered.

Luke smiled in the darkness. "Even Jedi have limitations, Khabarakh. Distant danger is very hard to detect."

And yet, he reminded himself silently, the Force was obviously still with him. That Strike Cruiser up there could easily have turned up at a far more awkward time—say, while the Noghri tech team had been in transit to or from the valley, or even while Luke himself was heading out to space. An alert captain could have picked up on either, and brought the whole thing crashing down right there.

There was a whisper of movement, felt rather than heard over the sound of the river, as Khabarakh sat down beside him. "It is not enough, is it?" the Noghri asked quietly. "This place. The dynasts call it our future. But it is not."

Luke shook his head. "No," he had to admit. "You've done a tremendous job with this place, and it'll certainly help you feed your people. But the future of Honoghr itself . . . I'm not an expert, Khabarakh. But from what I've seen here, I don't think Honoghr can be saved."

The Noghri hissed between his needle teeth, the sound barely audible over the racing water below. "You speak the thought of many of the Noghri people," he said. "Perhaps none really believe otherwise."

"We can help you find a new home," Luke promised. "There are many worlds in the galaxy. We'll find you a place where you can begin again."

Khabarakh hissed again. "But it will not be Honoghr."

Luke swallowed hard. "No."

For a minute neither spoke. Luke listened to the sounds of the river, his heart aching with sympathy for the Noghri. But what had been done to Honoghr was far beyond his power to change. The Jedi, indeed, had their limitations.

There was another ripple of air as Khabarakh climbed back to his feet. "Are you hungry?" he asked Luke. "If so, I can bring food."

"Yes, thank you," Luke said.

The Noghri left. Stifling a sigh, Luke shifted position against the landing skid. It was bad enough knowing there was a problem he was helpless to solve; to have to sit here for two days with the whole thing staring him accusingly in the face only made it worse.

He looked up at the thin trail of stars, wondering what Leia had thought of the whole situation. Had she, too, realized that Honoghr was too far gone to save? Or could she have had some idea of how to bring it back?

Or had she been too busy with the immediate concerns of survival to even think that far ahead?

He grimaced as another small pang of guilt tugged at him. Somewhere out there, on Coruscant, his sister was about to give birth to her twins. Might have already done so, for all he knew. Han was with her, of course, but he'd wanted to be there, too.

But if he couldn't be there in person . . .

Taking a deep breath, he allowed his body to relax. Once before, on Dagobah, he'd been able to reach out to the future. To see his friends, and the path they were on. Then, he'd had Yoda to guide him . . . but if he could find the proper pattern on his own, he might be able to catch a glimpse of his niece and nephew. Carefully, keeping his thoughts and will focused, he stretched out through the Force.. . .

Leia was crouching in the darkness, her blaster and lightsaber in her hands, her heart racing with fear and determination. Behind her was Winter, holding tightly to two small lives, helpless and fragile. A voice—Hans—filled with anger and the same determination. Chewbacca was somewhere nearby—somewhere overhead, he thought— and Lando was with him. Before them were shadowy figures, their minds filled with menace and a cold and deadly purpose. A blaster fired—and another—a door burst open—

"Leia!" Luke blurted, his body jerking violently as the trance broke like a bubble, one final image flickering and vanishing into the Honoghr night. A faceless person, moving toward his sister and her children from behind the shadowy evil. A person edged with the power of the Force . . .

"What is it?" a Noghri voice snapped beside him.

Luke opened his eyes to find Khabarakh and Ovkhevam crouching in front of him, a small glow rod bathing their nightmare faces in dim light. "I saw Leia," he told them, hearing the trembling of reaction in his voice. "She and her children were in danger." He took a shuddering breath, purging the adrenaline from his body. "I have to get back to Coruscant."

Ovkhevam and Khabarakh exchanged glances. "But if the danger is now . . . ?" Ovkhevam said.

"It wasn't now," Luke shook his head. "It was the future. I don't know how far ahead."

Khabarakh touched Ovkhevam's shoulder, and for a minute the Noghri conversed quietly in their own language. All right, Luke told himself, running through the Jedi calming techniques. All right. Lando had been in the vision—he distinctly remembered seeing Lando there. But Lando, as far as he knew, was still out at his Nomad City mining operation on Nkllon. Which meant Luke still had time to get back to Coruscant before the attack on Leia could happen.

Or did it? Was the vision a true image of the future? Or could a change in events alter what he'd seen? Difficult to see, Master Yoda had said of Luke's vision on Dagobah. Always in motion is the future. And if someone of Yoda's depth of knowledge in the Force had been unable to sift through the uncertainties . . .

"If you wish it, son of Vader, the commandos will seize the Imperial ship," Ovkhevam said. "If its people were destroyed quickly, there would be no word from it that would point blame at the Noghri."

"I can't let you do that," Luke shook his head. "It's too dangerous. There's no way to guarantee they wouldn't get a message off."

Ovkhevam drew himself up. "If the Lady Vader is in danger, the Noghri people are willing to take that risk."

Luke looked up at them, an odd sensation rippling through him. Those nightmare Noghri faces hadn't changed; but in the space of a heartbeat, Luke's perception of them had. No longer were they just another abstract set of alien features. Suddenly, they had become the faces of friends.

"The last time I had a vision like this, I rushed off without thinking to try and help," he told them quietly. "Not only didn't I help them any, but I also nearly cost them their own chance at escape." He looked down at his artificial right hand. Feeling again the ghostly memory of Vader's lightsaber slicing through his wrist . . . "And lost other things, too."

He looked back up at them. "I won't make that same mistake again. Not with the lives of the Noghri people at stake. I'll wait until the Imperial ship is gone."

Khabarakh reached out to gently touch his shoulder. "Do not be concerned for their safety, son of Vader," he said. "The Lady Vader will not easily be defeated. Not with the Wookiee Chewbacca at her side."

Luke looked up at the stars overhead. No, with Han and Chewie and the whole of Palace security beside her, Leia should be able to handle any normal intruders.

But there was that final unformed image. The person who he'd sensed drawing on the Force . . .

On Jomark, the Jedi Master C'baoth had made it abundantly clear that he wanted Leia and her children. Could he want them badly enough to personally go to Coruscant for them?

"They will prevail," Khabarakh repeated.

With an effort, Luke nodded. "I know," he said, trying to sound like he meant it. There was no sense in all of them worrying.

The last of the fires were out, the last of the microfractures sealed, the last of the injured taken to sick bay . . . and with an odd mixture of resignation and cold-blooded fury, Lando Calrissian gazed out his private command room window and knew that it was over. Cloud City on Bespin; and now Nomad City on Nkllon. For the second time, the Empire had taken something he'd worked to create—had worked and sweated and connived to build—and had turned it into ashes.

From his desk console came a beep. Stepping over to it, he leaned down and touched the comm switch. "Calrissian," he said, wiping his other hand across his forehead.

"Sir, this is Bagitt in Engine Central," a tired voice came. "The last drive motivator just went."

Lando grimaced; but after all the damage those TIE fighters had inflicted on his walking mining operation, it didn't exactly come as a surprise. "Any chance of fixing enough of them to get us moving again?" he asked.

"Not without a frigate's worth of spare parts," Bagitt said. "Sorry, sir, but there are just too many things broken or fused."

"Understood. In that case, you'd better have your people concentrate on keeping life support going."

"Yes, sir. Uh . . . sir, there's a rumor going around that we've lost all long-range communications."

"It's only temporary," Lando assured him; "We've got people working on it right now. And enough spare parts to build two new transmitters."

"Yes, sir," Bagitt said, sounding a shade less discouraged. "Well . . . I guess I'll get over to life support."

"Keep me informed," Lando told him.

Switching off the comm, he walked back to the window. Twenty days, they had; just twenty days before Nkllon's slow rotation took them from the center of the night side across into full sunlight. At which point it wouldn't much matter whether or not the drive motivators, communication gear, or even life support were working. When the sun began its slow crawl up the horizon over there, everyone still left in Nomad City would be on their way to a very fast and very warm death.

Twenty days.

Lando gazed out the viewport at the night sky, letting his eyes flick across the constellation patterns he'd dreamed up in his occasional idle moments. If they could get the long-range transmitter fixed in the next day or so, they should be able to call Coruscant for help. No matter what the Imperial attack force might have done to the shieldships at the outer system depot, the New Republic's spaceship techs ought to be able to get one of them flying again, at least well enough for one last trip into the inner system. It would be tight, but with any luck at all—

Abruptly, his train of thought broke off. There, just shy of directly overhead, the brilliant star of an approaching shieldship had appeared.

Reflexively, he took a step toward his desk to sound battle stations. If that was the Imperials again, come to finish the job . . .

He stopped. No. If it was the Imperials, then that was that. He had no more fighters left to send against them, and no defenses remaining on Nomad City itself. There was no point in stirring up the rest of his people for nothing.

And then, from the desk came the screeching static of a comm override signal. "Nomad City, this is General Bel Iblis," a well-remembered voice boomed out. "Can anyone hear me?"

Lando dived for the desk. "This is Lando Calrissian, General," he said, striving for as much nonchalance as he could muster. "Is that you out there?"

"That's us," Bel Iblis acknowledged. "We were out at Qat Chrystac when we picked up your distress signal. I'm sorry we couldn't get here in time."

"So am I," Lando said. "What's it look like at the shieldship depot?"

"Afraid it's something of a mess," Bel Iblis said. "These shieldships of yours are too big to easily destroy, but the Imperials took a crack at it just the same. At the moment this one seems to be the only one in any shape to fly."

"Well, it's all pretty academic, anyway," Lando said. "Nomad City is done for."

"No way to get it moving again?"

"Not in the twenty days we've got before the dawn line catches up with us," Lando told him. "We might be able to dig it underground deep enough to last out a trip around the day side, but we'd need heavy equipment that we haven't got."

"Maybe we can pull it off Nkllon entirely and take it to the outer system for repairs," Bel Iblis suggested. "An Assault Frigate and a couple of heavy lifters should do the trick if we can get another shieldship flying."

"And can convince Admiral Ackbar to divert an Assault Frigate from the battle planes," Lando reminded him.

"Point," Bel Iblis admitted. "I suppose I should hear the rest of the bad news. What all did the Empire get?"

Lando sighed. "Everything," he said. "All our stockpiles. Hfredium, kammris, dolovite—you name it. If we mined it, they got it."

"How much in all?"

"About four months' worth. A little over three million at current market prices."

For a moment Bel Iblis was silent. "I didn't realize this place was that productive. Makes it all the more imperative that we persuade Coruscant to help get you up and running again. How many people do you have down there?"

"Just under five thousand," Lando told him. "Some of them are in pretty bad shape, though."

"I've had plenty of experience moving injured people," Bel Iblis said grimly. "Don't worry, we'll get them aboard. I'd like you to detail a group to stay behind and get the shieldships operational. We'll transport everyone else to Qat Chrystac. Be as good a place as any for you to transmit a formal request for assistance to Coruscant."

"I didn't think there were any good places to transmit requests from," Lando growled.

"They've got a lot on their minds back there," Bel Iblis agreed. "For what it's worth, I'd say you've got a better-than-average chance that yours won't get lost in the shuffle."

Lando chewed at his lip. "So let's skip the shuffle entirely. Take me to Coruscant and let me talk to them in person."

"That'll cost you an extra five days in travel time," Bel Iblis pointed out. "Can you afford it?"

"Better five days spent that way than sitting around Qat Chrystac wondering if my transmission has even gotten out of the communications center yet," Lando countered. "Figure five days to Coruscant, another day or two to talk Leia into reassigning a ship and lifters, and then ten more to get them here and finish the job."

"Seventeen days. Cuts it pretty close."

"I don't have any better ideas. What do you say?"

Bel Iblis snorted gently. "Well, I'd been planning to head over to Coruscant soon anyway. Might as well be now."

"Thank you, General," Lando said.

"No problem. Better start getting your people ready— well be launching our shuttles as soon as we're in the planetary umbra."

"Right. See you soon."

Lando switched off the comm. It was a long shot, all right—he knew that much going in. But realistically, it was the only shot he had. And besides, even if they turned him down flat, a trip to Coruscant right now wouldn't be such a bad idea. He'd get to see Leia and Han and the brand-new twins, maybe even run into Luke or Wedge.

He glanced out the viewport, his lip twisting. And on Coruscant, at least he wouldn't have to worry about Imperial attacks.

Keying the intercom, he began issuing the evacuation orders.

Chapter 8

Jacen had fallen asleep midway through his dinner, but Jaina was still going at it. Lying on her side, Leia shifted position as much as she could on the bed without pulling out of her daughter's reach and picked up her data pad again. By her own slightly fuzzy count, she'd tried at least four times to get through this page. "Fifth time's the charm," she commented wryly to Jaina, stroking her daughter's head with her free hand.

Jaina, with more immediate things on her mind, didn't respond. For a moment Leia gazed down at her daughter, a fresh surge of wonder rippling upward through her weariness. Those tiny hands that flailed gently and randomly against her body; the skullcap of short black hairs covering her head; that small face with its wonderfully earnest expression of infant concentration as she worked at eating. A brand-new life, so fragile and yet so remarkably resilient.

And she and Han had created it. Had created both of them.

Across the room, the door from the living areas of their suite opened. "Hi, sweetheart," Han called quietly. "Everything all right?"

"Fine," she murmured back. "We're just having another dinner."

"They eat like starving Wookiees," Han said, crossing to the bed and giving the situation a quick scan. "Jacen done already?"

"Just wanted a snack, I guess," Leia said, craning her neck to look at the sleeping baby lying on the bed behind her. "He'll probably want the second course in an hour or so."

"I wish they'd get together on scheduling," Han said, sitting carefully down on the side of the bed and easing the tip of his forefinger into Jacen's palm. The tiny hand curled reflexively around his finger, and Leia looked up at her husband in time to see his familiar lopsided grin. "He's going to be a strong one."

"You should feel the grip at this end," Leia told him, looking back at Jaina. "Is Lando still downstairs?"

"Yeah, he and Bel Iblis are still talking to Admiral Drayson," Han said, reaching over to rest his free hand on Leia's shoulder. The warmth felt good through her thin dressing gown. Almost as good as the warmth of his thoughts against her mind. "Still trying to convince him to divert a couple of ships to Nkllon."

"How does it look?"

Han wiggled his finger gently in Jacen's grip, clucking softly at his sleeping son. "Not too good," he admitted. "We're not going to get Nomad City off the ground without something the size of an Assault Frigate. Drayson isn't exactly eager to pull anything that big off the line."

"Did you point out how much we need the metals Lando's been mining there?"

"I mentioned it. He wasn't impressed."

"You have to know how to talk to Drayson." Leia looked down at Jaina. She was still going at it, but her eyes were beginning to drift closed. "Maybe when Jaina's asleep I can go downstairs and give Lando a hand."

"Right," Han said dryly. "No offense, sweetheart, but falling asleep on the table's not going to impress anyone."

Leia made a face at him. "I'm not that tired, thank you. And I'm certainly getting as much sleep as you are."

"Not even close," Han said, shifting his hand from Leia's shoulder to stroke Jaina's cheek. "I get to doze in the middle of those late-night feedings."

"You shouldn't be waking up for them at all," Leia said. "Winter or I could get the babies out of their crib just as well as you can."

"Nice," Han said in mock indignation. "You know, you thought I was pretty handy to have around before the kids showed up. Now you don't need me anymore, huh? Just go ahead and toss me aside."

"Of course I need you," Leia soothed him. "As long as most of the droids are out on defense duty and there are two babies who have to be changed, you'll always have a place here."

"Oh, great," Han growled. "I think I'd rather get tossed aside."

"It's way too late for that," Leia assured him, stroking his hand and turning serious again. "I know you want to help, Han, and I really do appreciate it. I just feel guilty."

"Well, don't," Han told her, taking her hand and squeezing it. "We old-time smugglers are used to strange hours, remember." He glanced over at the door to Winter's room. "Winter gone to bed already?"

"No, she hasn't come back up yet," Leia said, stretching her mind toward the room. As near as she could tell, it was indeed empty. "She's got some project of her own going downstairs—I don't know what."

"I do," Han said, his sense turning thoughtful. "She's been down in the library sifting through the old Alliance archives,"

Leia craned her neck to study his face. "Trouble?"

"I don't know," Han said slowly. "Winter doesn't talk much about what she's thinking. Not to me, anyway. But she's worried about something."

Beyond the door, Leia caught the flicker of another presence. "She's back," she told Han. "I'll see if I can get her to tell me about it."

"Good luck," Han grunted, giving Leia's hand one last squeeze and standing up. "I guess I'll go back downstairs. See if I can help Lando sweet-talk Drayson a little."

"The two of you ought to get him into a sabacc game," Leia suggested. "Play for ships, like you and Lando did with the Falcon. Maybe you can win an Assault Frigate."

"What, playing against Drayson?" Han said with a snort. "Thanks, hon, but Lando and I wouldn't know what to do with a fleet of our own. I'll see you later."

"Okay. I love you, Han."

He gave her another lopsided smile. "I know," he said, and left. With a sigh, Leia adjusted her shoulder against the pillow and half turned toward Winter's room. "Winter?" she called softly.

There was a short pause; then the door swung quietly open. "Yes, Your Highness?" Winter asked, stepping into the room.

"I'd like to talk to you for a minute, if it's convenient," Leia said.

"Of course," Winter said, gliding forward in that wonderfully graceful way of hers that Leia had always envied. "I think Jacen's asleep. Shall I put him in the crib?"

"Please," Leia nodded. "Han tells me you've been doing some research in the old Alliance archives."

Winter's face didn't change, but Leia could sense the subtle change in her sense and body language. "Yes."

"May I ask why?"

Carefully, Winter lifted Jacen from the bed and carried him toward the crib. "I think I may have discovered an Imperial agent in the Palace," she said. "I was trying to confirm that."

Leia felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "Who is it?"

"I'd really rather not make any accusations before I have more information," Winter said. "I could easily be wrong."

"I appreciate your scruples," Leia said. "But if you have an idea about this Delta Source information leak, we need to know about it right away."

"This isn't connected with Delta Source," Winter said, shaking her head. "At least, not directly. She hasn't been here long enough for that."

Leia frowned at her, trying to read her sense. There was a great deal of worry there, running squarely into an equally strong desire not to throw around hasty allegations. "Is it Mara Jade?" she asked.

Winter hesitated. "Yes. But again, I don't have any proof."

"What do you have?"

"Not very much," Winter said, tucking the blanket carefully around Jacen. "Really only a short conversation with her when I was escorting her up from the medical section. She asked me what I did during the height of the Rebellion, and I told her about my job with Supply and Procurement. She then identified me as Targeter."

Leia thought back. Winter had had so many code names during that time. "Was that incorrect?"

"No, I had that name for a short time," Winter said. "Which is the point, really. I was only known as Targeter for a few weeks on Averam. Before Imperial Intelligence broke the cell there."

"I see," Leia said slowly. "And Mara wasn't with the Averists?"

"I don't know," Winter said, shaking her head. "I never met more than a few of that group. That's why I've been searching the records. I thought there might be a complete listing somewhere."

"I doubt it," Leia said. "Local cells like that almost never kept personnel files. It would be a group death warrant if it fell into Imperial hands."

"I know." Winter looked across the crib at her. "Which rather leaves us at an impasse."

"Perhaps," Leia said, gazing past Winter and trying to pull together everything she knew about Mara. It wasn't all that much. As far as she knew, Mara had never claimed any past Alliance affiliation, which would tend to support Winter's suspicions. On the other hand, it had been less than two months since she'd enlisted Luke to help her free Karrde from a detention cell on Grand Admiral Thrawn's own flagship. That didn't make much sense if she was an Imperial agent herself. "I think," she told Winter slowly, "that whatever side Mara was once on, she's not there anymore. Any loyalty she has now is probably to Karrde and his people."

Winter smiled faintly. "Is that Jedi insight, Your Highness? Or just your trained diplomatic opinion?"

"Some of each," Leia said. "I don't think we have anything to fear from her."

"I hope you're right." Winter gestured. "Shall I put Jaina to bed now?"

Leia looked down. Jaina's eyes were closed tightly, her tiny mouth making soft sucking motions at the empty air. "Yes, thank you," she said, giving her daughter's cheek one final caress. "Is that reception for the Sarkan delegation still going on downstairs?" she asked as she rolled away from Jaina and stretched cramped muscles.

"It was when I passed by," Winter said, picking Jaina up and setting her in the crib next to Jacen. "Mon Mothma asked me to suggest you drop in for a few minutes if you had the chance."

"Yes, I'll bet she did," Leia said, getting off the bed and crossing to the wardrobe. One of the little side benefits of having twin infants on her hands was that she finally had an armor-plated excuse for getting out of these superficial government functions that always seemed to take up more time than they were worth. Now here was Mon Mothma, trying to chicane her back into that whole crazy runaround again. "And I'm sorry to have to disappoint her," she added. "But I'm afraid I have something more urgent to do right now. Will you watch the twins for me?"

"Certainly," Winter said. "May I ask where you'll be?"

From the wardrobe Leia selected something more suitable for public wear than her dressing gown and started to change. "I'm going to see what I can find out about Mara Jade's past," she said.

She could sense Winter's frown all the way across the room. "May I ask how?"

Leia smiled tightly. "I'm going to ask her."

He stood before her, his face half hidden by the cowl of his robe, his yellow eyes piercingly bright as they gazed across the infinite distance between them. His lips moved, but his words were drowned out by the throaty hooting of alarms all around them, filling Mara with an urgency that was rapidly edging into panic. Between her and the Emperor two figures appeared: the dark, imposing image of Darth Vader, and the smaller black-clad figure of Luke Skywalker. They stood before the Emperor, facing each other, and ignited their lightsabers. The blades crossed, brilliant red-white against brilliant green-white, and they prepared for battle.

And then, without warning, the blades disengaged . . . and with twin roars of hatred audible even over the alarms, both turned and strode toward the Emperor.

Mara heard herself cry out as she struggled to rush to her master's aid. But the distance was too great, her body too sluggish. She screamed a challenge, trying to at least distract them. But neither Vader nor Skywalker seemed to hear her. They moved outward to flank the Emperor . . . and as they lifted their lightsabers high, she saw that the Emperor was gazing at her.

She looked back at him, wanting desperately to turn away from the coming disaster but unable to move. A thousand thoughts and emotions flooded in through that gaze, a glittering kaleidoscope of pain and fear and rage that spun far too fast for her to really absorb. The Emperor raised his hands, sending cascades of jagged blue-white lightning at his enemies. Both men staggered under the counterattack, and Mara watched with the sudden agonized hope that this time it might end differently. But no. Vader and Skywalker straightened, and with another roar of rage, they lifted their lightsabers high.

And then, over the raised lightsabers came a roll of distant thunder—

And with a jerk that nearly threw her out of her chair Mara snapped out of the dream.

She took a deep, shuddering breath against the flood of post-dream emotion; against the turmoil of pain, anger, and loneliness. But this time she wasn't going to have the luxury of working her way through the tangle in solitude. From outside her room she could vaguely sense another presence; and even as she rolled out of the desk chair into a reflexive combat crouch, the roll of thunder from her dream—a quiet knock—was repeated.

For a long moment she considered keeping quiet and seeing if whoever it was would decide the room was empty and go away. But the light from her room, she knew, would be visible beneath the old-style hinged door. And if the person out there was who she suspected, he wouldn't be fooled by silence, anyway. "Come in," she called.

The door unlocked and swung open . . . but it wasn't Luke Skywalker who stood there, "Hello, Mara," Leia Organa Solo nodded to her. "Am I interrupting anything?"

"Not at all," Mara said politely, suppressing a grimace. The last thing she wanted right now was company, particularly company that was in any way associated with Skywalker. But as long as she and Ghent were still stuck here it wouldn't be smart to deliberately alienate someone of Organa Solo's influence. "I was just reading some of the news reports from the battle regions. Please come in."

"Thank you," Organa Solo said, stepping past her into the suite. "I was looking over those same reports a little while ago. Grand Admiral Thrawn is certainly justifying the late Emperor's confidence in his ability."

Mara threw her a sharp look, wondering what Skywalker had told her. But Organa Solo's eyes were turned toward the window and the lights of the Imperial City below. And what little Mara could discern of the other woman's sense didn't seem to be taunting. "Yes, Thrawn was one of the best," she said. "Brilliant and innovative, with an almost compulsive thirst for victory."

"Perhaps he needed to prove he was the equal of the other Grand Admirals," Organa Solo suggested. "Particularly given his mixed heritage and the Emperor's feelings toward nonhumans."

"I'm sure that was part of it," Mara said.

Organa Solo took another step toward the window, her back still turned to Mara. "Did you know the Grand Admiral well?" she asked.

"Not really," Mara said cautiously. "He communicated with Karrde a few times when I was there and visited our Myrkr base once. He had a big business going in Myrkr ysalamiri for a while—Karrde once figured they'd hauled five or six thousand of them out of there—"

"I meant, did you know him during the war," Organa Solo said, turning finally to face her.

Mara returned her gaze steadily. If Skywalker had told her . . . but if he'd told her, why wasn't Mara in a detention cell somewhere? No; Organa Solo had to be on a fishing expedition. "Why should I have known Thrawn during the war?" she countered.

Organa Solo shrugged fractionally. "There's been a suggestion made that you might once have served with the Empire."

"And you wanted to make sure before you locked me up?"

"I wanted to see if you might have knowledge about the Grand Admiral we could use against him," Organa Solo corrected.

Mara snorted. "There isn't anything," she said. "Not with Thrawn. He has no patterns; no favorite strategies; no discernible weaknesses. He studies his enemies and tailors his attacks against psychological blind spots. He doesn't overcommit his forces, and he's not too proud to back off when it's clear he's losing. Which doesn't happen very often. As you're finding out." She cocked an eyebrow. "Any of that help you?" she added sarcastically.

"Actually, it does," Organa Solo said. "If we can identify the weaknesses he's planning to exploit, we might be able to anticipate the thrust of his attack."

"That's not going to be easy," Mara warned.

Organa Solo smiled faintly. "No, but it gives us a place to start. Thank you for your help."

"You're welcome," Mara said, the words coming out automatically. "Was there anything else?"

"No, I don't think so," Organa Solo said, stepping away from the window and heading for the door. "I need to get back and get some sleep before the twins wake up again. And you'll probably want to be going to bed soon, too."

"And I'm still free to move around the Palace?"

Organa Solo smiled again. "Of course. Whatever you did in the past, it's clear you're not serving with the Empire now. Good night." She turned to the door, reached for the handle—

"I'm going to kill your brother," Mara told her. "Did he tell you that?"

Organa Solo stiffened, just noticeably, and Mara could sense the ripple of shock run through that Jedi-trained calmness. Her hand, on the door handle, dropped back to her side. "No, he didn't," she said, her back still to Mara. "May I ask why?"

"He destroyed my life," Mara told her, feeling the old ache deep in her throat and wondering why she was even telling Organa Solo this. "You're wrong; I didn't just serve with the Empire. I was a personal agent of the Emperor himself. He brought me here to Coruscant and the Imperial Palace and trained me to be an extension of his will across the galaxy. I could hear his voice from anywhere in the Empire, and knew how to give his orders to anyone from a stormtrooper brigade all the way up to a Grand Moff. I had authority and power and a purpose in life. They knew me as the Emperor's Hand, and they respected me the same way they did him. Your brother took all that away from me."

Organa Solo turned back to face her. "I'm sorry," she said. "But there was no other choice. The lives and freedom of billions of beings—"

"I'm not going to debate the issue with you," Mara cut her off. "You couldn't possibly understand what I've been through."

A shadow of distant pain crossed Organa Solo's face. "You're wrong," she said quietly. "I understand very well."

Mara glared at her; but it was a glare without any real force of hatred behind it. Leia Organa Solo of Alderaan, who'd been forced to watch as the first Death Star obliterated her entire world . . . "At least you had a life to go to afterward," she growled at last. "You had the whole Rebellion—more friends and allies than you could even count. I had no one."

"It must have been hard."

"I survived it," Mara said briefly. "So now are you going to have me hauled off to detention?"

Those Alderaanian-cultured eyebrows lifted slightly. "You keep suggesting that I should have you locked up. Is that what you want?"

"I already told you what I want. I want to kill your brother."

"Do you?" Organa Solo asked. "Do you really?"

Mara smiled thinly. "Bring him here and I'll prove it."

Organa Solo studied her face, and Mara could feel the tenuous touch of her rudimentary Jedi senses as well. "From what Luke's told me, it sounds like you've already had several chances to kill him," Organa Solo pointed out. "You didn't take them."

"It wasn't from lack of intent," Mara said. But it was a thought that had been gnawing at her as well. "I just keep getting into situations where I need him alive. But that'll change."

"Perhaps," Organa Solo said, her eyes still moving across Mara's face. "Or perhaps it's not really you who wants him dead."

Mara frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Organa Solo's gaze drifted away from Mara to the window, and Mara could feel a tightening of the other woman's sense. "I was at Endor a couple of months ago," she said.

An icy sensation crawled up Mara's spine. She'd been at Endor, too, taken there to face Grand Admiral Thrawn . . . and she remembered what the space around the world of the Emperor's death had felt like. "And?" she prompted. Even to herself, her voice sounded strained.

Organa Solo heard it, too. "You know what I'm talking about, don't you?" she asked, her eyes still on the lights of the Imperial City. "There's some shadow of the Emperor's presence still there. Some of that final surge of hatred and anger. Like a—I don't know what."

"Like an emotional bloodstain," Mara said quietly, the image springing spontaneously and vividly into her mind. "Marking the spot where he died."

She looked at Organa Solo, to find the other woman's eyes on her. "Yes," Organa Solo said. "That's exactly what it was like."

Mara took a deep breath, forcing the black chill from her mind. "So what does that have to do with me?"

Organa Solo studied her. "I think you know."

YOU WILL KILL LUKE SKYWALKER. "No," Mara said, her mouth suddenly dry. "You're wrong."

"Am I?" Organa Solo asked softly. "You said you could hear the Emperor's voice from anywhere in the galaxy."

"I could hear his voice," Mara snapped. "Nothing more."

Organa Solo shrugged slightly. "You know best, of course. It might still be worth thinking about."

"I'll do that," Mara said stiffly. "If that's all, you can go."

Organa Solo nodded, her sense showing no irritation at being dismissed like some minor underling. "Thank you for your assistance," she said. "I'll talk with you later."

With a final smile, she pulled the door open and left. "Don't count on it," Mara muttered after her, turning back to the desk and dropping into the chair. This had gone far enough. If Karrde was too preoccupied with business to get in touch with his contact man, then the contact man himself was going to get her and Ghent out of here. Pulling up her code file, she keyed for long-range comm access.

The response was prompt. UNABLE TO ACCESS, the words scrolled across her display. LONG-RANGE COMMUNICATIONS SYSTEM TEMPORARILY DOWN.

"Terrific," she growled under her breath. "How soon till it's back up?"

UNABLE TO DETERMINE. REPEATING, LONG-RANGE COMMUNICATIONS SYSTEM TEMPORARILY DOWN.

With a curse, she shut the terminal off. The whole universe seemed to be against her tonight. She picked up the data pad she'd been reading earlier, put it down again, and stood back up. It was late, she'd already fallen asleep once at her desk, and if she had any sense she would just give it up and go to bed.

Stepping across to the window, she leaned against the carved wooden frame and gazed out at the city lights stretching halfway to infinity. And tried to think.

No. It was impossible. Impossible, absurd, and unthinkable. Organa Solo could waste as much breath as she wanted spinning these clever speculations of hers. After five years of living with this thing, Mara ought to know her own thoughts and feelings. Ought to know what was real, and what wasn't.

And yet . . .

The image of the dream rose up before her. The Emperor, gazing at her with bitter intensity as Vader and Skywalker closed in on him. The unspoken but tangible accusation in those yellow eyes: that it was her failure to take care of Skywalker at Jabba the Hutt's hideout that had caused this. That flood of powerless rage as the two lightsabers were lifted over him. That final cry, ringing forever through her head—

YOU WILL KILL LUKE SKYWALKER.

"Stop it!" she snarled, slapping the side of her head hard against the window jamb. The image and words exploded into a flash of pain and a shower of sparks and vanished.

For a long time she just stood there, listening to the rapid thudding of her heartbeat in her ears, the conflicting thoughts chasing each other around her mind. Certainly the Emperor would have wanted Skywalker dead . . . but Organa Solo was still wrong. She had to be. It was Mara herself who wanted to kill Luke Skywalker, not some ghost from the past.

Far across the city, a multicolored light rippled gently against the surrounding buildings and clouds overhead, jolting her out of her musings. The clock at the ancient Central Gathering Hall, marking the hour as it had for the past three centuries. The light changed texture and rippled again, then winked out.

Half an hour past midnight. Lost in her thoughts, Mara hadn't realized it had gotten that late. And all of this wasn't accomplishing anything, anyway. She might as well go to bed and try to put the whole thing out of her mind long enough to get some sleep. With a sigh, she pushed away from the window—

And froze. Deep in the back of her mind, the quiet alarm bell had just gone off.

Somewhere nearby, there was danger.

She slid her tiny blaster out of its forearm holster, listening hard. Nothing. Glancing back once at the window, wondering briefly if anyone was watching her through the privacy laminate, she moved silently to the door. Putting her ear against it, she listened again.

For a moment there was nothing. Then, almost inaudible through the thick wood, she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Footsteps with the kind of quiet but purposeful stride that she had always associated with combat professionals. She tensed; but the footsteps passed her door without pausing, fading away toward the far end of the hallway.

She waited a count often to let them get a good lead on her. Then, carefully, she opened her door and looked outside.

There were four of them, dressed in the uniforms of Palace security, walking in a bent diamond formation. They reached the hallway and slowed as the point man eased a quick look around it. His hand curved slightly, and all four continued around the corner and disappeared. Heading toward the stairway that led down to the central sections of the palace below or up to the Tower and the permanent residential suites above.

Mara stared after them, her fatigue gone in a surge of adrenaline. The bent diamond formation, the obvious caution, the hand signal, and her own premonition of danger—they all pointed to the same conclusion.

Imperial Intelligence had penetrated the Palace.

She turned back toward her desk, stopped short with a quiet curse. One of the first tasks the team would have carried out would have been to get into the Palace's computer and comm systems. Any attempt to sound the alarm would probably be intercepted, and would certainly tip them off.

Which meant that if they were going to be stopped, she was going to have to do it herself. Gripping her blaster tightly, she slipped out of her room and headed after them.

She'd made it to the corner and was just easing forward for a careful look when she heard the quiet click of a blaster safety behind her. "All right, Jade," a voice murmured in her ear. "Nice and easy. It's all over."

Chapter 9

Admiral Drayson leaned back in his seat and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Calrissian, General Bel Iblis," he said for probably the tenth time since the session had begun. "We just can't risk it."

Lando took a deep breath, trying to scrape together a few last shards of patience. This was his sweat and work that Drayson was casually throwing away. "Admiral—"

"It's not that much of a risk, Admiral," Bel Iblis cut in smoothly and with far more courtesy than Lando had left at his disposal. "I've shown you at least eight places we could draw an Assault Frigate from which would have it out of service less than ten days."

Drayson snorted. "At the rate he's going, Grand Admiral Thrawn could take three more sectors in ten days. You want to give him a shot at four?"

"Admiral, we're talking a single Assault Frigate here," Lando said. "Not a dozen Star Cruisers or an orbital battle station. What could Thrawn possibly have up his sleeve where one Assault Frigate could make or break the attack?"

"What could he do against a heavily defended shipyard with a single rigged freighter?" Drayson retorted. "Face it, gentlemen: when you go up against someone like Thrawn, all the usual rules get tossed out the lock. He could spin a net out of this so transparent that we'd never even see it until it was too late. He's done it before."

Lando grimaced; but it was hardly a frame of mind he could really blame Drayson for. A couple of months back, when he and Han had first been brought to Bel Iblis's hidden military base, he'd been three-quarters convinced himself that the whole thing was some gigantic and convoluted scheme that Thrawn had created for their benefit. It had taken him until after the Katana battle to finally be convinced otherwise, and it had taught him a valuable lesson. "Admiral, we all agree that Thrawn is a brilliant tactician," he said, choosing his words carefully. "But we can't assume that everything that happens in the galaxy is part of some grand, all-encompassing scheme that he's dreamed up. He got my metal stockpiles and put Nomad City out of commission. Odds are that's all he wanted."

Drayson shook his head. "I'm afraid 'odds are' isn't good enough, Calrissian. You find me proof that the Empire won't take advantage of a missing Assault Frigate and I'll consider loaning you one."

"Oh, come on, Admiral—"

"And if I were you," Drayson added, starting to gather his data cards together, "I'd play down my connection with the whole Nkllon mining project. A lot of us still remember that it was your mole miners Thrawn used in his attack on the Sluis Van shipyards."

"And it was his knowledge of them that kept that attack from succeeding," Bel Iblis reminded the other quietly. "A number of us remember that, too."

"That assumes Thrawn actually intended to steal the ships," Drayson shot back as he stood up from the table. "Personally, I expect he was just as happy to have them put out of commission. Now if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a war to run."

He left, and Lando let out a quiet sigh of defeat. "So much for that," he said, pulling his own data cards together.

"Don't let it worry you," Bel Iblis advised, getting up from his chair and stretching tiredly. "It's not you and Nomad City so much as it is me. Drayson was always one of those who considered disagreement with Mon Mothma to be one step down from Imperial collaboration. Obviously, he still does."

"I thought you and Mon Mothma had patched all that up," Lando said, getting to his feet.

"Oh, we have," Bel Iblis shrugged, circling the table and heading for the door. "More or less. She's invited me back into the New Republic, I've accepted her leadership, and officially all is well. But old memories fade slowly." His lip twisted slightly. "And I have to admit that my departure from the Alliance after Alderaan could have been handled more diplomatically. You up on the President's Guests floor?"

"Yes. You?"

"The same. Come on—I'll walk you up."

They left the conference room and headed down the arched hallway toward the turbolifts. "You think he might change his mind?" Lando asked.

"Drayson?" Bel Iblis shook his head. "Not a chance. Unless we can pry Mon Mothma out of the war room and get you a hearing, I think your only chance is to hope Ackbar gets back to Coruscant in the next couple of days. The importance of Nomad City aside, I imagine he still owes you a favor or two."

Lando thought about that rather awkward scene back when he'd first told Ackbar that he was resigning his general's commission. "Favors won't mean anything if he agrees that it might be a setup," he said instead. "Not after being burned once at Sluis Van."

"True," Bel Iblis conceded. He glanced down a cross corridor as they passed, and when he turned forward again Lando thought he could see a slight frown on his face. "All of which is unfortunately complicated by the presence of this Delta Source thing the Empire's got planted here in the Palace. Just because Thrawn doesn't have any current plans for Nkllon doesn't mean he won't think some up once he finds out what we're going to do."

"If he finds out," Lando corrected. "Delta Source isn't omniscient, you know. Han and Leia have managed to run some important missions past it."

"Proving once again the basic strength of small groups. Still, the sooner you identify this leak and put it out of commission, the better."

They passed another hallway, and again Bel Iblis glanced down it. And this time, there was no doubt about the frown. "Trouble?" Lando asked quietly.

"I'm not sure," Bel Iblis said. "Shouldn't there be occasional guards in this part of the Palace?"

Lando looked around. They were rather alone out here. "Could they all have been shifted down to the Sarkan reception for the evening?"

"They were here earlier," Bel Iblis said. "I saw at least two when I came down from my suite."

Lando looked back along the hallway, an unpleasant sensation starting to crawl along his backbone. "So what happened to them?"

"I don't know." Bel Iblis took a deep breath. "I don't suppose you're armed."

Lando shook his head. "Blaster's up in my room. I didn't think I'd need it here."

"You probably don't," Bel Iblis said, the fingertips of his right hand easing beneath his jacket as he looked around. "There's probably some simple, perfectly innocuous explanation."

"Sure," Lando said, pulling out his comlink. "Let's call in and find out what it is." He thumbed the device on—

And as quickly shut it off as a soft squeal of static erupted from the speaker. "I think the explanation just stopped being simple," he said grimly. Suddenly his hand was itching to have a blaster in it. "What now?"

"We find some way to alert Palace Security," Bel Iblis said, looking around. "All right. The turbolifts up ahead won't help us—they only serve the residential areas. But there's a stairway at the far end that leads down to Palace Central. We'll try that way."

"Sounds good," Lando nodded. "Let's swing up to my suite first and pick up my blaster."

"Good idea," Bel Iblis agreed. "We'll pass on the turbolift—stairs are over this way. Nice and quiet."

The stairs were as deserted as the corridor behind them had been. But as Bel Iblis started out of the stairway door, he suddenly held up a warning hand. Moving to his side, Lando looked out onto the floor.

Ahead, moving cautiously down the hallway away from them, was a lone figure. A slender woman with red-gold hair, a small blaster gripped ready in her hand.

Mara Jade.

There was a soft whisper of metal on cloth as Bel Iblis drew his blaster. Motioning Lando to follow, he started silently down the hallway after her.

They had nearly caught up by the time she reached the far comer. There she paused, poised to look around it—

Bel Iblis leveled his blaster. "All right, Jade," he said quietly. "Nice and easy. It's all over."

For a second Lando was sure she was going to argue the point. She turned her head halfway, looking back over her shoulder as if targeting her opponents— "Calrissian!" she said, and there was no mistaking the relief in her voice. Or the underlying tension, either. "There are Imperials in the Palace, dressed as Security. I've just seen four of them."

"Interesting," Bel Iblis said, eyeing her closely. "Where were you going?"

"I thought it might be a good idea to find out what they were up to," she growled sarcastically. "You want to help, or not?"

Bel Iblis eased a look around the corner. "I don't see anyone. They've probably already headed down. Best guess is either the war room or the Sarkan reception."

And suddenly, the whole thing clicked together in Lando's mind. "No," he said. "They haven't gone down, they've gone up. They're after Leia's twins."

Mara swore under her breath. "You're right. Thrawn's promised them to that lunatic C'baoth. That has to be it."

"You could be right," Bel Iblis said. "Where's your room, Calrissian?"

"Two doors back," Lando told him, nodding over his shoulder.

"Get your blaster," Bel Iblis ordered, peering again around the corner. "You and Jade head down the hallway over there and find the main stairway. See if anyone's up there yet; maybe try to warn Leia and Solo. I'll go downstairs and scare up some reinforcements."

"Be careful—they may have left a rear guard on the stairway down," Mara warned.

"They'll certainly have one on the way up," Bel Iblis countered. "Watch yourselves." With one final look around the corner, he eased past and was gone.

"Wait here," Lando told Mara, starting back toward his room. "I'll be right back."

"Just hurry it up," she called after him.

"Right."

He ran to his room; and as he keyed the door open, he threw a quick look back at Mara. She was still standing there, turned halfway around the comer, an intense yet strangely empty expression on the part of her face he could see.

That face. That somehow, somewhere familiar face. Fitting into a time and place and background he could almost but not quite make out in his mind's eye.

He shook off the thought. Whoever she had been, now was definitely not the time to try and figure it out. Han, Leia, and their children were in deadly danger . . . and it was up to him and Mara to get them out of it.

Turning back to his room, he hurried inside.

Leia Organa Solo. Leia Organa Solo. Wake up. You're in danger. Wake up. Leia Organa Solo, wake up—

With a gasp, Leia snapped out of the dream, the last remnants of that insistent voice echoing through her mind as she came awake. For a handful of dream-fogged heartbeats she couldn't remember where she was, and her eyes and Jedi senses flicked tensely around the darkened room as she struggled for recognition. Then the last of the sleep evaporated, and she was back in her suite in the Imperial Palace. Beside her, Han grunted gently in his sleep as he rolled over; across the room, the twins were huddled together in their crib; in the next room over, Winter was also asleep, no doubt dreaming in the laser-sharp images of her perfect memory. And outside the suite—

She frowned. There was someone at the outer door. No—more than one. Five or six of them at least, standing grouped around it.

She slipped out of bed, hands automatically scooping up her blaster and lightsaber from the floor as she did so. It was probably nothing—most likely simply a group of Security guards taking a moment for idle conversation among themselves before continuing on their rounds. Though if so, they were breaking several fairly strict rules about on-duty personnel. She would have to find a diplomatic but firm way of reminding them.

Padding silently on the thick carpet, she left the bedroom and headed across the living areas toward the door, working through the Jedi sensory enhancement routine as she walked. If she could hear and identify the guards' voices from inside the suite, she could warn them individually and privately in the morning.

She never made it to the door. Halfway across the living area, she stopped short as her enhanced hearing began to pick up a faint hum coming from ahead of her. She strained her ears, trying to ignore the sudden distraction of her own heartbeat as she listened. The sound was faint but very distinctive, and she knew she'd heard it somewhere before.

And then, abruptly, she had it: the hum of an electronic lock-breaker. Someone was trying to break into their suite.

And even as she stood there, frozen with shock, the lock clicked open.

There was no time to run and nowhere to run to . . . but the designers of the Tower hadn't been blind to this sort of danger. Lifting her blaster, hoping fervently the mechanism still worked, Leia fired two quick shots into the door.

The wood was one of the hardest and strongest known in the galaxy, and her shots probably didn't gouge their way more than a quarter of the way through. But it was enough. The embedded sensors had taken note of the attack; and even as the sound of the blasts thundered in Leia's enhanced hearing, the heavy metal security door slammed down along the wooden door's inside edge.

"Leia?" Han's voice demanded from behind her, sounding distant through the ringing in her ears.

"Someone's trying to break in," she said, turning and hurrying back to where he stood in the bedroom doorway, blaster ready in his hand. "I got the security door closed in time, but that won't hold them."

"Not for long," Han agreed, eyeing the door as Leia reached him. "Get in the bedroom and call Security—I'll see what I can do about slowing them down."

"All right. Be careful—they're serious about this."

The words were barely out of her mouth when the whole room seemed to shake. The intruders, abandoning subtlety, had set to work blowing the outer door to splinters.

"Yeah, I'd call that serious," Han seconded grimly. "Get Winter and Threepio and grab the twins. We got some fast planning to do."

The first sound that drifted down the delicate arch of the Tower staircase might have been a distant blaster shot—Mara couldn't tell for sure. The next one, a handful of seconds later, left no doubt.

"Uh-oh," Calrissian muttered. "That's trouble."

Another shot echoed down the staircase. "Sounds like a heavy blaster," Mara said, listening hard. "They must not have been able to get the door open quietly."

"Or else they only want the twins," Calrissian countered darkly, heaving himself away from the corner they'd paused at. "Come on."

"Hold it," Mara said, grabbing his arm with her free hand as she studied the territory in front of them. The wide arch of the first flight of stairs ended at a presentation landing with an elaborate wrought-stone balustrade. Just visible from where they stood were the openings of two narrower stairways that continued upward, double-helix fashion, from opposite ends of the landing. "That landing would be a good spot for a rear guard, and I don't feel like stopping a blaster bolt."

Calrissian muttered something impatient sounding under his breath, but he stayed put. A moment later, he was probably glad he had. "You're right—there's someone near the stairway to the left," he murmured.

"Means there'll be one on the right, too," Mara said, her eyes searching the contours and crevices of the balustrade's stonework as another blaster shot echoed down. Intelligence operatives liked lurking in shadows. . . . "And there's one on each side of the main stairway," she added. "About two meters out from the edges."

"I see them," Calrissian said. "This isn't going to be easy." He looked back over his shoulder, to where the stairway picked up again. "Come on, Bel Iblis, get up here."

"He'd better hurry," Mara seconded, peering cautiously at the four Imperials and trying to remember the details of the Tower's layout. "Organa Solo's door isn't going to last long."

"Not nearly as long as that rear guard can hold us off," Calrissian agreed, hissing softly between his teeth. "Wait a minute. Stay here—I've got an idea."

"Where are you going?" Mara demanded as he moved away from the corner.

"Main hangar," Calrissian told her, heading for the stairway behind them. "Chewie was down there earlier working on the Falcon. If he's still there, we can go up the outside of the Tower and get them out."

"How?" Mara persisted. "Those are transparisteel windows up there—you'll never blast through them without killing everyone inside."

"I won't have to," Calrissian said with a tightly sly smile. "Leia's got a lightsaber. Keep these guys busy, okay?"

He sprinted to the stairway and vanished down it. "Right," Mara growled after him, turning her attention back to the Imperials up on the stairway. Had they spotted her and Calrissian skulking around down here? Probably. In which case, that guy at the leftmost stairway was probably standing too far out of cover just to bait her.

Well, she was willing to oblige. Switching her blaster to her left hand, she braced her wrist against the corner, took careful aim. . . .

The shot from the other stairway spattered off the wall above her blaster, scattering hot splinters of stone across her hand. "Blast!" she snarled, snatching her hand back and brushing the fragments off. So they wanted to play cute, did they? Fine—she could handle cute. Getting a fresh grip on her blaster, she eased back to the corner—

It was the sudden tingle of danger in the back of her mind that saved her life. She dropped to one knee; and as she did so, a pair of blaster shots from straight ahead flashed into the stonework where her head had been. Instantly, she threw herself backward to land on her side on the floor, eyes and blaster tracking toward where the shots had come from.

There were two of them, moving quietly toward her along the corridor on the opposite side of the stairway. She got off two quick shots as she rolled over onto her stomach, both of them missing. Shifting to a two-handed grip, trying to ignore the shots that were beginning to come uncomfortably close, she lined up her blaster on the rightmost of her assailants and fired twice.

He jerked and collapsed to the floor, his blaster still firing reflexively and uselessly into the ceiling. A shot sizzled past Mara's ear as she shifted aim toward the second assailant, another came even closer as his weapon tracked toward her—

And abruptly, the air over Mara's head was filled with a blazing storm of blaster fire. The Imperial across the way went down like a stuck bantha and lay still.

Mara twisted around. A half-dozen security guards were hurrying toward her from the lower staircase, weapons at the ready. Behind them was Bel Iblis. "You all right?" he called to her.

"I'm fine," she grunted, rolling further back from the corner. Just in time; the Imperials on the landing, their little surprise attack having fizzled, opened fire in full force. Mara got to her feet, ducking away from the rain of stone chips. "Calrissian's gone down to the hangar," she told Bel Iblis, raising her voice over the din.

"Yes, we passed him on the way up," the other nodded as the security guards hurried forward. "What happened here?"

"Couple of latecomers to the party," Mara told him, jerking her head back toward the corridor. "Probably on their way back from the comm section. Their friends on the landing tried to keep my attention while they sneaked up on me. Just about worked, too."

"I'm glad it didn't," Bel Iblis said, shifting his attention over her shoulder. "Lieutenant?"

"Not going to be easy, sir," the guard commander called over the noise. "We've got an E-Web repeating blaster on its way up from the armory—soon as it gets here, we can cut them right off that landing. Until then, about all we can do is keep them busy and hope they do something stupid."

Bel Iblis nodded slowly, his lips compressed into a tight line, a hint of strain around his eyes. It was a look Mara had seen only rarely, and then only on the faces of the best military commanders: the expression of a leader preparing to send men to their deaths. "We can't wait," he said. The strain was still there, but his voice was firm. "The group upstairs will have Solo's door open well before that. We'll have to take them now."

The guard commander took a deep breath. "Understood, sir. Right, men, you heard the General. Let's find ourselves some cover and get to it."

Mara took a step closer to Bel Iblis. "They'll never do it in time," she said quietly.

"I know that," the other said tightly. "But the more we can take out now, the fewer we'll have to deal with when the rest of them come downstairs."

His gaze shifted again over her shoulder. "When," he added softly, "they have hostages."

There was one final stutter of heavy blaster fire, a vaguely metallic crash, and then silence. "Oh, dear," Threepio moaned from the corner where he was trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. "I believe the front security door has failed."

"Glad you're here to tell us these things," Han said irritably, his eyes roving restlessly around Winter's bedroom. It was so much useless exercise, Leia knew—everything they could possibly use in their defense had already been moved into position. Winter's bed and memento chest were against the two doors leading out of here, and the wardrobe had been moved near the window and tipped on its side to serve as a makeshift firing barricade. And that was it. Until the intruders broke through one or both of the doors, there was nothing to do but wait.

Leia took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. Ever since the first of these kidnapping attempts on Bimmisaari, she'd been able to think of it as the Imperials gunning for her and her alone—not an especially pleasant thought, but one that she'd become more or less accustomed to after years of warfare.

This time it was different. This time, instead of being after her and her unborn twins, they were after her babies. Babies they could physically take from her arms and hide away where she might never see them again.

She squeezed her lightsaber tightly. No. It was not going to happen. She wouldn't let it.

There was a vaguely wooden-sounding crash from outside. "There goes the couch," Han muttered. Another crash— "And the chair. Didn't think they would slow 'em down any."

"It was worth a try," Leia said.

"Yeah." Han snorted under his breath. "You know, I've been telling you for months we needed more furniture in this place."

Leia smiled tightly and squeezed his hand. Trust Han to try to take the edge off a tense situation. "You have not," she told him. "You're never here anyway." She looked back at Winter, sitting on the floor beneath the transparisteel windows with one twin cradled in each arm. "How are they doing?"

"I think they're waking up," Winter murmured back.

"Yes, they are," Leia confirmed, giving each baby a quick mental caress with as much reassurance as she could manage.

"Try to keep them quiet," Han muttered. "Our pals out there don't need any help."

Leia nodded, feeling a fresh tension squeezing her heart. Both bedrooms—theirs and Winter's—opened out into the living area of the suite, giving the attackers a fifty-fifty chance at picking the door their targets were hiding behind. With the kind of weaponry they obviously had, a wrong choice wouldn't lose them more than a few minutes; but a few minutes could easily mean the difference between life and death.

The thud of a heavy blaster shot came through the wall from the direction of their room, and for a moment Leia began to breathe again. But only for a moment. A second later the sound was repeated, this time from the door in front of them. Faced with two doors, the Imperials had decided to break down both.

She turned to Han, to find him looking at her. "It'll still slow them down," he reminded her, the words more soothing than the sense behind them. "They have to split up their firepower. We've still got some time."

"Now if we just had something to do with it," Leia said, looking futilely around the room. Years of moving around the galaxy with the Rebellion's Supply and Procurement section had gotten Winter into the habit of traveling light, and there simply wasn't anything else in here that they could use.

Another volley of shots came from outside, followed by a faint splintering sound. The regular wooden bedroom doors would be down soon, leaving only the inner security doors. Leia looked around the room again, desperation starting to cloud her thoughts. The wardrobe, the bed, the memento chest; that was it. Nothing but the security doors, the transparisteel windows, and bare walls.

Bare walls . . .

She was suddenly and freshly aware of the lightsaber clutched in her hand. "Han—why don't we just get out of here?" she said, the first cautious wisp of hope flicking through her. "I can cut us through the wall to the next suite over with my lightsaber. And we wouldn't have to stop there—we could be halfway down the corridor before they get that door down."

"Yeah, I already thought of that," Han said tightly. "Problem is, they probably thought of it, too."

Leia swallowed. Yes—the Imperials would certainly be ready for them to try that. "How about going down, then?" she persisted. "Or up? Do you think they'd be ready for us to go through the ceiling?"

"You've seen Thrawn in action," Han countered. "What do you think?"

Leia sighed, the brief glint of hope fading. He was right. If the Grand Admiral had planned this attack personally, they might as well open the security door and surrender right now. Everything they could possibly come up with would already have been anticipated in exquisite detail, with counters planned for each move.

She shook her head sharply. "No," she said aloud. "He's not infallible. We've outthought him before, and we can do it again." She turned around to look at Winter and the twins, still sleeping under the window.

The window . . .

"All right," she said slowly. "What if we go out the window?"

He stared at her. "Out the window to where?"

"Wherever we can get to," she said. The blasters outside were pounding at the security doors now. "Up, down, sideways—I don't care."

Han still had that astonished look on his face. "Sweetheart, in case you hadn't noticed, those walls are flat stone. Even Chewie couldn't climb it without mountain gear."

"That's why they won't expect us to go that way," Leia said, glancing at the window again. "Maybe I can carve out some hand-and footholds with the lightsaber—"

She stopped, giving the window a second look. It hadn't been a trick of the room's lighting: there were indeed a pair of headlights approaching. "Han . . ."

He swiveled to look. "Uh-oh," he muttered. "More company. Great."

"Could it be a rescue team?" Leia suggested hesitantly.

"Doubt it," Han shook his head, studying the approaching lights. "It's only been a few minutes since the shooting started. Wait a minute . . ."

Leia looked back. Outside, the headlights had begun to flicker. She watched the pattern, trying unsuccessfully to match it with any code she knew—

"Captain Solo!" Threepio spoke up, sounding excited. "As you know, I am fluent in over six million forms of communication—"

"It's Chewie," Han cut him off, scrambling to his feet and waving both hands in front of the window.

"—and this signal appears to be related to one of the codes used by professional sabacc players when dealing with—"

"We've got to get rid of this window," Han said, throwing a look back at the door. "Leia?"

"Right." Leia dropped her blaster and scrambled to her feet, lightsaber in hand.

"—cheating by third or fourth parties to the game—"

"Shut up, Goldenrod," Han snapped at Threepio, helping Winter and the twins out from under the window. The lights outside were getting rapidly closer, and now Leia could make out the faint shape of the Falcon in the backwash of light from the city lights below. A memory flickered back: the Noghri kidnapping attempt on Bpfassh had used a fake Falcon as a lure. But the Imperials wouldn't have thought to use a sabacc player's code . . . would they?

It almost didn't matter. She would rather face enemies aboard a ship than sit here waiting for them to walk in on her like this. And well before they got on board, she ought to be able to sense whether it was Chewbacca out there or not. Stepping to the window, she ignited her lightsaber and raised it high—

And behind her, with a final explosive crash, the security door blew in.

Leia spun around, catching a brief glimpse through the smoke and sparks of two men pushing aside the memento chest and diving to the floor as Han grabbed her arm and yanked her to the floor. A covering volley of blaster fire spattered against the wall and window as she shut down her lightsaber and scooped up her blaster again. At her side Han was already returning fire, ignoring the danger as he crouched half protected by the wardrobe. Four more Imperials were at the doorway now, adding their contribution to the rapid splintering of the wardrobe. Leia clenched her teeth, firing back as well as long practice and the Force would let her, knowing full well how futile it was. The longer this firefight went on, the greater the chance that a stray shot would hit one of her babies—

And suddenly, unexpectedly, something touched her mind. A mental pressure; half suggestion, half demand. And what it told her . . .

She took a deep breath. "Stop!" she shouted over the din. "Stop shooting. We surrender."

The firing hesitated, then came to a halt. Laying her blaster on top of the shattered wardrobe, she raised her hands as the two Imperials on the floor got cautiously to their feet and started forward. And tried to ignore Han's stunned disbelief.

The balustrade near the rightmost stairway erupted in a cloud of chips and stone dust as the concentrated fire of the security guards finally broke through it. The answering fire from the landing caught one of the guards as the balustrade collapsed, sending him flopping backward to lie still. Mara eased an inconspicuous eye around the corner, peering through the debris and the blinding flashes of blaster bolts, wondering if in all the mess they'd managed to take out the Imperial they were trying for.

They had. Through the clearing smoke she could make out the shape of a body, scorched and dust-covered. "They got one," she reported, turning back to Bel Iblis. "Three to go."

"Plus however many there are upstairs," he reminded her, his face grim. "Let's hope the legendary Solo luck extends to Leia and the babies and anyone else up there they take hostage."

"That's the second time you've mentioned hostages," Mara said.

Bel Iblis shrugged. "A hostage screen is their only way out of here," he said. "And I'm sure they know it. Their only other option is to go up, and I've already told Calrissian to scramble some fighters to close off the airspace above the Palace. With the turbolift blocked, this stairway is it."

Mara stared at him, an icy shiver running abruptly through her. What with all the rush and commotion since this thing had started, she hadn't had time to pause and consider all the nuances of the situation. But now, Bel Iblis's words and her own distant memories had combined in a blinding flash of insight.

For a handful of heartbeats she stood there, thinking it through, wondering if it were real or a construct of her own imagination. But it held up. Logical, tactically brilliant, with Grand Admiral Thrawn's fingerprints all over it. It had to be the answer.

And it would have worked . . . except for a single flaw. Thrawn obviously didn't know she was here. Or didn't believe she'd really been the Emperor's Hand.

"I'll be back," she told Bel Iblis, stepping around him and hurrying back down the hallway. She rounded a comer into a cross corridor, eyes studying the carved frieze running along the top of the wall. Somewhere along here would be the subtle marking she was looking for.

There it was. She stopped in front of the otherwise ordinary-looking paneling, glancing both ways down the corridor as she did so. Skywalker and Organa Solo might accept her past associations without any qualms, but she doubted anyone else here would be quite so blase about it. But the corridor was deserted. Stretching up to the frieze, she slid two fingers into the proper indentations, letting the warmth of her hand soak into the sensors there.

And with a faint click the panel unlocked.

She slipped inside, closing the panel behind her, and looked around. Built more or less parallel to the turbolift shafts, the Emperor's private passageways were by necessity narrow and cramped. But they were well lit, dust-free, and soundproof. And, more importantly, they would take her past the Imperials on the presentation landing.

Two minutes and three staircases later, she was at the exit that opened out onto Organa Solo's floor. Taking a couple of deep breaths, preparing herself for combat, she stepped through the panel and out into the hallway.

With the battle raging three staircases below, she would have expected to find a secondary rear guard stationed near their bolthole. She was right: two men in the by-now familiar Palace Security uniforms were crouched against the walls with their backs to her, keeping watch on the far end of the corridor. The noise of heavy blaster fire coming from the other direction was more than enough to cover her quiet footsteps, and it was likely neither of them had any idea she was even there as she shot them down. A quick check to make sure they were out of the fight, and she was heading down the corridor toward Organa Solo's suite.

She had reached it and was just starting to pick her way across the debris from the shattered outer door when the blaster fire from inside was suddenly punctuated by an explosive crash.

She clenched her teeth as the blasters of the defenders opened up, their noise mixing with that of the attackers. Rushing straight in without any attempt at stealth or cover would be a good way to get herself killed. But if she moved in more cautiously, someone in there was likely to be killed before she could get into firing position.

Unless . . .

Leia Organa Solo, she called silently, stretching out through the Force as she had earlier when Calrissian had gone for his blaster. No more certain now than she had been then that Organa Solo could even hear her. It's Mara. I'm coming up behind them. Surrender. You hear me? Surrender. Surrender. Surrender.

And as she reached the outer door she heard Organa Solo's shout, barely audible over the blaster fire. "Stop! Stop shooting. We surrender."

Carefully, Mara eased an eye around the door. There they were: four Imperials standing or kneeling at the blackened edges of the doorway, blasters trained warily inside, with two more inside starting to get up from prone positions across the ruined security door. None of them giving the slightest bit of attention in her direction.

Smiling tightly to herself, Mara leveled her blaster and opened fire.

She had two of them down before the others even woke to the fact that she was there. A third fell as he spun around, trying in vain to bring his blaster to bear on her. The fourth was nearly to firing position when a shot from inside the room sent him spinning to the floor.

Five seconds later, it was all over.

There was one survivor. Barely.

"We think it's the group's leader," Bel Iblis told Han as the two of them strode down the corridor toward the medical wing. "Tentatively identified as a Major Himron. Though we won't know for certain until he's conscious again. If then."

Han nodded, throwing a quick glance at yet another pair of alert-looking guards as they passed. If nothing else, this little fiasco had sure gotten Security stirred up. About time, too. "Any idea how they got in?"

"That's going to be one of my first questions," Bel Iblis said. "He's in intensive care—this way."

Lando was waiting at the door with one of the medics when Han and Bel Iblis arrived. "Is everyone okay?" Lando asked, eyes flicking up and down his friend. "I sent Chewie up, but they told me I should stay here with the prisoner."

"Everyone's fine," Han assured him as Bel Iblis stepped past Lando and pulled the medic aside. "Chewie was up there before I left, and he's helping Leia and Winter set up in another suite. By the way, thanks for coming up after us."

"No charge," Lando grunted. "Especially since all we got to do was watch. What, you couldn't have held off your little fireworks display for two more minutes?"

"Don't look at me, pal," Han countered. "It was Mara's timing, not mine."

A shadow seemed to cross Lando's face. "Right. Mara."

Han frowned at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know," Lando said, shaking his head. "There's still something about her that bothers me. Remember back at Karrde's base on Myrkr, just before Thrawn dropped in and we had to go hide in the forest?"

"You said you thought you knew her from somewhere," Han said. It was a comment that had been stuck in the back of his mind all these months, too. "You ever figure out where?"

"Not yet," Lando growled. "But I'm getting close. I know it."

Han looked at Bel Iblis and the medic, thinking back to what Luke had said a couple of days later on their way off of Myrkr. That Mara had told Luke flat out that she wanted to kill him. "Wherever you saw her, she seems to be on our side now."

"Yeah," Lando said darkly. "Maybe."

Bel Iblis beckoned them over. "We're going to try to wake him up," he said. "Come on."

They went inside. Surrounding the ICU bed were half a dozen medics and Emdee droids, plus three of Ackbar's top security officers. At Bel Iblis's nod one of the medics did something to the treatment wrap around the Imperial's upper arm; and as Han and Lando found places at the side of the bed, he coughed suddenly and his eyes fluttered open. "Major Himron?" one of the security officers asked. "Can you hear me, Major?"

"Yes," the Imperial breathed, blinking a couple of times. His eyes drifted between the people standing around him . . . and it seemed to Han that he suddenly became more alert. "Yes," he repeated, stronger this time.

"Your attack has failed," the officer told him. "Your men are all dead, and we're not sure yet whether you're going to live."

Himron sighed and closed his eyes. But that alertness was still in his face. "Fortunes of war," he said.

Bel Iblis leaned forward. "How did you get into the Palace, Major?"

"Guess it can't. . . hurt now," Himron murmured. His breathing was becoming labored. "Back door. Put in . . . same time . . . private passage system. Locked from inside. She let us in."

"Someone let you in?" Bel Iblis said. "Who?"

Himron opened his eyes. "Our contact here. Name . . . Jade."

Bel Iblis threw Han a startled glance. "Mara Jade?"

"Yes." Himron closed his eyes again, let out a deep breath. "Special agent of . . . Empire. Once called . . . Emperor's Hand."

He fell silent, and seemed to sink a little deeper into the bed. "That's all I can permit right now, General Bel Iblis," the chief medic said. "He needs rest, and we need to get him stabilized. In a day or two, perhaps, he'll be strong enough to answer more questions."

"That's all right," one of the security officers said, heading for the door. "He's given us enough to start with."

"Wait a minute," Han called, starting after him. "Where are you going?"

"Where do you think?" the officer retorted. "I'm going to have Mara Jade put under arrest."

"On what, the word of an Imperial officer?"

"He has no choice, Solo," Bel Iblis said quietly, laying a hand on Han's shoulder. "A precautionary detention is required after an accusation this serious. Don't worry—we'll get it straightened out."

"We'd better," Han warned. "Imperial agent, my eye—she took out at least three of them up there—"

He broke off at the look on Lando's face. "Lando?"

Slowly, the other focused on him. "That's it," he said quietly. "That's where I saw her before. She was one of the new dancers at Jabba the Hutt's place on Tatooine when we were setting up your rescue."

Han frowned. "At Jabba's?"

"Yes. And I'm not sure . . . but in all that confusion before we left for the Great Pit of Carkoon, I seem to remember hearing her asking Jabba to let her come along on the Sail Barge. No, not asking—begging was more like it."

Han looked down at the unconscious Major Himron. The Emperor's Hand? And Luke had said she wanted to kill him. . . .

He shook off the thought. "I don't care where she was," he said. "She still shot those Imperials off our backs up there. Come on—let's go help Leia get the twins settled. And then figure out what's going on around here."

Chapter 10

The Whistler's Whirlpool tapcafe on Trogan was one of the best examples Karrde had ever seen of a good idea ruined by the failure of its designers to think their whole plan through. Situated on the coast of Trogan's most densely populated continent, the Whirlpool had been built around a natural formation called the Drinking Cup, a bowl-shaped rock pit open to the sea at its base. Six times a day, Trogan's massive tidal shifts sent the water level inside the bowl either up or down, turning it into a violent white-water maelstrom in the process. With the tapcafe's tables arranged in concentric circles around the bowl, it made for a nice balance between luxury and spectacular natural drama—a perfect drawing card for the billions of humans and aliens enamored of that combination.

Or so the designers and their backers had thought. Unfortunately, they'd rather overlooked three points: first, that such a place was almost by definition a tourist attraction, dependent on the vagaries of that market; second, that once the charm of the Whirlpool itself wore off, the centralized design pretty well precluded remodeling the place for any other type of entertainment; and, third, that even if such remodeling had occurred, the racket from the miniature breakers in the Drinking Cup would probably have drowned it out anyway.

The people of the Calius saj Leeloo on Berchest had turned their fizzled tourist attraction into a trade center. The people of Trogan had simply abandoned the Whistler's Whirlpool.

"I keep expecting someone to buy this place and refurbish it," Karrde commented, looking around at the empty seats and tables as he and Aves walked down one of the aisles toward the Drinking Cup and the figure waiting there for them. The years of neglect showed, certainly, but the place wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been.

"I always liked it myself," Aves agreed. "Kind of noisy, but you get that almost everywhere you go these days."

"Certainly made eavesdropping between tables difficult," Karrde said. "That alone made the place worthwhile. Hello, Gillespee."

"Karrde." Gillespee nodded in greeting, getting up from his table and offering his hand. "I was starting to wonder if you were really going to show."

"The meeting's not for another two hours," Aves reminded him.

"Oh, come on," Gillespee said with a sly grin. "Since when does Talon Karrde ever arrive anywhere on time? Though you could have saved yourself the trouble—my people have already checked things out."

"I appreciate the effort," Karrde said. Which was not to say, of course, that he was going to pull his own people off that same job. With the Empire breathing down his neck and an Imperial garrison only twenty kilometers away, a little extra security wouldn't hurt. "You have the guest list?"

"Right here," Gillespee said, picking up a data pad and handing it over. "Afraid it's not as long as I'd hoped."

"That's all right," Karrde assured him, running his eyes down the list. Small, certainly, but highly select, with some of the biggest names in smuggling coming personally. Brasck, Par'tah, Ellor, Dravis—that would be Billey's group; Billey himself didn't get around too much anymore—Mazzic, Clyngunn the ZeHethbra, Ferrier—

He looked up sharply. "Ferrier?" he asked. "Niles Ferrier, the spaceship thief?"

"Yeah, that's him," Gillespee nodded, frowning. "He does smuggling, too."

"He also works for the Empire," Karrde countered.

"So do we," Gillespee shrugged. "Last I heard, so did you."

"I'm not talking about smuggling merchandise to or from Imperial worlds," Karrde said. "I'm talking about working directly for Grand Admiral Thrawn. Doing such minor jobs as snatching the man who located the Katana fleet for him."

Gillespee's face tightened, just noticeably. Remembering, perhaps, his mad scramble off Ukio one step ahead of the Imperial invasion force in those same Katana-fleet ships. "Ferrier did that?"

"And seemed to enjoy doing it," Karrde told him, pulling out his comlink and thumbing it on. "Lachton?"

"Right here," Lachton's voice came promptly from the comlink.

"How do things look at the garrison?"

"Like a morgue on its day off," Lachton said wryly. "There hasn't been any movement in or out of the place for at least three hours."

Karrde cocked an eyebrow. "Indeed. That's very interesting. How about flights in or out? Or activity within the garrison grounds themselves?"

"Nothing of either," Lachton said. "No kidding, Karrde, the place looks completely dead. Must have gotten some new training holos in or something."

Karrde smiled tightly. "Yes, I'm sure that's it. All right, keep on them. Let me know immediately if there's activity of any sort."

"You got it. Out."

Karrde thumbed off the comlink and returned it to his belt. "The Imperials aren't moving from their garrison," he told the others. "Apparently not at all."

"Isn't that the way we want it?" Gillespee asked. "They can't drop a hammer on the party if they're snugged up there in their barracks."

"Agreed," Karrde nodded. "On the other hand, I've never yet heard of an Imperial garrison simply taking a day off."

"Point," Gillespee admitted. "Unless this big campaign of Thrawn's has all these third-rate garrisons undermanned."

"All the more reason for them to be running daily patrols as a visible show of force," Karrde said. "A man like Grand Admiral Thrawn counts on his opponents' perceptions to fill in the gaps in his actual strength."

"Maybe we should cancel the meeting," Aves suggested, looking uneasily back at the entrance. "Could be they're setting us up."

Karrde looked past Gillespee to the churning water sloshing up the walls of the Drinking Cup. In just under two hours, the water would be at its lowest and quietest level, which was why he'd arranged the meeting for then. If he called it off now—admitted to all these big-time smugglers that the Empire had Talon Karrde jumping at shadows . . . "No," he said slowly. "We'll stay. Our guests won't exactly be sitting here helpless, after all. And we should have adequate warning of any official moves against us." He smiled thinly. "Actually, it's almost worth the risk just to see what they have in mind."

Gillespee shrugged. "Maybe they're not planning anything at all. Maybe we chicaned Imperial Intelligence so good that they missed this completely."

"That hardly sounds like the Imperial Intelligence we all know and love," Karrde said, looking around. "Still, we have two hours before the meeting. Let's see what we can arrange, shall we?"

They sat there in silence, each of the individuals and small groups sitting around its own table, while he made his pitch . . . and as he finished and looked around at them, Karrde knew they weren't convinced.

Brasck made it official. "You speak well, Karrde," the Brubb said, his thin tongue flicking out between his lips as he tasted the air. "One might say passionately, if such a word could ever be said to apply to you. But you do not persuade."

"Do I truly not persuade, Brasck?" Karrde countered. "Or do I merely fail to overcome your reluctance to stand up to the Empire?"

Brasck's expression didn't change, but the pitted gray-green skin of his face—about all of him that was visible outside his body armor—turned a little grayer. "The Empire pays well for smuggled goods," he said.

[And for slaves as well?] Par'TAH demanded in the singsong Ho'Din language. Her snakelike head appendages bounced gently as she snapped her mouth in a Ho'Din gesture of contempt. [And for viyctiyms of kiydnap? You are no better than was the Hutt.]

One of Brasck's bodyguards shifted in his seat—a man, Karrde knew, who had escaped with Brasck from Jabba the Hutt's indentured servitude when Luke Skywalker and his allies had chopped off the head of that organization. "No one who knew the Hutt would say that," he growled, jabbing a stiff finger on the table beside him for emphasis.

"We're not here to argue," Karrde said before Par'tah or any of her entourage could respond.

"Why are we here?" Mazzic spoke up, lounging in his seat between a horn-headed Gotal and a decorative but vacant-faced woman with her hair done up in elaborate plaitlets around half a dozen large enameled needles. "You'll forgive me, Karrde, but this sounds very much like a New Republic recruitment speech."

"Yeah, and Han Solo's already pitched that one to us," Dravis agreed, propping his feet up on his table. "Billey's already said he wasn't interested in hauling the New Republic's cargo."

"Too dangerous," Clyngunn put in, shaking his shaggy black-and-white-striped mane. "Far too dangerous."

"Really?" Karrde said, feigning surprise. "Why is it dangerous?"

"You must be joking," the ZeHethbra rumbled, shaking his mane again. "With Imperial harassment of New Republic shipping as it is, you take your life in clawgrip every time you lift off."

"So what you're saying," Karrde suggested, "is that Imperial strength is becoming increasingly dangerous to our business activities?"

"Oh, no you don't, Karrde," Brasck said, waving a large finger toward him. "You're not going to persuade us into going along with this scheme by twisting our words."

"I haven't suggested any schemes, Brasck," Karrde said. "All I've suggested is that we provide the New Republic with any useful information we might happen to come across in the course of our activities."

"And you don't think the Empire would find this activity unacceptable?" Brasck asked.

[Siynce when do we care what the Empiyre thiynks?] Par'tah countered.

"Since Grand Admiral Thrawn took command," Brasck said bluntly. "I've heard stories of this warlord, Par'tah. It was he who forced my world under the Imperial shroud."

"That ought to be a good reason for you to stand up to him," Gillespee pointed out. "If you're afraid of what Thrawn might do to you now, just think what'll happen to you if he gets the whole galaxy under the Imperial shroud again."

"Nothing will happen to us if we don't oppose him," Brasck insisted. "They need our services too much for that."

"That's a nice theory," a voice spoke up from near the back of the group. "But I can tell you right now it won't hold a mug's worth of vacuum."

Karrde focused on the speaker. He was a big, thick-built human with dark hair and a beard, a thin unlit cigarra clenched in his teeth. "And you are . . .?" Karrde asked, though he was pretty sure he knew.

"Niles Ferrier," the other identified himself. "And I can tell you flat out that minding your own business isn't going to do you a blame bit of good if Thrawn decides he wants you."

"And yet he pays well," Mazzic said, idly stroking the hand of his female companion. "Or so I've heard."

"You've heard that, huh?" Ferrier growled. "Have you also heard that he grabbed me off New Cov and confiscated my ship? And then ordered me out on a nasty little errand for him aboard a bomb-rigged Intelligence bucket? Oh, and go ahead and guess what the penalty was going to be if we couldn't do it."

Karrde looked around the room, listening to the gently sloshing water in the Drinking Cup behind him and holding his silence. This was hardly the way Solo had described Ferrier's involvement; and all other things being equal, he would probably trust Solo's rendition over the ship thief's. Still, it was always possible Solo had misinterpreted things. And if Ferrier's story helped convince the others that the Empire had to be opposed . . .

"Were you paid for all your trouble?" Mazzic asked.

" 'Course I was paid," Ferrier sniffed. "That's not the point."

"It is for me," Mazzic said, turning back to look at Karrde. "Sorry, Karrde, but I still haven't heard any good reason for me to stick my neck out this way."

"What about the Empire's new traffic in clones?" Karrde reminded him. "Doesn't that worry you?"

"I'm not especially happy about it, no," Mazzic conceded. "But I figure that's the New Republic's problem, not ours."

[When does iyt become our problem?] Par'tah demanded. [When the Empiyre has replaced all smugglers wiyth these clones?]

"No one's going to replace us with clones," Dravis said. "You know, Brasck is right, Karrde. The Empire needs us too much to bother us . . . provided we don't take sides."

"Exactly," Mazzic said. "We're businessmen, pure and simple; and I for one intend to stay that way. If the New Republic can outbid the Empire for information, I'll be happy to sell it to them. If not—" He shrugged.

Karrde nodded, privately conceding defeat. Par'tah might be willing to discuss the matter further, and possibly one or two of the others. Ellor, perhaps—the Duro had so far stayed out of the conversation, which with his species was often a sign of agreement. But none of the rest were convinced, and pushing them further at this point would only annoy them. Later, perhaps, they might be willing to accept the realities of the Empire's threat. "Very well," he said. "I think it's clear now where all of you stand on this. Thank you for your time. Perhaps we can plan to meet again after—"

And without warning, the back of the Whistler's Whirlpool blew in.

"Stay where you are!" an amplified voice shouted through the din. "Face forward—no one move. Everyone here is under Imperial detention."

Karrde squinted over the heads of his suddenly frozen audience to the rear of the building. Through the smoke and dust he could see a double line of about thirty Imperial army troops crunching their way across the debris where the back wall had been, their flanks protected by two pair of white-armored stormtroopers. Behind them, almost obscured by the haze, he could see two Chariot command speeders hovering in backup positions. "So they came to the party after all," he murmured.

"With a big hammer," Gillespee agreed tightly from beside him. "Looks like you were right about Ferrier."

"Perhaps." Karrde looked over at Ferrier, half expecting to see a triumphant smirk on the big man's face.

But Ferrier wasn't looking at him. His attention was slightly off to the side; not looking at the approaching troopers, but at a section of wall to the right of the new hole. Karrde followed the line of his gaze—

Just in time to see a solid black shadow detach itself from the wall and move silently up behind one set of flanking stormtroopers.

"On the other hand, perhaps not," he told Gillespee, nodding slightly toward the shadow. "Take a look—just past Ellor's shoulder."

Gillespee inhaled sharply. "What in hell's name is that?"

"Ferrier's pet Defel, I think," Karrde said. "Sometimes called wraiths—Solo told me about him. This is it. Everyone ready?"

"We're ready," Gillespee said, and there were echoing murmurs from behind them. Karrde swept his gaze across his fellow smugglers and their aides, catching each pair of eyes in turn. They gazed back, their shock at the ambush rapidly turning to a cold anger. . . and they, too, were ready. The shadow of Ferrier's Defel reached the end of the approaching line of Imperials; and suddenly one of the stormtroopers was hurled bodily off his feet to slam crosswise into his companion. The nearest troopers reacted instantly, swinging their weapons to the side as they searched for the unseen attacker.

"Now," Karrde murmured.

And from the corner of his eye he saw the long muzzles of two BlasTech A280 blaster rifles swing up over the rim of the Drinking Cup and open fire.

The first salvo cut through the center of the line, taking out a handful of the Imperials before the rest were able to dive for cover among the empty tables and chairs. Karrde took a long step forward, tipping over the nearest table and dropping to one knee behind it.

An almost unnecessary precaution. The Imperials' attention had been distracted away from their intended prisoners for a fatal half-second . . . and even as Karrde yanked out his weapon the entire room exploded into blaster fire.

Brasck and his bodyguards took out an entire squad of the troopers in the first five seconds, with a synchronized fire that showed the Brubb hadn't forgotten his mercenary background. Par'tah's entourage was concentrating on the other end of the line, their weapons smaller and less devastating than Brasck's heavy blaster pistols but more than enough to keep the Imperials pinned down. Dravis, Ellor, and Clyngunn were taking advantage of that cover fire to pick off the remaining troopers one by one. Mazzic, in contrast, was ignoring the nearer threat of the troopers to blast away at the Chariot command speeders outside.

A good idea, actually. "Aves! Fein!" Karrde shouted over the din. "Concentrate fire on the Chariots."

There were shouts of acknowledgment from the edge of the Drinking Cup behind him, and the rifle blasts sizzling past his shoulder shifted their aim. Karrde eased a little over his table, caught a glimpse of Mazzic's female companion—her plaited hair down around her shoulders now and her face no longer blank—as she hurled the last of her enameled needles with lethal accuracy at one of the troopers. Another Imperial lunged up out of cover, bringing his rifle to bear on her, falling backward again as Karrde's shot caught him square in the torso. A pair of shots hit his cover table, sending clouds of splinters into the air and forcing him to drop to the floor. From outside came the sound of a massive explosion, echoed an instant later by a second blast.

And then, suddenly, it was all over.

Carefully, Karrde eased up over his table again. The others were doing likewise, weapons held at the ready as they surveyed the wreckage around them. Clyngunn was holding an arm gingerly out from his body as he dug in his beltpack for a bandage; Brasck's tunic was burned away in several places, the body armor beneath it blackened and blistered. "Everyone all right?" Karrde called.

Mazzic straightened up. Even at this distance Karrde could see the white knuckles gripping his blaster. "They got Lishma," he said, his voice deadly quiet. "He wasn't even shooting."

Karrde dropped his gaze to the broken table at Mazzic's feet and the Gotal lying motionless and half hidden beneath it. "I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. He'd always rather liked the Gotal people.

"I'm sorry, too," Mazzic said, jamming his blaster back into its holster and looking at Karrde with smoldering eyes. "But the Empire's going to be a lot sorrier. Okay, Karrde; I'm convinced, Where do I sign up?"

"Somewhere far away from here, I think," Karrde said, peering out the shattered wall at the burning Chariots as he pulled out his comlink. No one was moving out there, but that wouldn't last. "They'll surely have backup on the way. Lachton, Torve—you there?"

"Right here," Torve's voice came. "What in space was all that?"

"The Imperials decided they wanted to play, after all," Karrde told him grimly. "Sneaked in with a couple of Chariots. Anyone stirring in either of your areas?"

"Not here," Torve said. "Wherever they came from, they didn't start at the spaceport,"

"Ditto here," Lachton put in. "Garrison's still quiet as a grave."

"Let's hope it stays that way for a few more minutes," Karrde said. "Pass the word to the others; we're pulling back to the ship."

"On our way. See you there."

Karrde flicked off the comlink and turned around. Gillespee was just helping Aves and Fein pull themselves out over the lip of the Drinking Cup, the web harnesses that had held them suspended just beneath the rocky edge trailing behind them. "Nicely done, gentlemen," he complimented them. "Thank you."

"Our pleasure," Aves grunted, popping his harness and accepting his blaster rifle back from Gillespee. Even with the water level at its lowest, he noticed, the turbulence had still managed to soak both men up to their knees. "Time to make ourselves scarce?"

"Just as soon as we can," Karrde agreed, turning back to the other smugglers. "Well, gentlefolk, we'll see you in space."

There was no ambush waiting for them by the Wild Karrde. No ambush, no fighter pursuit, no Imperial Star Destroyer lurking in orbit for them. From all appearances, the incident back at the Whistler's Whirlpool might just as well have been an elaborate mass hallucination.

Except for the destruction to the tapcafe, and the gutted Chariots, and the very real burns. And, of course, the dead Gotal.

"So what's the plan?" Dravis asked. "You want us to help hunt down this clone pipeline you mentioned, right?"

"Yes," Karrde told him. "We know it goes through Poderis, so Orus sector is the place to start."

"It once went through Poderis," Clyngunn pointed out. "Thrawn could have moved it by now."

"Though presumably not without leaving some traces we can backtrack," Karrde said. "So. Have we an agreement?"

"My group's with you," Ferrier put in promptly. "Matter of fact, Karrde, if you want I'll see what I can do about getting your people some real fighting ships."

"I may take you up on that," Karrde promised. "Par'tah?"

[We wiyll assiyst iyn the search,] Par'tah said, her voice about as angry as Karrde had ever heard it. The death of the Gotal was hitting her almost as hard as it had hit Mazzic. [The Empiyre must be taught a lesson.]

"Thank you," Karrde said. "Mazzic?"

"I agree with Par'tah," he said coldly. "But I think the lesson needs to be a bit more eye-catching. You go ahead and do your clone hunt—Ellor and I have something else in mind."

Karrde looked at Aves, who shrugged. "If he wants to go slap their hands, who are we to stop him?" the other murmured.

Karrde shrugged back and nodded. "All right," he said to Mazzic. "Good luck. Try not to bite off more than you can chew."

"We wont," Mazzic said. "We're heading out—see you later."

At the far starboard edge of the viewport, two of the ships in their loose formation flickered with pseudomotion and vanished into hyperspace. "That just leaves you, Brasck," Karrde prompted. "What do you say?"

There was a long, subtly voiced sigh from the comm speaker; one of many untranslatable Brubb verbal gestures. "I cannot and will not stand against Grand Admiral Thrawn," he said at last. "To give information to the New Republic would be to invite his hatred and wrath upon me." Another voiced sigh. "But I will also not interfere with your activities or bring them to his attention."

"Fair enough," Karrde nodded. It was, in fact, far more than he had expected from Brasck. The Brubbs' fear of the Empire ran deep. "Well, then. Let's organize our groups and plan to reconvene over Chazwa in, say, five days. Good luck, all."

The others acknowledged and signed off, and one by one made their jumps to lightspeed. "So much for staying neutral," Aves sighed as he checked the nav computer. "Mara's going to have a fit when she finds out. When is she coming back, by the way?"

"As soon as I can find a way to get her here," Karrde said, feeling a twinge of guilt. It had been several days since he'd gotten the message that she and Ghent were ready to rejoin him, a message that had probably been several more days in reaching him in the first place. She was probably ready to bite hull metal by now. "After that last raise in the Imperial price on us, there are probably twenty bounty hunters waiting off Coruscant for us to show up."

Aves shifted uncomfortably. "Is that what you think happened down there? Some bounty hunter got wind of the meeting and tipped off the Imperials?"

Karrde gazed out at the stars. "I really don't know what all that was about," he admitted. "Bounty hunters generally avoid tipping off the authorities unless they already have a financial agreement. On the other hand, when the Imperials go to the effort of carrying out a raid, one expects them to do a more competent job of it."

"Unless they were just tailing Gillespee and didn't know the rest of us were there," Aves suggested hesitantly. "Could be that three squads of troops and a couple of Chariots is all he rates."

"I suppose that's possible," Karrde conceded. "Hard to believe their intelligence was that spotty, though. Well, I'll have our people on Trogan make some quiet inquiries. See if they can backtrack that unit and find out where the tip-off came from. In the meantime, we have a hunt to organize. Let's get to it."

Niles Ferrier was smiling behind that unkempt beard of his, Pellaeon noticed as the stormtroopers escorted him across the bridge; a smug, highly self-satisfied type of smile that showed he had no idea whatsoever why he'd been brought to the Chimaera. "He's here, Admiral," Pellaeon murmured.

"I know," Thrawn said calmly, his back to the approaching spaceship thief. Calmly, but with a deadly look in his glowing red eyes. Grimacing, Pellaeon braced himself. This wasn't going to be pretty.

The group reached Thrawn's command chair and halted. "Niles Ferrier, Admiral," the stormtrooper commander stated. "As per orders."

For a long moment the Grand Admiral didn't move, and as Pellaeon watched, the smirk on Ferrier's face slipped a bit. "You were on Trogan two days ago," Thrawn said at last, still not turning around. "You met with two men currently wanted by the Empire: Talon Karrde and Samuel Tomas Gillespee. You also persuaded a small and unprepared task force under one Lieutenant Reynol Kosk to launch a rash attack on this meeting, an attack which failed. Is all this true?"

"Sure is," Ferrier nodded. "See, that's why I sent you that message. So you'd know—"

"Then I should like to hear your reasons," Thrawn cut him off, swiveling his chair around at last to gaze up at the thief, "why I should not order your immediate execution."

Ferrier's mouth dropped open. "What?" he said. "But—I've gotten in with Karrde. He trusts me now—see? That was the whole idea. I can dig out the rest of his gang and deliver the whole bunch to you . . ." He trailed off, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

"You were directly responsible for the deaths of four stormtroopers and thirty-two Imperial army troops," Thrawn continued. "Also for the destruction of two Chariot command speeders and their crews. I am not the Lord Darth Vader, Ferrier—I do not spend my men recklessly. Nor do I take their deaths lightly."

The color was starting to leave Ferrier's face. "Sir—Admiral—I know that you've put a bounty on Karrde's whole group of almost—"

"But all that pales in comparison to the utter disaster you've created," Thrawn cut him off again. "Intelligence informed me of this meeting of smuggler chiefs almost four days ago. I knew the location, the timing, and the probable guest list . . . and I had already given the Trogan garrison precise instructions—precise instructions, Ferrier—to leave it strictly alone."

Pellaeon hadn't thought Ferrier's face could get any paler. He was wrong. "You—? But—sir—but . . . I don't get it."

"I'm sure you don't," Thrawn said, his voice deadly quiet. He gestured; and from his position beside Thrawn's chair the Noghri bodyguard Rukh took a step forward. "But it's really quite simple. I know these smugglers, Ferrier. I've studied their operations, and I've made it a point to deal personally with each of them at least once over the past year. None of them wants to become entangled in this war, and without your staged attack I'm quite certain they would have left Trogan convinced that they could sit things out in traditional smuggler neutrality."

He gestured again to Rukh, and suddenly the Noghri's slender assassin's knife was in his hand. "The result of your interference," he continued quietly, "has been to unite them against the Empire—precisely the turn of events I'd gone to great lengths to avoid." His glowing eyes bored into Ferrier's face. "And I do not appreciate having my efforts wasted."

Ferrier's eyes flicked back and forth between Thrawn and the blade in Rukh's hand, his face now gone from pasty white to gray. "I'm sorry, Admiral," he said, the words coming out with obvious difficulty. "I didn't mean—I mean, just give me another chance, huh? Just one more chance? I can deliver Karrde—I swear to you. Well, hey—I mean, never mind even Karrde. I'll deliver all of them to you."

He ran out of words and just stood there looking sick. Thrawn let him hang for another few heartbeats. "You are a small-minded fool, Ferrier," he said at last. "But even fools occasionally have their uses. You will have one more chance. One last chance. I trust I make myself clear."

"Yes, Admiral, real clear," Ferrier said, his head jerking up and down in something closer to a twitch than a nod.

"Good." Thrawn gestured, and Rukh's knife vanished. "You can start by telling me exactly what they have planned."

"Sure." Ferrier took a shuddering breath. "Karrde, Par'tah, and Clyngunn are going to meet in—I guess three days now—at Chazwa. Oh—they know you're running your new clones through Orus sector."

"Do they," Thrawn said evenly. "And they intend to stop it?"

"No—just find out where it's coming from. Then they're going to tell the New Republic. Brasck isn't going along, but he said he wouldn't stop them, either. Dravis is going to check with Billey and get back to them. And Mazzic and Ellor have something else planned—they didn't say what."

He ran out of words, or air, and stopped. "All right," Thrawn said after a moment. "This is what you're going to do. You and your people will meet Karrde and the others at Chazwa on schedule. You'll take Karrde a gift: an assault shuttle you stole from the Hishyim patrol station."

"Rigged, right?" Ferrier nodded eagerly. "Yeah, that was my idea, too—give 'em some rigged ships that—"

"Karrde will of course examine this gift thoroughly," Thrawn interrupted him, his patience clearly becoming strained. "The ship will therefore be in perfect condition. Its purpose is merely to establish your credibility. Assuming you still have any."

Ferrier's lip twisted. "Yes, sir. And then?"

"You will continue to report on Karrde's activities," Thrawn told him. "And from time to time I'll be sending you further instructions. Instructions which you will carry out instantly and without question. Is that clear?"

"Sure," Ferrier said. "Don't worry, Admiral, you can count on me."

"I certainly hope so." Deliberately, Thrawn looked at Rukh. "Because I would hate to have to send Rukh to pay you a visit. I trust I make myself understood?"

Ferrier looked at Rukh, too, and swallowed hard. "Yeah, I get it."

"Good." He swiveled his chair to face away from Ferrier again. "Commander, escort our guest back to his ship and see that his people are checked out on the assault shuttle I've had prepared for them."

"Yes, sir," the stormtrooper commander said. He gave Ferrier a nudge, and the group turned and headed aft.

"Go with them, Rukh," Thrawn said. "Ferrier has a small mind, and I want it to leave here filled with the knowledge of what will happen if he trips over my plans again."

"Yes, my lord," the Noghri said, and slipped silently away after the departing ship thief.

Thrawn turned to Pellaeon. "Your analysis, Captain?"

"Not a good situation, sir," Pellaeon said, "but not as bad as it might have been. We have a potential line on Karrde's group, if you can believe Ferrier. And in the meantime, he and his new allies won't be doing anything but following the decoy trail we've already prepared for the Rebellion."

"And eventually they'll tire of that and again go their separate ways," Thrawn agreed, his glowing eyes narrowed in thought. "Particularly as the financial burden of lost Imperial business begins to take its toll. Still, that will take time."

"What are the options?" Pellaeon asked. "Take Ferrier up on his offer to give them booby-trapped ships?"

Thrawn smiled. "I have something more useful and satisfying in mind, Captain. Eventually, I'm sure some of the other smugglers will realize how unconvincing the Trogan attack really was. With a little judiciously planted evidence, perhaps we can persuade them that it was Karrde who was behind it."

Pellaeon blinked. "Karrde?" he repeated.

"Why hot?" Thrawn asked. "A deceitful and heavy-handed attempt, shall we say, to persuade the others that his fears about the Empire were justified. It would certainly lose Karrde any influence he might have over them, as well as possibly saving us the trouble of hunting him down ourselves."

"It's something to think about, sir," Pellaeon agreed diplomatically. The middle of a major offensive, in his opinion, was not the right time to be worrying about exacting vengeance on the dregs of the galaxy's underfringes. There would be plenty of time for that after the Rebellion had been pounded into dust. "May I suggest, Admiral, that the stalled campaign off Ketaris requires your attention?"

Thrawn smiled again. "Your devotion to duty is commendable, Captain." He turned his head to gaze out the side viewport. "No word yet from Coruscant?"

"Not yet, sir," Pellaeon said, checking the comm log update just to be sure. "But you remember what Himron said about first creating a data trail. He might have run into some delays."

"Perhaps." Thrawn turned back, and Pellaeon could see the slight tightness in his face. "Perhaps not. Still, even if we fail to obtain the twins for our beloved Jedi Master, Major Himron's fingering of Mara Jade should succeed in neutralizing her as a threat to us. For the moment, that's what's important."

He straightened in his chair. "Set course for the Ketaris battle plane, Captain. We'll leave as soon as Ferrier is clear."

Chapter 11

The bulky man was turning into the Grand Corridor when Han finally caught up with him, his expression that of a man in a hurry and in a rotten mood besides. But that was okay; Han wasn't in all that great a mood, either. "Colonel Bremen," he said, falling in step beside the man just as he passed the first of the slender purple-and-green ch'hala trees that lined both sides of the Grand Corridor. "I want to talk to you a minute."

Bremen threw him an irritated glance. "If it's about Mara Jade, Solo, I don't want to hear it."

"She's still under house arrest," Han said anyway. "I want to know why."

"Gee, well, maybe it has something to do with that Imperial attack two nights ago," Bremen said sarcastically. "You suppose?"

"Could be," Han agreed, batting at one of the ch'hala branches that was stretching a little too far from the trunk. The subtle turmoil of color taking place beneath the tree's transparent outer bark exploded into an angry red at the spot where the branch connected to it, the color shooting around the trunk in ripples as it slowly faded. "I guess it all depends on how much we're listening to Imperial rumor these days."

Bremen stopped short and spun to face him. "Look, Solo, what do you want from me?" he snapped. A new flush of pale red rippled across the ch'hala tree Han had touched, and across the corridor a group of diplomats sitting around a conversation ring looked up questioningly. "Look at the facts a minute, huh? Jade knew about the secret back door and the passages—she admits that outright. She was there on the scene before any alert was sounded—she admits that, too."

"Well, so were Lando and General Bel Iblis," Han said, feeling that thin plating of diplomacy that Leia had worked so hard to build starting to fail. "You haven't got them locked up."

"The situations are hardly similar, are they?" Bremen shot back. "Calrissian and Bel Iblis have histories with the New Republic, and people here who vouch for them. Jade has neither."

"Leia and I vouch for her," Han told him, trying hard to ignore that whole thing about her wanting to kill Luke. "Isn't that good enough? Or are you just mad at her for doing your job for you?"

It was the wrong thing to say. Bremen turned nearly as red as the ch'hala tree had, his face hardening to something you could use for hull metal. "So she helped shoot some alleged Imperial agents," he said frostily. "That proves absolutely nothing. With a Grand Admiral pulling the strings out there, the entire raid could have been nothing more than an elaborate scheme to convince us she's on our side. Well, I'm sorry, but we're not buying today. She gets the full treatment: records search, background search, acquaintance correlation, and a couple of question/answer sessions with our interrogators."

"Terrific," Han snorted. "If she's not on our side now, that'll put her there for sure."

Bremen drew himself up to his full height. "We're not doing this to be popular, Solo. We're doing this to protect New Republic lives—yours and your children's among them, if you recall. I presume Councilor Organa Solo will be at Mon Mothma's briefing; if she has any complaints or suggestions, she can present them there. Until then, I don't want to hear anything about Jade from anyone. Especially you. Is that clear, Captain Solo."

Han sighed. "Yeah. Sure."

"Good." Spinning around again, Bremen continued on his way down the corridor. Han watched him go, glowering at his back.

"You do have a way with people, don't you?" a familiar voice said wryly from beside him.

Han turned in mild surprise. "Luke! When did you get back?"

"About ten minutes ago," Luke told him, nodding down the corridor. "I called your room, and Winter told me you two had headed down here for a special meeting. I was hoping to catch you before you went in."

"I'm not invited, actually," Han said, throwing one last glare at Bremen's retreating back. "And Leia stopped by Mara's room first."

"Ah. Mara."

Han looked back at his friend. "She was here when we needed her," he reminded the younger man.

Luke grimaced. "And I wasn't."

"That wasn't what I meant," Han protested.

"I know," Luke assured him. "But I still should have been here."

"Well . . ." Han shrugged, not really sure what to say. "You can't always be here to protect her. That's what she's got me for."

Luke threw him a wry smile. "Right. I must have forgotten."

Han looked over his shoulder. Other diplomats and Council aides were starting to show up, but no Leia yet. "Come on—she must have gotten hung up somewhere. We can meet her halfway."

"I'm surprised you're letting her walk around the Palace alone," Luke commented as they headed back along the row of ch'hala trees.

"She's not exactly alone," Han said dryly. "Chewie hasn't let her out of his sight since the attack. The big fuzzball even sleeps outside our door at night."

"Must give you a safe feeling."

"Yeah. The kids'll probably grow up allergic to Wookiee hair." He glanced over at Luke. "Where were you, anyway? Your last message said you'd be back three days ago."

"That was before I got stuck on—" Luke broke off, eyeing the people beginning to wander through the corridor. "I'll tell you later," he amended. "Winter said that Mara was under house arrest?"

"Yeah, and it looks like she's going to stay there," Han growled. "At least till we can convince the bit-pushers down in Security that she's clear."

"Yes," Luke said hesitantly. "Well, that might not be as easy as it sounds."

Han frowned. "Why not?"

Luke seemed to brace himself. "Because she spent most of the war years as a personal assistant to the Emperor."

Han stared at him. "I hope you're kidding."

"I'm not," Luke said, shaking his head. "He had her going all over the Empire doing jobs for him. They called her the Emperor's Hand."

Which was what that Imperial major down in the medical wing had called her. "That's great," he told Luke, turning to face forward again. "Just great. You could have told us."

"I didn't think it was important," Luke said. "She's not with the Empire now, that's for sure." He threw Han a significant glance. "And I suppose most of us have things in our background we wouldn't want people talking about."

"Somehow, I don't think Bremen and his Security hotshots are going to see it that way," Han said grimly.

"Well, we'll just have to convince them—"

He broke off. "What is it?" Han asked.

"I don't know," Luke said slowly. "I just felt a disturbance in the Force."

Something cold settled into the pit of Han's stomach. "What kind of disturbance?" he asked. "You mean like danger?"

"No," Luke said, his forehead wrinkled with concentration. "More like surprise. Or shock." He looked at Han. "And I'm not sure . . . but I think it was coming from Leia."

Han's hand dropped to the grip of his blaster, his eyes flicking around the corridor. Leia was up there with a former Imperial agent . . . and she was surprised enough for Luke to pick up on it. "You think we should run?" he said quietly.

"No," Luke said. His hand, Han noted, was fingering his lightsaber. "But we can walk fast."

From outside the door came the muffled voice of the G-2RD guard droid, and with a tired sigh Mara shut down her data pad and tossed it on the desk in front of her. Eventually, she assumed, Security would get tired of these polite little sweetness-coated interrogation sessions. But if they were, it wasn't showing yet. Reaching out with the Force, she tried to identify her visitor, hoping at least that it wasn't that Bremen character again.

It wasn't; and she had just enough time to get over her surprise before the door opened and Leia Organa Solo walked in.

"Hello, Mara," Organa Solo nodded in greeting. Behind her, the guard droid closed the door, giving Mara a brief glimpse of an obviously unhappy Wookiee. "I just stopped in to see how you were doing."

"I'm just terrific," Mara growled, still not sure whether getting Organa Solo instead of Bremen was a step up or a step down. "What was all that about outside?"

Leia shook her head, and Mara caught a flicker of the other woman's annoyance. "Somebody in Security apparently decided you shouldn't have more than one guest at a time unless it was one of them. Chewie had to stay outside, and he wasn't very happy about it."

"I take it he doesn't trust me?"

"Don't take it personally," Leia assured her. "Wookiees take these life-debts of theirs very seriously, you know. He's still pretty upset that he nearly lost all of us to that kidnap squad. Actually, at this point he probably trusts you more than he trusts anyone else in the Palace."

"I'm glad someone does," Mara said, hearing the bitterness in her voice. "Maybe I should ask him to have a little talk with Colonel Bremen."

Organa Solo sighed. "I'm sorry about this, Mara. We've got a meeting downstairs in a few minutes and I'm going to try again to get you released. But I don't think Mon Mothma and Ackbar will okay it until Security finishes their check."

And when they found out that she really had been the Emperor's Hand . . . "I should have kept pushing Winter to get me a ship out of here."

"If you had, the twins and I would be in Imperial hands now," Organa Solo said quietly. "On our way to be the prizes of his Jedi Master C'baoth."

Mara felt her jaw tighten. Offhand, she couldn't think of many fates more horrible than that one. "You've already thanked me," she muttered. "Let's just say you owe me one and leave it at that, okay?"

Organa Solo smiled slightly. "I think we owe you a lot more than just one," she said.

Mara looked her straight in the eye. "Remember that when I kill your brother."

Organa Solo didn't flinch. "You still think you want to kill him?"

"I don't want to discuss it," Mara told her, getting up from her chair and stalking over to the window. "I'm doing fine, you're going to try to get me out, and we're all glad I saved you from C'baoth. Was there anything else?"

She could feel Organa Solo's eyes studying her. "Not really," the other said. "I just wanted to ask why you did it."

Mara stared out the window, feeling an uncomfortable swelling of emotion washing up against the heavy armorplate she'd worked so hard to build up around herself. "I don't know," she said, vaguely surprised that she was even admitting it. "I've had two days of solitary to think it over, and I still don't know. Maybe . . ." She shrugged. "I guess it was just something about Thrawn trying to steal your children."

For a minute Organa Solo was silent. "Where did you come from, Mara?" she asked at last. "Before the Emperor brought you to Coruscant."

Mara thought back. "I don't know. I remember the first time I met the Emperor, and the ride here in his private ship. But I don't have any memories of where I started from."

"Do you remember how old you were?"

Mara shook her head. "Not really. I was old enough to talk to him, and to understand that I would be leaving home and going with him. But I can't pin it down any closer than that."

"How about your parents? Do you remember them?"

"Only a little," Mara said. "Not much more than shadows." She hesitated. "I have a feeling, though, that they didn't want me to go."

"I doubt the Emperor gave them any choice in the matter," Organa Solo said, her voice suddenly gentle. "What about you, Mara? Did you have any choice?"

Mara smiled tightly through a sudden inexplicable welling up of tears. "So that's where you're going with this. You think I risked my life for your twins because I got taken from my home the same way?"

"Were you?"

"No," Mara said flatly, turning back to face her. "It wasn't like that. I just didn't want C'baoth getting his crazy grip on them. Just leave it at that."

"All right," Organa Solo said, in a voice that said she only half believed it. "But if you ever want to talk more about it—"

"I know where to find you," Mara finished for her. She still didn't believe she was telling Organa Solo all this . . . but down deep she had to admit that it felt strangely good to talk about it. Maybe she was getting soft.

"And you can call on me anytime," Organa Solo smiled as she stood up. "I'd better get downstairs to the briefing. See what Thrawn's fighting clones are up to today."

Mara frowned. "What fighting clones?"

It was Organa Solo's turn to frown. "You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"The Empire's found some Spaarti cloning cylinders somewhere. They've been turning out huge numbers of clones to fight against us."

Mara stared at her, an icy chill running through her. Clones . . . "No one told me," she whispered.

"I'm sorry," Organa Solo said. "I thought everyone knew. It was the main topic of conversation in the Palace for nearly a month."

"I was in the medical wing," Mara said mechanically. Clones. With the Katana-fleet ships to fight from, and with the cold-blooded genius of Grand Admiral Thrawn to command them. It would be the Clone Wars all over again.

"That's right—I'd forgotten," Organa Solo acknowledged. "There was so much else going on." She was looking oddly at Mara. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Mara said, her voice sounding distant in her ears as the memories flashed across her mind like heat lightning. A forest—a mountain—a hidden and very private warehouse of the Emperor's personal treasures—

And a vast chamber full of cloning tanks.

"All right," Organa Solo said, clearly not convinced but equally unwilling to press the point. "Well . . . I'll see you later." She reached again for the door handle—

"Wait."

Organa Solo turned back. "Yes?"

Mara took a deep breath. The very existence of the place had been a sacred trust, known to only a handful of people—the Emperor had made that clear time and time again. But for Thrawn to have a renewable army of clones to throw against the galaxy . . . "I think I know where Thrawn's Spaarti cylinders are."

Even with her rudimentary sensing abilities she could feel the wave of shock that rippled outward from Organa Solo. "Where?" she asked, her voice tightly controlled.

"The Emperor had a private storehouse," Mara said, the words coming out with difficulty. His wizened face seemed to hover before her, those yellow eyes gazing at her in silent and bitter accusation. "It was beneath a mountain on a world he called Wayland—I don't know if it even had an official name. It was where he kept all of his private mementos and souvenirs and odd bits of technology he thought might be useful someday. One of the artificial caverns held a complete cloning facility he'd apparently appropriated from one of the clonemasters."

"How complete was it?"

"Very," Mara said with a shiver. "It had a full nutrient delivery system in place, plus a flash-teaching setup for personality imprinting and tech training on the clones while they developed."

"How many cylinders were there?"

Mara shook her head. "I don't know for sure. It was arranged in concentric tiers, sort of like a sport arena, and it filled the whole cavern."

"Were there a thousand cylinders?" Organa Solo persisted. "Two thousand? Ten?"

"I'd say at least twenty thousand," Mara told her. "Maybe more."

"Twenty thousand," Organa Solo said, her face carved from ice. "And he can turn out a clone from each one every twenty days."

Mara stared at her. "Twenty days?" she echoed. "That's impossible."

"I know. Thrawn's doing it anyway. Do you know Wayland's coordinates?"

Mara shook her head. "I was only there once, and the Emperor flew the ship himself. But I know I could find it if I had access to charts and a nav computer."

Organa Solo nodded slowly, her sense giving Mara the impression of wind racing through a ravine. "I'll see what I can do. In the meantime—" Her eyes focused abruptly on Mara's face. "You aren't to tell anyone what you've just told me. Anyone. Thrawn is still getting information out of the Palace . . . and this is well worth killing for."

Mara nodded. "I understand," she said. Suddenly, the room was feeling chillier.

"All right. I'll try to get some extra security up here. If I can do it without drawing unwelcome attention." She paused, cocking her head slightly to the side as if listening. "I'd better go. Han and Luke are coming, and this isn't the right place for a council of war."

"Sure," Mara said, turning away from her to face the window. The lot was cast, and she had now irrevocably put herself on the side of the New Republic.

On the side of Luke Skywalker. The man she had to kill.

They held the council of war that night in Leia's office, the one place they knew for certain that the mysterious Delta Source had so far had no access to. Luke glanced around the room as he came in, thinking back again to the tangled series of events that had brought these people—these friends—into his life. Han and Leia, sitting together on the couch, sharing a brief moment of quietness together before the realities of a galaxy at war intruded once more. Chewbacca, sitting between them and the door, his bowcaster resting ready on his shaggy knees, determined not to fail again in the self-imposed duties of his life-debt. Lando, scowling at Leia's computer terminal and a list of what looked like some kind of current market prices displayed there. Threepio and Artoo, conversing off in a corner, probably catching each other up on recent news and whatever passed for gossip among droids. And Winter, sitting unobtrusively in another corner, tending to the sleeping twins.

His friends. His family.

"Well?" Han asked.

"I did a complete circle around the office area," Luke told him. "No beings or droids anywhere nearby. How about here?"

"I had Lieutenant Page come in personally and do a counterintelligence sweep," Leia said. "And no one's come in since then. Everything should be secure."

"Great," Han said. "Now can we find out what this is all about?"

"Yes," Leia said, and Luke sensed his sister brace herself. "Mara thinks she knows where the Empire's cloning facility is."

Han sat up a little straighten threw a quick look at Lando. "Where?"

"On a planet the Emperor called Wayland," Leia said. "A code name, apparently—it's not on any list I can find."

"What was it, one of the old clonemaster facilities?" Luke asked.

"Mara said it was the Emperor's storehouse," Leia said. "I got the impression that it was a sort of combination trophy room and equipment dump."

"A private rat's nest," Han said. "Sounds like him. Where is it?"

"She doesn't have the coordinates," Leia said. "She was only there once. But she thinks she can find it again."

"Why hasn't she said something about it before now?" Lando asked.

Leia shrugged. "Apparently, she didn't know about the clones until I said something. She was undergoing neural regeneration, remember, when everyone here was discussing it."

"It's still hard to believe she could just miss the whole thing," Lando objected.

"Hard, but not impossible," Leia said. "None of the general-distribution reports she had access to have ever mentioned the clones. And she hasn't exactly been what you'd call sociable around the Palace."

"The timing here's still pretty convenient," Lando pointed out. "One might even say suspiciously convenient. Here she was, with practically free run of the Palace. Then she gets fingered by an Imperial commando leader and locked up—and suddenly she's dangling Wayland in front of us and wanting us to break her out."

"Who said anything about breaking her out?" Leia asked, looking slightly aghast at the whole idea.

"Isn't that what she's offering?" Lando asked. "To take us to Wayland if we get her out?"

"She's not asking anything," Leia protested. "And all I'm offering is to smuggle a nav computer in to her to get Wayland's location."

"Afraid that won't do it, sweetheart," Han shook his head. "The coordinates would be a start, but a planet's a pretty big place to hide a storehouse in."

"Especially one the Emperor didn't want found," Luke agreed. "Lando's right. We'll have to take her with us."

Han and Lando turned to stare at him, and even Leia looked taken aback. "You don't mean you're buying this whole thing," Lando said.

"I don't think we have any choice," Luke said. "The longer we delay, the more clones the Empire's going to have to throw at us."

"What about the backtrack you started?" Leia suggested. "The one through Poderis and Orus sector?"

"That'll take time," Luke said. "This'll get us there a lot faster."

"If she's telling the truth," Lando countered darkly. "If she isn't, you're off on a dead-end chase."

"Or worse," Han added. "Thrawn's already tried once to get you and that C'baoth character together. This could be another trap."

Luke looked at each of them in turn, wishing he knew how to explain it. Somewhere deep within him he knew that this was the right thing to do; that this was where his path was leading him. As it had been with that final confrontation with Vader and the Emperor, somehow his destiny and Mara's were joined together at this place in time. "It's not a trap," he said at last. "At least, not on Mara's part."

"I agree," Leia said quietly. "And I think you're right. We have to take her with us."

Han shifted in his seat to stare at his wife. Shot a frown at Luke, looked back at Leia. "Let me guess," he growled. "This is one of those crazy Jedi things, right?"

"Partly," Leia conceded. "But it's mostly just simple tactical logic. I don't think Thrawn would have tried so hard to convince us that Mara was a party to that kidnapping attempt unless he wanted us to disbelieve anything she might have told us about Wayland."

"If you assume that, you also have to assume Thrawn figured the attempt would fail," Lando pointed out.

"I assume Thrawn prepares for all contingencies," Leia said. A muscle tightened in her cheek. "And as you said, Han, there's also some Jedi insight involved here. I touched Mara's mind twice during that attack: once when she woke me up, then again when she came in behind the commandos."

She looked at Luke, and in her sense he could see that she knew about Mara's vow to kill him. "Mara doesn't like us very much," she said aloud. "But on some level I don't think that matters. She understands what a new round of Clone Wars would do to the galaxy, and she doesn't want that."

"If she's willing to take me to Wayland, I'm going," Luke added firmly. "I'm not asking any of you to go along. All I want is your help getting Mon Mothma to release her." He hesitated. "And your blessing."

For a long moment the room was silent. Han stared at the floor, his forehead creased with concentration, gripping Leia's hand tightly in both of his. Lando stroked at his mustache, saying nothing. Chewbacca fingered his bowcaster, rumbling softly under his breath; in the opposite corner Artoo was chirping away thoughtfully to himself. One of the twins—Jacen, Luke decided—moaned a little in his sleep, and Winter reached over to rub his back soothingly.

"We can't talk to Mon Mothma about it," Han said at last. "She'll go through channels, and by the time anyone's ready to do anything half the Palace will know about it. If Thrawn wants to shut Mara up for good, he'll have all the time he needs to do it."

"What's the alternative?" Leia asked, her eyes suddenly cautious.

"What Lando already said," Han told her bluntly. "We break her out."

Leia threw a startled look at Luke. "Han! We can't do that."

"Sure we can," Han assured her. "Chewie and me had to pop a guy out of an Imperial hotbox once, and it worked just fine."

Chewbacca growled. "It did too," Han protested, looking over at him. "It wasn't our fault they picked him up again a week later."

"That's not what I meant," Leia said, her voice pained. "You're talking about a highly illegal action. Bordering on treason."

Han patted her knee. "The whole Rebellion was a highly illegal action bordering on treason, sweetheart," he reminded her. "When the rules don't work, you break 'em."

Leia took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "You're right," she admitted at last. "You're right. When do we do it?"

"We—that is, you—don't do it," Han told her. "It's going to be Luke and me. You and Chewie are staying here where it's safe."

Chewbacca started to rumble something, broke off in midsentence. Leia looked at the Wookiee, at Luke— "You don't need to come, Han," Luke said, reading in his sister the fears he knew she couldn't voice. "Mara and I can do it alone."

"What, two of you are going to take out a whole cloning complex by yourselves?" Han snorted.

"We don't have much choice," Luke said. "As long as Delta Source is active there aren't too many other people we know we can trust. And the ones we can, like Rogue Squadron, are on active defense duty." He waved a hand to encompass the room. "We're pretty much it."

"So we're it," Han said. "We'll still have a lot better chance with three than with two."

Luke looked at Leia. Her eyes were haunted with fear for her husband's safety; but in her sense he could find only a reluctant acceptance of Han's decision. She understood the critical importance of this mission, and she was far too experienced a warrior not to recognize that Hans offer made sense.

Or perhaps, like Han, she didn't want Luke going off alone with the woman who wanted to kill him.

"All right, Han," he said. "Sure—we'll make it a party of three."

"Might as well make it a party of four," Lando sighed. "The way things are going with my Nomad City petition, it doesn't look like I'm going to have much else to do. It'd be nice to pay them back a little for that."

"Sounds good to me, pal," Han nodded. "Welcome aboard." He turned to Chewbacca. "Okay, Chewie. Now what's your problem?"

Luke looked at Chewbacca in surprise. He hadn't noticed any problem there; but now that he was paying attention, he could indeed sense the turmoil in the Wookiee's emotions. "What is it, Chewie?"

For a moment the other just rumbled under his breath. Then, with obvious reluctance, he told them. "Well, we'd like to have you along, too," Han told him. "But someone's got to stay here and take care of Leia. Unless you think Palace Security's up to the job."

Chewbacca growled a succinct opinion of Palace Security. "Right," Han agreed. "That's why you're staying."

Luke looked at Leia. She was looking at him, too, and he could tell that she also recognized the dilemma. Chewbacca's original life-debt was to Han, and it pained him terribly to let Han go into this kind of danger without him. But Leia and the twins were also under the Wookiee's protection, and it would be equally unthinkable for him to leave them unguarded in the Palace.

And then, even as he tried to think of a solution, Luke saw his sister's eyes light up. "I have an idea," she said carefully.

They all listened to it, and to Han's obviously stunned surprise, Chewbacca agreed at once. "You're kidding," Han said. "This is a joke, right? Yeah—it's a joke. 'Cause if you think I'm going to leave Leia and the twins—"

"It's the only way, Han," Leia said quietly. "Chewie's going to be miserable any other way."

"Chewie's been miserable before," Han shot back. "He'll get over it. Come on, Luke—tell her."

Luke shook his head. "Sorry, Han. I happen to think it's a good idea." He hesitated, but couldn't resist. "I guess it's one of those crazy Jedi things."

"Very funny," Han growled. He looked around the room again. "Lando? Winter? Come on, one of you say something."

"Don't look at me, Han," Lando said, holding up his hands. "I'm out of this part of the discussion."

"As for me, I trust Princess Leia's judgment," Winter added. "If she believes we'll be safe, I'm willing to accept that."

"You've got a few days to get used to the idea," Leia reminded him before Han could say anything more. "Maybe we can change your mind."

The look on Han's face wasn't encouraging. But he nodded anyway. "Yeah. Sure."

There was a moment of silence. "So that's it?" Lando asked at last.

"That's it," Leia confirmed. "We've got a mission to plan. Let's get to it."

Chapter 12

From the corner of the communications desk the intercom pinged. "Karrde?" Dankin's voice came tiredly. "We're coming up on the Bilbringi system. Breakout in about five minutes."

"We'll be right there," Karrde told him. "Make sure the turbolasers are manned—no telling what we're going to run into."

"Right," Dankin said. "Out."

Karrde tapped off the intercom and keyed off the desk's decrypters. "He sounds tired," Aves commented from the other side of the desk as he put down his data pad.

"Almost as tired as you look," Karrde said, giving the display he'd been studying one last scan before shutting it down as well. The report from his people on Anchoron, like the others before it: all negative. "It must be too long since we've had to pull double shifts," he added to Aves. "No one's used to it anymore. I'll have to include that in future training exercises."

"I'm sure the crew will love it," Aves said dryly. "We'd hate to have people think we were soft."

"Contrary to our image," Karrde agreed, standing up. "Let's go; we'll finish sorting through these later."

"For all the good it'll do," Aves grunted. "Are you absolutely sure those were clones Skywalker spotted on Berchest?"

"Skywalker was sure," Karrde said as they left the office and headed for the bridge. "I trust you're not suggesting the noble Jedi would have lied to me."

"Not lied, no," Aves shook his head. "I'm just wondering if the whole thing could have been a setup. Something Thrawn deliberately dangled in front of you to put us off the real pipeline."

"That thought has occurred to me," Karrde agreed. "Even given Governor Staffa's indebtedness to us, we seemed to get in and out of the system just that little bit too easily."

"You didn't mention these reservations when you were passing out search assignments back at Chazwa."

"I'm sure similar thoughts have already occurred to each of the others," Karrde assured him. "Just as the thought has undoubtedly occurred to them that if there's an Imperial agent among us we should do our best to keep him believing we're buying Grand Admiral Thrawn's deception. If it is a deception."

"And if there's an Imperial agent in the group," Aves said.

Karrde smiled. " 'If we had some bruallki, we could have bruallki and Menkooro—"

"—if we had some Menkooro,' " Aves finished the old saying. "You still think Ferrier's working for Thrawn, don't you."

Karrde shrugged. "It's only his word against Solo's that he wasn't a willing agent of the Empire in the Katana-fleet business."

"That why you had Torve take that assault shuttle off to the Roche system?"

"Right," Karrde nodded, wishing briefly that Mara was here. Aves was a good enough man, but he needed things laid out in front of him that Mara would have instantly picked up on her own. "I know a couple of Verpine out there who owe me a favor. If the assault shuttle is rigged in any way, they'll find it."

The door to the bridge slid open and they stepped inside. "Status?" Karrde asked as he glanced through the viewport at the mottled sky of hyperspace rolling past.

"All systems showing ready," Dankin said, yielding the helm seat to Aves. "Balig, Lachton, and Corvis are at the turbolasers."

"Thank you," Karrde said, sitting down beside Aves at the copilot station. "Stick around, Dankin; you're going to be captain today."

"I'm honored," Dankin said wryly, stepping over to the comm station and sitting down.

"What do you suppose this is all about?" Aves asked as he got the ship ready for breakout.

"No idea," Karrde admitted. "According to Par'tah, all Mazzic would say was that I might want to come by Bilbringi after our rendezvous with the others at Chazwa."

"Probably the eye-catching lesson for the Empire he and Ellor were talking about at Trogan," Aves said heavily. "I don't think I'm going to like this."

"Just remember that whatever happens we're innocent bystanders," Karrde reminded him. "An incoming freighter with an authorized delivery schedule and a cargo of Koensayr power converters. Perfectly legitimate."

"As long as they don't look too close at any of it," Aves said, "Okay, here we go." He eased the hyperdrive levers forward, and the starlines appeared and collapsed again into a background of stars.

A background of stars, half-completed ships, service and construction vessels, and floating dockyard platforms. And, almost directly ahead of the Wild Karrde, a massive Golan II battle station bristling with armament.

They had arrived at the Imperial Shipyards of Bilbringi.

Dankin whistled softly. "Look at all that new construction," he said, his voice awed. "They aren't kidding around, are they?"

"No, they're not," Karrde agreed. "Nor are they kidding around at Ord Trasi or Yaga Minor." And if Thrawn was putting half as much effort into his cloning operation as he was into warship construction—

"Incoming freighter, this is Bilbringi Control," an official-sounding voice from the comm cut him off. "Identify yourself and your home port and state your business."

"Dankin?" Karrde murmured.

Dankin nodded. "Freighter Hab Camber, out of Valrar," he said briskly into the comm. "Captain Abel Quiller in command. Carrying a shipment of power converters for Dock Forty-seven."

"Acknowledged," the controller said. "Stand by for confirmation."

Aves tapped Karrde on the arm and pointed to the battle station ahead. "They're launching an assault shuttle," he said.

And launching it in the Wild Karrde's direction. "Hold course," Karrde told him quietly. "They may just be seeing how nervous we are."

"Or else they're expecting trouble," Aves countered.

"Or are cleaning up after it," Dankin put in. "If Mazzic's already been here—"

"Freighter Hab Camber, you're ordered to hold position there," the controller broke in. "An inspection team is on its way to examine your shipment order."

Dankin keyed the comm. "Why, what's wrong with it?" he asked with just the right mixture of puzzlement and annoyance. "Look, I've got a business to run here—I haven't got time for any bureaucratic nonsense."

"If you'd prefer, we can arrange to end all your scheduling problems right here and now," the controller offered in a nasty voice. "If that doesn't appeal to you, I'd suggest you prepare to receive boarders."

"Acknowledged, Control," Dankin growled. "I just hope they're fast."

"Control out."

Dankin looked at Karrde. "Now what?"

"We prepare to receive boarders," Karrde said, letting his gaze sweep across the expanse of the shipyards. If Mazzic was keeping to the tentative schedule he'd given Par'tah, he ought to be showing up sometime soon.

He paused. "Aves, get me a reading on those," he said, pointing to a cluster of dark irregular spots drifting near the center of the shipyard area. "They don't look like ships to me."

"They're not," Aves confirmed a few seconds later. "Look to be midsize asteroids—maybe forty meters across each. I make the count . . . twenty-two of them."

"Odd," Karrde said, frowning at the sensor-focus display Aves had pulled up. There were over thirty small support craft in the area, he saw, with what seemed to be a similar number of maintenance-suited workers moving around the asteroids. "I wonder what the Imperials are doing with that many asteroids."

"Could be mining them," Aves suggested hesitantly. "I've never heard of anyone hauling the whole asteroid to a shipyard, though."

"Neither have I," Karrde nodded. "It's just a thought . . . but I wonder if they could have something to do with Thrawn's magic superweapon. The one he hit Ukio and Woostri with."

"That might explain the heavy security," Aves said. "Speaking of which, that assault shuttle's still coming. Are we going to let them board?"

"Unless you'd rather turn and run, I don't see many alternatives," Karrde said. "Dankin, how much scrutiny can our delivery schedule handle?"

"It can stand a lot," Dankin said slowly. "Depends a little on if they suspect something or if they're just being careful. Karrde, take a look about forty degrees to portside. That half-finished Imperial Star Destroyer—see it?"

Karrde swiveled in his seat. The Star Destroyer was, in fact, considerably more than half finished, with only the command superstructure and sections of the forward bastion ridgeline left to add. "I see it," he said. "What about it?"

"There seems to be some activity around—"

And in midsentence, the starboard flank of the Star Destroyer blew up.

Aves whistled in startled awe. "Scratch one warship," he said as a section of the forward hull followed the flank to fiery oblivion. "Mazzic, you think?"

"I don't think there's any doubt," Karrde said, keying his main display for a closer view. For a moment, silhouetted against the boiling flames, he caught a glimpse of a half-dozen freighter-sized craft angling swiftly toward the shipyard perimeter. "I also think they may have cut things a bit too fine," he added, looking up again at the Star Destroyer. A group of disaster-control craft were already swarming in toward the burning ship, three squadrons of TIE fighters right behind them.

And then, abruptly, the focal point of the incoming fighter cloud shifted from the Star Destroyer to the vector the escaping freighters had taken. "They've been spotted," Karrde said grimly, giving the situation a quick assessment. Mazzic's group was outnumbered and outgunned, an imbalance that would likely get worse before they could get far enough out from the shipyard clutter to make their escape to hyperspace. The Wild Karrde's three turbolasers would go a long way toward evening those odds; unfortunately, the center of action was too far away for them to make any significant difference to the outcome.

"We going to help him out?" Aves murmured.

"By all rights, we shouldn't lift a finger," Karrde told him, keying the nav computer to start their own lightspeed calculation and tapping the intercom. "Helping to salvage careless tactical planning only encourages more of the same. But I suppose we can't just sit here. Corvis?"

"Here," Corvis's voice came.

"On my command you're to open fire on that approaching assault shuttle," Karrde ordered. "Balig and Lachton, you'll target the battle station. See how much chaos we can cause. At the same time, Aves, you'll bring us around onto a vector of—"

"Wait a minute, Karrde," Dankin cut him off. "There—fifty degrees portside."

Karrde looked. There, straddling the same vector Mazzic's sabotage crew was escaping along, a pair of Corellian Gunships had shot in from hyperspace. A formation of TIE fighters that had been sweeping in from approximately that direction swerved to intercept, and were promptly blown into flaming dust. "Well, well," Karrde said. "Perhaps Mazzic's tactics aren't as bad as I'd thought."

"That's got to be Ellor's people," Aves said.

Karrde nodded. "Agreed. Corellian Gunships are a bit out of Mazzic's style—certainly out of his budget. It's a strategy that would certainly appeal to the legendary Duros cultural recklessness."

"I'd have thought Corellian Gunships would be a strain on Ellor's budget, too," Dankin commented. "You think he stole them from the New Republic?"

" 'Stole' is such a harsh word," Karrde chided mildly. "I expect he considers them merely an informal loan. New Republic ships often use the line of Duros maintenance depots scattered through the Trade Spine, and Ellor has a silent interest in several of them."

"I bet there'll be some complaints about the service this time around," Aves said dryly. "By the way, are we still planning to hit that assault shuttle?"

Karrde had almost forgotten about that. "No, actually. Corvis, Balig, Lachton—power down those turbolasers. Everyone else: stand down from alert and prepare to receive Imperial inspectors."

He got acknowledgments, and turned back to find Aves staring at him. "We're not going to run?" the other asked carefully. "Not even after that?" He nodded toward the firefight blazing off to portside.

"What's happening out there has absolutely nothing to do with us," Karrde said, giving the other his best innocent look. "We're an independent freighter with a cargo of power converters. Remember?"

"Yeah, but—"

"More to the point, it might be useful to see what happens in the aftermath of this raid," Karrde went on, gazing back at the ships. With their immediate exit vector being covered by Ellor's gunships, and with the yards' capital ships too far away to reach them in time, the raiders looked well on their way to a relatively clean escape. "Listen to their communications traffic, watch their cleanup and postraid security adjustments, get an assessment of how much damage was actually done. That sort of thing." Aves didn't look convinced, but he knew better than to argue the point. "If you think we can pull it off," he said doubtfully. "I mean, with the bounty on us and all."

"This is the last place an Imperial commander would expect us to show up," Karrde assured him. "Hence, no one here will be watching for us."

"Certainly not on a ship under the command of Captain Abel Quiller," Dankin said, unstrapping and standing up. "Impatient and bombastic, right?"

"Right," Karrde said. "But don't overdo the bombastic part. We don't want any hostility toward you, just contempt."

"Got it," Dankin nodded.

He left the bridge, and Karrde turned back to gaze at the smoldering wreckage of the now stillborn Star Destroyer. An eye-catching lesson, indeed, and one that Karrde would have argued strongly against if Mazzic and Ellor had asked his advice. But they hadn't, and they'd gone ahead and done it.

And now the lot was even more strongly cast than it had been after Trogan. Because Grand Admiral Thrawn would not let this go by without a swift and violent response. And if he could trace the attack back to Mazzic . . . and from there back to him . . .

"We're not going to be able to stop here," he murmured, half to himself. "We're going to have to organize. All of us."

"What?" Aves asked.

Karrde focused on him. On that open and puzzled face, clever in its own way but neither brilliant nor intuitive. "Never mind," he told the other, smiling to take any possible sting out of the words.

He turned back to the approaching assault shuttle. And vowed that when this was over, he would find a way to get Mara back.

The last page scrolled across the display, and Thrawn looked up at the man standing at stiff attention before him. "Have you anything to add to this report, General Drost?" he asked, his voice quiet.

Far too quiet, in Pellaeon's opinion. Certainly quieter than Pellaeon's voice would have been had he been in command here. Looking out the Chimaera's viewport at the blackened wreckage that had once been a nearly completed and highly valuable Imperial Star Destroyer, it was all he could do to stand silently beside the Grand Admiral and not take Drost's head off. It was no more than the man deserved.

And Drost knew it. "No, sir," he said, his voice sounding strained.

Thrawn held his eyes a moment longer, then turned his gaze out the viewport. "Can you offer me any reason why you should not be relieved of command?"

The faintest of sighs escaped Drost's lips. "No, sir," he said again.

For a long moment the only sound was the muted background murmur of the Chimaera's bridge. Pellaeon glowered at Drost's carved-stone face, wondering what his punishment would be. At the very least, a fiasco like this ought to earn him a summary court-martial and dismissal on charges of gross negligence. At the very most . . . well, there was always Lord Vader's traditional response to incompetence.

And Rukh was already standing close at hand behind Thrawn's command chair.

"Return to your headquarters, General," Thrawn said. "The Chimaera will be leaving here in approximately thirty hours. You have until then to design and implement a new security system for the shipyards. At that point I'll make my decision about your future."

Drost glanced at Pellaeon, looked back at Thrawn. "Understood, sir," he said. "I won't fail you again, Admiral."

"I trust not," Thrawn said, the barest hint of veiled threat in his voice. "Dismissed."

Drost nodded and turned away, a freshly awakened determination in his step.

"You disapprove, Captain."

Pellaeon forced himself to meet those glowing red eyes. "I would have thought a more punitive response would be called for," he said.

"Drost is a good enough man in his way," Thrawn said evenly. "His chief weakness is a tendency to become complacent. For the immediate future, at least, he should be cured of that."

Pellaeon looked back at the wreckage outside the Chimera's viewport. "A rather expensive lesson," he said sourly.

"Yes," Thrawn agreed. "And it demonstrates precisely why I didn't want Karrde's smuggler associates stirred up."

Pellaeon frowned at him. "This was the smugglers? I assumed it was a Rebel sabotage squad."

"Drost is under that same impression," Thrawn said. "But the method and execution here were quite different from the usual Rebel pattern. Mazzic, I think, is the most likely suspect. Though there are enough Duros elements woven into the style for Ellor's group to also have been involved."

"I see," Pellaeon said slowly. This put an entirely new spin on things. "I presume that we'll be teaching them the folly of attacking the Empire."

"I would like nothing better," Thrawn agreed. "And at the height of the Empire's power I wouldn't have hesitated to do so. Unfortunately, at this point such a reaction would be counterproductive. Not only would it harden the smugglers' resolve, but would risk bringing others of the galaxy's fringe elements into open hostility against us."

"We surely don't need their assistance and services that badly," Pellaeon said. "Not now."

"Our need for such vermin has certainly been reduced," Thrawn said. "That doesn't mean we're yet in a position to abandon them entirely. But that's not really the point. The problem is the dangerous fact that those in the fringe are highly experienced at operating within official circles without any official permission to do so. Keeping them out of places like Bilbringi would require far more manpower than we have to spare at present."

Pellaeon ground his teeth. "I understand that, sir. But we can't simply ignore an attack of this magnitude."

"We won't," Thrawn promised quietly, his eyes glittering. "And when it comes, our response will be to the Empire's best advantage." He swiveled his chair to face the center of the shipyards. "In the meantime—"

"GRAND ADMIRAL THRAWN!"

The shout roared through the bridge like a violent thunderclap, filling it from aft to forward and echoing back again. Pellaeon wrenched himself around, reflexively scrabbling for the blaster he wasn't wearing.

Joruus C'baoth was striding toward them across the bridge, his eyes flashing above his flowing beard. An angry radiance seemed to burn the air around him; behind him, the two stormtroopers guarding the entrance to the bridge were sprawled on the floor, unconscious or dead.

Pellaeon swallowed hard, his hand groping for and finding the reassuring presence of the ysalamir nutrient frame stretched across the top of the Grand Admiral's command chair. The frame rotated away from his touch as Thrawn swiveled to face the approaching Jedi Master. "You wish to speak to me, Master C'baoth?"

"They have failed, Grand Admiral Thrawn," C'baoth snarled at him. "Do you hear me? Your commandos have failed."

"I hear you," Thrawn nodded calmly. "What have you done to my guards?"

"My men!" C'baoth snapped, his voice again reverberating around the bridge. Even without the element of surprise, the trick was an effective one. "Mine! I command the Empire, Grand Admiral Thrawn. Not you."

Thrawn turned to the side and caught the eye of the portside crew pit officer. "Call sick bay," he ordered the man. "Have them send a team."

For a few painful heartbeats Pellaeon thought C'baoth was going to object or—worse—take the crew pit officer down, too. But all of his attention seemed to be focused on Thrawn. "Your commandos have failed, Grand Admiral Thrawn," he repeated, his voice now quiet and lethal.

"I know," Thrawn said. "All of them except the major in command appear to have been killed."

C'baoth drew himself up. "Then it is time for me to take this task upon myself. You will take me to Coruscant. Now."

Thrawn nodded. "Very well, Master C'baoth. We will load my special cargo, and then we shall go."

It was clearly not the answer C'baoth was expecting. "What?" he demanded, frowning.

"I said that as soon as the special cargo has been loaded aboard the Chimaera and the other ships we'll leave here for Coruscant," Thrawn said.

C'baoth shot a look at Pellaeon, his eyes seeming to probe for the information his Jedi senses were blinded to. "What is this trick?" he growled, looking back at Thrawn.

"There is no trick," Thrawn assured him. "I've decided that a lightning thrust into the heart of the Rebellion will be the best way to shake their morale and prepare them for the next stage of the campaign. This will be that thrust."

C'baoth looked out the viewport, his eyes searching the vast reaches of the Bilbringi shipyards. His gaze swept past the blackened hulk of the Star Destroyer . . . drifted to the asteroids clustered in the central sector . . .

"Those?" he demanded, jabbing a finger toward them. "Are those your special cargo?"

"You're the Jedi Master," Thrawn said. "You tell me."

C'baoth glared at him, and Pellaeon held his breath. The Grand Admiral was baiting him, Pellaeon knew—a rather dangerous game, in his opinion. The only people who knew precisely what Thrawn had in mind for those asteroids were currently protected by ysalamiri. "Very well, Grand Admiral Thrawn," C'baoth said. "I will."

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, and the lines in his face sharpened with a depth of mental strain Pellaeon hadn't seen in the Jedi Master for a long time. He watched the other, wondering what he was up to . . . and suddenly, he understood. Out there, around the asteroids, were hundreds of officers and techs who had worked on the project, each of them with his own private speculations as to what the whole thing was about. C'baoth was reaching out to all those minds, trying to draw out those speculations and compile them into a complete picture—

"No!" he snapped suddenly, turning his flashing eyes on Thrawn again. "You can't destroy Coruscant. Not until I have my Jedi."

Thrawn shook his head. "I have no intention of destroying Coruscant—"

"You lie!" C'baoth cut him off, jabbing an accusing finger at him. "You always lie to me. But no more. No more. I command the Empire, and all its forces."

He raised his hands above his head, an eerie blue-white coronal sheen playing about them. Pellaeon cringed despite himself, remembering the lightning bolts C'baoth had thrown at them in the crypt on Wayland. But no lightning came. C'baoth simply stood there, his hands clutching at empty air, his eyes gazing toward infinity. Pellaeon frowned at him . . . and he was just considering asking C'baoth what he was talking about when he happened to glance down into the portside crew pit.

The crewers were sitting stiffly in their chairs, their backs parade-ground straight, their hands folded in their laps, their eyes staring blankly through their consoles. Behind them, the officers were equally stiff, equally motionless, equally oblivious. The starboard crew pit was the same as was the aft bridge. And on the consoles Pellaeon could see, which should have been active with incoming reports from other sectors of the ship, the displays had all gone static.

It was a moment Pellaeon had expected and dreaded since that first visit to Wayland. C'baoth had taken command of the Chimaera.

"Impressive," Thrawn said into the brittle silence. "Very impressive indeed. And what do you propose to do now?"

"Need I repeat myself?" C'baoth said, his voice trembling slightly with obvious strain. "I will take this ship to Coruscant. To take my Jedi, not to destroy them."

"It's a minimum of five days to Coruscant from here," Thrawn said coldly. "Five days during which you'll have to maintain your control of the Chimaera's thirty-seven thousand crewers. Longer, of course, if you intend for them to actually fight at the end of that voyage. And if you intend for us to arrive with any support craft, that figure of thirty-seven thousand will increase rather steeply."

C'baoth snorted contemptuously. "You doubt the power of the Force, Grand Admiral Thrawn?"

"Not at all," Thrawn said. "I merely present the problems you and the Force will have to solve if you continue with this course of action. For instance, do you know where the Coruscant sector fleet is based, or the number and types of ships making it up? Have you thought about how you will neutralize Coruscant's orbital battle stations and ground-based systems? Do you know who is in command of the planet's defenses at present, and how he or she is likely to deploy the available forces? Have you considered Coruscant's energy field? Do you know how best to use the strategic and tactical capabilities of an Imperial Star Destroyer?"

"You seek to confuse me," C'baoth accused. "Your men—my men—know the answers to all those questions."

"To some of them, yes," Thrawn said. "But you cannot learn the answers. Not all of them. Certainly not quickly enough."

"I control the Force," C'baoth repeated angrily. But to Pellaeon's ear there was a hint of pleading in the tone. Like a child throwing a tantrum that he didn't really expect to get him anywhere . . .

"No," Thrawn said, his voice abruptly soothing. Perhaps he, too, had picked up on C'baoth's tone. "The galaxy is not yet ready for you to lead, Master C'baoth. Later, when order has been restored, I will present it to you to govern as you please. But that time is not yet."

For a long moment C'baoth remained motionless, his mouth working half invisibly behind his flowing beard. Then, almost reluctantly, he lowered his arms; and as he did so, the bridge was filled with muffled gasps and groans and the scraping of boots on steel decking as the crewers were released from the Jedi Master's control. "You will never present the Empire to me," C'baoth told Thrawn. "Not of your own will."

"That may depend on your ability to maintain that which I am in the process of re-creating," Thrawn said.

"And which will not come to be at all without you?"

Thrawn cocked an eyebrow. "You're the Jedi Master. As you gaze into the future, can you see a future Empire arising without me?"

"I see many possible futures," C'baoth said. "In not all of them do you survive."

"An uncertainty faced by all warriors," Thrawn nodded. "But that was not what I asked."

C'baoth smiled thinly. "Never assume you are indispensable to my Empire, Grand Admiral Thrawn. Only I am that."

He sent his gaze leisurely around the bridge, then drew himself to his full height. "For now, however, I am pleased that you should lead my forces into battle." He looked back sharply at Thrawn. "You may lead; but you will not destroy Coruscant. Not until I have my Jedi."

"As I have said already, I have no intention of destroying Coruscant," Thrawn told him. "For now, the fear and undermining of morale that accompany a siege will serve my purposes better."

"Our purposes," C'baoth corrected. "Do not forget that, Grand Admiral Thrawn."

"I forget nothing, Master C'baoth," Thrawn countered quietly.

"Good," C'baoth said, just as quietly. "Then you may carry on with your duties. I will be meditating, should you require me. Meditating upon the future of my Empire."

He turned and strode off the bridge; and Pellaeon let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Admiral . . ."

"Signal the Relentless, Captain," Thrawn ordered him, swiveling back around again. "Tell Captain Dorja I need a five-hundred-man caretaker crew for the next six hours."

Pellaeon looked down into the portside crew pit. Here and there one could see a crewer sitting properly at his station or an officer standing more or less vertically. But for the most part the crewers were collapsed limply in their seats, their officers leaning against walls and consoles or lying trembling on the deck. "Yes, sir," he said, stepping back to his chair and keying for comm. "Will you be postponing the Coruscant operation?"

"No more than absolutely necessary," Thrawn said. "History is on the move, Captain. Those who cannot keep up will be left behind, to watch from a distance."

He glanced back at the door through which C'baoth had departed. "And those who stand in our way," he added softly, "will not watch at all."

Chapter 13

They came in to Coruscant in the dead of night: ten of them, disguised as Jawas, slipping in through the secret entrance that Palace Security had carefully sealed and that Luke had now just as carefully unsealed. Getting to the Tower unseen was no problem—no one had yet had the time to do anything about the Emperor's limited maze of hidden passageways.

And so they filed silently into the suite behind Luke . . . and for the first time Han found himself face-to-face with the bodyguards his wife had chosen to protect her and her children from the Empire.

A group of Noghri.

"We greet you, Lady Vader," the first of the gray-skinned aliens said in a gravelly voice, dropping to the floor and spreading his arms out to his sides. The others followed suit, which should have been awkward or at least crowded in the narrow suite entryway. It wasn't, which probably said something about their agility "I am Cakhmaim, warrior of the clan Eikh'mir," the Noghri continued, talking toward the floor. "I lead the honor guard of the Mal'ary'ush. To your service and protection we commit ourselves and our lives."

"You may rise," Leia said, her voice solemnly regal. Han stole a glance at her, to find that her face and posture were just as stately as her voice. The sort of authority stuff that usually kicked in his automatic disobedience circuits. But on Leia it looked good. "As the Mal'ary'ush, I accept your service."

The Noghri got to their feet, making no more noise than they had getting down. "My lieutenant, Mobvekhar clan Hakh'khar," Cakhmaim said, indicating the Noghri to his right. "He will lead the second watch."

"My husband, Han Solo," Leia responded, gesturing to Han.

Cakhmaim turned to face him, and with a conscious effort Han kept his hand away from his blaster. "We greet you," the alien said gravely. "The Noghri honor the consort of the Lady Vader."

The consort? Han threw a startled look at Leia. Her expression was still serious, but he could see the edge of an amused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Thanks," Han growled. "Nice meeting you, too."

"And you, Khabarakh," Leia said, holding her hand out to another of the Noghri. "It's good to see you again. I trust the maitrakh of your family is well?"

"She is very well, my lady," the Noghri said, stepping forward from the group to take her hand. "She sends her greetings, as well as a renewed promise of her service."

Behind the Noghri, the door opened and Chewbacca slipped inside. "Any trouble?" Han asked him, glad of a distraction from all these pleasantries.

Chewbacca growled a negative, his eyes searching the group of aliens. He spotted Khabarakh and moved to the Noghri's side, rumbling a greeting. Khabarakh greeted him in turn. "Which others will be under our protection, Lady Vader?" Cakhmaim asked.

"My aide, Winter, and my twins," Leia said. "Come; I'll show you."

She headed toward the bedroom with Cakhmaim and Mobvekhar at her sides. The rest of the aliens began to spread out around the suite, giving special attention to the walls and doors. Chewbacca and Khabarakh headed off toward Winter's room together, conversing quietly between themselves.

"You still don't like this, do you?" Luke said from Han's side.

"Not really, no," Han conceded, watching Chewbacca and Khabarakh. "But I don't seem to have a lot of choices."

He sensed Luke shrug. "You and Chewie could stay here," he offered. "Lando, Mara, and I could go to Wayland by ourselves."

"Or you could take the Noghri with you," Han suggested dryly. "At least out there you wouldn't have to worry about anyone seeing them."

"No one will see us here," a gravelly voice mewed at his elbow.

Han jerked, hand dropping to his blaster as he spun around. There was a Noghri standing there, all right. He would have sworn none of the half-sized aliens were anywhere near him. "You always sneak up on people like that?" he demanded.

The alien bowed his head. "Forgive me, consort of the Lady Vader. I meant no offense."

"They're great hunters," Luke murmured.

"Yeah, I'd heard that," Han said, turning back to Luke. Impressive, sure, but it was never the aliens' ability to protect Leia and the twins that he'd worried about. "Look—Luke—"

"They're all right, Han," Luke said quietly. "Really they are. Leia's already trusted them once with her life."

"Yeah," Han said again. Tried to erase the image of Leia and the twins in Imperial hands. . . . "Everything go all right at the landing pad?"

"No problems," Luke assured him. "Wedge and a couple of his Rogue Squadron teammates were there to fly escort, and Chewie got the ship under cover. No one saw us come into the Palace, either."

"I hope you sealed the door behind you," Han said. "If another Imperial team gets in, Leia's going to have her hands full."

"It's closed but not really sealed," Luke shook his head. "We'll have Cakhmaim seal it behind us."

Han frowned at him, an unpleasant suspicion forming in his gut. "You suggesting we go now?"

"Can you think of a better time?" Luke countered. "I mean, the Noghri are here and the Falcon's loaded and ready. And no one's likely to miss Mara until morning."

Han looked over Luke's shoulder, to where Leia was just emerging from the bedroom with her Noghri escort still in tow. It made sense—he had to admit that. But somehow he'd counted on him and Leia having a little more time together.

Except that the Empire would still be making clones during that time . . .

He grimaced. "All right," he grumbled. "Sure. Why not?"

"I know," Luke said sympathetically. "And I'm sorry."

"Forget it. How do you want to do this?"

"Lando and I will go get Mara out," Luke said, all business again. Probably could tell that Han wasn't in the mood for sympathy. "You and Chewie get the Falcon and pick us up. And don't forget to bring the droids."

"Right," Han said, feeling his lip twist. It wasn't bad enough that he had to leave Leia and his kids to go break into another Imperial stronghold—he had to have Threepio along yakking his overcultured metal head off, too. It just got better and better. "You got the restraining bolt Chewie rigged up?"

"Right here," Luke nodded, patting his jacket. "I know where to attach it, too."

"Just don't miss," Han warned. "You get a G-2RD droid going, and you'll have to take its head off to stop it."

"I understand," Luke nodded. "We'll meet you out where we hid the Noghri ship—Chewie knows the place." He turned and headed toward the door.

"Good luck," Han muttered under his breath. He started to turn— "What're you looking at?" he demanded.

The Noghri standing there bowed his head. "I meant no offense, consort of the Lady Vader," he assured Han. Turning away, he resumed his study of the wall.

Grimacing, Han looked around for Leia. Okay, he'd leave tonight; but he wasn't going anywhere until he'd said good-bye to his wife. And in private.

The Emperor raised his hands, sending cascades of jagged blue-white lightning at his enemies. Both men staggered under the counterattack, and Mara watched with the sudden agonized hope that this time it might end differently. But no. Vader and Skywalker straightened, and with an electronic-sounding shriek of rage, they lifted their lightsabers high—

Mara snapped awake, her hand groping automatically under her bed for the blaster that wasn't there. That shriek had sounded like the start of an alarm from the G-2RD droid outside her room. An alarm that had been suddenly cut off . . .

Across the room, the lock clicked open. Mara's searching hand touched the data pad she'd been reading from before going to sleep . . . and as the door swung open she hurled the instrument with all her strength at the dark figure silhouetted in the doorway.

The impromptu missile never reached him. The figure simply held up a hand, and the data pad skidded to a halt in midair. "It's all right, Mara," he murmured as he took another step into the room. "It's just me—Luke Skywalker."

Mara frowned through the darkness, stretching out with her mind toward the intruder. It was Skywalker, all right. "What do you want?" she demanded.

"We're here to get you out," Skywalker told her, stepping over to the desk and turning on a low light. "Come on—you've got to get dressed."

"I do, huh?" Mara retorted, squinting for a moment before her eyes adjusted to the light. "Mind telling me where we're going?"

A slight frown creased Skywalker's forehead. "We're going to Wayland," he said. "You told Leia you could find it."

Mara stared at him. "Sure, I told her that. When did I ever say I'd take anyone there?"

"You have to, Mara," Skywalker said, his voice laced with that irritating idealistic earnestness of his. The same earnestness that had stopped her from killing that insane Joruus C'baoth back on Jomark. "We're standing on the edge of a new round of Clone Wars here. We have to stop it."

"So go stop it," she retorted. "This isn't my war, Skywalker."

But the words were mere reflex, and she knew it. The minute she'd told Organa Solo about the Emperor's storehouse she had committed herself to this side of the war, and that meant doing whatever she was called on to do. Even if it meant taking them personally to Wayland.

With all those well-trained Jedi insights Skywalker must have seen that, too. Fortunately, he had the sense not to throw any of it back into her face. "All right," she growled, swinging her legs out of bed. "Wait outside—I'll be right there."

She had time while dressing to sweep the area with her far less trained Force abilities, and was therefore not surprised to find Calrissian waiting with Skywalker when she emerged from her suite. The condition of the G-2RD was a surprise, though. From the way that electronic shriek had been truncated, she'd expected to find the guard droid scattered around the hallway in several pieces; instead, it was standing perfectly intact beside her door, quivering slightly with mechanical rage or frustration. "We put a restraining bolt on it," Skywalker answered her unspoken question.

She looked and spotted the flat device attached to the droid's side. "I didn't think you could restrain a guard droid."

"It's not easy, but Han and Chewie knew a way to do it," Skywalker said as the three of them hurried down the hallway toward the turbolifts. "They thought this would make the prison break a little less conspicuous."

Prison break. Mara threw a glance at Skywalker's profile, the word suddenly putting this whole thing into a new perspective. Here he was: Luke Skywalker, Jedi Knight, hero of the Rebellion, pillar of law and justice . . . and he'd just defied the entire New Republic establishment, from Mon Mothma on down, to get her out. Mara Jade, a smuggler to whom he owed not a single thing, and who in fact had promised to kill him.

All because he saw what needed to be done. And he trusted her to help him do it.

"A nice trick," she murmured, glancing down a cross corridor as they passed, her eyes and mind alert for guards. "I'll have to get Solo to teach it to me."

Calrissian brought the airspeeder down at what appeared to be an old private landing pad. The Millennium Falcon was already there, an obviously nervous and impatient Chewbacca waiting for them at the open hatchway.

"About time," Solo said as Mara followed Skywalker into the cockpit. They were barely aboard, she saw, and already he had the freighter in the air. He must be as nervous about this as the Wookiee. "Okay, Mara. Where do we go?"

"Set course for Obroa-skai," she told him. "That was the last stop before Wayland on that trip. I should be able to have the rest of it plotted out by the time we get there."

"Let's hope so," Solo said, reaching around to key the nav computer. "Better strap in—we'll be making the jump to lightspeed as soon as we're clear."

Mara slid into the passenger seat behind him, Skywalker taking the other one. "What land of assault force are we taking?" she asked as she strapped in.

"You're looking at it," Solo grunted. "You, me, Luke, Lando, and Chewie."

"I see," Mara said, swallowing hard. Five of them, against whatever defenses Thrawn would have set up to protect his most vital military base. Terrific. "You sure we're not being unsporting about it?" she asked sarcastically.

"We didn't have a lot more than this at Yavin," Solo pointed out. "Or at Endor."

She glared at the back of his head, willing the anger and hatred to flow. But all she felt was a quiet and strangely distant ache. "Your confidence is so very reassuring," she bit out.

Solo shrugged. "You can get a lot of distance out of not doing what the other side expects you to," he said. "Remind me sometime to tell you how we got away from Hoth."

Behind them, the door slid open and Chewbacca lumbered into the cockpit. "Everything all set back there?" Solo asked him.

The Wookiee rumbled something that was probably an affirmation. "Good. Run a quick check on the alluvial dampers—they were sparking red a while back."

Another rumble, and the Wookiee got to work. "Before I forget, Luke," Solo added, "you're in charge of those droids back there. I don't want to see Threepio fiddling with anything unless Chewie or Lando is with him. Got that?"

"Got it," Skywalker said. He caught Mara's eye and threw her an amused grin. "Threepio sometimes has extra time on his hands," he explained. "He's taken an interest in mechanical work."

"And he's pretty bad at it," Solo put in sourly. "Okay, Chewie, get ready. Here we go . . ."

He pulled back on the hyperdrive levers. Through the viewport the stars flared into starlines . . . and they were on their way. Five of them, on their way to invade an Imperial stronghold.

Mara looked over at Skywalker. And the only one of them who really trusted her was the one man she had to kill.

"Your first command since you resigned your commission, Han," Skywalker commented into the silence.

"Yeah," Solo said tightly. "Let's just hope it's not my last."

"The Bellicose task force has arrived, Captain," the comm officer called up to the Chimaera's command walkway. "Captain Aban reports all ships at battle readiness, and requests final deployment orders."

"Relay them to him, Lieutenant," Pellaeon ordered, peering out the viewport at the new group of running lights that had appeared off to starboard and trying to suppress the growing sense of apprehension that was curling through his gut like wisps of poisoned smoke. It was all well and good for Thrawn to assemble the Empire's seasoned elite for what amounted to an extended hit-and-fade attack on Coruscant; what was not so well and good was the possibility that the raid might not stop there. C'baoth was aboard, and C'baoth's sole agenda these days seemed to be the capture of Leia Organa Solo and her twins. He'd already demonstrated his ability to take absolute control of the Chimaera and its crewers, an arrogant little stunt that had already delayed this operation by several hours. If he decided to do it again in the thick of battle off Coruscant . . .

Pellaeon grimaced, the ghostly memories of the Empire's defeat at Endor floating up before his eyes. The second Death Star had died there, along with Vader's Super Star Destroyer Executor and far too many of the best and brightest of the Empire's officer corps. If C'baoth's interference precipitated a repetition of that debacle—if the Empire lost both Grand Admiral Thrawn and his core Star Destroyer force—it might never again recover.

He was still gazing out the viewport at the gathering assault force, trying to suppress his concerns, when a rustle of uneasiness rippled across the bridge around him . . . and even without looking he knew what it meant.

C'baoth was here.

Pellaeon's command chair and its protecting ysalamir were a dozen long steps away—far too distant to reach without looking obvious about it. None of the other ysalamiri scattered around the bridge were within reach, either. It wouldn't do to go running around like a frightened field scurry in front of his crew, even if C'baoth was willing to let him.

And if the Jedi Master chose instead to paralyze him like he had the rest of the Chimaera's crew at Bilbringi . . .

A shiver ran up Pellaeon's back. He'd seen the medical reports for those who'd had to recover in sick bay, and he had no desire to go through that himself. Aside from the discomfort and emotional confusion involved, such a public humiliation would severely diminish his command authority aboard his ship.

He could only hope that he'd be able to give C'baoth what he wanted without looking weak and subservient. Turning to face the approaching Jedi Master, he wondered if playing on this same fear of humiliation had been the way the Emperor had started his own rise to power. "Master C'baoth," he nodded gravely. "What may I do for you?"

"I want a ship prepared for me at once," C'baoth said, his eyes blazing with a strange inward fire. "One with enough range to take me to Wayland."

Pellaeon blinked. "To Wayland?"

"Yes," C'baoth said, looking out the viewport. "I told you long ago that I would eventually take command there. That time has now come."

Pellaeon braced himself. "I was under the impression that you'd agreed to assist with the Coruscant attack—"

"I have changed my mind," C'baoth cut him off sharply.

Sharply, but with a strange sense of preoccupation. "Has something happened on Wayland?" Pellaeon asked.

C'baoth looked at him, and Pellaeon had the odd sense that the Jedi Master was really only noticing him for the first time. "What happens or does not happen on Wayland is no concern of yours, Imperial Captain Pellaeon," he said. "Your only concern is to prepare me a ship." He looked out the viewport again. "Or do I need to choose my own?"

A movement at the rear of the bridge caught Pellaeon's eye: Grand Admiral Thrawn, arriving from his private command room to oversee the final preparations for the Coruscant assault. As Pellaeon watched, Thrawn's glowing red eyes flicked across the scene, taking in C'baoth's presence and pausing momentarily on Pellaeon's face and posture. He turned his head and nodded, and a stormtrooper with an ysalamir nutrient frame on his back stepped to Thrawn's side. Together, they started forward.

C'baoth didn't bother to turn around. "You will prepare me a ship, Grand Admiral Thrawn," he called. "I wish to go to Wayland. Immediately."

"Indeed," Thrawn said, stepping to Pellaeon's side. The stormtrooper moved between and behind the two of them, finally bringing Pellaeon into the safety of the ysalamir's Force-empty bubble. "May I ask why?"

"My reasons are my own," C'baoth said darkly. "Do you question them?"

For a long moment Pellaeon was afraid Thrawn was going to take him up on that challenge. "Not at all," the Grand Admiral said at last. "If you wish to go to Wayland, you may of course do so. Lieutenant Tschel?"

"Sir?" the young duty officer said from the portside crew pit, stiffening to attention.

"Signal the Death's Head," Thrawn ordered. "Inform Captain Harbid that the Star Galleon Draklor is to be detached from his group and reassigned to me. Crew only; I'll supply troops and passengers."

"Yes, sir," Tschel acknowledged, and stepped over to the comm station.

"I did not ask for troops, Grand Admiral Thrawn," C'baoth said, his face alternating between petulance and suspicion. "Nor for other passengers."

"I've been planning for some time to send General Covell to take command of the Mount Tantiss garrison," Thrawn said. "As well as to supplement the troops already there. This would seem as good a time as any to do so."

C'baoth looked at Pellaeon, then back at Thrawn. "All right," he said at last, apparently settling on petulance. "But it will be my ship—not Covell's. I will give the orders."

"Of course, Master C'baoth," Thrawn said soothingly. "I will so inform the general."

"All right." C'baoth's mouth worked uncertainly behind his long white beard, and for a moment Pellaeon thought he was going to lose control again. His head twitched to the side; then he was back in command of himself again. "All right," he repeated curtly. "I will be in my chambers. Call me when my ship is ready."

"As you wish," Thrawn nodded.

C'baoth threw each of them another piercing look, then turned and strode away. "Inform General Covell of this change of plans, Captain," Thrawn ordered Pellaeon, watching C'baoth make his way across the bridge. "The computer has a list of troops and crewers assigned as cloning templets; Covell's aides will arrange for them to be put aboard the Draklor. Along with a company of the general's best troops."

Pellaeon frowned at Thrawn's profile. Covell's troops—and Covell himself, for that matter—had been slated to relieve the shock forces currently working their way across Qat Chrystac. "You think Mount Tantiss is in danger?" he asked.

"Not any substantial danger, no," Thrawn said. "Still, it's possible our farseeing Jedi Master may indeed have picked up on something—unrest among the natives, perhaps. Best not to take chances."

Pellaeon looked out the viewport at the star that was Coruscant's sun. "Could it be something having to do with the Rebels?"

"Unlikely," Thrawn said. "There's no indication yet that they've even learned of Wayland's existence, let alone are planning any action against it. If and when that happens, we should have plenty of advance notice of their intentions."

"Via Delta Source."

"And via normal Intelligence channels." Thrawn smiled slightly. "It still disturbs you, doesn't it, to receive information from a source you don't understand?"

"A little, sir, yes," Pellaeon admitted.

"Consider it a cultivation of your trust," Thrawn said. "Someday I'll turn Delta Source over to you. But not yet."

"Yes, sir," Pellaeon said. He looked aft, toward where C'baoth had disappeared from the bridge. Something about this was tickling uncomfortably in the back of his memory. Something about C'baoth and Wayland . . .

"You seem disturbed, Captain," Thrawn said.

Pellaeon shook his head. "I don't like the idea of him being inside Mount Tantiss, Admiral. I don't know why. I just don't like it."

Thrawn followed his gaze. "I wouldn't worry about it," he said quietly. "Actually, this is more likely to be a solution than a problem."

Pellaeon frowned. "I don't understand."

Thrawn smiled again. "All in good time, Captain. But now to the business at hand. Is my flagship ready?"

Pellaeon shook his thoughts away. Now, with the center of the Rebellion lying open before them, was not the time for nameless fears. "The Chimaera is fully at your command, Admiral," he gave the formal response.

"Good." Thrawn sent his gaze around the bridge, then turned again to Pellaeon. "Make certain the rest of the assault force is likewise, and inform them we'll be waiting until the Draklor has cleared the area."

He looked out the viewport. "And then," he added softly, "we'll remind the Rebellion what war is all about."

Chapter 14

They stood there silently: Mara and Luke, waiting as the dark hooded shadow moved toward them, a lightsaber glittering in its hand. Back behind the figure an old man stood, craziness in his eyes and blue lightning in his hands. The shadow stopped and raised its weapon. Luke stepped away from Mara, lifting his own lightsaber, his mind filled with horror and dread—

The alarms wailed through the suite from the corridor outside, jolting Leia awake and shattering the nightmare into fragments of vivid color.

Her first thought was that the alarm was for Luke and Mara; her second was that another Imperial commando team had gotten into the Palace. But as she came awake enough to recognize the pitch of the alarm, she realized it was even worse.

Coruscant was under attack.

Across the room, the twins began to cry. "Winter!" Leia shouted, grabbing her robe and throwing what she could in the way of mental comfort in the twins' direction.

Winter was already in the doorway, halfway into her own robe. "That's a battle alert," she called to Leia over the alarm.

"I know," Leia said, tying the robe around her. "I have to get to the war room right away."

"I understand," Winter said, peering intently at her face. "Are you all right?"

"I had a dream, that's all," Leia told her, snagging a pair of half-boots and pulling them on. Trust Winter to pick up on something like that, even in the middle of chaos. "Luke and Mara were having a battle with someone. And I don't think they were expecting to win."

"Are you sure it was just a dream?"

Leia bit at her lip as she fastened the half-boots. "I don't know," she had to admit. If it hadn't been a dream, but instead had been a Jedi vision . . . "No—it had to be a dream," she decided. "Luke would be able to tell from space if C'baoth or another Dark Jedi was there. He wouldn't risk trying to carry out the mission under those conditions."

"I hope not," Winter said. But she didn't sound all that confident about it.

"Don't worry about it," Leia assured her. "It was probably just a bad dream sparked by the alarms going off." And fueled by a guilty conscience, she added silently, for letting Han and Luke talk her into letting them go to Wayland in the first place. "Take care of the twins, will you?"

"We'll watch them," Winter said.

We? Leia glanced around, frowning, and for the first time spotted Mobvekhar and the other two Noghri who'd taken up positions in the shadows around the crib. They hadn't been there when she went to bed, she knew, which meant they must have slipped in from the suite's main living area sometime in the minute or so since the alarm had gone off. Without her noticing.

"You may go without fear, Lady Vader," Mobvekhar said solemnly. "Your heirs will come to no harm."

"I know," Leia said, and meant it. She picked up her comlink from her nightstand, considered calling for information, but slipped it into the side pocket of her robe instead. The last thing the war room staff needed right now was to have to spend time explaining the situation to a civilian. She'd know soon enough what was happening. "I'll be back when I can," she told Winter. Grabbing her lightsaber, she left the suite.

The hallway outside was filled with beings of all sorts, some of them hurrying along on business, the rest milling around in confusion or demanding information from the security guards standing duty. Leia maneuvered her way past the guards and through the clumps of anxious discussion, joining a handful of sleep-tousled military aides hurrying toward the turbolifts. A full car was just preparing to leave as she arrived; two of the occupants, obviously recognizing Councilor Organa Solo, promptly gave up their places. The door slid shut behind her, barely missing a chattering pair of brown-robed Jawas who brazenly pushed their way aboard at the last instant, and they headed down.

The entire lower floor of the Palace was given over to military operations, starting with the support service offices on the periphery, moving inward to the offices of Ackbar and Drayson and other duty commanders, and on to the more vital and sensitive areas in the center. Leia cleared herself through at the duty station, passed between a towering pair of Wookiee guards, and stepped through the blast doors into the war room.

Bare minutes after the alarm had sounded, the place was already a scene of marginally controlled chaos as freshly awakened senior officers and aides hurried to battle positions. A single glance at the master tactical display showed that all the furor was fully justified: eight Imperial Interdictor Cruisers had appeared in a loose grouping around the one-one-six vector in Sector Four, their hyperdrive-dampening gravetic cones blocking all entry or exit from the region immediately around Coruscant. Even as she watched, a new group of ships flicked into the center of the cluster: two more Interdictors, plus an escort of eight Katana-fleet Dreadnaughts.

"What's going on?" an unfamiliar voice said at Leia's shoulder.

She turned. A young man—a kid, really—was standing there, scratching at a mop of tangled hair and frowning up at the tactical. For a moment she didn't recognize him; then her memory clicked. Ghent, the slicer Karrde had lent them to help crack the bank break-in code that the Imperials had framed Admiral Ackbar with. She'd forgotten he was still here. "It's an Imperial attack," she said.

"Oh," he said. "Can they do that?"

"We're at war," she reminded him patiently. "In war you can do just about anything the other side can't stop you from doing. How did you get in here, anyway?"

"Oh, I cut myself an entry code a while back," he said, waving a vague hand, his eyes still on the tactical. "Haven't had much to do lately. Can't you stop them?"

"We're certainly going to try," Leia said grimly, looking around the room. Across by the command console she spotted General Rieekan. "Stay out of the way and don't touch anything."

She'd gotten two steps toward Rieekan when her brain suddenly caught up with her. Ghent, who'd cut himself a top-level access code because he didn't have anything better to do . . .

She spun around, took two steps back, and grabbed Ghent's arm. "On second thought, come with me," she said, steering him through the chaos to a door marked crypt opening off the side of the war room. She keyed in her security code, and the door slid open.

It was a good-sized room, crowded to the gills with computers, decrypt techs, and interface droids. "Who's in charge here?" Leia called as a couple of heads swung her direction.

"I am," a middle-aged man wearing a colonel's insignia said, taking a step back from one of the consoles into about the only bit of empty space in the room.

"I'm Councilor Organa Solo," Leia identified herself. "This is Ghent, an expert slicer. Can you use him?"

"I don't know," the colonel said, throwing the kid a speculative look. "Ever tackled an Imperial battle encrypt code, Ghent?"

"Nope," Ghent said. "Never seen one. I've sliced a couple of their regular military encrypts, though."

"Which ones?"

Ghent's eyes went a little foggy. "Well, there was one called a Lepido program. Oh, and there was something called the ILKO encrypt back when I was twelve. That was a tough one—took me almost two months to slice."

Someone whistled softly. "Is that good?" Leia asked.

The colonel snorted. "I'd say so, yes. ILKO was one of the master encrypt codes the Empire used for data transfer between Coruscant and the original Death Star construction facility at Horuz. It took us nearly a month to crack it." He beckoned. "Come on over, son—we've got a console for you right here. If you liked ILKO, you're going to love battle encrypts."

Ghent's face lit up, and he was picking his way between the other consoles as Leia slipped back into the war room.

To find that the battle was under way.

Six Imperial Star Destroyers had come in from hyperspace through the center gap of the Interdictor group, splitting into two groups of three and heading for the two massive midorbit Golan III battle stations. Their TIE fighters were swarming ahead of them, heading toward the defenders now beginning to emerge from the low-orbit space-dock facility and from Coruscant's surface. On the master visual display, occasional flashes of turbolaser fire flickered as both sides began to fire ranging shots.

General Rieekan was standing a few steps back from the main command console when Leia reached him. "Princess," he nodded gravely in greeting.

"General," she nodded back breathlessly, throwing a quick look across the console displays. Coruscant's energy shield was up, the ground-based defenses were coming rapidly to full combat status, and a second wave of X-wings and B-wings were beginning to scramble from the space dock.

And standing in front of the raised command chair, barking out orders to everyone in sight, was Admiral Drayson.

"Drayson?" she demanded.

"Ackbar's on an inspection tour of the Ketaris region," Rieekan said grimly. "That leaves Drayson in charge."

Leia looked up at the master tactical, a sinking feeling settling firmly in her stomach. Drayson was competent enough . . . but against Grand Admiral Thrawn, competent wasn't good enough. "Has the sector fleet been alerted?"

"I think we got the word out to them before the shield went up," Rieekan said. "Unfortunately, one of the first things the Imperials hit was the out-orbit relay station, so there's no way of knowing whether or not they heard. Not without opening the shield."

The sinking feeling sunk a little lower. "Then this isn't just a feint to draw the sector fleet here," Leia said. "Otherwise, they'd have left the relay station alone so we could keep calling for help."

"I agree," Rieekan said. "Whatever Thrawn has in mind, we seem to be it."

Leia nodded wordlessly, gazing up at the visual display. The Star Destroyers had entered the battle stations' outer kill zones now, and the black of space was beginning to sparkle with more serious turbolaser fire. Outside the main fire field, Dreadnaughts and other support ships were forming a perimeter to protect the Star Destroyers from the defenders rising toward them.

On the master tactical, a flicker of pale white light shot upward: an ion cannon blast from the surface, streaking toward the Star Destroyers. "Waste of power," Rieekan muttered contemptuously. "They're way out of range."

And even if they weren't, Leia knew, the electronics-disrupting charge would have had as much chance of hitting the battle station as any of the Star Destroyers it had been aimed at. Ion cannon weren't exactly known for tight-beam accuracy. "We've got to get someone else in command here," she said, looking around the war room. If she could find Mon Mothma and persuade her to put Rieekan in charge—

Abruptly, her eyes stopped their sweep. There, standing against the back wall, gazing up at the master tactical, was Sena Leikvold Midanyl. Chief adviser to General Garm Bel Iblis . . . who was considerably more than merely competent. "I'll be back," she told Rieekan, and headed off into the crowd.

"Councilor Organa Solo," Sena said as Leia reached her, a tautness straining her face and sense. "I was told to stay back here out of the way. Can you tell me what's happening?"

"What's happening is that we need Garm," Leia said, glancing around. "Where is he?"

"Observation gallery," Sena said, nodding upward toward the semicircular balcony running around the back half of the war room.

Leia looked up. Beings of all sorts were beginning to pour into the gallery—government civilians, most of them, who were authorized this deep into the command floor but weren't cleared for access to the war room proper. Sitting alone to one side, gazing intently at the master displays, was Bel Iblis. "Get him down here," Leia told Sena. "We need him."

Sena seemed to sigh. "He won't come down," she said. "Not unless and until Mon Mothma asks him to. His own words."

Leia felt her stomach tighten. Bel Iblis had more than his share of stiff-necked pride, but this was no time for personal squabbles. "He can't do that. We need his help."

Sena shook her head minutely. "I've tried. He won't listen to me."

Leia took a deep breath. "Maybe he'll listen to me."

"I hope so." Sena gestured toward the display, where one of Bel Iblis's Dreadnaughts had appeared from the space dock to join the rising wave of starfighters, Corellian Gunships, and Escort Frigates blazing toward the invaders. "That's the Harrier," she identified it. "My sons Peter and Dayvid are aboard it."

Leia touched her shoulder. "Don't worry—I'll get him down here."

The center section of the gallery was becoming almost crowded by the time she reached it. But the area around Bel Iblis was still reasonably empty. "Hello, Leia," he said as she came up to him. "I thought you'd be down below."

"I should be—and so should you," Leia said. "We need you down—"

"You have your comlink with you?" he cut her off sharply.

She frowned at him. "Yes."

"Get it out. Now. Call Drayson and warn him about those two Interdictors."

Leia looked at the master tactical. The two Interdictor Cruisers that had come in late to the party were doing some fine-tune maneuvering, their hazy gravity-wave cones sweeping across one of the battle stations. "Thrawn pulled this stunt on us at Qat Chrystac," Bel Iblis went on. "He uses an Interdictor Cruiser to define a hyperspace edge, then brings a ship in along an intersecting vector to drop out at a precisely chosen point. Drayson needs to pull some ships up on those flanks to be ready for whatever Thrawn's bringing in."

Leia was already digging in her robe pocket. "But we don't have anything here that can take on another Star Destroyer."

"It's not a matter of taking it on," Bel Iblis told her. "Whatever's on its way will come in blind, with deflectors down and no targeting references. If our ships are in place, we'll get one solid free shot at them. That could make a lot of difference."

"I understand," Leia said, thumbing on her comlink and keying for the central switching operator. "This is Councilor Leia Organa Solo. I have an urgent message for Admiral Drayson."

"Admiral Drayson is occupied and cannot be disturbed," the electronic voice said.

"This is a direct Council override," Leia ordered. "Put me through to Drayson."

"Voice analysis confirmed," the operator said. "Council override is superseded by military emergency procedure. You may leave Admiral Drayson a message."

Leia ground her teeth, throwing a quick glance at the tactical. "Then put me through to Drayson's chief aide."

"Lieutenant DuPre is occupied and cannot—"

"Cancel," Leia cut it off. "Get me General Rieekan."

"General Rieekan is occupied—"

"Too late," Bel Iblis said quietly.

Leia looked up. Two Victory-class Star Destroyers had suddenly appeared out of hyperspace, dropping in at point-blank range to their target battle stations exactly as Bel Iblis had predicted. They delivered massive broadsides, then angled away before the station or its defending Gunships could respond with more than token return fire. On the tactical, the hazy blue shell indicating the station's deflector shield flickered wildly before settling down again.

"Drayson's no match for him," Bel Iblis sighed. "He just isn't."

Leia took a deep breath. "You have to come down, Garm."

He shook his head. "I can't. Not until Mon Mothma asks me to."

"You're behaving like a child," Leia snapped, abandoning any attempt to be diplomatic about this. "You can't let people die out there just because of personal pique."

He looked at her; and as she glared back she was struck by the pain in his eyes. "You don't understand, Leia," he said. "This has nothing to do with me. It has to do with Mon Mothma. After all these years, I finally understand why she does things the way she does. I've always assumed she was gathering more and more power to herself simply because she was in love with power. But I was wrong."

"So why does she do it?" Leia demanded, not really interested in talking about Mon Mothma.

"Because with everything she does there are lives hanging in the balance," he said quietly. "And she's terrified of trusting anyone else with those lives."

Leia stared at him . . . but even as she opened her mouth to deny it, all the pieces of her life these past few years fell suddenly into place. All the diplomatic missions Mon Mothma had insisted she go on, no matter what the personal cost in lost Jedi training and strained family life. All the trust she'd invested in Ackbar and a few others; all the responsibility that had been shifted onto fewer and fewer shoulders.

Onto the shoulders of those few she could trust to do the job right.

"That's why I can't simply go down and take command," Bel Iblis said into the silence. "Until she's able to accept me—really accept me—as someone she can trust, she won't ever be able to give me any genuine authority in the New Republic. She'll always need to be hovering around in the background somewhere, watching over my shoulder to make sure I don't make any mistakes. She hasn't got the time for that, I haven't got the patience, and the friction would be devastating for everyone caught in the middle."

He nodded toward the war room. "When she's ready to trust me, I'll be ready to serve. Until then, it's better for everyone involved if I stay out of it."

"Except for those dying out there," Leia reminded him tightly. "Let me call her, Garm. Maybe I can persuade her to offer you command."

Bel Iblis shook his head. "If you have to persuade her, Leia, it doesn't count. She has to decide this for herself."

"Perhaps she has," Mon Mothma's voice came from behind them.

Leia turned in surprise. With all her attention concentrated on Bel Iblis, she hadn't even noticed the older woman's approach. "Mon Mothma," she said, feeling the guilty awkwardness of having being caught talking about someone behind her back. "I—"

"It's all right, Leia," Mon Mothma said. "General Bel Iblis . . ."

Bel Iblis had risen to his feet to face her. "Yes?"

Mon Mothma seemed to brace herself. "We've had more than our share of differences over the years, General. But that was a long time ago. We were a good team once. There's no reason why we can't be one again."

She hesitated again; and with a sudden flash of insight, Leia saw how incredibly difficult this was for her. How humiliating it was to face a man who'd once turned his back on her and to admit aloud that she needed his help. If Bel Iblis was unwilling to bend until she'd said the words he wanted to hear . . .

And then, to Leia's surprise, Bel Iblis straightened to a military attention. "Mon Mothma," he said formally, "given the current emergency, I hereby request your permission to take command of Coruscant's defense."

The lines around Mon Mothma's eyes smoothed noticeably, a quiet relief coloring over her sense. "I would be very grateful if you would do so, Garm."

He smiled. "Then let's get to it."

Together, they headed for the stairway down to the command floor; and with a newly humbled sense of her own limitations, Leia realized that probably half of what she'd just witnessed had passed her by completely. The long and perilous history Mon Mothma and Bel Iblis had shared had created an empathy between them, a bond and understanding far deeper than Leia's Jedi insights could even begin to track through. Perhaps, she decided, it was that empathy that formed the true underlying strength of the New Republic. The strength that would create the future of the galaxy.

If it could withstand the next few hours. Clenching her teeth, she hurried after them.

A pair of Corellian Gunships shot past the Chimaera, sending a volley of turbolaser fire spattering across the bridge deflector shield. A squadron of TIE fighters was right on their tail, sweeping into a Rellis flanking maneuver as they tried for a clear shot. Beyond them, Pellaeon spotted an Escort Frigate cutting into backup position across the Gunships' exit vector. "Squadron A-4, move to sector twenty-two," Pellaeon ordered. So far, as near as he could tell, the battle seemed to be going well.

"There they go," Thrawn commented from beside him.

Pellaeon scanned the area. "Where?" he asked.

"They're preparing to pull back," Thrawn told him, pointing to one of the two Rebel Dreadnaughts that had joined the battle. "Observe how that Dreadnaught is moving into cover position for a retreat. There—the second one is following suit."

Pellaeon frowned at the maneuvering Dreadnaughts. He still didn't see it; but he'd never yet seen Thrawn wrong on such a call. "They're abandoning the battle stations?"

Thrawn snorted gently. "They never should have brought those ships out to defend them in the first place. Golan defense platforms can take considerably more punishment than their former ground commander apparently realized."

"Their former ground commander?"

"Yes," Thrawn said. "At a guess, I'd say our old Corellian adversary has just been put in command of Coruscant's defense. I wonder what took them so long."

Pellaeon shrugged, studying the battle area. The Grand Admiral was right: the defenders were starting to pull back. "Perhaps they had to wake him up."

"Perhaps." Thrawn sent a leisurely look around the battle area. "You see how the Corellian offers us a choice: stay here and duel with the battle stations, or follow the defenders down into range of the ground-based weaponry. Fortunately"—his eyes glittered—"we have a third option."

Pellaeon nodded. He'd been wondering when Thrawn would unveil his brilliant new siege weapon. "Yes, sir," he said. "Shall I order the tractor launching?"

"We'll wait for the Corellian to pull his ships back a bit further," Thrawn said. "We wouldn't want him to miss this."

"Understood," Pellaeon said. Stepping back to his command chair, he sat down and confirmed that the asteroids and the hangar-bay tractor beams were ready.

And waited for the Grand Admiral's order.

"All right," Bel Iblis said. "Harrier, begin pulling back—cover those Escort Frigates on your portside flank. Red leader, watch out for those TIE interceptors."

Leia watched the tactical display, holding her breath. Yes; it was going to work. Unwilling to risk the ground-based weaponry, the Imperials were letting the defenders retreat back toward Coruscant. That left only the two battle stations still in danger, and they were proving themselves more capable of absorbing damage than Leia had realized they could. And even that would be ending soon—the Grand Admiral would know better than to be here when the sector fleet arrived. It was almost over, and they'd gotten through it.

"General Bel Iblis?" an officer at one of the monitor stations spoke up. "We're getting a funny reading from the Chimaera's hangar bay."

"What is it?" Bel Iblis asked, stepping over to the console.

"It reads like the launching tractor beams being activated," the officer said, indicating one of the multicolored spots on the Star Destroyer silhouette centered in his display. "But it's pulling far too much power."

"Could they be launching a whole TIE squadron together?" Leia suggested.

"I don't think so," the officer said. "That's the other thing: near as we can tell, nothing at all left the bay."

Beside Leia, Bel Iblis stiffened. "Calculate the exit vector," he ordered. "All ships: sensor focus along that path for drive emissions. I think the Chimaera's just launched a cloaked ship."

Someone nearby swore feelingly. Leia looked up at the master visual display, her throat suddenly tight as the memory of that brief conversation she and Han had had with Admiral Ackbar flashed back to mind. Ackbar had been solidly convinced—and had convinced her—that the double-blind properties of the cloaking shield made it too user-dangerous to be an effective weapon. If Thrawn had found a way around that problem . . .

"They're firing again," the sensor officer reported. "And again."

"Same from the Death's Head," another officer put in. "—firing again."

"Signal the battle stations to track and fire along those vectors," Bel Iblis ordered. "As close to the Star Destroyers as possible. We've got to find out what Thrawn's up to."

The word was barely out of his mouth when there was a flash of light from the visual display. One of the Escort Frigates along the first projected vector was suddenly ablaze, its aft section trailing fiery drive gases as the whole ship spun wildly about its transverse axis. "Collision!" someone barked. "Escort Frigate Evanrue—impact with unknown object."

"Impact?" Bel Iblis echoed. "Not a turbolaser shot?"

"Telemetry indicates physical impact," the other shook his head.

Leia looked back at the visual, where the Evanrue was now wreathed in burning gas as it fought to get its spin under control. "Cloaking shields are supposed to be double-blind," Leia said. "How are they maneuvering?"

"Maybe they're not," Bel Iblis said, his voice dark with suspicion. "Tactical: give me a new track from point of impact with the Evanrue. Assume inert object; calculate impact velocity by distance to the Chimaera, and don't forget to factor in the local gravitational field. Feed probable location to the Harrier; order it to open fire as soon as it has the coordinates."

"Yes, sir," one of the lieutenants spoke up. "Feeding to the Harrier now."

"On second thought, belay that last," Bel Iblis said, holding up a hand. "Order the Harrier to use its ion cannon only—repeat, ion cannon only. No turbolasers."

Leia frowned at him. "You're trying to take the ship intact?"

"I'm trying to take it intact, yes," Bel Iblis said slowly. "But I don't think it's a ship."

He fell silent. On the visual, the Harrier's ion cannon began to fire.

The Dreadnaught opened fire, as indeed Thrawn had predicted it would. But only, Pellaeon noted with some surprise, with its ion cannon. "Admiral?"

"Yes, I see," Thrawn said. "Interesting. I was right, Captain—our old Corellian adversary is indeed in command below. But he's allowed us to lead him by the nose only so far."

Pellaeon nodded as understanding suddenly came. "He's trying to knock out the asteroid's cloaking shield."

"Hoping to take it intact." Thrawn touched his control board. "Forward turbolaser batteries: track and target asteroid number one. Fire on my command only."

Pellaeon looked down at his magnified visual display. The Dreadnaught had found its target, its ion beams vanishing in midspace as they flooded down into the cloaking shield. It shouldn't be able to take much more of that. . . .

Abruptly, the stars in that empty region vanished. For a couple of heartbeats there was complete blackness as the cloaking shield collapsed in on itself; then, just as abruptly, the newly uncloaked asteroid was visible.

The ion beams cut off. "Turbolasers, stand by," Thrawn said. "We want them to have a good look first. . . . Turbolasers: fire."

Pellaeon shifted his attention to the viewport. The green fire lanced out, disappearing into the distance as they converged on their target. A second later, there was a faint flash from that direction, a flash that was repeated more strongly from his visual display. Another salvo—another—and another—

"Cease fire," Thrawn said with clear satisfaction. "They're welcome to whatever's left. Hangar bay: firing status."

"We're up to seventy-two, sir," the engineering officer reported, his voice sounding a little strained. "But the power feedback shunt's starting to glow white. We can't keep up these dry firings much longer without burning out either the shunt or the tractor projector itself."

"Close down dry firing," Thrawn ordered, "and signal the other ships to do likewise. How many total firings have there been, Captain?"

Pellaeon checked the figures. "Two hundred eighty-seven," he told the Grand Admiral.

"I presume all twenty-two actual asteroids are out?"

"Yes, sir," Pellaeon confirmed. "Most of them in the first two minutes. Though there's no way of knowing if they've taken up their prescribed orbits."

"The specific orbits are irrelevant," Thrawn assured him. "All that matters is that the asteroids are somewhere in the space around Coruscant."

Pellaeon smiled. Yes, they were . . . except that there were only a fraction of the number the Rebels thought were there. "And now we leave, sir?"

"Now we leave," Thrawn confirmed. "For the moment, at least, Coruscant is effectively out of the war."

Drayson nodded to the battle ops colonel and stepped back to the small group waiting for him a short distance behind the consoles. "The final numbers are in," he said, his voice sounding a little hollow. "They can't be absolutely certain they didn't miss any through the battle debris. But even so . . . their count is two hundred eighty-seven."

"Two hundred eighty-seven?" General Rieekan repeated, his jaw dropping slightly.

"That's the number," Drayson nodded, turning his glare on Bel Iblis. As if, Leia thought, all this was somehow Bel Iblis's fault. "What now?"

Bel Iblis was rubbing his cheek thoughtfully. "For starters, I don't think the situation is quite as bad as it looks," he said. "From everything I've heard about how expensive cloaking shields are, I can't see Thrawn squandering the kind of resources three hundred of them would take. Especially when a much smaller number would do the job just as well."

"You think the other tractor beam firings were faked?" Leia asked.

"They couldn't have been," Rieekan objected. "I was watching the sensor board. Those projectors were definitely drawing power."

Bel Iblis looked at Drayson. "You know more about Star Destroyers than the rest of us, Admiral. Is it possible?"

Drayson frowned off into the distance, professional pride momentarily eclipsing his personal animosity toward Bel Iblis. "It could be done," he agreed at last. "You could run a feedback shunt from the tractor beam projector, either to a flash capacitor or a power dissipator somewhere else on the ship. That would let you run a sizable surge of power through the projector without it really doing anything."

"Is there any way to tell the difference between that and an actual asteroid launch?" Mon Mothma asked.

"From this distance?" Drayson shook his head. "No."

"It almost doesn't matter how many are up there," Rieekan said. "Eventually, their orbits will decay, and letting even one hit ground would be a disaster. Until we've cleared them out, we cant risk lowering the planetary shield."

"The problem being how we locate them," Drayson agreed heavily. "And how we know when we've gotten them all."

A movement caught Leia's eye, and she looked over as a tight-faced Colonel Bremen joined them. "Again, it could be worse," Bel Iblis pointed out. "The sector fleet can have the out-orbit relay station replaced in a few hours, so at least we'll still be able to direct the New Republic's defense from here."

"It'll also make it easier to transmit an all-worlds alert," Bremen spoke up. "Mara Jade's escaped."

Mon Mothma inhaled sharply. "How?" she asked.

"With help," Bremen said grimly. "The guard droid was deactivated. Some kind of jury-rigged restraining bolt. It erased that section of memory, too."

"How long ago?" Rieekan asked.

"No more than a few hours." Bremen glanced around the war room. "We've had extra security on the command floor since the break was discovered, thinking they might have been planning some sabotage to coincide with the Imperials' attack."

"That could still be the plan," Bel Iblis said. "Have you sealed off the Palace?"

"Like a smuggler's profit box," Bremen said. "I doubt they're still here, though."

"We'll need to make certain of that," Mon Mothma said. "I want you to organize a complete search of the Palace, Colonel."

Bremen nodded. "Right away."

Leia braced herself. They weren't going to be happy about this. "Don't bother, Colonel," she said, touching Bremen's arm to stop him as he turned to leave. "Mara's not here."

They all looked at her. "How do you know?" Bel Iblis asked.

"Because she left Coruscant earlier tonight. Along with Han and Luke."

There was a long silence. "I wondered why Solo didn't come to the war room with you," Bel Iblis said. "You want to tell us what's going on?"

Leia hesitated; but surely none of these people could possibly have anything to do with the Delta Source security leak. "Mara thinks she knows where the Empire's cloning facility might be. We thought it would be worth sending her and a small team to check it out."

"We thought?" Drayson snapped. "Who is this we?"

Leia looked him straight in the eye. "My family and closest friends," she said. "The only people I can be absolutely certain aren't leaking information to the Empire."

"That is a gross insult—"

"Enough, Admiral," Mon Mothma cut him off calmly. Calmly, but there was a hardness around her eyes. "Whatever reprimands may be due here can wait until later. Whether it was prudent or otherwise, the fact remains that they're on their way, and we need to decide how best to help them. Leia?"

"The most important thing to do is to pretend Mara's still here," Leia said, the tightness in her chest easing slightly. "She told me she'd only been to Wayland once, and she couldn't guess how long it would take her to reconstruct the route. The longer lead they have, the less time the Empire will have to rush reinforcements there."

"What happens then?" Mon Mothma asked. "Assuming they find it."

"They'll try to destroy it."

There was a moment of silence. "By themselves," Drayson said.

"Unless you have a spare fleet to lend them, yes," Leia said.

Mon Mothma shook her head. "You shouldn't have done it, Leia," she said. "Not without consulting the Council."

"If I'd brought it to the Council, Mara might be dead now," Leia said bluntly. "If news leaked to the Empire that she could find Wayland, the next commando team they sent wouldn't stop at just trying to discredit her."

"The Council is above suspicion," Mon Mothma said, her voice turning chilly.

"Are all the Council members' aides?" Leia countered. "Or the tactical people and supply officers and library researchers? If I'd suggested an attack on Wayland to the Council, all of those people would eventually have known about it."

"And more," Bel Iblis nodded. "She has a point, Mon Mothma."

"I'm not interested in laying blame, Garni," Mon Mothma said quietly. "Nor in defending anyone's little niche of power. I'm concerned about the possibility that all this was indeed a setup, Leia . . . and that it will cost your husband and brother their lives."

Leia swallowed hard. "We thought about that, too," she said. "But we decided it was worth the risk. And there was no one else to do it."

For a long minute no one said anything. Then Mon Mothma stirred. "You'll need to talk to everyone who knows Mara Jade is gone, Colonel," she said to Bremen. "If and when we obtain Wayland's location, we'll see what we can do about sending reinforcements to help them."

"Provided we can be sure it isn't a trap," Drayson added, glowering.

"Of course," Mon Mothma agreed, avoiding Leia's eyes. "For now, that's all we can do. Let's concentrate on Coruscant's immediate problems: defense, and finding those cloaked asteroids. General Bel Iblis—"

A tentative hand touched Leia's shoulder, and she turned to find the slicer Ghent standing there. "It's all over?" he muttered to her.

"The battle is, yes," she said, glancing at Mon Mothma and the others. They were already knee-deep into a discussion about the asteroids, but eventually one of them was bound to notice Ghent and realize he wasn't supposed to be here. "Come on," she told him, steering him back toward the war room exit. "I'll tell you all about it outside. What did you think of Imperial battle encrypt codes?"

"Oh, they're okay," he said. "The guys in there didn't let me do all that much, really. I didn't know their machines as well as they did. They had kind of a silly drill going, too."

Leia smiled. The best and smoothest decrypting routine the New Republic's experts had come up with, and Ghent considered it a silly drill. "People get into routines on the way they do things," she said diplomatically. "Maybe I can arrange for you to talk to the person in overall charge and offer some suggestions."

Ghent waved a vague hand. "Naw. Military types wouldn't like the way I do things. Even Karrde gets bent out by it sometimes. By the way, you know that pulse transmitter you've got going somewhere nearby?"

"The one Delta Source has been using?" Leia nodded. "Counter-intelligence has been trying to locate it since it started transmitting. But it's some sort of cross-frequency split-phase something-or-other, and they haven't had any luck."

"Oh." Ghent seemed to digest that. "Well, that's a tech problem. I don't know anything about those."

"That's all right," Leia assured him. "I'm sure you'll find other ways to help."

"Yeah," he said, digging a data card from his pocket. "Anyway . . . here."

She frowned as she took the card. "What's this?"

"It's the encrypt code from the pulse transmitter."

Leia stopped short. "It's what?"

He stopped too, turning innocent eyes on her. "The encrypt code that cross-frequency whatsis is using. I finally got it sliced."

She stared at him. "Just like that? You just went ahead and sliced it?"

He shrugged again. "Well, sort of. I've been working on it for a month, you know."

Leia gazed at the data card in her hand, a strange and not entirely pleasant thrill of excitement tingling through her. "Does anyone know you have this?" she asked quietly.

He shook his head. "I thought about giving it to that colonel in there before I left, but he was busy talking to someone."

Delta Source's encrypt code . . . and Delta Source didn't know they had it. "Don't tell anyone else," she said. "And I mean anyone."

Ghent frowned, but shrugged. "Okay. Whatever you say."

"Thank you," Leia murmured, sliding the data card into her robe pocket. It was the key to Delta Source—deep within her, she knew that. All she needed was to find the right way to use it.

And to find it fast.

Chapter 15

The fortress of Hijarna had been crumbling slowly away for perhaps a thousand years before the Fifth Alderaanian Expedition had spotted it, keeping its silent, deserted vigil over its silent, deserted world. A vast expanse of incredibly hard black stone, it stood on a high bluff overlooking a plain that still bore the deep scars of massive destruction. To some, the enigmatic fortress was a tragic monument: a last-ditch attempt at defense by a desperate world under siege. To others, it was the brooding and malicious cause of both that siege and the devastation that had followed.

To Karrde, for the moment at least, it was home.

"You sure know how to pick 'em, Karrde," Gillespee commented, propping his feet up on the edge of the auxiliary comm desk and looking around. "How did you find this place, anyway?"

"It's all right there in the old records," Karrde told him, watching his display as the decrypt program ran its course. A star map appeared, accompanied by a very short text . . .

Gillespee nodded toward Karrde's display. "Clyngunn's report?"

"Yes," Karrde said, pulling out the data card. "Such as it is."

"Nothing, right?"

"Pretty much. No indications of clone traffic anywhere on Poderis, Chazwa, or Joiol."

Gillespee dropped his feet off the table and stood up. "Well, that's that, then," he said, stepping over to the fruit rack someone had laid out on a side table and picking himself out a driblis fruit. "Looks like whatever the Empire had going in Orus sector has dried up. If there was anything going there in the first place."

"Given the lack of a trail, I suspect the latter," Karrde agreed, choosing one of the cards that had come from his contact on Bespin and sliding it into the display. "Still, it was something we needed to know, one way or the other. Among other things, it frees us up to concentrate on other possibilities."

"Yeah," Gillespee said reluctantly as he went back to his seat. "Well . . . you know, Karrde, this whole thing has been land of strange. Smugglers, I mean, doing this kind of snoop work. Hasn't paid very much, either."

"I've already told you we'll be getting some reimbursement from the New Republic."

"Except that we don't have anything to sell them," Gillespee pointed out. "Never known anyone yet who paid for no delivery."

Karrde frowned over at him. Gillespee had produced a wicked-looking knife from somewhere and was carefully carving a slice from the driblis fruit. "This isn't about getting paid," he reminded the other. "It's about surviving against the Empire."

"Maybe for you it is," Gillespee said, studying the slice of fruit a moment before taking a bite. "You've got enough sidelines going that you can afford to lay off business for a while. But, see, the rest of us have payrolls to meet and ships to keep fueled. The money stops coming in, our employees start getting nasty."

"So you and the others want money?"

He could see Gillespee brace himself. "I want money. The others want out."

It was not, in retrospect, exactly an unexpected development. The white-hot anger toward the Empire that had been sparked by that attack at the Whistler's Whirlpool was cooling, and the habits of day-to-day business were beginning to reassert themselves. "The Empire's still dangerous," he said.

"Not to us," Gillespee said bluntly. "There hasn't been a single blip of Imperial attention directed toward us since the Whirlpool. They didn't mind us poking around Orus sector; they didn't even come down on Mazzic for that thing at the Bilbringi shipyards."

"So they're ignoring us, despite provocation to do otherwise. Does that make you feel safe?"

Carefully, Gillespee sliced himself off another piece of fruit. "I don't know," he conceded. "Half the time I think Brasck's right: that if we leave the Empire alone, it'll leave us alone. But I can't help thinking about that army of clones Thrawn chased me off Ukio with. I start thinking that maybe he's just too busy with the New Republic to bother with us right now."

Karrde shook his head. "Thrawn's never too busy to chase someone down if he wants them," he said. "If he's ignoring us, it's because he knows that's the best way to quiet any opposition. Next step will probably be to offer us transport contracts and pretend that we're all good friends again."

Gillespee looked at him sharply. "You been talking to Par'tah?"

"No. Why?"

"She told me two days ago that she's been offered a contract to bring a bunch" of sublight engines to the Imperial shipyards at Ord Trasi."

Karrde grimaced. "Has she accepted?"

"Said she was still working out the details. But you know Par'tah—she's always running right on the edge. Probably can't afford to say no."

Karrde turned back to his display, the sour taste of defeat in his mouth. "I suppose I can't really blame her," he said. "What about the others?"

Gillespee shrugged uncomfortably. "Like I said, the money keeps going out. We have to have money coming in, too."

And just like that, the reluctant coalition he'd tried to put together was falling apart. And the Empire hadn't had to fire a single shot to do it. "Then I suppose I'll just have to go it alone," he said, standing up. "Thank you for your assistance. I'm sure you'll want to be getting back to business."

"Now, don't get all huffy, Karrde," Gillespee chided him, taking one last bite of fruit and getting to his feet. "You're right, this clone stuff is serious business. If you want to hire my ships and people for your hunt, we'll be happy to help you out. We just can't afford to do it for free anymore, that's all. Just let us know." He turned toward the door—

"Just a minute," Karrde called after him. A rather audacious thought had just occurred to him. "Suppose I find a way to guarantee funding for everyone. You think the others would stay aboard, too?"