Heir To The Empire (45 page)

“Any problems with the tow cable?” he asked, sliding into the copilot’s seat.

“Not so far,” Han said, leaning forward and looking all around them as the Falcon cleared the trees. “The extra weight’s not bothering us, anyway. We should be all right.”

“Good. You expecting company?”

“You never know,” Han said, giving the sky one last look before settling back into his seat and gunning the repulsorlifts. “Karrde said there were still a couple of Chariots and a few speeder bikes unaccounted for. One of them might have figured that a last-ditch suicide run was better than having to go back to the Grand Admiral and report.”

Luke stared at him. “Grand Admiral?” he asked carefully.

Han’s lip twisted. “Yeah. That’s who seems to be running the show now for the Empire.”

A cold chill ran up Luke’s back. “I thought we’d accounted for all the Grand Admirals.”

“Me, too. We must have missed one.”

And abruptly, right in the middle of Han’s last word, Luke felt a surge of awareness and strength fill him. As if he were waking up from a deep sleep, or stepping from a dark room into the light, or suddenly understanding the universe again.

The Force was again with him.

He took a deep breath, eyes flicking across the control board for the altimeter. Just over twelve kilometers. Karrde had been right-those ysalamiri did, indeed, reinforce one another. “I don’t suppose you got a name,” he murmured.

“Karrde wouldn’t give it to me,” Han said, throwing a curious frown in Luke’s direction. “Maybe we can bargain the use of that Star Cruiser he wants for it. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Luke assured him. “I just-it’s like being able to see again after having been blind.”

Han snorted under his breath. “Yeah, I know how that is,” he said wryly.

“I guess you would.” Luke looked at him. “I didn’t get a chance to say this earlier . . . but thanks for coming after me.”

Han waved it away. “No charge. And I didn’t get a chance to say it earlier-” he glanced at Luke again “-but you look like something the proom dragged in.”

“My wonderful disguise,” Luke told him, touching his face gingerly. “Mara assures me it’ll wear off in a few more hours.”

“Yeah-Mara,” Han said. “You and she seemed to be hitting it off pretty well there.”

Luke grimaced. “Don’t count on it,” he said. “A matter of having a common enemy, that’s all. First the forest, then the Imperials.”

He could sense Han casting around for a way to ask the next question, decided to save him the trouble. “She wants to kill me,” he told the other.

“Any idea why?”

Luke opened his mouth . . . and, to his own surprise, closed it again. There wasn’t any particular reason not to tell Han what he knew about Mara’s past-certainly no reason he could think of. And yet, somehow, he felt a strangely compelling reluctance to do so. “It’s something personal,” he said at last.

Han threw him an odd look. “Something personal? How personal can a death mark get?”

“It’s not a death mark,” Luke insisted. “It’s something-well, personal.”

Han gazed at him a moment longer, then turned back to his piloting. “Oh,” he said.

The Falcon had cleared the atmosphere now and was gunning for deep space. From this high up, Luke decided, the forest looked rather pleasant. “You know, I never did find out what planet this was,” he commented.

“It’s called Myrkr,” Han told him. “And I just found out this morning. I think Karrde must have already decided to abandon the place, even before the battle-he had real tight security around it when Lando and I first got here.”

A few minutes later a light flashed on the control board: the Falcon was far enough out of Myrkr’s gravity well for the hyperdrive to function. “Good,” Han nodded at it. “Course’s already programmed in; let’s get out of here.” He wrapped his hand around the central levers and pulled; and with a burst of starlines, they were off.

“Where are we going?” Luke asked as the starlines faded into the familiar mottled sky. “Coruscant?”

“A little side trip first,” Han said. “I want to swing by the Sluis Van shipyards, see if we can get Lando and your X-wing fixed up.”

Luke threw him a sideways glance. “And maybe find a Star Cruiser to borrow for Karrde?”

“Maybe,” Han said, a little defensively. “I mean, Ackbar’s got a bunch of stripped-down warships ferrying stuff to the Sluis sector already. No reason why we can’t borrow one of them for a couple of days, is there?”

“Probably not,” Luke conceded with a sigh. Suddenly, it felt really good to just sit back and do nothing. “I suppose Coruscant can do without us for a few more days.”

“I hope so,” Han said, his voice abruptly grim. “But something’s about to happen back there. If it hasn’t happened already.”

And his sense was as grim as his words. “Maybe we shouldn’t bother with Sluis Van, then,” Luke suggested, feeling a sympathetic shiver. “Lando’s hurting, but he’s not in any danger.”

Han shook his head. “No. I want to get him taken care of-and you, buddy, need some downtime, too,” he added, glancing at Luke. “I just wanted you to know that when we hit Coruscant, we’re going to hit it running. So enjoy Sluis Van while you can. It’ll probably be the last peace and quiet you’ll get for a while.”

In the blackness of deep space, three-thousandths of a light-year out from the Sluis Van shipyards, the task force assembled for battle.

“The Judicator has just reported in, Captain,” the communications officer told Pellaeon. “They confirm battle ready, and request order update.”

“Inform Captain Brandei that there have been no changes,” Pellaeon told him, standing at the starboard viewport and gazing out at the shadowy shapes gathered around the Chimaera, all but the closest identifiable only by the distinctive patterns of their running lights. It was an impressive task force, one worthy of the old days: five Imperial Star Destroyers, twelve Strike-class cruisers, twenty-two of the old Carrack-class light cruisers, and thirty full squadrons of
TIE
fighters standing ready in their hangar bays.

And riding there in the middle of all that awesome firepower, like someone’s twisted idea of a joke, sat the battered old A-class bulk freighter.

The key to this whole operation.

“Status, Captain?” Thrawn’s voice came quietly from behind him.

Pellaeon turned to face the Grand Admiral. “All ships are on line, sir,” he reported. “The freighter’s cloaking shield has been checked out and primed; all
TIE
fighters are prepped and manned. I think we’re ready.”

Thrawn nodded, his glowing eyes sweeping the field of running lights around them. “Excellent,” he murmured. “What word from Myrkr?”

The question threw Pellaeon off stride-he hadn’t thought about Myrkr for days. “I don’t know, Admiral,” he confessed, looking over Thrawn’s shoulder at the communications officer. “Lieutenant-the last report from the Myrkr landing force?”

The other was already calling up the record. “It was a routine report, sir,” he said. “Time log . . . fourteen hours ten minutes ago.”

Thrawn turned to face him. “Fourteen hours?” he repeated, his voice suddenly very quiet and very deadly. “I left orders for them to report every twelve.”

“Yes, Admiral,” the comm man said, starting to look a little nervous. “I have that order logged, right here on their file. They must have . . .” He trailed off, looking helplessly at Pellaeon.

They must have forgotten to report in, was Pellaeon’s first, hopeful reaction. But it died stillborn. Stormtroopers didn’t forget such things. Ever. “Perhaps they’re having trouble with their transmitter,” he suggested hesitantly.

For a handful of heartbeats Thrawn just stood there, silent. “No,” he said at last. “They’ve been taken. Skywalker was indeed there.”

Pellaeon hesitated, shook his head. “I can’t believe that, sir,” he said. “Skywalker couldn’t have taken all of them. Not with all those ysalamiri blocking his Jedi power.”

Thrawn turned those glittering eyes back on Pellaeon. “I agree,” he said coldly. “Obviously, he had help.”

Pellaeon forced himself to meet that gaze. “Karrde?”

“Who else was there?” Thrawn countered. “So much for his protestations of neutrality.”

Pellaeon glanced at the status board. “Perhaps we should send someone to investigate. We could probably spare a Strike Cruiser; maybe even the Stormhawk.”

Thrawn took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “No,” he said, his voice steady and controlled again. “The Sluis Van operation is our primary concern at the moment-and battles have been lost before on the presence or absence of a single ship. Karrde and his betrayal will keep for later.”

He turned back to the communications officer. “Signal the freighter,” he ordered. “Have them activate the cloaking shield.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pellaeon turned back to the viewport. The freighter, bathed in the Chimera’s lights, just sat there looking innocent. “Cloaking shield on, Admiral,” the comm man reported.

Thrawn nodded. “Order them to proceed.”

“Yes, sir.” Moving rather sluggishly, the freighter maneuvered past the Chimaera, oriented itself toward the distant sun of the Sluis Van system, and with a flicker of pseudovelocity jumped to lightspeed.

“Time mark,” Thrawn ordered.

“Time marked,” one of the deck officers acknowledged.

Thrawn looked at Pellaeon. “Is my flagship ready, Captain?” he asked the formal question.

“The Chimaera is fully at your command, Admiral,” Pellaeon gave the formal answer.

“Good. We follow the freighter in exactly six hours twenty minutes. I want a final check from all ships . . . and I want you to remind them one last time that our task is only to engage and pin down the system’s defenses. There are to be no special heroics or risks taken. Make that clearly understood, Captain. We’re here to gain ships, not lose them.”

“Yes, sir.” Pellaeon started toward his command station-

“And Captain . . . ?”

“Yes, Admiral?”

There was a tight smile on Thrawn’s face. “Remind them, too,” he added softly, “that our final victory over the Rebellion begins here.”

Captain Afyon of the Escort Frigate Larkhess shook his head with thinly disguised contempt, glaring at Wedge from the depths of his pilot’s seat. “You X-wing hotshots,” he growled. “You’ve really got it made-you know that?”

Wedge shrugged, trying hard not to take offense. It wasn’t easy; but then, he’d had lots of practice in the past few days. Afyon had started out from Coruscant with a planetary-mass chip on his shoulder, and he’d been nursing it the whole way.

And looking out the viewport at the confused mass of ships crowding the Sluis Van orbit-dock area, it wasn’t hard to figure out why. “Yeah, well, we’re stuck out here, too,” he reminded the captain.

The other snorted. “Yeah. Big sacrifice. You lounge around my ship like overpriced trampers for a couple of days, then flit around for two hours while I try to dodge bulk freighters and get this thing into a docking station designed for scavenger pickers. And then you pull your snubbies back inside and go back to lounging again. Doesn’t exactly qualify as earning your pay, in my book.”

Wedge clamped his teeth firmly around his tongue and stirred his tea a little harder. It was considered bad form to mouth back at senior officers, after all-even senior officers who’d long since passed their prime. For probably the first time since he had been given command of Rogue Squadron, he regretted having passed up all the rest of the promotions he’d been offered. A higher rank would at least have entitled him to snarl back a little.

Lifting his cup for a cautious sip, he gazed out the viewport at the scene around them. No, he amended-he wasn’t sorry at all that he’d stayed with his X-wing. If he hadn’t, he’d probably be in exactly the same position as Afyon was right now: trying to run a 920-crew ship with just fifteen men, hauling cargo in a ship meant for war.

And, like as not, having to put up with hotshot X-wing pilots who sat around his bridge drinking tea and claiming with perfect justification that they were doing exactly what they’d been ordered to do.

He hid a smile behind his mug. Yes, in Afyon’s place, he’d probably be ready to spit bulkhead shavings, too. Maybe he ought to go ahead and let the other drag him into an argument, in fact, let him drain off some of that excess nervous energy of his. Eventually-within the hour, even, if Sluis Control’s latest departure estimate was anywhere close-it would finally be the Larkhess’s turn to get out of here and head for Bpfassh. It would be nice, when that time came, for Afyon to be calm enough to handle the ship. Taking another sip of his tea, Wedge looked out the viewport. A couple of refitted passenger liners were making their own break for freedom now, he saw, accompanied by four Corellian Corvettes. Beyond them, just visible in the faint light of the space-lane marker buoys, was what looked like one of the slightly ovoid transports he used to escort during the height of the war, with a pair of B-wings following.

And off to the side, moving parallel to their departure vector, an A-class bulk freighter was coming into the docking pattern.

Without any escort at all.

Wedge watched it creep toward them, his smile fading as old combat senses began to tingle. Swiveling around in his seat, he reached over to the console beside him and punched for a sensor scan.

It looked innocent enough. An older freighter, probably a knockoff of the original Corellian Action IV design, with the kind of exterior that came from either a lifetime of honest work or else a short and spectacularly unsuccessful career of piracy. Its cargo bay registered completely empty, and there were no weapons emplacements that the Larkhess’s sensors could pick up. A totally empty freighter. How long had it been, he wondered uneasily, since he’d run across a totally empty freighter?

“Trouble?”

Wedge focused on the captain in mild surprise. The other’s frustrated anger of a minute ago was gone, replaced by something calm, alert, and battle-ready. Perhaps, the thought strayed through Wedge’s mind, Afyon wasn’t past his prime after all. “That incoming freighter,” he told the other, setting his cup down on the edge of the console and keying for a comm channel. “There’s something about it that doesn’t feel right.”