Tales from the New Republic (25 page)

“Let’s hope it doesn’t have an appetite for shiny little snacks.”

“They don’t eat metal,” she told him. “It’s about the only thing they
don’t
eat.”

“Good.” He studied her briefly. “So, what happened with that aide, Quarle?”

“He caught me coming back downstairs,” she admitted. “I thought there’d be trouble, but it seemed to work out all right.”

Vartos looked relieved. “Well, if you had to get caught, good thing it was him. He’s in a good position to bail you out.”

Selby frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Bail you out—cover for you. Make an excuse why you’re someplace you shouldn’t be.” Vartos gave her an odd look. “Didn’t he ask what you were up to?”

“I told him I was trying to get up on the roof to see the stars.”

“And he bought it?”

“He seemed to.” She looked at him, still frowning. “Why would he cover for me?”

“Wait, let me get this straight,” Vartos said. “As far as you know he knows, you were just wandering around the Hall because—” he grinned “—you wanted to go stargazing?”

“That’s what I said,” she gritted. “What did you mean—”

“Sel, he’s on our side,” Vartos said gently. “He’s with the Verkuylian resistance.”

She caught herself before her jaw dropped. “He is?” It took another moment to digest the news. “Then he knows all about us,” she said. “He knew the whole time what I was up to.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Vartos said. “You know how these things are set up, Sel.”

She nodded, still taking it in. Members of resistance cells almost always had nominal contact with each other, and limited knowledge of what was going on in order to reduce liability. That way, if one Rebel was compromised or caught, the damage to the overall group could be kept to a minimum.

She thought about it a little more, recalling her initial impression that Quarle wasn’t quite what he seemed. “That takes nerve, playing both sides that way,” she said, rethinking their conversation on the roof in light of this new information. “He’s got a tough hull to patch passing himself off as a loyal Imperial.”

“So do we,” Vartos said, rather tartly. “And unless we absolutely need him for something, we’re going to keep on treating him like he
is
one. Time enough
after
the coup to compare notes on your respective undercover careers, Sel.”

The admonition was hard to miss. “Of course,” she said, slightly hurt that he’d think anything else. “You can count on me to put the mission first, sir.”

“I know.” He studied her a moment longer, nodded once, and changed the subject. “So. Here’s what the security setup on the lower levels looks like.”

He launched into a description of sensor panels, guard posts, and hidden cameras. Selby listened, grateful her brain was kept busy visualizing the Hall layout rather than replaying that evening’s encounter with Quarle. Wondering if the duplicity inherent in carrying off his masquerade gave him any difficulties. Whether it was… lonely… living a life split between ideals and duty, unsure who to call friend and who to call foe, but all too sure he could not let his guard down with either.

Realizing the direction of her thoughts, Selby forced her mind back to the task at hand. As Vartos had said, time enough for that sort of thing later.

Or perhaps there would have been, if things had turned out differently.

Selby listened to the whispers from the tiny speakers concealed in her ornamental earsculpts as she sped up to the Governor’s office the next morning. What she heard sent her stomach plunging as surely as if the turbolift’s floor had suddenly dropped out from beneath her. Which, in a sense, it had. Claris, waiting at the comm tower for Selby’s signal to hail the fleet, had just been captured.

And in the short space of time that it took Governor Ein to be informed of the arrest, and for Selby to overhear it before the eavesdropper’s signal abruptly cut off, their carefully crafted plan went to pieces. The loss of Claris shattered it as effectively as a change in cabin pressure microfractured a ship’s brittle hull.

For that first stunned moment, Selby felt panic freeze her mind as she watched the floor indicators flash past, carrying her ever closer to her meeting with the Governor. Claris captured, herself only seconds away from the stormtroopers sure to be awaiting her arrival at Ein’s office—

Then a hot surge of adrenaline thawed the frost and sent her brain scrambling to find a way to salvage the situation.
Think
, she ordered herself, damning the eavesdropper for cutting out just when she needed an ear in the Governor’s office the most. Was there any way she could stop the lift, get off it, and find a way to warn Vartos?

She bit her lip. Without a thumbpass, no. Not before first making a stop on the Governor’s floor. The guard below had entered her destination, notified Ein’s office she was on her way up, and keyed the lift for nonstop.

But there are other ways of making an exit
, she thought, glancing up to confirm the presence of a maintenance panel in the lift’s ceiling. She could knock out the panel, climb into the shaft, and go… where? Her hand, reaching for the lift’s controls, hesitated—

And then, suddenly it was too late. The doors slid open.

Selby froze. Two stormtroopers stood opposite the lift, blaster rifles resting imposingly on their white-armored shoulders in traditional parade-ground stance. She stared at them. They stared back, seemingly in no hurry to take her into custody. Inside, hope battled with caution. Could it be that they didn’t know?

She couldn’t just stand in the lift forever. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out. Boldly, she announced: “I’m here to see His Excellency.”

The stormtroopers just stared at her without responding, but off to the side a golden-eyed protocol droid snapped to attention. “I’m sorry, but the Governor is unable to see you now,” it apologized in an officiously smug manner that made Selby suspect it delivered this particular speech quite often. “Unexpected business has come up that requires his immediate attention. May I reschedule your appointment to another time?”

“Oh, I suppose,” she said, trying to look annoyed at the delay. Still not quite believing her luck, she agreed to a time and re-entered the turbolift. As it sped back down to ground level, she steeled herself to tell Vartos there had been a change in plan. As the mission’s commanding officer, it would be up to him to decide what course of action that change required.

For just a moment, she allowed herself to think about Claris, now in Imperial custody—an Intelligence operative’s worst fear. Then the door slid open, and she set out in search of the generator room where Vartos waited for his signal to cut power to the Hall. If they hadn’t been before, the Imperials were monitoring electronic communications now for sure. She’d have to deliver this message in person.

But as it turned out, she didn’t have to. Vartos already knew.

Hands in the air and a grim expression on his face, he stood pinned against one of the humming power-relay boxes. He turned his head to look at Selby as she slipped in, and she had her own blaster out and in her hand before the situation really even registered. But the stormtrooper holding the blaster rifle on him didn’t even glance her way. He didn’t have to. Before she got her weapon up to firing position, a harsh voice from the side ordered her to drop it.

Selby froze midaim and slowly turned her head to look. A short distance away, Daven Quarle had his hands half raised as he stood between two rows of power relays. Behind him, the second stormtrooper’s blaster rifle now pointed in her direction. “Drop it! Now!” the trooper repeated forcefully.

Selby risked another glance at Vartos. His eyes met hers, and in their grimly resigned depths she could see he understood her dilemma.

As it stood now, with the whole New Republic team captured and the fleet not called, the mission was doomed to certain failure. Without the fleet to encourage his surrender, Ein and his stormtroopers would simply crush the rebelling workers, and the three—no, the four of them, counting Quarle—would be interrogated and then most likely killed.

However, if she went ahead and took a shot at Vartos’s captor, it would probably result in her commanding officer’s immediate execution, but if—and it was a big if—Quarle over there was as quick-minded as he’d seemed and thought to divert the second stormtrooper, she just might manage an escape during the ensuing firefight.

And if she got free, there was still a chance she could—somehow—call the fleet.

You can count on me to put the mission first
, she’d said to Vartos.

She’d meant it.

Raising the blaster, Selby fired.

The next few moments were a blur. As she dove behind a metal control box that offered meager cover, the room lit up with blasterfire. Across the room, Vartos crumpled. Pinned in place and uncomfortably aware of the blaster bolts sizzling close all around, Selby kept shooting anyway until the first stormtrooper went down. Then, twisting to aim at his comrade, who was crouching behind a metal box of his own, a movement to the side caught her eye.

It was Quarle, edging stealthily along the wall toward their only means of escape, the door. Something else caught her eye as well—

“Daven—watch out!” she shouted, and fired. The bolt sizzled into a small panel on the wall a scant few dozen centimeters before him. The lights blinked out, blanketing the room in darkness.

And this was it—her only chance.

As if on cue the door slid open, illuminating her path to freedom. Momentarily silhouetted, Quarle slipped through to safety in the corridor beyond. Aiming a wild smattering of cover fire in the stormtrooper’s direction, Selby got to her feet and darted after him.

She almost made it unscathed. Just as she reached the door, a blaster bolt grazed her outstretched arm, sending jagged claws of hot pain streaking up to her shoulder and forcing out an involuntary cry as she stumbled into the corridor beyond. The door slid shut behind her, the faint sounds of the trooper’s fire slamming uselessly against the metal barrier.

Alerted by her cry, Quarle turned back. Suddenly nauseated, and dizzied by the burning pain, she faltered just outside the door and struggled to get her bearings. “Which way?” she managed from between gritted teeth.

Quarle hesitated, but far behind him down the corridor, two stormtroopers rounded the corner and the question suddenly became moot. Her arm felt engulfed in flames, but she managed to fire a few discouraging bursts their way before turning to run. As blaster fire echoed down the corridor, she felt more than heard Quarle close on her heels.

They hadn’t gone more than fifty meters before he pushed her firmly to the right and slapped at a door panel there. Selby let him guide her, bursting into a long, narrow room with no doors other than the one they’d just come through. “Where’re we going?” she demanded, pain making the question come out harsh.

“Somewhere safe,” Quarle said, just as shortly. He felt along the blank wall on the far end of the room while Selby restlessly prowled, scanning the room for possible avenues of escape. She was relieved to be out of the immediate line of fire, but with no apparent way out, that relief was sure to be short-lived. And the stormtroopers would be here any moment—

Turning back to Quarle, she was startled to see an old-fashioned swing door in the far wall where she was positive none had previously existed. “Hurry up,” he said, and proved the door wasn’t a mirage by pushing it open and stepping into the darkness beyond.

Selby hastened into the narrow passage beside him, and watched as he did something at a panel set in the back of the wall. The light streaming in the open door suddenly changed. When Selby looked through it to the room beyond, it was like looking through a gauzy curtain.

She flinched as the door at the far side burst open. One at a time, two stormtroopers leapt into the room with weapons at the ready. But astonishingly, they spared no more than a cursory glance at the far wall. She realized then that they must see the same blank wall she’d seen when first entering the room, and looked at the gauzy curtain with new respect. Holoflage—some of the best holoflage she’d ever seen—concealed the secret door from prying eyes.

“I’m impressed,” she murmured tightly as Quarle shut the door, flicked on a glowrod, and led the way down the dark passage. Her arm throbbed with each step. “Very impressed. How did you know it was there?”

“Old family secret.” He glanced briefly over his shoulder. “My grandfather was Corlin Quarle Deld.”

A moment later, the name clicked. “Verkuylian BactaCo’s principal owner,” she said, and he nodded. Selby nodded, too, as the pieces fell more neatly into place. No wonder Quarle masqueraded as an Imperial while secretly plotting revolt. His family had owned the whole planet before the Empire took it over.

She thought of the holoflage and felt a renewed stirring of hope. “Got any other family secrets I’d like to know about?” she inquired.

Quarle paused before a door. Beyond, the passage disappeared into darkness. Crouching, he shined the glowrod on a dusty keypad and punched in a series of numbers. A lock snicked, and he opened the door to reveal a tiny room.

“I might,” he said finally, locking the door again behind them. “But we need to figure out what we’re going to do here. It’s obvious that whatever plan you and your partner came here with has fallen apart, and my cover’s been blown as well. At this point, just getting out alive seems the best we can hope for.”

“That’s not good enough.” Selby shook her head. “If I can get word to the fleet, there’s a chance we can still pull this off.”

Quarle looked at her sharply. “The fleet?”

“There’s a small New Republic battle force nearby waiting for a signal from Claris—or rather,” she amended, “a signal from me, before jumping in. Once it shows up, unless Ein has a Star Destroyer or two hidden in his back pocket, he’ll have no choice but to surrender.”

“I see,” Quarle said slowly. He gazed off a moment, thinking, then slanted her a faint smile. “And no, he doesn’t.” The grin faded as his eyes went to her injured arm. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on while we take care of that burn?” he suggested. “We’ll figure out where to go from there.”

The medpac he produced contained only the mildest anesthetic, so Selby was just as glad to focus on describing the mission as Quarle gently cleaned the burn and slathered a viscous green gel over it. “Unstabilized alazhi,” he said at her doubtful look. “Not quite as effective as refined bacta, but it’ll certainly help.”

It did. The cool gel soothed the burn and, as it hardened, provided a protective coating which made bandaging unnecessary. Selby flexed the arm experimentally, relieved to find the movement elicited only a dull throb of protest. “So,” she said. “What do you think?”

“It’s
your
arm.” Quarle raised an eyebrow. “What do
you
think?”

“The arm’s fine,” she said, giving him a faint smile in thanks. “I meant, what next? Can you get me access to a subspace comm unit?”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully and sat back. “Probably,” he allowed, then paused. “One question, though. What were the fleet’s orders if it never got a signal? Send someone to investigate, or just go on home?”

“They wouldn’t abandon us,” Selby said. “They’d try to find out what happened.”

“So someone would eventually show up to find out why the signal never came?”

“They wouldn’t abandon us,” Selby said again, feeling a twinge deep inside that, on the uncertain chance she could salvage the mission, she had basically abandoned Vartos back there in the generator room. She knew that if she failed, Intelligence would eventually send someone to investigate, but at that point the mission would simply mean extracting the surviving team members, if there were any, and pulling out. Vartos and Claris would have been lost in vain, the rebelling Verkuylian workers would be purged, and the Empire would win—perhaps permanently. Without enough support from the workers who were left, the New Republic would probably not return.

“I see,” Quarle said. “So it’s call the fleet now, or never get another chance.”

“Looks that way,” Selby agreed. She hesitated. “I’m sorry—this could get a lot messier than originally planned. If Ein starts rounding up workers, using them as hostages… we can still win, but victory may come at a higher price.”

Quarle’s cheek twitched. “All things worth having usually do.”

“There could be fighting, in orbit or on the ground,” she warned. “Will it be worth it to you?”

He looked at her. In his eyes, she saw grim acceptance.

“I want what’s best for Verkuyl,” he said. “If bloodshed is what it takes—” He looked away. “I’ll regret it. but I’ll learn to live with it.

“Now.” He abruptly changed the subject. “I can think of three subspace comms we might be able to get to. Let’s figure out which one would be best to try for…”