Rebel Dream: Enemy Lines I (6 page)

She looked at him, and then again at the pit overfull of darkness. In the blur of that darkness, at its edges, she saw motion that seemed suddenly familiar. It was identical to that of the little black dots, the carrion-eaters, that infested Tsavong Lah’s arm.

She concealed a sensation of revulsion. “This is the fate you’ve chosen for me?”

“Yes.” The warmaster gestured at one of her guards. “Denua Ku will kill you. If you are polite in these last few moments of life, I will let you choose the means of your death. He could break your neck, stab you with his amphistaff, have the staff bite you. Then your body will be tossed into the pit. The creatures there will ignore it for a time, until it begins emitting the odors of decomposition, and then they will fall on it, slowly eating it away to nothingness. You will disappear into darkness, Viqi Shesh, and cease to be, as though you never were.”

Viqi’s stomach knotted, but she kept her expression calm, emotionless. “Why don’t I just jump in? I can drown as your little bugs fill my lungs. That way, these two nameless nothings beside me don’t get to participate.”

She could sense anger in the increasing stiffness of her guards’ postures, but Tsavong Lah merely widened his eyes and looked a bit surprised. “You are anxious to provide compensation for your failure?”

“Of course. I will do it this way if it is what you require; it is my obligation to serve. But I’m more anxious for you to stop lying to me. To end that particular torture, I’ll jump in right now.”

“Lying. An interesting accusation. A deliberate offense.” Tsavong Lah smiled again. “One you can offer because you think nothing worse than death could await you. If that is your belief, you are wrong.”

“I say you are lying for this reason: you are not disposing of me because I failed you. Others have failed you and been permitted to live … because they were still loyal resources you could rely on. You’re having me put to death because you think I’m no longer valuable to you. No longer a resource.”

To the extent that they could, Tsavong Lah’s features became thoughtful. “I am impressed. You make your point. I am killing you because you
are
no longer a resource, Viqi.”

“But I am. My most powerful weapon is still with me, Warmaster—my brain. While I sat in my cell, I used it, and I uncovered a threat to your control of the Yuuzhan Vong, to your plans for this galaxy, to everything you consider a goal. You are in danger you don’t even know about. Only I have uncovered the secret.”

“Name it, then.”

“No.” She looked at her guards. “Not while these unworthy ones can hear my words. Not while
anyone
other than you can hear them.”

Tsavong Lah gestured. Viqi’s guards took her by her arms and, seemingly without effort, lifted her. They held her over the pit. Black dots leapt up from it, settling on her feet and lower legs. Some leapt off again.

“Anything you have to tell me, they can hear,” Tsavong Lah said, “in the final moments of your life.”

Viqi returned her gaze to his. She was able to keep the fear she felt out of her voice. “You and I are the only ones in this chamber I
know
are not your enemies. I will not speak what I know before strangers, because it might spell your doom. If I die now, with my secret unspoken, you might figure it out yourself, and survive anyway.
I will not betray you
. So drop me.” She made her expression fierce, and the ferocity was not just a show—the fear she felt was real, and fueled very real anger.

Tsavong Lah considered her for a long moment, then made a shooing gesture to his guards. They withdrew a step, bringing Viqi back over solid flooring, and released her. She fell awkwardly, almost collapsing when she landed; a stumble and she might have pitched forward into the pit anyway. Then they turned and left the chamber.

Viqi felt the first, faint stirrings of hope. She was in charge of this situation, for the moment at least. If she could hold on to her tenuous advantage, she might live.

Tsavong Lah regarded her steadily. “Well?”

“Your body rejects its latest modification,” she said, her words coming out in a rush. “I know what you’re thinking. You believe it’s your gods talking to you, telling you to figure out the correct path to their approval. But that’s not what’s happening.

“You’re being betrayed, Warmaster. By the shapers. They’ve put a faulty limb on you. It threatens to turn you into a Shamed One. Soon, they’ll start recommending courses of action to you—military action, political action. When you start doing what they say, the problems with your limb will diminish. But anytime you fail to do as the shapers demand, new problems will begin. You’re going to be their slave, Warmaster.”

Tsavong Lah fell silent. His eyes were unreadable.

You contemptible, predictable fool, I have you
. Viqi clamped down on the rush of elation she felt—she could not afford for it to be reflected in her expression.

In her cell, she had used her skills of fabricating and anticipating treachery—not to figure out the source of the problems afflicting Tsavong Lah, but to concoct an accusation that explained all of them, a story that would take time and effort to disprove. She would use that time to find some way to escape the Yuuzhan Vong.

“An interesting notion,” the warmaster said. “What if you are wrong?”

“I am
not
wrong.” Viqi gave him her most unconcerned expression. “I just ask for the opportunity to see my theory proven right. Kill me
then
if you choose. At least I’ll die victorious.”

Tsavong Lah regarded her for long moments. Then he nodded to himself. “We will see. I will give you duties to perform until proof is in my hands … or my patience ends.” He called out a few words in his language, and the guards returned to flank Viqi. At the warmaster’s gesture, the guards took Viqi by the shoulders, spun her around, and led her back out the door.

Every step was more distance between her and the pit. Every step was a loosening in the tight grip that fear had on her heart. Every step was a drumbeat accompanying the words that pulsed through her mind:
I live. I live. I still live
.

Wedge’s comlink beeped, awakening him. His booted feet slid off the desk before him and hit the floor with a too-loud clatter. He sat up, wondering for a moment where he was and what he was doing there.

His office was dark. He’d fallen asleep before making it back to his temporary quarters. He grabbed his comlink and held it up before him. “Go.” He rubbed sleep from his eyes and wondered how many minutes of rest he’d had.

“General, this is
Mon Mothma
. One of our wing-pair patrols reports a transport with fighter escort arriving insystem.”

“Yuuzhan Vong or refugee?”

“Neither, sir. Its communications officer says it’s the
official transport of the New Republic Advisory Council. Their authentication code checks out.”

Wedge frowned at the comlink. It was inconceivable that the Advisory Council was still functioning in any capacity. Until the fall of Coruscant, they’d been Chief of State Borsk Fey’lya’s handpicked advisers, a lubricating layer between him and the grinding machinery of government. But with Fey’lya’s death during Coruscant’s fall and the collapse and flight of the New Republic Senate, Wedge had guessed that the Advisory Council would have been scattered to the space routes, each member racing home to prepare for Yuuzhan Vong pursuit. “Have they done anything other than request clearance to land?”

“Yes, sir. They’ve, um, requested a meeting with you and your general staff, as soon as possible. They say they’ve brought your orders.”

Wedge made a face. As if he needed interference from a now-irrelevant group of politicians. “All right. Set up two starfighter squadrons in a circle illuminating a landing field well away from the facility. Tell the Advisory Council that it’s a military honor display. If they ask why they’ve never heard of such a thing, tell them it’s a Rogue Squadron tradition. The starfighters are authorized to attack without further confirmation if this turns out to be some sort of Vong trick. If it’s not, conduct the Advisory Council here, to the conference room, as fast as possible. Begin reprovisioning and repair of their transport immediately—and put some technicians aboard to sweep the ship and make sure it doesn’t have any surprises for us. Got that?”

“Got it, sir.”

“Out.” Wedge rose with the uneasy feeling—one that had come to him every time politicians had a surprise for him, one that had almost never been proven false.

* * *

When Luke and Mara reached the conference room—he with a cup of steaming chocolate in one hand and a cup of caf for Mara in the other, as her arms were occupied holding Ben—it was already half full of Wedge’s officers and advisers. They occupied seats around two-thirds of the main table and chairs behind; several seats at the table, those nearest the main doors, were being kept conspicuously empty. Wedge sat at the head of the table, facing the door, Tycho beside him; they were huddled in conference, though Wedge spotted Luke as he entered and waved the Jedi Master up to the head of the table again.

The expressions of most people in the room suggested they’d only recently been roused from sleep. Luke knew how they felt.

Mara dropped into the seat closest to the chair reserved for Luke, next to Lando. Lando looked pained, his brow creased in a frown, his eyes bloodshot.

“Hangover?” Luke asked.

Lando winced. “Stop shouting.”

“I could whistle you up some caf.”

“If you were to whistle, my head would explode and there would be brains everywhere.”

Mara shook her head, deadpan. “No brains. Just skull fragments.”

Lando shot her a betrayed look. Luke grinned, waited until Mara had settled Ben in her lap, and handed her the caf. Then he joined Wedge and Tycho.

There was noise from the hall, a clattering of boots, and a group of ten or twelve people turned into the conference room.

Luke knew several of them by sight.

Pwoe, first of the council to enter, was a Quarren. Quarren, roughly humanoid in shape, sometimes tended
to unnerve humans and near-humans because of their looks; they were an aquatic species with squidlike heads from which trailed four tentacles where a human’s lower facial features would be. The Quarren as a culture did not deserve this reaction, but, in Luke’s estimation, Councilor Pwoe did; Luke knew him to be a grasping, politically carnivorous being who was no friend of the Jedi. It would not have surprised Luke to find out that Pwoe had something to do, either directly or indirectly, with the formation of the Peace Brigade, the collaborationist forces who kidnapped Jedi and handed them over to the Yuuzhan Vong. Today, Pwoe wore a full-length green robe that contrasted nicely with his leathery orange skin. As he entered the room, his turquoise eyes scanned the chamber, found Luke, fixed on him for a moment, and then moved on. Pwoe sat in the chair directly opposite Wedge.

Chelch Dravvad of Corellia sat to Pwoe’s right, and Fyor Rodan of Commenor sat beside him. The two human males, both of middle age and with the confident, artificial aura of politicians on display wrapped tightly around them, tended to keep their attention on Pwoe, rather than making eye contact around the room.

Niuk Niuv, the fourth councilor to enter the room, was a Sullustan. If some long-ago biological engineers had created a race to resemble a child’s stuffed toy, they could not have done much better than the Sullustans, who had round heads, large round ears, wobbly jowls, and charming nonhuman features; only Ewoks were more likely to produce squeals of glee in a child seeing them for the first time. But, like Ewoks, Sullustans could be dangerous foes, and Niuk Niuv was dangerous even for a Sullustan. He’d been an opponent of the Jedi ever since joining the Advisory Council. He sat to Pwoe’s left.

Niuv was the last council member to enter. The remaining members of the council’s company appeared to be aides, datapads in their hands and worried expressions on their faces, and guards, faces impassive, blaster rifles held at the ready position.

Luke rose as the others did, a customary show of respect for Senators and members of the Advisory Council, but he felt a wave of irritation or offense roll off the people already present in the room. So many council guards present suggested that the council didn’t trust Wedge’s security arrangements. It was an insult; Luke simply didn’t know whether it was accidental or deliberate.

Wedge said, “Councilors, welcome to Borl—”

Pwoe held up a hand. “General Antilles, you address not only the Advisory Council but the Chief of State.”

Wedge blinked, then his gaze moved to the clasp being used to hold Pwoe’s robes together. Made of gold, it was the New Republic symbol surrounded by stars. Borsk Fey’lya had occasionally worn it. Luke saw Wedge struggle with his response—Pwoe’s rise to the position of Chief of State was not by any stretch of the imagination a legal one, but in these unsettled circumstances, it might just be a practical reality.

“Congratulations on your promotion,” Wedge said. He gestured for the others to sit, and did so himself. “If I may ask, where are Councilors Cal Omas and Triebakk?”

Pwoe spread his hands, a gesture of ignorance. “Alas, we do not know. We suspect that they perished during the assault on Coruscant.”

“Two more tragedies to add to the list.”

“Indeed.”

That, potentially, was bad news. Omas, a Senator representing the relocated people of Alderaan, and Triebakk, a Wookiee from Kashyyyk, were sensible beings who did not have an irrational dislike of the Jedi. They
had been a moderating influence on the Advisory Council. Now, if they were indeed lost, all the members left to the council were largely opponents of the Jedi, advisers who had often argued in favor of finding a way to accommodate the Yuuzhan Vong—to settle the war with negotiation.

Luke felt a surge of suspicion. Had the two missing councilors perished on Coruscant? Or could they have been left behind deliberately by these deal-making bureaucrats—or even been pushed out of an air lock on the trip here? He shook his head, willing those thoughts away.