Tales from the New Republic (24 page)

Standing on the steps of the Verkuylian Imperial Governor’s Hall waiting to present her fake credentials to the stormtrooper at the door, Selby Jarrad took another swipe at the sweat trickling down her temples and wished she’d been warned about the blasted stink.

Just another “minor” detail Intelligence had neglected to mention during the mission briefing, she thought. The city—the whole sweltering
planet
—reeked of alazhi being stripped, pulped and simmered for refinement into bacta. Of all the attacks that the New Republic team might face while helping Verkuyl’s rebelling native workers oust the Empire, this obnoxious olfactory assault had never come up.

She slanted a glance at the tall, dark-skinned man beside her. Before landing, the stiff, formal collar of Major Cobb Vartos’s business suit had been crisp and clean, but it had long since wilted in the suffocating heat. Grimy marks showed where he’d pried it away from his perspiring neck. Selby didn’t even want to know what she looked like. Her own suit clung to her, and the thick auburn hair piled atop her head felt hot and heavy.

“I’m not sure which is worse,” Vartos murmured to her, hooking a finger in his collar and giving it another yank. “Breathing through my nose and smelling the blasted stuff, or breathing through my mouth and
tasting
it.”

Selby had a definite opinion on that, but just then the stormtrooper at the door barked “Next!” Vartos stepped up to the portal and handed the guard his forged ID. Carefully schooling her expression into the cool, professional mien of a corporate bidder—or at least as cool and professional as she could manage with hair sticking damply to her face and sweat trickling down her back—Selby did the same.

The stormtrooper scanned the cards. “Purpose of your visit?”

“My associate and I are here to present a proposal to His Excellency, Governor Parco Ein,” Vartos told him. Since the Governor currently had a hall full of bidders waiting to present him with business proposals, Vartos didn’t bother to add that the only proposal he and Selby intended to give Ein was: Surrender, or die.

When Ein had advertised he’d be considering bids for the construction of a new bacta refinery on Verkuyl, Intelligence had deemed the situation too good to pass up. The planet’s native workers, encouraged by the slow but steady reduction in Imperial might in the three years since Endor, had finally indicated their willingness to openly rebel.

And in this case, the Republic’s new allies would come with a bonus. Though Verkuyl was sparsely settled and a bit too far out on the Rim to be strategically valuable, Selby knew the New Republic considered military support of the coup a small price to pay to bypass the hassles of dealing with the bacta cartel and gain a direct pipeline to the medical resources. The Governor’s Bid Party offered the perfect opportunity to insert an Intelligence team into his presence—combined with the military threat the fleet would present when it jumped into the system, orchestrating his surrender should be a snap.

Selby felt another drop of sweat meander down her spine as the stormtrooper seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time checking their credentials. His white armor gleamed brightly in the sun as they stood there, sweating under his blank, black-visored gaze for what seemed an eternity. The uneasy silence lengthened. She exchanged a glance with Vartos and knew he was thinking the same thing when suddenly a voice behind them broke in.

“Excuse me—is there a problem?”

She turned. The new arrival, a lanky, fair-haired man dressed in the dark blue uniform of an Imperial aide, regarded them quizzically from the sidewalk.

The stormtrooper snapped to attention. “Sir, they say they’re here for the Bid Party, but I haven’t been able to confirm their authorization to attend.”

“I see,” the man said, coming up the steps. “Your names?” He briefly consulted a small datapad. “You’re on the list,” he confirmed. “It’s all right, Sergeant. Let them pass.”

The stormtrooper nodded, stepping aside as the massive Hall door swung open. Inside, marvelously cool air welcomed them, and a copper-colored droid dotted with tiny green, rusty-looking specks glided forward to take their travel bags.
This awful humidity
, Selby thought.
Even the droids are affected
.

“I’m Daven Quarle,” the man said, extending his hand first to Vartos, then to her. “I’m His Excellency’s aide in charge of the refinery project.”

Selby shook it, noting that Quarle’s grip was firm, with hard calluses ridging his fingers. Not a mere bit-pushing bureaucrat then; this man was accustomed to work—and quite a lot of it.

Intelligent green eyes sized her up, as well. “So, you’re the two from GalFactorial,” he commented as they boarded the turbolift, en route to their rooms on the fifth floor with the other bidders. “Your company has a reputation for doing good work. But,” he cocked an eyebrow as the lift started to rise, “I hear the refinery you people built on New Cov ended up coming in over budget. That true?”

“Of course not,” Selby said, suddenly grateful that whatever omission Intelligence had made regarding the smellier aspects of refining bacta, she
had
been thoroughly briefed on her cover story. “Midway through construction, the client decided to change the venting system so the plant wouldn’t vent to the outside. Obviously, redesigning at that point was difficult, but the client insisted, so the budget was readjusted and approved.” She gave him a blandly professional smile. “In the end, the project actually came in
under
the revised budget.”

“I see,” Quarle murmured. “I’m glad to hear that. His Excellency always appreciates a creative bit of number-crunching.”

Selby looked at him sharply, uncertain how to interpret the remark. She decided to change the subject. “If you don’t mind me asking, how many other companies sent bidders for the project?”

That eyebrow quirked again. “Curious about the competition?”

Not really
, she thought.
Concerned about innocent civilians
. Although the crowd gave them more opportunity for cover, she didn’t like having to worry about the bidders’ safety. The mission had been carefully planned to be as bloodless as possible, but accidents could—and frequently did—happen.

“A little,” she answered out loud. “Actually, I wondered if there’d be an opportunity to present our bid to the Governor in person. I find it’s beneficial to personally explain the numbers to prospective clients.” She caught his eye meaningfully, held the look. “Our clients often find it rewarding, as well.”

“Ah,” Quarle said, inclining his head knowingly. He understood the covert language of a bidder wishing to offer a bribe. “As it happens, you’ll be able to meet His Excellency later this evening, at a special reception we’ve planned for the bidders. And those who wish to—” he hesitated “—to
privately
discuss their bids with Governor Ein may make an appointment to meet with him. Perhaps sometime tomorrow?”

Selby considered. Tonight, Claris would help members of the Verkuylian resistance set fuses around the planet’s main comm transmitter tower as her fellow operatives set in motion their own explosive plans at the Hall. Tomorrow, she’d signal the fleet and then destroy the Imperials’ only means of calling for backup once Selby gained entrance to Governor Ein’s office to offer him the New Republic’s “bribe.”

Which, being a savvy public official skilled in the art of self-preservation, and further encouraged by the military might which would have just arrived to orbit persuasively overhead, His Excellency would, of course, accept.

She smiled at Quarle. “Tomorrow’s perfect,” she said. “I’ll look forward to it.”

And if it weren’t for the necessity of keeping up her guard, she might have managed to relax and enjoy herself—at least a little, Selby mused that evening as she and Vartos stepped into the Hall’s open-air central courtyard where the reception was being held. If Verkuyl’s dubious charms this afternoon had lived up to the planet’s reputation as an Outer Rim backwater, their comfortable, well-appointed rooms and this gracious gathering tonight could do a lot to change her mind.

The sultry purr of smooth jizz poured over them, and from the looks of the buffet table along the far wall, the Governor was a generous, even lavish host. With sunset, the jungle humidity had at last become bearable, and the decorative tile underfoot and the fancy, fashionable garb of the bidders would have been right at home in any of the corporate ballrooms on Coruscant.

Except—it stank. Even in this beautiful setting, outside of the Hall’s blessedly closed air system, the smell of simmering alazhi was impossible to escape.

“Let’s split up, shall we?” Vartos murmured, eyes on the corner bar fountain spilling some kind of dark red drink into a shallow pool. “It’ll be easier to slip out that way.”

Not that he’d be slipping out for his reconnaissance of the Hall until he’d thoroughly reconnoitered the reception, Selby thought, amused. After all, they did have covers to maintain. “Sure,” she agreed. “I think I’ll check out that buffet myself.”

Three hours, two plates, and endless bidder chitchat later, she paused under one of the courtyard’s graceful archways to glance back at the swaying dance floor. It had steadily expanded in direct proportion to the shrinking bounty of the buffet table and the Governor’s free booze supply. Bidders moving to the soulful wail of a bass viol filled nearly two-thirds of the courtyard, while the rest of the party had begun wandering through the arches and into the Hall proper.

Which made it a perfect time to do a little wandering herself.

She didn’t dare use the turbolift beyond the fifth floor, where most of the Bid Party attendees had been given rooms. But even so, finding the Governor’s office on the top floor proved no problem, as Intelligence had very thoughtfully provided a map. Shoes in hand, she crept up the Hall’s quaint staircase, discovering and dismantling half a dozen security sensors before reaching her destination. It took only a moment to unfasten the tiny eavesdropping device, a silver-toned stud indistinguishable from the dozens of less useful ones decorating the neckline of her stylish blue evening gown. But getting the thing past the security sensors, sentry cameras, and the guard in front of Ein’s office proved a bit more difficult.

In the end, she was reduced to enlisting the aid of a housecleaning droid, which—having either not noticed the silver stud arcing through the air to plunk neatly into the Governor’s wastebin or programmed not to care—obligingly carried it right past the guard and deposited it under Ein’s desk. Selby waited until the droid finished its housecleaning, repacked its cart, and disappeared into the turbolift before she slipped back down the stairs to rejoin the reception.

She never made it.

Hurrying across the tenth floor’s polished landing, Selby heard the turbolift’s doors unexpectedly slide open behind her.
Burnin’ stars
, she cursed, stomach sinking.
Did I miss a sensor
? Still meters away from the safety of the stairwell, with nowhere to go and no choice but to brazen it out, she turned to face the new arrival.

Daven Quarle.

They both stopped short in surprise. Green eyes swept over her, noting the shoes she held in her hand and lingering briefly on the gown’s decorative neckline before settling on her bare feet. Selby, holding the hem of the dress nearly to her knees to facilitate her scurry down the stairs, hastily dropped it and covered her toes.

When Quarle looked up again, his eyes glinted—with suspicion, or amusement, Selby couldn’t tell. “Bidder Jarrad,” he said politely. “If you’re looking for your room, I believe you have the wrong floor.”

“Um, no. No, I don’t,” she said, thinking fast. That thumbpass in his hand—“I mean, I appreciate your concern, but I’m not really lost.”

Quarle said nothing. She hurried to explain. “It’s such a nice night, and the stars looked so pretty from the courtyard. I thought I’d go up on the roof and enjoy the view.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t taking the turbolift be easier?”

“Well, of course. But—” She shrugged and played her hunch. “It wouldn’t take me all the way up, so I found the stairs and started walking.”

“I see,” Quarle said, eyes dropping again to the shoes dangling from her fingers. “As it happens, these stairs don’t go up to the roof.”

“Oh,” Selby said, trying to sound disappointed. “Well… it was just a whim. Never mind.” She started to turn away—

“Wait.”

She glanced back. Quarle regarded her thoughtfully. “It is a nice night,” he agreed. “And the view from the roof is spectacular. I can take you up there, if you like.”

Selby studied his expression, wondering what was behind the offer. Did Quarle suspect her of lying, and want to get her someplace dark and private to quiz her more thoroughly—or worse? Or was it something far less sinister; just a simple invitation from a man to a woman to go stargazing?

It bothered her, a little, that it had been so long since the last such invitation that she could no longer tell when one was being offered. The demands of working Intelligence kept most people at arm’s length—or farther.
I ought to at least find out what he wants
, Selby told herself.
If he is suspicious, the roof might not be such a bad place to deal with the problem
.

She made herself smile brightly at him. “Sure. I’d like that.”

The short ride up to the roof was made in silence, and outside the air was still and stiflingly warm; a shock after the comfortably cool Hall. But overhead, a thousand-thousand stars glittered like tiny jewels strung on garlands in the heavens—a spectacular sight, as Quarle had promised.

They stood near the carved stone railing—Selby carefully keeping just out of his reach—and gazed out over the city. She located the main comm tower rising out of a small ring of lights about a kilometer away, and wondered if Claris and her team had finished rigging the explosives. If all went as planned, by this time tomorrow evening Verkuyl would be back in the possession of its original owners.

“Seem a long way off, don’t they?” Quarle said.

“What?” She turned, looked at him sharply. “Who does?”

“The stars,” he said, giving her an odd look. He waved his hand in a gesture that took in the jeweled sky. “They seem so far away, but in terms of interstellar trade, they’re just a hop, skip, and a jump away—so close you can almost reach out and touch them.”

“Oh,” Selby said. Apparently he had brought her up here solely to stargaze. She looked up, too. “‘The miracle of hyperspace,’” she quoted, not sure what else to say. “‘Linking a hundred-thousand worlds together in a galactic village.’”

“That it does,” Quarle agreed, gazing overhead. “Which one’s yours?”

Selby scanned the night sky for a glimpse of Averill, but the starscape was completely unfamiliar. “I don’t know,” she confessed, surprised at the absurdly pleased feeling the small talk engendered. “It’s out there somewhere.”

He smiled, too. Without that reserved, watchful expression, he looked younger; perhaps only a few years older than herself. “Where are
you
from?” she asked.

“Here,” he said. “Bacta bred, born, and raised. Never even been off the planet.”

“Really,” she said, mind clicking over his words. If Quarle was a native, then his parents had been among the original migrants who’d come to the planet as shareholders in Verkuylian BactaCo, a lone contingent which somehow managed to form its own enclave apart from the bacta cartels. Quarle’s parents were probably among those workers who’d turned their backs on their colleagues and joined forces with the Empire when it had arrived to nationalize the company. And, given his position in the Governor’s office, no doubt he was among the ones who had looked the other way as their former co-workers became little more than slaves, no longer producing bacta for their own profit, but for the imagined glory of the Empire.

In short, the kind of loyal Imperial citizen the rebelling workers she’d come to liberate widely regarded as a traitor.

Selby reminded herself that, given her fake ID and the convincing packet of professional lies that comprised her cover story, Quarle believed her to be a loyal Imperial citizen herself. “You’re the right man to ask, then,” she said, deliberately steering away from that topic of conversation. “Does it always smell this… this
bad
here?”

Quarle laughed out loud. “I barely notice it,” he told her, “but then again, I’ve lived here all my life. I’m not sure I even have a sense of smell anymore.”

“Lucky you.” She grinned. “The first whiff out the hatch just about knocked me flat.”

He laughed again. “Verkuyl will never attract the tourist trade, that’s for sure.” He paused, staring out over the city. “But while we won’t ever be mistaken for the bright center of the universe, there are lots of things which could be done to improve the situation here,” he said, abruptly serious.

“Such as?” Selby asked, curious in spite of herself. Just how did Verkuyl’s Imperial masters envision molding the future of the planet they had stolen from its rightful owners?

Quarle looked at her a moment as if deciding how to answer. Then, apparently reaching a decision, he relaxed against the stone railing. Behind him the comm tower’s distant lights cast reddish glints off his golden hair, and beyond the tower the absolute blackness of Verkuyl’s vast alazhi jungle stretched to the horizon.

“The Governor has several ideas, most of which are very sound,” he began, and though Selby had expected no less, she was somewhat disappointed when he went on to recite the standard Imperial line. She couldn’t quite dismiss the nagging feeling he wasn’t truly convinced though. So when he paused, she said, “Now. Tell me what
you
would do if you were in charge.”

Quarle favored her with another of those long, assessing looks. Selby forced herself not to flinch as he stepped closer, narrowing the distance between them. “You really want to know?” he asked, voice low, standing so close their shoulders brushed.

Pulse abruptly pounding and all senses alert to any sign of attack, Selby nodded.

Quarle stared at her intently a moment more. Then, slowly, he folded his arms across his chest and eased back against the railing. “All right,” he said, looking away. “What
I
think is that a new approach is needed—an aggressive expansion that’ll ultimately offer Verkuyl more economic independence in the galactic community, give us more security, and address some of the concerns the workers have been voicing lately.”

He glanced over, gauging her reaction. Intrigued, Selby relaxed against the railing herself and settled in to listen. Encouraged, he started to go on, but was interrupted by a discreet beep. “Excuse me a moment,” he said, pulling a comlink from his pocket. “Yes, what is it?”

“Daven, it’s Jorli,” said a voice Selby recognized as belonging to a junior aide on Ein’s staff. “I’m sorry to bother you, but the reception’s pretty much wound down except for a few party-hards who won’t take a hint. I turned off the fountain and got the droids stacking chairs, but they still won’t leave. Should I call Security?”

“No,” Quarle said with a sigh. “Leave them to me. I’ll be down in a moment.” Repocketing the comlink, he looked at Selby ruefully. “I’m going to have to cut this short. Duty calls.”

“It always does,” Selby said. She straightened up, too, wondering if perhaps—“Would it be all right if I stayed up here a little longer? It really is a beautiful view.”

“Sorry, no,” he said. “You’d need a thumbpass to get down the lift, and I don’t have any extras. This one’s keyed to me—nontransferable.”

“Oh. Okay.” Not that she’d really expected he’d give her free run of the Hall. Selby shrugged. “Well, then. Shall we go?”

The ride down was as quiet as it had been on the way up, the brief moment of camaraderie gone. Quarle courteously escorted her to her room, bid her a polite good evening, and strode away. Sternly resisting the urge to watch until he’d disappeared into the turbolift, Selby shut the door behind her. This was one of the worst parts of the job—when an enemy showed himself not as an adversary, but a decent-seeming person who just happened to be serving on the opposite side.

She sighed. In her line of work, it was easier to see everything in black or white, friend or foe, than to attempt sorting out all the shades of gray. Color blindness was often healthier, as well. Agents who hesitated to silence their foes often found that their newfound “friends” did not hesitate to silence them. Working Intelligence meant keeping the battle lines clear, and the enemy firmly fixed in your sights. There was no room for anything else.

Too bad
, she thought. Something about Quarle—his concern for the workers, perhaps—told her there was more to him than met the eye. Not that it mattered, of course. She knew where her duty lay. She sighed again, turned around. From the doorway connecting their rooms, Vartos regarded her with a frown.

“Everything okay?” he asked. “You were gone quite a while.”

“Fine,” Selby reassured him. Walking over to the bed, she sat down and began pulling out the decorative combs that secured the neat crown of curls atop her head. Auburn locks slipped down about her shoulders. “We okay to talk here?”

“I checked it out. We’re clean.” He took a few steps further into the room. “Did you get it set?”

“Uh-huh.” Selby inspected the combs on the coverlet before her. Picking one up, she touched a fingernail to a certain spot and activated the receiver. They listened. Silence. She nodded in satisfaction. All quiet, as it should be. The eavesdropper awaited tomorrow.

Suddenly, a faint squeak broke the quiet. She and Vartos exchanged a glance. Another squeak, accented by the scrabble of tiny claws. Selby grinned. “His Excellency appears to have a skitter problem.”