The Last Command (12 page)

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.”

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.”