Chapter 4

Colonel Bowman Gavin carried the formal title of director of flight personnel, Fifth Fleet Combat Command. But to the more than three thousand pilots and weapons officers of the nearly two hundred squadrons based on the fleet’s carriers and Star Destroyers, Gavin was simply fleet air boss.

The fleet air boss had the final say over every “cheeks on the cushions” decision—flight assignments, ratings, transfers, reprimands, and promotions, from the greenest backseater to the squadron leaders and combat wing commanders. His office was off the hot corridor in Intrepid’s flag country, fifteen strides from General A’baht at one end and eight strides from the combat operations center at the other.

Despite his high station, Colonel Gavin was a familiar sight on the flight decks and in the hangar bays of the fleet. Approachable and matter-of-fact, he was by his own admission more comfortable with his feet up in pilot country than he was behind his own desk or at A’baht’s briefing table. Gavin disliked working from reports alone, and would not promote or pass judgment on a pilot or a junior officer until he had made a personal, firsthand assessment.

The pilots in turn claimed Gavin as one of their own, and trusted him to give them a fair hearing. They knew that he knew what it was like to sit in the cockpit of a twisting fighter, guns hot and an enemy thundering in from behind. Though Gavin usually chose to wear only the “new sun” campaign bar he had earned as a B-wing pilot at the Battle of Endor, his service history entitled him to wear most of the combat decorations the Alliance and the New Republic had created and conferred.

Administrative chaos had arrived along with the five task forces drawn from the other fleets. Gavin had had to suspend his schedule of informal visits and keep his appointments to a minimum just to keep up with the briefings and reports. It was the closest he had ever come to closing his door to the world since being promoted to flag rank, five years ago.

It didn’t take many days for the air in his office to thin to half an atmosphere and the bulkheads of his office to close in to the dimensions of a cell in the brig. But by the time Gavin rebelled and began to plot a temporary escape, the Fifth Fleet had re-formed into double-strength task forces and scattered into the fringes of Koornacht Cluster, taking most of the new arrivals out of ready reach.

But Task Force Gemstone, now attached to the flag task force, offered twenty-two possible destinations for Gavin’s getaway. Since a visit to Commodore Poqua’s command ship, the carrier Starpoint, would only entangle him in more command-level formalities, Gavin skimmed down the list and chose another vessel.

“Roust my pilot and prep my gig,” he said, calling down to Intrepid’s No. 1 flight deck. “I’m going to pay a visit to Floren.”

“Acknowledged, Colonel. We’ll notify flight control.”

With the fleet on level one alert, even Colonel Gavin was obliged to don combat flight garb when leaving Intrepid in a smaller craft. Apart from the time lost climbing into and out of the five-piece high-flexibility pressure suit, Gavin didn’t object to the requirement—and the typically spirited and ribald ready-room chatter usually made that time pass quickly enough.

But at midrotation, the ready room was deserted, and Gavin had to struggle with the waist ring without benefit of a helping hand. It was not until Gavin was in the middle of the helmet-on pressure test that another pilot joined him there—a young alien wearing a purifier pack on his chest and the red emblem of a provisional flight officer on his collar.

Instead of going to one of the lockers, the pilot walked to within two meters of Gavin and stopped, as though waiting for him. When the test rig chimed its approval, Gavin broke the neck seal and removed his helmet.

“Are you looking for someone, son?” Gavin asked, noting the absence of a Fifth Fleet insignia on the pilot’s uniform.

The officer saluted belatedly, as though it were an unpracticed reflex. “Are you Colonel Gavin, sir?”

“Guilty as charged. And you are—”

“Plat Mallar, sir. Sir—they told me that you make all the decisions about pilot assignments.”

“They?”

“The crew of the gig. And the crew chief told me where I might find you. I’m one of the ferry pilots from Coruscant.”

“The escort flight for Tampion,” Gavin said, nodding. “I know that you were all cleared by Intelligence, but I’m a little surprised to hear anyone’s talking to you. Did you ever think they might not be doing you a favor, telling you to come see me?”

“Colonel, you make all the decisions about flight assignments, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then who else could I see?”

Gavin nodded thoughtfully. “What is this about, then?”

“It’s about my orders, sir. There are five of us being sent back to Coruscant on the fleet shuttle, as space is available. We were brought over from Venture this morning to wait.”

“That’s right. What’s the problem?”

“Sir, I don’t want to be sent back. I can’t be. I want to stay and be part of this fight. You have to let me do something.”

“No, I don’t,” said Gavin, tucking his helmet under his right arm. “But I’ll give you a chance to convince me that I ought to. Mind you, though, I signed off on your orders. To be blunt, we do need pilots, but no one wanted you or the others. None of you is experienced enough for the squadron leaders who’re shorthanded to take a chance on you.”

“If it makes any difference to you, I have another hundred and ninety hours in a TIE interceptor that don’t show up on my service record.”

“In a TIE?” Gavin raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Give me your ID disc.”

The young pilot complied, and Gavin studied the data in a portable reader. When he was finished, he looked up and fixed Mallar with a quizzical look.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “I can’t figure out what you’re doing out here in the first place. You have more hours in sims and fewer hours in a cockpit than anyone I’ve ever seen in a combat zone.”

“I’ve worked as hard as I can, Colonel, so I could have a chance. I spent every minute my check pilot could spare me flying. I spent every other minute I could training in the simulator. I’ll work just as hard here, if you don’t send me back.”

“Your check pilot, yes,” said Gavin, handing the ID disc back. “He seems to have run you through primary training in about a third of the usual time, even though he graded you not much better than passing. What’s the missing piece of this picture, Mallar?”

The question seemed to crush Mallar. “I suppose I should have let the admiral put it all in my file, like he wanted to,” he said dolefully. “He even wanted to give me a confirmed kill.”

“A kill? For what?”

“For the Yevethan fighter I shot down over Polneye, the day the Yevetha destroyed it—the day they killed my family,” Mallar said, and shook his head. “I didn’t want any special treatment—I wanted to be good enough on my own. Just good enough to do something to help. But I’m not—or you wouldn’t be trying to send me back. So all I can do now is beg you, Colonel—don’t send me back.”

“Offer me an alternative,” Gavin said quietly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Mallar said. “Find something I can do to help. Anything. Find some way that my being here makes it easier for you to hand the Yevetha the same kind of hurt they handed me. That’s all I ask. Because what they did to us was wrong. Just let me be a little part of teaching them that lesson. That’s the only thing that matters to me now. I’m the only one left—I have to speak for all of them.”

Gavin studied him as he spoke, and for a long time after. “Draw a flight suit,” he said finally. “Meet me at my gig in ten minutes. We’ll talk more on the way to Floren.”

“Yes, sir. But the shuttle’s supposed to leave within the hour—”

“I know,” said Gavin, patting Mallar on the shoulder as he moved past him. “I’m afraid you may miss it.”

   Inbound to Utharis, Mud Sloth came out of hyperspace crippled by a data bus power surge that left the port navigation sensors and the navcom unable to talk to each other. The surge had come at the worst possible time, during the cascade in which the hyperdrive systems shut down and the realspace systems reinitialize.

“This is why you should never buy a bargain starship,” Luke grumbled as he climbed back out of the service access compartment belowdecks.

“What do you mean?” asked Akanah.

“Just that Verpine cut every corner they could building this thing,” Luke said, sliding the access panel back into place. “The power bus can’t handle all the systems, so the cascade processor has to juggle them, turning this one off before turning that one on. But for that to work right, the buffer circuits—” He saw her eyes glazing over and stopped. “Anyway, it means we’re going to be delayed at Utharis.”

“How long?”

“Until it’s fixed,” Luke said. He secured the last of the access panel hold-downs and looked up at her. “If there’s a wrench jockey at Taldaak Station who knows this model better than I do, maybe only a day or two.”

“Two days! You said we were going to stop only long enough to top off the consumables and reset the counters.”

Luke shrugged. “I’m not any happier about it than you are,” he said. “But better this happened now, inbound to a full-service port, than somewhere in the middle of Farlax.”

“I can’t bear the thought of any more delay, this close to the end—this close to the Circle.”

“I know,” Luke said. “But this ship won’t go into hyperspace again until she’s gone into a service bay.” He flashed a wry smile. “At least you’ll have plenty of time to pick out that souvenir hat I promised you.”

   Utharis was in the grip of war fever. Even though Koornacht Cluster was more than two hundred light-years away, Utharis had a border world’s heightened sensitivity to matters of interplanetary politics. It was impossible to go anywhere in Taldaak without hearing about the clouds of war gathering over Farlax Sector, and the talk had prompted a quiet but noticeable exodus through Taldaak Station and the planet’s other major ports.

The exodus had not yet spread beyond the most affluent, mobile, and well-connected segments of Utharian society, but it had energized conversations everywhere, and intruded on the smooth working of the planet’s economic machine.

“Sure, we can take care of you, Stonn,” said the yard manager of Starway Services. “But it’ll be three days before we can even look at it.”

“Three days! Never mind—rent me a service bay,” Luke said, nodding toward a sign offering that option.

“Sure,” said the manager. “Let me check the schedule.” His fingers danced over his datapad. “Yes, I should have one available in five or six days.”

“Come on, dear—let’s go,” said Akanah, tugging at Luke’s arm. “Someone in this city must know how to treat visitors properly.”

“Suit yourself. But you’re not going to do any better anywhere else,” said the manager.

“And why is that?” Luke asked.

“I had one crew chief and three mechs decide this would be a good time to take a family vacation. Most of the other shops are even more shorthanded,” the manager said. “And I had twenty-eight of my regulars call to schedule early annuals or work they’d been putting off. If I weren’t keeping a bay open for transients and referrals, you’d be waiting a week.”

“Li, dear, I’ve read about this sort of scam in Port of Call,” Akanah said. “The yards take kickbacks from the hoteliers for keeping travelers stranded.”

Catching the sudden glower in the manager’s eyes, Luke patted Akanah’s hand patronizingly. “Now, darling, let’s not insult the man just because our plans have been upset,” Luke said. “Why are you so busy?” he asked the yard manager.

“Because of the war, of course,” the manager said.

Akanah’s gaze narrowed. “War? What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you ever link to the grids? The New Republic and the Duskhan League have been growling and feinting at each other for months.”

Akanah turned to Luke. “Did you know about this?”

“I heard something of it on Talos,” said Luke. “I didn’t want to worry you. It was only rumor then. I guess it’s become something more, if people are running the other way.”

“You can see Koornacht Cluster in the night sky from here, you know,” said the manager. “The idea that a thousand warships are poised to clash somewhere over their heads makes people nervous.”

“A thousand warships?” Akanah asked in an awed whisper.

“That’s what they’re saying.” The manager shrugged. “Some of them, anyway. You hear a lot of different stories. So—what are you gonna do?”

“We’ll leave our ship with you,” said Luke, pushing the registration pad across the counter. “But can you tell me how long it might take after you get to it? Do you have a local source for parts?”

“For a Verpine Adventurer?” the manager asked, glancing down at the pad. “Oh, sure. We’ve got four of them in our scrapyard alone. Call us in three days.”

   The manager’s casual acceptance of war on his doorstep deepened the chill of fear that had come over Akanah on hearing the news. It’s too soon—he’s not ready for this, she thought wildly as she followed Luke out of the depot. I’m taking him exactly where I don’t want him to go—right into the heart of temptation. He’s still trying to direct the Current. He’s not ready to watch others fight without raising a hand of his own—

“We can’t stay here,” she said in a worried whisper when they were outside. “It doesn’t feel safe. I don’t know what it is, but this place is shadowed.”

“I don’t see a lot of alternatives,” Luke said, leading them back toward the northbound slidewalk. “You need to be able to tell the hyperdrive which way to jump, and Mud Sloth can’t do that right now.”

“I understand that,” she said, clinging to his arm. “But we could be here a week or more. Isn’t there something else we can do? Can’t you buy the parts from him and fix it yourself?”

“Didn’t you hear him in there? We’re headed into a war zone,” said Luke, stopping short. “For all we know about what’s happening, J’t’p’tan could be one of the battlegrounds. Don’t you think it’d be a good thing to be able to count on our hyperdrive?”

She tried desperately to find a fear that would move him. “If we linger here too long, we can count on more Imperial agents finding us. We can’t let that happen. We can’t let them follow us.”

“Even the New Republic can’t find us, thanks to your tricks,” said Luke. “Look, all we have to do is find a quiet place to stay and play tourist for a few days. Besides, I want to learn more about what’s ahead of us—and it may take a while to sort the facts from the rumors.”

“Does it matter what’s ahead?” she asked. “Would you even consider turning back now? Your mother—my mother—they’re almost within reach.”

“Not with Mud Sloth on crutches, they aren’t,” said Luke.

“Then we have to get a different ship.”

Luke snorted. “How?”

She looked at him in earnest surprise. “Don’t you think that with our combined talents we can take almost any ship we want from here?”

“Don’t even think about it,” Luke said tersely. He scanned about to see if anyone could have heard her, then grabbed her elbow and practically dragged her away from the service center’s entrance and onto the slidewalk.

“Yes, we probably could,” he said in a sharp whisper as the moving surface whisked them along. “But not without attracting unwanted attention. Do you really want a Utharian patrol boat following us to J’t’p’tan? Do you want every ship under New Republic registry alerted to watch for us?”

“I can hide us.”

“We’re already hidden. All we have to do is wait. You’ve gotten this close by biding your time until the right time. This is the wrong time to give in to impatience.”

“This is the wrong time to delay,” said Akanah, still casting about for emotional leverage. “Luke, the darker the clouds, the more important it is for us to move quickly.”

“The war’s already started,” Luke said grimly. “The Yevetha attacked more than a dozen worlds not long after we left Coruscant. We can’t arrive before the storm—we can only hope it leaves J’t’p’tan untouched.”

“Luke, it’s not that the Circle is in danger,” Akanah pressed. “The danger is that we’ll lose touch with them. It’s impossible to work when the Current is in chaos. And it’s intensely uncomfortable to remain connected when the Current is carrying so much pain. I’m not afraid for them—the Circle is strong. I’m afraid they may already have left J’t’p’tan. And any sign they leave for me could be destroyed as easily as Norika’s house in Griann was.”

“I can ask for another tracking report on Star Morning, find out where it went after Vulvarch. That should tell us something about the Circle’s plans.”

“And what will we chase them in, Mud Sloth? You were right, Luke. We can’t count on our ship. We should have something faster, more reliable—and we may need room for more than the two of us. Please—we have to leave here now.”

“I’m not going to help you steal a starship, Akanah.”

Even before he spoke, she realized she had made a mistake. They shared a goal, but he still observed limits on the means he would allow himself to employ in pursuing it. She had committed everything to this quest, while he had a life to return to if it ended in failure. And she had forgotten that difference between them in a moment of selfish anxiety.

“You’re right—oh, you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s just so hard being this close after so long,” she said, hastily troweling over the crack in her facade. “If we don’t find them—”

“We’ll find them,” Luke said.

“I want to believe that with all my heart, and at the same time I’m afraid to, because I don’t know if I can bear another disappointment,” she said. The tears that glittered in the corners of her eyes were real. “Forgive me. It isn’t that I thought you a thief—”

“I know,” he said. “It’s forgotten.”

She smiled gratefully at him and let him draw her into the curl of his arm. “If we must stay here, then at least let’s get away from Taldaak,” she urged, ending a brief silence. “Let’s find some private place safely away from all these eyes. I’ll use the time to teach you more of our disciplines.”

“First things first,” Luke said. “I want to go back to the ship and put out some queries, then see what I can learn here. I want to find out everything I can about what we might find in the Koornacht Cluster—about what our people are up against.”

That was the last thing Akanah wanted. Of all the impulses capable of moving Luke’s hand toward his lightsaber, she feared the power of his loyalty to his sister most. In frustration, she pulled away from him, moving to the opposite edge of the slidewalk.

“What?” he asked in surprise. “What is it?”

Akanah sensed his confusion and uncertainty and targeted her words there. “I’m just wondering if maybe we’ve gone as far as we can together,” she said. “Maybe it was a mistake to make you part of this. If you don’t have the commitment or the trust—”

“Akanah—”

“I have to think about what to do now,” she said, and stepped neatly off the slidewalk.

Luke whirled about but did not follow, letting the slidewalk carry him on toward the port. Their gazes locked together for a moment, then she turned away.

Eyes now closed, she studied the Current’s flow through and around him, reading its eddies and meanders. There was exasperation there, but a new and still raw worry as well. Good, she thought. Wonder about me. Worry that I’ll steal a ship on my own and leave you behind. Then perhaps you won’t worry so much about other people’s wars or think about joining them. Your place is with me, Luke Skywalker—I still have lessons to teach you.

* * *

Han had lost track of time. There was no day-and-night cycle in the brightly lit Yevethan prison cell, no regular meals to mark out intervals. Han dozed, exercised, paced, played endless games of hop-stone solitaire on the dusty floor, dozed. His mouth was parched, and his head and empty stomach were possessed by constant aches too sharp now to simply ignore.

In the beginning Barth had joined him in what Han had dubbed the planetary championship of two-handed hop-stone, but both of them were too short-tempered for competitive games now. They had exhausted their repertoires of bawdy jokes, with Barth emerging the uncontested winner for both variety and delivery. In revenge, Han had taught Barth all eighty-six verses of a song that their brains kept singing long after their voices were stilled.

Of late Han had taken to talking to the ceiling, to their unseen jailers. He had peppered his monologues with increasingly savage insults, hoping to provoke a response, any response, that would lead to the cell door opening, that might give them a chance to do something about their circumstances. When he ran out of words, he mentally rehearsed scenarios for overpowering any number of guards up to five.

But all he accomplished was to make both Barth and himself tired of the sound of his voice. By the time the cell door opened, they were so weak from hunger and dehydration that they could barely stand.

One of the three Yevethan guards threw Han a pair of loose-fitting white pants and gestured at Han’s uniform. “You will wear what we have given you,” he ordered, and tossed another pair of the pajamalike pants to Barth.

Stripping without modesty, they both complied without argument. When the task was finished, the guards prodded them toward the corridor.

There was a Yevethan guard in front of Han, leading the way, and another behind him, with Barth following and the third guard bringing up the rear. It was one of the geometries Han had rehearsed—take out the guard in the middle together, high-low, then turn back-to-back and take on the others—but he weighed the odds against his curiosity about where they were being taken and decided to wait.

But the pants they had been given had been sized for a Yevethan frame—the waist was too low and the legs a handspan too long. Before he had gone half a dozen strides down the corridor, Barth tripped himself on the trailing fabric and went sprawling.

Hearing the noise behind him, Han had only an instant to react. He spun, hands forming into fists, and received a rock-hard Yevethan forearm across his throat for his trouble. Gasping and choking, he fell backward. It was a hard landing, even without the benefit of the first guard stomping his head back against the floor.

“Submit or die,” the guard growled.

The sudden pain, and the adrenaline that came with it, had energized Han’s body to the point that he was ready to fight the Yevethan who was pinning him down. Then he heard Barth groan in pain, then call out in a raspy, shaky voice, “Don’t—don’t—it was me, Han, my fault—I fell, that’s all, stupid clumsy feet—”

With a will, Han opened his fists and spread his hands wide in surrender. “It’s all right, Lieutenant. We’ll let ’em off this time, okay?”

The guard looming over Han stepped back. Moving slowly, Han clambered back to his feet. A few meters down the corridor, Barth was doing the same. “You okay?”

“I’m—what are they going to do? Where are they taking us?”

“It’s going to be all right,” Han said, tugging his pants up at the waist. “Hey, how about this fine Yevethan tailoring?”

Jerking his head to the left, the guard growled, “Enough. Darama waits. Walk.”

The prisoners were taken to a large chamber with a high domed ceiling decorated with scarlet accents. They were made to sit at either end of a long bench facing a low platform and a large window beyond. Han squinted at the bright light, but savored the warm, fresh breeze entering the chamber with it.

There was one oddity: Lieutenant Barth’s wrists were bound to a bar running the length of the bench, low behind their hips. But Han’s were not.

Before he could puzzle that out, Viceroy Nil Spaar entered the chamber.

“Darama,” Han repeated under his breath.

Nil Spaar was leading an entourage of four. One carried a folding stool, which he set up facing the prisoners’ bench. A second carried a tall stand topped by a silver sphere, which he placed a meter to the right of the stool and slightly forward. Those two left when they had shed their burdens.

The two that remained took up positions behind Nil Spaar as he settled on the stool. Han studied their faces, trying to divine what burdens they had carried into the room. Advisor? Muscle? Toady? What does a Yevetha look like when it’s nervous? Or do they even get nervous?

“General Solo,” said Nil Spaar, ignoring Barth with both his words and his gaze. “You appear to be the only one who can save thousands more of your kind from dying in shame. I am here to give you that opportunity.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You were on your way to take command of the Fifth Fleet when you were captured. You were carrying Princess Leia’s orders for the invasion of Yevethan territory.”

Han waited, mute.

“Defiance of the sovereignty of the viceroy of the Protectorate makes your life forfeit,” Nil Spaar continued. “I have spared you in the hope that you will join me in an act of mercy.”

Han cocked his head. “Explain.”

“Princess Leia has recklessly sent more ships to threaten us—”

“Good for her.”

“—and issued foolish ultimatums. She does not understand us. Perhaps when you do, you can open her eyes.”

“Go on.”

“Our claim to these stars is natural and ancient. Our eyes have owned them since the beginning of our days. They are alive in our legends. They call to us in our dreams. We draw our strength from the All. The purity of the All inspires us to perfection.

“Our claim to these stars is not a shallow thing of greed, or politics, or ambition. It is not a claim we would ever surrender. We are not like the weaklings you are accustomed to, calculating when to pursue an advantage and when to retreat, believing only in the expediencies of the moment.

“Leia’s threats do not move us. We will never give up that which is ours, or share it with those who are not born of the All. If your forces do not withdraw, there will be war—terrible, bloody, unending. We will never yield, General Solo—and none of your soldiers will enjoy my mercy as you have. The fighting will go on until the last of you has been killed or driven out. Do you understand that, General?”

“I think so.”

“I hope you do,” said Nil Spaar. “I have studied your histories. You have never faced an adversary like us. Your wars are decided by the death of a tenth of a population, a third of an army. Then the defeated surrender their honor and the victors surrender their advantage. This is called being civilized. The Yevetha are not civilized, General. It would be a mistake to deal with us as though we were.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Han said. “So what do you want from me?”

“Prevent your mate from making that mistake,” said Nil Spaar. “Persuade her to recall her fleet. Promise us on the blood of your own children that what is ours now will be ours forever. You will preserve the blood of thousands—and your own as well.”

“You’ll let us go?” Barth asked, an eager hopefulness coloring his words.

The viceroy did not look away from Han. “You are more useful to me as a witness than as a martyr, General,” Nil Spaar said, rising from his stool. “Come—look.”

The viceroy led Han to the window, then stepped aside to allow Han an unimpeded view. Squinting, Han looked out on a tumble of buildings and, beyond, a great field of giant silver spheres—Aramadia-class thrustships. It was a stunning, numbing sight. The starships were parked so closely together that it was difficult to count them, even though Nil Spaar allowed him to linger at the window.

“What you see is the product of the Nazfar Metalworks Guild,” said Nil Spaar softly. “There is such a guild on every world of the Twelve, General. Do you understand? You cannot prevail against us. But you can preserve your children’s blood, if you choose to.”

Shaking his head, Han turned away from the window. “Why? Why even make the offer, unless you think we might win?”

“Because you would become our obsession, for as many years as it took to destroy you,” the viceroy said. “And there are better uses for blood and the labor of our young. I have paid you the compliment of believing the same is true for your kind.”

The roar of undampered pulsejets drew Han’s attention to a thrustship climbing skyward from the far edge of the array. Torn by conflicting impulses and struggling to focus his thoughts, Han stalled by making his way slowly back to the bench.

“What did you see? What’s out there?” Barth asked.

“A fleet of new warships,” Han said. “At least a hundred of them.”

“Well, there’s only one choice, then, isn’t there? He’s right—stopping the war would be an act of mercy. Now that you know what we’d be up against, you have to stop it.”

Han’s gaze jumped from Barth to Nil Spaar. “Only if I’m willing to forget the blood that’s already been spilled,” he said. “You didn’t see the intelligence reports I saw, Lieutenant—colonies scoured off the face of planets, entire populations exterminated as though they were no more than kitchen pests—”

“Han, please think about this. Do you want the next planet to be Coruscant or Corellia?” Barth pleaded.

Han kept his gaze fixed on Nil Spaar, who was listening impassively. “Do you know that they recorded it all, without even the decency to look away or feel shame? As though they were proud of it—of how efficiently they could murder millions.” He shook his head slowly. “No. You can’t compromise with an evil as cold as theirs, Lieutenant—not even to spare the lives of our mother’s children.”

Still Nil Spaar said nothing. But Barth was nearly frantic with fear. “Please, do what he asks. Think of all the casualties, the ships burning—Han, they’re going to kill us!”

“Would you rather live as a coward?” Han demanded. “It’ll be a tragedy for even one more good pilot to die fighting them. But it’d be something far worse if we turned our backs and walked away—if no one stood up for the millions who are already dead. And I’ll be damned if I’ll be part of it.” His eyes burned into the viceroy’s. “You can burn to blazes. I won’t help you.”

Nil Spaar nodded agreeably and spoke a word in Yevethan. Two guards appeared at the doorway and bound Han to the bar just as Barth had been.

“Please, do something—tell him you’ve changed your mind—”

“Get a grip on yourself, Lieutenant,” Han said grimly. “He doesn’t deserve to enjoy this.”

The viceroy moved closer, his fighting crests becoming engorged until they seemed to be two crimson slashes from temple to ear. “You vermin wish to teach me a lesson,” said Nil Spaar. “I will offer you one in return. You think you have accepted the price in blood for your choice. We will see if that is so.”

With a slash of his right claw, Nil Spaar ripped open Barth’s bare torso from hip to shoulder, shattering ribs, pulling soft organs from their cavities. Barth’s scream, a horrible, inhuman sound of immeasurable agony, was cut short when his lungs were rent by the claw and collapsed with a grisly wheeze.

For too long a moment, the sight held Han transfixed, every detail burning into his memory. Then his stomach heaved, and he turned away, choking on a bitter taste.

“Perhaps you understand us a little better now,” Nil Spaar said, stepping back and absently sucking the blood from his claw.

With an effort, Han found his voice. “You bastard.”

“Your opinion of me is of no consequence, and never has been,” the viceroy said, and looked to one of his aides. “When you are finished here, have him moved to my ship.”

“Yes, darama,” said the aide. Then he and the others knelt deferentially, almost reverently, as Viceroy Nil Spaar left the chamber.

Han raised his head and forced himself to look at Barth. The white pants were sodden crimson drapes hanging from the flight engineer’s legs. The pool of blood and other bodily fluids below him had grown to the point where it was threatening to engulf Han’s feet. Something in the spill of organs on Barth’s lap was still twitching or pulsing.

I’m sorry, Barth, he thought, working to conceal his anguish as carefully as his fury, determined not to parade either before his audience. I was wrong about us seeing Coruscant again. I didn’t know. I didn’t know until now what a monster he is.

By chance, it fell to Behn-Kihl-Nahm to chair the session at which the vote on Leia was finally taken. He concealed his reluctance behind a well-practiced mask of businesslike duty.

“President Leia Organa Solo, you are called before the Ruling Council of the Senate of the New Republic to answer to a petition of no confidence offered by Chairman Doman Beruss,” Behn-Kihl-Nahm said.

Leia stood in the well before the V-shaped table with her fingers laced before her. “I come before you to hear the challenge and respond, as specified in the Common Charter.”

The chairman nodded. “The foundation for the petition is given as follows: that your ability to discharge your duties as President of this body is and will continue to be compromised by an irreducible conflict with your interests as wife of General Han Solo, who is presently a prisoner of the Duskhan League, with which we stand on the brink of conflict. Do you have any questions about this charge?”

“No,” she said calmly.

“Do you wish to dispute the facts as laid out in section two of the petition?”

“I do not,” she said, standing even straighter.

“Do you wish to make a statement in rebuttal of the argument offered in section three?”

“Only that the petitioner has said far more about his fears than he has about my conduct,” Leia said with a quick but pointed glance sideways at Beruss. “For whatever reason, Chairman Beruss has prejudged me—and in doing so, he’s become the principal disruption to the work of the President’s office. I trust that this Council will recognize that fact and put an end to the disruption by rejecting this petition.”

“Very well,” said Behn-Kihl-Nahm. “Before I call for the vote, the petitioner has asked me to once again offer you an alternative. He is willing to withdraw the petition if you will agree to take a leave of absence until the crisis in Farlax Sector has been resolved and General Solo’s return has been secured.”

“Not interested,” said Leia.

Beruss stirred. “The terms could be worked out so as to leave you with full authority in other areas.”

“No, they couldn’t,” Leia said bluntly. “You can’t sit there and start rewriting the Charter to separate President from Commander in Chief from Chief of State. And I wouldn’t go along with it if you could.”

Quietly defiant, she turned back to where Behn-Kihl-Nahm sat. “Chairman, this body wasn’t created to provide an opportunity to blackmail the President behind closed doors. If you think this petition has merit—if you think I’m unfit to do the job I was elected to do—then send the petition on to the Senate. No more delays. Call for the vote.”

“Very well,” said Behn-Kihl-Nahm. “As the petitioner, Senator Beruss’s vote is counted in support. Senator Rattagagech?”

“I support the petition.”

“Senator Fey’lya?”

“I share Senator Beruss’s concerns and offer him my support.”

“Senator Praget?”

“Affirmative.”

Praget’s vote sealed the outcome, but Leia stood tall and impassive until the last member of the Council had weighed in. The final tally was five to two against her.

“The petition will be reported to the Senate at its next general session,” said Behn-Kihl-Nahm, barely holding a rush of angry words in check. “This meeting is adjourned.”

When he rang the crystal, he did so with enough force that it cracked—a crack substantial enough to mute its voice but not severe enough to shatter it.

Behn-Kihl-Nahm did not believe in omens, but he handled the crystal carefully as he removed it from the dais and made certain that no one else saw.