Solo Command (31 page)

“Mere setbacks, sir.”

“No. Can’t you feel it? The hordes of my enemies are drawing closer, their claws outstretched, reaching for me.” Zsinj heaved a sigh. “I think, I really think, they are poised to undo me. I think Doctor Gast talked before she died. I think the Rebels and Imperials are cooperating.”

“Impossible.”

“Not impossible. You yourself said I was their greatest enemy. What else could give them the incentive to cooperate?”

Melvar was silent for long moments. In all the years he’d worked with the warlord, this was not the saddest he’d seen him, but it was the most resigned, the most fatalistic. It was a startling change. The warlord had always been an unstoppable force of optimism and will. Now, despite the fact that his girth had not diminished, he seemed somehow reduced.

“Do you think they’ll win?” Melvar asked.

Zsinj took a deep breath, then nodded. “I think, in a sense, they already have. They’ve stopped my processes. They’ve set their own in motion. Theirs are replacing mine, and I can’t seem to do anything about it.”

“So what will it take to pull a victory out of this? Tell me the minimum you need. We’ll achieve that, and more.”

Zsinj switched off his terminal screen and thought. He swung ponderously around to face Melvar and began counting off on his fingers. “One. We retain
Iron Fist
.”

“Count on it.”

“Two. We retain enough businesses to start again.”

“That will be harder. As much as we’ve done to keep your businesses isolated from one another, some leakage of information has obviously occurred. The more they capture, the more they seem to be able to capture. But, statistically, they can’t find everything. We’ll have a solid core left.”

“Three. We have time to rebuild, repair, recover.”

“For that, we’ll definitely have to use the
Second Death
for her intended purpose. But we can do that.”

“Four. We come up with our next plan for the elimination of the New Republic.”

“I think that means Rancor Base and the Force-witches. We have to learn what they do and how they do it. Another path we can take, weapons the Rebels and the Empire can’t cope with.”

“And Five. Which actually takes place before Three. We kill General Han Solo and as many of his friends and aides as is humanly possible.”

“That,” Melvar said, “will be the most enjoyable part of the operation.”

Zsinj showed up at Lara’s new work station in the bridge pit, as apparently cheerful as usual. “Lieutenant Petothel. How are you settling in?”

“Very well,” she said. “I can’t describe how good it is to be doing this kind of work again.”

“Good, good. But the first few days you looked, if I may be indelicate, a little tired. Rings under the eyes. A general malaise.”

She nodded. “It took me a while to get used to ship’s routine. I had to make some adjustments to my sleeping patterns.” Not surprising, as it had proved difficult to get any sleep when she was talking and programming with Tonin all night long. “But I’m over it.”

“Have you had a chance to look over the data package I transmitted to you this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Your conclusions?”

Lara became aware that the operatives at the consoles on either side of her, though they were continuing to do their work, were listening intently to this exchange. She smiled. Intelligence operatives were the same everywhere. “Well, first, whoever compiled that data did an inadequate job of making the events anonymous. I recognize the first mission as the
Millennium Falcon
escort to Kidriff Five. I was there, after all. Which means that Prime Target is the
Falcon
, and Secondary Target is, roughly, Commander Antilles’s entire command of Rebel starfighters.”

Zsinj nodded, his expression glum. “So much for secrecy. What do you conclude from their behavior?”

“General Solo is trying to separate you from the income that sustains your fleet, and is personally rabble-rousing while he’s at it.”

“Why?”

Lara gave him a smile that suggested contempt for their subject matter. It was easy; she only had to let her contempt for Zsinj rise to the surface. “He thinks he’s an important man. That his presence is the only thing that can inspire Rebel sympathies in the population. Based on what I’ve personally observed of the man, I’d say he’s desperate. He hasn’t had any real success in his mission against you. If he fails, he gets replaced; if he gets replaced, he loses all his status.”

“I never had the impression that he cares about status.”

“He doesn’t.” She almost hesitated on the enormity of the
lie she’d concocted, the one that Zsinj, in all his ego, must inevitably accept. “But the woman he loves does.”

“Ahhh.”

“He knows that as a dirt-poor smuggler, he can’t keep a princess’s affection. But as a Rebel general, he can.”

“But only if he’s successful.”

“Correct.”

“Interesting interpretation.”

“There’s more.” Lara pressed on, hoping Zsinj would not detect the queasiness she was feeling.

She had an idea, based on the pattern the
Millennium Falsehood
was demonstrating, as to which world or worlds the ersatz Han Solo would visit next. But was this a conclusion that Zsinj and his intelligence people were supposed to have drawn, or had she come to a conclusion based on her superior knowledge of the Wraiths, a conclusion that would endanger her former squadmates? She didn’t know, and the uncertainty ate at her. She had to trust her instincts, though, and her instincts said that the
Falsehood’
s mission profiles came about from meticulous planning that Zsinj was eventually supposed to interpret.

“They’re progressing from world to world in your territories based on a number of factors. The degree to which a world is known outside the borders you control. Estimated planetary production that can be applied to your fleet funding. Proximity to New Republic space so they can make quick escapes. Comparative morale value of hitting specific targets. Suspected presence of pro-Rebel factions.”

“I know that. Unfortunately, considering how many worlds I control, that still doesn’t give us a pattern.”

“Yes, it does. There’s one more factor. Former trade relations, direct or indirect, with the planet Alderaan.”

Zsinj rocked back on his heels. “That
would
make sense.”

“Yes, sir. On such worlds, there’s a higher likelihood that there will be people who sympathize with Princess Leia and the other Alderaanians who were off-world when the first Death Star destroyed that planet. Also, in my opinion, they’re more likely to be planets that Princess Leia will have heard of,
thereby increasing her recognition of Solo’s deeds when he tells her of them.”

“Very good, very good.” Zsinj’s eyes lost focus as he considered Lara’s words. “What does that suggest Solo’s next target will be?”

“I give a very high probability to Comkin Five, and just slightly less high a likelihood to the Vahaba Asteroid Belt.” Comkin was a Zsinj-controlled world known for its candies and medicines—two industries inextricably tied together on that world—and Vahaba was known not only for its asteroid-mining operations but for the skill of its metal fabricators. She knew a little about Vahaba; it was in a well-populated cluster of stars, not far from Halmad, where the Wraiths had acted as pirates not long ago.

“Well. Interesting speculation. Thank you, Lieutenant.” Still distracted, Zsinj turned to depart the bridge, not even seeing Lara’s salute.

General Melvar caught up with Zsinj in the corridor just outside the bridge. “Well?”

“There’s a proper query to give a superior officer. It’s not ‘Well?’ Something more like, ‘Sir, a moment of your time, I wished to inquire about your recent interview with the subject under observation.’ ”

Melvar said, “I can phrase all such requests so as to waste a maximum amount of your time, of course.”

Zsinj smiled. “Never mind.” He told him of Lara’s speculations, then said, “What I don’t know is whether she came to this conclusion honestly, or whether she was privy to some of their mission profile before she left
Mon Remonda
and is now presenting it as a sudden realization on her part.”

“Either way, the information is valuable … so long as she’s not leading us into a trap.”

“We’ll find out. Dispatch half the ready fleet to lie in wait at Vahaba, and we’ll take the other half personally to Comkin.”

•    •    •

Donos lay waiting on the craft he had fabricated from rubbish.

Portions of the thing had begun their existence as the gravitational unit in a TIE fighter simulator. When coordinated with the simulator’s computer, they would exert artificial gravity around the pilot, drawing him left, right, down, up, all in artful mimicry of the sort of g-forces the pilot would experience in sharp turns and other maneuvers.

But the simulator had grown old, had become too unreliable even for recreational use, and it had been dragged to a corridor outside a refuse chamber. There Donos, doing a tour of the unfrequented portions of
Mon Remonda
, a habit that had recently become part of his regular routine, had found it.

He’d liberated still-functioning portions of the gravitational unit. He’d installed computer gear to ensure that the unit would exert appropriate force downward even when the unit was tilting, would detect obstacles, would exert repulsorlift power against obstacles. To this he had added a padded layer that was part of the simulator’s pilot’s couch and a battery to supply power.

Now, in one of the ship’s lonely cargo areas, he lay on his stomach atop the junk he had assembled. It hovered a half meter above the floor, humming, motionless.

Of course it was motionless. It had no engine, no motivation.

Except for him. And to set it into motion, to make it do what it was designed to do, would be to look stupid.

His legs extended off the back of his jury-rigged vehicle. He brought them down to gain purchase with the floor and kicked off, setting his craft into motion. He kicked again and again, building up speed as he floated between shelves of stored materials toward a distant bulkhead. Halfway down, he kicked once more, sideways, setting his craft into a spin, and drew himself into a ball atop it.

His floating sled spun haphazardly, coming within half a meter of a shelving unit before the sled’s repulsor unit reacted to the proximity of the thing and bounced him back the other way. Like a ball, he careened from shelf to shelf across the open space in between, coming within handspans of impact but never quite hitting, while he floated toward the bulkhead wall.

Eventually, forward momentum almost spent, he floated to within a half meter of the bulkhead and came to a stop.

“Well, that looked good.”

Donos rolled onto his side to get a look at the speaker. Wes Janson stood a few meters away. He must have approached up the walkway that ran along the bulkhead wall.

“I’m amazed it held together,” Donos said. “I expected to have the whole thing fail halfway through and toss me into a stack of crates.”

“Is it fun?”

Donos nodded. “Pretty much.”

“You don’t look too amused.”

“I imagine I did a moment ago.” Donos rose to his feet, gripped his craft by its one handle, and depressed what had once been a pilot’s yoke trigger. The craft dropped as it depowered; he hauled it upright. “But even fun isn’t much fun. I keep wishing Lara were here.”

Janson nodded, sympathy plain on his features. “Yeah. But you’re about to get more people here than you probably want. We’re doing some inventory here in a few minutes. You probably ought to try the main corridor down in Engineering. It’s long enough, and I’m sure the engineers would be interested in seeing your kludge.”

“Probably.” Donos checked his chrono. “A little later, though. I have somewhere to be.”

The moment Donos was out of sight, Wedge slipped out from a second-level shelf full of foodstuff packages. “Well, that was interesting.”

“Wedge! Why don’t you scare the other half of my life out of me? How long were you waiting there?”

“About fifteen minutes. During most of which, Donos just sat there, waiting to decide whether or not to play his game.”

“Well, he did. A good sign.”

“I hope so.” Wedge reached behind the first row of stacked food crates and dragged another one up front. This one, like the others, was labeled
BANTHA STEAK, DEHYDRATED
, 250
GRAMS RESTORED, INDIVIDUALLY PACKAGED
. But the top was ajar and the smell wafting from the crate, something like fruit and leaf compost, was not reminiscent of bantha meat. Wedge
reached into the crate’s top and drew out a bowl full of brownish lumps Janson couldn’t identify. “Now, you’ve fed Kettch before, correct?”

“No. You and whatever crew you’ve been using haven’t brought me in before now.”

“That’s right.” Wedge led Janson toward the forward doors out of the cargo area. “There are still some security concerns, since Kettch was supposed to be a Hawk-bat, not a New Republic pilot. So we’re limiting the personnel who see him. He gets one bowlful like this, three times a day. We have him set up near an officers’ mess that General Solo isn’t using, since he doesn’t entertain. So you’ll get water for Kettch from the mess.”

“Right.”

They passed through a small door into a secondary cargo area, this one much smaller than the one they’d left, its shelves full of crates labeled
BULK CLOTH
. From the rear, they approached a larger crate, one two meters by two meters by one and a half tall, which had been laid out in the aisle between rows of shelves.

“And now,” Wedge said, as they got to the front of the crate, “you meet—uh-oh.”

A door that had obviously been retrofitted onto the front of the crate lay on the floor, off its hinges. There was nothing within the crate but what looked like a bed of grass and cloth scraps.

“He’s loose?” Janson said.

“He’s loose.” Wedge looked around. “But for how long? We’ve got to find him, keep to a minimum the number of crewmen who see him—”

There was a soft
patter-patter
of movement from the far end of the chamber, the bow end.