The Hand Of Thrawn Duology_ Specter Of The Past Part 11

The reasons for its status were many and varied, a long history that dated back well into the days of the Old Republic. The fact that it still retained its role in these darker times was as much a triumph of inertia and habit as it was the two Golan III Defense Platforms tracing their lazy orbits high overhead.

Standing at the conference-room window, Pellaeon glanced up as one of the platforms pa.s.sed in front of Muunilinst's sun, momentarily dimming its light. Back when the Imperial capital was moved to Bastion, he remembered, Moff Disra had tried to get those two Golan IIIs transferred there as well, arguing that the Empire's governmental center deserved the protection more than the credit shufflers did. It had been one of Disra's rare miscalculations, and one of his most embarra.s.sing political defeats.

Behind Pellaeon, someone coughed discreetly. "Yes?" Pellaeon asked, tuning again to face the table.

All six of the senior officers gathered around the table were looking back at him. "I presume, Admiral," High General Suit Ramic said quietly, "that this is not simply a trial suggestion. You and the Moffs have already agreed on this offer, haven't you?"

For a moment Pellaeon studied the other's face. General Ramic, commander of one of the Golans up there, was the senior man of the Muunilinst defense setup, in experience and respect as well as in rank. If he chose to resist the proposed peace agreement, the others would most likely fall in line behind him.

But no. The question hadn't been a challenge, merely a question. "The Moffs have approved it, yes," he said. "For what it's worth, they were no more pleased by the idea than any of the rest of us are."

"I thought you were the one who made the proposal," General Jaron Kyte put in, his voice and eyes dark with suspicion. "How can you say now that you oppose it?"

"I didn't say I opposed it," Pellaeon corrected him. "I said I didn't like it. But in my professional judgment, we simply have no other options left."

"I was under the impression we had revolutionary new systems and equipment ready to come on-line," Ramic said.

With perfect timing one of the lights on Pellaeon's comm blinked on. "Some of those systems haven't proved as workable as their designers had hoped," Pellaeon said, stepping to his seat and leaning over to tap the confirmation b.u.t.ton. As for the equipment, some of it has been tainted by decidedly treasonous activity." Across from Pellaeon the conference door slid open&mdash And a lean man wearing the traditional Muunilinsti banker's shawl and pendant stepped inside.

His reaction to the roomful of officers might have been interesting, but Pellaeon wasn't watching him. His eyes were instead on the officers themselves, as their expressions of surprise or indignation at his veiled accusation were interrupted by this unexpected intrusion. They turned, most of them obviously irritated, to see who it was who had presumed to intrude on Fleet business.

And midway down the left side of the table, General Kyte twitched.

It wasn't a big reaction, little more than a twitch of the head and a flicker of shock across his face before he got himself back under control. But set against the backdrop of the others' more or less indifferent curiosity, it stood out like the guidelight on a landing bay.

"Ah, Lord Graemon," Pellaeon said, focusing on the banker at last. "Thank you for coming.

If you'll wait in the other room there, I'll be with you shortly."

"As you wish, Admiral Pellaeon," Graemon said. His eyes, Pellaeon noted, flicked once to Kyte as he crossed to the inner chamber and disappeared inside.

"And what was that all about?" Ramic asked.

The man was shrewd, all right; clearly, he'd recognized that the banker's interruption wasn't entirely a coincidence: "I was speaking of treason," Pellaeon said, waving a hand toward the inner chamber. "Lord Graemon is one of the threads in that web."

A fresh ripple of surprise ran around the rest of the table, but Ramic himself didn't even twitch. "You can prove this?" he demanded.

"Enough of it," Pellaeon said. "He's one of the money men helping funnel Imperial funds to a consortium that's building the Preybirds that are now supplementing the more traditional TIE-cla.s.s starfighters aboard our ships."

"I don't see any treason in that," someone snorted. "Seems to me that the Empire's getting its money's worth with those Preybirds."

"The treason is in the fact that the deal has been made outside proper channels," Pellaeon said. "And in the fact that certain high Imperial officials are siphoning off a significant percentage of those funds for their own personal gain."

Deliberately, he turned his gaze on Kyte. "And in the fact that the deal includes the supplying of Imperial equipment and personnel to various pirate gangs."

Kyte held his gaze without flinching, but his face paled just noticeably. Pellaeon knew, all right; and now Kyte knew that he knew.

"And how do you expect your treaty with the New Republic to stop this?" Ramic asked.

"Cooperation and open lines of communication would enable us to track down the partic.i.p.ants more efficiently," Pellaeon said. "And those partic.i.p.ants would no longer be able to pretend they were merely doing the Empire's business in their own, shall we say, creative way."

"Then you suspect some in the Fleet are involved?" one of the others asked.

"I don't suspect," Pellaeon said. "I know."

For a long moment no one spoke. Pellaeon let the silence linger and harden, then gestured to the datapads in front of them. "But that's not the issue here today. The issue is the proposed peace treaty, and whether you will support it. I suggest we adjourn for an hour so that you'll have time to consider all the ramifications. Discuss it among yourselves if you like; I'll be here if you have any questions you wish to ask privately."

He looked at each of them in turn. "At the end of that hour we'll reconvene, and I'll expect your answers. Any final questions? Very well, then; dismissed."

He turned again to the window, his back to the table, as they gathered their datapads and datacards and exited quietly from the room. The door slid shut, and Pellaeon took a careful breath. "Your comments?" he asked, turning around again.

Ramic hadn't moved from his seat. "I disagree completely," the high general said bluntly.

"The New Republic is going to self-destruct-you know it and I know it. The only questions are how violent the explosion will be and whether the trigger will be this Caamas thing we keep hearing about or something else. There's no need for us to humiliate ourselves in front of aliens and alien-lovers this way."

"I understand your position," Pellaeon said. "Is that your final word?"

Ramic's thin lips compressed briefly. "I don't support your treaty, Admiral," he said, standing up. "But I'm an Imperial officer, and I will obey my superiors. You and the Moffs have agreed; if and when the order to cease hostilities is given, I will obey it."

Some of the weight on Pellaeon's shoulders eased a bit "Thank you, General," he said quietly.

"Thank my family and its history of proud service," Ramic countered. "They're the ones who installed the sense of duty and loyalty in me." He dropped his gaze to the table and set about gathering together his datacards. "Do you think the New Republic will accept your offer of a meeting?"

"We'll find out soon enough," Pellaeon said. "Colonel Vermel should be reaching the Morishim system just about now."

"Yes," Ramic murmured. He started for the door; paused and turned back. "You're certain there are pirate gangs involved in all this?"

"There's no doubt at all," Pellaeon a.s.sured him. "From what I've been able to piece together, they're being hired to attack specified New Republic shipments. They get the booty; the Empire gets a degree of confusion and consternation in the New Republic and the shadow partners, knowing which shipments are going to be hit, make money on the business and commodity exchanges."

Ramic shrugged. "Aside from that last, it sounds like perfectly reasonable privateer activity."

"Perhaps," Pellaeon conceded. "The problem is that the ultimate decisions on which shipments are to be hit are coming from the shadow partners, not the High Command or Imperial Intelligence. And there are also strong indications that the sleeper cells Grand Admiral Thrawn set up are being raided to provide crewers for the gangs."

"If those alleged sleeper cells really exist," Ramic rumbled. "I've never been convinced of that myself."

"If the troopers aren't from the sleeper cells, then the conspirators are getting them from somewhere else," Pellaeon said. "The only other choice is that they're siphoning them off from the regular line forces."

Ramic's face hardened. "If they're doing that, I'll personally help you flay the perpetrators. We don't have enough troopers and crewers as it is." His eyes narrowed slightly. "And which of us do you suspect of being in on it with Lord Graemon?"

"General Kyte was the only one who reacted to his entrance," Pellaeon said. "As such, he's my prime suspect With luck, he may panic and lead my Intelligence team to some of the others involved."

"Kyte won't panic," Ramic said. "But he might think it wise to alert them."

"Either way will suit me," Pellaeon said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to spend a few minutes with Lord Graemon."

"Pulling on another thread of the web?"

Pellaeon smiled grimly. "Something like that. I'll see you and the others in an hour."

"Very well, sir." For a moment Ramic studied his face. "I'd advise you to be careful, though. Every web has something nasty in the middle . . . and whoever's in the middle of this one could well decide that with a peace treaty in the works the Empire doesn't need a Supreme Fleet Commander anymore. Especially one who's pulling pieces out of his web."

Pellaeon looked over at the room where Lord Graemon waited. "Yes," he said quietly. "That thought has occurred to me."

The secret door slid open, and Disra looked up as Tierce strode into the room. "Well?" he demanded. "Did you get through to Dorja?"

"Finally, yes." Tierce nodded. "He reports the mission was more or less successful."

"More or less'?"

Tierce shrugged. "Dorja said he had full-spectrum jamming going from the moment he emerged from hypers.p.a.ce. but that some of Colonel Vermel's signal might have gotten through before they took his Corvette aboard."

Disra hissed between his teeth. "Sloppy."

"That observation has already been expressed to him by our Grand Admiral," Tierce said.

"Apparently there were some X-wings and an unidentified yacht off Morishim that happened to be hanging around the Corvette's incoming vector when he dropped out of hypers.p.a.ce."

Disra snorted. "In my experience, X-wings don't just happen' to hang around places."

"I agree," Tierce said. "My guess is that they spotted the incoming ships somehow and went out to take a look. Possibly using the old Imperial spy center we abandoned on the surface, though how they would have located it I don't know."

"Did Dorja have any idea how much of Vermel's message might have gotten through?"

"A few words at the most," Tierce a.s.sured him. "And that a.s.sumes one or more of the nearby ships even had the right equipment, which is unlikely."

Disra pondered. "Yes," he conceded. "And even if they did, a few words aren't going to grab anyone's attention. No one who counts, anyway."

"Especially considering how many other crises are about to come down on their heads,"

Tierce agreed.

"Right," Disra said. "What did you have Dorja do with the ship and crew?"

"He's currently en route back here, doing a quick interrogation on the way. Most of the crew, I suspect, will have had no idea what Vermel's mission was; those we can bring back into service with vague intimations that Vermel was up to some sort of treason. As for Vermel himself-" He shrugged. "I thought we'd lock him up somewhere quiet for the moment.

We might find a use for him later."

"Sounds reasonable," Disra said. "Any word from Trazzen and the others?"

"We've received their last scheduled report," Tierce said. "They'll be out of contact from now on until summoned."

"Um," Disra grunted. Everything seemed to be going according to plan.

And yet, this whole thing with Vermel and his possibly leaked message bothered him somehow. Surely no one could have caught any of it; and even if they had, surely they would dismiss it out of hand as smugglers or a simple theft-and-defection attempt gone bad. "It occurs to me, Major," he said slowly, "that perhaps we ought to push up our timetable a little. Just in case."

There was a long moment of silence. "I suppose that would be possible," Tierce said. "But I really don't think it's necessary. No one's going to pay many attention to the incident over Morishim."

Disra stared hard at him. "You're certain of that?"

Tierce smiled thinly. "I guarantee it."

The recording ran through to the end for the third time, and finally General Garm Bel Iblis shut it off. "About as clear as roiled mud," he commented to Lando. "Still, I would have bet you couldn't have gotten even this much through all that jamming. Very nicely done."

"I just wish we'd gotten more," Lando said. "Janson figured it was probably a theft-and-defection gone wrong."

"Yes, it does look that way," Be! Iblis said, fingering his mustache thoughtfully. "But somehow I don't think it was."

Lando eyed him. "Then what was it?"

"I don't know yet," Be! Iblis said. "But consider the facts. The Empire hasn't got nearly enough Imperial Star Destroyers left to waste one on a simple chase mission. And they wanted him taken alive; and they wanted to make sure he didn't talk to anyone."

"And he knew you were here," Lando pointed out. "You can almost hear the words General Bel Iblis' in there."

"Yes," Bel Iblis agreed. "Though keeping track of my whereabouts is no big deal anymore.

We don't keep things nearly as secret as we did even five years ago."

He swiveled over his computer and began punching keys. "It seems to me you can also hear the name Vermel' mentioned. If I remember right, there was an Imperial officer of that name on Admiral Pellaeon's staff."

Lando looked out the viewport at the curve of the planet below, and at the distant flares of the X-wings still circling around in the distance. "Seems to me that would add weight to the defection theory," he suggested. "They wouldn't want to kill someone of that rank out of hand, and they certainly wouldn't want us to know he'd tried it."

"Perhaps." Bel Iblis peered at the display. "Yes, there he is. Colonel Meizh Vermel!."

Lando spread his hands. "There it is, then."

Bel Iblis fingered his mustache again. "No," he said slowly. "My instincts still say no.

Why use a Corellian Corvette if you were going to defect? Why not something faster or more heavily armed? Or requiring a smaller crew, unless all hundred-odd crewers were defecting together?"

"I don't know."

"I don't know either." Bel Iblis slid out the datacard of Lando's recording. "But I think I'll make a few copies of this and see if I can find out."

Lando c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. "In all your copious spare time?"

The general shrugged. "I've been needing a hobby anyway."

CHAPTER 7.