CHAPTER 19

Tsoss Beacon transmitted its blind signal into the fiery soup of stars and gases near the heart of the deep core. The automated station had been constructed by droids and suicide crews on a planetoid scoured clean by an endless wash of radioactive storms and solar flares that swept the region. No living thing had visited Tsoss Beacon for fifteen years, and the ionized flux had long since caused most of the maintenance droids to malfunction.

Admiral Daala considered it the perfect place to hold a meeting of Imperial warlords.

The squarish beacon station was a squat citadel with low walls more than a meter thick to block the radiation. Before sending her own Star Destroyer into the hostile region, Daala had dispatched a Gamma assault shuttle crewed by worker droids who set down and began the major overhaul chores, following programming and specifications that Daala herself had developed.

When the worker droids completed the groundwork and installed high-efficiency radiation-shield generators, Daala brought the Firestorm into the ravening system, where hot gas swirled around them and shockwaves from stellar storms scrambled her sensors. It reminded Daala of her hiding place in the Cauldron Nebula when she had been isolated from the Empire, with only a pitifully small fleet to attack the Rebels. If the Imperials could pool their resources now …

Once her ship was in place around Tsoss Beacon, Daala sent a crew of stormtroopers down to complete the preparations, accompanying them herself to oversee the efforts. She chose one of the station’s main storerooms to host the détente meeting. Worker droids had already completed significant structural changes to the room, which had no windows, no exits except for the single door equipped with a thick shielded lock.

It would be perfect.

A crew of stormtroopers removed the decommissioned equipment and forgotten supplies that had been used to construct the beacon. The machinery was outdated and alive with secondary radiation. The armored troopers dumped it all out on the rocky surface.

Daala stood in her olive-gray uniform, coppery hair falling loose behind her, black-gloved hands clasped behind her back as she watched everything. She tried to appear both intimidating and compassionate—though the compassion part was difficult.

She watched Harrsk’s former soldiers and saw that some remained uneasy at what they perceived to be her mutiny, though most had been converted to Daala’s cause. They were Imperial soldiers trained to follow their leader; she was not surprised to discover that the majority of her troops had despised their service under Harrsk and secretly applauded her actions. These had all learned to respect the ideal of the Empire, and Daala offered a return to that; Harrsk promised only a continuance of civil war.

Pellaeon’s Victory-class ships arrived a day after Daala had completed preparations. As stormtroopers ushered the Vice Admiral in to see her, she felt an icy dread in the pit of her stomach. All would be lost if he had not succeeded in his mission—but she could tell from the faint smile on his lean face and the brightness in his eyes that it hadn’t been a failure after all.

“Mission accomplished, Admiral,” he said, standing straight and looking directly at her. “Thirteen of the strongest Imperial warlords will arrive for these talks.” His smile sagged a little, causing his mustache to droop. “It was not easy to convince them. I had to use every tactic I could think of, banking fully on your legendary reputation and my association with Grand Admiral Thrawn. This uses up all of the influence we had.” He lowered his voice, aware that his words might be construed as disrespectful. “You’d better make it work, Admiral. We won’t get a second chance.”

Daala tugged her black gloves onto her hands. “I understand, Vice Admiral,” she said. “I have no intention of failing.”

Pellaeon’s smile turned grim. “If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t be here with you.”

The warlords arrived with their fleets bristling with weapons—and Daala knew that the slightest misstep could trigger an internecine holocaust that would wipe out the remains of the Imperial military. She shook her head in resignation, her face tight and drawn … then realized that if such was to be the fate of the Empire, better that it ended here, rather than through a long and dishonorable attrition.

She contacted each fleet as it came in. “Only the warlord is allowed to approach. All armed forces are denied access to this sector.”

The warlords argued, insisting on their personal escorts, their guards, their protective battleships. But Daala refused each one. “No. No one will carry weapons to this meeting. No one will be allowed to position his forces for a secret attack. This is a political negotiation regarding the fate of the Empire. There is no need for demonstrations of bluster or bravado.”

The talks were delayed two days in the miserable fury around Tsoss Beacon, until finally the last of the fleets backed off. Daala was convinced they departed no farther than the edge of the system, out of range of her station’s scrambled sensors—but it was good enough for her purposes. It would give her sufficient time to deal with a crisis, if one occurred.

Inside the shielded supply room, Daala waited at the head of the long table she had installed for the express purpose of the detente meeting. The table was irregularly shaped, with rounded corners and a looping perimeter intended to dismiss any subtle hierarchy in seating order. The gathered warlords were all equal as far as Daala was concerned: equally pompous fools. But she needed to foster an impression of fairness and impartiality, if they were ever to begin open negotiations.

Without windows the place seemed like a dungeon, so Daala had added electric-blue illumination crystals around the room to shed a soothing cool glow from shoulder-high metal staffs, high-tech torches reflecting off the dull gray walls. Outside the door, scarlet-robed Imperial Guards stood ominously silent, heightening the aura of command in her presence.

Daala sat back in her uncomfortable chair; she prefered rigid furniture because it kept her attention focused. She took several deep breaths, collecting her thoughts, gathering her stamina for what she knew would be a dreadfully difficult meeting. Daala despised meetings, preferring instead to make unilateral decisions and follow through on them—but that wouldn’t work in this case. At least not yet. She had to give the warlords a chance.

Pellaeon stood to one side of the door as an honor guard. High Admiral Teradoc was the first to pass through the doorway, fat and sweaty-faced, staggering even in the low gravity. His beady eyes were filled with seething hatred as he flicked a venomous glance at Pellaeon. With an out-thrust lower lip, Teradoc took the nearest chair to minimize the distance he had to walk. He placed himself equally distant between Pellaeon, whom he considered a traitor, and Daala—who, as an interloper, was probably worse.

After him came Supreme Warlord Harrsk, the little man with the hideously scarred face. Then Superior General Delvardus, a tall and skeletal man with dark-brown hair and shock-white eyebrows that stood out like electrical discharges from his forehead; he had a square chin bisected by a deep cleft. Following Delvardus came an endless string of High Moffs, Honored Overlords, Supreme Leaders, and other commanders with similarly pompous yet meaningless titles.

When the last of the warlords had taken his seat, Pellaeon clicked his heels together and marched briskly to the front. Making his turns sharp and exaggerated, he came to stand at attention beside Daala. “I want to thank you all for coming here,” he said. “I know this is a difficult compromise even agreeing to meet, but you must hear us out for the future of the Empire.”

Daala rose slowly to her feet, moving at the exact pace she hoped would capture their attention: fast enough so as not to distract them, slow enough to give them time to dread what she might say or do. She flashed her emerald eyes. “One Empire, one fleet—only this will guarantee us victory.”

From his seat obese High Admiral Teradoc made a rude sound with his lips. “Those platitudes might work with impressionable young soldiers, but not us. We’re beyond all that high-sounding nonsense.”

Pellaeon stiffened beside Daala, and his face blanched. She could sense the genuine anger boiling up inside him as he said, “Sir, they are not just platitudes. We’re talking about the fate of the Empire.”

“What Empire?” Teradoc said. “We are the Empire.” He waved his pudgy hand to encompass the other warlords and scowled.

Daala threw her words out like a fistful of ice chips. “High Admiral Teradoc, that would be cause for immediate execution if the Emperor were here.”

“Well, he’s not here,” Teradoc snapped back.

“And so we must function without him.” Daala glared at the High Admiral for a heartbeat, then swept her gaze across the other warlords who seemed alternately amused or bored by the altercation.

“I have seen what remains of the Imperial starfleet,” she said. “I’ve visited most of you in the past year, urging you to put aside your differences. Supreme Warlord Harrsk has a fleet of Imperial Star Destroyers. High Admiral Teradoc has a force of Victory-class warships. You others have blastboats, capital ships, millions upon millions of stormtroopers—unstoppable military might if we choose to use it as such!

“Grand Admiral Thrawn proved the Rebels have not yet managed to consolidate their own meager resources. Because of your rivalries, every one of your sectors has devoted vast resources to creating weaponry. It is time to use those resources against our real enemies instead of against each other.”

“Fine words, Admiral Daala.” Warlord Harrsk mockingly clapped his hands. “And how do you propose that we do that?”

Daala pounded her gloved fist on the table. “By forging an alliance. If the Rebels can do it, so can we.”

Superior General Delvardus at a far corner of the table stood up to leave, brushing himself off. “I’ve heard enough. This is just a poorly disguised power grab. I’ve spent more funds than any of you on military buildup.” His forehead wrinkled, and his bright white eyebrows crawled together. “I’m not sharing my glory.”

As the skeletally thin man turned his back to Daala, she touched a hidden control panel under the table. The heavy durasteel door heaved up on hydraulic pistons and slammed into place, sealing gaskets around the edges. Multicolored lights scrambled like outraged insects on the square panel of the operating mechanism.

“What is this!” Delvardus said, whirling.

“That is a cyberlocked door with a timing mechanism,” Daala said. “Even I can’t open it for the next three hours. You will sit down, Delvardus.”

Several of the warlords lurched to their feet. High Admiral Teradoc attempted to rise, but his bulk dragged him back down, and he simply smacked a sweaty palm on the tabletop. The Imperial commanders shouted and bellowed and hammered their fists and lashed out at each other, but Daala stood firm, weathering their tantrums. Pellaeon remained beside her, looking decidedly uneasy.

“This is not a power grab,” Daala finally said when the uproar had died down. “I know that other Imperial officers have left the fleet, throwing their lot in with criminals and lowlifes because it gives them a chance for a pathetic personal gain, but you—while I resent your destructive tactics—at least hold a shadow of allegiance to our once-great Empire.

“You have three hours to choose a nominal leader. There’s nothing else you can do. We are all sealed inside this chamber—so you may as well make the best of it.”

She sat down and clasped her hands, squeezing the black leather between her fingers with a soft strangling sound. And she waited.

Hour after hour the squabbling grew more strident, more childish. Rivalries erupted between competing warlords: old vengeances were redeclared, allegations of betrayals and threats of reprisals hurled in each other’s faces.

For the first hour Daala was disturbed, but still held out some hope. In the second hour, though she kept her anger well hidden, she wanted to bash their skulls together. By the middle of the third hour Daala gave up any attempt to mask her contempt for the squabbling warlords.

Finally, Warlord Harrsk lost control of himself during a shouting match with Teradoc; the little scar-faced man leaped across the table, scrambling on his knees, and launched himself at the obese High Admiral, trying to wrap his short fingers around Teradoc’s fat throat. The chair tipped over, and both crashed to the floor, cursing and shouting.

The other warlords stood up, some cheering, others yelling for them to stop. Pellaeon finally stormed over to the scene, grabbed Harrsk, lifted the short man bodily in the low gravity, and cast him onto the flat table. Teradoc bellowed in rage, his face florid. His breathing rasped into his lungs like a damaged air-recirculation system.

Daala turned and ripped one of the electric-blue glowtorches from the floor behind her. “Enough!” she shouted. She raised the durasteel staff high and smashed it down upon the tabletop. The glowcrystal exploded into shards with crackling blue sparks, and transparent fragments flew in all directions. She hammered the rod down again and again, denting the table, bending the staff, and fragmenting the end. Five minutes remained on the cyberlocked door.

Her action, unexpected and violent, brought the dissenting leaders to a surprised standstill. She tossed the metal pole to the floor, where it clanged and clattered and finally lay still.

In utter disgust Daala spoke, her voice low and heavy like a blunt instrument. “I didn’t want to rule. I had no intention of becoming a political leader. I wanted to crush the Rebels instead—but you give me no choice. I cannot leave the Empire in the hands of fools like you.”

Daala reached into the hip pocket of her olive-gray uniform and withdrew a translucent breathmask, which she placed over her mouth and nose. She activated the mask with a fingertip, and it sealed itself to her face, grafting its edges to her skin cells. Beside her, Pellaeon suddenly looked up in dawning comprehension. He grabbed for his own mask as Daala reached under the table again and pressed a button, triggering the nerve-gas systems she had programmed the worker droids to install. The air vents made hissing sounds, like serpents expelling venomous breath into the room.

In unison, the warlords howled at the treachery; Daala noted with amused irony that at last they had found a way to do something together.

Teradoc attempted to haul his bloated form to his feet. Daala presumed he would die of a heart attack if the nerve gas didn’t get him first.

Warlord Harrsk and three others didn’t waste time venting their rage but rushed to the door, pounding at the cyberlock, trying to trigger its release. But the timer had four minutes yet to run, and Daala knew the gas required only seconds to complete its fatal action.

Tall, skeletal Delvardus snatched at the insignia on his chest with an intent look of concentration on his face. He managed to clip several badges and medals together. He withdrew a strut from one of his shoulderboards, and when he had finished clicking the components together, Daala saw that he had assembled a wicked-looking, if primitive, knife.

On his long, bony legs Delvardus staggered toward her, raising the blade. His face grew splotchy with rose-colored eruptions of tiny blood vessels in his cheeks and eyes. He gasped.

Daala remained standing where she was, a ready target. She stared at him with polite interest. Delvardus had accepted the fact he would die, and he meant to slash Daala before the nerve gas caused him to succumb.

The warlords were falling right and left now, slumping atop each other. Some choked, clutching their throats; others vomited. Two sprawled across the table. Most had managed to make it to the floor.

Delvardus kept coming, one plodding step at a time, as if his limbs were sheathed in rapidly hardening duracrete. His eyes were a deep red, filled with blood from the inside as he strained, lifting his knife.

Daala watched him topple at her feet. The knife clattered on the floor plates.

Pellaeon looked shocked but resigned as he watched the unexpected carnage. Fat Teradoc continued to wheeze and cough. Daala was surprised to see that the obese warlord was the last to die.…

A few moments later Daala and Pellaeon stood like statues, the only two survivors, surveying the massacre of Imperial military commanders. Pellaeon blinked in shock. “It’s done, then,” he whispered, as if he still couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed.

Daala merely nodded grimly and said, “This is what had to be.”

Right on time, the cyberlock clicked, and the heavy door swung open, setting Daala and Pellaeon free.