CHAPTER 32

Standing on the auxiliary command deck of the Galactic Voyager, General Crix Madine, Supreme Allied Commander for Special Forces, studied the screen that showed the bright green tracer he had planted on Durga’s private ship. He scratched his brown beard and watched his best female commando, Trandia, double-check the readings.

“Still hasn’t moved, sir,” Trandia said. She had long strawberry blond hair knitted into a complex braid that hung neatly at her back, pretty but serviceable—Madine suspected she let it hang loose while she was off duty. Her face was scrubbed clean and flushed with concentration as her blue eyes stayed riveted on the computer.

“He departed from Nal Hutta several hours ago, sir, and landed on the Smugglers’ Moon. No word since. We could contact the Yavaris,” Trandia suggested. “General Antilles has taken some time off to visit the moon. Perhaps he could keep an eye out.”

Madine shook his head. “Too dangerous. We have the tracer planted, and Durga suspects nothing. Let’s just see where he goes. The Chief of State says he ended their meeting rather abruptly, so he must be on his way back to his hiding place. We’ll find it. Be patient.”

Madine wandered across the auxiliary command chamber. There were no windows to stare through, only status screens. The secondary bridge was designed to function as an alternate bridge if the Star Cruiser’s main forward compartments were somehow put out of commission.

Madine paced restlessly, anxious to do something. A driven man, he had given his utmost strength and imagination to the New Republic for the past nine years, ever since he had defected from the Imperial military. He felt good to be working with the Rebel Alliance, a cause he could believe in—and the more he devoted himself to serving the New Republic, the more Madine could distract himself from the lingering guilt that still had not gone away.

Long ago he had given an oath to uphold Palpatine’s New Order and to serve the Emperor, and he had meant it. Crix Madine did not give oaths lightly, nor had he ever broken one before his defection. He hoped he never had to make such a conscience-rending decision again.

At one time his future had seemed golden with the Empire. His rank increased on a fast track, indicating important things to come. Madine had been given heavy responsibilities, remarkable accolades, medals, and citations. The Emperor himself had commented upon his brilliance and impeccable service.

He had been deeply in love with the daughter of an important ambassador; they were going to be married. His fiancée, Karreio, was devoted to the New Order, spouting propaganda about the frailties of the Old Republic, but blind to the excesses of the Empire. In his military service Madine had seen and done much that would have revolted her—such as using his elite storm commandos to plant the seeds of Candorian Plague on the uncooperative world of Dentaal.

That last horrendous mission had nearly twisted and pulled free the underpinnings of Madine’s moral character, and he had chosen to sacrifice everything rather than give up his own beliefs. Such vicious retaliation was wrong. He had discarded his bright, guaranteed future. He had tossed aside his own rank, telling Karreio nothing of his plans, because that would have made her an accomplice to his treachery, and she would have been forced either to report him or to suffer a traitor’s fate.

During wilderness exercises on Dentaal, leading his team of storm commandos, Madine had just … vanished into a series of caves. Later, after a week of hard survival in the jungle, he had made it back to the temporary Imperial base and commandeered a shuttle, stealing archives filled with Imperial encryption schemes, classified data, secret plans.

He had fled into the starry sky of the Mid-Rim without the least idea of where he was going. He simply hoped that he could track down a representative of the Rebel Alliance before the Imperial headhunters found him.

In all the time since, he had never dared to send a message back to Karreio, never attempted to see her again. He hoped that she had survived without him … hoped that she believed the stories branding him a betrayer of the Empire—and that she had found someone else to love.

When the Rebels did indeed recapture Coruscant after a long and bloody battle, Madine had haunted the personnel archives, searching the records to find Karreio, to make certain that she was safe. Instead, he learned that she had died in the attack, an unnoticed name on a long list paired with ID numbers and casualty descriptions. So many civilians had been killed in the battle that only the letter D for “deceased” burned beside Karreio’s name.

Crix Madine had much to feel guilty for. One of his first missions after defecting to the Rebel Alliance had been to plan the successful commando raid on Endor that took out the shield generator and allowed the Rebel fleet to destroy the second Death Star. Thus Madine’s own actions had resulted in the death of Emperor Palpatine, the man who had once issued him a citation for his exemplary service and commendable loyalty.

For Madine the time for second thoughts was long past. The decision had been made. He had not had any doubts, regardless of the consequences. Threats continued to harry the New Republic, and Madine could not rest until his chosen government was safe.

He feared that meant he would never rest.

The motion of the green blip on the diagram of Nar Shaddaa startled him out of his reverie. Trandia sat up straighter. “Sir, the target ship is departing. Tracking now.”

“So, he’s on his way,” Madine said, and laced his fingers together in anticipation. He took a deep breath before snapping into motion. “All right, we’re ready to pursue. Trandia, I’d like you on my team—and Korenn,” Madine said, thinking of the enthusiasm and unquestionable talent of the sandy-haired boy who looked far younger than his experience and skill suggested. “Let’s get prepped. Ackbar has given us three scout A-wings. We’ll streak in and see what Durga is up to.

“But,” Madine said, extending a finger, “we’ll also implant emergency transmitters, because we may be pressed for time. Wherever this hidden weapon is, if we see a chance to sabotage it, we must take it. We can’t afford to let the Hutts complete their own Death Star.”

Madine stood in the launching bay, admiring the three trim A-wing fighters. Trandia came up to him, moving with the lithe grace that had convinced him she would be good in covert operations. She wore a flightsuit now, her braid tucked beneath the collar. She carried a helmet in the crook of her arm. “Ready to depart, sir,” she said, “as soon as you give the order.”

A moment later Korenn. the other young member of the team stepped up. His eyes sparkled with excitement, and his sandy hair was spiky and unruly. Korenn popped a helmet on his head.

“Do we have our destination yet?” Madine said.

Trandia flashed a faint smile. “The Hoth Asteroid Belt, sir. That’s where Durga’s gone to hide.”

Madine raised his eyebrows. “Interesting. Asteroids will call for some tricky flying.” He fixed his gaze on Korenn and Trandia. “How’s your piloting?”

“Excellent, sir,” they responded in unison.

“Good,” Madine said. “Let’s go then.”