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  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.�
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  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.

  Interlude II: Ambush

  “Captain! The intruder’s soliton wave has vanished!”

  Captain Voba Dokrett struck Gorath’s navigator a mighty blow across the back. “Emergency stop! Take us back to realspace! Smartly now—it’s your first daughter’s life if the enemy isn’t under our guns when we exit.”

  Dokrett spun away from the navigator’s station and hunted down the gunnery master with his eyes. “Instruct the blaster batteries to target the intruder fore and aft for weapons, then hole her amidships.”

  “Sir, shouldn’t we disable the intruder first?”

  “Bloodprice’s ion batteries were ineffective. Dogot went by the book and died. Give the order.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the gunnery master. “All fire stations, attend. Numbers one and three forward, acquire tracking and target bow section. Number
s four and six forward, target aft section. Numbers two and five, rig for hull cutting and stand by.”

  The gunnery master was barely finished barking the orders when the crossover alarm began to sound and Gorath began to shudder and hum.

  “A prize share to every officer if we take the intruder intact!” Dokrett cried. “For the glory of Prakith and in service to our beloved governor, Foga Brill, I commit this vessel to the fight before us!”

  All around Gorath’s bridge, display screens came alive as the cruiser plunged back into the sea of electromagnetic energies that was the sublight universe.

  “Captain, there is no sign of Tobay,” called the sensor master. “If they did not observe the target’s soliton change, they will have jumped on ours and overshot the entry.”

  “How sad for her crew, to lose their prize shares at the ninth hour,” Dokrett said. “Range to target!”

  “Eight thousand meters.”

  Grinning broadly, Dokrett clapped his hands on the navigator’s shoulders. “Ha! It seems you are a good father after all,” he exclaimed.

  “Should we wait for Tobay, Captain?”

  “No!” he barked. “Fire!”

  The gunnery master leaned toward his station. “Numbers one and three forward, fire! Numbers four and six forward, fire!”

  Almost at once and nearly as one, four of the cruiser’s eight primary batteries sent fierce pulses of energy lancing toward the great vessel ahead.

  There was no fire, nor any explosions, but Dokrett’s telescopic scanner showed plumes of debris scattering from black-edged slashes across both ends of the intruder’s hull. “Enough!” Dokrett cried. “To the heart of her, now!”

  Moments after the gunnery master relayed the orders, the four active batteries fell silent, and the two batteries standing by opened fire. The ferocious hail of blaster bolts from their muzzles battered a single spot amidships on the giant vessel until another black-edged hole opened there. Then the focus of the blaster bolts spread into a circle, chewing at the edges of the opening until it was twenty meters across.