Chapter Text
When Fortunate Child fell out of hyperspace the whole ship trembled and Chance Calrissian’s heart throbbed violently in his chest. The trembling stopped as quickly as it began, and his heart went back to normal after three powerful beats. The view through the cockpit was exactly as it should have been: the blue-green sphere of Esseles turning peacefully.
Nonetheless he was short of breath. His hand grasped the arms of his chair. He closed his eyes and wished his damned old body would calm down.
Every jump through lightspeed was like this nowadays. One of them was probably going to kill him, which was why he rarely left his estate on Denon nowadays.
Well, one of the reasons.
“You okay, Dad?”
Chance swallowed and looked sideways. His daughter sat beside him as Fortunate Son’s two pilots—a pair of young Osarians—steered the yacht toward Esseles.
“Just fine, sweetheart,” he said. “Teel, sent Wal-ek a hail. Tell him we’re on our way.”
“Yes, sir,” the copilot replied.
Chance saw Chereth look at his hands and released the armrests. That only showed how his hands were shaking, and she reached across the cockpit’s narrow aisle to take one.
“We’ll be planetside in ten minutes,” she said. “Then you can relax.”
“As soon as I get adjusted to local grav,” he said. Variations in different planets’ gravity was something he’d never thought about when he was younger. Even a few decades ago it hadn’t bothered him. Now it seemed like everything conspired to wear down his body.
They were on their way to see Wal-ek Muro, one of Chance’s friends and business partners from the old days. Wal-ek was even older than Chance and technically retired but still had a lot of pull with Praxalis Mining Corporation. He’d suggested the Calrissians stop by his private island on Esseles to discuss business opportunities, and to catch up.
Chance had been hesitant (only partially because of the strain of travel) but he’d agreed in the end. In this uncertain new galaxy, business partnerships were more important than ever. So were old friends (both with and without private islands). He and Wal-ek were at age when you had to assume every meeting with someone would be your last.
As Esseles loomed large ahead of them, Teel reported, “We have a response from the Muro estate. They’ve lit a locator beacon and are inviting us in.”
“Go ahead,” Chereth answered.
She ran most of the family business nowadays, which was probably responsible for a lot of the steel-gray that had consumed most of her curly black hair. His little girl was deep into middle age; Chance himself was very old. Often, he thought, too old. He could still walk if he really had to but he spent most of his time in his movable hover-chair, which at the moment was sealed to the deck of Fortunate Child’s cockpit. The days of running off on adventures with Arlen Fel were decades gone.
So was Arlen, probably. Chance couldn’t be sure, which made the ache all the worse, but they said the Jedi had been exterminated and he saw little reason to doubt. The Alliance was shattered, Roan Fel on the run. The Sith reigned supreme on Coruscant for the first time in over a century.
These were dark, dark times. The Calrissians had done their part, however small, to preserve a little light. When things looked like they could go bad, they’d taken a large portion of the Jedi Order’s financial assets and preserved them in secret accounts. Thanks to clever investments, those accounts had increased significantly over the past few years; unfortunately, there seemed no Jedi left to make use of them. The Calrissians were sitting on a lot of money that could get them in a lot of trouble with the new regime, but he couldn’t bring himself to liquidate them. It would be a betrayal of Arlen and all the other Jedi he’d known.
His heart started pounding against as Fortunate Child rattled into the atmosphere. Chereth still held onto his hand and squeezed it tight. They peeled through high white cloud drifts until the sun-dazzled sprawl of Esseles’ salty oceans spread before them. The light was smooth now. Chance squeezed his daughter’s hand, a signal for her to let go, and she did.
They seen found their destination: a chain of several dozen small islands rising from the depths. Each one hosted a cluster of tropical forests ringed by rocks or sandy beaches. One island was far larger than the others and hosted a palatial domed estate. Chance wondered whether Wal-ek owned just this rock or the entire set.
Fortunate Child set down on the landing pad without a problem. Aside from the Calrissians’ yacht two other, smaller vehicles were parked here, a smooth-hulled SoroSuub and a gleaming Nubian. Both looked like the type of pleasure vehicles Wal-ek would enjoy.
Chance disengaged his chair from the deck, energized its small repulsor coils, and floated out of the widened cockpit portal first. Chereth followed, while the two Osarians stayed behind to run shut-down procedures. As soon as the ramp in the yacht’s belly lowered, a warm salty wind rushed into the ship, dispelling the metallic cool of recycled air.
The gravity here was a little strong; Chance could feel the extra pressure on his chest. Still, you didn’t get breeze like that back home on Denon. He and Chereth went down the wide ramp together, onto the landing pad. He couldn’t help but grin to see Wal-ek waiting on his own repulsor-chair.
“Look at us, Chance, we’re pathetic,” Wal-ek said, smiling. The two old men had to maneuver their chairs carefully alongside each other in order to shake hands.
“Okay, I admit it,” Chance replied. “You’ve got a nicer house. But I’ve got a better ride.”
“What is that, a Mobile Scout Five-fifty?”
“Five hundred,” Chance corrected. “Last years’ model.”
“My lovely chariot’s five years old now.” Wal-ek rapped the side of his chair with a knuckle. “It suits me fine. But enough about pathetic old cripples.” He turned his smile on Chereth. “You still look young and lovely.”
“I wish that were true.” She shook his hand also. “Thanks for hosting us.”
“He obviously wants to show off his personal island,” Chance said.
“So what if I did? Can you blame a man for enjoying the fruits of his labors? Come on, let’s go inside.”
The hallways of the estate were wide enough for two hover-chairs to ride side-by-side. Chereth walked right behind them, as did the two young male servants Wal-ek hadn’t borrowed to introduce.
“So, how’s the business hanging in?” Wal-ek asked. “Be honest with me.”
“Lots of uncertainty,” he admitted. “Tendrandro started out with arms manufacturing. We moved away from that, then tried to get back in during the war. Now that the war’s over… I’m not sure if we should stay in or get out.”
“I’d stay in,” Wal-ek said in a low voice. “This new emperor likes to keep things on war footing.”
That sounded right. Despite declaring victory, Darth Krayt’s empire was still fighting hold-outs on places like Kashyyyk, and there were always rumors of Roan Fel or the Alliance renegades reappearing to start trouble. Chance suspected the emperor encouraged those rumors, because they gave him pretext to move against any opposition.
“How’s your wife?” Wal-ek asked when the pause grew tense.
“Brenna’s all right. She’s had some health problems. The doctors want her to stay on Denon, so that’s why she couldn't come.” That, and she’d never liked most of Chance’s business friends.
“And your partner?”
“Volgma is Volgma,” Chance said with a little sigh. He’d partnered with that Hutt almost fifty years ago, and while Volgma could be exasperating he rarely regretted it. “He’s actually been pretty helpful dealing with, well, everything that’s happened. He was around the last time the Empire took over Coruscant so he’s got some tricks to weather the storm. It’s not as stressful for him, since he’s done it before.”
“Hutts do take the long view,” Wal-ek agreed.
Sometimes too long Chance thought. When news of Darth Krayt’s takeover rocked the galactic business community, Volgma had seemed almost nonchalant. ‘Turnover,’ the Hutt had called it: a periodic change in management. In a decade or two there’d be another turnover and they’d adapt again.
A reasonable position for a Hutt with five hundred years left, but Chance wouldn’t be around for the next regime change. His concern now was making sure his daughter would.
“You know,” Wal-ek said after another awkward pause, “I’ve always sort of admired the Hutts. Oh, they’re nasty pieces of work most of the time, but in their own way they’re honest. They’re patient. They don’t panic, they don’t let their emotions get the best of them, and they know when to make a deal. Good businessmen, in their way. It’s why they’ve been around for so long.”
“Maybe,” Chance muttered. He was getting sick of this line of talk. “Where are you taking us, anyway?”
“I’ve got a meal prepared,” Wal-ek replied. “I figured you’d be tired after your trip and hungry for a well-cooked lunch. I hope you like seafood.”
Chance had expected that from this watery world. “It’s not my favorite, but I’ll give it a try.”
Wal-ek smiled. “If you can stomach Volgma’s banquets, I’m sure you can handle mine.”
He led the Calrissians around one corner, then gestured to a waiting door. Chance pushed through first, followed by Chereth. The dining room contained a long table with empty chairs for a half-dozen people. A few warm plates of artfully-arranged food steamed atop it.
“Expecting more guests?” Chance asked as he nudged his chair further inside.
“You could say that,” Wal-ek replied from the doorway.
Then a second portal on the far side of the room opened. Four Imperial stormtroopers in polished white armor rushed into view and raised their rifles. Chance’s heart pounded; he twisted in his chair best he could to see Wal-ek in the doorway. His two servants had drawn blaster pistols as well. Chereth was frozen in shock, hands at her side.
“I’m sorry,” Wal-ek said. “They arrived just before you did.”
A fifth figure appeared from the rear door. This Imperial wore a white uniform with captain’s bars. He was humanoid but not human, with pointed ears and a faintly bronze sheen to his hairless head.
Despite the painful tightness in his chest, Chance asked, “What is this? What’s going on?”
“Citizen Muro is assisting in the lawful arrest of a suspected criminal,” the captain said.
They must have known about the accounts. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe Chance’s well-known friendship with a single Jedi was enough to condemn him under the new regime. He’d been afraid of this ever since Krayt’s ascension, but when it hadn’t happened in the opening months, he’d let his guard slip.
He swallowed hard. He’d known something like this might happen and was prepared to accept the consequences. He was an old man and he’d had a good life, by and large. If it ended badly… well, at least he’d mostly lived well.
“All right,” Chance croaked. “Arrest me. You can see I can’t put up a fight.”
The captain took out a small datapad and glanced at its screen. “That’s a generous offer, but I’m afraid the warrant does not mention you. The charges only concern your daughter.”
Chance’s heart almost stopped right there. Chereth squeezed his shoulder and asked the captain, “What charges?”
“You’re to be held and tried for your suspected aid to the Jedi Order, which as I’m sure you know has been outlawed. The penalty for collusion with such enemies of the state is death.”
“No,” Chance gasped. “Don’t. I—”
“Again, you are not included into my orders. Perhaps consideration was given to your age and, ah, infirm condition.” The captain looked up from his datapad. “We’re an empire of law and order, Mister Calrissian, not monsters. You’ll find we can even be merciful.”
That was when Chance understood. His daughter was their hostage. Their pawn. He wanted to confess the aid he’d given to the Jedi there, but Chereth squeezed his shoulder even harder. When he looked at her, she shook her head.
He croaked, “Chereth… No...”
She couldn’t speak what she wanted to tell him, but he understood her message even as it broke his heart. If he confessed their lives would probably still be forfeit. After all, Chereth had done even more to help the Jedi during the war than Chance himself.
And, he realized, the Empire wanted more than secret Calrissian bank accounts. They wanted whatever left-over Jedi they could find.
He pleaded with the captain, “I haven’t seen any Jedi in years, not since before the war. I don’t know anything about them.” It was technically true; he’d only liaised with Arlen’s daughter, who’d quit the Jedi business decades ago.
“For the last time, I’m here to execute orders,” said the captain. “Formal complaints can be entered through the Ministry of Justice.” He gestured to his troopers. A pair came forward and pulled Chereth away from Chance. They wrestled her arms behind her back and cuffed them. Father and daughter locked eyes; without words she urged him to be strong, to be brave to hold on. All the things he should have been able to tell his child, but instead Chance’s heart was breaking. His life and everything he’d made of it were collapsing before his eyes.
Then the stormtroopers pushed Chereth through the back door. She didn’t even get a chance to look at her father before they’d shoved her out of view.
The other two troopers remained, rifles lowered to their sides. Not even they treated Chance as a threat. The captain put away his datapad and said, very formally, “I apologize for causing a disturbance. You’re free to enjoy your meal.”
Then he and his soldiers left. Chance knew Wal-ek and his servants were still behind him, watching his back, but he didn’t dare look at them. All he could do was hunch in his chair and tremble with the impotent grief and rage of a man who’d grown too old.
--{}--
Marin was slowly getting used to the Force again. She’d adamantly pushed it away for decades but now she spent many hours in isolated mediation. She moved small objects at first, then larger ones. She felt the pulse of individual lives and did her best to recognize each one. Sometimes she picked up a beskad sword and practiced with it, putting her old muscles through routines she’d thought forgotten.
She’d spend hours like that every day. It wasn’t like she had anything better to do.
Because she’d grown attuned to the people around her, she knew when the Bottom Line returned, even though she was sealed in her dark, narrow cabin aboard Starlight Champion. Her uncle Mekr and cousin Jind were unmistakable. So, slowly, she got off the floor where she’d been meditating, stretched, threw on a jacket, and left her ship.
Champion was hers now, and she was still getting used to that. For her entire life this strange Koensayr scout, with its five powerful engines and single slanting wing, had been her father’s. Now her father was gone. So was her own ship, and the husband and daughter she’d shared it with. Sometimes, when she grappled with the Force, she would see the hideous death of Fast Start outside Torn Station. The darting Sith starfighters, the rendered hull, the fireball of combusted atmosphere and the tumble of twisted debris.
That had been over six months ago, but she had a feeling she’d remember it, eternally vivid, for the rest of her life.
Since the disaster at Torn Station and the rise of a new Sith Empire, Starlight Champion had mostly stuck with the Bottom Line as they’d drifted from system to system. Just as Marin Solo had no place to call home, neither did Clan Skirata, which had no place on Yaga Auchs’ Mandalore. Today they were camped at Krizlar Station, a piecemeal assemblage of cargo holds, hangars, and habitat zones that barely managed to be a functioning spaceport.
Before leaving Champion Marin went to unlock the landing ramp from cockpit. As she did so, she noticed a winking button on the communications console. Someone had left her a message.
The simple light made her head spin and heart pound. With the Bottom Line home safe, she couldn’t think of many others who’d try to contact her. Nat Skywalker, perhaps, though he’d hung up his lightsaber and was pretending to be Bantha Rawk while running a junk shop on Kiffex.
No, she corrected herself. He was Bantha Rawk now, as much as she was Marin Solo. She often felt truly solo now, certainly not a Fel, not a Jedi, not a Mandalorian, not a Skirata either, though her mother and the rest acted like she was. Her families—both of them—always treated her more generously than she deserved.
She sat down, tapped the comm console, and played the message.
The holo that appeared certainly wasn’t Bantha’s. It wasn’t even human. It was the head and shoulders (such as they were) of a Hutt whose skull was topped by a round metal cap. The creature was talking in its native tongue, but a text translation ran at the bottom of the holo.
“I hope this message finds you. Sending it was a great inconvenience. If you do not remember me, I am Azzim of the Anjiliac. We met once, some thirty standard years ago, on the moon Napdu in the Da Soocha system. Your presence is requested there again by my cousin Volgma.”
Marin almost asked aloud what Volgma could want with her. She hadn’t seen that Hutt—or any Hutt—since the start of the war between the Alliance and the Empire.
“He says it is most urgent and concerns the fate of mutual friends.” Azzim made a huffing noise. “Volgma will be on Napdu in three standard days and remain for three more. He cannot wait for you any longer. Be swift.”
The holo shut off. The words mutual friends had answered Marin’s question, and she fired up Champion’s HoloNet receiver to download the latest news reports. It took five minutes of searching, her dread mounting all the while, before she saw the notice: Chereth Calrissian, co-chair of Volgma-Tendrando Limited, had been arrested on Esseles on suspicion of abetting the enemy.
Marin cursed in the silent cockpit. Chereth had helped secure the Jedi’s finances and later helped the Order hire Chernan Ordo’s Mandalorians to protect Ossus. Marin had never gotten to know the woman well, but she’d liked and respected her. She and all the Jedi owed Chereth a debt.
They owed it to Chance too. Marin checked the news reports for another ten minutes but couldn’t find mention of Chereth’s father, not even as an obituary. As old as he was, he wouldn’t last long in an Imperial prison. The only conclusion she could draw was that they’d arrested Chereth alone in order to coerce Chance and draw out the Calrissians’ Jedi allies.
Maybe Volgma was calling her to circumvent that. Maybe this as part of a trap. Even with the Force coming back to her, she simply didn’t know.
She cursed again, then got up and left the ship.
Champion was parked one hangar over from the Bottom Line, and when Marin got there the ship was being unloaded. Jind and two of his children were directing the station’s rusted cargo droids as they moved crates from the belly hold. None of them were wearing beskar and neither was Marin’s mother, who stood beneath the freighter’s nose, one hand on a landing strut. Tamar usually stayed with her aboard Champion but she’d joined Jind and Mekr on their latest job, insisting it was just a simple cargo run.
“I guess things went well,” Marin said as she approached.
“It was easy,” Tamar told her. “We didn’t even have to shoot anyone.”
“I thought Mekr would have done it anyway. On principle.”
“He wanted to, but I talked him out of it. We have to keep a low profile nowadays.”
Tamar smirked to show she was—mostly, probably—joking. The truth was that the Skiratas here and elsewhere largely kept away from mercenary work and stuck to boring cargo runs like this. It wasn’t honorable or glorious or Mando, but it kept them alive and solvent.
Marin stood beside her mother, watched Jind and his kids, and hugged herself tight. Jind was older than her, with children nearing the end of their teenage years, but the sight of them still hurt. Ania would never grow that old.
“What’s wrong?” asked Tamar.
Too many things, but her mother wouldn’t have asked unless she sensed something specific and new. Marin told her, “I just got a call from Napdu, in the Da Soocha system.”
Tamar frowned. “That’s Hutt space, isn’t it?”
Marin kicked herself. Her father had accompanied her to that moon thirty years ago; her mother had been far away. “It is,” she said. “Volgma wants to meet. Chereth Calrissian has been arrested by the Empire.”
Tamar didn’t show a flicker of surprise. “What charges?”
“From what I could find on the HoloNet, ‘collusion with the enemy.’”
“And Chance?”
“I don’t think he’s been arrested. Mom, this seems like a trap to draw out Jedi.”
“Of course it is,” she replied. “Good thing you’re not a Jedi, then.”
Their relationship had had ups and down over the years, but Tamar could still be painfully blunt. Marin said, “I can’t imagine what they’ll put Chereth through. And Chance… if we don’t get her out, it’s going to kill him.”
Tamar’s expression softened as she looked at her daughter. “If you do this, you could lose everything. You’re just re-learning how to use the Force. You’re not ready to take on the Empire.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t at least go and hear Volgma out.” She bit her lip. “Unless you think there’s a trap already set up on Napdu.”
Tamar considered. “The Hutts are territorial and proud. They might collaborate with the Empire but letting them arrest somebody on one of their own moons is a stretch.”
“It’s not necessarily a contingent of stormtroopers. It could be Sith.”
Which was far worse, and they both knew it. Marin had surrendered her gold-bladed lightsaber to Nat Skywalker when she’d left the Jedi. Tamar had once wielded her great-grandmother’s weapon but that had been destroyed decades ago and she’d never replaced it.
Neither of them were Jedi, though they’d each been associated with the Order long ago. That didn’t effect Marin’s debt to the Calrissians. She’d come to them, asking helping in securing Jedi accounts. She’d flown Chereth all the way to Mandalore to buy protection for the Order.
And there was a reason, even beyond that.
“If Dad were still alive,” she said, “he’d do anything to help Chance. Anything.”
“Arlen couldn’t keep away from crazy stunts. He was pulling them right until the end, when he should have known better.”
Marin didn’t mention that he’d survived them all. She didn’t say that he’d died aboard Fast Start because he’d simply wanted to meet his own granddaughter.
“You’re going there, aren’t you?” Tamar said.
Marin hadn’t been certain until that moment, but when she thought on her father, it became impossible to refuse. “At least to Napdu.”
Tamar exhaled. “All right. But take us with you.” She gestured to Jind and his children. “We’ve got a ship full of battle-ready Mandos who are itching for real action. They’d be happy to help you.”
“And what about you? Are you going to pull a crazy stunt when you should know better?”
Tamar shifted her shoulders. “If it bothers you that much, I’ll stay on Krizlar Station.”
Marin didn’t want that. She didn’t want her family involved in this at all. The worst part about the disaster at Torn Station was how unnecessary it had been. They’d been trying to ship die-hard Alliance soldiers out of Wookiee space after the official surrender. Marin had volunteered her family’s big cargo hauler. When the Sith attacked the station they’d been totally unprepared and overwhelmed. If she’d not stupidly brought her husband and child into a battle zone—after years keeping them out—everyone would still be alive.
And there was even more. The feud between the Auchs and Skirata clans went deep, but Marin was at the heart of it in ways only she and her mother understood. If not for the lives Marin had taken—and spared—the recent history of the Mandalorians and maybe the whole galaxy would look different. Certainly, more Skiratas would be alive.
Her actions harmed the people who loved her, again and again and again.
No more. She had do to this by herself.
But because she knew Tamar would protest, she lied. “I’ll go to Napdu alone and hear what Volgma has to say. Once I find out, I’ll call here and we’ll figure out a battle plan together. If there’s a battle at all. I promise.”
Tamar’s Force-senses were rusty too, but she might still see through it. She watched her daughter’s face, and just when Marin thought she’d be called out, her mother put hands on her shoulders and drew her into a hug.
“Be very careful,” she told Marin. “And remember, you don’t can’t take on all the Empire and all the Sith by yourself.”
Marin nuzzled her face in the woman’s white hair and lied again. “I know, Mom. I know.”
--{}--
Sometimes—most of the time, even—this new Empire felt like the old one. Soldiers still soldiered, commanders still commanded. Stormtroopers marched, TIE fighters howled, and star destroyers sailed from system to system, imposing Imperial will through sheer intimidation. The only difference from Roan’s Fel day, it seemed, was that the Empire was bigger and better than ever.
The illusion of continuity vanished in the presence of a Sith.
Especially this one.
“Esseles flight control tracked Calrissian’s ship leaving the system less than one hour after ours did,” Captain Jadon Carrus explained, standing ramrod-straight with hands behind his back. “His destination is uncertain, but if he’s returning to Denon he should be back within ten standard hours.”
“And his wife is still there?”
“Our watchers outside their estate confirm it, Madam.”
Darth Maladi seemed satisfied being addressed that way. He didn’t know what else to call her and they’d received no official instruction. ‘Darth’ was apparently a title but that sounded strange on his lips. Calling her ‘my Lady’ felt slightly precious, and ‘sir’ too vague.
“What about his business partner?” Maladi asked. She was walking a slow circle around the room and Carrus had to shuffle his feet in tiny increments to keep facing her. The hem of her long dress trailed across the polished floor like a black liquid pool.
“The Hutt has recently left Denon. His current whereabouts are unknown. We’ve been tapping the communications array in his office. He’s sent and received a number of signals, but the system is encrypted and we’ve having a difficult time breaking his messages. That may be indication of criminal activity.”
“Or it may be a corporation protecting its interests against espionage.” Maladi shrugged her bare, scarlet shoulders. “What Volgma says interests me far less than what he does.”
“We haven’t acquired an operative inside Volgma-Tendrando Limited, though I’ve reviewed their personnel files and several employees have minor criminal records that may be used for coercion.”
Maladi’s sigh was like the hiss of a snake. “Calrissian has been a known ally of the Jedi for decades. You should have turned a member of his organization years ago.”
Carrus chose his next words carefully. “I don’t believe the previous emperor considered that a priority, Madam.”
Maladi looked at him with narrowed, molten eyes. “I’m not blaming you, Captain. Merely expressing frustration. The fact remains that we have to work extra-hard to make up for Roan Fel’s many failures.”
Carrus took silent note of the we. For years that word had meant—for him at least—his colleagues in the Imperial Security Bureau. Since the change in emperors the ISB had undergone numerous personnel shifts, especially in senior leadership, but Maladi was not part of the ISB. This silky-voiced, red-and-black Devaronian woman was not part of the Imperial administration at all, but she was widely known as Darth Krayt’s sinister left hand. Her authority was second only to the Emperor’s, chain of command be damned.
Which was why Jadon Carrus stood as straight as a protocol droid and was sweating into the collar of his white uniform. In this new Empire, pleasing a Sith was your best chance of promotion. Failing one got you demoted or dead.
“Madam,” he said, “whether Calrissian or Volgma are in contact with the Jedi is secondary to acquiring said Jedi. As you told me before, Chereth Calrissian is bait for a trap. I feel that our priority should be setting said trap and preparing for the Jedi to step into it.”
“Jedi aren’t fools, Captain. They’ll know a trap when they see it and try to avoid it.”
“They also won’t stand to let one of their allies die for them. At least, that was your argument when you gave me this assignment.” When Maladi didn’t snap at him he continued, “Clearly, we’ll have to anticipate being anticipated and arrange for several layers of support.”
Maladi stepped toward him. “Consider who might ask the Jedi for help. Who among them is the weakest link?”
Carrus had read their personal profiles and he couldn’t imagine Brenna Trae-Sor or Lando Calrissian Junior ever aiding the Empire except under the most extreme coercion. They both seemed to have strong independent streaks. “I suppose,” he said, “we could try and twist Trae-Sor into feeding us information. If we promise her daughter’s release she may give in.”
“A mother’s desperation can be powerful,” Maladi said, “but there’s no reason to believe either Calrissian would put stock in Imperial promises. I suggest a different approach.”
She was clearly leading him on, but Carrus couldn’t see to where. As Maladi’s molten eyes bored into him and sweat began to darken his collar, only one idea occurred.
“You want to turn Volgma?” he said. “He’s a business associate, not a part of the family.”
“Exactly. He’s a pragmatic businessbeing who’d never let sentiment ruin his livelihood. Nonetheless, he’s been Calrissian’s closest ally for decades. He’s the weak point. Adjust your strategy to suit the target.”
“I know. Of course I will, Madam.” Damn it, he should have known from the first. Carrus was usually a clear thinker but being the room with this slinking scarlet-and-black creature left his anxious and jarred.
They said Darth Krayt was human, though you couldn't tell for all the strange Vong armor he wore (and there were plenty of rumors about that). Maladi was not, nor was Carrus. His gleaming bronze skin and pointed ears set him apart from most ISB officers and while they said the human chauvinist Empire wasn’t coming back, he didn’t want to give any old-school supremacists an excuse to take him down.
Though if he failed Maladi, his human rivals in the ISB would be the lesser concern.
“Volgma’s current whereabouts are unknown,” he said. “It will take time to meet with him, then turn him.”
“Time matters less than success,” Maladi told him. “Be patient. Chereth Calrissian will stay in my dungeon until we’re ready to bait the trap. Work with Volgma as much as necessary to set that trap.”
“I will. But Madam, there’s always the chance he’ll work with the Jedi against us. His race has a reputation for, ah, harsh pragmatism, but he and Calrissian have been partners for almost forty years. There may be a genuine sentimental connection between them.”
“Then you’ll have to break it. Volgma has been around a very long time. Remind him that to survive in an ever-changing galaxy he must always align himself with the powers that be. We are that power.”
Once again Carrus wondered to whom her we referred. He doubted it included him.
“I’ll speak with Volgma personally as soon as he can be tracked down,” he told Maladi. “Until then, I’ll work on turning several of his employees.”
“Please do. And keep me updated every step of the way.” She stepped close enough to press the underside of his chin with a black-nailed finger. “The Emperor craves Jedi. Give him some and you’ll be greatly rewarded. Fail him, and a speck of the wrath he had planned for those Jedi will fall on you instead.”
As if Carrus hadn’t know that already. Frankly he preferred the Empire’s old management, but if he was going to survive and flourish he’d have to work with the new one. He was, like a Hutt, a pragmatist at heart.