Tales from the New Republic (8 page)

They’d been sitting at the back of the crowded open-air tapcafe next to the ClearSkyes Boutique for nearly half an hour when Moranda suddenly straightened up and nodded. “There she is,” she said, nodding over the lip of her mug toward Bel Iblis’s right.

Casually, taking a sip from his own drink as he did so, Bel Iblis looked in that direction. Barely twenty meters away a familiar landspeeder was pulling into a parking zone. And out of it stepped—

“Well, well, well,” Moranda murmured. “Horn’s still with her.”

“I told you Isard spun him a story back at Arkos’s place,” Bel Iblis reminded her.

“Sure, but I wouldn’t have expected him to still be tagging along,” Moranda said. “He should have sliced through her story long ago.”

“Or else she should have gotten whatever she wanted from him and tossed him away,” Bel Iblis agreed, frowning as Horn turned slowly around beside the landspeeder, automatically checking out the area. His eyes passed over them without a flicker of recognition, the breeze pulling his collar open as he continued his turn—“Give me your macrobinoculars. Quickly.”

“What’s up?” Moranda asked, passing the tiny set to him beneath the table.

“Possible trouble,” Bel Iblis told her. Concealing the macrobinoculars with hands and mug, he lifted them to his eyes and focused in on Horn’s neck as they crossed the street toward the boutique.

One clear look was all it took. “Make that definite trouble,” he said grimly, lowering the macrobinoculars. “Horn’s wearing a choke-collar.”

“Oh, lovely,” Moranda said. “What a pleasant woman your Ysanne Isard is.”

Isard keyed the door lock, and she and Horn disappeared into the ClearSkyes.

“This changes things, Moranda,” Bel Iblis said quietly, bracing himself for the inevitable argument. “That choke-collar’s going to have a dead-man switch attached. I’m not going to risk Horn’s death if Isard drops the thing or is injured or killed.”

“I agree,” she said. “On the other hand, there’s no way I’m going to try to sneak those datacards out of the car if you aren’t pinning them down with blaster fire—”

“Wait a second,” Bel Iblis cut her off, frowning. The inevitable had failed to happen. “Did you hear what I said? Horn’s a good and valuable man, and I’m not going to risk his life.”

“Yes, I heard you,” she said. “I said I agreed.”

“But—” He floundered.

She lifted her eyebrows. “What, just because Horn’s chased me halfway across the Empire you think I should be willing and eager to let him get vaped?”

“Something like that, yes.”

She shifted her gaze away from and back to the boutique. “Strange as it may seem, Garm, over the past few years I’ve gotten sort of used to having Horn on my tail. He’s a pretty good opponent, you know, well worth matching wits against. I rather enjoy that sort of challenge.”

She smiled wryly. “Besides, I know that if he’s the one who brings the hammer down on me, I’ll be treated fairly. In Palpatine’s grand new Empire there aren’t a lot of enforcement types I would trust that far.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same side on this,” Bel Iblis said, some of the tightness lifting from his chest. Arkos had known little about this woman except her name, but her airy confidence, deviousness, and pocket-picking talents had created in his mind the stereotypical fringe image, someone willing to do whatever it took to get what she wanted. The fact that casual murder, or even collateral murder, was apparently outside her ethical boundaries made working with her considerably more palatable to his own conscience.

In fact, it made her no worse than some of those he was already fighting alongside in the Rebellion. Maybe even no worse than the average. “So what now?” Moranda bit gently at her lip. “Were you able to get any details on the choke-collar?” she asked. “Design, manufacturer—anything?”

Bel Iblis searched his memory. “All I could see was that it was black,” he said. “Oh, and it had what looked like a small keylock to the left of his throat.”

“Interesting,” she said thoughtfully. “Probably a Jostrian design, then—they use straight mechanical keylocks to keep anyone from scanning along lock frequencies and unfastening it.”

“So we can’t do anything?”

“I didn’t say that,” she said, still thoughtful. “Keep watch here—I’m going to pop into that little electronics shop over there.”

“And then?”

She patted his hand. “Trust me.”

“I was right,” Isard said, tapping keys on the quiet-drop’s computer. “Those Defense airspeeders were indeed responding to your friend Savich.”

“Does it identify her by name?” Hal asked.

Isard threw him a contemptuous look. “Of course it does. And she included her ID listing and associates profile, too. If you’re going to ask stupid questions, Horn, keep your mouth shut.”

Hal clamped down firmly on his tongue as Isard turned back to the computer with a snort. She had been becoming progressively more ill-tempered as the day wore on, and finding that their last known link between Arkos and the Continuum Void manager had flown the nest had apparently been the last click. The anger and frustration and bloodlust were simmering barely beneath the surface, held in check by sheer force of will.

And if something didn’t break soon, Hal suspected, some of that bloodlust could very well expend itself on a convenient CorSec inspector whom she was clearly starting to consider less than useful to her.

He swallowed, the movement of his throat constricted noticeably by the unyielding noose around his neck. What in the name of Vader’s tailor was in that missing datapack, anyway?

And then, at his belt, his comlink beeped.

Isard spun around as if she’d been stung. “What’s that?” she demanded.

“My comlink,” Hal said.

“I know it’s your comlink,” she bit out icily, sliding out of her chair and stepping over to him. “Who knows you’re here?”

“Only Colonel Nyroska,” Hal said, pulling out the device. “Do you want me to answer it?”

“Of course,” she said, stepping close to him. “Maybe he’s got a line on Savich.”

Hal nodded and clicked it on. “Horn.”

“Hello, Inspector,” a cheerful female voice replied. “It’s Moranda Savich. How are you?”

Hal felt his breath catch in his throat. “How did you get this frequency?”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she chided. “You registered it when you arrived on Darkknell, remember? Unfortunately, your friend the Imp didn’t do that, at least not under a name I could find. Is she there with you, by any chance?”

“I’m here,” Isard spoke up, glacially calm. “You have my datapack?”

“Sure, if you have my money,” Moranda said. “The price is one million, in Imperial currency.”

Hal looked furtively at Isard’s face, wondering if she was approaching meltdown yet. But to his surprise, the eyes gazing back at him were as calm and cool as any he’d ever seen. With at least a potential handle on the situation now, her earlier frustration and irritation had evaporated into complete professionalism.

“You have a rather inflated opinion of what it’s worth,” Isard said. “I’ll pay you a hundred thousand.”

Moranda sniffed audibly. “That’s pretty chintzy, even for an Imperial. If you don’t want to play, I’m sure someone else will.”

“Like Colonel Nyroska, for instance?”

“Exactly like Colonel Nyroska,” Moranda said approvingly. “That’s right—I forget sometimes how adept you Imps are at slicing into official computer systems. You wouldn’t happen to have noticed if he’s pulled together his million yet, would you?”

“He’s started making inquiries,” Isard confirmed calmly. “I can assure you, though, that you’d rather deal with me.”

“My plan is to deal with the top bidder,” Moranda said pointedly. “Still, I’m sure Imperial Intelligence can bid higher than a backwater fuel stop like Darkknell.”

“Most certainly,” Isard said, her voice almost silky with implied menace. “Along with that hundred thousand I can also guarantee you the chance to leave here with your skin intact.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” Moranda sniffed. “I’ve eluded Inspector Horn for years—you think I can’t do the same with Imperial Intelligence?

“No,” Isard said flatly. “I don’t think you can.”

“Hear me shaking,” Moranda said. “Here’s the deal. I’ll give you and Nyroska an hour to put together your packages—cash only, of course. Then I’ll meet you both at the Number Fourteen warehouse in the Firtee Cluster north of town, and one of you will leave with the datapack. Clear?”

“Very,” Isard said softly.

“And don’t insult my intelligence by trying anything cute,” Moranda warned. “I’m quite good at this sort of game. One hour, and come alone.”

The comlink clicked off. “Certainly we’ll come alone,” Isard agreed, as if talking to herself as she sat back down at the computer. “We wouldn’t want the inconvenience of witnesses, would we?”

“What are we doing?” Hal asked as she began keying the terminal.

“
I
am clearing out the potential ground clutter,” she told him. “Specifically, I’m sending Colonel Nyroska’s entire contingent on a little impromptu training exercise.”

Hal felt his jaw drop. “You aren’t serious. There’s no way he won’t catch something that blatant.”

“Let him,” Isard retorted. “By the time his squawks get anyone’s attention the datapack and I will be long gone.”

Hal grimaced. “Leaving him with nothing to do but find someone to pin the blame on. Me, for instance?”

Isard favored him with a cool, dispassionate look, then turned back to the computer. “Think of it as your opportunity to provide a unique service to the Empire.”

“Yes,” Hal murmured. “Of course.”

“I can’t say the General’s exactly thrilled by the situation,” Barclo reported, clicking off his comlink. “But he
is
rather intrigued by it. He says that if you can prove this datapack is genuinely worth a million, he can have the money ready in two hours.”

“Good,” Nyroska said, clicking keys on his computer. “Well, well: the backtrack on our big blond cipher down in the morgue just came up empty. Which means his ID was completely phony.”

“Big surprise,” Barclo grunted. “Half the IDs in south Xakrea are probably phony.”

“Yes, but not of this quality,” Nyroska said. “His tracked all the way back to Coruscant before it petered out. That means—”

He broke off as his comlink beeped. “Here we go,” he said, picking it up. “I’ll bet you your next promotion this is her.” He keyed it on. “Nyroska.”

“Colonel?” an unfamiliar human male voice said. “My name is—well, never mind that. I’m an associate—former associate, rather—of the woman you’ve been dealing with on this datapack matter.”

“I see,” Nyroska said. “What can I do for you?”

“You can get me out of this mess, that’s what,” the other said nervously. “This whole thing’s gotten completely out of hand. Did you know she’s actually baiting an Imperial Intelligence agent? This is getting way too dangerous, and I’m ready to cut my losses and get out.”

“I applaud your wisdom,” Nyroska said. “Get me the datapack, and I’ll see to it that you walk away.”

There was a pause. “Yeah,” the caller said at last, a little uncertainly. “Problem: I don’t actually have it myself. But I can finger her for you, and she
does
know where it is. She’ll be coming back to a tapcafe right next to something called the ClearSkyes Boutique, and she’ll be back any minute now. Get over here fast, okay?”

“We’re on our way,” Nyroska promised. On the last word, the comlink clicked off.

“Well?” he added to Barclo.

“Could be a feint,” Barclo said, frowning at his board. “On the other hand, the trace puts him in that area. I’d say it’s worth checking out.”

“Agreed,” Nyroska said, keying his computer. He paused, keyed it again. “What in—?”

“What is it?” Barclo asked.

“My troops,” Nyroska said, waving at the computer. “They’ve all been sent out to the spaceport.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know,” Nyroska gritted, slapping at the keys. “They’re phony orders—they have to be. The General wouldn’t have pulled them without alerting me first. But the orders show proper authorization, and they’re locked in.” He swore. “And the troops are locked incommunicado, too.”

Abruptly he got to his feet. “Ten to one it’s a delaying tactic by our datapack thief,” he ground out. “And I have no intention of being delayed. Grab Thykele from the outer office, and let’s go.”

“You think three of us will be enough?” Barclo asked, pulling his blaster from a desk drawer as he stood up.

“We’ll make it enough,” Nyroska said grimly, checking his own blaster and jamming it into his holster. “
This
time she’s not getting away.”

They had left the boutique and were heading across the street when Hal’s comlink beeped again. “Do I answer it?” he asked.

“Probably better,” Isard grunted, getting a grip on his arm and leading him over to the side of the street beside their landspeeder. “Savich may not be finished playing her little games yet.”

Hal pulled out the instrument, giving the area around them an automatic once-over as he did so. There’d been some turnover in the tapcafe’s clientele since they’d gone inside the boutique, and a half block farther down the street a couple of Kubaz were unloading a speeder truck, but nothing else seemed to have changed. “Horn.”

“Hello, Inspector,” Moranda’s voice came back. “Just wanted to see if you and your Imp were still on schedule.”

“We’re working on it, yes,” Hal said.

“Good,” Moranda said cheerfully. “I also wanted to tell you that I’ve talked now with Nyroska, and he’s ready to offer me two million.”

“Is he, now?” Isard put in, glaring at the comlink in Hal’s hand as if it were a display Moranda could see her through. Down the street, one of the Kubaz dropped a crate onto the street with a loud thud. “Now you listen to me, you little walking dead woman,” she bit out. “And listen closely.”

She began voicing an exquisitely detailed threat, a recitation Hal would normally have paid close attention to if only for professional interest. But in this case, he wasn’t even listening. Isard, her full attention focused on her anger and pride and threats, had apparently missed completely the fact that the crash of that dropped crate had been echoed faintly on Moranda’s comlink carrier.

Which meant that Moranda was here somewhere.

Slowly, carefully, Hal let his eyes track across the area, studying every visible face and searching windows and doorways for less than visible ones. His gaze fell on a woman about fifteen meters away at one of the tapcafe tables, her face in profile to him as she gazed meditatively at the distant mountains rising over the cityscape, a mug held to her lips. She was the right height and build, but he could see both hands clearly enough to tell there was no comlink palmed in either of them. Unless she had the device clipped to her collar or something…

“I get the point,” Moranda put in, cutting off Isard’s threat. “Here’s the route I want you to follow to the warehouse. Listen closely, and don’t interrupt.”

She launched into a detailed list of streets, comers, turns, and backtracks. As she did so, the woman at the tapcafe table set her mug down and stood up, digging a coin out of her hip pouch and dropping it on the table. She turned toward Hal and Isard and started in their direction, glancing back and forth between the various business signs lining the street.

And there indeed was no comlink fastened to her collar, nor a telltale bulge beneath her jacket where one might be hidden. Listening with half an ear to Moranda’s instructions droning on from his comlink, Hal shifted his attention back to the doorways around the area. She had to be here somewhere…

“Hal?” a woman’s voice called excitedly. “Hal Horn?”

He wrenched his eyes back to the woman approaching them. She was looking at him with wide eyes, her mouth gaping open in a happy grin of recognition. “It
is
you,” she said, now almost bounding as she closed the distance toward him. “Well, I’ll be a mynock’s breakfast. Allyse Conroy—remember? How
are
you?”

“Uh,” Hal said, glancing in confusion at Isard as he searched his memory in vain for an Allyse Conroy. “I’m…”

Isard plucked the comlink from his hand. “We’ve got trouble,” she cut into Moranda’s monologue. “Call us back in ten minutes.” Without waiting for a response, she clicked off.

“Imagine running into you here on Darkknell, of all places,” the approaching woman said, her grin if anything even bigger than it had been. “How are Nyche and Corran? He’s what, sixteen years old now?”

“Eighteen,” he said, flinching back as she raised her arms for a hug. But her ebullience was hardly to be stopped by anything as simple as a flinch, and the next thing he knew she had her arms around him, pressing her body tightly against his. “Ah—Allyse—”

“It’s so good to see you,” she said, her voice oddly muffled as she spoke into his shoulder, her face pressed against the left side of his face, her breath disconcertingly warm on his neck. “How have you been these last few years?” Hal glanced past the side of her head. Isard had now stepped around behind her and was giving Hal the same kind of look she’d just been giving the comlink. “Actually, Allyse, I’m kind of busy right now,” he told her, trying to diplomatically ease her away from him. A waste of effort; her arms merely tightened all the harder around him. “In fact, I’m in the middle of something very important. I have to go.”

“Imagine finding you here,” she repeated. “Is this destiny, or what?”

Isard’s eyes were starting to throw sparks. Bracing himself, Hal took a deep breath and got a firm grip on Allyse’s ribs.

And abruptly froze. Faintly detectable with that incoming breath had been two distinctive aromas: the pungent tang of cigarra smoke, plus the more subtle scent of Gralish liqueur.

Moranda Savich?

He opened his mouth to speak; but before he could get the proper words lined up, the arms pinioning the two of them together loosened and she stepped back. He caught just a glimpse of the slender lockjim between her lips before it vanished again into her mouth and belatedly noticed the pressure of the choke-collar around his neck had disappeared—

And with her grin still in place, Allyse backed full tilt into Isard.

“I’m so sorry,” she gasped, twisting around with feline speed and grabbing Isard’s jacket in time to keep her from falling backward. “So very clumsy of me,” she added, busily brushing down Isard’s jacket where her grip had momentarily wrinkled it. “Are you all right?”

“Get away,” Isard snapped, putting a palm against Allyse’s chest and pushing her away. The shove sent her sprawling back against the side of the landspeeder, her hands scrabbling for balance and finding a grip across the top of the door.

“Well, sure,” Allyse said in a subdued tone.

“You don’t have to be so rough,” Hal reproved Isard gently, his eyes probing Allyse’s face. Usually he was able to pull Moranda’s features out from under the mask of her many and varied disguises, but here, at first blush, anyway, he couldn’t seem to find her anywhere in that indignant expression. Maybe it wasn’t her, after all.

“She should be thankful I
didn’t
get rough,” Isard countered acidly. “Now get away from our landspeeder. We have business to attend to.”

“I don’t think so,” a voice called from Hal’s right.

He turned. Colonel Nyroska, flanked by two uniformed Defense officers, was striding in their direction. All three had blasters drawn. “Colonel Nyroska,” Hal nodded. “What brings you down here?”

“Your friend there, Inspector Horn,” Nyroska said, his gaze shifting over Hal’s shoulder. “She and I need to have a long talk.”

“My friend?” Hal frowned, turning back to look at Allyse.

But she was not, as he’d expected, waiting with the wilted, defeated look of a criminal or fugitive who’d finally been run to ground. Instead, she was standing tall and proud, an almost haughty expression on her face. “I commend you on your excellent timing, Colonel,” she said in a voice that matched the face as she gestured at Isard. “There’s your thief, and my Rebel agent. Arrest her.”

The sheer effrontery of it caught Isard completely flatfooted. “What in the—?” she sputtered. “You little—back off!” she snapped as one of Nyroska’s men reached for her arm. “Back off, all of you.”

Her hand dived beneath her jacket, then froze in place as three blasters suddenly lined up on her face. “You’re making a big mistake, Colonel,” she said quietly. “A big mistake. I’m Imperial Intelligence Field Operative Ysanne Isard.”

“Indeed,” Nyroska said calmly. “You have ID, of course?”

“Of course,” she said, shifting her hand elsewhere beneath her jacket. Her hand paused, her face changed, and she spun her head around at Allyse. “Give it back,” she snapped. “My ID. Give it back.”

“Nice try,” Allyse said patronizingly, lifting her arms. “As you’re welcome to confirm, Colonel, I don’t have anything of hers. However, if you’ll escort us back to your headquarters, I’ll be happy to have my staff transmit the credentials she mentioned.”

Isard’s mouth dropped open. “You’ll
what
?”

“Present my credentials,” Allyse said, turning a glacial look on Isard. “You see, Colonel, I am Field Operative Ysanne Isard.”

“This has gone far enough,” Isard snarled. “Horn, tell the Colonel exactly who I am.”

“Inspector Horn?” Nyroska invited.

Hal hesitated. “She did tell me she was Field Operative Isard,” he conceded. “But the only ID she showed me identified her as Darkknell Special Security agent Katya Glasc.”

“Did it, now,” Nyroska said, his voice suddenly cold as he looked at Isard with heightened interest. “Impersonating law enforcement personnel is a class-one offense on Darkknell. And is she by any chance the one who put that highly illegal device around your neck?”

Hal reached up and pulled the loosened choke-collar away. “Yes,” he said, handing it to the colonel.

Isard’s eyes were simmering pools of death. “You’re dead, Horn. Dead.”

“I can only say what I know,” Hal said. “Anything in the way of further proof is up to you.”

“Indeed it is,” she breathed. “All right, Colonel, you win. Let’s go to your headquarters and sort this out.” She looked at Allyse. “Let’s
all of
us go.”

“Of course,” Nyroska said softly. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”