By way of answer, the Emperor glanced at Ison.
“As I’ve said on countless occasions, my lord, the fleet is already too scattered. On the Admiralty’s counsel, the navy is now redirecting resources from as far away as Rothana and Bothawui.”
“And at the risk of repeating myself,” Rancit said, “Imperial interests must be protected.”
The Emperor spent a long moment studying Ison and Rancit, stretching out with his powers to discern alignments, configurations, some syzygy of events. Then his thoughts turned to Vader and Tarkin. He appreciated how well they were working together, but he began to wonder if they were perhaps too close to the details of the dissidents’ scheme to recognize their ultimate objective. One needed to have a safe remove, as he felt he had, gazing into the 3-D representation of the galaxy he had made his own. How Plagueis would have mocked him for allowing himself to become personally involved in such a seemingly trivial matter; but then his Master had never foreseen that his onetime apprentice would become Emperor.
With a subtle gesture he signaled Mas Amedda to join him on the podium. When the Chagrian arrived, he said: “Tell me again how the cache of communications jammers was discovered on Murkhana.”
“One of Imperial Security’s assets was tasked with investigating the find by his case officer,” Amedda said in a little more than a whisper.
The Emperor considered this. “His ISB case officer, here on Coruscant?”
“Yes, my lord.”
The Emperor collapsed the steeple he had made of his fingers. “Summon them, Vizier. I suspect some benefit will accrue from my speaking personally with both.”
Zero defects
WEAPONS RECHARGED, the interior made as shipshape as possible, the Carrion Spike waited for instructions regarding when to launch and where to jump. From the copilot’s chair Teller, back in boots and cargo pants, watched Salikk run through a preflight check of the instruments and systems. When the Gotal’s hand reached the navicomputer, however, it hovered in hesitation.
“Problem?” Teller asked.
Salikk kept his eyes trained on one of the status displays. “It’s probably nothing, but …”
Teller sat bolt-upright in the chair’s webbing. “It’s probably nothing, but I’ve had this pain in my side … It’s probably nothing, but my girlfriend’s been acting distant lately …” He gave his head an aggravated shake. “Whenever I hear that phrase—”
“It’s the fuel capacity,” Salikk cut in. “Factoring in the cells we took on at Phindar, something doesn’t add up.”
“That Phindian cheated us!” Teller exclaimed. “No wonder he was being so nonchalant.”
Salikk’s twin-horned head was shaking back and forth. “That’s not it.”
Teller leaned toward the console. “Maybe you didn’t notice we weren’t full up when we separated from the tanker.”
The Gotal’s head continued to shake. “I checked — at least I think I did. But even if I overlooked a detail, the discrepancy doesn’t make sense.”
“We had to override that tractor beam—”
“No.”
Teller looked at Artoz, who was sitting quietly in the comm officer’s chair, watching both of them. “Any ideas?”
The Mon Cal thought for a moment, tapping his webbed hand on the console. “The hyperdrive motivator may be addled. We could try recalibrating the synchronization relays.”
Salikk forced an exhale. “It’s probably nothing.” His hand was reaching for the navicomputer controls again when Teller told him to hold off, and then shouted through the ruined hatch for Cala, who was in the conference cabin.
“You’ve gotta put the hazmat suit back on,” Teller said as the Koorivar entered from the afterdeck.
Cala stared at him. “You’re trying to overdose me on rads, is that it? You’ve decided I’m expendable.”
“Calm down,” Teller said, gesturing. “I just need you to go into the fuel bay and run tests on the fuel cells we took on at Phindar. You’ll know them because they’re Wiborg Jenssens, marked with the tanker’s logo — a kind of triple S.”
Cala’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “What am I supposed to be looking for?”
“With any luck, nothing more than an empty or faulty cell,” Artoz said.
Cala scowled. “That Phindian cheated us!”
“Let’s hope so,” Teller said, freeing himself from the chair’s safety webbing and getting to his feet. “Come on, I’ll help suit you up.”
Frozen hatches and malfunctioning air locks forced them to follow a circuitous route to the fuel hold. Once sealed into the hooded, face-shielded hazmat suit, Cala disappeared through the air lock and Teller returned to the command cabin, where he found Anora seated in the copilot’s chair.
“What’s going on?” she asked, her words more a demand than a question.
“It’s probably nothing,” he started to say, then stopped himself. Enabling the intraship comlink, he said: “Cala, you inside?”
“I’m checking them now. Power-level indicators look good.”
Teller had turned toward Anora when Cala added: “Wait. The sensor found one. The cell is reading empty.”
“One of the Phindian’s?”
“It has the logo.”
“Can you remove it?”
Cala replied with a lengthy curse. “I told you we should have brought a droid along.”
“I know you did, but think of the headaches a droid would have caused Salikk.” Teller aimed a grin at the magnetically sensitive Gotal. “Besides, we didn’t, and you’re our best bet. Is the repulsorlift conveyor still in there?”
“Right where I left it after rigging the bomb.”
“Task the conveyor to remove the cell,” Artoz said toward the audio pickup, “and transfer it into the decontam bay so the diagnostic unit can have a look at it.”
“Have a look at it how?” Cala said. “The sensor says it’s empty.”
“We need to open it up,” Teller said.
“Are you out of your mind?” Cala barked. “Suppose there’s a bomb inside?”
Teller tried to make light of the idea. “That’s something only we do. Anyway, that’s why you’re letting the diagnostic unit do it. It’ll scan the cell first.”
“This is the last time I’m putting this suit on,” Cala said.
“Deal. Next time I’ll have Anora do it.”
A gesture from her revealed her feelings on the matter.
Another curse from Cala broke the long silence. “It’s not empty.”
Teller exchanged nervous glances with Salikk and Artoz. “What’s inside?”
Everyone stared at the command center enunciator, as if the Koorivar were there, in the command cabin.
“A device of some sort,” Cala reported finally. “Nothing like I’ve ever seen.”
“All right,” Artoz said, trying to keep his resonant voice calm. “Task the diagnostic to cam the device, then run the image through the ship’s library.”
Cala exhaled loudly. “Hold on.”
Again the intraship comlink went quiet, and Teller ran a hand down his face.
“It’s probably noth—” Anora started to say when he shushed her.
“Damn, Teller, it’s an Imperial homing beacon!” the Koorivar said. “Database describes it as a paralight tracker — a kind of HoloNet transceiver that parses commands from the ship’s navicomputer.”
Salikk swiveled to face the others, his eyes wide with astonishment. “Tarkin knows not only where we are, but also where we’re planning to go. Which means we’re essentially marooned, unless you want to get there by sublight, which will only take”—he glanced at a console readout—“on the order of fifty years.”