Chapter One
JanFathal has been a loyal member of the Republic for as long as I can remember. Let’s not allow a little thing like internal strife to get in the way of that. I’m afraid the Fathalians’ wish for democratic change will have to wait until the war is over, because right now we need to keep that planet. –Armand Isard, Director of Republic Intelligence
ATHAR, CAPITAL OF JANFATHAL, OUTER RIM
The dust that blew in from the plains was pale gray, as fine and as clogging as ferrocrete powder.
It was a small wonder that the locals kept their windows and doors tightly shuttered at this time of year. Hallena kept her kerchief over her mouth and nose, but the dust still managed to work its way into her eyes. Her vision blurred; blinking didn’t clear it. She was forced to shelter in a doorway on the main square while she tried to rub the stuff out of her eyes.
Now she understood why the Athari were so prone to spitting in the streets. They were very good at it, too–accurate, discreet, and almost elegant in their technique. Since she’d arrived a few days ago, Hallena had learned to dodge the streams and even manage an occasional well- aimed squirt of her own.
Fit in. Go gray–blend in with the population, like you’ve been here all your life . . .
It was just like wine- tasting in a smart Coruscant tapcaf, except the flavor filling her mouth was the flat mineral bitterness of dust coating her tongue, not a rich, fruity Ondo Lava–
Is this stuff toxic?
Swirl. Lean a little. Aim. Spit hard.
Hallena put a bit of force behind it. Sometimes it was more difficult than it looked. She was aware of someone walking toward her, head lowered against a steady wind that never seemed to drop, and then she realized why Gilad always warned her when they sailed his personal yacht to test the wind direction before dumping liquid overboard.
Splat.
“Aw,
terrific,” said a male voice. “Lady, can’t you even spit straight?”
She had to shield her face with her hand. Sharper, bigger fragments of dust stung her eyes. Her gaze traveled up from a dark, wet patch on the leg of a pair of tan pants to the indignant face of their owner.
“Sorry.” She was careful to maintain the right accent. “Let me clean that up.”
“You looking for the carpet shop?”
Ah. She knew the response she had to give. She felt better already.
“I hear it’s closed midweek.”
The man was in his forties, thin- faced and balding. He stared into her eyes for a moment, then winked. The simple code had been confirmed. This was her contact.
“Galdovar,” she said. It probably wasn’t his real name, and she didn’t care if it was or not. All that mattered was that he was the man she was supposed to meet; and that was all she was going to trust. He wasn’t a random stranger she’d spat upon. Trust didn’t come easy in her line of work. Trust got you killed. That was why she placed it solely in herself, and why her hand was still resting on the blaster hidden in the folds of her coat. “You’d better be, anyway.”
“I am, so at least I got my pants ruined by the right woman. Come on. Let’s get inside.” He indicated the far end of the deserted road with a discreet nod of his head, then looked down at the damp patch on his leg. “Original way to identify yourself, Agent Devis.”
“No, I really
did miss the spot,” she said. Now it worried her that she hadn’t been alert to anyone following her or watching her. It was basic intelligence procedure, as unconscious as breathing; situational awareness. “How long have you been watching me?”
“A few minutes.”
Stang. If he’d been a sniper . . .
But he wasn’t, and she was fully alert after a moment’s lapse. The building at the end of the road was an office complex with shops and tapcafs. As they entered, the world changed; the deserted streets full of swirling dust that made Athar look like a ghost town gave way to bustling life conducted wholly behind shuttered doors. Athari citizens went about their business under cover during the windy weeks of late autumn.
“Up the stairs,” Galdovar said, gesturing with his thumb.
“Second floor. Union offices.”
Hallena blended seamlessly into the bustle of Fathalians. She spoke Basic with a convincing Athari accent, and–like most of them–her skin was black and her hair dressed in neatly coiled plaits. Nobody had any reason to suspect she was a Republic spy, sent to infiltrate.
She’d been in Athar for less than a week. The place wasn’t quite the same picture that the intelligence briefing had painted. Places seldom were.
“In here?” Hallena gestured, one hand still deep in her pocket.
“In there,” said Galdovar.
“After you.”
No, she wasn’t
that dumb.
The doors parted and she followed him into a routinely time- worn office with pleekwood desks and shelves that had seen better days. The interior doors, though, looked as if they’d been smashed down and repaired; two of the panels were bright new wood, devoid of any patina or termite scarring.
“Burglars?” she asked. “Or are you just slack on building maintenance?”
“Got to look the part,” Galdovar said. “And we know exactly how a union office should look after the authorities have raided it, don’t we?”
He was one of those who normally did the raiding. She had to concede the point. Sounds of movement behind the repaired door made her check automatically for a way out if this meeting turned out not to be one she’d bargained on. The only place she felt safe these days was on a Republic warship, and not just because of Gilad; the entire galaxy was in turmoil. The front line didn’t end at planetary boundaries, or sometimes even within families.
Hallena walked into a small back office filled mainly by a battered table. If it hadn’t been for the two heavily armed men sitting at one side of it–she could spot the outlines of weapons as well as anyone–she might even have swallowed the cover story about this place being an administrative office for the Union of Fabricants, Plastoid Molders, and Allied Trades, Local 61.
“Well, well,” she said. Their eyes locked on hers as if they weren’t entirely sure she was genuine. “Unity is strength, people, power to the workers, and all that. So what have you got for me?”
The younger of the two men raised a bleached- blond eyebrow. He didn’t offer any introductions. “I’m glad you’re getting into character,” he said sourly. “We think the people you’re looking for are these two.”
He shoved a holoimage projector across the table, flicking his thumbnail against the controls to activate an image. It was a snatched shot of a man and a woman caught in midstride as they hurried toward a speeder; early thirties, heads covered by factory workers’ caps, like thousands of other laborers in the city.
“Merish Hath and her boyfriend, Shil Kaval,” he said. “The usual troublemaking variety of malcontent.”
Hallena studied the image. The JanFathal police couldn’t just pick them up and make them disappear, like they usually did. The Regent had held absolute power for thirty years; he wasn’t going to get a hard time from his judges because he’d had them all jailed some years ago. But pieces in this particular puzzle were missing.
It was her job to find them.
“We’d like this sorted,” said the younger man. The stark contrast of his eyebrows against his ebony skin was hypnotically weird; and he was obviously more senior in the hierarchy than he looked, or else he was just massively arrogant. “We don’t want a few million droids landing in our backyard uninvited. The troublemakers we’ve been monitoring have been a lot more active in the last few weeks, like they’re preparing for something.”
“Maybe your Regent should concentrate on building a proper army instead of blowing his budget on internal security.” Hallena took the holoimager and transferred the image to her own device. The more she saw of some of the Republic’s allies, the less weight she gave their strategic value. “So can you get me into their circle, or not? What’s my cover identity?”
“Well, Sister Devis–”
“Tell me you haven’t used that name . . .”
Blond Brows sucked his teeth, clearly annoyed at the interruption. “We might be a long way from Coruscant, ma’am, but we’re not country bumpkins. Your ID says Orla Taman. You’re a union convener from Nuth, which is far enough away to explain why you’re not one of their little cabal, and you’ve been in...
