"If that's really the place," Drayson murmured.
"I presume you can confirm the information came from Captain Solo," Mon Mothma said, looking at Winter.
Winter hesitated. "It didn't come from him, exactly," she said.
Leia frowned at her. "What do you mean, not exactly? Was it from Luke?"
A muscle in Winter's cheek twitched. "All I can say is that the source is reliable."
There was a short moment of silence as everyone digested that. "Reliable," Mon Mothma said.
"Yes," Winter nodded.
Mon Mothma threw a look at Leia. "This Council is not accustomed to having information withheld from it," she said. "I want to know where these coordinates came from."
"I'm sorry," Winter said quietly. "It's not my secret to tell."
"Whose secret is it?"
"I can't tell you that, either."
Mon Mothma's face darkened. "It doesn't matter," Bel Iblis put in before she could speak. "Not for right now. Whether this planet is the actual cloning center or not, there's nothing we can do about it until the Bilbringi operation is over."
Leia looked at him. "We're not sending any backup?"
"Impossible," Sesfan growled, shaking his huge Mon Calamari head. "All available ships and personnel are already committed to the Bilbringi attack. Too many regions and systems have been left undefended as it is."
"Especially when we don't even know if this is the right place," Drayson added. "It could just as easily be an Imperial trap."
"It's not a trap," Leia insisted. "Mara's not working for the Empire anymore."
"We only have your word for that—"
"It still doesn't matter," Bel Iblis cut him off, his senatorial voice cutting through the growing argument. "Look at the bottom of the map, Leia—it says all indications are that their landing was undetected. Would you really want to risk that element of surprise by sending another ship in after them?"
Leia felt her stomach tighten. Unfortunately, he had a point.
"Then perhaps the Bilbringi attack should be postponed," Fey'lya said.
Leia turned to look at him, dimly aware that the whole table was doing likewise. It was practically the first time the Bothan had spoken at a Council meeting since his bid for power had ignominiously collapsed out at the Katana fleet. "I'm afraid that's out of the question, Councilor Fey'lya," Mon Mothma said. "Aside from all the preparations that would have to be discarded, it's absolutely imperative that we clear out these cloaked asteroids hanging over our heads."
"Why?" Fey'lya demanded, a rippling wave running through the fur of his neck and down his shoulders. "The shield protects us. We have adequate supplies for many months. We have full communication with the rest of the New Republic. Is it merely the fear of looking weak and helpless?"
"Appearances and perceptions are important to the New Republic," Mon Mothma reminded him. "And properly so. The Empire rules by force and threat; we rule instead by inspiration and leadership. We cannot be perceived to be cowering here in fear of our lives."
"This is beyond image and perception," Fey'lya insisted, the fur flattening across the back of his head. "The Bothan people knew the Emperor—knew his desires and his ambitions, perhaps better than all who were not his allies and servants. There are things in that storehouse which must never again see light. Weapons and devices which Thrawn will some day find and use against us unless we prevent him from doing so."
"And we will do so," Mon Mothma assured him. "And soon. But not until we've damaged the Bilbringi shipyards and obtained a CGT array."
"And what of Captain Solo and Councilor Organa Solo's brother?"
The lines around Mon Mothma's mouth tightened. For all the rigid military logic, Leia could see that she didn't like abandoning them there, either. "All we can do for them right now is to continue with our plans," she said quietly. "To draw the Grand Admiral's attention toward our supposed attack on Tangrene." She looked at Drayson. "Which we were about to discuss. Admiral?"
Drayson stepped up to the display again. "We'll start with the current status of preparations for the Tangrene feint," he said, keying his light-pointer to call up the proper display.
Leia threw a sideways glance at Fey'lya, and at the obvious signs of agitation still visible in the Bothan's face and fur movements. What was in the mountain, she wondered, that he was so afraid Thrawn would get hold of?
Perhaps it was just as well she didn't know.
Pellaeon stepped into the dimly lit entry room just outside Thrawn's private command room, his eyes darting around. Rukh was here somewhere, waiting to play his little Noghri games. He took a step toward the door to the main chamber, took another—
There was a touch of air on the back of his neck. Pellaeon spun around, hands snapping up in half-remembered academy self-defense training.
There was no one there. He looked around again, searching for where the Noghri might have taken cover—
"Captain Pellaeon," the familiar catlike voice mewed from behind him.
He spun back again. Again, no one was there; but even as his eyes searched the walls and nonexistent cover, Rukh stepped around from behind him. "You are expected," the Noghri said, gesturing with his slender assassin's knife toward the main door.
Pellaeon glared at him. Someday, he promised himself darkly, he would persuade Thrawn that a Grand Admiral of the Empire didn't need an arrogant alien bodyguard to protect him. And when that happened, he was going to take a very personal pleasure in having Rukh killed. "Thank you," he growled, and went in.
He'd expected the command room to be filled with Thrawn's usual eclectic collection of alien art, and he was right. But with one minor difference: even to Pellaeon's untrained eye it was clear that two very different styles of art were being represented. They were spread out along opposite sides of the room, with a large tactical holo of the Tangrene system filling the center.
"Come in, Captain," Thrawn called from the double display ring as Pellaeon paused in the doorway. "What news from Tangrene?"
"The Rebels are still moving forces into strike positions," Pellaeon told him, making his way between the sculptures and the tactical holo toward Thrawn's command chair. "Sneaking their devious way into our trap."
"How very convenient of them." Thrawn gestured to his right. "Mon Calamari art," he identified it. "What do you think?"
Pellaeon gave it a quick look as he came up to the double display ring. It looked about as repulsive and primitive as the Mon Calamari themselves. "Very interesting," he said aloud.
"Isn't it," Thrawn agreed. "Those two pieces in particular—they were created by Admiral Ackbar himself."
Pellaeon eyed the indicated sculptures. "I didn't know Ackbar had any interest in art."
"A minor one only," Thrawn said. "These were composed some time ago, before he joined the Rebellion. Still, they provide useful insights into his character. As do those," he added, gesturing to his left. "Artwork once chosen personally by our Corellian adversary."
Pellaeon looked at them with new interest. So Senator Bel Iblis had picked these out himself, had he? "Where were these from, his old Imperial Senate office?"
"Those were," Thrawn said, indicating the nearest group. "Those were from his home; those from his private ship. Intelligence found these records, more or less accidentally, in the data from our last Obroa-skai information raid. So the Rebels continue to edge toward our trap, do they?"
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon said, glad to be getting back to something he could understand. "We've had two more reports of Rebel support ships moving into positions at the edge of the Draukyze system."
"But not obviously."
Pellaeon frowned. "Excuse me, Admiral?"
"What I mean is that they're being highly secretive about their preparations," Thrawn said thoughtfully. "Quietly detaching intelligence and support ships from other assignments; moving and re-forming sector fleets to free capital ships for service—that sort of thing. Never obviously. Always making Imperial Intellig
ence work hard to put the pieces together."
He looked up at Pellaeon, his glowing red eyes glittering in the dim light. "Almost as if Tangrene was indeed their true target."
Pellaeon stared at him. "Are you saying it isn't?"
"That's correct, Captain," Thrawn said, gazing out at the artwork.
Pellaeon looked at the Tangrene holo. Intelligence had put a 94 percent probability on this. "But if they're not going to hit Tangrene . . . then where?"
"The last place we would normally expect them," Thrawn said, reaching over to touch a switch on his command board. Tangrene system vanished, to be replaced by—
Pellaeon felt his jaw drop. "Bilbringi?" He wrenched his eyes back to his commander. "Sir, that's . . ."
"Insane?" Thrawn cocked a blue-black eyebrow. "Of course it is. The insanity of men and aliens who've learned the hard way that they can't match me face-to-face. And so they attempt to use my own tactical skill and insight against me. They pretend to walk into my trap, gambling that I'll notice the subtlety of their movements and interpret that as genuine intent. And while I then congratulate myself on my perception" —he gestured at the Bilbringi holo— "they prepare their actual attack."
Pellaeon looked at Bel Iblis's old artwork. "We might want to wait for confirmation before we shift any forces from Tangrene, Admiral," he suggested cautiously. "We could intensify Intelligence activity in the Bilbringi region. Or perhaps Delta Source could confirm it."
"Unfortunately, Delta Source has been silenced," Thrawn said. "But we have no need of confirmation. This is the Rebels' plan, and we will not risk tipping our hand with anything so obvious as a heightened Intelligence presence. They believe they've deceived me. Our overriding task now is to make certain they continue to believe that."
He smiled grimly. "After all, Captain, it makes no difference whether we crush them at Tangrene or at Bilbringi. No difference whatsoever."
Chapter 21
The lopsided-helix shape of the seed pod hovered a meter and a half in front of Mara, practically daring her to strike it down. She eyed it darkly, Skywalker's lightsaber held ready in an unorthodox but versatile two-handed grip. She'd already missed the pod twice; she didn't intend to do so a third time. "Don't rush it," Skywalker cautioned her. "Concentrate, and let the Force flow into you. Try to anticipate the pod's motion."
Easy for him to say, she thought sourly; after all, he was the one controlling it. The pod twitched a millimeter closer, daring her again. . . .
And suddenly, she decided she was tired of this game. Reaching out with the Force, she got a grip of her own on the pod. Briefly immobilized, it managed a single tremor before she jabbed the lightsaber straight out, stabbing it neatly dead center. "There," she said, closing down the weapon. "I did it."
She'd expected Skywalker to be angry. To her mild surprise, and not so mild annoyance, he wasn't in the least. "Good," he said encouragingly. "Very good. It's difficult to split your attention between two separate mental and physical activities that way. And you did it well."
"Thanks," she muttered, tossing the lightsaber away from her toward the bushes. It curved smoothly around in midair as Skywalker pulled it back to land in his outstretched hand. "So is that it?" she added.
Skywalker looked over his shoulder. Solo and Calrissian were hunched over the protocol droid, which had stopped complaining about Wayland's terrain, vegetation, and animal life and was instead complaining about what crunching through that stone crust had done to its foot. Skywalker's astromech droid was hovering nearby with its sensor antenna extended, running through its usual repertoire of encouraging noises. A couple of steps away, the Wookiee was rummaging through one of their packs, probably for some tool or other.
"I think we've got time for a few more exercises," Skywalker decided, turning back to face her. "That technique of yours is very interesting—Obi-wan never taught me anything about using the tip of the lightsaber blade."
"The Emperor's philosophy was to use everything you had available," Mara said.
"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," Skywalker said dryly. He held out the lightsaber. "Let's try something else. Go ahead and take the lightsaber."
Reaching out with the Force, Mara snatched it away from his loose grip, wondering idly what he would do if she tried sometime to ignite the weapon first. She wasn't sure she could handle anything as small as a switch, but it'd be worth trying just to see him scramble away from the blade.
And if, in the process, she happened to accidentally kill him . . .
YOU WILL KILL LUKE SKYWALKER.
She squeezed the lightsaber hard. Not yet, she told the voice firmly. I still need him. "All right," she growled. "What now?"
He didn't get a chance to answer. Behind him, the astromech droid suddenly started squealing excitedly.
"What?" Solo demanded, his blaster already out of its holster.
"He says he's just noticed something worth investigating there to the side," the protocol droid translated, gesturing to his left. "A group of vines, I believe he's saying. Though I could be mistaken—with all the acid damage—"
"Come on, Chewie, let's check it out," Solo cut him off, getting to his feet and starting up the shallow slope of the creek bed.
Skywalker caught Mara's eye. "Come on," he said, and started off after them.
There wasn't very far to go. Just inside the first row of trees, hidden from view by a bush, was another set of vines like the ones they'd had to occasionally cut through the last couple of days.
Except that this group had already been cut. Cut, and then bunched up out of the way like a pile of thick, tangled rope.
"I think that ends any discussion as to whether someone out there is helping us along," Calrissian said, studying one of the cut ends.
"I think you're right," Solo said. "No predator would have bunched them up like this."
The Wookiee rumbled something under his breath and pulled on the bush in front of the vines. To Mara's surprise, it came away from the ground without any effort at all. "And wouldn't have bothered with camouflage, either," Calrissian said as the Wookiee turned it over. "Knife cut, looks like. Just like the vines."
"And like the clawbird from yesterday," Solo agreed grimly. "Luke? We been getting company?"
"I've sensed some of the natives," Skywalker said. "But they never seem to come very close before they leave again." He looked back downslope at the protocol droid, waiting anxiously for them in the creek bed. "You suppose it has anything to do with the droids?"
Solo snorted. "You mean like on Endor, when those fuzzball Ewoks thought Threepio was a god?"
"Something like that," Skywalker nodded. "They could be getting close enough to hear either Threepio or Artoo."
"Maybe." Solo looked around. "When do they come around?"
"Mostly around sundown," Skywalker said. "So far, anyway."
"Well, next time they do, let me know," Solo said, jamming his blaster back into its holster and starting back down the slope to the creek bed. "It's about time we all had a little chat together. Come on, let's get moving."
The darkness was growing thicker, and the camp nearly put together for the night, when the wisps of sensation came. "Han?" Luke called softly. "They're here."
Han nodded, tapping Lando on the back as he drew his blaster. "How many?"
Luke focused his mind, working at separating the distinct parts out of the overall sensation. "Looks like five or six of them, coming in from that direction." He pointed to the side.