Domus Publica
| The Chase |
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The pale man had been sitting in the bar for three hours, staring intently at an empty glass. Regulars in the bar regarded him suspiciously;
his face and clothes, ragged though they were, clearly identified him as being a foreigner. They didn’t mind strangers around here,
provided of course that they were the right kind. A planet that serves primarily as a port in the Invisible Economy welcomes strangers
interested in expediting the flow of credits. A man who stares at an empty glass for three hours stirs little but suspicion and distrust.
Finally the bartender got tired of waiting for the man to pay for a drink. His bulk blocked the light and cast his shadow over the table
where the pale man sat. The man did not move, did not turn around.
“Hey. Blondie.” The bartender said. The pale man gave no response.
The bartender clapped a hand heavily on the man’s shoulder. “I’m talking to you, Blondie.” He gave the man a shake. “This ain’t no
library, pal. Either buy a drink or get out.” Still the man did not respond.
The bartender circled around the table and looked the pale man in the face. He looked to be in extremely poor health, his eyes sunken and
glassy. His hair was disheveled and his skin was unwashed and dirty. A nasty gash ran across his forehead, and appeared to be neither
healing nor bleeding. The bartender waved a hand in front of the pale man’s eyes; they did not track the movement, but remain fixed on
the glass. The bartender grunted and reached for the glass.
Immediately the pale man’s hand shot out and caught the bartender by the wrist with an iron grip; his skin felt cold to the touch.
“Don’t touch that,” the pale man growled, seemingly speaking with two voices at once.
The bartender tried to take a step back, but the grip on his wrist was far too strong to let him actually move. As a result, his hand was
still clasped around the glass.
“I said let go,” the pale man growled. “Let go.”
“I can’t!” The bartender said, suddenly finding that panic was rapidly blossoming in his belly. There was something seriously wrong
with this man.
“You dare to defy me?” the pale man demanded, standing suddenly and revealing that he was in fact two meters tall. The bartender could
feel the bones in his wrist crumpling under the man’s iron grip. He dropped to his knees whimpering.
The bouncer came bounding over, thinking to correct this error in judgement. The pale man immediately turned and used the bartender’s
arm to hurl the man at the bouncer, bowling them both over and dislocating the bartender’s arm in the process. It was over as quickly as
it had begun, and the bar was now occupied by a mass of patrons staring in perverse fascination at this bizarre fellow who so casually
disposed of two rather large and stocky men without so much as raising a sweat.
“No,” he said as he shook his head and looked around the bar as though seeing it for the first time. “Not here. Not where I belong.” He
turned and headed toward the bartender, whom he grabbed by the throat and easily lifted off the ground. “You. Who am I?”
The semiconscious bartender could not possibly hoped to have answered that question had he been in full command of his mental
faculties; through the daze of pain he was currently suffering, he was unable to stutter much of any sort of answer at all before the man
began to scream at him, “Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?”
The mayor regarded the wizened old man with a wry look. “I don’t know that I would quite call him a demoniac, sir.”
The old man’s assistant spoke up immediately. “Milord Mayor,” he said stiffly. “You should address the Professor as ‘Doctor,’ not
‘sir.’”
But the Professor smiled gently and rested a liver-spotted hand on his assistant’s biceps. “It is not important, dear boy.” He turned his
attention back to the mayor. “Milord Mayor, if the poor fellow is not a demoniac, what indeed would you call him? His behavior is
erratic and at times violent. He exhibits physical strength well in excess of what his frame can possibly account for. He speaks tongues
he has never learned, and gives details of events he has not witnessed and cannot possibly know. What else, indeed, could you possibly
call him?”
“The poor devil’s just sick, that’s all,” the mayor insisted. “Demoniac! Honestly, Professor, I fail to see how a man of science can claim
to believe in such silly superstitions.”
“Milord Mayor, have you so much as had your psychiatrists examine the poor fellow? I think you’ll find that this is no mere
psychological illness or abnormality.”
The mayor looked at him blankly. “Well, no, to be honest. As far as I know he’s still being detained over in the police station.”
The Professor’s eyes went slightly wider. “You have him detained in a public location?”
“Of course I do,” the mayor said, frowning. “I know this matter may be of special interest to you, but the lunatic ravings of a single man
simply aren’t that important to me.”
“No, no, no, milord Mayer, that simply will not do,” the Professor said worriedly. “I beg your indulgence, milord. May I examine the
fellow? It is a matter of some urgency. His personal safety may have been compromised.”
This statement was so absurd that the mayor couldn’t help but laugh, drawing a particularly dark glare from the Professor’s stony-eyed
assistant. “I’m sorry, Professor, but I really don’t see any emergency in the matter. The man’s a drifter, somehow making his way across
a dozen or so planets in this part of the Sector before we picked him up for disturbance of the peace. There’s no great danger here.”
“On the contrary, milord Mayor,” the Professor said with quiet urgency. “This is a matter of the gravest importance. The fate of the
galaxy might hinge upon it.”
“Nonsense,” the mayor waved this off. “I’m sorry, Professor, but I simply can’t indulge your concerns. The man will be remanded to
the hospital for a more thorough psychiatric evaluation in the morning. You can have a look once they’re done with him there.”
“Milord Mayor,” the assistant began to say something, but again the Professor put a hand on his arm, restraining him without so much
as a word.
“I am grateful for your time and cooperation, milord Mayor. I shall be happy to examine the patient once your hospital’s psychologists
are finished being baffled.” With that, the Professor and his assistant took their leave.
The Professor’s assistant waited until they were in their rented speeder before he spoke. “Are we really going to just wait, Excellency?”
“Of course not, my dear boy. Don’t be silly. This is far too important to leave in the hands of the local mayoralty.”
“Ah,” the assistant nodded fractionally – he was not given to external displays of emotion. “I am not comfortable with him being held in
such a vulnerable location.”
“Nor I, my dear boy, nor I,” the Professor said. “If we’ve found him, then they’re certain to have found him as well. The difference is
that we’re here now, and they are not. Let us make haste, my dear boy, we must recover him immediately.”
“Please,” the chief of police said, covering his eyes with his hand, “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I wish I could, Chief,” the policeman said, looking at the empty cell and shaking his head. “He got out. I have absolutely no idea how he
did it, but he did it. He’s escaped from his cell.”
“Well, where is he? Is he still in the building?”
“Uh, we’re still checking on that, Chief,” the man said. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers and sighed. “But to tell you the truth, I don’t
think he is. If he can slip out of a prison cell without alerting us, he can probably get out of the station altogether before we notice.”
“Well, find him! Catch him!” the chief of police screamed, feeling his blood pressure skyrocket. This was the last thing he needed right
now. What kind of idiots let a prisoner give them the slip like this? Unbelievable. Whatever moron had been on watch, the chief swore
viciously that he’d have the man’s guts for garters.
The mayor was doing a poor job of concealing his anxiety as he waited for the Inquisitors’ shuttle to settle to the ground. The sudden
arrival of a platoon of stormtroopers had been disturbing; the arrival of a pair of agents of the Inquisitorius was downright unwelcome.
Inquisitors were angels of death as far as the people of the Galactic Empire were concerned. Everywhere they went they brought pain
and suffering. He had been decidedly not happy when he’d received word that the Inquisitors requested and required his attendance upon
them immediately.
The shuttle’s brow lowered to the ground, and they descended, dressed in simple black and gray vestments. The first of them was about
a head taller than his partner, and they both openly displayed lightsabers.
“Ah, Mayor,” said the taller man. “I am Inquisitor Cthiarchios, and this is my partner Inquisitor T’jiap. I believe you have something
that may be of interest to us.”
“I – ah, I’m sorry, my lord, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the mayor said, without the slightest hint of dishonesty.
T’jiap’s eyes darkened. “It is a Class One offense to lie to an agent of the Inquisitorius, you know.”
“My lord, I assure you, I have no interest in bringing disrepute on myself, my office, my city, or my world,” the mayor said quickly,
“but I quite honestly have no idea what it is you want from me.”
Cthiarchios placed a hand on T’jiap’s shoulder as if to calm him, then spoke. “My dear fellow, we are Inquisitors. We are extraordinary
investigators in matters of special concern to His Imperial Maj– ” he stopped abruptly, licked his lips, and resumed – “Matters of
special concern. We are not interested in the slightest in the routine matters of your administration. Be a good chap and use your brain,
Mayor. Only extraordinary things attract extraordinary attention from extraordinary investigators. Has anything extraordinary happened
recently?”
“Um,” said the mayor, thinking. “Well, I suppose that depends on what you mean by extraordinary, my lord. The only thing particularly
odd to have happened lately is that we arrested a lunatic that couldn’t remember his name, and – “
“Ah,” said T’jiap. “So you were lying. I should kill you where you stand, you little worm.”
“I most certainly was not,” the mayor said stiffly. “My lord, I am a mayor. This city may not be as large as some of those in the Core,
but cities are large and complicated things. The arrest of a single madman isn’t very important. I probably wouldn’t have remembered it
at all if not for that professor from the University that came asking about it.”
The two Inquisitors exchanged glances quickly. “Professor, did you say? What was his name?”
“I don’t remember, my lord” the mayor said. “I can get the name from my secretary. I believe he said he was from the Department of
Psychology, Xenopsychology, and Parapsychology.”
T’jiap muttered something under his breath. “So he’s beaten us here, then.”
Cthiarchios managed to look annoyed and blasé at the same time. “What did you expect? The old man is cleverer than he looks.” He
looked back at the mayor. “Is this ‘Professor’ still here?”
“I think so, my lord. I haven’t seen him since the lunatic escaped.”
T’jiap’s eyes practically jumped out of his sockets. “He did what?”
“Um,” the mayor said. “He escaped custody two days ago.”
T’jiap’s face twitched and he snarled in wordless rage. For his part, the mayor merely grunted as he collapsed to the ground, cut in half
from hip to shoulder.
“That was a stupid thing to do, T’jiap,” Cthiarchios sighed, nudging the mayor’s body with the toe of his boot. “We needed him. Now
we have to find the deputy mayor, who may or may not know as much as this chap did about this business.”
“He’s just a prole. We don’t need these indigs, Cthiar– ” His comment was cut short by Cthiarchios slapping him across the face.
“Don’t be stupid!” His partner hissed. “Of course we need them. We need them to interdict this miserable little planet’s traffic, we need
them to mobilize their police to search the city, we need them to cooperate, and most of all, we need them to keep this quiet. We have
only a little time, and you killing people left and right hasn’t helped at all so far. Give me your lightsaber.”
“Surely you can’t be serious,” the more violent Inquisitor said disbelievingly.
“Of course I’m serious, you idiot. Either you give me your lightsaber, or we can call Jerec and let him decide.”
Sullenly, T’jiap deactivated his weapon and handed it over.
“They’re here,” said the Professor’s assistant, looking up from his datapad, which he had surreptitiously tapped into the city’s
government computer network.
“Of course they’re here, my dear boy, I expected nothing less. That mayor fellow practically summoned them himself when he detained
him in a public place,” the Professor said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Cthiarchios is no fool. He’s been tracking us since we left
Coruscant.”
“They must have an informant, then,” said the assistant, mulling this over.
“Undoubtedly so,” the Professor agreed. “I don’t know who, but I wouldn’t put it past that wily fellow over in the archaeology
department. However, you needn’t let that concern you, dear boy, it’s rather above your pay grade, as they say. Leave such messy
matters to your elders, who are better equipped to deal with them. Let us remain focused on the matter at hand.”
“We’re still no closer to finding him, Excellency,” the assistant said.
“I am aware of that, my fine young fellow,” he said easily. “Well, he’s not at any of the museums. Get me a list of the local art galleries,
he’d probably go there next.”
“Art galleries?” the assistant looked at him dubiously. “Why would he go to – ”
“You don’t need to understand in order to obey, my dear boy,” the Professor said mildly.
The assistant did as he was told. The Professor smiled to himself; good help was so hard to find these days, but it was always gratifying
to see a man know when he was beaten. There’d been a time, long ago, when he himself had been in his assistant’s position, although the
Professor had never wasted his employer’s time with extraneous questions and meaningless chatter.
Not to mention that he’d been rather more fashionably dressed when he’d been the assistant.
stirring, a pressure in his soul. He was being chased, he knew. Someone was coming for him. He heard whispers, like a thousand voices
trying to speak to him at the same time. He shook his head to clear it, and then melted into the crowd
immediately drawn to the lightsaber hanging ostentatiously from the man’s cincture. “Another Inquisitor, my lord?” he asked.
“No, I’m a professional transvestite,” the man answered sarcastically, “which is why I can run about in heels and not fall over. You are the
mayor, I assume?”
“No, my lord,” the deputy mayor answered. “I regret to inform you that His Honor was... I suppose you would say he was executed by
one of your esteemed colleagues.”
The Inquisitor looked at the deputy mayor sharply. “Oh, was he? What a remarkable thing. Inquisitor T’jiap, I suppose?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“What a surprise,” the Inquisitor said. “All right, Mr. Mayor – ”
“Begging my lord’s pardon,” said the deputy mayor politely, “but I am not the – ”
“You are the mayor because I say you are the mayor,” said the Inquisitor, rolling his eyes. “Let me be the first to congratulate you on your
election to the office. I understand that there wasn’t a single vote cast against you. Now then, have I got your permission to proceed? I
have? Thank you, Mr. Mayor. Where are my... esteemed colleagues... now?”
“They’ve split up, my lord,” said the mayor, not batting an eye at his recent victory at the polls. “Each is accompanied by two squads of
stormtroopers. To my knowledge, they are searching the city for a malcontent whom we’d arrested not long before their arrival.”
“Ah,” said the Inquisitor. “Aha. Well, Mr. Mayor, I regret to inform you that my esteemed colleagues are ‘off the reservation,’ as they
say, and the Chief Inquisitor has assigned me to investigate their presence here without proper authority. Mobilize your best men and
come with me.”
“He was definitely here,” said the Professor.
“How can you tell, Excellency?” his assistant said, looking around for the usual signs one looked for when in pursuit. “I don’t see any tracks
or traces of evidence. What am I missing?”
“That, of course,” said the Professor, pointing at the sculpture. “It’s not the original, but still an excellent facsimile. He owns the original,
you see; obtained it at great expense at an auction on Commenor, if I recall correctly. Interesting that he would recognize it enough to be
drawn to it. His memories may be trying to reorder themselves, but he’s still vulnerable. Otherwise he wouldn’t flee from me.”
“As you say, Excellency,” his assistant said dubiously; this was most certainly not his field of expertise, and he was more or less content to
defer to the Professor’s superior knowledge.
“Unless...” the Professor stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps he wasn’t fleeing from me at all. He’s probably not sane enough yet to
really notice me, but he certainly could notice someone else if they were obvious enough. You notice a flare much more readily than you
notice a candle, no?”
“Of course,” said the assistant. “Which is precisely why we use night-vision rather than – ”
“I think you interpreted my point a trifle too literally, my dear boy,” said the Professor, “The important thing is that I’m a candle; if he fled,
it’s because he’s running from a flare. His danger sense is tingling, you might say. There must be an Inquisitor nearby.”
The assistant pursed his lips. “I have to get you to safety, then, Excellency. We can’t risk exposing you to an Inquisitor.”
The Professor sighed. “Very well,” he said tiredly. “But just a moment yet, young man...” He removed a handful of small beads from the
satchel slung over his shoulder, hefted them, and then smiled slightly as they floated upward out of his palm, humming faintly, and began to
vibrate so quickly that they simply vanished from sight, their humming fading out of hearing.
“Spyeyes, Excellency?” said the assistant. “We already have swarms of them searching for him, though.”
“Naturally,” he answered as they began to make their way through the crowd, moving surreptitiously toward an exit. “I want these ones to
keep an ‘eye’ or two on the Inquisitors. There’s always a possibility that they’ll find him before we do, you know.”
Mere moments after they left, a group of stormtroopers cleared the area as Inquisitor T’jiap made his appearance.
“Can you sense anything?” said the eighth-sized hologram of his partner, perched atop a small, hovering holoproj.
T’jiap looked around himself and then closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He allowed himself to drift, to open himself to the Force, letting
himself merge into its flow, filling the room, dissolving himself into the space and feeling the memories embedded in it. It was like reading
psychic footprints in the carpet, in the walls, in the air. He opened his eyes and smiled.
“Oh, yes,” he said, “He’s definitely been here. So has the old man.”
“How long ago? When did they meet? How long were they together?”
T’jiap shook his head. “I don’t think they were here at the same time. It’s hard to tell. I need more practice at psychometry before I can – ”
“You whine like a mule,” Cthiarchios interrupted coldly. “It’s unbecoming of your rank and station. Which direction did they go?”
“It feels like they took the back exit,” he answered, “but I can’t be sure. It’s hard to read, Cthiarchios, and I really need more – ”
“Stop whining,” the taller Inquisitor cut off his partner sharply. He opened his mouth to say more, but then turned slightly to his left as
though listening to someone just out of the holoproj’s range at his end of the transmission. “Excellent,” he said, rubbing his chin. “A local
informer has spotted the old man headed to a warehouse not far from here. I’m going to go retire him. Bring your men and set up a perimeter
in case he gives us the slip. We have him now.”
“Don’t you want to wait until I can join you?” T’jiap frowned. “The old man’s a wily fikrmuadhif. It might be better if you – ”
“I know,” Cthiarchios said, waving this aside. “But we can’t leave him to run about, not when we have a chance to put him down. The longer
we wait, the more trouble he can cause. He’s an old man now, he’s not as dangerous as he used to be. I’ll handle it personally.”
As they drew nearer to the warehouse, Inquisitor Cthiarchios slowed to a halt and frowned, pressing a gloved hand to his temple. “Can you
hear that, Staff Sergeant?” he said, turning to the section leader.
The stormtrooper ordered the section to halt and looked at him curiously – which was quite a feat, given that he was covered from head to
toe in expressionless white armor. “I don’t hear anything, my lord.”
Cthiarchios’s face screwed into one of faint discomfort. “It sounds like there’s something ringing.”
“You mean like after a loud explosion, my lord?”
“Yes, a bit like that. It’s giving me a headache.”
The section leader signaled the communications specialist to join them. “Do a quick scan, Private,” he said. “Do you pick up anything
unusual?”
After a moment of fiddling with his additional equipment, the junior stormtrooper nodded. “Yes, Staff Sergeant. There are definitely some
unusual emissions on a handful of frequencies. None of them are particularly dangerous to humans.”
The section leader turned back to Cthiarchios. “My lord? Do you wish to proceed?”
“Of course, Staff Sergeant,” he said. “It’s just a headache.”
The section spread out as it moved into the warehouse, each squad breaking into fire teams and advancing by numbers as they searched the
first floor. The section leader reported the completion of their sweep of this floor, and then ordered his marines to the second floor.
“I’d be a lot more comfortable if we could scan the warehouse first,” the staff sergeant said aloud to the Inquisitor. “Can you sense anything,
my lord?”
“Yes,” the Inquisitor said, squinting. “I can feel them up on the third floor, but I can’t tell anything else. This confounded ringing is breaking
my concentration.”
The staff sergeant nodded slowly. “It must not affect us because of our helmets. You may want to consider withdrawing, my lord.”
He shook his head. “Absolutely not, Staff Sergeant. I – wait. They’re moving, I can feel it.” He squinted again, trying to stretch out with his
feelings. “I can’t get a fix – no, wait. Staff Sergeant, Specialist, come with me.” He turned on his heel and headed to the stairwell, and the
three returned to the first floor.
Something moved, and the three were immediately after it. It was a matter of minutes before they were staring at a floating probe
approximately the size of a human head.
“Keep back, my lord,” the section leader said warily.
“Greetings and salutations, Inquisitor Ctharchios,” the probe said pleasantly.
Ctharchios’s face plainly displayed his confusion now. “How do you know my name, machine?”
“Because, my lord,” it answered quite cheerfully, “I was instructed to wait for you. As you might have surmised, I was the presence that
you felt on the third floor, rather than your intended quarry. I am also the source of that peculiar ringing you hear. As you ought to have
guessed, you are the only one who hears it because you are the only one whose brain operates on those frequencies. It is a side-effect of your
use of the Force.”
“Where is the old man? Do you even know?” The Inquisitor demanded.
“Indeed I do not, my lord,” the machine answered. “Although I do have a message for you.” Its lense began to project a quarter-sized
hologram.
“How are you, gentlemen?” The Professor’s hologram said, smiling coldly. At just that moment, the ringing in Ctharchios’s ears stopped.
“Oh,” Cthiarchios said. “Nuts.”
“It looks like the Inquisitor was standing right next to the bomb when it went off, my lord,” the local forensics expert told Inquisitor T’jiap.
“There’s not very much of him left, I’m afraid. We found what’s left of his boots and part of his jaw.”
“He was carrying two lightsabers,” T’jiap said. “Did your men find either of them?”
The man raised a clear bag with black-charred cylinders in it, both of them badly warped. “I’m afraid they got pretty well cooked, my lord,”
he said sheepishly, fully aware of what had happened to the mayor. “I think the internal components are all fused, but I don’t know very
much about these things. I assume you want to take them, my lord?”
Before he could answer, another voice called out very sharply: “Inquisitor T’jiap!”
He turned quickly, angrily; with Cthiarchios blown to smithereens, there was no one on this miserable little planet who could possibly have
the chutzpah to address him by name. His face darkened as he recognized his colleague from the Inquisitorius, the dandified Inquisitor.
“Oh, stars,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“Your telepathy is improving, T’jiap,” said he, “That’s precisely the question I had in mind to ask of you. The Chief Inquisitor would be
interested as well, seeing that you and Cthiarchios saw fit to simply abandon your assigned mission without proper authority. What
happened here?”
“Cthiarchios was blown up,” T’jiap said flatly. “And now I haven’t got a lightsaber. I don’t have time to play pattycake with you, I have
work to do. Go bother someone else.”
The Inquisitor’s eyes hardened. “Order your men to stand down, T’jiap. I have some... questions... I’d like to ask you.”
T’jiap’s face flushed with anger. “Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be, is it? You think you’re just going to pirouette in here and haul me in for
an interview, do you?”
“Your commission is terminated, T’jiap,” said the other icily. “You’re coming with me, dead or alive – ”
T’jiap snarled and yanked the lightsaber off the other man’s belt. The Inquisitor reacted instantly, but it was too late; at that range, he’d
never had a chance, and his own lightsaber pierced him through the heart. He dropped soundlessly to the ground, even as T’jiap’s
stormtroopers opened fire on the armed men who had accompanied the Inquisitor. It was over almost before it began.
T’jiap swore viciously. There had been nothing he could have done, anyone could see that. He couldn’t go back to the Empire now, not after
this. His employer would have to fake his death, probably. He was going to miss being an Inquisitor, but once his employer became
Emperor, there would be rewards enough. All he had to do was find and kill that old man and the walking corpse he was chasing after.
Well, at least he had a lightsaber again.
“You,” said T’jiap, gesturing to one of his stormtroopers. “I want a thermal scan of this entire area. Find me any recent footsteps leading
away from this warehouse. Probably two or three people. I want to know where they’re – son of a motherless tshajr! You idiots! Who’s in
charge of counter-surveillance in this unit?”
One of the stormtroopers acknowledged this: “I am, my lord,” he said.
“We’re being bugged, you fool! He’s using Spyeyes! Clear this area, immediately!”
“Hmm,” said the Professor, as he placed his Spyeye signal receiver back into his satchel. “Well, at least we retired Inquisitor Cthiarchios,
that’s confirmed.”
“Yes, Excellency,” said the assistant. “I think he’s been here recently, Excellency, I’ve finally got a fix on his scent.”
The Professor nodded; his assistant was not human, but rather a humanoid from a species called the Myke. They resembled humans very
closely – closely enough that cross-species sexual attraction was possible – but they did have some advantages over the baseline human, such
as vastly superior senses of smell (Mykes were, however, rather less physically robust than their pseudo-cousins the humans).
“Took you long enough,” chided the Professor mildly; nothing more than a mild chiding was necessary, because the assistant was already
conscious of his tardiness in finally being able to track the smell.
“I’m almost sure of it, Excellency,” said the assistant, very self-conscious at this point.
“Well, then, let’s just discourage Inquisitor T’jiap from following in our footsteps, shall we?” The Professor drew something that looked like
the bastard love child of a pistol and a clothes hanger from his satchel, pointed it behind himself, and pulled the trigger, firing what looked like
a burst of shrapnel into the alley behind them.
“Let’s not tarry, young man,” said the Professor, satisfied with his handiwork. “Lead on.”
“They definitely came this way, my lord,” said the stormtrooper operating the tracking gear. “Not ten minutes ago. Two bipeds, one about
average height, average weight, wearing some kind of coat or cloak that drags on the ground behind him. He’s wearing soft shoes or slippers,
based on the thermal imprint he’s leaving.”
“The so-called Professor,” said T’jiap, nodding. “Elderly human male, nothing to be concerned about.”
“The other is slightly taller than average, I think, my lord,” said the stormtrooper. “He – assuming it’s male – is somewhat lighter than
average for a human, and he’s definitely wearing boots. I think they’re standard issue jackboots, my lord.”
“Hm,” said the Inquisitor. “I don’t know who that is. Probably one of his lackeys. It could be his secretary – oh, what’s his name? Tavary?
Something like that.”
“My lord, there’s something on the alley walls ahead.”
“But they did pass through this alley?” T’jiap disliked relying on sensors, but he was too agitated to reliably use his nascent skills of
psychometry. “I don’t sense any immediate danger.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea, my lord,” said the section leader. “They look like microdroids, and after that explosion at the warehouse
and the Spyeyes, these are probably some kind of booby trap. We should secure the area and cut around through another path.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said the Inquisitor. “I’d sense danger if it were a booby trap, and I’m not going to lose precious time because you
think he might have set a trap.”
“But my lord, most booby traps aren’t dangerous until you actually trigger them,” said the section leader, showing a surprising amount of
spine in arguing with a violent-tempered Inquisitor. He turned to his sensor specialist: “Scan those things for threats. I want to know what
they are, and I want to know what they do.”
“Aye, Staff Sergeant,” said the specialist, and he immediately set about with his gear. “There’s some kind of coded subspace comm signals
passing between them, Staff Sergeant. Positioning orders, I think. These things are definitely linked by some sort of central AI controlling
where each one goes. I’m not picking anything else up, but they’re definitely hardened against scanning.”
“I don’t think we should risk it, my lord,” said the section leader.
“I’m not interested in what you think,” said the Inquisitor. “You’re wasting precious time, Sergeant.”
“Aye aye, my lord,” said the section leader, suppressing a sigh of resignation. Orders were orders, even if they were stupid, senseless orders.
“By the numbers, men,” he said. “Move out, carefully. Watch out for – ”
The very instant the stormtroopers began to move, the microdroids positioned on the alley walls began to scurry, moving suddenly and with
surprising speed about three meters forward, surrounding the first squad of stormtroopers and then suddenly releasing high-powered lasers.
The result of this flurry of motion and light was that the stormtroopers collapsed into dismembered bits and pieces, cut to ribbons by a
spider’s web of deadly light. The microdroids fell off the walls, their power sources expended completely by the firing of the lasers; their
work completed, they were burnt out and useless little husks, like insect shells after molting.
A snarl of anger erupted from T’jiap’s throat. “After them!” he roared, not at all pleased to find that the section leader had been right; the
laserweb had not been dangerous until after it had been triggered, and consequently he could not sense the danger. Well, that was what
stormtroopers were for, wasn’t it?
The pale man looked at the doors, fascinated by the designs traced onto them in intricate detail. He knew these designs, he was sure of it. But
he could not recognize them; the knowledge that he sought danced tantalizingly just beyond his reach. There was something familiar about
this place, its significance somehow related to him. As though it had been created for him, almost.
He stood and tried the door, finding it open. He entered, knowing somehow that he was meant to come here.
“Tsk, tsk,” said the Professor, now consulting a datapad. “That damn fool, T’jiap, sent his stormtroopers right into the laserweb. Honestly,
you’d think the man would listen to his platoon sergeant.”
“The hazards of priests playing soldiers, Excellency,” said the assistant very mildly, drawing a sharp look from the Professor.
“Mind your tongue, boy,” said the Professor, unamused by the man’s comment.
“As you wish, Excellency,” said he. “He’s very near, I’m sure of it. His scent is very fresh here.”
“Hmm,” said the Professor, consulting his datapad. “Yes, of course. I should have known.”
“What is it, Excellency?”
“Only a few dozen meters up ahead, this alley lets out onto one of the main thoroughfares. Not very far from there is a church.”
“A church, Excellency?”
“Yes,” said the Professor, grinning. “The local congregation of the Church of the Dark Side, you see. Built in anticipation of the return of the
Emperor.”
“Yesss,” said the Inquisitor. “Yes, we’re very close now. I can feel it.”
He inhaled deeply, savoring the feel of the air around him, virtually charged with destiny. He was so close now, he could almost taste it.
“Come, Sergeant. Hurry.”
The pale man turned at the sound of the doors, and saw an old man in academic robes and a much younger Myke enter the church. The pale
man’s lips pulled up in a wordless snarl, and he reared up like a sabercat ready to pounce.
“Master,” said the old man, as both he and the Myke prostrated themselves before him, pressing their foreheads to the floor.
The pale man relaxed somewhat, but looked at them in confusion. This was right, this was proper – men should kneel before him, but why?
“Who are you? What is this?”
“You know who I am, Master,” said the old man. “I am your faithful servant. We haven’t much time, Master, we are being followed. It is
most urgent that we get you to safety.”
“But I cannot remember who I am,” said the pale man.
“You will remember soon enough, I assure you, Master,” said the old man. “Please, Master, you know you can trust me.”
“No,” answered the pale man. “I do not know you. I do not know me. What is all this? Why does his place call to me?”
“Because, Master,” said the old man, rising and drawing nearer. “This place is built anticipating your return. Come with me, Master, and I
will heal you. I will restore you.”
“Why should I trust you? Who are you? Who am I?”
The old man drew near, placed his hand gently on the pale man’s forearm, and whispered in his ear.
“Yes,” said the pale man, his dead eyes drooping closed, and he nodded. “Yes. Let us go.”
“Quickly, Master. We haven’t much time. There is an exit in the vestry. Boy, call for our departure flight.”
“Excellency, they’re here,” said the Myke.
“Very well,” said the old man, reaching into his satchel and removing a few chrome spheres, each a little larger than a human fist. “These
ought to buy us a little time. Come, come! To the vestry. Hurry!”
“They’re inside, my lord,” said the section leader, gesturing toward the Church. “Sensors show three bipeds, two humans and one Myke.
One of the humans is dead, my lord.”
“Dead? Are you sure?”
“Yes, my lord. Life signs are consistent with a reanimated corpse.”
“We have them, then! All of them!” The Inquisitor grinned. “All right, Sergeant, ready your men to – ”
One of the stormtroopers screamed as a chrome sphere tore out of the open door and slammed right into his face, a drill emerging from its
polished surface and cutting right through the stormtrooper’s helmet, splattering his armor with blood. A handful of the things followed,
rocketing toward the white-armored Marines.
“Shavit!” The Inquisitor reached for his lightsaber and at the touch of the activator stud his weapon sprang into existence. “Phantom
spheres!”
“Well, that didn’t quite go as planned,” said the Professor, staring at the dead end the escape route from the vestry had brought them to.
“Apparently this city’s official layout has some minor deviation from the actual state of affairs.”
“Are you all right, Master?” The assistant was applying some basic medkit treatment to the pale man’s various open wounds, doing his best
with the limited gear at his disposal.
“How is our departure flight looking, my boy?”
“Ah, it should be on its way, Excellency.”
“Good,” said the Professor. “Because I think T’jiap has just finished with the last of my Phantom spheres, and he still has about a squad of
stormtroopers left.”
“We’re trapped, then,” said the assistant.
“I’m afraid so,” nodded the Professor. “I hope your people are punctual, young man, because I’d really hate to die like this.”
“There they are!” the stormtrooper said, pointing ahead at the three bodies trapped against an unexpected wall blocking off the alley. He was
limping, and blood was spattered on his armor. By this point the stormtroopers were almost as angry as T’jiap.
“Well, well, well,” said T’jiap, savoring the opportunity to gloat. “So, finally cornered like the dire-rat you are, eh, old man? What’s the
matter, run out of booby traps? No more party favors to dissuade pursuit?”
“You know, T’jiap, old boy, you’re really not half as clever as you think you are,” said the Professor.
“I’m not worried about being clever, old man,” answered T’jiap. “Because for all your vaunted intellect, only one of us is going to walk out
of this alley alive.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” answered the elderly man in the academic robes. His assistant began to edge his body in front of the old man,
perhaps intending to provide him what meager protection his body could offer from T’jiap’s stormtroopers and their rifles.
“Oh, that’s quite all right, my boy, I have a shield,” said the Professor – and surely enough, as T’jiap looked, he could see the telltale slight
distortion in the air, the shimmering sphere that surrounded the Professor and the vagrant.
“Pathetic,” growled T’jiap. “Do you really think that little contraption is going to stop me, old man?”
“No, actually,” he said with a grin, pulling some sort of remote switch out of his satchel. “That’s what that claymore you’re standing on is
for.”
Metallic agony tore through T’jiap’s body in a thousand different places, turning his athletic body into a ruins of shredded muscle, shattered
bone, and torn ligaments. He screamed in incoherent misery as he collapsed, only his great rage staving off shock and death. “Kill them!” he
managed to sputter through broken lips, struggling vainly to stand on legs he no longer had. “Kill them all!”
The stormtroopers responded immediately, bringing up their weapons and firing with military precision – of course, the Professor’s personal
force shield deflected their fire, but there was a limit to how long it could do that, and once it did . . . well, it wouldn’t be the first time the
Empire had murdered an academic.
But the Professor did not appear to be in the least bit ruffled. He spared a glance at his assistant: “Colonel Thrawn, if you please . . . ?”
“With pleasure, Your Excellency,” said he, before bringing a comlink up to his lips. “Starcrash Brigade, lock in on my signal and engage. Kill
anything in white.”
It was only a moment before the response came. The air overhead shimmered, and then suddenly where there had been nothing, there was
precisely the opposite of nothing: There was something, a rather large something, something whose shape rather unpleasantly resembled an
assault transport. Seconds after that unpleasantly shaped something appeared, a large number of even more unpleasantly shaped things
appeared:
Paratroopers.
Clad in gray powered armor they leapt down the forty or fifty meters from their de-cloaked transport, unslinging their repeaters as they
dropped, falling onto the stormtroopers with the proverbial fury of savages running amok. They moved quickly, silently – built-in sound
suppressors baffled the noise of their armor’s movement – and the fruit of their labors was quick death for anything resembling a
stormtrooper. Despite the similarity of their armor to that worn by the Empire’s Darktrooper dragoons, no Imperial sigil decorated their
armor. Rather, etched in exquisite detail on the breast of each cuirass was the crest of the Household Division of the House of Palpatine – for
they were the Starcrash Brigade, the ancient family’s private army.
“Well done, Colonel,” said the Professor, surveying the Starcrash Brigade’s handiwork. The Emperor had always believed in redundancy, and
thus the Imperial and Royal Guard had not been the only private military sworn to protect him no matter what the cost. Always a good idea
to have more than one praetorian guard, more than one elite army willing to die to keep one in power. After all, without power. . . one dies.
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” said the assistant.
“Right, then, I want all this cleared up. No witnesses, you understand. And get His Imperial Majesty aboard,” he said, gesturing toward the
pale man, “and clean up those wounds. I don’t want necrosis destroying it before we can restore Droga to his body.”
“As you command, Your Excellency,” said Colonel Thrawn, the inhuman Commanding Officer, Starcrash Brigade of the Household Division.
“It’s been quite a while since anyone’s called me ‘Professor,’” remarked the Grand Vizier of the Galactic Empire, à propos of nothing. “Now
that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve taught a class in over a decade.”
“You mean you actually are a professor, Excellency?” said the Colonel, looking at him curiously.
“Of course I am,” answered the Grand Vizier, apparently having taken the facts of his academic credentials for granted. “I’m the adjunct
professor of theoretical hyperphysics at the University, you know. Did you think that the ID that I showed the mayor was forged?”
From somewhere behind them came a groan, pure agony audible in every syllable. “I’ll kill you!” shouted the mangled voice; the Grand Vizier
and Colonel Thrawn turned, surprised to find that despite having stood on a claymore when it detonated, Inquisitor T’jiap was still not dead,
his broken body somehow held together by his anger and hatred. Rather like Darth Vader, only less talented and less intelligent, mused the
Grand Vizier.
“Run, you cowards! Go ahead! It’ll do you no good! I’ll track you down wherever you hide, I’ll find you, I’ll kill you! You can never run far
enough to escape from me! I’ll haunt your every nightmare, I’ll be in every shadow – ”
To their great surprise, the viciously tattered scarecrow of flesh that remained from the claymore’s detonation managed to push itself up,
unsteadily tottering to its feet, raising its bloody fist in a gesture of defiance, pure rage holding him together even as the last of the Starcrash
Brigade troopers were returning to their transport, a harness being lowered to pull the Grand Vizier and the Colonel onto the ship so that
they could at last vacate the premises.
“You’ll never be rid of me! I’ll find you, cowards, I’ll tear your souls apart! I’ll – ”
The Grand Vizier reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out a pistol. He took three full strides, pressed the muzzle against T’jiap’s
bloodshot left eye, and pulled the trigger.
“Let that be a lesson to you, Colonel,” said the Grand Vizier, as he strapped himself into the lifting harness. “If you’re going to threaten
people after they’ve already won. . . at least be smart enough to wait until they can’t hear you.”
“I’ll make a note of that, Your Excellency,” said the Myke, glancing at what was left of Inquisitor T’jiap.
“Now then,” said the Grand Vizier, “I’ll be obliged if you’ll have your navigator set a course for Byss, Colonel. We’ve a great deal of work to
do, you know. Droga will appreciate having his body back, I’m sure. So will His Imperial Majesty.” He pursed his lips as the harness gave a
little shudder, and then steadily raised him off the ground toward the open loading hatch of the assault shuttle hovering overhead.
“But His Imperial Majesty’s body was destroyed, Excellency,” said Colonel Thrawn.
“Hmmm?” The Grand Vizier looked over at the Myke for a moment before nodding. “Well, yes, you’re right, I suppose it was.”
“So then how will he have his body back, Excellency?”
“Oh, that’s quite simple, really,” said the Grand Vizier. “Tell me, Colonel, do you know much about clones . . . ?”
his face and clothes, ragged though they were, clearly identified him as being a foreigner. They didn’t mind strangers around here,
provided of course that they were the right kind. A planet that serves primarily as a port in the Invisible Economy welcomes strangers
interested in expediting the flow of credits. A man who stares at an empty glass for three hours stirs little but suspicion and distrust.
Finally the bartender got tired of waiting for the man to pay for a drink. His bulk blocked the light and cast his shadow over the table
where the pale man sat. The man did not move, did not turn around.
“Hey. Blondie.” The bartender said. The pale man gave no response.
The bartender clapped a hand heavily on the man’s shoulder. “I’m talking to you, Blondie.” He gave the man a shake. “This ain’t no
library, pal. Either buy a drink or get out.” Still the man did not respond.
The bartender circled around the table and looked the pale man in the face. He looked to be in extremely poor health, his eyes sunken and
glassy. His hair was disheveled and his skin was unwashed and dirty. A nasty gash ran across his forehead, and appeared to be neither
healing nor bleeding. The bartender waved a hand in front of the pale man’s eyes; they did not track the movement, but remain fixed on
the glass. The bartender grunted and reached for the glass.
Immediately the pale man’s hand shot out and caught the bartender by the wrist with an iron grip; his skin felt cold to the touch.
“Don’t touch that,” the pale man growled, seemingly speaking with two voices at once.
The bartender tried to take a step back, but the grip on his wrist was far too strong to let him actually move. As a result, his hand was
still clasped around the glass.
“I said let go,” the pale man growled. “Let go.”
“I can’t!” The bartender said, suddenly finding that panic was rapidly blossoming in his belly. There was something seriously wrong
with this man.
“You dare to defy me?” the pale man demanded, standing suddenly and revealing that he was in fact two meters tall. The bartender could
feel the bones in his wrist crumpling under the man’s iron grip. He dropped to his knees whimpering.
The bouncer came bounding over, thinking to correct this error in judgement. The pale man immediately turned and used the bartender’s
arm to hurl the man at the bouncer, bowling them both over and dislocating the bartender’s arm in the process. It was over as quickly as
it had begun, and the bar was now occupied by a mass of patrons staring in perverse fascination at this bizarre fellow who so casually
disposed of two rather large and stocky men without so much as raising a sweat.
“No,” he said as he shook his head and looked around the bar as though seeing it for the first time. “Not here. Not where I belong.” He
turned and headed toward the bartender, whom he grabbed by the throat and easily lifted off the ground. “You. Who am I?”
The semiconscious bartender could not possibly hoped to have answered that question had he been in full command of his mental
faculties; through the daze of pain he was currently suffering, he was unable to stutter much of any sort of answer at all before the man
began to scream at him, “Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?”
- * * * * *
The mayor regarded the wizened old man with a wry look. “I don’t know that I would quite call him a demoniac, sir.”
The old man’s assistant spoke up immediately. “Milord Mayor,” he said stiffly. “You should address the Professor as ‘Doctor,’ not
‘sir.’”
But the Professor smiled gently and rested a liver-spotted hand on his assistant’s biceps. “It is not important, dear boy.” He turned his
attention back to the mayor. “Milord Mayor, if the poor fellow is not a demoniac, what indeed would you call him? His behavior is
erratic and at times violent. He exhibits physical strength well in excess of what his frame can possibly account for. He speaks tongues
he has never learned, and gives details of events he has not witnessed and cannot possibly know. What else, indeed, could you possibly
call him?”
“The poor devil’s just sick, that’s all,” the mayor insisted. “Demoniac! Honestly, Professor, I fail to see how a man of science can claim
to believe in such silly superstitions.”
“Milord Mayor, have you so much as had your psychiatrists examine the poor fellow? I think you’ll find that this is no mere
psychological illness or abnormality.”
The mayor looked at him blankly. “Well, no, to be honest. As far as I know he’s still being detained over in the police station.”
The Professor’s eyes went slightly wider. “You have him detained in a public location?”
“Of course I do,” the mayor said, frowning. “I know this matter may be of special interest to you, but the lunatic ravings of a single man
simply aren’t that important to me.”
“No, no, no, milord Mayer, that simply will not do,” the Professor said worriedly. “I beg your indulgence, milord. May I examine the
fellow? It is a matter of some urgency. His personal safety may have been compromised.”
This statement was so absurd that the mayor couldn’t help but laugh, drawing a particularly dark glare from the Professor’s stony-eyed
assistant. “I’m sorry, Professor, but I really don’t see any emergency in the matter. The man’s a drifter, somehow making his way across
a dozen or so planets in this part of the Sector before we picked him up for disturbance of the peace. There’s no great danger here.”
“On the contrary, milord Mayor,” the Professor said with quiet urgency. “This is a matter of the gravest importance. The fate of the
galaxy might hinge upon it.”
“Nonsense,” the mayor waved this off. “I’m sorry, Professor, but I simply can’t indulge your concerns. The man will be remanded to
the hospital for a more thorough psychiatric evaluation in the morning. You can have a look once they’re done with him there.”
“Milord Mayor,” the assistant began to say something, but again the Professor put a hand on his arm, restraining him without so much
as a word.
“I am grateful for your time and cooperation, milord Mayor. I shall be happy to examine the patient once your hospital’s psychologists
are finished being baffled.” With that, the Professor and his assistant took their leave.
The Professor’s assistant waited until they were in their rented speeder before he spoke. “Are we really going to just wait, Excellency?”
“Of course not, my dear boy. Don’t be silly. This is far too important to leave in the hands of the local mayoralty.”
“Ah,” the assistant nodded fractionally – he was not given to external displays of emotion. “I am not comfortable with him being held in
such a vulnerable location.”
“Nor I, my dear boy, nor I,” the Professor said. “If we’ve found him, then they’re certain to have found him as well. The difference is
that we’re here now, and they are not. Let us make haste, my dear boy, we must recover him immediately.”
- * * * * *
“Please,” the chief of police said, covering his eyes with his hand, “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“I wish I could, Chief,” the policeman said, looking at the empty cell and shaking his head. “He got out. I have absolutely no idea how he
did it, but he did it. He’s escaped from his cell.”
“Well, where is he? Is he still in the building?”
“Uh, we’re still checking on that, Chief,” the man said. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers and sighed. “But to tell you the truth, I don’t
think he is. If he can slip out of a prison cell without alerting us, he can probably get out of the station altogether before we notice.”
“Well, find him! Catch him!” the chief of police screamed, feeling his blood pressure skyrocket. This was the last thing he needed right
now. What kind of idiots let a prisoner give them the slip like this? Unbelievable. Whatever moron had been on watch, the chief swore
viciously that he’d have the man’s guts for garters.
- * * * * *
The mayor was doing a poor job of concealing his anxiety as he waited for the Inquisitors’ shuttle to settle to the ground. The sudden
arrival of a platoon of stormtroopers had been disturbing; the arrival of a pair of agents of the Inquisitorius was downright unwelcome.
Inquisitors were angels of death as far as the people of the Galactic Empire were concerned. Everywhere they went they brought pain
and suffering. He had been decidedly not happy when he’d received word that the Inquisitors requested and required his attendance upon
them immediately.
The shuttle’s brow lowered to the ground, and they descended, dressed in simple black and gray vestments. The first of them was about
a head taller than his partner, and they both openly displayed lightsabers.
“Ah, Mayor,” said the taller man. “I am Inquisitor Cthiarchios, and this is my partner Inquisitor T’jiap. I believe you have something
that may be of interest to us.”
“I – ah, I’m sorry, my lord, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the mayor said, without the slightest hint of dishonesty.
T’jiap’s eyes darkened. “It is a Class One offense to lie to an agent of the Inquisitorius, you know.”
“My lord, I assure you, I have no interest in bringing disrepute on myself, my office, my city, or my world,” the mayor said quickly,
“but I quite honestly have no idea what it is you want from me.”
Cthiarchios placed a hand on T’jiap’s shoulder as if to calm him, then spoke. “My dear fellow, we are Inquisitors. We are extraordinary
investigators in matters of special concern to His Imperial Maj– ” he stopped abruptly, licked his lips, and resumed – “Matters of
special concern. We are not interested in the slightest in the routine matters of your administration. Be a good chap and use your brain,
Mayor. Only extraordinary things attract extraordinary attention from extraordinary investigators. Has anything extraordinary happened
recently?”
“Um,” said the mayor, thinking. “Well, I suppose that depends on what you mean by extraordinary, my lord. The only thing particularly
odd to have happened lately is that we arrested a lunatic that couldn’t remember his name, and – “
“Ah,” said T’jiap. “So you were lying. I should kill you where you stand, you little worm.”
“I most certainly was not,” the mayor said stiffly. “My lord, I am a mayor. This city may not be as large as some of those in the Core,
but cities are large and complicated things. The arrest of a single madman isn’t very important. I probably wouldn’t have remembered it
at all if not for that professor from the University that came asking about it.”
The two Inquisitors exchanged glances quickly. “Professor, did you say? What was his name?”
“I don’t remember, my lord” the mayor said. “I can get the name from my secretary. I believe he said he was from the Department of
Psychology, Xenopsychology, and Parapsychology.”
T’jiap muttered something under his breath. “So he’s beaten us here, then.”
Cthiarchios managed to look annoyed and blasé at the same time. “What did you expect? The old man is cleverer than he looks.” He
looked back at the mayor. “Is this ‘Professor’ still here?”
“I think so, my lord. I haven’t seen him since the lunatic escaped.”
T’jiap’s eyes practically jumped out of his sockets. “He did what?”
“Um,” the mayor said. “He escaped custody two days ago.”
T’jiap’s face twitched and he snarled in wordless rage. For his part, the mayor merely grunted as he collapsed to the ground, cut in half
from hip to shoulder.
“That was a stupid thing to do, T’jiap,” Cthiarchios sighed, nudging the mayor’s body with the toe of his boot. “We needed him. Now
we have to find the deputy mayor, who may or may not know as much as this chap did about this business.”
“He’s just a prole. We don’t need these indigs, Cthiar– ” His comment was cut short by Cthiarchios slapping him across the face.
“Don’t be stupid!” His partner hissed. “Of course we need them. We need them to interdict this miserable little planet’s traffic, we need
them to mobilize their police to search the city, we need them to cooperate, and most of all, we need them to keep this quiet. We have
only a little time, and you killing people left and right hasn’t helped at all so far. Give me your lightsaber.”
“Surely you can’t be serious,” the more violent Inquisitor said disbelievingly.
“Of course I’m serious, you idiot. Either you give me your lightsaber, or we can call Jerec and let him decide.”
Sullenly, T’jiap deactivated his weapon and handed it over.
- * * * * *
“They’re here,” said the Professor’s assistant, looking up from his datapad, which he had surreptitiously tapped into the city’s
government computer network.
“Of course they’re here, my dear boy, I expected nothing less. That mayor fellow practically summoned them himself when he detained
him in a public place,” the Professor said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Cthiarchios is no fool. He’s been tracking us since we left
Coruscant.”
“They must have an informant, then,” said the assistant, mulling this over.
“Undoubtedly so,” the Professor agreed. “I don’t know who, but I wouldn’t put it past that wily fellow over in the archaeology
department. However, you needn’t let that concern you, dear boy, it’s rather above your pay grade, as they say. Leave such messy
matters to your elders, who are better equipped to deal with them. Let us remain focused on the matter at hand.”
“We’re still no closer to finding him, Excellency,” the assistant said.
“I am aware of that, my fine young fellow,” he said easily. “Well, he’s not at any of the museums. Get me a list of the local art galleries,
he’d probably go there next.”
“Art galleries?” the assistant looked at him dubiously. “Why would he go to – ”
“You don’t need to understand in order to obey, my dear boy,” the Professor said mildly.
The assistant did as he was told. The Professor smiled to himself; good help was so hard to find these days, but it was always gratifying
to see a man know when he was beaten. There’d been a time, long ago, when he himself had been in his assistant’s position, although the
Professor had never wasted his employer’s time with extraneous questions and meaningless chatter.
Not to mention that he’d been rather more fashionably dressed when he’d been the assistant.
- * * * * *
stirring, a pressure in his soul. He was being chased, he knew. Someone was coming for him. He heard whispers, like a thousand voices
trying to speak to him at the same time. He shook his head to clear it, and then melted into the crowd
- * * * * *
immediately drawn to the lightsaber hanging ostentatiously from the man’s cincture. “Another Inquisitor, my lord?” he asked.
“No, I’m a professional transvestite,” the man answered sarcastically, “which is why I can run about in heels and not fall over. You are the
mayor, I assume?”
“No, my lord,” the deputy mayor answered. “I regret to inform you that His Honor was... I suppose you would say he was executed by
one of your esteemed colleagues.”
The Inquisitor looked at the deputy mayor sharply. “Oh, was he? What a remarkable thing. Inquisitor T’jiap, I suppose?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“What a surprise,” the Inquisitor said. “All right, Mr. Mayor – ”
“Begging my lord’s pardon,” said the deputy mayor politely, “but I am not the – ”
“You are the mayor because I say you are the mayor,” said the Inquisitor, rolling his eyes. “Let me be the first to congratulate you on your
election to the office. I understand that there wasn’t a single vote cast against you. Now then, have I got your permission to proceed? I
have? Thank you, Mr. Mayor. Where are my... esteemed colleagues... now?”
“They’ve split up, my lord,” said the mayor, not batting an eye at his recent victory at the polls. “Each is accompanied by two squads of
stormtroopers. To my knowledge, they are searching the city for a malcontent whom we’d arrested not long before their arrival.”
“Ah,” said the Inquisitor. “Aha. Well, Mr. Mayor, I regret to inform you that my esteemed colleagues are ‘off the reservation,’ as they
say, and the Chief Inquisitor has assigned me to investigate their presence here without proper authority. Mobilize your best men and
come with me.”
- * * * * *
“He was definitely here,” said the Professor.
“How can you tell, Excellency?” his assistant said, looking around for the usual signs one looked for when in pursuit. “I don’t see any tracks
or traces of evidence. What am I missing?”
“That, of course,” said the Professor, pointing at the sculpture. “It’s not the original, but still an excellent facsimile. He owns the original,
you see; obtained it at great expense at an auction on Commenor, if I recall correctly. Interesting that he would recognize it enough to be
drawn to it. His memories may be trying to reorder themselves, but he’s still vulnerable. Otherwise he wouldn’t flee from me.”
“As you say, Excellency,” his assistant said dubiously; this was most certainly not his field of expertise, and he was more or less content to
defer to the Professor’s superior knowledge.
“Unless...” the Professor stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps he wasn’t fleeing from me at all. He’s probably not sane enough yet to
really notice me, but he certainly could notice someone else if they were obvious enough. You notice a flare much more readily than you
notice a candle, no?”
“Of course,” said the assistant. “Which is precisely why we use night-vision rather than – ”
“I think you interpreted my point a trifle too literally, my dear boy,” said the Professor, “The important thing is that I’m a candle; if he fled,
it’s because he’s running from a flare. His danger sense is tingling, you might say. There must be an Inquisitor nearby.”
The assistant pursed his lips. “I have to get you to safety, then, Excellency. We can’t risk exposing you to an Inquisitor.”
The Professor sighed. “Very well,” he said tiredly. “But just a moment yet, young man...” He removed a handful of small beads from the
satchel slung over his shoulder, hefted them, and then smiled slightly as they floated upward out of his palm, humming faintly, and began to
vibrate so quickly that they simply vanished from sight, their humming fading out of hearing.
“Spyeyes, Excellency?” said the assistant. “We already have swarms of them searching for him, though.”
“Naturally,” he answered as they began to make their way through the crowd, moving surreptitiously toward an exit. “I want these ones to
keep an ‘eye’ or two on the Inquisitors. There’s always a possibility that they’ll find him before we do, you know.”
Mere moments after they left, a group of stormtroopers cleared the area as Inquisitor T’jiap made his appearance.
“Can you sense anything?” said the eighth-sized hologram of his partner, perched atop a small, hovering holoproj.
T’jiap looked around himself and then closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He allowed himself to drift, to open himself to the Force, letting
himself merge into its flow, filling the room, dissolving himself into the space and feeling the memories embedded in it. It was like reading
psychic footprints in the carpet, in the walls, in the air. He opened his eyes and smiled.
“Oh, yes,” he said, “He’s definitely been here. So has the old man.”
“How long ago? When did they meet? How long were they together?”
T’jiap shook his head. “I don’t think they were here at the same time. It’s hard to tell. I need more practice at psychometry before I can – ”
“You whine like a mule,” Cthiarchios interrupted coldly. “It’s unbecoming of your rank and station. Which direction did they go?”
“It feels like they took the back exit,” he answered, “but I can’t be sure. It’s hard to read, Cthiarchios, and I really need more – ”
“Stop whining,” the taller Inquisitor cut off his partner sharply. He opened his mouth to say more, but then turned slightly to his left as
though listening to someone just out of the holoproj’s range at his end of the transmission. “Excellent,” he said, rubbing his chin. “A local
informer has spotted the old man headed to a warehouse not far from here. I’m going to go retire him. Bring your men and set up a perimeter
in case he gives us the slip. We have him now.”
“Don’t you want to wait until I can join you?” T’jiap frowned. “The old man’s a wily fikrmuadhif. It might be better if you – ”
“I know,” Cthiarchios said, waving this aside. “But we can’t leave him to run about, not when we have a chance to put him down. The longer
we wait, the more trouble he can cause. He’s an old man now, he’s not as dangerous as he used to be. I’ll handle it personally.”
- * * * * *
As they drew nearer to the warehouse, Inquisitor Cthiarchios slowed to a halt and frowned, pressing a gloved hand to his temple. “Can you
hear that, Staff Sergeant?” he said, turning to the section leader.
The stormtrooper ordered the section to halt and looked at him curiously – which was quite a feat, given that he was covered from head to
toe in expressionless white armor. “I don’t hear anything, my lord.”
Cthiarchios’s face screwed into one of faint discomfort. “It sounds like there’s something ringing.”
“You mean like after a loud explosion, my lord?”
“Yes, a bit like that. It’s giving me a headache.”
The section leader signaled the communications specialist to join them. “Do a quick scan, Private,” he said. “Do you pick up anything
unusual?”
After a moment of fiddling with his additional equipment, the junior stormtrooper nodded. “Yes, Staff Sergeant. There are definitely some
unusual emissions on a handful of frequencies. None of them are particularly dangerous to humans.”
The section leader turned back to Cthiarchios. “My lord? Do you wish to proceed?”
“Of course, Staff Sergeant,” he said. “It’s just a headache.”
The section spread out as it moved into the warehouse, each squad breaking into fire teams and advancing by numbers as they searched the
first floor. The section leader reported the completion of their sweep of this floor, and then ordered his marines to the second floor.
“I’d be a lot more comfortable if we could scan the warehouse first,” the staff sergeant said aloud to the Inquisitor. “Can you sense anything,
my lord?”
“Yes,” the Inquisitor said, squinting. “I can feel them up on the third floor, but I can’t tell anything else. This confounded ringing is breaking
my concentration.”
The staff sergeant nodded slowly. “It must not affect us because of our helmets. You may want to consider withdrawing, my lord.”
He shook his head. “Absolutely not, Staff Sergeant. I – wait. They’re moving, I can feel it.” He squinted again, trying to stretch out with his
feelings. “I can’t get a fix – no, wait. Staff Sergeant, Specialist, come with me.” He turned on his heel and headed to the stairwell, and the
three returned to the first floor.
Something moved, and the three were immediately after it. It was a matter of minutes before they were staring at a floating probe
approximately the size of a human head.
“Keep back, my lord,” the section leader said warily.
“Greetings and salutations, Inquisitor Ctharchios,” the probe said pleasantly.
Ctharchios’s face plainly displayed his confusion now. “How do you know my name, machine?”
“Because, my lord,” it answered quite cheerfully, “I was instructed to wait for you. As you might have surmised, I was the presence that
you felt on the third floor, rather than your intended quarry. I am also the source of that peculiar ringing you hear. As you ought to have
guessed, you are the only one who hears it because you are the only one whose brain operates on those frequencies. It is a side-effect of your
use of the Force.”
“Where is the old man? Do you even know?” The Inquisitor demanded.
“Indeed I do not, my lord,” the machine answered. “Although I do have a message for you.” Its lense began to project a quarter-sized
hologram.
“How are you, gentlemen?” The Professor’s hologram said, smiling coldly. At just that moment, the ringing in Ctharchios’s ears stopped.
“Oh,” Cthiarchios said. “Nuts.”
- * * * * *
“It looks like the Inquisitor was standing right next to the bomb when it went off, my lord,” the local forensics expert told Inquisitor T’jiap.
“There’s not very much of him left, I’m afraid. We found what’s left of his boots and part of his jaw.”
“He was carrying two lightsabers,” T’jiap said. “Did your men find either of them?”
The man raised a clear bag with black-charred cylinders in it, both of them badly warped. “I’m afraid they got pretty well cooked, my lord,”
he said sheepishly, fully aware of what had happened to the mayor. “I think the internal components are all fused, but I don’t know very
much about these things. I assume you want to take them, my lord?”
Before he could answer, another voice called out very sharply: “Inquisitor T’jiap!”
He turned quickly, angrily; with Cthiarchios blown to smithereens, there was no one on this miserable little planet who could possibly have
the chutzpah to address him by name. His face darkened as he recognized his colleague from the Inquisitorius, the dandified Inquisitor.
“Oh, stars,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“Your telepathy is improving, T’jiap,” said he, “That’s precisely the question I had in mind to ask of you. The Chief Inquisitor would be
interested as well, seeing that you and Cthiarchios saw fit to simply abandon your assigned mission without proper authority. What
happened here?”
“Cthiarchios was blown up,” T’jiap said flatly. “And now I haven’t got a lightsaber. I don’t have time to play pattycake with you, I have
work to do. Go bother someone else.”
The Inquisitor’s eyes hardened. “Order your men to stand down, T’jiap. I have some... questions... I’d like to ask you.”
T’jiap’s face flushed with anger. “Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be, is it? You think you’re just going to pirouette in here and haul me in for
an interview, do you?”
“Your commission is terminated, T’jiap,” said the other icily. “You’re coming with me, dead or alive – ”
T’jiap snarled and yanked the lightsaber off the other man’s belt. The Inquisitor reacted instantly, but it was too late; at that range, he’d
never had a chance, and his own lightsaber pierced him through the heart. He dropped soundlessly to the ground, even as T’jiap’s
stormtroopers opened fire on the armed men who had accompanied the Inquisitor. It was over almost before it began.
T’jiap swore viciously. There had been nothing he could have done, anyone could see that. He couldn’t go back to the Empire now, not after
this. His employer would have to fake his death, probably. He was going to miss being an Inquisitor, but once his employer became
Emperor, there would be rewards enough. All he had to do was find and kill that old man and the walking corpse he was chasing after.
Well, at least he had a lightsaber again.
“You,” said T’jiap, gesturing to one of his stormtroopers. “I want a thermal scan of this entire area. Find me any recent footsteps leading
away from this warehouse. Probably two or three people. I want to know where they’re – son of a motherless tshajr! You idiots! Who’s in
charge of counter-surveillance in this unit?”
One of the stormtroopers acknowledged this: “I am, my lord,” he said.
“We’re being bugged, you fool! He’s using Spyeyes! Clear this area, immediately!”
- * * * * *
“Hmm,” said the Professor, as he placed his Spyeye signal receiver back into his satchel. “Well, at least we retired Inquisitor Cthiarchios,
that’s confirmed.”
“Yes, Excellency,” said the assistant. “I think he’s been here recently, Excellency, I’ve finally got a fix on his scent.”
The Professor nodded; his assistant was not human, but rather a humanoid from a species called the Myke. They resembled humans very
closely – closely enough that cross-species sexual attraction was possible – but they did have some advantages over the baseline human, such
as vastly superior senses of smell (Mykes were, however, rather less physically robust than their pseudo-cousins the humans).
“Took you long enough,” chided the Professor mildly; nothing more than a mild chiding was necessary, because the assistant was already
conscious of his tardiness in finally being able to track the smell.
“I’m almost sure of it, Excellency,” said the assistant, very self-conscious at this point.
“Well, then, let’s just discourage Inquisitor T’jiap from following in our footsteps, shall we?” The Professor drew something that looked like
the bastard love child of a pistol and a clothes hanger from his satchel, pointed it behind himself, and pulled the trigger, firing what looked like
a burst of shrapnel into the alley behind them.
“Let’s not tarry, young man,” said the Professor, satisfied with his handiwork. “Lead on.”
- * * * * *
“They definitely came this way, my lord,” said the stormtrooper operating the tracking gear. “Not ten minutes ago. Two bipeds, one about
average height, average weight, wearing some kind of coat or cloak that drags on the ground behind him. He’s wearing soft shoes or slippers,
based on the thermal imprint he’s leaving.”
“The so-called Professor,” said T’jiap, nodding. “Elderly human male, nothing to be concerned about.”
“The other is slightly taller than average, I think, my lord,” said the stormtrooper. “He – assuming it’s male – is somewhat lighter than
average for a human, and he’s definitely wearing boots. I think they’re standard issue jackboots, my lord.”
“Hm,” said the Inquisitor. “I don’t know who that is. Probably one of his lackeys. It could be his secretary – oh, what’s his name? Tavary?
Something like that.”
“My lord, there’s something on the alley walls ahead.”
“But they did pass through this alley?” T’jiap disliked relying on sensors, but he was too agitated to reliably use his nascent skills of
psychometry. “I don’t sense any immediate danger.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea, my lord,” said the section leader. “They look like microdroids, and after that explosion at the warehouse
and the Spyeyes, these are probably some kind of booby trap. We should secure the area and cut around through another path.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said the Inquisitor. “I’d sense danger if it were a booby trap, and I’m not going to lose precious time because you
think he might have set a trap.”
“But my lord, most booby traps aren’t dangerous until you actually trigger them,” said the section leader, showing a surprising amount of
spine in arguing with a violent-tempered Inquisitor. He turned to his sensor specialist: “Scan those things for threats. I want to know what
they are, and I want to know what they do.”
“Aye, Staff Sergeant,” said the specialist, and he immediately set about with his gear. “There’s some kind of coded subspace comm signals
passing between them, Staff Sergeant. Positioning orders, I think. These things are definitely linked by some sort of central AI controlling
where each one goes. I’m not picking anything else up, but they’re definitely hardened against scanning.”
“I don’t think we should risk it, my lord,” said the section leader.
“I’m not interested in what you think,” said the Inquisitor. “You’re wasting precious time, Sergeant.”
“Aye aye, my lord,” said the section leader, suppressing a sigh of resignation. Orders were orders, even if they were stupid, senseless orders.
“By the numbers, men,” he said. “Move out, carefully. Watch out for – ”
The very instant the stormtroopers began to move, the microdroids positioned on the alley walls began to scurry, moving suddenly and with
surprising speed about three meters forward, surrounding the first squad of stormtroopers and then suddenly releasing high-powered lasers.
The result of this flurry of motion and light was that the stormtroopers collapsed into dismembered bits and pieces, cut to ribbons by a
spider’s web of deadly light. The microdroids fell off the walls, their power sources expended completely by the firing of the lasers; their
work completed, they were burnt out and useless little husks, like insect shells after molting.
A snarl of anger erupted from T’jiap’s throat. “After them!” he roared, not at all pleased to find that the section leader had been right; the
laserweb had not been dangerous until after it had been triggered, and consequently he could not sense the danger. Well, that was what
stormtroopers were for, wasn’t it?
- * * * * *
The pale man looked at the doors, fascinated by the designs traced onto them in intricate detail. He knew these designs, he was sure of it. But
he could not recognize them; the knowledge that he sought danced tantalizingly just beyond his reach. There was something familiar about
this place, its significance somehow related to him. As though it had been created for him, almost.
He stood and tried the door, finding it open. He entered, knowing somehow that he was meant to come here.
- * * * * *
“Tsk, tsk,” said the Professor, now consulting a datapad. “That damn fool, T’jiap, sent his stormtroopers right into the laserweb. Honestly,
you’d think the man would listen to his platoon sergeant.”
“The hazards of priests playing soldiers, Excellency,” said the assistant very mildly, drawing a sharp look from the Professor.
“Mind your tongue, boy,” said the Professor, unamused by the man’s comment.
“As you wish, Excellency,” said he. “He’s very near, I’m sure of it. His scent is very fresh here.”
“Hmm,” said the Professor, consulting his datapad. “Yes, of course. I should have known.”
“What is it, Excellency?”
“Only a few dozen meters up ahead, this alley lets out onto one of the main thoroughfares. Not very far from there is a church.”
“A church, Excellency?”
“Yes,” said the Professor, grinning. “The local congregation of the Church of the Dark Side, you see. Built in anticipation of the return of the
Emperor.”
- * * * * *
“Yesss,” said the Inquisitor. “Yes, we’re very close now. I can feel it.”
He inhaled deeply, savoring the feel of the air around him, virtually charged with destiny. He was so close now, he could almost taste it.
“Come, Sergeant. Hurry.”
- * * * * *
The pale man turned at the sound of the doors, and saw an old man in academic robes and a much younger Myke enter the church. The pale
man’s lips pulled up in a wordless snarl, and he reared up like a sabercat ready to pounce.
“Master,” said the old man, as both he and the Myke prostrated themselves before him, pressing their foreheads to the floor.
The pale man relaxed somewhat, but looked at them in confusion. This was right, this was proper – men should kneel before him, but why?
“Who are you? What is this?”
“You know who I am, Master,” said the old man. “I am your faithful servant. We haven’t much time, Master, we are being followed. It is
most urgent that we get you to safety.”
“But I cannot remember who I am,” said the pale man.
“You will remember soon enough, I assure you, Master,” said the old man. “Please, Master, you know you can trust me.”
“No,” answered the pale man. “I do not know you. I do not know me. What is all this? Why does his place call to me?”
“Because, Master,” said the old man, rising and drawing nearer. “This place is built anticipating your return. Come with me, Master, and I
will heal you. I will restore you.”
“Why should I trust you? Who are you? Who am I?”
The old man drew near, placed his hand gently on the pale man’s forearm, and whispered in his ear.
“Yes,” said the pale man, his dead eyes drooping closed, and he nodded. “Yes. Let us go.”
“Quickly, Master. We haven’t much time. There is an exit in the vestry. Boy, call for our departure flight.”
“Excellency, they’re here,” said the Myke.
“Very well,” said the old man, reaching into his satchel and removing a few chrome spheres, each a little larger than a human fist. “These
ought to buy us a little time. Come, come! To the vestry. Hurry!”
- * * * * *
“They’re inside, my lord,” said the section leader, gesturing toward the Church. “Sensors show three bipeds, two humans and one Myke.
One of the humans is dead, my lord.”
“Dead? Are you sure?”
“Yes, my lord. Life signs are consistent with a reanimated corpse.”
“We have them, then! All of them!” The Inquisitor grinned. “All right, Sergeant, ready your men to – ”
One of the stormtroopers screamed as a chrome sphere tore out of the open door and slammed right into his face, a drill emerging from its
polished surface and cutting right through the stormtrooper’s helmet, splattering his armor with blood. A handful of the things followed,
rocketing toward the white-armored Marines.
“Shavit!” The Inquisitor reached for his lightsaber and at the touch of the activator stud his weapon sprang into existence. “Phantom
spheres!”
- * * * * *
“Well, that didn’t quite go as planned,” said the Professor, staring at the dead end the escape route from the vestry had brought them to.
“Apparently this city’s official layout has some minor deviation from the actual state of affairs.”
“Are you all right, Master?” The assistant was applying some basic medkit treatment to the pale man’s various open wounds, doing his best
with the limited gear at his disposal.
“How is our departure flight looking, my boy?”
“Ah, it should be on its way, Excellency.”
“Good,” said the Professor. “Because I think T’jiap has just finished with the last of my Phantom spheres, and he still has about a squad of
stormtroopers left.”
“We’re trapped, then,” said the assistant.
“I’m afraid so,” nodded the Professor. “I hope your people are punctual, young man, because I’d really hate to die like this.”
- * * * * *
“There they are!” the stormtrooper said, pointing ahead at the three bodies trapped against an unexpected wall blocking off the alley. He was
limping, and blood was spattered on his armor. By this point the stormtroopers were almost as angry as T’jiap.
“Well, well, well,” said T’jiap, savoring the opportunity to gloat. “So, finally cornered like the dire-rat you are, eh, old man? What’s the
matter, run out of booby traps? No more party favors to dissuade pursuit?”
“You know, T’jiap, old boy, you’re really not half as clever as you think you are,” said the Professor.
“I’m not worried about being clever, old man,” answered T’jiap. “Because for all your vaunted intellect, only one of us is going to walk out
of this alley alive.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” answered the elderly man in the academic robes. His assistant began to edge his body in front of the old man,
perhaps intending to provide him what meager protection his body could offer from T’jiap’s stormtroopers and their rifles.
“Oh, that’s quite all right, my boy, I have a shield,” said the Professor – and surely enough, as T’jiap looked, he could see the telltale slight
distortion in the air, the shimmering sphere that surrounded the Professor and the vagrant.
“Pathetic,” growled T’jiap. “Do you really think that little contraption is going to stop me, old man?”
“No, actually,” he said with a grin, pulling some sort of remote switch out of his satchel. “That’s what that claymore you’re standing on is
for.”
Metallic agony tore through T’jiap’s body in a thousand different places, turning his athletic body into a ruins of shredded muscle, shattered
bone, and torn ligaments. He screamed in incoherent misery as he collapsed, only his great rage staving off shock and death. “Kill them!” he
managed to sputter through broken lips, struggling vainly to stand on legs he no longer had. “Kill them all!”
The stormtroopers responded immediately, bringing up their weapons and firing with military precision – of course, the Professor’s personal
force shield deflected their fire, but there was a limit to how long it could do that, and once it did . . . well, it wouldn’t be the first time the
Empire had murdered an academic.
But the Professor did not appear to be in the least bit ruffled. He spared a glance at his assistant: “Colonel Thrawn, if you please . . . ?”
“With pleasure, Your Excellency,” said he, before bringing a comlink up to his lips. “Starcrash Brigade, lock in on my signal and engage. Kill
anything in white.”
It was only a moment before the response came. The air overhead shimmered, and then suddenly where there had been nothing, there was
precisely the opposite of nothing: There was something, a rather large something, something whose shape rather unpleasantly resembled an
assault transport. Seconds after that unpleasantly shaped something appeared, a large number of even more unpleasantly shaped things
appeared:
Paratroopers.
Clad in gray powered armor they leapt down the forty or fifty meters from their de-cloaked transport, unslinging their repeaters as they
dropped, falling onto the stormtroopers with the proverbial fury of savages running amok. They moved quickly, silently – built-in sound
suppressors baffled the noise of their armor’s movement – and the fruit of their labors was quick death for anything resembling a
stormtrooper. Despite the similarity of their armor to that worn by the Empire’s Darktrooper dragoons, no Imperial sigil decorated their
armor. Rather, etched in exquisite detail on the breast of each cuirass was the crest of the Household Division of the House of Palpatine – for
they were the Starcrash Brigade, the ancient family’s private army.
“Well done, Colonel,” said the Professor, surveying the Starcrash Brigade’s handiwork. The Emperor had always believed in redundancy, and
thus the Imperial and Royal Guard had not been the only private military sworn to protect him no matter what the cost. Always a good idea
to have more than one praetorian guard, more than one elite army willing to die to keep one in power. After all, without power. . . one dies.
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” said the assistant.
“Right, then, I want all this cleared up. No witnesses, you understand. And get His Imperial Majesty aboard,” he said, gesturing toward the
pale man, “and clean up those wounds. I don’t want necrosis destroying it before we can restore Droga to his body.”
“As you command, Your Excellency,” said Colonel Thrawn, the inhuman Commanding Officer, Starcrash Brigade of the Household Division.
“It’s been quite a while since anyone’s called me ‘Professor,’” remarked the Grand Vizier of the Galactic Empire, à propos of nothing. “Now
that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve taught a class in over a decade.”
“You mean you actually are a professor, Excellency?” said the Colonel, looking at him curiously.
“Of course I am,” answered the Grand Vizier, apparently having taken the facts of his academic credentials for granted. “I’m the adjunct
professor of theoretical hyperphysics at the University, you know. Did you think that the ID that I showed the mayor was forged?”
From somewhere behind them came a groan, pure agony audible in every syllable. “I’ll kill you!” shouted the mangled voice; the Grand Vizier
and Colonel Thrawn turned, surprised to find that despite having stood on a claymore when it detonated, Inquisitor T’jiap was still not dead,
his broken body somehow held together by his anger and hatred. Rather like Darth Vader, only less talented and less intelligent, mused the
Grand Vizier.
“Run, you cowards! Go ahead! It’ll do you no good! I’ll track you down wherever you hide, I’ll find you, I’ll kill you! You can never run far
enough to escape from me! I’ll haunt your every nightmare, I’ll be in every shadow – ”
To their great surprise, the viciously tattered scarecrow of flesh that remained from the claymore’s detonation managed to push itself up,
unsteadily tottering to its feet, raising its bloody fist in a gesture of defiance, pure rage holding him together even as the last of the Starcrash
Brigade troopers were returning to their transport, a harness being lowered to pull the Grand Vizier and the Colonel onto the ship so that
they could at last vacate the premises.
“You’ll never be rid of me! I’ll find you, cowards, I’ll tear your souls apart! I’ll – ”
The Grand Vizier reached into his bag of tricks and pulled out a pistol. He took three full strides, pressed the muzzle against T’jiap’s
bloodshot left eye, and pulled the trigger.
“Let that be a lesson to you, Colonel,” said the Grand Vizier, as he strapped himself into the lifting harness. “If you’re going to threaten
people after they’ve already won. . . at least be smart enough to wait until they can’t hear you.”
“I’ll make a note of that, Your Excellency,” said the Myke, glancing at what was left of Inquisitor T’jiap.
“Now then,” said the Grand Vizier, “I’ll be obliged if you’ll have your navigator set a course for Byss, Colonel. We’ve a great deal of work to
do, you know. Droga will appreciate having his body back, I’m sure. So will His Imperial Majesty.” He pursed his lips as the harness gave a
little shudder, and then steadily raised him off the ground toward the open loading hatch of the assault shuttle hovering overhead.
“But His Imperial Majesty’s body was destroyed, Excellency,” said Colonel Thrawn.
“Hmmm?” The Grand Vizier looked over at the Myke for a moment before nodding. “Well, yes, you’re right, I suppose it was.”
“So then how will he have his body back, Excellency?”
“Oh, that’s quite simple, really,” said the Grand Vizier. “Tell me, Colonel, do you know much about clones . . . ?”
| This site is for informational and entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement of any kind is intended. Star Wars and related materials are © Lucasfilm Ltd., which reserves all rights thereto. All original material is © Julius Sykes. Please do not use without permission. |
This short story was originally published in December 2005. It was republished on 1 February 2007.