STAR WARS: ANOTHER PATH

Episode I: "Thieves in the Night"
by RJB

DISCLAIMER: Star Wars is a copyright of Lucasfilm, Ltd. I don't own these characters; this is only fan fiction. No money is involved and no infringement is intended.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story takes place one year after the events of The Last Command. It acknowledges only the six movies and the first three Timothy Zahn books as canon, although it will borrow elements from other books and licensed material. I mean no offense to fans of those other books; it's just that the Zahn trilogy was special to me and I wanted to take my shot at creating something that picked up where it left off.

This story was originally written in script format, but I converted it to prose for posting here. If it seems a little dialogue-heavy, that's why.

--

ACT ONE

In some ways, it was hard to believe it had only been a year.

Just one year ago, the ISS CHIMERA had been the pride of the Imperial fleet and one of the most feared ships in the Galaxy. With Grand Admiral Thrawn in command, she had led the way as Imperial forces retook what was rightfully theirs, the strength they had lost to the cursed Rebellion. The future had looked bright-- even brighter, perhaps, than it had under Palpatine. Nobody doubted the previous Emperor's strength, but Thrawn had combined that strength with wisdom. He could have ushered in a new era, an Empire to rival the Old Republic.

Now Thrawn was dead, and practically since the moment of his last breath, his armies had suffered one reversal after another. His officers had tried to hold the line-- the new commander of the CHIMERA had tried-- but in the end, they'd watched helplessly while Thrawn's carefully assembled house of cards collapsed.

It wasn't only the loss of Thrawn's genius-- although they felt that keenly. Their spirit was gone. They'd really believed, most of them, in the predestined success of the New Order. When it turned to ash before their eyes, they were ill-equipped to deal with what came after.

At least that was how Tschel felt. Not even thirty years old, tall and slender and fair, he wore Commander's stripes he knew he hadn't earned and simply tried to look the part of an officer. He'd served as Executive Officer of the CHIMERA for nearly three months, on the simple grounds that he was still alive, and too many others weren't. He hoped to retain that classification as long as possible.

Tschel turned his eyes to the viewport, where the third planet in the Sefka star system had finally come into visual range. An uninspiring brown rock, it nevertheless possessed mineral riches the Empire desperately needed.

Tschel turned to the crewer at the nearest station-- he was even younger than his executive officer, some rawboned conscript just off the farm. His dark green uniform hung off him as though it belonged to someone a good deal larger.

"Yellow alert," Tschel said. "TIE fighters to defensive formation."

"Aye, sir, yellow alert."

Tschel toggled an intercom switch. "Admiral Pellaeon to the bridge."

He took a deep breath while watching crewers and stormtroopers scurry from one station to another. Still feeling anxious, he turned back to the crewer.

"Com-scan is certain we're alone out here?

"Relatively certain. No Republic ships detected since--"

"Don't let the old man hear that," Tschel said sharply.

"Sir?"

Pleased to be able to pass on wisdom, the young commander said, "We don't say 'New Republic' on this ship. To him, they're always 'Rebels,' just like they were to Thrawn."

The crewer frowned. "Isn't that a little--"

"It mattered to Thrawn," Tschel repeated.

That shut up the crewer; his expression remained disbelieving, but he'd been indoctrinated well by the veterans among the crew: Anything Thrawn said was gospel. And before the point could be pressed--

The bridge doors opened, admitting the master of the CHIMERA, Admiral Gilad Pellaeon. White-haired, portly, distinguished, he moved slowly and stiffly, as though he'd already lost this battle and every other one. He winced noticeably when a lieutenant by the doors came to attention.

"Admiral on deck!"

"At ease. Status report, Commander?"

"We're approaching Sefka III," Tschel said. No enemy activity reported.

Pellaeon nodded and sat in his command chair, leaning heavily on the armrests as he did. "Very well. Launch TIE fighters; landing shuttles at the ready. Deflector shields, stand by. Com-scan: Be alert to any sign of Republic activity."

The crewer gives Tschel a look, as if in triumph. Tschel felt more than a little concerned. He leaned close to his commander and murmured:

"'Republic,' sir?"

"Just do it," said Pellaeon, sounding weary.

"Sir." Tschel snapped to, addressing the crewers: "Launch TIE fighters. Status report, all shuttles."

Moments later, a wing of battle-scarred TIE FIGHTERS appeared in the viewpoint, racing toward the planet. At first Tschel hoped they'd make it unchallenged. Sure enough, however:

"Defensive fighters," said the crewer he'd addressed before, looking up from his station. "Coming out of the sun."

Tschel could see them now: A motley mix of Z-95 headhunters, Skipray blastboats, Y-Wing bombers, and even older ships. With luck, the TIE fighters would make short work of them...

But luck was not with the CHIMERA's crew, and had not been for some time. The defensive fighters met the TIE's and held their own in the initial round of dogfighting. Tschel even saw a TIE fighter explode as it made a run for Sefka's atmosphere.

Beside him, Pellaeon hissed. "Faster... come on, lads, we've drilled on this..."

Tschel cleared his throat. "A lot of them haven't seen live fire before."

"Excuses won't do us much good if a Mon Cal star cruiser arrives before they're through."

The admiral was right, but it was a hard thing for Tschel to admit to himself. Who ever heard of a Star Destroyer sneaking into a star system for a raid, terrified of reprisals from some other capital ship? Old-line Imperial officers would have laughed until they cried at such a suggestion. These days, they likely just cried.

Another TIE fighter went down. Tschel sighed.

"They're outnumbered... they might be in trouble."

Pellaeon glanced at his exec, scandalized he'd think the number of planetary defensive fighters would matter against the full complement of the CHIMERA... but the battle seemed to bear Tschel out. The odds kept getting worse as more and more defensive fighters arrived, blasting away.

While Tschel watched, a particularly battered TIE fighter got its wing clipped by a Headhunter-- a glancing blow-- and almost literally fell apart, its starboard wing panel spinning off into space.

Pellaeon's expression betrayed growing horror. He checked something at the tactical station, and cursed. "Maneuverability down 30 percent? Unacceptable!"

Tschel made a face. "I warned you, sir. We're holding the fighters together with spit and wire. The pilots--

"This is still an Imperial Star Destroyer, dammit! We're being humiliated by a lot of crop dusters!"

Tschel couldn't argue with that, so he said, "The Rebels have stiffened their guard since last time."

But Pellaeon wasn't listening; his face was red, his eyes blazing-- embarrassment had restored his energy. For a moment, he actually looked like a man who'd survived hundreds of battles in his decades with the Imperial fleet.

"Take us in."

"Sir?" Tschel balked.

"Take us in! Fire every damn turbolaser! I want that planet reduced to--"

"Sir, what will that accomplish?" Tschel hissed.

The admiral caught himself. Abruptly he seemed to remember their situation, their lack of renewable resources, and his own age. Tschel felt a surge of pity for him.

"Yes, belay that order," Pellaeon sighed.

Out in space, another TIE fighter made a spectacular fireball.

"We've lost another," Tschel said. "Clearly the garrison is stiffer than we expected. I recommend a strategic retreat. We can raid them another day.

"Another day," said Pellaeon, "when they're stronger and we're weaker.

The logic of their situation, however, was merciless. A Skipray slid onto the tail of another TIE fighter and launches a missile. A bright flash obscured the viewport. Tschel shielded his eyes. When he looked back, he saw the admiral wearing a strangely hollow expression. Pellaeon looked like a man living his worst nightmare.

"If we want to keep our fighter escort, there's not much time," Tschel prompted, and got no response. After a moment, he added, "Sir, your orders?

Pellaeon averted his gaze. "Recall the TIE fighters. Set for the jump to lightspeed."

The tactical crewer looked incredulous. "We're getting beaten by--"

Tschel whirled on him. "You'll speak when you're spoken to, Mister! Recall all fighters!

Another TIE fighter exploded before the man could comply. Pellaeon didn't seem able to watch anymore. He turned on his heel.

"I'll be in my quarters."

"Admiral, maybe we can--"

"You have the bridge, Commander," said Pellaeon, and then he was gone.

He didn't miss much. The TIE Fighters fought to disengage-- one even blasted a Headhunter, causing it to erupt in a brief fireball-- but they simply were not in fighting condition. They limped back toward the CHIMERA, the sheltering guns of the Star Destroyer the only things keeping them from a total route...

When the last fighters had returned, Tschel gave the order to withdaw. The deck under his feet was already shuddering under strafing runs from the Y-Wings that hit far closer to home than they should have. At length, the Star Destroyer turned its dagger-shaped nose and jumped to Hyperspace.

Commander Tschel sighed with relief. The Galaxy hadn't revoked his healthy status today-- but he had an uncomfortable feeling it was only a matter of time.

--

Two hours later, he stood outside Admiral Pellaeon's quarters, holding a datapad he did not expect the admiral would be thrilled to see. But there was nothing to be done about it, so Tschel touched the door chime and waited for Pellaeon's voice to say:

"Come."

The door slid open-- sticking briefly in the middle as the power stuttered-- and Tschel stepped inside the room.

He saw Pellaeon sitting in darkness, hands folded on his generous stomach, staring at the oen prominent feature of an otherwise nondescript room: An alien sculpture, seemingly made from flickering light, in the far corner. Tschel found himself staring at it: It was almost hypnotic.

The admiral cleared his throat, startling Tschel back to reality.

"Sir, I've compiled the casualty report on today's engagement, as well as recommendations for alternative--"

"Casualty reports," Pellaeon spat, "for a minor engagement with a fourth-rate power.

Tschel found himself frowning at the old man. "Sir, if I may...?"

Pellaeon nodded for him to speak. "Off the record, Commander."

Having received the go-ahead, Tschel spoke quickly and earnestly: "The crew shouldn't see you like this. Everyone knows how bad it is, but we've got to keep their hopes up."

"Hope for what, Commander?" The old man's sunken eyes blazed into him. "Perhaps you can enlighten me. I've been sitting here two hours, thinking about that very subject. Hope... for what?

For a moment, Tschel felt at a loss. Then he plunged ahead. "We're still the Empire, sir. We stand for order in this Galaxy. People will see that."

"In time, perhaps, when it's too late. But we are not -still- anything. Whatever we were died with Thrawn."

Tschel shifted uncomfortably. "We believe in your orders, sir. We'd follow you into the Maw."

"Then you are fools, Commander." Pellaeon gestured at the flickering sculpture. "You see that? Thrawn understood that. He could look at a thing... and see its nature. See into the very soul of its creator. But I am not Thrawn. I look at that, and I see... nothing. A lot of flickering light. I can't even begin to... I'm not Thrawn."

An awkward beat passed between the men. Until now, Tschel had been first officer of the CHIMERA mostly in name. The gulf of years, experience, and temperament between him and Pellaeon was too great for him to provide a real sounding board, as the old admiral had for Thrawn. Now their mutual desperation gave them something in common. As connections went, it wasn't one Tschel would have preferred. He felt compelled to honor it, though, with stubborn optimism.

"It's not over yet. We've taken some blows, but we'll get up again."

"How?" said Pellaeon. "I'm old enough to remember a time when people cheered Palpatine's every word. Now they cheer the dismantling of all he built. Things change, Commander--sometimes permanently."

Tschel grasped at straws. "It's a big Galaxy, sir. Somewhere in all those worlds, there are loyalists waiting to strike a blow. Somebody remembers, sir. You can bet on it."

Pellaeon looked at him, unconvinced, but Tschel retained some of the bravado of youth, and at length it seemed to cheer the old man. He reached out to accept the casualty report.

Tschel felt a little more like a useful officer. Not much more, but a little.

--

Many light-years away, in a run-down tenement in the less reputable section of the great city-world, Coruscant, two other Imperial loyalists were discussing their plans for the day. Actually, discussing might have been too strong a word.

One of them, Wilks, a scarred ex-soldier in a patched tunic, worked at assembling a long-barreled blaster rifle. It was the only thing in his ill-kept apartment that still gleamed like new.

Off to the side, nearly hidden in shadow, a portly man with a cigarra clenched in his teeth watches the other work, occasionally nodding his approval at an adjustment. His name was Terel, and he spoke in a harsh, know-it-all voice.

"You have the timing down?

Wilks nodded once, shortly, annoyed by the interruption. He snapped another component onto the rifle: A wicked-looking scope.

Terel continued, "If you're off by so much as a microsecond...

Wilks glared at him, then peered through the scope experimentally.

"Our contact can't guarantee safe passage unless...

"I know," said Wilks.

Terel inhaled deeply on his cigarra and blew it out in one puff. He was sweating profusely. His companion might as well have been made of ice.

"You know Han Solo's going to be there?" Terel said.

"Is he?"

"I knew Solo, when I was a merc. I never saw a faster draw. With that filed-down DL-44 of his, he could pick the flies off a gundark's back at..."

"He won't get the chance," said Wilks, snapping the blaster's power pack into place.

Terel hissed. "I never wanted to fight Solo-- and he's the least of our worries. The others are Jedi. What if they know? What if they can reach into our minds and...

A laser pinpoint appeared on Terel's chest. He flinched, then glared at his companion. Wilks shrugged-- just testing out his new toy. He finally lowered it, satisfied.

"That's not funny," Terel growled.

"Eye of the beholder."

Tired of being ignored, Terel took a step forward. "Will you listen to me? We could die for this, Wilks! We could spend the rest of our lives on Kessel! They'll probably..."

"They've taken our world," said Wilks in his monotone. "They've left us no choice."

"I know. But I'm starting to have second thoughts."

Wilks ignored him. He was watching a blue-tinted, stuttering old holovid player in the corner of the room. In its 3D display, Terel saw three images familiar to any citizen of the New Republic, willing or otherwise: The fledgling goverment's Minister of State, Leia Organa Solo, her war hero husband, Han Solo, and her brother, the self-proclaimed Jedi Knight, Luke Skywalker.

"Turn that up," said Wilks.

Terel did, although he was tired of hearing about that particular trio. A newsdroid's artificially pleasant voice was droning on:

"...and right here on Coruscant, preparations are nearly complete for tomorrow's sixth annual Liberation Day festivities. Minister of State Leia Organa Solo will be keynote speaker at the annual event, meant to honor the fallen and celebrate the victory at Endor."

While the droid spoke, the hologram shifted to a closeup of Organa Solo, and Wilks' face shifted too. In the brief time they'd known each other, Terel had never seen him display any appreciable emotion at all-- except for the ugly, frozen look in his eyes when he was reminded of the Princess of Alderaan.

"You hear that, Terel?" he said. "'Honor the fallen traitors.' Our friends are counting on us. We must succeed."

Terel sighed and studied his cigarra. When he looked up again, Organa Solo's image had de-rezzed. The targeting beam from Wilks' rifle cut through it like a knife. He looked up from his careful sighting, and the two men locked eyes.

"Long live the Emperor," said Wilks, and Terel agreed.

--

It was often hard to tell one business day from another in the Imperial Palace on Coruscant, but Han Solo had developed a system that seemed to work pretty well: On slow days, you had to step around the messenger droids. On busy days, you had to jump over them. And on -really- busy days, you just hopped from droid to droid without ever touching the floor. Throw in several hundred alien diplomats, each speaking their native language at a very high volume, and you had the kind of day it was now.

The Council chamber, when he reached it, would be a blessed relief from the cacophony, but it would bring troubles of its own. Han turned to his wife Leia, who walked beside him along with her graceful, white-haired aide, Winter, and See-Threepio, their protocol droid polished to a golden shine.

"Have I mentioned I hate discussing things in committee?

"It came up," said Leia. She kept walking.

"I had a good day planned, y'know? I was gonna help Chewie install new alluvial dampers."

She shrugged. "Next time I'll explain to Mon Mothma that my husband prefers playing pit droid to answering her official summons. That'll go over well."

Han growled, deep in his throat. "I just don't see what it's got to do with me!"

Winter's mellifluous voice said, "Like it or not, Captain Solo, in a lot of people's minds, you are the face of the reformed smugglers now serving this Republic..."

"I don't like it at all. Some spiced-up nerf herder slams his starship into a docking station, and I gotta cancel my plans?"

Winter gave him the Disapproving Look. "Twenty-three people lost their lives on that station, Captain. I saw the bodies.

Han looked at her sideways: Leia's childhood friend, he remembered, could never forget anything she saw. Especially the things she might prefer to forget. He felt guilty enough to squirm a little.

"Yeah, well... I didn't mean..."

"Honey, from now on, new plan," said Leia. "Never speak."

Leia quickened her pace, leading the way down the corridor and through the wide double doors of the inner council chamber. Blue-uniformed guards on either side of the door saluted Han smartly. Han returned it-- out of respect to the men, not the uniforms. He liked to forget he'd been a general whenever possible.

As much as Han disliked all the politicking outside the Council chamber, inside was even worse. His internal temperature dropped precipitously from all the chilly glares-- from enemies, and even from friends.

The friends included Chief of State Mon Mothma, Calamarian Admiral Ackbar, Han's boyhood hero Garm Bel Iblis, and Bel Iblis' chief aide, Sena. Worst of the enemies was Borsk Fey'lya, a Bothan with smooth, cream-colored fur and an even smoother voice.

"Ah," he purred, wide eyes fixed on Leia. "Here they are now."

Mon Mothma said, "We were wondering what had become of you."

Leia cleared her throat and muttered, "Small family emergency."

It was only half-true. Notice that the summons included Winter had deprived the Solos of the usual babysitter for their year-old Jedi twins, Jacen and Jaina. Han's long-time partner Chewbacca made a ready substitute, but first he had to be talked into enduring a few hours of rambunctious toddler pulling on his fur and tormenting his sensitive Wookiee ears with their crying.

Chewie's ingrained sense of duty won out, but it was a near thing. Han had to promise him a freshly-killed grazer carcass for dinner. He didn't even know where he was going to -find- grazer carcass on short notice.

Oblivious to the family drama, Mon Mothma asked if everything was quite alright.

"Terrific, now," Han drawled. "We hated missing all this fun...

Leia gave him a dirty look, but he was used to that. They took their places at the table, with Threepio hovering nervously behind, and Mon Mothma cleared her throat.

"Of course, this entire proceeding is classified. Before we begin, there's a special presentation I'd like you to hear. It's of the utmost significance."

"That means it's -really- boring," Han said to Leia. She shushed him.

The elegant Chandrilan at the head of the table turned and nodded, and the doors creaked open again. That was when Han got his first big surprise of the day: Through the doors in a sweep of purple cape came his oldest friend and occasional nemesis, Lando Calrissian. The dashing gambler was followed by an old business associate of his, a bald cyborg Han thought was named Lobor.

When his half-second of shock wore off, he blurted, "Lando! What're you doing here? It can't be that hard to get up a game of sabacc on Nkllon..."

Lando mock-glared at him. "Shut up, Han. I'm trying to be respectable."

"Yeah, -that- always works."

"Why -are- you here?" asked Leia, ever the pro."

"Because we have a problem," said Lando. He nodded to his aide. "Lobot?"

Lobot! That was his name! Without a trace of visible emotion, the cyborg stepped to the council table and activated a holographic display. Han recognized the rocky surface of Nkllon, along with Lando's Nomad City mining operation and its accompanying mone miners and shieldships.

Lobot said, "Following the incident at the docking station, of which you are aware, an advisory went out to all New Republic ports to re-check the backgrounds of their pilots. Nkllon complied... only to discover an ex-Imperial Guardsman on one of our cargo ships."

"We tried to bring him in for questioning," Lando said, scowling. "That was the last mistake a lot of good people ever made."

"He escaped by planting an invasive virus in our system-- a virus clever enough to temporarily overwhelm even my talents.

Lobot's attitude said that was a lot of talent indeed. Han didn't doubt it. Lando rolled his eyes at his colleague.

"Stop bragging and tell them the bad part."

Han arched an eyebrow. "We haven't gotten to the bad part yet?"

"Once I knew what to look for, I backtracked through the traitor's com logs, attempting to discern whom he'd contacted. I found he'd been in touch with crewmen a number of vessels, using an old Imperial algorithm."

"How many crewmen?" Leia asked.

The lights on Lobot's cyborg interface blinked as he interacted with the hologram. One dot representing a ship lit up. Then another, and another, and another, and...

Han whistled in surprise. "That's a lot of ships."

"Have we confirmed this analysis?" asked Leia.

Judging by his expression, Lobot took offense that anyone would need confirmation of something he'd deduced.

Bel Iblis provided it anyway. "Lieutenant Page confirmed this morning. And it's not just Nkllon. We've found traces of this code scattered across dozens of systems. At this point, we estimate one in five private vessels in our service may be compromised.

"Private ships?" Han repeated.

"Smuggler's Alliance ships," said Ackbar in his throaty gurgle.

"Not possible," Han said. "Talon Karrde vetted those people when he set up the Alliance."

Fey'lya interrupted, "Yes, and I think we can all rely on the trustworthiness of a known criminal mastermind like Captain Karrde."

"-I- trust Captain Karrde," said Leia, and her word carried enough weight to end discussion on that point.

But the councilors were still unhappy-- largely, Han guessed, at having to take Fey'lya's side, although Ackbar might have been upset by the thought of smugglers in general. Calamarian feeling ran deep against the freelancers who had, in many cases, aided in their enslavement at the hands of the Empire.

Lando tossed in a cutthroat angle, of course. "We're shut down on Nkllon, maybe for good. If I go broke because I signed off on this bright idea, Solo--"

"Not my biggest worry right now, buddy."

Ackbar rumbled, "I've recommended a suspension of all Smuggler's Alliance contracts until this matter can be further investigated."

"I think that's a bit premature," said Leia.

Mon Mothma nodded. "Yes, and I agree, for now. But we can't overlook the danger here. Shipping is the backbone of this Republic. If Imperial loyalists have taken hold of the Alliance to this degree..."

"Okay, so we've got a problem," Han said, cutting to the chase. "What are we gonna do about this?"

Apparently nobody knew, and that was the whole problem. After several moments of silence, a prissy computerized voice spoke up.

"Excuse me..."

Threepio. This was gonna be good.

Lando said, "Go ahead, I'll listen to anybody right now.

The golden droid fussed and fidgeted and said, "Shouldn't this matter be brought to our Smuggler's Alliance liaison? I'm sure she'll have something constructive to add.

Han, Leia, and Lando traded glances, and Han rolled his eyes. -Constructive. Good luck...-

--

In a slightly-less-than-savory establishment in Coruscant's Alien Quarter, a lithe redhead with a lightsaber strapped to her belt pounded the corner table with her fist.

"Are you snorting spice, Mazzic? Seriously, are you brain-fried to bring me a proposal like this? I can't take this to Organa Solo!

Mazzic gave her a look that put the smug in smuggler. "Not really my problem whether you antagonize your Republic handlers, Jade. That's what the contract is worth to me."

"Really? Tell me, how much is your severed head worth to Urgo the Hutt these days? I'm tempted to collect!"

The smuggler chief skewered her with hard eyes. "Don't even joke like that."

"Why not?" Mara gestured at the datapad on the table between them. "You're clearly in the mood for bad comedy."

"So you'd rather kill me than haggle?"

"A little bit."

They stared at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"Diplomatic as ever," said Mazzic.

"I'm actually getting better lately," said Mara. "I didn't spit on you."

"I think you miss the game."

Mara narrowed her eyes at him. "I'm in the game."

"The -wild- game, on the Outer Rim." Mazzic leaned over the table, grinning at her. "You know, my offer's still on the table."

Mara felt tempted for about a second. Then she looked down at the tabletop. "I have obligations here. I have...

"A big problem," said Mazzic suddenly. He was staring over Mara's shoulder, and -then- the danger registered with her fledgling Jedi senses. Something-- someone-- in the far corner of the room. A man in a black cloak. He had a weapon...

And Mara didn't have time any time at all to stop him.

--

The cloaked assassin raised his blaster rifled and sighted with one ruined eye leering out of a scarred, misshapen face. His finger tightened on the trigger, even as Jade started to turn...

And then a sweep of green sliced his weapon in two. It fell apart in his hands and the man flinched, searching...

The point of a lightsaber came to rest under the Assassin's chin. Another man in black... a short blond man with one gloved hand... smiled and nodded his head to the Assassin.

"Sorry," said Luke Skywalker. "The lady's with me. You'll have to get your own date."

CONTINUED IN ACT TWO