When Trever and Keets returned, Oryon and Curran were talking to Dex. Solace was studying a holographic star chart.
“We worked a contact in the air control,” Oryon said. “A starship left the landing platform of a Coruscant high-security prison yesterday. It was headed for the Radiant One system.”
“We’ve been reading the star charts,” Dex said. “We can narrow it down to about fifteen prisons. Radiant One is a big system, well beyond the Core.”
“We’re trying out probability theories, trying to rank them in importance so we know where to start,” Curran added.
Trever looked at Keets. They’d already looked up Dontamo on the star charts. It was in Radiant One. This was the confirmation they needed.
“You don’t need to look any longer,” Keets told the others. “We know where he is.” He strode over to the star chart and pointed his finger. “Here.”
“There’s something else you should know,” Dex said reluctantly. “An execution order has gone through for Ferus.”
Silence suddenly filled the room. Trever closed his eyes as he felt them burn. Not again. Not again. Not again.
Not someone he cared about dying at the hands of the Empire.
“No,” he said fiercely, surprised he’d spoken aloud. “We’ll get there in time.”
“I can make it in half a day,” Solace said.
“We’re coming with you,” Oryon and Curran said at the same time.
Solace looked at them, surprised.
“We’re seeing this through,” Keets said.
“It’s like Dex told us,” Oryon said. “It’s time to join the fight.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The plan was simple. The hard part was doing it.
Ferus lay awake in the darkness, reviewing what Clive had outlined while Clive himself slept in a corner snoring loudly.
Once they were at the factory, Clive would disable a loading machine that transported the huge durasteel cartons onto the transport ship. He simply planned to disable the counting system. The fact that he swore he would be able to do this with a spoon was enough to give Ferus nightmares, so he chose not to dwell on that.
“Inventory,” Clive had said, explaining his plan. “If you mess up their inventory procedures, they go crazy. They know they’re accountable to some Grand Moffing Toffhead down the line, so it has to be spot-on. So the crates are being loaded, but they’re not being counted. That means they’re going to have to do a manual count. Which means they’ll flip open the bay doors on the transport. And that will give us our chance. After you take care of the main guard and grab his weapon -“
“How am I going to do that?”
“You’ll think of something. The other guards will be checking out the machine and watching the prisoners, because when something goes wrong, they’re afraid everyone will riot.”
“So I take out the guard …”
“By that time I’ll be in position to stop the loader completely. Then you and I get on board using the bay doors, get to the cockpit, throw out the pilots, and take off.”
“There seem to be a number of holes in this plan.” “Well, nothing’s perfect.”
Ferus thought back on the conversation now as he lay on his back. He trusted Clive, he trusted his instincts - and he also trusted that if he didn’t take this opportunity, he’d be dead.
He closed his eyes but didn’t sleep. It was before dawn when he heard the boots outside. Too early to roust the prisoners for the day.
He could see the gleam in Clive’s eyes. He was wide-awake, listening. “This can’t be good,” Clive whispered.
The boots stopped outside the door. Clive moved fast. He threw himself across the cell and punched Ferus just as the door flew open and the lights were powered up suddenly in an attempt to blind them.
“He stole my boots!” Clive shouted wildly.
“Doesn’t matter now,” the guard smirked.
Ferus was picked up and thrown into a transport cart, a small, locking box they used to move prisoners in and out … to the execution bloc.
It was his time.
The cover closed and locked. Within seconds, they were wheeling Ferus out.
He clutched a restraining bolt in his fingers - the bolt that Clive had passed him when he’d pretended to attack him. He had no idea what to do with it. It was hardly a weapon. But it was something.
Ferus was thrown into a cell. His execution order was read out loud to him. “By the order of …” “Crimes against the Imperial regime …” It didn’t matter.
The door locked behind the guards. It was a tiny cell with thick durasteel walls. There was no room to lie down and barely room to sit. There was no window, no chair. Nothing here but time, and very little of that.