“Along with an acquaintance of yours, Dona Telamark.”
Dona, who’d hidden him when the Imperial soldiers were hunting him. Who’d asked for nothing and had given him everything. She was an elder woman, strong and sturdy, who loved her mountain home and her solitude. The thought of her in a prison was wrenching.
“They are both,” Palpatine said, his voice rising, “scheduled to be executed.”
Ferns tried not to shake.
“For what crime?” he asked.
“Conspiracy against the government of Bellassa.”
What a joke. The government of Bellassa was under the domination of the Empire. Nobody would be foolish enough to conspire against it.
Palpatine’s voice curled around his ear, thick and rancid. “However, if you could extricate yourself from your other commitments, I could request leniency from the Bellassan government. Perhaps even clemency.”
There it was the catch.
Just like that. Snap. He was caught.
He’d expected a catch. He just hadn’t expected it to be so personal.
CHAPTER TWO
Trapped.
He’d walked right into it.
He’d had to agree to Palpatine’s request. He’d had no choice.
Furious, he strode down the hallway that connected him to the main Senate building. He couldn’t believe he had just agreed to work for a Sith.
He felt disgusted with himself, but he saw no way out not if Roan and Dona’s lives were on the line. Now he was headed to the Senate landing platform, where Palpatine had arranged a starship for him.
The usual crowd of senatorial aides, assistants, droids, and Senators swirled all around him. BD-3000 luxury droids hovered near the Senators, oozing compliments into ears and fluffing up capes. It was a sight he remembered well from his years on Coruscant.
Yet he did not feel the same sense of busy discordhe remembered from earlier times. Once there had been the buzz of conversations and arguments. Now there were blocs of Senators walking in lockstep, their rich robes in bright colors. Their collars, the larger the better, were made of fur or stiff silk and framed their glossy, well-fed faces. They were followed by trails of assistants, dressed just a shade less extravagantly than their bosses. Ferus saw more displays of wealth, and less displays of deference. There did not seem to be the busy hum of important work being discussed.
The Senate had changed, and he wanted no part of it.
A new addition to the Senate was the constant presence of Prowler 1000 seeker droids. They could be assigned to track any individual. He was certain that from the minute he stepped foot outside Palpatine’s office, his movements were being watched.
He’d have no opportunity to get to Dex’s hideout now. He couldn’t even risk using his comlink. He had to assume that comm transmissions were monitored. Somehow he’d have to find a way once he was on Samaria. He couldn’t trust the comm unit on the ship, either.
Trapped.
Ahead he saw a worker mopping up the hallway. Dressed in bright yellow coveralls, the man bent over the vibromop, putting as little energy as possible into the task. His dark hair was covered by a rag that he had knotted in four corners, and he wore a face mask, no doubt to protect his lungs from constantly breathing in the strong cleanser. He swung the vibromop wide, and Ferus had to dance away in order to prevent himself from tripping over it.
“Sorry about that, mate,” the worker said, and Ferus realized with a pleased shock that it was Clive.
“I see you’ve found your calling at last,” Ferus murmured. He bent down to pretend to examine a spray of cleanser that had dotted his trousers. “They’ve arrested Roan and Dona.”
The prowler buzzed overhead, and he moved on. Within a few steps he saw a cafe, one of the many eating areas tucked underneath the overhangs on the Senate’s main hallways. A waiter was sponging off a table, dressed in the gray tunic the servers wore. Now that he was alert for it, Ferus picked out Keets right away.
He stopped at the counter and ordered a small cup of juice. He stood, sipping it, as the line moved forward, shielding him momentarily from the prowler. Keets approached to wring out the sponge at the sink near Ferus.
“Heading directly to Samaria,” Ferus said as he turned away.
He walked down the hallway, turned the corner, and saw a young boy selling the Senatorial Record Digest. Although the Senate cam droids sent official transcripts directly to the computers of the Senators, many of them still preferred to pick up durasheet copies of the digest, which summarized the events of a day, hour by hour.
This time, the newsboy was Trever, his bluish hair covered by a cap with a visor that shadowed his face.
Ferus reached out for the newssheet. “Blackmailed me to take the job,” he said, tossing Trever a credit.