The woman in the burgundy tunic spoke up. Her voice was pitched low and did not tremble. “Will we be allowed to contact them?”
“Visits will be arranged. As long as you are able to focus on your work. You’ll submit regular reports of your progress to me.”
When no one objected, Tarkin continued. “All of this is being done to facilitate new strides in research and discovery. You are privileged to be in a position to assist the Empire.” He nodded toward the back of the room. “Bring in the press.”
This was Ferus’s cue. He stepped behind a pillar and Waited until the press obediently streamed in, then trailed behind them. He knew what was expected of him. He was present in order to convince them that knuckling under to the Empire was inevitable, even for so-called resistance heroes. He went and sat next to Darth Vader. He watched as Tarkin continued as the official spokesperson, touting the group as a think tank called the Bellassan Project, which would hurtle Bellassa into the future with advanced technological discoveries, all of which would benefit the planet. The scientists had agreed to take up residence on Bellassa for an unspecified period, out of their great desire to join this ambitious and unparalleled voyage into research and discovery.
Blah-blab, Ferus thought. It was an expression of Trever’s.
“As you can see, the great Bellassan hero Ferus Olin is here to facilitate the transition,” Tarkin continued.
Ferus fought against the revulsion that rose in him. He saw the floating HoloNet news camera trained on his face. He made himself think of nothing so that his face would look blank. He did not want to give the impression that he was pleased, nor did he want to give Vader grounds to complain about him.
He had to play the game. Now, in addition to Twilight, he had to find out the Empire’s real plans for Bellassa. Were the two things linked? What was the top-secret project the scientists had been recruited for?
Ferus climbed into the Imperial airspeeder with the rest of the security crew. They sped through the streets of Ussa back to the Bluestone Lake District at the center of the city. The garrison, a blight on the landscape, rose from the former Commons. Once the Commons had been green parkland that rolled for kilometers, a central place for Ussans to gather.
“Hangar’s full,” the pilot said. “You’ll have to walk from here.”
Ferus got out with the others. He’d walked across this green thousands of times in what felt like a former life. He started down the slate walkway to the garrison. The others fell into step around him in what he knew was a flanking maneuver to keep him from turning off.
Ahead he saw a splotch of paint on the sidewalk, as though someone had been walking with a dripping can. Ferus counted to twenty-five and saw another red splotch. Then another twenty-five. A yellow one.
Impatiently, the officers hurried ahead. He was left with the stormtroopers. No doubt they had their orders to surround him. He felt the shoulder of the guard next to him brush his own. His footsteps matched theirs. They were subtly guiding him toward the garrison entrance just a few meters away.
But the marks told him he had to ditch them somehow. It was a code so ingrained in him it was like a voice in his ear.
Roan needed to see him.
Chapter Eleven
Bog Divinian bounced on the chair in his new office on Rosha. It was a silly indulgence he allowed himself when no one was around. He couldn’t believe he was actually here, a ruler of a whole system. Of course Samaria was only a two-planet system, but it was in the Core, and it was a start.
He looked out the window and down on the ruins of the city. The smoke was still thick over the buildings. He had already drawn up plans to rebuild the city. Or, rather, he had ordered someone to find someone to do it. It was worth nothing to the Emperor in the state it was in now. Rosha had the technical expertise that was sorely needed by the Empire, so he would have to get it back up to speed. He couldn’t risk losing this position. He knew the invasion hadn’t gone well. It had been a bit heavy-handed.
But all in all, he was doing well. Very well.
A passing cloud rendered the window opaque, and he saw himself reflected. For a moment, he looked old. There had been too many long nights lately. He had shadows under his eyes, and was that a sagging at his jawline? Politics could age you. But politicians couldn’t afford to look old. He’d have to find time to sneak away and tighten up a few things. Soon.
Bog swiveled back and forth in the chair, his buoyant mood flattened. Just when he started to think he had his hands full of riches, he would suddenly remember something he didn’t have, and he would crash back down into unhappiness again. It was a lonely feeling.