Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Apocalypse

by Troy Denning

  “This is madness,” Daala said. “The Empire is sinking into barbarism.”

  “Exactly.” The young woman had narrow blue eyes and a wide mouth that seemed just a little too large for her face. “That’s why I felt I had to come to you, Admiral. Head of State Fel is not up to the job of holding the Empire together.”

  “That shouldn’t surprise anyone,” Lecersen observed. Seated in the chair next to Daala, he looked on the verge of cracking himself, with purple circles beneath his eyes and skin as gray as a fleet officer’s uniform. “And that’s all the more reason we need to find a way to slip out of here—now.”

  Daala answered without taking her eyes from the young lieutenant. “Escaping is easier said than done, Drikl.”

  “If Lieutenant Pagorski can sneak into this rubble pile, I dare say we can find a way to sneak out.” Lecersen stood. “And the sooner, the better. We need to get back out there and take charge.”

  “Take charge of what, exactly?” As Daala spoke, she continued to study Pagorski, trying to figure out why a young woman who had only recently been released from a Galactic Alliance prison would risk her life to join the remains of a cornered, badly battered fleet. “The Final Fall of the Empire?”

  “Not at all,” Lecersen insisted. “I have friends—a great many friends. And as soon as they learn of my escape, they’ll rally to our cause.”

  “Assuming we do escape.” Daala locked gazes with Pagorski. “Assuming that Lieutenant Pagorski’s miraculous infiltration of a very tight blockade isn’t just a ruse to avoid a bloody assault by luring us into a foolish attempt.”

  The look of puzzlement that shot through Pagorski’s eyes lasted just long enough to appear sincere, then the corners of her wide mouth lifted into an approving smile.

  “I knew I was right to come to you, Admiral Daala,” she said. “No one understands how the Imperial mind works better than you.”

  “Your flattery is duly noted, Lieutenant,” Daala replied. “It won’t, however, lull me into a foolish decision. If Head of State Fel didn’t allow you to slip through the blockade—one that even the Rebel Alliance could have kept sealed tight—how did you manage?”

  “Isn’t that obvious, Admiral?” Pagorski answered immediately. “Jagged Fel didn’t let me through. Someone else did.”

  Daala cocked her brow, impressed—but not certain yet whether it was with Pagorski’s coolness under fire, or her resourcefulness in accomplishing a goal.

  “And does this someone have a name?”

  “Not one that I’m going to share with the next Supreme Commander of the Imperial Navy,” Pagorski said. “You’re a woman who values duty as much as she does loyalty, and I wouldn’t want a black mark placed in his file for doing me a favor.”

  “Of course not,” Daala said. The lieutenant was smarter than she looked, for that was exactly how Daala would have reacted to someone betraying his commander and his ship. “But if you’re not here trying to lure us into a trap, why did you come?”

  “To deliver a situation report,” Pagorski replied simply. “Which I’ve done. The rest is up to you. You’re the admiral.”

  “Be that as it may, you still made it alive,” Lecersen said. “I assume you have a plan for leaving in the same condition?”

  “I’m afraid that would be a poor assumption.” Pagorski’s gaze shifted toward the main viewport, where the Wyvard’s lifeless hulk could be seen drifting backward under the steady maser barrage. “As I’m sure Admiral Daala has surmised by now, my arrival did not go entirely unnoticed. In fact, it appears I may have caused them to come after you. My apologies.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Lieutenant,” Lecersen said. “You’re the last reason Fel is coming after us now.”

  A twinkle of wry amusement came to Pagorski’s eyes. “Is that so?”

  “Absolutely,” Lecersen said. “It’s the chaos in the Empire forcing his hand. Fel is desperate to turn his full attention to the Moffs.”

  “Who are probably carving off pieces of your sector as we speak,” Daala pointed out. “And no doubt making a crippled mess of the rest of the Empire, too.”

  “All the more reason to be certain that one of us escapes to take charge,” Lecersen said, turning toward the exit. “I’ll be returning to the Empire Maker to make my attempt now, Admiral Daala.”

  Daala shook her head. “Not yet.” Even were one of them to survive the escape attempt and convince a few of the other Moffs to rally around them, it would only turn the current crisis into a full-out civil war—and one far more likely to result in the Empire’s final disintegration than her own victory. “It’s too early for that.”

  “I’m afraid my mind is made up, Admiral,” Lecersen said. “I wish you the best of luck in your own attempt.”

  “I said not yet, Drikl.” She shot a commanding glance toward Pagorski, and the lieutenant had a hold-out blaster in her grasp so fast that her hand did not even seem to move. Daala caught herself staring and turned back to Lecersen. “Perhaps you could give me another half an hour?”

  Lecersen eyed the blaster for a moment, then said, “I don’t see how I can refuse.”

  Daala smiled, quietly relieved that Lecersen had not forced her to have him killed. She was beginning to see an opportunity in the Empire’s current situation, and if her idea developed into a full-blown solution, she was going to need Lecersen to serve as her puppet.

  “Thank you, Moff Lecersen.”

  Before she could motion him back to his seat, the voice of the Chimaera’s captain came over the intercom.

  “Admiral Daala, it’s time. The masers are beginning to push the Wyvard back.”

  Daala activated the TRANSMIT switch. “Very well, Captain. We’ll be right there.” She rose and motioned for Lecersen and Pagorski to follow her. “You’ll want to see this.”

  She stepped out of the command salon onto a bridge acrid with the smell of fear and exhaustion, then led the way to her command post. The Chimaera’s captain stood at the combat information console, three days of gray stubble on his face, his bloodshot eyes bulging with caf overdose as he looked out over the frenzied discipline of a ship’s bridge in full battle.

  “Captain Remal, how do our chances look?” Daala asked.

  “We’ll know in a minute, Admiral.”

  Remal pointed at a tactical display that showed a ten-kilometer pocket of empty space surrounded by tumbling boulders. The remnants of Daala’s battered fleet were scattered around the makeshift redoubt. At the center of the formation was the cruiser Kagcatcher, her projection crews keeping the pocket more or less stable by carefully modulating the ship’s four gravity-well generators. Lecersen’s flagship, the Empire Maker, was positioned along the back wall, ready to attempt a desperate escape through a hundred-kilometer maze of shifting megaliths. The derelict Wyvard was still blocking the entrance tunnel, slowly drifting backward under the maserfire pouring into the molten mess of its bow.

  Not shown on the display were two dozen smaller vessels out in the labyrinth maze, operating independently and doing whatever they could to harass the attacking forces. Daala doubted the ambushes would actually repel Fel’s assault, but they would at least extract a heavy price in ships and lives.

  Finally, the Wyvard was pushed completely out of the passage. Twenty starfighter squadrons appeared on the display, their designator symbols going active as they broke away from their mother ships and swarmed to defend the redoubt. They had barely arrived before Imperial squadrons began to pour out of the tunnel, and the mouth vanished into a swirling cloud of designator symbols.

  “Admiral Daala,” Lecersen said. “I really must insist that you release me at once. The time has come to take our chances and hope one of us survives this mess.”

  “And that will serve the Empire how, Moff Lecersen?” Daala asked.

  “By providing a figure for the Moffs to rally around,” Lecersen said. “So we can organize and counterattack.”

  “And turn chaos into cataclysm.” Daal
a shook her head. “An Empire at war with itself is as weak as an Empire in anarchy, and I have no interest in ruling an empty shell.”

  “Ruling an empty shell is better than dying here,” Lecersen retorted.

  “For you, perhaps,” Daala replied. “But I’m beginning to see another way to defeat Head of State Fel—a way that won’t destroy the very thing I’m trying to save.”

  As Daala spoke, the maserfire resumed, pushing the Wyvard farther back. She shifted her gaze from the display to the viewport. She could no longer even see the wrecked Star Destroyer, only a long pillar of flame shooting ever deeper into the redoubt.

  “So what do you propose?” Lecersen demanded, paying no attention to the battle outside. “At this point, the only way to prevent a civil war is to surrender so Fel can turn his full attention to the Moffs—and surrender has never been my style.”

  “Nor mine,” Daala said, almost absently. She turned to Remal. “I believe the time has come, wouldn’t you agree?”

  The captain nodded. “I would,” he said. “It’s a pity we don’t have sensor data in there, but they’ve got at least one of the Chiss Star Destroyers coming through. That should be enough to make them think twice.”

  “Very well, Captain,” Daala said. “You may commence Operation Crate Crusher.”

  “Commencing Crate Crusher now,” Remal acknowledged.

  As the captain opened a channel to the Kagcatcher, Daala turned to Lecersen and continued her conversation. “You’re wrong about surrender being the only way to prevent a civil war,” she said. “Very wrong.”

  Lecersen frowned, his gaze drifting toward the viewport. “You’re saying you have another way?”

  “There is always another way, Drikl,” Daala said. “I learned that from the Jedi.”

  As Daala spoke, an excited murmur began to build on the bridge. She glanced back toward the viewport and saw the entrance tunnel to their redoubt collapsing. Two of the huge megaliths were swinging together as the Kagcatcher used its gravity-well projectors to pull the third out of alignment. As the gap closed, the maserfire grew more intense—then finally ceased in a single blue-white flash as the two pieces of moon came together.

  A rousing cheer shook the bridge, and Daala gave an approving nod to Remal. “Well, done, Captain. How many squadrons of enemy starfighters do we have trapped inside?”

  “Close to twenty,” Remal replied.

  “Excellent,” Daala said. “Any pilot willing to surrender his craft to us will be offered a comfortable cell or an officer’s commission in my fleet, his choice.”

  “Very good, Admiral,” Remal said. “And for those who prefer to fight on or destroy their craft?”

  “They will be left to die in their vac suits,” Daala replied. “Make that very clear when you hail them.”

  A hard smile came to Remal’s mouth. “As you command.”

  Daala turned back to Lecersen. “Now, where were we?” she asked, motioning him to follow her back to the salon. “As I recall, discussing how neither of us intends to surrender.”

  “Destroying one of the Empire of the Hand’s big toys is hardly going to turn the battle in our favor, Admiral,” Lecersen said. “And if you’re thinking it might buy us a truce—that is surrender. Fel will only use the time to consolidate his power.”

  “Not a truce, Drikl.” Daala stepped into the command salon ahead of him. “I was actually thinking of an election.”

  “An election?” Lecersen stopped at the threshold behind her. “Why in the blazes would Fel agree to that?”

  “For the same reason I would,” Daala said. “Because he doesn’t want the Empire to dismantle itself—and because he believes he will win it.”

  “And he will,” Lecersen said, finally following her into the salon. “He has more resources than you do—and he is the current Head of State.”

  “A Head of State appointed by a Jedi,” Daala reminded him. “Nothing is more unpredictable than an election, Drikl—not even a battle.”

  “In this case, I must disagree,” Lecersen said. “You seem to be forgetting the low esteem in which the Moffs hold women—myself excluded, of course.”

  “What makes you think I’m forgetting anything?” Daala asked. “With you standing at my side, the Moffs will be persuaded to overcome their prejudice. Between your planetary resources and my military assets, we’ll clearly be a strong candidate.”

  “But strong enough?” Lecersen asked. “Moff votes are bought, not earned—and Fel can deliver now. We’ll have only promises.”

  “Which is why you should suggest a general election, Admiral Daala,” Pagorski said, stepping forward. “Then you wouldn’t have to settle for sharing the throne, since most Imperial commoners think more highly of women than they do Moffs. Moreover, a general election would appeal to Fel’s democratic inclinations. He might even prefer it over a military victory, because it’s the kind of reform he would like to bring to the Empire anyway.”

  “A general election?” Lecersen scoffed. “The Moff Council will never approve that.”

  “The Moffs are too busy clawing at one another’s throats to stop us,” Daala said, growing even more enthusiastic. She nodded to Pagorski. “Well done, Lieutenant. I like it.”

  “You? Beat Jagged Fel in a popularity contest?” Lecersen shook his head in disbelief. “That will never happen.”

  “But it will,” Pagorski said. “I can guarantee it.”

  Lecersen shot her a withering glare. “I suggest you remain silent, Lieutenant. Your delusions are becoming an embarrassment.”

  Pagorski’s eyes flashed white. “They’re not delusions, Moff.” Without looking away, she asked, “Admiral, would you permit me to prove it?”

  “By all means,” Daala said. “I’d welcome it.”

  “Thank you.” Pagorski’s smile grew wide, and then her hand slithered up to rest on Lecersen’s shoulder. “Moff Lecersen, you may prostrate yourself before your new Head of State.”

  “Prostrate myself?” Lecersen demanded. “On your command?”

  “It’s more of a suggestion.” Pagorski squeezed his shoulder, her fingers digging in so hard they seemed to actually sink into his flesh. “For your own good.”

  As she spoke, Lecersen’s eyes widened and his face paled. A cold sweat began to pour down his brow. After a few breaths, he finally collapsed to his knees and placed his palms at Daala’s feet.

  “That’s better.” Pagorski smiled, then shifted her gaze back to Daala. “We can win this, Admiral—I promise you.”

  DOWN ON LEVEL 351 OF THE JEDI TEMPLE, WYNN DORVAN STOOD pressing himself into the corner of the computer core decontamination chamber. This was not because he objected to being misted with a dust fixative, but because he was trying to keep his Sith escorts from noticing his excitement. Directly ahead, the grip of a hold-out blaster was hanging out of the sleeve of a Sith Saber, as though the weapon were ready to fall from its secret holster.

  The accessibility of the hold-out blaster was almost certainly a trap, of course, designed to test Wynn’s loyalties. But there was a slim chance that the weapon had simply been jarred loose, and that its owner did not realize it had become visible.

  And Wynn was ready to take that chance. When he had suggested that Lydea Pagorski be released to build goodwill with the Empire, the Beloved Queen of the Stars had destroyed the poor woman and taken over her body. When he had tried to trick her into playing into Admiral Bwua’tu’s hands by suggesting that the Sith withdraw into the Temple, she had used her strange Force powers to anticipate the Jedi battle plan and arrange a devastating ambush. Abeloth was something beyond Wynn’s understanding, a monster of unimaginable power and capable of unthinkable evil, and he had been a fool to think he could play her.

  There had never been any hope of stopping her, Wynn could see that now. And there was no realistic hope of escaping her and the Sith alive, either. The best Wynn could hope for was to avoid the same fate Pagorski had suffered—to end his unwitting collaboration,
one way or another, before the Beloved Queen of the Stars decided to push her tentacles into his head, too.

  All he had to do was get his hands on that hold-out blaster.

  The inner door slid aside, and the Beloved Queen of the Stars stepped out of the crowded decontamination chamber into some much cooler space Wynn could not see. He started to ease forward, angling toward the hold-out blaster—then had to draw up short when the entire group stopped just one step later.

  “Chief Dorvan and I will be fine here alone,” the Beloved Queen said, speaking in the voice of her Roki Kem manifestation. “The rest of you may return with Lady Korelei to prepare the ambush.”

  The Sith in front of Wynn—the one with the loose blaster—said, “Beloved Queen, allow me to stay, I beg you.” He turned to glance back at Wynn, his eyes smoldering with contempt. “There is something amiss with your adviser today. I can feel a lie in his aura.”

  Wynn steeled himself to make a lunge for the hold-out blaster, but the Beloved Queen’s voice stopped him.

  “That is of no concern, Master Tsiat,” she said. “I have no need to fear Chief Dorvan.”

  Wynn felt the cold pressure on his face, and though he could not see past the shoulders of the Sith in front of him, he knew the Beloved Queen was looking in his direction.

  “Do I?” asked the Beloved Queen.

  “Not from me,” Wynn said. Even as he spoke, he felt sure that she knew he was lying—that she could hear it in his voice and sense it in his aura. “I’m simply not capable.”

  “Everyone is capable, Chief Dorvan.” It was not the Beloved Queen who said this, but Lady Korelei, the Keshiri High Lord who had been Wynn’s torturer. “All one needs is courage.”

  “I fear that’s one quality I lack,” Wynn said. His heart had climbed into his throat, but he was enough of a sabacc player to know the time had come to gamble everything. “I’m an administrator, not a warrior.”

  “Then our Beloved Queen will be safe with you, I am sure.” A faint smile came to Lady Korelei’s lavender lips, and she motioned to the Sith standing between Wynn and the exit. “Let him pass.”