Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Apocalypse

by Troy Denning

  They were airborne the better part of a second before the small of his back struck something that felt like a table and sent him tumbling. Allana flew from his arms, then someone else—someone big and furry—landed on his chest.

  Only then did the orange flash of an incendiary grenade fill the darkness—and it seemed to be coming from across the hall.

  Han rolled Anji free and sat up, at once trying to blink the blast-dazzle from his eyes and see in the dark. “Allana?”

  “Over here.”

  He was too dazed to even recognize the voice, so he turned toward it and put out his hands.

  He found a small, trembling form and pulled her close. “Allana!”

  “Grandpa.” She hugged him close. “Where’s Grandma?”

  “I’m not sure.” Han began to feel around in the darkness, but found only dust. “She’s got to be here somewhere.”

  “Grandma?” When no answer came, Allana’s voice grew frightened. “Grandma?”

  The only answer was the sound of running boots. Realizing he had no idea how much time had passed, Han clamped a hand over Allana’s mouth and squeezed it close.

  She fell instantly motionless, and together they listened as the sound of the footfalls receded up the hallway.

  Finally, Han whispered, “Keep it quiet until we know what’s what.”

  “No kidding,” Allana said. “But where’s Grandma?”

  “Over here,” a voice whispered. “With Anji.”

  The words came clear and distinct from near the hole in the front wall of the room, so loud that Han thought for a moment that Leia’s ears must still be ringing from the grenade explosion. But then the beam of a glow rod swept through the hole, illuminating her face, and Zekk’s deep voice sounded from a few meters down the hallway.

  “Princess Leia, it’s good to see you alive.”

  “Almost as good as it will be to see the Chume’da alive,” Taryn added. “Where is she?”

  “There’s no need to concern yourselves with me,” Allana said, sounding as regal as her mother sometimes did. She gently freed herself from Han’s grasp and rose. “I’ve been well guarded. But see to my grandparents at once. They’ve had quite a fight.”

  A second glow rod beam appeared in the hole and swung around to illuminate Allana’s face.

  “You’re well, Highness?” Taryn asked. “You’re quite sure?”

  “Yes—as you must be able to see,” Allana said, allowing her irritation to show in her voice. “Now shine that thing somewhere else and see to my grandparents as I …”

  Allana allowed her order to trail off when a trio of anguished screams sounded from down the hallway. Both Taryn and Zekk turned to shine their glow rods toward the sound, and the unmistakable clatter of a squad of armored soldiers shouldering their blaster rifles sounded behind them.

  Even before Han realized the cause of the anguished screams, Allana was rushing toward the doorway. “Stand down! Stand down!”

  Han rose to his feet and—experiencing a whole body of new aches—limped after her. “It’s okay,” he called. “They’re friends.”

  Taryn looked over at him with wide, wild eyes. “You’re sure?”

  It was Zekk who answered. “He’s sure.” He turned and signaled the soldiers behind him to lower their weapons, then looked back up the hallway and said, “It’s good to see you again, Tesar.”

  “This one cannot say the same,” a raspy Barabel voice replied. “What are you doing here?”

  Han reached the door and, taking Leia’s hand, peered up the hallway to find Tesar and two more Barabels—Dordi and Wilyem, he thought—standing about three meters away, under the last active glow panel. Their scaly shoulders filled the hallway from wall to wall, a not-so-subtle hint that no one would be getting past them. With their talons still dripping Sith gore and their heads only a few centimeters beneath the ceiling, it was easy to see why the Hapans had shouldered their weapons.

  Zekk smiled and motioned at Allana. “We were following Amelia Solo.”

  “Amelia?” Dordi rasped. “She brought you? Here?”

  Allana seemed to recognize that it was up to her to defuse the situation, and she was already stepping into the center of the hallway.

  “Not on purpose.”

  Allana walked up to the Barabels, then stopped in front of Tesar, a little figure that barely rose higher than his knees. Taryn quickly moved to follow, but the Chume’da waved her off. Even then, Zekk had to take Taryn by the arm to make her obey.

  Allana craned her neck to look up into the Barabel’s slit-pupiled eyes. “But I did risk my life—and lost Bazel’s—to warn you.”

  A soft hiss filled the hallway as the Barabels ruffled their scales, and Tesar asked, “Bazel is dead?”

  “He was going to warn you alone,” Han called. “But we got ambushed dropping him off.”

  Allana nodded. “He died protecting us,” she said. “I’m going to miss him.”

  Tesar considered this, then nodded, “Bazel was a good defender. The pack will be less without him.”

  “Yes, it will,” Allana said. “Thanks.”

  “It is only the truth.” Tesar shifted his gaze toward Han. “But this one does not understand. What is there to warn us about?”

  “Ask Amelia,” Han said. “It was her vision.”

  At the word vision, the gazes of all three Barabels snapped back to Allana so quickly even Han felt the sudden tension.

  “What vision?” Wilyem demanded.

  Allana shifted her gaze to him. “There were Sith,” she said. “Lots of Sith, and they were in your nest.”

  “Our nest?” Tesar asked. “You are certain?”

  “Lots of bones and a couple of dozen little black lizards,” Allana replied. “It wasn’t pretty.”

  Tesar’s eyes widened. “They are coming for the hatchlingz?”

  “Not if you let us help you,” Allana said. “Why do you think I’m here?”

  Tesar glanced over at Wilyem, who reluctantly nodded and said, “A vision is a vision.”

  Tesar turned to Dordi, who shrugged and also nodded. “This one is growing tired of Sith anyway,” she said. “They have such a bitter aftertaste.”

  THE MIRROR IN JAGGED FEL’S DRESSING ROOM HAD AN INSET HOLOPAD permanently tuned to the Imperial News Network, and the network’s Election Day coverage had been interrupted for a special report. Instead of the usual talking heads, the hologram now showed a glassy, still-glowing blast basin set into the rim of a dusty moon crater. A silky-voiced reporter was providing off-cam commentary.

  “… location of a small mine known as the Moon Maiden,” she was saying. “That was before the Imperial frigate Consolidator struck the site with a sustained turbolaser barrage.”

  Though Jag had been expecting the report for a couple of days now, the timing took him by surprise. By holding the story until just a few minutes before the Election Day Debate, the network executive board was clearly trying to torpedo his campaign. They were ensuring that the news would be seen by the entire Empire—and leaving him no time to mount a response before the citizenry voted. It was Imperial intrigue at its finest, and even if it was one of the aspects of his job that Jag hated most, he had to admire the skill of his opponents.

  The image changed to the face of a handsome lieutenant in Imperial Security, and the voice-over continued, “Imperial News has learned that Lieutenant Dorch Vangur, of the Imperial Security detachment on Hagamoor Three, was on assignment near the Moon Maiden shortly before the strike. He has confirmed that the bombardment was ordered by Head of State Jagged Fel on the recommendation of an unidentified female agent. Unfortunately, Lieutenant Vangur refused to reveal the identity of this personal agent. And so far, our investigators here at the Imperial News Network have been unable to find any trace of her arrival on Hagamoor Three—or even to confirm her existence.”

  “They must have some pretty incompetent researchers,” Tahiri said. She was standing behind the makeup artist, looking at Jag�
��s reflection in the mirror. Her face was still battered and bruised, yet remarkably fit for someone who had recently tangled with a Force entity. “The Hagamoor Three spaceport has more security cams than your palace on Bastion. Any decent reporter with an hour and a thousand credits should have been able to score a vid of me.”

  “And give you a reason to come back?” Jag met her gaze, then shook his head. “No one wants to meet an Imperial Hand twice.”

  A campaign flimsi appeared in the mirror’s holographic inset, and Jag shifted his attention back to the news. The poster featured Daala in a white Grand Admiral’s uniform, standing in profile with her eye patch prominently displayed. The slogan read, NATASI DAALA. A TRADITION OF SERVICE AND SACRIFICE—FOR YOUR EMPIRE. It was an effective poster—so much so that it practically made Jag want to vote for her.

  “This is one of Admiral Daala’s campaign posters,” the reporter said helpfully. “Our preliminary investigation confirms that the Moon Maiden was, in fact, being used as Admiral Daala’s campaign headquarters.”

  The poster was replaced by the face of an attractive brunette reporter. “My fellow citizens, on this first Imperial Election Day, I know you must all have the same questions I do. And you are probably drawing some rather obvious conclusions. But it would be premature of me to suggest that there has been an astounding abuse of power here. An assertion like that would require evidence that I simply do not have at this time. Therefore, I can only report what Imperial News Network knows for certain right now.”

  The hologram returned to the glassy basin. “This used to be Admiral Daala’s campaign headquarters, and Head of State Fel personally authorized its bombardment. As you can see, the attack was clearly designed to destroy all trace of the facility’s true nature.”

  The glassy basin was replaced by an image of the candidates for the Head of State’s office—Jagged himself, Natasi Daala, and Vitor Reige.

  “For now,” continued the reporter, “all we can do is ask questions. What does this have to do with the three-way contest to pick the Empire’s next Head of State? Was this devastating assault something more than an attempt by Jagged Fel to undermine the campaign of his challenger, Natasi Daala? Why did the third candidate in the race—Admiral Vitor Reige—dispatch the Consolidator to Hagamoor Three in the first place?”

  The images of the three candidates were replaced by an image of the reporter, her face slender and beautiful, with a blade-like nose and green oval eyes.

  “So many questions remain. This is Shei Harsi, promising that the Imperial News Network will keep digging until the truth comes out.”

  The hologram changed to the INN Crowned Helmet logo, and a deep male voice said, “Imperial News Network will continue to issue special bulletins as information on this fast-breaking story becomes available. We now resume our scheduled Imperial Election Day coverage with Tozz Relaton and Salia Deradal.”

  A pair of commentators appeared in the hologram. Wearing flashy white tunics and oversized glasses, they looked more like a pair of grav-ball announcers than political analysts.

  “That’s quite a bomb to have drop on today of all days, Salia—with just hours to go before the election begins,” said the man, a big-toothed human with a smile as wide as a gorg’s. “The big question is, how will the revelations affect Jagged Fel’s chances of winning?”

  “Well, Tozz, we’ll have our answer when polling closes in just eight hours,” said Salia, a carefully coiffed blond who managed to smile continuously while speaking. “But a lot will depend on how Head of State Fel responds to those questions during the Great Election Day Debate—which begins here on INN in a few short minutes.”

  “That’s right, Salia. This is one debate that our viewers really won’t want to miss—especially since they’re required by law to watch!” Tozz agreed. “This could be payback day for Admiral Daala, whose power base in the Galactic Alliance suffered a real blow when Head of State Fel withdrew from the Galactic Unification Talks on Coruscant.”

  The holo dissolved into static as Tahiri clicked the remote, then she stepped to the far end of the makeup counter and turned to face Jag. “That was terrible coverage,” she said. “Inaccurate, incomplete, and full of insinuation—and it’s going to be a problem for you in the debate.”

  Not wanting an eye full of lash thickener, Jag resisted the urge to nod. “I didn’t expect them to drag Reige into the picture,” he said. “That part was completely uncalled for.”

  “Expect?” Tahiri echoed. “You knew this was coming?”

  “Of course,” Jag said. “They asked me for a response. I’m sure they wanted to include a denial in the same clip.”

  “And you didn’t issue it?” Tahiri asked. “Or even better, just kill the story? This is the Empire, you know. The Head of State has the power to do that.”

  “I’m aware of that, Tahiri,” Jag said. “But I’m trying to teach the Empire to live by new rules. How would it look to the citizens if I killed a story just because it was inaccurate, biased, incomplete, and misleading?”

  “It wouldn’t look like anything—because no one would know,” Tahiri replied. “That’s the whole point of shutting down a story.”

  Jag raised a hand, waving off her objections. “The only thing more worthless than a biased, incompetent press is a muzzled press,” he said. “Imperial citizens are intelligent. They’ll recognize the truth when they hear it.”

  Tahiri rolled her eyes. “Well, I hope you’re thinking of a way to explain it to them,” she said. “Because the way you timed this debate, you won’t have a chance later.”

  Jag merely smiled. As far as Tahiri knew, the sole purpose for holding the debate on the morning of Imperial Election Day was to force Daala out of hiding and prevent her from rejecting the outcome. With all three candidates and the entire Moff Council in the Gilad Pellaeon Auditorium on Bastion, the election committee—overseen by Commodore Selma Djor—believed it would be impossible for the losers to reject the results and renew hostilities. In fact, the committee planned to ask the losing candidates and the entire council of Moffs to swear an oath of loyalty to the winner—live and on cam during the INN’s post-election wrap-up. Anyone who refused would be quietly arrested and imprisoned on charges of treason.

  The plan still had a faint smell of tyranny to Jag, but he had agreed to it because Djor seemed convinced it was the only way to bring a true and permanent end to Daala’s insurrection. But even more important, the debate gave Jag a chance to address the Empire one last time before the election—and spring his trap.

  When Jag remained silent too long, Tahiri asked, “Jagged—you do have a way to explain the bombardment, right?”

  Jag frowned. “Have some faith, Tahiri.”

  Tahiri began to look worried, but before she could say anything, a quick rap sounded on the door. “We’re on in two minutes,” a young voice said. “That is, we’re on if you are ready, Head of State. My apologies.”

  Jag glanced at his makeup artist, who gave him a quick nod.

  “I’ll be right there,” he said. “Thank you.”

  The makeup artist put a final touch on Jag’s eyebrows, then removed the paper bibs she had stuffed into his collar to protect his uniform. He thanked her and left his dressing room with Tahiri. His assistant, Ashik, and a quartet of bodyguards escorted him exactly fourteen paces up the corridor to the stage entrance, where Tahiri squeezed his arm and wished him good luck—which, of course, he was not going to need.

  Both Reige and Daala were already standing behind their podiums in full-dress uniforms. Jag began to wish that he had opted for civilian clothes instead of the black commander in chief’s uniform Djor had recommended. But wearing something unexpected might well have put Daala on alert, and if his plan was going to work, he needed her to continue believing she had the upper hand.

  As Jag stepped onto the stage, the Moffs in the half-filled auditorium rose and gave him a very subdued chorus of applause. Clearly, they believed that the INN report had destr
oyed his chances of winning the election.

  Jag stopped at the first podium, where Vitor Reige stood, looking nervous and unhappy.

  Jag offered his hand. “Stand proud, Admiral,” he ordered. “You’re running for the highest office in the Empire. You should look like you want it.”

  Reige instantly straightened his shoulders. “Of course, Head of State.” His eyes dropped to the mike resting in its holder on his podium, no doubt confirming that it was inactive, then he lowered his voice. “About Hagamoor Three—if you want me to take the blame for the bombardment—”

  “Not at all. In fact, I forbid it.” Jag leaned in close, then said, “I don’t need you freelancing on this, Vitor. It would ruin a good battle plan.”

  Reige’s eyes lit with relief. “Very good, sir.”

  “Admiral Reige, I’m ordering you to tell the truth about the Consolidator’s actions,” Jagged said. “The whole truth. Do I make myself clear?”

  Reige began to look a bit more worried, but he nodded. “Very clear, sir.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Jag shook his hand, then spoke more loudly.

  “Good luck, Admiral. Debate well.”

  “You, too, sir.” Reige cast a sideways glance at Daala, who was watching from her podium across the stage, then added, “May the best man win.”

  Jag could not help cracking a grin. “Well said, Admiral. Very well said.”

  He crossed to Daala’s podium and offered his hand—only to have her glare at it like something diseased.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary, Jag,” she said. “Do you?”

  Jagged lowered his hand. “Charming to the last, I see,” he said. “Very well, Admiral. I trust you intend to honor the terms of the Election Accord we signed?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Daala replied. “After Hagamoor Three, I have no doubt about the outcome of this election.”

  Jag lowered his hand. “I guess I wouldn’t, either, if I were in your position,” he said. “That was a rather unfortunate mistake. Perhaps our intel was bad.”

  Daala gave him a tight smile. “You’ll have to do better than that if you expect to win, Head of State Fel.”