Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Apocalypse

by Troy Denning

  Jag gave her a reluctant nod. “Don’t I know it.”

  A voice sounded over the house speakers, announcing that the broadcast would begin in ten seconds. Jag returned to his own podium in the center of the stage and took a couple of deep breaths he really did not need—he felt surprisingly calm—then listened politely as the moderator welcomed the audience and introduced the candidates.

  No sooner had the man finished than Daala went off-script and walked over to wish luck to her opponents, going to shake hands first with Reige, then with Jag. With the holocams emitting a barely perceptible whine and floating just out of Jag’s sight line, there could be no doubt that they were on live HoloNet.

  Jag squeezed her hand and smiled. “Admiral Daala, how nice of you to offer your hand … now that the holocams are live.”

  Daala returned his smile with one even broader. “I only wanted to do it once, Head of State,” she said. “I’m sure you understand.”

  The retort, amplified by her mike, drew a spontaneous chuckle from many of the Moffs. Jag was left with little choice but to dip his head and acknowledge that Daala had drawn the first blood. She returned to her podium, then listened politely as the moderator announced that each candidate would be allowed five minutes for an opening statement.

  The mike light on Jag’s podium turned green, and a digital readout began to count the five minutes of allotted time for his statement. Jag removed a datapad from the inner pocket of his dress tunic and propped it over the readout. He really didn’t care about the debate rules—and he was fairly certain that once he began to speak, only one person in the room would want to silence him.

  Jag looked into the audience and located Moff Getelles, who was seated alone in an empty side section, accompanied only by the two armored guards standing behind him. Jag nodded to the old man. When Getelles reluctantly nodded back, Jag smiled and looked directly into the holocam hovering in front of him.

  “Esteemed Moffs, Loyal Citizens …,” Jag began, “when Grand Master Skywalker and the Moffs asked me to become the Empire’s temporary Head of State at the end of the Second Civil War, there were two things I did not expect to happen. First, I never expected to survive nearly four years as the leader of the Moff Council.”

  This drew a chorus of pointed chuckles from the in-house audience. Jag looked up and smiled as though he, too, found the Moffs’ habit of murdering their leaders a laughing matter, then continued.

  “Second, I did not expect to come to love the job as much as I have. For both of those things, I am grateful. And because of that gratitude, I have held your interests at heart in every decision I have made as your Head of State.”

  Jag turned to look into the holocam, now addressing himself directly to the common people of the Empire.

  “But you deserve more than that. As citizens of the Empire, you also deserve a government that is open and honest, and I am sorry to say I have not done as well in this. That changes now. Early this morning, I signed a new charter for the Imperial News Network, bestowing on it an endowment large enough to operate for centuries to come. Even more important, this charter also grants INN independence from any form of government censorship.

  “In exchange,” Jag continued, “I have charged the Imperial News Network with the duty to investigate and report on government affairs at every level, including those of the Head of State and the Imperial Moffs. I have done this so that you, the citizens of the Empire, will have the knowledge required to hold your government accountable.”

  An angry rustle filled the auditorium as the Moffs began to plot and complain among themselves. Jag paused, confident that the sensitive holocam mikes would pick up and relay every whisper to INN’s viewing audience. After allowing the murmur to build for a few moments, he looked straight into the holocam again.

  “As you can tell, not everyone is happy about that.”

  Someone behind the stage let out an involuntary snort. Jag allowed himself to smile along, knowing that the billions of people watching on their home planets would also be laughing along. He paused for a few moments, allowing time for his tone to grow serious, then continued.

  “Unfortunately, as almost everyone in the Empire must know by now, it appears that Shei Harsi and the INN editorial board took me at my word, and now I find myself in the position of having to give an accounting of recent events on Hagamoor Three.”

  Jag grabbed the sides of the podium, trying to look as though what he was about to say would be difficult for him.

  “I am sorry to inform you that most of Shei Harsi’s report is correct. I did order the Consolidator to bombard Admiral Daala’s secret campaign headquarters in the Moon Maiden on Hagamoor Three.”

  He paused. There were no outbursts or rage or disgust or surprise from the Moffs, or even Daala—which said a lot about the Empire. Such tactics were simply how things were done in Imperial politics, and the lack of even feigned indignation among the Moffs made him wonder if he might be trying to usher in democracy a little too quickly.

  “There are two facts that you should know,” Jag continued. “First, any speculation that Admiral Reige had any knowledge of those orders is entirely unwarranted. I issued my orders directly to the Consolidator, deliberately excluding Admiral Reige from the chain of command. When he learned what I had done, he grew so angry that he accused me of being spacesick.”

  This drew a chuckle from the moderator and several members of the backstage crew.

  “The second thing you should know,” Jag continued, “is the reason I ordered the bombardment. The Moon Maiden was much more than Admiral Daala’s campaign headquarters—it also housed a secret nanotech laboratory. And that lab was developing an illegal youth serum extracted from drochs.”

  At last the auditorium reacted. Drochs were the horrific insects responsible for the Death Seed Plague that had claimed billions of lives in two separate sector-spanning pandemics. Literally stealing the life energy from their hosts, drochs were extremely difficult to detect in an infected person, and it was for that reason that experimenting with drochs was well beyond the limits of civilized behavior, even in the empire. Hearing Jag’s statement, most of the Moffs cried out in genuine anger and indignation. And Daala’s voice was louder and more vehement than all the rest.

  “Liar!” Her eyes were wide and mad, and the fury in her voice suggested that, while the accusation had taken her completely by surprise, she had grasped instantly the damage it would do. “If you think you can divert attention from your own crime by accusing me of involvement in another, you are badly mistaken. The citizens of the Empire are much too smart to fall for such an obvious deception.”

  Once the audience had quieted, Jag merely nodded. “Indeed, they are smart.” He looked up into one corner of the audience seating, where Moff Getelles was sitting flanked by his two armed guards, and cocked his brow. “Which is why I won’t ask them to take my word alone.”

  Getelles rose on cue. Speaking as loudly as his wavering voice would allow, he called, “Head of State Fel is telling the truth.”

  This caused another outburst among the Moffs, and a floating holocam went zipping away from the stage area toward Getelles. As it traversed the thirty meters of distance, Daala turned at her podium and glared at Jag with an expression that seemed equal parts hatred and appraisal. It was impossible to say how much she had known about the lair, whether she believed that it was a political fabrication or realized that Abeloth had indeed been working her Force magic from Getelles’s secret nanotech lab. But it was clear that she understood that even the mere accusation of being involved with drochs was going to cost her the election.

  When the holocam reached him, Getelles drew himself up straight and addressed Daala directly. “I’m sorry, Admiral,” he said. “But there’s no use lying. They have evidence.”

  “Of course they do,” Daala said from her podium. She turned back to Jag. “Manufactured evidence. Head of State Fel has obviously planned this charade to the last detail.”


  “I am determined to bring the truth out into the open,” Jag replied. He waved a hand toward Getelles. “Please continue, Moff Getelles.”

  “If I must,” Getelles said reluctantly. “The truth is that Head of State Fel discovered the existence of these experiments several weeks ago. He ordered me to shut down the project in exchange for leniency, but I couldn’t do it. I needed the youth serum, both to use on myself and for the credits it would bring to my treasury, so I struck another deal with Admiral Daala’s representatives. I agreed to help the admiral win the election, and in exchange, Daala would allow me to develop and sell my youth serum when she took office.”

  “My congratulations, Head of State,” Daala said to Jag. “That’s a very convincing lie. What did it cost you?”

  “A full pardon,” Jag answered honestly. The representatives that Getelles had mentioned were, of course, the Squibs. Like Getelles, they had been determined to have the youth serum for their own family. But Jag saw no need to mention that. Mentioning Squibs rarely inspired confidence in anyone’s account. He glared up at Getelles. “I hated to grant that pardon—especially a second time—but the good of the Empire demanded it.”

  “You have a rather self-serving definition of what is ‘good’ for the Empire, Head of State Fel,” Daala said. She made his surname sound like an insult. “But your story has the feel of desperate convenience to it. There’s no reason to believe a word that either you or Moff Getelles says. This incredible story is clearly an attempt to transfer your guilt onto the victim of your crime—namely, me.”

  “I can think of one very good reason to believe evreything I say,” Jag said. “Because I have nothing to gain by lying about it.”

  Daala openly snorted. “You call being the Imperial Head of State nothing?”

  “Of course not. But my name is no longer on the ballot.” Jag looked directly into the nearest holocam and said, “I have already issued instructions to remove my name from the electronic ballots that our citizens will be using this afternoon.”

  “What?” Daala nearly screeched the question. “You can’t be serious!”

  Jag continued to look into the holocam. “I am—very serious. What I have not yet explained is how Moff Getelles’s illegal droch project was discovered. The truth is that I did send an Imperial agent to find—and destroy—Admiral Daala’s campaign headquarters.”

  He didn’t mention anything about Abeloth, of course—there were still some things that the average citizen was better off not knowing.

  “And it was only through the commission of that crime that I discovered Admiral Daala’s involvement in an even greater crime,” Jag said. “Therefore, for the good of the Empire, I have decided to withdraw from the election and endorse the only worthy candidate in the race, Admiral Vitor Reige.”

  “What?” It was Reige, rather than Daala, who cried out. “You can’t be serious!”

  “I am entirely serious.”

  Jag had to struggle to keep the elation out of his voice. And it was not just because he had blindsided Daala so completely that she could never win the race. He had never wanted to be the Imperial Head of State in the first place. At the end of the Second Civil War, Luke Skywalker had thrust him into the position as one element of an overarching peace plan, and he had accepted only to help assure an end to hostilities. Now, with him out of the race and Daala tainted by an illegal droch experiment, only one viable candidate remained—the best man for the job, in Jag’s opinion.

  Jag gave Daala a sly wink, then left his podium and stopped to shake hands with Reige.

  “Congratulations, Vitor,” he said. “You’re going to make an excellent Head of State.”

  BEN AWOKE. HE FELT THE FAMILIAR SOFTNESS OF SHIP’S GEL-CUSHION floor beneath his aching body, and his temples pounding with the aftereffects of anesthetic gas … the same gas that filled the passenger cabin every time he tried to free himself.

  As was his practice, he lay motionless, waiting for the fog to clear, trying to take stock of his circumstances. His hands remained behind him, secured by the same pair of stun cuffs that he had been trying to open when the gas had last come hissing from circulation vents. Judging by the numb ache in his shoulders, his arms had been folded under his back without moving for quite some time, and his tongue felt swollen with thirst. Clearly, this time he had been unconscious longer than a normal sleep cycle—for at least twenty-four hours, maybe even forty-eight.

  The muffled rumble of a battle was reverberating up through the floor beneath Ship, and occasionally the entire hull would shudder with the force of an explosion that was either very close or very powerful. If Ben listened carefully, he could even hear the distant screech of blasters—though the sound was so faint it might have been nothing more than wishful thinking.

  Don’t make me use the gas again. The words came to Ben inside his mind, as dark and full of menace as always. You need to see what is about to happen.

  “I need water,” Ben croaked. “How long was I out that time?”

  Long enough. Ship never gave information to its captives, but Ben always tried anyway. Sometimes he learned more from what Ship attempted to conceal than he would have from a direct answer. Sit up.

  Ben raised his legs and rocked upright. A tube dropped down from the ceiling of the passenger compartment and stopped in front of his face. He leaned forward and began to drink. The water was so warm and rank that it tasted foul even to someone as thirsty as he was, but he forced himself to continue. Ship could poison him at will by flooding the cabin with noxious gas, so the bad taste was probably no more than a minor cruelty. And if Ben hoped to recover his strength and escape, he needed to drink.

  No sooner had the thought flashed through Ben’s mind than the tube retracted into the ceiling. Have you not yet learned that there is no escape? Ship asked. Not from Abeloth.

  A section of hull grew transparent, and Ben saw that Ship was sitting in the formal reception hall just off Pinnacle Platform. Designed to impress, the hall was an immense, cavernous chamber with alabaster walls and a white larmalstone floor. With a sweeping view across Fellowship Plaza, it had once been used by the Jedi Council to receive the Temple’s most distinguished visitors. At present, however, it was filled with blast rubble, gray fumes, and a small band of weary-looking Sith.

  Abeloth was here, too. She was standing in the wreckage of the hall’s grand entry, facing out toward the landing deck, between a pair of laser cannon emplacements. At the ends of her upraised arms, her tentacles writhed in the air—as though she were using them to stir the smoke that was swirling over Fellowship Plaza. Even with her back to him, Ben could see that she was looking toward the distant cylinder of the Galactic Justice Center. Her attention did not waver as a trio of blastboats came roaring toward the platform, their nose guns flashing as they strafed the deck.

  The cannon emplacements returned fire immediately. The leading blastboat lost an engine mount, then spiraled out of sight behind the balustrade. A couple of seconds later, Ben felt the sudden rip of half a dozen lives being torn from the Force, and a boiling cloud of smoke and flame rose into view.

  By then the remaining two blastboats were crossing the balustrade seven meters above the deck and decelerating hard. Streamers of smoke trailed beneath their bellies as they poured rocket fire into the Sith laser cannons. Both emplacements vanished into balls of orange flame, and Ben thought for a moment that the boats would stop and begin to disgorge space marines.

  No such luck.

  The blastboats decelerated as expected, and both nose gunners began to pour blasterfire directly at Abeloth. She ignored the attacks until a bolt that should have blown off her right shoulder merely spun her around, tearing her gaze from the Galactic Justice Center—and redirecting it toward her attackers.

  Abeloth’s left arm came up so fast that Ben did not even see it move, and the fire from the blaster cannons began to ricochet back toward her attackers. Still hovering seven meters above the deck, the two blastboats spun around s
ideways, dipping their flanks so the barrels of heavy laser cannons in their top turrets could depress far enough to open fire. At the same time, Ben knew, the doors on the far side of both craft would be sliding open to drop their space marines.

  Abeloth merely flicked her wrist. The rear blastboat tumbled into the leader’s exhaust stream, and the plume of superheated ions melted through the nose armor. The Force lurched with a sudden terror, then both craft vanished inside a cloud of detonating ordnance.

  Ben thought for an instant that would be the end of the space marines, but they were not so fortunate. Burning bodies began to drop out of the fireball, limbs flailing wildly and voices screaming as they cooked inside their armor. With their propulsion packs either disabled or blowing white flame over their backs, they had no way to slow their descent. A few lucky ones snapped their necks and died quickly. Everyone else broke arms or legs or spines, whatever hit first, then lay writhing in flames as pieces of blastboat crashed down on top of them. Their pain was pure and fiery in the Force, a searing wave that hit Ben like a grenade blast.

  Abeloth remained standing in the wrecked entry, one set of tentacles splayed in front of her, using the Force to shield her from the flame and shrapnel blowing in from the platform beyond. The arm beneath her injured shoulder hung limp at her side, but the tentacles at the end were slowly uncurling. They arranged themselves into a rough cone and began to twitch, and the anguish of the dying marines vanished from the Force.

  Abeloth was feeding on the dark side energy of their fear, Ben knew. He had seen her do it on Pydyr, when the entire population of the moon believed they were dying from an illusory plague. And now she was doing it on Coruscant, where the anxiety of the inhabitants had to be mounting by the hour as the battle raged ever more fiercely. With trillions of inhabitants on Coruscant, Abeloth’s harvest would be limitless. Ben could not help wondering if this had been her plan all along—to set Jedi and Sith against each other, then feast on the fallout.