Star Wars: Darksaber

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Dorsk 81 blanched. “But that isn’t why I came back. You don’t understand.” He looked to Kyp for support. “Continue in your duties at the cloning facility, Dorsk 82. I don’t intend to take them again.”

  The younger clone blinked, uncomprehending. “But you must!”

  Dorsk 80’s face darkened. “You are my successor, Dorsk 81. You have always known your place.”

  Dorsk 81 whirled to look at his elder. “No. I am a Jedi Knight, and I must find my place—my new place.”

  Kyp yearned to help his friend, to support him. But this was a personal debate, and he would only hurt things if he interfered.

  Dorsk 80 looked at him sternly. “You have no choice in the matter.”

  “Yes,” Dorsk 81 said, his face tilled with anguish. “Yes I do have a choice. That’s what you don’t understand.” Dorsk 81’s tear-filled eyes flicked back and forth to his younger and older versions. As Kyp watched, the expressions on all three faces were enough to break his heart.

  Dorsk 81’s family brooded for the rest of the day, shunning him. Looking wretched, the cloned alien came to Kyp, who had retreated to the guest room. He felt so sorry for his friend; he could see from the stagnant life on Khomm that the others could not comprehend who Dorsk 81 was or what he had done.

  Dorsk 81 sat beside Kyp. His yellow eyes were very expressive, but it took him a long moment to gather the courage to speak. “I don’t dare stay here,” he said. “Even if I try to be strong, I know that if I live on this world, in this city, with my family members … I will eventually give in. I’ll forget what it was to be a Jedi. I will fail in my vow to Master Skywalker. It’ll all wash away, and my life will vanish as a minor deviation in the history of Khomm.

  “What am I to do now? It all seemed so clear to me when I became a Jedi. I was going to return to Khomm and be the guardian of this system. But this system does not need—or want—a Jedi Knight to guard them. Now what mission do I have?”

  Kyp gripped Dorsk 81’s arm, feeling his heart pound. “You can come with me,” he said. “I want you to.”

  Dorsk 81’s smooth face became an open window through which hope streamed like sunlight.

  Kyp’s eyes narrowed, then he felt a glimmer of the old vendetta against the Empire. “We’ll take our ship and slip in to the uncharted Core Systems,” he said. “You and I together must discover what’s become of the Empire.”

  CORE SYSTEMS

  CHAPTER 18

  Daala dropped the Firestorm’s shields just enough to let Vice Admiral Pellaeon’s shuttle approach her Star Destroyer. The self-destruct countdown continued toward zero like an avalanche of diminishing numbers.

  Daala studied her bridge crew grimly. She pitied them, yet admired their stoic demeanor. She respected Pellaeon’s cool, unshakable bravery—or perhaps his recklessness—for approaching a ship that would likely detonate in his face.

  She turned to the comm officer. “Have you been advising Supreme Warlord Harrsk on the status of our self-destruct countdown?”

  Pasty-faced, the comm officer swallowed. “Yes, Admiral, but I’ve received no response.”

  “A pity,” Daala said blandly. “I hope he doesn’t think I’m bluffing.”

  “I’ve assured him you’re not, Admiral,” the comm officer said, then looked away, his lips pushed together in a pale bloodless line.

  “Time remaining?” Daala asked.

  “Seven minutes.”

  “Vice Admiral Pellaeon has just docked in the shuttle bay,” the tactical officer interrupted.

  She stood firm at the control station, arms clasped behind her back. The crimson Victory-class warships surrounded Harrsk’s fleet like a pack of hungry predators. Daala didn’t quite understand what Pellaeon was doing, but the fact that so many of his battlecruisers followed his seemingly suicidal orders gave her great confidence in the vice admiral’s leadership ability.

  “Escort him here immediately,” she said. “An honor guard of stormtroopers. Make sure he understands he’s not being held captive. Treat him as a respected negotiator.”

  “Is there time, Admiral?” the deck chief said. “Only six minutes remaining.”

  “Then they’ll need to run, won’t they? We must be optimists,” she said, her lips twisting in a bitter smile. “Though optimism is difficult in the face of juveniles like Harrsk and Teradoc.”

  By the time the honor guard arrived on the Star Destroyer’s bridge, only one minute forty-five seconds remained on the clock.

  Six stormtroopers marched in briskly, hustling a trim, mature man with a heavy mustache and neat gray hair. His eyes looked shrewd and bright, his body wiry and flexible.

  “Vice Admiral Pellaeon, I presume,” Daala said in a calm voice. “I’m pleased you could join me here at the moment of our death.”

  Pellaeon swallowed. “Admiral Daala. I’ve heard much about you, and I’m aware of the determination and dedication you have already demonstrated. I doubt you are bluffing. I wish Warlord Harrsk were similarly convinced, however.”

  “One minute, Admiral!” The officer’s voice was a strangled squawk.

  “Is our log pod prepared for jettison?” Daala said. “If nothing else, perhaps our desperate act will make the other warlords aware of their folly.”

  Before the comm officer could answer, Warlord Harrsk’s grainy image appeared. “All right! Stop, stop! Cease the countdown. I order all hostilities to end immediately. Daala, damn you—stop the self-destruct!”

  The deck chief froze. The bridge crew let out a collective sigh of relief. Pellaeon watched her, eyebrows raised.

  Daala remained standing at the station, not moving to negate her commands, though her heart thudded with triumph. She paused just a moment longer as the countdown reached the thirty-second point. She arranged her expression into a mask of subdued disappointment, just to convince those watching that she had genuinely intended to blow up the Firestorm—and the Whirlwind with it—if her demands had not been met.

  “Admiral,” Pellaeon said in a careful, yet persuasive tone, “I would greatly prefer to negotiate with you … if you have the time.” His voice was soft but intelligent.

  Daala reached out casually to flick the PAUSE on the self-destruct countdown. “Very well, Vice Admiral. I prefer alternate solutions myself.”

  From memory, she rattled off a string of coordinates to the navigator. “We’ll take the Firestorm to an isolated area for a private conference. However, to dispel any impression that we might be kidnapping you, Vice Admiral Pellaeon, I invite two of your Victory-class ships to accompany us.”

  She looked at him, eyebrows raised questioningly. “I think it’s better to be away from any possible treachery from Teradoc or Harrsk. I don’t trust either of them not to take advantage of the present situation.”

  “I agree, Admiral,” Pellaeon said with a curt nod. The crows’ feet around his eyes wrinkled, and Daala felt deep down that this man’s ultimate goal for the Empire just might match her own. “If you would permit me to use your comm system, I will encode the appropriate orders to my flagship and a companion ship.”

  Daala turned to her helmsman. “When the navicomputer has calculated the best hyperspace path, drop shields and proceed to our destination. Two Victory-class Star Destroyers will follow us.”

  “But, Admiral—” the second in command said, “that would leave the Whirlwind helpless and surrounded by High Admiral Teradoc’s warships. After your ion cannon blast—”

  “I believe Teradoc will be reluctant to open fire. But if I’m wrong …” She glanced down at the chronometer. “According to my estimate, the Whirlwind has had sufficient time to complete repairs. In fact, Harrsk has already had an additional six minutes. If I have misinterpreted Teradoc’s actions, and if I have overestimated the crew of the Whirlwind—then I will extend apologies later,” she said, but her grin was smug and laissez-faire.

  “It’s agreed, Admiral,” Pellaeon said from the comm station. “Two of my ships are ready to follow.” He bo
wed his head. “We’re trusting that you won’t lead us into an ambush.”

  Daala nodded, trying to stand even more rigidly than Pellaeon. “I understand the risk you’re taking, Vice Admiral—but, believe me, I wouldn’t go to such lengths just to eliminate two small Star Destroyers. Warlord Harrsk’s fleet could have done that just as easily.”

  The Firestorm’s shields faded, leaving Harrsk’s helpless Star Destroyer hanging dark in space.

  Flanked by two crimson Victory ships, Daala’s Firestorm rose up and out of the ring plane, cutting across the debris that hung like a sparkling necklace around the lavender gas planet. The trio of ships shot into hyperspace.

  Three Star Destroyers, one large and two small, hung in a wasteland of space. The nearest star glowed dimly twelve parsecs distant. A diffuse molecular cloud spread its cold veil across the emptiness. Daala had discovered this stellar desert while she and her crippled ship Gorgon struggled back to the Empire after the devastating battle for Maw Installation.

  Pellaeon sat across from Daala in her private ready-room adjoining the bridge. He sipped a cool drink, obviously trying not to succumb to comfort or social talk. Daala appreciated that. She peeled off her black gloves, straightened her flaming hair, and folded her hands on the table in front of her. She leaned across so she could look into his eyes.

  “Vice Admiral Pellaeon,” she said, “believe me when I tell you, I intend no mutiny against the rightful heirs to the Empire. I have no interest in becoming a great leader like your Grand Admiral Thrawn. I have read of his exploits, and I cannot replace him. I resent any attempts to compare me with him. We are different people with different short-term goals—but I believe his long-term hopes were the same as mine.”

  “And what are those hopes, Admiral?” Pellaeon asked, as if he wanted to believe her, needed to believe her—yet felt compelled to ask the question.

  She nodded slowly. “I continue to bear great love for the ideal of the Empire. The galaxy was so much more orderly. Lawlessness did not run rampant. Citizens were not confused as to their place. The Emperor gave them a destiny. The Rebels have destroyed that and supplied nothing to fill the vacuum. They talk, they pamper, they go through the motions, but they have yet to display any genuine leadership. Is this the only alternative for those of us who served the Emperor? I don’t think so.

  “On the other hand, I disdain what these puffed-up, self-appointed warlords have inflicted upon our fighting forces. Yes, the Empire has suffered many defeats in the past eight years, but we should not let those losses convince us that the Empire no longer has a significant fighting force. That is absurd. If we pooled all available ships, our military would at least be comparable to the hodgepodge fleet the Rebels have managed to assemble.”

  Pellaeon nodded, carefully sipping his drink again.

  “But these squabbling children have caused as much damage to the Empire as the Rebel Alliance has,” Daala continued. “If they would work together, decide on a leader among themselves, then we could strike back.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, Admiral,” Pellaeon said. “But how to accomplish that? Your strong-arm tactics may have caught Harrsk and Teradoc by surprise, but the others won’t crumple so easily.”

  Daala ran her fingertip across the rim of her glass, and Pellaeon watched her. She looked out the window at the empty blackness, devoid of stars. “I don’t for a moment think that Teradoc or Harrsk have surrendered. They are plotting ways to destroy me—and destroy you as well, since you have joined me for this conversation. No, they must be made to see.”

  Her face took on a wistful look as she turned from the window and stared at the wall and into her past. She muttered, “I was trained at the Imperial military academy on Carida. Because I was a woman, I was not allowed to advance along with my classmates, though I had the same, if not greater, capabilities.

  “I excelled in the academy’s exercises. I emerged at the top of my class in every case, and yet inferiors continued to be promoted above me. I was stuck in backwater assignments, forced to do menial labor. While those I had trounced in simulated combat rose up to take command of their own ships, I became a computer clerk, and then a galley overseer preparing packaged food for shipment on Star Destroyer fleets.

  “I put up with all that,” she said, drumming her fingertips on the table, “because I was an Imperial soldier, and we are trained to obey orders—yet I felt that I would let the Empire down if I allowed my short-sighted superiors ignore the things I could do. The Emperor’s personal distaste for women and nonhuman species is one of the few things I disagree with.”

  “Grand Admiral Thrawn was an alien,” Pellaeon said.

  “Yes,” Daala said, “and according to the records I’ve seen, the Emperor exiled him to the Unknown Territories, though Thrawn was perhaps one of the best military commanders in the fleet.”

  Pellaeon nodded. “I see your point. I was overjoyed when he returned and I finally found a commander I could follow with a genuine hope of victory, rather than an endless string of defeats.”

  Pellaeon finished his drink and set the empty glass on the table; he did not request another. “So what did you do?” he asked. “How did you gain your rank of Admiral?”

  “I created a false identity for myself,” Daala said. “I played simulations remotely on the Caridan computer networks. I defeated the best opponents, over and over again. Some of my tactics were true breakthroughs, variations on the zero-gravity fighting routines and space maneuvers developed by General Dodonna himself. All ships in the Imperial Navy were given copies of my battles to study. Space warfare changed because of the intuitive leaps I had made—all under a fake name, of course.

  “My skills came to the attention of Moff Tarkin, who journeyed to Carida so that he could meet the mysterious individual who had developed such innovative tactics. It took him several months and two black-market slicers to dig me out of my network hiding place. Tarkin was astonished to learn I was a woman and even more astonished to see that I was a lowly corporal working in the kitchen.

  “The officials on Carida were outraged, terribly embarrassed that their star tactician turned out to be someone they had buried—but when Tarkin realized that, instead of rewarding me for my exceptional intuition, the Caridan officials intended to assign me to a lonely meteorological station on the south polar ice cap, he transferred me to his own personal staff, promoted me to Admiral, and took me away from Carida.”

  She smiled with a memory she had not allowed for some time. “Once, he overheard a young lieutenant mutter that I had achieved my rank only because I was sleeping with Tarkin.” Daala sighed. “Why is it every time a competent woman is rewarded, others assume it’s only because she’s having sex with a man?”

  Pellaeon didn’t answer her, not that she expected him to.

  “Tarkin arrested the lieutenant,” she said, “placed him in an environment suit with a day’s worth of air in a low orbit. We both ran the calculations and estimated that he would make about twenty orbits before he dropped deep enough into the atmosphere to burn up. Neither of us knew whether his air would run out first, or if he would be incinerated. Either circumstance provided a fine punishment, a gruesome example for Moff Tarkin’s crew to see. It was particularly effective that he left the lieutenant’s comm system open, so that for a full day everyone aboard could hear his words over the ship’s intercom, pleading, cursing, screaming.…”

  Daala finished her own drink and placed the empty glass beside Pellaeon’s. “After that time, no one ever suggested I had received my rank only because Tarkin was my lover.”

  Pellaeon paled, but made no comment.

  “But I’m digressing,” Daala said. “You and I should come to some sort of decision and get back before our respective fleets grow too impatient.”

  “Agreed, Admiral. What is it that you wish to accomplish?”

  “I want to unify the Empire,” Daala said simply. “I want someone to take the helm as leader—but I don’t intend for it
to be me. I have no delusions of political glory. I just want the opportunity to cause as much damage as possible to the Rebels.”

  “Why not call a detente council, then?” Pellaeon said. “Perhaps we could get the warlords together, make them sit down and talk. Even if they refuse to be united under a single leader, perhaps they could agree on strategy. Each could strike different targets in the New Republic, using their own tactics and their own methods to bring the Rebels to their knees. Then we can mop up the territory that’s rightfully ours.” His eyes glittered with excitement as the ideas flowed from him.

  Daala nodded. “An exceptionally good suggestion, Vice Admiral. Similar to my own ideas. You are perhaps in a better position to make those invitations, though I will do what I can. However,” she said, going to a cyberlocked strongbox beside her personal bureau, “if that doesn’t work, I want you to take this.” She opened the strongbox and withdrew a palm-size breathmask membrane, which she handed to Pellaeon.

  “What is it for?” Pellaeon said.

  “I hope you never need to use it,” Daala answered. “But if all else fails, you will know.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Tsoss Beacon transmitted its blind signal into the fiery soup of stars and gases near the heart of the deep core. The automated station had been constructed by droids and suicide crews on a planetoid scoured clean by an endless wash of radioactive storms and solar flares that swept the region. No living thing had visited Tsoss Beacon for fifteen years, and the ionized flux had long since caused most of the maintenance droids to malfunction.

  Admiral Daala considered it the perfect place to hold a meeting of Imperial warlords.