by Troy Denning
“Before this place blows.” Ben gestured vaguely toward the control room, where the alarms could still be faintly heard. “You have noticed what’s going on in there, right?”
“Oh, the alarms,” the Givin said. “I forget about them. They’ve been going off for a little more than two years now.”
Ben shot Luke a worried look, then asked, “A little more than two years? Like twenty-seven months, maybe?”
“Yes, precisely.” The Givin nodded. “Since shortly after Centerpoint Station was destroyed, if the dates we were given are correct.”
Ben’s face fell—almost as far as Luke’s stomach sank.
“But you haven’t noticed any problems?” Ben pressed. “You’re not worried about anything?”
“What is there to worry about?” The Givin spread his bony hands. “There is no life, there is no death …”
“Yeah, I get it,” Ben grumbled. “There is only the Force.”
THE SECRET TO BEING A GREAT LEADER, DRIKL LECERSEN REFLECTED, lay in the ability to recognize intelligence and ambition totally unencumbered by morality. And in the newsfop currently seated on the couch of his rented Coruscanti apartment, he had found all of those things in great quantity.
Javis Tyrr’s giant bright smile was a trap waiting to snap, his silky warm voice a lie in the making, his polished good looks bait on a hook. Tyrr would sell his sister for a scoop, or vibroknife his best friend for an exclusive, and a private researcher had provided evidence of both. The man was, in short, the perfect tool for a cornered predator such as Lecersen, a wounded bloodfin reduced to attacking from the safety of the shadows.
Lecersen’s reflections came to an abrupt end as the scene on the hotel suite vidwall drew to a close, with a durasteel gate dropping down to hide the departing forms of Han and Leia Solo. He watched the pair escape unscathed—as they always seemed to do, from nearly any mess they created—and a familiar burning began to build in his stomach.
How the Solos could unabashedly ignore the same law that they insisted everyone else obey was beyond him. The sheer gall of such behavior was enough to justify destroying them, as was the memory of Han Solo holding a blaster on him aboard the Anakin Solo. But that wasn’t why Lecersen was doing this. This was about survival, about making certain that neither the Solos nor the Jedi were ever in a position to threaten him or the Moff Council again.
Because Jagged Fel wasn’t going to be the Head of State of the Galactic Empire forever. He wasn’t smart enough, mean enough, or ruthless enough. Sooner or later, he was going to make a mistake, and Lecersen was only one in a long line of Moffs who would be standing behind him when he did, holding a vibrodagger and ready to plunge it in.
The scene on the vidwall switched to Jaina Solo as she ducked into the crumpled Imperial limousine, ignoring the GAS captain’s repeated orders to open the gate. Lecersen paused the video, then turned to his guest, who was sprawled on the couch sipping a glass of Ryborean gax that would have cost him a month’s wages.
“Javis, my good man, I saw that live three hours ago,” he said. “You did very well making the Solos and the Jedi look bad, without mentioning the fact that there were no grounds for an arrest. But I see no reason to watch it again. You can rest assured that I consider our relationship a valuable one.”
“It’s about to get a lot more valuable.” Tyrr took a long sip of gax. “Keep going. I haven’t put everything on the air yet.”
Lecersen cocked a gray brow. “I wish you would’ve just said so. I really don’t enjoy having my time wasted.”
“This isn’t a waste, I promise you.” Tyrr tipped his glass up, gulping down a swallow of gax that was probably worth three hundred credits, then reached for the decanter on the serving cart. “You mind?”
“Not at all,” Lecersen said, speaking between clenched teeth. “I’ll break out the braboli next time.”
Lecersen turned back the vidwall and thumbed the remote, fastforwarding through the confrontation between Fel’s driver and the GAS lieutenant, then through Tyrr’s own arrival. Finally, the scene switched to a view of Jaina Solo’s face and not much else. After a moment of confusion, it grew apparent that the dark bands framing her image were a nerf-hide speeder seat on one side and a beverage cabinet on the other.
“Very impressive,” Lecersen said. “You slipped a spy droid inside Head of State Fel’s limousine.”
“Your spy droid,” Tyrr corrected. “This came from that little cleaning unit you set up for me.”
Jaina’s voice sounded from the vidwall speakers. Lecersen listened with only moderate interest as she thanked Fel for sheltering her and revealed that it had been her own con-artist father who had tricked the GAS commander into letting the Solos close the gate in his face. Then Fel mentioned Daala, and after a rather protracted negotiation over terms, the conversation grew very interesting very fast.
“I overheard something alarming when I was in Daala’s office yesterday,” Fel said. “She’s thinking of hiring a company of Mandalorians.”
Jaina’s exclamation of “Mandalorians?” was only slightly more astonished than Lecersen’s own. He turned to face a smirking Tyrr, listening in ever-growing disbelief as Jaina rattled off questions.
Then Jag confirmed, “She’s been inquiring as to how many super-commandos it might take to handle the Jedi. Exactly what she’s considering, I don’t know. But it can’t be good.”
Lecersen paused the video, then asked, “Did I really just hear Fel reveal a Galactic Alliance secret to a Jedi?”
Tyrr nodded. “He makes her promise not to tell anyone,” he said. “It’s kind of touching, if you’re into that doomed-love stuff.”
“Doomed leaders are more my style,” Lecersen replied.
He thumbed the remote again, then watched in growing delight as Fel reminded Jaina of her promise and made her swear not to reveal what she knew to the Jedi Council. The conversation ended an instant later, when Fel cursed and said, “Look who’s coming.”
The vidwall went dark, and Tyrr volunteered, “That’s all from the spy droid, but there’s another shot at the end of the chip that you need to see.”
Lecersen left the chip running, but asked, “Why does the limousine shot end there? Who did they see coming?”
“Me,” Tyrr said. “The situation was getting tricky, and I needed to get in and download from the spy droid.”
“How tricky?” Lecersen asked, suddenly growing worried. It wouldn’t be a disaster if the spy droid fell into Jedi hands—as long as the Jedi didn’t realize Tyrr was the one who had slipped it into their Temple. “I warned you not to get caught with it. If the Jedi realize you have Imperial help, your usefulness to me will come to an abrupt end.”
“Relax …” Tyrr took a long swallow from his gax, then said, “The spy droid never left the Temple—I took the download via comm wave. Now look at this. The beginning is exclusive—everyone else was busy filing their report when I caught this little gem.”
The hangar-access tunnel appeared on the vidwall again. The GAS squad was still standing outside it, the troopers looking bored, and the captain shaking his head in frustration as someone yelled at him over his headset. Then, almost so fast that Lecersen did not see it, the gate suddenly rose about a meter and dropped back down again.
The startled troopers spun around and pointed their weapons at the ground, and the GAS captain snapped something into his headset microphone. A moment later two young Jedi, a Duros female and Jenet male, rose into view and tried to walk through the middle of the squad. At least Lecersen assumed they were Jedi. They were dressed only in tunics and trousers, with no lightsabers hanging from their belts, so it was difficult to be certain.
“They were Jedi apprentices,” Tyrr explained.
“Were?” Lecersen gasped. “You mean GAS—”
“No, they’re okay,” Tyrr said. “They resigned from the Order.”
“Resigned?” Lecersen echoed. “Jedi can do that?”
Tyrr shrugged. “Who’s go
ing to stop them?”
Lecersen turned back to the vidwall, watching with interest as the GAS captain questioned the young pair. Although it was not possible to hear the conversation, it seemed apparent that the former Jedi were completely unintimidated. After a moment, the figures began to grow larger as Tyrr and his cam operator descended the lane.
“He ended up letting them go after we got there,” Tyrr explained.
“Nothing to hold them on?” Lecersen hazarded.
“Better,” Tyrr replied. “They claimed they resigned because they didn’t want to be party to breaking the law.”
Lecersen turned to face him. “Please tell me you got that.”
“Sorry,” Tyrr said. “But it was all efflux anyway. They just said that so GAS would be forced to let them go.”
“And you know this how?”
Tyrr flashed a truly self-satisfied smirk. “It’s in my interview,” he said. “I’ve got them on full holo admitting they don’t want to be Jedi anymore because they don’t like the way Daala is taking charge of the Order.”
Lecersen broke into a huge, spontaneous smile. “Did you now?” He stepped over to the serving tray and retrieved a glass for himself, then picked up the gax decanter and poured for them both. “Why don’t we watch that interview, and then I’ll tell you how I’m going to make you a very wealthy man.”
IN HER EIGHT-YEAR-OLD GRANDDAUGHTER’S LAP LAY A PALE BALL OF fur named Anji, the last of the nexu cubs Leia had been forced to orphan at the pet expo three weeks earlier. The cub’s four eyes gleamed in the flickering light of the vidwall as she kept watch over the Solos’ modest apartment, but she held her spine quills flat against her fur and her toe claws retracted into her paws. Clearly the little creature felt content in her new home—even with dulled quills, clipped claws, and a dental implant that prevented her from biting hard enough to draw blood. The sight of the creature with Allana brought a lump to Leia’s throat, for Jacen had been just as loving and gifted with animals, and it made her happy to know that some of the good in her son had survived in his daughter.
Anji raised her head and began to scent the air, prompting Allana to frown and turn toward Leia’s end of the couch.
“Grandma, you can’t be sad. It makes Anji think something’s wrong.”
A tear welled in Leia’s eye, but she smiled and reached out to stroke the nexu’s fur. “I’m not really sad, Allana.” She opened her heart to the Force and let flow the joy that raising Allana brought her. “Sometimes I remember sad times, but having you here makes your grandfather and me very, very happy …and nothing will ever change that.”
Allana considered this, her brow furrowing in the same two places Jacen’s had at that age. Leia thought for a moment her granddaughter was going to ask whether Anji made her happy, too.
Instead, a cloud of fear came to Allana’s gray eyes, and she asked, “Even if I get sick and go crazy like Barv did?”
Leia’s heart suddenly felt like it was skipping. “Sweetheart, you’re never going to get sick—not like Barv and Yaqeel. You’ve never even seen the Maw.”
“But I’m in hiding, just like they were.” As Allana spoke, she shook her head, her long black-dyed hair swinging back and forth. Anji’s quills came up, and the cub began to look around for trouble. “And I don’t want to live in carbonite. Not ever.”
“Oh, Allana, you don’t need to worry about that.” Now Leia understood. She and Han had been on edge all afternoon because the Jedi Council was still trying to decide how to respond to the arrest warrants for Bazel and Yaqeel. “That’s not going to happen to you.”
“How do you know?” Allana demanded.
“Because you’ve got Anji.” It was Han who said this, returning to the room with a tray of hot chocolates. “Kid, do you really think she would let anyone put you in carbonite?”
Allana’s eyes brightened, and Leia immediately felt the girl’s fear dissipating into the Force.
“’Course not,” Allana replied. She began to stroke Anji’s head, and the little nexu settled back into her lap and began to growl in contentment. “She’d knock ’em flat if they even thought about it.”
“I have no doubt.” Leia flashed Han a smile that said nice save. As a grandfather, he seemed to have a Force-like sense of what Allana needed to hear to feel safe and loved, and—not surprisingly for Han Solo—it had nothing to do with logic. “That must be why your grandpa asked your mother to let you keep Anji.”
Allana’s eyes widened, and she turned to Han. “Forever?”
Han smiled and said, “Nothing’s forever, kid. But for as long as Anji’s happy and doesn’t start eating our friends, yeah.”
To Leia’s surprise, Allana did not seem troubled by Han’s blunt truthfulness. She merely hugged the little cub, then smiled up at Han.
“Thanks for convincing her, Grandpa.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie.” Han put the tray on the beverage table in front of the couch, then sat down on Allana’s opposite side. “Your mother used to ride rancors when she was a girl. It wasn’t that hard to convince her you could handle a little thing like a two-hundred-kilo forest predator.”
Allana’s eyes got even bigger. “My mom rides rancors?”
“Used to ride rancors. That was a long time ago.” Leia took a pair of mugs off the tray and passed one to Allana, then shot Han a warning scowl behind their granddaughter’s back. “And the rancor was tame.”
Allana’s head swung around toward Leia. “They have tame rancors?” she gasped. “Can I ride one?”
“Sure thing, kid,” Han said, smirking at how Leia’s strategy had backfired. “The next time we’re on Dathomir, we’ll find you a nice big one.”
“Really?” Allana continued to look at Leia. “You won’t say no?”
Leia narrowed her eyes at Han. “Of course not, sweetheart. I promise.” It was a pretty safe promise to make; Dathomir was one of the last places she expected to visit anytime soon. She picked up the vidwall remote and passed it to Allana. “In the meantime, grandpa’s program has already started. Do you want to change the feed for him?”
“Yeah.” Allana pointed the remote at the signal receiver. “The Perre Needmo Newshour is coming up!”
“Thanks, kid.”
Han took his hot chocolate, then leaned back and wrapped his free arm around Allana’s shoulders. The ritual had started one day when a bad dream interrupted her nap, and she had come and curled up beside Han. The next day she had appeared as soon as the program started. The day after that she had been waiting on the couch when the Solos entered the room. After that, Han had started to bring in three hot chocolates instead of one Gizer ale, and a tradition had been born. Leia sometimes worried about such a young mind being subjected to so much news, but one of the reasons she and Han liked The Perre Needmo Newshour was that at least a third of the items were good news. Besides—as Allana herself had pointed out—the Chume’da of the Hapan Consortium needed to know how the galaxy worked.
Allana thumbed the remote, and the cartoon spiders on the vidwall were replaced by the much-wrinkled image of Perre Needmo, an elderly news anchor. His Chevin face seemed to be all snout, save for his beady eyes, gray lips, and square yellow teeth. He had two tufts of unruly silver hair, one covering the crown of his narrow skull, the other hanging from his barely discernible chin.
As expected, the top story concerned the events in which the Solos had been involved that day. A small inset of the Jedi Temple hung in the bottom corner of the vidwall as Needmo’s baritone voice rumbled from the ceiling speakers.
“…legal crisis continued today when Jedi Knights Saav’etu and Warv fell victim to paranoid delusions.” File images of Yaqeel and Bazel appeared in the corners of the vidwall. “According to witnesses at the scene, the pair began to behave oddly outside the Jedi Temple and were quickly whisked inside by Han and Leia Solo. The matter escalated shortly afterward, when a GAS special tactics squad attempted to execute an arrest warrant for the two Jedi Knights. The
squad was left standing outside a hangar door. The Jedi Council is said to be considering at this hour whether the Order is obligated to honor the warrant. An in-depth analysis of the precedents and constitutional implications follows this report.”
The images on the vidwall were replaced by a close-up of Jag’s crumpled limousine speeding across Fellowship Plaza.
“No one was injured in the incident,” Needmo continued, “but a diplomatic airspeeder was badly damaged when Jedi Warv was sedated and fell on the roof.”
Leia glanced over and saw her granddaughter frowning in concern. “Allana, you know that Barv and Yaqeel wouldn’t want you to be worried about them, don’t you?”
Allana nodded. “’Course I do. They’re my friends.”
When her frown did not disappear, Han asked, “Why do I hear a big but coming?”
Allana rewarded him with a big smile. “’Cause you’re pretty smart, Grandpa,” she said. “Maybe Barv doesn’t want me to worry, but I can’t help it. He and Yaqeel are my friends.”
“I worry, too, sweetie,” Leia said. “But we have to try not to. Master Cilghal is working very hard to help Barv and all of the other sick Jedi Knights, and there’s no one more capable. She’ll figure it out.”
The reassurance did little to lift the cloud of doubt from Allana’s brow. “Not if the Jedi Council gives them to Chief Daala.”
Leia started to say that the Masters would never do that, then stopped herself. Obviously, that wasn’t true. The Council wouldn’t still be in session if the Masters weren’t at least considering turning Bazel and Yaqeel over to Daala, and Allana was smart enough to realize that.
Leia looked to Han and found no help there. Earlier, he had wanted to storm into the meeting so they could argue the case themselves. But Leia had insisted that their presence would only be an unwelcome distraction, that they had to trust Kenth and the other Masters to reach the correct decision on their own. Now, after five hours of suspense, she was beginning to wonder whether she had made the right call.
