Vortex: Star Wars (Fate of the Jedi) (Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi)

by Troy Denning

  “What happened?” Octa Ramis asked. “Why is Fel backing out?”

  “Never mind what happened,” Kyle interrupted. “What we need to know is whether Daala knows yet?”

  “If not, she will soon,” Cilghal replied. “The Pellaeon is preparing to break orbit, and that will not go unnoticed for long.”

  “Especially not when Head of State Fel returnz to it,” Saba said, not turning her head away.

  A broad smile came to Kyp’s lips. “Any idea why Jag thought the Solos needed to know his plans?”

  Octa Ramis’s heavy brow rose. “Are you suggesting he was offering to coordinate with us?”

  “Not coordinate,” Kyle said. “That would be interfering in another government’s internal affairs. But he was informing us.”

  “Exactly,” Kyp said, nodding. “So that we can coordinate with him. When Daala realizes that the Empire is withdrawing from negotiations, she’s going to be very distracted.”

  “And that will happen when?” Saba asked, finally turning her gaze from Kenth’s hiding place. “Did Head of State Fel say when he was departing?”

  Cilghal raised a webbed finger and spoke briefly into her comlink, then listened for a moment and looked back to Saba.

  “Head of State Fel told them that the Pellaeon was already preparing to break orbit,” she reported. “Leia thinks the Graser Building was his last stop before going to the spaceport.”

  “So Daala will learn he is leaving how soon?” Saba asked. “Fifteen minutes?”

  “She has to know already,” Kyp said. “A Star Destroyer preparing to break orbit isn’t subtle, and Jag’s pilots are probably prepping his shuttle for departure.”

  Saba fell silent for a moment, then said, “If Head of State Fel knew where to find the Solos, then he knowz what they are preparing to do—and perhapz what we are preparing to do here. He was telling them when to go.”

  Kyp, Kyle, and the rest of the Masters nodded.

  Saba turned toward the hangar floor and surveyed the StealthXs, her forked tongue flicking at the air. Finally, she said, “Ask Captain Terrik to start the tournament at once. And comm the Solos. We go in ten minutes.”

  Cilghal looked to the other Masters, and Kenth watched in growing horror as, one by one, they nodded agreement. Never before had he felt so shocked, so sad, so alone … and so determined. He snatched his lightsaber off his belt, then rose to his feet and took two quick steps, placing himself on the catwalk directly above Saba.

  “I’m sorry,” he called down. “But I can’t let you do that.”

  Beyond the bridge of the aging Star Destroyer Errant Venture floated the scintillating immensity of the planet Coruscant. It was the brightest jewel of the galactic Core, the hungry heart through which coursed all the blessings and curses of a vast interstellar civilization. And somewhere down there among all those lights hung Booster Terrik’s grandchildren, frozen in carbonite and held hostage to an ex-Imperial’s insatiable lust for power. Booster had come to free them, and free them he would—even if it meant crashing his Star Destroyer into Chief Daala’s offices with every last guest still aboard.

  Booster heard a pair of small boots approaching and turned to see a beak-faced Ishi Tib female crossing the deck toward him, her short eye-stalks swiveling left and right as she inspected duty stations. Dressed in tight trousers and a bright, puff-sleeved blouse, Lyari looked more like a holostar pirate than the first officer of the galaxy’s largest casino ship, and that suited Booster just fine. He liked to remind his patrons they were taking a ride on the wild side, that when they boarded the Errant Venture anything could happen—and it usually did.

  With Lyari was the latest—and only uninvited—guest, a nondescript human of average height dressed in a conservative business tunic and trousers. Had his collar-length brown hair not been so immaculately trimmed and in place, Booster would have made him for a spy trying to look inconspicuous and unmemorable. Instead he looked exactly like the government bureaucrat he was—a man who was out of his element aboard a den of wickedness like the Errant Venture, and way out of his depth gambling with the likes of Drikl Lecersen and Fost Bramsin.

  Lyari stopped at Booster’s side and made the man squirm by slipping a talon-fingered hand around his triceps. “I present Wynn Dorvan, chief of staff to Chief of State Daala.” Her voice was more liquid and purring than usual, a sign that she recognized the value of the catch she had produced. “He’s interested in the tournament.”

  Booster chomped on the stub of his cigar and studied Dorvan out of one eye. “That so, Wynn?” He used the side of his hand to pop the chief of staff lightly in the shoulder, then asked, “You don’t mind if I call you Wynn, do you, Wynn?”

  Dorvan’s face remained placid, his expression unreadable. “It’s your ship, Captain Terrik. While I’m aboard, you have every right to call me whatever you wish.”

  “I suppose I do.” Booster pulled a cigar from his pocket and offered it to Dorvan. “Nobody calls me Captain around here. I’m Booster.”

  “Very well, Booster.” Dorvan eyed the cigar warily, then waved it off. “Thank you, but … well, whatever it is you do with those, I don’t.”

  “No?” Booster returned the cigar to his pocket, growing more curious every moment about Dorvan’s real reason for approaching him. “Sorry Lando didn’t send you an invite to our little charity tournament—”

  “A top prize of fifty million credits is not a little tournament,” Dorvan interrupted. “It’s enough to attract every serious player on the planet—and you know it, Booster.”

  Booster shrugged. “So you’re a serious player?”

  “I’d like to think so, yes,” Dorvan replied.

  “Then how come we haven’t heard of you before?” Lyari asked. “As a sabacc player, I mean.”

  “Probably the same reason no one learned that the Tendrando Arms Celebrity Sabacc Charity Challenge would be hosted aboard the Errant Venture until after they paid their million credits,” Dorvan replied. “Sometimes a high profile can work against you.”

  Booster chuckled and spread his hands. “Well, we all have to work with what we are.”

  Dorvan nodded. “We do, but even with Lando’s name attached to the tournament, the Venture was nearly denied orbit. You’re just lucky General Jaxton was invited.”

  “What makes you think that was luck?” Booster bragged. “Besides, the entry fees were nonrefundable. Trust me, Merratt Jaxton wasn’t the only one pulling strings at Orbital Control.”

  “But we don’t have your money yet,” Lyari observed, clearly as suspicious of Dorvan’s arrival as Booster. “And you brought your own shuttle. If we have such a ‘high profile,’ why are you looking for an invitation?”

  “Because Lando Calrissian is too wealthy to involve himself in something untoward, and the Errant Venture has a reputation for running a clean game,” Dorvan said. “Whatever else may be going on here, I see every reason to believe that the tournament will be an honest one, and I have some very good uses for fifty million credits.”

  “Assuming you win,” Booster reminded him.

  “I always assume I will,” Dorvan replied smoothly. “Do you have a seat available or not?”

  “I’ll have Lyari check.”

  Booster nodded toward the comlink in the Ishi Tib’s sleeve pocket. Dorvan was such a valuable addition to his guest list that he would have made a seat available even if there hadn’t been one. But when he went into something, he liked to know all the angles, and something smelled wrong about Dorvan’s claim. Wynn Dorvan was one name he would not have expected Han Solo to leave off the invite list.

  Booster was still pondering the problem when he felt the large red eyes of his Duros communications officer watching him. He glanced over and found her holding one finger on the MUTE button on her console and the other to the speaker bud in her recessed ear. When she noticed Booster watching her, she signed off and turned to face the command deck, then shot a frown in Dorvan’s direction to indicate she ne
eded to talk privately.

  Booster excused himself and stepped over to the communications station. “We have a problem?”

  The Duros shook her head. “Just a change of plans,” she said. “Our dirtside friends want us to start the tournament now.”

  Booster cocked a bushy gray brow. The tournament wasn’t even scheduled to begin for another quarter hour, and just a few minutes earlier Saba had instructed him to hold the start until the last stragglers were aboard.

  “Do they know Senator Treen is still running late?”

  The comm officer nodded. “I reminded them. They want us to start anyway.”

  Booster resisted the urge to tug at his beard, but could not quite keep himself from glancing back at Wynn Dorvan. Something important had clearly changed on the ground, and he could not help thinking that it had something to do with his unexpected rival. But who would send the Alliance chief of staff to sabotage a Star Destroyer? Or even to spy on it? Something just wasn’t adding up.

  “Booster, shall I acknowledge?”

  Booster nodded. “I think we’d better, Saliah. These aren’t the kind of friends we want steamed at us.” This last part he added loudly enough for Dorvan to hear, just in case the bureaucrat didn’t already know who their real friends on the ground were. “Then tell Lando to start the tournament now, and have Eloa wire Senator Treen’s entry fee back to her.”

  “On it,” Saliah confirmed.

  No sooner had Booster returned to Dorvan’s side than the bureaucrat asked, “Does that mean you have a seat available?”

  “I suppose it does,” Booster replied, still playing hard to get, “if you’ve got the entry fee.”

  “Of course.” Dorvan pulled a certified bank voucher from inside his tunic and passed it over. “I know what you were thinking, Booster, but I assure you—I’m not in the habit of asking for bribes.”

  Booster inspected the voucher. “A million credits,” he said, nodding. “That’s a big entry fee for a public servant.”

  Dorvan nodded. “I told you, Booster. I know how to play sabacc.”

  “I guess maybe you do,” Booster said, chuckling. He passed the voucher over to Lyari. “Let Lando know that Wynn will be taking Senator Treen’s seat, then have someone take him down to the tournament.”

  “Sure.” Lyari spoke into her comlink, then looked back to Dorvan. “The tournament just started. By the time we get you down there, you’ll have missed the first dozen hands or so. It’s not too late to withdraw, if you find that objectionable.”

  “You wouldn’t have my money if I did.” Dorvan turned to Booster, then asked, “May I ask, just who are these partners of yours?”

  “You can ask.” Booster motioned for Lyari to get Dorvan off the bridge—then realized that maybe Dorvan’s unexpected arrival was no more than the lucky break it appeared to be, what his grandkids liked to call the will of the Force. He raised his hand to stop Lyari, then said, “Wynn, how about staying on the bridge for a bit? There’s something I want you to see.”

  Dorvan scowled. “What about the tournament?”

  “It’s a three-day tournament,” Lyari reminded him. “Do you think ten minutes at the beginning will make a difference?”

  “And we’ll refund ten percent of your entry fee,” Booster added. “You won’t want to miss this, trust me.”

  Dorvan sighed, then reached into his pocket and stroked something—probably the chitlik he was rumored to keep as a pet.

  “Ten minutes,” he said. “After that, I want to be at the table.”

  “Deal.” Booster made a scribbling motion, instructing Lyari to get a voucher, then turned to his Bith navigation officer. “Bring us about, Ratt. You know where we’re going.”

  “Copy, Booster,” Ratt replied. “Setting a course for Orbital Mirror Baker Six Tango.”

  “Good,” Booster said. “Marfen, bring batteries eight, ten, and twelve online.”

  “Batteries eight, ten, and twelve charging and acquiring targets,” Marfen, the Brubb weapons officer, confirmed. “Ready to attack in twenty seconds.”

  “Attack?” Dorvan must have been made of sterner stuff than he looked, for his voice was calm and his face empty of surprise. “A climate-control mirror?”

  “Didn’t I say you wouldn’t want to miss this?” Booster replied. “Marfen, put the target on display.”

  The blinding-bright image of a silver, double-paneled mirror appeared on the giant vid display at the front of the bridge. To Booster, it looked a little bit like a Chadra-Fan’s head, with a tiny round ball flanked by two squarish, oversized ears. He knew that each mirror was more than ten square kilometers in area, but that only made it more difficult for Booster to get a sense of scale.

  “Orbital Control is demanding to know why we’re drifting out of assigned coordinates,” Saliah reported. “They’re threatening to fine us.”

  This drew a hearty chuckle from the entire bridge crew.

  “Then I guess we’d better get our money’s worth,” Booster said. “Fire at will, Marfen.”

  “Copy that,” the Brubb replied. “Fi—”

  The rest was drowned out by a loud cheer as half a dozen turbolaser beams lanced out and vaporized the thin mirror panels instantly, leaving only twin clouds of roiling flame and fume in their place.

  “That was several million credits’ worth of Alliance property you just destroyed.” Dorvan did not seem nearly as shocked as he should have, and Booster began to have the unhappy feeling that Daala’s chief of state had known exactly what he was walking into—and done it anyway. “But at least you missed the control hub. You could have killed someone.”

  “There’s always next time,” Booster replied. “Ratt, set a course for target two.”

  “Target two?” Dorvan echoed. “I don’t know what you expect this destruction to accomplish, but I assure you, it won’t secure anyone’s release. Chief Daala is very determined.”

  “So am I,” Booster growled. He grabbed Dorvan by the arm and marched him toward Saliah’s comm console. “I’ve been worried sick about Valin and Jysella, and I’m tired of it. I’m going to keep blasting until my grandkids are free, and if I run out of mirrors before that happens, I’ll start on the habitation stations.”

  Dorvan shook his head. “You haven’t thought this through,” he said. “The entire Sixth Fleet is in orbit. They’ll blast you to bits before you reach the third target.”

  “Not me, Wynn,” Booster said, smiling. “Us. You, me, Fost Bramsin, Drikl Lecersen, Merratt Jaxton, and ninety-six other very important Coruscanti.”

  Dorvan’s brow rose. “You’re holding us hostage?”

  “I’m hosting a sabacc tournament,” Booster replied, putting some iron in his voice. “And the invitation did say ‘no early departure.’ ”

  Dorvan shook his head. “You’ll never get away with this,” he said. “Our security teams—”

  “Are no longer a problem,” the weapons officer, Marfen, said. “You have heard of coma gas, right?”

  A series of images appeared on the bridge display, showing several staging areas near the tournament floor. Each of the salons was filled with unconscious bodyguards, many of them already disarmed and bound. Booster was glad to see that Marfen had selected only views with no visible Jedi Knights; he didn’t want Dorvan to see the full extent of their plan—at least not yet.

  “You might want to explain the situation to your boss.” Booster took a mike off Saliah’s comm console. “Let her know who we’ve got aboard. We’ll even send her a list, if she wants.”

  “This is outrageous and foolish,” Dorvan said. He was either a great sabacc player or a terrible liar, because his voice remained even and his face expressionless. “You do understand that Chief Daala will never negotiate for hostages, don’t you?”

  “Try her,” Booster said. “She might surprise you.”

  Saliah opened a channel and looked up. “What’s Daala’s comm code?”

  When Dorvan hesitated, Booster said, “Jus
t the one message, then you can go down to the tournament.” He took the cigar stub out of his mouth and smiled. “Once you’re at the sabacc table, you’ll hardly know you’re a hostage at all.”

  The challenger had chosen his ground well. Standing on a catwalk nearly eight meters above Saba’s head, he had the advantage of height, and of a safety rail that would serve as a defensive barrier. But to her keen senses, he appeared ill prepared to force a confrontation. When he spoke, his tone was sharp and tense instead of low and confident. His movements were jerky instead of graceful and strong, and the bitterness of his distress lingered on her tongue every time she tested the air. Most of all, her reptilian eyes could see his fear in the infrared glow of his torso and head, in the way his body was holding its blood and heat in its most vital areas. Kenth Hamner did not want to be there. He was frightened and uncertain of himself, and he had spent the last ten minutes stalking Saba without gathering the courage to strike.

  That was no way to come after a longtail.

  “… Jedi Order has served galactic civilization since its founding,” Hamner was saying. “If you do this, you’ll be severing a tradition that goes back twenty-five thousand years!”

  “We’re serving civilization by saving it,” Kyp Durron replied.

  Kyp was standing with the other pilots about two meters behind Saba, within easy distance of the narrow metal staircase that descended to the hangar floor. Even if Hamner tried to prevent him and the others from joining their squadrons, Saba was in a good position to intervene.

  “This wasn’t Saba’s decision alone,” Kyp continued. “The whole Council agreed.”

  “I didn’t agree,” Hamner shot back. “And I am still the acting Grand Master.”

  Octa Ramis glared up at him. “No. You lost the Council’s confidence when you didn’t take us into yours.”

  “You were wrong,” Kyle Katarn agreed. “You should have told us about the deal with Bwua’tu.”