Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Conviction

by Allston, Aaron

  Leia narrowed her eyes. “It might also divide them, as the other groups become unhappy with the one that wins the prize. Meaning they might cease to exist as a united front, as a potential enemy of the Galactic Alliance. Master, you may have more political savvy than you’re admitting to.”

  “This one categorically denies that charge.”

  The last few dozen visitors passed by the bier. Most of them continued on toward the exit arch, but a few lingered. Jaina saw among them human men and women with coloration and features similar to Hamner’s—distant family members, she assumed.

  Four of them approached, unfurled a blue cloth among them, and drew it over Hamner’s body, covering him head-to-foot. The cloth draped down on either side of the bier. The four withdrew.

  Izal Waz, an Arcona Jedi Knight, dark-skinned and reptilian, approached the bier. In his hand was a flaming brand. His expression was fierce, but there was sorrow in his large green eyes.

  He spoke only a few words. “All through your life, you fulfilled your duties with strength, grace, and honor, and we will remember. Only one duty remains. Go onward and break trail so that we may someday follow.” He lowered the brand so that its flame touched the wood of the bier.

  The wood, prepared for this purpose, caught quickly. Flames raced around the base of the bier and swiftly climbed toward the shrouded body.

  Izal withdrew to stand with Hamner’s family, and smoke that had once been living wood and living flesh climbed into the Coruscant sky.

  HWEG SHUL, NAM CHORIOS

  Father:

  I hope that you are much recovered.

  Abeloth is on Nam Chorios, operating under the identity of Nenn, a Master of the Theran Listeners. Evidence suggests that she has taken refuge in an underground water pumping station somewhere on the planet, but there is insufficient information at this time to indicate which.

  With affection, I remain

  Your daughter, Vestara

  Writing that letter, compared with the previous few, seemed almost effortless to Vestara. There were no lies in it, no requirements that she project herself into a different mind-set, a different way of thinking.

  Why, then, was it so hard to send the thing?

  In Sel’s little office, Vestara had had no problem slicing into Sel’s accounts, purchasing a hypercomm transmission of one small text message, encrypting it, setting up the routing on that message so it would find its way to her father’s task force without alerting GA authorities to its path or its origin. But now, with all tasks but one complete, she found herself unable to touch the button on the screen that would send the thing.

  “Vestara?” It was Ben’s voice from elsewhere in Sel’s dome.

  Vestara jumped, then hit the on-screen button, sending the transmission. She closed down the conduit through which she’d sent it, stood, gathered a small pile of printouts, and moved out into the little hall and the living chamber beyond.

  Sel was still stretched out on her sofa. Luke, looking tired, sat on a nearby chair, Ben standing beside him. Both Skywalkers glanced toward Vestara as she entered.

  She held up the printouts. “A list of all recorded water pumping stations onplanet. And composite space station holocam views of all of them over the last few days. I think I’ve done a little damage to Sel’s financial accounts to pay for this.”

  “We’ll arrange for her to be repaid.” Luke held out a hand and accepted the sheaf of flimsies.

  “Master Skywalker, you look weary.”

  “I am. I decided not to rely on nothing but a post-hypnotic suggestion—too dangerous for us. I employed mnemotherapy instead. It was successful. Sel won’t recall us visiting her.”

  Vestara looked at the sleeping woman. “Is she still under Abeloth’s influence?”

  “Yes. There’s little point in freeing her when, in a matter of minutes or hours, she’ll fall under Abeloth’s sway again … especially when freeing her might tip off Abeloth as to our whereabouts.” Luke paged through the printouts, studying the composite holocam views, each of which showed, from far above, a ground site and the vehicle activity in its vicinity. Some views were of communities with heavy traffic, and the vehicle activity appeared as thick, blurry lines. Others showed abandoned sites with no activity at all. Other sites were somewhere in between.

  As he perused them, he spoke, as if to himself. “Kind of like the old days, on the run from the Empire … anything we needed but didn’t have, we’d steal, do whatever we could to blame corrupt Imperial quartermasters or criminal groups like the Black Sun … younger then, didn’t get so tired so fast …”

  Ben glanced up to catch Vestara’s eye. He appeared worried. And no wonder: his father, still carrying an injury from the last fight with the Sith, seemed just a little diminished by all his recent labors.

  Luke sighed, set the flimsies on his lap, and looked up. “Next step, we get some rest; then tonight we steal a landspeeder or airspeeder.”

  Vestara nodded. “Yes, Master Skywalker.”

  “From a Theran Listener if possible, or an Oldtimer otherwise. Reduce their resources, enhance ours.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ben, please take first watch.”

  CORUSCANT

  The judge, a Mon Calamari male with skin color closer to black than red, more imposing than many jurists because of his cranial size, looked up from the monitor embedded in the top surface of his bench. “Admiral Natasi Daala, this court accepts your plea of not guilty in the charges specified. Owing, however, to the prosecution’s well-documented analysis of the risks surrounding your situation, including support, wanted or unwanted, from extremist elements formerly belonging to the armed forces of the Galactic Empire, we must accede to the prosecution’s request that you be held without bail.”

  Daala, standing unyielding and unbowed in the face of political treachery and trumped-up charges, did not deign to answer the judge or even look directly at him.

  “Additionally, given the resources available to these individuals and groups, we hereby order that you be held over in a maximum-security facility pending trial.”

  Daala’s attorney, a fair-haired human male about Daala’s age, tried one last time. “Your Honor, my client is an honorable veteran of the armed forces and constitutes no flight risk. These measures are entirely inappropriate, and their enforcement could conceivably prejudice jurors against her.”

  “We will have to see that this does not happen, Counselor. This arraignment is hereby concluded.” The judge banged his gavel and it was done.

  Her attorney turned a sympathetic face toward Daala. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t concern yourself, Counselor. Not all the reason and precedent in the galaxy can convince conspirators that they shouldn’t conspire … On another matter, if I write a message, can you deliver it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Without reading it yourself?”

  He hesitated only a fraction of a second. “Yes. But I must advise against your taking any action related to your case that doesn’t involve your defense team.”

  A GA Security guard, a huge Ithorian whose eyes, widely spaced in her broad, fleshy head, betrayed nothing, approached, gesturing for them to depart through the side door reserved for attorneys and clients.

  Daala turned that way. “There are some things, Counselor, that I must do without consultation. I’m still the legitimate Chief of State of the Alliance. Some of my measures must remain secret.” Reaching the door, she offered an absent wave to Wynn Dorvan, who sat in the front row of audience seats. Then she passed through and lost sight of him.

  “Of course, Admiral.”

  Not long after, her personal possessions confiscated, her clothes replaced with a yellow inmate’s jumpsuit, Daala was transported via personnel airspeeder to the maximum-security Armand Isard Correctional Facility. A seeming eternity of documentation, hand- and sole-printing, gene sampling, and retina scanning followed, to which Daala paid very little attention.

  She h
ad better things to do. In her mind, she composed letters. One was to her civil attorney and banker, instructing them in the liquidation of some of her personal funds.

  Another was to Boba Fett.

  Eventually, all red tape accomplished, she was led up to her private cell in the maximum-security upper reaches of the prison. It galled her that she was to be housed in the same corridor as the most violent of offenders, sociopaths who killed without remorse, nonhumans whose physical abilities made them too dangerous to house in the common prison population.

  At least no one she knew would see her under these circumstances.

  She entered her cell and the vault-like door slid into place behind her. She turned and stepped up to the door, watching through its trapezoidal viewport as her guards walked away.

  Across the broad corridor, behind a cell door opposite hers, someone was waving to her through another viewport. Daala narrowed her eyes, focusing on that individual.

  Female, human, pretty features, blond hair, and a wide, wide smile …

  Daala’s heart sank. It was Tahiri Veila.

  No, Daala couldn’t even be imprisoned where she would be allowed to preserve her dignity. That Jedi, that murderess, would be able to peer through her viewport day in and day out, spying and mocking.

  Daala stepped away from the door and rested her forehead on the wall beside it. She hoped that this would be the final insult offered her.

  HWEG SHUL, NAM CHORIOS

  Luke woke hours later, feeling better, his head more clear. He was still surrounded by the curved walls of Sel’s home and not by Nam Chorios security guards, so obviously nothing had gone catastrophically wrong during his sleep.

  Blinking, he moved toward Sel’s tiny kitchen to prepare some caf, but Ben, emerging from the office, held out a datapad to him. The device was open, text and holocam images on the screen. “Dad, take a look.”

  Luke peered at the screen. It was made up of text transcripts of a number of recent HoloNews stories. The headline for the top one read, Jedi Seize Control of GA Government. The holocam image, a motion recording, showed Saba Sebatyne addressing the Senate, but no sound emerged from the datapad. Luke scrolled down. Below it, Chief of State Daala Charged with Crimes Against Sentient Species. Its image, a holocam still, showed an unflattering pose of Daala, looking angry, her mouth open.

  Below that were the words, Jedi Master Kenth Hamner Slain—Murder or Ritual Duel? Its images included a close view of Hamner’s face, solid and serious, and beside it a long view of the man’s bier, flames licking up toward his body, smoke flowing up into the sky.

  And at the bottom, Luke Skywalker Sentence Overturned. The image beside it showed Luke, not long after the end of the Second Galactic Civil War, dressed in black Master’s robes and looking sorrowful.

  Luke blew out a breath and leaned back against the wall. Quickly, aware of Ben’s gaze on him, he scanned through the stories.

  He already knew of Hamner’s death, of course, but the rest … “This is a disaster.”

  “Disaster? It looks like a correction to me. And your plea-bargain terms dismissed? Dad, you get to go home!”

  “After Abeloth.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “And disaster is exactly the right word.” Luke looked up to meet his son’s eyes. “We’re not politicians, Ben. We’re not trained for it, except for the occasional exception like your aunt Leia. Our usual tactic for dealing with trouble is to stand in front of it as it comes and cut it down if it doesn’t respond to reason.”

  Ben’s face fell. “I thought you would have been pleased. About the exile being at an end, anyway.”

  Luke offered him a small smile. “I am, about that, anyway. But I can’t return home right now. Can’t offer Saba the sort of support she probably needs.”

  “You can summon the Jedi here. No more suggestions from me, hoping they’ll decide to do what you want—”

  “No. The Jedi are needed elsewhere.” Luke snapped the datapad shut and handed it back to Ben. “What’s needed here … is caf. Breakfast?”

  * * *

  In the last hour of daylight, when winds still drove streamers of dust across the town and vision was limited to a city block or less, Luke, Ben, and Vestara ventured out of Sel’s home. Sel herself remained behind, still asleep.

  The three of them found the speeder they needed parked in front of the taproom they had first visited in Hweg Shul. An Incom T-47 modified to accommodate as many passengers and as much cargo as possible in its sleek, broad-winged fuselage, painted black, rested there. It was an old airspeeder, but obviously meticulously maintained. The owner, doubtless, was inside, enjoying a few drinks with friends … an enjoyment that would end very soon.

  Despite the risk of Force storm consequences—a minor risk, owing to the tiny amount of effort directed through this technique—Luke stared through the side viewport, located the interior door catch, and exerted himself through the Force. The catch slid into its unlocked position. A moment later the three were inside. It didn’t take long for the technically proficient Jedi to locate and disable the vehicle’s transponder and bypass the security governor on its start-up systems.

  Just a couple of minutes after they’d first spotted the vehicle, still undetected, Luke activated the repulsors, brought the T-47 off the ground, and sent it gliding toward the town border.

  They had supplies filched from Sel’s kitchen, a vehicle stolen from a potential enemy, and an impossible task to accomplish. Luke grinned. It really did feel like old times.

  FRIGATE RAKEHELL, MAIN HANGAR BAY

  JAVON THEWLES SAT, UNCOMFORTABLE, IN THE LIGHTWEIGHT METAL-TUBING chair and listened to what Leia Organa Solo had to tell him.

  He was uncomfortable for a variety of reasons.

  First, he was sitting in a chair meant to endure the elements of sun and rain beside a swimming pool and occasionally hold swimsuited frolickers off the permacrete, while he was a full-grown man in black body armor styled like that of Galactic Alliance troopers but lacking unit or rank insignia. The chair sagged under his weight and threatened at any moment to buckle and send him to the metal deck of the hangar bay.

  Second, he was talking to Leia Organa Solo. He’d been on guard detail for a number of famous people in his GA Security career, but none had ever said anything to him other than a brief greeting. And mere meters away was the Millennium Falcon. Somewhere atop it, the equally famous Han Solo was laboring on an antenna array. Javon couldn’t see him, but the occasional outbursts of complaint or cursing gave Han’s location away. Now a metal tool rang off the metal decking, bounced, and clanked to a halt, followed by Han’s shout: “Amelia, get that for me, would you?”

  Third, there was the task Javon was being assigned.

  He cleared his throat to give himself another second to think. “I’m to be a babysitter?”

  Leia nodded. “For all practical purposes, yes. Is that a problem? Beneath your dignity?”

  “Nothing like that. Security is security, and people who need protection need it regardless of their ages. But I’ve never protected a child before. I’m not sure I’m competent for the task.”

  Leia gave him an understanding look. “The first thing to remember, which is a real help, is that you generally don’t have to tell them to duck when you’re firing over their heads.”

  “That was … a joke?”

  “A little one, yes.”

  “Oh, good. Um, this is not offered as a criticism, I’m genuinely curious … and a little confused. You’re bringing a child into an armed camp, an ad hoc settlement where security is going to be handled by several incompatible units varying from freedom fighters to, it seems, terrorists, to self-aggrandizing warriors, none of whom have any consideration for the safety of a little girl …”

  “It’s not an ideal situation, correct.” For a moment, Leia sounded very weary indeed. “I can’t really think of a point in time in the last forty-five years that could be described as an ideal situation.” She resume
d an expression of good humor. “But things aren’t necessarily any safer on Coruscant. If I were there, given my history, I’d be helping with the affairs of the Chief of State’s office, which would potentially bring Amelia into harm’s way. So Klatooine may actually be safer. Usually we have a Jedi and an associated security expert hovering near Amelia and providing protection—don’t tell her that—”

  “No worries.”

  “—but given the recent government crisis and other situations abroad in the galaxy, we’re stretched too thin. So when Seha Dorvald said that our actions had cost a promising and diligent young security lieutenant his job, maybe his career, I thought you’d be a good choice to head up an interim security detail.”

  “I intend to be. I just wanted to express reservations. About my own lack of experience in one area. I mean, I don’t know what to do if she starts crying.”

  Leia laughed. “It takes a lot to make her cry. I suggest you empty a blaster rifle clip in the direction of whatever made her cry.”

  “That’s reassuring …”

  “Seha also said you had a theory about the charges made against her.”

  “Well …” Javon moved effortlessly from one discomfort to a new one, not entirely at ease discussing a theory so obviously in need of fact checking and elaboration. “It’s just that I have the sense that the poisoning of Moff Lecersen, Senator Bramsin, and General Jaxton, and the placement of a poison container in the Senate Building, was part of a specific effort to discredit Galactic Alliance Security. After the coup, I thought that maybe—forgive me for this—it was part of the Jedi plan, since the sudden interference by Fleet Intelligence was clearly very helpful to the Jedi in causing chaos in the Senate Building and allowing them freedom of movement. But Seha has said that the Jedi weren’t involved, and I believe her, which leaves the poisoners and their motives a mystery.”

  Leia considered that. “So you think there’s a player on the board, unidentified, who wanted to remove the piece representing security. An unknown player with an unknown motive.”