Javon nodded. “But chiefly, I’m always suspicious of loose ends, and the poisoning is a loose end.”
“Do any of your friends in security have opinions? And what about the news media?”
Javon shook his head. “The charges against Seha were dropped, so everyone is assuming that it was part of the Jedi plot. The denial issued by the Jedi sounds like every other denial issued by every other defendant since time began, so no one’s convinced.”
“If you have any more thoughts on this, I’d like to hear them.”
“Thank you.” Realizing that the interview was at an end, Javon stood. “I’ll brief the rest of the security detail.”
* * *
They came out of hyperspace not long after, outside the interfering range of Klatooine’s gravity well. The planet, a mostly tan sphere, unlovely, appeared on monitors all over the frigate.
In the cockpit of the Falcon, Han glanced at the same image on his own monitor as he went through his preflight checklist. “Looks like Tatooine.”
Leia settled into the copilot’s seat. “You sound cheerful about that.”
“I have good memories of Tatooine. Met a nice guy there. Got a wife out of the deal a few years later.” He paused. “Maybe there’s another wife waiting for me here.”
Leia gave him a mock glower. “Be careful what you wish for.”
There was a little-girl chuckle from the passenger seat behind Leia. She turned to look. Allana, all fresh-scrubbed and deceptive innocence, sat there listening to the exchange, her nexu, Anji, sitting contentedly by her side.
Han craned his neck to give Allana a glance. “What’s funny, kiddo?”
“You. You don’t want two wives.”
“Why not?”
“ ’Cause I don’t need two grandmas, and you don’t need two ladies telling you what to do.”
Han gave Leia a look of profound hurt and turned back to his checklist. “Yes, she’s definitely inherited that Organa mouth.”
Leia smiled at her granddaughter—smirked, rather. “Well done, Allana. Now, since I’ll be doing negotiations with the freedom fighters and your grandfather will be out hunting for a new wife, you’ll have Artoo and Threepio to keep you company.”
“Oh.” This time Allana’s tone was decidedly less enthusiastic. “Threepio’s so fussy.”
Leia’s smile broadened. “Even fussier than Grandpa?”
“A little.”
“Well, learning to deal with fussy people is a big part of what we do. Solos and Jedi and …” Leia glanced around to make sure C-3PO was not in hearing range. “And your mother’s family. So you might as well get used to it.”
“I guess.”
On the monitor, Klatooine grew steadily larger and better-defined.
Han checked the chron update at the bottom of the monitor display. “Five minutes to launch.”
They came down in tight formation, three vehicles: the Falcon, famous and iconic and just a little dilapidated; a large military shuttle holding a squadron of Galactic Alliance Security officers and troopers; and a small Lambda-class shuttle carrying a detachment of civilian security experts, including Javon, designated as additional security for Amelia Solo.
The formation circled over and around its destination before landing. In the heart of a desert, it was a temporary outpost of civilization—a sprawling camp made up of scores of tents, some of them enormous. There were small spacecraft at the edges and sometimes at landing zones in among the tents; they included shuttles, small transports and cargo vessels, and small gunships. There were also speeders of all sorts, as well as crawler vehicles suited to the desert climate, many of them painted in sandy colors or desert camouflage. Around the periphery of the camp rested mobile shield generators and tracked laser batteries.
At one edge of the camp, a crowd waited.
Han brought the Falcon in to a smooth landing there. The repulsors kicked up large clouds of sand, sending a miniature dust storm flowing toward the main body of waiting onlookers. The two Alliance shuttles settled in behind the Falcon.
The GA Security detail emerged first, its commander trotting over for a quick consultation with her opposite number among the Klatooinians, while other uniformed personnel took up positions around the Falcon.
After a few moments, the security captain’s voice crackled over the comm board. “Mither here. Your crowd is made up of armed belligerents from a dozen worlds, some portions of the crowd are already pulling out anti-Jedi chants, and local security is a joke without a punch line. Recommend you dust off and return to orbit. Over.”
Leia smiled and activated her personal comlink. “Thanks, Captain. We’ll be right down.”
Han sighed and rose. “Seemed like good advice to me.”
Leia stood. “Since when do you listen to good advice?”
“Point taken.” He sounded resigned.
Allana hopped up, careful not to startle Anji. “Can I come, too?”
Leia shook her head. “Not right now, sweetie. Your grandpa and I need to do this alone. We’ll let you know when you can come down with your own security detail.”
Allana’s sigh was as put-upon as Han’s had been.
They descended the boarding ramp of the Falcon and stepped out from under her shadow into glaring sunlight. A contingent of onlookers, all dressed for desert weather, none wearing rank insignia or other markings, stepped forward.
The leader, a tall Klatooinian male bristling with holsters and bandoliers, stopped a meter in front of Han and Leia and offered a minimal bow. “Welcome to Klatooine.” His voice was deep, an articulate growl. “I am Padnel Ovin, strike commander, now leader, of the Sapience Defense Front.”
Leia returned the bow. “Leia Organa Solo. I bring greetings and wishes for success from the Galactic Alliance. And allow me to express my personal sympathies for the circumstances that have brought you to your new duties.”
Padnel offered up something that sounded like a cough.
Leia gestured toward Han. “My husband, Han Solo.” She omitted Han’s various ranks and titles. Such things wouldn’t impress a mob of rebel warriors, while Han’s history of accomplishments would.
Padnel gestured to the bright-eyed, intense Chev female to his left. “My aide, Nialle Aker.” He turned to indicate a Klatooinian female, as tall as he was or taller, to his right. “Reni Coll, leader of the Freedom Advocacy Movement.”
The Klatooinian bowed. She had old scars on her right cheek, her canine-like muzzle, and down her neck, burn scars from the looks of them, that were lighter than her olive-green skin and made it appear as though she were wearing camouflage-pattern makeup. “I am honored,” she said in unaccented Basic. She sounded polite rather than honored.
Padnel half turned to his left and gestured to a droid—a protocol droid identical in shape and size to C-3PO but painted an arterial blood red, with photoreceptors that shone in the same color. “Naysay of Clan Vacweld, of the Manumission Mandate Militia.”
Leia’s heart sank, but she maintained her smile. “I’m delighted to see manumitted droids represented at this meeting.”
Naysay cocked his head. His voice was sharper, less cordial than C-3PO’s. “I was, of course, absolutely certain that a longtime, incorrigible slave owner such as yourself would be ecstatic at my inclusion in these affairs.”
Padnel continued as if he had not heard, and pointed out other members of the delegation. “Azmar Huun, of Tatooine, reporting to Freedom Flight.” This was a small, sandy-colored human male with a wispy mustache and impassive features.
There were other names. Leia smiled, nodded, memorized them all. Beside her, Han shook hands all around and could be counted on not to remember a single name, unless it was someone he’d played sabacc with or traded blasterfire with in the past.
Finally Padnel gestured toward a distant tent, one large enough to shelter two squadrons of X-wings and support crews. “We have cooler air and refreshments waiting … and much to do.”
RESIDENCE OF T
HE GALACTIC EMPIRE HEAD OF STATE, CORUSCANT
ON JAG’S WALL MONITOR, MOFF LECERSEN LOOKED HIS USUAL BRISK, intelligent, forthright self, and his voice across the monitor speakers was crisp and commanding. “Jagged Fel’s decision to attend the recent Jedi religious observations was, in and of itself, ill advised. But I did not imagine at the time that it was a prelude to his announcement yesterday. The idea that he would speak out in favor of the Jedi Temple’s unprecedented and illegal action against Chief of State Natasi Daala is an outrage. The woman is a hero of the Galactic Alliance and the Galactic Empire, and I feel that Jagged Fel has doomed the reunification process with his hasty, poorly considered words.”
Jag nodded—not in agreement with the Moff’s sentiments, but in appreciation of Lecersen’s verbal strategy. Not once had Lecersen referred to him as Head of State Fel, part of what was obviously a measured effort to weaken, in the public mind, the very notion that Fel was the legitimate head of the Empire. Referring to Kenth Hamner’s funeral as a religious ceremony and to the Jedi Order as the Jedi Temple would enhance, ever so slightly, the impression in the minds of the populace, especially that of the Empire, that the Jedi were religious fanatics rather than warrior-scholars.
The image on the monitor switched to a lean older man with soft, kindly eyes. He was dressed in Imperial Moff grays. He spoke, but the sound over the monitor reverted to a newscaster for a moment. “Not all Imperial representatives have taken a hard-line stance against the Head of State’s message of support. Moff Getelles of Antemeridias is one of a vocal minority supporting the Jedi action.”
Then the old man’s voice cut in: “Natasi Daala has been an erratic officer, a laser cannon with a malfunctioning actuator if you will, since she was an ensign in the Imperial Navy, and her recent actions bear out this diagnosis. Of course she is a hero—she has fought all her enemies, real and imagined, with bravery and ferocity. But she needs to be held, and cured, before ever being allowed to take up any sort of command again. The Alliance was foolish to elevate her to a position of power.”
The image switched to another Moff, this one younger than Lecersen, lean and dark-haired, a thin mustache on his lip, a touch of nervous energy to his manner. He, too, wore Moff grays. The narrator’s voice returned. “But opinions like those of Moff Porrak Vansyn seem to dominate the Moff Council.”
The Moff’s voice cut in: “The ousting of Chief Daala can only be interpreted as a slap in the face of Imperial–Alliance relations. Who’s in charge of the Alliance now? The Jedi, the most virulently anti-Imperial organization in history. Which makes Jagged Fel, child of the Chiss, the most anti-Imperial head of the Empire in history.”
The monitor view cut back to the narrator, a red-skinned Twi’lek female. Jag tapped a control on his desk to mute the sound. He’d seen and heard enough.
A bell alerted him that his secretary outside wanted his attention.
“Yes?”
“Jedi Solo to see you.”
Jag grinned and checked his chrono. “Tell her that I expected her six seconds ago. Then let her in.”
The door slid open and Jaina marched in, a frown on her face. “That’s not funny.”
“I timed it from the moment my press conference was broadcast.”
The door slid shut behind Jaina. She moved over to sit on the arm of his chair. “Maybe I was caught up in speeder traffic.”
“Of course.”
“Jag, what do you think you’re doing? Speaking out in support of the Jedi? Now you’ve got the entire Moff Council jumping down your throat, and the participants in the reunification effort, who’d been looking for some guidance, are scurrying away from you in all directions.”
Jag sighed. “What I’m doing is my job. Some response on the part of the Head of State’s office was called for, especially since I’m here at the moment, not back in Imperial space. And what kind of response am I going to give? How about the truth? That Daala was dangerously out of control and that the Jedi action was the only reasonable one.”
Jaina made a noise like a strangled Ewok. “How about playing politics so that you don’t get even more people pointing blasters your way?”
Suddenly feeling very weary, Jag slumped. “Playing politics. I’m not all that good at it, Jaina. Truth isn’t enough, being fair isn’t enough, picking and choosing among sensible precedents isn’t enough. You also have to play politics, which is like piloting an unarmored shuttle through the worst meteor shower in history, and just as productive. I think sometimes that the only reason I’m not as unhinged as Daala is because I’m younger.”
“My mother isn’t unhinged.”
“No, but she left the Chief of State’s office and took up a profession where she could cut people in half when she got annoyed.”
“Point.”
“I have a couple more points to make.” He reached over and dragged her into his lap. She made a perfunctory noise of protest before settling into place.
He continued, “First, I must point out the unfairness of the situation. When I decide against the Jedi, you’re angry with me. And when I speak out in favor of the Jedi, you’re angry at me.”
“Of course. You’re a man, so you’re always wrong.”
He ignored that. “Second, you’re missing the bigger picture. It’s clear to me that you knew about the Jedi plan to oust Daala from early on, and didn’t even give me a hint about it … and I’m not angry. You did what you had to do. In telling the public that the Jedi did the right thing, I did what I had to do. Don’t give me grief for it.”
She sighed. “I’m giving you grief because I can’t be here to give you support, to keep an eye out for you. I have an assignment.”
“Where?”
“Can’t say.”
He laughed, then wrapped her up in his arms. “Stang. When do you leave?”
“Tonight.”
“Dinner first?”
“Dinner first.”
NINTH HALL OF JUSTICE, CORUSCANT
“Guilty.” Each time the judge began a question, “On the charge of …” and ended it with “how do you find the defendant,” that was the word spoken by the jury spokesperson, an imposing Mon Calamari male with a forbidding stare … a stare directed at Tahiri.
Toward the end of the list of charges, a few elicited a “not guilty” verdict. But the most important one—premeditated murder—was on the wrong side of that dividing line.
Tahiri felt numb. She knew the blood must have drained from her face, leaving her pale and lifeless in appearance.
It was not so much that she had lost, that she would soon be sentenced, that she would suffer some horrible punishment. It was that in the eyes of that spokesperson, the jury, the judge, the spectators and press—and in moments, by transmission of the recordings of that verdict, all of Coruscant, all of the Galactic Alliance—she was now something she did not consider herself to be: a criminal. A murderer.
Others had always defined Tahiri. Tusken Raiders. Jedi. Yuuzhan Vong. Darth Caedus. And now a gallery of jurors who had never spoken with her. She had never, ever had control over who or what she was.
There were other words buzzing around her head. “Held over for sentencing.” “Thank you for your service.” She could no more latch onto those words than she could catch oxygen molecules with a pair of tweezers.
Suddenly everyone else was standing, too. The judge departed. There was a muted murmur of voices from the press and audience—muted because there were so few of them to witness Tahiri’s defeat. Not even Jaina had been in the gallery this morning.
Eramuth Bwua’tu gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You mustn’t think of this as a defeat, my dear. It is a setback. We have sentencing to go through. Then the appeals process. I intend to demonstrate that the ousting of Chief Daala colored the opinions of the jurors. We will prevail.”
“The sentence. It’ll be death, won’t it?”
He seemed reluctant to answer. “It does not matter what words are spoken at the sentencin
g, Tahiri. What matters is what actions ultimately are taken. In this case, the actions will be your freedom.”
“It’ll be death because I took a life. They don’t care about all the lives I’ve saved. Those don’t matter.” She became aware that the bailiff, a large human who looked as though he might have been a prizefighter on the side, had approached. “Oh. Time to go home.”
Now Eramuth did wince. “My dear.”
“I am so sorry. So sorry to have been your only loss in this courtroom.” She gave Eramuth an apologetic shrug, then turned and offered her hands to the bailiff, an implicit surrender.
At least in her cell she’d be away from the voices and the recorders and the hostile eyes of those who thought her name was “murderer.”
KOVAL STATION, ABOVE NAM CHORIOS
“Kandra Nilitz, Coruscant. Beurth Ogh, Gamorr. Hal Cyon, Corellia. Jes Cyon, Corellia.” The processing agent looked as disinterested as if a collection of three humans and a Gamorrean walked into his queue every day. Perhaps they did. He shoved their identicards back across his desktop toward them. “Welcome to Nam Chorios. The next queue is orientation. You can skip it if you’re on record as having been here in the last ten years, otherwise go through it and pay attention, because we hate it when someone tries to leave Nam Chorios the wrong way and says ‘I didn’t know.’ Takes five minutes at most. Move along.”
Kandra snatched up the cards and did as she was told. Once they were past the processing agent’s booth, she handed the others’ cards back. “I can’t believe you two got past with fake IDs that unconvincing. Can’t the Jedi Order issue you better identities?”
Valin slipped his card into his belt pouch. He had shed the traveler’s robe and cloak. Now more casually dressed, he looked like the sort of short-distance vacationer who stepped by the millions off shuttles every day all over the galaxy. He shrugged. “These aren’t Jedi-issue. Jysella and I got them on the pedways of Coruscant for some credcoins.”
Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Conviction Page 24
