Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Conviction

by Allston, Aaron

  “He said I had an explosive temper. I find his word choice thoughtless.”

  R2-D2 tweetled again.

  “No, I do not blow up at the slightest provocation.”

  Tweetle.

  “I am not going to pieces over this. Enough.” C-3PO stood. “The Manumission Mandate Militia may be correct. I think I have been far too accommodating for far too long. I am now going to assert my independence and individuality.”

  Han glanced over his shoulder at the droid. “And how, exactly, do you plan to do that, Goldilocks?”

  “Why, I think I’ll formulate Mistress Amelia’s next lesson plan.”

  “That’s not exactly—”

  “And I’ll do so without following the recommendations of the Alliance Department of Education. I shall do it my way.”

  Han gave him a mock scowl. “You interrupted me.”

  “Oh. So very sorry.” C-3PO headed aft.

  R2-D2 followed, tweetling.

  “What do you mean, I’m a ball of fire today? Artoo, I’m warning you …”

  When they were gone, Leia hugged Allana even more tightly. “Are you all right, sweetie? You’ve been very quiet.”

  “Uh-huh. I was just kind of wishing we hadn’t come to Klatooine.”

  “I know. Bad things happened. But imagine how much worse they might have been if we hadn’t come. If your grandpa hadn’t been very clever, the Klatooinians might have stayed slaves, or lonely freedom fighters, a lot longer.”

  “Yeah, I know. When you’re the only one who can fix something wrong, it’s your duty.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But sometimes I like it like this. Just flying around in the Falcon. No duties.”

  Han grinned. “Tell you what, kiddo. When I’m too old to do anything but brag and flirt, I’ll give you the Falcon, and you can fly around and hide from duty.”

  “Do I have to take Threepio?”

  Allana didn’t quite understand why Han and Leia started laughing and couldn’t seem to stop.

  LIGHT-YEARS FROM NAM CHORIOS, AWAY FROM TRADE ROUTES AND other well-traveled spaceways, Gavar Khai formed up the remnants of his flotilla.

  Some of his frigates were initiating crucial repairs. Crew members were being swapped around. Long-distance shuttles were still arriving from Nam Chorios, carrying Sith and specialists who had been left behind.

  Those on Kesh would not be amused by Khai’s loss. His failure. He wondered what it would cost him.

  His sensor officer called out, “Ship at extreme sensor range.”

  His communications officer added, “It’s hailing us.”

  Khai glared at the two of them. “Be more specific. What type of ship?”

  “Ship, sir. Abeloth’s Ship.”

  Khai blinked. “Open communications.”

  The main monitor resolved into a new picture—Abeloth in all her alienness, surrounded by the pulsing reddish surfaces of Ship’s interior.

  Even though it was only a comm signal, Khai felt the impact of her presence in the Force. There was rage in her eyes, rage and pain. Whatever the Jedi had done to her on Nam Chorios, clearly she was still feeling it. Khai saw some of his Sith bridge officers wincing under the power of her hurt.

  “Gavar Khai. Our mutual enemy is proving to be too much for us to deal with individually.”

  Khai nodded. “Perhaps.”

  “Let us discuss this.”

  “I’ll be here for a little while. Let us indeed discuss this.”

  CORUSCANT

  Every skyscraper on Coruscant had them, little rooms tucked away in inconvenient corners, folded in between utility conduits, shoved up against angled ceilings. Sometimes they were walled off entirely, sometimes accessed by locked portals decorated with signs reading AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. The best ones tended to be claimed informally by building managers or maintenance staffers, furnished with cast-off chairs and sofas, used as secret relaxation spots or sabacc gathering-holes. The others ended up as storerooms or were forgotten entirely.

  This one was one of the forgotten rooms. A trapezoid-shaped chamber situated between two turbolift shafts, it was twice as long as a man but broad only at the entry end, narrowing to a dusty nook at the far end. It was completely unfurnished. When Tahiri found it, after prowling this high-rise middle-income residential tower for several furtive hours, it didn’t even have a glow rod wired into the ceiling fixture. She’d had to sneak off into an untrafficked hallway and steal one from there, wiring it into place herself.

  Now she lay atop her confiscated bedroll, listening to the frequent, insanity-inducing whoosh of the turbolifts going by.

  In the heart of the most populous city in the galaxy, a city that spanned an entire world, she was completely alone. Such an odd feeling. Her only possessions were the contents of tourist bags set aside after nightfall on a pedway and not carefully watched by the Commenori family negotiating for an airspeeder rental. Tahiri had snatched them up and had been long gone before anyone had noticed. She had kept the owner’s name and address tag, intending to return the goods when she could, and to pay for any she might lose or ruin.

  Someday. When she had resources again. At least now she had a datapad, some ill-fitting clothes, some snack food.

  And a home. She smiled mirthlessly at the oddly angled ceiling as it vibrated under the most recent turbolift passage.

  Resources. In a world hunting for her, she could only acquire resources by theft and deceit. Oh, she certainly had skills enough to use that way. But was that what she had been brought to? Was this her punishment for Pellaeon’s murder—to become a petty thief, a scavenger?

  Yes. If she stubbornly chose to do everything by herself, her way, that was exactly what her fate would be.

  She needed help. She needed … family.

  The HoloNews said that the closest people she had to family were offworld now, but coming home.

  She’d wait. She’d wait, then creep through the shadows to find them and ask them for help. For aid in becoming herself again, for making things right.

  As for now … She looked down where her feet rested atop the bedroll. She flexed them, wiggling her toes.

  At least, at last, she was barefoot again.

  About the Author

  AARON ALLSTON is the New York Times bestselling author of novels in the Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi, Legacy of the Force, New Jedi Order, and X-Wing series, as well as the Doc Sidhe novels, which mix 1930s-style hero-pulp action with Celtic myth. He is also a longtime game designer and in 2006 was inducted into the Academy of Adventure Gaming Arts & Design (AAGAD) Hall of Fame. He lives in Central Texas. Visit his website at AaronAllston.com.

  Read on for an excerpt of

  Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Ascension

  by Christie Golden

  Published by Del Rey Books

  COUNCIL CHAMBERS OF THE CIRCLE,

  CAPITAL CITY OF TAHV, KESH

  THE SUN BEATING DOWN UPON THE STAINED-GLASS DOME OF THE CIRCLE Chambers painted the forms of all those assembled in a riot of colors. Yet it was not hot in this large room; regulating the temperature was child’s play for such masterful users of the Force as the Sith assembled here.

  It was an emergency meeting. Even so, formalities were strictly observed; the Sith were nothing if not meticulous. Grand Lord Darish Vol, the leader of the Lost Tribe, had summoned the meeting less than a standard hour earlier. He now sat upon a dais in the very center of the room, elevated above all others, enthroned on his traditional metal-and-glass seat. While there had been sufficient time to don his colorful formal robes, he had not had time to sit and permit his attendants to paint his gaunt, aged face with the vor’shandi swirls and decorations appropriate to the meeting. Vol shifted slightly in his throne, displeased by that knowledge, displeased with the entire situation that had necessitated the meeting in the first place.

  His staff of office was stretched over his lap. His claw-like hands closed about it as his aged but still-sharp eyes flitted ab
out the room, noting who was here and who was not, and observing and anticipating the responses of each.

  Seated on either side of the Grand Lord were the High Lords. Nine members of the traditional thirteen were here today, a mixture of male and female, Keshiri and human. One, High Lord Sarasu Taalon, would never again be among that number. Taalon was dead, and his death was one of the reasons Vol had called the assembly. Seated in a ring around the dais were the Lords, ranked below the High Lords, and standing behind them were the Sabers.

  Several of their number were missing, too. Many were dead. Some … well, their status remained to be seen.

  Vol could feel the tension in the room; even a non-Force-sensitive could have read the body language. Anger, worry, anticipation, and apprehension were galloping through the Chambers today, even though most present hid it well. Vol drew upon the Force as naturally as breathing in order to regulate his heart rate and the stress-created chemicals that coursed through his body. This was how the mind remained clear, even though the heart was, as ever, open to emotions and passion. If it were closed, or unmoved by such things, it would no longer be the heart of a true Sith.

  “I tell you, she is a savior!” Lady Sashal was saying. She was petite, her long white hair perfectly coiffed, and her purple skin the most pleasing tone of lavender; her mellifluous voice rang through the room. “Ship obeys her, and was not Ship the—” She stumbled on the choice of words for a moment, then recovered. “—the Sith-created construct who liberated us from the chains of our isolation and ignorance of the galaxy? Ship was the tool we used to further our destiny—to conquer the stars. We are well on our way to doing so!”

  “Yes, Lady Sashal, we are,” countered High Lord Ivaar Workan. “But it is we who shall rule this galaxy, not this stranger.”

  Although the attractive, graying human male had been a Lord for many years, he was new to his rank of High Lord. Taalon’s untimely demise had paved the way for Workan’s promotion. Vol had enjoyed watching Workan step into the role as if he had been born to it. While Sith truly trusted no one but themselves and the Force, Vol nonetheless regarded Workan among those who fell on the side of less likely to betray him.

  “She is very strong with the dark side,” High Lord Takaris Yur offered. “Stronger than anyone we have ever heard of.” That was quite a statement, coming from the Master of the Sith Temple. Few on Kesh had as extensive a knowledge of the Sith’s past—and now their present as they expanded across the stars—as this deceptively mild, dark-skinned, middle-aged human. Yur had ambition, but, oddly for a Sith, it was largely not personal. His ambitions were for his students. He was content to teach them as best he could, then set them loose on an unsuspecting world, turning his attention to the next generation of Tyros. Yur spoke seldom, but when he did, all listened, if they were wise.

  “Stronger than I?” said Vol mildly, his face pleasant, as if he were engaged in idle chitchat on a lovely summer’s day.

  Yur was unruffled as he turned toward the Grand Lord, bowing as he replied.

  “She is an ancient being,” he said. “It seems to me foolish not to learn what we can from her.” Vol smiled a little; Yur had not actually answered the question.

  “One may learn much about a rukaro by standing in its path,” Vol continued. “But one might not survive to benefit from that knowledge.”

  “True,” Yur agreed. “Nonetheless, she is useful. Let us suck her dry before discarding the husk. Reports indicate that she still has much knowledge and skill in manipulating the Force to teach us and future generations of the Lost Tribe.”

  “She is not Sith,” said Workan. The scorn in his melodious voice indicated that that single, damning observation should be the end of the debate.

  “She is!” Sashal protested.

  “Not the way we are Sith,” Workan continued. “And our way—our culture, our values, our heritage—must be the only way if our destiny is to remain pure and unsullied. We risk dooming ourselves by becoming overly reliant on someone not of the Tribe—no matter how powerful she might be.”

  “Sith take what we want,” said Sashal, stepping toward Workan. Vol watched both of them closely, idly wondering if Sashal was issuing a challenge to her superior. It would be foolish. She was nowhere near as powerful as Workan. But sometimes ambition and wisdom did not go hand in hand.

  Her full diminutive height was drawn up, and she projected great confidence in the Force. “We will take her, and use her, and discard her when we are done. But for love of the dark side, let us take her first! Listen to High Lord Yur! Think what we can learn! From all that we have heard, she has powers we cannot imagine!”

  “From all that we have heard, she is unpredictable and dangerous,” countered Workan. “Only a fool rides the uvak he cannot control. I’ve no desire to continue to sacrifice Sith Sabers and Lords on the altar of aiding Abeloth and furthering her agenda—whatever it might be. Or have you failed to realize that we don’t even truly know what that is?”

  Vol detected a slight sense of worry and urgency from the figure currently approaching the Circle Chambers. It was Saber Yasvan, her attractive features drawn in a frown of concern.

  “Only a fool throws away a weapon that still has use,” countered Yur. “Something so ancient—we should string her along and unlock her secrets.”

  “Our numbers are finite, Lord Yur,” Workan said. “At the rate Sith are dying interacting with her, we won’t be around to learn very much.”

  Vol listened as Yasvan whispered in his ear, then nodded and, with a liver-spotted hand, dismissed the Saber.

  “Entertaining as this debate has been,” he said, “it is time for it to conclude. I have just learned that Ship has made contact with our planetary defenses. Abeloth and the Sith I have sent to accompany her will not be far behind.”

  They had all known to expect her; it was, indeed, the reason the meeting had been called. All eyes turned to him expectantly. What would their Grand Lord decide?

  He let them stew. He was old, and few things amused him these days, so he permitted himself to enjoy the moment. At last, he said, “I have heard the arguments for continuing to work closely with her, and the arguments to sever ties. While I confess I am not overly fond of the former, and have made little secret of my opinion, neither do I think it is time for the latter. The best way to win is to cover all angles of the situation. And so Kesh and the Circle of Lords will invite Abeloth to our world. We shall give her a grand welcome, with feasting, and arts, and displays of our proud and powerful culture. And,” he added, eyeing them all intently, “we will watch, and learn, and listen. And then we will make our decision as to what is best for the Lost Tribe of Kesh.”

  Sith Saber Gavar Khai sat in the captain’s chair on the bridge of the Black Wave, the ChaseMaster frigate that had once belonged to Sarasu Taalon. Filling the viewscreen was the spherical shape of his homeworld—green and brown and blue and lavender. Khai regarded the lush planet with heavy-lidded eyes. For so many years, Kesh had been isolated from the events of the galaxy, and Khai found he had decidedly mixed feelings about returning.

  Part of him was glad to be home. As was the case with every member of the Lost Tribe, he had spent his entire life here until a scant two years ago. Deeply embedded in him were love for its beautiful glass sculptures and purple sands, its music and culture, its casual brutality and its orderliness. For more than five thousand standard years, the Tribe had dwelled here, and with no other option, had—as was the Sith way—made the best of it. The ancient vessel Omen had crash-landed, and the survivors had set about not merely to exist in this world, but to dominate it. And so they had. They had managed to both embrace the Keshiri, the beautiful native beings of Kesh, and subjugate them. Those who were deserving—strong in the Force and able to adapt to the Sith way of thinking and being—could, with enough will, carve out a place for themselves in this society.

  Those who were not Force-users had no such opportunities. They were at the mercy of the ones who ruled. An
d sometimes, as was the case with Gavar Khai and his wife, there was mercy. Even love.

  But most often, there was neither.

  Too, those who gambled to increase their standing and power and lost seldom lived long enough to make a second attempt. It was a very controlled society, with precise roles. Everyone knew what was expected of him or her, and knew that in order to change their lot, they would need to be bold, clever, and lucky.

  Gavar Khai had been all of those things.

  His life on Kesh had been good. While, of course, he had his eye on eventually becoming a Lord—perhaps even a High Lord, if opportunities presented themselves or could be manipulated—he was not discontent with where he was. His wife, though not a Force-user, supported him utterly. She had been faithful and devoted and raised their tremendously promising daughter, Vestara, very well.

  And Vestara had been the most precious of all the things that had belonged to Gavar Khai.

  Discipline was something every Sith child tasted almost upon emerging from the womb. It was the duty of the parents to mold their children well, otherwise they would be unprepared to claim their proper roles in society. Beatings were the norm, but they were seldom motivated by anger. They were part of the way that Sith parents guided and taught their children. Khai had not looked forward to such aspects of discipline, preferring to explore other methods such as meditation, sparring till exhaustion, and withholding approval.

  He had found, to his pleasure, that he had never needed to lay a hand on Vestara in reprimand. She was seemingly born to excel, and had her own drive and ambition such that she did not need his to “encourage” her. Khai, of course, had goals and ambitions for himself.

  He had greater ones for his daughter. Or at least, he’d had.

  His reverie was broken by the sound of the comm beeping, indicating a message from the surface.

  “Message from Grand Lord Vol, Saber Khai,” said his second in command, Tola Annax, adding quietly under her breath, “Very prompt, very prompt indeed.”