Exile

by Aaron Allston

  “Now you’re talking.”

  “If Corellia doesn’t rejoin, if war truly erupts … I may never get my pension from the GA.”

  “Wedge—”

  “I earned that pension. Decades of service.”

  “Be serious—”

  “All right, I will.” All humor gone, Wedge fixed Jacen with a stare. “You’re dealing with a coalition government that hasn’t settled in place yet. Thrackan Sal-Solo hasn’t been dead very long, and the larvae are still wriggling out from under his rock. We need time to stamp them out. You don’t need to hurry. You don’t need our answer today, tomorrow, or next week, and any answer you provoke in a short time frame is an answer that will make everyone unhappy. Sit back, be patient, negotiate in good faith, and I have every reason to believe that Corellia will rejoin the GA.”

  “So you’ll go back and recommend that Corellia surrender to us.”

  Wedge shook his head. “Never in a thousand years.”

  “What are you talking about, then?”

  “I’ll recommend that Corellia rejoin the GA. Full acceptance of standard GA planetary admission terms, but no reparations. No punitive measures, no extra tariffs, no under-the-table activity against Corellians, and a genuine attempt to undo the effort to undermine the general Corellian reputation that has been taking place in the GA population. Can you negotiate toward that sort of resolution?”

  “I … could. But if we suffer any more catastrophes like the bombing on Coruscant, all bets could be off.”

  “Understood.” Wedge relented just a bit, some of the stiffness leaving his face, his posture. “So what are you going to do when the excitement’s all done? Stay on with your planetary police force, or go back to wandering the galaxy and rescuing cubs from trees? You used to be pretty good at that.”

  Jacen masked a twitch of annoyance by shrugging. “Some combination of the Galactic Alliance Guard work and resuming my studies, I expect.”

  “Hmmm. Has the political bug bitten you, then? Or do you just like the way you look in the uniform?”

  Jacen sighed, exasperated. “Now you’re joking again. And I think we’ve done all we can with this meeting.”

  “I think so, too.” Serious again, Wedge stood. “Jacen, may I say something to you not as an officer or negotiator, but as an old friend of the family?”

  Jacen rose, too. “Something off the record, you mean? Of course.”

  “No, no. On the record, off the record, it doesn’t matter. As an old friend of the family. Can you listen as an old friend?”

  Still a trifle confused, Jacen nodded.

  “Another old friend of mine, Wes Janson, the galaxy’s least serious man, except when he’s killing the enemy or trying to make a point, once said this to me. ‘The real sign that someone has become a fanatic,’ he said, ‘is that he completely loses his sense of humor about some important facet of his life. When humor goes, it means he’s lost his perspective.’ Jacen, you’ve lost your sense of humor about, well, everything, and you’re doing things you never would have done when you were younger. What does it mean?”

  Jacen shook his head. “It doesn’t mean that I’m suddenly a fanatic. It just means that I’ve grown up.”

  “I wonder.”

  “Ebbak is waiting outside. She’ll take you back to your shuttle.”

  When Wedge was gone, Jacen sat again and stared at the office doors, not seeing them.

  Blast Wedge, he thought. As if losing an adolescent sense of humor has anything to do with fanaticism. As if …

  There was a thought circling around the periphery of his awareness. It was something Captain Lavint had sparked into existence, something Wedge had fanned into a live flame. But he couldn’t quite bring it into focus.

  Well then, he needed to look more closely.

  Captain Lavint thought Jacen used to be a hero. Clearly, if such things were measured by numbers of admirers, he was now a greater hero than he ever had been, and yet she thought he no longer constituted one. Why? Because he’d passed judgment on her? Perhaps. Maybe it was because the sentence he’d passed on her was one that would have broken his father’s heart, or the heart of any smuggler. Perhaps it was because he’d hurt her where she was most vulnerable. It wasn’t necessarily a heroic thing to do, he conceded, but it was fair. So let’s dismiss that for now.

  Wedge thought the loss of his sense of humor meant that he’d become a fanatic of some sort. Whether it had or not, Jacen had to admit, it did mark a change in him.

  Both Lavint and Wedge had addressed changes Jacen had experienced, and that recognition bothered him at some level.

  For a moment, he tried to recapture a sense of what he had been as a teenager, before the war against the Yuuzhan Vong: gawky, happy, usually in the company of his twin sister, Jaina, and younger brother, Anakin, all too infrequently in the company of his parents … His sense of humor, always present, had usually manifested itself in the form of awful jokes learned in the four corners of the galaxy.

  And then there were animals, Wedge’s “cubs in trees.” Once upon a time he’d been able to charm a sand panther into purring, had been able to coax the cub of any species into his hand. How long had it been since he’d done that? Since he’d wanted to do that?

  Animals, evil animals, with their razory teeth and their hatred for Jedi …

  He snapped out of the half doze into which he’d fallen, but didn’t sit up. There was an answer for him. At the height of the Yuuzhan Vong war, he, Jaina, Anakin, and an elite unit of young Jedi Knights had mounted a mission to an enemy world, there to destroy the voxyn—creatures bred by the Yuuzhan Vong, creatures that could sense the Force, creatures that had hunted and claimed the lives of numerous Jedi before this mission destroyed them.

  But Anakin had been fatally wounded on this mission. Had died.

  The children of Han Solo and Leia Organa Solo had suddenly gone from three to two. Had suddenly stopped being invincible, invulnerable, immortal. Suddenly there was no room in his life, no room in his universe for humor.

  And from that time on animals had all seemed to wear the faces of voxyn. They were no longer his friends.

  Jacen had been captured, ending up in the hands of the Yuuzhan Vong. Ending up under the tutelage of Vergere, who was sometimes Jedi, sometimes Sith, sometimes neither. She had taught him much, including how to separate himself from pain or embrace it, how to survive when drowning within the Force or cut off from it, how to be human or Yuuzhan Vong or neither.

  She had taught him to distance himself from everything, should he need to.

  And now, more than a decade after those events, after her death, he could see another reason why. Only separation offers perspective. All learning benefits from perspective. Therefore all learning benefits from separation.

  Which didn’t explain why the smuggler’s and Wedge’s comments had nettled him.

  You’re doing things you never would have done when you were younger.

  Such as firing on the Millennium Falcon.

  That thought came to him in a rush, like one of Luke’s lightsaber attacks, and Jacen was unable to parry it, to deflect it, to pretend it hadn’t happened.

  Several days earlier he had ordered the long-range turbolasers of the Anakin Solo to fire upon the Millennium Falcon.

  I wasn’t sure it was the Falcon. Its transponder designation was Longshot.

  “You knew.”

  The first voice was his. The second voice was a bit like his, but a whisper … more like Vergere’s, perhaps.

  I … knew it was the Falcon. I knew I was firing on my mother and my father. But I thought they had become enemies. I thought they had betrayed me, Tenel Ka, our daughter.

  “So, for that, you decided to kill them?”

  No … I knew the Falcon could sustain a turbolaser hit or two. I wasn’t trying to kill them.

  “Yes, you were.”

  Jacen sighed, defeated by the relentlessness of his own analysis. Yes, I was. I was trying to kill the
m. Because of what I thought they’d tried to do to Allana.

  “And you were willing to kill Zekk, even Ben, even Jaina to accomplish this.”

  Jacen frowned over that. Not kill, precisely, he thought. I was willing to sacrifice them, though.

  “For the greater good. For the elimination of two enemies who could have cost you everything. Enemies whom you know to be resourceful, relentless.”

  Yes.

  “Then it was the right decision.”

  But I was wrong! They turned out not to have been part of the coup attempt.

  “Yes. But it was still the correct decision based on what you then knew, or thought you knew.”

  Jacen nodded.

  “And so you would do it again. If you knew, truly knew, that they were your enemies, that they stood between you and galactic peace. Or between you and your daughter.”

  Yes.

  “Good.” The tones within his mind were more and more like Vergere’s. “You are still learning.”

  And you are still teaching. Even though you’re dead.

  There was no answer. But Jacen was calm, satisfied.

  His decision had been correct, flawed only by the incorrect data upon which it had been based. He could do it again if he needed to, and would.

  He was capable of sacrificing a lesser responsibility for a greater one, a lesser good for a greater one, a lesser love for a greater one. Lumiya, his Sith teacher, would be pleased … if she was still alive.

  And he could finally recognize that the boy he had been, the optimistic, joke-spinning, animal-loving, kidnap-prone Jedi boy, was dead, slain on the same mission that had claimed his brother, Anakin.

  At last, understanding what had happened, Jacen did not miss his younger self.

  Finally he slept.

  chapter three

  CORUSCANT GALACTIC ALLIANCE SENATE BUILDING, CHIEF OMAS’S OFFICE

  It was a small, private meeting this time—Luke, Mara, Chief Omas, Admiral Niathal, and Kyp. Government security men and women waited outside in the reception room, and, if Luke knew their type as well as he thought, they’d be fidgety, unhappy about not being on hand to protect the government leaders in case the Jedi decided to cause trouble.

  Luke grinned at that. The likelihood of Jedi causing trouble in a situation like this was approximately equal to Cal Omas and Admiral Niathal proclaiming themselves the new Emperor and Empress. Then he sobered. Historically, the last time anything like that had happened, it hadn’t gone so well for the Jedi.

  “I understand the demands on your time,” Chief Omas was saying. White-haired, earnest, the deliberate embodiment of governmental sympathy and goodwill, he sat opposite Luke, his hands clasped together on the table between them. “So I’ll be brief. I—representing many voices in the GA government—wanted to give you the opportunity to do a very great favor for that government.”

  Luke nodded. “By elevating Jacen Solo to the rank of Jedi Master.”

  Chief Omas hesitated. His expression didn’t change, but Luke had the distinct impression that the man was taken aback.

  Luke kept himself from looking at Kyp. So Kyp’s comment earlier was either a secret or a guess … and since Omas isn’t suddenly suspicious of Kyp, Kyp hasn’t betrayed a secret. A guess, then. Interesting.

  “Well … yes,” Chief Omas conceded. “These are unsettled times, Master Skywalker. Colonel Solo is a hero of the people, someone all members of the Galactic Alliance can look toward for leadership. In giving him command of the Galactic Alliance Guard, the government has displayed tremendous faith in his abilities and loyalty, and he has demonstrated that he deserves that faith and will continue to earn it. Jacen could now also serve as a potent example of cooperation between the secular government and the Jedi order … if only the Jedi would demonstrate similar faith in him.”

  Chief Omas’s voice was as controlled as ever, his manner as persuasive, but through the Force, Luke could sense that the man had no personal investment in this argument. Clearly, he had to be making this proposal at the request of others, perhaps repaying some favor owed to another politician, to one of Jacen’s patrons. Luke took a quick look at Admiral Niathal, the highest-placed Galactic Alliance politician who was also a keen supporter of Jacen, but the Mon Cal was under control, offering no emotions for him to detect.

  “Well, there’s a problem.” Luke glanced at his fellow Jedi. Mara was stone-faced, offering no expression for the politicians to read, though Luke could feel, through the Force-link that helped bind them together, her irritation with Omas. Kyp was slouched back in his chair, smiling faintly, and Luke thought he could detect that Kyp was enjoying himself hugely. “In my estimation, Jacen still lacks the emotional maturity he needs to be a Master.”

  Chief Omas gave him a doubtful look. “Many Jedi, in both the Old Republic and the modern era, became Masters at his age or younger.”

  Luke shrugged. “It’s not a question of age.”

  “And,” Omas continued, “he has demonstrated that he possesses skills and power that not even most confirmed Masters can match.”

  Mara sighed and finally leaned in to join the conversation. “It’s not a matter of power, either. If power were the criterion you think it is, then any eight-year-old with a thermal detonator would be qualified to teach at the university level. Right?”

  Opposite her, Admiral Niathal also leaned in, as if positioning herself like a Mon Cal cruiser to counter the Star Destroyer that Mara represented. She spoke in the gravelly tones common to Mon Calamari. “Perhaps power, age, and wisdom are not the only considerations here.” Her bulbous eyes whipped around to focus on Mara and then Luke in turn. “If Jacen is a master of the Guard and a Master among the Jedi, it blurs the lines between those who have sworn to obey the government and those who merely acknowledge a vague duty and responsibility to the government. A distressing loss of personal authority for the Grand Master of the Jedi order. Not so?”

  Luke let a little frost creep into his voice. “The duty I’ve acknowledged for forty years is anything but vague.”

  Niathal nodded. “Precisely. And so you have nothing to fear.”

  “And that’s not the issue.” Luke gave the admiral a small frown—a message that her effort to lead the conversation from the realm of logic into the realm of defensiveness would not succeed. “Jacen is not ready. He’s making too many unfortunate choices. He needs guidance and is refusing to seek it.”

  “From you. I find that he is very receptive to my guidance.”

  Luke didn’t answer. He let the silence between them stretch into long seconds.

  Finally Niathal swiveled to look at Kyp. “Master Durron, I have it on good authority that you advocate elevating Jacen Solo to the rank of Master.”

  The purpose for Kyp’s presence finally clicked for Luke. Months before, at a meeting of the Jedi Council, Kyp had proposed elevating Jacen to their rank. Obviously, word of that had somehow leaked out from those Council Chambers and reached the ears and tympanic membranes of Omas and Niathal, and Kyp had been brought in to reinforce their argument.

  Kyp appeared startled, but Luke detected no genuine emotion of surprise from him. “I beg your pardon?”

  Niathal stared at him. “You did propose that Jacen Solo be elevated.”

  Kyp nodded, a little uncertain. “In a manner of speaking.”

  Suspicion crept into Niathal’s voice. “What manner?”

  Kyp continued to look uncomfortable. “Well, clearly you’re unfamiliar with the role of the taras-chi in Jedi Council debates.”

  “The taras—”

  “—chi. Yes. A sort of ritualized debate opponent.” Kyp glanced at Luke and Mara as if for confirmation. “In certain Jedi traditions, any discussion group, or its moderator, elects a taras-chi. The purpose of the taras-chi is to float ideas that run counter to the prevailing wisdom. This is so that all ideas will be tested … sometimes to destruction. The idea that the taras-chi promotes is not the one being tested—the idea he promotes te
sts the idea currently under discussion. It’s like a larva that only eats dead flesh. Place it on a wound, and it will only devour that which cannot survive anyway. Live flesh, like a solid idea or valid reasoning, will not be harmed by it.” Kyp thought for a moment. “I suppose that the closest equivalents you have in the world of government would be court jesters or the free press.”

  Chief Omas and Admiral Niathal exchanged a look. Omas appeared mildly confused; Niathal’s posture suggested she was irritated.

  Omas cleared his throat. “I fail to see—”

  “The discussion at that meeting,” Kyp continued, “was about Jacen Solo’s activities and whether they were appropriate for a Jedi. So in the spirit of the taras-chi, I not only spoke out in uncritical support of them, I proposed giving him the most lavish reward the Jedi can bestow. As a test of the principal item of discussion.”

  There was now a little chill in Niathal’s voice. “So you’re saying that you never supported Jacen Solo’s elevation.”

  Kyp gave her a quizzical look. “I support the decisions of the Master of the order, Admiral. And let me give you a little example of how power and skill with the Jedi arts do not correspond to mastery.

  “When I was still a teenager, I was able to reach into the gravity well of a gas giant and pull a spacecraft out of it. That’s something that not many Masters could accomplish. I could do it because I was strong in the Force … and because I had absolute faith in my right, my need to use that craft for a specific purpose. But I doubt I could do it today. I’m no weaker in the Force, and I’m a lot more skilled … but today I’d know that my intended purpose was not a good one, and this knowledge would deny me the focus I needed then to perform that task. So was I a Master then, or am I a Master now?”

  Chief Omas and Niathal exchanged another look. Omas’s face was serene, but it was clear from Niathal’s body language that this portion of the meeting had not gone the way she’d wanted it to.

  Omas tried again, catching Luke’s eye. “Master Durron’s story just goes to reinforce my point. He lacked the experience he needed—experience that would have compelled him to seek the advice of others. But Colonel Solo doesn’t lack that experience. He comes to us for guidance. Please, Master Skywalker, don’t mistake any anger you might feel that he hasn’t consulted enough with you for suspicion about his wisdom and readiness.”