“Such as?”
“ ‘Confirmed that the Lady’s daughter succumbed to in juries inflicted by Grandson Three-two-seven-oh-seven,’ ” Mara recited. “ ‘Please inform if Lady’s mission changed from insertion/observation to revenge.’ ”
Luke frowned over that one. “Lady has to be Lumiya. She used to style herself the Dark Lady of the Sith … after Emperor Palpatine and my father were no longer around to slap her down for presumption.”
“I agree. And if that same-time context is the basis for more than one of these code names, Grandson would therefore have to be one of Darth Vader’s grandsons, right? Jacen or Ben.”
“Three-two-seven-oh-seven,” Luke said. “Just a second.” He pulled out his datapad, connected it remotely to the Temple’s computer, and went searching for a report Ben had filed weeks earlier. “Here it is. Bee-em-ex-three-two-seven-oh-seven. An uninhabited star system near Bimmiel. That’s where the woman Syo led Jacen and Ben, where Jacen defeated some sort of dark side Force-user within the asteroid under her habitat.”
“Where Nelani Dinn died.” Mara looked confused. “Nelani was Lumiya’s daughter?”
“No. Nelani’s parents have files in the order database, and Nelani looks—looked—a lot like her mother. Besides, Nelani died the same day Jacen and Ben arrived at the habitat. Your file there suggests that ‘the Lady’s daughter’ lingered for a while.” Luke frowned. “The other woman who was there, Brisha Syo. Brisha could be an anagram for Shira B—Shira Brie.”
“Lumiya’s real name.”
Luke nodded. “I didn’t make the connection at the time, because then it had been years since we’d heard anything about Lumiya.” A thought was growing within him, and alongside it a worry, a big one. “Let’s say Lumiya has a daughter. She names her Brisha, a self-tribute, and Brisha works with her. Brisha lures Jacen and Ben to an ambush. She and the mysterious Sith she claims is living in her basement—maybe he’s just a Dark Jedi she’s hired, maybe he’s Lumiya’s Sith apprentice—are going to kill Ben, an act of revenge for everything I’ve done to Lumiya. Or maybe to capture him, train him to be a Sith. Which is just as much revenge, and twice the evil.”
“I did a thing or two to her, as well.”
“Right. Revenge against both of us. But Nelani is there, too, and throws the odds off. The dark sider and Nelani are killed, Brisha is badly wounded, Ben gets a knock in the head and forgets what happened, and Jacen presumably never figures out that Brisha was one of the bad guys. Jacen and Ben leave … and weeks later, Brisha ‘succumbs to injuries.’ ”
“And her mother …” Mara winced. “Her mother would want revenge. Against Jacen. He’s racking up quite a body count against daughters of dangerous opponents of ours.”
Luke shook his head. “We don’t know that Jacen wounded Brisha. How could he have done so and then left the habitat without thinking of her as an enemy? Ben must have done it, during one of the periods of time his memory doesn’t cover. Which would make Ben the target.” His stomach began doing flip-flops. In addition to being a cocky teenager alone in a galaxy at war, Ben might now be the target of one of the galaxy’s deadliest killers—a woman who had fought Luke to a standstill mere weeks before.
“Your theory spooks me, farmboy. Because it answers a lot of the questions we’ve been asking. Why Lumiya would have infiltrated the Galactic Alliance Guard—to gather information about Jacen or Ben and prepare for revenge if she needed to take it. Why she would have been around for as long as we’ve known she has been but didn’t attack you until a few weeks ago—because that’s when she received the word about her daughter dying.” Her frown deepened. “And what if this is the reason for all Jacen’s bad decisions? What if Brisha or the Sith apprentice on that planetoid got to him, affected him—infected him in some way?”
“Then whatever’s afflicting him might be easily curable.”
Mara slammed her fists down on the tabletop and turned away from Luke. Far from being pleased by that possibility, she’d been angered by it, and even without the benefit of their Force-bond, Luke thought he knew why.
Because if Jacen were the victim of some Sith brainwashing technique, he wasn’t responsible for his recent actions. In which case Mara couldn’t forge and sharpen her emotions, her dedication, to oppose and eliminate him as a former Emperor’s Hand should be able to.
“We have to find out what happened on that asteroid,” Luke said. “And we have to confront Jacen face-to-face to do that. We can’t be in a position where all he has to do is press an OFF switch to shut us out.”
“I agree.” Mara’s voice was strained.
“I’ll make the arrangements.”
“Before you go …” A little pain crept into Mara’s voice. “Luke, who was Brisha’s father?”
Luke shrugged as he rose. “How would I know?” Then he caught the look on her face, a combination of suspicion and an eagerness to let any answer wipe that suspicion away, and he said, “No.”
“You’re sure.”
He offered her a reassuring grin. “Mara, we were involved emotionally, but not physically.”
“All right.” The suspicion eased from her expression, but through their Force-bond Luke could still feel a touch of disquiet from her.
As Luke hurried off to make flight arrangements to Corellia, he cursed Lumiya—for managing to introduce strife, however fleeting, into his life, this time without even trying.
CORELLIAN EXCLUSION ZONE
ERRANT VENTURE
The universe was not cooperating, and Alema Rar was becoming impatient with it.
There was a Jedi—other than herself—aboard Errant Venture. She was sure of it. As she stalked the darkened passageways and shadow-filled casinos, as she wandered, wrapped in robes that concealed her disfigurement enough to allow her to mingle with drunken gamblers and revelers, she would occasionally feel little pulses and eddies in the Force that were characteristic of Jedi presence.
But she never spotted the Jedi. To the logic she employed in her calculations, that meant one thing: the Jedi was hiding—hiding from her—and therefore it was Leia.
That evening, in the cabin she surreptitiously shared with Captain Lavint, she spoke of these matters. “You are almost free of your debt to us,” she said. “You have brought us to where the Solos, at least Leia, conceal themselves. But we cannot find her. Them. When we see them, then you are free.”
“I’m in no hurry,” Lavint said. She sat cross-legged on the bed, a small bottle of expensive prewar Corellian whiskey trapped between her ankles. “We—you and I, that is, not just me—are making a killing at the gambling tables. Did you ever think about giving up your quest, whatever it is, and turning pro?”
“No.”
“All right. Here’s a hint, then. You’re using only your Jedi magic and your royal we instead of your brain.”
Ordinarily Alema would have been offended by such a declaration. She would not necessarily have demonstrated it, except to exact a little revenge. But Lavint was not trying to insult. She simply had no filter between her brain and her mouth. Whatever she thought came tumbling out, particularly when she had some alcohol in her.
“Tell us, then, what we are doing wrong. What we are not thinking.”
Lavint raised a forefinger. “One. What is Han Solo?”
“Adventurer, friend to Jedi, husband, father, smuggler, general, ship captain —”
“Those are all the branches. Except smuggler. That’s the trunk. Corellian smuggler.” She raised two more fingers. “Two. Wedge Antilles, who just vanished from Corellia. What’s he?”
“That’s three.”
“Eh?”
“That’s three fingers, not two.”
Lavint glared down at her hand and folded one of her fingers down. “Antilles.”
“General, admiral, pilot, husband, father, friend to Jedi—”
“And when he was just starting, a Corellian smuggler.”
Alema looked at her suspiciously. “Is this the sp
eech about Corellian smugglers?”
“Yes.” Lavint raised the third finger into place again. “Three. What’s Booster Terrik?”
“Businessman, shipowner … and, we must guess, Corellian smuggler?”
“Retired.” Lavint smiled. “You’re catching on. Also father of a daughter named Mirax Terrik. What’s she?”
“Corellian smuggler.”
“Good. We’ve got the trunks all laid out. They grow from the same ground. Corellian-smuggler-hood. Now, where do the branches come together? Han Solo is married to Leia Organa, so there’s a Jedi connection—and not just any Jedi connection, because Leia’s the sister of the Grand Master. Antilles is married to an ex-New Republic Intelligence agent, so he’s got branches into Galactic Alliance Intelligence. Booster’s daughter is married to Corran Horn, another Jedi, with branches into CorSec. Horn and Antilles flew together. I’ve been doing more research on them. Antilles has a daughter named for Terrik’s daughter. You see how tight the branches are?”
Alema added it up. “So the Solos are here because of all their friends, the security they represent—”
“And money, and resources, and you’re not going to find them in the Deepcore Lounge because they don’t have to mingle, they’re all in it together with the owner of the entire establishment. You’ve been wandering the public areas while they’re probably all on the bridge, drinking and laughing together.”
Alema felt a sudden flush of gratitude that she had not killed this woman. It was a rare emotion for her. “We must begin to search other places.”
“Yes, and right away, so I can get some sleep.”
BOTHAWUI SYSTEM
SHAMUNAAR
On the records and assignment sheets, a thin screen of starfighters and armored shuttles equipped with long-range sensors guarded the Rimward edge of the star system. If the fleets that were assembling, performing maneuvers and war games, and otherwise rattling their lasers deep within the system were to head out in the direction of the Outer Rim—toward, say, Kamino, directly opposite the direction a fleet would most logically take if headed toward Corellia—this screen would detect it and transmit that information to Shamunaar for retransmission to the Second Fleet. The Bothans would not be able to take the task force at Corellia by surprise.
In theory.
In fact, Admiral Klauskin had identified a number of this task force’s pilots and officers as traitors. He’d been very careful to flag the ones whom Captain Biurk had already written up for various disciplinary reasons, and to avoid those Biurk indicated he trusted implicitly. Then Klauskin had assigned each of them to the Outer Rim screen. He and Biurk had positioned Shamunaar at the heart of that coverage area, and had called in each of those on-duty pilots in turn, arresting them and seizing their vehicles.
Now, though they were still officially onstation, each of the alleged traitors was in the brig, and Shamunaar floated alone, doing the work of the entire screen by herself.
She was more than fit for the job, of course. She had been fitted with the best long-range sensor suites a frigate could boast. It was unfortunate that she couldn’t remain at her usual station, well outside the Bothawui system on the Bothawui-Corellia approach corridor, but there she was merely redundant. Here she was doing critical work.
“Don’t worry,” Klauskin told Biruk. “I’ve transmitted news of our success to Admiral Niathal. She’ll be sending replacement vehicles immediately.”
“Good to know.” Biurk stood in the middle of the bridge and turned to look at each officer’s display in turn. He was restless, and would continue to be until all those replacement forces were in place.
“Your officers look bored.”
Biurk gave the admiral a surprised look. “I don’t think so, sir.”
“Still … let’s shake them up a bit. I spent part of yesterday putting together a simulation. In the sim, the three Bothan fleets stage a simultaneous breakout, and one heads straight for Shamunaar. There’s opportunity for a stand-up fight, or for picking off their weaker units.”
Biurk smiled at the admiral’s mistake. “Just telling me that affects my tactics, Admiral.”
“So it does. Well, put your second in command in charge. You and I will run things from the auxiliary bridge.”
“Right.” Biurk turned toward his second, a tall Gotal. “Lieutenant Siro! You have the bridge for a sim. The admiral and I will be running it from the auxiliary bridge.”
Moments later Klauskin and Biurk walked into the auxiliary bridge, a small, seldom-used chamber, its walls more thickly lined with displays than any other compartment on the frigate. These displays were just now flickering into life, as were the overhead lights. The bridge doors slid shut behind the two men.
“All overrides default here, correct?” Klauskin asked.
“It wouldn’t be much use as an emergency bridge if they didn’t,” Biurk said. “Oh, sorry, Admiral. I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic.”
“You really ought to watch your mouth, son,” Klauskin said. From his pocket, he pulled a hold-out blaster.
Biurk’s eyes widened as if he thought the admiral’s gesture were a not-too-funny joke about disciplinary measures.
Klauskin shot him in the chest.
Biurk went down on his back, the impact making the floor panels ring. Smoke curled up from the scorched patch over his breastbone, and a little blood oozed from the burned flesh.
He tried to speak, to reach for his comlink, but Klauskin sadly shook his head and fired two more times.
There. One grim task out of the way.
Using the codes he’d just heard Biurk use to open and activate the auxiliary bridge, Klauskin ensured that the doors could not be opened again.
Then he moved to the communications board. He activated a line to the main bridge and said, “Lieutenant Siro. I’m cutting all external communications. From this point on, any communications you make will actually be going to the sim program. If you get an override message from the fleet, it will be accompanied by a red blink that indicates I’m the real thing. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Klauskin punched in controls that would disable all communications antennas aboard the frigate—all but one, which he reserved for use of his own comm board.
He moved to the main computer and inserted a data card into its slot. The computer accepted the program and activated it.
All over the ship, every internal door or hatch controlled by a servo slid and locked open. Klauskin imagined the officers on the bridge staring in puzzlement at the doors as intership communications began buzzing with questions.
The door into this bridge remained resolutely shut, of course. It wouldn’t do for Klauskin to die with the others, though even if he did, his primary mission would still be successful.
The main computer display came up with a text message indicating that all safety protocols concerning exterior hatches had been overridden. Klauskin nodded. All he had to do now was stand by, though he did have ten seconds in which he could abort this sequence—
He didn’t. And when the tenth second counted down, warning lights and chime alarms began to fill the air.
Klauskin switched the main display from view to view. First was the interior of the frigate’s small starfighter bay, where the force field holding the atmosphere had just dissipated. Atmosphere rushed out through the great gaping hole through which starfighters normally launched or landed, and some of the starfighters in the bay rocked slightly. A lone mechanic standing too close to the main opening stumbled, forced along by the air currents fleeing into space, and was swept into the void. Her arms flailed as she drifted out toward explosive decompression and death.
The next view showed personnel in the ship’s mess. They stood, looking around, their eyes wild, as they began gulping for air. Some began running for emergency control panels and wall comm boards. Others turned around and around, looking for the source of their trouble.
All over the frigate, it was the same. Every exte
rior hatch or portal was open and was pouring precious atmosphere into a vacuum that would drink until it was all gone. Only the auxiliary bridge was safe, and Klauskin could feel cool air blowing onto his neck from an overhead vent.
He switched the display to look at the bridge. The holocam view from the bridge was dominated by the face of the human communications officer. He was so close to the holocam that his features were distorted. To either side of him, other bridge officers stood, shouting, clutching their throats.
This wouldn’t take long. And when it was done, he would be a hero of Commenor. Somehow the thought, so reassuring across the last several days, failed to lighten the heaviness he felt in his chest.
He returned to the comm board and punched in a frequency, then activated it. “Klauskin to K’roylan, please respond.”
A moment later the face of a black-and-tan Bothan appeared on the display. “K’roylan here.”
“The eye is closed, and Shamunaar is ready for a prize crew. She’ll be repressurized by the time you get here.”
K’roylan smiled. “And exactly on time, Admiral. I admire your punctuality.” Then his expression became one of concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“You seem to be … crying.”
Klauskin reached up. His fingers found tears on his cheeks. That startled him, but it would not do for this Bothan to see him discomfited. “Ah, yes. A result of the atmospheric pressure changes aboard.”
“Of course.” The smile returned. “My crew will be there soon. K’roylan out.”
CORELLIAN EXCLUSION ZONE
ERRANT VENTURE
Leia and Luke embraced for a long moment, uncaring that they were surrounded by observers—those observers were family and friends. And though the private conference room Booster had set aside for his secret guests wasn’t exactly as cozy as the vessel’s more sumptuous suites, its shortcomings of comfort did not matter.
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