Exile

by Aaron Allston

  Niathal cocked her head at the director. “The only surprising part about that is that they haven’t selected a Supreme Commander already.”

  “Not the only surprising part. Admiral, what I’m hearing is that the Bothans have demanded that the Supreme Commander be elected at a face-to-face meeting of representatives from each world in the Confederation.”

  Tycho whistled, Jacen nodded, and other officers began whispering among themselves. Niathal said, “That sounds very much like the Bothans. Face-to-face, rather than communicating across the HoloNet, they can influence the outcome.”

  “Even more than that,” Kalenda said, “it appears that the Confederation is using this as a recruiting ploy, telling worlds that are still on the fence, ‘Join now and you’ll have a chance to send delegates to the election meeting; your candidate might be our Supreme Commander.’ ”

  “Interesting.” Niathal mulled that over. “How accurate is this information?”

  “It’s an absolute that the Hutts have received a Join now communication referring to the election, and that the Bothans are in a mad scramble to select the candidate agreeable to the greatest number of relevant politicians.”

  “We have to be there,” Jacen said.

  Niathal nodded. “Colonel Solo is correct. The delegations will include some of the Confederation’s best military leaders and brightest minds. Not to mention politicians who are very knowledgeable about their worlds’ plans. If we can eliminate the attendees, we reduce the Confederation’s planning abilities by a noticeable degree. If we can capture them, we stand to obtain a tremendous amount of critical knowledge. Director Kalenda, please bring a maximum effort to bear on obtaining that information. Don’t hesitate to call on us for resources.”

  “Understood, Admiral.”

  CORUSCANT JEDI TEMPLE TRAINING HALL

  “I think you’re taking the whole ‘Sword of the Jedi’ thing too seriously,” Zekk said.

  In response, Jaina darted in, raising her lightsaber in a horizontal hold. She began a high sweeping slash, visualizing her attack as she did so. But hers was a feint, and, contrary to her visualization, she dipped the tip of the blade well beneath Zekk’s blocking maneuver and tagged him along his right ribs.

  The weapon made a zap noise. A practice saber, it gave Zekk an electrical jolt instead of a new burn scar to match the one he’d earned not so long ago.

  He stepped back, rubbing where the blade had touched him. “Hey. You cheated.”

  Jaina nodded. “I relied on the fact that you anticipate me all the time. Because you rely too often on anticipating me.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “And I’m not taking the Sword of the Jedi designation too seriously. How can I, when I don’t even know what it means? Not even Uncle Luke really knows what it means. He’s never been entirely sure why he said it. Maybe it was the Force speaking through him.”

  Zekk readied his practice saber again. “Maybe it means you’re the new Chosen One.”

  Jaina shuddered, then went on guard again. “I hope not. It took my grandfather decades, multiple amputations, and a lot of tragedy to achieve his destiny.” She advanced and threw a probing downward slash that turned into a skittering thrust across the top of Zekk’s blocking blade.

  But Zekk used his greater reach and height to his advantage, flicking Jaina’s point upward, so the thrust ended several centimeters to the right of his face. He tried a lateral sweep, but Jaina stood her ground and brought her blade down, catching Zekk’s attack near her hilt.

  “Besides,” Jaina continued, her conversational tone suggesting that there was not a lightsaber duel in progress, “there’s no Emperor for me to hurl down a well.”

  “There’s Lumiya.” The voice came from several meters away.

  Jaina and Zekk drew away from each other and looked toward the speaker.

  Jag Fel sat cross-legged on a practice mat, dressed in his usual black city garb. Jaina realized she hadn’t seen or felt him enter.

  “I wish he wouldn’t spy on us,” Zekk said. His voice was a murmur, not loud enough to carry to Jag.

  Jaina deactivated her practice saber. The blade, an electrically charged piece of durasteel, did not retract. “What about Lumiya?”

  Jag shrugged. “The Chosen One destroyed the leader of the Sith. Lumiya’s Sith, correct?”

  Zekk deactivated his own blade. “She’s what’s left of the Sith. I doubt that it will take someone who fills a once-in-a-generation prophetic role, if that’s what the Sword is, to eliminate her.”

  “I’ll admit I don’t have enough knowledge of the Jedi even to speculate in an informed manner—”

  “Good for you.”

  Jag grinned as though Zekk’s words were humor rather than insolence. Then he continued. “But I look at it this way. A sword is a weapon. A weapon of the Jedi would be used by the will of, or against the enemy of, the Jedi. The enemy of the Jedi are the Sith and other anti-Jedi, whatever they choose to call themselves. The Sword of the Jedi would therefore be someone who is wielded against the Sith. So is that simple, simplistic, or just wrong?”

  “I vote for simplistic.” Zekk returned his attention to Jaina. “Another round?”

  Jaina shook her head. “I want to hear this. I’ve never really gotten the perspective of someone outside the order. And Jag always has an interesting perspective.”

  Zekk sighed, long suffering, and reached out a hand. Jaina passed her practice saber to him. Zekk dutifully headed toward the rack where practice weapons were stored.

  Jag offerred Jaina an apologetic look. “I’m not sure I have a perspective other than what I just said. But I can speculate.”

  “Please.” She moved up to sit on the mat in front of him, duplicating his cross-legged posture.

  “I’m no more suited to analyze the Force than I am to composing ultrasonic music, since I can’t experience either. I just know the little bits I’ve heard, and that’s been added to quite a lot since I’ve come here. But if the Force was speaking through the Grand Master when he pronounced you the Sword of the Jedi, and if the Sword is anything like the Chosen One, then there’s some sort of imbalance that needs to be addressed. And that would seem to point to Lumiya.”

  Jaina nodded. “Maybe our task force needs to be pursuing her instead of Alema Rar.”

  “Or in addition to, since the two of them were clearly cooperating against the Skywalkers at Roqoo Depot.”

  Zekk returned to stand over the two of them. “I don’t think the three of us are a match for Lumiya. She fought the Grand Master to a standstill. She’s Master level. We’re two Jedi Knights and one Force-blind space jockey.”

  Jaina frowned up at him. “Zekk, that was uncalled for.”

  “I’m just explaining, correctly and logically, that Fel is not an asset when it comes to matters of the Force.”

  “Zekk, stop it!”

  Implacably, Zekk continued. “And this sort of analysis is something that Fel knows quite a lot about.” He turned his attention to Jag. “Didn’t you once tell Jaina I wasn’t a good enough pilot to join her squadron? Wasn’t that cool, levelheaded analysis?”

  Jaina winced. That event had taken place during the Yuuzhan Vong war, on Borleias. And Jaina had let herself be convinced of Jag’s point, even though she’d known better.

  Jag’s expression did not change, but he took a long time to formulate a reply. “No,” he admitted, “that wasn’t analysis. That was me being a jealous lover, trying to keep you out of the way.”

  Zekk looked startled. Obviously, candor was not what he had expected.

  Jag gestured up toward Zekk. “And that’s something you know all about. A lover’s jealousy. Otherwise you wouldn’t hover like a brooding hawk-bat whenever I walk up to ask Jaina the time.”

  Jaina felt herself redden. “Jag—”

  “You always know the time. You’re just making excuses to talk to her.”

  “Boys, you’re making me angry—”

  Jag began beeping.
Rather, some electronic device on his person did, and the beeps were a complicated swirl of musical tones, like an astromech trying to recite poetry, a more elaborate signal than any of the ones either Jedi had heard from any piece of Jag’s equipment.

  Looking startled, Jag pulled his datapad from a pocket. “High-priority flash traffic.” He opened the device, read a few lines … and then began reading aloud. “From the central computer of the Errant Venture. ‘Jedi Temple holocam recognition and analysis code assigns ninety-four percent probability of match to target Alema Rar for attached sequence.’ ”

  The argument forgotten, Zekk sat beside Jaina. “Put it on the big display.”

  Zekk oriented the datapad toward the display that dominated the wall opposite the hall’s entryway. He pressed a button, and a moment later the screen glowed into life, playing a holocam recording.

  It appeared to be from a ceiling-mounted security holocam. It showed a crowd of people, most of them uniformed Alliance military personnel, rushing toward a door. In the midst of them was a well-bundled humanoid female—definitely blue-skinned, possibly Twi’lek, but her face was not large enough on the image for Jaina to recognize.

  Then Jag’s code went active. A wire-frame representation of a female Twi’lek body was superimposed over the target. As it conformed to her posture, smaller lines stretched from body parts—foot, shoulder, head—and words and percentile numbers flashed by too fast to read. The wire frame adapted itself further, shortening one foot by half its length, causing the left shoulder to droop in a fashion suggesting permanent physiological damage.

  That sequence ended and another began. It seemed to follow shortly after the first. The holocam view showed a ship’s broad passageway. Uniformed personnel poured into it from a larger chamber; their movement was restricted by their numbers. The blue female was toward the center of the mass of them, jumping up and down. This holocam view zoomed in and held a still frame.

  The woman’s features were very much like Alema’s, the Alema of the Dark Nest.

  Jag brought up a third file, but it was not a holocam sequence. It was a log of instances of holocam recording glitches recorded aboard Errant Venture—in the areas where the deck plans were not classified, at any rate. The log cited thousands of instances, and a schematic plotted them on those deck plans, showing definite patterns of progression along corridors, through air ducts, through casinos and shopping centers.

  Clearly, Alema Rar was on Errant Venture, or at least had been when the raw data from this report was compiled, no more than a few days earlier.

  And Errant Venture was now in the Coruscant system, having been granted the right to ply its trade here after having fled Corellia.

  Jag stood so fast he could have been yanked to his feet by invisible springs. “Hunt’s on.” Expressionless, he ran toward the Training Hall’s exit.

  CORUSCANT SPACE

  ERRANT VENTURE

  Walking—half staggering, because the great gambling ship’s artificial gravity generators seemed to be phasing on and off, right and left, and had been doing so since she’d downed her sixth whiskey of the evening—Captain Uran Lavint turned a corner into the narrow passageway where her cabin was located.

  The thought of returning to her cabin drew a sigh from her. There was an even-odds chance that Alema would be there, skulking, ready to discuss her day’s worth of spying failures, ready to offer another set of threats. Upset by the ritual, Lavint would take hours to fall to sleep. Nor could she have any company over while the mangled blue Twi’lek was present.

  Still, it was Alema’s Jedi powers that gave Lavint the edge at the betting tables. Whenever Alema watched from a shadowy place, and communicated with Lavint with little telekinetic prods, giving Lavint a much-improved sense of how good the other players’ hands were, Lavint won big. She won enough to maintain a cabin aboard this pricy flying hotel, enough to buy cargo that would make her next smuggling run a very profitable one, enough to surround herself with the trappings of a life well misspent.

  She just wished that Alema weren’t one of those trappings.

  But now, as she weaved her way to her door, a shadow seemed to flow off the opposite wall of the passageway and stand over her.

  Lavint reached for her hold-out blaster and was bringing it in line to fire, or at least threaten, when the stranger snatched it from her hand. He didn’t aim it back at her; he just held it, barrel down.

  Lavint peered at him, alarmed and suspicious, for the seconds it took to bring his face into focus. Then she recognized him and laughed. “Colonel Solo,” she said. “Here to kill me?”

  He shook his head and handed her the blaster. “No, I need you.”

  “Well, I’m not at my best right now, but I’m up for it if you are.”

  An expression of distaste crossed his face. “Not what I meant.”

  “I didn’t think so. I was just checking.” She replaced the blaster in its hideaway holster—on her third try—then drew her datapad from its pocket and used it to open the cabin door. Beyond was a small chamber, minimal furniture, and no Alema, unless she was under the bed or up in the ceiling somewhere.

  Lavint led her visitor in and immediately sat on the chamber’s one chair, leaving Jacen to decide whether to take the bed or stand. He elected to stand.

  “I have need of your services.”

  “I don’t think so.” She started to shake her head but, as the motion caused the cabin to sway violently, thought better of it and stopped. “I distinctly remember you saying, ‘I’d never prolong a business relationship with someone who sells the Falleen.’ ”

  “Sells out her fellows,” Jacen corrected. He looked annoyed. “Circumstances change.”

  “And ethics with them. Congratulations! That makes you a smuggler.”

  He was quiet a moment, as if settling his emotions, then continued. “It’s your services as a smuggler I need. Most people connected with the smuggling culture are either staying clear of the war or siding with the Confederation.”

  “And with good reason. You want to put us out of business.”

  “No, I want you all to take up a legitimate business. And if you help me, I’ll help you do just that.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “There’s going to be a gathering of Confederation warships in a few days. From different systems. Their leaders will meet, they’ll elect a joint leader, and then they’ll launch against a common target. I need to be at the meeting site to find out who’s there … who’s a conspirator.”

  “Just ambush the fleet and sort them out when they’re dead.”

  He waved her suggestion away. “What will it cost me for you to get me there?”

  “I won’t do it. You can’t be trusted. You sabotage hyper-drives.”

  A flash of anger crossed his face. “Your hyperdrive did fail.”

  “Of course it did. And I spent several long, long hours thinking I was going to die alone in space. Considering that was on top of having my ship stolen—by you—it wasn’t a good day. Really it wasn’t.”

  “I ruined two good men because you lied to me the last time we talked.”

  Lavint shrugged. “They weren’t good men. They were saboteurs. Incompetent ones, too, since I eventually fixed the drive they sabotaged. They were scum. Like me, remember? You shouldn’t rely on scum, nice boy like you.”

  Jacen closed his eyes and seemed to be counting. Finally he opened them. “Whatever price we agree to, I’ll deliver fully, in advance. To you or your agent of choice. Irretrievably.”

  “All right.” Lavint didn’t have to think for long. “I want the Breathe My Jets back.”

  “I can’t do that within our time frame. It’s been overhauled, recommissioned, put into service as a GA transport. It would take weeks or months to detach it from service, bring it here, and work the ownership records.” He thought about it for a moment. “How about a Gallofree Yards medium transport, twelve years old, seized from Corellia, freshly reconditioned and repaired at th
e Coruscant yards but not yet assigned? I can claim it for GAG and divert it to you. Ownership free and clear.”

  “I agree. Assuming it’s fully fueled, armed, provisioned … and not sabotaged.”

  “Understood. What else?”

  “I’m going to need to lay some credits around to buy the information you need. Fifteen, twenty thousand.”

  “Done.”

  “And I want you to get a message to your parents for me.”

  “What?”

  “You can do that, can’t you?”

  “What message?”

  “I want them to send me a way, any way, to reach them. At my leisure. Just for one transmission.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “No.”

  “Then why—”

  “None of your business. I’ll swear to that. It doesn’t involve you; it won’t do you any harm.” She looked steadily at him.

  He considered, then said, “All right. I’ll find a way.”

  She smiled at him. “That’s it.”

  “I expected you to ask for a lot more than that. Because of injured feelings.”

  “The trick to negotiations,” she said, “which you’d know if your father had raised you right, is never to ask for so much that the other party would prefer to kill you than to go through with the deal.”

  Jacen considered that, looking at her, for a long moment. Then he simply said, “Thank you,” and left.

  Still smiling, Lavint stretched out on the bed. Now she had to figure out just what she’d accomplished. If Alema were here, then that last bit of negotiation was going to get the Solos killed, and Lavint freed—unless Alema decided to kill her, too, which Lavint fully expected the crazy Twi’lek to do. But if Alema hadn’t heard this conversation, those negotiations would probably get Alema killed, which was the outcome Lavint preferred.

  “Hey, crazy girl,” she said, “are you here?”