in the copilot's chair. A cup of soup warmed her good hand, bringing a small
measure of strength to her exhausted body.
"Nothing out of the ordinary," Deke sighed. Staring into the terminal, he
watched the information scroll across the screen. "The civilian logs don't
show very much. Jaalib Brandl, seventeen years old, orphaned at age twelve. No
known relatives within the Imperial sectors. Lived with a family friend, Otias
Atori, and then left to pursue a career in theater. There were no records of
him even existing before the age of twelve." He sat back in the chair. "That's
when I got suspicious."
"Suspicious?" Fable probed. "Why?"
"The Imperials have a sneaky practice of creating people, swapping
records to implant operatives among the populace. The only way to trace them
is through their records. If you look hard enough, every once in a while," he
smirked confidently, "you'll find a hole."
"Like no records before a certain age?"
"Uh-huh. So I started cross-referencing in that Imperial database we
intercepted. Only I forgot to use his first name. Look what came up." The
image of an older man appeared on the screen. There was a brooding, sinister
edge to his handsome face, a piercing glare and an arrogant smirk that gave
the impression that he was posing. "See any family resemblance?"
"Lord Adalric Brandl," Fable read the information. "An actor?"
"And this was his biggest and best role yet." Deke tapped the control
panel. A restricted information bar flashed across the screen as he accessed
the code.
Fable set her cup aside, afraid that her trembling hands might spill the
hot liquid into her lap. "An Imperial Inquisitor? Brandl's father is a Jedi
killer?"
"The Alliance has official notices about this maniac all over the
network. Avoid at all costs, executive order 2354. This guy was bad news."
"Was?"
"Evidently Brandl went rogue and took off, prompting a galaxywide
manhunt. They found him," Deke shuddered, "following a string of corpses that
he left from one sector to the next. And when they finally caught him, he went
berserk and committed suicide." The status line scrolled over the image of
Brandl's face, flashing the word "Deceased" across the screen.
"What's that?" Fable pointed to the corner of the terminal.
"It's an Imperial code about notifying next of kin. This one means the
body was never recovered."
"Never recovered? Never recovered by the family or never found?"
"Can't tell you, Capt'n. Wasn't there."
Fable strummed her fingers lightly against her thigh, feeling the
lightsaber's slight weight against her hip.
"I've seen that look before," Deke grumbled pensively. Fumbling with the
control panel, he reached into the mass confusion of the circuitry boards
beneath the shield generator controls and retrieved a dusty bottle of Socorran
raava. "Here," he gave it to her. Then removing the earring from his lobe, he
handed the golden hoop to her as well. "I noticed the port manager is So -
corran. Give him the earring and tell him you need a ship. Then give him the
bottle and let him know that he can discuss the terms with me."
Fable wiped at her cheek, feeling the moisture beneath her fingertips.
"You're a good friend, Deke."
"That's what they tell me," he sighed, propping his legs against the
console. "Now go on," he fussed, "before I change my mind."
Quietly, Fable walked into the corridor beyond the flight bridge.
"Fable?" Deke whispered, as she hesitated, lingering beneath the
bulkhead. "If Brandl's alive, he's got nothing to lose."
"At this point, Deke, neither do I."
The hyperdrive cue pulsed, startling Fable to consciousness. She rubbed
at the bruise swelling on her forehead where she had knocked it soundly
against the canopy of the X-wing. "No bad dreams?" she sighed with a half
smile. From above, an abrupt movement distracted her and before she could
utter one sound, the body of Arecelis came crashing through the cockpit
shield, bringing the icy grasp of space. As the air was drawn from her lungs,
Viaico stood over her, straddling the cockpit and mocking her with his deep,
throaty laughter.
Fable shrieked, slapping hysterically at the mutilated corpse cradled in
her lap; but there was nothing there. Frantically craning her neck to get a
full view of the outside canopy, she saw nothing but the brilliant lines and
colors of hyperspace, as they began to retract into the telltale pinpoints of
distant planets and stars. Reeling from the traumatic nightmare, she collapsed
against the acceleration chair.
The emerald-gold face of Trulalis emerged before her as the X-wing
materialized from hyperspace. Quickly engaging the engines, she braced for the
atmospheric entry. Scanning her sensors, Fable checked the data screens, which
were inundated with immediate life-sign readings. The sensors began tracing
the ion signature, automatically pinpointing the trace of a light shuttle.
Setting a similar course, she eventually landed outside the perimeter of a
small settlement.
From the ground, Trulalis was breathtaking and majestic. Fable found
herself captivated by the noble black trees whose leaves radiated a green hue
when struck by direct sunlight. With massive, arching branches, the trees
formed a shaded corridor above the overgrown trail. Enjoying the quiet walk,
Fable rechecked her sensor information, confirming that the life signs she had
received were mostly animal in nature. The settlement structures the computer
had uncovered were void of any life. As she came closer, it was apparent why.
Strewn about the outskirts of the common, she found the remains of storm
trooper armor. There were no bodies inside, but the unmistakable blast scoring
across the chests were disturbing evidence of a failed retaliation against the
Empire, as were the skeletal remains of their victims, which were half buried
in the loose topsoil nearby. At the settlement gates, she stared into the
desolate streets where wreckage and debris were scattered from one end of the
broad avenue to the next.
The body of a small bantha lay in the doorway of a narrow shelter.
Shrunken and thin, its thick hide had been preserved by the nurturing Trulalis
soil. Manicured gardens had gone to seed, spreading erratically over the front
lawns and the dilapidated remains of the abandoned cottages. In one shelter.
Fable found the transport shuttle, which had been assigned to Jaalib- - she
knew she was on the right track.
The only true survivor of the Imperial onslaught sat in the center of the
settlement. Its shadow stood over her in silent testament of its endurance.
Fable stared up and up, until her eyes could take in the enormity of the
ancient theater. Blast scoring had scarred the pristine limestone obelisk,
leaving a blemish of tragedy etched into the elaborate design. Hemmed in by
stone fences and gates, the gardens were immaculately trimmed and manicured,
tapered back from the winding garden paths, which wound and curved into the
enormous entrance. Two stone pillars framed the central portal,
casting
grotesque, disembodied shadows over the archway.
Mustering her courage, she stepped into the immense antechamber. Her eyes
took in the magnificence of tapestries and display cases, each showing the
relics of prop swords, ornate jewelry, and costumes used in the various stage
productions. She heard voices echoing from the right wing and followed
instinctively, attuned to the familiar strength of Jaalib's voice.
"You are a thief, a liar, and a pawn!" Jaalib spat in a frantic voice.
Fable hesitated in the doorway, staring across the darkened auditorium.
"A thief? A liar? A pawn?" another voice commented. "Are these not the
greatest virtues of any good king?"
"Virtue-was Jaalib broke off, his face contorted in an uncharacteristic
mask of rage.
"Your concentration is off," the stranger whispered. "Perhaps we're
moving too quickly."
"No, it's me!" The despondent sound of his voice echoed in the dusty
spaces above the stage. "I keep seeing you, hearing you play the part and
then," he stumbled, "I see my own clumsy attempts." Anxiously brushing a hand
through his dark hair, he managed a weak smile. "Perfection is never easy,
Father, especially when it's your perfection."
From his throne, in the shadowed backset of the stage, Adalric Brandl
chuckled softly. The rustling of his cumbersome black robes sent whispering
vibrations over the front rows as he stepped down from the raised dais. "Of
all the tragedies ever conceived, Uhl Eharl Khoehng is the greatest," Brandl
said with conviction. "The role of the Edjian-Prince is the most difficult and
the actor who plays it," he paused, "is assured greatness."
"How old were you? The first time you performed it?"
"I was nearly thirty before Otias would even permit me to read for the
part." Brandl snorted with warm pleasure. "You are a young man, Jaalib."
Placing a comforting hand onJaalib's shoulders, he whispered, "You were born
for this part. Give yourself time to grow into x."
Recognizing Brandl's profile. Fable slowly walked down the center aisle
toward the stage. Hands crossed shamefully in front of her, she met Brandl's
curious eyes as his gaze fell over her. "Lord Brandl..." she faltered, staring
into the shadows.
"Fable!" Jaalib hissed. Jumping down from the platform, he charged her,
robes billowing from his shoulders. "What are you doing here?"
Fable could hear his voice, but only distantly. She could feel the harsh
pinch of his fingers on her wrists, but felt no pain. Caught in Brandl's
intense gaze, she could not move. His presence was overpowering and Fable
found herself deeply intrigued by the somber charm and magnificence of this
strange man, himself a tragic hero, trapped in the torrent of some
inconceivable drama.
Her eyes cautiously traced the noble angle of his forehead and brow,
noting the gentle curvature of his nose, his mouth, and the regal set of his
chin. Faint laugh lines framed thin, pale lips, fading into the surrounding
tautness of his cheekbones. Waves of black hair betrayed streaks of silver
running through the closely cropped sides, shadowing Brandl's solemn face. At
his right temple, obtuse veins of scar tissue erupted from the otherwise
smooth skin, winding a cruel path around the outer edges of his eye. Severely
traumatized, the eye itself was damaged, sheathed in the pupilless, irisless
remains of a clear, yellowed orb.
"Fable!" Jaalib shouted, shaking her.
"Jaalib," Brandl whispered, "mind your manners. An audience, even an
audience of one, is always to be treasured and respected."
Glaring at her, Jaalib hissed, "You shouldn't have come here!"
Fable glanced at him briefly and then moved away, refusing to acknowledge
that she agreed with him.
"An admirer, Jaalib?"
"Yes, Father, but she was just leaving." Before Jaalib could herd her
back up the aisle, he felt the light restraint of his father's hands.
Drawn to the innocence of the young woman's frightened eyes, Brandl
closed the distance between them. With hesitation, he caressed Fable's smooth
cheek, gently lifting her chin to raise her eyes. Astonished by the strength
in her gaze, Brandl smiled pleasantly. "There is no frailty here," he
whispered with a narcissistic grin. His eyes narrowed dubiously as he took her
bandaged hand, warming her cold fingers in the warmth of his touch. "The dark
side beckons with the promise of easy gain, but there is always a price,
always a tribute to its passion."
Fable swallowed, struggling to find her voice. "I... I," she stammered,
"Lord Brandl, I need you... to..."
"Weigh your words carefully, young woman, do not waste time counting
them." Turning to Jaalib, he gently pressed her toward his son. "Jaalib, take
our guest to a comfortable room. She will stay the night."
Shoulders hunched in rage, Jaalib led Fable up the wide aisle, leading
her out of the grand hall auditorium.
An excruciating cramp in her leg brought Fable to consciousness. She
bolted frantically from the bed, scanning the shadows for signs of movement.
Taking her lightsaber from beneath the pillow, she assumed the ready stance,
waiting for the unseen phantom to strike. But there were no shadows to fight,
except her own. "No bad dreams?"
Stiff from the close quarters of the X-wing, she felt surprisingly well
and rested. Snorting softly, Fable sat down on the bed. "No bad dreams!" she
cheered into her pillow. Her optimism was short-lived as a knock sounded at
the door. Momentarily, the latch cleared and the door parted. Pulling the
blanket over her body, Fable swallowed a moment of fear, relieved when
Jaalib's brooding face peered into the chamber.
"The morning meal is ready," he growled.
"I'll be right there." As the door closed, she hurried from the bed and
dressed quickly. Ignoring her flight jacket, she pulled the fine linen shirt
over her head and shoulders, leaving the long ends to hang over her leggings.
In the darkened corridor outside her room, Jaalib was waiting. "This way."
As the sweet aroma of sausage and boiling cereal filtered through her
nostrils, Fable's stomach rumbled appreciatively. Painfully aware of her
hunger and of the young actor's annoyance, she waited for him to sit down at
the small table. A series of large flame ovens lined the back of the room
behind him. Fable waited until Jaalib took the first bite, then eagerly began
filling her plate with steaming broth and several links of sausage.
Hearing only the clang of her utensils, she looked up to find Jaalib
glaring at her. There was a deep-seated loathing behind his eyes. Gazing about
the small, crude kitchen, she realized that they were alone. "Where is Lord
Brandl?" she whispered, hoping he would ignore her.
"You shouldn't have come here!"
Piqued by his cruel tone, Fable slammed her fork against the plate. "Why
don't you just butt out of it!"
"He won't help you," the actor snarled. "Others have come. Like you. So
why don't you just get your things, and I'll walk you back to your ship."
"I said, where is he?" Fable hissed with premed
itated venom.
"He's in the Barrows," Jaalib relented. "He's been waiting for you."
"The Barrows?" she questioned around a mouthful of hot broth.
"The graveyard."
Outside in the cold dawn, storm clouds swept the sky. Wishing for her
flight jacket, Fable shivered, hugging herself as the cool breeze fluttered
through her hair and the thin fabric of her shirt. Trotting up the back
landscape of steps and garden porches, she wandered into the rear courtyards
of the theater, needing no specific direction to follow the dark presence of
Lord Brandl. She followed a short path to the outskirts of Kovit, where the
ground rose and fell in an irregular series of earthen mounds and grassy
knolls. Up the steepest mound, she halted on the crest, finding herself
surrounded by wax cylinders, hundreds of them, mounted atop slender pedestals,
which were buried in the soft ground. Metallic ball bearings were precariously
perched on each cylinder, giving the appearance of small, blue flames.
Across from her, on the opposite mound, Brandl stood with his back to
her, at the foot of an enormous sarcophagus. The grainy image of a woman had
been carved into the lid, delicately outlining the lace and fabric of the gown
she was laid to rest in. "The Jedi is his own worst enemy," Brandl declared.
"The greatest conflict comes from within. Our Masters teach us, scold us," he
hesitated, hiscommand us to follow reason, not our emotions."
Tales From the New Republic Page 37
