She had harmed him, too, though. Almost killed him. And she had destroyed his precious city, unleashing her outrage and fury on the site of her shame.
In the end, though, she would recover. And she would be stronger for the experience. In the meantime, she would absorb and learn all she could.
Abeloth had turned Ship into a circular display of images, asking him to show her newsvids from everywhere he could think of. And so, simultaneously, Abeloth beheld dozens of images. She learned of slave revolts, of murders, of coups. She learned of wars, and treaties, and natural disasters. She wanted to know everything she possibly could about this galaxy that, once she recovered, she would dominate and bend to her will.
She felt a flicker of amusement, watching the reports about the Fountain of the Ancients, knowing as she did exactly what had transpired on Klatooine. She gazed, unmoved, at the horror of a tsunami on a world that had fully a quarter of its population swallowed by the devastating wave, observing the grief and carnage as she watched famine turn bodies into living skeletons.
She watched holodramas, interviews—
Interviews …
Abeloth instructed Ship to pause, to focus on one of the scenes. The others faded out, their brightly moving images replaced by the dull, old-blood color of Ship’s interior.
The speaker was a Chevin, an elder of his species, conducting an interview in what appeared to be a newsvid. But his kindly, wise, large face was not what had attracted her attention. She had been galvanized by the being he was interviewing, a female of another species with which Abeloth was unfamiliar. As she watched, her eyes unblinking, Abeloth inquired of Ship as to the nature of this species.
Ship responded by filling her mind with images and history, which Abeloth absorbed at once even while listening to the interview.
The female was of a species called the Jessar. Their planet, Qaras, had recently undergone the upheaval of a revolution. The Jessar had risen up and overthrown their masters, a species called the Minyavish, who had enslaved them for thousands of years. As such things went, while it was not exactly a bloodless coup, it was nonetheless remarkably civilized and constrained. The images flashed in Abeloth’s mind at lightspeed, of peaceful protests, one single strike in the night on the seat of power that resulted in only a few dozen casualties, a new government that forbade retaliation against the Minyavish even as it joyfully celebrated the dream of freedom.
And this female was the heart and mind of the entire affair.
Her name was Rokari Kem. Upon initial perusal, she did not look like the leader of millions who led a rebellion to topple a reign of a thousand years. Rokari Kem was slightly built, humanoid, with elongated limbs and a tranquil demeanor. Her skin was a lovely shade of blue, her hair—long and straight and shiny, falling almost to her hips—blue-green and woven with colorful ribbons. While she listened to the question from the Chevin interviewer, Kem appeared almost languid, so still was she as she concentrated. And then she spoke.
“But you see, Perre,” Kem said, her large green eyes wide as she leaned forward and gestured with her three-fingered hands, “words are important. In and of themselves, they are simply noises, or symbols etched on stone or in the sand!”
“So you are censoring free speech, as the Minyavish government in exile has stated?” questioned the Chevin.
She looked sad rather than angry, and shook her head. “No. Because we respect words far too much. My people have a long tradition of never speaking anything that is untrue, as you may know.”
“That seems—hard to believe,” the Chevin—Perre Needmo, well-known holonews star—said, his eyes kind even as he expressed his dubiousness. “Deception seems to be a part of every being, in some form or another, whether it be intentional or not.”
Rokari Kem smiled, her great green eyes crinkling, her small pert nose upturned. “We do not even have a word for it in our language. If words cannot be trusted, what then? All we believe in spins into chaos. The Jessar creation myth tells us that with the naming of things, they came into being, and the Jessar were charged with never violating the creative power of the word.”
“Rokari—”
She waved her hand, smiling. “Please—call me Roki. Everyone does.”
“Roki, then. Let me ask about your Silence oath,” he said. “I’ve heard about this. Slaves who were planning to escape never lied about their intentions. Instead they stayed silent, even when they were beaten to death. Is that right?”
She nodded sadly. “Even when it might mean the deaths of themselves or others, they never spoke what was not. They simply chose not to speak at all. Some Minyavish understood this, and were merciful to their slaves. Others were not. And it is this history, this—” She struggled for words. “This is why I have insisted that the Minyavish depart our world. There is too long a history of hate, of violence, between our peoples.”
“Some would argue that it is their world, too,” said Perre Needmo.
“It is,” she said at once. “It is both our worlds. But we have only ever shared Qaras as masters and slaves. The Jessar do not know how to be other than slaves when interacting with the Minyavish. And with those who enslaved us still on our world …” She sighed and shook her head, the colorful ribbons catching the lights of the studio.
“No, Perre. We must be alone, to discover who we are when our heads are not bowed. And we cannot do that while our former oppressors are still on Qaras. Nor can the Minyavish truly wash themselves clean of the stain of what they have done while they still gaze upon us.”
Her voice had grown stronger, though it was still melodious. Abeloth watched raptly, not wanting to take her eyes off Roki Kem.
“This is the best thing for both Minyavish and Jessar. For us both to discover how to heal. For them to depart the world they know as masters, and find a world where they can simply be themselves. And as for us, the Jessar need to know how to be on Qaras as a true, active part of it—not as property.”
Her voice broke on the last word.
“You seem like such a peaceful being, Roki,” Perre Needmo continued. “Yet you condoned violence.”
“I did,” she replied unflinchingly. “But the coup came only after every other peaceful method of obtaining our freedom had been attempted. It was, in the end, our last resort. To this day, I regret that it had to come to that. We did the best we could to avoid bloodshed. I have met with the families of the Minyavish who died in the coup, and told them how deeply we regretted what we had to do.”
That seemed to catch Needmo off-guard. He blinked his large eyes and took a moment to clear his throat. “How … was that received?”
“Not well, I fear. And I understand. But I do not lie, and so, eventually, I believe with all my heart that they, too, will understand.” She smiled, gently, her green eyes warm with hope. “When they see the peace that must come with having no one to dominate, to own and dictate to—they will understand that their loved ones died for a precious cause.”
“I must say, if anyone can make them believe that, I think that would be you.”
She laughed—a sound light and bright as sunlight, sweet as water flowing. “I would say, rather, I would not make them believe—I simply have absolute trust that they will.”
“Now, the latest I have heard is that you are to be departing for Coruscant to join the Senate of the Galactic Alliance, is that correct?” Needmo asked.
“Very true. I’ll be departing Qaras soon.”
“It seems to me your people will miss you greatly,” Needmo continued. “Some say that you are the heart of this new order.”
She smiled, her face softly radiant. “Oh, no, I should hate to be that. My entire philosophy rejects this. Everyone has something special, something truly unique, to contribute. I had what was needed at the time it was needed, nothing more or less. Those who stood by me for so many years are as able as I am to guide my people. I do not say lead—simply guide.”
“It will be very interesting indeed to see what
you bring to the Senate, Rokari Kem. I would say a breath of fresh air, but that would be an understatement. Thank you so much for being with us here on The Perre Needmo Newshour. We’ll close out this segment with a long shot of the celebrations still going on in Qaras. For those of us who do not understand Jessaran, I will say that the song’s refrain is this: ‘Peace, welcome, Roki Kem is your mother. Come, children, come, come home.’ ”
It was nearly twilight on the world, Abeloth saw, and there was no cheering, no wild celebrating—simply dancing, if you could call it that.
Other leaders might be idolized, worshipped, adored.
Roki Kem … was loved.
Peace, welcome, Roki Kem is your mother. Come, children, come, come home …
OFFICES OF THE CHIEF OF STATE, CORUSCANT
IT WOULD, ACTING JOINT CHIEF OF STATE OF THE GALACTIC ALLIANCE Wynn Dorvan vowed, be a calm, productive, and organized meeting.
He realized even as the thought formed that it was likely to be doomed within the first five minutes. Little was calm, productive, and organized these days, other than Wynn Dorvan himself.
The recent Jedi coup that had overthrown and imprisoned Admiral Natasi Daala had also led to his unsought and frankly undesired promotion. Alongside Master Saba Sebatyne and Senator Haydnat Treen, Dorvan was one of three who had the cumbersome title of Acting Joint Chief of State. Thus far, it had worked surprisingly well, which was a good thing considering how much remained to be properly sorted out. The planet of Coruscant alone had more than enough needs to attend to, having been rattled by the unexpected transition of power, peaceful though it was, right in its heart. The ramifications of that event were still rippling throughout the entire Galactic Alliance.
One would think that this might be enough of a whirlwind of “things to deal with right now” issues for one term. Dorvan had discovered the hard way that one would be wrong. The recent flood of revolutions taking place across the galaxy was a positive step, of course. Dorvan was pleased to see slavery, an abominable institution no matter what sort of spin a government might want to put on it, cease on so many worlds. What was less positive was the chaos that inevitably followed in the wake of such a profound change.
Some of the uprisings had been extremely violent, and the “governments” that sprang up were little better than the ones they replaced—occasionally worse. Much worse. Centuries, sometimes millennia, of oppression had rendered many former slaves thirsty for revenge, and the reports of atrocities that were coming in sometimes made his assistant, the extremely sensitive-natured Twi’lek Desha Lor, very upset. Dorvan was slightly more jaded than the younger female, but he found that even he could be haunted by nightmares of what he had learned.
Other uprisings had been less destructive in terms of lost lives or property damage, but were no less of an upheaval. The change turned a world topsy-turvy, no matter how positive a change it was.
Too, with all these new governments being set up, there was a flood of applications to the Senate as worlds that had been denied because of the practice of slavery suddenly found themselves meeting the criteria for acceptance. And while that was largely the Senate’s purview, thankfully, Dorvan still had to be involved. Everyone seemed to need his full attention, right this moment, urgently.
It was all quite wearying.
He closed the door to his office and strode down the hall to the meeting room, a small case full of datapads in one hand. His pet chitlik, Pocket, moved expertly from his shoulder to the spot for which she was named and curled up. Absently, Dorvan reached up a hand and gently patted the small, warm lump. He knew that most people considered his affection for the little marsupial to be either an eccentricity or an affectation. He didn’t much care. Pocket was the ideal companion for someone in his position—mild-tempered, undemanding, and comforting.
And trained to use a litter box—also of vast importance.
Desha Lor was there, smiling brightly at the assembled beings. She wasn’t like Dorvan—not in the slightest—but he was wise enough to realize that that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Despite his initial misgivings when she had originally been assigned to him, and his irritation at what seemed to be a hypersensitive personality combined with hopeless naïveté, he’d come to value what she brought to the table. She’d learned to manage her reactions to injustices and tragedies without losing her personality, and that sweetness had given Dorvan a more appealing “face” in the eyes of the public. He relied on her instincts when it came to dealing with people, and she hadn’t steered him wrong. And when his workload had more than quadrupled in the last few weeks, she had stepped in and quietly, almost unobtrusively, begun to manage—and manage well—things that did not need his immediate attention. Besides, Pocket cooed when Desha petted her.
Other familiar faces greeted him. Former GA Chief of State and Princess Leia Organa Solo, Jedi Knight, subbing for Saba Sebatyne. The always cheerful and astute Senator from Kuat, Haydnat Treen, the third member of the “triumvirate” currently governing the Galactic Alliance. Representing the active military were the steady and reliable Gavin Darklighter, commander of the Galactic Alliance Marines; General Merratt Jaxton, large, square-jawed, square-bodied Chief of Starfighter Command; Admiral Sallinor Parova, acting naval commander in Admiral Bwua’tu’s continued absence, and Bwua’tu’s Bith aide-de-camp Rynog Asokaji, who was always either here taking notes for his comatose boss or else at his bedside.
Present also for the first time in a long while was the recently recalled chief of staff of the GA Army, General Stavin Thaal, so tall and powerfully built that one might have mistaken him for a Chev. With his physique and sheer size, buzz-cropped gray hair, tanned skin, and watery, intense blue eyes, he would have been striking even without the thick scar that ran the length of his entire throat. Some years earlier, an assassin had slashed Thaal’s neck, leaving him alive but unable to speak with his own voice. Now a deep, cold droid voice issued from a device implanted in his throat when he had anything to say. It was unnerving, and Dorvan rather suspected that Thaal enjoyed the reaction he got.
Also in attendance were two well-known figures serving in a thus-far purely advisory capacity: Tycho Celchu and Carlist Rieekan. Both men had white hair, although General Rieekan had several years on the other man. Both had even temperaments and were known for thinking things through before speaking. And both were unquestioningly devoted to the Galactic Alliance, as well as having good connections with the Jedi.
All in all, it was a selection of decent beings. Dorvan nodded at those assembled, taking off his coat—gently so as not to disturb the sleeping chitlik—and hanging it on the back of his chair. He nodded his thanks to Desha as she brought him a cup of caf.
“Thank you all for attending,” he said. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
A ripple of amusement went around the room. “No, we really do,” Dorvan said, completely serious. “The frequency of these so-called emergency meetings needs to slow dramatically.”
“Well, they’d hardly be called emergency meetings if we could predict them, now would they?” said Treen.
“If everything is an emergency, then nothing becomes an emergency. The Galactic Alliance is beyond being spread extremely thin, and I am most uncomfortable with that thought. We must prioritize, or else something that will turn out to be the most important thing of all will never be noticed.”
There was unhappy murmuring. “Well, then,” said Jaxton, “what do you propose we do?”
“We focus,” Dorvan said. “And we get down to business right now.” He thought he saw a small smile curve Leia’s lips. Whether it was approval or amusement, he didn’t know. He liked and respected Jedi Solo, and valued her input and support. While Dorvan was well aware that she was present largely because of her connection with the Jedi, he was nonetheless grateful that he had someone to consult who had been in the same position in which he now found himself. Nothing against Saba Sebatyne, but there had been moments when her unfamiliarity with po
litics—and politicians—had frustrated all three parties involved.
Dorvan reached for the pile of ’pads Desha had neatly arranged at his seat, took a bracing pull of unsweetened caf, and picked up the first one.
“Today,” he said, “we have fourteen different worlds applying for membership in the Galactic Alliance. Let’s begin with B’nish and its representative to the Senate, Kameron Suldar.”
B’nish was one of those planets that, like something kept on the highest shelf of a seldom-opened cabinet, was there, but was not particularly noticed or thought about much. It had come forward only recently with its application to join the GA. B’nish had supported slavery, but nothing too egregious—or too forward-thinking—and, inspired by the uprisings on Blaudu Sextus and Klatooine, had decided that the time was right to end the institution and move toward becoming more active in galactic affairs. What little the GA had learned about Kameron Suldar painted the human male as pleasant and easy to work with, and nobody could summon much enthusiasm one way or another. The upshot was that if no one had any objection and things looked promising, B’nish would be permitted to join the GA.
And so it went. Dorvan was determined to get through all of them. They were listed in the order in which they had submitted their formal application. Sometimes, he noticed, the difference was minimal. Planet Number Fifteen to submit, Aloxor, had missed being Planet Number Fourteen by eighteen and a half standard seconds. The tower of data cards, which seemed to teeter rather precariously on his left, consisted only of those that dealt with the Galactic Alliance application. There was an entirely separate pile on his desk, which Desha would retrieve once this portion of the meeting was completed, that dealt with the Senate. And there was another pile after that.
Normally his bureaucratic heart would beat faster at the process, but there was simply so much, and it was all so important, Dorvan could not help but feel that he would be shortchanging someone in the end. That, or missing something important as he had warned, which was worse.
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