Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Ascension

by Christie Golden

  “Maybe they just … went home,” Jaina suggested. “They seem to keep getting the worse end of the deal.”

  “You think they slunk back to Kesh to lick their wounds?” Luke said. He shook his head. “No. That doesn’t sound like the Lost Tribe to me. For one thing, I don’t think they’d survive very long if they came home empty-handed. Would they, Vestara?”

  “There are severe penalties for failure,” admitted Vestara. “To have lost both you and Ben and Abeloth as prizes would not reflect well on the strike force. Better to stay away until they could come home with something to show for it, even if it took years.”

  Was she simply trying to protect her homeworld still, or was she telling the truth? What she said was exactly what Luke had just stated that he himself believed. It could be—probably was—the truth.

  “But you have no idea where they would go,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “No.” He sensed she wasn’t lying, but he also knew that one could easily get around detection with the proper mental gymnastics.

  Luke sighed. “Then we simply have to keep searching for them. The Lost Tribe and Abeloth both.”

  “There are an awful lot of old Sith sites in this galaxy,” Jaina warned. “Even for several ships of Jedi to be exploring.”

  “Then we’ve got to be better hunters,” Luke said. “Talk to Natua tomorrow. Let’s see if we can narrow the search.”

  Jaina nodded, looking glum, and bid them good night.

  Vestara rose, as well. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said. “It was … kind of a difficult day and I’m extremely tired. I’m going to turn in.”

  Ben smiled at her. “Thanks for the help with the tuk’ata,” he said.

  She returned the smile. “Of course,” she said, glancing at Luke. He said nothing other than “Good night, Vestara,” and he felt a brush of disappointment from her.

  Luke more than anyone understood the deep wanting Ben was experiencing. No one ever wanted to believe that someone he cared for was irredeemable. But Ben should know better. Not everyone could be saved.

  Particularly if they didn’t want to be. And Luke was still deeply mistrustful, despite the girl’s apparent effort to help them.

  When they had found Abeloth and the Lost Tribe, and Vestara came firmly down on the side of the Jedi in all interactions with them, then he would believe she stood a chance. And not a second before.

  The door hissed shut behind Vestara and she leaned against it, closing her eyes. She hadn’t lied to the Skywalkers. It had indeed been a difficult day, and she was exhausted.

  So much dark-side energy, swirling around her—it had been almost impossible to not joyfully yield to its seductive song. But she couldn’t. Not yet … and, she thought as she sat down and unbraided her hair, maybe not ever. It had been sweet and alluring, but for the first time she had a glimmer of insight into what the Jedi must feel when encountering it.

  The dark side had ice to it. She had never noticed that; it was all she had known. But traveling with Ben and Luke had granted her a different perspective, and that made her feel uneasy.

  She knew they were too far for Korriban’s Force energies to be reaching her, but like the memory of standing shivering in the cold even after one had come into a warm room, in her mind she could still feel them. Vestara slipped out of her clothes and into a sanisteam, then wrapped herself in the bed’s blankets. Tired though she was, she lay awake in the darkness for some time.

  She hadn’t lied to Luke, but she hadn’t told him everything, either. She had indeed spoken to the so-called Sith hounds, telling them not to harm her or anyone she was with, and to find any Sith present on this dark world. And they had cringed and whimpered, because there were no Sith to be found.

  What Vestara hadn’t told Luke was the third instruction she had given the tuk’ata.

  Harm no one who stands with me, on pain of death. Seek out any of my brethren who might come to our ancient home.

  And warn them to stay hidden.

  SOLO SAFE HOUSE, CORUSCANT

  “I’M NOT TIRED.” ALLANA SOLO, KNOWN TO NEARLY EVERYONE BUT her closest family as Amelia, scowled fiercely at her grandfather.

  “You know, honey, you only use that tone of voice when you’re exhausted,” Han Solo replied as he tucked her in and knelt beside the bed, searching for the girl’s latest favorite stuffed animal, a fuzzy eopie that had seen better days. It had become Anji’s favorite toy, too, and had gone downhill rapidly since the day the Solos had brought the nexu cub home as a pet for Allana. “So in effect, when you protest that much, I know it’s a dead certainty that you are tired.” His hand closed on something soft and slightly soggy and he grimaced as he pulled out the beloved toy.

  “Oh, you mean I have a tell.”

  Han, who was tucking the toy beside her, did a double take. “What?”

  “A tell,” said the eight-year-old. “Like when you’re gambling, and you do something that lets someone know if you have a good hand or—”

  “I know what a tell is, young lady,” said Han, trying to decide if he was amused, proud, or shocked. He thought about it for a moment, then stroked her short, dyed-black hair. “And yes, that’s one of them.”

  She smiled up at him, her eyelids already beginning to droop slightly. “What are my others?”

  “Hey, I’m not laying all my cards on the table, missy,” he said, planting a loud smooch on her forehead. Beside the girl, Anji gave him a feline smile, eyes half closed as she lazily started gnawing the eopie. “Sleep tight, kiddo.”

  “I will, Grandpa. Is Grandma coming in, too?”

  “She’s got something she needs to take care of, but she’ll be in soon.”

  “But I’ll be asleep by then!”

  “This from the girl who was so adamant that she wasn’t tired?”

  “Well … maybe I am. A little,” Allana admitted.

  “Well, a grandma’s kiss is just as good whether you’re awake or asleep,” Han promised her.

  “I guess you’re right. Good night, Grandpa.”

  “ ’Night, sweetheart,” Han said softly. He activated the pale blue hologram of a moon, stars, and clouds that always seemed to give Allana such peaceful dreams, then pressed a button and the door hissed shut. He walked down the hall to what served as their office in the safe house and poked his head in.

  “What is so fascinating that you have to miss kissing our granddaughter good night?” he asked. He wasn’t angry, just curious; Leia hardly ever missed tucking Allana in.

  Leia glanced up, and there was worry in her brown eyes. “This.” She pointed to a message flashing on the screen.

  INFORMATION YOU WILL WANT TO HAVE.

  SAFETY FOR YOUR FAMILY GUARANTEED.

  REPLY FOR MORE.

  “Short and completely mysterious,” Han mused, frowning a little.

  “It came in on my private channel.”

  “The one only about six people and two droids have access to?”

  “That would be the one.”

  Han’s frown became a full-fledged scowl. “So unless Artoo-Detoo has been reprogrammed or Ben is playing a prank, you’ve been hacked.”

  Leia nodded. “I’m afraid so. The question now is, do we want to reply or have Artoo start a trace for the hacker?”

  “Oh come on, where’s your sense of adventure?” Han said. “Look at it this way—if they contacted you legitimately, everything’s fine. If they hacked in, they’ve already got what they came for.”

  Leia made a sour face. “That’s not at all reassuring.” But her own curiosity got the better of her.

  She leaned forward and typed in, Replying. Tell me more.

  A few seconds later, more blue letters crawled across the screen.

  OLD FRIENDS MAKE THE BEST BARGAINS.

  Han felt a chill. Whoever it was, they claimed to know Leia, at least. “So this old friend wants to sell us information.”

  “Han … does something about this ring a bell for you?”<
br />
  “Someone trying to sell information?” He shook his head. “Everybody wants something. Some people are just honest about the fact that they want credits.” He grinned suddenly. “Like me.”

  She gave him a mock shove, then sobered. “I know, but there’s … this seems very familiar. I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Maybe they are old friends.”

  “No,” Leia said with certainty. “Old friends would say who they were at the outset. And we have more old enemies than old friends.” She tapped in another message: What is the nature of this information?

  There was a long pause, and she wondered if perhaps she had scared them off. Then:

  OLD FRIENDS KNOW WHERE DAALA HAS GONE. WILL

  MAKE PARTNERS A FINE OFFER.

  And then she knew. “Just when I thought things were looking up,” Leia murmured.

  “What am I missing? You know who this—oh no,” Han said, as realization crashed over him. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said. “Not—”

  “You bet,” said Leia drily.

  OFFICES OF THE CHIEF OF STATE, CORUSCANT

  “Jedi Solo,” came Dorvan’s bland voice. “This is an unexpected surprise. I hope it’s a pleasant one.”

  She turned toward him, smiling. “Possibly not, but I promise it’s not a disaster, either.”

  “That is more assurance than I get most mornings,” he said. He removed Pocket from his coat and placed her in her small nest on his desk. Leia reached out a finger and patted the little creature, who sniffed at her and then closed her eyes to enjoy the caress. “Caf?”

  “Please,” Leia said. “I hope it was all right for Desha to show me into your office.”

  “Perfectly,” Dorvan said, pouring a cup for each of them. “My door is always open to you. In fact, my position is open to you, if you’d take it.” He lifted an eyebrow in mock hopefulness as he gave her the cup.

  Leia smiled, accepting the caf and giving Pocket one last pat. “No, no, I’ve had my stint. That’s … actually what I came to discuss with you. I hope that I’ve been of some help with the transition of government. I might be of more … but in a different capacity.”

  Dorvan sat and sipped his caf, eyes regarding her thoughtfully. “Go on.”

  “As I know you know, Han and I have … connections … in various places,” she began.

  Dorvan raised a hand. “Please,” he said, “remember plausible deniability.”

  She smiled a little at that. “Of course,” she said. “But because of those connections, we now have a lead on where Daala might be.”

  His eyebrows lifted slightly—an indication of great surprise. “Is that lead something you can share?”

  “Not until it’s verified,” Leia said.

  “Ah. So you’re trying to decide where you could help the most,” Dorvan said.

  Leia nodded. “This political jumble that you’re having to deal with now—I understand it. I’m in a unique position, and I can help you through it. I can help all of us through it.”

  “You can, and you are unique,” he agreed. “You’re a Jedi, so they trust you to represent them fairly. But we both know that beneath those brown and cream robes beats the heart of a born diplomat. Even Daala knew that.”

  She gave a small, self-deprecating smile. “Guilty as charged,” she said. “Which is what makes this so difficult.”

  “Do you trust these sources? I’m sure there are plenty of beings out there who would love to lead you both on a wild caranak chase.”

  “I do,” Leia replied. “They’re sound.”

  He was silent for a moment, then spoke thoughtfully. “To be able to put Daala on trial, fairly and publicly, would eliminate any lingering doubt as to the legitimacy of the current administration. I can’t think of any other single action that would do more to heal the GA and get things back on track so that it could become an effective institution. No offense to your skills, Jedi Solo, but even the best you could bring to the table would pale in comparison.”

  “None taken, which is why this is something I feel I need to do,” Leia said.

  “Then do so.” He smiled slightly, and it reached his eyes, turning them warm for a moment. “And I say this as earnestly as is possible … may the Force be with you.”

  Leia thought about whom they were trusting to deliver the “information” on Daala’s whereabouts and gave him a wry smile.

  “Believe me,” she said, “We’re going to need it.”

  MOFF DRIKL LECERSEN’S ESTATE, CORUSCANT

  “Sir, there is someone outside who wishes to meet with you.” Eethree’s voice sounded offended on behalf of his master. Clearly, beings of good manners who understood protocol and etiquette did not show up unannounced on the doorsteps of important personages without appointments, as far as Eethree was concerned. That unspoken but vocally implied censure was also, Lecersen was certain, directed in large part at him. After all, he was the one who instructed the protocol droid to keep an eye out for such things.

  “What species?” he asked, setting aside the datapad he had been perusing. The hour was late, and the Moff was alone in his sitting room. Busts of various late heroes of the Empire occupied positions of honor in the room, as did antiques and souvenirs Lecersen had collected over the years. Save for these objets d’art, the room was spare and austere, lacking the enveloping quality of the dining room with its heavy furnishings and thick fur rugs. Surrounded by evidence of the glories of the Empire—the Empire he was now moving steadily toward ruling—this was Lecersen’s favorite place to retire, think, plot, and plan. The only concessions to comfort were the artificial fireplace and two large chairs, so that he might pursue such endeavors more easily.

  “A Minyavish,” replied Eethree.

  That, Lecersen had not expected. A member of a species that had formerly been slave owners on Qaras, but who now were removed from such positions of power over others. Who, in fact, were themselves facing exile. Why would such a being come to him? And why in so clandestine a fashion? The little mystery that had started with the piece of low-tech flimsi was becoming more and more intriguing … and potentially dangerous. He thought for a moment.

  “Show him in, and then leave us alone until I summon you.”

  “Are you quite certain, sir? The fellow has a rather shifty look about him. I don’t know that I’d give him the time of day, let alone—”

  “You are qualified to comment on his manners, Eethree, not his personality,” Lecersen said sharply. The E-3POs, which had been developed for Imperial use many years earlier, had a reputation for arrogance and haughtiness due to their proprietary TechSpan I module. This allowed them to interface with various Imperial networks denied to other protocol droids, and the cursed things thought themselves superior. Eethree had served Lecersen well for many years, and he often found the droid’s snooty attitude amusing. However, tonight it irritated him.

  “Very good, sir,” said Eethree promptly, though not without the droid equivalent of a “hmmph!” of injured pride. He turned around and left the sitting room.

  Lecersen continued to sit in his chair, sipping a glass of Hapan gold wine, his mind racing a thousand kilometers a minute. He did not bother to rise when Eethree returned, escorting the first Minyavish whom Lecersen had ever seen in the flesh. Of the two sentient species that lived on Qaras, Lecersen had to admit that the Minyavish were by far the less attractive.

  They were bipedal, feathered, and squat; humanoid, but only just. A large head sat atop rounded shoulders and a chunky torso, but that head sported some of the largest, most intense golden eyes Lecersen had ever seen, with darker gold, slitted pupils. The being wore little in the way of clothing; the bright green, purple, and gold feathers were more than sufficient for modesty. His barrel chest was, however, crisscrossed with two pieces of fabric as colorful as his feathers, and he sported an armband inlaid with four large, winking blue gems. Lecersen had found it was often difficult to read the expressions of members of an alien species
unless he was familiar with their mannerisms. This one looked irritated and pugnacious, but for all he knew, he—she?—could be wearing the Minyavish version of a large smile.

  “Moff Drikl Lecersen,” said the droid, “may I present Tiyuu’cha Mahlor.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure,” said Lecersen. He still did not rise. “Have a seat. May Eethree offer you something to drink?” Whatever the Minyavish’s poison might be, Lecersen was confident he had it. He had one of the largest exotic liquor collections on Coruscant, having found early on in his career that any credits expended thus were sound investments when it came to dealing with other beings.

  “No, thank you.” The voice was gruff, hollow sounding. The Minyavish—Mahlor—sounded as irritated as he looked. He trundled to one of the larger overstuffed chairs by the holographic fireplace and eased himself down gingerly until he was certain the chair would hold his weight.

  “That will be all, Eethree. I’ll call for you if I need you.”

  “Of course, sir.” With a whir of servos, the droid left the room, and the door automatically closed shut behind him.

  “To what,” drawled Lecersen, sipping his wine, “do I owe this rather peculiar visit?”

  Mahlor chuckled. At least, that’s what the raspy noise sounded like to Lecersen. “I think you will be grateful that I chose to be so … peculiar … when you hear.”

  “Please, I am all ears.”

  The Minyavish blinked, three times. “For more than seven thousand years, my people have quite happily managed Qaras, with the Jessar serving us.”

  “If by managed you mean ‘dominated’ and if by serving you mean ‘enslaved to,’ then I am already well aware of this.”

  The feathered brows, a startling purple over the yellow eyes, drew together. “Wordplay doesn’t serve you well, Moff Lecersen.”

  “On the contrary, it has served me well many times in the past. If my wit is too sharp for your liking, then pray tell me what you are getting at, Mahlor. The hour is late, and I rise early on the morrow. I am an extremely busy man.”