Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Ascension

by Christie Golden

  The Senate had the ability to appoint whomever they chose as interim Chief of State until such time as a formal election could be held. Workan had persuaded the Senate to appoint Padnel Ovin a short time ago. All he needed to do was introduce the motion to appoint Roki Kem instead. With the Jessar’s charisma, fame, and the path of goodwill she left everywhere she went, as well as his own resources, he would easily be able to get the three-quarters majority necessary to replace Ovin.

  Then it was on to making her Beloved Queen of the Stars, whatever that meant. Workan would, as he always had, handle that as he came to it.

  If all went according to plan, and there was no indication that it wouldn’t, he would secure the position of Chief of State for Roki Kem by the end of the day. Which would definitely win him favor in her eyes.

  Workan had admired and respected Lord Vol, but he had to admit he was enjoying the new turn of events.

  The current chair of the Senate, a Chagrian named Nensu Kaatik, stepped forward and read the agenda. Workan sat with his eyes closed, extending himself in the Force, letting it flow through him and carry him to touch each Force presence in this vast chamber. He listened, and when the last item was read and the chair inquired if there was any further business to be put before the Senate, he rose.

  “May it please the Senate,” he said, fighting the desire to use the Force to make his voice carry and relying solely on technology. “I have urgent business to place before this Senate immediately.”

  The chair frowned. “The chair recognizes the honorable Senator Suldar from B’nish.”

  Workan inclined his head and moved his hoverdais forward. He thought, not for the first time, that with the lighting and the uniform color and shape of the daises, from a distance the Senate chamber looked like a massive scaled beast.

  “It is established that in times of crisis, when an interim Chief of State is in power, the Senate has the right—nay, the duty—to challenge its leadership and put in place whomever this august body determines is best suited to navigate the crisis,” Workan said. He could hear the murmuring already and smiled to himself. “We faced such a crisis recently, and it was I who put forth the motion to nominate an outsider, whom I thought would bring a fresh perspective.” He looked around with mock regret. “Unfortunately, I believe that this being, Senator Padnel Ovin of Klatooine, is not the right choice for this time. His connections with the Jedi, and with terrorist activities—I had hoped he would overcome them. But with the recent murder of the acting chief of naval operations, the mourned death of our beloved Senator Fost Bramsin, and the regrettable resignation of veteran Senator Haydnat Treen of Kuat, I believe it is clear that he is not the appropriate leader for such a time. I put forth the motion that we dismiss Senator Ovin and replace him with someone who still brings the freshness of an outside perspective, but who has proven herself a superior, and beloved, leader. I nominate Senator Rokari Kem.”

  Some several meters away in her own dais, Roki Kem managed to look both honored and shy. She rose, smiling, projecting the perfect combination of determination and caring.

  What a fine little actress she was.

  “The chair recognizes the honorable Senator Rokari Kem of Qaras. Senator, your name has been put forward to assume the office of interim Chief of State of the Galactic Alliance. Do you accept this nomination?”

  “If it pleases the Senate,” she said, her voice sweet and sincere, “I came to Coruscant to serve. Not just my own people of Qaras, but everyone I can serve. Whatever knowledge, wisdom, and experience I have—if the Senate wishes me to serve in this role, then serve I shall, humbly, gratefully, and as well as I possibly can.”

  “May it please the Senate!” came a voice. Workan frowned. It was Luewet Wuul, the Sullustan. He was recognized, and continued speaking. “The Galactic Alliance should not discard one it has elected like a piece of clothing we don’t fancy anymore. Padnel Ovin has only been in office a short while. He’s barely had time to move datapads across his desk, let alone make sweeping changes. I move this motion be struck down.”

  “The chair agrees with you, Senator,” said Kaatik, “but legally, the motion has been introduced and must go forward.”

  “Then I propose, due to the extraordinary nature of the situation, we make the vote at least four-fifths majority rather than three-quarters.”

  “The chair agrees. All in favor of four-fifths majority, cast your votes now.”

  Workan gritted his teeth. He had been confident of a three-quarters majority. But there were several empty seats here today. He was not at all certain he could get the votes if it was upped to four-fifths.

  But he would have to, or they’d find him dead on the steps of the Jedi Temple. Or worse.

  The vote was approved—startlingly quickly. Workan needed more time. He had to notify some of his followers, tell them to come now, vote now, or—

  “Permission to address the Senate!” came a deep, gruff voice. A ripple of surprise fluttered through the room. Padnel Ovin himself was present. He was standing next to Wuul on the Sullustan’s hoverdais, his hands on his hips, and he looked like he was ready to tear the throats out of the entire Senate.

  “The chair recognizes the interim Chief of State,” said Kaatik.

  “Esteemed Senators,” said Padnel, “I have just learned that a motion has been put forth to remove me from my office.”

  “The chair reminds the Chief of State that he has no vote in this matter,” said Kaatik, looking uncomfortable.

  “This is true,” Padnel continued. “But there is a clause stating that I have the right to address the Senate prior to a vote.”

  It was true. He did have that right, but it was a formality. No one ever expected a being in this position to try to influence the Senate. It was considered crude and rather oafish. The acting Chief of State was expected to endure the vote in gracious, stoic silence.

  But, Workan reflected, Padnel was crude and rather oafish. And he just might inadvertently have bought Workan enough time to call in a few favors.

  “By all means,” Workan said earnestly, “I would never deny the Chief of State—excuse me, interim Chief of State—any rights he wishes to exercise.”

  “The chair then recognizes the right of the interim Chief of State to address the Senate.”

  Padnel inclined his head graciously. “Thank you. My fellow Senators,” he said, looking out over the vast collection of beings, “I know you think you know me. But most of you may have heard rumors about my behavior, or about my brother and his organization. Let me dispel some of these before you vote on my ability to lead the GA. I will start with the history of my people, and the Treaty of Vontor.”

  It was going to be a long, long speech. Talk all you wish, Ovin, Workan thought, and picked up his comlink.

  If there was one thing Padnel Ovin was good at, Wynn Dorvan thought as he entered the now-empty office of the Chief of State, it was stubbornly standing his ground. Padnel would likely be holding the Senate captive for the entire day and perhaps well on into the night. If all went well, though, Dorvan would only need the Senators distracted for an hour. He made sure the door was locked, then drew the curtains and turned toward what looked like a plain blank wall.

  More knew about this secret exit than he would have liked, but it was still not common knowledge. He tapped the code, and the outlines of a door materialized, then slid open.

  He had never had to use this door before, but he had access to the blueprints of the labyrinthine corridors it opened into, and knew exactly where he was going.

  It was dimly lit, and dusty. Dorvan made a mental note to tell whoever eventually became Chief of State—he would be content with whomever the Senate chose; he had grown to respect Padnel and, like everyone else, thought Roki Kem was an amazing being who would do just fine—that these corridors needed to be cleaned and all the doors checked to make sure they were still properly functional. A secret escape pathway would do no one any good if they couldn’t actually get out. />
  Dorvan moved swiftly, not quite running but not quite walking, down flights of stairs and through long corridors that had not been used in years, if ever. Mentally he ticked off each turn and exit, until finally his path took him upward.

  He reached the door he wanted. It was unmarked save for a number. Another safety redundancy—those who knew the numbering system knew which door led where. Intruders would be at a disadvantage.

  Dorvan took a deep breath, and slid open the door.

  He found himself staring at three huge blasters.

  “Gentlemen, please put those away,” Dorvan said. “If you kill me, you’ll never find your way around.”

  “Like I’m ever trigger-happy,” said Han Solo. Lando Calrissian rolled his eyes.

  “Man’s got a point,” said Zekk. “I had no idea there was a secret entrance in the Temple garden that led to the Chief of State’s office.”

  “Now that you do, Jedi Zekk, I encourage you to forget about it as soon as possible. Let’s go, gentlemen. The Princess is waiting.”

  They followed at once, bristling with enough weapons to equip a small army. “Let’s go over the plan one more time,” Dorvan said.

  “We went over it six times already,” said Lando.

  “Redundancy is never a bad thing,” said Dorvan. “Tell me what the plan is.”

  Lando frowned and growled a little, but complied. “We follow you till we get to the prison section. No one knows about the entrance—you can’t even see it from the other side. A patrol of three guards comes past it every seventeen minutes. It’s a blind corner with no vidcams. We listen for their approach, pop out, knock them on the heads, and take their uniforms and key codes.”

  “Excellent,” Dorvan said. “Now, Captain Solo, what’s next?”

  Han shot him a blistering glare. “Dorvan, anyone ever tell you you are incredibly annoying?”

  “Frequently, sir, but that doesn’t change the fact that I need to make sure everyone knows the—”

  “Okay, okay, if it’ll shut you up. We—”

  “We’re here,” Zekk said. Han looked relieved. Sure enough, they were at door 41-A. Han motioned for silence, glanced at his chrono, and placed his ear to the door. They stood for a long moment, waiting. Finally, Han nodded and held up his fingers, counting down. Three. Two.

  One.

  Dorvan punched the button and the door slid open. The poor guards didn’t stand a chance. They whirled, drawing their blaster pistols, as three large men materialized seemingly out of nowhere and took them down with the experience of long years of practice.

  “Well done, gentlemen,” said Dorvan, gazing down at the three unconscious bodies. “But we seem to have a problem.”

  Before them lay a male human, a male Falleen … and a female Chadra-Fan.

  “Stang,” said Han.

  “Time for Plan B,” said Dorvan.

  The Bothan chief of security looked up, did a double take, then bolted out of her chair. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “Where did you find him?”

  Wynn Dorvan stood in front of her desk, hands clasped before him, looking as mild-mannered as he always did on the holovids. With him were two guards carrying an unconscious male human dressed in brown and tan robes. He was obviously a Jedi, but fortunately, one unable to harm anyone right now.

  “Found him during a patrol in the corridor,” one of them said. “Don’t know how he managed to break in. But it’s a Jedi, all right.”

  “Well done, Chief Lua’wan,” said Dorvan. “I daresay that with a capture of a Jedi hitherto unknown to be on Coruscant, all of you are due for promotions. I have here an order from the Chief of State regarding this … being’s … incarceration.”

  Lua’wan read the order. “He’s to be put in the same cell as Jedi Solo?”

  “Of course,” said Dorvan. “It places less of a strain on the law-abiding, taxpaying citizens of Coruscant. I was just coming down to question the Jedi prisoner Solo when I came across the takedown. I’ll speak to the Chief of State personally about how well all of you handled the situation.”

  Lua’wan had been upset, but now was starting to become calmer. This was a good thing. Another Jedi behind bars, she and her team praised for the incident …

  “Thank you, sir. There’s a pair of cuffs over there if you—”

  The other guard chuckled. “Trust me, he’s out like a light,” he said. “He’ll be waking up in a prison cell.”

  Lua’wan shrugged. “As you wish,” he said. “You brought him down in the first place. I’ll log in your visit, Chief of Staff Dorvan. I’m glad to confirm that security is operating up to your expectations.”

  “Indeed it is,” said Dorvan. “Indeed it is.”

  Leia had sensed her husband’s Force presence almost from the minute he entered the building, and shortly afterward realized that Zekk, Lando, and Dorvan were with him. When they approached her cell, dragging an “unconscious” Zekk between them, she smiled at them, folded her arms, and simply said, “What took you so long?”

  “Short guard” was all Han said. He deactivated the force field, took two long strides forward, and swept his wife up in his arms for a deep kiss.

  “Not to intrude, ma’am,” said Dorvan, “but time is of the essence.”

  Leia pulled away, her hand still on Han’s chest. “Of course,” she said. “What’s the plan?”

  “This,” said Lando. He tossed a small datachip to Zekk, who caught it. The two men immediately began opening cell doors, and Leia sensed joy and relief from her fellow inmates. Most of them were, like her, unjustly being held. But not all.

  “We can open twelve cells with these, including yours,” Lando said. “That’s going to make for a very good distraction.”

  “Follow me,” Dorvan said. Alarms were starting to ring now. Han grabbed Leia’s hand and together, they all raced down the corridor. Zekk and Leia used the Force to gently—and sometimes not-so-gently—shove aside the throngs of their fellow escapees. Finally Dorvan skidded to a halt and turned to face—

  “—a blank wall,” Leia said, but as soon as the words left her lips, she knew she was wrong. She could sense openness on the other side. “A hidden door.”

  “Exactly,” Dorvan said. He pressed something to the door, and its outline appeared for a moment before it slid open. Just as they moved to go through, they heard someone yell, “Hey! A door!”

  Han swore, turned around, and fired his blaster into the crowd. Three beings dropped unconscious. Leia motioned as well, sending two beings hurtling backward to smash into several others. Then they were through, and the door was closed.

  “Now,” Dorvan said, a few hairs slightly out of place but otherwise looking as calm as ever, “this is where we part company. The door to the Jedi Temple gardens is four-one-A. It’s a bit tricky to get to, but just keep going down the way we came until you find it. I must return to the Senatorial debate.”

  “Thank Padnel for us. That’s a long time to talk about whether or not to put a tax on exotic fruit.”

  Dorvan sobered slightly. “His … speech is actually somewhat different than we had planned on. Senator Suldar has challenged his ability to continue in office. He’s nominated Roki Kem.”

  “I’m surprised,” Han said. “I’d expect that sleemo to nominate another one of his hangers-on.”

  “I did, too,” Dorvan said. “But either way, Ovin is talking to buy you time. Use it well.”

  “Thanks, Wynn. I won’t forget this,” said Leia, squeezing his hand.

  Han clapped him on the back. “Beneath that neatly pressed exterior, you’ve got the heart of a rogue and a pirate, Dorvan,” he said.

  “Please, Captain Solo. There’s no call for insults.”

  Han grinned, then the four of them headed toward freedom.

  Dorvan watched them go. He’d done a good day’s work here. Tonight he would sleep better than he had in a long, long time. Padnel Ovin, Roki Kem—either of them was better than Daala. They’d start
straightening things out.

  He turned and began the task of navigating the multitude of corridors. Left, right, up stairs, left, up stairs, right, right, up one more flight. He glanced at his chrono: the entire thing had taken only fifty-four minutes. All would be well.

  He reached the secret entrance to the Chief of State’s office and took a moment to compose himself. Calmly, he pushed open the door.

  And stared at three extraordinarily handsome men and women, all carrying red lightsabers.

  “How did Dorvan manage this without a datapad?” marveled Lando as they kept taking turn after turn.

  “Man’s a bureaucrat,” Han said. “They like details like this.”

  “He might be a Force-sensitive and not know it,” quipped Zekk. “Takes something extra not to get lost here. Speaking of which …” He slowed, frowning. “I don’t think this is the way we came. I think we should have gone left back there.”

  “Numbers were wrong,” Han said. “It was this way.”

  Zekk followed, but his frown deepened and Leia sensed he was not at all certain Han was right.

  “Honey, are you sure?” she said to her husband. “It’s difficult not to get lost here.”

  “Numbers are starting to go up,” Han said. “We’re on the right track.”

  “Go up?” asked Lando, coming to a full halt. “Han, we were only looking for the forties.”

  “No, no, Dorvan said four-one-eight,” Han said impatiently.

  Leia looked at the numbers. They had been descending stairs at every opportunity, and the numbers had gone from the single digits to the three hundreds. Her stomach sank.

  “Han,” she said, “Dorvan said four-one-A, not four-one-eight.”

  “Nah, he didn’t.” Han paused. He stiffened, and turned around with an almost comical look of mixed hope and defiance. “Did he?”