This time Omas did pause for a breath. Jacen watched him calculate visibly, and he knew the politician was seizing an opportunity. “I can assure you that our security services are taking every possible action.”
“But you’ve been criticized by some politicians for not going far enough.”
“We’ve gone as far as the current law permits.”
“Some of your colleagues are calling for the internment of resident Corellians.”
“That’s a very big step. We’re not at war.”
“By the time we are, won’t it be too late?”
Omas managed a regretful smile. “Let’s not be hasty.”
Internment. That’s my father you’re talking about. Jacen caught himself bristling at the suggestion, and then felt guilty for considering his own family before those who were being caught in the crossfire of something that was a war in all but name. Someone has to get a grip on this situation, and it’s me.
His eye was caught by movement in the outer lobby, visible through a transparisteel panel. The outline was broken by the etched designs, but he recognized Senator G’Sil, chair of the Security and Intelligence Council. As soon as the HNE reporter had finished the interview and left, G’Sil slipped into Omas’s office.
“It’s not my job on the line,” he said, pulling up a chair. “But I think our friend from the media had a point. Sorry. Just a little benign eavesdropping.”
Jacen knew why he had been summoned; he just wanted to see how they would broach the subject with him. Playing political games made him worry that personal ambition was driving him, but he was dealing with people whose stock-in-trade was maneuvering, so if he wanted their backing he had to maneuver, too. A Jedi was nothing if not pragmatic.
“I’m not comfortable with taking a hard-line approach,” said Omas. “And it might not be my decision to make.”
G’Sil gestured over his shoulder to the city beyond the room-width windows. “Take a look out there. We have a trillion people on this world. A few thousand—a tiny percentage—have been hurt directly by terrorism. The rest, though, think it’s about to happen to them, and that’s what we’re dealing with here. Perception. Public confidence.”
Omas raised one eyebrow. “Spin.”
“Reassurance.”
Jacen had seen enough to add G’Sil to his list of allies along with Niathal.
“Fear breeds its own problems,” said Jacen. “We have to limit that.”
There was a moment’s silence. Omas’s shoulders dropped, and his presence in the Force was like a small piece of ice melting into nothing. His reluctance was tangible.
“Mara Skywalker isn’t willing to take on a security role,” he said. “You, however, seem equally able and a great deal more willing to do a thankless task.”
“Define the task,” said Jacen.
“Fill the gap between the army and the Coruscant Security Force.”
“Why are you talking directly to me and bypassing the Jedi council?” Jacen asked. “I’m not even in the military.”
“Because we’re not asking you as a Jedi,” said G’Sil. “We’re asking you as Jacen Solo, and you’ll be a given a commission and a rank. As colonel. I’d bet the council doesn’t want to be tainted by messy stuff like this.”
“They won’t like it.”
“Let’s cut the PR-speak. As a democracy, we’ve never been very adept at running secret police. You know, the kind of shock troops that Vader had when …” G’Sil trailed off. “Sorry, Jacen. No offense.”
“It’s all right.” Jacen meant it. He had come to terms with walking in his grandfather’s footsteps, although he would not follow the entire path. “I’m not ashamed of Anakin Sky-walker. And there are positive things I can learn from his example.”
The office was suddenly and totally silent, as if both G’Sil and Omas were holding their breath until Jacen said it was okay to exhale.
“Do we take that as a yes?” G’Sil asked.
Stang, I walk in here a civilian and I’ll leave as a colonel. Jaina won’t like that at all. Jacen swallowed. “I’ll need a security force to deal with it.”
Omas looked to G’Sil and then back at Jacen. “CSF’s Anti-Terrorist Unit is yours to command.”
“No, I need my own team from the military and a few other sources, a team that’s visibly separate from CSF. If civilian police are seen raiding homes and rounding up residents, it’s going to make ordinary policing hard. Politically, it has to be separate—a Galactic Alliance special guard, if you like.”
G’Sil nodded. “I agree. You have to keep the secret police separate from the nice, polite officers who police the street. Sends a message that ordinary law-abiding Coruscanti have nothing to fear, while demonstrating maximum force to the enemy.”
Omas was sitting on the edge of his seat, elbows braced on the desk, one fist clasping the other as he stared down in defocus. “You said rounding up.”
“Internment,” said G’Sil. “And that’s not just spin. Corellians got at the water supply pretty easily. One relatively small bomb shut ten skylanes for half a day. It takes very few people to cause a lot of disruption on a crowded planet like this, and let me remind you that this is also a nervous planet not long recovered from another war. Makes folks paranoid.”
Jacen could see the path ahead of him, the path laid down specifically for him, the inevitability of his destiny that Lumiya had shown him. Events were falling into place, and he was part of them with no option now but to accept his responsibility. “And we need to show any other world that might want to support Corellia that the Galactic Alliance isn’t a pushover,” he said.
Jacen noted the inclusion. Who is this we? I’m not elected. I’m not a member of the Jedi council. I’m not even a Master.
“Internment is going to take a Security and Intelligence Council vote.” Omas seemed resigned but still salving his own conscience by doing things democratically. He gave Jacen an odd look, a faint bemused frown, as if remembering something, and looked a little past him. Then he appeared to focus again. “I’ll need your lobby’s backing.”
“Assume you have it,” said G’Sil.
Jacen was more concerned over whom he would need to carry out the task. His instinct was to seek loyal, dependable foot soldiers. “I’d like to recruit Captain Shevu and a team of his choosing,” he said. He liked Shevu. The captain was uncompromisingly honest and had the feel in the Force of a man who wouldn’t shy away from dirty work. “I’d also like a company of special forces troops. And I need access to Alliance Intelligence data.” Jacen felt for a moment that he was standing outside his own body: How did I slip into this so easily?
“You’ll want NRI officers, then.”
“No.” Intelligence hadn’t dealt with the threat up to now, so he had no idea whom he could trust. “This has to be seen as a fresh approach to the problem.”
Omas radiated unease. “We’ve taken a step toward martial law.”
G’Sil interrupted. “But this is technically a Coruscanti matter. It’s not a Senate issue. You have the powers to put a temporary order in place for the planet.”
“But Coruscant isn’t just a planet. It’s the Galactic Alliance, too. So I want full support for this, or things will fall apart when we start applying those special measures, as you like to call them. People tend to lose their nerve when they see force applied.”
“A majority on the SIC would be legitimate authority to implement … special measures.”
“And you can deliver that majority, can you?” said Omas.
“I’ll call a special meeting now. Give me twenty-four hours.”
G’Sil patted Jacen on the shoulder with evident relief and left. Omas, sitting behind his desk with the air of a man in a heavily defended trench, watched Jacen as if expecting him to break bad news.
“May I start assembling the personnel I need now?” Jacen asked. “Then we’ll be ready to move when the authority is given.”
“Very well. Let me speak to Ad
miral Pellaeon.” Omas opened the comlink set into his desk. It was the same pleekwood and lapis as the desk itself. “And I’ll get Shevu seconded to you.”
“You can explain all this to the Supreme Commander and CSF?”
“I’m very good at being plausible,” said Omas. “But I doubt if CSF is going to object.”
Omas looked as if he was going to add something, and Jacen was almost certain of what it would be: Pellaeon would resign if this was forced on him.
That was what Jacen was thinking, too. When Niathal took over the defense role—and she would, nobody doubted that—her support would be a springboard for what was to come, what had to come.
But for the meanwhile, Jacen had to prove to Coruscant, and to a watching galaxy, that not only could order be imposed on chaos, it could also be imposed for the good of the majority.
He bowed slightly to Omas and left to make his way to the Strategic Command ops room, where he both felt and knew that Captain Shevu was still on duty despite the fact that his shift should have ended three hours ago.
Shevu was dedicated and forthright, and he’d have the best intelligence on where the Corellian troublemakers might be. Jacen could help him pinpoint them with the imprecise but highly reliable senses that the Force had given him.
They would make a formidable team, he, Ben, and Shevu.
VARLO, ROONADAN: WATERFRONT DISTRICT.
Just as the salesman had said, the waterfront neighborhood was chic and full of the well-heeled professional classes. The taxi took him along the artificial river, a canal with carefully constructed rapids and a manufactured current. There was even lush greenery along the banks, and parkland extended back to the rows of shops and trendy restaurants.
Fett, black cloak over his armor, felt utterly naked and concentrated on the fact that nobody would recognize him by his face. He decided he felt more at home in the kind of district where the bars were badly lit and a blaster was a necessity.
“I’m going to be working at AruMed,” said Fett. “Where’s the best place to buy a home?”
The taxi pilot glanced in his rearview mirror, and his eyes met Fett’s. It was the first time in years that anyone had really looked into his eyes and not just tried to stare through the visor.
“Upper Parkway is where all the scientists buy a place. You a scientist?”
“I’m an anatomist.” Yes, I know precisely where to shoot any one of a thousand species for maximum stopping power.
“You’ll definitely want Upper Parkway, then.”
“Nightlife?”
“Pricey bars. Skayan bistros and wine bars, mainly.” The pilot wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. “I’m an ale man myself.”
“How close to the AruMed labs?”
“Five minutes. Cozy little community.”
“All human?”
“You got anything against nonhumans?”
“Just curious.” Kaminoans hated sunlight. They were used to clouds, rain, and endless oceans. Fett doubted that an ornamental river would be water enough for Taun We. “I like to know my neighbors.”
“Only ever seen humans up there.”
Maybe you don’t know how to look. “Drop me there. I want to check if I like the place.”
Upper Parkway was every bit as smart as the taxi pilot had said. The apartment towers were interspersed with town houses—a real luxury on a crowded planet—and droids were still building properties on the edge of the park for which the neighborhood seemed to be named. From the end of the boulevard, Fett could see the gray monolithic building of the AruMed laboratories with its red illuminated sign, an easy walk for anyone living in Upper Park. And, as the pilot had said, the place had several attractive bistros.
He was perfectly at home rappelling from a roof to capture a prisoner or storming a building with blaster in hand. Walking into a bar and making cautious small talk was not his style.
But it had to be done. Get it over with, Fett.
Inside the bistro, everything was polished, orderly calm. He walked up to the bar and took a seat, browsing the menu. Without his helmet, he could actually eat something. The novelty of that idea seemed astonishing and reminded him how many things he had never done and now might never do if he didn’t find that data.
“Can I get you something?”
Again Fett found himself looking into the face of a bartender, but this one was looking back as if he only saw a man, not a bounty hunter. Nobody else at the bar seemed to take any notice of him, either. He could usually bring nervous silence to a bar just by walking into it.
“An ale,” he said. It’s so simple. It’s what everyone else does. “One of the Corellian ones.”
A foaming glass appeared before him. “Visiting?”
Here’s a man who makes a note of strangers. A cautious man. “Thinking of buying a place here.”
“Good time to buy, too.” The barman slid a glass bowl of some unidentifiable snack toward him. “Now that AruMed’s expanding, the prices will go crazy.”
Fett sipped the ale, almost totally distracted by the simple freedom of having a drink in public. He tried the snacks, too, which turned out to be salt-sweet and crunchy, like fried nuts. “Shares are doing well.”
“It’s those scientists they poached from SanTech. They say it’s going to mean a big share of the gene therapy market.”
SanTech. Fierfek. I guessed wrong. “Not Kaminoans, then?”
The bartender laughed. A man farther along the bar turned to look at him. “Ever seen one?”
Steady. “Yes. Knew one very well indeed.”
The silence deepened. There was quiet, and then there was the silence of people taking serious notice, and the two did not sound the same.
“Customer here the other day said one had turned up at Arkanian Micro, but I think he was having a laugh,” said the barman.
Arkanian Micro: well, if you deal in cloning, that’s one more place to head. It was a knife-edge point in the conversation. Fett’s stomach churned, and that rarely happened. Wrong planet. But maybe the right track.
“I knew a pathologist at Arkanian Micro,” said a man sitting a little farther along the bar. “She said some interesting things about Kaminoans.”
Ah, you’re testing me. Do I work in the industry? Am I bluffing to get insider information? “What, that they’d never go outside in the sunlight? That they’re obsessed with perfection?”
The man considered him carefully. “That they’re gray with long necks and incredibly arrogant once you get past the polite exterior.”
Well, that confirms you’ve met one, or your friend has. Thanks. Fett busied himself with his ale. Not many people knew that much about Kaminoans; over the centuries, only a handful of people had even known they existed, let alone seen them or had enough contact with them to describe their outlook on the non-Kaminoan world. But industry insiders here knew, all right. “Did Micro give them a nice dark hole to live in?”
“It was an issue,” said the man, and looked satisfied.
So Kaminoans had probably defected to Arkanian Micro on Vohai. The intelligence was flimsy, but given that there was normally no intel at all on Kaminoans, it had a great deal more credibility.
Fett had already worked out his route to the Outer Rim by the time he drained his ale, put his credits on the counter, and stood up to leave.
“I like this neighborhood,” he said.
On the way back to Slave I, he did what he had done so many times: he used his datapad to carry out an automated purchase of an asset. He bought half a dozen homes in Upper Parkway and transferred them to one of his holding companies; they’d double in value inside the year. It was as near as he ever came to indulgence, but he would never live in any of them. They were an investment.
He never gambled. He speculated.
What are you investing for? Why did you ever invest? When did you stop and think what you were going to do with it all?
He hadn’t. He was in it to succeed, to show how good he was. And th
e only person who would have cared how well he did, what a clever boy he’d been, was long dead.
Fett flexed his fingers discreetly as he sat in the back of the taxi, feeling the joints and tendons burn. The pain was still occasional rather than ever-present, but he knew it would get worse as his condition deteriorated. A few analgesics, when pain finally impaired his efficiency, would keep him going. No, he wasn’t dead yet.
But if Ko Sai had been one of the Kaminoans—he noted that plural—who fled to Arkanian Micro, then her research on aging hadn’t gone with her. The company would have exploited it to the full by now. Anti-aging was always the preoccupation of affluent civilizations. It earned big credits.
Maybe the talk in the bar was just rumor. No, enough hard detail had been revealed, and industry gossip tended to have a basis in reality.
But maybe Ko Sai had never managed to halt or reverse the aging process.
Then you’re really dead, Fett. So shape up.
As soon as he was clear of the taxi he stripped off the robe and tunic, bundled it in the holdall, and put his helmet back on with genuine relief. It wasn’t just a barrier against a world where he didn’t truly belong: it was a piece of a kit, a weapon in its own right. He relaxed as the familiar welter of text and icons cascaded down the margin of the HUD and told him all was well with Slave I. He checked the various security cams remotely, staring through images of empty bays and secure hatchways at the permacrete strip in front of him. Even before Slave I came into view in one of the bays, he settled on an image of Mirta Gev. Still locked in the prisoner bay, she lay on the deck with her legs hooked over a bulkhead rail, fingers meshed behind her head, performing sit-ups.
He hadn’t come across women like her before. He hadn’t come across many men like her, either. Whatever was driving her, she was serious about it. Discipline was a fine quality. He came perilously close to liking her again.
Fool. She’s ballast.
He opened Slave I’s forward hatch via his HUD link at thirty meters from the ship, climbed into the cockpit, and flicked open the internal comm system.
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