Bloodlines

by Karen Traviss

  “Once we’ve neutralized the main targets, we’ll do a sweep of all the apartments just to be certain,” said Shevu. “Can’t guarantee that CSF identified everyone. Ben, are you up for playing sniffer droid for us?”

  “Yes sir!” It wasn’t a game anymore, but he desperately wanted to play his part.

  “Who do we lift, then, sir?” Lekauf asked. “Anyone with a criminal record? That’s pretty well the whole neighborhood.”

  “No, only the ones we think we might be interested in,” said Shevu. “Or we’ll be here all night.”

  The raid was surprisingly quiet. Ben could see the occasional flare of light through windows as blasters discharged, and heard the accompanying faint bdattt-bdattt-bdattt of rounds. It was as if the whole neighborhood was holding its breath, waiting for the fighting to be over. Without the corn-links to the rest of Bravo Company he couldn’t tell how far they had penetrated the building, and Jacen was not only silent but shut down in the Force. Ben couldn’t feel him at all. He wondered if his Master—and Jacen was his Master, whatever the Jedi council said—now hid his presence instinctively as a defense mechanism.

  Then Wirut reacted as if someone unseen had tapped him on the shoulder. He aimed his grenade launcher and there was a whoosh of gas as the flash-bang shot into the building. Ben caught the fallout of the deafening sound and blinding light even from twenty meters away, and his ears took a few seconds to hear the shouts and the hammering sound of blaster bolts as soldiers stormed the apartment.

  Silence fell. Shevu cocked his head as if listening, and the faint wail of a child somewhere inside made Ben’s hair stand on end.

  “Okay,” said Shevu. “Two targets down, two unaccounted for. Ben, with me. Let’s work our way down from the top.”

  Every apartment that opened its doors voluntarily to them was full of suspicious, hostile faces that were clearly no strangers to visits from the authorities. But Ben sensed no purpose or immediate danger. He kept close to Shevu, and when they emerged on the next floor, Jacen was already crouched outside one apartment talking earnestly to a couple of 967 men. He beckoned Ben to him.

  “What do you sense in there, Ben?”

  Ben closed his eyes and imagined the rooms beyond the double doors. He’d seen the interiors of enough apartments in the block now to picture the layout within. When he concentrated he felt the prickling in his throat that indicated an immediate threat, and his mind was drawn to one room where a man and a woman—he knew that, and wasn’t quite certain how—had some grim purpose.

  “I don’t like the feel of that either,” said Jacen. He seemed particularly troubled by it. Ben thought he would have been used to violent intentions by now. “I think that’s our two missing targets.”

  “The old-fashioned way, sir?” One of the 967 held up a roll of detonator ribbon.

  “Let’s try a little REBJ,” said Jacen, drawing his light-saber. The squad with him stacked on either side of the door. “That’s what you call it, isn’t it? Rapid entry by Jedi? Okay, here goes rapid …”

  Jacen held up his left hand and lowered it along the line where the two doors joined, not touching them. He was a clear meter away. The doors shot apart, slamming back into the housing on either side, and Jacen’s lightsaber seemed to have a life of its own as he deflected red blaster bolts that flared from inside the apartment. Ben should have known better than to stand behind him and Shevu went to pull him aside, but he fended off a stray blaster bolt and piled in behind Jacen on blind instinct.

  Two people inside—yes, a man and a woman, he’d been right—aimed at Jacen, but the blasters flew from their hands as if snatched by an unseen hand.

  The woman, about as old as Ben’s mother, dark hair scraped back from her face and a tattoo across one eye, scrambled to reach for something—probably another blaster—but Jacen slammed her flat against the wall with the Force and pinned her there. The man lay slumped against a chair, groaning. The squad poured in, and the two prisoners were cuffed and dragged out.

  Shevu eased off his helmet and stood wiping his forehead on the back of his glove. “You’re going to have to give us a list of your functions, sir,” he said with a faint smile. “Can’t quite keep up with your box of tricks.”

  “Neither can I sometimes,” said Jacen. He turned to Ben. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” said Ben. It was over for the time being. They could go back to barracks. He could feel the shaking in his legs that always followed an adrenaline rush, and the relief made him feel almost tearful. He bit his lip discreetly.

  “You were going to tell me something a few days ago.” Jacen always seemed to know how Ben was feeling. He knew exactly when to ask a question and when Ben would find it hard not to answer. “Remember?”

  “About what?”

  “Something about reporting someone.”

  Ah. Barit. Ben suffered indecision again. Barit hadn’t actually shot anyone, but he’d tried pretty hard. Was it right to turn him in? He might have already been interned or deported. But he might not. And whatever sympathy Ben might have felt for him, he might try again.

  You’re in this now. You know what the stakes are. You’re not here to be liked.

  And Jacen needs you. He needs you to be loyal.

  “The family is called Saiy,” said Ben. “They run an engineering company.”

  chapter twelve

  MIRTA GEV TO AILYN HABUUR

  AM RETURNING TO CORUSCANT

  HAVE NOT RECEIVED YOUR REPLIES TO PREVIOUS MESSAGES

  PLEASE CONFIRM RENDEZVOUS POINT

  HAVE HEART-OF-FIRE

  —Mirta Gev’s comlink text to suspect Ailyn Habuur,

  intercepted by Galactic Alliance Guard signals squad,

  passed to Colonel Solo for evaluation

  JACEN SOLO’S APARTMENT, ROTUNDA ZONE.

  The one thing you could count on with Corellians was that if you knocked them down, they got up again and again and again.

  Jacen had been too preoccupied with the anti-terror operations to devote time to sensing what Thrackan Sal-Solo might be doing from a strategic point of view: Fleet Intelligence seemed to have that under control. But he knew that Centerpoint would remain an issue as long as it hadn’t been totally destroyed, and this morning his uncle didn’t disappoint him.

  Jacen had joined the billions of Coruscanti whose morning now began by switching on the HNE news even before the first cup of caf to check how close to war they were getting.

  HNE was running an interview from Corellian holonews with Sal-Solo, in which he announced work was about to start on restoring Centerpoint Station to operational status.

  Jacen wasn’t sure if Sal-Solo had the capacity to do that or how long he might take to achieve it, but it was perfect timing. If this didn’t persuade the Alliance to authorize the blockade of Corellia, nothing would. Striking at Corellia’s industrial orbiters would have achieved far more, far faster, but he knew a blockade could achieve the same ends in time.

  Time means lives. Time means more chaos. We always think that time will resolve things, but it never has.

  He forgot about caf and breakfast, left Ben to sleep off the previous night’s operation, and went straight to the Senate. Niathal, always an early riser, had beaten him to it. He found her in Omas’s offices and he knew the admiral and he had one thing in mind.

  Omas was watching the holoscreen he now had running permanently in his private office.

  “Diplomacy by holonews,” he said irritably.

  Niathal nodded at Jacen to sit beside her, a little psychological display of unity in front of their reluctant Chief. “Did you think Sal-Solo would pick up the comlink and ask if it was okay to start work on Centerpoint again?”

  Jacen glanced discreetly at her. Her expressions were becoming as easy to read as her emotions. She was satisfied.

  “I don’t think we have any choice,” he said. “We can’t ignore this.”

  “I hate that phrase.” Omas turned down the audio volume. “Because i
t’s usually true these days.”

  “It’s going to take two fleets to isolate Corellia,” said Niathal. “I’m asking you for authority to pull the Third and Fifth Fleets back from exercises on the Outer Rim.”

  Omas wore an expression of weary resignation, but the edge in his voice said different. “I need authority from the Senate first.”

  “Getting two fleets into position to begin a blockade takes time. You start on the Senate procedures, and we’ll get the logistics in hand. Then we’ll be ready to deploy as soon as the authority is given.”

  “We?” Omas asked pointedly, looking at Jacen.

  “The Defense Force,” Niathal said stiffly.

  Well, you catch on eventually, Chief, thought Jacen. Yes, we’ve taken sides, and she’s not on yours.

  “Don’t jump the gun,” said Omas. “I have to table this as an emergency motion. We have to carry the rest of the Alliance with us.”

  But it was a foregone conclusion as far as Niathal was concerned. Jacen followed the admiral out into the corridor and into her offices at the far end of the floor. They didn’t speak until the doors were closed behind them and she had pressed a key set in her desk.

  “Just to be certain,” she said. “This is the secure link that doesn’t go via Fleet ComCen.”

  “You’re recalling those two fleets, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t have to ask the Senate’s authority to move assets already committed to exercises.”

  “So you just bring them back home for exercises … here.”

  “Almost.” She hit a few more keys. “No point letting the enemy prepare for a blockade, or it just prolongs the thing. I’ve drawn up plans for the blockade.”

  “Total exclusion zone?”

  Jacen thought about the mass of industrial orbiters strung around the planet.

  “That means creating two picket lines as sterile zones.”

  “That’s why I need both fleets. I’m going to share the plan with the fleet commanders. Then they stand off a couple of hours’ jump from Corellia and they’re ready to deploy the moment the Senate gives the word.”

  “You’re sure you can trust them?”

  “They’re both Mon Calamari. Yes, I trust them.”

  “Omas is getting cold feet.”

  “They can get as cold as he likes, but Sal-Solo is not just refusing to disarm, he’s rearming. I think that’ll get the Alliance’s attention.”

  Jacen heard Lumiya’s voice within him, reminding him of the inevitability of it all, and that if he embraced his role—his duty—he could bring order to the galaxy.

  He thought of his five years of studying every arcane school of Force philosophy and wondered what more Lumiya could show him to bring him to the status of a Sith Master. He couldn’t imagine it. So he simply seized the tenuous ideas and thoughts that welled up in his mind, not knowing their source or validity but eager to accept that his intuition might be the key.

  He was running on instinct, not intellect.

  Feel, don’t think.

  Even the Jedi taught him that.

  See, you don’t think of yourself as a Jedi any longer.

  Jacen had no idea whose voice that was—his, Lumiya’s, another’s entirely—but he surrendered to it.

  “I would like to play a role in the blockade,” he said.

  Niathal projected a holochart of the Corellian system onto the wall and stood back to study it. “You’re a fighter pilot, aren’t you? Like your sister.”

  “I’d like a command.”

  “A ship?”

  “A squadron. I’m confusing you, aren’t I?”

  “I thought you already had quite a substantial command as head of the Galactic Alliance Guard.”

  “I’d like to show that I’m prepared to fight in the front line,” Jacen said.

  “I think everyone knows that from your combat record.”

  “That wasn’t against my father’s homeworld.”

  “Ah, the ultimate loyalty test,” said Niathal.

  “If you like.”

  “Very well. You can have temporary group command. That’ll include the squadron your sister commands. Unusual to have one colonel under another, but it’s not unknown. If that doesn’t demonstrate that the Solo family puts nation before family, I don’t know what will.”

  It’s more than that. I have to have the respect and support of more than one admiral. I need the rank and file to see me as their own, too, just in case you can’t deliver their loyalty—or you change your mind about me.

  “Thank you, Admiral.”

  Admiral Niathal gave him a tight-lipped smile and moved icons of battleships around her chart with the motion of one finger.

  “Time I brought the exercises to an end, then.” The icons had become a three-dimensional net around Corellia, separating the planet from its industrial facilities, which lay entirely in orbiting stations far above the pleasantly rural planet. The Corellians’ wish to keep unspoiled countryside free from industrial sprawl now made them very vulnerable. “I’m calling Endex five days early. The commanders know what I have in mind now.”

  Niathal went to her desk comm, and the message that would effectively start the war was, ironically, one that usually brought maneuvers to a halt.

  Jacen watched the small screen as the encryption program took the plain-language text and wrapped it in a secure algorithm.

  ENDEX ENDEX ENDEX.

  “End of exercise,” said Niathal. “And the start of the real war.”

  SLAVE I, EN ROUTE TO CORELLIA.

  “What’s up with you?” Fett asked.

  Mirta kept chewing her lip. It was a very discreet habit, but Fett was alert to small detail. Hunters had to be.

  “Where are we heading?”

  “Corellia.”

  “You said Coruscant.”

  “No, you said Coruscant.” Fett switched the navigation display to a three-D holochart so that she could see it shimmering above the console in front of the viewscreen. “I’ve got business in Corellia first.”

  She fell silent, and seeing as she hadn’t said a great deal on the journey anyway, he wasn’t shocked. But something had agitated her.

  Maybe it was the messages she kept sending to Coruscant. Ailyn wasn’t answering. Fett wondered when Mirta would work out that monitoring transmissions to and from Slave I—even those made via private comlinks—was part of the ship’s security system. Maybe it was time to shake Mirta down a little.

  “I’ve lost contact with my customer,” Mirta said at last.

  Points for honesty, then. “She might not want to pay up. Is it just the necklace, or did you have information for her?”

  “Information, too.”

  “You weren’t stupid enough to give her that data over the comlink, were you?”

  “No.”

  “Then she’ll pay up.”

  “I’m—I’m more worried about her safety. She was on a job.”

  I know. “Yeah, dead customers don’t pay.”

  “Exactly.” But Mira’s voice sounded small and afraid for once. Maybe she wasn’t quite the experienced bounty hunter she made herself out to be.

  Fett decided that Ailyn was too sharp an operator to risk transmissions when she was hunting someone like Han Solo. She was his daughter, after all: some of his genes must have made her what she was. And few bounty hunters made enough credits to be able to afford Fett’s line in secure communications kit.

  She’d be there, somewhere.

  He opened his own comlink. It didn’t matter if Mirta heard this. “Beviin,” he said. “Beviin, I have a job I’d like to discuss with you.”

  It took awhile for Beviin to answer. “Mand’alor?”

  “Beviin, Thrackan Sal-Solo wants us to fight for him. Defending Centerpoint Station.”

  “Yes, it’s all over the news. He was on HNE this morning about rebuilding it yet again. War’s about to kick off. Solo’s son is head of the Alliance’s secret police and the Corellians are really a�
��denla about it—”

  “Assemble as many commandos as you can. Meet me on Drall in two days at Halin’s Bar.”

  “It closed down five years ago. Try the Zerria. Same street.”

  I’m out of touch. Too much time on Taris. “Okay, make it the Zerria.”

  “I can probably get half a dozen together by then. Almost everyone else has headed back to Mandalore.”

  Six? Six! Too busy to do their duty? “Why?”

  “It’s harvest time. Quite a few of us have farms.”

  “Aren’t the women supposed to look after that?” Beviin had an adopted daughter. Fett couldn’t recall her name, but he was sure she was old enough to run a farm. “What happened to the rapid response force?”

  Beviin’s voice chilled perceptibly. “If there was a real war on, we’d be pretty rapid …”

  Fett was almost distracted by the idea of his Mandalorian troops doing something as banal as farming. He’d never thought much about what they did when they weren’t deployed. But they had wives and children, and lives.

  “Whoever you can get in two days, then.”

  Fett closed the link. Mirta stared at him, clearly appalled.

  “So you disapprove of fighting for Corellia?”

  She shrugged. “I was thinking that you don’t know much about what’s happening on your own world, considering you’re supposed to be the Mandalore.”

  “I don’t even live there.”

  “The Yuuzhan Vong hit the Mandalore sector as badly as anywhere, Fett.” It was the first time she’d addressed him by name. “Everyone’s still rebuilding. You know what your name means? ‘Farmer.’ Vhett. It’s Mando’a for ‘farmer.’ ”

  “I know that.” Dad came from Concord Dawn. He said his family were frontier farmers. How did he get a Mandalorian name, then? “I’m more of a blaster and jet pack man myself.”

  “How can you rule a nation when you don’t know the first thing about it?”

  “It’s not a nation, and I don’t run it. I’m a figurehead when they don’t need me to fight, and a commander in chief when they do.”