by Troy Denning
“What did the Empire offer in return for Lieutenant Pagorski’s release?” he asked.
Kem frowned. “Nothing.”
“Not even a task force port call?”
“Nothing at all,” Kem said. “I’ll deny the request.”
Wynn shook his head. “You should grant it.”
“I should grant it, when they offer nothing?” Now that the possibility of payment had been raised, Kem seemed offended that none had been offered. “And if they had offered something, what should I have done? Taken only half?”
“No,” Wynn replied. “You should have refused to return the lieutenant at all, then moved her into a military interrogation facility before they could assassinate her.”
Kem looked truly confused. “Because the offer was an insult?”
“Because it would have meant that Lieutenant Pagorski was valuable to them,” Wynn explained. “And before you even considered releasing her, you would want to know the nature of that value.”
“And because they offer nothing, she has no value?”
“That’s right—the request is merely routine.” Wynn turned to Pagorski. “You have family on Bastion, don’t you? Someone important?”
Pagorski’s eyes widened. “My father is an admiral in Fleet Provisions,” she said. “How did you know?”
“He’s putting pressure on the diplomatic corps,” Wynn replied. “They made the request so they could tell him they’re doing something.”
“I can’t grant such a request,” Kem objected. “It will diminish my stature.”
Wynn shook his head. “You’re forgetting your public persona,” he said, surprised that the leader of the Sith would make such a mistake. “You’re supposed to be Rokari Kem, a wise and compassionate leader from B’nish—not Rokari Kem, a greedy and power-hungry Sith overlord.”
“Yes, I see your point,” Kem said, her eyes flaring at the terms he had used to describe her. She sighed and turned to Pagorski. “I cannot allow you to return to the Empire knowing my true—”
“I won’t tell anyone!” Pagorski interrupted, clearly terrified. “I give you my word as—”
“If your word had any value, you wouldn’t have been in a GAS detention center in the first place,” Kem retorted. “But there’s no need to kill you. I’m just going to use the Force to wipe away some of your memories.”
Relief flooded Pagorski’s face. “I understand,” she said, visibly relieved. “Feel free.”
“I wasn’t asking, Lieutenant.”
Kem placed her hands on the sides of Pagorski’s head, then looked into the woman’s eyes and locked gazes. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen, and Wynn thought the mindwipe might be as painless as it was mysterious.
Then the air between the two women began to shimmer. Pagorski’s eyes opened wide, and her face twisted into a mask of horror. Rokari Kem’s fingers grew long and thin, and suddenly her arms dissolved into gray slimy tentacles, and in the Sith’s place stood the hideous thing that Wynn had glimpsed on waking, a slender sinuate form with coarse yellow hair and a mouth so broad that it reached from ear to ear.
Abeloth.
Pagorski’s jaw fell open in a wordless scream. The tentacles shot down her throat, into her ears and nostrils, and began to pulse. Horrible gagging noises erupted from her mouth. Her entire body went limp and hung, convulsing, by the ropy tendrils that had been inserted into her head.
Finally, Pagorski’s expression went blank. Her complexion grew so pale and translucent that Wynn could see the tentacles throbbing inside her face, pumping something dark and viscous into her sinuses and her ears and down into her trachea. He began to scramble back, pressing himself against the wall behind him so fiercely it seemed to yield. The cell reverberated with a loud, growling howl that he did not recognize as his own voice until he found himself crouching in the corner, gnawing at his knuckles and banging his skull against the durasteel.
The thing turned its gruesome head toward Wynn’s corner, then fixed its blazing white eyes on him and smiled a grin as deep and dark as the Maw itself.
“Now that you’ll be serving me, you should know this about your Beloved Queen of the Stars,” Abeloth said. “She is so much more than a Sith.”
FOR THE TENTH TIME IN AS MANY MINUTES, BEN SKYWALKER GLANCED at the chrono hanging on the wurlwood panel across from him. The liberation of Coruscant was scheduled to begin … well, now, and he and Vestara were still sitting in the pages’ closet outside Senator Suldar’s office. Hovering before them was a float pallet bearing a large crate wrapped in glitterfilm, and in her hands Vestara held a silver tray bearing a small envelope addressed to MY DEAR FRIEND KAMERON.
“You have a hot date waiting?” Vestara asked in a taunting voice. Dressed in the dark blue robe of a Senate page, she was wearing a custom-built disguise that would convince even the most sophisticated facial recognition software in the galaxy that she was a Falleen adolescent. “The way you keep checking the chrono, she must be a real dazzler.”
Ben smiled. The only date he had was after the battle … with Vestara herself. “She’s quite beautiful—for a human.” Also dressed in the robe of a Senate page, Ben was disguised as a male Twi’lek. “But the party we’re going to, you can’t be late for.”
Vestara arched one brow. “Then maybe she should go alone. If you don’t like human girls, she’d probably have more fun without you anyway.”
“I don’t think so,” Ben said, still smirking. “She’s fallen for me pretty hard. I think it’s the head tails.”
Vestara rolled her eyes. “Typical male—one little smile, and you think it’s love.” She turned her gaze toward the back of the closet, where a tall man in the red cape and golden armor of the Senate Security Force stood next to a wurlwood door leading to the Senator’s inner sanctum. “In any case, watching the chrono isn’t going to change the Senator’s schedule. He’s the chair of the Galactic Alliance Senate, after all. He’ll see us as soon as he can.”
“I hope so.” Ben cast a meaningful glance at the crate. The battle for Coruscant would be won or lost in the next half hour, and the outcome could depend on getting that crate into Suldar’s office before the Sith knew they were under attack. “If we’re still here in five minutes, I’m going anyway.”
Vestara exhaled in exasperation. “Hold this.”
She passed the silver tray to Ben, then rose and walked to the security guard. The man was lean and good-looking, with a square jaw and the flawless grooming that Ben had learned to associate with the vanity of Lost Tribe Sith.
“Excuse me.” It was impossible to see Vestara’s expression because she was facing away from Ben, but he had heard that particular voice quiver often enough to know she would be flashing a smile that appeared more nervous than it really was. “Have you announced our presence?”
The guard glared at her for a moment; then his brows came together, and he glanced toward Ben. “I have.”
The nervousness vanished from Vestara’s voice. “And have you mentioned that the gift is a peace offering from Senator Wuul?”
The guard’s eyes widened just enough to suggest that he knew more about the feud between the Senators Suldar and Wuul than any true security guard should have.
Vestara leaned a little closer. “I mean, I’d hate to think of the Senator in there, trying to line up support for a Tibanna tax increase, when Senator Wuul is ready to give in.”
“You know this for a fact?” The guard’s eyes narrowed. “How?”
Vestara shrugged. “Pages have ears, the same as security guards,” she said. “We know a lot of things we shouldn’t.”
The guard considered this for a moment, then glanced back toward Ben. “Wait here.”
He depressed a hidden latch, and a gap appeared in the boiserie behind him. Pulling one of the panels open just far enough to squeeze through, he slipped into a hidden corridor beyond, then closed the panel behind him.
Vestara glanced back and cocked a brow. Ben rolled his eyes, but he
had to smile and give her a grudging nod of approval. Her knowledge of the Sith and their vulnerabilities had proven invaluable in planning the liberation of Coruscant, and now her presence was turning out to be just as crucial in executing the operation. Only a former Sith could truly understand how a mind steeped in the dark side worked, how to appeal to their greed and vanity without revealing the trap. Ben was glad she had persuaded the Masters that her presence on Coruscant, during the battle itself, would be crucial to the success of the initial assault.
But Ben also knew how difficult this particular operation had to be for Vestara. She loved him as much as he loved her, he was sure. But choosing him and the Jedi meant turning her back on her people and her home, never again breaking bread with childhood friends, and he would have been a fool to think she had made her choice with no regrets. There would always be a part of her that remained Sith, that longed to return to Kesh, and she had once confided to him that she hoped someday to do just that—to return home at the head of a Jedi peace delegation, so she could teach her people that there was no need to conquer the galaxy to live in it.
She was being atypically naïve, but she had given up so much already that Ben could not bear the thought of depriving her of this one dream—and that was why he had persuaded his father to stop pressing her for Kesh’s coordinates. The hard truth was that redeeming an entire tribe of Sith was about as likely as stopping a nova, but this was a conclusion Vestara needed to reach herself. And when she did, Ben knew, she would be a true Jedi.
Vestara returned and held out her hands. “Get ready,” she said. “We’ll be inside in less than a minute.”
Ben returned the plate and stood. “You seem pretty sure of yourself,” he said. “So why did he scowl?”
“He scowled?” Vestara asked. “When?”
“Right after you approached him,” Ben said. “When you asked if he had announced us yet.”
“Oh, that scowl,” Vestara said lightly. “I don’t know—maybe he isn’t accustomed to pretty pages smiling at him.”
She flashed him a playful grin, and Ben had to admit that she could be pretty disarming.
“I can see how you might have unsettled him,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean your charm is going to work on the Senator—not from out here.”
Vestara rolled her eyes. “Come on,” she said. “What politician is going to put off accepting a surrender?”
By politician, Ben knew, Vestara meant Sith. Kameron Suldar, chair of the Galactic Alliance Senate, was actually High Lord Ivaar Workan of the Lost Tribe of the Sith. Ben and Vestara were there to set him up for a surprise attack. They had to be inside the office before the battle began, holding the High Lord’s attention so he wouldn’t sense the rest of the Skywalker team coming to capture or kill him. Ben didn’t like being part of what would probably end up being a targeted killing. But there was a war under way, and he and his fellow team members were commandos sent to destroy the enemy’s command-and-control structure. If they could do it quickly and quietly enough, the Sith invaders would be leaderless before they realized they were under attack. And that would save thousands of civilian lives—perhaps hundreds of thousands—by preventing the fight from spilling over into the general population.
The wurlwood panel swung open again, and the red-caped guard emerged. He was followed by a stunning redhead with the striking features of a HoloNet star and the calculating eyes of a seasoned political operative. She crossed the closet in a few quick steps and took the envelope from Vestara’s tray.
“ ‘My dear friend Kameron,’ ” the woman read drily. She returned the envelope to the tray, then looked to the float pallet. “What’s all this?”
“A cafasho steamer,” Vestara said. She leaned closer and spoke in a confiding tone. “Senator Wuul has observed that Senator Suldar has a certain fondness for the drink, and he thought Senator Suldar might enjoy having a steamer of his own.”
The redhead studied the gift for a moment, then turned to the guard. “Has the package been screened?”
The guard sneered, obviously offended. “Of course. Them, too.”
“There’s no need for your concern,” Vestara assured the redhead. “I have the impression that Senator Wuul is looking for a graceful way to capitulate.”
The woman considered this for a moment, then looked to Ben. “And what about you, Twi’lek?” she asked. “Do you have the same impression?”
Ben nodded. “It’s definitely a cafasho steamer,” he replied. “We were instructed to set it up and teach Senator Suldar’s staff how to use it.”
The redhead narrowed her eyes, then suddenly turned toward the back of the closet. “Very well,” she said. “The Senator will see you now.”
“Thank you,” Vestara replied. She looked over at Ben and cocked her brow, then followed the redhead into the secret passage. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to be meeting the Senator in person.”
All across Coruscant, Sith impostors began to receive their final warnings, a simple message that said:
SURRENDER OR DIE. DECIDE NOW.
—THE JEDI ORDER
Sitting in the backseat of his armored limousine, GAS Superintendent Jestat Vhool snorted at the arrogance of the Jedi fools and snapped his datapad shut … and then recalled the unexplained hesitation he had felt the last time his pilot had engaged the repulsorlift drive. A shiver of danger raced down his spine, and a single thought filled his mind: Bomb!
Vhool flung open the door and Force-leapt from the limo onto the nearest balcony. He landed in a diving roll and used the Force to counteract his momentum, then returned to his feet, lightsaber in hand. He ignited the crimson blade and slipped into a combat crouch, eyes sweeping left and right.
An instant later a fast-descending scaffold dropped from the floor above and crushed him flat.
The maintenance man who had been operating the scaffold—a green-eyed human whose chin sported a tuft of graying beard—stepped off the scaffold and found nothing but a blood-soaked arm protruding from beneath the heavy equipment. He took note of the GAS insignia on the sleeve cuff, then checked for a pulse and found none. When he glanced down the skylane and saw the GAS limo decelerating, he hurled himself over the balcony railing.
The maintenance man landed on the back of a two-seat swoop bike, piloted by a golden-eyed Arcona named Izal Waz.
“Welcome aboard, Master Horn,” Izal called over his shoulder. “No surrender, I gather?”
“Scratch target one,” Corran confirmed. “Let’s try number two.”
Izal swung the swoop bike down an access lane and accelerated hard. Behind them, the limo never did explode.
Kayala Fei was delivering BAMR’s midday newscast, halfway through a kicker story about Jedi healers conducting medical experiments on Chandrilan younglings, when a peculiar message appeared on her holoprompter: SURRENDER OR DIE. DECIDE NOW.
Fei did not hesitate, did not even blink. She simply used the Force to send her chair rocketing away from the anchor desk, toward the holographic skyline being projected at the rear of the stage. The instant the chair began to tip, she was on her feet, her lightsaber flying into her hand from a holster concealed inside her stylish knee boots.
The space her head had just occupied now had a stage light swinging through it. Affixed to the bottom end of a broken support batten, it had crossed the anchor desk and was coming toward her. She ignited her lightsaber and pivoted to the side, cutting the batten at head height to keep the heavy lamp from catching her on the return trip.
But there was a broken cable snaking down behind her, and that Fei had no chance to avoid. By the time she identified the hot sizzle rushing through her body as electricity rather than her own danger sense, the cable was wrapping itself around her neck. Its bare end snapped down and caught her just above the heart, pouring so much current into her chest that a smoking hole appeared in her shimmersilk tunic.
Fortunately, the relief producer was up to the emergency. She had been called in after th
e normal production crew had been served a bowl of spoiled thakitillo, and she was the type who kept her head. She typed a new message into the holoprompter, then activated the studio’s PA system and instructed Fei’s co-anchor to move to the auxiliary anchor desk.
The new anchor, a jowly man with an oversized nose and a baritone voice, looked at the speaker above his head and asked, “You want me to go on?” He glanced toward the back of the stage, where Fei’s body was still hanging from the cable and continuing to convulse. “What about Kayala?”
“The Emdee droid is on his way,” the relief producer said. A tall, dark-haired woman with a commanding presence, Jedi Master Octa Ramis knew how to take control of a chaotic situation. “And we still have four minutes of newscast to fill. Move! Read!”
The anchor jumped up and raced ten paces to the auxiliary desk, then sat down and began to read from the holoprompter floating above the active cam.
“Uh, we apologize for the technical difficulties we have just experienced.” His voice returned to its smooth baritone. “We are sorry to report that BAMR anchorwoman Kayala Fei has suffered an untimely death in a freak accident. The incident occurred only moments ago, during a live holocast in front of billions of viewers …”
Octa Ramis removed the sound bud from her ear and tossed it on the mixing console, then turned to her three Jedi assistants. “And that’s a wrap,” she said. “Let’s move on to our next target.”
When the alarm began to blare down from the coffered ceiling of the High Court Chamber, Grand Justice Tela Rovas did not reach for the lightsaber beneath her robes. She simply unfolded the flimsi that her clerk had just passed her, read the ominous note, and frowned at the signature line—THE JEDI ORDER—then turned to her fellow High Justices, seated beside her along the elegant hamogoniwood bench.
“It seems the alarm is genuine,” she announced calmly. “Court is adjourned for evacuation.”