Fate of the Jedi: Backlash

by Aaron Allston

  Han angled so their approach was straight toward the pass entrance. The combatants hadn’t seen them yet. Perhaps the noise and confusion of the fight would keep them distracted for a few crucial seconds. “We’re outmatched.”

  “Why aren’t Luke and Ben using their lightsabers?” Leia held hers at the ready but unlit, her thumb on the ignition button.

  The Witches and rancors remained unaware of Han’s speeder as he entered the pass. He killed forward thrust, slewed to port, and kicked the repulsors to full strength, skidding the speeder bottom-first toward the nearest group of enemies.

  With any lesser pilot, the maneuver would have caused the speeder to slam nose-first into the pass wall, killing everyone on board. Han couldn’t see but could feel as his bottom-mounted repulsors went from hammering at empty air to hammering at obstacles. There were shrieks as Witches were abruptly propelled out of the way. The wrong-angle deceleration pressed Han deep into his seat.

  Then they came to a sudden, spine-compressing stop. The engines kicked off. In the moment he had before gravity took over, Han decided that only a handful of pilots could have pulled off such a maneuver. Himself, Jaina, Luke, Wedge, Tycho. That was it.

  Leia and Dyon leapt free. They went to starboard, which was almost straight up into the sky. Each leapt to a different side of the rancor. Then the speeder fell leftward, sliding down the calves of the rancor legs it had fetched up against, falling two or three meters, and crashed onto the rocky floor of the pass.

  Han’s breath was jolted from him. But the instincts of a pilot finding himself in a crashed vehicle—get out, get clear—took over. Though dazed, he rolled out of and away from the speeder, coming to his feet, off-balance and face-to-face with one of the Witches, a redhead who perhaps looked angrier than any woman Han had seen, Leia excluded.

  Someone shot her; a stun bolt took her in the face and she fell out of sight. Who had done it? Oh, that’s right, Han had; now he saw the blaster pistol in his hand, saw the charge meter click down by one. Leia had insisted that he switch over to stun bolts. He so seldom did that.

  Farther up the pass, Luke and Ben were now moving in concert, gesturing to turn back the reduced wave of flying boulders. Ben launched himself through the air, a perfect flying side kick, and took a dark-haired Witch right in the solar plexus. The woman went down. Closer at hand, Leia, her lightsaber lit, and Dyon, unarmed, leapt right and left, crossing each other as they did, striking at nearby Witches.

  The closest rancor turned, roared down at Han, and raised its club.

  “Oh, stang.” Han crouched, gauged which way would be the best to leap.

  A blaster bolt—no stun bolt, and bigger, more explosively powerful than any that came from one of Han’s blasters—took the rancor in the center of the chest. The site sizzled and turned black. The rancor, wounded but not impaired, staggered back from the impact and howled again, now looking far past Han.

  Han hazarded a look backward. In the distance, just topping the nearest rise, came Yliri’s cargo speeder. Beside her on the front seat, half standing, his rifle braced on the windscreen, was Carrack. Sha and Tarth held on for dear life in the backseat.

  Han looked up in time to see the rancor bearing down on him, but it was charging the oncoming speeder. Han leapt out of the way. The rancor’s furious gait, he saw, was jarring the Witch in its saddle, preventing her from aiming whatever spell she was weaving. As the rancor passed, Han aimed a shot up along its back, hitting the Witch at the base of her spine.

  Yliri’s speeder headed straight for the oncoming rancor, then sideslipped left and abruptly gained altitude. The rancor swung at it, but the beast’s club missed its bottom by meters. The speeder climbed the slope of the leftward hill, toward the larger rancor standing there.

  Carrack’s second blaster bolt hit that rancor, a forehead shot that staggered the beast. Then Yliri’s speeder topped the hill, slewing around in a smuggler’s reverse that brought its relative speed to zero. Its left rear panel hit the stunned rancor in the back of the head, a deliberate maneuver, no accident.

  The rancor’s arms flailed and an almost comic expression of dismay crossed its face. Then it fell down the hill slope toward the pass below, carrying a landslide of rock and scrub with it.

  Farther down the pass, Luke gestured as if making an upward palm strike against the empty air. Meters away, the farthest rancor stumbled backward and fell, landing full on its rider.

  Ben gestured to Leia, saying something Han couldn’t hear. Fresh from having hammered a Witch one–two–three with snap-kicks to the midriff and leveling her, Leia switched off her lightsaber. She flicked it toward Ben, a toss that should have only carried it a meter or two, but the weapon flew straight into his outstretched hand.

  Ben ignited it and placed the tip of the glowing blade mere centimeters from the throat of the woman he’d kicked.

  And that was the fight.

  GALACTIC EMPIRE EMBASSY COMPOUND,

  CORUSCANT

  THE OFFICE, OUTFITTED WITH RICH, TRADITIONAL WOOD PANELING AND furniture, had a chameleon-like quality Moff Lecersen appreciated. Though it belonged permanently to no Imperial representative and was assigned to any high-ranking official as needed, it was made to be customizable in seconds. The aide of the admiral or general or Moff using it would enter, slide a datacard into the slot on the desk, and the transformation would begin. Holodisplays on the walls would glimmer to life with the VIP’s favorite images; for this meeting, Lecersen had chosen vistas of space docks and orbital vessel construction platforms. The datacard would supply information on preferred ambient temperature, scents, white noise, available entertainments, the array of beverages to be stocked in the small cabinet bar, and more. In extremely expensive hotels, the information would also dictate the hue and apparent texture of color-changeable carpets and walls.

  All that information took only moments to impart. Then the aide, if he knew what was good for him, would spend the next hour scanning for listening and recording devices. A pity that this task couldn’t also be relegated to a datacard.

  With the air cooled to his favorite temperature, the walls gleaming with demonstrations of military might in the making, Lecersen smiled a sand panther’s smile across his temporary desk at Haydnat Treen, Senator from Kuat. A lean, imposing woman of about eighty standard years, she wore gold-and-brown robes in a very up-to-date Kuati style; her silver-blue hair peeked out from beneath her golden scarf. She held a saucer and cup of very thick, very strong caf with aristocratic grace, and the smile she directed at Lecersen was just like his.

  “You’ll imagine my surprise,” he told her, “when I conducted a private investigation into the recent kidnapping attempt on our Head of State and found no evidence implicating any of the usual suspects.”

  “The Moffs, you mean?”

  “It would be disingenuous of me to say otherwise. Yes, of course. The Moffs.”

  “Did you look into your own affairs?” Treen asked. “Perhaps this was one of your plans, made while you were sleepwalking.”

  “Well, sleepwalking would explain why it was so crude, so thoroughly botched.”

  She did not rise to the bait; she merely sipped at her caf.

  “So a deeper investigation was warranted.” Lecersen continued. “Fortunately, one of the Borleias banks used for the transactions had a duplicate set of books—the second set being the sort one never shows the government—and that had not been so thoroughly scrubbed. The flow of credits led back to a Coruscanti vehicle importer, which led to a Kuati construction firm, which led … to you.”

  “Oh, my. Your accusation positively rends me. I think I’m going to swoon.”

  “Please do. I know you’ll make a graceful display of setting the caf safely aside as you collapse. I look forward to seeing it.”

  Treen did not swoon, but continued to smile.

  “So,” Lecersen said, “I have to ask, why does a Senator from Kuat want to kidnap the Imperial Head of State?”

  “
Well, he’s handsome, isn’t he?” Treen gave him an admonishing look. “No, truthfully, it’s because I want you to be Emperor, of course.”

  “Ah. I see.” Lecersen blinked. That was not the answer he expected. In truth, he had not expected any sort of confession from her. Now that he was getting one, he had to figure out what to do with it; he had no jurisdiction in Kuat or here, and so might have to hand over evidence to the GA authorities.

  Unless there really was something in it for him, of course. “No, actually, I don’t.”

  “I’d be happy to enlighten you. Would you accompany me to the Kuat embassy?”

  “Would I find myself drugged, with a bag thrown over my head?”

  “Of course not. I want our next Emperor to look upon me with gratitude and respect, not irritation. But, please, do bring all the security forces you wish to. Just make sure”—she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“you trust them absolutely.”

  Half an hour later, accompanied by two security men bound to him by debts so profound that he could trust them absolutely—well, nearly absolutely—Lecersen walked with Senator Treen down the marble-lined halls of the Kuat embassy. Arches led to side passages and function rooms, most of them dim and silent. The creamy, blue-veined marble that decorated every surface, Lecersen knew, could, if salvaged and sold, buy him a brand-new Star Destroyer.

  “I had been a Senator for one year when Palpatine came to power,” Treen told him. “Do you know what his greatest mistake was?”

  “Making you angry with him?”

  Her smile returned. “In a sense. Oh, the first years of the Empire were glorious. Taxes increased, sadly, but our planetary economy boomed as ridiculous Republic regulations were trimmed away. No, his mistake was in silencing the voices of planetary leaders. It would be like a general suddenly saying that no one of colonel rank or below could ever speak or communicate with him again. When Palpatine suspended the Senate, I knew madness had him in its grip.”

  “Very interesting,” he lied.

  She led him and his agents through an arch into a side chamber. The glow rods along its ceiling came on as they entered. The walls were covered with holopanels, each displaying, at five-second intervals, a changing sequence of still recordings of Kuat and the early days of Palpatine’s Empire: flotillas of Kuat-built vessels, public appearances by the dark-cloaked Emperor and Darth Vader, the construction of massive complexes.

  The Senator heaved a deep sigh. “I miss the Empire—in its original, benevolent form. And I think you can bring it back to us.”

  “I’m touched by your faith. But kidnapping Jagged Fel would not make me Emperor.”

  “No, but it would be the first step. And the other steps are mapped out. Masterfully, irresistibly mapped out.”

  “Tell me.”

  “First, the Fel boy has to be eliminated because he cannot preside while the Galactic Empire experiences reunion with the Galactic Alliance.”

  “I would have thought that you’d be opposed to reunification.”

  “Oh, no. The resurgence of a powerful, healthy Empire depends on it.”

  “Everything you say is a surprise …”

  “If the reunification takes place under Fel, then Fel gets the credit. If Fel disappears or dies, his successor gets the credit. And who is more likely to succeed him as Head of State than you?”

  “Fair enough. So I’m Head of State, and reunification occurs, and I’m now the second most powerful individual in the galaxy—a very distant second behind the Alliance Chief of State.”

  She nodded amiably, clearly pleased that Lecersen understood. “Now, bear with me. A couple of years ago, Natasi Daala came to power. Wretched woman. We’re still suffering from her effects on the Empire.”

  Lecersen snorted. “Because of her, half the Moffs are women. I have a hard time believing that a Senator from Kuat would object to that.”

  “I don’t, but that would have happened anyway. Eventually, inevitably. I’m talking about this ridiculous compulsion to promote nonhumans far, far past their level of competence. She clearly has no sense. Another reason why Fel must go, of course. Despite his ancestry, he’s Chiss on the inside. Not at all human.”

  “Ah.” Lecersen withheld comment. This woman, though speaking the beliefs of millions of traditional Imperials, was beginning to sound more and more like an advertisement for antipsychotic drugs.

  “Anyway, Daala has done something useful for us. In the wake of the Second Galactic Civil War, she promoted, and the Senate enacted, the most recent Emergency Powers Act.”

  “Which gives the Chief of State enormous temporary executive powers that she can use unilaterally … but the Senate can, if it disagrees with her, choose to freeze government spending and lock her down tight.”

  “Not quite.” Treen’s smile became knowing, confidential. “First, a clause that I made sure was included in the final form of the act states that the Chief of State cannot suspend the Senate. Second, it is not the Senate itself that can tie her hands by freezing the budget, it is the Appropriations and Disbursements Committee. When the act is invoked, control of the existing budget goes to them, and they continue to control financial acquisitions and spending.”

  Lecersen frowned. He was, at last, beginning to sense the shape of Treen’s plan. “Wait a moment. You’d need …”

  “We’d need a majority of the Senators on Appropriations and Disbursements. We’d need the Chiefs of the Armed Forces, who also receive special powers if the act is invoked, and could see to it that the entire budget of the Galactic Alliance went where it needed to … so that order was imposed. And we’d need a Chief of State who could be trusted to do the right thing.

  “Now, imagine this course of events. Imperial Head of State Fel disappears, or dies, or is deposed. It may take nothing more than catching him in the right circumstances with that Jedi lover of his. Perhaps he’s bought her a moon or something. Moff Lecersen becomes the new Head of State, perhaps only temporarily.”

  Lecersen nodded. “Go on.”

  “A crisis erupts. Somewhere. I’m working on some useful potential crises. Perhaps you can, too. Advisers placed close to Chief of State Daala recommend invocation of the Emergency Powers Act. Enough pressure, enough anxiety, and she will invoke it. But the situation gets worse and worse, public approval for Daala plummets—I’m working on that, too, and she’s giving me all the help she can with this Jedi situation—and ultimately she must resign. A new Chief of State must be appointed, even temporarily. And some of the biggest power blocks in the Galactic Alliance, including Kuat, her allies, and the newly returned Empire, have a candidate in mind.”

  “Haydnat Treen.”

  “Chief of State Treen, if you please.”

  “But there’s rather a large hole in your plan. Appropriations and Disbursements. And the Chiefs of the Armed Forces.”

  “A hole? Ahem.” She cleared her throat, as loud and obvious as if she were performing on stage.

  One of the wall holodisplays, floor-to-ceiling in height, slid aside, revealing a chamber beyond. In the new doorway stood a man.

  He was tall and impossibly old. His hair was thin and white, his skin like flimsi stretched tight over bones. He wore a well-tailored suit that did little to conceal the cadaverousness of his build. He walked forward at the slow, deliberate pace of a man who did not care that he might be making others wait, and who did care that a misstep might cause a bone-shattering fall.

  Reaching Treen and Lecersen, he extended a frail hand to the latter. “Moff Lecersen.” His voice was whispery and thin.

  “Senator Bramsin.” Carefully, Lecersen took the older man’s hand and shook it.

  Fost Bramsin was the Senator from Coruscant and had been, off and on, for decades. His most recent interruption in service had been during the years Coruscant was undergoing Vongforming during the Yuuzhan Vong War. Since the return of the New Republic to power, he had resumed his Senatorial post, diligently seeing to the orderly and efficient dist
ribution of tax funds throughout the budget.

  “I am surprised to see you here,” Lecersen continued.

  “Pendulums,” the old man said.

  “Pendulums,” Lecersen repeated.

  “The last war was a disaster.” Bramsin paused, considering his words. “A disaster that would never have happened in an orderly society. The new government is also a disaster. Imposing ever-tightening controls as Palpatine did in his last years. Enacting reflexive, poorly thought-out laws. It must stop.”

  “I agree.”

  “I want to see order—sensible order—restored before I die. Are you the one to do it?”

  “I believe I am.”

  “See that you are.” Bramsin turned away and began his slow walk back the way he’d come.

  “He brings us a majority of the Senators on his committee.” Treen’s voice was a whisper, one that probably did not carry to the old man’s ears.

  “What about the military chiefs?”

  “We have Starfighter Command and the army. We’re working on the navy.”

  “And—so we’re clear, so there are no unspoken assumptions—what do you want? Other than order restored.”

  “Grand Moff of the Corusca sector. And four dinners with you.”

  Lecersen suppressed a laugh. “Four? Why not fourteen?”

  “Because if, in four dinners, I cannot convince you that you should propose to me, and that I should be the first Empress of the reforged Empire, then I will have to acknowledge that I have failed … and that I must be content with just the status and wealth of the galaxy’s most powerful Grand Moff.” She gave him a familiar pat on the cheek. “You and your men can, I am sure, find your way out.” She turned and departed.

  Lecersen just stood for a long moment.