This could work.
CHIEF OF STATE’S OFFICE, SENATE BUILDING, CORUSCANT
It left a sour taste in Daala’s mouth, but General Jaxton had been right. Rumblings of disapproval were increasing in the armed forces. The situation called for sacrifice. Still, a sense of unease tugged at her as she waited in the hypercomm chamber for her technicians to put the call through, and that unease would not be dispelled, no matter how meticulously she set her organized military mind against it.
The communications officer on duty, a dark-furred Bothan, looked up and caught her eye. “I’ve reached her assistant.” His tone was as neutral and cultivated as that of any Bothan with political aspirations. “They’re putting us through now. Ready to go live in five, four, three …” He held up the appropriate number of fingers as he counted down, and went silent for the final two numbers, counting them off with fingers alone.
The reception zone of the chamber, a circular open space with holocomm projector antennas directed at it from the ceiling, glowed into life, a swirl of colors, then stabilized into a brilliant three-dimensional picture. Most of the volume of the zone seemed to be occupied by clear blue water; fish, bright yellow with black vertical stripes, darted back and forth in small schools.
In the center of the image floated a Mon Cal female. She was dressed in a simple white robe, a garment better suited to the surface than underwater. Life-sized, she turned slightly to look straight at Daala, regarding her steadily. In her gaze was none of the hostility that Daala usually experienced when dealing with Mon Cals or Quarren, a hostility stemming from her military actions against their planet years ago.
“Admiral Daala.” Niathal’s voice had the curious, echoing tone characteristic of an underwater speaker. “I am honored.”
Daala inclined her head, one peer acknowledging another. “Admiral Niathal. Thank you for taking my call. Is this your home?”
“A quiet spot near my office. When my assistant received your call, he had a portable holocam setup run out to me.”
“Very accommodating.” Daala knew that she herself did not look anywhere near as calm or rested as Niathal. Dressed in her formal white admiral’s uniform, upright with military bearing, brilliantly illuminated by the holocam lights ringing her, she knew she had to look like some grim, glowing supernatural harbinger of danger.
Which she nearly was. She continued, “I also appreciate your agreeing to see my emissary.”
“Yes … Our appointment is for tomorrow. Which is why it is surprising to hear from you today.” Niathal did not sound at all surprised.
“Admiral, at your meeting tomorrow, my emissary will serve you with documents. A subpeona and summons to return immediately to Coruscant.”
“To face trial, I should imagine.”
Daala nodded. “The principal charges come down to gross dereliction of duty—”
“In that I failed to recognize Colonel Jacen Solo’s gradual descent into a pattern of behavior that eventually included genocide and crimes against all sapient species.”
“Yes.” Daala felt a wash of sympathy for the disgraced officer. She allowed some of that sympathy to show on her face. “I’ve called, one officer to another, one Chief of State to another, as a show of respect, and because if any of this were to catch you by surprise, it would be … inappropriate. I suspect that you’ll be able to beat, or at least reduce, the charges. The public can be convinced not to demand blood. What they will demand is acknowledgment of mistake.”
Niathal sighed. “There we have a problem. Well, I have a problem. Because the actions they find most egregious, my supporting Solo in his efforts as Chief of State, cannot in any way be considered a mistake.”
Daala found herself to be startled. “Even now? At the distance of several years?”
“What is a mistake, Admiral?” There was a touch of rich, self-aware humor in Niathal’s gravelly voice. “It is a decision in which one or more of the factors is known to be dangerous, or poisonous, or compromising, but which we calculate will not keep us from achieving our goals. But when there is no foreknowledge of such factor in evidence, can it be called a mistake? If you walk out on an empty field and the ground suddenly gives way beneath you, and there was no way to predict it, was any part of your decision making a mistake? No.” Niathal turned her body side-to-side, a Mon Cal effort to mimic a human head shake. “There was no way to predict that Jacen Solo would become what he became. Therefore, no mistake. And if I do not fight back with a vicious but smooth-tongued lawyer on the one hand, and hang my head and admit to a nonexistent mistake on the other, the public will not forgive. It will have its blood. This trial will be a fiasco, an embarrassment to the navy, a battle that every participant can lose.”
“I’m sorry.” Daala actually was, but she kept her tone professional, unyielding. “I have no choice.”
“But I do.”
Daala narrowed her eyes, looking intently at her predecessor. “And what choice do you make?”
“To do exactly as you ask. If you wish me to come to Coruscant, I will.”
Daala nodded. “Thank you, Admiral.”
“Thank you, Admiral. For the advance warning.”
Daala glanced at her communications officer. The image of Niathal faded from view, just as the hologram of Daala in all her uniformed brilliance would have faded from the water before Niathal.
Saddened, Daala turned away from the broadcast area and headed back toward her offices, oblivious to her usual retinue of bodyguards and functionaries. Niathal’s words had rattled her just a bit, because they were true; in politics, as in military planning, it was possible to do everything right, to make no mistake that could be predicted, and still fail. Still be crushed. And Niathal, if she chose not to play the game of the repentant offender …
… chose not to lie …
Would be destroyed.
FOOTHILLS APPROACHING REDGILL PASS,
DATHOMIR
TEN MINUTES AFTER THE FIGHT WAS DONE, THINGS WERE MUCH MORE settled.
Nine Witches of Dathomir sat or lay on the stony ground, their hands tied behind their backs—all but the rider of the second rancor, she of the tan skins and streaked hair, who had sustained a break to her right forearm when her mount fell on her. Her injured arm had been splinted by Yliri; she had refused medical treatment from Dyon. She had not been tied but had been disarmed. The expressions worn by the Witches ranged from furious to professionally neutral.
The three rancors were huddled farther down the pass, licking their wounds. The biggest of them was also the most seriously damaged, with a forehead burn and numberless cuts and scrapes sustained during its tumble down the rocky slope.
Tribeless Sha stood with Han, Leia, Luke, Ben, and Dyon. “They are the Raining Leaves Clan. Very traditional, women in charge. They suffered a disaster about ten years ago, no one of the clan talks about it with outsiders. But we think their senior Witches all died then. We are now well north of their territory; I do not know why they are here.”
Luke put on a cheerful expression. “Then let’s ask them.”
“They will not tell you. Traditional, as I said.”
Luke turned and moved toward the captured Witches; the others followed. He stood before the black-haired woman who had been pacing him and Ben all this time, but it was the woman with the broken arm who spoke first: “If you kill us, the rancors will eat you whole. Only our will keeps them at bay.”
Luke gave her a look of mild reproach. “I think you know that three rancors are no match for three Jedi, much less the sort of people who travel with Jedi. But thank you for the warning. We actually have no intention of killing you. In fact, this woman”—he indicated the black-haired Witch—“has been very cordial, in a way. Until this ambush, she’d tried several times to dissuade us without harming us.”
The woman with the broken arm turned a scornful look on her near twin, as did a lean, blond-haired Witch, whose green-red-yellow diagonally striped hide garments suggested a venomous s
erpent was their unwilling donor.
Luke continued, “Why did you switch tactics?”
“You would not be dissuaded.” The black-haired woman looked regretful. Her voice was throaty and low, like that of a back-alley cabaret singer. “You could not be allowed to proceed.”
“Why?”
She did not answer.
Luke sighed. He sat before her. “If we don’t talk, we’re not going to find common ground. Let’s start with introductions. I’m Luke Skywalker.”
That got a reaction. The Witches exchanged glances. Pressing his advantage, Luke continued, “And here are Leia and Han Solo, my sister and brother-in-law, and my son, Ben. And, presumably, Han and Leia’s escorts.”
“I am Kaminne Sihn. I am head of the Raining Leaves Clan.” With a nod, she indicated the woman with streaked hair. “My sister, Olianne, our war-leader.” She looked in turn to the woman with the viperous garments and the stoutest Witch. “Halliava Vurse, chief trainer of scouts, and Firen Nuln, trainer of rancors.”
Olianne, suddenly urgent, leaned close to her sister. Luke could barely hear her words: “Do not be moved by who they are. It does not matter who they are.”
“It does matter.” Kaminne’s expression became thoughtful. “In a way, these events would not be taking place without Luke Skywalker. I can declare him and his friends counselors.”
“Do not.”
Luke remained silent. The argument seemed to be leaning in his favor. He decided not to put any influence into the Force; these women might have enough sensitivity to detect manipulation on his part.
Kaminne nodded, decisive. “I so decree.” She fixed Luke with a stare. “You may untie us now.”
“Thank you. Please continue.” Luke made no motion to rise.
“You are now part of this meeting of clans. As counselors, you bear some responsibility for its success or failure. It would not do for you to show up with the leaders of the Raining Leaves in bonds, in your custody.”
Luke considered. He sensed no duplicity in the woman’s words. She was clearly jockeying with him for power in this situation, but if he kept her as a prisoner, he might do more harm than good.
He looked up at his companions. “Sha?”
Sha moved behind the line of prisoners and, one by one, cut their bonds. While she was about that task, Luke rose and moved a few steps away with his comrades. “You know what I like about coming to worlds so backrocket that no one watches the news broadcasts?”
Han shook his head. “What?”
“No one ever says, You look taller on the ’Net. Say, you didn’t bring any tools, did you? Replacement circuitry, soldering gear? Our lightsabers are out of commission.”
Han nodded. “There’s a kit in what’s left of my speeder, and I think Carrack, the Friendly Giant, has a kit.”
“When we get to a spot where we can camp, Ben and I will get to work.”
Kaminne, absently rubbing her wrists, moved up to them. “We will see to the injuries sustained by our rancors, then we can move out.”
Luke gave her a smile. “That sounds good.”
“You know, from all the stories told of you, I thought you would be taller.”
Han’s speeder was a lost cause, trampled by the rancor it had hit, damaged beyond any hope of repair. Yliri’s was functional, having suffered only minor damage to a rear panel. Luke, mindful of the status and prickly nature of his new Dathomiri associates, elected to ride in the cargo speeder. Its seats and generous cargo bed accommodated the Skywalkers, the Solos, the other offworlders, Sha, and the Sihn sisters. Yliri piloted it at a pace that would not leave the remaining Witches and their rancors behind.
“This gathering is, in a sense, your doing,” Kaminne told Luke.
He gave her a surprised look. “How is that? I haven’t been here in years.”
“But when you did come here, you changed things. That is what they say of Luke Skywalker. Wherever he goes, things change.” There was a touch of sadness to Kaminne’s voice. She did not look at Luke or even at the rising, hilly terrain in the direction she faced, but into some distant region of the past. “I was a baby when first you came to Dathomir, and your deeds were often spoken of around the fires. Some of the clans experimented with new laws, freeing their menfolk. Later, when you commanded that a Jedi school be raised here, it accepted any who were strong in the Force, not just girls, which was a very different way of doing things.”
Luke nodded. Traditionally, the clans of Dathomir were matriarchal and matrilineal, with the males often slaves or little more. “So change came.”
“Yes. Not evenly. Not predictably. Sometimes not peacefully.”
Luke felt a little prickle of danger, of hostile intent, as a raising of hairs on the back of his neck. He turned and caught Olianne in the act of glaring at him from the rear of the cargo bed. He had the sense that if she had the opportunity to creep up on him with her knife, she’d not just kill him, but skin him as well.
He forced himself to ignore her.
Kaminne, apparently unaware of the exchange of glances between Luke and her sister, continued, “With some clans, the bolder and stronger men would escape and live in small groups out away from the women. This had been going on as long as there have been people on Dathomir, but their numbers increased in the years after your visit. Some of these men would make raids on the clans, striking when there were few or no Witches about, stealing supplies … sometimes even stealing mates from among the women who had no powerful arts.”
Luke offered her a sympathetic expression. He’d had reports of such events cross his desk in the years when there was a Jedi school here. “You’ve had reason to suffer from raids like this?”
“Worse. The Raining Leaves remained traditional, old-fashioned, through these times. But ten years ago, there was an uprising by our men. Not all of them, but many. They struck with cunning and ferocity, cutting down the most experienced Witches during the deepest hour of night. No Witch still in our caves survived that night. My mother, my aunts, my oldest sister … Some of us were away from the caves, out hunting or on distant errands. Returning, we got wind of the uprising. We used our arts and attacked, cutting down the men. Not one over the age of ten years survived. My father fell, too, even though he was blameless. In a week, we had lost two-thirds of our people and all of our most experienced Witches.”
Olianne’s voice, mocking and harsh, floated forward from the rear of the speeder. “So what is it like to be a hero, Skywalker? Shall we name our boy-children after you, in your honor?”
Luke turned to regard her again. “I’m sorry for your losses. But I don’t teach that sort of violence. The Force doesn’t encourage it. It was a desire for vengeance, a dark emotion, that prompted both your slaughters … not me.”
“He is right, Olianne.” Kaminne stared at her sister until Olianne dropped her gaze, and Luke could finally see some of the quiet strength of character that Kaminne had to possess to be chief of this clan.
Kaminne turned forward again. “That was the start of the hard years. Relearning years. There were man-tribes out there that were actually larger than the Raining Leaves, and stronger. But there was also one man-tribe that did not attack, that was willing to trade, and eventually more than trade. The Broken Columns.” Kaminne’s expression softened. “Over the years, we have come to a new custom. Each year the two clans convene north of Redgill Lake. We camp in each other’s company. We stay a month. Marriages are made, marriages that last a year. The next year, when the two clans convene, we give the boy-children over a certain age to their fathers and introduce the girls to them, so that they might know their kin.”
“And this is where you are going now.” Luke thought it over. “No wonder you didn’t want outsiders along.”
“It is more than that. This year, we convene to negotiate another kind of marriage—a marriage of clans. Raining Leaves and Broken Columns becoming one. If we can come to terms, I will marry Tasander Dest, their chief, and it will be a marr
iage of more than just a year.”
“Tasander Dest.” Luke frowned. “Surely that’s not a Dathomiri name.”
“Hapan. The Hapans have had a compound on Dathomir for many years. Their old Queen Mother was Dathomiri, and their current one is half Dathomiri. Tasander was brought here as a boy by his father and chose to stay when his father left.”
Leia, sitting on Luke’s far side, leaned in. “Do you have any children? By Dest or another Broken Column?”
Kaminne shook her head. “For years I could not. It is a problem that runs in my family, except in my mother. Olianne, too, is childless. But when we began talks of this union with the Broken Columns, I went to the doctor at the spaceport. She said it was a reversible condition and gave me medicines.”
“I was going to recommend that, but you’re ahead of me.”
Kaminne shook her head. “We are not stupid. Ours is a hard life, but it is one we choose, not one we are just too foolish to avoid. When our spells are insufficient, we find other ways. Some of our warriors have blasters now and know how to use them. We have comlinks and beacons. Changes, all changes brought on since you first came here.”
Leia smiled at her. “I know about changes. Some are bad, some are good, and when you look back on your life, you will probably approve of the ones you yourself brought on.” She leaned back in her seat.
Luke decided to change the subject. “My son and I are looking for a girl, not Dathomiri, who crashed her ship somewhere north of the spaceport.” He felt Ben, back in the cargo bed tinkering with Han’s tool kit and his lightsaber, perk up.
Kaminne’s face became blank, a sabacc player’s neutral expression. “Yes. Vestara is her name. She is with the clan.”
“We need to take her back.” Luke glanced skyward, suggesting a return to space.
“Oh. How many of us are you willing to kill to do this?”
“Kill? We have no intention of killing anyone.”
“You have no authority here. You may not just take her. She will not want to go with you. She is with the clan now—Olianne mentors her and may choose to adopt her.”
Fate of the Jedi: Backlash Page 8