Fate of the Jedi: Backlash

by Aaron Allston

  “Clearly, you’re a strong woman.”

  She gave him another smile. There was no guilt or duplicity evident in it. “There are no weaklings among the Raining Leaves.”

  He waved at Ara. “Nice meeting you, Ara.”

  The little girl gave him another salute, but turned it into a wave halfway through.

  Ben turned and, with a last cordial nod to Halliava, moved on to the next campfire. There he’d continue the deception that he was meeting as many clan members as possible, the better to understand their ways.

  Halliava’s story was unlikely but possible. Dasan of the Broken Columns had indeed died a month after the clan conclave six and a half years before, though no one could remember him wedding Halliava; still, not all such unions were officiated or remembered.

  Halliava had indeed departed on a lengthy scouting mission three months after that conclave and had not returned for months, now with the baby Ara in her arms.

  Blast it. Ben didn’t want his suspicions to be correct. He rather liked Halliava. And maybe he was wrong. He’d have a better sense of whether he was right if something befell him to end his investigation—a plausible accident or a murder attempt.

  He reminded himself that he did need to survive if he was to achieve his goals: justice for a dead woman and the uncovering of a nest of Nightsisters. Nightsisters, and perhaps Sith in collaboration with them.

  CORUSCANT

  TAHIRI VEILA STARED OUT THE TINY VIEWPORT OF HER DETENTION cell, staring at the late-afternoon traffic streaming past at a slightly lower altitude. Thousands and thousands of people swept by in their airspeeders every hour. And if they knew that Tahiri Veila, murderer of Admiral Gilad Pellaeon—an officer and leader remembered as affectionately by the Galactic Alliance as by the Empire—stood behind this viewport, some would probably try to put a blaster bolt though the transparisteel.

  She knew she did not look like a killer. Tall and blond-haired, attractive though she did not enhance her looks with makeup or glamorous clothes, bearing curious faint scars on her forehead from events a lifetime ago, she looked like the sort of athlete who’d won championships early and then retired to a life of endorsing breakfast foods while smiling at the holocams. But it had been a long time since she’d smiled.

  She turned to her visitor, who was seated at the end of the bunk that—aside from an unpartitioned refresher unit—was the only furniture in the tiny room she now called home.

  The visitor gave her an understanding nod. “It’s difficult to understand because it’s based on logic that is alien to all rational minds. It’s attorney logic, legal logic.”

  His name was Mardek Mool. A Bith, he had the elongated cranium and epidermal cheek-folds of his species, and huge dark eyes that watched Tahiri as though he expected her to fly into a rage and use a Force-choke on him. It did not bode well for her case, she knew, that her own public defender seemed to believe her capable of a senseless, cold-blooded murder just because she was frustrated. Still, Mool was competent, dedicated, and good-hearted, and he seemed determined to do the best job he could for her. Given that the courts had denied her the services of Nawara Ven, on the grounds that his relationship to the Jedi Order posed a conflict of interest, Tahiri supposed she ought to be glad to have Mool.

  She moved away from the viewport. The transparisteel automatically darkened as she sat at the opposite end of the bunk from Mool. “So explain it. They arrest me on charges of complicity and murder, crimes of which I’m clearly guilty—”

  “Don’t ever say that. Not out loud, not to yourself, not when you’re alone, not even when you’re asleep. You’re not qualified to judge whether you’re guilty.”

  “Thank you for that vote of confidence,” Tahiri said dryly. “They accuse me of these crimes, they tell their side of the case to the press as if they’re hopping mad and lusting for my blood, all the while leaving me sitting in here for the longest time—in a medium-security detention center from which I could escape sleepwalking, by the way. And now, suddenly, they’re pressing the courts for a trial date. I just don’t get it. I don’t even understand why they’re prosecuting instead of the Empire, when the man I killed—”

  “The man you’re alleged to have killed.”

  “Stop that. Was an Imperial citizen and died on an Imperial world. I’d have thought that the Empire would have jurisdiction and I’d be tried there.”

  Mool sighed. “Tahiri, do you actually want to live long enough to figure out whether you deserve to live?”

  She was silent a long moment, but she’d settled that issue in her own mind a while back, shortly before the security officers had come to arrest her. “Yes.”

  “Then you need to start doing what I say. You never say I did it—for a couple of reasons. A belief in your own guilt can show in your face, in your body language, more than you think, and can persuade a judge or jury of your culpability when everything else is perfectly balanced. And you never know when a government might have court permission to place listening devices in your vicinity. I do a sweep whenever I visit, and that might be good enough for now, but I’m not an expert and I won’t always be around. They might not be able to convict you with the resources they already have. Don’t give them any more.”

  “All right. So I’m … not guilty.”

  “You say it, but you still don’t believe it. Meaning you think that every one of your decisions was of your own making, and that Jacen Solo had absolutely no influence over you.”

  “Well, of course he had some influence over me.”

  “How much?”

  “It’s impossible to quantify.”

  “Correct.” He gave her an approving nod. “I think it was more influence than even you are able to recognize. He preyed on your insecurities. He isolated you, making himself the sole point of reference for your worldview, which means your ethics and understanding of right and wrong. He may have used Force abilities on you, abilities you never saw being employed. Tahiri, every one of us wants to believe that he or she is mentally competent at all times. But nobody is sane at every moment of his life, not a soldier or pilot who has killed and seen friends killed throughout a career, not a Jedi who struggles with light-side and dark-side issues all her life, and not a teenage girl who saw the love of her life die and who later got to be led back into his presence again and again by his charming brother. Where, in the middle of all that, do you even have a chance to be consistently sane?”

  Tahiri felt a stirring of hope. But to accept Mool’s explanation would mean surrendering her belief that she’d always been in charge of her own thoughts, her own decision making. That would be an awful conclusion to come to.

  Fortunately for her, Mool turned the subject back to her other questions. “As to why they arrested you, then let you sit in a medium security facility—they wanted you to escape.”

  Understanding dawned for Tahiri. “Because if I fled, I’d convict myself.”

  “Not only that, but you’d probably seek help from your friends, putting them on the wrong side of the law, too. And why did the government talk mean and then sit on the case? You always talk your best game so that the opposition can never point to a statement you’ve made that suggests a weakening of your position or a lessening of your righteous fury. But then they sat on the case because time was on their side. The longer things take, the more credits it costs you, the more stress it puts you under …”

  “The more I’m likely to give up or escape.”

  “Very good. Now, why not let the Imps try you? They might have done that. They still might. But the GA does have the right. Pellaeon was accorded GA citizenship for life because of his tenure as Supreme Commander of the Galactic Alliance Defense Forcce. As to why they’ve suddenly turned up the heat under this case, I can only guess, but I think it’s because Chief of State Daala needs something to distract the press from Admiral Niathal’s death.”

  “So I’m just a game piece being moved around to convenience them. There’s no offended sens
e of justice at work here, not really.”

  Mool clapped his hands as if applauding a superior sports play. “And if they aren’t pursuing justice, why are you willing at all to submit to justice?”

  A wave of cold anger washed across Tahiri. For a moment she wasn’t sure how to handle it—suppress it like a Jedi, draw strength from it like a Sith? She chose neither, letting it settle on her, letting it turn the tone of her voice brittle and sharp. “So what do we do?”

  “I begin assembling medical witnesses who can testify to the mentality of someone experiencing undue influence from a manipulative authority figure. I begin aggressively promoting a change of venue for the trial—”

  “Why?”

  “Because the one person in the galaxy who has the most experience with the Sith is prohibited by law from coming back to Coruscant to testify.”

  “Luke Skywalker.”

  “Correct. And we are very eager for him to testify, not only because of his breadth and depth of knowledge, but also because the public is experiencing a growing sympathy for the Jedi, and when I announce that Grand Master Luke Skywalker must testify in order for the trial to be fair, the prosecution case will experience more resistance from the public. Meanwhile, you need to remember that phrase you just used about being a game piece, and whenever you’re in public, put on a face reflecting how that feels, because you were also Jacen Solo’s game piece, and that’s why you’re in trouble. Tahiri, you really were a victim. You need to understand it, and the public needs to understand it.”

  “All right. I’ll try.”

  “Nobody wants to think of herself as a victim. You’ll have to try very hard to overcome that reluctance.” Mool rubbed at his cheek folds and looked away from her for a moment.

  “You’ve got more bad news.”

  “I hate dealing with Jedi. Hard to keep secrets.” He looked at her again. “I think you should reconsider the deal.”

  “What deal?” Tahiri asked, putting some ice into her voice.

  Mool flared his cheek folds. “The only deal I’ve brought you.” Shortly after becoming her public defender, Mool had brought her an offer from someone inside Daala’s government: If she would become an informant and gather evidence of Jedi crimes against the Galactic Alliance, she would be sentenced to a short term in a minimum-security facility of her choosing. “I’ve been led to believe that the offer remains open—and it may be your only chance of avoiding a death sentence.”

  Tahiri glowered. “I’ve given you my answer on that,” she said. “I’m not changing my mind.”

  Mool sighed and nodded, then said, “In that case, I think you need to consider where you might find a more suitable advocate.”

  “You’re quitting?”

  Mool shook his head. “Not a chance.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because I’ve been in this business for a few years now,” Mool said. “And that’s long enough to know you need someone who’s been in it for a few decades. As much as it pains me to say it, I’m not the best being to handle a high-profile case like this. It’s a different game than the one I usually play. To tell you the truth, if you’re determined to take this trial, I won’t even know the rules we’re really using.”

  Tahiri sighed, then looked across the cell at her refresher unit and nodded. “At least you’re telling me the truth,” she said. “That counts for more than you know. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Mool said. “I just wish I had more to offer. I want to help you—I truly do.”

  “The truth is enough, Mardek.” Tahiri turned and gave his knee a grateful squeeze. “Give me that, and you give me everything.”

  NEAR REDGILL LAKE, DATHOMIR

  LUKE’S BACKFLIP WAS PERFECT. AT ITS APEX, HIS HEAD WAS HIGHER THAN it would have been if he were standing. He came down in a slight crouch, already in a defensive posture, and barely stirred the dust as he landed. There were whoops of appreciation from the crowd surrounding the fighting ring.

  Firen was close upon him, having charged during his flip, and she struck just as he came down, an open-palmed blow to his chest, what was clearly her favorite move. He got his right wrist against hers before the blow hit and forced it to the side. Her blow missed his chest by six centimeters at least.

  And his parry left him in perfect position for a riposte. His own counterblow, also open-palmed, caught Firen on the point of the jaw. There was no clack of teeth meeting teeth; her mouth was clenched shut when he hit. But her head rocked and she staggered backward.

  And her left hand came forward, opening, releasing a cloud of dust and sand into Luke’s face, blinding him.

  He stumbled back, hearing cheers from the Raining Leaves in the audience. He shook his head, but his vision didn’t immediately clear.

  This was bad. He was Firen’s superior as a fighter, having trained in more styles on more worlds than she had fingers and toes, but he’d forgotten that Dathomiri unarmed contests were no-holds-barred, with no rules against using weapons of opportunity. Firen hadn’t cheated. She’d outwitted him. And she’d be coming for him—now.

  This time his flip was a forward one. He heard his opponent pass beneath him, unable to stop her forward rush, and heard her offer up a colorful Dathomiri curse.

  Luke more than heard her. He found her in the Force.

  He landed awkwardly—deliberately awkwardly, as though not being able to see had caused him to over-rotate. He stumbled forward a couple of steps, then steadied himself and furiously scrubbed at his closed eyes.

  He could feel Firen charging. Now she was almost silent. She was as fast and predatory as a Dathomiri lizard.

  But he knew where she was. As she came within range, he lashed out with a side kick, his left heel connecting with her midsection, stopping her in her tracks. She uttered an “oof” that sounded like it accompanied all the air from her lungs.

  Luke pivoted on his other foot, lashing out with a spinning kick that connected just below the first one. The blow took Firen off her feet. He heard her hit the dust. And in the Force, he could dimly envision her, facedown, struggling to rise.

  He got beside her and bent down, wrenching the arm she was using for support up behind her back. She fell toward him and thrashed, but he kept one hand on her elbow, one on her wrist, and the leverage he applied held her in place.

  He heard the crowd begin to chant, counting down from ten. In that ten-count, Firen was unable to free herself. After “one” came a mass cheer and shouts of dismay, but the fight was done. Luke released his grip, stepped back, and went to work again clearing his eyes.

  “Here.” It was Ben’s voice. Luke reached out and was handed a waterskin. Grateful, he poured some of its contents across his eyes. He blinked, his sight restored. “Thanks.”

  Firen stood a couple of meters away. She looked unhappy. Seeing his gaze on her, she turned toward him. “There’s nothing worse than being beaten by a man.”

  Luke grinned. “You mean a lowly man?”

  “Well … Kaminne says we should no longer use that phrase.”

  “There’s having a rancor fall atop you.”

  She thought about it. “You are right. That is worse.” She stepped forward and extended a hand. “Well fought, lowly man.”

  “Well fought, traditionalist oppressor.”

  “Stop it, you two.” That was Kaminne, stepping forward, but there was no censure in her tone, and she was smiling. She turned to face the crowd. “So in the weaponless combat for those with the Arts, champion for this year is Luke Skywalker of the Jedi.”

  Members of both clans, though mostly Broken Columns, came forward to congratulate Luke, and Tasander gave him his first-place winner’s medallion. Then, inevitably, the audience began to dissipate, most of its members headed off to the next staging ground, the next event.

  Luke took a look around then glanced skyward to check the position of the sun. Midafternoon. He wondered if tonight would bring—

  “Yes, they will.”

 
; He glanced at his son. “What?”

  “Yes, the Nightsisters will attack tonight.” Ben lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone straight out of a holodrama. “Your thoughts betray you.”

  “I’m going to shake you so hard … I’m certain that you got nothing through the Force about my thoughts.”

  “Not everything is the Force, Dad. First you looked off in the direction where we had our traps and bodies and so forth the other night. Then you scanned the tree line all around, but not the lake. So you were thinking about avenues of approach toward the camp, which meant enemies, which meant Nightsisters. You checked the sun, which, since it’s usually there, means you were really estimating time until sundown, so you were asking how much time minimum we had before the Nightsisters attack.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to let you train with the Guard. You think you might be happier dispensing caf or sketching caricatures?” Luke breathed a sigh. “All right, why do you think they’re going to attack tonight?”

  “Because Dyon got a very interesting communication on his comlink while you were in the semifinals.”

  They took the short walk back to their campfire, where Dyon was clearly expecting Luke. At Ben’s nod, Dyon took a look around to make sure no one was in hearing distance. “Yliri contacted me a little while ago.”

  “Good.” Luke was anxious for word from the spaceport. He knew Han and Leia had gotten offworld without incident, but didn’t know how things had gone with the rest of those who had departed.

  “Anyway, I think there’s something going on there.”

  Luke gave him a quizzical look. “At the spaceport?”

  “No, between Yliri and Carrack. She was so worried about his injuries, so insistent about accompanying him back. She’s clearly been tending him night and day. I think some sort of romance sprang up while they were here. Of course, a conclave like this is just the place for it …”