Fate of the Jedi: Backlash

by Aaron Allston

  Leia exchanged a look with Han. He gave a little conciliatory shrug.

  Leia turned to Daala. “I’ll take your counteroffer to Master Hamner.”

  “Do you think he’ll accept?” Daala wasn’t asking Leia; she looked to Han for a reply.

  Han shrugged. “I can’t speak for the Council. I don’t think the way Jedi Masters do. But, yeah, I’d bet a pot on Hamner agreeing to it.”

  “Good.” Daala rose, signifying an end to the meeting. “Let me known when you have the Masters’ agreement, and we’ll move on to the next phase.”

  “The next phase?” Han asked, rising with the others.

  “Of course, General Solo,” Daala replied. She offered Han her hand. “Surely, you don’t think we’re going start implementing before we finish planning?”

  Han took the hand, but said, “If you want to try to resolve everything at once, this is going to be a long negotiation.”

  Daala offered the faintest snort. “You have no idea, General. Try patching together the Alliance and the Empire sometime.” She turned to Leia. “Speaking of which, I understand that you’ll be dining with Head of State Fel today.”

  Leia took Daala’s hand after Han released it. “I’m not sure I like the fact that you know about it.”

  Daala’s smile broadened. “I run, at a distance, the largest intelligence operation to be found on Coruscant. It ought to be good for something.”

  As the Solos reached the far edge of the Senate Plaza, where they’d left their airspeeder, Leia decided they were far enough away that directional microphones would probably not pick up their discussion. “She was lying.”

  Han hopped into the pilot’s seat. “Well, sure. She’s a Chief of State.” Then he realized what he’d just said to his wife. “As opposed to, say, a former Chief of State.”

  “Not everything she said was a lie.”

  “So which part was?”

  Leia shook her head. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe the poll results are more important to her than she’s letting on. Or maybe she was stalling us for some other reason.”

  Han scowled. “You think she’s got something else in play?”

  “I think she could have,” Leia said. “Or maybe the polls are just an excuse. Maybe she’s just trying to drag negotiations out, buying time for public opinion to change—or to get a firmer grasp on the military. It’s clear that she doesn’t trust them, or she would have sent a company of space marines to raid the Temple instead of Mandos.”

  “A company of space marines wouldn’t have done it,” Han said. “They’re under Gavin Darklighter’s command right now.”

  “Yes, Han,” Leia said. “That’s my point.”

  AIRSPEEDER HANGAR STRUCTURE NEAR

  PANGALACTUS, CORUSCANT

  Night had fallen, and the streams of airspeeder traffic had gone from torrents of metal and plasteel in innumerable colors to floods of running lights in an even greater range of hues. Tourists visiting Coruscant from other worlds often stood for hours on elevated pedwalks just to watch the flowing colors wax and wane in their mesmerizing aerial display.

  Thirty meters below one such tourist-populated walkway, in a middle level of a skeletal airspeeder parking structure, a very specialized speeder waited. It was huge and stretched across eight normal parking spots at the end of one parking lane. It was black and boxy, fully enclosed, with heavily tinted viewports and circular hatches atop its rear compartment in addition to the standard doors to either side of its cockpit. Anyone who had seen the funeral procession of Admiral Niathal would recognize it as one of the official speeders of the Mon Calamari embassy on Coruscant.

  But despite the fact that its identity tags claimed it to be that vehicle, it was not. The ersatz diplomatic vehicle was only a durasteel foil shell rigidly mounted to a slightly smaller enclosed cargo speeder, also black. And within that vehicle’s main compartment were banks of comm equipment, stools for four communications officers, and comfortable chairs at either end, two of which seated Moff Lecersen and Senator Treen.

  “It seems very conspicuous.” Treen did not sound in the least worried.

  Lecersen nodded and passed her a saucer and a cup of caf. “It is. Very conspicuous indeed. And should anyone note and recall its presence where it should not be, all questions will go to the Mon Cal ambassador.”

  Treen took the cup and saucer. She passed the cup beneath her nose and gave the most delicate of sniffs. “And if, by chance, a security agent should wish to interrogate the driver or enter the vehicle?”

  Lecersen glanced toward the pilot’s compartment. “Our pilot is a Quarren whose identicard matches that of one of the Mon Cal embassy’s employees. And if she can’t bluff her way past a security guard, we strap in and she roars off in an attempt to escape. If she can get clear of the direct line of sight of pursuit for a second or two—and believe me, she can, she’s a former A-wing pilot—she just has to hit a button to blow explosive bolts holding the shell in place around this vehicle. Suddenly we’ll be a completely innocent speeder headed in a completely different direction and the security agent would be diving after wreckage.”

  Treen looked sad. “But we’ll spill our caf.”

  Lecersen drew in a breath to reply, but the nearest comm officer spoke first. “Sir, operative coming on station now.”

  “Have you patched in to the restaurant holocam system?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Put it up, please.”

  A monitor situated at the end of the comm boards, facing Lecersen and Treen, glowed into life. It showed, from about a three-meter altitude, a large chamber occupied by dozens of high-ranking Imperial officers in the uniforms of four and a half decades before. They clustered around computer consoles and viewports the height of tall men. At the center of the chamber was a single black chair, high-backed, set upon a low dais, with a small rectangular table before it. In the chair sat a tall, pale man clad all in black, dark polarized optics over his eyes.

  Treen blinked, clearly confused. “I thought we would be looking at a restaurant.”

  “We are.”

  “But that’s the control chamber of the first Death Star. Or am I hallucinating?” She looked with suspicion at her cup of caf.

  “Take a closer look. This man is actually in a chamber no more than four meters by six. But the walls are floor-to-ceiling monitors. Every dining room in the Pangalactus Restaurant is similarly equipped. Some are larger, some smaller, but they all have total-immersion visuals, and Pangalactus has an extraordinary library of images to put up on the walls, including some stills, but mostly active.”

  “You sound like an advertisement.”

  “I am a shareholder, through a variety of intermediary names and insulators.”

  Reassured, Treen took another sip. “So.”

  “So the man in the chair is real. His name is Kester Tolann.”

  “Any relation to Commander Wister Tolann of the Imperial Navy?”

  “His grandson.”

  Treen nodded, thoughtful. “I knew the elder Tolann. Thought he was rather more efficient than he turned out to be.”

  “Grand Admiral Thrawn agreed with you. His fitness reports on the older Tolann basically kept him from rising above the rank of commander. This boy’s grandfather spent the last years of his military career routing waste-management convoys for Sate Pestage and Ysanne Isard when they ran the Empire.”

  “Ah.” Finally some interest sparkled in the old woman’s eyes. “So the younger Tolann has reason to hate the Chiss.”

  “The Chiss, anyone who is associated with the Chiss, and, in fact, any nonhuman species that dares to compete with humans. For anything.”

  “And, of course, Jagged Fel, reared among the Chiss—”

  “More than that. Senator, do you know what duusha is?”

  She offered him a delicate little frown of consideration. “Some sort of cheese, isn’t it?”

  “Produced on Tatooine and other backward worlds. It’s made wi
th blue milk and takes the milk’s coloration. It’s aged in rounds. Various fungi grow on the outside, insulating the cheese as it ages, protecting it from contaminants; some are white, some brown, red, green …”

  “I see. Or, rather, I don’t.” Then she did. Lecersen all but saw a glow rod light up over the Senator’s head. “No, I do. Duusha is blue on the inside and some other color on the outside … like Fel.”

  “Correct. His nickname among certain bands of critics in the Empire is Duusha because, they say, he’s crude, cheap, and blue on the inside. Hence, tonight’s activity is Operation Duusha.”

  “You should have been a teacher. You bring your subject matter to life, and engage your students.”

  Lecersen cleared his throat and pointed back at the monitor to return Treen’s attention to it. “At any rate, Head of State Fel and his dining party are now en route to Pangalactus. They will arrive, they will be told that their chamber is ready. But they’ll be slightly put off by the fact that some news of their dinner has been uncovered by Galactic Alliance Security, so they’ll insist on a change of chambers. The only other chamber with a party sitting down at the same time, with similar dimensions, is immediately adjacent to Kester Tolann’s.”

  Treen smiled. “So young Tolann, to avenge his grandfater’s disgrace and to save the Empire from nonhuman job stealers, is going to kill Jagged Fel.”

  “I doubt it. He is an idiot, after all. Odds approach ninety to one that he’ll fail.”

  “Oh.” Treen’s expression turned to one of rebuke. “You brought me here to see a failure.”

  “No, I brought you here to see Jag Fel take another big step toward dropping the role of Head of State into my lap,” he said. “And to see how we’re going to prevent Daala from restoring her public image.”

  A trio of deep wrinkles appeared between Treen’s carefully plucked brows. “I don’t recall asking for your assistance with that.”

  “No, but an opportunity presented itself, and she has been making a lot of noise about working things out with the Jedi of late,” Lecersen said. “I’m sure you can imagine how difficult it would become to remove her from office, if she came to an accommodation with them and actually had their support.”

  Treen’s lips tightened. “True,” she said. “But I really don’t think you’re going to convince the Solos that Daala is the one trying to have their future son-in-law killed. The blame is naturally going to fall on you and your fellow moffs—especially when the assassin is the grandson of a former Imperial officer.”

  Lecersen’s smirk only widened. “You might be right, were he the only surprise I have in store for you tonight.”

  A sparkle came to Treen’s eyes. “I do love surprises,” she said. “But only if I have a hint.”

  “Very well,” Lecersen said. “The true attack—the one on Fel—is going to look like a diversion.”

  Treen’s eyes grew round. “There’s going to be another?”

  Lecersen nodded. “Against the Solos,” he said. “And they’ll believe that they’re the true targets.”

  “Oh.” Treen licked her lips. “How nice.”

  JAGGED FEL, DRESSED IN A RICH BUT UNDERSTATED BLACK UNIFORM-STYLE ensemble, spun away from the two GAS security officers waiting outside the dining room he had reserved at Pangalactus, then spoke softly to their Rodian host.

  “I’m sorry,” Jagged said. “Our reservation was to be held in the strictest confidence. I’d appreciate it if you could set up another room. Any other room.”

  The Rodian’s voice, singsong with the difficult task of forming Basic words with its Rodian vocal cords, carried no hint of unhappiness. “Of course. There may be a considerable wait—”

  “Pardon me, sir,” interrupted the Rodian’s protocol droid, a male model with a dull bronze finish. He displayed a small datapad in his hand. “There is one other room free at the moment. The party that reserved it are wonderful customers who might be willing to switch this evening, and we could have it set up as requested in just a few minutes.”

  “We’d be most grateful,” Jag said. “Please extend my thanks, and add their bill to mine.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The host waited while the protocol droid made the arrangements, then led Jag and his party toward their new dining room.

  Jaina fell into step beside Jag. “Very smooth of you. The teenage pilot you were back in the Yuuzhan Vong war didn’t have all those social graces.”

  He tucked her arm through his. “You might have been surprised. High-ranking Chiss military families learn a lot more than warfare.”

  They filed into the new chamber—first two Imperial security agents, then Jag and Jaina, then Han and Leia, Allana, C-3PO and R2-D2, and finally two more security agents. The rest of Jag’s security detail was posted at the entrances into Pangalactus. The chamber featured a central table in golden wood that seemed drenched with sunlight—in fact, it glowed faintly—and matching padded chairs. The walls showed a vista of green meadows, purple and blue mountains in the distance on three sides, a modern city in the distance on the fourth side. Airspeeders of slightly archaic design flew in orderly lanes above the city.

  Leia stopped as she recognized the scene, and a slow smile spread across her face. “It’s Alderaan. Jag, you shouldn’t have.”

  “Of course I should have.” Jag held a chair for Jaina, then sat himself. “None of the rest of us grew up in anywhere near as pretty a place. Not consistently, anyway.”

  The bronze protocol droid was last in, entering as the security agents began their sweeps of the chamber and the droids situated themselves against one of the mountain walls. The protocol droid took drink orders, promised the immediate arrival of a server, and waddled out.

  Allana examined her table knife as though inspecting a lightsaber. “What do they serve? I hope it’s not all Corellian food like Han cooks. That’s too spicy.”

  Han looked hurt. “Give it a few more years. It’ll grow on you.”

  Jag grinned and swept a hand over the tabletop. “They have all sorts of things here, Amelia. Corellian, traditional meat cuts and fixings, Mon Cal–style seafood dishes, some fine-dining adaptations of military ration packs for old soldiers like me, Hapan—”

  “Hapan?” Allana brightened.

  “Best outside the Consortium.”

  “House holocam feeds disabled.” That was one of the security operatives, a Chiss man, his tone low and unobtrusive. “No observing devices present.”

  “Pathogens nil.” The dark-skinned human female with the electronic sniffer in her hands looked a little uncertain. “So many exotic spices in the air I had to broaden the range of acceptable toxicity.”

  Jag heaved a sigh.

  Leia smiled at him. “Get used to it.”

  On the monitor, Lecersen and Treen watched the Fel party enter the chamber, watched the bronze droid follow them and then, a couple of minutes later, depart. “We have no holocam feed from inside,” Lecersen explained. “To set one up would have invited discovery. We’ll have renewed sight and sound in a few minutes.”

  “Ah.”

  “Give us our lead operative, please.”

  The monitor switched back to a view of Kester Tolann’s chamber. The Death Star re-creation he was watching had changed, and he leaned forward in his chair, enraptured by the simulated events playing out before him.

  On the main wall, three figures held center stage. Two had their backs to Tolann. Dominant in the image, black and unmistakable, was Darth Vader. Barely visible, for she stood before Vader and only appeared when an arm or her head moved to one side of the Dark Lord of the Sith, was the eighteen-year-old Princess Leia Organa, Senator from Alderaan, clad in gubernatorial white, her hair arrayed in coiled side buns not often seen these days. Beyond Leia, facing her and Tolann, just enough to one side that his face remained in view, was a slightly built, aging man in a gray dress uniform—Grand Moff Tarkin, architect of the Death Star. And on the oversized monitor screen behind Tarkin was a p
lanet, blue and beautiful, surrounded by space and stars.

  Senator Treen’s jaw dropped. She fumbled with her caf cup as it nearly slipped from her fingers.

  Tarkin was speaking. “In a way, you have determined the choice of the planet that will be destroyed first. Since you are reluctant to provide us with the location of the Rebel base, I have chosen to test this station’s destructive power on your home planet of Alderaan.”

  Senator Leia surged forward. Her body language, the little of it that could be seen, was one of entreaty, pleading. When she spoke, her voice was not quite right, not quite the voice Lecersen had been familiar with for many years. Its pitch was a touch higher, and it carried the clipped tones of the Coruscanti accent, nearly identical to Tarkin’s, that so many Senators and other politicians affected back in the days of the Empire, even when they were not from Coruscant. “No. Alderaan is peaceful. We have no weapons. You can’t possibly—”

  Tarkin’s voice turned harsh, commanding. “You would prefer another target? A military target? Then name the system!”

  Treen laughed. No, to Lecersen’s surprise, she giggled like a girl. Then she fixed Lecersen with a look that was half amusement, half outrage. “This is in extraordinarily bad taste.”

  He nodded. “Isn’t it, though? It’s a re-creation, based on Leia’s own memoirs and standard reports filed by Vader and Grand Moff Tarkin. Admirers of the Palpatine era adore it. But it’s not listed on any official menu. You have to know about it and ask for it specifically. Anyway, when Alderaan blows up, it’s Tolann’s signal to act.”