Fate of the Jedi: Backlash

by Aaron Allston

  And all of her considerations meant nothing if the Skywalkers had seen her walking from Lord Gaalan’s presence to the forest.

  Absently, she shrugged Halliava off her shoulders. The woman fell to the ground, hitting hard and grunting in pain.

  In her moments of indecision, the Jedi and Sith moved.

  The Sith leader’s voice was cultured, surprisingly pleasant. “You are Grand Master Luke Skywalker.”

  Luke nodded. “My son, Ben. Our friend Dyon Stadd.”

  “I am Lord Viun Gaalan, the last man you will ever meet. Much admiration will be accorded me for killing Luke Skywalker. Especially by the family of Lady Rhea, whom you slew.”

  Luke shook his head. “No, you aren’t, and no, it won’t.” Lord Gaalan ignited his lightsaber; the clover-like growth on the meadow glowed red in its light. The other three Sith and the Jedi ignited theirs a split second afterward. Dyon drew his twin blaster pistols.

  Luke and Gaalan hurtled together, green lightsaber blade crashing on red, a blow that would have thrown any two lesser Force-users back half a dozen meters, but the two of them were unmoved. The female Sith beside Gaalan struck at Luke, but he merely adjusted the angle of his blade against Gaalan’s to catch her attack. Luke kicked, forcing the woman back; she fell, rolling into a backward somersault and coming up on her feet.

  Ben hurtled toward the other Sith male. Luke, in his peripheral vision, saw his son stop short and reverse direction. The Sith man, lunging toward him, slipped off-balance, and his lightsaber flew from his hand.

  Blasterfire flashed from Dyon at the disarmed Sith. The Sith man caught the first bolt with his open hand, but, still off-balance, could not catch the second. It seared into his knee. The third took him in the shoulder; the fourth, in the throat.

  The second Sith female leapt toward Dyon. He retreated, an expert dodge that caused her to miss his left arm with her lightsaber; the blow cleaved through his left-hand blaster instead.

  The woman who’d supported Gaalan now ran at Ben.

  Gaalan struck at Luke, high, low, a series of subtle and sophisticated blows that would have bewildered any lesser duelist. He was good; Luke gave him that. He might have been a match for an expert swordsmaster such as Kyp or Kyle Katarn. He would have been too much for a comparatively diffident duelist such as Cilghal, or even Luke as he had been back at Sinkhole Station, at low ebb in physical and mental strength.

  But Luke, despite recent exertions, had had time to recover. He parried each of Gaalan’s blows, and his ripostes—his blade skittering off Gaalan’s and thrusting now at the Sith Lord’s face, now at shoulder or knee or torso—came increasingly close to touching flesh.

  Luke smiled at the man.

  VESTARA TOOK HER LIGHTSABER IN HAND AND RAN, HER SPEED BOOSTED by the Force.

  One Sith Saber was down, dead. This still should have been a lopsided match, Gaalan matching Luke, the first female Saber matching Ben, the second Saber overmatching Dyon and almost killing the Jedi washout instantly.

  But Dyon was proving hard to kill. He bobbed and weaved, back-flipped and somersaulted, keeping just above or below the Saber’s blows, firing at his foe in the midst of his acrobatic maneuvers. His blaster shots went wild or were caught on the woman’s lightsaber blade, but they had to be reckoned with, countered.

  He dived for the dead Saber’s lightsaber, the hand that had held his now severed blaster empty, reaching for the weapon. He hit the ground, rolled—and came up with nothing in his clenched fist, having missed the lightsaber hilt.

  He looked stricken. The female Saber advancing on him smiled.

  Dyon backflipped away from her, his free arm flailing in the air—

  No, his clenched fist was not empty. It opened as he flailed and the handful of clover and dirt he held flew, spattering into the face of Ben’s opponent. She staggered back, taken momentarily by surprise.

  Ben cut her in half at the waist. Dyon landed, no longer looking stricken.

  Vestara grimaced. That was Firen’s ploy, used only semi-successfully in her last bout with Luke. Now it had changed the odds as intended, tilting them against the Sith.

  Ben charged against Dyon’s enemy. Dyon returned to the dropped lightsaber and picked it up with his free hand, all the while maintaining blasterfire against Ben’s new opponent. That Saber used her lightsaber to bat his blasterfire toward Ben, but the boy, with reflexes like lightning, batted the bolt straight back at her. It caught her on her sword wrist. She staggered back, pain crossing her features. Dyon’s next bolt and Ben’s next strike, launched reflexively, before they could even assess her condition or offer her surrender, both caught her, the bolt in her gut and the lightsaber across her neck. Her head flew free, straight up into the air, as her body was propelled straight back into the side of the shuttle.

  Vestara slowed, dropping the Force boost to her running speed.

  The others sensed her presence. Luke shifted rightward, not abandoning his concentration on Gaalan but putting Vestara’s angle of approach in his peripheral vision. Ben turned toward Vestara and—seeing Ben’s shift—Dyon did as well.

  Gaalan took that moment of adjustment to act. He backflipped—straight through the open boarding hatch of the shuttle. The hatch rose. Luke hurtled forward, got his lightsaber blade into the hatchway before it entirely closed, and began burning a narrow furrow around the periphery of the hatch.

  But the shuttle thrusters fired. Lord Gaalan could be seen in the cockpit, features beautiful and impassive as ever, in control of the vehicle. It skidded forward, leaving a meters-wide trench in the ground. Its nose lifted before it had traveled thirty meters, and it went airborne.

  Luke reached after it, a clear exertion of telekinetic Force power, then dropped his hand. He looked rueful. “He’s countering my power.”

  Ben pointed his blade at Vestara. “Come to help your boss, I suppose.”

  Vestara left her lightsaber unlit for the moment. “He’s not my ‘boss,’ as you put it. My Master was Lady Rhea. Your father killed her. Very skillfully, too, I might add.” She hung her weapon from her belt. “Of course, I’d hoped to leave with Lord Gaalan’s shuttle.”

  Luke swept his gesture toward Vestara. Her lightsaber leapt from her belt and into his hand. “I’ll take that for now.”

  She shrugged. “Of course. I have nothing to fear if I’m under your protection.”

  Dyon deactivated the lightsaber he’d recovered.

  Luke grinned at him. “You ought to keep that. It looks good on you.”

  “Red’s really not my color.” Dyon hung it from one of the innumerable attachment points on his vest. “But, yes. I think I will.”

  Ben glanced past Vestara. “We have company.”

  Vestara turned to look.

  Moving out of the forest were figures, recognizable in the moonlight as hunters and scouts of the Bright Sun Clan. Some lingered behind … right where Vestara had dropped Halliava.

  Vestara’s heart sank, just a little. But, no, she had little to fear here. Halliava would never admit to the arrangements she’d made with Vestara, would never admit to being a Nightsister. Their story would hold.

  Halliava, tears of anger and sorrow streaking the dirt on her face, pointed at Vestara. “I accuse the girl Vestara Khai.”

  They stood at the edge of the meadow, Tasander and Kaminne and many of their subchiefs, the Skywalkers, Dyon, many warriors and Witches. Others moved across the meadow, marveling at the bodies of the rancors and the three downed Sith.

  Tasander gave Vestara a curious look, then returned his attention to Halliava. “Accuse her of what?”

  “Complicity against the Bright Suns. Complicity I share. Conspiracy with the Nightsisters.”

  Kaminne’s voice was sad. “You condemn yourself.”

  “I have already lost everything. Because of her.” Halliava’s sweeping gesture took in the meadow. “The Sith took my sisters away. My family is gone. My clan is no more. Because of her. I do not care whether I live or die. I o
nly care that Vestara dies.”

  Vestara felt the many eyes on her. She maintained an expression of unconcern, and shrugged. “Well, yes. Now, look at why I have done what I’ve done. I have eliminated the entire conspiracy of Nightsisters from this region. You are now all safe from them, from their pettiness, from their evil. Because of me.”

  Halliava’s words emerged in almost a hiss. “You and I, we gave information to the Nightsisters. Information that was used to kill many Raining Leaves and Broken Columns.”

  “That’s true, and it saddens me.” Vestara let a touch of sorrow show in her expression. “I knew of no other way to draw out the Nightsisters so they could be destroyed. But what did we do, you and I, when there was danger? You assassinated Tribeless Sha. I helped Luke Skywalker survive. More than anything, those actions show our true motives.”

  There were murmurs from the other clan members present, many of them showing favor to Vestara’s words.

  Kaminne and Tasander drew together and spoke in low whispers. Then they turned to face Halliava and Vestara.

  “Tribeless Sha was not one of us.” Tasander sounded regretful. “So we cannot provide justice for her murder. No one can; she has no clan to bespeak her. And you, Halliava, have confessed to no other crimes of such magnitude—nothing that we from the outside call capital crimes. So it is our determination that you will be exiled. All across Dathomir, you will be known as a Nightsister. You will be hunted and hated. I will be surprised if you live long enough to earn your first gray hair. You will die alone and unloved. Your daughter, Ara, will be adopted by another.”

  Ben’s voice could be heard as a murmur: “She was Sha’s daughter anyway.”

  Kaminne turned to Vestara. “As for you, we cannot disprove your motives. Nor can we believe them. You have forfeited our trust in you. You are no longer a member of the Bright Sun Clan, no longer under our protection. You are subject to the laws and justice of the Jedi and other offworlders.”

  Vestara bowed her head.

  Olianne spoke next, her voice as low and sad as Kaminne’s. “I have lost my daughter. I will take Ara as my own.”

  “She gave something to the Sith Lord.” Halliava pointed at Vestara again. “Her communications device.”

  Luke and Ben glanced at each other. Ben looked rueful. “Probably with the nav data for the Maw. Dad—”

  “I know.” Luke turned to Kaminne and Tasander. “We need to get back to the spaceport. As soon as possible.”

  Kaminne nodded. “Just you and Ben?”

  “And Vestara, who is now our prisoner. And maybe—” He turned to Dyon.

  “You’ve got it.” Dyon gave Ben an irritated look. “You’re getting a lot for your five credits.”

  “I’ve got another five aboard Jade Shadow. It’s all yours.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tasander looked across the assembled Bright Suns. “We’ll get you a couple of speeder bikes. Leave them at the spaceport and we will reclaim them when we can.”

  Luke moved to Tasander and Kaminne, took the shoulder of each. “Thank you. And—if I didn’t say it before—congratulations.”

  Kaminne smiled. “Thank you. And you will always have a place among us, whether as a Jedi exile or a guest. You and Ben and Dyon are Bright Suns, if you wish to be.”

  Luke smiled. “We’ll take all the friends we can get.”

  While Kaminne and Tasander made arrangements, the offworlders sent back to the hill camp for their gear.

  Halliava disappeared. Ben assumed it was forever, but she returned a few minutes later with her pack and her weapons. Hesitant, she approached Luke. “Take me with you.”

  He gave her a look of genuine surprise.

  “Take me to the stars so that I may find the Sith and kill them. And free my sisters.”

  “That’s not our mission, Halliava.” Luke sighed. “But I won’t stand in the way of anyone who wants to do harm to the Sith. If you survive long enough to make your way to the spaceport, you can find a way to get offworld. If you can get offworld, perhaps you can learn enough about the Sith to find them.”

  Stone-faced, she turned and disappeared once more into the woods.

  Tasander and Kaminne returned a few minutes later. Tasander held two datacards, which he handed to Luke. “Access codes for two speeder bikes, Drola’s and his brother Tulu’s. They’ll get you to the spaceport.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And this—” Kaminne held up a rolled animal hide bound with a thong. “—is for you, Ben, since your father cannot take it.”

  Ben took it from her. “What is it?”

  “A—what is it you call it?” Kaminne turned to her husband.

  “A deed.” Tasander jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “To the hill. For the Jedi Order. I think you should build a new school here. So now there’s a piece of land you can use, right here in Bright Sun territory, if you want it.”

  “Thank you.” Ben tucked the deed into his belt. “Hey, Dad, I’ve got my landlord job back.”

  GALACTIC EMPIRE EMBASSY, CORUSCANT

  Flanked by white-armored troopers, Moff Lecersen was conducted into Head of State Fel’s temporary office. He affected unconcern as he looked around, noting that the damage from Senator Treen’s failed assassination attempt had been repaired.

  Jagged Fel sat behind the desk. Its dark woods and synthetic surfaces were well suited to his dark hair and brooding manner.

  Fel gestured at a chair. “Have a seat.”

  “Thank you.” Lecersen kept an open, unsuspecting expression on his face, but inwardly his stomach began to flare up. Had Fel already discovered his complicity in the restaurant attack? Had Lecersen’s operatives been so clumsy?

  “I want to talk to you about the other night’s attempt on my life.”

  Lecersen’s heart sank, but he kept his sabacc face on. Bluff, bluff, always bluff. “A most unfortunate event. It’s miraculous that you escaped unhurt. I’ve seen the recordings of Javis Tyrr’s broadcast.”

  “Yes … While I’m certain that enhanced security measures will keep me safe, the two recent attempts have served to remind me of my own mortality. And the fact that if I were to fall to an assassin’s blaster, what would result would be a power vacuum. A struggle for power now, at a time when we can least afford it, as we negotiate for the Empire’s union with the Galactic Alliance.”

  Lecersen nodded. This didn’t sound like an accusation. Perhaps he’d squeaked through after all.

  “So I’m asking who, if I were to die, you would support as the next Head of State.”

  Lecersen felt the wind leave him. Himself, of course, the answer was himself and no one but.

  And yet if he offered that as an answer, would Fel then suspect him of being the instigator of the assassination attempts? On the other hand, if Lecersen offered another name, would Fel back that individual instead, weakening Lecersen’s position?

  Lecersen blinked. “A complicated question.”

  “Come, come. Moffs, like Heads of State, deal with complicated questions all the time.”

  “Yes, of course.” Lecersen considered. “To be honest, I have given no thought to who might succeed you. But if you’ll give me a little time, I’d be happy to work up a short list for you. And honored that you asked my opinion.”

  “Please do. I look forward to hearing what you have to say.”

  “Is there any word on your assailant?”

  “Only what you’ve heard on the broadcast. His associates are being investigated to within a centimeter of their lives. The conspiracy that he belonged to is doomed, of course. I don’t even have to participate in their destruction.”

  Lecersen frowned. “How’s that?”

  Fel pressed a virtual button on his desktop. Behind him, on the wall, a large monitor resolved itself into a still holocam image.

  It was taken the night of the Pangalactus attack. It showed Han and Leia Solo moving toward the cam, their daughter Amelia between them, each of them holding one of h
er hands. She was wide-eyed and solemn. The Solos, however, wore expressions of implacable anger. Leia’s fury was obvious and chilling, while Han—Lecersen reflected, not for the first time, that Han Solo, his jaw locked and eyes blazing, perhaps looked angrier than any other living being, Corellian sand panthers included.

  Fel glanced back at the image. “The conspirators endangered their daughter, and so made two deadly enemies. I wouldn’t want the Solos after me.”

  Lecersen felt the turmoil in his stomach intensify. “No, indeed.”

  “Well, thanks for stopping in.”

  “Always happy to.” Lecersen rose.

  Once the Moff was gone, Fel sat still for several moments, merely drumming his fingers on the desktop.

  The door beside and behind him slid open. Jaina emerged and sat on the edge of his desk. “What do you think?”

  “He wasn’t prepared to put himself forward as my successor. Which is interesting, because it suggests that he’s not, at this instant, ready to step in for me. Which in turn suggests that he has other plans. But if we assume that he does intend to be Head of State, we also have to presume that he’s not ready to complete his own plans to become Head of State.”

  “In other words, if you were to die or abdicate, he’s not in a position to secure his position. Not yet.”

  Jag nodded. “Which keeps him on the list of potential conspirators. I’ll bring in the other leading candidates and give them the same speech. See which ones behave as he does. And maybe, just maybe, some of them will get the idea that it’s not a good idea to endanger Amelia Solo.”

  Jaina smiled. “There have been times when being Han and Leia Solo’s daughter has been the most exasperating thing in the universe.”

  “And other times?”

  “A source of great pride. Come to think of it, both conditions apply to being Jagged Fel’s lover.”

  He smiled in return. “Ah, the backhanded compliment. Something all the Solos have mastered.”

  DATHOMIR SPACEPORT

  IT WAS A FINE DAY AT MONARG’S MECHANIC WORKS. THE SUN SHONE outside, but cool winds from the southern coasts kept the temperature reasonable. Monarg had the doors at both ends of his shop open, allowing the breeze to circulate.