by Troy Denning
“We have proof,” Alema said.
“And I doubt that.” Han glanced at her skintight bodysuit. “You don’t have a place to put it.”
“We’re glad you’re not too old to notice,” Alema said. “Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
The smile Alema flashed Han was both knowing and genuine. “Sure it was.” She turned back to Luke, then glanced at R2-D2. “But we should have said you have proof.”
Luke shook his head. “I really don’t think so. If that’s all you have to say—”
“Daxar Ies wasn’t the Emperor’s accountant,” she interrupted. “He was an Imperial droid-brain designer.” She glanced again at R2-D2. “He designed the Intellex Four, as a matter of fact.”
Luke’s mind raced back to the year before, to his discovery of the sequestered sector in R2-D2’s deep-reserve memory, trying to remember just how much Alema might have learned about those events before fleeing the academy.
“Nice try.” Han had clearly noticed her glance toward the droid as well. “But we’re not buying it. Just because you heard someone say that Luke was looking for information on the Intellex Four designer—”
“Han, she couldn’t have overheard that,” Luke said. “She was already gone. We were in flight control when Ghent told us about his disappearance, remember?”
“That doesn’t mean she didn’t leave bugs all over the place,” Han pointed out.
“We didn’t—as we are sure your eavesdropping sweeps have already revealed.” Alema continued to stare at Luke. “Do you want to find out more about your mother, or not?”
Luke and Leia had long ago guessed the woman in the records R2-D2 had sequestered—Padmé—might be their mother, but hearing someone else say it sent a jolt of elation through him . . . even if he did feel certain that the Dark Nest was counting on exactly that reaction.
Han was more cynical. “So Anakin Skywalker was making holorecordings of his girlfriend—I know a lot of guys who used to do the same thing. It doesn’t mean she’s Luke’s mother.”
“But it means she could be—and we can help Master Skywalker learn the truth.” Alema shot Luke a sardonic smile. “Unless you prefer ignorance to knowing that Mara has been deceiving you. Daxar Ies was no accountant. He was the one being who could have helped you unlock the secret of your mother’s past.”
“Nice story,” Han said. “Hangs together real well—until you get to the part where Daxar Ies is the Intellex Four designer. Why would the Emperor have his best droid-brain designer killed?”
Alema’s face grew enigmatic and empty. “Who knows? Revenge, perhaps, or merely to keep him from defecting to the Rebels, too. That is not as important as the reason Mara lied to you about who he is.”
“I’m listening.” Even saying the words made Luke feel hollow and sick inside, as though he were betraying Mara by hearing the Twi’lek out. “For now.”
Alema wagged her finger. “First, what we want.”
“That does it,” Han said. He thumbed the selector switch on his blaster to full power. “I’m tired of being played. I’m just going to blast her now.”
Alema’s gaze went automatically to Luke.
Luke shrugged and stepped out of the line of fire. “Okay, if you have to.”
“Please . . . ,” Alema said sarcastically. She flicked a finger, and the selector switch on Han’s blaster flipped itself back to stun. “If you were really going to blast me, you wouldn’t stand here discussing it.”
“You’re right.” Han flicked the selector switch back to full power. “We’re done dis—”
“Perhaps you will be more inclined to hear us out after we have proved that we can access the records,” Alema said to Luke. She gestured at R2-D2. “May we?”
Luke motioned Han to wait. “May you what?”
“Display one of the holos, of course,” Alema said. When Luke did not automatically grant permission, she glanced up and added, “If we wished to harm him, Master Skywalker, we would already have sprinkled him with froth.”
Luke looked up at growing blister on the ceiling, then let out a breath. Alema was telling the truth about that much, at least—it would have been a simple matter to use the Force to pull some of the gray froth down on them. He nodded and stepped aside.
As the Twi’lek approached, R2-D2 let out a fearful squeal and began to retreat as fast as his wheels would carry him. Alema simply reached out with the Force and floated him back over to her.
“Artoo, please show . . .” She paused and turned to Luke. “What would you like to see?”
Luke’s heart began to pound. He was half afraid that Alema’s claims would prove hollow—and half afraid they would not. While he was extremely eager to find some way to retrieve the data that did not involve reprogramming R2-D2’s personality, Luke was also keenly aware that the Dark Nest was trying to manipulate him to ends he did not yet understand.
“You choose.”
Alema let out a series of throat-clicks. “Hmmm . . . what would we want to know if we had been raised without our mother?” She turned back to the beeping, blinking droid she was holding in the air before her. “We have an idea. Let’s look for something that confirms the identity of Master Skywalker’s parents, Artoo.”
R2-D2 whistled a refusal so familiar that Luke did not even need a translation to know he was claiming to have no such data.
“You mustn’t be that way, Artoo,” Alema said. “We have your file security override code: Ray-Ray-zero-zero-seven-zero-five-five-five-Trill-Jenth-seven.”
“Hey,” Han said, “that sounds like an—”
“Account number, yes,” Alema said. “Eremay was rather special—she barely knew her own name, but she never forgot a list of numbers or letters.”
Artoo let out a defeated trill; then his holoprojector activated. The image of a beautiful brown-haired, brown-eyed woman—Padmé—appeared before the droid, walking through the air in front of what looked like an apartment wall. After a moment, a young man’s back came into the image. He seemed to be sitting on a couch, hunched over some kind of work that was not visible in the hologram.
Without looking up, the young man said, “I sense someone familiar.” The voice was that of Luke’s father, Anakin Skywalker. “Obi-Wan’s been here, hasn’t he?”
Padmé stopped and spoke to Anakin’s back. “He came by this morning.”
“What did he want?”
Anakin set his work aside and turned around. He appeared tense, perhaps even angry.
Padmé studied him for a moment, then said, “He’s worried about you.”
“You told him about us, didn’t you?”
Anakin stood, and Padmé started walking again. “He’s your best friend, Anakin.” She passed through a doorway, and the corner of a bed appeared in front of her. “He says you’re under a lot of stress.”
“And he’s not?”
“You have been moody lately,” Padmé said.
“I’m not moody.”
Padmé turned around and faced him. “Anakin . . . don’t do this again.”
Her beseeching tone seemed to melt Anakin. He turned away, shaking his head, and vanished. “I don’t know,” he said from outside the image. “I feel . . . lost.”
“Lost?” Padmé started after him. “You’re always so sure of yourself. I don’t understand.”
When Anakin returned to the image, he was looking away, his whole body rigid with tension.
“Obi-Wan and the Council don’t trust me,” he said.
“They trust you with their lives!” Padmé took his arm and pressed it to her side. “Obi-Wan loves you as a son.”
Anakin shook his head. “Something’s happening.” He still would not look at her. “I’m not the Jedi I should be. I’m one of the most powerful Jedi, but I’m not satisfied. I want more, but I know I shouldn’t.”
“You’re only human, Anakin,” Padmé said. “No one expects any more.”
Anakin was silent for a moment, the
n his mood seemed to lighten as quickly as it had darkened a moment before, and he turned and placed a hand on her belly.
“I have found a way to save you.”
Padmé frowned in confusion. “Save me?”
“From my nightmares,” Anakin said.
“Is that what’s bothering you?” Padmé’s voice was relieved.
Anakin nodded. “I won’t lose you, Padmé.”
“I’m not going to die in childbirth, Anakin.” She smiled, and her voice turned light. “I promise you.”
Anakin remained grave. “No, I promise you,” he said. “I’m becoming so powerful with my new knowledge of the Force that I’ll be able to keep you from dying.”
Padmé’s voice turned as grave as Anakin’s, and she locked eyes with him. “You don’t need more power, Anakin. I believe you can protect me from anything . . . just as you are.”
This won a smile from Anakin—but it was a small, hard smile filled with secrets and fear, and when they kissed, it seemed to Luke that his father’s arms were not embracing so much as claiming.
The hologram ended. R2-D2 deactivated his holoprojector and let out a long, descending whistle.
“No need to apologize, Artoo.” Alema’s eyes remained fixed on Luke. “The file you chose was excellent—wasn’t it, Master Skywalker?”
“It served to illustrate your point,” Luke allowed.
“Come now,” Alema said. “It confirmed the identity of your mother—just as we promised it would. We’re sure you would like to learn what became of her.”
“Now that you mention it, yeah,” Han said. “One file doesn’t prove a thing.”
“Nice try.” Alema shot Han an irritated scowl. “But one sample is all you get. And we advise you not to try opening any files yourself. The access code changes with each use, and the file will be destroyed. When three files have been lost, the entire chip will self-destruct.”
“That would be unfortunate, but not disastrous,” Luke said. Though he had little doubt now that the woman in the holos was indeed his mother, his father’s brooding nature had left him feeling uneasy inside—and a bit frightened for the woman. “Leia and I have learned a great deal from Old Republic records already. We’re fairly certain that the woman in the holos is Padmé Amidala, a former Queen and later Senator of Naboo.”
“Will those old records tell you what she looked like when she smiled? How she sounded when she laughed? Why she abandoned you and your sister?” Alema pushed her lip into a pout. “Come, Master Skywalker. We are only asking that you leave Gorog alone. Do that, and each week we will feed you one of the access codes you need to truly know your mother.”
Luke paused, insulted that Alema could believe such a ploy would work on him, wondering if there had ever been a time when he could have seemed so unprincipled and self-serving to her.
“You surprise me, Alema,” Luke said. “I would never place personal interests above those of the Jedi and the Force. You must know that—even if Gorog doesn’t.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean we’re looking for trouble, either,” Han added hastily. “We’re just here to help with the Fizz. As long as the Dark Nest isn’t bothering us, we won’t bother it.”
“Good.” Alema trailed her fingertips across Han’s shoulders, smirking as though she had won her concession. “That’s all we can ask.”
Han shuddered free of her. “Do you mind? I don’t want to catch anything.”
Alema cocked her brow, more surprised than hurt, then held her hand out to Luke. “If you’ll return our lightsaber, we’ll let you be on your way.” She glanced at the ceiling, which was already starting to froth, then added, “We wouldn’t want anything to happen to Artoo.”
Luke took the weapon from his belt, but instead of returning it to Alema, he opened the hilt and removed the Adegan focusing crystal from inside.
“It pains me to say this, Alema.” He began to squeeze, calling on the Force to bolster his strength, and felt the crystal shatter. “But you are no longer fit to carry a lightsaber.”
Alema’s eyes flashed with rage. “That means nothing!” Her lekku began to writhe and twitch, but she managed to retain control of herself and turned toward the door. “We’ll just build another.”
“I know.” Luke turned his hand sideways and let the crystal dust fall to the floor. “And I’ll take that one away, too.”
THREE
The mourners wore gaily patterned tabards brighter than anything Cal Omas had ever imagined a Sullustan owning, but they approached the vault in somber silence, each masc setting a single transpariblock into the seamweld the crypt master had spread for him, each fem taking the weld-rake in her left hand and carefully smoothing the joints.
This being Sullust, and Sullustans being Sullustans, the tomb-walling ceremony followed a rigid protocol, with the crypt master inviting mourners forward according to both their social status and their relationship to the deceased. Admiral Sovv’s younglings and seven current wives had placed the first blocks, followed by his grown children and the other husbands of his warren-clan, then by his blood relatives, his closest friends, the two Jedi Masters in attendance—Kenth Hamner and Kyp Durron—and the entire executive branch of Sullust’s governing corporation, SoroSuub. Now, with only one gap remaining in the wall, the crypt master summoned Cal Omas forward.
Omas’s protocol droid had warned him that before placing the last block, the person called upon at this point was expected to deliver a brief comment of exactly as many words as the deceased’s age in standard years. This was not to be a eulogy—recounting the departed’s life would have been considered an affront to those present, implying as it did that the other mourners had not known the dead person as well as they thought. Instead, it was to be a simple address from the heart.
Omas took his place in front of the vault and accepted the transpariblock. The thing was far heavier than it looked, but he pulled it close to his body and did his best not to grimace as he turned to face the assembly.
The gathering was huge, filling the entire Catacomb of Eminents and spilling out the doors into the Gallery of Ancestors. The throng contained more than a hundred Alliance dignitaries, but they went almost unnoticed in the sea of Sullustan faces. As the Supreme Commander of the force that had defeated the Yuuzhan Vong, Sien Sovv had been a hero of mythical proportions on Sullust, an administrator and organizer who rivaled the stature of even Luke Skywalker and Han and Leia Solo in other parts of the galaxy.
Omas took a deep breath, then spoke. “I speak for everyone in the Galactic Alliance when I say that we share Sullust’s shock and sorrow over the collision that took the lives of Admiral Sovv and so many others. Sien was my good friend, as well as the esteemed commander of the Galactic Alliance military, and I promise you that we will bring those who are truly responsible for this tragedy to justice . . . no matter what nebula they try to hide within.”
The Sullustans remained silent, their dark eyes blinking up at Omas enigmatically. Whether he had shocked the mourners with his suggestion of foul play or committed some grievous error of protocol, Omas could not say. He knew only that he had spoken from the heart, that he had reached the limits of his patience with the problems the Killiks were causing, and that he intended to act—with or without the Jedi’s support.
After a moment, an approving murmur rose from the back of the crowd and began to rustle forward, growing in volume as it approached. Kenth Hamner and Kyp Durron scowled and peered over their shoulders at the assembly, but if the Sullustan mourners noticed the censure, they paid it no attention. There had already been rumblings about Master Skywalker’s conspicuous absence from the funeral, so no one in the crowd was inclined to pay much attention to the opinions of a pair of bug-loving Jedi.
Once the murmur reached the front of the crowd, the crypt master silenced the chamber with a gesture. He had Omas hoist the heavy transpariblock into place, then invited the mourners to retire to the Gallery of Ancestors, where SoroSuub Corporation was sponsor
ing a funerary feast truly unrivaled in the history of the planet.
As Omas and the other dignitaries waited for the catacombs to clear, he went over to the two Jedi Masters. Kenth Hamner, a handsome man with a long aristocratic face, served as the Jedi order’s liaison to the Galactic Alliance military. He was dressed in his formal liaison’s uniform, looking as immaculate and polished as only a former officer could. Kyp Durron had at least shaved and soni-smoothed his robe, but his boots were scuffed and his hair remained just unruly enough for the Sullustans to find fault on such a formal occasion.
“I’m happy to see the Jedi were able to send someone,” Omas said to the pair. “But I’m afraid the Sullustans may read something untoward into Master Skywalker’s absence. It’s unfortunate he couldn’t be here.”
Rather than explain Luke’s absence, Kenth remained silent and merely looked uncomfortable.
Kyp went on the attack. “You didn’t help matters by suggesting that the Killiks were responsible for the accident.”
“They were,” Omas answered. “The Vratix piloting that freighter were so drunk on black membrosia, it’s doubtful they ever knew they had collided with Admiral Sovv’s transport.”
“That’s true, Chief Omas,” Kenth said. “But it doesn’t mean that the Killiks are responsible for the accident.”
“It certainly does, Master Hamner,” Omas said. “How many times has the Alliance demanded that the Colony stop sending that poison to our insect worlds? How many times must I warn them that we’ll take action?”
Kyp frowned. “You know that the Dark Nest—”
“I know that I’ve been attending funerals all week, Master Hamner,” Omas fumed. “I know that the Supreme Commander of the Alliance military and more than two hundred members of his staff are dead. I know who is responsible—ultimately, utterly, and undeniably responsible—and I know the Jedi have been shielding them ever since Qoribu.”