Revelation

by Karen Traviss

  “Is he recharging himself? Must take it out of you, bringing down a planetary shield singlehanded, without the aid of a decent Death Star …”

  Her slight flinch made Pellaeon bet on that being closer to the truth than he’d imagined. He’d watched thousands of personnel under stress. He was sure he knew the real thing from an act.

  “I would think his crew are finding it hard to respond to the order,” she said. “They’re personally loyal, but it’s also true that on the battlefield, a full admiral outranks a colonel.”

  “Solo’s got so many titles.” It was probably hard to respond to an order from Niathal when your CO could throttle you without leaving his seat, too. “Must be confusing.”

  The midshipman turned sharply, one fingertip against his earpiece, at the exact moment one of the sensor scan operator snapped, “The Anakin’s fired.” Then reports flooded in.

  “Fondorian cruiser Prosperity’s taken a direct hit on the bridge, sir.”

  “Looks like several enemy vessels responding.”

  “Fondorian fighters—”

  “Ocean for you, sir.”

  Pellaeon took the comm, audio only. He hoped Daala was paying attention. “Cha, what’s going on?”

  “Sorry, Gil, but Solo’s not responding to reason, and I can’t rely on his commanders to follow me. I’m going in now to put some buffer between him and Fondor, and stop him the hard way. I need your help.” A pause. “Wretched shame that he’s taking so many good crew down with him in that ship.”

  “Understood.” This was the inevitable cleansing Pellaeon thought might be a longer time coming. It was as good a time as any. He turned to the Moffs and gestured to the comm officer with a finger to open the fleetwide channel. “All ships, identify GA vessels not responding to Admiral Niathal, and engage any that attack Fondorian targets immediately. We will honor this surrender as long as Fondor does.”

  There was a ripple of uncomfortable breaths among some of the Moffs.

  “Are we clear in our purpose, gentlemen?”

  “Yes, Admiral,” said Quille.

  Pellaeon turned for the hatch. A private conversation with Daala seemed a good idea. Then he’d call Reige to his cabin, and discuss what to do with Quille when the fleet arrived home. “I’ll be in my day cabin for a few minutes. It’s my age …”

  He swept past Tahiri and strode down the passageway. The order for action stations was echoing through the ship, and everyone was closing up for duties, making him feel almost a footnote to events. He slipped into his cabin and secured the lock, catching sight of himself in the mirror on the locker hatch and straightening his collar.

  Daala can hear all this anyway. I just want to hear her take on this. She’s more at the Jacen end of the ruthless spectrum. Pellaeon wondered if he simply wanted to hear a friendly voice, and took his comlink from his tunic. At least it’ll be over sooner rather than later.

  Then the hatch opened.

  He’d locked it.

  Tahiri Veila stepped in, head slightly lowered as if she was sorry to interrupt him.

  “Sorry, sir, but I had to speak to you.”

  Pellaeon felt his nape prickle. He’d have to factor in anti-Force-user security in the future, just in case—if such a thing could be made. “There’s always knocking …”

  “Sir, there are lives on the line. If you let the GA tear itself apart, everyone loses.”

  “I’m not letting it do anything, Lieutenant,” he said. “I’m giving practical support to an ally.”

  “If Colonel Solo is deposed, the GA will revert to its indecisive self and there’ll be chaos.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t agree with you, my dear, but then I don’t have to. Loyalty is a fine thing, don’t think that I don’t respect that—but Jacen Solo’s the chaos, not the cure.” Pellaeon stood, expecting her to try some feminine charm. The comlink to Daala was still open: she’d be finding this amateur routine very amusing. “Is there anything else?”

  “The Moffs will break off if you tell them to.” Tahiri took a step back. “I witnessed the influence you wield. Moff Quille was ready to defy you, but you just put him back in his place. I can feel things in beings that even you can’t see.”

  “I’ve no reason to refuse Admiral Niathal’s request. Subject closed.”

  Tahiri pressed her lips together and sighed, mild annoyance, possibly joking, but the GA-issue officer’s blaster she drew from her belt was quite serious.

  “Please, Admiral, just do it.” She flicked the safety catch off and aimed it at his chest. Her voice had a harder edge and lower tone now. “Call off your fleet and give Jacen Solo a chance. He needs to win at Fondor.”

  “Win …”

  “Destroy its capacity to threaten the GA again. It’s a practical matter, but it also shows the rest of the galaxy how high the stakes are for them.”

  Ironic. Jacen Solo would have found Alderaan’s demise within his ideology. Pellaeon wondered what Leia would have made of that.

  “No.” Pellaeon calculated whether he could draw his weapon before she could fire—if she would fire—but she was a Jedi, and a third his age. A horrible certainty gripped his gut. For a few moments all he could feel was the sensation of intense cold flooding his thigh muscles. He’d felt it before, under fire, when he knew how close he was to annihilation. But he was also used to working through that reflex. “I won’t ignore a surrender, and I won’t enable the bombardment of civilian centers afterward, and I will not lend the Empire to a petty despot.”

  “You know you’re going to die,” said Tahiri.

  Pellaeon was past the adrenaline ice stage and into the phase of letting his body and training take over to resolve the threat. It was a shame he was just a little too old now to do it with a display of physical force. He’d make his last punch count, though.

  “I’m ninety-two years old. Of course I’m going to die, and quite soon, but it’s how I die that matters to me. Please—get out of my cabin.”

  “Last chance.” Tahiri leveled the blaster. “All you have to do is call a halt. The Moffs obey you.”

  “My son died to defeat the Yuuzhan Vong, and Jacen’s as set on destroying everything I hold dear as they were.”

  Pellaeon knew death, all too closely glimpsed for too many years, and the end that he’d most feared was slow decline. He could feel death most days lately, tapping to get his attention like an anxious bird at the window. Now the bird was gone, and the dread with it. It was the cleaner death standing alongside him again now, the one he knew from combat, the one that he preferred, and few ever got to choose the way they left the world quite like this. He grabbed the privilege and opened his comlink.

  “Pellaeon to Fleet,” he said. Tahiri paused, probably expecting him to cave in to her threat, like she would. Life mattered more to her than how it was lived. “Fleet, this is Admiral Pellaeon. I order you to place your vessels at the complete disposal of Admiral Niathal, and take down Jacen Solo, for the honor of the Empire—”

  The blaster bolt hit him square in the chest and flung him back against the bulkhead. The pain was so fleeting that he was sure he was already dead; he’d always expected black oblivion, not this numbness like getting a crushing kick from a faulty power circuit. Tahiri leaned over him, eyes wide, the smell of blaster and burned fabric clinging to her. He wasn’t dead yet.

  Reige, I never had that talk with you—no, don’t come running, wait and fight another day, you can’t keep saving me forever—

  “So that’s Jacen’s new Sith Order,” Pellaeon whispered, actually quite surprised that this was what real dying felt like. He was having trouble breathing; a tight band gripped his chest, and the pain was suddenly excruciating. “Wiping out civilians … from a safe distance, and getting … a child to … kill an old man … just make sure … you can dismount from that … bloodfin of yours …”

  Tahiri looked concerned. Behind her, Moff Quille leaned through the hatch, tilted his head to stare at Pellaeon, and walked slowly away.


  “I can save you, Admiral,” she said. “It’s not too late. The heart’s a resilient muscle.”

  “Go … rot somewhere else … villip,” he whispered.

  There were boots in the passageway outside; not running, more shuffling around, waiting impatiently. Tahiri’s lighter step faded as she walked away.

  “Is he gone?” said a voice that he didn’t recognize.

  “Not yet,” said Quille. “I’m not going to touch him, so we’re totally clean …”

  The cabal of Quille’s Moffs. Pellaeon whispered, “Quille,” hoping Daala could still hear him, and add another Moff to her list.

  Admiral Daala’s fleet would be a lovely surprise. Pellaeon wouldn’t spoil it for the Moffs by letting them hear a distress call to her.

  He managed to fumble for the comlink and place it on the floor, but it was a struggle. He reached for the nearest hard surface and drummed his fingers.

  Rap … rap … rap.

  Rap, rap … brr-rrr-rapp.

  Pellaeon’s pain came crashing back at that moment like a tidal wave that had hung motionless for a split second. And yes, he’d been right all along. It was black, black oblivion after all.

  chapter fifteen

  Star Destroyer Chimaera to Slave I

  Fett, change of plan.

  I need you to seize a Star Destroyer for me.

  Before you ask—yes, I know that’ll cost extra.

  —Message from Admiral Daala to Boba Fett, awaiting orders ten standard minutes’ hyperspace jump from Fondor

  ANAKIN SOLO, INSIDE FONDORIAN SPACE

  Caedus felt stronger now, but the raw energy of the battle link with his commanders, built up and discharged into the minds of the Fondorian shield technicians, hadn’t yet returned.

  Exhausted, he had to rely on the natural skill of the commanders who’d rallied to him. Two Fondorian frigates circled the Anakin Solo, pounding the shield generator dome.

  He was also sick of hearing Niathal’s repeated signal to all GA vessels.

  “… all ships, Colonel Solo no longer holds command, You are to pursue and disable the Anakin Solo, or, if necessary …”

  “Traitor,” he whispered. “Traitor … traitor!” His voice rose to a snarl. “Traitor! Shut that comm down, Inondrar. Look at her! She thinks she’s a martyr, a hero!” Caedus jumped up and stalked to a holochart showing the close view of Fondor. GA ships loyal to Niathal were formed up with the Fondorian navy, blocking Caedus’s fleet by forming a defensive barrier between Fondor and its attackers. “She’s spending our lives to shield the traitors. She’s throwing away Alliance lives. What does she think, that Fondor’s going to make her a national hero now? They’d better, because she’s never setting foot on Coruscant again. Never.”

  Inondrar paused and waited for him to return to his seat. “Yes, sir.” The Anakin Solo’s executive officer now filled the breach left by Captain Nevil. He was doing his best, but it wasn’t enough. And when Caedus found Nevil, he was another traitor who would die. “Sir, there’s—”

  “Nevil’s betrayed me, too, hasn’t he?”

  “There’s one escape pod missing, and Captain Nevil can’t be found. But—”

  Caedus considered just jumping to hyperspace and fighting his corner from Coruscant, but that was just fatigue talking. He had a fleet here, and the battle wasn’t over.

  “Save your time. I don’t feel him on the ship.”

  “Sir, the Imperial Remnant—the fleet is turning toward us, and Lieutenant Veila is comming you.”

  Caedus was too thinly stretched to read much from her in the Force. Was the Remnant rejoining the battle to finish him off? He groped around for a sense of danger, but the carnage and chaos of the engagement drowned out all detail. He was under fire on all sides.

  “Lieutenant, go ahead.”

  “Sir, Admiral Pellaeon is dead, and the Imperial Remnant is rejoining your forces.”

  She said it calmly, as if it were a routine thing to have achieved. A subdued ripple of approval passed around the bridge crew. Caedus veered between prizing this loyalty and knowing that they had no choice but to fight, seeing as the Anakin was now the prime target and they were stuck in it.

  But they’re still here, and Nevil isn’t.

  Caedus gestured to Inondrar to take over, and moved to a comm station where he wouldn’t be overheard.

  “Did you finish the job yourself, Tahiri?”

  “I—I shot him, sir.”

  “You’ve probably saved the Galactic Alliance.”

  “I didn’t feel much of a savior. He was just an old man.”

  But Caedus noted that she had done it anyway, no sentimentality, no weakness. “How do we get you back on board in the middle of this, Tahiri?”

  “It’s going to be difficult.”

  “We’ll do it. You’re still in Bloodfin, yes? You’ll be safe there for the time being.”

  “I’m stuck in Bloodfin. The crew mutinied and the commanders are trying to regain control. We’re on emergency power—environment control only.” Tahiri seemed to lose her detachment for a moment. “We were taking fire from other Imperial ships until the Moffs called it off—they’ve transferred the flag. But the senior Moff commanders are all stranded here.”

  “I’ll come for you, Tahiri.”

  “The crew can’t hold those sections forever. When the fighting’s over, they’ll be able to send any number of ships back to storm Bloodfin.”

  And perhaps not be too careful who they blast when they try to get the Pellaeon loyalists out.

  “I’ll still come for you—when I can extract myself from this.” He could feel her now that he focused. She was unhappy, not afraid; full of doubt, but not about getting out of Bloodfin in one piece. “Are you ashamed, Tahiri? Are you ashamed because you killed an old man?”

  Tahiri didn’t answer for a moment. “It’s not quite the heroic role I had in mind.”

  “But you did it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tahiri, in the long term, it’s easier to kill a powerful enemy than it is an apparently weak one. If you bring down a giant, you’re a hero. If you kill something weak—even if it has to die—then you endure contempt. Being willing to be despised to serve the common good … that’s the mark of a true Sith. You’re going to make a fine apprentice for me, Tahiri.”

  “Oh. I’m … official, then.”

  Tahiri had a way with bathos that he’d thought was simple banality, but she seemed to use it as to defuse situations she found too awkward. Then again, she might have been subtly mocking him. “You may call me Darth Caedus. I shall be known only by my true name from now on.”

  “Yes … my lord.”

  “And I’ll come for you, Tahiri. I won’t abandon you.”

  The tide had turned. Caedus sensed another cog turn, shifting every part of the whole machine of existence. The galaxy was an altered place. The majestic power of an Imperial fleet joining his loyal ships felt like the rush of energy in his veins from eating a sustaining meal after a long fast. There was something else, some other harbinger of great mechanical power and energy, but it was hard to pick it apart from the growing excitement of a fleet about to throw everything it had at the enemy.

  “Sir, the senior Imperial commanders want your orders,” Inondrar said, as if he’d repeated it several times before and got no response.

  “Let’s give Niathal the fight she wants, then.”

  Three Imperial cruisers moved in to open up a furious barrage on the frigates harassing the Anakin, catching one in a cross-stream of turbolaser fire that ripped through its top solar fin. Caedus thought he saw Ocean train her cannons on him, but it was a ship of the same class, and other Imperial warships attacked it with the same pack tactic, subjecting its shields to a punishing combined stream of firepower that overloaded the defenses. Caedus saw the moment that the shield failed; the hull was peppered simultaneously in twenty places at once as small cannon fire from Imperial assault fighters suddenly passed thr
ough and made devastating contact.

  He had the GA on the back foot. It was numbers, always numbers. And now he had more.

  Where are you now, Jedi? Don’t want to get the StealthXs scratched, do you?

  “Ah …,” said Loccin, still at his post after all these hours. “Sir, more ships dropping out of hyperspace.”

  Caedus turned, eager to see what else the Imperials had thrown into the battle.

  “What’s that?” He didn’t recognize the vessel, and it didn’t carry the Imperial livery. “An auxiliary? A fleet tender?”

  Ships began popping out of hyperspace in flares of white light, and as the transponders began kicking in and the sensors pinged others, Caedus knew the Jedi were back with one of their mind-games. He was on the receiving end of another elaborate Jedi mind-assault. Or at least his crew were, and now he hoped everyone understood how very real the Fallanassi illusions were in the hands of a master, how they registered with all the senses, and even sensors if the illusionist was powerful enough.

  “It’s Skywalker,” Caedus said. “Try to filter these apparitions out from the real threats. It’s hard, but that’s how he wants to decoy you, to get you firing carelessly.”

  “Oh, you’re kidding me …” Clearly, Loccin and another junior officer, Duv-Horlo were seeing what he was, so this was a large-scale illusion registering on many minds, not just projected at one like his had been. “Did someone raid an aerospace museum? What the stang is that?”

  “Steady,” said Caedus. “It looks real, but beware.”

  None of the ships’ transponders registered pennant codes on the system—there was only so far that Luke could go in embroidering this fantasy, then—and the two young officers tried to identify the vessels by class alone, as if it was some cadet instruction at the naval academy. There were now two Crusader cruisers, a Victory-class Star Destroyer, and a squadron of TIE fighters. A Venator and two Republic-class ships dropped out at exactly the same moment like a choreographed party surprise of the very worst kind.

  “Sir—”