by James Luceno
Qui-Gon Jinn had been back on Coruscant for three standard days before the Reconciliation Council had asked him to appear before it. During that time, he had done little more than meditate, peruse ancient texts, pace the Temple’s dimly lighted hallways, or engage in lightsaber training sessions with other Jedi Knights and Padawans.
Through acquaintances employed in the Galactic Senate, he had been apprised of the Trade Federation’s requests for Republic intervention in repressing acts of terrorism, and for permission to augment their droid defenses, in the face of continuing harassment. Although those requests were nothing new, Qui-Gon had been surprised to learn of the Trade Federation’s claim that Captain Cohl, in addition to destroying the Revenue, had made off with a secret cache of aurodium ingots, rumored to be worth billions of credits.
The revelation was much on his mind as he went before the members of the Reconciliation Council, unaware that they, too, were interested in discussing the incident at Dorvalla.
Many held the opinion that Qui-Gon would have been seated on the council, if not for his penchant for bending the rules and following his own instincts—even when those instincts conflicted with the combined wisdom of the council members. This had not endeared him to his loftier peers. In fact, rather than treat him like a peer, they viewed his unwillingness to amend his ways and accept a seat on the council as a further sign of his incorrigibility.
The Reconciliation Council was made up of five members—though rarely the same five—and today there were only four on hand: Jedi Masters Plo Koon, Oppo Rancisis, Adi Gallia, and Yoda.
Qui-Gon fielded their questions from the center of the room, where he would have been permitted to sit but had elected to stand.
“How knew you, Qui-Gon, of Captain Cohl’s designs on the Revenue, eh?” Yoda asked as he paced the polished-stone floor, supported by his gimer stick cane.
“I have a contact in the Nebula Front,” Qui-Gon replied.
Yoda stopped moving to regard him. “A contact, you say?”
“A Bith,” Qui-Gon said. “He made contact with me on Malastare, and later apprised me of Cohl’s plan to attack the Revenue at Dorvalla. On Dorvalla, I was able to learn that Cohl had altered a cargo pod to suit his ends. Obi-Wan and I did the same.”
Yoda shook his head back and forth in seeming astonishment. “News, this is. One of Qui-Gon’s many surprises.”
An ancient and diminutive alien—a patriarch, of sorts—Yoda had an almost human face, with large knowing eyes, a small nose, and a thin-lipped mouth. But most similarities to the human species ended there, for he was green from hairless crown to triple-digited feet, and his ears were large and pointed, extending from the sides of his wizened head like small wings.
A senior member of the High Council, he was something of a trickster, who preferred to teach by means of thought-puzzles and conundrums, rather than by lecture and recitation.
Yoda and Qui-Gon had a long-standing relationship, but Yoda was one of those who sometimes took issue with Qui-Gon’s focus on the living Force over the unifying Force. As Qui-Gon explained it, he was simply built that way. Even in lightsaber training, he rarely entered into a match with a strategy in mind. Instead he allowed himself to improvise, and to alter his technique according to the demands of the moment—even when the longer view might have helped him.
“Qui-Gon,” Adi Gallia said, “we were given to understand that the Nebula Front had hired Captain Cohl. What was your contact’s purpose in sabotaging an operation the Nebula Front itself had sanctioned?”
She was a young and handsome human woman from Corellia, with exotic eyes, a long slender neck, and full lips. Tall and dark-complexioned, she wore a tight-fitting skullcap, from which dangled eight tails, resembling seed pods.
Qui-Gon turned to her. “The operation was not sanctioned. That’s why my Padawan and I were there.”
Yoda lifted his gimer stick to point at Qui-Gon. “Explain this, you must.”
Qui-Gon folded his thick arms across his chest. “The Nebula Front speaks for many worlds in the Mid and Outer Rims, which contest the prohibitive practices and strong-arm tactics of the Trade Federation. Some of those worlds were originally colonized by species who fled the civilized repression of the Core. Fiercely independent, they want no part of the Republic. And yet, in order to trade, they are forced to do business with consortiums like the Federation. Worlds that have attempted to ship with other enterprises have found themselves cut off from trade entirely.”
“The Nebula Front may have laudable goals, but their methods are ruthless,” Oppo Rancisis commented, breaking a brief silence.
A scion of royalty from Thisspias, he had red-rimmed eyes and a tiny mouth in a large head that was otherwise covered entirely by dense white hair—piled high at the crown, and extending from his hidden chin in a long beard.
“Go on, Qui-Gon,” Plo Koon told him from beneath the mask he was forced to wear in oxygen-rich environments. Like Rancisis, Koon had a keen mind for military strategy.
Qui-Gon tipped his head in a bow of acknowledgment. “Without trying to justify the actions of the Nebula Front, I will say that they tried to reason with the Trade Federation before turning to acts of terrorism. Where they might have financed their operations by smuggling spice for the Hutts, they refused to deal with any species that condoned slavery. Even when they finally did turn to violence, they restricted their actions to interfering with Trade Federation shipments or delaying their vessels whenever possible.”
“Destroying a freighter is certainly one way to delay it,” Rancisis said.
Qui-Gon glanced at him. “Cohl’s actions were something new.”
“Then what drove the Nebula Front to escalate the violence?” Gallia asked.
Qui-Gon sensed that she was asking as much for the sake of the council as for Supreme Chancellor Valorum, with whom she had close ties. “My contact claims that the Nebula Front has grown a radical wing, and it is those militants who contracted with Captain Cohl. The Bith and many others were opposed to employing mercenaries, but the militants have assumed command of the organization.”
Yoda rubbed his chin in thought. “After the aurodium ingots, were they not?”
Qui-Gon shook his head. “Frankly, Master, I’m not sure if I accept the Federation’s claim.”
“You have reason to doubt it?” Koon asked.
“It’s a question of method. The Trade Federation concedes a preoccupation with safeguarding their cargos. Why, then, would they entrust a shipment of aurodium to a poorly defended freighter like the Revenue, when the more heavily armed Acquisitor was only a star system away?”
“A point, he has,” Yoda said.
“I consider the reason obvious,” Rancisis disagreed. “The Trade Federation falsely assumed that no one would suspect the Revenue of harboring such wealth.”
“The question is of little consequence,” Gallia said. “The use of mercenaries like Cohl signals the beginning of a coordinated campaign to counter the Trade Federation’s droid defenses by force, and ultimately to overthrow Trade Federation influence in the outlying systems.”
“Fortunately, Captain Cohl is no longer a concern,” Plo Koon remarked.
Yoda adopted a wide-eyed look. “Concern Qui-Gon, Cohl does.”
Qui-Gon felt the council’s close scrutiny. “I don’t believe that he perished with the freighter,” he said at last.
“You were there, were you not?” Rancisis asked.
“Saw it with his own eyes, he did,” Yoda said, with a twinkle in his eye.
Qui-Gon compressed his lips. “Cohl planned for every eventuality. He wouldn’t have piloted his craft into an explosion just to evade pursuit.”
“Then why didn’t you capture him as you hoped to do?” Rancisis asked.
Qui-Gon planted his hands on his hips, thumbs pointed behind him. “As Master Gallia has said, Cohl is only the beginning. My Padawan and I attached a tracking device to Cohl’s ship, in the hope of tracking it to the Nebula Front�
��s current base, which could be on one of the Rimma worlds that support the terrorists. After the explosion, the tracker failed to return a signal.”
Gallia stared at him for a moment. “You searched for Cohl, Qui-Gon?”
“Obi-Wan and I found no signs of his shuttle. For all we know, he rode the leading edge of the explosion right down Dorvalla’s gravity well.”
“You have informed the Judicial Department of your suspicions?” Rancisis asked.
“Some of Cohl’s better-known haunts are under surveillance,” Gallia answered for Qui-Gon.
Koon left his chair to stand alongside Qui-Gon. “Captain Cohl may be the best of his ilk, but there are many more like him, just as heartless, just as rapacious. The Nebula Front militants will have no trouble finding eager replacements.”
Rancisis nodded gravely. “This is something we need to watch closely.”
Yoda crossed the room, shaking his head back and forth. “Avoid a conflict with the Nebula Front, we must. Speak for many, they do. Compromise us, they will.”
“I agree,” Rancisis said. “We can’t afford to take sides.”
“But we have to take sides,” Qui-Gon blurted. “I’m not an ally of the Trade Federation. But acts of terrorism by the Nebula Front won’t be limited to freighters. Innocent beings will be endangered.”
Everyone fell silent, except for Yoda.
“A true Knight, Qui-Gon is,” he said, with a note of gentle rebuke. “Forever on his own quest.”
A small, humid world disdained by an aging sun, Neimoidia was a place to be avoided—even by Neimoidians. Instead of profiting from its relative proximity to self-reliant Corellia and industrialized Kuat, Neimoidia had actually suffered for its placement, having been passed over, time and again, by the fraternity of Core worlds. That heritage of being shunned had informed Neimoidian society.
Scorn had imparted to the species a conviction that progress came to only those who proved themselves not merely capable but predatory. Reaching the top of the food chain required that the bodies of the weak be used as stepping-stones. Once the summit was attained, it was held by seizing whatever resources were available and preventing others from grabbing them.
Those tenets were frequently offered as explanation as to how and why the Neimoidians had risen so rapidly to the fore of the Trade Federation, whose signature was callousness.
Neimoidia’s most able typically left home at an early age, opting for lives of itinerant trading aboard the vessels of the Trade Federation fleet. As a result, Neimoidia was scarcely populated by the weakest of the species, who tended to the planet’s vast insect hives, fungus farms, and beetle hatcheries.
Viceroy Nute Gunray shared with his fellow self-exiles a peculiar distaste for his homeworld. But circumstance had demanded that he meet with the members of his Inner Circle in a location that guaranteed protection from the prying eyes of Coruscant. And in that sense, Neimoidia provided the best possible sanctuary.
The problem inherent in returning home was that one couldn’t escape recalling—on some level of cellular memory—the seven formative years Neimoidians spent as puny, pale, wriggling grubs, in competition with every other grub for survival and the chance to mature into red-eyed, noseless, fish-lipped, and decidedly distrustful adults.
Adults, like Gunray, at any rate, who swathed their bodies in the finest raiment credits could buy, and who rarely, if ever, looked back.
The viceroy gave himself over to momentary reflection on such matters while the mechno-chair carried him to the meeting place, through cavernous halls of finely cut stone that mimicked the early hives, and past row after row of protocol droids standing at attention on both sides.
His ultimate destination was a dark, dank grotto, the antithesis of the gleaming bridges of Trade Federation freighters. On display were several examples of exotic flora left to fend for themselves in capturing what moisture they could from the stuffy air. The arching walls were graced with the twin emblems of piety and power: the Spherical Flame and the garhai—the armored fish that symbolized obedience and dedication to enlightened leadership.
Gunray’s key advisers were waiting: Deputy Viceroy Hath Monchar and legal counsel Rune Haako. Each affected a black headpiece appropriate to his status. Monchar’s was a triple-crested crown, similar to but smaller than the one Gunray wore; Haako’s was an elaborate cowl, with two horns in front, and a tall, rounded back.
The two advisers made deferential gestures to Gunray as the mechno-chair eased him onto his feet.
“Welcome, Viceroy,” Haako said, approaching him stooped and limping, his left arm crooked by his side. “We hope you have not come in vain.” Hollow-cheeked and somewhat spidery, he had a deeply lined face, bags under his eyes, and puckered flesh on his chin and thin neck.
Gunray made a harsh gesture of dismissal. “He said he would come. That is enough for me.”
“For you,” Monchar muttered.
Gunray glared at his deputy. “Events transpired just as he promised they would. Cohl’s mercenaries attacked, and the Revenue was destroyed.”
“And this is a reason to rejoice?” Haako asked, his prominent voice box bobbing. “This plan of yours has cost the Trade Federation a class-I freighter and billions in aurodium.”
Gunray’s nictitating membranes betrayed his seeming self-possession. He blinked repeatedly, then quickly regained his composure.
“One ship and a treasure box. If our benefactor really is who he claims to be, such losses are meaningless.”
Haako raised a palsied hand. “And if he is, he is a thing to fear, not to delight. And how can we be certain, in any case? What proof does he offer, Viceroy? He contacts you out of the ether, only by hologram. He can claim to be anyone.”
Gunray worked his jutting jaw. “Who would be brain-dead enough to make such a claim without being able to support it?”
He brought forth a portable holoprojector and set it down on a table.
When the Dark Lord of the Sith had first contacted him, months earlier, he seemed to know everything about Nute Gunray and his rise to personal power. How Gunray had testified to the Trade Federation Directorate against Pulsar Supertanker—at the time a participatory company within the conglomerate—accusing Pulsar of “malicious disregard for profit” and “charitable donations lacking discernible reward.”
Indeed, it appeared to have been that testimony and similar declarations of avidity that had first attracted the notice of Darth Sidious.
Even so, Gunray had remained as skeptical then as his advisers were now, despite demonstrations by Darth Sidious of his wide-ranging influence and sway. Secretly, Sidious had arranged for several key resource worlds to join the Trade Federation as signatory members, abdicating their representation in the Galactic Senate in exchange for lucrative trade opportunities, and, where possible, protection from smuggling concerns and pirates. And at each turn Sidious had made the procurements appear the doing of Gunray, thus helping to consolidate Gunray’s increasing authority and assuring his appointment to the directorate.
As to whether Sidious’s influence truly owed to Sith powers, Gunray could not say, nor did he care to know, based on what little he knew of the Sith—an ancient, perhaps legendary order of black mages, absent from the galaxy for the past thousand years.
Some referred to the Sith as the dark side of the Jedi; others claimed that it was the Jedi who had ended the reign of the Sith, in a war that had pitted dark and light against each other. Still others said the Sith, greedy for power, killed one another. But Gunray knew nothing of the truth of these things, and he hoped to keep it that way.
He stared pointedly at the holoprojector; the appointed moment was close at hand.
Gunray hadn’t finished the thought when the head and shoulders of a cloaked apparition rose from the device, the cowl of his dark garment pulled down over his eyes, revealing a deeply furrowed chin and a jowly, aged face. An elaborate broach closed the cloak at the neck.
When the figure spoke, hi
s voice was a prolonged rasp.
“I see, Viceroy, that you have assembled your underlings, as I asked,” Darth Sidious began.
Gunray knew that the word underlings wasn’t going to find favor among Monchar and Haako. Though there was little he could do about that, he thought it best at least to attempt to rectify matters.
“My advisors, Lord Sidious.”
Sidious’s face betrayed nothing. “Of course—your advisors.” He paused for a moment, as if probing the incalculable distance that separated them. “I perceive an atmosphere of misgiving, Viceroy. Has the aftermath of our plan failed to please you?”
“No, not at all, Lord Sidious,” Gunray stammered. “It’s only that the loss of the freighter and the aurodium ingots is a matter of concern to some.” He glanced with purpose at his two counselors.
“The others lack your grasp of the larger purpose, Viceroy,” Sidious said with a note of disdain. “Perhaps we need to reacquaint them with our intent to stir sympathy for the Trade Federation in the senate. That is why we informed the Nebula Front militants of the shipment of aurodium. The loss of the ingots will further our cause. Soon you will have the politicians and bureaucrats eating out of your hands, and then the Trade Federation will at last have the droid army it needs. Baktoid, Haor Chall Engineering, and the Colicoids are waiting to fill your orders.”
Gunray began to fidget. “Army, Lord Sidious?”
“The riches of the Outer Rim await those with the courage to grab them.”
Gunray gulped. “But, Lord Sidious, perhaps the time isn’t right to take such actions—”
“Not right? It is your destiny. With a droid army to support you, who would dare question Neimoidia’s authority to rule the space lanes?”
“We would welcome the ability to defend ourselves against pirates and agitators,” Rune Haako risked saying. “But we don’t wish to break the terms of our trade treaty with the Republic. Not when the price of a droid army is taxation of the free trade zones.”