Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi II: Omen

by Christie Golden

  Books by Christie Golden

  Ravenloft: Vampire of the Mists

  Ravenloft: Dance of the Dead

  Ravenloft: The Enemy Within

  Star Trek Voyager: The Murdered Sun

  Instrument of Fate

  King’s Man and Thief

  Star Trek Voyager: Marooned

  Invasion America

  Star Trek Voyager: Seven of Nine

  Invasion America: On the Run

  Star Trek The Next Generation: The First Virtue (with Michael Jan Friedman)

  A.D. 999 (as Jadrien Bell)

  Star Trek Voyager: The Dark Matters Trilogy Book 1: Cloak and Dagger

  Star Trek Voyager: The Dark Matters Trilogy Book 2: Ghost Dance

  Star Trek Voyager: The Dark Matters Trilogy Book 3: Shadow of Heaven

  Star Trek Voyager: Endgame (with Diane Carey)

  Warcraft: Lord of the Clans

  Star Trek Voyager: Gateways—What Lay Beyond

  Star Trek Voyager: No Man’s Land

  Star Trek: The Last Roundup

  Star Trek Voyager: Homecoming

  Star Trek Voyager: The Farther Shore

  On Fire’s Wings

  Star Trek Voyager: Spirit Walk, Book 1: Old Wounds

  Star Trek Voyager: Spirit Walk, Book 2: Enemy of My Enemy

  In Stone’s Clasp

  Warcraft: Rise of the Horde

  StarCraft: The Dark Templar Series, Book 1: Firstborn

  StarCraft: The Dark Templar Series, Book 2: Shadow Hunters

  Under Sea’s Shadow (in e-book format only)

  Warcraft: Beyond the Dark Portal (with Aaron Rosenberg)

  Warcraft: Arthas: Rise of the Lich King

  This book is dedicated to my parents,

  James R. Golden and Elizabeth C. Golden.

  All those afternoons you dropped me off at the movies

  when Star Wars was playing have now borne fruit.

  Acknowledgments

  There are many people who contributed to the birth of this amazing project. First, thanks go to my agent, Lucienne Diver, and my editor at Del Rey Shelly Shapiro, who approached me for this series and who has been so very supportive and enthusiastic. Thanks also to Sue Rostoni at Lucas Licensing Ltd., who has kept her fingers on many pulses to help coordinate the direction of Fate of the Jedi, and Leland Chee, who is both prompt and cheerful when bombarded with questions. Aaron Allston and Troy Denning both made me feel welcome and part of the team almost immediately: I’m excited to be working with both of you, and am appreciative of your help and guidance as I navigate this brave new world. Jeffrey R. Kirby, my “creative consultant” (and favorite Sith), helped make sure I nailed the feel of the Star Wars universe. Finally, thanks to my husband Michael Georges for all his support, and to George Lucas, for making this world so darn captivating in the first place.

  Dramatis Personae

  Allana Solo; child (human female)

  Bazel “Barv” Warv (Ramoan male)

  Ben Skywalker; Jedi Knight (human male)

  Cilghal; Jedi Master and healer (Mon Calamari female)

  Han Solo; captain, Millennium Falcon (human male)

  Jagged Fel; Head of State, Galactic Empire (human male)

  Jaina Solo; Jedi Knight (human female)

  Javis Tyrr; journalist (human male)

  Kenth Hamner; acting Grand Master of the Jedi Order (human male)

  Leia Organa Solo; Jedi Knight (human female)

  Luke Skywalker; Jedi Grand Master (human male)

  Natasi Daala; Galactic Alliance Chief of State (human female)

  Natua Wan; Jedi Knight (Falleen female)

  Tadar’Ro; Aing-Tii liaison (Aing-Tii male)

  Vestara Khai; Sith Tyro and apprentice (human female)

  Wynn Dorvan; assistant to Admiral Daala (human male)

  Yaqeel Saav’etu; Jedi Knight (Bothan female)

  A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away …

  ORBITING ZIOST

  TWO STANDARD YEARS AGO

  DICIAN FELT THE PLANET EVEN BEFORE IT APPEARED ON THE MAIN bridge monitor of the Poison Moon. She sensed it had seen her, as she now saw it, this seemingly harmless world of blue and white and green, and she smiled gently. The pale geometric tattoos on her face, standing out in stark contrast with her dark skin tones, crinkled with her smile. This was the destination she had beheld in her mind’s eye a short while before, the unvoiced answer to the question of what she was hoping to intercept here. She had ordered the crew of this frigate to make all speed, and only hoped she was in time.

  Where are you going, charming one?

  To unopened eyes and dead senses, this planet would seem a world much as any other: a world with oceans and landmasses, heavily, practically entirely forested, with two white, icecapped poles on either end. White clouds drifted lazily above it.

  But it was not a world like any other.

  It was Ziost. Homeworld of the Sith.

  What was left of the Sith Order now remained silent and in hiding on Korriban. She would return there soon, but not without the prize she had come to claim.

  Dician realized she was leaning forward slightly in anticipation, and settled back in her command chair. She gently pushed her excitement down lest it interfere with her mission.

  “Wayniss, take us into orbit.” In her role as an intelligence gatherer, the light, musical tone of her voice often deceived others into thinking her much, much more harmless than she was. Her crew knew better.

  “Yes, Captain,” the chief pilot of the Poison Moon replied. Wayniss was a laconic man, not at all Force-sensitive, pleased enough to do as he was told in exchange for the generous pay he was receiving. In his own way, the graying ex-pirate was as fair, honorable, and hardworking as many so-called upstanding citizens. He had done well by Dician on this mission already.

  “Any sign of the meditation sphere?” she asked Ithila, her sensor officer. Ithila leaned forward, her face, which would have been beautiful in the traditional Hapan manner if not for the horrific burn scar that marred the right side, furrowed in concentration.

  “Negative,” Ithila replied as Ziost appeared in the forward viewports and the Poison Moon settled into orbit around it. “No indication of it on the planet surface.” She turned to regard her captain. “Looks like we beat it here.”

  Dician smiled again. No mistakes. All that remained was to capture the small vessel itself.

  Dician settled in to wait, her dark eyes on the slowly turning planet in front of her. It gazed back at her, and she felt a tug in her heart. She wanted to land the Poison Moon, to walk Ziost’s forests as other Sith had done in ages past. But that was not why they were here. She must think of the good of the One, the Order, above her own yearnings. One day, perhaps, she would stand upon the surface of this world. But that day would not be today.

  They did not have long to wait. Only a few moments later, Ithila said, “Picking it up on long-range sensors, Captain.”

  Dician sat up straighter in her chair. “You have all served well and brilliantly. Now, as our smuggler pilot might say, it is time to close this deal.”

  It was time for her, Dician, to be perfect. She could not afford a mistake now.

  She felt it even as Ithila transmitted the image to her personal viewscreen. There it was, the Sith meditation sphere. She regarded it for a moment, taking it in—the orange-yellow-red hue, the spherical shape flanked by twin sets of bat-like wings. It resembled an enormous eye.

  “Hello again, charming one,” she said in her most pleasant voice.

  Silence from the sphere.

  “As you see, we have anticipated your arrival. Why have you come to Ziost?”

  H
ome.

  The voice was inside her head, masculine and intensely focused. A little thrill of exhilaration shivered through Dician. This was not a pet to be coaxed, but a mount to be broken. It respected strength and will.

  Dician had plenty of both.

  There is a better place for you than on an abandoned world. Dician did not speak the words. Her melodic voice was no asset in this negotiation; the focus and strength of her thoughts were.

  The vessel continued its approach to Ziost, not wavering in the slightest, but Dician sensed she had its attention. It would listen.

  You are a Sith meditation sphere. Come with me to where the Sith are now. Serve us, as you were designed to do. She let herself visualize Korriban: with not just two Sith, but many who were One, with apprentices in need of focus and training in the power of the dark side if they were to achieve the glory and power that were rightfully theirs.

  “It’s slowing its approach,” Ithila said. “It’s come to a full halt.”

  Dician didn’t bother to tell the Hapan woman that she already knew that; that she was intimately connected with this meditation sphere, this … Ship.

  It seemed particularly interested in the younglings, and she understood that this had been the focus of its design. To protect and educate apprentices. To prepare them for their destinies.

  You will come to Korriban. You will serve me, Dician, and you will teach the younglings. You will fulfill your intended purpose.

  This was the moment upon which everything hinged. She sensed scrutiny from the vessel. Dician was unashamed of her strengths and let it see her freely. It sensed her will, her drive, her passions, her desire for perfection.

  Perfection, said Ship. It mulled over the word.

  Nothing less serves the dark side fully, Dician replied. You will help me to attain perfection for the Sith.

  Perfection cannot be obtained by hiding.

  Dician blinked. This had caught her by surprise. It is wisdom. We will stay isolated, grow strong, and then claim what is ours.

  Ship considered. Doubt gnawed at the corner of Dician’s mind like a gizka. She crushed it utterly, ruthlessly, and poured all her will into the demand.

  The Jedi grow strong and numerous. It is not time to hide. I will not serve. I will find a better purpose.

  She felt it shut down in her mind, close itself off to her in what was tantamount to a dismissal. Dician felt her cheeks grow hot. How could it have refused?

  “Captain,” said Ithila, “the ship has resumed course to Ziost.”

  “I can see that,” Dician snapped, and Ithila stared openly. Ship was a rapidly disappearing sphere on her screen, and as she watched it was lost to sight.

  Dician returned her attention to her crew, who, she realized, were all looking at her with confused expressions on their faces. She took a deep, steadying breath.

  “The vessel would not have been appropriate for us,” she said, her pleasant voice challenging anyone to disagree. “Its programming is antiquated and outdated. Our original message was successful. It is time to pick up the shuttle crews and return home. Plot a course through hyperspace for Omega Three Seven Nine,” she instructed Wayniss. He turned around and his fingers flew lightly over the console.

  The Poison Moon’s original mission had not been to recover Ship, as Dician had begun thinking of the sphere. Dician had initially been sent to track down a Twi’lek woman named Alema Rar and her base of operations. Rar had somehow inherited a lost Force technique that enabled her to project phantoms across space. Dician had been ordered to destroy both the woman and the dark side energy source lest either fall into Jedi hands. And then she had been forced to choose between two unexpected prizes.

  When the Poison Moon arrived at Alema Rar’s base, coming in stealthed, Dician had discovered they were not alone. One of the two vessels already at the asteroid was none other than the Millennium Falcon. Subsequent observations of her operations revealed that it was more than likely her notorious owner Han Solo was piloting—and quite possibly his wife, Leia Organa, traitor to the noble name of Sky-walker, was with him. Her crews had placed bombs on the asteroid that had been Alema’s base, and Dician, not about to let such a victory slip away, was turning her attention to the destruction of the Corellian freighter.

  But before Dician could issue the orders to detonate the bombs and attack the Falcon, Ship had emerged from the base—without Alema Rar.

  Dician had made the decision to follow and attempt to capture Ship, forgoing an attack on the Falcon. She had ordered the bombs to detonate and the crews that had placed them to await her return on the largest asteroid in the system, designated Omega 379. No doubt they were anticipating her swift return.

  Dician pressed her full lips together. She had chosen tracking Ship over blowing the Millennium Falcon out of the skies. She had done exactly what she had threatened her crew not to do—made a mistake. And now she could claim neither victory.

  Let Ship remain isolated on Ziost. It would find no one to serve, no one to permit it to do that which it was designed for.

  In her irritation, Dician allowed the thought to comfort her.

  JEDI TEMPLE, CORUSCANT

  JYSELLA HORN FELT LIKE A PART OF HER, LIKE HER BROTHER, WAS encased in carbonite. Frozen and isolated and unable to move. Yet somehow she forced her legs to carry her forward, toward the Jedi Temple that would, she hoped, have some answers for her today.

  Ever since the inexplicable and horrifying moment when her older brother, Valin, had turned on their parents, eyes wild, teeth bared, screaming nonsense, part of the youngest Horn had gone with him into the cold prison in which he was now encased.

  She had always been the baby of the family, the tagalong, the me too! little sister. Three standard years separated the Horn siblings, and it had only been recently that they had begun relating as friends and not just as brother and sister. Jysella had always idolized her easygoing, levelheaded big brother. The lives of her rather famous family had been fraught with danger almost since the day she was born. Often, she and Valin had been separated from their parents and even from each other for long periods of time. Three Jedi in a family did not make for much time spent doing traditional familial things. But the challenges and the separation had always brought them closer, not driven wedges between them.

  Jysella shivered. Cold, she was cold; he was cold and in carbonite, her kind, grinning brother, the gentle and loved one, whom they said was criminally insane. He had attacked both their parents, claiming that they had somehow been stolen away and replaced by fakes. How could such a thing have happened? But it had, and Valin had been caught, arrested, and imprisoned in the most horrible way possible.

  Bazel Warv laid a heavy jade-green hand on her narrow shoulder as they climbed up the long ceremonial staircase of the Processional Way toward the Jedi Temple. A series of grunts and squeaks issued from his tusked mouth as he offered reassurances.

  “I know, I know,” Jysella said to the Ramoan with a sigh. His small, piggy eyes were full of compassion. “Everyone’s doing their best. It doesn’t make it any easier.”

  Bazel, “Barv” as his little circle of close friends called him, considered this and nodded agreement. He squeezed her shoulder, putting all his concern into the gesture, and Jysella forced herself not to wince. Around his fellow Jedi, Bazel tended to forget how strong he was. With little Amelia, the young war orphan who had been adopted by Han and Leia Solo, though, the Ramoan was gentle to a fault. Amelia often went for rides on Barv’s huge shoulders, laughing and giggling. The little girl was fond of everyone in “the Unit,” as Barv, Yaqeel Saav’etu, Valin, and Jysella called themselves.

  “The big guy’s right,” Yaqeel, walking on Jysella’s other side, commented. “Don’t underestimate what a group of top Jedi can do when their backs are against the wall.”

  Jysella had to force herself again to refrain from wincing, this time from the coolness of the Bothan’s words. She’d known both Barv and Yaqeel for a long time. They had
been Valin’s friends first, but had drawn Jysella happily into the circle as she grew older.

  Yaqeel used words in the same controlled, deadly way she used her lightsaber. Normally the acerbic, cynical comments she was fond of drawling didn’t bother Jysella in the slightest. But now she felt … raw. Like her emotional skin had been flayed away, and even the slightest breeze caused agony.

  Barv oinked, annoyed, and Yaqeel’s ear twitched slightly. Barv was convinced that the Jedi were working hard to find a cure for Valin’s condition not because their own necks were threatened, but because it was the right thing to do. Because that’s what Jedi did.

  Tears of gratitude stung Jysella’s eyes as she smiled at her friend. Yaqeel’s ears lowered slightly, a sign that Barv’s simple faith had gotten to her as well. That wasn’t unusual. Everyone—well, everyone except dear, slightly dense Barv himself—knew that Yaqeel had a soft spot for “the big guy,” and no one blamed her for it. Barv was uncomplicated and true, with a heart as big as the galaxy and an unshakable sense of right and wrong.

  Jysella desperately wanted to believe him in this case, but the fear, fluttering at the back of her throat like a living thing, prevented it.

  “Anyway, honey, we know your brother’s got his head screwed on right,” Yaqeel said in a gentler tone of voice. “Whatever’s happening to him, I’m convinced it’s only temporary. What you need to do is stop watching newsvids. They’re all about reporting whatever sounds juiciest. And that’s usually not the truth.”

  They’d reached the Temple entrance. Once, the Jedi Temple had been notable for its five spires, a unique feature of the Coruscant skyline. But much of that had been destroyed during the Yuuzhan Vong War. A great deal of the interior of the Temple had been restored to its former appearances—right down to the marble patterns on the floors in some cases—but the exterior, a collection of stone and transparisteel pyramids in a variety of sizes, was aggressively modern. Jysella found she missed the familiar statues of four former Masters that once stood guard over the main entrance.