Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi II: Omen

by Christie Golden

  She snapped her fingers, and the apprentice who earlier had taken Vestara’s training lightsaber from her reappeared. In his hand he bore one of the remaining lightsabers from the original Sith. Vestara gasped, then her teeth clicked together as she clamped down on the wave of joy that surged through her.

  Despite her resolve, tears stung her eyes. Usually, apprentices had to make their own lightsabers, and with the limited resources available to them, they were not as fine as these antiques. Every Master had one, certainly, but there were even some Sabers who did not. They were powered by Lignan crystals, one of the great heritages of the Sith. The crystals, thousands of which had crowded the cargo hold of the Omen when it crashed, enabled the lightsabers to burn hotter and last longer than the original design permitted. Too, for various reasons, they were perfect for Sith weapons.

  And Tyro—no, Apprentice—Vestara Khai now owned such a lightsaber.

  For an instant, sorrow filled her. That was why, then, her father had behaved so oddly this morning. He had known, and not been able to tell her. For once a Tyro was chosen as an apprentice, she was separated from her family with no warning—and no contact for an entire year.

  But that was the order of things, and she and her family knew it. The sorrow was chased away by other feelings she tried to corral, lest she seem arrogant.

  But there was no fooling Lady Rhea. The older woman reached out a hand and squeezed her shoulder.

  “Everyone here understands what you are feeling, Apprentice Khai,” she said gently. “Revel in your delight and pride. Know that you have been chosen for this, chosen more surely than most. Come with me now, and I will show you the secrets of the Omen.

  “And further”—her smile widened, became predatory with anticipation—“Ship will share with you its knowledge and wisdom of the galaxy beyond this world.”

  Vestara thought her heart might burst from joy and excitement.

  “Praise circumstances for the time of your birth, young one,” said Lady Rhea. “For you will know the honor and responsibilities and delights of being among the first in five millennia to leave Kesh … and rejoin our brethren, from whom we have been separated for so very long, to take your place in ruling a Sith galaxy.”

  OFFICES OF THE CHIEF OF STATE,

  SENATE BUILDING, CORUSCANT

  WYNN DORVAN MOVED THROUGH THE VAST CORRIDOR OF POWER THAT was the Senate Building with the calm, almost preoccupied stride of one who knew it well. He nodded a courteous but distant greeting to the guards at the various security checkpoints, who politely wished him “Good morning, sir.” His pocket bulged, but not with anything more dangerous than a sleeping chitlik, who was as familiar a fixture as Dorvan himself.

  Wynn Dorvan arrived hours before anyone else and generally left hours later. He stood in the turbolift, not fidgeting or making any attempt at whiling away the time as others might, until it opened on his floor. He strode down the thickly carpeted hallway and keyed open the door to his office.

  Dorvan’s office was as free of frills, trappings, and busyness as the man himself. He had no holopics of family, for he had none—well, none outside of the small ball of fur softly snoring in his right-hand coat pocket. There was art on the walls, simply because leaving them bare had proved too unnerving to what few visitors he had, but it was passionless, safe art—unremarkable reproductions of Coruscant’s old Galaxies Opera House and the Manari Mountains. The windows had no full, floor-length drapes in rich fabrics, but only shutters that rolled up or down at a touch to emit or prohibit light as Dorvan found it necessary. There was a desk, a chair, and two extra chairs for the rare guests. It was all in all, clean, simple, and tidy.

  Which was why the huge bouquet of trumpet and pyro flowers, in its almost obscene riot of red and purple and rich scent, was so dreadfully out of place.

  Dorvan blinked. He was not alarmed; no one could gain admittance to this office save himself, Daala, and a few other trusted colleagues. Besides, an intruder was unlikely to leave flowers.

  Pocket stirred, poking her nose out and sniffing the overwhelmingly lush fragrance of the gift. Absently Dorvan petted the chitlik with one hand while he stepped forward. There was a card propped up in front of the bouquet, with his name written on the thick, cream-colored flimsi in a bold yet elegant hand. He knew that handwriting. Chief of State Natasi Daala had left this gift for him.

  Utterly confused now, he opened the envelope and read three words: “Sorry. A favor.”

  He frowned slightly. What did Daala possibly have to be sorry about?

  “Wynn Dorvan, sir?”

  The voice was young, female, and eager.

  Ah, Dorvan thought with a sad little smile. He turned around to see the speaker standing, shifting her weight uneasily. She was a Twi’lek, striking as all females of her species. Her skin was green, with darker, forest-green stripes visible here and there. She was dressed demurely in understated business attire, her lekku draped in front of her shoulders. She carried a datapad and smiled a bit hesitantly at him.

  “I’m—”

  “My new assistant,” Dorvan interrupted her.

  “Y-yes,” the girl stammered. “My name is Desha Lor. Chief of State Daala appointed me.”

  Dorvan recalled the conversation he’d had with Daala in the air-speeder and sighed slightly. He really, really didn’t want an assistant. He functioned so much better by himself.

  But he could understand why Daala might have wanted to hire this girl. Once she herself, Admiral Natasi Daala, had been looked on with scorn as little more than Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin’s “bit on the side.” True, she had once been his mistress, and true, she was a strikingly physically beautiful woman. But she was also fiercely intelligent and ambitious, with an exquisite grasp of strategy that often left both allies and adversaries reeling. She had used the underestimation and contempt in which she had been held ruthlessly, calculatedly to her advantage. Now she was the head of the Galactic Alliance. She had insisted that the Moffs include women. It made perfect sense that she’d feel a kinship with a female Twi’lek, who until recent history had fetched high prices on the slave market. Daala would want to give a deserving female the same opportunity she’d had herself to defy expectations and excel.

  Dorvan extended his hand. “Hello, Desha Lor. I’m Wynn Dorvan, as you already know. Is this your first government job?”

  She nodded vigorously. “Yes. Chief of State Daala is a friend of my family. It was most kind of her to offer me this position.”

  “Most kind,” Dorvan echoed. “You’ll have to excuse me … your presence here is a bit of a surprise for me. I’m sure we’ll learn to work together.”

  He indicated one of the simple chairs, and she took a seat while he slid into the chair across the desk from her. Pocket squeaked slightly, and he lifted the little animal out and put her in her small bed on a shelf behind the desk.

  “Oh, is that a chitlik? They’re adorable!”

  “Yes, they are, and Pocket has the run of the office. I’ll take care of her. All you need to do is watch out not to step on her.”

  Desha gave him a radiant smile. “I’m sure I’d never do that.”

  “Not more than once, believe me. She’s generally calm, but she bites if she’s unhappy. Now … tell me about your clearance level and what our good Chief of State said you’d be doing for me.”

  Desha Lor had a very high level of clearance indeed, which would be necessary if she was to be more to him than a pretty face to greet visitors. He intended her to be. If he was going to have an assistant forced upon him, then he would make her earn her keep. While she spoke, he ran his own check on her, keeping the screen turned away so she couldn’t see what he was doing. He nodded in all the right places, listening with half an ear.

  Lor, Desha, daughter of a Twi’lek diplomat, had been an intern in the private sector for a year. Stellar student, no criminal record, all her offworld visits checked out. Her family was well known and respected. She was definitely clean. Almost t
oo clean.

  Is anyone this innocent anymore? Dorvan wondered, then reprimanded himself for waxing sentimental. He’d better keep an eye on her, make sure she was just the innocent young woman on her first big government job that she seemed to be. Daala was a sharp one, no one knew that better than Wynn Dorvan. But he aided the Galactic Alliance best by knowing the weaknesses of those around him, and Daala’s sympathy toward an attractive female trying to earn a place in the galaxy based on more than her looks might just be a weakness. It would not be the first time he had quietly helped the GA by moderating Daala’s more extreme stances.

  Princess Leia Organa was the shining example of a beautiful young woman with good family connections and a spotless record turning out to be a rebel against the current administration.

  Oh, yes. He’d definitely keep an eye on her.

  MOFF LECERSEN’S RESIDENCE,

  SENATE DISTRICT, CORUSCANT

  “I’m keeping an eye on him,” Moff Lecersen said as he relaxed back into the tub full of pleasant-smelling water. “Not, mind you, that it’s all that hard to do.”

  “Indeed.” Moff Vansyn’s voice over the comm was amused and wry. The conversation had begun earlier that night over an excellent meal accompanied by two bottles of imported gold wine. The hour had grown late, and Vansyn had an early-morning meeting, so the discussion continued via comm. The serving droid rolled up to the edge of the tub with a glass and what was left of the second bottle of gold wine. Lecersen poured the remainder of the beverage into the fluted glass and took a sip. It was an excellent vintage, of course, and Lecersen had several cases of the stuff. There was a bittersweet irony in that the beverage was Hapan. After his latest dealings with the Ha-pans, the last thing he wanted was to be reminded of that particular part of space. And yet, the beverage went down so smoothly. One could dislike the Hapans and still admire their skills in viticulture and oenology.

  “I’d say all you really need to do is keep an eye on Jaina Solo,” Vansyn continued.

  Lecersen smiled thinly and took another sip. “Child’s play itself. Jagged Fel may be the nominal head of the Empire, and a disciplined soldier, but he is a pathetic puppy when it comes to matters of the heart. He has no concept of how to properly keep a mistress.”

  Lecersen’s thoughts wandered to one such Moff mistress, an infamous one who now ran the Galactic Alliance, and he frowned slightly. He edged down farther into the warm water, letting it soak the tension from him.

  She’d been fine enough when Wilhuff Tarkin was alive. He’d known how to keep her properly under his thumb. Now she was causing them no end of difficulties. Female Moffs. What was the Empire coming to?

  “Granted, he chose a headstrong one, and I’m not sure who is keeping whom,” Vansyn said. Lecersen laughed out loud at that.

  “A nerf bull with a ring through his nose can be easily led,” he said.

  “Jaina Solo is doing the leading, not us,” countered Vansyn. “It is unfortunate that he has become taken with a Jedi. Especially one with such a pedigree. He has made his informal and personal relationship with her into a governmental one, and that doesn’t sit well with me … nor many others.”

  Lecersen shrugged. The water splashed softly with the gesture. “What you say is true, Vansyn. But if we understand how Solo is leading, we can use that to our advantage. The pup is distracted. You saw him at the last meeting. Kept checking his chrono. He thinks he has brought us in line because he wants to think that, so he can pursue his… extra curricular activities without feeling he is neglecting his duty.”

  No, the Moffs had most definitely not been brought to heel the way the Jedi had wanted on that dreadful day when Jacen Solo had been cut down by the very same Jedi female presently under discussion. Han Solo’s blaster threat had been empty—the man did not have the stuff for such a cold-blooded, systematic execution simply for revenge. But Skywalker’s threat hadn’t been empty. It hadn’t even been veiled.

  Luke Skywalker had very bluntly stated they had two choices: One, become Hapan prisoners of war and face a war crimes trial for the nanokiller attack the Moffs had launched against the royal family. Or two, the Moff Council could join in reestablishing the Galactic Alliance. Skywalker had appointed Jagged Fel on the spot. It had been ease itself to agree to the second option. The first was hardly viable.

  But that did not mean the Moffs would stop looking out for themselves. It was good to have gone from the “Imperial Remnant” to “Empire” again, but what exactly did that mean? How to make it more than an empty title? That was the puzzle Moff Lecersen had been gnawing on daily.

  “Patience is a virtue, my friend. Let Fel carry on this little love affair. Passion burns hot and fast. It makes mistakes and clouds judgment. And when his judgment is cloudiest … we will be there to take advantage of it.”

  Opportunities were everywhere, all the time, for sharp minds to find. Like credcoins dropped on a pavement. And Lecersen had a very sharp mind. There were so very many enemies to set at one another’s throats.

  Daala was already doing a very good job of alienating the Jedi. Lecersen didn’t think he could have done any better. The Jedi, in turn, were doubtless up to something. He wasn’t sure what. Yet. But he did not think for an instant that the elegant, courteous Kenth Hamner spoke for every single Jedi Knight or, indeed, even Master in the Order. The observers who had now been legally abolished had been good for Daala and the GA, not so good for the Moffs. Far better to have the Jedi thinking they weren’t being watched.

  Two Jedi were now incarcerated. That was good. The Jedi had been chafing under Daala and all but reveling in their new, legal freedom. That was good, too. Jag was distracted, and so was Jaina, and reporters were apparently annoying the two to no end. Also very good.

  The threads were all there. Now to weave them into a tapestry that would illustrate a picture of the Moffs restored to their rightful Imperial glory—without a lovesick puppy of a pilot at its head.

  Lecersen drained the wine, looked at the empty glass, and smiled.

  JEDI TEMPLE, CORUSCANT

  JAINA COULDN’T BELIEVE IT, BUT SHE ACTUALLY MISSED DAB HANTAQ.

  She did not miss the random check-ins that had often interrupted her sleep or other nocturnal activities. She did not miss his following her during her waking hours, reporting on her every movement. And she most certainly did not miss the fact that he was a dead ringer—nice pun, Jaina, she thought with a wince—for her late brother, Anakin.

  What she did miss was the fact that Dab had tried to do his job with courtesy. He did what he was ordered to do, but he never seemed to particularly relish it.

  Unlike the reporters. Jaina was beginning to think the ruling in favor of eliminating the official observers had traded one nuisance for a worse one. At least the observers had had rules of their own. The journalists seemed to have none whatsoever. During the whole “let’s give the entire galaxy access to the Jedi” phase that had mercifully come to an end recently, certain areas of the Temple had been opened to journalists. At least a Jedi had accompanied them during their sightseeing, but Jaina had never gotten used to running into the press in the dining room or in the Room of a Thousand Fountains.

  She sighed and slipped into her outfit for the night’s mission, which Jag had dubbed Operation Caranak, and began to apply the makeup necessary to complete it. She scowled at herself in the mirror and sighed. Time was growing short. It would have to do.

  Automatically she reached for her lightsaber, and then hesitated. Sword of the Jedi she might be, but tonight’s mission would not necessitate fighting. She hoped. It had a very specific goal in mind, and if she ended up being forced to use her lightsaber, all would already be lost. With a slight frown, she dropped it in her black, stylish nerf-hide handbag anyway. No one needed to see it, and she felt naked leaving without it.

  She clicked on her comm. “Gaunt, this is Slicer.”

  “Gaunt here.” Jag, his voice calm as ever but with a slight edge to it that only Jaina, who k
new him so well, would have noticed. The mission clearly had him keyed up.

  “Everything in order?” she asked.

  “Check. Carved is in position.”

  “So is Curved. I’m preparing to initiate Phase One.”

  “Copy that,” Jag said. “I’m moving into the secondary location.”

  She took a deep breath, steadying herself for what she might face. “Okay. See you at the rendezvous.”

  “Watch yourself. They’ll be gunning for you.”

  “I know. You too.”

  She clicked off her comlink and attempted to put it in its usual position on her belt, then remembered she wasn’t wearing the belt tonight.

  These stealth missions were annoying.

  She dropped the comlink in her bag beside her lightsaber. A final perusal of her outfit and she left the room.

  The reporter was waiting for her the instant she stepped outside the Temple.

  She had known he would be, and steeled herself for the encounter.

  Reporters were forbidden to enter the Temple unless invited to do so, a welcome change from earlier. So instead they clustered like a swarm of insects at the base of the stairs, a milling little knot of salacious beings all clamoring for the exclusive story.

  “Jedi Solo! Over here!”

  “Solo! Where are you heading?”

  “Jedi Solo, what is your opinion on the movement to eliminate slavery on Vinsoth?” This last from a Chev, tall, powerfully built, piercing violet eyes staring at her from under a heavy brow.

  Jaina waved a hand airily at all of them, forcing an expression of good cheer.

  “Come on, guys, can’t a girl go out on a dinner date just like anyone else?” She opened her coat, nerf-hide black to match her evening bag, and mockingly showed off the long, red formal evening dress she wore underneath it, with matching red shoes with high, narrow heels. “See? Not even wearing my lightsaber. And I’m certainly not going to be running in these shoes. Now, unless you are keenly interested in what I’m going to order for dinner, you should really go home. Or bug someone else.”