Vortex: Star Wars (Fate of the Jedi) (Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi)

by Troy Denning

  “I’m certain my daughter will tell you everything you wish to know,” Khai said, a little too quick to promise his daughter’s cooperation. He turned to Ben. “But what of your wounded friend? Has he died, or did you simply abandon his care?”

  Khai was stalling, trying to force Ben to reveal the reason he and Vestara had abandoned their post. Maybe he had been eavesdropping when the pair stopped at the clifftop to discuss their agreement, or maybe he simply sensed the same thing Ben did—that Vestara liked Ben enough to lie for him. In either case, Khai was only trying to protect his daughter, and it was hard to blame a father for that.

  “Dyon is on the mend,” Ben said. “He was alert enough to take care of himself, or I wouldn’t have locked Vestara in the medbay with him.”

  Taalon’s brow rose, and he turned to Vestara. “Young Skywalker tricked you?”

  Vestara let her chin drop. “I’m afraid so, High Lord.” The flush that came to her cheeks was deep enough to look like true embarrassment, and Ben could detect no hint of deception in her Force aura. “He asked me to help him change a bandage, then stepped outside and sealed the hatch.”

  “I see.” Taalon clasped her shoulder and turned her toward the arcade on the far side of the ruin. “You can explain over here … in private.”

  “Yes.” Vestara glanced back, shooting Ben an angry scowl that suggested she now considered her promise completely fulfilled. “That might be best.”

  Gavar Khai remained behind with Ben and Luke, his expression stoic and unreadable as his daughter vanished into the shadows with Taalon. Ben fidgeted beneath his gaze, wishing that the Sith would step away to feed the pyre fire, or do anything that would give Ben a chance to have a few quiet words with his father. Finally realizing he would need to make his own opportunity, Ben turned toward the arcade.

  “I didn’t mean to shove Vestara into the fusion chamber,” he said. “Lord Taalon’s not going to hurt her, is he?”

  “She’ll be punished.” Khai’s tone was sharp and blaming, and he could not stop himself from staring into the arcade after his daughter. “How severely depends on how badly she failed her assignment.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.” Ben allowed his very real concern to creep into his voice. “It’s not like she actually lost me.”

  Khai continued to stare into the arcade. “But you are the one who saved her life, and that will trouble Lord Taalon.”

  “Oh—well, I won’t make the same mistake with him.”

  As Ben spoke, he nudged his father with an elbow, then made a walking motion with his fingers and pointed into the jungle. He felt bad about the trouble Vestara was in, but he needed to get his father away from there before Ship arrived—and he had no idea how soon that might happen.

  Unfortunately, his father seemed to have other ideas. Luke simply shook his head at Ben’s fingers, then nodded across the courtyard toward Abeloth’s shrouded corpse. He wasn’t leaving without a body to take back for analysis.

  Ben scowled and mouthed the word, Ship!

  Luke’s brow shot up, but he made no motion toward the jungle.

  Soon! Ben mouthed.

  “What are you two whispering about?” demanded Gavar Khai’s angry voice. “We have had enough Jedi tricks for one day.”

  “This is no trick,” Luke said, turning toward the arcade where Taalon had taken Vestara. “But Sith or not, I won’t stand by and allow a sixteen-year-old girl to be beaten.”

  Without awaiting a reply—and ignoring for the moment the fact that there was no indication that anyone was being beaten—Luke started across the courtyard. Taken even more by surprise than Ben was, Khai stood with his jaw hanging for a couple of heartbeats, then finally seemed to realize that he needed to do something.

  By then, Luke was only a couple of steps from the arcade.

  “Wait!” Khai extended his hand, using the Force to jerk Luke to a stop. “You can’t interaaagggghh!”

  The objection came to a shrieking end as Luke whirled around, using his own Force strength to supplement Khai’s. The Sith left the ground and flew across five paces of courtyard into the iron-tight grasp of Luke’s artificial hand.

  “Someone needs to intervene,” Luke said calmly. “And since her father won’t, I will.”

  Ben knew what his father was doing, of course, and he was already stepping toward Abeloth’s shrouded body, reaching out to grasp it in the Force and float it around the far side of the funeral pyre. As gruesome as it seemed to sneak off with a stinking, three-day-old corpse, he understood why his father insisted on retrieving it. Assuming they were actually able to reach the Jade Shadow with Abeloth’s body and return it to the Jedi Temple, it was impossible to say how much Cilghal might learn by studying the thing. She might be able to identify a species, or at least hazard a guess as to what kind of being Abeloth had been. And if they could not return to Coruscant with the cadaver itself, at least they might be able to take tissue samples and make a couple of vids.

  But most important, by taking the corpse themselves the Skywalkers would prevent Taalon from keeping it. Given what the Lost Tribe’s intentions had been—to subjugate Abeloth and turn her into their own living Force weapon—it was a risk well worth taking. Ben just wished he had thought to bring a thermal detonator along—except, of course, that it would have been a violation of their truce with the Sith.

  Ben had just made it past the funeral pyre and was only three steps from the jungle when he felt Abeloth’s corpse being drawn back into the courtyard. Cursing under his breath, he snatched the lightsaber from his belt and began to pull harder, then heard a familiar female voice behind him.

  “Oh no you don’t, Ben! That wasn’t part of the deal.”

  Ben exhaled in frustration and, pulling harder than ever, spun around to find Vestara pursuing him around the pyre. Coming around the other side was Taalon himself, his lightsaber in hand and his eyes burning orange with rage. Luke and Khai remained out of sight beyond the pyre, still arguing and—judging by their Force auras—unaware of what was happening on the other side of the flames.

  “Well done, Vestara.” Taalon ignited his crimson blade and started to circle toward Ben’s flank. “See to Abeloth. I’ll handle the boy.”

  A pang of sadness and loss shot through Vestara’s Force aura, but she merely inclined her head. “As you wish, Lord Taalon. I’m just glad I was right.”

  She began to exert herself more fully in the Force, pulling hard enough that Ben knew it would prove impossible to hold the body and defend himself from Taalon. He reached for his father in the Force … and cursed, “Aw, bloah!”

  Taalon sprang, coming in fast and hard with a vertical slash that felt almost contemptuous in its power and bluntness. Ben easily pivoted aside, simultaneously releasing Abeloth’s body and sending it toward the pyre with a powerful Force shove. Then he continued his pivot and landed a spinning back kick square in the small of Taalon’s back and began to think he just might win this fight.

  And that, of course, was a very bad mistake.

  Instead of flying splay-limbed into the jungle as Ben had expected, Taalon used the Force to plant himself like a tree and did not budge a centimeter. Ben’s knee buckled, slipping, popping, and erupting in dull, aching pain. In the next instant Taalon’s elbow was slamming into his temple, landing with such bone-crunching power that, had Ben not used the Force to send himself cartwheeling away sideways, the fight would have ended right there.

  Ben was still tumbling when he saw Taalon’s crimson blade slashing for his midsection. He brought his own lightsaber around to block—and felt the invisible hand of the Force pushing his arm aside, leaving a clear path for the High Lord’s strike.

  “Wait!” Vestara’s voice boomed across the courtyard like a thermite detonation. “It’s a trick!”

  “A trick?” Taalon echoed.

  Ben suddenly found himself hanging upside down, his ankle locked in the High Lord’s crushing grasp and his eyes fixed on the crimson blade that was no more
than a centimeter from pushing into his chest. In the next instant Luke and Gavar Khai came rushing around the pyre together, their lightsabers ignited but not yet crossing. When they saw the situation—and how close Ben was to death—both men stopped in their tracks.

  Taalon glanced at them only briefly, then looked back toward Vestara. “Explain.”

  “They switched bodies,” Vestara said. “I don’t understand how, but they did.”

  Ben turned his head toward her voice and found her standing next to the pyre, using the Force to levitate the corpse over which they had been fighting. The bloody shroud had been torn away during the tug-of-war, and now he could see that the corpse was not Abeloth’s at all.

  In fact, it wasn’t even female.

  “This isn’t Abeloth,” Vestara continued. She floated the corpse toward Taalon, and Ben found himself looking at a much-battered, but still recognizable male face. “It’s Dyon Stadd!”

  Outside the Temple, a thousand Mandalorian thugs stood clustered around their QuickStryke assault sleds, dressed in full battle armor and looking generally hot, bored, and eager to start something. Behind them sat a pair of Canderous-class heavy hovertanks and a squadron of ungainly vyrhawk fighter-bombers, and in the Walking Garden across the plaza more than two dozen sniperscopes were flashing in the foliage. Han Solo was starting to think Daala just might be serious about taking over the Jedi Order—that she might actually believe that mere military force was enough to bend the Jedi to her will.

  As he watched, the QuickStrykes fired their repulsorlift engines, retracted their struts, and began to hover. The Mandalorians came more or less to attention, balancing their weight over both feet and swinging their weapons toward the Temple. Even the vyrhawks ascended to strafing altitude, their stubby wings and barrel-bristled noses winking with the rosy tips of energizing weapons. The sudden change of posture put the media on high alert, sending news presenters scrambling for their makeshift broadcast stages and cambots swarming into the unoccupied land between the Mandalorian lines and the Jedi Temple.

  A couple of seconds later, the dark ribbon of a Gallactic Alliance Security hovercade streamed into view. Coming from the direction of the Government Center, it consisted mostly of speeder bikes, armored air-cars, and cannon sleds. In the center of the procession were two large medical vans and a floating limousine that bore the emblem of the Galactic Alliance’s Chief of State.

  “Okay, that has to be Daala.” Han turned away from the viewport and faced the small band of Jedi standing in the Temple’s majestic mirrsteel foyer. “Looks like we’re on.”

  “Yes, finally,” Saba Sebatyne said. The Barabel stepped to the viewport, her thin tongue shooting between her pebbled lips as she glowered out at the hovercade. “How did you know Chief Daala would come in person?”

  “Easy.” Han started to slap the Master on her shoulder—then recalled how Barabels reacted when touched and quickly lowered his hand. “Daala is a power-hungry—”

  “Han,” Leia interrupted. She nodded at Allana, who was standing close beside her. “Admiral Daala is the Chief of State. She deserves to be referred to with a certain … decorum.”

  “—politician.” Han glanced down at Allana and winked, then continued, “And power-hungry politicians love to gloat. No way is she going to miss this.”

  “An astute observation, Captain Solo,” Kenth Hamner said, also stepping forward. He stopped just at the edge of Han’s personal space, looking as dignified and grave as he usually did these days. His always resonant voice grew deeper and more demanding. “But I worry about your tone. If your idea works—”

  “It is working,” Allana interrupted. Her thin eyebrows were lowered in determination, and her bright gray eyes burned with the same frustration she no doubt sensed in the Force auras around her. “Otherwise Daala wouldn’t even be here, and you know that as well as anyone!”

  Hamner’s lips tightened, and he addressed his reply to Han. “I’m not disagreeing with you, Captain Solo. I’m just urging you not to be quite so … smug.”

  Behind Hamner’s back, Allana scowled and would have interrupted again, had Leia not laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. Han bit his lip and did his best not to aggravate the situation by smiling. He had insisted on bringing his granddaughter along because he wanted her to learn how to play a good hole card when someone else had most of the chips. But it was beginning to look like the lesson of the day would have more to do with internal politics—namely, that even Jedi Grand Masters could be nerf-brains.

  Hamner seemed to sense Han’s drifting thoughts and shifted, placing himself between Han and his granddaughter. “Remember, our goal here isn’t to embarrass Chief Daala,” he continued. “It’s to convince her to lift the siege—”

  “To force her,” Octa Ramis corrected. A slender Jedi Master about ten years older than Jaina Solo, Ramis was almost as tall as Han—and, on occasion, was known to exhibit a temper just as volatile. “Let’s be very clear on that, Grand Master. If this doesn’t work, the Council will be discussing other means.”

  Hamner nodded. “Of course.” The Force was hardly necessary to sense the bitterness in his voice; even the Masters were no longer bothering to hide their frustration with his cautious leadership. “I’d just like to remind Captain Solo that the goal is to end the crisis, not exacerbate it.”

  “No worries.” Han unbuckled his holster-belt and rolled it around his old DL-44, then handed it to Leia. “I don’t usually laugh in a chump’s face until after I close the deal.”

  Hamner closed his eyes and exhaled hard, then turned to Kyle Katarn. “Maybe we should send someone else.”

  Katarn stroked the short-cropped beard that covered his blocky jaw, then asked, “Because?”

  “Because Captain Solo isn’t a Jedi,” Hamner replied evenly. “And because he doesn’t have the … patience to deal with Daala.”

  “We’ve shown Daala too much patience already,” Kyp Durron said.

  Cleanly shaven for a change—and reeking of algoraspice cologne—Kyp was standing with the two Jedi Knights who were key to Han’s plan. The first was a tall Chev male named Sothais Saar, the second a small human woman named Turi Altamik. Cilghal had assured everyone that the pair’s recovery from the Force psychosis was as complete as it was mysterious, and Han had known the healer far too long to doubt her judgment. Still, he would have felt a lot more confident if she had been there to keep a bulbous Mon Calamari eye on things. Instead she was down in the Asylum Block, running confirmation tests on the half dozen patients the GA did not know about.

  “And Han has done too much for the Order—given too much of his own family’s blood—to be dismissed like that,” Kyp continued. “How many times does he need to prove himself?”

  Kyp turned toward Corran and Mirax Horn, who were waiting a little apart from everyone else at the base of a soaring milkstone pillar. Corran’s long face was as haggard as Han had ever seen it, with a tangled, untrimmed beard and a brow so furrowed it looked like a Gamorrean’s. Though Mirax had at least brushed her hair and pulled it away from her face, her appearance was even worse, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes.

  Corran gave a single, quick nod of agreement. “Han has earned the Order’s trust a hundred times over.” He shot a scowl in Hamner’s direction, then added, “I don’t see how anyone could suggest otherwise.”

  Mirax joined her husband in glowering at the acting Grand Master. “Honestly, after what they’ve been through, it’s an insult.”

  Hamner’s eyes flashed at the cynicism in the voices of both Horns, and Han realized that if he didn’t set his plan in motion now, the Masters were going to be too busy arguing to back him up. He kissed Leia on the cheek, then dropped to his haunches and looked Allana in the eye.

  “Keep a watch on these guys,” he said. “We don’t want them missing my signal because they’re, uh, discussing something.”

  “You mean arguing.” Allana shot a scowl in the Masters’ direction, then said, “But don’t w
orry. I’ll be watching.”

  Han chuckled. “Looks like I’m in good hands, then.” He rose and glanced over Allana’s head toward Saar and Altamik. “You two clear on your part?”

  Saar replied with a nervous nod. “Of course.” Like all Chevs, he had pale skin and a heavy brow that made him look like a human thug—an impression that was only reinforced by the tailored cut of his shimmer-silk robe. “We wait for your signal.”

  “Then just behave normally,” Turi added. As petite and athletic as Saar was tall and husky, she had green, mischief-filled eyes and a smile diabolic enough to suggest she’d be a lot of fun in a firefight. “And let Daala do the rest.”

  Han flashed her a lopsided grin. “You got it, kid. I’ll handle everything else.”

  He winked at Leia and turned toward the massive Temple doors. A pair of Jedi Knight guards peered through a security port, then wished him well and opened a small hatch in the base of one of the huge doors. He stepped out into the portico and stood looking down on the Mandalorian siege camp that lay spread across Fellowship Plaza. How this was not being blasted as illegal by every media outlet on the planet, he could not understand. If Daala had called in the GA’s own military, she could have at least claimed that she was merely taking action to protect the citizenry from a mysterious threat to public health. But the Jedi had a lot of friends in the GA military, and so she had turned to her Mandalorian allies instead.

  Han had only a moment before a flock of hovercams came streaming toward him, weaving and bobbing as they jockeyed for a clear line of sight—and reminding him far too much of a swarm of bloodsucking skeetos. Knowing that Leia and the Masters would be eavesdropping on every sound he made, he took a deep breath and started down the stairs, singing one of his favorite Sy Snootles tunes, “Crazy Wicked Witch.”

  The hovercade streamed over the Mandalorian line at a velocity approaching breakneck, then whipped around in front of the Temple and came to a nose-dropping halt at the base of the stairs. A dozen aircar hatches flew open, disgorging fifty blue-armored Galactic Alliance Security troops who quickly shouldered their weapons and began to peer through heat-sensing scopes in search of snipers.