by Troy Denning
And, Han realized, to make himself look good in the public eye—nothing like kneeing a Jedi in the groin on live HoloNet to make sure everyone remembered your name. But Han wasn’t going to begrudge the Bith his fifteen moments of fame; even if it had taken a none-too-subtle threat, Tharn had defied Daala and done the right thing. For that, he was going to need whatever benefit his newfound celebrity brought.
Han turned to Daala and motioned up the stairs, to where Turi was holding Saar by the arm and trying to help him stand up straight. “If you’re satisfied,” he said. “I think Jedi Saar could use someplace private to recover.”
Daala nodded. “Of course.” She flashed a vengeful glare in Tharn’s direction, then added, “I’ll have that plaza cleared as soon as Dr. Tharn certifies that all of the patients still in Jedi custody have recovered.”
“Sounds good.” An immense wave of relief rolled through Han, but he forced himself to keep a neutral face. He had seen defeat snatched from the jaws of victory often enough to know that now was no time for one of his trademark smug grins. Han turned to Tharn. “I’m pretty sure Master Cilghal will be happy to show you anything you need to see.”
Actually, Han wasn’t completely sure of that, since Cilghal wasn’t all that sure of what had happened to cure the barvy Jedi Knights. But that was her problem, and now that Han had forced Tharn to throw in with the Jedi, the good doctor wasn’t going to be looking too hard for reasons to make a negative report.
Han waited while Tharn made a show of ascending the stairs and taking Saar’s free arm, then turned back to Daala.
“I guess that just leaves us with one last thing to discuss.”
A vengeful light came to Daala’s eyes, and Han’s heart began to sink even before she spoke. “What thing would that be, Captain Solo?”
“Valin and Jysella Horn,” Han said, deciding to go for broke. “We’ll be coming to pick them up, just as soon as your bucketheads drag their barricades out of our hangar exits.”
Daala’s smile turned cold. “Then you’ll be making the trip for nothing,” she said.
Determined not to take the Galactic Alliance Chief of State by her lapels on live HoloNet, Han grabbed the sides of his trouser legs, then demanded, “You’re going to keep them in carbonite? When you know Cilghal can cure them?”
“I don’t know that she can. In fact, I don’t know anything about this cure at all.” Daala paused and ordered Harfard to lift the siege, then turned back to Han. “And until I do know everything, Captain Solo—until I’m one hundred percent satisfied that the Jedi are holding nothing back from me—the Horns will be remaining in GAS custody.”
Kenth Hamner should never have taken Luke Skywalker’s chair at the Council meetings, not because he was unworthy of it, but because Jedi were not soldiers. They honored beings rather than rank, and if a leader expected to command their obedience, he first had to win their respect. Kenth saw that now, and he knew it had been a terrible mistake to claim the trappings of Grand Master before proving that he deserved them. At the time, he had believed that assuming the title would cement the support of the Order behind him. Instead, it had done just the opposite, reminding the Jedi that he was not Luke Skywalker—that he was, in fact, a replacement foisted on them by an ex-Imperial Chief of State who had once stood for everything the Jedi opposed.
And the problem with Daala herself was much the same. She was old-school military, very much the ex-admiral who believed she deserved not only deference, but immediate and unquestioning obedience. Sadly for all, the Jedi saw her in a much different light—as little more than a former enemy who had not yet earned their trust or their respect. The combination was a recipe for the disaster it had become, and Kenth could see in the hard faces around him that Han Solo’s inability to win a graceful victory had only pushed matters to the brink of cataclysm.
With the exception of Luke himself, all the current members of the Jedi Council were there, either in the chamber or—in the case of Kam and Tionne Solusar—attending via HoloNet. Corran Horn was staring into the speaking circle with one of those saucer-eyed gazing-into-the-Core expressions that never seemed to leave his face these days. Flanking him were Kyle Katarn and Kyp Durron, their lips tight with the anger they were biting back. To Kenth’s right sat Saba Sebatyne, her scaly tail extended through the chair’s comfort-slot, the tip twitching and rasping on the larmalstone floor. Opposite the Barabel, Cilghal sat upright and motionless, her hands grasping the armrests of her chair and her bulbous eyes all but hidden by their membranous covers.
Next to the Mon Calamari sat the Council’s newest member, a golden mountain of fur and fangs whom Kenth himself had nominated. Standing a full head taller than most Wookiees, with a boxy snout and a thin line of white fur covering a scar across her throat, Barratk’l was of a species that had been enslaved by the Empire because of its great strength and endurance, the Yuzzem. In contrast with her fierce appearance and powerful build, she had an abundance of patience and good-natured common sense that were all too rare on the Council these days.
Octa Ramis, of course, was on her feet, her brow lowered in anger, her fist banging like a slammed door as she struck it against her palm. “… holding them hostage!” she was saying. “This, we can no longer permit. We have shown the entire galaxy that Valin and Jysella no longer pose a danger to anyone, and the time has come to demand their return—or to recover them ourselves.”
Kenth closed his eyes, retreating into his thoughts and silently urging Nek Bwua’tu to awaken from his coma. Together he and Bwua’tu could force Daala and the Council to come to terms and end this thing. But Kenth was himself in no position to extract the necessary concessions from Daala, and that left him with only two options—accede to his Masters’ demands for action, or continue stalling and hope Bwua’tu awoke soon. Since only one of those choices did not lead to more violence between the Jedi and the government they were sworn to serve, his choice was clear.
Without opening his eyes, Kenth asked, “Master Ramis, the Mandalorian legion has barely cleared the plaza. Do you really think now is the best time to test our détente with Chief Daala?”
“I do.”
Kenth’s eyes popped open. “You can’t be serious.”
“As an asteroid headed dirtside,” Ramis replied. “It’s the last thing Daala will expect.”
Saba’s tail stopped twitching. “This one agrees,” she said. “GAS will still be on alert. But even so, they will not be much trouble.”
“And Daala won’t have a response prepared, so we’ll have the publicity initiative,” Kyp agreed. He stood and began to pace in front of his chair. “If we move quickly, we might be able to keep this entirely out of the press—maybe even force her into claiming the release was on her authority.”
Kenth began to feel light-headed. “You’re talking about a raid against an Alliance facility, a raid that may end up killing Alliance soldiers. Have you lost your minds?”
The Masters paused to look his way for only a moment, then turned back to their discussion.
“Forcing Daala to claim she released the Hornz is good,” Saba said. “This one would like to hear more.”
“Well, this one wouldn’t.” Kenth drew himself upright in his chair; he had to cut this discussion off before the idea gathered any more momentum. “Mandos are one thing, but we are not going to take arms against Galactic Alliance personnel. Is that clear?”
Only the Solusars, Barratk’l, and Cilghal nodded. The rest of the Masters turned toward him with blank or slightly puzzled expressions, as though they were wondering why he thought his pronouncement should matter to them. Clearly, his leadership of the Council was hanging by a thread—a very frayed thread.
It was Corran Horn who broke the silence, finally seeming to return from his trance to stare across the circle at Kenth.
“And what are you going to do?”
Kenth scowled. Had Corran really just dared him to try to stop them from taking action? He rose to his feet, then said
, “I don’t think I like your tone, Master Horn.”
Corran remained seated and spoke in a deliberately soft tone. “At the moment, Grand Master Hamner, I couldn’t care less what you like.” Bracing his palms on his knees, he leaned forward and studied Kenth with eyes so cold they seemed dead. “What I do care about is this: my children have been frozen in carbonite for months, and Daala no longer has any reasonable excuse to hold them. Both Valin and Jysella are Jedi Knights, and if you’re unwilling to stage a raid to extract them, I’d like to know how you intend to get them back.”
“Ah.” Kenth sank back into his seat, feeling as uncertain of himself as he did embarrassed. It was a bad sign when a leader’s stress began to make him defensive and paranoid, and he knew he should be relying on someone else to help him keep his perspective. But with Bwua’tu in a coma, where could he turn? It looked as though only Barratk’l supported him, and considering the situation, it would be unfair to undermine her standing on the Council by using her as his confidante. “My apologies, Master Horn. I thought you were asking something else.”
“Clearly,” Cilghal replied in her gurgling voice. “But the question Master Horn did ask is a good one. If you are reluctant to stage a raid, how do you propose to recover our Jedi Knights?”
“And don’t even think about saying we’re going to leave them there until we sort this out,” Kyp added. “The Order can’t allow anyone to hold our people hostage to our cooperation. We’d have every two-chit crime lord in the galaxy trying to hang his own personal Jedi in carbonite.”
Seeing by the faces of the other Masters that his only choice was to agree or watch his fellows plan a disastrous raid, he steepled his fingers and nodded.
“We’re going to recover Valin and Jysella very soon, I promise you,” he said. “But I’d like to do it without starting an all-out war with Chief Daala.”
“I don’t see how that will be possible.” It was Kyle Katarn who said this, and—coming as it did from one of the Council’s most careful and deliberate thinkers—it was a statement that hit like a punch to the gut. “Natasi Daala is a woman of her convictions, and it’s her conviction that the Jedi must be reined in. Unless you intend to allow that …”
Katarn paused and tilted his head in inquiry.
When Kenth responded with only a quick headshake, Katarn continued, “… then it will be necessary to confront her.” He turned and ran his gaze around the circle of Masters. “The only thing we don’t know is how soon.”
Kenth could have kicked Katarn. Instead he turned to the other Masters and spoke in a deliberately calm voice.
“What Master Katarn says may be true. But don’t we owe it to the Order, the Alliance, and the citizens of Coruscant to at least try to avoid war?” He looked to the two Masters likely to be most concerned about an outbreak of violence, Kam and Tionne Solusar. “We have only just forced Daala to lift the siege. Remember, she may believe that we were the ones behind the assassination attempt on Admiral Bwua’tu. Let’s give her a little time to discover the truth and realize she’s still standing on the brink of a very nasty fight. Let’s see if we can’t make her blink, shall we?”
When the entreaty was met with silence rather than objections, Kenth realized he had a bought a few precious days for Bwua’tu to recover. He breathed a silent sigh of relief and steeled himself to take up the next item on the agenda—the StealthX strike force they had been trying to launch to reinforce Luke.
And that, of course, was the moment when the door opened and Han and Leia Solo marched into the Chamber.
“No wonder she wants hostages!” Han said, already striding toward the HoloNet control console. “You’re not gonna believe this!”
Kenth scowled at Leia. “Jedi Solo, haven’t I asked you and your husband not to barge into Council meetings? Repeatedly?”
“The Masters need to see this,” Leia replied, not even bothering to pretend she was apologetic. “There’s a freedom march on Blaudu Sextus.”
“Where?” Kenth had never even heard of the planet, and he could not imagine why a protest there would be important enough to interrupt a meeting of the Jedi Council. “Jedi Solo, if this is just an excuse to—”
“In the Regulan system,” Han interrupted, “out near Dubrava.”
“Dubrava?” Kyp asked, turning in his chair. “I didn’t know there was anything near Dubrava.”
“Barab One is near Dubrava.” Saba’s dark eyes fell on Kyp and remained there, as though she considered anyone who did not know the galactography of her home sector a potential meal. “It is in the Albanin sector, along with Hidden Tegoor, Blaudu Octus, and, of course, Blaudu Sextus.”
“Oh, that Blaudu Sextus,” Kyp said, nodding as though he had merely needed reminding. “Of course.”
Saba sissed at him, then directed her attention to the circle in general. “Blaudu Sextus invites slave labor from Blaudu Octus.” She turned back toward the Solos. “Is it the Octusi on the march?”
“You guessed it,” Han said.
Han pressed a sensor on the console, and a hologram appeared over the projection pad in the center of the speaking circle. The image depicted a line of centauriform aliens, with an Ithorian-like torso and head rising from the forequarters of a shaggy, barrel-chested nerf. They were marching single-file through a warren of cut-stone buildings, carrying sloppily rendered placards that depicted broken shackles and manacles. Although they were moving at a fast trot and filling the air with a high-pitched keening that would have been painful to hear in person, the marchers appeared eager to avoid causing property damage, remaining in a narrow line to avoid trampling the airspeeders parked in front of the buildings. In the foreground of the hologram appeared the impish figure of Madhi Vaandt, a doll-faced Devaronian female with pointed ears, narrow bright eyes, and white hair almost as wildly kept as Octusi fur.
“… can see, the Octusi are a gentle species. Even when they choose to throw off the shackles of slavery, they show the utmost concern for the safety and property of others,” Vaandt was saying. The scene shifted to a poorly lit spaceport in the dead of night, where a trio of huge Mandal-Motors troop transports sat almost invisible in a darkened corner of the landing field. “So why, then, was this the scene last night, at an industrial spaceport just twenty kilometers away?”
The scene assumed the greenish blue tint generated by a light-gathering lens. Several hundred Mandalorian commandos appeared, debarking the transports in assault sleds, in hovertanks, and on foot. Kenth’s stomach immediately grew hollow and queasy, and even before he could grudgingly ask Leia for a report, Saba was on her feet, her scales bristling and her fangs bared.
“Chief Daala goes too far!” A loud crash sounded behind her as her heavy tail slammed into her chair and sent it toppling to the floor. Betraying no sign she had even noticed, Saba continued, “The Octusi are no threat to the Blaudunz. Octusi never fight … not even to save their own lives!”
“Perhaps you should give us a background report on these cultures, Master Sebatyne,” Kenth suggested. Glad for an excuse to close the holofeed before the other Masters grew outraged as well, he signaled Han to kill it. “Maybe it will help us understand Chief Daala’s thinking.”
“What’s to understand?” Han asked. “Daala sees defiance, Daala crushes defiance. It’s the same strategy she learned sitting on Tarkin’s lap.”
Despite the sarcasm, Han deactivated the hologram, and Saba became the sole focus in the circle. The Barabel took a moment to collect her thoughts, flicking her tongue between her pebbly lips, then raised her gaze to address her fellow Masters.
“The Octusi are the natives of the Blaudu system,” she began. “They are a simple-minded species, and most Blaudunz—the colonizers of Blaudu Sextus—do not accept that they are truly sentient.”
“Are they?” asked Ramis.
Saba spread her hands. “That is for Master Cilghal to say, not this one,” she replied. “The Octusi speak and understand nearly a hundred wordz, but they do not re
ad or write, and they have no concept of time beyond now, later, and before. They use simple hand toolz to dig and to shape stone, but they do not understand leverz or pulleyz.”
“Then it would depend on whose definition of sentience we apply,” Cilghal said. “By the standards of the Old Republic, they would be classified as a primitive species and protected by the same laws that protect children and the mentally disabled. By Imperial standards, they would be classified as advanced livestock and treated as chattel.”
“And under Alliance law?” Kenth asked.
“From Master Sebatyne’s description,” Cilghal replied, “I would consider them quasi-sentient. It wouldn’t be legal to enslave them, and any legal dealings would need approval by a government-appointed advocate.”
“What about their relationship with the Blauduns?” Kam asked from his hologram. “From Master Sebatyne’s reaction and Madhi Vaandt’s report, the two species hardly seem antagonistic.”
“They are not,” Saba said. “The Blaudunz own their Octusi, this is true. But they regard them as working petz and treat them well.”
“Are they imprisoned?” asked Kyle.
Saba shook her head. “They are escorted to their work every day, but that is only because they would spend the day wandering otherwise. When they are done working, they are free to do as they wish.”
“And they don’t try to escape?” Tionne asked, her voice projecting from her hologram.
“There is nowhere to escape to,” Saba explained. “Blaudu Sextus is a mining world, and its native plant life is either poison or not worth the eating. When the Octusi grow hungry, they must return to their masterz for food harvested from Blaudu Octus.”
“And they always return to the correct master?” Tionne clarified.
“Not alwayz,” Saba replied. “Sometimes, they go to someone else when they are hungry. It is not legal for a Blaudun to feed someone else’s property, so they are returned to their rightful ownerz. But if it happenz several times, it is assumed the Octusi wishes to change ownerz, and the Blaudunz come to an arrangement.”