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

by Troy Denning

  “Okay …” Leia’s eyes began to brighten, but she did not seem quite on board yet. “And then?”

  “Then we’re out on the roof,” Han said. He grabbed Valin’s pod and started to float it toward the nearest stairway. “Where the GAS boys don’t expect to see us.”

  Leia cocked her head. “Well, it’s better than staying trapped in here. I’ll keep reaching out to Jaina and see if I can get across the idea that we’re going up.”

  She grabbed Jysella’s pod and floated it after Han, and together they began to climb as fast as possible. They spotted a cargo lift almost immediately, but didn’t use it for fear of betraying their plan. Besides, with Leia using the Force to pull the pods up the stairwells, the ascent wasn’t too strenuous. After a couple of minutes, they were standing on the uppermost balcony looking up into the pointed dome.

  Han pulled the thermal detonator off his vest, then tried to gauge the distance between them and the apex. “That ought to be far enough above us that we’re clear of the blast, right?”

  Leia studied the dome for a moment, then nodded. “I think so, and if we’re wrong …”

  The sound of hatches opening rang out below. GAS guards in full riot gear began flooding into the bunker, and a moment later blaster bolts began to scream upward.

  “That was fast,” Han observed. He and Leia pressed themselves against the wall, then he set the detonator fuse for three seconds and asked, “Ready?”

  When Leia nodded, he tossed the detonator toward the dome and started to count seconds aloud.

  Leia extended a hand, catching it in the Force—and several guards cried out, “Detonator!”

  The blaster fire stopped as the guards dived for the nearest exits. Leia flicked her hand upward, and the thermal detonator flew into the apex of the dome.

  “Three!” Han warned.

  Both Solos closed their eyes and turned toward the wall. Even so, the flash was so bright that it made Han’s head pound. He felt a wave of heat so searing that he feared they had misjudged the distance to the apex.

  A tremendous crackle rang through the bunker, then the heat and the light faded as quickly as they had come. Han stood frozen for several heartbeats, just to make sure he was actually alive, then finally let his breath out.

  “Hey, we made it!” He opened his eyes and turned to hug Leia … and nearly stepped off a half-disintegrated balcony. “Leia?”

  She wasn’t there. And neither were the Horns.

  More than half of the balcony had been caught in the blast radius and was simply gone. But that still left a good half a meter of durasteel upon which Leia could have been standing—and should have.

  “Leia!”

  Han dropped to his knees and peered over the white-hot edge of the balcony, expecting—hoping—to see her hanging from a balcony below.

  There was no one there. No one but about four thousand very quiet carbonite prisoners.

  “Leiaaaagghh?” The call was half question and half wail, a scream unlike any Han had unleashed before. “Leiaaaaa!”

  Han?

  Leia’s voice came to him as much within his mind as in his ears, and he imagined she was reaching out to him through the Force, trying to touch him one last time before she was gone … forever. The tears welled in his eyes.

  Then she called out to him again. “Han!”

  He looked up, his eyes so watery that he could see nothing but a blue smear where the detonator had disintegrated the roof. “Leia?”

  “Han!” she called. “Will you get moving, already? They’re waiting for us!”

  “Waiting?”

  Han stood and turned toward the voice, growing more confused. There was no way Zekk and Jaina and the others in the newsvan were on the roof—even if they had disobeyed orders, GAS would have shot them down. And he could not imagine who else might be waiting with Leia, except all of their beloved ones who had gone before … so, was he dead, too?

  Han looked up again. He could barely make out a female form kneeling at the edge of the detonator hole—Leia’s form. Behind her loomed the bulky shape of a Cygnus-7 armored transport.

  “Leia! You’re …” He caught himself, not wanting to act like a total fool in front of the woman he loved. “You’re out already?”

  “Han, I’ve been out for five seconds—and the Horns have been out for a couple!” When the sound of running boots began to rumble up from the depths of the bunker, Leia frowned and asked, “What’s wrong? Did you hit your head or something?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Han wiped his eyes on a sleeve. “Sorry, I must have.”

  “What’s the holdup?” demanded a familiar Hapan voice. A moment later Taryn Zel appeared next to Leia and began to pour blasterfire down through the hole. Behind her, the screech of the Cygnus-7’s ion cannon began to shred the air. “Let’s get moving, Solo!”

  A steady stream of blasterfire began to fly up from below, ricocheting around the upper ring of the bunker and vanishing into the sky above. Han pulled his blaster off his shoulder, glanced up to see Leia already extending a hand in his direction, and began to return fire as she rocketed him out of the bunker straight into the open cargo bay of the Cygnus-7.

  Leia and Taryn dived in on top of him, and an instant later Turi had the supercharged transport slipping over the edge of the detention center and streaking downward. Han and the two women tumbled down against the forward bulkhead of the cargo bay and lay there in a tangle atop the cargo pods, trying to catch their breath and still their pounding hearts. Finally, the Cygnus-7 entered the concealing gloom of the undercity and leveled out.

  “There.” Han snaked an arm around Leia’s shoulder and planted a big kiss on her lips, then pulled back and gave her one of his crooked smiles. “Didn’t I say this was going to be easy?”

  Tahiri, it seemed, was no longer news. For the first time since her trial had opened, the spectator area of the Ninth Hall of Justice sat nearly empty. As word had spread of the Errant Venture’s attack on Coruscant’s climate-control mirrors that morning, half the reporters in attendance had drifted out of the room and not returned. When news had arrived of the StealthX launch, the rest had departed, and by the time the Venture had escaped into hyperspace, even casual observers were leaving. Now, with Daala making noises about martial law and the whole planet waiting to see if she would attempt to storm the Jedi Temple again, the only beings still in the courtroom were those directly involved with the trial.

  And that, according to Sardonne Sardon, was a problem. With Eramuth Bwua’tu ambling back and forth in front of the witness stand, seeming to fumble about in search of a defense while actually preparing to demolish the prosecution’s most damaging witness, the galactic media was nowhere to be seen. The momentum of the trial was about to swing toward the defense, and no one was going to see it. In the court of public opinion, Lieutenant Pagorski’s claim that the defendant had violated a direct order would be allowed to stand. Tahiri would continue to be regarded as a renegade Jedi who had murdered a legendary commander, and—of course—potential clients would not see on live HoloNet how quickly Sardonne Sardon had reversed the course of the trial.

  Which was fine with Tahiri.

  All she wanted was the truth brought to light. And the truth was that Caedus had instructed her to kill Pellaeon if it was necessary to secure the Empire’s military cooperation. Tahiri had followed those orders exactly. Whether that had been an act of war or a murder was for the jury to determine. She just wanted them to make that determination based on facts.

  Bwua’tu’s pacing carried him back in front of the witness stand, where he paused to scowl at Lieutenant Pagorski. “So you’re telling me that Bloodfin Security had all compartments on the vessel under surveillance?”

  “Yes, sir,” Pagorski replied. As before, she was in full Imperial dress uniform, white jacket with epaulets over a gray shirt buttoned to the throat. “All compartments except the admiral’s refresher. That was what we were told.”

  “I see,” Bwua’tu sai
d.

  The trap had been Sardon’s idea, but even she had recognized that opposing counsel would see it coming if she tried to lay the groundwork in her own meticulous, orderly style. That was just one of the reasons Tahiri was glad that Bwua’tu hadn’t been allowed to resign in protest when she had insisted on adding Sardon to the defense team. Together, they were a great pair, Bwua’tu’s experience and style a perfect complement to Sardon’s intellect and organization. With them working together, she didn’t see how she could lose.

  “And that’s how you knew that my client was present at this supposed conference aboard the Bloodfin before the Battle of Fondor?” Bwua’tu asked, weaving another strand in his web. “You saw her in the conference compartment with the Admirals Niathal and Pellaeon and Colonel Solo?”

  “Not quite, Counselor,” Pagorski said. “No one but FinSec sees those vids. I was told of her presence afterward, by a FinSec officer.”

  Bwua’tu cocked a furry brow in feigned astonishment. “It was the habit of the Bloodfin’s security team to gossip about what they observed on their surveillance vids?”

  “Not normally,” Pagorski replied. “I happened to be close with a FinSec officer.”

  “So you’re saying this was pillow talk?”

  “That’s not what I said,” Pagorski replied.

  “But it could be characterized that way?”

  Pagorski blushed, then reluctantly nodded. “It could. We were very close.”

  “Were?” Bwua’tu asked. “Then your relationship has ended?”

  “Not in the way you’re suggesting,” Pagorski replied. “My friend was killed during the mutiny.”

  “Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that.” Bwua’tu’s ears drooped in sympathy. “I take it you were in love?”

  “We were.”

  Sardon leaned close to Tahiri. “This is artistry,” she whispered. “I only wish we hadn’t lost the news crews. Then the entire galaxy would have seen who the real victim is here.”

  Tahiri cringed. “I’m no victim.”

  “Of course not.” Sardon patted her shoulder. “You were a soldier, following orders.”

  In front of the witness stand, Bwua’tu paused. With his chin slightly lowered and his shoulders hanging slack, it looked as though he were giving the witness a moment to compose herself. What he was really doing, Tahiri suspected, was drawing the jury’s attention to her emotional state, making certain that they were closely watching her reaction to what he said next.

  “And your friend?” Bwua’tu asked. “That would have been … Commander Liyn?”

  Pagorski’s eyes grew wide. “How did you know that?”

  Dekkon must have sensed the trap before Pagorski did, for the Chagrian was instantly on his feet, his long lethorns swaying as he objected. “Your Honor, I fail to see what Lieutenant Pagorski’s personal life has to do with these—”

  “It goes to credibility,” Bwua’tu interrupted. “I’m simply trying to establish the reason the witness has been lying to this court.”

  “Lying, Counselor?” Judge Zudan asked. She peered down from her bench, the tiny scales on her Falleen face deepening to a somber scarlet. “That’s a very serious allegation in my court.”

  “And one I fully intend to prove.” Bwua’tu turned back to Pagorski. “Unless the witness wishes to recant her earlier testimony now? After all, memory sometimes fails us all.”

  “My memory is excellent, Counselor,” Pagorski replied icily. “Colonel Solo instructed Lieutenant Veila not to kill Admiral Pellaeon. Of that, I’m certain.”

  “I see,” Bwua’tu said. “And might that certainty be because you hold Lieutenant Veila responsible for your lover’s death?”

  Pagorski narrowed her eyes. “It would not.”

  “Oh.” A sardonic smile came to Bwua’tu’s muzzle. “Just checking.”

  A juror—the Askajian—let out a snort of amusement, which instantly drew an outraged “Your Honor!” from Sul Dekkon and a stern glare from Judge Zudan. Bwua’tu used the opportunity to return to the witness table, where he made an elaborate show of opening a plastoid box and withdrawing a high-capacity military-grade datachip. He carried it over to the jury box and carefully displayed it, making certain that each of the occupants saw the crest of the Imperial Navy stamped on the outside of the case.

  The datachip was Sardon’s accomplishment. After listening to Tahiri’s account of the killing and the events leading up to it, she had immediately begun to search for ways to expose Pagorski’s lie. A little research had revealed the Imperial obsession with security and surveillance, and from there it had been a short leap of intuition to guess that ship security might have a surveillance vid that would either prove or disprove Pagorski’s claim. Sardon had immediately requested, through formal diplomatic channels, any records relating to Tahiri’s time aboard the Bloodfin. She had received a prompt reply promising to look into the matter and get back to her within two months. A day later, Bwua’tu had supplied the comm codes for Jagged Fel’s Chiss assistant, Ashik. Two weeks later, the orginal datachips—not copies or transcripts, but the originals—had arrived via special courier.

  When all the jurors had been given a chance to inspect the datachip, Bwua’tu took it to the witness stand and placed it on the railing. “Lieutenant Pagorski, do you know what that is?”

  Pagorski barely glanced at the chip. “Where did you get that?”

  “That will become evident in good time, my dear,” Bwua’tu replied. “Until then, you must try to remember that I am the one asking questions here. Now, do you know what that is or not, Lieutenant?”

  “Of course I do. It’s an Imperial Navy high-capacity datachip,” she said. “We use them by the thousands in ComInt.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Bwua’tu turned to face the jury. “Can you tell me, Lieutenant, do military datachips like those have any special properties?”

  “They do.” Pagorski’s tone had turned wary, but she clearly realized that refusing to answer the question would only give Bwua’tu an opportunity to make her look foolish. “When tampered with, they self-destruct. They’re shielded to withstand damage from heat, cold, water, and electromagnetic pulse. And they can be accessed only with a top-secret passcode.”

  “A passcode?” Bwua’tu did a credible job of sounding surprised. “And who would know this passcode?”

  “Only users of each particular datachip,” Pagorski replied. “And their direct superiors, of course.”

  “I see. And would you happen to know the passcode to this one, Lieutenant?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know?” Bwua’tu asked. He turned the datachip over, displaying the label etched into the back of the casing. “You haven’t even looked at its identification code.”

  “Very well.” Pagorski leaned forward to inspect the datachip, and her eyes went wide. “It’s a FinSec surveillance chip!”

  Bwua’tu’s smile grew predatory. “Thank you, my dear. I was hoping you would be able to identify that for us.” He retrieved the datachip and stepped toward Judge Zudan’s bench. “For the record, Your Honor, this FinSec datachip was one of many sent to defense counsel in response to a request for all surveillance records relating to Tahiri Veila’s presence aboard the Bloodfin during the Battle of Fondor.”

  Before Sul Dekkon could object, Sardon produced a thin sheaf of flimsiplast from a document folder next to her chair and rose. “If I may, Your Honor, these are affidavits from Kthira’shi’ktarloo, personal assistant to Head of State Fel of the Galactic Empire, and a series of Imperial officers. All relate to the nature of this datachip.”

  She quickly handed one set of affidavits to Sul Dekkon, and another to the bailiff, who passed it up to Judge Zudan.

  “They attest to the chain of possession of said datachip,” Sardon continued, “and provide assurances that the content has not been altered in any way.”

  “I take it you wish to enter this datachip into evidence?” Zudan asked.

  Sardon nodded.
“We do.”

  Zudan’s gaze shifted to the prosecution table. “Does prosecution have any objection?”

  “One moment, Your Honor,” Dekkon replied. “We’d like to examine the affidavits.”

  Zudan nodded, and Dekkon and his assistant huddled over the affidavits, whispering and pointing. If Sardon’s plan was going to fail, it would be now, Tahiri knew. There were a whole host of technicalities that could be used to challenge the admission of the datachip, and although Sardon had prepared counterarguments for every one, she still put their chances of getting the datachip admitted at roughly 50 percent. Bwua’tu, on the other hand, felt certain it would be admitted, provided their documentation was in order—which was why he had insisted on preparing it personally. After a few minutes, Dekkon nodded to his associates, then rose.

  “Your Honor, we do have one question.”

  “Yes?” Zudan replied.

  Dekkon turned to Sardon. “How did you ever get the Empire to release this material?” he asked. “We’ve been requesting it for months!”

  Sardon narrowed her eyes, obviously searching for the trap.

  Bwua’tu merely smiled. “We called Head of State Fel’s office, of course,” he said. “I’m guessing you tried diplomatic channels?”

  Dekkon’s face darkened with irritation. “That would be correct.” He turned back to the judge. “Everything seems to be in order, Your Honor. But I do reserve the right to have an expert examine the datachip to establish its authenticity.”

  “Of course.” Zudan turned to Bwua’tu. “You may enter the datachip as Exhibit Omega.”

  Sardon returned to her seat looking more worried than ever, obviously wary of Dekkon’s easily capitulation. Bwua’tu merely passed the datachip—Exhibit Omega—to the court’s media officer, along with a flimsiplast containing the passcode and a list of files. A wall panel began to glow with backlighting, and the image of a corridor aboard the Bloodfin appeared. A moment later, Tahiri and Caedus entered, approaching from the top of the image, where the narrowness of the corridor suggested a respectable distance.