by Troy Denning
They were tiny figures moving down a long durasteel tunnel, but the image was clear enough to see that they were talking as they walked. Tahiri had already seen the vid fifty times, gone over it with Sardon and Bwua’tu until she had recalled every word they said during the short stroll. Yet watching it still made her feel cold and hollow, reminded her of how thoroughly she had been under his power, and of all the things she had done in Caedus’s name.
Killing Pellaeon had not even been the worst of those acts. When she allowed her mind to drift back to those days, she wondered if she was doing the right thing by even offering a defense for her actions. Sometimes only the unflagging support of the Solos—and Leia’s stubborn insistence that criminals could not judge themselves—kept her from offering to save the GA the trouble of a trial. Han and Leia had come to regard her as a link to their lost sons, and had she simply given up, she knew they would have been devastated.
The images on the vid panel grew larger as they continued down the corridor, and soon Tahiri’s voice became audible. “… value can I bring that a remote holocam can’t?”
“If Pellaeon interferes with my plan in any way …”
Caedus flicked a finger, and both the audio and image disintegrated into static.
“Unfortunately, the surveillance equipment seemed to suffer a glitch at that point,” Bwua’tu explained. He turned back Pagorski. “But you—or, rather, your friend—heard the entire conversation. Is that not correct?”
“I’ve already said it is,” Pagorski replied.
“And what would you say if I informed you that we had the conversation digitally reconstructed. And that the rest of the exchange is as follows:
“Colonel Solo says, ‘then you stop him … Do you understand what I’m asking you to do?’
“Tahiri replies, ‘I think so.’
“Then Colonel Solo continues, ‘Some deaths … some sacrifices are necessary, however callous they may appear.’ ”
Pagorski considered her reply for a moment, no doubt weighing whether such a reconstruction actually existed. It did not, of course—but Pagorski could not be certain of that. Finally, she answered, “I would say that your expert is probably mistaken. And even if he were correct, it doesn’t change anything I heard directly.”
“You’re referring to the communications intercept you described during your previous testimony, I assume?” Bwua’tu asked. “The intercept in which Colonel Solo allegedly orders Lieutenant Veila not to kill Admiral Pellaeon. Wasn’t that your testimony?”
“Yes. In that intercept, I did hear Colonel Solo specifically order the defendant not to kill the admiral,” Pagorski replied. “That was—that is—my testimony.”
“Of course.” Bwua’tu’s long lip curled into a hungry sneer, and he turned to face the jury. “The intercept in which you did hear the defendant and Colonel Solo discussing whether to kill the admiral.”
Sardon propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward, clearly relishing the way Bwua’tu was leading Pagorski into the trap.
“Very well, Lieutenant. Would you tell the court what you did next?” Bwua’tu asked, still looking at the jury.
Pagorski frowned. “Next?”
“Yes. After you heard the defendant discussing whether to assassinate your admiral,” Bwua’tu replied. “What did you do? Did you alert the admiral? Report the conversation to FinSec? Mention it to your superior?”
“Oh.” Pagorsk settled back into her seat. “Yes, of course.”
“Of course what?” Bwua’tu pressed. “Which of those actions did you take?”
Pagorski thought for a moment, then replied, “Well, I did all three, of course.”
A ridge appeared down the back of Sardon’s robes as her dorsal spines rose in apprehension, but Bwua’tu pressed blithely on.
“All three?” he asked, turning back to the witness stand. “You must have been quite busy, then.”
Pagorski nodded. “For a short time.”
“I see.”
Bwua’tu started back to the defense table. Sardon pushed back in her chair, her face scales bristling in anger now instead of alarm. She wasn’t worried that the old Bothan had made a mistake, Tahiri realized, she was upset with what he was doing. When he reached the table and started to open the box from which he had removed the first datachip, Sardon’s hand shot out to cover his.
“Eramuth!” she whispered. “What are you doing?”
Bwua’tu’s ears were pricked forward in surprise, his snout wrinkled in disapproval. “I assume you know,” he whispered. “I’m about to expose Lieutenant Pagorski as a liar.”
“What about Dekkon?” she demanded, still hissing. “You haven’t asked if he coached her testimony.”
“Because the prosecution has done nothing improper,” Bwua’tu replied. “Sul didn’t know she was lying, or he would have fought harder to prevent us from admitting the datachips.”
“So?”
Sardon stood and leaned closer to Bwua’tu’s ear, giving Tahiri a clear view of both the prosecution table and the jury box. All eyes were on her attorneys, and all eyes looked as disapproving as they did astonished.
“The jury will draw its inferences from the question alone,” she said. “Then, after you spring the trap, it will taint the testimony of all the prosecution witnesses.”
“Or backfire and convince them that we’re pulling a fast one with an altered datachip,” Bwua’tu countered. “People are suspicious of the Jedi right now. It’s better to play it safe and simply impeach the witness. We do not need to smear opposing counsel.”
This caused Sardon to draw back. “Are you afraid of him?”
She asked the question loudly enough to raise brows in the jury box, and Tahiri realized the pair were not doing her any good at the moment.
“Uh, Counselors!” She leaned forward, sheltering her hand from anyone’s view but theirs, and jerked a thumb toward the jury box. “Do you think you’re doing me any good here?”
Bwua’tu’s ears flattened with embarrassment, and Sardon’s face flushed to purple.
“Sorry, my dear,” Bwua’tu said. “But I won’t go after Sul Dekkon simply because he was duped by his own witness. It’s not in your best interest.”
Sardon rolled her eyes. “You’re playing it safe, Eramuth,” she said. “You can’t do that against Dekkon. We need to cripple him while we can—because he has a lot more than just Pagorski on his side. He has the facts.”
“And we have the truth,” Bwua’tu retorted.
Before he could say more, Judge Zudan’s voice sounded from the bench. “Is the defense counsel ready to proceed?”
Dekkon rose. “If counsel needs a short adjournment—”
“No!”
Bwua’tu and Sardon spoke the word together. Tahiri was relieved to discover they were in agreement about that much. Even she realized how much of a mistake it would have been to further break the rhythm of the examination.
“The defense thanks the prosecution for its kind offer.” Bwua’tu nodded to Dekkon, then turned to address the judge. “And we thank the court for its patience. But there’s no need for an adjournment. We’re ready to proceed.”
“By all means, please do,” Zudan ordered.
Bwua’tu nodded, then reached for the box again—only to find Sardon’s hand covering it. Bwua’tu showed the tips of his fangs, Sardon extended the tiny claws on her fingertips, and Tahiri began to feel sick to her stomach.
“Please!” Tahiri whispered. Realizing that the choice was ultimately hers alone—and that Sardon was right about the facts of the case being against her—she decided to go for the crippling attack. “Eramuth, just ask Pagorski whether she was coached, okay?”
Bwua’tu’s jowls sagged. “You’re certain?”
“No,” Tahiri admitted. “But this argument has to end, and looking for surveillance vids was Sardonne’s idea.”
Bwua’tu nodded. “It’s your choice, my dear.”
He removed his hand from the
box, then turned away without the second datachip—the one that showed the interior of the Bloodfin’s ComInt compartment during the entire Battle of Fondor.
All eyes were on Bwua’tu as he approached the witness stand again, his gaze fixed on the floor and his hands folded behind his back. Once he arrived, he took a moment to look around, as though inspecting the room for the first time, then addressed Pagorski.
“Would you please state your name and occupation for the record?”
Pagorski’s brow shot up—along with everybody else’s. “Sir?”
“Your name and occupation,” Bwua’tu said, growing testy. “We need it for the record.”
Pagorski glanced over at the judge, who did her best not to look confused as she said, “The witness will answer.”
“Lydea Pagorski,” she said. “I’m a junior lieutenant in the Imperial Navy.”
The courtroom was too empty for there to be a murmur, but the air grew still with astonishment, and Tahiri could see her own confusion mirrored in the eyes of everyone else in attendance.
“I see,” Bwua’tu said. “And in your capacity as a junior lieutenant, you do what, exactly? Fly starfighters?”
Again, Pagorski looked to the judge. This time Zudan raised a hand for the lieutenant to wait, then leaned over the bench and motioned Bwua’tu closer.
“Counsel will approach for a conference.”
“Bloah!” Sardon whispered. “The old nerf is trying to sabotage us!”
Tahiri shook her head. “No, it has to be something else,” she said. “Eramuth wouldn’t do that.”
“No? Look at him.”
Instead Tahiri looked toward the jury—and was surprised to find them looking not at Bwua’tu, but at her. To a being, their faces were filled with pity and patience, and in their eyes she found no judgment or condemnation, only sympathy and forbearance. And when the Askajian shot her a blubber-lipped smile, Tahiri understood exactly what Bwua’tu was doing.
The old Bothan was taking the blame for the scene that Sardon had caused, making it appear that it had been his senility instead of her ego that had caused the earlier disruption at the defense table.
“I can’t believe he would do that,” Tahiri said.
“Me either,” Sardon said. “It’s entirely unprofessional.”
Tahiri frowned at Sardon’s disapproving tone. It was obvious to her, at least, that Bwua’tu was sacrificing a reputation built up over a lifetime—a very long lifetime—to protect his client.
“What, exactly, do you find unprofessional?” Tahiri asked.
“That.” Sardon gestured toward the judge’s bench, where Bwua’tu was doing a very credible job of looking angry and bewildered. “Feigning incapacity so he can withdraw from the case.”
Tahiri shook her head. “I don’t think that’s what he’s doing.”
“Trust me, it is.” Sardon laid a scaly hand on Tahiri’s arm, and she felt herself growing serene as the Falleen flooded the air with calming pheromones. “But you have nothing to worry about, my friend. I’ve been preparing for a big case like this my whole life.”
Tahiri nodded. “I can see that.” She rose, then said, “Excuse me, Your Honor, but I’ve come to a difficult decision.”
Zudan motioned for Bwua’tu to be silent, then looked to Tahiri. “Yes?”
Tahiri caught Bwua’tu’s eye, and was not surprised to see him give her an encouraging nod.
She smiled back at him, then said, “I think I need to dismiss a defense counsel.”
A wave of relief flooded Zudan’s face. “I’m inclined to agree.” The judge’s gaze dropped back to Bwua’tu. “Please proceed.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Tahiri turned to Sardon, then said, “I’m sorry, Sardonne. You’re an excellent attorney, but I think Eramuth works better alone.”
Sardon’s eyes went wide with shock and outrage. Suddenly Tahiri’s serenity of a moment before began to develop a bitter, frightened edge as the Falleen exuded anxiety-producing pheromones in an effort to convince Tahiri that she was making a terrible mistake.
“Sardonne, I suggest you leave this table on your own two feet,” Tahiri whispered. “If I have to throw you over the bar, it’s going to look bad for a both of us.”
Sardon’s eyes narrowed in anger, but she retrieved her datapad and stood. “You do understand that you’re throwing your life away?” she hissed. “That old fool doesn’t understand the first thing about operating in a modern courtroom.”
Without awaiting a reply, she marched into the spectator area and out of the room.
When Tahiri turned forward again, it was to find Judge Zudan staring down at her in disbelief. “I hope the defendant fired the right counsel.”
“I think I did,” Tahiri replied. She fished the second datachip out of the box on the table and held it out for Bwua’tu. “And very soon, everyone else will think so, too.”
Bwua’tu smiled broadly, then retrieved the datachip, entered it properly into evidence, and presented it to the court’s media officers. Within a few minutes, the jury was watching a vid of Lieutenant Pagorski sitting at her duty station. Bwua’tu pointed out the time stamp in the corner, verifying that the vid had been recorded during the period Pagorski claimed to have intercepted the converstion regarding Admiral Pellaeon.
Then he allowed the vid to play without comment—the entire thirty-two minutes of it. Not once did any hint of alarm come to Pagorski’s face. And though she spoke to her superior twice, neither time did either of them show any concern or take any visible measures to warn Pellaeon’s staff or FinSec that the admiral might be in danger. In fact, the only thing it did show was Pagorski sitting at her duty station, not doing any of things she had claimed.
When the vid finally came to an end, Bwua’tu strolled up to the witness stand and laid the remote control on the rail. “Now, Lieutenant Pagorski, would you care to show the court exactly when it was that you intercepted this order to my client?”
Pagorski stared at the remote blankly for a moment, then reluctantly picked it up. “I—I can’t recall … exactly,” she said. “It might have been toward the beginning.”
To Tahiri’s surprise, it was Sul Dekkon who spoke next.
“I highly doubt that.” The Chagrian rose and bowed first to Tahiri, then to Bwua’tu, and finally to the judge. “Your Honor, I would like to apologize to the defendant and opposing counsel for my obvious error in judgment in presenting this witness.”
Bwua’tu tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Apology accepted, Counsel.”
“Thank you. That’s very gracious of you.” Dekkon inclined his head to show his sincerity, then turned to the bailiff. “And second, as an officer of this court, I request the immediate remand of the witness.”
“What?” Pagorski cried. “You can’t do that! I’m an Imperial officer!”
“Who bore false witness in a murder trial,” Dekkon replied, barely restraining his obvious anger. “In the Galactic Alliance, that is a serious crime, Lieutenant—and you can be sure that Tahiri Veila will be testifying at your trial.”
The Council Chamber holoprojector was oriented toward the chair at the head of the speaking circle. That chair now sat vacant; Saba remained in her customary seat, in the middle of one side. She had not done this because it forced Chief of State Daala to converse with a turned head—though that was the effect. Nor had she chosen this location to suggest to Daala that Kenth Hamner was merely absent instead of dead—though she intended to do just that. She had not even chosen this seat because it made it easier to hide her own injuries by presenting her profile to the holocams—though she hoped that would work.
No. Saba had chosen her customary seat because she was not worthy of the Grand Master’s chair. She had slain Kenth Hamner in a dominance fight, and good longtails did not make such mistakes. They knew how to control without killing, to lead without biting away the parts that made a pack strong. Now the Order was missing a worthy Master, the young ones had lost a wise teacher, and Sab
a would have no chance to repair a friendship that had meant much to her in the past. And all of that was her failure.
The hologram in the center of the circle flickered, then finally stabilized as Daala stopped searching for Kenth and fixed her gaze on Saba.
“I was expecting to speak with Grand Master Hamner,” Daala announced. The life-sized hologram revealed the toll recent events had taken on the Chief of State. Her face looked haggard; her eyes were red and the skin below them sagged with exhaustion. “Fetch him at once.”
“Grand Master Hamner is not available,” Saba replied evenly. “You may speak to this one.”
Daala shook her head. “No,” she said. “You will fetch Hamner at once. After what the Jedi have done today, you are on the verge of open warfare with the entire Galactic Alliance military.”
“The entire military?” Saba let out a derisive siss. “This one does not believe you.”
“What you believe doesn’t matter,” Daala said. “Where is Master Hamner?”
“Unavailable.”
As Saba spoke, a door on the far side of the Council Chamber slid open. Corran Horn entered the room with Cilghal close on his heels and strode toward the speaking circle. As soon as they were close enough to see Daala’s hologram hovering over the projector pad, they stopped and remained outside the cam angle.
“Very well, then,” Daala said. “Assemble the rest of the Council.”
Knowing that Daala would notice even the slightest flicker of her eyes toward Corran and Cilghal, Saba was careful to keep her gaze fixed on the hologram. Instead, she touched both of them through the Force, just a gentle nudge to see if they wished to assume their seats. When both shook their heads, Saba leaned closer to the holoprojector.
“The rest of the Council is not available,” she said. “If you wish to speak to the Jedi, speak to this one.”
Daala’s eyes narrowed. “Where are they?” she demanded. “What are you planning now?”
“The Jedi have executed their planz, Chief Daala,” Saba replied. “Now the question is this: what are your planz?”
“You would be wise to assume the worst, Master Sebatyne,” Daala replied. “You leave me no other choice.”