Ylesia

by Walter Jon Williams

  “Jacen, too?” Jaina demanded, outraged.

  Kyp looked at the datapad again and shrugged. “The Peace Brigade just announced their new President. He’s, ah, your cousin Thrackan.”

  Confusion swept Jaina’s face. “That doesn’t make any sense,” Jacen said immediately.

  “Sorry,” Kyp said, “I know he’s a member of your family, but—“

  “No,” Jacen said, “that’s not it. I’m not going to defend Thrackan Sal-Solo because he’s a distant cousin—“

  “A cousin who’s vicious as a slashrat and slippery as an Umgullian blob,” Jaina added.

  Jacen took a breath and continued, intent on making his point. “I was only going to point out,” he said, “that it doesn’t make any sense because Thrackan is a human chauvinist. He’s always wanted to run Corellia so he could throw the other species out. He’d never make a deal if that meant he’d have to collaborate with an alien species.”

  Kyp looked dubious. “I suppose the story could be false,” he said, “but it’s all over the HoloNet, complete with pictures of your cousin taking his oath of office in front of the Peace Brigade Senate.”

  Jacen saw Jaina’s face harden. “Right,” she said, “now I’ve got to be with the ground party.”

  “Me, too, I guess,” Jacen said. “It’ll be . . . enlightening . . . to see cousin Thrackan again.”

  Traest Kre’fey looked from Jaina to Jacen and back again.

  “I must say,” he said, “that the two of you belong to the most interesting family.”

  Admiral Kre’fey continued his show of reluctance, but eventually he set his staff to “exploring” the possibility of a landing to capture the Peace Brigade leadership. By the time Jaina entered the shuttle that would take her party back to their quarters on the old Dreadnaught Starsider, she was already calculating her deployments for the battle—she’d leave Tesar in command of Twin Suns Squadron and take Lowbacca onto the ground with her. She’d like Tesar with her, too, but a Jedi would have to stay with the squadron and keep it connected to the meld . . . and keep her new pilots from doing anything foolish, as well.

  Before the operation she’d get her squadron as much practice as she could fit into their schedule. The military had taken half her veteran pilots to use as a cadre around which to build new squadrons, filling their slots with rookies, inexperienced pilots who needed all the drill Jaina could give them.

  The New Republic’s industries were finally on a war footing and pouring out war matériel by the millions of tons. All the personnel losses the military had suffered in the war had been replaced—but with raw recruits. What had been lost was experience. Jaina was terrified of Twin Suns Squadron being committed to a major battle before her new pilots were ready.

  That’s why she was a supporter of Kre’fey’s current strategy of raiding the enemy only where the Yuuzhan Vong were vulnerable. His raids were staged only against weak targets, building morale and experience against an enemy guaranteed to lose.

  She could only hope the Yuuzhan Vong didn’t move against Kashyyyk, or Corellia or Kuat or Mon Calamari—a place where the New Republic would have to fight. That would be a conflagration in which Twin Suns Squadron would be lucky to survive . . .

  “Odd to think of Tahiri as a squadron commander.”

  Jacen’s comment interrupted Jaina’s thoughts.

  “Tahiri’s doing all right,” Jaina said.

  “She’s not a crack pilot, though.”

  “She’s more experienced that most of her pilots—almost all of them are green—and she fought well at Borleias. Kre’fey’s given her a good executive officer to help her with organization and red tape.” She smiled. “Her pilots are very protective of her. They call themselves Barefoot Squadron.”

  Jacen smiled also. “That’s good of them.”

  Jaina sighed. “The Barefoots’ real problem is the same one most of us have—too high a percentage of rookie pilots.” She looked at Saba and Corran Horn. “Some commanders get all the luck.”

  Horn’s mouth gave a little quirk. “Saba has the true elite force here. What I wouldn’t give for a roster made up of Jedi . . .”

  Saba’s eyes gave a reptilian glimmer, and her tail twitched. “A pity you humanz lack the advantage of hatchmatez.”

  Horn raised an eyebrow. “Hatching Jedi. Now that’s an interesting idea.”

  Saba hissed amusement. “I can testify that it workz.”

  “I hope you enjoyed your ride, Masters.” The head of the droid pilot spun on its neck. “Please watch your step as you exit.”

  A few minutes later, after they’d separated from their companions and begun walking toward their quarters along one of Starsider’s avenues, Jaina turned to Jacen.

  “Kre’fey will give you a squadron,” she said. “I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you already.”

  “I don’t want one.”

  “Why not?” Jaina asked, more snappishly than she intended. Jacen had always been on a quest for the deeper meaning of things, and that meant that occasionally he’d give something up just to find out what it meant. For a while he’d given up being a warrior, and he’d given up use of the Force, and for all intents and purposes given up being a Jedi . . . now he was giving up being a pilot?

  The one thing he hadn’t given up was being exasperating.

  “I can pilot and fight well enough,” Jacen said, “but I’m rusty on military procedure and comm protocols and tactics. I’d rather fly for a while as an ordinary pilot before I’m given responsibility over eleven other lives.”

  “Oh.” Jaina was abashed. “You could fly with Tahiri, then. Another Jedi in her squadron would be a boon to her.”

  “But not this next mission,” Jacen said. “Not Ylesia. I want to fly with you, since we’re both going on the landing party.”

  Jaina nodded. “That makes sense,” she said. “We’ll find a slot for you.”

  Jacen seemed uneasy. “What do you think about Kyp Durron’s plan?” he asked. “Do you see a secret agenda here?”

  “I think Kyp’s past that sort of thing. It’s your plan that worries me.”

  Jacen was taken aback. “To capture the Brigader leadership? Why?”

  “Kre’fey was right when he said there was a lot that could go wrong. We don’t have enough data on Ylesia to make certain the landings will go as planned.”

  “But you agreed to join the ground party.”

  Jaina sighed. “Yes. But now I wonder if we oughtn’t leave Ylesia alone until we have a more seasoned force and better intelligence.”

  Jacen had no answer to this, so they plodded up the corridor without speaking, stepping carefully past a droid polishing the deck. The scent of polish wafted after them. Then Jacen broke the silence.

  “What’s with you and Kyp Durron? I sensed something a little odd there.”

  Jaina felt herself flush. “Kyp’s been feeling a little . . . sentimental . . . toward me lately.”

  Jacen looked at her in solemn surprise. It was that solemnity, Jaina decided, that she disliked most about him.

  “He’s a little old for you, don’t you think?” Jacen asked. Solemnly.

  Jaina tried to throttle her annoyance at this line of questioning. “I’m grateful to Kyp for helping me come back from the dark side,” she said. “But with me, it’s gratitude. With Kyp . . .” She hesitated. “I’d rather not go into it. Anyway, it’s over now.”

  Jacen nodded. Solemnly. Jaina came to her cabin door and put her hand on the latch.

  “Good,” Jacen said. “Because you’ve been conquering a bewildering number of hearts while I was away. First Baron Fel’s son, and now the most unpredictable Jedi in the order . . .”

  Supremely irritated, Jaina opened the cabin door, stepped inside, and in the darkness of the cabin was seized by a pair of arms. Pressure was applied in an expert way to her elbow joints, and she was whirled around. A familiar scent, a spicy aroma from the Unknown Regions, filled her senses, and a hungry mouth descended on h
ers.

  A moment later—and the length of that moment was something she would not forgive herself—it occurred to her to resist. Her arms were securely pinned, so she summoned the Force and flung her assailant across the room. There was a crash, and items tumbled off a shelf. Jaina took a step to the door and waved on the lights.

  Jagged Fel lay sprawled across her bed. He touched the back of his head gingerly.

  “Couldn’t you just have slapped me?” he asked.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Conducting an experiment.”

  “A what?” Furious.

  His pale green eyes rose to meet hers. “I detected a degree of ambiguity in your last few messages,” he said. “I could no longer tell what your feelings toward me might be, so I thought an experiment was in order. I decided to place you in a situation that wasn’t the least bit ambiguous, and see how you reacted.” An insufferable smile touched the corners of his mouth. “And the experiment was a success.”

  “Right. You got thrown into the wall.”

  “But before you remembered to be outraged, there was a moment that was worth all the pain.” His eyes turned to the door. “Hello there, galactic hero. Your mother told me you’d escaped.”

  “She mentioned she’d met you.” Jacen, in the doorway, turned his owlish expression to Jaina. “Sis, do you need rescuing?”

  “Get out of here,” Jaina said.

  “Right.” He turned back to Jagged Fel. “Nice seeing you again, Jag.”

  “Give my regards to the folks,” Jag said, and sketched a salute near his scarred forehead. The door slid shut behind Jacen. Jag looked at Jaina and removed from his lap some of the objects that had fallen from her shelf.

  “May I stand up?” he said. “Or would you just knock me down again?”

  “Try it and see.”

  Jag elected to remain seated. Jaina folded her arms and leaned against the wall as far from Jag as the small cabin would permit.

  “Last I heard you were clearing Vong off the Hydian Way,” she said.

  He nodded. “That’s where I met your parents. It’s important work. If the routes from the Rim to what’s left of the Core are broken, the New Republic would be broken into—well—into even smaller fragments than it is now.”

  “Thanks for the lecture. I never would have guessed any of that in a million years.” She frowned down at him. “So you left this important work in order to sneak into my cabin and conduct your experiment?”

  “No, that was by way of a bonus.” Jag swept a hand over his dark short-cropped hair. “We’re here for routine maintenance. Since my squadron flies Chiss clawcraft that aren’t in the New Republic inventory, it’s difficult to find maintenance facilities geared to our requirements. Fortunately Admiral Kre’fey’s Star Destroyers have all the equipment necessary to maintain Sienar Fleet Systems TIE fighter command pods, and their machine shops should be able to create anything we need for our Chiss wing pylons.” He smiled up at her. “A lucky coincidence, don’t you think?”

  Jaina felt herself softening. “I’ve got six rookie pilots,” she said. “And there’s an operation coming up.”

  He gave her an inquiring look. “You weren’t planning on taking them out on an exercise at this very moment, were you?”

  “I—“ She hesitated. “No. You’ve got me there. But there’s a ton of administrative work, and—“

  “Jaina,” he said. “Please allow me to observe, one officer to another, that it is not necessary to do all the work yourself. You absolutely must learn to delegate. You have two capable, veteran lieutenants in Lowbacca and Tesar Sebatyne, and not only will it aid you if you share the work with them, it will aid their development as officers.”

  Jaina permitted herself a thin smile. “So it’s to the benefit of my officers and pilots to spend the evening in my cabin alone with you?”

  He nodded. “Precisely.”

  “Do you play sabacc?”

  Jag was surprised. “Yes. Of course.”

  “Let’s have a game, then. There’s a very nice sabacc table in the wardroom.”

  He looked at her mutely. She broadened her smile and said, “I played your little game, here in the darkened cabin. Now you can play mine.”

  Jag sighed heavily, then rose and stood by the door. As she walked past him to open the door, he clasped his hands behind his back.

  “I should point out,” he said, “that if you chose to kiss me at this moment, I would be absolutely powerless to prevent you.”

  She regarded him from close range, then pressed her lips to his, allowed them to linger warmly for the space of three heartbeats. After which she opened the door and led him to the wardroom, where she skinned him at the sabacc table, leaving him with barely enough credits to buy a glass of juri juice.

  Her father, Jaina thought, would have been proud.

  Jag contemplated the ruin of his fortunes with a slight frown. “It seems I’ve paid heavily for that stolen kiss,” he said.

  “Yes. But you’ve also paid in advance for others.”

  Jag raised his scarred eyebrow. “That’s a good thing to know. When might I collect?”

  “As soon as we can find a suitably private place.”

  “Ah.” He seemed cheered. “Would it be precipitate to suggest that we go immediately?”

  “Not at all.” She rose from the table. “Just one thing.”

  He gained his feet and straightened his impossibly neat black uniform. “What’s that?”

  “I think you’re right about my not doing all the work. I intend to delegate a fair share to you.”

  Jag nodded. “Very good, Major.”

  “I hope this will contribute to your development as an officer.”

  “Oh.” He followed her out of the wardroom. “I’m sure that it will.”

  Thrackan Sal-Solo looked out his office viewport at the squalid mess that was Peace City—half-completed construction covered with scaffolding, muck-filled holes in the ground, slave barracks boiling with alien life—and he thought, And all this is mine to command . . .

  If, of course, he could avoid being murdered by one of his loyal subjects. Which was the topic of the present discussion.

  He turned to the black-haired woman who sat before his desk and contemplated the suitcase he’d opened on the desktop. The suitcase that contained a kilogram of glitterstim.

  “You get one of these every week,” he said.

  She looked at him with cobalt-blue predator’s eyes and flashed her prominent white teeth. “And how many people do I have to kill to earn it?”

  “You don’t have to kill anyone. What you have to do is keep me alive.”

  “Ah. A challenge.” Dagga Marl steepled her fingertips and looked thoughtful. Then she shrugged. “All right. It’ll be more interesting work than all the boring assassinations the Senate has been handing me.”

  “If I ask you to kill anyone,” Thrackan said, “I’ll pay you extra.”

  “Good to know,” Dagga said as she closed the case and stowed it neatly under her chair.

  He stepped from the viewport to his desk, then grimaced at the stitch in his left side. He massaged the painful area, feeling under his thumb the scar from Onimi’s nasty little baton. Thrackan swore that if he ever caught up with Onimi, that malignant lop-headed little dwarf was going to lose a lot more than a kidney.

  The first thing he’d done on Ylesia was be sworn in as President and Commander in Chief of the Peace Brigade.

  The second thing he’d done on Ylesia was to meet with the chiefs of the Peace Brigade, an experience that left him undecided whether to laugh, cry, or run in screaming terror.

  The Peace Brigade had originally owed its allegiance to something called the Alliance of Twelve. Maybe there had been twelve of them at one point, but there were around sixty of them now, and they called themselves a Senate. One horrified look had shown Thrackan what they were: thieves, renegades, criminals, slavers, murderers, and alien scum. The people who had betra
yed their galaxy to the terror that was the Yuuzhan Vong—and it wasn’t as if they’d done it out of conviction in the rightness of their cause. They made the Hutts who had built the original colony look like a congregation of saints.

  The Hutts were dead: the Yuuzhan Vong had made a clean sweep of the whole caste, then installed the Peace Brigade in their place without altering any of the Hutts’ other arrangements. The flayed skin of the Hutt chief was still on display in front of the Palace of Peace, where the Senate met, just in case anyone was tempted to grow nostalgic about the old order.

  Most of the population of the planet were slaves, and most of these, oddly enough, were volunteers—religious ecstatics who worked themselves to death in the glitterstim factories in exchange for a daily blast of bliss directed at them by the Hutts’ telepathic t’landa Til henchmen. The t’landa Til were still very much a part of the picture, having exchanged one overlordship for another.

  Thrackan didn’t like slavery—at least for humans—but he supposed there was no alternative under the circumstances. The Yuuzhan Vong wouldn’t allow the use of droids, so someone had to dig the ditches, build the grand new buildings of Peace City’s town center, and process the addictive glitterstim that made up the entirety of Ylesia’s gross planetary product.

  The son of Tiion Gama Sal had been raised on an estate, as a gentleman, with an army of droid servants. In the place of droids, he needed someone to see to his comforts.

  Just as he needed someone to keep from him being murdered by the Senate and their cronies. They’d been madly conspiring and committing quiet violence against one another over control of the glitterstim operation, but now they’d united against their new President.

  Thrackan decided that he needed to find the most cold-blooded, ruthless, efficient killer among them, and win that person to his side. And one look at Dagga Marl had convinced him that she was exactly what he was looking for.

  She was completely mercenary and completely without morals, something Thrackan thought was to his advantage. She made her living as a bounty hunter and an assassin. She’d killed people for the Peace Brigade, and she’d killed Peace Brigade on behalf of other Peace Brigade. She seemed perfectly willing to kill Peace Brigade on behalf of Thrackan, and that was all he asked.