Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Conviction

by Allston, Aaron

  Terrified guests shrieked and stampeded away from the suddenly fragile-seeming barriers, squeezing in crushing numbers through bulkhead portals that promised to lead to greater safety.

  The viewports held, their structural strength witnessed by the bravest or craziest of holocam operators present. Those operators also captured images of the wounded: hotel guests trampled by their fellows in the mad rush to safety.

  Within minutes those images were being broadcast across all holochannels, breathlessly narrated by anchors and field journalists, only to be shoved aside by the final message of Grunel Ovin. It was broadcast from an emergency beacon apparently launched from Fireborn moments before the explosion. The message was received, recorded, rebroadcast, and annotated by news services all across Coruscant.

  In the message, Grunel Ovin sat, proud and defiant, his green skin clashing with the gray prisoner jumpsuit his naval captors had given him, and gave the viewing audience a victorious smile.

  “By the time you listen to this recording, the frigate Fireborn will be destroyed and all aboard her, myself included, dead. I have done what I had to do in order to free my people. I have done this thing to make others understand they cannot own us.

  “I allowed myself to be captured and taken aboard Fireborn so that I could accomplish the seemingly impossible, and you will never know how I have accomplished it. Understand, though, that every vessel of your navy is in danger. So long as you stand by while we are enslaved and oppressed, you can count on losing your defenders and loved ones by the hundreds and thousands.

  “Let this serve as a challenge to all who think they can own sapient beings. You, too, will die at the hands of someone like me, and history will spit on your graves.

  “My death also serves as a punishment for Chief Daala, who has always styled herself as an honorable warrior … yet has always behaved as a lackey, first of the Emperor and Grand Moff Tarkin, now of corporations that harvest profits from slaves outside the Alliance and then spend fortunes to buy Alliance laws that allow them to continue their crimes. Lick up their spittle, Chief Daala. I laugh at you from beyond your reach.”

  A HoloNews bureau chief, a gray-furred Bothan male in his division’s main newsroom thousands of kilometers below the explosion site, viewed the first broadcast of the recording on the ridiculously oversized wall monitor overlooking his staff. He shook his head. “Daala’s not going to take well to that.”

  His assistant, a male Chadra-Fan half his height but just as furry, seemed mesmerized by the image of Grunel Ovin as the message began to repeat itself behind a superimposed commentator. “No, she’s not. Good news day, though.”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  Six hours later, Wynn Dorvan’s heart sank as Chief Daala swiveled her conference room chair toward him, her face as stony as he had ever seen it, and announced her decision. “Mandos to Klatooine. Go.”

  He opened his mouth to offer yet another reasoned argument against her chosen course of action, then closed it. Reason wasn’t working. Revenge, absolute suppression of defiance, was the order of the day. He rose and trotted to his office.

  He knew this was not going to be good. The full strength of Daala’s mercenary force would unleash its considerable expertise and advanced technology on the desert-dwelling Klatooinian group variously known as Ovin’s Sand Panthers and the Sapience Defense Front. Daala’s logic was that the sudden cessation of this group—substitution of a series of red-drenched craters for the wasteland encampments where warriors, civilians, and children had lived—would cause all such groups everywhere to reconsider whether destroying a capital ship of the Galactic Alliance was a good idea.

  Wynn held the pragmatic opinion that the merciless extermination of a society was no better an idea than the treacherous bombing of a ship, but empirical data supporting such a theory was hard to come by and even harder to make meaningful to someone as angry as Natasi Daala.

  This was not going to be his battle to win, so he did as he was told, and contemplated his retirement.

  In her office kilometers away, after receiving Wynn Dorvan’s encoded communication, Admiral Parova buzzed for Captain Hunor to join her. The Falleen male swept into her office at such speed that his ponytail took an extra half a second to sway into place against his back after he skidded to a stop. “Admiral.”

  She smiled up at him. He was such a good, obedient right hand. Once the Galactic Alliance and the Galactic Empire were reunited under traditional Imperial guidelines and nonhumans such as Hunor found their careers entombed beneath a transparisteel ceiling, he’d probably feel betrayed. But for now, he earnestly believed that the acts of sabotage, suborning, and murder he was accomplishing on the side were all solely for the removal of a Chief of State who seemed increasingly erratic.

  She handed him a set of data cards. “Mandos to destroy Ovin’s encampments. Leak these details to the usual resources. Then get over to the riot-control center and assume personal control in the Senate Building perimeter. I don’t want protesters to be initially hindered, but I want Galactic Alliance Security efforts to keep them in line to be, um …”

  “Intrusive? Ineffective? Tragic?”

  “All three.”

  He took the chips, saluted, and was gone.

  She shrugged, not displeased. After all the dust settled, Hunor might end up being a pretty good gardener.

  She hit a desktop button to seal and sensor-insulate her office, then, from a drawer, withdrew a large, elaborate comlink. It broadcast on a specific comm channel to a receiver in this room. The receiver was hardwired to a repeater situated kilometers away.

  She recorded a brief message. “This is Nona. On your way back home, would you pick up a container of blue milk? Thanks ever so.” In seconds the circuitry in the comlink would modulate Parova’s voice to more sultry tones, then transmit the recording to the personal comlinks of all the other members of her conspiratorial circle.

  The words were innocuous enough, a plausible mistransmission. But everyone who was supposed to receive them would understand.

  Daala had taken another self-destructive, citizen-enflaming step, one that the historical archives would, in their jaded wisdom, agree spelled the Chief of State’s doom.

  A pity about Fireborn. But no one would ever know that Captain Hunor, before leaving the frigate, had programmed an emergency marker buoy to broadcast Ovin’s last message and had activated a self-destruct countdown authorized by the Chief of Naval Operations. It was the perfect “bombing”—no bomb necessary.

  Parova deactivated the room’s sensor insulation, summoned her aides, and rose. She’d spend the next several hours at the Senate Building. She wanted, needed, to be there for the kill.

  In the Senate Building, in the increasingly crowded suite of offices appropriated by the Jedi for their own operation, Master Octa Ramis, studying the stream of data scrolling across her desktop monitor, suddenly sat upright. “Kyp.” Her voice was very intense.

  Other Jedi and allies in the main office took notice. In a mixed group like this, one Master did not usually refer to another by his or her familiar name—such an informality normally arose only in more relaxed circumstances.

  Zekk, dressed as a hangar mechanic, his hair spray-frosted blond and his face enhanced with a false beard, exchanged a look with his fiancée, Taryn Zel, who was dressed and made up as the sort of anonymous, generic office beauty whom many politicians wished to have nearby when holocams were present for recording opportunities. Standing beside the door, Jedi apprentice Bandy Geffer, picture-perfect as a scrubbed, eager naval ensign, looked worried. Masters Kam and Tionne Solusar, gray-haired and distinguished in the guise of expensively garbed ambassadors, focused on Octa from their seats on the sofa.

  Kyp, dressed like Octa in Kuati political support team member garments, moved over to stand behind her. He frowned over the stream of words and numbers flowing across the screen. “Node one-one-three. Which one is that?”

  Octa consulted her personal datapad. �
�That’s the monitoring unit the Fleet Intelligence team spliced into the comm trunk feed coming down from the executive-branch offices. We piggybacked a tap onto it. What’s the office of origin?”

  “X-wing Commenor Aldera two-four-seven-eight.”

  Octa’s eyes widened. “Score. That’s listed as Wynn Dorvan’s inner office.”

  Kyp frowned as he puzzled out the unformatted blocks of text. “Am I seeing this right?”

  “I think you are.”

  “Daala’s issued an extermination order against a series of Klatooinian habitations. Mandos ordered to move in and leave them as smoking craters.” He blew out a long breath. “If we don’t move today, soon, this is going to happen. We have to execute Plan Delta now so we can call this Mando operation off.”

  Octa nodded. “I’ll comm the Temple. Kam, Tionne, do you concur?”

  The older Masters nodded. That made four Master votes to move. All the Masters remaining at the Temple would have to vote against to have a simple-majority override … and Octa couldn’t imagine them doing that under these circumstances. This was a done deal.

  She rose, preparatory to moving into the back chamber and the holo-recorder there. “Maybe we can get one last team of Jedi in before things come completely unhinged. Everyone, prep for your assignments.”

  The monitors throughout the Chief of State’s offices showed the main feed from HoloNews. In succession, they displayed images of crowds, growing in size and increasing in energy, massing in the vicinity of the Senate Building; of journalists offering interpretations of events; of stock recordings of Mandalorian transports; of Mando infantry operations in the past and their considerable destructive potential.

  Wynn was watching the end of one of these rapid news cycles when his office door slid aside and Chief Daala, flanked by two Fleet Intelligence security agents, swept in. Wynn stood. The security specialists glanced around then stepped back out, and the door closed.

  Daala gestured at Wynn’s monitor, her hand shaking with her anger. “How did it leak? How did it leak so fast?”

  Wynn shrugged, hoping it looked more hapless than uncaring. “The orders to commence an operation like this have to pass through several hands. Dozens. In theory, there could be a leak at any point. It could be something as malevolent as a traitor, or it could be a data tap placed by an unusually skilled newsbeing.”

  “It’s the first one. I’ve been betrayed, Wynn. And this is a time of galactic crisis. Treason at this level is punishable by execution.”

  “I know that, Admiral.”

  “Find out who leaked the information. I expect arrests within the day. I’m also putting Fleet Intelligence on the search.”

  “We’ll be stumbling all over one another, interfering with one another’s investigations.”

  She fixed him with a cold stare. “I need the redundancy … in case you’re the source of the leak.” She turned and left, moving so fast that the door nearly scraped her face as it slid open.

  Wynn gulped. He sat and returned to his monitor, issuing orders for trusted subordinates to begin the most intensive, no-stone-unturned investigation this environment had seen since … well, since the hunt for Seha Dorvald’s poison device, just a couple of days previously.

  In between bouts of sending out orders, he continued to work on his letter of resignation.

  Grudgingly, the Senate Building’s security center issued authorization for the Millennium Falcon to land in a hangar bay. Han brought the transport in with his customary skill, the smoothness of the landing revealing no trace of the tension that gripped him, of the imaginary piranha-beetles flying formations in his stomach.

  Once the transport was down, he commenced an abbreviated shutdown procedure, glanced at Leia, and looked back at the other two in the cockpit. “You two know what to do.”

  “Pardon me, sir, I’m not certain I do.” C-3PO raised his arms in a vague and hopeless gesture. “I’m not even sure of the purpose of this errand. I assume you’re offering Chief Daala comfort and wisdom in the face of the growing numbers of protesters outside …”

  Han rolled his eyes. “Something like that. I expect she’ll feel very different by the time we leave the building. Goldilocks, your specific task is to stay on the ship, to alert me or Leia if anyone comes aboard, and to follow Artoo’s instructions if he offers any.”

  “Oh, sir, it’s folly, very dangerous folly, to put Artoo in charge of anything. He’s too impetuous, too much the daredevil …”

  Han left, Leia beside him, the two of them breezing past R2-D2 at the cockpit entrance.

  At the bottom of the boarding ramp waited Desha Lor, Wynn’s Twi’lek assistant. Today her black suit seemed to match the mood of the surroundings, the growing hostility and seriousness outside. She shook her head slowly, causing her lekku to sway. “I don’t think the Chief of State will be able to fit you in today.”

  Leia’s voice was cordial but firm. “We’ll stay in her waiting room. Please tell Wynn that we insist on seeing her today. We went to a considerable effort to find Seha and convince her to turn herself in. Daala owes us for this, and we demand to see her.”

  Desha gave her a little understanding smile. “I think I’ll paraphrase that when informing Wynn.”

  “No, I insist you quote me exactly, and that Wynn does likewise when speaking to the admiral.”

  Han kept his emotions from his face. They weren’t feelings of worry; they were the residue of what he’d felt during the hours, hours, Leia had fretted over the choice of her exact words. Those words had to announce the intent of the Solos; to annoy Daala enough that she would keep them cooling for a long time in her waiting area; but not to offend her to the extent that she’d have them ejected from the building.

  Desha shrugged. “As you wish. This way, please. As usual, you’ll have to endure the full security regimen …”

  THOUGH OUTWARDLY COLLECTED, INWARDLY DAALA FELT LIKE AN INSECT being fried in the peripheral effect of an ion cannon.

  The pressure had to relent soon. If only her enemies would stop besieging her administration, from outside and inside, for a few days, everything could be set right. If no one attacked her armed forces, her public infrastructure, she would not have to retaliate. If corporate lobbyists would just announce their wishes and quit pretending there were altruistic reasons behind them, she might perhaps gain a little respect for them, drive out the loathing that filled her every time she met with them. If all these things happened, tempers could cool. Politicians could go back to what they did best, transforming temperate oxygen into overheated carbon dioxide and eating appetizers. Journalists could return to talking about futile romances between holodrama stars.

  The Jedi could—no, they wouldn’t just shrivel up and die, would they?

  A face appeared on her desk monitor, her scheduling secretary, a chalk-white Chev female with hair dyed a startling orange. “Admiral Parova requests a few moments, Chief Daala. She’s not on today’s schedule.”

  Daala blew out a silent sigh of thanks. Parova had the potential of developing into a friend, perhaps even a confidante. In rare noncrisis moments, they had recently even engaged in brief moments of girl talk—about which new capital ship designs looked promising, which teaching regimens appeared most efficient in military xeno-education. “Send her in.”

  The door slid open. The admiral stepped in, but not far enough for the door to slide closed. Her expression was serious. “Chief, given the rise in unrest outside and other indicators, I’ve brought in a new detail for your personal security. With your permission, I’d like to relieve the current detail.”

  Daala didn’t hesitate. “Other indicators” had to mean that suspicion had fallen on one of her bodyguards currently on duty. Perhaps a Jedi had gotten to him or her with one of those accursed mind tricks. She nodded. “Do so at once.”

  Parova glanced at the two Fleet Intelligence security specialists situated inconspicuously at the back of the room. She gave the slightest jerk of her head. Both age
nts, without comment, filed from the office. Two more, a Falleen and a light-skinned human, both males, moved in and took their places.

  Finally Parova stepped the rest of the way into the office, and the door slid shut behind her. She relaxed visibly. “That’s better.”

  Daala gestured for her to sit. “There’s some suspicion of the other two? Operatives you yourself assigned me just the other day?”

  Parova sat and shook her head. “No, those two are among the best of the best. Incorruptible. Devoted to the Galactic Alliance over all other considerations. But that’s actually part of the problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’ll demonstrate.” Her tone grew louder, more determined. “Chief of State Natasi Daala, in the name of—”

  The office lights dimmed. A deep vibration, like a subsonic tone emanating from the lowest parts of the building, rattled the caf cup and writing implements atop Daala’s desk. She felt the vibration in her fingers, in the long bones of her arms and legs.

  A second later the vibration resolved itself into a low alarm tone, modulating between two ominous bass notes.

  Daala’s finger stabbed at the button connecting her monitor to that of her primary secretary. “What is happening?”

  There was no reply. The monitor image clicked over to the secretary’s desk, but he was not there. No one was.

  A few seconds earlier, in the outer office, the chrono in Han’s vest pocket beeped.

  Daala’s secretary, a gold-furred Bothan male, looked up at the noise. “What’s the alarm for?”

  Han grinned. “Nothing good. You know how we have to come in here unarmed?”

  “Sure.”

  Beside Han, Leia rose to her feet, throwing her arms wide as if trying to get the attention of a crowd at a concert. “You are all my prisoners. Hand over your weapons.”

  Other important visitors waiting to see Daala—Senators, representatives of major corporations, ambassadors—gaped at her. At either end of the room, two naval officers reflexively reached for their holstered sidearms.