Five minutes later, Dei stepped out of a darkened air lock and onto the starlit sands of Klatooine. His garments, though not a match for those most prevalent in the encampment, were in similar colors and were as voluminous as the desert robes to be seen there.
He trotted the two klicks to the top of the ridge, slowing down and becoming more cautious the last half kilometer. But although his sensor scan had shown some guards stationed along the ridge approaches, he had chosen a spot that had no reasonable path of descent to the camp and consequently had no guards. Careful in case his portion of ridge was in danger of collapsing, he moved as close as he dared to the edge of the ridge itself, then went prone and set up his macrobinoculars. They were larger than an ordinary set, had a tripod for stability, and had a massive amount of storage memory so that they could record what they saw.
It took him only a few moments to find the Hapan landing craft and zoom in on its surroundings.
If there had been a party there to meet it, the party was already aboard or dispersed. Now he could see only guards, more than half of them female, all of them unusually attractive, stationed around the craft. At the nearest verge of tents there stood observers who, from their gestures and movements, were clearly discussing the Hapan craft or its inhabitants. Most were Klatooinian or human; there were a fair number of other species and several droids.
The camp was active. There were fires lit, apparently to cook evening meals and provide comfort from the sudden chill of desert nights. Dei’s chrono, adjusted to this planet’s cycle, indicated it was early evening.
Time passed. Dei remained patient. There was a beauty to surveillance, to remaining perfectly still while the satellites of one’s prey orbited, departed, returned, and offered clues to the prey’s weaknesses. Dei wished he could persuade his subordinates and family of the elegance and usefulness of patience, but they all seemed so desperate for change and immediate gratification.
Groups of onlookers in the vicinity of the landing craft wandered off, finding cookfires or tent interiors. All but one group, which remained in place, seemingly as patient and watchful as Dei himself. He trained his macrobinoculars on them and zoomed in for maximum gain.
Five humans or humanoids, two droids. Four of the humanoids were the size of adult humans, one much smaller. The droids were recognizably a dome-topped astromech and a protocol droid. All the humanoids wore the desert clothing sported by most in the camp. The adults were armed for engagement—high-end blaster rifles and the suggestion, under their robes, of armor, holsters, and pouches.
The smallest humanoid had some sort of animal sitting at its side. At this range, Dei couldn’t make out its features or even determine whether it was male or female, but he believed, from its movements and occasional restlessness, that it was a child rather than an adult member of a small species.
Now a group of perhaps a dozen individuals descended the landing craft’s boarding ramp, talking among themselves. They moved off into the camp.
And still the group of five humanoids and two droids waited. Interested, Dei continued to watch them.
Another fifteen minutes passed. Then, as if a signal had been received over a comlink, they started forward, heading straight toward the boarding ramp. None of the guards arrayed around the landing craft moved to stop them. The four adult members of the party separated, moving around the craft to take up positions spaced equally around it, while the child and the two droids ascended the ramp.
Interesting. Interesting.
Allana left R2-D2 and C-3PO behind in the landing craft’s entry lounge and, alone but for Anji, followed the lights embedded in the curving corridor walls. The lights flickered in sequence, seeming to travel on ahead, then to return and repeat the pattern, guiding her onward.
There were no people to be seen, even at the security station granting access from the entry lounge. That was not strange. Though Tenel Ka was often surrounded by courtiers and guards, on those rare occasions when she could meet with Allana, if the meeting place were secure, she would dismiss all possible witnesses, or retain only those she felt she could trust absolutely … which was usually none.
The landing craft was so different from the Falcon. The air seemed fresher, and was lightly perfumed instead of carrying faint traces of ancient lubricant spills or fuel leaks, of hundreds of exotic cargoes. This was a tiny section of palace packed into a saucer-shaped craft, with glossy carpets on corridor floors and original works of art affixed to walls.
The light patterns led to a compartment door. It slid open as Allana approached. She moved into a small antechamber, comfortably furnished with sofas and stuffed chairs.
And from the sofa against the far wall, decked in synthsilk robes and strands of jewelry, rose her mother, Tenel Ka.
Allana ran forward. “Mommy!”
“My baby.” Tenel Ka stooped and hugged Allana to her. She so resembled the image Allana saw in the mirror, all long red hair and gray eyes, but grown-up and beautiful. Allana hoped that she would look even more like her mother when she grew up.
“You’re getting so big. Every time I see you. You can’t see it on holocomm images.” Tenel Ka sat again, pulling Allana up onto the sofa beside her. “I haven’t given you permission to get so big.”
“Sorry, I just do.” Allana nestled against her mother.
Back by the door, Anji, hunched and looking suspicious, stared around, then eyed a chair as if contemplating sharpening her claws on it until it was an unrecognizable ruin. Allana stared at her feline companion and gave her a little pulse of emotion through the Force, a calming suggestion of quiet and rest. Anji hopped onto the chair instead of savaging it and curled up there, head toward Allana and her mother.
Tenel Ka smiled down at Allana. “I felt that. You’re getting more proficient with the Force, too.”
“I sometimes don’t like the Force.”
“Nobody likes it all the time, sweetie. It’s like fire. It can keep you warm and healthy, or it can burn you. So you must always be aware of it and what it’s telling you.”
Allana suppressed the urge to shudder at the word burn. “Fire doesn’t always talk to you like the Force does. And when fire talks, it always makes sense. That’s not true with the Force.”
Tenel Ka’s grin widened. “Wait until the first time you fall in love. Love can burn you even worse, and it never makes sense.”
Allana made a face. “Yecch. Um, Grandma says we can send notes to each other with Artoo and Threepio while you’re here.”
“Good. I plan to. You know we might not be able to see each other every day.”
Allana nodded. That’s the way it always seemed to be. There was almost no time for them to be together. She decided not to tell her mother about the dream of the fiery man. Grandma Leia was probably right—her mom knew how to take care of herself, and would certainly know what to do if a man made of fire came toward her. No, their time together would just be play and happy talk.
Perhaps an hour after they entered the landing craft, the child and droids exited. They were rejoined by the four guards. The boarding ramp lifted into place. Many of the landing craft’s exterior running lights darkened, suggesting that the craft’s inhabitants were settling in for the night.
Dei tracked the child’s party for a distance into the camp, then lost them in the area where the tents were thickest. Thoughtful, he rose, gathered his belongings, and headed back toward the Cryptic Warning.
Once aboard, he summoned the entire crew, seven including himself, into the small compartment that served as a dining, conference, and briefing area; it boasted one table and bench-style seating on either side, plus a chair at the end with its back to the compartment door. He took the chair. “So. Report.”
Sazat, a purple-skinned Keshiri male Dei’s own age, the team’s archive analyst, started. “This is an ad hoc negotiation assembly. Officially unofficial; the planetary government seems to know it’s happening, and it is technically illegal by the laws of the Hutts, who govern
this world, but the government is not opposing the process, or acknowledging it.”
Fardan pushed a flimsi printout over to Dei. It showed a schematic of the camp with areas marked off in splotches of colors, most of them strident warm colors such as yellow, orange, and red. “Except for the shield and weapons emplacements, the camp looks fairly primitive, but there’s a lot of high-intensity communication going on. There are hypercomm units in at least two of the tents and four of the vehicles, including the Hapan vehicle. Enough broadcasting datapads to constitute a high-density pseudo-organic network.”
Dei glanced at the printout and set it aside. “I’ll probably need to enter camp. The shield generators are well placed, with overlapping coverage, so it won’t be possible to fly in close and drop an explosive missile on the landing craft. I have to get close to Tenel Ka Djo with something very powerful and very lethal.”
Fardan gave him an uncomfortable look. “She is a Jedi. An ex-Jedi. She has what you have, including a sense of impending trouble. If you approach with the intent of killing her, she will probably feel it. And we already know that her security detail is very, very efficient.”
Dei smiled. “It has to be done, so it will be done. What do I need to get into camp?”
Viti, a fair-skinned human female, the youngest member of the crew, drew her long blond hair back across her shoulder in an attention-getting fashion she did not realize was patently obvious, and then pushed an identicard across the table to him. “Corporate Sector identification. You are a journalist for Heuristic Financial Analysis working on a report trying to determine the effect on the galactic economy of slave species achieving freedom and demanding higher wages.”
Dei gave her a look that bordered on hostility. “That’s as revolting and unaesthetic a profession as it’s possible to have. You couldn’t find a way to make me a sculptor?”
Taken aback, she offered a nervous little shake of her head. “No one would believe that you had any place at this meeting. You would be suspected, mocked—”
“I’m joking, Viti. This is perfect. I’ll need a holocam.”
“I put one on your bunk …”
“Well done.” Dei pocketed the identicard. He did not mind putting Viti in occasional fear for her job or her life. She was far too determined to exploit her appeal. It could make her lazy or complacent. Occasionally a little shaking-up was in order. It kept her a good operative.
Dei returned his attention to Fardan. “I witnessed a delegation visiting the Hapan craft. One child, two droids. They waited until the craft appeared no longer to be under observation before they approached, and had an hour’s visitation. I’ve copied my recordings to your station. Let me know what you and Sazat turn up on them.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dei looked around. “Anything else? No? Back to your stations, then, and commence sleep rotation. And be not just diligent in your duties, but brilliant. Brilliance will get you noticed and promote you out of exile with me.” He smiled, rose before any of them could offer perfunctory objections to his self-deprecation, and left.
This time she managed not to scream.
Allana woke, thrashing her way free of her sheets, in danger of toppling off her bunk to the compartment floor. She stopped herself and rolled back out of harm’s way.
There were tears on her cheeks again. She scrubbed them away. She waited a moment, listening, making sure that she hadn’t awakened her grandparents, and then she sat up, hugging her knees to her chest, and tried to think.
Anji hopped up on her bunk, padded her way forward, bumped her head against Allana’s shin.
Allana stroked the nexu. “I’m all right. It’s all right.”
But it wasn’t.
In tonight’s dream, the man made of fire was back. Again he had approached Tenel Ka from behind.
But this time Allana had been behind him, watching. When he approached her mother, Allana had shrieked and thrown herself on his back to stop him.
Her scream had not alerted Tenel Ka. But as Allana landed on the man’s back, as her own body had begun to burn, Tenel Ka had felt her pain and turned. Her expression had been one of shock and loss. But she was ready to defend herself. That was Allana’s last view of her mother. Allana had sunk, burning, into the fiery man’s body.
Was that the way it had to be? Either Tenel Ka or Allana would die? That wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.
And Allana couldn’t go again to Leia. Her grandmother would say it was only a dream, that it was nothing to be worried about.
Well, Allana was going to worry. She just had to figure out what to do in addition to worrying.
ARMAND ISARD CORRECTIONAL FACILITY,
CORUSCANT
IN THE CITRUS-GREEN CORRIDOR LEADING TO THE VISITORS MEETING hall, Daala overtook Tahiri Veila, who was also dressed in a prison-yellow jumpsuit, also on her way to the hall. But Tahiri moved far more slowly than Daala. The Jedi, unlike the deposed Chief of State, was shackled at wrist and ankle with stun cuffs, a concession to the greater theoretical danger a fully trained Force-wielder posed. In addition, while Daala was accompanied by a standard, blocky security droid, Tahiri was escorted by a YVH combat droid—often a match for an armed and unrestrained Jedi, and certainly too great an obstacle for an unarmed and restrained one.
Daala fell in beside Tahiri. “So. Death.”
Tahiri glanced sidelong at her. “You first. Comm me and let me know what it’s like.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll walk out of this wretched place. You’ll be leaving in an urn. You killed a hero.”
“How many have you killed? Including your enemies and your subordinates?”
Daala gave Tahiri a smile that she knew belonged on a toothed, cartilaginous fish. “At least I have friends and allies left. What was it like to receive the death sentence with no one left in the courtroom even pretending to care about you?”
“I expect I’ll have friends again by the time I’m your age.”
Daala resumed her earlier pace, leaving Tahiri behind. Being honest with herself, she considered that conversation no better than a draw, and she wasn’t entertained by it.
Daala and her escort reached the admissions chamber into the visitors hall. Like most transition zones in the prison, this chamber was built along the paradigm of an air lock—heavily reinforced, with only one door, the hall side or the corridor side, capable of being opened at a time. Once she and her guard droid were inside, the hall-side door, built as though for a treasure vault, slid closed, and a hemispherical module studded with glows and readouts extended itself from the ceiling, scanning her. It would, she knew, determine the extent and nature of all prosthetics on her body, sniff for chemical explosives, take a sample brain scan and compare its patterns with those on record for her … time consuming, tedious, absolutely necessary.
Necessary when dealing with dangerous criminals. She fumed, but did not let the chamber’s holocams see that.
Finally the opposite-side vault door opened, admitting her to another short green corridor. The corridor was wide, with ample seating on both sides, hard and uncomfortable-looking chairs in a darker industrial green; prison guards waited in a couple of those chairs. The security droid drew to the side and allowed Daala to proceed alone.
The door at the far end slid up to admit her into the visitors hall.
It was, depressingly, much like the ones she’d seen all her life in holodramas about prisons. This was a square chamber. One entire wall was made up of booths. Each booth had a chair and a table and was concealed from the booths right and left by partitions. Each faced a pane of reinforced transparisteel. On the other side of the transparisteel, out in the free world, was a corresponding chair and table for the use of visitors. About two-thirds of the booths were occupied.
The remainder of this room was open, dominated by three human guards and three security droids.
Daala announced herself to the droid stationed nearest the door. “Admiral Natasi Daala.” She refused to use her
prisoner number, and the facility’s warden, perhaps as a gesture of respect, had not gone to any effort to discipline her when she failed to do so.
She’d have to remember that. The warden had visited her once and had shown her an acceptable, if minimal, level of respect. He was walking a tightrope between doing his duty and demonstrating sympathy, and Daala appreciated both his adroitness and his sentiments. When she returned to power, she’d have to look into the man and his record.
The droid gestured to one of the booths. “Number Six.”
She sat at Number Six. Her visitor was already there. It was her attorney, Otha Tevarkian.
Except it wasn’t. His resemblance to Tevarkian was striking. Like Tevarkian, he was about sixty, with fair hair just beginning to thin. His clothes were dark and expensive but unobtrusive, just like those of Daala’s attorney. The briefcase resting on the tabletop before him was Tevarkian’s, or identical to it—soft-sided, silver and blue, its latches currently undone. But the man’s face was just a little different, a little less lined, the texture of his skin a little smoother. His eyes were a darker shade of blue.
Daala looked him over. “I have no idea who you are.”
The man smiled. He withdrew a datapad from his briefcase and set it next to the transparisteel barrier. “Otha Tevarkian … sent a message to my employer, who contracted me to come visit you today. We are to discuss your escape.”
Something like a mild electric shock coursed through Daala’s body. Still, she had one of the galaxy’s best sabacc faces and chose to betray no emotion. “You have my attention.”
The false attorney smiled. “Good. Now, the problem with prisons, even maximum-security institutions, is that they have weak points that are concessions either to building and maintenance costs or to political and cultural expediency. For example, this chamber.” He gestured, taking in the guards behind Daala, the visitors to his right and left. “It’s very close to one of the exits from the facility, and this is because studies suggest that prisoners fare psychologically better if they receive ongoing support from their family and social circle, and that members of the family and social circle are more likely to visit if they are not much inconvenienced. Security concerns say that prisoners stay more secure if a visitors hall is deep within the secure boundaries of the prison; pragmatism says there are more visits if the visitors can walk in and walk out conveniently. Especially if the prison is on a mass-transit line.” The false attorney gave her a that’s-just-the-way-it-is shrug.
Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Conviction Page 29