Luke smiled, suddenly cheerful. “All right, I won’t.” As Niathal straightened, expectant, Luke added, “I’ll continue to evaluate Jacen’s progress as a Jedi, and the instant I find him to be ready for the rank of Master, you’ll be the first one I inform.”
“Ah.” Omas sat back, but maintained a mask of polite cheer. “Please do.”
Luke rose and nodded. “Thank you for seeing us. If there’s nothing more, I don’t want to take up more of your time.”
“No, that was all.” There was mock good humor in Omas’s voice. “Thank you.”
The Jedi were silent on the walk out of the office, on the turbolift down to the building’s hangar level, and until Kyp’s speeder carried them out of the Senate Building.
Mara broke the silence. “What is a taras-chi?”
Kyp smiled, showing teeth. “A bug in the mines of Kessel,” he said. “Six legs under a hard round carapace about three centimeters in diameter. Properly roasted, they only tasted a little awful. When you could catch them, they offered a little nutrition, helped you starve more slowly.”
Luke looked thoughtful. “Thanks for supporting me back there. Why’d you do it?”
“Luke—” Kyp stopped, shook his head. “No. Master Skywalker. I do think Jacen should be a Master, or I wouldn’t have brought up the point at that meeting. But I’m all for showing solidarity, a united Jedi order, when this sort of thing happens. When cracks open and politicians get their fingers in them, bad things happen. Empires are formed. Also, I’m more than a little annoyed that they brought up my suggestion from that meeting—how did they find out, anyway?” He frowned. “Loose talk between Masters and apprentices around the Temple, probably.”
“Probably,” Mara said, but Luke could feel a trace of suspicion growing within her—as it was within him. Even if Kyp’s opinions had been overheard in the halls of the Temple, someone, some Jedi, had to have passed them on to the government. Perhaps Jacen had done so himself.
Luke steered away from that line of thought, and from the even more distressing possibility that it had been Ben who had leaked the information.
chapter four
CORONET, CORELLIA
A bunker always felt like a bunker, Wedge reflected. No matter that this chamber was decorated for entertainment—with wall-mounted displays showing scenes from the city of Coronet and its surroundings in true-life colors, no matter that it was furnished with tables supplied with dinner-ware suited to formal company and trays of refreshments, with elegantly curved handmade chairs and comfortable, immaculate sofas in the most eye pleasing of styles. It was a bunker, deep beneath the ground, and the men and women who were gathered here, politicians of the world of Corellia and the drones who worked for them, all sat a little hunched, as though they could feel the tons of masonry and dirt heaped protectively above their heads. Politicians of the other four occupied worlds of the Corellian system, represented by holograms, must have been in aboveground buildings where they were; their postures were not bent.
Wedge also sat upright, both out of habit and to annoy the others, and accepted a cup of caf from one of the drones, this one a pale, slight young man in a CorSec uniform. Wedge waited until the drone had withdrawn before turning back toward the other man on the couch. “So the conversation didn’t accomplish much politically … except that I think Colonel Solo will advise in favor of the Galactic Alliance giving us more time.”
The man he addressed, Dur Gejjen, the Five Worlds Prime Minister and Corellian Chief of State—handsome, younger than his political acuity might suggest, dark-skinned and dark-haired—set his own cup of caf on a nearby table and frowned. “ ‘Giving us more time,’ ” he echoed. “That sounds a lot like a victor doing a favor to the vanquished.”
“Obviously, they’re not victors here,” Wedge said. “But just as obviously, they’re in the stronger position. A few more weeks or months of their blockade, and they’ll starve our economy past the point of resistance. Solo was right when he said that we were alone. Unless your communications with the Bothans have had a sudden breakthrough you haven’t mentioned.”
“You sound defeated, Admiral.” The speaker was the hologram of a short, wide-shouldered man. The transmission of his seated form was superimposed onto a chair to Gejjen’s right. The speaker had thinning hair and a face ideally suited to belligerence. His name was Sadras Koyan, and he was both Chief of State of the world of Tralus and a member of the Centerpoint Party, the minority force within the Corellian system’s new coalition government.
Wedge gave him a neutral look. “Clearly, we’re not defeated. But if things continue as they are, we will be. I’m telling you that we can negotiate a non-surrender resolution to this situation, rejoin the Galactic Alliance, and experience minimal repercussions, if we negotiate in good faith, starting now.” He felt his mood darken and knew his expression had to be doing so as well. “Good faith may be tricky to come by, though, in a political body that uses its secret, reserve fleet to execute a plan to assassinate a foreign head of state—”
He was drowned out, shouted down by the voices of the others. Gejjen was saying, “Now is not the time—” while Koyan roared, “—lack of competence in keeping our access to our own shipyards open—” Denjax Teppler, former Five Worlds Prime Minister, now Minister of Justice, grimaced and spoke inaudible words of calm and caution, motioning with both hands for the others to lower their voices. Rorf Willems, Minister of Defense, was grumbling, “—bit more cooperation is called for here.” Minister of Intelligence Gavele Lemora seemed to be evaluating Wedge, as if measuring him for a coffin. The drones kept conspicuously quiet while the ministers and Chiefs of State raged.
Gejjen scowled and spoke again, this time at a full-throated shout: “Shut up!”
The others quieted and stared at the Corellian leader. Gejjen returned his attention to Wedge. “Admiral, are you saying that with the assault fleet, you could have kept the GA forces out of our system, kept us from suffering the blockade the GA has instituted?”
Wedge nodded. “It’s very likely.”
“Very likely … and you’re also saying that our best course of action now is to negotiate for a no-fault return to the GA.”
“Yes.”
“Even though it would inevitably cost us control of Center-point Station.”
The station, home to an ancient gravitic device that could be used to construct entire solar systems—or destroy them—had been near operational when a Jedi mission had sabotaged it, costing the Corellians their most significant weapon. Ben Skywalker, son of Wedge’s old friend Luke, had been the saboteur. Wedge’s association with the Sky-walkers was one that everyone present knew.
Wedge nodded. “Chief Gejjen, that result is far superior to being starved into submission and then forced back into the GA under terms dictated by Cal Omas and Admiral Niathal.”
“So we can’t win.”
“Not without wealthy, powerful planetary systems joining on our side.”
“Which we were within a centimeter of having,” Koyan growled, “until Jacen Solo and his parents fouled up our action in the Hapes Consortium.”
Wedge bit down on a response. Assassinating a good ruler, such as Queen Mother Tenel Ka, so that a treacherous, deceptive pro-Corellian one could take her place might help win a war, but the peace that followed would be fragile, uncertain, even evil. However, saying such a thing before this body of men and women would do no good.
Gejjen, seeming to read Wedge’s reply in his expression, looked over at one of his aides. “Bring Admiral Delpin in.” He returned his attention to Wedge. “Admiral Antilles, we have a problem, and the problem is that I don’t think you’re willing to win at any cost.”
“I’m not,” Wedge said. “And neither are you.”
“I am,” Gejjen said.
“If winning meant the Corellian system was the only center of civilization to survive the war?”
Gejjen frowned. “That’s a ridiculous and extreme example.”
Gejjen tried again, demonstrating a level of patience and even respect that Wedge found surprising. “Admiral, you were kept out of the loop on the decision to, eh, adjust Hapan politics because it was clear to the rest of us, based on your history of performance, that you would never sign off on it in its final form.”
“You might be right.”
“But we’re already in agreement that sacrificing the dictator of a distant government is well within the maximum consequence in victory that we’re willing to bring about.”
The door into the chamber hissed open, and a woman in the dress uniform of an admiral of the Corellian Defense Force, the same uniform Wedge wore, entered. She was Wedge’s height and was muscular of build, the sort of woman whose hobby time was probably all spent in a gymnasium. Her hair, cut close, was black and picked up blue glints from the glow rods around the room. She was about half Wedge’s age and good looking; there was no trace of makeup evident on her features.
There was, however, a trace of sympathy on them as she glanced at Wedge. She came to a stop in front of Gejjen’s chair, her cap tucked military-style beneath her left arm. “Admiral Genna Delpin, reporting as ordered.”
Wedge knew her. She was a fast-rising star in the Corellian armed forces, and had led the assault fleet in the disastrous coup attempt at the Hapes Consortium. Its defeat had reflected not on her ability but on factors well outside her control, such as the interference of the Jedi and unexpected armed forces.
Gejjen acknowledged her with a nod, then turned again to Wedge. “Admiral, what you accomplished in the liberation of Tralus makes it clear that we couldn’t have chosen a better leader for our united armed forces. But times change, and your personal code of conduct is, I believe, going to become a greater impediment in dealing with your government’s needs. Admiral Delpin has a clearer understanding of her role and her duties to the government, and has your skill at moving and motivating subordinates. For this reason—and understand, it’s nothing personal, we continue to hold you in the highest regard—I’m removing you from the position of Supreme Commander of Corellia’s armed forces.” He turned his attention to the newcomer. “Admiral Delpin, I’m appointing you to that position.”
“Thank you, sir. I accept.” Her voice was smooth, controlled.
Wedge stood. He did it slowly and carefully, the better to mask what he was feeling. Regardless of how inevitable this moment might have been, regardless of how inflexibly he might hold on to the ethics that had made it happen, being relieved of command still felt like taking a sledge-hammer blow to the gut, and he didn’t want anyone in this group to see how he felt. Smoothly, he saluted. “Congratulations, Admiral.”
She returned his salute. “Thank you, Admiral. After this meeting breaks up, perhaps we could have a cup of caf and discuss things.”
Wedge limited his reaction to a faint smile. He knew what that conversation would consist of: I’m sorry this had to happen. I hope there won’t be any uneasiness between us. We need you …
No, they didn’t. But that realization, and what he had to do next, caused Wedge’s stomach to turn even further.
Gejjen said, “Admiral Antilles, your tactical and strategic planning abilities continue to make you invaluable to our armed forces. If Admiral Delpin agrees, I want you to join her operations staff.”
Delpin gave Gejjen a crisp nod. “I do agree.”
Wedge took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I can’t. Admiral, ordinarily I would have no hesitation in accepting, and in working with you, and for you. But circumstances are not ordinary.” He fixed Gejjen with a stare. “Sir, I hereby resign my commission in the Corellian Defense Force.”
The room fell silent. A moment later, someone behind Wedge said, “Good!”
Gejjen shot an angry look at the speaker, then addressed Wedge. “I won’t accept.”
Wedge shrugged. “You have no choice. Or rather, your choice is to keep me on as noncommissioned personnel or offer me a full discharge. From this point on, or at least from the point I submit my resignation along official lines, I am no longer a commissioned officer.”
Gejjen heaved a sigh and thought for a moment. “You can either stay on as a sergeant—a speeder pilot for our landing forces—or you can make one last public appearance as Admiral Antilles, cheerfully handing off your post and duties to Admiral Delpin, and honorably retire.”
Wedge considered it. The public appearance would help convince the majority of the populace that everything was fine with their leadership, that he had every faith in the new Supreme Commander, that he supported the new regime and all its ways. Which was a lie.
But if he didn’t do it, members of the armed forces might lose a little faith in their leadership. And that could result in breakdowns in authority, in the deaths of good soldiers.
Wedge’s entire deliberation took a quarter second. “I’ll make the appearance, of course.”
“Of course,” Gejjen echoed. “Dismissed.”
Wedge saluted and, a little stiff-legged, made his way from the room.
His posture was perfect for the long walk through the doors, down the long corridor beyond, past a guard station, and into the turbolift that would carry him up to ground level. But once the lift doors closed behind him, he sagged against the wall. His legs felt like rubber, and his stomach rebelled like a ground-pounder’s upon its first experience with zero gravity.
From admiral in charge of an entire planetary system’s armed forces to civilian in two easy steps, he thought, and managed a slightly nauseated smile.
And once again, he might just have signed his own death warrant. A government that was willing to assassinate foreign rulers wouldn’t hesitate at ridding itself of someone who could be a potent symbol used against them … and who had just proven that he wasn’t with them.
The instant he finished his public appearance with Admiral Delpin, the chrono would begin ticking down on his life.
The thought, so familiar after a lifetime of warfare, settled his stomach and beat back the nausea he’d felt from the moment he knew he was to be relieved of command. By the time the lift doors opened, he was standing tall again. He walked past the ground-floor security station and flashed its guards a smile suggesting that he was a rancor and they were made of meat.
GYNDINE SYSTEM TENDRANDO REFUELING AND REPAIR STATION
The vehicle lining up for an approach on the refueling station’s spinward docking bay had once been a Corellian YT-1300 transport—efficiently disk-shaped, with aggressive-looking forward mandibles and a cockpit that protruded from the starboard side of the bow to give the craft an oddly pleasing, asymmetrical profile. Now, however, countless burns of battle damage darkened the hull, and the top and bottom turrets, which had once housed laser cannons, were just gone.
As the craft made her last bank before the approach, the man waiting in the docking bay could see that the top-side turret had not been replaced or even covered over; where it had once been installed, there was a hole that gaped into the vehicle’s interior.
The waiting man would have recognized the Millennium Falcon instantly, even if he hadn’t known she would be coming to this place. He had once owned her. He still loved her, and now he winced to see what had become of her.
Still urbane and handsome, and now distinguished looking with age, Lando Calrissian stood in complete contrast with the famous transport. He was dressed in a silken ensemble that would have cost what it took to buy a good speeder but whose components were all chosen for unobtrusive elegance; the dark blue tunic, black trousers, and purple hip cloak were subdued of color and fashion. The silver-tipped black cane he carried was his one outward concession to age.
He watched as the Falcon
slowly approached. As frail as she looked, he half expected her to bounce off the atmospheric shields that kept the vacuum of space at bay, but she floated gently in through that negligible barrier. Now that the transport was within atmosphere, Lando could hear a rhythmic clanking from within her hull—something gone awry within her engine housings.
The Falcon slid gently forward on her repulsorlifts and settled down to a remarkably smooth landing. Lando walked around from beneath the mandibles to look through the cockpit viewport, but the occupants had already left, so he continued around to the boarding ramp.
He had a handful of jokes in mind for the arrival of Han and Leia—I’ve seen transports crashed into the sides of World Devastators that looked better; what have you done to the old girl this time; did you buy your pilot’s license at the Drunken Mynock School of Instruction—but then, as the pair descended the boarding ramp, he caught sight of their faces.
There was not one iota of good humor, cheer, even hope in their expressions, just grimness and, under the surface, pain. Han wore his customary pants, tunic, and vest, and had his left arm in a sling. Leia was in brown Jedi robes. Both sets of clothes looked wrinkled and slept-in.
Lando cleared his throat to gain a moment to think and clear away the good-natured, mocking vocal mannerism he had intended to employ. Then he said, “I’m glad to see you. I have caf and food in the lounge.”
* * *
While Han and Leia ate—slowly, barely tasting their food—they told Lando what had happened. Jacen was the central figure in almost every element of the story.
Jacen supporting laws to concentrate and imprison Corellians on Coruscant. Jacen interrogating a prisoner until she died—the daughter of Boba Fett. Jacen believing that Han and Leia would conspire against Tenel Ka, and punitively firing on the Falcon … when his own parents, sister, and cousin were aboard. Cakhmaim and Meewalh, Leia’s Noghri bodyguards, killed in that attack—not just killed, but incinerated, instantly obliterated so that there was nothing left to bury.
Exile Page 4