Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Ascension

by Christie Golden

  Even just in a single, frozen image.

  He handed the pad to the protocol droid and said, “Eethree, run the hologram this image was taken from.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Glances were exchanged, but those present knew better than to question. They leaned forward as the small hologram materialized in the center of the table, next to the carafe of caf and the cream, curious to see why Lecersen had seen fit to bring this to their attention.

  “It is with great appreciation, humbleness, and a sense of duty that I accept the nomination to represent my planet in the Galactic Senate.”

  The voice was strong. The handsome face, framed by neatly trimmed gray hair, showed both passion and restraint. Lecersen thought he even caught a glimmer of tears in the eyes, but that could have simply been the lighting.

  “For too long, we have kept to ourselves. We have grown too comfortable with our situation. But now, it is time to leave that comfortable rut. My friends and fellow B’nishi … the only difference between a rut and a grave is the depth of the hole.”

  A cliché, no doubt, but one that clearly got a warm reception, judging from the sound of applause. Suldar nodded, lifting a hand to call for silence, smiling.

  “Freeze, right there,” Lecersen said.

  The droid obeyed. And there it was—a glint of something very not-selfless. Something that bespoke pleasure in what he was doing, and a quiet understanding and appreciation of the power he now held.

  “Do you see what I see, Senator?” Lecersen mused, turning to Treen.

  “Oh, indeed I do,” said Treen. “That looks like someone who might be right at home at this table. Why, he looks a bit like you, Fost, when you were younger and full of fire.” Bramsin looked pleased.

  “Come now, Drikl,” scoffed Jaxton, looking at him incredulously. “You can get that from a single paused hologram? If you caught me at the right moment, I could look like either a god or an imbecile.”

  “This is true,” said Lecersen, not adding that he thought the latter more likely than the former. “However, this new Senator bears watching. And you, my dear, are in an ideal position to do so.”

  Treen tittered.

  They moved quickly through the list that Dorvan himself had handled, possibly quicker than the Chief of State had done, as their concern was much more focused.

  “Ah, Klatooine and the oh-so-diplomatic and charming Padnel Ovin,” purred Lecersen. “Can we use or turn him, do you think?”

  “Nonhuman,” grumbled Bramsin, refilling his caf. “I, for one, don’t want to work with him.”

  “Neither do I,” Parova put in. “I’ve served under a Bothan long enough. I thought I was going to develop allergies. I’d just as soon not associate with a dog.”

  “I know the type.” The voice was deep, metallic, and ominous. Everyone turned to regard Thaal. He so seldom spoke, it was always worth listening to. Thaal didn’t miss the mixture of fascination and revulsion on the faces of the Senators, who had not spent much time around him recently, and a smile of amused contempt curled his lips.

  “His bumbling and noise should do us a roundabout favor. He will be a welcome distraction, if nothing else. The newsvids will adore either bashing or praising him, because he is so terribly colorful. Subtler things will escape their notice.”

  “One hopes,” said Treen.

  “One does hope, and one should make sure that it happens,” Lecersen said, the barest hint of warning in his voice. Treen smiled cheerfully.

  “All of these planets abolishing slavery reminds me of when the Empire fell,” Bramsin muttered. “All the chaos of those liberated worlds celebrating and throwing everything out of order. It’s making things very difficult.”

  “Difficulties are often opportunities in disguise,” Treen said. “We’ve already determined a possible ally and a potential distraction.”

  “If I ever get my hands on whoever is responsible for creating and organizing the Freedom Flight, I’ll choke the life out of him,” Jaxton continued.

  Lecersen, Bramson, and Treen exchanged glances. Then the Moff turned his attention back to Jaxton.

  “I suppose, since I am safely in my own home with droids poised ready to stop you, that now might be a good time to tell you that I am the one behind the Freedom Flight,” said Lecersen.

  He smiled inwardly. It took a great deal to shock Jaxton, and the man was now staring like a slack-jawed idiot. Parova, too, looked startled, but she managed not to gape, and a small smile turned up the corners of her full lips. Stavin Thaal revealed his surprise only with a quick flash of his pale blue-gray eyes; otherwise, his expression remained unchanged.

  “You’re the mastermind behind this?” Parova asked.

  “Mastermind is not quite the correct word.” Lecersen nodded to the droid, who poured him another cup of caf. “You should all know by now that I make it my business to know what is going on in as many places as possible. One never knows when the perfect opportunity will arise. Intelligence reached me some time ago that there were small, isolated events involving rebelling slaves on a few distant worlds. Nothing that would attract any real attention from anyone. When I looked into it, I realized that it could potentially be turned to my advantage.”

  “Unleashing this madness on the galaxy?” Jaxton’s voice was rising. “This is something I’d expect from the Solos, or someone else of that temperament, not from a Moff!”

  Lecersen refused to let Jaxton’s sputtering rattle him. “Think about it,” he said. “Think of what a fire wasps’ nest it could become for any politician who had to deal with it—especially someone who opted to come down on the quote-unquote morally wrong side of the situation. Someone like Daala.”

  Jaxton’s expression changed. “Ah, now I see.”

  “Mmmm. When Senator Treen first approached me,” Lecersen continued, “she very wisely recommended that we have a crisis ready to erupt at some point. What was it you said, my dear? You were working on some useful potential crises, and perhaps I could, as well?”

  “Indeed, I believe that was precisely how I phrased it.”

  “Well. It turned out I had a perfect crisis all ready to erupt.”

  “So … it was in existence before, but now you’re running this show?” Jaxton pressed. “What happens if it is traced back to you?”

  “As I believe I just said, no, I’m not running the show, and tracing anything back to me would be quite impossible. I organized a few things at the outset, and then let it do what it would. The late little Devaronian interviewer who was so passionate about the Freedom Flight had it quite right—the chain of command is clear only for a few links.” He sighed, glancing at his caf.

  It had worked splendidly—for a while. The attempted assassination of Admiral Nek Bwua’tu, which Lecersen, Bramsin, and Jaxton had also arranged when it became clear that he would not willingly join with them, coincided beautifully with the greatest surge of the various uprisings. At first, Lecersen had lamented that Bwua’tu had survived, but the tension that the coma coverage had generated in the public eye had also played into their hands.

  Daala had made some bad choices while under both of these pressures. She had brought in Mandos, generating sympathy for the Jedi, whose Temple had been laid siege to, and the other worlds, such as Blaudu Sextus, when she had ruthlessly put down the rebellions. The attack on Bwua’tu had also kept her from thinking as clearly as Lecersen knew she could.

  Despite those auspicious moments, however, the pesky Freedom Flight had taken on a life of its own. Like a child, it had outgrown its original form and was asserting its independence. There was no way Lecersen could manipulate or even direct anything at this point.

  “It pains me to admit that it has gotten rather beyond our control. But not all plans perform perfectly, and it has done a great deal of damage to Daala’s administration. If those inconsiderate slaves had stopped there, all would have been well, but alas, the GA is now being flooded by shiny new advocates for their worlds.”
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br />   “Ah, ah,” Treen chided cheerily, “there can be opportunities there too, Drikl. Every cloud has a silver lining.”

  “And nearly every world has someone who can be corrupted,” added Parova. “Such as Kameron Suldar, if all goes well.”

  Treen actually clapped her hands like an excited little girl. “I do look forward to meeting this fellow,” she said. “I have the best feeling about him.”

  They worked their way through the rest of the list, but no likely candidates for corruption or opportunities for additional crises presented themselves. The droid hummed up, topping off cafs.

  “When do you depart for Imperial Space?” asked Jaxton.

  “In a few days,” Lecersen replied. “I have some loose ends I need to tie up here, and a few favors I need to call in, but that shouldn’t take too long.”

  “Where will you be heading, specifically?” Parova inquired.

  “That, my dear, is one of the loose ends.” He gave her a genial smile.

  “We shall hold the fort until your return,” said Treen.

  And he had no doubt that they would.

  The hour was growing late. Jaxton, the last to arrive, was the first to put his napkin down and push his chair back. “Dorvan’s scheduled another obscenely early meeting tomorrow,” he said.

  Parova sighed and rose, as well. “Merratt unfortunately speaks the truth. We have only a few hours to snag some sleep.”

  “Then perhaps you should have gone lighter on the caf,” Treen chided.

  “Are you kidding?” said Jaxton. “With the brewed swill we’ve got to look forward to tomorrow morning? I’m going to enjoy the good stuff while I can.” Parova chuckled and nodded her head in agreement.

  “When things are settled, I promise you I shall introduce you all to my supplier,” said Lecersen, rising and taking Jaxton’s outstretched, meaty hand and giving Parova a courteous bow. “We can’t possibly have a proper Empire fueled by bad caf.”

  Thaal rose in silence and shook Lecersen’s hand, nearly crushing the other man’s fingers. And in silence, he headed for the door. Lecersen flexed his fingers and eyed him speculatively.

  “I should be heading home, as well,” said Treen, rising as the generals and the admiral left. “As should … oh dear.”

  Bramsin had fallen asleep in his chair. Gently, Treen tapped his shoulder, and amid protests that he was just “resting his eyes,” she and E-3PO located the venerable Senator’s hat and coat and escorted him to the small speeder that had brought him there. Treen gave them a cheery wave as the door closed behind her.

  Lecersen hadn’t lied. There were several favors to call in. In the morning, he’d contact his old friend Porrak Vansyn. He’d opted not to include Vanysn in his little “group,” as the younger Moff didn’t really have much to offer. Now, however, he was certain Vansyn would aid him in establishing a base of operations.

  He turned his mind to another one of the loose ends. He sank back in his chair, reached into his pocket, and unfolded the piece of flimsi E-3 had delivered to him a few hours earlier.

  “I found it tucked in the flower bed by the the gate, sir,” the droid had said. “Do you wish to peruse the security vids?”

  Lecersen, rather alarmed that someone had felt confident enough to walk up to his gate and place an old-fashioned note in a flowerpot, did indeed wish to peruse the security vids. He had watched, eyes narrowing, as they showed nothing more sinister than a small human village child on a hoverbike approaching the gate, looking admittedly wary. His—or her—face was turned away from the cam, and he or she wore gloves, gripping the note hard, edging up to the gate, shoving it into the dirt, and then hastening away. No doubt with a bit of effort he could uncover the identity of said child, but there was little point. He was certain that the youngling had been put up to it, perhaps with the promise of some credcoins or treats, and would not be able to identify the real culprit.

  The note was written in block letters, in Basic, and read simply:

  WE HAVE SOMETHING TO DISCUSS THAT

  WILL BE TO YOUR BENEFIT. I WILL COME

  TO YOU.

  “Come if you like, my mysterious friend,” murmured Lecersen. “Walk freely into the rancor’s lair.”

  ABOARD THE JADE SHADOW

  “WELL, THEY CAN’T SIMPLY HAVE JUST DISAPPEARED,” JAINA SOLO SAID. “I mean—that was a lot of ships. They’ve got to be somewhere.”

  “Physics would dictate that,” Luke Skywalker replied, rubbing his eyes wearily. “But I get the feeling that Abeloth and the Sith aren’t great believers in physics.”

  “All can be bent to one’s will, if one’s will is strong enough,” said Vestara Khai, looking up from a game of dejarik. Luke’s son, Ben, had dug up the program and was instructing her in its finer points.

  “That some kind of Lost Tribe Sithy saying?” Ben retorted, but he was grinning and the words had no sting. Vestara smiled back at him.

  “Nope,” she said. “I just made it up. Do you like it?”

  “No,” Luke said sharply, even though the question was meant for Ben. He was in no mood to patiently indulge teenage flirting, which the conversation was perilously beginning to resemble. “Vestara, you could do a great deal of good if you’d simply tell us where your homeworld is instead of inventing platitudes.”

  Vestara’s eyes, warm with mirth as they regarded Ben, turned cold for a moment.

  “Good?” she repeated. “Master Skywalker, I’m Sith. I don’t ‘do good,’ remember? Or at least, that’s what you keep insisting.”

  “She’s got you there, Dad,” Ben said. He examined the board, frowning a little as Vestara moved her molator two squares, where it proceeded to attack Ben’s houjix.

  “Yeah,” Jaina agreed. “She does.” While Luke’s niece was only present in holographic form, she had apparently been following the conversation. Luke fought the urge to scowl.

  “You would have me believe that you have turned your back on such things,” Luke said. “That you are working with us now, not the Sith, nor Abeloth. As such, I think you’d be more willing to help us.”

  Vestara’s eyes flashed briefly, but she did not rise to the bait. “I have helped as best I could without becoming something I despise,” she said quietly, wrapping a surprising amount of dignity around her like a cloak. “I may not agree with what this strike force is doing. But that doesn’t mean I want to turn them over for Jedi-approved genocide.”

  “Hey, wait just a minute, Ves—” Ben began. Luke lifted a hand for silence, and for a change, Ben obeyed the unspoken command.

  “Jedi,” Luke said, his voice just as soft as Vestara’s and just as intense, “do not condone or participate in genocide. We’ve been on the receiving end of it. Or didn’t you know about that?”

  “Oh, I know,” Vestara replied. “And I know from what Ship told us that Order 66 was issued by a Sith, and carried out by a Sith who was your own father. If anyone has reason to hate my—” She caught herself and corrected. “—the Sith, it’s Jedi—and you. You are making my argument for me. Why in the universe would I willingly lead you to my world when I know you will feel obligated to kill everyone?”

  No one missed the slip. But that in and of itself didn’t necessarily ring warning bells for Luke. Even if Vestara had truly had a change of heart—which he didn’t for a moment believe—old habits died hard. They were her people, and had been all her life. It would be a long time before she thought of them in any other way.

  “Look,” Ben said, glancing from his father to Vestara, the dejarik game completely forgotten, “we’re getting off-track here. The Sith we’re all agreed we want to find are the members of the former strike team. I know you want that, too, Ves. We also need to find Abeloth.”

  She nodded. Anger still radiated off her in the Force, although anyone with eyes could see it easily in her body language. Luke supposed he’d feel the same.

  “I’d tell you if I knew anything that would help you find Abeloth or the strike team,” she said. �
�I think you know that. But I was never included in their grander plans, and it’s been far too long since they even trusted me with minor information. I’ve told you all I know.”

  And she had. Luke could sense her honesty—in this, at least.

  “I believe you have told me what you know,” he said, equally as honest. “But now it’s time for you to tell me what you think. Give us your best guess. You know these people, in a way we don’t. If you have any theory, any idea about where they might go or what their next step might be, I would ask you to tell us. Any starting point would be welcome.”

  Vestara seemed mollified, and her body posture eased slightly.

  “Well,” she said slowly, glancing at Ben, “if we don’t know where they were planning on going now—which I don’t—we might want to think about where Sith have been in the past. The Lost Tribe cherishes its own history and hungers to learn more about other Sith, and they would want to learn all they can.”

  Ben was nodding. “That makes sense for the Sith, but what about Abeloth? I get the feeling she’s going to go for the greatest source of either power or beings she can take advantage of.”

  Luke and Jaina nodded. Luke frowned for a moment as a thought occurred to him. “Vestara … do you think they would travel together?”

  She opened her mouth to object, then closed it for a moment, looking pensive. “The original plan was to capture and enslave her. That’s why they initially joined with you. I … I don’t know. If they think it would be a good decision, then yes, I suppose they might do so.”

  It was not a pleasant thought—Abeloth and the Sith, working together, but the more Luke sat with it, the more right it felt.

  “If they’re traveling together, it would be Abeloth who would dictate the direction. And we don’t know enough about her yet to hazard a guess where she might go.”