Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Ascension

by Christie Golden

  “Yes, of course you are.” A sneer, it would seem, was recognizable in any species. “Very busy indeed, as I understand it.”

  Lecersen had already been deeply suspicious, but now his inner alarms were going off like klaxons. He smiled slightly, keeping his expression and body language calm. “So why don’t you get right to the point?”

  “We were the masters of our world, until the Jessar got it into their heads to overthrow us.”

  Ah, a complaint. As if he hadn’t heard something similar from every former master of every overthrown government of every world that had had a revolution recently. It was growing rather tiresome.

  “Your government has already lodged its request through the proper channels. You’ll have to take it up with them. Dorvan’s a difficult man to make an appointment with, but his assistant might be able to get you on the schedule. The offices of the galactic acting Chief of State are open—”

  “I have no desire to contact Wynn Dorvan,” said Mahlor. “I came to see you.”

  Deliberately, Lecersen set his now-empty glass on the small table by his chair, folded his hands in his lap, and regarded Mahlor steadily.

  “I tire of this conversation, and I have finished my nightcap,” he said. “You have thirty seconds to get to the point before Eethree escorts you out.”

  The great eyes narrowed, and the being’s feathers ruffled. With an effort, he settled them. “I blame the Freedom Flight for stirring up the rebels.”

  “Of course you do. Everyone always does. It can never be possible that the system was antiquated and dysfunctional.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. Despite his words to the Minyavish, he was privately enjoying this; it had been a long time since he had been able to be so free with his tongue.

  “And I blame you,” Mahlor said, leaning forward intently, his huge eyes wide and unblinking, “for the Freedom Flight.”

  Lecersen’s stomach, warm from the gold wine he had been drinking, suddenly turned into a cold, hard knot. He recovered almost at once.

  “I would say you had been drinking too much, but as you haven’t touched a drop, I must simply conclude that you are either insane or in desperate need of attention. This conversation is over.” He lifted his finger, about to stab it down on the small button that would summon Eethree.

  “Don’t.”

  If Lecersen had had any doubt as to the fact that Mahlor had come from a species of beings used to being obeyed, it would have vanished at the tone of that single word. He lifted an eyebrow and stared coldly back.

  “What … did you just say to me?”

  “Don’t press that button until you have heard me out,” said the Minyavish.

  Lecersen debated for a moment, then concluded that it would probably behoove him to listen. “Fair enough.”

  “I have information and evidence that links you to the Freedom Flight,” Mahlor continued. “I know that you created it initially, and continue to fund it.”

  “I’ll play along. What sort of evidence are we talking about?”

  The slit that passed for a mouth among the Minyavish curved in what was meant to be a grin. “Data. Witnesses. Recordings of conversations. Repair bills for vessels.”

  “All of which could be falsified,” replied Lecersen, waving a dismissive hand.

  “Each on its own? Certainly. Taken together, it’s a rather condemning picture.”

  “I presume you have a point.”

  “I do, indeed. I do not think you would appreciate the galaxy knowing about your connection to this organization, Moff Lecersen. But if you would assist us, this information could quietly vanish. And so could the witnesses.”

  “And with what endeavor do you require assistance?”

  The Minyavish suddenly quivered, all over, rather violently, and when he spoke it was with a deep intensity. “Justice, Moff Lecersen! Because of the Freedom Flight—your organization—my people have toppled from positions of power, wealth, and influence to beings with barely any credits and no home. We are being exiled from our own world by that—that—Roki Kem.” He spat the word, his body still shaking with his outrage. “This would never have happened if the Flight had not come and stirred up trouble.”

  “Now, now, you don’t know that,” said Lecersen mildly. “Freedom is a deep-seated need for many beings. It’s possible that—”

  “No. Unrest has been fomenting only in the last few years. Never before had the Jessar experienced this so-called ‘deep-seated need.’ ” His voice dripped contempt. He was wrong, of course. Lecersen had done his homework. He had heard about the Silence oath, and was well aware that it was an old, old tradition among the Jessar. Slaves who were planning to escape, or who had managed to do so only to be recaptured, submitted to being beaten—sometimes to death—rather than reveal anything that would harm future escape attempts for others. The Minyavish, like most beings who fancied themselves decent, had lied to themselves about the true nature of the institution.

  Nonetheless, he continued to humor the fuming Minyavish. “What form would this … justice take? An army, to slaughter your enemies and take back your world?”

  The feathers rose along every inch of Mahlor’s body, reminding Lecersen of the way a Bothan’s fur would ripple in irritation.

  “You are already believing Rokari Kem’s propaganda,” he snarled. “We are not brutes! We could win back our world, yes, but at what cost? Your kind might not shrink from having so much blood on your hands, but no species on Qaras would willingly embark on so violent a course. No. We have been exiled, and so we will go. But we have no place to go. We are a large populace—three billion. There is no world that has offered to shelter us, and we do not have the means or funds to tame a new one. That is what I want from you. You are directly responsible for the Minyavish being forced to leave Qaras. You will find us a new home.”

  Lecersen was not pleased. He had not expected such a pacifistic response by the seemingly belligerent Minyavish. Covertly funding another revolt would be more cost-effective, and he might have been willing to consider it. Such a debt from the Minyavish could prove useful if—no, when—they won. Lecersen didn’t support losers.

  But relocate three billion beings?

  “That is absurd,” he said. “What you ask is a massive undertaking, and there’s nothing in it for me.”

  “You have connections.”

  “Oh, indeed I do, but there’s nothing in it for them, either.”

  “Then you leave me no choice. I will expose your connection to the Freedom Flight.”

  Lecersen laughed. “Oh, dear,” he said mockingly. “Reveal the fact that mean old Moff Lecersen actually wanted to do a little good in this galaxy. How awful it will be to be exposed as someone who wants to help free enslaved populations. Go right ahead, Mahlor. I dread the fact that the galaxy will know my deepest, darkest secret—that I am a decent being.”

  “You are not,” growled Mahlor. “Your reasons for founding the Freedom Flight were not in the least altruistic. Nor were those of your cohorts.”

  Lecersen had been relaxing the more the Minyavish spoke. Even if the evidence of which he spoke was real, exposure of his role wouldn’t harm him. It might even boost his popularity in certain quarters, which meant expanding his influence. That stiff-necked Jagged Fel would certainly approve. But now he tensed, ever so slightly.

  “Do go on,” he urged.

  “You didn’t do it to free slaves. You did it because you knew it would cause upheaval at a time when the Galactic Alliance—particularly the Chief of State—was in no real position to handle it properly. You knew how Admiral Daala would react, and you knew what that kind of reaction would do to her popularity rating.”

  It was as if the Minyavish had had a prime seat at the table the other day.

  “You spoke of cohorts.”

  The ugly smile grew. “Senators Fost Bramsin of Coruscant and Haydnat Treen of Kuat. I am certain there are others, but I think that’s enough to prove my point. I’m sure that they might be w
illing to listen to me if you are not.”

  This was bad. This was quite bad.

  “Did your government send you?”

  “No,” he said. “They would never stoop to begging. But if I presented them with a deal already worked out, they would take it. They would have to.” Again the chuckle. “And I would be the savior of my people.”

  Lecersen gave him a slow, dark smile. “So you are acting alone. What’s to stop me from killing you right now?”

  “I have cohorts of my own,” Mahlor replied. “If I do not meet them within an hour, they have orders to approach Bramsin and Treen with the same deal I am making you—and they, too, will tell others. So you’ll cooperate.”

  “You know,” said Lecersen languidly, tilting his head to the side and frowning as if in consideration, “I don’t think I will.”

  He pushed a button on the arm of the chair.

  A droid entered immediately, but it wasn’t the amiable E-3PO. This was a gray skeleton, glowing red eyes staring out of its metallic skull, its mouth yawning open as it lifted its right arm. Integrated into the limb was a blaster cannon, and it was pointed straight at Mahlor’s midsection—a broad target indeed.

  The Minyavish’s horrified reaction was quite gratifying. He shrank back against the chair, his eyes enormous as he stared at the sinister-looking YVH and the even more sinister weapon.

  “No! You wouldn’t kill me!”

  Lecersen nodded to the YVH.

  The droid fired, and the Minyavish sprawled in the chair, limbs akimbo, head lolling.

  Lecersen rose, lifting a hand to instruct the droid to lower its weapon, and stood staring down at the limp form.

  “No,” he said, “I wouldn’t. Not yet, at least. Not until I know everything that you do.”

  INDIGO TOWER RESTAURANT, CORUSCANT

  “I’VE NEVER HEARD OF THIS PLACE,” SAID THE FLEDGLING SENATOR from B’nish, Kameron Suldar.

  “That’s because I daresay you haven’t had the opportunity to travel much beyond your lodgings and the Senate Building,” said Senator Haydnat Treen. She beamed at him and patted his hand. “You know what they say about all work and no play.”

  “It makes you successful?” He gave her a sly smile. Gracious, but he was a handsome fellow. Several years younger than she, of course, but with the gray hair and facial lines that told the world he was no callow youth. Much more appealing than Drikl Lecersen. And Treen did like surrounding herself with pretty things, and pretty people. But useful as she hoped he would be, Suldar was nowhere near becoming Emperor, and thus she would be nowhere near becoming Empress if she changed direction at this late point. She didn’t even know for certain if he would be amenable to joining their cause.

  But Treen had not become a Senator from a planet of politically astute—some might say cutthroat—humans without being a superb judge of character. She was fairly confident that by the time they reached dessert and caf, he would be joining their merry little band bound for glory.

  “No, dear boy, it makes you dull and hollow-eyed and unable to properly seize opportunities when they come your way.”

  He gave her a smile, but his gaze sharpened, ever so slightly. “And tonight will present me with such an opportunity?” he asked, his voice light.

  “There will certainly be an opportunity to have an exquisite dessert called Vagnerian canapés. There is often a debate as to what pairs best with them, but let me assure you, only plebeians drink Cassandran brandy with them. The two flavors do not complement each other, and the brandy should never be drunk simply to wash down a dessert. I would recommend simple black caf.”

  He chuckled. “I yield the floor to your expertise, ma’am.”

  “Then you are certain to go far. Oh … I do hope you like the color blue.”

  The air limo pulled up to one of Coruscant’s most exclusive restaurants, the Indigo Tower. Modeled after the famous Skysitter Restaurant, it enjoyed fame based at least partially on the novelty of being a revolving dining room on a tower high above the Coruscanti skyline. Its exterior was made of shining, blue-black durasteel.

  The chauffeur opened the doors for them, and Suldar shivered a little. “I understand why you suggested the overcoat and scarf now,” he said.

  “Yes, it’s rather chilly at this altitude, but the temperature is always perfect inside.”

  The doors slid open to reveal a world of blue. Thick, soft blue carpeting, blue-black chairs and tables, midnight-blue ceiling with softly winking lights simulating stars. The light, also a soothing blue, made everything look cool and mysterious. “Ah,” Suldar said, looking around. “Fortunately, Senator, I do like blue.”

  “Excellent.”

  A young female Ortolan, her skin matching the décor, greeted them cheerfully by name. “Good evening, Senator Treen, Senator Suldar. I understand, sir, that this is your first time dining with us?”

  “Indeed,” said Suldar, glancing with mild surprise at Treen.

  “Please let us know if there is anything we can do to make your experience a memorable one. Senator Bramsin arrived just a few minutes ago. Please follow me.”

  She led them through the main dining room, past a trio of another Ortolan and two Bith. A Pa’lowick stepped up to the mike and was met with applause; clearly the performers were well known in the establishment.

  Treen saw something ugly and mean-spirited flash across Kameron Suldar’s face for an instant, then it was gone. The Ortolan hostess opened the door to one of the private dining rooms.

  It was cozy rather than intimidating, the blue theme slightly more subdued by a white tablecloth and a multicolored bouquet of flowers. Fost Bramsin looked up from his drink and extended a hand.

  “Hope you don’t mind if I don’t get up, young man. It’s a bit more challenging these days than when I was your age.”

  “Of course not, sir,” Suldar said, quickly stepping over to shake the elder statesman’s frail, liver-spotted hand. “It’s an honor to be dining with you tonight. Thank you both for the invitation.”

  “The food here is superb,” said Bramsin. “And they serve some very rare and very fine beverages. It makes up for the staff.”

  Again, Treen noticed something flit across Suldar’s face. Treen thought she knew what it was.

  “Fost and I don’t much care for nonhumans,” she said. It was the first card. If he took umbrage, they could simply all have a pleasant evening and she would move on to another potential ally.

  To her pleasure, Suldar looked relieved. “I’m … rather glad to hear you say that,” he said. “I admit I don’t, either. There are only humans on B’nish, and while one likes to be open-minded, I haven’t really liked any of the nonhumans I’ve met. They’re so …” He sighed. “Well … inferior.”

  Bramsin and Treen exchanged pleased glances. “We always arrange to have human waitstaff, so you will be spared further unpleasantries.”

  “Well, as you assure me the food is excellent and I can certainly say the company could not be better, we are sure to have a wonderful dinner,” Kameron said.

  “Oh, I’m absolutely positive of it,” said Treen, smiling like a sand panther.

  MOFF DRIKL LECERSEN’S ESTATE

  Minyavish, mused Lecersen, were much tougher than they looked.

  Mahlor had not broken for several hours, even when subjected to the tender loving care of an IT-O interrogator. The decades-old droid was part of Lecersen’s collection of antiques. Few knew it was still quite functional and had been employed more than once in recent years.

  Still, in the end, Tiyuu’cha Mahlor was no Princess Leia Organa, and Lecersen was interrupted in his study by Eethree bearing the pleasant news that Mahlor was “willing to talk now, and, fortunately, is still sufficiently coherent to do so.”

  There was a room deep in the bowels of the estate where this unfortunate but necessary duty was performed. It was cold, spare, and slightly damp. There was a single chair, a table with a pitcher and a glass, a few glow rods, and the hovering int
errogator, always fashionable in basic black.

  The Minyavish was a sorry sight. Much of his beautiful plumage had been plucked out and lay strewn about the floor, the purple, green, and gold providing vivid color in sharp contrast to the stark gray of the room. The revealed skin was pale blue and bore evidence of acid burns, puncture wounds from the interrogation drug syringe, and the unmistakable gouges of shears and scalpel. His species’ blood, Lecersen noted with mild surprise, was the golden color of honey.

  Both of his large, lovely eyes with their slitted, dark gold pupils had been utterly ruined.

  He sat, tightly bound, no longer proud and boastful and arrogant, but sobbing, producing a soft, cooing sound of deep agony.

  “Well,” said Lecersen, “not so cocky now, are you?”

  Another soft sob. Lecersen eyed the hovering ball.

  “Eethree said he was willing to talk. I trust the interrogation ceased the moment he said so?”

  “Such is my programming,” said the IT-O in a deep, chilling monotone. “I am ready to recommence if you so order.”

  “Let me hear what he has to say first.”

  “His tongue is intact,” the interrogator confirmed.

  “Well now, Mahlor,” Lecersen said, “I’m all ears.”

  “You … were right,” rasped the Minyavish, his huge head drooping over his plucked, barrel chest.

  “I often am. About which part?”

  A clacking sound. “W-water?”

  “Later. About which part?”

  “No … cohorts.” Each word was clearly costing the Minyavish dearly.

  Lecersen smiled slowly. “I see. I rather gathered that when, within the allotted hour, absolutely no one contacted me at all. Senators Treen and Bramsin are, I believe, quite happily at dinner at the moment. So, you’ve no fellow conspirators. Who else knows about this evidence?”

  Again, the cooing sob. “No one.”

  “Come now, all that evidence … or were you lying about that, too? Do I need to order the IT-O to—”

  “No!” The word was a shriek ripped from the being’s very core. “Please, please, no! The evidence does exist! I wasn’t making it up!”