The eyes widened and the red mouth quivered beneath the gray mustache. “And what’s that?”
Jag sighed. “I tell you what. You stop pretending you don’t know things and I stop pretending I don’t know you know things. I think we’ll achieve a great deal more, don’t you? Or do you really want me to replay the recording I have of your conversation with Natasi Daala approximately a week ago?”
Getelles knew when he was caught. He gave Jag a cold, malicious look that belied his jovial persona, then downed the rest of the blue beverage in a single gulp. “At least refill my glass like a civilized man while you interrogate me,” he snapped.
Jag smiled. “Let’s both behave like civilized men.” He refilled the glass and leaned back in the chair. “Now, let’s start again. What do you know about Daala?”
Getelles took another gulp of wine and followed it with a bite of bread and soup. He was obviously intent on going to what he assumed was an inevitable prison cell drunk and well fed.
“What I said about my holdings was true,” he said. “I’m a minor Moff as most plotters and schemers recognize such things. After the debacle of my attempt to wrest control of Meridian, I became persona non grata. My gut feeling is that the only reason I wasn’t stripped of my rank and property was it was just easier to let me keep them.”
Jag suspected he might be right, but said nothing.
“I languished, largely ignored and forgotten. I really have no idea why Daala singled me out. My forces aren’t that considerable or sophisticated, but I suppose she’s simply trying to gather as many allies as possible—if only so that there are fewer who support you.”
“So she is swapping Chief of State for Head of State as her preferred title?”
“I imagine she’d prefer Empress,” Getelles said. There was sufficient resignation and bitterness in his words and demeanor that Jag believed him.
“So she added you to her list. I’ll want to follow up on that, but right now I’d like to ask about this.” He indicated the vial. “I know you know what it is.”
Getelles narrowed his eyes and took another swig. “I know,” he muttered. “It was the one area we were making progress. Where we weren’t in last place—the sciences.”
“The sciences of life and death,” Jag said. “My source tells me that many of the scientists who created the nanovirus targeting Tenel Ka and the Fett genetics have quietly gravitated to Antemeridias. What’s this made of, Tol?”
He didn’t answer. Jag shrugged and started to open the vial.
“No!” Getelles moved startlingly swiftly for an elderly man, seizing Jag’s wrist. Jag raised his eyebrows and gazed pointedly at Getelles’s hand. Slowly, Getelles released him.
“Thank you for confirming the nature of the serum,” Jag said. “Obviously it is highly valuable.”
“You know what it can do,” Getelles said. “Damn rodents. If I had known the scientists were experimenting on Squibs—”
“You harm one hair on their bodies and I will come for you so fast and so hard, you’ll wish I were a Mando,” Jag promised, his voice calm. Getelles paled visibly, but recovered.
“You sound like Daala. Perhaps there isn’t such a difference between you two after all.”
The droids hummed to life and the second course was served: blue and purple and white vegetable chunks with a spicy green sauce. It was delicious, but Jag ate without savoring it. Getelles’s enjoyment of the meal, too, seemed subdued.
When the droids returned to their corners and shut down again, Jag continued.
“You spoke out against Daala even before she escaped,” Jag said. “You obviously do think there’s a difference between the two of us. What changed your mind?”
Getelles eyed him, and then shrugged. “Her offer, combined with the escape of the Squibs with my serum, changed my mind,” he said. “Frankly, Jag, it’s one thing to ally with you when Daala’s in jail. It’s another when she’s in your sector, with an old grudge against you, in a position to either wipe the floor with you or elevate you higher than you ever dared dream.”
Jag could appreciate the position Getelles was in. “I see your point. I think she actually picked you because you had spoken out against me. Because I wouldn’t think of you as someone who would betray me to work with her.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Getelles admitted. “I was supposed to get you to trust me, then turn on you at the last moment.”
“You do understand that I have you on so many charges, you might not live long enough to stand trial for them all,” Jag said, refreshing Getelles’s glass. “Treason, illegal drug experimentation, possession of droch material—”
“Oh, I do, believe me.”
“How’d you like the charges dropped?”
Getelles raised a gray eyebrow. “If I threw my lot in with you?” Jag nodded. Getelles inclined his head toward the small vial. “What about that vial?”
“This vial?”
Getelles frowned. “Yes, that vial, right there. I want that as part of the bargain.”
Jag frowned, then sighed. “All right,” he said. “You’ve got it.”
“And Jagged Fel, you foolish innocent,” Getelles said, sighing as he pulled out a blaster, “I’ve got you.”
He fired.
Jag Fel toppled to the floor.
“Did you get all this, Admiral?” Getelles said, speaking into a small recording device carefully inserted under the rather saggy skin of his throat.
“I did indeed,” she said. “You took a few cheap shots, but you made the one that mattered. How do you intend to get out?”
“The droids are in a sleep phase, the room is soundproof, and I’ll simply feign an emergency call from Antemeridias,” the Moff said. “I’ll be safely away before they even know anything is wrong.” He reached for the small vial and closed his hand about it tightly.
“Here I thought an assassination would be so difficult, and they welcomed you with open arms,” said Daala. “Meet me at the rendezvous base in twelve hours. You will find me most appreciative of your efforts, Moff Getelles. If I don’t forget grudges, I also don’t forget favors.”
“I’ll remember that, Admiral,” Getelles said, “but for now I must make haste.”
“Twelve hours,” Daala said.
“Twelve hours,” Getelles replied.
EXODO SYSTEM, MERIDIAN SECTOR
FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE TAKING THE OATH OF OFFICE OF CHIEF OF State of the Galactic Empire, Admiral Natasi Daala stood on the bridge of the Chimaera and surveyed the Maw Irregular fleet.
It was smaller than it had been when she had come, too late, to Gilad Pellaeon’s aid and turned the fleet loose on Jacen Solo. Gone or dismantled were the vessels that had some of the more … unique … upgrades that had in the end proved too costly to maintain. Still, there were several vessels left at her disposal. In addition to the Chimaera, which was an Imperial II–class Star Destroyer, the museum-quality but still powerful and deadly Maw Irregular remnants included another Star Destroyer, a Venator-class; an Acclamator-I class assault ship; a Republic-class cruiser; several frigates; and a handful of corvettes of two classes.
It was a fine start.
Daala had always prided herself on her ability to be ready for the vagaries of changing fate. She did not forget old friends, or old enemies, and so she had been pleased, but not surprised, at the alacrity with which her allies had come to her aid. Of course, there was something in it for them, too. “Everybody’s got an angle,” Han Solo had said once, and nowhere was the saying more true than in politics.
Daala had not come lightly to the decision to assassinate Jagged Fel. She felt it was a disrespectful way to deal with one’s enemies, and she did respect Fel. But it had been necessary. A realist, Daala knew that she was acting as much to protect and promote herself as to support any political agenda. But she also had faith that the path she had followed, crooked and backtracking and strange as it had been, was the right one. She had earned her position as Chief
of State, and had done her best to govern wisely and well. The galaxy needed what she had to offer. There were many who agreed with her. She had a power base, and she was not going to give it up. And so, Fel had needed to be eliminated.
Daala had been monitoring communications as best she could, utilizing her network of contacts and spies. Fel’s people were keeping the assassination quiet. There was no mention of it anywhere on the Holonews, not even from the new, sensationalist network, BAMR. She had heard no response from the Solo family. Leia was in prison, which brought a spark of admittedly petty pleasure, and Han had apparently dropped out of sight with their adopted daughter. Jaina was with the Jedi, wherever they might be gallivanting off to.
What mention or coverage there was of Fel was brief and was either old or else consisted of grainy footage of someone who looked an awful lot like Fel. Daala knew the man had employed a double on more than one occasion, and she had to admit that whoever Jag had hired would easily fool someone who didn’t know him personally.
In other words, all was playing out as she expected. News of Jag’s death would rock what was left of the Empire at a time when, in the public eye, everything else was in chaos—a new and woefully inexperienced Chief of State; she, Natasi Daala, vanished; the Jedi gone. Eventually they would be forced to make some kind of an announcement, but not immediately, not until they got something into place. Which played right into her hands.
Exodo II, the rendezvous point, was nothing remarkable. It had been a hot, stormy, and unpleasant world even before the Yuuzhan Vong had gotten to it, and now it was no doubt even less attractive. Nor was its moon, Boreleo, worth notice. Once a mining colony of little note, it had been abandoned at some time long ago, probably even before the Yuuzhan Vong had terraformed the world it orbited. More recently, it appeared to have been the site of an accident, if the abandoned hulk of a battered transport that a routine scan had discovered was any indication. In short, it was nondescript, little thought of by anyone, and conveniently located in the Meridian sector. Which was perfect for Daala’s needs.
“Admiral, several vessels are dropping out of hyperspace,” Chimaera’s captain, Tors Remal, said. A thin, elegant man with silver hair and a matching goatee, he was an excellent choice to command her flagship. He never batted an eye at the more violent things he occasionally had to do—in fact, he even seemed to get a certain enjoyment out of them.
“That should be Drikl, right on time.” She did not betray any of her anxiety. Lecersen had assured her that he would be able to bring up to three-quarters of his available vessels. He did not mention exactly how many that would be.
There were several flashes of light, and any tension she might have had eased considerably. Right in the forefront was Lecersen’s flagship, an old Imperial II Star Destroyer named the Empire Maker, followed by an Interdictor-class cruiser. In formation were nearly three dozen vessels—frigates, corvettes, an escort cruiser, and a starfighter carrier.
But how many starfighters? she wondered. “Open a channel,” she instructed, and a moment later she was smiling at a small holographic image.
“Drikl. You are more than punctual. And I confess, you bring a better collection to the fray than I had anticipated.”
“You’ll find that I am an excellent ally, Admiral,” he said. He did not seem in the least distressed that she casually referred to him by his first name while he addressed her by rank.
“You know, Drikl,” she said, “I think that we might have wasted rather a lot of time attacking each other instead of someone else.”
He inclined his head. “We have certainly had our differences in the past, and I have come to that conclusion myself.”
She wasn’t sure that he had, and she would not make the mistake of assuming him trustworthy, but thus far he was cooperating.
“It has, at least, given you time to assemble a rather decent-sized flotilla,” she continued. “How many wings of starfighters?”
“Nine.”
“Good. I have twelve,” she said. “We’re off to a promising start.”
“Who will be joining us?”
“Your friend Vansyn, Moff Getelles, and Moff Trevin, for now. We’ll be rendezvousing with others shortly, and then we should have a total of eight Moffs, as well as aid from other sources.”
“Such as?”
“A girl doesn’t tell all her secrets, or else there’s no mystery. All you need to know for now is that they are already en route to the rendezvous point.”
Lecersen frowned slightly. “If I’m to be of the best aid possible, then I should be told more, Admiral.”
“Well, how about some good news then? Jagged Fel is dead.”
That rattled his composure. Warring emotions played over his face. “Really?”
“Really.”
“You’ve seen the body?”
“Next best thing. I heard the attack.” She did not mention that the incident reminded her of being an audio witness to the murder of Pellaeon three years earlier. What goes around, comes around indeed, she reflected.
“I find myself torn. On the one hand, Fel has been a terrific thorn in my side, and none of my efforts were successful. On the other, I have armed the Empire Maker with several baradium missiles in the hope of dispatching him myself. How did you manage it?”
Daala smiled thinly. She was beginning to wonder if there were anything this sleemo wasn’t behind. Politics did indeed make strange bedfellows.
“Don’t worry. I am certain we’ll find some suitable targets for your missiles,” she said. “As for dispatching Fel, it was ease itself, really. One of my allies was invited to a private dinner aboard the Pellaeon. While the droids were inactive, he killed Fel quietly, begged off, and departed in his own ship. He was long gone by the time the death was discovered.”
“Simplicity and boldness in one lethal combination,” Lecersen said. “Who was this brilliant assassin?”
“Moff Tol Getelles.”
He couldn’t suppress a snort. “Really? I’d never have guessed it.”
“You didn’t guess right about Vansyn, either,” she reminded him.
“Well played,” he said, seemingly amused by the jab. “But if Fel is dead, why haven’t I heard about it?”
“If you were his people, would you want this all over the Holonews before you’d figured out how to present it?”
“No,” he admitted. “But they will figure out how to present it quickly enough. Jag does not—forgive me, did not—surround himself with fools.”
“Which is why we will move, and move quickly, as soon as the others arrive.”
As if on cue, there were several more flashes in the darkness of space. “Ah, and here are Vansyn’s and Trevin’s contributions,” said Daala.
It was a respectable turnout. Both Vansyn and Trevin had far fewer resources than Lecersen, and their ships were of an age with the Maw Irregulars, though a few were newer, but the fleet was clearly starting to grow to something that would give any system pause. Daala counted quickly, and nodded as she realized the two Moffs had contributed almost twenty more vessels.
She felt her heart pick up, not with fear, but with a familiar anticipation. She was more at home here than she had ever been in her offices on Corsucant.
Daala hailed and spoke with both Vansyn and Trevin, a thick-set human of middle years with caf-colored skin and hair prematurely white. After exchanging pleasantries, she settled back to wait for Getelles.
The minutes ticked by, and she began to frown, drumming her fingers on the arm of her command chair.
“The man of the hour is late,” commented Lecersen. She didn’t bother to reply.
Seven minutes later, she was relieved that, despite the delay, the “man of the hour” arrived, with even more than he had promised: Four Star Destroyers, a carrier, eight starfighter wings, and nearly a dozen combined frigates and corvettes.
“Moff Getelles,” she greeted him. “You’re late.”
“With, as you see, a few more ad
ditional ships. Some last-minute maintenance was required, but I assure you, they are all battle ready.”
“They are very welcome indeed. Captain Remal, open a channel to all vessels.”
“Open, Admiral.”
Daala let herself pause and savor this: the moment before they took their first step together toward their destinies. One, she would eventually betray; another, she might, or might not. More, many more, would be joining them. It was a splendid instant in time.
“This is Admiral Daala. In a few moments, we’ll be departing to rendezvous with the next group of loyalists who, like yourselves, have chosen to follow me and what I represent. I have always been an Imperialist at heart. The order, the efficiency … the ceremony and history. Now that we are about to step boldly forward, I will tell you something that will hearten you even more. We are moving forward to claim something that no longer has a challenger. Chief of State Jagged Fel is dead.”
“Oh, I rather think not,” came an all-too-familiar-voice. “Jaina wouldn’t stand for it. That girl really wants her wedding.”
Daala’s chest constricted, and for a heartbeat her head swam. She recovered almost at once and gestured for the transmission to be silenced. “Trace that transmission. Now,” she snapped, then, “Open the channel.”
“Open,” said Remal.
“Really, Jag? I think she’d look much better in black,” Daala said, her eyes on the agitated communications officer frantically, and apparently unsuccessfully, trying to determine where the hell Jagged Fel was.
“I’m not going to tell her she can’t be a blushing bride, and I don’t think you are, either. Admiral Natasi Daala, I am here to order you to stand down, surrender your fleet, and return to Coruscant for trial. There doesn’t have to be any loss of life here.”
Daala arched a red brow at the Sullustan communications officer, who shook his head miserably.
“Jag,” Daala said, “I see how many vessels I have, and presumably, so do you. But apparently, you are nowhere to be found. Show yourself, and let’s talk like civilized people.” If he was on the Pellaeon, he wouldn’t be able to. It had been reported as having departed the Meridan sector days before, after the “assassination.”
Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Ascension Page 33