To Jag’s right, immediately beside the still-droning Bothan, was Turr Phennir, Supreme Military Commander of the Confederation. He was the closest that loose alliance of planets had to an overall leader. Pale, aristocratic, with a scar reaching from the middle of his left cheek to the left corner of his mouth, he, like Fel, was a former combat pilot. The reputation he’d earned early in his career for classic Imperial backstabbing politics and combat savagery had changed over the years to one of pragmatism and honorable service.
And until now, Luke had given no conscious thought to the fact that these three, the most eminent politicians on Coruscant at this moment, were all Imperials. That realization struck him like a bucket of icy water. He had fought the Imperials for decades, had played a role in the defeat of every one of their major operations during that time, and here they were, in charge of … everything.
Leia glanced at Luke, amused. “I felt that.”
“I didn’t put it together before now. I’ve been thinking of the three of them as themselves, not as Imperials. The fate of the galaxy is, all of a sudden, in the hands of Imperials.”
“Yes.”
“When did it strike you?”
“Two years ago, when Daala and Fel took their posts within a short time of each other.”
“You didn’t mention it to me.”
She shrugged. “There was nothing I could do about it. Or should do about it. The symbolism of them all being Imperials in one way or another is nothing compared with the question of who they are inside. I mean, the Rebellion was largely made up of former Imperials. Crix Madine. Mon Mothma. Jan Dodonna. I’m a former Imperial Senator.”
“True. And all three leaders up at that table are honorable people.”
“Yes. But that doesn’t mean they want what we want. Or that they can see the consequences of their decisions the way we can.” Leia’s smile became distinctly ironic. “I bet Palpatine’s ghost is laughing at us right now.”
Luke forced himself to relax. He had, over the years, become convinced that in the absence of Palpatine and his immediate successors such as Ysane Isard and Sate Pestage, what it meant to be an Imperial had changed. The Moffs, sector governors, tended to be as scheming and self-serving as they were forty years earlier, but the military, an even more potent force in the Remnant, was largely populated by men and women who simply preferred a more orderly, more governed society than that found in the Alliance. The Empire was no longer a symbol of tyranny or of planetary genocide.
But the strangeness of the situation did not leave Luke. He took a look around his table to see if the others present were similarly affected.
Kyp Durron faced the dais and wore an expression suggesting that he was somewhere else, maintaining a false show of interest that was nothing but polite veneer. Jaina, as beautiful as her mother, Leia, but even more dangerous, concentrated on those at the dais, especially Jag Fel. Han Solo, lanky, weathered, and vital, sitting to the right of Leia, wore his traditional vest and trousers, the latter decorated with the Corellian Bloodstripes, his informal mode of dress in defiance of event protocols; he stared in heavy-lidded disinterest at the speaker. Kam and Tionne Solusar, no visible sign left of the savage mutilations they had survived during the recent war, ignored the Bothan’s speech and whispered between themselves.
And the Horns—
Luke blinked. Where were Corran and Mirax? They’d be testifying before separate panels later today and had announced they would be present at these opening ceremonies. Luke grinned sourly to himself. Corran Horn was a loyal ally and would stand beside him in the face of any danger, but he was obviously canny enough to avoid the threat of death by boredom.
Two hours later, those who had been sitting at the Jedi table moved out in a knot from the Senate Building into the sunlight shining on the plaza outside. Immediately Luke felt heat from the sun soaking into his dark Grand Master garments.
Han stretched, resulting in a series of popping noises from his arms and shoulders. “I think I died a couple of times during the speeches.” His voice was a grumble. “Leia kept poking me and starting my heart again. Some sort of dark side Force technique, I bet.”
Leia smirked and gave his ribs a two-fingered jab. “Like that?”
Han shrank away. “Ow. And yes. And I think maybe you should have let me stay dead. Because I just know there are more speeches to come, and I have to be at some of them.”
Leia gave him a look that was both disapproving and amused. “It wasn’t that bad. Neither the pokes nor the speeches.”
Luke grinned and brought out his comlink. It, like all comlinks taken into the ceremonial hall, had been switched off as a courtesy to the event. Now he switched it on. Immediately it beeped multiple times, indicating that he had several messages to listen to, several calls to return.
Jaina’s was doing the same thing. She grimaced. “Busy day to come.”
Luke felt it first, a ripple in the Force, not exactly of menace but of disquiet. He looked around the plaza, seeing the ostentatiously dressed members of the crowd continuing to stream out from the Senate Building. Speeder traffic confined itself to its proper travel lanes some distance away—
No, that wasn’t quite true. Four night-blue personnel transport speeders, traveling in a tight chain and at moderate speed just above pedestrian head height, were moving toward this building entrance. This was not an unusual sight in the government districts of Coruscant; troops were often moved in to offer security at an event. But such movements usually took place before the event began, not after it ended.
The other Masters present felt the disquiet and became more alert, but made no outward sign. Then Jaina noticed. She put her hand on her lightsaber.
“Ben.” Luke kept his voice low. “Drop back, blend with the crowd. Call Nawara Ven.”
Ben glanced around and spotted the transports. His jaw tightened. He looked as though he wanted to argue, but he simply stopped in place, disappearing from among the other Jedi as they continued to move forward. He drew out his comlink and thumbed it on.
The four personnel carriers broke formation, one crossing past the group of Jedi and swinging in at their left side, one drawing up short and landing to their right. The third slid into place between them and the Senate Building, while the fourth settled immediately ahead of them. The maneuver, smooth and seemingly well practiced, left the Jedi and Han within a large, open-cornered box of vehicles. The unhurried and matter-of-fact approach did not alarm the citizens on the plaza, but many were obviously curious about what was going on and began to work their way toward the vehicles.
The sides of the transports facing the Jedi opened. They were large swing-out doors, and from each vehicle issued two full squadrons of men and women in the blue uniforms and helmets of Galactic Alliance Security. They wore black riot armor on chests, forearms, and lower legs, and carried blaster rifles.
There were also civilians aboard each transport—if bounty hunters, as Luke suspected these beings were, counted as civilians. One was a male Quarren in blue-green robes, swinging up onto his shoulder a cylindrical weapon that looked like it carried missiles sufficient to bring down medium-sized buildings; his rubbery skin and facial tentacles were rigid with concentration. Another was a petite woman with long black hair, wearing dark robes deliberately fashioned after those of a Jedi. She carried an unlit lightsaber in her hand. Luke had never seen her before. A third, unusual to see in this day and age, was a Skakoan, his body encased in a round-cornered, brass-colored robotic suit.
There were more bounty hunters, two or three in each transport. Luke noted their positions but did not react.
From the security agents, who spread out into a line encircling the Jedi, Luke felt mixed emotions. A few were expectant, spoiling for a fight. Many were worried, even fearful, and determined not to show it in front of their comrades. A few were very, very frustrated.
Luke glanced among his comrades. “Stay calm. We’ve known for some time that this was coming.”
/> Which was true. A few weeks earlier, rumors had fallen into the ears of Luke’s political allies that the Alliance government was making a legal case against him—a charge of dereliction of duty resulting from his actions during the war with the Confederation. Leading a StealthX unit as part of the Alliance military at a crucial battle, Luke had withdrawn his Jedi from the field and then entirely from the Alliance chain of command, later leading them in assaults against Jacen Solo. Such an action would constitute treason in other circumstances, but no one in the Alliance would make a capital charge stick against someone who had risked all to oppose Colonel Solo. Still, someone in the Alliance government was clearly offended by the desertion and intended to extract some legal satisfaction from Luke.
One of the security officers, a man with captain’s insignia on his uniform, his prominent jaw almost ridiculously square, his eyes all but hidden under the partly raised blast visor of his helmet, led a party of four other security personnel toward the Jedi. Luke turned to face them.
“Master Luke Skywalker.” The captain’s voice was deep and grim. He came to a halt two meters from Luke. The members of his detail, thrown off by his sudden stop, skidded a little to make sure they did not bump into their superior. “I am Captain Savar, Galactic Alliance Security.” He held up a black datacard, small in his gloved palm. “This is a warrant for your arrest. I now exercise it. Please do not offer resistance.”
Luke could feel Han and Jaina bristling, but the other Jedi remained calm. He could also feel Ben, meters away, agitated and determined.
Luke put on a broad, welcoming smile. “I wouldn’t think of causing you trouble, Captain. May I disarm myself?”
“Carefully.” The captain was clearly not put off by Luke’s compliance, but Luke sensed disappointment from some of the security troopers and most of the bounty hunters.
And, curiously, from many of the onlookers beyond the circle of troopers. Luke spared them a glance. Many of them, far more than if the plaza crowd had just been random visitors arriving at or leaving the Senate Building, were holding holocam rigs, many of professional quality.
Slowly, Luke took his lightsaber from his belt. But as Savar stepped forward to reach for it, Luke passed it to Leia. She clipped it to her belt alongside her own.
Savar stopped abruptly. His expression turned to one of disapproval. “That, Master Skywalker, does not constitute full cooperation.”
Leia turned a scornful look on the captain. “I’ll wager you a month’s salary—yours, not mine, since I don’t receive a salary—that your warrant doesn’t mention his lightsaber. Warrants almost never do. You know why? I suspect not. It’s because the damage each one does is indistinguishable from the damage of any other, so they are of almost no use as forensic evidence. Now, does your warrant specify his lightsaber?”
Savar looked at her but ignored the question. He returned his attention to Luke. “Please turn around and place your hands behind your back. I have instructions to shackle you.”
Luke obliged, turning to face his companions. He kept up his cheerful demeanor. It wouldn’t do for any of the holocams to see him looking irritable, for any recordings of such a response would appear on the news broadcasts.
Captain Savar grasped Luke’s right wrist and snapped a stun cuff upon it.
Han was not as cordial as Luke. “Are you under orders to treat him like a common criminal, bantha-brain?”
Luke felt Savar stiffen, felt a rush of frustration, anger, and, yes, guilt from the officer. It startled Luke; clearly, this was no prosecutorial lackey enjoying the arrest, but someone who regretted it.
“He’s resisting!” The voice was muffled and watery. Luke knew it had to be the Quarren speaking. Luke spun, his right arm still in the captain’s grasp, in time to see the Quarren bringing his shoulder weapon into line, aiming at Luke.
From that moment, things moved fast. Five lightsabers, Luke’s not among them, snap-hissed into colorful, humming life and were raised against possible attacks. One security agent, who looked to be a boy about Ben’s age, twitched and fired, probably inadvertently; the bolt sped toward Luke. He leaned away from it, not feeling threatened, but Kam caught it on his blade and bounced it almost straight down into the permacrete.
Han, a blaster suddenly in hand—a small, powerful civilian model, not his usual DL-44—fired, and the shot sheared through the boy’s rifle, throwing the ruined weapon out of his hands.
The Quarren didn’t fire. There was now a lightsaber tip poised directly beneath his neck. The blade belonged to none of the Jedi; the dark-haired woman held it, her hand rock-steady, a curious smile on her face. The Quarren’s gaze was on her now rather than on Luke.
The security troops brought their weapons up, variously aiming at Han and the Jedi, but, disciplined operatives, they held their fire pending their captain’s order.
Savar, his expression ugly, turned toward the Quarren. “Nyz, did you just not understand the words support role? Or are you stupid enough to violate my orders deliberately?”
The Quarren hesitated. “You stiffened. The only reasonable conclusion was that he used a Jedi technique on you.”
“The only reasonable conclusion is that you’re an idiot. And I don’t see you putting your weapon down.” At Savar’s words, a half squad of operatives aimed at the Quarren, though it was clear the woman with the saber needed no help.
The Quarren, reluctant, lowered the device. He glanced between the woman and the troops covering him. “You shouldn’t point weapons at me. It doesn’t improve your prospects for survival.”
Savar’s expression became disdainful. “Now you’re on record for threats. Worn-out, petulant, whiny threats, come to think of it.” He turned to face Luke again.
The Jedi, at Luke’s nod, deactivated and stowed their lightsabers. So did the dark-haired woman. Han tucked his blaster away into a sheath at the small of his back. The troops finally lowered their rifles, though several kept an eye on the Quarren.
“Nice shooting,” Luke whispered to Han.
Han’s expression was sour. “Short-barreled piece of junk. I was aiming at his nose.”
“Sure you were.”
Savar led Luke to the personnel carrier that had landed directly in front. Its crew of security troopers, plus the woman in dark Jedi robes and the Skakoan, packed in as well. Leia insisted that someone accompany Luke, and Savar chose Han—“Not a Jedi” were his words.
With Han Solo on one side and an empty seat on the other, Luke waited, listening as Savar, outside, addressed members of his detail. “Bessen, you are the stupidest trooper I’ve ever had the displeasure to command. Who told you to shoot the prisoner?”
“No one, sir, I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”
“Good answer. ‘I didn’t mean to, I’m just incompetent.’ Are you competent to do two hundred push-ups for me?”
The boy’s tone became one of dejection. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Sergeant Carn, come watch him do two hundred pushups, then acquire transport and watch him run back to the blockhouse on foot.”
Han whispered, “To think I originally chose a military career.”
“You had a military career. You made the rank of general, then retired.”
“Don’t rub it in.”
“Can you do two hundred push-ups?”
“Shut up.”
The troopers watched, eyes wide, as two of the most famous humans in the galaxy, one of them under arrest for a felony, made small talk.
Savar, entering, slammed the transport’s side doors shut behind him, leaving them all illuminated by weak blue glow rods. He sat down beside Luke.
As the transport lifted off, Han looked among the troopers. “Who wants to play some sabacc? I’ll use my winnings for Master Skywalker’s bail.”
GALACTIC ALLIANCE SECURITY BLOCKHOUSE, GOVERNMENT DISTRICT, CORUSCANT
Luke was taken to a GA Security building, where he was separated from Han, who remained in the building’s crowded main lobby, alrea
dy making calls on his comlink. Troopers hustled Luke into a back chamber where he was searched and relieved of his personal possessions, then briefly holorecorded for identification purposes. After that, he was taken to another room, this one furnished with a bare table and chairs, where Captain Savar asked if he would consent to answer questions without his advocate present. Luke declined.
His next stop was a solitary confinement holding cell, a special one—beyond the durasteel bars were the glows of military-grade energy shields. There Luke was unshackled and left alone.
A considerable time passed—Luke could not be sure how long it was, as his chrono was one of the items removed from him—and then a visitor was shown in. The man was a Twi’lek, green-skinned, broad-shouldered, richly dressed in black and gray office garments of a style common on Coruscant. His lekku—brain-tails—were wrapped around his neck. His brow ridge often cast his red eyes into deep gloom. The anger on his face and the stiffness with which he held himself made him a forbidding picture.
But Luke was delighted to see him. The Twi’lek, a pilot during the glory years of Wedge Antilles’s Rogue Squadron, had lost his right leg below the knee in an engagement and subsequently returned to the practice of law. His limb replaced by a prosthetic one, he had performed as an attorney in numerous places across the galaxy and was now a familiar face in Coruscant litigation, interspersing high-paying cases with advocacy involving pilots or issues of constitutional law.
Luke sprang to his feet as the Twi’lek was shown through the cell door. As the shields reactivated beyond the bars, he held out his hand. “Nawara. It finally happened.”
Nawara Ven shook Luke’s hand, but his expression did not brighten. “No, it didn’t. Not the way we expected.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe you’d better sit down.” He gestured at the cot that constituted half the furniture in the cell.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
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