Fate of the Jedi: Backlash Read online

  “Oh.” There was a sinking feeling in Luke’s gut. All of a sudden they knew where their quarry was … and she was, in a sense, farther away than ever. “Well, perhaps she’ll be willing to talk to us.”

  “Perhaps.”

  QUARTERS OF CHIEF OF STATE NATASI DAALA,

  SENATE BUILDING, CORUSCANT

  A chime woke Daala—three mellow, musical sounds—and her eyes snapped open. The alarm always awoke her the first time it sounded; as with most military lifers, she slept very lightly.

  But this wasn’t her preset morning alarm. The musical notes indicated a live communication from Wynn Dorvan, and that meant something urgent was up. She cleared her throat to make sure she did not sound sleepy or raspy. “Speak.”

  “You have a priority communication from Elyas Caran.” Dorvan’s voice was unusually subdued.

  Elyas Caran was the emissary Daala had sent to Mon Calamari. She checked her chrono and did some quick math. It would be midmorning in the time zone where Admiral Niathal lived, so Caran would have been in the admiral’s company for half an hour or so. A live holocomm message from him did not bode well. “Is there some reason you can’t pipe the transmission into my chambers?”

  “I don’t think you want it transmitted anywhere yet. I think you need to see it full-sized, in the comm center, before anyone outside your staff does. We need to be thinking about how to respond.” The faint hiss of comm transmission vanished as Dorvan ended the call.

  Daala was up in an instant. This was not like Dorvan, and this was not good.

  Dressed in tan sweat garments suited to a workout and a blue robe, Daala walked into the communications chamber where, a day earlier, she’d spoken with Niathal. The reception area was already showing the live transmission from Mon Calamari. Two steps in, she began to understand what she was seeing. Her pace slowed as she approached the wavering three-dimensional image.

  Elyas Caran, a lean, graceful man dressed in pearl-gray and blue garments cut like a military dress uniform, had elegant features creased with middle-aged lines and a shock of jet-black hair that suggested he was a much younger man. Daala knew he dyed his hair; she didn’t know whether this was from vanity or a diplomatic urge to suggest vitality. Caran stood in the foreground of the transmission image.

  The background was dominated by a water tank, three meters high, its floor-to-ceiling transparisteel surface curved. The water within was a beautiful green-blue.

  In the center of the tank was Cha Niathal. She wore her admiral’s uniform. Her eyes were open and fixed. She was not entirely unmoving; little invisible eddies in the water stirred her uniform, caused her arms and legs to sway oh so slowly. The skin of Niathal’s face and hands was a curious color, more reddish than the previous day, and Daala wondered distractedly if the hypercomm’s color correction was set correctly.

  Clearly, Niathal was dead. Daala felt a sudden ache, as though she’d swallowed a sharp rock and it had gotten lodged halfway down her throat.

  Caran took a deep breath as if bracing himself for the bad news he was delivering. “It was done sometime this morning. When I arrived, her assistant came in to tell her I was present … and found her in this state.” He gestured up at the top of the tank, toward something the holocam did not include in its image. “She apparently ran a gas feeder line into her tank. Carbon monoxide. A painless method.”

  “Did she … did she leave any indication as to why?” Daala knew the reason. She knew why she herself might have done exactly the same thing if she had been in Niathal’s position. Any protracted legal defense would harm her extended family, the navy. But Daala had to know what words Niathal might have left, since they would be the last expression of Niathal’s legacy.

  Caran offered Daala a smile of mixed sympathy and sadness. “She left a note.”

  “Read it, please.”

  The diplomat did not fetch out a datapad or a piece of flimsi. He quoted it from memory. “‘This has been done with honor, without error, and by my choosing. Niathal out.’” He glanced down at the floor, a moment’s reflection.

  The stark simplicity of those words seemed to make the stone in Daala’s throat grow larger and sharper. She ignored the pangs. For now.

  Caran met her gaze again. “What do you … want done?”

  “Bring her here. Let those who asked for her blood see what they have achieved.” And, she told herself, we will see who is sorry and who rejoices, the better to know our enemies. “Then we’ll return her to Mon Calamari for a funeral with full military honors.”

  “I’ll make it so.”

  The image wavered more sharply and then disappeared.

  Shaken, but unwilling to let anyone recognize the fact, Daala spun on her heel and marched from the communications center, not making eye contact with anyone there. Once in the hall, she couldn’t entirely keep the tears from coming. With a casual gesture, she dashed them from her eyes and continued, stiff-backed and stone-faced, to her quarters.

  MILLENNIUM FALCON, DATHOMIR SPACEPORT

  IT TOOK ALLANA SEVERAL HOURS TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO ESCAPE THE Falcon.

  Some of her plans, she eventually acknowledged, would not have worked very well. Such as hiding in the Falcon’s smuggling compartments until C-3PO panicked, assumed that she’d escaped, and lowered the boarding ramp to go look for her, whereupon she would make a dash for the ramp and run past him, laughing. The problem with that one was that it might take hours for the droid to notice her absence, and hours more of searching before that moment of panic came, and in all that time she’d need food, drink, entertainment, and refresher breaks.

  Instead, after failing to conceive of an escape plan that might work, she eventually hit on the notion of playing one of the ship’s instructional programs, one that taught correct ship maintenance procedures. It was in that ancient Corellian Engineering Corporation ship’s-tour tutorial, in less than an hour, that she was reminded of the tiny lift that gave mechanics access to the topside hatch and the equipment on the Falcon’s top hull. Minutes later she confirmed that C-3PO, having also forgotten about that exit, had not programmed it to ignore her commands.

  As the shadows began stretching across the spaceport grounds, Allana sneaked herself and Anji into a storage compartment, found a coil of flexible cable, and took it to the tiny lift. She waited until she was sure that she could hear the droid’s puttering and monologue commentary emerging from the far side of the ship, and she activated the lift. As she’d hoped, it smoothly carried her and the nexu upward, the top hatch opening before them, and in a moment they stood atop the Falcon, staring at Dathomir’s sun as it began to dip, oversized and golden, below the western horizon.

  She wrinkled her nose. Rain forest smelled bad. Her other grandmother really came from here?

  Now was the scary part. She tied one end of her cable to a strut, adding hitch after hitch to her knot because she knew her rope-tying skills were not very good, and then dropped the remainder of the coil over the side. She leaned over to look. The ground seemed a long way down. But Anji just took one look and jumped, landing on the ground as lightly as … well, a nexu.

  Allana focused her attention on Anji and thought, Sit. Anji yawned and stamped her feet, waiting. Close enough. Allana took a moment to make certain she remained undetected. There was someone in that skinny ship on the other side of the Jade Shadow standing in the hatch—a tall man and his lady friend, Allana thought—but they were in the shadows and it was hard to tell whether they were looking in her direction.

  When she did not hear anyone’s voice raised in alarm, she grabbed the cable, sat down on the hull, and scooted along until her legs dangled over the edge. Then, alarm and excitement mixing in her, she allowed herself to slide over the edge, repositioning her hands so they would not scrape across the hull’s edge, until all her weight was supported by her hands.

  Well, that wasn’t good. That was a lot of work. She was strong for her size, and had been encouraged to exercise by her very active grandparents, bu
t she wondered if she would actually be able to climb all the way back up.

  It didn’t matter. If she couldn’t get back into the Falcon on her own, she’d just have to alert C-3PO and face the music that much sooner.

  She half climbed, half slid down the cable, gasping as a slide of too great a distance seemed to cut into her palms. Then, suddenly, she was standing on the ground next to Anji, her arms a little tired.

  She looked at her palms. They had been abraded almost shiny by the cable, but there was no blood. She felt soreness but not real pain. She looked up at the mountainous height she had descended, shrugged, and turned to look out over the spaceport.

  It was darker now than before. Lights were coming on atop many of the permacrete domes in the compound. A smell of cooking food, some sort of meat being roasted, drifted her way from one of them, and her mouth watered.

  How would Grandpa Han find R2-D2? He’d rely on instincts, meaning that he’d go toward whichever place looked most interesting. Allana had met very small children who thought that way, and she wondered how Han managed to win at so many things when he thought like a small child. She wasn’t sure it would work for her.

  Jaina’s boyfriend Jag talked about methodology and grid patterns, which were just grown-up terms for making sure you looked at everything in order. She looked around, mentally dividing the grounds into quarters, and wondered which pie-slice to start with.

  And, oh yes, there was the Force, which Leia, Jaina, and Allana’s real mommy used all the time. She wondered if the Force would tell her anything. She was a little frightened of it, since it had led her to where a scary thing had talked to her on Kessel. But R2-D2 was missing, and she wasn’t willing to be frightened right now.

  She thought about R2-D2, how she missed her astromech friend and how everyone would miss him worse if he never came back. Then she turned due north and began walking toward the domes in that direction. Anji quickly padded out ahead of her and disappeared into the shadows. Allana wasn’t worried. She could still feel Anji in the Force, and she knew that Anji wouldn’t stray very far from her. After all, Allana was Anji’s friend, and friends didn’t run off into the jungle without each other.

  NORTH OF REDGILL LAKE, DATHOMIR

  The odd grouping of one cargo speeder, three mounted rancors, and four Witches on foot rounded a spur of Redgill Lake just as dusk was settling. Spread out before Luke and his party was a large encampment, a gathering of nearly two hundred individuals in two distinct areas separated by a few meters of unoccupied ground.

  Luke’s party had, of course, passed by several hidden sentries on their way here, especially in the last few kilometers. Luke had felt them out there, concealed, observant. So had Kaminne, and she had offered hand signs, a different one at each location, and Luke’s party had passed unmolested.

  Now, as they came within a hundred meters of the encampment, curious Witches from the near portion of the camp and equally interested men from the northern portion moved their way. Luke could sense suspicion and even hostility, especially from the women.

  And one touch of alarm, quickly suppressed. He looked back and forth, trying to pinpoint its source, but could not; it had vanished before he could get a fix on it. He altered his perceptions and could feel his own blood among the people, but in the thick of the crowd it was impossible to pinpoint its exact location. Still, he had reason to be certain that the Sith girl was nearby, watching.

  Kaminne sprang forward from her seat to land on the hood of the cargo speeder. She spoke loudly, projecting like a trained orator. “I bring good words. The men who have been following the trail of the sisters of Raining Leaves are not enemies. I have met them and now bring them before you as counselors to this conclave. You have all heard the name of Luke Skywalker. It is he who sits behind me.”

  A murmur of voices rose from the assembling crowd, and Luke felt the emotions shift—the suspicion did not exactly diminish, but it was joined by interest and curiosity.

  “With him is his son, Ben, and they have been joined by the lady Leia Solo, her mate, Han, and others. I have granted them safe passage among us.” She looked down at Yliri and gestured for the Corellian woman to guide the speeder to a spot a few meters from the waterline, near one of the campfires.

  Han sighed. “So I’m just ‘her mate.’”

  Leia gave him an innocent smile. “Always have been. Fetch me something good to eat, would you, mate? And then you may treat yourself to a few drippings of soup.”

  Carrack gave Han a sour look. “Hey, at least you got a name. Me, I’m just ‘others.’”

  The speeder grounded where Kaminne indicated. Its occupants piled out and were quickly surrounded by curious Dathomiri. Kaminne stayed atop the hood and offered an abbreviated account of her efforts to lead the Skywalkers astray before she realized who they were. Luke, for his part, smiled, shook hands with those few Dathomiri who came forward to meet him, and kept his attention open for the Sith girl.

  She was out there, at a greater distance than before, in the densest part of the Raining Leaves crowd.

  A man moved through the crowd toward them, distinct from the others because of his height—he stood eye-to-eye with Han—and his features, which were exceptionally handsome, ideally suited to the stage or to holodramas. Some of the Raining Leaves women before him moved out of his path only grudgingly, resentfully. As he came close, Luke could make out blond hair, eyes the same blue as Redgill Lake when they had first spotted it a couple of hours ago, and garments that were an odd mix of Dathomiri hide vest and boots combined with offworld trousers in a distinctly civilized shade of purple.

  Luke extended a hand. “Tasander Dest, I assume.”

  “Master Skywalker.” Dest’s voice was flavored with the refined accent of the Hapan noble families. “A pleasure to meet you at last.” His attention wandered to the speeder hood, where Kaminne now told of the scrap between the Witches and the offworlders in the pass. Her tone made it sound as though the exchange had been a romp rather than a potential tragedy.

  “Kaminne told us what this gathering was for.” Luke gestured across the group. “You have some interesting challenges ahead of you.”

  “So do you, if you’re here for anything other than watching tribal customs. The clans have not changed their ways much since you first came to this planet.”

  Luke shrugged. “So how do we get them to open up?”

  Dest smiled, an expression that exposed what seemed to be a broad panorama of perfect teeth. “The Games start tomorrow. Win some of them. You gain respect, others will talk to you. I’ll be competing. Beat me at something … if you can.” The good cheer in his manner seemed to rob that statement of all the arrogance that should have come with it.

  Half an hour later, once Luke’s party was settled down at a new camp-fire of its own, Kaminne led Luke and Ben across the campgrounds to a dark patch of ground near a stand of trees.

  “Nice place for an ambush,” Ben told her.

  Luke gave his son an admonishing look, but Kaminne merely smiled. “I only plan one ambush a day. And today’s was not so successful.”

  With the mood eased, Ben changed the subject. “I know this is your family business, but it also relates to what my father and I are doing here, so I was sort of hoping to ask a question.”

  Kaminne’s expression went from amused to neutral, unreadable. “Go ahead.”

  “Why has your sister taken such a stong interest in the Sith girl? She’s known her for, what, a day or two and is already considering adopting her?”

  Kaminne didn’t answer immediately. Clearly she was considering her answer, deliberating how much to tell, how much to withhold. “A few months ago, Olianne’s only child, Sesara—she was eight—died of a fever. When Vestara stumbled out of the forest, helpless, nearly in a state of collapse, into the midst of Olianne’s hunting party, and all but fell into Olianne’s arms, something about her plight touched my sister’s heart. It is as simple as that.”

  Luke exchange
d a look with his son. Ben’s thoughts were so easy to read at this moment, no skill in the Force was called for. What an interesting coincidence that Vestara should first find the clan member who might be most sympathetic to her situation. But was that a matter of luck … or foreknowledge?

  From ahead, they could hear conversation—just the rise and fall of speech, two female voices, resolving within moments into comprehensible words. The first voice was recognizable as Olianne’s: “… not have to speak with them.”

  The second voice was lighter, younger. “I want to.”

  “You were running from them before.”

  “I was alone before. Now I am among family.”

  The voices stopped. Luke knew that neither he, Ben, nor Kaminne had made noise on their approach, but Olianne and the Sith girl probably had very acute senses.

  And Luke could see them now, Olianne’s outline with her distinctive hair illuminated by moonlight, a slighter, leaner silhouette standing beside her. As they came within a couple of meters of the two women, Luke got a clear look at the girl without environment suits or attempted murder getting in the way.

  She was a teenager, about Ben’s age or a trifle younger, slender, with long straight hair that looked as though, out of the moonlight, it would be a light brown. Her eyes were dark. There was no fear or apprehension on her face; in fact, she seemed to be wearing a half smile until Luke realized that the expression was an illusion, caused by the small scar at the corner of her mouth.

  Luke gave Olianne a courteous nod. “Could we have some time alone with this young woman?”

  “No.”

  Luke restrained a sigh. “Very well.” He gestured toward the ground. “Shall we sit?”

  Kaminne did, followed by Luke and Olianne. The teenagers were last to take their seats.

  “I’m Luke Skywalker. This is my son, Ben.”