Bloodlines

  “And now you’ve got company. Corellian fighter range ten kilometers moving to transport’s position … fast …”

  “Got him on scanner … now visual, too.”

  It was the first test of wills.

  “Back off, pal—”

  “Whoa, that was close.”

  “He’s locked on to me.”

  “Cleared to engage.”

  “He’s breaking off—transport is altering course.”

  Zekk cut into Jacen’s comlink circuit. It seemed Jacen wasn’t the only one listening to the chatter. “Shouldn’t we be deployed at Centerpoint?”

  “Centerpoint isn’t the only game in town. Patience, Zekk.”

  Centerpoint might have been the political focus, but Jacen knew the leverage would be in the factories and power stations orbiting Corellia. There was a total of a million workers in those orbiters, people with families down on the surface who cared about them.

  “Contact, bearing twenty-five by forty from datum.” Zekk’s XJ7 blipped on Jacen’s onboard scanner as it peeled off to investigate. He watched as Zekk pinged the vessel with his sensors; the shared display outlined a big, ungainly ship that appeared to be one large tank. “Okay, profile looks like a replenishment ship—water bowser and food. Panic over.”

  “Turn it back, then.”

  “What?”

  “Orders are to turn back all vessels.”

  Zekk’s comlink made a slight pop as if he’d switched it off for a moment. “But it’s just water and catering. It’s not industrial or military.”

  Zekk didn’t get it sometimes. Jacen wondered why he saw angles that other Jedi didn’t. “Those orbiters can only recycle and condense so much water a day. The shortfall has to be topped up.”

  “You think that’s worth doing …”

  “Rule of three.”

  “What?”

  “Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. That’s how long a humanoid can last, and they’re mostly Corellians on those orbiters. The first thing every commander should learn about a siege. There are ten thousand workers in that orbital yard alone, and they’re not going home just yet, and they’re not going to be resupplied. That makes people sweat.”

  Zekk’s comlink popped again. Maybe he was silencing the audio to swear for a moment. “Who’s this shapeshifter and what has he done with Jacen?” he said sourly.

  “Just turn back the bowser, Zekk. I’m not running a popularity contest.”

  “Very good, sir.” Zekk’s tone said otherwise, but Jacen watched him roll his XJ7 into a dive and head straight for the water tanker.

  Jaina’s voice was almost a whisper in Jacen’s comlink. “Is this policy?”

  “Turn back all vessels means turn back all vessels. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Just a humanitarian one.”

  “It’ll bring Corellia to the negotiation table a lot faster without shots being fired.”

  “Well, you’re in command,” said Jaina, all acid. “Colonel Solo.”

  Jacen wondered if any other squadron was quite as casual in its attitude to orders as Rogue. He doubted it.

  It was a long sortie. For the next three hours the squadron harried supply vessels and transports, turning some of them back simply by flying uncomfortably close. Others were more persistent; it took a concussion round detonated close to their bows to make them alter their course and head back down to the surface. For once, the XJ7s’ business was about being visible, conspicuous, and intimidating.

  “We only have to keep this up for a few months,” Zekk said wearily. “Piece of cake.”

  “Try this for size,” said Jaina. “Check your scanner. Three assault fighters on our six. I think Cousin Thrackan is fed up with us already.”

  Jacen looped his XJ7 into a climb, tracing a complete arc almost without thinking about the maneuver, and found himself looking up through his canopy at the approaching Corellian fighters as they crossed beneath him. Even with g forces normalized and no sense of orientation, Jacen still had a clear sense that he was above them, upside down, just like flying combat missions in a planet’s atmosphere. He could see and feel Jaina—and see Zekk—flying wide of him, far below, canopies facing him; they had looped in the same plane to come up on the Corellians from the rear, rather than climbing above them. Did we discuss this move? Or did I just think it? No, it was silent habit reinforced by that twin bond. Jacen feared it was the last thing he would ever truly share with his sister, but it was one more pain he had to face. She couldn’t follow him on the path he was taking any more than his parents could.

  He savored the final remnant of true understanding between them and accelerated into the loop to drop down behind the three fighters, right himself, and skim at top speed just meters clear of their canopies. The three fighters broke formation and scattered. Without any verbal commands, the three Jedi pilots latched on to their individual targets, Jaina and Zekk close enough on the tails of theirs to show little eddies of ionized gas on the nose shields of their X-wings. Jacen’s target seemed to be under the impression that he was chasing Jacen.

  Corellians were excellent pilots, but they weren’t Jedi. The marginal difference in reaction speed and orientation made for much bigger gulfs in performance at high speeds. Jacen seized that advantage. He let the fighter sit close on his tail for a couple of kilometers and then plummeted away from it, perfectly aware of his own position in space relative both to it and to Jaina and Zekk, who were also locked in their respective games of tag.

  It was just sparring. This was a game of brinkmanship; a game of maneuver and countermaneuver to test each other’s nerve. A game to show that if it came to a shooting match, the Alliance would win.

  Jacen thought this right up to the time he saw the display on his screen blip red with the warning that the Corellian had a missile lock on him. He sensed anything but a bluff.

  You’re really going to shoot, aren’t you?

  The Corellian fired.

  Jacen didn’t feel in danger; he had deflectors, the XJ7’s robust airframe, and his own skills. He also had chaff to deploy. Instinctively, he fired the small decoy in his wake and it fragmented into pieces that looked, to a missile, very much like a target.

  But if you want a fight, you’ve found one.

  The missile exploded on his tail, and the rain of fragments peppered his hull. The Corellian fighter was still hard behind him and now he meant business. Jacen also knew that his opponent would aim the next missile manually, overriding its smart guidance to thwart more chaff.

  That’s what I’d do, anyway.

  Jacen could have sent the Corellian spiraling harmlessly away by using the Force to tip his wings. He could have stopped his drives dead and left him drifting. But this pilot was one more asset that was ready to take their lives. He and his starfighter had to be removed permanently.

  You started it, my friend.

  Jacen flipped the XJ7 ninety degrees and shot up vertically as the Corellian disappeared beneath him and overshot. Jacen was back on his tail, staring into white engine halos and closing the gap until he was close enough to fire the laser cannon. The starfighter exploded in a ball of white light.

  Jaina? Zekk?

  He felt them weaving between the two remaining Corellian fighters and then saw the enemy vessels break and shoot off toward the planet. He didn’t think they were retreating. He suspected that they were regrouping to assess the rapid escalation of the conflict.

  A few hours into the blockade, the shooting had already started.

  “Congratulations.” Jaina’s voice over the comlink was flat and unemotional, although she didn’t feel that way in the Force at all. Jacen sensed her as resigned. “You’ve made the history books. You fired the opening shot of the real war.”

  SLAVE I, ENTERING CORELLIAN EXCLUSION ZONE, OUTERCORDON.

  “Warship Ocean calling unidentified vessel,” said the Alliance. Fett listened in silence, Slave I’s scanner profile
presenting the almost undetectable thermal and magnetic signatures of a speeder bike. He was, for all intents and purposes, invisible—unless someone was lucky enough to get a visual on him. “Identify yourself.”

  “This is Mandalorian vessel Beroya.” Beviin’s voice oozed cheery comradeship. “Need a hand?”

  “Why would we need that, Beroya? We’ve got two fleets deployed here.”

  “You weren’t that choosy when you needed us to fight the Yuuzhan Vong.”

  Fett prepared for a maneuver that would either get him through the blockade in one piece or solve all his worries about terminal illness—because if he miscalculated, he’d be vaporized along with Slave I.

  And so would Mirta Gev, of course.

  “Do it,” Mirta whispered.

  “Wait…,” said Fett, fingers resting on the recessed pad that would punch Slave I into hyperspace. “Just making sure the trajectory is clear.”

  There was a moment’s pause from Ocean. He heard the comm officer swallow. “Since when has Mandalore been part of the Alliance? You planning to bill us for this?”

  “Just being comradely,” said Beviin. “But strictly speaking, we couldn’t be part of any alliance even if we wanted to, because …”

  Nice diversion, thought Fett. If Beviin started on his theory of Mandalorian statehood, Ocean’s comm officer could be pinned down for days. It was now or never.

  “Now!”

  He hit the hyperspace jump control once and hit it again almost a heartbeat later.

  In a second Slave I accelerated from a few thousand kilometers per hour to half the speed of light, and then decelerated again. Fett’s stomach felt as if it had detached from his body.

  It was the equivalent of slamming the ship into a rock face, but it punched Slave I past the blockade fast enough to show up on a scanner as nothing more than a brief burst of energy. The huge forces made Slave I shudder and groan, and Fett found the surface of Corellia looming in his view-screen. He’d cut it too fine. He couldn’t correct the angle of approach before the ship hit atmosphere. He struggled to correct the flight path, slamming on the burners and giving Slave J’s hull one more set of impossible stresses.

  “You always this lucky?” Mirta asked. Her voice was tight and strained. Fett didn’t look at her. If she had any sense, she’d be scared rigid. He certainly was. Only idiots didn’t feel fear.

  “Let’s see,” he said. Fear, yes; but fear never paralyzed him. It just made him sharper.

  Slave I hit the atmosphere, and the hull temperature sensor jumped into the red. The emergency computer kicked in, correcting as best it could, but now it was simply a case of waiting to see if Slave I’s hull—and airframe—could handle the worst possible reentry.

  Mirta, to her credit, was completely silent. Fett wouldn’t have blamed her if she had allowed herself a scream or two.

  “Have you done this before?” she asked, voice shaking.

  “Once.”

  “That’s encouraging.”

  Corellia filled Slave I’s viewscreen. It was sobering to note how much of a planet a ship covered when decelerating. They were over Coronet; Fett recognized the city. The big park that was split in two by the speeder highway hadn’t changed. The hull sensor had settled back into the yellow zone, and apart from some ominous creaking Slave I had slowed enough for a normal vertical landing on her down-jets.

  “Coronet ATC to unidentified Firespray, I have you on visual … you’re a little big for a speeder bike, aren’t you?”

  “Slave One here,” said Fett. Oops. He disabled the decoy system and the ship resumed her normal profiles. “Your scanner must be having problems.”

  “Just can’t get the maintenance staff these days. You’re cleared to land in the priority bays. Follow the red lights.”

  “It’s nice to feel welcome.”

  “President Sal-Solo is sending a speeder for you.”

  Slave I settled on her dampers, and Mirta let out a breath loud enough for Fett to hear. But he never allowed himself that degree of relief. One danger had passed, and now he simply moved on to the next one: holding Sal-Solo at arm’s length, getting off Corellia again, finding that clone, and getting him to surrender his secrets.

  And facing Ailyn, which suddenly felt more dangerous than anything he’d ever done in his life.

  Why does a man who’s dying anyway worry about crashing?

  “Come on,” he said. “Help me secure the ship. I don’t trust Sal-Solo any farther than I can spit.”

  “You’re letting me come with you?”

  “I’m not letting you sit in Slave One for a few days.” Fett set the intruder countermeasures, this time including the self-destruct. He didn’t trust anybody, but there was still a scale of distrust, and Sal-Solo was up there with the Hutts. “Just do as I tell you.”

  “Is that because I’m useful, or because you want to keep an eye on me?”

  “Because I don’t want to have to hunt you down and shoot you before you tell me what happened to my wife,” he said. He wasn’t sure if he said it to shock, or because he meant it. He didn’t have to care either way. “I did love her. I just didn’t know how to be part of a family.”

  Do I mean that? Yes, I think I really do.

  Fett didn’t let Mirta see all the codes that turned Slave I into a booby trap for anyone insane enough to try breaking into her, but the girl learned the basic routines fast. By the time they climbed out of the forward hatch, there was an airspeeder waiting on the permacrete strip and three men in business suits standing in front of it with hopeful expressions.

  A Corellian stepped forward—dark-haired, young, but with an air of being well into middle age—and held out his hand for a few awkward seconds before realizing Fett wasn’t about to shake it.

  “Welcome to Coronet, sir,” he said. “We represent the three main political parties of the Corellian Assembly. We hope you’ll be able to help us.”

  So Sal-Solo had sent his minions. Okay, that was understandable. Fett checked his weapons status in his HUD, just in case things didn’t go quite as planned, shoved Mirta in the back of the speeder, and then sat up front with the driver. That appeared to surprise his welcoming committee.

  “I’m Dur Gejjen, by the way,” said the young-old Corellian, commendably unfazed. “It’s very good to meet you.”

  Gejjen would be trouble. Fett could feel it.

  chapter fifteen

  We’re under siege. The Galactic Alliance has violated our airspace, marooned civilian workers on orbiters without food and water, and opened fire on our defense forces. The Alliance has committed more acts of war against us. We’ll stand alone if we have to, but I invite other planets to ask themselves this: which of you will be the Alliance’s next target? Support us while you still can.”

  —Thrackan Sal-Solo in a speech to the Corellian Assembly,

  broadcast live on HNE’s Corellian affiliate network

  SENATE BUILDING: DAY THREE OF THE CORELLIAN BLOCKADE.

  An ocean of people—perhaps half a million—churned and surged around in the plaza in front of the Senate Building. Jacen could see a very long line of hundreds of blue-uniformed CSF officers with riot shields and visors pulled down, forming a defensive barrier across the face of the building. It was a protest: not exactly a mass riot, given the population of Galactic City, but it wasn’t a welcoming committee for the heroes of the blockade, either. Judging by the position of the police lines, there appeared to be two hostile factions yelling abuse at each other—Coruscanti versus the pro-Corellian lobby. Coruscant and the Galactic Alliance were indivisible.

  Jacen could hear a chant taken up by thousands of voices.

  “The—Empire’s—back! The—Empire’s—back! The—Empire’s—back!”

  It was hard to tell, but Jacen assumed it was a taunt from the dissidents, and not Coruscanti enjoying the prospect of firm government. But his exploits had gone down very well in the Alliance’s heartland. He kept an eye on HNE and the news holozines.
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  “Pity I couldn’t stay in the front line,” said Niathal. “That’s the worst thing about command. Anchors you to a desk.”

  “I’ll remain hands-on for as long as I can,” Jacen said. “I’d like to show my face on the blockade line. Good for morale.”

  “You have an office in mind, then …”

  “Don’t worry. Not yours.”

  “And I note that you haven’t gone back to wearing Jedi robes.”

  Jacen dusted a speck of lint from his black GAG uniform. “I don’t see any point in provoking Uncle Luke or the Jedi council. I know they don’t enjoy being identified with my actions.”

  “Ironic, seeing as the Public Affairs Office says polls indicate the popularity of the Jedi council has increased a little.”

  “Jedi are supposed to be beyond populism, Admiral.”

  As Niathal’s staff airspeeder slowed to skirt the crowd, Jacen glanced out of the window and noted the new mix of species and allegiances forming the army of protesters. “Well, we rounded up the Corellians, and now their places are being filled by others.” He identified various nationalities by clothing, hairstyles, snatches of language. “Look, isn’t that a couple of Rodians?”

  “As long as you don’t see any Mandalorians …”

  The closer to the lobby that the speeder edged, the uglier the mood of the crowd appeared to become. A group of CSF officers drove back the crowd with none-too-gentle shoves emphasized with batons to let the speeder through. Jacen and Niathal got out, and he took the precaution of throwing up a Force-shield around them.

  Jacen almost didn’t feel danger now, not in the sense he always had. He merely took account of circumstances and reacted accordingly. As they stepped out of the speeder, a hail of stones, old food containers, bottles, and other debris flew at them. All of it bounced back from the Force-barrier, some of it hitting the upturned riot shields.

  Jacen turned and stepped forward into the crowd: he didn’t enjoy displaying his Force powers in such a vulgar way, but there were times when they could make a point. He held his hands a little way from his sides, closed his eyes, and pressed outward with his mind as if lifting his arms.