Revelation

  “You’re Sintas Vel,” Medrit said quietly. She seemed very sensitive to noise. It was just as well she was blind, though. Had she seen Medrit—a pillar of muscle with a frown that announced his short temper—she wouldn’t have felt reassured. “You’ve been encased in carbonite for a while. You know what that is?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Okay, you’re in Keldabe, on Mandalore. I’m Medrit Vasur. This is my farm, and you can stay here until you’re well enough to leave. What’s the last thing you can remember?”

  Sintas stared straight ahead, sightless. She kept rubbing her eyes in evident frustration, sedated or not. “Where’s my necklace?”

  “Can you remember a necklace, madam?” Beluine asked.

  “I had a necklace. Where is it?”

  Beluine turned to Fett. “Did she?”

  “Yes,” Fett said. “She did.”

  “It’s very encouraging that she recalls it.”

  Fett looked at Mirta. Their eyes locked and she reached inside her collar to take off the heart-of-fire, or at least the half of it that wasn’t buried with Ailyn. He’d given it to Sintas as a marriage gift when they were both too young to know any better, but that wasn’t what made his gut tighten now. Sintas was from Kiffu. The gem—one of the rarer gold ones, shot with inner light in a rainbow of colors—was said to hold part of the soul of the giver and the receiver. Kiffar could sense the memories stored in the stones as if it were a data crystal, but with the added layer—the added unasked-for complications, Fett thought—of the emotional elements. Even if she was crazy or blind, that stone might just speak to Sintas and jog her memory far too fast for his liking. He was a man who said only what he had to say, which wasn’t usually a great deal, but this was different.

  Who am I more worried about—Sintas, or Mirta? Neither woman had the full picture of the mess their family was—yet.

  Beluine, who didn’t impress Fett half as much as the local farm vet who’d treated him, made a valiant attempt to earn his fee. He pulled up a chair beside the bed and spoke to Sintas in his best bedside manner. “Do you recall being in carbonite, my dear? Were you conscious?”

  Sintas jerked her head as she heard the med droid enter. “Nothing. I don’t remember a thing. And you can keep that droid away from me, too.”

  Mirta dangled the heart-of-fire from its leather cord wrapped around her forefinger. She gave Fett a meaningful look—now or never, Ba’buir—and approached Sintas cautiously.

  “Here’s your necklace,” she said. She wrapped her grandmother’s hand around the stone, folding her fingers gently. “I kept it safe for you. My name’s Mirta Gev. We never met, but I’m … a relative of yours.”

  Sintas froze for a moment, almost massaging the heart-of-fire in her hand, gaze fixed. “It’s … not the way I remember it.”

  Fett detached at that point. He’d learned to do it in the days after his father was killed, a trick of flipping a switch between emotions rubbed raw and complete numbness. He found he could do it with physical pain, too. Anyone could learn to do it if they wanted to escape pain badly enough.

  “We had to break it,” he said. “You can get another one.”

  Sintas turned her head slowly toward him, and for a moment he expected her to recognize his voice. She certainly looked as if she was pondering something, but she lowered her head and seemed to be focused on the heart-of-fire. Mirta just sat there on the edge of the bed with her shoulder touching her grandmother’s, her face set in that grim way she had when she was determined not to let him see how upset she was.

  “And do I know you?” Sintas asked.

  Beluine leaned close to Fett. “It might be too much, too soon. The case studies I’ve read say that excessively rapid exposure to their real situation can cause carbonite patients to go into a catatonic state.”

  Fett got the picture. He grabbed the excuse.

  “A long time ago … Sintas,” he said. The name felt alien in his mouth. He didn’t dare use his pet name for her, Sin. She’d called him Bo. Those were relics of a brief, happy time. “Get some rest.”

  He paused to stare at her for a few more minutes, wondering what had happened to his own life in the intervening years while she’d slept, and then there was the sound of doors opening. Fett stepped out into the passage and shut the door. The kids squealed in a nearby room: “Ba’buir, the lady’s awake! She’s crazy! And she can’t see!”

  “K’uur!” Medrit’s voice was barely audible. He made a shushing sound. “That’s not nice, Briila. She’s not well. That’s the Mand’alor’s wife.”

  “But he’s so old, and she’s beautiful.”

  Like the irony hadn’t occurred to me. Fett strode into the room, once again impervious to any opinions but his father’s. That had always been the only constant in his life, the self-esteem and sense of being loved that his father had given him. Everything else was too fragile. Even the sea eel that Fett kept as a pet on Kamino; that poor creature hadn’t escaped his taint, either. He loved it in the way that small boys loved unlikely animals, and when he had to leave Tipoca City with his father for the last time, he let it free in the ocean. It was eaten by a predatory fish before his eyes, in seconds, before it had even tasted freedom. Everything he’d ever loved got taken from him somehow, or was subject to some unknown curse that said Fett was better off alone—for everyone’s sake.

  “Kids,” Medrit said.

  Fett studied his gloves. “They say I was one, once.”

  “Goran just commed to say he’s down at the Oyu’baat and you’re not going to believe what showed up in the X-wing.”

  “What?”

  “A Jedi. He thinks it’s Jaina Solo. He remembers the holoimages that Sal-Solo was flashing around when he put the contract out on the Solos.”

  “Well, well.”

  “She wants to see you.”

  “Did she bring her credit account?” Fett was almost grateful for the interruption. This was work; he could handle that a lot better than what was going on in that room. “I said I’d sell the Bes’uliik to her scumbag brother in person or not at all. But let’s see what she’s offering.”

  “So how’s it going with Sintas?”

  “Mirta gave her the heart-of-fire. That’s keeping her occupied.”

  “Beluine’s a waste of credits, by the way.”

  “Not too many doctors see carbonite cases these days.”

  “I meant that he hasn’t asked what happened about your terminal illness, especially after being summoned to Kamino about it.”

  “He can see I’m still breathing.”

  “I’ll let Hayca Mekket know that she might be needed, then …”

  Fett let the amusement of the tough nerf-doctor lift his spirits a little. “Let’s see what the Jedi wants. And give her ten bonus points for having the gall to come here.”

  OYU’BAAT TAPCAF, KELDABE

  It was the last place in the galaxy that Jaina had expected to run into another Jedi. And she definitely hadn’t expected to meet one who would pull a blaster on her, either. But she was staring a blaster in the muzzle right now.

  You can talk your way out of this. You have to.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” said the old man. “You’re a Jedi.”

  She wasn’t imagining it; the old man made a big disciplined impression in the Force, as if he’d been trained. The other man in the multicolored armor—now, that was harder to pin down, but she was sure he was Force-sensitive. It was like hearing an accent that anyone from out of town wouldn’t catch. The crowd in the tapcaf had suddenly lost interest in the bolo-ball and every single one of them had drawn at least one blaster on her. Some had two.

  “Where’s her lightsaber?” asked the vine-tattooed man.

  “She’s not carrying it.” The old Mandalorian didn’t even blink. His eyes—pink-rimmed, watery, a faded light color that might once have been green or hazel—were fixed on hers, boring into her in the way that only another Jedi could. He took half a pace forwa
rd, not quite so frail and grandfatherly now. “I had a very strong feeling you’d arrived.”

  “I’m Jaina Solo,” she said at last. A Jedi name used to be enough to make doors open back at the Core. It closed them here. “And I’ve come to ask Fett to help me.”

  She could have sliced the silence with a vibroblade. She’d expected derisive laughter. Beviin just watched with the mild annoyance he might reserve for a kid. She could feel it.

  “Didn’t we save your papa’s shebs at Caluula Station?” asked the tattooed man. “Ask him if he remembers the funny folks in armor who were killing the vongese for him. It might jog his memory. And tell him Carid sends his best.”

  “I apologize for … sneaking in,” Jaina said. She was now totally reliant on powers she hadn’t used or trained, ones she’d seen her mother use so often with not a Force trick in sight—diplomacy and persuasion. It was much harder than it looked. “But how far would I have got past your ATC if I’d announced who and what I was? I really need Fett’s help.”

  “Give her some credit for coming here unarmed, at least.” The man in the motley armor took off his helmet, a blood-red and gray thing that didn’t match another plate on him. He was in his fifties, with very dark eyes and gray-streaked black hair. “I’m Venku. Also known as Kad’ika.” He looked at the old man with a distracted fondness. “My respected ori’buir here is Gotab.”

  “Well, so we all know what we are …”

  “We’re Mandalorians, Jedi Solo,” said Venku. “What did you think we were?”

  It struck Jaina that maybe the rest of Keldabe didn’t know these men were Force-sensitive. Given the enmity between Jedi and Mandalorians, maybe they were under cover, or stranded here, or … or … no, she couldn’t come up with a plausible explanation. She couldn’t imagine any Jedi being out of the loop for so long that she didn’t know of them, but there was always the possibility that they weren’t Jedi, and just Force-sensitives. But the old man radiated trained powers, and a sense of … of healing, of reconciliation, of all kinds of soothing things that didn’t go with the blaster or his hostile expression. He wasn’t a random genetic event.

  You’re not here to ask too many questions. You’re here to learn from Fett.

  If Jaina kept testing that Force presence, however carefully, these men might feel threatened. If they were living here as Mandalorians—nobody here was treating them as if they were strangers, she noted—chances were that they wanted to keep a low profile.

  Oh … no … tell me they’re not Sith.

  Mandalorians always fought for the Sith in the past, didn’t they? Fett was Vader’s hired help, too. We can’t escape each other.

  But she was sure she’d have felt dark energy around them had they been Sith. She’d had way too much practice at feeling Sith and Dark Jedi in the Force these past months to make that mistake.

  I might need their help as Force users. Don’t push it.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Jaina said at last. “My mother came here during the Empire’s occupation. She met your leader at the time. In fact, she—”

  “We’re doing a lot better than we were in your mother’s day, no thanks to the New Republic … or the GA. Have you come to negotiate some arms deal?”

  Ouch. They hadn’t forgotten the Yuuzhan Vong War, then. Had anybody? “In a way, I suppose I have.”

  “Fett’s on his way,” said Beviin. “And most deals are negotiable.”

  Gotab, apparently satisfied that there were enough blasters trained on Jaina to allow him to rest, slid his weapon back in his belt and replaced his helmet.

  “We’ll be going,” Venku said. “Beviin, if you need anything, call.”

  Beviin’s expression said that he was freshly puzzled. “How come you spotted her before me? I had Sal-Solo’s ID images.”

  “Maybe you weren’t the only one here who was offered the contract on the Solos.”

  Jaina reminded herself that she didn’t just have a troublesome brother. She’d had a pretty toxic uncle, too, and Fett had helped dispose of him.

  And Venku obviously didn’t want to reveal that he was Force sensitive.

  “Lovely,” she said, letting her Leia state of mind slip for a moment as she watched the two Force-sensitives leave. “I’ll take it as a good sign that none of you came after us.”

  “Only Fett’s daughter,” Beviin said quietly. “And for her, Han Solo was just bait for her father.”

  Jaina made an effort to imagine her grief over Aunt Mara transferred to Fett, and what state of mind he might be in now. But where was he? How come the Mandalore, the ruler, didn’t have some official residence where she had to seek audience with him? They were meeting in a shabby cantina. She leaned her back against the bar and thought better of trying to make small talk with Beviin, who was managing both to keep her in his field of vision and yet not to meet her eye.

  Eventually, patrons holstered their blasters and went back to their ale, muttering about missing the end of the bolo-ball match thanks to a shabla Jedi. In Basic, so that I know I’ve ticked them off. Good start. Then the doors opened, and a man in dull green armor and a tattered cloak stood in the entrance.

  Her impression in the Force was one of a lonely man resigned to being that way. Was this Fett? His armor fitted the description, but she’d seen plenty of green armor plates in the last hour or so, every shade from pale warra nut to the deepest forest. A few of the cantina crowd glanced at the man for a moment as if they were just checking who had come in, but they went back to the HoloNet screen and what looked like the postmatch dissection in their own language. It probably wasn’t Fett, then. She’d expected him to be huge, monstrous, iconic; but this man was of average build, and apart from his very confident walk—not a swagger, just a sense that he answered to nobody—there was nothing she’d have stopped to check out twice.

  He came to a halt a meter in front of her and hooked one thumb in his belt, his other hand steadying an EE-3 blaster that hung from a shoulder sling.

  Then she spotted the Wookiee scalps. Oh, it was him.

  “You wanted to see me, Jedi?”

  “Fett?”

  “There have been imposters, but I think I got them all. Let me know if I missed any.”

  “I’m Jaina Solo.”

  “We know.” He tilted his head a fraction. “You look like your mother.”

  Jaina, used to the protocol and twittering, fawning entourages of world leaders on a dozen planets, wasn’t ready for a warlord who walked around unescorted, and whose people could ignore him in favor of a bolo-ball game if they felt like it. Either Fett had the casual confidence that stemmed from huge power, or he was of no importance to them. She’d have bet all her credits on the former. Fett just stood there, waiting. Dad was right; not being able to see his eyes behind that visor was unsettling.

  “You saved my father a couple of times,” Jaina said. “I ought to thank you.”

  “I handed him over to Jabba, too. But I did time in the Sarlacc thanks to him, so we’re even. What do you want from me?”

  Jaina felt the ice thinning under her. She swore she heard it crack. She had to play this carefully. “It’s my brother, Jacen.”

  “The cowardly barve who killed my daughter?”

  “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry.”

  Fett’s voice was all passionless gravel, with not a spare syllable that didn’t have to be there. “So he wants to buy some Mando technology.”

  “No,” said Jaina. “I want you to teach me how to capture him and stop him destroying the galaxy.” She paused. “Please.”

  Fett didn’t reply. He wasn’t exactly a chatty man, but there was keeping one’s counsel, and then there was stunned silence, and Jaina knew which she was listening to now. In the Force, Fett felt like a sudden torrent of icy water.

  She had his attention, then. Now she needed his agreement.

  chapter six

  Haatyc or’arue jate’shya ori’sol aru’ike nuhaatyc.

  Better one big enemy t
hat you can see than many small ones that you can’t.

  —Mandalorian proverb

  CORUSCANT: LON SHEVU’S APARTMENT

  “Can you trust Captain Girdun?” Ben asked.

  “As much as a Hutt,” Shevu said, sitting with his elbows braced on his knees, head resting on his hands. He stared at the holochart propped against the chair as if he were trying to levitate it. “Heol, bless him, is a career man, and trust has a very different meaning for our colleagues who were recruited from the intelligence services. Let’s say it’s flexible.”

  The rift between the former spooks in the Galactic Alliance Guard and people recruited from the police had started opening early, just after 967 Commando was formed. Spies accepted that losing prisoners—as in killing them—was part of the job; CSF-trained personnel didn’t. After that, they’d never quite seen eye-to-eye again.

  “Try again,” Ben said.

  They had to get access to Jacen’s StealthX. Ben would have difficulty infiltrating the GAG hangars—not impossible, but not a stroll, either—and even Shevu, with all his valid passcards, would draw attention if he so much as popped the canopy. They needed an hour in a cramped, conspicuous space to do painstaking work. It wasn’t like slipping in and attaching an explosive device and sliding out again. In a saner world, they could have applied for a search warrant. Ben knew that would rapidly become a death warrant for Shevu if he tried to do it by the book.

  But Shevu could be as flexible as Girdun in his own way.

  “Maintenance,” Shevu said. “Somehow, we need an excuse to call it in for servicing.”

  “Don’t StealthX’s have a thousand-hour maintenance interval?”

  “Unfortunately. And I don’t think Incom will oblige us with a recall.”

  “Who can we trust on the ground crew?”

  Shevu sat upright. “It’s not a matter of trust. The fewer who know, the shorter the chain—the less we risk being discovered.”

  Ben had another brief urge to abandon the idea and just go with his gut rather than put Shevu at risk. If only Mom had said one word: Jacen. It wouldn’t have been perfect proof in a court, but Ben would have had closure, and maybe the end would be the same anyway—and Jacen on trial was a pipe dream.