Revelation

  Jaina looked into his face for a few long moments and then smiled sadly. With Leia still squatting in front of him, wearing that same sorrowful expression, Ben felt pinned down by their tolerant doubt. Maybe they were humoring him. Well, it didn’t matter. He’d stated his case, and he was going to prove it, because he couldn’t carry on with his life until he got answers.

  And he would carry on with his life. When Jori Lekauf had been killed saving him, and he’d been drowning in guilt, Mara had told him that the best way to honor that sacrifice was to live well, to the maximum, and not waste a gift so dearly bought.

  He’d do that for his mother. He’d live for her.

  BASTION, IMPERIAL REMNANT: ADMIRAL PELLAEON’S RESIDENCE

  Gilad Pellaeon, still healthy in his nineties and with no intention of fading into senility, was playing Theed quoits on the lawn when his aide entered the walled garden at a brisk walk.

  The admiral didn’t take his eyes off the target—a short pole shaped like the flower spike of a Cezith water-lily, one of a dozen set in the shallow ornamental pond—but he could see all the signs of urgency in his peripheral vision.

  “Yes, Vitor?” Pellaeon held the quoit between thumb and forefinger, resting its weight on his palm. “I hope you’re rushing to tell me that the chef has acquired Jacen Solo’s entrails and is braising them for dinner.”

  “Not quite, Admiral.”

  “Life is full of disappointments.”

  “A military attaché from the Galactic Alliance is here to see you.” Vitor Reige had saved Pellaeon’s life in the Yuuzhan Vong War, and now he defended him from all other equally irksome visitors. Anyone from the GA fitted the description these days. “Shall I send him away?”

  “Remind him that he should make an appointment if he wants an audience, not drop by to solicit me like some door-to-door tradesperson.”

  “I think he might have been anticipating that. He handed me this note.”

  Reige rustled. Pellaeon turned his head to look at a neatly sealed flimsi square, pale blue and bearing handwriting. It would be some sop from the strutting little demagogue Solo or one of his minions, some invitation or other public relations exercise to make his junta look more respectable. Pellaeon focused again on the lily, and tossed the quoit with a practiced hand. It fell neatly over the spike and came to rest on its base.

  “Open it for me,” he said, taking another quoit in his hand. “If you think it might raise my blood pressure, throw it in the bin. If not … it can wait until I finish my game.”

  Theed quoits was a pursuit that taught patience and concentration, as well as providing gentle exercise. It was always played on water; careless throws meant fishing around in a pond with your hand to recover the quoit. Some said that it had once been played with carnivorous fish in the water, and began life as a hunting technique on Naboo, but Pellaeon had quite enough predators in his life without adding that refinement. He settled for nothing more dangerous than a wet sleeve when he missed the target.

  “Well?” Pellaeon lined up a more difficult target, the right-hand spike at the back that required an up-and-over technique to clear the middle row. “Is it going to give me an aneurysm or just provoke spluttering rage?”

  “I really think you should read the message, sir,” said Reige. “If only for amazement value.” He held out the unfolded flimsi with a bemused smile, and Pellaeon took it. “You’ll be annoyed, I think.”

  It was handwritten, or at least fashioned to look like it. And it was an invitation after all, but not quite the one that he was expecting.

  The joint Chiefs of State of the Galactic Alliance respectfully request a meeting to discuss a mutual aid treaty with the Imperial Remnant, and the addition of its assets to the GA Fleet in exchange for substantial benefits.

  A translucent green official seal was stamped across Jacen’s signature. No sign that Admiral Niathal had seen this, then; a Mon Cal should have known better than to back a little despot like Solo, so perhaps she wasn’t involved. But then Niathal had her own agenda, and it almost certainly didn’t include Jacen as a valued co-worker for life.

  The brat. Pellaeon had resigned rather than be forced to work with him. It hadn’t been personal when it started; Pellaeon simply objected to the creation of an unaccountable, slightly-outside-the-chain-of-command, rather seedy secret police force, which was then put under the command of someone who had never worn a uniform in his life. The dislike—now fermented into a full-blown loathing—had come later, nourished simply by watching the holonews and listening to military intelligence reports.

  Retired. No, I was forced out. And I haven’t forgotten that.

  “No, Jacen, you cannot play with my ships,” he snorted. “Nor can you buy them.” He crumpled the flimsi in his hand, feeling the fragile seal crack, and tossed it back to Reige. “I can see no merit in aligning the Empire with a regime that has no current bearing on our interests.”

  “I’ll return this to the attaché as it is, then, shall I, sir?” said Reige, tilting his head slightly to consider it. “I think it’s quite eloquent.”

  “A gesture is worth a thousand words, but two often suffice.”

  Reige walked back down the hedge-lined path without a sound to deliver the rejection to the attaché. A good man; loyal as a son. Pellaeon had long suspected he was—it was all too possible—but was reluctant to seek confirmation and be disappointed, because he missed Mynar terribly. It was a dreadful thing to be unable to acknowledge that Mynar had been his son; Pellaeon felt he had denied him even in death. He wanted no more hopes dashed, and had made generous provision for Reige’s future.

  But if somebody didn’t put a dent in Master Solo’s ambitions, the future for Reige and everyone else would be bleak. It wasn’t actually true that the GA had no effect on the Empire. Some things couldn’t be avoided or ignored, however far away.

  Perhaps I was a fool not to retire earlier, but I’m not dead yet. I still have some fight in me, and I’ll be hanged before I give in to the whims of a civilian playing soldiers. It’s a pity that his aunt was killed—she’d have lost patience with him eventually, and then he’d have had a good thrashing … oh yes.

  Pellaeon threw the rest of the quoits, enjoying a private fantasy about playing the game the Naboo way, with a shoal of angry blembies cruising in the water, and making Jacen Solo retrieve the misses.

  He was definitely not dead yet.

  CHIEF OF STATE’S SUITE, SENATE BUILDING, CORUSCANT: TWO DAYS AFTER THE RETURN OF THE ANAKIN SOLO

  Darth Caedus stared at the crumpled note in the tray and wondered what Pellaeon thought of him. It didn’t matter, but he was curious.

  “Perhaps I didn’t explain myself clearly enough,” he said. “What do you think, Tahiri?”

  She examined the note and shrugged. He wondered if she was trying to sense something from the flimsi, some clue about Pellaeon’s state of mind.

  “I think you’re talking to the wrong person,” Tahiri said. “It’s the Moffs’ backing you need, not Pellaeon’s. He’s the last person who’d help you.”

  Caedus thought it was more insurance than help, because he had no real sense of being under threat; the Confederation might have looked numerically equal, but numbers often didn’t equate to strength. But he planned to bring the war to a quick end, not to tiptoe along some line of status quo, and for that he needed an injection of numbers. The Imperial Remnant had not only the hulls and hardware, but—more importantly—also the doctrine and high-caliber personnel to make their assets count. They were very much his grandfather’s legacy. The Remnant’s shock troops were said to be as excellent as Vader’s 501st, and that kind of efficiency was what he needed in his order of battle.

  The only barrier was Pellaeon, now too old to bend with the winds of change. He had been a great admiral once, but even though he’d retired—voluntarily or otherwise—he was still blocking the skylane. Admirals didn’t retire, of course. They were always subject to recall. Pellaeon might still be biding
his time.

  “Tahiri, to get the Moffs to back me, I need to be endorsed by Pellaeon,” Caedus said. “It’s more than his position as Bastion’s head of state. I can bypass figureheads when I need to, but the old boy is still very much hands-on, and he has enormous sway over the Moffs. They would commit their forces to the GA for the right reward, but not as long as Pellaeon opposes it.”

  “And does he oppose it? I can see why he wouldn’t exactly trust you.”

  “No, I’m not his favorite person, and I suspect he regards Niathal as a traitor in that stiff-upper-lip way of his. But this isn’t a refusal, I think … just a gesture. I believe he wants to be wooed.”

  Tahiri’s mind was calculating visibly. “So what’s the right incentive for the Moff who has everything?”

  “More of it, Tahiri. More. Everybody likes more.”

  “But more of what, exactly?”

  “Territory.”

  “Must be a tough job finding parking for all those Star Destroyers, mustn’t it, Jacen?”

  Caedus had to admit she was sometimes more entertaining than Ben even if he didn’t like being called Jacen. “I was thinking of Bilbringi or Borleias, actually. Maybe both if I have to. Shipyards and banking. I think the Moffs will like that … if I can get Pellaeon to see sense.”

  Tahiri never asked if the worlds in question had been consulted about becoming bargaining chips, and Caedus wasn’t sure if she didn’t think politically or she took it as read that he would make it happen with or without their consent. “He’s a pragmatist,” she said. “And he wants the best for his little Empire.”

  “He likes his honor better.” Caedus smiled and reached for the pile of datapads. There were a couple of items that troubled him still sitting in view. “But I think he needs time to consider this, and perhaps a visit from someone persuasive. Preferably in a smart suit and shoes, Tahiri.”

  She gave him a withering glance. “You want me to see him?”

  “I hope you’ll do better in this task than the last.”

  “I’ve done my best, Jacen.”

  “Yet you can’t find the Jedi base.”

  “And, obviously, neither can you …”

  “Show me you can complete a mission. Talk to Pellaeon.”

  “He wouldn’t see the military attaché. What makes you think he’ll agree to see me?”

  “Pellaeon is a gentleman, Tahiri. He’ll see you. Not only because you’re pretty and charming, but because someone will let the Moffs know the nature of the deal he’ll be offered, and so they’ll ask him questions that he’ll feel obliged to answer.” Caedus already had his networks set up; floating the idea through informal channels was quick and easy, but Pellaeon had to feel it was his idea. There was no herding the man. That Corellian blood made him very contrary. “Imperials need an empire, you see. It’s what they do. How can he turn that down?”

  “Why didn’t you comm him and put it to him straight? Even if he hates you, he’d respect directness.”

  “I was just testing the water with the letter. Now that I know how resistant he is, I’ll go to Plan B and get the Moffs excited about two shiny new acquisitions, and by a gentle process of osmosis, speeded up by your charm, he’ll say yes, without being made to feel I co-opted him after ending his long and glorious career sooner than he wished.”

  Tahiri sat back on the edge of the desk and looked out over skylanes marked by the winking lights of speeders. “You plan every possible move, don’t you?”

  “I don’t guess,” said Caedus. “There are too many wild cards being dealt as it is. Some of which are showing up now.” He picked up the first datapad on the pile. Wild cards indeed: intelligence reports confirmed that Corellia had placed an order for the Mandalorians’ Bes’uliik fighter. It was faster than an X-wing, armored in virtually impregnable Mandalorian iron—beskar—and for sale to anyone who had the credits. It was one of those destabilizing things that changed the course of wars. A subtle man, Fett; Caedus had been waiting to see what form his revenge would take for killing his daughter, thinking in terms of pure terminal violence, personal retribution, but the old mercenary was showing signs of playing a much, much longer and more destructive game. “Off you go, Tahiri. Come back to me with your timetable and strategy for getting an audience with Admiral Pellaeon and signing him up to the cause.”

  Caedus would have to do something about the Bes’uliik. The simplest option was to buy a squadron for the GA, even if that rankled. But if Fett could play the longer game, so could he; the fighter was a joint project with the Verpine of Roche, part of a cozy mutual aid treaty between Keldabe and the Verpine hives. Caedus put the Verpine down on his list of beings to educate later. He would also steer clear of Mandalore for the time being. He had more urgent issues in front of him.

  Fondor was still a major irritant, churning out warships for the Confederation at its orbital yards. It was a continuing threat, and it lay close to rich mineral resources in an asteroid belt; it built Star Destroyers. Assets like that couldn’t be allowed to remain in enemy hands.

  So he would deal with Fondor as his next priority. He picked up his comlink and keyed in the code of his closest and most irritating colleague, Admiral Cha Niathal, joint Chief of State of the GA.

  He didn’t see eye-to-eye with admirals lately.

  “Admiral,” he said cheerfully. “We really have to do something about Fondor …”

  chapter two

  Thank you for your recent payment. The outstanding estate of the late Hidu Rezodar has now been released by the Registry of Testaments and Legacies, and you may collect the items anytime in the next ten days. Now the claim process has been activated, any item not removed by that time will be auctioned by the State of Phaeda and you will forfeit all ownership. Any taxes or duties payable on the items must be settled before leaving the planet.

  —Message from the Phaedan State Treasury to Boba Fett, Mand’alor, Al’Ori’Ramikade—Leader of the Mandalorian Clans, Commander of Supercommandos

  BRALSIN, NEAR KELDABE, MANDALORE

  The weathered helmet of Fenn Shysa still stood on a granite column in the clearing, firmly secured by a durasteel peg.

  Only animals or storms would have dislodged it; nobody would have thought of stealing the relic of a much-loved Mandalore. It had even survived the Yuuzhan Vong’s attempt to devastate the planet. Shysa was revered.

  “Been a long time, Shysa.” Boba Fett didn’t make a habit of talking to dead men, except his father. It was the first time he’d visited the site. “You got your way.”

  The helmet had once been vivid green with a red T-section, but the paint had dulled to browner tones, and the scrapes and dents of battle were more visible. The memorial was a substitute for a proper Mandalore’s grave; Shysa’s body was still in the Quence sector where Fett had left it. The helmet was all he’d brought back. It was an apt memorial for a populist leader, to be commemorated in the same way as any ordinary Mandalorian. Only the Mand’alor, the head of state of a stateless people, was buried. Their nomadic warrior culture had no tradition of orderly cemeteries.

  Where will they bury me? If I have any say in it, when the end really comes, I’ll just set Slave I on autopilot for the Outer Rim, and keep going.

  Fett had been an absentee Mand’alor, ignorant of his own people’s traditions. His lessons, whether he wanted them or not, came from his newfound granddaughter Mirta, who insisted on calling him Ba’buir—grandfather—and encouraging him to embrace his heritage. Relations between the two of them were … tepid. That was a big improvement. They’d started out as homicidal.

  He stared at Shysa’s helmet, remembering. The crazy barve. Was I worth it? “You’d only say I told you so, so save your breath—”

  “I can’t wait for you any longer.”

  The sudden voice in his helmet’s audio-link made him jump, but it was just Mirta. She was itching to get under way for Phaeda.

  “You’ll wait,” he said. “You’ve waited three months. You can wait ten
minutes more.”

  Fett tapped two fingers to his helmet in a farewell salute to Shysa and swung back onto the speeder bike.

  If you only look after your own hide, then you’re not a man.

  That was just about the last thing Shysa ever said to him before he died.

  Fett set off for Goran Beviin’s farm, skimming above the silver ribbon of a tributary that flowed into the Kelita River. The landscape was changing. Since he’d first returned to a planet still struggling back to life after the Yuuzhan Vong had done their best to kill it, Mandalorians scattered around the galaxy had started coming home, thousands of them, and then hundreds of thousands, and more. The land was recovering. Farming was beginning again on tracts salted and poisoned by the vongese. It gave him a good feeling. Mando’ade showed their defiant streak by getting old farms thriving again rather than find new, easier land to cultivate.

  No, the crab-boys—as Beviin still called the Yuuzhan Vong—hadn’t won.

  Mirta was a persistent girl. “Ba’buir, you want me to start the drives?”

  “No.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Is Goran there?” She didn’t need to know how he felt right then. He wasn’t even sure himself, beyond a terrible guilty dread. “Has he got the room ready?”

  “Of course he has. Goran’s never let you down.”

  That was true. “Is Beluine’s accommodation sorted out?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then someone better tell him the Oyu’baat is as five-star as we get in Keldabe.”

  “You’re psychic, Ba’buir.”

  Fett wasn’t, but he knew his personal physician well enough to predict that he wouldn’t think a room in the rustic Oyu’baat tapcaf good enough for a fancy Coruscant doctor. Tough. I’m the customer. If the ruler of Mandalore could put up with a rickety farm outhouse with brutally basic plumbing, the Oyu’baat was fit for Beluine. It was clean and warm. As long as he didn’t try playing a round of cu’bikad with the patrons, he’d be fine.