Legacy Of The Force_ Revelation Part 23

It's just stuff. Forget it. Shrines are unhealthy. You know Mom's okay where she is. You've seen her.

Just thinking that lifted his spirits more than he would ever have believed possible. I know. I really know. Jedi suddenly seemed the luckiest beings in the galaxy. Ordinary beings never knew for sure what happened after death; many sentient species believed in some existence when the body was no more, and some didn't, but only Jedi had the absolute proof of what happened to them-at least some, anyway. There were all kinds of priests and mystics who claimed they could put grieving families in touch with their loved ones in some afterlife, and maybe they could; but only Jedi knew and could prove it.

It seemed both a breathtaking comfort and privilege, and also sadly unfair for everyone else. Certainty. There was so little of it in life, but Ben had his.

Apart from the brush, its bristles tangled with a few-long, curled, copper-red and white hairs, there were two rings, a datachip-family holoimages, Ben decided-and a platinum locket. Inside was tiny, meticulously folded flimsi sheet; when he smoothed it out on his knee, it showed signs of having once been crumpled. His mother's writing was on it: Gone hunting for a few days. Don't be mad at me, farmboy.

Ben stared at it, imagining her hand moving across the surface, and put it back in the locket. He took the whole box back to his quarters and laid out the brush on the flimsi to tease out a hair with a pair of forceps.

It was just a matter of inserting the hair into a small slot in the casing of the droid and letting the mechanism re-move a section to process it. It took a minute or so.

Ben waited.

The droid flashed indicator lights and transmitted the a.n.a.lysis to his datapad. POSITIVE MATCH.

That was it, then: all over. Once he cracked the security seal on the droid, the sterile environment inside was com-promised, and-if he played by the Justice Department and CSF rules of evidence-anything else tested by the same droid would not be admissible as evidence. If he wanted to test more material after that, he'd have to sign out a new unit, sealed and authenticated.

"No, that's it, my friend, "he said, and overrode the contamination warnings. "I just want the hair."

The droid was tiny, and its internal mechanisms were like some intricate chrono maker's art. Ben had to use the forceps to extract the sealed chamber with an almost invis-ible length of his mother's hair inside. Instead of being the glossy, coiled lock he had somehow imagined-which was crazy, there was no room for something that big even if it had been lying around in Jacen's c.o.c.kpit-it was a single hair. Ben had a brushful of them, but somehow this one mattered; he wanted to keep it. He wound the hair around his finger into a ring shape and shut it in the locket with the flimsi note. He'd tell Dad he had it when the squadron returned from Fondor.

Dumb thing for a guy to carry around, but I want to.

While Ben was copying the data to another pad for col-lation into a report, he checked his encrypted messages. Shevu had sent an update.

Ben, this might upset you, but you need to see it. I spoke to two Bith Senators. They witnessed an argument between your mother and JS shortly before she left Coruscant for Hapes.

Ben opened the file anyway, feeling immune to whatever might leap out at him. So... Mom had bawled out Jacen in front of witnesses. She'd even accused him of being Sith and threatened him. But Shevu knew him well enough to know what would sting.

It was over me. It was all over me. Oh no. Mom, I was never worth that. It's too high a price.

Seeing the cold evidence that she'd warned Jacen to stay away from him threatened to crumble his fragile and new-found sense of peace. But then he looked at it through Shevu's eyes, and wondered if the captain had thought this: that it could have looked as if Mara was the one who went after Jacen and attacked him, not the other way around.

It was subtle twist to what Ben had already thought-that his mother had gone after Jacen because she thought he was dangerous and had to be stopped-but it intro-duced a possibility that she might have intended to do more than arrest him.

Ben knew Mom was tough. She was a trained a.s.sa.s.sin; she didn't shy away from fights. He wanted to cherish her memory as a blameless victim, above dark emotions like lethal vengeance.

Am I upset?

Part of him was proud that his mother had faced down a Sith Lord in combat. Part wondered how that squared with his recent understanding that vengeance wasn't justified. And part felt devastated that he was the motive, and that if only he'd seen Jacen for what he was and shunned him, his mother might still be alive.

A message came in on the datapad. Dad had just sent it before he jumped to hypers.p.a.ce.

Ben, I forgot to take Mara's locket with me. It's in the box in my quarters. If you have to clear out before we get back, please take good care of it.

Ben clasped the locket in his closed fist and pressed it to his chest.

"I got it, Dad, "he said aloud. "I got it."

ADMIRAL'S DAY CABIN, IMPERIAL STAR DESTROYER BLOODFIN; RAVELIN.

DOCKYARD, BASTION.

"How many years?" Pellaeon asked. "And I can't get over how lovely you still are. You've worn very well."

Daala drummed her fingers in the exact rhythm he'd transmitted as the emergency call. She smiled; a real smile, genuine warmth. "You called. I promised you I'd always come if you used that code, just like Daerkaer. What's the problem?"

"The Galactic Alliance."

"Yes, Jacen Solo, unhindered by Admiral Niathal. Going for the galactic record for the fastest plunge into b.l.o.o.d.y anarchy and most stylish black outfit. So, are you all dressed up to go to Fondor?"

This was why Pellaeon was happy to admit that he was in awe of her.

Daala had vanished for-what, twenty years? Twenty-five? And she still had up-to-date intelligence. He'd lost count of the times she'd been written off, apparently defeated, even presumed killed, but still kept coming back to put a serious dent in the New Republic. It was almost thrilling to watch her beat the odds so consis-tently, even when she was a threat.

And as far as Pellaeon was concerned, she still held an Imperial commission. "Impressive. Most impressive."

Daala laughed. "You never could quite do the voice, but the intonation is perfect." She reached across the gap between their chairs and patted his hand, still the accom-plished seducer; not in a coy, subservient way, but with the absolute confidence of someone with real physical power who just happened to be a good-looking woman, and knew it, and understood that even the most resistant weren't wholly immune to it.

"Yes, I might prefer to live in obscurity, but I'm neither deaf nor blind."

"I won't even ask about your intelligence network, my dear..."

She smiled and lit up the cabin again. "I never reveal my age or my sources."

"I'm pleased to see that the Ryn intelligence community still makes a good living."

"And they're not the only ones."

"I miss our little verbal sparring sessions, my dear."

"So do I, Gil. But I'm here. What can I do for you?"

Pellaeon had no idea if she had come empty-handed or if she still had a fleet. She took ships with her every time she escaped. Vessels and experimental weapons technology had vanished into the Maw Installation when Daala was running it as Grand Moff Tarkin's bit on the side, as the bitterly resentful male officers had called her-one of the less offensive names she'd been called-and Pellaeon had no idea how much she could roll out today. It might all have been rust, dust, and perished plastoids; it might have been the most advanced fleet in the galaxy, just waiting for the ideal moment to emerge and smash the concept of re-public for good.

He had no way of knowing unless she showed him.

She was still here despite the Yuuzhan Vong War, and that told him a great deal.

"I'm asking you to watch my back, "he said. "At Fon-dor, and probably for some time after that. Perhaps some sweeping up if Solo can't hold what he tries to grab. If he keeps winning, I want a counterweight ready to throw in before he turns on us like he turned on his allies and fam-ily. If he gets too c.o.c.ky and loses, we'll have to step in and restore order, because the Confederation isn't capable of forming a galactic administration, and the remaining un-aligned worlds are a complete shambles."

"We do at least know how to run things."

"How much weight can you add, Daala?"

She crossed her legs and leaned back in the chair. The eye-patch bothered him. It wasn't because it disfigured her-it lent her a rather raffish chic, in fact, and gave her one visible eye the impact of an emerald laser-but because he couldn't imagine what kind of injury required it. Eyes could be replaced. And she wore the patch as if she had been used to it for a long time.

"I can, "she said at last, "have a full fleet at Fondor with one standard hour's lead time."

"How much? How many?"

"Let's just say I don't waste resources I find, and a lot of worlds the GA doesn't notice owe me favors after the Vong War. The fleet won't be modern, but it will be deadly. Does that answer your question?"

Pellaeon thought of all the prototypes and technology that the old Empire had funded and that had vanished and never seen the light of day.

Daala must still have had capi-tal ships in readiness; she'd escaped with Scylla, at the very least. But a battle was a lot less about big ships these days, and more about flexibility and agility-small vessels could be much more of an a.s.set.

"Jacen Solo has half the GA Fourth Fleet, "he said.

Daala nodded. "Fondor can rival that firepower. Not beat it, but it can give a good account of itself."

"But the GA hasn't committed enough ground troops to take and hold Fondor, just the orbitals. Solo's heavy on ordnance, though."

"So he's either going specifically to destroy their fleet, or he's not too choosy about the state he leaves the planet in." Daala hadn't touched her syrspirit. "Because if he doesn't destroy their fleet and subdue the planet, he won't be able to hold the orbitals. He'll be occupying them and fending off attacks-busy job. Unless he plans to destroy them as well."

"If you're asking me if I know his ultimate intention, no, I don't."

"And you're committing Imperial forces on that basis?"

"I've gone into battle with far less."

"And we've both seen governments start wars with no idea how they plan to end them, or even what to do once the initial targets have been taken. Gil, I hope that all you're planning to do is stand there holding Solo's coat while he has his sc.r.a.p, waiting to see who wins."

Pellaeon believed in the value of his word. Integrity was a matter of honor, but it was also a pragmatic thing: if you did what you said you would, then your threats carried as much weight as your promises, and your pledges to allies secured tangible benefits. A liar lost friends fast in war. Pel-laeon walked the fine line between not admitting that he had doubts about Jacen and contingency plans if things went wrong for him, and misleading an ally.

If Bastion were attacked, would he risk his fleet for us? Pellaeon was sure the answer was no. Jacen Solo flew by the seat of his Force-sensitive pants, which meant conven-tional planning with him was impossible. Pellaeon's only option was to be ready to pick up the pieces.

The prize of Bilbringi and Borleias was looking increasingly irrelevant, a free gift that had a price tag all the same.

"Gil, are you still with me?" Daala asked, tapping his knee.

"Sorry, my dear."

"Do you want me to make you feel better about getting into this spot?" She stood up as if to leave. "This is about your sense of responsibility. Your home is safe, but there's a riot in the street. You feel you have to step outside and stop it. It might even damage your home if you don't."

"I'm not sure if that's welcome clarity, or indulgent com-fort for an old man, Daala."

"And then you've got your greedy children clamoring to loot the stores that the riot has trashed. The Moffs are a handful. You should try my method of enforcing consensus."

"Ah, my queen of a.n.a.logies..." Daala had brought feuding Imperial warlords into line by ga.s.sing them. She never wasted time. "I'll try reason first, I think."

"I have no love for Moffs, Gil, and I plan to kill some of them."

Daala opened the hatch and stepped out into the pa.s.sage. "Show me the ship."

Daala was conspicuous. She didn't seem to care. By now, word of her arrival in port would have reached some of the Moffs, and those who weren't immediately panicking or huffing with outrage would at least be asking why she was back. Pellaeon escorted her through Bloodfin's decks as if she were a routine visitor, showing her the most interesting aspects of the Turbulent-cla.s.s design; the young crew had no idea who she was, but some of the veteran Moffs would recognize her, and all would know the name Daala.

Pellaeon didn't have to tell them about the a.s.sets she was ready to contribute to the Empire. If some Moffs were already being wooed by the GA before he was formally told a deal was on the table, then Jacen would get to hear what Daala's role might be. Pellaeon wanted his tactical surprise if he needed it.

"Are you serious about killing Moffs, Daala?"

"Yes, "she said, admiring a spotless cannon bay that gleamed. She ran her hand over a bulkhead and followed the curved line of the cannon housing. "Because they killed Liegeus. When I work out the full list of who was behind it, then I'll call them to account. Today I'm here for you, and, to a lesser extent, for the Empire."

"Oh.... I'm so very sorry. So very sorry." Liegeus Vorn had been her first love, a pilot-something of a rogue, to be frank-and when Daala had retreated to Pedducis Chorios after yet another spectacular escape from a lost battle, she had found him again. The lovers had been separated for years. It was upliftingly romantic, the promise of rediscov-ered happiness that every broken heart secretly longed for.

"How, and when?"

"A thermal detonator. I've waited five years to pursue the matter."

Daala collected enemies. It went with the job. Her patience was frightening. "Is this how you acquired your eye injury?"

"I still don't know if he was the main target, to spite me, or if he was collateral damage in an attempt on my life, "Daala said, seeming to ignore the question. "I shall find out when I identify all the conspirators, and I'll make sure it takes some painful time. Then I'll have my eye repaired properly, but not before that day, so that I don't forget."

It didn't bode well for the Empire that its new ally was still at war with some-perhaps most-of its leaders. The Moffs had always been ferociously hostile, initially because she was a woman, and later because she was Daala, and she did not suffer fools or less talented officers gladly. They were going to regret it now. It was their own fault. She never forgot, forgave, or gave up.

"Had I known, I wouldn't have disturbed you." He put his hand gently on her back to steer her this way and that. They were approaching the portside brow again, and an officer of more mature years did a double take, a real head-turn followed by slightly parted lips. Pellaeon met his eyes, and it was clear that he thought he knew who she was. "Just be aware that some of the Moffs are a little more enlightened these days, and you might even find them helpful. A powerful woman doesn't send them screaming to defend their manly territory. Lecersen, for one. The new breed."

"I'll make a note of his name, and leave him intact, "she said.

"I'll pick my moment, but I'll inform the Moffs that you are officially back on active service, and advising me." "Yes, the word fleet would start panic..." "Might scare Fondor into compliance, of course."

"Let's keep it as our little secret." Daala took his hand in both of hers and squeezed it. "You keep a secure comlink open to me at all times, you tell me as early as possible when you plan to jump, and I promise I will be there in minutes." "Minutes."

"I have a marshaling area in mind. One final short hy-pers.p.a.ce jump. Trust me."

The brow security detail watched her stride down the gangway onto the jetty. Pellaeon estimated that the news of her visit would be all around Ravelin within three hours. The commander who'd turned ashen on seeing her walked up to Pellaeon and almost stood to attention. "Sir, is that who I think it is?"

"The older sister of my unruly children, "said Pellaeon. He felt a little urge for a joke at the man's expense. "Do you think it might be time to have our first female Moff?"

The commander was wisely lost for words. Pellaeon was pretty sure that Daala was happier being an admiral, but it was an amusing idea nonetheless. He smiled all the way back to his cabin, where he sat down to await the latest in-telligence report.

Daala hadn't asked about Niathal. She must have known the Mon Cal admiral's situation, though. It was as if everyone had separated the two GA Chiefs of Staff into the mys-tic in black who might turn rabid, and the sensible naval officer in white with whom they could do business, even if-in the Moffs' minds, anyway-she was inconveniently female.

Daala and Niathal would have a great deal to discuss if they ever met.

Pellaeon poured a small measure of syrspirit, dark as tar-wood varnish, and splashed a little water into it. He raised the gla.s.s in a private toast.

"To ladies on the bridge, "he said, "and gentlemen gone below."

THIRD FLEET STATION: OPS ROOM, FLEET HQ.

"Admiral?"

Niathal was aware of the young lieutenant waiting at her elbow.