Star Wars: Fate Of The Jedi: Omen Part 8

Vestara felt her veneer of serenity flicker slightly, then calmed herself again. Unhurriedly, her fingers not fumbling in the least, she unfastened the training lightsaber and presented it to the youth, who took it and retreated.

She tried not to guess at the meaning of the request. It could be that they were planning to accept her for apprenticeship and would therefore give her a real lightsaber of her own.

Or it could be that they were denying her entirely, rejecting her even as a Tyro.

Vestara forced herself not to swallow hard.

"Tyro Vestara Khai," Grand Lord Vol continued. "Tell this gathering the story of the Return."

Of all the questions she might have been expecting, that one most certainly wasn't it. Vestara couldn't help it-she blinked in surprise and confusion. Tell the Lords and the Masters about a belief that had been part of their history for millennia? The very cornerstone of their existence on Kesh? Was this some kind of trick, or trap?

She clamped down on the uncertainty and the fear that wanted to come along with it and instead allowed herself a small smile.

"I am certain this august body knows the story, but I obey the Grand Lord's request," Vestara said. She was pleased; her voice did not betray her with the slightest quiver. She straightened and clasped her hands behind her back, reciting the details of a story every single being in the room, indeed probably on the planet, knew by heart.

"When the Omen first crashed on Kesh, our forefathers were greeted warmly by the Keshiri. They were made welcome, brought safely down from the crash site on uvak-back, and treated almost as G.o.ds. The Sith soon learned why. The Keshiri believed that the arrival of the Sith was, indeed, an omen."

Her gaze flickered to Lady Rhea. The older woman regarded her impa.s.sively. Vestara reached out, subtly, into the Force, but could glean no hint as to how her recitation was being received. She continued.

"They believed that the Sith were the predestined Protectors, who would protect the Keshiri when the feared Destructors would eventually return. The Destructors, according to ancient Keshiri myth, periodically descend on inhabited worlds to wipe out civilization and return all beings to their natural, primitive states. Research conducted in recent years does seem to confirm that such a planetwide catastrophe has been visited upon Kesh at least once, lending credence to the legend."

Her throat was dry. Gamely, Vestara pressed on.

"The Sith felt that indeed they ... we ... were the ones who had been foretold, and know that it is our destiny to grow strong, to gain wisdom, and, when the time is right, to stand firm against the Return of those who would destroy Kesh."

"Destroy Kesh," said one of the Lords whose name Vestara couldn't remember, "and other worlds as well. The Sith destiny is too vast to be confined to one world. Was this not taught to you, Tyro Khai?"

Ah, there was the trap. She cursed herself for not catching it sooner, it was so obvious. She was not yet able to control the blush that rose to her cheeks as she answered.

"Of course, Lord-" Ai, what was his name-Workan, that was it! "Lord Workan. But for five thousand years, we have not been-"

No. Oh, no. That wasn't the trap. She'd walked right into the real one and mortification flooded her. Then she felt a rea.s.suring presence, almost as gentle as that of her father. An a.s.surance that while it was a trick, it wasn't a trap.

Lord Workan smirked and glanced over at Lady Rhea. Vestara realized that it was she who had sent the brief brush of comfort. Lady Rhea, slender, tall, graceful as a sorumi doe, stepped forward.

"Everything we have known for over five thousand years changed yesterday beyond imagining," Lady Rhea said in her deep, husky voice. "For the first time since the Omen crashed in the Takara Mountains, we have found a way off Kesh. A way to fulfill our destiny. This ... Ship ... has sought us out for that selfsame purpose."

A little thrill went through Vestara when she heard the emphasis put on the word ship, as if it was a proper name rather than a simple noun, as she had done when thinking about the vessel.

"It is, as you have no doubt surmised," Lady Rhea continued, almost drawling, moving inexorably forward with a graceful stride in Vestara's direction, "much more than a simple vessel. It is a Sith meditation sphere. I imagine you can tell me its purpose, can you not?"

Vestara hesitated. Should she lie? Would it be dangerous for the Lords and the Masters to know exactly how much she knew, how Ship had spoken to her? Or would it be better for her to tell them everything? It was likely that no one in this room had slept since the arrival of the strange vessel. And it was likely that it had spoken to them as it had to her. After all, these were the very leaders of the Sith, the keepers of all that it meant to be Sith. She wanted badly to lick her dry lips but wouldn't let the gesture betray her anxiety.

"It is designed to train apprentices," Vestara replied.

Lady Rhea had reached her now and stood with her hands on her hips. The gesture spread her black cape behind her, and even though Vestara was nearly as tall as she, the overall effect was imposing. It was meant to be.

"Indeed," said Lady Rhea, almost purring. "What did it tell you? And what did you tell it?"

Vestara met Lady Rhea's eyes evenly and told the truth. All of it. Right down to her burning desire to become a Sith Master. Her father had once said that the main thing that differentiated them from Jedi was that the Jedi were too afraid to embrace pa.s.sion.

"Don't ever be afraid of what you feel, Vestara," he had said. "Just know that you can use it. You must use it, or else it will use you."

And she used it now. Ship had contacted her. It had spoken with her. She used that, and her deep wanting-her need-to be trained. To become a Sith Master. To fulfill her destiny, as the Sith were about to fulfill theirs.

The chamber was hushed as Vestara's youthful voice rang out clear and strong and deeply pa.s.sionate. Lady Rhea listened raptly, her eyes on Vestara's face. Finally, the girl finished, and stood waiting.

Lady Rhea glanced back at the Lords and the Masters with what could only be called a look of triumph.

"You see? Everything she says corroborates what Ship told us."

"It is ... an unusual way to pick an apprentice," said Grand Lord Vol, placing the tips of his fingers together and regarding Vestara speculatively.

Pick an apprentice? Vestara's breathing caught for just a second. Could it finally be- "But I suppose that once, it was not so unusual," the Grand Lord continued. "Ship is, after all, a training vessel."

Lady Rhea turned back to Vestara, smiling, and there was genuine pleasure emanating from her in the Force.

"Yours was the first mind Ship contacted, Vestara," she said. "It was intrigued by you. Far be it from the Circle of Lords to stand in the way of the decision made by such a construct."

She snapped her fingers, and the apprentice who earlier had taken Vestara's training lightsaber from her reappeared. In his hand he bore one of the remaining lightsabers from the original Sith. Vestara gasped, then her teeth clicked together as she clamped down on the wave of joy that surged through her.

Despite her resolve, tears stung her eyes. Usually, apprentices had to make their own lightsabers, and with the limited resources available to them, they were not as fine as these antiques. Every Master had one, certainly, but there were even some Sabers who did not. They were powered by Lignan crystals, one of the great heritages of the Sith. The crystals, thousands of which had crowded the cargo hold of the Omen when it crashed, enabled the lightsabers to burn hotter and last longer than the original design permitted. Too, for various reasons, they were perfect for Sith weapons.

And Tyro-no, Apprentice-Vestara Khai now owned such a lightsaber.

For an instant, sorrow filled her. That was why, then, her father had behaved so oddly this morning. He had known, and not been able to tell her. For once a Tyro was chosen as an apprentice, she was separated from her family with no warning-and no contact for an entire year.

But that was the order of things, and she and her family knew it. The sorrow was chased away by other feelings she tried to corral, lest she seem arrogant.

But there was no fooling Lady Rhea. The older woman reached out a hand and squeezed her shoulder.

"Everyone here understands what you are feeling, Apprentice Khai," she said gently. "Revel in your delight and pride. Know that you have been chosen for this, chosen more surely than most. Come with me now, and I will show you the secrets of the Omen.

"And further"-her smile widened, became predatory with antic.i.p.ation-"Ship will share with you its knowledge and wisdom of the galaxy beyond this world."

Vestara thought her heart might burst from joy and excitement.

"Praise circ.u.mstances for the time of your birth, young one," said Lady Rhea. "For you will know the honor and responsibilities and delights of being among the first in five millennia to leave Kesh ... and rejoin our brethren, from whom we have been separated for so very long, to take your place in ruling a Sith galaxy."

OFFICES OF THE CHIEF OF STATE,.

SENATE BUILDING, CORUSCANT.

WYNN DORVAN MOVED THROUGH THE VAST CORRIDOR OF POWER THAT was the Senate Building with the calm, almost preoccupied stride of one who knew it well. He nodded a courteous but distant greeting to the guards at the various security checkpoints, who politely wished him "Good morning, sir." His pocket bulged, but not with anything more dangerous than a sleeping chitlik, who was as familiar a fixture as Dorvan himself.

Wynn Dorvan arrived hours before anyone else and generally left hours later. He stood in the turbolift, not fidgeting or making any attempt at whiling away the time as others might, until it opened on his floor. He strode down the thickly carpeted hallway and keyed open the door to his office.

Dorvan's office was as free of frills, trappings, and busyness as the man himself. He had no holopics of family, for he had none-well, none outside of the small ball of fur softly snoring in his right-hand coat pocket. There was art on the walls, simply because leaving them bare had proved too unnerving to what few visitors he had, but it was pa.s.sionless, safe art-unremarkable reproductions of Coruscant's old Galaxies Opera House and the Manari Mountains. The windows had no full, floor-length drapes in rich fabrics, but only shutters that rolled up or down at a touch to emit or prohibit light as Dorvan found it necessary. There was a desk, a chair, and two extra chairs for the rare guests. It was all in all, clean, simple, and tidy.

Which was why the huge bouquet of trumpet and pyro flowers, in its almost obscene riot of red and purple and rich scent, was so dreadfully out of place.

Dorvan blinked. He was not alarmed; no one could gain admittance to this office save himself, Daala, and a few other trusted colleagues. Besides, an intruder was unlikely to leave flowers.

Pocket stirred, poking her nose out and sniffing the overwhelmingly lush fragrance of the gift. Absently Dorvan petted the chitlik with one hand while he stepped forward. There was a card propped up in front of the bouquet, with his name written on the thick, cream-colored flimsi in a bold yet elegant hand. He knew that handwriting. Chief of State Natasi Daala had left this gift for him.

Utterly confused now, he opened the envelope and read three words: "Sorry. A favor."

He frowned slightly. What did Daala possibly have to be sorry about?

"Wynn Dorvan, sir?"

The voice was young, female, and eager.

Ah, Dorvan thought with a sad little smile. He turned around to see the speaker standing, shifting her weight uneasily. She was a Twi'lek, striking as all females of her species. Her skin was green, with darker, forest-green stripes visible here and there. She was dressed demurely in understated business attire, her lekku draped in front of her shoulders. She carried a datapad and smiled a bit hesitantly at him.

"I'm-"

"My new a.s.sistant," Dorvan interrupted her.

"Y-yes," the girl stammered. "My name is Desha Lor. Chief of State Daala appointed me."

Dorvan recalled the conversation he'd had with Daala in the air-speeder and sighed slightly. He really, really didn't want an a.s.sistant. He functioned so much better by himself.

But he could understand why Daala might have wanted to hire this girl. Once she herself, Admiral Natasi Daala, had been looked on with scorn as little more than Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin's "bit on the side." True, she had once been his mistress, and true, she was a strikingly physically beautiful woman. But she was also fiercely intelligent and ambitious, with an exquisite grasp of strategy that often left both allies and adversaries reeling. She had used the underestimation and contempt in which she had been held ruthlessly, calculatedly to her advantage. Now she was the head of the Galactic Alliance. She had insisted that the Moffs include women. It made perfect sense that she'd feel a kinship with a female Twi'lek, who until recent history had fetched high prices on the slave market. Daala would want to give a deserving female the same opportunity she'd had herself to defy expectations and excel.

Dorvan extended his hand. "h.e.l.lo, Desha Lor. I'm Wynn Dorvan, as you already know. Is this your first government job?"

She nodded vigorously. "Yes. Chief of State Daala is a friend of my family. It was most kind of her to offer me this position."

"Most kind," Dorvan echoed. "You'll have to excuse me ... your presence here is a bit of a surprise for me. I'm sure we'll learn to work together."

He indicated one of the simple chairs, and she took a seat while he slid into the chair across the desk from her. Pocket squeaked slightly, and he lifted the little animal out and put her in her small bed on a shelf behind the desk.

"Oh, is that a chitlik? They're adorable!"

"Yes, they are, and Pocket has the run of the office. I'll take care of her. All you need to do is watch out not to step on her."

Desha gave him a radiant smile. "I'm sure I'd never do that."

"Not more than once, believe me. She's generally calm, but she bites if she's unhappy. Now ... tell me about your clearance level and what our good Chief of State said you'd be doing for me."

Desha Lor had a very high level of clearance indeed, which would be necessary if she was to be more to him than a pretty face to greet visitors. He intended her to be. If he was going to have an a.s.sistant forced upon him, then he would make her earn her keep. While she spoke, he ran his own check on her, keeping the screen turned away so she couldn't see what he was doing. He nodded in all the right places, listening with half an ear.

Lor, Desha, daughter of a Twi'lek diplomat, had been an intern in the private sector for a year. Stellar student, no criminal record, all her offworld visits checked out. Her family was well known and respected. She was definitely clean. Almost too clean.

Is anyone this innocent anymore? Dorvan wondered, then reprimanded himself for waxing sentimental. He'd better keep an eye on her, make sure she was just the innocent young woman on her first big government job that she seemed to be. Daala was a sharp one, no one knew that better than Wynn Dorvan. But he aided the Galactic Alliance best by knowing the weaknesses of those around him, and Daala's sympathy toward an attractive female trying to earn a place in the galaxy based on more than her looks might just be a weakness. It would not be the first time he had quietly helped the GA by moderating Daala's more extreme stances.

Princess Leia Organa was the shining example of a beautiful young woman with good family connections and a spotless record turning out to be a rebel against the current administration.

Oh, yes. He'd definitely keep an eye on her.

MOFF LECERSEN'S RESIDENCE,

SENATE DISTRICT, CORUSCANT.

"I'm keeping an eye on him," Moff Lecersen said as he relaxed back into the tub full of pleasant-smelling water. "Not, mind you, that it's all that hard to do."

"Indeed." Moff Vansyn's voice over the comm was amused and wry. The conversation had begun earlier that night over an excellent meal accompanied by two bottles of imported gold wine. The hour had grown late, and Vansyn had an early-morning meeting, so the discussion continued via comm. The serving droid rolled up to the edge of the tub with a gla.s.s and what was left of the second bottle of gold wine. Lecersen poured the remainder of the beverage into the fluted gla.s.s and took a sip. It was an excellent vintage, of course, and Lecersen had several cases of the stuff. There was a bittersweet irony in that the beverage was Hapan. After his latest dealings with the Ha-pans, the last thing he wanted was to be reminded of that particular part of s.p.a.ce. And yet, the beverage went down so smoothly. One could dislike the Hapans and still admire their skills in viticulture and oenology.

"I'd say all you really need to do is keep an eye on Jaina Solo," Vansyn continued.

Lecersen smiled thinly and took another sip. "Child's play itself. Jagged Fel may be the nominal head of the Empire, and a disciplined soldier, but he is a pathetic puppy when it comes to matters of the heart. He has no concept of how to properly keep a mistress."

Lecersen's thoughts wandered to one such Moff mistress, an infamous one who now ran the Galactic Alliance, and he frowned slightly. He edged down farther into the warm water, letting it soak the tension from him.

She'd been fine enough when Wilhuff Tarkin was alive. He'd known how to keep her properly under his thumb. Now she was causing them no end of difficulties. Female Moffs. What was the Empire coming to?

"Granted, he chose a headstrong one, and I'm not sure who is keeping whom," Vansyn said. Lecersen laughed out loud at that.

"A nerf bull with a ring through his nose can be easily led," he said.

"Jaina Solo is doing the leading, not us," countered Vansyn. "It is unfortunate that he has become taken with a Jedi. Especially one with such a pedigree. He has made his informal and personal relationship with her into a governmental one, and that doesn't sit well with me ... nor many others."

Lecersen shrugged. The water splashed softly with the gesture. "What you say is true, Vansyn. But if we understand how Solo is leading, we can use that to our advantage. The pup is distracted. You saw him at the last meeting. Kept checking his chrono. He thinks he has brought us in line because he wants to think that, so he can pursue his... extra curricular activities without feeling he is neglecting his duty."

No, the Moffs had most definitely not been brought to heel the way the Jedi had wanted on that dreadful day when Jacen Solo had been cut down by the very same Jedi female presently under discussion. Han Solo's blaster threat had been empty-the man did not have the stuff for such a cold-blooded, systematic execution simply for revenge. But Skywalker's threat hadn't been empty. It hadn't even been veiled.

Luke Skywalker had very bluntly stated they had two choices: One, become Hapan prisoners of war and face a war crimes trial for the nanokiller attack the Moffs had launched against the royal family. Or two, the Moff Council could join in reestablishing the Galactic Alliance. Skywalker had appointed Jagged Fel on the spot. It had been ease itself to agree to the second option. The first was hardly viable.

But that did not mean the Moffs would stop looking out for themselves. It was good to have gone from the "Imperial Remnant" to "Empire" again, but what exactly did that mean? How to make it more than an empty t.i.tle? That was the puzzle Moff Lecersen had been gnawing on daily.

"Patience is a virtue, my friend. Let Fel carry on this little love affair. Pa.s.sion burns hot and fast. It makes mistakes and clouds judgment. And when his judgment is cloudiest ... we will be there to take advantage of it."