Fate of the Jedi: Backlash (10 page)

Unless there really was something in it for him, of course. “No, actually, I don’t.”

“I’d be happy to enlighten you. Would you accompany me to the Kuat embassy?”

“Would I find myself drugged, with a bag thrown over my head?”

“Of course not. I want our next Emperor to look upon me with gratitude and respect, not irritation. But, please, do bring all the security forces you wish to. Just make sure”—she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper—“you trust them absolutely.”

Half an hour later, accompanied by two security men bound to him by debts so profound that he could trust them absolutely—well, nearly absolutely—Lecersen walked with Senator Treen down the marble-lined halls of the Kuat embassy. Arches led to side passages and function rooms, most of them dim and silent. The creamy, blue-veined marble that decorated every surface, Lecersen knew, could, if salvaged and sold, buy him a brand-new Star Destroyer.

“I had been a Senator for one year when Palpatine came to power,” Treen told him. “Do you know what his greatest mistake was?”

“Making you angry with him?”

Her smile returned. “In a sense. Oh, the first years of the Empire were glorious. Taxes increased, sadly, but our planetary economy boomed as ridiculous Republic regulations were trimmed away. No, his mistake was in silencing the voices of planetary leaders. It would be like a general suddenly saying that no one of colonel rank or below could ever speak or communicate with him again. When Palpatine suspended the Senate, I knew madness had him in its grip.”

“Very interesting,” he lied.

She led him and his agents through an arch into a side chamber. The glow rods along its ceiling came on as they entered. The walls were covered with holopanels, each displaying, at five-second intervals, a changing sequence of still recordings of Kuat and the early days of Palpatine’s Empire: flotillas of Kuat-built vessels, public appearances by the dark-cloaked Emperor and Darth Vader, the construction of massive complexes.

The Senator heaved a deep sigh. “I miss the Empire—in its original, benevolent form. And I think you can bring it back to us.”

“I’m touched by your faith. But kidnapping Jagged Fel would not make me Emperor.”

“No, but it would be the first step. And the other steps are mapped out. Masterfully, irresistibly mapped out.”

“Tell me.”

“First, the Fel boy has to be eliminated because he cannot preside while the Galactic Empire experiences reunion with the Galactic Alliance.”

“I would have thought that you’d be opposed to reunification.”

“Oh, no. The resurgence of a powerful, healthy Empire depends on it.”

“Everything you say is a surprise …”

“If the reunification takes place under Fel, then Fel gets the credit. If Fel disappears or dies, his successor gets the credit. And who is more likely to succeed him as Head of State than you?”

“Fair enough. So I’m Head of State, and reunification occurs, and I’m now the
second
most powerful individual in the galaxy—a very distant second behind the Alliance Chief of State.”

She nodded amiably, clearly pleased that Lecersen understood. “Now, bear with me. A couple of years ago, Natasi Daala came to power. Wretched woman. We’re still suffering from her effects on the Empire.”

Lecersen snorted. “Because of her, half the Moffs are women. I have a hard time believing that a Senator from Kuat would object to that.”

“I don’t, but that would have happened anyway. Eventually, inevitably. I’m talking about this ridiculous compulsion to promote nonhumans
far, far past their level of competence. She clearly has no sense. Another reason why Fel must go, of course. Despite his ancestry, he’s Chiss on the inside. Not at all human.”

“Ah.” Lecersen withheld comment. This woman, though speaking the beliefs of millions of traditional Imperials, was beginning to sound more and more like an advertisement for antipsychotic drugs.

“Anyway, Daala has done something useful for us. In the wake of the Second Galactic Civil War, she promoted, and the Senate enacted, the most recent Emergency Powers Act.”

“Which gives the Chief of State enormous temporary executive powers that she can use unilaterally … but the Senate can, if it disagrees with her, choose to freeze government spending and lock her down tight.”

“Not quite.” Treen’s smile became knowing, confidential. “First, a clause that
I
made sure was included in the final form of the act states that the Chief of State cannot suspend the Senate. Second, it is not the Senate itself that can tie her hands by freezing the budget, it is the Appropriations and Disbursements Committee. When the act is invoked, control of the existing budget goes to them, and they continue to control financial acquisitions and spending.”

Lecersen frowned. He was, at last, beginning to sense the shape of Treen’s plan. “Wait a moment. You’d need …”

“We’d need a majority of the Senators on Appropriations and Disbursements. We’d need the Chiefs of the Armed Forces, who also receive special powers if the act is invoked, and could see to it that the entire budget of the Galactic Alliance went where it needed to … so that order was imposed. And we’d need a Chief of State who could be trusted to do the right thing.

“Now, imagine this course of events. Imperial Head of State Fel disappears, or dies, or is deposed. It may take nothing more than catching him in the right circumstances with that Jedi lover of his. Perhaps he’s bought her a moon or something. Moff Lecersen becomes the new Head of State, perhaps only temporarily.”

Lecersen nodded. “Go on.”

“A crisis erupts. Somewhere. I’m working on some useful potential crises. Perhaps you can, too. Advisers placed close to Chief of State Daala recommend invocation of the Emergency Powers Act. Enough
pressure, enough anxiety, and she will invoke it. But the situation gets worse and worse, public approval for Daala plummets—I’m working on that, too, and she’s giving me all the help she can with this Jedi situation—and ultimately she must resign. A new Chief of State must be appointed, even temporarily. And some of the biggest power blocks in the Galactic Alliance, including Kuat, her allies, and the newly returned Empire, have a candidate in mind.”

“Haydnat Treen.”

“Chief of State Treen, if you please.”

“But there’s rather a large hole in your plan. Appropriations and Disbursements. And the Chiefs of the Armed Forces.”

“A hole? Ahem.” She cleared her throat, as loud and obvious as if she were performing on stage.

One of the wall holodisplays, floor-to-ceiling in height, slid aside, revealing a chamber beyond. In the new doorway stood a man.

He was tall and impossibly old. His hair was thin and white, his skin like flimsi stretched tight over bones. He wore a well-tailored suit that did little to conceal the cadaverousness of his build. He walked forward at the slow, deliberate pace of a man who did not care that he might be making others wait, and who did care that a misstep might cause a bone-shattering fall.

Reaching Treen and Lecersen, he extended a frail hand to the latter. “Moff Lecersen.” His voice was whispery and thin.

“Senator Bramsin.” Carefully, Lecersen took the older man’s hand and shook it.

Fost Bramsin was the Senator from Coruscant and had been, off and on, for decades. His most recent interruption in service had been during the years Coruscant was undergoing Vongforming during the Yuuzhan Vong War. Since the return of the New Republic to power, he had resumed his Senatorial post, diligently seeing to the orderly and efficient distribution of tax funds throughout the budget.

“I am surprised to see you here,” Lecersen continued.

“Pendulums,” the old man said.

“Pendulums,” Lecersen repeated.

“The last war was a disaster.” Bramsin paused, considering his words. “A disaster that would never have happened in an orderly society. The new government is also a disaster. Imposing ever-tightening
controls as Palpatine did in his last years. Enacting reflexive, poorly thought-out laws. It must stop.”

“I agree.”

“I want to see order—
sensible
order—restored before I die. Are you the one to do it?”

“I believe I am.”

“See that you are.” Bramsin turned away and began his slow walk back the way he’d come.

“He brings us a majority of the Senators on his committee.” Treen’s voice was a whisper, one that probably did not carry to the old man’s ears.

“What about the military chiefs?”

“We have Starfighter Command and the army. We’re working on the navy.”

“And—so we’re clear, so there are no unspoken assumptions—what do you want? Other than order restored.”

“Grand Moff of the Corusca sector. And four dinners with you.”

Lecersen suppressed a laugh. “Four? Why not fourteen?”

“Because if, in four dinners, I cannot convince you that you should propose to me, and that I should be the first Empress of the reforged Empire, then I will have to acknowledge that I have failed … and that I must be content with just the status and wealth of the galaxy’s most powerful Grand Moff.” She gave him a familiar pat on the cheek. “You and your men can, I am sure, find your way out.” She turned and departed.

Lecersen just stood for a long moment.

This could work.

It left a sour taste in Daala’s mouth, but General Jaxton had been right. Rumblings of disapproval were increasing in the armed forces. The situation called for sacrifice. Still, a sense of unease tugged at her as she waited in the hypercomm chamber for her technicians to put the
call through, and that unease would not be dispelled, no matter how meticulously she set her organized military mind against it.

The communications officer on duty, a dark-furred Bothan, looked up and caught her eye. “I’ve reached her assistant.” His tone was as neutral and cultivated as that of any Bothan with political aspirations. “They’re putting us through now. Ready to go live in five, four, three …” He held up the appropriate number of fingers as he counted down, and went silent for the final two numbers, counting them off with fingers alone.

The reception zone of the chamber, a circular open space with holocomm projector antennas directed at it from the ceiling, glowed into life, a swirl of colors, then stabilized into a brilliant three-dimensional picture. Most of the volume of the zone seemed to be occupied by clear blue water; fish, bright yellow with black vertical stripes, darted back and forth in small schools.

In the center of the image floated a Mon Cal female. She was dressed in a simple white robe, a garment better suited to the surface than underwater. Life-sized, she turned slightly to look straight at Daala, regarding her steadily. In her gaze was none of the hostility that Daala usually experienced when dealing with Mon Cals or Quarren, a hostility stemming from her military actions against their planet years ago.

“Admiral Daala.” Niathal’s voice had the curious, echoing tone characteristic of an underwater speaker. “I am honored.”

Daala inclined her head, one peer acknowledging another. “Admiral Niathal. Thank you for taking my call. Is this your home?”

“A quiet spot near my office. When my assistant received your call, he had a portable holocam setup run out to me.”

“Very accommodating.” Daala knew that she herself did not look anywhere near as calm or rested as Niathal. Dressed in her formal white admiral’s uniform, upright with military bearing, brilliantly illuminated by the holocam lights ringing her, she knew she had to look like some grim, glowing supernatural harbinger of danger.

Which she nearly was. She continued, “I also appreciate your agreeing to see my emissary.”

“Yes … Our appointment is for tomorrow. Which is why it is surprising to hear from you today.” Niathal did not sound at all surprised.

“Admiral, at your meeting tomorrow, my emissary will serve you with documents. A subpeona and summons to return immediately to Coruscant.”

“To face trial, I should imagine.”

Daala nodded. “The principal charges come down to gross dereliction of duty—”

“In that I failed to recognize Colonel Jacen Solo’s gradual descent into a pattern of behavior that eventually included genocide and crimes against all sapient species.”

“Yes.” Daala felt a wash of sympathy for the disgraced officer. She allowed some of that sympathy to show on her face. “I’ve called, one officer to another, one Chief of State to another, as a show of respect, and because if any of this were to catch you by surprise, it would be … inappropriate. I suspect that you’ll be able to beat, or at least reduce, the charges. The public can be convinced not to demand blood. What they
will
demand is acknowledgment of mistake.”

Niathal sighed. “There we have a problem. Well, I have a problem. Because the actions they find most egregious, my supporting Solo in his efforts as Chief of State, cannot in any way be considered a mistake.”

Daala found herself to be startled. “Even now? At the distance of several years?”

“What
is
a mistake, Admiral?” There was a touch of rich, self-aware humor in Niathal’s gravelly voice. “It is a decision in which one or more of the factors is known to be dangerous, or poisonous, or compromising, but which we calculate will not keep us from achieving our goals. But when there is no foreknowledge of such factor in evidence, can it be called a mistake? If you walk out on an empty field and the ground suddenly gives way beneath you, and there was no way to predict it, was any part of your decision making a mistake? No.” Niathal turned her body side-to-side, a Mon Cal effort to mimic a human head shake. “There was no way to predict that Jacen Solo would become what he became. Therefore, no mistake. And if I do not fight back with a vicious but smooth-tongued lawyer on the one hand, and hang my head and admit to a nonexistent mistake on the other, the public will not forgive. It will have its blood. This trial will be a fiasco, an embarrassment to the navy, a battle that every participant can lose.”

“I’m sorry.” Daala actually was, but she kept her tone professional, unyielding. “I have no choice.”