Tales from the New Republic (33 page)

The pressure in Fable’s lungs was building rapidly. Trapped by stormtroopers in the construction tube, she was desperate to find a quick escape for her infiltration team. They were fifteen minutes off schedule with a load of thermal detonators on their backs, each timed to go off in less than forty minutes, regardless of their safety. If they did not reach the objective site soon, no one would be alive to complete their mission.

Fable reached in front of her, tapping Arecelis on the shoulder. As the Coynite turned, his features began to distend and shift, blending into the harsh, angular jaw of Vialco, the dark Jedi they would later encounter in the command station. “Had you given yourself to the passion, he might still be alive,” he taunted. “Your feelings can do little for him now.”

Yanking the lightsaber from her belt, Fable lunged savagely. She faked a left feint, deftly bringing the lightsaber down and across to the right.

“That’s it, girl! Anger is the control. Your fear is the power. And your fear is great, little one.” His voice reverberated through the darkness, washing over her consciousness. “You have taken your first small steps toward the ultimate ecstasy. Now awake and open yourself to the true power.”

He’s in my room!
Fable thought frantically, struggling with the nightmare. The lightsaber flared in her grip, burning her hand, and she dropped it to the floor. As the weapon clanked against the deck plates, Fable woke frantically to find herself standing in the center of her cabin. She recoiled in horror when she saw her seared palm. Dropping to the floor, Fable curled into a fetal ball on the floor and rocked from side to side, desperate to quell the pain. The young Jedi called on the power of the Force to control the injury, but the throbbing wound’s anger did not subside, nor did she feel the sense of inner peace that came with the summoning of the Force.

Fumbling with the light control beside her bunk, Fable cradled her injured hand against her. She snatched the lightsaber from the deck and threw it into the mirror, shattering glass fragments across the small personal gear locker. Stumbling to the sink unit, she tripped the sensor, stifling a scream as the jets blew cool, moist air over the cauterized wound. As the soothing jets blew over her and her tears, she slumped to the floor. In one moment of grief, one step from the path of light, she had changed the course of her future, betraying herself, her love of the Jedi, and the teachings of her mother.

On the table beside her bunk, the holo-image of her mother grinned inanely at her. In the fragmented remains of the mirror, Fable saw that same face, younger and smoother; but there was something noticeably sinister about the features—her features.

“Fable!” She heard the frantic pitch in Deke’s voice as the Socorran hurried through the cabin hatch. Pulling herself up from the floor, she slowly moved along with him as he guided her to the bunk. “What happened?” he gasped, examining the ugly wound carved into her flesh.

“It was him,” Fable whispered. “He was here.”

“Who?” the Socorran demanded, wrapping the burn in sterile gauze.

“Vialco. At least that’s what he calls himself.” She winced as the burn pulled at the tender skin. “He’s coming for me. To turn me to the dark side. And there’s nothing I can do to stop him!”

Ignorant of the Jedi’s true troubles, Deke snarled, “You know I’ll go down with you, Capt’n. What do you need me to do?”

Hiding her frightened face beneath the shadow of her long hair, she whispered, “Deke, I need you to run a background check on Jaalib Brandl. Do you have access to the civilian database?”

“Having access and getting access is the same thing to me. But how’s that going to help, Fable?”

“Please Deke, I can’t explain it right now,” she whispered, perceiving the jealous glint in his eyes.

Deke nodded, rising to his feet. “I’m on it.”

Heavy snow blanketed the exterior lots of the Iscera spaceport, throwing layer upon downy layer over the hulls of the freighters docked in the outer arena. The steady flow of large, cumbersome flakes cut visibility nearly in half, hampering Fable’s efforts to see through the viewscreen into the internal docking bays nearby. “What have you found?” she asked, sitting down in the copilot’s chair. A cup of soup warmed her good hand, bringing a small measure of strength to her exhausted body.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Deke sighed. Staring into the terminal, he watched the information scroll across the screen. “The civilian logs don’t show very much. Jaalib Brandl, seventeen years old, orphaned at age twelve. No known relatives within the Imperial sectors. Lived with a family friend, Otias Atori, and then left to pursue a career in theater. There were no records of him even existing before the age of twelve.” He sat back in the chair. “That’s when I got suspicious.”

“Suspicious?” Fable probed. “Why?”

“The Imperials have a sneaky practice of creating people, swapping records to implant operatives among the populace. The only way to trace them is through their records. If you look hard enough, every once in a while,” he smirked confidently, “you’ll find a hole.”

“Like no records before a certain age?”

“Uh-huh. So I started cross-referencing in that Imperial database we intercepted. Only I forgot to use his first name. Look what came up.” The image of an older man appeared on the screen. There was a brooding, sinister edge to his handsome face, a piercing glare and an arrogant smirk that gave the impression that he was posing. “See any family resemblance?”

“Lord Adalric Brandl,” Fable read the information. “An actor?”

“And this was his biggest and best role yet.” Deke tapped the control panel. A restricted information bar flashed across the screen as he accessed the code.

Fable set her cup aside, afraid that her trembling hands might spill the hot liquid into her lap. “An Imperial Inquisitor? Brandl’s father is a Jedi-killer?”

“The Alliance has official notices about this maniac all over the network. Avoid at all costs, executive order 2354. This guy was bad news.”

“Was?”

“Evidently Brandl went rogue and took off, prompting a galaxywide manhunt. They found him,” Deke shuddered, “following a string of corpses that he left from one sector to the next. And when they finally caught him, he went berserk and committed suicide.” The status line scrolled over the image of Brandl’s face, flashing the word “Deceased” across the screen.

“What’s that?” Fable pointed to the corner of the terminal.

“It’s an Imperial code about notifying next of kin. This one means the body was never recovered.”

“Never recovered? Never recovered by the family or never found?”

“Can’t tell you, Capt’n. Wasn’t there.”

Fable strummed her fingers lightly against her thigh, feeling the lightsaber’s slight weight against her hip.

“I’ve seen that look before,” Deke grumbled pensively. Fumbling with the control panel, he reached into the mass confusion of the circuitry boards beneath the shield generator controls and retrieved a dusty bottle of Socorran raava. “Here,” he gave it to her. Then removing the earring from his lobe, he handed the golden hoop to her as well. “I noticed the port manager is Socorran. Give him the earring and tell him you need a ship. Then give him the bottle and let him know that he can discuss the terms with me.”

Fable wiped at her cheek, feeling the moisture beneath her fingertips. “You’re a good friend, Deke.”

“That’s what they tell me,” he sighed, propping his legs against the console. “Now go on,” he fussed, “before I change my mind.”

Quietly, Fable walked into the corridor beyond the flight bridge.

“Fable?” Deke whispered, as she hesitated, lingering beneath the bulkhead. “If Brandl’s alive, he’s got nothing to lose.”

“At this point, Deke, neither do I.”

The hyperdrive cue pulsed, startling Fable to consciousness. She rubbed at the bruise swelling on her forehead where she had knocked it soundly against the canopy of the X-wing. “No bad dreams?” she sighed with a half smile. From above, an abrupt movement distracted her and before she could utter one sound, the body of Arecelis came crashing through the cockpit shield, bringing the icy grasp of space.
As
the air was drawn from her lungs, Vialco stood over her, straddling the cockpit and mocking her with his deep, throaty laughter.

Fable shrieked, slapping hysterically at the mutilated corpse cradled in her lap; but there was nothing there. Frantically craning her neck to get a full view of the outside canopy, she saw nothing but the brilliant lines and colors of hyperspace, as they began to retract into the telltale pinpoints of distant planets and stars. Reeling from the traumatic nightmare, she collapsed against the acceleration chair.

The emerald-gold face of Trulalis emerged before her as the X-wing materialized from hyperspace. Quickly engaging the engines, she braced for the atmospheric entry. Scanning her sensors, Fable checked the data screens, which were inundated with immediate life-sign readings. The sensors began tracing the ion signature, automatically pinpointing the trace of a light shuttle. Setting a similar course, she eventually landed outside the perimeter of a small settlement.

From the ground, Trulalis was breathtaking and majestic. Fable found herself captivated by the noble black trees whose leaves radiated a green hue when struck by direct sunlight. With massive, arching branches, the trees formed a shaded corridor above the overgrown trail. Enjoying the quiet walk, Fable rechecked her sensor information, confirming that the life signs she had received were mostly animal in nature. The settlement structures the computer had uncovered were void of any life. As she came closer, it was apparent why.

Strewn about the outskirts of the common, she found the remains of stormtrooper armor. There were no bodies inside, but the unmistakable blast scoring across the chests were disturbing evidence of a failed retaliation against the Empire, as were the skeletal remains of their victims, which were half buried in the loose topsoil nearby. At the settlement gates, she stared into the desolate streets where wreckage and debris were scattered from one end of the broad avenue to the next.

The body of a small bantha lay in the doorway of a narrow shelter. Shrunken and thin, its thick hide had been preserved by the nurturing Trulalis soil. Manicured gardens had gone to seed, spreading erratically over the front lawns and the dilapidated remains of the abandoned cottages. In one shelter, Fable found the transport shuttle, which had been assigned to Jaalib—she knew she was on the right track.

The only true survivor of the Imperial onslaught sat in the center of the settlement. Its shadow stood over her in silent testament of its endurance. Fable stared up and up, until her eyes could take in the enormity of the ancient theater. Blast scoring had scarred the pristine limestone obelisk, leaving a blemish of tragedy etched into the elaborate design. Hemmed in by stone fences and gates, the gardens were immaculately trimmed and manicured, tapered back from the winding garden paths, which wound and curved into the enormous entrance. Two stone pillars framed the central portal, casting grotesque, disembodied shadows over the archway.

Mustering her courage, she stepped into the immense antechamber. Her eyes took in the magnificence of tapestries and display cases, each showing the relics of prop swords, ornate jewelry, and costumes used in the various stage productions. She heard voices echoing from the right wing and followed instinctively, attuned to the familiar strength of Jaalib’s voice.

“You are a thief, a liar, and a pawn!” Jaalib spat in a frantic voice. Fable hesitated in the doorway, staring across the darkened auditorium.

“A thief? A liar? A pawn?” another voice commented. “Are these not the greatest virtues of any good king?”

“Virtue—”Jaalib broke off, his face contorted in an uncharacteristic mask of rage.

“Your concentration is off,” the stranger whispered. “Perhaps we’re moving too quickly.”

“No, it’s me!” The despondent sound of his voice echoed in the dusty spaces above the stage. “I keep seeing you, hearing you play the part and then,” he stumbled, “I see my own clumsy attempts.” Anxiously brushing a hand through his dark hair, he managed a weak smile. “Perfection is never easy, Father, especially when it’s your perfection.”

From his throne, in the shadowed backset of the stage, Adalric Brandl chuckled softly. The rustling of his cumbersome black robes sent whispering vibrations over the front rows as he stepped down from the raised dais. “Of all the tragedies ever conceived,
Uhl Eharl Khoehng
is the greatest,” Brandl said with conviction. “The role of the Edjian-Prince is the most difficult and the actor who plays it,” he paused, “is assured greatness.”

“How old were you? The first time you performed it?”

“I was nearly thirty before Otias would even permit me to read for the part.” Brandl snorted with warm pleasure. “You are a young man, Jaalib.” Placing a comforting hand on Jaalib’s shoulders, he whispered, “You were born for this part. Give yourself time to grow into it.”

Recognizing Brandl’s profile, Fable slowly walked down the center aisle toward the stage. Hands crossed shamefully in front of her, she met Brandl’s curious eyes as his gaze fell over her. “Lord Brandl…” she faltered, staring into the shadows.

“Fable!” Jaalib hissed. Jumping down from the platform, he charged her, robes billowing from his shoulders. “What are you doing here?”

Fable could hear his voice, but only distantly. She could feel the harsh pinch of his fingers on her wrists, but felt no pain. Caught in Brandl’s intense gaze, she could not move. His presence was overpowering and Fable found herself deeply intrigued by the somber charm and magnificence of this strange man, himself a tragic hero, trapped in the torrent of some inconceivable drama.

Her eyes cautiously traced the noble angle of his forehead and brow, noting the gentle curvature of his nose, his mouth, and the regal set of his chin. Faint laugh lines framed thin, pale lips, fading into the surrounding tautness of his cheekbones. Waves of black hair betrayed streaks of silver running through the closely cropped sides, shadowing Brandl’s solemn face. At his right temple, obtuse veins of scar tissue erupted from the otherwise smooth skin, winding a cruel path around the outer edges of his eye. Severely traumatized, the eye itself was damaged, sheathed in the pupilless, irisless remains of a clear, yellowed orb.

“Fable!” Jaalib shouted, shaking her.

“Jaalib,” Brandl whispered, “mind your manners. An audience, even an audience of one, is always to be treasured and respected.”

Glaring at her, Jaalib hissed, “You shouldn’t have come here!”

Fable glanced at him briefly and then moved away, refusing to acknowledge that she agreed with him.

“An admirer, Jaalib?”

“Yes, Father, but she was just leaving.” Before Jaalib could herd her back up the aisle, he felt the light restraint of his father’s hands.