Allies Page 12

  “Of course he does. You are a lovely young human woman, my dear, and Ben is a healthy young male. Of course he is attracted to you. No doubt he aspires, for the moment, to ‘save’ you and bring you to the light side of the Force.”

  Vestara nodded. She and her father had both read what information Ship had on the Skywalkers. Doubtless her father was right.

  “I wonder then why Master Skywalker does not encourage him,” Vestara mused.

  Her father slipped a forefinger under her chin and tilted it up. He smiled at her kindly now, the alien anger replaced by the more familiar pride and affection. “Because, Master Skywalker is not the besotted fool that Ben is. Ben is young and idealistic and full of hope. Luke Skywalker is much wiser. He sees how strong with the dark side you are, and knows, as I do, that you cannot be turned.”

  “Yet his own wife was the Emperor’s Hand,” Vestara offered. “And he himself turned one of the most powerful Sith Lords in history. If there is anyone who has seen that people can be swayed from the dark side, it is Luke Skywalker.”

  “I did not say Skywalker thought it impossible to sway someone. I said that he very wisely thinks it impossible to sway you.”

  “That is unfortunate,” Vestara said. Things would be much easier if Luke thought, as Ben probably did, that she could be persuaded to leave the path of the dark side. “Should I attempt to behave as if I am considering betraying you?”

  Khai considered for a moment. “No,” he said, finally. “I am sure you would be convincing, but Skywalker would be on to you immediately. Continue as you have.”

  He glanced up and Vestara followed his gaze. Luke stepped out from the entrance to the dome, squinting against the sunlight, one hand raised. Behind him floated the limp shape of Dyon Stad, and Ben brought up the rear.

  “So, Skywalker was able to negotiate for Stad’s release. Interesting. Dyon escapes his prison, but it is clearly time for you to return to yours,” said Khai, almost but not quite growling. He turned to her. “It is only because you are serving the Sith that I permit it.”

  “I know, Father.”

  He bent and kissed her forehead. “Make me proud, daughter,” he said. She bowed to him and went to rejoin the two Jedi. Ben saw her coming, a step or two behind his father, and gave her a quick smile, his attention still on levitating Dyon. She did not dare return the smile, as Luke was regarding her with that same intent gaze he always did.

  “I am glad that the boy was released to your care, Master Skywalker,” Khai called. “I would hope that if it were one of our apprentices, you would be as pleased for us.”

  “Honestly? Doubtful,” Luke said.

  “Your honesty is … refreshing,” Khai said.

  “I imagine it would be unusual to a Sith,” Luke agreed. “Glad you’re appreciating it. Vestara? Let’s go.”

  “And that’s the news. Until tomorrow, this is Perre Needmo. Good night.”

  The cam droids closed in on Needmo’s long face and wise, calm eyes encircled by wrinkles.

  “And cut,” said the director, Jorm Alvic. A human in his early middle years, Jorm had thick black hair turning to gray at the temples in a rather dashing and dramatic manner. It was the only thing dramatic and dashing about him physically. He was slightly shorter than average, with a belly that lapped over his belt and a face that, while pleasant, wasn’t really remarkable in any way save for an easy smile. He had been friends with Needmo for many years and had directed nearly every episode of The Perre Needmo Newshour since its inception. “Great job as usual, Perre.”

  “Thanks, Jorm. But I’d say that goes for everyone. Well done tonight. The interviews in particular went very smoothly,” Needmo said. He placed the datapads neatly on his desk, then descended from his anchor’s chair. He peered up to the control booth. “I wonder if perhaps we’d all be willing to stay a little later tonight? I have an idea I’d like to propose.”

  “What’s that, Perre?” asked Sima Shadar, the producer, also in the control booth. The tech crew paused in their nightly shutdown routine, exchanging glances and shrugs. A mouse droid peeped in irritation as its normal path was blocked by human feet, then zipped off to clean another area of the set.

  “I’ve been thinking about this for a while. I’d like to start including a new recurring segment.”

  “Well, our staff meeting is day after tomorrow; we can put that on the top of the agenda,” began Sima, but Needmo was shaking his huge head.

  “No, I really would like to begin this as soon as possible.”

  Jorm and Sima looked at each other and shrugged. “You got it, Perre,” Sima said. The Chevin nodded, satisfied. He hadn’t really expected any protest. Sima pressed a button, and her voice carried throughout the studio and back rooms.

  “Attention staff. Perre has requested our presence for a brief meeting before you all head on home. Please come to the main set.”

  There was a silence, then “Sure,” “Of course, boss.” The writers, directors, and editors all filed onto the stage. Most had cafs or snacks in hand; it was a fairly relaxed show. Everyone was ready to go home of course, but everyone also liked their jobs, and they all knew Needmo didn’t usually pull this sort of thing unless he felt it was really important. Some grabbed seats, some just plopped down on the floor.

  “We’ve had a few guests commenting on the situation on Tatooine, Karfeddion, and Thalassia, along with some very lively debates on the issue and on the Freedom Flight,” Needmo began. He trundled to the center of the set and looked about at his team. “But all my instincts are telling me that this is going to be a big story. I’d like to make sure we address it. Keep tabs on it, keep people aware of it. It’s an important issue, and one that doesn’t really have any gray areas.” While The Perre Needmo Newshour worked diligently to report the news without bias, one of the reasons Perre had left Vinsoth to start his own show was to broadcast good news. Or, if that wasn’t possible on a particular evening, to at least get something out there people could support.

  “Good idea,” Sima said, tapping on a datapad. “We can get Darric Tevul to report regularly on—”

  Needmo waved his hands. “No, no, not just commentary. I think we should put someone on the scene. Visit some of these worlds, conduct interviews with the governments and the insurgents both.”

  Eyes widened. Some beings whistled. Jorm scratched his head, but nodded.

  “It’s a good idea,” he said. “Very good idea. Boost our ratings, no doubt about it. But it’s not exactly the sort of thing we’re known for.”

  “We all work very hard to disassociate ourselves from the likes of Javis Tyrr and his type of sleemo journalism,” Needmo said, “and to do that we’ve chosen a more staid format. I’m not suggesting we change that, just augment it. I have a feeling this is not just a few isolated incidents.”

  No one on The Perre Needmo Newshour was Force-sensitive, but they all had finely tuned instincts, the clichéd “nose for news.” The joke was that no one had a better nose for news than Perre Needmo. And, far from being insulted by the comment, Needmo sometimes said it himself.

  “We’ll get on it right away,” Jorm said. “Any of our regulars have any field experience?”

  “Madhi Vaandt,” said the lighting director immediately. A chorus of positive murmuring went around the room. Madhi had been on a short while ago, with a segment on the atrocious living conditions in the Underlevels of Coruscant. She stubbornly remained a freelancer, but the same station that ran The Perre Needmo Newshour had hired her for various spots.

  “Oh, perfect,” said Jorm. “That last segment she did with us got a lot of attention. Someone even started fund-raisers to help provide medicines and fosterage for some of the younglings in the underlevels. She’s got no whiff of scandal and the holocam loves her.”

  Needmo’s snout wrinkled in hearty approval. “Hear that, beings?” he said, pleasure and pride warming his voice. “You bring injustice to the attention of the viewers, and they do something about it. I liked wh
at I saw of Vaandt. Get in touch with her agent right away. We’ll want her on two, perhaps three different worlds. And one of them,” he paused and centered himself, “one of those worlds must be Vinsoth.”

  The team exchanged glances. Vinsoth was Needmo’s own homeworld. For thousands of years, his people, the Chevin, had enslaved a humanoid race known as the Chev. Granted, their domination had not been a particularly violent or brutal one. Indeed, some might even call it civilized. The Chev culture, far from being quashed, was encouraged to flourish, and full support was given them if they chose to pursue the arts. Physical violence against them was discouraged and blatant violation of that law resulted in stiff fines and occasionally prison time for the offender.

  Needmo looked from face to face, his eyes crinkling in a benevolent smile.

  “Come now,” he said, his voice gentle. “How can we do otherwise? We cannot in good conscience report on slavery on other worlds without addressing the fact that the being for whom the show is named comes from such a world himself. We’d be hypocrites and lose the trust and faith the viewers have placed in us. And furthermore, it just wouldn’t be right.”

  “Perre,” Jorm said, “you’ve made your reputation on who you are and what you’ve done, not where you come from.”

  “As all beings should have the right to do,” Needmo said. “No being should be judged on his or her—or, frankly, its—species, or what world they were born on. It is who you are that matters. Trust me on this. I have striven to be neutral in reporting the news. But to omit Vinsoth would not be neutral. I will not be reporting, or personally commenting on the situation—although informally my views are well known. Madhi would be. She’s got no personal agenda. And I won’t have her censored,” he added, looking sharply at Sima. “The viewers will make their own conclusions, and it will be good for the show and good for our viewers. Isn’t that what we’ve always wanted to do?”

  Needmo knew his team realized there was little point in arguing with him. His instincts had proven to be sound for several years. He’d bucked the trend of slick, fast-paced “journalism” in favor of calm reporting of actual facts, not possibly faked action scenes better depicted in a holodrama. Even bringing in Madhi was shaking up the format.

  But Needmo knew he was absolutely right on this. Madhi Vaandt was already making her reputation by calling things as she saw them. Fit, impulsive, she went to the heart of the story to bring things out of the darkness into the light. She’d had no compunctions at all about traveling to the Underlevels with just a cam crew for “security.” And if she covered the situation on Vinsoth in that same way, on a show hosted by a Chev, there would be no question of biased reporting.

  Everyone present knew that Needmo heartily disapproved of the current situation on his homeworld. He had chosen not to be politically active, but it was one reason he had left his homeworld for Coruscant. Some things in this galaxy were just wrong.

  Finally, the producer shrugged. “It’s the Perre Needmo hour, boss. If you want to do this, we’ll do it. And I bet it will boost ratings better than ‘The Jedi Among Us with Javis Tyrr.’”

  The laughter broke the nervous tension. “Well, then,” Needmo said, his trunk undulating with amusement, “that alone should be a reason to do it, don’t you think?” More laughter. They were on board with him, and he was proud of every one of them. He’d assembled a great team over the years, and went to bed every night knowing that they’d all worked hard to inform and enlighten their viewers. And maybe, just maybe, help make the galaxy a better place.

  NINTH HALL OF JUSTICE, CORUSCANT

  ERAMUTH BWUA’TU HAD ONE GLOVED HAND GENTLY PRESSING ON THE small of Tahiri Veila’s back to guide her through the throng of journalists restrained only by a red cordon and a few scowling guards. Eramuth’s other hand grasped the ornately decorated cane, with which he tapped quite deliberately on the marble floor as they strode forward.

  The holojournalists, their tabards a colorful array of logos, all were vying for her attention. Each of them wanted “the” shot to lead on the evening news.

  “Miss Veila! Over here!”

  “Tahiri! How are you feeling on this first day of your trial?”

  “Former Jedi Veila, at what point do you consider that your betrayal began?” This last from, of course, the biggest sleemo of them all, Javis Tyrr. Tahiri kept her head held high and her gaze focused straight ahead.

  “Good girl, you’re doing beautifully,” Eramuth said, his voice soft. “Hateful beings, the press, but utterly necessary to a free society. Are you ready for this, my dear?”

  “Yes,” Tahiri replied, her voice just as soft, knowing his sharp Bothan ears would pick up the faint sound. She was ready. She’d known from the moment the arrest warrant had been served that it would come to this, and she harbored no illusions as to how difficult the journey to “not guilty” would be, if it was even successful.

  But Eramuth, dapper and debonair and antiquated, had given her hope. He had listened and taken copious notes as she told the story of how she had come to be influenced by Jacen. She hadn’t sugarcoated or omitted anything. She fully owned her part in what she did, but did not take on those burdens that were not hers to bear.

  For his part, Eramuth managed to grill her gently, which she would have thought an oxymoron. By the time he was done with her, Tahiri mused to herself that he knew more about her than her closest friends. Of course, she didn’t have close friends, not anymore.

  Not since Caedus.

  The main entrance was a set of double doors that slid open as they approached. Tahiri got her first look at the place where she would be spending most of her time for the next… however long it took. The courtroom of the Ninth Hall of Justice at the Galactic Justice Center looked exactly how she would have imagined it to look, and she realized that her elegant, eccentric attorney would appear right at home here. Certainly she knew Eramuth would feel right at home—he had told her that he had argued, and won, more than twenty-seven cases in this very room.

  The walls were dark wood paneling. The floor was a continuation of the marble tile of the hallway, the path through the “general public” seats in the back covered with a soft, thick, red carpet. On her right were the seats for the jury beings. There were many different shapes and sizes, and Tahiri realized that a variety of beings would determine her fate, not just humanoid. She wondered if that was a good or a bad thing, but trusted her lawyer to have vetted any obvious GA plants. Regardless of the shape, the seats were padded and comfortable-looking. Jurors had an important responsibility, and they would be well tended to for the duration of the trial.

  On the right were places for members of the press. A staggering variety of technical equipment was on display there, and each box was carefully marked to indicate which station was which. Thankfully, a small, single seat was reserved for The Perre Needmo Newshour. At least it wouldn’t all be luridly over the top.

  Just mostly.

  Straight ahead were two exquisite, caf-colored antique marble desks from Ithor. The defense’s station, Tahiri had been told, was the table on the left-hand side. There were two equally ancient wooden chairs beside it. They were polished so they seemed to glow in the morning light coming in from the row of windows placed near the top of the high walls. Apparently, defendants did not get the same attention to physical comfort as the jurors did. The prosecution’s desk was on the right. And at the far end of the room was the judge’s elevated bench, also of antique Ithorian marble, and the witness’s chair.

  The judge’s chair, in contrast with the practical but comfortable chairs for the public and the jurors and the elegant and uncomfortable seats for the defendant and prosecution, was almost thronelike. It also appeared to be an antique. It was an elegant, high-backed chair with thick upholstery and a variety of buttons on its long arms that looked at odds with the nostalgia the rest of the piece evoked. The desk it faced had been polished till it gleamed, and it, too, had had modern technology imposed upon it.

&n
bsp; At the front of the desk was the insignia of the Galactic Alliance. A large protocol droid stood stock-still at attention, gleaming brightly. It would translate, no doubt, if there were any witnesses who did not speak Basic, and Tahiri guessed it would probably record the events as well. Standing by one of the two doors that led to the judge’s chambers in the back of the room was a large, burly, human male. Tahiri knew the proper, respectful term was “bailiff,” but looking at the man’s oft-broken nose and low brows, she thought “bouncer.” Even though he was dressed impeccably in the proper uniform for the task, he still cut an imposing, fear-inducing figure.

  Behind Eramuth and Tahiri, the journalists were permitted to enter. They hastened to their stations, speaking in low voices and adjusting equipment. Eramuth directed Tahiri to her chair, courteously pulling it out for her before sitting down himself. He seemed relaxed and confident, looking around the room with what seemed to Tahiri a bit of nostalgia.

  “Never lost a case in this room, Tahiri my dear,” he said, “and I don’t intend yours to be the first.”

  She nodded, suddenly becoming overwhelmed. This, more than the arrest, more than having to wear specialized shock shackles and stun cuffs—the irony did not escape her that they were twins to the ones she had forced Ben Skywalker to wear—more than anything else she had encountered, this room, with its smell of furniture polish and leather, with dust motes dancing in the slanting light, the murmurs and blips and clicks of recording devices running through their paces, this brought home to her the true reality of her situation.

  She was glad that Eramuth seemed so calm and confident. Because despite the dangers she had faced since her earliest years, Tahiri was nervous. Combat, she understood. But there was a stiffness, a formality, an order that permeated this room to its very core that was more intimidating than any enemy she’d yet faced.

  Eramuth’s hand on hers squeezed. “Here comes Sul Dekkon, the prosecuting attorney,” he said quietly. Tahiri craned her neck as unobtrusively as possible. A tall, blue-skinned Chagrian wrapped in meticulous black- and rust-colored robes entered the room along with the press of spectators and newsbeings.