Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi II: Omen Read online

  Yaqeel nodded miserably. Her ears twitched at a sound and she turned to see a multipassenger speeder, distinctively marked with the seal of the Galactic Alliance, pull up right beside the cluster of officials.

  “Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse,” she growled.

  TEMPLE DISTRICT, CORUSCANT

  THE SPEEDER DOOR SLID OPEN, AND AN ATTRACTIVE OLDER HUMAN female stepped out. Her crisp white admiral’s uniform molded to a figure that was still fit and toned. Green eyes took in the situation at once, keen as lasers in a face framed by copper-colored hair only beginning to gray, and as Admiral Natasi Daala, Galactic Alliance Chief of State, moved assuredly forward, Yaqeel’s heart sank.

  A 3PO protocol droid followed her and addressed the crowd that was beginning to quiet down now at the presence of GA Security. All were curious as to what their Chief of State had to say about this event. Yaqeel glanced over the crowd and frowned as she saw the reporter holding a small cam and speaking intently into it, then directing it toward Daala. She had hoped that the coverage of the event would have stopped with the destruction of the cam droid, but apparently the journalist had a backup.

  “Your attention please, good citizens,” said the protocol droid in its pleasant, crisp voice. “Chief of State Daala has a few words to address to you.”

  The crowd murmured expectantly, then fell silent. The Jedi supporting Barv stayed where they were.

  “This should be good,” Yaqeel muttered sarcastically. Cilghal silenced her with a pointed glare from a single eye.

  Daala waited until her staff had set up a makeshift podium, complete with a microphone, then stepped forward. She did not speak immediately, only regarded the crowd intently.

  “A short while ago, Valin Horn, Jedi Knight, appeared to go insane,” Daala said without preamble. Her voice was slightly husky, but pleasant to the ear. Still, Yaqeel winced at the choice of words. Daala obviously was not going to pull any punches.

  “He claimed not to recognize his own parents. He claimed they were doppelgängers—identical replacements of people he had known and loved all his life.” Daala paused to let the ludicrousness of the notion sink in to the now avidly listening throng. “And in escaping these evil duplicates, he caused a great deal of property damage and physical harm as he attempted to elude capture. Fortunately—and with little thanks to the Jedi Order, who consistently stood in our way—the GA was able to obtain custody of Valin Horn. Deemed criminally insane, he is now safely imprisoned in carbonite, unable to harm anyone further.”

  Daala paused to take a sip of water. Yaqeel was willing to bet she wasn’t really thirsty, just making a dramatic pause. “Today,” the Chief of State continued, “Jysella Horn, Jedi Knight and sister to Valin Horn demonstrated identical behavior. Fortunately, her capture was swift and decisive, and she is safely in Galactic Alliance hands. There will be no ‘negotiations’ for her release with the Jedi this time. She will be taken directly from here to the same facility in which her brother is incarcerated. Once any injuries she sustained in resisting arrest are properly treated, she will be frozen in carbonite.”

  Cilghal lowered her head and closed her eyes. Yaqeel felt a lump in her throat. She thought of Master Corran and his wife, Mirax. Both of their children—how would they endure it?

  Daala continued mercilessly. “It is becoming brutally clear that there is something going wrong with the Jedi. They are intelligent, trained warriors, with powers that most of us can barely comprehend. Their former leader, erstwhile Grand Master Luke Skywalker, failed in his duty to protect the public from one Jedi who sought to obtain power. As all of you know, he pleaded guilty to the charge of reckless endangerment of a population. For this crime, Luke Skywalker has been sentenced to exile for ten Coruscant years unless he can produce a convincing argument and evidence that he is able to properly control and manage his Order.

  “Now we have not one, but two Jedi who appear to be having dangerous hallucinations that even the Jedi themselves cannot properly explain. Rest assured, we will investigate and explore all possible explanations for this baffling and unsettling development. In the meantime, the Jedi will continue to come under heavy scrutiny and remain under the watchful eye of the government. I will now accept a few questions.”

  As Yaqeel had known he would, the reporter shouldered his way to the front, raising his hand. He was not alone—apparently the incident, brief and comparatively bloodless as it had been, had drawn the news-hounds like krakanas to chum-infested waters. Daala smiled a little at them. Her emerald eyes flickered over the crowd, and then she pointed at someone.

  “Javis Tyrr,” she said. “Please ask your question.”

  “Admiral,” the first reporter said, his voice smooth and cultured and perfectly paced and pitched—Yaqeel was really beginning to hate this guy—“do you honestly think it can possibly be coincidence that the two Jedi who have displayed such aberrant behavior are siblings?”

  “There are many factors to take into account in our investigation, but certainly we will be looking into any genetic causes for this display of uncontrollable violence and paranoia. We will also consider the environment in which these two Jedi have been raised.”

  “So would it be fair to say you think that because the Horn siblings are the children of a Corellian Jedi Master and the grandchildren of a well-known smuggler, these factors might have caused this mental condition?”

  “Don’t go putting words into my mouth, Tyrr,” Daala admonished, but there was no real ire in her tone. “I simply said we would consider the environment in which they were raised, that’s all.”

  “Do you think this is a hitherto unknown manifestation of simply being Jedi?” Tyrr plowed on, although Daala had turned away and was looking at another reporter with his hand imploringly raised.

  By this point, Yaqeel’s hand had closed on her lightsaber, as had Barv’s, although he grunted with pain at the effort. A flippered hand touched her wrist, slightly moist, cool, and sending calm through the Force.

  “Don’t,” said Cilghal in a quiet voice. “Don’t give them any more ammunition to use against us. I for one have heard enough, and I daresay that we’ll be seeing this particular speech played and replayed often enough on the HoloNet that we can pick up anything we’ve missed. Come. Let us get Bazel treated and we will talk.”

  Yaqeel growled softly and nodded. Cilghal spoke wisdom, although it pained the Bothan to sit by and listen to such disgusting things being said about Valin and Jysella’s parentage.

  “To think anyone would stoop that low,” she muttered, and turned to follow the other Jedi. She moved to one side of Barv, smiling reassuringly up at him as she slipped his arm around her shoulders to assist him as he walked. Cilghal was on his other side. They and the other Jedi who had emerged from the Temple moved steadily, unobtrusively back toward their sanctuary. But apparently not unobtrusively enough.

  “Jedi!” came Javis Tyrr’s voice. Yaqeel froze her in tracks. Barv turned his massive head to regard the reporter. In his grunting, guttural language, he chided Tyrr for not covering the news impartially and for clearly harboring a bias. Such behavior, Barv said, was not becoming for a journalist, and Tyrr should know better. While the rebuke was mild, the Ramoan language always sounded as if the speaker were trying to take someone’s head off verbally, and Tyrr, clearly not understanding a word of it, recoiled ever so slightly.

  “Do you have any comments on Admiral Daala’s speech? I witnessed the fight between you two and Jysella Horn. I take it you were trying to stop her? Can you tell us why? How much of a threat is she? How far-reaching is this strange mental illness?”

  Cilghal, displaying more patience in her right flipper than Yaqeel had in her entire furry body, stepped forward before the Bothan could retort.

  “The Jedi are obviously very concerned about the current state of events, and have been since the first incident. We are doing everything we can.”

  She gave him a smile and then turned decisively back toward th
e Temple. Yaqeel knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t resist casting one more glowering glance over her shoulder at Javis Tyrr.

  “This can’t be good,” she murmured.

  DAALA LEANED BACK INTO THE COMFORTABLE NERF-HIDE UPHOLSTERY of her chauffered speeder and sighed, running a hand through her hair. Across from her sat her personal assistant, Wynn Dorvan. Slight, nondescript, but always looking completely pulled together with not a brown hair out of place, he had become invaluable to her over the last year and a half. So invaluable that she had relaxed regulations and permitted him to allow his pet chitlik to accompany him from time to time. It perched on his shoulder now, a small, orange-striped marsupial from Ord Cestus that had become all the rage as a pet. It was quiet, litter-trained, and had a tendency to find a dark place to sleep most of the day, so the little creature was not much of a distraction for either Dorvan or Daala.

  It had been Dorvan who had been scanning the HoloNet when the coverage began, and he who had notified her of what was happening. Now he glanced up at her, calm and yet eager, his datapad in his hands as he awaited her comments and perhaps further instructions. The chitlik snuffled at his ear, then jumped down and curled up quietly beside him.

  “Well done, Dorvan,” she said. “I don’t know how you managed to get the GA on this so fast. It was completely under control by the time I even got here, and we didn’t waste a moment.”

  “Jedi mind tricks,” he deadpanned, his thin lips only cracking into a smile when he saw the amusement on his employer’s face.

  “Careful who you joke about with that,” Daala said, sobering. “While I can’t complain about the political leverage incidents like this provide, it is … troublesome. I have always had my issues with the Jedi.” There were many things, and people, and organizations, she’d had issues with. The Jedi had almost had to get in line, but she’d had her eye on them for a while.

  “Keep them in their box, away from politics, and certainly never arm them,” she’d once said to bounty hunter Boba Fett. Now that she was in a position to do precisely that, it seemed more and more like a good policy. “It is certainly convenient that there’s reason to tighten the reins on them, but it’s more than that. What’s going on with them now …” She sighed and shook her head, her unbound hair waving gently, and peered out the tinted reinforced transparisteel window. Dorvan dropped a hand to pet the sleeping animal beside him, and waited patiently as she gathered her thoughts.

  “This is dangerous and unpredictable. And I don’t like what I can’t predict. They’re far too powerful to simply be allowed to run amok like this. If they can’t even control their own members, they are a very real threat. One that has to be contained for the greater good.”

  Wynn nodded, not necessarily agreeing—his approval carried no weight, and both he and she knew that—but in acknowledgment of her words.

  “Master Kenth Hamner wishes to meet with you tomorrow. Will you be available?”

  Daala considered for a moment. “No,” she said. “Isn’t my schedule too tightly booked for that?”

  Again, the ghost of the not-quite-grin. “It is indeed. You couldn’t possibly spare him any time for at least …” He entered some data and looked up at her inquiringly. “Three more days?”

  Jysella Horn would be locked away like her brother within the hour. Hamner would have to arrange a meeting with his fellow Masters, and probably, frankly, contact Luke Skywalker, even though it violated the terms of Luke’s exile. That shouldn’t take more than a day or two, given that most of the Masters seemed to be sticking close to Coruscant these days.

  So that would give her one, two days to leave the Jedi Council stewing and fretting. Long enough to work in her favor, not so long that she looked like she was neglecting a duty.

  “Perfect,” she said. “I wonder if I should promote you, Wynn.” She graced him with the smile that still managed to disconcert men of almost all ages.

  “Oh, please don’t, ma’am,” he said, sounding utterly sincere. “Right where I am is just perfect. Any higher and I’d have to have someone under me, and that just wouldn’t do.”

  Daala laughed.

  KESH

  TWO YEARS EARLIER

  THE OCEAN SIGHED AS IT RUSHED FORWARD AND RECEDED IN A RHYTHM even more ancient than what was unfolding on its lavender-sand shores. While the sun was bright and warm, a breeze came from the sea to cool the heated faces of the two figures standing there.

  They faced each other, as still as if they were carved from stone, the only motion around them that of their hair and heavy black robes as the wind toyed with them.

  Then, as if by some unheard signal, one of them moved. The soft sound of the ocean was punctuated by a sharp snap-hiss. The almost perfectly symmetrical, light purple features of Vestara Khai’s adversary were abruptly cast into sickly green relief. Vestara activated her own weapon with a fluid motion, saluted her opponent with it, settled into position, and waited to see who would make the first move. She balanced lightly on the balls of her booted feet, ready to leap left, right, or straight up. Still her opponent did not move.

  The sun was at its height and its light was harsh, beating down on them like something physical. Their heavy dark robes were stifling hot, but Vestara would no sooner abandon her robes than she would abandon her weapon or her heritage. The robes were traditional, ancient, a deep and valued part of who she was, and she would endure the encumbrance. The Tribe valued strength as much as it valued beauty; rewarded patience as much as initiative. The wise being was the one who knew when which was called for.

  Vestara sprang.

  Not at her opponent, but to the left and past him, leaping upward, turning in the air, and slashing outward with the blade. She felt the blade impact and heard its distinctive sizzle. He gasped as she landed, flipped, and crouched back into a defensive position. The sandy surface was treacherous, and her foot slipped. She righted herself almost instantly, but that moment was all he needed to come at her.

  He hammered her with blows that were more of strength than grace, his lithe body all lean muscle. She parried each strike, the blades clashing and sizzling, and ducked underneath the final one. Lightness and agility were her allies, and she used them freely.

  Her long, light brown hair had come loose from its quickly twisted braid, and the tendrils were a distraction. She blew upward to clear her vision just in time to block another one of the strong blows.

  “Blast,” she muttered, leaping back and switching the blade to her other hand. She was completely ambidextrous. “You’re getting good, Ahri.”

  Ahri Raas, apprentice, member of the native—and conquered—species of Keshiri and Vestara Khai’s close friend, offered her a smile. “I’d say the same about you, Ves, except for the fact that that sand-jump messes you up every single ti—”

  She interrupted him with a sudden upward leap, landing on his shoulders, balancing there lightly with the use of the Force, and plunged the lightsaber straight downward, aiming for his back between his shoulder blades. He dived forward, Force-pushing her off, but not before she had touched the tip of the glowing red blade to his robes. Ahri arched, his dive thrown off as his body twisted from the pain; even the training lightsabers inflicted a powerful shock.

  Vestara leapt as Ahri dived, using his Force push to her own advantage, turning twice in the air and landing surely, facing him. She smirked in satisfaction as she brushed her renegade locks out of the way. Ahri completed his dive and came to his feet, rolling in the sand. Vestara extended her arm with the grace of a dancer. Ahri’s lightsaber was snatched from his hand and flew into hers. She grasped it and dropped into the Jar’Kai stance, ready to come at him with both blades. Ahri looked up and sighed, dropping back into the sand.

  “And you get distracted far too easily. Focus, Ahri, focus,” she chided. She gestured casually, just a slight jerk of her chin, and a handful of sand flew toward Ahri’s face. Muttering, he lifted his empty hand and used the Force to deflect the grains.

&nbs
p; “It’s just training, Ves,” he muttered, getting to his feet and dusting himself off.

  “It’s never just training,” she shot back. She deactivated her training lightsaber, hooked it back on her belt, and tossed Ahri’s to him. The Keshiri youth caught it easily, still looking disgruntled. Vestara undid her hair and fluffed it for a minute, letting the air penetrate to the roots to cool her scalp. Her long fingers busily rebraided it, properly this time, as she continued to speak, while Ahri shook grains of purple sand out of his own white, shoulder-length hair.

  “How often have I told you that? Say that in the presence of one of the Masters and you’ll never make it beyond a Tyro.”

  Ahri sighed and rose, nodding to acknowledge the truth of what she said. Neither of them had been formally chosen as an apprentice yet, although they had been training in classes under the tutelage of various Masters for years, their strengths and weaknesses in the Force noted and analyzed and pushed.

  Vestara knew that, at fourteen, it was still possible, even likely, that she would be chosen by a Master as his or her formal apprentice. But she chafed horribly at the delay. Some Tyros were chosen at much younger ages, and Vestara knew that she was strong in the Force.

  She reached out for a flask of now warm water and the canteen resting on the sand floated to her, the lid unfastening as it moved. Vestara gulped down the liquid thirstily. Sparring at the height of the sun was exhausting, and Ahri always muttered about it, but she knew it toughened her. Vestara handed the canteen to Ahri, who also drank.

  She regarded him for a moment. He was a nearly perfect physical specimen of a species whose physical strength, agility, and harmony of features and form had become an ideal for her own people. He could easily pass for a member of her own species—he would make a striking human, but a human nonetheless—were it not for the pale purple cast to his skin. His eyes, too, were slightly larger than a human’s; large and expressive. His shoulders were broad, his hips narrow, and there was not an ounce of superfluous fat on his frame. His face, though, was flushed a darker purple than usual because he was overheated, and his hair had far too much sand in it.