Apocalypse (6 page)

He depressed a hidden latch, and a gap appeared in the boiserie behind him. Pulling one of the panels open just far enough to squeeze through, he slipped into a hidden corridor beyond, then closed the panel behind him.

Vestara glanced back and cocked a brow. Ben rolled his eyes, but he had to smile and give her a grudging nod of approval. Her knowledge of the Sith and their vulnerabilities had proven invaluable in planning the liberation of Coruscant, and now her presence was turning out to be just as crucial in executing the operation. Only a former Sith could truly understand how a mind steeped in the dark side worked, how to appeal to their greed and vanity without revealing the trap. Ben was glad she had persuaded the Masters that her presence on Coruscant, during the battle itself, would be crucial to the success of the initial assault.

But Ben also knew how difficult this particular operation had to be for Vestara. She loved him as much as he loved her, he was sure. But choosing him and the Jedi meant turning her back on her people and her home, never again breaking bread with childhood friends, and he would have been a fool to think she had made her choice with no regrets. There would always be a part of her that remained Sith, that longed to return to Kesh, and she had once confided to him that she hoped someday to do just that—to return home at the head of a Jedi peace delegation, so she could teach her people that there was no need to conquer the galaxy to live in it.

She was being atypically naïve, but she had given up so much already that Ben could not bear the thought of depriving her of this one dream—and that was why he had persuaded his father to stop pressing her for Kesh’s coordinates. The hard truth was that redeeming an entire tribe of Sith was about as likely as stopping a nova, but this was a conclusion Vestara needed to reach herself. And when she did, Ben knew, she would be a true Jedi.

Vestara returned and held out her hands. “Get ready,” she said. “We’ll be inside in less than a minute.”

Ben returned the plate and stood. “You seem pretty sure of yourself,” he said. “So why did he scowl?”

“He scowled?” Vestara asked. “When?”

“Right after you approached him,” Ben said. “When you asked if he had announced us yet.”

“Oh,
that
scowl,” Vestara said lightly. “I don’t know—maybe he isn’t accustomed to pretty pages smiling at him.”

She flashed him a playful grin, and Ben had to admit that she could be pretty disarming.

“I can see how you might have unsettled him,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean your charm is going to work on the Senator—not from out here.”

Vestara rolled her eyes. “Come on,” she said. “What
politician
is going to put off accepting a surrender?”

By
politician
, Ben knew, Vestara meant
Sith
. Kameron Suldar, chair of the Galactic Alliance Senate, was actually High Lord Ivaar Workan of the Lost Tribe of the Sith. Ben and Vestara were there to set him up for a surprise attack. They had to be inside the office before the battle began, holding the High Lord’s attention so he wouldn’t sense the rest of the Skywalker team coming to capture or kill him. Ben didn’t like being part of what would probably end up being a targeted killing. But there was a war under way, and he and his fellow team members were commandos sent to destroy the enemy’s command-and-control structure. If they could do it quickly and quietly enough, the Sith invaders would be leaderless before they realized they were under attack. And
that
would save thousands of civilian lives—perhaps hundreds of thousands—by preventing the fight from spilling over into the general population.

The wurlwood panel swung open again, and the red-caped guard emerged. He was followed by a stunning redhead with the striking features of a HoloNet star and the calculating eyes of a seasoned political operative. She crossed the closet in a few quick steps and took the envelope from Vestara’s tray.

“ ‘My dear friend Kameron,’ ” the woman read drily. She returned the envelope to the tray, then looked to the float pallet. “What’s all this?”

“A cafasho steamer,” Vestara said. She leaned closer and spoke in a
confiding tone. “Senator Wuul has observed that Senator Suldar has a certain fondness for the drink, and he thought Senator Suldar might enjoy having a steamer of his own.”

The redhead studied the gift for a moment, then turned to the guard. “Has the package been screened?”

The guard sneered, obviously offended. “Of course. Them, too.”

“There’s no need for your concern,” Vestara assured the redhead. “I have the impression that Senator Wuul is looking for a graceful way to capitulate.”

The woman considered this for a moment, then looked to Ben. “And what about you, Twi’lek?” she asked. “Do you have the same impression?”

Ben nodded. “It’s definitely a cafasho steamer,” he replied. “We were instructed to set it up and teach Senator Suldar’s staff how to use it.”

The redhead narrowed her eyes, then suddenly turned toward the back of the closet. “Very well,” she said. “The Senator will see you now.”

“Thank you,” Vestara replied. She looked over at Ben and cocked her brow, then followed the redhead into the secret passage. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to be meeting the Senator in person.”

All across Coruscant, Sith impostors began to receive their final warnings, a simple message that said:

Sitting in the backseat of his armored limousine, GAS Superintendent Jestat Vhool snorted at the arrogance of the Jedi fools and snapped his datapad shut … and then recalled the unexplained hesitation he had felt the last time his pilot had engaged the repulsorlift drive. A shiver of danger raced down his spine, and a single thought filled his mind:
Bomb!

Vhool flung open the door and Force-leapt from the limo onto the nearest balcony. He landed in a diving roll and used the Force to counteract
his momentum, then returned to his feet, lightsaber in hand. He ignited the crimson blade and slipped into a combat crouch, eyes sweeping left and right.

An instant later a fast-descending scaffold dropped from the floor above and crushed him flat.

The maintenance man who had been operating the scaffold—a green-eyed human whose chin sported a tuft of graying beard—stepped off the scaffold and found nothing but a blood-soaked arm protruding from beneath the heavy equipment. He took note of the GAS insignia on the sleeve cuff, then checked for a pulse and found none. When he glanced down the skylane and saw the GAS limo decelerating, he hurled himself over the balcony railing.

The maintenance man landed on the back of a two-seat swoop bike, piloted by a golden-eyed Arcona named Izal Waz.

“Welcome aboard, Master Horn,” Izal called over his shoulder. “No surrender, I gather?”

“Scratch target one,” Corran confirmed. “Let’s try number two.”

Izal swung the swoop bike down an access lane and accelerated hard. Behind them, the limo never did explode.

Kayala Fei was delivering BAMR’s midday newscast, halfway through a kicker story about Jedi healers conducting medical experiments on Chandrilan younglings, when a peculiar message appeared on her holoprompter:
SURRENDER OR DIE. DECIDE NOW
.

Fei did not hesitate, did not even blink. She simply used the Force to send her chair rocketing away from the anchor desk, toward the holographic skyline being projected at the rear of the stage. The instant the chair began to tip, she was on her feet, her lightsaber flying into her hand from a holster concealed inside her stylish knee boots.

The space her head had just occupied now had a stage light swinging through it. Affixed to the bottom end of a broken support batten, it had crossed the anchor desk and was coming toward her. She ignited her lightsaber and pivoted to the side, cutting the batten at head height to keep the heavy lamp from catching her on the return trip.

But there was a broken cable snaking down behind her, and
that
Fei had no chance to avoid. By the time she identified the hot sizzle rushing
through her body as electricity rather than her own danger sense, the cable was wrapping itself around her neck. Its bare end snapped down and caught her just above the heart, pouring so much current into her chest that a smoking hole appeared in her shimmersilk tunic.

Fortunately, the relief producer was up to the emergency. She had been called in after the normal production crew had been served a bowl of spoiled thakitillo, and she was the type who kept her head. She typed a new message into the holoprompter, then activated the studio’s PA system and instructed Fei’s co-anchor to move to the auxiliary anchor desk.

The new anchor, a jowly man with an oversized nose and a baritone voice, looked at the speaker above his head and asked, “You want me to go on?” He glanced toward the back of the stage, where Fei’s body was still hanging from the cable and continuing to convulse. “What about Kayala?”

“The Emdee droid is on his way,” the relief producer said. A tall, dark-haired woman with a commanding presence, Jedi Master Octa Ramis knew how to take control of a chaotic situation. “And we still have four minutes of newscast to fill. Move! Read!”

The anchor jumped up and raced ten paces to the auxiliary desk, then sat down and began to read from the holoprompter floating above the active cam.

“Uh, we apologize for the technical difficulties we have just experienced.” His voice returned to its smooth baritone. “We are sorry to report that BAMR anchorwoman Kayala Fei has suffered an untimely death in a freak accident. The incident occurred only moments ago, during a live holocast in front of billions of viewers …”

Octa Ramis removed the sound bud from her ear and tossed it on the mixing console, then turned to her three Jedi assistants. “And that’s a wrap,” she said. “Let’s move on to our next target.”

When the alarm began to blare down from the coffered ceiling of the High Court Chamber, Grand Justice Tela Rovas did not reach for the lightsaber beneath her robes. She simply unfolded the flimsi that her clerk had just passed her, read the ominous note, and frowned at the signature line—
THE JEDI ORDER
—then turned to her
fellow High Justices, seated beside her along the elegant hamogoniwood bench.

“It seems the alarm is genuine,” she announced calmly. “Court is adjourned for evacuation.”

The chamber erupted in panic, with spectators and litigants alike boiling toward the exits. Rovas, in contrast, calmly rose from her seat and started toward the justices’ private exit, all the while shielding herself from attack by drawing her fellow judges into a tight knot of conversation around her. As they crossed the threshold, she took the arm of Justice Robr Selvi and pulled him close, being careful to keep him between her and the sliding door.

Jaina cursed beneath her breath, then reluctantly released the hidden trigger that would have sent the heavy door shooting out to crush the pair. Corrupt as he was, Selvi was no Sith—and that made him safe from the Jedi. Jaina glanced across the broad central aisle to her two companions and nodded toward the exit.

Valin returned her nod and rose instantly, but Jysella—carrying a datapad and wearing her brown hair in a tight bun—scowled.

“We’re just going to let her
GO
?” Jysella asked. She was speaking in a Force whisper so soft that her voice was a mere rustle in Jaina’s ears. “A
Sith Lord
?”

Jaina shrugged and nodded toward the exit more firmly. Their orders were clear: No attack until the target reaches for a weapon. And no civilian casualties—even if it means letting a Sith Lord escape.

By the time Vestara and Ben were finally ushered in to meet High Lord Ivaar Workan—better known to the Galactic Alliance as Senator Kameron Suldar—there was no longer enough time to set up the cafasho steamer. Only two minutes remained before the first attacks of the battle were scheduled to begin, and that meant they had drifted completely into the sphere of combat improvisation. That was just fine with Vestara. She had been trained to be unpredictable when she fought, and sometimes the only way to do that was to toss the plan aside.

Vestara was surprised to see the Senator’s private office furnished sparely but elegantly in blatant Keshiri style, with sculptures of ropy
glass resting on display tables throughout the room. The pieces were done in a new style known as flying storm back on Kesh, and they usually depicted a hurricane or cyclone rolling over an alien landscape.

To the initiated, at least, the conquest symbology was clear, and Vestara found herself shaking her head at its open display. It was the kind of arrogance that would be the Sith’s greatest vulnerability in the coming war. Her people simply did not understand how dangerous the Jedi truly were—or how determined the Masters were to destroy the Lost Tribe of the Sith.

Workan’s redheaded assistant motioned Vestara and Ben toward a clear spot in the center of the room, then followed close behind as Ben pushed the float pallet forward. When two more red-caped guards stepped out of a corner and fell in behind them, Vestara knew it had been her ploy—the silent
I’m Vestara Khai
she had secretly mouthed to the guard in the pages’ closet—that had finally won them admittance. She was taking a terrible risk exposing her identity like that, but she wanted to be sure that Luke Skywalker killed Workan, and that meant getting herself and Ben into the High Lord’s office.

Ben stopped the float pallet at the indicated location, then drew his shoulders square and stood at attention. Workan studied the pallet from behind a large glass desk at the far end of the room. He was a distinguished-looking man with dark hair and darker eyes. Though Vestara had not revealed this to the Jedi’s mission planners, she had met the High Lord once before, back on Kesh when she had been summoned to become Lady Rhea’s apprentice. He had struck her as a cunning and observant man, and the venom in his gaze suggested that he had seen through her disguise and confirmed her identity for himself.