THOUGH OUTWARDLY COLLECTED, INWARDLY DAALA FELT LIKE AN INSECT being fried in the peripheral effect of an ion cannon.
The pressure had to relent soon. If only her enemies would stop besieging her administration, from outside and inside, for a few days, everything could be set right. If no one attacked her armed forces, her public infrastructure, she would not have to retaliate. If corporate lobbyists would just announce their wishes and quit pretending there were altruistic reasons behind them, she might perhaps gain a little respect for them, drive out the loathing that filled her every time she met with them. If all these things happened, tempers could cool. Politicians could go back to what they did best, transforming temperate oxygen into overheated carbon dioxide and eating appetizers. Journalists could return to talking about futile romances between holodrama stars.
The Jedi could—no, they wouldn’t just shrivel up and die, would they?
A face appeared on her desk monitor, her scheduling secretary, a chalk-white Chev female with hair dyed a startling orange. “Admiral Parova requests a few moments, Chief Daala. She’s not on today’s schedule.”
Daala blew out a silent sigh of thanks. Parova had the potential of developing into a friend, perhaps even a confidante. In rare noncrisis moments, they had recently even engaged in brief moments of girl talk—about which new capital ship designs looked promising, which teaching regimens appeared most efficient in military xeno-education. “Send her in.”
The door slid open. The admiral stepped in, but not far enough for the door to slide closed. Her expression was serious. “Chief, given the rise in unrest outside and other indicators, I’ve brought in a new detail for your personal security. With your permission, I’d like to relieve the current detail.”
Daala didn’t hesitate. “Other indicators” had to mean that suspicion had fallen on one of her bodyguards currently on duty. Perhaps a Jedi had gotten to him or her with one of those accursed mind tricks. She nodded. “Do so at once.”
Parova glanced at the two Fleet Intelligence security specialists situated inconspicuously at the back of the room. She gave the slightest jerk of her head. Both agents, without comment, filed from the office. Two more, a Falleen and a light-skinned human, both males, moved in and took their places.
Finally Parova stepped the rest of the way into the office, and the door slid shut behind her. She relaxed visibly. “That’s better.”
Daala gestured for her to sit. “There’s some suspicion of the other two? Operatives you yourself assigned me just the other day?”
Parova sat and shook her head. “No, those two are among the best of the best. Incorruptible. Devoted to the Galactic Alliance over all other considerations. But that’s actually part of the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I’ll demonstrate.” Her tone grew louder, more determined. “Chief of State Natasi Daala, in the name of—”
The office lights dimmed. A deep vibration, like a subsonic tone emanating from the lowest parts of the building, rattled the caf cup and writing implements atop Daala’s desk. She felt the vibration in her fingers, in the long bones of her arms and legs.
A second later the vibration resolved itself into a low alarm tone, modulating between two ominous bass notes.
Daala’s finger stabbed at the button connecting her monitor to that of her primary secretary. “What is happening?”
There was no reply. The monitor image clicked over to the secretary’s desk, but he was not there. No one was.
A few seconds earlier, in the outer office, the chrono in Han’s vest pocket beeped.
Daala’s secretary, a gold-furred Bothan male, looked up at the noise. “What’s the alarm for?”
Han grinned. “Nothing good. You know how we have to come in here unarmed?”
“Sure.”
Beside Han, Leia rose to her feet, throwing her arms wide as if trying to get the attention of a crowd at a concert. “You are all my prisoners. Hand over your weapons.”
Other important visitors waiting to see Daala—Senators, representatives of major corporations, ambassadors—gaped at her. At either end of the room, two naval officers reflexively reached for their holstered sidearms.
The instant their thumbs popped the restraining flaps free from the butts of the holstered blasters, Leia drew her arms in. The blasters flew from the holsters, one to her hands, one to Han’s.
Without rising, Han switched his blaster over from blast to stun. Casually, he shot the naval officer to his left, traversed his weapon, and shot the one to his right. The secretary dived for the floor, thumping to the carpet behind his desk.
Leia spun, covering the door from the exterior hall into the waiting room.
Han smiled and waved his blaster in the direction of the other waiting dignitaries. “Nobody move. This is a holdup.”
“Han.”
“Oh, right, my mistake. Nobody move, this is a coup.” He aimed at the prostrate Bothan. “Especially you, Fuzzy. You twitch a finger or make a noise I interpret as a warning for your boss and I’ll fill you so full of stun bolts, you’ll be able to light a glow rod for the rest of your life.”
The office lights dimmed, and a low vibration rattled everyone’s bones.
A few seconds earlier, Senator Bramsin joined Senator Treen in the latter’s floating station in the Senate chamber. It was not floating now; it was firmly attached to its brackets against the curved wall midway between floor and ceiling. Together the old friends and conspirators watched the gigantic monitor at the chamber’s summit; the screen showed the image of Deggan Rockbender, sandy-haired Senator of Tatooine. The young man’s words floated down from the overhead speakers a fraction of a second after they emerged from the speakers at each station: “… expediency flies in the face of the principles that led to the foundation of the New Republic and the continuation of its ideals in the Alliance. An embargo against trade goods produced in territories where slavery is still permitted is an absolute ethical necessity, a declaration that we continue to be dedicated to the cause of …”
Treen sighed. “He does go on a bit.”
Bramsin nodded. He checked his chrono. “But think about it. In moments, Parova will break in and announce that the armed forces have arrested Daala. In the midst of Rockbender’s stirring speech about taking action against the forces of tyranny, Parova announces the deed’s done.”
Treen did think about it, and batted her eyes like a schoolgirl. “Rockbender’s stock will go up immeasurably, and not just with his constituents.”
“Correct.”
“Perhaps I should be in a position to talk to him immediately after Parova’s announcement.”
“Also correct.”
“Have you set up your priority override so you can take charge as soon as Parova is done?”
“Of course. The program’s in place, and with the touch of a button …”
The chamber’s lights dimmed. Treen felt her teeth rattle as a somber subsonic tone rippled through the assembly. On the big screen above, Senator Rockbender paused, looking around, confused. A data card on the desktop before Treen rattled under the vibration’s influence and began to slide toward the desk’s edge.
Bramsin gave her a puzzled look. “That’s not part of the plan.”
“No, indeed.”
“I’d best get back to my station.” He turned and left, moving faster than Treen had seen him walk since Palpatine had held the Imperial throne.
A few seconds earlier, R2-D2 tweetled, leaned back into tripod configuration, and rolled aft from the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon.
C-3PO hurried after him. “What message? I didn’t receive any message.”
The astromech ignored him. Reaching a specific point along the transport’s circular gangway, R2-D2 opened a port, extended his manipulator arm, and swung it out to bang against the floor three times.
“Now what are you up to—”
That section of metal flooring, and one next to it, rose.
“Oh, my.”
Master Saba Sebatyne stood up from the smuggling compartment revealed by the raising of the floor panel. Nearby, Corran Horn and Jaina Solo stood up from an adjacent compartment.
“Master Sebatyne, Master Horn, Mistress Jaina. If I’d known you were here, I could have brought you some caf.”
The three Jedi, climbing out of their compartments, barely glanced at the protocol droid. They replaced the hatch covers and raced to the top of the boarding ramp, then down into the hangar.
C-3PO could hear their progress. It was marked by the snap-hiss of lightsabers igniting, shouts, the crackle of blaster rifles firing, the sizzle of blaster bolts reflected into and extinguishing themselves against durasteel walls.
R2-D2 rolled after the Jedi, tweetling.
“What do you mean, accompany them? This is Jedi business, very dangerous. We have other orders.”
The astromech gave an assertive tweetle as he descended the boarding ramp.
“Well, yes, one of our orders was for me to follow your instructions, but that was the preposterous one. Unfollowable, when you think about it.” Yet curiosity and concern for the fate of his counterpart compelled C-3PO to waddle along in the astromech’s wake. “Oh, dear.”
The lights in the hangar dimmed.
The moment the lights dimmed across the Senate Building, a naval ensign loitering outside the entrance to the main security center entrance perked up. He tugged his cap low over his eyes and clutched his briefcase close to him.
As the subsonic tone began to rattle the bones of everyone in sight, yellow lights flashed atop the entryway. Galactic Alliance Security and Navy personnel outside the entrance crowded in through it. The diagonal leading edges of the blast doors there flashed green, signaling the start of a lockdown countdown.
The naval ensign crowded in at the back of a group of security officers. He made it through the entrance as the blast doors’ edges went from green to yellow, as the vibration became a modulated two-tone alarm.
The center was in chaos, a chaos that was only a few seconds old. Officers and troopers rushed to their duty stations. The level of noise, shouts for information, orders, the alarm tone, battered at the ensign’s ears.
The ensign took a good look around. Everything looked different from the holorecordings supplied by Seha’s attorney droid—the crowding and rushing of personnel made everything more difficult to comprehend.
But Bandy Geffer had studied the recordings for long hours. He knew the floor plan, could recognize the faces of many individuals, even knew the names and positions of some. He moved forward at a brisk pace, remembering to salute higher-ranking officers, catching no one’s eye. As he turned rightward down a side corridor, in his peripheral vision he saw the blast door edges flash red; then they slid closed with a bone-rattling thump.
A few steps more brought Bandy to his destination, the marquee cells—a high-profile cell block where prisoners could be temporarily lodged and displayed before being turned over to other authorities. Each of these small cells featured a large transparisteel viewport instead of bars, giving an unimpeded view of the cell’s contents—all but the refresher corners, which were screened off.
Seha Dorvald sat on the lower bunk of the third cell he came across. She watched the commotion outside her viewport with mild interest. As Bandy came into view, she waved.
Bandy set down the briefcase beside her gray durasteel door. He opened the case and pulled his lightsaber from it.
“Ensign, what’s your post?”
Bandy grinned over his shoulder at the security officer, a human woman, facing him. “Lieutenant Zeiers! You look just like your holos. Uh, my post is the Jedi Temple.”
“What did you say?”
He ignited his lightsaber. Its blue blade rose into shining coherence in front of his face. He looked at the door again and thrust the blade directly between the jamb and the numeric keypad beside it, cutting downward.
“Cell block alpha, we have an intruder!”
Bandy heard the words, heard the sound of a blaster pistol clearing leather. He spun, slashed upward, caught the pistol just forward of the trigger. The barrel flew free of the rest of the weapon.
Lieutenant Zeiers, unharmed but wide-eyed, stared at him. He returned his attention to the door. He heard her run off. Moments later his blade sheared through the bolt locking the door in place. After that, it took merely a wave of his hand and an exertion through the Force to slide the door open.
Seha stepped out, still hobbled by shackles. “Did you bring my lightsaber?”
“In the bag. Hands, please.” As soon as Seha extended her hands, Bandy sheared through the shackles restraining them.
“How about some real food? What they give you here—”
“Sorry, no. If you’re ever to have another good meal, we have to win this one.” Bandy stooped and cut through the ankle bindings, scarring the floor beneath them.
Seha dug around in the briefcase, then straightened up with her lightsaber in one hand, a few centimeters of metal cable still dangling from each wrist shackle.
Together they charged deeper into the security center. Word of their presence had spread. Security officers from two armed forces scattered, took up emplaced positions, and opened fire with blaster pistols. Seha took point—a full Jedi Knight, she was much better at batting back blaster bolts. Bandy caught those coming at them from troopers they’d already passed, those whose weapons they did not shear through in passing.
The Jedi reached their destination, the center’s armory. It stood resolutely shut and locked, the officers on duty not having had time to begin standard operating procedures on the arming of ready personnel.
Seha stood guard, catching and flinging back an ever-increasing barrage of blaster bolts. Bandy winced as he heard the occasional cry of pain. Seha wasn’t deliberately aiming the bolts back at firers, but there were so many bolts in this target-rich environment …
Bandy plunged his lightsaber into the door, dragged it around to create an aperture a meter and a half in diameter. When the two burned edges of his cut met, he kicked the center of the circle and it fell into the armory. He jumped through, careful to avoid contact with the jagged, heated edges of metal, and once inside he slapped the button to open the door.
It still worked. The door slid open. Seha backed in. Bandy hit the button and it slid shut again. Now blaster bolts came in only through the hole Bandy had made.
He turned to look over the chamber’s treasures. Stands of body armor, racks of blaster rifles, cases of grenades … “Gas masks … there they are.” He grabbed two sets of protective breathing gear and several riot-control grenades. He placed one mask on his own face and one on Seha’s, then began activating grenades and flipping them through the hole in the door.
So far, so good.