Chapter Five: Destiny's Beckon

"…It was a strong effort of the spirit of good; but it was ineffectual. Destiny was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and terrible destruction…" -Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

Flareship, Solo quarters

"It's open," a voice called before Kyp had a chance to knock on the door.

"I came as fast as I could," he said as he stepped into the room. "I was teaching a group of padawans, and I had to find them something to do."

He stopped in the doorway, staring at the mess inside.

It looked like Darth Caedus had gone on a rampage through one of Booster's casinos. A sabacc table—an almost empty sabacc table—stood in the center of the living room with a few cards and credits lying haphazardly across the surface. Meanwhile, more credits and cards lay about the room, some plastered into the paint on the walls and others tangled in Han Solo's hair.

Han and Booster sat on a couch, with Lando and Wedge cautiously peeking out from behind them. All four stared at Kyp with dazed expressions, clearly drunk.

Jaina Solo leaned against the opposite wall with her arms crossed. On the otherwise pristine white, there was a dark, circular impression where a credit must have hit. Seeing Kyp, her face brightened somewhat and a ghost of a smile appeared across her pale features.

"I had to get their attention," she said smugly, nodding towards the corner. Then, she lost any resemblance of cheerfulness from her face.

"Umm…" Kyp began, unsure of what was going on. "What's wrong?" At her scowl, he amended the question. "is something wrong?"

"You can go join them," she said tersely, uncrossing her arms to point across the room to the couch. "We're waiting for their wives to get here." She paused for a moment. "And Tycho," she added.

Shooting an inquisitive glance at Jaina, Kyp nevertheless walked over to the join the others. Since no space on the couch remained, he instead leaned against the wall in a mirror of Jaina's former pose. Just as he managed to settle himself into a marginally comfortable position, trying to ignore the credits pressing into his back, the door jerked open again.

"Tycho," Jaina said with a quick grin.

Tycho Celchu stepped inside and glanced around. "Why wasn't I invited?" he asked, mock-scowling at the bunch.

Jaina's expression soured again. "I was hoping that there was at least one person of this ship with enough sense to refuse one of their offers," she said, pointing towards Han and Lando. "Over there."

"Can we start now?" Wedge whined. "I was winning before you came in."

With a sharp glance at her chrono, Jaina ignored him.

"What's this about, Jaina?" Winter asked as she entered.

"I found everyone at a sabacc game and thought I might give them something more useful to do," she replied, dripping sarcasm even as her hands clenched into tight fists.

Winter frowned absently. "I thought I told Tycho not to get drunk until at least next week," she murmured, reaching behind her for the doorknob.

Jaina interrupted the action. "Don't bother shutting the door," she said. "There are more coming."

Iella's face appeared around the door first, followed by the rest of her body. "Don't tell me," she said with a sigh as she handed Jaina a bottle. "Wedge and the boys got into a brawl."

"Not quite," Jaina admitted, turning the bottle over and studying the label. "I'm the one who made the mess."

Iella raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure they deserved it," she said mildly as she moved to join Winter in standing next to the doorway to the kitchen.

Jaina pursed her lip and then bit it. She uncorked the bottle, twirling the cork around in her right hand as she brought the bottle up to her face and took a sniff. "Taanab fruit brandy," she said appreciatively. "That should keep them from falling asleep."

Leia slipped through the doorway holding several glasses in her hands, with a few more floating in front. "Who brought the brandy?" she asked in an attempt at cheer.

"I did." As Iella moved forward to grab the floating glasses, she remarked, "It's the Borleias vintage. When Jag mentioned the effects to me, I set aside a few bottles just in case. Turns out I was right."

She shared a conspiratorial glance with Winter. "We may have spiked our husbands' drinks a few times when they started getting too loud," Winter explained.

Something clicked into place in Kyp's mind. "That's why you insisted on getting me a separate mug that time I was playing sabacc with them!" he burst out. "You knew that I'd recognize the brandy."

Iella just laughed, holding out the glasses so that Jaina could fill them. "We had to get you a glass of normal ale instead."

"Have our husbands started reminiscing about their younger years again?" Tendra asked, slipping through the doorway to stand next to Iella.

"Hey!" Lando protested. "I'm not old yet."

Wedge ignored Tendra's comment altogether. "Can we start now?" he asked again.

Jaina rolled her eyes. She stalked forward from the wall, taking full glasses from Leia and Iella and slapping one into everyone's hands, although she did not take a glass for herself.

"Now we can get started."

Kyp brought the glass up to his nose to smell the amber liquid sloshing within: it was just as pungent as it had been a decade and a half ago. However, Han slapped him hard on the back, and he took an involuntary gulp. He immediately had to call on the Force to avoid spitting it out; if Han, rather than Jaina, had been the one standing in front of him, he might not have spared the effort.

The brandy slid down his throat, scalding everything in its path and leaving him with a very disquieted stomach.

"Where's Zekk?" Kyp asked, sounding as if he needed a new voice box.

"Drunk and passed out," Jaina said shortly. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you Dad?" she asked, eyeing her father.

Kyp didn't need the Force to feel Han's amusement.

"We might have tried to convince him to join our sabacc game," Han said with an innocent face that would only have worked on people not used to it.

A slap echoed through the room, and Han's hand flew up to the back of his head.

Jaina stomped forward, glaring at him. "Anyways," she continued, wearing a venomous expression and towering above those sitting on the couch, "he's all but useless right now."

"No offense, Jaina," Winter interjected, "but why are we here?"

Jaina let out a predatory smile.

In reaction, Kyp winced and took an automatic sip, forgetting the contents of his glass altogether. "Sithspit!" he yelped.

Jaina ignored him and focused in on Winter. "I need to restart the Insiders," she said.

"What about Luke and Corran, then?" Winter asked.

Jaina looked her full in the eye for a long moment without speaking. When Winter finally nodded, Jaina turned back around to face the others.

Kyp, however, did not feel like letting the question pass. "They're not here," he said flatly.

Jaina shrugged, a half-nervous expression flitting across her features. "They're Jedi Masters," she stated, waving a hand into the air. "I can't count on them to shoot first and ask questions later."

"Then why am I here?" Last time Kyp had checked—which had admittedly been before he had started drinking the brandy—he was still a Jedi Master.

Jaina shrugged again and scowled. "Because I need you to make sure that they," she said, pointing towards the huddle behind him, "don't shoot first and ask questions later either."

"In other words," Leia said, cutting Kyp off to spare them all from Jaina's frustration, "Luke and Corran are needed on Flareship, but the rest of us could conceivably copy Ben and hide somewhere else if we're followed."

"Which means that," Han continued, picking up where his wife had ended, "if you're particularly attached to your room at the moment, go out the door and keep your mouth shut."

"Got it?" Jaina said, raising an eyebrow at the group. When nobody tried to leave, she nudged the door shut with her foot. "Good. Now I can tell you what we're going to be doing."

"Which is?" Wedge pouted.

"We're going to be temporarily reforming the Insiders."

"How temporarily?" Iella asked, and then stopped herself. "I should probably rephrase that. What you do want out of this? Is this just for one mission, or is this going to be a permanent thing?"

"For now, just one mission," Jaina replied. "Once that's over, we can decide what to do with it all."

"Well?" Lando demanded. "What are we doing?"

Jaina's face tightened. "Retrieval mission," she said curtly. "In and out. If we're lucky, nothing goes run and we'll be back here in a few hours."

"Who and where?" Kyp asked. "And what if something does go wrong?"

"Jag's hurt," Jaina said bluntly. "I don't know where. Somewhere close. That's why you're here."

Leia leaned forward. "You felt it?" she asked.

"About half an hour ago, but then it faded out and I can't track it anymore. He's probably in hyperspace," she amended at Wedge's horrified look. "I didn't feel him die, but we're going to split up and try to grab him as soon as he drops into realspace."

"Why me?" Kyp asked. "I'm not that good at tracking. And what if something goes wrong?" he repeated again.

"You're terrible at tracking," Jaina corrected. "But you and Zekk are the ones that have worked with Jag the most. Zekk's not n—well, he's not as needed here. I would have picked him, except that he's drunk." She glared at her father.

"And if something goes wrong?" Kyp asked for the third time.

Jaina's eyes half-closed for a moment. "Then someone will die," she said quietly.

In the silence that ensued, she turned around and began striding toward the doorway. "Make sure to finish off your brandy before the leave the room," she called back. "We take off in an hour."

After Jaina was gone, Kyp eyed his brandy with distaste. "Do we have to?" he asked, swirling it around.

"You might get away with not drinking yours," Wedge grumbled, glancing towards Iella, who was regarding him with arms crossed. "But I don't think I have a choice."


Caridan Exile, Unknown Regions

"Why was I not informed of this?" Gavrisom yelled, his face flushed and spittle flying from his lips.

"I'm sorry?" Alei asked, forcing down a smile.

"The jump!" he snapped. "The jump already happened! Why was I not told?"

Alei denied him the respect of being told to his face, and returned to look at the system scans. "I'm afraid that I have no idea what you mean, Commander," she replied blithely. "Since you're still here, it's clear that we have yet to jump."

"Don't mock me!"

Alei whirled around, rolling her eyes so that he could see. "I am not mocking you," she stated. "I am pointing out the facts. If you are unable to process them, I'm afraid I don't have the time to help."

Gavrisom lunged forward amidst a maelstrom of purple and gold brocade. He stopped only inches from Alei's startled face. "Do not play word games with me, handmaiden," he hissed, enunciating every word. "Aula confides in you."

"You will address her as Commander Syani," Alei bit back, using the oft-repeated phrase to buy herself a moment to think.

"Commander Syani, then," Gavrisom mocked. "It hardly makes any difference. You carry all her most trusted secret. You knew that most of the fleet has already left."

Aula glared back. "Is that what you have, Gavrisom? Generalizations and assumptions. I pity the man who has to give you your assignments, since he must spend half his time waiting for you to understand them."

"Tell me her secrets," he insisted, leaning forward so that his lips were mere inches from hers. "Tell me what you know."

She shook her head. "If I were a secret keeper that could not keep secrets," she whispered.

He drew closer, hanging on every word.

"If I were a secret keeper that could not keep secrets," she repeated, "then I would be dead." She spat in his face before he understood her trick.

He reared back, eyes flashing while his cheeks mottled with patches of red and purple that matched his cape.

"Then die!" he yelled, stepping forward to bring his hands around her neck.

Her eyes widened and her face paled. She tried to take a step back, only to find that she was bound into place by the ring of furious flesh circle her neck. "No!" she whispered in horror, pupils dilating.

"So you do fear something, then," he whispered, leaning in once again.

"I fear that I will die before the galaxy knows what you are," she tried to say, but her voice came out as a high squeak.

"What I am?" Gavrisom questioned with a slow, malevolent grin. "Or what I will be?"

Alei gazed back at him. "You've already become who you are—who you want to be," she said softly. "There is no changing that."

Gavrisom jerked, and his hands tightened around her neck. "That may be true," he admitted in much the same tone, "but if it is, then you do not understand who I am."

"Prove it to me," Alei challenged. "Show me."

Gavrisom drew his face away from hers, and his lips curled into a smile. "Very well," he conceded with a flourish, although his hands remained curled around her neck.

"Then let me go," Alei said hastily—too hastily.

He chuckled. "I will offer you two favors in exchange for a life."

Alei raised her eyebrows, confident the worst of the danger had passed. "My life, or yours?" she asked flippantly.

He chuckled again. "Yours, of course. Do you agree to my terms?"

"What are the favors?" Alei demanded.

"First," Gavrisom said, "that I will make the jump with my squadron, and that no harm or disgrace will come to me before then."

"Not in any relation to my actions," Alei agreed. "I cannot promise that fate will agree with me."

He nodded. With a jerk, Gavrisom pulled her body forward and then shoved her back, releasing his hands from her neck so that she went careening into the floor.

"The second," he stated, towering over her, "I will ask for in my own time."

"So long as it is good for the Caridan people," Alei whimpered, trying to pull herself upright.

"And so it will be."


Mos Eisley Cantina, Tatooine

In the over four decades that had passed since Luke Skywalker and Han Solo had first met there, the inside of the Mos Eisley Cantina had changed very little. The bartenders had aged and another layer of dust had settled over the tables. Superficially, however, even those changes were barely visible. Dye covered the hair of the bartenders, leaving the wrinkles around their eyes the main evidence of aging. The subdued lighting in the room, which stayed just a shade above pure darkness, prevented the grime on the tables from being readily seen.

Despite that, the cantina was no less seedy than ever. Even with the long-standing rules, various blasters—most of them illegal, extremely deadly, or both—hung conspicuously in the belts of various species. The only ones not packing visible weapons were those who showed their true faces—the ones known to be good fighters or known to have multiple hidden blasters, so that only a complete fool would engage them in combat.

That did not mean, of course, that even big blasters could protect a drinker from attack. Anyone who wasn't much of a fighter had either avoided the place altogether, or kept their identities well-concealed behind hoods and cowls, disguises and makeup.

The doorway provided the main source of light for the entire cantina—kept eternally open in the hope of luring unsuspecting customers in, its orientation nevertheless meant that full sunlight only filtered through for a small portion of the day. Otherwise, the bartenders kept a dim glow alive under the counter so that they could see what drinks they mixed, and an occasional blaster bolt led to a brief bout of illumination.

Over the years, patrons who frequented the place had discovered a number of subtle corners that could not be lit up at all unless one turned on a glowstick while there. These same patrons had also developed an awareness—at the cost of multiple lives—that sitting in any of those positions meant certain death from one of the various crime or drug lords that had claimed the spot.

The drug lords, it was understood by most customers, preferred darkness to prevent themselves from being seen, while being able to watch the room in case of an attempted arrest—not that many had ever happened. With the willingness of most of the patrons to back up their power with force in mind, few soldiers ventured inside, and those that ducked in for a drink while in uniform kept themselves in full sight and well towards the center of the room.

Almost all of the patrons wore dark clothing—partly because wear and dust turned anything that color after a few days, and partly because it gave them the opportunity to slink around unnoticed in the pallor of the room. Interestingly enough, however, the gleam of stormtrooper armor was not altogether uncommon—while no real stormtroopers remained, the authorities on Tatooine had never bothered to confiscate the armor. Therefore, the patrons kept them because it afforded them some protection against hand-to-hand combat weapons—and because it stood as a reminder that, while the Empire was long done, the traditions of the cantina were not.

Even though it was barely midday, the cantina was fairly crowded, but still nowhere near its full capacity. In the evening, once the dancers emerged onto the tiny, but well-illuminated stage at the back, a new crowd would pour into the cantina, prompting many of the more dubious members to take advantage of the chaos and make a convenient disappearance.

At the very end of the bar—a place illuminated just enough to outline a dim and shadowy figure—Yub Stimson sat with a still-full mug in front of him. Covered in a dark brown cloak, he had drawn the hood up around his face to hide a head full of blond hair—hair that would have stood out immediately in the room. He scowled as another man, similarly garbed but with the hood left down to reveal short-cropped dark hair—plopped himself onto an adjacent seat.

"Another Lomin Ale for me," he growled as he saw the drink in front of Yub.

Seeing as he had barely drunk more than a sip or two in the several hours since he had ordered his drink, Stimson hastily took up his mug. When the bartender arrived, he pretended to gulp down the last remnants while actually tossing the brew onto the wall beside him. Setting the empty mug down as Janson slapped a few credits onto the countertop, he gestured for a refill.

Once the bartender finally left, Yub let out a tired sigh and slumped down even further into his seat. "You realize that no matter how much to try to belong here, you'll always be too cheerful to fit in?"

"I may not be grim enough, but I'll certainly be drunk enough in a few minutes," Wes Janson said in a low, sing-song voice.

Yub just frowned and leaned his head against the wall. "First of all, there's a difference between being drunk and therefore happy, and being happy but simultaneously drunk. Anyone here could tell you the same if you asked, as long as they don't try to kill you first."

Eyeing his drink and grimacing, he took the smallest of sips, made a face, and immediately slapped the mug down.

"Secondly, I'd prefer it if you would at least wait until we're finished talking before you get yourself drunk. I don't deal well with drunk pilots, I don't deal well with Rogue Squadron pilots, and I don't want to find out what I'll d if I have to deal with a drunk Rogue Squadron pilot."

Wes moved—something between a nod and a shrug. Then, he picked his mug up and took a "drink," but Yub saw very little of the alcohol actually make it into Wes's mouth. Rather, Wes's massive spillage, followed by grumbles and complaints from the surrounding patrons—patrons that immediately began to move away—appeared more of a theatrical performance than anything else.

"How did your meeting go?" Wes asked in a low whisper while continuing to take sloppy "sips" of Lomin Ale. "I started wondering after you didn't arrange a meeting until a couple weeks after you said you would."

"Nothing significant happened," Yub said curtly, but at the same volume. "I got dosed by some Force lightning and I wasn't in much of a state to do anything, so I found an empty room at one of the places around here and slept for a couple weeks."

Wes grinned. "Considering what I know of the beds at the 'places around here,' I bet that was comfortable."

"No beds, just a floor," Yub admitted. "But it still beats having to sleep in a cockpit for a couple days straight."

Wes shot him a concerned glance. "You weren't able to get any bacta, then?"

Yub let out a bitter snort. "Too expensive for me. And if I had showed up at any of the medwards that could afford to keep more than a couple bacta bandages around, they would have started asking questions. Thankfully," he said, reaching a hand up to his face, "the scars aren't too bad, and most of them don't look permanent."

"Nonpermanent and not painful are two different things," Wes intoned. The phrase sounded like some bizarre children's nursery rhyme said in a raspy voice—the stuff of children's' nightmares. "I'll take the not painful over the not permanent."

Yub glared at him. "That's enough," he snapped. "That part's over already, so we better start talking logistics. There's no point in wasting time, and if we stick around here for too long, it'll start looking suspicious."

"You don't frequent these places much, do you?" Wes asked with an amused grin. "If they have to carry you out on a hoversled, then you'll start looking like one of the regulars."

Stimson snorted. "Stop wasting time and start talking logistics," he repeated.

"Such as?"

Yub rolled his eyes. "Such as Jacen Solo."

"Darth Caedus," Wes hissed, instantly irritable.

"Considering that they inhabit the same body, I fail to see the difference between them once they're dead. In any case," Yub continued, ignoring Wes' attempts to cut in, "we need to eliminate him as a problem."

Wes groaned. "I already know I'm crazy. I already know you're crazy. But if you're going to do what I think you're going to do, then you're just plain stupid. And this is coming from someone who's spent too much time with Han Solo and Wedge Antilles."

Yub ignored him. "It's not stupid. It's practical."

"Fine," Wes agreed. "It's not stupid. It's idiotic."

Yub glared at him again. "It's not as bad as you think. I just need your help to contact someone that can get me into Coruscant without being spotted."

"Fine," Wes repeated. "It's not bad. It's suicidal."

"Stop being irritating, Janson." Yub took a gulp of ale, deciding that being drunk was preferable to having to listen to the man. "I know that you know people who can do that."

Wes sighed, sobering up slightly. "Luke is going to kill me."

"You're going to ask Ben Skywalker?" Yub let out a snort. "You must be even more insane than I am. I'm only planning on taking on Jacen Solo, at least."

Wes shrugged. "Ben's the only one I know that isn't on that hidden Jedi base—wherever that hidden Jedi base happens to be—and he was Jacen's apprentice for a while when Caedus was still Jacen, so we can hope that he knows Caedus as well."

"Jacen or Caedus?"

Wes winced and buried his face into his hands. "I need to be a lot more drunk if you want an answer to that. Ask me again in an hour and I might be able to give you a coherent reply."

Yub changed tracks. "So you're intending for me to get out alive. I find that reassuring."

Wes' eyes peeked out from behind his hands and he grinned. "Whoever said anything about getting out alive?"

Yub sighed. "I'll assume that you don't want Luke Skywalker to kill you," he recited. "I'll also assume that you think that Luke Skywalker would kill you if he found out his son was dead on some mission that you suggested. Then, I'll assume that Ben Skywalker isn't the type of person who would just leave me behind. That means that either I get out alive, or you're dead."

Wes grunted.

"Isn't that encouraging?" Yub said with false cheer, and immediately blamed the Lomin Ale."Your life or death depends on mine, even if you don't come along on the mission."

Wes glared without responding. Instead, he banged his hand down on the bar and, once the bartender arrived, gestured for more drinks. Only an hour later, when a pyramid of empty mugs rested on the countertop in front of them, did either of them speak.

"I still can't believe that you came up with this pseudonym. It sounds like a two-year-old's nickname!" Yub laughed.

Downing the remnant of his drink, Wes grinned. He beckoned to the bartender—who was now keeping a firm eye on the two due to the rate that they were drinking the ale—and nodded for a refill. "Exactly. It sounds so fake that Caedus would never think it was."

"From what my brother's told that, that sounds like Han Solo's logic, and Jacen Solo is his son, so he could probably see through it all."

"F—"

Yub cut him off. "Don't use my real name."

Wes let out a merry cackle. "Fine, Yub." He sobered for a moment. "Jacen Solo may be Han Solo's son, but Darth Caedus is not."

"Once again, I fail to see the difference. To my knowledge, a transformation into a Sith Lord doesn't completely erase somebody's brain."

Wes let out a tired sigh. "It won't really matter for us anyways. Any redemption or something like that will be up to Jedi. I probably shouldn't even believe in the stuff, but I've spent too long listening to Luke wax on after Jade's death. We're just pawns, and our job is to find a way to get them close enough to Caedus so that they can do theirs."

He brightened up as a bar fight broke out behind them. "At least—your job in the war is to follow orders and do just that. I've never been one to follow orders, but, given your family history, you'll probably do a decent job."

"And if I was the black sheep of the family?" Yub decided that the alcohol must have gotten to his head, since he had just made a joke.

"A black sheep under your father!" Wes Janson laughed.

"Yes, General—" Yub stopped when Wes shoved him over. "What was that for?"

Wes grabbed hold of his arm. "We'd better get out of her before you let something slip. You don't look like you can hold your liquor, and I'm going to drag you out when you still have something left in your head, and not wait until I have to make a scene about it."

"Since when do you not make a scene about anything?" Yub muttered as he was dragged out the door.

Wes groaned as he made it through the door. If dealing with a drunk Rogue Squadron pilot was bad, dealing with a drunk Chiss ex-robot had to be worse.