Part 25

Alec Pradeux stood, gazing out across the buildings of the Palace sector. Bathed in the orange glow of the setting sun, he waited patiently for the Emperor to conclude his audience with Vader.

Palpatine had tightened his leash on the Sith Lord on his return from Gehndaaria. Ritaaz Oston was still bleating about Vader's heavy-handedness and blatant disregard for his authority as planetary Governor.

Pradeux had little sympathy for Oston. The man was not there to make friends: his duty was to enforce the authority of the Emperor. Gehndaaria would not be the first planet to suffer the full force of the Emperor's displeasure at their continued whining and complaining. If Oston was not up to the job, he would be replaced or the planet would simply be put under military governance. Just as Vader's leash had been tightened, so would that of the ingrates and malcontents who were unable to see the full picture and understand the potential of what the Empire could bring to them...

It continued to surprise him that there were still those who abandoned the safety and security the Empire offered them and looked, instead, to Mothma and her Rebel terrorists: whose dissatisfaction was fanned by the fetid remnants of the antediluvian Jedi.

His mouth pulled into a tight line of distaste.

Those damned magicians used smoke and mirrors to hide themselves. Nothing would be heard of them for years then one would suddenly appear. Like Kenobi...

Vader had dispatched the one-time General, but not before the old man had thrown another familiar name into the fray: Skywalker. Perhaps not instantly recognisable to the majority of the Empire, the name had certainly meant something to those who had known Jedi Master Anakin Skywalker.

The man had died during the destruction of the Jedi temple, cut down by Vader, but a son had survived. Kenobi had hidden the brat, who had come of age just in time for Mothma and her Rebel fanatics to wheel him out and have him take credit for the destruction of the Death Star.

Even Pradeux had found it hard to deny the boy's heritage. The resemblance to Anakin Skywalker was striking.

Vader had obviously become obsessed with Skywalker's son: hence his disregard for Palpatine's orders on Gehndaaria. The Emperor had reeled the Sith Lord in, confined him to quarters: isolated him. In the previous few days his only contact had been with Palpatine.

The doors to the Emperor's private offices opened. Pradeux turned, watching, but not acknowledging, Vader as the Sith Lord strode from the room. Two Imperial guards moved in from where they waited, flanking him as he walked across the waiting area and out into the corridor.

Palpatine's doors remained open and Pradeux moved through them, waiting just inside the office.

The Emperor was settling himself into his throne, pushing back the cowl to reveal his disfigured face: a constant reminder of the Jedi treachery. He saw Pradeux and beckoned to him, greeting, "Alec, my friend, come in. Come in."

Pradeux smiled, walking towards him. "Lord Vader continues to try your patience?" he asked.

Palpatine gave a short, barked, laugh, deriding, "Lord Vader is an instrument, a blunt instrument. He works best when obeying orders. When given time to think for himself, his lack of acumen becomes all too apparent!"

It was an evasion of the truth: but Palpatine excelled at twisting the truth. The Emperor knew that the reality was that Vader's encounter with Kenobi had left him unsettled and preoccupied with memories of Padme Amidala.

Vader was powerful: he had been pivotal to Palpatine's plans to out-manoeuvre the Jedi... but despite his education, he was slow to recognise the subtle nuances of politics. He had been easily groomed, readily falling prey to his jealousies and insecurities, turning further and more quickly into the embrace of the Dark Side than Palpatine had anticipated.

Kenobi's final betrayal on Mustafar had been a most surprising, and welcome, catalyst. His own lie about Amidala's death had simply severed already tenuous threads, ensuring the death of Anakin Skywalker and reinforcing the persona of Darth Vader.

And that was all that was required now: a reinforcing of the details that had grown vague in Vader's memory in the years since Mustafar.

Palpatine knew that Vader had been unsettled since his encounter with Obi Wan Kenobi on the Death Star. He had questioned Vader closely about the events leading up to the space station's demise. Vader had confirmed that he had been aware of Kenobi's presence, had tracked him down and dispatched him. He had assured Palpatine that he had sensed no other presence through the Force. If Skywalker was Force sensitive, Vader had seen no sign of it.

No new "Jedi" would rear up to rally the Rebel nuisance.

Isolation, meditation and careful manipulation would see that Vader was brought back to heel. Palptine accepted that it was something he should have done sooner, but he was not unduly concerned. Memories of Kenobi, of Amidala, and of Vader's life before the fall of the Jedi would soon be consigned to memories of betrayal, infidelity and treachery.

Smiling at Pradeux, Palpatine finished, "Lord Vader has been reminded of his place. You have news of Organa?" he asked, deftly dismissing the issue of the Sith Lord.

"He is responding as anticipated," Pradeux supplied. "Major Castell is most positive."

Palpatine looked at him, "Then what troubles you?"

Pradeux considered his words carefully. "Oston, on Gehndaaria," he began. "We may have to replace him. The man has concerns that Vader's disregard for his authority, so soon after taking up the post as Governor, will make him appear weak in the eyes of the Diazez Cartel. He requests, yet again, that he be supplied with the location of the traitor Yolan Nabrood."

Palpatine considered Pradeux's words.

The Cartel had proven their loyalty by handing over the Rebels. Granted, they had been embarrassed by Nabrood's treachery but they had also given him over to Vader without question. Their demand to deal with the traitor in their own way, once Vader had finished with him, was not unreasonable.

The Cartel also had a far-reaching influence: one that could be used to the benefit of the Empire. And it was much easier to corral a willing animal than to drag it in with brute force. Granted, the Diazez families had been unwise in their selection of their security advisor, but their oversight, Palptine concluded, should be pitied for the moment, not punished.

That Oston had obviously already built some rapport with the Diazez families was also an asset. To remove him now may complicate an already delicate situation.

Besides, the prospect of allowing Oston to know the whereabouts of Yolan Nabrood, when that very same fact was being withheld from Vader, amused him greatly.

"No, my friend," he ordered. "Leave Oston as he is for the moment. Provide him with the location of the Diazez traitor. See what he does with it and report back to me."

oo0oo

Wedge Antilles started awake and lay, gasping for breath, as the nightmare images of the dream dissolved slowly in the stark, white light. He closed his eyes, wiping his hand across his face, frowning slightly as the ghost of agony flashed up his spine and across his chest.

Dropping his arm onto the floor above his head, he opened his eyes, squinting into the light from the ceiling as his breathing slowed. Then, slowly, he sat up.

There was another man there, asleep against the other wall: a big man, with scars on his face and chest.

Wedge frowned. Instinct told him that he knew the man, but he couldn't remember why. Turning, settling his back against the wall, drawing his knees up to rest his feet flat on the floor, Wedge watched the man sleep for a few moments.

I am sorry, my friend… You were the target of the bounty hunters.

The memory surfaced, briefly, then retreated.

Panic flared in the pit of his belly. Were they in the hands of bounty hunters? The thought terrified him but he had no idea why.

He closed his eyes, trying to bring the memory back…

You were the target of the bounty hunters.

He had been lying on the floor. Nabrood had been crouching at his side.

Nabrood…

Was this man Nabrood?

Another memory washed in. He had been lying on the floor, another floor. A blond woman had been kneeling at his side. Ali… I can't feel my legs…

Afterimages of agony flowed down his spine.

Your friends are lost to you. Downhigher has gone. Skywalker is dead… Aksha is dead…

Wedge tried to breathe against the grief that clawed up into his throat: not understanding it, unable to remember who Downhigher, Skywalker or Aksha were. He closed his eyes, dropping his head into his hands as a sob tore up from his chest.

I am sorry, my friend, there was no other way…

You are a traitor! No one knows you're here… You're all alone and the closest thing you have to a friend is me… Let me help you…

Leave him alone! He's injured, damn you!

Lieutenant Commander Wedge Antilles... I have very much been looking forward to this...

Get Clear, Wedge...

I chose to surrender and stand accountable for the crimes I have committed against the Galactic Empire...

Images and memories rushed at him, reeling through his head: faces and places; terror-filled darkness. Panic flared, compounding the grief, leaving him unable to get breath into his lungs.

Strong hands grasped his shoulders. He flinched, trying to fight them off, but they wrapped around his wrists instead.

"Brother!" Nabrood tried again, concerned by the pilot's escalating panic. Wedge continued to fight him and he knew that he would be unable to hold Wedge down without risking doing more damage to his own, already injured ribs.

Inspiration struck. "Forgive me, brother," he told Wedge softly. Then he let go of the pilot's wrists, slapping him hard across the face, barking, "Look at me!"

Wedge gasped, dragging in a large lungful of air.

"Look at me!" Nabrood ordered again.

The pilot's eyes focussed slowly. Nabrood watched him, dropping a reassuring hand onto his shoulder as he asked, "Brother? Do you see me?"

Breath still coming in sobbed gasps, but the panic fading, Wedge looked back at him, nodding slowly, "Yes..."

Smiling, Nabrood squeezed his shoulder again then moved to sit beside him, easing back against the wall, wincing as his ribs protested the movement.

The discomfort had made sleeping difficult, but he had been able to get a few hours. Enough, at least, to keep his mind alert. He had been resting with his eyes closed, running through what he remembered of the facility, when Wedge had woken.

He drew his knees up, resting his forearms on them, hands clasped. "Better?" he asked.

Wedge rubbed his hands across his face, taking a deep, calming breath: coherent, rational thought slowly pushing aside the fog of panic. "Nabrood?"

"Yes, my friend?" the man returned.

Wedge closed his eyes, letting his head sink back against the wall. He wasn't alone. He knew this man.

"I don't remember…"

Nabrood turned his head, looking at the pilot, "What escapes you, brother?"

Wedge swallowed, opening his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. "Everything… I… I know you're Nabrood… and there was a woman… and a sky walker…"

He dropped his gaze, turning to look at Nabrood, "What's a sky walker?"

Nabrood sighed softly, realising now why the pilot had been in such turmoil after he had woken. "Luke Skywalker is a man," he told the pilot, keeping his tone calm and measured. "He is your friend," he explained. "You knew where he was. The Empire drugged and tortured you to find him."

Get Clear, Wedge...

The image of a blond man in an orange flight suit floated up from the depths of his memory… but the face was blurred…

"And Aksha?" he asked, the grief welling up again. He pushed it down, taking a deep, slow breath against the constriction in his chest.

"Lieutenant Haniff-Brin Aksha," Nabrood supplied, "was with you. He was also tortured by the Empire…"

Wedge took that in, finally understanding the grief. "He's dead."

It was a statement, not a question and Nabrood looked away. He had no stomach for lying to Antilles, not after everything the pilot had suffered… but telling the truth now, without knowing who might be listening, would be folly. Lifting his head, looking back at Wedge, he told him simply, "I am sorry, brother."

"Am I?" Wedge asked.

Nabrood frowned, confused.

"Am I your brother?" Wedge asked.

"We are not related by blood," Nabrood told him, "but I am honoured to call you brother."

"So we're both traitors?"

Nabrood shook his head, "We serve neither the Empire nor its Emperor. Nor do your friends, Luke and Brin…"

You are a traitor… A member of the Rebel Alliance…

The door hissed open and a stormtrooper moved into the cell, levelling his blaster at the two of them. "On your feet!"

oo0oo

The X-wing technician scrambled up the side of the fighter and treated Luke to a tired, if tentatively jubilant, smile. "I think we may just have solved it," he told Luke before ordering, "Fire up the guns, Commander! And cross everything you've got!"

"Okay, Artoo," Luke called, "you heard him! Bring the weapons systems back online."

The little droid whistled and did as Skywalker asked.

The technician peered into the depths if the cockpit, squinting at the indications on the control panels as the systems powered up. Luke ran through the checklist then hit the final switch. The smile on the technician's face widened into a grin as he heard the soft whine of the cannons powering up. Not daring to breathe, he watched the indications settle into the green.

A smile tugged at Luke's mouth as he confirmed, "Weapons systems… online!"

"You dancer!" he breathed softly, gently patting the side of the fighter.

There was a whoop of delight from below and the two techs standing at the foot of the ladder grabbed each other and did a little jig of victory.

"What was the problem?" Luke asked.

"Some bugger had spliced into the flux array," the technician told him, "tweaked the parameters and bypassed the destabilisation warning. Because of the bypass loop there was no way to remotely detect the splice. Luckily, because the array could never stabilise, the automatic shutdown was engaging. If they'd tampered with that, the blow-back would have left a nice, T-65-sized crater in the ground."

Luke turned his head, looking at him, all trace of humour gone as he realised the implications of what could have happened. Hobbie could have been killed. All five of the X-wings could have been destroyed. "They were trying to destroy the fighers?" he asked. "Not just disable them?"

"I doubt it was a deliberate attempt to blow the birds, Sir," the technician assured him, "more like someone who didn't really know what they were doing. Damned fools came close to killing themselves up, pulling a stunt like that. Well, Sir," he went on, "if you'll excuse me, we've got work to do. We need to find out what other little surprises our bungling inepts might have left us."

He disappeared, sliding down the ladder to the ground. Artoo burbled softly and Luke glanced down at the data translation on the screen. Smiling, he turned to look at the little droid, assuring him, "Yes, the fighters are safe, Artoo. The engineers will go over them section by section before they let us fly them."

"Master Luke?"

Luke stood up, looking down over the side, "What is it, Threepio?"

"Her Royal Highness asked me to remind you that you have an appointment with Specialist Nejes."

Specialist Gemaria Nejes was the psychologist assigned to make sure that he and the other pilots were coping with the "inevitable after-effects of a physically and emotionally traumatic event."

Specialist Nejes was also curvaceous, with dark eyes and a full mouth that broke easily into a dimpled smile. She was just the sort of woman to have pulled a soft, low whistle of appreciation from Wedge Antilles: right before he tugged his uniform straight, threw a "See you later!" to whoever was with him, and went after her.

Hey, baby! Where have you been all my life?

Guilt and anger reared up: as it did every time Luke thought about Wedge, drowning the small voice of logic in his mind that tried to remind him that there was nothing else they could have done; that hundreds of innocents would have died if they'd tried to rescue Wedge from Vader…

A young Jedi named Darth Vader betrayed and murdered your father…

Vader hadn't only murdered his father, he had murdered Ben Kenobi too: the man who had offered him a tantalising glimpse of who his father had been, of the power of the Force…

You must learn the ways of the Force…

Shame flooded in, tightening in Luke's chest. His father had fought bravely and courageously in the Clone Wars... Ben had selflessly faced Vader to buy them the time to escape the Death Star… And here he was: hidden in a Rebel base, unable to deny that part of him was relieved that he had not been the one in the cell with Vader on Gehndaaria.

He wasn't fit to be a Rebel officer, let alone a Jedi knight. He closed his eyes, curling his hands into fists.

Wedge... I'm sorry...

"Master Luke?"

Opening his eyes, Luke glanced down at the protocol droid then swung his legs over the side of the fighter. "I'm coming, Threepio," he told the droid. "Let the doc know I'm on my way."

oo0oo

Oston stepped out of the landcruiser. He paused briefly, to tug his uniform jacket gently into place, before climbing the steps to the brightly-lit foyer of the Diazez manor. Commander Jarod Lekk appeared from the other side of the cruiser, walking around it to follow Oston up the steps.

Lyn Areese bowed graciously, announcing, "Governor, the Manwah is most gratified that you are able to grace her with your presence at this late hour. She awaits you in her private suite with two of her most trusted advisors..."

"Which advisors?" Oston asked, following the Secretar as she turned towards the grand staircase.

"Chieftain Derwhen Kenwa and Chieftain Takeil Ashaanai," Lyn supplied.

Oston had met Derwhen, a gruff, straight-talking old man, who, if Oston's sources were correct, had been a close friend of the Manwah's father. He hadn't met Ashaanai, but considering the course of events, Oston had made it his business to find out about all the other Chieftains, so he was familiar with man. And tales of the Ashaanai Chieftain's prowess in a fight against a gahlen, whatever that was, were already circulating in the city.

Oston said nothing more, following Lyn as she led him up the stairs and through the corridors of the manor. As they moved from the public areas to the more private, the ornate, grandeur and clan-based antiquities on display changed, slowly, towards a more subtle, distinguished opulence. Oston drank it all in.

A man who routinely enjoyed the finer things in life, and who prided himself on his knowledge of arts, music and wine, he found himself drawn to the richness of the tapestries and the uniqueness of the artwork. Only the pressing nature of his meeting with the Manwah prevented him from slowing to peruse them more closely… until he saw the portrait displayed in an alcove.

He stopped. It was a small, unassuming painting of a young, dark-haired girl looking down at a flower.

The voice in Lyn's earpiece warned her that Oston was no longer following her. She stopped, moving back to him. "Governor?"

"Is…" he began, "Is that a Monetha?"

Lyn knew that it was, but she made a show of pulling out a com unit and asking security to check the inventory.

"It's one of the Manwah's favourite paintings," Lyn supplied while she 'waited' for the answer. "It's an ancestor… of her father's line… Yes, Governor," she told him, "It is a Monetha… Now, please? If you will? The Manwah is waiting…"

"Yes," Oston told her, dragging himself away, "Yes… of course…"

Power, beauty and taste, he considered, following Lyn again. The more he learned about Jenniiya Elleba, the more intrigued he became with her.

The Secretar stopped, finally, pressing a door chime. There was a slight delay and then the door slid open. Lyn stepped back, ushering Oston and Lekk inside.

Jenniiya rose to her feet, walking across to them, a bright smile of pleasure on her face, "Governor, my thanks for joining us at this late hour…"

"The pleasure is entirely mine," he assured her, taking her proffered hand, lifting it to his mouth and kissing her fingers. She beamed at him, moving to his side, slipping her arm through his and escorting him across the room.

"Governor," she introduced, letting go if his arm, "you are already familiar with Derwhen Kenwa…"

"Indeed," Oston confirmed, bowing in acknowledgement of the older man. Derwhen inclined his head in response.

"Allow me to introduce Takeil of the Ashaanai, also a trusted friend."

Oston bowed to the younger man, somehow not surprised to find out that he was one of Jenniiya's closest advisors. Having the Ashaanai chieftain make the call of Misjudgement meant that Jenniiya had control over the situation while diffusing and addressing it. The Manwah was a skilled politician.

"I trust your injuries are healing well..." Oston offered.

"So news of your hunting encounter has reached even the Governor's ears!" Derwhen commented dryly, unable to resist teasing the Ashaanai Chieftain.

Takeil grinned. "Forgive me if I do not stand, Governor," he told Oston, "and I thank you, my injuries are healing."

"Governor," Jenniiya invited, indicating the seat beside Derwhen, "please, sit..."

The door opened again and serving droids moved in, bringing trays of kaffin, chai, juices, fruit and fresh-made bakes. Jenniiya waited until the droids had turned and were moving out of the door then took her seat. As the door closed, Jenniiya got straight to business as Lyn knelt beside the low table, pouring kaffin and offering it to Oston.

"Governor," Jenniiya began, glancing at Lekk who had moved to stand behind Oston, acknowledging him with a small nod, "my apologies for being unable to hold to our agreement of having Commander Lekk present in the Council Chamber... I trust you received the recordings by way of compensation?"

"Manwah," Oston assured her, "you made it clear at our last meeting that the Empire should not be seen to be involved in Council business. Had I known that proceedings within the Council Chambers were recorded, I would not have asked that the Commander be present."

"It is protection," Lyn told him, offering a plate of bakes. "There is no doubt about what was said. It has been so since the clans were forged together in Diazez."

"Council business should remain council business," Derwhen warned, "but the Manwah wished to honour your agreement and made a personal gift of the recordings."

"A gift that is much appreciated," Oston confirmed. "And," he went on, "can I congratulate you on how well you manoeuvred the Council."

Jenniiya smiled, "In what way, Governor?"

"Taking control of the situation by ensuring a trusted friend made the call for Misjudgement," Oston offered. "An astute move…"

Jenniiya kept the surprise from showing on her face, momentarily lost for words at his assumption. Her surprise increased when Takeil commented, "The Manwah requires many skills to keep the clans in order. Manipulation is one; thinking three steps ahead, is another. And when all else fails, the Manwah simply dazzles her quarry with her beauty. Tell me, Governor," he went on, leaning forward, "did the Manwah wear the green dress on your first meeting? Or the red?"

Derwhen chuckled softly. Jenniiya found her voice, accusing in mock sternness, "The death penalty is still handed down to those who would reveal Diazez secrets, Ashaanai!"

Oston laughed softly at the exchanged then admitted, "I regret, Chieftain Ashaanai, that I was too intent on making accusations of treachery to take notice… accusations which were swiftly laid aside when the Manwah proved the Diazez Clans to be faithful servants of the Emperor."

Jenniiya watched the smile stay firmly in place on Takeil's face. Only someone who knew him well would have seen the slight narrowing of his eyes. Jenniiya pushed down her own distaste. The Diazez Clans were the initiators of their own fate. They were servants of no one. Nor had they any desire to be allies of an Empire that tortured injured men and women.

"However," Oston was continuing, "I also realised the extent of the Manwah's political acumen at that point… Which brings me neatly to the most pressing of the matters between us…"

He smiled, sipping his kaffin before announcing, "I have ascertained the whereabouts of Yolan Nabrood. And with our combined political acumen, you may yet be able to hang him…"