“That you need to get a grip on this. We talk, you know.”
“So we have a Jedi Council with the Skywalkers, and a shadow Council meeting without them … sounds like a fault line’s forming.”
“Well, you decided to go whack a Sith without consulting us …”
Mara tried to see the double standard, spotted it easily, and ignored it. “If I’d stood up in Council and said, Hey, this lunatic is threatening my kid and keeps coming after my husband, so Pm going to take her head offyou really think the other members would have nodded politely and voted on it? There are folks who think like Luke does, that the Council doesn’t condone assassinations, and that would make that fault line into a big rift faster than a greased Podracer.”
Kyp inspected the depths of his juice. He’d ordered something thick and opaquely orange that he didn’t seem to be enjoying. “So you’re saving us from the moral dilemma.”
“If that’s the way you want to see it.”
The vitajuice bar was quiet and smelled unappetizingly of wet raw greenery like a flower shop. Maybe that was why it was so quiet; it made it a good place to meet. Nobody knew them here. Most of the customers seemed to be Ementes, probably because they could guarantee getting totally fruit-based nourishment here, prepared right in front of their six eyes. Ementes weren’t big on trust, least of all in Coruscant’s catering industry.
How much do I expect everyone to trust me?
Mara struggled with not telling her husband the entire truth while she confided in a friend. That was the problem: they were all friends, the whole Jedi Council. The Galactic Alliance Senate could tear chunks out of itself and not feel it, because it was thousands of rivals and enemies and even strangers, but the Councilthey’d grown up together in many cases. They’d fought together. They were family, and not just because they were Jedi.
Cilghal often cited the ancient rule of no attachments, but the Council was one big attachment in its own right.
Mara realized she didn’t like dewflower, mused on ways to get around a lightwhip, and then flinched as her comlink chirped. She pulled it from her belt and raised it to see Ben’s face.
“Mom, I just landed,” he said. “I”
“Ben? Are you at the military port?”
“No, the civilian one. Galactic City. Look, I’m sorry that”
“Stay right where you are. Don’t move, okay? I’ll meet you at Arrivals Seven-B, okay?”
“Mom”
“No arguing this time. Be there.” Mara snapped the comlink closed and grabbed her jacket. “If you’re thinking of telling Luke, Kyp, give me a head start.”
“Wouldn’t dream of getting involved,” he said, shrugging. “I’m glad Ben’s okay. Just remember that kids like clear limits. He’s still too young to set his own.”
“Tried that,” Mara said, and strode for the doors. “And he set his own just fine.”
She worked her way through the crowds at the spaceport, sensing Ben’s location. There were black-suited GAG personnel operating openly now, on foot patrol in the arrivals hall with blue-uniformed CSF officers. They were pretty conspicuous for secret police. Jacen was adept at hearts-and-minds operations; he seemed to like to have his deterrents visible. It certainly seemed to reassure the public, despite the black visors that gave the GAG troopers the facelessly dispassionate air of battle droids.
And suddenly there was Ben, sitting on the white marble pedestal of the ten-meter abstract statue of Prosperity that formed one of the supports for the central dome of the roof of the arrivals hall. Prosperity, Progress, Culture, and Peace.
Peace. Fat chance.
Ben looked like any other fourteen-year-old kid, drumming his heels idly against the marble, staring intently at his datapad and keying in something one-handed. A GAG trooper passed him. Ben looked up, nodded in acknowledgment, and got a respectful nod back.
If Mara needed a reminder that Ben was anything but a normal teenager, that was it. He was a junior lieutenant. He commanded troopers like that. Her son helped run the secret police.
But she’d learned the most silent and efficient ways to kill the Emperor’s enemies by Ben’s age, and Luke had been just five years older when he joined the Rebellion.
What did we expect to give birth to, a librarian?
“Hi, Mom.” Ben slid the datapad into his jacket pocket. He had that tight-lipped look that went with bracing for a dressing-down. “You’re mad at me, right?”
Mara paused, wanting at the same time to yell at him for terrifying her and to grab him in a ferocious hug. She settled for swallowing both reactions and ruffling his hair. He’d never live it down back at the barracks otherwise.