Ben opened the file anyway, feeling immune to whatever might leap out at him. So… Mom had bawled out Jacen in front of witnesses. She’d even accused him of being Sith and threatened him. But Shevu knew him well enough to know what would sting.
It was over me. It was all over me. Oh no. Mom, I was never worth that. It’s too high a price.
Seeing the cold evidence that she’d warned Jacen to stay away from him threatened to crumble his fragile and newfound sense of peace. But then he looked at it through Shevu’s eyes, and wondered if the captain had thought this: that it could have looked as if Mara was the one who went after Jacen and attacked him, not the other way around.
It was subtle twist to what Ben had already thought-that his mother had gone after Jacen because she thought he was dangerous and had to be stopped-but it intro-duced a possibility that she might have intended to do more than arrest him.
Ben knew Mom was tough. She was a trained assassin; she didn’t shy away from fights. He wanted to cherish her memory as a blameless victim, above dark emotions like lethal vengeance.
Am I upset?
Part of him was proud that his mother had faced down a Sith Lord in combat. Part wondered how that squared with his recent understanding that vengeance wasn’t justified. And part felt devastated that he was the motive, and that if only he’d seen Jacen for what he was and shunned him, his mother might still be alive.
A message came in on the datapad. Dad had just sent it before he jumped to hyperspace.
Ben, I forgot to take Mara’s locket with me. It’s in the box in my quarters. If you have to clear out before we get back, please take good care of it.
Ben clasped the locket in his closed fist and pressed it to his chest.
“I got it, Dad, “he said aloud. “I got it.”
ADMIRAL’S DAY CABIN, IMPERIAL STAR DESTROYER BLOODFIN; RAVELIN DOCKYARD, BASTION
“How many years?” Pellaeon asked. “And I can’t get over how lovely you still are. You’ve worn very well.”
Daala drummed her fingers in the exact rhythm he’d transmitted as the emergency call. She smiled; a real smile, genuine warmth. “You called. I promised you I’d always come if you used that code, just like Daerkaer. What’s the problem?”
“The Galactic Alliance.”
“Yes, Jacen Solo, unhindered by Admiral Niathal. Going for the galactic record for the fastest plunge into bloody anarchy and most stylish black outfit. So, are you all dressed up to go to Fondor?”
This was why Pellaeon was happy to admit that he was in awe of her. Daala had vanished for-what, twenty years? Twenty-five? And she still had up-to-date intelligence. He’d lost count of the times she’d been written off, apparently defeated, even presumed killed, but still kept coming back to put a serious dent in the New Republic. It was almost thrilling to watch her beat the odds so consistently, even when she was a threat.
And as far as Pellaeon was concerned, she still held an Imperial commission. “Impressive. Most impressive.”
Daala laughed. “You never could quite do the voice, but the intonation is perfect.” She reached across the gap between their chairs and patted his hand, still the accom-plished seducer; not in a coy, subservient way, but with the absolute confidence of someone with real physical power who just happened to be a good-looking woman, and knew it, and understood that even the most resistant weren’t wholly immune to it. “Yes, I might prefer to live in obscurity, but I’m neither deaf nor blind.”
“I won’t even ask about your intelligence network, my dear…”
She smiled and lit up the cabin again. “I never reveal my age or my sources.”
“I’m pleased to see that the Ryn intelligence community still makes a good living.”
“And they’re not the only ones.”
“I miss our little verbal sparring sessions, my dear.”
“So do I, Gil. But I’m here. What can I do for you?”
Pellaeon had no idea if she had come empty-handed or if she still had a fleet. She took ships with her every time she escaped. Vessels and experimental weapons technology had vanished into the Maw Installation when Daala was running it as Grand Moff Tarkin’s bit on the side, as the bitterly resentful male officers had called her-one of the less offensive names she’d been called-and Pellaeon had no idea how much she could roll out today. It might all have been rust, dust, and perished plastoids; it might have been the most advanced fleet in the galaxy, just waiting for the ideal moment to emerge and smash the concept of re-public for good. He had no way of knowing unless she showed him.
She was still here despite the Yuuzhan Vong War, and that told him a great deal.