[Legacy Of The Force] - 08(8)

“Whatever, “he said. “She’ll be taken care of.”

Fett wanted to blot the past out of his mind. He set course for Phaeda manually just to keep his hands busy, to stop thinking, and to avoid a conversation with Mirta; he even kept his helmet on in the cabin, his hint to her these days that he didn’t want to talk. But it was never that easy to fend off her scrutiny. She seemed to hate gaps in a story, and for her, Fett had a lot more gaps than story in his life.

“Where did you go this morning?” she asked.

Not telling her would just stoke the fire. And maybe he wanted to give in to the interrogation now, maybe it was time she knew, even though nobody else did, maybe… did he want her to think better of him?

Fett paused. “Shysa’s memorial.”

“Why?”

Here we go. “Hadn’t been there since he died.”

“Your brother said you deposed him…”

Brother? Brother. Jaing, Jaing Skirata, that stanging smart-aleck clone who was still around all these years later. “He’s not my brother. We just share a genome, more or less. And I told him he didn’t know what went on between me and Shysa.”

“But you came back, and Shysa didn’t.”

“Long story.”

“Got plenty of time. What happened?”

It gave Fett the occasional twinge of regret. It didn’t haunt him, because he’d done what he had to do, and the alternative would have gnawed away even at his durasteel conscience. He debated whether to tell her, worried about his reasons for resurrecting another grim episode of his life at a time like this.

“I killed him, “Fett said at last. “I killed Fenn Shysa.”



FLEET HQ, GALACTIC CITY

Admiral Cha Niathal could sense the mood of a ship-of shore establishment-the moment she stepped on board And the mood of this one was shocked fear.

It was impossible to keep some things quiet, and killing a junior officer on the bridge of the Anakin Solo was about as hard to hide as it got.

It can’t be true.

But the Anakin’s captain, Kral Nevil, a Quarren with a solid reputation both as a pilot and a commander, had witnessed it. He wasn’t the only one who’d seen the incident: it wasn’t just “buzz, “the fast-flowing river of gossip that circulated through both wardroom and lower deck throughout the fleet. Colonel Jacen Solo, joint Chief of State of the Galactic Alliance, had snapped Lieutenant Tebut’s neck without even touching her, on the bridge of his flagship, in full view of the crew. The reason didn’t matter. The enormity of the act made any reason irrelevant.

The news had leaked. It would go around the fleet like a flash signal. Even the absolute loyalty of the Star Destroyer’s rigorously vetted crew didn’t stop talk about something that serious. Tebut had been loyal, too, they would say to one another, and look what had happened to her.

It was just as well Niathal had reliable witnesses, because without them she would have dismissed it as wild rumor. Jacen had done plenty of dirty things on his rise to power, but this wasn’t just dirty. It was deranged.

He’s lost it. He’s becoming a megalomaniac. What do I do now?

She strode along the corridors of the HQ building toward the wardroom. On any other day, even in the middle of a war, the atmosphere in the building was busy and purposeful; the cumulative hum of voices had a certain pitch. If a ship had been lost in action, the hum dropped in volume and pitch and the sorrow was tangible, but the pulse, the very heartbeat of the navy, was still there.

Today, the beating had stopped. The whole building seemed to be holding its breath, scared to exhale. When Niathal passed personnel, they saluted automatically as normal, but they looked at her with expressions she could read all too well: What’s happening? How is he getting away with this? Surely you’re going to do something about him?

Those looks, mute pleas, were agonizing. But they weren’t as bad as the ones that said: You’re joint Chief of State. You’re letting him do this.

Niathal walked into the low rumbling of subdued conversation in the warrant officers’ mess and hit a wall of sudden silence. Then everyone scrambled to snap to attention. She could taste the dread.

“At ease, “she said, and tried to act as if she was doing normal Admiral’s Rounds to check on routine matters like tidiness and morale. “Any complaints?”

“No, ma’am.” It was a chorus of voices. If anyone had raised the most obvious concern that the GA had a maniac at the helm, she would have had no answer. She couldn’t take Jacen on yet. And if she dismissed their worries, she would lose respect and trust. “Nothing wrong with the food, ma’am.”