State of Mind - FOTJ Era FF

Yes, an actual fanfic from oldj. Will wonders never cease.

This story has developed while driving my car and is now writing itself -- almost literally. Its a process that always scares me a little.

Since I am working a few chapters ahead (unusual for me), I wanted to go ahead and start sharing it with you. It is fun to write. I hope that some of you find it fun to read as well.

And -- to answer your question -- of course it includes our favorite characters!

Posts will be made once (sometimes twice) a week in this forum. Concrit is welcome.

WARNING: Contains a scene of graphic violence.

________________________________________________________________________


State of Mind



Prologue


Working through the night had become a habit that he made no attempt to change. Six elite troops were posted in the corridor outside his office, tasked with protecting this highly dedicated man to the best of their ability. These men and women were as much slaves to duty as the leader they served so well.

But on this night, in a span of time too short to activate an alarm, all six guards were silenced. A lone intruder disposed of them with shocking ease; the brief action served to relax her muscular body and prepare her for the primary objective. She stepped over one of the guards to run a knuckle down the plating next to the door. When she touched a precise spot in the wall panel – indistinguishable from dozens of others along the hallway -- popped open and the killer disappeared into a dim passage.

The dark-haired man rested his elbows on a desk littered with datapads, taking a moment to massage his aching temples. The jacket of an expensively tailored suit had been tossed carelessly on a nearby chair; white shirt sleeves were rolled up to expose the well-muscled forearms of a pilot. Although by reputation this man was a superior opponent with an acutely perceptive mind, exhaustion obviously diminished his battle-readiness. He was completely unaware of the orange reptilian eyes that now watched his every movement; that he was being stalked by a predator as cold and cunning as those who had hired her for this mission. She sneered, unseen, at the thought of the vermin who had paid her. The cowardly ones with deep pockets were beneath even a mercenary’s contempt. At least her prey was worthy of attention.

The sneer grew into a sadistic grin, baring several rows of sharp teeth. She was amused by how often these self-important humanoids made fatal errors in judgment. This man was no different. The false office walls that concealed escape routes also provided access for the instrument of his impending death. They were simple enough for a stealth-trained assassin to find and disabling security had been only slightly more time-consuming. Soon she would taste the victory she sought: the blood of the Imperial Head of State – the blood of a Fel. How fortunate that she had been chosen for this job. Her employers would get what they wanted and she would have revenge on the son of her sworn enemy.

She felt a deep need to make his death a long and torturous one -- but there was no time. Instead her attack would be swift and sure. By morning she would be a thousand parsecs away when staff discovered the body. She would watch as the galaxy began to realize that its course had suddenly and irrevocably changed.

She was ready to make her move.


***


The killer leapt onto her prey, pinning his arms between heavily-muscled limbs and locking his head back against her chest with her left arm. For a second his face registered surprise but, to his credit, he made a strong though futile move for the blaster visible in an open drawer at his left. When a twelve-centimeter razor claw slashed left to right across his throat the struggling arm sagged. Blood poured across the desk. As its unstoppable course spoiled the pristine carpet, the man’s expression changed to realization, then horror. The assassin showed him a feral smile of satisfaction as he accepted the inevitable. He uttered a short, barely audible death rattle before his heart had nothing left to pump.

She jumped back to gaze upon the result of her vengeful – and lucrative – act. The head of her prey had fallen to the desktop with his face toward her. A desk lamp illuminated his skin with an eerie red glow. Those eyes, so well-known for their intensity, were dull and uninteresting in death. Satisfied that the plan had been executed precisely and already becoming bored with this mission, the assassin re-entered the hidden passage. Any collateral spray congealed on her cold scaly body so that she left no visible trail, but as she hurried toward an obscure exit in the bowels of Imperial Headquarters her tri-forked tongue darted out to clean the razor claw of enemy blood. Nothing, she thought, tasted as good as revenge.


***


Moments after the mercenary retreated, an access panel slid open in the office floor. A tall man appeared in a shaft of light from the room below, gripping a small blaster pistol in his hands, wary that the alien might still be close enough to detect his presence.

The silent alarm droid had awakened him when the intruder crossed the security perimeter. Hailing the guard had proven fruitless; turning on the monitor cams quickly explained why. He had seen it all happen in less than a minute, sickened by the knowledge that neither he nor other security forces could arrive in time to change the outcome.

He gently touched a shoulder slumped against the desk. Cringing despite his rigid training, he slid two fingers along the wet, sticky skin of the man’s slashed neck, searching for even the faintest sign… but there was none. A cold breeze seemed to sweep through the room, raising the hairs on the living man’s skin as he slowly drew back his hand.

All of his precautions, the top-level secrecy and highly-specialized security systems plus the dedication of so many people to protect this man had served no purpose. They had failed.

Above the bitter grief of loss rose an awareness that news of this crime could mean the collapse of everything they had worked toward – or quite possibly the start of another war, one that an already weakened and dangerous galaxy might not survive.

Knowing that his duty was an immediate emergency call for troops and investigators -- this stoic man, perfectly trained to withstand the worst of circumstances – uncharacteristically sank to both knees. He dropped his face into blood-stained hands, and he wept.


- X -



EDIT: Why do I always find some typo or big grammatical boo-boo after I post?

This post has been edited by oldjedinurse on Sep 21 2010, 08:55 AM

Whoa, oldj. Whoa.

Definitely intrigued to find out more.

Intrigued is good. Thanks, S_and_F.

Found another typo that makes one sentence read very badly:

Should read:

Sorry for any confusion, guys!

This post has been edited by oldjedinurse on Sep 21 2010, 12:18 PM

Awesome start !!! I love it !!!

Can't wait for more!!!

You are bears for punishment. I thought I'd be torn apart by now for killing, well, you know...

I'm holding out until there's something undeniable that it's who you're leading us to think it is. And I want to see what this death spurs.

Well, I just found this, and I suspect you aren't going in the obvious direction with this. It's very descriptive and mysterious and I eagerly await more.

I'm holding my blaster at the ready.

'Cause as Solo_and_Fel said, I'm waiting until there's undeniable proof that it's really who you want us to think it is.

Plus, I'm really, really hoping that wouldn't dare be that cruel, right?

Who me?

I can be downright rotten sometimes. Ask around.

The truth is that I have three scenarios in mind for the ending and haven't chosen my favorite yet. Twists and turns, twists and turns. I love those, don't you?

Since I was so nasty in the Prologue, I might post Chapter 1 this afternoon when I get home from the farm. Just because I'm such a nice fanficcer.



I'm not promising great writing or even a great overall story... this one is just pouring out of me (two more chapters yesterday !) so apparently my right brain has something it needs to say. I literally can't stop the flow of words. This has happened to me before, but it has been a couple of years.

This is shaping up as an odd sort of representation of all my feelings about the state of the FOTJ series, good and bad. Now THAT should really scare you! Perhaps I'll leave in some CG-style grammar, just to be perverse.

Horses are turned out now that the rain has stopped. Stalls are cleaned, barn is swept, and chores are done. The Jack Russell Terrorist has been out for a pee. That means I'm on my way home now to write some more fanfic.

Oh, really... that's ok. You don't have to.

I think you've given us enough potential torture for the week. Thankyouverymuch.

Yeah, writing too much like CG might be worse than killing off all the main characters.


However, I'm going to give you Chapter 1 anyway. No additional deaths in this post. I promise.


____________________________________________________________________


Chapter 1


The reflection of Coruscant’s midday sun on Chief of State Natasi Daala’s formal white uniform was causing all manner of problems for holocam operators. They struggled to manage an intense amount of glare to provide the best quality live transmissions of her historic speech.

“…a tragedy of unspeakable proportions. The murder of Jagged Fel is not only a terrible loss for the political leadership of the Empire and the galaxy at large, but certainly a grievous personal sorrow from which I will not soon recover…”

Wynn Dorvan, standing a few meters behind and to Daala’s right wished he could avoid listening to the rest of her prepared statement. He knew it by heart, of course, and at this moment hearing those hollow words coming from the Chief of State’s mouth made him feel ill. He discreetly checked his chrono, guessing that the speech was giving Daala a sour stomach as well.

Administrators on Bastion had closed that planet down. The more reasonable Imperials were merely guarded but true paranoia gripped the majority. Their irrational decision not to hold a memorial at the heart of the Empire had forced the Galactic Alliance to answer a galaxy clamoring for a state funeral. Jagged Fel was perhaps more respected and admired than his own Imperial Council had realized. Coruscant, of course, was chosen as the appropriate substitute location putting Wynn Dorvan squarely in charge of planning the wholly uncomfortable affair.

Even on short notice, he performed admirably with his usual attention to detail but had also begun to take extra precautions regarding his own personal security. The situation was not good; not good at all. Knowing the details of Daala deal with the Mandalorians to face off with the Jedi was one thing; having intel on the Imperial Head of State’s assassination was quite another.

Where is this all going to end?

He glanced across the dais at Drikl Lecersen, now the Acting Imperial Head of State who somehow managed to “overcome his own paranoia” to attend this ceremony. The man was making a vain attempt to appear somber but Dorvan recognized the barely concealed smirk under that officious mask. There is plenty of blame to go around this time, Wynn thought. At that moment, Pocket caused a welcome distraction by stirring restlessly inside his jacket. Dorvan quietly reached out to touch her warm fur with a calming fingertip.


***


“I can’t listen to any more of this.”

Han Solo grabbed the holovid controller as if trying to defuse an armed thermal detonator but the vid screen went black before he could touch a switch. He turned to see Leia, eyes glazed by unshed tears and locked on the spot where Daala’s sithspawned face had just been.

That woman just might be a Sith, Han considered. She certainly has ‘phony’ down pat.

Although much more quiet this time, Leia’s look and curled-up posture reminded Han of the hours after Anakin died. A slow, searing pain began to grow in his gut, reminding him that once again they had lost… well… a man he was suddenly willing to admit was more of a son to them than one of their own had been in the end.

He sat gently beside his wife, sliding an arm around her shoulders when they began to shake. “I know,” Han managed as he drew Leia into his embrace. “I know.”

Leia wasn’t sure who her tears were for as they began to fall. They were for Jag, of course, and her own terrible sense of loss. She grieved, too, for the Fel and Antilles families, strangers and dear friends, overwhelmed by grief. Even the Empire and the galaxy deserved a share of her sorrow for the loss of such a fine young man. Jag had been born to lead. He had all of the skills and talents necessary to usher the galaxy into lasting peace. Leia was certain that he would have succeeded in building a new Empire – unlike any that had gone before – and a much-needed alternative to Daala’s increasingly dangerous Alliance.

The one thing she could not do that that moment was open herself to the Force. The thought of what she would find there terrified her. The Solos had no idea where their daughter was or whether she had heard… but of course she would have. The news consumed every holovid network and, besides, engaged or not she would have felt Jag’s brilliant presence leave her. By now Jaina would be manifesting one of two things: cold, vengeful, hatred; or unspeakable grief and pain. She had never been one to hold the middle ground.

Leia felt Han take a shuddering breath. When she looked up, a single tear drifted down his cheek and dropped onto hers. After all of the horrors the Solo family had endured, they both understood the value of even a few moments’ solace in each other’s arms. They were also thankful that Allana was with her mother. Tenel Ka would do everything possible to soothe her. The child had developed an easy, affectionate bond with “her big brother” Jag and would probably be feeling the turmoil over his loss through the Force. Leia hoped that it might be muted by the distance between her and the rest of the family.


***


In Kenth Hamner’s office, a group of Jedi Masters contemplated the duplicity emanating from Daala. The woman and her vacuous speech simply felt wrong which certainly led them to wonder whether her handprints were on Fel’s assassination. Unfortunately there was nothing they could do to help prove it.

Kyp Durron finally voiced what they were all thinking. “She’s lying. This was at least partly Daala’s doing, and I’d bet our entire fleet of Stealths that some of the Moffs’ hands are dirty as well,” he spat the words like a poisonous aykii lizard spewing venom. He and Fel had their differences but Kyp respected the man. He had long considered Jag a friend.

He knew also that the other Masters were sensing the lone, turbulent presence out in space. Her feelings were a confusing mix of intense hatred and fierce concentration tinged, constantly, with searing pain. She was expending a tremendous amount of energy to suppress the latter but there was no mistaking who bled so much emotion into the Force. If Jaina got to Daala or the Moffs she would be unstoppable in her grief and Kyp didn’t even want to consider the potentially dark aftermath. Just as troubling was the problem that attaining her goal would depend on the fairly incredible supposition that hundreds of Daala’s Mandos and sentries could not stop her.

It occurred to Kyp that Jaina might rather be dead than to carry on without Jag. He was not an expert on love – far from it – but he’d have been a fool not to recognize the rare bond those two had shared.

The Temple continued to be under siege by Mandalorians. In fact, the Jedi were still rendered ineffective even with Daala distracted by the assassination and the mysteriously spontaneous recovery of the sick Jedi Knights. Kyp eyed Saba, whose expression and constant tail twitching clearly showed that she wished for a hunt. Given the chance, Kyp would be right beside her.

He remembered thinking that Jag was an overly serious and dour young man when the pair first met. Although that impression had changed over the years, one comparison to Jag’s grisly death was not lost on Kyp.

Grim, indeed.


***


Wedge Antilles had delivered terrible news more often than he wanted to remember. The only thing worse – for the living – was to be a recipient.

His nephew, another of his sister’s children, was dead. No, not just dead, Wedge thought, assassinated. Cowards had planned Jag’s execution.

If ever there was reason for an aging military man to voluntarily come out of retirement, this was it. He needed to discover the truth and see justice done in his nephew’s name. This was his imperative.

He was not entirely surprised, however, that when Iella made very discreet inquiries none of her normally reliable sources would, or could, say anything. Wedge knew then that he would not be allowed anywhere near the investigation -- if there actually was one.

The Moffs were at the top of his list of suspects, although he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Daala had been behind the plot either. Only someone blind and deaf would think otherwise. Proof, however, would be difficult, if not impossible, to find. He wished that Luke was there.

But wishes were for men who spent their time in self-conforming chairs. He reached for his comm to locate Tycho. Han was right. Nothing compared to a good blaster at your side and right now, Wedge Antilles would use his without a second thought.


***


Ashik straightened his perfectly pressed suit before opening the door. He needed those extra seconds to gather himself.

The office was no longer considered a crime scene. Investigators had scanned and thoroughly searched the area. Destroyed furnishings had been taken as evidence then replaced and the room scrupulously cleaned. Nevertheless, Ashik knew that he would be haunted by the vision of what he had found in this room less than thirty hours before. It would be embedded in his memory forever.

As he passed into the Head of State’s office, Ashik was mildly surprised that a slightly different memory played out in his thoughts: Jagged, in his chair, staring at the ring left on his desk by Jaina Solo. That had been the day that Fel had truly become obsessed with his duties; the day when he regularly started working well into the night.

Ashik wished very much not to hate her but as he stared at the new desktop his traumatized mind formed a hallucination. He saw the ring where the Solo woman had left it, then stared with revulsion as the band was engulfed by the slow spread of Fel’s pooling blood.

This post has been edited by oldjedinurse on Sep 22 2010, 02:17 PM

Ok... so you spelled it out. That's almost undeniable proof. Yeah, we're edging close to DeNile here; I know. I have thoughts, theories, and ideas but I'm keeping my mouth shut to see what you do.

What really hit me in this post was the imagery though - especially at the end. So heavy.

You're really rather evil. Very descriptive writing. More if I ever make it home.

It is interesting that you're comments are about imagery and description. I thought I was becoming too (internal and external) dialogue-heavy; that I was losing the "feel" set up in the Prologue. Of course, none of the Chapters will contain quite the same level of moodiness that the Prologue does, but I'd like to maintain a strong sense of imagery and description. Thanks very much for that feedback! Very helpful.

On the other hand...

Meh. Writing full of bad grammaticals.

So to speak. I see the repeated words, unnecessary verbosity, etc. Unforunately it is beginning to remind me of Allies although I was only joking about making CG-style errors earlier.



This is a case of writing very quickly and not using a beta (which I never do); I'm missing lots of errors. Mea culpa.

I'm going to read more carefully before I post. I promise.


EDIT: FYI, I've chosen the ending and have most of it written.

This post has been edited by oldjedinurse on Sep 23 2010, 07:12 AM

I'm curious. When this story started coming to you, did you see it play out in your head or did it come to you in words like someone was telling it to you?
(Hopefully that question makes sense.)

Your question makes perfect sense.

First, the general mood of a character will come over me, something that is often triggered by song lyrics or (if I happen to be playing one) a SW CD. Then I'll hear dialogue in my head (as if I was witnessing the character saying the words). Other characters will appear with their dialogue and I begin to get a sense of the environment and the situation until it becomes an "internal movie".

By that time I am consciously considering how they got to where they are, what they're doing, and where the story could go -- based mainly on the original dialogue.

I hear voices, okay?

In the hope of making that sound just a little less crazy: there is always a frame of reference for the initial dialogue that stems from recent SW books I've read. It's just my vivid imagination extrapolating ideas that will never be written by Allston, Denning, or the Author-in-the-Red-Shirt.

It is usually a gradual process yet sometimes takes only a few hours and other times plays out over a couple of weeks -- as this one did. If the idea fizzles out then I know it was never going to be a complete plot and store it away in my mental archives (or sometimes write the basics down). That stuff could eventually become a scene or chapter in another story.

In a case like this, though, the whole thing reaches critical mass in my brain and I am absolutely compelled to write it all out. There is no stopping it, especially if I have a deeply emotional connection with the plot on some level that only I would understand. For me it can be a form of therapy, and it's cathartic.

Regardless of any deeper meaning, my writing is completely organic and no doubt far too unstructured. I ignore rules and flaunt the conventions of good writing all the time. Frankly, I don't let that bother me too much. If I was a serious writer trying to get published, then I'd have to put my nose to the grammatical grindstone. But this is for fun, and I like to keep it that way. I think of it as part of my eccentric charm.

Does that make sense? Or have you decided to join the ranks of people who think that I'm completely out of my mind?

It does make sense. And I will reply more later. I just didn't want you walking around thinking I might think you're crazy.

It's okay. Many do.

EDIT:

On that note, I've always admired this painting by Ian Robin MacLaury, entitled "Crazy Redhead"...




There is absolutely NO resemblance between this beautiful woman and me, but the concept and skill with which this was painted are fabulous.

This post has been edited by oldjedinurse on Sep 24 2010, 10:17 AM

I can't wait to see more!

Well then, here you are:


_______________________________________________________________________


Chapter 2


Daala’s chair faced the expansive view of the Coruscant skyline afforded by her luxurious office. The show was over. Her citizens were satisfied that the proper funeral rights had been observed. Most of the dignitaries had gone.

And so is Fel, she smiled to herself. Permanently. She really had not expected to have the opportunity to move on the Imperial problem quite so soon. It meant changing her campaign against the Jedi but Daala had a contingency plan for that. Their archaic Order would be gone soon enough, eradicated from the galaxy – something the feeble leaders before her had never quite accomplished. And she would be certain not to leave another Luke Skywalker on some forgotten planet to restart the Order yet again.

Taking the Empire away from that fool Lecersen and his Council cronies would be child’s play by comparison.

The private comm interrupted her moment of reflection.

“Yes, Dorvan?”

“Your guests have arrived.” Wynn could always read her moods. He knew when to get straight to the business at hand.

“Send them in.”

First through the arched doorway marched a stocky man of medium height wearing battered green beskar armor; helmet on, as usual; blaster rifle in hand, as usual.

“Boba Fett. Thank you for coming.” Daala did not stand but nodded to the bounty hunter and the small group of commandos who accompanied him. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

“We’ll stand.” Fett responded. “Do we have your order to kill the Jedi?”

The edges of Daala’s mouth turned upward, just a little. “Always in such a hurry, Fett. We will get to that.” She immediately chastised herself, knowing that a flippant remark was not good enough to placate this man. Her face became deadly serious. “Of course, if you should find any Jedi roaming the galaxy, they could die trying to escape. I’ll leave that up to you and your people.”

That elicited a slow, appreciative nod from the Mandalorian.

“However, there is now a more pressing matter requiring our attention.”

Fett’s helmet rose with his chin. “The Empire?”

“You are a very perceptive man. An excellent quality in a bounty hunter.”


***


“Your fleets do not concern us,” Fett growled. He was tired of the Chief of State’s fondness for making a show of force. “Name our targets and we’ll be on our way.”

Daala hid her impatience as he continued to pose arrogantly before her. “All right, then. You and your best people,” she looked squarely at his closed visor, “are to infiltrate Bastion for the purpose of killing three Moffs: Jowar, Vansyn, and Lecersen.”

Again, Fett nodded silently. “Bastion is the most fortified planet in the galaxy.”

“Ah,” Daala continued. “That is why I am placing my confidence in you.” She had learned that it never hurt to play to this man’s ego.

“Understood. Is that all?” Seeing Daala’s nod, Fett turned on his heel and led his commandos toward the door.

“Wait.” Daala interrupted their progress. Fett alone turned back to face her. “While you’re on Bastion, get rid of that Chiss, Ashik. I don’t trust him.”

“As you wish. This operation is going to cost.” Fett reminded her.

“Oh, I am certain of that, Fett, but don’t worry. You will be well paid.”

After the door slid shut, Daala walked to the cabinet containing her collection of rare and expensive libations. She poured herself a large glass of Corellian brandy then sank comfortably onto the sofa she so often shared with Nek. Such a shame he isn’t here today, she thought.

The liquor was smooth and warm when she took a judicious swallow. Everything was in motion now. Her fleets were discreetly gathering in the general direction of Imperial territory under the guise of routine battle drills. Fett’s Mandos would rid her of her most dangerous enemies – and perhaps a few more Jedi – although most of them were in her hands. She would put the Temple siege to an end – only to replace it with something worse.

Daala smiled broadly and tossed back the brandy with gusto.


***


Drikl Lecersen had heard quite enough of the loud chatter from his fellow Moffs.

“Gentlemen… and women,” he added grudgingly. “I call this Council to order. We have urgent business.” He noticed a few uncertain, even suspicious, faces and decided that manners might be wise in the midst of such mass anxiety. He manufactured a smile. “Please, let us be seated. Does everyone have their requested refreshment?”


***


“You’re proposing to do what?” Moff Rezer’s face was red as the fires on Mustafar. “We all know that Fel kept our navy battle-ready but we are hardly in any position to mount an offensive against the Alliance…”

“I must agree with my colleague.” Moff Westermal added. “Now is not the time for a strike of the magnitude you suggest.”

“Nor is it politically wise, given that Coruscant just hosted the memorial that Bastion denied Fel. The good will that generated will play heavily against us.” That was Vansyn. A fine point, my good friend, Lecersen pursed his lips to hide a smile.

He sat calmly listening to all of his Council members’ objections. When they were through, he stood, nodding thoughtfully.

“It does not seem the appropriate time, I agree.” He felt a palpable loss of tension in the room.

“That is precisely why it is the perfect time. Our fleets are already forming up. We will launch in less than fifteen hours.”

Drikl Lecersen was pleased by the shocked expressions on the Moffs' faces.

“Objections overruled.”


***


For the first time in her life, Jaina Solo was truly afraid of the Force. It churned the tangle of emotions inside her but she refused to reach out, knowing where her heart would search first. Jaina could not risk touching… where he should have… where he’d always… because it would feel like… she didn’t want to know. Not now; perhaps not ever.

With her Stealth-X speeding toward the Core, Jaina had no idea what to do when she got there. A small but still rational part of her mind knew that going in without a plan was wrong. She grappled with the chaos inside of her to focus on cold analysis.

What could she do?

A Jedi landing on Coruscant would be walking into a trap. She would have to fight her way through dozens, if not hundreds, of Daala’s guards and Mandos to reach the Chief of State. Even for Jaina Solo, the odds of survival were too ridiculous to consider.

Daala has to pay for what she is doing to the Jedi. She found it much easier to think about that, but Jaina wasn’t fooling herself. The Chief of State had to pay for what she had done to the only man Jaina had ever – would ever – love.

She grabbed the hyperspace lever with a shaking hand and slammed back into normal space, a maneuver that could easily have destroyed her ship by reverting into the middle of an asteroid or a garbage scow. Solo luck being what it was, though, she came to full stop – unharmed – in an empty area of space and began scanning charts to figure out the distance to the nearest planet, and from there, Coruscant. Like so many other times in her life, she would have to reserve grief for later.


***


“We have to find her.”

Iella Antilles looked across the table at Leia’s haggard face. “Absolutely,” she agreed. With a glance toward Wedge, Iella pushed forward. “Our inquiries are getting us nowhere. Intel is clamped down so tight I couldn’t pry the lid off with a laser canon.”

“And if you can’t get any information, no one can.” Wedge looked from Iella to Leia, and finally Han. “So, where do we start?”

Han sighed. “Luke contacted Cilghal three days ago. Jaina was with him and Ben inside the Maw but he’d just instructed her to leave with Lando…”

“Lando?” Wedge exclaimed. That man always turned up in the strangest places.

“Yeah, Lando. Long story. Anyway, Luke says Jaina left in Lando’s old barge, the Rockhound,” he held up a hand to forestall Wedge’s obvious question to keep the conversation on track. “Sounds like her X-wing needed repairs. My best guess is that she did the mechanical work while Lando flew back to Kessel, then took off on her own.”

Han ran a hand over his tired face. “She knows landing on Coruscant means trouble, but I wouldn’t put it past her. Any other time I would have bet she’d head for Bastion…,” Han immediately shook his head, regretting the remark.

Leia reached across to lay a hand on Han’s arm. “But there’s nothing for her there now.”

The couple stared sadly at one another for a moment. “Yeah,” Han agreed.

Wedge cleared his throat. “Well, then. That leaves, what, ninety-nine percent of Known Space for us to search. That’s a pretty large grid. How do we manage it?” With Tycho and Winter unreachable on their anniversary holiday, Syal with her unit in far space and Miri at least a day or two away, it was just the four of them.

Leia pulled her hand back and crossed her arms close about her. She appeared to grow smaller, closing in on herself. Iella fought back tears at the heartbreaking sight. Everyone sensed it was best to wait for Leia to respond in her own time.

“I can look for her in the Force,” she said finally. She had tried desperately to avoid this but there seemed no other way.

“Leia,” Han began, only to be stopped by a look from his wife.

“No, Han. I have to do this. There is no other way to find Jaina… before anything else happens.”


***


Jaina was so tired she could barely keep her head up. Apparently that old Solo luck could only take her so far. The star charts showed that she was – literally – in the very definition of nowhere.

Or perhaps she was just not seeing the information she needed. Her thinking was muddled. She was lost, alone, and spending most of her energy avoiding soul-crushing pain. She could not call on the Force to help her if she wanted to hold onto her sanity. Her fluid rations were almost as low as her spirits. Perhaps this was it. Perhaps she would just drift in this spot until consciousness left her. The thought had occurred to her that she might see Jag then… and everything would be better. His shining presence could be waiting for her in the Force. Everyone would understand. They would. She had only an empty life stretched out in front of her. Jaina was hunted for being a Jedi; her Uncle had turned her away; the Jedi Council treated her like a pariah; her parents were running around the galaxy doing space knows what. Jag was her center; the one she could always count on. No, wait. She’d broken their engagement. Maybe his spirit would avoid her. Maybe her death would have no meaning at all. She pondered the nothingness outside her viewport and at last tears began to fall onto her flight suit.

The galaxy didn’t need her anymore and maybe the Force didn’t want her either.

“Jaina.”

She startled upright in her chair. It was her mother’s distant call. Was she hallucinating?

“Jaina, hear me.”

“Mom?” Her whispered response was more of a reflex than a conscious act.

“Jaina! Where are you?”

She knew that her mother was holding back a second question, “Are you alright?”

Of course she wasn’t.

“I… I don’t know. I can’t seem to read the charts...” her voice trailed off.

“Hold on, sweetheart. Hold onto me. We’ll find you.”

“Okay,” Jaina mumbled, wondering how in space to keep the connection with her mother without touching the emptiness on Bastion.

Concentrate! Focus, Solo! A moment’s distraction will cost you your life.

Jaina heard the memory as if they were standing in a training room once again. That day she she had argued the point just to rile him, but this time she listened. Every nuance of his voice carried memories more precious than all the Corusca gems in the galaxy. Strangely unafraid of reliving that moment, she did what he had asked and turned her attention to visualizing Leia who reached anxiously toward her daughter.


***


Jaina had lost consciousness when the shadow of the Millennium Falcon darkened the viewport of her Stealth-X. Beside them, the Antilles’ yacht, Zena stayed close, it’s pilot monitoring the area.

Han struggled to carry Jaina through the docking tube into the Falcon’s med bay. I’m gettin’ old, he snorted to himself. Leia was waiting for them with fluid infusions, ready to help their daughter find temporary peace in a deep, dreamless Force trance.


***


“She settled in?” Han hit the Falcon’s flight panel and was rewarded when a dozen indicators lit up.

Leia strapped into the co-pilot’s chair. “I’ve done all I can. She’s weak and exhausted but should at least be rested when she wakes up.”

“Not that anything will have changed,” Han answered.

Leia sighed. “No.” She keyed the comm.

“Ready to depart?”

“Affirmative,” Wedge’s answer was crisp and succinct. Leia shared a brief look at Han. Both were reminded just how much like his uncle Jag had been.

“What’s our heading?” Wedge continued.

“Good point,” Han said. “I was thinking…”

“Incoming!” Wedge shouted into the comm.

“Multiple ships popping out of hyperspace. Too fast, too many to count. Identifying…,” suddenly the pitch of Wedge’s voice lowered.

“Mandalorians.”

“What? How’d they find us? Leia was barely able to find this space desert with the Force…” Han blustered.

Leia cut in. “Stop worrying about that and get us out of here.”

“Right.” Han sent pre-set emergency coordinates to the Zena and hit the accelerator.

Nothing happened.

Leia’s head turned, slowly, until she regarded her husband with a look he hadn’t seen in decades.

“It’s not my fault!”

“No, it’s not.” Wedge broke in. “Three GA capital ships just joined this party. We’re being tractored in. Better shut it down, Han, or neither you nor that ship will survive long enough to be put into a museum.”