Sacrifice

Although he could control it, he let it race because it made him feel alive and human. These were momentous times, and if he cut himself off completely from normality he might forget the magnitude of his task—and the stakes.

How can I forget Ben has to die?

When Jacen thought in words, when he heard himself in his mind, he realized how his language was shifting. He was distancing himself from the reality. Ben has to die. It felt very different from I have to kill him. Perhaps the Force was telling him it wouldn't be a simple betrayal of Ben's trust delivered with a lightsaber, but death by another route.

If it has to happen . . . perhaps not by my hand.

The doors to the Chief of State's suite slid open, and he walked into the quiet, thickly carpeted reception room with Niathal at his side; not behind, not ahead, but exactly level with him. Omas was leaning over his aide's desk, talking in hushed tones.

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," he said, looking up. "Do come in."

Jacen moved his chair so he wasn't forced to squint at Omas against the light from the window. So did Niathal. It was an eloquent, silent statement of who would have the upper hand, and they hadn't rehearsed it.

Omas, a man finely attuned to the subtleties of body language and psychological advantage, radiated wariness in the Force. He knew he was dealing with a united front.

"You've seen the battle report, I take it," Niathal said.

"Yes." Omas reached for a datapad as if to reassure her that he had. "Whether it was lucky timing on the Bothans' part or a smart trap, the real issue now is how we deal with a Bothawui that's becoming even better armed and aggressive."