Darksaber

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Trandia matched his upraised fist. "We will succeed," she answered.

  Ducking low and moving quietly, they sprinted along the corridors, heading toward where the propulsion systems would be. Some of these decks were already inhabited by a skeleton crew, and they hesitated at corners, crept past droning voices of guards and crew members who lurked in open rooms.

  As they hurried, though, Madine noted many darkened glow-panels, wires dangling from ceiling plates but connected to nothing, and dead blank computer terminals that seemed as if they had never functioned. Madine muttered to Trandia, "Maybe we don't need to sabotage the weapon after all. This whole thing is a disaster waiting to happen."

  The engine sections were a great pulsing dungeon filled with smells of oil and coolant, hissing steam that might have been intentionally vented or just leaking from reactor cores. The storm of noise and flashing lights throbbed around them, drowning their surreptitious sounds as they crept into the tangle of engines.

  More guards patrolled the catwalks above-- stupid-looking Gamorreans and a hodgepodge of unsavory alien creatures: Weequays, Niktus, and walrus-faced Aqualish. Madine checked the blaster pistol and the four detonators he carried, then gestured that he and Trandia would split up.

  The Darksaber's guidance computers were giant banks of circuit boards fenced off by a transparent mesh that steamed with supercooled air blown through the hot circuitry. The enormous engines themselves thrummed behind a thick shielding wall. If they could plant remote detonators in various spots around the compartment, the two of them unaided could cripple this great weapon, leaving it dead in space until New Republic forces could finish the job.

  He and Trandia moved apart into the deeper shadows and the loud, unmuffled machinery. Trandia held her precious store of detonators as she slithered through the murk, darting from cover to scant cover, working her way over to the shielding wall that blocked the engines.

  Alone, Madine moved to the mesh surrounding the propulsion computers. He bent down and removed a cutting tool from his equipment pouch, intending to slice through the protective fence. A detonator or two could completely kill the computers that drove the superweapon. He switched on the small vibroblade and felt the high-pitched hum through its handle. He hacked at the thin flexible mesh--but as soon as he severed the crystalline cords, a squawking alarm burst from the top of the computer.

  Madine deactivated the vibroblade with a curse, grabbing for his blaster pistol. The guards in the engine compartment hurried to discover the nature of the disturbance, though they seemed somewhat apathetic. Madine wondered how often they responded to false alarms resulting from the inept construction work.

  Madine decided not to fire just yet and slid back into shadows as the alien guards lumbered toward him, their own weapons drawn. If he could just be silent, they might miss him and go about their business. His heart pounded. The guards came closer.

  Suddenly Trandia stood up from her hiding place near the wall of the engine compartment. She waved her arms and yelled to draw attention to herself. As the guards turned in astonishment, she fired her blaster at them, hitting a leathery-faced Niku, who hissed as he fell to the floor.

  The other guards spun about and launched a volley of blaster bolts in Trandia's direction. She ducked, but one bolt burned through her arm. She cried out and slumped behind one of the consoles for cover. The guards converged on her hiding place, completely forgetting Madine.

  "Run!" she shouted at him. Her voice was high with pain. "Run."

  Madine cursed again under his breath, wishing Trandia hadn't been so impulsive. He began to crawl away from the propulsion computers, pulled his blaster, and looked for a chance to draw the guards away from her. The vicious aliens pushed toward her position--and just as they reached her, Trandia triggered every one of the detonators she carried.

  The resulting explosion drowned out even the cacophony of engine sounds. A wall of flame gushed outward in a blazing ring. The explosion took out the entire complement of guards as well as Trandia herself, though it barely damaged the engines' containment wall. Lights flickered and went out.

  The shockwave knocked Madine flat, turning his consciousness into a static of black insects before his eyes. He shook his head, gasping for breath, and struggled back to his feet. The enemy was alerted, the infiltration ruined. It would do no good to stay.

  Madine stumbled as he ran. He couldn't think straight, stunned as much by the loss of Trandia as by the explosion. Then a deeper core of Madine's personality asserted itself, reinforced by the years of training he had undergone, the lessons he himself had taught his commando team members.

  The mission was paramount.

  They had to succeed.

  The mission.

  Madine hauled himself to his feet and found that his back was bleeding, nicked by several chunks of shrapnel unleashed by the explosion. Alarms continued to whoop and screech, demanding attention.

  Madine somehow reached the doorway, though he was disoriented and couldn't recall how to find his way back to their armored mission suits. He lurched through the open door, staggered down the dimly lit corridor--and stumbled right into another group of alien guards rushing to see what the commotion was all about. Madine's heart sank. Trandia had given her life hoping to cause irreparable damage, hoping to let her commander escape--but she had accomplished neither.

  Gamorreans clasped stubby fingers around his arms, throwing Madine to the deck and piling on top of him as if they meant to keep him from moving.

  "Saboteur!" one of the Weequays snarled down at him.

  They hauled Madine to his feet. Five separate guards clutched him, as if in a contest to see how many could actually claim credit for his capture. Madine struggled, but said nothing.

  The guards hauled him off alone, a trophy to be brought before Durga the Hutt.

  CHAPTER 42

  Up on the Darksaber's supposedly functional control deck, Bevel Lemelisk watched the childish glee evident on the faces of both General Sulamar and Durga the Hutt.

  The two normally surly partners sat enthralled with the controls in their grasp as they itched to begin their grand plan of conquest.

  Despite the difficulties Lemelisk had experienced with the Taurill and any number of other convoluted problems encountered during construction of the massive superweapon, the Darksaber project had somehow bumbled along, adhering to its schedule more through mutual annihilation of errors than actual efficiency.

  Per Durga's demand, the Darksaber was now technically complete, constructed according to Lemelisk's modified plans and completed in conjunction with the work and inspection crews--though Lemelisk did not want to guarantee the quality of any portion of the project. In fact, he felt great anxiety when he began to think Durga might actually wish to use the weapon anytime soon.

  "Observe," Durga said, summoning a holographic map of the galaxy centered on the Nal Hutta system and extending outward in the intended path of the Hutts' "outreach program,” using the Darksaber to hold rich and vulnerable planets ransom.

  Sulamar gave far too much unwanted advice, and Durga refused to listen any longer, gloating over the holo map, his rubbery lips forming a leer that pushed the discolored birthmark up the side of his face.

  On the control deck Durga's other crew members sat strapped into their chairs, secured with lock restraints because Durga did not want them to leap from their booby-trapped seats if he grew displeased with them.

  Lemelisk rubbed the scratchy stubble on his chin, as Durga peered into the map of the galaxy, which would soon be under his entire control.

  Without warning, the alarms went off, whooping from the security stations. Klaxons echoed through the empty corridors of the Darksaber. Startled, many of the crew members on the command deck tried to flee, but the locked webbing held them in place.

  Durga bellowed, "I demand to know the meaning of this racket."

  "That's the security alarm, sir," Bevel Lemelisk said. "I selected its sound to be particularl
y unpleasant and attention grabbing."

  Sulamar sneered. "You did your job well, engineer."

  Durga was not satisfied. "And why did this alarm go off?"

  Lemelisk shrugged. "Because of a security breach, perhaps?" he suggested.

  "You mean sabotage?" the Hutt said.

  Before Lemelisk could answer, the echoing thump of a distant explosion vibrated through the walls.

  "I think that would be a safe bet, Lord Durga," he said.

  "Damage report, sir," said one of the Devaronian crew members. "An explosion has occurred in the engine levels. A saboteur planted a bomb."

  "Extent of damage?" Lemelisk asked.

  "Unknown at this time," the Devaronian said.

  Durga howled in outrage. "Sabotage! This will put us behind schedule. How did anyone penetrate our defenses?" His lanternlike Hutt eyes scoured across the members of his command crew. "I demand to know who is in charge of security!" He reared up on his levitating platform. "Who?"

  Everyone on the bridge deck huddled down and cowered until one pasty-faced Twi'lek finally raised a clawed hand. The wormlike head-tails dangling from the back of his skull quivered with fear. "I ... I am in charge, Lord Durga. We did not anticipate--”

  Durga roared and reached for his small control pad, punching a fat greenish finger against one of the buttons. The Twi'lek let out a little yip of anticipatory terror--but instead a hapless Weequay at another station yowled and began to jitter as arcs of blue electrical fire curled up from the base of his booby-trapped seat. The discharge crisped his flesh, electrocuting him in an instant. The Weequay's smoldering corpse slumped against his navigational station.

  Durga frowned and glanced down at his control pad. "Oh," he said. "Sorry, wrong button." The smell of disintegrated flesh wafted through the bridge deck in greasy, sooty wisps from the collapsed body. "Well, let that be a lesson to you, then,” Durga said, glowering at his intended victim.

  The demon-faced Devaronian interrupted, consulting his communications panel. Everyone on the bridge deck trembled in fear. "I, uh, I have something more to report, sir," he said. "Security has announced the capture of one terrorist. One other was killed."

  Durga growled, looking at the Weequay corpse slumped at its stations. "There will be more executions when we get to the bottom of this."

  Hearing this, Bevel Lemelisk shuddered and tried to remain inconspicuous. Simply hearing the word execution brought back to his mind the full horrors of the Emperor's executions, the excruciating deaths Palpatine had inflicted upon Lemelisk each time he made an error....

  The deaths remained in Lemelisk's mind, ever-present shadowy nightmares--seven executions in all. Once, Palpatine had launched him out an airlock; the pain had been excruciating, though the death was mercifully swift as the sudden drop of pressure and the freezing cold destroyed his internal organs.

  He also remembered being slowly lowered into a vat of molten copper, watching his body burn away inch by inch. Why molten copper? Lemelisk had wondered. Finally one day, more than a month later, he asked the Emperor.

  Palpatine's answer had proved surprising in its utter mundanity. "It's what the smelter used that day."

  Lemelisk had also been trapped in a vault filled with thickening acid mist so that his lungs dissolved and he coughed blood, and the acid continued to eat him from the inside out. The other deaths had been as imaginative and just as painful. He was certainly glad the Emperor had been killed in the destruction of the second Death Star. Otherwise Lemelisk would really have been in trouble!

  Now, on the Darksaber's control deck, while Durga reeled in shock at the news of the captured saboteur, General Sulamar saw an opportunity. He became even more overbearing, swelling his chest so that the medals jangled. As if trying to outdo Durga's obvious annoyance, Sulamar glared accusingly at Lemelisk.

  "How could this happen?" Sulamar sniffed, as though Lemelisk had caused the problem by failing to plan for terrorists and sabotage in his original holographic blueprints. "In all my years serving the Empire, with thousands and thousands of people under my command, we performed the dirtiest, most difficult deeds. But I never had such a disastrous act of sabotage occur. Not while I was in charge."

  Lemelisk averted his gaze and muttered under his breath. "Well, there's a first time for everything."

  Durga's guards were angry and brutal. They beat Crix Madine every time he faltered, which made him stumble again ... which allowed them to beat him again. ...

  He was bruised and bloodied by the time they shoved him into the turbolift on the way to the command deck. He felt none of the pain, focusing his thoughts, still in angry shock over Trandia's death ... but he accepted his capture and the consequences. This possibility had always been a shadow over every mission he led.

  Madine kneaded his hands together, though they were bound behind his back. He was satisfied and confident--he had triggered the transmitter implanted in his palm. Even now the high-powered, specific-frequency message would be beaming across space, summoning assistance. The coded signal would be transmitted instantly through a security channel in the Galactic Holonet directly to Ackbar's fleet.

  It was just a matter of time ... if only Madine could hold on.

  The Gamorrean guards shoved him forward just as the turbolift doors opened, and he blinked in the command deck's flood of light. His vision swam in and out of focus. He wondered if he had received a concussion from one of the vicious backhands the guards had dealt him.

  Madine moved with a numb resignation. He had lost his team: Korenn dead in the asteroid belt, Trandia blowing herself up to save him and damage the Hutt battle station. In his youth Crix Madine had served the Empire faithfully for years. After defecting to the Rebellion, he had always suspected that this day would come, that he would continue to volunteer for more and more difficult covert operations--as if he wanted to be caught. Somehow he had known he would be captured and brought in chains to the enemy.

  The guards dragged him into the presence of Durga the Hutt. Madine tried to sneer, but his face produced little more than a grimace and a wince of pain. Blood from a cut near his eye dribbled down his cheek into his beard.

  The bloated Hutt lounged on his repulsor platform, the discolored blotch on his face like dye that someone had thrown across it. Madine swiveled his throbbing head and noticed a swaggering man in an Imperial general's uniform. The general marched across the metal deck, striding toward him in polished black boots.

  Madine looked up at the close-set eyes, the boyish face, the weak chin--and from the depths of his past a geyser of recollection erupted. He reacted with astonishment, drawing himself up as he stumbled against the guards holding him. Madine saw a flash of horrified recognition also wash across the face of the general.

  At the moment their eyes met, they yelled in unison, "You!"

  KHOMM

  CHAPTER 43

  Through hyperspace, the escape to Khomm lasted only an hour. Dorsk 81 shot their stolen shuttle toward his homeworld, frantic to deliver his warning to the cloned aliens and the New Republic . He was dismayed to see that traffic control accepted him as yet another incoming ship, not at all alarmed by an unscheduled Imperial craft charging in at top speed.

  "This is Dorsk 81," he said, "issuing an emergency call. We must use your long-range comm systems immediately. Prepare for an Imperial attack. Announce a red alert."

  The traffic controller responded, "Message received, Dorsk 81. We will arrange a meeting with you and City Leader Kaell 116 as soon as possible upon your arrival."

  "You don't understand," Dorsk 81 said. His olive skin flushed a darker green, and his hands trembled. He looked wildly at Kyp Durron, who wore an expression of disgust.

  "Don't worry about it now. It's a waste of breath arguing," he said then took over the comm system. "This is Jedi Knight Kyp Durron. I'll require full use of your spaceport communication systems." The anger behind Kyp's eyes seemed barely restrained by his Jedi calm.

  "That can be arranged
," the controller said with maddening calmness.

  When they landed on the empty spaceport grid, Kyp leaped through the access hatch with Dorsk 81 close behind him. "I'll go transmit the wide-band alert to the New Republic ," Kyp said. "You warn your people. Admiral Daala is going to launch in only a couple of days. We have that long to mobilize the fleet." His face was drawn and grave as he ran to the tall transmitting tower.

  Dorsk 81 hurried to meet the cloned aliens who approached him. They were flustered and uneasy--not because of the dire warning, he knew, but because of the unexpectedness of the situation. "We must hurry," he said to the stony-faced driver of the floating platform. "We have little time. Kyp and I have to go help defend the Jedi academy."

  The driver nodded calmly, but did not increase the speed of the vehicle. The floating platform took Dorsk 81 away from the landing grid, and he looked back at the transmitting tower, hoping Kyp would get the message out.

  They reached the opulent political headquarters where a quick meeting had been rammed through the schedule of the generational politician Kaell 116. Dorsk 81, still wearing the clinging work overalls he had taken from the garment locker in the Imperial shuttle, brushed his slender hands down the fabric, trying to make himself more presentable. He smelled of smoke and blood and violence.

  Kaell 116 already stood in the large, white meeting room. The walls were made of curved arches that glittered in the light as if molded from solidified salt. Dorsk 81 had never been in such important chambers, and he doubted anyone in his genetic line had either.

  The city leader stood dressed in full diplomatic finery; his expression held a mixture of annoyance at this unsettling break from routine and continuing admiration for Khomm's galactic celebrity.

  "Dorsk 81," he said, "for a person of your importance, we can shuffle our schedule to allow a brief audience, but no more than fifteen minutes. I suggest that our primary goal will be to work out a better time for a full conference of appropriate duration and with an official agenda."