Darksaber

by Kevin J. Anderson

  The fleet of crimson ships plunged through the Chardaan Shipyards, a Rebel space facility that produced a variety of starfighters, from the old-model X-wings and Y-wings to the newer A-, B-, and E-wing fighters. After this assault, Cronus thought, the facility wouldn't produce much of anything at all.

  The shipyard's zero-g pressurized hangars were silvery spheres, clusters that provided a shirtsleeve working environment for the mechanics who assembled components to form the sleek ships. As Cronus's fleet roared past their targets, the hangars exploded with satisfying eruptions of burning air and outflying metal. Significant enemy casualties. No Imperial losses.

  A boxy ore hauler lumbered away. The huge corroded vehicle had seen better days and was now manned by only a skeleton crew that tried to lurch their ancient vessel out of danger. Cronus took pleasure in targeting the ore-hauler's rear engines, knocking the behemoth out of control. It trailed flames as it crashed into an outer docking ring filled with the personal quarters of engineers. Cronus did not slow down. He led the fleet through the thick of the construction area, firing indiscriminately.

  The Rebel forces mobilized with remarkable speed. Starfighters, old and new, streaked toward the Victory ships, piloted by construction workers and off-duty fighters.

  "Hit everything you can, but do not engage the Rebel defenses," Cronus ordered. "It's not worth our bother. We'll cruise through at top speed and leave them trembling as we depart."

  He could tell by the rapidity with which the Rebels mustered their forces that they must have been put on alert. Somehow they had been forewarned of Daala's planned attacks. He flexed his arm muscles again.

  The small Rebel ships concentrated their firepower on two of the crimson battlecruisers, and Cronus admired their strategy. The fighters were too small and too few to cause significant damage across Cronus's fleet ... but if they picked a single target at a time, they just might--

  One of the Victory ships exploded, blowing shrapnel in all directions and taking out a dozen of the harrying Rebel X-wings. Cronus felt annoyance as much as disappointment. "Increase speed," he shouted. "Let's get out of here."

  The second Victory'-class ship blew up, but this time the ship's commander didn't have the foresight to use the destruction of his Star Destroyer for a final advantage, and the resulting detonation caused no collateral damage. Cronus no longer had a perfect record, and he was upset.

  As they passed through an exploding fuel-supply station and a hazardous forest of loose, drifting girders, Cronus ordered his Star Destroyers to deploy their timed seeker-detonators with chaff and debris clouds. The small, powerful mines would hunt out innocuous-looking targets, where they would be triggered later--a surprise for the Rebels to find during cleanup operations. Cronus took a great deal of satisfaction in knowing he could continue the destruction even after he departed.

  "Rebel defenses are aligned, sir," the sensor chief said, "and gathering force."

  Cronus nodded and leaned forward. "Time to go. We've caused all the devastation we can here."

  The fleet of Victory'-class ships escaped cleanly into hyperspace as the Rebel forces came gunning after them.

  The sweeping cultural museums on Porus Vida were renowned throughout the galaxy, centuries old--and astonishingly undefended against attack. Colonel Cronus didn't consider them military targets ... but Admiral Daala had included them as a psychological strike, and Cronus followed orders.

  It was a simple act for his ships to sweep by with turbolasers blazing to set the art and document storehouses aflame. His remote sensors transmitted images of sculpture gardens melting under waves of heat, graceful figures with arms upswept in aesthetic expressions of joy, buckling in agony as they melted into lava.

  The green grasses of manicured gardens were crisped brown at the moment of flashpoint. Reflection pools and fish ponds boiled into steam, and screaming patrons stumbled and fell in their tracks. The museums burned, their treasure houses annihilated.

  Colonel Cronus tapped his fingers together and pursed his lips. Who cared about cultural records anyway? He was in the process of destroying their history, and making history of his own.

  The Imperial fleet stumbled upon the diplomatic convoy through sheer serendipity, but Cronus took advantage of the surprise.

  The convoy consisted of nine rounded cylinders strung with gossamer solar sails, which made them look like flower petals spinning through space, augmented by sublight engines as they came toward a refueling station. Beautiful to behold, Cronus thought, but sluggish, poorly maneuverable, and slow to respond to an overt attack.

  When the desperate alien transmissions came to him, he saw the aliens were a species of fragile-looking insectoid creatures with sweeping butterfly wings--and very little weaponry. When his Victory'-class fleet charged among the ships, turning their solar sails to cinders, he received an immediate and unconditional surrender.

  Colonel Cronus was not interested in surrender. He checked their identification and stated mission, filing away the data in case Daala might need it. Then he ordered their complete annihilation.

  "These are allies of our enemy, bringing gifts and swearing allegiance to Coruscant," Cronus said. "They chose the wrong side in this galactic conflict, and now they will pay for it."

  He fired upon the lead ambassadorial ship, using turbolasers like hot razors to rip open the ship's metal belly, so that atmosphere and passengers spewed into space like spurting blood. His ships continued the bombardment until the aliens' reserve fuel tanks detonated.

  Cronus opened the comm channel again to his fleet. "Since this convoy is unarmed, we may as well take the time to finish the job."

  The Victory'-class ships and their pilots, still angered by losing two ships at the Chardaan Depot, took great relish in slicing apart every last one of the butterfly ships ...

  They drifted for a moment surrounded by total wreckage. Cronus caught his breath from the excitement and ordered the fleet to proceed. "A job well done," he said over the comm system. "Now it's time to rejoin Admiral Daala at Yavin 4."

  He closed his eyes and relaxed for a moment as his fleet of Star Destroyers soared onward, unchallenged.

  HOTH ASTEROID BELT

  CHAPTER 49

  In the hushed mechanical silence of the Darksaber's control deck, General Crix Madine, the Supreme Allied Commander for Intelligence, glared accusingly at Sulamar.

  The Imperial officer stood stiff with self-importance, but his expression was wild and panicked. His cheeks flushed scarlet, and his close-set eyes flicked back and forth. The other guards grasped Madine's arms, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

  Durga the Hutt leaned forward and smacked his huge lips together, the distorted birthmark across his face rippling like spilled ink. "General Sulamar--you know this saboteur?"

  Madine laughed, making sure he spoke loudly enough for all to hear. "Did you call him a general?" he said. "That buffoon's no general."

  Sulamar waved his hands in a frenzy, as if he could wipe out Madine's existence with a gesture. He blinked his eyes like the fluttering wings of a night insect drawn against its will to a bright hot light. "Don't listen to this man, Lord Durga! He's a traitor to the Empire--” Madine snorted. "And you're a good-for-nothing junior technician, third grade-- transferred from assignment to assignment because you kept screwing up your duties!" He made a rude noise.

  Sulamar stormed forward, but stopped, his fists clenching and unclenching. He looked about to choke on thick, syrupy anger. He whirled to face the Hutt. "Lord Durga, you've seen my command abilities--don't let this traitorous spy lie to you."

  Durga jiggled as he laughed. "Hoo, hoo, hoo! I have seen your so-called command abilities, Sulamar ... and I'm inclined to believe this man."

  Sulamar gasped and stammered as if seeking just the right words, but his tongue kept getting in the way. The motley assortment of armed guards looked uneasily from Madine--their known enemy-- to Sulamar, perhaps another target in their midst.

  "Sulamar," Du
rga said, his voice low and rumbling. Madine noted with a satisfied leap of his heart that the Hutt had intentionally left off the title of general. "We will take care of this prisoner. You need not fear. Please surrender your blaster pistol to me." Reclined on his repulsor platform, the Hutt extended a stubby-fingered gray-green hand.

  Sulamar stood rigid. Beads of sweat appeared on his high forehead. His Imperial general's uniform--not more than a costume, Madine knew--appeared immaculately cared for: all the seams neat, all corners pressed with sharp edges, all the command insignia polished until it gleamed.

  "But ... Lord Durga," Sulamar said. "Perhaps I should be the one to--”

  Durga bellowed with all the threatening volume he could generate from his vast trembling belly. "Do you question my orders, Sulamar?"

  The Imperial impostor leaped to obey. He snatched his blaster pistol from the holster on his hip and extended it barrel forward, pointed at Durga; then he realized his mistake and quickly fumbled to turn the weapon around, handing the butt end to the crime lord.

  "Good," Durga said, holding the weapon but keeping its energy barrel aimed at Sulamar.

  "Next, you will seat yourself there in the Darksaber's pilot chair." Durga gestured with the blaster to an empty station surrounded by command terminals and a navigational array.

  Madine could see that the chair was rigged with some sort of booby-trap system, power cables running up the stem of the seat, electrodes spaced across metal contact points in the chair.

  Sulamar looked at the pilot seat and paled. "There, Lord Durga? But I can serve you so much better if I--”

  “There!" Durga said.

  Sulamar seemed absolutely terrified--much more so than simply having his lie exposed should warrant. But he moved like a droid under incontrovertible programming, resigned as he shuffled toward the empty seat. Strapping himself in at the Darksaber's piloting station, he slumped, seemingly more resigned to his fate than Madine, who was already marked for death.

  Crix Madine stood battered and sore and utterly exhausted. He clenched his hands, waiting and waiting. Eyes closed, he sensed the silent invisible signal pounding out from the implanted transmitter, summoning help, pleading for a rescue party now. Now! What was taking so long?

  He ground his jaws together and urged the ships to hurry.

  Empty space rushed by until it began to be cluttered with debris. On the command deck of the Yavaris, General Wedge Antilles leaned forward to peer out the front ports. "Come on,” he muttered. "Come on!"

  Beside him, Qwi Xux clamped her lips together, picking up on Wedge's anxiety.

  "Are we still at maximum speed?" Wedge called to the helmsman.

  "Best we can manage, sir," the young officer responded. "Hazardous conditions up ahead, though--General Madine's signal is leading us directly into the Hoth Asteroid Belt."

  Accompanied by the Assault Frigate Dodonna from his arm of the fleet, Wedge rode the Yavaris into the asteroid belt. "Shields on full," he said.

  "Agreed, sir," the helmsman answered. "But I'm reluctant to proceed at high speed into such a navigational hazard."

  Wedge shook his head. Somehow he knew they had to hurry. Hurry! "Just stay on your toes, Lieutenant," Wedge said. "And keep moving with all possible haste."

  The asteroids flew around them like a cannon blast of fragmented rubble, but Wedge's fleet continued undaunted, homing in on Madine's signal, hoping to rescue him in time.

  Strapped in to the pilot's chair, barely able to move, Sulamar was livid. He spun around, still sputtering and trying to justify his existence.

  Durga the Hutt growled, looking down at him from the height of his repulsor platform. "Why don't you tell us again about this Massacre of Mendicat you kept bragging about, Sulamar?"

  Madine rolled his eyes and snorted. One of the Weequay guards jabbed him in the kidneys; he gasped in pain, but recovered quickly. "Mendicat?" he said with a sneer, knowing that if he could provoke these people, keep them bickering among themselves ... then he had a chance. A slim one.

  "Mendicat was a scrap mining and recycling station." Madine glared toward Sulamar. "Because of .his error in programming the orbital computers, the station went off course and fell into the sun. He barely rescued himself, and now I see that was a wasted effort."

  Durga chuckled, deep hollow belly laughs that resonated through his Hutt bulk. "After my days of working with the great crime lord Xizor, I should have learned to double-check pretentious stories from my underlings."

  Madine answered the Hutt, as if speaking to an equal. "I've come to the conclusion that those people who truly do great deeds don't feel the need to talk about them all the time."

  "You must stop listening to him, Lord Durga,” Sulamar squeaked, struggling against the pilot chair restraints he had strapped across his own chest. "Lord Durga, we must execute this man!" His words became sweeter, more insidious. "Imagine the possibilities. We could use a laser cutter to dice him into pieces, or we could chain him to the reactor core of the Darksaber as we power it up so that he cooks against its shell."

  Bevel Lemelisk, the pot-bellied, grizzled old engineer, who appeared to watch the entire proceedings with a combination of amusement and distaste, made a comment seemingly to himself but loud enough that everyone heard. "The Emperor could have imagined more ... entertaining executions." The old man visibly restrained a shudder.

  Durga grumbled, still waving Sulamar's blaster pistol around. "I don't see any need to draw this out. After all, we have better things to do. A galaxy to conquer, and so forth."

  Madine stood bravely, clapping his heels together and staring into the large coppery eyes of Durga the Hutt. He said nothing for a moment as he thought back on his years of service to the New Republic .

  He had had a good run, had helped the New Republic grow strong. And now he had followed his duty to the end. He didn't regret defecting from the Empire many years ago, though he did wish he could have seen his fiancée Karreio one more time--but it was too late for those regrets now. He saw her image in front of his eyes. She had died in the battle for Coruscant, and he had never been able to explain anything to her. Madine just hoped that if she did love him, she must have understood in the end ... and if she didn't understand, then she hadn't really known Crix Madine at all.

  He fixed his eyes forward, watching the streaming white lights of the asteroid field clustered around the construction site, hoping against hope that at this last minute he would spot an oncoming fleet of rescue ships. But he saw only the rocky ruins of a planet that had broken apart millennia ago. He decided not to give Durga the satisfaction of begging for his life.

  The Hutt pointed the blaster pistol at Madine and fiddled with the controls until he finally figured out how to set the weapon to Kill.

  "Any last words?" Durga said.

  Madine lifted his bearded chin. "Not to you." Out of the corner of his eyes he saw the brief, white-light flicker of approaching ships. His heart swelled. They were coming to rescue him!

  Durga's fleshy, smooth shoulders rippled in a shrug. "All right." Guards scattered out of the way. Durga fired the blaster pistol, letting loose a long blast of deadly energy.

  Madine was thrown backward into the metal wall as the killing beam burned through to his heart. His entire life evaporated in a brief flash of pain.

  And then blackness.

  YAVIN 4

  CHAPTER 50

  Heading back toward Yavin 4 aboard the Millennium Falcon, Luke Skywalker and Callista recovered rapidly from their ordeal in space. They looked forward to a long and well-deserved rest at the Jedi academy.

  Han, Leia, and Chewbacca tried to cheer them up, but Luke and Callista both felt a brooding sense of failure and frustration. Threepio's pestering ministrations failed to help, though the golden protocol droid meant well. Artoo-Detoo hovered protectively beside Luke, whistling and guarding his master like a faithful pet.

  When they were alone together, Luke looked into Callista's open gray eyes; even without Je
di powers they could share some thoughts.

  "It isn't going to work, is it, Luke?" Callista asked him. "I'm never going to get my Jedi powers back."

  "There's always a chance--” he said.

  "Don't coddle me," she snapped, then flicked her gaze away, though the muscles beneath her cheeks flinched as if she wanted--longed-- to look back at him, but didn't dare risk it.

  "We've tried everything," Callista said. "We've worked all this time, but accomplished nothing. The Force has abandoned me. Its currents are diverted around me, so that I can't touch them."

  "But you did touch them," Luke said. "On Dagobah. I felt it."

  "That was the dark side," Callista said.

  "But it might be the key to regaining your powers,” Luke insisted, unwilling to give up all hope.

  "The dark side is never the key to the light,” Callista said. "You would never teach that to your students at the praxeum, so don't give it to me now as a platitude."

  "What are we going to do, then?" Luke said. "Just give up?"

  "I can't give up. I love you too much. But I have to make my own decisions," Callista said.

  Luke leaned forward, took her hands, and held them until she finally looked at him. "You can,” he said softly. "But I'd like to be part of them."

  Her expression softened, and she lowered her voice. "You will be, Luke--if I can find any way to make it so."

  They held each other tightly for a brief moment until Threepio bustled in to the common room. "Master Luke! Master Luke!" he said. "We've almost reached the Yavin system, and Captain Solo thought you might wish to join us in the cockpit."

  Luke and Callista continued to hold each other, and the protocol droid suddenly stammered and stepped back. "Oh dear, have I intruded at an inconvenient time again? I do beg your pardon. I'm afraid I'm dreadful at that sort of thing."

  "No, Threepio," Luke said, standing up and holding out his hand to help Callista climb to her feet. "We were finished talking."