Jedi Eclipse

by James Luceno

  Nas Choka whirled in alarm to Malik Carr. “How soon before our advance elements reach Fondor?”

  “Soon,” the commander said, letting it go at that.

  “The yammosk won’t be adequately protected until we arrive,” Nas Choka remarked, mostly to himself. “What is the status of the New Republic fleet?”

  “Massed at the worlds Commenor, Kuat, and Bothawui.”

  “And the hyperspace routes linking Bothawui to Fondor?”

  “Sown with obstacles.”

  Nas Choka turned slightly to favor Nom Anor with a faint smile. “It appears that you have been successful in persuading them that we plan to attack Corellia.”

  Nom Anor inclined his head in a nod.

  “Then it shouldn’t matter if we advance the attack.” Nas Choka swung to his subaltern. “Apprise all commanders that we launch for Fondor as soon as the final coralskippers are docked.”

  In the passenger hold of the Trevee, Gaph danced while he sang:

  Life is a journey without end,

  for the Ryn more than any.

  From a home unknown we wander,

  Star to star in a constant quest.

  We abhor the stars for what they have wrought:

  Instigators of our ill-fortune,

  Grave sentinels of our fate.

  But we load our packs with joy;

  And song and dance follow at our heels.

  Now Abregado-rae awaits;

  Home for a time,

  Until we are forced to wander anew.

  Melisma and the other Ryn capered with him or accompanied his improvised song on musical instruments. Some hummed and tooted through their perforated beaks, while the rest played drums, finger cymbals, and flutes fashioned from scavenged parts of machinery, pilfered gear, or whatever was handy.

  The fact that the festive melody of Gaph’s song belied an underlying melancholy was lost on those non-Ryn refugees who clapped in time to the music and applauded the dancers’ graceful leaps and fleet pirouettes.

  Gaph was only a stanza into a second verse when the Trevee shuddered abruptly.

  “We’re reverting from hyperspace,” one of the refugees said when the musicians had stopped playing.

  Melisma, Gaph, and some of the other Ryn hurried excitedly to an observation blister, eager for a first glimpse of Abregado-rae. But in place of the light-green sphere they had expected to see was a brownish world, partially eclipsed by clouds sullied with industrial pollutants and surrounded by hundreds of enormous orbital construction platforms.

  “This isn’t Abregado-rae,” someone behind Melisma said.

  “Then where are we?” she asked.

  “This is Fondor,” a human male supplied in understated astonishment.

  Surprised murmurs began to spread through the crowd. Then all at once hatches throughout the passenger hold hissed open, admitting a score of heavily armed crew members. Agitated by misgiving as well as concern, the refugees backed away from the bulkheads, forming a ragged circle in the center of the hold.

  “Slight change of plans, folks,” the crew’s obvious spokesperson announced when the murmuring had ceased—the same human Melisma and the other Ryn had come to call Tall. “Turns out we’re going to have to drop you here.”

  “But you promised to deliver us to Abregado-rae,” someone thought to point out.

  Tall grinned. “Let’s just say we overshot our stop.”

  Impassioned conversations broke out. In some ways Fondor was preferable to Abregado-rae, but the blaster rifles and the tone of Tall’s announcement contributed an undercurrent of foreboding to the unforeseen development.

  “Has Fondor agreed to accept us?” someone demanded.

  “That’s not our concern.”

  “Then where on Fondor will we be off-loaded?”

  Tall stared at the Bimm who had asked the question. “Who said anything about Fondor?” He moved to the observation blister and pointed to a crescent-shaped shipbuilding platform. “That’s where you’re getting off. The facility is temporarily unoccupied, but at least you’ll have breathable air and artificial gravity.”

  “What about provisions?” a human asked above the increasing turmoil.

  “Do you plan to inform the authorities?” someone else asked.

  Tall waved everyone silent. “We’re not barbarians. We’ll provide you with enough flash-dried nutrients to last you a couple of local days.”

  “A couple of days?” a voice squeaked. “It could be months before anyone finds us!”

  “Oh, I sincerely doubt that,” Tall said. “The Tapani sector is about to become very crowded. Someone’s bound to notice you.”

  “Couldn’t you at least bring us to Fondor?” a human female pleaded.

  Tall gave his head a firm shake. “We can’t afford to be here when the fireworks begin.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  With the exception of those in the Corporate Sector, few planetary systems had been exploited to the degree that Fondor had—especially for a system so close to the Core. That part of the Tapani sector had originally been designated a manufacturing and shipbuilding center precisely because of the surfeit of resource-rich asteroids and moons, and worlds ripe for abuse. But where the colossal corporations that dominated Bilbringi, Kuat, Sluis Van, and other shipbuilding centers made a pretense of picking up after themselves, no such efforts had ever been made at Fondor. With the space lanes perilous with free-floating construction debris, Fondor’s several small moons looking as if something had taken huge bites out of them, and the planet itself overcrowded, polluted, and corrupted by profiteers providing diversions for the millions of workers who had nowhere else to spend their hard-earned credits, the system was a blight on the Rimma Trade Route.

  Many were quick to assert that Fondor’s nimbus of orbital docking stations and oblate zero-g construction facilities had never operated more smoothly than when the Empire had appropriated them, and in fact, conditions had clearly deteriorated over the past twenty standard years—more so since the arrival of the Yuuzhan Vong.

  Emerging from the Gandeal hyperlane out past Fondor’s outermost moon, the Falcon was immediately detected and scanned by First Fleet command and control, which had been assigned the task of safeguarding the shipyards after the fall of Obroa-skai.

  “Give them our actual transponder signal,” Han instructed Droma while he threaded the Falcon toward a pack of freighters and warships awaiting clearance to enter Fondor space. “It’s our best chance of getting through.”

  “How could the Trevee have entered?” Droma asked while he flicked switches on the console.

  Han snorted. “A ten-year-old slicer piloting a thirty-year-old Headhunter could penetrate military security. The Trevee could have legitimate business here, or whoever’s in charge of the Tholatin operation could have provided the crew with clearance codes.” He looked at Droma and grinned. “Look who I’m telling. The Ryn are probably pros at just this sort of thing.”

  “Only by necessity,” Droma said ingenuously.

  A crisp voice crackled from the cockpit annunciators. “Millennium Falcon, this is First Fleet control. Please state your point of origin and the nature of your business.”

  “Gandeal,” Han said into his headset mike. “And it’s more pleasure than business. We’re supposed to rendezvous with friends who may have arrived ahead of us. Their ship is the Trevee. Nar Shaddaa registry.”

  The communications officer at the other end of the link took a long moment to respond. “Pardon me for asking, Millennium Falcon, but am I speaking with General Han Solo?”

  “That’s former general to you, Control,” Han said jocularly.

  “A genuine pleasure to be talking with you, sir. As to your request, the Trevee received clearance a short while ago. Unfortunately, sir, they made their cargo drop in an area off-limits to unregistered ships—especially ships with the rectenna array and firepower rating yours boasts.”

  “Just like I thought,” Han muttered to Droma. “
They scammed their way in.” He reopened the comlink. “Control, can you at least tell us where the Trevee made her drop?”

  “Negative, sir. I suggest you direct your request to Defense Force command downside. The best I can do from here is turn you over to Fondor command.”

  “Understood, Control. And thanks for the help.”

  “Stand by to receive routing and navigational beacon data.”

  “Standing by.”

  Han set his elbows on the console and regarded the misshapen moons and hundreds of active construction platforms that crowded local space. The bright, sweeping crescent of Fondor dominated the backdrop. “Well, this oughta be a snap. Only a couple of billion cubic kilometers to search—not to mention Fondor itself.”

  Droma glanced at him. “We could initiate a drive-signature scan for the Trevee.”

  Han thought about it. “Control said they’d already delivered their cargo. Hyperspace jumps aren’t permitted inside the orbit of Fondor’s sixth moon, so they’ll be running on repulsor power or sublight. But they could be anywhere.” He ran his hand down his face, stretching the bags under his eyes. “You’ve just marooned a couple of hundred refugees. What’s your next move?”

  Droma sat back, fingering his pale mustache. “Perhaps you want to hang around and spend some of the credits you just earned. Or you jump to Abregado-rae for the same purpose.”

  “Maybe. But remember, you know that Fondor is likely to be attacked sometime soon, which means the Rimma is going to get real busy, real fast, from Abregadorae clear to Sullust.”

  Droma frowned. “In that case, you’d want to be as far from Fondor as possible. You might even want to lie low for a while before going on a spending spree.”

  Han and Droma looked at each other. “Tholatin,” they said at the same time.

  Han straightened in his chair, taking hold of the control yoke while Droma interrogated the navicomputer.

  “The best jump point for Tholatin is just Coreward of Fondor aphelion.”

  Han cut his eyes to the star chart Droma put onscreen. With Fondor less than two months from aphelion, the jump point was relatively close to where the Falcon had reverted to realspace from the Gandeal hyperlane. Engaging the thrusters, he veered the ship through an abrupt climbing bank, away from the line of navigational buoys that would have directed them to Fondor.

  Instantly the cockpit annunciator came to life. “Millennium Falcon, why are you altering course?”

  “Uh, slight drive malfunction,” Han said, spicing his voice with false alarm. “But we should have things under control momentarily.”

  “Maintain your present position, Falcon. You are entering restricted space. I repeat: Stay where you are. An escort ship will be dispatched to provide assistance.”

  “Don’t bother sending an escort,” Han said, even as the Falcon was accelerating. “We’ll return to the holding point and make repairs there.”

  “Negative, Falcon. You have entered restricted space. Return to original course headings immediately.”

  Han increased the ship’s speed while the navicomputer aimed them for the remotest point of Fondor’s elliptical orbit. A host of capital ships, barges, tenders, and freighters came into view, all maneuvering toward various jump points. Abruptly, an indicator on the friend-or-foe authenticator flashed.

  “IR emission and ion exhaust recognition,” Droma said excitedly. “Confirmation of the Trevee.” He called up a magnified view of the supplied coordinates, then pointed to the run-down, pod-shaped ship at the center of the display screen. “There!”

  Han smiled in recollection of the opticals Baffle and the other droids had provided. “That’s her, all right.”

  “Millennium Falcon,” the voice of fleet command and control barked. “This is your final warning.”

  “Turn that thing off,” Han snapped.

  Droma lowered the gain, then swiveled back to the console. “Deflector shields raised,” he reported without being asked. “Fire-control computer on-line.”

  Han reached to his left for the servo that controlled the dorsal quad laser. When they could see the Trevee through the viewport, he tugged the throttle lever toward him, streaking the Falcon beneath the freighter, then barrel-rolled to port across the Trevee’s blunt bow.

  “Now they know we’re here,” he said, decelerating to hang on the Trevee’s twin-thrustered tail.

  “They’re scanning us,” Droma said. “Weapons powering up.”

  “Give me a schematic of the ship.” Han glanced at the data Droma retrieved and tapped his forefinger against the display screen. “Their hyperdrive is just forward of the aft fin. Take over.”

  Droma tightened his hands around the copilot’s yoke, gluing the Falcon to the Trevee’s stern. Han centered the quad laser’s targeting reticle over the freighter’s sleek stabilizer.

  “Weapons fire!”

  The words had scarcely left Droma’s mouth when blue hyphens of energy raced toward the Falcon, splashing against her forward deflector shield and jarring the ship without doing damage.

  “Ion cannon,” Droma said. “They’re maintaining target lock. Hyperdrive is enabling.”

  Energy streaked from the freighter’s aft cannon turret. Droma tipped the Falcon to one side, then the other, then rolled out to starboard and kept the ship inverted while Han lined up his shot.

  Violent light pulsed from the quad laser’s reciprocating barrels, blowing the Trevee’s fin away and scoring a ragged line along her aft hull. Gouts of molten alloy streamed from the freighter as she banked in desperation, firing continuously at her pursuer. Droma powered the Falcon through a loop, giving Han a clear shot at the freighter’s overheated cannon, which Han quickly put out of its misery. Then, for good measure, Han took out the worthless shield generator.

  “Open a frequency to the ship,” he said.

  “No response.” Droma glanced at the sensor suite screen. “They’re heading straight out of the system, all speed.”

  Han compressed his lips. “What do they think they’re doing? They can’t jump and they can’t outrun us.” He turned to Droma, who was still staring at the scanner display. “What? What?”

  “Six New Republic fighters—X-wings. Coming up fast on our stern.”

  Han cursed to himself. “A chase group from fleet command.” He slipped into the headset and adjusted the controls.

  A new voice issued from the speakers. “—heave to, Falcon. Don’t make us go to guns.”

  Han quirked a grin. “Let’s see you try,” he said, mostly to himself. He opened the comm. “This is Captain Han Solo of the Millennium Falcon. We’re not looking for a fight, squadron leader. Patch me through to the flight ops commander.” He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Time to pull rank.”

  “I’m already listening in, Captain Solo,” a bass voice said in irritation. “You’re in violation of security regulations. Any further infractions and you’ll be seeing the brig before this day is out—regardless of your history or who you’re married to. Are we clear?”

  The remark served only to incite Han further. “You’ve got more important things to do than arrest me, Commander.”

  “Don’t press your luck, Captain Solo. Follow your escorts to fleet HQ and I’ll consider entertaining your notion of what my priorities should be.”

  “Listen to me, Commander. The Yuuzhan Vong have targeted Fondor for attack. I don’t know exactly when, but it’s going to be soon. I suggest that the fleet be put on full alert.”

  “That’s absurd, Solo. We’ve received no such information.”

  “I don’t have time to go into all the details—”

  “The chase group is breaking off,” Droma interrupted, eyes fixed on the scanner screen.

  Han glanced at the display and snorted a laugh. “I don’t often enjoy name-dropping, but …” He let his words trail off. Droma’s mouth was hanging open, and he had one quivering hand raised to the viewport. Simultaneously with a chime from the hyperwave warning indicator, Ha
n swung forward to see that they were soaring straight into what anyone else might have believed was an uncharted meteor storm, but what he knew to be enemy vessels, decanting to realspace by the hundreds.

  Instinctively, he stood the Falcon on her side, weaving her through a swarm of carrier, destroyer, and cruiser analogs, none of which appeared to take the slightest interest in the Falcon or even the much larger Trevee.

  “Evasive action!” Droma said, finding his voice at last. “Countermeasures!”

  Han wrestled with the controls. “What do you think I’m doing!”

  Warships continued to materialize to all sides, more than Han would have believed possible—and certainly more than enough to engage and ultimately overwhelm Fondor’s defenses. Already the vanguard vessels were firing, launching molten projectiles and blinding streams of plasma at picket craft and warships alike. Han swerved the Falcon away from the main battle group, then accelerated as the Trevee had done, still shooting for the aphelion coordinates, now if only to distance itself from the onslaught.

  “That’s why they were running,” Han remarked. “They knew the Yuuzhan Vong were on their way.” His face contorted by anger, he triggered a short burst from the quad lasers, though more to terrorize the crew of the Trevee than to further disable the ship. Then, just when it appeared that both ships had made it safely through the throng, a final enemy vessel emerged. Looking more like a wedded cluster of tough-skinned bubbles than a chunk of scabrous coral, the new arrival narrowly missed colliding with the Trevee, but sent it into an out-of-control tumble nevertheless.

  Intrigued, Han leaned toward the viewport to have a closer look at the ship, then immediately changed course, vectoring directly for the newcomer.

  “One on one,” he snarled. “We can live with those odds.”

  With the Falcon up on its side once more, Han and Droma assailed the clustership with sustained bursts from the dorsal and ventral quad lasers. Most of the bolts were engulfed by gravitic anomalies long before they reached the ship, but a surprising few got through. The reason became clear when Han realized that the vessel was taking rear fire from a motley group of New Republic fighters. Overtaxed and distracted, the dovin basals that shielded the Yuuzhan Vong vessel were obviously failing.