by Troy Denning
When the fireball died this time, it was replaced by a pair of white dots. They were a little larger than stars and a whole lot brighter.
The white dots swelled to white disks.
“Concussion missiles?” the Barabel asked.
“Not that lucky.” Han didn’t even bother to check the tactical display for propellant trails. He had seen plenty of those expanding white dots—though usually from the bridge of a Super Star Destroyer. “Proton torpedoes.”
The white disks swelled into white circles.
Han nosed the Falcon down into a wild corkscrewing evasive pattern. Somehow, the mysterious gunners remained accurate, crippling two starfighters as the main body of the pirate fleet reached effective range. The first proton torpedo arced past so close that the canopy went white.
The Barabel sissed. “Someone wantz you dead. Really wantz you dead.”
Han blinked his vision clear and saw a Y-wing zip past the cockpit, a crazy line of laserfire chasing it along. Another X-wing came in firing, and he had to turn head-on to force it to pull up. When he could finally check the tactical display, he found a dozen starfighters circling the Falcon, with another dozen hanging back to cut off escape. The good news was that the second proton torpedo had already passed by, its propellant trail tracing a long arc away from the Falcon’s tail.
“They don’t want us dead,” Han said. The torpedoes had been fired with disabled homing beacons. “They’re forcing our hand.”
A pair of battered X-wings streaked into view, the Falcon’s, cannon bolts warming their shields. They collided in front of the cockpit, and a pair of rhythmic hisses, the first sounds Han had heard from the turrets, sounded over the intercom. Then pirates were all over the Falcon, coming in close and battering its shields from every angle. Depletion warnings and overload signals beeped and buzzed.
The Barabel studied the instrument panel in helpless confusion. “Where is the load balancer?”
“I’ll handle the shields.” Han jerked a thumb at the navicomputer. “Can you use that?”
The Barabel bristled his scales. “We are good pilots.”
“Okay—I didn’t mean anything by it,” Han said. “Plot a course to Commenor.”
He pulled the Falcon out of its evasive pattern and turned toward the fast-freight. The cockpit shuddered and the lights dimmed as the starfighters landed a devastating volley, and a damage-control buzzer announced a hull breach in the number two cargo hold. Two more X-wings vanished from the tactical display. Han sealed the breached hold. Then, finally, the pirates began to stand off, keeping the pressure on but now concentrating on avoiding the deadly streams of light pouring from the Falcon’s cannon turrets.
Han shifted more power to the rear shields and looked over to check on the Barabel’s progress. The calculations were almost finished, but the final coordinates lay closer to Corellia than Commenor. Han pretended not to notice, but cursed inside and searched his memory for some hint as to who Izal Waz and his Barabel friends could be working for. Not the Yuuzhan Vong, at least not directly; the Yuuzhan Vong hated Jedi. And certainly not for whoever had hired the pirates; they had killed too many. Maybe a hidden cabal of Dark Jedi, hoping to use Leia to somehow turn the war to their advantage.
Han shifted the tactical scale so it would display only what a standard sensor suite might reveal, and the fast-freight vanished off the screen. Trying to make it appear that he was fine-tuning the data filters, Han quietly opened his own input to the navicomputer and began calculations for the trip to Commenor.
The Barabel looked over. “They will know from our initial course we are going to Commenor.” He completed his calculations and sent them to Han’s display for verification. “This rendezvous is safer.”
“Safer for you.”
“For you,” the Barabel insisted. “They are not after us.”
The fast-freight appeared on the tactical display. Han pushed the Falcon into what he hoped would look like an evasive climb. The starfighters closed, hammering his shields, trying to drive him back toward the freighter. Han held his turn, trying to convince the enemy pilots he really had been surprised. The turret gunners made it look good by dispersing their fire to slow pursuit.
Something popped in the life-support control panel, and an acrid stench filled the air. The Barabel pulled off the cover and smothered a burning circuit board with his bare palm, then looked over wide-eyed.
“You are trying to get us killed?”
“This needs to look good,” Han said.
The Falcon bucked as the fast-freight, still too distant to see with the naked eye, locked on with its tractor beam. Han spun them perpendicular to the direction of pull—then cut back the throttles to avoid escaping. He did not have to ease off much; the tractor beam was a powerful one.
The Falcon’s cannon turrets spun to attack their captor.
“No!” Han ordered on the intercom. “Keep the fighters away.”
There was a short silence, then a voice rasped, “Tesar?”
The Barabel—Tesar—studied Han, then said nothing and started to tend damage alarms.
“Listen,” Han began, “I’m the—”
The turrets spun back toward the starfighters. Another pirate vanished from the tactical display, and the rest began to stand off again. They continued to pour fire at the Falcon, though they seemed more interested in keeping the deadly laser cannons occupied than approaching close enough to cause damage. The Falcon continued to slip toward the fast-freight.
Han returned to his calculations. Tesar watched for a moment, then tapped a claw on his own coordinates.
“This is better,” he said. “Trust me.”
Han did not even look up. “Where have I heard that before?”
“Your enemies are well organized. Even if we escape this—”
“I have a plan,” Han assured him.
“—they will have someone waiting on Commenor.”
“Better the enemy I know than one I don’t,” Han retorted.
The Falcon slipped faster toward the freighter. Han added power, but the slide continued to accelerate.
“We are not your enemy, Han Solo,” Tesar said.
“Quiet.” Han was still struggling to finish the calculations. “And kill those alarms. I’m working here.”
Tesar made no move to obey. “Why do you not trust us? We are Jedi Knightz.”
“I said quiet!”
Thinking he just might be quick enough if he caught the Barabel by surprise, he reached for his blaster—then Tesar extended a hand, and Han was nearly jerked from his chair as weapon and holster tore free of his belt.
The Barabel caught the blaster and tucked it inside his robe. “This one said you could blast him later.”
Rubbing his thigh where the holster thong had snapped, Han said, “Look, Luke Skywalker is my brother-in-law. I know the Jedi, and you’re not one of them.”
The scales rose on Tesar’s face, and his pupils narrowed to angry slits. He studied Han, his nostrils flaring and his long tongue flicking his lips, then he turned his face away.
“We are still young, but we are Jedi.” His reflection in the canopy was twisted into a snarling mask. “If you know the Jedi, then you must know Master Eelysa.”
“Of course,” Han said. Eelysa had been one of Luke’s earliest pupils, a girl born on Coruscant soon after the Emperor’s death. Taken to the academy on Yavin 4 as a child, she had matured into one of Luke’s most trusted Jedi Knights and now spent most of her time on complicated, years-long missions. “But I haven’t seen her in—well, since she was a teenager younger than Jaina.”
“Yes, you have.” When Tesar looked back, his face was more composed. “Eelysa is the one we are guarding. She is the Master of our Master.”
“The Master of your Master?”
“She taught my mother on Barab I,” Tesar said. “When we learned she had been injured, we were sent to Corellia to guard her.”
Han felt instantly sick and foolish. N
ow that Tesar had mentioned Eelysa’s name, the woman from the bacta tank did look familiar. And spying on Corellia was exactly the kind of high-risk, long-term mission in which she specialized. If anyone was going to train Jedi Knights he had never heard of, it would be Eelysa.
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by what I said.”
The Barabel looked confused. “Then why did you say it?”
Before Han could explain, another Barabel voice rasped over the intercom, “Captain, can we shoot the frigate yet?”
“Frigate?”
The tactical display now showed the starfighters standing completely off, and the generic fast-freight tag had been changed to KDY frigate, Lancer-class.
“Uh, hold your fire for a minute, fellas.”
“Fellas?” a voice rasped. “We are amused, Captain Solo.”
This brought a long round of sissing, which Han did his best to ignore as he interrogated the sensor computer for more details.
“They are not fellas,” Tesar confided quietly. “They are sisters. We are all hatchmates.”
“Hatchmates?” Han echoed, his attention fixed on the details scrolling down his display. “Like wives?”
“Wives!” Tesar broke into an uncontrollable fit of hissing and slapped his chair arm so hard he nearly broke it. “Now is no time for off-color jokes, Captain.”
From what the mass meters and infrared analyzers were showing, the frigate was one of the stripped-down versions that had been converted to planetary customs use. It would have an advanced sensor suite, overpowered tractor beam, and huge hangar bay—but only six cannon towers and civilian-class shields. And while most pirates would have loved to get their hands on such a ship, it was hardly likely. They would have had to steal it from a planetary government.
Han opened a comm channel. “Anonymous customs frigate, this is the Millennium Falcon.” The ship came into view, a tiny sliver of light glowing against the starry backdrop of empty space. “Explain your actions.”
There was a moment’s pause, then a haughty Kuati voice said, “Our actions speak for themselves. Prepare for capture and boarding, and you will be treated fairly.”
Han started to make a rude reply, then thought better of it. “Do we have another choice?”
“Not if you wish to live. Frigate out.”
The channel had barely closed before Tesar growled, “You would surrender your mate?”
“It was a lie, Tesar. You’ve been spending too much time with Selonians.”
Han lowered the energy shields and powered down the ion drives, then swung the Falcon’s nose around as though surrendering to the inevitable. The frigate began to grow rapidly larger, in the space of a few breaths swelling from the size of a sliver to that of a finger.
“Okay, uh, ladies, when we get to the hangar bay—”
“We understand what to do, Captain,” came the reply.
“You know where—”
“The projector and the backup,” rasped the other sister. “And both at once, or the generatorz will reverse and send us tumbling out of control. We have studied our schematicz.”
Han checked the systems display and saw that the sisters had already turned the Falcon’s cannon turrets away in a gesture of submission. Thinking his plan just might work, he turned to finish his calculations. The new Commenor coordinates were already glowing on the display, along with those for the rendezvous Tesar had recommended instead.
“Both setz are accurate,” the Barabel assured him. “The choice is yourz.”
“Thanks.”
The frigate was as long as his forearm now, and so brightly lit Han could see the cannon turrets mounted along its spine and belly. He transferred the Commenor coordinates to the navicomputer. Tesar’s pupils narrowed, but he managed to keep his tongue from flicking—too much.
“Look, I trust you,” Han said. “But we’d just lead them straight to your rendezvous. There’s a homing beacon somewhere on this bird, and we can’t look for it until we land someplace.”
Tesar turned away, as though he was convinced Han was making excuses. “The beacon will be in something you brought aboard. We removed the one the docking officer planted in the strutz.”
Han raised his brow. “You’ve been watching the Falcon?”
“Yes, since Jedi Waz realized who you were.” As he spoke, Tesar continued to look out the side of the canopy. “We, uh, discussed whether to tell you, but our Master’s instructionz were to remain hidden. She is not going to be pleased, especially when we miss the rendezvous.”
“Sorry to cause you trouble,” Han said. As large as a hovercar, the frigate filled the forward viewport. All six weapons turrets were turned in the Falcon’s direction, the barrels of their deadly laser cannons slowly depressing as their target drew near. “But I need to get Leia to a bacta tank. Eelysa, too; we only have a little while before that portable tank starts to pollute itself.”
Tesar turned from the canopy. “That is not an excuse?”
“Now, Captain?” interrupted one of the sisters. “Can we shoot now?”
There was nothing ahead but frigate, its massive hangar bay yawning open in the middle of the micropitted hull. A conical tractor beam projector hung down from the ceiling in obvious sight, but its ready backup was still tucked against the ceiling and barely visible.
“You can make both shots?” Han asked. “At once?”
“Of course,” the other sister said. “We are Jedi.”
Han checked the frigate’s weapons turrets—the two that he could still see—and found the cannon barrels still trained on the Falcon, not quite at maximum depression.
“Not yet.” He placed one hand on the throttles. “I’ll let you know.”
“The bacta tankz?” There was a rising note of urgency in Tesar’s voice. “They are the only reason, Han Solo?”
Han thought for a moment. Though it would have been more in a Barabel’s nature to demand—and demand only once—before simply taking control of the ship, Tesar had never even mentioned the possibility, not even as an argument proving his own trustworthiness. That was very Jedi.
Han nodded. “Yeah, the bacta tanks are the only reason.”
“Good.” Tesar was almost whispering now. “Then this one will tell you something else his Master would not wish. There will be bacta tankz at the rendezvous—and a safe place to use them.”
The frigate’s laser cannons reached their maximum depression, then disappeared out of sight behind the curve of the ship’s hull.
“Now, Captain?” a sister asked.
Han ignored her and asked Tesar, “How safe?”
“As safe as a nest in a ferrocrete den.”
They reached the entrance to the hangar bay. The lights outside the cockpit rippled as the frigate’s shields were lowered to admit the Falcon. Han hit the directional thrusters, and the ship began to tremble as it struggled to pivot in the tractor beam’s grasp. The cockpit passed into the bay.
“Now, ladies!”
The sisters were already bringing their turrets around. Given the vibrating ship, the precision timing, and the swift targeting, the shot would have been impossible for any typical pair of gunners. The two Barabels were not typical. In the same second, two volleys of laser bolts streaked out … and scorched holes through the opposite side of the bay.
Then the Falcon was pulled completely inside the frigate, and Han saw two little Vigilance starfighters—one hiding in each of the near corners—swinging their weapons in his direction. He brought the shields up, then another volley lashed out from his own laser cannons and hit the tractor beam projectors.
The bay walls spun past in a blur. Sheets of red flame washed over the cockpit canopy. Han thought the sisters had missed their timing, that the Falcon was tumbling out of control. A familiar whumpf reverberated through the cockpit, and blazing streaks of light lanced out from the cannon turrets to blossom against the walls in disks of fire. Han tipped the yoke against the spin and slowed the revolutions, then
saw laser bolts stabbing starry darkness ahead and jammed the throttles.
He knew they had escaped by the laserfire suddenly webbing the darkness around them. Not bothering to check the tactical display—he knew the Y-wings and X-wings were coming—Han pushed the nose down and, corkscrewing wildly, transferred shield power aft.
“Okay, Tesar, give me our heading.”
The Barabel read off a set of familiar-sounding coordinates.
“Not those.” Han cleared the navicomputer and called up the second set. “The new ones. A ferrocrete den sounds good right now.”
The Barabel smiled, baring a set of teeth that could have stripped a rancor to the bone. “You will not regret this, Captain.”
The Falcon began to shake beneath the volleys of the frigate’s belly cannons.
“I won’t have time if you don’t hurry.”
Tesar gave him the new coordinates, and Han swung the Falcon onto the bearing. He was just about to make the jump to lightspeed when Leia’s voice came over the intercom.
“Han? Han I—”
“I’m sorry, Captain Solo,” C-3PO interrupted. “But she’s just awakened and insists she must speak with you this instant.”
“Han?” Leia’s voice was raspy and weak, and she sounded confused. “Han, I’m so thirsty. Could you bring me some water?”
FIVE
Though contaminants had long since fouled the monitoring electrodes and the bacta had turned so murky and green Eelysa could hardly be seen, Leia knew the Jedi Master had awakened. She could feel Eelysa inside the cramped tank, a strong presence in the Force, isolated from those around her, aware of her danger and curious about it, yet patient and calm and utterly at peace with her helplessness. Leia filled her heart with reassurance and reached out through the Force, and she felt the Barabels—Tesar Sebatyne and the Hara sisters, Bela and Krasov—do the same.
Eelysa held the contact for what might have been seconds or minutes, filling the Force with a sense of gratitude and love, then continued to embrace them as she sank into a Jedi healing trance. Leia and the Barabels remained with her until her thoughts and emotions grew as quiet as a pond on a windless day, then, one by one, gently withdrew.