by Troy Denning
Luke’s face fell. “I’m sorry.” He stood and fished a piece of flimsiplast from his pocket. “I just needed to give this to you.”
An uneasy silence fell over the cockpit. Luke started to hand the flimsiplast to Han, then caught himself and turned to Leia instead.
Han rolled his eyes. “Look, I didn’t mean anything. I just need my copilot in her own seat and you on the belly gun. That’s all.”
The relief in the cockpit was thick enough to taste, and Han was content to leave it that way. The last thing he wanted was someone apologizing for Anakin’s death. That would have cheapened it, implied that Anakin had died for nothing.
“Will you guys get to it?” Han demanded. “Mara, maybe you can see about reloading the missile launchers. We’ve got a lot of people on this tub who’d like to get out of here.”
“Sure.”
Mara and Luke stepped aside so Leia could slip into her chair, then Luke handed her the flimsiplast and explained where it had come from. By the time he finished, the Falcon was streaking out from beneath the far side of the Western Sea. Han took it down deep in the hoverlanes and began to bob and weave through broken-down bridges. Leaving R2-D2 to plug into the droid socket, Luke and Mara retreated to their combat posts.
Leia looked over. “My seat, huh?”
“You’ve been doing all right.” Han eyed the huge copilot’s chair—Chewbacca’s old chair—then added, “If we get out of here alive, we’ll make it official and get you a seat that fits.”
Leia raised her brow. “Now that would be something.” She studied the flimsiplast, checked the chronometer, then punched in a set of coordinates. “Take us up, flyboy.”
Han laid on the power and pulled the yoke, and the Falcon streaked out of the tower canyons into the opalescent sky.
They were past the drop ships and assault ships before the Yuuzhan Vong had time to react, but as they left the upper atmosphere, a cruiser analog tagged as the Kratak dropped skips and moved to cut them off. Luke and Meewalh sounded off with the quad cannons. R2-D2 chirped and whistled, searching the comm channels for a friendly voice.
Han activated the intercom. “Mara, how are those—”
“Three loaded.”
“That’ll do.” Han tried to sound confident. “Stand—”
R2-D2 trilled wildly, then Danni Quee’s familiar voice broke in. “Falcon, break to ten degrees. Continue with all due speed—and don’t fire those concussion missiles.”
Han obeyed instinctively—then looked at his tactical display. Nothing but skips ahead.
“Uh, ten degrees doesn’t look good.”
“It will.” This from Lando.
Mara was instantly on the channel. “Calrissian? What are you doing? I don’t want—”
“Your package is safe with Tendra,” Lando replied. “Aboard the Venture.”
Han looked over. Leia could only shrug and wave the flimsiplast Luke had given her.
“Trust me,” Danni said.
R2-D2 tweedled, then the Jedi wing appeared on the tactical display streaking in the skips’ flank.
“Copy.” Han continued toward the converging coralskippers. “What have we got to lose?”
The enemy closed another few seconds and began to fire. Luke and Meewalh answered, and the Kratak rushed to join the battle. The first plasma balls blossomed against the forward shields.
Then the Jedi wing reached range and opened fire, and half the skips vanished.
The cruiser suddenly had other concerns and veered away from the battle, and the skips fell into chaos. Four wheeled around to meet this new challenge, all moving in different directions with no hope of concentrating their fire. Another pair collided. The six skips in the lead continued forward, oblivious to the danger behind. The Jedi wing loosed another volley, then nothing lay between the Falcon and freedom.
“Think you can put the bird through there, you old pirate?” Lando commed. “Even you ought to be able to handle that.”
Han was speechless. A disciplined skip squadron did not dissolve into a mess that would have embarrassed a swoop gang—yet that was what he had seen. He piloted the Falcon past the few remaining skips. The Venture appeared on the tactical display, and he veered toward it.
Finally, he asked, “Did that really happen back there?”
“I think so,” Luke said over the intercom. “A yammosk has just been jammed.” He switched to the general comm channel, then added, “Danni, Cilghal, congratulations. Your success came too late for Coruscant, but it gives me hope for the future.”
“It gives us all hope,” Leia said. “Thank you.”
The rest of Eclipse’s forces added their congratulations, then Luke came on the channel again.
“Let’s form up on the Venture and proceed to the rendezvous,” he said. “And be careful. With Coruscant captured, the responsibility for keeping the New Republic alive will fall to the Jedi.”
Han swung the Falcon into line with the rest of the convoy, then started to calculate whether they could make even the short jump to the rendezvous site with so many passengers aboard. “Leia, how many troopers did we pick up on the roof?”
When there was no answer, Han looked over to find Leia lost in meditation, her face weary and full of sorrow. His heart rose into his throat, for it was a look he had seen on her face only once before. He reached over and shook her arm.
“What?” he asked. “Not the twins?”
Leia’s face remained weary and sad, but also grew fearfully calm. “They’re alive, but in trouble. Terrible trouble.”
“Artoo, give me a line to the Venture,” Han ordered. “We’ll dump this bunch and go after them, Leia. Just you and me.”
Leia placed her hand on his and shook her head. “No, Han. Even if we knew where to look—and could reach there alive—it doesn’t feel like that kind of trouble. They must rescue themselves.”
Han scowled. It sounded like Jedi trouble, and that was the worst kind. “And if they don’t?”
“They will.” Leia closed her eyes and held his hand. “They will.”
About the Author
TROY DENNING is the New York Times bestselling author of Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Abyss; Star Wars: Tatooine Ghost; Star Wars: The New Jedi Order: Star by Star; the Star Wars: Dark Nest trilogy: The Joiner King, The Unseen Queen, and The Swarm War; and Star Wars: Legacy of the Force: Tempest, Inferno, and Invincible—as well as Pages of Pain, Beyond the High Road, The Summoning, and many other novels. A former game designer and editor, he lives in western Wisconsin with his wife, Andria.
By Troy Denning
Waterdeep
Dragonwall
The Parched Sea
The Verdant Passage
The Crimson Legion
The Amber Enchantress
The Obsidian Oracle
The Cerulean Storm
The Ogre’s Pact
The Giant Among Us
The Titan of Twilight
The Veiled Dragon
Pages of Pain
Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad
The Oath of Stonekeep
Faces of Deception
Beyond the High Road
Death of the Dragon (with Ed Greenwood)
The Summoning
The Siege
The Sorcerer
Star Wars: The New Jedi Order: Star by Star
Star Wars: Tatooine Ghost
Star Wars: Dark Nest I: The Joiner King
Star Wars: Dark Nest II: The Unseen Queen
Star Wars: Dark Nest III: The Swarm War
Star Wars: Legacy of the Force: Tempest
Star Wars: Legacy of the Force: Inferno
Star Wars: Legacy of the Force: Invincible
Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Abyss
Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Vortex
STAR WARS—The Expanded Universe
You saw the movies. You watched the cartoon series, or maybe played some of the video games. But did you know …
In The Empire Strikes Back, Princess Leia Organa said to Han Solo, “I love you.” Han said, “I know.” But did you know that they actually got married? And had three Jedi children: the twins, Jacen and Jaina, and a younger son, Anakin?
Luke Skywalker was trained as a Jedi by Obi-Wan Kenobi and Yoda. But did you know that, years later, he went on to revive the Jedi Order and its commitment to defending the galaxy from evil and injustice?
Obi-Wan said to Luke, “For over a thousand generations, the Jedi Knights were the guardians of peace and justice in the Old Republic. Before the dark times. Before the Empire.” Did you know that over those millennia, legendary Jedi and infamous Sith Lords were adding their names to the annals of Republic history?
Yoda explained that the dreaded Sith tend to come in twos: “Always two, there are. No more, no less. A Master, and an apprentice.” But did you know that the Sith didn’t always exist in pairs? That at one time in the ancient Republic there were as many Sith as Jedi, until a Sith Lord named Darth Bane was the lone survivor of a great Sith war and created the “Rule of Two”?
All this and much, much more is brought to life in the many novels and comics of the Star Wars expanded universe. You’ve seen the movies and watched the cartoon. Now venture out into the wider worlds of Star Wars!
Turn the page or jump to the timeline of Star Wars novels to learn more.
ONE
A sunrise corona limned one edge of the planet Myrkr, setting its vast northern forests alight with a verdant glow. Viewed from space, the planet appeared as lush and green as Yuuzhan’tar, the long-lost homeworld of Yuuzhan Vong legend.
Two Yuuzhan Vong males stood at the viewport of a priestship, deep in contemplation of the scene before them. One was tall and gaunt, with a sloping forehead and sharp, aristocratic features scarred by many acts of devotion. These marks, and his cunningly wrapped head cloth, identified him as a priest of high rank. His companion was younger, broader, and so physically imposing that a first glance yielded no perceptible boundaries between armor and weapons and the warrior who wore them. He struck the eye in a single blow, leaving an indelible impression of a complex, living weapon. His countenance was somber, and there was an intensity about him that suggested movement even though he stood at respectful attention.
The priest swept a three-fingered hand toward the scene below. “Dawn: bright death of mortal night,” he recited.
Harrar’s words followed the well-worn path of proverb, but there was genuine reverence in his eyes as he gazed upon the distant world. The young warrior touched two fingers to his forehead in a pious gesture, but his attention was absorbed less by the glowing vision of Myrkr than by the battle raging above it.
Silhouetted against the green world was a fist-sized lump of black yorik coral. This, an aging worldship housing hundreds of Yuuzhan Vong and their slaves and creature-servants, looked to be nothing more than lifeless rock. But as Harrar’s priestship drew closer, he could make out signs of battle—tiny coral fliers buzzing and stinging like fire gnats, plasma bolts surging in a frantic, erratic pulse. If life was pain, then the worldship was very much alive.
“Our arrival is timely,” the priest observed, glancing at the young warrior. “These young Jeedai seem determined to prove themselves a worthy sacrifice!”
“As you say, Eminence.”
The words were polite, but distracted, as if the warrior gave scant attention. Harrar turned a measuring gaze upon his companion. Discord between the priest and warrior castes was growing more common, but he could discern nothing amiss in Khalee Lah.
The son of Warmaster Tsavong Lah stood tall among the Yuuzhan Vong. His skin’s original gray hue was visible only in the faint strips and whorls separating numerous black scars and tattoos. A cloak of command flowed from hooks embedded in his shoulders. Other implants added spikes to his elbows and to the knuckles on his hands. A single short, thick horn thrust out from the center of his forehead—a difficult implant, and the mark of a truly worthy host.
Harrar knew himself honored when this promising warrior was assigned to his military escort, but he was also wary and more than a little intrigued. Like any true priest of Yun-Harla, goddess of trickery, Harrar relished games of deception and strategy. His old friend Tsavong Lah was a master of the multilayered agenda, and Harrar expected nothing less from the young commander.
Khalee turned to meet the priest’s scrutiny. His gaze was respectful, but direct. “May I speak freely, Eminence?”
Harrar began to suspect Tsavong Lah’s purpose in sending his son to a Trickster priest. Candor was a weakness—a potentially fatal one.
“In this matter, consider the warmaster’s judgment,” he advised, hiding words of caution in seeming assent.
The young male nodded solemnly. “Tsavong Lah entrusted you with the sacrifice of the twin Jeedai. The success of his latest implant is still in the hands of the gods, and you are his chosen intercessor. What the warmaster honors, I reverence.” He concluded his words by dropping to one knee and lowering his head in a respectful bow.
This was hardly the message Harrar intended to send, but Khalee Lah seemed content with their exchange. He rose and directed his attention back to the worldship.
“In plain speech, then. It appears the battle is not going as well as anticipated. Perhaps not even as well as Nom Anor reported.”
Harrar’s scarred forehead creased in a scowl. He himself held a dubious opinion of the Yuuzhan Vong spy. But Nom Anor enjoyed the rank of executor and was not to be lightly criticized.
“Such words veer dangerously close to treason, my young friend.”
“Truth is never treason,” Khalee Lah stated.
The priest carefully weighed these words. To the priesthood of Yun-Harla and among certain other factions, this proverb was an ironic jest, but there was no mistaking the ringing sincerity in the younger male’s tones.
Harrar schooled his face to match the warrior’s earnest expression. “Explain.”
Khalee Lah pointed to a small, dark shape hurtling away from the worldship at an oblique vector to the priestship’s approach. “That is the Ksstarr, the frigate that brought Nom Anor to Myrkr.”
The priest leaned closer to the viewport, but his eyes were not nearly as keen as Khalee Lah’s enhanced implants. He tapped one hand against the portal. In response, a thin membrane nictitated from side to side, cleaning the transparent surface. The living tissue reshaped, exaggerating the convex curve to provide sharper focus and faint magnification.
“Yes,” the priest murmured, noting the distinctive knobs and bumps on the underside of the approaching ship. “And if the battle against the Jeedai is all but won, as Nom Anor reported, why does he flee? I must speak to him at once!”
Khalee Lah turned toward the door and repeated Harrar’s words as an order. The guards stationed there thumped their fists to opposite shoulders and strode off to tend their commander’s bidding.
The swift click of chitinous boots announced a subordinate’s approach. A female warrior garishly tattooed in green and yellow entered the room, a crenellated form cradled in her taloned hands. She bowed, presented the villip to Harrar, and placed it on a small stand.
The priest dismissed her with an absent wave and began to stroke the sentient globe. The outer layer peeled back, and the soft tissue within began to rearrange itself into a rough semblance of Nom Anor’s scarred visage. One eye socket was empty and sunken, and the bruised eyelid seemed to sag into the blue crescent sack beneath. The venom-spitting plaeyrin bol that had once distinguished Nom Anor’s countenance was gone, and evidently he had not yet been permitted to replace it.
Harrar’s eyes narrowed in satisfaction. Nom Anor had failed repeatedly, but never once had he accepted responsibility for his actions. In a manner most unworthy a Yuuzhan Vong, he had foisted blame upon others. Harrar had suffered a temporary demotion for his part in a failed espionage scheme; Nom Anor had merely received a reprimand, even though his agents played a significant role in the plot�
��s failure. In Harrar’s opinion, the blurred face testified that the gods’ justice would, in time, be served.
The image of Nom Anor, imprecise though it was, nevertheless managed to convey a sense of impatience, perhaps even anxiety.
“Your Eminence,” Nom Anor began.
“Your report,” Harrar broke in curtly.
Nom Anor’s one eye narrowed, and for a moment Harrar thought the executor would protest. As a field agent, Nom Anor was seldom required to answer to the priesthood. His silence stretched beyond the bounds of pride, however, and Harrar began to fear that Khalee Lah’s suspicions had fallen short of grim truth.
“You have lost?”
“We have losses,” Nom Anor corrected. “The voxyn queen and her spawn were destroyed. Two Jedi prisoners held on the worldship were freed. They escaped, as did several of the others.”
Harrar looked to Khalee Lah. “You have sighted the infidels’ escape ship?”
The warrior’s eyes widened, and for a moment his scarred face held horrified enlightenment—a fleeting emotion that swiftly darkened to wrath.
“Ask who flies the Ksstarr: the executor or the infidels?”
This possibility had not occurred to Harrar. He quickly relayed the question through the attuned villip.
“Some of the Jedi managed to commandeer the frigate,” Nom Anor admitted. “We are pursuing, and feel confident that we will add the capture of this ship to our other victories.”
Capture. Harrar’s gut tightened, for that single word confirmed the identity of the escaped Jedi.
“Capture!” Khalee Lah echoed derisively. “Better to reduce the defiled thing to coral dust! What Yuuzhan Vong pilot would wish to enjoin with an infidel-tainted ship?”
“Several Jedi fell to our warriors,” Nom Anor continued, oblivious to both the priest’s epiphany and the warrior’s scorn. “The younger Solo brother was slain. The warmaster will be pleased to learn that Jacen Solo is alive, and our captive.”
“Jacen Solo,” Harrar repeated. “What of Jaina Solo, his twin?”