Star Wars: Darksaber

by Kevin J. Anderson

  She paced around the Night Hammer’s ready-room, a private strategy chamber that was itself as big as the entire command deck on a Victory-class Star Destroyer. Daala stared out the viewing window, drinking in the brilliant spatter of stars at the heart of the galaxy. Nebular material streamed in ribbons across star clusters.

  The huge ready-room seemed extravagant, almost intimidating. She would have preferred a more confined place to gather her thoughts, but in her position she could not take command of any ship other than the Super Star Destroyer. The ready-room had its own sleeping quarters, food-processing stations, even access to command-level escape pods, should disaster befall the warship. Though it was immense, the Night Hammer functioned with a relatively small crew, relying on massively redundant automated command systems.

  Vice Admiral Pellaeon cleared his throat and waited for her attention. Daala knew the older officer had arrived, but she let her thoughts wander a while longer. “Our fleet is growing strong,” she finally said out loud. “I can feel it.”

  Pellaeon waited for her. “Yes, Admiral.”

  “I don’t want to strike before we are ready … but I’m anxious to go to battle again.” She sighed and turned to Pellaeon, who stood holding a datapad with the latest fleet statistics. She frowned wearily and sank into one of her chairs. “I do grow tired of administrative details, though,” she groaned. After only a moment she stood up again and began to pace around the ready-room, a blur of nervous energy.

  “These details are necessary,” Pellaeon said. “Without sufficient attention to detail, all your work will fall apart. You must understand that, if you intend to run the Empire.”

  Daala fixed him with a sharp stare. “But I have no designs on running the Empire. That’s not what I’m after. Surely you understand that by now? Once the battle is won, I intend to relinquish command with great pleasure—to you or whomever else is most suited to the damn job.”

  Pellaeon’s head snapped back and his watery eyes widened. “Me, Admiral? I am no emperor!”

  She let loose a laugh. “Neither am I, Vice Admiral—but let’s not worry about that until the war is over. Give me a rundown. Where do we stand?”

  With obvious relief at the change of subject, Pellaeon sat down at the table while Daala continued to pace. He called up numbers on his datapad. “We now have one hundred twelve fully functional Victory-class Star Destroyers. I’ve placed them under the command of Colonel Cronus, as we discussed at our last meeting.”

  “Yes,” Daala said, “a good choice. He seems a competent commander.”

  “We also have forty-five Imperial Star Destroyers—and of course we have the Night Hammer.” He slid the datapad across the table. “There’s a full listing of our TIE fighters, interceptors, and bombers as well as a tally of Gamma assault shuttles, Lambda-class shuttles, AT-ST walkers, scout transports, and blastboats. The next entry summarizes our entire complement of personnel and their areas of expertise.”

  Daala glanced at the numbers but felt her green eyes glaze over. This was not her strength. “I’ll study these later,” she said. “Right now my mind is occupied with other concerns.” She drew a deep breath. “We are getting close, very close. You and I must discuss the strategy for our first attack. I prefer not to make this decision alone. You have decades of experience and a wealth of knowledge. We are here with the door sealed and no one watching—I want your honest opinion.” She lowered her voice. “I will not make the same mistakes again.”

  Pellaeon swallowed slightly. “I appreciate your faith in me, Admiral, but surely you recognize that this time you have a genuine fleet at your disposal.”

  Daala slapped the palm of her hand down on the table, her eyes blazing. “And I will not waste it!”

  Pellaeon stood up. “Shall I get us a drink, Admiral?”

  She nodded and turned her eyes to stare out at the stars. She didn’t speak until he had returned with a tall, cool glass of stim tea.

  “As I see it, Admiral,” Pellaeon said slowly, “we have two obvious primary targets. The first is Coruscant, the capital—the most heavily populated and fortified world in the New Republic. If we destroy that planet, it would turn the Rebels into a scattered flock of whipped animals, fleeing for sanctuary to a hundred separate bases all over again.”

  “I agree,” Daala said. “However, the battle for Coruscant will be long and difficult. And bloody. We will lose a large portion of our new fleet if we choose that as our first target.”

  Pellaeon nodded, tugging at his gray mustache. “I’m forced to concur, and I must also confess to a certain reluctance to devastate the former Imperial planet.”

  Daala’s lips drew together in a pinched expression. “What I’m looking for, Pellaeon, is a decisive victory, an important Rebel target that we can utterly squash with minimal loss to our forces. We need a morale-building strike that will set the Rebels reeling and buoy our own troops up in an ecstasy of renewed patriotism. At that point we can come back with twice our strength and hammer Coruscant to rubble. I have such a target in mind,” she said. “Are we thinking of the same one?”

  Pellaeon took a sip of his cool tea. She watched him. He paused a moment, then answered without hesitation. “Yavin 4.” He raised his eyebrows. “Where the new Jedi training center is located.”

  “Yes,” Daala said. Her smile congratulated him. “The Jedi Knights are powerful symbols to the Rebels—and they will be powerful enemies if we let them proliferate, as the enemy seems to intend. If we strike now and uproot this weed before it goes to seed, we can strike a mortal blow to these Rebels.”

  Daala recalled her iron-willed mentor Tarkin, who had taught her everything about tactics, strength of character, and love for the Empire. Tarkin had died while attacking the Rebel base on Yavin 4—and she thought it would be a fitting target in her new campaign.

  “Excuse me, Admiral?” Pellaeon said, startling her out of her thoughts.

  She glanced at him and realized he had just said something. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “I suggested that we diversify our strike. Allow Colonel Cronus to take his Victory fleet and strike at dozens of minor targets, so that the Rebels believe they’re under attack at all points. This will cause damage far beyond the risk incurred, and it will add to the turmoil and confusion surrounding our own surprise attack.”

  Daala smiled. “Excellent idea, Vice Admiral. Colonel Cronus will launch his strikes. You will take a fleet of Imperial Star Destroyers directly to begin the obliteration of the small jungle moon. And I will follow in the Night Hammer to ensure that we retain possession of this worthless system.”

  She gulped down the last of her cold stim tea, and it felt like a thick rivulet of ice crawling down her throat and spreading through her body.

  “We’ll begin at once,” Daala said.

  CHAPTER 36

  Kyp Durron hunched forward in front of the control panel. His dark eyes narrowed as he scanned the enemy forces arrayed around them.

  Dorsk 81 piloted their stolen Imperial ship into the massed battle fleet. His slender, olive-green hands danced nervously on the controls; his yellow eyes widened in astonishment, as if he were still unable to believe what Kyp had talked him into doing.

  “I’ll bet this is the biggest gathering of the fleet since the battle of Endor,” Kyp said, “or at least since Thrawn’s last attack.”

  Dorsk 81 licked his thin lips and nodded, keeping his eyes on the frenzy of ship activity, like flotsam tossed about in a hurricane. “There certainly are a lot of ships,” he said. “We’ll be blown out of space the moment they suspect us.”

  Kyp waved his hand dismissively and leaned forward to squint out the front viewport. “They won’t suspect anything. This ship has all the right markings. Don’t let it get to you,” he said, then turned his attention to running a full analysis of forces on the computer.

  Over the past few days Kyp and Dorsk 81 had penetrated deeper and deeper into the Core Systems. Kyp had w
atched with growing horror as he realized just how far along the Empire’s plans had already progressed. They had seen weapons depots, giant factories that spewed out TIE fighters by the hundreds, construction yards with skeletal frames of Imperial Star Destroyers in progress. They had witnessed a massive migration of people, soldiers gearing up for a deadly conflict, and dozens of overloaded supply trains hauling resources deeper into the Core.

  Kyp had convinced Dorsk 81 to tag along just at the fringe of sensor range behind one of the convoys. When they arrived at the massing point of the new Imperial fleet, though, Dorsk 81 had been terrified.

  “I still think we should get out of here,” the clone Jedi said. “We need to bring this information back to the New Republic. They don’t even know about the Imperial buildup.”

  Kyp shook his head. “We’ve got to find out more, see exactly what they’re up to. We won’t get a second chance like this.”

  “But if they capture us, then everything—” Dorsk 81 began.

  Kyp held up his hand and watched Dorsk 81 stop and swallow hard. In the past, the cloned alien had struggled with a lack of self-confidence, and he had overcome it. Kyp did not see him as a coward—only as someone who did not push his bravery to its limits.

  Kyp pointed at him, wearing a serious expression. “You are a Jedi Knight, Dorsk 81,” he said. “A Jedi does not take the easiest choice. We will do what we have to.” Dorsk 81 slowly nodded in firm acceptance.

  The comm system crackled, startling both Kyp and Dorsk 81.

  “Shuttle pilot,” a stern voice snapped—a female voice, which in itself was unusual since most Imperial soldiers were male. The woman said, “You’re behind schedule to attend the rally. Hurry up. Follow this vector—and move it! The admiral would be most displeased if late arrivals disturbed the speeches.”

  Dorsk 81 stared blankly at the speaker, but Kyp instantly responded. “On our way. Apologies for the inconvenience.” He snapped off the comm system. “They’re going to let us in,” he said. Already his mind was churning, wondering who “the admiral” could be.

  Ships large and small clustered around a staggeringly immense grid of landing platforms and docking bays, a huge nexus built of metal and glittering with panes of transparisteel. It hid in the dark void of space between star systems and would not be easy to locate unless one already knew where to look. The complex was studded with antennas and trackers, perimeter defense satellites, and automated droid ships that monitored the dizzying flow of ship activity. The coordinate vectors took them to a central platform where thousands of ships had already gathered.

  Dorsk 81 stiffened in his seat. “Easy,” Kyp said. “We have to do this.” The alien gave a jerky nod and brought the shuttle in to land among all the other ships.

  Figures streamed toward the open mall area of the nexus station, a room large enough for an audience of tens of thousands. Stormtroopers marched about, ushering spectators to acceptable standing places for the rally.

  “I can’t go out there,” Dorsk 81 said. “The Empire doesn’t allow nonhuman soldiers.”

  “They seem to have changed their rules,” Kyp answered, indicating some of the uniformed personnel, an array of exotic humanoids and strange flying creatures. “Here.” Kyp rummaged in the shuttle’s uniform bin. He pulled out two sets of overalls with the insignia of the repair team assigned to the outer depot where Kyp and Dorsk 81 had stolen the shuttle. “We’ll wear these, and nobody will know the difference.”

  Dorsk 81 looked at the outfit dubiously, but adrenaline sang through Kyp, whispering in his ears. “Look,” he said in a reassuring voice, “this rally should give us all the information we need. We’ll find out what the Empire is up to—and then we can go back and make our report.” He grasped the cloned alien’s arm. “Just be brave for me a little while longer, Dorsk 81.”

  They stepped down the landing ramp, and the current of the crowd swept them into the open mall area of the nexus station. The sounds and smells assaulted Kyp, an exotic mélange of the familiar and the fantastic. The main language was proper Imperial Basic, though a few muttered comments came in a variety of languages Kyp did not recognize. Dorsk 81 followed closely, still looking stiff and nervous.

  In the distant center of the open space, a speaking deck had been raised to enclose a stage, tall amplifiers, and a turbolift that could bring guests onto the stage without forcing them to pass through packed crowds. Scarlet-cloaked Imperial Guards stood on all corners of the stage. High-resolution screens towered over the audience like video billboards projecting an image of the speaker at the podium; the effect was to turn the distant figure into a titan looming over those gathered for the rally.

  A gaunt, trim old man was speaking in a precise voice that held little charisma. His eyes were pale and narrow, his forehead creased as if with heavy thoughts. A bushy pale mustache covered his lip.

  “He looks familiar,” Kyp said. “I’ve seen his image before.”

  Stormtrooper guards appeared out of nowhere, their white armor clacking, voices snapping gruffly through their helmets. “Silence while Vice Admiral Pellaeon is speaking.”

  Kyp held back a retort, though excitement kept him on edge, making self-control difficult. With an effort, he nodded meekly, turning back to look at the towering visage of the Imperial commander. Was this the man leading the new troops? Kyp recognized his name. From what he had heard, Pellaeon had had something to do with Grand Admiral Thrawn, though Kyp himself had been deep in the spice mines of Kessel during Thrawn’s rampages.

  The vice admiral had apparently been speaking for some time. He and Dorsk 81 were indeed late for the rally, and Kyp wondered how much valuable information he had already missed.

  “The main phase of our assault,” Pellaeon continued, “will be a decisive attack on the new training facility where the Rebels are attempting to create a commando force of their own Jedi sorcerers. Our fleet will strike their training center and destroy it before the Rebels even know that we are on the march. Without their Jedi Knights, the Rebel Alliance will be a weak assemblage of inept idealists.”

  The audience cheered, and Kyp felt compelled to applaud as well, so as not to draw further attention to himself. Dorsk 81 looked ill, and Kyp knew what the cloned alien was thinking—that they needed to leave immediately, warn the New Republic, gather defenses around Yavin 4.

  But to move now would focus the attention of the entire Imperial fleet on them. They had to wait.

  Pellaeon droned on, and Kyp felt himself growing tenser. The audience seemed to be keyed up and enthusiastic. Along the walls holographic images of Emperor Palpatine played, animated murals of how the New Order had supposedly brought a too-brief golden age to the galaxy.

  “Our preparations are nearly complete,” Pellaeon said. “Your superior officers will give you full details of troop movements and how you will best serve in this sudden and decisive attack. But first, allow me to present the one person responsible for bringing us all together.”

  He gestured toward the turbolift as it opened on the stage behind him. The towering videoscreens showed a figure emerging, slim and tall with a mane of hair that looked like copper fire. “Admiral Daala!” Pellaeon said, and stepped aside.

  Kyp felt a bomb with a rapidly burning fuse drop down into his guts, as he stared in disbelief and horror. The Imperial admiral stepped up to speak, her face narrowed and sharpened by failure; its once hard beauty was now even more angular … more evil.

  Daala had captured Han Solo and Kyp after they escaped from the spice mines of Kessel, and because she deemed Kyp a worthless prisoner, she had ordered his execution. Kyp had thought to destroy her in the Cauldron Nebula, using the Sun Crusher to ignite a cluster of hot blue suns. Somehow, she had miraculously escaped to attack the Maw Installation again—but she had died there. Kyp was sure of it. She could not be here! She could not be in charge of the new Imperial fleet!

  All of this passed through his mind in a fraction of a second, and Dorsk 81 sensed through the
Force the volcano waiting to erupt within Kyp. The cloned alien placed his olive hands on his shoulder to hold him back—but the sudden grip startled Kyp into losing control.

  He shouted, “No!” tearing himself away from Dorsk 81’s grasp. “She’s dead! Daala has to be dead.”

  While others in the audience cheered, those nearest to him turned at the disturbance. Kyp brought himself under control, furious at his own lack of restraint.

  The stormtroopers appeared again, efficient and fast moving. “Stop this outburst immediately!” they said, blasters already drawn. “This is your second warning. Show me your work assignment and papers.” Two others came up, pointing weapons at Kyp and Dorsk 81.

  “Yes, yes—sure,” Kyp said, patting his pocket. His mind whirled. Dorsk 81 looked as if he were about to faint, though the alien stood up straight, tense, ready to fight if necessary. Kyp knew they had no other choice. He slid a hand into the pocket of his overalls, ostensibly to remove his work assignment card—and wrapped his fingers around his lightsaber handle.

  The stormtroopers were more annoyed than uneasy. Kyp would take them totally by surprise.

  Admiral Daala’s voice boomed out from the amplification systems like a horrible echo from Kyp’s past. “You can all be proud of what you are about to do,” she said.

  Yes, Kyp thought in a flash, yes I am. He snatched out the lightsaber, and with a snap-hiss the energy blade sprang out. In a single sweeping arc he slashed off the stormtrooper’s armored hand at the wrist, taking the blaster pistol with it, then followed through to strike down the second trooper in line. Dorsk 81 moved like a flicked whip. His own lightsaber came out ablaze as he struck down a third stormtrooper.

  The audience around them recoiled in surprise and confusion. The lightsabers were unmistakable weapons of the hated Jedi Knights. The uproar spread like the shockwave from an exploding star. Spies had appeared in the rally, and the mob of dedicated Imperial defenders would demand blood.