Star Wars: Darksaber

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Durga roared and reached for his small control pad, punching a fat greenish finger against one of the buttons. The Twi’lek let out a little yip of anticipatory terror—but instead a hapless Weequay at another station yowled and began to jitter as arcs of blue electrical fire curled up from the base of his booby-trapped seat. The discharge crisped his flesh, electrocuting him in an instant. The Weequay’s smoldering corpse slumped against his navigational station.

  Durga frowned and glanced down at his control pad. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry, wrong button.” The smell of disintegrated flesh wafted through the bridge deck in greasy, sooty wisps from the collapsed body.

  “Well, let that be a lesson to you, then,” Durga said, glowering at his intended victim.

  The demon-faced Devaronian interrupted, consulting his communications panel. Everyone on the bridge deck trembled in fear. “I, uh, I have something more to report, sir,” he said. “Security has announced the capture of one terrorist. One other was killed.”

  Durga growled, looking at the Weequay corpse slumped at its stations. “There will be more executions when we get to the bottom of this.”

  Hearing this, Bevel Lemelisk shuddered and tried to remain inconspicuous. Simply hearing the word execution brought back to his mind the full horrors of the Emperor’s executions, the excruciating deaths Palpatine had inflicted upon Lemelisk each time he made an error.…

  The deaths remained in Lemelisk’s mind, ever-present shadowy nightmares—seven executions in all. Once, Palpatine had launched him out an airlock; the pain had been excruciating, though the death was mercifully swift as the sudden drop of pressure and the freezing cold destroyed his internal organs.

  He also remembered being slowly lowered into a vat of molten copper, watching his body burn away inch by inch. (Why molten copper? Lemelisk had wondered. Finally one day, more than a month later, he asked the Emperor. Palpatine’s answer had proved surprising in its utter mundanity. “It’s what the smelter used that day.”)

  Lemelisk had also been trapped in a vault filled with thickening acid mist so that his lungs dissolved and he coughed blood, and the acid continued to eat him from the inside out. The other deaths had been as imaginative and just as painful.

  He was certainly glad the Emperor had been killed in the destruction of the second Death Star. Otherwise Lemelisk would really have been in trouble!

  Now, on the Darksaber’s control deck, while Durga reeled in shock at the news of the captured saboteur, General Sulamar saw an opportunity. He became even more overbearing, swelling his chest so that the medals jangled. As if trying to outdo Durga’s obvious annoyance, Sulamar glared accusingly at Lemelisk.

  “How could this happen?” Sulamar sniffed, as though Lemelisk had caused the problem by failing to plan for terrorists and sabotage in his original holographic blueprints. “In all my years serving the Empire, with thousands and thousands of people under my command, we performed the dirtiest, most difficult deeds. But I never had such a disastrous act of sabotage occur. Not while I was in charge.”

  Lemelisk averted his gaze and muttered under his breath. “Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

  * * *

  Durga’s guards were angry and brutal. They beat Crix Madine every time he faltered, which made him stumble again … which allowed them to beat him again.…

  He was bruised and bloodied by the time they shoved him into the turbolift on the way to the command deck. He felt none of the pain, focusing his thoughts, still in angry shock over Trandia’s death … but he accepted his capture and the consequences. This possibility had always been a shadow over every mission he led.

  Madine kneaded his hands together, though they were bound behind his back. He was satisfied and confident—he had triggered the transmitter implanted in his palm. Even now the high-powered, specific-frequency message would be beaming across space, summoning assistance. The coded signal would be transmitted instantly through a security channel in the Galactic Holonet directly to Ackbar’s fleet.

  It was just a matter of time … if only Madine could hold on.

  The Gamorrean guards shoved him forward just as the turbolift doors opened, and he blinked in the command deck’s flood of light. His vision swam in and out of focus. He wondered if he had received a concussion from one of the vicious backhands the guards had dealt him.

  Madine moved with a numb resignation. He had lost his team: Korenn dead in the asteroid belt, Trandia blowing herself up to save him and damage the Hutt battle station. In his youth Crix Madine had served the Empire faithfully for years. After defecting to the Rebellion, he had always suspected that this day would come, that he would continue to volunteer for more and more difficult covert operations—as if he wanted to be caught. Somehow he had known he would be captured and brought in chains to the enemy.

  The guards dragged him into the presence of Durga the Hutt. Madine tried to sneer, but his face produced little more than a grimace and a wince of pain. Blood from a cut near his eye dribbled down his cheek into his beard.

  The bloated Hutt lounged on his repulsor platform, the discolored blotch on his face like dye that someone had thrown across it. Madine swiveled his throbbing head and noticed a swaggering man in an Imperial general’s uniform. The general marched across the metal deck, striding toward him in polished black boots.

  Madine looked up at the close-set eyes, the boyish face, the weak chin—and from the depths of his past a geyser of recollection erupted. He reacted with astonishment, drawing himself up as he stumbled against the guards holding him. Madine saw a flash of horrified recognition also wash across the face of the general.

  At the moment their eyes met, they yelled in unison, “You!”

  KHOMM

  CHAPTER 43

  Through hyperspace, the escape to Khomm lasted only an hour. Dorsk 81 shot their stolen shuttle toward his homeworld, frantic to deliver his warning to the cloned aliens and the New Republic. He was dismayed to see that traffic control accepted him as yet another incoming ship, not at all alarmed by an unscheduled Imperial craft charging in at top speed.

  “This is Dorsk 81,” he said, “issuing an emergency call. We must use your long-range comm systems immediately. Prepare for an Imperial attack. Announce a red alert.”

  The traffic controller responded, “Message received, Dorsk 81. We will arrange a meeting with you and City Leader Kaell 116 as soon as possible upon your arrival.”

  “You don’t understand,” Dorsk 81 said. His olive skin flushed a darker green, and his hands trembled. He looked wildly at Kyp Durron, who wore an expression of disgust.

  “Don’t worry about it now. It’s a waste of breath arguing,” he said, then took over the comm system. “This is Jedi Knight Kyp Durron. I’ll require full use of your spaceport communication systems.” The anger behind Kyp’s eyes seemed barely restrained by his Jedi calm.

  “That can be arranged,” the controller said with maddening calmness.

  When they landed on the empty spaceport grid, Kyp leaped through the access hatch with Dorsk 81 close behind him. “I’ll go transmit the wide-band alert to the New Republic,” Kyp said. “You warn your people. Admiral Daala is going to launch in only a couple of days. We have that long to mobilize the fleet.” His face was drawn and grave as he ran to the tall transmitting tower.

  Dorsk 81 hurried to meet the cloned aliens who approached him. They were flustered and uneasy—not because of the dire warning, he knew, but because of the unexpectedness of the situation. “We must hurry,” he said to the stony-faced driver of the floating platform. “We have little time. Kyp and I have to go help defend the Jedi academy.”

  The driver nodded calmly, but did not increase the speed of the vehicle. The floating platform took Dorsk 81 away from the landing grid, and he looked back at the transmitting tower, hoping Kyp would get the message out.

  They reached the opulent political headquarters where a quick meeting had been rammed through the schedule of the generational politician
Kaell 116. Dorsk 81, still wearing the clinging work overalls he had taken from the garment locker in the Imperial shuttle, brushed his slender hands down the fabric, trying to make himself more presentable. He smelled of smoke and blood and violence.

  Kaell 116 already stood in the large, white meeting room. The walls were made of curved arches that glittered in the light as if molded from solidified salt. Dorsk 81 had never been in such important chambers, and he doubted anyone in his genetic line had either.

  The city leader stood dressed in full diplomatic finery; his expression held a mixture of annoyance at this unsettling break from routine and continuing admiration for Khomm’s galactic celebrity.

  “Dorsk 81,” he said, “for a person of your importance, we can shuffle our schedule to allow a brief audience, but no more than fifteen minutes. I suggest that our primary goal will be to work out a better time for a full conference of appropriate duration and with an official agenda.”

  “No,” Dorsk 81 said, pounding his fist on the table and astonishing everyone there. “Fifteen minutes will be enough—if you listen to me.”

  Kaell 116 sniffed. “Of course we will listen. We always listen.”

  Dorsk 81 leaned over the table and fixed his yellow eyes on the politician. “But this time you must hear. You must understand this, because the fate of our world and of the galaxy may be at stake.”

  Kaell 116 squirmed uncomfortably and then sat down. “Yes, yes, of course. We’ll take detailed notes.”

  Before Dorsk 81 could speak, the door opened again, and a flood of outside light shone into the white chambers, sparkling off the crystal-embedded walls. Dorsk 81 turned to see the older and younger copies of himself, his predecessor and his successor at the cloning facilities. Both wore the uniforms of their profession and appeared confused at being summoned away from their daily tasks.

  The older Dorsk 80 saw him and snorted. “I might have known.”

  The younger version looked first at the elder clone, then at Dorsk 81. “Why have you come back?” Dorsk 82 said.

  Kaell 116 motioned for them to sit down. During the interruption, an assistant came in bearing cool beverages. The others gratefully took theirs and sipped, nodding their thanks. Dorsk 81 ignored the sweating glass in front of him. “Kyp Durron and I just returned from the Core Systems,” he said, speaking slowly and carefully.

  “You should not go there,” Dorsk 80 said.

  Dorsk 81 looked at his predecessor and jabbed a finger at him. “Be silent and listen. This is important.” Offended, the elder clone glowered.

  “Kyp and I found a full Imperial fleet massed and ready to launch. We infiltrated one of their rallies and learned their plans. The Empire is back under the command of Admiral Daala. They will attack the New Republic within a matter of days. Until now, no one has suspected, and Khomm”—Dorsk 81 spread his arms to indicate the world—“is right on the fringe of the Core Systems. The Empire could strike here. You must prepare. Engage your defenses. Establish emergency plans.”

  Kaell 116 leaned across the table, putting his elbows on the salted surface. “Khomm has always remained neutral in these galactic conflicts, and we’ve never had problems before. I don’t see why this should be any different.”

  “You don’t have to see why,” Dorsk 81 said. “Listen to me. Admiral Daala intends to attack where she is least expected. She knows Kyp and I heard her plans. This entire world is in great danger.”

  “Yes … well.” Kaell 116 stood up with a vague smile of dismissal. “We’ll see what we can do, then. Thank you for bringing this to our attention.”

  “You can’t risk this continued complacency,” Dorsk 81 said, growing impatient. “I have done and seen things you cannot imagine. Trust me in this: there is great danger.”

  Dorsk 80 stood to rebuke him. “You left us. Ages ago our predecessors determined that our society was the perfect model, but you felt you knew more than our forefathers. You’ve forsaken our ways for your own independence. Why should we listen to you? You have not listened to us. In all your escapades, where is the voice of wisdom? You’ll never accomplish anything more important than what you could have done here.”

  Dorsk 81 turned to him. It was obvious that his elder presumed the vindictive words would destroy the younger clone’s composure—but Dorsk 81 felt nothing but a sad pity at the narrowness of his elder’s viewpoint.

  “You’re wrong,” he said coldly to his predecessor, “and you will never see how wrong you are, because you are blind.”

  Dorsk 82 came over to him, and it appeared that the younger clone might actually believe part of Dorsk 81’s warning. “We don’t know how to make defenses,” the younger clone said. “But you’ve had that experience, you’ve had the training.” Dorsk 82’s yellow eyes flashed. “Perhaps you could stay here and help us establish our defenses? Then you would be here to defend us if you are indeed correct. If you’re wrong, you could still stay and perform your old duties in the cloning facility … until the threat has passed.”

  The younger clone’s face held an ocean of hope. Dorsk 81 heard the plea and thought of his beautiful, peaceful homeworld, of the years he had spent as part of an enormous machine working smoothly, without worries, without threat. How could he abandon this place to its fate? But what if Dorsk 82’s words were just a ploy, a desperate trick to get him to stay on Khomm so that all could be normal again?

  “No,” Dorsk 81 said, and stood up. He touched the cylindrical shape of his lightsaber inside the pocket of his work overall. “I am a Jedi Knight, and I have important work to do.”

  “And we must get back to the cloning facility,” Dorsk 80 said sourly. “We know our place—and we have important work to do as well.”

  Dorsk 81 did not respond, but instead returned to their ship to meet Kyp Durron. As they departed in their shuttle, he looked across the misty vistas of Khomm with vague apprehension, a premonition that he would not see his familiar homeworld ever again.…

  During the brawl and confusion at the Imperial rally, Admiral Daala and Vice Admiral Pellaeon ducked into the nexus station’s turbolift and plunged away from the frenzied mob. Daala breathed rapidly, cold air whistling through her clenched teeth. She couldn’t believe it. “Jedi spies! Right in our midst. They heard everything.”

  Pellaeon nodded. “We’ll have to reevaluate our security.”

  Daala shook her head, and flaming copper hair swirled around her. “Later. For now we must reconsider our plans.” Then a grin cracked through her outrage as a new tactic occurred to her.

  The turbolift stopped at a lower level, and Colonel Cronus strode up to them, looking harried. “They’ve escaped, Admiral,” he said. “The perimeter defense droids fired on them and caused minor damage, but their ship still managed the jump into hyperspace.”

  Daala nodded at the short and compact colonel. Cronus appeared surprised that she hadn’t ordered his immediate execution. “Have you tracked them?” she asked.

  “Not completely, Admiral, but we did match their vector, and we believe there’s only one place in the vicinity they would likely have gone: a planet called Khomm at the edge of the Core Systems.”

  Daala ran a fingertip along her lips. “Is it inhabited?”

  “Yes,” Cronus said, “though unremarkable. Its people were neutral during our previous conflict with the Rebels. However, we did match the physical appearance of the alien Jedi spy with the natives. Khomm must be more than just a neutral world if Jedi have come from there.” Cronus’s muscular chest and upper arms pressed against the seams of his tight uniform.

  Daala strode down the corridor with Pellaeon and Cronus flanking her. She remained silent as the possibilities flickered through her mind. “I have learned that my strategy must be flexible,” she said. “I failed before, but now I will adapt our plans quickly. Our fleet is ready to launch, is it not?” She glanced from Cronus to Pellaeon.

  “Yes, Admiral,” Pelleaon said, “for the most part. What remained for the next few days is personn
el reassignment, inventory, supplies, and—”

  Daala cut him off with a sideways swipe of her hand. “Those Jedi spies heard that we were planning to launch in the next few days. Instead we shall launch immediately. Colonel Cronus,” she said, “you have the list of preferred targets for your Victory-class fleet?”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  “Add the planet Khomm to the top of the list. Gather your forces and go at once.”

  Cronus shot a grin at her. “Yes, Admiral.”

  “Remember,” she added sternly, “your orders are to strike fast and frequently in many different systems. Cause as much damage as possible, but your main goal is to create confusion, not to conquer. The Rebels will disperse their fleet to find you—while we approach the main target.”

  She turned. “Vice Admiral Pellaeon.”

  “Yes, Admiral?”

  “You will take your fleet of Imperial Star Destroyers directly to Yavin 4 and proceed with its complete destruction. I will follow in the Night Hammer with sufficient force to occupy the Rebel base permanently.” Her green eyes flashed at her two commanders. “I want the fleet launched within the hour.”

  Pellaeon and Cronus dashed off to their respective commands. At two minutes short of an hour, Daala’s Imperial fleet was spurred into motion like a great slavering monster suddenly unleashed on the New Republic.

  Like crimson projectiles the Victory-class ships scattered across the orbital lanes of Khomm, their full turbolaser batteries directed at the cities below.

  Colonel Cronus sat in the command chair of Vice Admiral Pellaeon’s former ship, the 13X, issuing orders to the gunners in his fleet. “Target the communication and observation satellites first.”

  The words were barely out of his mouth before a cleansing fire of turbolaser bolts scoured the blackness of space, obliterating silver dots of orbiting satellites and leaving behind spangles of debris.