by Troy Denning
The Falcon banked over a vision of hell.
Directly below was a roiling surface of blacks and yellows, reds and oranges. Eastward, the carpet of fire gave way to doomed forest. The line between the two zones was an irregular and uncertain one, and even at the distance of a couple of kilometers Han Solo could see individual trees at the border burst into fire, some of them exploding from the heat.
Westward, superheated air rose in a column kilometers in diameter, hauling smoke high into the atmosphere, obscuring the afternoon sun. And it was the smoke column that showed the real danger of the maelstrom. As that column rose, it drew in air from all directions, constantly fanning the fire around it, feeding the voracious beast that burned out of control.
It had once been an unbroken vista of soaring wroshyr trees and other foliage. But a few days earlier, the Star Destroyer Anakin Solo, at the order of Jacen Solo, had directed its long-range turbolasers at the surface of Kashyyyk, concentrating fire to cause square-kilometer patches of forest to explode in flames. These strikes were intended to punish the Wookiees for harboring Jedi and for dragging their feet before committing their forces to Jacen’s Galactic Alliance.
Punish they had. The fires had grown into firestorms raging out of control ever since.
The Falcon kicked as she glided over a thermal updraft. Han brought her back to smooth, level flight, cocking his head to hear any sound of a panel dislodge, a bolt kicked free by the unexpected motion, but no new noise was added to the catalog of thousands he knew by heart.
The communications board crackled with Leia’s voice. “Sweep complete. I’ve planted the last beacon.”
Han sent the disk-shaped freighter into a bank and descent toward their rendezvous point, about two kilometers outside the fire zone. “Any problems?”
“Nothing but. Had to make some quick repairs on one of the beacons. And I keep having to dodge streams of fleeing animals.”
The Falcon bucked harder as a particularly ferocious thermal caught her, and then she was out over unburned forest. The ground was higher here, the trees far shorter—not one of them was over half a kilometer in height. Geological surveys showed that the soil here was too shallow to support full-grown wroshyrs—a subterranean ridge of stone, stunting the trees, would mark the fire’s stopping point, in this area at least.
Han checked the comm board, looking for the signal being transmitted by Leia’s last beacon, and homed in on it. “Waroo! Stand by on the winch.”
There was an affirmative growl across the intercom. Han could also hear it, more faintly, echoing up the cockpit access corridor behind him. Waroo was standing by at the starboard docking ring, open to Kashyyyk’s atmosphere, ready to retrieve Leia.
Han allowed himself a brief smile. It was good to have a Wookiee aboard the Falcon again. It reminded him of the old days, when he and Chewbacca were young and carefree—assuming that being hunted by bounty hunters and Imperial anti-smuggler forces didn’t count as “cares.”
And Waroo wasn’t just any Wookiee. He was Chewbacca’s son. A clever son, a good warrior.
If things had been very different, if Han’s son Jacen had not turned out the way he had, perhaps the Falcon could have been Jacen’s someday, with Waroo at his side, a continuation of Han’s roguish legacy.
Instead Jacen had become something dark, something terrible, a self-appointed leader determined to impose rigid control over the galaxy. He had conspired, tortured, betrayed, murdered, all with a confidence in the rightness of his cause that was the match of any madman’s.
And though Han tried to tell himself that Jacen was dead to him, nothing but a stranger wearing his son’s face and name, each new outrage Jacen committed still gripped his heart in an iron fist and squeezed hard.
The communications board beeped to indicate that they were close to the beacon source. Han depressed the bow to give himself a better downward look. He heard a thump from the starboard side, followed by a growl of complaint, and grinned again. “Sorry. No more sudden maneuvers. I promise.”
The wroshyrs were still tall enough here that the forest floor was a deeply gloomy and dangerous place. There was no clearing to set down in. But Leia was visible, her white robes starkly contrasted among all the greenery, standing on an upper branch as if loitering on a Coruscant pedwalk, unconcerned about winds or the potentially pesky force of gravity. She waved.
Han positioned the Falcon directly above her. “All right, Waroo. Bring her up.” A moment later he heard the whirring sound of the winch lowering its line to Leia.
The crew of the Millennium Falcon was about to commit an act that, under other circumstances, would have been considered as horrible as Jacen’s setting of fires … because the two acts were almost the same.
A Confederation cruiser in low planetary orbit would soon fire its turbolaser batteries down at the forests, setting portions of them ablaze. But this strike would be surgical, precisely following the kilometers-long line of beacons Leia had planted. Once that line was drawn, the turbolasers would broaden it toward the east … and the Falcon, other freighters carrying fire-snuffing foam, and Wookiee fire-fighting teams would control it along its western perimeter. The controlled burn, once extinguished, would leave only char for the advancing wildfire to meet—and that char would be too broad for windborne sparks to jump.
The fire would end here. And the Falcon and other ships would move on to create firebreaks elsewhere, eventually checking the wildfire everywhere. Finally, its food all consumed, the firestorm, the beast, would die of starvation.
Leaving behind millions of burned acres and a scarred, smoke-shrouded world.
Han heard the winch stop its whir then, moments later, resume it, bringing Leia up to him. He felt a wash of relief. He knew she could take care of herself. That didn’t mean he didn’t worry whenever she put herself in the path of danger.
He set the Falcon into a gentle eastward course, sending it away from the firebreak area, and checked to make sure his communications were still set to the Confederation frequency. “Millennium Falcon to Lillibanca. Beacons are in place. You can begin. At Number One, if you please, not Number Twenty.”
He heard a chuckle before the voice of the cruiser’s male communications officer replied, “Acknowledged, Falcon. And thanks.”
Then there was a new voice—female, pitched low and seductive—from close behind Han. “Your feelings betray you.”
Jolted by adrenaline, Han jerked around to look.
Standing in the entrance to the cockpit was a woman. She was robed nearly head-to-foot in dark garments. Only her face showed, and it was a beautiful face, blue-skinned, cheerful of expression.
Her name was Alema Rar, and she had come to kill him.
Han drew his blaster. As he did, Alema gestured, a flourish that swept her cloak away from her body, and reached out with her left hand as her right snatched her lightsaber from her belt. Han’s pistol, barely clearing its holster, flew from his grip and into hers.
Han gaped at her. She should not have been able to do that. Her left arm was useless, had been ruined years earlier—but now it was fine.
She tsk-tsked at him. “We are a Jedi. We choose not to be shot. We have been shot before. It is not pleasant.” She dropped the blaster. It rang as it hit the deck plates.
Han put bravado he didn’t feel into his voice. “So? What are you going to do, talk me to death?” His mind flashed through the weapons and resources he had at hand. They included one hideaway vibroblade, which wasn’t much use against a Jedi like Alema, and one very large weapon that had seldom let him down.
“We are going to wait until your piranha-beetle of a wife can see, and then we will shove our lightsaber through your heart. She can hold your corpse and cry. Won’t that be nice?”
“Not really.”
There were times when it was a wonderful thing that Han knew the Falcon as well as he did—that he knew her well enough to handle every control, every instrument even if blind or disoriented. Without tak
ing his gaze off Alema, he reached forward and disengaged the freighter’s inertial compensator and artificial gravity generator. In the same instant he hit the thrusters and hauled back on the control yoke.
He stood the Falcon on her tail and blasted off toward space. With the inertial compensator off, the sudden acceleration crushed him back into his seat. His head swam with unaccustomed dizziness.
Alema’s expression changed from one of good humor to round-eyed surprise as she fell backward. Han heard her thump against the wall of the cockpit access corridor—she had to have hit where the corridor angled away toward port and stern. He heard his blaster pistol clattering along after her. Then there were more thumps and clatters as Alema and the blaster rolled down the slope the angle wall now constituted.
There was also laughter—peals of Alema’s laughter.
Waroo, his golden-brown fur gleaming orange and red in the glow of fire visible through the docking ring, was just hauling Leia aboard when the Falcon bucked, her bow suddenly pointed straight toward the smoke-filled sky, and accelerated. Waroo and Leia were slammed into the aft bulkhead of the corridor just inside the starboard docking ring. Abruptly the bulkhead was floor, and the acceleration pressed them down like a big invisible hand.
Leia unbuckled herself from the winch harness and drew in a breath to shout at Han. Could he have failed to notice that the Falcon’s artificial gravity wasn’t functioning? Then she heard it, laughter echoing off the Falcon’s bulkheads and floor plates.
Waroo stood, his great strength making the move look easy despite the several gravities of acceleration hauling at him, and offered a confused-sounding rumble.
“Alema Rar. She’s aboard.” Leia drew on the Force to augment her physical strength. She stood shakily, took her lightsaber in hand, and ignited it. “Let’s go.”
Stiff-legged, she marched the several meters down the boarding ring corridor, the ramp that was the Solos’ usual means of entering and leaving the Falcon now constituting a grimy wall to her right. She reached the hatchway leading to the freighter’s main corridor, the curved passageway that offered access to all of the Falcon’s compartments.
But stepping into the main corridor would cause her to drop for a considerable distance. Then the curved corridor wall, acting as a steeply angled floor, would cause her to tumble painfully until she reached the gap accessing the freight lift. At that point, she’d fall several more meters and slam into the bulkhead separating internal compartments from the sublight engines. Her gymnastics ability and Force skills would allow her to handle those movements without injury under normal circumstances, but at several gravities she wasn’t as sure.
The freight lift was probably where Alema was now. But Leia couldn’t be sure of that, either. The laughter had ceased, and Leia could not find Alema in the Force.
Leia glanced over her shoulder at Waroo. “Get to the cockpit. That’s where Alema is going to end up. Protect Han. Watch out for poison darts.”
Waroo groaned an assent. He moved past Leia, crouched, and leapt across the main corridor, catching with both hands the corner where a side corridor led to the weapons turret access tubes. Even against the multiple gravities hauling at him, he clambered up until he stood on that side corridor wall, turned to face Leia, and leapt back toward her, this time grabbing the sides of the hatch opening well above her head—the opening that led to the cockpit access corridor.
Han’s voice came over Leia’s comlink. “Hang on, guys.”
Wincing in anticipation, Leia grabbed both sides of the hatch access where she stood. She heard Waroo’s grumble of complaint.
The Falcon snap-rolled, spinning axially and simultaneously changing direction. Straining to hold herself in place, Leia saw nothing change around her, but she heard the sounds of cargo containers, furnishings, and loose wall and floor plates ricocheting around the freighter’s interior, and she felt disoriented.
Then she realized why. Above her, Waroo’s legs were no longer hanging downward; they were splayed across what should have been the corridor’s ceiling. That meant the Falcon was now upside down. As Leia watched, the Wookiee wriggled his way into the cockpit access corridor. He was out of her sight, but she could still hear him complain.
Leia rolled forward, an acrobatic tumble that propelled her into the main access corridor. She landed carefully so as not to crush any of the glow rods, sensors, or other items mounted on what should have been the ceiling but now served her as floor.
She had to find Alema—but that wouldn’t be too difficult, for the mad Twi’lek’s merry laughter reached her again, distinctly from the direction of the Falcon’s stern. Lightsaber lit, she carefully moved in that direction.
Ahead to the left, upside down to her current position, was the freighter’s engineering station, its consoles permitting the monitoring of every system aboard ship. Ahead to the right, the curved wall gave way to the broad opening leading into the engineering bay, with its access to the freight lift, hyperdrives, sublight engines, and other critical systems.
From that direction, there was the sound of a lightsaber humming, but it was a constant tone—a weapon being held still, neither advancing nor maneuvering.
Leia reached out through the Force, looking again for her quarry. She detected first Waroo, then Han, then Waroo again—
Again? She opened her mouth to call a question over her comlink, but the lightsaber ahead of her began snapping and hissing as it contacted a metal surface. Leia swore under her breath and charged forward.
As she rounded the corner into the engineering bay, she spotted her quarry. On the far side of the freight lift, Alema Rar stood beside the broad circular housing of the hyperdrive. She held her lightsaber in two good, steady hands as she drove its point deep into the housing, sending up sparks that illuminated the bay brilliantly.
And she was standing on the floor—the true floor, her feet planted on the surface above Leia’s head, as though gravity didn’t matter.
She looked over as Leia entered. “Princess! Come help us destroy the hyperdrive. Then together we can cut the engines to pieces.”
Wary, Leia advanced. “I’ll cut you to pieces first. That will show me how to do it.”
“You first—”
Alema’s words were cut off as the Falcon suddenly spun axially, dropping the floor from beneath her feet and sending her crashing into the ceiling, throwing Leia shoulder-first into the starboard bulkhead.
A few moments before, Lumpawaroo had held the four corners of the cockpit doorway with both hands and both feet. He grumbled loudly at Han.
Han glared at the Wookiee over his shoulder. “I don’t care what Leia said, get back there and help her.”
Grumble.
“I’ll shut the cockpit hatch. If Alema gets back up here, she’ll have to cut through it, which will give the two of you plenty of time to get here.”
Grumble.
“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll look where I’m flying.” Han turned to face forward. “Not that there’s anything else up here! And the proximity alarms will let me know if—”
The proximity alarms shrieked an alert and the sky outside the cockpit viewports lit up so brightly that Han’s vision washed away to whiteness. He believed he could feel an instant sunburn on his face and hands. Waroo howled.
Shutting his eyes, Han snap-rolled to starboard. Waroo’s howl of complaint remained constant—the Wookiee hadn’t been torn free from the cockpit opening.
What had he almost flown into? Then Han knew. Lillibanca, in orbit, had begun her firebreak bombardment, and Han’s maneuvers had sent the Falcon straight toward the first blast.
But now which way could he go? He couldn’t see, and any direction might send him straight toward—into—the second blast.
Any direction but two.
He continued his spin into the tightest rightward arc he could manage, bringing the Falcon around 360 degrees so swiftly that the freighter’s struts and rivets groaned in complaint. Then, when on
ly his pilot’s experience told him he was again on his original course, he pulled the yoke back and sent the freighter straight up once more.
Flying that way, he couldn’t move laterally far enough to hit the second beam. He was momentarily safe.
Waroo wasn’t. The Wookiee’s howl modulated from outrage to surprise. Han heard Waroo slam into the bulkhead of the cockpit access passage, then follow Alema’s earlier, bumpy path as he rolled down the corridor.
There was a momentary silence. Han winced as he visualized Waroo being catapulted into the main access corridor. In an instant would come a big bang of Wookiee on metal—
The Falcon’s spin pinned Leia against the corridor for long moments. She drew on the Force to help her push away from it, resisting centrifugal effect, but it took all her concentration—that, and the need to keep an eye on Alema and an ear on all the items of cargo, machinery, personal gear, and, for all she knew, personnel ricocheting off bulkheads all over the ship.
Alema was not as encumbered by the Falcon’s movements. The spin had pinned her for a moment to the ceiling, but now she rose as if its gravity were proper and steady.
She rose on two good feet, despite the fact Leia knew she’d lost half of one foot. Her features were as youthful and unblemished as when Leia had first met her fifteen standard years before.
Leia forced herself to keep her voice low and calm. “Finally invested in some prosthetics, did you?” And some vanity surgery to rid yourself of facial lines, sags, scars …
“Nothing so crude. We are simply ageless and eternal now, as we have always deserved to be.” Alema lifted her lightsaber in a traditional salute, a come-fight-me gesture.
The Falcon stood on her tail again. Leia, caught off-guard, hurtled toward the rear of the engineering bay—right past Alema, who didn’t budge.
Leia spun her lightsaber in a defensive arc, an attempt to block the blow she knew must come, but it didn’t. Alema merely danced aside. Leia crashed into the stern bulkhead, an impact that sent waves of shock through her back muscles, shoulder blades, spine …