The Nightsisters shot their blasters at the missiles, and the torpedoes erupted in a sulfurous cloud. Han stared in disbelief at what the witches had done. No gunner was that good.
“Leia, Isolder,” Luke shouted, “get on those quad cannons and open fire. Give them everything you’ve got.”
“Give it up,” Han said. “They’re too heavily shielded! You’re just going to get my ship all busted.”
“And let these Nightsisters free on the galaxy? No way! I’m not giving up,” Luke shouted. “Go on, Leia, get up there!”
Luke reached out, flipped on the radio jammers, sending out a storm of broadcast information. Han raised an eyebrow, wondering what Luke was up to. The witches certainly weren’t going to try to call anyone, so the jammers served little function other than to warn everyone in the star system that a ship was there.
Leia ran down to the ventral cannon, began firing. Luke downed all shields and fired the ion cannons, risking that the carrier wouldn’t lower its shields to return fire. Isolder began firing from the dorsal cannon, and the carrier accelerated, moving out of their range.
“They’re getting ready to jump to lightspeed!” Han shouted, and he looked at the viewscreen. Space was a flat black curtain and the carrier accelerated into it.
“Not this close to the gravity well, they aren’t!” Luke argued, and he accelerated behind.
Then Han understood. Luke knew his blasters and missiles couldn’t bring down the carrier’s shields. He’d turned on the radio jammers because he was calling for Zsinj. He wanted the Star Destroyers to know that the witches were hightailing it away, hoping to get enough altitude to make their jump into hyperspace.
They accelerated into the blackness of the nightcloak, Han holding his breath. The viewscreen went black; an onyx fog. Luke flipped off the jammers, and the Falcon roared into the sunlight, the carrier still ahead, and ten thousand stars glittered like jewels. So much light.
Han felt as if he’d just gotten a breath of fresh air.
Proximity indicators screamed in warning, and Han looked up, saw the slate gray V’s of twin Star Destroyers converging ahead of them. Luke swerved to starboard, and a barrage of missiles ripped from the destroyers, punctured the carrier’s weakened shields.
Han watched the missiles puncture the hull of the witches’ carrier. A plume of white-hot metal fragments burst from its right exhaust nacelle. For two full seconds, the carrier’s running lights dimmed and the engines flared more brightly. Then it sputtered in midair and erupted into a ball of flame.
Han whooped in celebration as Luke accelerated wildly back toward Dathomir, into the protective covering of the orbital nightcloak, and once again the darkness swallowed them.
Leia was screaming for joy down in her turret, and Luke shouted, “Leia, Isolder, stay put. We’re not done yet.”
Luke flipped a switch, and the cockpit flooded with radio chatter. The screens picked up the sources, plotted them in tri-D on the head-up holo display. Han stared at the mess above them in dismay. The sky was full of ships. No matter which way they vectored, it would be a tight squeeze, trying to make it out of the gravity well. Apparently the nightcloak was fouling the scanners somewhat. Although the scanners showed the ships, they weren’t picking up the transponder signals, and Han couldn’t tell what kinds of ships were out there.
Han swallowed. “What are you thinking, kid, what are you going to do?”
Luke sighed, looked at the assembly of destroyers above them. “We’ve got to bring down this nightcloak,” Luke said. “It’s not just people down there—it’s, it’s trees and grass and lizards and worms! Life! A whole living world!”
“What?” Han said. “You want to get your head blown off for a bunch of lizards and worms? Don’t flip on me now, kid! Find a hole in their net, and let’s blast out of here.”
“No,” Luke said, breathing heavily. Chewbacca roared at Luke, yet Luke didn’t respond. Instead the Jedi remained in the pilot’s seat as if frozen, staring ahead in the smothering darkness as he flew.
Good, good, Han thought. At least he’s putting some distance between us and those other fighters. Wherever they came out, Zsinj’s men would not likely be ready for them. Luke closed his eyes, accelerated, as if in a trance, and smiled serenely. Han looked at his face, and though he was desperately afraid that Luke would get them all killed, right at this moment it didn’t seem to matter. Go ahead and get us killed, Han thought. We owe you our lives anyway.
“Thanks,” Luke said, as if Han had spoken the words. Luke fired the quad blasters, and Han did not see their light trail. The darkness was so complete, that even that little bit of light seemed denied them. Luke waited a moment, and Han watched the targeting sights playing over the head-up holo display. Luke locked onto something, fired. Han couldn’t see a target, nothing on the scopes, and he wondered if Luke really was hitting anything.
Again and again over the next twenty minutes Luke repeated the tactic, with no visible results. Threepio stood behind Han and whispered, “Pardon me, Your Highness, but do you think we’re accomplishing anything? Perhaps you should take the fire controls?”
“Nah, let Luke do it,” Han said, and he glanced back at the holo display. The radio signatures were rapidly increasing in number, and Han realized that Zsinj must have scrambled several hundred fighters. Apparently Luke’s efforts had begun to worry the warlord.
And suddenly Luke fired a salvo and they came out of the blackness again, flying through the stars. It took a moment for Han to recognize that the orbital nightcloak had shorted out, and Dathomir once again turned below them, a shining world of turquoise oceans and dark brown continents.
Chewie roared, and Luke accelerated away from the planet.
Han gasped as the holo display began reading the transponder signals, showing the ships above them. There were hundreds of ships in the air—Imperial Star Destroyers and the rust-colored disks of Hapan Battle Dragons. TIE fighters and X-wings gyrated overhead in a deadly dance. Zsinj hadn’t just scrambled fighters—the whole Hapan fleet had jumped out of hyperspace.
Huge silver orbs shot out in all directions from one Hapan Battle Dragon, and Han swallowed hard. The Hapans were mining hyperspace with pulsemass generators. It was a risky maneuver, because it stranded both the attacker and the victim in normal space for ten or fifteen minutes. It was a tactic that the Rebels had never used. One way or another, no one would be leaving this planet soon. The Hapans planned to either win or die.
Luke accelerated to attack speed, glanced up at the viewscreen and locked his sights on an enemy Star Destroyer that was besieged on either side by Hapan Battle Dragons. The sky around the Imperial destroyer was alive with TIE fighters—more than any one destroyer could carry, and the hair rose on Han’s head as he realized that it must have drawn off support from other destroyers. Han checked the holo display. Two other Imperial destroyers were vectoring in, coming to the ship’s rescue.
“Who is on that Star Destroyer?” Han asked, gazing at the highly protected ship.
“Zsinj,” Luke answered softly. “That’s the Iron Fist.”
“Give me the helm, kid,” Han said, mouth dry. “I want him.”
Luke looked over his shoulder, and for the first time Han noticed that the Jedi’s face was a bruised mess, but his eyes were clear. “Are you sure you can handle it?” Luke said. “That is a Star Destroyer up there.”
Han nodded soberly. “Yeah, and that’s my planet he’s trespassing on! I want him—but don’t be afraid to help me out, if I need it.”
“Whatever you say, Your Majesty,” Luke said, and the way he said it, it didn’t sound like a joke. Luke got up from the pilot’s seat.
Han sat down, pain spasming through his leg, leaned his head back against the headrest, and breathed deeply. For the first time in months, he felt at home. “Look, kid,” Han said, flicking the stick so that he veered away from the Iron Fist, headed on a collision course with a TIE interceptor. “I don’t know any of your Jedi
tricks, but the best way to get close to a Star Destroyer is to sort of mosey on in, and try to act like you would rather be anyplace but where you are.”
Han glanced down at his weapons display. He still had four Arakyd concussion missiles in his launch tubes, but his proton torpedoes were dry. He armed the concussion missiles, took remote control of the dorsal quad blaster cannons, and fired a couple of salvos ahead of the TIE interceptor, giving just enough lead. The little gray ship hit the blasts and flared into oblivion, and Han vectored toward another fighter that was hightailing it toward Zsinj’s Iron Fist.
Han accelerated as if to attack, but hung back a good kilometer until he felt the Falcon shimmy. Tractor beams.
Chewbacca growled.
“I know,” Han said. “Transfer power from the rear deflector shields. We won’t let them hold us long.”
Calmly, he accelerated toward the Iron Fist at full sublightspeed, jiggling the stick so that even though the tractor beams were pulling them in, the Falcon presented a moving target. He dove through a bevy of TIE fighters, and behind him he heard Luke gasp. They were coming up on that Star Destroyer mighty fast.
Han looked to see which port the tractor beam was pulling him toward. In half a second he spotted it, waited until he figured he’d passed through the ship’s particle shields, then fired two of his concussion missiles.
The tractor beams pulled the missiles home. When they hit, an explosion blossomed on the Iron Fist, and Han hit the decelerators and tried to hang onto the stick as he turned.
He held his breath, tried not to let the others see him sweat as he skimmed over a turret that couldn’t spin fast enough to fire on him.
“You’re under their shields!” Isolder shouted over the intercom. “You can fire anytime!”
“Yeah,” Han said. “I know!” A blaster cannon turret swung at them, and Han spun the ship, dodged the fire. He armed his last two Arakyds, then flipped his radio switch to standard Imperial frequency.
“Emergency message for Warlord Zsinj of the Iron Fist! Priority Red. Respond immediately! Do you copy! Priority Red. I have an emergency message for Warlord Zsinj!”
He waited for an eternity, weaving low through a maze of blaster turrets. At last Zsinj responded, and his face came up on the holo display.
“This is Zsinj!” he shouted, and the warlord’s face was red, eyes frenzied from the battle.
“This is General Han Solo.” Han nudged the stick, and the Falcon rose toward the forward command module of the Iron Fist. “Look up at your viewscreen, you vermin. Kiss my Wookiee!”
He waited half a second as Zsinj looked out his viewscreen to see the Falcon hurtling toward him. Realization dawned on Zsinj’s face. Han fired his last two concussion missiles.
The top half of the Iron Fist’s forward command module disintegrated in a cascade of splintered metal. With its shields down, the destroyer became a sitting duck. A shot from a Hapan ion cannon bathed the Iron Fist in blue lightning, and with its complex circuitry down, immediately it fell victim to a hail of proton torpedoes.
Han accelerated away from the dying ship, out of orbit for a moment, content to leave any other dogfights to the Hapans. With Zsinj gone, he figured it would only be a few moments before the Imperial fleet surrendered.
There were no wild shouts of celebration behind him, no glee. Instead, only a profound silence.
He found that his hands were shaking, and his vision blurred. “Chewie, take the controls for a minute,” Han said. And Han folded his arms over his chest. Months of frustration, months of doubts and worries and fears. That’s what Zsinj had cost him.
Han felt Leia’s thin hands on his shoulders, massaging them. His breath was coming ragged, and he leaned back in the captain’s seat, let her knead some of the tension away. It was as if for the past five months, his muscles had been cramping tighter and tighter into little knots, warping him, and suddenly those knots began to unravel, work themselves out. What a cramped little man I’ve been, Han realized, wondering how he had not seen it, not noticed it himself, and promising himself that he would never let it happen again.
“Feel better?” Leia asked.
Han considered. Killing Zsinj was not something he could feel good about. Killing him was such a small, petty thing. Yet, he felt such a profound sense of relief. “Yeah,” Han said. “I haven’t felt this good since … I don’t know when.”
“The monster has one less head,” Leia said.
“Yeah,” Han said, “now that the papa shark is dead, all the little baby sharks will have to start gobbling each other.”
“And pretty soon, there will be a lot fewer sharks,” Leia said.
Han added, “And in the meantime, the New Republic can rush into Zsinj’s old territory and take a few hundred star systems out of their hands.”
Leia swiveled his seat around, and Han could see Isolder, Teneniel, Luke, and the droids in the corridor. It was funny how most people wanted a crowd around celebrating a victory. Han always wanted to relish it alone.
“You won,” Leia said, and her eyes were bright, full of tears.
“The war?” Han asked, wondering if she were just trying to make him feel good. “No. Not hardly.”
“Not that—” Leia said, “our bet. Seven days on Dathomir? You said that if I fell in love with you all over again, I had to marry you. The seven days isn’t over yet. You won.”
“Oh, that,” Han said. “Look—that was a stupid bet. I would never force you to do something like that. I release you from it.”
“Oh yeah?” Leia said. “Well, I don’t release you!” She took his chin in her hands and kissed him, a long slow kiss that seemed to penetrate every aching fiber of his being, making him whole.
Isolder watched them kiss. This whole episode would be a colossal embarrassment on Hapes. It wouldn’t play well at all. And yet … he felt happy for them.
His comlink buzzed a secure channel that could only be accessed by Hapan security. He pulled it from his belt, flipped it open, saw the image of Astarta on the comlink’s tiny screen. His bodyguard smiled in greeting.
“It’s good to see you,” Isolder said. “Yet I hadn’t expected the fleet for three more days—which means that someone ordered them to fly through a proscribed route.”
“Once I fled Dathomir,” Astarta said, “I fed the Jedi’s route to our fleet’s astrogators via the holo vid. The fleet was able to shave a few parsecs off their trip.”
“Hmmm,” Isolder said. “An interesting gamble, but still it was dangerous.”
“We did it on your mother’s order,” Astarta explained. “She’s coming in with the Olanji fleet tomorrow. We’ve begun receiving surrenders from some of Zsinj’s vessels. Since you are temporarily in command of the fleet, what are your wishes?”
Isolder’s mind did a little flip, stunned that his mother would take such a risk on his behalf. “Accept only unconditional surrenders,” he said, “and prepare to take any spaceworthy Star Destroyers back to Hapes. As for the Imperial shipyard—destroy it!”
“Yes, sir,” Astarta said. “How soon should we be ready to pull out?”
Isolder thought for a moment. Zsinj may have sent for reinforcements. They’d have to get away from Dathomir as soon as possible. “Two days.”
“Two days?” Astarta asked, the surprise in her voice showing that she thought it an extraordinarily slow retreat. “We will have to verify that with your mother.”
“There are political prisoners on the planet, along with several thousand locals that may wish to be evacuated,” Isolder said firmly. “We will need to contact them, give them the opportunity to leave.”
Chapter
27
Han gathered sisters from all nine of Dathomir’s clans for a feast the following evening, in the hall of warriors at Singing Mountain. The witches wore their finest helms and robes, but all of their finery seemed drab compared with that of the queen mother, who wore lavender silks and decorated her hair with rainbow gems from Gallinore.
Ta’a Chume seemed mildly annoyed by the proceedings and rested uneasily on the crude leather cushions, as if the witches’ finery were beneath her. She kept swatting at stinging insects, glancing toward the door distractedly, eager to get back to Hapes and her own business.
Han watched her through the evening, bemused by the beautiful face hidden behind the lavender veil, appalled at her bad manners.
At the height of the feast, Han presented Augwynne with the deed to Dathomir, and the old woman wept in gratitude, then had servants bring up the gold and gems she had collected, and the servants dumped the baskets onto the floor at Han’s feet.
Han stood amazed for a moment, and said, “I, uh, forgot about that. Look, I don’t really want all of this.” He looked into Leia’s eyes. “I’ve already got everything I want.”
“A bargain is a bargain, General Solo,” Augwynne said. “Besides, we owe you more than we can repay. Not only have you freed us from Zsinj, but you helped destroy the Nightsisters. We will forever be in your debt.”
“Yeah but—” Han started to object, but Leia nudged his ribs. “Keep it,” she whispered. “We can use it to pay for the wedding.”
Han looked at the gems at his feet, and wondered just how big a wedding Leia had planned.
“I have an announcement that also will affect your people,” Prince Isolder said from a cushion beside his mother, and he rose to his feet, reached out his hand across the room. “Teneniel Djo, the granddaughter of Augwynne Djo, has consented to be my wife.”
“No!” Ta’a Chume shouted, and she stood, glared at her son. “You can’t marry a woman from this uncivilized little mud hole. I forbid it! She can’t be the queen mother of Hapes.”
“She’s a princess, with her own world to inherit,” Isolder said. “I think that is qualification enough. You’ve plenty of years left to sit on the throne, and in that time you can train her.”
“Even if she is a princess—” the queen mother said, “something that I doubt you could successfully argue—her family has held deed to this world for less than five minutes! She has no royal blood in her, no lineage.”
Star Wars: The Courtship of Princess Leia Page 33