by Kathy Tyers
An enemy gunship appeared ahead of them, though. Almost instantly, the expected dovin basal anomaly appeared on Mara’s sensors. She fired a storm of short bursts into it, loading it as heavily as possible. Not far to starboard, Luke’s X-wing took a run at the gunship, his guns linked to fire dual bursts—two from above, then two below—then a solid quad burst.
The gunship swerved off course, ignoring the blocky transport to deal with its attackers. Mara pelted the singularity, keeping its shields busy, decelerating to keep from being drawn in.
As Luke set up for a second run, she spotted another X-wing coming in behind him—but also a tetrahedral flight of coralskippers. Stars spun as Mara jinked her ship, evading plasma bursts, still concentrating her fire on that gunship. Sensors showed another anomaly coming up toward her, projected by the coralskippers to devour her shields.
“Luke?” she called softly. “Anakin, this could be trouble.”
“I’ve got the skips, Uncle Luke,” she heard.
One X-wing altered course. Even from this distance, she sensed something flowing strong through the Force, as Anakin—without hesitating—reached down deep, with the utter calm of a warrior twice his age. His X-wing bucked and spun, firing constantly. He took two skips before the other two realigned their molten-projectile guns.
From another vector, Luke’s X-wing dropped toward the gunship. She spotted the flare of a dual torp launch. The instant she knew the gunship couldn’t swing its energy gullet into place and devour them, she broke off her attack, vectored high, and directed full power to her aft shields.
“Got ’im,” Luke crowed. Then, more soberly, he called, “Cargo hauler, is that your maximum acceleration?”
She didn’t recognize the voice that answered, but she knew awe when she heard it. “Skywalker? That’s you, in the X-wing?”
“Right on you. Pour it on, hauler.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mara’s sensors showed an infinitesimal acceleration, probably all the battered hauler could manage.
Not far off this vector, a similar hauler plunged back toward Duro’s cloud cover, tumbling slowly. Bburru, too, was grappled in six places by objects that might be living ships, its shipyard arm already a web of twisted metal.
Another city, the one that had been rammed, now tilted—plainly falling toward a lower orbit. No more ships left its docks. A flotilla of Yuuzhan Vong followed alongside, and Mara’s sensors told her they were using their own dovin basals to pull it farther down. All the Duros cities, except sluggish Urrdorf, were in ruins.
Mara clenched a fist. They were playing. Showing off. Not just overwhelming their victims, but taunting them.
She bit her lip, wanting to slam a fist against her control panel. She opened her hand with an effort and thrust anger away. Anger was poison. She’d had poison enough in her system, thanks to Nom Anor—and there was one small life she still could save. If she guarded that, then her own life counted more than she could have believed possible. Hang on, she said silently. You picked a wild time to come into the galaxy.
She crisscrossed Luke’s path, presenting a confusing target. Now she understood why women willingly died for their children. One utterly helpless person depended on her for sustenance and safety. Silently, she promised that little one the fiercest defender he ever could need.
“She,” a soft voice said in her ear.
Startled, Mara touched the earphone. No one else answered or asked Luke to clarify, so he was using the private channel. She touched a control, then muttered back, “Get out of my brain, Skywalker,” but at the Luke-place at the edge of her mind, she let him feel how glad she was to know he’d survived this catastrophe, too.
Then, startled, she caught a new sensation—and she knew. “Nope,” she exclaimed. “It’s he.”
The boxy hauler winked out of sight.
Jacen squeezed the upper quad gun’s firing control once more, and another coralskipper exploded into multicolored shards. The Falcon rocked back and forth, giving him a clear view of another coral shower, Jaina’s work, from the cockpit. He could hear his dad’s and sister’s voices, pilot and copilot. The Falcon had never flown so wildly and well.
Urrdorf couldn’t make hyperspace, the way Droma’s hauler had done, but it accelerated steadily away from Duro’s orbital plane, and the Yuuzhan Vong were no longer pursuing. Maybe it could lose itself in the darkness between systems.
“That’s it,” Han said. “We’re breaking off. Good luck, Urrdorf.”
“Thank you, Falcon,” a distant voice said in Jacen’s headset.
Then Han, again. “Jacen, Jaina, secure the guns. Get ready to jump. We’re taking her home.”
Jacen complied, then belted down in the engineering section near C-3PO. From the cockpit, he heard Jaina announce, “Anakin got another one.”
“What’s he up to? Eleven, twelve?” Han called.
“Don’t know,” Jaina said. “I’d better talk to Colonel Darklighter about that kid.”
“Hey.” Han’s voice rose. “Luke, Mara, Anakin. You’re the last force insystem. Get out while you can.”
“Right.” That was Uncle Luke. “Break it off, Anakin. Good job.”
Count on Anakin to be the last human to get out of Duro space alive, Jacen reflected, but without jealousy. He’d found the balance between the Force’s inner power and outward might. By giving himself—obedient, with no reservation—he became a walking, breathing, living sacrifice.
Maybe I caught that lightsaber after all, Uncle Luke.
He sensed Jaina, sitting beside the familiar glimmer that had always been their dad. Stretching out, he faintly touched his brother’s incandescent brilliance. Then Uncle Luke in his X-wing, alongside Aunt Mara in the Jade Shadow.
He paused there. Something was odd—different—about Aunt Mara. Not stale or fetid, the way she’d felt when her disease seemed terminal. At this new depth, he felt her shine like a binary star.
Then the Falcon hit hyperspace, extinguishing all those presences.
Jacen unbuckled and hurried down to check on his mother’s wounds.
EPILOGUE
Tsavong Lah’s left ankle throbbed, but Vaecta would no more have deadened that pain than cut off his unwounded foot without appropriate rituals. Tsavong had sacrificed body parts before, imitating his gods’ work in creating the universe. Until higher priests arrived, he would stand on a simple artificial foot.
But he would petition the priest for a crafted enhancement. He’d lost that foot as a result of an honor duel. He didn’t think the priests would refuse.
Step by painful step, he approached the delegation of Duros and humans who’d just landed, then had hurried here—to this temporary administrative center, pending the arrival of more-appropriate construction-craft materials. A cadre of infidels strode closer, wearing red-trimmed brown uniforms.
Through the reality of pain, he saw them clearly—not only infidels, but traitors. He would not waste time winnowing out worthy ones.
As soon as the delegation stood close enough, he held up a hand, signaling them to halt.
One scrawny Duros stepped forward. “Good sirrr,” he said, “we must protest your extended offensive. I am Durgard Brarun, vice-director of—”
“I want information,” Tsavong Lah said.
The Duros spread his knobby hands and spoke rapidly. “Sirrr, we kept the bargain that your Peace Brigade brrrokered. Duro Defense Force stood down. Duro did not defend the planetary settlements or our shipyards. In return, you prrromised to spare all but one of our cities. We fully understood that you would need to make at least one example, but—”
“Tell your grievances to the gods.” Tsavong set his weight on that throbbing ankle and false foot, then drew on the pain to focus his thoughts. “I require the name of the young Jeedai who escaped your custody.” That craven young coward had proved worthy indeed. At the time of highest, best portents, he must be sacrificed to Yun-Yammka.
“I can explain,” the Duros began.
“He had outside help—”
“The name.” Tsavong drowned out the sniveling infidel.
The Duros spread his hands again. “Jacen Solo, son of Ambassador Leia Organa Solo and—”
Tsavong signaled the dovin basal that lay buried nearby. A glimmering containment field quenched the unworthy one’s voice.
Then he addressed the executor, who stood nearby. “Your penance here has ended, Nom Anor,” he said. “Are the new slaves ready to transmit? Is the villip choir in place?”
Nom Anor dropped to one knee, visibly gloating—but his hands trembled. Plainly, he expected to receive his next promotion. “I will call the villip mistress.”
Tsavong waited until Seef approached, leading a beast of burden that carried the largest villip they’d bred to date, still moist-skinned and larval white. At the suggestion of his human contact on Coruscant, the master shapers who had bred and nurtured it to this size had also delivered its stalk-partner to a deep-space beacon, protecting it from vacuum with additional dovin basals.
For this message, he would even use the abhorrent visual technology he found here, though only his new slaves would soil themselves by touching it. They were already defiled beyond cleansing.
The CorDuro officials, who would soon be digesting in Biter’s belly, had proved again how easily his enemies could be turned on each other. They would destroy their own finest warriors, a tactic that should make Yun-Harla smile on him, too.
He assembled his victorious forces in a circle near the burning pit, where a savory aroma honored Yun-Yammka. Without activating the villip, he made a short speech to his on-site forces and slaves, declaring Nom Anor’s penance complete—and that now, he would be sent elsewhere.
The executor folded his arms across his chest. One cheek twitched, betraying his confusion.
“Give me the woman’s foul weapon,” Tsavong ordered.
Nom Anor did not dare disobey. He took the light-cleaver from his belt and handed it over.
Tsavong Lah handled it firmly, knowing how thoroughly he would have to cleanse himself afterwards. After several attempts, he managed to make light shoot from one end—false light, a red mockery of natural luminescence.
Now Seef uncovered the giant villip and began stroking, using both arms. She also handed Tsavong Lah a tizowyrm. He slipped it into place. He would not have this speech mocked by infidels. Seef signaled the slaves with their sending apparatus.
He distributed his weight evenly on both feet, sending shooting pain up his left calf. “Citizens of the New Republic,” he said slowly, “we speak from the surface of Duro, a living planet that your forebears murdered, but which we and our new slaves will revive. In weeks to come, we will show you how the might of the Yuuzhan Vong addresses reconstruction—the rekindling of a world.”
He drew another deep breath, imagining the infidels beckoning each other to abhorrent mechanical receivers, all the way from Duro to another technology-poisoned world—Coruscant.
“Until now,” he said, “we have not declared our purpose. Now we do. We will end here, on Duro. We will suspend hostilities, and live alongside you … on one condition.”
He drew a long, slow breath. After the judgment he had executed upon Duro, the cowards would want peace—with or without honor.
“Among you,” he said, “live some who mock all gods by becoming small gods unto themselves, who abase the rest of you and force you to submit to them. We will content ourselves with Duro, if you will help us make one final sacrifice.”
He paused again. He let them tremble, to wonder if their lives, their worlds, would be demanded.
Then he let them know they would live. All but …
“Give us your Jeedai,” he demanded, brandishing the light-cleaver in front of him, pointing its blade at the dirt. “All of them, without exception. Any species, any age, any stage of training. Hold them back, hide them, and you see how your worlds will be treated. But I will reward—with special gifts!—the person who brings me the Jeedai with whom I especially wish to speak.”
He poured hate and pain into his voice. He closed both hands on the light-cleaver and plunged it into the dirt. It sank to its pommel.
“Give me Jacen Solo,” he roared, “alive. So that I may give him to the gods.”
He nodded to Seef, who covered the villip. He wrenched the foul weapon out of the dirt.
The blade still glimmered, unsullied. Trembling with pain and anger, he flung it into the burning pit.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kathy Tyers, author of the New York Times bestselling Star Wars: The Truce at Bakura, has contributed several other stories to the Star Wars universe, including We Don’t Do Weddings: The Band’s Tale and A Time to Mourn, a Time to Dance: Oola’s Tale. She has recently published new editions of her first two science fiction novels, Firebird and Fusion Fire, and a new Firebird novel, Crown of Fire. Born in Long Beach, California, Kathy Tyers lives in southwestern Montana with her husband, Mark. They have one son.
By Kathy Tyers
FIREBIRD
FUSION FIRE
CRYSTAL WITNESS
SHIVERING WORLD
STAR WARS: THE TRUCE AT BAKURA
ONE MIND’S EYE
CROWN OF FIRE
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.
PROLOGUE
Dorsk 82 ducked behind the stone steps of the quay, just in time to dodge a blaster bolt from across the water.
“Hurry on board my ship,” he told his charges. “They’ve found us again.”
That was an understatement. Approaching along the tide embankment was a mob of around fifty Aqualish, jostling each other and shouting hoarsely. Most carried makeshift weapons—clubs, knives, rocks—but a few had force pikes and at least one had a blaster, as the smoking score on the quay testified.
“Join us, Master Dorsk,” The 3D-4 protocol droid close behind him pleaded.
Dorsk nodded his bald yellow-and-green mottled head. “Soon. I have to slow their progress across the causeway, to give everyone time to board.”
“You can’t hold them off yourself, sir.”
“I think I can. Besides, I need to try to talk to them. This is senseless.”
“They’ve gone mad,” the droid said. “They’re destroying droids all over the city!”
“They aren’t mad,” Dorsk averred. “They’re just frightened. The Yuuzhan Vong are on Ando, and may well conquer the planet.”
“But why destroy droids, Master Dorsk?”
“Because t
he Yuuzhan Vong hate machines,” the Khommite clone answered. “They consider them to be abominations.”
“How can that be? Why would they believe that?”
“I don’t know,” Dorsk replied. “But it is a fact. Go, please. Help the others board. My pilot is already at the controls with the flight instructions, so even if something happens to me, you’ll be okay.”
Still the droid hesitated. “Why are you helping us, sir?”
“Because I am a Jedi and I can. You don’t deserve destruction.”
“Neither do you, sir.”
“Thank you. I do not intend to be destroyed.”
He raised his head up again as the droid finally followed its clattering, whirring comrades to the waiting ship.
The crowd had reached the ancient stone causeway connecting the atoll-city of Imthitill to the abandoned fishing platform Dorsk now crouched on. It seemed they were all on foot, which meant all he had to do was prevent them from crossing the causeway.
With a single bound, Dorsk propelled his thin body up onto the causeway, forsaking the cover of the step down to the fishing platform. Lightsaber held at his side, he watched the mob approach.
I am a Jedi, he thought to himself. A Jedi knows no fear.
Almost surprisingly, he didn’t. His training with Master Skywalker had been fretted with attacks of panic. Dorsk was the eighty-second clone of the first Khommite to bear his name. He’d grown up on a world well satisfied with its own peculiar kind of perfection, and that hadn’t prepared him for danger, or fear, or even the unexpected. There were times when he believed he could never be as brave as the other Jedi students or live up to the standard set by his celebrated predecessor, Dorsk 81.
But watching the large, dark eyes of the crowd that was drawing close, he felt nothing but a gentle sadness that they had been driven to this. They must fear the Yuuzhan Vong terribly.
The destruction of droids had begun small, but in a few days had become a planetwide epidemic. The government of Ando—such as it was—neither condoned nor condemned the brutality, so long as no nondroids were killed or injured in the mess. Without help from the police, Dorsk 82 was the only chance the droids had, and he didn’t plan to fail them. He had already failed too many.