by James Luceno
“Ah … withdrawal?” Pellaeon asked cautiously. It was not exactly the order he’d been anticipating.
Thrawn looked at him, a faint smile on his face. “You were expecting, perhaps, that I’d order an all-out attack?” he asked. “That I would seek to cover our defeat in a frenzy of false and futile heroics?”6
“Of course not,” Pellaeon protested.
But he knew down deep that the other knew the truth. Thrawn’s smile remained, but was suddenly cold. “We haven’t been defeated, Captain,” he said quietly. “Merely slowed down a bit. We have Wayland, and we have the treasures of the Emperor’s storehouse. Sluis Van was to be merely a preliminary to the campaign, not the campaign itself. As long as we have Mount Tantiss, our ultimate victory is still assured.”
He looked out the viewport, a thoughtful expression on his face. “We’ve lost this particular prize, Captain. But that’s all we’ve lost. I will not waste ships and men trying to change that which cannot be changed. There will be many more opportunities to obtain the ships we need. Carry out your orders.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Pellaeon said, turning back to his status board, a surge of relief washing through him. So there would not be an explosion, after all … and with a twinge of guilt, he realized that he should have known better from the start. Thrawn was not merely a soldier, like so many others Pellaeon had served with. He was, instead, a true warrior, with his eye set on the final goal and not on his own personal glory.
Taking one last look out the viewport, Pellaeon issued the order to retreat. And wondered, once again, what the Battle of Endor would have been like if Thrawn had been in command.7
C H A P T E R 32
It took a while longer after the Imperial fleet pulled out for the battle to be officially over. But with the Star Destroyers gone, the outcome was never in doubt.
The regular stormtroopers were the easiest. Most of them were dead already, killed when Lando’s activation of the mole miners had ruptured the airseals of their stolen ships and left them open to vacuum, and the rest were taken without much trouble. The eight remaining spacetroopers, whose zero-gee suits had allowed them to keep fighting after their ships were disabled, were another story entirely. Ignoring all calls to surrender, they fanned out through the shipyards, clearly intent on causing as much damage as they could before the inevitable. Six were hunted down and destroyed; the other two eventually self-destructed, one managing to cripple a Corvette in the process.
He left behind him a shipyard and orbit-dock facility in an uproar … and a great number of severely damaged major ships.
“Not exactly what you’d call a resounding victory,” Captain Afyon grunted, surveying what was left of the Larkhess’s bridge through a pressure bulkhead viewport as he gingerly adjusted a battle dressing that had been applied to his forehead. “Going to take a couple months’ work just to rewire all the control circuits.”
“Would you rather the Imperials have gotten it whole?” Han demanded from behind him, trying to ignore his own mixed feelings about this whole thing. Yes, it had worked … but at what cost?
“Not at all,” Afyon replied calmly. “You did what you had to—and I’d say that even if my own neck hadn’t been on the line. I’m just saying what others will say: that destroying all these ships in order to save them was not exactly the optimal solution.”
Han threw a look at Luke. “You sound like Councilor Fey’lya,” he accused Afyon.
The other nodded. “Exactly.”
“Well, fortunately, Fey’lya’s only one voice,” Luke offered.
“Yeah, but it’s a loud one,” Han said sourly.
“And one that a lot of people are starting to listen to,” Wedge added. “Including important military people.”
“He’ll find some way to parlay this incident into his own political gain,” Afyon rumbled. “You just watch him.”
Han’s rejoinder was interrupted by a trilling from the wall intercom. Afyon stepped over and tapped the switch. “Afyon here,” he said.
“Sluis Control communications,” a voice replied. “We have an incoming call from Coruscant for Captain Solo. Is he with you?”
“Right here,” Han called, stepping over to the speaker. “Go ahead.”
There was a slight pause; and then a familiar and sorely missed voice came on. “Han? It’s Leia.”
“Leia!” Han said, feeling a delighted and probably slightly foolish-looking grin spread across his face. A second later, though—“Wait a minute. What are you doing back on Coruscant?”
“I think I’ve taken care of our other problem,” she said. Her voice, he noticed for the first time, sounded tense and more than a little ragged. “At least for the moment.”
Han threw a frown across the room at Luke. “You think?”
“Look, that’s not important right now,” she insisted. “What’s important is that you get back here right away.”
Something cold and hard settled into Han’s stomach. For Leia to be this upset … “What’s wrong?”
He heard her take a deep breath. “Admiral Ackbar has been arrested and removed from command. On charges of treason.”
The room abruptly filled with a brittle silence. Han looked in turn at Luke, at Afyon, at Wedge. But there didn’t seem to be anything to say. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he told Leia. “Luke’s here, too—you want me to bring him?”
“Yes, if he can manage it,” she said. “Ackbar’s going to need all the friends he can get.”1
“Okay,” Han said. “Call me in the Falcon if there’s any more news. We’re heading over there right now.”
“I’ll see you soon. I love you, Han.”
“Me, too.”
He broke the connection, turned back to the others. “Well,” he said, to no one in particular. “There goes the hammer. You coming, Luke?”
Luke looked at Wedge. “Have your people had a chance to do anything with my X-wing yet?”
“Not yet,” Wedge said, shaking his head. “But it’s just been officially bumped to the top of the priority list. We’ll have it ready to fly in two hours. Even if I have to take the motivators out of my own ship to do it.”
Luke nodded and looked back at Han. “I’ll fly into Coruscant on my own, then,” he said. “Let me just come with you and get Artoo off the Falcon.”
“Right. Come on.”
“Good luck,” Afyon called softly after them.
And yes, Han thought as they hurried down the corridor toward the hatchway where the Falcon was docked; the hammer was indeed coming down. If Fey’lya and his faction pushed too hard and too fast—and knowing Fey’lya, he would almost certainly push too hard and too fast—
“We could be on the edge of a civil war here,” Luke murmured his thought back at him.
“Yeah, well, we’re not going to let that happen,” Han told him with confidence he didn’t feel. “We haven’t gone through a war and back just to watch some overambitious Bothan wreck it.”
“How are we going to stop him?”
Han grimaced. “We’ll think of something.”
To Be Continued …2
A F T E R W O R D
About this same time twenty years ago, I incorporated Lucasfilm’s final corrections on Heir to the Empire and sent the manuscript to the production department, confident that Tim had delivered a terrific story but completely unaware of what an impact it would have on readers just a few months later. All of us at Bantam Spectra had loved the films, and we were honored that Lucasfilm would allow us to bring a new story to Star Wars fans. But would those fans want to read a new adventure rather than see it played out on the biggest screen possible? We had no way to know for sure.
I remember the day we sat in Lou Aronica’s office to brainstorm which author might be best for the project. We’d made the deal with Lucasfilm, but no book would exist until a suitable author was found and an outline approved. First and foremost we wanted a writer who loved the films and would be excited to expand George Lu
cas’s vision. We looked initially at people who were already being published at Bantam Spectra, wanting to give our own authors first shot.
Bantam published numerous popular writers at the time, so Tim’s was not the first name to come up. I knew he’d be right for the job but was hesitant to mention him because we’d signed him up only a few months earlier and he was in the middle of writing the first of three novels we had under contract.
Still, I knew Tim was a huge fan. And from working with him previously at Analog magazine—where he’d won a Hugo Award for his story “Cascade Point”—and at Baen Books, where I’d been his editor on several novels including the Cobra trilogy and The Backlash Mission, I knew Tim had the writing skills to handle a big-picture Star Wars plot. Not only that, but he could also re-create the interplay among George Lucas’s beloved characters as well as generate new ones who would capture readers’ interest.
That trust was certainly borne out: In Heir to the Empire, Tim “gave birth” to the unforgettable Mara Jade, Grand Admiral Thrawn, and Joruus C’baoth and was already thinking of names for the twins Leia would bear later in the trilogy. Heir to the Empire hit number one on the New York Times hardcover bestseller list—almost unheard of for a science-fiction novel at that time—and went on to sell millions of copies. Tim and I were invited to Skywalker Ranch in San Rafael, California, and had the pleasure of meeting George Lucas, who thanked Tim for his contribution to the Star Wars universe. (Talk about somebody walking on air! I swear I could have swung a cat underneath Tim’s boots during that encounter.)
It was the publishing experience of a lifetime, and it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, or a better writer. Thank you, Tim!
—BETSY MITCHELL
November 2010
CRISIS OF FAITH
AN ORIGINAL STAR WARS NOVELLA
TIMOTHY ZAHN
The sky looked odd this morning, Trevik of the Midli of the Seventh of the Red thought as the Queen’s entourage left the residence wing of the palace and began the short walk to the Dwelling of Guests. Perhaps it was clouds, he thought: clouds too high and too thin for his eyes to distinguish through the mists rising from the Dreaming Waters that lay to the north of the Red City.
But he’d seen the sky through thin clouds before. More likely it was something their guest had done, the chief of the thirty beings who had arrived a month ago, creatures with yellow eyes and hair the color of a storm cloud. Had their chief not said he would protect the Red City from the evil forces gathering among the stars over Quethold?
“Drink.”
Quickly Trevik lifted the ornate bowl of nectar that he held clutched to his chest. The Queen leaned toward the bowl, her embroidered robes moving in time with the rhythmic swaying of her canopied litter, her long abdomen stretched out along the litter’s couch—
“Higher,” Borosiv of the Circling of the First of the Red growled tersely from his far less ornate litter behind the Queen’s.
Wincing, Trevik stretched up his arms, raising the bowl as high as he could. The Queen drank deeply and then straightened up again, her mandibles shaking off the last drops of the rich liquid, her eyes flicking impassively across Trevik’s face.
Trevik lowered the bowl again to his chest, feeling the thudding of his heart within his torso. Being selected to act as the Queen’s bowlcarrier was the highest honor any Midli could achieve. It was as if all the Midlis on Quethold stood behind him, just as all the Circlings stood behind Borosiv. The last thing in the world he wanted was to fail, and through that failure to bring shame to his family.
“Straighten up,” Borosiv continued in the same low, grouchy voice. “Watch the Workers. Duplicate their stance.”
Trevik swallowed, a quick flush of shame flickering across his heart. He’d been told all this earlier, of course, but in the heat of the moment he’d forgotten.
Now he looked over at line of Workers carrying the Queen’s litter. There were eight of them, their torsos held nearly vertical despite the weight of the litter on their shoulders. Each Worker’s abdomen stretched out behind him, perfectly level with the ground, with his four legs moving in precise lockstep rhythm.
Swallowing again, Trevik tried to match their stance and movement. The Queen, he’d heard, was willing to give a new bowlcarrier a certain degree of latitude on his first day. But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t try his very best.
Especially since Borosiv didn’t seem inclined to give the new Midli any of that same slack.
The Dwelling of Guests was a circular building situated in the center of the courtyard. It was small, with only a modest central gathering area on the ground floor and ten small privacy rooms on the floor above. Two of the storm-haired aliens stood at the south entryway, their strange weapons held across their shoulders as they watched the Queen and her entourage approach.
It was the closest Trevik had ever been to these particular aliens, and he eyed them curiously as he and the litters drew near. They were upright beings, unlike the Quesoth but very similar to the Quesoth’s allies, the Stromma. They had two legs, a torso with no separate abdomen, and a head topped with flowing black storm-cloud hair. Humanoid, he’d heard such beings called before.
But at least their eyes were proper, multifaceted like those of the Quesoth, though they were a bright yellow instead of Quesoth’s pale blue. Perhaps their eyes were why the Queen had chosen to defy Quethold’s old alliance with the Stromma and accept the Storm-hairs into the Red City as her guests.
Or perhaps it was because of the weapons the Storm-hairs had brought with them. Weapons more compact and powerful even than those of the Stromma.
Trevik focused on the Storm-hairs’ weapons, feeling himself suddenly tensing. Along with the twelve Workers carrying the litters, the Queen’s entourage also included twelve Soldiers, and if the Storm-hairs neglected the proper greeting the Queen might well order the aliens to be disciplined. Trevik hadn’t seen the Storm-hairs’ weapons in action, but he’d heard enough stories to know that he didn’t especially want to. Especially not at close range.
Fortunately, the Storm-hairs knew the correct protocol. “Hail, O Queen of the Red,” one of them intoned as the litter came within the prescribed five paces. “We live to serve, and die to serve.”
The Queen remained silent as the aliens pulled open the doors and the group filed through. Under the circumstances, Trevik decided, her silence was probably a good thing.
The chief of the Storm-hairs was waiting in the center of the gathering area. It was the first time Trevik had seen the area since the Queen had granted them the Dwelling, and he was struck by how alien it had become. Changes in furniture were understandable—after all, the Storm-hairs weren’t built anything like the Quesoth.
But the Storm-hairs had gone far beyond simple comfort and convenience. They had redone the entire room, from the hangings on the walls to the meditation sculptures about the walkways. In fact, even the pattern of the walkways had been changed. It was as if the Dwelling had been transformed into a part of the Storm-hairs’ own world.
“Drink.”
Trevik lifted the bowl, his heart again beginning to pound. Some of the sculptures the Storm-hairs had removed had been from the Queen’s own meditation room. Would she take offense that those treasures had been taken out of sight?
Perhaps she already had. Lifting her face from the nectar bowl, she raised her voice in the high-pitched ululations of Soldier Speak.
Trevik tensed. But the two lines of Soldiers flanking the two litters didn’t surge toward the chief Storm-hair. The commander replied in the same language, and all of the Soldiers spread out across the room toward the Dwelling’s outer doors. They passed through and disappeared into the courtyard, closing the doors behind them.
“Down,” the Queen ordered.
Trevik took a step to the side as the eight Workers carrying the litter lowered it to the floor and then knelt and curled themselves over into the Worker sign of homage. Behind the Queen’s litter, Trevik heard a
softer swishing of cloth as the four Workers in the rear likewise lowered Borosiv’s litter.
The chief Storm-hair bowed low, his posture almost a caricature of the Workers’ stance. “Hail, O Queen of the Red,” he said.
Trevik frowned. Was that it? Did he not also live to serve and die to serve, as did the Quesoth and even the other Storm-hairs?
“Drink.”
Hurriedly Trevik stepped back to the litter and offered the bowl. Apparently, the chief Storm-hair had indeed finished his greeting. Even more amazing, the Queen didn’t seem offended by the lack of a death-pledge. It was almost as if she saw him as an equal, the way Trevik would see his brothers of the Seventh as equals.
But that was insane. The Queen had no equals.
The Queen finished her drink and waved Trevik away. “The threat remains, O Nuso Esva,” she said, addressing the chief Storm-hair. “My Circlings have seen the flying cities, black against the stars.”
“The threat remains, O Queen,” the chief Storm-hair—Nuso Esva—agreed. “Let us take further counsel together as to how we may deal with our common enemy.
“Let us speak to the destruction of Grand Admiral Thrawn.”
The other five members of the strategy session were already waiting in the bridge conference room of the Imperial Star Destroyer Admonitor when Senior Captain Voss Parck arrived. “My apologies, Admiral; gentles,” he said as he circled the table to the empty chair at Grand Admiral Thrawn’s right. “There was a last-minute report from the Tantsor system that I thought might be relevant to our discussion.”
“Was it?” Stromma Council Liaison Nyama asked, his grasslike fur glinting in the room’s lights, his heavy brow ridges angled over his pure black eyes, his normally snide tone even more insolent than usual.
“Yes,” Parck said, long practice enabling him not to take offense at Nyama’s manner. Loud belligerence was a universal—and highly prized—quality among the Stromma hierarchy, and the species’ military professionals were no exception. “The rumored activity turned out to be nothing but a small smuggling group. The searchers found no connection between them and Nuso Esva, and no trace of actual warships.”