Moving purposefully, he hurried across the slick—plated floor to the controls of the launch door. From the enameled badge on his left breast, he withdrew a disguised slicer chip the Imperials had provided months ago, in case he should need to make a quick escape. Now, though, Terpfen used the Imperial technology for the benefit of the New Republic.
Terpfen jammed the small wafer into the input slot and punched three buttons in succession. The electronics hummed, scanning the information in the chip. The slicer chip convinced the controls that Terpfen had the appropriate override codes, that he had authorization from both Admiral Ackbar and Mon Mothma.
With a groan and a thud, the heavy launch doors split apart. The night winds whistled outside the hangar bay, gusting into the chamber and bringing the chill air.
Terpfen strode to the repaired B—wing, slid his broad hands under the arms of the fallen male Calamarian, and dragged him across the slick floor. He dumped the mechanic beside the slumped bodies of the stunned Ugnaughts.
When Terpfen moved the female mechanic, she moaned softly. Her arm hung at an awkward angle, broken in the fall. Terpfen hesitated a moment in guilty misery, but the accidental injury couldn't be helped. A few hours in a bacta tank would patch her up just fine.
By then Terpfen would be on his way to Yavin 4.
He clambered into the pilot seat of the B—wing and powered up the controls. All the lights winked green. He sealed the hatch. With the speed of the B—wing's engines, he could make it to the Yavin system in record time. He had to.
Terpfen raised the awkward—looking craft on its repulsorlifts and maneuvered toward the open launch doors.
Screeching alarms penetrated the enclosed cockpit, vibrating from the servicing bay. Terpfen twisted his head to see what had gone wrong — and spotted another Ugnaught, one who had apparently been hiding inside the cockpit of an X—wing. The lone Ugnaught had squirmed out in a panic and scurried over to the alarm panel.
Terpfen cursed under his breath and knew that he had to hurry. He had hoped not to fight his way out.
He punched the maneuvering jets and shot out of the wide mouth of the launching bay. His stolen B—wing streaked away from the immense towers of Coruscant and headed out on a high—energy straight—line path to orbit.
He couldn't waste time fooling the New Republic security monitors. Terpfen would appear to be an Imperial saboteur stealing a starfighter. If they captured him, they would interrogate him until it was too late to help young Anakin Solo. Terpfen had done many terrible things against his will, but now that he was free from Imperial control, any failure would be his own fault. He could blame no one else.
It surprised and dismayed him how rapidly the Coruscant security forces scrambled to intercept him. Four X—wings soared by at low altitude and vectored in on his single fighter.
Terpfen's comm buzzed. One of the pursuing pilots said, "B—wing, you have made an unauthorized departure from the palace. Return immediately, or you will be fired upon."
Terpfen merely increased power to the shields surrounding his ship. The B—wing was one of Ackbar's prize contributions to the Rebellion, and it was far superior to the old—model X—wings. Terpfen could outrun them, and his shields could probably survive several direct hits — but he didn't know if he could withstand the combined firepower of four X—wings.
"B—wing fighter, this is your last chance," the X—wing pilot said, and fired a low—energy bolt that spattered against Terpfen's shields. The warning shot nudged the B—wing, but caused no damage.
Terpfen punched the throttle, kicking in the afterburners that launched him toward the aurora and a low planetary orbit that his onboard navigational systems marked with heavy red danger lines.
A year before, the battle to regain Coruscant and overthrow the warring Imperial factions had been won only at the cost of incredible destruction. Many ruined battleships remained in low orbit, collected there in a great garbage pile. Crews had been dismantling them for months, repairing those that could be salvaged, sending others down to burn up as they made their spectacular descent through the atmosphere. Such work, though, had low priority during the crisis phase of the formation of the New Republic. A large junkyard of debris still orbited in well—marked lanes.
Terpfen, however, had previously scanned the placement of the twisted hulks and made his own personal orbital chart. He had found a dangerous path through the maze, so narrow he would have to fly with no margin for error — but it seemed his best chance. He was certain the alarm had sounded across Coruscant's full security systems, and before long squadrons of fighters would come screaming in to converge on him.
Terpfen didn't want to fight. He didn't want to cause more death and damage. He wanted to escape as quickly and as painlessly as possible.
As he left the blanket of atmosphere behind him, the X—wings followed in his wake, firing in earnest now. Terpfen refused to shoot back, although if he crippled one or more of the starfighters, he would have an easier time escaping. But he did not want the death of an innocent pilot on his conscience. He had too many deaths to deal with already.
In the blackness of space he flitted past glimmering shards of metal, reactor pods, and hull plates from blasted freighters. He skimmed up and over a tangled cluster of girders and a largely intact planar solar array from a destroyed TIE fighter.
Up ahead the breached hull of a capital ship — a Loronar Strike Cruiser — hung as little more than a framework of structural beams and split plating after its hyperdrive engines had blown up during a direct hit.
Terpfen streaked toward the hulk, knowing that the blast cavity in its middle was wide enough for a B—wing to pass directly through. He had already studied the path, and he hoped the risk would cause his pursuers to pull back and give him just enough time to launch into hyperspace.
Without slowing Terpfen shot through a gaping opening in the Strike Cruiser's hull. Two X—wings peeled off, another managed to follow directly in his wake. The fourth shifted a micron too far and clipped its wings against a ragged strut. The X—wing spun and slammed into the wreckage; its fuel cylinders detonated.
Terpfen felt claws of dismay sink into his heart. He had never meant for anyone to die.
The last X—wing hung hotly behind him, firing repeatedly in outrage at the death of his partner.
Terpfen checked his shields and saw that they had begun to fail under the pummeling. He did not blame the other pilot for his anger, but neither could he surrender now. He studied his control panels. The navicomputer had plotted the best course to the Yavin system.
Before his shields could buckle, Terpfen took a short course directly out of the orbital debris field. The X—wing came at him again with all weapons blazing. Upon reaching open space Terpfen punched the hyperdrive engines.
In an instant the B—wing shot forward, impossibly out of the reach of the other fighter. With white starlines that looked like spears to impale him, Terpfen vanished into hyperspace with a silent bang.
Standing in front of the Millennium Falcon, Han Solo held Leia in a long embrace. The oppressive humidity of the jungle moon clung to them like wet rags against their skin. Han hugged Leia again, smelling her scent. The corners of his lips drifted upward in a wistful smile. He could feel her trembling against him — or perhaps it was his own hands.
"I really do have to go, Leia," he said. "I've got to find Kyp. Maybe I can stop him from blowing up more star systems and killing more people."
"I know," she said. "I just wish we could arrange to have our adventures together a little more often!"
Han tried unsuccessfully to give her his famous no—care grin. "I'll work on it," he said; then he kissed her long and hard. "Next time we'll manage."
He bent down to gather the twins in his arms. Jacen and Jaina clearly wanted to go back inside and play in the temples.
The children had found a small group of furry woolamanders nesting in an unused wing of the Great Temple, and Jacen claimed in his broken sent
ences that he knew how to talk to the creatures. Han wondered just what the hairy and noisy arboreal animals were saying back to the boy.
He backed toward the boarding ramp. "You know I need you to stay here in safety with the kids," he said to Leia. "And with Luke."
She nodded. They had been through this all before. "I can take care of myself. Now, get going. If you can do anything to stop Kyp, you shouldn't be wasting time here."
He kissed her again, waved goodbye to the twins, and vanished into the ship.
In a rotating cocktail lounge high up in Imperial City, Lando Calrissian yanked the fruit stick out of his drink before it could take root at the bottom of the glass. He sipped the fizzy concoction and smiled across the table at Mara Jade.
"Sure I can't get you another drink?" he asked. She looked absolutely beautiful with her exotic hair, high cheekbones, generous lips, and eyes the color of expensive gemstones. She hadn't touched her first drink yet, but he made certain he still shone with confidence.
"No thanks, Calrissian. We've got business to discuss."
The windows of the observation lounge showed the glittering former Imperial Palace and crystallike spires and skyscrapers that extended to the fringes of the atmosphere. Hover barges drifted above the buildings, flashing announcements in numerous languages, ferrying tourists out to watch the sunset and the brightening aurora. A pair of mismatched moons hung in the sky, shining down on the bustling city.
Musical notes drifted into the air from a complex multilayered bank of keyboards in the middle of which sat a purplish—black, tentacled creature. With a flurry of cilia, the creature played a staggering number of keys at a time.
Instead of eyes on its lumpy head, it was studded with tympanic membranes of varying sizes so it could hear music over an incredible range. Its tentacles flailed, striking upper keys, drawing out lower resonances, playing tunes both too high and too low for the human ear.
Lando took another sip and leaned back in his chair with a sigh and a soft smile. He had draped his slick burgundy cape over the back of his chair. Mara Jade wore only a tight—fitting jumpsuit; her curves looked like hazardous paths through a complicated planetary system.
Lando looked across at her. "So you think the Smugglers' Alliance would be interested in an arrangement for distribution of glitterstim spice from Kessel?"
Mara nodded. "I think I can guarantee that. Moruth Doole let the spice mines fall into a shambles. Black—market smuggling from the Imperial Correction Facility has made the entire planet a pain in the soft parts for any self—respecting runner trying to earn a living. It took powerful crime lords like Jabba with enough strong—arm just to make it worthwhile."
"I'll make it worthwhile," Lando said, folding his hands together on the tabletop. "I received a million—credit reward from the Duchess of Dargul, and I can invest it to bring the systems up to a more sophisticated level."
"What exactly are your plans?" Mara asked, leaning closer to him.
Lando responded by leaning over the table himself, bringing his large brown eyes close to hers. His pulse raced. She frowned and sat up straight again, still waiting for him to answer.
Rebuffed, Lando looked for words. "Uh, I don't have any great fondness for the prison where Doole centered his operations, but I think I can use that as a starting point. Dismantle most of the old correction facility, but use the buildings for a new base.
"And I don't plan to use slave labor, either. I figure we can get worker droids. On Nkllon I got familiar with some sophisticated mining systems, and if I use supercooled devices, the infrared signatures won't attract those energy spiders that caused so much trouble before."
"Droids can't handle everything," Mara said. "You're going to need some people down there. Who will you get to run a miserable operation like that?"
"Miserable to humans maybe," Lando said, locking his hands behind his back and sitting straight, "but not to some other species. In particular, I've got in mind an old friend of mine, Nien Nunb, who was my copilot on the Falcon during the Battle of Endor. He's a Sullustan, a little creature who grew up living in tunnels and warrens on a tough volcanic world. He'd consider the spice mines a luxury resort!" Lando shrugged at Mara's skeptical look. "Hey, I've worked with him before and I trust him."
"Sounds like you've got most of the answers, Calrissian," Mara said. "But so far it's all just talk. When are you planning to go to Kessel and get to work?"
"Well, I lost my ship there. I've got to get back to Kessel to pick up the Lady Luck and start my operations." He raised his eyebrows. "Say, you wouldn't be willing to give me a lift to the system, would you?"
"No." Mara Jade stood up. "I would not."
"All right, then. Will you meet me on Kessel in one standard week? By then I should have a good feel for how things are going to go. We can lay down the foundation for a long and lasting relationship." He smiled at her again.
"Business relationship," she said, but not quite as sharply as she might have.
"You sure you won't have dinner with me?" he asked.
"I've already eaten a ration bar," she said, and turned to leave. "One standard week. I'll see you on Kessel." She turned and left.
Lando blew her a kiss, but she didn't see him ... which was probably a good thing. At the keyboards the tentacled musician played a mournful tune of unreciprocated emotional resonances.
In the stuffy Council chambers Han Solo swallowed a lump in his throat before he addressed the gathered senators and generals and Mon Mothma herself.
"I don't often talk to this" — he tried to think of the appropriate flowery language Leia would use in front of politicians — "th, um, august assemblage, but I need some information fast."
Mon Mothma sat up weakly. Nearby a medical droid tended the silent monitoring and life—support systems attached to the Chief of State's body. Her skin looked grayish, as if it had already died and was waiting to fall off her bones. As she declined, she had given up all pretense of hiding her failing health.
According to Leia, Mon Mothma had only a few weeks to live with her strange, debilitating disease. Seeing the woman now, though, Han wouldn't have laid odds she would survive even that long.
"What exactly," Mon Mothma began — then paused to heave a deep breath — "do you need to know, General Solo?"
Han swallowed again. He couldn't hide the truth, though he hated to admit it. "Kyp Durron was my friend, but he went wrong somehow. He attacked Luke Skywalker. He took the Sun Crusher and blew up the Cauldron Nebula to destroy Admiral Daala's fleet. Leia and all the Jedi trainees on Yavin just experienced what they called "a great disturbance in the Force," and she's convinced that Kyp might have done something else."
General Rieekan spoke in his gruff voice, looking at Han with weary eyes. Rieekan had been the commander of Echo Base on Hoth, and he had seen many hard times. "Our scouts have just come back, General Solo. Your friend did use the Sun Crusher again. He destroyed the Caridan star system, site of the Imperial military academy."
Han felt his throat go dry, though the news was no great surprise, considering how much Kyp hated the Empire.
"This slaughter must stop. It goes beyond even the Emperor's atrocities," the aging tactician, General Jan Dodonna, said. "The New Republic does not employ such barbarous tactics."
"Well, he does!" interrupted Garm Bel—Iblis. "And he has obliterated two crucial Imperial targets. While we may not agree with Durron's methods, his success rate is nothing short of astonishing."
Mon Mothma interrupted, somehow finding the energy to speak a harsh sentence. "I will not allow this young man to be portrayed ... as a war hero." She paused for a deep breath and raised her clenched hand to signal that she had not yet finished. "His personal crusade must stop. General Solo, can you halt Kyp Durron?"
"I've got to find him first! Give me the reconnaissance information your scouts gathered from the Cauldron Nebula and Carida. Maybe I can track him down. If I could just talk to him face—to—face, I'm sure I coul
d make the kid see reason."
"General Solo, you will have access to everything you desire," Mon Mothma said, spreading her palms on the synthetic stone surface in front of her, as if to support herself. "Do you require ... a military escort?"
"No," he said, "that might scare him off. I'll take the Falcon and go myself. If I'm lucky, maybe I can bring the Sun Crusher back, too." Han gazed slowly around the Council chamber. "And this time let's make sure we destroy it completely."
Packing the Falcon, Han had almost finished his last—minute emergency preparations when he heard a voice behind him. "Han, old buddy! Need some help?"
He glanced over his shoulder to see Lando Calrissian striding toward him across the hangar bay, ducking under the flat aerofoil of an X—wing starfighter.
"Just leaving, Lando," he said. "Don't know how long I'll be gone."
"I heard," Lando said. "Hey, why not let me come along? You'll need a copilot, with Chewbacca gone on the Maw mission."
Han hesitated. "I'm doing this by myself. I can't ask anyone else to go with me."
"Han, you're crazy to fly the Falcon alone. You don't know what sort of hostile situations you're going to get into. Who'll be at the controls if you need to go up into the gun well?" Lando flashed his most winning smile. "You've got to admit, I'm the obvious choice."
Han sighed. "Chewbacca would be my first choice — I miss that fuzzball, you know? At least he doesn't try to gamble the Falcon away from me."
"Awww, we don't do that anymore, Han," Lando said. "We promised, remember?"
"How could I forget?" Han groaned. Lando had beaten him in their last round of sabacc, claiming ownership of the Falcon — and then he had given the ship back to Han, just to impress Mara Jade. "But what's your take on this, you old pirate?" Han said, raising his eyebrows. "Why do you want to come along so bad?"
Lando shuffled his feet on the polished floor of the landing bay. At the other end of the chamber a sublight engine started up, blatted, then coughed as a team of mechanics scrambled over the fuselage of a dismantled A—wing.
Champions of the Force Page 5