Champions of the Force

by Kevin J. Anderson

  "I'm heading toward the prison," Lando said. "That fortress should have withstood the attack from space. I think I'll use that as my base of operations. It'll take some conversion, but we should be able to adapt it into the control center for our new manufacturing complex."

  The speed of the Lady Luck rapidly ate the kilometers across the empty landscape until a towering trapezoid stood like a great monument on the barren surface.

  The old Imperial prison was made of synthetic rock, flat, unappealing tan veined with other colors. An outcropping of crystal windows jutted from the slanted smooth front. Tubed elevator shafts rode along the angled

  corners. The place was streaked with burn marks, but appeared undamaged.

  Lando heaved a sigh of relief. "At least the building looks intact," he said. "Something's going right for a change. This'll be a great place to start." He smiled at Mara. "You and I should christen our new headquarters!"

  Mara Jade frowned and kept looking out the front viewport. "Ah ... there is one problem, Calrissian."

  Lando and Han turned to look at her. The prison loomed higher as the Lady Luck continued to approach.

  Mara continued. "Well, you see, Moruth Doole has holed himself up inside the prison building. He's scared to death, doesn't know what to do. All of his cohorts have fled or been killed, and now he's using the sophisticated prison — defense systems to keep everyone else out."

  The fortress looked impenetrable, a huge hulking mass of stone armor. Lando had no desire whatsoever to see Moruth Doole again, and neither, he knew, did Han.

  "I wish you had mentioned that detail a little sooner," Lando said with a grimace as he brought the Lady Luck in for a landing.

  Inside the rigid cleanness of the medical chambers in the old Imperial Palace, Terpfen stood silent and patient. He waited and watched the massaging bubbles in the bacta tank working on Mon Mothma's ailing body.

  The medical chambers glowed with sterile whiteness. The tiles on the floor and walls had been acid scoured; utensils and surgical equipment gleamed silver and chrome. Wall monitors blinked with a steady, throbbing rhythm, proclaiming the declining state of Mon Mothma's health.

  Outside the chamber doors two New Republic guards stood watch, making certain no one could intrude.

  Sound — absorption panels in the ceiling deadened the mechanical whispers in the large chamber. Two bullet — headed medical droids hovered on either side of the tank, tending Mon Mothma and paying no attention to Terpfen.

  Beside him Ackbar stood tall and strong. "She'll be finished soon," he said. Terpfen nodded, not eager to speak to Mon Mothma — but resigned to the necessity of it.

  In these chambers the Emperor had himself undergone rigorous treatments as dark — side workings rotted his physical body. Perhaps the same facilities could remove the scourge within Mon Mothma's body. Terpfen had little hope of that, though, now that he knew what had caused it...

  Mon Mothma blinked her greenish — blue eyes through the murk of the tank solution. Terpfen couldn't tell if she could focus on them standing outside, or if she merely sensed their presence. She moved her head, and the thick air hose drifted with her. Bubbles pummeled her body, forcing invigorating solutions through her pores.

  Mon Mothma released her grip on the stabilizers within the tank and floated up. The droids assisted her in getting out. She stood sagging, dripping as her lightweight robes dribbled solution into drainage grates on the floor. Even the thin wet robes seemed as heavy as a leaden shroud to her. Her auburn hair clung like a skullcap. Her eyes were sunken, her face chiseled with deep canyons of pain and weakness.

  She filled her lungs and exhaled, resting the flat of her hand against the medical droid's green shoulders. She raised her head with obvious effort and acknowledged her visitors.

  "The treatments give me strength for only about an hour. Their effectiveness decreases every day," she said. "Soon it will be useless, I'm afraid, and I will no longer be able to perform my functions as Chief of State. The only question is whether I resign before the Council removes me. ..." She turned to Terpfen. "Don't worry, I know why you are here."

  Terpfen blinked his glassy eyes. "I don't believe — "

  She raised a hand to cut off his objections. "Ackbar has spoken to me at great length. He has considered your case thoroughly, and I agree with his conclusions. You were not acting of your own free will, but were merely a victim. You have redeemed yourself. The New Republic can't afford to throw away defenders who are willing to continue the fight. I have already issued a full pardon for you."

  She wavered, on the verge of slumping backward. The two medical droids moved to help her to a chair. "I wanted to make sure that got done before ..."

  Ackbar made a grumbling noise as he cleared his throat. "I am also here to tell you, Mon Mothma, that I have decided to stay. I will request that my rank be reinstated, now that it is clear the crash on Vortex was not solely due

  to my error, as I had originally thought. The people of Calamari are resilient, and they are strong — but if the New Republic is not also strong, my work at home will be fruitless, because we will face a galaxy full of shadows and fear."

  Mon Mothma smiled at Ackbar, a sincere expression of relief. "Ackbar, knowing that you will be here makes me feel stronger than any of these treatments ever did." Then she showed a deeper misery and let her chin sink into her hands, a moment of weakness she would never have displayed in front of the Council. "Why did this disease have

  to strike me now? I'm mortal just like everyone else ... but why now?"

  Terpfen walked across the slippery floor, feeling the cold, polished surface on the soles of his broad feet. He bowed his scar — traced head. At the doorway the two New Republic guards stiffened at seeing the known traitor so close to their Chief of State, but Mon Mothma showed no alarm. Terpfen looked down at her.

  "That is what I have come to discuss with you, Mon Mothma. I must tell you what has happened to you."

  Mon Mothma blinked, waiting for him to continue.

  Terpfen searched for the right words. His mind seemed so empty now that the implanted biological circuits had been neutralized. He had hated the insistent compulsions from Carida, but now he was left alone with his own thoughts — noto one else inside his skull to taunt him, or to guide him.

  "You are suffering from no disease, Mon Mothma. You have been poisoned."

  She jerked in sudden shock but did not interrupt him.

  "It is a slow, debilitating poison targeted specifically to your genetic structure."

  "But how was I exposed to this poison?" She looked hard at him, not accusing, but insisting on answers. "Did you do it, Terpfen? Was this another of your programmed actions?"

  "No!" He reeled backward. "I have done many things — but this is not one of them. You were poisoned by Ambassador Furgan himself, as dozens of people watched. During the diplomatic reception at the Skydome Botanical Gardens. Furgan carried his own refreshment because he claimed you might try to poison him. He had two flasks, one on each side of his hip. In one flask he carried his true beverage, in the other he carried a poison specifically developed for you. He pretended to propose a toast and then tossed a glassful of the poison into your face. It seeped into your pores and has been multiplying and attacking your cells ever since."

  Both Ackbar and Mon Mothma stared at him in astonishment.

  "Of course!" she said. "But it's been months. Why did they choose such a slow — acting ..."

  Terpfen closed his eyes, and the words came to him as if he were reciting a script. "They wanted a long, debilitating decline for you because of the damage it would do to the New Republic's morale. If you were simply killed, you could become a martyour. Your death might have galvanized support from otherwise neutral systems. But with a slow, progressive weakening, it could be seen as the decay of the Rebellion."

  "I see," Mon Mothma said.

  "Very shrewd," Ackbar said. "But what are we to do with this information? What else do you kno
w of the poison, Terpfen? How can we treat it?"

  Terpfen heard the silence in his head like a scream. "This is not a true poison. It is a self — replicating swarm of nano — destroyers: microscopic, artificially created viruses dismantling Mon Mothma's cells one nucleus at a time. They will not stop until her life ceases."

  "Then what do we do?" Ackbar persisted.

  Finally the helplessness and all the pain within Terpfen built until it spilled out of him like a star finally reaching its flash point.

  "We can do nothing!" he shouted. "Even knowing about this poison does not help us, because there is no cure!"

  The battered Star Destroyer Gorgon barely survived its passage through the gravitational whirlpool into the Maw cluster.

  Admiral Daala strapped herself to a command chair on the bridge as the Star Destroyer was buffeted by tidal forces that would rip the ship apart if their trajectory deviated from its charted path. Daala had ordered her crew to stand down and take refuge in protective areas, to buckle themselves into theirthe stations and prepare for a rough ride. Of the very few known paths inside the Maw cluster, she had chosen the shortest, the "back door," but still her ship was in no shape to withstand the enormous stresses for long.

  Many of the Gorgon's stabilizers had blown in their narrow escape from the multiple supernova explosion in the Cauldron Nebula. Shields had failed at the end — but they had held long enough. The Gorgon's once — ivory metallic hull was now streaked and scarred. Outer layers of armor had boiled away, but Daala had taken a gamble.

  She had been lucky fleeing from the exploding suns, while only seconds behind her the Basilisk had vaporized in flame, disintegrated by the outrushing supernova shock wave. But Daala had ordered the Gorgon to plunge blindly into hyperspace mere moments before the explosive front had reached her rear thrusters. The desperate leap knocked them headlong on a reckless course through the hazards of the universe. The Gorgon would have been

  obliterated if they had stumbled onto an interdimensional path that passed through the core of a star or planet. But through some miracle of fate that had not happened.

  The Gorgon had emerged in an uninhabited void in the Outer Rim. Their shields had failed, life — support systems partly burned out, and the hull had been breached in several areas that let the atmosphere squeal into the vacuum of

  space until those compartments were sealed off.

  Collectively gasping from their narrow escape, Daala's crew had set about effecting repairs. It took her navigators a day just to determine their galactic position because they had gone so far afield. Armored spacetroopers in totally contained environment suits walked over the external skeleton of the Gorgon, removing ruined components, patching weak spots in the hull, rigging replacements from their meager inventory of spare parts.

  The Star Destroyer had drifted in the uninhabited space between stars. One of the engines was permanently damaged, and three of the aft turbolaser batteries were dead. But Daala had let none of her crew rest until the Gorgon was functional again. They had a mission to complete. She did not allow herself the luxury of rest, either,

  tirelessly marching down corridors, inspecting repairs, making personnel assignments, prioritizing maintenance tasks.

  Daala had done well for more than ten years, drilling her stormtroopers and her space navy personnel. They were used to grueling labor, and they performed admirably now that they were faced with a true crisis.

  Grand Moff Tarkin had given her command of four Star Destroyers to protect Maw Installation. But her first ship, the Hydra, had been lost even before she could bring her fleet out of the Maw cluster. The Manticore had been destroyed behind the moon of Calamari, unable to run when some Calamarian tactical genius had

  second — guessed Daala's strategy. Her third ship, the Basilisk, already injured in the battle against smuggler forces at Kessel, had not been able to flee the supernova explosions fast enough.

  Daala had been helpless to stop the attrition of her forces. She had planned a fabulous and devastating attack on the Rebel capital world of Coruscant, but before she could strike, Kyp Durron had used the Sun Crusher against her.

  During the long days of repairs Daala had come to terms with her failure. She had misplaced her priorities. Her only reason for existence should have been to protect Maw Installation, not to wage a private war against the Rebellion. Once the Rebels knew of the Installation, they would no doubt attempt to steal its secrets. Her priority now was to fulfill the mission that Tarkin had given her.

  The Gorgon was wounded, unable to proceed at full thrust; but still Daala approached the Maw with all possible speed. She would return to the Installation and protect what remained of it, to the best of her ability. There would be no such thing as surrender. She had a job to do, a duty she had sworn to her superior officer Tarkin.

  Now Admiral Daala clung to her command chair and kept her eyes open against the blazing swirls from the inferno of trapped gases. The Gorgon plunged through the barrier of black holes and followed a convoluted path. Daala felt her insides tugged as she passed gravity wells so deep they could crush an entire planet to the size of an atom.

  The windowports dimmed, but still Daala did not close her emerald eyes. Presumably only she knew the detailed route, but young Kyp Durron had found his way, and she assumed that other Jedi Knights could perform the same feat.

  Daala heard a system squeal with automatic alarms as some critical component failed. Sparks shot out of one of the sensor stations, and a lieutenant strained against the pull of acceleration to bypass the systems.

  In his seat Commander Kratas spoke through clenched teeth. "Almost there," he said, his voice barely audible above the racket.

  A series of automatic warning signals echoed through the bridge — and suddenly the colors washed away from the front viewport like a blindfold being ripped from her eyes. The Star Destroyer had stumbled into the shielded calm at the center of the cluster.

  She recognized the isolated clump of interconnected planetoids gathered in a loose configuration. Glittering lights showed that the facility still functioned. In a rapid assessment she saw that the framework of the Death Star prototype was gone — and in its place she saw a Rebel frigate and three Corellian corvettes.

  "Admiral!" Kratas said.

  "I see, Commander," she answered in a clipped voice.

  She unbuckled her restraints and stood up, automatically smoothing down the olive — gray uniform that clung to her trim body. Sweat prickled like tiny insect stings on her skin as she stepped onto the command platform and walked closer to the viewport as if responding to a summons.

  Her gloved hands gripped the bridge railing as if to strangle something. Black leather squeaked against enameled metal. The Rebels had come, just as she had feared — and Daala had arrived too late to stop the invasion!

  Her lips grew white as she pressed them together. She believed the Gorgon had survived for a purpose. And now, as she returned to Maw Installation, it seemed as if the spirit of Grand Moff Tarkin were looking over her shoulder, guiding her. She knew what she was destined to do. She could not fail a second time.

  "Commander, power up all functional weapons systems," Daala said. "Shields up. Approach the Installation."

  She looked back at large — browed, weak — chinned Commander Kratas, who snapped to attention.

  "It appears we have some work to do," Daala said.

  Kyp Durron ducked under a thorny vine as a flock of scarlet insect — birds thrummed into the air. Acrid stinging thistles brushed against his arm, his face. Overhead, the interlocked branches rustled as arboreal creatures fled from

  the noise. Sweat dripped from Kyp's dark hair, and the oppressive air felt like a moist blanket, smothering him.

  He did his best to keep up with Master Skywalker, who flowed through the jungle thickets, finding secret paths that allowed him to pass unhindered. Kyp had once used dark tricks to dodge spiny debris and find the easiest routes through the underbrush; now, tho
ugh, even the thought of such techniques made him shudder with revulsion.

  Once, when he had gone on a jungle sojourn with Dorsk 81, Kyp had brashly used a Sith technique to generate an unappetizing aura around himself, driving away gnats and bloodsucking pests. Now, though, Kyp tolerated the misery as Master Skywalker led him far from the Great Temple.

  They had left the other Jedi trainees to continue their independent studies. Master Skywalker was proud of them. He said that the trainees were reaching the limits of the techniques he himself could teach them. The new Jedi Knights would grow in their own directions, discover their own greatest strengths.

  But since the time he had come within a razor's edge of blasting Han Solo with the Sun Crusher, Kyp had been reluctant to use his power, afraid of what it might drive him to do...

  Master Skywalker took Kyp alone out into the jungles, leaving the great pyramid behind as Artoo — Detoo wobbled and jittered, bleeping with displeasure at being left behind.

  Kyp wasn't sure what the Jedi teacher wanted from him. Master Skywalker said little as they trudged for hour after hour through the dripping rain forest and the oppressive humidity, the insect — laden air, the claw — thorns of brambles.

  Kyp was intimidated to be alone with the man he had defeated through Exar Kun's evil powers. Master Skywalker had insisted that Kyp arm himself — comt he wear the lightsaber built by Gantoris. Did Luke intend to challenge Kyp to a duel — a duel to the death this time?

  If so, then Kyp vowed not to fight. He had allowed his anger to cause too much destruction already. It was only by a miracle that Master Skywalker had survived the onslaught of Sith treachery.

  Kyp had recognized the dark side when Exar Kun whispered in his ear, but he had been too overconfident, thinking he could resist where even Anakin Skywalker failed. But the dark side had swallowed him whole — and now Kyp questioned all of his abilities and wished he could just be free of his Jedi talent so he need not fear what he might do with it.