Champions of the Force

by Kevin J. Anderson

  to realize his peril, and all equatorial

  thrusters kicked on at once, attempting

  to pull the prototype away. But the giant

  vessel had already crossed the edge of the black

  hole.

  The Sun Crusher could not achieve sufficient

  velocity to escape its tightening orbit either. It

  spiraled in the wake of the Death Star, with no

  hope of getting away.

  Han felt as if his chest were being torn apart

  by the tidal forces. "Kyp!" he cried.

  A final streak of light shot away from the

  Sun Crusher, and then it was too late for the tiny

  superweapon.

  The Death Star prototype plunged into the

  thickening cascades of superhot gases that

  shrieked down into nothingness. The

  spherical prototype elongated like a great egg

  under the uneven gravitational stresses. The

  curved girders ripped apart, then were crushed into a

  cone that stretched into the black hole's funnel.

  With a wink of brilliance the tiny Sun Crusher

  followed its nemesis down into the black hole.

  Lando and Mara remained utterly silent.

  Han hung his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

  "Goodbye, Kyp."

  "It's a message cylinder," Mara said,

  identifying the small streak shot out by the Sun

  Crusher. "We'd better get it quick, because it's

  falling toward the black hole, too."

  "Message cylinder?" Han sat up, trying

  to find his enthusiasm. "Okay, let's snag it

  before it's too late."

  The Falcon raced toward the event

  horizon. Lando and Mara worked together, wrestling

  to navigate the ship in the buckling jaws of

  gravity. They detected the metallic container,

  and Lando swooped in, latching on to it with the

  tractor beam moments before the small message

  pod could fall over the brink of the gravitational

  pit.

  "Got it," Lando said.

  "All right, pull it inside, and let's get

  out of here," Han said in a bleak voice. "At

  least I can hear the last words Kyp had to say."

  Han and Lando both pulled on stiff gloves

  before they wrestled the Sun Crusher's message

  canister into the Falcon's common area. Deep

  cold had penetrated the canister, and as they brought

  it into the enclosed atmosphere, tendrils of frost

  grew like lacy ferns across its surface.

  The thin metal hull gleamed bright, splotched

  in places by electrostatic discharges from when the

  cylinder had been launched at high speed from the

  Sun Crusher.

  "That's one heavy message," Lando said as they

  lugged the canister to a flat spot on the floor

  and set it down with a metallic thump on the

  deck plates.

  Little more than a meter long and less than half

  a meter wide, the message pod was used by the

  captain of a doomed ship to launch his last log

  entries and to dump his computer cores and navigation

  records for later investigations.

  Han remembered Kyp telling him that when the

  Coruscant scientists had stumbled upon the

  message canisters inside the Sun Crusher,

  they had panicked, thinking they had uncovered the

  dangerous supernova torpedoes — even though the

  cylinder was standard Imperial issue, and any

  smuggler or starfighter pilot should have recognized

  it immediately.

  On his rampages in the Cauldron Nebula

  and the Carida system, Kyp had left message

  cylinders to explain what he had done and why, so

  that no one would construe his actions as simple

  astronomical accidents.

  Han felt stunned and lethargic with sadness.

  His friend had been right, but only to a point. Kyp

  Durron's agenda to destroy the Empire had

  used tactics as vicious as those of the

  Emperor's.

  Luke Skywalker had claimed the young man

  would redeem himself fully, but now Kyp's

  potential as a great Jedi had been extinguished.

  Han could not question Kyp's sacrifice, though.

  Kyp had eliminated both the Death Star

  prototype and the Sun Crusher. He had bought the

  galaxy's freedom from terror at the cost of his

  life ... one life for potentially billions.

  That made sense, didn't it?

  Didn't it?

  Mara Jade knelt beside the message

  cylinder, running her slender hands over its

  hull. She popped open the access plate.

  "Well, it's not encrypted," she said. "Either

  Kyp didn't have time, or he knew we'd be the

  ones to pick it up. He left the homing beacon

  off."

  "Just open it," Han said roughly. He'd had

  enough of this grim waiting. What had Kyp thought

  to say in his last moments?

  Mara punched in the standard sequence. The lights

  blinked red, then amber, then flashed green. With a

  hiss of escaping air, a formerly invisible seam

  appeared down the center of the pod. The long black

  line widened as the two halves split, opening

  up.

  Inside, looking waxen and emotionless as a

  statue, lay Kyp Durron. His eyes were

  closed, his face drawn into an expression of

  intense — yet surprisingly peaceful — concentration.

  "Kyp," Han shouted. His voice cracked with

  astonished joy, yet he tried to hold

  back his hope. "Kyp!"

  Somehow Kyp had crammed himself inside the

  small volume of the message cylinder, a

  vessel barely large enough to hold a child. But Kyp

  had managed to crush his legs, fold his arms

  until the bones snapped, pressed down on his

  rib cage until ribs cracked, compacting

  himself.

  Han leaned closer to the ashen face. "Is he

  alive? He's in some kind of Jedi trance." In

  his final desperation Kyp had somehow found the

  strength to use his Jedi pain — blocking

  techniques, his determination, and all the knowledge Luke

  had taught him ... to do this to himself, as his only

  chance for survival.

  "He's slowed his functions almost to the point of

  suspended animation," Mara said. "He's in so

  deep that he might as well be dead."

  The message canister was airtight but had no

  life — support systems, no air other than the

  small amount that had fit around his own broken

  body.

  "That's impossible," Lando said.

  "Let's get him out," Han said.

  "Careful."

  Han gently, meticulously pried the young

  man free of the tiny cylinder. As Lando and Mara

  helped him carry Kyp to one of the narrow bunks,

  the young man's body sagged and flopped from

  grievously smashed bones, as if someone had

  crumpled him into a ball and then tossed him

  aside.

  "Oh, Kyp," Han said. As he set Kyp

  on the bunk and straightened his arms, Han could

  feel the shattered wrists like jelly under his skin.

  "We have to get him to a medical center," he said.

  "I've got first aid
here, but not nearly enough for

  something like this."

  Kyp's black eyes fluttered open, glazed

  and unfocused with incredible pain; but he drove it

  back. "Han," he said in a voice as faint as

  beating wings. "You came to get me."

  "Of course, kid," Han said, bending down.

  "What did you expect?"

  "The Death Star?" Kyp asked.

  "Sucked down into the black hole ... along

  with the Sun Crusher. They're both gone."

  Kyp's entire body shuddered with relief.

  "Good."

  He looked as if he were about

  to collapse back into unconsciousness, but then his

  eyes blinked again, brightening with a new confidence.

  "I'll be all right, you know."

  "I know you will be," Han answered.

  Only then did Kyp succumb to the pain and

  allow himself to sink back into his Jedi trance.

  "Good to have you back, kid," Han whispered,

  then looked up to Mara and Lando. "Let's get

  him back to Coruscant."

  A Wookiee bellow split from the intercom

  system, and Han stood up straight, rushing

  back to the cockpit to see a battered Imperial

  gamma assault shuttle hanging in space in

  front of the Falcon, its engines white — hot and

  ready to go.

  "Chewie!" Han shouted into the voice

  pickups, and the Wookiee responded with a roar.

  "What Chewbacca is saying," Threepio's

  voice translated unnecessarily, "is that if

  you would like to follow us out of the Maw, we have the

  appropriate course programmed into our

  navicomputer. I believe we are all

  anxious to go home."

  Han looked at Lando and Mara and smiled.

  "You're sure right about that, Threepio."

  Inside the dining hall of the Great Temple,

  Cilghal stood silent and firm, studiously

  showing no reaction to Ackbar's insistence.

  Clad once again in his white admiral's

  uniform, Ackbar leaned closer to Cilghal. He

  placed his splayed hands firmly on the shoulders

  of her watery — blue robe. She could feel the

  heavy musculature in his hands as he pressed

  down. She flinched, afraid of what he would

  demand of her.

  "You cannot surrender so easily,

  Ambassador," Ackbar said. "I will not accept

  that this task is impossible until you prove to me

  it is impossible."

  Cilghal felt small under the probing gaze of

  his large eyes. No human would recognize it,

  but she could see the effects of long — fought stress

  on his face, in the mottling of his dark — orange

  color. Ackbar's skin looked dry, and his

  lobes had sunk deeply into the sides of his

  head. The small tendrils around his mouth looked

  frayed and cracked.

  Since the terrible crash on the planet

  Vortex and his resulting disgrace, Ackbar had

  lived with an enormous weight on his conscience.

  But now he had come back to himself, returning

  to serve his people and the New Republic with greater

  determination — and coming to speak with her on Yavin 4.

  "There have been no Jedi healers since the great

  purges," Cilghal said. "Master Skywalker

  believes I possess some aptitude in this

  area, but I have had no appropriate training.

  I would be swimming in murky waters, uncertain

  of my course. I don't dare — was

  "Nevertheless," Ackbar interrupted sharply.

  He released her shoulders and stepped back so that

  his clean white uniform dazzled her eyes in the

  dimness of the Massassi temple's dining hall.

  Dorsk 81 stepped into the chamber, looking

  surreptitiously at Ackbar. His eyes

  widened as he recognized the commander of the New

  Republic Fleet. The cloned alien muttered

  his apologies and backed out, flustered.

  But Ackbar's gaze did not waver from

  Cilghal. She raised her head to meet his stare

  but waited for him to speak.

  "Please," Ackbar said. "I beg you. Mon

  Mothma will die within days if you do nothing."

  "I made oaths to myself, both when I became

  an ambassador and when I arrived here to train as

  a Jedi," Cilghal said, bowing her head with a

  sigh, "that I would do everything in my power to serve and

  to strengthen the New Republic."

  She looked down at her spatulate hands.

  "If Master Skywalker has faith in me, who

  am I to question his judgment?" she said. "Take me

  to your ship, Admiral. Let us go

  to Coruscant."

  In the former Imperial Palace, Cilghal

  reviewed the situation with growing dread.

  Mon Mothma no longer remained conscious.

  The infestation of nano — destroyers filled her

  body, tearing her cells apart one by one. Without the

  life — support systems that kept her lungs

  filling, her heart beating, her blood filtered —

  the human woman would have died days earlier.

  Some Council members had begun advising that

  she be allowed to die, that forcibly keeping Mon

  Mothma alive in such a state was a lingering

  torture. But upon hearing that one of Master

  Skywalker's new Jedi would come from

  Yavin 4 to attempt healing her, Chief of

  State Leia Organa Solo had insisted that

  they wait for this last chance, this slim hope.

  Arriving in Imperial City, Cilghal was

  flanked by Ackbar and Leia as they ushered her

  down corridors to the medical chambers where Mon

  Mothma lay surrounded by the growing stench of death.

  Leia's dark gaze flicked from Mon

  Mothma to Cilghal. Her human eyes

  glittered with gathering tears, and Cilghal could

  sense her hope like a palpable substance.

  The smells of medicines, sterilization

  chemicals, and throbbing machines made her

  amphibious skin feel irritated and rubbery.

  She wanted to swim in the soothing waters of

  Calamari, to wash the disturbing thoughts and poisons

  from her body — but Mon Mothma needed that purging

  even more than Cilghal did.

  She stepped to Mon Mothma's bedside,

  leaving Leia and Ackbar behind her. "You must

  realize that I know nothing specific about the healing

  powers of the Jedi," she said, as if offering an

  excuse. "I know even less about this living

  poison that is destroying her."

  She drew a deep breath of the tainted air.

  "Leave me alone with her. Mon Mothma and I

  will fight this together." She swallowed. "If we

  can."

  Murmuring warm wishes and reassurances,

  Ackbar and Leia faded into the background.

  Cilghal paid little attention to them as they departed.

  Her shimmering blue ambassadorial robes

  flowed around her like ethereal waves. She knelt

  to stare at Mon Mothma's motionless form. Reaching

  out with the Force, but at a loss for what exactly

  she was supposed to do, she tried to assess the

  scope of damage inside Mon Mothma's

  body.

  As
she began to see deeper, the extent of the

  poison's ravages astounded her. She could not

  comprehend how Mon Mothma had managed to stay

  alive for so long. Uncertainty fluttered in

  Cilghal's mind like gathering shadows.

  How could she possibly combat such a disease?

  She did not understand how working with the Force could heal

  living things, how it could strengthen the life of someone

  as devastated as Mon Mothma. The best

  available medical droids had not been able

  to remove the malicious poison. No medicines

  had been able to cure her.

  Cilghal knew only what Master

  Skywalker had taught her — how to sense with the

  Force, how to feel living things, how to move

  objects. She touched Mon Mothma with glowing

  currents of the Force, searching for some kind of

  answer, or at least an idea.

  Could she use her Jedi skills but in a

  different manner that might strengthen Mon

  Mothma? Help her body to heal? Find some

  method to remove the poison?

  Cilghal hesitated as a possibility

  struck like a meteor. The magnitude of the effort

  stunned her, and she wanted to dismiss the thought

  automatically — but she forced herself to study the

  idea.

  Master Skywalker had explained Yoda's

  teachings, his insistence that "size matters not."

  Yoda had claimed that lifting Luke's entire

  X — wing fighter was no different from lifting a

  pebble.

  But could Cilghal turn it the other way around?

  Could she use her precise control of the Force

  to move something so small?

  She blinked her round Calamarian eyes.

  Millions of the tiny nano — destroyers

  saturated Mon Mothma's body.

  Size matters not.

  But if Cilghal could remove the destructive

  poison molecules, if she could somehow keep

  Mon Mothma from toppling over the abyss into death

  — comthen her body could restore itself, in time.

  Cilghal refused to let her thoughts overwhelm

  her with visions of the sheer number of poison

  molecules. She would have to move them one by one,

  tugging each nano — destroyer through cell walls and

  out of the dying leader's body.

  Cilghal placed her broad fins on Mon

  Mothma's bare skin. She picked up the

  leader's left hand and raised it over the side of the

  bed frame, letting the woman's fingertips rest

  in a small crystal dish that had once been used

  to dispense medications. Even this gentle touch was enough

  to cause red bruises to bloom on the woman's