by James Luceno
“With due respect, Commander Malik Carr,” Tla said, “I find it irksome to have to abandon allies—even though they wrongly took it on themselves to redeem Executor Nom Anor’s infiltrators. More, I dislike having our forces leap about to avoid engaging the enemy directly.”
Harrar placed himself in full view of the issuing villip. “Are you concerned that some may judge your actions cowardly?” he asked Nom Anor.
“Knowing that my actions are for a greater cause, no, I am not concerned.”
Tla glowered. “Your opinions matter not, Executor.”
Commander Malik Carr watched Tla for a moment, then turned to face the transmitting villip. “Would you surrender your command to assuage Commander Tla’s concerns, Executor?”
Nom Anor ridiculed the idea. “Even I know better than to exchange a lesser indignity for a greater one.”
From somewhere outside the confines of the visual field, the subaltern in command of the frigate bridge spoke. “Executor, an enemy ship has targeted the dovin basal we housed in a keeper. Thus far the dovin basal has been unsuccessful at repelling the attack. It reacts as if dazed.”
“Show us that ship,” Nom Anor ordered.
The receiving villip on Harrar’s vessel relayed an image of a gray-white saucer-shaped vessel with protruding mandibles and armaments of extraordinary firepower.
Nom Anor’s villip looked to the tactician. “You’ve studied the villip images of our previous battles with New Republic forces. Do you recognize this ship?”
Raff’s enhanced brain went to work on it. Finally, he nodded. “The ship was present at Helska,” he announced to those in the command center as well as to those aboard the frigate. “It was remembered by the villip beacons left in place by Prefect Da’gara.”
“At Helska,” Malik Carr said in surprise. “Jedi?” he asked Nom Anor. “Could they have grasped your intent?”
Nom Anor shook his head firmly. “Unlikely. And if in fact they are Jedi pilots, they’re too focused on confusing the dovin basal and prevailing in this insignificant contest to realize what they’re doing.
“Subaltern,” he continued, “do nothing to protect the remote dovin basal. Should that ship succeed in destroying it, you will instruct our coralskipper pilots to behave as if thrown into sudden disarray.”
Tactician Raff spoke up. “I would point out that the destruction of the dovin basal will allow the smaller ships that boarded the starliner to launch—”
“The dovin basal has been destroyed,” the subaltern updated.
The villip field showed those aboard Harrar’s ship the saucer-shaped ship up on its side, streaking away from the annihilated remote.
“Three shuttles have left the starliner,” the subaltern reported to Nom Anor. “Two are disappearing behind the passenger vessel, bearing toward the planet. One is vectoring for our current position.”
“It would appear that the Peace Brigade has reclaimed Elan,” Commander Malik Carr said flatly, breaking the silence that fell over the command center. “I suspect they’re attempting to bring her home.”
“Their gunship is still held fast to the liner,” Nom Anor countered. “They could be hoping for sanctuary, and nothing more.”
Commander Tla was unsuccessful at concealing his self-satisfaction.
“Exercise discretion,” Harrar said at last, “but hold the shuttle at bay.”
“And if Priestess Elan is indeed aboard?” Malik Carr asked.
Harrar glanced at Nom Anor’s villip, who answered for the priest. “Elan will know what to do.”
Droma was still wailing when Han finally hauled himself hand over hand up the Ryn’s tail and swung panting to the deck, a safe distance from the edge of the deactivated drop shaft.
Droma immediately fell to all fours and began crawling around, weeping in pain.
Han caught his breath and went to his side. “Must be something I can do to help.”
“Yes,” Droma said, scowling at him through tears, “learn to fall more gracefully. Learn to fall brilliantly.”
Han dropped into a sitting position, with his hands resting on his raised knees. “Easy for someone with a tail to say.” He let a moment pass, then he grinned. “You saved my neck, Droma. I won’t forget this.”
Droma snorted. “I couldn’t very well let you fall. As you said, you’re too well-known to die.”
“You’d better believe it.” Clapping him on the back, Han helped him to his feet. “Come on, we might still be able to catch them.”
Droma exhaled in exasperation. “You never give up, do you?”
Han threw a smile over his shoulder. “Thanks to you I’ve got my second wind.”
“I’ll know better next time,” Droma muttered.
With the Ryn hobbling after, Han raced down the passageway for the hatch to the docking bay. But even from a distance it was clear that the hatch-release mechanism had been rendered inoperative by a well-aimed blaster bolt.
Han palmed the release pad anyway, then turned to Droma, frowning. “Reck doesn’t miss a trick.”
They raced back down the passageway and through a series of right-angle turns that brought them to another hatch—also fused by blasterfire. It was the same at every hatch that accessed the docking bay from that part of the Queen. But by the time they had circled back to the first hatch, the passageway was thick with the astringent smell of molten plasteel, and a neat half circle had been burned through the hatch.
“Hull cutter,” Han said excitedly.
He and Droma fell back as the cutter completed its work. Moments later a massive disk of alloy dropped from the hatch with a resounding boom and rolled a few meters down the passageway, gyrating like a coin before it ultimately settled to the floor. Through wisps of white smoke agitated by the pressure differential surged a dozen New Republic elite forces in black helmets and A/KT combat jumpsuits, carrying BlasTech E-15A rifles and grenade launchers.
Han and Droma ducked into a recess as the soldiers stormed down the passageway, seemingly unaware that most of the Peace Brigade had already abandoned ship. Han motioned Droma through the circular breach in the hatch. In the spacious pressurized bay beyond sat the sleek assault craft that had brought the troopers aboard, along with two X-wings.
One of the starfighter pilots was just climbing from the cockpit when Han ran up to him to ask if he’d seen any ships leaving the bay.
The pilot took off his helmet and shook his long hair out of his face. “Word is that three shuttles launched, but I didn’t see any of them.” The pilot gave Han and Droma a distrustful look. “Who are you two?”
Han was considering just whose name he should drop to facilitate commandeering a fighter when another ship nosed through the docking bay’s transparent force field and surrendered itself to the grasp of the starliner’s artificial gravity.
It took Han a moment to accept that it really was the Falcon.
Droma guffawed in derision. “Will you look what the Queen dragged in.”
Han whirled on him, brows beetled and mouth an elongated O. “Hey, that’s my ship you’re talking about.”
Droma looked from Han to the Falcon and back again. “Your ship?”
Without bothering to explain, Han hastened for the landing zone while the Falcon was settling down on her broad disks of landing gear. He was waiting at the foot of the starboard ramp when Luke, Mara, and Leia appeared. Behind them came R2-D2 and C-3PO, who on seeing Han, raised his arms and nearly took a tumble in his haste to reach him.
“Thank the maker you’re alive!” the droid exclaimed. “I don’t know what I might have done had my actions contributed to your demise!” He turned to his counterpart. “You see, Artoo, no matter how great the odds, there is always a chance of beating them.”
Leia’s face lit up. She tried to run to Han’s arms, but he deftly avoided contact.
“Did you spot any departing shuttles when you were coming in?” he asked.
She shook her head. “We—”
“L
eia, meet Droma,” he said in a rush, dragging the Ryn between them. “Droma: my wife, Leia.”
Leia blinked. “Droma? Who—”
“The corvette,” Han said to Luke. “Is it away?”
“No, Han—”
“Reck must be headed for the Yuuzhan Vong ship,” Han said, shooting Droma a look.
“Reck?” Leia asked.
“Peace Brigade,” Han said, as if one word. “They reclaimed the defectors.”
Luke regarded him with intense interest. “Defectors?”
Han turned to him and a fragile-looking Mara, clenching his fists in recall of what Elan had said about a Yuuzhan Vong–introduced illness.
“No time to explain.” He raced up the ramp.
Droma glanced at Leia. “Nice to meet you,” he said, then dashed up the ramp, stiff tail shaking behind him.
Luke looked at Leia in puzzlement. “Han, wait,” he started to say, when Leia laid a restraining hand on his arm.
“No, Luke, let him go.” She gazed up the ramp as Han and his accomplice were vanishing from view. “I’ve a feeling he needs this.”
Han let momentum carry him into the outrigger cockpit and clear into the pilot’s seat. He was flipping switches and toggles when Droma entered.
“You familiar with YT-1300s?” Han asked over his shoulder, both hands in ceaseless motion.
“Our caravan from the Corporate Sector included several 1300s—though that wasn’t something we bragged about.”
Han scowled and gestured to the copilot’s seat. “Strap in, scratch coat. This one’s something to brag about.”
Droma edged uncertainly between the rear chairs and settled into the outsize chair to Han’s right. “You’d have to be a person of considerable dimensions to fill this seat,” he said.
Han stopped what he was doing to look at Droma. And for a brief moment he had a vision of Chewbacca. Sitting tall in the seat, the Wookiee had a grin on his face and his big paws clasped behind his shaggy head. His black-tipped, cinnamon fur shone as if freshly shampooed and his teeth gleamed. He turned toward Han and boomed his delight in an earsplitting yowl, then woofed with laughter that reverberated throughout the ship.
Han’s chest filled with a tight warmth and his eyes brimmed with tears. He had to swallow to find his voice.
“You can say that again,” he muttered, swinging toward the viewport.
Droma assessed the cockpit as the Falcon powered up and repulsors moved her toward the hold’s magnetic transparency and the starfield beyond. “I thought you said you ran with a wealthy crowd.”
Han snorted a laugh and jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “That guy in the robe back there—that was Luke Skywalker.”
Droma looked impressed. “The Jedi Skywalker?”
“One and the same. My wife is Leia Organa.”
Droma scratched his head. “So your real name is Han Organa?”
“Solo,” Han growled in annoyance. “Han Solo.” When Droma just stared at him, he added, “You’re saying you haven’t heard of me?”
“I may have,” Droma allowed. “But we Ryn meet so many people.”
Han loosed a long exhale and concentrated on the business at hand. Local space was still frenetic with war craft and fire, but the real fighting had moved far afield of the starliner, out toward where an ovoid Yuuzhan Vong ship was defending itself against an onslaught of laser beams and proton torpedoes.
In the time it had taken Leia to dock the Falcon, the Peace Brigade’s corvette had managed to disengage from the Queen and just now was trading shots with a quartet of X-wings in a race for the far side of the largest of the nearby planetoids. Closer to the planetoid, over which a New Republic cruiser-carrier hung like a lightsaber, starfighters and coralskippers were matched in a tumultuous battle.
“Set the friend-or-foe authenticator to scan for Sienar Fleet Systems Martial-class shuttles,” Han directed Droma while he increased power to the Falcon’s drive.
Droma located the authenticator and initiated a scan. “Found one,” he reported almost immediately. “Making for the Yuuzhan Vong ship.”
Han compressed his lips. In the heat of battle the New Republic pilots hadn’t recognized the shuttle as an enemy. “That would be Reck,” he said.
“We’ll never catch him.”
Han threw him a sidelong glance. “Don’t be fooled by age, partner.”
Despite the high setting of the inertial compensator, the Falcon’s sudden increase in velocity nearly pinned Droma to the seatback. His rakish cap flew from his head and his eyes opened wide in astonishment. He loosed a raucous cry.
“Yee-ha, what a ship! What a beauty!”
Han merely grinned. “When you catch your breath, tell me about that shuttle.”
“Still closing on the enemy vessel,” Droma said through his thrill.
“Come on, come on,” Han urged his ship.
Unexpectedly, the comm board crackled to life. “Millennium Falcon, this is the Thurse. Ambassador, I thought I asked you to keep out of this.”
“Ambassador Organa Solo is presently aboard the Queen,” Han said toward the console’s audio pickup.
“Is that you, Han? It’s Mak Jorlen.”
“Mak!”
“What are doing out there, Han?”
“Chasing down a shuttle that has something the New Republic needs. Mak, once I grab it, I might need support on the way back in.”
“Affirmative, Millennium Falcon. And, Han, welcome back to the cause. Now I know we’ve got a fighting chance.”
Han felt Droma’s eyes on him.
“This gets more and more curious,” Droma said.
Han enabled the autotracking fire controller for the Falcon’s aft warship-rated quad laser. Bracketing the fleeing shuttle in the display’s targeting reticle, he moved his right hand to the trigger joystick.
He was about to fire when, without warning, the Falcon seemed to plunge through a gravitic anomaly. Han barely had time to hit the reverse thrusters to keep the ship from pouncing on its quarry in the worst of ways.
In fact, though, the shuttle had slowed drastically and was all but drifting in space. “It’s like it hit a repulsor field,” Han said as he made rapid adjustments to the controls.
Droma nodded. “She looks dead.”
When the distance between the Falcon and the shuttle had decreased to a few kilometers, Han unfastened his seat harness and stood up.
“Take over,” he told Droma. “Maneuver us alongside. Use the tractor beam if you need to. I’ll ready the portside grapple and cofferdam.”
“You’re planning to board?” Droma blurted, gawking at him. “The Yuuzhan Vong must know what it’s carrying. What if that ship draws a bead on us?”
Han glanced out the viewport. Still some distance away and illuminated by brilliant spherical explosions, the frigate sat at the center of a swirling firefight.
“Guess I’ll have to work fast,” Han said, and rushed from the cockpit.
On the bridge of the Yuuzhan Vong frigate, Nom Anor studied the villip’s enhanced view of the droop-winged shuttle the onboard dovin basal had repulsed and evidently traumatized. The same saucer-shaped ship that had destroyed the remote dovin basal had linked itself to the drifting shuttle, and those aboard—whether or not Jedi—were surely in the process of reclaiming the priestess the Peace Brigade had reclaimed earlier.
With the decimation the coralskippers were undergoing and the pounding Commander Malik Carr’s personal ship was taking, Nom Anor found it challenging to fix his attention on a single aspect of the battle. But as Harrar had made abundantly clear, there was no more significant aspect than the recapture of Elan.
To the subaltern, he said, “Allow the New Republic ship a few moments with the shuttle before giving chase. We must convince them without overtaking them. By then, our coralskippers will have been all but annihilated and our final jump from this farce will at least appear credible.”
He glanced out the viewport at the maelstrom. “All gl
ory to you warriors,” he sent quietly to the coralskipper pilots.
Suited up for EVA and armed with a blaster rifle, Han floated through the extensible vapor-tight tube that magnetically linked the Falcon’s portside docking arm to the shuttle’s starboard airlock. Making use of the cofferdam’s rigid-ring handholds, Han propelled himself along.
He stopped at the shuttle’s hatch to communicate with Droma over the helmet comlink a final time. “Any reply?”
“Nothing,” Droma told him once more. “The shuttle must have taken a hit without our noticing. Keep your suit tight.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Han said.
He switched off the rifle’s safety, brought a gloved hand to the external hatch release, and moved into the shuttle’s airlock. Once the hatch had resealed and the airlock had cycled, he raised the rifle to his midsection and hit the internal hatch release.
No one met him at the door.
“I’m inside,” he relayed to Droma. “Pressure, gravity, and atmosphere are all operative. I’m going into the passenger compartment first.”
Opening the hatch, he stepped inside. A grainy black substance, which crunched underfoot, covered the deck plates and nearly every horizontal surface. Han stooped to take a pinch between his gloved fingers and bring it to the helmet’s faceplate. “Some kind of black stuff all over the place,” he said into the comlink. “Like tiny nut husks or something.”
“Any sign of Reck?”
Han moved down the aisle and gave a start as he came to the forward row of seats. Slumped there were three of Reck’s comrades, their faces hideously contorted and their shirts soaked with blood that had cascaded from eyes, ears, and noses.
“What is it?” Droma asked in anxious response to Han’s brief outcry.
“Three dead—from I don’t even know what. Massive blood vessel ruptures, it looks like.”
“You’re certain the shuttle didn’t depressurize?”
“Even if it did, this is like nothing I’ve ever seen.” Han glanced at the open forward hatch. “I’m moving into the cockpit.”