by Troy Denning
“Perhaps,” Tekli said. “But our mistakes shouldn’t condemn the Qoribu nests.”
“And they shouldn’t commit the Jedi to any action the Masters haven’t authorized.” Corran turned away from the trio and addressed the other Masters. “Our first concern must be the stability of the Galactic Alliance.”
“No.” Kyp Durron surprised everyone by stepping to Tahiri’s side. “The Jedi are no one’s mercenaries—not even the Galactic Alliance’s. Our first concern, our only concern, is our own conscience. We must follow it wherever it leads.”
Octa Ramis, who had remained silent until now, spoke up to agree with Kyp, then Kenth agreed with Corran, Kyp repeated his position, and the discussion degenerated into argument. Tahiri, Tekli, and Tesar remained silent, content to let their advocates argue their case. Luke glanced over at Jacen, who was continuing to create elegant swirls of light in his brain holo, and wished he were also free to ignore the argument. What he really wanted to be doing was looking for a slicer who could access that sequestered sector in R2-D2’s memory, but personal business would have to wait. The argument among the Masters was rapidly growing more heated.
Luke eased his way into the middle of the knot.
“Enough.” The tumult began to quiet, and he said, “This isn’t the time for discussion. We’re just here to have a look at Cilghal’s tests and listen to our Jedi Knights’ report.”
An embarrassed silence fell over the room as the Masters contemplated their outbursts, then Kyp flushed and dropped his chin. “I let my emotions carry me away. I apologize.”
“No need,” Corran said, slapping his shoulder. “We were all a little excited.”
“Master Skywalker is right,” Kyle added. “We’re just here to listen.”
“You haven’t listened to me yet.”
Jacen sounded as though he were less than a meter from the group. But when Luke turned around, he found only the image of his nephew’s brain floating above the holopad. Jacen himself remained seated in his relaxi-chair, eyes staring blankly out through the viewing window of his scanning hood.
“Okay, Jacen,” Luke said. “We’d be very interested in hearing your report.”
The hologram pulsed in a brilliant show of iridescent color, and the alpha line below it quivered in time to a deep, booming voice that was barely recognizable as Jacen’s.
“Killiks are dangerous friends, but no one’s enemy,” the brain said. “The true danger lies not in what the Jedi do, but in their failure to act at all.”
The effect was exactly what Jacen had intended. A thoughtful silence descended on the group, and the Masters’ gazes turned inward as they searched for the deeper meaning in Jacen’s words.
Luke walked over the control panel. “Very funny,” he said, switching it off. “Didn’t I tell you to stop playing with Cilghal’s brain mapper?”
TWENTY-TWO
HAND AND LEIA WERE ALONE in the cockpit, sitting together in one chair, watching the opalescent nothingness of hyperspace slide silently past. The jump was a long one, and there was no reason for them both to spend it on watch. But the flight deck was the one place on the suddenly crowded Falcon to find some discreet time together, and—after the way things had ended with Jaina— Han was glad they had. Somehow, it helped to know that Leia was as frightened for Jaina as he was—that she, too, was determined to find out what Raynar really had planned for their daughter, to return to Qoribu the minute they could, and to put a stop to it.
“You’re in a better mood,” Leia said.
“Talking to you, I guess,” Han admitted. “How’d you know?”
“The humming. You never hum.”
“Humming?” Han frowned. “I’m not humming.”
“Really?” Leia cocked her head. “It certainly sounds like you are.”
Han spun the seat around until he was facing the same direction Leia had been, then he heard it—a faint, undulating purr.
“That’s not me.” Han jumped up, dumping Leia onto her feet. “It’s a coolant line!”
“A coolant line?” Leia slipped into the copilot’s chair and began calling up status displays. “What happened to the alarm?”
“Good question.” Han turned toward the back of the flight deck and started down the access corridor. “Disengage the hyperdrive and do a slow cool-down. I’ll see what I can find out back in systems.”
The hum grew steadily louder as Han advanced. By the time he entered the main cabin, it had risen to an irritating drone. He met the rest of his crew and passengers coming the other way. Cakhmaim and Meewalh were wide awake, but still pulling on their sleeveless robes. Alema and Juun were both bleary-eyed and dressed in their sleeping shifts, which, in Alema’s case, was considerably more than she wore when she was awake.
C-3PO was also present and, of course, fully alert. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the Falcon make a sound quite like this, Captain Solo. What is it?”
“Boiling coolant,” Juun said through a yawn. He stretched his arms. “The hyperdrive must be—” The Weariness vanished from the Sullustan’s bulbous eyes. “Bloah! The hyperdrive is overheating!”
A loud boom reverberated through the hull as the Falcon executed an emergency drop into realspace. The drone in the coolant lines became a loud, bubbling hiss.
Han pointed at Juun, then jerked a thumb toward the cockpit. “Take the navigator’s station and get a fix on where we are. Threepio, take the comm station in case we need to send an emergency hail. Everyone else, with me.”
Han led the way to the rear of the ship, then opened an access panel and peered in at the contorted tangle of valves and radiation-shielded conduits surrounding the unit itself. There was no need to ask for a thermoscanner to determine which lines were overheated. The lower inside conduit was bulging, glowing pale blue, and banging as if there were a profogg inside. Han activated the lighting and crawled into the sweltering cabinet, then traced the pipe up to the dark nook where it passed through the flow regulator. The diverter valve was stuck half closed, but Han could not see what had caused the malfunction—or why the sensor hadn’t sounded an alarm.
“Meewalh, get me some burn gloves and a face shield.”
Before he finished asking, the Noghri was passing the gloves and face shield into the cabinet.
As Han donned the equipment, Juun’s voice came over the intercom. “Captain Solo, I haven’t identified exactly where we are yet—”
“Well, keep working on it. I’m sure you can figure it out.” Han rolled his eyes. “Let me know when you do.”
“Of course,” Juun said. “But I thought I should report—”
“Look, I’m kind of busy here,” Han said. “So unless we’re under attack, hold the reports until you’re done.”
There was a moment of silence, then Juun asked, “Do you want me to wait until we’re actually under attack?”
“What?” Han turned, banging the side of his head on a strut. “Blast! What do you mean, actually?”
“Han, it looks like we’re still in Colony territory,” Leia said, breaking in. “We’ve got a swarm of dartships coming.”
“Rodder!” Han nodded the Noghri toward the cannon turrets, then pulled on the second burn glove. “Okay, forget the cool-down. Recalculate the rest of the jump using three-quarter power and go. This shouldn’t take long.”
“You’ve found the problem?” Juun’s voice was full of awe. “Already?”
“Even better.” Han reached up to the regulator and shut down the damaged coolant line. “I’ve found a fix.”
When Han pulled himself out of the cabinet, Alema was frowning down at him with her lekku crossed over her chest.
“Don’t scowl at me,” he said. “It gives you wrinkles.”
The frown vanished at once. “Are you sure it’s necessary to take this kind of risk?” she asked. “Those dartships are only coming to greet us. Their nest might even be able to help us make repairs.”
“First, not all dartships are friendly.” Han p
assed her his face shield, then pulled off his burn gloves. “Second, Saba can’t wait for repairs—and maybe not Luke and Mara, either.”
“And third?”
“There is no third.”
“There’s always a third,” Alema said.
“Okay, third.” Han passed her the burn gloves and, as the Falcon slipped back into hyperspace, concluded, “I’m the captain. It’s safe if I say it is.”
Alema shrank back. “Okay—just asking,” she said. “Maybe we should check on Saba.”
“You go ahead,” Han said, wondering why the Twi’lek thought he was needed to check on the Barabel. Bugs and bug-lovers, he thought, you can’t trust either of ‘em. He had a sudden image of Jaina and Raynar rubbing forearms and shuddered. He closed the access panel and started forward. “I need to keep an eye on things in the cockpit.”
Han had barely stepped onto the flight deck when Juun reported, “We have to recalibrate the warp controller. The heat buildup caused a performance spike in the number two nacelle, and we veered off course by seven one-thousandths of a degree.”
“We don’t have time,” Han said. Recalibrating meant days of trial jumps, then he’d have to do it all again when they returned to the Galactic Alliance and repaired the problem. “Just run a compensation program.”
“A compensation program?” Juun was aghast. “But procedure mandates recalibration anytime—”
“It also mandates obeying the captain’s orders,” Han said, slipping into the pilot’s seat. “Just run the blasted program.”
Juun was silent for a moment, then asked in a subdued voice, “Was the malfunction anything I should account for?”
Han softened. “Good question.” He considered for a moment, mentally reviewing the entire coolant system in his mind. An underactive diverter could cause another performance spike, but probably not a closed one—especially not if the hyperdrive remained below maximum power. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?” Juun repeated. “Didn’t you identify the malfunction?”
“Didn’t have time,” Han said, growing irritated again.
“But if you haven’t identified the problem, how can you know it’s safe—”
“I know,”Han growled. “Now, are you going to stop bothering me and run that program, or do I have to do it myself?”
“I’d advise you to choose the first option,” C-3PO said. “When Captain Solo’s voice assumes that tone, he has a nasty habit of tripping primary circuit breakers.”
“It’s okay, Jae,” Leia said. “Han knows what he’s doing.”
“Oh, I realize that, Princess Leia,” Juun replied. “I was only asking because I’d like to understand how Han Solo makes decisions.”
“Wouldn’t we all?” Leia replied.
Juun ran the compensation program, then they jumped back into hyperspace and spent the next quarter hour riding in silence, watching status readouts and listening for the faintest hum in the coolant lines. Finally, Han felt confident enough to pronounce the emergency passed. He sent Juun back to tell the others they could return to their bunks, then looked over to find Leia staring raptly into her display, biting her lower lip as she double-checked Juun’s compensation parameters against status readouts.
She wore the same enthralled expression she’d often had as New Republic Chief of State, poring over a report on an initiative to feed hungry natives on Gottlegoob, or as Rebel leader studying a cruiser buildup on Farbog. It was a look Han had not seen since the end of the war with the Yuuzhan Vong, when the challenge of combat had faded to the drudgery of reconstruction and they had retreated into the Falcon to build a smaller, more private life together.
It was a look Han missed, and one he felt responsible for losing. As much as he loved having Leia all to himself—finally— he knew she needed more out of life; she would never be happy flying around just having adventures. She needed to be doing important things, putting the galaxy back together and seeing to it that the megaconglomerates did not end up owning everything.
Seeming to feel the weight of his gaze—or perhaps sense it through the Force—Leia looked up from the columns scrolling down her display. “Something wrong?”
“Nothing,” Han said. “I was just wondering . . .” He wanted to say if you were happy, but knew that would sound wrong—it would sound like he was unhappy. “Well, if . . .”
“Juun’s parameters are very complete, if you’re worried about that,” Leia said. “We’re not going to stay in the safety margin— but when do we ever?”
“Yeah,” Han said. “That’s kind of the point. Do you ever miss our old place back on Coruscant?”
Leia cocked her brow and remained silent, studying him like a worrt eyeing a kreetle.
“Having a whole bedroom suite to ourselves, and a real kitchen where we could cook real dinners?”
“That apartment is gone—along with everything else we might remember about that planet.” Leia made a point of not looking at Han. “And I don’t recall you doing much cooking.”
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t like the food,” he said. “And we could get another place. With the Reconstruction Authority trying to move the seat of government back—”
“What’s this talk about moving into an apartment?” Leia asked. “I thought you loved living on the Falcon.”
“I do,” Han said. “But there’s more to life than being happy!”
Leia frowned. “Han, you’re starting to sound confused. Have you been seeing color flashes? Feeling dizzy? Having trouble hear—”
“I’m not having a stroke,” Han interrupted. “I’m fine.”
“Good.” Leia returned to her status display. “So am I.”
“And I’m not old,” Han said.
“Did I say you were?”
Han activated his own display and went to work running sensor tests, trying to locate the fault that had prevented the safety system from detecting the coolant problem before it grew critical. An hour later, he had determined that all of the sensors on the coolant line were stuck at the optimum readings. It took another hour to determine that the number one nacelle readings were being repeated on the number two status bar. By itself, either malfunction was dangerous; together, they could prove catastrophic.
“I don’t know where we serviced the hyperdrive last time,” Han said, “but the next time we’re in the neighborhood, remind me to send them a concussion missile.”
“Bad coolant?” Leia asked. Corrosive impurities were the cause of most coolant problems.
“Yeah, and that’s not all,” Han said. “Some short circuit ran a double status feed from the number two nacelle.”
“Really?” Leia grew thoughtful. “I wonder what the chances of making those two mistakes are.”
“Approximately one hundred twelve thousand to one, Princess Leia,” C-3PO said helpfully. “The hangar staff at the Jedi Temple are generally quite proficient.”
“That’s where we got our last coolant change?” Without waiting for a reply, Han turned to Leia. “Something smell bad to you?”
“Very,” she said. “The Temple would know by now if it had been using bad coolant. Someone would have warned us.”
“Yeah,” Han said. “It’s gotta be something else.”
“Sabotage?”
“That’d be my bet,” Han said. “Threepio, find out how Saba’s doing—and have Meewalh and Cakhmaim do another sweep of the ship. Tell them to look for droppings and bug tracks. That may be the only way we know they’re here.”
“They?” C-3PO asked.
“Killiks,” Han said. “Stowaways.”
The droid left to obey. Han turned to find Leia staring out the viewport with a distant expression. It was the same look he’d seen a dozen times, as she reached out in the Force and tried to warn Luke about the assassin bugs Saba had found.
He waited until her attention returned to the cockpit, then asked, “Any luck?”
“Luke’s preoccupied with something about our
family. I think he thought I was trying to tell him about Saba.” Leia shook her head. “And I just don’t have a strong enough connection with Mara.”
“What about Jacen?”
“I don’t know,” Leia said. “I can’t tell if he doesn’t believe me or just doesn’t understand.”
“Blast,” Han said. “We could us a little help here. If this is sabotage . . .”
Han let the sentence trail off, for a faint thread of blue had appeared ahead, stretched horizontally across the pearly void of hyperspace.
“Leia, do you see that?”
“What?”
Han pointed at the thread, which had thickened into a line of mottled colors ranging from white to dark purple. “Colors.”
“Very funny,” Leia said. “I’m sorry I called you old.”
“No, really.” Han jabbed his finger toward the line, which was now a finger-width band darkening toward sapphire. “Look.”
Leia looked, and her jaw dropped. “Should that be there?”
Fangs of blue light began to flash out from both sides of the sapphire stripe.
“No,” Han said.
“Then why hasn’t the proximity alarm dropped us out of hyperspace?”
“You don’t want to know.”
By the time Han had a hand on the hyperspace disengage, the sapphire stripe had thickened into a braided grimace of purple and white, and the tips of the blue fangs were flashing clear up to the canopy. He pulled the control lever back to emergency override . . . and a muffled bang sounded deep in the Falcon’s stern.
“Han!” Leia demanded. “What don’t I want to know?”
“Tell you in a minute.” The entire ship began to buck and shudder, and an eerie chorus of whirs hummed up the access corridor. “Blast!”
Han reengaged the hyperdrive. The ship stopped shuddering and the whirs faded to silence, but the crimson blue ahead reached out and closed around the Falcon.
“Tell me, Han. What don’t I want to know?”
“What is this?” a reedy voice asked from the back of the flight deck. “Have we flown into a nebula?”