Luke Skywalker and the Shadows of Mindor

by Matthew Stover

  “You’re not gonna make it, Hobbie,” Janson called. “Punch out.”

  “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Hobbie snarled under his breath, still struggling grimly with the X-wing’s controls. The fighter’s tumble began to slow. “I’ve got it, Wes!”

  “No, you don’t! Punch out, Hobbie—PUNCH OUT!”

  “I’ve got it—I’m gonna make it! I’m gonna—” He was interrupted by the final flip of his X-wing, which brought his nose into line with the sight of the leading edge of the spherical debris field expanding toward him at a respectable fraction of lightspeed, and Hobbie Klivian, acknowledged master of both profanity and obscenity, human and otherwise, not to mention casual vulgarities from a dozen species and hundreds of star systems, found that he had nothing to say except, “Aw, nuts.”

  He stood the X-wing on its tail, sublights blasting for a tangent, but he had learned long ago that of all the Rogues, he was the one who should know better than to trust his luck. He reached for the eject trigger.

  Just as his hand found the trigger, the ship jounced and clanged as if he had his head trapped inside a Wookiee dinner gong at nightmeal. The metaphorical Wookiee cook must have been hungry, too, because the clanging went on and on and kept getting louder, and the eject still, mysteriously, didn’t seem to be working at all. This mystery was solved, however, by the brief shriek of atmosphere through a ragged fist-sized hole in the X-wing’s canopy. This hole was ragged because, Hobbie discovered, the fragment that had made this opening had been slowed by punching through the X-wing’s titanium-alloy ventral armor. Not to mention the X-wing’s control panel, where it had not only ripped away the entire eject trigger assembly, but had vaporized Hobbie’s left hand.

  He glared at his vacant wrist with more annoyance than shock or panic; instead of blood or cauterized flesh, his wrist jetted only sparks and smoke from overheated servomotors. He hadn’t had a real left arm since sometime before Yavin.

  Of more concern was the continuing shriek of escaping atmosphere, because he discovered that it was coming from his environment suit’s nitroxy generator.

  He thought, Oh, this sucks. After everything he had survived in the Galactic Civil War, he was about to be killed by a minor equipment malfunction. He amended his previous thought: This really sucks.

  He didn’t bother to say it out loud, because there wasn’t enough air in his cockpit to carry the sound.

  There being no other useful thing he could do with his severed left wrist, he jammed it into the hole in his canopy. His suit’s autoseal plastered itself to the jagged edges, but the nitroxy generator didn’t seem mollified; in fact, it was starting to feel like he had an unshielded fusion core strapped to his spine.

  Oh, yeah, he thought. The other hole.

  He palmed the cockpit harness’s snap release, twisted, and stretched out his left leg, feeling downward with the toe of his boot. He found a hole—and the rising pressure sucked the entire boot right out the bottom of his fighter before the autoseal engaged to close that hole, too. He felt another impact or two down there, but he couldn’t really tell if something might have ripped his foot off.

  It had been a few years since he’d had his original left leg.

  With the cockpit sealed, his nitroxy unit gradually calmed down, filling the space with a breathable atmosphere that smelled only faintly of scorched hair, and he began to think he might live through this after all. His only problem now was that he was deharnessed and stretched sideways in an extraordinarily uncomfortable twist that left him unable to even turn his head enough to see where he was going. “Arfour,” he said quietly, “can you please get us back to the PRP?”

  His current position did let him see, however, his astromech’s response to the task of navigating toward the primary rendezvous point, which was a spit of gap sparks and a halo of sporadic electrical discharge from what was left of its turret dome. Which was slightly less than half.

  He sighed. “Okay, ejection failure. And astromech damage. Crippled here,” he said into his comm. “Awaiting manual pickup.”

  “Little busy right now, Hobbie. We’ll get to you after we dust these TIEs.”

  “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. Except, y’know, thataway. Slowly. Real slowly.”

  He spent the rest of the battle hoping for a bit of help from the Force when Wedge sent out the pickup detail. Please, he prayed silently, please let it be Tycho. Or Nin, or Standro. Anyone but Janson.

  He continued this plea as a sort of meditation, kind of the way Luke would talk about this stuff: he closed his eyes and visualized Wedge himself showing up to tow his X-wing back to the jump point. After a while, he found this image unconvincing—somehow he was never that lucky—and so he cycled through the other Rogues, and when those began to bore him, he decided it’d be Luke himself. Or Leia. Or, say, Wynssa Starflare, who always managed to look absolutely stellar as the strong, independent damsel-sometimes-in-distress in those prewar Imperial holodramas, because, y’know, as long as he was imagining something that was never gonna happen, he might as well make it entertaining.

  It turned out to be entertaining enough that he managed to pass the balance of the battle drifting off to sleep with a smile on his face.

  This smile lasted right up to the point where a particularly brilliant flash stabbed through his eyelids and he awoke, glumly certain that whatever had exploded right next to his ship was finally about to snuff him. But then there came another flash, and another, and with a painful twist of his body he was able to see Wes Janson’s fighter cruising alongside, only meters away. He was also able to see the handheld imager Janson had pressed against his cockpit’s canopy, with which Janson continued to snap picture after picture.

  Hobbie closed his eyes again. He would have preferred the explosion.

  “Just had to get a few shots.” Janson’s grin was positively wicked. “You look like some kind of weird cross between a starfighter pilot and a Batravian gumplucker.”

  Hobbie shook his head exhaustedly; dealing with Janson’s pathetic excuse for a sense of humor always made him tired. “Wes, I don’t even know what that is.”

  “Sure you do, Hobbie. A starfighter pilot is a guy who flies an X-wing without getting blown up. Check the Basic Dictionary. Though I can understand how you’d get confused.”

  “No, I mean the—” Hobbie bit his lip hard enough that he tasted blood. “Um, Wes?”

  “Yeah, buddy?”

  “Have I told you today how much I really, really hate you?”

  “Oh, sure—your lips say ‘I hate you,’ but your eyes say—”

  “That someday I’ll murder you in your sleep?”

  Janson chuckled. “More or less.”

  “It’s all over, huh?”

  “This part is. Most of ’em got away.”

  “How many’d we lose?”

  “Just Eight and Eleven. But Avan and Feylis ejected clean. Nothing a couple weeks in a bacta tank won’t cure. And then there’s my Batravian gumplucker wingman…”

  “You’re the wingman, knucklehead. Maybe I should say, wingnut.” Hobbie sighed again. “I guess Wedge is happy, anyway. Everything’s proceeding according to plan…”

  “I HATE when you say that.”

  “Yeah? How come?”

  “Don’t know. It just… gives me the whingeing jimmies. Let me get this tow cable attached, and you might as well sleep; it’s a long cruise to the PRP.”

  “Suits me just fine,” Hobbie said, closing his eyes again. “I have this dream I really want to get back to…”

  “Good job, Wedge.” General Lando Calrissian, commander of Special Operations for the New Republic, nodded grave approval toward the flickering bluish holoform of Wedge Antilles that hovered a centimeter above his console. “No casualties?”

  “Nothing serious, General. Hobbie—Lieutenant Klivian—needs another left hand…”

  Lando smiled. “How many does that make, all told?”

  “I’ve lost count. How’s
it going on your end?”

  “Good and less than good.” Lando punched up his readout of the tracking report. “Looks like our marauders are based in the Taspan system.”

  Wedge’s brilliant plan had become brilliant entirely by necessity; the usual method of locating a hidden marauder base—subjecting a captured pilot or two to a neural probe—had turned out to be much more difficult than anyone could have anticipated. Shadowspawn seemed very determined to maintain his privacy; through dozens of raids over nearly two months, many deep inside Republic territory and costing thousands of civilian lives, not one of Shadowspawn’s marauders had ever been taken alive.

  This was more than a simple refusal to surrender, though the marauders had shown a distressing tendency, when they found themselves in imminent danger, to shout out words to the effect of For Shadowspawn and the Empire! Forward the Restoration! and blow themselves up. Forensic engineers examining wreckage of destroyed TIE defenders hypothesized that the starfighters were equipped with some unexplained type of deadman interlock, which would destroy the ship—and obliterate the pilot—even if the pilot merely lost consciousness.

  The brilliant part of Wedge’s brilliant plan had been to conceal hundreds of thousands of miniature solid-state transponders among the flechettes inside Rogue Squadron’s custom-made torpedoes, before giving the marauders a fairly decent pasting and letting the rest escape. Unlike ordinary tracking devices, these transponders gave off no signal of their own—thus requiring no power supply, and rendering them effectively undetectable. These transponders were entirely inert until triggered by a very specific subspace signal, which they then echoed in a very specific way. And since the only transponders of this very specific type in the entire galaxy were loaded in Rogue Squadron’s torpedo tubes, drifting at the ambush point in deep space along the Corellian Run, and lodged in various parts of the armored hulls of a certain group of TIE defenders, locating the system to which said defenders had fled was actually not complicated at all.

  Wedge’s holoform took on a vaguely puzzled look. “Taspan. Sounds familiar, but I can’t place it…”

  “The Inner Rim, off the Hydian Way.”

  “That would be the less-than-good part.”

  “Yeah. No straight lanes in or out—and most of the legs run through systems still held by Imperials.”

  “Almost makes you wish for one of Palpatine’s old planet-killers.”

  “Almost.” Lando’s smile had faded, and he didn’t sound like he was joking. “The Empire had a weapons facility on Taspan II—it’s where they tested their various designs of gravity-well projectors—”

  “That’s it!” The image snapped its fingers silently, the sound eliminated by the holoprojector’s noise filter. “The Big Crush!”

  Lando nodded. “The Big Crush.”

  “I heard there was nothing left at Taspan but an asteroid field, like the Graveyard of Alderaan.”

  “There’s an inner planet—Taspan I is a minor resort world called Mindor. Not well known, but really beautiful; my parents had a summer house there when I was a kid.”

  “Any progress on this Shadowspawn character himself?”

  “We’ve only managed to determine that no one by that name was ever registered as an Imperial official. Clearly an assumed identity.”

  “The guy’s got to be some kind of nutjob.”

  “I doubt it. His choice of base is positively inspired; the debris from the Big Crush hasn’t had time to settle into stable orbits.”

  “So it is like the Graveyard of Alderaan.”

  “It’s worse, Wedge. A lot worse.”

  Wedge’s image appeared to be giving a low whistle; the holoprojector’s noise filter screened it out. “Sounds ugly. How are we supposed to get at them?”

  “You’re not.” Lando took a deep breath before continuing. “This is exactly the type of situation for which we developed the Rapid Response Task Force.”

  Wedge’s image gave a slow, understanding nod. “Hit ’em with our Big Stick, then. Slap ’em good and run like hell.”

  “It’s the best shot we’ve got.”

  “You’re probably right; you usually are. But it’ll sting, to not be there.”

  “Right enough. But we have other problems—and the RRTF is in very capable hands.”

  “Got that right.” Wedge suddenly grinned. “Speaking of those capable hands, pass along my regards to General Skywalker, will you?”

  “I will do that, Wedge. I will indeed.”

  Chapter Two

  he schematized holorepresentation of the Taspan system filled the entire command suite of the Justice with ghostly, translucent clouds of blue that ever so slowly twisted and spun, merged and parted, moving into and through each other. High in the center of the room hung a dark disk, about the size of the last joint of a human man’s thumb: this represented Taspan itself. The planet Mindor was a brilliant pinpoint that hung, at this point in the simulation, about a meter in front of the commanding general’s nose. He barely saw it. Most of his attention was consumed by glum contemplation of the fact that he was the youngest in the room by at least a decade.

  The general in question was the newest, as well as the youngest, general in the Combined Defense Forces of the New Republic, popularly known as the NRDF. He didn’t look much like a general, or even a soldier. The smooth curves of his face made him look even younger than his twenty-four Standard years; his sandy hair, streaked blond by radiation from dozens of different stars, was still shaggier than military-strict, and instead of a general’s battle dress he wore a simple, close-fitting flight suit, like the starfighter pilot he had recently been. Only the rank plaque on his chest marked him as a general, and only the remote, shuttered reserve behind his clear blue eyes showed the price he had paid to earn his rank.

  His unconventional appearance extended even to his sidearm, which was as far from an officer’s blaster pistol as one could possibly imagine; no general had gone armed thus since the end of the Clone Wars.

  He carried a lightsaber.

  Seven of his twelve captains had had their own commands before the Battle of Yavin—three of them had been commanding ships all the way back in the Clone Wars, before he was even born—and Admiral Kalback, the fleet commander, was a distal pod-cousin of Ackbar or somesuch, and was at least sixty-something, not to mention T’Chttrk, who didn’t even know how old she was, because her people, the insectoid T’kkrpks, hadn’t started calculating time in Standard until their Great Reconciliation about a hundred years ago, at which time T’Chttrk had long been an adult, and a hereditary officer in their planet’s defense forces.

  Ordinarily being the youngest around didn’t bother the new general at all. He barely even noticed. What bothered him this time was that all these seasoned veterans, among the best tactical-engagement commanders the New Republic had ever had, were all so deferential to his presumed wisdom that they wouldn’t even argue with him.

  Because he was a Jedi, they all assumed that he actually knew what he was doing.

  If only it were true…

  Right now, all he really knew was that he should never have let Han talk him into this.

  “Luke, Luke,” Han had said, arm draped around Luke’s shoulders, “this general business, there’s nothing to it.” He probably thought Luke couldn’t see that sly half grin of his. “If I could pull it off, you won’t have any problems at all.”

  “If it’s such an easy job, why’d you resign?”

  “Better things to do, buddy.” Han rolled his eyes at Leia. “The Princess’s pretty important, but not so important the New Republic can afford having a full general play chauffeur and bodyguard.”

  “Bodyguard,” Leia sniffed. “If you’re my bodyguard, how come I keep having to rescue you?”

  “It’s how you prove you still love me.” He grinned at her and turned back to Luke. “Seriously, Luke, you can do this. You’re easily… uh, almost as smart as me—and you’re a lot smarter than, say, Lando. All you’ve got to
do is keep your mouth shut and listen to your officers. Don’t let them squabble, and always pretend you know what to do next. Simple. Tell him, Chewie.”

  Chewbacca, reclining with hands behind his massive head on the couch by the gaming station, hadn’t even opened his eyes. “Aroowrowr. Regharrr.”

  “Oh, you’re a lot of help. Luke, ignore him anyway—he hates officers.”

  “I’m not exactly sure I like being one myself.”

  The offer of a general’s commission had come as a complete surprise to Luke, and not a very pleasant one. A couple of months after the defeat of the Ssi-ruuk, Luke had gone to Supreme Commander Ackbar and requested to be relieved of his duties as a flight officer. He’d been feeling for some time, he explained, that he might be of greater service to the New Republic as a Jedi than as a wing commander. Ackbar, canny old soldier that he was, had countered with an offer of joint command over the new Rapid Response Task Force that was being formed: a fleet-sized flying squad, able to bring military power against any point in the galaxy within a couple of days. “If you really wish to serve the New Republic, young Skywalker, this is the job for you. I suspect that your Jedi insight will be of more use in directing tactical operations than in meditation on the ways of the Force.”

  Luke had had no answer for this; he could only ask for some time to think it over. Faced with a decision that might very well determine how he would spend the rest of his life, he had retreated to the place that felt the most like home, and talked to the only people in the galaxy in whose company he could still, even now, really just be himself.

  So he was stuck trying to explain how he felt to Leia and Han and Chewbacca as they all sat around the passenger compartment of the Millennium Falcon.