The trick was to direct his mind toward understanding the individual subpatterns that contributed to the whole but to do so without conscious thought, because conscious thought took time and led to doubt. That being the case, Luke "sensed" where to direct his ship, fired when instinct told him to do so, and wove his way through a maze of outgoing laser fire. The Moldy Crow, still in one piece and still on Luke's tail, followed behind.
Jan, her hands dancing between controls, spoke from the side of her mouth. "Did you see that? It's as if he knows which way to go."
Kyle, who had made a good deal of progress where his own talents were concerned, nodded admiringly "That's because he does know which way to go. Stay on his tail."
Jan triggered the ship's cannons, winced as the Crow sped through the resulting explosion, and watched the Destroyer grow in size. The Rebel ships had penetrated the outer screen by then and were passing through the second.
Lights flashed as a chunk of TIE fighter hit the deflector shield, caused an overload, and spun away.
Imperial Naval Captain Purdy M. Trico watched the holo screens, listened to the comm traffic, and wondered why the gods had decided to abandon him. A hand strayed to a bulge in his uniform. The amulet had always worked before — what had changed?
The Imperial power structure frowned on gods, any sort of gods, especially those believed to have more power than the state. But that hadn't stopped Trico from worshiping the same entities his forefathers had, not at the Academy, where such worship could result in expulsion, and not during the subsequent years when discovery would have ruined his career.
So why had the gods deserted him during his hour of need? Why had Mugg, Bron, and the great Pula allowed the Rebel gunship to ram his Destroyer? And then, when he sought the relative safety of a war-ravaged solar system, why had they cursed him with a Dreadnaught? Not to mention the swarm of hostile fighters? Even now, two Rebel ships were drilling in through his defenses as if protected from all harm. The reverie, which had lasted little more than a few seconds, ended as the sometimes-meddlesome executive officer vied for his attention. "Sorry to bother you, sir . . . but the Rebel Dreadnaught broke orbit and is headed this way."
Trico came from a heavy gravity world and, being of the fourth generation, had the physique of a meter-and-a-half-tall weight lifter. Muscles bunched and writhed as he fought the impulse to twist the other officer's head off. " 'Has' broken orbit? Did you say 'has'? Why wasn't I notified when this evolution began?"
The XO found it difficult to swallow. Though more competent than some, Trico had a reputation as something of a martinet, and a volatile one at that. "Because our fighters were trying to intercept the Rebels ... sir."
Trico could hear the gods laughing. He forced his voice to remain steady. "You allowed that? None of our fighters were detailed to monitor the Dreadnaught? A vessel that, though dated, has plating thicker than ours and mounts major offensive weapons?"
The XO started to tremble. "It wasn't my fault . . . I thought . . ."
A hole appeared at the center of the executive officer's forehead, and his eyes crossed as he was trying to get a look at it. The body made a thumping sound as it hit the deck.
Trico holstered his weapon and looked up to find that the Rebel ships, the two he had observed earlier, had not only penetrated his innermost defenses, they'd done so with impunity. His index finger trembled as he pointed at the holo. "What are you waiting for? Destroy them!"
"Yes, sir," the weapons-control officer replied shakily. "Shall we destroy our escorts as well?" The question sounded insubordinate —but wasn't.
Trico looked again, realized that the Rebs had taken their positions on purpose, and swore a terrible oath. "Pula, take them! I'll teach the dogs some respect . . . break formation!"
The entire bridge crew knew it was a mistake, but no one had the courage to say so. Not with the XO's body still where it had fallen. Orders were given, relayed to the proper parties, and acted upon. Slowly, with a dignity befitting a ship of her size and importance, a gap opened between the Destroyer and her escorts.
Luke saw the movement, knew what it meant, and opened his throttles. The X-wing shot forward. "Jan ! Kyle! Follow me!"
Jan shoved the throttles to their stops, felt the gee forces push her back into the seat, and uttered a silent prayer.
Energy pulsed outward as the Destroyer fired her main batteries and the escorts did likewise. The glare created by the ravening beams of energy caused the view screens to darken and left the Rebels blind. Their deflector shields flared to the edge of burnout and held. Time seemed to slow .. .
"Group Leader to Command," Han said evenly. "We have closed with the enemy and are about to engage. The Destroyer broke formation. Her deflector shields are down in order to retrieve fighters, and she's firing away from us. I recommend that you bring the Hope into action."
Mon Mothma looked at Captain Tola and waited for the Mon Calamari's judgment. It had been an error to order the ship out of orbit without consulting him. . . . and one which she refused to repeat. Yes, she knew what she would do, but the decision was his.
Leia held her breath, was thankful that the decision belonged to someone else, and did her best to appear unconcerned.
Captain Tola, well aware of the silence that had descended over the bridge, gave a nod. The Dreadnaught might he a museum piece, but the odds were as good as they were likely to get. "You heard the general — this is the chance we've been waiting for! There's a Destroyer out there —let's give her a history lesson."
Captain Trico was furious. "You missed them, blast your worthless hide! Two ships and you missed them both! You are incompetent, sir, and a disgrace to this ship."
"The Dreadnaught means to engage, sir," the weapons-control officer replied desperately. "I recommend we rejoin our escorts — or take the entire Task Force into hyperspace."
"And leave more than a hundred TIE pilots to die?" Captain Trico demanded coldly. "Have you lost your mind? Or just your nerve?"
Trico was reaching for his sidearm, preparing to eliminate still another incompetent, when a comm tech interrupted. "Here they come, sir! Rebel fighters followed by the Dreadnaught!"
Trico spun, his face contorted in anger, his right index finger pointed like a gun. The entire bridge crew blanched. "You will stand and fight! I will shoot the first man to leave his post!"
The weapons-control officer watched his subordinates from the corners of his eyes, knew they wouldn't back him, and turned to the control consoles. "You heard the captain. Let's get to work."
The ensuing battle lasted more than three hours . . . but was never really in doubt. Cut off from her escorts, and with only a handful of TIE fighters to defend her, the Destroyer was not only weakened but downright vulnerable. Still, the Imperials continued to fight, not valiantly but because Trico insisted that they do so.
Finally, after the hull had been repeatedly breached and more than half the laser batteries silenced, the weapons officer, knowing that the bridge recorders had captured his commanding officer's eccentric behavior and confident that the crew were now ready to support him, took matters into his own hands.
Captain Trico was in midrant, screaming the names of his gods, when the blaster bolt bored through his brain. An offer of unconditional surrender followed two minutes later.
The turbolift came to a halt, doors rolled open, and the Rebels stepped out into the corridor. Kyle took two steps and stopped. Jan bumped into him. She was about to say something when she saw why.
More than a hundred Imperial fighters had attacked the Hope . but this was the only one that had penetrated the bulkhead. The ship's solar panels had been ripped off, but the nose jutted into the passageway. The pilot, still visible within, sat slumped at his controls. His visor had been raised, and Jan saw he was little more than a boy, just one of the hundreds who had died during the twelve-hour battle. The voice came from beside her. It belonged to a rating in a smoke-stained uniform. He held a fusion cutter in his han
d and was part of a damage-control party
"Weird, huh? We took a torp in that same spot, it blew a hole through the hull, and the fighter plugged it five minutes later. All we had to do was fill the gaps with emergency sealer — pressurize the passageway —and presto! A perfect patch! Something to tell the kids about."
Jan nodded politely thought about the grandchildren the Imperial pilot would never have, and followed Kyle down the corridor. She had killed men like the pilot, a lot of them, and wished it would end.
Kyle was forced to duck under temporary cable runs, squeeze around repair crews, and give way to high-priority repair droids. The air stank of ozone, sealer, and smoke. In spite of the fact that the Dreadnaught had taken a beating, the agent was struck by the friendly grins, nods, and waves from those he passed. They had taken losses, painful losses, but emerged victorious. The story would grow in the telling — and live long after they were gone.
The sentries stationed in front of Mon Mothma's day cabin checked credentials and, much to Kyle's surprise, permitted him to retain both his sidearm and lightsaber. An indication of trust that he, unlike those who accompanied him, had never been accorded before.
Jan knew what he was thinking and winked. Kyle grinned in response. Jan, more than anyone he had ever known, could read his mind. Their hands touched, and Luke, who was last to pass through the door, couldn't help but smile. These two had been made for each other ... and he hoped they would live long enough to pursue the possibilities.
The compartment had been designed to accommodate the needs of admirals with largely ceremonial duties. That being the case, it was huge. In spite of the fact that the ship had been through a complete overhaul the year before, there were scant resources to squander on decor. The hangings, many of which were hundreds of years old, seemed badly out of place. Especially given the current occupant's unostentatious style. Mon Mothma, whom Kyle had met before, came forward to greet him. "Kyle ... it's good to see you again. Jan . . . how are you? You know Leia . . . Have you met Han Solo?"
Jan hadn't, although she had certainly heard of him, and shook hands. Luke hugged Leia and turned toward Kyle. "Kyle, I would like to introduce my sister, Leia Organa Solo, and Han Solo."
Kyle shook hands and tried to ignore the fact that they were famous. Both looked the way he felt: tired and more than a little haggard. Mon Mothma called the meeting to order. "I know everyone could use some sleep, so let's get on with it. Han, I assume Leia briefed you on this, but don't hesitate to ask questions.
"Kyle, Luke tells me that you not only confirmed that the Valley of the Jedi exists, you managed to obtain the coordinates for it. Congratulations! The Alliance owes you yet another debt of gratitude."
Kyle remembered the nearly fatal trip down into the depths of Nar Shaddaa, the looting of his father's farm, the duel with the Dark Jedi Yun, the confrontation with the droid 8t88, the battle with Gorc and Pic, and the rather unpleasant place from which the coordinates had eventually been retrieved. The fact that Mon Mothma could summarize the whole thing in a single sentence amazed him. Still, from her point of view, it was results that counted. He shrugged. "Thanks, but Jan deserves at least half the credit."
Blood colored Jan's cheeks, and Mon Mothma smiled. "As a matter of fact it was Jan, with a significant amount of help from Leia and Luke, who convinced me to turn you loose on the problem, or didn't you know that?"
Kyle wasn't aware of that, although he might have guessed, since Mon Mothma had traditionally been suspicious of his motives. It was his turn to blush, and it was Han who responded. "Don't let it bother you, kid ... they don't trust me either!"
Everyone laughed including Mon Mothma. "So, Kyle, we know where the Valley is located. Now what?"
Kyle had anticipated the moment and prepared his speech. "A battle was fought on the planet Ruusan more than a thousand years ago. A battle fought between two armies of Jedi. Somehow," and here the agent looked at Luke, "and no one is sure how, the power represented by these armies became trapped within a Valley.
"A Dark Jedi named Jerec stole the coordinates from my father's farm and has no doubt made use of them. If he can tap the power invested there, if he can control it, we will witness the birth of an Empire that will make this one seem enlightened by comparison."
"Yes," Mon Mothma said impatiently, "we're aware of the threat. What do you think we should do about it?"
Kyle wasn't so sure that Han knew all the facts . . . but decided to let the comment pass. "I propose to go there, with Jan if she's willing, and find a way to stop him. We did it on Danuta . . . and we can do it again."
Mon Mothma considered the mission to Danuta. It had been a long shot, but the agents had located the Death Star plans and brought them out. An accomplishment that, when combined with information secured by others, enabled the Rebels to win the Battle of Yavin. The twosome had been lucky, very lucky, and the odds were against them being that lucky again.
"I admire your bravery, Kyle, not to mention your dedication to the Rebel cause, but the odds are stacked against you. You can bet that Jerec has a Destroyer, who knows how many support vessels, and plenty of troops. No, what we need is a fully equipped Battle Group."
"A nice thought," Leia said gently, "but where would it come from? We're stretched thin as it is."
"True," Mon Mothma acknowledged thoughtfully, "but consider the alternative. How would Kyle and Jan make their way past the picket ships? And even if they did, what would they do on the surface? Very little is known about the planet, but one thing is for sure: There's no civilian population in which to hide."
Luke had a distant almost dreamy expression. It was he who broke the ensuing silence. "Everything Mon Mothma says is true ... but truth has many levels. The power that Jerec seeks to control flows from spirits trapped within the Valley ... spirits who must be freed. If Kyle freed the spirits, the threat would disappear. All without the use of a Battle Group. Easy? No, but there is a flow to such things, a flow with power of its own." The Jedi eyed those around him.
"I am told there is a species of sentients on Ruusan, a species with a long history, much of which has been captured in something they refer to as the poem of ages. There are numerous prophecies toward the end of the poem, including one that reads, 'And a knight shall come, a battle will be fought, and the prisoners go free.' They believe that it refers to the Valley — and I agree."
Kyle had heard those words before, but he still felt a chill run down his spine and wondered if he should feel proud or very, very frightened. The second possibility seemed more logical.
Mon Mothma sighed. Yes, she knew that there was more to life than what she could hear, touch, taste, feel, and see. She knew that certain individuals, Luke being an excellent example, had what might be described as additional senses. But knowing it, and being comfortable with it, were two different things. She preferred direct access to relevant data where important decisions were concerned — and this decision was extremely important. Still, if Luke said something was so, it generally was. She forced a smile. "Okay, given the problems mentioned earlier, how would Kyle and Jan reach the planet's surface?"
Han cleared his throat. His voice was hoarse after more than twelve hours of giving orders. "While it's true that the picket ships would stop one of our vessels, an Imperial ship would make it through."
Kyle was quick to seize on the idea. "Han is right! We could stow the Crow on one of the captured transports, deliver some supplies, and slip away . . . It's perfect!"
"Not so fast," Mon Mothma said cautiously. "Give the Imperials some credit. The transport would be challenged and, lacking: the proper recognition codes, searched."
"True," Jan put in, "but every commanding officer wants all the supplies he or she can lay their hands on, especially where munitions are concerned. If a transport drops out of hyperspace and offers them a load of proton torpedoes, the Imperials will jump on it. Especially if the ship and crew seem legit."
Mon Mothma raised an eyebrow –Proton
torpedoes'? You've got to be kidding . How 'bout field rations instead?"
"Some field rations are just as lethal," Han said jokingly, "but I understand your concern. How 'bout some special torpedoes? The kind that explode in the launch tube?"
"Exactly what I had in mind," Jan agreed. "Is it settled then?"
Mon Mothma looked around the table and saw each head nod in turn. She added her approval to all the rest. "One last question. Who's going to crew the transport? And even more importantly, who will command it?"
"I volunteer to command," Han responded quickly. "This could be fun."
"And time consuming," Mon Mothma added cautiously. "We can't afford to let you go right now."
Leia, conscious that she was more than a little biased, nodded in agreement. Han looked in her direction but chose to remain silent.
"I'll find some volunteers," Jan put in. "Folks with Special Ops experience."
"Fine," Mon Mothma said, glad to delegate at least one task to someone else. "Final comments?"
"Just one," Kyle responded soberly. "Wish us luck . . . I have a feeling we're gonna need it."
Chapter 3
Sunlight rippled across a sea of shimmering glass. Glass that had once been part of iridescent domes, towering minarets, soaring archways, vertical towers, and all the other structures that constitute a city. A city reduced to a sea of manmade lava, as Imperial laser cannon carved swathes of destruction through the once-beautiful metropolis.
The resulting slag was thicker where buildings had been clustered and thinner out toward the suburbs, where the military base had been established.
The past could still be seen, on a hill where a nearly translucent temple glittered with emerald beauty, on a rise where a half-melted statue stretched a hand toward the heavens, and out on the silicone plain where isolated groups of dwellings remained untouched.
Prisoner 272-20-136 released the T-shaped handlebars and waited for the impact hammer to fall silent. Then, careful of what he was doing, the man took air deep into his lungs and pulled the mask away from his face. Milagro had a thin atmosphere, which was why he and the other prisoners were allowed to work without leg irons. There was nowhere to go — not without air.
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