Luke Skywalker and the Shadows of Mindor Page 14

  However, all was not going well. Very little was going well.

  Asteroid impacts on Taspan’s stellar sphere had already begun, owing to the ongoing perturbation of the asteroids’ unstable orbits, and radiation levels were rising. The Imp officers directing the TIE fighter wings had known what was up the instant they detected the Slash-Es moving out of planetary interdiction configuration—and they had a seemingly limitless supply of interceptors piloted by an equally seemingly limitless supply of suicidal psychopaths, which meant that the Slash-Es were doing their best to perform this delicate and intricate set of maneuvers while plowing through clouds of enemy fighters that swirled and spat plasma blasts as if somebody had armed a swarm of Gamorrean thunder wasps with laser cannons.

  For the original model of CC-7700s, this would have been a suicide mission, and a brief one at that. The Slash-E series, however, was clad in the latest carbon-nanofilament armor to supplement their six shield generators; they had eight quad turrets each, and their power output had been upgraded to nearly the level of a Clone Wars–era turbolaser. Further improvements included a pair, dorsal and ventral, of 360-degree proton torpedo turrets and a staggering number of anti-starfighter cluster bombs—essentially shaped charges set into the hull that would explode outward into clouds of bomblets when they sensed the approach of enemy fighters—all of which meant that the only way TIE fighters could have a serious shot at taking out a Slash-E was to swarm it in enough numbers to overload its defenses so that a few could slip in for full-speed headers. But even a direct impact wouldn’t generate enough kinetic energy to take out a CNF-armored frigate unless the TIE was traveling at very close to its maximum realspace velocity.

  Making sure no TIE reached that cataclysmic velocity on an intercept course with one of the Slash-Es was the job of the X-wing pilots.

  Though the RRTF fighters were outnumbered hundreds to one by the TIEs, they had a few advantages that shaved the odds a bit. First, the Imperial forces could not make a full-commitment assault, because that would have required pulling fighters from all over the system, which would have exposed their gravity stations to the RRTF’s capital ships. Second, the interceptors had to focus all their firepower on the Slash-Es to have any hope of taking them out; they had very little to spare for dogfighting. Third, despite being at a substantial disadvantage in speed and maneuverability versus the interceptors, the X-wing—the Incom T-65 Space Superiority Starfighter—had one key feature no TIE fighter could match.

  It was rugged.

  This went deeper than the combat defenses loaded onto this model; it was a feature of quality construction and attention to detail, and it meant that the X-wing could survive certain physical stresses that would rip the collector panels off a TIE. Like, for example, the extreme tidal stress created by a very close pass through a very steep gravity well.

  Which was why each new wave of interceptors found itself under fire from flights of X-wings whipping out from around the gravity-station planetoids a great deal faster than X-wings were supposed to be able to whip. Rogue Squadron had the point, and their path between the planetoids became a looping chain of gravity-assisted slingshots that could, with no more than a twitch of the controls, send them toward whichever one or two or three of the five Slash-Es the Imps had decided to concentrate on.

  Even with all these advantages, the overwhelming odds took their toll. Some X-wings were lost to friendly fire, as they were traveling too fast for the Slash-E gunners—or even their own superb reflexes—to react as they swept through the quad turrets’ fields of fire. Some were lost to simple collisions, flying at near-relativistic speeds through very, very crowded space. Almost half of the Twenty-third’s Green Squadron was taken out by a mass of asteroids that didn’t cohere into a planetoid as quickly as the navicomps had predicted.

  They didn’t have anything like a count on the enemy fighters they’d destroyed; the TIEs just kept coming. “These guys never stop!” Wes Janson groaned through his teeth during the far side of his twentieth or thirtieth bruising way-too-tight slingshot. “It’s like all these beggars want to die!”

  “They’re already dead,” Hobbie said from two hundred meters off Janson’s starboard wing. “Think about it, Janson—no shields. No hyperdrive. They can’t hide and they can’t run. All they’ve got is the chance to take us all with ’em.”

  That stopped Janson cold. For a moment, he had no words at all. Then he set his jaw and rolled his starfighter starboard.

  “I’ve got it!” he said, pointing his X-wing toward a TIE flight and holding down his triggers. “I know exactly what we need.”

  “Yeah?” Hobbie said. “What’s that?”

  “A miracle.”

  “Seal that chatter!” Wedge snapped from the point. “And check your midrange scans.”

  When Janson did, he discovered that a brand-spanking-new Mon Cal–designed Republic battle cruiser had just dropped out of hyperspace through that half-opened mass-shadow window, and was currently disgorging what appeared to be a full starfighter wing.

  “Hot staggering—” For the second time in a few moments, Janson found himself entirely at a loss for words. “Where in eight Stalbringion hells did that come from?”

  The comm crackled with the voice of the current director of Special Operations, General Lando Calrissian. “Did somebody order a miracle?”

  The cavern Han had been directed to by the readhead was roomy, looked acceptably dry in the bleached glare from the Falcon’s exterior lights, and was deep enough within a mountain that Han didn’t have to worry about being detected. That didn’t stop him from worrying, though.

  First, he didn’t like having a hold full of armed strangers, no matter how much they might hate the Empire. Second, this mountain looked way too much like a dormant volcano. And third… well, he just didn’t much like parking in caves. Call him superstitious. Somehow landing his ship inside a big hole in a rock never seemed to work out that well.

  On the other hand, the Mindorese might have brought along something to eat.

  He keyed the intercom. “Okay, everybody. Looks like we’re clear. You in the hold? No offense, but pile your blasters and other weapons in the number-six hopper, will you? It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that I don’t trust you.”

  The comm responded with the sound of the redhead’s voice. “What about that Jedi? Where’s he?”

  “That’s what we wanted to ask you.”

  “Like that, is it? Well, I’ll tell you what—we’ll down weapons and have our Jedi chat if you can help us out with bandages and bacta. I’ve got a lot of wounded in here.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll be with you in a nanosec.”

  When he reached the forward cargo hold, the place looked like a field hospital way too close to the front lines. On the losing side. People sat or lay sprawled every which way, some wrapping their own bandages, some twisting or moaning softly, others just staring blankly at the bulkheads as if they couldn’t believe they were actually alive. Leia and Chewie were already hard at work treating the wounded. Han hurried over to Leia’s side. “Hey, hey, hey, take it easy with the bacta, huh?”

  “Han, he’s hurt.”

  “Sure, I know. But he’s not dying, is he? Do you know how much that stuff costs?”

  A woman’s voice came from behind his left shoulder. “You can bill me.”

  Han rounded on her, then stopped, making a face. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “Yeah, it’s me,” the good-looking redhead said, and offered him a lopsided smile that made her, if anything, even better-looking. She stuck out her hand. “Aeona Cantor. You the pilot of this scow?”

  “I’m the captain of this scow,” Han corrected her, but then grinned and took her offered hand. Her hand was warm, and harder than it looked. He just didn’t have it in him to bicker right now. Besides, Leia would probably think he was flirting. “Han Solo.”

  Her eyes widened. “For real? The Han Solo?”

  He started to flush. “The onl
y one I know.”

  “Wow.” She looked impressed. “I mean, the Han Solo who supposedly outdrew Gallandro in a fair fight?”

  “Well, y’know…” His face was getting full-on hot all of a sudden. “It wasn’t exactly a fair fight—and I didn’t exactly outdraw him. You shouldn’t believe everything you see on the HoloNet.”

  “I don’t,” she said. “I always figured you shot him in the back.”

  “Hey, now—”

  “That your weapon? BlasTech, huh? Kinda old-fashioned, isn’t it?”

  Han dropped his hand to the blaster’s grip and fiddled with it as though uncertain. “Uh, well…”

  “I favor the Twenty-one myself.” She nodded toward the number-six cargo hopper, where a weathered but exceedingly well-cared-for blaster belt lay on top. From the holster projected a custom KYD grip that showed an equal amount of wear, and even more care. “Go ahead,” she said. “Feel free. Here—”

  She reached over and pulled her blaster from its holster using only two fingers, nice and slow, plenty slowly enough that Han didn’t feel like he needed to shoot her, then spun it around her finger and offered it to him butt-first. “Give it a feel. Combat-action tournament model. Trigger-pull’s smooth as bantha butter, and you can shoot the eyestalks off a terramoth at seventy-five meters.”

  Han took the weapon and weighed it in his hand. It was a nice piece, he had to admit. Beautifully balanced, and he said so.

  She grinned. “Knew you’d like it.” She nodded toward his holstered blaster. “D’you mind?”

  Han shrugged and passed it over.

  She squinted into the DL-44’s optical electrosight and whistled. “Nice. Modified for speed-draw, right?” She spun it around her finger. “Little barrel-heavy, though, huh? Wait, what’s this custom work here?”

  She took a close look at the gas chamber and collimator. “Oh, I get it—enhanced output. What does it generate, double power?” She gave him another look and that lopsided grin. “Don’t you know that’s illegal?”

  He felt himself flushing again. “Okay, give it back.”

  “Nah. I like yours better.”

  Han blinked. “What?”

  “You can have mine. Fair trade. Even counting the custom work, mine’s worth double this old relic. Call it even, huh?” She turned and walked toward a knot of her men. “Hey, Tripp, check this out—I just traded for Han Solo’s blaster! Can you believe it?”

  Han was the one who couldn’t believe it. “Now, hold on a minute—”

  “Han—” Leia caught his arm. “Look over there—isn’t that Artoo?”

  Sure enough, against the far curve of wall a couple of the Mindorese were trying to install a restraining bolt on a blue-domed 4-series astromech that looked suspiciously familiar. Leia moved toward them. “You—you there, where did you get that droid?”

  “We found it abandoned. It’s salvage,” one of them snapped back.

  “Salvage? Excuse me?” Leia drew herself up in a way Han recognized all too well, so it was his turn to catch her arm.

  “Play it smooth, Princess,” he said softly from one side of his mouth while the rest of it gave the Mindorese a reassuringly stupid smile. “Low and slow. I don’t trust these jokers.”

  “Han, I told you, these aren’t the enemy—”

  “And they aren’t old friends, either.” He caught Chewie’s eye, over where the Wookiee was spraying foamcast around a Mindorese’s injured ankle, and rolled his eyes with a slight sideways nod toward the number-six hopper. Before he turned back to his task, Chewie let one eyelid droop into half a wink. “Listen, how hurt are these guys, really?” Han asked Leia. “How long before we can dump them and get on our way?”

  “Well…” Leia tilted her head, considering. “They’re not as bad as you’d expect. Mostly superficial burns—it looks like that crude armor they make out of lava isn’t so crude after all.”

  Han nodded grimly. “So: head shots.”

  “Han—”

  “See what they’re up to with Artoo,” he said. He looked down with distaste at the KYD-21 in his hand, then jammed it into his holster.

  Leia nodded. “Maybe I can help you with your salvage,” she said in a friendly way as she came up to the men tinkering with R2’s restraining bolt. Without waiting for a reply, she reached over and put her hand on the bolt—and on his hand, where he held it—and gave him a maybe overly warm smile. He flushed, just a bit, and smiled back.

  “Uh, better be careful, lady,” he said. “This little grubber may look harmless enough, but it can deliver a nasty shock—”

  “Oh, nonsense,” Leia said briskly as she deactivated the bolt with a decisive twist. “This droid’s been with my family a long time. Artoo, power up. What happened to Luke?”

  R2-D2 whistled an affirmative, and his dome swiveled to angle his onboard holoprojector toward the floor. It flickered to life—but the image was of Aeona Cantor. “No,” Leia said. “We know about her. Where’s Luke?”

  The little droid whistled again, more insistently, and again showed Aeona.

  “Artoo—”

  “No, let him run it,” Han said, instinctively lowering his hand to his blaster—and then grimacing at the unfamiliar feel of the KYD’s grip. “I want to see this.”

  A recorded voice came from R2-D2’s speaker. “What if whoever shows up isn’t a Jedi?”

  The Aeona-image answered, “Then we take their ship and leave ’em to the Melters. Saves having to kill them ourselves.”

  Han snarled something that would have been a curse if it had come out in words as he whirled, drew the KYD, and squeezed the trigger just as the emitter centered on Aeona’s forehead.

  It made a dry click.

  “Say, you are fast.” She grinned at him. “Sorry about the blaster—somebody must have pulled the power cell. So I guess it wasn’t exactly a fair trade after all, huh?”

  She drew his beloved BlasTech and leveled it at Han’s face. “This next trade won’t be exactly fair either,” she said. “Because I also really like your ship.”

  Chapter Ten

  Deep in darkness, lingering in the shadow cast by the holoeditor’s imaging screen that was the chamber’s only light, an old, old man practiced his Luke Skywalker impression.

  “Listen to me, Blackhole or Shadowspawn or whoever you are,” he murmured, forcing his leathery mouth to shape the rounded vowels and mushy consonants of Skywalker’s barbarous Outer Rim accent. “I’m a Jedi, but I never had time for all the training some of the old Jedi were supposed to get… No, no no. Not geht. Almost git—really, barely a vowel at all. G’t.”

  The old, old man sighed. To spend the balance of a human lifetime pretending to be a half-educated rube… ultimately, the reward would be worth the sacrifice, of course, and no one would ever know his private humiliation, but still…

  Perhaps after a decade or two ruling the reborn Empire, he could allow himself to slowly “pick up” a properly civilized mode of speech, but until then he’d have to keep up the pretense. Perhaps the only thing that could undermine his ultimate victory would be to have these Rebel scum notice that their pet Jedi had suddenly begun talking as if he’d been educated on Coruscant by way of Dromund Kaas.

  A desiccated finger stretched forth to key the holoeditor and run the recording back two minutes, so that he could study again every slightest detail of Skywalker’s bearing, his walk, his gestures, the angle of his head, every faintest twitch of his eyebrows. This was critical to the old, old man’s plans; these few recordings, taken from the holocameras embedded in the stygium armor of his black stormtroopers, and from the concealed recorders in the Cavern of the Shadow Throne, were all he had with which to study the real Luke Skywalker.

  Yes, there were all those numberless holothrillers—and studying them had been a useful preparation, especially in creating the theatrical Shadowspawn persona and devising the stage dressings of the Shadow Throne—but the computer-generated Farmboy Hero depicted by these holothrillers would convin
ce none but the ignorantly credulous fans who devoured such preposterously contrived tripe.

  When Luke Skywalker emerged from the Battle of Mindor, no one must even suspect that this legendary Jedi hero was only a shell: a living, breathing life-support system for the mind of this old, old man.

  This old, old man who once had been known to a select few as Lord Cronal, director of Imperial Intelligence… and to many, many unfortunate enemies of the Empire as Blackhole, the Emperor’s Hand… and who would, after today, be known to the entire galaxy as Luke, the First Skywalker Emperor.

  Cronal’s rise to power had started with a vision: a vision of the Dark.

  More than a vision, in fact; more than a simple prophecy, or precognition. To the Nightsisters of Dathomir, it was the Heartshadow. Other Force-users had other names for it.

  But Cronal called it simply Darksight.

  Deep in the area ignorantly described by the Old Republic, and later the Empire, as the “Unknown Regions,” there was a vast cloud of dust and rock and interstellar gas that pulsed with a bloody and forbidding scarlet glow as it radiated away the energy of twelve stellar clusters within. This was the Perann Nebula; the twelve clusters that it surrounded were known collectively as the Nihil Retreat. The absolute rulers of the Nihil Retreat, dreaded masters of dark magicks beyond the grasp of even the Sith, were the Sorcerers of Rhand.

  The Sorcerers of Rhand were the only family Cronal would ever know. The Rhandites had plucked him from the arms of the nameless woman who had borne him, and had forged him as a weapon is forged, awakening his insight, refining his will, opening his mind to the One Truth: