Star Wars

CHILDREN OF THE JEDI

by Barbara Hambly

Copyright 1995 by

Lucasfilm Ltd.

All rights reserved.

The chronicle of the dazzling universe of George Lucas's  blockbuster  Star

Wars films continues in this latest in  a  series  of  novels  that  began  with

Timothy  Zahn's  celebrated  New  York  Times  bestselling  trilogy.   Now   the

bestselling space adventure of all time soars to new  heights  as  the  Republic

faces its greatest challenge yet.

Princess Leia, Han Solo, and Chewbacca set out on a mission  vital  to  the

survival of the fragile New Republic.  They  are  searching  for  the  long-lost

children of the Jedi, a quest that takes them to the once vibrant stronghold  of

Belsavis--a nearly forgotten frozen world. Leia has heard tales of a Jedi exodus

from the dark crypts below the planet's surface. She has also heard  that  since

the time of the exodus no one entering the crypts has returned alive.

Halfway across  the  galaxy,  Luke  Skywalker  has  undertaken  an  equally

dangerous expedition that, if it fails, could have fatal consequences for  Leia,

Han, and Chewbacca. Haunted by ominous dreams and guided by a  force  he  cannot

identify, Luke journeys to a remote asteroid field over the planet  Pzob.  There

he discovers the automated Dreadnaught Eye of Palpatine--from the days  of  all-

out war.

Camouflaged deep within a nebulous gas cloud and dormant for thirty  years,

Eye of Palpatine is governed by  a  supersophisticated  artificial  intelligence

system known as the W. Taken aboard the Dreadnaught, Luke is  counseled  by  the

spirit of Callista, a Jedi Knight who gave  her  life  to  stop  the  ship  once

before. Now Luke must learn from her how to destroy it once  and  for  all.  The

Will has awakened. The Eye of Palpatine is on the move. Its mission:  the  total

annihilation of Belsavis.

The mystery of the crypts, the invincible power of the Will, the lost Jedi,

and the burgeoning passion between  Luke  and  Callista  come  together  in  the

stunning climax of Children of the Jedi--the latest chapter in  the  magnificent

Star Wars saga.

Barbara Hambly's novels range from high fantasies to  historical  mysteries

to vampire tales, most recently including Stranger at the Wedding and The  Bride

of the Rat-God. She holds both a master's degree in medieval history and a black

belt in Shotokan karate. A multiple Nebula Award nominee, she  is  president  of

Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America. She lives in Los Angeles.

Also by Barbara Hambly

Time of the Dark The Walls of Air The Armies of Daylight

Dragonsbane

The Ladies of Mandrigyn The Witches of Wenshar Dark Hand of Magic

The Silent Tower The Silicon Mage Dog-Wizard

Stranger at the Wedding

The Rainbow Abyss The Magicians of Night

Bride of the Rat-God

Those Who Hunt the Night

Search the Seven Hills

Star Trek novels: Ishmael Ghost Walker Crossroad

For Anne

CHILDREN OF THE JEDI

Chapter1

Poisoned rain speared from an acid sky. The  hunter  scuttled,  stumbled  a

dozen yards before throwing himself under shelter again. A building, he thought-

-hoped--though for a second's blinding terror the curved shape lifted, writhing,

into a toothed maw of terror from which darkness flowed  out  like  the  vomited

stench of rotting bones. Serpents-tentacles--twisting arms reached down for  him

with what he would have sworn were tiny cobalt-blue  hands...  but  the  burning

rain was searing holes in his flesh, so he closed his  eyes  and  flung  himself

among them. Then for a clear moment his mind registered  that  they  were  blue-

flowered vines.

Though the stink of his own flesh charring still choked  his  nostrils  and

the fire scorched his hands, when he looked down at them his hands  were  whole,

untouched. Realities shuffled in his mind like cards in  a  deck.  Should  those

hands be stripped away to bone? Or should they  sport  a  half  dozen  rings  of

andurite stone and a thin scrim of engine grease around the nails?

In what reality were those fingers limber, and where did he get the  notion

a moment later that they were twisted  like  blighted  roots  and  adorned  with

hooked nails like a rancor's claws?

He didn't know. The sane times  were  fewer  and  fewer;  it  was  hard  to

remember from one to the next.

Prey. Quarry. There was someone he had to find.

He had been a hunter all those years in shrieking darkness. He had  killed,

torn, eaten of bleeding flesh. Now he had to find... He had to find...

Why did he think the one he sought would be in this... this place that kept

changing  from  toothed  screaming  rock  mouths  to  graceful  walls,   curving

buildings, vine-curtained towers--and then falling back again to nightmares,  as

all things always fell back?

He fumbled in the pocket of his coverall  and  found  the  dirty  sheet  of

yellow-green flimsiplast on which someone--himself? - - had written:

HAN SOLO

ITHOR

THE TIME OF MEETING

"Have you seen it before?"

Leaning one shoulder on the curved oval of the window, Han Solo  shook  his

head. "I went to one of the Meetings out in deepspace, halfway from the Pits  of

Plooma to the Galactic Rim," he said. "All I cared about was sneaking  in  under

the Ithorians' detection screens, handing off about  a  hundred  kilos  of  rock

ivory to Grambo the Worrt and getting out of there before the  Imperials  caught

up with me, and it was still the most... I dunno."  He  made  a  small  gesture,

slightly embarrassed, as if she'd caught  him  out  in  a  sentimental  deed  of

kindness. "

"Impressive" isn't the right word."

No. Leia Organa Solo rose from the comm terminal to join her  husband,  the

white silk of her tabard billowing in  her  wake  in  a  single  flawless  line.

"Impressive" to the smuggler he'd been in those days, navigationally if  nothing

else: She'd seen the Ithorian star herds gather, the city-huge ships maneuvering

among one another's deflector fields with the living ease of a school of shining

fish. Linking without any more hesitation than the fingers  of  the  right  hand

have about linking with the fingers of the left.

But this today was more than that.

Watching the Meeting here, above the green jungles  of  Ithor  itself,  the

only word that came to her mind  was  "Force-full":  alive  with,  drenched  in,

moving to the breath of the Force.

And beautiful beyond words.

The high, thick masses of raincloud were  breaking.  Slanting  torrents  of

light played on the jungle canopy only meters below  the  lowest-riding  cities,

sparkled on the stone and plaster and marble, the dozen shades  of  yellows  and

pinks and ochers of the buildings,  the  flashing,  angled  reflections  of  the

antigrav generators and the tasseled gardens of blueleaf, tremmin,  fiddleheaded

bull-ferns. Bridges stretched from city  to  city,  dozens  of  linked  antigrav

platforms on which thin streams of Ithorians could be seen moving, flowerlike in

their brilliant robes. Banners of crimson and lapis fluttered  like  sails,  and

every carved balcony, every mast and stairway and stabilizer,  even  the  wicker

harvest baskets dangling like roots beneath the vast aerial islands  were  thick

with Ithorians.

"You?" Han asked.

Leia looked up quickly at the man by  her  side.  Here  above  the  endless

jungles of Bafforr trees the warm air was fresh, sweet with breezes and wondrous

with the scents of greenness and flowers. Ithorian residences  were  open,  like

the airy skeletons of coral; she and Han stood surrounded by flowers and light.

"When I was little--five, maybe six years old--Father came to the  Time  of

Meeting here to represent the Imperial Senate," she said.  "He  thought  it  was

something I should see."

She was silent a moment, remembering that puppyfat child with pearls twined

in her thick braids; remembering the smiling man  whom  she'd  never  ceased  to

think of as her father. Kindly, when it sometimes didn't pay to be kind; wise in

the days when even the greatest wisdom didn't suffice.  Bail  Organa,  the  last

Prince of the House of Alderaan.

Han put his arm around her shoulders. "And here you are."

She smiled wryly, touched the pearls braided in  her  long  chestnut  hair.

"Here I am."

Behind her the comm terminal whistled, signaling the receipt of  the  daily

reports from Coruscant. Leia  glanced  at  the  water  clock  with  its  bobbing

amazement of glass spheres and trickling fountains, and figured she'd have  time

to at least see what was happening in the  New  Republic's  capital.  Even  when

embarked on a diplomatic tour that was  three-quarters  vacation,  as  Chief  of

State she could never quite release her finger from the Republic's  pulse.  From

bitter experience she had learned that small anomalies could be the  forerunners

of disaster.

Or, she thought--scrolling through the capsule summaries of reports,  items

of interest, minor events--they could be small anomalies.

"So how'd the Dreadnaughts do in  last  night's  game?"  Han  went  to  the

wardrobe to don his jacket of sober dark-green wool. It fit close, its  crimson-

and-white piping emphasizing the width of his shoulders, the slight ranginess of

his body, suggesting power and sleekness without being military. From the corner

of her eye Leia saw him pose a little in front  of  the  mirror,  and  carefully

tucked away her smile.

"You think Intelligence is going to  put  the  smashball  scores  ahead  of

interplanetary crises and the latest movements of the  Imperial  warlords?"  She

was already flipping through to the end, where Intelligence usually put them.

"Sure," said  Solo  cheerfully.  "They  don't  have  any  money  riding  on

interplanetary crises."

"The Infuriated Savages beat them nine to two."

"The Infuriated...! The Infuriated Savages are a bunch of pantywaists!"

"Had a bet with Lando on the Dreadnaughts?" She grinned across at him, then

frowned, seeing the small item directly above the scores. "Stinna Draesinge  Sha

was assassinated."

"Who?"

"She used to teach at the Magrody Institute -  comshe  was  one  of  Nasdra

Magrody's pupils. She was Cray Mingla's teacher."

"Luke's student Cray?" Han came over to her  side.  "The  blonde  with  the

legs?"

Leia elbowed him hard in the ribs.  "The blonde with the legs"  happens  to

be the most brilliant innovator in artificial intelligence to come along in  the

past decade."

He reached down past her shoulder to key for secondary information.  "Well,

Cray's still a blonde and she's still got legs.... That's weird."

"That  anybody  would  assassinate  a   retired   theoretician   in   droid

programming?"

"That  anybody  would  hire  Phlygas  Grynne  to  assassinate   a   retired

theoretician." He'd flipped the highlight bar  down  to  Suspected  Perpetrator.

"Phlygas Grynne's one of the top assassins in the Core Worlds. He gets a hundred

thousand credits a hit. Who'd hate a programmer that much?"

Leia pushed her chair away and rose, the chance words catching her like  an

accidental blow. "Depends on what she programmed."

Han straightened up, but said nothing, seeing the change in her eyes.

"Her name wasn't on any of the lists," he said as  Leia  walked,  with  the

careful appearance of casualness, to the wardrobe mirror to put on her earrings.

"She was one of Magrody's pupils."

"So were about a hundred and fifty other people," Han pointed  out  gently.

He could feel the tension radiating from her like gamma rays from a black  hole.

"Nasdra Magrody happened to be teaching at a time when the Emperor was  building

the Death Star. He and his pupils were the best around. Who else  was  Palpatine

gonna hire?"

"They're still saying I was behind Magrody's disappearance, you know." Leia

turned to face him, her mouth flexed in a line of bitter irony. "Not to my face,

of course," she added, seeing Who says? spring to her  husband's  lips  and  hot

anger to his eyes. "Don't you think I have to make it my business to  know  what

people whisper? Since that was back before I held any power in the Alliance they

say I got my "smuggler friends" to kill him and his family and hide  the  bodies

so they were never found."

"People always say that about rulers." Han's voice was  rough  with  anger,

seeing the pain behind the armor of her calm. "It was true about Palpatine."

Leia said nothing--her eyes  returned  for  a  moment  to  the  mirror,  to

readjust the hang of her tabard, the braided loops of her  hair.  As  she  moved

toward the doorway Han caught her arms, turning  her  to  face  him,  small  and

slender and beautiful and not quite thirty: the Rebel Princess who'd turned into

the leader of the New Republic.

He didn't know what he wanted to say to her, or could say to  her  to  ease

the weight of what he saw behind her eyes. So he only brought  her  to  him  and

kissed her, much more gently than he had first meant to do.

"The awful thing is," said Leia softly, "that a day doesn't go  by  that  I

don't think about doing it."

She half turned in his grip, her lips set in that cold expression  that  he

knew hid pain she could not show even  to  him.  The  years  of  enforced  self-

reliance, of not giving way in front of anyone, had left their mark on her.

"I have the lists. I know who worked on the Death Star, who Palpatine hired

in his think tanks, who taught at the Omwat orbital training center--and I  know

they're out of the Republic's jurisdiction. But I also know how easy it would be

for me to juggle credits and Treasury funds and hire people like Phlygas  Grynne

or Dannik Jericho or any of those "smuggler friends" they  talk  about  to  find

these people and just... make them disappear.  Without  a  trial.  No  questions

asked. No possibility of release on a technicality. Just because I know  they're

guilty. Because I want it so."

She sighed, and some of the pain eased from her face as she  met  his  eyes

again. "Luke talks about the power that lies in the dark side. The  Force  isn't

the only thing that has a dark side, Han. And the tricky thing  about  the  dark

side is that it's so easy to use--and it gets you what you think you want."

She leaned close and kissed him again, thanking him. Outside  the  movement

of wind filled the sky with light and the sound of chimes.

Leia smiled. "We're on."

The herds ingathered. Cities themselves, they linked and joined to form one

great shining city of bright stone, dark wood, flashing  glass,  exuberant  with

greenery. Segmented bridges stretched like welcoming hands to join clan platform

to clan platform, house float to house float. Balloons,  gliders,  kites  skated

the air between the platforms; arborals, tree skimmers, the gaudy fauna  of  the

jungle's top canopy clambered insouciantly up the harvest baskets from the trees

below, chattering and whistling on trees and balconies while the Ithorians  made

their way to the Cloud-Mother's central square.

The  Cloud-Mother--the  herd  best  known  for  its  hospitals  and   glass

manufacturing--had been voted the  site  of  the  reception  of  the  Republic's

representatives, mostly because it had the best guest facilities and the largest

shuttleport, though it was also true that it was one of the  most  beautiful  of

the herds. Leia had the impression, as she stepped out into the  clear,  burning

sunlight of the top platform of the Meeting Hall's steps, that the  huge  square

before her was a garden, packed with brilliant silks, wreaths of  flowers,  from

which emerged a forest of wide, leathery necks and gentle eyes.

An ululation of applause and welcome rippled from the crowd, like the  song

of a million birds at morning. Ithorians waved scarves and flowers, not  rapidly

but in long, swooping curves. To human eyes they  appeared  ungainly,  sometimes

frightening, but here in their home they had  a  weird,  graceful  beauty.  Leia

lifted her hands in greeting, and beside her she saw Han raise his arm to  wave.

Behind them, solemnly, the three-year-old twins, Jacen and Jaina, released their

nurse Winter's hands to do the same; the toddler, Anakin,  only  stood,  holding

Jaina's hand and gazing about him with round eyes.  The  leaders  of  the  herds

stepped from the crowd, over a dozen of them, ranging in  height  anywhere  from

two to three meters and in color from darkest jungle green to the bright yellows

of a pellata bird. Atop the broad necks, the T-shaped  heads  with  their  wide-

separated eyes had an air of gentle wisdom.

"Your Excellency." Umwaw Moolis, Ithorian liaison to the Senate, dipped her

neck and spread her long arms in a graceful gesture of submission  and  respect.

"In the name of the herds of Ithor, welcome to  the  Time  of  Meeting.  General

Solo--Master Skywalker..."

Leia had almost forgotten that Luke would be present,  too;  he  must  have

come out onto the platform behind her. But there he was, inclining his  head  in

response to the greeting. Her brother seemed to wear an  inner  silence  like  a

cloak these days, a haunted stillness, the burden of being a Jedi and the  roads

that it had caused him to travel. Only when he smiled  did  she  see  again  the

flustered, sandy-haired farmboy who'd blasted his way into the detention cell on

the Death Star in his borrowed shining white armor and said Oh... er... I'm Luke

Skywalker....

In the shadows of the  Meeting  Hall's  columned  porch,  Leia  could  just

glimpse the others who'd come with them to the diplomatic  reception:  Chewbacca

the Wookiee, Han's copilot, mechanic, and  closest  friend  from  his  smuggling

days, two meters plus of reddish fur well brushed for the occasion;  the  golden

gleam of the protocol droid C-3PO;  and  the  smaller,  chunkier  shape  of  his

astromech counterpart, R2-D2.

All those battles, thought Leia, turning back to the  Ithorian  delegation.

All those stars and planets, whose names, sometimes, she could scarcely  recall,

though in nightmares she felt again the ice and heat  and  terror....  And  yet,

after all the danger and fear, the Republic was alive. Growing in spite  of  the

warlords of the fragmented Empire, the satraps of the old  regime,  the  planets

that tasted liberty and wanted total independence from all federation.  Here  in

the clear glory of the sunlight, the utter peace of this  alien  world,  it  was

impossible to feel that they would not succeed.

She saw Luke move, swing around as if at some sound, scanning the two-level

arcades that flanked the Meeting Hall, and she  felt  at  the  same  moment  the

terrible sense of danger...

"Solo!"

The voice was a raw scream.

"Solo!"

The man sprang from the arcade's upper balcony with the unthinking speed of

an  animal,  landed  halfway  up  the  steps,  and  raced  toward   them,   arms

outstretched. Ithorians staggered, taken by  surprise,  as  he  shoved  his  way

between them; then they fell back from him  in  shock  and  fear.  Leia  had  an

impression of eyes rolling in madness, flecks of spittle flying from  his  dirty

beard, even as she thought, He isn't armed, and realized in the next second that

this was one to whom that fact meant nothing.

The Ithorian herd leaders closed on the man, but their  reflexes  were  the

reflexes of a thousand generations of herbivores. The attacker was within a foot

of Han as Luke stepped forward, with no  appearance  of  haste  or  effort,  and

caught the claw-fingered hand, flipping the man in a neat circle and laying  him

without violence on the pavement. Han, who'd stepped back a pace  to  give  Luke

room to throw, now moved back in, helping to pin the attacker to the ground.

It was like trying to hold down a  frenzied  rancor.  There  was  something

hideously animal in the way the man bucked and  heaved,  throwing  the  combined

strength of Han and Luke nearly off him, screaming like a mad thing as Chewbacca

and the Ithorians closed in.

"Kill you! Kill you!" The man's broken, filthy hands flailed,  grabbing  at

Han as the Wookiee and Ithorians dragged him from the ground. "Going to kill you

all! Solo! Solo!"

His voice scaled up into a hideous scream as one of the herd's  physicians,

loping from the Meeting Hall in a billow of purple robes, slapped the man on the

side of the neck with an infuser. The man gasped,  mouth  gaping,  sucking  air,

eyes staring in lunatic pain. Then he  sagged  back  unconscious  into  a  dozen

restraining arms.

Leia's first reaction was to reach Han - comthe intervening two  meters  of

platform were suddenly a virtual stockade of towering, gesticulating  Ithorians,

chattering like some impossibly  beautiful  orchestra  whose  players  have  all

suddenly been dosed with brain-jagger or yarrock. Umwaw Moolis was in  her  way.

"Your Excellency, never in the history of this herd, of this world, have we been

subjected to such an attack..."

It was all she could do not to push her aside.

Luke, she was interested to note, had gone straight  for  the  arcade  from

which the man had come, springing from platform  to  balcony  and  scanning  the

colonnade and the square beyond.

The children!

Leia forced her way through the crowd to the doorway.

Winter was gone. See-Threepio toddled  forth  from  the  shadows  with  his

slightly awkward mechanical walk and caught her arm.

"Winter has taken Jacen, Jaina, and Anakin  back  to  their  nursery,  Your

Excellency," he reported. "She stayed only long enough to point out to them that

General Solo was completely unhurt. Perhaps it would be advisable  for  you  and

General Solo to go there and reassure them at the first convenient opportunity."

"Are they guarded?" Han could look after himself... for  one  awful  moment

the hairy, convulsed face of the  madman  returned  to  her,  reaching  for  the

children...

"Chewbacca has gone with them."

"Thank you, Threepio."

"Can't see any further danger." Luke appeared at her side  in  a  swirl  of

black cloak, light-brown hair ruffled where he'd pushed back the hood, his face-

-scarred from a long-ago encounter with an ice creature on Hoth -  comunreadable

as usual, but his blue eyes seeming to see everything. "Kids all right?"

"They're in the nursery. Chewbacca's with them." She looked around. Han was

still standing where he had been, in the midst of a  hooting,  waving  crowd  of

Ithorians, staring at the shadowed door through  which  the  attacker  had  been

taken. He was nodding and even making some kind of reply to  the  herd  leaders,

who were assuring him that such things never happened, but Leia  could  tell  he

wasn't really hearing them.

She and Luke edged their way to him.

"You all right?"

Han nodded, but gave them only a glance. Leia had seen him  less  upset  by

full-scale artillery ambushes with Imperial starfighter support.

"That can't have been anything like a planned attempt." Luke  followed  his

gaze to the door. "When he starts to come out of the tranquilizer I'll see if  I

can go into his mind a little, pick up who he is--was

"I know who he is," said Han.

Brother and sister regarded him in surprise.

"If that wasn't a ghost," said Han, "and it might have been... I'd  say  it

was about fifty percent of my old buddy Drub McKumb."

Chapter 2

"Children." The man lashed to the diagnostic bed mumbled  the  word  as  if

lips, tongue, and palate were swollen and numb. Blue eyes stared blankly up from

an eroded moonscape of wrinkled flesh. Above the  padded  table,  small  monitor

screens traced jewel-bright patterns of color. The central one, Leia could  see,

indicated that the smuggler was in no physical pain - comwith that much  gylocal

in him he couldn't possibly be--but the  right-hand  monitor  showed  a  jangled

horror of reds and yellows,  as  if  all  the  nightmares  in  the  galaxy  held

shrieking revel in his frontal lobe.

"Children," he muttered again. "They hid the children in the well."

Leia glanced across  at  her  husband.  In  his  hazel  eyes  she  saw  the

reflection, not of the emaciated creature who lay  before  them  in  the  ripped

green plastene coverall of a long-distance cargo hauler, but the fat, blustering

planet-hopper captain he'd known years ago.

The Healing House of the Cloud-Mother was a dim  place,  rank  with  plants

like all the herd and bathed in soft blue-green light. Tomla El, chief healer of

the herd, was small for an Ithorian and like the lights of the place also a soft

blue-green, so that in his purple robe he seemed only a shadow and a voice as he

considered the monitors and spoke to Luke at his side.

"I am unsure that going into his mind would profit you, Master  Skywalker."

He blinked his round golden eyes at the frenzied right-hand screen. "He's  under

as much gylocal and hypnocane as we dare administer. The brain has been severely

damaged, and his whole system is full of repeated massive doses of yarrock."

"Yarrock?" said Luke, startled.

"Sure explains him being off his rocker," commented Han.  "I  haven't  seen

Drub in seven or eight years, but back when I knew him he  wouldn't  even  sniff

dontworry, much less go in for that caliber of hallucinogen."

"Oddly  enough,"  said  the  Healer,  "I  don't  think  his  condition   is

attributable to the drug. Judging by his  autonomic  responses,  I  believe  the

yarrock acted as a depressant to the mental activity, permitting  brief  periods

of lucidity. These were found in his pockets."

He produced a half dozen scraps of  flimsiplast,  stained  and  filthy  and

creased. Han and Leia stepped close to look over Luke's shoulders as he unfolded

them.

HAN SOLO ITHOR THE TIME OF MEETING BELIA'S  BOSOM--SULLUST--BAY  58  SMELLY

SAINT--YETOOM NA UUN-

BAY 12 FARGEDNIM P'TAAN

"P'taan's a medium-big drug dealer on Yetoom." Solo rubbed unconsciously at

the scar on his chin, as if contact with it reminded him of his  own  rough-and-

tumble contraband days. "If Drub was on yarrock he could have got it  from  him,

provided he'd found some way to make himself a millionaire  in  the  past  seven

years. And you'd have to be a millionaire to take enough of that stuff  to  give

yourself that kind of damage."

He shook his head, and looked again at the starved body on the  table,  the

filthy, clawlike nails.

"I take it the Smelly Saint and Belia's Bosom are ships?" Leia's eyes  were

still on the nightmare readouts above the bed.

"The Saint runs ripoff copy agri-droids out of the Kimm systems,  sometimes

slaves from the Senex Sector. Makes sense. Yetoom's on the edge of the Senex."

He shook his head again, staring down at what was left of the  man  he  had

known. "He used to be bigger than the three of us put  together;  I  kidded  him

about being Jabba the Hutt's younger, cuter brother."

"Children," whispered McKumb again, and tears leaked from his staring eyes.

"They hid the children down the well. Plett's Well." His head  jerked,  spastic,

face contorting with pain. "Han... Kill you. Kill you  all.  Got  to  tell  Han.

They're there..."

"Got to tell Han," repeated Luke softly. "That doesn't sound like a threat.

"

"Plett's Well...." Leia wondered why the name tugged on her mind,  what  it

reminded her of...

What voice had said it, and who had hushed the  speaker  at  the  sound  of

those words?

"He's definitely suffering from severe and  prolonged  malnutrition,"  said

Tomla El, surveying the line of numbers on the bottommost readout  screen.  "How

long since you saw him last, General Solo?"

"Eight years, nine years," said Han. "Before the fighting on  Hoth.  I  ran

across him on Ord Mantell--he was the one who told me Jabba the Hutt  had  major

money on my head. I never heard of anything called Plett's Well."

"Plettwell." Drub McKumb spoke in an almost natural tone, turning his  head

toward Leia, who stood nearest, though his eyes, momentarily calm, seemed to see

something or someone other than her. "Get to Solo, honey. Tell him. I can't. All

the children were down the well. They're  gathering..."  He  flinched,  and  the

right-hand screen scorched to blood;  his  body  spasmed,  twisting  up  into  a

heaving arc.

"Kill them!" he screamed. "Stop them!"

Tomla El moved forward swiftly, slapping another patch of  gylocal  to  the

row already on the man's neck. McKumb's eyes slipped closed as the raw color  of

the monitor faded and darkened.

"Children," he whispered again. "The children of the Jedi."

The brain-wave patterns of the left-hand monitor dipped  and  eased  as  he

sank into sleep, but those on the right continued  to  flare  as  he  slid  into

dreams from which he could not be waked.

"Plettwell." Dr. Cray Mingla spoke the word as if tasting  it,  turning  it

over like a circuit board of unfamiliar make to look at all sides. At  the  same

time her long, exquisitely manicured fingers stirred through the little heap  of

debris retrieved from Drub McKumb's pockets--credit papers, broken ampoules, and

tiny packets of black plastene coated with fusty-smelling yarrock  residue,  and

half a dozen pieces of old-fashioned  jewelry:  a  pendant  of  three  opals,  a

bracelet, and four earrings which did not  match,  their  intricate  lacings  of

bronze wire and dancing pearls crusted thick with pinkish  gold  mineral  salts.

Her straight brows, darker than the winter-sun silk of her upswept hair, tweaked

down over the bridge of her nose, and Leia, on the opposite side  of  the  Guest

House's dining table, heard again the name in her mind.

Plett's Well, someone--her father? - - had said... When?

"My mother," said Cray after a time. "I think my mother talked  about  it."

She looked hesitantly over at Luke, standing in silence near the door. "She  and

my great-aunt fought about it, I think. I was very little,  but  I  remember  my

great-aunt slapping her, telling her never  to  speak  of  it....  But  she  had

jewelry like that."

As she spoke of her childhood, her uncertainty broke  through  the  careful

perfection of her beauty, and Luke remembered she was  only  twenty-six,  a  few

years younger than himself. She scraped at the mineral deposits  on  an  earring

with a lacquered pink thumbnail. Oxydized sulfur  and  antimony,  Tomla  El  had

identified it, mixed with trace minerals and mud.

"My aunts had some, too," said Leia thoughtfully. "Aunt Rouge, Aunt  Celly,

and Aunt Tia... Father's sisters." Her mouth flickered into a wry quirk  at  the

memory of those three redoubtable dowagers. "They never stopped trying  to  turn

me into what they called a Proper Princess--and marry me off to  some  brainless

twerp from one of the other ancient ruling Houses...."

"Like Isolder?" Han named the hereditary Prince of the  Hapes  Consortium--

and Leia's erstwhile suitor--and Leia made a face at him where he stood next  to

Luke in the dining room doorway.

"But they had jewelry like this," Leia went on after a  moment.  "It's  Old

Republic bronze, the strapwork and the iridescent wash."

"He must have started out with pockets full of the  stuff,"  remarked  Han,

"if he's been buying yarrock with it along the way."

Leia reached across the table  to  touch  her  own  earrings,  which  she'd

discarded the moment she was out of public view: sleekly modern disks of silver,

polished and chaste. "Maybe forty, fifty years old?  They  don't  make  anything

like that now."

Cray nodded, being well  up  on  every  nuance  of  fashion.  Even  in  the

laboratories and lecture rooms of  the  Magrody  Institute  she  was  impeccably

turned out, a tall, slim young woman--the blonde with the legs, Leia  remembered

Han's description, slightly  envious  of  her  elegant  height,  which  made  it

possible for her to carry off fashions that Leia, a  good  eighteen  centimeters

shorter, knew were out of the question for herself. Only when  actually  engaged

in the rigors of Jedi training on Yavin had Leia ever actually seen Cray without

makeup and jewelry,  and  even  then  the  young  scientist  managed  -  comLeia

reflected enviously--to look gorgeous.

"What did your mother say about it?" asked Luke in his  quiet  voice.  "Why

didn't your aunt want her to talk about it?"

Cray shook her head, and Luke turned to the golden protocol droid  who  had

joined them in the dining room, his stubby astromech counterpart at his side.

"Ring any bells with you, Threepio?"

"I'm sorry to say it does not, sir," replied the droid.

"It was a fortress."

They all turned, startled, to look at the man - comor the  thing  that  had

once been a man--standing beside Cray's chair.

The ambassadorial receptions were over. The ceremonial tours of the various

herds, the luncheons, teas, flower viewings, and the descent to tour the  jungle

floor had all been accomplished, albeit  with  larger  and  more  heavily  armed

parties than had been previously planned. Cray and her fianc@e, Nichos Marr--two

of Luke's most recent students at the Jedi Academy on Yavin who had  accompanied

Luke to Ithor to consult  with  Tomla  El--had  been  asked  to  do  service  as

bodyguards, extending their Jedi-trained senses through  the  brightly  dressed,

friendly crowds. With night's gentle cloaking of the floating megalopolis,  they

had returned with the Presidential party to the privacy of the Guest Houses, the

first chance Leia had had all day to speak to Cray Mingla in private  about  the

assassination of Stinna Draesinge Sha... the inconspicuous theoretician who  had

studied with the people who had helped design the Death Star.

Though Leia's news of the assassination  had  shocked  her,  Cray  had  had

little to tell about her former teacher. Draesinge, like Nasdra Magrody himself,

had been almost  completely  apolitical,  seeking  knowledge  for  the  sake  of

knowledge... like the physicist Qwi Xux, thought Leia bitterly, to whom  Magrody

had taught the principles of artificial intelligence in  Moff  Tarkin's  orbital

accelerated learning center above the hostage planet of Omwat.

Only afterward had Cray asked about Drub McKumb.

Beyond the suite's lacy translucent groves of arches and windows, the  warm

night was alive with colored lights and snatches  of  music  as,  all  over  the

joined flotilla of the herds, clans and families entertained and rejoiced. Above

their heads in the pendant networks of the ceiling, baskets of solar globes shed

their warm light on the little group: Leia still in her formal  gown  of  green-

and-gold-worked vine-silk and her white tabard,  Han  in  his  sharply  tailored

military trousers, though the first thing he'd done upon returning to the  Guest

House had been to get rid of the jacket; Luke a shadow in his black Jedi cloak.

"Artoo ran a cross-check of Plett's Well and Plettwell through  the  master

computer bank on the herd ship Tree of Tarintha, the  largest  on  the  planet,"

Threepio diffidently informed the room at large. "No referent was found."

"As a child..." Nichos paused, collecting his thoughts,  a  mannerism  Luke

noticed now because it was something his student almost never  did  anymore.  He

caught the way Cray glanced back at the man--or  former  man--to  whom  she  was

still officially betrothed; saw the way she watched him. Searching,  Luke  knew,

for those other mannerisms, the way he used to put his hand to his forehead when

he was thinking... hunting vainly for the small human gestures of  knotting  his

brows, shutting his eyes...

The face was still that of the young man who had come to Yavin over a  year

ago, asking to be tested for adeptness in the  Force.  The  technicians  of  the

biomedical institute on Coruscant had saved that  much.  They'd  duplicated  his

hands as well. Luke recognized the scar on the little finger of the  right  one,

which Nichos had gotten the first time he'd tried maneuvering  an  edged  weapon

with the Force. They fitted perfectly into the droid body Cray had designed when

Nichos had been diagnosed with the first signs  of  Quannot's  Syndrome,  as  if

Nichos--the Nichos Luke had  known,  the  Nichos  Cray  had  loved--were  simply

wearing smooth, form-fitted armor  of  brushed  pewter-gray  steel,  exquisitely

articulated, every joint and stress point filled in with  metal-meshed  plastoid

as fine as vine-silk, so that not a strut, not a wire, not  a  cable  showed  to

remind anyone that this was a droid.

But the face was perfectly smooth, without expression. All the  musculature

was mimicked there, with an  accuracy  never  before  achieved  in  prosthetics.

Nichos--though  he  tried  to  remember,  knowing  that  his  expressionlessness

disturbed Cray--usually forgot to use them. He was expressionless now, his  mind

delving back through every fragment of digitalized memory,  searching  for  some

forgotten thread.

"I was there,"  he  said  at  length.  "I  remember  running  up  and  down

corridors, hallways cut in  the  rocks.  Someone  had...  had  raised  a  mental

barrier, an illusion of dread, to keep us out of  some  of  them--had  used  the

Force to do it. The kretch would eat us, someone said, the kretch would eat us..

.. But we'd dare each other. The older kids--Lagan Ismaren and Hoddas... Hoddag?

... Umgil, I think their names were--said we were looking for Plett's Well."

"What was the kretch?" asked Cray, into the silence that followed.

"I don't know," said Nichos. Once he would have shrugged.  "Something  that

ate kids, I guess."

"Someone raised a mental barrier with the Force to keep you out of  tunnels

where you weren't supposed to go?" Leia leaned forward, the earring still in her

hand.

"I think so, yes," said Nichos slowly. "Or used the Force to... to  instill

an aversion in us. I didn't think anything of it at the time but looking back...

it was the power of the Force."

"You have to try that with Jace and Jainy," remarked  Han,  and  Chewbacca,

sitting heretofore silent on his other side, groaned in assent.

"How old were you?" asked Luke. "Do you remember any other  names?"  Beside

him, Artoo whirred softly as he recorded data.

Nichos's blue eyes--artificials, but they duplicated the originals exactly-

-stared blankly in front of him for a few moments. A living man  would  probably

have closed them. Cray looked aside.

"Brigantes," he said after a moment. "Ustu. She was a  Ho'Din,  almost  two

meters tall and the  loveliest  pale  green....  A  woman--girl--named  Margolis

looked after us. I was extremely young."

"Margolis was my mother's name," said Cray softly.

There was another silence.

"The children of the Jedi," Luke whispered.

"A--a colony of them? A group?" Leia shivered, wondering why  that  sounded

so familiar.

"My mother..." Cray hesitated, smoothed back a tendril of  ivory-pale  hair

with one long-fingered hand. "My  great-aunt  was  always  watching  my  mother,

criticizing her. Later I put together that my mother's mother had been a  Knight

and Aunt Sophra was afraid Mother--or I--would show signs of sensitivity to  the

Force as well. Mother never did. I told you about that when Nichos first brought

me to Yavin, Luke."

Luke nodded, remembering.  Remembering  Nichos's  shining  grin,  The  most

brilliant AI programmer at the Magrody Institute - comand strong in the Force as

well.

"Like Uncle Owen," he said softly. "The worst yelling-at I ever got  in  my

life was the one time I... I guess I found something using the Force. Aunt  Beru

had lost the little screwdriver she used to fix her mending stitcher. I shut  my

eyes and said, "It's under the couch." I don't know how I knew that. Uncle  Owen

claimed he punished me because the only way I could have known was if I'd put it

there myself, but now I think he knew it was the Force, and that's  why  he  was

mad."

He shrugged. "I must have been about six. I sure never did  that  again.  I

didn't even remember it until I was with Yoda on Dagobah."

"Yes," said Cray. "Aunt Sophra was like that with Mother. And I  must  have

picked it up, because until Nichos and I talked about it, it...  it  never  even

occurred to me I might be sensitive to the Force."

Nichos remembered to smile, and put his hand on  her  shoulder.  Luke  knew

they'd even got the body temperature right, in the hands and face at least.

"They hid the children down the well," said  Leia  softly.  "Do  you  think

when... when Vader and the Emperor started hunting down and  killing  the  Jedi,

some of the Knights... I don't know, smuggled their spouses and children to some

place of safety? Did you talk to Drub about the Jedi, Han? About the Force?"

"I don't remember much about the conversation," admitted  Han.  "Especially

not after we got drinking. But I remember telling him about Luke, and about  Old

Ben. Drub wouldn't let it get in the way of business, but he always did want  to

see the Rebels win." He shrugged, embarrassed. "He was kind of a romantic."

Leia hid a smile and her own private reflections about  smugglers  who  let

the Rebellion interfere with their business, and  returned  her  gaze  to  Luke.

"They must have been scattered later," she said. "But if there was  a  group  of

the families of the Jedi hiding out in Plett's Well, or Plettwell... they  might

have left records of where they went. And who they were."

She picked up the earring again, turning it to the light. "You say Yetoom's

on the edge of the Senex Sector. Sullust is between Yetoom and here. Most of the

credit papers here are Sullustan... What would the Smelly Saint's range be?"

"It's a light stock freighter, like the  Falcon,"  said  Han  thoughtfully,

glancing at Chewbacca for confirmation. The Wookiee nodded. "It's got  deepspace

capabilities, but most small-time smugglers don't  go  more  than  about  twenty

parsecs to a jump. Since there's nothing much below or above the ecliptic around

there, that would put his point of  origin  somewhere  in  the  Senex  or  Juvex

Sector, or in the Ninth Quadrant, say, between the Greeb-Streebling Cluster  and

the Noopiths."

"That's a lot of territory," said Leia thoughtfully. "It's broken up, too--

Imperial holdouts and little two-planet confederacies; Admiral Thrawn never made

much headway with the Ancient Houses that rule  in  the  Senex  Sector,  but  we

haven't, either. I know the House Vandron runs slave farms  on  Karfeddion,  and

the House Garonnin gets most of its revenue from  strip-mining  asteroids  under

pretty scary conditions--even back in the old days there were  always  questions

in the Senate about Rights of Sentience in those areas."

"It doesn't sound like someplace that would be easy to search for  word  of

the Jedi," said Cray.

"No place will  be  easy,"  said  Leia.  "Because  we  can  jump  from  one

hyperspace point to another, we forget how much distance--how many thousands  of

light-years--lie between one inhabited system and  the  next.  People  can  hide

anywhere, or be hidden anywhere. All it takes is for one line, one collection of

phosphor dots, to get dropped out of a computer  somewhere,  and  they're  lost.

Completely. Forever. You can't really search."

"Surely there're backup records  somewhere."  Cray  looked  uneasy  at  the

concept of such possibilities for loose ends. Leia  gathered  that  with  Luke's

teaching, Cray wasn't as firmly wedded as she had once  been  to  the  principle

that all things were ultimately controllable by intelligence, but she had a long

way to go. She looked over at Luke. "Have you tried to go into McKumb's mind?"

Luke nodded, flinching from the memory. Whether because of the yarrock,  or

the brain damage, or from some other cause,  he  had  encountered  none  of  the

normal human barriers that prevent invasion by telepathic force, but neither had

he found in the old smuggler's mind anything for his  own  seeking  thoughts  to

link to, nothing to ask, to see. Only a burning chaos  of  pain,  through  which

hideous shapes came slamming: rending monstrosities, scalding streams  of  acid,

noise that beat and hammered in his ears, and fire  that  suffocated  him.  He'd

come to shaking all over, Tomla El holding him up and  gazing  at  him  in  deep

concern, fractions of a second after he'd tried to go in.

"Could you go into mine?" asked Nichos. "I only remember what a child would

see, but at least you could narrow down your field of search. I was human then,"

he added, and remembered again to smile. "And at the time, I was able  to  touch

the Force."

Only Cray and Leia accompanied Luke and Nichos down the curving  sweeps  of

narrow stairs and across the small rear garden to  the  suite  Cray  and  Nichos

shared. Though Han and Luke were both fairly  certain  now  that  Drub  McKumb's

intent had been warning rather than assassination, Han was unwilling  to  assume

that they knew everything he'd been trying to say. So he and Chewbacca  remained

in the Presidential Guest House near the children, with Artoo-Detoo hooked  into

a printer spilling out starcharts and calculations concerning the  Senex  Sector

and See-Threepio  standing  happily  on  the  balcony  comparing  the  elaborate

Ithorian herd ceremonials taking place in  the  square  below  to  his  internal

records of what they were supposed to be.

"We knew that he'd--at least temporarily - comlose his ability to  use  the

Force when he was...  was  transferred."  Cray  spoke  quickly,  with  a  slight

brittleness in her voice, as if admitting that a contingency had  been  expected

would somehow give her power over it. She glanced  ahead  at  Nichos  and  Luke,

walking side by side, the tall, silvery shape  of  the  onetime  student  almost

dwarfing Luke's black-cloaked slightness. The terrace outside the Guest Quarters

faced away from the dances in the square, and their  passing  footfalls  sounded

loud on the elaborate lapis and gold of the starmap pavement.

"I know Luke and Kyp Durron,  and  some  of  the  others  who  studied  the

Holocron, think the Force is completely a function of organic life, but I  don't

see how that can be necessarily  so.  It  isn't  like  he's  a  construct,  like

Threepio or Artoo. Nichos is as alive as you or I." She kept her  head  up,  her

voice brisk, but by the light of the sun-globes half hidden in the  branches  of

their parent trees, Leia saw the telltale silvery gleam of suppressed  tears  in

the younger woman's eyes.

"Right now I'm working on crunching and cubing hypersmall micros, in  order

to duplicate what can be reconstructed in X-rays from the brains  of  the  other

students in the Academy. The good thing about what I've done with Nichos's brain

is that the information can be transferred to more  efficient  processors  as  I

improve and fine-tune the design." She touched her hair again, as a cover for  a

quick brush at the corners  of  her  delicately  colored  eyelids.  Hers  was  a

perfection that would admit neither grief nor doubt.

"He's only been in that body for--whichat, six months?" Leia hated  herself

for holding out a comfort that in her  heart  she  suspected  was  false.  Quite

sincerely, she added, "It's a miracle he's alive at all."

Cray nodded once, briefly, taking  no  credit  as  they  passed  through  a

vestibule of lacy air walls and stalactites, like  a  sea  cave  festooned  with

flowers. "And he wouldn't be, if it weren't for  some  of  the  research  Stinna

Draesinge Sha did on captured Ssi-ruuk  wreckage.  On  transferring  the...  the

actual person, not just a data print... into an artificial  construct.  She  was

very hopeful about the work with Nichos, very helpful.  She  said  the  Ssi-ruuk

entechment process would have fascinated Magrody - com.her teacher--and he would

almost certainly have come up  with  better  answers  than  she  did  about  the

relationship of organic and artificial intelligences, but he'd--uh--gone by that

time. She..."

She shook her head. "I can't imagine who would have wanted to hurt her."

She was quiet again  as  they  entered  the  pleasant,  grottolike  central

chamber of her suite and Nichos took a seat at the table, with Luke opposite him

under the dim pinkish light of the few sun-globes embedded  in  the  translucent

network of the low ceiling. A sinuous divan shaped for human contours nestled in

a niche; Leia and Cray settled on it, Leia reaching up to  unhook  another  sun-

globe's cover, to shed soft pinkish light around them.

Cray went on, low enough not to be heard by the men at the  table,  "I  was

just glad that when Nichos... when they diagnosed him..."  She  shied  from  any

mention of those memories. "I was glad I was able to keep him alive. That he had

enough training in the Force to... to detach himself  from  his...  his  organic

body. And analyzing how to transmit Force skills to an inorganic sentience  will

only be a matter of time. Some of Magrody's researches  were  pointing  in  that

direction before he..."

Again she bit back the word "disappeared," and  Leia  knew  she,  too,  had

heard the stories. The whispers. The rumors that she, Leia Organa Solo, had used

her "smuggler friends" to take revenge on the man who had taught Qwi Xux,  Ohran

Keldor, Bevel Lemelisk, and the other designers of the Death Star.

Going into ationichos's mind was one of the strangest things Luke had done.

When he used the Force to probe someone's thoughts or dreams,  they  most  often

came to him as images, as if he were recalling or dreaming  about  something  he

himself had seen long ago. Sometimes the images took the form of sounds--voices-

-and, very occasionally, a sense of heat or cold. Eyes  closed,  Luke  sank  now

into the light trance of listening, searching. He was aware  of  Nichos's  mind,

open and receptive to his as the meditations of the Jedi taught... aware of  the

personality of the young man who had come to him with such ability in the Force,

with such open-hearted determination to use it responsibly and correctly.

Luke had had far more powerful  students,  but--though  Nichos  was  Luke's

elder by a number of years--seldom a more teachable one.

Under Luke's grip, Nichos's  hands  felt  warm--like  his  own  prosthetic,

heated by minute subcutaneous circuitry to exactly  body  temperature,  so  that

those who touched them might not be disconcerted. Luke was aware that  Cray  and

Leia had fallen silent,  was  aware  of  their  breathing,  and  of  the  faint,

wonderful drift of songs floating on the night  air  from  the  city's  thousand

parties and balls.

He was briefly aware, as he sank  deeper  into  his  probing  trance,  that

Nichos did not breathe.

He had wondered a little, on their way across the plaza,  whether  he'd  be

able to do this at all; whether, in fact, Nichos.was the man he had  known,  the

man who had come to Yavin to find him, saying, I think I  have  the  powers  you

seek...

Cray Mingla, for all her relative youth, was one of the leading experts  on

artificial intelligence programming in  the  galaxy.  She  was  in  addition  an

apprentice Jedi herself, aware of the interaction of the Force,  the  body,  the

mind, and all of ambient life. She  had  followed  Nasdra  Magrody's  teachings,

trying to close the gap between artificially constructed  intelligence  and  the

workings of the organic brain; had even studied  what  could  be  known  of  the

technology of the forbidden Ssi-ruuk, seeking to learn what the essence of human

personality, human energy, actually was.

But he still hadn't known whether this was Nichos Marr,  or  only  a  droid

programmed with everything the man had known.

The memory was there. A child's memory, as Nichos had  said:  dark  tunnels

twisting through rock seams, and a dense, damp  heat;  in  other  places  bitter

cold. Snowstorms howling across empty wastes of ice and  black  rock;  caves  of

ice, and below them caldera of sullenly smoking mud. Crystalline cliffs flashing

blue in a dim twilight  of  a  heatless  sun;  thick  jungles;  banks  of  ferns

shoulder-deep around streams and pools that steamed in the  weird  sharpness  of

the air.

A woman singing.

"Children playing in the field of flowers,

The Queen's on her  way  to  the King's three towers..."

He remembered that song, so far back he couldn't even  recall  whose  voice

he'd heard singing it.

But he was aware  of  those  memories  as  if  he'd  read  them  somewhere.

Snowstorms howling across empty wastes... was a string  of  words  in  his  mind

unattached to the sear of the ice-wind he himself recalled from  Hoth;  he  knew

the streams had steamed near the glaciers without seeing either water or ice.

All the words of the old  song  were  there--the  tune,  too,  in  standard

musical notation, he supposed. But no memory of the voice that  had  sung  them,

any more than he had himself.

Only a darkness, eerily, heartbreakingly empty.

"The Queen had a hunt-bird and the  Queen  had  a  lark,

The  Queen  had a songbird that sang in the dark.

The  King  said  I'll hang you from the big black

tree If your birds don't bring three wishes to me..."

Then it hit him. Breathtaking, terrifying, a sense of  cold  horror  and  a

stinging alm-sound that lanced through his  brain  like  a  splinter  of  frozen

steel. He saw, for one instant,  the  massive  cliffs  of  ice  glittering  like

volcanic glass in iron twilight and below them the  beveled  and  faceted  jewel

face of a shallow antigrav dome closing in all the valley beneath. Lights  shone

dimly through steaming mists, trees thick with blossom and fruit,  gardens  like

enchanted ships suspended in the air...

A ruined tower, standing dark against the face of the dark cliff.

And something else. Some image, some  shock...  a  wave  of  darkness  that

spread outward, reaching, searching, calling in  all  directions.  A  wave  that

chilled him, then folded in on itself before he could identify it, like a  black

flower growing backward into a deadly seed that vanished...

And he was gasping, fully conscious once  more  and  feeling  the  startled

flinch of Nichos's hands under his.

"What is it?" he demanded at once, as Cray sprang up and strode across  the

room.

"Nic..."

The silvery man regarded him inquiringly. He'd felt  Nichos's  hands  flail

away from his, and Nichos was looking at them in some surprise.

"You convulsed." Cray was kneeling by the chair, already checking  the  row

of gauges on Nichos's chest.

"What happened?" asked Luke. "What did you feel?"

"Nothing." Nichos shook his head, a fraction of a second  too  late  to  be

natural. "I mean, I have no recollection of any untoward  sensation  at  all.  I

felt Luke's hands over mine, and then I was out of the trance and my  hands  had

moved away from his."

"Did you see anything?" Leia had come to stand at his other side. Cray  was

still checking gauges, though she knew their ranges by heart.

"I think it has to be Belsavis." Luke rubbed his temples; the ache in  them

was different from the throbbing that sometimes developed  when  he'd  used  the

Force to probe deeply against resistance, or to listen for something far  beyond

human hearing. "I saw an antigrav-supported  light-amplification  dome  of  some

kind over a volcanic rift valley; Belsavis is the only place I know of that  has

one like that."

"But the dome was only built a dozen years ago," objected Cray. "If  Nichos

was there as a child..."

Luke hesitated, wondering where that image  had  come  from.  Why  he  felt

shaken, shocked... why he felt there was some part of the vision he had  already

forgotten. "No, it fits with other things as well," he  said.  "The  tunnels  he

remembers could have been geothermic vents; I think the rift  valleys  were  all

jungle before the fruit-packing companies moved in." He glanced quickly at Cray,

at the way her hands rested on Nichos's shoulders, her gaze on his face...

No visual, no aural, no  olfactory  memories  at  all.  Only  that  neutral

knowledge of what had been.

The sense of something forgotten tugged at his mind, but  when  he  reached

for it, it evaporated like light on water.

"Belsavis is on the edge of the Senex Sector, too,"  he  went  on  after  a

moment. "So it's within striking distance of Yetoom.  What's  the  name  of  the

valley where they built the dome? Do you know, Cray?"

"There's two or three domed volcanic valleys in the glaciers,"  said  Cray,

seeing Leia's inquiring frown. "The domes  are  standard  light-amp  with  apex-

mounted antigrav systems to take the stress.  Brathflen  Corporation  built  the

first one twelve or fourteen years ago over Plawal..."

She paused, as if hearing the word for the first time. "Plawal."

"Plettwell," said Leia. "Plett's Well."

"How long have colonies been there?"

Leia shook her head. "We'll ask  Artoo.  At  least  twenty-five  or  thirty

years. The Ninth Quadrant's pretty isolated; the systems there are far apart. It

would be the ideal place for the Jedi Knights to hide their families, once  they

knew the Emperor was out to destroy them."

She straightened, the folds of her tabard falling into shimmering sculpture

about her. "They hid the children in the well," she repeated.  "And  after  that

they scattered, and didn't even remember who they were."

Leia frowned, a diplomat again. "Belsavis is an  independent  ally  of  the

Republic," she said. "They keep pretty tight security there because of the vine-

coffee and vine-silk, but they should let me in to have a look at their records.

Han and I can get the Falcon from Coruscant and be back before we were due  home

from the Time of Meeting. It's  supposed  to  be  beautiful  there,"  she  added

thoughtfully. "I wonder if the children--was

"No!" Luke caught her sleeve, as if to physically stop her from taking  her

children; both Leia and Cray regarded him in surprise. "Don't take them anywhere

near that place!"

The next moment he wondered why he'd spoken, wondered what it was  that  he

feared.

But all that remained was a sense of something wrong, something  evil--some

vision of blackness folding itself away into hiding...

He shook his head. "Anyway, if there's folks like Drub McKumb  there,  it's

not someplace you want to take the kids."

"No," said Leia softly, seeing  again--as  Luke  saw--the  groaning  figure

strapped to the diagnostic bed, the jarring reds and yellows  of  agony  on  the

monitor screens. "We'll be careful," she said quietly.  "But  we'll  find  them,

Luke. Or we'll find where they went."

The muted radiance of the sun-globes caught the flicker of her robes as she

passed beneath the pillars and out into the  luminous  velvet  of  the  Ithorian

night.

Chapter 3

Tatooine.

The iron cold of the desert night; the way the darkness  smelled  when  the

wind died. Luke lay staring at the low adobe arch of the ceiling  of  his  room,

barely visible in the small  glow  of  the  gauges  on  the  courtyard  moisture

condenser just outside his window...

Small, comforting clicks and whirrings came from the  household  machinery:

Aunt Beru's yogurt maker, the hydroponics plant Uncle Owen had set up last year,

the hum of the security fence...

Why did the night feel so silent?

Why did his chest hurt with a terror, a sense of some  malevolent  enormity

moving slowly through the dark?

He rose from his bed, taking his blanket to wrap around his shoulders.  The

stairs were tall for his short legs, the night air biting on  his  fingers.  The

desert smell made his nostrils itch, prickled on the skin of his face and lips.

He was very young.

At the top of the steps, above the  sunken  court  of  the  farmstead,  the

desert lay utterly still. Huge stars stared from the absolute black of  the  sky

with the wide-open glare of mad things, deeply and personally aware of the child

pattering across the sands to the point just clear of the fence's field--even in

those days, he knew that to a centimeter.

He stared out across the long wastes  of  dune  and  salt  pan  and  harsh,

pebbled reg, formless in the dark and without movement.

There was danger out there. Danger vast  and  terrible,  moving  stealthily

toward the isolated house.

Luke woke.

His open eyes gazed at the lofty arcs of  resin  and  pendants  woven  with

patterns of glass vines. Latticed flowers curtained the  windows  and  the  sun-

globes among the courtyard trees made shadow-lace on the  wall.  Though  it  was

deep in the night, still the music of the feasting, of hundreds of weddings  and

joyous dances of reunion and celebration wafted on the air thick with the  green

scents of the jungle below, with the honey and spice  and  vanilla  of  a  dozen

varieties of night-blossoming plant.

Tatooine.

Why did he dream about his childhood home? Why about that night, the  night

he'd waked to that silence more in his heart than in  the  night,  knowing  that

something was coming?

In that case it had been the Sand People, the Tusken Raiders.  He'd  gotten

too near the fence and tripped one of the small alarms. Uncle Owen had just come

out looking for him when the first, far-off groaning of the banthas  was  heard.

If Luke hadn't wakened when he had, the first anybody  would  have  known  would

have been when the Sand People attacked the fence.

Why did he feel that huge silence, that approaching evil, tonight?

What had he sensed in that split second when his mind  was  open,  reaching

for the memories stored in Nichos's electronic brain?

Luke got out of bed, gathered the sheet around his body as he  had  in  the

childhood he'd just experienced, and walked to the window.

All was stillness in the courtyard, save  for  the  whisper  of  an  unseen

fountain, the night conversation of trees. A bird warbled a few notes...

The Queen had a songbird that sang in the dark....

Han and Leia were gone. They had used Drub McKumb's attack  as  an  excuse,

arguing concern for the safety of their children, and  this  the  Ithorian  herd

leaders had understood. Of course their visit  must  be  cut  short,  they  must

return to Coruscant in the face of possibly unpredictable attacks.  Drub  McKumb

himself remained, under the care of Tomla El, sunk deep in his muttering dreams.

Artoo-Detoo had gone with them. His greater  computing  capacity  would  be

needed more where they were  going,  Luke  knew.  And  See-Threepio,  fussy  and

particular as he was, was needed here, for the strange and difficult  task  that

had brought Luke  to  Ithor  in  the  first  place:  A  droid  communicator  and

translator was needed, to work with Cray Mingla  and  the  Ithorian  healers  in

integrating Nichos Marr back to being the man he once had been.

But it was Artoo whom Luke needed now.

Another thought came to him.

Hitching the sheet up over his shoulders, he padded to  the  doorway.  See-

Threepio, seated in the empty dining room of the Guest House,  switched  on  the

moment Luke crossed the threshold, the glow of  eyes  springing  up  like  round

yellow moons in the dark. Luke gestured, shook his  head.  "No,  Threepio,  it's

okay."

"Is there something I can do for you, Master Luke?"

"Not right now. Thanks."

The protocol droid settled back into his chair, but Luke was aware,  as  he

descended the few steps to the outer door and crossed the terrace in the  violet

dark, that Threepio did not switch himself back off. For a droid, Threepio had a

very human nosiness.

Like See-Threepio, Nichos Marr sat in the outer room of the suite to  which

Cray had been assigned, in the power-down mode that was the droid equivalent  of

rest. Like Threepio, at the sound of Luke's almost noiseless tread he turned his

head, aware of his presence.

"Luke?" Cray had equipped him with the most sensitive vocal modulators, and

the word was calibrated to a whisper no louder than the rustle of the  blueleafs

massed outside the windows. He rose, and crossed to where Luke stood,  the  dull

silver of his arms and shoulders a phantom gleam in the stray flickers of light.

"What is it?"

"I don't know." They retreated to the small  dining  area  where  Luke  had

earlier probed his mind, and Luke stretched up to pin back a corner of the lamp-

sheathe, letting a slim triangle of butter-colored light fall on the  purple  of

the vulwood tabletop. "A dream. A premonition, maybe." It was  on  his  lips  to

ask, Do you dream? but he remembered the ghastly, imageless darkness in Nichos's

mind, and didn't. He wasn't sure if his pupil was aware of the difference in his

human perception and knowledge, aware of just exactly what he'd  lost  when  his

consciousness, his self, had been transferred.

"How aware are you of the  computerized  side  of  your  being?"  he  asked

instead.

A man would have knit his brows, pressed his thumb to his  lips,  scratched

his ear... something. Nichos answered with a droid's  promptness,  "I  am  aware

that it exists. If you were to ask me the square root of  pi  or  the  ratio  of

length to frequency of  light  waves  I  would  be  able  to  tell  you  without

hesitation."

"Can you generate random numbers?"

"Of course."

Of course.

"When I probed your mind, read your memories of that  childhood  planet,  I

felt a... a  disturbance.  As  if  something  were  reaching  out,  searching...

Something evil, something..." Saying it out loud, he knew now  what  he'd  felt.

"Something conscious. Could you place yourself in  a  receptive  trance,  as  if

meditating on the Force, open your mind to it, and... generate  random  numbers?

Random coordinates? I'll get you  a  stylopad,  there's  one  connected  to  the

terminal here. You were trained as a Jedi," Luke went on,  leaning  against  the

table and looking up into ^th cobalt-blue, artificial eyes. "You know the... the

feeling, the taste, the heft and hand, of the Force, even though you  can't  use

it now. I need to find this... this disturbance. This wave of  darkness  that  I

felt. Can you do this?"

Abruptly Nichos smiled, and it was the smile of the man Luke had known.  "I

haven't the slightest idea," he said. "But we can certainly try."

In the morning Luke excused  himself  from  the  expedition  Tomla  El  had

organized with Nichos and Cray to the Falls of Dessiar, one  of  the  places  on

Ithor most renowned for its beauty and peace. When they left he sought out Umwaw

Moolis, and the tall herd leader listened  gravely  to  his  less  than  logical

request and promised to put matters in train to fulfill it. Then Luke  descended

to the House of the Healers, where Drub McKumb lay, sedated far beyond pain  but

with all the perceptions of agony and nightmare still howling in his mind.

"Kill you!"  He  heaved  himself  at  the  restraints,  blue  eyes  glaring

furiously as he groped and scrabbled at Luke with his clawed  hands.  "It's  all

poison! I see you! I see the dark light all around you! You're him! You're him!"

His back bent like a bow; the sound of his shrieking was  like  something  being

ground out of him by an infernal mangle.

Luke had been through the darkest places of the universe  and  of  his  own

mind, had done and experienced greater evil than perhaps any man  had  known  on

the road the Force had dragged him... Still, it was hard not to turn away.

"We even tried yarrock on him last night," explained the Healer in  charge,

a slightly built Ithorian beautifully tabby-striped green and yellow  under  her

simple tabard of purple linen. "But apparently the earlier  doses  that  brought

him enough lucidity to reach here from his point of  origin  oversensitized  his

system. We'll try again in four or five days."

Luke gazed down into the contorted, grimacing face.

"As you can see," the Healer said, "the internal  perception  of  pain  and

fear is slowly lessening. It's down to ninety-three percent of what it was  when

he was first brought in. Not much, I know, but something."

"Him! Him! HIM!" Foam spattered the old man's stained gray beard.

Who?

"I wouldn't advise attempting any kind of mindlink until it's at least down

to fifty percent, Master Skywalker."

"No," said Luke softly.

Kill you all. And: They are gathering...

"Do you have recordings of everything he's said?"

"Oh, yes."  The  big  coppery  eyes  blinked  assent.  "The  transcript  is

available through the monitor cubicle down the hall. We could  make  nothing  of

them. Perhaps they will mean something to you."

They didn't. Luke listened to them all, the incoherent groans and  screams,

the chewed fragments of words that could be only guessed at, and now  and  again

the clear disjointed cries: "Solo! Solo! Can you hear  me?  Children...  Evil...

Gathering here... Kill you all!"

Punctuation is everything, thought Luke wryly, removing the jack  from  his

ear. Is that one thought or three? Or only the bleeding seepage of his dreams?

From a pocket at his belt he took the strip of hardcopy that  the  stylopad

had extruded early that  morning  under  Nichos's  rapid  generation  of  random

numbers, and, clipped to it, the  readout  he'd  had  from  the  herd's  central

computer a few hours later. What it meant he didn't know, but the fact  that  it

quite clearly meant something was intensely disquieting.

Feet passed in the corridor,  the  sharp  click  of  Cray's  exquisite  but

intensely impractical shoes, and he smiled to himself. Even on an expedition  to

the jungles, Cray could be counted upon to dress fashionably if  she  could.  He

heard her voice, its usual brisk sharpness honed to the brittleness  he'd  heard

in it more and more in the past six months...

"It's really just a matter of finding a way to quadruple the sensitivity of

the chips to achieve a pattern, instead of a linear,  generator."  She  was  the

expert, Luke knew--his own  knowledge  of  droid  programming  and  droid  minds

started and ended with how to talk Threepio out of his  more  impractical  ideas

for the care of Han and Leia's children... But his sense, his perception of  the

slight shifts of feeling audible in the human voice,  picked  up  the  desperate

note of one trying to convince herself, of a rear-guard action against doubt and

unwanted certainty and too little sleep.

"Hayvlin Vesell of the Technomic Research Foundation spoke in an article of

going back to the old xylen-based chips, because of the  finer  divisibility  of

information possible. When I return to the Institute--was

"That's what I'm trying to impress on you, Dr.  Mingla--Cray."  Tomla  El's

voice was a murmuring concert of woodwinds. "This may not be possible no  matter

how finely you partition the information. The answer may be  that  there  is  no

answer. Nichos may simply not be capable of human affect."

"Oh, I think you're wrong about that." She'd gained back the smooth control

in her voice. She might have been speaking to  a  professional  colleague  about

programmatic languages. "Certainly a great deal  more  work  needs  to  be  done

before we can dismiss the possibility. I'm told also that  in  experiments  with

accelerated learning, at  a  certain  number  of  multiples  of  human  learning

capacity, tremendous  breakthroughs  can  occur.  I've  signed  up  for  another

accelerator course, this one in informational patterning dynamics..."

Her voice faded down the corridor. A great deal more  work,  thought  Luke,

hurting for her, pressing his  hand  to  his  brow.  It  was  Cray's  answer  to

everything. With sufficient effort, sufficient maneuvering, any problem could be

surmounted, no matter what the cost to herself.

And the cost to herself, he knew, had been devastating.

He  remembered  the  weeks  after  Nichos  had  been  diagnosed  with   the

inexplicable degenerative decay of the nervous system: remembered  Cray  turning

up for  her  training  every  morning  after  nights  spent  with  the  learning

accelerator therapies she'd  had  shipped  to  Yavin,  brittle,  exhausted,  not

telling him or anyone that she was forcing herself  through  hypnosis  and  drug

therapies to absorb the farthest frontiers of her chosen field in order to  know

enough, to learn enough, to save the man she loved before it was too late. After

Nichos was hospitalized he remembered those terrible  nights  of  going  to  the

medcenter on Coruscant, while  day  after  day  Cray  bullied  and  hurried  her

suppliers, sweated sleepless over her designs, racing the disease while Nichos's

body weakened and melted away before their eyes.

Cray had worked a miracle. She had saved the life of the man she loved.

After a fashion.

A man who could recall the complete text of that old childhood song but had

no sense--noteither joy nor sorrow nor nostalgia--of what it meant to him.

"Luke?"

He'd heard the light, soft step in the corridor, and with it the very faint

mechanical hum of Threepio's servos. The two of them--the golden droid  and  the

pewter-gray one with the man's pale face--stood in the doorway.

"Did the random numbers I generated turn out to mean something?"

Faint water stains marked the silvery arm and shoulder on his left side, as

if he'd stood close to the Falls. Luke  wondered  how  the  experience  of  that

beauty, shared with the woman he loved, had registered in his memory banks.

"They're coordinates, all right." Luke touched the hardcopy that lay on the

cubicle's small desk before him. "They're the  coordinates  for  the  Moonflower

Nebula, out on the Outer Rim,  past  the  K  Seven  Forty-nine  System.  There's

nothing out there, never has been, but...  I've  made  arrangements  with  Umwaw

Moolis to lend me a ship. I just think it needs to be checked out."

One of Luke's hardest lessons concerning the use of the Force had  been  to

abandon mechanical, provable realities and trust his hunches. These days  people

generally didn't ask questions of the man who had destroyed the Sun Crusher.

"Will I be accompanying you, Master Luke?"

"Of course you'll be accompanying him, Threepio."  Nichos  stepped  back  a

half pace to regard the protocol droid. "As will I. And Cray, too, I  hope."  He

turned his head, and Luke heard, a moment before he saw her come into the lights

of the cubicle doorway, Cray's quick-tapping footfalls in the hall.

"You hope what?" She put her arm around Nichos's waist, smiled  up  at  him

almost the way she used to, though Luke observed the almost infinitesimal  pause

before he draped an arm around her shoulders in return. As Luke  had  known  she

would be, Cray was beautifully  turned  out  in  a  gown  of  black  and  white,

carefully made up, a bright scarf wound in her flaxen hair.

"That you'll be coming to the Moonflower Nebula with Luke and  Threepio  to

investigate this... whatever it is. This hunch he has."

"Oh, but I..." She stopped herself from  saying  something--probably,  Luke

guessed, from protesting that she had to continue  Nichos's  rehabilitation  and

rehumanization therapies with Tomla El. He saw her visibly rein herself in,  and

look at him again with concern in her face. "What, Luke?  Nichos  told  me  this

morning about the random number field."

"It may be nothing." Luke rose from the  little  table,  switched  off  the

monitor, and shoved the hardcopy back into the pouch on his belt.  "The  two  of

you came here to work--to help you, Nichos. It's not--was

"You had work of your own to do back on Yavin." Cray met his eyes  gravely,

her brown gaze almost on level with his own. "Yet you came here with us."

"You don't know what's out there, Luke." Nichos put a hand on  Luke's  arm.

"Between the warlords and Grand Admiral wannabes of the  various  parts  of  the

Imperial Fleet, and whatever Princes of the Ancient Houses in the  Senex  Sector

who think they can grab a piece of power... they're coming up  with  new  things

all the time. Request Umwaw Moolis to get you a bigger ship."

The Outer Rim. Many years ago Luke had described his homeworld of Tatooine-

-one of the worlds in that very sparsely settled and marginally habitable region

of the galaxy--as the point that was farthest from  the  bright  center  of  the

universe, with considerable accuracy. He had since visited places  beside  which

Tatooine looked like Coruscant during Carnival Week, but his original definition

would still hold up... and the same could be said for most of the  rest  of  the

Outer Rim as well.

Swollen crimson suns circled by frozen balls of methane and  ammonia.  Hot-

burning blue stars whose light  and  heat  crisped  their  planets  to  cinders.

Pulsars whose orbiting worlds alternately  froze  and  melted  and  clusters  so

filled with ambient radiation as to cook out any possibility of life on whatever

bodies weren't torn apart by the conflicting gravitational fields.

Everywhere in the galaxy were a lot of empty planets,  balls  of  rock  and

metals too expensive to exploit because of heat, or gravity,  or  radiation,  or

proximity to strange hazards like gas cauldrons  or  fluctuating  anomalies.  As

Leia had said to Cray, distances in space were vast, and it was easy to lose  or

forget about whole systems, whole sectors, if there was no reason to  go  there.

In the Outer Rim, the Empire had never bothered much with local law.

The armored explorer-cruiser Huntbird the Ithorians had lent to  Luke  came

out of hyperspace a healthy distance from the luminous zone of dust and  ionized

gases listed on the starcharts as the Moonflower Nebula.

"Are you sure that's what the random  coordinates  were  for?"  asked  Cray

doubtfully, studying the readouts of all information on the area  on  the  three

screens immediately beneath the bridge's main viewport. "It isn't even listed in

the Registry. Might the coordinates have been for System K Seven Forty-nine, for

instance? That's only a few parsecs away, and at least there's a planet  there--

Pzob..." She read off the screen. "Human-habitable and temperate...  the  Empire

could have had a base there, though there's none listed."

"It's habitable," agreed Luke, tapping through instructions on  the  keypad

with one hand and keeping an eye on the changing images on the central screen as

he spoke. "But it was colonized  way,  way  back  in  the  days  by  Gamorreans,

goodness only knows how or why. Anybody wanting a  permanent  base  there  would

have had to spend a fortune in security."

"A most unpleasant people, Gamorreans," agreed  Threepio  primly  from  the

bench seat he shared with Nichos in the passenger area of the bridge. "They were

difficult enough to deal with in the entourage of Jabba the Hutt....  Procedures

programs for visiting Gamorr consist of a single  line:  DO  NOT  VISIT  GAMORR.

Really!"

"I don't know..." Luke studied the viewscreen ahead of them. The reflective

veils of dust picked up the light of surrounding stars, and glowed  from  within

to indicate that somewhere in that vastness two or three stars  were  concealed,

their rays diffused by the all-encompassing gases so that almost  nothing  could

be seen. "Readings show a lot of rocks in there."

He touched a switch, and a schematic manifested itself on one of the  small

screens. On it the zone was thickly speckled with what  looked  like  grains  of

sand and pebbles held in uneasy random suspension.

"Asteroid field,"  he  said.  "Looks  like  all  sizes.  Usual  iron-nickel

composition. May be a belt going all around one  of  the  stars  in  there...  I

wonder if the Empire ever did any mining?"

"It would cost a fortune, wouldn't it?" asked Nichos, getting  up  to  step

close and look down over their shoulders.

Luke  flipped  through  screen  after  screen,  studying   mass   readings,

spectrographic analyses, local gravitational fields,  while  all  the  time  the

glowing, shifting wall of light drew nearer, so  bright  that  its  soft  colors

streamed from the viewscreen over the faces of those grouped around the console.

"It would help if I knew what I  was  looking  for.  Whoa,  looks  like  we  got

something in there..."

He accelerated gently into the first outstringers of the  veils  of  light.

Colors swirled and drifted,  chunks  of  rock  the  size  of  office  blocks  on

Coruscant floating suddenly out of dustbanks and sandbars of brilliance, so that

Luke had to maneuver slowly among them. "There we go." He toggled a switch,  and

before them they made out the shape of a cold gray worldlet, seemingly  embedded

in veils of chilly whites and greens, pitted with holes in which old crane  arms

and landing cradles could be seen.

"A base of some kind," said Luke.  "Probably  mining,  but  it  looks  like

scavengers have been at it for scrap and whatever parts they could float away."

"I'm surprised anybody bothered." Cray peered around his arm for  a  better

view. "Can we get a readout on the rocks around us? With  all  the  interference

we're getting from the magnetic and ion fields of the dust cover, this would  be

a swell place to hide."

"I'm not picking up anything, but that doesn't mean there's nothing  here."

Luke thumbed the viewer to show a couple of  the  larger  rocks,  in  the  nine-

kilometer range, but ionization from  the  nebula's  electrical  fields  blanked

anything much out of visual range. "Let's have a look around."

Cray continued to flip through the readouts and specs while Luke guided the

Huntbird through the glowing mazes of veils, light, and stones. Few pilots would

even venture into asteroid fields--the appearance of languid drift was an unsafe

illusion to bank on. Even Luke was wary of them. Most of the asteroids were  the

size of the vessel or larger, too big to be shuffled away by the deflectors. The

ship's mere movement was sufficient to cause gravitational ripples and swirls in

the uneasy equilibrium of the field. The field itself was enormous, the fritzed-

out sensor pickup showing more and more  rocks.  Almost  certainly  a  planetary

belt, thought Luke. It would take days to explore it in even  the  most  cursory

fashion.

And yet...

Every instinct he possessed told him there was  something  there.  Or  near

there, and one look at the readouts told him there wasn't  anything  near  there

but there. They passed close to a massive ball of rock, almost sixty  kilometers

through, and under the shadows of its flank Luke glimpsed  more  holes  and  the

remains of a self-erecting dome. Another installation,  a  big  one  this  time.

Clearly deserted, but...

Why two mines?

Or were mines what they were?

"They have any readings for mining activity in this area?"

Nichos, who had quietly taken his place at the computer station, tapped the

keyboard for a moment, then said, "There're no  observation  posts  anywhere  in

this sector. Funny," he added. "No records of any mining having gone on anywhere

near here at all."

"Can you pick up any antimatter trails?" asked Luke, steering the  Huntbird

around a tight mass of large asteroids  that  had  drifted  into  one  another's

gravitational proximity and now clung together, bumping and  scraping  with  the

silent, stupid clumsiness of ex-spouses at a  party.  "Hyperdust?  Any  sign  of

ships coming through here at all?"

"Trails would dissipate in  a  few  weeks,"  Cray  reminded  him,  checking

anyway. "Nothing. Drat this interference. We--was

"Shields!" yelled Luke, slamming his hand on the deflectors and wondering--

in the same split second that something impacted  with  the  explorer  like  the

crushing fist of some vengeful demon--if he was crazy...

Purple-white light rammed through the  viewport  with  an  almost  physical

force, leaving blindness and the sickening jolt of the gravity going out.  Light

again, as a second plasma bolt smashed the ship in the same  instant  that  Luke

swung the helm. He smelled burning insulation and heard a  sizzle,  then  Cray's

cursing. She had a startling line of  profanity  for  someone  that  proper  and

controlled. As his eyes readjusted he saw that most of the board in front of him

was black.

"Where are they coming from?" The readouts weren't telling him.

"Sector two, back behind--was

"There!"

Luke had already begun to whip the vessel  into  another  yaw,  hoping  his

impression was correct that that area wasn't occupied by an asteroid,  and  from

the tail of his eye saw the white sword of  light  stab  out  from  an  enormous

asteroid that had, until seconds ago, indeed been in their rear.

"Get a fix on it!"

"Look out!"

"Oh, dear!" That was Threepio, as the Internal Systems Console to his right

exploded into a geyser of sparks. Luke barely noticed, for the next plasma  bolt

splintered a meteorite and showered the ship with several  thousand  superheated

cannonballs.

"There's nothing on the surface!" yelled Cray over the crackle of  shorting

wires. "No domes, no emplacements, I can't even  see  gunports..."  He  wondered

that she could see anything in the nebula's weird,  shadowless  light.  "There's

holes all over the thing--was

"Watch it!" Luke spun the vessel, whipped behind another hunk of  rock  and

ice, praying he wasn't diving straight into the  attacker's  gun-sights.  Except

for size, every asteroid in the field looked almost  exactly  like  every  other

asteroid, and unless it was actually shooting at them it was  nearly  impossible

to tell on which  of  the  half  dozen  one-to-two-kilometer  rocks  immediately

visible in the universe of glowing dust the guns  were  situated.  The  asteroid

behind which the Huntbird  had  ducked  took  a  terrible  hit,  only  its  size

preventing it from splintering as the smaller one had; it blocked the  attackers

from view.

"I've got a fix..."

"It'll be inaccurate in two seconds." Luke ran a hasty  systems  check.  He

was peripherally aware of the dig of his safety harness into his  shoulders  and

hips; if internal gravity was failing probably  heat  and  air  were  out,  too.

"We're getting out of here."

"Aft starboard sensors blind," reported Nichos, hanging on  to  the  safety

handle by the crippled data console. His feet were off  the  floor.  "Deflectors

one-third power..."

Luke maneuvered carefully along the line  of  sight  behind  the  shielding

asteroid, fighting the helm's drift to port, which told him the  stabilizer  was

out. He didn't even have to key the readout to know  the  vessel  wouldn't  make

hyperspace. "How far to Pzob?"

"Three or four hours at top sublight," reported Cray. She sounded grim  but

not scared, though this was her first time under fire. Good, Luke thought, for a

young woman who'd gone straight from the schoolroom to the lecture room with  no

stops in between. "That's just guessing. I've got a helm bearing but I can't get

an exact distance."

"Our sublight engines seem to be okay," said Luke. "We'll be  on  emergency

oxygen and we'll probably be pretty cold by the time we get there.  Threepio,  I

hope you know Gamorrean."

Threepio said, "Oh, dear."

"Course seems to be clear all around." Cray toggled through the  setting  a

second time, though the navicomp screen was fritzing in and  out  of  focus.  If

they lost that, thought Luke, they were really down a hole.

No further shots from the asteroid base. Nevertheless his  scalp  prickled,

and he laid the course for the longest line  of  sight  he  could  to  keep  the

asteroid between him and where he figured the base was.

"Right," he said softly. "Let's make hyperdust."

The Huntbird had just started to move when a bolt of ionized plasma hit the

shielding asteroid like the hammer of Death. Rocks, energy,  heat  slammed  into

the explorer vessel like monstrous shrapnel. Luke felt the safety  harness  that

held him tear loose with the violence of the impact: Cray screamed, and  he  was

grabbed by darkness.

Chapter 4

Luke came to long enough to throw up, not a pleasant occurrence in  zero-g.

Two See-Threepios unhooked him from the safety harness in which he  floated  and

steered him--with surprising  nimbleness  for  a  droid  who  always  seemed  so

carefully balanced--out of the small cubicle and into what he  thought  was  the

aft crew room before he passed out once more.

The Force, he thought. Got to use the Force.

Why?

Because your lungs have stopped working.

It took an astonishing amount of concentration to inhale again, and it hurt

a lot more than he'd thought it would. A little later he wondered  if  he  could

use the Force to do something about the crazed bantha that seemed to be  trapped

inside his skull and trying to ram its way out.

It occurred to him the next time he came to-the cold woke him, that  time--

that he probably had a concussion.

"Luke," said Cray, and now she sounded scared. "Luke, you've  got  to  wake

up!"

He knew she was probably right.

The Force, he thought again. Cilghal, his Calamarian  student,  had  taught

him enough about the specific physiological mechanism  of  concussions  that  he

knew exactly where to bring the Force to bear,  though  it  was  a  little  like

trying to take off a glove one-handed. His lungs felt as if he'd inhaled a  sand

drill and neglected to turn it off. No wonder breathing hadn't  been  a  lot  of

fun.

Increased  blood  flow  to  the  capillaries  to  clear   the   impurities.

Accelerated healing to the cells of that rioting squadron of drunken  Gamorreans

that had formerly been his brain.

Opening his eyes, he worked on consolidating both  Crays  into  the  single

individual he was pretty sure they were.

"Where are we?"

"Coming up on the K Seven Forty-nine System." She had a huge bruise on  the

side of her face, the makeup that had been on her eyes streaked black  with  the

residue of tears of pain. She wore a yellow thermal suit over her clothing,  the

cowl pushed back and her pale hair floating loose around her face. "We've picked

up a signal."

Luke breathed deep--at the cost of a certain amount of  nausea--and  worked

on channeling the Force to the center of the worst pain  and  dizziness  in  his

head. He couldn't remember how good a pilot Nichos was, but he knew Cray had  no

experience in it at all. If they were going to make Pzob alive he'd better be in

shape to take the ship down.

"I thought there was nothing out here. From Pzob?"

"K Seven Forty-nine Three, yes."

Luke had completely stopped cussing at petty misfortunes  round  about  the

time he'd lost his right hand--after he'd realized he'd  aborted  and  imperiled

his own training as a Jedi, betrayed his  Master,  and  put  himself  in  deadly

danger of succumbing to the dark side for no purpose whatsoever, his perspective

on minor annoyances had changed. He only sighed now, letting his worry run  off,

and asked, "Imperial?" If the base in the asteroid field was an Imperial one  it

stood to reason.

"The data section of the computer's out," said Cray. "I've got the navicomp

back on line from the backups but that took every coupling  that  wasn't  burned

out by that last power surge. Can you recognize  Imperial  signals  by  internal

code?"

"Some of them." He reached over--carefully-to strip free  the  straps  that

held a silvery thermal blanket around him, while Cray unfastened the restraining

straps that held him in place. He was, he saw, in the  aft  crew  room  as  he'd

thought. The lighting came from a single emergency glowpanel in the ceiling, but

it was sufficient to enable him to see his breath.

"Here you are, Master Luke."  Threepio  floated  across  to  him  from  the

lockers on the opposite wall, holding out a t-suit and an  oxygen  filter  mask.

"I'm so gratified to see you conscious and well."

"That's a matter of opinion." Even the  small  movement  necessary  to  get

himself into the t-suit made him queasy,  and  despite  all  the  channeling  of

healing he could do, his head still throbbed agonizingly.  He  took  the  filter

mask and glanced inquiringly at Cray.

"The coolant lines ruptured. We got a mask on you as fast as we  could  but

there was a while there we thought you were a goner."

He touched the back of his head, and was immediately sorry.  Whatever  he'd

struck--or  whatever  flying  debris  had  struck   him--had   raised   a   lump

approximately the size of the smaller of Coruscant's moons.

"I salvaged as much of the battle readouts as I could." Cray slipped on her

own filter mask and followed him across the crew room to the  door.  "There  are

some stills, a little footage that I can't get to run, and a half dozen computer

extrapolations of what I think are the site of the attack, but the system's  too

damaged for me to get any kind of clear picture of which asteroid it is. When we

make port and I can salvage the data I'll be able to tell you more." She  pushed

aside a drifting logpad and a couple of spare filter masks as they  entered  the

short hallway. Though spacegoing vessels as a rule kept  to  a  minimum  objects

that weren't strapped or magnetized down,  there  were  always  some:  comlinks,

stylos, coffee mugs, logpads, empty drink bubbles, and data wafers.

The bridge was even colder than the  crew  room,  and  murky  with  pinkish

coolant gas. Nichos had lashed himself to the safety bolts on the  edge  of  the

main console itself; the chair Luke had been sitting in was tied to  a  handhold

on the far wall, having been ripped loose from its moorings by the  impact  that

had torn Luke out of its harness. The lights had gone completely  in  here,  and

only the chalky starlight from the main viewport illuminated the room. Feral red

or blinking amber power lights glinted like strange jewels  in  reflection  from

the silvery droid's arms and back.

"The signal we're picking up from Pzob isn't strong enough  to  reach  into

the Moonflower Nebula," reported Nichos, as Luke pulled  himself  close  with  a

floating remnant of the safety-harness strap. "Look familiar?"

Luke checked the readout on the single screen  left  functional.  "Not  any

Imperial signal I've ever seen," he said. "Which  doesn't  mean  that  whoever's

sending it isn't allied with one or another of the warlords." It was odd, and  a

little disconcerting, to see Nichos without either mask or t-suit  in  what  was

rapidly becoming a frozen and depressurized coffin.

"The Gamorrean colonists?" suggested Cray. "Or smugglers, maybe?"

"The Gamorreans haven't stopped fighting each other long enough to set up a

technological base of any kind on any planet where they've settled,"  said  Luke

doubtfully. "It might be smugglers--which doesn't mean they won't be allied with

Harrsk or Teradoc or some other  Imperial  wannabe,  or  with  one  of  the  big

smuggler gangs for that matter. But at  this  point,"  he  added,  toggling  the

readout back to the navicomputer and marveling a little that Cray had gotten the

thing workable at all, "we don't have any choice."

Massive, porcine, primitive, and  belligerent,  Gamorreans  will  live  and

thrive wherever there is soil fertile enough to farm, sufficient game  to  hunt,

and rocks to throw at one another, but given their  preference  they  will  take

forested country, if possible where mushrooms grow. The  woods  surrounding  the

four - or five-acre  fire  scar  in  which  Luke  put  the  Huntbird  down  were

monumental, dense, thick, old, and hugely tall, like the rain forests  of  Ithor

but heavier, and the shadowed, brooding silence beneath  their  leathery  leaves

made Luke profoundly uneasy.

"The base should be in  that  direction,"  he  said,  sitting  down  rather

quickly on the steps of the explorer's emergency  exit--the  boarding  ramp  was

inoperational--and pointing off in the direction of the lately risen orange sun.

Despite all the energy of the Force that he could summon he felt giddy and  ill,

and though his lungs were healing rapidly he was still short  of  breath.  "It's

not very far; the energy readings don't look big  enough  for  power  fences  or

heavy weaponry."

"Wouldn't they need power fences at least if there are  Gamorreans  in  the

area?" Like Luke, Cray had stripped out of her t-suit;  her  deft  fingers  were

rapidly rebraiding her hair even as she spoke. Quite a trick without  a  mirror,

thought Luke, a little amused. But Cray could manage it if anyone could.

"The Gamorreans may not have colonized this  continent,"  he  pointed  out.

Wind stirred at the long grass, dark blue-green, like all the vegetation in this

amber-lit world, but far from being unsettling  the  slight  goldenness  of  the

light gave everything a deep sense of sunset peace. A flock of tiny  bipeds--red

and yellow, and no higher than Luke's knee--fled, startled from behind a  fallen

tree trunk, and went whistling and chirping away toward the eaves of the woods.

"For that matter, we may find a  colony  from  some  other  race  alt.  The

reports on this world haven't been updated in fifty years."

"We have the  engine  hatches  open,  Master  Luke."  Threepio  and  Nichos

appeared at the top of the steps, the gold and silver  metals  of  their  bodies

dented and streaked with oil. They, too, had taken a beating in the battle  with

the asteroid. "Most of the coolant gas has now dissipated into the atmosphere."

The impact of the last plasma bolt and the shattered  asteroid  had  jammed

the hatches into the engine compartment; in addition to the  intermittent  waves

of dizziness that still plagued him, Luke  had  thought  it  wiser  to  let  the

droids, who needed no breath masks, use their  greater  strength  to  force  the

doors while the humans made a quick reconnaissance of the outside.

The engine itself was a complete mess.

"We'll need about thirty meters of number eight cabling, and a  dozen  data

couplers," said Luke half an hour later, sliding gingerly out of an access hatch

in the darkened engine  room.  Even  the  glowpanels  had  gone  out  here,  the

claustrophobic chamber illuminated by a string of emergency worklights wired  to

a Scale-10 battery from the emergency kit. "The rest of it I think I can patch."

I'd better be able to patch, he reflected grimly. Leia's  words  about  how

easy it was to get lost between inhabited worlds reverberated unnervingly in his

mind.

Cray withdrew her head  from  the  innards  of  the  navicomp.  "I'll  need

couplers and some twelve-mil flat cable... you okay, Luke?" For  he'd  tried  to

stand, only to sink back, gray-faced  and  sweating,  against  the  soot-stained

bulkhead.

Luke concentrated the Force in his body, on his  brain  chemistry  and  the

pinched capillaries of his lungs: relaxing, accelerating repair and regrowth. He

felt very tired. "I'll be fine." Please don't let there be hostile smugglers  at

that base, he thought, trying desperately to gather the strength he'd  need.  Or

some kind of secret base of one of the warlords. Or  a  hidden  mine  worked  by

slaves. Or the concealed research station of some nefarious  power  we've  never

even heard of...

If there was any trouble--even the smallest fight--he didn't think he could

cope with it.

Cray had never seen real action, real trouble. Threepio wasn't designed for

it, and Nichos...

Whatever happened, he had to get back with word that there  was  definitely

something hiding in the Moonflower Nebula. Something dangerous.

"Luke?"

He realized he'd almost blacked out again. Cray was kneeling  in  front  of

him--two Crays, dark eyes filled with  concern.  The  accumulated  heat  of  the

engines still lingered in this compartment, but even that couldn't  account  for

the suffocating sensation he felt, hot and stifled, though his  hands  and  feet

were cold.

Capillaries. Recovery. Healing.

"Why don't you let Nichos and me go investigate that signal?"

He took a deep breath and wished he hadn't. "I  think  you  may  need  help

there."

Of course, harmless people--good, helpful people--did inhabit unknown bases

on remote planets. Please let it be that...

The bad feeling he'd sensed, the knowledge of  darkness  advancing,  didn't

leave him.

"The sooner we can get a message out, the better," the young woman  pointed

out. "Whatever's out in the nebula, we can't risk letting the Imperial  warlords

find it, and that risk grows every hour. I can scope out the settlement or  camp

or whatever it is, ask for the parts we need, and send  out  a  distress  signal

while you rest a little, then start the patching part of the job as soon as  you

feel up to it. All right?"

Luke's head was swimming. He rested it against  the  bulkhead  behind  him,

fighting for breath. Not all right, he thought.  Not  if  there's  any  kind  of

danger in that camp or in the woods around it.

The spark-charred units, the ruptured hoses dangling like dead  limbs,  the

opened hatches of the compression accelerator and gyro-grav systems, all  seemed

to be swaying gently, as if the ship  were  floating  on  deep  water,  and  the

hardrock miners in his skull  had  resumed  their  thermal  blasting  operations

again. The thought of  getting  to  his  feet,  of  walking  the  two  or  three

kilometers to the site of the signal, gave him a sinking feeling inside.  I  can

do it, he told himself grimly. With the help of the Force...

"I think you'll need me there."

He held out his hand, shut his teeth hard against nausea as Cray helped him

to his feet. She eased him  through  the  hatch,  helped  him  down  the  steep,

ladderlike steps. "What makes you so sure there'll be trouble?"

"I don't know," said Luke softly. "But I can feel  trouble  of  some  kind.

There's something..."

They stepped through the  hatchway  onto  the  bridge,  turned,  and  found

themselves staring down the muzzle of a blaster rifle held  by  a  white-armored

Imperial stormtrooper.

Luke's hand shut around Cray's wrist as she went for  her  blaster.  "Cray,

no!" The trooper tensed--Luke raised his hands,  showing  them  empty.  After  a

moment Cray did likewise. If he went for his lightsaber, Luke thought,  the  man

might still catch them both in the rifle blast, and there was no way of  knowing

how many others were in the rest of the ship.

From the faceless white helmet a buzzing voice demanded, "State  your  name

and business."

Cray and Luke stepped back a pace, backs pressed to the wall. Dizziness hit

Luke again--he tried to control it, tried to summon enough of the Force to  pull

the man's rifle from him if he needed to do it, but suspected it was  more  than

he could manage.

"We're traders," he said. "We're lost, our ship was damaged..."

Blackness closed on his vision and he felt his knees buckle. Cray tried  to

steady him--the stormtrooper sprang forward, dropped his rifle, and  caught  his

arm.

"You're hurt," said the stormtrooper,  helping  him  to  sit  and  kneeling

beside him. Nichos and Threepio, hands full of patching materials, appeared from

the storeroom hatchway and stared in surprise as the stormtrooper pulled off his

helmet, revealing a kindly, much-lined  black  face  surrounded  by  a  grizzled

popcorn halo of hair and beard.

"Oh, you poor folks, you look like you've had an awful time," said the man.

"You come on over to my camp, I'll get you something to eat and a cup of tea."

Bereft of his gleaming armor, Triv Pothman proved to be  a  trim,  strongly

built man in his mid-fifties--"Though I admit the damp's getting to me  and  I'm

not so quick as I used to be." He gestured to  the  racks  of  armor  along  the

curved inner wall of his shelter, a low, white, self-erecting dome  patched  all

over outside with black and salmon-colored lichens,  rain-streaked  and  covered

with the dirt of years. Second-growth trees, suckers, and vines surrounded  what

had been a clearing of Imperial military regulation size all around, though most

of the sheds and shelters, and the long-dead posts of the  security  fence,  lay

buried now under tangles of vines.

"Forty-five of us, there were." There was something akin to  pride  in  his

voice. "Forty-five of us, and I'm the only one  left.  The  Gamorreans  got  the

rest, mostly, except for that giant fight between the Commander and Killium  Neb

and his friends over... Well, that was a long time ago, and it  cost  some  good

men their lives." He shook his head regretfully, and poured water from a bearing

housing hung over the fire into a spouted pot of painted terra-cotta. The  smell

of healing herbs filled the vine-hung dome.

"And there they all are." He gestured to the helmets. "For all the good  it

ever did them."

The old unit medkit was far more complete than what had been on  board  the

Huntbird even before the impact had scattered and smashed half  the  vessels  in

the explorer craft's sick bay. Pothman had dosed Luke with another two  ampoules

of antishock--in addition to what Cray had  given  him  right  after  the  final

blast--and had hooked him for half an hour  to  a  therapeutic  respirator  that

still, for a miracle, worked. Looking around over the edge of  the  breath  mask

that covered his lower face, Luke was deeply grateful. From his days as a  pilot

in the Rebel fleet he knew too well that once you got injured,  unless  you  got

medical help soon you were going to keep on getting injured as you  became  less

and less able to protect yourself.

Though he never, he reflected with a certain wry amusement, thought he'd be

so glad that the Empire took good care to equip its stormtroopers with the best.

A feathered lizard, turquoise as palomella blossoms, appeared  between  the

looped-back curtains of the dome's doorway, chittered and spread its  mane,  and

Pothman tweaked a chunk of crust from one of the brown rolls he'd taken from his

oven in honor of his guests,  and  tossed  it.  The  lizard  minced  forward  on

delicate little feet, picked up the bread, and nibbled, watching the gray-haired

hermit all the while with black jewels of eyes.

"Sure is good to see human beings again."  Pothman  offered  the  plate  of

rolls and honey to Cray, who sat beside Luke on the edge of Pothman's  bunk.  He

winked at her. "Sure is good to see a nice-looking young lady."

Cray drew herself up and started to retort that she wasn't  a  nice-looking

young lady, she held a full professorship at the  Magrody  Institute,  but  Luke

moved his hand just enough to touch her arm.

The stormtrooper had already turned back to survey the  helmets  along  the

wall. They were of an older style than Luke had known, longer  in  the  face  to

allow for the earlier configuration of respirators, with a dark band of  sensors

above the eyes.

"They would go on fighting the Gamorreans," Pothman sighed. "That was  like

sending them out invitations to tea, of course. They'll miss  their  dinners  to

have a fight." His grin was very white in his beard. "'Course in  those  days  I

was quite a fighter myself."

"You've held the Gamorreans off by yourself all this time?" Luke  carefully

removed the respirator mask from his face, breathed deep, tasting the  sweetness

of the air. It still made him dizzy, but no longer hurt so much. It should  hold

him, he thought--he hoped--until they reached civilization again. He turned  his

head to survey the wide room, the simple clay dishes on  the  shelf,  the  traps

wrought of reptile sinew and engine strapping, the  monofilament  fishing  lines

that had patently started life as part of standard Imperial  equipment.  A  loom

reared up near the door, constructed of various  grades  of  engine  pipe,  with

several yards of homespun woven on it.

"Oh, gracious, no." Pothman handed him a cup of tea: herbal,  spicy,  warm,

and, Luke sensed, healing. Luke had seen no kiln and wondered where he'd  gotten

the dishes, and the thread on the loom. Out of his  white  armor,  Pothman  wore

soft-dyed green and brown clothing, embroidered on breast and  sleeves  and  hem

with meticulously accurate renderings of the local flowers and reptiles.

"I got caught early on. They took all the rifles and blasters, you see, and

they needed somebody to fix them. But after the power  cells  died  they  didn't

bother keeping an eye on me. I figure the Emperor forgot the mission a long time

ago. You ever hear what happened to it?"

"Mission?" Luke sat up a little and sipped the tea, and  did  his  best  to

look innocent, something he'd always been good at.

"The Eye of Palpatine." Pothman opened an equipment locker, brought  out  a

utility pack, and started loading it with wire, cables,  couplers,  backup  data

wafers, tools. "That was the name of the mission. Scuttlebutt  said  there  were

about two companies of troopers in it, but  scattered,  so  nobody  would  know,

nobody would guess. They put us on the most out-of-the-way  planets  they  could

find, to be picked up in the biggest, most dangerous, most secret vessel of them

all, a supership, a dreadnaught, a battlemoon...  One  the  enemy  wouldn't  see

coming until it was too late."

"What enemy?" asked Luke softly.

There was stillness again, save for the rustling of the trees outside,  and

the faint clunketing of Pothman's much-mended machinery, a  sound  that  brought

back to Luke his childhood on Tatooine.

Pothman was silent, his back to them, looking down at the utility  pack  on

the chest lid before him. "We didn't know," he said at last. "We  weren't  told.

At the time I thought it was... Well, it was my duty. Now..."  He  turned  back,

his face troubled.

"I suppose something went wrong.  Somebody  found  out  after  all,  though

everyone said that was impossible, since the Emperor was the only one that knew.

After we'd been here nearly a year I got  to  wondering  if  maybe  the  Emperor

himself had forgotten. When I saw your ship come  over  I  sort  of  hoped  he'd

finally remembered--that he'd sent scouts to see what was left." His  big  hands

toyed wistfully with the straps.

"But if it wasn't the Emperor who sent you out, you see, I know  enough  to

know that whoever screwed up and scrapped the mission, nobody's going to want to

be reminded it ever existed. Which means I might be sort of an embarrassment."

He slung the pack over his shoulder, and came to stand  next  to  the  tidy

bunk where Luke lay on the silvery survival blankets  and  feather  quilts.  "My

signal isn't strong enough to reach anybody, not way out here. But if we can get

your engines fixed, you think maybe you might just drop me in  some  out-of-the-

way place where they might not find me? It's nice to see human  faces  again.  I

was the company armorer; I know everything's changed in all this time, but I can

still work pretty good with my hands, and I've learned to be a fair cook. I  can

find work. It's been a long time."

No bargaining, thought Luke wonderingly. No Take me off this  rock  or  you

won't get so much as  a  screwdriver  out  of  me.  Everything  freely  offered,

expecting nothing in return.

"It's been a long time," he said gently. "The  Emperor's  dead,  Triv.  The

Empire's in pieces. We can take you back to your home, or wherever you want;  in

the New Republic, or to some port where you can  get  a  flight  into  the  Core

Systems, or any other place you want to go."

"We're doomed." See-Threepio turned from the gauges of the  slowly  filling

oxygen tanks to  where  Nichos,  knee-deep  in  the  meadow's  dark  grass,  was

carefully daubing sealant on the Spatch-Cote repairs. The outer  hull  had  been

holed in a dozen places. Though the space between outer and inner hulls had been

automatically filled with emergency foam and Nichos had done a quick  patch  job

on the inner hull during the long flight to Pzob, if they were  going  to  stand

any chance of a hyperspace jump the outer had to be tight.

"Master Luke and Dr. Mingla have almost certainly walked into a trap!"  The

golden robot gestured with the hand not holding  the  round,  bulky  Spatch-Cote

extruder. "A stormtrooper like that has to be ground support for  whatever  base

is out in the asteroid field! I warned them. Standard Imperial  bases  house  at

least three companies. More, in isolated locales such as this! What can they  do

against five hundred and forty shock troops, with Master Luke injured  as  badly

as he is? Plus tracker droids, interrogators, surveillance equipment,  automated

traps!"

"Power readings weren't high enough for anything like  that,"  pointed  out

Nichos, switching off the intake valve on the tank.

"Of course a hidden base would alter its power readings!" surmised Threepio

despairingly. "We'll be  disassembled,  cannibalized  for  scrap,  sent  to  the

sandmines of Neelgaimon or the orbital factories around Ryloon! If they're short

of parts here we'll be--was

"I will be." Nichos took the extruder from Threepio and  walked  along  the

battered white side of the Huntbird, probing at other dents. "It  would  not  be

logical for them to destroy you. I, however..."

When with Luke or Cray, or his other friends at the Academy  on  Yavin,  he

had made an attempt to use the facial expressions programmed into the  hair-fine

complexities of his memory, but Threepio had noticed that  when  around  droids,

Nichos no longer bothered. There was no sadness, either in his blue eyes  or  in

his voice.

"You--and Artoo-Detoo--are programmed, designed, for specific purposes,  he

to repair and understand machinery, you to understand and interpret language and

culture. I am only programmed  to  be  myself,  to  reproduce  exactly  all  the

knowledge, all the instincts, all the  memories  of  a  single,  specific  human

brain, the experiences of a single human life. When you come right down  to  it,

this is of no use to anyone."

Threepio was silent. He understood  that  Nichos  expected  no  reply,  for

conversation among droids tends to be  largely  informational  with  few  social

amenities. Yet, as when speaking with a human, he felt it incumbent  on  him  to

disagree if nothing else. But he also knew that Nichos was absolutely correct.

"So you see," the not-quite-man went on, "if, as you  say,  Luke  and  Cray

have walked into a trap and you and I are destined for capture as well,  of  the

two of us I am probably the only one actually doomed. I  think  the  metal  here

looks a little thin in the dent." He returned the spatch  gun  to  the  protocol

droid's intricately mechanized hand.

Artoo-Detoo--or any other droid of Threepio's wide acquaintance--would  not

have been able to make such a pronouncement without reference to an  interechoic

micrometer. Threepio had observed, however, that humans were not only willing to

"eyeball" such measurements, but frequently did so quite  accurately,  something

that logically they should not have been able to do.

He was still trying to align probabilities about what that made Nichos when

a voice called, "Threepio!" from across the meadow, and he  turned,  thankfully,

to see Dr. Mingla, Master Luke  -  commercifully  on  his  feet  again  and  not

floating on the damaged antigrav sled on which they'd taken him from the  ship--

and the strange, solitary stormtrooper who had stolen onto the ship while he and

Nichos were in the storage hold. The  man  had  dispensed  with  his  armor  and

blaster, and carried instead a bow  and  arrows,  his  clothing  of  the  coarse

vegetable-fiber weave typical of primitive cultures.

Which meant there.were local  tribes,  probably  Gamorreans,  all  of  them

hostile, who would delight in tearing apart both droids and the ship itself  for

scrap metal.

They were doomed.

The Gamorreans made their appearance long  before  the  engines  were  even

halfway to liftoff capability.  Luke  was  dimly  aware  of  them,  through  the

exhausted pounding in his head, mostly as a sense of time running out,  a  sense

of someone trying to tell him something. But between channeling the Force to his

own healing and the dizziness that still remained whenever he moved too quickly,

it was hard to understand. He was lying on his back  under  one  of  the  bridge

consoles, pin-checking wires to see which were still capable of taking power. He

laid the pin down, closed his eyes, and relaxed, letting the images come to  his

mind of clumsy, weirdly stealthy forms moving through the slate-dark shadows  of

monster trees.

"Company coming." He slid--carefully--out from under, and made his  way  as

quickly as he could to where Cray  and  Nichos  were  repairing  the  stabilizer

through the portside emergency hatch.

He could see Cray had already sensed something, too.

"Batten it," said Luke. "Get in the ship."

An arrow shattered against the hull inches from his face. He  wheeled,  the

whole world seeming to jerk under him, sent a lance of  blaster  fire  into  the

woods to make them keep their heads down, and scrambled back through  the  hatch

as the first band broke cover.

Gamorreans on the whole, seen against a backdrop of more civilized  worlds,

generally appear clumsy and slow. This is at least partially a function of their

stupidity: They don't understand much of what goes on around them, and  tend  to

knock things over when they're not calculating how to use them as weapons in the

happy event of a fight breaking out. In the woods  of  a  primitive  world  with

which they were familiar, the huge, muscle-bound bodies  moved  with  terrifying

speed, and in the drooling porcine faces showed  neither  intelligence  nor  the

need for it.

They saw what they wanted, and they attacked.

Axes and stones splintered on the hatch as it slammed shut. Luke  stumbled,

dizzy, and Cray and Nichos seized his arms, half dragged him  up  the  emergency

gangway and onto the bridge, where Triv Pothman was leaning forward  across  the

main console to peer through the glassine viewport at  the  attackers  hammering

the ship's sides.

"That's the Gakfedd tribe," reported the local expert equably. "See the big

guy there? That's Ugbuz. Alpha male."

A huge boar Gamorrean was pounding the hatch cover with an  ax  made  of  a

hunk of stained blast shielding strapped to a hardwood shaft the size of  Luke's

leg. His helmet was covered with plumes and bits of dried  leather,  which  Luke

realized a moment later were the ears of other Gamorreans.

"That one there with the necklace of microchips is Krok, junior husband  to

Ugbuz's wife, Bullyak. If I know Bullyak, she's watching from the woods..."

"You know them?" said Cray, startled.

Pothman smiled. "Of course, lovely lady." He still held the gauge and snip-

welder he'd been using when Luke had gone down to warn the others. "I was  slave

in their village for the better part of two years. In a minute we'll see... Yep,

there they are."

A second band had emerged from the trees on the opposite edge of the  great

clearing, equally dirty, drooling, shaggy, clothed in spiked armor wrought  half

of bright-colored reptile leather, half of  scrap  metal  clearly  scavenged  or

stolen from the Imperial base that for thirty years now had rotted in the woods.

"The Klaggs," said Pothman. "Look, back in  the  trees...  That's  Mugshub,

their matriarch. Like Bullyak, making sure they don't damage anything  of  value

in their enthusiasm. And besides..." He made a  close-fisted  mime  of  a  manly

muscle-flex. "Fighting just wouldn't be fighting unless the girls were along  to

watch."

The new band of Gamorreans fell upon those already pounding on the side  of

the ship. Ugbuz and the other boars of the Gakfedd tribe turned on the newcomers

and in instants a full-fledged battle ensued. "The Klaggs held me  prisoner  for

most of a year as well,  after  I  escaped  from  the  Gakfedds,"  said  Pothman

pleasantly. "Horrible people, all of them."

The five occupants of the ship--Luke, Pothman, Cray, Nichos, and  Threepio-

lined up along the console, looking down through the front viewport at the melee

outside.

"We can go back to fixing the  engines  now,"  said  Pothman  after  a  few

moments. "There's no way they can break into the ship, but they'll  be  fighting

each other until it's too dark to see, at which time we can break out the lights

and finish work outside."

"They can't see well in the dark?" asked Cray. Outside, Ugbuz picked  up  a

smaller boar by the scruff and seat and heaved him at  the  rest,  ignoring  the

shower of darts and rocks that fell around him like grimy rain.

Pothman looked surprised. "It'll be suppertime."

Shadow fell across the meadow.

Cloud, Luke thought. Then he realized it wasn't.

It was a ship.

Gleaming, massive, gray as hypothermic death, it  descended  like  a  steel

flower under its five outspread antigrav reflectors. Imperial without  a  doubt,

though Luke had seen nothing like it anywhere: It was far too large, too  sleek,

for a smuggler craft. Short legs unfurled from the lander's underside,  and  the

grass of the meadow swirled around the crude hide boots  of  the  Gamorreans  as

they stopped, lowered their weapons, stared.

"The Emperor." Pothman's face was filled with awe and a sort  of  terrified

confusion, as if he weren't quite sure what he should feel. "He didn't forget."

The lander touched ground, the displaced  air  and  gravitational  currents

joggling the Huntbird, fifty  meters  away.  The  tall  central  column  of  the

unmarked craft, bigger than a fodder barn for  a  herd  of  banthas,  settled  a

little, the movement reminiscent of some huge insect gathering itself  together.

White arc lights beneath the shelter of the antigravs flared on,  automated  vid

pickups swiveled  silently,  triangulating  on  the  silent  horde  of  watching

Gamorreans. Then the round column of the base rotated,  and  wide  doors  hissed

smoothly open. A ramp reached forth, extended to the ground.

With a howl of delight audible even  in  the  explorer's  bridge,  all  the

Gamorreans in the meadow piled up the ramp, weapons upraised,  and  foamed  into

the lander like a dirty and violent tidal race.

"Get the repairs finished," said Luke softly. "I've got a bad feeling about

this."

The doors remained open. The  vid  pickups  turned,  recalibrating  on  the

smaller ship. A moment's silence. Then the Huntbird's intercom crackled to life.

"Exit your ship," commanded a cold male voice. "Escape is futile. Survivors will

be considered in sympathy with Rebel forces."

"It's a recording," said Luke, still watching the lander's open  door.  "Is

there--was

"Exit your ship. In sixty seconds vaporization  cycle  will  be  initiated.

Escape is futile. Exit..."

Cray, Luke, and Pothman traded one look, then headed for the  hatch.  "I'll

take the center," panted Luke, gritting his teeth as the deck  seemed  to  lurch

under his feet. "You go left, Cray; Triv, head right." Luke  wondered  just  how

exactly he was going to elude whatever was going to come out of that lander, let

alone give any help whatsoever to his companions. "Threepio, Nichos,  get  clear

of the ship and head for the woods. We'll rendezvous at Pothman's base, it's two

kilometers west of here...."

He saw the lander's autocannons turn, half hidden by the protective  petals

of the antigrav, as he and  his  companions  were  halfway  down  the  emergency

ladder. He yelled, "Jump!" and threw himself off, falling the  three  meters  to

the long grass as white stunbeams seared noisily off the Huntbird's  sides.  The

impact with the ground was almost as bad as being hit with a beam. For a  moment

he couldn't breathe, couldn't see... but even in that  moment  he  was  rolling,

dodging, trying to collect enough of his concentration to concentrate the Force-

-any quantity of the Force--on clearing his spinning head.

"Do not attempt escape."  The  hateful  metal  voice  clanked  through  his

swirling consciousness like an automated dream. "Mutineers and evaders  will  be

considered in violation of the Capital Powers Act. Do not attempt escape...."

His vision cleared and he saw  Pothman  running,  zigzagging  in  the  long

grass. One shot from the autocannon puffed dirt and shredded stems on the  black

man's heels; a second caught him square between the shoulder  blades.  Luke  hit

the ground again and rolled to avoid a similar blast. From the tail of  his  eye

he saw Cray do the same.

The Force. Got to use the Force...

Silent and evil, like silvery bubbles, tracker droids drifted from the open

door of the lander.

They paused for a moment at the top of the ramp, round  and  gleaming,  the

small searchbeams clustered at their  apexes  moving,  shifting,  actinic  beams

stabbing around them, crisscrossing in the rich dim sunlight as they established

bearings. Sensors turned like obscene antennae--Luke saw  the  round  lenses  on

their equators iris open and shut, vile, all-seeing eyes.

Steel pincers and grippers unfurled from beneath  them  like  insect  feet,

jellyfish tentacles, dangling as they drifted. With medium but inexorable speed,

they floated down the ramp.

Concentrate the Force on body temperature, thought Luke. Lower it, slow the

heart rate, anything to fox their signals...

Nichos, with far more agility  than  average  for  human-form  droids,  was

running for the woods. Threepio, not  designed  for  headlong  flight,  hastened

determinedly after him. The trackers ignored them both.

"Do not attempt escape. Mutineers and evaders..."

Forty meters away, Cray rose to her knees behind a fallen log and got off a

perfect shot, burning away the nest of sensors on the tracker homing in on where

she lay. Luke shut his teeth on a cry  of  "Don't..."  knowing  that  it  didn't

matter if she gave away her position. The trackers knew her position.

As the  injured  machine  whirled,  lurched,  sensor  lights  stabbing  and

swiveling wildly to reorient, a second tracker spun in midair  and  caught  Cray

hard with a stunbolt, dropping her like a dead thing in the long grass.

Luke flattened, felt for his blaster, fighting to keep his vision single as

the image of two of the floating droids divided into four, hovering over  Cray's

fallen body, reaching down  with  glittering,  jointed  limbs.  Halfway  to  the

clearing's edge, Nichos halted.

"Cray!"

His cry was a living man's cry of despair.

A shadow fell over Luke. He knew what it was even as he rolled to face  it,

turned on the ground, summoned all the Force, all his  will  and  concentration,

for a single shot.

White light blinded his eyes and he heard the oily soft  chitter  of  steel

limbs unfurling toward him as he pressed the trigger.

It was the last thing he recalled.

Chapter 5

"The children of the Jedi." Jevax, Chief Person of Plawal, slowed his steps

on the hairpin switchbacks of the red-black rock  stairs,  deep-set  green  eyes

taking on a faraway expression as he gazed out into the still rainbow mists that

shut them in. The steps were cut straight into  the  coarse,  faintly  sparkling

rock of the little valley's cliffs, but whoever had done that  cutting  had  had

either limited facilities or a paranoid streak about the original inhabitants of

the valley floor. Leia could touch the rock to her right,  and  the  railing  of

stripped shalaman wood on her left, without extending her arms more than a dozen

centimeters from her sides, and by the look of the wood the railing  was  fairly

new. Beyond it lay fog, darkened by blurs that she knew were the tops of trees.

"Yes," said Jevax softly. "Yes, they were here."

He returned his concentration to the  climb,  pushing  through  overhanging

branches bearded with sweetberry vines and holding them politely back for  Leia,

Han, and finally Chewbacca to follow. In the  steam-chamber  atmosphere  of  the

Plawal Rift, trees grew  from  the  smallest  juts  and  irregularities  in  the

succession of "benches"-natural rock platforms or ledges  that  led  up  to  the

sheer wall of the cliffs  themselves.  Dark  leaves  mixed  with  trailing  gray

curtains of moss that hung over the rock face, jeweled  with  speckled  bowvines

and blood-red sweetberry fruit.

Leia shifted her shoulders under the baggy white linen of  her  shirt.  The

sticky heat was far worse than Ithor, the humidity gruesome, though at least  up

at this, the higher end of the valley, the unpleasant sulfur tang  that  managed

to get past the processing plants lower down was almost hidden under  the  heavy

green sweetness of the leaves. Looking up, it was impossible to believe  that  a

hundred and fifty meters over her head, iron winds scoured glaciers deeper  than

the towers of most cities.

Looking up, in fact, it was impossible to see anything  except  green,  and

more green: galaxies of starbloom, riotous armies of orchids,  fruits  of  every

color, shape, composition, and degree of ripeness, all blurred and softened  and

hidden by the omnipresent density of the mist.

"Do you remember them?" On the way to Belsavis she'd looked  up  statistics

about the original population. The  Mluki  were  adolescent  at  seven,  old  at

thirty. With his long white hair elaborately braided into crests down  his  back

and arms, Jevax would have been a child when the Jedi left.

"Not clearly." Jevax, small among his peers, was still taller than Han, and

would have been taller yet had his natural  posture  been  straight  instead  of

inclined slightly forward, long arms almost touching his bowed knees. He wore  a

great deal of jewelry, silver  and  iridescent  blue  shell-work  imported  from

Eriadu, mostly in the form of earrings. His sarong-like breeches were printed in

dark purple and black. Like nearly everyone in  Plawal,  he  wore  black  rubber

injecto-kit  shoes  of  the  kind  manufactured  on  Sullust  and  sold  by  the

freighterload in every corner of the galaxy, incongruous on the slumped,  hairy,

primitive form. The shoes had bright orange latches.

"It was years, you see, before any of us remembered the Jedi had been  here

at all."

"That quiet, hunh?"

Leia reached back to give Han a shove. "They  blotted  your  minds,  didn't

they?"

"I think they must have." Jevax led  them  around  another  corner  and  up

another knee-breaking screw of stairs. Trees and promontories of  rock  overhung

the way, and Leia could see Chewbacca gazing up approvingly at the possibilities

for defensive ambush. The mists shredded away around them, the  pallid  daylight

almost blinding after the ghostly dimness of the rift floor. Matte-gray  cutouts

of plants showed a cliff edge overhead, the tallest of the benches  that  graded

up in the narrow end of what had originally been a small volcanic crevasse.

"I can't recall them doing so, of course," went on Jevax, rubbing his  head

in rueful amusement. "Nor could my mother. I was only three." He smiled  at  the

recollection. "Funny, looking back. For ten or twelve  years  nobody  remembered

them at all--though it's quite clear from examining the ruins of  Plett's  House

that he'd been living here for some seventy years before the other Jedi  brought

their spouses and children here to hide. Lately a few  people  have  remembered:

small things, memories that don't seem to fit with what we all thought we  knew.

But it's as if..."

He shook his head, searching for a way to explain. "It's as if for years we

just didn't think about our past."

"I know people who run their lives that way," remarked Han. He didn't add--

though he could have, Leia thought--that for a good percentage of his life  he'd

been one of them.

"Well, it isn't that we didn't have plenty of present and future  to  think

about," the Chief Person went on. "The Jedi, bless their spirits, saw to that."

The last turn of the stair took them above the level of  the  mist.  As  if

they had stepped through a trapdoor, the atmosphere  was  clear  and  noticeably

warmer. Strange small winds stirred at Leia's  hair,  rustled  the  gray-stemmed

trees that grew like a stalky curtain along the cliff's edge. To  her  left  and

below lay a mingled sea of green and gray,  trees  like  islands  amid  vaporous

billows, bright-winged birds and insects flitting between them in  the  wan  and

shivery light.

Leia looked up, and gasped.

"The Jedi," said Jevax, with shy pride,  "were  responsible  for  that,  we

think."

From  the  black  rock  of  the  ribbed  volcanic  cliffs  sprang  girders,

supporting in their turn the webbed weight of durasteel with columns as thick as

a man was high. Graceful as birds, the girders soared out over  the  nothingness

of mist and flowers, every crystalline facet of the  intricate  plex  roof  they

carried beveled and angled, designed to catch and multiply the  smallest  gleams

of the weak sun's light.

Scrims of mist flowed like streams  among  the  hanging  garden  beds  that

depended from the lacework of transparisteel vaults and domes, pendant  gondolas

as big as houses, some high in the swift-shifting streams of mist just under the

plex, others lowered on cables nearly to the level of the broken turret  of  the

stumpy stone tower that stood on the lava bench that Jevax  and  his  party  had

just achieved: all that remained of the citadel of the Jedi.

"That's quite an engineering job for a bunch of folks who just  ran  around

the galaxy with swords." Han as usual was determined not to be impressed.

"In running around the galaxy with swords," said Jevax, smiling and tugging

on the end of one white braid, "I assume they  encountered  and  befriended  not

only reliable engineers, but those trading corporations who were both interested

in the exotic  fruits  and  vegetable  fibers  our  unique  climatic  conditions

produce, and honest enough not to completely exploit the natives of this and the

other volcanic  rift  valleys  on  the  planet.  The  first  representatives  of

Brathflen Corporation made their appearance, to the  best  of  my  calculations,

within a year of the Jedis' departure. Galactic Exotics started  development  of

shalaman and podon orchards here very soon after that. They joined with Imperial

Exports to dome the valley, mostly because of a plan designed by-I  believe--the

Jedi Master Plett himself, to grow vine-coffee and vine-silk on  the  adjustable

platforms beneath the dome."

He pointed upward. A large  gondola,  trailing  festoons  of  pale,  green-

striped foliage, glided silently along one of the myriad  tracks  that  followed

the girders, halted under the center  of  the  dome,  and  lowered  itself  with

graceful ease a good ten meters. In doing so it put itself  level  with  another

hanging bed, from which tiny figures threw out  a  portable  bridge  made  of  a

single line of chain ladder,  and  a  second  cable  for  handhold  before  they

scrambled insouciantly across.

"Both plants depend on short-cycle temperature swings of thirty degrees  or

more. Few environments can sustain them, and those that can are seldom habitable

enough to make the investment worthwhile. Those  aerial  plantations  support  a

good thirty percent of our total economy."

Leia refrained from saying that a quantity of vine-silk sufficient to  make

a decent dress would cost enough  to  support  a  good  thirty  percent  of  any

planet's total economy. Which was why Han's gift to her of a gown and tabard  of

the stuff a short time ago had reduced her to speechlessness. Her friend  Winter

had picked them out. Han still had a weakness for clothing  completely  unsuited

to the Chief of State, and had learned not to trust his own judgment  on  things

to be worn in public.

Chewie, gazing upward, yowled appreciatively. Leia remembered her unnerving

adventures on the Wookiee's home planet of Kashyyyk and shivered.

"So you think they arranged commercial development of the planet as a...  a

kind of thank-you?"

"Well..." Jevax led  the  way  toward  the  broken  walls  and  half-ruined

buildings that formed a clotted line where the bench  joined  the  rise  of  the

cliff behind it. "Brathflen, Galactic, and Imperial/republic are the only  three

corporations with completely clean records as far  as  treatment  of  the  local

populations goes. Given the number of other  companies  operating  in  the  Core

Worlds, it can't be  a  coincidence  that  they  were  the  three  who  got  the

coordinates for this planet."

The bench--the last giant step of rock at the end of the  valley--was  less

than thirty meters wide, running back in an uneven triangle into  the  sheerness

of the cliffs. A jungle-covered slope of debris blunted the inner point  of  the

triangle, before which rose the tower, its front wall broken out to  reveal  two

stone floors and the remains of two more, reduced to little better  than  ledges

around the tower's inner wall. What looked as if it might have  been  a  curtain

wall lay about fifteen meters out from that, more or less  halfway  between  the

point of the triangle and the edge of the bench. It  had  been  shattered  in  a

dozen places, as if some huge creature had taken bites  out  of  the  stonework.

Another curtain wall, reduced to a chain of dark rubble, skirted the edge of the

bench itself, punctuated with trees, and between them lay a lush, rather unkempt

lawn pitted with old blast craters in  which  thickets  of  lipana  grew  around

small, silvery rain pools.

"How  many  of  them  stayed  here?"  asked  Leia,  making   quick   mental

calculations and feeling a sort of shock of surprise and disappointment.

"It can't have been very many, that's for sure." Han  surveyed  the  narrow

space of the inner courtyard, hands on hips  and  a  slight  frown  between  his

brows. "Not unless they were real friendly."

"They may have had perishable dwellings--tree houses or brush huts con  the

lower bench where the MuniCenter now stands,  or  on  the  valley  floor,"  said

Jevax. "Though before the dome was built the valley was  intermittently  subject

to cold--notothing like the cold up on the surface, of  course.  And  I  suspect

that if they'd stayed in the houses of the villagers,  more  people  would  have

remembered."

He gestured with a long arm to the  roofless  buildings,  the  tower  whose

every open floor and window embrasure, like the cliff behind it, sported its own

pendant garden of fern, spider plant, Wookiee-beard, and  sweetberry  vine.  "As

far as I know, this is all there ever was."

"This can't have been more  than  Plett's  original  laboratory,"  objected

Leia. "You couldn't fit ten families into th place."

"You obviously haven't been in a tenement  in  Kiskin,"  muttered  Han.  He

walked through the broken gateway to the inner court and stepped through  a  gap

in the wall of the single square building left  standing  roofless  against  the

cliff at the foot of the tower. "So Plett was here first?"

"He was a botanist and a savant," said Jevax. "A Jedi Master of great  age,

we've heard; a Ho'Din from the planet Moltok. We've deduced by the growth of the

lichens at the foot of the walls that he built this place about a hundred  years

ago, and since many of the plants that grow in the valley have been  genetically

tailored  to  our  climate  of  geothermic  heat  and  low  light--even  to  the

microclimates of high acidity down in the more active lower end of the  valley--

we assume he was an ecologist and scientist of considerable skill.  Legends  say

he could talk to birds and animals as  well,  and  send  away  the  storms  that

periodically swept down even into the valleys. Some of this  we  know  from  the

original inhabitants of the other rifts, of Wutz and Bot-Un, where,  apparently,

their memories were not tampered with."

"Meaning that the Jedi didn't stay there." Leia gazed  around  her  at  the

square of heavy lava-block walls, over a meter thick and the hue of  old  blood.

Despite the fortresslike appearance of the place, Plett's House was filled  with

the most profound sense of peace she had ever encountered.

Good people lived here, she thought, not knowing why the sense of it filled

her so strongly, like the scent of forgotten flowers. Power,  and  love  like  a

sun's light. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed with the impression that,  if  she

listened hard enough, she could hear the voices of children playing.

"Exactly," she heard Jevax say, his voice diminishing as he and Han  walked

around the chamber's inner wall. "We think Plett originally chose this place not

only because of the singular climate  of  the  rift  valleys,  but  because  the

glacial winds and extreme atmospheric conditions on the surface make landing any

kind of spacecraft extremely difficult, and  any  kind  of  signals  or  sensors

almost impossible."

"Yeah, tell me about it." Han had  had  some  scary  minutes  bringing  the

Millennium Falcon down the tightest guidance beam he'd encountered in years  and

into a vertical  hundred-meter  landing  silo  bored  straight  into  the  rock,

virtually blind.

"What about the tunnels?" Leia opened her eyes.

Jevax turned, raising his white shelf of brow. Han, who'd  been  inspecting

one of the line of keyhole-shaped openings in the wall--doors or windows, though

if they were doors they were so narrow only someone as slight as  Luke  or  Leia

could have slipped through--looked surprised at the question.

"That's just it, Your Excellency," said Jevax. "There are  no  tunnels.  No

"secret crypts," in spite of the rumors. Every few months someone comes up  with

a new theory and makes a search, and believe me, nobody has ever found a thing."

A sleek, small, green mammal Leia didn't recognize ran along the top of the

wall; a yellow manollium perched in one of the window  arches  and  fluffed  its

feathers, regarding the intruders into xs domain  with  bright  ruby  eyes.  The

manollium must have come in with the Ithorians  of  Brathflen  Corporation,  she

thought automatically. She'd seen hundreds of them already and she and  Han  had

arrived only that morning.

"They hid the  children  down  the  well,"  she  repeated  softly.  "Nichos

mentioned tunnels-I assumed McKumb meant there were crypts of  some  kind  under

Plett's Citadel. I suppose that's the "well" in question?" She nodded toward the

heavy disk of durasteel, sunk into the stone of the floor.

"One of them," said Jevax. "All of these rift valleys were called wells  at

one time, because of the hot springs. This..." He gestured up toward the  green-

hung dome visible high above the roofless walls,  the  town  hidden  within  the

mist, the varying microclimates of hot springs, warm springs, and mud pots  that

ranged up and down the vent; the  towering  dark  cliffs  with  their  suspended

volutes of fern and orchid, the trailing banners of mist,  his...  this  is  all

Plett's Well."

He led the way through the empty doorway--of the same keyhole shape as  the

windows, a characteristic of the old lava-block houses that  clustered  in  what

had been the original town at the foot of the bench  at  the  high  end  of  the

valley--and  out  into  the  courtyard  again.  Gorgeous,  filmy-winged  insects

blossomed up from the grass around them as if the warm earth itself  had  hurled

handfuls of celebratory confetti.

Leia said, "But the rumors persist."

The heavy-browed, simian face widened into another smile. "Your Excellency,

for all its beauty, Plawal is a  very  dull  place.  The  central  library,  the

municipal archives, and all the city  services  rent  space  from  the  computer

system that Brathflen,  Galactic,  Imperial/republic,  and  Kuat  teamed  up  to

install twelve years ago, and there's very little room  for  new  entertainment.

Those people who don't have families to keep them interested have only  work  in

the canneries or the silk-packing plants, and the bars along Spaceport  Row.  Of

course they'd like to think there are secret crypts under the only ruins in  the

town that aren't being used for the foundations of  perfectly  ordinary  Sorosub

prefab housing. One has to do something."

He gestured around him again, the gluey breezes stirring  the  silky  white

fur of his long arms. "You're perfectly welcome to  remain  and  search  if  you

wish. I warn you, people have gone over the place with sensors of every variety.

Research facilities in the archives won't be available  until  eighteen  hundred

hours--which is when the packing houses shut down their systems for the night  -

comb after that, come down to the MuniCenter and I'll give you whatever help you

wish rooting around in the records."

From a pocket of his utility belt he produced three laminated  wafers,  and

held them out to Han, Leia, and Chewbacca. "These will  open  any  room  in  the

MuniCenter, the spaceport, the city garages, or the elevators that lead  up  the

shafts from the spaceport and out onto the surface  of  the  glacier,  though  I

strongly advise that you get me or someone else local to go with you if you want

to go out onto the ice for any reason.  Will  you  care  to  walk  back  to  the

MuniCenter with me, or do you want to stay here awhile? The only decent caf@e in

town is the Bubbling Mud, by the way, off Brandifert Court."

"We'll stay awhile, thanks," said Han doubtfully.

"One more thing." Leia held up a finger; the Chief Person  turned  politely

back. "Have you ever seen this man before?"

The holo cube of McKumb, taken while he was asleep, showed a  slack,  shut-

eyed, skeletally thin face not much like the ruddy pot roast of a  man  Han  had

known, but it would have to do. Drub McKumb, like Han himself,  had  been  in  a

business that discouraged accurate portraiture.

Jevax tilted his head, the white bar of brow curving in the middle with his

frown. "I don't think so," he said.  "You  can  try  it  in  Port  Records  this

evening, though if the man were a smuggler there would  be  no  record  of  him.

During the last decade or  so  of  the  Empire  we  had  quite  a  problem  with

smugglers--the Imperial Governor kept only  a  small  staff  of  tariff  police.

Lately even that's slacked off."

"I'll check Port Records." Leia returned the cube  to  her  pocket.  "Thank

you, Jevax. Thank you for all your help."

"Thank  you,  Your  Excellency,  General  Solo."  The  Mluki's  ugly   face

brightened into another grin. "You've spared  me  an  entire  afternoon  at  the

Computer-Time Reapportionment Board--a gift more valued than  glitterstim."  And

he strolled off through the somber green grass, wreathed in bright insects,  all

his earrings twinkling in the pallid light.

Chewie growled softly.

"You're right," said Han quietly. "I think he was lying."

"Or someone lied to him."

Han nodded toward the curving bites  taken  out  of  the  inner  wall.  "If

Imperials had meant business there wouldn't be a wall standing," he said.  "This

looks like two or three carriers and a bunch of TIE'S, tops.  All  the  way  out

here with no assault wing? No destroyers? If  they  knew  the  Jedi  were  here,

there'd be nothing but a hole in the ground. All right, all right," he added  at

Chewbacca's gruff rumble, "so this place is a hole in the ground. You know  what

I mean. If they didn't mean business, why attack at all?"

Leia shook her head, still looking around her  at  the  broken  walls,  the

small kitchen wing, the few rooms that could have been workshops. Still  haunted

by that sense of vanished happiness, that deep, silent aura of rest.

"I've never dealt with an implanted belief," she said after a  time.  "Luke

has. He says they can go pretty deep. For all we know, the Jedi implanted  their

own children--Nichos, and Cray's mother--with beliefs after they left,  to  keep

them from being traced. The damage looks bad enough that these people would have

needed some outside help right after it was over. Turning it over to an Ithorian

corporation at least kept it from  being  exploited  by  some  relative  of  the

Emperor's, once everyone knew it was here. But even if they  did  that--even  if

they implanted everybody in the village with the belief that  there  never  were

crypts--the Jedi were gone by the  time  the  corporations  arrived.  Maybe  the

Ithorians who run Brathflen treat the inhabitants  of  their  commercial  worlds

decently, but I can't see them--and I certainly can't see the Twi'leks  who  run

Galactic--passing up rumors of secret crypts.  You  notice  how  Jevax  sort  of

skipped over the part about rumors  "persisting."  "Every  few  months"  doesn't

sound like something that gets put out of the way by a sensor check. There's got

to be something else going on."

As they spoke they worked their way back into the triangle  of  the  ruins,

where the tower poked domeward under the massive, graceful spring of the girders

and beetling outcrops  of  the  cliff  leaned  inward,  garlanded  with  hanging

tapestries of flowers. Beds of vine-coffee hung above  the  remains  of  Plett's

House, like obese and gaudy hoverbirds, the trailing ends of the  vines  only  a

dozen meters above the highest peak of the tower itself. Beyond them Leia  could

see the dome through the fragments of mists, and was surprised at how  dark  the

sky appeared overhead.

In an inner room, one of a line cut into the cliff itself,  a  pipe  tapped

into a warm spring deep in the rock. Up at this end  of  the  valley  the  water

emerged from the earth little warmer than a truly  hot  bath,  and  without  the

sulfurous stink of the scalding springs lower down. The opening was crusted with

pink and yellow deposits of sinter. Leia broke off a fragment, turned it over in

her fingers. "Look familiar?"

"So much for there not being any crypts," said Han cynically.

"It doesn't mean the jewelry in Drub's pocket came out of a crypt near this

particular spring. Even a  source  with  the  same  combination  of  sulfur  and

antimony could have a number of outlets."

"You take a whole lot of convincing."

Leia grinned at him. "I deal with politicians all day."

"Yeah..." Han glanced toward the  wrecked  gate  through  which  Jevax  had

passed. "I think you just got to deal with another one."

In one of the cliff-cut rooms Chewbacca found an  old  ladder,  which  they

dragged up after them, floor by floor, to climb the remains of the  tower,  Leia

picking her way carefully through the broken-out doorways, the thick  embrasures

of what had been windows, the curve of the broken stair. From the  highest  room

the view out over the valley  was  breathtaking,  mist  filling  the  land  like

swirling water in a dark basin, the white or green plastic roofs of the  packing

plants rising through on the  far  end  like  a  floe  of  bizarrely  regimented

icebergs where the greater heat stirred the fogs at the dark cliff's base.

Above them, the gondola beds  of  vine-coffee  moved  along  their  tracks,

homegoing boats headed for the small wooden wasp's nest of the  Supply  Station,

curtained in vines like everything else, clinging to the cliff. From the far end

of the broken remains of the tower floor,  Leia  gazed  down  at  the  miniature

ecosystem of the rift, a steaming jungle snuggled in the midst of  some  of  the

most vicious icefields in the galaxy, fed by the heat of the planet's core.

What had the place been like, she wondered, when they'd  been  here,  those

children whose shrill voices she could almost hear? Those families whose  wisdom

and love had soaked, it seemed, into the very stone of the walls?

Intermittently colder, without the dome, she  thought--notecessitating  the

building of the rock houses of the old town over the hot springs. Wilder jungles

near the warm vents, bare tundra perhaps away from them...

Why had the Jedi Master Plett come here in the  first  place,  deliberately

seeking a world where none could easily follow? Who had convinced him  to  offer

sanctuary, and how?

A pair of strong arms circled her waist from behind. Han said nothing, just

gazed out past her, and Leia leaned back into his strength, closing her eyes and

letting her mind drift.

To Ithor, green and graceful and busy.

To the curious, meaningless death of a woman in the Senex Sector, killed by

a man too expensive for the job.

To the fact, relayed to her that  morning,  that  the  head  of  the  House

Vandron, in whose territory the crime  had  taken  place,  was  obstructing  any

investigation of Draesinge's death.

To Drub McKumb.

They hid the children down the well...

The voices of the children floated up to her. They were playing in the big,

square room below; she saw them darting among the heavy tables of shalaman  wood

set along the inner wall, a whole pack of them: mostly human, but  including  an

Ithorian, Wookiees, a  Twi'lek,  Bith...  A  woman  repairing  a  half-dissected

sterilizer at one of the tables called out an indulgent warning to  one  toddler

who'd ventured too near the bronze, flower-shaped grille that screened the  well

in the floor's center, though the grille's openings  were  too  small  to  admit

anything except the smallest of the toys with which they played.  Steam  floated

up through the openings, warming the room, as did the dim sunlight magnified  by

the angled crystalplex set in each keyhole window. A dark-haired  man  played  a

red-lacquered mandolin. Pittins of every color that pittins came in dozed on the

windowsills or tracked the occasional myrmin across the floor.

The door in the rear wall opened, and an old Ho'Din came in, two and a half

meters tall and graceful in his black cloak of Jedi mastership,  his  flowerlike

headstalks faded with age. Calm seemed to flow from him, and a deep  sense--such

as she sometimes felt from Luke--of vast strength bought at a terrible price.

She opened her eyes.

The roofless chamber below her at the base of the tower was empty, full  of

shadows as the feeble daylight waned.

There was no door in the rear wall.

"They sealed it somehow." Han passed his palms along the smooth dark  stone

where the rear wall of Plett's House had been cut into the rock  of  the  cliff.

"Even the best patch jobs will leave a join, but this is watertight."

"It was about here, though." Leia half closed her eyes  again,  recapturing

the scene. There was a kind of pain in the memory, a sense  of  having  lost  or

mislaid something treasured, a long time ago.

The happiness she had felt rising from that room? The peace of being  loved

unconditionally, which had dissolved in searing laser violence when  someone  on

the Death Star had thrown a final switch?

Looking at the man beside her, she wondered if Han had ever known that kind

of peace, that sense of belonging, in his childhood.

Chewie growled a query; Han gave it some  thought.  "Yeah,  I  think  we've

still got the echolocator--if Lando didn't borrow it the last time he  flew  the

Falcon for some cockamamie treasure-hunting scheme."

"I wouldn't bet on even an echolocator finding the tunnel that Master  came

out of," said Leia. She turned to survey the  empty  chamber  once  again.  "The

Jedi..." She hesitated, thinking about the  things  Luke  had  taught  her,  the

things the old Jedi Vima-Da-Boda had said. "If the Jedi could cover their tracks

to the extent of having everybody in the valley just  forget  they'd  ever  been

there in the  face  of  some  pretty  severe  bomb  damage,  I  don't  think  an

echolocator's going to do us a lot of good."

"I think you're right." Han  caressed  the  stone  again,  as  if  he  half

believed it was illusion rather than technology that concealed it. And  perhaps,

thought Leia, it was. "But at least now we know two things."

"Two things?"

"That there was an entrance here," said Han  grimly,  his...  and  that  it

wasn't the entrance Drub used."

Chapter 6

The Jedi Knights had murdered his family.

A band of them had descended on the town where he'd grown up, summoning fog

by the power of the Force in the dead of night and moving through it in cold and

shadow, wraiths of power and silence with eyes glowing green as marshfire in the

dark. He'd fled, gasping, the icy pressure of  their  minds  clutching  at  his,

trying to cripple him and bring him back. He'd lain  in  the  trees  outside  of

town...

(trees?)

... and seen them line up the women, laughing  at  their  screams  as  they

pulled their babies from their  arms  and  sliced  them  to  pieces  with  their

lightsabers. He'd seen cauterized stumps lying on the ground, heard the  shrieks

that had echoed in the bitter night air. The Jedi had sought him, hunting him in

speeders, whooping derisively while he fled over rocks and mud and streams...

(mud and streams? I was raised in the desert.)

... and then turned back, to slaughter the children. He'd seen his  younger

brother and sister...

(What brother?)

... cut down while they pleaded for their lives...

Who made this up?

It was true. Every word of it was true.

Or something very like it was true, anyway.

Luke shut his mind, breathed deep through the pain  that  remained  in  his

chest and lungs. He gathered the Force to him, let the  knowledge  run  off  him

like water from oiled armor. The memories were like those in Nichos's  mind,  he

realized. Words, sometimes powerful words, but absolutely without images.  Words

that said they were the truth, that felt like the truth...

His head ached. His body ached. His concentration  wavered,  darkened,  and

the feeling of betrayal, the bruised and savaged ache in  his  heart,  returned.

The Jedi had betrayed him.

He spiraled back into darkness.

Lying on Han's bunk in the Millennium Falcon with the bandaged stump of his

right arm a blaze of agony underneath the painkiller Lando had  given  him,  and

worse than that agony the knowledge that Ben had lied to him. Ben had  lied:  It

was Darth Vader who had spoken the truth.

Yes, revenge, voices whispered. Take your revenge for that.

For a moment he was twenty-one again, his soul a bleeding pulp of betrayal.

Why did you lie, Ben?

Looking back, he knew exactly why Ben had lied. At eighteen, the  knowledge

that his father still lived, still existed in some form, no matter how  changed,

would have drawn him to that father as only an orphan could have  been  drawn...

would have drawn him to the dark side. At eighteen, he would not  have  had  the

experience, the technical strength, to resist. Ben had known that.

The Force flickered in him, like a single flame on a windy night.

"Luke?"

Revenge on the Jedi, on their harlots and their brats.  Burn  and  kill  as

they burned and killed your parents...

The image in his mind was of seared  skeletons  in  the  sand  outside  the

demolished wreck of the only home he'd ever known. The stink of burning plastic,

the desert heat hammering his head less terrible  than  the  oily  heat  of  the

flames. The emptiness in his heart was a dry  well  plunging  lightless  to  the

center of the world.

That farm in the desert hadn't been much of a belonging-place, but  it  had

been all he'd ever had.

When he'd gone back to Tatooine to rescue Han from Jabba the Hutt,  he  had

returned to that ruined farmstead on the edge of the Dune Sea. Nobody had  taken

up the land. Jawas had looted what was left of the house, probably  as  soon  as

the ashes cooled. The rooms around the sunken courtyard had collapsed. The whole

place was only a crumbling subsidence, half filled with sand.

The markers he'd put on the graves of the people who'd been parents to  him

had been stolen, too.

Uncle Owen had given his whole life to the farm. It was as if he had  never

existed at all.

"Luke?"

He blinked. It wasn't a good idea.

"Luke, are you all right?"

"Oh, please, Master Luke, try to remember who you  are!  The  situation  is

quite desperate!"

He opened his eyes. The whole room performed one slow, deliberate loop-the-

loop and Luke tightened his grip on the sides of the bunk in  which  he  lay  to

keep from falling out, but at least Nichos and See-Threepio, standing over  him,

didn't try to clone duplicates of themselves, and the pain in his chest was  far

less than it had been. He felt deeply, profoundly tired.

Beyond Nichos and Threepio he could see the shut door of the small cell  in

which he lay: brightly illuminated, comfortable, with three other  bunks  and  a

couple of lockers and drawers. Clean, cold, and with  an  air  of  being  barely

lived in, except for his own black  flight  suit  hanging  in  one  locker,  his

lightsaber on a dresser top, and the black cloak of a Jedi spread like a blanket

across one of the other bunks.

Luke raised his arm and saw that he  was  wearing  the  olive-gray  undress

uniform of an Imperial stormtrooper.

The Jedi =illed...

The Jedi =illed...

He took a deep breath, summoned all of the Force away from the  healing  of

his body--Nichos and Threepio immediately split into two again--and directed  it

inward on those memories like a cleansing light.

The voices in his mind yattered on for a bit, then scoured away.

He woke up again, weak and shaken. He couldn't have  been  unconscious  for

more than a few moments because Threepio was still explaining...

his... said that there was nothing wrong with you and you'd  only  malinger

if you went to sick bay! We didn't know what to do..."

"We're going to shell Plawal," said Luke.

Both his companions looked at him in alarm. "We know that, Master Luke!"

Luke sat up, catching at Threepio's arm as a wave of nausea swept over him;

Nichos said, "We've been hyperjumping to half a dozen planets  along  the  Outer

Rim where the Empire hid its shock troops for this mission thirty years ago. The

lander went down on Tatooine, Bradden,  I  don't  know  where-all.  Everything's

automated: landers, pickup, indoctrination..."

"Indoctrination?" said  Luke.  Another  image  came,  distant  and  blurred

through the ache in his head: a semicircular  chamber  heaped  with  unconscious

Gamorreans, weapons still in their hands and the tiny,  gray,  parasitic  morrts

that clung to them even into battle beginning to recover from the  stunrays  and

skitter nervously over the bodies. Two huge  silvery  droids  of  the  old  G-40

single-function type were moving among the bodies,  pulling  the  Gamorreans  to

their feet--which G-40's could do  with  terrifying  ease--and  giving  each  an

injection, then  shoving  them  into  the  white  metal  coffins  of  single-man

indoctrination booths that ranged along the curved back wall of the room.

He touched his forehead. A small circle of slightly roughened skin remained

where the cerebral feed had been hooked in. The same thing,  he  realized,  must

have been done to him.

"Where are we?" He got up--carefully--and fastened his  lightsaber  to  his

belt as they stepped through the  door,  into  a  corridor  smelling  of  metal,

chemicals, and cleaning solution. The walls were medium gray under smooth,  even

light; the deck underfoot vibrated with  the  faint  hum  of  subspace  cruising

speeds. A boxy MSE-15 droid glided by, cleaning the floor.

"On the ship," said  Threepio.  "The...  the  dreadnaught.  The  battlemoon

Trooper Pothman spoke of. The giant vessel masked as an asteroid that  fired  on

us. The Eye of Palpatine."

The Eye of Palpatine. The name rang familiar in Luke's mind. The voices had

told him all about it in that long, hazy spell of memories  that  were  not  his

own. Somehow he knew the dimensions of the ship, huge, more vast than  even  the

biggest of the Super  Star  Destroyers,  bigger  than  a  torpedo  sphere,  with

firepower to waste a planet.

Of course, he thought. It had been built back before the Death  Star,  when

the Imperial Fleet still thought bigger was better.

"It wasn't a base on that asteroid, Master Luke," explained Threepio. "That

asteroid.was the ship, firing at us with an automatic gunnery computer..."

"Are you sure?" Luke could have sworn it had been  a  living  hand  on  the

guns. No computer had that kind of timing.

"Absolutely," said Nichos. "Nobody can get  up  into  the  gun  decks.  And

there's nobody on board who can handle  weaponry--not  this  kind  of  weaponry,

anyway."

"Nobody...," said Luke. And then, "They're picking up troops..." He stopped

himself, remembering the overgrown base in the forest,  the  forty-five  helmets

staring emptily from the wall. "Don't tell me there were still troops waiting."

They stepped into the troop deck's main mess hall. Ten or twelve  enormous,

white, furry bipeds were clustered nervously around the food slots, pulling  out

plates and swiftly sucking up everything smaller than bite-size  through  short,

muscular probosci set under their four blinking  black  eyes.  Several  of  them

carried weapons--mostly legs wrenched off tables and chairs, it looked  like--so

Luke guessed they had to be at least semisentient.

There was a noise from the doors at the opposite end of the long room.  The

armed bipeds turned, raising their weapons. Seven  tripodal  creatures  wandered

in, baglike body masses swaying weirdly down from the  central  girdle  of  bone

supported by the long legs, the tentacles between the hip joints dangling loose.

Eyestalks rising above the body mass wavered with a motion that even Luke  could

tell was disoriented.

Two of the furry bipeds reached into the food slots and  gathered  as  many

plates and bowls as they could carry, and, guarded by one  of  their  chair-leg-

bearing mates, crossed cautiously to  the  newcomers.  The  larger  of  the  two

fuzzies raised a paw, hooted something in soft,  unintelligible  crooning,  and,

when the tripods made no response whatsoever, held out the plates.

The tripods extruded feeding tubes from among the eyestalks and  ate.  Some

of them reached confusedly up with the tentacles to take the plates.  The  white

furries remaining by the food slots wheeped  and  muffed  to  one  another.  The

taller of the food bearers reached out with a curious gentleness  and  touched--

patted--the nearest tripod in a gesture Luke knew at once was reassurance.

"That'll be enough of that, trooper!" The room's third set of sliding doors

hurshed open, and a gang of about fifteen Gamorreans strode in. Some of them had

wedged themselves into pieces of the largest stormtrooper fatigues obtainable by

cutting out the sleeves, or had fastened chunks of the shiny  white  armor  onto

their arms and chests  with  silver  engine  tape.  Others  wore  naval  trooper

helmets, and others still had the short-faced white stormtrooper helmets perched

on top of their heads like hats. Ugbuz, in the lead, had donned a scuttle-shaped

black gunner's helmet, and under it his warty, snouted face looked  surprisingly

sinister. All were armed to the tusks with blasters, forcepikes, axes, and bows.

"The man's malingering! Everyone had a physical before signing  up.  That's

Fleet regulations, and there's no excuse for this kind of thing! Too many damned

malingerers on this ship!"

Ugbuz snapped his fingers. Another  Gamorrean--Krok,  Luke  thought--headed

for the food slots and coffee machines with the heavy, rolling stride typical of

the race while Ugbuz and the others took seats at a table. Luke  saw  that  Cray

and Triv Pothman were among them.

Dim memories crowded back from the past several days. He remembered eating,

sleeping, sometimes trying to convince his commanding officer to let him  go  to

sick bay when the pain and dizziness got too bad... practicing  occasionally  in

the ship's gunnery range, though his head ached too much for him to shoot well..

. with other stormtroopers.

In his memory they were all human.

The white fluffies moved back a little to let  the  Gamorrean  stormtrooper

get coffee for himself and his mates, scratched  their  heads  and  made  cooing

noises as they watched the group around the table  with  puzzled  unease.  They,

too, bore the fading singe marks of a cerebral feed, and Luke deduced  that  the

indoctrination had taken on some species more firmly than on others. One of  the

tripods stumbled vaguely toward the stormtrooper table; it  got  too  close  and

Triv Pothman swatted the thing with a vicious  backhand,  sending  it  stumbling

among the chairs. The aging savant had  shaved,  and  his  face  wore  the  hard

expression of careless arrogance with which Luke was familiar among the troopers

of the Empire: an utter sureness of position, the knowledge that whatever  deeds

he might commit, they would be sanctioned by those above.

The same look was on Cray's face.

Luke understood. He had felt like that himself for the past several days.

He sighed, and picked his way between the tables toward them, wondering  if

he could channel the healing of the Force sufficiently at  this  point  to  lead

Cray out of her indoctrination. His head ached and every limb felt weighted, but

the pounding nausea of the earlier stages of  the  concussion  was  gone.  In  a

pinch, he thought, he could rally enough  concentration,  enough  power  of  the

Force, to touch the Force within her.

The Gamorreans--or at least the Gakfedd tribe of them--were obviously  born

to be stormtroopers. They seemed to have made themselves thoroughly at home: The

floor of the mess hall was littered with plastic plates, bowls, and coffee cups,

rising to a drift almost a meter deep near the food slots themselves. MSE droids

moved over and around the mess  like  foraging  vermin,  but  were  mechanically

unable to pick up the dishes and return them to the drop slots that  would  take

them back to the automated kitchens. Near one of the  several  sets  of  sliding

doors, a stolid SP-80 droid was methodically washing a spatter of foodstains off

the wall.

"Captain." Luke saluted Ugbuz--whicho returned the  gesture  with  military

briskness--then took a seat next to Cray.

"Luke." Her greeting was casual, buddy-to-buddy. She'd cut off her hair--or

Ugbuz, in his persona of a stormtrooper  officer,  had  made  her  cut  it.  The

centimeter-long bristle lay close and fine against her  scalp.  Without  makeup,

and in the olive-gray uniform only slightly too large for her  tall  frame,  she

looked like a gawky teenage boy.

"Pull up a chair, pal, rest your bones. You figure the  jump  this  morning

was our last pickup? Get us some coffee, you," she added, with barely  a  glance

in the direction of the two droids. "You want any, Triv?"

"I want some coffee." The elderly man grinned. "But I guess  I'll  have  to

settle for that gondar sweat those machines are puttin' out."

Cray laughed, easy and rough. It was the first time Luke had seen her laugh

in months--oddly enough, the first time he'd ever seen her this relaxed. "You on

rotation for the holo tapes, Luke?" she asked. "I dunno who stocked the  library

on this crate. Nuthin' later than--was

"I need to talk to you, Cray." Luke nodded toward  the  open  door  to  the

hallway from which he'd come. "In private."

She frowned, her dark eyes a little concerned, though it was clear  to  him

that she saw him as a fellow trooper. She probably remembered  after  a  fashion

that they'd been friends for some time, the same way she remembered her name was

Cray Mingla, but probably didn't think much about it.  Luke  knew  that  at  the

height of the Emperor's power the Imperial troopers had  been  highly  motivated

and fanatically loyal, but this depth of indoctrination was something he'd never

before encountered. An experiment that hadn't been followed up? Something in use

for this mission alone because of its intense secrecy?

He took a deep breath and wondered how much of his  present  dizziness  and

disorientation was the lingering effect of the concussion, and how much  a  side

effect of a too massive indoctrinal shock. He would need all the Force he  could

summon to break Cray out of this...

Cray got to her feet and trailed after Luke toward  the  doorway,  casually

kicking aside plates and an MSE as she went. Even her walk  was  a  man's  walk,

adopted unconsciously, the way the Gamorreans  seemed  to  have  acquired  Basic

speech. Threepio and Nichos followed unobtrusively, and Luke let his hand  slide

down to loosen his blaster in its holster, thumbing the setting down to  mildest

stun.

He never got the chance to use it.

He and Cray  paused  to  let  the  white  furries,  still  clutching  their

makeshift weapons, amble out of the door  ahead  of  them.  "I  dunno  what  the

service is comin' to," muttered Cray, shaking her head. "Look at  that.  Gettin'

recruits from all over the damn place. They'll be takin' festerin' aliens next."

The tripods  continued  to  wander  aimlessly  around  the  mess  hall,  bumping

occasionally  into  furniture  or  tripping  over   the   MSE'S.   Clearly   the

indoctrination that had worked so thoroughly on the Gamorreans had  left  them--

whichatever they were--totally bewildered. Where would you put the cranial wires

on them, anyway? wondered Luke.

Then the doorway across the room swished violently open and a voice yelled,

"Get 'em, men!"

It was the rival Gamorrean tribe of the Klaggs.

Ugbuz and his Gakfedds upended tables, dropped behind them as blaster bolts

blazed and spattered wildly around the room.  The  Klaggs,  too,  wore  bits  of

stormtrooper gear, engine-taped to their homespun and leather, and cried  orders

and oaths in Basic. Cray swore and hauled up a table into a  makeshift  barrier,

blazing away in return with no regard for  the  deadly  ricochets  bouncing  and

zapping crazily in all directions; her first bolt caught a Klagg  on  his  chest

armor, hurling him back among his fellows as the others  of  his  tribe  ducked,

ran, zigzagged into the room, firing as they went. Some were armed with  blaster

carbines and semiautos, others with slugthrowers, forcepikes,  and  axes.  Their

aim was universally awful.

The two Gamorrean tribes clashed  in  thick  waves  of  metal,  flesh,  and

garbage, and began to beat and tear one another  as  if  taking  up  the  battle

outside the Huntbird exactly where they'd left off. Cray screamed,  "Scum-eating

mutineers! Captain!" and plunged into the fray before Luke could stop her.

"Cray!" Luke ran two steps after her, the deck seeming to lurch beneath his

feet, and collided with two frantic tripods that couldn't  seem  to  locate  the

door three meters in front of them. With a roar one of the Klaggs bore  down  on

him, swinging an ax. Luke ducked and nearly fell, shoved the tripods toward  the

door, caught up a chair, and deflected the ax; the Klagg struck  him  aside  and

plunged after the defenseless tripods. It caught one of them  by  the  leg,  the

poor thing screaming and flailing with its tentacles. It took all the Force Luke

could summon just to get back to his feet, forget about levitating  anything--he

grabbed the chair again and swung it, slamming the Gamorrean full force  in  the

back, then whipped his lightsaber free and planted himself in the doorway as the

tripods fled wailing into the corridor.

The Gamorrean hurled a table at him, which Luke bisected,  then  struck  at

him with an ax at the  same  moment  a  ricocheting  blaster  bolt  caught  Luke

glancingly on the shoulder. Either the blaster was  turned  fairly  low  or  its

power cell was nearly exhausted, but the jolt of it  knocked  him,  gasping  and

confused, to the floor. He rolled, his vision blurring,  blacking.  Cut  at  the

Gamorrean, who'd been joined by a friend, also wielding  an  ax--double  vision?

Luke wondered cloudily, but he took off one assailant's arm and tried to get  to

his feet and out the door. He couldn't--his head was swimming too badly for  him

to figure out why--and he could only slash upward at  his  remaining  assailant,

cleaving in half the table that slammed down on him before it  could  crush  his

bones.

The cold sick weakness of shock and the sensation of something being  wrong

with the gravity...

Then the  Klaggs  were  gone,  leaving  a  shambles  of  blood  and  broken

furniture. Luke stayed conscious just long enough to switch off his lightsaber.

Pain brought him to as if someone had drenched his left leg with  acid.  He

cried out, clutching at the greasy mess of blankets on which he lay, and someone

slapped him hard enough to slam him back down, breathless and dizzy  and  almost

nauseated with pain.

"Shouldn't you get something from sick bay for that?"

Ugbuz's voice.

And in reply a vicious, squealing snuffle, and warm  drool  spattered  down

onto Luke's face and bare chest. More pain, as someone jerked  tight  a  bandage

around his left leg.

Not a bandage, he thought, identifying another  sound,  the  slick,  shrill

searing noise of engine tape being pulled off a roll. A familiar  sound.  If  it

weren't for engine tape the Rebellion would have collapsed in its first year.

Cold air on his thigh, his knee, his foot. And rough, clawed hands taping a

splint onto his leg.

The wrench of it made him cry out  again  and  Ugbuz  said,  "Suck  it  up,

trooper."

Luke wondered about the incidence of Imperial officers  being  killed  from

behind by friendly fire. He opened his eyes.

He was in a hut. A HUT? The ceiling, only a meter or two  above  his  head,

was made of plastic piping roofed with pieces of  stormtrooper  armor  and  mess

hall plates held together with wire and engine tape. Glowrods dangled  from  the

piping rafters, their trailing wires plugged into a backpack-size Scale-20 power

cell in the  corner,  providing  the  only  illumination.  Beyond  the  doorway,

curtained with a silver t-blanket on which the words Property of  Imperial  Navy

were clearly visible, could be seen the vague gray steel walls  of  some  larger

space, a gym or a cargo hold. Ugbuz stood in the doorway, arms  folded,  looking

down at him where he lay on a bed made of dirty blankets, and above  him--taping

the splints to his leg-knelt the enormous, vicious-looking  Gamorrean  sow  whom

Pothman had pointed out to him as Bullyak, head female of the Gakfedd tribe.

"Now, I'll have no malingering in my unit,  mister,"  grunted  Ugbuz,  when

Bullyak turned away. "We've had some losses, and we've  had  some  injured,  but

those mutineers aren't going to interfere with our mission." He thrust  a  metal

flask at Luke. The fumes alone would have dropped a bantha in its  tracks.  Luke

shook his head. "Drink it! I don't trust a man who won't drink."

Luke put it to his lips but didn't let the  alcohol  go  any  farther  than

that. Even that movement  throbbed  hideously  in  his  leg.  It  took  all  the

disciplines he had learned, all his control of the Force within his own body, to

put the pain aside.

The ax, he thought. The Klaggs who'd attacked him had  both  carried  axes.

Had one struck him in the final melee? He  didn't  recall,  but  remembered  not

being able to get up.

His head hurt, too. For the first time the desperate importance of  getting

injuries seen to immediately was brought home to him--he'd be  even  less  able,

now, to protect himself, and it was quite obvious that he'd have more need to do

so.

Why was the great hold around them dark?

"What about Trooper Mingla, sir? Skinny blond kid?"

Ugbuz's tiny eyes squinted harder at him in the gloom of the  hut.  "Friend

of yours?"

Luke nodded.

"Missing. Festering mutineers. Two men killed, three missing. Sons of sows.

We'll get 'em."

Bullyak squealed something angrily at  him,  her  long,  gray-green  braids

swinging heavily over the gelid, bitten  flesh  of  her  six  enormous  breasts.

Morrts were blood parasites, gray, finger-size, and furry; one of them was  even

now, Luke could see,  fixed  on  Ugbuz's  neck,  and  another  was  crawling  up

Bullyak's braid. The pinny glitter of their eyes flickered all around  the  hut,

in the corners, in the rafters. The blankets stank of them.

Slowly, agonizingly, he tried to get to his feet.

Bullyak snarled something at him, and thrust a stick into his hand. It  had

clearly started life as a pole arm of some weapon brought from Pzob, six feet of

knobbed and hand-smoothed wood. His trouser leg had been slit from halfway  down

his thigh, to let her dress the wound. Even if  he'd  been  able  to  stand  the

thought of putting weight on that leg  he  knew  it  wouldn't  bear  him.  She'd

wrapped his left foot in rags, having cut off the blood-soaked boot.  Rather  to

his surprise, his lightsaber was hooked to his belt.

The sow shoved him in the direction of  the  door,  with  a  violence  that

nearly had him on the floor again.

"She says get yourself some coffee," said Ugbuz, with an  officer's  hearty

cheer. "You'll heal up fine."

"Master Luke!"

Luke looked around. Two dozen huts had  been  erected,  ranged  around  the

walls of what looked like a cargo hold. Doors, pieces of metal paneling, plastic

and corrugated crate sides had gone  into  theirthe  construction,  as  well  as

blankets, bits of armor, mess hall plates, wire, cable, pipe, and the ubiquitous

engine tape. More plates and coffee cups littered the  metal  decking,  and  the

place had a faint, garbagy smell in spite of  the  best  efforts  of  the  MSE'S

buzzing and puttering around the open square  in  the  center.  There  were  few

Gamorreans in sight.

In the dark, open doorway of the vast chamber, Threepio stood waiting.  Had

he been programmed to do so he'd have wrung his hands.

Slowly, every step an acid  jolt  of  suppressed  agony,  Luke  limped  the

fifteen meters that separated them. Threepio made a move as  if  he  would  have

come through the door to help him, but seemed to think better of it.

"I'm  terribly  sorry,  Master  Luke,"  apologized  the  droid.  "But   the

Gamorreans don't permit droids in their village.  The  SP  Eighties  have  tried

repeatedly to dismantle the huts and put the pieces away in their proper  places

and... well..."

Luke leaned against the wall and laughed  in  spite  of  himself.  "Thanks,

Threepio," he said. "Thanks for following this far."

"Of course, Master Luke!" The protocol droid  sounded  shocked  that  there

would have been any question of it. "After that  dreadful  fracas  in  the  mess

hall..."

"Did you see what happened to Cray? Ugbuz says she's missing..."

"She was carried away by the Klagg tribe. They seem to regard the  Gakfedds

as mutineers, and vice versa. Nichos went after them. She was putting up a  good

fight, but I'm afraid she was no match for them, sir." He clanked  softly  along

at Luke's side as Luke started to walk again,  limping  down  the  corridor  and

grimly blocking his mind against the pain in his leg. Simply keeping  the  agony

at bay took enormous amounts of his concentration, far more than he'd  channeled

against the effects of his concussion. He had to find sick  bay,  and  fast.  At

least with so obvious  an  injury  Ugbuz  couldn't  argue  that  he  was  merely

malingering.

"Any idea where they're headquartered?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. Captain Ugbuz has sent out  scouts  to  locate  their

stronghold, so it's quite clear he has no idea either."

"They shouldn't be too hard to find." Luke was  checking  every  door  they

passed, mostly cargo holds in  this  part  of  the  ship.  Owing  to  the  Eye's

configuration as an asteroid  the  ship  possessed  long  stretches  of  hallway

unbroken by doorways; the lights were on here,  gleaming  coldly  off  the  gray

metal walls. Here and there a plastic plate or coffee cup  from  the  mess  hall

made a bright spot in the monochrome, and once they passed a  tripod,  wandering

vaguely through the hall gazing around with its three thick-lashed green eyes.

"I'm not so sure of that, sir. The  SP  Eighty  cleaner  droids  were  very

diligent about scrubbing all trace of their trail from the walls and floors."

Luke stopped, and leaned back against the  wall,  his  head  swimming.  Did

other Jedi Masters have to go through this?

"What happened here?" He opened his eyes  again.  The  stretch  of  hallway

before them was dark, as the Gakfedds' village hold and the area around  it  had

been, the glowpanels of the ceiling dead for easily a hundred meters in front of

them. A hatch cover had been ripped loose halfway  down  and  wires  and  cables

trailed out into the hall like the entrails of a  gutted  beast.  As  he  limped

nearer Luke smelled a familiar odor, faint and distant now,  but  distinctive...

"Jawas?"

If Threepio had possessed lungs he would have heaved a long-suffering sigh.

"I'm afraid so, sir. It appears that on such planets  where  the  Empire  posted

troops to be picked up for this mission thirty years ago, the automated  landers

collected whatever sentient beings they could find."

"Oh, great," sighed Luke, bending carefully  to  study  the  frame  of  the

gutted hatch. It was grubby with small handprints. He wondered how many  of  the

meter-tall, brown-robed scavengers the lander had picked up on Tatooine.

"Those were Talz we saw in the mess hall, from Alzoc Three. I have not been

very far afield, Master Luke, but I know there are also  Affytechans  from  Dom-

Bradden aboard, and the Maker only knows what else besides!"

"Great," said Luke again, limping on. "So in order  to  blow  up  the  ship

before it reaches Plawal I'm going to have to  find  the  troop  transports  and

somehow get everybody on board. I suppose I could  always  tell  the  Gamorreans

it's orders, but..." He hesitated, remembering the vicious skill of  the  ship's

gunner, the one Threepio insisted did not exist.

Whatever else might be automated on the Eye of Palpatine, there might  very

well be one member of the original mission crew still on board.

"Here. This looks like what we're after."

They had traversed the blacked-out section of corridor to the lighted  area

beyond. A small office on the right had clearly  belonged  to  a  supercargo  or

quartermaster; a black wall-mounted desk bore a large, curved keyboard, and  the

staring onyx darkness of a monitor screen gazed gravely down  above.  Luke  sank

gratefully into the leather padding of the chair-definitely a quartermaster,  he

thought-propped his staff against the desk, and flipped the on toggle.

"Let's see if we can talk this thing into giving us some idea of  how  much

time we have, before we do anything else."

He typed in Mission  status  request.  It  was  a  common  enough  command,

involving no classified information, but even knowing when the Eye was  expected

to reach Plawal would tell him how urgently he had to move.

- - Mission time consonant with the objectives of the Will

"Hunh?"

Luke typed in Menu.

- - The Will requests objective of this information

Orientation, typed Luke.

- - Current status aligned with timetable of the W. No further  information

necessary

"They really didn't want to risk anyone outside  finding  out  about  their

mission, did they?" murmured Luke. The screen grayed and swam before  his  eyes,

and he drew the Force to him, wearily clearing, strengthening the slowly healing

tissues of the brain.

Sick bay, he thought tiredly. Right after this, sick bay...

"When did the last lander come aboard, Threepio?"

"Yesterday, I believe. Those were the Talz."

Luke considered. "If they're trying to avoid suspicion, it makes sense that

they'd lie low for a day or two, maybe longer, before making another  hyperspace

jump. Maybe a lot longer, depending on who they think was watching  them  thirty

years ago."

Ben Kenobi, almost certainly. Bail Organa. Mon Mothma. Those who'd  watched

the rise of Palpatine to supreme power, the birth of the New Order,  first  with

suspicion, then with growing alarm.

"The ship's certainly big enough to keep a couple of companies  comfortable

for a while."

Schematic.

A deck plan appeared; Luke identified the big cargo hold  without  trouble,

and the quartermaster's office where he now sat. A readout in the corner flagged

this as Deck 12. He keyed the command for the deck  above,  and  the  one  above

that, noting the irregular shapes of the decks. Sick bay was  two  decks  below.

The decks were huge, but presumably after two or three days  Ugbuz  wouldn't  be

sending scouts for rival tribes on his own deck.

The computer refused to display the schematic for Deck 9.

Keying down, Luke could only get displays for Decks 10 through 13.

Total schematic.

- - The Will requests the objective of this information

Location of alien life forms.

- - All things are within  parameters  defined  by  the  W.  There  are  no

unauthorized life forms aboard

"Oh, there aren't, hunh?" Again Luke keyed in Total schematic.

- - The Will requests the objective of this information

Damage control.

- - The Will is in control. The Will ascertains no damage in any area

All the lights browned out and the pale-blue letters of the monitor  shrank

into a tiny dot and blinked away. From the blackness  of  the  corridor  outside

came the shrill chitter of Jawa voices, the scrabble of fleeing feet.

Luke sighed. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

Chapter 7

Sick bay was dark, silent, and cold.

"Drat those Jawas, sir!" cried Threepio.

Luke Skywalker had dealt successfully with battling  a  clone  of  himself,

with being enslaved by the Emperor and the dark side, with  wholesale  slaughter

and the destruction of worlds.

A good deal of Han Solo's vocabulary did come to mind.

"Come on," he sighed. "Let's see what we can manage."

"These were quite  decent  early  Too-One-Bees,  sir,"  remarked  Threepio,

holding aloft one of the few emergency glowrods left  in  the  rifled  emergency

locker on the wall. "But of course the reason they are independently powered  in

modern ships, instead of hardwired into place, is painfully obvious here."

"Painfully," thought Luke, leaning against the self-conforming plastene  of

the diagnostic bed, was certainly the appropriate word for this occasion.

All the cabinets had been frozen shut when the Jawas had  pulled  the  main

wall hatch in search of wire and components.  Though  none  of  the  diagnostics

worked, Luke was fairly certain-by the way his  left  foot  moved,  and  by  the

excruciating pain that shot up the  back  of  his  thigh  whenever  he  put  the

slightest weight on it--that one or more tendons had been severed,  which  meant

that even discounting the near certainty of infection, until he could get  to  a

genuine medical facility he would be seriously lame.  Simply  keeping  traumatic

shock at bay took all the healing power of the Force that he could  muster,  and

even that, he knew, couldn't last long.

In addition to ripping free coverplates and hatches to get at the machinery

within, the Jawas had carried off portions of  the  autodocs,  taken  the  power

cores out of the X-ray and E-scan machines, and tried to remove the  temperature

regulator from the bacta tank, with the result that the tank itself  had  leaked

half its contents onto the floor in a gigantic sticky pool.

So much for the possibility of standard regenerative therapy.

Luke caught one of the horde of MSE droids that were faithfully  attempting

the herculean task of cleaning up the mess, pulled its power core, and used  its

wiring to short the locks on the cupboards. The dispensary was stocked with huge

quantities of gylocal,  a  horrifically  powerful  pain-blockerststimulant  that

would allow a warrior to go on fighting long after shock would have  felled  and

killed him--Luke turned the black  boxes  of  ampoules  over  in  his  hand  and

remarked, "They sure expected a fight, didn't they?" He put them  back.  Gylocal

decomposed after about ten years in storage, separating  into  xs  original--and

highly toxic-components. Even if the stuff had been fresh Luke wasn't sure  what

the effect of the drug would be on his ability to wield the Force.

Less heroic measures were available in the form of nyex,  which  made  many

people--and Luke knew from past experience he was among  them--drowsy,  and  the

nonnarcotic painkiller perigen. He planted a perigen patch  on  his  thigh  just

above the knee and immediately felt the pain lessen. It wouldn't heal the damage

and he'd still be lame, and  perigen  lacked  the  mild  stimulant  included  in

gylocal, but at least the debilitating stress of fighting  the  agony  would  be

eased. In the absence of bacta-tank therapy to accelerate  the  healing  of  his

concussion--and Luke knew he was already over  the  worst  of  its  effects--the

simple reorientive comaren would deal with the last of the symptoms.

At least there was plenty of that.

More worrying was the fact  that  most  of  the  antibiotics  and  all  the

synthflesh on the ship had completely decomposed with age.

In a locker in one of the labs next door he found a regular trooper's  gray

coverall whose baggy shape would fit over the taped and splinted dressing on his

leg. Changing into x, Luke filled the pockets with all the comaren  and  perigen

he could locate, and wired half a dozen glowrods to the end of his staff.

"Okay, Threepio," he said, as he belted his lightsaber once more around his

waist and carefully used his staff to lever himself up from the  self-conforming

chair where he'd sat to change. "Let's see about finding Cray in this place."

In the dark corridors around sick bay, Talz--as Threepio identified  them--

fled from them like enormous white powder puffs; from the  pitch-black  maws  of

holds and wards, little quadrangles of eyes glittered out at him in the  bobbing

reflection of the glowrods. Luke halted two or three  times,  and  had  Threepio

translate for him, "I am your friend. I will not harm you, nor lead anyone  here

to harm you." But none of the great, soft aliens returned a sound.

"The Empire used them for work in the mines on Alzoc Three," said Luke,  as

he and Threepio headed toward the lighted areas visible far down  the  corridor.

"Alzoc wasn't even entered in the galactic registry. The Senate found a  mention

of it a couple of years ago in secret corporate  files.  Nobody  knew  what  was

going on there. They were  lied  to,  betrayed...  no  wonder  they  learned  to

distrust anything humanoid. I wonder what  happened  to  the  stormtroopers  who

waited on their planet to be picked up?"

Beside the lift he surprised a group of Talz in the process  of  feeding  a

band of ten or twelve tripods, setting down big mess-hall basins on  the  floor,

one of water, one of a horrible mixture of porridge, milk, and fish stew,  which

the tripods knelt to devour eagerly. The Talz themselves took one look  at  Luke

and Threepio and fled. Within minutes a dozen MSE'S and  two  SP-80'S  appeared,

determined to clean up what they obviously considered mess.  The  tripods  moved

back in confusion, watching helplessly as the MSE'S slurped up what was left  of

both water and food - comcutting in to do so behind Luke's back when he tried to

shoo them away--and the SP-80'S made valiant but futile attempts  to  bend  down

far enough to pick up the basins themselves.

"I have nothing but respect for the entire  Single-Purpose  series,  Master

Luke," said Threepio, reaching down to hand the basin to the older and  blockier

droid. "Truly the core of droid operations. But they are so limited."

Threepio could provide no identification or linguistic information  on  the

tripods, and even  his  translational  analog  function  couldn't  arrive  at  a

complete understanding of their speech. Luke could only gather  that  they  were

People and they came from the World and they were looking for a way to  go  back

there.

"You and me both, pal," sighed Luke, as the spindly forms  wove  away  down

the corridor, still hunting for the right door to go  through  that  would  open

onto home.

At least the lift still worked, though with  the  Jawas  at  large  it  was

anybody's guess how long that would last. The dirty little creatures  were  born

scroungers and thieves, especially of metal, wire,  and  technology.  Only  four

lighted buttons glowed beside the lift door: 10, 11, 12, 13. Up on Deck 12 again

the lights were still on, the air clean and circulating. An occasional plate  or

coffee cup littered the corridors, and cast-off  pieces  of  stormtrooper  armor

amply indicated a Gamorrean presence,  but  as  Threepio  had  said,  the  SP-80

cleaners and the little black boxlike  MSE'S  had  meticulously  wiped  out  any

evidence of whatever trail the invading Klaggs had left.

They came around a corner and Luke stopped, startled, to find the  corridor

in front of them dotted with what looked, at first glance, like blubbery, putty-

colored mushrooms; a meter to a meter and  a  half  tall,  lumpy,  and  smelling

strongly like vanilla. A second glance showed him that they had arms  and  legs,

though he could see no sensory organs whatsoever. Threepio said, "Good  Heavens!

Kitonaks! They weren't here yesterday."

He walked forward among them.

Luke followed. There were thirty at least in the corridor, more, he saw, in

the rec room that opened to  the  right.  He  touched  one  and  found  it  room

temperature, though with a suspicion of greater heat  deep  within.  Under  huge

folds of fat many of them showed round, open holes in what were  probably  their

heads, and, peering within, Luke identified two tongues and three rows of small,

cone-shaped teeth.

"What are they doing?" Several bore abrasions and what  looked  like  knife

wounds that had bled, clotted, and were on  their  way  to  healing,  apparently

unnoticed.

"Waiting for Chooba slugs to crawl up into theirthe  mouths,"  replied  the

droid. "It's how they feed."

"Nice work if you can get  it."  Luke  reflected  that  at  some  point  an

expedition to the mess hall sounded in order, though it would call for a certain

amount of caution. "They look pretty safe for now."

"Oh, they are, Master Luke."  Threepio  clanked  briskly  among  the  weird

forest of still shapes. "They're among  the  toughest  species  in  the  galaxy.

Kitonaks have been known to go without food for weeks, sometimes months, with no

ill effects."

"Well,  unless  those  landers  picked  up  Chooba  slugs  in  mistake  for

stormtroopers," commented  Luke,  glancing  back  over  his  shoulder  at  them,

"they're going to have to."

Where  the  lights  failed  and  the  corridors  became   dim-lit   caverns

illuminated only by the reflected glow of glowpanels in the lighted areas or  an

occasional bleary yellow worklamp, they found the corpse of an  Affytechan,  the

gaudy vegetable people  of  Dom-Bradden.  MSE'S  crawled  over  it  like  greedy

insects, trying vainly to clean a mess  beyond  their  small  capacities;  ichor

congealed on the floor for meters in all directions and the smell of its rotting

sugars lay thick and nauseating in the air. Luke was silent, aware again of  the

dangers of this not quite empty ship.

A scream echoed down the  darkened  corridor  from  the  direction  of  the

Gakfedd village in the cargo hold. Luke swung around,  listening;  then  started

toward the sound at a limping, staggering run. Its  queer  and  almost  metallic

timbre told him it was a Jawa, terrified and in agony. He knew  long  before  he

reached the hold what he'd find, and in spite of what he knew about  Jawas,  the

hair on his head prickled with fury.

The Gamorrean stormtroopers had gotten a shredder from someplace, and  were

holding a Jawa by the wrists above it, lowering it feet first into the  whirling

blades. There were four or five of  them,  including  Ugbuz,  all  howling  with

laughter as they dipped their wretched little captive up and down.

From the threshold of the giant chamber, Luke reached out  with  the  Force

and swatted the shredder away with such violence that it spattered to pieces  on

the wall  ten  meters  away.  Krok--whicho  was  holding  the  Jawa--hurled  the

miserable little clump of rage and filth aside and  whirled,  roaring  a  curse;

Ugbuz brought his blaster carbine to bear. Luke, hobbling  toward  them  between

the huts, impatiently ripped the carbine from the Gamorrean's hands while he was

still meters away, sending it spinning, and did  the  same  a  moment  later  to

another trooper's ax. Torture of anything fired in  him  a  white  and  scalding

rage. Krok launched himself at him with his huge hands  outstretched,  and  Luke

levitated him as if he'd been a hundred and seventy-five kilos of bagged  rocks,

and held him for a moment two meters above the floor, staring at him  with  cold

blue eyes.

Then, carelessly almost, he threw him aside, and turned to face Ugbuz.

"What's the meaning of this, trooper?" demanded  the  Gamorrean  furiously.

"That was a Rebel saboteur, out to thwart our mission! We caught him with that..

." He gestured furiously to the bundle of wires and computer  chips,  torn  ends

trailing, that lay near where the shredder had been.

Luke met the Gamorrean's eyes with a chilled and icy  stare  before  which,

after a moment, the piggy gaze dropped. Sullenly, almost, Ugbuz  demanded,  "Who

the hell do you think you are?"

"It isn't who I think I am," said Luke softly, stepping close. "It's who  I

am." He lowered his voice to exclude the others,  and  spoke  for  Ugbuz's  ears

alone. "Major Calrissian, special services. 229811-B." He gave the serial number

of the Millennium Falcon's engine block. "Intelligence."

Had it been possible for Ugbuz's eyes to widen they would have; as  it  was

his hairy ears shifted forward in awe and respect. He threw a quick glance  over

his shoulder to where the Jawa had been thrown. Though Krok had slung  the  Jawa

with sufficient force to have surely broken all its  bones,  it  was  no  longer

there--Jawas being endowed with the ratlike ability to take almost any amount of

physical punishment and still slither away through the first unwatched crack the

moment they were no longer actually restrained.

Luke laid a hand on the stormtrooper captain's arm. Both his fury  and  the

exertion of using the Force had left him trembling, almost nauseated, sweat  icy

on his face, but he kept his voice soft, projecting into x all his  Jedi  power.

"It's all right," he said. "You did as you thought best and it was  clever  work

capturing it. But it was acting under my orders, infiltrating the Rebels.  There

was no actual damage done. You did right to protect the mission,  and  I'll  see

your name shows up in commendations to the Ubiqtorate, but after this... let  me

interrogate prisoners."

"Yes,  sir."  For  a  moment   a   thoroughly   Gamorrean   expression   of

disappointment crossed Ugbuz's tusked face. Then he was  Captain  Ugbuz  of  the

Imperial Service again. He saluted.

"You did well, Captain," said Luke, and used the Force  to  subtly  project

into Ugbuz's mind the pleased warmth that surety of approval brings.

"Thank you, sir." The pseudostormtrooper saluted again and lumbered over to

pick up his blaster carbine, stopping once or twice to look over his shoulder at

Luke, who limped away in the direction of  the  door,  leaning  heavily  on  his

light-clustered staff.

"Very good, Master  Luke,"  said  Threepio  softly  when  Luke,  weak  with

exhaustion, reached the door once more. "Though I must say, you really ought  to

find some way to discourage those Jawas from further depredations on the  fabric

of this vessel if we are not to all perish of cold and suffocation. They seem to

have no idea of the damage they're causing to their own environment."

"Well, they wouldn't be the first,"  Luke  remarked,  leaning  against  the

wall. He felt drained and beaten, his head aching in spite of the comaren. If in

immediate danger of death by freezing, he doubted he could have summoned  enough

of the Force to light so much as a candle.

"If you'll come this way, sir," said the droid, "I believe I have  found  a

partial schematic of the ship."

The schematic of Decks 10 through 13  was  etched  onto  four  crystal-plex

panels in what was probably the office of the physical  plant  manager,  showing

the locations of lifts and gangways, power lines marked in red and water trunks-

-shower  facilities,  coolant  lines,  fire-control  sprinklers--in  blue.   The

asymmetry of the ship's form made it difficult to remember.  From  the  outside,

Luke recalled, the asteroid was more bean-shaped than round, so the higher decks

would be smaller, and grouped aft. From the location  of  coolant  trunks,  Luke

deduced that the main power cores that fed the reactors, the computer core,  and

the guns were located aft as well.

His request for a full schematic from the office computer was greeted  with

a demand for an authorization code, and tinkering with all the various  standard

Imperial codes he knew or had been told by Cray only got him Current  status  of

all departments consonant with the timetable and objectives of the W.

The Will, he thought. The core program. The central, coordinating plan. The

thing that regulated everything in the ship, from the temperature of  the  mess-

hall coffee to the nearly human targeting of the defensive guns...

Nearly human? Luke wasn't sure anymore about that.

The thing that knew when the jump to hyperspace would be, that  would  take

them to Belsavis. That knew  what  the  battle  plan  was  for  destroying  that

undefended town.

Without human knowledge, he thought. Therefore, there was no one who  could

have been forced, or coerced, or coaxed, to talk, had they been  captured.  Only

the W.

He went back to studying the schematics it would show.

"They've got to keep the lines to the fuel tanks  and  the  power  chargers

short," he explained, limping along the corridor again a few minutes later  with

Threepio clanking softly at his side. "That means all the main hangars are going

to be in one area, or at most two--port and starboard. Now sick bay is  portside

on Deck Ten, and next to that a  series  of  decontamination  chambers,  so  I'm

betting that big rectangular chamber that's unmarked on the Deck  Ten  schematic

is the hangar where the lander came in."

So it proved. The lander's engines were dead  and  nothing  Luke  could  do

could revive them--"Well, why not? They fulfilled  their  purpose"--and  in  any

case, there was no way of manual steering or controls.  The  G-40  droids  stood

silent and dead, one already half dismantled by Jawas who couldn't carry it off.

The silvery, bubble-shaped trackers were nowhere to be seen.

By judicious manipulation of the controls on a service lift--using,  again,

the power core and wiring of a somewhat indignant MSE--LUKE  managed  to  freeze

the lift car between Decks 10 and 9 and to get the doors open at least somewhat.

While Threepio fretted and predicted doom in the Deck 10 hangar, Luke attached a

hundred feet of emergency cable from a locker around one of  the  lander's  legs

and scrambled, with considerable difficulty, down through the lift car and  into

the hangar immediately below on Deck 9.

The lights were out there, the bay a vast, silent cavern illumined only  by

the blanched glow of the starlight beyond the magnetic field that protected  the

atmosphere of the hold. Through the huge bay doors, rimmed around with the  rock

of the concealing asteroid in which the Eye had been  built,  Luke  could  stare

into the endless black vistas of the void.  A  handful  of  asteroids  had  been

brought along with the Eye when it made its hyperspace  jumps  to  pick  up  its

long-vanished personnel-probably for cover, Luke thought--and  a  few  of  these

drifted aimlessly in the middle distance, like bleached hunks of bone.

The shadowy bay itself was designed to  accommodate  a  single  medium-size

launch, by the look of it. Cables from the power cell dangled from  the  ceiling

and directional markings indicated where the vessel would stand, in  the  center

of the bay, nose pointing  toward  the  starry  darkness  that  lay  beyond  the

magnetic shield. But there was no launch there.

Instead, to one side of the hangar, a charred and battered ally-wing  craft

stood. The empty vastness of the hangar picked up the echoes of Luke's staff  as

he crossed the floor to it, and shadows twitched restlessly as he  held  up  his

staff with its glowrods to look at the open cockpit above his head.

A two-seater. Luke couldn't see well from where he stood,  but  he  thought

that the pressure hookups from both stations had been used.

"It explains what happened." Luke sank gratefully into  one  of  the  white

plastic  mess-hall  chairs  and  accepted  the  plate   Threepio   handed   him:

reconstituted and radiation-packed, maybe, and bearing only nominal  resemblance

to actual dewback steak and creamed topatoes, but close enough. In spite of  the

perigen Luke's leg felt as if it were about to fall off at the hip--which,  Luke

reflected, in its current state didn't sound like such a bad idea--and he was so

tired he ached, but he had a sense of matters being at least partially in hand.

"What happened when?" inquired Threepio.

"What happened thirty years ago. As Triv told us, the Eye of Palpatine--the

whole Belsavis mission--was set up to be a secret, a secret even from  the  Jedi

Knights. That's why they automated everything. So there would be no leaks.

"But there was a leak, Threepio. Somebody found out."

A sound from the doorway made him turn  his  head.  Four  or  five  tripods

wandered through the mess-hall door, beautiful with their shadings of turquoises

and pinks, their long yellow fur around the hips and tentacles. Luke got to  his

feet, leaning painfully on his staff, and limped to the water  spigot  near  the

food slots. The pile of discarded plates along that  wall  was  nearly  a  meter

high; Luke selected the deepest bowl he could find, filled it  with  water,  and

carried it over to the tripods, having learned that even setting it on  a  table

wouldn't work. Threepio, at Luke's orders, followed with a couple of  dishes  of

porridge, which the poor befuddled creatures accepted gratefully,  dipping  long

snouts in and slurping deeply.

"Somebody found out," Luke  continued  as  he  worked,  "and  came  to  the

Moonflower Nebula. Their ally-wing got shot to pieces by the autodefenses - - wh

are the closest thing to human I've ever seen - comb they made it in. They disa4

the Eye's triggering  mechanism--probably  disa4  whatever  slaved  signal-relay

stations they could find, so no signal could come in to start the mission.  Then

they took the launch from the hangar, and fled."

"One could only wish," said Threepio, "that they had disa4 the autodefenses

as well."

"Maybe they couldn't," said Luke. The tripods began to  move  off,  hooning

and muttering vaguely among themselves, and Luke and Threepio  started  back  to

the table where Luke had been.

"According to the power cell readings in the hangar, that bay is just above

the fighter berths where the short-range fliers--the  ground  supports  and  the

escorts, TIE'S according to the power consumption  graphs--are  docked.  If  the

mission involved a ground assault--and it has to have, if they were  picking  up

stormtroopers--there have to be assault  shuttles  somewhere,  probably  on  the

upper decks in this same area, but they wouldn't have been any  good  either  in

deep space. They have to have taken the launch."

"I see," replied the droid. He was silent a moment,  holding  Luke's  staff

and offering his arm to help him down into the chair. "But if the  signal  relay

was destroyed, what started it up again?" he asked. "After thirty years?"

A horrible cacophony of shouts sounded in the corridor outside. Luke  swung

to his feet, outdistancing Threepio as  he  limped  to  the  door.  Through  the

grunting, shrieking, bellowing, he could hear the heavy thunder of feet.

It was a member of the Klagg tribe. Luke recognized it instantly,  for  the

Klaggs had all been wearing helmets and armor from regular navy troopers  rather

than stormtroopers, bucket-shaped helmets and gray breastplates instead  of  the

familiar white. Wherever their headquarters  was,  it  was  obviously  close  to

different armories than  the  Gakfedds'.  However,  Luke  scarcely  needed  this

observation, since the Klagg was in  full  and  terrified  flight  from  fifteen

Gakfedds,  howling,  waving  axes  and  forcepikes,  brandishing  blasters   and

carbines, and occasionally letting off a shot that ricocheted  wild  and  lethal

along the corridors like a red-hot hornet.

Luke said, "Come on!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"He'll be heading back to his home territory!"

Luke crossed the mess hall to the opposite doors, knowing that the corridor

down which the Gakfedds chased their prey led nowhere and the Klagg  would  have

to double back. Sure enough, moments later Luke heard behind him in the corridor

the thudding crash of a single set of feet, the snuffling,  slobbering  pant  of

the fugitive Klagg. He led Threepio into a laundry drop room to  let  the  Klagg

hasten by without seeing them, then stepped out again, following, listening. The

Gakfedds seemed to have lost their prey, the echoes of  their  shouting  ringing

from corridors nearby, but Luke, listening ahead, could trail quite  easily  the

solitary Klagg's gasping breath and lumbering feet. Gamorreans weren't  runners.

With the use of both his legs Luke could have outdistanced  any  Gamorrean  ever

littered, and even leaning on a staff he had little trouble keeping up.

As he had half suspected, half deduced, the Klagg was heading aft.

"They found some way to get above the crew decks," he murmured to  Threepio

as they crossed through chamber after chamber of armories, looted weapons holds,

stores whose bins and crates had been broken to disgorge uniforms, boots, belts,

and blast armor on the floors and down the halls. "Listen. He's doubling back on

his steps. He knows he has to get a level up."

He halted, looking cautiously around a corner. The Gamorrean  stood  in  an

open lift car, prodding angrily at the buttons there, obviously wanting one that

read higher than 13 and not finding it. A moment later the pseudotrooper stepped

out of the car again, looking around him, hairy ears swiveling as  he  listened,

breathing clearly audible in the silence. There was an expression sweating  like

a Gamorrean, and Luke understood it now. The creature's body  glistened  and  he

could smell it from where he stood.

The Gamorrean lumbered on.

"Is he lost, Master Luke?" Threepio  could  gear  his  voder  down  to  the

faintest hum of alm-inaudibility.

"Looks like. Or the Gakfedds are cutting off the way he came down."

There was a rumble of shouts, coming closer. The Klagg increased his  speed

to a clumsy trot. He was still easy to keep up with,  through  corridors  bright

with the hard cold light of glowpanels, or dark where the Jawas had  looted  the

wiring. His ears kept swinging backward--Luke wondered how acute they were,  and

if he could pick up the faint scrape and click of the staff, and the soft  creak

of Threepio's joints.

There was a black door, double-blast-sealed and surmounted with  a  crimson

light. The Gamorrean jabbed at the switch, with no result,  then  pulled  out  a

blaster and shot the whole mechanism. The door jarred a little  in  its  socket,

and a voice said, "Entry to upper levels in this area is unauthorized.  Security

measures are in force."

The Gamorrean ripped loose the coverplate  on  the  manual  hatch  by  main

force, and worked the dogged wheel within. Far  down  the  corridor  Luke  heard

renewed clamor, and knew the Gakfedds had heard the computer's voice:

"Entry to upper levels in this area is unauthorized. Security measures  are

in force. Maximum measures will be taken."

The red light began to blink.

The door opened to reveal a gangway.  Black  metal  steps,  gray  walls,  a

checkering of pale squares of opalescent light set in  a  curious,  asymmetrical

alm-pattern that seemed at once impersonal and queerly sinister.

"Maximum measures will be taken. Maximum measures will be taken. Maximum...

"

"There's the stinking mutineer swine!"

As Ugbuz and his troopers appeared  from  a  cross-corridor  twenty  meters

away, the Klagg plunged up the gangway.

Watching it, Luke reflected--in the part  of  his  mind  not  stunned  with

horror--that it was very like the Empire to design  a  "security  measure"  that

wouldn't take effect until the violator was too far into  the  gangway  to  turn

back.

The Gamorrean raced up five or ten  steps  before  the  lightning  started,

thin, vicious fingers of it stabbing  out  from  the  walls,  playing  over  the

creature's body like  a  delicate,  skeletal  spider  torturing  its  prey.  The

Gamorrean screamed, fell, his big body spasming, flopping on the black metal  of

the stairs. The pursuing Gakfedds skidded to a halt at the door, staring  up  in

momentary shock.

Then they began to laugh.

Ugbuz let out a bellow of mirth, pointing as the  Klagg's  flesh  blistered

and blood poured from a thousand pinholes drilled by the lightning.  The  others

whooped, doubled over, slapping their thighs  and  one  another's  shoulders  in

genuine amusement. Luke  shrank  back  into  the  cross-corridor  where  he  and

Threepio stood, sickened. The Klagg, impossibly, was still trying to get to  his

feet, still trying to ascend the stairs, slipping  in  blood  now,  charring  to

death as he moved.

Gamorreans were  tough.  And  the  Klagg,  quite  clearly,  considered  the

sizzling nightmare of the gangway a preferable fate to what the  Gakfedds  would

do.

Luke turned away, almost ill, and headed back  toward  the  mess  hall.  He

could hear the Gakfedds' laughter a long way down the hall.

Armories, naval (regular)--search

- - Purpose of this information?

Inventory control

- - All inventory consonant with the parameters and intentions of the Will

"Master Luke?"

Schematic search--water piping

- - Purpose of this information?

"Master Luke, it's getting quite late."

Emergency maintenance

- - All maintenance proceeding in accordance with the intent and  timetable

of the Will

"You lying wad of synapses, you've got lighting blacked out over half  your

crew decks and computers down everywhere you look."

"Master Luke, the longer you remain this far from the Gakfedd village,  the

greater your danger from a retaliatory Klagg raid. There haven't even been Talz,

or tripods, in this sector for..."

Luke raised his head. He was sitting at a terminal in  the  quartermaster's

office, the entrance to a small complex of workshops and storage rooms. The long

corridor leading to the mess hall's starboard entrance was visible  through  the

open door. Visible past Threepio's shoulder, that is.  The  protocol  droid  was

standing nervously in  the  doorway,  glancing  out  with  the  frequency  of  a

Coruscant stockbroker on the scout for a hovercar after a lunchtime meeting.  If

Threepio hadn't had an internal chronometer, thought Luke, he'd be looking at  a

watch every ten seconds.

He said, "They have Cray."

Torturing the Jawa had been petty viciousness, like children tormenting  an

injured animal. The Klagg had been an enemy. And the Klagg would see Cray as  an

enemy of theirs.

Especially, he thought, after the death of their mate in the gangway  wired

with that evil opalescent grid.

Wearily, he typed:

Sysshell

- - Purpose of this information?

Sysview

- - Purpose of this information?

Revsys

- - Purpose of this...

"The purpose of this information is to make you cough up something  besides

the fact that the Will is in charge of everything and  everything  is  perfect,"

muttered Luke through his teeth. His head ached again--his whole body felt as if

he'd fallen down a flight of stairs, and in spite of the perigen  patch  on  his

leg there was a suspicious, grinding inflammation  deep  inside  that  made  him

wonder how long he could summon the Force to battle infection in the torn flesh.

"And if I have to go through every Imperial code and slicer  Cray  and  Han  and

Ghent ever taught me I'll do it."

"I do wish Artoo were here, sir," said Threepio,  clanking  diffidently  to

his side. "He's much better at talking to these supercomputers than I. Why, back

when we were with Captain Antilles, we... Oh! Shoo, you nasty little thing!"

Luke knew it was a Jawa even before he turned. Anyone who'd  had  even  the

smallest experience with Jawas knew when one had entered an enclosed space.

"No, it's okay,  Threepio."  After  seeing  the  Klagg's  death,  Luke  had

considerably more sympathy for the Jawas. He frowned, puzzled,  as  he  swiveled

his chair, for Jawas generally avoided contact with other races, particularly on

this ship.

"What do you want, little guy?"

It was the Jawa he'd saved that morning. How he knew this he couldn't  say,

because with their all-envelopingly ragged brown robes, grubby gloves, and faces

invisible in the shadows of their hoods, it was almost impossible  to  tell  one

from another. But somehow he was sure of it.

"Master."  The  slangy,  squeaky  patois   of   the   desert   was   almost

unintelligible. One filthy little hand reached out to touch  the  lightsaber  at

Luke's belt.

He put his own hand guardingly over it, but sensed no real desire to steal.

"'Fraid that's mine, pal."

The Jawa stepped back, silent. Then it reached into xs robes. "For you."

It held out another lightsaber.

Chapter 8

There was a  technique  to  trolling  the  bars  along  Spaceport  Row  for

information. Leia recognized it at once as a variation of what she  herself  did

at diplomatic receptions: more an attitude than any specific set of questions, a

kind of easy friendliness compounded  of  genuine  interest  in  other  people's

lives, an almost limitless tolerance for  meaningless  trivia,  a  finely  honed

mental garbage filter, and the acceptance--artificial, if necessary--that  there

wasn't anything else one had to do that afternoon.

She enjoyed watching Han work. Clothed in a dress that he'd picked out  for

her,  of  the  "not-to-diplomatic-events"  variety,  she  lounged  on  barstools

consuming drinks with paper  spaceships  in  them  and  listened  to  him  trade

trivialities with various barkeeps, watching game transmissions in the seemingly

depthless black boxes in the corners--in eight years of close  association  with

Han Solo she had acquired a vivid working knowledge of the rules and  strategies

of smashball--listening  to  extremely  bad  music  and  getting  into  marginal

conversations  with  packers,  stokers,  small-time  traders,  and  smaller-time

hustlers and bums. Even in the Core Worlds most people didn't recognize Leia  or

Han if they didn't know them or know who they were. To  ninety  percent  of  the

species in the galaxy, all members of other races looked alike anyway, and  most

humans wouldn't have recognized the Senators from their own planets.

There was something to be said, Leia reflected, for the planets still ruled

by the Ancient Houses. On Alderaan, everyone had known her: grocery  clerks  and

subspace mechanics had studied the home lives of the House Organa on  a  day-to-

day basis over the tabvids, watched them marry and  divorce  and  squabble  over

property settlements and put their children through  private  academies,  tsk'ed

over the unsuitable attachments  of  Cousin  Nial  and  recalled  that  long-ago

scandal that had broken off Aunt Tia's engagement to... What had his name been?.

.. from House Vandron.

Her onetime suitor Isolder had told her  it  was  the  same  in  the  Hapes

Consortium, whose ruling House had been in power for centuries.

Here they were just a lanky man with a scar on his chin  and  a  smuggler's

habit of watching the doors, and a cinnabar-haired woman in a  dress  that  Aunt

Rouge would have locked her in her room before permitting her to wear in public.

Leia listened, with increasing respect, to Han discussing puttie, which had

to be the most boring sport in the entire Universe, for thirty  minutes  with  a

wizened Durosian before bringing up the subject of the local action. She  didn't

quite know how he'd come to the conclusion that this was the bar  where  such  a

question might be asked.

The reward was that the Durosian--whose name was Oso  Nim--remembered  Drub

McKumb, and recalled his disappearance six years ago. "You sure he  didn't  just

skin out ahead of trouble?" asked Han, and the aged one shook her head.

"Fester it, no. Skin out how, without his  ship?  Thing  msta  sat  in  the

impound for ten months, with every tramp skipper and  planet  hopper  that  came

through trying to bribe the yard captain to let 'em strip  parts.  Finally  sold

the whole shebang to a bunch of Rodians for gate fees." She chuckled, displaying

several rows of tiny, sharp, brown teeth. "First-timers,  they  were.  Took  off

with a load of cut-rate silk trying to run the tariff  barriers  into  the  Core

Worlds and got themselves blistered out of existence first revenue  cutter  they

met. Waste of a good ship, not to speak of all that silk."

She shook her head regretfully. The Smoking Jets, like every other  bar  on

the Row, consisted of three prefab white plastene room units fixed together  and

opened into a single long chamber, mounted on a broken foundation of some  older

rock structure and cantilevered awkwardly  to  fit.  The  factories  on  Sullust

turned out interlocking room units by the millions and there wasn't a commercial

colony from Elrood to the Outer Rim that didn't have at least some  buildings  -

comtowns, even--that consisted entirely of three-by-three white cubes.

Down in this part of town, near the segment of the  cliff  where  the  Port

Offices formed a kind of gateway into the tunnels that led to the docking  silos

themselves, most of the room units had been fixed--with varying accuracy--to the

heavy walls and keyhole arches of the older structures, where steam from the hot

springs in the foundations  still  drifted  forth  through  broken  pillars  and

colonnades.  Most  of  the  dwelling-houses  so  built,  Leia  had   noticed   -

comincluding the one in which she and Han were staying--had been  decorated  and

added to with native hangings of woven grass, bright cloth, trained trellisworks

of vines, to minimize their undeniable resemblance to packing crates.

No such care had been lavished on the Smoking Jets.

"And nobody tried to figure out what happened to Drub?" Leia  signaled  the

barkeep to refill Oso Nim's glass.

"Bzzz." The Durosian made a dismissive noise and a gesture  reminiscent  of

scaring flies. "A million things can happen to a man on the game, sweetie.  Even

in a backwater hole like this one. It's sometimes six months before his  friends

figure out he hasn't disappeared on purpose, ship or no ship."

"And was it six months before his friends went looking?" asked Han.

Oso Nim cackled and gave him a sidelong glance from iridescent orange eyes.

"In six months, you know where your friends are going to  be?  Drub's  mate  and

crew said he'd been on about crypts under the old ruin at the top  of  the  town

and went pokin' themselves, but  fester  it,  there's  no  crypts!  People  been

looking for them crypts for years, and all they found was solid  rock.  Smuggler

tunnels, sure, there's smuggler tunnels all over this  damn  town,  but  crypts?

Solid rock is all Drub's mate and crew found, same as others before 'em."

"And what," asked Han, taking the bottle from the barkeep and repairing the

old Durosian's depredations on her glass, "were others before 'em looking for?"

He spoke low, under the tinny audio of the holo box above the bar where the

final game of the series between Lafra and Gathus was in  process;  she  laughed

heartily. "Oh, you're a friend of his, after all these years, sweetie? His long-

lost brother?" Durosians generally don't laugh, and in the face of the wholesale

horror of lines, teeth, halitosis, and flashing eyes, Leia could understand  why

other races might discourage them from doing so.

"Hey, Chatty!" she called to a human in a purple-splotched coverall with  a

packer's stained and bandaged  fingers.  "Here's  old  Drub  McKumb's  long-lost

brother, come searching for his bones at last!"

"What, you think there's secret crypts  down  under  Plett's  House,  too?"

Chatty was if anything more wrinkled and decrepit than Oso Nim, though,  looking

at him, Leia realized he wasn't much older than Han. "Secret tunnels filled with

jewels?"

Han made an I-didn't-say-it gesture, and Chatty winked. One of his eyes was

a replacement, the cheap kind manufactured on Sullust with a  yellowing  plastic

cornea.

"If there's jewels in them crypts, why  ain't  Bran  Kemple  richer,  hunh?

Why's he playin' penny-ante stakes smuggling coffee and running card games  over

at the Jungle Lust?"

"Bran Kemple's the town boss?" Han raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise.

"I thought it was Nubblyk the Slyte."

"What hole you been hidin' in for the  past  eight  years,  Sugar-drawers?"

laughed the Durosian, and Chatty took the bottle  from  Han's  hand  and  poured

himself a glass, courteously offering Leia a refill as  well.  Leia,  thoroughly

amused, refrained from remarking that people who'd been living at the bottom  of

a volcanic vent for decades had no business accusing others of hiding in  holes.

"The Slyte pulled his stakes out eight, nine years ago. Whole  scene's  gone  to

pieces since then."

"Gone to pieces," Chatty agreed,  nursing  Han's  bottle  mournfully.  "Hot

rockets, boy!" he yelled  furiously,  his  attention  suddenly  riveted  by  the

activities of twenty-five skaters on the planet Lafra, "you call that  festering

shooting? For a million credits a year I'll festering join your  festering  team

and lose your games for you, you stupid sons of slime devils!"

"You sure the Slyte actually pulled his own stakes?" Leia leaned her elbows

on the bar and looked innocent and fascinated.

The Durosian grinned and pinched her  cheek  with  fingers  like  mummified

knotgrass. "Your girlfriend catches on quick, Angelpants. The Slyte was a clever

old bug. If he was goin' snoopin' around where he had no business,  he  wouldn't

come in here half drunk like Mubbin the Whiphid did, carryin' on about how  he'd

found a big secret about Plett's House, or like old Drub with his "calculations.

" Oh, I don't doubt there's somethin' up at those ruins the high-ups around here

don't want people snoopin' with. Maybe enough to load dim-cells like  Mubbin  or

Drub or what's-his-name, that Wookiee who worked as a mechanic  for  Galactic...

enough to load them into an outbound ship."

She shook her head, polished  off  another  glass,  took  the  bottle  from

Chatty, and tilted it, regarding with profound sadness the few  remaining  drops

that trickled into her glass.

"Well, whatever it is, it ain't worth it, so why put yourself in trouble, I

say." She shrugged. "Maybe Drub just fell down a repair shaft  in  some  orchard

someplace and the kretch ate him."

"Kretch?" said Leia sharply.

The orange eyes glittered in unholy amusement. "How long you been in  town,

Pretty-Eyes? You'll see the kretch mighty quick. As for old Drub, what was it to

him what the high-ups are hidin', long as there was no money in it? And you  can

be sure there wasn't, else the big corporations'd be sellin'."

She smiled beatifically as Leia signaled and another bottle materialized on

the stain-repellant lexoplast of the  bar.  "Why,  thank  you,  darling..."  She

nodded toward Han and leaned forward to whisper confidentially, "You're way  too

good for the likes of him."

"I know," whispered Leia, and Oso Nim cackled with delight.

She saddened again, and tossed off another drink. "Well, the whole  scene's

turned to garbage now anyway. Pity, 'cause eight, ten years ago this  place  was

really movin'. You'd get twelve, fourteen ships a week  in  on  the  sly,  goods

slippin' in under the ice, and this place was as jammed at noon  as  it  was  at

midnight, maybe more. The Slyte was one who knew how to  run  things.  Since  he

left it's all turned into nerf-feed."

Odd, thought Leia, as she sought out the Smoking Jets' plumbing  facilities

a little while later. As far as she could ascertain from Oso Nim's  increasingly

foggy conversation (han had ordered still another blue glass bottle, and  Chatty

was absorbed in the second half of the  doubleheader),  Nubblyk  the  Slyte  had

departed, the "game"--i.e., smuggling--had drastically declined, and Mubbin  the

Whiphid, a friend of Drub McKumb's, had vanished, all in the  same  year...  the

year after Palpatine's death and the breakup  of  the  Empire.  A  year  later--

whichenough Drub McKumb had returned to Belsavis--he'd vanished, too.

Her aunt Rouge's housekeeper had frequently observed, Just because you keep

soap in the pantry doesn't make it food.

The temporal proximity of the events could have been coincidence.

And yet...

With every possible inch of arable ground in the volcanic rift  given  over

to cash crops, lots in town were small and buildings like the  cantina--and  the

older stone house upon which it was built--were squinched right to the  property

lines, leaving no room for sanitary accommodations aboveground. An old-fashioned

manual hinged door at one end of the bar bore the universal symbols, and  behind

it a thoroughly insalubrious stair plunged by the light  of  a  minimum-strength

glowpanel into the grotty obscurity of the foundations. Though most of the  warm

springs over which the old houses had been built had been diverted long ago, the

heat belground was even worse than above, the air held a lingering whiff of some

sour gas and the dense black-red stone of the walls was patched with a  crop  of

molds and fungus that made  Leia  glad  she  hadn't  ordered  a  salad  off  the

cantina's small food menu. At the far end of  the  narrow  passageway  something

moved, and Leia, nervously activating the small glowrod that hung at  her  belt,

got her first look at what had to be a kretch.

It was half again as long as her hand, possibly the width of three  fingers

together, and the color of a scab. Two sets of jaws--one  above  the  other-were

large enough that even at a distance of five meters she could see  the  serrated

teeth, and the barbed grabbers on the tail. It  lunged  at  her  with  a  motion

something between a hop and a dash, and Leia, who knew better  than  to  fire  a

blaster in the closed space, scooped up the chunk of stone used as a doorstop at

the top of the steps and hurled it at the thing in a reflex of panic and horror.

The stone cracked squarely on the thing's jointed back, rolled off  as  the

kretch spasmed, quivered, and then hauled itself swiftly to vanish  between  the

pipes that ran along the wall. As Leia edged  nervously  down  to  retrieve  the

stone she could see the  brown  stain  it  left,  and  smell  a  kind  of  sweet

nastiness, like fruit in the final stages of decomposition.

She checked out the repellent little cubicle at the end of  the  passageway

very carefully with the light before entering and afterward  hurried  her  steps

along the passage to return to the bar above.

The kretch would eat us...

If those were the kretch, she thought,  she  was  not  looking  forward  to

encountering them in the crypts where the Jedi  children  had  once  dared  each

other to hunt for Plett's Well... provided they could find the crypts at all.

"Just because you keep soap in the pantry doesn't make it food," agreed Han

thoughtfully, as they walked through the drifting glitters of mist on their  way

back to the house Jevax had arranged for them. "But it's no accident you keep it

close to where you wash the dishes."

She nodded, accepting that train of logic, then grinned. "And what  do  you

know about washing dishes... Angelpants?"

"When you spend three quarters of your life bumming around the galaxy, Your

Highness-ness, believe me, you end up loading a  lot  of  dishwashers  and  even

washing dishes by hand." He hooked his hands in his belt, but Leia knew  he  was

watching everything around them to the limits of his senses. The eternal  vapors

of Plawal were unnerving. Thickest down at the far end of the valley  where  the

true hot springs bubbled forth, even here, where the land  lay  low  around  the

warm springs, visibility was down to a few meters. Even up on the raised streets

that skirted the orchards, scenes had a tendency to appear  and  disappear  like

isolated tableaux: fruit trees jeweled with orchids,  up  which  sweetberry  and

bowvine had been trained so that every branch  hung  heavy  with  two  or  three

different varieties of fruit; thousands of tiny  bridges  spanning  the  faintly

steaming pools and streams whose fern-choked verges swarmed with salamanders and

frogs; yellow, green, or sea-blue pittins  dozing  on  the  thrusting  knees  of

shalaman and aphor trees or hunting  insects  in  the  grass;  automated  watch-

critters crouched at the bases of the more expensive trees, beady eyes of  green

or amber gleaming eerily through the mists. Lava-block walls loomed unexpectedly

out of the shifting vapors, topped by the sleek white plastic  of  the  prefabs;

ramps of wood or plastic ascending to the doors from street  level,  lined  with

pots of imported red plastic or local terra-cotta, lush with berries,  slochans,

lipanas.

Beautiful... But Leia was extremely conscious of the fact  that  visibility

was down to two meters or less.

"So what's this about smuggler tunnels?"

"Back when I was in the game," said Han, "I never  made  it  out  here--too

close to the Senex Sector--but I knew there were at least a dozen  landing  pads

out on the ice. Judging by the number of people in the bars who're still in  the

game, I'd be surprised if there's more than one or maybe two still  operational.

Now, according to Lando, what's left of the Empire hasn't  changed  its  tariffs

and the export duties here haven't changed any... gone up,  if  anything.  Which

means that nine years ago, something dried up."

"Right about a year after the Battle of Endor."

Han nodded. "Something you might want to keep in mind when you  go  through

the town records--notow that old Jevax has had time to pick out the  parts  that

might tell you anything."

"You know, Han..." Leia paused at the top of the wooden ramp  that  climbed

the high, broken stone of their house's foundations  to  the  wide  front  door.

"That's the first thing that drew me to you. The  childlike  innocence  of  your

heart."

He caught her arm, grinning; she tried to duck away to open the door but he

pinned her, a hand on either side of her shoulders, their eyes laughing into one

another's, his body warm against hers. "You want to see how innocent I can be?"

She reached to touch the scar on his chin. "I know how innocent  you  are,"

she said, meaning it, and their lips met, isolated in the  still  cloak  of  the

mist.

Only the padding footfalls on the ramp  broke  them  apart,  and  the  soft

whirring of servos. They stepped back from each other in time to see Chewbacca's

tall form materialize out of the pearlescent  shimmer  of  the  air,  trailed  a

moment later by Artoo. The glittering colors of the mist were darkening  as  the

dome-magnified sunlight waned. Between the  gray  trees  of  the  orchards  that

stretched downhill from the back of the house, the twilight was growing thick.

"Find anything?"

As they passed through the front door  Chewbacca  shrugged  eloquently  and

groaned. He'd pursued his own investigation of the local scene  in  places  that

left the smell of strange smokes in his fur, and  had  learned,  he  said,  very

little. Very little was going on. One of the smuggler pads out  on  the  glacier

was still in operation sometimes, though  there  were  fewer  and  fewer  pilots

looking to make the difficult run in through the Corridor.  A  couple  of  ships

were buying vine-silk on the cheap -  commostly  grade-two  skimmings  from  the

factories. A couple of dealers running in yarrock, ryll, and  various  sorts  of

frontal-lobe candy for the old buzz-brains living in the grubby shacks and lean-

tos behind Spaceport Row. Bran Kemple was evidently the only person  selling  it

on a regular basis. Everybody said Not like the old days. You  could  make  more

money packing brandifert if you didn't mind purple fingers.

"I'm going to take Artoo with me to the MuniCenter,  if  you  don't  mind."

Inside the house Leia hunted out a dark  green-and-violet  tunic  slightly  more

respectable than the garment she'd worn to go touring the bars of  the  Row--she

owned underwear more respectable than that particular outfit, for that  matter--

and more comfortable shoes. "You find anything from public access while we  were

up at Plett's House, Artoo?"

The astromech trundled obediently over to the small  monitor-printer  setup

in the corner and extruded a comm plug, and the printer began  to  chatter.  Han

crossed the room to see. "Export figures for all seven main packing  plants  for

the past week," he reported with  a  grave  nod.  "Mmmm...  oh,  now  we've  got

employee health figures... fuel intake of  all  vessels  for  the  past  week...

Better and better. Wow, here's a hot item!  Repair  costs  for  malfunctions  of

mechanical fruit pickers amortized over the past ten years. Leia, I  don't  know

if my heart can take this..."

She rapped him on the arm with the  back  of  her  knuckles.  "Don't  tease

Artoo... That's very thorough of you, Artoo, you did a good job. You always do."

The droid beeped. Past the bedroom's line of floor-length windows  and  the

narrow stone terrace beyond, darkness had settled, the lights  that  dotted  the

orchards below the house making raveled blurs of brightness  in  the  mist.  The

house was one of the few in Plawal to consist mostly of the original stone--only

the kitchen and half the living room were prefab--but had been remodeled in  the

past few years, the old keyhole windows  replaced  by  modern  crystalplex  with

sliding metal shutters to cut  out  the  orchard  lights.  It  was  environment-

controlled, too, after a fashion-better than the Smoking Jets, anyway. An ironic

refinement, thought Leia, for a planet whose surface temperature averaged in the

minus fifties.

Like most houses in the old town it was  built  over  a  small  warm-spring

site, and though the spring had been diverted to warm the orchard, the  basement

floor still produced errant wisps of steam. Leia wondered with a sudden qualm of

disgust if kretch lurked there.

"You'll be okay here?" She paused on her way to the door.

"I'll have a go at calling Mara Jade. She may know where those landing pads

were, and something about why Nubblyk  the  Slyte  left."  He  made  a  show  of

checking his pockets. "And I know I picked up a card in  the  bar  for  order-in

dancing girls."

"Just make them sweep up the confetti when they're done."

They kissed again, and Leia strode down the ramp  to  street  level,  Artoo

trundling in her wake. It had grown dark. Silver-winged moths fluttered  crazily

around the lamps; pittins and mooklas hunted  frogs  beneath  the  bridges.  The

world smelled of sweet growing things, of grass and fruit--fruit bred specially,

calculatedly, to make the inhabitants of this  rift,  this  world,  wealthy  and

competitive in the galactic markets. In the darkness among the  trees,  luminous

insects flickered like fairy candles.

A paradise, thought Leia.

If you didn't know about the kretch underneath it.

If you didn't know about Drub McKumb's voice  screaming,  Kill  you  all...

going to kill you all...

They're gathering...

If  you  didn't  know   that   occasionally   someone   who   followed   up

unsubstantiated rumors about the tunnels  beneath  Plett's  House  would  vanish

without a trace.

In a market square among the sleek white prefabs, the dark  huddle  of  old

stone walls, barrow men and vendors were  striking  their  awnings,  folding  up

their wares amid the final desultory shoppers of the day. Above the  market  the

MuniCenter reared on the first of the low  benches  above  the  town,  only  its

lights visible as a blurred galaxy in the dark fog. The sloping path  toward  it

wound among the orchards, and because of the multitude of hot springs that  came

out of the valley's point there the fog was thick, the sodium  arc  lights  with

their unreal white glare edged a  few  leaves  with  light  and  left  all  else

swallowed by the night. Now and  then  a  mechanical  tree  feeder  would  stalk

momentarily into view, unnervingly like a huge metal spider with its half  dozen

long, jointed arms, its blind turrets  and  proboscislike  squirters,  rows  and

rings of yellow lights outlining it like shining crowns and bracelets of jewels.

Unlighted, silent, not quite ruined enough, Plett's House rose invisible in

the dark behind. Leia remembered the vision she'd seen there, the deep sense  of

silent peace. Remembered the voices of the children, and old  Ho'Din,  beautiful

with his pale-green skin against the black Jedi cloak;  remembered  his  haunted

eyes.

She remembered also the urgency in Luke's voice when he'd told her  not  to

bring the children to this paradise of a place.

Had she brought them, she wondered, what would they have seen?

Abruptly, Artoo-Detoo, who had been following her along the  path,  made  a

right-angle turn and trundled off into the foggy darkness  to  her  right.  Leia

turned, startled: "Artoo?" She could hear the crash  of  his  heavy  cylindrical

body in the foliage, the furious yik-yik-yik of the  guard-critters  around  the

trees, the startled whoops of night birds.

"Artoo!"

His treads left deep marks in the soft grass. Leia followed, pushing at the

leaves, wet fern slapping at her boots, pulling out her glowrod and  holding  it

before her where the darkness grew dense away from the lights.

"Artoo, what is it?"

The ground dipped sharply beneath her  feet.  She  heard  Artoo's  startled

tweet, the crash of something falling. Branches caught at  her  hair,  slithered

damply across her face as she hurried forward.

The little astromech droid had come to a  stop  at  the  base  of  a  wall,

pressed against it and still trying vainly to go forward. Leia  could  hear  the

whirr of his servos, the grind of his treads in the soft ground. She flashed the

light swiftly to the right and left but  saw  nothing,  only  the  dark  of  the

enclosing foliage, barely visible through the dense mists, the bob  of  firebugs

among the sweet-scented trees. "Artoo, stop!" she ordered. "Stop!"

The whirring of the gears halted.

"Back up."

He was mired. "Hold it," said Leia, and after another careful scout  around

with her light, she took from her boot the  small  knife  she  carried  and  cut

branches--making sure they bore no fruit--to lay in the deep tread marks on  the

muddy ground. "Back up."

The droid obeyed.

"Artoo, what is it? What happened?"

Luke was better at understanding the little droid than she was, though  she

could interpret some of his odd beeps and warbles. But the reply he made  was  a

quick, almost perfunctory double gleep, telling her nothing.

"Well, let's not stand around here in the dark." Something  about  the  way

the vine-hung boughs with their ghostly orchids seemed to  bend  close  unnerved

her, even in this safe and  well-patrolled  paradise.  A  sharp  rustle  in  the

darkness made her nearly jump out of her skin, but it was only  a  tree  feeder,

pausing to lower its hoselike proboscis to the roots of a shalaman tree and pump

forth a measured dose of rank-smelling organic goo before  picking  its  careful

way back among the trees.

"Let's see if we can get back to the path."

It wasn't easy, between the dark and the mushy unevenness  of  the  ground.

Artoo's base was weighted to give him  maximum  stability,  but  though  he  was

better than he looked on rough terrain he wasn't perfect, and  the  base  weight

would make it, if not impossible, at least backbreaking, for Leia to  right  him

should he unbalance. It took a half hour of muddy searching, stumbling over tree

roots and getting yikked at by watch-critters in the dark, along the  bed  of  a

steaming volcanic stream before they found a sufficiently gentle incline  and  a

clearing among the ferns that let her see the path again.

Just for a moment, Leia looked up and saw someone standing at  the  top  of

the slope, under the yellow blur of the light.

She thought, What's she doing here?

And then wondered why, as the  woman  turned  from  the  light  and  walked

quickly away down the path...

Why had she thought that? It wasn't anyone she knew.

Was it?

Schoolfriend? Her age looked about right, so far as Leia could tell at that

distance and behind the blurring of intervening fog. But  somehow  she  couldn't

picture that slim, childlike body in the white-and-blue uniform of the  Alderaan

Select Academy for Young Ladies. She was sure  she'd  never  seen  that  chained

ocean of rain-straight, coal-black hair plaited in a schoolgirl's  braids.  That

let out the possibility of her being the daughter  of  an  Alderaan  noble  alt,

since they'd all gone to the same school...

Someone from the Senate? It rang  a  bell,  but  she'd  been  the  youngest

Senator herself at the age of eighteen, and there had been no one near  her  age

there, certainly no girls. A Senator's daughter? Wife? Someone she  had  met  at

one of those endless diplomatic receptions on Coruscant? Someone seen across the

room at the Emperor's levee?

Here?

She regained the path as quickly as she could, but steadying Artoo over the

bumpy roots took her whole effort and attention. When she reached the top of the

slope and looked quickly down the path, the woman was gone.

Chapter 9

See-Threepio didn't like the idea. "You can't  trust  those  Jawas,  Master

Luke! There has to be a gangway somewhere..."

Luke contemplated the hatch cover the Jawa had removed from the wall in one

of the laundry drop rooms, the dark shaft full of wiring  and  cables  that  lay

beyond. A ladder of durasteel staples emerged from the silent well of  blackness

below, vanished up into the  lightless  chimney  above.  He  thought  about  the

physical effort involved in hitching himself up those rungs, without use of  his

left leg, one rung at a time, compared with what the mental  effort  would  cost

him to use the Force to levitate. The choice wasn't pleasant.

Neither were the memories of the Klagg stormtrooper's death.

"I'll be all right," he said quietly.

"But all the gangways can't be wired!" protested the droid. "I  don't  like

the idea of you going alone. Can't you wait a little, sleep on this?  If  you'll

forgive my saying so, sir, you look as if you would greatly  benefit  from  some

sleep. Though I never use it myself, I'm told that humans..."

Luke grinned, touched by Threepio's concern. "I'll get some  sleep  when  I

get back," he promised. In the dark of the shaft above he heard  the  rat-rustle

of the Jawa's robes halt, an interrogatory piping squeal, "Master?"

"If I don't track this down now I may not get another chance."  He  made  a

quick check of the power cell of the glowrods taped to his staff, then slung the

wire loop he'd taped on the staff's  upper  end  over  his  shoulder,  balancing

carefully on his good leg with his hands against the  hatchway's  narrow  sides.

"I'll be all right," he said again.

He knew Threepio didn't believe him, of course.

He ducked his head through the hatch, reached  over  the  narrow  shaft  to

seize the rungs, and hopped across. Even that small movement caught his leg with

a flash of pain that left him breathless,  despite  all  the  healing,  all  the

strength of the Force  he  could  summon.  He  glanced  down  at  the  seemingly

bottomless plunge of the shaft, and thought, I'll need to save my strength.

"Be careful, Master Luke..." The droid's voice floated up after him in  the

dark.

In the crazy, bobbing dimness of the glowrods slung to his back,  the  Jawa

was barely visible, a dark, scrambling figure like a robed insect skittering  up

the ladder now far over his head. Bundled trunk lines of cable and wire  brushed

Luke's shoulders as he hitched himself laboriously in  the  Jawa's  wake,  hoses

like glistening black esophagi and thinner lines  of  rubbery  insulated  fiber-

optic coax crowding close, as if he were indeed ascending the  alimentary  canal

of some monstrous beast. The Jawa paused  every  now  and  then  to  finger  the

cabling in a way that made Luke extremely nervous. Who could tell  what  systems

depended on that particular hunk of wire?

Here and there orange worklights burned dim above closed  hatchways--dogged

shut on the inside, he observed, and equipped with the dark  boxes  of  magnetic

seals. Elsewhere he climbed in darkness, lit only by the glowrods on his  staff.

The tube smelled fusty, of lubricants and insulation and now, overwhelmingly, of

Jawa, but it lacked the characteristic, slightly greasy smell  of  air  recycled

countless times through the noses and lungs of a  living  crew.  Even  with  the

vessel's current bizarre populations, it would be long before it  acquired  that

smell.

Longer than they'd be aboard.

Longer than this weird mission would last.

What started it up again?

Threepio had put his intricately jointed metal finger on the  crux  of  the

problem, the galling root of Luke's anxious dreams.

The Eye of Palpatine had been wrought in secret for  a  secret  purpose,  a

mission that had been thwarted. It had lain sleeping in  its  remote  screen  of

spinning asteroids in the heart of the Moonflower Nebula for thirty years, while

the New Order that had planned that mission, armed the ship's  guns,  programmed

the Will's single-minded control, had risen to  power  and  then  cracked  apart

under the weight of its own callousness, monomania, and greed.

The stormtroopers stationed on half a dozen remote worlds of  the  Rim  had

grown old and died.

Palpatine himself had died, at his own dark pupil's hand.

So why had the Will awakened?

Luke shivered, wondering whether it was simply his own apprehension for the

safety of those on Belsavis--for Han and Leia and Chewie--that cast a shadow  on

his heart, or whether the shadow was of something  else,  some  separate  entity

whose power he had sensed moving like a dianoga underwater  through  the  darker

regions of the Force.

The tube topped out in a thick-barred metal grille painted garish,  warning

yellow and black. Affixed to it--in case anyone should  miss  the  point--was  a

sign: Enclision grid. No further ascent. Danger.

Beyond the bars, Luke could just  distinguish  a  lateral  repair  conduit,

through which the cables of the ascending shaft continued like runners  of  some

thick-fleshed, ugly vine. The walls of the conduit gleamed with the asymmetrical

pattern of opaline squares, each square a deadly  laser  port,  waiting  in  the

dark.

Just beneath the metal safety bars, a ring of dirty fingerprints around  an

open hatchway showed clearly which course the Jawa had taken.

Luke dragged himself through, into light only marginally brighter than that

of the worklamps in the shaft.

It was the gun room. Rank after rank  of  consoles  picked  up  the  moving

firebug of his glowrods from the shadows of  soot-colored  metal  walls.  Screen

after screen, large and small, regarded him with dead obsidian eyes.

In the center of the chamber a ceiling panel had been removed, and a barred

grille like the one that had blocked further ascent  in  the  repair  shaft  lay

propped in a corner. Holding the staff with its glowing end  aloft,  Luke  could

see that the shaft rose upward, where the bundled pipes  and  hoses,  finger-fat

power lines and the wide ribbon-cables of computer couplers, flowed aloft  in  a

static river from half a dozen lateral conduits to  some  central  locus  above.

Yellow and black banded the lower half meter or so of the shaft, but  there  was

no sign, no written warning. Only the small, baleful glare of red power  lights,

and above them, the opal glister of the enclision grid,  spiraling  eerily  into

darkness.

A tug on his belt caught his attention. Luke put down his hand protectively

as the  Jawa  pawed  at  the  lightsaber  that  hung  at  his  belt--the  second

lightsaber, the one it had brought him. After a moment's hesitation Luke yielded

it, and the Jawa ran to a spot directly under the open shaft. It set the  weapon

on the floor, considered it for a moment, then moved it a  few  centimeters  and

changed the angle, clearly re-creating the exact position in which it  had  been

found.

Luke hobbled to stand over it, and looked up. The shaft gaped above him,  a

narrow chimney breathing death.

It led to the heart of the ship. There were too many power lines, too  many

bundles of fiber-optic cables, too many heavy-duty coolant pipes for it to  lead

anywhere but to the computer core.

Luke  stooped,  carefully  balancing  on  his  staff,  and  picked  up  the

lightsaber, then straightened and gazed up into t darkness again.

He understood.

Someone had ascended that shaft, thirty years ago.

There had been two of them who'd made it onto  the  ship  in  the  battered

ally-wing he'd found. One had taken the launch and left, probably  arguing  that

reinforcements should be sought.

The other had known, or guessed, that there might not be  time  before  the

ship jumped to hyperspace to start its mission: that the risk was too great, the

stakes too high, to permit the luxury of getting out of there  alive.  And  that

other had remained, to attempt to disarm the W.

The deadly enclision grid seemed to grin, like pale, waiting teeth.

"I'm sorry," said Luke, very softly, to that waiting column of  shadow.  "I

wish I could have been here to help you."

She would have needed help.

He turned the weapon in his hand, knowing instinctively that it had been  a

woman who made it, who wielded it. A woman with large hands and a long reach, to

judge by the weapon's proportions.... Yoda  had  told  him  that  the  old  Jedi

Masters could learn quite startling things about a Knight just by examining  the

lightsaber whose making was a Jedi's final test.

Around the rim of the handgrip someone had taken the time to inlay  a  thin

line of bronze tsaelke, the long-necked, graceful cetaceans of Chad  III'S  deep

oceans.

Still more quietly, he said, "I wish I could have known you."

He clipped the lightsaber to his belt, and began to hunt for the  way  this

woman--his colleague and fellow Jedi--had gotten into the gun room.

There was only one entrance, straight into a turbolift,  which  refused  to

respond to Luke's touch on the summoning button, but at a guess it was  the  way

she had used. With a little effort he could short the  doors  into  opening,  he

knew. From there he'd have access to the decks below, either via  rope  -  -  wh

could be liberated from a storeroom--or via levitation, if  he  wanted  to  risk

that great a drain on his limited strength. He wondered if the  Force  could  be

used--as it sometimes could--to hold  off  the  blue  lightning-threads  of  the

enclision grid long enough for him to get up the shaft to  the  ship's  computer

core.

The thought of trying it turned him cold.

Once in the core, it should be fairly simple to  trigger  an  overload,  to

destroy the Eye of Palpatine as it should have been destroyed thirty years ago..

.

And hadn't been.

He remembered the Klagg's screams as it bled and charred to agonizing death

in the gangway.

The Jedi who had ascended that shaft had lived long enough  to  damage  the

ship's activation trigger, dying up in the core while the Will itself  had  been

left alive. Because she hadn't  been  quite  strong  enough?  Quite  experienced

enough?

Or was the enclision grid something not even the strength of a Master could

outlast?

A dirty little hand closed around his sleeve. "Not  good,  not  good."  The

Jawa tried to pull him in the direction of the repair shaft  that  led  downward

again. It pointed up at the dark square in the ceiling. "Bad. Die a lot."

Die a lot. Luke thought about the Jawas, and  the  filthy,  rival,  feuding

villages of the Klaggs and the Gakfedds, reestablishing  here  the  patterns  of

their homeworld in terms of what they now thought they were. About the  Kitonaks

in the rec room, waiting patiently for their Chooba slugs to crawl into theirthe

mouths, and the dead Affytechan on the floor, and the Talz guarding each other's

backs--against whom? - - as they took water to the tripods.

Destroying the ship, he understood, was going to be the easy part.

See-Threepio was sitting in front of the comm screen in the quartermaster's

office, a long flex of cable plugged into the droud at the back of  his  cranium

and a tone of serious annoyance in his voice as he  said,  "You  silly  machine,

you've got enclaves of alien life forms all over you, what do you mean, "No life

forms alien to the intent of the Will?" What about a trace on Galactic  Registry

Standard 011-733-800-022?"

Luke leaned one shoulder against the jamb of the doorway, aware that  there

was no more need for Threepio to address the Will aloud than there was  for  the

droid to use human speech to communicate  with  Artoo-Detoo.  But  Threepio  was

programmed to interface with civilized life forms, to  think  like  a  civilized

life form. And one of the marks of  nearly  every  civilization  Luke  had  ever

encountered had been chattiness.

Threepio was chatty.

"What do you mean there are no life forms of that Registry number on board?

You have seventy-six Gamorreans in residence!"

"I already tried that, Threepio." Luke stepped into the  room,  his  entire

body aching from the compensation of walking with the staff,  the  unaccustomed,

agonizingly repeated set of movements involved in dragging himself up the ladder

rungs by the strength of his arms.

Threepio turned in his chair--another unnec human mannerism, for his  audio

receptors would have picked up, and identified, Luke's footsteps  and  breathing

eighteen meters down the hall.

"According to the Will, there are no aliens on this ship," said Luke,  with

a kind of wry weariness. "According to the Will, concentrations of  bodies  with

internal temperatures of a  hundred  and  five  degrees-Gamorrean  normal--don't

exist, either. Or those with temperatures of a hundred and ten, or  one-six,  or

eighty-three, which means there  aren't  any  Jawas,  Kitonaks,  or  Affytechans

around. But I have found a way to get up onto the upper decks without--was

From the speaker on the wall on Luke's right a triple  chime  sounded,  and

green lights flared in the onyx void of a  ten-centimeter  in-ship  comm  screen

above the desk. "Attention, all personnel,"  said  a  musical  contralto  voice.

"Attention, all personnel.  Tomorrow  at  thirteen  hundred  hours  an  Internal

Security Hearing will be broadcast on all ship's channels. Tomorrow at  thirteen

hundred hours an Internal Security Hearing  will  be  broadcast  on  all  ship's

channels."

The screen sprang to unexpected life. Within it Luke saw the image of Cray,

her hands bound, her mouth sealed shut with silver engine tape,  her  dark  eyes

wide and scared and  furious,  being  held  between  two  ludicrously  uniformed

Gamorrean troopers, Klaggs by their helmets.

"Observation of this hearing is mandatory for  all  personnel.  Refusal  or

avoidance of observation will be construed as sympathy with the  ill  intentions

of the subject."

After  the  first  shocked  second  Luke  focused  his  attention  on   the

background, the texture and color of the walls behind Cray and her guards-darker

than those in the crew decks and not as cleanly finished--the  relative  lowness

of the ceilings, the visible beams, bolts, and conduits. A corner of a makeshift

hut intruded on the scene, part of a packing box with Sorosub  Imports  Division

stenciled on it and a roof made of what  looked  like  a  survival  tarp.  Klagg

village, he thought.

Nichos stood by the hut, a  restraining  bolt  riveted  to  his  chest  and

wretched, haunted horror in his eyes.

"All personnel with evidence to lay against the subject  are  requested  to

speak to their division Surveillance Representative as soon as possible. Neglect

in this matter, when discovered, will be construed  as  sympathy  with  the  ill

intentions of the subject."

Cray jerked her arm against the Gamorrean's grasp, kicked hard at his shin.

The Klagg half turned and struck her hard enough to have knocked her down had he

and the other guard not kept hold of her arms; her face and the shoulder visible

through her torn uniform tunic bore other bruises already. Luke saw the look  of

agony Nichos cast in her direction, but the droid-man made no move,  no  effort,

of either help or comfort.

He couldn't, Luke knew, because of the restraining bolt.

The guards were half carrying the nearly unconscious Cray out of vid  range

when the vid itself went dark. Nichos remained where he was, his eyes  the  only

living part of his motionless face.

"Sorry, son, but we've  had  orders."  Ugbuz  folded  his  heavy  arms  and

regarded Luke with a gaze that was hard as  flint  and  not  a  bit  sorry.  The

Gakfedd chief nodded to himself, as if savoring the orders, or  the  feeling  of

having had them, an eerily human gesture that  made  the  hair  on  Luke's  neck

prickle.

"Yeah, I know we have to get them Klagg sons of sows..."  The  phrase  came

out all as one word, a leftover fragment from the part of Ugbuz that was still a

Gakfedd, his... but we have orders to find the Rebel saboteurs before they wreck

the ship."

His eyes narrowed, hard and yellow and vicious, studying  Luke,  as  if  he

remembered it was Luke who had stopped them from torturing the Jawa.

Luke extended the power of the Force, focused it with the small gesture  of

his hand. "Yet it's vital that we find the Klagg stronghold immediately."

It was like trying to grasp one-handed a wet stone twice  the  diameter  of

his grip. He could see it in Ugbuz's eyes. He wasn't  trying  to  influence  the

Gamorrean, but the strength of the W.

"Sure, sure it's vital, Klagg sons of sows, but we have orders to find  the

Rebel saboteurs before they wreck the ship."

It was a programmed loop. Luke knew he wouldn't be able to get past it. Not

with his body shaky from exhaustion, his mind aching from  the  effort  to  keep

trauma and infection at bay. The big boar's brow furrowed suspiciously. "Now you

tell me again why you had us let that saboteur go?"

Before Luke could answer there was a clamor of voices from the edge of  the

village. Ugbuz spun, jaw coming forward  and  drool  stringing  from  his  heavy

tusks. "Got some!" he bellowed, yanked his blaster from the holster at his  hip,

and dashed for the dark rectangle of doorway into the corridor.  From  the  huts

all around the cavernous hold other Gakfedds came running,  pulling  on  helmets

and picking up axes, laser carbines, vibro-weapons, and  blasters--two  of  them

had gotten ion cannons from somewhere and one had a portable missile launcher.

"I do see their point, Master Luke." Threepio creaked briskly after him  as

he followed, much more slowly, in Ugbuz's wake. "We've already lost the lighting

in almost all of Deck Eleven and it's getting more and more difficult to  locate

a computer terminal in working order. If the Jawas are  not  stopped  they  will

eventually jeopardize the life support of the vessel itself."

As they passed the largest hut the matriarch  Bullyak  emerged,  huge  arms

folded between her first and second sets of breasts, grimy braids framing a face

replete with warts, morrt bites, suspicion, and disgust. She squealed  something

irritably, and spat voluminously on the floor. Threepio inclined his body  in  a

little half bow and replied, "I quite agree, Madame. I agree  absolutely.  Jawas

are no fit combat for a true boar. She's quite annoyed," he explained to Luke.

"I guessed."

When they reached the shaft in the laundry drop, Luke said, "I'll  levitate

you as far as the first hatchway onto Deck Fourteen. I'll take Deck Fifteen.  We

know the Klagg was trying to go up the gangway when he was killed,  so  we  know

their village is above us. Look for any sign of the  Klaggs--footprints,  blood,

torn clothing..." By this time Luke knew the Gamorreans were as likely to  fight

within the tribe as outside it.

"I shall certainly try, sir," replied the droid humbly. "But with  the  SP-

80'S doing their duty in cleaning the floors and walls, tracking won't be easy."

"Do the best you can." Luke reflected that this would have been  easier  if

Cray had been in her right senses--her  true  identity--whichenough  she'd  been

carried off. "Look also for the kind of walls we saw in the  background  of  the

video announcement. The tarp and the crate in that hut have to  have  come  from

Mission Stores. Make a note if you see anything  similar.  Also  storerooms  for

regular navy trooper equipment, as opposed to stormtroopers. I'll be back to get

you down the shaft again at twenty-two hundred."

When he reached Deck 15, Luke found that Threepio was only too right  about

the SP-80'S and their unflagging mission to keep the Eye of Palpatine  spotless.

He found half a dozen plates and cups from the mess hall-polished clean  by  the

MSE'S but lying where they had been dropped--but no further  evidence  of  where

the Klaggs might have trodden. It was going  to  be  a  task,  he  realized,  of

laboriously quartering the decks one by one, looking for physical signs  of  the

Klaggs and trying to pick up some trace, some whisper,  of  recognizable  mental

resonance from Cray.

And Threepio wouldn't even be able to do that.

A crippled man and a protocol droid. Luke leaned  momentarily  against  the

wall, trying not to think about the bruises on Cray's face, the way her body had

snapped against the guards' brutal grip. Trying not to think about the  look  in

Nichos's eyes.

Thirteen hundred hours tomorrow.

He limped on. The Klagg had been trying to go up. The walls on this  deck--

or in this section of this deck, which seemed to house the repair  installations

for the TIE fighters--were darker than those of the  crew  quarters  below,  the

ceilings lower, but without the metal beams he'd seen in the vid transmission.

A hangar? he wondered. Storage hold? A  corridor  stretched  to  his  left,

pitch dark. Far down it he heard the scrabble of feet, saw the yellow  rat-gleam

of Jawa eyes. They were eating the ship  to  pieces.  No  wonder  the  Will  had

ordered Ugbuz to exterminate them. But he had the suspicion  that  whatever  the

result of the Jawa depredations, it would only kill the living crew. Nothing the

Jawas could  do--noto  damage  or  death  of  those  aboard--would  prevent  the

battlemoon's jump to hyperspace, when it thought nobody was  looking.  It  would

have no effect on its capacity to blow the  city  of  Plawal--and  probably  the

other settlements on Belsavis for good measure--to powder and mud.

He'd seen what the Empire had left of Coruscant, of Mon  Calamari,  of  the

Atravis Systems. He'd felt the screaming outcry of the Force, like  the  ripping

apart of organs within his own body, when Carida had gone up.

To prevent that, he thought, he would go up the enclision grid himself,  to

make his own attempt at destroying this monster's mechanical heart.

Luke tried a door, and when it refused to open limped  down  the  corridor,

testing another, and another, until he found one that responded to his  command.

There was light in that area of the ship, and the air, though chemical, had  the

slightly ozoneous smell of new, clean oxygen that hadn't been  passed  around  a

hundred sets of lungs. He found another messroom coffee cup on the floor, but no

sign of the Klaggs. No trace of Cray's consciousness.

It was difficult to keep  his  bearings,  difficult  to  quarter  the  ship

accurately, because of the closed blast doors on some passageways. He was forced

repeatedly to circle through offices, laundry drops, lounges, counting  turnings

and open doors as he went. As a desert boy he'd learned early to orient  himself

with the most ephemeral of landmarks, and his training as a Jedi  had  sharpened

and heightened this ability to an almost preternatural degree,  but  there  were

miles of corridor, hundreds of identical doors.  SP-80'S  patiently  made  their

rounds along the wall panels, removing already invisible smudges and stains,  so

there was no sense in marking his way physically with chalk or engine oil. MSE'S

scurried on their automated errands, as undistinguished from one another as  the

carefully cloned bepps grown in Bith  hydroponics  tanks:  Luke  had  heard  the

expression "as alike as bepps" all his life  without  ever  meeting  anyone  who

actually  enjoyed  eating   the   precise,   six-centimeter-square,   pale-pink,

nutritionally balanced and absolutely flavorless cubes.

Down a darkened hall a square of white light lay against  a  wall.  Shadows

passed across it, and Luke's quick hearing  picked  up  the  mutter  of  voices.

Dragging himself along on a crutch, silence was out  of  the  question,  but  he

moved slowly, keeping his distance, extending his senses to listen, to pick  out

the words...

Then he relaxed. Though they were saying things  like  "All  gunnery  ports

cleared, Commander," and "Incoming  reports  on  status  of  scouts,  sir,"  the

lisping musicality of the voices-several octaves  higher  than  those  of  human

children-let him know that he'd just stumbled on an enclave of Affytechans.

The room was some kind of operations systems node, more likely connected to

the ship's recycling and water-pumping lines than to its weaponry. Not  that  it

mattered to the Affytechans. The gorgeous  inhabitants  of  Dom-Bradden-petaled,

tasseled, tufted, and fluttering with hundreds of tendrils and shoots--were bent

over the circuit tracers and  inventory  processors,  tapping  the  responseless

keyboards and gazing into the blank  screens  with  the  intensity  of  Imperial

guards on a mission from Palpatine himself.

And perhaps they thought they were. Luke had never been quite able to  tell

about the Affytechans.

Did they know, he wondered, leaning in the doorway, that the levers weren't

moving, the knobs weren't turning? That the screens before them were dead as wet

slate? "Prepare to launch  TIE  fighters,  Lieutenant,"  sang  out  the  obvious

commander, a frilled purple thing with haloes of white fur outlining the  yellow

exuberance of its  stamens,  and  the  lieutenant--sixteen  shades  of  oranges,

yellows, and reds and big around as a barrel--gripped levers in its  talons  and

produced an amazing oratorio of sound effects, none of which had  the  slightest

relation to any mechanical noise Luke had ever heard.

As far as Luke had been able to  ascertain,  the  Affytechans,  unlike  the

Gamorreans, sought to harm no one. Their consciousness, if  they  had  any,  was

wholly sunk into the dreams of the Imperial Space Service, not  divided  between

dream and reality.

"They're firing on us, Captain!" cried a  beautiful  thing  of  yellow  and

blue. "Plasma torpedoes coming in on port deflector shields!"

Three or four others made what they clearly fancied were explosion noises--

rumblings like thunder and shrill cries--and  everyone  in  the  room  staggered

wildly from one side of the chamber to the other as if  the  ship  had  taken  a

massive hit, waving their flaps and petals and shedding white  and  gold  pollen

like clouds of luminous dust.

"Return fire! Return fire! Yes?" The captain's lacy sensors turned  like  a

breeze-tossed meadow in Luke's direction as Luke hobbled over to it and saluted.

"Major Calrissian, Special Services. 22911-B. Where are  they  holding  the

Rebel saboteur they caught?"

"In the detention area of Deck Six, of course!" cried the captain,  out  of

at least six mouths in exquisite harmony. "I have no  time  for  questions  like

that! My men are being slaughtered!"

Its vast, flinging gesture took in the doorway behind it. Luke touched  the

opener and saw, to his shock and horror, in the small lounge  that  lay  behind,

the dismembered bodies of  four  or  five  Affytechans  scattered  over  tables,

chairs, desks. Someone  had  activated  the  fire-prevention  sprinkler  in  the

ceiling, turning the nozzles so that a spray of fine,  rather  metallic-smelling

mist rained down over everything on the room, pattering  wetly  on  the  puddled

floor. Amid the pools the torn-off limbs and  ripped-out  nervous  systems  were

sprouting, thin yellow pendules already bending under the swollen  weight  of  a

rainbow of fleshy bulbs.

"Captain, the hyperdrive can't take much more of this!"  exclaimed  someone

who was obviously standing in for the ship's engineer,  and  a  gunnery  officer

added, "More Rebel fighters coming in, sir! A-formation, starboard ten o'clock!"

Everyone leaped to the dead consoles and began making  important-sounding  beeps

and twitters.

Luke limped thoughtfully out into the corridor again.

Deck 6. Far below them--and the Klagg had definitely been trying to go  up.

Still...

Would the Klaggs have done that kind of damage to the Affytechans?

It was a possibility, thought Luke, trying a door, then doubling through  a

storage area (still no open ceiling beams) and down a viewing gallery  above  an

empty hangar deck. The pieces hadn't looked charred so much as cut and torn. How

did blaster fire react on the soft, silklike vegetable flesh?

He paused at a juncture, trying to get his bearings. Another  door  refused

to open--one that he had the vague sensation had been  open  before-sending  him

back down a cross-corridor, through a laundry drop, along a passage  that  ended

in another shut blast door.

I've been this way, thought Luke. He knew he had. And that door had been...

He stopped, his scalp prickling.

He smelled Sand P.

Idiot, he thought, as his whole body turned cold. If the landers picked  up

Jawas from Tatooine you should have known there was a chance they'd pick up Sand

People--Tusken Raiders--there as well.

They'd been in this corridor not more than  a  few  minutes  ago.  The  air

circulators hadn't yet cleared their smell. It meant they could be  behind  him,

tall rag-wrapped shapes like brutally  vicious  scarecrows  mummified  in  sand,

crouched in one of the dark cabins, listening for his dragging footfalls  behind

one of those many doors the Gamorreans, or the Affytechans,  or  the  Jawas  had

forced open...

Tusken  rifles  were  mostly  basement  specials,   tinkered   by   illegal

manufacturers in Mos Eisley and sold to the Raiders by  unscrupulous  middlemen.

Inaccurate, dirty-firing, but even a near miss in corridors like these could  be

fatal.

He could still smell them. The circulators should  have  cleared  away  the

whiff of their dirt-colored wrappings had they been just passing through.

He moved back the way he'd come, stretching his  senses  for  the  smallest

trace. Around the corner he'd last turned, he thought he heard the faint scratch

of metal on metal. At the same moment, movement in the corridor  crossing  ahead

of him caught his eye. A Mouse-droid zooming up the hallway stopped, as  if  its

registers identified something ahead of  it  out  of  Luke's  sight  around  the

corner. Abruptly it reversed itself, backing full speed in panic.

Luke flung himself toward the nearest room as a searing blast of rifle fire

scorched paneling all around him. The Sand People knew their ambush  was  blown;

he heard their almost silent footfalls in the hall as he slammed over the manual

on the doors, dashed across the room--it was a communal  lounge  of  some  kind,

with a visi-reader and a coffee spigot--and through the door on the other  side.

A cabin, two bunks, like the one he'd come back to consciousness in.  Two  bunks

and one door. Gaffe sticks and makeshift rams pounded on the door of the  lounge

and he tried another door, a laundry drop like the one from which the  Jawa  had

led him into the repair shaft.

The panel that led to the repair  shaft  wouldn't  budge.  Luke  heard  the

crashing of the lounge door being  broken  in,  the  wild,  blistering  rake  of

saturation fire into the lounge, the  visi-reader  exploding  and  the  hiss  of

bursting fire-system pipes... He'd never get a chance to  bring  his  lightsaber

into play. The blast of the Force that he directed against the wall hatch dented

it, but the dog-bolts on the other side held. He  remembered  seeing,  on  other

hatches in the shafts, the black boxes of magnetic locks.

The door heaved, shook. There was a splintering crash, another harsh zatter

as the lock was subjected to rifle fire, and the door  opened  a  slot.  Blaster

fire roared through, raking the small area of the room  accessible  through  the

slit, but it was only the smallest  of  rooms.  Ricochets  bounced  and  sizzled

wildly against the walls, and Luke flattened into a  corner,  trying  to  summon

enough of the Force to keep from getting fried by strays. To an extent he  could

keep the spattering randomness of them off him, but once the Sand People got the

doors open enough to crisp the room wholesale...

The Force. If he could use the Force to blow the doors off outward, to hurl

himself through in a flying levitation, it might buy him a few seconds...

He knew that was absurd but was summoning his strength, his energy, to  try

it anyway when a faint clanging noise by his right foot drew his attention.

The repair shaft coverplate had fallen neatly inward.

Luke ducked through, pushed the panel back into place  behind  him--it  had

been dogged, and there was a lock mechanism on it,  too--and  latched  it  again

with the bolts alone, which even without the lock should hold  against  Sand  P.

The worklights still burned dimly here, a grudging ocher glow that faded  around

him as he climbed down, leaving only the faint light  of  the  glowrods  on  his

staff.

At the next level down he paused, resting his forehead  against  the  panel

and stretching out his senses through the metal and into  the  room  beyond.  He

heard no sound, so dogged back the latches and,  holding  on  to  the  handgrips

within the shaft, swung himself back and away from the hatch  and  summoned  the

Force, like a violent kick of kinetic energy, from the  outside  of  the  panel,

smashing it in despite the magnetic lock.

The metal buckled, twisting against the  outer  latches,  sufficiently  for

Luke to work it free. He slipped through into a dim-lit storage area on Deck 14.

Threepio was waiting for him in the laundry  drop.  "I  was  able  to  find

nothing, Master Luke, nothing," moaned the droid. "Dr. Mingla is doomed, I  know

she is."

In the corridor outside, the lights were out. Those  in  the  laundry  room

dropped to the grimy yellow glow of the emergency batteries in which  Threepio's

eyes shone like headlamps.

"And at the rate the Jawas  are  stealing  wire  and  solenoids  from  this

vessel," added Threepio tartly, "we're all doomed."

"Well, nobody's doomed yet." Luke eased himself down against the  wall  and

stretched out his splinted leg, which had begun to throb in  spite  of  all  the

concentration, all the Jedi healing techniques he could summon. He  pulled  open

the engine-taped flap in the leg of his coverall  and  affixed  another  perigen

patch to his thigh. The analgesic compound lowered the pain but did nothing  for

his utter weariness. He wondered if he could force his own alertness to  sustain

a search of the Deck 6 Detention Block, or whether he  would  miss  some  subtle

clue from sheer exhaustion.

We're talking about Gamorreans here, he reflected. How subtle can they be?

Though his every instinct told him to look on the upper decks for Cray,  he

knew he couldn't neglect even the possibility of a lead. It did make a  kind  of

sense.

He took a deep breath. "You willing to search the next deck up, Threepio? I

can levitate you as far as the opening on Deck... I think  it's  Seventeen."  He

leaned through the open hatch and looked. The next opening looked at  least  two

levels above the Deck 15 hatch.

"Very well, sir. But I do suggest, Master Luke, that you get some rest. And

permit me to re-dress that wound on your leg. According to my perception of your

vital signs--was

"I'll get some rest when I get back from Deck Six. Really," he  added  into

Threepio's pregnant silence. "We just... I get the feeling we don't have  a  lot

of time." His bones hurt at the thought of climbing down all  those  levels--one

foot down with his whole weight supported on his arms, then move his arms to the

next rung to take his whole weight again...

But his escape from the Sand People had convinced him that he was right  in

not expending his concentration and possibly dissipating his  ability  to  focus

the Force in self-levitation.

He had no idea when he'd need everything he could summon. Or how long  he'd

have to last on what little strength he had.

It was difficult enough, he found, raising Threepio all those  levels--some

ten or twelve meters--and pushing back the hatchway  panel  so  that  the  droid

could scramble through. "Do be careful, Master Luke,"  called  Threepio's  voice

down the shaft.

Luke grinned. Aunt Beru used to call after him to take his poncho when he'd

take the landspeeder out into the Dune Sea, never guessing  that  he  was  going

hunting womp rats and that if anything went wrong, getting chilled  without  his

poncho was going to be the least of his worries.

His grin faded as he looked down the blackness of the shaft.  Most  of  the

lighting was gone, only small, faded squares of brightness showing where hatches

had been removed by Jawas using this route between decks.  He  slung  his  staff

around his shoulder again.

Eight levels. One aching rung at a time.

Another thought made him stop and turn back to look around the dim  chamber

behind him.

Everywhere he  had  traversed  in  this  vessel,  he  had  known--felt--the

malignant intelligence of  the  Will:  keeping  track  of  him,  monitoring  his

footfalls, his heartbeats, the temperature of his  body.  His  vital  signs,  as

Threepio  monitored  them,   though   without   the   protocol   droid's   fussy

protectiveness. He was almost certain it was the Will that had  closed  some  of

those doors on the deck above, guiding him toward the Sand People's ambush.  For

the first time, he had  the  oddest  feeling  that  it  wasn't  the  Will  alone

observing him.

It certainly hadn't been the Will that had undone the inner  lock  on  that

repair-tube hatch.

Or had it been? Had that only served the intent of the Will?

He didn't know. Nevertheless, before he swung himself back into  the  shaft

for the long crawl down, he said quietly, "Thank you. Thank you for helping me."

And I'll feel like the President of the Galactic Society of Village  Idiots

if it was just a ruse to put me off my guard.

He eased himself off the floor and into the  hatch  and  thence  down  into

darkness.

Chapter 10

"C'mon, Chewie, didn't you hear  the  man  say  this  afternoon  there  was

nothing up here?" Han Solo flashed the beam  of  his  light  around  the  silent

darkness of Plett's House. It was a much stronger beam than  Leia's  glowrod,  a

smuggler's actinic luminator. Something scuttled in a corner, invisible  in  the

Stygian mist  that  curtained  the  ruined  house,  and  Solo  smelled  a  dirty

sweetness, like rotting fruit.

Chewbacca produced a hoarse, disapproving groan.

"What, you gonna let a little bug scare you?" The luminator beam found  the

dull circle of the metal well cover. "Probably lots  of  'em  down  there."  Han

knelt beside the cover and unslung his utility kit from his shoulder.  Overhead,

the lights of the hanging gardens sparkled distantly through the mists.

Han had put two calls through to Mara Jade on the Holonet transceiver,  but

neither had been picked up. His attempt to reach Leia at the municipal  archives

had failed as well. They said she had not yet arrived, which struck him  as  not

like Leia, though between fog and darkness it was possible she'd taken  a  wrong

turning and gotten lost in an orchard somewhere.  Whatever  might  lurk  in  the

reputedly nonexistent tunnels beneath Plett's House, it was difficult to imagine

any genuine danger befalling  anyone  aboveground  in  this  sleepy,  mist-bound

Garden of Delight. He'd contacted Winter on subspace, said hello to  Anakin  and

talked briefly to Jacen and Jaina, who'd kept trying to put their hands  through

the holo field, clearly unaware that their father wasn't in the room with  them.

But when the call was over and silence returned to the borrowed house,  he  knew

what the trouble was.

He wanted to go back to Plett's House and look around.

He thought he knew how to get into the crypts.

Like Drub McKumb, he reflected wryly, he, too, had his "calculations."

Chewbacca handed him  the  bundle  he'd  brought  up  from  the  Millennium

Falcon's locker--a Scale-3 antigrav generator, and a couple  of  backpack  power

cells. Solo set the generator  on  the  well  cover  and  flipped  the  magnetic

catches, only to discover that the cover wasn't durasteel as he'd  thought,  but

some kind of nonferrous metal. Interesting, considering the  price  differential

between ferrous and nonferrous. There were no handles, either.

"Well, I guess we do this the hard way." He took a  small  drill  from  the

utility kit, and hooked it into the power cell. It occurred to him to wonder who

exactly had put the cover in place, and how long it had been there. By the  dirt

in the cracks, at least a couple of years, but Leia had mentioned  that  in  her

vision of former years the well had been guarded by open grillework, not a solid

slab. Probably for reasons of warmth.

By the light of Chewbacca's torch he fastened bolts to the  cover,  affixed

the antigrav. He couldn't guess how deep the air  column  of  the  well  was--at

least a hundred meters, he calculated from the combined height  of  the  benches

that rose above the valley floor. A Scale-3 was good for most jobs of this size,

and in the event it lifted the cover easily. The metal slab was beveled  inward,

and thicker than one would expect, sitting easily in the shaped lip of the well.

Warm steam murky with sulfur sighed up around the cover as it  lifted,  and

wisps of it trailed around the feet of the intruders as they  guided  the  cover

out of the way, but whatever lay at the  bottom  of  Plett's  Well  was  a  warm

spring, not a hot one. By the glow of the luminator, when Han held it  down  the

shaft, thick pillows of moss and lichen could be seen  on  the  glistening  dark

stone. Mingled with the sulfur and the acrid whiff of chlorine came the smell of

rotting fruit.

Chewie growled.

"So it stinks," said Han. "So does the Falcon's engine room when we blow  a

duct."

As he'd thought, there were handholds cut into the rock. The irregularities

of the shaft itself, and the dense blocks and pits of shadow they  created,  hid

everything beyond the first few meters, and ghostly drifts of steam  threw  back

the light. Solo fixed a loop of safety line around the stone upright between two

of the keyhole windows and clipped the other end  to  his  belt.  Chewie  ran  a

double loop of the line around his waist.

"Right," muttered Solo and clipped the luminator to the front of his  vest.

"So let's see what all the fuss is about."

They hid the children down the well.

Solo almost missed the door that led into the passageway, set in  the  wall

of the shaft where the shadows seemed to cross no matter  where  the  light  was

coming from. The heat grew thicker as they descended, and  with  it  the  dirty,

sweetish smell. He was aware of  wet,  crawly  movement  among  the  lichen  and

mineral deposits on the rock. But below the level of the passageway's  entrance,

the handholds were choked shut with moss. The difference was  noticeable  enough

to send him searching up the shaft again, probing  at  each  shadow  around  and

behind him with his light.

"There." He shone the light on the walls of the tunnel as he and  Chewbacca

ducked through the low, oval mouth. The Wookiee shook himself uncomfortably, his

coarse, tobacco-colored fur black-wet and pointy with  moisture.  The  luminator

beam played across old scarring in the walls, places where the moss on the floor

had been gouged and regrown.

"Somebody was here, all right, and a lot less than thirty years  ago."  Han

bent, and picked something out of the moss.

In the beam of his flash it  glinted  dirty  yellowish,  the  size  of  his

thumbnail, with a  quality  to  it  at  once  matte  and  glittery.  Dark  lines

intricately stitched its surface.

"Xylen," he said. "A memory chip--if old Plett was the  hot-stuff  botanist

everybody says he was the place would have  been  stuffed  with  sequencers  and

tanks and what-all else. No wonder people came around to strip it." He  unhooked

the safety line from his belt, letting it dangle back in front of  the  tunnel's

mouth. "What's the price of xylen on the open market these days, Chewie?"

The Wookiee disclaimed specialized expertise in commodities, but  Han  knew

at least that the xylen backing of that single old-fashioned chip would at least

have paid for the dress Leia had worn that  afternoon  several  times  over.  He

slipped it into his pocket.

"No wonder Nubblyk kept it a secret." The luminator's beam picked  out  the

uneven contours of the dripping walls, the low arch of the  moss-grown  ceiling.

Something black and shiny and the size of Han's foot slithered and fled  through

the moss to vanish down the throat of the passageway. Han flinched involuntarily

and Chewie, bent to keep his head from brushing the ceiling, ran a  nervous  paw

over the back of his mane, as if he suspected that something had detached itself

from the moss above him and was crawling in his fur.

He growled a question.

"Dunno," said Han. "The only thing that could have killed off the trade  in

chips--and whatever else they could pull out of the old machinery--is if  they'd

cleared the place out. That would have been the year after the Battle of  Endor,

by what they were saying in  the  bars."  Rags  of  mist  flickered  around  his

bootheels as he led the way down a short incline into the tunnel that  stretched

away into the dark.

Another interrogative rumble.

"Yeah, Drub worked for him as a runner. But the Slyte kept a tight rein  on

things. My guess is nobody but him knew where the entrance to  this  place  was.

And there might have been more than one. Damn," he added, as they  came  to  the

top of a steeply zigzagging ramp. "Talk about  a  place  that's  bigger  on  the

inside than on the outside."

The tunnel climbed, following the network  of  old  volcanic  passages  and

underground riverbeds that eventually opened into the great chasm of the  Plawal

Rift itself. At the top of the ramp a short tunnel pierced the rock, only to  be

blocked at the far end: "That's where the door Leia saw went into the  House,  I

bet." They backtracked, followed the main tunnel, Chewie grumbling as he shifted

his bowcaster and blaster rifle to a more comfortable position on his shoulders.

"Yeah, here we are. This vent probably runs straight out under the ice."

They followed the scratched marks on the floor to a wide cavern, crossed  a

narrow wooden bridge above a cleft from which steam  and  the  acrid  breath  of

subterranean gases rose in a suffocating  wall.  The  rocks  beyond,  where  the

tunnel widened into a vast, uneven space of darkness, were coated with wrinkled,

labyrinthine mazes of paste-white sinter formations, the floor pitted with long-

dead fumaroles and slashed by steaming streams nearly choked in strangely tinted

mineral  deposits.  Flat  wormlike  white  tentacles  groped  from  one  of  the

fumaroles, clutching toward their feet, but when Han and Chewbacca drew away  in

alarm subsided again with a bubbly slurp.

At the far end of the cave a room had been cut in the rock,  littered  with

plastic boxes and the small, flat packets smugglers used to store goods in  when

they shoved them behind hull panels or under floor sections. Most of  them  were

chewed and mauled; a small kretch, no longer than Han's  thumb,  skittered  away

from the track of his light.

"Gold wire." Han nudged the plastic litter with his boot toe, then knelt to

retrieve something metallic that twinkled dirty-bright  in  the  light.  It  was

kinked and twisted, having been straightened out from its original configuration

and bundled for storage. Mineral deposits clung thickly to it, pinkish  gold  in

the beam of the light. "Utility grade."

He flashed the beam over the room's two other doorways, which led, one to a

stair, one to a tunnel beyond. The low ceilings were toothy with stalactites and

furred with hairlike deposits of sodium and silica. Lichen glimmered in  threads

of blue, green, and crimson on the walls, and serpents of mist coiled across the

floor.

"Let's see what else we got."

Hot, acrid breezes stirred Solo's sweat-drenched hair and the Wookiee's fur

as they moved on into the vent system. Streams  of  water  dripped  through  the

formations on the walls, and the darkness was choking  with  sulfur  and  kretch

smell. In another room cut from the tunnel wall Han's light glinted on a  jumble

of metal casings and circuit boards, flashed in the empty glass eyes of  an  old

APD-40 droid's cylindrical head.

"When'd they quit making APD'S, Chewie?" Han hunkered to  turn  the  boards

over in his hand. All the chips had been pried out, the power cells removed.

The Wookiee guessed the Clone Wars, but  didn't  come  into  the  room.  He

remained in the low-beamed rectangle of the doorway, listening  back  along  the

blackness of the tunnel, to the echo chamber of the last cave.  Han  could  hear

only the distant rushing of water somewhere, but knew his friend's ears were far

sharper than his own.

"Yeah, I thought that myself. They switched to the C Three  series  because

the APD'S used gold wire and xylen points. This's an old model, too." He flashed

the light around the litter of split casings and looted boards.  "Must  be  six,

eight droids' worth of junk here. This was what they were after, all right."

In the next room along the corridor they found the jewels.

"What the...?"

Han's light threw rainbows from the three  boxes  ranged  along  the  wall,

bright colors springing back to salt  the  low  ceiling  in  fire.  He  stooped,

brought up dirty, crusted earrings, chains, pectorals, pendants...

Chewie growled a remark, held up a plastic packing crate, half filled  with

xylen chips.

Their eyes met, baffled.

"That doesn't make any sense." Han ran his fingers through the chips.  They

were jumbled together with electronic salvage, gold wire, power cells, selenium.

.. "There must be three quarters of a million credits in this  room."  He  shone

his light through the inner doorway, and the gleam passed over the  hard  angles

of machinery, dark screens, the smooth curved  arms  of  processors  and  pumps.

"This stuff hasn't been touched. I can't see Nubblyk just walking away and--was

Chewie held up his paw, head turning toward the outer door, and made a sign

to kill the light.

Silence and utter darkness. The far-off hursh of water echoed  in  the  low

groinings of the ceiling. A horrible  scratching,  and  the  dirty-sweet  kretch

smell, made Han fight to thrust from his mind the awful fantasy of  a  dozen  of

the things climbing his boots the minute the light was out.

He picked his cautious way to where he  knew  Chewie  stood  still  in  the

entrance. His outstretched hand met fur. Had his companion been human  he  would

have whispered his name to avoid a knife between his ribs, but the Wookiee would

know his smell. Chewie did not growl, but under his fingers Han felt the fur  of

his friend's arm lift and prickle.

There was definitely something in the corridor.

Stray, hot wind down the tunnels brought a feral stink that almost made Han

gag. Whatever it was, for that amount of smell it was big.

Then a scream, the scratch of claws; Han yelled "Light!" to warn  Chewbacca

and threw the full-force beam directly at the source of  the  sound.  It  flared

diamond hard in yellow beast-eyes, slashing brown teeth. Chewie's  blaster  bolt

went wild and spattered, ricocheting crazily  in  the  narrow  space  while  the

creature threw itself on the Wookiee, howling and ripping in a mass  of  filthy,

mold-covered hair.

There was no question of a second shot, and Han plunged in with his  knife,

stabbing at the creature's back as it bore Chewbacca to the floor. It  screamed,

writhed in Chewie's grip, slashed at  Han,  and  the  dropped  luminator  caught

movement in the dark. Other  things  were  running,  eyes  blazing,  the  uneven

ceiling suddenly echoing with screams.

Han twisted loose from the  first  attacker  as  it  slumped,  grabbed  the

luminator and Chewbacca's dropped rifle, and the Wookiee  rolled  to  his  feet,

leaped over the corpse, and pelted away into the dark. Han  dashed  behind  him,

firing back, the bolt hissing from wall to wall and showing like  lightning  the

shambling, filthy things on their heels.

"Back that way!"

Chewie only roared, long legs taking him far ahead down the  twisting  rock

of the tunnel. The  luminator  beam  leaped  crazily  over  mold-covered  walls,

bounced across doorways yawning into bl  dark  of  dead-end  rooms,  transformed

stalagmites in the great cavern into attackers  and  old  vent  holes  and  lava

formations into bottomless pits. They scrambled, slipping in the thin mud of the

floor, toward the dark cleft of the entry to the tunnel back toward the well...

The beam caught the glint of something in the tunnel,  rounded  and  shiny,

like black jewelry or the scales of some monstrous  thing.  Something  like  wet

cobblestones that suddenly seemed to  carpet  the  tunnel--walls,  ceiling,  and

floor. Something that hadn't been there before.

Kretch.

The tunnel leading back toward the well was choked with them.

For one moment Han and Chewie stood aghast, staring at the nightmare seethe

of insectile bodies that filled the passageway nearly twenty centimeters  thick.

Then, as if a plug had been pulled, the river of kretch flowed out.

Han screamed something entirely inadequate to the occasion and plunged away

to his left into the lumpy ruin of old lava  formations  and  sullenly  steaming

craterlets, Chewie at his heels  and  all  the  legions  of  darkness  shrieking

behind.

"Got to find a way back," panted  Han  desperately,  as  frail  sinter  and

twisted crystal crunched underfoot and the patches of  glowing  lichen  throbbed

and stirred like rainbow embers at their passage. The air down here burned  with

volatile gases and the stench of sulfur, chewing at the lungs,  and  the  baking

heat made Han gasp. "Back to the vaults... maybe this way..."

More screams, and two black forms sprang suddenly into  the  glare  of  the

luminator where it fell on the sloped side of  an  old  debris  cone  rising  up

before them.

"On second thought, let's go this way--was

Chewie caught his arm, stopping  him,  and  roared  a  challenge  into  the

darkness ahead of them.

A challenge was screamed in return.

Han said, "Great." He raised the light, flashing the beam across the round,

smooth terraces of what had been superheated  mud  pits,  now  cooled  to  dance

floors of garishly colored  hardpan  still  ringed  with  the  traces  of  final

bubbles--and there they were.

Three of them, maybe four... one running, a couple crawling on all fours.

He swung the flash, the white light splashing over finger-thin  columns  of

rising smoke from a vent to their left, a wilderness of steaming  caldera  below

them where the ground fell farther, picked up the eyes of the things  scuffling,

shambling, running toward them from behind: eyes and hands and the crude weapons

they carried.

Chewbacca fired a bowcaster bolt that went through the chest  of  something

that looked as if it had once been a flat-headed Carosite--it  kept  on  coming,

crawling, leaving a broad, bloody smear in its wake. Han opened  fire  with  his

blaster at the second group and missed, a huge scar ripping in the  mud  of  the

old pits, and from somewhere close by there was a  rumble,  the  ground  jarring

slightly underfoot and loosened rock showering them from the dark above.

"This way!" he yelled, and swept the light again, picking up,  far  off  in

the darkness, what looked like human artifacts: a raised  path  among  the  dead

caldera, a barely seen trace of stairs, and, at the top of  a  low  black  rise,

outlined in the jeweled glow of colored lichen, a circle of stone pillars.

"We can pick 'em off the path!"

The second group of attackers was already halfway to the head of the  path.

Han leaned into his dash, the Wookiee loping ahead of him on  his  longer  legs,

their original attackers a feral pack not four meters behind. The first  of  the

new group reached the path at the same moment  as  Chewbacca,  slashing  at  the

Wookiee with a metal bar stolen from some ancient workshop. Chewbacca fired  his

bowcaster and the impact knocked the attacker backward  into  an  old  mud  pit,

filled with what Han had at first taken for a pale, delicate formation of curled

and cranial-looking sinter or limestone.

As the attacker--a Mluki, he looked as if he had been, before  madness  and

neglect had turned him into a screaming beast--went sprawling into the pit,  the

limestone  formation  came  alive,  a  sudden  heaving  of  rippling  membranes,

thrashing layers of fleshy, carnivorous mold. The Mluki, bleeding  already  from

Chewbacca's energy bolt, rolled over and tried to get up, tried to run, but  the

thing in the pit gripped it with tentacles like elastic white  snakes,  dragging

it down...

The whitish membranes, like a heaving flower or a mass of  writhing  tripe,

slowly turned red, a color that spread among the membranes to the edges  of  the

pit.

Han and Chewie fled past, the path  narrowing  among  crater  after  crater

filled with the carnivorous pit-mold, which rippled furiously  and  reached  for

their feet with  snakelike  tentacles.  Behind  in  the  darkness  more  shrieks

resounded, but Han dared not look back to see what other creatures were emerging

from the darkness in pursuit.

At the top of the path, in the circle of pillars, was a well.

A low curb surrounded the ten-foot hole. Below, Han could hear the  rushing

of water, feel the relative coolness of the rising air damp on his burned  face.

By the white glow of the luminator he could see the things shambling up the path

behind them, mouths open and  shrieking  from  hairy,  scarred,  madness-twisted

faces. Some still wore the rags of what had been clothing, and  waved  makeshift

knives and clubs. Some had been human.

Their eyes were crazed blanks. Drub McKumb's eyes.

They were coming fast. What had been a Gotal got too close to the  edge  of

the path and was seized by a tentacle from the pit-mold  alongside;  the  others

didn't even look back as it was dragged screaming into a mountain of  shuddering

membranes. Chewbacca's first shot with the blaster  rifle  took  out  a  hirsute

skeleton that had been a Whiphid; his second missed  and  blew  half-cooled  mud

from a minor crater like an explosion of steaming goo over everything in  sight.

The ground shook again, like a sullen warning. Flame sprang up from the mud pits

and hot liquid began to creep out in glowing trickles.

None of the attackers even noticed.

Even with both of them shooting, Han knew, they'd never hit them all before

they were overwhelmed.

There was no path down from the mound.

"Down the well!"

Chewie roared in protest.

"Down the well! There's a way out, that water's flowing, I can hear it..."

Whether the way out included space to breathe was problematical, of course.

A horrible Devaronian fell on  Chewbacca,  its  arm  already  torn  off  by

blaster fire, rending at him with a chunk of broken steel.  Chewbacca  flung  it

back into the others, fired another blast to cover them while Han sprang  up  on

the well curb and flashed the light down at the water.

Five meters or so. As he'd thought, it wasn't a well so  much  as  a  shaft

into an underground stream.

He stepped off the edge and dropped.

The water was hot, just below scalding--only contrast with air super-heated

by the surrounding rock had made the updraft feel cool--and the current vicious.

Han clung to the worn stone of the low arch in the well's side  until  he  heard

Chewbacca's heavy splash and reassuring growl. Then  the  water  tore  his  grip

free, swirled him along in utter blackness, pounding him against  rock,  pelting

like a millrace to smash him breathless on some unseen obstacle.

Bars. There were bars across the stream's course.

Water slammed into his face, and he feltstheard  the  splash  of  something

else striking the bars. He groped and felt the reassuring touch of soaked fur.

Chewbacca congratulated him on the excellence of his escape arrangements.

"Don't get smart on me, Chewie, I got us out of the cave, didn't I?" As  he

spoke he felt for a foothold, a handhold, anything he could find  in  the  bars,

stretched and felt his way up along the corroded metal. The bars ended in a slit

in the rock ceiling a half meter above the surface of the water, a slit into  wh

he could barely fit his  hand.  As  he  worked  his  fingers  in,  they  brushed

something leggy and chitinous that moved sharply, and he jerked  his  hand  back

with a cry of disgust. "Let's try down the other way."

Taking a deep breath, he turned over, climbed  down  the  bars.  They  went

deep, deep, the current crushing his body against them, always  more  blackness,

always more water...

What was he going to do if they went deeper than he could climb on a single

breath?

The thought made him panic, drag himself down and farther down.

Rock. And a space of about thirty centimeters, gouged in the bottom of  the

streambed by the vicious race of water over the years.

He snaked his body through, climbed desperately, wondering what he'd do  if

he became disoriented, climbed sideways, climbed down again, got swept  away  by

the current  that  was  dragging  him,  clutching  him,  sweeping  him  on  into

blackness.

He thought, I may not survive this one.

His head broke water just as he thought he couldn't hold his breath another

second. He felt weak, sickened, but at least he could hook his arms through  the

spaces between the bars and not rely on the dwindling  strength  of  his  hands.

"Down at the bottom," he gasped. "Way down."

The water ripped him away.

Han and Chewbacca lay for a long time on the grass beside the warm  spring,

gasping for air like half-drowned vermin belched from some Coruscant sewer.  Far

off, a dim gold low-power light marked where a path lay.  Phosphor  bugs  played

like truant diamonds among the trees. The smell of bowvine fruit and damp  grass

almost drowned the faint, putrid whiff of sulfur from the stream. Skreekers  and

peepers made a tiny bass line under the warbling of a nightbird in the orchard.

Han rolled over, threw up a considerable quantity of water, and said,  "I'm

getting too old for this."

Chewbacca concurred.

At least they wouldn't catch cold, Han reflected. The river that  ran  from

Plett's Well was hotter than bathwater and the air around it  not  much  cooler.

Vapor wraiths surrounded them from the hotter springs that came to  the  surface

lower in the orchard, piped from the cellars of the ancient houses. He  wondered

if they'd get into mch trouble just falling asleep where they were.

But he recalled something about  what  had  happened  in  the  crypts,  and

decided that might not be such a good idea.

With considerable effort, and some misgivings, he propped himself up on his

elbows.

"You notice something about our pals back in the crypts, Chewie?"

The Wookiee's sardonic reply made Han  wonder  why  some  people  said  the

species had no sense of humor.

"When the second and third and fourth batches showed up," said Han quietly,

"they knew where to find us."

Chewie was silent. For certain  species  of  cave  apes--perhaps  even  for

Wookiees--this would have been no oddity. Smell, and echolocation,  were  highly

developed in races and species used to the dark.

But these, Han had seen, were not  members  of  those  races  and  species,

unless you counted the Gotal, who had been one of the first batch of  attackers.

They were, he suspected, exactly  what  Drub  McKumb  had  been:  smugglers,  or

friends of smugglers, who had heard the rumors about  the  crypts  that  weren't

supposed to exist, who had their "calculations." Who had gone seeking the source

of the xylen chips and gold wire that  had  formed  the  basis  of  Nubblyk  the

Slyte's brief wealth, and had found... what?

"C'mon, Chewie," he said tiredly. "Let's get home."

Chapter 11

Watching Cray's face, Luke tried to ascertain whether  she  had  remembered

who  she  was,  whether  she  was  still  under  the  influence  of  the  Will's

programming.

From the small image in the section lounge vidscreen,  it  wasn't  easy  to

tell. Bruises marked her cheeks and chin and her  shoulder,  visible  through  a

tear in her tunic; her pale hair was stiff with sweat and grime. But  her  eyes,

as two Klagg boars pulled her the length of the displayed chamber to  the  small

black podium of  the  Justice  Station,  were  desperate,  hard  with  fury  and

frustration.

"Soap-lovin' Klagg!" howled Ugbuz, standing by the table  at  Luke's  side.

"Prissy-butt!"  "Flower-nose!"  "Cabbage-eater!"  yelled  the  other   Gakfedds,

clustered close around the vidscreen in the dim confines of the lounge.

Though disheveled and exhausted, aside from her bruises Cray looked unhurt.

In his utterly fruitless search of the Detention Block on Deck 6, Luke had  been

haunted by the dread that the Will had implanted in the Klaggs the  notion  that

as a Rebel saboteur, Cray had to be interrogated, and this  nightmare  had  kept

him combing the corridors around the Main Block  for  several  additional  hours

until he'd made certain that Cray had never been there,  the  Klaggs  had  never

been there, and all the interrogator droids remained in their  original  places,

still hooked to their chargers on the walls.

He'd disconnected them and pulled whatever wiring he could reach.

Though ultimately reassuring, the search had been far from  pleasant,  and,

knowing the Gamorreans, Luke was aware that it  was  perfectly  possible  they'd

preferred to dispense with the interrogator droids and do it themselves.

It didn't look as if they had, though.

Ugbuz poked Luke in the ribs with an elbow like a battering ram and pointed

to the fat white Klagg boar standing next to the Justice  Station's  cold  black

viewscreen. "Kinfarg," he explained in an undertone. "Captain  of  the  stinkin'

Klagg sons of sows." He added commentary on Captain Kinfarg's  personal  habits,

which Luke suspected were purely speculative. The Gakfedds jeered and  catcalled

as Kinfarg swaggered up the aisle to take his position next to the  podium,  but

when he began to speak they fell silent, as if by magic.

"What made you turn against your vow to the Imperial Service and  join  the

Rebels, Trooper Mingla?"

Cray straightened up. Luke wondered  where  Nichos  was--the  cameras  were

focused solely on the Justice Station--and whether he was in the room with  her,

still held to inactivity by his restraining bolt.

"It has yet to be established that  I  have  done  anything  of  the  sort,

Commander Kinfarg."

The Gakfedds around Luke hooted and whistled derisively, except  for  those

engaged in trying to prevent the half dozen Talz and the small herd  of  tripods

from escaping the section lounge in which they sat.

"You stupid yammerheads, you gotta watch this!" Krok  was  growling.  "It's

the Will!"

The Talz scratched their heads, wuffled a little, and tried the other door,

with much the same results. The tripods just wandered  dazedly  around,  bumping

now and then into the furniture or into  the  stolid  ranks  of  the  forty-five

Kitonaks whom the Gamorreans had carried  laboriously  in,  standing  them  like

squashy, yeast-colored statues in the rear half of the lounge.

The Gakfedds at least were taking the Will's  orders  that  everyone  watch

very seriously.

Presumably, thought Luke, the Affytechans were gathered around a screen  in

some other lounge. There was a good  chance  they'd  forgotten  to  switch  that

screen on, of course, but to the Affytechans it wouldn't matter.

"That will now be established," Kinfarg said to Cray. It was still  strange

beyond words to hear excellent, if colloquial and a little slurred, Basic coming

out of those bestial, snouted faces.

Behind him on the black podium screen, green letters rippled to life.

- - You are a known associate of other Rebel spies and saboteurs

- - You have assisted saboteurs on this vessel in damaging  the  fabric  of

this vessel and thus jeopardizing its mission

- - You have attempted violence against officers  of  this  vessel  in  the

course of their rightful duties

- - You were  seen  attempting  to  damage  weaponry  and  landing  vessels

necessary to the completion of this mission

"That's a lie!" cried Cray furiously. "It's all lies! Show me one piece  of

evidence..."

- - You are a known associate of other Rebel spies and saboteurs

1. Your name was given by Rebel spies taken in a raid on Algarian

2. Holograms and retina prints given by the government of  Bespin  after  a

Rebel raid match yours

3. You were taken prisoner in a raid on a group  of  known  dissidents  and

troublemakers on board this vessel

"That's a complete and absolute falsehood!" Cray was  almost  in  tears  of

fury. "Not a single one of those allegations is correct, nor are they backed  up

with evidence--was

"Shut up, trooper!" Kinfarg struck her again, with the same casual violence

as before, though Cray saw it coming and rolled  with  it  this  time.  "'Course

there's evidence. Wouldn't be in the computer without evidence."

"I insist that the evidence be presented!"

Luke closed his eyes. He knew what was coming.

When he opened them again he saw that  the  Justice  Station's  screen  had

blandly displayed a screenwide and infinitesimally tiny reproduction  of  forms,

reports, finger - and retina-print dupes, and tiny holo screens of Cray's  image

and the images of various "Rebels" talking in minute, tinny voices about  Cray's

involvement in Rebel activities.

"A computer simulation isn't evidence!" Cray  shouted.  "I  can  program  a

simulation like that with my eyes shut! I demand that counsel  be  provided  for

me--was

"You kidding, trooper?" demanded Kinfarg. He'd cut the face out of a  white

stormtrooper helmet and wore the cranium of it on the back of his head, the face

on his chest like a bizarre skull mask. The effect was, against all probability,

chilling. "No decent counsel's so disloyal he'd defend a known Rebel.  What  you

want us to do?" He chuckled thickly. "Get a Rebel to come and defend you?"

The Justice Station's screen wiped. Then green lines of  letters  flickered

inffbbing:

- - "All military offensives shall be considered under  law  as  states  of

emergency, and subject to the emergency military powers act of the Senate."

Senatorial Amendment

to Constitutions of

New Order

Decree 77-92465-001

- - "Without necessary  capital  powers  it  is  considered  impossible  to

maintain the stability of the New Order and the security of the greatest  number

of civilizations in the galaxy."

Capital Powers Act

Preface, Section II

"What am I supposed to do?" retorted Cray furiously. "Fall on my knees  and

confess?"

- - Standing confession will suffice

"Like hell I will, you rusted-out pile of scrap!"

Luke wanted to leave, but knew he could not, even if the Gakfedds would let

him. He had come not only to make sure Cray was still alive  and  more  or  less

well, but to observe the background for clues, to look  for  whatever  hints  he

could find as to where the Klaggs might be. Apprehension turned him cold as  the

Justice Station's screen flashed the new message,

- - In view of the prisoner's intransigence,  sentencing  will  take  place

tomorrow at  1200  hours.  All  personnel  are  required  to  assemble  to  view

sentencing. Absence from viewing lounge will be construed as sympathy  with  the

ill intentions of the prisoner.

The screen went dark.

"Find out anything?" Luke leaned his shoulder against  the  wall,  watching

the stolid, bronze-colored SP-80 plod a few meters down the corridor and  resume

its sponging of the walls in a new spot.

Had C-3PO possessed lungs,  he  would  have  produced  a  martyour's  sigh.

"Master Luke, I did try. Indeed I did. And far be it from me  to  disparage  the

programming of Single-Purpose units, because what they  do,  they  do  admirably

well. But as I said, they are limited."

"Is there any way we can change  their  programming?"  Luke  scratched  his

cheek; he was beginning to get the fair, almost invisible  brown  stubble  of  a

beard, itchy in the scars the snow creature had long ago left. "Program them  to

seek out Gamorreans--by the smell probably - comr than spots on the walls?"

"I expect when they attempted to  wash  the  Gamorreans  they  found  their

functioning would cease in short order," reflected Threepio. "And we're  already

surrounded by Gamorreans."

"Not if we went up to Deck  Eighteen  or  higher,"  said  Luke.  Threepio's

search of Deck 17 had yielded him no  more  than  Luke's  investigation  of  the

Detention Block and its vicinity, though Threepio, like  Luke,  had  encountered

many blast shields and doors that simply would not open. Luke wondered if  these

concealed classified areas, or if the Will was trying to herd Threepio as it had

herded him. "Could you program an SP to find Gamorreans on one of  those  decks,

so that we could simply follow it? Can their long-range sensors be extended that

far?"

"Of course," replied the droid. "That's brilliant, Master Luke!  Absolutely

brilliant! It would take a minimum of--was

"You!"

Luke spun. Ugbuz stood behind him, drool dripping  from  his  heavy  snout,

staring at him with flinty suspicion in his gaze.

"You're the friend of that Rebel saboteur, aren't you?"

Luke's fingers traced the small circle of focus, gathering the Force to his

soft voice. "No," he said quietly. "That was somebody else.  I  never  was  near

her."

Ugbuz frowned, as if trying to match two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle  in  his

mind. "Oh." He turned and started back for the door of the lounge--the Talz were

wandering out, wuffing to one  another  and  shaking  their  soft  white  heads,

heading en masse for the mess hall a few doors down. Then he turned back.

"But you was the kid who stopped us questioning that saboteur?"

"No," said Luke, drawing the Force about him, projecting  it  into  Ugbuz's

limited--and rather divided--mind. He found that  even  this  small  and  simple

exercise was difficult under the effects of pain and fatigue. "That was  someone

else also."

"Oh." Ugbuz's frown deepened. "The Will says there's something going on  on

this ship."

"There is," Luke agreed. "But none of it has anything to do with me."

"Oh. Okay." He disappeared back into the lounge, but in  the  doorway  Luke

saw him turn and glance back over his shoulder as if puzzling about  edges  that

did not match.

Just what I needed, thought Luke. Something else to worry about.

"Let's go," he said softly. "I want to reprogram one of the  SP'S  on  Deck

Eighteen, and there's something else I want to try up on Deck Fifteen."

"Great galaxies, Captain, there's hundreds of them!" The Affytechan second-

in-command swung away from the blank screen--they were in the central lounge  of

Deck 15 this time, bent intently over the  dead  consoles  of  games  and  visi-

readers--and fluttered all its tendrils and ramifications in horror. "They  were

lying in wait for us behind every asteroid in the field!"

"Gunnery! What's  our  status?"  It  was  a  different  captain,  ligulate,

delicious pink grading into magenta, and extravagant with  stalks  and  tassels.

The former captain was in charge of a glitterball console at the far end of  the

lounge.

"Down to fifty percent, Captain," reported a tubulate  mass  of  azure  and

periwinkle. "But we've still got enough juice to make 'em think twice!"

"That's the spirit, men!" cried the captain. "We'll have  'em  yelling  for

their mothers before we're through. Can I help you?" The captain's lacy  florets

all turned in Luke's direction as Luke and Threepio approached the  two  chairs,

piled one atop the other, which constituted the makeshift bridge.

"Major Calrissian, Special Services." Luke saluted, a gesture  the  captain

returned smartly. Though all the screens and consoles were dead--including, Luke

suspected, the main viewer on  which  the  Affytechans  had  supposedly  watched

Cray's trial--at least the lights still worked. Luke couldn't be  sure,  but  he

thought there were more Affytechans than there had been before.

"New assignment, sir, which supersedes all previous orders." As Luke  spoke

he collected the Force, projected it into the mind-if there was  a  mind--within

that mass of color and fluff.

"There's been a minor malfunction of the schematics library.  Sabotage,  we

think. Nothing to worry about, but we need to know the location  and  status  of

all transport craft on board. It's a tough assignment--dangerous." Luke made his

face grave. "I'd hesitate passing it on to inexperienced men, but  you...  Well,

you're the best we have. Think you can handle it?"

The captain sprang down from his chair, a good meter  and  a  half  to  the

floor, and returned Luke's salute  again.  Whatever  creatures  the  Affytechans

relied upon for  cross-pollination,  they  clearly  found  some  rather  strange

enzymes appealing; the Affytechans, especially when they moved quickly, gave off

an amazing galaxy of stenches, acrid, ammoniac, or gluily musky. In the  damaged

air-conditioning of the Deck 15 lounge the effect was overpowering.

"You can count on us, Major. Men..."

The Affytechans abandoned the battle midmaneuver and lined up in the center

of the lounge, standing at rigid attention  while  their  captain  outlined  the

assignment and gave them a pep talk worthy of the great general  Hyndis  Raithal

herself.

"It never ceases to amaze me, sir," said Threepio, as  the  exuberant  crew

streamed out of the lounge, "the ingenuity of the human species.  Say  what  she

will--and  I  certainly  intend  no  criticism  of  either  Dr.  Mingla  or  her

preceptors--I have never yet encountered a droid program capable of the kind  of

lateral thinking one sees in human beings."

"Let's  hope  not,"  said  Luke  quietly.  "Because  a  droid   program--an

artificial intelligence--is exactly what we're up against in this ship."

They walked in silence for a time toward the laundry drop where the  repair

shaft rose to take them to Deck 18. While waiting for Cray's trial Threepio  had

changed the dressings of the ax wound on Luke's leg, and  though  the  infection

seemed to be contained, Luke thought the pain was getting worse again.

"I have observed, sir," Threepio said after a time, "that since Nichos's...

transformation"--it was extremely rare for Threepio to hesitate over a word--"he

and I have a great deal more in common than we ever did when he was... as he was

before. He was always a pleasant and likable human being, but  now  he  is  much

less humanly unpredictable, if you  will  pardon  me  for  expressing  a  purely

subjective opinion based on incomplete data. I can only trust and hope that  Dr.

Mingla finds this a benefit."

Trust and  hope,  thought  Luke.  Grammatical  constructs  programmed  into

Threepio's language to make it more human... but he knew  that  the  pessimistic

droid did not, in fact, either trust or hope anything.  He  wondered  if  Nichos

did, anymore.

"Come on," he said quietly. "Let's find an SP and see if you  can  convince

it to become a tracker."

Luke had been surrounded by droids all his life, had grown up with them  on

his uncle's farm. As Threepio said, they were excellent at what they  were,  but

unlike humans what they were not, they were not, one hundred percent. And  Cray,

wherever she was, was finding this out in the cruelest possible way.

He only hoped he could reach her in time.

The area of Deck 18 immediately surrounding the laundry drop to  which  the

repair shaft led them was high-ceilinged,  almost  twice  the  height  of  other

decks. The walls were of the same dark gray Luke had seen in the  background  of

both the Klagg village and the Justice Chamber.  A  short  distance  beyond  the

laundry drop, the corridors were utterly  lightless;  hatches  and  wall  panels

gaped open, spewing cables and wires like the entrails of  gutted  beasts.  Luke

didn't need to see the dirty fingermarks  all  around  them  to  guess  who  was

responsible.

An SP-80 was doggedly removing the fingermarks. It didn't pause  when  Luke

flipped open the coverplate in its side and plugged in the comm cable  from  the

droud in the back of Threepio's cranium. Over the course of the  years  back  on

Tatooine Uncle Owen had owned at least  five  different  SP'S  that  Luke  could

remember, and by the time he was fourteen Luke had  been  able  to  break  down,

clean, repair, refit, and reassemble one in four  hours.  Reprogramming  from  a

translator droid that already had access to  biocodes  and  serial  indexes  was

candy.

The SP plodded off down the corridor almost before Luke had the  cable  out

of it; he had to pace it to shut the coverplate. It still held its  cleaner  arm

and vacuum absorption pad straight out in front of it, and for some reason  Luke

was reminded of the Kitonaks, patiently waiting for Chooba  slugs  to  crawl  to

them across thousands of  light-years  of  hyperspace  and  into  theirthe  open

mouths.

"Does it scent the Klaggs on this deck, d'you think?"  asked  Luke  softly,

limping in the SP'S slow wake with Threepio clicking  along  at  his  side.  "Or

would it pick them up on the downdraft from a gangway?"

"Oh, the sensory mechanism of a cleaner SP is quite  capable  of  detecting

grease molecules in a  concentration  of  less  than  ten  thousand  per  square

centimeter, in an area of a quarter of a square centimeter, at a distance  of  a

hundred meters or more."

"Biggs's mother could do that," remarked Luke.

Threepio was silent for a moment. "With all due respect to Mrs. Biggs, sir,

I understand that even if a human is born with an exceptional  olfactory  center

in the brain, it requires a Magrody implant and extensive childhood training  to

develop such a  skill,  though  among  the  Chadra-Fan  and  the  Ortolans  such

abilities are quite commonplace."

"Joke," said Luke gravely. "That was a joke."

"Ah," said Threepio. "Indeed."

The SP halted before a closed blast shield  that  blocked  the  hall.  Luke

stepped forward and palmed the opener, without  result.  "Really,  Master  Luke,

there are times when I almost agree with Ugbuz's  attitude  toward  the  Jawas,"

said Threepio, as the SP'S four small sensor pits curved and  shifted  this  way

and that and streams of yellow numbers fidgeted  across  its  readout.  Then  it

turned, with great deliberation, backtracked to a cross-corridor  a  few  meters

behind them, turned right, and continued through the  maze  of  shut  doors  and

dark, cavernous storage hulls.

Luke said nothing, but the hair on his nape prickled with the sensation  of

being watched, observed from the darkness. Jawas? He might not have  an  SP-80'S

olfactory detectors but he'd know if Jawas were around. Ditto for Sand P.

This was something else.

Another blast door. The SP recalibrated, changed course, through a  holding

area filled with gutted packing containers whose contents--regular navy helmets,

coveralls, gray-green half-armor, and blankets--strewed the floor. Pieces of the

containers themselves were gone;  Luke  noted  that  those  that  remained  were

labeled Sorosub Imports. The walls here were dark in the bobbing light of Luke's

staff, and looked unfinished, with rafters stretching  bare  overhead  and  bolt

ends glinting in the shadows. The door  into  a  repair  bay  stood  open.  Luke

glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the corridor entrance, through which

they had come moments before, was shut now.

The Will, he thought. It's herding us. Pushing us the way it  wants  us  to

go.

Clanking softly, the SP-80 turned down a long  corridor  on  the  starboard

side of the ship. Though no damage by Jawas was evident, the  lights  were  gone

here, too, and as he and Threepio drew farther from the  lighted  area  and  the

reflections of its glow got dimmer and dimmer, Luke sensed  ever  more  strongly

the presence of an unknown, watching entity. He kept as close to Threepio as  he

could, matching his halting stride to the droid's  and  making  sure  there  was

never a space between them when they passed under the periodic blast doors.

The SP-80 turned a corner. A stair led up into pitchy night. Luke heard the

hiss-whirr-tap of its short  legs  negotiating  the  stairs  of  a  gangway  and

extended his arm sharply to stop Threepio from following it,  feeling  only  the

horrible inner prickling sensation of a trap.

He held out his staff with its dimly shining  glowrods  toward  the  square

opening of the stairs. The light was flung back  by  dim  strips  of  opalescent

material, thick and thin alternating in a strange  not-quite-pattern,  vanishing

upward into the dark.

Luke looked up. The ceiling of the gangway was dotted with the cold  pearly

squares of the more usual form of enclision grid.

The SP ascended, unharmed, out of his sight.

"Good heavens." Threepio stepped closer to the door. "It's definitely  some

sort of enclision grid, sir. But obviously deactivated. Possibly the Jawas--was

"No." Luke leaned against the wall, his leg beginning to throb burningly as

the first relief of the perigen wore off. "No, the Will wouldn't have herded  us

to a gangway that was disa4. It's just waiting until we're too far  up  to  turn

back."

Slowly, the heavy,  mechanical  stride  of  the  SP  droid  faded.  In  the

darkness, the weight of the ship seemed to press on them, waiting  for  them  to

follow it up the wired stair. Luke hurried his stride as much as he could to get

back to the area of the lights.

The Affytechans were waiting for them down in the bright, warm lighting  of

Deck 15, like an ambulatory garden of enormous and slightly  pixilated  flowers.

"We've located the transport craft, sir," said the captain--the post  seemed  to

have shifted to a stalky tubulate of blue and white.  "Two  Beta-class  Telgorns

with a capacity of a hundred and twenty apiece, in  the  Deck  Sixteen  portside

landing bays." It saluted him smartly. "Dr.  Breen  here  has  been  working  on

getting the schematics program repaired."

The former orange-and-yellow captain saluted as well. "Simple transposition

of numbers, sir. Probably due to operator error. Easily fixed."

Dr. Breen?

"This way, sir."

"Even if you are able  to  pilot  one,  or  both,  transport  craft,  sir,"

protested Threepio hesitantly, "however will you prevent the defenses of the Eye

of Palpatine itself from destroying them, as they destroyed our scout craft? You

said yourself they had an  almost  human  targeting  capability.  And  for  that

matter, how in the galaxy are you going to get the Klaggs and the Gakfedds  into

the craft to take them off the ship? Or the Kitonaks?"

A little to Luke's surprise, they passed  a  small  group  of  the  stumpy,

putty-colored  aliens,  shambling  along  the  corridor  at  the  top   of   the

communicating gangway to Deck 16 with excruciating slowness, conversing in their

soft, rambling burble of rumbles and whistles. Luke couldn't imagine coaxing the

torpid creatures into the shuttlecraft or making them  stay  there  once  they'd

arrived. And as for rounding up the tripods, or the Jawas...

"I don't know." He wondered how he'd managed to get himself elected  savior

to this ship of fools. "But if I'm going to destroy the ship before  it  attacks

Belsavis, Threepio, I've got to get them off it somehow. I can't leave them. Not

even the Jawas. Not even the--was

They turned a corner and Luke halted, shocked. The  corridor  before  them,

low-ceilinged and slung with the heavy barrels of one of the ship's main  water-

circ trunks, was strewn with the hacked and dismembered bodies  of  Affytechans.

Ichor and sap smeared the walls and floor with pungent, sticky streams of  green

and yellow, speckled with spilled pollen and floating  seed.  Hacked  limbs  and

trunks were scattered in a ghastly  rambow,  as  if  someone  had  overturned  a

clothes basket of gaudy silks. Mouse-droids  swarmed,  and  the  whole  corridor

reeked of the Affytechans' sour, pungent musk.

The blue-and-white captain and  his  followers  kept  walking  through  the

carnage as if there were nothing there. "You were right about making sure of the

location of the transport, Major," the captain was saying. It stepped over  most

of the torso of what had been the magenta captain in  the  laundry  room.  "I've

always liked the Beta-class Telgorn transport. Two or three of  those,  plus  an

escort of Blastboats, should take care of any minor trouble no matter what--was

Luke spun, ducked, and had  his  lightsaber  in  hand  and  bladed  as  the

weighted end of a gaffe stick nearly took his head off.  The  four  Sand  People

who'd sprung from the pump station behind him fell on him, howling. Luke slashed

the first one clean through the body, shoulder to hip, and took the hands off  a

second as it was bringing its rifle to bear.  Threepio  bleated,  "Master  Luke!

Master Luke!" as he was knocked over in the fray and lay against the wall  where

he'd been kicked. "Switch off!" Luke yelled and dropped the blade a split second

before a third Tusken fired its  blaster  at  him,  the  bolt  whining  off  the

concentrated core of laser light.

He lunged through a doorway, hitting the closer, which refused to work. The

Sand People, joined by two more with others audible in full cry in the corridors

beyond, sprang after.  Luke  levitated  a  worktable  and  hurled  it  at  them,

scrambled across the room to the opposite door and hit  the  opener--that,  too,

refused to work.

Luke cursed, ducked a roaring blaze  of  blaster  fire  and  levitated  the

worktable to throw at them again. Someone else fired  a  blaster  and  the  bolt

whined sharply as it  ricocheted  around  the  room--it  was  a  long  shot  and

frequently didn't work, but Luke reached out  with  his  mind  and  flicked  the

ricochet into the door mechanism, exploding it in a sizzle of sparks.  The  door

jerked up about half a meter and  Luke  rolled  under  it,  dragging  his  staff

through after him and scrambling to his feet, limping and staggering away.

He seemed to be in the heart of the Sand People's  hunting  territory.  Two

more sprang at him, from opposite sides, pressing him back  into  a  corner.  He

sliced and parried, flattened against the walls for support,  then  fled  again,

falling, rising, dragging himself painfully down the dark length of a  corridor,

while on either side ahead of him doors hissed shut and the hoarse, baying  yowl

of the Sand People echoed against the walls all around.

He flung himself around a corner and jerked back  just  in  time  to  avoid

being cut in half by a blast door smashing down; fled back, half recognizing the

lights of what looked like a laundry drop,  which  would  have  a  repair  shaft

behind it, only to have the room's door slam shut when he was a few meters away.

He decapitated another Tusken that leaped on him from the open black doorway  of

what looked like a lounge, scrambled over the body and  fled  through,  throwing

himself, rolling, just in time to avoid being shut into t room by  its  suddenly

activated door.

The corridor  in  which  he  found  himself  was  very  dark.  Tiny  orange

worklights made a thin trail along one side of the ceiling. Gasping for  breath,

Luke dragged himself to his feet, leaned trembling on his staff, his leg hurting

as if the ax that had smashed it were slamming  again  with  each  beat  of  his

heart.

The Will, he thought. The lightsaber weighed heavy in  his  hand,  unbladed

but ready at a second's notice. It was only a matter of time before  it  steered

him into another wired gangway, or back to the arms of the Sand P.

Their yowling broke out again, close by; a lot of them, by the sound.  Luke

scanned the corridor. Shut doors. No vents. No cover.

Then, halfway down, a door opened.

It didn't hiss and spring, as doors did. The laborious  creaking  was  more

characteristic of someone turning the manual crank. It cracked a jagged line  of

grimy orange emergency light perhaps thirty centimeters wide, and stopped.

Luke glanced at the blast wall that sealed one end  of  the  corridor,  the

darkness at the other end, shrieking with the cries of the approaching  Sand  P.

Between them himself, breathless, lamed, a sitting target...

And that uneven line of orange light.

And the sense of waiting that seemed to press on him from the darkness like

the dense watchfulness of some unseen mind.

Yet strangely he felt no sense of dread.

He stepped closer. Through the opening he could  see  the  blank-eyed  dark

consoles of  one  of  the  lower-level  gunnery  chambers,  the  semicircles  of

consoles, the glistening dark levers and somber shadow.

Silence now, but he knew, could feel, the Sand People coming near.

In that silence, very faintly, he thought he heard the alm-whispered thread

of melody:

"The Queen had a hunt-bird and the Queen had a

lark, The Queen had a songbird that sang in the dark.

..."

Luke glanced back over his shoulder at the  darkness,  then  stepped,  very

quickly, through the door.

It slid shut.

For some moments the  only  sound  that  came  to  his  ears  was  his  own

breathing, steadying as he caught his wind. Shadow clustered thick  around  him,

hid the far end of the long room like an obscuring curtain. Then, dimly, on  the

other side of the door, the scratch of metal on metal, the swift-moving  whisper

of feet.

Luke braced his body against the nearest console and  held  his  lightsaber

ready, still unilluminated, in his hand.

Dim with the muffling of the walls, he heard  the  harsh  gronch  of  their

voices, the crash of gaffe sticks against the other doors along the hall. Six of

them at least. If the door before him were to open again he could probably  kill

two or three, but shooting through the door at him they'd have  him.  He  looked

around at the dark chamber. Even the chairs were bolted down.

The door in front of him rattled under blows, but held.

If the Will wanted it to open,  something  else  prevented  it  from  doing

anything about it.

It occurred to Luke that the Will had effectively imprisoned him here.  All

it needed to do was not open the gun room door again-ever.

The silence returned, lengthened. The pain in  Luke's  leg  increased,  the

deep  internal  burning  of  infection  unmistakable  now.  Keeping  his  senses

stretched, his mind forced to attention on the corridor, he opened the patch  in

the leg of his coverall and affixed a new dose of perigen, though his supply was

running perilously  low.  Anything  to  keep  the  pain  at  bay,  to  free  his

concentration for the use of the Force. Exhaustion and perigen-suppressed  fever

made him dizzy. He realized it had been some time since he'd eaten or slept, and

his hand, when he straightened up to lean on his staff again, trembled.

After a very long time, the door opened, again  that  narrow  crack,  again

that labored, dragging motion, as if against the strength of the W.

Luke listened, breathed, sending his senses out. Far  off  he  could  still

smell the stench of the dead Affytechans, but no whiff of the Sand P. Aching, he

limped toward the door, lightsaber still in hand.

Movement caught his eye. He startled, swinging around, but it was only  his

own reflection in the dark mirror of the nearest monitor screen. It stared  back

at him, scarred face, fair hair, the stained  gray  coverall  of  a  Star  Fleet

mechanic.

And beside it, behind it, just past his shoulder, he saw  another  face.  A

woman's face, young, framed in a cloud of smoky brown hair like  a  thick-leaved

tree in summer, the gray eyes looking into his.

He swung around sharply, but of course there was no one there.

Chapter 12

"What? Who is it?"

Leia prodded her husband's shoulder. "I told you you should have waited for

her to call back." She turned back to the holo image of the woman in the  field,

fiery hair tousled, green eyes blinking into the dim glow of the lights  on  her

end of the transmission. She wore a gold chain around her neck and a shirt  Leia

recognized as belonging to Lando Calrissian. "Mara, I'm sorry..."

"No, it's all right." Mara Jade rubbed her eyes with a quick  gesture,  and

that seemed to take care of any residual sleepiness, as if she'd clicked  off  a

switch. "I must look like one of the Nightsisters of Dathomir. What time  is  it

where you are? What's up? Is there a problem?"

"We don't know, exactly," said Han. He shoved back the towel from his still

damp hair. "We know we got a problem but we're not sure what it means. What  can

you tell us about Belsavis?"

"Ah." Mara settled back in the white leather of her  chair,  which  shifted

around her like a flower, drew up her long legs, and folded her hands around her

knees. Her eyes narrowed, as if she watched something  scrolling  past  on  some

inner  readout  screen:  thought,  memory,   surmise.   "Belsavis,"   she   said

thoughtfully. "You find out what was  there  that  the  Empire  thought  was  so

important?"

"You mean the children of the Jedi?" asked Leia.

"Is that what it was?" Her dark brows lifted, then she  thought  about  it,

and a corner of her lip curved down, wry and speculative. "Makes sense. The file

on it was closed when I started working for the Emperor,  you  see.  Closed  and

sealed behind six kinds of security locks."

She shrugged. "Well, closed files always have the same effect on me. But in

this case even when I broke into x I couldn't find out anything except  that  at

the end of the Clone Wars there'd been some kind of secret mission whose  target

was one of the rift valleys on Belsavis. Security was so  heavy  that  even  the

people who worked on it didn't know what was going on. If it was a move  against

the Jedi--against their families and children - comI can see  why  they  did  it

that way."

She was silent a moment, a small upright line  between  her  brows  as  she

called back to mind the old data. Beyond the metal  shutters  that  blocked  the

orchard lights from the bedroom, Leia heard the sleepy trilling of pellata birds

and manolliums among the trees, making one final stakeout of  their  territories

before nestling down for the night. Chewie, smelling as only a damp Wookiee  can

smell, paused in brushing out his fur and growled softly.

"A fighter wing was sent to Belsavis, interceptors mostly, fast but light,"

said Mara after a time. "And a whole chain of remote-trigger relay stations  was

set up, mostly on satellites, or hidden ground stations;  completely  automated,

but what it was they were supposed to activate or signal I never could find out.

The mission file was cut to paper dolls. I gathered there was supposed to  be  a

linkup with something that never arrived,  something  heavy.  But  later  I  got

copies of some of the Emperor's private invoices, and there were  millions  paid

out about that date to an engineer named Ohran Keldor..."

"I know about Ohran Keldor," said Leia softly. Even after all  these  years

her body went hot at the thought of his name, as  if  a  thousand  needles  were

rising up through her skin. "He was a student of Magrody's, one of the designers

of the Death Star. One of the  teachers  at  the  Omwat  orbital  platform  that

produced the rest of that design." Her  hands  trembled  involuntarily  and  she

tightened them hard; felt Han's swift, worried glance.

"That's him," said Mara. She regarded Leia for a  time,  her  own  thoughts

hidden behind the cool mask of her face, but if she understood the hatred of one

who has had her world destroyed, she made no  comment,  and  Leia  herself  said

nothing. Could say nothing.

"Same guy?" asked Han, a little too quickly, seeking  to  cover.  "I  mean,

that was, what? Twenty years before they put the Death Star together..."

"Twenty years isn't that long," said Mara. "And Keldor  was  a  boy  genius

back then, Magrody's best. Looking at the kind  of  thing  he  designed  later--

military and industrial both--I'd say the Emperor paid him to design a supership

of some kind. That was back when they needed a vessel the  size  of  a  city  to

carry the blasting power they wanted. Whatever was on Belsavis,  it  looks  like

the Emperor didn't want anything breathing when the dust settled. Logically,  it

has to have been an installation, because of the firepower and  because  of  the

trade that started up later in xylen chips and gold wire, salvage goods; far too

much to be just the gleanings of a battlefield. But I always wondered what  kind

of installation was so important that they'd go to that much trouble."

Han crossed his legs and pulled the dark-patterned native sarong he wore up

to cover his knees. "But somebody dropped the ball."

Mara shrugged. "That part had been pulled out of the file,  but  it  sounds

like it, yes. The supership-or whatever it was that those automated relays  were

designed to summon--notever arrived. Most of the relays were destroyed or  lost,

so somebody must have guessed what they were. The interceptors got mauled  by  a

small planetary force, pretty badly by the sound of it. The file said  "subjects

departed." The officers in charge said they strafed everything in sight and  did

maximum damage with the weaponry available, but most of them were cashiered when

they came home. A couple of high-ranking designers  of  artificial  intelligence

constructs and automated weapons systems were reassigned to places  like  Kessel

and Neelgaimon and Dathomir..."

"Real vacation spots," murmured Han, who'd visited all three.

Mara's red mouth quirked in a small, chilly smile. "There are worse places.

Ohran Keldor dropped out of sight for a while."

Chewbacca growled.

"Yeah," agreed Han,  "I  would  have,  too.  But  it  looks  like  somebody

reinstated him."

"That was probably Moff Tarkin," said Mara. "He was a man  who  never  lost

track of so much as a paper clip. He was in charge  of  the  Omwat  orbital  and

that's where Keldor showed up again,  trying  to  work  himself  back  onto  the

Emperor's good side."

She shook her head again, a look on her face  that  was  half  speculation,

half wonderment. "So it was the Jedi and their families. No wonder he wanted the

whole planet done."

She was silent for a time, and looking at her, Leia  wondered  suddenly  if

that was what had drawn Mara to the Emperor in the first place: that  Palpatine,

Force-strong as he was, had been the only one who could teach Mara, the only one

like herself that she knew.

Having grown up herself with  the  knowledge  that  she  was  somehow  just

slightly different, without knowing how, Leia could understand  that  need.  The

need to have someone who understood.

"Nothing in the records about where those "subjects" went?" she asked.  The

bitter heat in her chest had chilled, but her own voice  still  sounded  like  a

recording in her ears. "Nothing about the group itself? How big it was? How many

ships they had? What direction they took off in?"

The smuggler shook her head. "The file didn't even  mention  who  and  what

they were. Just that they "departed.""

"So you went to Belsavis to see who they'd been?"

"Not exactly. But I was curious. I filed the whole thing away in  my  mind,

but I kept an eye out for mention of the place. For a few years there was a  lot

of salvage running out of there: xylen chips, gold wire, polarized crystals, the

kind of thing you'd see if an  old  base  was  being  tapped.  Rock  ivory  from

antigrav units. Some old jewelry. I went there once,  around  the  time  of  the

Battle of Hoth, but Nubblyk the Slyte had a tight  grip  on  the  locals  and  I

couldn't stay long enough to figure things out."

"Look familiar?" Solo fished the gleaming chip from his pocket. "The  Slyte

was making a good living off these, but the supply pinching out  wasn't  why  he

quit. You know what happened to him?"

Mara leaned forward a little  to  study  the  chip  through  the  Holonet's

shimmering transceiver field, then sat back with a  long  flash  of  white  leg.

"That's the stuff. You ever do the Belsavis Run, Han?  There's  a  spot  in  the

southern  hemisphere  that's  far  enough  from  any  rift   or   vent   to   be

atmospherically  stable  about  the  same  time  every  twenty-four  hours.  The

Corridor, it's called. Because of the storms and the  ionization  in  the  upper

atmosphere they can't track anyone who's not coming down  a  charted  beam.  You

come in high, drop fast, and run along close to the ice to one of the pads."

"I heard about the pads out on the ice," said Han.

Chewie rumbled a comment.

"Yeah," agreed Han. "Not something I'd want to do, either. I guess  there's

still one or two in operation."

"There were twelve or thirteen back then," said Mara. "Most were  within  a

few kilometers of the rifts, about half of those near Pletwell...  Plawal,  they

call the place now. I could look up the coordinates for you if  it  would  help.

Nubblyk started thermoblasting  the  pads  right  after  the  Clone  Wars,  when

Brathflen and Galactic first came to  the  planet.  He'd  sound  out  geothermal

fissures below the ice, tunnel down to them, then t-blast the pads within half a

kilometer of the tunnel heads. That kept the people running the goods in and out

through the Corridor dependent on Nubblyk, because only Nubblyk knew  where  the

tunnel heads were. The Jedi." She shook her head again. "I'd never have  guessed

that."

Chewbacca stopped brushing his fur long  enough  to  offer  a  nominal  sum

against odds that Bran Kemple had been one of the tunnel guides, and Mara  said,

"Not on your life."

Leia rested her hands on Han's damp,  towel-wrapped  shoulders.  "And  Drub

McKumb was one of the guys who ran the Corridor."

"Drub McKumb?" Mara's usually cold expression relaxed into a  grin  at  the

memory of the man. "Is he still around? Yes, he was one of the Corridor runners.

How's he...?"

She saw the stillness in Han's face, and her eyes went cold and flat.

"What happened?"

Han  told  her,  and  went  on  to  outline  his  and  Chewie's  adventures

underground. "They were smugglers, Mara," he said  after  a  long--and  somewhat

expensive--silence on both  ends  of  the  Holonet  transmission.  "Whiphids,  a

Twi'lek, a Carosite, a couple of Rodians... local  Mluki.  Humans.  They  looked

like they'd been down there years. Like Drub."

Mara swore: briefly, comprehensively, and filthily. Then for a time she sat

in silence again, staring into the darkness beyond memory and time.

"Does it sound like anything you know about?" asked Leia. She  came  around

and Han made room for her on his chair. "They didn't find any drugs in him."

"No," said Mara distantly. "They didn't use drugs."

"Who didn't?"

Mara didn't answer. Leia said, still more quietly, "Vader?" Again her  skin

grew hot, around a core of bitter ice. Her father. Luke's father.

No, she thought. Bail Organa had been her father.

The smuggler nodded, once. "Vader and Palpatine."  She  brought  the  words

out, crisp and cold and without qualification, as if she knew nothing could make

it easier. "They mostly did it with semisentients: Ranats, Avogui, Zelosian Aga,

cidwen. They'd use them  for  enclosure  guards  in  places  where  they  needed

stormtroopers for other work. Drug them with a hallucinogen like brain-jagger or

Black Hole, something that worked on the fearstrage centers of the brain. They'd

use the dark side of the Force to burn it into them, make it permanent,  like  a

constant waking nightmare. They'd hunt and kill anything that  came  their  way.

Palpatine could drive them with his mind, call them or dismiss them...  I  don't

know of anyone else that could calm them down."

"Would yarrock work?" Han put an arm around Leia's  waist,  felt  her  body

rigid as wood. "To calm them? The healers on  Ithor  seem  to  think  it  would,

though I don't know how Drub would get any in the tunnels."

Mara shook her head. "I don't know."

In the silence Artoo bleeped faintly from the door, to let  them  know  the

coffee and supper Leia had put in the heater were done. Nobody said a  word  and

the little droid, evidently reading the atmosphere of the room, did  not  signal

again.

"Thanks, Mara," said Han at length. "I owe you dinner when we get  back  to

Coruscant. If you can get back with me on the coordinates of those pads it might

help. Sorry about waking you up..."

"It beats being pulled out of bed by an airstrike."

"One more thing." Leia looked up suddenly. "You say you were keeping an eye

on Belsavis.  Did  anybody  from  Palpatine's  Court  take  refuge  there  after

Coruscant fell? Anyone you know about?"

The woman who had been the Emperor's Hand  settled  back  into  her  chair,

running memories, rumor, recollection through her mind  like  bolts  of  colored

ribbon, seeking some flaw or slub. In time she shook her head. "Not that I  know

about," she said. "But Belsavis isn't that far from  the  Senex  Sector.  That's

practically a little Empire itself  these  days--the  Garonnin  family  and  the

Vandrons and their kind always wanted it to be. Who were you thinking of?"

Leia shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "I just wondered."

"You okay?"

Leia turned sharply. She'd folded back one of the metal  shutters  to  step

out onto the balcony, and the diffuse light from the orchard fell in a muzzy bar

into the room behind her, picking out the hard edge of  Han's  arm  muscle,  the

sharp points of collarbone and shoulder, the small scar on his forearm. The dark

print of  the  sarong  he  wore  was  like  the  black-on-black  mottling  of  a

trepennit's hide, lost in the shadows of the room.

She didn't answer. She wasn't sure what she could have said, and she'd long

ago learned that lying to Han was impossible. In the sticky warmth of the  night

his hand, dry and cool from the air-conditioning of the  house,  was  a  welcome

strength on her bare arm.

"Don't worry about Keldor." His hands went from her shoulders to her  hair,

gathering its auburn weight against his face. "Somebody'll find him one of these

days. Same--was

She felt in the very slight flinch of his hand the  swift  cutting  off  of

speech and thought midsentence. As if, she thought, he believed she didn't know.

Hadn't been thinking the same.

"Same way someone found Stinna  Draesinge  Sha?"  she  asked.  "And  Nasdra

Magrody... and his family? The way some... some so-called patriot from  the  New

Alderaan movement came to me a month ago hinting there were people ready to foot

the bill if I used my "influence" to have Qwi Xux murdered? And all the rest  of

the list who were just "following orders"?"

"I don't know about Qwi," said Han softly, naming the fragile genius  whose

mind had been manipulated into participating in the Death  Star's  design.  "She

always seemed to me more a victim than anything else even before what  she  went

through later... but I've never talked to anyone who didn't think you had  every

right to take a shot at the rest of them."

"No." Leia sighed, feeling as if it had been years since she'd last relaxed

enough to breathe. It was good beyond words to feel his  arms  around  her,  his

body pressing into her back. "No. I don't have any right. Not if I'm  the  Chief

of State. Not if I stand for doing things in accordance with the law. Not  if  I

stand for everything that Palpatine was not. That's what hurts,  I  think.  That

it's what I want to do--and what I cannot let myself do--and everyone  thinks  I

did it anyway. So why not do it?"

"But you didn't," Han told her gently. "And you know that, and I know that.

.. and that's what counts. What's Luke always saying? Be what you want to seem."

She pulled his arms more closely around her, closing her eyes and  drifting

in the scents of soap, and his flesh, and the thick, slightly sulfurous murk  of

the night. Had it been only that afternoon they'd stood on the tower?  Seen  the

children of the Jedi playing around the grille that covered Plett's  Well?  Felt

the lost peace, the stillness of those other days, rising around them  like  the

warmth of a long-forgotten sun?

Very low, she said, "I have dreams, Han; dreams where I'm  hunting  through

all those rooms on the Death Star, running  through  corridors,  opening  doors,

looking behind hatches, searching all the  lockers,  because  there's  something

somewhere, some key, that will turn off the destructor beams. I dream  that  I'm

running down the hallways with--with whatever it is--clutched in my hand, and if

I can just make it to the Ignition Chamber in time, just  do  the  right  thing,

I'll save them. I'll switch off the beam and be able to go home."

His grip tightened around her, holding her fast against his body.  He  knew

she had dreams. He'd waked her up from them, and  held  her  against  his  chest

while she cried, too many times to count. She felt the breath of his  lips  move

the hair at the crown of her head. "There was nothing you could have done."

"I know. But at least once a day I think: I couldn't save them, but  I  can

make those who did it pay." She turned in his arms, looking up  at  him  in  the

misty apricot light. "Would you do it?"

Han grinned down at her. "Like a shot. But I'm not the Chief of State."

"Would you do it to please me?"

He laid his hand along her cheek, leaned down to kiss  her  lips.  He  said

softly, "No. Not even if you asked."

He led her inside. As he stopped to close the shutters  behind  them,  Leia

paused by the room's small table, where a half dozen shallow  cakes  of  colored

wax floated in a great glass bowl of water. She flicked the switch on  the  long

stem of the lighter, touched in turn each  wick.  The  drifting  lights  painted

wavery circles of amber and daffodil on the ceiling  and  walls.  Her  eyes  met

Han's over the floating candle flames; she let slip the shawl  she'd  worn  over

her shoulders, and held out to him her hand.

They wouldn't let her sleep.

They  kept  coming  into  the  steel-walled  cell,  asking  her  questions,

threatening her--telling her this person had told them  this,  that  person  had

told them that. That she had been betrayed, that everything was known, that  her

father had been working for the Empire all along, that  those  she  trusted  had

sold her out... that she would be lobotomized and taken to one of  the  barracks

pleasure houses... tortured... killed. She'd tried to keep her mind on the Death

Star plans, on the threat to the Senate, on the danger to  hundreds  of  planets

rather than on her own terror...

No, Leia whispered, trying to surface from the drowning, breathless  horror

of the dream. No...

Then the door of the detention cell had slipped open with its evil  hissing

sound, and Vader had been standing there, Vader huge  and  black  and  terrible,

surrounded by stormtroopers. And behind him, darker, shinier, more  evil  still,

the black smooth floating bulk of the Torturer...

"No!"

She tried to scream but could manage no more than a gasp.  Nevertheless  it

woke her, to darkness, and the faint, sinister whirring of a droid's engine, and

the moving glint of red lights in the dark.

There was another noise, thin and steady, a half-familiar whining...

The overload alarm on a blaster?

"Artoo?"

Leia sat up in bed, confused and panicky and wondering if it was  a  dream,

if the terrible sense of evil was something left over from her nightmare. Across

the room a faint, hissing zap sounded, and  the  white  light  of  Artoo-Detoo's

electric cutting beam illuminated the round, blocky form  of  the  little  droid

visible beyond the foot of the bed. A  second  alarm  began  to  sound.  It  was

unnaturally dark in the room; Leia hadn't even begun to sort out  why  when  Han

flinched and turned beside her, and  she  heard  the  door  of  the  small  wall

cupboard slide shut.

The sound of the blaster overload alarms grew immediately muffled.

She felt rather than saw Han reach for the holster  that  hung  beside  the

bed,  and  at  the  same  moment,  the  white  glare  of  Artoo's  cutting  beam

illuminated, like a tableau, the droid  and  the  corner  of  the  room  by  the

cupboard as he neatly fused the lock.

"What the...?"

She hit the light switch by the  bed.  Nothing  happened.  In  a  panic  of

confusion her mind reached out, groped for the candles that had illuminated  the

room earlier with such soft, romantic light. Luke had taught her...

Fire sprang to life again on the floating wicks.

"You crazy little..." Han  strode  across  the  room  to  where  Artoo  had

definitely posted himself in front of the cupboard door. Muffled and shrill, the

fast pulse beat of the alarms was rising; Leia reached for the  hideout  blaster

where Han usually kept it under the  pillow  and  found  nothing.  In  the  same

instant, it seemed, Artoo swung around and pointed his cutting  torch  in  Han's

direction. The white bolt of electricity leaped out; Han sprang backward, barely

avoiding it. In the dim saffron glow his eyes were suddenly wide.

Han and Leia both looked toward the windows. The shuttering mechanism was a

fused blob of metal.

"Artoo!" cried Leia, confused and suddenly scared.

Outside the bedroom doors Chewbacca roared, and the  door  rattled  in  its

sliders. With startling speed Artoo darted for the  door,  the  electric  cutter

extended; Han yelled, "Let go of the handle, Chewie!" a split second before  the

droid put several thousand volts into the metal handle, then swung back,  cutter

still zapping hot, short jolts of blue-white lightning. Han, who in addition  to

shouting his warning had made a plunge for the  cupboard,  backed  hastily,  the

droid following him for half a meter or so.

"Dammit, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

A substitution? thought Leia crazily, catching the pillows from the bed and

circling in the other direction. When he'd run away from her on the way  to  the

MuniCenter...? That was insane. She =new it was Artoo.

Artoo backed against the cupboard again, his welding arm held out, the live

end of it gleaming dangerously in  the  candlelight.  Almost  inaudible  in  the

cupboard the blasters' double whine scaled upward, an insect-like warning of  an

explosion that would certainly destroy most of the house.

"Leia, put your boots on," said Han, pulling his own free of the corner and

hauling them swiftly onto his feet.

She dropped her load of pillows and obeyed without question. There couldn't

be more than a minute or so left. They were sealed in the  room....  Chewie  was

hammering on the outer door with something but it was clearly going to take more

time than they had.

Looking a little ridiculous--he wasn't wearing much besides the  boots--Han

crossed the bed in two strides to her side. He turned his  body,  for  a  moment

blocking the droid's view of his hand as he pointed to her the thing  he  wanted

her to use; she understood his plan by the thing's very nature.  She  wanted  to

say, Not Artoo... but didn't.

There was something appallingly, hideously wrong, but there was no time  to

figure out what or how or why.

Not Artoo...

Han was already moving in on the little droid. He  had  a  blanket  in  one

hand, as if he planned to use it to smother the electric charge of  the  welder.

The droid stood still, guarding the locked  cupboard  where  the  blasters  were

screaming into the final stages of overload, but  fairly  vibrated  with  deadly

readiness.

Leia thought, He hasn't made a sound...

Han struck. Artoo lunged at him,  lightning  leaping  forth,  and  in  that

instant Leia scooped the water basin, candles and all, from the table and hurled

it with all the strength she could summon at the droid. Han was already  leaping

back with the hair-trigger reflexes of a man who has lived all his life  on  his

nerve ends, and the vast drench of water  doused  and  grounded  the  electrical

discharge of Artoo's cutting tool in a sizzling, horrible spatter of blue  light

and spraying sparks. Smoke and lightning poured from  the  droid's  open  hatch,

small threads of blue electricity  leaping  and  twitching  as  Artoo  gave  one

frantic, despairing scream. Han sprang in past him, driving one  insulated  boot

sole through the thin wood of the cupboard door and digging out the blasters. It

all seemed to happen in the space of one second and  Leia  thought,  If  Artoo's

welded the power cells into the triggers they'll blow up in his hand...

A ridiculous consideration, she thought--the explosion would kill  both  of

them and Chewie as well...

Han ripped the power cores out of both blasters  and  hurled  the  stripped

weapons across the room onto the bed, where Leia buried them under pillows.  The

triggering blast--without the power that would have vaporized everything in  the

room--was like a violent hiccup, the kick of some  huge,  fierce,  sullen  thing

under the bedding.

An instant later, with a rending crash, Chewbacca smashed his  way  through

the bedroom door.

For a moment there was stillness, Han standing beside the cupboard, staring

down at the two blaster power cores that lay hissing in the puddied water around

his feet.

The room was filled with  the  stench  of  burning  feathers  and  scorched

insulation.

Chewie  looked  at  Artoo,  bowed  forward,  blackened  by  the  electrical

discharge, motionless and dead. Then he moaned, a long animal howl, grieving his

friend.

Chapter 13

In addition to cutting all the power in the  house,  Artoo  had  fused  the

comlinks. Chewbacca had to venture forth into the steamy fog  of  the  night  to

bring Jevax a report of what had taken place. The Chief Person returned  to  the

house with him, concerned and  shaken--he  had  been  awake,  he  said,  at  the

MuniCenter, trying to raise communication with  the  nearby  valley  of  Bot-Un,

whose comm center had gone out for the fifth time in six months.

"I don't understand it," the old Mluki said, looking from the ruin of fried

bedding to the charred, motionless droid, upon whom Han was  grimly  affixing  a

restraining bolt. "The pump stations  and  the  mechanical  feeders,  yes--we're

still very much a shoestring operation in  some  ways,  whatever  the  corporate

brass likes to say. Most of our  equipment  is  secondhand,  and  quite  frankly

pretty old. But your Artoo unit--was

"Wait a minute." Leia had removed  her  boots  by  this  time  and  wrapped

herself in a darkly patterned crimson-and-black local kimono, her  hair  hanging

in a burnished mass down her back. She'd spent the past fifteen minutes locating

every glowrod and emergency power-celled panel in the house, even retrieving the

candles from the watery mess on the  floor.  "Are  you  telling  me  programming

failures like this are common?"

"Not common." The Mluki's eyes met hers frankly under the  heavy  ridge  of

brow. "But every now and then a tree feeder  will  go  mildly  amok  and  wander

through the streets squirting nutrient at passersby. Or one of the  ice  walkers

will start hiking away across the glaciers, forcing its passengers to  bail  out

and walk back to the valley. Most people who have business out on the glaciers--

whicho're traveling to Bot-Un or Mithipsin, for instance--pack thermal suits and

distress signals as a matter of course."

He spread his white-furred hands, and the silver in his ears glinted as  he

tilted his head. "Personally--though I'm not  a  mechanic--I  suspect  it's  the

result of doming the valley. It was always pretty damp here, but  enclosing  the

valley has made it  more  so,  and  the  pumping  stations  can't  eliminate  or

neutralize all the corrosive gases that rise out of the vents at the bottom  end

of the rift. They've never reported mechanical problems like this in Bot-Un."

"But it's not a mechanical  problem,"  argued  Leia.  "It's  a  programming

fault..."

"Well, that's what the mechanics here say." Jevax scratched his head.  "But

the programmers swear it's mechanical."

They would, thought  Leia  late  the  following  morning,  as  she  watched

Chewbacca poke around in Artoo-Detoo's mechanical innards in a hissing sizzle of

sparks. She had yet to meet a  programmer  who'd  admit  that  untoward  results

weren't universally attributable to either hardware failure or  operator  error.

Even Qwi Xux honestly and sincerely believed to this day  that  the  Death  Star

would have made a wonderful mining instrument.

And yes, the air in the Plawal Rift was  extraordinarily  damp,  plastering

Leia's dark linen shirt to her arms and back as she leaned on the railing of the

terrace where Han and  the  Wookiee  were  working  to  take  advantage  of  the

daylight-Jevax's promised engineers had yet to arrive to  repair  power  in  the

house and completely unstick the welded shutters. If  they  worked  on  anything

like the MuniCenter's schedules, thought Leia, they wouldn't see them until  the

packing plants shut down for the night again.

And yes,  secondhand  machinery  not  designed  specifically  for  work  in

hyperdamp climates did develop the occasional flutter.

But  presumably  the  mechanics  would  install   dehumidifier   packs   in

everything--they were certainly present  in  all  the  kitchen's  quaintly  old-

fashioned blenders and choppers. And Artoo had spent considerable  time  in  the

marshes of Dagobah without becoming homicidal, a restraint of which Leia  wasn't

sure she would be capable, after hearing Luke's account of  that  green,  snake-

ridden world.

As her old nanny had phrased it, something about it all just didn't  listen

right to her.

Whatever programmers said, thought Leia, perching herself on the stone rail

of the balcony, a "mechanical flaw" might possibly account for  Artoo's  running

amok and trundling off the path into the trees...  but  by  no  stretch  of  the

imagination could it cause him to  perform  a  complicated  series  of  specific

activities like closing doors, sealing locks, crossing wires within wall  panels

and blasters.

It was definitely Artoo: The serial numbers on his main block and motivator

housing matched. Chewbacca--his arms and  shoulders  criss-crossed  with  strips

shaven in his fur and synthflesh patched in beneath  but  otherwise  little  the

worse for the events in the caverns last night-hadn't found any  kind  of  relay

mechanism  inserted  into  Artoo's  motivators  that  would   have   given   him

instructions from the outside.

And in any case, when would such a thing have  been  installed?  He  hadn't

been out of Leia's sight last night for more than a few moments, and for part of

that time she'd heard him moving.

"So whaddaya think?" Han wiped his fingers on an already unspeakable rag.

Chewbacca pushed back his eyeshades and groaned noncommittally. The Wookiee

had reassembled the engines of the Millennium Falcon when they'd been  in  worse

shape than this and the thing had flown; Leia, regarding the loose piles of wire

and cable still spread around the stone flagging of the terrace, had her doubts.

Artoo rocked a little on his base and managed a faint, reassuring cheep.

"What did you think you were...?" began Han, and Leia reached over to touch

his shoulder, stopping further words. Artoo had to be feeling  utterly  wretched

already.

"Can you tell us about it?" she asked gently.

Artoo rocked harder, swiveled his top, and beeped pleadingly.

"Can he tell us about it?" demanded Han. "I can tell you about it! He tried

to kill us!"

The droid emitted a thin, despairing wail.

"It's all right," said Leia. She knelt beside Artoo, touched the  droid  on

the join of base pivot and body, disregarding her husband's muttered commentary.

"I'm not mad at you, and I won't let anything happen to you." She  glanced  over

her shoulder at Han and Chewie, a sinister-enough-looking  pair,  she  supposed,

leaned against the stone railing with their arms full of  drills  and  grippers.

"What happened?"

All Artoo's lights went out.

Leia turned back to Chewie, who had pushed his welding  goggles  back  onto

his high forehead. "Are you sure you got his wiring back the way  it's  supposed

to be?"

"Hey, he works, doesn't he?" retorted Han.

Leia stepped back while Chewbacca knelt and went to work again. Though  not

much of a mechanic-Luke had taught her to break and reassemble a standard X-wing

engine in a pinch, and on a good day she could even  identify  portions  of  the

Falcon's drive system--Leia had the impression the Wookiee was redoing  some  of

the repairs he'd done half an hour ago. But Han  and  Chewie,  like  Luke,  were

mechanics, and thought in terms of mechanical failure.

She found herself wondering if there was a way of  getting  in  touch  with

Cray Mingla.

It occurred to her that she had heard nothing from Luke or any of his party

in days.

Something moved in the orchard below. A bright-yellow manollium  burst  out

of the ferns like a startled flower and went winging away through the trees, and

Leia--whicho had never lost the watchfulness of those years on the  run  between

the battles of Yavin and Endor--looked automatically for what had startled it.

She didn't see much, but it was enough. A ghostlike impression of  movement

faded at once into the mist, but there was no  mistaking  the  white  gown,  the

night-black tail of hair. From the balcony behind her Han's voice said, "I never

asked you last night, Leia--you find anything in the city records?"

"Yes," said Leia briefly,  swinging  herself  over  the  balcony  rail  and

dropping lightly the meter and a half to the thick ferns below. "I'll be back...

."

In the mist it was impossible to see more than a few meters  clearly.  Tree

stems, vines, beds of shrub and fern made dim, one-dimensional  cutouts  in  the

glassy grayness. Half closing her eyes, Leia reached out  with  her  senses,  as

Luke had been teaching her to do, and picked up the subliminal  stir  of  fabric

among leaves, the squish of wet foliage underfoot... the trace of perfume.

Her hand moved automatically to check for the blaster usually holstered  at

her side, even as she moved in pursuit. Nothing  there,  of  course.  Still  she

didn't turn back. Not swiftly, but steadily, she worked  to  keep  up  with  the

woman whose face she'd seen under the lamplight of the path through the  orchard

last night.

She remembered now where she'd seen her before.

She'd been eighteen, newly elected the  youngest  member  of  the  Imperial

Senate. It was customary among the  old  Houses  to  bring  their  daughters  to

Coruscant when they emerged from finishing school at seventeen--or  sixteen,  if

their parents were ambitious to start the long and  elaborate  jockeying  for  a

good match at Court. Her aunts, she remembered, had been  horrified  when  she'd

refused, doubly appalled when her father had backed her up in her  decision  not

to be presented to the Emperor until she could do so as a  Senator  in  her  own

right, not simply as a young girl in the Court marriage market...

She wondered what they'd think now, those aunts,  if  they  could  see  her

married to a man who'd started life  as  a  smuggler,  whose  parents  had  been

nobody-knew-who. If they could see her as Chief of State, after years of dodging

around the galaxy in the company of a ragged gang of idealistic warriors with  a

price on her head.

She honestly didn't know whether they would have been aghast or proud. When

she was eighteen, she hadn't known them well; hadn't  known  them  as  an  adult

knows other adults.

And they had all died before she could.

She stepped from among the trees of the orchard. The white dress was at the

far end of Old Orchard Street, moving swiftly. Heading for  the  market  square,

Leia thought.

For a long time she'd tried not to know whether it had been day or  evening

in the capital of Alderaan when the Death Star had appeared in the sky. Somebody

had eventually told her that it had been a warm evening late in the spring. Aunt

Rouge had undoubtedly been having her hair dressed for dinner in front  of  that

gilt-framed mirror in her  boudoir;  Aunt  Celly  would  have  been  lying  down

indulging in her daily bout of  hypochondria,  and  Aunt  Tia  would  have  been

reading aloud to her or talking baby talk to the pittins. Leia  even  remembered

the pittins' names: Taffy, Winkie, Fluffy, and AT-AV  -  com?All-Terrain  Attack

Vehicle." She'd named that last one. It had  been  pale  candy  pink  and  small

enough to fit in her cupped hands.

The pittins had all died, too, when somebody had pulled that lever  on  the

Death Star.

And everything else had died as well.

Everything else.

Leia gritted her teeth as she moved along the steep slant  of  the  street,

keeping close to the jumble of old walls and prefab shops,  fighting  the  sting

behind her eyes and the dreadful tightness of her throat. Her aunts had made her

girlhood an intermittent burden, but they'd deserved better than that.

It had been her father who had presented her to the Emperor--in the  Senate

rotunda, as junior representative of Alderaan. She  remembered  as  if  it  were

yesterday the evil dark eyes peering like a lizard's from that  desiccated  face

in the black hood's shadow. But her aunts were the  ones  who  had  insisted  on

taking her to the levee at the palace that night.

That was where she'd seen this woman--this girl.

She herself had been eighteen,  clothed  in  the  spare,  formal  white  of

Senatorial office, as her father had been. There had  been  few  other  Senators

there, and the crowd in the pillared hall had been an  autumnal  flower  bed  of

dull golds and bronzes, plum and dark green. Among the usual courtiers, the sons

and daughters of Governors and moffs and the scions of the ancient, aristocratic

Houses, whose parents were trying to arrange alliances, Leia had noticed a  half

dozen women of truly startling  beauty,  exquisitely  gowned  and  jeweled  like

princesses, who did not seem to belong with either the bureaucrats' wives or the

more elite groups of the old Houses and their vassals. She'd  asked  Aunt  Rouge

about them and had gotten a very superior, "Whom the Emperor wishes to invite is

of course his business, Leia dear; but one is not obligated to speak with them."

Leia had realized they were the Emperor's concubines.

This woman--this girl--had been one of them.

Leia was catching her up. The woman glanced  behind  her  as  she  threaded

swiftly through the barrows of vegetables, jewelry, cosmetics,  and  scarves  in

the market square, like a small fish hoping to lose a larger one  among  bright-

colored rocks. She began to run, and Leia ran after  her,  dodging  vendors  and

shoppers and the occasional lines of antigrav wagons on their way  in  from  the

orchards. The woman--whicho must be only  a  few  years  older  than  she,  Leia

thought--ducked down an alley, and Leia ran on past its mouth, then doubled down

the narrow lane beyond. The houses around the marketplace were old, built on the

sunken foundations and lower stories of the original dwellings of the town; Leia

descended a short flight of steps at a silent  run,  dodged  through  the  squat

pillars of what had once been a hot-spring hall and  was  now  a  sort  of  open

cellar under the gleaming white prefab of the upper house, knee-deep in swirling

ground mist and smelling faintly of sulfur and  kretch.  At  the  far  side  she

sprang up into the alley again.

The woman had concealed herself behind a stack of packing  crates  and  was

watching the mouth of the alley to see if Leia was going to come back that  way.

She was still slender and small, almost childlike, as she had been eleven  years

ago. Her exquisite oval face was unlined, her slanted  black  eyes  unmarred  by

wrinkles-Leia remembered inconsequentially Cray's vast catalog of such  products

as Slootheberry Wrinkle Creme  and  Distilled  Water  of  Moltokian  Camba-Fruit

designed to preserve such perfection. The black hair that hung down her back  in

a heavy tail  ringed  with  bronze--the  hair  that  had  been  piled  into  the

elaborate, masklike headpiece at the Emperor's levee--was untouched by gray.

All the way from the house in the orchard, Leia had been trying  to  recall

the woman's name, and as she stepped from between the lava pillars and  up  into

the alley she finally did. "Roganda," she said, and the  woman  spun,  her  hand

going to her lips in shock. In the drifting, shadowless mists it was hard to see

her eyes, but after a moment the woman Roganda Ismaren stepped forward and  sank

into a deep curtsy at Leia's feet.

"Your Highness."

Leia hadn't heard her voice before. Aunt Rouge had seen  to  that.  It  was

soft, and pitched rather high, with a lisping, childish sweetness.

"I beg of you, Highness, don't betray me."

"To whom?" asked Leia practically, and gestured for her to  rise.  The  old

hand movement, drilled into her by her aunts' deportment teachers, came  easily,

a whisper from the dead past.

Roganda Ismaren wasn't the only one in danger of betrayal  here.  Leia  and

Han would probably find themselves far less able to pursue their investigations-

-if there was in fact anything to investigate--were it known who they were.

Roganda got to her feet, the hem  of  her  gown  stirring  the  mists  that

drifted up from the old house  foundations,  the  lower  end  of  the  mossgrown

street. "Them." She nodded toward  the  bustling  noises  of  the  market,  half

invisible in the fog, and her gesture took  in  the  stone  foundations  of  the

houses around them, the  patched-in  white  cubes  with  their  terraces,  their

trellises, their steps. Her every movement still retained the implicit beauty of

a trained dancer's. Like Leia, she had been well taught how to carry herself.

"Anyone in this town. The Empire laid it to the ground not  too  long  ago,

and even those who came in afterward have  cause  to  hate  even  the  unwilling

servants of the Emperor."

Leia relaxed a little. The woman was unarmed, unless she had a dagger or an

extremely small blaster under that simple white linen gown, and the liquid drape

of the fabric made even that unlikely. As Palpatine's concubine,  Roganda  would

have found herself very much in the crossfire between the Emperor's enemies  and

his friends. Leia wondered how she'd gotten out of Coruscant.

"This place has been my refuge, my safety, for seven  years  now,"  Roganda

continued softly. She clasped her hands in a gesture of pleading.  "Don't  force

me out, to seek another home."

"No," said Leia, embarrassed, "of course not. Why did you pick  this  place

to come to?"

She was thinking only of the Emperor's  levee,  of  the  jeweled  headpiece

Roganda had worn, massy gold and layered with a galactic dazzle of topaz,  ruby,

citrine; remembering the elaborate bunches of shimmersilk skirts, held in  swags

and volutes with gemmed plaques the size of her palm; the chains of jewels, fine

as embroidery thread, dangling row on row from the curved golden splendor of her

concubine collar. Roganda's hair had been augmented and amplified  by  swags  of

lace, swatches of silk in every shade of gold and crimson, her small white hands

a glory of scintillant rings.

But Roganda hesitated, seemed  to  draw  back.  "Why  do  you  ask?"  Then,

quickly, "It was out of the way.... No one knew of it, no one would look for  me

here. Neither the Rebels from whom  I  fled  when  I  left  Coruscant,  nor  the

warlords who tried to take it back. I wanted only peace."

She gave a shy smile. "Since you've come this far,  will  you  come  to  my

rooms?" Roganda gestured back along the alley. "They  aren't  elegant-you  can't

pay for much elegance on a fruit packer's wages--but I do  pride  myself  on  my

coffee. The one remnant of earlier glories."

The coffee served at the Emperor's levee was one of  the  things  that  had

stayed in Leia's mind. The Emperor had had special farms on a number of suitable

worlds to provide the beans solely for the use of his Court,  including  several

that produced vine-coffee, a variety notoriously hard to rear. The transition to

this provincial town among its orchards couldn't have been an easy one.

"Another time," she said, shaking her head. "Surely there were other places

you could have gone?"

"Few as out of the way as this." Roganda half smiled, and brushed aside the

tendrils of dark hair that trailed across  her  brow.  Her  complexion  was  the

clear, pallorous white of those who live  without  sunlight,  on  starships,  or

underground, or on worlds like this where the only  thin  sunlight  that  leaked

down through the mists had to be magnified by the crystal of the dome.

"Even smugglers rarely bother anymore. I knew I wasn't going to be welcomed

in the Republic--his name was too hated, and those who haven't been...  coerced,

as he could coerce... would  not  understand  that  there  was  no  question  of

refusing him."

Leia remembered what Luke had told her of his days  serving  the  Emperor's

clone, and shuddered.

"And as for going to the worlds, the cities, still under the  rule  of  the

Governors and the new warlords, or the worlds where the old  Houses  still  hold

sway..."

She shivered, as if chill winds blew down the alley instead  of  the  dense

warmth of the drifting fogs. "He lent me to too many of them... as a gift. All I

wanted to do was... forget."

"What were you doing outside the house?"

"Waiting for you," said Roganda simply. "For  a  chance  to  speak  to  you

alone. I recognized you last night, when your droid malfunctioned.... I hope you

got it back to the path without mishap? I almost came down to help  you,  but...

on other worlds where I thought to take refuge, I've had  bad  experiences  with

those who remembered me from the Emperor's Court. And I admit I  was...  unhappy

enough to do some foolish things in those days."

She averted her face, twisting on her finger the small topaz ring that  was

probably the only jewel she had left of those days.  Maybe,  thought  Leia,  the

only thing left unsold after her passage here had been paid. Her hand was  still

white and small and fragile as a cage-reared bird.

"I lost my nerve," she concluded, not meeting Leia's eyes. "Then last night

I began to fear that you had recognized me. That you might speak of it  to  your

husband, and he to others here. I... I made  up  my  mind  to  come  to  you  in

private. To beg for your silence."

A bright drift of music keened from the  market  as  the  jugglers  started

setting up their pitches. A busker cried, "Step right up, ladies'an'gennelmens..

. three turns and turn 'em over..."  Somewhere  Leia  heard  the  dim,  skeletal

clatter of a mechanical tree feeder being walked out of a repair  shop  back  to

the orchards, and a musical Ithorian voice  sang,  "Fresh  tarts!  Fresh  tarts!

Podon and brandifert, sweetest in town..." while high overhead the vast, flower-

decked gondolas of the silk and coffee beds glided along their  tracks,  lifting

and lowering, silent as birds beneath the crystal of the dome.

"But you didn't."

Roganda looked down at her hands again, turning her ring. "No,"  she  said.

Her long black lashes trembled. "I  can't...  explain,  exactly.  I've  been  so

afraid for so long. It's hard to explain to someone who hasn't been through what

I've been through."

She raised pleading eyes to Leia's, darkness and old memories shimmering in

them like unshed tears. "Sometimes it seems I'll never cease being  afraid.  The

way it seems some nights that I'll never cease having nightmares about him,  for

as long as I live."

"It's all right." Leia's voice sounded gruff and awkward in her  own  ears,

shaky with the memory of her own nightmares. "I promise I won't  betray  you  to

those who live here."

"Thank you." Her voice was barely a whisper. Then she  smiled  tremulously.

"You're sure you won't have coffee with me? I make it rather well."

Leia shook her head. "Thank you," she said, and smiled back. "Han  will  be

wondering where I've gone." She started back for the market square, then turned,

remembering something else. Something her aunt Celly had whispered to her  in  a

corner when Aunt Rouge was over lecturing the head of the House Elegin about the

proper deportment of its scions...

"Roganda... didn't you have a son?"

Roganda looked quickly away. Her  voice  was  almost  inaudible  under  the

musical chatter of the market. "He died."

Turning swiftly, she  vanished  into  the  mist,  the  white  swirl  of  it

absorbing her like a white-robed ghost.

Silent in the narrow alleyway, Leia recalled the day the Rebels  had  taken

Coruscant. The Emperor's palace - comt endless, gorgeous maze of crystal  roofs,

hanging gardens, pyramids of green and blue marble shining with  gold...  summer

quarters, winter quarters, treasuries, pavilions, music rooms, prisons, halls...

grace-and-favor residences for concubines, ministers, and trained assassins--had

been shelled hard and partially looted already, Rebel  partisans  having  killed

whichever members of the Court they could catch. These  had  included,  if  Leia

remembered correctly, not only the President of the Bureau  of  Punishments  and

the head of the Emperor's School of Torturers, but the court  clothing  designer

and any number of minor and completely innocent servants of all  ages,  species,

and sexes whose names had never even been reported.

As Leia walked back across the market square she thought, No wonder she was

twisting her hands in fear.

And stopped, to be cursed at by the driver of a puttering mechanized barrow

of cheap shoe kits from Jerijador, but  she  hardly  noticed.  She  was  seeing,

suddenly, the topaz ring on Roganda's hand--a hand smaller even  than  her  own,

childlike, and completely innocent of either bandages,  small  cuts,  or  purple

stains.

"You can't pay for much elegance on a fruit packer's wages..."

Oso Nim's old pal Chatty had had at least three bandages on his fingers. So

had half the clientele of the Smoking Jets and most of the people she passed  in

the market. Bandages on their fingers, and  purple  hands--or  red,  or  yellow,

depending on whether they were packing bowvine,  brandifert,  lipana,  or  vine-

coffee... And podon and slochan were sturdy enough to be packed by droids.

Leia found herself wondering, as she walked quickly back toward  the  house

on Old Orchard Street, what would have  happened  to  her  if  she'd  gone  with

Roganda to her rooms for coffee.

Chapter 14

Who are you?

The  words  glowed  in  amber  silence   in   the   alm-darkness   of   the

quartermaster's office on Deck 12. Somewhere in the distance  a  sweet,  complex

humming echoed in the labyrinth of corridors and  rooms:  the  Talz  singing  in

their hidden enclave of junior officers' staterooms. Threepio, before he'd  shut

down, had tried to tap into the Will on this  terminal  and  had  reported  that

though power still functioned in some of its circuits,  cable-greedy  Jawas  had

torn out the computer connections somewhere up the trunk line.

Perhaps, thought Luke, that was one reason he felt instinctively safe here.

The far-off wailing halted, then resumed with transmuted rhythm.  Even  the

air circulators were silent. The rooms smelled of Jawas, Talz, the vanilla whiff

of the Kitonaks clumped like  podgy  mushrooms  at  the  end  of  the  corridor,

chatting endlessly in their soft, squeaking voices. Luke  gazed  into  the  onyx

well of the screen and felt suddenly tired unto death.

Who are you?

He felt that he already knew.

The word swam up out of the depth, whole, not letter by  letter--as  if  it

had existed there for a long time.

theiringar.Callistagh

His breath paused. He hadn't actually thought this would work.

Then, theiringar..She's all right. They haven't harmed her. Not beyond what

she'd take in a rough training sessiongh

Relief was a flood of sensation so violent it was almost like  a  headache,

release bordering on physical pain.

Thank you, typed Luke. He was struck by the absolute bald inadequacy of the

words on the screen; something you'd say to someone who moved  a  chair  out  of

your way when your hands were full. Nothing to do with the  interrogator  droids

in the Detention Area; nothing to do with the bruises on  Cray's  face,  or  the

dead, bitter look in her eyes. Nothing to do with  the  Gamorreans  holding  the

screaming Jawa over the shredder.

"Thank you," he whispered aloud, to the no-longer-quite-empty  darkness  of

the room. "Thank you."

theiringar..They're on  Deck  19,  in  the  starboard  maintenance  hangar.

They've dismantled half a dozen TIE'S to make  their  village--or  Mugshub  has,

anyway. It's the sows who do all the workgh

There was a pause.

theiringar..Fortunate, since the boars are about as smart  as  the  average

cement extruder and aren't good for much besides getting into fights and  making

little Gamorreansgh

Can you get me up there?

theiringar..I can take you to the cargo  lift  shaft  they're  using  as  a

communications tunnel.  They've  got  it  booby-trapped  and  guarded.  Can  you

levitate?gh

Yes. I've been--

theiringar..allyou don't have to keyboard, you know. Internal  Surveillance

had every room and corridor on this ship wired. Charming peoplegh

"I've been using perigen for my leg,"  said  Luke,  still  looking  at  the

screen, as if it were a wall or a blacked-out window behind which  she  dwelled.

"It's beginning to interfere a little with my concentration, but I can  manage."

Even as he said it he shivered. In addition to the  painkiller's  eventual  side

effect of reduced concentration, fatigue, exhaustion,  and  the  slow  grind  of

constant pain were eroding still more his ability to manipulate the  Force.  The

thought of self-levitating over a lift shaft hundreds  of  meters  deep  was  an

unnerving one.

Again he asked, meaning it differently, "Who are you?"

She didn't reply. After a very long time, more amber words appeared on  the

screen.

theiringar..The droid with her, the droid with the living eyes--What is he?

What is this? Is this a new sort of creature Palpatine thinks he can  use?  What

is this, that's happening between them?gh

"Palpatine's dead." Laser light showing up the Emperor's bones  within  his

flesh... The pain in his own bones, his own flesh, destroying him. Darth Vader's

voice...

He pushed the images from his mind. "The Empire has broken into six,  maybe

ten major fragments, ruled by warlords and Governors. The Senate's in control of

Coruscant and most of the Inner Rim. A New Republic has been established and  is

growing strong."

The screen wiped dark for a moment. Then, spreading and flashing across it,

a growing design, a dancing spiral geometry  of  outflung  joy.  Her  joy,  Luke

realized. The essence, the heart of what  he  himself  had  felt  in  that  tree

village on Endor's green moon, when he knew that the first terrible  hurdle  had

been cleared.

Music by someone who no longer had a voice.

The joy-dance of the bodiless.

Triumphal delight and utter thanks.

We won, we won! I died but we won!

If she had been here, he knew, she would have flung herself into his arms.

Like Triv Pothman, she'd been waiting a long time.

What she said was, theiringar..allyou have made this worth it for megh

The designs whirled themselves across every screen in  the  room  and  then

away, like a ring of dancing waves moving outward.

Luke said softly, "Almost."

Another long pause. theiringar.98@ccpgh

He knew it was half jesting, and he laughed.

theiringar..allyou're Master Luke? Is Calrissian your real name?gh

"Skywalker," he said. "Luke Skywalker."

He was conscious of the silence implicit in the suddenly black screen.

"Anakin's son," he added quietly. "It was Anakin who killed Palpatine."

There was nothing on the screen still, but as if  he  looked  into  another

person's eyes, he sensed the  changing  tides  of  her  thought,  the  wondering

contemplation of the vagaries of time.

theiringar.Tell megh

"Another time," said Luke. "What happened to  this  vessel?  This  mission?

What started it again? How long do we have?"

theiringar..How long we have I don't know. I am... side by  side  with  the

Will, but there are things of the Will that I do not and  cannot  touch.  Thirty

years I have existed so. I managed to cripple the receptors, and  before  coming

here, damaged or destroyed most of the slaved autoactivation relays  that  would

have triggered the computer's core from a distance. The components of the  relay

were crashed, shattered, destroyed; no one could have  found  them  to  activate

this station by that means, but there still  remained  the  danger  the  station

could have been activated manually. That's why I... stayedgh

"Then I was right." Luke felt his scalp prickle. "I knew it,  sensed  it...

those guns weren't fired by a mechanical. On a ship this size--was

theiringar..ationo. I was the one firing the guns. That's where  I've  been

all these years. In the gunnery computers. I was  sure  you  were  the  Empire's

agent. Before you came on board there was no one, nor is there anyone  on  board

save yourself, and the  aliens  the  landers  brought  in  after  the  Will  was

activated againgh

"I don't understand," said Luke. "If no one came  on  until  the  Will  was

activated..."

theiringar..It was the Force. I felt it, sensed it... The broken activation

relays were set off, all of these years later, by the use of the Forcegh

Luke was shocked silent, the neat amber letters like a hammer blow  hitting

him over the heart.

"The Force?" He leaned closer, as if to touch her arm, her hand...  "That's

impossible."

theiringar..allyes, I know it isgh

"The Force can't affect droids and mechanicals."

theiringar.ationo, it can'tgh

Luke thought about that for a time, about what  it  meant  or  could  mean.

Ithor came back to him, and the cold flood of dread as he'd sat in semitrance at

Nichos's side, the sense of something  terribly  wrong.  The  wave  of  darkness

spreading outward, reaching, searching... The random numbers that  had  led  him

here--the dream of some terrible attack creeping stealthily through  the  desert

night.

"But why? Why bomb Belsavis now? There's nothing there."

Nothing except Han and Leia and Chewie and Artoo. Nothing except  thousands

of innocent people--and the usual handful of the not-so-innocent.  And  Han  and

Leia hadn't arrived there yet, when he'd felt that  first  dark  surge.  To  his

knowledge nobody had known they were going.

"All personnel, report  to  your  section  lounge."  The  computer's  voder

contralto broke abruptly into his  thoughts.  "All  personnel,  report  to  your

section lounge. Abstention or avoidance will be construed as..."

theiringar.Better gogh flashed the orange letters on the screen.

theiringar..Can't let your actions be construed as sympathetic to  the  ill

bent of the etcetera. Watch your backgh

For that moment he could almost see her grin.

- - The Imperial Military Code Section 12-C classifies as capital offenses,

among  others:  Incitement  to  mutiny  against  duly   constituted   authority;

participation in mutiny; concealing known or suspected  mutineers  from  central

authority of the vessel; concealing evidence of  planned  or  executed  acts  of

mutiny or sabotage from chain of command, physical  plant,  or  automatic  self-

checking devices on board any Fleet vessel

- - After examination of all evidence, the defendant has been found  guilty

of mutiny against the central authority of this vessel, and of inciting  by  her

participation further mutiny and acts of sabotage by persons unknown

"What, are they blaming the Jawas on Cray now?" murmured Luke to  Threepio,

who had switched on again to accompany him to the section lounge. They stood  in

the portside doorway, half hidden by the Kitonaks who had been brought yesterday

to observe Cray's trial and had remained there, chatting, ever since.

Closer to the screen, the Gakfedd tribe squealed and  snarled  and  yelled,

"So it's her fault, the witch!" and "She's the one behind the festerin' Rebels!"

- - Despite the excellent record of the accused, it is the decision of  the

Will that Trooper Cray Mingla be executed  by  laser  enclision  at  1600  hours

tomorrow. All personnel are to report to their section lounges...

"Luke..." Cray raised her voice above the voder  monotone  of  the  Justice

Station. Her face was  gray  and  haggard  under  the  bruises,  her  dark  eyes

exhausted and sick with inner pain. "Luke, get me out of  here!  Please  get  me

out! We're on Deck Nineteen, Starboard Front Sector, Maintenance Bay  Seven,  we

came up Lift Shaft Twenty-one, it's guarded and booby-trapped--was

The Gakfedds hooted and yelled, and in  the  Justice  Chamber  the  nearest

Klagg guard snapped, "Zip it, skag-face," and Cray flinched--Cray,  who  despite

her makeup and stylishness had never, to Luke's knowledge, shown  physical  fear

in her life. Hot rage flooded him, blotting the pain in his leg.

But she went on, fast, as the guards seized her arms, dragged  her  to  the

door, "Lift Twenty-one! Ten guards, they ricochet blaster bolts down  the  shaft

to hit the lower doors, there's a booby-trap ten meters down the corridor--was

"Yeah, tell us about it, Rebel tramp!" "Blow this  laser  enclision,  steam

her." "Dump her in the shredder!" "Throw her in the enzyme  tanks."  "Hey,  toss

her to the garbage worms..."

"Sixteen hundred hours tomorrow," whispered Luke, icy  chill  fighting  the

red rage in his veins. "We can--was

"Hey! Y."

Ugbuz, Krok, and three or four other boars stood  before  him,  heavy  arms

folded, yellow eyes glittering evilly in the reflected  glow  of  the  emergency

lights that were at this point the only illumination in most of the  sector.  As

more and more systems failed, the ship was growing dark. Since  the  Jawas  were

stealing power cells out of the emergency lamps, and  any  glowrods  they  could

find, someone had set burning wicks in red plastic  bowls  of  cooking  oil  all

around the lounge--there'd already been one fire in a nearby rec room  from  the

same source. The MSE'S and SP-80'S were still cleaning up the sodden  mess  left

by the overhead sprinklers--whichenough Luke  had  passed  on  the  way  to  the

section lounge, he'd seen Jawas, like myrmins at a picnic, carrying away several

MSE'S and looting the power cells out of the larger droids.

The whole section smelled now of Gamorreans and smoke.

"I put your name  through  Central  Computer,  Calrissian."  Ugbuz  planted

himself between Luke and the doorway.

Exhausted as he was, Luke found it a strain even  to  focus  the  Force  on

Ugbuz's mind. "I'm not Major Calrissian."

"That's what the computer says, pal," snarled Krok. "So  who  are  you  and

what're you doin' on this ship?"

"We know what he's doin'..."

"You're thinking of someone  else."  But  Luke  felt  the  cold  shadow  of

something else in their minds, the ugly certainty of the W.

Turning to the nearest Kitonak, Threepio reeled off  an  endless  chain  of

whistles, buzzes, and glottal stops, to which all the Kitonaks listened intently

while Ugbuz growled, "There's somethin' funny goin' on here since you first came

on board, mister. And I think you and I need to have us a little talk about it."

The Gamorreans closed in around Luke at the same moment that the  Kitonaks,

with a sudden burbling ripple of interest, closed in and as  one  entity  seized

the Gamorreans, each Kitonak grasping a Gamorrean's arm in huge,  stubby  hands.

And they began to talk.

Luke darted between them--"Grab him!" yelled Ugbuz between the  two  portly

mushrooms that held him in a grip like stone. He tugged furiously at their hold,

but he might as well have tried to un-embed his hand from fast-set concrete. The

Kitonaks, having found an audience for whatever it was they had to say, were not

letting go. "And somebody get these stinkin' yazbos off me!"

Two ersatz troopers were already trying  to  free  their  compatriots  with

axes--as he ducked through the lounge door, yanking Threepio after him, Luke saw

the ax blades bounce harmlessly off the Kitonaks' rubbery hides. Then  the  door

hissed down behind him with a furious snap.

theiringar..Deck 6, laundry dropgh appeared on  the  narrow  monitor  plate

where the door's serial combination would usually be shown.

Luke grabbed Threepio by the arm and hobbled. Behind them the  door  jerked

in its tracks, rising half a meter or so. There was  furious  pounding,  curses,

the sizzle of blaster bolts that sang and zapped and ricocheted  wildly  in  the

section lounge and--a moment later as the Gamorreans  finally  got  out--in  the

hall. The fugitives ducked down a  cross-corridor  and  across  an  office  pod,

hearing behind them a mellifluous treble outcry of "After them! After them!"

Luke swung around, gathered all the waning strength of the Force  to  sweep

every desk and chair in the room like the blast of some huge  hurricane  at  the

multicolored riot of Affytechans who  came  barreling  through  the  door.  They

tripped, fell, tangling in comm cords and terminal  cables-Luke's  mind  flashed

out, transforming the cables for a moment almost into the  semblance  of  living

things, grabbing snakelike at his pursuers.

He staggered, his mind aching, and Threepio dragged him on.

"You go first," he gasped, not knowing if he could levitate  Threepio  down

eight decks of repair tube. He fell to  his  knees,  trembling  in  a  sweat  of

exhaustion before the open panel.

"Master Luke, I can remain behind--was

"Not after that trick with the Kitonaks you can't,"  gasped  Luke.  "What'd

you say to them?"

Threepio paused halfway through the panel-an incredible  display  of  trust

considering that he was not flexible enough to use the ladder rungs. "I informed

them that Ugbuz had expressed an interest in their ancestors' recipe  for  domit

pie. That's what they've been discussing all this  time,  you  know.  Exchanging

recipes. And genealogies."

Luke laughed, and the laughter gave him a kind  of  strength.  Closing  his

eyes, he called the Force to him, lifting  the  golden  droid  within  the  dark

confines of the shaft. Lowering him... There is no difference between that  leaf

and your ship, Yoda had said to him once. Raising a single yellow-green leaf the

size of Luke's thumbnail, making it dance in the warm, wet air  of  Dagobah.  No

difference between that leaf and this world.

Luke saw  the  leaf--small,  light,  shimmering,  shiny  gold--descend  the

blackness of the shaft.

Voices in the corridor behind him. The Gamorreans' curses and squeals,  the

stern soprano yammering of the rainbow Affytechans.

He dragged himself into the shaft, hung for  a  moment  on  the  ladder  of

staples, trying to summon the strength  to  levitate  himself  down.  Trying  to

summon even the physical strength to hang on while he shifted his good leg  down

one rung, then one rung more...

You can. He felt her, knew she was there with him. Luke, don't give up...

He couldn't levitate. In the corridor he  heard  Ugbuz  swear,  Krok  yell,

"That way, Captain..."

Feet thundered away. Rung  by  rung,  one  aching  drop  at  a  time,  Luke

descended, the shaft falling away bottomlessly below him. He felt the warmth  of

her, the awareness, beside him every agonizing meter of the way.

Deck 6 was  utterly  dark.  The  dead  air  stank  of  Jawas,  of  oil,  of

insulation, of Luke's own sweat  as  he  dragged  himself  along  its  lightless

corridors, his shadow and Threepio's lurching like drunkards in the dim  flicker

of the glowrods on his staff. Even those were failing-he'd have to cannibalize a

power cell from somewhere and the thought of that niggling little chore made his

whole aching body revolt. Ahead of him, and in  all  directions,  he  heard  the

squeak and scuffle of Jawa feet, saw the firebug glimmer of their eyes.

Threepio, he thought. They'll be after Threepio if I pass out.

Now and then he smelled, and heard, the Talz, and breathed a sigh of thanks

that the Sand People, being essentially conservative,  would  defend  their  own

territory rather than explore new corridors at this stage of the game.

Everywhere he saw torn-out panels, looted  wiring,  SP'S  and  MSE'S  lying

gutted and derelict along the walls. Helmets, plates,  dismantled  blasters  and

ion mortars strewed the halls--Luke checked the weapons and found that, one  and

all, they'd had their power cells pulled. Limping  painfully  down  the  echoing

blackness, Luke had the eerie sensation of being trapped in the gut of a rotting

beast, a zombie killer still bent on destruction though its body was being eaten

from within.

This section of Deck 6 was dead to the W. No wonder Callista  had  directed

him here.

Cray. Somehow they had to rescue Cray. She'd know  how  to  cope  with  the

Will, know how to disable the artificial  intelligence  that  ruled  this  metal

microcosm.

Sixteen hundred hours. His whole  body  felt  on  the  verge  of  collapse.

Somehow he'd have to get enough rest to get up the lift shaft tomorrow. Thirteen

levels. His mind flinched from the thought. They ricochet blaster bolts down the

shaft...

"Callista..."

But there was no reply.

I exist side by side with the W.

She had died in the computer core. Luke had seen how the spirit of the Jedi

could detach itself from the physical body, could imbue itself in other  things,

as Exar Kun's had imbued the stones of Yavin.

Knowing she had disa4 the automatic trigger-knowing the Empire  might  very

well send an agent to trigger the Eye manually--she had stayed  in  the  gunnery

computers for thirty years, guarding the entry to the machine that had taken her

life, a fading ghost keeping watch on a forgotten battlefield.

"Come on, Threepio," he said, and bent to retrieve a hank of cable from the

corpse of a gutted MSE. "Let's find ourselves a terminal."

theiringar.On Chadgh Callista said, the  letters  fading  in  slowly  as  a

single paragraph, as if rising  whole  from  the  depths  of  her  recollection,

theiringar..if our ark were in wystoh territory--and wystoh  hunt  most  of  the

deep oceans where our ranch was--and we had to make a hull repair, or go out  to

the herd to help an off-season calving, we'd send out something  called  a  foo-

twitter the night before, a floater that made some kind of hooting or  tweeting.

Since wystoh are frantically territorial, they'd all head for  the  thing--which

by then would be kilometers from the ark--and that would  give  Papa  or  me  or

Uncle Claine a chance to do what we had to do in open  water  and  get  back  to

safety. Would the Klaggs respond to a foo-twitter long enough for you to get  up

the shaft? They seem pretty territorial to megh

"If it sounded like Ugbuz and the Gakfedds, they would." Luke  leaned  back

into the heap of blankets and  thermal  vests  Threepio  had  gathered  to  make

cushions for him in the corner of a  repair  shop,  and  considered  the  screen

before him. It had taken most of his salvaged batteries and power cells,  rigged

in series, to fire up even the smallest of the portable diagnostic units in  the

shop. With the Jawas in control of most of the deck it would be  a  hard  search

for more. But it was a trade-off he was willing to make. Not just that he needed

Callista's advice, he realized.

He wanted her company.

"Any of the bigger game systems in the lounges will have voders,"  he  said

at length. "Threepio, you know the stats on Gamorrean vocal range, don't you?"

"I can reproduce exactly the language and tonalities of  over  two  hundred

thousand sentient civilizations," replied the  droid,  with  perhaps  pardonable

pride. "Gamorrean verbal tones begin at  fifty  herz  and  run  up  to  thirteen

thousand; squeals begin at--was

"So you could help me program the voder?"

"With the greatest of ease, Master Luke."

"Then what we need is a way to get the voder up to Deck Nineteen in time to

pull the Klagg guards away from the shaft."

A schematic appeared on the screen. Not the precise, every-wire-and-conduit

blueprint a ship's computer would display, but a more or less to scale sketch of

a section of the vessel, labeled in one corner Deck 17. A bright circle  flashed

around a gangway. Then a window appeared in the screen.

theiringar..The gangway's wired. It leads from Recycling--the area  of  the

ship where only the droids go--to Deck 19. If you make  your  foo-twitter  light

enough, you should be able to propel it up fast while  you  keep  the  enclision

grid misfiring enough to let it through without too many hitsgh

Luke thought about it. "That's how you did it?" he asked at  last.  "Caused

the grid to misfire?"

A long hesitation. The schematic faded from  the  screen.  At  some  slight

sound in the corridor, Threepio clanked his way out to check,  and  the  whitish

glow of the screen edged his golden  form  in  threads  of  light  as  he  stood

listening in the utter black of the doorway square.

theiringar..It's like causing a blaster to misfire. You can't keep them all

from firing--there are too many, and some of them  always  get  through-and  you

can't keep all the bolts from hitting yough

Another long pause. She would, Luke thought, have avoided his eyes, as Leia

sometimes did when she spoke of Bail Organa, not letting him see her grief.

theiringar..The more that hit you, the more that will. But if you case  the

voder in a gutted tracker droid, you can shoot it up the shaft  fast  enough  to

survive a few hits. And a mechanical can absorb  a  lot  more  hits  than  human

fleshgh

The more that hit you, thought Luke with a chill, the more that will.

She'd climbed the shaft from the gun room, knowing she'd be hit...  knowing

the first hit would break her concentration on the Force, damage her ability  to

keep the grid from firing, lessen her chances to avoid  the  second...  and  the

second hit would lessen her chances to avoid the third.

He remembered how the Klagg's blood had trickled down the  steps,  and  the

smell of burned flesh. His heart contracted within him, aching, as  the  silence

lengthened. Very softly, he said, "I wish it hadn't happened."

Wise, powerful,.comforting, he approved with bitter sarcasm. The wisdom  of

a true Jedi Master.

theiringar.It's all rightgh

They were silent for a time, as if they stood on either side of  fathomless

night, reaching across to fingers that could not touch.

"Were you from Chad?"

The screen was dark for a long time. He almost feared he'd offended her  by

asking, or that the batteries had failed. Then words came up, white  flowers  in

the sunken meadow of the void.

theiringar..We had a deep-water ranch. We moved with the  herds  along  the

Algic Current, from the equator almost to the Arctic Circle. The  first  time  I

used the Force was to move pack ice one winter when I got trapped with a band of

cows. Papa never understood why I couldn't stay, if I was happygh

"Were you happy?" He looked down at the lightsaber she'd made for  herself,

on Dagobah, perhaps, or on whatever planet she'd taken her training. She'd put a

line of tsaelke around its handgrip, in memory of the tides of her home.

theiringar..I think more happy than I've ever been sincegh

Luke didn't ask, Then why did you leave? He knew why she'd left.

"It's funny," he said softly. "I always hated Tatooine,  always  hated  the

farm. Now in a way I think I was lucky. It cost me nothing to leave. Even if  my

family hadn't been killed, it would have cost me nothing to get out of there."

theiringar..The Force was like the pull of the tide.  Like  the  deep-ocean

currents that carry the herds on their backs. From the time I was a child I knew

there was something there; when I learned what it was,  couldn't  not  seek  the

Jedigh

"But you also couldn't explain." Any more than he could  explain  to  Uncle

Owen and Aunt Beru the inner tide pulling at him, almost before he knew  how  to

speak.

"They're dead, you know," he said softly. "The Jedi."

Another long darkness, like a hollow  in  her  heart.  Then,  theiringar..I

know. I felt... the emptiness in the  Force.  I  knew  what  it  meant,  without

=nowinggh

He took a deep breath. "Obi-Wan Kenobi hid out for years  on  Tatooine;  he

was my first teacher. After he--was killed--I went to  Dagobah,  to  study  with

Yoda. Yoda died... about seven years ago."

After I left him. The old grief, the old bitterness, rose  in  him  like  a

faded ghost. His last pupil... And I left him, only to return too late.

He thought about Kyp Durron, his  own  finest  student;  about  Streen  and

Clighal and the rest of the tiny group in the jungles of Yavin.  About  Teneniel

of Dathomir, and Cray and Nichos, and Jacen and Jaina and Anakin  and  all  he'd

gone through; the hellish forge of the dark side, the Emperor's secret  fortress

on Wayland and all that had happened there... Exar Kun, and the melted Holocron,

Gantoris's ashes smoking on the stones of Yavin and the destruction of worlds.

His heart was the diamond heart of a Jedi, forged and  hard  and  powerful,

but the pain he felt inside him was no less for  that.  Almost  to  himself,  he

whispered something he hadn't even said to Leia, who was like the other half  of

his soul. "Sometimes it seems like there's just such a long way to go."

"Master Luke..." Threepio appeared once more in the doorway. "Master  Luke,

it appears that the Jawas  wish  to  speak  with  you."  He  sounded  as  if  he

disapproved in advance of whatever it was  they  might  have  to  say.  "They're

asking what you have to trade for wire, power cells, and blasters."

"You know," said Luke, angling a palm-sized diagnostic mirror  to  see  the

delicate fastenings of the voder box as he hooked  it  to  the  tracker  droid's

gutted casing, "if somebody had offered me odds on  which  group  of  my  fellow

guests on this little tour had taken the rooms next to the  transport  shuttles,

I'd have bet my boots and lightsaber on it being the Sand P. It had to be  them,

didn't it?"

theiringar..It's something even the Masters don't reveal  about  the  inner

nature of the secret heart of the universegh

The words appeared, minuscule, in the voder's monitor screen.  Luke  hadn't

been aware he'd glanced there automatically for a reply.

theiringar..The deepest and darkest secret of all that the Force  lets  you

seegh

"What?"

She made a whisper by reducing the letters to the tiniest readable specks.

theiringar..The universe has a sense of humorgh

Luke shuddered. "I'll have to be a lot higher-level Jedi than I am before I

even want to think about that."

And he felt her rare laughter like a shimmering of the dark air.

Working on the tracker he'd gotten from the Jawas--it was the one Cray  had

disa4 on Pzob, and at the cost of considerable pain he had used the strength  of

the Force to heal one of their number of the headache and nausea left over  from

a bad stunblast, and another of electrical  burns  on  its  hands--he'd  talked:

about Tatooine, and Obi-Wan, and Yoda; about the fall  of  the  Empire  and  the

struggles of the New Republic; about Bakura, and Gaeriel  Capiston;  about  Leia

and Han and Chewie and Artoo. About the Academy on Yavin, and the dangers to the

unfledged, untried, untaught adepts whose power was  growing  without  any  sure

knowledge of what to do with it or how to guide it. About Exar Kun.

About his father.

And hesitantly, a sentence or two at a time, on the tiny monitor screen  or

the larger diagnostic--whichichever he'd been nearer at the time  -  comCallista

had been slowly drawn out: about growing up on the  ranch  on  Chad;  about  the

father who'd never understood and the stepmother  who'd  been  too  baffled  and

unhappy herself to comprehend either of them. About the moons and tides, ice and

phosphorus, and the singing of the cy'een far out  in  the  deeps.  About  Djinn

Altis, the Jedi Master who had come to Chad, and the  Jedi  enclave  on  Bespin,

floating unknown among the clouds.

theiringar..It was like riding a cy'eengh

The diagnostic screen flashed a thick, long-necked  fish-lizard,  huge  and

matchlessly beautiful and  shining  with  wild  power,  and  Luke  felt  in  the

darkness, just for an instant, the touch of salt wind and leashed  strength  and

heard the songs the creatures sang running free in their herds.

theiringar..Huge and fast and scary, shining like bronze in the sunlight...

but I could do it. Barelygh

"Yes," said Luke, remembering the power of the Force  flowing  into  hm  as

he'd battled Exar Kun for the  final  time,  and  that  first  moment  when  the

lightsaber he'd called to his hand on Hoth tore itself free  from  the  snowbank

and flew into his grip. "Yes."

He told her about Cray and Nichos, and why they'd gone to Ithor to seek the

help of the Healers there; about  Drub  McKumb's  attack,  and  Han  and  Leia's

mission to Belsavis. "It hasn't been that long," said  Luke,  sitting  back  and

keying the foo-twitter's makeshift  remote.  Nothing  happened.  Resignedly,  he

undid the fasteners, angled the mirror again, and tried the  second  of  several

possible hookups to the A-size power cell. He'd stripped out all  the  armaments

and gripper arms, and most of its memory cores, knowing he'd have to fling it up

a long tunnel by effort of his mind alone. "They're still  going  to  be  there.

Even if they weren't, there's a whole  city  on  the  site  now,  nearly  thirty

thousand people."

theiringar..It's hard to imaginegh

The words appeared on the monitor, close beside his eyes.

theiringar..Plett's House was just a little place, though the  crypts  went

back into the cliff, and all ways up under the glacier. But the  part  that  was

outside was just a big stone house, set in the most beautiful garden  I've  ever

seen. I grew up without gardens--you don't have them, on the seagh

"Nor in the desert."

theiringar..I remember it was quiet, like few  places  I'd  been  or  seen.

Maybe night on the ark, after everyone was inside, and the stars come clear down

to the edge of the world. But sweeter, because  even  when  it's  sleeping,  you

never can trust the seagh

"Master Luke?"

Luke sat up, aware that his back ached and his hands  were  trembling  with

fatigue. Threepio came in, yellow eyes twin moons in the alm-dark of the  single

glowrod's light. The smell of coffee floated around him like an exquisite sunset

cloud.

"I do hope you'll find this acceptable." The  golden  droid  set  down  the

plast cafeteria tray and began removing dish covers. The  nearest  working  mess

room of which Callista had been aware had been the Deck 7 Officers' Lounge,  and

Threepio had volunteered to make the trek while Luke dismantled the tracker  the

Jawas had traded to him.

"Selection was rather limited, and those  items  for  which  you  expressed

preference were not to be found. I chose alternates with the same proportion  of

protein to carbohydrate, and more or less the same texture."

"No--uh--this is great." Ordinarily Luke wouldn't have touched gukked  egg,

but he'd been so long without food  that  anything  sounded  good.  "Thank  you,

Threepio. Did you have any trouble?"

"Very little, sir. I did encounter a group of Jawas, but  the  Talz  chased

them away. The Talz think very highly of your efforts to feed and care  for  the

tripods, sir."

"Are they down here, too?" The gukked eggs  were  absolutely  horrible  but

Luke ate both of them and was a little surprised at how much better he felt.

"Oh, yes, sir. Both Talz and tripods. The Talz  wish  me  to  convey  their

goodwill to you and ask if they can be of service."

Luke wondered momentarily if a Talz would be any more reliable at selecting

edible food for human consumption than a droid, then dismissed the  thought.  By

the time he needed another meal he'd be long out of here.

theiringar..Good job there are two  transportsgh  remarked  Callista,  when

Luke returned to work.

theiringar..allyou couldn't take the Klaggs and the  Gakfedds  off  on  the

same vesselgh

"And which one of them gets to ride with the Sand People?"

theiringar.Landergh

"They'll never go in it," said Luke. "They hate small enclosed spaces."

theiringar..I wondered why they keep knocking holes  in  walls.  You'll  be

lucky if they don't sever the main power trunk to the magnetic fieldgh

"Another reason to hurry," said Luke  grimly.  "This  whole  ship  must  be

driving them crazy. Not that they were ever real good company to begin with."

theiringar..allyou sound like you've studied themgh

Luke laughed. "You could say they were my next-door neighbors  growing  up.

Them and the Jawas. Everybody who lives on Tatooine has to  learn  enough  about

the Sand People to stay out of their way."

He leaned back and flicked the remote.  A  harsh,  guttural  voice  boomed,

"Very well, men, fan out and remain quiet. We are going to massacre those smelly

Klagg Rebel saboteurs."

Luke sighed, and shook his head. "Threepio? Little  change  in  the  script

here..."

theiringar..My, what a grammatical stormtroopergh commented Callista, where

the protocol droid couldn't see.

Luke grinned as he hooked up the cable. "Edit that to, "Okay, men, fan  out

and keep quiet. We're gonna kill them stinkin' Klagg Rebel saboteurs.""

theiringar..allyou forgot to say "sir"gh

Luke started to make the gesture of elbowing her in the arm, as he did when

Leia made a smartmouth remark, but stopped. He couldn't.

Her arms were dust and bone on the gun deck floor.

Yet she had no more question than he did  himself  that  somehow,  all  the

Eye's captives--Sand People and Gamorreans as well as the Talz, the  Jawas,  the

Affytechans and Kitonaks and the baffled, helpless tripods--had  to  somehow  be

taken to safety. It wasn't their fault, or their wanting, that they  were  here,

he thought, angling the mirror  to  affix  the  voder's  fasteners  once  again.

Savage, violent, destructive as they were, like himself they were captives.

He moved the mirror, seeking the fasteners, andfora moment saw  in  it  his

own reflection, and a sliver of the room behind him: Threepio like a grimed  and

dented golden statue in the feeble glare of the worklight, compulsively  tidying

up the abandoned tray.

And close beside him, visible clearly over his shoulder, the pale oval face

within its dark cloud of hair, the gray eyes  from  which  sorrow  had  faded  a

little, replaced by caring, by interest, by renewed life.

Luke's heart turned over within his  ribs,  and  knowledge  fell  on  him--

knowledge, horror, and grief like inevitable night.

Chapter 15

"She might have had other reasons for lying."

"Like what?" Leia folded her legs up tailor fashion on the bed  and  sipped

the glass of podon cider she'd picked up on her way  through  the  kitchen.  The

craftsmen Jevax had promised had made their appearance while Leia was  out.  The

metal shutters, armed with a formidable new lock, were nearly out  of  sight  in

their wall sockets on either side of the tall windows, and a  new  bedroom  door

was folded into xs proper slot. Even the cupboard had been fixed. Sitting on the

other end of the bed, Han was checking both blasters.

"Like she might be working at  Madame  Lota's  House  of  Flowers  down  on

Spaceport Row."

Leia wondered why it hadn't crossed her mind before. "Dressed like that?"

He gave her his crooked grin. "I suppose you're dressed for your job?"

She brushed a dismissive hand over the plain dark linen of her  shirt,  the

knockab cotton fatigue pants, and high-laced boots. "She wouldn't have  been  on

the path by the MuniCenter last night if she were working the bars." The pile of

hardcopy Artoo had made for them that first day strewed the  bed  between  them.

Nowhere was Roganda Ismaren listed on any employer record of any  packing  plant

in Plawal.

"And if she'd followed me there from the  marketplace,  for  instance,  she

wouldn't have been dressed like that at that hour."

While she was speaking, Han rose and walked out to the balcony, took aim at

a small clump of ferns a few meters away in the orchard, and  fired.  The  ferns

sizzled into oblivion. He flipped the safety back on and tossed  the  weapon  to

Leia. "Good as new. So what did you find in the town records?"

It seemed like a thousand years ago. Returning last night to find a  soaked

and exhausted Han patching Chewie's cuts had driven from her  mind  the  web  of

speculation fed by the records themselves, and after Mara's subspace  call,  her

mind had been on other things.

"Not... what I was looking for," said Leia slowly. "No mention of the Jedi,

or of Plett himself, though it's obvious they were behind the different kinds of

plants growing here and that they set up the archiving  programs--the  Municipal

Records time-shares off the Brathflen/galactic/imperial Fruits computer, but all

the archiving programs look like they were originally designed for some kind  of

four-sixty model, which puts it back to the date the Jedi were here.  Naturally,

nobody knows where that original computer went to but my guess is  it  got  sold

for chips and wire to Nubblyk when the new one was put in."

"Good guess," muttered Han. "Not what I want to hear, but a good guess. Any

record of what happened to Nubblyk?"

She shook her head. "He just disappeared one night about seven  years  ago.

His nightclub was taken over by his "associate" Bran Kemple, who also took  over

his import and export business on Pandowirtin Lane. Slyte's  on  the  record  as

having bailed out Drub McKumb twice from charges of running stuff in through the

Corridor. Kemple never bailed out McKumb at all. After Kemple took over,  McKumb

is listed as having been bailed out once by Mubbin the Whiphid--this  was  right

after Slyte disappeared--though at no time  is  McKumb  ever  listed  as  having

legally landed a ship at the port. Now the interesting thing is..."

Chewbacca appeared in the doorway with an interrogatory growl, and gestured

out into the front room, where a signal was coming in on the subspace.

The code was for Leia, and the image was scrambled.

Leia punched in the unscrambler sequence, and the dazzling buzz  of  green,

brown, and white pixels resolved itself  suddenly  into  the  image  of  Admiral

Ackbar.

"This may not mean anything, Princess," said the Calamarian  in  his  soft,

rather sibilant voice. "Still, I thought  you  ought  to  know  about  it.  I've

received reports from operatives in the Senex Sector and the adjoining  portions

of the Juvex Sector. They say that the heads of six or seven of the old Houses--

the ones who've been lying low, staying out  of  the  border  fighting  and  not

committing to the warlords of the Empire--have all gone "on vacation"... without

taking their families or their mistresses."

"Oh, yeah?" Han raised his brows. "Now, that's serious."

The admiral folded his squamous hands, a  ghostly  image  in  the  subspace

holo, like a statue wrought of mist in the receiver cubicle.  "This  is  curious

enough, but it coincides almost  exactly  with  the  "vacations"  taken  by  the

uncommitted ex-governors of Veron and Mussubir Three, and  with  representatives

of the Seinar Corporation and a high-up  member  of  the  Mekuun  family.  Drost

Elegin--the head of House Elegin--evidently took his family  but  left  them  on

Eriadu."

"That's a sort of epidemic of rudeness all  of  a  sudden,"  remarked  Han,

standing behind Leia with folded arms. "Any troop movement?"

"None so far." The Calamarian touched the slim stack of  report  wafers  on

the desk just visible at his side. "Nothing from the larger  warlords,  but  our

operatives on Spuma seem  to  think  there's  increasing  recruitment  in  basic

trooper levels into Admiral  Harrsk's  fleet,  and  sources  within  the  Seinar

Corporation say there's some kind of major funding in the wind  -  comSeinar  is

ordering new equipment to produce energy cells and stepping  up  thermal  fabric

production. But nothing concrete. Still, considering how close Belsavis lies  to

the Senex Sector, Your Excellency, you may want to consider coming into  a  more

protected area."

"Thank you, Admiral," said Leia slowly. "We're...  almost  finished  here."

She brought the words out reluctantly. Her chief of staff was right,  she  knew.

If the self-styled Lord High Admiral Harrsk was moving or about to move, she was

in  a  desperately  exposed  position  on  Belsavis,  and  something  about  the

assassination of Stinna Draesinge Sha triggered warning sirens in  the  back  of

her mind.

But she sensed some darker riddle, some deeper and  deadlier  puzzle,  than

she'd first come seeking on this world of fire and ice.

The Jedi and their children had been here.

Roganda Ismaren, once the Emperor's concubine, had come here... Why?

And why did something snag in her mind just now, some  trace  of  something

she had heard?

Drub McKumb had worked his way desperately, through blinding nightmares  of

agony and confusion, halfway across  the  galaxy  to  warn  her  and  Han  about

something.

And someone here had thought it worthwhile to murder them while they slept.

Admiral Ackbar was still watching her face  anxiously  through  the  wavery

light of the subspace transmission, so she said, "We'll be returning soon."

"Will we?" asked Han as the admiral's image faded.

"I don't... I don't know," said Leia  softly.  "If  there's  some  kind  of

trouble brewing among the old Houses of the Senex Sector I think we'll have  to.

They've kept quiet... even under Palpatine all they wanted was to be left alone,

to rule the so-called natives on their planets however they wanted to..."

"I've heard that before," said Han grimly. "The big corporations just  love

governments like that."

Leia sniffed. "Ask us no questions and we'll hand you no  responsibilities.

Yes." She folded her arms uneasily, prowled past Chewie and Artoo's  quest  game

and back into the bedroom, to stand with one shoulder against the  window  jamb,

staring out into the mists of the orchard where that morning she'd seen  Roganda

Ismaren, nearly invisible among the trees. Of course the woman had  every  right

to take refuge here, beyond the frontiers of the New Republic.

The fact that it was "close" to the Senex Sector meant little. It was close

only in interstellar terms. It wasn't anyplace any of those ancient aristocrats,

those  cold-eyed  and  elegantly  groomed  descendants  of  ancient   starfaring

conquerors, would come. She remembered Drost Elegin from her days at Court,  and

tried to picture that disdainful dandy in this provincial world of fruit pickers

and backwater smugglers. They'd even considered Coruscant d@eclass@e... "So many

bureaucrats, my dear," Aunt Rouge had said.

A white-sleeved arm reached around from behind  with  her  abandoned  cider

glass.

"So what was the other interesting thing?"

"Oh," said Leia, startled. Han  leaned  against  the  frame  next  to  her,

looking down with quizzical hazel eyes.

"Yes," said Leia, remembering. "All along,  there's  something  about  this

business of droids going haywire that's bothered me."

"Bothered you?" Han jerked his head in the direction of  the  living  room,

where Artoo's holographic geofigures were rapidly  burying  Chewbacca's  enraged

Hero. "He tried to--was

"But why did he try to?" Leia  asked.  "Yes,  I  know  colonies  frequently

operate with substandard machinery, but in the records I found literally  dozens

of unexplained malfunctions a year. Even a rough  count  shows  the  number  has

increased dramatically over the past several years." She  gestured  back  toward

the bed, with its scattered counterpane of Artoo's readouts. "Last night, before

Artoo's attack on us, when I was looking at the records up at the  MuniCenter  I

wasn't connecting it with anything. I think I'd like to recheck  the  causes  of

those malfunctions. If it was a function of the climate, that  would  have  been

constant, not increasing."

"Not necessarily, if their stuff's wearing out."

"Maybe,"  agreed  Leia.  "But  they're  listed  on  Artoo's   readouts   as

"unexplained." That means they checked for the  obvious  things,  like  age  and

dampness."

A few years ago Han would have dismissed it as coincidence.  Now  he  said,

"So what do you think it was?"

"I don't know." Leia ducked under his arm, crossed to the bed, and  fetched

her blaster and its holster. "But I think I'd like to talk to the head  mechanic

at Brathflen and see whether those malfunctions  were  just  a  fried  wire,  or

whether they involved chains of specific, unexpected actions."

"Like welding the windows shut and putting blasters on overload."

"Yeah," said Leia softly. She gathered the readouts,  stowed  them  in  the

cupboard. "Like that. Want to come?"

Han hesitated, then said, "If we're getting out of here soon, I  think  I'm

going down to the Jungle Lust"--he made a suggestive wiggle with his  hips--"and

have a couple words with Bran Kemple. You want to come, Chewie?" There was  more

behind the request than friendly companionship--the last time Artoo  had  beaten

Chewbacca at quest, the game console had ended up  hurled  through  the  nearest

window, and Artoo seemed well on his way to another victory now.

"He may know something about how and  when  and  mostly  why  Nubblyk  made

tracks out of here, and if he took a ship with him  when  he  left.  You're  not

taking him with you, are you?" he added, as Leia, following him into the  living

room, crossed to touch Artoo's domed top.

Leia hesitated. She had had it in mind as a matter of course, but then,  it

hadn't been  her  scantly  covered  anatomy  Artoo  had  been  firing  bolts  of

electricity at not twelve hours ago.

"Whatever his problem was last night, we don't know if we've solved it yet.

" Han was checking his blaster as he spoke, in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he'd

tested and retested it not half an hour before. "If Goldenrod was here he  might

get some sense out of him, but since he isn't, I say leave him  here  with  that

restraining bolt on him till we can get him checked out by somebody better  than

the local toaster repairman."

Chewbacca snarled and aimed a swat at him with one enormous  paw,  and  Han

threw up his hands and grinned. "All right, all right. You did a  swell  job  on

him, Chewie; he'll make point five  past  lightspeed  now  and  can  outmaneuver

Imperial patrols..."

They descended the ramp together: Han, Leia, and the Wookiee. Han gave Leia

a quick, hard kiss at the foot of the ramp,  and  she  waved  to  them  as  they

disappeared into the shifting rainbows of the fog. But when  they  were  out  of

sight Leia turned back, climbed again to the  house,  and  walked  over  to  the

little astromech droid sitting beside the deactivated quest console.

"Artoo?"

The droid bobbed forward, extending his  front  "leg,"  and  gave  a  timid

whistle. His top swiveled to regard her with the round red  eye  of  the  visual

receptor.

Leia often wondered what she looked like through it, and how the shape that

was her--the shapes that were Luke and Han and Chewie and the kids--appeared  to

the astromech's digitalized consciousness.

"You can't tell me what happened?"

A wretched whistle, begging for understanding.

"Did someone tell you to do it?" she asked. "Program you somehow?"

His cap swung wildly and he rocked a little on his base.

"All right." Leia touched his cap again. "All right. We'll be out  of  this

place pretty quick. And I'll ask the mechanic about what happened to you. Look..

." She hesitated. Yes, Artoo was only a droid, but she knew he'd  been  hurt  by

Han's mistrust. "I'll be back..."

No! No! No!

His desperate whistling and rocking stopped her halfway to the door.

Trust your feelings, Luke  had  said  to  her  many  times  since  she  had

submitted to his greater wisdom as a teacher. Raised to  trust  her  brain,  her

intellect--raised to trust information and systems--Leia  found  this  difficult

sometimes, when things looked wrong but felt right. She could  almost  hear  her

brother's voice, see him standing beside the little droid.

Trust your feelings, Leia.

Artoo had tried to kill both her and Han not twelve hours ago.

Han would choke.

But then, she thought, her love for Han was the greatest triumph she'd ever

seen of "looks wrong, feels right." So he didn't have any room to talk.

She fetched a bolt extractor from Chewbacca's toolkit in the next room  and

removed the restraining bolt from  Artoo's  casing.  "Let's  go.  This  way  the

mechanic won't have to come back here to have a look at you."

She added to herself, I hope I don't regret this.

Due to vague uneasiness about taking the less traveled roadways through the

orchards again, she turned her steps to the slightly longer  route  through  the

town market. The fog  was  thinner  here  and  the  proximity  of  the  buskers,

hucksters, and shoppers reassuring. As she climbed toward the  bench  from  this

direction, the oddly patchwork structures of the older part of town fell  behind

her. Only the white prefabs  remained,  crammed  together  here  into  apartment

blocks for the packers and shippers, the clerks and  mechanics,  though  lichen,

ferns, trailing vines, and even small trees grew out of every chance  projection

and ledge offered by an uneven fit of the plastene blocks.

She wondered what the place had been like, when  the  Mluki  had  inhabited

their massive stone houses clustered against the bottom of  the  bench,  farming

their small crops and occasionally going up to hunt on the ice.

Not so foggy, certainly, without the dome,  and  not  so  hot,  though  the

jungly rift held the heat well. The orchards wouldn't have extended  as  far  as

they did now. There would have been clumps  of  dense  jungle  around  the  warm

springs, nothing at all down at the bottom of the valley,  where  the  mudflats,

caldera, and steaming gas vents of the rift's  true  bottom  poured  forth  more

minerals than unengineered plants were capable of digesting.

Exactly the sort of place a heat-loving, plant-loving, beauty-loving Ho'Din

would seek out.

She remembered her vision  of  Plett,  tall  and  willowy,  his  flowerlike

cluster of headstalks faded nearly white. A gentle face, with that look  in  his

eyes Luke had had when he'd come back  from  servitude  to  the  Emperor's  vile

clone.

Was this a refuge he had chosen, a place to repair, to  rest?  How  had  he

learned about it, for that matter? The galaxy was filled with  planets,  worlds,

star systems still unexplored, and unless a system was on someone's computer, it

didn't exist. Roganda might possibly have heard of the place at Court...

Although now that she thought about it, that troubled Leia, too.

And how had Plett liked having the peace of his  experiments  disrupted  by

the influx of...

How many?

Nichos had spoken as if there was a fair-sized gang of children.

Leia had had almost a year of raising two enterprising Jedi babies...  with

Anakin just arrived to provide his own variety of mayhem. After years  of  quiet

meditation, how had the aged reptiloid coped with a swarm of them, of all  ages,

running up and down the tunnels of his crypts, following their own leaders  even

where their parents had warned them not to go because of the kretch...

She stopped in her tracks, Nichos's deep voice sounding in her ears.

The older kids... Lagan Ismaren and Hoddas Umgil...

Lagan Ismaren...

Roganda Ismaren's... brother? Her age was  certainly  right.  A  few  years

older than Leia - coma few years younger than Nichos--she would be old enough to

remember the world where she had lived.

That meant that Roganda Ismaren--Palpatine's concubine and member  in  good

standing of his Court--had come from the blood and  the  heritage  of  the  Jedi

Knights.

The Emperor had been hideously strong in the Force. He couldn't  have  been

unaware.

Anger flushed through Leia like the shock of a burn.

She lied.

Leia had suspected the other woman had been lying about something, but  she

realized with sudden clarity that it had all been an act--all of it, down to the

sweet, frightened tones of her voice. An act calculated to play on her pity.

If Roganda was Force-strong the Emperor might  have  used  her,  certainly,

might have coerced her... but he'd never have simply passed her  around  to  his

guests.

She came here seven years ago, thought Leia, quickly turning her steps back

toward town. She wasn't sure what she should do now-certainly  not  go  anywhere

near the woman herself, and she was gladder than ever  she'd  turned  down  that

invitation to coffee--but she wanted at least to  find  Han,  to  send  word  to

Ackbar, to look again through the records Artoo had  run  out  to  see  if  they

included port arrivals in the year of Palpatine's death...

But as she crossed through the small square at the head of Roganda's narrow

street, she saw something that hit her in the pit of the stomach like a club.

Emerging from between the dark foundations, the  white  plastic  buildings,

she saw, across the street and quite clearly, Lord Drost Elegin walking with Dr.

Ohran Keldor.

Leia looked aside at once, as if studying the  small  stand  of  sweetberry

that someone had planted in the waste space between two buildings. But  as  Luke

had taught her--had tried to teach her, in her hectic intervals  between  trying

to be a mother, trying to be a diplomat, trying to keep the  New  Republic  from

falling to pieces and  her  children  from  dismantling  poor  See-Threepio--she

extended her senses, identifying footfalls, breathing, voices... the  sense  and

essence of what people were...

Ohran Keldor and Drost Elegin.

Here.

They vanished into the fog almost at once. She crossed the  narrow  street,

Artoo trundling behind, followed the sound of  the  feet,  the  sense  of  their

presence, cutting ahead through an alley and watching as they passed across  its

mouth.

There was no chance of mistake.

Drost Elegin's hair had grayed a little from the days when he'd been one of

the most notorious playboys of the Emperor's Court, in  and  out  of  the  Court

Gazette for scandals about gambling, dueling,  amorous  affairs--he'd  mockingly

called her Madame Senator and Little Miss Inalienable Rights. Only his brother's

position in the Imperial navy had saved him from severe reprisals after the last

of his major scandals--that, and the power his family wielded. The flesh of that

hawk face had begun to sag, but the tall, gawky-graceful form and beaky features

were unmistakable to anyone who'd ever seen them.

Ohran Keldor...

She felt as if her skin had been stuffed with red-hot pins.

She'd studied his holos until she could see his face  in  her  dreams.  His

face, lit from below by the glow of the Death Star's activation consoles.

Ohran Keldor. Nasdra Magrody. Bevel Lemelisk. Qwi Xux, though Qwi  Xux  had

been only their dupe...

So there was more here--far more--than just a woman hiding out.

Fog cloaked the two men as  they  took  the  paths  that  led  through  the

orchards, where the rushing of water and the faint click and whirr of  the  tree

feeders covered Artoo's soft, steady rumble. Now and then  one  of  those  huge,

arachniform mechanicals would loom from the mists, picking its  way  across  the

path in front of her, intent on its tedious  ministrations,  and  Leia  wondered

with a sort of chill viciousness if the droids belonging to the primary designer

of the Death Star's autosystems ever malfunctioned.

Somehow she didn't think so.

The ground began to rise in a  long,  steady  ramp.  The  mists  thickened,

darkened before them, solidifying into the dripping, vine-festooned monolith  of

the valley wall. Leia fell back, stepping into the lipana thickets at the bottom

of the ramp, Artoo following gingerly onto the spongy  ground.  From  here  they

were definitely committed: They were going to the lift shaft  that  led  to  the

hangars, from which vehicles could be taken out onto the ice.  She  heard  their

voices fading away as they climbed...

"It seems a long, cold way to go around," she heard Drost  Elegin  say,  in

that bronze-and-velvet voice that every girl and woman at Court  had  seemed  to

believe when it said the words, I love only you... "If the tunnels connect  with

this smuggler pad..."

"The fewer people who know the way in from here the better.  Even  you,  my

lord." There was a world of implied  offense  on  Keldor's  part  in  the  hasty

addition of that last sentence. "And at this point, with Organa  showing  up  as

she has, we don't know who may be watching."

Whhish-kunk. Distantly the vapors stirred around the closing of the door.

Leia and Artoo stepped back on the path, climbed  the  ramp  to  the  small

curved bunker of quick-set permacrete molded into the cliff  itself,  the  plain

green sturdiplast door. Sturdiplast was a material designed only to  keep  minor

fauna out of the bunker and the air-conditioning in.  She  listened  through  it

with only minimal concentration until she heard the characteristic ping  of  the

lift's arrival, and, tiny behind the  thickness  of  the  door,  Elegin's  voice

asking, "Is it far out?" The last words were cut off,  presumably  by  the  lift

doors.

Leia still counted out two minutes before inserting her card.

To her utter relief--despite the sound of the lift, for many years with the

Rebel Alliance had turned Leia into a  confirmed  pessimist  about  things  that

could go wrong--the small lobby  in  the  bunker  was  empty.  She  touched  the

summoning switch and looked swiftly around her.

A small metal door proved to be  a  locker,  filled  with  gray  mechanics'

coveralls. She picked the smallest human-fit she could find, dug around  in  the

pockets of the others until she located a billed cap, which she crammed  on  her

head, shoving her hair up underneath.

Is it far out? If Elegin was asking, then Keldor knew... which meant Keldor

had been here longer.

How much longer? And Elegin--meeting someone? Someone else who'd  "gone  on

vacation" with wife and children and then dropped  them  off  at  a  fashionable

resort in order to take a fast ship elsewhere?

The lift doors opened. Leia stepped in,  keyed  to  the  hangar,  the  only

possible destination. While the lift was  ascending  she  flipped  open  Artoo's

front hatch. Usually the droid was kept  spotless,  but  Chewbacca's  rough-and-

ready engineering had resulted in a great deal of soot  and  grease,  which  she

smeared on her face. After a moment's thought she transferred her  blaster  from

her belt to the coverall's copious pocket. She hoped she  could  carry  off  the

impersonation of an inconspicuous mechanic when she reached the hangar,  but  if

she couldn't...

Elegin and Keldor, as she feared  they  might  be,  were  just  pulling  on

protective thermal suits preparatory  to  climbing  into  the  smallest  of  the

available ice walkers, a low-slung vehicle built along much the same lines of  a

tree feeder, whose dozen long legs were capable of both climbing over the rugged

glacial terrain and spreading out to anchor in the face  of  the  brutal  winds.

They'd heard the lift ascending and were watching as  Leia  came  out,  but  the

sight of the slight, shuffling figure in an unbelted gray coverall trailed by an

astromech droid was apparently a reassuring one, because they climbed  into  the

ice walker and slammed shut the cowl.

A moment later the bay doors cranked open. Leia shuffled over to  the  crew

lockers at the far end of the hangar and pretended to canvass  her  pockets  for

keys until the walker moved into the bay.

The moment the doors shut behind it she pulled a pair of wires out  of  her

inner pocket and flipped open Artoo's hatch again, hooking the bare ends  in  as

Han had showed her once. "Okay, Artoo," she said grimly. "Let's see how  good  a

burglar you'd make."

They opened four lockers before they found  a  t-suit  that  fit  her;  the

gloves in its pocket were clearly intended for a Bith. She reset the oxygen  and

temperature controls for human levels and checked the seals as she pulled it on.

There were a couple of Ikas-Adno speederbikes of various models  in  the  hangar

but Leia regretfully passed them up. Antigrav vehicles  moved  fast,  but  in  a

high-wind environment like the glacier they were worse than useless. Instead she

chose a very old Mobquet Crawler, mostly for its low profile and  small  engine,

which would probably fail to register on a detector if Keldor was  watching  his

trail. She dragged a couple of oil-stained planks over to make a ramp for Artoo,

up the back between the high trapezoids of the treads.

"You set back there?" She climbed in, shot the canopy into place,  and  hit

the latches. The inner bay door creaked open, warm air swirling the powder  snow

and ice crystals that still strewed the dirty concrete floor.

Artoo tweeped an affirmative.

"So let's see what's actually going on on this ball of ice."

The outer door opened. Bleak winds howled across the wilderness of rock and

ice: bitter, vile, toothbreakingly cold, a Hell-winter that had  already  lasted

for five thousand years.

Leia set homing coordinates, glanced back to make  sure  Artoo  had  hooked

himself into the guidance computer, and set out across the frozen  landscape  in

the distant ice walker's wake.

Chapter 16

In a way, you, Princess, are responsible for our choice of target...

She could see him still. A tall man, pale as bleached bone,  a  skull  face

above the olive-green uniform, and behind him the blue-green jewel  of  Alderaan

burning like a dream against the velvet darkness beyond the viewscreen.

Ice spattered on the triple plex of the crawler's bubble, wind rocking  the

low-slung vehicle like the paw of a huge pittin batting at a slow-moving sludbug

crawling across some hellishly vast kitchen floor. Leia,  though  her  attention

was focused on every shudder of  the  control  bar,  every  fluctuation  of  the

gauges--on the bobbing pattern of yellow lights that  marked  the  ice  walker's

gawky, arachnoid limbs, far out ahead of her in the wind-torn desolation of  the

ice - comwas in the deeper part of her mind scarcely aware of it.

Her consciousness was back on the Death Star, on  Moff  Tarkin's  colorless

eyes.

"You, Princess, are responsible..."

... you are responsible...

Had she been?

She knew Tarkin.

She knew he despised  Bail  Organa  and  she  knew  he  was  aware  of  the

opposition  centered  on  Alderaan.  She  knew  that  under  his  self-satisfied

efficiency he had a spiteful streak the width of the Spiral  Arm  and  loved  to

tell  people  that  his--or  the  Emperor's--most  frightful  retaliations  were

actually the fault of the victims.

Of the Atravis Sector massacres, he'd said, "They have only  themselves  to

blame."

She knew, too, that as a military man  he'd  been  dying  to  try  his  new

weapon, to see it in action... to describe its performance to  the  Emperor  and

hear that pale cold voice whisper like dead leaves on stone, "It is well."

In her heart, she knew he'd intended Alderaan as his target all along.

But in her dreams she was responsible, just as he said.

The lights were far out ahead of her on the ice, reeling and dodging  among

themselves with the motion  of  the  walker's  legs,  like  a  pack  of  drunken

firebugs. Away from the hot thermals that rose off the Plawal dome  and  cleared

the dense roil of clouds, storm winds and blowing  sleet  covered  the  glacier,

cutting visibility and darkening the already  feeble  daylight  to  a  whirling,

cindery gloom. Black bones and spines of rock, scoured bald by the winds, thrust

like dead islands through narrow rivers of ice; drifts of snow  packed  high  in

places like wind-sculpted desert dunes, and in others the violence of storms had

carved the ice underfoot into toothed, ridgy masses, like the waves of an  ocean

flash-frozen in the midst of storm.

Twice crevasses loomed before them, ghostly sapphire depths falling farther

than her eye could easily judge in the shadowless twilight. The walker's  longer

legs had taken them in stride, and Leia cursed as she trundled the crawler along

the rim for hundreds of meters, looking for a place where  the  chasms  narrowed

sufficiently to make the heart-stopping jolt over the emptiness.  Rumbling  back

along the rim to pick up the choppy trail again, she prayed the  wind-blown  ice

hadn't eradicated the walker's marks.

Ohran Keldor was aboard that walker. Ohran Keldor, who  had  helped  design

the Death Star.

Ohran Keldor had been aboard it, watching when Alderaan was destroyed.

Leia had more or less forgiven Qwi Xux, the Death Star's primary  designer,

when they had finally met, seeing  the  woman's  stricken  horror  at  what  her

abilities had wrought. It was a little hard to appreciate how  anyone  could  be

naive enough to believe Moff Tarkin's assurances  that  the  Death  Star  was  a

mining implement, but she understood that the Omwat woman had been raised  in  a

carefully constructed maze of ignorance, coercion, and lies.

And when she had seen the truth, she had had the courage to follow where it

led her--not something everyone did.

But Ohran Keldor--and Bevel Lemelisk, and others whose names  the  Alderaan

Alliance of survivors had collected--had known precisely what they  were  doing.

After the destruction of Alderaan, they'd all been dropped at Carida,  when  the

Death Star started its final voyage to destroy the Yavin base. But all  of  them

had wanted to see the first test of their theories.

And Keldor was here.

And so was Drost Elegin, she thought, and in all probability the  heads  of

those other old Houses, those  planetary  rulers  who  headed  up  the  human-or

humanoid--populations of planets  settled  long  ago,  rulers  who'd  hated  the

Senate's interference with their local power and who hated  the  Republic  more.

Those rulers who had only supported Palpatine because he could be  bribed  to  a

"gentleman's agreement" to let them run things as they pleased.

They are gathering...

Gathering around Roganda Ismaren, former concubine of the Emperor and child

of the Jedi, and who knew what besides?

Out in the sooty maelstrom another light glowed briefly  blue.  It  blinked

away almost instantly, but Leia saw  the  moving  tangle  of  the  walker's  leg

markers turn in that direction. "Got that, Artoo?" she yelled into the com,  and

barely heard the reassuring affirmative chirp. Course bearings flashed green  on

her readouts, and the wind slapped hard as she  steered  the  crawler  out  from

behind a twisted cliff of ice, like some impossible marble monolith thrown up by

the restlessness of the volcanic line far beneath.

Her hands were shaking, and she was weirdly conscious of the  heat  of  the

blood in her veins.

In a way, it surprised Leia that nobody had  mapped  the  location  of  the

smuggler pads. Because of the intensive ion storms, high-altitude scans were out

of the question, but a ground-level geothermic trace would have  been  possible.

Possible, but not easy, she reflected, fighting the control bar as  the  crawler

heaved up over a talus slope of rotting ice under the  feet  of  another,  older

cliff. And probably not worth anybody's while.

The wind nearly took her off her feet when she climbed out of  the  crawler

in the lee of the scoured black rocks that sheltered the  pad.  The  t-suit  was

certified below the freezing point of alcohol, and still she felt the cold creep

through it as she fought her way up the knife-edge crest of drift  and  rock  to

get her first clear look at her goal.

It wasn't a pad anymore.

Where a sort of bunker had been--precast permacrete and designed for little

more than an inconspicuous staging point beside a clear space thermoblasted into

the rock-hard glacier--Leia saw through the screaming sleet the low black  walls

of what the military referred to as a permanent temporary hangar, snow  frizzing

wildly away from a magnetic field  that  was  clearly  both  new  and  extremely

powerful. The old permacrete bunker had been added to by  others,  mostly  perm-

temps, low-built structures whose black walls blended with the rock of the ridge

against which they backed. were it not for the magnetics they  would  have  been

buried by drifts in hours.

Leia muttered a word she'd picked  up  from  the  boys  in  the  old  Rogue

squadron and edged her way down to the walls, slipping in the heavy  pack  snow,

with Artoo's treads squeaking sharply in her wake.

The ice walker was gone. That didn't mean  the  hangar  was  deserted--Leia

could see by the melt patterns that something had landed on  the  ice  and  been

taken into the hangar less than three hours ago, and at a guess they'd have left

crew. Above the battering howl of the wind it was difficult to extend her senses

into the main shed, but the door to the smaller buildings adjacent to it was  on

the lee side, and those smaller buildings were empty, anyway. It was a matter of

moments, even with gloved fingers in the deepening cold, to have  Artoo  hotwire

the locks. The stillness when the door slid shut behind them was almost painful.

She pulled off her helmet, shook out her hair. The  small  annex's  heating

system was a relief, but she could still see her breath in the  dim  gleam  that

fell through the connecting passage to the main hangar itself.

The ship in the hangar was a  Mekuun  Tikiar  model,  sleek  and  dark  and

curiously reminiscent of the avian hunter for whom the model was named.  Tikiars

were a favorite, she knew, among the  aristocratic  Houses  both  in  the  Senex

Sector and elsewhere.

Two crew. She leaned against the doorjamb, listening deeply,  focusing  her

mind through the hazy brightness of the Force. Relaxed... watching  a  smashball

game--illegally--on the subspace net.

The Dreadnaughts were getting pasted again.

Reassured, she surveyed the annex room behind her.

It was filled with packing crates. Stacks of them, piled  around  the  lift

doors, dark anonymous green plastene bare of  destination  but  emblazoned  with

corporation logos and serial numbers.

Mekuun-made DEMP guns and heavy laser carbines. Seinar ion cannons.  Scale-

50 power cells, sized for the  smaller,  older  TIE'S  and  Blastboats;  smaller

cells, C's and B's and Scale-20's by the dozen. Blaster size.

We've lost contact with Bot-Un again, she heard Jevax say.

That's where they're bringing in the men.  The  realization  came  to  her,

complete and logical. Bring them down the Corridor, come in high, drop fast, run

along above the ice...

Communications between the rifts failed so frequently that it  might  be  a

week before anyone took an ice walker out across the glaciers to check. Or more.

"You getting all this, Artoo?"  She  pulled  her  helmet  back  on,  braced

herself as they slipped out to the frozen nightmare outside. She had to cling to

the droid for support as they struggled back to the crawler, picked up the trail

of the walker's huge grippers across the ice.

The astromech tweeped assent.

Ohran Keldor, last of the Emperor's fleet designers...

Designing something new? She shook her head. Only with an effort now  could

she see the almost obliterated tracks. Too expensive, beyond even  the  capacity

of a coalition of the Senex lords, and the corporations they dealt with would be

wary of backing them on major construction. Keldor had more probably been called

in as a consultant on some  older  apparatus,  maybe  the  very  Jedi  equipment

Nubblyk and Drub had been looting and smuggling out all those years ago.

But her instincts whispered, No. Something bigger.

Something else.

Something they'd assassinated Stinna Draesinge  Sha  over,  lest  she  hear

something that would ring familiar from her own studies and notify the  Republic

of their danger.

The black rock outcroppings of the main ridge formed a wind  trap  east  of

the hangar itself. No one, thought Leia, grimly  hanging  on  to  the  crawler's

control bar, would have been able to track the site of the tunnel from the  air.

The pale sun's light barely penetrated the scudding clouds and only faint scuffs

remained of the walker's tracks. She only saw  the  cave  where  they  left  the

craft, and the permacrete pillbox that covered the shaft head itself, because of

the puckery masses of dimples fast fading in the blowing snow.

New military structures at the landing pad but no improvements on the shaft

head, thought Leia, maneuvering the crawler behind the last spur of rock out  of

sight of the walker in its cave. And bringing  Elegin  in  the  long,  cold  way

around. Don't trust the Senex lords, do we?

Snow squeaked under Leia's boots as she crossed to the pillbox, and the hot

air rushing out around her as the shaft head doors  opened  to  Artoo's  breaker

program made her gasp. She stepped inside quickly, the droid at her  heels,  and

the door slid shut once more. More crates filled the shaft head, bearing all the

logos and labels she'd seen before: Mekuun, Seinar, Kuat Drive Yards,  Pravaat--

the massive consortium in the Celanon System that manufactured and sold uniforms

to whoever cared to pay for them. The pale  strings  of  battery-run  glowpanels

threaded around the room showed the floor scratched with fresh  drag  marks  and

spotted with oil leaked from secondhand droids.

Han. I've got to let Han know.

Kill you all, Drub McKumb had said. They're gathering. They're there.

Five sets of tracks marked the powdered snow that lay all over  the  cement

floor, ending at the doors of the  lift.  Four  humans  and  the  broad,  short,

slightly rounded prints of what might have been a Sullustan or  a  Rodian.  Leia

recalled that many of the executive board of Seinar were of  the  rotund,  flat-

nosed Sullustan race.

She recalled other things as well.

"Artoo," she said softly, "I want to see how this tunnel links up with  the

smuggler tunnels under Plawal itself. But if  we  get  into  any  trouble,  your

default command is to head back to the crawler and get Han." While she spoke she

broke the seals on three of the crates, helped  herself  to  a  flamethrower,  a

semiauto blaster carbine, and a forcepike, which she assembled swiftly,  deftly,

as the boys in the Hoth dugout had taught her when it looked as if they  weren't

going to get out before the Imperials came in.

"Give him coordinates, information, everything. Don't stay  to  defend  me.

All right?"

The droid beeped and trailed her onto the lift.

The smuggler tunnel would surface somewhere in Plawal, she knew.  But  from

Han's description of the lava caves and the  well  in  its  circle  of  standing

stones--from the fact that Roganda Ismaren had spent a  part  of  her  childhood

here-she guessed they connected with the crypts under  Plett's  House  as  well.

What she was concealing there, and how she had managed to thwart  sensor  probes

after people started disappearing, Leia couldn't imagine, but it  was  clear  to

her now what had become of Drub McKumb and Nubbyk the Slyte... and who knew  how

many more besides?

Vader... and Palpatine, Mara had said.

And, evidently, Palpatine's concubine... though  the  woman  hadn't  struck

Leia as particularly strong in the Force. Certainly not imbued with that aura of

eerie strength, that silence that even as a cocky teenage Senator she  had  felt

emanating from the Emperor.

What, then?

Leia slung her weaponry straps over her shoulders, and stepped  out  warily

into the dark.

For a long distance the smuggler tunnel was simply raw stone, chewed out of

the bedrock of the planet under five thousand years' worth of glacier, which ran

occasionally through the widened beds of what had once been underground streams.

The floor had been smoothed to permit the passage of cargo droids: ramps  built,

roofs heightened, crevasses bridged. It was easy to follow; all she  had  to  do

was move as silently as she could.

Later, when the way branched, or cross-tunnels were cut  in  the  rock,  or

when they passed through caves stifling with fumes  and  smotheringly  hot  from

sullen craters of steaming mud, she listened, stretching out her senses, feeling

in the Force for the touch, the essence of the  five  people  who  led  her  on.

Painted Door Street--the narrow lane on  which  Roganda  had  said  she  lived--

butacked onto the vine-curtained bench on which Plett's House stood. Before  the

dome was built, the rift had been periodically subject to storms. Of course  the

Mluki would tunnel... and of course the smugglers would find at  least  some  of

the tunnels in the foundations of those ancient houses.

Not all the dwellings on Painted Door Street  were  built  over  the  older

dwellings, of course... but Leia was willing to bet Roganda's was.

She had lived here. She had known this place. And she had come  back,  when

Palpatine died in the seething heart of his second attempt to cow the galaxy  by

terror.

Why?

Leia sensed the swift scramble of  claws,  the  snuffling  pant  of  animal

breath, even before Artoo whistled his nearly soundless warning. They  were  far

off but coming close fast, their direction almost impossible to determine in the

maze of cross-tunnels, caves, carved-out rooms, ramps  and  stairways  ascending

and descending.

"They're probably tracking us by scent," she said softly.  "So  let's  have

some light, Artoo."

The droid barely had time to brighten all his panel lights when the  things

were on them.

Rodian, human, and two Mluki--or what  had  been  those  races  once.  Leia

identified them even as she cut with the forcepike--not as clean or as strong as

a lightsaber, but in trained hands potentially deadly. It had the  advantage  of

keeping more than one at bay at a time, without danger of ricochets, and as they

fell screaming on her, Leia struck at her attackers, cold, scared, and  furious.

She slashed a Mluki halfway through  the  neck  and  swung  immediately  to  the

Rodian, whose broken metal club gashed open her sleeve and the flesh of her arm.

The weight of them nearly overpowered her. There was nothing in them  she  could

warn to keep back, nothing that realized they were in danger. When  one  of  the

humans ripped the forcepike away from her she barely brought the flamethrower up

in time, searing at them, blasting them, and they attacked her,  still  burning,

as she caught up the pike again to finish the job.

They had hardly fallen when the kretch  appeared,  slithering  out  of  the

darkness to feed on the corpses and the blood.

From the depths  of  the  tunnels--behind  her,  around  her,  in  a  dozen

directions--the second Mluki's final cry was echoed by a chorus of screams.

Kill you all. Kill you all...

She fled down a tunnel, Artoo's beam flashing ahead of her to  the  archway

of an artificial entrance in the rock. She ducked through, to  an  area  of  cut

stone, hewn chambers, ramps of desiccated and kretch-gnawed wood covering  steps

and changes of level. A bridge crossed a fast-running stream whose water steamed

thinly in the hot  air.  A  tunnel  where  she  sensed  an  echo  of  the  Force

whispering, Don't come down here...

Dead glowpanels, small trunk beds in corners...

Something huge and hair-matted and stinking fell upon her from  a  doorway,

and Leia slashed without thinking, blood splattering her  t-suit  as  the  thing

collapsed shrieking at her feet. She sprang over  it,  Artoo  nudging  past  the

body, and the air around them seemed to breathe with foul,  snuffling,  guttural

snarls and what might have been stammered, mind-blasted words.

Refuge. She sensed it, felt a curious  lightness,  the  sudden  impulse  of

safety. A sense of what she'd long been seeking.

It lay to her left, calling her, it seemed, through a dark triple arch.

An open hall, wide and dark with soda-straw stalactites and  thin  curtains

of mineral deposits forming through cracks in the roof.  A  stream  divided  the

wide room in two, planks thrown across it, but no sign of a bridge. Right, left,

and center, three open, arched doorways led out of the room on the far  side  of

the water, and as Leia crossed the plank, the center one called.

Distantly, as Artoo shined his spotlight into the room  beyond  the  center

arch, Leia felt as she had felt looking down from the tower, as if she  saw  and

heard things not of her own time.

Children's voices.

The bone-deep awareness of the presence of the Force.

She stepped through the arch, and Artoo brightened his lights again.  Chips

and threads of metal winked at her all the length of  the  long,  barrel-vaulted

room.

A glass tank a few centimeters thick, empty save for a thin layer of yellow

sand.

A glass cylinder a meter tall, hermetically sealed and containing only  the

withered skeleton of a leaf. Beside it on the table lay a ball of black volcanic

glass, a gold ring, and a crude doll wrought of rag and twigs.

The whole back wall of the room was taken up  by  an  exquisitely  balanced

apparatus  of  suspended  spheres,  rings,  rods,  and  pulleys,  glistening  in

enigmatic welcome. Two other machines of shafts and buckets and  polished  steel

balls seemed to beckon, tempt, and tease the mind with a monumental silliness of

potential chain reactions.

There was a glass sphere filled with dull pinky-gold liquid that seemed  to

stir, colors coalescing briefly at the vibration of her stride.

The children were here, thought Leia.

The joy and fascination they'd felt seemed to have soaked into the stone of

the walls.

She might not have found their names, Leia thought... but she'd found their

toys.

She reached tentatively, touched  the  sphere  of  liquid,  and  where  her

fingers contacted the glass, molecules of red separated themselves from the pink

suspension, hung like dissipating clouds in the fluid atmosphere  of  the  ball.

Uncertainly-because Luke had taught  her  nothing  of  this,  though  it  seemed

ridiculously easy once she tried-she prodded  with  her  mind,  and  the  liquid

separated itself, golden on the top, crimson on the  bottom.  Something  in  the

color of the crimson made Leia look deeper, summon the Force...  In  the  blood-

colored molecules were hidden enough of  a  third  color  to  form  between  the

existing zones a narrow band of cobalt blue.

Jacen and Jaina need these, she thought. Anakin, when he grew older.

There  were  other  things,  maddeningly  simple  things  she   could   not

understand.

Why a circle of empty bowls, straight-sided and of varying size? What  went

in them? Leia could see nothing on the black tabletop except  gray  stains  like

watermarks... Was the composition of the table part of  the  riddle?  Dense  and

shiny, it looked like lacquer until she touched it, but under her fingertips  it

clearly said, Wood.

What were all those weirdly heavy metal spheres, lined up according to size

in a rack?

The bars, ropes, hanging beams of the ceiling were  self-explanatory...  or

were they?

Luke has to see this.

None of this was mentioned in the Holocron, or  in  the  records  Luke  had

salvaged from the wreck of the Jedi ship Chu'unthor. Maybe they didn't think  it

worth recording, as we don't  think  to  mention  the  alphabet  when  we  write

literary criticism. Or stop to explain the human enzyme system at the start of a

love story.

Or the human need for oxygen, for that matter.

Perhaps it was premonition, some dark tension in the  air  that  keyed  and

stretched Leia's senses. But amid the shadows of  levers  and  pulleys  of  that

great toy on the wall she caught sight of something half familiar and,  stepping

forward, pulled it from where it had been tucked almost out of sight. It  was  a

small packet of black plastene,  powdered  with  a  dirty  residue  whose  smell

brought back to her the dim blue-green  grotto  of  the  Cloud-Mother's  Healing

House; Tomla El's soft voice saying, Yarrock.

New, she thought. Not anything the Jedi would have left here. But who?

By the doorway, Artoo whistled a warning.

Leia froze, not breathing, reaching with her mind into the dark.

The shrieks and snuffles of the mind-stripped guardians of the tunnels were

mute.

But the air itself seemed to thicken, coalescing, sinking in on itself.

The Force. An enormous darkness, masquerading as  the  silence  of  nothing

there.

Then from the darkness she heard a very faint, chitinous scratching.

Some shift of pressure, a change of the deep, hot atmosphere of the  caves,

brought her the smell, like the vast exhalation  of  rotting  sugarcane  or  the

decaying debris of the fruit-packing plants, a chemical  dirtiness  that  lifted

the hair on her nape.

"Let's get out of here, Artoo." She slid the  packet  back  where  she  had

found it, crossed quickly to the  door,  and  Artoo  flashed  the  beam  of  his

spotlight past her, to the ebon silk of the water flowing down the center of the

room, and the stretch of floor beyond it.

The floor moved. Glistening shapes heaved over one another like a  lake  of

black jewels amid a vast, filthy scratching of claws.

"I wouldn't advise it, Your Highness."

Roganda Ismaren, small and pale and  fragile-looking  in  her  white  gown,

stood framed in the narrow archway to Leia's right. Beside  her  stood  a  dark-

clothed boy, like her slim and raven-haired, like her small, with  a  suggestion

about him of wiry grace.

Ohran Keldor, Drost Elegin, and another man--stocky, hard-faced, fifty,  in

black--stood grouped behind.

"Artoo, go!" ordered Leia. "Now--was

Roganda only gestured. Elegin and the third man strode  to  cut  Artoo  off

before he reached the bridge and Leia brought up  the  flamethrower.  The  dark-

haired boy snickered derisively and said, "Oh, please!" and Leia, warned by some

instinct, flung the weapon from her as the tank glowed and ruptured in  a  burst

of fire. She shucked her carbine and caught up the forcepike, feeling  the  yank

of the boy's mind on it, forcing her own mind against his like a resistant  wall

as she sprang between the men and Artoo. Elegin fired his blaster at her but she

was already dodging, moving in on him, driving him back. The other  man  yelled,

"Put it away, idiot!" as the  bolt  hissed  and  zinged  against  walls,  floor,

ceiling in shattering ricochets. Leia couldn't probe with her mind to strike the

weapon out of his hand but she could at least keep it from being done to her.

At Roganda's side, the boy said, "Don't waste your time, Elegin,  Garonnin.

You..."

He fixed his wide eyes, like cobalt glass, on Artoo. "Back here. Now."

Artoo, who had crossed the plank bridge and was a few meters from the  arch

leading away into the dark maze of passageways, came to a stop.  Kretch  crawled

and squirmed wildly over his slick sides in a way that turned Leia sick, but the

little droid took no apparent notice. It was the boy who had  stopped  him,  the

boy's voice...

"Back here," the boy repeated calmly. "You aren't going anywhere."

"Artoo, go!" Leia shifted sideways, forcepike raised, keeping a wary eye on

Elegin and the man called Garonnin--surely not a member of the House Garonnin?

"Oh, really, Leia," said the boy impertinently. "If I could make him almost

blow up the house you were sleeping in, you don't think he's going to disobey me

now?" He sniggered again, his face twisting in an unpleasant  grin.  "I'll  make

him run into the water and short himself out."

He turned those glass-cold eyes on the  droid.  "Come  on.  Open  all  your

repair ports and back this way, one point five meters left and parallel to  your

original course."

"Artoo!" She couldn't look, keeping an eye on the men.

The astromech droid rocked on his base and emitted a desperate whistle.

"Come on," ordered the boy.

"Irek, just send the kretch away and Garonnin will--was

"No!" said the boy furiously. The black wings of his brows plunged together

over an ivory curve of nose. "I told him to come back and he won't.  Back  here.

One point five meters left and parallel course--was

"Artoo, get out of here!"

Artoo ran a pace back, a pace left, kretch twisting like  a  net  of  filth

over him and crunching stickily under his treads.

"Come back here!" ordered the boy, all calm suddenly gone from  his  voice.

"One point five meters..."

Artoo wheeled in a tight circle and headed for the door into the tunnels.

"Send away the kretch, Lord!" Garonnin made a feint toward the bridge, Leia

stepping to block, vibroblade raised. "Once he gets into the tunnels we won't be

able to track him!"

"Obey me!"  yelled  Irek,  pale  face  twisting,  ignoring  the  older  man

completely. "Come back!"

"Picture the schematic...," began Roganda evenly, and Irek turned upon  her

like a wildcat.

"I know what I'm supposed to do! It worked before..."

Artoo vanished into the tunnels in a brown smear  of  mashed  kretch.  Irek

stared after him, panting with rage and disbelief, and  Leia  felt  the  vicious

fury, the concentration of the Force, flung after him...

And remembered, vividly, Chewbacca amid a tangle of wire and solder on  the

terrace, patching the droid back together.

"Send the kretch--was

"Don't bother me!" screamed Irek, and strode  toward  the  bridge,  shoving

Garonnin aside.

Leia stepped in front of him,  vibroblade  raised  in  her  hand.  The  boy

stopped, staring at her in astonishment that anyone would thwart his will.  Leia

felt the tug and jerk of the Force  against  her  grip  on  the  pike  haft  and

tightened her grip, bringing all her mind, all her  concentration,  to  bear  on

keeping him back.

The blue  eyes  widened  in  stark  fury  and  he  whipped  a  black-hilted

lightsaber from his side. At the same moment Leia felt her breath choke off, had

to fight with all her strength to draw past it... She could see he didn't handle

the laser weapon properly, using instead the stance and grip  of  formal  blade-

dueling, totally inappropriate for the two-handed weapon's balance.  In  a  duel

Luke would make strip steak of him...

The blade slashed at the forcepike and Leia feinted upward with it,  ducked

aside, and nearly took off his feet at the ankles. Battling for even a thread of

air, she faced him off, andwitha yell of fury he came at her...

"Irek!" shouted Roganda.

The kretch had begun to swarm across the bridge.

Leia felt  the  bitter  grip  on  her  windpipe  relax,  saw  the  swarming

anthropods halt in the middle of  the  planks  and  begin  to  mill,  as  if  an

invisible barrier prevented them from coming further. Closer to the door,  there

was a turmoil among them as they devoured the bodies of those Artoo had crushed.

"Mother, she's doing something!" cried Irek  angrily.  "It  isn't  working.

That droid should come back. That doddering old scumbag said--was

"Irek, be silent!"

Leia saw the look Roganda gave her son, and saw, too, the concubine's swift

wary glance at Garonnin and Elegin.

She's keeping something from them...

"Lord Garonnin, Lord Elegin," said Roganda in her sweet, reasonable voice--

that same sweet voice, with just a touch of helpless  deference,  thought  Leia,

that she had used to speak to Leia herself in the market. "Step back  this  way.

We seem to be in a rather simple impasse. Irek, remember not to lose your temper

and always take the easiest way out. Your  Highness..."  She  stepped  a  little

aside in the doorway, to let the two aristocrats past her. Irek  remained  where

he was, just out of range of Leia's forcepike, sullen blue eyes flickering  from

Leia to the kretch.

"Right," said Irek softly. And he grinned. "You put it down, Princess, or I

let the kretch come all the way across the bridge. Maybe I should do it anyway."

He tittered, and stepped back a pace; the kretch flooded  across,  pouring  onto

the near side of the floor like a seethe of bloody mud.

"Irek!" commanded Roganda furiously.

The kretch stopped, milling again; Leia had backed a few paces but knew  at

the speed they ran she'd never make it to safety  even  if  she  knew  in  which

direction it might lie. Particularly not, she thought, if Elegin had his blaster

trained on her.

"Well, why not do  it  now?"  demanded  Irek  sullenly.  "Without  her  the

Republic would crumble."

"Without her the Republic would  simply  elect  another  Chief  of  State,"

replied Lord Garonnin quietly, a twinge of disgusted contempt in his voice.

He stepped around Roganda and walked across the room toward  Leia  and  the

kretch. Leia, fighting not to run headlong from the filthy things,  wasn't  sure

she could have done that. The light of  the  single  glowpanel  in  the  doorway

behind Roganda made a stiff gold fuzz, like a metal halo, of the  elderly  man's

short-cropped hair.

"Surrender your weapon, Your Highness. That's the only  hope  you  have  to

come out of this alive."

Some hope, thought Leia bitterly, as she switched off  the  vibroblade  and

slid the forcepike to him across the stone of the floor.

Chapter 17

When Nichos had been diagnosed with  Quannot's  Syndrome,  Cray  had  said,

There's got to be something I can do.

Trembling and panting for breath, Luke leaned on the wall of the  fifth  or

sixth gangway Callista had shown him, his leg a cylinder of red pain that spread

upward to devour his body in spite of the double dose of  perigen  he'd  plugged

into x. He remembered Cray's face that day, the brown eyes blank with shock  and

refusal to give up hope.

There's got to be something, she'd said.

He closed his eyes, the wall cold against his temple.

There had to be something.

And Cray would be the one to do it.

The Eye of Palpatine would be jumping to hyperspace  soon.  Even  the  most

intricate of waiting games came to an end at last. It had waked,  and  it  would

fulfill its mission, and something told Luke that this wasn't simply a matter of

laying waste a planet that thirty years ago had sheltered the Emperor's foes.

Something wanted the ship. Something that could use  the  Force  to  affect

droids and mechanicals. Something had called out  to  it,  commanded  the  long-

sleeping W.

Whatever it was, he couldn't risk letting it wield this kind of  firepower,

this kind of influence.

Not even for Callista's life.

But everything within him turned away from the thought, unable to bear  the

understanding that he wouldn't get to know her. That he wouldn't have her always

somewhere in his life.

It was worse than the pain of his crippled leg, worse than having his  hand

cut off... worse than the pain of realizing who his father was.

He literally didn't know if he'd be able to do it.

He leaned his weight on the gangway railing to  support  himself  while  he

stepped up the next riser with his good leg, and straightened  his  body  again.

Lean, step,  straighten.  Lean,  step,  straighten,  and  every  muscle  of  his

shoulders and back cried out with  the  days  of  unaccustomed  labor.  The  few

perigen patches Threepio had been able to scrounge for him from  emergency  kits

around the ship were nearly gone, and the droid  had  covered  all  of  Decks  9

through 14. When he'd lost his hand he'd had a mechanical within hours,  and  he

would have fought, or traded, or sold almost  anything  he  could  think  offora

working medlab and a 2-1B unit.

The foo-twitter floated at his back.

By the chronometer on his wrist it was  just  after  1000  hours.  Threepio

should already have located the main communications trunk and isolated the  line

that controlled the Deck 19 intercoms. It  was  information  classified  to  the

Will, but the Will couldn't prevent Callista from whistling a  trace  note  from

one side of the deck  to  the  other,  loud  enough  for  the  protocol  droid's

sensitive receptors to detect. Failure of the line would be  attributed  to  the

Jawas, in their guise as Rebel  saboteurs,  or  just  possibly--whichenough  the

guards on Lift Shaft 21 heard the Gakfedd voices--to some plot by  the  Gakfedds

themselves. With luck, Luke could get up the shaft and get Cray out of her  cell

before they were even aware they'd been tricked.

Abyssal darkness and faint, ghostly clankings lay  at  the  bottom  of  the

gangway beyond the open doorway labeled 17. This was one of the ship's recycling

centers, cut off from the crew decks or any realm of human activity. The  droids

who occupied themselves with the  reconstitution  of  food,  water,  and  oxygen

needed no lights to work. The glow of Luke's staff  picked  out  moving  angles,

blocky SP-80'S going about their monotonous business in company  with  apparatus

not intended to interface with humans at all, MMD'S of all sizes, scooting  RI'S

and MSE'S, and a midsize Magnobore that bumped  Luke's  calves  like  a  mammoth

turtle. He'd disconnected the gauge lights on the altered tracker  to  delay  as

long as possible the moment when the Klaggs realized they'd been duped,  and  it

drifted forlornly behind him,  like  a  rather  dirty  balloon  attached  by  an

invisible line to the trackball in his pocket.

Right turn, then second left, Luke repeated to himself. A wall panel in one

of the recycling chambers, a narrow shaft at  a  forty-five-degree  angle...  He

settled his mind, collecting about himself, in spite of the pain  and  the  slow

numbing of the overdoses of perigen, the mental focus, the inner quiet, that was

the strength of the  Force.  For  the  dozenth--or  hundredth--time  since  that

particular side effect had begun to make itself felt, he  wondered  if  he'd  be

able to work better with an infection-induced fever and the constant  stress  of

pain.

It had to work, he thought. It had to.

He turned a corner, and stopped.

A dead Jawa lay in the corridor.

It had a handful of cables wound around one shoulder, a satchel open beside

its hand. Luke limped to the body, eased himself down to kneel  beside  it,  and

touched the skinny black claw of wrist. A charred pit of blaster fire  gaped  in

its side.

Batteries and power cells lay strewn around the open satchel. Luke  scooped

them back into the leather pouch, slung  the  strap  over  his  shoulder.  Faint

whirring made him look up, to face two small droids of a kind  he'd  never  seen

before. Gyroscopically balanced on single wheels, they reminded him of  some  of

the older models of interrogation droids, but instead of pincer  arms  they  had

long, silvery tentacles, jointed like snakes. Small  round  sensors,  like  cold

eyes, triangulated on him at the end of prehensile stalks.

The two droids  were  barely  taller  than  Artoo-Detoo  but  there  was  a

curiously insectile menace to them that made Luke back slowly away.

The tentacles extruded with a whippy hiss, encircled and lifted the  Jawa's

tattered little carcass. The droids swiveled and shot away. Luke followed to the

door of a cavern lit only by the sickish glow of gauge lights and readouts.  The

smell of the place was like walking into a wall of muck: ammoniac, organic,  and

vile. Steam frothed thinly from beneath the covers of the three round, well-like

vats whose metal curbs rose scarcely half a meter above the  bare  durasteel  of

the deck. As the snake-eyed droids approached the nearest tank its cover dilated

open. The stench redoubled as steam poured  forth,  knee-high  ground  fog  that

swirled to the farthest corners of the room.

The droids raised the Jawa corpse high and dropped it into the vat  with  a

viscous ploop. The cover dilated shut.

A sharp rattle at Luke's side made him jump. A slotted hatchway popped open

in the wall, and a tumble of belt buckles, boot latches, a stormtrooper  helmet,

and some half-dissolved bones clattered  into  the  catchbin  under  the  hatch,

everything dripping brownish enzymatic acid.

The skull of a Gamorrean grinned up at Luke from the bin.

Luke stepped  quickly  back.  Though  he  knew  that  full  recycling  from

enzymatic breakdown products didn't kick in until the second or  third  week  of

deepspace missions, still he found himself queasy at the memory of  that  gukked

egg.

The foo-twitter waited for him in the corridor. Luke led  the  way  through

another door, past backup enzyme tanks locked up cold and  closed,  to  the  far

wall. At the touch of the lights on his staff the  three  SP-80'S  ranked  in  a

corner swiveled their  cubical  upper  bodies,  the  wide-range  sensor  squares

casting dim blue glare. A small MMF rolled out of the darkness and  rattled  its

three arms at him like a bare mechanical tree. It halted beside Luke as he knelt

to pop the panel hatches, reached to take the hatch  cover  from  him  with  the

surprising, irresistible strength of droids. Luke leaned around the back and hit

the pause button. The MMF froze, panel still raised in its grippers.

Within the shaft, the enclision grid's lattices grinned at him like broken,

icy teeth, fading out of sight into the dark chimney above.

Very carefully, Luke leaned into the shaft. It ascended  two  levels  at  a

steep slant, climbable at a pinch, but not by a man  with  a  useless  leg.  The

square, cold patchwork of the walls seemed to whisper, Try it. Go ahead.

It's like causing a blaster to misfire, Callista had said.

And, The more that hit you, the more that will.

He thumbed the trackball in his pocket, and  the  silvery  tracker  drifted

close.

He'd examined the latches that dogged panels shut from behind, so it was an

easy matter to reach through with his mind--as he had reached behind  the  panel

leading into the shaft--and twist the latches aside at the top.  More  difficult

was blowing the panel clear, for it was hard to concentrate through fatigue  and

pain. He felt the hatch cover give, two levels up, and dimly heard the clang  of

it striking the floor.

Air flowed gently down the shaft against his face.

Two levels. Eight meters at a slant, though the darkness was too dense  for

his eyes to penetrate.

"Okay, pal," he whispered to the foo-twitter. "Do your stuff."

He thumbed the trackball to edge the tracker to within centimeters  of  the

enclision field. Focused his  mind,  gathered  his  thoughts,  put  aside  pain,

weariness, and growing anxiety. Each square  of  the  grid  came  to  his  mind,

flawed, delayed, molecules not quite meeting,  synapses  not  quite  touching  -

commomentary shifts in atmospheric pressure, conductivity, reaction time...  And

beside that, kinetic force building up like lightning, dense and waiting, aiming

like a sited cannon upward into the dark.

It was like shouting a word,  but  there  was  no  word.  Only  the  silent

explosion of the foo-twitter's speed, rocketing upward, ripping air as if  fired

from a slugthrower, and the spattering hiss  of  lightning.  Few,  spidery,  too

late, the blue bolts zapped and fizzled from the opal squares around  the  metal

casing, sparking where one hit, two...

Then he felt it in air, and the grid fell silent again.

Luke checked the monitor on the trackball.

The foo-twitter was still transmitting.

Shakily, he leaned his forehead on the jamb of the panel, thanked the Force

and all the Powers of the universe...

And turned, to see what, for that first moment, he thought was another foo-

twitter hanging in the dark behind him.

The next second his reflexes took  over  and  he  flung  himself  sideways,

barely in time to avoid the scorching  zap  of  blaster  fire.  Tracker  flashed

through his mind as he rolled behind the disused tank, jerking his bad  leg  out

of the way of a bolt that burned a chunk  out  of  the  heel  of  his  boot.  He

remembered the charred hole in the Jawa's side. Evidently the  floating,  silver

trackers were equipped to do more than just stun and fetch.

He grabbed for his staff where it lay in the open and whipped his  hand  to

safety--empty--only just in time. Another bolt hissed wildly off the decking and

he dodged a second tracker that swam up out of the darkness.

In the meadow on Pzob he'd  watched  these  silvery,  gleaming  spheres  in

action, and knew the few instants' whirring shift and refocus of the antennalike

nest of sensors--rolled, ducked, changing direction. The  central  vision  ports

shifted and the second droid splatted fire, not at him, but in a line  of  quick

bursts on the floor in a raking pattern, driving him toward the  open  panel  of

the shaft and the enclision grid within.

"Oh, clever," muttered Luke, crawling back, gauging his timing for a  leap.

More by instinct than anything else he flung himself through an opening  in  the

pattern of bolts, rolled up to his knees, and whipped the diagnostic mirror from

his pocket as the trackers swiveled in his direction again. He caught  the  bolt

of the first one on the angled glass, clean and vicious and perfectly aimed.  It

struck the second tracker in the instant before it fired. The tracker burst in a

shattering rain of shrapnel that clawed Luke's face like thorns, but it gave him

the second or so he needed to reangle the mirror  as  the  first  tracker  tried

again--and zapped itself into noisy oblivion with its own reflected bolt.

Luke lay on the floor, gasping, the warmth of the blood trickling down  his

face contrasting sharply with the cold of drying sweat.  One  dead  tracker  lay

like a squashed spider on the floor a meter from his side. The second still hung

fifty or so centimeters above  the  floor,  broken  grippers  trailing,  turning

disjointedly here and there.  Luke  got  his  hands  under  him  preparatory  to

crawling for his staff.

With a faint whirring, the three SP-80'S in the corner came to life.

Luke dove for the door as they whipped toward him, moving faster than  he'd

have given those tractor treads credit for. He held out his  hand,  calling  his

staff to it, as the MMF came to life again and shot out a gripper.  Luke  rolled

out the doorway, wondering if he could get as far as the gangway  in  time,  and

skidded to a halt as two more SP'S and the biggest Tredwell  he'd  ever  seen--a

500 or 600 at least, a massively  armored  furnace  stoker--loomed  out  of  the

hall's darkness, reaching for him with inexorable arms.

The lightsaber whined to life in his hand as snaky silver tentacles  caught

his wrist from behind. He struck at one  of  the  snake-eye  droids,  the  other

jabbing at him with a long, jointed rod, and the jolt of  the  electrical  shock

knocked him breathless. He flipped the lightsaber to his left hand, as he  could

when he had to, cut at the snake-droid's  sensors.  Something  struck  him  from

behind, wrenching strength grabbing his arms, lifting him bodily from the floor.

He cut again, sparks exploding as the glowing blade severed a G-40's servocable,

but, unlike human opponents, the droids didn't know enough to back off, and were

incapable of going into shock. They surrounded him, gripping with an  impossible

strength, and when he slashed through sensor wires,  joints,  servotransmitters,

there were always more.

The Tredwell's case-hardened arms resisted even the cut of  the  laser.  It

was made to work  in  the  heart  of  an  antimatter  furnace,  and  though  the

lightsaber hissed and slashed, the searing violence of the blows reverberated up

Luke's arms as if it would shatter the bones. Arms dangling, eyestalks dangling,

such droids as were still operable followed the stoker as it bore  Luke  through

the doorway, and the mephitic stink of the enzyme  chamber's  darkness  engulfed

them. Luke hammered, twisted, slashed at the pinchers that  held  his  arms  and

ankles, but couldn't so much as make them flinch. The  stink  redoubled  as  the

enzyme vat irised wide. Steam boiled up around him like thin foam, the smell  as

much as the heat of the dark red-brown liquid that bubbled  beneath  him  making

him dizzy.

Luke went limp. The lightsaber's blade retracted. A leaf on  the  wind,  he

thought. A leaf on the wind.

The Tredwell let him drop. Relaxed, almost  as  if  he  could  sleep,  Luke

summoned the Force as he fell, light and true as if he drifted above the  steam.

From some abstract distance he  was  aware  of  his  own  body  rolling  lightly

sideways above the seething filth in the vat, away from the  droids,  levitating

effortlessly to the far rim.

Just beyond the rim he fell, and hit the floor hard. His crippled leg  gave

beneath him as he tried to stand, stumbled and plunged for  the  door,  crawling

desperately as the droids clanked and ground in pursuit. They weren't as fast as

the trackers had been--he had the coverplate off the manual  door  release  when

they were still a meter behind him, and ran his lightsaber  into  the  works  to

fuse them once the door was down between him and the droids.

He managed to crawl a considerable distance before he passed out.

"Callista, we can do it." The man's voice held a thin  veneer  of  patience

and confidence over a core of rough irritation. He put his big,  callused  hands

through the back of his belt and looked from her to the blackness framed by  the

faintly glowing rectangle of the magnetic field.

Luke recognized the hangar, though it seemed less cavernous  in  the  clear

cold lighting of the glowpanels than it had been when he'd stood  there  by  the

shorn, chalky light of the stars. The  Moonflower  Nebula's  drifting  banks  of

light could be seen outside, speckled with the darker chunks  of  asteroids,  an

eerie field of glow and lancing shadow. The ally-wing stood where he'd seen  it,

scars and holes glaring in the brightness. On the  marks  that  had  been  empty

stood a Skipray Blastboat, crowding the smaller craft.

"The station lays its defensive fire in a double  ellipse  pattern,  that's

all. We got in, didn't we?" The man's eyes were bright blue in a  hatchet-jawed,

amiable face grubby with three days' rust-colored beard. He had a gold  ring  in

one ear.

"The Force was with us or we'd never have made it." It was the  first  time

Luke had seen her clearly, but it was as if he'd always known that she was tall,

slim, long-boned without the smallest trace of lankiness.  The  lightsaber  with

its rim of bronze cetaceans hung at her belt. Like her companion she was filthy,

a universe of heavy brown hair unwashed and trailing from a knot the size of his

two fists at her nape, gray eyes light against the soot and oil that stained her

face. Shrapnel or shattering glass had opened a three-inch cut on her  forehead;

the way it was scabbed, it would leave a hell of a  scar.  Her  voice  was  like

smoke and silver.

She was beautiful. Luke had never seen a woman so beautiful.

"I'd like to think I had something to do with that." The man's  long  mouth

twisted.

"You did." Callista looked taken aback that he'd feel offended. "Of  course

you did, Geith. The Force--was

"I know." He made a gesture, a slight pushing of the  air,  as  if  against

something heard before for which he had no time. "The point  is,  there's  other

ways of doing this than getting ourselves killed."

There was silence between them, and Luke saw, in the way she stood, in  her

diffidence, her concern that he would be  angry  at  her.  She  started  to  say

something, visibly checked, and after a moment changed it to, "Geith,  if  there

was any way for me to go up that shaft, you know I--was

By the flare in his eyes Luke saw he'd read her words as an  accusation  of

cowardice. "And I'm telling you neither of us has to do it,  Callie."  Anger  in

his voice; Luke saw that no lightsaber hung beside the blaster at his waist. Was

that between them, too?

"It's not going to  take  us  that  long  to  get  clear  of  the  Nebula's

interference and back to where we can signal for help. Help in dealing with this

hunk of junk"--his expansive wave took in the chill  gray-walled  labyrinths  of

the silent Eye--"and at least let Plett know what's coming at him. As it is,  if

we try to be heroes and fail, they won't know zip until they catch a  lapful  of

smoking plasma."

"They won't know if we make a run for it and get nailed, either."

Her voice was low. His rose. "It's a double  ellipse  with  one  randomized

turn. I've got it scoped, Callie. It'll be tougher in that tub than in the ally-

wing but it can be done."

She drew breath again and he put a hand on her shoulder, a  finger  on  her

lips; a lover's gesture of intimacy, but still meant to silence her.

"You don't have to be such a hero,  baby.  There's  always  ways  of  doing

things without getting killed."

Luke thought, He doesn't want to climb up that  shaft.  He's  told  himself

there's another way--and he probably even believes it--but at bottom, he doesn't

want to be the one who climbs through the grid while she's using  the  Force  to

make it misfire.

And he saw this understanding, too, in Callista's gray eyes.

"Geith," she said softly, and in her hesitation Luke heard the echo of  his

previous rages. "Sometimes there's not."

He threw up his hands. "Now you're starting to sound like old Djinn!"

"That doesn't make what I'm saying less true."

"The old boy's too damn ready to tell other people how they should die  for

a guy who hasn't been off that festering gasball of his  for  a  hundred  years!

Callie, I've been around. I know what I'm talking about."

"And I know that we have no idea how long we've got until this  thing  goes

into hyperspace." She still didn't raise her voice, but something in  its  level

softness stopped him from cutting in again. "None. If we destroy it, it's  gone.

Dead. If we leave it, run for it--was

"There's nothing wrong with jumping clear and getting help!"

"Except that it'll lose us our one sure chance."

"It'll lose us our chance of getting the hell  blown  up  along  with  this

thing, you mean!"

"Yes," said Callista. "That's what I mean. Will you help me or not?"

He put his hands on his hips, looked down at her, for he was  a  tall  man.

"You stubborn fish rider." Affection glinted in his smile.

Her voice flawed, just slightly, as she looked up  into  his  face.  "Don't

leave me, Geith. I can't do it alone."

And Luke saw something change, just slightly, in Geith's blue eyes.

Pain came back to him, shredding away the scene in the  hangar.  He  opened

his eyes, felt under him the slight, smooth jostle of movement. Thin dark  lines

passed like scanner wires above his head, traveling from head to feet... ceiling

joins.

Moving his head, he saw that he lay on a small antigrav sled, beyond  whose

rim See-Threepio's grimed and dented metal head and shoulders  were  visible  as

the droid guided the sled along a hall. There was a sound  somewhere  ahead  and

Threepio  froze  into  the  perfect  immobility  of  a  mechanical.  The  yellow

reflection of a tracker droid's  dim  lights  passed  over  the  metal  mask  of

Threepio's face, glinted very faintly on the perfect,  intricate  shape  of  his

hand where it rested on the sled's rim.

The yellow light passed on. Threepio moved forward again, footfalls  hollow

in the empty corridor. Luke slid back toward darkness.

The foo-twitter, he thought. He'd misfired the enclision  grid  and  thrust

the silvery globe up ten meters of shaft, but  it  had  been  hit  anyway--four,

maybe five times. He'd heard the shrill zing of  ricochets  against  the  metal.

Threepio had cut the comm trunk, Cray was in danger, he couldn't lie here...

The more that hit you, the more that will.

He saw her in the gun room.

The lights were on there, too.

She was alone. All the monitors were dead, blank black idiot  faces,  holes

into the Will's malignancy--she was sitting  very  still  on  the  corner  of  a

console, but he knew she listened. Head bowed, long hands folded loose over  her

thigh, he could see the tension in the way she breathed, in the slight angle  of

movement. Listening.

Once she looked at the chronometer above the door.

"Don't do this to me, Geith." Her voice was barely audible. "Don't do this.

"

After long, long, grinding silence  like  years  of  cold  illness,  though

absolutely nothing changed in the room, Luke saw when she  understood  at  last.

She got to her feet, crossed to a console, and tapped in commands: a  tall  girl

whose gray flight suit hung baggy over the long-limbed  fighter's  frame,  whose

lightsaber with its line of dancing sea clowns gleamed against  her  flank.  She

called a screen to life, and Luke saw past her shoulder  the  hangar,  with  the

ruined ally-wing and the empty meters of concrete floor where the Blastboat used

to be.

She toggled in a line of readings, then,  as  if  they  weren't  enough  to

convince her, tapped VISUAL REPLAY.

Luke's eyes were the eyes of the pickup camera concealed among the  craters

of the dreadnaught's irregular hull. There was no question that  Geith  was  one

hellskinner of a pilot. Blastboats were landing craft, not fighters;  clumsy  to

handle, though in a crisis they had the speed to  outrun,  if  not  outmaneuver,

most pursuit. And Geith had been right--half by observation, half  by  instinct,

Luke sawstfelt the pattern of the shots the Will laid  down,  a  complex  double

ellipse with a couple of random twitches.

A couple, not the one that Geith had said.

Dodging, dropping, veering among the sheets of light-filled dust, the half-

hidden chunks of tumbling rock, Geith handled the Blastboat as if it were a TIE,

flipping through the white streaks of death  with  breathtaking  speed.  He  was

almost out of range when a random bolt that shouldn't have been there holed  his

stabilizer.

The more that hit you, the more that will.

He must have got the craft in hand somehow, spinning  crazily  but  keeping

his trajectory. An asteroid swam out of the dust and took off one of  his  power

units, dragged him around...

And it was over.

Luke saw the white blast of the final explosion as a  reflection  from  the

replay screen cast up on Callista's face.

She closed her eyes. Tears traced a line in the grime. She had the look  of

a woman who hadn't slept or eaten in days, exhausted, skating  the  edge.  Maybe

the Will had tricks for dealing with those who entered by other means  than  the

landers with their indoctrination bays. Maybe if  Geith  had  been  100  percent

alert, 100 percent sharp, he'd have done as he'd meant, and gotten out to  fetch

help.

She turned her head, and looked up at the dark shaft, like  an  upside-down

well into the night above the ceiling. The enclision grid had the look of  pale,

dementedly regular stars. She drew her breath without change of expression,  and

let it go.

He woke again, or thought he woke, to utter blackness, and she  was  there,

lying against his back. Her body curved around his, her hip spooned behind  his,

her thigh touching the back of his leg-his leg didn't hurt, he realized, nothing

hurt--her arm lying over his side and her cheek  resting  against  his  shoulder

blade, like an animal that has crept  stealthily  to  a  human's  side,  seeking

reassurance and warmth. The tension of her muscles frightened him,  the  pent-up

bitter grief.

Grief at dreaming the dream that he'd seen. At remembering  the  one  who'd

betrayed her. At having to do it alone.

Gently, fearing that if he moved at all she'd flee, he turned and  gathered

her into his arms.

As she had in the gun room, she breathed once, hanging on to something  for

as long as she could, then let it go.

For a long time she wept, silently and without fuss  or  apology,  the  hot

damp of her tears soaking into his ragged jumpsuit, her body  shaking  with  the

draw and release of her breath.

"It's all right," said Luke quietly. Her hair, thick and rough-textured  as

it appeared, was startlingly fine to his touch, springy where gathered into  his

hands, filling them and overflowing. "It's all right."

After a long time she said, "He thought I'd never try it myself.  He  meant

to save my life. I know that. He knew I'd know."

"But he still made it his decision, not yours."

Against his chest he felt her small, wry smile. "Well, it was.his decision,

so it had to be right, didn't it? I'm sorry. That sounds bitter--a  lot  of  his

decisions.were right. He was a demon of a fighter. But this... I felt it. I knew

there would be no getting back in, once we were away. I was  angry  for  a  long

time."

"I'm angry at him."

He remembered the faint, attenuated sense of her, less than a  ghost  even,

in the gun room. Hidden, eroded, worn by exhaustion almost to nothing.

"I'm surprised you helped me at all."

"I wasn't going to," she said. He felt her move her arm, push the hair from

her face. "Not out of hate, really, but... It all seemed so distant. So  unreal.

Like watching morrts scurry around the bones of the ship."

"Yet you stayed," said Luke, even as he spoke  understanding  that  he  was

dreaming; understanding that the warmth of her body, the  long  bones  and  soft

fine hair and the cheek resting on his shoulder were her memories of  her  body,

her recollection of what it had been like, long  buried  and  nearly  forgotten.

"You used the last of your strength, the last of the Force, to put yourself into

the gunnery computer, to keep anyone else from taking  the  ship.  For  all  you

knew, forever."

Against his shoulder, he felt her sigh.  "I  couldn't...  let  anyone  come

aboard."

"All those years..."

"It wasn't... so bad, after a time. Djinn had taught us, had  theoretically

walked us through, the techniques of projecting the mind  into  something  else,

something that would be receptive, to hold  the  intelligence  as  well  as  the

consciousness, but he seemed to regard  it  as  cowardly.  As  being  afraid  or

unwilling to go on to the next step, to cross over to the other side. Once I was

in the computer..."

She shook her head, and he felt the gesture of her hand, trying to speak of

some experience beyond his ken. "After a time it began to seem that it had  been

my entire life. That what came before--Chad, and  the  sea,  and  Papa;  Djinn's

teaching, the platform on Bespin, and... and Geith--they turned into a  sort  of

dream. But the tripods... they're a little like the treems back home, sweet  and

harmless and well-intentioned. I wanted to help them. I was  so  glad  when  you

did. That was the first time I really... really saw you. And even the Jawas..."

She sighed again, and tightened her hold on him, her  arm  around  his  rib

cage sending a shock of awareness through him, as if its shape and strength  and

the pressure of her hand had somehow a meaning and a truth to  which  all  other

things in his life were tied. He understood for the first time  how  his  friend

Wedge could write poems about Qwi Xux's pale, feathery hair. The  fact  that  it

was Qwi's made all the difference.

She said, "Luke..." and he brought her face to his, and kissed her lips.

Chapter 18

In the throbbing indigo darkness, Framjem Spathen rolled back his  head  so

that the long electric ropes of his glowing hair brushed the floor, raised  arms

glistening with cutaneous diamonds to flash in the bloody light,  and  screamed.

The scream seemed to lift him onto his toes, rippling through that  hard-muscled

body in wave after wave of sound and pain and ecstasy as  he  rolled  his  head,

heaved his hips, stretched his fingers to the utmost...

"Were those muscles all really his?" wondered Bran  Kemple,  drawing  on  a

hookah that smelled like old laundry steeped in alcohol and regarding the holo--

an extremely old one, Han had seen it in dozens of  cheap  clubs  from  here  to

Stars' End--with half-shut eyes.

"Sure they were," said Han. "He paid about two hundred  credits  per  ounce

for 'em, plus installation, but after that they were his, all right."

The dancers on either side of Framjen's holo were real; a boneless  Twi'lek

boy and a massively breasted Gamorrean female, undulating under the red glare of

lights for the edification of half a dozen seedy customers. It would  have  been

hard to picture anything less conducive to lust, Jungle or otherwise.  The  day-

shift hustlers of various races and sexes were working the floor hard,  chatting

up the patrons and drinking glass after glass of watered liquor at  prices  that

should have brought 100 percent Breath of Heaven. Even they looked tired.

Han supposed that having to listen to a  fifteen-year-old  Framjen  Spathen

holo for eight hours would tire anyone.

Bran Kemple sighed heavily. "Nubblyk the Slyte. Now there was a hustler who

could run things. Things was all different in his day."

Han sipped his drink. Even the beer was watered. "Pretty lively, hunh?"

"Lively? Pheew!" Kemple made a kiss-your-hand motion  toward  the  ceiling,

presumably a signal to the Slyte's departed spirit. "Wasn't even the word.  Half

a dozen flights in a week that never made  it  on  the  port  manifests,  people

appearin' and disappearin' through the  tunnels  out  under  the  ice...  Decent

drinks and decent girls. Hey, Sadie!"  he  yelled,  gesturing  to  the  one-eyed

Abyssin barkeep. "Get my friend here a decent drink, fer pity's sakes! Festerin'

barkeep can't tell the festerin' difference between a mark and somebody  in  the

trade, fester it."

He shook his head again, and mopped at his broad, pale-green  brow  with  a

square of soiled linen he'd dragged from the depths of his yellow polyfibe suit.

His curly brown hair was surrendering to its  destiny,  and  he'd  picked  up  a

couple of extra chins in the years since Han had last  seen  him  as  a  two-bit

gunrunner in the Juvex Systems.

"So what happened?"

"What happened?" Kemple blinked  at  him  through  the  gloom.  "Place  got

cleaned out. He'd been strippin' old machinery, droids  and  computers  and  lab

stuff, down under the ruins. Some kind of old laboratories, they msta been,  and

there were rooms full of 'em, Nubblyk said. I will say for Nubblyk..."

The Abyssin brought Han a drink that would have  flattened  a  rancor,  and

Kemple, evidently forgetting for whom he'd ordered  it,  polished  it  off,  his

long, prehensile tongue questing around the bottom of the glass for stray drops.

"I will say for Nubblyk, he kept a strong hand on the loot, played  it  out

and kept anybody else from hornin' in. It was his show, nobody  else's,  and  he

didn't trust a soul. And why should he, hey? Business is business. He never even

told me how he was gettin' into the tunnels."

"D'ja look for the way in, after he left?"

"'Course I did!" Kemple's vertical pupils flexed open and shut indignantly.

"Think I'm stupid or somethin'?" Two new dancers climbed up to an  even  older--

and scratchier--holo of Pekkie Blu and the Starboys. Han winced. "We checked the

cellar of this joint, and that house he had in Painted Door Street, and  finally

ran a deep-rock sensor scan of  the  ruins  themselves."  He  shrugged.  "Double

zeros. Not enough gold or xylen under there to register. We  couldn't  even  pay

the rental on the scanner. He msta cleaned the place out before--was

He stopped himself.

Solo raised his eyebrows. "Cleaned the place out before he went where?"

"We don't know." He lowered his voice and glanced  nervously  over  at  the

Abyssin barkeep, who was pouring out a drink for a tall black girl and listening

to a long tale of the last mark's perfidy. "That woman who rents  the  house  in

Painted Door Street says the credit house where she sends the money every  month

changes a couple times a year, so it sounds like he's on the run. But before  he

left he said..."

He leaned forward to whisper. "He said something about the Emperor's Hand."

Mara Jade. Solo's eyebrows quirked up. She'd neglected to mention  this  in

last night's discussion. "Oh, yeah?"

Kemple nodded. Solo recalled that the man never could  keep  that  enormous

mouth of his shut. "He said the Emperor's Hand was on the planet; that his  life

was in danger." He leaned  close  enough  for  Solo  to  be  able  to  tell  the

composition of his last three drinks by the smell of his breath and sweat.  "I'm

thinkin' he cleared out and ran."

"Could he have cleared out that much loot?"

"How much?" Kemple straightened up and reached for his  hookah  again.  "It

must have been playin' out, anyway, for him to take it all with him. Believe me,

we ran sensor scans up, down, backwards, and sideways  of  the  ruins  and  this

place and his house, and you don't get that many sensor malfunctions."

Oh, don't you? thought Solo, remembering Leia's questions about unexplained

flutters in the behaviors of droids.

"Mubbin didn't buy it."

Han looked sharply around at the new voice. It was one of the  hustlers,  a

childlike Omwat like a little blue fairy, with eyes a thousand years old.

"Mubbin the Whiphid," he explained. "Another of  the  Slyte's  runners.  He

always said there were shipfuls of stuff still down there--was

"Mubbin didn't know what he was talkin' about," said the city boss quickly,

a gleam of guilty nervousness in his eyes. He looked back at Han. "Yeah, I heard

Mubbin go on about how much stuff there still was..."

"He was Drub McKumb's pal, wasn't he?" Solo addressed the question  to  the

hustler, not Kemple. He remembered the  Whiphid  Chewie  had  killed,  thin  and

starved and screaming in the dark.

The boy nodded. "One of my pals was with Drub when he went down  that  well

in the ruins and ran a scan, looking for Mubbin. Drub was  convinced  he'd  gone

down looking for the stuff and never came out."  He  glanced  at  Kemple.  "Some

people around here refused to give him a hand  when  he  said  he'd  go  looking

himself."

"Those scans found absolutely zip," pointed out Kemple  hastily.  "Zero.  A

lot of zero. If that wasn't good enough for Drub, then--was

"Wait a minute," said Han. "They ran a life scan down there?"

"From the room at the wellhead," said the Omwat. Like most of his  race  he

had a high, sweetly flutelike voice. "My pal was a treasure hunter.  She  had  a

Speizoc g-2000 she'd got off an Imperial Carillion ship  and  that  thing  could

pick up a Gamorrean morrt in a square kilometer of permacrete."

"And there was nothing down there but kretch and pit-molds." Kemple blew  a

thin cloud of steam. "Drub ran two or three scans--one for the Whiphid  and  one

for xylen and gold. Did the same from the house on Painted Door Street,  lookin'

for a tunnel entrance there."

"What'd he tell the woman renting the place?"

"Miss Roganda?" The boy grinned. "That they'd  had  reports  of  "malignant

insect infestation" and were inspecting every old Mluki foundation in town.  She

got all helpful and offered 'em tea."

"Roganda?" Han felt the hair lift on the back of his neck. "You mean  she's

the one who's renting Nubblyk's old house?"

"Sure," said Kemple, turning his attention back to the dancers. "Nice lady-

-darned pretty woman, too. She could work at this place like a  shot,  not  that

this place, or anyplace in town, has that kind of class  anymore.  Got  somebody

keepin' her in high style, anyway. Showed up a month  or  two  after  the  Slyte

disappeared and said she'd made arrangements to rent the place.  She  seemed  to

know him." He gave Han a wink that was supposed to be  slyly  sophisticated  and

succeeded only in looking puerile. "Roganda Ismaren."

The room where they put Leia  was  a  large  one,  hewn  out  of  rock  and

equipped--startlingly--with a window of three wide casements, through which  wan

daylight filtered even before Lord Garonnin slapped the wall switch to  activate

the glowpanels of the ceiling. "By all means try to break it if  it  will  amuse

you, Your Highness," he  said,  observing  the  immediate  direction  of  Leia's

interest. "It was put in long before  the  dome,  and  the  locks  are  made  to

withstand almost anything."

She walked over to it, leaving Lord Garonnin,  Irek,  and  Roganda  in  the

doorway. The window was in a sort of bay, whose jut from the rock of  the  cliff

hid any sign of it from below. A more massive jut overhung it from  above,  like

every irregularity of the cliffs bearded with curtains of vines, so  that  light

from the window could not be seen from anywhere in the rift  at  night.  Through

the dangling creepers Leia could see, ten or twelve meters below her and to  the

right, the topmost courses of the ruined tower.

She remembered seeing this vine-grown overhang from the tower, one of  many

in the cliff wall behind Plett's House. How many of those, she wondered now, hid

the windows of this warren of tunnels and rooms? If she  angled  her  head,  she

could see down into the stone enclosure where she'd glimpsed the echoes of  Jedi

children playing. Beyond, the rift was a lake of mist and treetops  above  which

the hanging gardens floated like an armada  of  flower-bedecked  airships.  Leia

could see the feeders--mostly of the nimbler races, like Chadra-Fan or  Verpine,

since mechanicals were out of the question under  the  circumstances--scrambling

along the ropes and catwalks that stretched from bed to bed, or from the beds to

the supply station, clinging amid its own luxuriant cascades  of  sweetberry  to

the cliff wall.

"I still say we should put her in one of the lower rooms,"  insisted  Irek.

He shook back his long hair: shoulder-length, black as a  winter  midnight,  and

curlier than his mother's. Like hers, his skin was slightly golden,  but  pallid

with the pallor of life lived mostly underground. Like her,  he  dressed  simply

but carried himself with the cocky arrogance of one who believes himself  to  be

the center around which all the universe turns.

Leia was familiar with that posture from her days in the marriage  mart  of

the Emperor's Court. A lot of the young men had had  it,  knowing  the  universe

revolved around them and them alone.

"If we keep her at all," he added, and  gave  her  a  look,  up  and  down,

calculated to be an insult.

Lord Garonnin replied quietly, "Whatever her position in the Republic, Lord

Irek, Her Highness deserves the consideration due to the daughter of one of  the

Great Houses."

Irek opened his mouth to  snap  a  reply  and  Drost  Elegin's  lip  curled

slightly with something close to smugness, as if his opinion about the  boy  and

his mother had been borne out to their discredit. Roganda put her  hand  quickly

on her son's shoulder and added, "And for the time being, my  son,  she  is  our

guest. And this is what we owe to our guests." It might  have  been  Aunt  Rouge

speaking--Leia could see Roganda's eyes on Elegin as she brought out the  words,

and guessed they were more to impress him  with  her  knowledge  of  how  Things

Should Be Done than from any true concern for Leia's comfort.

"But..." Irek glanced from his mother's face, to Garonnin's, to Leia's, and

subsided. But the full lips were sullen, the blue eyes smoldering with a  secret

discontent.

"It is time we looked to our other guests."

Irek threw a cocky glance back to Leia and said, with deliberate malice, "I

suppose we can always kill her later, can't we?"  He  transferred  his  gaze  to

Garonnin and added, "Have you caught that droid of hers yet?"

"The men are searching the tunnels between here and  the  pad,"  said  Lord

Garonnin. "It won't get far."

"It better not."

The boy turned and strode out, followed by Roganda in a whisper of silk.

Garonnin turned back to Leia. "They are parvenus," he said, his  matter-of-

fact tone containing, by its sheer lack of apology, something  abyssally  deeper

than contempt for those not of the Ancient Houses. "But such people  have  their

uses. With him as our spearhead, we will be able to negotiate from a position of

power with the military hierarchies that fight for control  of  the  remains  of

Palpatine's New Order. I trust you will be comfortable, Your Highness."

Chief of State of the New Republic and architect of the Rebellion she might

be, but Leia could see that she remained, in his eyes, Bail Organa's daughter...

and the last surviving member of House Organa. The last Princess of Alderaan.

"Thank you," she said, biting back the annoyance she had always felt at the

old Senex aristocracy and speaking to him aristocrat to aristocrat,  sensing  in

him a potentially weak link in the chains that bound  her.  "I  appreciate  your

kindness, my lord. Am I to be killed?" She fought to keep  sarcasm  out  of  her

voice, to replace it with that dignified combination of martyrdom  and  noblesse

oblige with which, she had been taught,  aristocratic  ladies  surmounted  every

adversity from genocide to spotty tableware at tea.

He hesitated. "In my opinion, Your Highness, you would be of far  more  use

as a hostage than as an example."

She inclined her head, veiling her eyes with her lashes. Lord Garonnin came

of the class that did not kill hostages.

Whether the same could be said for Roganda and her son was another matter.

"Thank you, my lord."

And thank you, Aunt Rouge, she added  silently,  as  the  burly  aristocrat

bowed to her and closed the door behind him.

The bolts hadn't even finished clanking over as Leia began  her  search  of

the room.

There was, unfortunately,  little  enough  to  search.  Though  large,  the

chamber contained almost no furniture: a bed built of squared  ampohr  logs  and

equipped with an old-fashioned stuffed mattress and one foam pillow so old  that

the foam was starting to yellow; a worktable, also of ampohr  logs,  beautifully

put together but whose drawers contained nothing; a lightweight plastic chair of

a  truly  repellent  lavender.  A  screened-off   cubicle   contained   sanitary

facilities; a curtainless rod with pegs embedded in the wall behind it indicated

where someone had once hung clothes.

Leia noted automatically that all the furniture was human proportioned, the

plumbing fitted for human requirements.

The room had been cut out of  stone,  accurately  but  roughly,  the  walls

smoothed after a fashion but not finished. The door was metal, and  fairly  new.

Marks of other hinges indicated it had replaced one probably  less  substantial.

This high above the hot springs that warmed the caves,  without  her  t-suit  it

would have been unpleasantly cold.

Leia touched the places where  the  older  set  of  hinges  had  been,  and

thought, They changed this place over to be a prison...  When?  She  wished  she

knew off hand the decay rate of foam pillows. It might tell her something.

And for whom?

The door latches clicked.

She felt, at the same moment, a thick, weighted  buzzing  in  her  head,  a

heavy sleepiness, and for an instant nothing mattered to her but going  over  to

the bed and lying down...

The Force. A trick of the Force.

She shoved it off--with a certain amount of difficulty--and retreated  from

the door as far as she could, knowing who would come in.

"You're still awake." Irek sounded surprised.

He had a blaster and a lightsaber. Leia kept to the vicinity of the window,

knowing better than to bolt for the door. "You're not the only one  around  here

who can use the Force."

He looked her up and down again, contempt in his blue  eyes.  He  was,  she

guessed, fourteen or fifteen years old. She wondered if he'd made the lightsaber

that hung at his side, or had gotten it from somewhere--someone--else. "You call

that using the Force?" He turned and regarded a place on the rock  of  the  wall

slightly to the right of the bed. She felt what he did with his mind,  with  the

Force; felt, as she had in the tunnels, the trained power of his  will  and  the

dark taint that stained its every usage.

Where there had been only the dark reddish stone,  there  was  now  a  hole

about half a meter square.

He giggled, childishly shrill. "Never seen anything like that before,  have

you?" He crossed to the place, but Leia still felt him watching  her.  His  hand

was close to his blaster and she remembered his words in the hall of the stream.

With her dead, the Republic will crumble.

He hadn't liked being contradicted and, what's more, didn't believe he  was

wrong. She suspected he didn't believe he could be wrong.

He would have loved to shoot her while trying to escape.

He took a black plastene pouch from the hole, and at  his  nod,  the  stone

reappeared as it had been. He gave her his cocky, charming grin. "Even my mother

doesn't know about that one," he said, pleased with himself. "And  she  wouldn't

know how to open it if she did." He tossed the pouch lightly in his  hand.  Leia

recognized it--the twin of the one she'd found hidden in the old toy  room,  and

of the one Tomla El had taken from Drub's pocket.

"She doesn't know as much as she thinks she does. She thinks I can't handle

this, either; thinks I can't use the Force to turn it  into  another  source  of

power."

The blue eyes glittered. "But with the Force on my side,  everything  is  a

source of power. As they'll all find out."

Leia watched him, saying nothing, as he crossed to the door. Then he turned

back, his face suddenly clouded.

"Why didn't your droid stop?" he asked. "Why didn't it obey me?"

"What made you think it would?" she returned, folding her arms.

"Because I have the Force. I have the power."

She tilted her head a little to one side, considering him in  silence.  Not

needing to say, You obviously don't all the time.

And he couldn't tell her she was wrong, she thought,  without  telling  her

how he had acquired that power in the first place.

After a moment he hissed at her, "Sow!" and stormed out the door,  slamming

and locking it behind him.

It took Leia fifteen sweating, aching minutes to open the hole in the  wall

once more. She had sensed, quite clearly, what he did--the  compartment  in  the

wall was built with a segment of the rock that covered it keyed to be  literally

shifted into another dimension by the power  of  the  Force.  It  was  old,  she

sensed, designed and built by a Jedi of vast power, and even so small a quantity

of shift required a control and a strength almost beyond her  capacity.  By  the

time the shift took place she felt drained, as if  she'd  worked  out  with  the

sword for an hour, or run for miles. Her  hands  were  shaking  as  she  reached

inside.

There was a little cream-colored yarrock powder spilled on the bottom.

Easily obtainable enough in any spaceport, of course. If Irek was  anything

like some of the more self-destructive spirits at the  Alderaan  Select  Academy

for Young Ladies, he had packets  of  the  stuff  cached  everywhere.  It  would

explain how Drub McKumb had come by it, and obtained  the  temporary  sanity  it

brought.

There were other things in the compartment, shoved farther in.  Bundles  of

flimsiplast notes. Tiny skeins of wire. A couple  of  small  soldering  guns.  A

handful of xylen chips.

A gold ring that, when brought to the light and rubbed, proved  to  be  the

mark of an honorary degree at the University of Coruscant.

A small gold plaque commemorating the dedication of the  Magrody  Institute

of Programmable Intelligence.

A woman's gold-meshed glove.

Leia opened the notes, and at the bottom  of  the  last  page  a  signature

caught her eye.

Nasdra Magrody.

To this day I don't know if Palpatine =new.

Curled up in the window seat, Leia read the words with a strange  sense  of

alm-grief, of pity for the man who had written them in this room, not  all  that

many years ago. The heavy black lines of the chip schematics traced on the other

side bled through the  pale-green  plast  a  little,  giving  the  effect  of  a

palimpsest, like an allegory of tragedy. Calm scientific fact and  the  dreadful

usages to which it had been put. In his way, Magrody had been as  naive  as  the

Death Star's hermetically sheltered designer, Qwi Xux.

She wondered if he'd written this on the back of his notes because  it  was

the only writing material he was allowed.

Probably, she thought, considering the marginless edges, the way  the  bold

calligraphy cramped at top and bottom. Probably.

I should have suspected, or  known,  or  guessed.  Why  would  an  Imperial

concubine, with all the pleasures and privileges available  to  those  who  have

nothing to do but care for their own beauty, have sought out the bookish middle-

aged wife of a robotics professor, if not for some kind  of  intrigue?  I  never

paid attention to the affairs of the Palace, the constant jockeying for position

among the Emperor's ministers and the more vicious, beh-the-scenes  power  plays

engaged in  by  wives  and  mistresses  each  intent  on  being  the  mother  of

Palpatine's eventual heir.

I thought such matters beneath the concern of scholarship.

I paid a high price for my absentminded ignorance.

I only pray that Elizie, and our daughter, Shenna, will not be required  to

pay as well.

Leia  closed  her  eyes.  All  the  reports  she  had  received  after  the

destruction of Alderaan and the demolition of the Death Star had assumed Magrody

had disappeared willingly, probably into the Emperor's infamous think  tank,  in

flight from retribution by the Rebellion for what he had  done.  Those  reports,

that is, that didn't assume that Leia herself had been behind the  distinguished

scientist's sudden absence. Many attributed work on the Sun Crusher to him. Took

his wife and daughter and went into seclusion someplace...

Would her father have traded his ideals, gone to work for the  Emperor,  to

save her?

It had been her biggest fear on board Vader's Star Destroyer, and later  on

the Death Star itself--that Bail Organa would yield to threats to do her harm.

She still didn't know. He'd never been offered the choice.

Mon Mothma will laugh, I suppose, at the ease with which I was lured to the

place where they picked me up. And well  she  might,  should  circumstance  ever

permit her to laugh at anything connected  with  the  evils  that  I  have  been

required to perform. I thought all I had to do was some  single  service--they'd

let Elizie and Shenna free, perhaps put me down on some deserted  planet,  where

I'd eventually be found...

A frightening annoyance, but finite.

Dear gods of my people, finite.

Roganda Ismaren told me it was all in the Emperor's name. She had  a  small

collection of bullyboys around her,  military  types  but  none  in  uniform.  I

suppose she could have bribed them with money juggled from  Treasury  funds,  or

deceived them as she deceived me. She was herself clever enough with  finances--

and blackmail--to obtain whatever she wanted. There seemed to be far more  money

than personnel in evidence: [Leia had noticed this herself] the finest,  newest,

most exquisite equipment available, cutting-edge programs  and  facilities,  but

the same ten or twelve guards.

Though she told me--and the guards--that all was by his  command,  I  never

received one scrap of empirical or circumstantial evidence that Palpatine was in

any way involved.

It didn't matter.

I didn't even know what planet they took me to, or where Elizie and  Shenna

were, after the one time I saw them.

Leia shivered, though the window seat where she read was the  warmest  spot

in the room, and looked out into the eerie rainbows of the atmosphere under  the

dome. She remembered, the night before the Time of Meeting, sitting  beside  one

of the fountains in the rooftop gardens of the Ithorian guest  house  while  Han

pointed out to Jaina and Jacen which star  was  Coruscant's  sun.  On  Coruscant

itself--the Scintillant Planet, old songs called it--the flaming  veils  of  its

nightly auroras prevented amateur astronomy, but  Ithor  was  without  even  the

lights of cities. The sky there seemed to breathe stars.

Most of those stars had worlds of some  kind  circling  them,  though  they

might be no more than bare balls of rock or ice or  frozen  gas  habitable  only

after prohibitively expensive bioforming. Fewer than  twenty  percent  had  been

mapped. Before the day of Drub McKumb's attack, Leia had  never  even  heard  of

Belsavis.

Worlds were large.

And life appallingly short.

What they wanted was simple,  they  told  me.  My  talents--unsuspected,  I

thought, by any--had led me to study the records of the old Jedi, to  experiment

with the mental effects attributable by them to the energy field referred to  as

the Force.

Talents? thought Leia, startled. Magrody.was Force-strong?

It was something she hadn't known,  something  Cray  had  never  mentioned,

probably hadn't known either. Considering  the  Emperor's  attitude  toward  the

Jedi--in which he had never been alone--it was hardly  surprising  the  man  had

kept it hidden.

I thought I had been successful in concealing, in my  experiments,  my  own

abilities  to  influence  this  energy  field   by   means   of   thought   wave

concentrations, an ability that I believe to be hereditary and  not  limited  to

the human species. Perhaps Roganda Ismaren, or the Emperor himself  had  deduced

from my articles in the Journal  of  Energy  Physics  that  I  knew  more  about

directed thought waves than I ought.

In any case, for my sins, I had reflected on the tradition, or legend, that

the Jedi were unable to affect machinery or droids by means of the  "Force."  In

the light of the nature  of  subelectronic  synapses,  I  speculated  about  the

possibility of an implanted subelectronic converter, to be  surgically  inserted

in the brain of one who possessed such hereditary ability to concentrate thought

waves, enabling him or  her,  with  proper  training,  to  influence  artificial

intelligences of varying complexities at the individual synaptic level.

This was what they wanted me to do.

Irek, thought Leia. Perhaps the boy actually was the Emperor's son,  though

given Palpatine's age at the  probable  time  of  Irek's  conception--and  given

Roganda's coolly unscrupulous talents as a planner--the odds were good  that  he

wasn't.

And if Roganda was his mother, there was no need for  Palpatine's  seed  to

guarantee that Irek would be himself strong in the Force.

Given the atmosphere of Palpatine's Court, the pervasive use  of  fear  and

threat, the infighting of factions and pretenders  to  power,  Leia  could  only

guess at what attempts might have been made on Roganda's life  before  Irek  was

born.

No wonder Roganda was a liar, a chameleon, an adept manipulator of emotions

and situations and beh-the-scenes power. If she  hadn't  been  she'd  have  been

killed.

It was quite clear from the timing of events that Roganda, a child  of  the

Jedi herself, had set out almost at once to better the hand she had  been  dealt

at Irek's birth.

Irek had been implanted at the age of five, before the debris from Alderaan

had even settled into xs permanent, ragged  orbit  around  what  had  been  that

planet's sun.

Had she planned it herself in her most malicious daydreams, Leia could have

evolved no more wretched vengeance upon the man who had taught the Death  Star's

designers.

Nasdra Magrody had been kept, drugged with  mild  doses  of  antidepressant

just sufficient to rob him of any will to leave, in a  comfortable  villa  on  a

planet so inhospitable, so  dangerous,  so  teeming  with  bizarre  insect-borne

viruses, that to step outside the magnetic field  that  surrounded  the  gardens

would have resulted, within hours, in his death.

I can only be thankful I had already been soothed with Telezan before  they

demonstrated this fact to me [he wrote sadly]. I still don't know  the  name  of

the man they tied up outside the boundaries of the field, or his crime, if  he'd

committed one--the commander in charge assured me he had,  but  of  course  that

could have been a lie. The bullyboys who took him out there wore t-suits,  which

they then cut to pieces in front of me. The man himself lasted two hours  before

he began to swell up; his decomposing flesh didn't begin to slough until  nearly

sunset, and he died shortly before dawn. If it hadn't been for the drug I  don't

think I'd have slept at all, either that night, or any night in the  four  years

that I remained there.

They supplied me regularly with holos of my wife. I  was  comfortable,  and

studied, and perfected the techniques by which subelectronic synapses  could  be

controlled. I think that in spite of the drugs I was aware  that  in  those  two

years there was no alteration of Elizie's face-nor of the length of her hair--in

the holos. Of Shenna, who would have grown from girl to woman in that time, they

never sent me anything at all. I did my best not to think about what that meant.

The drugs made that easy.

When Irek was seven, his training began. It was obvious to Leia, from  what

Magrody said, that the boy had already had training in the use of the Force, the

swift and easy simplicities of the dark side. With the less punitive accelerated

learning procedures Magrody had developed for  the  Omwat  orbital  station,  he

learned enough, by the age of twelve, to  qualify  for  an  advanced  degree  in

subelectron physics or a position as a droid motivator technician-at  what  cost

Leia, recalling Cray's desperate measures to  accelerate  learning,  could  only

guess.

Every now and then a tree feeder will go mildly amok and wander through the

streets of the town squirting nutrient at passersby...

Bizarre enough when Jevax had told her of  it  last  night,  but  clear  as

daylight, Leia realized, when she understood that a twelve -  or  thirteen-year-

old boy was developing his powers to alter the behavior of droids.

Visualize the schematic, Roganda had said...

Leia thought about the mechanical intelligences behind every  ship  in  the

Republic's fleet, and shivered again.

Chewbacca had repaired Artoo, obviously not rewiring in the same fashion...

and Irek had lost his power over the droid.

Han, she thought desperately. Like Drub McKumb, even if she  lost  her  own

life, she had to get word out to them of the  danger  they  faced,  and  how  to

circumvent the boy Irek's powers. They're there... they're gathering...

Going to kill you all.

More of that night at the Emperor's reception returned to her. Aunt  Celly,

plump and pink-faced with her fading fair hair looped into the sort of lacquered

confection of twirls, pearls, and artificial  swags  popular  twenty-five  years

previously, had taken her aside and whispered conspiratorially, "It's  a  hotbed

of intrigue, dear; just terrible." She'd glanced across at the slender exquisite

concubines. "I'm told they're  all  at  daggers-drawing,  my  dear.  Because  of

course, whoever can provide him with a child, that child  is  going  to  be  his

heir."

Leia particularly remembered Roganda, like an enameled image of crimson and

gold, moving from dignitary to  dignitary  with  that  same  air  of  vulnerable

shyness...

At that time, Leia realized, Irek had to have been at least four years old,

and Roganda already gathering her own power base, laying her plans. From  things

Magrody said, she must already have been training her son in  the  ways  of  the

dark side of the Force.

There was no way Palpatine would have let such power exist without using it

for his own ends. And having acted for him in some things, it would be  easy  to

say, These orders come from him.

She wondered how Roganda had come to the old man in the  first  place,  and

whether it was he who had turned her to the dark side, as he  had  turned  Vader

andfora time turned Luke, or whether Roganda had sought him out when she saw the

fate of Jedi who tried to  stay  free.  Somehow,  Leia  strongly  suspected  the

latter.

Looking back at that levee, she had the  tremendous  sense  of  seeing  yet

another palimpsest, one set of circumstances rising  up  through  another  in  a

complex jungle of double meaning, which at the time she--eighteen years old  and

filled with her father's Republican ideals--had been completely unaware of.

Her own response  to  Celly's  words  still  made  her  wince  at  her  own

na@ivet@e: She'd indignantly quoted a dozen points concerning  the  transfer  of

power from the Senate Constitution, just as if Palpatine weren't going  to  tear

up that document later in the year.

But in fact, in the power vacuum that had succeeded Palpatine's  fall,  the

generals, with a few notable exceptions, had mostly  gone  each  for  him  -  or

herself. None had wanted a regent, particularly not one for an infant child.

The boy is now thirteen years old [wrote Magrody in his  final  paragraph].

His control over droids and mechanicals increases daily; his use of the  various

artifacts of the Jedi his mother brings to him is ever more adept. He can  alter

sensors and sensor fields, keeping abreast of the wiring  patterns  of  all  the

standard makes; he amuses himself by causing minor machinery to malfunction. His

mother demands much of him, and in consequence of  this  I  fear  he  has  begun

dabbling in substances of which she disapproves-telling  himself  they  increase

his perceptions and his abilities to use  the  Force,  but  in  actual  fact,  I

believe, simply because he knows she would disapprove.

I see well what I have created. Mon Mothma--my friend Bail--all  those  who

tried to enlist my support and help against the rise of Palpatine's  power...  I

can only beg for your understanding, for I know that what I  have  done  is  not

something that can be forgiven.

I will try to get these notes to you in some fashion. Should I not, I  fear

that all will believe the worst of me. I tried to  make  the  best  decisions  I

could... with what results, I pray that you will never have occasion to see.

To you I sign myself in all wretchedness,

Nasdra Magrody

Leia folded the notes together and slipped them into the pocket of  her  t-

suit.

I fear that all will believe the worst of me...

With all her power, once the Emperor was dead Roganda had not joined in the

immediate and general grab for power--possibly because Irek was too young to use

his powers, and possibly because warlords like High Admiral Thrawn had something

against Roganda that Roganda considered insurmountable... a DNA comparison,  for

instance, between the Emperor and the child Irek that proved that  the  boy  was

not, in fact, Palpatine's son.

Possibly Thrawn simply didn't like the woman.

It was a viewpoint for which Leia had a good deal of sympathy.

Instead Roganda had come here, to her own childhood home,  where  she  knew

she could raise and train her son unnoticed--and where she  knew  the  Jedi  had

left at least some training aids. Raise him and train him until he could not  be

ignored.

It occurred to  her  to  wonder  whether  Roganda  had  been  grooming  and

preparing her own child to replace Palpatine at all.

It sounded very much more, thought Leia uneasily, as  if  Roganda's  intent

had been to raise up not another Palpatine... but another Darth Vader.

Chapter 19

"Master Luke?"

It was very important.

"Master Luke?"

He had to wake up, come out of it, cross back over to the  conscious  world

from the peaceful subsurface darkness of dreams.

"Please, Master Luke..."

Why?

He knew that on the other side of that fragile wall of waking lay the  fire

heat of nearly unbearable pain. Much better to stay unconscious. He  was  tired,

his body desperate for rest. Without rest, all the Force he could bring to  bear

on self-healing was wasted, as if he were trying to fill a  jar  up  with  water

before he'd patched the hole in its bottom.

His leg hurt, a raging  infection  and  stress  injuries  exacerbating  the

original severed tendons and  cracked  bone.  Every  muscle  and  ligament  felt

stretched and torn and every centimeter of flesh ached as if he'd  been  pounded

with hammers. The dreams had been unpleasant. Callista...

What could be so important on the other side that it couldn't wait?

After Callista had left--or perhaps while she still lay in  his  arms,  her

head pillowed on his shoulder in the aftermath of loving--he  had  drifted  into

deeper sleep. He had seen her far off, in the  girlhood  left  behind  on  Chad,

riding mermaidlike behind the sleek black-and-bronze cy'een with her brown  hair

slicked where the waves broke over her head, or sitting alone on an  outbuoy  to

watch the sun drown itself in the sea. Conversation replayed in his  mind:  "You

sound as if you've  studied  them."  "You  could  say  they  were  my  next-door

neighbors growing up..."

Only he and Callista were no longer in the dark office, orange words coming

out of the black screen like stars at sunset. Rather they sat side  by  side  in

that old T-70 he'd sold for bantha feed to pay passage for Ben  and  himself  on

the Millennium Falcon, all those distant forevers ago.

It surprised him that he hadn't known Callista then. That she hadn't always

been someone he knew.

They were on the cliffs above Beggar's Canyon, passing his old  macrobinocs

back and forth to watch the  startlingly  unobtrusive  progress  of  a  line  of

banthas among the rocks of the opposite rim, the  clumsy  beasts  moving  faster

than one would guess from their appearance, the dry wind  fluttering  the  sand-

covered veiling of their riders and the slanting sun flashing harshly  on  metal

and glass. "Nobody's ever figured out how to tell a hunting party from  a  tribe

moving house," Luke said, as Callista made an adjustment to the focus. "Nobody's

ever seen children or young or whatever--notobody knows whether  some  of  those

warriors are females, or even if there are male and female Sand P.  Mostly  when

you see Sand People--or even hear the banthas roaring-you just  head  the  other

way as fast as you can.

"Has anyone ever tried to make friends with them?" She  handed  the  binocs

back, brushed a blowing trail of hair from her eyes. She still  wore  the  baggy

gray coverall she'd had on in some earlier dream, but her  face  was  clean  and

unscarred now and she looked less strained, less exhausted, than she had. He was

glad of that, glad to see her happy and at ease.

"If anyone tried, he didn't survive to talk about it." Out of  sheer  habit

Luke scanned his own side of the canyon rim, and the rocks below. He saw no sign

of the Tuskens, but then, one frequently didn't. "There was an innkeeper over at

Anchorhead who had the bright idea of trying to get them on his side-I think  he

wanted to go into the desert pirate business. He noticed they raid pika and deb-

deb orchards--those are sweet fruits they grow  in  some  oases--and  cooked  up

sugar water in a still to see if he could  use  it  to  bargain  with  them.  It

supposedly got them paralytically drunk and they seemed to enjoy it. He made  up

another batch and they came back and killed him."

Luke shrugged. "Maybe they didn't like feeling good."

She turned, her gray eyes widening, like one who  has  seen  a  revelation.

"But that explains everything!" she cried. "It's a clue to where they come from!

"

"What?" said Luke, startled.

"They're related to my uncle Dro. He hated to have a good time  and  didn't

think anybody else should either."

Luke laughed, and all the diamond hardness, the dark-forged  Jedi  strength

of his heart, was transfigured into light. He swung the speeder  in  a  swooping

dive away down the trail. "Wow! That means your uncle Dro is related to my  aunt

Coolie..."

"Which means we're long-lost cousins!"

Luke mimed a wildly exaggerated  double  take  of  recognition;  they  were

laughing like teenagers as they sped down the trail. "C'mon,"  he  said.  "We're

gonna be late--it's past noon now and we've got to be there at sixteen hundred."

The speeder's shadow fluttered after them, like a blue-gray scarf  dragged  over

the rocks.

Sixteen hundred, thought Luke. Sixteen hundred.  It's  past  noon  now  and

we've got to be there at...

Sixteen hundred!

He came to consciousness with a cry, as if he'd been tipped  into  an  acid

bath of pain. All the aches and stiffness of his  struggle  against  the  droids

fell on him like a collapsing wall; he stifled a moan and Threepio cried, "Thank

the Maker! I was afraid you were never coming around!"

Luke turned his head, though to do so felt as if he were breaking  his  own

neck. He lay on a pile  of  blankets  and  what  felt  like  insulation  on  the

worktable in the fabrications lab  just  beyond  his  old  headquarters  in  the

quartermaster's office on Deck 12, illuminated by  sputtering  yellow  emergency

lights. The antigrav sled floated near the floor along the  far  wall.  Threepio

stood beside his makeshift bed with the air of one who had paced at least  fifty

kilometers back and forth across the  four-meter  room,  the  black  box  of  an

emergency medkit in his hands.

"What time is it?"

"It's thirteen hundred hours thirty-seven minutes, sir." He set the  medkit

down beside Luke and opened it. "Miss Callista informed me that you ran afoul of

the ship's maintenance droids--and I must say, sir, that I'm absolutely  shocked

that even the Will could induce such disgraceful  behavior  in  mechanicals--and

gave me the coordinates to find you. In addition to  changing  the  dressing  on

your leg, on her instructions I've administered antishock and a  mild  metabolic

enhancer. But frankly, sir, even with proper first aid I don't consider  you  in

any condition to fight the Gamorreans, although I can only speak  from  personal

observation, not being a medical droid myself. How do you feel, sir?"

"Like the last third  of  a  hundred-kilometer  road  race  with  a  busted

stabilizer." Luke taped shut the gash in the leg of his coverall over  the  last

three perigen patches he or Threepio had been able to find. "I think I want  one

of those about the size of a blanket." He gingerly moved his shoulder, which had

been all but dislocated in the struggle--the shrapnel cuts on his  face  smarted

with disinfectant and the flesh all around  them  was  swollen  and  exquisitely

tender to the touch. His left hand and arm, burned by shorting wires,  had  been

clumsily bandaged and dosed with some kind of  local  anesthetic,  which  wasn't

working very well. The skin of his right hand had been cut open,  bloodless,  to

show the glint of metal underneath.

"I don't believe they make  them  in  that  size,  sir."  Threepio  sounded

worried.

As well he might, thought Luke.

"I wonder if the foo-twitter is still up there?"

"It's fine." Her voice was in his head, clear  and  soft--the  words  might

even have been actually audible, because Threepio replied, "But, Miss  Callista,

diversion or no diversion, Master Luke is scarcely up to taking on  Gamorreans--

was

"No, we've been going about this all wrong," said Luke. "If  the  Will  can

program droids to think I'm garbage that needs recycling  -  comor  can  program

Gamorreans to think Cray is a Rebel saboteur--it's about time we went  into  the

programming business ourselves."

Torches were burning all  around  the  Gakfedd  village  when  Luke  limped

through the wide doors of the storage hold. The place stank of acrid smoke and a

suggestion of malfunctioning waste disposal, or at the very least too few visits

by the increasingly scarce MSE'S. By the light of the huge bonfire in  front  of

the central hut Bullyak was constructing a splendid mail shirt of red  and  blue

plastic mess-room plates and engine tape. She looked up with a fierce  grunt  as

the slender Jedi  and  his  gleaming  servant  stepped  into  the  ring  of  the

firelight.

She said something  to  him  and  gestured  to  him  to  advance.  Threepio

translated, "The Lady Bullyak asks if her husbands did  this  to  you."  Another

long string of guttural rumbles. "She adds her opinion that neither of  them  is

particularly intelligent or sexually competent, though I really fail to see what

bearing that has on the matter."

"Give the Lady Bullyak my compliments and tell her that I've  discovered  a

path to allow her husbands and the other boars of the tribe to redeem themselves

in truly heroic combat against worthy enemies."

The sow sat up. Her greenish eyes gleamed like evil jewels in their pockets

of warty fat.

"She says that her husbands and the other boars have all become stupid  and

idle from looking at the computer screens too much,  and  have  neglected  their

duties to their tribe and to her. She would be grateful  to  you  if  you  could

recall them from this stupid enslavement to the thing  in  the  monitor  screens

that thinks more about catching vermin than it does about the need of  boars  to

act like boars. She adds further detail that has no apparent connection  to  the

matter at hand."

Luke suppressed a grin. In his mind he could almost hear  Callista's  snort

of laughter.

"Ask her where her husbands might be found."

"Behind you, Rebel scum!"

They were actually grouped in the doorway-empty-handed, for which Luke  was

profoundly glad. Having paid off the Jawas with the corpse of the  G-40  to  cut

certain power lines, he'd feared his grubby hirelings would  be  caught  in  the

act.

Ugbuz shoved Threepio aside, sending the droid sprawling  with  a  clatter.

Two other boars seized Luke's arms.

"This outage is your doing, eh?" snarled the Gamorrean. "You and your Rebel

saboteurs..."

Bullyak surged to her feet. "You can  be  brave  warriors  against  a  puny

little cripple and a walking talk machine," translated Threepio, rather  feebly,

from the floor. His voice was  nearly  drowned  by  the  sow's  thunderstorm  of

shrieks. "But given the chance to meet  and  fight  those  stinking  misbegotten

soap-eating Klaggs, you all run away like morrts to do the bidding of  something

behind a screen that never even shows itself."

Ugbuz hesitated.  The  Gamorrean  in  him  was  clearly  at  war  with  his

indoctrinated stormtrooper persona. "But it's orders," he argued at last.  "It's

the W."

"It's the Will that you act like true boars," put in Luke gently. In  spite

of the sweat-stringy hair hanging in his eyes and the bruises all over one  side

of his unshaven face, his voice was the voice of  a  Jedi  Master,  reaching  to

touch the minds of those with little mind of their  own.  "Only  by  being  true

boars can you be true stormtroopers."

The big boar hesitated, almost visibly wringing his hands. Luke  added,  to

Bullyak, "I have heard that Mugshub laughs at you for having a feeble tribe that

won't fight, and calls you Piglet-Mommy."

Bullyak let out a furious squeal and, as Luke had expected, struck him hard

enough to have knocked him reeling had the warriors not  been  holding  him.  He

went limp and rolled with the blow; the infuriated sow kicked  Threepio  halfway

across the hold, then started slapping Ugbuz and every boar in sight,  screaming

obscenities that Threepio, from his corner, dutifully translated in a  startling

wealth of anatomical detail.

"But it's the Will!" insisted Ugbuz  helplessly,  as  if  this  were  self-

explanatory. "It's the Will!"

Threepio translated what, in Bullyak's opinion, Ugbuz  could  do  with  the

Will, and added, "But I'm afraid that doesn't sound at all physically  possible,

sir."

"Perhaps the Will has changed," offered Luke in his  soft  voice.  "Perhaps

now that a way has been found for you to do your duty as fighting boars,  it  is

consonant with the intent of the Will that you do this."

As one, Ugbuz and his men dashed into the big hut at the  far  end  of  the

hold, Bullyak in high-volume pursuit. Luke picked  himself  up  from  the  floor

where he'd been dropped, helped Threepio to his feet, and, wiping the blood from

the corner of his mouth, limped after them.

He found them clustered breathlessly around the monitor screen. In spite of

the fact that all computer lines had been cut to the storage hold over  an  hour

ago, a line of orange letters swam up into view.

- - It is consonant with the intent of the Will that you ascend to Deck  19

by means of Lift 21 and annihilate those stinking sons of  cabbage-pickers,  and

their mangy little morrts, too

They nearly trampled him barreling out the door.

"What is it?" growled Ugbuz. At Luke's signal the two  stormtroopers  who'd

been carrying him for the sake of speed stopped and set him on his  feet.  "This

ain't Lift Twenty-one." The Gamorrean's piggy yellow eyes  gleamed  suspiciously

in the dim flare of the emergency lights. The whole deck was dark now,  and  the

air felt cold, stuffy, and strange. Curious scramblings and scufflings seemed to

whisper all around them in the dark and Luke realized it  had  been  quite  some

time since he'd seen a working SP  or  MSE.  Only  their  gutted  corpses,  like

roadkills along the walls.

Threepio stood silhouetted in the dark door of the quartermaster's  office,

gleaming in the feeble reflection of the lights of Luke's staff.

"Intelligence report." Luke hobbled to the droid's side and put a  hand  on

the golden metal shoulder to draw  him  through  to  the  storeroom  beyond  the

office.

The antigrav sled was there. Additional power had been jacked into  x  from

the cells of the G-40 and the two snake-droids Luke had killed to raise it three

meters above the floor.

"You okay in here?" he asked softly.

"Quite all right, Master Luke. As long as I remain  within  the  perimeters

programmed into the trackers the Jawas cannot molest me. But I suggest that  you

pay off the Jawas quickly, before the power ebbs to the  point  where  the  sled

settles any further."

It had already settled a  good  half  meter--even  with  the  two  trackers

Threepio had reprogrammed to stun Jawas, once the sled with  its  load  of  dead

robots got within two Jawa-heights of the floor--the point at which  they  could

stand on each other's shoulders--one way or another,  they'd  find  a  means  of

helping themselves. Luke could  already  see  the  little  knot  of  brown-robed

figures  grouped  in  the  door  making  their  calculations,  muttering   among

themselves in their shrill, childlike voices.

"Any problems?"

The smallest of the Jawas scurried forward, lay  down,  and  kissed  Luke's

boots. "Master, we did our best, did our best." It got up again. It was the  one

he'd rescued, whom he'd nicknamed Shorty in his mind. Yellow eyes  gleamed  like

firebugs in the black pit of its hood. "Went to the places you  said,  tried  to

cut the wires you said."

It held out its hand. Luke winced. The clawlike fingers were blistered  and

black with burns. Others stepped forward, stretching out  their  arms,  and  the

evidence of injury was appalling.

"It's true, Luke." Callista's voice spoke soft at  his  side.  "The  cables

feeding power to the Punishment Chamber aren't  only  shielded,  they're  booby-

trapped. One of the Jawas was killed trying to get in and two others  are  badly

stunned. We can't cut power to the grid."

"Something else?" queried Shorty. "Trade  you  six  hundred  meters  silver

wire, fourteen size A Telgorn power cells, thirty size D Loronar cells for drive

housings, and optical circuitry of two Cybot Galactica Gyrowheel Multifunctions.

"

Luke barely heard him. He felt cold, panic whispering under  the  bones  of

his chest. Cray was due to be taken to execution in under an hour and  the  grid

in the Punishment Chamber was still live. His mind  raced,  trying  to  fit  new

plans, new conditions...

"Twenty size A Telgorns," Shorty urged. "This is all we have. Without  them

we will grope in the dark like blind grubs in the rock, but for you, master,  we

make a special deal..."

"Thirty A's," said Luke, recovering, knowing what he'd have to do.  If  the

Jawas claimed they had twenty size A's it meant a stockpile of at  least  forty-

five. "And thirty D's, and thirty meters of reversing shielded cable,  in  trade

for the Gyrowheel Multis. For the rest, you do another job for me."

"All the rest?" Half a dozen hooded heads turned--one  Jawa  moved  a  step

toward the black, floating shadow of the sled, and both trackers swiveled  in  a

flashing of baleful lenses. The Jawa stepped back the precise eight  centimeters

required to put it beyond the  tracker's  range.  Luke  realized  he'd  have  to

conclude his deal quickly or his currency would end up being purloined before he

even got back with Cray and Nichos. If he got back with Cray and Nichos.

"All the rest," said Luke. "Easy job. Easy."

"At your service, master, master," whined the Jawas in chorus. They crowded

around him, waving their burned hands and arms. Some had been bandaged with rags

and strips of insulation and uniforms--Luke wondered if  it  would  be  safe  to

detail Threepio to get them disinfectants from sick bay and decided it  was  too

risky until Cray was safe. "Do anything," promised Shorty.  "Kill  all  the  big

guards. Steal the engines. Anything."

"Okay," said Luke. "I want you to go all over  the  ship,  everywhere,  and

bring me back all the tripods and put them all in one  room.  All  in  the  mess

hall, and keep them there. Don't hurt them, don't kill them, don't tie them up--

just get them there gently, and put out water for them to drink. Okay?"

The Jawa saluted. Its robes smelled like a gondar pit. "Okay,  master.  All

okay. Pay now?"

"Bring power cells to Lift Twenty-one and I pay half." Luke  tried  not  to

think how little time remained between the present moment and 1600  hours.  Cray

was going to be executed and he had to play junk broker  to  the  Jawas...  "And

hurry."

"There already, master." The Jawas flurried away into the darkness.  "There

yesterday!" High above the floor, the trackers clicked and whirred  and  dangled

their grippers in bl-brained automated disapproval.

Luke leaned on his staff. He was trembling with fatigue. "You okay here  by

yourself for a little longer?"

"Quite all right, sir. A stroke of brilliance, if you will permit me to say

so, sir..."

Luke produced the sled controls from his pocket, lowered the sled itself to

the floor. He was aware of the smell of Jawas strengthening in the  room  as  he

opened the tailgate, awkwardly balancing against the side  of  the  sled  as  he

dragged out the gutted Tredwell and the two Gyrowheel snake-droids.  "Okay,"  he

said, slamming the gate again. "It'll be tougher to guard, but I need the  sled.

You think the trackers can handle it?"

"For a time, sir." The droid sounded worried, peering into the impenetrable

shadows, which  were  not  quite  impenetrable  to  those  heat-sensitive  optic

receptors. "Though I must say, those Jawas are diabolically clever."

Callista's voice spoke from the shadows, where Luke had  had,  all  through

the conversation, the sense that she stood, just--and only just--out  of  sight.

"Sure is lucky for our side that Luke's diabolically clever, too."

He felt her pride in him, palpable as the touch of her hand.

The Jawas were at Lift 21 with the power cells by the  time  Luke  and  his

sweatily odoriferous forces  arrived.  Luke  was  steering  the  antigrav  sled,

thankful to be off his feet--he could feel the  creep  of  exhaustion  and  pain

beginning and thought, Drat, I only put that perigen in a few hours ago!

He glanced at the chronometer above the doors of the lift. 1520.  Down  the

lift shaft from some floor above, a soft contralto voice floated, "All personnel

are to report to observation screens in the section lounges. All  personnel  are

to report to observation screens in the section lounges. Failure to do  so  will

be construed as..."

Ugbuz and his stalwarts turned automatically around. Luke sprang  from  the

sled, wincing as he stumbled, and caught the captain's arm. "That  doesn't  mean

you, Captain Ugbuz. Or your men."

The boar frowned laboriously. "But failure to report will be  construed  as

sympathy with the intent of the saboteurs."

Luke focused the Force into the small, cramped dark of that  disturbed  and

divided mind. "You're on special assignment," he reminded him. "Your  assignment

is to fulfill your destiny as a boar of the Gakfedd tribe.  Only  thus  can  you

truly serve the intent of the W."

How easy, he thought bitterly as he saw relief flood the  boar's  eyes,  it

must have been for Palpatine to maneuver men using just those words, just  those

thoughts.

And how easy for anyone who did it to become addicted to that smiling  rush

of satisfied power, when the stormtrooper captain signaled his followers back to

the open doors of the shaft.

It was the work of only minutes to link the power cells in series and  hook

them to the  sled's  lifters  with  the  long  green-and-yellow  snakes  of  the

reversing cables.  From  above,  Luke  could  hear,  if  he  stretched  out  his

perceptions, the breaths and heartbeats of the guards at the upper levels of the

shaft. The dim glow of his staff showed him the fused patches  of  ricochets  on

the shaft walls, the black scars all around the lift doors where the Klaggs  had

practiced their aim. In the slow rise of the antigrav sled, the  Gakfedds  would

be sitting targets.

1525.

Luke took the foo-twitter's trackball from his pocket. As  he  pressed  the

activation toggle he reached out still farther with his senses, listened to  the

hollow of the shaft, praying that the enclision grid hadn't  shorted  the  voder

circuits...

"Nichos!"

Distant, echoing, reduced to a half-heard wailing  breath,  the  cry  still

came to him, a hideous echo of terror, despair, and fury. Luke's  breath  caught

painfully as he heard--half heard, maybe only felt--the  scuffle  and  clang  of

boots, the hiss of a door. "Nichos, damn you, act like a  man  if  you  remember

how!"

And closer, the sudden drift of a guard's voice, "Wot's that?"

Luke heard nothing. But after a moment someone else said,  "Stinkin'  pond-

scum Gakfedds are up here!"

There was a rush of retreating feet.

"Now!" Luke hit the activators on the sled's motors as two Gakfedds slid it

out over the edge into the lift shaft. It balanced, bobbed, like a rowboat in  a

well. Luke graded the power up on a slow curve as the ersatz stormtroopers piled

into the sled. He was horribly aware of the dark drop of eighty meters  or  more

beneath him. The sled sank a little under their weight, then  held  steady;  the

shaft carried few echoes, but far off, if he shut his eyes,  stretched  out  his

awareness, he could hear the Klaggs cursing as they followed the  drifting  foo-

twitter through silent halls and storerooms lit only by the feeble penny dips of

emergency  lighting.  Could  almost  hear--a   breath   within   his   mind--the

reverberation of Callista's silent laughter as she maneuvered the tracker  ahead

of them, like a child pushing a balloon.

Then Cray's voice again, bitterly cursing the man who could not help her as

they dragged her through the halls toward her death.

No, thought Luke despairingly, as he upped the slow feed of power into  the

repulsorlifts. No, no, no...

The engines whined a moment, desperately fighting weight twice their design

capacity on a gravity column already dozens  of  times  higher  than  they  were

intended to rise...

Luke shut his eyes, and drew on the strength of the Force.

It was hard to concentrate, hard to focus and funnel the  glowing  strength

of the universe through a body crumbling with fatigue and a  mind  clouded  with

growing pain. Hard to call into jewel-clear power the lambent energies of  stars

and space and  solar  winds,  of  life--even  the  sweaty,  smelly,  angry,  and

desperately confused creatures around him. For the Force was part of them,  too.

Part of the tripods, the Jawas, the Sand People, Kitonaks... All of them had the

Force, the glowing strength of Life.

Concentrating was like trying to  focus  light  through  warped  and  dirty

glass. Luke fought to clear his  mind,  to  put  aside  Cray,  and  Nichos,  and

Callista... to put aside himself as well.

Slowly, the sled and its burden began to rise.

Only the lift, only the rising, thought Luke. They are the only things that

exist. No before or after. Like a glittering leaf ascending in darkness...

The yells of the Klaggs grew louder.

As if looking at a gauge that had nothing to do with the body or  the  soul

of Anakin Skywalker's son, Luke observed the  orange  torchlit  doorway  sinking

toward them and readied his hand on the repulsorlift controls.  The  idiots  are

going to jump on each other's shoulders to get to the doors first...

It would capsize the sled and spill them all  down  nearly  100  meters  of

shaft, but he couldn't break his concentration enough  to  say  so.  Instead  he

slowed his  mind,  sped  his  perceptions,  trimming  the  sled's  four  lifters

separately to  compensate  as--right  on  schedule--the  Gamorreans  leaped  and

grabbed and piled on each other's shoulders to be the  first  ones  through  the

doorway, squealing, cursing, waving  axes  and  shoulder  cannons,  heedless  of

Luke's execution of maneuvers that would have made a transport tech blench.  The

sled rocked and heaved but nobody fell. The Gakfedds, accepting the navigational

near miracle as a commonplace, were all out of the sled and gone before  a  true

commander would have let any of them stand.

Panting, shaking, sweat burning in the cuts on his face, and cold in  every

extremity, Luke timed the power dim precisely with their departure so  that  the

sled wouldn't shoot up through the end of the shaft, and then steadied the much-

lightened vessel into the torchlit guard lobby of  Deck  19.  He  collected  his

staff and rolled over the side, too weary to  open  the  tailgate;  lay  on  the

floor, fighting the wave of reaction, the weakness of calling on the  Force  far

beyond his current strength.

On the wall, the chronometer read 1550.

Cray, he thought, breathing deep of the stuffy, smoke-filthy air. Cray. And

Cray will help me save Callista.

I'll pay for this later.

He climbed to his feet.

Now.

In a way it was harder to focus the Force in his own body, to call strength

from outside himself, channeling it through muscles burning with the  toxins  of

fatigue and infection and a mind hurting for rest. But that, too, he put  aside,

moved forward with a warrior's light strength, barely aware  of  the  lurch  and

drag of his injured leg, the awkwardness of the staff.

The corridor around him rang with the sudden cacophony of battle.

He flattened to the wall as Gamorreans fell out of  the  hall  before  him,

hacking, yelling, firing almost point-blank with blasters whose shots ricocheted

crazily or ripped long burns in the walls; gouging at one another with tusks and

raking with stumpy claws, then screams like the rip  of  metal  and  canvas  and

stray gouts of blood stinking like hot copper in the  air.  Luke  dodged,  swung

around the corner and into the heat of the fray, but saw no glimpse of the green

uniform Cray had been wearing, no cornsilk flash of hair. A nightmare vision  of

Cray lying bleeding in some corridor flashed through  his  mind--then  from  the

door of a through-passage Callista yelled, "Luke!" and he ran,  holding  himself

up against the wall, barely feeling the sawing pain. "This way!"

"All personnel are to report to the  section  lounges,"  said  the  tannoy,

clear now, and Luke thought, This part of the ship is still alive. The  Will  is

here....

"All personnel are to report..."

"Luke!"

He skidded to a stop around a corner, facing the shut black double door  of

what was labeled Punishment 2, over whose lintel a  single  small  light  burned

amber. Nichos stood against the wall, a statue of brushed silver, the only thing

alive in his face the desperate agony of his eyes.

In front of the door stood a human  stormtrooper  in  full  armor,  blaster

carbine ready and pointed in his hands.

"Just stay where you are, Luke," said  Triv  Pothman's  voice.  The  helmet

altered it, rendered it tinnily inhuman, but Luke recognized it all the same. "I

know you feel loyal to her but she's a Rebel and a saboteur. If you back off now

I can testify in your favor."

"Triv, she isn't a Rebel." Luke scanned the hall with his eyes and mind and

detected not a fragment of loose metal, not even a gutted  MSE  or  a  mess-room

plate... "There are no Rebels anymore. The Empire is gone, Triv. The Emperor  is

dead." He literally didn't think he had the strength to rip the carbine  out  of

Pothman's grip by the Force alone.

Over the door the digital readout changed to  1556,  and  the  amber  light

began to blink red. Triv hesitated, then repeated in precisely the  same  tones,

"I know you feel loyal to her but..."

"That was a long time ago." Luke reached out with his mind, feeling his way

to the older man's thoughts as if  physically  trying  to  penetrate  the  white

plastic of  the  dog-faced  helmet,  the  guarding  darkness  that  armored  his

thoughts. Six meters separated  them.  Exhausted,  blank,  vision  tunneling  to

grayness, he fumbled to collect the Force and couldn't, and knew  he'd  be  shot

before he covered half the distance. And he wasn't sure he had the strength  for

even that.

"The Empire left you alone," he said softly. "Alone to be  yourself.  Alone

to do what you wanted, to grow a garden, to embroider flowers on  your  shirts."

He could almost hear, in the dark of the old man's mind, the shrill voice of the

Will: The Jedi killed your family. They descended on your village in the  night,

they slew the men in the space among the houses, rounded up the women under  the

trees.... You fled in the darkness, stumbling in the mud and streams...

"Remember your captain and the other men killing each  other?"  said  Luke,

conjuring the green shadows of the shelter, the gleam of those forty-five  white

helmets on a plank. The crunch of leaves underfoot  and  the  smoky  smell  they

produced. "Remember the camp you made, and the meadow by the stream?  You  lived

there a long time, Triv. And the Empire disappeared."

"I know you feel loyal to her but she's a..."

Vines. The earth. A tiny reptile with jewel-colored feathers picking  up  a

thrown breadcrumb in the doorway. The smell of the stream.

The reality of what had been. The years of peace.

"She's a Rebel and a saboteur..."

His voice trailed off.

What had really been, thought Luke. He held  it  out  to  Pothman,  shining

memories of place and time;  memories  of  those  things  that  he  himself  had

actually seen and knew, like a slice of sunlight piercing the  digitalized  tape

loop in Pothman's mind.

The light above the door blinked faster. 1559.

"Festering Skybolts!"

Pothman wheeled and dragged on the locking rings of the doors. Luke sprang,

scrambled to help him, the rings gripping fast, refusing to budge,  as  if  held

from the other side--or from within the  walls  themselves,  by  the  W.  Nichos

seized them, twisted with the  sudden,  inexorable,  mechanical  strength  of  a

droid. Air hissed as  the  seals  broke.  "It's  fighting  me!"  yelled  Nichos,

dragging the door open, and indeed, the heavy steel leaf was pulling visibly  at

his grip. "It's trying to close..."

Luke's lightsaber whined to life in his hands. Cray stood manacled  between

two support posts, face white with shock and exhaustion in the chalk-opal  sheen

of the grid's strange light. She  yelled,  "It's  too  late!"  as  Luke  limped,

stumbled in, slashed at the steel that held her wrists. "It's too late, Luke!"

With the last of his strength Luke blasted at  the  grid  with  his  mind--

misfire, flawed connection, a crucial jump of energy not jumping...

A searing, single bolt of lightning pierced the calf of his bad leg like  a

white needle as Cray dragged him out through the door.

Chapter 20

Cray said softly, "He was there." She  wrapped  her  arms  around  herself,

pulling close the thermal blanket he'd brought her, bowed  her  head  until  her

cheek rested on her drawn-up knees. "He was there the whole time. He kept saying

he loved me, he kept saying be brave, be brave... but  he  didn't  do  one  damn

thing to stop them." With her chopped-off hair ragged and  dirty  and  her  face

haggard with exhaustion and emotional ruin, she looked much younger than she had

when Luke had seen her on Yavin, or in her home territory at the  Institute,  or

in Nichos's hospital room.

In all of those places, for all of her life, she had  worn  her  perfection

like armor, he saw.

And now that, and all things else, were gone.

Smoky  light  wavered  from  the  crude  lamp  in  the  corner,  the   only

illumination in the room. The air  in  the  cul-de-sac  of  the  quartermaster's

office and the workrooms beyond it had gotten so bad Luke wondered if he  should

take the time to wire the local fans to cannibalized power  cells,  provided  he

could find them...

If there was time.

Heart and bones, he felt there wasn't.

"He had a restraining bolt--was

"I know he had a scum-eating motherless restraining bolt,  you  jerk!"  She

screamed the words, spat them at him, hatred and fury a bitter fire in her eyes;

and when the words were out sat staring at him in blind,  helpless  rage  behind

which Luke could see the fathomless well of defeat, and grief, and the ending of

everything she had ever hoped.

Then silence, as Cray turned her face aside. The nervous thinness that  had

advanced on her during Nichos's illness had turned brittle, as if something  had

been taken, not just from her flesh, but from the marrow of her bones. Over  the

torn uniform, grimed with blood and oil, the blanket hung on her like a battered

shroud.

She took a deep breath, and when she spoke again her  voice  was  perfectly

steady. "He was programmed not to obey anything I said. He wouldn't even get  me

food."

Luke knew this--Nichos had told him. The tray Threepio had brought from the

mess hall was untouched.

"Don't hate him for being what he is," he said, the  only  thing  he  could

think of to say. "Or for being what he's not."

The words sounded puerile in his own ears, like a half-credit  computerized

fortune-teller at a fair. Ben, he thought, would  have  had  something  to  say,

something healing... Yoda would have known how to deal with the wretched ruin of

a friend's heart and life.

The mightiest Jedi in the universe, he reflected bitterly--that he knew of,

anyway - comthe destroyer of the Sun Crusher, the slayer of evil, who'd defeated

the recloned Emperor and the Sith Lord Exar Kun, and all he could offer  someone

who had been disemboweled was, Gee, I'm sorry you're not feeling so well...

Cray brought her hands up to her head, as if to press  some  blinding  ache

from her skull. "I wish I did hate him," she said. "I love him--and that's worse

to the power of ten."

She looked up at him, her eyes tearless stone. "Get out of here, Luke," she

said without animosity, her face like flash-frozen wax that  would  crack  at  a

breath. "I want to go to sleep."

Luke hesitated, instinctively knowing that this  woman  shouldn't  be  left

alone. At his side, Callista said softly, "I'll stay with her."

Nichos, Pothman, and Threepio were in the fabrication lab outside. Threepio

was explaining, "They're quite the slowest  and  most  deliberate  race  in  the

galaxy. To the best of my knowledge all of the Kitonaks are still grouped in the

section lounge exactly where the Gamorreans put  them,  still  discussing  their

grandparents' recipes for domit. It's most extraordinary. And yet  during  their

mating season--during the rains--they move with quite amazing speed..."

They all turned as Luke came through the office door,  and  Nichos  stepped

awkwardly forward, holding out one hand. Cray had taken the mold for it when  he

was in the hospital, accurate down to the birthmark where the V  made  by  thumb

and forefinger came to a point.

Accurate like the blue eyes, the mobile fold at the  corner  of  the  lips.

Like the gigabytes of digitalized information  on  family,  friends,  likes  and

dislikes, who he was, and what he wanted...

"She all right?" asked Pothman into the silence.

"Come on, Nic," said Luke quietly. "Let me get that  restraining  bolt  off

you."

Nichos's eyes went past him to the shut door. "I see."

Luke drew breath to speak--though he didn't know what he was going to  say,

what he could  say-but  Nichos  held  up  his  hand,  and  shook  his  head.  "I

understand. I expect she will not want to see me ever again."

As he fetched the toolkit  from  the  locker  on  the  wall,  and  the  old

stormtrooper brought one of the flickering  battery  lights  to  illuminate  his

work, Luke honestly didn't know whether, given Cray's parting words to him,  she

would want to see her fianc@e again or not. He took refuge in the task at  hand,

which was more complicated than a simple pop-on, pop-off bolt  usually  employed

with droids. This one was dogged in with minute magnetized  catches,  and,  Luke

could see, programmed in a number  of  specific  ways.  The  Will  had  to  have

instructed the Klaggs in its installation. He ran a quick integral test on it to

make sure it hadn't been booby-trapped, then collimated the probe  down  to  the

smallest increment and began to pull the internal relays.

There was a certain amount of comfort to be obtained from purely mechanical

tasks. He told himself to remember that for another time.

"Luke..."

He looked up quickly, to meet the blue glass eyes. In the shadowy gloom the

face that he'd known so well was almost a stranger's, affixed monstrously to the

silver cowl of the metal skull.

"Am I really Nichos?"

Luke said, "I don't know." He had never  in  his  life  felt  so  helpless,

because in his heart-in the secret shadows where the truth always  lay--he  knew

that this was a lie.

He knew.

"I was hoping you would be able to tell me," said Nichos softly. "You  know

me--or you knew him. Cray programmed me to... to know everything Nichos knew, to

do everything Nichos did, to be everything Nichos  was,  and  to  think  that  I

really am Nichos. But I don't... know."

"What do you mean?" protested Threepio. "Of course you're Nichos. Who  else

would you be? That's like asking if The Fall of the Sun was written by  Erwithat

or another Corellian of the same name.

"Luke?"

Luke concentrated on pulling out the minutely programmed fiberoptic wires.

"Am I "another Corellian of the same name"?"

"I'd like to tell you one way or the other," said Luke. The bolt came  away

from the brushed-steel chest, lay thick and heavy in Luke's hand. One hand real,

one hand mechanical, but both his. "But I... I don't know. You are who you  are.

You are the being, the consciousness, that you are at this moment. That's all  I

can tell you." That fact, at least, was true.

The smooth face did not alter, but the blue eyes looked infinitely sad.  "I

had hoped that, being a Jedi, you would know."

And Luke had the uncomfortable sensation that, having been a  Jedi,  Nichos

knew perfectly well that he was keeping something back.

"I love her." Nichos looked again toward the doorway,  his  face  the  calm

face of a droid, his eyes the eyes of a desperately unhappy man. "I say  that--I

know that--yet I cannot tell the  difference,  if  there  is  one,  between  the

devotion, the loyalty, that Artoo and Threepio feel  toward  you.  And  I  don't

remember whether that's love or something else. I can't set them side by side to

compare. When they were holding Cray  a  prisoner,  when  they  mistreated  her,

struck her - comforced her to go through those stupid  parodies  of  a  trial--I

would have done anything to help her. Except that, since I was programmed not to

interfere with them, it was literally something that I could not do. I could not

make my limbs, my body, act in a fashion  contrary  to  my  programming  not  to

interfere."

He took the restraining bolt from Luke's hand, held it  between  thumb  and

forefinger, examining it dispassionately in the jaundiced glare of the  lamp  on

the table beside them. "The terrible thing is that I don't feel bad about it."

"Why in the universe should you?" asked Threepio, startled.

"No reason," said Nichos. "A droid cannot go against his basic programming,

or restraints placed upon his programming if  they  do  not  conflict  with  the

deepest level of motivational limiters. But I think Nichos would have."

"She's asleep now."

Luke was as aware of her entering the room as if  she'd  come  through  the

shut door that separated it from the tiny office. He was  alone.  In  the  dense

shadows - comthe  batteries  on  the  lamp  had  gone,  finally,  and  the  only

illumination came from the emergency supply of grease,  burning  with  makeshift

wicks in two big red plastic mess-hall bowls on the worktable--he  could  almost

trick himself inffbblieving he saw her, tall  and  lanky  with  her  brown  hair

hanging down her back in a tail as long and thick as his arm.

I can't let her be destroyed,  he  thought,  and  his  heart  twisted  with

despair.

"Is Nichos all right?"

Luke nodded, then caught himself, and  shook  his  head.  "Nichos...  is  a

droid," he said.

"I know."

He felt her presence beside him, as if she had hiked herself up to sit next

to him on the edge of the workbench, booted feet dangling, as  he  was  sitting.

The warmth of her flesh came back to him from his dream, the passionate strength

with which she'd clung to him, the sweetness of her mouth under his.

"Luke," she said gently. "Sometimes there is nothing you can do."

He expelled his breath in an angry gust, fist clenched  hard;  but  he  did

not, after all, speak for a time. Then it was only to say, "I know." He realized

he hadn't known that, two weeks ago. In some ways, learning about Sith Lords and

cloned Emperors had been easier.

He made a crooked grin. "I guess the trick is  learning  when  those  times

are."

"Djinn Altis used to teach us that," said Callista softly.  "We  have  been

for ten thousand years the guardians of peace and  justice  in  the  galaxy.  He

always used to preface his stories, and his teaching, with that.  But  sometimes

justice is best served by knowing when to fold one's hands.  And  he'd  come  up

with some illustrative story from the archives and the  oral  tradition  of  the

Jedi about some incident where what appeared to be going on wasn't actually what

was going on."

He felt the rueful chuckle of her laughter.

"It used to drive me crazy. But he said, Every student is obliged  to  make

one thousand eighty major mistakes. The sooner you make  them,  the  sooner  you

will not have to make them anymore. I asked him for a list.  He  said,  Thinking

there's a list is mistake number four."

"How long were you with him?"

"Five years. Not nearly long enough."

"No," said Luke, thinking about the few weeks he'd  spent  on  Dagobah.  He

sighed again. "I just wish some of those one  thousand  eighty  mistakes  didn't

involve teaching students. Teaching Jedi. Transmitting power, or the ability  to

use the Force. My ignorance--my own inexperience--cost one of  my  students  his

life already, and threw another one into the arms of the dark  side  and  caused

havoc in the galaxy I don't even want  to  think  about.  The  whole  thing--the

Academy, and bringing back the skills of the Jedi - comis too  important  for...

for "Learn While You Teach." That's..." He hesitated, hating to say  it  of  his

teacher but knowing he had to. "That's the mistake Ben made, when he  taught  my

father."

There was silence again, though she was as near to him as she had  been  in

the landspeeder on the canyon rim, passing binocs  back  and  forth  while  they

watched for Sand People...

"If Ben hadn't taught your father,"  said  Callista  softly,  "your  father

probably wouldn't have been strong enough to kill Palpatine... nor would he have

been in a position to do so. You couldn't have done it," she added.

"Not then, no." He'd never thought of it that way.

She went on, "I'm recording everything I remember about Djinn's  teaching."

Her voice was very quiet, like the offer of a gift she wasn't sure would be well

received. "I've been working on this, on and off, since you first told me  about

what you're doing. Techniques, exercises, meditations, theories--sometimes  just

the stories he'd tell. Everything I remember. Things that I don't  think  should

be lost. Things that will help you. I understand that a lot of the techniques, a

lot of the... the  mental  powers,  the  ways  to  use  the  Force...  can't  be

described, can only be shown, one person to another, but... they may be able  to

help you, after you leave here."

"Callista...," he began desperately, and  her  voice  continued  resolutely

over his.

"I'm not a Master, and my perception of them isn't a Master's perception...

But it's all the formal training that you didn't have  the  chance  to  receive.

I'll make sure you have the wafers of as much of it as I can finish, before  you

leave."

"Callista, I can't..."

He felt her gaze on him, rain-gray and steady, as she had looked at  Geith;

and he couldn't go on.

"You can't let this battle station fall into the hands  of  whoever  it  is

who's learned to use the Force to move electronic minds," she said. She  was  so

real--she had come back so far along the road--that he would have sworn he  felt

the touch of her hand on his. "I traded my life for it thirty years ago, and I'd

trade yours and Cray's and whoever else is on this battle station if  I--if  we-

have to. Where did you send the others?"

He recognized it as a shift of topic, a deliberate looking  away  from  the

realization that he would have to destroy her; or perhaps, he  thought,  it  was

just that she knew--as he knew--that time was too short to waste words when they

both knew she was right.

He took a deep breath, reorganizing his thoughts. "To the main mess  hall,"

he said. "I've figured out how to neutralize the Sand  People  and  get  at  the

shuttles."

"If she's angry at you for only doing what you had to," said Triv  Pothman,

his soft bass voice echoing strangely in the  utter  silence  of  the  lightless

halls, "she's not going to want to even see my face. And I don't blame her!"

See-Threepio's hyperacute hearing dissected the tight shrillness of anguish

in his voice, and the sensors on his left hand--which the  human  was  clasping,

since the corridor was pitch dark--registered both  abnormal  cold  and  greater

than usual muscular tension, also signs of stress.

That Pothman would experience stress in the  circumstances  was  of  course

understandable. Threepio had learned that total darkness created  disorientation

and symptoms of fear even when the human involved knew that he  was  in  perfect

safety--which was certainly not the  case  on  this  benighted  vessel.  But  he

gathered from the context of the words that the darkness, the  realization  that

air was no longer circulating on these decks and available  supplies  of  oxygen

would be exhausted in eight months--even with the small amount of photosynthesis

being produced by  the  Affytechans  -  comandthe  knowledge  that  Sand  People

occupied the vessel, were not the main  sources  of  the  former  stormtrooper's

distress, though in Threepio's opinion they should have been.

"Surely she realizes that the indoctrination process rendered you  no  more

capable of independent action than Nichos was while under the influence  of  the

restraining bolt?" Threepio kept his voder  circuits  turned  down  to  eighteen

decibels, well below the hearing threshold of either Gamorreans or Sand  People,

and adjusted the intensity so that the sound waves would  carry  exactly  the.75

meters that separated his speaker from Pothman's ear.

"I hit her, I... I insulted her... said things I wish I'd cut  out  my  own

tongue rather than say to a young lady..."

"She was indoctrinated herself, and will be familiar with the  standardized

secondary personality imposed by the programming."

"Threepio," said Nichos's quiet voice from the darkness behind,  "sometimes

that doesn't matter."

Pale light dimmed the darkness up ahead, delineating the corner of a cross-

corridor, the appalling mess that littered the floor-plates,  gutted  MSE'S  and

SP'S, shell casings from projectile grenades, broken  ax  handles,  and  spilled

food and coffee. Morrts scuttled among the filth and their sweetish stink,  like

dirty clothes, added to the general offensiveness of the scene. The soft  murmur

of air-circulating equipment became audible, if one could separate it  out  from

the truly appalling clamor coming from the  mess  hall:  squeals,  shrieks,  and

drunken voices singing "Pillaging Villages One by One."

Pothman closed his eyes in a kind of  embarrassed  pain.  Nichos  remarked,

"Well, I see everybody made it back from the battle."

"Awful thing is," said Pothman, "I suspect Kinfarg and his boys  are  doing

the same thing up on Deck Nineteen. Mugshub was pretty  sore  at  them  for  not

doing their duty by her and getting into fights with everybody they saw."

"Really," said Threepio in prissy disapproval, "I doubt that I  shall  ever

understand organically based thought processes."

"You'd better stay out in the corridor," whispered Nichos  to  Pothman.  In

the dim glow from the mess-hall door--the only area on Deck 12 that retained any

power--the antigrav sled bobbed  behind  them  like  a  dory  at  a  wharf.  The

overburdening it had  taken  in  the  lift  shaft  had  left  it  with  a  blown

stabilizer, but it was still easier to tow  it  than  to  carry  what  Luke  had

instructed them to bring back to the fabrications lab.

"Threepio and I are perceived as droids--that is, something they don't have

to worry about." Indeed, with the fine metal mesh that had  covered  his  joints

and neck torn away and hanging  in  rags  to  expose  the  linkages  and  servos

beneath, he looked more than ever like a droid.  "I  don't  think  they'll  even

notice us or ask us about what we're doing. They might recognize you as a Klagg.

"

Pothman nodded. He was rather like a shining robot  himself  in  the  white

armor of a stormtrooper, a blaster slung at his side, except for the  thin  dark

face with its lines of age, its gentle eyes and fluff  of  graying  hair.  "I'll

make sure the coast stays clear," he said, and gave a shy half smile. "You  boys

be careful in there."

Threepio  halted  in  turning  away,  running  a  swift  scan  of  possible

intentions to see  if  the  slight  sensation  of  offense  he  experienced  was

appropriate, but Nichos, in a sudden rare flash of humanity, grinned.

In the mess hall, the celebration was going  full  swing.  Imperial  battle

stations and cruisers were equipped with automatic limiters on the total  amount

of alcohol they could produce at any  one  time  but  the  Eye's  designers  had

reckoned without the brewing skills of Gamorrean females.  Dish  after  brimming

dish of heady potwa beer were dippered out of the giant plastic  oil  drum  that

stood in the middle of the room; the tables were strewn with stews, steaks,  and

fragments of sodden bread; a bowl of beer clattered off the wall beside Threepio

the moment he put his head around the door, and he drew back hastily.

There were shouts in the room, "I got him!" "No, you didn't!"  "Well,  I'll

get him this time!"

"Come on, Threepio," said Nichos resignedly. "We've got sealed circuits. We

might as well get this over with."

"Really, the things I've had to put up with..."

Threepio braced himself visibly and stepped back through the door. Bowls of

beer and plates shied discus-wise clacked and bounced off the wall beside him as

he made his way toward the food  slots,  Nichos  in  his  wake.  The  Gamorreans

weren't any better with tableware  than  they  were  with  blaster  carbines  or

handguns; one bowl caught the golden droid glancingly on the back and doused him

with beer, but that was the extent of  it.  An  argument  immediately  developed

among the Gamorreans as to whether the hit counted. It turned violent,  Gakfedds

hammering one another with plates, axes, and chairs,  screaming  and  squealing,

while Bullyak sat back and smiled benevolently upon the scene in utter content.

Part of the programming of a protocol droid was to understand not only  the

language, but the customs and biologies of the various  sentient  races  of  the

galaxy. Though  he  understood  that  intense  sexual  competitiveness  for  the

attention of the Alpha female underlay all the outrageous violence of  Gamorrean

society--though he realized that, biologically and socially, the Gamorreans  had

no choice but to behave, think, and feel as they did--the droid felt a momentary

flash of sympathy for Dr. Mingla's irrational prejudices against individuals who

behaved exactly as they were programmed to behave.

Threepio bypassed the  limiters  on  the  food  slots  with  a  few  simple

commands--the language was absurdly easy--and asked for twenty gallons of Scale-

5 syrup. When the half-gallon containers  started  appearing  behind  the  plexi

shields, he drew them out and handed them to Nichos, who carried  them  back  to

the hall where Pothman waited with the sled. A large number  of  morrts,  shaken

off their hosts during the fight and evidently drawn to the sugary smell of  the

syrup, scurried over to investigate.

"Get away from here!" Threepio waved angrily. "Filthy things... shoo! Shoo!

"

They sat up and regarded him with beady black eyes, tongues flicking in and

out of the toothed lances of their probosci, but took no further notice  of  his

gestures. The Gamorreans, now happily smashing one another over  the  head  with

tables, took no notice of him at all.

When Threepio had borne the last of the containers out  into  the  darkened

hallway, he found Pothman and Nichos flattened, with the sled, against the  wall

to let an armed column of Affytechans pass--188 of them, Threepio  counted,  and

"armed" with brooms, fragments of dissected SP'S, pieces of  pipe,  and  blaster

carbines gutted of their power cells, all held weaponlike over their shoulders.

"Riiight--turn! Paraaade--march!" Their commander's voice  snapped  briskly

as they vanished into the utter darkness of the hall.

"Really," said the protocol droid disapprovingly, as he set the last of the

syrup canisters on the sled, "though I find laudable  Master  Luke's  desire  to

remove all the passengers from this vessel before destroying it, I must admit to

a certain amount of doubt about whether it can be achieved."

A bowl of beer came flying through the mess-hall doors and crashed sloppily

into the wall.

"There has to be an alternative to blowing up the ship."

"Not one that's foolproof. Not one that's chance-proof."

"It doesn't need to be proof," said Luke desperately. "Just...  enough.  To

cripple the motivators. To disengage the guns."

"Whoever has summoned it--whichoever has  learned  how  to  manipulate  the

Force to this extent--is going to come looking for it, Luke. And he--or  she--is

powerful. I can feel that. I know it."

Luke knew it, too.

"The station has to be destroyed, Luke. As soon as it can be done. It takes

two people, one of them a Jedi... The Jedi uses the Force to interfere with  the

firing of the enclision grid above the gun room  ceiling  long  enough  for  the

other person to climb. That's how Geith and I were going to do it.  I  can  tell

you, or Cray--whichichever one  of  you  is  going  to  do  the  climbing--which

switches to pull, which cores to overload once you get to the top. Whoever stays

at the bottom... there's a mission-log jettison pod in the bay at the end of the

corridor by the gun room. I didn't know about it when  Geith--whichenough  Geith

and I..." Her voice hesitated over the name of the lover who had  abandoned  her

to die. Then she went on. "Anyway, I've found it since. It can be fitted with an

oxygen bottle and the person who stays at the bottom can make it to  that  tube,

if they run."

There was silence, shaped by her presence beside him.

"It has to be that way, Luke. You know it, and I know it."

"Not right away. Eventually, yes, when I've had time--was

"There is no time."

Luke shut his eyes. Everything she said was true. He knew it, and  he  knew

she was aware of it. At last he could only say, "Callista, I love you."

Who had he said that to? Leia, once, before he'd known... And he loved  her

still, and in pretty much the same way. This was something he'd never felt, he'd

never known that he could feel. "I don't... want you to die."

Her mouth on his, her arms around his body... the dream had been real, more

real than some experiences of the flesh. There had to be a way...

"Luke," she said gently, "I died thirty years ago. I'm just... I'm glad  we

had this time. I'm glad I stayed to... to know you."

"There has to be a way," he insisted. "Cray..."

"Cray what?"

Luke turned, sharply, at the new voice. Cray leaned wearily in the door  of

the office, the silver blanket that half hid her torn and dirty uniform gleaming

like armor, the marks of exhaustion and bitterness and the death of hope  gouged

into her bruised face as if with knives.

"To turn her into what Nichos is? To cannibalize parts from the  computers,

wire together enough memory to  digitalize  her,  so  you  can  have  the  metal

illusion around to remind you what isn't yours--and can't be  yours?  I  can  do

that... if that's what you want."

"You said Djinn Altis showed you--taught you--to transfer your  self,  your

consciousness, your... your reality--to another object. You've done it with this

ship, Callista. You're really here, I know you are..."

"I am," she said softly. "There's enough  circuitry,  enough  size,  enough

power in the central core.  But  a  thing  of  metal,  a  thing  programmed  and

digitalized, isn't human, and can't be human, Luke. Not the way I'm human now."

"Not the way you and I are human." Cray came over to them, her  blond  hair

catching fire glints in the greasy light. "Not  the  way  Nichos  was  human.  I

should never have done it, Luke," she went on. "Never have...  tried  to  go  up

against what had to be. My motto was always "If it doesn't work,  get  a  bigger

hammer." Or a smaller chip. Nichos..."

She shook her head. "He doesn't remember dying, Luke. He doesn't remember a

switchover of any kind. And as much as I love... Nichos... as much as  he  loves

me... I keep coming back to that. It isn't Nichos. He isn't human. He  tries  to

be, and he wants to be, but flesh and bone have a logic of their own, Luke,  and

machinery just doesn't think the same way."

Her mouth twisted, her dark eyes chill and bitter as the vacuum  of  space.

"If you want me to I'll make you something that'll hold a digitalized version of

her memories, her consciousness... But it  won't  be  the  consciousness  that's

alive on this vessel. And you'll know it, and I'll know it. And that digitalized

version will know it, too."

"No," said Callista, and Luke, through a blind haze of grief, still noticed

that Cray and he both looked at the same place, as if Callista were there...

And she was, indeed, all but there.

She went on. "Thank you, Cray. And don't think I'm not tempted. I love you,

Luke, and I want... I want not to have to leave you, even if it  means...  being

what I am now, forever. Or being what Nichos is now, forever. But we don't  have

the choice. We don't have time. And any components, any computers, you take from

this ship, Cray, will have the Will in them as well. And if you disconnected the

weapons, if you disa4 the motivators, if you pulled the cores, to leave the  Eye

floating in the darkness of space until you could find some way to build another

computer, or droid, unconnected to the Will... I think the Will would lie to you

about being disa4. I think it would wait until your back was  turned,  and  seek

out whoever it was that called it.

"It has to be destroyed, Luke. It has to be destroyed now, while we can."

No, he was screaming inside. No...

She'd said that she loved him.

He knew she was right.

Cray went on tiredly. "I'll be the one who goes up the  shaft,  Luke.  Your

command of the Force is worlds stronger than mine," she added, as  Luke  started

to protest, "but I don't think you can levitate that far, and I  can't  hold  it

off you long enough for you to make the climb with a bad leg. If we're going  to

blow off all three of our lives we can't risk you losing strength halfway."

Luke nodded. With the little rest he'd been able to get he  felt  stronger,

but it took everything he could summon of the Force to keep the pain in his  leg

from utterly swamping his mind. He  would  probably,  he  thought,  be  able  to

misfire the grid, but in spite of what Yoda had taught him,  levitation  took  a

lot of energy.

"We can program the lander to take off with the Sand  People  in  it,"  she

went on, "if you insist on getting them off the ship."

"If it's at all possible," said Luke. "I think it will  be,  once  Threepio

and... and Nichos"--he hesitated to speak her lover's name to  her,  but  though

her eyes moved from his she didn't flinch--"get back here with the syrup. It can

be picked up and towed back to Tatooine."

"Triv and Nichos can each pilot a shuttle. Once they're out of  the  ship's

jamming field they can transmit distress signals,  though  somebody's  going  to

have their work cut out for them deprogramming the Gamorreans... not to  mention

convincing the Affytechans they aren't stormtroopers. They're multiplying,  too,

you know..."

"I know." Luke sighed.

"How you're going to get the Kitonaks on the shuttles..."

"I think I've got that figured out, too," he said. It was in his mind  that

even as he couldn't drag his staff up the shaft with him--even as he wouldn't be

able to move quickly enough among the stations at the computer core--he probably

wouldn't be able to make it down the long corridor to the  jettison  pod  before

the engines blew.

But that, he understood, was a technicality.

"Callista..."

He didn't know what he would have said. Tried to talk her, one  more  time,

into letting Cray try to make some kind of computerized vessel for her mind  and

memories, her thought and heart... tried to talk her into escaping...

But the bench on which he was sitting gave a sudden, jarring lurch,  almost

throwing him to the floor, and the cold sickness of gravity  flux  drew  at  his

belly, dizzying...

Another lurch, and he caught at one of the lamp-bowls as Cray  grabbed  the

other halfway to the floor. Far off  they  felt  the  humming  vibration  rising

within the ship's bones, the drag of power shifting...

Callista said quietly, "That's it. Hyperspace."

Chapter 21

Even before he and Chewie got up the steps of the lightless house, Han  had

a bad feeling about things.

"I'm terribly sorry, General Solo." The Bith in charge  of  the  MuniCenter

Records Office--and of the sales, invoice, and workers' benefits archives of the

three major corporations that actually owned  Plawal's  central  computer-tilted

its domed, putty-colored head in the dim shiver of the holo field  and  regarded

with huge black oil-slick eyes the point before it where Han's holo-phone  image

would be. "Her Excellency does not appear to be in the building."

Han glanced out the long windows, to the black  fog  pierced  only  by  the

raveled blurs of the orchard  lights.  Chewbacca,  standing  beside  the  glass,

turned his head with a sound between a growl and a moan.

"Can you tell me when she left?" It was even possible,  thought  Han,  that

she might have stopped at the Bubbling Mud--which did serve pretty  decent  meat

pies--for dinner, though that was something she liked company for...

"My apologies," said the Bith politely. "Her Excellency does not appear  to

have been in the building all day."

"What?"

"There is no record of her access card in any of the file banks, nor  has--

was

"Get me Jevax!"

The Bith inclined its head. "I will endeavor to do so, sir. Will you remain

at your current location?"

"Yeah, just find him and get him... Uh, thank you,"  added  Han  belatedly,

remembering Leia's repeated admonitions. "I appreciate it. I knew  it,  Chewie,"

he added as the slight image faded, "I knew she shouldn't  have  gone  out  with

Artoo!"

The Wookiee made a questioning noise and flipped in his paw the restraining

bolt they'd found on the table.

"Of course she pulled it off him," said Han. "She wouldn't think  any  harm

of that little can of bolts if he... Well, he did try to murder her, dammit!" He

surged to his feet, paced like a caged Endoran vethiraptor to  the  table  where

the bolt had lain beside Chewie's open toolkit.

The Wookiee growled again.

"I know she stands by her friends! But she--was

The holo phone blipped again, and Han leaped at the pickup switch as if  it

were the cancel toggle on a planetwide self-destruct cycle. But instead  of  the

green local light, the blue star of the subspace receiver flickered on. A moment

later Mara Jade's slim, leather-clad form appeared in the booth.

"Got your coordinates for you."  She  held  up  a  yellow  plastene  wafer.

"What's your receiving speed?"

"Why didn't you tell us you were after Nubblyk  the  Slyte?"  demanded  Han

roughly.

"Because I don't lie to my friends," replied Mara sharply. "And  if  that's

all you've got to say--was

"I'm sorry." Han looked away, angry with himself. "But I heard..."

"What's the matter, Solo?" She took another look at his face  and  all  the

sarcasm sponged away like yesterday's makeup.

"Leia's disappeared. She went up to the MuniCenter  this  afternoon  and  I

just found out she never made  it  there.  She's  with  Artoo-Detoo...  He  went

haywire last night and tried to kill us, we had him in a restraining bolt but it

looks like Leia pulled it off him and took him with her..."

Mara made an extremely unladylike comment  and  Lando  Calrissian  appeared

behind her shoulder, waxed and combed and dressed in his best purple  satin  for

an evening out.

"What is it?"

Han told him, adding,  "We're  waiting  on  Jevax  now.  She  talked  about

visiting the city repair center, so maybe she took Artoo with  her  to  get  him

checked, but it's after dark already and there's  been  too  many  weird  things

going on lately."

"Why'd you ask about Nubblyk?" asked Mara. "Who told you I was after him? I

spent all of about twelve hours on that ball of ice and I don't  think  I  could

finger Nubblyk in a lineup if he'd picked my pocket."

"He told his toady the Emperor's Hand  was  after  him,"  said  Solo.  "The

Emperor's Hand was on the planet, and he had to get  out  of  there  before  she

found him. Nubblyk disappeared about seven years  ago--after  you'd  said  you'd

been and gone. I figured you'd come back..."

He fell silent, just from the change in her eyes.

For a moment she said nothing, but even through the medium of the  subspace

holo, her rage was tangible, like the shock wave of a thermonuclear blast.

When she spoke her tone  was  deceptively  normal,  and  very  calm.  "That

reptile," she said. Her eyes  stared  out  unseeingly,  filled  with  a  sudden,

vicious, killing hate. "That son of a slime-crawler."

"What?" Lando stepped quickly back,  almost  out  of  range  of  the  holo.

"What's...?"

"He told me I was the only one," said Mara,  still  in  that  calm,  almost

conversational voice. "The only Hand of the Emperor. His weapon  of  choice,  he

said, when he needed a scalpel rather than a sword... his trusted servant."  The

set of her red-lipped mouth was hard, the settled rage of one whose position had

been not only her pride, but her entire life.

"That lying, drooling, scum-swallowing, superannuated underhanded festering

filth-sucking parasite! He had  another  Hand!"  Her  voice  sank  to  a  deadly

whisper. "He had another Hand all along!"

She had not moved from her seat, but the fury that radiated  from  her  was

like the pressure drop before a storm. Though it was directed against a dead man

it made Solo very glad he was several  hundred  parsecs  away  in  another  star

system entirely. "He lied to me! He used me! His "trusted  servant"!  Everything

he told me was a lie! Everything!"

"Mara," said Lando uneasily, "Mara, he's dead--was

"You know what that means, don't you?" She turned, cold-eyed,  upon  Lando,

who backed a step. Neither man had ever seen  Mara  this  angry  and  the  sheer

intensity of it was terrifying.

"It means he had her in reserve to use against me. Or  to  use  me  against

her. Or who knows who else, to keep either of us from being anything  more  than

the pawns of his lies!"

She was almost trembling with rage, the rage  that  had  once  led  her  to

direct all her energies toward killing Luke Skywalker for taking  from  her  the

position that had been her life. "Is she still on the planet?"

"I don't know. I..."

For some reason he remembered Leia telling him of the Emperor's  concubine,

a member of the Emperor's Court... A woman who claimed to be working in a  place

where she wasn't working. A woman who'd shown  up  suddenly,  bare  weeks  after

Nubblyk's disappearance, knowing exactly what house it was she wanted to rent.

"Yeah," he said. "I think so. Woman named Roganda..."

Mara's eyes widened as she recognized the name, then narrowed to green  and

glittering slits. "Oh," she said softly. "Her."

The holo image reached out to where  the  transceiver  switches  would  be,

beyond the range of the transmitters. The image vanished.

"We simply cannot take the risk." Roganda Ismaren opened the plastene  case

she carried, took from it the slim silver wand of a drug infuser, and fitted  an

ampoule into xs slot. "Hold her."

Ohran Keldor stepped warily toward Leia, who had risen from  her  chair  at

the sound of the door lock switching over; she backed  to  the  wall,  but  Lord

Garonnin stood in the doorway,  stunpistol  in  hand.  Keldor  hesitated--though

small, Leia was fit, wiry, thirty years younger than he, and quite clearly ready

to fight--and Garonnin said, "If it's risk you're worried about, Madame, I'd say

using that drug on her is more risk than I like to see. You don't know  what  it

is--was

"I know that it works," retorted the concubine. "I know it  will  keep  her

quiet while our guests are here."

"We know that it works sometimes. On some people. In some doses. It's  been

in those deserted laboratories in the crypts for thirty years  at  least,  maybe

twice that. We don't know whether it's  deteriorated  with  time,  whether  it's

become contaminated... That smuggler we used it on four or five years ago died."

"He had a weak heart," said Roganda, too quickly. "Oh, Lord Garonnin,"  she

went on, her soft voice pleading, "you know how much depends upon those who will

be here tonight! You know how desperately we  need  backing  if  your  cause-our

cause! - - is to succeed! You know Her Highness's  reputation.  We  cannot  risk

even the chance of her somehow escaping and interfering with  the  reception  of

our guests."

The Senex Lord's flat,  cold  eyes  rested  on  Leia;  the  muzzle  of  his

stunpistol was unwavering. Then he nodded.

Keldor stepped forward.

He was expecting Leia to duck away, so she sprang into his advance,  hooked

his ankle, and shoulder-blocked him--hard--and as he fell doubled and darted for

the door. She'd thought the movement would take Garonnin at least  a  little  by

surprise, enough for his first shot to go wild, to give her a chance to get past

him, but it didn't. The stunblast hit her like  a  blow  to  the  solar  plexus,

winding her at the same moment that her whole body felt as if it had been pulled

inside out.

Even on mildest stun the effect was  awful-perhaps  worse  than  a  heavier

blast, because she didn't even lose consciousness. She  just  collapsed  to  the

floor, her legs twitching with pins and needles, and Keldor and Roganda knelt by

her side.

"Stupid," remarked Keldor as the infuser was pressed to the side of  Leia's

neck.

A blast of cold. She felt her lungs stop.

She was submerged, she thought, in an  ocean  of  green  glass  a  thousand

kilometers deep. Because glass is a liquid it filled her lungs, her  veins,  her

organs; it permeated the tissues of her cells.  Though  she  was  sinking,  very

slowly, the glass was shot through with light from above, and she could hear the

voices of Roganda, Keldor, and Garonnin as they left the room.

his... antidote as soon as the reception is over," Roganda was saying.  "We

simply haven't the personnel to keep her under constant guard.  But  the  drug's

effects aren't as unpredictable as you fear. Everything will  be  perfectly  all

right."

Your cause. Our cause.

Keldor. Elegin.

Irek.

She had to get out.

The Force, thought Leia. Somehow, with her body suspended  in  this  dense,

unbreathing, light-filled silence, she could feel  the  Force  all  around  her,

sense it within reach of her fingertips, hear it like music,  a  tune  that  she

herself could easily learn.

If she touched the Force--if she drew the light of the Force into herf--she

could see the room in which she lay on Nasdra Magrody's bed, one hand resting on

her midriff and dark auburn hair tangled around her on the discolored pillow.

Cray's right, she thought. I really do  have  to  be  more  diligent  about

applying that Slootheberry Wrinkle Creme around my eyes.

I wonder if I can get up?

She breathed experimentally, drawing the Force into  her  like  a  kind  of

strange, prickly light, and stood up.

Her body remained on the bed.

Panic seized her, disorienting; she called to mind some of the  disciplines

Luke had taught her, calming, steadying...

And looked around her at the room.

Everything seemed very different, seen without physical eyes. Other  times,

other eras were present, as if she viewed through pane after pane of  projection

glass. An elderly man with graying  hair  sat  writing  on  the  back  of  green

flimsiplast notes at the table, and broke off to lay his head on  his  arms  and

weep. A slim blond Jedi Knight lay in the bed--which had been on the other  side

of the room then--reading stories to her husband, who was curled up next to  her

with his dark head pillowed on her thigh.

Leia looked at the door, and knew she could walk through it.

I'll get lost!

Cold panic again, the sense of being naked, unprotected.

No, she thought. She stepped back to the bed, touched  the  body  that  lay

there. Her own body. The scent of her own flesh, the sound of her own heartbeat,

was unmistakable. If she concentrated, she could find her way back to  it,  even

as she'd followed the far fainter and less familiar traces of Elegin and  Keldor

in the tunnels.

Terror in her heart, she stepped through the door.

Immediately she was conscious of voices. This part of the  passageways  had

been the living quarters of the Jedi, converted from Plett's endless  greenhouse

caverns: The dreamy consciousness of  the  plants  and  the  weary,  bittersweet

benevolence of the old Ho'Din Master  permeated  the  rock  of  the  walls.  She

followed the voices to a long chamber illuminated not only by a ceiling full  of

softly radiant glowpanels, but by half a dozen windows of various sizes, thickly

glazed against past storms and, like those of her own chamber, concealed in  the

rock and vine-curtains of the valley wall.

She recognized a good two thirds of the people present.

Some of them had aged in the eleven years since  she'd  seen  them  at  the

Emperor's Court. Others--like the representatives of the Mekuun Corporation  and

the president  of  the  board  of  directors  of  Seinar--were  of  more  recent

acquaintance. Lady Theala Vandron, acknowledged superior among the  Senex  Lords

by virtue of heading the oldest and noblest of the Ancient Houses,  had  visited

the Senate quite recently, to answer charges of inhumanity and  planet-stripping

brought against her by the High Court: She'd seemed surprised  that  anyone  had

considered it his business  if  she  let  slavers  run  breeding  farms  on  her

homeworld of Karfeddion.

"Your Highness, they're only Ossan and Bilanaka," she'd said, naming  those

two sentient but low-cultured races as if that placed the matter beyond need  of

further explanation.

A  heavyset,  stately  woman  in  her  forties  with  a  blandly   superior

stubbornness in her blue eyes, she was  further  expressing  her  views  on  the

matter to a small group comprised of Roganda, Irek, and Garonnin.  "It's  simply

useless to discuss these matters  with  people  in  the  Senate  who  refuse  to

understand local economic conditions."

A little R-10 unit rolled up to the group  with  a  tray  of  glasses,  and

Roganda said, "You must sample the wine, Your  Highness.  Celanon  Semi-Dry,  an

exquisite vintage."

"Ah." Vandron tasted a minute quantity. "Very nice." Leia heard in her mind

Aunt Rouge: Only spaceport types go in for the Semi-Dries, my dear.  You  really

must cultivate a more refined taste. Every word of it  was  compacted  into  the

slight lowering of the painted eyelids and the fractional deepening of the lines

around Lady Vandron's mouth.

"An Algarine, perhaps?" inquired Garonnin.  Algarine  wines  had  been  her

father's favorite vintage, Leia recalled.

"Of course." Roganda addressed the R-10.  "Decant  the  Algarine  from  the

cellars; chill to fifty degrees and the glass to forty."

The cellarer droid rolled quickly away.

"It isn't as if we were kidnapping people from their homes,"  Lady  Vandron

went on indignantly. "These creatures are  specifically  bred  for  agricultural

work. If it weren't for our farming they wouldn't be born at all, you know.  And

Karfeddion is in the midst of severe economic depression."

"Not that they care, on Coruscant." Lord Garonnin set his own glass down on

the sideboard of marble and bronze, Atravian of the best period, one of the  few

pieces of furniture in the long, stone-floored room.

"Which is why, Your Highness," said Roganda in her low,  sweet  voice,  "we

must deal with both the warlords and the Senate from  a  position  of  strength,

rather than one of the hat-in-hand subservience they seem to expect. We will be.

.. a power to reckon with." She laid her hand on her  son's  shoulder,  her  red

lips curving in a proud smile, and Irek modestly cast down his eyes.

Close to the buffet, which was laden with a collection of  confections  and

savories clearly put together by a droid of some kind, a  bioassisted  Sullustan

executive asked Drost Elegin, "Doesn't look much like the Emperor, does he?"  in

the softest of undervoices. The Sullustan glanced across the room  at  Irek  and

his mother, both conservatively clad, he in black, she in white; Irek  had  gone

to speak to one of the Juvex Lords whom Leia recognized dimly as the head of the

more militant branch of the House Sreethyn. It was clear the  boy  had  a  great

deal of charm.

Elegin shrugged. "What does it matter? If he can do what she  says  he  can

do..." He nodded in Roganda's direction.

She was still working hard on getting Lady Vandron to  unbend.  Leia  could

have told her she might as well have tried to stuff a full-grown Hutt  into  her

pocket. Ladies of the great  Houses  do  not  unbend  to  women  who  have  been

concubines, no matter whose, and no matter what their sons can do.

"Well," said the  Sullustan  doubtfully,  and  adjusted  the  gain  on  the

eyepieces he wore. "If the great Houses back him..."

Elegin made a gesture with his eyebrows, dismissing--or almost dismissing--

the dark-haired boy. "At least his manners are good,"  he  said.  "Don't  worry,

Naithol. When the ship arrives, we'll have the nucleus of  a  true  fleet;  more

powerful than anything those scattered jarheads  can  command  these  days.  And

indeed," he added with a malicious grin, "once the various warlords have had  it

demonstrated to them exactly what Irek can do, I think they'll be most eager  to

ally themselves with us and listen to what we have to say."

Ship? thought Leia uneasily.

The Sullustan turned toward the  buffet  again  and  paused,  the  enhanced

visual receptors he wore--probably to compensate for the  corneal  defects  many

Sullustans developed after the age of thirty--turned in Leia's direction.

She wasn't sure what he saw--how, or if, the psychic residue  of  the  drug

made her register on the pickup--but with a little shrug he went on  toward  the

food. But it was enough to make her move off, drifting like a  ghost  among  the

other, fainter ghosts that flickered  in  this  room,  dim  echoes  of  children

playing obliviously on the floor between the cool aristocrats and  the  watchful

bureaucrats, secretaries, and corporate scouts.

Irek, Leia noticed, was working the room with the adeptness of a  candidate

for the Senate, deferring politely to the Lords and Ladies of the great  Houses,

condescending with just unnoticeable noblesse oblige to the  corporates  and  to

the secretaries of the Lords. As Drost Elegin had  remarked,  he  had  beautiful

manners. Since formal dueling was one of the accomplishments valued by the Lords

among their own class, the boy  was  able  to  discuss  this  with  the  younger

aristocrats.

"We've heard all about this ship," said Lord Vensell  Picutorion,  who  had

been one of those presented at the same time as Leia's Senatorial  debut.  "What

is it? Where is it coming from? Are you sure it's large enough to  give  us  the

power, the armament, to create our own Allied Fleet?"

Irek inclined his head respectfully, and the  other  Senex  Lords  gathered

around. "It is, quite simply, the largest and most  heavily  armored  battlemoon

still in existence from the heyday of the Imperial Fleet," he said in his clear,

carrying boy's voice. "It was  the  prototype  transition  between  the  torpedo

platforms and the original Death Star. It doesn't have the focused power of  the

destructor beams," he added, and Leia detected a note of apology in  his  voice,

"but it has almost the power capacity of the Death Star..."

"I think we're all agreed,"  put  in  Lord  Garonnin,  "that  planet-killer

technology is wasteful, to put it mildly."

"But you must admit," said Irek, a gleeful glitter far  back  in  his  blue

eyes, "it makes a wonderful deterrent."

"In fact, it doesn't," said His Lordship bluntly. "As events leading to the

breakup of the Empire can attest." And, when Irek opened his mouth  to  protest,

he went on. "But be that as  it  may."  He  turned  to  the  other  Lords.  "The

battlemoon Eye of Palpatine was originally  constructed  for  a  mission  thirty

years ago," he said. "It was built and armed in absolute secrecy, so  that  when

the mission itself was aborted unfulfilled, almost no one knew of the battlemoon

itself, and all record  of  its  hiding  place--in  an  asteroid  field  in  the

Moonflower Nebula--was lost."

"Careless of them," commented a younger Lady, whose tanned muscles spoke of

a lifetime in the hunting field.

Several laughed.

Garonnin looked annoyed, but Roganda said  smoothly,  "Anyone  who's  dealt

with a really large ancestral library will know that one  small  defect  in  the

computer can result in the disappearance of, for  instance,  an  entire  set  of

wafers, or a good-size book... and the size ratio between  one  book  and,  say,

four or five rooms is much smaller than between even the largest battlemoon  and

twenty parsecs of the Outer Rim."

She would know,  thought  Leia,  remembering  Nasdra  Magrody's  despairing

words.

A battlemoon!

"And it's on its way here?" asked Lord Picutorion.

Irek smiled, smug. "On its way here," he said. "And at our service."

Roganda put her hand on his shoulder and smiled again,  that  proud  smile.

"Our guests are thirsty, my son," she said in her soft voice. "Would you go  see

what's become of that R-Ten?"

A nice personal touch, thought Leia, observing the approval on the faces of

Lady Vandron and Lord Picutorion.  Irek  suppressed  a  wicked  grin  and  said,

"Certainly, Mother."

There was a soft murmur at the back of the group about how well brought  up

and malleable he was as the slender boy strode from  the  room.  Leia  followed,

uncertain but not quite liking the look in his eyes.

The R-10 unit was trundling up the corridor,  small  and  square,  about  a

meter tall and rimmed around its flat top with a decorative brass  railing.  The

top itself was black marble electronically charged to grip drinks, glasses,  and

anything else set on it; Leia had watched almost  without  consciously  noticing

the slight rotation with which everyone in the room took up  his  or  her  glass

from it--she barely noticed herself when she did it back  home.  It  was  second

nature to anyone with a modern R-10.

It bore on its surface now the appointed bottle--a twelve-year-old Algarine

dry, suitably dusty--and a frosted glass, solitary tribute to the importance  of

Lady Vandron, as Roganda intended.

Irek folded his arms and stood in the middle of the corridor with that same

evil grin. "Stop," he said.

The R-10 whirred to a halt.

"Pick up the glass."

It extruded one of its long, multijointed arms with their  slightly  sticky

velvet pads and obligingly picked up the chilled wineglass.

"Throw it on the floor."

The droid froze in midmotion. Breaking glasses--butreaking any sort of dish

or utensil--was part of the black-box code hardwired into any household droid.

Irek's grin widened and he fastened his gaze on the  R-10.  Leia  felt  the

shiver of the  Force  in  the  air,  reaching  into,  digging  at,  the  droid's

programming, forcing it synapse by synapse to rearrange its actions in spite  of

multilayered restraints against it.

The droid reacted with great distress.  It  backed,  rocked,  turned  in  a

circle...

"Come on," said Irek softly. "Throw it on the floor."

While his mind, as Roganda had instructed no doubt--as Magrody  had  taught

him--formed the subelectronic commands necessary for the implementation  of  the

act.

Jerkily, with a flailing movement, the droid hurled the glass down. Then it

immediately extruded a brush-tipped arm from its base and a vacuum hose to clean

up the broken glass.

"Not yet."

The implements stopped.

"Now take the bottle and pour it out."

The droid rocked with wretchedness,  fighting  the  most  absolute  of  its

programming not to ever, ever, ever spill anything... Irek was clearly  reveling

in its confusion. His blue eyes did not waver, bending his concentration on  the

Force, channeling it through the implanted chip in its mind...

Then his head turned, suddenly, and Leia felt his concentration  leave  the

droid as if the boy had simply dropped a toy he'd been playing with.  The  droid

replaced the wine bottle on its top and bolted for the  party  as  fast  as  its

wheels would carry it, but Irek did not even notice.

He was turning his head slowly, scanning the corridor. Listening. Sniffing.

"You're here," he said softly. "You're here somewhere. I can feel you."

She felt him gather the strength of the Force around him, like  a  terrible

shadow; saw him with changed eyes, like a wraith of mist and coals.

"I'll find you..."

Leia turned and fled. Behind her she was aware of him striding two paces to

one of the small red wall buttons that were mounted at  intervals  on  the  dark

stone of the corridor walls, heard him slap it, and then  heard  the  stride  of

heavy boots, and Garonnin's voice, "What is it, my lord?"

"Get my mother. And fetch the smallest steel ball from the toy room to  the

Princess's prison..."

Leia bolted down the corridors, twisting, weaving  through  the  maze.  She

felt Irek's mind invading them, searching for her, reaching like vast  wings  of

smoke to fill the ill-lit passageways with shadows she knew could  not  be  real

but which terrified her anyway. It was hard to sense in which direction her body

lay, hard to hear the distant heartbeat she followed...

She skidded to a  stop  in  horror  as  the  floating  black  ball  of  the

interrogator  droid  drifted  out  from  around  a  corner,   lights   flashing,

flickering... Not real, not real, but even knowing this she turned  aside.  Down

another corridor the huge, heavy, stinking shape of a Hutt reached for her  with

a quivering prehensile tongue, copper eyes dilating and  contracting  with  ugly

lusts.

She turned aside from it, sobbing, trying to find some way around,  and  in

her mind she heard Irek's voice whispering, Irek's shrill boy's laugh. I'll trap

you. I'll find you and trap you. You'll never get out...

The drug, she thought. The drug they'd given her must have left  a  psychic

residue he could track....

She couldn't let him catch her. Couldn't let him overtake her.  Blocks  and

slabs of darkness loomed in front of  her,  walls  of  stench  overpowering  her

ability to track where she should go. The smell of kretch, of roses,  of  filth.

Great, howling waves of power jerked and  dragged  at  her,  pulling  her  back,

washing her sideways. In the back of her consciousness she  was  aware  of  Irek

running lightly, skipping and hopping down the corridors with the sheer  delight

of trying to find her, trying to track her, trying to block her  from  the  room

where her body lay.

Luke, she thought desperately, Luke, help me...

And like a mocking playground echo, Irek  mimicked  jeeringly,  Oh,  Lukie,

help me...

There. That corridor there. She  knew  it,  recognized  it,  flung  herself

around the corner...

And he was standing in front of the door.

The towering black shape, the glister of pallid light on the black  helmet,

the evil gleam of lights within the shadows of his great cloak, and  the  thick,

indrawn breath.

Vader.

Vader was standing before the door.

She swung around in terror. Irek stood in the passageway  behind  her,  the

dark radiance that surrounded him seeming to pulse with lightning. In  his  hand

he held one of the steel balls that had so puzzled her in the toy room, but now,

with her disembodied consciousness, she saw that there  were  entrances  to  it,

entrances invisible to eyes limited by the electromagnetic spectrum.

Entrances that did not serve as exits.

And within the ball itself, maze after  maze  of  concentric,  ever  tinier

labyrinth balls.

He smiled. "You're here. I can tell you're here."

Leia turned. Vader still stood before the door. She could not pass him. She

could not.

"Mother can't stop me," said Irek. "She won't even know."

He held up the ball, and his mind seemed to reach  out  into  the  corridor

like a vast net, drawing at her. Leia  felt  herself  dissolving  like  a  smoke

wraith, an unskilled illusion; drawn as if by a vacuum toward  the  steel  ball;

dissipating into the power of the dark side.

There had to be a way to use the Force to protect herself,  she  thought...

to get past the dark terror that stood before the door. But she didn't know what

it was.

The boy puckered his lips and inhaled, pulling her in with his breath.

"Irek!"

Roganda appeared in the corridor behind her son, her white  dress  gathered

up in her hand as if she'd been running.

"Irek, come at once!"

He swung around, his concentration broken. The shadow  of  Vader  vanished.

Leia flung herself at the door, through the door, hurled herself to the sleeping

form on the bed...

With human perceptions once again she barely heard the voices  through  the

door, but she recognized, nevertheless, Ohran Keldor's voice.

"Lord Irek, we've picked it up on the  scanners!  It's  here!  The  Eye  of

Palpatine."

Chapter 22

"Master Luke, are you quite certain this is going to work?"

"You got me." The logistics of managing a staff and  the  rope  with  which

Luke was towing the small pump salvaged from a laundry room were not the best in

the world, but at this point Luke was simply delighted to have  located  a  pump

that still worked. Very little on the Eye of Palpatine still worked.

Except the guns, he thought. Except the guns.

"How much time will it give us?" inquired Nichos, striding  silently  along

under his load of two oil drums filled with sugar water. "Provided it  works  at

all."

"Maybe an hour clear." The lights on his staff were failing, too,  and  the

service corridor, with its low  ceilings  and  bundles  of  conduit  lines,  was

beginning to take on the appearance, dampness, and  smell  of  some  cavern  far

below ground level. Here and there water dripped down the walls.  Luke  examined

the places and nodded with satisfaction. They were certainly on the line of  the

main water trunk for this section of the ship.

"That isn't much, to check the lander and the two shuttles," remarked  Triv

Pothman.

Luke shook his head. Every step was like having pieces of bone  ripped  out

of his thigh. "It'll have to do." The last of the  perigen  was  long  gone--the

Force alone kept him from going into shock, kept the fever of internal infection

at bay.

Cray, walking behind them with a five-gallon bucket of sugar water in  each

hand, said nothing; had said nothing while Luke outlined his plans  for  getting

the ship cleared, and very little more during the process of  cutting  into  the

main sensors for a reading of their position and an estimate of  how  much  time

before the shelling of Belsavis would begin. Only when  Callista  said,  "That's

too much time," at the display of twelve hours, thirty minutes, had Cray spoken.

"It's what the file says."

"It's what the Will says the file says. Don't you see?" Callista  had  gone

on. "The Will's going to do whatever it can, use whatever it can,  to  delay  us

and fulfill its mission. Mission Control would never have left a delay of twelve

and a half hours after coming out of hyperspace. Not with Jedi  on  the  planet.

Not with the fleet of ally-wings they have... had."

"She's right," Luke had said, glancing  over  at  Cray.  He'd  expected  an

argument, since Cray had never believed that computers could or would lie.

But since leaving the security of her laboratory,  Cray  had  been  through

trial by the Will, and her only reaction was a slight, bitter tightening of  her

lips. She had watched in silence when Luke and the others had  mixed  the  syrup

with water to produce a thick, hypersweet mixture, had taken  her  share  of  it

when the antigrav sled had proven too large to enter the service corridor  vent.

She moved as if every step, every intake of breath, was a chore she had  to  get

through, and she would not, Luke saw, meet Nichos's eyes.

"Thank the Maker," exulted Threepio,  as  they  turned  a  corner  and  dim

worklights gleamed along the ceiling overhead. "I was  beginning  to  fear  this

quadrant of the ship around the shuttle bays was without power as well."

"Jawa're probably too scared of the Sand People to get close enough to raid

it." Luke turned down a side corridor, following the main conduit.

"Yet," remarked Callista, her voice coming  from  beside  him,  as  if  she

walked close by.

"I like a cheery girl."

She sang two lines of an old nursery song, "Let's everybody be happy, let's

everybody be happy..." and Luke, in spite of the agony in his leg, laughed.

"It must be driving them crazy," Callista went on after a moment. "The Sand

P. If they're as... as rigidly bound to tradition as  you  describe,  they  must

hate the fact that everything is different here, with no day and no  night,  and

only walls and corridors to hunt in."

"As time goes by I'm less and less thrilled about it myself." The  door  to

the main pump room was locked. Threepio convinced the lock program  that  a  key

had been inserted and the door whooshed open.

"Break the mechanism, Nichos," said Luke quietly. "You're right,  Callista.

I don't trust the Will any farther than  I  can  throw  this  ship,  uphill  and

against the wind."

"Funny," said Pothman, looking around him at the oily black root system  of

pipes and vents, as Luke hooked the small portable pump into the main mechanism.

"I never thought about it while I was a trooper. But now, looking back, I  think

I never could  get  used  to  living  in  corridors  and  rooms  and  ships  and

installations. I mean, it seemed normal at the time. Only after I was living  in

the forest on Pzob I realized how much I loved it, how much I'd missed the woods

and the trees of Chandrila. You miss the oceans, Miss Callista?"

"Every day."

Cray, standing in the doorway, only leaned her forehead  against  the  jamb

and said nothing, watching while Luke hooked the makeshift power cables into the

main outlets, pressed the switch. The dry, whirring rasp of the motor fired  up,

small and shrill against the deeper, calmer throb of the  main  pump  that  half

filled the room before them. Luke breathed a sigh of gratitude and unshipped the

small pump's hose.

"Here goes."

He plunged the hose into the first of the sugar-water drums,  watching  the

connection between the small pump surge and stiffen with  the  pressure  of  the

stuff, then, a moment later, the line between the small pump and the large.

Callista called up, softly, to the oblivious  Sand  People  inhabiting  the

regions above the pump room, "Here's looking at you, kids."

They pumped, in all, close to twenty gallons of  concentrated  sugar  water

into the Sand People's water supply.

"Leave it," said Luke, as Nichos turned back from the  door  to  fetch  the

portable pump or tidy the buckets. "We're not coming back."

"Ah," said Nichos, remembering that everything was going to  be  ion  vapor

this time tomorrow, and shook his head deprecatingly. "Perhaps a touch too  much

tidiness programmed in." The next moment he glanced sidelong at Cray,  realizing

that the jest might have been construed as a criticism--or simply as a  reminder

that he was, in fact, a collection of programs--but she managed a smile, and for

the first time met his eyes.

"I knew I shouldn't have cribbed that part out of one of  those  SP  Eighty

wall washers."

They stood looking at each other for  a  moment,  startled  and  not  quite

certain how to deal with her admission of having programmed him, of his being  a

droid... then she reached out and touched his hand.

"Think they'll mind if we crash their party?" whispered Callista when  they

reached the top of the gangway. The noise  from  the  shuttle  hangar  the  Sand

People had taken for their  headquarters  was  tremendous:  groaning,  grunting,

howling; whoops and clatters as machinery or weapons--gaffe sticks? rifles? -  -

were hurled here and there.  Every  now  and  then  they'd  all  begin  to  yowl

together, hair-raising ululations that rose and fell in  volume  and  pitch  and

then died away into raucous shrieks and crashes.

"Let's sit this one out." Luke leaned back against the wall, aware that  he

was trembling and that sweat rolled down the sides of his  face,  glittering  in

the chill of the corridor lights. He wanted to sit down, but knew that if he did

he'd probably never get up. He was burningly aware of Callista beside him, close

by him, as if she were merely invisible and would become visible again later...

He pushed the thought away.

Triv hunkered down, listening but coiled to spring up again, his blaster in

his hand. Threepio stood a meter or so away down the corridor  to  their  backs,

auditory sensors turned up to highest gain. Awkwardly,  Cray  and  Nichos  stood

together, as if not certain what to say.

Cray asked, "Will you be okay, Luke?" and Luke nodded.

"This shouldn't take too long."

"A bunch of deep-water cy'een herders'd have these  boys  under  the  table

before they'd even warmed up their elbows," commented Callista.

More whoops.

"Maybe that's why they killed that storekeeper."

The riot subsided. A few broken grunts and shouts,  then  silence.  Someone

yelled his opinion about something to his by now oblivious fellow tribesmen, and

then there was a clatter, as if of a dropped metal drinking vessel.

"Right," said Luke. "Let's go. We don't have much time. Threepio,  get  the

Talz."

"Certainly, Master Luke." The droid creaked off briskly into the darkness.

The shuttle hangar was carpeted  in  somnolent  Sand  P.  Sugar  water  was

spilled everywhere, soaking into the dirt-colored robes and head wrappings,  and

several bore dark, harsh-smelling stains on their  robes,  as  if  of  ichor  or

blood. A small, square service hatch on one wall was scratched and dented as  if

hacked at by maniacs--gaffe sticks and spears strewn like jackstraws all  around

it amply indicated that someone had thought it a useful  target  to  demonstrate

everyone's skill. The wall around the square hatch bore considerably more damage

than the hatch itself.

"Swell party," commented Luke, and scrambled painfully up the ramp into the

first of the shuttlecraft while Triv and Nichos prudently collected every weapon

in sight. The gauges looked all right--under Cray's expert cutting the  on-board

computer woke up without reference to its passwords and expressed  itself  ready

for action.

"Doesn't seem to be hooked into the Will at all," she commented.

"About time something went our way."

"I warn you," said Triv Pothman worriedly  from  the  door,  "I  was  never

trained to run one of these things. And those readouts  of  the  surface  you're

getting aren't making me feel any better about learning."

"I'll slave this shuttle to the other so Nichos  can  control  them  both."

Cray settled into the pilot's chair, ran her hands through her hair with the old

gesture of tucking aside stray tendrils--and winced a little at the touch of the

sawed-off  bristle--then  called  up  the  core  program   and   began   tapping

instructions in. The gesture of tidying her hair filled Luke with an  odd  sense

of relief, of gladness. Whatever she'd been through, its  darkness  in  her  was

lightening. She was returning to herself.

"Nichos isn't a hotshot jet jockey like Luke," she went  on,  "but  he  can

take both in even through that mess, if somebody on  the  ground  can  talk  him

down. A lot of the stabilization's preprogrammed for the planet, of course.  And

believe me, when  the  main  ship  blows,  there'll  be  somebody  out  here  to

investigate."

"Cray," said Luke, "I need to talk to you about that."

She didn't so much as spare him a glance. "Later," she said.  "First  let's

hear your plan for getting those Kitonaks  down  here  and  into  a  shuttle  in

something under two weeks."

Outside there was a groaning clamor, a bellowing war cry.  Luke  and  Cray,

stumbling to the door of the lander, were just in time to see  a  Tusken  Raider

launch itself at Triv Pothman, swinging its gaffe stick in such a fashion as  to

present considerably more danger to itself  than  to  the  former  stormtrooper.

Nichos leaped over two intervening  slumberers  and  caught  the  Tusken's  arm,

pulling the weapon from its fumbling hand. Triv was saying, "Hey, hey,  hey,  my

friend, just relax, okay? Have another little shot..."

The Raider accepted the silver cup  half  full  of  sugar  water  from  the

trooper's hand, downed it in a gulp, and subsided once again to the floor.

"Master Luke..." Threepio appeared in the doorway of the  hangar,  followed

by a half dozen fluffy white Talz.

"Great!" Luke scrambled down from the shuttlecraft, stumbling  as  his  leg

gave under him with a shocking blast of pain. Cray caught his arm and  three  of

the Talz were immediately at his side, steadying him and crooning worriedly.

"Thank them," said Luke, struggling to control his breath, to fight off the

pain that threatened to blot his consciousness. "Thank you," he added,  speaking

directly to the tall creatures, as Threepio produced a succession of  hoons  and

hums. "Tell them that without their help I could not possibly hope to  save  all

those here who need to be saved."

Threepio relayed Luke's message to the Talz, who replied  with  snufflings,

hoots, and heavy, patting hugs. Then without further ado the Talz began to  pick

up Sand People and carry them out of the hold, heading for the  lander  on  Deck

10.

"You know that even with my reprogramming that lander won't do anything but

head out a couple of kilometers and hang there," Cray said,  watching  them  go.

"It can't be steered."

"That'll do," said Luke. "I'll leave instructions with  Triv  and  Threepio

that nobody's supposed to open the thing till it gets to Tatooine anyway."

"You really think anybody'll tow  it  to  safety,  once  they  know  what's

inside?" She put one fist on her hip, turned to look at him sidelong, weary  and

bitter.

"I don't know," said Luke quietly. "If I make it out..." He hesitated.  "Or

if you make it out, please see to it that someone does."

Her face softened with the wisp of a smile. "You never give up," she  said,

"do you, Luke?"

He shook his head.

"Funny," Cray said, as they walked up the ramp  into  the  second  shuttle.

"You'd think that since we appeared  in  this  sector  somebody'd  be  out  from

Belsavis to check on who we are anyway. But there's not a thing."

"I've never seen anything like it." Jevax flicked through another series of

screens, the two technicians--another Mluki and a glum-looking Durosian--leaning

over his shoulders. None of the three looked up  as  Han  and  Chewbacca  thrust

their way through the door and into the port's central control.

The Durosian shook his head. "It has to be a malfunction somewhere  in  the

slave relay to the bay gates themselves," he said. "The program tests  positive.

All the gates couldn't malfunction mechanically at the same  time."  His  earth-

colored brow furrowed down over opalescent orange eyes, and he rubbed  the  hard

beak of his mouth.

"What's going on?"

Jevax looked up, seeing Solo and the Wookiee for the first time, and got to

his feet. "I hope you're not coming for takeoff clearance," he said in a tone of

voice half jocular, half puzzled--notobody in his right mind would take off into

the nightly inferno of Belsavis's winds.  "Did  Her  Excellency  find  what  she

needed in the MuniCenter records? I'm afraid I wasn't able to--was

"Leia never got to the MuniCenter at all," said Han.

The Mluki's eyes widened with shock, then flickered to the  chronometer  on

the wall.

"There's a woman living on Painted Door Street, in the  house  Nubblyk  the

Slyte used to own--Roganda Ismaren. Came here about seven years ago..."

"Ahh," said Jevax thoughtfully. "Roganda  Ismaren.  Woman  so  high..."  He

gestured to someone about Leia's small height. "Black hair, dark eyes..."

"I don't know. I've never seen her. She used to be  one  of  the  Emperor's

concubines so she's probably beautiful..."

"The human males who come into port treat her as if she's beautiful,"  said

Jevax with a small smile. "When she's seen, which is rarely. We're a small town,

General Solo, and everyone ends up knowing a great deal  about  everyone  else's

business... and though it's none of my business, I admit I have always nursed  a

deep curiosity about Roganda Ismaren."

"You know where her house is?"

Jevax nodded.

At the Chief Person's suggestion they stopped at a small  apartment  block,

to include in their party Stusjevsky, a meter-tall, dark-furred  Chadra-Fan  who

worked in the vine-coffee gardens as a sniffer.  "Some  things  you  just  can't

explain to supervisors," sighed the little creature as he bid a  quick  good-bye

to the group of convivial friends who'd gathered in his apartment  for  a  wine-

and-grooming party. He trotted down the outside  stair  at  Jevax's  side,  big,

clawed hands making quick work of the complicated latches on the  silk  vest  he

was donning. "The new girl keeps asking why the  beans  shouldn't  be  harvested

yet--"They're the right color," she says. Right color my left ear!"

As if called upon for corroborative evidence, his left ear twitched.

"They're more or less the right color outside, but they smell green inside.

Well, she'll learn... What can I do for you, Chief?"

Black fog shut them in, huge moths and glowbugs dancing around the  blurred

yellow wool of streetlamps and windows.  Overhead  the  lights  on  the  hanging

gardens twinkled dimly through the  mists,  like  alien  galaxies  of  flowering

stars.

Jevax gave him a swift and bowdlerized version of the problem, ending with,

"We have reason to believe the house itself is wired with alarms. Before  we  go

in--before we tip anyone off as to  our  presence--we'd  like  to  know  whether

anyone's home or not. Can you do that?"

"Humans?" The Chadra-Fan's huge ears cocked forward, and  he  glanced  from

Han to Chewie.

Jevax nodded.

Stusjevsky gave him the circle-finger sign universal among those races with

opposable thumbs: No Problem. They turned to cross the market square, all lights

retreating into dim smudges in the hot, eerie dark. "So what's this I hear about

the landing silos being locked up?"

The Chief Person gestured helplessly. "We think it's a malfunction  in  the

programming of the central servo between the computer and  the  doors  over  the

silos. It looks like it fired and locked at once, and ground the  main  gear  to

pieces."

Chewie turned his head sharply, with a long, rumbling growl.

"We don't know," said Jevax. "That's what's driving the tech crew crazy. It

shouldn't have happened. None of the cutouts operated. They're going to have  to

go in and pull the whole mechanism and open the gates manually-wh means  I  hope

you like the food here, General Solo, because  it'll  be  at  least  twenty-four

hours--was

"Wait a minute," said Solo, pausing at the  foot  of  the  steep  slope  of

Painted Door Street. "You're telling me that there's been another case of...  of

a fairly complicated, freak malfunction? Like  our  astromech  droid  trying  to

murder us? That's two in twenty-four hours."

Jevax's snowy brow ridge folded upward in the middle as he  considered  the

matter in that light. Then he said, "Three. The comm system's down again...  But

that happens so often..."

There was momentary silence as they regarded each other in the heavy gloom.

Then Solo said softly, "I've got a bad feeling about this."

In swift silence, they  felt  their  way  from  pillar  to  pillar  of  the

foundations of an old building, following the course of the street.

It was a neighborhood of ancient houses, prefabs rising  out  of  the  bomb

damage like white ships stranded on high rocks. Vines growing over the old  lava

blocks rustled wetly as the party passed along them, and somewhere a warm spring

welling up from an old foundation bubbled in the dark. The higher  altitude,  on

the bench beneath the Citadel ruins, thinned the fog a  little,  and  when  they

stopped at the turning at the top of the street, Solo could even see  the  house

Jevax pointed out.

Han felt a cold snake of uneasiness corkscrew down his backbone. If Roganda

Ismaren was the Emperor's Hand, it meant she was Force-strong...  not  something

he wanted to go up against.

But if she'd hurt so much as a hair on Leia's head, he'd...

"That's hers." Jevax looked down at Stusjevsky. "Anyone home?"

The Chadra-Fan closed his huge dark eyes, flared his four  large  nostrils,

and stood, breathing and listening to the  night.  Solo  couldn't  see  how  the

little creature could be sifting out the  odors  of  a  single  house  from  all

others, for the night was redolent of greenery, wet stone, the faintly sulfurous

pong of the hot springs, and the overpowering sweetness that  hung  in  the  air

near the packing plants...

But Stusjevsky opened his eyes after  a  moment  and  said,  "Nobody  home,

Chief."

Chewie grumbled a little and checked the pockets of his  utility  belt  for

his wire-bridging kit, preparatory to making an  assault  on  whatever  security

system the house might have.

"I'll tell you this, though," said the Chadra-Fan. "Somebody in that  place

has been wearing awfully expensive perfume-Whisper or Lake  of  Dreams--which  I

know for a fact nobody sells on this entire planet."

With startling suddenness, the door at the top of the steps whooshed open.

"I thought you said there was nobody home!" hissed Han as the four of  them

flattened into the shadows of a shell-ravaged old colonnade.

"Nobody human," retorted the Chadra-Fan. "I can smell..."

There was a faint whirring in the shadows of the vines that half masked the

doorway, and the movement of something pale.

Then a small form appeared at the  top  of  the  steps  and  paused  as  if

intensely weary, or considering what to do next.

Battered, dented, covered with filth and slime, it was Artoo-Detoo.

Chapter 23

"Commander," announced the stormtrooper with  a  sharp  salute,  "emergency

orders have arrived from the Grand Moff  of  the  entire  Imperial  Battlefleet!

Priority one, sir!"

The commander straightened up from grim concentration  on  the  blacked-out

control screen of a library reader and returned the salute with the  three  long

and gaudily blossomed yellow pellicules on  its  right  side.  Several  officers

engaged in manning the gunnery and navigation consoles at the dead  readers  and

vids along the library wall turned in their chairs; stems, stamens, and clusters

of flowers swiveled in the direction of their commander. They were all a  little

pale from lack of sunlight, but still very much on the alert.

Luke, leaning in the doorway watching the scene being played out by the dim

glow of his staff--the Affytechans had been engaged  in  their  imaginary  space

battle in total darkness before his  and  Pothman's  arrival--wondered  for  the

hundredth time exactly how sentient these beings were.

The Klaggs and the Gakfedds had remained Gamorreans, albeit convinced  most

of the time that they were stormtroopers.  They  had  been  aware  of  the  slow

destruction of the Eye of Palpatine, though they had attributed  it,  under  the

instructions of the Will, to the Rebel saboteurs familiar  to  them  from  their

programming. Ugbuz had remained Ugbuz, and though his aim continued to be  truly

dreadful he understood the difference between a charged  blaster  and  an  empty

one.

To the Affytechans, their programming seemed to be so  thorough  that  what

they were programmed to believe took precedence over the actual structure of the

ship itself. If they had possessed any individual personalities before induction

in the lander, those had been completely subsumed... And,  Luke  noticed,  those

Affytechans who had sprouted on  board--and  he'd  come  across  at  least  five

nurseries, mostly in lesser mess rooms rigged with emergency lighting--seemed to

believe themselves to be Imperial troopers with the  same  utter  absorption  as

their seniors.

Triv Pothman, resplendent in his white armor, stepped across  to  the  dead

control screen in front of the yellow-and-black captain. "With your  permission,

sir." He touched a switch.

Fleet Communications

Urgent and Priority One

It is the intent of the Will that all  ship's  personnel  evacuate  to  the

shuttlecraft on Deck 16 immediately. All personnel currently in  sick  bays  and

other locations to be moved with necessary life support.  The  bearer  of  these

orders will serve as director of  the  evacuation  and  pilot  the  shuttlecraft

during and after launch.

"Not bad," approved Luke softly.

"Are you kidding?" returned Callista's voice in his ear. "For thirty  years

the Will is the only thing I've gotten when I tried to break into the  computer.

You bet I know how to do an imitation. You should see me do Pekkie Blu  and  the

Starboys."

Luke had never heard of Pekkie Blu and the  Starboys,  but  he  would  have

crossed the Dune Sea on foot to hear her do an imitation of anybody.

"Is this... it, trooper?" The captain's voice was grave.

Neither Pothman nor Luke knew precisely what it was, but the former trooper

nodded. "We have our orders," he said.

The captain returned the nod, grave and  manly  despite  the  huge  coronal

fluff of white tassels. "All right, men," he said. "This is it. Pack it up. Move

it out."

In the Deck 12 Portside Section Lounge,  and  the  corridor  adjacent,  the

Kitonaks were still talking.

"They're still exchanging recipes, most of them," explained Threepio,  when

Luke appeared. "Although that group  in  the  corridor  has  begun  telling  one

another about last summer's run of Chooba slugs... an  experience  that  all  of

them, apparently, shared."

"They're all here," said Callista. "Forty-eight of them."

A group of Affytechans passed them, marching  in  brisk  military  fashion,

nearly seventy strong including a whole squad of seedlings  less  than  a  meter

high. "Riiight square turn!" barked the sharp voice of the lieutenant in charge,

and they vanished around a corner. Luke shook his head.

"Somebody's gonna have a job deprogramming them."

Her yelp of laughter rippled in the air. "Yikes, I hadn't even  thought  of

that! Okay. Corridors are clear between here and the shuttle bay.  Gangways  are

open. That one elevator shaft they'll have to climb is roped... Can  they  climb

an elevator shaft?"

"Oh, yes." Luke took a deep breath. He was achingly conscious of  the  fact

that every fragment of his strength that he expended on other matters meant that

much less for the final effort, the final exertion...

"Threepio, you ready?"

"I believe my grasp of the Kitonak language to be sufficient for the  needs

of the moment."

"Yeah," said Luke, "but you better get out of that doorway."

The droid stepped hastily aside. He knew what was coming.

"Okay," said Luke. "Here goes nothin'."

Closing his  eyes,  he  concentrated  on  the  heat  sensors  of  the  fire

prevention system of the lounge and the corridors around it. It was the simplest

of all Jedi powers--directed against the most basic system in the ship--and  the

result was utterly galvanic.

The sprinkler system burst into gushing life.

A rainstorm of water poured down over Luke, Threepio,  and  every  squatty,

mushroom-shaped, putty-colored Kitonak in the section.

"Deck Sixteen!" cried Threepio in the Kitonak tongue.  "Deck  Sixteen!  The

water is in the shuttlecraft!" And he sprang back, dragging his master to safety

as the thundering tide of Kitonaks not only slammed through the door, but  broke

down the walls on either side of the entryway and went lumbering and slipping up

the corridor in the direction of the shuttle decks.

Luke cast his mind ahead, visualizing every carefully memorized foot of the

corridors, gangway, elevator shaft between the Portside Section Lounge  and  the

Deck 16 shuttle-hangar, superheating the thin layer of air at  the  top  of  the

hallways to fire the sprinklers along the way.

Kitonaks mate in water.

Rain, to them, is the trigger for startling and enthusiastic speed.

"You think Cray and Nichos'll  be  able  to  handle  getting  them  in  the

shuttle?"

"Should be no problem," said Callista. "I'll go along, but  I  don't  think

it's anything a well-bred person should see. I'll be back with you by  the  time

we need to convince the Klaggs and the Gakfedds to go on board."

I can't do it, thought Luke, watching the ghostly flicker in  the  whirling

rain retreat along the corridor in the wake of the  lubricated  and  lust-crazed

mob. I can't... not save her.

He stood with the water coursing down his hair  and  face,  trying  not  to

think about not ever speaking with her again.

"Master Luke?" Threepio's voice was diffident.

With an almost physical effort he shook himself free  of  that  grief,  the

sense that there was nothing in him, body or soul, that did not consist entirely

of blinding pain. First things first. "Yeah," he said softly. "Let's go get  the

Jawas and move the tripods out."

Roganda and her son were forging an alliance with the Senex Lords.

Leia struggled, trying desperately to return to consciousness, but her mind

felt as if she had been frozen in that gelid green ocean. She was aware  of  the

room around her--still dimly aware of the shadows of  others  who  had  occupied

that room--but could neither sink back  into  her  original  coma  nor  rise  to

wakefulness.

And she had to wake up. She had to get out.

They were creating a power base, to give them position  with  the  warlords

Harrsk and Teradoc and the other remaining branches of the Imperial Fleet.

And around that power base, the Imperial Fleet  might  very  well  coalesce

once more.

And that coalition would be armed with the wealth of the Senex  Lords,  and

the massive weaponry of the Eye of Palpatine, drawn from  the  darkness  of  the

past by a  fifteen-year-old  boy  whose  powers  could  cripple  the  Republic's

unprepared defenses. To gain the Eye, and Irek, as secret weapons,  a  man  like

High Admiral Harrsk might surrender power that he would not have given over to a

child's regent a few years ago.

She had to get out.

Or get a message out, even if it cost her her life.

Han Solo. Ithor. Time of Meeting. Once he'd stumbled  onto  some  cache  of

Irek's yarrock hidden in the tunnels, once his mind had been cleared a little by

the counterreaction of the drug, Drub had done everything in his power  to  warn

his friend... to help the Republic that he knew was Han's  new  allegiance.  He,

too, knew they had to be warned.

She wondered at what point they'd gotten rid of Nasdra Magrody. Probably as

soon as Irek was capable of controlling and directing his ability  to  influence

mechanicals-Magrody knew far too much to be allowed to live.

Like.his pupil, she thought. She remembered the report of Stinna  Draesinge

Sha's murder: Her room had been gone through, her papers destroyed. Magrody must

have worked on the initial phases of the  implanted  brain  chip  with  her,  or

talked to her about them.

And  hadn't  there  been  some  other  physicist,  some  other  student  of

Magrody's, who'd died under mysterious circumstances a few years ago?

Leia didn't remember. That had been back before she'd met  Cray.  Magrody's

other star pupil, Qwi Xux, had probably had her life  saved  when  the  renegade

adept Kyp Durron had wiped out her memory.

And Ohran Keldor had been Magrody's pupil as well.

The door hissed open, and Leia felt the sharp blast of the warmer  corridor

air on her face. Though her eyes were closed she could "see" Lord  Garonnin  and

Drost Elegin come inside, the stocky security chief carrying an infuser.

The metal of the infuser was cold against her throat; she felt the rush  of

chemical, of warming wakefulness, stir her veins.

The sensation of green glass around her vanished. So did  the  ghosts,  and

even the memories of the ghosts, of others in the room. Her head ached as if her

brain had been stuffed with desiccant.

"Your Highness?"

Leia tried to reply and discovered that her tongue had turned into a three-

kilo sack of sand. "Unnnh..."

Her eyes were still shut, but she saw Garonnin and Elegin exchange a  look.

"Another one," said Elegin, and the security chief frowned.

"We don't want to harm her. Idiots."

He loaded another ampoule into the infuser and  put  the  metal  to  Leia's

throat again.

Her mind cleared with a snap, her heart pounding as if she'd been waked  in

panic by a loud noise; she flinched, sat up, aware that her hands were shaking.

"Your Highness?" Garonnin sketched a military bow and replaced the  infuser

in his pocket. "Madame Roganda wishes your presence."

He didn't sound happy about it,  though  it  was  difficult  to  tell  what

emotions passed behind those wet-stone eyes.  Madame  Roganda  was  a  title  of

courtesy... Roganda was certainly not a person qualified to demand that the last

Princess of the House Organa come to her. Leia slowed her breathing, raised  her

eyebrows slightly, as if she had not expected that  humiliating  a  slight,  but

with an air of gracious martyrdom rose, followed the men into the corridor.  She

had to call on all the physical training of the Jedi not to stumble, but managed

to walk with what her aunts would have called "queenly grace."

Like Palpatine, the men of the Ancient Houses preferred resigned  obedience

to defiance, and until she found some way  in  which  to  actively  escape  Leia

guessed her best course would be to rack up all the points with these people she

could.

They were quite heavily armed, with stunguns as well as blasters.

She still felt shaky, strange, and a little dizzy,  though  moving  helped.

Having no desire for a guaranteed three hours' worth of  headaches  and  nausea,

Leia decided to bide her time.

Roganda, Irek, and Ohran Keldor occupied a small chamber one level up, cold

despite the heating unit placed discreetly in a corner. The  walls  were  draped

with black; Leia had the momentary impression of the sort of meditation  chamber

used by some Dathomir sects, which used silence,  dimness,  and  a  single-point

source of firelight to concentrate the mind.

A cluster of candles was grouped on the polished wooden table at which Irek

and his mother sat. With such discretion as to constitute almost an  apology,  a

quarto-size terminal was set up on a bench  just  within  the  range  of  Irek's

peripheral vision, where Ohran Keldor was keying rapidly  through  a  series  of

calculations and what looked like sensor reports. There were four glass balls of

the type Leia had seen in several places in the crypts, set  on  stands  in  the

corners of the room so that Irek's chair was directly where lines drawn  between

them would cross.

Irek raised his head, stared at her with arrogant, furious blue eyes. "I've

had enough trouble from you," he said, his juvenile voice  cold,  and  Leia  was

aware of Lord Garonnin's angry frown at the rudeness and l@esemajest@e. "Now you

will tell me. Why wouldn't your droid obey me in the crypts? What had  you  done

to it?"

"You're dismissed," said Roganda quickly, signing to Garonnin and  Elegin--

Leia saw the look that passed between them as they left.

True, Roganda was in a hurry--but as a child Leia had had it impressed upon

her that no person of breeding was ever in such a hurry as to speak brusquely to

a social superior.

Inferiors, of course--and those whom circumstance had placed in  the  power

of a Lord--were jolly well on their own.

She turned to face Roganda, her eyes cold. "What guarantees can you give me

that I'll be returned to Coruscant safe and sound?"

"You dare ask for guarantees!" yelled Irek, slamming his fist on the table,

and Roganda held up her hand.

"I can guarantee you that unless you tell us what you  did  to  your  droid

that ena4 it to escape my son's influence," she said,  with  quiet  viciousness,

"you're going to be blasted out of existence in very  short  order,  along  with

every living thing in Plawal. Because the Eye of Palpatine is not responding  to

my son's commands."

"Not responding?" said Leia, startled. "I thought your son commanded it  to

come here."

"I did," said Irek sullenly.

"Not... exactly," corrected Keldor. The little man looked harried, his bald

head shining with sweat in the glow of the console lights. "We knew that part of

the original activation signal relay to trigger the Eye of  Palpatine  had  been

destroyed somewhere in the vicinity of Belsavis. By tapping into the strength of

the Force, Lord Irek was able to reactivate the relay and bring  the  battlemoon

here, where it will be close enough for him to control its on-board  programming

directly."

He cleared his throat uneasily, and avoided both Roganda's eyes and Leia's.

"The thing is, Princess, the Eye of Palpatine--a fully automated  ship,  one  of

the few designed with a completely automatic mission control in order to obviate

security leaks--was originally programmed to destroy  all  life  on  the  planet

Belsavis. Shell out of existence anything that resembled a settlement."

"Because the Jedi were here," said Leia steadily.

Keldor's eyes avoided hers.  "The  Emperor  took  whatever  steps  he  felt

necessary to reduce the risk of civil war. Whatever else can be said about them,

the Jedi were potential insurgents who he felt could not be trusted with power."

"And he could be, I suppose?" Leia looked across at Roganda. "You were  one

of the children here, weren't you?" she asked. "It was  your  family  they  were

attacking."

"We change with the times, Princess." Roganda folded  her  delicate  hands,

the topaz of her ring a sulfurous star in the  candle's  light.  Away  from  her

chief of staff, and the Senex Lords whom she sought to impress, all semblance of

that shy defenselessness was gone. In its place was a cool  vituperative  scorn,

the power-loving contempt that Leia guessed sprang from envy of  those  who  had

looked down on her, and desire to get her own back.

"If I'd followed the strictest  traditions  of  my  family  I'd  have  been

destroyed, as they and my older brother Lagan  were  destroyed.  As  it  was,  I

adapted those traditions."

"You followed the dark side, you mean."

That stung her. The winglike  brows  lifted.  "What  is  the  "dark  side,"

Princess?" There was a good deal of Irek in her chilly voice. Here  was  another

one, thought Leia, who could not conceive of the  possibility  of  being  wrong.

"Some of us think that  fanatic  adherence  to  every  jot  and  quibble  of  an

antiquated code is, if not dark precisely, at least stupid. And  from  all  I've

heard, the "dark side" seems to be anything that disagrees with  the  hidebound,

divisive, every-tree-and-bush-is-sacred teachings that shackled the Jedi gifts--

and shackled every political body that had anything to do with the Jedi, whether

they agreed with them or not--like an iron chain."

She gestured, with the small hand that had  never  done  any  work  in  the

woman's life, as if summoning the spirit of the clammy old man in the black robe

whose pale eyes still sometimes stared at Leia in her dreams.

"Palpatine was a pragmatist. As am I."

"And you don't think that pragmatism--as you call that form of selfishness-

-isn't exactly what the dark side is?"

"Madame," said Keldor--leaving it unstated whom  he  was  addressing--"ffbe

strictly pragmatic... we have very little time. The Eye of Palpatine will be  in

range of this rift, its principal target, in a matter  of  forty  minutes."  His

cold colorless eyes fastened on Leia's face, gauging her.

Like Moff Tarkin, she thought. Trying to figure out what would cause her to

break.

"Now, it's very possible that you will escape the destruction by virtue  of

concealment  in  these  tunnels.  But  I  assure  you"--and  that   flicker   of

spitefulness crept into her voice again--"everyone in the valley will die.  That

presumably includes your husband. And in every other valley on this planet. What

did you do to your droid?"

"I didn't do anything," said Leia quietly. "After his attempt on our  lives

last night he had to be rewired."

"You changed its schematic!" Irek was shocked. "But a droid  can't  run  if

you change its schematic!" He looked in horror from his mother to Keldor, as  if

for confirmation of this fact. "Old Man Magrody said  that  every  droid  has  a

standard schematic, and--was

"Professor Magrody," said Leia, "obviously didn't  hang  around  much  with

spaceport mechanics."

"But that can't be the reason!" Irek slewed in his  chair  to  face  Keldor

again. "Nobody rewired the Eye--was

"That we know about." The chubby little man glanced once more at his sensor

screen, and in the shadowy fragments of light his face  looked  suddenly  fallen

in, as if someone had let the air out of him. Leia could almost hear his  battle

against panic in his voice. "But the fact is, my lord Irek, we don't know if the

damage to the activation relays was the only reason the Eye of Palpatine  didn't

rendezvous with the assault wing here thirty years ago. It's just possible  that

enemies of the New Order did learn what the relays were supposed to summon,  and

did get a saboteur on board. If part of  the  computer  core  was  damaged,  for

instance, in an attempt to overload the reactors--was

"Can you fix it?" Roganda put a hand  on  her  son's  wrist,  to  forestall

whatever he was getting ready to say with his intaken breath. "Take  a  ship  up

there and disable the mission command center?"

Keldor's eyes shifted. Leia could almost hear him estimating  the  possible

strength of the rock above and around them, measuring it against  the  firepower

of the Eye's torpedoes...

"Of course I can."

"And if you can't," Leia  snapped  sarcastically,  "I  suppose  you  figure

you'll be safer up on the ship than down here?"

Roganda's eyes met Irek's.

"I blew out the central servo on the landing silos," said  the  boy.  Then,

defensively, "You told me to!"

"Theala Vandron's ship is still on the ice pad." Roganda got to  her  feet,

nodded to the portable terminal in the  corner.  "Bring  that,"  she  said.  She

paused, considering Leia for a moment, then said, "Bring her. If you  can't  get

that battlemoon disarmed we're going to need a hostage."

Irek's lightsaber flashed out, flame-colored in the darkness of the  black-

draped room. He stepped close to Leia, the cold cautery  of  the  blade  hissing

faintly as he brought it toward her face. "And you'd better not  try  anything,"

he said, a glitter of evil glee in his smile. "Because I don't think we  need  a

hostage that badly."

The corridor outside was empty.

Garonnin, thought Leia desperately, pushing aside the last  traces  of  the

drug's breathless dizziness. There has to be some way  to  alert  Garonnin  that

he's being betrayed...

She cast a swift look toward the red alarm buttons every dozen meters or so

along the wall, wondering if Irek's reflexes were up to slicing her  in  two  if

she lunged for one.

She rather suspected that they were.

"I warn you, Madame," panted Keldor, hurrying at Roganda's  side  with  his

portable terminal  bundled  up  under  his  arm  and  straps  hanging  in  every

direction. "The gunnery computer was a semi-independent entity from the  central

mission control computer--the W. If there's been a problem with the Will itself,

it may not even let us on board, much less permit us into the central core."

"You mean we may not be able to stop the Eye, or  control  it  afterwards?"

Her obsidian-black eyes glittered like a snake's, furious at the stupidity  that

dared to unravel her plans.

Keldor flinched. "There is that possibility."

"Then wait here." Roganda ducked through a nearby door in a swirl of  white

skirts, and Irek stepped closer to Leia and lifted his lightsaber threateningly.

The concubine reappeared a moment later with a heavy black box  slung  over  one

shoulder by  a  carrying  strap.  Her  scornful  eyes  flicked  to  Leia.  "More

pragmatism," she said dryly. "If there's one thing I learned in getting  out  of

Coruscant ahead of the Rebels, it was: Never be without money."

The spite was back in her voice, clearer now; spite and a world of unspoken

resentment, the resentment of a woman who has known what it is to be poor.  Just

as if, thought Leia, she herself hadn't run ragged  through  the  stars  with  a

price on her head.

But Roganda wasn't seeing that. Roganda was  seeing  the  Emperor's  levee,

too; seeing the last Princess of Alderaan, privileged and pampered, whose  aunts

wouldn't deign to speak to her: the scion of all those Ancient Houses who looked

down their noses at her choice of wine...

And Leia raised her head in just the attitude  she  herself  had  hated  in

every spoiled rich brat she'd gone to school with, and summoned every  ounce  of

their whiny jeers into her voice.

"You'll need it," she sneered, "if your witless incompetence at this  stage

gets the heads of all the Ancient Houses killed."

Roganda slapped her. The blow wasn't hard,  but  Leia  grabbed  the  little

concubine's wrist, shoved her between herself and Irek, and  flung  herself  the

two or three meters down the corridor that separated her from  one  of  the  red

alarm buttons on the wall. She smacked it hard with the heel  of  her  palm  and

whirled, raising her hands as Keldor brought up his blaster...

And before Keldor had the chance to rethink his automatic response  of  not

shooting in the event of surrender, Lord Garonnin appeared down the corridor  at

a run, blaster in hand.

"My lady? What...?"

"They're deserting you!" yelled Leia. "Running out! That battlemoon's going

to blow the daylights out of this place and they're taking off in the last ship!

" And, whirling, she aimed a single hard lance of the  Force  at  the  latch  of

Roganda's black box.

Panic, lack of training, and the exhaustion and disorientation of the drugs

caused her aim to misfire slightly, but the  result  was  the  same.  The  strap

snapped and the box--which Leia could tell was extremely heavy--crashed  to  the

floor, the latch sprang open...

And gems, currency, and negotiable  securities  spilled  across  the  floor

between Roganda and her aristocratic security chief.

After an endless second of staring into Roganda's white face, Garonnin said

softly, "You faithless drab," and, with his free hand, brought up his comlink.

It was the last conscious movement  he  made.  Irek  stepped  forward  with

preternatural lightness and  severed  him,  right  shoulder  to  left  hip,  the

lightsaber cutting and cauterizing flesh  and  bone  like  a  hot  wire  passing

through clay.

Leia stretched out her hand, Garonnin's blaster flying free  of  his  dying

grasp and into her palm. Even as it did so she flung herself to the floor  in  a

long roll, Keldor's blaster bolt spattering viciously against the rock  where  a

moment ago she'd been standing; then she  plunged  down  the  nearest  corridor,

heard Irek yelling, "Kill her! She'll tell  the  others!"  and  the  clatter  of

pursuing feet.

Leia took a flight of stairs two steps at a time,  fled  down  a  corridor,

past deserted rooms or  sealed  doorways,  msty  and  lit  by  the  intermittent

radiance of glowpanels faded with age. She ducked through what she  thought  was

another passageway and found herself in a long  room  whose  single  bay  window

looked out into the lamp-twinkling outer  darkness--fleeing  to  the  embrasure,

beyond the heavy plex she saw the jut of rocky overhang, the  dense  curtain  of

vines... and a hanging bed of vine-coffee plants, gleaming with worklights,  not

three meters away.

Hanging beds. The supply platform. An emergency ladder to the bottom of the

rift.

She was prepared to shoot out the window latches but it  wasn't  necessary;

they were stiff, but not locked. Shouts, running feet outside... Her breath  was

still short and uneven from the stimulants they'd given her but she knew she had

no choice. Leia squirmed her way through the narrow opening to the minimal  rock

of the sill--being very careful not to look down--grabbed a handful of vine, and

swung.

The vine jerked and gave half a meter under her  weight,  but  somehow  the

huge steel basket of the bed was safely, easily under her. She grabbed a support

cable and clung, releasing the Vine, gasping  and  trembling  all  over.  Lights

glowed above her, below her, and all around, illuminating the other beds in  the

dark. Leia looked up to the dark mazes of tracks, the rags of fog drifting among

the cable-and-pulley arrangements that held up the  gondolas  of  the  beds  and

above it all the cold white fragments of wind-thrashed ice  skating  across  the

plex of the dome itself. She knew she shouldn't look down but did... a  swirling

sea of fog, broken by dark trees and the fragile lamps of a sunken city.

A tremendously long way down.

Lightly, she ran along the duckboard that stretched the length of the bed.

The supply station affixed to the cliff wall itself,  with  its  own  thick

beds festooned in vines, seemed impossibly far away.

The steel gondolas that supported the  hanging  beds  were  ten  or  twelve

meters by six, filled with earth and overflowing with  the  heavy,  thick-leaved

coffee - or silk-vines. This was a coffee bed, tight clusters of dark beans half

hidden among the striped leaves, the bittersweet smell of the foliage  thick  in

her lungs. Narrow catwalks ran between the beds, little more than chain  ladders

wound on reels that extended or contracted as the beds were raised and  lowered,

or could be unhooked and drawn in completely if  a  bed  was  brought  laterally

around to one of the supply stations on the rift wall. The thought  of  crossing

one turned Leia absolutely cold, but it was the only means  of  making  her  way

from bed to bed until she reached the station...

The bed jarred, shook, swayed. Turning, she saw that Irek  had  swung  from

the window as she had, and was running  lightly  down  the  duckboards  to  her,

lightsaber shining redly in his hand.

Leia fired her blaster and missed, the boy  ducking  nimbly  and  vanishing

among the vines. Rather than face him--not knowing exactly what  she'd  have  to

face--she fled, ducking and scrambling across the  first  of  the  spider-strand

catwalks, clinging to the safety line that formed  a  spindly  railing  for  the

bridge. She half expected Irek to cut the bridge behind her and try to spill her

off, but he didn't, probably knowing she could hang on to the ladder and  climb.

She felt his weight on the catwalk behind her but  didn't  dare  stop  and  turn

until she had the next bed swinging and  rocking  beneath  her  feet;  then  she

turned, in time to see him spring off the catwalk and into the vines.

She fired again but the blaster jerked in her hand,  almost  loosening  her

grip, and she ducked the whining slash of the blade close enough that she  could

feel its cold. The coffee vines tangled her feet but she moved lightly,  ducking

his cuts, weaving and springing away. She dodged again, as behind her two of the

heavy stakes that held the vines uprooted themselves and  slashed  at  her  head

like thrown clubs-he was attempting to drive her over the edge. Her second  shot

missed, and she could feel the pressure of his mind on hers; her lungs laboring,

her throat tightening. Consciously she relaxed them, opened them,  thrust  aside

what he was trying to do to her...

A blaster bolt whined, took a piece out of the steel rim of the basket, and

left a mass of acridly smoking vines between them. Irek startled back and looked

around; Leia fired from a distance of less than two meters and only at the  last

second did his mind try to rip the blaster again from her hand. The bolt  seared

a smoking rent in the shoulder of his coat, and  at  the  same  moment  Keldor's

voice yelled, "I've got her! I've--was

Irek lunged at Leia in response, driving her  toward  the  edge,  and  then

there was a shattering crack from the plex overhead and the pane cracked, frigid

air pouring down through the hole the blaster had made and turning instantly  to

a swirling column of fog in which  snow  fragments  sparkled  viciously  in  the

starry lights.

Leia ducked through the momentary screen of the fog to  the  next  catwalk,

raced and scrambled along it headfirst, though it was pointing slightly downward

to a silk bed a few meters below and nearly ten meters away...

This time Irek did cut the catwalk. Leia dropped the  blaster  and  grabbed

hard and tight as the chain ladder plunged sickeningly down. The lurch, the jerk

of it reaching the bottom of its arc  was  terrifying,  jolting  her  belly  and

freezing her heart. The ladder jerked and swung and it took all her  courage  to

release her deathgrip enough to begin climbing, but she knew she was  a  sitting

target. A bolt burned the ends of the vines to her left.

"I've got her!" she heard Keldor yell again. Leia dragged herself over  the

edge of the steel cage and fell into the fusty-smelling masses of the vines. She

tore up one of the heavy vine-stakes, knowing it would be almost useless against

either lightsaber or blaster, but it was the only weapon to hand.  At  the  same

moment the bed lurched and began to  move,  rumbling  along  its  track  on  the

ceiling, swaying with the momentum of its speed.  Leia  flattened,  digging  her

hands hard into the vines as the  bed  lurched  and  jerked  against  the  other

catwalks that connected it to the beds around it, then swayed sickeningly as the

thin steel ladders broke off.

Don't look down, she told herself grimly, but, looking up,  saw  where  the

tracks crossed...

Another bed swept down the crossing track out of nowhere,  vines  trailing,

whizzing along like an  out-of-control  freighter.  Leia  crushed  herself  flat

again, and the gondola slashed by half a meter over her head, cables whining  as

the whole bed dipped toward her in an attempt to sweep her off. Then the bed she

was on was moving faster  and  faster,  swaying  wildly  as  it  swooped  around

corners, raising and lowering--

Another searing whine of the blaster, as a whipping turn brought her  clear

of the pouring fog and into what Keldor considered his range.

"Here! Over here!"

The moving bed lurched, stopped, and reversed its direction.

She could see Irek standing up on another bed, slightly above her,  backlit

in the swirling fog, lightsaber burning like amber flame in his hands.

Fog was everywhere, spewing streams of it mixed with snow as the  cold  air

poured down through the crack in the dome. Another silk bed swept toward her  on

a collision course; Leia gauged the possibility of a jump to that one  but  lost

her nerve, ducked flat, and clung as it slammed heavily into  the  side  of  her

bed, nearly hurling her out, then swept away as it had come. One instant she was

swaying over a sickening view of trees and clouds and  tiny  lights  below,  the

next lost in dark swirls of mist through which the lights on her bed glowed like

jewels.

Something huge and dark loomed out of the mist above her and she  felt  the

jolt of someone landing on the bed. A heavy rustle of feet in the  vines,  then:

"Don't move, Princess. I'm not very good with this but at  this  range  I'm  not

going to miss again."

The silk bed lurched out of the fog. Ohran Keldor, blaster in  hand,  stood

at the other end.

The bed slowed, but continued a constant, even course back to the bed where

Irek stood like a slender black god.

In a sudden squeal of cables another garden rose from below  them,  missing

them by less than a meter, and from its rim Han Solo launched himself  into  the

vines at Keldor's side. At the same moment both that bed and  the  one  Han  had

ridden over to them swung in another direction, heading along the  track  toward

the vine-festooned supply station on the rift wall, where Leia could  see  Jevax

and Chewbacca, standing at the controls.

Irek yelled, "No!" and  Han,  who  had  twisted  the  blaster  out  of  the

astonished Keldor's fist, shouted, "Run for it, Leia!"--instead she strode  over

through the vines and delivered a smashing blow with the vine-stake to the  back

of Keldor's head as he struggled with Han on the edge of the bed.

Keldor staggered, reeling. Han jerked him back from the edge and thrust him

toward the leading end of the bed, which  was  now  closing  in  on  the  supply

station. Jevax waded through the deep vines, reaching out with a  long  pole  to

steady the incoming bed. Irek shouted something else, Leia didn't  hear  exactly

what...

And the pulleys that held the bed to the trolley overhead  let  go  with  a

snap.

Leia flung herself at the hanging jungle of the supply station's vines, Han

leaping after... she thought he wouldn't make it, reached out  with  the  Force,

but didn't afterward know whether it was his own agility or some added energy of

hers that let him grab the bottom ends of that trailing green beard.

But in any case  Ohran  Keldor,  architect  of  the  Death  Star  and  sole

surviving technician of the Eye of Palpatine, had  neither  the  Force  nor  the

trained muscle of a rough-and-tumble smuggler to help him.

And if Irek was capable of levitating him out of the falling  ruin  of  the

silk bed, he didn't react quickly enough or didn't try. The  scientist's  scream

of terror echoed in the ghostly broil of fog still streaming  down  through  the

cracked dome, and when Leia and Han gained the safety of the platform, all trace

of Irek was gone.

Chapter 24

With the closing of the shuttlecraft door behind the last contingent of the

Gakfedds, the hangar seemed profoundly silent. Beyond  the  magnetic  seal,  the

blue-white curve of Belsavis flung back a cold glory of light, a  bony  radiance

that bleached Cray's features to a haggard shadow and turned Nichos's to silvery

marble.

"There it is," said Callista softly. "There, where the clouds  rise  up  in

columns over the heat of the thermal vent."

Even from here, Luke could see the star-silvered night side chaos where the

Plawal Rift lay.

Leaning like a tired old man on his staff, he  remembered  the  young  Jedi

who'd come to him a year ago, bringing the tall, elegant blond woman -  com..the

most brilliant AI programmer at the Magrody Institute--and strong in  the  Force

as well.

She'd stepped forward, he remembered, to shake his hand, taking  charge  of

the situation so that it wouldn't take charge of her.

I'm sorry, he wanted to say to them, not knowing quite why.

For life.

For this.

For everything.

"The lander's going to be launched first, on automatic," he  said,  forcing

his mind back to the matter at hand. Time was, he knew, now very short. "Once it

gets clear of the magnetic field, Blue Shuttle will go..." He  gestured  to  the

massive pale block of the Telgorn; it  rocked,  very  slightly,  and  a  muffled

thumping could be heard within. He felt a momentary rush of gratitude  that  the

control cabin was completely separate from the passenger hull.

"Triv..."

The elderly stormtrooper stepped forward from the shadows where  he'd  been

standing with Threepio. He'd shed his white armor, and  wore  again  the  faded,

flower-embroidered makeshifts he'd had on when he'd come on board. His dark face

was calm, but there was an infinity of sorrow in his eyes.

"I'm putting you in charge of Blue Shuttle in case there are any  problems,

but the controls are slaved to Red Shuttle's  console--Nichos  will  pilot  both

crafts from there."

Luke drew a deep, shaky breath. "Cray..."

She raised her eyes. Silence had  been  growing  around  her,  like  a  sea

creature manufacturing a  shell  of  its  armor;  a  double  shell,  this  time,

enfolding them both.

It was the first time he'd seen Cray and Nichos so comfortable together, so

close, since the days on Yavin before Nichos's hands had started to go numb, his

vision to blur. With the various small camouflages gone--the steel mesh and  the

ornamental housings covering wrist joints and neck--he  was  more  than  ever  a

droid, but something in the way they stood, something in their silence,  was  as

if the past eight nightmare months had not taken place.

"There's an escape pod at the end of the corridor outside the gunnery deck,

" he said quietly. "Once I make it to the top of the shaft, I'll  yell  down  to

you and you get to that pod and get the hell out of here. I  think  there'll  be

time."

"I thought I was the one," said Cray softly, "who was going up the shaft."

He shook his head. "I could never make it to the pod.  I've  rested..."  It

wasn't much of a lie, he reflected. "I can use the Force  to  help  misfire  the

grid, and I think I have the strength to levitate to the top. Once  I'm  in  the

central core..."

He took another deep breath. "Once I'm in the central core I'm going to try

to cripple the guns, rather than blow up the ship. According to the readouts you

got from the central computer that should be possible from there..."

"And what if it's not?" demanded Callista's voice.

"Then..." He almost couldn't say the words. "Then I'll  start  the  reactor

overload. But if it hasn't blown in ten minutes,  Cray--and  you'll  be  out  of

there and in the pod by then--start thinking about how we're going to get enough

memory in a unit to get Callista off the ship. After that's done we'll blow it."

"No," said Callista.

"Callista, I can't--was

"No."

He could see her, almost, standing in front of him, her  features  set  and

white and her smoke-colored eyes grim, as they had been  in  the  other  hangar,

thirty years ago...

"Luke, we can't risk it. You can't risk it. Say you're right,  you  find  a

way to cripple the guns--really cripple them, not have the Eye lie  to  you  and

say they're crippled. That leaves the Eye in  orbit  until  you  can  scrape  up

enough units of memory, enough circuits and synapses... You're  never  going  to

find that kind of thing on Belsavis. From what you've told me  they're  just  an

agricultural station, and a small one at that. So you send  for  them.  So  they

take a day, two days to arrive... And meanwhile whoever  sent  for  the  Eye  of

Palpatine comes along... and every Imperial admiral who picks up word  of  it...

You think the Republic's going to be able to fight off the pack of them? With  a

station like this one for the prize?"

Luke was silent, unable to argue. Unable to  tell  himself  that  the  dark

flower of knowledge, the cold dread of his dream, had been illusions.

Something had sent for the Eye. Something was waiting for it.

And it had it almost within its grasp.

"Blow the reactors, Luke." Her voice was low, barely to  be  heard  in  the

deep silence of the shuttle deck.  None  of  the  others  spoke,  but  Luke  was

conscious of Cray's eyes on his face, knowing in a way that none of  the  others

did what he was going through.

Knowing that his decision to be the one in the shaft was  based  partly  on

the knowledge that if he destroyed the ship - comif  he  destroyed  Callista--he

would be in her heart when the end came.

"Don't let the Will  deceive  you,"  Callista  continued  softly.  "Because

believe me, it knows how badly you want to deceive yourself."

"I know." He doubted any of the others  heard  his  words,  but  knew  that

Callista heard. "I know. I love you, Callista..."

She whispered, "And I love you. Thank you for bringing me back this far."

He straightened up, as if some terrible burden had fallen from him.

"Nichos, Threepio, Triv... get ready for launch. Cray, I still want you  to

be the one who stays below, the one who gets out of here..."

He turned, in time to see her take a stungun from the holster at her side.

He had, he realized, thought of everything but that. The Will is  going  to

do anything... use anything... He threw himself sideways and rolled as  best  he

could...

But the killing grind of exhaustion and pain had slowed his  reactions  and

blunted any chance he had of using the Force, and the stunblast smote  him  like

the blow of a club, hurling him into darkness.

"Who the hell was that?"

Leia dragged Han up the final half meter or so onto the platform, Jevax and

Chewie reaching down beside her to pull him to safety.  Cold  wind  whipped  and

tangled her hair, fog swirled around them one moment, ice crystals stinging  her

cheeks, then whipped away to reveal the tossing soft lake of the rift below.

Dimly, from the open window beneath the vines away  along  the  cliff,  she

could hear the clamor of alarms.

"Jevax, can you get us back there? There, under that ledge... And sound the

alarms in the valley! All over the planet, whatever other  settlements  you  can

reach! The whole planet's going to be shelled, bombed from space, I  don't  know

how soon, minutes maybe..."

"Who was that?" demanded Han. "And who killed that guy in  the  passageway?

Artoo led us back through to the crypts, then up an elevator... What happened to

the guardians in the tunnels?"

"Bombed?" demanded Jevax, horrified.

"Now! Go! Get everyone under shelter, into the  old  smuggler  tunnels--use

the spaceport silos for safety, it won't have been a  target,  it  wasn't  built

thirty years ago..."

Chewie ducked back into the supply shack, emerged with a controller in  his

paws. A moment later a vine-coffee bed approached them like  a  slow,  splendid,

flower-caparisoned barge along its ceiling tracks.

"That supership Mara told us about,  the  other  half  of  the  assault  on

Belsavis... it's on its way! Irek summoned it--Roganda's son, Irek--was

"That kid?"

"He's trained in the Force, he can influence mechanicals... He'll make hash

out of our fleet..." She sprang down from the platform into the thick  vines  of

the bed. After the sickening whiplash drop on the slashed catwalk, and springing

from the falling bed to the thin  tangle  of  vines,  the  short  jump  down  to

something securely anchored bothered her not in the slightest.

Han swore and jumped, catching the cables for support; Chewie dropped  down

after.

"Warn them!" yelled Leia back, as the Wookiee swiveled the joystick on  his

controller; the coffee bed swung ponderously along the track, breasting  through

a banner of fog toward the distant overhang of the cliff, and the gaping  window

beneath. "Get everyone under cover!"

Jevax was already swarming onto the little service elevator that would take

him down the cliffside.

Drost Elegin, Lady Theala Vandron, and a motley and  vociferating  gang  of

private guards, secretaries, and corporate representatives were assembled in the

room from which Leia had jumped to the first of the vine-beds.  They  rushed  to

the window at the sight of the approaching bed, but though several  were  armed,

Leia heard Lady Vandron snap, "Don't fire, you idiots, they could have escaped!"

as the bed drew near.

Chewie flung out a coil of ladder; half a dozen hands caught  it,  anchored

it for Han, Leia, and the Wookiee to cross.

Artoo-Detoo was between Lady Vandron and one of  Roganda's  thugs,  rocking

back and forth and tweeping excitedly. As Leia swung through  the  window--Drost

Elegin, a gentleman to his bones, held out a hand to help her descend-Leia said,

"You've been betrayed, all of you! When Irek discovered he couldn't control  the

Eye of Palpatine he ran for it, he and his mother. They're the ones  who  killed

Lord Garonnin..."

They looked at one another.

"Look at his body," said Leia furiously. "Irek's the only  person  in  this

place who has a lightsaber! And if you look at the place you'll probably find  a

trail of jewels and negotiable bonds all the way to the elevator."

She saw the glances that  were  exchanged  among  the  guards.  Nobody  had

produced a weapon yet.

"It should be a simple matter to pursue them," said  Lord  Picutorion.  "We

have some of the fastest--was

"Not with all the silo gates of the port jammed shut, you don't,"  retorted

Leia. She turned to Lady Vandron. "It's your ship they're taking, Your Highness.

.. The Eye of Palpatine is going to start bombing the planet any  minute,  so  I

suggest everyone go as deep as they can and as far into the tunnels as they can.

"

"The creatures in the crypt--was began the athletic-looking Lady Carbinol.

"Have no direction without Irek's will," said Elegin. He  glanced  over  at

Han and Chewbacca, still standing in the embrasure of the window. "As I  daresay

you found out on your way in." He whipped his blaster from his side. "After you,

Your Highness. We may still be able to catch them before they take off."

They encountered, in fact, two or three of the  wretched  ex-smugglers  and

ex-hustlers wandering the passageways farther from the  inhabited  areas,  where

the thermal vent ran out under the ice, but as Elegin had said,  without  Irek's

will the things ran shrieking from the  lights  borne  by  Han,  Leia,  and  the

various infuriated aristocrats  who  strode  in  their  wake.  Without  Irek  to

interfere with sensor tracking, thought Leia as she ran, they should be able  to

round up those miserable guardians and get them whatever kind of help could best

be devised.

She wondered what the old Jedi records Luke had scraped together had to say

about such abuses of the power of the Force, what might be done  by  those  with

talents as healers.

"Typical," Leia heard Lady Carbinol snap to someone  at  the  rear  of  the

group--a group, she noticed, made up largely  of  the  members  of  the  Ancient

Houses, the corporate types being  mostly  in  prudent  search  of  the  deepest

defenses they could find. "I never trusted the woman... I don't  wish  to  sound

the snob, but breeding will tell and in this case it certainly has..."

Every now and then they found, on the tunnel floor, a piece of jewelry,  or

a credit paper, to indicate the direction of Roganda's flight.

The elevator up to the surface was jammed. "Servo's blown at the top," said

Han, flipping back the coverplate on the summons button to check the monitor.

"He did that on the central servo that controls the  landing  silos,"  said

Leia. "I don't know at what  distance  his  power  can  operate,  but  it's  not

something I'd want to have happen if I were in an X-wing going  in!  -  bat.  Is

there a stair?" she asked Drost Elegin, who nodded.

It was, in fact, a circular ramp, since the old smugglers had to get  cargo

down it. Artoo-Detoo, who had followed them stolidly along the  passageways  and

ramps from the main mazes behind the cliff, caught up with them and trundled  on

ahead, his small spotlight shining  on  the  smooth  stone  of  the  floor,  the

battered rock walls. The place  smelled  of  kretch  and  grew  colder  as  they

ascended, Leia's breath smoking in the light of the lamps.  Lady  Carbinol  lent

Han her parka when they reached the pillbox at the top, and Han, Leia in her  t-

suit, and Drost Elegin--the only other member of the  little  group  to  have  a

parka with him--struggled, with Chewbacca and the droid, over  the  uneven  path

that wound through the sheltering backbone of the rock to the  ice  landing  pad

and its low white hangar.

The hangar door was open, the lights from within  shining  weirdly  on  the

snow that blew across it, puffing back from the magnetic shield. All around  the

ice pad, snow was scattered in the characteristic quintuple starburst pattern of

a Tikiar's lifters.

Except for Lady Vandron's two crew members, tied up with engine tape  in  a

corner and shivering with cold, the hangar was quite empty.

Leia wrapped her arms tight around herself, shivering as  the  wind  burned

her unprotected cheeks. Chewbacca growled, his long brown  fur  whipped  in  all

directions by the dying winds. Overhead the black roil  of  clouds  had  broken,

showing the sky the clear, pallid slate of the Belsavis dawn.

"At least we'll be able to warn Ackbar," said Leia quietly.  "Irek's  power

over  mechanicals  can  be  circumvented  if  minor  changes  are  made  in  the

schematics. He can do damage on any ship that hasn't been warned, but we can get

the word out."

"It was a plan that  worked  best  with  surprise,"  agreed  Drost  Elegin,

shaking back his graying dark hair and gazing skyward. "Though from what I  know

of starship mechanics, there are schematics that must be adhered to if the  ship

is to function at all. You must admit that the initial advantage would have been

devastating. Perhaps decisive."

He looked down at Leia, his pale eyes chilly. "All we  want  is  sufficient

power to be left alone by all parties, Princess. We are perhaps repaid  for  our

greediness in thinking that a scheming trollop and her brat could provide it for

us."

He turned and moved off along the path heading back for the ramp head  that

would take him to the safety of underground.

Han stepped forward, to encircle Leia with his arms. "You know she was  the

Emperor's Hand. His other Hand," he added, as Leia looked quickly up, a  protest

on her lips. "And Mara's fried as a fish about it."

"It explains how she could do things like kidnap Nasdra  Magrody,  and  use

Imperial funds," said Leia. "She must  have  been  planning  to  develop  Irek's

powers since she first knew he had them. Maybe since before he was born. They're

out there, and they're still a danger."

She sighed, suddenly very tired, and looked, as Elegin had, into the leaden

sky, as if she could see the track of the vanished spacecraft fleeing the  place

that had been her first, and last, true home.

"We'd better get under cover," said Han softly. "If that ship  Mara  talked

about is going to try and finish up its mission, we don't know  how  far  around

the rift it was programmed to bomb. Let's just hope the caves are deep enough."

A burning pinpoint of white light flared suddenly in the  dim  sky,  faded,

then swelled suddenly to a monstrous glare. Han flinched, covering his eyes with

his arm. Leia turned her face aside and saw their shadows--man, woman,  Wookiee,

droid--momentarily etched black against the blue-white meringue  of  the  drifts

among which they stood.

Han said, "What the...?"

"I don't know," said Leia. "But that was way too big for a Tikiar.  It  has

to have been the Eye."

"Luke, forgive me."

He rolled over, body aching from the effects of the stungun's blast.  There

were soft hootings in the semidark, and a white, fluffy enormity came  and  bent

over him, urging him down with padded black paws.

Talz. They clustered around the emergency bunk where he lay, and the  whole

dark space of the shuttle hold smelled of their fur.

Someone was singing. "Pillaging Villages One by One."

Luke sat up, and was immediately sorry.

"Forgive me," said Callista's voice as he lay down again.  Somewhere  close

by the Jawas chattered, yellow eyes glowing in the dark. Over the heads  of  the

Talz he could see one end of the shuttlecraft jammed with old  droid  parts  and

stormtrooper helmets used as buckets to hold scrap metal, wire, and power cells.

He remembered Callista had told both groups of Gamorreans, in her pseudomessages

from the Will, that it was the Intent of the Will  that  they  leave  all  their

weapons outside their respective shuttlecraft.

The voice was tinny, small. Turning his head, he saw the player set next to

him on the thin mattress of the bunk. The holo of her face appeared dimly  above

it, no more substantial than the audio.

She looked exhausted, as she had in his dream-vision  of  her  in  the  gun

room, her brown hair straggling from the loose braid she'd put it in,  her  gray

eyes at peace.

"It was my idea--mine and Cray's. I was afraid--we were  both  afraid--that

at the last minute you'd try to settle for less than complete destruction of the

Eye of Palpatine... that you'd try to play for time, to take me  off  the  ship.

I'm sorry that I... made your decision for you."

Her image faded out, and Cray's appeared, weary and stretched-looking,  but

with that same exhausted peace in her eyes. "With me in the gun room  using  the

Force against the enclision grid, I figure it's just possible  for  a  droid  to

make it up the shaft... And a droid could take a few hits and still be  able  to

function. Nichos agreed to this."

The pale, still features of the Jedi who for a year had been  Luke's  pupil

appeared beside hers, oddly detached-looking  in  front  of  the  metal  of  the

cranial cowling. The hand--the precise duplicate  of  Nichos's  hand--rested  on

Cray's shoulder, and she reached to touch the fingers that had  been  programmed

to human warmth.

"Luke, you know I was never more than a substitute; a droid  programmed  to

think, and remember, and act like someone Cray wanted very  much  to  keep.  And

that might have suited me, if I hadn't loved her--truly loved her--as well.  But

I'm not the living Nichos, and I  know  I  never  can  be.  I  would  always  be

something less, something that was not."

"Nichos is on the other side, Luke," said Cray  softly.  "I  know  it,  and

Nichos..." She half smiled. "And this Nichos knows it. Remember us."

Their images faded.

No image replaced it, but Callista's voice said again, "Forgive me, Luke. I

love you. And I will love you, always."

From the starboard portholes came a blazing burst of white.

"No!" Luke flung himself to his feet. He thrust through the  Talz,  through

the Jawas clustering around the ports, the gentle tripods  crowding  up  against

the massive piles of the Jawas' junk; fell against the wall to stare out in time

to see the huge white flare on the far side of the drifting asteroid fade...

Tiny, it was, hanging in the distance...

"No!"

Then the explosion, like the shattering destruction of the world.

Chapter 25

Mara Jade picked them up in the Hunter's Luck very shortly after that.

"I came out of hyperspace almost on top of that Tikiar," she  said  as  she

and Leia helped  Luke  along  the  short,  prehensile  temp-lock  from  the  Red

Shuttle's lock to the Luck's. Behind them in the shuttle, Chewbacca was snarling

furiously at the assorted Gamorreans and Jawas seeking to follow, so loudly that

he could be heard in the thin  alm-vacuum.  See-Threepio,  who'd  more  or  less

piloted both shuttles away from the spreading cloud of ruin that  had  been  the

Eye of Palpatine, had remained with the Wookiee to translate,  explaining  in  a

number of languages that everything was under control and they'd  all  be  taken

care of.

"It was heading up the Corridor like it had a pack of Void  Demons  on  its

tail. If I'd known who it was I'd have taken a shot at them, but they were going

so fast I probably wouldn't have got a hit. You be all  right,  Skywalker?"  She

keyed the entry to the Luck's main lock, and regarded Luke worriedly as the  air

cycled in.

Luke nodded. There seemed no  point  in  saying  anything.  He'd  heal,  he

supposed, inwardly as well as physically. He knew that people did.

The black gulf of nothingness inside him wouldn't always be the only  thing

he could see.

Now he just wanted to sleep.

Leia put her arm around his waist, and he felt the touch  of  her  mind  on

his. Tell me later, she said.

Leia, he thought, would have liked Callista.

Mara would have, too, in her cold, cautious way.

"I'll be fine," he said, knowing it was a lie.

"There's a pretty good company medcenter in Plawal," Mara was saying as she

eased Luke down the short corridor to one of the small cabins. The Hunter's Luck

was a rich kid's yacht that had fallen to pirates years before, but some of  the

old amenities still remained, including a self-conforming bed in a niche with  a

small monitor screen onto the bridge. After sleeping on heaps of blankets on the

decking in corners of offices, the gentle comfort was strange.

"Who's the old duffer you got riding herd on the Blue Shuttle,  kid?"  Han,

on the bridge, glanced up at what was clearly his own screen.

Luke smiled a little at his friend's nickname for him.  "Triv  Pothman.  He

used to be a stormtrooper, a long time ago." He leaned his head  back  into  the

pillow, barely feeling it when Leia stripped  open  the  leg  of  his  suit  and

slapped two heavy-duty gylocal patches and a massive dose  of  antibiotics  onto

the bruised, inflamed flesh.

He heard Mara swear and ask, "How long has it been like that?"

It was hard to estimate time. "Five days, six days."

She sliced off the splint Bullyak had braced it with; he  barely  felt  her

stripping away the pipe and engine tape. "The Force healed that? By the look  of

those cuts you should have gangrene from your quads to your toenails."

"Artoo-Detoo!" He heard Threepio's voice in the  hall.  Turning  his  head,

through the door he saw the protocol droid hold  out  his  dented  arms  to  his

stubby astromech counterpart, himself battered  and  smoke-stained  and  crusted

with mud and slime. "How extremely gratifying to find you functional!"

I'll never be anything but a droid, he heard Nichos's voice in his mind. If

I didn't love her...

He tried to close his mind to the hurt of memory. Five days, six  days,  he

had said...

"And Your Highness," Threepio's voice continued. "I trust your  mission  to

Belsavis went as you had hoped?"

"You could say that, Threepio," said Leia.

"If you were being kind of free with  the  truth,"  put  in  Han  from  the

bridge. "Whoa, what have we got here? We got  a  signal  in  the  debris  field.

Escape pod, it looks like."

Luke opened his eyes. "Cray." So she decided to live after  all.  Something

inside him wondered why.

While Mara went off to the bridge to work the tractor beam,  Luke  insisted

that Leia strap another splint to his leg so that he could go down to  the  hold

when they brought the pod in. "She'll need... to be taken  care  of,"  he  said,

easing himself to a sitting position  as  his  sister  fixed  the  brace  tight.

Sitting up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the  other  side  of

the cabin behind what had once been a bar, and was startled to see how the  past

week had lined and thinned his face. The blue eyes  seemed  very  light  in  eye

sockets discolored by fatigue and sleeplessness, and fading bruises  marked  jaw

and cheekbone under the wicked gouges that shrapnel  had  left.  With  a  ragged

growth of brown stubble, he looked like some dilapidated old hermit, leaning  on

his staff...

He looked, he realized, a little like old Ben.

Leia helped him to his feet. She, too, had the appearance of someone  who'd

been through the mill.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She nodded, brushing away his concern. "What about Cray? Did Nichos..."  He

saw her hesitate on the word "die," as she remembered that  Nichos,  after  what

Cray had done for him-to him--had been incapable of death.

"It's a long story," he said, feeling utterly weary. "I'm... surprised  she

took the escape pod. My impression  was  she  didn't  want  very  much  to  live

anymore."

Over the tannoy he heard Mara say, "Got it.  Bringing  it  in  through  the

shield."

Leia put her shoulder under his arm, and helped him down the hall, the  two

droids and Chewie trailing  in  their  wake.  "Apparently  Trooper  Pothman  has

succeeded in calming the Klaggs and the Affytechans on the Blue Shuttle,  Master

Luke," Threepio informed him. "General Solo has already sent a subspace  message

to the Contacts Division of the diplomatic corps, and they're arranging a  party

to deal with reorientation of the Eye's prisoners. They say they would like your

help on that."

Luke nodded, though it was hard to think more than a few minutes  ahead,  a

few hours ahead. He saw now why Cray had done everything in her power, had wrung

her body and her mind to keep Nichos with her, to try to keep Nichos with her.

Because she could not conceive of what life would be like without him as  a

part of it.

He is on the other side, she had said.

As Callista, now, was on the other side.

Whatever had changed her mind, he thought, she would need  him  there  when

she came out of her chilled sleep.

The lights on the hold door cycled green and the door hissed open. The  pod

lay on the square of the doors, directly under the hooded, cooling  eye  of  the

quiescent tractor beam. It was barely two meters long and eighty centimeters  or

so wide, matte Imperial green, and icy to his touch with the cold of space.

He slid the cowling back. Under it,  she  lay  in  the  comalike  sleep  of

partial hibernation, shallow breasts barely moving under  the  torn  and  smoke-

stained uniform and long hands folded over her belt buckle. Despite the  bruises

that still marked it, her face was so calm, so  relaxed,  so  utterly  different

from the brittle, haggard features of the woman she had become  that  he  almost

didn't recognize her.

Had she looked like this, he wondered, that first day over a year ago, when

Nichos had brought her to Yavin? The most brilliant AI programmer at the Magrody

Institute--and strong in the Force as well.

The standoffish elegance she had worn as a protective cloak was gone.

She was a different woman.

A different woman...

Luke thought, No...

He shook his head.

No.

It wasn't Cray's face.

The features, the straight nose and delicate bones, the full, almost square

shape of the lips, were the same...

But everything in him said, It isn't Cray.

No, he thought again, not wanting to believe.

For a long time the universe stood still.

Then she drew a long breath, and opened her eyes.

They were gray.

No.

He put out his hand and she raised hers, quickly, as if fearing the  touch.

For a few moments she simply looked at her own hands, turning them over like one

marveling at the shape of palms and fingers, some unfamiliar piece of sculpture,

stroking the backs of them, the fingers and the knobby, stick-out bones  of  the

wrists. Then her eyes met his, and flooded with tears.

Very gently, afraid to touch--afraid she would vanish, evaporate, turn  out

to be only a dream--he helped her to sit. Her hands were warm where they touched

his arms. For a time they only looked at each other... This can't be real...

She touched his face, the bruises and  the  shrapnel  cuts  and  the  beard

stubble, his mouth that had pressed to hers in the  dream  that  hadn't  been  a

dream.

If I could ask for only one thing, one thing in my entire life...

He brought her gently against him, holding  the  long  slender  bones,  the

light sinewiness of her, pressing his face against the pale ragged  hair,  which

he knew would turn brown in time. She was breathing. He could  feel  it  against

his cheek, under his hands, next to his heart.

Then she laughed, a soft and wondering sob, and he flung his head back  and

everything rose within him in a single wild whoop of triumph and joy. "Yes!"  he

yelled, and they were laughing and crying both, hanging on to  each  other,  and

she was saying his name, over and over again as if she still didn't believe  it;

couldn't believe that such things were occasionally permitted by Fate.

It was her voice, and nothing like Cray's at all.

His hands shook as they framed her face, Leia and  Mara  and  Han  and  the

others standing in the doorway of the hold watching all this in silence, knowing

something was taking place and not quite knowing what.

But after a time Leia said, hesitantly, "That... that  isn't  Cray."  There

was no question in her voice.

"She stepped aside," said Luke, knowing absolutely  and  exactly  what  had

happened in the last moments on board the Eye.

"After Nichos went up the shaft," said Callista softly. "He was hit, badly,

most of his systems cut to pieces... He was  in  no  pain,  but  he  could  feel

himself shutting down as he set the core on overload. Cray said to me  that  she

wanted to stay with him. To cross to the other side with him. To  be  with  him.

She was a Jedi, too, remember... not fully trained, but she would have been  one

of the best."

Tears flooded the gray eyes again. "She said if she couldn't  be  with  the

one she loved in this world, at least someone could.  She  said  to  thank  you,

Luke, for all you tried to do for her, and for all you did."

He kissed her, like the breath of life coming  into  his  body  after  long

cold, and stumbled trying to get to his feet on his bad leg.  Laughing  shakily,

holding on to each other for support, they got to their feet and turned  to  the

group in the doorway.

He said softly, knowing it for the truth as he knew the truth  of  his  own

bones, "Leia--Han - comMara... Threepio, Artoo... This is Callista."

Chapter 26

"Everything has to be paid for."  Callista  passed  her  hands  across  the

surface of the glass sphere, where the pink-gold liquid glittered-unstirring--in

the glow of the lamp. Shadows bent and flickered over the other objects  in  the

toy room, catching angles of color, shadow, light. Outside, the stream that  ran

through the wide hall clucked and muttered in its stone channel, and the glowrod

hissed a little in a loose socket, but there was no other sound.

"I should have known there would be a risk," she  went  on  in  that  soft,

slightly husky voice with the slight inflection of the Chad  deep-water  ranges.

"I might have guessed there would be a price."

"Would you have done it," asked Leia, "if you knew?"

Callista said, "I don't know."

She crossed the room to the flat rectangular tank, with its thin  layer  of

yellow sand, moving with an odd, graceful awkwardness. She had on the faded blue

jumpsuit of a spaceport mechanic, laced down as tight as it would go in the back

and still baggy over flanks and shoulders, and a mechanic's  heavy  boots.  With

her cropped hair and shy, rather quirky cast of face she had an unfledged  look,

like a military cadet. A lightsaber hung at her belt, a gleaming line of  bronze

sea creatures inlaid in its grip.

"The Masters used to call images in the tank, like forming up holos. They'd

project their thoughts through the sand. I don't know what its exact composition

is, but it occurs naturally on a world in the Gelviddis  Cluster.  The  sand  is

what makes it easy for a child to do the same."

Leia frowned, considering the faintly  glittering,  daffodil-colored  dust,

trying to evoke Han's face, or Jacen's, by thinking through it.

"Flowers were the easiest," said Callista. "Something you're familiar with.

Flowers or animals. Make them come up out of the sand."

There was silence again. Leia perched on the bench in front  of  the  tank,

relaxing and focusing her mind as Luke had taught her, seeing  in  every  detail

the little candy-pink pittin that had once played with the end  of  her  braids.

Thinking through the sand...

And in some fashion she couldn't define, the images went through  the  sand

and appeared in the tank, not bit by  bit,  but  with  an  odd  sort  of  abrupt

gradualness. AT-AV, rolling on her back to bat at starblossom petals, as if  she

hadn't been dead for eleven years.

"Oh, pretty!" said Callista. "Is she yours?"

"Was," said Leia. "A long time ago."

"The Masters always had a problem with the children born Jedi  to  non-Jedi

parents, you know," Callista went on, after a silence  in  which  Leia  let  the

image fade. "Because it's usually passed on in families, but not  always...  and

it often manifests spontaneously, in people who had no experience with it and no

way of knowing how to deal with children who had it. The Masters tried to  catch

those as early as they could, because those were the ones at the most risk  from

the dark side. Those," she went on, "and the children born of Jedi  parents  who

were only a little Force-strong, who had only a tiny bit of what their  brothers

and sisters and playmates had full strength. Some  of  those  were...  the  most

dangerous of all."

She stopped, and there was a very awkward pause.

Then, quickly, Callista turned away. "This is a mental  maze."  She  tapped

one of the metal spheres in their rack on the wall. Leia shrank back from it  as

Callista took it down, remembering Irek holding it out for her, reaching out  to

suck her spirit into x, to be trapped forever.

"Most people didn't go into them really," said the taller woman. "Not  with

their whole... whole being, whole spirit. And they're easy to get  out  of  once

you know how. The big ones are the simplest, and they get more  complicated  the

smaller they get, mazes within mazes within mazes. The juniors used to make them

for fun, and try to confuse and trap each other, the way kids do."

She set the sphere on the table,  spun  it  with  her  fingers,  the  light

gleaming wetly off its whirling sides. "I wish... I wish I could show you."

It had been last night, when Leia, Han, and Callista had come down  to  the

toy room, that they'd discovered that Callista was no  longer  able  to  use  or

touch the Force.

Luke had been taken to the Brathflen Corporation's Medcenter, to spend most

of the night in the glass tank of viscous bacta fluid. It had occurred  to  Leia

that  this  young  woman--whicho  despite  her   strong   superficial   physical

resemblance to Cray now seemed no more like her than some distant  cousin--would

know the nature and uses of the toys in their room in the vaults beneath Plett's

House.

Armed with tranquilizers, stunguns, and massive restraints, Jevax and  Mara

Jade had led parties of searchers to round up the remaining insane guardians  of

the crypts, so it was fairly safe to enter through the  tunnels  from  Roganda's

house on Painted Door Street. At  the  sight  of  them  Mara's  cold  anger  was

revived. Many of them were people she knew.

In addition to the team from  Diplomatic,  a  group  of  psychologists  and

healers was due to arrive tomorrow from Ithor to help deal with  rehabilitation,

using the techniques that, Tomla El had informed Leia over subspace,  seemed  at

last to be working on Drub McKumb. The two shuttlecraft and the lander had  been

brought in safely and their occupants--with the exception of  the  Sand  People,

who were drugged and under firm restraint-were  in  protective  custody,  to  be

reoriented, deprogrammed, and returned to their home planets.  Both  Klaggs  and

Gakfedds had adamantly refused reorientation and were currently negotiating with

Drost Elegin to be taken on as a bodyguard.

Only when Callista had attempted the first, most simple  demonstrations  of

the toys--separating the colored fluids within the sphere, setting to motion the

delicately poised levers and wheels of  the  Dynamitron--had  the  truth  become

clear.

She had lost all ability to use the Force.

"It wasn't something I even thought about," she said now,  turning  one  of

the mind mazes over in her hands. She did not meet Leia's eyes, shy with her and

a little hesitant, not because she was the Chief of State of the  New  Republic,

Leia guessed, but because she was Luke's sister.

"Cray had the Force in her very strongly. If she hadn't, she wouldn't  have

been able to... to leave her body the way she did. To guide me into x.  To  give

it to me." She glanced up, her rain-colored eyes anxious. "You were her  friend,

weren't you?"

Leia nodded, remembering that cool, stylish, intellectual young woman whose

height and natural elegance she'd so envied. "We weren't close," she said,  "but

yes, we were friends." She reached out and put her hand briefly over Callista's.

"Close enough for me to guess months ago that she didn't want  to  live  without

Nichos."

Callista gave her fingers a quick squeeze. "He  was...  sweet.  Kind,"  she

said. "I don't want you to be angry that I'm me, and not her. She  was  the  one

who... who offered. Whose idea it was. We didn't even know it would work."

Leia gave a quick shake of her head. "No. It's all right. I'm glad it did."

"The Force is something that's been in me, a part of me, since I was small.

Djinn--my old Master--said..." She hesitated, and looked  away  again,  suddenly

silent about what it was her Master had said to her, unwilling to pass it on.

"Well, anyway," she took up a moment later, "I never thought there would be

a time when I... when it wouldn't be part of me."

Leia remembered how this young woman had fled this room last night  without

a word, vanishing into the lightless mazes of the geothermic caves. She  herself

had spent a harrowing few hours, wondering if there was anything  she  could  or

should be doing--in between a dozen subspace calls to Ithor and  the  Diplomatic

Corps--until Han had reminded her, "She probably knows those crypts better  than

anyone here."

In the small hours of the morning, when Leia had gone to Luke's room at the

Brathflen Medcenter, she had found Callista there,  stretched  out  on  the  bed

beside the sleeping Luke, her head pillowed on his arm.

"What will you do now?" Leia asked softly.

Callista shook her head. "I don't know."

Sometimes there is nothing you can do.

Leaning on the broken frame of the gateway arch, Luke remembered the  words

Callista had said in the darkness of the Eye of Palpatine.

Sometimes justice is best served by knowing when to fold one's hands.

That, too, was the wisdom of the Jedi.

Maybe the hardest wisdom he'd heard.

She sat with folded hands now, gazing out into the weird  shimmer  of  mist

and the gray shadows of trees. The crack in the dome had done strange things  to

the weather in the rift, and odd  little  currents  of  fidgety  cool  whispered

through the heavy warmth of the fog.

She had known this place, he thought,  before  the  dome  had  been  built,

before the orchards had been  planted,  when  it  had  been  part  jungle,  part

volcanic barrens  around  acrid  mudflats.  She  remembered  it  when  the  only

settlement had been that little group of lava-rock houses clustered  up  against

the rising benches of land at the end of the narrow valley,  truly  little  more

than a fingernail gouge in the marble wastelands of eternal ice.

She had grown up in another world, a universe separated from the present by

centuries' worth of events packed into a single life span.

Like Triv Pothman--whicho had been enchanted with the  quiet  community  of

Plawal and was already signed up for training as a  horticulturist-Callista  had

spent a long time as a hermit, to return to a  world  unfamiliar  and  empty  of

anyone she knew.

He was silent, but she turned her head as if he'd spoken her name.

It was good to walk again, without limping, without fear, without pain.

It was good to be in daylight again, and in real air.

"Are you all right?" There was quick concern in her eyes as she spoke, held

out her hand to him. The tissue regeneration of the bacta therapy had  left  him

shaky, and he knew he shouldn't be up yet.

"I should ask you that." She had been there, lying at his side,  when  he'd

drifted to consciousness close to dawn. Later, when he'd waked fully, she'd been

gone. Leia had told him what had taken place in the toy room, but it was  as  if

Luke had known it already. He wondered if he'd been there, seen it in  some  now

forgotten dream. Certainly when she'd wept, silently, on  his  shoulder  in  the

predawn darkness, he'd known what it was she had lost.

She shook her head, not in denial, but in a kind  of  wonderment.  "I  keep

thinking about Nichos," she said. "About being "another Corellian  of  the  same

name."" She turned her hands over, as she had when she'd waked in  the  Hunter's

Luck, feeling the shape of them, their long strength  and  the  pattern  of  the

veins and muscles beneath the porcelain-fine skin. Hefted in them the lightsaber

she had once had the skill to make. His head close to hers, Luke could  see  the

brown color already visible at the roots of her cornsilk  hair,  and  knew  that

within a few months  the  whole  would  be  that  heavy,  malt-colored  mane  he

remembered from visions and dreams.

"I keep wondering if I shouldn't have stayed where I was."

"No," said Luke, meaning it, knowing it, from the bottom of his heart. "No.

"

She replaced the weapon at her belt. "Even if I'd known... this," she  said

softly. "Even if I'd guessed... been able to see into the  future...  once  Cray

asked me if I wanted to... to take her place... I couldn't have said  no.  Luke,

I..."

He  brought  her  into  his  arms,  and  their  mouths  met  hard:  giving,

forgetting, remembering, knowing. Telling her without speech how groundless were

the doubts that she didn't dare put into words.

"It isn't the Force in you that I love," he said softly, when at last  they

eased apart. "It's you."

She bent her head forward, rested her forehead on his shoulder;  they  were

much of a height. "It's not going to be easy for me," she  said  softly.  "Maybe

it's not going to be easy for us. Sometimes last night, wandering in the  caves,

I blamed you for this. I was angry--I think I'm still angry, deep down. I  don't

know how you could have been responsible, but I blamed you anyway."

Luke nodded, though the words hurt. In a curious  way  he  understood  that

they weren't personal, and it was better to know. "I understand."

She moved her head and looked at him with a wry quirk of smile. "Oh,  good.

Explain it to me?"

He kissed her again instead.

"Will you come to Yavin with me?" When she hesitated, he said,  "You  don't

have to. And you don't have to make up your  mind  now.  Leia  tells  me  you've

written out all the names you can remember of people who were here...  She  says

you'll be welcome on Coruscant, for however long you want to stay. And I know it

won't be easy to be... to be around students, adepts  in  the  Force.  But  your

knowledge of the old methods of teaching, the old ways of training,  would  help

me..."

His voice fumbled with the words, and in the stillness of her face  he  saw

her effort not to trouble him with her own pain, her own uncertainty.

Oh, the hell with it...

"I need you," he said softly. "I love you, and I want you with me. Forever,

if we can manage it."

Her mouth moved in a smile. "Forever." The gray eyes met his,  darker  than

the fog around them, but equally suffused with light. "I love you, Luke,  but...

it's not going to be easy. But I think... I feel that we're going to be in  each

other's lives for a long time."

"We have time," he said. "There's no hurry. But there is--and there  always

will be--my love for you."

They were still clinched tight in each other's arms, cheeks resting on each

other's shoulders, when Han and Leia, Chewie, Threepio, and  Artoo  appeared  in

the broken gateway. Leia said softly, "Let them be for a while."

"He can kiss her on the ship," said Han good-naturedly. "Jevax has  finally

got the landing silos repaired, and we've got those gizmos  from  the  toy  room

loaded up, and I for one want  to  get  off  this  rock  before  something  else

happens."

"This would be advisable, Your Excellency," added Threepio. "Admiral Ackbar

did mention concentrations of Grand  Admiral  Harrsk's  troops  in  the  Atravis

Sector, and we have no idea where or with whom Roganda and her  son  have  taken

refuge. Given the necessity of implementing small but significant changes in the

schematic of every ship in the fleet--or of  finding  adequate  shielding  where

schematic change is impracticable--it would perhaps be expedient  to  get  under

way as soon as we can."

"You're right." Leia looked around her for a last time at Plett's House, or

the ruin that the Empire had left of it: broken  walls,  shattered  arches,  the

metal slab replaced over the well. The echoes of its ancient peace  filled  her,

covering the pain and ruin as the exuberance  of  the  rift's  ubiquitous  vines

covered the scars of  that  ancient  shelling.  Somewhere  she  seemed  to  hear

children's voices again, singing that old song about the forgotten Queen and her

magic birds.

Callista had given her a partial list of names,  all  she  could  remember,

though she herself had only visited the place briefly and didn't  know  most  of

the Jedi there. But it was a start. And she had  something  of  those  forgotten

children, something of the old Jedi who had lived here,  who  had  offered  them

refuge...

Movement flickered in the corner of her vision. A ghost?  she  thought.  Or

the echo of a memory? The shadows of two tiny children chased  each  other  over

the thick olive-tinted grass, and faded into a stray drift of fog.

Nichos? she wondered. Roganda? One running  toward  the  light,  the  other

toward the dark?

Someone whose name she did not yet know?

Or were they shadows from the future, not the children who had been  there,

but the children who were to come?

"Hey, kid!" yelled Han, and Leia poked him in the ribs.

"C'mon," she said. "Luke deserves a break."

It had been, for him, a long, long time.

The couple on the bench turned their heads.

"We're blowin' out of this jerkwater rock," called out Han.  "Can  we  drop

you anyplace?"

They looked at each other, their faces reflecting a curious kinship, for  a

moment more like brother and sister than lovers:  people  who  have  known  each

other for lifetimes past. Then Callista said, "Yavin. If it's on your way."

Han grinned. "I think we can manage that."

Luke and Callista crossed the grass to them hand in hand.