wiry
shocks, and an acrid, gunpowdery smell clung to his cloak, his skin.
He focused on the components scattered across the table silver
electronics, dull metal, glinting glass. He slid his fingertips across the
cold bits of wire, picked up a sharp-edged microcontrol box with trembling
hands. Widening his eyes in annoyance, Gantoris stared at his hands until
the
trembling stopped, then set to work again.
He understood how the pieces would all fit together. Once he =new, once
he had drawn together sufficient Jedi knowledge, everything seemed obvious
to
him. Obvious.
The elegant energy blade served as the personal weapon of the Jedi, a
symbol of authority, skill, and honor. Cruder weapons could cause more
random
destruction, but no other artifact evoked as much legend and mystery as the
lightsaber. Gantoris would settle for nothing else.
Every Jedi built his own lightsaber. It was a rite of passage in the
training of a new student. Master Skywalker had not yet begun to teach him,
though Gantoris had waited and waited. He knew he was the best of the
students--and he chose not to wait any longer.
Master Skywalker did not know everything a true Jedi Master must teach
new apprentices. Skywalker had gaps in his knowledge, blank spaces he either
did not understand or did not wish to teach. But Master Skywalker was not
the
only source of Jedi knowledge....
Once he had forsaken sleep, Gantoris had taken to roaming the halls of
the Great Temple, sliding barefoot and in silence along the cold floors that
seemed to drink heat, no matter how warm the jungle had become during the
day.
Sometimes he wandered out into the rain forest at night, surrounded by
mists and singing insects. The dew splashed his feet, his robe, making
indecipherable patterns across his body like coded messages. Gantoris walked
unarmed, silently daring any predator to challenge him, knowing that his
Jedi
skills would be proof against mere claws and fangs; but nothing molested
him,
and only once did he hear a large beast charging away from him through the
underbrush.
But the dark and mysterious voice that came to him in his nightmares had
given him instructions on how to build a lightsaber. Gantoris had been
driven
with a new purpose. A true Jedi was resourceful. A true Jedi could make do.
A
true Jedi found what he needed.
Using his ability to manipulate simple objects, he had broken past the
seals into the locked Rebel control rooms in the temple's lower levels.
Banks
of machinery, computers, landing-grid panels, and automated defense systems
sat covered with grime from a decade of abandonment. Master Skywalker had
repaired little of the equipment. Jedi apprentices had no need for most of
it.
Quietly and alone, Gantoris had removed access panels, stripped out
microcomponents, focusing lenses, laser diodes, and a cylindrical casing
twenty-seven centimeters long....
It had taken him three nights, tearing apart the silent equipment,
stirring up dust and spores, sending rodents and arachnids scurrying to
safety. But Gantoris had found what he needed.
Now he assembled the pieces.
Under the garish light Gantoris picked up the cylindrical casing. He used
a spot laser-welder to cut notches for the control switches.
Each Jedi built his own lightsaber to a range of specifications and
personal preferences. Some included safety switches that shut off the
glowing
blade if the handle was released, while other weapons could be locked on.
Gantoris had a few ideas of his own.
He installed a small but efficient power cell. It snapped into place,
connecting precisely. Gantoris sighed, concentrated a moment to still his
trembling hands again, then picked up another set of delicate wires.
He flinched, whirling to look behind him in the shadows. He thought he
had heard someone breathing, the rustle of dark garments. Gantoris stared
with
his red-rimmed eyes, trying to discern a dim human form in the corner.
"Speak, if you're there!" Gantoris cried. His voice sounded harsh, as if
he had swallowed burning coals.
When the shadows did not answer him, he sighed with cool relief. His
mouth tasted dry, and soreness worked its way through his throat. But he
willed away the feeling. He could drink water in the morning. A Jedi
endured.
Building the lightsaber was his personal test. He had to do it alone.
Next, he took out the most precious piece of the weapon. Three corusca
jewels, cast out from the high-pressure hell of the gas giant Yavin's core.
When he and his addlebrained companion Streen had discovered the new
Massassi
temple far out in the jungle, Gantoris had found these gems on the steep
obsidian walls. Embedded among the hypnotic pictographs etched into the
black
volcanic glass, the jewels had glinted in the hazy orange daylight.
Though they had remained untouched for thousands of years, these three
gems had flaked off as Gantoris stared at them. They fell to his feet in the
crushed lava rock surrounding the lost temple. Gantoris had picked up the
gems, cupping the warm crystals in his hands as Streen wandered among the
obelisks, chattering to himself.
Now Gantoris removed the jewels--one watery pink, another deep red, and
the third starkly transparent with an inner electric blue fire along the
edges
of the facets. He was meant to have these jewels; they were destined for his
own lightsaber. He knew that now. He understood all of his former
nightmares,
his former fears.
Most lightsabers had only a single jewel that focused the pure energy
from the power cell into a tight beam. By adding more than one gem,
Gantoris's
blade would have unexpected capabilities to surprise Master Skywalker.
Finally, his fingers raw and aching, Gantoris sat up. Pain embroidered
firelines across his neck, shoulders, and back, but he washed it away with a
simple Jedi exercise. Outside the Great Temple he could hear the changing
symphony of jungle sounds as nocturnal creatures found their dens, and
daylight animals began to stir.
Gantoris held the cylindrical handle of his lightsaber and inspected it
under the glowlamp's unforgiving light. Craftsmanship was everything in a
weapon like this. A barely noticeable variance could cause a disastrous
blunder. But Gantoris had done everything right. He had taken no shortcuts,
allowed no sloppiness. His weapon was perfect.
He pushed the activator button. With a snap-hiss, the awesome blade
thrummed and pulsed like a living creature. The chain of three jewels gave
the
energy blade a pale purplish hue, white at the core, amethyst at the
fringes,
with rainbow colors rippling up and down the beam.
Accustomed to the dimness, Gantoris squeezed his eyes to block out the
glare, then gradually opened them again, s
taring in amazement at what he had
made.
He moved the blade, and the air crackled around him. The hum sounded like
thunder, but none of the other students would hear it through the mammoth
thickness of the stone walls. In his grip the blade felt like a winged
serpent, sending the sharp scent of ozone curling to his nose.
He slashed back and forth. The lightsaber became a part of him, an
extension of his arm connected through the Force to strike down any enemy.
He
sensed no heat from the vibrating blade, only a cold annihilating fire.
He deactivated the blade, awash in euphoria, and carefully hid the
completed lightsaber under his sleeping pallet.
"Now Master Skywalker will see I am a true Jedi," he said to the shadows
along the walls. But no one answered him.
The private investigatory proceedings of the New Republic's ruling
Council stood closed against Admiral Ackbar. He waited in the anteroom
outside, staring at the tall steelstone door as if it were a wall blocking
the
end of his life. He stared unblinking at the designs and scrollwork modeled
by
the Emperor Palpatine after ancient Sith hieroglyphics, and they disturbed
him.
Ackbar sat on the cold synthetic-stone bench, feeling only his misery,
despair, and failure. He nursed his bandaged left arm and felt pain slice up
and down his biceps where tiny needles held the slashed salmon-colored skin
together. Ackbar had refused standard treatment by medical droid or healing
in
a bacta tank programmed for Calamarian physiology. He preferred to let the
painful recuperation remind him of the destruction he had caused on Vortex.
He cocked his enormous head, listening to the rise and fall of heated
voices through the closed door. He could make out only a mingled murmur of
mixed voices, some strident, some insistent. He looked down and self-
consciously brushed at his clean white admiral's uniform.
His remaining injuries seemed insignificant compared to the pain inside
him. In his mind he kept seeing the crystalline Cathedral of Winds shatter
around him in an avalanche of shards, hurling a storm of glassy daggers in
all
directions. He saw the bodies of winged Vors tumbling around him,
slaughtered
by the razor-edged crystal sabers. Ackbar had ejected Leia to safety, but he
wished he had been brave enough to switch off the crash field, because he
did
not want to live with such disgrace. Ackbar had been piloting the deadly
ship,
no one else. He had crashed into the precious Cathedral of Winds. No one
else.
He looked up at the sound of shuffling footsteps and saw another
Calamarian approaching tentatively down the rose-hued corridors. The other
ducked his head, but swiveled his great fish eyes up to look at his admiral.
"Terpfen," Ackbar said. His voice sounded listless, like words dropped
onto the polished floor, but he tried to dredge up enthusiasm. "You've come
after all."
"I could never desert you, Admiral. The Calamarian crewmen remain your
firm supporters, even after...."
Ackbar nodded, knowing the unshakable loyalty of his chief starship
mechanic. As with many of his people, Terpfen had been taken away from his
watery homeworld, kidnapped by Imperial enslavers, and forced to work on
designing and refining their Star Destroyers with the renowned Calamarian
starship-building expertise. But Terpfen had attempted sabotage and had been
tortured. Severely. The scars still showed on his battered head.
During the Imperial occupation of the planet Calamari, Ackbar himself had
been pressed into service as a reluctant aid to Moff Tarkin. He had served
Tarkin for several years until he finally escaped during a Rebel attack.
"Have you completed your investigation?" Ackbar asked. "Have you gone
over the records that survived the crash?"
Terpfen turned his head away. He clasped his broad flipper-hands
together. His skin flushed with splotches of bright maroon, showing his
embarrassment and shame. "I have already filed my report with the New
Republic
Council." He looked meaningfully at the closed door of the chamber. "I
suspect
they are discussing it even now."
Ackbar felt as if he had just attempted to swim under an ice floe. "And
what did you find?" he said in a firm voice, trying to resurrect the power
of
command.
"I found no indication of mechanical failure, Admiral. I've gone over the
crash tapes again and again, and I have simulated the flight path through
the
recorded wind patterns on Vortex. I continue to come up with the same
answer.
Nothing was wrong with your ship." He looked up at the admiral then turned
away again. Ackbar could tell that this report was as difficult for Terpfen
to
say as it was for Ackbar to hear.
"I checked your ship myself before you took off for Vortex. I found no
indications of mechanical instabilities. I suppose I could have missed
something...."
Ackbar shook his head. "Not you, Terpfen. I know your work too well."
Terpfen continued in a quieter voice. "I can reach only one conclusion
from the data, Admiral--was But Terpfen's voice cut off, as if he refused to
speak the inevitable.
Ackbar did it for him. "Pilot error, " he said. "I caused the crash. It's
my fault. I've known it all along."
Terpfen stood; his head hung so low that he showed only the bulging,
sacklike dome of his cranium. "I wish there was some way I could prove
otherwise, Admiral."
Ackbar extended a flipper-hand and placed it on Terpfen's gray crewman's
uniform. "I know you've done your best. Now please do me one more favor.
Outfit another B-wing for my personal use and provision it for a long
journey.
I'll be flying alone."
"Someone might object to having you fly again, Admiral," Terpfen said,
"but don't worry. I can find some way around the problem. Where will you be
going?"
"Home," Ackbar answered, "after I tend to some unfinished business."
Terpfen saluted smartly. "Your ship will be waiting for you, sir."
Ackbar felt a hard knot in his chest as he returned the salute. He
stepped forward to the closed steelstone door and pounded on the ornate
surface, demanding to be let in.
The heavy door groaned open on automatic hinges. Ackbar stood at the
threshold as the members of the ruling Council turned to look at him.
The flowstone seats were sculpted and polished to a high luster,
including the empty chair that still bore his own name. The air was too dry
for his nostrils and stank with the underlying dusty smell of a museum. He
could detect the pungent nervous odor of human sweat mixed with the peppery
steam from their chosen hot drinks and refreshments.
Obese Senator Hrekin Thorm waved a pudgy hand at Ackbar. "Why don't we
make him lead the reparations team? That seems appropriate to me."
"I wouldn't think the Vors want him anywhere near their planet," Senator
Bel
-Iblis said.
"The Vors haven't asked us to help them rebuild at all," Leia Organa Solo
said, "but that doesn't mean we should ignore it."
"We're lucky the Vors are not as emotional as other races. This is
already a terrible tragedy, but it does not seem likely it will turn into a
galactic incident," Mon Mothma said.
Gripping the edge of the table, she stood and finally acknowledged
Ackbar's presence. Her skin looked pale, her face gaunt, her eyes and cheeks
sunken. She had skipped many important meetings lately. Ackbar wondered if
the
Vortex tragedy had worsened her health.
"Admiral," Mon Mothma said, "these proceedings are closed. We will summon
you after we have taken a vote." Her voice seemed stern and cracking, devoid
of the compassion that had launched her career in galactic politics.
Minister of State Leia Organa Solo looked at him with her dark eyes. A
flood of sympathy crossed her face, but Ackbar turned away with a stab of
anger and embarrassment. He knew Leia would argue his case most strongly,
and
he expected support from General Rieekan and General Dodonna; but he did not
know how Senators Garm Bel-Iblis, Hrekin Thorm, or even Mon Mothma herself
would vote.
That doesn't matter, Ackbar thought. He would remove their need to
decide, remove the possibility of further humiliation. "Perhaps I can make
these deliberations easier on all of us," Ackbar said.
"What do you mean, Admiral?" Mon Mothma said, frowning at him. Her face
was seamed with deep lines.
Leia half rose as she suddenly understood. "Don't--was
Ackbar made a decisive gesture with his left fin-hand, and Leia
reluctantly sat down again.
He touched the left breast on his pristine-white uniform, fumbling with
the catch as he removed his admiral's-rank insignia. "I have caused enormous
pain and suffering to the people of Vortex. I have brought immense
embarrassment to the New Republic, and I have called down terrible shame
upon
myself. I hereby resign as commander of the New Republic Fleet, effective
immediately. I regret the circumstances of my departure, but I am proud of
the
years I have served the Alliance. I only wish I could have done more."
He placed his insignia on the creamy alabaster shelf in front of the
empty Council seat that had once been his own.
In shocked silence the other Council members stared at him like a mute
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