Star Wars: Darksaber

by Kevin J. Anderson

  “Now they’re blind,” he said, “before they even know what’s going on.” He sat back and pressed his hands together, pushing, performing his endless ritual of isometric exercises that pitted one muscle against the other to strengthen him, even as he sat and watched the massacre of Khomm.

  He spoke through the comm channel to all ships. “Target weapons indiscriminately on the metropolis below. This is our first target, so let’s make it memorable. Launch TIE bomber squadrons, and let’s get busy.”

  He watched the hail of laser fire rain down through the atmosphere, and clouds of small fighters spewed from the hangar decks. Cronus observed the flurry of destruction. According to old intelligence reports, Khomm barely had token defenses. He doubted the inhabitants even remembered how to use them. They would wish differently after his fleet had finished.

  “Quick and easy,” he muttered. His arm muscles tingled with weariness from his exercises, but he pushed harder, making them ache.

  After watching the battle for half an hour, Cronus signaled the other ships. “Hurry up,” he said. “We have a lot of other targets on the list.”

  An uneasy Dorsk 82 left the cloning facility at the end of his afternoon shift, as he always did, while Dorsk 80 remained behind to put in an extra hour of work, making up for the loss of Dorsk 81—as he always did. Predictability was comfort. On Khomm people lived by those words.

  But the younger clone kept hearing the statement of Dorsk 81 echo in his mind. Changing possibilities opened up ideas he had never considered. What if, against all previous history, the Empire did decide to attack their peaceful world? But why? he wanted to ask. What would it gain them?

  He knew that question would be carefully considered and settled by Kaell 116 and the political leaders. It was their job. They had no other task but to make such decisions. Young Dorsk 82 was confident in the Khomm system. It had worked perfectly for centuries. He had no cause to doubt it now.

  A moment later, rivers of fire spat down from the hazy white sky, setting the identical buildings ablaze and drawing destructive fingers across the perfect gridwork of the organized city. TIE bombers roared overhead at a pitch that struck terror into the cloned pedestrians. The ships dropped proton explosives that flattened entire blocks at a time. Flames scorched skyward as fuel tanks and kindling from the ancient constructions were set ablaze.

  TIE fighters screamed down from the sky, firing laser cannons and strafing the terrified aliens who poured from their buildings but knew not where to go.

  Dorsk 82 fled into a narrow alley between two tall buildings. An unwise move, he supposed, with the imposing structures collapsing all around him. His mind was ablaze with shock and horror. Dorsk 81 had been right! Khomm had no plans, no defenses—and no chance.

  A proton bomb exploded above the buildings like a huge slapping hand that knocked walls down. Dorsk 82 crouched near the ground, expecting the avalanche to crush him in an instant—but the flat wall slabs toppled against each other, forming a miraculous tent above him. Rock dust and fractured stones bit into his smooth skin. He supposed a bone or two was broken—a new experience for him in his gentle and predictable life—but he huddled in the unexpected darkness and waited as the screaming chaos continued around him for what seemed like an age, though he knew it must have been less than an hour.

  The physical pain came to him as he tried to dig himself out from under the fallen slabs of rock. He was aching and sore, bruised and cut … but he was alive. He moved the rubble away and emerged blinking into an early afternoon dusk caused by black smoke and orange flames.

  He stood completely numb. He saw but could not comprehend the magnitude of the devastation around him. The shining cloning facilities were entirely gone, turned into a jumbled mass of molten girders and shattered crystalline dust–all that remained of the broad sheetcrystal windows that had once shone so brightly in the sun. Greasy smoke drifted to the sky like an accusing finger pointing at the Imperial fleet high in orbit.

  Old Dorsk 80 had been inside the cloning facility, and the younger clone stumbled with sick apathy into the rubble, looking without hope for some sign that his predecessor had survived.

  This shock competed with the overwhelming consequences in his mind. The devastation of his entire world, the wreck of the cloning facilities—how were they to proceed now? How could his civilization continue after such a mortal wound? The survivors of Khomm—who even now moaned from the pain of their injuries or wailed from their grief as they staggered across the ruined metropolis—would have to change.

  And that frightened him as well.

  Colonel Cronus watched the remaining fighters return to their ships. The burning world of Khomm lay beneath him like a festering sore.

  He glanced impatiently at the time record and at the damage assessment for his fleet. Two fighters lost. Judging from Khomm’s lack of defenses, Cronus assumed that the two downed TIE ships had been destroyed through accident, malfunction, or inadvertent friendly fire.

  He shook his head at the appalling weakness of the clone world.

  On his command station computer he punched up the coordinates of Admiral Daala’s designated targets. He hoped all the raids would be as successful as this.

  “Next system,” he said. “Let’s be on our way. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”

  NAL HUTTA

  CHAPTER 44

  In the middle of the night shift on the Escort Frigate Yavaris, General Wedge Antilles sat quietly in the command chair, relaxed but alert. Despite the yellow alert, the Yavaris seemed deceptively calm; the soldiers moved about their routines with calm efficiency. The glowpanels were dimmed, the sounds of movement hushed and muffled. The tension was thick, though invisible.

  The alert status had been uninterrupted for a day. They had heard nothing, no word of an Imperial strike, no report from Crix Madine—and it was beginning to wear on them.

  Qwi Xux crept up behind him on the bridge and squeezed his shoulders with her long, pale blue fingers. He flinched, startled, then reached up to clasp her hand against his shoulder. He turned to look into her deep indigo eyes. “Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked.

  She shook her head, and her feathery, pearlescent hair flickered. “The waiting is so hard,” she said.

  Wedge nodded. “Much as I hate war, at times like this I almost wish something would just happen.”

  And it did.

  All at once.

  Crix Madine’s silent distress signal came in at emergency priority, tunneling through space, its specific frequency targeting the New Republic fleet. Signals went off at the communications console, which triggered automatic red alerts throughout the Yavaris. Madine’s implanted transmitter could give no details; it simply sent a distress.

  Wedge knew that General Madine, the Supreme Allied Commander for Intelligence, would have used it in only the most extreme circumstances.

  He said, “We’ve got to go pull him out.”

  Qwi stood suddenly tense, blinking her large eyes. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders. “That means he’s found the site of the Hutt superweapon. We have to destroy it before the thing becomes operational. We can’t let the Hutts or the Empire or anyone else have another weapon like the ones I used to design.”

  “You’re right about that,” Wedge said.

  A viewscreen message instantly came from Admiral Ackbar on the Mon Calamari Star Cruiser. “This may be the beginning of the overall attack,” Ackbar said, dressed in his fine white uniform and holding his flipper-hands out in a gesture of tension.

  “Yes, Admiral. Shall we deploy the fleet? We can home in on Madine’s distress and get there at top speed. We don’t know what sort of situation he’s gotten himself into—”

  Before Wedge could finish, though, another broad-spectrum message swept across the communications systems, a second emergency signal, preempting all other transmissions across the New Republic Holonet. “This is Kyp Durron with an urgent message to the New Republic military!”

  We
dge flinched, setting his teeth on edge. Beside him Qwi held her composure, but he noticed her stiffen. Kyp had returned from the dark side in service of the Jedi way, and Qwi claimed to have forgiven him—but still the over-eager Jedi Knight unnerved both of them.

  Nevertheless, Kyp broadcast his message to anyone who would listen, raising the alarm. “My fellow Jedi Knight Dorsk 81 and I have penetrated the Core Systems. We’ve discovered a massive Imperial strike force ready to launch in the next day or so. Admiral Daala is commanding this fleet. I repeat: Admiral Daala is not dead as we had expected.

  “Their main target is said to be Yavin 4. Daala means to destroy all of the new Jedi Knights. Dorsk 81 and I are on our way to the Jedi academy at this moment to help with the fight. We request any assistance possible.”

  “So it’s a two-pronged attack,” Ackbar said. “The Hoth Asteroid Belt and Yavin 4. They must be confident in their ability to surprise us.”

  “We know about their plans now,” Wedge said. “Should we split up?”

  Ackbar rumbled. “That message was sent to the full New Republic fleet. We can perhaps hope for reinforcements—yet I believe we should divide our forces now. I doubt either of these attacks is a feint. I will take the Galactic Voyager and head to Yavin 4. You go and rescue General Madine. We cannot ignore the threat from the Hutts.”

  “Understood, Admiral,” Wedge said.

  Ackbar’s image nodded deeply. “I must bring the remainder of the fleet up to full combat status. This is just the beginning.”

  “Don’t worry—we’ll get Madine and his team out of there,” Wedge said. “And we’ll try to wreck that Hutt superweapon while we’re at it.”

  All personnel were summoned from their sleep periods. Lights increased on every deck of the Yavaris. Troops ran up and down the corridors, mustering.

  All during the war-gaming exercises, the fleet had remained coy, hiding their real purpose and readiness. Now, though, the ships dropped all pretense and ignored the Hutts who were undoubtedly watching from the greenish planet below.

  The New Republic war-gaming fleet split into two separate prongs and established their course vectors, drifting away.

  Ackbar and his ships funneled down to starpoints, plunging into hyperspace, while Wedge ordered the Yavaris to proceed at full speed toward the Hoth Asteroid Belt and Madine’s distress signal — hoping they would get there in time.

  YAVIN 4

  CHAPTER 45

  The seventeen Star Destroyers under the command of Vice Admiral Pellaeon sliced out of hyperspace in a well-ordered fleet. Their perfect formation demonstrated the precision and unrelenting dedication of the new Imperial forces Daala had forged.

  Standing on the bridge of the Firestorm—the Star Destroyer that Admiral Daala herself had commanded during her double cross of the war criminal Harrsk—Pellaeon watched the green jewel of the jungle moon approaching, a living emerald sphere dwarfed by the enormous gas giant Yavin, whose gravity tugged at his attacking fleet of ships.

  He stared with narrowed eyes out the viewports of the bridge tower. He had trimmed his gray mustache, made certain that his hair lay neatly beneath his vice admiral’s cap. He brushed down his uniform to present a more imposing image, a leader for his fleet on their victorious mission. It invigorated him to be in command of a worthy ship again, not the small Victory-class Star Destroyer … though even now Colonel Cronus would be using the fleet of crimson ships to cause significant destruction throughout the Rebel-aligned worlds.

  Pellaeon thought of his days in command of the Chimaera serving Grand Admiral Thrawn and how close they had come to defeating the Rebellion once and for all. Now, with Admiral Daala they had that chance again—and Pellaeon would not waste it.

  “Orbital insertion successful, sir,” the navigator said from her station.

  Pellaeon continued to marvel at the new women officers in Daala’s fleet; they seemed to serve with even more dedication than the other soldiers. “Any sign of defenses?” he asked. The jungle moon seemed too quiet, too vulnerable. He was astounded that such an important site to the Rebellion would have no apparent defenses whatsoever.

  “None detected, Vice Admiral,” the tactical chief said dubiously. Apparently the man felt the same concerns.

  “All right,” Pellaeon said, moving to the next phase. “Deploy the jamming net. We need to get in place and be operational before the Jedi sorcerers can send a detailed signal to their military.”

  The seventeen Star Destroyers shot out clusters of small satellite transmitters that jockeyed into position around the green moon, forming an interlinked electromagnetic web that disrupted any messages the Jedi trainees might send. The jamming satellites took only moments to lock themselves into position, transmitting an all-clear signal back to the Firestorm.

  Pellaeon spoke into the ship-to-ship comm unit, and his voice rang through his fleet. “Strike teams prepare,” he said. “We launch in five minutes. All Terrain Scout Transports and jungle assault vehicles will be the first wave. TIE fighters will provide air cover.

  “This is a relatively unpopulated world, and it shouldn’t take us long to finish here. Our victory on Yavin 4 today will be the first large step in the rebirth of a new and even stronger Empire.”

  Pellaeon signed off and stood against the bridge railing. He was pleased to be in command of an operation sure to succeed, rather than another doomed last-gasp attempt at Imperial supremacy. Outwardly calm but thrumming with energy inside, Pellaeon pondered the immense Imperial strength Admiral Daala had placed under his control.

  He didn’t expect much resistance from a few untested Jedi trainees.

  Back at the nexus mustering station in deep space, the Super Star Destroyer Night Hammer prepared for launch. Admiral Daala spent the last frantic moments ensuring that everything had been placed in perfect order for her own decisive assault.

  By now Vice Admiral Pellaeon’s fleet should already be attacking the Jedi moon, and she longed to be there with him, taking personal satisfaction with each slaughtered Jedi, each destroyed Rebel building, each burning tree—but she would not alter her plans now. She knew this was the way to strike the greatest psychological blow to the Rebels. Her initial assault had to be an absolutely crushing defeat of the Rebel target.

  Right now, simultaneous with this major assault, Colonel Cronus was causing a wealth of damage with surgical hit-and-run strikes at various spots in the galaxy. His swarm of crimson Victory-class ships would roar in with lightning speed, blow up the most convenient targets, then flee into hyperspace again … leaving destruction, confusion, and panic in their wake.

  The jungle moon of Yavin with its Jedi training center would be the true symbolic victory, though. Daala smiled, and her green eyes took on a faraway look as she imagined the unskilled wizards under attack by Pellaeon’s hopelessly overwhelming forces; she then imagined the despair they would feel on seeing her enormous ship arrive—like a second mortal blow. Not a rescue, not reinforcements, but a black Super Star Destroyer. Their hopelessness would increase tenfold.

  After today, when Daala departed in triumph, the jungle moon of Yavin 4 must be no more than a cinder. Every last Jedi student had to be killed, their bodies strewn about the burning jungle as an unmistakable message to those who would still dare resist the Empire.

  As her last order before launching, Daala took the time to rechristen her dark ship, adding a letter to call the Super Star Destroyer the Knight Hammer, just to prove that she did indeed have a sense of humor … so long as it involved the ultimate defeat of the Rebel Alliance.

  CHAPTER 46

  Dorsk 81 and Kyp Durron arrived back at Yavin 4, broadcasting their constant alarm. They landed their Imperial shuttle near the Great Temple and called the remaining Jedi trainees to arms—barely an hour before Pellacon’s forces arrived.

  Dorsk 81’s stomach had been a hard knot since their embattled escape from Admiral Daala’s staging area; he had felt even worse upon seeing the apathetic refusal of his homeworl
d to accept the possibility of an impending threat. The censure of Dorsk 80 and Dorsk 82 had struck to his core, affecting him even more than his choice to become a Jedi. But he was a Jedi. He could not change that, and he vowed to be the best his potential would allow, as Master Skywalker had taught him.

  Dorsk 81 and Kyp stepped out of the stolen Imperial shuttle to total silence. The humid jungles seemed smothered with a blanket of tension and anticipation.

  “Where is everyone?” Kyp said. “We’ve got to find Master Skywalker.”

  Dorsk 81 looked up at the enormous stepped pyramid where the Jedi praxeum had been established. His face grew calm, and he closed his yellow eyes, reaching out with the Force until he sensed the group of Jedi trainees across a narrow tributary of the river at one of the other temple ruins.

  “Over there,” he said. “At the Temple of the Blueleaf Cluster.”

  Kyp nodded, his dark eyes flashing. “We have to warn them and begin preparations.”

  They rushed through narrow jungle paths, crossing the river to the tall Massassi ruin, a cylindrical tower made of crumbling stones, much in need of repair. Dorsk 81 saw the Jedi trainees working together, nearly thirty in all.

  He recognized Kirana Ti, the warrior woman from Dathomir and the older, somewhat-confused hermit from Bespin, Streen, working to haul fallen rocks from a collapsed portion of the temple. They used Jedi powers to lift broken slabs out of the way, and to keep themselves safe from the pebbles that continued to shower down as they removed debris. Kam Solusar, the hard-bitten Jedi veteran, sternly watched the activities, directing the work of the lesser-trained Jedi students who had arrived at the praxeum in the last year.

  The silvery-haired Jedi scholar, Tionne, spotted them first. “Kyp,” she called. “Dorsk 81. You’re back! Good, we could use some help.” Tionne smiled, and her mother-of-pearl eyes lit up. She explained breathlessly, gesturing with small, quick movements of her delicate hands. “With all the new students arriving, we had to find additional living quarters. This old temple is—” Then she finally registered the alarm and emotional turmoil emanating from them.