Crucible: Star Wars

by Troy Denning

  “Maybe that’s the cybernetic eye you were using,” Han said, “and maybe it’s not. But you didn’t tell the kid you had one, and you gotta admit that looks bad.” When Scarn didn’t argue, Han extended a hand. “So give me the kid’s marker, and we’ll put all this behind us.”

  Scarn remained silent and looked around the table, no doubt weighing his chances of actually leaving with Kaeg’s thumbprint against the likelihood of surviving a fight. Han risked a quick peek in Leia’s direction and was rewarded with a subtle nod. She could feel in the Force that Scarn was worried, and worried meant they were going to avoid a battle.

  Then Kaeg asked, “What about the rest?”

  “The rest of what?” Han asked, confused.

  “I lost ten thousand credits before I signed that marker,” Kaeg said. “It was all the money I had.”

  Han frowned. “You took your last ten thousand credits to a sabacc table?”

  “I didn’t see another choice,” Kaeg said. “And don’t tell me you haven’t done the same thing.”

  “That was different,” Han said.

  He glanced over at Scarn and caught him glaring at Kaeg in fiery disbelief. There was no way the Mandalorian was going to return the ten thousand credits, probably because most of it had already been spent. Han shifted his gaze back to Kaeg.

  “Look, kid, ten thousand credits may seem like a lot right now, but it’s not worth starting a firefight over. Why don’t you think of it as tuition?”

  “No,” Kaeg said, glaring at Scarn. “Nobody cheats Omad Kaeg.”

  “Omad,” Leia said gently, “we’re going to pay you for serving as our guide. It will be more than you lost, I promise.”

  Kaeg shook his head. “It’s not about the credits. These Out-Rifters come pushing in here, thinking they can just take what’s ours.” In a move so fast it was barely visible, he laid his blaster on the table, his finger on the trigger and the emitter nozzle pointed in Scarn’s direction. “It’s time they learned different.”

  Han groaned but slipped his own blaster out of its holster and placed it on the table with a finger on the trigger. Scarn did the same, while Jakal pulled his weapon and held it nozzle-down, ready to swing into action against Han or Kaeg. Leia simply laid the transfer document in front of her and dropped one hand onto her lap, where it would be close to her lightsaber. The Nargon watched them all and snarled.

  When no one actually opened fire, Han let out his breath and shifted his gaze back and forth between Kaeg and Scarn. “Look, guys, things can go two ways from here,” he said. “Either everyone in our little circle dies, or you two come to an understanding and we all walk away. Which will it be?”

  Kaeg stared into Scarn’s remaining eye. “I’m good with dying.”

  “Then why are you talking instead of blasting?” Scarn asked. Without awaiting a reply, he turned to Han. “Jakal is going to put his blaster away and hand over that marker. Then we’re done here. Clear?”

  “What about the kid’s ten thousand?” Han didn’t really expect to get it back, but he wanted Kaeg to understand that some mistakes couldn’t be fixed, that sometimes the only smart move was to cut your losses and move on. “Jakal going to hand that over, too?”

  Scarn shook his head. “The ten thousand is gone,” he said. “You think I’d be out here on the edge of nothing, wrangling a bunch of overgrown lizards, if I didn’t have problems of my own?”

  The question made Qizak’s skull crest stand erect, and the Nargon studied Scarn with an expression that seemed half appetite and half anger. Han contemplated the display for a moment, wondering just how much obedience the Mandalorian could truly expect from his overgrown lizards, then turned to Kaeg.

  Kaeg sighed and took the finger off his blaster’s trigger. “Fine.” He held a hand out toward Jakal. “Give me the marker.”

  Jakal holstered his weapon, then pulled another flimsi from his belt pouch and tossed it in the middle of the table.

  And that was when Qizak said, “Coward.”

  Scarn craned his neck to glare up at the Nargon. “Did you say something?” he demanded. “Did I tell you to say something?”

  Qizak ignored the question and pointed to the unsigned transfer document, still lying in front of Leia. “The bosses need Kaeg’s share,” he said. “That is the plan they have.”

  Kaeg’s eyes flashed in outrage. “Plan?”

  Shaking his head in frustration, Han said, “Yeah, kid, plan. I’ll explain later.” Hoping to keep the situation from erupting into a firefight, he turned back to Scarn. “Like you said, we’re done here. Go.”

  Qizak pointed a scaly talon at the transfer document. “When Kaeg gives his share to the bosses.”

  “No, now,” Scarn said, rising. “I give the orders. You—”

  A green blur flashed past Han’s face, ending the rebuke with a wet crackle that sent Scarn sailing back with a caved-in face. The blur hung motionless long enough to identify it as a scaly green elbow, then shot forward again as Qizak grabbed Kaeg’s wrist.

  Jakal cursed in Mando’a and reached for his blaster again—then went down in a crash of metal and snapping bone as the Nargon’s huge tail smashed his knees. Han stared. How do we stop this thing?

  By then Qizak was dragging Kaeg’s hand toward the transfer document. Han checked the other Nargons and found them both in their corners, still watching the crowd rather than the trouble at the booth. Good. If they were worried about the other patrons getting involved, it would take them longer to react. That gave the Solos ten or twelve seconds to even the odds—maybe longer, if the miners really did jump into the fight.

  Han pointed his blaster at Qizak’s head. “Hey, Finhead. Let—”

  A green streak came sweeping toward Han’s arm. He pulled the trigger, and a single bolt ricocheted off Qizak’s temple. Then a scaly wrist cracked into Han’s elbow; his entire arm fell numb, and the blaster went flying.

  From the other side of the booth came the snap-hiss of an igniting lightsaber. The acrid stench of burning scales filled the air. Qizak roared and whirled toward a spray of blue embers that made no sense, and then an amputated forearm dropped onto the table, trailing smoke and sparks.

  Sparks?

  Too desperate to wonder, Han launched himself at Qizak, burying his shoulder in the Nargon’s flank and pumping his legs, driving through like a smashball player making a perfect tackle.

  Qizak barely teetered.

  But the huge alien did look toward Han, and that gave Leia the half second she needed to jump onto the booth seat. Her lightsaber whined and crackled, and Qizak’s remaining arm dropped next to the first. Two arms, maybe three seconds. Not fast enough. Han drove harder, trying to push the Nargon off balance … or at least distract him.

  Leia buried her lightsaber in Qizak’s side. The Nargon roared and pivoted away, but not to retreat. Remembering how the lizard had smashed Jakal’s knees, Han threw himself down on the huge tail, slowing it just enough to give Leia time to roll onto the table. The lightsaber fell silent for an instant, then sizzled back to life.

  Qizak let out an anguished bellow, then his tail whipped in the opposite direction. Han went tumbling and came to a rest against a flailing heap of armor—Jakal, writhing with two broken legs. Han spun and reached for the Mandalorian’s blaster—then discovered that his numb hand lacked the strength to wrench the weapon from Jakal’s grasp.

  Jakal pulled it free and started to swing the nozzle toward Han.

  “Are you crazy?” Han jerked his thumb toward Qizak. “He’s the one who smashed Scarn’s face!”

  Jakal paused, and Han used his good hand to snatch the blaster away. So far, the fight had lasted six, maybe seven seconds. The other Nargons would join in soon. A tremendous banging sounded from the booth, and suddenly Leia was trapped against the wall as the armless Qizak tried to kick the table aside to get at her. Kaeg stood next to her, pouring blaster fire into the lizard’s chest, but the bolts bounced away with little effect.

  �
��What are those things?” Han gasped.

  Jakal might have groaned something like scaled death, but Han was already attacking Qizak from behind, firing with his off-hand. The storm of ricochets was so thick, he did not realize he was caught in a crossfire until he stood and nearly lost his head to bolts screeching in from two different directions.

  Han dived and began to kick himself across the floor behind Qizak. The bolts had to be coming from the other Nargons, blasting on the run as they tried to push through the panicked crowd to help their companion. But who would do that—fire into a brawl when their buddy was right in the middle of it?

  He continued to squeeze his own trigger, pushing himself toward Qizak’s flank and firing toward the smoking hole Leia had opened in the Nargon’s ribs. Finally, he saw a bolt disappear into the dark circle.

  And that drew a reaction. Qizak spun as though hit by a blaster cannon, pupils diamond-shaped and wide open. Gray smoke began to billow from his chest, followed by blue spurting blood and something that looked like beads of molten metal. The Nargon lurched toward Han, his legs starting to shudder and spasm as he prepared to stomp his attacker into a greasy smear.

  Leia came leaping over the tabletop, her lightsaber flashing and sizzling as she batted blaster bolts back toward the other Nargons. She pivoted in midair, bringing her bright blade around in a horizontal arc. Qizak’s head came off and went bouncing across the durasteel floor.

  Han saw the body falling and tried to roll away, but he was too slow. The huge corpse crashed down atop him, and the air left his lungs.

  In the next instant, the weight vanished. He saw Leia crouching at his feet, one arm outstretched as she used the Force to send Qizak’s body flying into a charging Nargon.

  “You okay, flyboy?” she asked.

  “I’m—” Han had to stop. His chest hurt something fierce, and the breath had definitely been knocked out of him. Still, he managed to get his feet under him. “Fine. I think.”

  Kaeg scrambled from beneath the table. A flurry of blaster bolts nearly took his head off. He cried out in surprise, then waved an arm toward a dark corner.

  “Emergency exit!”

  He scrambled away, staying low and not looking back.

  Han did not follow immediately. Recalling the strange sparks that had sprayed from Qizak’s arm as Leia amputated it, he grabbed one of the limbs off the table—and was so surprised by its weight that he nearly dropped it. He flipped the stump around and saw that, instead of bone, the Nargon’s flesh was attached to a thick metallic pipe with just room enough for a bundle of fiber-optic filaments.

  “Han!”

  Leia used the Force to send the last Nargon stumbling back toward the bar, then grabbed Han by the arm and raced down a short passage, past the refreshers and out through an open iris hatch. It wasn’t until Kaeg sealed the hatch behind them and blasted the controls that she finally released Han’s arm and took a good look at what he was carrying.

  “Really, Han?” She rolled her eyes in disbelief. “Souvenirs?”

  Two

  The objective was simple: don’t break the egg. But like every test at the Jedi Academy on Shedu Maad, success was easier defined than achieved. The obstacle course was littered with fallen kolg trees and flattened maboo cane, and the academy’s best sniper-instructor was laying fire while two apprentices gave chase.

  The subject, a young Togorian male with copper-colored fur and a feline’s grace, was springing from log to log, holding the thin-shelled sharn egg in one hand and his lightsaber in the other. The Togorian’s defense was precise and fluid, with no wasted movement or strength-sapping tension. His counterattacks came in whirling bursts of blade and boot, with enough power and misdirection to impress even the Grand Master of the Jedi Order, Luke Skywalker.

  Always, the egg remained safe. As Luke watched, one of the pursuers, a sixteen-year-old human female, dropped into a tangle of maboo cane. Her hand rose to deliver a Force shove, but the Togorian was already pirouetting past her slender Bith partner, delivering a powerful hip check that knocked the fellow into the path of her attack. The Bith flew off the log backward, his thin limbs flailing wildly as his oversize cranium led the way toward the rocky ground.

  The young woman’s eyes brightened in panic, and when she reached out in the Force to cushion her partner’s fall, a sly grin crossed the Togorian’s boxy snout. He waited half a heartbeat for her to bring the Bith under control, then tossed the egg into the air so he could switch to a two-handed lightsaber grip and deflect two of the sniper’s stun bolts into her flank.

  The young woman collapsed in a heap, leaving her partner to hit the ground at a safe speed. By then the Togorian had caught his egg and was holding his lightsaber with a single-handed grip. He leapt off the kolg trunk and began to advance on the sniper sideways, deflecting fire toward his last, still-prone pursuer. It took only a couple of steps before a stun bolt struck, sending the Bith’s entire body into a paroxysm of clenched muscles.

  The Togorian continued toward the sniper at a leisurely stroll, not even bothering to dodge as he deflected a steady torrent of stun bolts. The display sent a cold shiver through the Force, but neither Luke nor the other Masters allowed their expressions to betray their feelings.

  “His combat skills are impressive,” said Jaina Solo. Han and Leia’s last surviving child, Jaina was approaching thirty-six. She looked a lot like her mother at the same age, but she wore her dark hair longer, and she had more steel in her eyes than fire. “There’s no doubt of that.”

  “There certainly isn’t,” agreed Corran Horn. A short, fit man in his sixties, Corran had wise green eyes, a weathered face, and a gray-streaked goatee. “In fact, I’d say that Bhixen is as good as you were at that age, Master Solo.”

  “He is,” Luke agreed. “And he knows it.”

  As Luke spoke, the Force behind him stirred with the familiar presence of Seha Dorvald, the Jedi apprentice who was currently serving as his aide. Her aura felt nervous and a bit reluctant, as though she was unsure whether her errand warranted an interruption. Luke motioned her forward without turning around.

  “Excellent timing, Jedi Dorvald.” He drew his blaster and extended the butt toward her. “Take my sidearm and shoot the egg out of Candidate Bhixen’s hand.”

  Seha hesitated. “Uh, Master Skywalker, I have an urgent message—”

  “Now, Jedi Dorvald,” Luke said. Bhixen was only a Force leap away from the fallen tree that Jagged Fel was using as a sniper’s nest, and Luke was not ready for the test to end. “And make sure the candidate sees you.”

  “Very well.” Seha took the blaster from Luke’s hand. “But, Master Skywalker, this weapon’s power selector is set to—”

  “Now, Seha,” Luke ordered. “Open fire—and make it convincing.”

  Seha stepped two paces away from Luke and the other Masters, then began to spray full-power bolts toward Bhixen’s flank. At a range of more than twenty meters, the blaster pistol was not very accurate, and it was difficult to tell whether she was firing at the Togorian or the egg. Bhixen instantly launched himself into an evasive Force tumble, his blade flashing and crackling as he deflected her attacks. For a moment, he seemed too surprised and overwhelmed by the live fire to react emotionally, and Luke dared to hope the Togorian’s arrogance was no more than a minor character flaw.

  Then Bhixen landed, ducking behind a massive kolg trunk that protected him from the sniper’s nest. He spun to face Seha’s pistol fire, and when he saw who was attacking him, the Force boiled with his outrage. Dropping the sharn egg into the soft bed of maboo, he switched to a two-handed grip—and began to bat Seha’s attacks back at her so quickly that Luke barely had time to Force-tug his aide to safety. Even then, the Togorian sent the last bolt flying directly into the gathering of Masters, and Luke had to raise a Force-shielded palm to deflect it.

  Bhixen froze in mid-whirl. He stopped with his body sideways to Luke, keeping his lightsaber at high-guard and one leg cocked, ready to spin into an
other Force leap. His presence was quivering with shock and shame, but his outrage remained, as though the attack from an unexpected quarter had been an undeserved indignity.

  “Stand down!” Luke called, using the Force to project his voice over the entire testing arena. He summoned the sharn egg from the spot where Bhixen had dropped it. “The exercise is over.”

  The director of the academy, a tall, dignified Jedi Master named Kam Solusar, signaled Bhixen to remain where he was, then took the egg from Luke.

  “Bhixen’s pride has always been his greatest weakness,” Kam said. “I fear his skill only contributes to it.”

  “There is a darkness inside him,” Luke said. “And the days are gone when the Jedi can afford to train their own enemies.”

  As Luke said this, he was remembering the long line of Knights who had gone to the dark side under the constant stress of combat and subterfuge that was the everyday life of a Jedi. The most recent had been his oldest nephew, Jacen Solo, who had become the Sith Lord Darth Caedus. To end Darth Caedus’s reign of terror, Luke had been forced to assign Jacen’s twin sister, Jaina, to hunt down and kill her brother. It had been one of the most difficult decisions of his life—one that had left him heartbroken and doubting his own ability to prepare young Jedi Knights for the spiritual tests in their futures.

  Kam continued to study Bhixen in thoughtful silence, and his wife, Jedi Master Tionne Solusar, stepped forward to ask the question on everyone’s mind.

  “So, dismissal?”

  Corran was quick to shake his head. “I think that would be premature,” he said. “The Sith are still out there, and someday they will show themselves again.”

  “And when they do, we’re going to need superb fighters like Candidate Bhixen,” Jaina said. “Plenty of them.”

  “So we lower our standards?” Kam asked. He cast an uneasy glance at Tionne’s prosthetic leg—just one of the artificial limbs she needed after a torture session with a henchman of Darth Caedus. “We don’t dare—not when we might be creating the next Sith Lord.”