by Troy Denning
“Kam, that’s not fair to Bhixen,” Corran said. “He’s still a youngling. Mistakes are to be expected.”
“Mistakes, yes,” Luke said. “But faults in character? No.”
“It’s hard to know the difference at Bhixen’s age,” Jaina said. “Character isn’t merely genetic. It’s built through experience.”
“And through instruction,” Corran added. “If a candidate isn’t ready, we mustn’t advance him. But does that mean our only alternative is dismissal? Because if it does, we are the ones who have failed.”
Luke fell silent for a moment, then finally said, “You’re right, Master Horn.” He motioned Bhixen to approach. “After bringing him this far, we should not give up easily.”
The Togorian marched forward, chin held high and ears erect, trying to conceal the anxiety he was pouring into the Force. It was clear that he regretted batting a blaster bolt back toward the Masters, but there was also indignation in his aura, as though he refused to accept that the mistake had been his.
When Bhixen came within a couple of steps, Luke motioned him to stop. The Togorian was already close to two meters tall, with red-brown fur and a powerful build that would have made him an imposing figure even without a Jedi lightsaber hanging from his belt. After the combat test today, there could be no doubting that he would one day be a formidable warrior. But whether that would be in the service of the Jedi or someone else remained to be seen.
“Candidate Bhixen, that was an impressive performance,” Luke said. “Do you think you’re ready to become Master Solo’s apprentice?”
Bhixen’s ears pricked forward, and then he spoke in a gravelly Togorian voice that was already deep and confident. “I don’t think so, Master Skywalker. I know so.” He switched his gaze to Jaina. “I’ll make you proud, Master Solo.”
“Not so fast,” Jaina replied. “Grand Master Skywalker asked if you thought you were ready to become my apprentice. He didn’t say he thought so. And I haven’t said I think so, either.”
Bhixen looked from Jaina to the sharn egg, then back to Luke. “So my test was not successful?”
“To the contrary, Bhixen,” Luke said. “It was very successful. We learned a great deal about your weaknesses.”
Bhixen’s ears went flat against his head. “My weaknesses?”
“You lost your temper,” Luke said.
“But Jedi Dorvald wasn’t part of the exercise,” Bhixen objected. “You cheated!”
“And your enemies won’t?” Luke asked mildly. “The greatest danger a Jedi faces is not injury or death, or even failure. It’s what he feels inside—his pride, his fear, his anger. His emotions are what feed the dark side.”
Jaina nodded in agreement. “You have great potential, Bhixen,” she said. “Too much. We can’t train you only to have you turn to the dark side and become our greatest enemy.”
Bhixen’s jaw fell, and he looked from Jaina to the rest of the Masters. Finding only stern, unreadable faces, his fur bristled, and he turned to Luke with disbelief in his eyes.
“Then you’re dismissing me?”
Luke continued to watch the Togorian in silence, waiting to see how the stunned candidate would react—whether he would burst into an angry diatribe or beg for another chance, or simply spin on his heel and storm off.
When Bhixen awaited an answer without doing any of these, Luke said, “We’re not ready to advance you, but whether you leave or start again depends on you.”
“Start again?” Bhixen asked.
“As though you had just arrived at the academy,” Luke confirmed. “Whatever you did not learn before, you must learn now. We won’t give you a third chance.”
Bhixen dropped his gaze. “Of course,” he said, not even hesitating. “If that is what you wish.”
“No, Bhixen,” Jaina said. “If that is what you wish. Do you truly want to do this? To start over from the beginning? Think hard.”
Bhixen furrowed his bushy brows and stared at Jaina for a long time, and Luke had the impression that the Togorian was looking for the trick in her question, as though his entire future hung on his ability to avoid a verbal trap. But, finally, a gleam of understanding came to his eyes, and his expression began to soften.
He let out a long breath, then said, “I understand. I have too much pride.”
“That’s right,” Luke said. “And your pride is the great weakness in your defenses.”
“I agree.” Bhixen flipped his lightsaber around and offered the hilt to Luke. “And I want to start over.”
“Good.” Luke took the lightsaber. “This will be returned when you are ready. Now take the sharn’s egg back to its nest, then report to the quartermaster droid for reassignment to a berth in the novice barracks.”
Bhixen accepted the egg from Kam, then took his leave with a formal bow. But before he started back into the forest, he made a detour to check on the two apprentices he had put out of action.
Luke began to feel more confident about the Togorian’s chances.
Just then, the sniper–instructor who had been firing stun bolts at Bhixen arrived: Jagged Fel. A tall, fit man with a white streak in otherwise dark hair, Jag was a former Imperial head of state, a superb pilot, a lifelong military man—and Jaina Solo’s husband. Although not a Jedi himself, he had developed compensating strategies that had turned him into the Jedi Order’s finest commando leader.
He stopped at the edge of the group, with his longblaster slung over his shoulder. “Nice shooting, Jedi Dorvald,” he said, grinning at Luke’s aide. “I haven’t seen many marksmen who could’ve fired that many pistol bolts at an evading target and still avoided the egg.”
Seha’s face flushed with embarrassment. “Thank you, Commander.” She shot a glance in Luke’s direction, then admitted, “But my orders were to hit the egg.”
“You came close enough, Jedi Dorvald,” Luke said, smiling. He motioned at the datapad tucked into the belt of her robe. “Didn’t you say you have a message for us?”
“I did.” Seha pulled the datapad from her belt. “The Solos have run into some trouble at their rendezvous.”
“The Solos?” Corran asked. “Weren’t they going to the Chiloon Rift?”
“That’s right,” Jaina said. “Lando asked them to investigate a pirate ring that’s been causing problems there lately. Why do you ask?”
“Because Jedi Soroc is in the Chiloon Rift, and she hasn’t checked in for a month,” Corran explained. Ohali Soroc was one of ten Quest Knights whom Luke had dispatched a year earlier to search for Mortis, a legendary world that had once been home to a trio of mythic Force entities known only as the Ones. Jedi lore suggested that the Ones had been associated with keeping the Force in balance for tens of thousands of years, and it was Luke’s hope that finding Mortis would help the Jedi Order prepare for the challenges rising in its own future. “We’ve already diverted Ben and Tahiri to investigate, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask your parents to keep an eye out for her.”
“Sure, if we can reach them,” Jaina said. “From what Lando says, communications in the Rift are tricky.”
“Well, since Han and Leia managed to get a message to us, let’s see what they have to say.”
With that, Luke turned to Seha and nodded. She clicked a few keys, then handed the datapad to Luke. Jag, Jaina, and the others quickly gathered around as the grainy, bouncy image of the Millennium Falcon appeared in the display, standing on its struts in a cavernous space-station hangar. The screen instantly started to strobe in green and blue as blaster bolts whistled through the picture.
Han’s voice began to issue from the speaker. “Solo here,” he said. “Sorry for talking on the run, but we’re about to head into the Rift, and I want to send this while our communications are still secure. Lando missed our rendezvous at the Red Ronto and sent a miner pal named Omad Kaeg to fill in. Turns out he’s in trouble with some Mandalorians working security for a company named Galactic Exploitation Technologies.”
Despite the blaster bolts flashing past
and the obvious fact that he was under pursuit, Han sounded calm and unconcerned.
“This GET outfit has been moving into the Rift in a big way, taking over small refineries and muscling in on independent operators. We think they’re running the pirates, too.”
The image—no doubt recorded on a portable datapad—whirled past a dark-skinned, wide-eyed human male running in one direction and firing in the other, then passed a flashing lightsaber that could only be Leia’s, deflecting blaster bolts.
“So we need someone to do some serious digging and get a report to us at Lando’s refinery,” Han said. “And—sorry about this part—but, like I said, communications in the Rift are not secure. So we need someone to hand-deliver it.”
As Han spoke, the image continued to swing around the hangar, until it finally settled on a spray of blaster bolts erupting from the far end. Rather than the Mandalorians that Han had mentioned, the attackers were a pair of scaly green bipeds who—judging by the hatchway behind them—looked to be the size of Wookiees. The image zoomed, and the pursuers grew large enough for Luke to see that each had a spiny skull crest atop its head and a long, spike-tipped tail whipping around behind it. Both carried short-barreled blaster rifles, firing on the run as they raced after their quarry.
“Meet the Nargons,” Han said. “They’re muscle for GET—and they’re big trouble.”
The image spun back toward the Falcon, which rapidly swelled into nothing but a blur as Han raced toward it and boarded. A thump sounded, and the image shifted to a huge green-scaled arm lying on the deck of the Falcon’s main cabin. The limb appeared to have been cleanly amputated above the elbow—by Leia’s lightsaber, Luke assumed.
Han’s voice sounded from the datapad speaker again. “And there’s one more thing.”
His hand appeared in the image, rolling the dismembered arm around to display the blackened circle of its cauterized stump. Instead of the usual disc of charred bone, there was a hollow silvery oval of freshly cut metal.
“These Nargon things aren’t natural,” Han continued. “Someone has to be building them—or maybe growing them. Either way, they’re no joke. They just about took us out.”
The image shifted to Han’s face, and a cocky half grin flashed across his face. “Time to fly,” he said. “Solo out.”
The message ended with a terminal bleep, and the display went dark. Luke reversed the vid until it showed the Nargons entering the hangar, then enlarged the image until only one filled the display. The magnification revealed vertical pupils and a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth, but not much more.
“Anyone seen one of these guys before?” Luke asked.
“No, but they can certainly shoot,” Corran said. “That hangar must be three hundred meters across, and they were putting bolts in a tight cone.”
“And with close-assault weapons,” Jag added. “I think those are Merr-Sonn Verqs. Powerful, but their effective range isn’t anywhere near three hundred meters.”
“Are you suggesting that they’re using the Force, Commander Fel?” Kam asked.
Jag considered his answer for a moment, then shrugged. “I wouldn’t have any way to judge that. What I can tell you is that those Nargons are as good as I am. I could lay a cluster that tight with that weapon—but just barely.”
“Good point,” Luke said. “You don’t have to be Force-sensitive to excel at something. You’re proof enough of that.” He paused. When no one else commented, he passed the datapad back to Seha. “Ask Master Cilghal to give me her thoughts on these Nargons, and have a research team start an analysis on Galactic Exploitation Technologies. Then have the Jade Shadow prepped for travel.”
“The Shadow?” Jaina’s tone was disapproving. “Are you planning to take this assignment yourself?”
“You don’t think I can handle a courier mission?” Luke asked, putting a little indignation in his voice. “Or a few pirates?”
Jaina rolled her eyes. “You know better than that.”
Her gaze dropped to Luke’s chest, where his robe covered a mysterious, slow-to-heal wound. He had received it the year before from an ancient being named Abeloth, who seemed to be a chaos-bringing agent of the Force itself. Luke had ultimately triumphed, but the fight had cost him a rib and part of a lung.
“I’m fine. You know the wound only bothers me when I have a Force vision.” Luke had to work to keep a civil tone, for the Masters’ concern over his health had grown tiresome over the last few months. He was the Grand Master, after all, and they insisted on coddling him. “I doubt that will be required.”
“Which raises the question of why you need to go,” Corran said. “Courier runs are the kind of mission we assign to a new Knight, not the Grand Master of the Order.”
“Usually, yes,” Luke allowed. “But, with the passage of the Neutrality Act, I doubt that Senator Wuul will agree to meet just any Jedi.”
“You’re going to ask Luewet Wuul for a briefing?” Kam asked.
“Of course,” Luke said. “He chairs the minerals committee. If anyone can tell us what isn’t public knowledge about Galactic Exploitation Technologies, it’s Luewet.”
“But will he?” Jaina asked. “He could be accused of treason for just talking to a Jedi.”
Jaina was exaggerating. The Galactic Alliance Neutrality Act was simply a formal declaration of the Alliance’s intention to stay out of the war between the Jedi and the Sith. But when it came to a government official sharing information with either side, there were a lot of gray areas where a crafty old senator like Luewet Wuul would not tread boldly.
“That’s why I plan to speak with Wuul personally,” Luke said. “Wuul is the only friend we have who might be able to tell us what’s going on behind the scenes with this GET, and he’ll need to know we’re not asking for this favor lightly.”
“Fair enough,” Corran said. “That explains why you might take the first assignment. But I still don’t see why a Grand Master needs to carry the report to the Chiloon Rift personally.”
“Need is a strong word, Corran,” Luke said, quietly chafing at his old friend’s not-so-subtle effort to keep him from exerting himself. “But I think it should be me, yes.”
Jaina studied him for a moment, then finally asked, “Because your son is going to be in the Chiloon Rift, too, and you haven’t seen him in six months?”
“It would be nice to see Ben, that’s true,” Luke said. “But there’s another, more important reason.”
The Masters all frowned, trying to puzzle out the answer, but a crooked grin tugged at the corner of Jag’s mouth.
“Because,” Jag said, “you’ve been stuck recuperating on Shedu Maad for an entire year, and you need to get out of here before we drive you crazy.”
Luke smiled. “Exactly,” he said. “Sometimes, Commander Fel, I swear you do have the Force.”
Three
From the purple heavens fell an endless rain of fiery streamers, chunks of asteroid plunging into the atmosphere as the breaker crews pushed them out of orbit. “The Drop” was just one of a hundred inefficient steps in an ore-smelting process as backward as the Rift itself, and watching it from the unadorned offices of the Sarnus Refinery administrative building, Marvid Qreph could scarcely believe that such an antiquated operation could be the source of so much trouble for him and his brother.
Marvid allowed himself to glare out the viewport for a moment longer, then set his puny jaw and turned his ornate powerbody toward the office interior. In the center of the room, his brother, Craitheus, hovered at the conference table in his own powerbody, floating a bit high in an effort to intimidate their hosts. Like all members of the Columi species, Craitheus was largely head, with huge eyes, no nose, and a web of blue veins throbbing over his giant cranium. Beneath his tiny chin, a ropy neck descended to an atrophied body barely large enough to carry the organs required to keep blood pulsing through his enormous brain. His limbs were tiny and vestigial, ending in hands and feet curled into useless lumps of bone and flesh.
> “… Chiloon holdings are nothing but a headache to you,” Craitheus was saying to the refinery’s owner, Lando Calrissian. “And the pirate situation is only going to deteriorate. Our offer won’t be as good next week.”
“And I wouldn’t accept it if it were,” Calrissian replied.
Despite his age, Calrissian was handsome, fit, and suave—a combination that Marvid always found irksome. A gambler who had parlayed his winnings into an industrial empire, Calrissian was intelligent and cunning by human standards, but he was too smooth for his own good. Not a black-dyed hair was out of place, and he was always quick to flash his annoying white smile.
“I may be relatively new to the Rift myself,” Calrissian continued. “But the Sarnus Refinery has been processing asteroids for centuries. It has survived bigger problems than a few pirates.”
“Perhaps so,” Craitheus said. “But how much are you willing to gamble on that resilience? The smart play is to attend to your holdings outside the Rift—before problems erupt there, as well.”
The smirk on Calrissian’s face did not change. “Should I take that as a threat?”
“Perhaps you should take it as good advice,” Marvid said from his spot near the viewport. He was risking his brother’s wrath by softening the statement, but Craitheus’s fondness for intimidation did not always serve their purposes. “We’re all businessmen here, and it’s rather early in the negotiations for threats.”
“I’m glad you think so,” said Dena Yus.
A statuesque, auburn-haired woman who appeared to be in her forties, Yus was seated next to Calrissian and opposite Craitheus. She was the refinery’s operations chief and Calrissian’s point woman in the Rift, even though she had been running the refinery for only six months. Marvid knew all about her, because he was the one who had forged the employment records and recommendations that convinced Calrissian to hire her.
“Because if you’re making threats,” Yus continued, “one might wonder if you’re behind the problems here in the Rift. Are you?”
“Blaming us won’t deflect attention from your incompetence, Chief Yus,” Marvid said, playing along.
