Threepio said, “Oh, be quiet, you … you big walking carpet—I was not talking too much! Besides, you’re the one who has the life debt to Han Solo.”
The maintenance droid continued, oblivious to their bickering. Threepio wished that he could simplify his own programming and be so blissfully ignorant in the ways of the galaxy. He felt his circuits overheating as the full impact of what might happen to him slammed down on his poor head.
“Master Solo will probably remove my legs and make me recompile and alphabetize all the fragmented files in the Imperial Information Center!”
In the dim underworld Jacen pointed to a noisy machine in front of them as the cluttered street widened. “Look,” he said. “Droid.”
The children ran, waving their hands and hoping to get the droid’s attention. But they stopped as the machine continued along a polished path worn through the debris.
The droid was vastly older than the maintenance model up at the turbolift. It had bulkier joints, squarish limbs; large bolts held the pieces together. The antique repair droid was little more than a mobile cart of tools with a torso, arms, and an angled hexagonal head. One of its optical sensors had fallen off. Thick cables ran down its spine and along its neck, corroded and caked with dust and dirt. Moss had begun to grow on its sides. It moved with a stuttering motion as if desperately in need of lubricant.
Along the street a line of corroded poles stood a meter taller than the twins. Atop each pole rested an old glowcrystal, engraved with magnifying facets, but each crystal was a dead translucent gray, shedding no light into the dim streets. Some poles had come loose from their ground-level moorings and tilted sideways.
The repair droid worked its way to the end of the street, stopped at an appropriate position, and ratcheted its torso high on accordion joints so its arms could reach the darkened glowcrystal. The droid removed the burned-out crystal, cradling it carefully in segmented pincers. After placing it in the back of the cart, the repair droid removed another thick glowcrystal from an open bin. Following complex programming, the droid positioned the replacement crystal on top of the pole and activated it.
The new glowcrystal remained as dead and lightless as the first, but the repair droid didn’t seem to notice. It moved to the next pole, repeating the process.
Jacen stood in front of the droid, addressing it in his best Daddy voice. “We’re lost,” he said.
Jaina came up beside him. “Please help us find our home.”
The repair droid ratcheted up as if in alarm, then lowered itself down to study the children with its single optical sensor. “Lost?” it said in a clanking voice.
“Home,” Jaina insisted.
“Not in my programming,” the droid said. “Not my main task.” It ratcheted up again and moved to a third malfunctioning glowcrystal pole. “Not in my programming.”
Jaina and Jacen began to cry. But upon hearing each other, rather than reinforcing their tears, the twins stopped. “Be brave,” Jaina said.
“Brave,” Jacen agreed.
The two exhausted twins sat down on a time-smoothed chunk of duracrete in the middle of the open street. They watched the repair droid continue removing dead glowcrystals from poles and replacing them with equally useless lights.
The droid moved all the way to the end of the street, unsuccessful in getting any of the streetlights to work again. Then, picking up speed, it whirred down the worn path it had traveled for a hundred years, back to where it had started.
The droid stopped in front of the first dead glowcrystal pole all over again, ratcheted itself up, and replaced the lightless crystal it had changed only a short while earlier with another one.…
22
Still reeling from the destruction of the Manticore, Admiral Daala slumped against the bridge rail. She found herself at a loss for words as the battle on Calamari continued.
“Wipe them out,” she said. “Open fire with all turbolaser batteries from orbit. Target every floating city.” She stared with glassy eyes out the Gorgon’s wide viewport. “Destroy them all.”
She couldn’t understand what had gone wrong. She had followed Grand Moff Tarkin’s tactics exactly. He had trained her carefully, giving her all the information she should have needed. But since Daala had emerged from Maw Installation, she had met with one disaster after another. The Sun Crusher fallen into Rebel hands, the Hydra destroyed, and now the Manticore. True, she had been successful in hijacking a small supply vessel, and she had obliterated an insignificant colony on Dantooine—but now on her first major attack against a Rebel world, she had again lost a Star Destroyer through her own overconfidence.
She had failed. Utterly.
Beside the Gorgon in a companion flightpath rode the Basilisk. Together, they fired volleys of turbolasers into the oceans, incinerating submerged Calamarian structures. In moments they would cross the terminator line between day and night, where they could fire down upon two more of the massive floating cities. They would vaporize the structures, sending all the inhabitants to a watery death.
“Dispatch the last TIE squadron,” she said, staring at the fiery battlefield of the ocean world below. “I want to lay this entire planet waste.”
“Admiral!” Commander Kratas ran between the sensor and tactical stations and up the two steps to the observation platform. “Rebel battleships have just come out of hyperspace, an entire fleet, more than we can hope to fight.”
Daala whirled in disbelief. “They responded to a distress call that quickly?” Then she too saw the glinting figures of large battleships streaking like comets toward them in planetary orbit.
Her breath caught in her throat. The shipyards remained unscathed except for minor sorties. She had not met her primary objective in the attack on Calamari. Still … they had destroyed at least one floating city, wrecked another, damaged two more.
“Recall all TIE squadrons,” Daala said. “Plot a straight-line vector through hyperspace to the Cauldron Nebula. We’ll go back and reassess our tactics, determine our losses.” She paused, then raised her voice like a torch of anger. “And we’ll prepare our next attack!”
The TIE fighters streamed back into the holds of the Star Destroyers. The Rebel defensive forces swung around in orbit like a pack of carnivores. Daala did not dare risk fighting them, though she wanted nothing more than to rip the throats out of their commanders with her bare hands.
“Ready for hyperspace,” she said before the reinforcements could swoop in to attack. Daala watched the starfields elongate into bright white lines that funneled into a vanishing point on the other side of the universe.
Her Star Destroyers entered hyperspace, leaving the New Republic forces hopelessly behind.
Han Solo and Lando Calrissian soared through the skies of Calamari in the Millennium Falcon, searching for columns of smoke rising from devastated floating settlements.
They had found Foamwander City, but when they landed on one of the emergency pads, they learned that Admiral Ackbar, Leia, and Ambassador Cilghal had already departed on a rescue mission to the sunken city of Reef Home.
Han, wrapped up in dismay at the devastation caused by Admiral Daala’s forces, felt no particular jubilation at being the pilot and owner of the Falcon. All exhilaration at winning his ship back had evaporated upon seeing the destruction that had been wreaked on the ocean world.
Lando sat at Chewbacca’s station, staring at the navigation charts. “Looks like Reef Home City should be coming up somewhere below. I detect plenty of scattered metallic masses, but nothing that might be a metropolis.”
“No, just the remains,” Han said in a low voice.
As they skimmed low, he looked out the Falcon’s viewports at floating wreckage scattered on the waves. Blackened tracings of blaster scars showed prominently on the fragmented metal. Broken chunks of the floating city, sealed and airtight with flood bulkheads, remained afloat like buoyant coffins; Calamarian and Quarren rescuers swarmed over the self-contained segments, trying to break through to free those inside
.
“That used to look like Cloud City,” Han said. “Now it looks like leftovers from a garbage masher.” He pointed to a smooth chunk of Reef Home’s outer shell. “Think we can set down on that section over there?”
Lando gave a nonchalant shrug. “Nobody’d even notice the Falcon among all this other junk.”
“Hey,” Han said.
Lando looked at him. “She’s your ship, Han. I just wish I had the Lady Luck back.”
Han set the Falcon down on the rocking plasteel debris, locked down the stabilizers, then broke open the door seals. As he clambered down the exit ramp, he scanned the rescuers to see if he could find Leia. He hadn’t held her in his arms in so long.
As usual, when they were forced apart, he thought of all sorts of things he wanted to say to her, the promises and sweet nothings she deserved, though he usually didn’t manage to force them through his gruff exterior.
Lando followed him, and they both stared at the wounded who had been dragged onto the floating wreckage of the Calamarian city. Although waves sloshed over the metal edges, for now they had been designated infirmary areas, relatively stable platforms on which the medics could tend the injured.
The smell of blood and salt filled the air, mixed with the chemical stench of laser burns, molten metal quenched in the sea, and smoke from fires that continued to burn.
Tentacle-faced Quarren bobbed up from the waves. Water trickled down their heads as they brought up important components from Reef Home’s computer core or personal items rescued from breached living quarters. The Quarren would no doubt claim salvage rights for the entire hulk, and they would sell personal belongings back to the Calamarians.
Han stood with his legs spread wide for greater balance on a drifting fragment. The choppy sea made the platform lurch in slow motion, rocking up and down. He finally noticed a wavespeeder skimming toward the wreckage. Leia piloted it, accompanied by Ackbar and a female Calamarian.
Han waved frantically, and the wavespeeder veered toward him, coming alongside. Leia leaped off the vehicle as Ackbar lashed it to a ragged stump of torn metal. She walked confidently, then ran, keeping her balance as she flung herself into Han’s arms. He hugged her against his chest as he kissed her again and again. “I’m so glad you’re safe!”
She looked at him. “I know.”
“Stop that,” Han said. “I’m serious. Daala did this, didn’t she?”
“We think so, but we have no proof yet.”
He cut her off. “No question in my mind about it. Daala has no political motives—she just wants to destroy things.”
The female Calamarian climbed out of the wavespeeder and went to the triage area, glancing at the bleeding Calamarians as far too few medics attempted to tend them. She walked among the injured, making quick pronouncements, as if she could somehow determine their chances for survival.
Two medics worked desperately to resuscitate a Quarren whose arm had been amputated and his chest crushed. She took one glance and said, “He won’t survive, and you can do nothing more to make him survive.” The two Calamarian healers looked at her and, seeing the absolute conviction on her face, moved to another patient and let the Quarren die.
Like an angel of life and death, she walked among them, staring down, tilting her head and swiveling her round Calamarian eyes from side to side.
Han watched her as she moved. “Who is that?”
“Her name is Cilghal. She’s the Calamarian ambassador,” Leia said, then lowered her voice. “I think she has Jedi powers. She doesn’t know it yet. I’m going to make sure she goes to see Luke.” Leia hugged her husband again. “I’m so glad you came.”
“I was on my way the moment I heard,” Han answered. He cocked an eyebrow as he looked at Lando. “By the way, we played another little game of sabacc en route. This time I won.” He offered an arm to his wife. “Would you like a ride home in my ship, Leia?”
“The Falcon’s yours again?” she said with delight, then slipped her arm through his. Still grinning, she looked at Lando. “Sorry to hear that, Lando.”
He shrugged. “It was one way to get him off my back.”
Ackbar climbed out of the skimmer and stood on the rocking wreckage. He raised one broad hand to shield his lumpy brow as he looked over the scattered debris of Reef Home City. Han had never been good at telling expressions on the Calamarian admiral’s face, but Ackbar seemed devastated.
He went to where Ackbar stood all alone. “Admiral,” Han said, “I heard what you did, how you defeated an entire Star Destroyer. Great work.”
Leia moved beside him in her white robes. “Admiral, your victory here must make up for the simple accident on Vortex. I hope you aren’t considering going back into hiding?”
Ackbar shook his massive head. “No, Leia. You’ve reminded me of one thing with your friendly insistence. I am not the type of person who can hide. I must do what I can, and as much as I can. Hiding is for others. Action is for myself.”
Leia placed a hand on the Admiral’s thick bicep. “Thank you, Admiral. The New Republic needs you,” she said.
But Ackbar shook his head. “No, Leia, I won’t be returning to Coruscant. After this attack I can see just how much my own people need me. I must stay here on Calamari to help my people rebuild, to strengthen their civilization, and to tighten their defenses against future Imperial strikes.
“We still have not recovered from the onslaught of the World Devastators, and now a new fleet has laid waste to our floating cities. I can’t just leave Calamari now and go back.” He turned his circular eyes up into the leaden sky and said, “This planet is my home. These are my people. I must devote my energies to helping them.”
Han slipped his arm around Leia’s waist and squeezed her. She felt stiff and cold; he knew exactly what she was thinking. “I understand … Ackbar,” Leia said, finally dropping his military title.
Han could sense her tension, knowing how the loss of Ackbar devastated her. Han gripped her shoulder, feeling iron cords of tension rippling beneath her smooth skin.
With Ackbar’s refusal to return to Coruscant, and with Mon Mothma growing weaker day by day, that meant Leia had to face all the problems of the New Republic alone.
23
Daylight shone through the rectangular skylights of the Great Temple. Kyp sat on an uncomfortable stone bench in the grand audience chamber, listening to Master Skywalker. He pretended to pay attention, though it became more and more difficult as his opinion of Skywalker’s knowledge dwindled.
The other Jedi trainees sat in rapt attention as Master Skywalker placed the small white Holocron on its pedestal. It told yet another story of the ancient Jedi Knights, extolling their heroic adventures, their battles against the dark side—all ultimately ineffectual, because the Emperor and Darth Vader had been stronger than the Jedi Knights, squashing them.
Skywalker refused to learn from that failure. If he meant to bring the new Jedi Knights to greater power, he would have to recognize new abilities, make his Order of Jedi Knights powerful enough to resist a purge like Vader’s.
Exar Kun had shown Kyp the ways of the Sith. But Master Skywalker would never adopt those teachings. Kyp wondered why he bothered to keep listening to Skywalker. He seemed so weak, so indecisive.
The other students were a potential wellspring of strength. They had learned how to tap the Force, but they had gone no further than a novice level, mere magicians, playacting in a role that was too big for any of them. They refused to peek behind the doors of greater power; but Kyp was not afraid. He could handle the responsibility.
Another holographic gatekeeper of the Holocron appeared and began telling the story of how young Yoda had become a Jedi. Kyp stifled a yawn, unable to understand why they had to keep watching these trivial histories.
He craned his neck to look at the walls of the enormous stone temple. In his mind he tried to imagine the Great Sith War four thousand years ago. He thought of the damp-skinned Massassi race enslaved by Exar Kun, use
d by him as tools to build the temples that he had reconstructed from even more ancient and forgotten Sith records. Kun had revitalized the dark teachings, granting himself the title of Dark Lord of the Sith, a tradition passed down all the way to Darth Vader, who had been the last Sith Lord.
Exar Kun’s temples had been erected across Yavin 4—the last archaeological resting place of the incredibly ancient Sith race—as focal points for his power. Kun had ruled here on the jungle moon, controlling forces that had nearly defeated the Old Republic. But the warlord Jedi Ulic Qel-Droma had betrayed him; and all the united Jedi had swept down in a final battle on Yavin 4, exterminating the Massassi natives, leveling most of the Sith temples, razing most of the rain forest in a holocaust from the skies. But Exar Kun had managed to encyst his spirit here, waiting four thousand years until other Jedi came to awaken him.…
Kyp fidgeted and pretended to pay attention. The temple chamber seemed extremely hot. The Holocron droned on and on.
Luke listened with a beatific smile, and the other students continued to observe the images. Kyp gazed at the walls and wondered why he was there.
As half night fell across the jungles of Yavin 4, Luke Skywalker sat back and allowed himself to relax in one of the meeting halls. Smaller than the grand audience chamber, the hall had arched stone ceilings and polished tables, along with serviceable furniture left behind by the Rebel occupation. Bright glowlamps hung in old torch sconces.
Luke felt bone weariness seeping though his body and hunger gnawing in his stomach. For now the students relaxed, recharging their mental energy.
All day long Luke had supervised them through Force exercises, levitation training, visualizing battles and conflicts, sensing other animals and creatures in the forest, learning Jedi history from the Holocron. He was pleased with how well they were doing; though the death of Gantoris still felt like an open wound, he saw that his other students were making great progress. He felt confident in being able to bring back the Jedi Knights.
Star Wars: The Jedi Academy Trilogy II: Dark Apprentice Page 20
