Star Wars: Luke Skywalker and the Shadows of Mindor

by Matthew Stover

  Unlike what occurred during the standard Pawning process that Cronal had painstakingly developed, Skywalker had not had his hair flash-burned away, had not had his skull opened and crystals implanted in his brain. No neurosurgery, not for Skywalker, nothing that might leave a suspicion-arousing scar.

  He lay wholly within the meltmassif, buried alive with not even a breathing tube. Well, semi-alive: in full thanatizine II suspension, he had at least another hour before he would next need to take a breath. Before that breath would come, the combined power and perception Cronal channeled through the Pawns would have induced the meltmassif surrounding Skywalker’s body to pierce his skin with invisibly fine needles of living crystal … they would enter through every pore, through his mouth and his nose, his ears, his tongue … and with the arcane powers he had ripped from the spirit of the ancient King of the Sith, Cronal would shape those crystals within Skywalker’s body as he had shaped the ones in his own: into a webwork mirror of the young Jedi’s nervous system.

  Then Cronal would simply close his eyes and pour forth his consciousness like water into a waiting jug. With a twist of will—for thanatizine II only affected the organic body and would have no effect upon the crystalline neuroweb—he would liquefy the meltmassif of the Pawning Table and arise, quite literally, a new man. When he opened his eyes again, those eyes would be blue.

  And he would extend his hand, and the Force would answer his call, bringing Skywalker’s lightsaber—no, Cronal’s lightsaber—up from the same meltmassif, because what was a Jedi without the Jedi weapon?

  And should anything go wrong, well …

  Should anything at all go wrong, the last living Jedi—the last being in the galaxy that Cronal would ever have any reason to fear—was already buried alive; all that Cronal might need to change in that description would be the word alive.

  CHAPTER 11

  LANDO STOOD AT THE FORWARD VIEWSCREENS OF THE Remember Alderaan’s bridge, watching as the battle cruiser’s A-wing squadrons mopped up the last of the marauding interceptors that had been attacking the Slash-Es. He nodded—the Mandalorians were proving to be every bit as good as their reputation claimed—and turned to the Remember Alderaan’s commander. “Well done, Captain,” he said. “Recall all fighters and initiate search and rescue. And see to it that when Lord Mandalore lands, he receives my compliments and gratitude, as well as my urgent request for the honor of his company at his earliest convenience.”

  The captain nodded. “As the general orders.”

  Lando turned to the ComOps officer. “Get me a secure channel with Commander Antilles of Rogue Squadron.”

  “Um, subspace is heavily jammed, General—”

  “Okay,” Lando said with an agreeable smile that somehow didn’t look the slightest bit friendly. “Now that we’ve got that straightened out, get me a secure channel with Captain Antilles.”

  The ComOps officer swallowed and turned back to his console. “Yes, sir.”

  “And when you get that channel,” Lando said crisply, coming to a snap decision, “tell him I’m waiting for him in the Deck Seven fighter bay.”

  “Sir.”

  “Tell him that I’ve been waiting. Remind him that I don’t like waiting. And let Lord Mandalore know where we are.” He spun and headed for the turbolift. He jabbed a finger at C-3PO, who had been inconspicuously eavesdropping by an engineering console. “You. With me.”

  “Me? Really? But, but, General Calrissian—”

  “Now,” Lando said as he passed.

  “That’s a bit brusque, isn’t it?” C-3PO nonetheless shuffled into the turbolift after him. “Please, General Calrissian, you do seem, if you don’t mind my mentioning, just the slightest bit agitated—”

  “I can’t imagine why.” Lando stabbed the turbolift’s destination panel and the door cycled shut.

  The turbolift had barely hummed into motion when the whole compartment seemed to lurch a meter or two to one side, hard enough that Lando had to clutch at C-3PO—who had his peds, as he preferred when on a moving surface, maglocked to the deck—to keep his feet. “What was that? It felt like an impact—but an impact big enough to shift the whole ship like that should have pretty much vaporized us.”

  “I’m sure I couldn’t say, General, but—”

  “It was a rhetorical question, Threepio.” Lando dusted himself off and grimaced when he discovered a tiny spot of machine oil on one cuff. “You’re not expected to answer.”

  “Oh, yes—I entirely understand. I, myself, am programmed with a number of conversational null-content phrases, used only for emphasis or—”

  “Okay, okay.” Lando fished out his comlink and brought it to his mouth. “Calrissian here. What just happened?”

  “Unknown, General. We’re looking into it.”

  C-3PO was still nattering on. “I misunderstood your rhetorical intent, General, because I can acquire that information for you.”

  Lando lowered the comlink. “You can?”

  “Oh, certainly. The ship will know.”

  “It will?”

  “Of course, General. Mon Calamari designs are quite intelligent—much more capable than any organic brain.” C-3PO emitted a brief burst of static that sounded remarkably like an apologetic cough. “No offense intended, of course …”

  “Of course.” Lando nodded at the turbolift’s comm panel. “Please.”

  The protocol droid stepped over to the comm panel and his vocabulator emitted a high-pitched whine nestled in white noise. The comm panel gave back a noise that to Lando’s ears sounded indistinguishable from the first.

  “What?” C-3PO’s hand came up to his vocabulator slot. “Ooh, that’s awful! Oh, my goodness!”

  “What did it say?” Lando said. “What was that jolt?”

  “The jolt? I don’t know.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The ship made an improper suggestion,” C-3PO said primly.

  Lando blinked. “Are you kidding?”

  “If only I were,” the droid sighed. He leaned close to whisper in Lando’s ear. “She’s a terrible flirt,” he confided. “You know how sailors can be …”

  “I sure do.” Lando was, after all, Lando. “Flirt back.”

  “General, really!”

  “You want a girl to tell you secrets, you better be ready to at least nuzzle her ear.”

  “Well, I never!”

  “I know—but you should.”

  C-3PO was still sputtering static when the turbolift doors hissed open on Deck Seven. Lando strode off toward the fighter bays without looking back.

  Mon Calamari fighter bays were as beautifully functional as any other feature of their ships. Fighters entered the bay in a smoothly continuous stream, assisted by force-shield-reinforced capture netting that also gathered each one up and delivered it, as appropriate, either to its designated berth or to the huge transfer field that would carry a badly damaged craft to the battle cruiser’s onboard repair bay. There was virtually none of the barely controlled chaos that characterized fighter bays on more conventional warships; even the roar of the entering fighters’ engines was muted by phased-array sonic dampers.

  Nestled among the ranks of A-wings were, unexpectedly, an X-wing fighter and a B-wing bomber—and standing stiffly at attention in front of them stood Commander Wedge Antilles and First Lieutenant Tycho Celchu.

  “You got here fast,” Lando said as he received their salutes.

  “Yes, sir.” Wedge, still at attention, sounded not the slightest bit like an insubordinate troublemaker who was roughly one atomic diameter short of demotion and serious brig time. “I did happen to recall that the general hates to be kept waiting, General. Sir.”

  “Don’t think you’re gonna smooth your way out of this one, Wedge—” Another shift-shock rocked the whole ship sideways and knocked Lando off-balance again; this time he had to steady himself against Wedge’s shoulder, which was nearly as hard as C-3PO’s. “Damn it! What is that?”

  “
The ship informs me,” C-3PO reported calmly as he came up behind, “that it was gravity shear of unknown origin, interfering with the ship’s engines as well as its artificial gravity and inertial compensators, not to mention placing substantial physical stress on its structure—oh, oh my. Oh, my. That’s terribly dangerous, isn’t it?”

  “I’d say so,” Wedge said.

  “But I’m not ready for demolition!”

  Wedge went on as if the droid hadn’t spoken. “We call ’em gravity bombs, sir. Point-source grav projectors, going faster than an A-wing on a header into a black hole. They’re ballistic—no drive signature, so you can’t detect them until you’re already inside their radius of effect. Dangerous enough by themselves—something like them was loaded onto the fake shuttle that took out the Justice—but the worst part is that they play merry hell with the gravity stations Shadowspawn scattered throughout the asteroids. There’s not a navicomputer in the fleet that can predict the orbit of practically anything in the whole system—that’s why we’ve got the Slash-Es sweeping the fields; we’re trying to pry open a jump window before the star goes supercritical.”

  “I get it.” Lando discovered that he was more interested in the tactical problem this presented than in punishing Rogue Squadron. Especially since it looked like he’d need them. “How’s it going?”

  “Could be better,” Wedge said. “We have the planetoids aimed to keep the process self-sustaining, but we’ve still got who knows how many TIEs out there hitting us whenever we make a move. Our best estimate has periodic windows starting to open within eighteen to twenty hours.”

  “That’s not too bad.”

  “It’d be better if the star wasn’t gonna start massively flaring in less than three—and we can’t tell exactly when, and we don’t know how massively, there’s no way to reliably predict—and those gravity bombs could still screw it all up.”

  “Those gravity bombs,” Lando said slowly. “They have to be coming from somewhere. Otherwise they’d have all burned out or crashed into something by now, right?”

  Tycho nodded. “General Solo did say he’d spotted a major installation planetside, sir. In the mouth of a volcano, I think; it was just about the last communication we had from him and Princess Leia before we lost contact.”

  “Han and Leia are out of contact planetside?” Lando shook his head disbelievingly. “What are they doing there?”

  “Um … they went to rescue General Skywalker. Sir.”

  “And what is Luke—ahhh, never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  “Master Luke is in danger?” C-3PO sounded horrified. “Oh, General Calrissian, you can’t just leave him—what about Artoo?”

  “Nobody’s leaving anybody,” Lando said. “We’re getting scan-bounce from the atmosphere: heavy metals and an intense magfield. What do you have on it?”

  Wedge shrugged. “It’s breathable enough, if you don’t mind coughing. But it’s so charged that nothing we’ve got will penetrate very well—you want to really see what’s there, the only way is to go down and have a look.”

  “If our scans won’t get through it, it’ll block just about any kind of radiation, right?”

  “Well, yeah, but—” Wedge’s frown deepened. “General Calrissian, I have to tell you I don’t much like the direction this conversation’s going. We don’t really know their defenses—General, we don’t even know how many troops they have!”

  “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “Like an old friend of mine says sometimes …” Lando grinned fiercely. “Never tell me the odds.”

  HAN SOLO HAD NEVER BEEN MUCH IN FAVOR OF STARING into the business end of a blaster’s emitter. Staring into the emitter of his own blaster was no improvement at all. Doing it while he was standing in the cargo hold of his own ship …

  He decided not to think about it. Getting crazy wasn’t going to help the situation any.

  “Okay,” he said, letting her KYD dangle from his finger through its trigger guard. He threw a Get behind me! glance over his shoulder at Leia, because a whole bunch of the Mindorese in the cargo hold had suddenly produced a whole bunch of hold-out blasters from cavities in their Lava Gear armor. Chewbacca was still on one knee between the two wounded men he’d been treating, but those massive Wookiee hands were becoming massive Wookiee fists, while his massive Wookiee snarl was peeling back around his massive Wookiee fangs, and Han said, “Easy—easy, Chewie. No need for the hard way. We’re gonna do this the easy way, you follow?”

  Chewie slowly relaxed and lowered his head, but not until Han saw the gleam of agreement in one bright blue eye.

  “On the floor.” Aeona Cantor braced her other hand on her gun wrist to steady Han’s DL-44 straight at his nose. “Now.”

  Han sighed. “You picked a lousy time to pirate my ship, lady.”

  She shrugged at him. “Is there ever a good time?”

  “What do you think you’re gonna do with it?” Han gave her a pitying look. “Where do you think you’re gonna go? Shadowspawn’s got this whole system so loaded with gravity stations that it’ll take you two days to make jump.”

  “Didn’t I tell you to get on the floor?”

  “Listen to me.” Han took a step toward her. “Those asteroids are about to start falling into the star. Take this ship out of atmosphere and we’ll all roast.”

  “Not your problem.” She leveled the BlasTech at Han’s right eye. “Your problem is getting on the floor before I blow your brains all over Princess Kissy-Face.”

  “Princess excuse me?” Leia snapped with that instantly dangerous tone Han knew so well. He put out one arm to hold her back but she ducked under it without breaking stride. “You want to put down the blaster and say that again?”

  “What is it with you people?” Aeona said. “Get on the floor! Now!”

  “I have a better idea.” Han hooked his thumbs behind his belt. “How about instead you give me back my blaster while my partner demonstrates what we mean by the easy way?”

  Chewbacca’s demonstration was straightforward. Vast hairy hands shot out, seized the throats of the two irregulars on the deck in front of him, and knocked their heads together briskly, which made a sound very like a very large hollow tok nut landing on a very large hard rock. The two men sagged. Chewbacca didn’t. Instead he simply stood, holding his victims so that they dangled from his fists in front of him and made a pretty efficient shield.

  “They’re still alive, so far. That’s what easy way translates to in Shyriiwook,” Han informed Aeona helpfully. “And before you get any ideas about trick shots, you should know he gets a little excited when people start shooting—and then people’s heads tend to pop right off their necks. Makes a heckuva mess. Now, you want to hand over my blaster, or should we start a pickup game of borgleball with your friends’ skulls?”

  The blaster in her hand had never wavered. “Maybe I’ll just shoot you, instead.”

  Han shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

  She yanked the trigger, and its dry click elicited from her an incomprehensible snarl that Han confidently interpreted as some sort of obscenity. He turned over his left hand to reveal the BlasTech’s power cell that he’d kept tucked in his palm. “Think I’m gonna hand over a charged weapon? To you?”

  Her next comprehensible utterance was a shrill shriek of “Take them!” as she hurled Han’s blaster at his head and charged with her hands outstretched as if she wanted to rip his face off with her fingers.

  Han snagged his blaster neatly out the air, thumbed open the charge compartment, and had the power cell back in place before she made three steps, though this was due less to superb reflexes on his part than to the fact that by the time Aeona had taken her second step, Leia had jumped forward and kicked the other woman’s legs out from under her, dropping her in a face-first flat-cake, then jumped on her back and pounded her head into the deck.

  About this time, a preposterous number of blaster bolts began zinging through the cargo hold more or less at
random, as pretty much all the irregulars with the little hold-out blasters had opened up at once, filling the air with a lethal red storm of plasma packets.

  The main reason these bolts flew at random—instead of, say, detonating inside the flesh of Han, Leia, and Chewbacca—was that the Wookiee, with his customarily unsubtle approach to combat, had simply hurled both unconscious men bodily into the mass, then charged in himself right behind them, on the personal conviction, acquired over years in Han Solo’s company, that when you’re caught unarmed in a firefight, the safest place to be is right in the middle of the bad guys.

  This was only partially because they couldn’t fire on him without risking shooting their friends. Mainly, it was because—as the Mindorese discovered, to their considerable dismay—once one gets within reach, there is no such thing as an unarmed Wookiee.

  Han got his blaster primed and snapped off a burst at a couple of Mindorese who’d had the bright idea to aim high, thinking to blast Chewie over their friends’ heads. One ducked and darted away, but the other caught Han’s bolt square in his chest; the blast of the impact sent him toppling backward, but the spreading cloud of reddish-black smoke coming from his armor reminded Han of what Leia had said about that flippin’ Lava Gear armor of theirs.

  Now that he’d thought of it, the air in the hold was getting distinctly thick with smoke and dust, stinging his eyes and rasping his throat as Mindorese armor absorbed ricochets from bulkheads and deck and ceiling, which reminded him of which three people in that hold weren’t wearing tough armor made of the local lava. An estimate of how long his, Leia’s, and Chewie’s luck could conceivably last before one of those stray bolts blew off an irreplaceable piece or two of their respective anatomies made the decision for him in an instant.