It ended abruptly, and Anakin rushed back, only to see a deep, deep hole where the creature had been. He understood: the creature had recognized the attacks and had reversed its gravity pull, probably latching on to the core of Sernpidal, and was now far, far below.
What was he to do now?
A familiar roar turned his eyes skyward, and he saw the Millennium Falcon swooping down from the mountains. It landed fast on the gravel plain to the side, and the landing ramp dropped almost immediately, Han running down to his son, and many other people, refugees, poking their heads out of the Falcon to see what might be going on.
“We’ve got to get back!” Han cried. “Chewie’s organizing the retreat from the planet, but we’ve barely got enough ships!”
“The creature’s down there,” Anakin replied, pointing to the crater. “It’s a living thing!”
Han shook his head. “Doesn’t matter anymore,” he replied with a wry twist of his lips, and Anakin understood. For Sernpidal, it was too late. Even if they somehow managed to kill this creature or stop its tractor beam, Dobido’s orbit was lost, and the moon would come crashing down.
“Every second means someone else dies,” Han remarked, and Anakin sprinted for the ramp. The old man, though, didn’t follow; instead, he walked back up to the crater rim.
“I must at least ensure that this devil doesn’t escape to destroy another world,” he explained, smiling, and he opened his cloak and produced a meter-long tube.
“Thermal detonator,” he said. “You should be leaving.”
“You’re crazy,” Han started to say, but the old man, the mayor of Sernpidal City, just went over the edge of the crater and calmly leapt into the hole.
The Falcon had barely lifted away when the detonator blew, lifting tons and tons of dirt into a gigantic mushroom cloud over the gravel plain.
“Strange old man,” the stunned Han muttered.
Anakin stared out the window, back toward the area of the original crater. He felt no more pull from the alien creature. “He got it,” he informed his father.
Han nodded. The old man hadn’t bought them a minute of time, hadn’t saved Sernpidal at all, but still, they both understood, he had done something truly valuable and heroic.
For Prefect Da’Gara, it was the moment of highest glory, honor, and spirituality, the epitome of his purpose, the reward for his efforts, the most welcomed task.
He stood alone on a pedestal before the yammosk, the creature’s massive eyes boring into him. Chanting the appropriate prayers to Yun-Yammka, he lifted his hand to gently touch the creature between those eyes, along a huge blue pulsating vein, the point of transference.
Then they were joined as one, the yammosk’s consciousness overwhelming Da’Gara’s. The prefect felt the binding power of the war coordinator, the purpose of its being, and through its sensitive energies, he felt the commune that was his task force, the Praetorite Vong.
Da’Gara fell deeper into the yammosk, gave it his feelings as it recited its own to him, and they knew they were of like mind. It was time to expand, to reach out and begin consuming vast reaches of the galaxy.
But first, they had to lure a portion of their enemies in, destroy the New Republic’s warships on a Yuuzhan Vong battleground, where the yammosk’s control and coordination were complete.
The prefect left the meeting both exhilarated and exhausted, physically drained but emotionally charged. He went right to his private quarters, to Yomin Carr’s villip, but then changed his mind and opened contact to Nom Anor instead.
The executor responded immediately.
“We reach out this day,” Da’Gara explained.
“Go with glory and victory,” came Nom Anor’s proper response. “Die as a warrior.”
Da’Gara snapped to attention. “We shall not dishonor the Yuuzhan Vong,” he answered, again the proper response. “Sernpidal dies this day.”
“And her people?”
“Many attempt flight, and there, our warriors will find their next challenge,” Da’Gara replied. “The war coordinator has dispatched four full battle groups to intercept and to give chase. They will allow the refugee convoy to lead them to the next planet in line, and there they will begin the open warfare.”
“Do-ro’ik vong pratte,” Nom Anor pronounced.
Da’Gara sucked in his breath at the bold proclamation. Do-ro’ik vong pratte was the war cry of the Yuuzhan Vong, the call for ferocity unbridled, the absolute releasing of the basest of warrior emotions. Under such a command, Yuuzhan Vong warriors became the hunter in the closing strides of the stalk, the purest killers.
“Do-ro’ik vong pratte,” Da’Gara agreed. “And woe to our enemies.”
By the time Han got the Falcon back to Sernpidal City, the docking area was gone, broken apart by the tremendous upheavals, with all its walls flattened. A few people ran about, screaming, a few others remained prostrated on the streets, praying to Tosi-karu.
But most had been packed away, and dozens of ships, everything from single-seaters, inevitably with two people crammed in, to freighters, were up in the air, preparing to fly away.
Han spotted Chewie almost immediately, the Wookiee waving one long arm and holding a pair of children under the other. “Help him,” he instructed his son, and Anakin rushed away, pushing through the mob that packed the Falcon, to the lower landing ramp. Han brought the ship in low and slow, compensating for the roaring winds. “Hurry, hurry,” he muttered to himself. Debris was flying everywhere, and only luck alone had kept Chewie and those kids from being washed away in it.
He edged the Falcon down lower, to within a few meters of the ground, and moved over Chewbacca’s position.
“The kids are in,” Anakin called over the intercom. “I’m getting Chewie in now.”
An explosion rocked the city, a few blocks to the side of the Falcon, and a small shuttle started to rise above the remnants of one wall, but quickly shut down and disappeared from view.
Han banged a fist on his console. “You got him, kid?” he called to his son.
“Chewie’s going for the shuttle,” Anakin called back. “I’m going, too. Meet us there.” Even as Anakin finished, Han saw Chewie go running out from under the Falcon, drawing his bowcaster as he went.
Anakin came close behind, gaining ground as Chewie slowed to blow a hole in the wall between them and the downed shuttle.
“We’ve got to clear it,” Anakin shouted as he came through that wall, to find the tail end of the shuttle buried under a pile of debris too thick about the lone ion drive for the ship to dare risk a takeoff.
Chewie charged right in, bowcaster firing, cutting up the bigger chunks. He grabbed pieces with one strong arm and sent them flying aside.
“Hurry up!” came a cry from the open port on the shuttle’s side, a woman standing inside. “I’ve got a packed ship. We’ll all die.”
Anakin studied the pile and the Wookiee’s progress. He heard the Falcon’s engines humming as the ship hovered over the wall behind him, and for a moment, he thought of instructing his father to vaporize that rubble pile with the laser cannons, as Chewie was trying to do with his bowcaster.
He shook the improbable plan away and utilized a different power source, an inner source, instead, reaching out mentally to the rubble, using the Force to lift it away, huge piece by huge piece. Another quake rocked the city, the falling moon making its appearance on the eastern horizon, seeming much larger than even on its last pass, and this time with a huge fire trail spewing out about it. Immediately the wind increased to deafening proportions.
But Anakin held his calm and worked the pile methodically.
The Wookiee roared his approval and helped as much as he could with his conventional methods, and soon enough, Chewie fell back, hailing the woman inside with great and urgent howls.
“Take her out!” Anakin cried to the woman, translating the Wookiee’s words. “Take her out fast!” He and Chewie fell back as the shuttle blasted away.
It
rose only a dozen meters before being blown aside by a huge gust of wind that pummeled the area and sent Anakin and Chewie scrambling.
The more powerful Millennium Falcon held its ground, though, and the lower landing ramp was down, with Han perched on it, extending his hand to his son and his partner. “Come on!” he cried. “It’s ending fast!”
Chewie fought powerfully against the wind, making some progress, and then Anakin was beside him, practically floating off the ground, pulling him along with the strength of the Force.
A tiny, pitiful cry rang in their ears. Both glanced all around, discerning the source, spotting large eyes peering out at them from under a half-buried bulkhead.
Abruptly, Anakin let go of Chewie and changed course, and the Wookiee, with only a quick glance to Han, followed.
“Go back to the ship,” Anakin instructed, yelling at the top of his lungs. Even so, his voice was barely audible in the howling wind.
Chewie growled and shook his hairy head.
“I’ll use the Force to get us both back, then,” Anakin said. Another pitiful cry came out at them. “And whoever’s under there!”
They went to work wildly on the bulkhead, tossing aside debris with muscle, physical and mental, and then Chewie reached in and pulled out a small boy, barely a toddler. Together, the three turned for the Falcon, struggling on as the storm increased, as the ground heaved and broke apart, asthe thunderous wind roared on, the Falcon’s powerful engines straining to hold the ship’s position.
They were near, so close that Han could almost grab Anakin’s extended hand, when a barrage of debris swept past. Chewie held his ground and turned his powerful body to protect the toddler, but a piece of stone clipped Anakin’s head, costing him his concentration and launching him far in a rolling, bouncing tumble.
Han’s eyes widened with horror; Chewie thrust the toddler into Han’s arms before he could begin to move, and then the Wookiee turned about and half ran, half rode the wind to catch up to the fallen Anakin.
Han handed off the toddler and rushed back for the cockpit, knowing the two could never get back to the Falcon against this mounting storm. He brought the Falcon in fast but steady, moving to the spot even as Chewie lifted Anakin in his arms.
Han locked her in place and rushed back to the landing ramp, pushing aside those who had moved into position to help. But the Falcon couldn’t hold position now, and she drifted up and to the side—or maybe it was the ground dipping down and to the side—her engines roaring in protest.
“Chewie!” he cried, hanging right off the ramp now. Several others crowded about Han, holding him in place by the legs. He reached desperately for the Wookiee, but the Falcon was up too high.
Chewbacca gave his friend a resigned, contented look, then threw Anakin up into Han’s waiting arms.
The ground rolled and bucked, and suddenly, Chewie was far, far away.
Han cradled Anakin to the floor just inside, and the boy was conscious again, struggling to his feet as his father rushed back to the cockpit.
Han worked furiously over the controls, bringing the Falcon around, swerving about buildings. The communicators crackled with the frantic cries from other ships, some blasting away, others unsure of where to go.
Han ignored it all, focused entirely on finding his lost Wookiee friend.
Anakin came up beside him, falling into Chewie’s chair.
“Where is he?” Han cried.
Anakin took a deep, steadying breath. He knew Chewie so well—surely he could find his friend with the Force.
And he did.
“To the left,” he cried. Han brought her about. “Around that corner!” Anakin cried.
“Take it!” Han told him, and he ran back to the landing ramp. “Get me to him!”
Anakin worked furiously over the controls, the ship vibrating so violently that he thought it might just shake apart. He turned her up on her side to get down one alley, and swooped around another teetering building.
“Oh, no,” he breathed, for there stood Chewie, his back to the Falcon, and in front of the Wookiee, a fiery Dobido was streaking down.
“Closer!” came Han’s voice.
Chewie turned about and took one step toward Han and the Falcon, and then a burst of tremendous, hot wind blasted through, tossing him to the ground, toppling buildings. One pile of rubble crashed atop the Falcon—her shields groaned in protest—and sent the nose of the ship up, up.
Anakin fought her back to level, started to turn her about to find the Wookiee, but saw instead, in all her devastating glory, the last descent of Dobido, the arrival, to those faithful natives still praying in the ruined streets, of Tosi-karu.
They were out of time. Anakin knew it immediately. If he turned for Chewie, if he did anything other than take her straight up and out, the explosion of the crashing moon would tear the Falcon apart.
He heard his father’s pleading cry to get him back to Chewie.
He pointed the Millennium Falcon skyward and punched the throttle.
Han saw.
A battered and bloody Chewie regained his footing, stood up high on one pile of rubble, and faced the descending moon with arms upraised and a defiant roar.
The scene receded quickly, but Han kept his eyes locked on the spot, burning that image of the very last moments of his friend’s life indelibly into his consciousness. And then he saw the beginning to the final cataclysm as Dobido plowed into the city.
The landing ramp rose suddenly, locking into place—Han knew it to be the doings of his son—and then the Falcon went spinning away as the shock wave hit her.
Han didn’t even consider the danger to him and the others, not even to his son at that critical moment. He just thought of Chewie, of that last tragic image, the Wookiee shaking his fist at the great, unbeatable enemy.
A fitting last pose of defiance, but one that did nothing to mend the tear ripping through Han’s heart.
EIGHTEEN
Storm Brewing
“Keep a high orbit,” Luke said to Mara as he sat in the cockpit of his X-wing, the small starfighter at rest in the rear compartment of the Jade Sabre. “If I get in trouble, I’m going to jump to lightspeed to get out of there, and I expect you to do the same.”
“Right behind you,” Mara assured him, her voice still showing some of the strain from their ordeal on Belkadan.
“Right in front of me,” Luke corrected. He could visualize his wife’s wry grin as she heard that command for about the tenth time in the last hour. The two had come into the Helska system quietly, using the sun as a visual and tracking barrier in their approach toward the fourth planet. They had no idea of what might be going on here, of whether the warrior Mara had slain on Belkadan might be related to whatever it was that streaked through the galactic barrier to collide with the fourth planet, of whether the plague that had all but destroyed Belkadan had emanated from this place. Perhaps it was all coincidence, the sighting followed by the destruction of Belkadan. Perhaps Yomin Carr had become deranged by the same metamorphosis that had apparently afflicted the trees of the doomed planet.
Luke didn’t think so. He sensed something here, something deep and dangerous, like a resonation in the fabric of the Force itself. As a strange and dangerous disease had come into Mara, he feared that one had come into the galaxy, and there was only one way to find out. Furthering that line of thought were the leathery balls they had brought from Belkadan. Someone, something, had tried to communicate with Yomin Carr, using a language that neither Luke nor Mara had ever heard before, and one that R2-D2 couldn’t even begin to translate.
C-3PO would get it, though, Luke believed, for the protocol droid was programmed with every known language, even archaic and unused, in the galaxy. That thought brought a shiver to Luke, for, given the information they had garnered on Belkadan, could they even be sure that this language was from the galaxy?
Even if it was not, Luke was confident that dependable C-3PO would figure it out.
“Break it o
pen, Artoo,” he instructed the astromech behind him. R2-D2 punched the appropriate codes into the X-wing, which were relayed to the Jade Sabre, and the tail fin of the shuttle opened like a scissors’ blade. A moment later, the X-wing slid out easily into empty space, floating behind the Jade Sabre, and as soon as there was enough room between them, Luke swooped down about the shuttle and throttled past her, giving a salute to Mara. They had decided that he would go to the fourth planet in the more nimble X-wing, while Mara played a role as a wider-range reconnaissance and provided cover fire, should that be needed.
The X-wing’s layered S-foils were closed now, giving it the appearance of a two-winged starfighter. Luke did a quick check of all systems, then called back to Mara, offering the coordinates for his run.
Then he put it straight for the Helskan sun, as they had agreed.
“You got that planet tracked?” he asked R2-D2.
The droid’s replying whistles seemed as much annoyed as affirmative, and Luke, despite his fears, managed a grin.
“Let me know when you’re getting too hot,” he said, and he opened up the throttle a bit more, his speed mounting, as well, from the gravitational tug of the flaring sun.
Luke felt the press on his chest and dialed up the inertial compensator to 99 percent. In his screen, the sun grew and grew, but he knew what he was doing, and held complete faith in R2-D2’s navigational abilities.
As they neared, the hull temperature and R2-D2’s complaints both beginning to rise dramatically, Luke veered to the right and cut around the sun in close orbit, then vectored out at tremendous speed along R2-D2’s designated coordinates, a nearly straight line toward the fourth planet, and one that would keep the sun right at the X-wing’s back all the way. If there were any enemies on the fourth planet, they might not detect his approach right away—and that approach, given the tremendous boost in speed afforded them by the sun’s gravity, would be fast.
In just a few moments, Luke spotted the planet, growing from a speck, to fist-sized, to fill his viewscreen. He scissored the wings and broke right again, whipping into orbit, dropping down, down, to where he could visually examine the icy planet’s surface.
Vector Prime Page 27
