Recovery

by Troy Denning

  “We are not your enemy, Han Solo,” Tesar said.

  “Quiet.” Han was still struggling to finish the calculations. “And kill those alarms. I’m working here.”

  Tesar made no move to obey. “Why do you not trust us? We are Jedi Knightz.”

  “I said quiet!”

  Thinking he just might be quick enough if he caught the Barabel by surprise, he reached for his blaster—then Tesar extended a hand, and Han was nearly jerked from his chair as weapon and holster tore free of his belt.

  The Barabel caught the blaster and tucked it inside his robe. “This one said you could blast him later.”

  Rubbing his thigh where the holster thong had snapped, Han said, “Look, Luke Skywalker is my brother-in-law. I know the Jedi, and you’re not one of them.”

  The scales rose on Tesar’s face, and his pupils narrowed to angry slits. He studied Han, his nostrils flaring and his long tongue flicking his lips, then he turned his face away.

  “We are still young, but we are Jedi.” His reflection in the canopy was twisted into a snarling mask. “If you know the Jedi, then you must know Master Eelysa.”

  “Of course,” Han said. Eelysa had been one of Luke’s earliest pupils, a girl born on Coruscant soon after the Emperor’s death. Taken to the academy on Yavin 4 as a child, she had matured into one of Luke’s most trusted Jedi Knights and now spent most of her time on complicated, years-long missions. “But I haven’t seen her in—well, since she was a teenager younger than Jaina.”

  “Yes, you have.” When Tesar looked back, his face was more composed. “Eelysa is the one we are guarding. She is the Master of our Master.”

  “The Master of your Master?”

  “She taught my mother on Barab I,” Tesar said. “When we learned she had been injured, we were sent to Corellia to guard her.”

  Han felt instantly sick and foolish. Now that Tesar had mentioned Eelysa’s name, the woman from the bacta tank did look familiar. And spying on Corellia was exactly the kind of high-risk, long-term mission in which she specialized. If anyone was going to train Jedi Knights he had never heard of, it would be Eelysa.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by what I said.”

  The Barabel looked confused. “Then why did you say it?”

  Before Han could explain, another Barabel voice rasped over the intercom, “Captain, can we shoot the frigate yet?”

  “Frigate?”

  The tactical display now showed the starfighters standing completely off, and the generic fast-freight tag had been changed to KDY frigate, Lancer-class.

  “Uh, hold your fire for a minute, fellas.”

  “Fellas?” a voice rasped. “We are amused, Captain Solo.”

  This brought a long round of sissing, which Han did his best to ignore as he interrogated the sensor computer for more details.

  “They are not fellas,” Tesar confided quietly. “They are sisters. We are all hatchmates.”

  “Hatchmates?” Han echoed, his attention fixed on the details scrolling down his display. “Like wives?”

  “Wives!” Tesar broke into an uncontrollable fit of hissing and slapped his chair arm so hard he nearly broke it. “Now is no time for off-color jokes, Captain.”

  From what the mass meters and infrared analyzers were showing, the frigate was one of the stripped-down versions that had been converted to planetary customs use. It would have an advanced sensor suite, overpowered tractor beam, and huge hangar bay—but only six cannon towers and civilian-class shields. And while most pirates would have loved to get their hands on such a ship, it was hardly likely. They would have had to steal it from a planetary government.

  Han opened a comm channel. “Anonymous customs frigate, this is the Millennium Falcon.” The ship came into a view, a tiny sliver of light glowing against the starry backdrop of empty space. “Explain your actions.”

  There was a moment’s pause, then a haughty Kuati voice said, “Our actions speak for themselves. Prepare for capture and boarding, and you will be treated fairly.”

  Han started to make a rude reply, then thought better of it. “Do we have another choice?”

  “Not if you wish to live. Frigate out.”

  The channel had barely closed before Tesar growled, “You would surrender your mate?”

  “It was a lie, Tesar. You’ve been spending too much time with Selonians.”

  Han lowered the energy shields and powered down the ion drives, then swung the Falcon’s nose around as though surrendering to the inevitable. The frigate began to grow rapidly larger, in the space of few breaths swelling from the size of a sliver to that of a finger.

  “Okay, uh, ladies, when we get to the hangar bay—”

  “We understand what to do, Captain,” came the reply.

  “You know where—”

  “The projector and the backup,” rasped the other sister. “And both at once, or the generatorz will reverse and send us tumbling out of control. We have studied our schematicz.”

  Han checked the systems display and saw that the sisters had already turned the Falcon’s cannon turrets away in a gesture of submission. Thinking his plan just might work, he turned to finish his calculations. The new Commenor coordinates were already glowing on the display, along with those for the rendezvous Tesar had recommended instead.

  “Both setz are accurate,” the Barabel assured him. “The choice is yourz.”

  “Thanks.”

  The frigate was as long as his forearm now, and so brightly lit Han could see the cannon turrets mounted along its spine and belly. He transferred the Commenor coordinates to the navicomputer. Tesar’s pupils narrowed, but he managed to keep his tongue from flicking—too much.

  “Look, I trust you,” Han said. “But we’d just lead them straight to your rendezvous. There’s a homing beacon somewhere on this bird, and we can’t look for it until we land someplace.”

  Tesar turned away, as though he was convinced Han was making excuses. “The beacon will be in something you brought aboard. We removed the one the docking officer planted in the strutz.”

  Han raised his brow. “You’ve been watching the Falcon?”

  “Yes, since Jedi Waz realized who you were.” As he spoke, Tesar continued to look out the side of the canopy. “We, uh, discussed whether to tell you, but our Master’s instructionz were to remain hidden. She is not going to be pleased, especially when we miss the rendezvous.”

  “Sorry to cause you trouble,” Han said. As large as a hovercar, the frigate filled the forward viewport. All six weapons turrets were turned in the Falcon’s direction, the barrels of their deadly laser cannons slowly depressing as their target drew near. “But I need to get Leia to a bacta tank. Eelysa, too; we only have a little while before that portable tank starts to pollute itself.”

  Tesar turned from the canopy. “That is not an excuse?”

  “Now, Captain?” interrupted one of the sisters. “Can we shoot now?”

  There was nothing ahead but frigate, its massive hangar bay yawning open in the middle of the micropitted hull. A conical tractor beam projector hung down from the ceiling in obvious sight, but its ready backup was still tucked against the ceiling and barely visible.

  “You can make both shots?” Han asked. “At once?”

  “Of course,” the other sister said. “We are Jedi.”

  Han checked the frigate’s weapons turrets—the two that he could still see—and found the cannon barrels still trained on the Falcon, not quite at maximum depression.

  “Not yet.” He placed one hand on the throttles. “I’ll let you know.”

  “The bacta tankz?” There was a rising note of urgency in Tesar’s voice. “They are the only reason, Han Solo?”

  Han thought for a moment. Though it would have been more in a Barabel’s nature to demand—and demand only once—before simply taking control of the ship, Tesar had never even mentioned the possibility, not even as an argument proving his own trustworthiness. That was very Jedi.


  Han nodded. “Yeah, the bacta tanks are the only reason.”

  “Good.” Tesar was almost whispering now. “Then this one will tell you something else his Master would not wish. There will be bacta tankz at the rendezvous—and a safe place to use them.”

  The frigate’s laser cannons reached their maximum depression, then disappeared out of sight behind the curve of the ship’s hull.

  “Now, Captain?” a sister asked.

  Han ignored her and asked Tesar, “How safe?”

  “As safe as a nest in a ferrocrete den.”

  They reached the entrance to the hangar bay. The lights outside the cockpit rippled as the frigate’s shields were lowered to admit the Falcon. Han hit the directional thrusters, and the ship began to tremble as it struggled to pivot in the tractor beam’s grasp. The cockpit passed into the bay.

  “Now, ladies!”

  The sisters were already bringing their turrets around. Given the vibrating ship, the precision timing, and the swift targeting, the shot would have been impossible for any typical pair of gunners. The two Barabels were not typical. In the same second, two volleys of laser bolts streaked out . . . and scorched holes through the opposite side of the bay.

  Then the Falcon was pulled completely inside the frigate, and Han saw two little Vigilance starfighters—one hiding in each of the near corners—swinging their weapons in his direction. He brought the shields up, then another volley lashed out from his own laser cannons and hit the tractor beam projectors.

  The bay walls spun past in a blur. Sheets of red flame washed over the cockpit canopy. Han thought the sisters had missed their timing, that the Falcon was tumbling out of control. A familiar whumpf reverberated through the cockpit, and blazing streaks of light lanced out from the cannon turrets to blossom against the walls in disks of fire. Han tipped the yoke against the spin and slowed the revolutions, then saw laser bolts stabbing starry darkness ahead and jammed the throttles.

  He knew they had escaped by the laserfire suddenly webbing the darkness around them. Not bothering to check the tactical display—he knew the Y-wings and X-wings were coming—Han pushed the nose down and, corkscrewing wildly, transferred shield power aft.

  “Okay, Tesar, give me our heading.”

  The Barabel read off a set of familiar-sounding coordinates.

  “Not those.” Han cleared the navicomputer and called up the second set. “The new ones. A ferrocrete den sounds good right now.”

  The Barabel smiled, baring a set of teeth that could have stripped a rancor to the bone. “You will not regret this, Captain.”

  The Falcon began to shake beneath the volleys of the frigate’s belly cannons.

  “I won’t have time if you don’t hurry.”

  Tesar gave him the new coordinates, and Han swung the Falcon onto the bearing. He was just about to make the jump to lightspeed when Leia’s voice came over the intercom.

  “Han? Han I—”

  “I’m sorry, Captain Solo,” C-3PO interrupted. “But she’s just awakened and insists she must speak with you this instant.”

  “Han?” Leia’s voice was raspy and weak, and she sounded confused. “Han, I’m so thirsty. Could you bring me some water?”

  Chapter 5

  Though contaminants had long since fouled the monitoring electrodes and the bacta had turned so murky and green Eelysa could hardly be seen, Leia knew the Jedi Master had awakened. She could feel Eelysa inside the cramped tank, a strong presence in the Force, isolated from those around her, aware of her danger and curious about it, yet patient and calm and utterly at peace with her helplessness. Leia filled her heart with reassurance and reached out through the Force, and she felt the Barabels—Tesar Sebatyne and the Hara sisters, Bela and Krasov—do the same.

  Eelysa held the contact for what might have been seconds or minutes, filling the Force with a sense of gratitude and love, then continued to embrace them as she sank into a Jedi healing trance. Leia and the Barabels remained with her until her thoughts and emotions grew as quiet as a pond on a windless day, then, one by one, gently withdrew.

  When they were done, Leia was surprised to find that she herself felt stronger and more at peace than she had in a long time. It was by far the most intimate Force touch she had ever experienced, not because the Barabels were stronger than other Jedi, but because they shared themselves so freely and innocently. She saw now why Eelysa had taken it upon herself to train their Master—Tesar’s mother, Saba Sebatyne—even when doing so had endangered her and her mission on Barab I.

  “Leia?” Han asked. “You all right?”

  “Fine, Han.” She did not look at him as she answered, though only because he was changing her bandages and the last thing she wanted to see—even to glimpse—was the blackened, oozing mass that was her legs. “But Eelysa . . . we have to do something.”

  “Haven’t I been saying that?” Han grumbled.

  They had arrived at the rendezvous point almost a full day earlier, then began a monotonous waiting game that had Han ready to push their passengers out an air lock. Though Izal Waz and the Barabels were at a loss to explain the delay, they kept assuring Han they would know if the meeting were canceled. It did not help matters that when Han asked how they would know, Izal always looked to the Barabels, and the Barabels just shrugged and said they would know.

  Leia looked to Bela—or maybe it was Krasov—and said, “We need to comm your Master.” Though it was hard to envision ordering a Barabel to do anything, she spoke in the voice of command that she had used to such good effect during her tenure as the New Republic Chief of State. “Give us the transceiver address.”

  The two sisters looked from each other to Tesar, then they simply seemed to come to an agreement.

  “As you wish,” Krasov—or maybe Bela—said. “But if you use it, the rendezvous will be canceled. Master Saba has learned to be careful about Peace Brigade eavesdropperz.”

  Tesar—who was both larger and darker than the females—shrugged. “But do what you think is best. She is already going to be displeased with us.”

  “A lot of that going around,” Han said darkly.

  Tesar’s shoulders sagged. “This one apologizes for his advice. You may blast him anytime.”

  “Don’t tempt—”

  Leia laid a silencing hand on her husband’s shoulder. “I’m sure Tesar is as worried about Eelysa as we are. She is his mother’s Master.”

  The hardness that came to Han’s eyes was as surprising as it was subtle, but he nodded curtly and, without looking up, used synthflesh to secure the edge of a bactabandage. The adhesive wasn’t supposed to hurt, but it felt like fire against Leia’s inflamed skin.

  Han lowered her foot onto the footrest, then gathered up the discarded bandages and stood. “Forget trying to reach Tesar’s mother.”

  “Master Saba,” Krasov corrected.

  Han ignored her and continued, “If it stops her from coming, that only makes our situation worse.” He turned to Tesar. “How do you know your mother—Master Saba—is still coming?”

  “Because we have not felt otherwise,” Bela answered.

  Han turned to Bela. “What does that mean, ‘felt otherwise’?”

  “Your mate understandz,” Tesar replied, looking to Leia. “Through the Force.”

  “Then she must be very near,” Leia said, unsure whether to be confused or impressed. “I know of only a few Jedi who can feel what others are doing, and even then they must be near one another.”

  Krasov shook her head. “Not like hatchmates.”

  “We feel nothing has happened to her,” Bela added.

  “I see.” Leia’s head was beginning to spin from the way the conversational thread roamed from one Barabel to another. “So you’re saying you haven’t felt her die?”

  “And that’s how you know the rendezvous is still on?” Han demanded. “Because Master Saba isn’t dead yet?”

  Tesar smiled broadly. “Exactly! If Master Saba isn’t dead yet, she will be here.�
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  Han’s face grew stormy—alarmingly so, at least to Leia. “That’s it.” He stared at the floor for a moment, then turned to Leia. “We’re going to Talfaglio.”

  “Talfaglio?” Leia waited for one of the Barabels to object. When none did, she asked, “Are you serious?”

  “As a hungry Hutt,” Han replied. “We can’t risk waiting around here for bacta that might be coming someday.”

  He threw the soiled bandages down the disposal chute and started to leave. Leia’s repulsor chair barely turned fast enough to keep him in view.

  “Han, wait!” Leia made a point of staying where she was; once she started moving, she would find herself following him clear into the cockpit. “Let’s think this through.”

  Han turned in the door. “What’s to think through?” There was that hard look again—hardly unknown, but oddly out of place. “We need bacta.”

  “We do,” Leia admitted. “But how long will it take to reach Talfaglio?”

  “Ten and a half hours,” Han said confidently. “I had Izal plot the course.”

  Leia glanced toward the portable tank. “We don’t have ten hours. Eelysa will be dead in half that time.”

  “And you in twenty.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “Well, I’m not taking chances.” Han turned and vanished through the door.

  Leia hastened after him, but her chair was no match for his angry stride. He was already disappearing around the curve of the corridor as she floated out of the crew quarters, and by then she finally understood the hard look in his eye.

  “Han!”

  Han stopped, but did not turn.

  “We can’t go.” Leia wondered if she still knew this man at all, if he could have been so hardened by Chewbacca’s death and the treachery of the Duros that he had truly become the selfish cynic he had fancied himself when they met. “We have to wait . . . and hope.”

  “We have to get you to a bacta tank.” Han turned, his eyes filled with tears he refused to shed. “If we don’t, you may not walk again.”

  “Then at least I won’t be walking on corpses.” Leia started her chair down the corridor. “Han, have you forgotten who I am? Do you think I want to walk at the cost of someone else’s life? Would you want me to?”