by Timothy Zahn
He caught a quick vision from Leia’s mind, a picture of alien figures and a vivid impression of a contracting noose. Hang on, he told her. I’m coming. All but running now, he ducked through the doorway to the staircase room, grabbing the jamb to help with his turn—
And braked to an abrupt halt. Standing between him and the stairway was a loose semicircle of seven silent gray figures.
Luke froze, his hand still uselessly gripping the doorjamb, half a galaxy away from the lightsaber on his belt. He had no idea what the sticks were his assailants were pointing at him, but he had no desire to find out the hard way. Not unless he absolutely had to. “What do you want?” he asked aloud.
The alien in the center of the semicircle—the leader, Luke guessed—gestured with his stick. Luke glanced over his shoulder into the room he’d just left. “You want me to go back in there?” he asked.
The leader gestured again . . . and this time Luke saw it. The small, almost insignificant tactical error. “All right,” he said, as soothingly as possible. “No problem.” Keeping his eyes on the aliens and his hands away from his lightsaber, he began to back up.
They herded him steadily back across the room toward another archway and a room he hadn’t gotten to before Leia’s emergency call had come. “If you’d just tell me what you want, I’m sure we could come to some sort of agreement,” Luke suggested as he walked. Faint scuffling sounds told him that there were still some Bimms wandering around, presumably the reason the aliens hadn’t already attacked. “I would hope we could at least talk about it. There’s no particular reason why any of you has to be hurt.”
Reflexively, the leader’s left thumb moved. Not much, but Luke was watching, and it was enough. A thumb trigger, then. “If you have some business with me, I’m willing to talk,” he continued. “You don’t need my friends in the marketplace for that.”
He was almost to the archway now. A couple more steps to go. If they’d just hold off shooting him that long . . .
And then he was there, with the carved stone looming over him. “Now where?” he asked, forcing his muscles to relax. This was it.
Again, the leader gestured with his stick . . . and midway through the motion, for a single instant, the weapon was pointed not at Luke but at two of his own companions.
And reaching out through the Force, Luke triggered the thumb switch. There was a loud, sharp hiss as the stick bucked in its owner’s hands and what looked like a fine spray shot out the end.
Luke didn’t wait to see what exactly the spray did. The maneuver had bought him maybe a half second of confusion, and he couldn’t afford to waste any of it. Throwing himself back and to the side, he did a flip into the room behind him, angling to get to the slight protection afforded by the wall beside the doorway.
He just barely made it. Even as he cleared the archway there was a stuttering salvo of sharp hisses, and as he flipped back to his feet he saw that the doorjamb had grown strange semisolid tendrils of some thin, translucent material. Another tendril shot through the doorway as he hastily backed farther away, sweeping in a spiral curve that seemed to turn from fine mist to liquid stream to solid cylinder even as it curved.
His lightsaber was in his hand now, igniting with a snap-hiss of its own. They’d be through that doorway in seconds, he knew, all efforts at subtlety abandoned. And when they came—
He clenched his teeth, a memory of his brief skiff-battle encounter with Boba Fett flashing through his mind. Wrapped in the bounty hunter’s smart-rope, he’d escaped only by snapping the cable with a deflected blaster shot. But here there would be no blasters to try that trick with.
For that matter, he wasn’t absolutely sure what his lightsaber could do directly against the sprays. It would be like trying to cut through a rope that was continually re-creating itself.
Or rather, like trying to cut seven such ropes.
He could hear their footsteps now, sprinting toward his room even as the spiraling tendril sweeping the doorway made sure he stayed too far back to ambush them as they came through it. A standard military technique, played out with the kind of precision that showed he wasn’t dealing with amateurs.
He raised the lightsaber to en garde position, risking a quick look around. The room was decorated like all the others he’d seen on this floor, with ancient wall tapestries and other relics—no real cover anywhere. His eyes flicked across the walls, searching for the exit that by implication had to be here somewhere. But the action was so much useless reflex. Wherever the exit was, it was almost certainly too far away to do him any good.
The hiss of the spray stopped; and he turned back just in time to see the aliens charge into the room. They spotted him, spun around to bring their weapons to bear—
And reaching up with the Force, Luke ripped one of the tapestries from the wall beside him and brought it down on top of them.
It was a trick that only a Jedi could have pulled off, and it was a trick that, by all rights, ought to have worked. All seven of the aliens were in the room by the time he got the tapestry loose, and all seven were beneath it as it began its fall. But by the time it landed in a huge wrinkled pile on the floor, all seven had somehow managed to back completely out of its way.
From behind the heap came the sharp hiss of their weapons, and Luke ducked back involuntarily before he realized the webbing sprays weren’t coming anywhere near him. Instead, the misty tendrils were sweeping outward, shooting around and past the downed tapestry to crisscross the walls.
His first thought was that the weapons must have gone off accidentally, jostled or bumped as the aliens tried to get out from under the falling tapestry. But a split second later he realized the truth: that they were deliberately webbing the other tapestries into place on the walls to prevent him from trying the same trick twice. Belatedly, Luke tugged at the heaped tapestry, hoping to sweep them back with it, and found that it, too, was now solidly webbed in place.
The spraying ceased, and a single dark eye poked cautiously around the tapestry mountain . . . and with a strange sort of sadness, Luke realized that he no longer had any choices left. There was, now, only one way to end this if Han and Leia were to be saved.
He locked his lightsaber on and let his mind relax, reaching out with Jedi senses toward the seven figures, forming their image in his mind’s eye. The alien watching him brought his weapon around the edge of the tapestry—
And, reaching back over his left shoulder, Luke hurled his lightsaber with all his strength.
The blade scythed toward the edge of the tapestry, spinning through the air like some strange and fiery predator. The alien saw it, reflexively ducked back—
And died as the lightsaber sliced through the tapestry and cut him in half.
The others must have realized in that instant that they, too, were dead; but even then they didn’t give up. Howling a strangely chilling wail, they attacked: four throwing themselves around the sides of the barrier, the other two actually leaping straight up to try to shoot over it.
It made no difference. Guided by the Force, the spinning lightsaber cut through their ranks in a twisting curve, striking each of them in turn.
A heartbeat later, it was all over.
Luke took a shuddering breath. He’d done it. Not the way he’d wanted to, but he’d done it. Now, he could only hope he’d done it in time. Calling the lightsaber back to his hand on a dead run, he sprinted past the crumpled alien bodies and stretched out again through the Force. Leia?
The decorative columns flanking the downward ramp were visible just beyond the next row of booths when, beside him, Han felt Leia twitch. “He’s free,” she said. “He’s on his way.”
“Great,” Han muttered. “Great. Let’s hope our pals don’t find out before he gets here.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when, in what looked like complete unison, the circle of aliens raised their stokhli sticks and started pushing their way through the milling crowd of Bimms. “Too late,” Han gritted. “Here they
come.”
Leia gripped his arm. “Should I try to take their weapons away from them?”
“You’ll never get all eleven,” Han told her, looking around desperately for inspiration.
His eyes fell on a nearby table loaded with jewelry display boxes . . . and he had it. Maybe. “Leia—that jewelry over there? Grab some of it.”
He sensed her throw a startled look up at him. “What—?”
“Just do it!” he hissed, watching the approaching aliens. “Grab it and throw it to me.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the smaller display boxes stir as she strained to establish a grip on it. Then, with a sudden lurch, it leaped toward him, slapping into his hands and scattering small neckpieces to the ground before he managed to get hold of the rest.
And abruptly the raucous conversational hum of the marketplace was split by a piercing shriek. Han turned toward it, just in time to see the owner of the pilfered merchandise stabbing two fingers toward him. “Han!” he heard Leia shout over the scream.
“Get ready to duck!” he shouted back—
And was literally bowled off his feet as a yellow wave of enraged Bimms leaped atop him, knocking the accused shoplifter to the ground.
And with their bodies forming a barrier between him and the stokhli sticks, he dropped the jewelry and grabbed for his comlink. “Chewie!” he bellowed over the din.
Luke heard the shriek even from the top Tower floor; and from the sudden turmoil in Leia’s mind, it was instantly clear that he would never make it to the marketplace in time.
He skidded to a halt, mind racing. Across the room a large open window faced the open-domed structure; but five floors was too far for even a Jedi to safely leap. He glanced back to the room he’d just left, searching for possibilities . . . and his eye fell on the end of one of the aliens’ weapons, just visible through the archway.
It was a long shot, but it was as good a chance as he was going to get. Reaching out through the Force, he called the weapon flying to his hand, studying its controls as he ran to the window. They were simple enough: spray profile and pressure, plus the thumb trigger. Setting for the narrowest spray and the highest pressure, he braced himself against the side of the window, aimed for the marketplace’s partial dome covering, and fired.
The stick kicked harder against his shoulder than he’d expected it to as the spray shot out, but the results were all he could have hoped for. The front end of the arching tendril struck the roof, forming a leisurely sort of pile as more of the semisolid spray pushed forward to join it. Luke held the switch down for a count of five, then eased up, keeping a firm Force grip on the near end of the tendril to prevent it from falling away from the stick. He gave it a few seconds to harden before touching it tentatively with a finger, gave it a few seconds more to make sure it was solidly attached to the marketplace roof. Then, taking a deep breath, he grabbed his makeshift rope with both hands and jumped.
A tornado of air blew at him, tugging at his hair and clothes as he swung down and across. Below and partway across the top level he could see the mass of yellow-clad Bimms and the handful of gray figures struggling to get past them to Han and Leia. There was a flicker of light, visible even in the bright sunshine, and one of the Bimms slumped to the ground—stunned or dead, Luke couldn’t tell which. The floor was rushing up at him—he braced himself to land—
And with a roar that must have rattled windows for blocks around, the Millennium Falcon screamed by overhead.
The shock wave threw Luke’s landing off, sending him sprawling across the floor and into two of the Bimms. But even as he rolled back up to his feet, he realized that Chewbacca’s arrival couldn’t have been better timed. Barely ten meters away, the two alien attackers nearest him had turned their attention upward, their weapons poised to ensnare the Falcon when it returned. Snatching his lightsaber from his belt, Luke leaped over a half dozen bystanding Bimms, cutting both attackers down before they even knew he was there.
From overhead came another roar; but this time Chewbacca didn’t simply fly the Falcon past the marketplace. Instead, forward maneuvering jets blasting, he brought it to a hard stop. Hovering directly over his beleaguered companions, swivel blaster extended from the ship’s underside, he opened fire.
The Bimms weren’t stupid. Whatever Han and Leia had done to stir up the hornet’s nest, the hornets themselves clearly had no desire to get shot at from the sky. In an instant the roiling yellow mass dissolved, the Bimms abandoning their attack and streaming away in terror from the Falcon. Forcing his way through the crowd, using the Bimms for visual cover as much as he could, Luke started around the attackers’ circle.
Between his lightsaber and the Falcon’s swivel blaster, they made a very fast, very clean sweep of it.
“You,” Luke said with a shake of his head, “are a mess.”
“I’m sorry, Master Luke,” Threepio apologized, his voice almost inaudible beneath the layers of hardened spraynet that covered much of his upper body like some bizarre sort of gift wrapping. “I seem to always be causing you trouble.”
“That’s not true, and you know it,” Luke soothed him, considering the small collection of solvents arrayed in front of him on the Falcon’s lounge table. So far none of the ones he’d tried had been even marginally effective against the webbing. “You’ve been a great help to all of us over the years. You just have to learn when to duck.”
Beside Luke, Artoo twittered something. “No, Captain Solo did not tell me to duck,” Threepio told the squat droid stiffly. “What he said was, ‘Get ready to duck.’ I should think the difference would be apparent even to you.”
Artoo beeped something else. Threepio ignored it. “Well, let’s try this one,” Luke suggested, picking up the next solvent in line. He was hunting for a clean cloth among his pile of rejects when Leia came into the lounge.
“How is he?” she asked, walking over and peering at Threepio.
“He’ll be all right,” Luke assured her. “He may have to stay like this until we get back to Coruscant, though. Han told me these stokhli sticks are used mostly by big-game hunters on out-of-the-way planets, and the spraynet they use is a pretty exotic mixture.” He indicated the discarded solvent bottles.
“Maybe the Bimms can suggest something,” Leia said, picking up one of the bottles and looking at its label. “We’ll ask them when we get back down.”
Luke frowned at her. “We’re going back down?”
She frowned at him in turn. “We have to, Luke—you know that. This is a diplomatic mission, not a pleasure cruise. It’s considered bad form to pull out right after one of your ships has just shot up a major local marketplace.”
“I would think the Bimms would consider themselves lucky that none of their people got killed in the process,” Luke pointed out. “Particularly when what happened was at least partly their fault.”
“You can’t blame a whole society for the actions of a few individuals,” Leia said—rather severely, Luke thought. “Especially not when a single political maverick has simply made a bad decision.”
“A bad decision?” Luke snorted. “Is that what they’re calling it?”
“That’s what they’re calling it,” Leia nodded. “Apparently, the Bimm who led us into the marketplace trap was bribed to take us there. He had no idea what was going to happen, though.”
“And I suppose he had no idea what the stuff he gave the chief negotiator would do, either?”
Leia shrugged. “Actually, there’s still no hard evidence that he or anyone else poisoned the negotiator,” she said. “Though under the circumstances, they’re willing to concede that that’s a possibility.”
Luke made a face. “Generous of them. What does Han have to say about us putting back down?”
“Han doesn’t have any choice in the matter,” Leia said firmly. “This is my mission, not his.”
“That’s right,” Han agreed, stepping into the lounge. “Your mission. But my ship.”
Leia stared at him, a look of disbelief on her face. “You didn’t,” she breathed.
“I sure did,” he told her calmly, dropping into one of the seats across the lounge. “We made the jump to lightspeed about two minutes ago. Next stop, Coruscant.”
“Han!” she flared, as angry as Luke had ever seen her, “I told the Bimms we were coming right back down.”
“And I told them there’d be a short delay,” Han countered. “Like long enough for us to collect a squadron of X-wings or maybe a Star Cruiser to bring back with us.”
“And what if you’ve offended them?” Leia snapped. “Do you have any idea how much groundwork went into this mission?”
“Yeah, as it happens, I do,” Han said, his voice hardening. “I also have a pretty good idea what could happen if our late pals with the stokhli sticks brought friends with them.”
For a long minute Leia stared at him, and Luke sensed the momentary anger fading from her mind. “You still shouldn’t have left without consulting me first,” she said.
“You’re right,” Han conceded. “But I didn’t want to take the time. If they did have friends, those friends probably had a ship.” He tried a tentative smile. “There wasn’t time to discuss it in committee.”
Leia smiled lopsidedly in return. “I am not a committee,” she said wryly.
And with that, the brief storm passed and the tension was gone. Someday, Luke promised himself, he would get around to asking one of them just what that particular private joke of theirs referred to. “Speaking of our pals,” he said, “did either of you happen to ask the Bimms who or what they were?”
“The Bimms didn’t know,” Leia said, shaking her head. “I’ve certainly never seen anything like them before.”
“We can check the Imperial archives when we get back to Coruscant,” Han said, feeling gingerly at one cheek where a bruise was already becoming visible. “There’ll be a record of them somewhere.”
“Unless,” Leia said quietly, “they’re something the Empire found out in the Unknown Regions.”
Luke looked at her. “You think the Empire was behind this?”
