by James Luceno
“Anticipate the formation break. Lead them, and open up.”
Brudi ran a fast calculation on the rate at which the Imperial starfighters were gaining on the transport. “You’re good to go,” he said.
“Firing!” Skeck announced.
Dense packets of scarlet light tore from the Drunk Dancer’s forward batteries, converging on their distant targets. A quartet of fiery blossoms lighted local space.
Archyr whooped. “Pursuit squadron reduced by half!”
“Nice,” Jula said, grinning at Shryne. “What other tricks do you have up your sleeve?”
Shryne didn’t answer her. On Murkhana, and despite everything that had happened, he had tried to avoid killing any clone troopers. Now here he was, lining them up to be blown to pieces.
“Roan,” Jula said sharply.
“The remaining ARCs will regroup, forming up behind the squadron leader,” he said at last. Tapping Brudi on the shoulder, he added: “Instruct the transport to nose up over the ecliptic. When the ARCs follow suit, Skeck and Archyr should have a clear shot at their bellies.”
“Copy that,” Brudi said.
Jula was studying one of the display screens. “Transport is outward bound. ARCs are up and away.”
“Firing!” Skeck reported.
A fifth explosion blossomed over the red planet’s north pole. Other laser beams went wide of their marks.
“They’ve figured us out,” Shryne said. “They’ll scatter now.”
“Transport is angling for the mines,” Brudi updated.
“Just what I’d do,” Jula said.
The threat board loosed another alert tone.
Brudi tapped his finger on the long-distance scanner array screen. “Six more starfighters have emerged from hyperspace.”
Jula forced a short exhale. “Tell whoever’s piloting the transport to go to full throttle. He may not even be aware of the new players.”
“He won’t miss this,” Brudi said somberly.
Shryne eased out of his seat to peer over Brudi’s shoulder. “What?”
“Republic light cruiser,” Jula said. “But don’t worry, we can outrun it.”
On the console’s central screen, the scanners assembled a facsimile of the hourglass-shaped warship, highlighting its dozens of turbolaser and ion cannons.
“You won’t outrun those guns,” Shryne said.
Jula considered it. “Brudi, divert power to the forward deflectors. I’m going to try to take us behind that Lucrehulk arm.” She took a moment to glance at Shryne. “Guess the Jedi are more important than I thought, if the Empire’s sending cruisers after you.”
“Cruiser’s turbos are firing,” Skeck said over the speaker.
“Hold tight,” Jula warned.
Blinding light splashed against the viewports. Jolted, the Drunk Dancer lost power momentarily, then returned to life.
“We’re okay,” Brudi confirmed, “but the transport’s in trouble.”
“Instruct them to raise their aft shields and rendezvous with us behind the Lucrehulk arm,” Jula said. “Tell them we’ll hold off the cruiser and ARCs while they make a run for it.”
Brudi relayed the instructions and waited for a response. “They’ll try. But the transport’s shields are heavily damaged. One more hit from the cruiser and they’re dead in space.”
Jula muttered a curse. The Drunk Dancer was just dropping behind the curved fragment of docking arm when she said: “I’m going to bring us back in the open. Rig for ion cannon fire. Let’s see if we can surprise them.”
The smugglers’ ship sustained two powerful strikes as it was emerging from cover, but not enough to incapacitate it.
“Ion surprise,” Archyr said.
“Laser chaser,” Skeck chimed in.
White light flared in the distance, and blue current coruscated over the cruiser’s dark hull.
Brudi bent to one of the screens. “Solid hit. And they definitely didn’t see it coming. Their shields are dazed.”
“Taking us back into cover,” Jula said. “Where’s the transport?”
Brudi spoke to it. “Weaving through the last of the mines.”
“Archyr, get those ARCs off the transport’s tail!”
“Will do, Captain.”
Pulsed light streaked from the ship once more, and Shryne watched another starfighter come apart. But the remaining ARCs were gaining rapidly on the transport.
“Projected rendezvous in five-point-five,” Brudi said. “Cruiser has come to, and is returning fire.”
Jula firmed her lips. “We’re not deep enough into cover. This is going to be a bad one.”
Shryne hung on to the arms of the chair. Taking the brunt of the capital ship’s enfilade, the docking arm vaporized. Tossed back by the blast, the Drunk Dancer lived up to its name. Klaxons blared deep within the ship, and the instrument console howled in alarm.
“Shuttle is still closing,” Brudi said when he could.
Jula slammed her hand down on the intercom stud. “Prep the bay for emergency docking!” She swiveled to face Brudi. “Tell the transport we’re done swapping punches with that cruiser. Either they make their move now, or we’re bowing out.” To Skeck, she said: “All power to the forward batteries. Fire at will.”
The ship rumbled as coherent light raced from the cannon turrets.
“Transport is lined up for its approach,” Brudi said.
Jula’s right hand entered data into the navicomputer. “Calculating the jump to lightspeed.”
Explosive light flashed outside the viewports, the Drunk Dancer quaking as enemy fire ranged closer.
Brudi sighed in disappointment. “The transport fumbled its first approach. They’re reorienting for another try.”
“Coordinates for the jump are in,” Jula told him. “Countdown commencing.” She swung around to face Shryne. “I’m sorry, Roan.”
He nodded in understanding. “You did what you could.”
The ship shook again.
“Transport is aboard,” Brudi said suddenly.
Jula clamped her hands on the yoke. “Divert power to the sublights. Give us all the distance you can.”
“We’re going to get our stern burned,” Brudi warned.
“Small price to pay.”
“Hyperspace engines engaged.”
Jula reached for the control stick. “Now!”
And the distant stars became streaks of light.
Brudi hadn’t said that the transport was safely aboard, and Shryne knew why the moment he and Starstone reached the docking bay. The wedge-shaped ship had skidded in on its port side, gouging the deck, destroying arrays of landing lights, reducing two labor droids to spare parts, and ultimately flattening its pointed bow against an interior bulkhead.
No one inside was injured in the crash, however.
Any more than they were already injured.
The six bedraggled Jedi who literally staggered down the transport’s crumpled boarding ramp were a mix of alien, human, and humanoid. Neither Shryne nor Starstone knew any of them by sight, name, or reputation. Face and arms burned by blasterfire, Siadem Forte was a short, thick-bodied human, older than Shryne but still a Knight. His Padawan was a young Togruta named Deran Nalual, who had been blinded during the same firefight in which Forte had been wounded. Klossi Anno, a Chalactan, was also a learner, her Master having died saving her life; where exactly the opposite had happened to Iwo Kulka, a bruised and limping Ho’Din Knight. Unranked human Jedi Jambe Lu and Nam Poorf were agricultural specialists who had been returning to Coruscant from a mission on Bonadan.
On board was a seventh Jedi, who had died during the transport’s hyperspace jump to the rendezvous.
Med droids tended to the wounds of new arrivals. Then, after the Jedi had rested and been fed, everyone gathered in the main cabin, where Shryne, Starstone, and a few of the smugglers listened to accounts of savage engagements and close escapes on half a dozen worlds.
As Shryne had guessed, no other clon
e troopers were known to have refused to obey the Jedi execution order Palpatine was believed to have issued. Two of the Jedi had managed to kill the troopers who had turned on them. Another had escaped and survived by donning clone armor. The pair of Jedi from the Agricultural Corps hadn’t been in the company of troopers, but had been fired on and pursued when a shuttle they were aboard had arrived at a Republic orbital facility.
Originally ten in number, they had gathered on Dellalt after receiving a 913 code transmitted by Forte, the eldest among them. It was on Dellalt that they had commandeered the transport, during a battle in which two of the Jedi had been killed and many of the others wounded—and seemingly from Dellalt that the light cruiser and ARC-170s had pursued them.
By the time all the stories had been told and endlessly discussed, the Drunk Dancer had emerged from hyperspace in a remote system of barren planets that had long served Jula and her crew as a hideout of sorts. Relieved of her pilot duties, she entered the main cabin and sat down next to Shryne just as talk was turning to HoloNet accounts of what had occurred on Coruscant following Palpatine’s decree that the Grand Army had been victorious, and that the Republic was now an Empire.
“Some of the information released has to be false or exaggerated,” the agronomist Jambe Lu said. “Holoimages we’ve seen thus far show that the Temple was certainly attacked. But I refuse to accept that everyone was killed. Surely Palpatine would have ordered the troopers to spare the younglings. Perhaps some instructors and administrators, as well.”
“I agree,” Lu’s partner, Nam Poorf, said. “If Emperor Palpatine had wanted for some reason to exterminate the entire Jedi order, he could have done so at the start of the war.”
Forte ridiculed the idea. “And who would have led the Grand Army—Senators? What’s more, even if you’re correct about the Temple, the best we can hope is that an untold number of Jedi are imprisoned somewhere. What we know to be true is that Masters Windu, Tiin, Fisto, and Kolar died in the attempt to arrest Palpatine; and that Ki-Adi-Mundi, Plo Koon, and other High Council members are reported to have been assassinated on Separatist worlds.”
“Any word on Yoda or Obi-Wan?” Shryne asked Forte.
“Nothing more than HoloNet speculation.”
“About Skywalker, as well,” Nam Poorf said. “Although we heard rumors on Dellalt that he died on Coruscant.”
The Ho’Din Jedi Knight glanced meaningfully at Shryne. “If Skywalker is dead, does that mean that the prophecy died with him?”
“What prophecy?” Forte’s sightless Togruta Padawan asked.
Again, Iwo Kulka looked at Shryne. “I see no reason for secrecy now, Roan Shryne.”
“An ancient prophecy,” Shryne explained for the benefit of Nalual, Klossi Anno, and the two agronomists, “that a Chosen One would be born in the dark times to restore balance to the Force.”
“And Anakin Skywalker was thought to have been this Chosen One?” Lu said in astonishment.
“Some members of the High Council believed there was justification for thinking so.” Shryne looked at Iwo Kulka. “So in answer to your question, I don’t know where the prophecy fits into all that’s happened. Foretelling was never my area of expertise.”
It came out more bluntly than Shryne had intended. But he was exasperated by the fact that everyone was talking around the real issues: that the Jedi were suddenly homeless and rudderless, and that important decisions had to made.
“What matters,” he said into the silence that followed his sarcasm, “is that we—that all Jedi—are prey. Palpatine’s initial actions might not have been premeditated. We’ll leave that for the historians to determine. But he’s intent on eliminating us now, and we’re probably placing ourselves at greater risk by grouping together.”
“But that’s exactly what we have to do,” Starstone argued. “Everything that has just been said is reason enough to remain together. Jedi being held prisoner. The younglings. The unknown fates of Masters Yoda and Kenobi …”
“To what end, Padawan?” Forte said.
“If nothing else, to prevent the Jedi flame from being extinguished.” Starstone glanced around, in search of a sympathetic face. That she couldn’t find one didn’t prevent her from continuing. “This isn’t the first time the Jedi order has been brought to the brink of extinction. Five thousand years ago the Sith thought that they could destroy the Jedi, but all their attempts failed, and the Sith Lords only ended up destroying one another. Palpatine might not be a Sith, but, in time, his greed and lust for power will be his undoing.”
“That’s a very hopeful attitude to take,” Forte said. “But I don’t see how it helps us now.”
“Your best chance of surviving is in the Tingel Arm,” Jula said suddenly, “while Palpatine’s full control is still limited to the inner systems.”
“Suppose we do go there,” Starstone said while separate discussions were breaking out. “Sure, we can assume new identities and find remote worlds to hide on. We can mask our Force abilities from others, even from other Forceful individuals. But is that what you want to do? Is that what the Force wants for us?”
While the Jedi were considering it, Shryne said: “Have any of you heard the name Lord Vader?”
“Who is Vader?” Lu asked for all of them.
“The Sith who killed my Master on Murkhana,” Starstone said before Shryne could speak.
Iwo Kulka looked hard at Shryne. “A Sith?”
Shryne lifted his eyes to the ceiling, then looked at Starstone. “I thought we agreed—”
“Vader fought with a crimson lightsaber,” she interrupted.
Shryne took a calming breath and began again. “Vader assured the troopers on Murkhana that he wasn’t a Jedi. And I’m not sure what he is. Possibly humanoid, but not fully organic.”
“Like Grievous,” Forte assumed.
“Again—possible. The black suit he wears appears to keep him alive. Beyond that, I don’t know how much of Vader is cyborg.”
Poorf was shaking his head in confusion. “I don’t understand. Is this Vader an Imperial commander?”
“He’s superior to the commanders. The troopers showed him the sort of respect they’d reserve for someone of very high rank or status. My guess is that he answers directly to Palpatine.” Shryne felt exasperation surfacing once more. “What I’m getting at is that Vader is the one we need to worry about. He will track us down.”
“What if we get to him first?” Forte said.
Shryne gestured broadly. “We’re eight against someone who may be Sith, and one of the largest armies ever amassed. What does that tell you?”
“We wouldn’t go after him immediately,” Starstone said, quickly picking up on Forte’s question. “Palpatine isn’t embraced by everyone.” She looked at Jula. “You yourself said that his reach is limited to the inner systems. Which means we could work covertly to persuade Outer Rim Senators and military leaders to join our cause.”
“You’re neglecting the fact that most species are now convinced that we had a hand in starting and perpetuating the war,” Shryne said strongly. “Even those who aren’t convinced would risk too much by helping us, even by providing sanctuary.”
Starstone was not deterred. “We were two yesterday, and we’re eight today. Tomorrow we could be twenty or even fifty. We can keep transmitting—”
“I can’t allow that,” Jula cut her off. “Not from my ship, anyway.” She looked at Forte and the others. “You say you were tracked from Dellalt. But just suppose the Empire is also monitoring Jedi frequencies for Nine Thirteen transmissions? All Palpatine would have to do is wait until you were all in one place, then send in the clones. Or this Vader character.”
Starstone’s silence lasted only a moment. “There’s another way. If we could learn which worlds Jedi were assigned to, we could actively search for survivors.”
Lu thought about it for a moment. “The only way to learn that would be by accessing the Temple’s data banks.”
“Not from the
Drunk Dancer, you won’t,” Jula said.
“Couldn’t happen anyway, Captain,” Eyl Dix said. “Accessing the data banks would require a much more powerful hyperwave transceiver than we have, and one that would be very hard to come by.”
Dix glanced at Filli for corroboration.
“Eyl’s right,” Filli said. Then, around a forming grin, he added: “But I know just where we can find one.”
Rain was rare on weather-controlled Coruscant, but every so often microclimatic storms would build in the bustling sky and sweep across the technoscape. Today’s had blown in from The Works and moved east with great speed, lashing the abandoned Jedi Temple with unprecedented force.
Vader’s enhanced hearing could pick up the sound of fat, wind-driven raindrops spattering against the Temple’s elegant spires and flat roof, an eerie counterpoint to the sound of his boot heels striking the adamantine floor and echoing in the darkened, deserted corridors. Sidious had sent him here on a mission, ostensibly to search the archives for certain Sith holocrons long rumored to have been brought to the Temple centuries earlier.
But Vader knew the truth.
Sidious wants to rub my masked face in the aftermath of the slaughter I spearheaded.
Though the corpses had been removed by stormtroopers and droids, most of the spilled blood washed away, scorch marks on the walls and ceiling attested to the surprise attack. Columns lay toppled, heritage tapestries hung in shreds, rooms reeked of carnage.
But evidence of a less tangible sort also existed.
The Temple teemed with ghosts.
What might have been the wind wending into holed hallways never before penetrated sounded like the funereal keening of spirits waiting to be avenged. What might have been the resonance of the footfalls of Commander Appo’s stormtroopers sounded like the beat of distant war drums. What might have been smoke from fires that should have gone out weeks earlier seemed more like wraiths writhing in torment.
Emperor Palpatine had yet to announce his plans for that sad shell of a place. Whether it was to be razed, converted into his palace, deeded to Vader as some sort of cruel joke, or perhaps left as a mausoleum for all of Coruscant to gaze on, a reminder of what would befall those who kindled Palpatine’s disfavor.
