by Timothy Zahn
"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 round out in the Unknown Regions."
Luke looked at her. "You think the Empire was behind this?"
"Who else could it have been?" she said. "The only question is why."
"Well, whatever the reason, they're going to be disappointed," Han told her, getting to his feet. "I'm going back to the cockpit, see if I can muddle our course a little more. No point in taking chances."
A memory flashed through Luke's mind: Han and the Falcon, sweeping right through the middle of that first Death Star battle to shoot Darth Vader's fighters off his back. "Hard to imagine Han Solo not wanting to take chances," he commented.
Han leveled a finger at him. "Yeah, well, before you get cocky, try to remember that the people I'm protecting are you, your sister, your niece, and your nephew. That make any difference?"
Luke smiled. "Touche," he admitted, saluting with an imaginary lightsaber.
"And speaking of that," Han added, "isn't it about time Leia had a lightsaber of her own?"
Luke shrugged. "I can make her one anytime she's ready," he said, looking at his sister. "Leia?"
Leia hesitated. "I don't know," she confessed. "I've never really felt comfortable with the things." She looked at Han. "But I suppose I ought to make the effort."
"I think you should," Luke agreed. "Your talents may lie along a different direction, but you should still learn all the basics. As far as I can tell, nearly all the Jedi of the Old Republic carried lightsabers, even those who were primarily healers or teachers."
She nodded. "All right," she said. "As soon as my work load lightens up a little."
"Before your work load lightens," Han insisted. "I mean that, Leia. All these wonderful diplomacy skills of yours aren't going to do you or anyone else any good if the Empire locks you away in an interrogation room somewhere."
Reluctantly, Leia nodded again. "I suppose you're right. As soon as we get back, I'll tell Mon Mothma she's just going to have to cut down on my assignments." She smiled at Luke. "I guess semester break's over, Teacher."
"I guess so," Luke said, trying to hide the sudden lump inhis throat.
Leia noticed it anyway; and, for a wonder, misinterpreted it. "Oh, come on," she chided gently. "I'm not that bad a student. Anyway, look on it as good practice-after all, someday you'll have to teach all this to the twins, too."
"I know," Luke said softly.
"Good," Han said. "That's settled, then. I'm heading up; see you later."
" 'Bye," Leia said. "Now-" She turned to give Threepio a critical look. "Let's see what we can do about all this goop."
Leaning back in his seat, Luke watched her tackle the hardened webbing, a familiar hollow pain in the pit of his stomach. I took it upon myself, Ben Kenobi had said about Darth Vader, to train him as a Jedi. I thought that I could instruct him just as well as Yoda.
I was wrong.
The words echoed through Luke's mind, all the way back to Coruscant.
Chapter 8
For a long minute Grand Admiral Thrawn sat in his chair, surrounded by his holographic works of art, and said nothing. Pellaeon kept himself at a motionless attention, watching the other's expressionless face and glowing red eyes and trying not to think about the fate couriers of bad news had often suffered at the hands of Lord Vader. "All died but the coordinator, then?" Thrawn asked at last.
"Yes, sir," Pellaeon confirmed. He glanced across the room, to where C'baoth stood studying one of the wall displays, and lowered his voice a bit. "We're still not entirely sure what went wrong."
"Instruct Central to give the coordinator a thorough debriefing," Thrawn said. "What report from Wayland?"
Pellaeon had thought they'd been talking too quietly for C'baoth to hear them. He was wrong. "Is that it, then?" C'baoth demanded, turning away from the display and striding over to tower over Thrawn's command chair. "Your Noghri have failed; so too bad, and on to more pressing business? You promised me Jedi, Grand Admiral Thrawn."
Thrawn gazed coolly up at him. "I promised you Jedi," he acknowledged. "And I will deliver them." Deliberately, he turned back to Pellaeon. "What report from Wayland?" he repeated.
Pellaeon swallowed, trying hard to remember that with ysalamiri scattered all through the command room, C'baoth had no power whatsoever. At least for the moment. "The engineering team has finished its analysis, sir," he told Thrawn. "They report that the cloaking shield schematics seem complete, but that to actually build one will take some time. It'll also be highly expensive, at least for a ship the size of the Chimaera."
"Fortunately, they won't have to start with anything nearly this big," Thrawn said, handing Pellaeon a data card. "Here are the specs for what we'll need at Sluis Van."
"The shipyards?" Pellaeon frowned, taking the data card. The Grand Admiral had so far been very secretive about both his goals and the strategy for that attack.
"Yes. Oh, and we're also going to need some advanced mining machines-mole miners, I believe they're informally called. Have Intelligence start a records search; we'll need a minimum of forty."
"Yes, sir." Pellaeon made a note on his data pad. "One other thing, sir." He threw a quick glance at C'baoth. "The engineers also report that nearly eighty percent of the Spaarti cylinders we'll need are functional or can be restored to working order with relative ease."
"Spaarti cylinders?" C'baoth frowned. "What are those?"
"Just that other little bit of technology I was hoping to find in the mountain," Thrawn soothed him, throwing a quick warning look in Pellaeon's direction. An unnecessary precaution; Pellaeon had already decided that discussing Spaarti cylinders with C'baoth would not be a smart thing to do. "So. Eighty percent. That's excellent, Captain. Excellent." A gleam came into those glowing eyes. "How very thoughtful of the Emperor to have left such fine equipment for us to rebuild his Empire with. What about the mountain's power and defense systems?"
