there, as a huge gold-and-green disk low in the sky. It did not show that
night. Until the harsh light of the primary, Erg Es 992, flooded through the
port's dome, Artoo worked alone, sending Threepio out on scavenging
expeditions to various laboratories for what he needed and improvising what
the protocol droid could not find. By that time it was safe, the streets
were deserted save for the dead.
In time Artoo was ready.
"But it's useless," Threepio protested, looking down at the little stack of
circuit boards and wiring that the astromech had hooked into the medical
center computer. "There isn't enough amplification in that modulator to get
a signal out of the system. Don't get smart with me," he added, to Attoo's
tweeted reply. "I found the only thing on your list that was available. You
should be glad I was able to retrieve that. There's absolutely nothing
usable left in the Port Authority, or in any one of the shipping companies."
Artoo hooked another circuit into the loop.
"And I don't see what good that's going to do. If there's known to be plague
here, no one's going to come near enough even to hear a distress signal
except more looters."
Threepio did not even add, We're doomed. There was, perhaps, enough true
doom, enough complete hopelessness, in the silent streets he had spent the
night traversing to have stilled that particular observation.
Threepio had seen dead humans, but the scale of this devastation awed him.
The implications of looters innocent of quarantine regulations scattering
even now to every corner of the Republic in all available transport
horrified him still more.
So when Artoo gave him his instructions, Threepio obeyed. Thin as a thread,
on a beam that wouldn't get much past the world that had been their goal for
so long, the signal went out, in Basic and every one of six million galactic
languages, just to be on the safe side "Help."
"Whaddaya mean, you can't get a response from Cybloc Twelve?" Han Solo
slapped the comm button on the office viewscreen of the Durren Base
Comptroller, much to the annoyance of the Comptroller herself.
"There should be a half-dozen cruisers in port there . . ."
The Comptroller shouldered her way past him to be in full view of the
screen. "Is there no signal at all, or is there interference?"
"No signal at all, ma'am." The extremely young midshipman in charge of the
communications room saluted nervously. "The Courane and the Fireater, both
out of Cybloc, both reported in as of three hours ago .
. .
"Where are they? demanded Solo.
It had been a nightmarish flight to the Durren orbital base. By the time the
Millennium Falcon had cleared the dense and stormy atmosphere of Exodo II,
the advancing fleet had been close enough to pick them up on sensors. TIE
fighters, of the old-fashioned LN type but perfectly serviceable, had been
dispatched. While Lando, a good pilot but a less-than-reliable shot, had
dodged and veered through the gas clouds of Odos and the nearby fringes of
the Spangled Veil Nebula, Chewie and
Han had manned the gun turrets, accounting for two of their pursuers before
the thickness of the glowing dust clouds and the danger of floating chunks
of ice the size of small moons, which swam up with horrifying unexpectedness
from the shimmering soup of visual and electrical interference, discouraged
pursuit. Han had geared and tinkered with the engine to reduce impulse power
below the range of detection; and at greatly reduced speed, the Falcon had
all but drifted out of the fighters' range.
"Either they're too shorthanded to risk a scout in this mess," Solo had
remarked, watching the engine vibration of the remaining two TIEs retreat
into the distance--the only dependable means of detection on board--"or
they're in a hell of a hurry and don't think we're worth stopping for."
"Or they think they got us with that last shot." Lando was nervously
calculating the probable locations of the huge ice chunks that were out
there, somewhere, in the soaked screens of glittering whiteness that drifted
everywhere in both visual and sensor pickup.
Chewbacca had growled and snarled a retort that they had gotten them with
that last shot That black chunk rapidly disappearing into the dust clouds
was their rear starboard stabilizer.
nebula compared to the density of the Falcon, seven or eight of these
enormous blocks began to drift toward the smuggler vessel and followed it,
like banthas in love with a speeder, for some distance, until out of range
of the fleet's sensors Lando was able to lay on a little more speed.
But it was not a pleasant journey. By the time they fetched up in the
Comptroller of Durren's office, Han was in no mood to be told that no
vessels or crews could be released to him from the slender reserves still at
the station.
"Captain Solo, if you please . . ." The Comptroller thrust her way around
him, to face her communications officer again. "Have you attempted to
contact Budpock base and inquire, Midshipman Brandis?
"Budpock doesn't know anything, ma'am. They say communications with Cybloc
went dead about forty-eight hours ago, no reason given. There's been a lot
of static interference; nothing's getting through. They sent a drone visual
but it hasn't come back yet."
"Thank you, midshipman."
Solo was reaching for the comm button and taking in breath to demand the
whereabouts of the two ships out of Cybloc. For an elderly, diminutive, and
rather stout woman, the Comptroller had very quick reflexes and cut the
transmission before a word could be spoken.
"As you know, Captain Solo," said the Comptroller, with quiet precision,
"the Republic's treaty with Durren specifies protection, not only of the
existing majority planetary regime but also, as a backup, of the system
itself. We have barely gotten the plague isolated on this base.
The planetary government has only just regained a foothold in the capital
and over the transportation and communication systems, and the insurgent
faction is equipped with suborbital and supraorbital vessels that have
already wreaked great havoc on this station. This is not the time to strip
our forces . . ."
"The sector is being invaded." Han spoke slowly, trying to hold down his
temper, knowing that this was an officer who would meet shouting with an icy
stone wall.
"Then why have I not been contacted by either the Chief of State or the
Senate Inner Council?" When she said "Chief of State" she fixed him with a
beady dark eye--she knew perfectly well who he was married to.
Because the Council is deadlocked over the appointment of a successor, and
nobody's g oing to risk starting a war they may have to repudiate when Leia
shows up again, if Leia shows up.
Han drew a deep breath and let it out. "You're right," he said. Leia always
started negotiations by saying, You're right. He'd frequently told her that
such untruth would eventually cause her tongue to turn black and fall o
ut of
her mouth. "Maybe i'd better see if I can contact the Chief of State on the
private channel--it sometimes works better than the military ones."
Lando and Chewbacca were crowded together with the single clerk in the outer
office--because of the outbreak of the Death Seed plague in its lower
quarters the entire orbital base was short staffed--every screen around them
covered with readouts.
"This's bad, old buddy." Lando turned in his chair. "We got two more scouts
missing. There's a whole corridor right down the center of the sector
blacked out. I'll bet you any money it's those little whatever-they-are
missiles, coming out of hyperspace shooting . . ."
"Come on." Han grabbed him by the arm and hauled him out of his chair and
out of the room, Chewbacca striding like a giant, funguscovered tree at
their heels.
"What the . . . ?"
The corridor was deserted. Quarantine signs and barriers were everywhere, at
every gateway to the lower levels. Han's skin prickled at the thought of
being in the same installation with the Death Seed.
He wondered how soon anyone would know of infection. How was it transmitted?
How long an incubation period did it have? Months?
Minutes?
"Does Wing Tip Theel still operate out of Algar?"
"Wing Tip?" Calrissian looked confused at the sudden introduction of one of
their less-reputable computer-slicer colleagues into a military operation.
"I think so. He did last time I talked to him."
"How soon can you get there'. And can he still slice into the Algar Pleasure
Dome's central computer core?"
"Hell, Wing Tip could slice into Fleet Central and forge the personnel
records of any corporation in the galaxy back to the Old Republic without
anybody being the wiser. But what . . . ?"
Han shoved his friend against the wall and frisked him for his pocket
recorder. "Get the first ship you can out of here and get there.
Take the emergency cash from behind the Falcon's starboard bulkhead .
.
."
"But what about fixing the stabilizer? What about . . . ?"
"Just do it, okay? Tell Wing Tip I need the best holo fake of Leia he can
make, absolutely top class, narrowest bands, latest recordings, background
perfect, the whole nine meters. Give him the emergency cash as a down and
tell him I'll give him thirty thousand in two weeks--swear anything, sign
anything."
"Thirty thousand? And you're planning to rob which bank to pay for this?"
"Let me worry about that." He checked the pocket recorder, glanced around to
make sure they were unheard, though the corridor outside the Comptroller's
office was deserted. The whole quadrant of the base was deserted, the crew
and guards of the two cruisers still on base confined to their ships in the
hope of avoiding infection, those few not in sick bay--or the
morgue--keeping to their rooms.
"Best and latest scrap of Leia, understand?" he said softly. "Tell him to
futz it up with a little interference so the join lines don't show. I want
him to gimmick up the broadcast so it looks like it's being relayed in on
the main line from Coruscant. And this is what I want her to be saying."
"You're the brother, aren't you?" After long silence, in which he seemed to
have sunk into sleep or death, Liegeus stirred. His voice was barely a
thread, and Luke, shivering uncontrollably in the night's bitter cold,
wondered if either of them would survive till morning.
"Skywalker. The Last Jedi."
"The first of the new batch, I hope." He thought about those he had trained
Kyp, so intense and so frighteningly powerful. Tionne and her music. Clighal
with her talents for healing. Some had already departed Yavin Four, to seek
their own paths, their own work. Some, like his faithful Dorsk 81, were
already on the Other Side. There was a new recruit, a Bith, of all things
And more, over the years. With the help of the Force, many more.
If he died tonight, they'd be able to go on, somehow.
The memory of Callista on Yavin Four was piercing, pain more intense than
any he had experienced in his flesh. He remembered her teaching Tionne the
finer points of the lightsaber or sitting on the terraces of the old temples
in the apricot sunset light, speaking of her own master Djinn Altis and his
floating stronghold in the gas clouds of Bespin.
The morning Luke had brought the image tank that Han and Leia had found in
the crypts of Belsavis, Callista had showed them all how to call shapes in
it, how she had learned to use such a thing as a tool to strengthen her
command over the Force. While the students shrieked with laughter and
congratulations at one another's successes, Callista had left in silence.
Coming out a half hour later Luke had found her standing on the terrace,
staring out across the jungles at nothing, willing herself not to feel.
"I should have realized it earlier," went on Liegeus. "The planet .
. draws Jedi. At least Beldorion always claimed to be a Jedi, and he got
that lightsaber of his from somewhere, though that horrible woman Taselda
claims that it was originally hers. She sent that poor girl of hers to steal
it back . . ."
"Girl?" Luke's heart stood still in his chest. He tried to keep the flare of
fear, of hope, from his voice, but must not have succeeded, for in the
starlight the older man's eyes seemed to change, understanding.
"A young woman named Callista."
Luke felt for a moment unable to breathe. He remembered his own illingness
to do whatever Taselda asked, not only in the hopes that she would lead him
to Callista but out of the urgent desire to please her that seemed to be one
of the uses of the control mind of the dark side of the Force.
Of course Callista would have lied to Officers Grupp and Snaplaunce about
leaving Hweg Shul of her own free will. She had left to do Taselda's
bidding.
If she came to harm, he thought, I will . . .
Will what? Kill Taselda? And Beldorion? And who else?
None of it would bring Callista back.
Release your anger. Truly release it, and let it evaporate like the drochs
in the sunlight.
Liegeus was still watching his face. "Beldorion took her prisoner, of
course," he said, his voice gentle, as if speaking to a man who had been
hurt in some accident, or who had fallen hard and far. "She was no match for
him, and Ashgad's synthdroids. She seemed to think Taselda could make her a
Jedi, and Beldorion wanted her taken alive because he thought she had some
kind of . . . of Jedi power, though that wasn't the case. Beldorion had some
thoughts of enslaving her himself, but he ended up giving her to Dzym. One .
. . one does."
"And you did nothing?" Luke's hand balled tight. The urge swept him to
strike this helpless man where he lay, and Liegeus knew it. He flinched, but
made no effort to ward off a blow.
At the whisper of his indrawn breath Luke remembered him dying among the
drochs, remembered Dzym with blood and brown slime running down his
monstrous mouth and pity for him swept away his rage. "No," he said softly.
; "What could you have done?"
The Force, he thought. The dirty echo of the Force I felt in Dzym's power .
. . As if through a mouthful of dust, he asked, "What happened to her?"
"She they had her after Luke escaped. I overheard Beldorion and Dzym; I told
her what agreed. She escaped that night. I don't know what became of that.
She was . . .
very bitter."
found that he was breathing hard. "I have to find her," he said softly. "I
have to tell her . . ."
His voice trailed off. In the lifeless silence of the canyons, ground
lightning flickered somewhere far off, as if in echo of the tiny, artificial
field in which they sat.
"Tell her what, my friend?" Liegeus's voice was gentle. "That you love her?
She knows that. It is the one thing that she has never doubted."
"You spoke to her?"
He moved his head a little, Yes, thin hands folded on his chest.
"Then you know that I have to see her."
"Do you think she thinks so little of you, that she believes you'd turn
against her for her lack of power?" From the darkness his voice came, tired
and disembodied. "Many years ago I loved a woman--a girl, really. She was
very young. It was . . . like nothing I have known, before or since. At
times it felt almost as if we were brother and sister, two halves of the
same whole, and at others it seemed as if our passion for one another
colored the world like firelight. I can't explain it, if you haven't felt
the same."
Luke whispered, "I have felt it."
"Like me she was a wanderer, wanting to know what lay beyond the stars.
Like me she was adept with machines and tools. A bit of a cynic, like me,
but with a passionate heart.
"But she had her own road," he said. "I don't think she ever loved me less,
but it was a road that I could not follow. I did try. But sometimes . . .
you have to let them go."
"Not this."
Not Callista.
Not the one thing in his life that he'd wanted That he'd ever wanted this
badly. The words came hard. "I can't."
"Well, every case is different." Liegeus's deep voice was so thin that Luke
risked illuminating the glowrod on his torn and ragged flightsuit, so that
he could check the philosopher's fingertips and eyelids. His pulse was weak
but steady, his breathing shallow and slow.
"I went after her." Under the discolored lids his eyes moved, as if he could