CHAPTER ONE
Padmé Naberrie Skywalker stood at the wide window behind the desk in the Supreme Chancellor's ceremonial office, gazing at the orange hues of sunset shining off the skyline in the distance. "We have two choices," she said to the others standing across the desk. "I can present the request for authorization of fleet redeployments directly to the Senate, or I can convene a meeting of the caucus chairs and seek to get their support first."
They stayed quiet, waiting patiently.
"I need to make a decision tonight," Padmé said. She glanced up as she began to pace along the window. "Sabé?"
"According to our latest analysis of the numbers, the chances of passage in the Senate are very low," her oldest and dearest friend replied. "Every vote the caucus chairs can get us will help."
"I agree," Rabé said. "Our only chance is with the caucus chairs on our side."
Dormé nodded. "Caucus chairs."
Saché nodded too. "Caucus chairs."
Padmé spun on her heel when she reached the wall and paced back in the other direction. Unanimity among her four friends – retired royal handmaidens turned Chancellor's advisors – was about as frequent as snow on Tatooine. "Jenny?"
"That's right," Chief of Staff Antilles said. After Anakin and Padmé had purchased Jenny's freedom from slavery two decades ago, she had been nanny to the Skywalker children and a devoted secretary before Padmé's return to politics – and she now ran Supreme Chancellor Amidala's office with the kind of precision and unquestioned authority a general would envy. Not to mention Jenny's impeccable judgment for all things political. "Going to the caucus chairs can only help, and it can't hurt."
"I think so too," Sarré said. "But there's no point."
Padmé raised her eyebrows. "Why not?"
"It's only a matter of time," Sarré sighed, "before you have to take the war out of the Senate's hands. Even if you get the redeployments passed, it'll be close. And maybe the next vote will be close. But sooner or later we're going to start losing them. And when that happens you'll regret you didn't act now."
"You mean Victory Strike," Sabé said.
"I mean Victory Strike," Sarré confirmed.
"But we can't take that to the Senate," Dormé said. "It would compromise the secrecy that's key to its success."
Sarré's lavender eyes drilled into Padmé's gaze. "Who said anything about taking it to the Senate?"
"There's only one way to implement Victory Strike," Padmé nodded. She stopped her pacing and turned to look out the window again. She faced the direction of the Jedi Temple, even though she couldn't see it beyond the towering skyscrapers.
Victory Strike. The military's secret plan to win the war in a single bold stroke. From numerous rendezvous points across the Republic small strike forces would make hyperspace jumps to the edge of enemy-held territory, then straight to Argis' capital planet of Vyhrrag – uniting to form a massive invasion fleet. Although the tyrant's brutal dictatorship had many advantages in efficiency over the Republic, it had one fatal weakness – the concentration of all of the Vyhrragian's top decision-makers and critical command-and-control infrastructure on a single world. By attacking and conquering the enemy capital, the Republic would decapitate the enemy regime and end the war.
If the plan worked, it would be a complete triumph. If the plan failed, the losses in personnel and warships would be devastating and the war effort would be set back months, if not years. Barely more than a dozen people in the galaxy knew of the plan's existence: the seven people in her office, Anakin, and the small number of top military officers who had created it.
Bryon said it would work. That was all Padmé needed to know.
"But even if that's true," Padmé finally said, turning to face the others again, "it has to be a last resort. We'd defeat Argis quickly once we implemented the fleet redeployments – I know we would. And if I can win the war by consulting with the Senate to the maximum extent possible, and receiving Senate authorization to the maximum extent possible, then we have to follow that course. If we don't, I'm just an autocrat too. We have to try to do this the right way – with the Senate."
"We understand, Padmé," said Sabé, casting a quick glance at Sarré, who nodded decisively.
"Here's what we should do," Rabé said. "Let's prepare a briefing for the caucus chairs on the need for fleet redeployments. We'll call them in and explain the necessity of the authorizations."
"If we get consensus from them," Saché continued, following her friend's reasoning perfectly, "then we take it to the Senate with momentum on our side. If we win, you have the consultation and approval you want."
"And if we lose," Dormé said, "we're no worse off than now. Under the Declaration of War you could order the redeployments without legislative action anyway. At least this way you can say you tried to keep the Senate involved as long as possible."
"Tomorrow afternoon," Jenny said, looking up from her datapad. "We can call the meeting for tomorrow afternoon."
"Make it happen," Padmé nodded. "I'll give it my best shot. I have to."
"Let's get to work, ladies," Sabé said, motioning the others toward the door to the adjoining office suite for the Chancellor's top aides. "We have a brilliant briefing to write."
Padmé met Sarré's gaze again. "And if it doesn't work," Supreme Chancellor Amidala said softly, "then we talk about ordering Victory Strike."
---
Darth Regelous stood at the window of the ceremonial office of his alter ego, King Argis IV of Vyhrrag, and gazed out over the grounds of the royal palace. After almost seven years on the throne, he was pleased his Master's triumph was now only a matter of days away. Then he finally would have his rightful dominion – the galaxy.
Behind him the thick wooden door to the office creaked open on its hinges, and the sound of a single pair of footsteps approached. Regelous waited until the shorter man reached his side. "News of the war, General?"
Tarkin gazed out the window too. "We continue to hold the Republic at bay with relative ease," the thin, elderly tactician said. "The demands of the Senators have prevented the marshalling of a significant fleet against us."
"And now it is too late," Regelous smiled, his eyes never leaving the view outside.
"Indeed it is," Tarkin nodded. "In the time it would take the Republic to amass an armada capable of smashing ours, your Master's plan will have been executed. The Skywalkers will be dead, the Chancellor assassinated, the Senate in disarray, and the citizens of the Republic inflamed to uncontrollable panic. The Republic will be torn asunder by unrest and civil war, and all possibility of a unified attack against us will be gone."
"Their military will be unable to maintain order, much less fight us," Regelous agreed. "Soon we will be able to strike at Coruscant itself, destroy the Senate, and wipe out the Jedi once and for all."
"With Coruscant captured, the Republic will be lost. Countless worlds will surrender to you simply to obtain our protection from the deadly anarchy, and the rest will fall in due course." Tarkin reached up and patted Regelous on the shoulder. "The galaxy is ours, my friend. We are unstoppable."
Regelous looked down at his aging ally. "We could not have succeeded so quickly and so easily without you, General. Your role in our glorious victory will always be remembered."
"When Lord Sidious died, I thought this day was lost forever," Tarkin admitted wistfully. "To have lived to see it come to pass – that has made each day of my imprisonment worthwhile. And for this, I will always be indebted to you and your Master."
"A debt you will have paid in full when we stand together on Coruscant," Regelous grinned wickedly. "Not long now, my friend. Not long at all."
---
The young human woman swayed and twirled in a sultry dance to the melody of the sensual tune being played by the small band of alien musicians. Her skimpy attire revealed nearly all of her stunning physique, from the toned muscles of her arms and legs to her svelte abdomen and curvaceous hips. The black hair that hung just past her shoulders flew out around her head as she spun, mirroring the diaphanous fabric of her scarf and skirt.
The grace and ease of her movements enchanted the dozens of individuals who watched her from the dark shadows along three edges of the brightly lit center of the stone floor. Bounty hunters and hired goons, mercenaries and thugs, smugglers and gangsters – it was the most unsavory crowd imaginable in the galaxy.
Yet she had no choice but to dance, for along the fourth wall was the stone dais upon which sat the massive slug-like hulk that was Jabba the Hutt. A top principal in the Hutt Criminal Syndicate, Jabba controlled not only the Tatoo system but also all the nearby sectors. And his domain of influence extended far beyond that.
To refuse Jabba's "request" to dance was to incur a death sentence – one that would be carried out without delay.
So she danced.
The tune ended and the dancer prostrated herself before Jabba's dais, her hands splayed to the sides and her forehead only a centimeter above the grimy floor.
Jabba bellowed in Huttese. "The mighty Jabba," translated his shiny silver protocol droid, "applauds the luscious Arica for her prowess."
The dancer did not move.
Jabba slapped a thick, slimy arm against his side and chortled. "You have performed enough for one day," the droid continued. "Your work is done, lovely Arica."
She rose to her feet and bowed deeply to the Hutt. Then she strode swiftly into the crowd and headed toward the bar along the far wall.
The ruffians gave her a wide berth. When she first had arrived here almost two months ago, several of Jabba's thugs had mistaken Arica for yet another slave to be ogled and groped – and worse – like all the rest. Then one day a man twice her size had grabbed her after a performance – and in a single swift move she had tossed him to the ground, broken his arm, and pinned him in a deadly chokehold until Jabba had ordered her to spare him. The action had only curried her more favor with the Hutt, and since that day she had been his favorite dancer.
None of the men dared lay a hand on Arica.
Even before she arrived at the counter the bartender had her standard glass of Corellian whiskey ready for her. She chugged the entire tumbler in a single long drink. The fiery sting of the liquor burned her throat and brought tears to her eyes. Arica wiped her eyes and lips with the back of her hand and stalked away to stand alone in a dark corner. Once again the hooligans scurried from her path.
Bracing her back into the corner so her eyes could monitor the entire gloomy, deadly room, Mara Jade crossed her arms over her chest and took a deep breath.
She couldn't take this much longer.
She felt dirty. Filthy. Disgusting.
Dehumanized.
She wasn't even a woman to them. She was a body. A vessel. An object of animal lust.
The only reason they left her alone was because they were afraid of her.
It wasn't respect or admiration. It was raw, primal fear. She could sense it plainly in the Force.
She had never imagined it possible to feel so degraded.
So worthless.
So despicable.
To feel such self-loathing.
Mara shook her head rapidly and blinked away the lingering tingles of the whiskey. She was a Jedi Knight now, and she had a duty to fulfill. A duty she had accepted willingly, with full knowledge of what her undercover mission would require. She was better than these emotions.
She had to be.
A year ago she had promised Leia that she would help her rescue Captain Solo. Only days after Mara's Knighting, when the confirmation had arrived that Han was being held prisoner at Jabba's palace on Tatooine, she had not hesitated to keep her pledge to her dear friend. In the first stage of the rescue plan she had infiltrated Jabba's retinue by posing as the dancer Arica. At the same time Han's loyal friend Lando Calrissian, a highly skilled member of the Navy's Special Operations Division, had insinuated himself among Jabba's minions in the guise of a talented mercenary. Mara's task was to use her Jedi skills to keep tabs on the entire collection of criminals and goons in the palace at all times, so that when the final stages of the plan were carried out they would know precisely the opposition they faced. Lando secretly ensured Han's continued safety and used the wider access his position granted him to remain in contact with the others on the outside.
When she last had spoken to him yesterday, Lando had assured her that the plan was going to be implemented soon. Maybe as early as tomorrow.
Mara hoped so.
She needed to get out of this place, and badly. She couldn't stand being dressed this way. She couldn't stand the way she felt when her awareness told her dozens of pairs of eyes were casting their lascivious gaze upon her. She couldn't take much longer the grim, self-destructive emotions her performances brought out in her.
And she missed Luke.
She hadn't seen him in almost two months – not since she'd left their base camp for the palace. For the last year she had honored his request that they make attaining their Knighthoods their top priority, even though that meant they did not confront the strength or meaning of their feelings for each other.
Not that they really had avoided one another, though. They had trained together constantly, not only in sparring and piloting and Force techniques but also in meditation and patience and gaining knowledge of all kinds. They had eaten meals together, repaired and customized their X-Wings together, and even had assisted the Masters in training the younglings together. They both had been dispatched on solo missions too, of course, but most of the time they had been at each other's sides. And as the weeks had passed by they even had spent occasional nights together – always at the Skywalker residence, never at the Temple. As far as the Jedi Order was concerned, they were close friends and nothing more.
The one thing they had not done was discuss their bond. Their attachment. Their love.
Mara needed this mission to be over, and she needed it to be over now. Because when it was, she and Luke were going to talk. Really talk. He would keep his word to her. She knew he would. He had to.
She smirked to herself. He wasn't going to like the consequences if he didn't.
---
Arica stood in the deep shadows of her corner of Jabba's throne room and watched with trepidation the scene unfolding in front of her. In the brightly lit center of the crowded room the young female Twi'lek named Oola was performing a vigorous, athletic dance for the Hutt and the dozens of assembled gangsters, mercenaries, and thugs. Hoots and jeers and taunts assaulted the girl from all sides. The audience was not satisfied by the insufficiently seductive and lurid nature of the dance.
Oola continued with the dance, but her pace was slowing and her movements were becoming less smooth. She nearly stumbled and fell, but she pressed onward. And the catcalls only got worse.
Mara could sense the problem clearly enough in the Force. Oola was exhausted. She had been forced to dance for too long, and now her body was failing her. The girl's muscles ached. Her breathing was ragged. She was on the verge of collapse.
But Oola was also afraid – afraid to displease Jabba and his minions. The pure terror radiating from the girl in the Force was so powerful, so intense, that it made Mara sick to her stomach. Oola was deathly afraid of what would happen if she stopped dancing, and so she somehow kept going.
It took all the willpower Mara could muster not to intervene. Jabba and the gathered criminals were inflicting incredible agony upon this defenseless girl. They were tormenting Oola to death, one way or another. It was unconscionable. It was one of the vilest things Mara could imagine.
It was evil.
And Mara was a Jedi Knight. What point was there to serve the Republic, and the Force, and justice, if not to put a stop to inhumanely cruel actions of this kind? How could she stand idly by and watch this violation of basic dignity continue? How could she stand here in the corner and do nothing?
Mara closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She knew the answers to her silent questions, as much as she didn't want to accept them.
She could do nothing because it was her duty to do nothing. She was here in Jabba's palace for a reason – to rescue Captain Solo. That was the mission the Jedi Council had approved. To deviate from that mission risked unknowable problems. She had no lightsaber here – not yet – and her powers with the Force would only do so much. Any intervention on Oola's behalf would compromise the mission and put her own life in danger, as well as Lando's and Han's. She couldn't know what would happen if she allowed her impulse for taking action to override her obligation to her responsibilities.
What Mara did know for certain was that the last time she had been on Tatooine she and Luke had disobeyed their orders from their Masters – and their friends Ralli and Gars had died because of it. Mara was not about to make the same mistake again, especially not on Tatooine.
Keeping her eyes closed, Mara reminded herself of the teachings in the Temple. A Jedi's duty was to the Force, in service to the Republic and the Senate, and sometimes that did indeed require the pursuit of justice. But the Jedi were too few to right every wrong in the galaxy. And even if they could, it was not their responsibility to do so. To assume the role of self-declared guardians of justice in all times and places was to put on the mantle of arrogance and pride that inevitably would lead down the dark path of domination and supremacy. Seeking to vindicate every injustice was an impossible task – and Mara had no choice but to concede that grim truth.
Involuntarily she remembered the story of Qui-Gon Jinn's arrival on Tatooine over three decades ago. In the course of attempting to acquire a new hyperdrive for Queen Amidala's starship, the Jedi Master had encountered a young slave boy who was immensely powerful in the Force. Yet when that boy's mother had asked Qui-Gon whether he could help her son, he had given the only reply he could – that he had not come to Tatooine to free slaves. Although the boy ultimately had won his own freedom in a Podrace, his mother had been left behind in slavery. And to this day slavery persisted in large sectors of the Outer Rim where the Republic simply lacked the resources to enforce its laws. In freeing even the boy Master Jinn had pushed the very limits of his mandate to protect Queen Amidala, and he had not pressed beyond that to free the boy's mother – much less all the slaves on Tatooine.
Mara sighed. The lesson of her own Master's discovery by the Jedi Order was a sobering one for her in this moment, as she sensed in the Force the piercing sting of Oola's pain. As much as she wanted to help Oola, to do something – anything – to prevent the girl's suffering, she simply could not do so. This was one of those occasions when a Jedi's compassion could be her undoing – if her empathy led her to derogate from her duties.
And that Mara could not do.
Even a year later she still remembered all too clearly the horrible day on Gimna 3, when at her side her Master had lost control of his emotional serenity and had given in to his desperation and rage. His fear for his children had overwhelmed him, and he willfully had reached out to the dark side of the Force and had used its power to slay the enemy soldiers charging them. And in the battle meld they had formed in the Force she had experienced all of his abominable emotions, and it had torn her spirit apart.
Sometimes being a Jedi meant doing nothing, even in the face of terrible pain.
It had taken her weeks to be able to speak to him, and more weeks still to be able to look him in the eyes. For months she had been unable to see his action on Gimna 3 as anything other than a complete and total betrayal of their bond as Master and Padawan. Slowly she had come to understand that to expect perfection of him – of anyone – was unreasonable, and gradually she had found her confidence and trust in him again. He was her Master. He was the only father she had ever known.
She had forgiven him for his failure.
And yet their bond, which once had been the good and true foundation of her own emotional peace as a Jedi, had never fully recovered from that fateful day. Confidence and trust and forgiveness were not enough to heal the wound that still bled inside her soul. Her Master had been the one person in the galaxy she had thought she could always believe in – and she had learned it was a lie. Since Gimna 3 she constantly had felt a profound and incurable loneliness about her place in the universe. She was alone and always would be.
There was no one in the galaxy she could believe in unconditionally. Not a single soul.
That was the greatest loss her Master's betrayal had caused, and it was a loss from which she would never recover. And it was that loss that made Oola's pain so sharp and bright in Mara's mind. Because now, standing here in the dark corner of Jabba's palace, Mara sensed that the girl's suffering was the same as her own.
Oola had no one. Oola was all alone in the galaxy. Oola was frightened and in pain, and no one cared.
One person cared. Mara cared. But she could do nothing – so what good did her caring do Oola? Mara opened her eyes and watched Oola finally conclude the dance. The cheers and applause were loud and boisterous, but the undercurrent of derision and disappointment was unmistakable.
Jabba rumbled something in Huttese to the Twi'lek girl. Oola shook her head and whimpered.
The Hutt motioned to an open space on the dais next to his slimy, corpulent mass and shouted again in the alien tongue. Oola extended her hands plaintively, cried out in denial, and took a step backward.
Mara couldn't understand the words, but their meaning was clear enough. Oola could dance no more, and she didn't want to sit with Jabba. Mara couldn't blame the girl, of course, having endured far more time on the dais herself than she cared to contemplate. But she also knew objecting was unwise in the extreme.
Jabba roared again, and Oola refused again, and Jabba slammed his hand down on the armrest of the dais.
A trapdoor opened beneath Oola's feet and sent her plummeting straight down into the floor.
Jabba's dais began to roll forward, and tiles in the stone floor slid away to reveal a grating and the view beneath – a wide, deep pit. On the dirt floor of the pit many meters below Oola was screaming and crying frantically, begging and pleading for her life to be spared.
As the crowd gathered around the edges of the grating to watch the gruesome spectacle about to take place below, Mara stayed where she was in the corner. She couldn't watch. She simply couldn't.
Mara closed her eyes again and used the Force to deafen her ears. But she could not cut herself off from the Force entirely – that would be far too dangerous to her own safety. And so Mara's awareness told her all that occurred.
She sensed the monstrous rancor scent food, and Oola's incandescent fear.
She did not observe the beast's release from its cell, but she perceived it all the same.
She did not witness the hulking predator stalking the girl.
She did not hear Oola's bloodcurdling scream.
She did not see the enormous clawed hand reach down and grab the dancer.
Instead she felt them all – and the terrible, awful, soul-rending shriek in the Force that followed.
And then she felt Oola's presence in the Force wink out of existence.
Mara's mind barely registered her body doubling over, and vomiting, and collapsing to her knees, and slumping into the wall, and gulping for air, and crying.
Never before in her life had Mara so badly wished she weren't strong in the Force.
When she regained her ability to focus on her surroundings Mara realized only a few seconds had passed. The crowd in Jabba's throne room was still gathered over the rancor pit, celebrating the unexpected show. Mara wiped her lips with the back of her hand and rose to her feet. After bracing herself on the wall with an outstretched arm and compelling her body to breathe again, she began to pace unsteadily toward the bar for a drink or two or three to rinse her mouth, dull her mind, and wash away her pain.
Oola's pain, that still clung to Mara in the Force like a mynock to a starship's hull.
On her slow, deliberate trek across the room Mara gazed through the dispersing throng by the rancor pit until her eyes came to rest on Jabba himself. The enormous slug was laughing. He was laughing at Oola's fate, as though the entertainment of her death was far superior to that of her dancing. And in the Force Mara could sense that the Hutt felt no remorse for the girl's death. None at all.
And in that instant Mara realized she hated Jabba. Truly, completely, and unreservedly hated him.
A Jedi must not know hate, she told herself, recalling the lesson learned since infancy. But she did not mean it this time, not deep down inside in the core of her soul. Mara squeezed her eyes closed and tried to deny her feelings, but she couldn't lie to herself. She didn't want to feel this way. She knew she shouldn't. Yet try as she might she couldn't make the feelings go away. After all the torment and suffering she had inflicted on her Master for his failure, and even remembering all the other terrible consequences of his dreadful feelings on Gimna 3, now she had learned that she wasn't strong enough to drive away her dark emotions either. She was weak. She was a hypocrite. She was a failure – the same as her Master.
She was all alone in the universe, and always would be.
A Jedi must not know hate, she repeated. But even as she thought the words she knew she couldn't follow the maxim. For her, here and now, it was not true.
Mara hated Jabba.
And someday soon, when the time was right, he would die because of it.
---
Jedi Knight Danaé Skywalker waited while the codes on her datapad sliced the lock to the warehouse's fourth-floor loft. The hair on the back of her neck was rising. The toe of her boot was impatiently stubbing the base of the wall. Her fingertips were tapping on the underside of the datapad.
This was it. She knew it. She had no doubt.
The datapad beeped and the lock clicked open. Danaé pressed the button to open the door and strode inside, waving on the lights as she entered. The wide, high-ceilinged, windowless room was vacant. Completely empty.
But somehow she had known it would be.
Yet she also knew for certain that this room had been the Vyhrragian safehouse in Gonnolli very recently – well over a month after the planet of Gimna 3 had been retaken from Argis by the Republic. What had begun as a simple inquiry into a few unsubstantiated rumors had burgeoned into a multitude of leads – and her conviction that the enemy was up to something. Something big. Something deadly. Very deadly.
The weapons program she had been investigating for weeks had been here. Whatever it was the enemy was creating, they had been doing it here. In this very room. Not long ago. Not long at all.
Danaé paced into the middle of the massive room, stretching her feelings out in the Force to scan for danger. Nothing reached her perceptions, though, so she slung the backpack off her shoulders and began to unload the gear. Within a few minutes she had set up a full range of scanning equipment to probe the air and surfaces of the room, and had dispatched two small espionage droids to check the nooks and crevices of the space.
It would take at least an hour for the devices to perform their analysis, maybe more. And there was nothing she could do but wait. Danaé walked to the door and triggered the locks again, then went back to the center of the room. She lowered herself into a cross-legged position on the floor and closed her eyes.
The Force flowed through her mind and body with ease, extending her awareness beyond the simple empty room around her. First she confirmed there were no hidden traps in the room. Then she scanned for recording devices or other tricks that might have been left behind to alert the enemy of her presence here – and found nothing. With the physical aspects of the room itself resolved or being handled by her equipment, Danaé switched to her other option. A Jedi's biggest advantage as an investigator. She surged her awareness further into the Force, seeking out the lingering manifestations in the ether of the room's previous occupants.
To her surprise the sensations were strong and instantaneous. She felt a sense of urgency. Haste. After a few moments she realized it was the emotions associated with emptying the room. It had been done only a short time ago – and in a rush. Perhaps even today. And yet she felt no fear or anxiety – only fierce determination. So the enemy had not fled from her or anyone else. They had been ordered away, and had accomplished their departure with incredible speed and precision.
And there was something more. Troubling. Elusive. Dangerous. The power of the dark side.
The Sith.
Danaé's eyes popped open. A Sith Lord had been here. Today. At the end, overseeing the departure. So this wasn't merely a Vyhrragian weapons program. It was being run by the Sith. That made everything more dangerous. Much more dangerous.
Suddenly her datapad began to beep. Danaé scooted over to where it sat on the floor, propped up against an air-particles scanner as it processed the results from all the various devices. Sure enough, the initial assessment was ready. One hour in, right on schedule.
Danaé picked up her datapad and read the results – and her heart skipped a beat.
"Oh," she whispered. "Not good."
---
Colonel Bryon Skywalker stood in the rear of the cockpit of the Republic Army gunship, his feet planted wide and his hand clenched firmly around the handgrip above his head. Out the front viewport he watched the craft slicing through the dense fog settled over the white-capped waves of the ocean and saw that the thick layers of polluted clouds had painted the morning sky a dull gray hue. The industrial planet Xixus would not win any awards for natural beauty or tourist interest. But within two hours the world would be in the Republic's hands again, and he would be its conqueror. It would be the fourth system in as many weeks retaken from the enemy under his leadership, no doubt placing him at the top of the Vyhrragian's list of most hated – and most feared – Republic commanders.
The triple-encrypted communications line on the pilot's console beeped.
Bryon smiled. "Let's hear it, Sergeant."
"Yes, sir," the young man said, reaching his left hand over to tap the button.
"Aurora Command, this is Aurora One. Do you copy?"
"Copy, Major," Bryon replied, doing his best to hold himself still so his obsidian-black Special Forces battle armored would stop rattling.
"We're in position, Colonel," the woman's voice said. "On your mark."
"Very good, Major." Bryon glanced down at the pilot, who already had raised his left hand in the air with two fingers held up. Only a few heartbeats later he snapped his wrist forward, then lowered his hand to the gunship's control stick again. Bryon nodded to himself. "On my mark, Major."
"Copy, Command."
Bryon scanned the console until his eyes found the indicator lights he wanted – still blinking red. "Ready, Major. Three… Two… One… Mark!"
The comlink feed clicked off on his signal, and Bryon kept his eyes focused on the lights. They blinked red once – twice – three times more, then flashed to a steady green. A second later the comlink clicked open again.
"All detonations activated properly, Colonel," came the voice of Major Starblaze.
"Roger, Aurora One," Bryon said calmly. "The city's shields are down."
"Copy, Command," she replied with a hint of triumph in her voice. "Your orders, sir?"
"Aurora One, mission Bantha-Wampa-Mynock is a go. You're on the decapitation strike, as promised."
"Copy, Command. Bantha-Wampa-Mynock. We're on our way."
"Very good, Major," Bryon grinned. "See you shortly at the target zone."
"Roger, Colonel," she said. "Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome, Major. But you should know by now I always keep my word."
"Of course, sir. It's appreciated nonetheless."
"Understood, Major," he nodded to no one in particular. The comlink clicked off momentarily before activating again.
"Aurora Command, this is Renegade Leader," the deep, expressionless male voice said. "Our scanners read green clear to the objectives. What is your pleasure?"
Bryon suppressed his chuckle at the formal query from Captain Fel. The Corellian ace really needed to lighten up a little. Then again, the seriousness with which he treated every engagement no doubt explained his squadron's unparalleled precision. "Green confirmed, Renegade Leader. Proceed at will."
"Roger, Aurora Command. We're going in."
"Copy, Renegade Leader. Clear skies."
A quick double-click of the comlink preceded the feed's termination. Bryon glanced down at his gunship's pilot again. "How long until we reach the target zone, Sergeant?"
"Twelve minutes, Colonel," the young man said without shifting his gaze from the viewport ahead.
"Get us there in ten, Sergeant."
"Of course, sir." The pilot's left hand adjusted a few settings on the console, and the gunship rocked subtly as its speed increased. "May I ask why, sir?"
"You may," Bryon replied. "Hazard a guess first, though, Sergeant."
"Yes, sir," the young man said. "Because you'd like to observe the Renegade's final bombing run, sir?"
"A fine guess, Sergeant," Bryon said, "but an incorrect one. I would like to arrive before Aurora One."
"I see, sir," the pilot chuckled. "In that case, I'll get us there in eight."
"I like the way you think, Sergeant," Bryon laughed. "Keep this up, and you'll be my personal pilot in no time."
---
Artoo Detoo was busily using his small welder arm to make a series of repairs to one of the Millennium Falcon's stabilizers when the piercing voice intruded into the quiet aboard the deserted freighter.
"Artoo Detoo, where are you?" demanded See Threepio.
Artoo honked and squealed indignantly and continued at his task.
"Artoo, what do you think you're doing?" exclaimed the golden protocol droid as he ambled into the small space. "I really don't think you should be tinkering with this starship."
Artoo trilled a quick reply. "What do you mean Captain Chewbacca gave you a list of repairs to work on? I heard nothing about any such list."
Artoo honked a rude retort. "Well, I don't know," Threepio huffed. "Just because I'm not making any repairs myself doesn't mean I shouldn't be informed of our assignments while our masters are away."
Artoo blooped and whistled. "I most certainly am not an overanxious ninny, you ungrateful bucket of bolts," Threepio said sharply, banging his metal fingers on Artoo's dome. "I simply think this mission sounds entirely too dangerous."
Artoo toodled a query. "Oh yes," Threepio responded. "Quite dangerous indeed. If I told you half the things I've heard about this Jabba the Hutt, you'd probably short-circuit."
Artoo razzed a dissatisfied rejoinder. "What do you mean, then they should have taken us along? You're not a hero, Artoo. You're a mechanic."
Artoo honked and razzed some more. "I am not a coward!" Threepio insisted less than convincingly. "I simply think that we can best serve our masters by doing what we were programmed to do."
Artoo trilled and beeped an order. "Well, yes, I suppose that does mean I could communicate with the Falcon's computers." Threepio paced closer the console at which Artoo was working. "What are you trying to determine?"
Artoo whistled in amusement. "How to shut down protocol droids? Why, I never!"
---
Mara sat wedged in the corner, slumped against the wall, with the haze of intoxication clouding her mind and dulling her perceptions in the Force. She shouldn't have had so many drinks; to be less than fully aware and completely attuned to the Force put her in danger. Quite possibly it could put the entire mission in danger. And yet Mara had downed the drinks anyway.
It had been the only way she was able to drive away the all-consuming pain brought on by sensing in the Force Oola's sudden and horrifying demise.
Mara felt a pair of tears trail down her cheeks and wiped them away with the back of her hand. She was a Jedi Knight now. She was supposed to be controlled. Serene. But she wasn't – not by a long shot. She should've been able to withstand the anguish of Oola's death and maintain her composure. But she hadn't. After all the months – no, years – she'd complained about being denied the chance to take the Trials and earn her Knighthood, it seemed terribly ironic that she felt so unworthy of that title now that she'd acquired it. Sitting here on the grimy floor of Jabba's throne room, drunk and blubbering, wasn't exactly the Jedi ideal.
At least the room was quiet now. The bright lights on the center of the floor were off, the band was silent, and many of the ruffians and thugs who'd been here earlier had left – or were asleep in all manner of places and positions in the room. Jabba's dais had rolled back behind a curtain, where the Hutt no doubt was long asleep as well. If nothing else Mara took solace in the fact that her embarrassment was a private one.
A few minutes later she vaguely sensed a presence approaching carefully across the dim floor. A friendly presence, fortunately. That was good.
Calrissian sat down next to her and braced his back on the wall too. "Hey."
Mara swallowed hard and stretched out her awareness in the Force to stabilize her emotions. "Hey."
"We're clear, right?"
Mara extended her perceptions in a quick scan of the room, and concluded no one was aware of their secret, hushed conversation. "Yeah. We're clear."
"Looks like you took it pretty hard today, what happened to Oola."
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry," Lando said, resting his hand gently on her knee.
Mara batted it away. "Yeah, well. Sometimes being a Jedi has its downsides. That's one of them."
"Sure," he shrugged.
She knew he didn't really understand, but he was smart enough not to press the point. "What's our status?"
"Tomorrow," he said.
"Really?"
"Really."
Mara hugged her knees to her chest. "About kriffin' time."
"Hey, I didn't enjoy the wait any more than you," Lando said.
"I know," she nodded. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," he said. "Look, I know it's taken a long time. But they had to be sure they covered every contingency. They had to be sure the plan was airtight."
"Yeah," she muttered. "Sure."
"Are you all right, Mara?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"It's not too late for me to call it off. Or delay it."
Mara blew out a breath sharply. "Why would you do that?"
"We need you sharp for this to work," he said. "Our success depends on it."
"I'll be sharp," she hissed.
"Okay, okay," Lando said, holding up his hands defensively. "So tomorrow it starts."
"How much do you know about the plan?"
"Not much. We weren't sure we had a totally secure feed."
"Sure," Mara said. "Makes sense."
"I do know it's two stages."
"Right. Get another team in before we make the move."
"Exactly." Lando rose into a crouch. "Anyway, it's tomorrow."
Mara nodded. "I'll be sharp. I promise."
He nodded. "Right."
She knew he needed to go before anyone could wake up and get suspicious about the aloof dancing girl Arica talking to someone in the middle of the night. "Tomorrow."
Lando stood up and turned away.
"Wait," Mara said.
He turned back.
"May the Force be with you," she whispered.
He tipped his head. "And also with you."