STAR WARS

Dark Forces

Jedi Knight

by William C. Deets & Ezra Tucker

The airspeeder, a world-weary affair built from salvage and held tosether by incessant prayer, couehed, sputtered, and lurched through the air. It had been yellow once, but that was long ago, and large islands of rusl dotted the sun-bleached paint. An outcropping of rock rose ahead.

The machine's sole occupant had a two-day growth of beard and eyes that peered from skin-draped caves. He saw the danger, swore, and fiddled with the controls.

The repulsorltft engine cut out, caught, and pushed the machine higher. The top-most spire passed within a meter of the speeder's bellv.

The vehicle sagged as if exhausted bv ihe effort, and Grif Grawlev patted the console.

"Thata girl.., you done good.,. real good "

The settler peered over the side - saw the airspecder's shadow flit across the land - and watched his gra bounce along the flats below. He knew where thev were headed. The wind-sculpted hill, one of many left to mark the retreat of an ancient glacier, had triggered one of their preprogrammed instincts: "Look for the high ground when the light starts to Jade - and watch for predators "

A survival strategy that seemed natural - but was actually the result of extensive genetic engineering. Genetic engineering that had proven so reliable that gra sperm and ova were normally sold "bv the herd" and came with an electronic manual.

A manual that Grif had memorized during the long trip to Rmisan, A pile of boulders appeared in their path, and the herd splil into two groups, one that followed Alpha, the dominant male, and one that trailed Beta, his male.

The hill was closer now, and Grif dumped speed. The speeder was fragile, very fragile, and the settler didn't fancv a fifty-kilometer walk to Fort Nowhere, the onlv human outpost on Ruusan, The speeder slowed, hovered over the summit, and settled onto skid marks left from previous landings. Grif cut power, ran the check list, and secured the tie-downs. The wind came up at night - - and it paid to be careful.

Then, with the surely of someone who has done somethine a hundred times, Grif set up camp. The shelter opened and locked with authoritative

"snap " The combination cook chest and lood locker extended its lees and stood beside the lent.

That's when Grif opened a much-abused metal ease. Components, each hand crafted from whatever Grif could bee, borrow, or steal lav snuggled within.

He removed ihe assemblies one by one, held them up to the auieklv fading light, and blew imaginary grit from their workings. Each unit made a satisfying "click" as it mated with the next. The object, which Grif called "Fido " was shaped like a boomerang and equipped with an assortment of sensors. The miniature fiver was designed to stay aloft all night, watch for signs of daneer, and alert Grif should any appear. The machine beeped as it came to life and shivered while its gyro spun up.

The settler checked the machine's readouts, assured himself that all systems were green, and threw the device off a nearbv cliff. Fido propelled itself into a thermal, switched its power plant to standby, and soared into the quickly darkening skv.

Grif checked a monitor, verified the quality of the incoming holos, and returned to his chores. The gra were halfway up the hill bv then, picking their way through the scree, and nibbling on tough, rubberv plants. A series of cliffs would hold them at that level until morning came.

Half an hour later, with a tumbler of what the locals referred to as "Old Trusty" to keep him company and a fabulous view of the setting sun. Grit called his wife.

Carole Grawlev was expecting the call and smiled as she lifted the handset

"Grif?"

"Hi, honev.., I'm sitting on top o! hill 461,,, and everything's fine "

Carole carried the cornm set out onto the flat piece of hard-packed dirt thev jokingly called "the veranda " The house, which had been dug into a hillside twenty klicks south of Fort Nowhere, faced south to take advance of the winter sun. Hill 461 was southwest of her position, and Carole looked in that direction. "How's the sunset? It looks marvelous from here "

Grif pictured his wife's face, still beautiful in spite oi the heavilv ridged scar tissue, and smiled-

"It's gorgeous, honey,.. just like you "

Carole Grawley smiled, knew he meant it, and changed the subject.

"The pump's acting np attain. I have drinking water, and enough for the garden, but the irrigation system is dry. The crops have started to droop "

Grif thought about the fact that the cave farmers had all the water they could use and wondered if they were right. "Outcropping " which was the name they used to describe what he and his wife did, was much more difficult than it had been on Sulon, Of course, working down in a cave, using light piped in from the surface, had its drawbacks, too. Like being closed in. Grif took a pull from his drink.

"No problem, honey I'll fix ol' Jennv soon as I get back."

Carole Grawley smiled at her husband's propensity for naming machinery and watched the sun disappear beyond the western horizon.

"I know you will, Grif - - take care of yourself out there "

"You can count on it " Grit replied. "Be sure to set the perimeter alarms. I'll call tomorrow "

"Love you..."

"Love you, too - good night '

With no sun to warm it, the air cooled quickly. Grif was able to see his breath by the time dinner was over and the first of Ruusan's three satellites popped over the Eastern horizon. The smugglers who built Fort Nowhere referred to the moons as "the triolets" and swore there were ruins on one of them. Not that it made much difference to Grif. He bad other things to worry about.

The settler tossed back his drink, poured himself another, and checked Fido's scanner readings. The fiver, which circled the hill at regular five- minute intervals, assured him that everything was under control.

All of tbe gra were accounted for, no predators had infiltrated the area, and atmospheric conditions were normal.

In fact, the only anomaly, assuming it qualified as such, was that the planet's network of sixteen combination weather and surveillance satellites had gone off the air. Not unheard of, but unusual, especially in light of the fact that the smugglers who had placed the machines in orbit were fanatical about maintenance.

Still, things can and do go wrong, and Grif assumed that the problem would be identified and subsequently fixed.

The third moon had risen by that time and, with help from its siblings, threw a soft while cloak across the land. Grii finished the second drink, considered a third, and knew Carole would disapprove.

That being the case, he removed the electrobinoculars from their place in the skimmer and walked to the highest point on the hill. There was very little chance that he would spot the elusive natives, bouncing and floating across the land, but he never stopped trying. What some of his fellow settlers regarded with fear and loathing, he considered beautiful and fascinating.

Grif switched the electrobinoculars to infrared, chose a spot on the southern horizon, and quartered the area.

Rocks, still warm from the sun, glowed green in the viewfinder.

Light streaked across the screen as a bush runner dashed from one location to another. He moved the glasses farther to the right - - and that's when he saw the bouncer's telltale shape. It was round, like a ball. The settler felt his pulse pound as he pressed the zoom control.

The image grew larger.

But wait, something was wrong, wry wrong. The heat signature was too large, too intense, and too high in the air.

Grif knew how much ihe indigs loved to roll in front of the wind, bounce into the air, and float until gravity pulled them down. They got fifty or sixty meters' worth of altitude off a good bounce sometimes, but this object was a good deal higher than that.

So what could it be? Whatever it was had the capacity to hover -

and move against the prevailing wind. Grif watched the glowing, green globe grow larger, realized it was coming his way, and felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Since he could see it. - - it could see him!

Memories flickered through his mind, memories of Imperial probe droid that drifted through the mist, memories of energy beams that stabbed the walls of his home, and the knowledge lhat he had no way to slop them.

He remembered the explosion, the flames, and the sound of Katie's screams. He remembered how Carole had tried to enter the house, how he had pulled her out, and how the structure had collapsed a few seconds later.

Carole had been on fire by then, screaming her daughter's name, kicking and biting as he pulled her away. All because the family had taken part in a brave but futile proiesl against the Imperial presence on Sulon. A Rebel leader named Morgan Katarn had spirited them away - - and brought them to Ruusan - - but there was no escaping the memories.

Grif watched the image grow and knew it had locked on to the heat radiating off the airspeeder. The only question was whether the droid had been launched by an Imperial vessel on its way through the system - - or by a ship in orbit. The first theory was consistent with the way Imperial scout ships were known to operate, while the second would explain why the weather satellites had gone off the air.

Not that it made a whole lot of difference, since the course of action would be the same. Destroy the probe, warn ihe others, and hope for the best. It was all that Grif or anyone else could do, The settler's heart pounded against his chest as he ran downhill, skidded to a stop, and used his hunting knife to sever the tie-downs. The speeder creaked as he climbed aboard.

Work-thickened fingers slabbed at the controls, rows of lights appeared, and the repulsorlift engine whined into life. The machine rocked slightly as it came off the around, faltered as energy tried to arc across two badly worn contacts, and steadied as Grif babied ihe controls.

Then, with Fido still circling above, the settler took oft. He stood up in order to improve his visibility and fell the wind press against his face. Moonlight gleamed off the droid's highly polished skin.

He aimed for the reflection and wished he had a olan.

"When in doubt, improvise " Grif mumbled to himself, grabbed the blast rifle racked along the port side, and removed the safetv. A green

"ready" light appeared as he rested the barrel on the top of the windshield and squeezed the trigger.

The energy pulse blipped outward, missed the probe by a good twenty meters, and disappeared.

Grif corrected his aim, fired again, and saw the bolt hit. The blast slagged one of the drotd's sensors, took the shine off a few square centimeters of alloy skin, and triggered a preprogrammed response.

The probe came equipped with four energy cannons, one for each point of the compass, and brought one of them to bear. The right side of the windshield disappeared as the energy' beam slashed through it.

Grif swore, put the speeder into the tightest turn he could, and saw another beam pass through the air just vacated. The fight, if that's what it could properly be called, was anything but fair. What he needed was a way to even the odds.

The settler pushed the speeder down toward the surface. The lower he went, the more energy could be converted into forward momentum. The fact that the droid would be forced to convert more of its onboard computing capacity to low-level navigation amounted to a bonus.

Grif knew the territory ahead - - and knew the eround would rise. A ridge appeared, and he aimed for the V-shaped gap at the top. Energy strobed past, struck an outcropping, and sliced it off. The speeder passed through, banked to the right, and hugged the south side of the ridge.

The droid burst through the gap, lost the fiver's heat signature in the warmth radiating off the rock, and switched to holo cams.

Grif brought the speeder to a momentary halt, pulled the remote free of the control panel, and grabbed the blast rifle. Then, praying there was enough time, the settler vaulted over the side.

His knees bent to absorb the shock, the rifle clattered as it hit the ground, and the remote filled his fist. He thumbed the "on" button, moved the slider forward, and watched the machine accelerate away. The probe altered course and fired. The bolt missed. So far, so good. Now for the second and most crucial part of the plan...

Grif turned the directional knob to the right, waited for the airspeeder to respond accordingly, and swore when it didn't. As with so much of his homegrown equipment, the remote had a tendency to malfunction. He tried again with similar results.

The probe fired, the flyer staggered under the impact of a direct hit, and and Grif turned the directional knob to the left. It worked this time, the next bolt missed, and the machine trailed smoke. The settler gritted his teeth, twisted the control as far as it would go, and watched the speeder turn on its attacker. The droid fired, slagged what remained of the windshield, and prepared to finish what it had started.

The speeder completed its turn. Grif centered the directional control, gave thanks when the vehicle lurched onto the correct path, and pushed the slider to max.

"Sorry, old girl, but there's no other way."

The airspeeder picked up speed, fell as the engine slipped out of phase, and struggled to rise. The probe fired, missed, and triggered a targeting laser.

Grif stood, willed the speeder to endure another five seconds of punishment, and cheered as it bored in.

"That'a baby! You can do it!"

The droid fired and was still in the process of firing when the speeder hit, and both machines exploded. A reddish-orange flower blossomed; sent long, fiery tendrils up into the sky; and was snuffed from existence. Grif watched the debris tumble toward the ground and felt momentary elation quickly followed by despair.

Imperials had found Ruusan, and the dream was over. Nothing would be the same again.

Life, difficult though it had been, was about to get worse. The settler considered his options. The smugglers had designed Fort Nowhere to withstand a force-one raid.

Assuming the probe had been dropped into the planet's atmosphere by a passing ship, or belonged to a lightly armed scout, they still had a chance.

If he could warn them.

If they would listen.

If they took action. His transportation was spread all over the countryside, and Fort Nowhere was approximately fifty kilometers away.

Which strategy should he pursue? Hoof it? Or return to the hill? The comm set would be where he'd left it, sitting on top of the food locker. But what about the climb? What if he fell? A distinct possibility given the lack of climbing equipment. Grif sighed, hoped Alpha would keep the herd together, and grabbed the blast rifle. It made a comforting weight. He turned toward the north and started to walk. He had a long way to go and nothing better to do.

The compartment, which was the largest the Vengeance had to offer, was almost painfully Spartan.

No shelves, no pictures, and no keepsakes. Nothing but a standard bunk, a custom easy chair, and a crystal-clear bowl filled with multicolored touchstones. Some among the few privileged enough to enter the compartment assumed that the lack of ornamentation stemmed from the fact that Jerec was blind and presumably uninterested in that which he couldn't see.

They were wrong.

Others believed that the Spartan conditions were the result of the severe discipline that the Jedi imposed on himself.

They were wrong as well.

The truth, like the man to whom it pertained, was more complicated than that. Material things meant nothing to Jerec - not unless they added to his power - for to have power is to have physical objects when and where you want them.

Jerec settled into his chair, felt it adjust to his body, and allowed Borna's second symphony to flow over and around him. The composer had been a Rebel - and the dark, moody music the Jedi enjoyed so much had been a protest against the Imperial government. It was too bad that Borna had died so young, but art and politics make poor bedfellows.

Jerec smiled and allowed his fingers to enter the bowl. The touchstones came in a variety of shapes, sizes, and textures. Some were smooth and cool to the touch, while others were coarse and warmed from within. The Jedi selected what felt like a star, positioned it under his nose, and popped the casing. The scent of wild flowers entered his nostrils, formed a counterpoint to the music, and carried him away.

He imagined the future, the throne upon which he would sit, and the power he would wield.

All because of the planet below - and the secret hidden there.

The knock was so soft that Jerec could have ignored it had he chosen to do so. But he knew who it was and wanted to hear her report.

"Enter."

Sariss was young, beautiful, and dressed in black. Her blood-red lips, nails, and collar made the black seem blacker. She entered the compartment, allowed the hatch to close, and waited for Jerec to speak.

He ran his fingers through the stones, found a triangle, and offered it up.

"For you, my dear." Sariss viewed the tidbit with both annoyance and suspicion. It was his way of maintaining his power over her.

A game to be played. Should she eat it? Pop and sniff? She could ask Jerec, and symbolically reaffirm his superiority, or take her chances. The Jedi had tried that once before. She remembered the way the casing had split open, the stench that had filled the air, and Boc's laughter. It had been a thoroughly unpleasant and humiliating experience.

Jerec, who could imagine her dilemma, smiled.

"What? You would refuse my gift?"

Sariss steeled herself, plucked the stone from his fingers, and popped it into her mouth. "Not at all... thank you for the treat." The stone dissolved, vanilla-flavored syrup flooded her mouth, and Jerec chuckled.

"Very good! I'm impressed! Now, tell me what you learned."

Sariss had a mind like a steel trap. She reeled off the facts from memory.

"Phase one of the survey is complete. Phase two is underway."

Sariss produced a handheld holo projector and pressed a button.

A likeness of Ruusan filled the center of the room. Jerec couldn't see it - but liked subordinates to pretend that he could. It made the Jedi seem omniscient, which added to the mystique associated with his name. The image started to rotate, and Sariss used it to focus her thoughts.

"Both the atmosphere and gravity are well within Class Three parameters. Surface mapping is 93.4 percent complete. Surface and subsurface scans reveal significant mineral deposits, including iron, copper, cesium, iridium, nickel, uranium, and a good many more. Of equal interest are seven already-exploited mines, all thousands of years old, none in production."

"Are they in or near the target area?"

"No, my lord. In spite of the fact that the subsurface probes confirm an extensive system of caves within the confines of the valley, they are not associated with significant mineral deposits. And while the facilities required to process ore might have disappeared over the millennia, the probes found no sign of tailings."

Jerec nodded.

"Continue."

"The planet supports two cultures - the first consists of approximately 20,000 preindustrial sentients. They seem to be indigenous, although surface artifacts suggest that other species lived here as well, raising the possibility that they originated somewhere else."

"Yes," Jerec agreed. "The legends speak of many species - and a rich civilization. Tell me more about the humans."

Sariss shrugged. "There isn't much to tell... Space trash mostly, mixed with dissidents.

The probes kept their distance but were able to monitor and record their comm traffic.

Content analysis, combined with call mapping, confirms that most of the humans live and work in the vicinity of a Class Two military installation."

Jerec's eyebrows shot upward.

"A military installation?"

"Yes, my lord. It appears that a gang of smugglers uses Ruusan to to warehouse their contraband and built the fort to protect their property. They call it `Fort Nowhere.' A rather apt name, all things considered. Our forces will attack tomorrow."

"No," Jerec said firmly, "they won't. Not without a visit. Take Yun and Boc.

See what you can learn. Report to me." The fact that Jerec had seen fit to countermand her plans brought blood to Sariss' face.

His approval meant a great deal to her, and she worked hard to maintain it. Making a bad situation even worse was the fact that she disagreed with his orders. She cleared her throat. "May I ask why, my lord? Wouldn't such a visit put them on alert? And cause additional casualties among our troops?"

Jerec allowed himself a frown.

"You doubt our ability to win?"

"No, my lord. Of course not."

"Good. There are reasons for my orders even when they aren't apparent to you.

These people have lived on the planet for some time. Are they aware of the Valley?

And if they are, did they loot the chambers? And if they did, what happened to the materials found there?"

They were intelligent questions, and the fact that she had failed to consider them brought even more blood to the Jedi's cheeks. She bowed, assured Jerec that his orders would be implemented, and backed out into the corridor.

Jerec waited until his subordinate had had left, allowed his fingers to trail through the touchstones, and found a treat. It was shaped like Ruusan and to the touch. He brought it to his lips, popped the sphere into his mouth, and broke the outer skin. The liqueur tasted of cinnamon and contained a mild intoxicant. He smiled, thought about the embarrassment Sariss had experienced, and laughed out loud.

Grif was tired, very tired. He was in better shape than most men his age - no, half his age - but fifty kilometers is a long way to go.

The sun had both risen and set since the battle with the droid. He paused, took a moment to check his back trail, and produced a self-satisfied grunt.

The sky was clear, the triplets were up, and there was nothing to be seen No droids, skimmers, or speeder bikes rushing to catch up with him. Perhaps the probe had been on its own. He certainly hoped so.

Mountains had forced the settler toward the west. Assuming he was right, and this was the reverse slope of "Katarn s Hill," he was almost there.

Gravel slid out from under the colonist's boots.

He swore, resisted the temptation to use the blast rifle as a walking stick, and fought his way upward. The stench of a garbage-filled ravine confirmed his skill as a navigator. Grif wrinkled his nose, hurried to put the odor behind him, and crested the hill.

The homes, many of which had been sited with help from Morgan Katarn, were more than half buried in the soil, a strategy that helped them stay cool during the day and warm at night. A scattering of yellow-orange rectangles marked the location of windows and hinted at the hospitality that waited within. Grif passed them by. It was evening, and that meant the majority of the colony's elected and unelected leaders would be gathered within the Smuggler's Rest, drinks in hand.

Grif licked his lips at the thought, ignored the half-tamed bush runner that lunged at the end of its chain, and followed the well-worn path toward the fort.

He heard a snatch of conversation, the slamming of a door, and the whine of a multi-tool. Common sounds that he found comforting. Fort Nowhere was laid out in the shape of a six-pointed star. Blaster cannons had been mounted at each of the star's points - a strategy that would place attackers in a withering crossfire.

The cannons, plus hidden missile batteries, were a potent threat against anything short of an Imperial assault, the very thing he had come to warn them about.

A voice called out from the shadows and asked, "Who goes there?" in a voice that didn't seem o care. The settler paused.

"Grif Grawley."

The sentry, a smuggler named Horley, stepped out into the moonlight. "Grif? Carole called. She's worried sick."

"I'll get back to her," Grif promised. "Soon as I can. Where's the fat guy who thinks he's mayor?"

Horley chuckled.

"Same as always, sitting around the Rest, complaining about the Empire."

"Good. Keep a a sharp eye out - or there might be even more to complain about."

The sentry wanted to ask what the comment meant, but Grawley was gone. Horley shivered, blamed the cool night breeze, and turned toward the badlands. Clouds claimed the triplets, and darkness obscured the land. Grif heard the Smuggler's Rest before he actually saw it. The music, popular on Corellia two years before, was punctuated by laughter and the bong of the drink gong. Someone had bought a round. Grif rounded a corner, nodded to a passing spacer, and strode the width of the inner courtyard. The all-too-familiar doors swung open at the touch of his hand, and he blinked in the sudden light. The bar had been crafted from a damaged fuel tank and lined one side of the room. A dozen mismatched tables made islands on the seldom-swept floor. The walls, which were covered with an unplanned montage of memorabilia, had launched many a story. There were fifteen or twenty people present.

They turned as he entered the room.

"Look!" someone exclaimed. "It's Grif Grawley! Hey, Grif! Carole's looking for volunteers. Ya ain't gettin' any lighter, ya know!" There was a chorus of guffaws as regulars had a laugh at Grif's expense.

They remembered the night six months before, on the eve of little Katie's birthday, when Grif had attempted to anesthetize himself with an entire bottle of Old Trusty.

Carole had been summoned and, with help from the regulars, had loaded him onto a skimmer. Anger flared - anger and resentment. Grif swiveled toward his right, fired from the hip, and watched the sound system explode. Silence settled over the bar - interrupted only by the drip, drip, drip of liquefied components and the cooler's monotonous hum.

Mayor Devo, his paunch hanging over his belt, was the first to recover. He came to his feet. A stubby index finger stabbed the air.

"And that will be enough of that! We've had enough from you, Grif Grawley.

Place the weapon on on the floor and take three steps backward."

The settler made no effort to obey. He reached under his jacket, found the flat piece of metal, and pulled it free of his waistband. It clanged as it hit the table.

Devo looked down and up again. He frowned.

"And what's this supposed to be?"

"An ID plate. Read it."

Reluctantly, his face flushed with anger, the mayor did as he was told. The words seemed to echo through the bar.

"Imperial Probe Droid PD 4786. So? What's your point?"

Grif allowed his eyes to roam the room. "So, I tangled with an Imperial probe droid, rammed it with my airspeeder, and hoofed it here.

It It could have been a loner, dumped into our atmosphere by a passing ship, or it could be part of something a lot worse. I suggest you pack what you can, load your families on skimmers, and follow me There are places where you can hide."

There was silence for a moment followed by complete pandemonium. It seemed as if everyone had something to say.

"Throw the idiot out!"

"What if he's right? How did they find us?"

"I told you this would happen..."

"Grif wouldn't know a probe droid if it was floating in his whiskey..."

Grif tapped the gong with a half-empty bottle of Old Trusty. The babble ceased. Grif scanned the faces before him.

"Believe what you want. One question, though. How do you explain the fact that the weather sats are down? Not just one of them... but the... but the whole bunch?"

The settler turned toward a woman named Peeno. She was Captain Jerg's second in command - and some said more than that.

"How 'bout it, Marie? You got those sats up and running yet?"

The smuggler, a woman with short red hair and a a nose stud, shook her head.

"They all went down about the same time. We've been unable to contact them since."

Grif persisted. "How 'bout ships? Got any in orbit?"

Jerg had left more than thirty days before and had taken the shuttles with him.

Everyone knew he was gone, and everyone knew it would be another month before he returned. Peeno shook her head again.

Grif nodded.

"Just as I thought. Heads in the sand - butts in the air. Good luck, 'cause you're gonna need it." So saying, the settler took a long, hard pull from the bottle in his hand, slammed it down, and tossed a coin onto the bar. It spun, fell, and landed heads-up. Grif was halfway across the courtyard by the time the yelling started - and only twenty klicks from home. It would be good to see Carole.

The sun had been up for some time when the Imperial assault shuttle approached from the south. It made a series of circles, each smaller than the last, as if those on board were sightseeing, which in a sense they were.

Sariss released her safety harness, stepped into the cockpit, and peered over the pilots' heads. Fort Nowhere shimmered in the heat.

"What a dump." Yun, a young, almost-boyish Jedi with a shock of brown hair, moved to join her. Partly because he was curious - and partly because she was his mentor.

"That's for sure. I don't know what they ran away from, but it must have been pretty bad."

"It was pretty bad," Boc agreed, as he took up a position behind them. "They were running from us."

Peeno's head tracked the shuttle in concert with the fort's energy cannon. She wore a headset, torso armor, and carried her blast rifle on a sling. The The number-three gunner, a colonist named Dinko, wanted to fire.

"I can take her, lieutenant! Just say the word."

The shuttle turned, and Peeno turned with it. "Not a good idea, Dinko. That assault boat boat didn't come here all by herself. There's at least one ship, maybe more, in orbit above. If they wanted to grease us, they would have done it by now. Take your weapon off-line... and that goes for the rest of you, too. They want to talk, so let's give them the chance."

The shuttle flared, gave the colonists a peek at the the registration numbers painted on its belly, and settled onto the pad.

Grit sprayed sideways, and the noise brought even more of Fort Nowhere's citizens to the scene.

The settlers had expected stormtroopers, followed by an officer, but were in for a surprise. Eyes widened and mouths dropped as Sariss, Yun, and Boc exited the ship.

"Who are they?"

"They have lightsabers!"

"What's a worm-head doing here?"

"What's wrong with you people? Shoot them!" The last comment came from a settler named Lasko. His first wife had given her life in defense of the Sulon G-Tap. The very sight of the Imperials filled him with hate.

The intensity of his emotions sent ripples through the Force.

Sariss stopped, turned, and picked Lasko out of the crowd. The colonist looked surprised, brought his hands up to his throat, and struggled to breathe. His face turned blue, his knees buckled, and he thumped to the ground. Then, just as the life force started to leak out of his body, Sariss relented. Lasko sucked air into his aching lungs, rubbed his throat, and stood. His friends and neighbors averted their eyes as the settler shouldered his way through the crowd.

Then, having put the throng behind him, Lasko broke into a run. He had a new wife now and a six-month-old baby. He'd load the skimmer, head out into the badlands, and hope for the best.

Sariss took pleasure in the fear that surrounded her. Thanks to the settler, and his big mouth, a lesson had been learned. Resist, and you will die. The crowd started to back away, to disperse, but Yun shook his head.

"What's the hurry? Stick around - you'll stay healthy that way."

Boc started to laugh, a high-pitched gibbering sound that brought fear to the settlers' faces. Sariss stood with hands on hips.

"So, who's in charge?"

There was silence, followed by sidelong glances and the shuffling of feet. That's when Mayor Devo was nudged, shouldered, and pushed out into the open.

Once exposed, the politician tried to make the best of a bad situation.

situation. He adjusted his paunch, found a smile, and took three steps forward.

"That would be me... Mayor Byron Devo III at your service. And you are?"

"My name is unimportant," Sariss replied coldly. "The important thing is that you, and your treasonous constituents, have established an illegal settlement for the purposes of smuggling and tax evasion. Both punishable by death."

Devo swallowed, realized that his hands had gone to his throat, and forced them down. It seemed as if the woman knew everything. Still, words had gotten him out of trouble before, and they might do so again.

"No, no, you've got it all wrong! Give me a chance to explain!"

Sariss looked doubtful. "You have an explanation? That seems hard to believe. Still, everyone deserves a chance. That's the Imperial way...

Take me to your office. You have one, don't you?"

"Oh, yes!" Devo burbled happily. "Follow me..."

The crowd parted to let them through.

Yun smiled, and Boc laughed. It took less than an hour for Sariss to pump Devo full of false assurances, drain the politician of relevant information, and confirm her findings through subsequent conversations with Peeno and the tapcafe keeper.

Yun, with assistance from Boc, used the time to survey Fort Nowhere's defenses.

More than 300 pairs of eyes watched the Jedi board their ship and lift off.

Mayor Devo, eager to reassert his authority and regain whatever credibility he might have lost, offered an obscene gesture.

"That's for you and the Emperor!" The shuttle had just disappeared over the horizon as Peeno sidled up. "So, Byron, what do you think? Why all interest in ruins and artifacts?"

Devo had small, beady eyes. They darted hither and yon.

"Something valuable would be my guess. Something worth sending a task force to Ruusan."

Peeno nodded.

"Exactly, so keep it to yourself. Who knows? Maybe we can find it."

Devo's eyes glazed over as visions of valuable treasure danced in his head. "It could be ours, Marie! All ours!"

Peeno nodded, wondered if the Imperials were that stupid, and feared that they weren't.

The bridge was large and open as befitted a capital ship. Jerec, hands clasped behind his back, stood with his back to the command area. The crew, who occupied semicircular trenches cut into the highly reflective deck, hung on every word.

He liked it that way. His voice was pitched to carry.

"And your conclusion?"

Sariss, who like Yun and Boc was still aboard the shuttle, brought her report to a close. A bolo of her head and shoulders hovered in the air.

"So, my lord, based on interviews with members of the criminal community and the squalor in which they are forced to live, it seems safe to conclude that the Valley remains undiscovered."

Jerec paused, allowed the tension to build, and nodded his head. "I concur. Destroy the settlement."

The Imperial raiding party had been gathering for more than twenty-six hours. The flat area, surrounded by hills, made a perfect staging area.

A maintenance facility had been set up, fuel bladders had been buried, and a perimeter established. It was patrolled by a pair of AT-ST

walkers and supported by heavily armed troopers. The unit, which would depend on speed, surprise, and overwhelming force, consisted of four assault shuttles and six TIE fighters. They were manned by the best the larger task force had to offer and ready for action.

Sariss, her hair whipped by desert wind, took one last look at at the ships under her command and spoke into the wire-thin boom mike.

"All right, you know the plan. TIE fighters first... assault boats second. Let's wind 'em up." The Jedi felt the ramp bounce under her weight as she entered the ship.

She slipped into the co-pilot's position, fastened her harness, and gave the pilot a nod.

He ran up the power, pulled back on the controls, and scanned the readouts. The ship rose, rocked in the breeze, and vectored away.

The rest of the shuttles followed. The smugglers had anticipated the possibility of a a space-borne attack, which was the reason for the satellites. However, once the orbital

surveillance

system

had

been neutralized, and with no ground-based detectors to fall back on, the attack would have caught the colony by surprise if it had not been for the Jedi's visit. Still, even with advance warning, they were only partially prepared. The TIE fighters came first, low and slow, their cannons spitting death. The initial volley punched holes in the rammed earth walls, destroyed the southern gate, and set a storage shed on fire.

The smoke made an excellent marker and helped orient the pilots during successive attacks.

The fort's defenses were manned - Peeno had seen to that. Turrets swiveled as gunners tracked the incoming ships, and Dinko whooped with joy.

"I nailed one of the slimeballs, lieutenant - look at that!"

Peeno, who was directing the defensive effort from an underground bunker, consulted her monitors. There weren't very many of them, all sitting on an old cargo module, connected by a maze of wires. She watched a TIE fighter explode, saw flaming debris fall on Katarn's Hill, and knew there would be casualties.

"Nice shooting, Dinko - keep it up."

"We have four inbound assault shuttles... range, thirty klicks."

Peeno didn't recognize the voice - but was thankful for the information. The fort's line-of-sight, target-acquisition system consisted of volunteers equipped with electrobinoculars. She turned to her weapons-control officer, a grim-faced sixteen-year - old with an aptitude for electronics.

"Missile status?"

"Ready..."

"Prepare to launch... launch." The youngster tapped some keys.

Hatches slid clear, a flight of six missiles soared into the sky and flew down range.

"We've got 'em!" the teenager said excitedly. "We've got 'em!"

"Maybe," Peeno replied levelly, "and maybe not. Prepare flight two."

Sariss watched impassively as the first TIE fighter exploded, cursed the pilot for a fool, and felt the shuttle fink to port.

"Blew chaff," the pilot reported laconically. "Surface-to-air missiles inbound...

air-to-air outbound." The pilot thumbed a button, and two flights of four missiles raced

away. Sariss felt the shuttle jerk and

saw reddish-orange flowers populate the sky.

The pilot kept count. "Three, four, five..."

"And six," Sariss said dryly, as shuttle number three staggered, veered off course, and hit the side of a hill. Then the fort was below, still fighting, in spite of the fact that three of its ball turrets had been destroyed and that a forty-meter section of wall had been breached.

Antlike figures could be seen running in all directions, while others sought the comparative safety of the underground caves.

A TIE fighter swooped in on a strafing run, mowed an entire row of fugitives, and roared away.

"Put her down," Sariss said grimly. "Some of the criminals are getting away."

The pilot nodded, put the ship into a tight turn, and chinned the intercom.

"Thirty to dirt... stand by."

Forty stormtroopers had been crammed into the cargo area. They pulled one last check on their weapons and waited for the moment of impact. It came with a thump, tone, and green light. Daylight appeared, the ramp fell, and an officer began to yell.

"Go! Go! Go!"

They went. Ground fire stuttered out to greet them, one fell, and the rest charged.

The shuttle rocked under the impact of a shoulder-launched missile but remained undamaged. Sariss, who was unarmed with the exception of her lightsaber, strolled down the ramp. An energy beam whipped by her head, knocked a trooper off his feet, and left her untouched.

That's when she saw Devo, waddling out to meet her, his face contorted with fear.

"What are you doing? I answered your questions. You promised to leave us alone!" The Jedi smiled. "Why, Mayor Devo! Nice to see you again. Politicians tell so many lies that I assumed you knew one when you heard it."

Sariss lit the lightsaber. It crackled and popped. The settler, eyes the size of saucers, tried to retreat. Energy sizzled, and his head flew off his shoulders and rolled down the slope.

It took fifteen minutes to subdue the fort and another twenty to clear the underground caves. Some of the colonists had managed to escape, Sariss knew that, but wasn't inclined to follow. The long and none - too-glamorous job of extermination could be left to junior officers and stormtroopers. Her task was done.

The Jedi waited for Boc to finish off a wounded settler, ordered Yun to destroy the subsurface farms, and climbed a nearby hill. A half-buried dwelling crackled as it burned, a woman lay dead a few feet away, and a gra fought to break its tether. Sariss gained the summit, looked out across the badlands, and wondered what the planet had been like when the forces of light and darkness had clashed out on the plains. When artificial lightning had split the the sky, when Jedi had fallen like wheat before a combine, and the stink of ozone filled the air.

The fact that such battles had occurred was incredible enough, but even more amazing was the fact that the ancient ones were still there -

hidden in their Valley - waiting for someone to command their power.

Jerec? Yes, probably, but with her at his side. The wind swept in off the plains, caused her cape to snap, and blew smoke toward the east.

The first battle had been fought - and the first battle had been won.

Fire rippled along the New Hope's port side as a squadron of Imperial TIE bombers fought their way through Rebel defenses and launched their proton torpedoes. The deflector shields had gone down ten minutes before

- so some of them were bound to get through. Leia Organa Solo felt the hull shudder, met Mothma's gaze, and knew what she was thinking.

The Dreadnaught's best days were behind it. Last stationed over Churba, where it had served as a war museum, the ship had been a symbol of imperial dominance. A symbol that Rebel forces had stolen and towed away. The victory was largely psychological, but a hull is a hull, and the Rebels needed hulls. That being the case, the Dreadnaught underwent a complete overhaul, was rechristened the New Hope, and hurriedly pressed into service.

Still, that being said, the Hope was no match for newer vessels half her size and served as a mobile HQ. She'd been in orbit around Milagro for a couple of months now, where she had provided the Rebel command structure with a space-going platform. That's why both women knew the Dreadnaught wouldn't stand a chance against a Star Destroyer, wondered why the Imperial ship hadn't closed with them, and were thankful it hadn't.

TIE bombers were one thing, but the massive weapons the Destroyer could bring to bear were something else. Not that they were about to say anything in front of the bridge crew. Morale was high, and they wanted to keep it that way. Damage reports continued to flood in.

"Turbolaser battery fourteen took a direct hit..." "We have a pressure leak in compartment A-Forty-three... "

"The port sensor array is gone... along with escape pods sixty through sixty-nine..."

The bridge crew, under the somewhat stoic command of a Mon Calamari named Captain Tola, acknowledged the reports and assigned appropriate resources to deal with them. Mon Mothma, her hair still damp from a hastily interrupted shower, looked composed as usual.

A silver pin secured her robe, which hung in orderly folds.

"Any news from General Solo?"

Leia knew the question was rhetorical but answered anyway.

"No, all three squadrons should be on the far side of Milagro by now, preparing to slingshot around."

Mon Mothma nodded absently. There was so much to consider. The first of the three squadrons belonged to the Hope and consisted consisted of crack pilots in nearly new X-wing starfighters. Squadrons two and three were something else again.

The pilots, many of whom were still recovering from wounds received earlier, had been recruited off the hospital ship Mercy and ferried down to Milagro's surface.

Once there they were assigned a mishmash of of old Y-wings, reconditioned X-wings, and, miracle of all miracles, two B-wings, just cleared for battle. It was these forces, under the command of General Han Solo, that would decide the battle.

If they could find the Star Destroyer from which the TIE bombers had been launched, and if they could neutralize it. Adding to the urgent need for a Rebel victory was the fact that a Battle Group had been dispatched six days before.

A force that could return victorious or badly mauled and in need of support. All of which raised another question: Had the Imperials known the New Hope was vulnerable? And if so, how? Had a probe droid stumbled across their hiding place?

Had the Imperials planted a spy in the Rebel command structure?

Mon Mothma sighed. The possibilities were endless... and explained why she rarely got enough sleep. A familiar voice came over one of the ship-to- ship comm channels.

"Solo here... we're approaching the North Pole and about to break the planetary horizon. Give us the latest."

A powerful computer had been used to analyze Imperial attack vectors, comm traffic, and exit paths. And it was that information, combined with stats on the TIE bombers' power plants and fuel consumption, that would provide the Rebel attack force with the Star Destroyer's probable location.

Or so they hoped, since the best way to prevent the capital ship from launching TIEs or engaging the New Hope directly, was to take her out or, failing that, to chase her away. The Rebel starfighters broke the planetary horizon, received the information they needed, and altered course.

"Got it," the the voice confirmed. "Keep my dinner warm. Over."

Leia smiled, knew the comment was directed to her, and remembered and remembered the meal she and Han had nearly shared. There had been wine, candles, and the possibility of... A hand touched Leia's arm. She turned, reached out to steady the comm tech as the Dreadnaught took another hit, and smiled reassuringly.

"Yes?"

"A comm call for you, ma'am," the young man stuttered, "from your brother."

Leia frowned.

"From Luke? Are you sure?"

"Yes, ma'am," the tech nodded emphatically. "He's on on frequency six - channel four."

Luke Skywalker had left the Dreadnaught two weeks earlier, first to carry out a mission of his own, then to check on Kyle Katarn and Jan Ors.

After obtaining plans that enabled the Alliance to destroy the Imperial Death Star, the agents had taken on a new mission: the search for the Valley of the Jedi. A mission Skywalker considered important and hoped would succeed. Now he had returned - and at the worst possible time.

Leia hurried to a console and the holo of Luke Skywalker's face. He wore a helmet and flight suit.

"Luke! Turn back! We're under attack!"

"No kidding," the Jedi said dryly. "We noticed. A pair of TIE

fighters jumped us as we left hyperspace. We nailed 'em, but it looks like there are more up ahead."

" 'WeT'"The Moldy Crow is off my starboard wing. Kyle Katarn and Jan Ors send their best."

"Break it off," Leia urged. "There are too many of them between you and us. Han and three squadrons of starfighters are looking for the Imperial Destroyer now."

"Too late," Skywalker said laconically. "We found it... or they found us! She's a Destroyer all right, Imperial class by the look of her, with bow damage. I see plenty of escorts... thirty, maybe more. Could be worse, though, since at least half appear to to be transports."

"What was that?" Mon Mothma demanded, appearing at Leia's side.

"Did Luke say 'damaged'?"

"I sure did," Skywalker answered. "I see major damage to the Destroyer's bow - as if something hit her or she hit it. Han can home on my transponder while we give her something to think about."

Mon Mothma brought her fist down on the console. A stylus jumped in response.

"That's it! That's why the Destroyer didn't come after us - she's damaged! She dropped into this system looking for a place to hide and found us waiting for her! Captain Tola! Inform General Solo and prepare to break orbit. " If Tola was upset by he gave no sign of it.

Orders were given, the Dreadnaught broke orbit, and the counterattack began. The Hope lurched as an Imperial pilot lost control of his fighter and slammed into the hull. The explosion destroyed cooling stack three and burned itself out.

The lights flickered, steadied, and held. Mon Mothma looked at Leia. "It's going to be close."

The younger woman nodded, felt her fingernails bite into the palms of her hands, and fought to maintain her composure. "Yes, very close indeed."

The Moldy Crow did a wing over as Jan Ors fought to stay on Luke Skywalker's tail. The Jedi Knight's X-wing was smaller, faster, and a good deal more maneuverable than the Corellian-built ship. Originally designed to carry small but critical cargoes to asteroid miners and orbital space stations, the Crow had served many purposes since then, many of which weren't exactly legal. That being the case, she could deliver a fair turn of speed and carried more armament than most ships her size.

Something for which Jan was thankful - given Luke Skywalker's seemingly suicidal decision to engage what looked like half the Imperial Navy.

"Here they come!"

The transmission seemed somewhat unnecessary, given the number of targets that filled her view screen. Jan resisted the temptation to duck as coherent energy blipped over the Crow's hull and began the endless journey into space. Skywalker fired in in return and had the satisfaction of seeing one enemy ship explode and another tumble out of control tumble out of control as Jan added the weight of her weapons to his.

Kyle Katarn sat in the co-pilot's seat, wished he had something to do, and ground his teeth in frustration. The Crow was his ship, but Jan had been at the controls when the fight started, and there was no acceptable way to usurp her position. Not that such a move would made much sense since she was the better pilot.

All of which left Kyle helpless... or did it? Unlike most Jedi, who serve an apprenticeship under a Master, Kyle had been forced to work on his talents on his own, or almost on his own, since he did receive occasional guidance from the now-disembodied Jedi known as Rahn.

And among the many things Kyle had learned was the fact that there is no weapon more powerful than an open mind. Take the present situation for example: There was an opportunity somewhere in front of him, and all he had to do was find it.

The situation reminded Kyle of the set-piece battles he'd been required to study at the Imperial Military Academy. A career he had pursued in order to get an education - but abandoned after his father had been murdered. Murdered and his head placed on a spike for all to see.

Kyle hadn't been there, but he'd seen a holo, and the image haunted his dreams.

The Imperial Star Destroyer seemed to swell in size. Support ships surrounded the larger vessel and opened fire.

Kyle saw that they had formed a protective globe around the Destroyer, which, though heavily armed, was temporarily vulnerable due to the bow damage and the ongoing need to launch and retrieve TIE fighters -

many of which were occupied occupied elsewhere.

Suddenly Kyle had it, the perfect place to hide, even though the enemy would know exactly where they were. Not forever - just long enough for the Rebel fighters to arrive.

"Jan! Luke! Go for the center of their formation. Get between the Destroyer and center of their formation. Get between the Destroyer and her escorts, and maintain that position as long as you can."

Skywalker put the X-wing into a tight turn, fired at a TIE fighter, noticed it was one of the newer models - a GT if memory served him correctly - and considered the agent's suggestion. The idea seemed suicidal at first - until the beauty of it struck him.

By placing themselves between the capital ship and her escorts, they would force the imperials to break formation, fire at each other in an attempt to hit the Rebel ships, or cease firing altogether!

"Good idea, Kyle... if - we can get there in one whole piece. I'm going in..."

Han Solo checked to make sure that the Rebel attack group was still closing on course, saw that they were, and turned to his companion.

"Let's run a last-minute check, Chewie - how's that power coupler?

I'd sure hate to have it burn out with a couple of TIE fighters on our tails."

Though able to understand Basic, Chewbacca wasn't equipped to speak it.

He growled resentfully, stabbed at some buttons, and pointed at a display. Han frowned.

"Yeah, I can read, but just because it looks good now doesn't mean it'll stay that way."

Chewbacca made a moaning sound, started to release his harness, and stopped when a voice came over the group's comm frequency.

"Medpac One to Group Leader..."

Han smiled. There had been very little time for niceties such as call signs.

That being the case, the second squadron, mainly comprised of walking wounded, had chosen their own.

"I read you, Medpac One... go. Over."

"The bandits are coming out to play... twenty... maybe more. Over."

Han cursed the need for the Millennium Falcon to lag behind, protected by a screen of Y-wings, and wished he could see the enemy for himself. It didn't make sense though - not with such a makeshift unit.

Leadership would be crucial, and there wouldn't be any if he were killed during the first few minutes of battle. "Roger that... you'll see even more as they pull fighters off the Hope and send 'em our way.

Remember, don't let the Imps suck us into multiple dog fights. Go for the Destroyer."

"Roger," Medpac One said with a cheerfulness he really didn't feel.

"Engaging now." The next fifteen minutes were some of the longest in Han's life. Medpac One and his squadron absorbed the initial attack, lost two X- wings, and bored through. The weight of three full squadrons, no matter how iffy some of the individual ships might be, was hard to resist. The officer in charge of the Imperial Task Force continually sent two-ship flights in to pull Rebel fighters away and thereby weaken the counterattack. Han, who had the instincts of a loner and had never enjoyed following other people's orders, found himself in the somewhat ironic position of maintaining ironclad discipline.

Pilots who succumbed to temptation, or were cut off through no fault of their own, were left to fend for themselves as the larger force broke through wave after wave of TIE fighters. Minidramas, too many to count, played themselves out.

"Break right, Medpac Three! There's one on your tail."

"Yahoo! Eat energy, you scum-sucking Imperial... "

"Watch your six... two on the way."

"Hey, you! In the Y-wing... follow me."

"It hurts... it hurts so bad..."

"I'm on it, Blue Six... keep her steady..."

Then, through the mishmash of comm traffic, Han heard what he'd been waiting for.

"Medpac Four to Group Leader... I have a visual on the Imperial Task Force...

repeat... a visual on the Imperial Task Force."

Han sideslipped to avoid the remains of a TIE fighter, fired at another, and sent a thought toward Luke. "Hang in there, kid... we're almost there."

The X-wing rocked from side to side, dodged laser fire, and bored in.

Luke could almost hear Yoda's voice: "Have a pattern things do, starting with the subatomic structure of the pebble in your hand and extending to the stars themselves. Hmmm, yes. Find the pattern, understand the manner in which it was was woven, and nothing shall stand in your way."

Each of the Imperial ships had its own fire-control center, and all of those centers had been slaved to a computer aboard the Destroyer. While this strategy made maximum use of the Task Force's weaponry, it also created a pattern that Luke could feel. The trick was to direct his mind toward understanding the individual subpatterns that contributed to the whole but to do so without conscious thought, because conscious thought took time and led to doubt. That being the case, Luke "sensed" where to direct his ship, fired when instinct told him to do so, and wove his way through a maze of outgoing laser fire.

The Moldy Crow, still in one piece and still on Luke's tail, followed behind.

Jan, her hands dancing between controls, spoke from the side of her mouth.

"Did you see that? It's as if he knows which way to go."

Kyle, who had made a good deal of progress where his own talents were concerned, nodded admiringly.

"That's because he does know which way to go. Stay on his tail."

Jan triggered the ship's cannons, winced as the Crow sped through the resulting explosion, and watched the Destroyer grow in size. The Rebel ships had penetrated the outer screen by then and were passing through the second. Lights flashed as a chunk of TIE fighter hit the deflector shield, caused an overload, and spun away.

Imperial Naval Captain Purdy M. Trico watched the holo screens, listened to the comm traffic, and wondered why the gods had decided to abandon him.

A hand strayed to a bulge in his uniform. The amulet had always worked before - what had changed? The Imperial power structure frowned on gods, any sort of gods, especially those believed to have more power than the state. But that hadn't stopped Trico from worshiping the same entities his forefathers had, not at the Academy, where such worship could result in expulsion, and not during the subsequent years when discovery would have ruined his career.

So why had the gods deserted him during his hour of need? Why had Mugg, Bron, and the great Pula allowed the Rebel gunship to ram his Destroyer? And then, when he sought the relative safety of a war-ravaged solar system, why had they cursed him with a Dreadnaught? Not to mention the swarm of hostile fighters? Even now, two Rebel ships were drilling in through his defenses as if protected from all harm.

The reverie, which had lasted little more than a few seconds, ended as the sometimes-meddlesome executive officer vied for his attention.

"Sorry to bother you, sir... but the Rebel Dreadnaught broke orbit and is headed this way."

Trico came from a heavy gravity world and, being of the fourth generation, had the physique of a meter-and-a-half-tall weight lifter.

Muscles bunched and writhed as he fought the impulse to twist the other officer's head off.

" 'Has' broken orbit? Did you say `has'? Why wasn't I notified when this evolution began?"

The XO found it difficult to swallow. Though more competent than some, Trico had a reputation as something of a martinet, and a volatile one at that.

"Because our fighters were trying to intercept the Rebels... sir."

Trico could hear the gods laughing. He forced his voice to remain steady.

"You allowed that? None of our fighters were detailed to monitor the Dreadnaught? A vessel that, though dated, has plating thicker than ours and

mounts major offensive weapons?"

The XO started to tremble.

"It wasn't my fault... I thought..."

A hole appeared at the center of the executive officer's forehead, and his eyes crossed as he was trying to get a look at it. The body made a thumping sound as it hit the deck. Trico holstered his weapon and looked up to find that the Rebel ships, the two he had observed earlier, had not only penetrated his innermost defenses, they'd done so with impunity. His index finger trembled as he pointed at the holo.

"What are you waiting for? Destroy them!"

"Yes, sir," the weapons-control officer replied shakily. "Shall we destroy our escorts as well?"

The question sounded insubordinate - but wasn't. Trico looked again, realized that the Rebs had taken their positions on purpose, and swore a terrible oath.

"Pula, take them! I'll teach the dogs some respect... break formation!" The entire bridge crew knew it was a mistake, but no one had the courage to say so. Not with the XO's body still where it had fallen.

Orders were given, relayed to the proper parties, and acted upon. Slowly, with a dignity befitting a ship of her size and importance, a gap opened between the Destroyer and her escorts.

Luke saw the movement, knew what it meant, and opened his throttles. The X-wing shot forward. "Jan! Kyle! Follow me!"

Jan shoved the throttles to their stops, felt the gee forces push her back into the seat, and uttered a silent prayer. Energy pulsed outward as the Destroyer fired her main batteries and the escorts did likewise.

The glare created by the ravening beams of energy caused the view screens to darken and left the Rebels blind. Their deflector shields flared to the edge of burnout and held. Time seemed to slow...

"Group Leader to Command," Han said evenly. "We have closed with the enemy and are about to engage. The Destroyer broke formation. Her deflector shields are down in order to retrieve fighters, and she's firing away from us. I recommend that you bring the Hope into action."

Mon Mothma looked at Captain Tola and waited for the Mon Calamari's judgment. It had been an error to order the ship out of orbit without consulting him.... and one which she refused to repeat. Yes, she knew what she would do, but the decision was his. Leia held her breath, was thankful that the decision belonged to someone else, and did her best to appear unconcerned.

Captain Tola, well aware of the silence that had descended over the bridge, gave a nod. The Dreadnaught might be a museum piece, but the odds were as good as they were likely to get.

"You heard the general - this is the chance we've been waiting for!

There's a Destroyer out there - let's give her a history lesson."

Captain Trico was furious. "You missed them, blast your worthless hide!

Two ships and you missed them both! You are incompetent, sir, and a disgrace to this ship."

"The Dreadnaught means to engage, sir," the weapons-control officer replied desperately. "I recommend we rejoin our escorts - or take the entire Task Force into hyperspace."

"And leave more than a hundred TIE pilots to die?" Captain Trico demanded coldly. "Have you lost your mind? Or just your nerve?" Trico was reaching for his sidearm, preparing to eliminate still another incompetent, when a comm tech interrupted.

"Here they come, sir! Rebel fighters followed by the Dreadnaught!"

Trico spun, his face contorted in anger, his right index finger pointed like a gun. The entire bridge crew blanched. "You will stand and fight! I will shoot the first man to leave his post!"

The weapons-control officer watched his subordinates from the corners of his eyes, knew they wouldn't back him, and turned to the control consoles. "You heard the captain. Let's get to work."The ensuing battle lasted more than three hours... but was never really in doubt.

Cut off from her escorts, and with only a handful of TIE fighters to defend her, the Destroyer not only weakened but downright vulnerable.

Still, the Imperials continued to fight, not valiantly, but because Trico insisted that they do so.

Finally, after the hull had been repeatedly breached and more than half the laser batteries silenced, the weapons officer, knowing that the bridge recorders had captured his commanding officer's eccentric behavior and confident that the crew were now ready to support him, took matters into his own hands.

Captain Trico was in midrant, screaming the names of his gods, when the blaster bolt bored through his brain. An offer of unconditional surrender followed two minutes later.

The turbolift came to a halt, doors rolled open, and the Rebels stepped out into the corridor.

Kyle took two steps and stopped. Jan bumped into him. She was about to say something when she saw why. More than a hundred Imperial fighters had attacked the Hope... but this was the only one that had penetrated the bulkhead. The ship's solar panels had been ripped off, but the nose jutted into the passageway. The pilot, still visible within, sat slumped at his controls. His visor had been raised, and Jan saw he was little more than a boy, just one of the hundreds who had died during the twelve-hour battle. The voice came from beside her. It belonged to a rating in a smoke-stained uniform. He held a fusion cutter in his hand and was part of a damage-control party.

"Weird, huh? We took a torp in that same spot, it blew a hole through the hull, and the fighter plugged it five minutes later. All we had to do was fill the gaps with emergency sealer - pressurize the passageway - and presto! A perfect patch! Something to tell the kids about."

Jan nodded politely, thought about the grandchildren the Imperial pilot would never have, and followed Kyle down the corridor. She had killed men like the pilot, a lot of them, and wished it would end. Kyle was forced to duck under temporary cable runs, squeeze around repair crews, and give way to high- priority repair droids.

The air stank of ozone, sealer, and smoke. In spite of the fact that the Dreadnaught had taken a beating, the agent was struck by the friendly grins, nods, and waves from those he passed. They had taken losses, painful losses, but emerged victorious.

The story would grow in the telling - and live long after they were gone. The sentries stationed in front of Mon Mothma's day cabin checked credentials and, much to Kyle's surprise, permitted him to retain both his sidearm and lightsaber. An indication of trust that he, unlike those who accompanied him, had never been accorded before. Jan knew what he was thinking and winked. Kyle grinned in response. Jan, more than anyone he had ever known, could read his mind.

Their hands touched, and Luke, who was last to pass through the door, couldn't help but smile. These two had been made for each other...

and he hoped they would live long enough to to pursue the possibilities.

The compartment had been designed to accommodate the needs of admirals with largely ceremonial duties. That being the case, it was huge. In spite of the fact that the ship had been through a complete overhaul the year before, there were scant resources to squander on decor.

The hangings, many of which were hundreds of years old, seemed badly out of place.

Especially given the current occupant's unostentatious style. Mon Mothma, whom Kyle had met before, came forward to greet him.

"Kyle... it's good to see Jan... how are you? You know Leia...

Have you met Han Solo?"

Jan hadn't, although she had certainly heard of him, and shook hands. Luke hugged Leia and turned toward Kyle. "Kyle, I would like to introduce my sister, Leia Organa Solo, and Han Solo."

Kyle shook hands and tried to ignore the fact that they were famous. Both looked the way he felt: tired and more than a little haggard. Mon Mothma called the meeting to order.

"I know everyone could use some sleep, so let's get on with it.

Han, I assume Leia briefed you on this, but don't hesitate to ask questions. "Kyle, Luke tells me that you not only confirmed that the Valley of the Jedi exists, you managed to obtain the coordinates for it.

Congratulations! The Alliance owes you yet another debt of gratitude."

Kyle remembered the nearly fatal trip down into the depths of Nar Shaddaa, the looting of his father's farm, the duel with the Dark Jedi Yun, the confrontation with the droid 8t88, the battle with Gorc and Pic, and the rather unpleasant place from which the coordinates had eventually been retrieved. The fact that Mon Mothma could summarize the whole thing in a single sentence amazed him. Still, from her point of view, it was results that counted.

He shrugged. "Thanks, but Jan deserves at least half the credit."

Blood colored Jan's cheeks, and Mon Mothma smiled. "As a matter of fact it was Jan, with a significant amount of help from Leia and Luke, who convinced me to turn you loose on the problem, or didn't you know that?"

Kyle wasn't aware of that, although he might have guessed, since Mon Mothma had traditionally been suspicious of his motives. It was his turn to blush, and it was Han who responded.

"Don't let it bother you, kid...... they don't trust me either!"

Everyone laughed including Mon Mothma.

"So, Kyle, we know where the Valley is located. Now what?"

Kyle had anticipated the moment and prepared his speech.

"A battle was fought on the planet Ruusan more than a thousand years ago. A battle fought between two armies of Jedi. Somehow," and here the agent looked at Luke, "and no one is sure how, the power represented by these armies became trapped within a Valley. "A Dark Jedi named Jerec stole the coordinates from my father's farm and has no doubt made use of them. If he can tap the power invested there, if he can control it, we will witness the birth of an Empire that will make this one seem enlightened by comparison."

"Yes," Mon Mothma said impatiently, "we're aware of the threat.

What do you think we should do about it?"

Kyle wasn't so sure that Han knew all the facts... but decided to let the comment pass.

"I propose to go there, with Jan if she's willing, and find a way to stop him. We did it on Danuta... and we can do it again."

Mon Mothma considered the mission to Danuta. It had been a long shot, but the agents had located the Death Star plans and brought them out. An accomplishment that, when combined with information secured by others, enabled the Rebels to win the Battle of Yavin. The twosome had been lucky, very lucky, and the odds were against them being that lucky again.

"I admire your bravery, Kyle, not to mention your dedication to the Rebel cause, but the odds are stacked against you. You can bet that Jerec has a Destroyer, who knows how many support vessels, and plenty of troops. No, what we need is a fully equipped Battle Group."

"A nice thought," Leia said gently, "but where would it come from?

We're stretched thin as it is."

"True," Mon Mothma acknowledged thoughtfully,

"but

consider

the alternative. How would Kyle and Jan make their way past the picket ships? And even if they did, what would they do on the surface? Very little is known about the planet, but one thing is for sure: There's no civilian population in which to hide."

Luke had a distant almost dreamy expression. It was he who broke the ensuing silence.

"Everything Mon Mothma says is true... but truth has many levels.

The power that Jerec seeks to control flows from spirits trapped within the Valley... spirits who must be freed. If Kyle freed the spirits, the threat would disappear. All without the use of a Battle Group. Easy? No, but there is a flow to such things, a flow with power of its own." The Jedi eyed those around him.

"I am told there is a species of sentients on Ruusan, a species with a long history, much of which has been captured in something they refer to as the poem of ages. There are numerous prophecies toward the end of the poem, including one that reads, And a knight shall come, a battle will be fought, and the prisoners go free.' They believe that it refers to the Valley - and I agree."

Kyle had heard those words before, but he still felt a chill run down his spine and wondered if he should feel proud or very, very frightened. The second possibility seemed more logical.

Mon Mothma sighed. Yes, she knew that there was more to life than what she could hear, touch, taste, feel, and see. She knew that certain individuals, Luke being an excellent example, had what might be described as additional senses. But knowing it, and being comfortable with it, were two different things. She preferred direct access to relevant data where important decisions were concerned - and this decision was extremely important. Still, if Luke said something was so, it generally was.

She forced a smile. "Okay, given the problems mentioned earlier, how would Kyle and Jan reach the planet's surface?"

Han cleared his throat. His voice was hoarse after more than twelve hours of giving orders.

"While it's true that the picket ships would stop one of our vessels, an Imperial ship would make it through."

Kyle was quick to seize on the idea.

"Han is right! We could stow the Crow on one of the captured transports, deliver some supplies, and slip away... It's perfect!"

"Not so fast," Mon Mothma said cautiously. "Give the Imperials some credit. The transport would be challenged and, lacking the proper recognition codes, searched."

"True," Jan put in, "but every commanding officer wants all the supplies he or she can lay their hands on, especially where munitions are concerned. If a transport drops out of hyperspace and offers them a load of proton torpedoes, the Imperials will jump on it. Especially if the ship and crew seem legit."

Mon Mothma raised an eyebrow.

"`Proton torpedoes'? You've got to be kidding... How 'bout field rations instead?"

"Some field rations are just as lethal," Han said jokingly, "but I understand your concern. How 'bout some special torpedoes? The kind that explode in the launch tube?"

"Exactly what I had in mind," Jan agreed.

"Is it settled then?" Mon Mothma looked around the table and saw each head nod in turn. She added her approval to all the rest. "One last question. Who's going to crew the transport? And even more importantly, who will command it?"

"I volunteer to command," Han responded quickly.

"This could be fun."

"And time consuming," Mon Mothma added cautiously. "We can't afford to let you go right now."

Leia, conscious that she was more than a little biased, nodded in agreement. Han looked in her direction but chose to remain silent.

"I'll find some volunteers," Jan put in. "Folks with Special Ops experience."

"Fine," Mon Mothma said, glad to delegate at least one task to someone else. "Final comments?"

"Just one," Kyle responded soberly. "Wish us luck... I have a feeling we're gonna need it."

Sunlight rippled across a sea of shimmering glass. Glass that had once been part of iridescent domes, towering minarets, soaring archways, vertical towers, and all the other structures that constitute a city. A city reduced to a sea of manmade lava, as Imperial laser cannon carved swathes of destruction through the once-beautiful metropolis. The resulting slag was thicker where buildings had been clustered and thinner out toward the suburbs, where the military base had been established.

The past could still be seen, on a hill where a nearly translucent temple glittered with emerald beauty, on a rise where a half-melted statue stretched a hand toward the heavens, and out on the silicone plain where isolated groups of dwellings remained untouched.

Prisoner 272-20-136 released the T-shaped handlebars and waited for the impact hammer to fall silent. Then, careful of what he was doing, the man took air deep into his lungs and pulled the mask away from his face.

Milagro had a thin atmosphere, which was why he and the other prisoners were allowed to work without leg irons. There was nowhere to go - not without air.

The prisoner wiped his forehead with a rag, allowed elastic bands to pull the mask against his face, and checked the seal. The air left a coppery taste in his mouth.

The comm set was part of the head gear - and the factory-issued voice was part of his life.

"That was an unauthorized break, Unit 136. Twenty-seven seconds will be deducted from your next rest period." The prisoner looked back over his shoulder and saw that a detainment droid had approached from behind. It looked like a floating garbage can and had a personality to match.

"My name is Obota - Alfonso Obota - Al to my friends."

"No," the droid replied unemotionally, "that's who you used to be and may become again. At this particular moment you are Unit 136 - and the most likely member of my crew to be disciplined. Please return to work."

Obota started to object and thought better of it. He had enough trouble without making more.

The prisoner took the handlebars and made the hammer dance. The comm mast required six anchors, each sunk into the subsurface strata and fused in place. His task was to drill down through a three-meter-thick mantle of fused glass. The drill rattled dully, the noise muffled by the thin atmosphere. Glass projectiles peppered the lower part of Obota's legs.

They stung, but he knew better than to stop. The hole was a little more than one meter deep when the voice boomed into his ears.

"They want you in the admin hut, Unit 136... on the double."

Surprised, but happy to get off work, Obota started to jog.

Everything the prisoners did was carried out "on the double." Failure to comply would almost certainly result in punishments that the nearly identical detainment droids dispensed with machine-like consistency. The base hadn't existed three months before and consisted of sixty-three prefab buildings. It was a sprawling affair that included a landing strip, repair facility, surface-to- air missile batteries, barracks, and a military detention facility. Normally busy, the place seemed even busier in the aftermath of the battle, as ground personnel struggled to service battle-scarred starfighters, a somber-looking burial party made their way toward a row of recently excavated graves, and an infantry company marched the width of a lavender parade ground.

Building twenty-three served as headquarters for the Military Correction Facility, or MCF.

It, like the structures on either side, had an external air lock, inflatable walls, and a protective berm. Obota waited for the lock to open, shared the chamber with an admin droid, and cycled through. The interior was standard-issue puke green. A long list of things you weren't supposed to do scrolled across a reader - board, and the floor, which some other prisoners had buffed to a high gloss, stretched left and right.

The droid, who had privileges the human didn't, chose the hall to the right. The machine's foot cleats made a squeaking noise and left black skid marks on the otherwise immaculate floor. Obota removed his mask, attached it to his belt, and approached the fiberboard door. The sign read: MCF 63 HONOR THROUGH DISCIPLINE Knock before you enter.

Obota knocked three times, shouted "Prisoner 272-20-136 reporting as ordered, sir!" and waited for a reply.

"Enter."

Obota opened the door, stepped through, and crashed to attention. A weary-looking officer nodded, consulted his datapad, and looked up again.

"Take a left in the hall... fourth door on the right. Move it."

Obota yearned to ask"why" but knew better than to do so.

"Sir! Yes, sir!"

Obota did a smart about-face, passed through the door, and marched down the hall. The officer watched the door close, wondered what the cloak-and- dagger types wanted with the poor slob, and returned to his work. Obota marched down the hall, located the proper office, and discovered it was empty.

"Hurry up and wait." A phrase that could have served as the real motto for the MCF. There were chairs, and Obota felt the strong urge to sit in one of them but knew it was against the rules.

Rules enforced by holo cams mounted high in each corner of the room. That being the case, the prisoner went to parade rest, chose a spot on the perfectly blank wall, and forced himself to stare at it. A minute passed, followed by five, followed by ten more.

Had they forgotten him? Obota was just about to conclude that they had when he heard voices and felt the fiber foam deck vibrate under his boots. He came to attention as the tech sergeant and two civilians entered the office. Not because they rated the courtesy - but because prisoners honored everyone. Obota decided to ignore the tech sergeant and focus his attention on the civilians. They were the ones who had summoned him - or so he assumed - and they were the ones to worry about.

Why had he been summoned? What did they want? There was no way to tell. Both wore nondescript flight suits and neutral expressions. And what was that hanging at the man's side?

A lightsaber? Now that was unusual. The sergeant nodded in Obota's direction.

"There he is... anything else you need from me?"

The woman shook her head.

"No, sergeant, we'll take it from here."

The noncom nodded, left the room, and closed the door behind him.

The woman consulted a handheld datapad, looked up, and met Obota's gaze.

"My name is Jan Ors - this is Kyle Katarn. You are Alfonso Luiz Obota, service number 272-20-136, originally from the Adega System. You graduated fourth in your class from the Merchant Academy, qualified as third officer on a freighter, and resigned to join the Alliance. That was more than a year ago. You accepted a commission as second lieutenant, became the second officer on a Special Operations transport named the Pride of Aridus, and led a mutiny six standard months later. True so far?"

Obota remembered Captain Nord's face, the beads of sweat that dotted his forehead, and the way his hands shook. The Aridus, now bearing the name Spirit of Solaris, had made ground fall and, under the cover of discharging a completely legitimate cargo, had landed a Special Ops team.

They'd been gone for six hours and two minutes, two minutes longer than the insertion plan called for, and Nord wanted to lift.

Lift and leave twelve men and women stranded on a planet swarming with Imperial troops. Obota forced his mind to the present.

"Ma'am! Yes, ma'am!"

Jan nodded thoughtfully.

"The transcript from your court martial says that you refused a legal order, confined your commanding officer to his cabin, and seized control of the ship. True?"

Obota remembered the explosion that momentarily turned night to day. The sound of sirens and the comm call as the Commandos raced for the ship. He remembered Nord screaming at the crew shouting, "Lift! Lift!

Lift!" - and his fist connecting with the older officer's chin. It was all a matter of record, captured on the control room recorders and witnessed by the bridge crew.

"Ma'am! Yes, ma'am!"

Kyle watched the emotions play across the prisoner's face. He himself was a renegade, a deserter with a price on his head, and could imagine how Obota felt. The conflict between the oath he had sworn and what he knew to be right. Or was it more complicated than that? Captain Nord claimed his second officer had been insubordinate from the start.

A self-serving lie? Or a statement of fact?

Jan looked up from her datapad.

"The records say that while three of the commandos made it to the Aridus and were successfully extracted, TIE fighters attacked your transport above the atmosphere. Five of your fellow crew members were killed during the battle. The ship suffered serious damage and barely made it to hyperspace. Three lives for five... a rather poor trade, wouldn't you say?"

Obota remembered the fear, carnage, and smoke. He saw the faces of those who had died, knew they might have lived if he had obeyed orders, and wished he had died in their places.

"Ma'am! Yes, ma'am!"

"So," Jan said quietly, "knowing how the whole thing turned out, would you make the same decision again?"

"Ma'am! Yes, ma'am!"

"Why?"

Obota knew the answer - had lain awake countless nights thinking about it - but hesitated. Who were these people? They were covert operations types, that much was obvious, but doing what? And for whom?

Knowing would give him an edge, but he didn't know and had no way to find out. That being the case, he settled on the truth.

"Because it seemed like the right thing to do."

There was silence for a moment. Jan looked at Kyle - and the Jedi considered Obota's words. No complicated excuses, no fancy rationalizations, no self-serving explanations. He smiled.

"At ease, Lieutenant Obota, we need an experienced deck officer, and you fit the bill."

The High Hauler dropped out of hyperspace and probed the out-of - the-way solar system for ships. There were plenty to find, including a screen of picket ships, a Star Destroyer, numerous escorts, and an alarming number of TIE fighters. Most were centered around the fourth planet from the sun. Obota, a newly restored lieutenant, but packing the honorary title of "captain," felt something heavy hit the bottom of his stomach.

Yes, he'd been expecting to find an Imperial Battle Group and would have been disappointed if he hadn't, but the sight of all those blips on the detector screens still scared the heck out of him. The challenge was nearly instantaneous.

"This is the Imperial Star Destroyer Vengeance... identify yourself or be fired on."

"Fighters closing fast, sir," a tech interjected. "An escort frigate broke orbit and is coming for a look-see."

Obota checked the Imperial uniform to ensure that the closures were properly snapped, adjusted the bandage that encircled his head, and scanned the bridge. The bridge crew wore grimy uniforms, blood-stained bandages, and carefully applied makeup. They looked exhausted. Even the untrained eye would see the makeshift hull patch, the dangling cables, and the fire-blackened control console and know what they meant: The High Hauler had been in a fight.

A warrant officer, who bore a striking resemblance to Kyle Katarn, intercepted Obota's glance and gave a cheerful thumbs-up. The deck officer winked, turned toward the holo pickup, and touched a button.

"The Vengeance? This is Lieutenant Hortu Agar - engineering officer for the Imperial Transport High Hauler. I assumed command when Captain Drax and the majority of the bridge crew were killed."

The holo swirled, and a real captain appeared. He had narrow-set eyes, a beaklike nose, and a slash-shaped mouth.

"Listen carefully, lieutenant whoever-you-are... I want recognition codes and I want them now."

Would the Destroyer actually fire on them? Obota had pooh-poohed the idea earlier - but had started to wonder. The desperation in his voice was real.

"I don't know the codes, sir! They're issued on a need-to-know basis, and engineering officers aren't cleared to receive them! We were on a run to Byss when the Rebels jumped us. We fought - but it was no use. The bridge took a direct hit. So, given the fact that we're carrying a full load of proton torpedoes, I thought... "

"Did you say `proton torpedoes'?" the Imperial inquired.

"Why, yes," Obota replied innocently, "two hundred and fifty proton torpedoes to be exact, straight from the factories in the Corporate Sector. That's why... "

"Enough," the officer commanded. A boarding party will inspect your ship, and, assuming that the facts match your story, emergency repairs will be made. You and your crew performed well, lieutenant... and the Empire knows how to show its gratitude."

Obota tried to look modest.

"Thank you, sir."

"One more thing," the officer added.

"Sir?" "What sort of condition is your docking bay in?"

"Fully functional, sir."

"Excellent. We can use those torpedoes... Have your crew prepare them for transshipment. A shuttle will take them off."

Obota nodded obediently.

"Sir! Yes, sir!"

The Imperial said, "That will be all," and the holo snapped to black. Obota touched a button, checked to ensure that the comm was truly off, and turned to applause.

"A sterling performance," Kyle said admiringly.

"Couldn't have been better," Jan said as she emerged from the shadows. "You missed a career on the stage."

"Thank you," Obota said, bowing from the waist. "But that was little more than the first act.

The second act is about to begin, and the audience is on its way."

More than an hour passed between the time the High Hauler left hyperspace and the assault shuttle entered the transport's launch bay.

The crew, who had already been through more than twenty simulated boardings off Milagro, were in their places. They had counterfeit IDs, family bolo stats, ticket stubs, miscellaneous receipts, and all the other junk people keep in their wallets. All were human because nonhumans were a rarity on Imperial military vessels, and, with the exception of Jan Ors, all were male, since very few women had been allowed to serve in the Empire's armed forces.

A ship's complement that was supposed to number twenty-five had been reduced to twelve, a number intended to reflect heavy casualties as well as the fact that it had been a long time since the Empire's navy had enjoyed the luxury of full crews. Yes, Obota thought to himself, details are important. Did we think of everything? The next hour will tell...

Hatches closed and the bay was pressurized as the assault shuttle settled onto the repulsor-blackened deck. Obota waited for the green light, heard the klaxon sound, and opened the lock. Air hissed as pressures equalized. The Rebel slipped through the opening, spotted the officer in charge, and hurried to greet him.

"Lieutenant! Are we ever glad to see you! Welcome aboard."

The lieutenant, who saw the entire thing as something of a lark, smiled and shook hands.

"Looks like you've been through a lot... sorry about the formalities."

Jan watched the interchange from the Crow's darkened cockpit and fiddled with a jury-rigged comm set. Obota and the lieutenant were getting along just fine... but how 'bout the rest of the boarding party?

Their faces were hidden behind armor and visors. The only way to know what they were saying was to monitor their conversations... and that's where the commset came in.

The inspection was cursory at best - and lasted about forty-five minutes. After a quick tour of the bridge, a stroll through the engineering spaces, and a glimpse at the recently patched holes, the boarding party had returned to where they started. The Imperial was a talkative sort - eager to trade gossip and brag about his trips to Ruusan's surface. And Obota, who knew that such information could come in handy, listened carefully.

The two were thick as thieves by the time they passed out through the lock. The bay was pressurized, so Obota accompanied the lieutenant all the way to the assault shuttle and torpedoes. The Group has half the ordnance it's entitled to, which would hurt during a full-scale battle.

"Blast! I should take a look - but it's such a nuisance."

Kyle, alerted by Jan and still disguised as a warrant officer, burst onto the deck.

"The lighter is alongside, sir! They're ready to land."

The bay was too small to accommodate three vessels all at once, so something had to give.

Obota half expected the lieutenant to proceed with his inspection anyway and was relieved when he didn't.

"Thanks, captain. I've seen enough. Hope we meet again sometime -

and here's wishing you a safe trip home."

Obota couldn't help but like the other man. He shook the lieutenant's hand and entered the lock. Kyle did likewise. Jan watched the proceedings, gave a sigh of relief, and wished it was over. But no sooner had the air been pumped out of the bay, and the shuttle allowed to depart, than a box-shaped lighter took its place. The lighter carried two humans and twelve load lifters. The droids didn't require any oxygen, and it was a straight shot to the holds, so Obota left the bay open to space.

This had the meritorious effect of speeding the process along while simultaneously isolating the pilots. The lighter made three trips before the last torpedo had been removed from the transport's holds and it was cleared for departure.

The moment the Imperial vessel was gone, Obota signaled his intention to carry out what repairs he could and dispatched the Crow on a series of errands. There were parts to pick up, rations to secure, and a

"training" mission that allowed the agents to pass over Ruusari s northern hemisphere. Such activities entailed some risk, but they provided the Rebels with an excellent opportunity to familiarize themselves with the Imperial operation and established the Crow within the overall pattern of the Battle Group's comings and goings.

The landing, and all that followed, came sixteen hours later.

Having received the necessary clearances, the High Hauler separated from the Imperial Battle Group and prepared for hyperspace. No one paid much attention to the evolution since it qualified as both routine and boring.

And while the fleet operations officer did make note of the fact that the transport passed through a Class I security zone on its way through the upper reaches of Ruusan's atmosphere, he wrote it off to the commanding officer's lack of experience.

Some things are best ignored... or so it seemed to him.

Nonetheless, it was during that brief moment when the freighter swept past the planet that the Moldy Crow left the security of the larger ship's launch bay and plummeted through the stratosphere.

Jan had the controls. She scanned the instrument panel, waited till they were well inside the atmosphere, and fired the drives.

"So far, so good." Kyle nodded.

"Yeah, but it won't take them long to make us. We need a place to hide."

"True," the other agent agreed, "but let's check the settlement first... the one the lieutenant spoke of."

"Fort Nowhere?"

"Exactly. We could use a guide, someone who knows the surface, and that's the logical place to look."

"Good idea," Kyle agreed, "but quickly, before they sic a wing of TIE fighters on us."

Jan nodded and pushed the ship down through a thin layer of clouds.

Wee Gee, the utility droid Kyle's father had designed and the two of them had built, peered over their shoulders.

The machine could assume a nearly endless variety of configurations but most often resembled an inverted U. His right arm was the most powerful. It incorporated four articulated joints and a C-shaped grasper.

The left was less massive but mounted a human-style tool hand. A repulsorlift engine enabled Wee Gee to hover just off the deck. The droid made a series of beeping sounds. Kyle nodded his head.

"That's right, boy - Ruusan looks a lot different from Sulon."

Wee Gee made a chirruping sound and clamped himself to a bulkhead.

Concerned that they might be detected, Kyle scanned the full spectrum of comm channels. There was some routine chatter, bursts of static as computers exchanged high-speed data packets, and something else, something so weak, so intermittent he wasn't sure it was intentional.

Except that it

felt intentional, and if the Jedi had learned anything over the last few months, it was to trust his feelings.

The ship shuddered as Jan leveled out over an undulating desert and followed the terrain as it rose and fell. If they stayed low enough, if they were lucky, the agents would escape detection by ground-based sensors.

"Listen to this," Kyle said, turning up the volume. "Does it mean anything to you?"

Jan listened to what sounded like a series of clicks. Some came in rapid succession, while others had short periods of silence between them.

"No, but it's repetitive, which would seem to rule out natural phenomena of some sort."

"That's what I thought," Kyle agreed. "Let's try something... " He touched some keys, ran the signal through the ship's computer, and waited for a response. A screen came to life, and words appeared and scrolled from top to bottom. "The signal in question exhibits a ninety-nine-percent match with a primitive code involving two alternating symbols.

Specific combinations of these symbols stand in for letters - just as binary notation provides a symbolic representation of words and numbers."

Kyle felt a sense of excitement, demanded a translation, and watched the text appear.

"Land fifty-six kilometers due south of Fort Nowhere."

The agent checked to see if there was more, found there wasn't, and pointed to the screen.

"Look! There they are!"

"There who are?" Jan asked cynically. "The colonists? Or a company of stormtroopers?"

Kyle shrugged. Ànything's possible... but it feels right."

Jan brought the Crow up, cleared a mountain of sand, and watched Kyle from the corner of her eye. She hadn't planned to fall in love with him, or anyone else for that matter, but it had happened and she was stuck with it. Stuck with him and his talent. It was as if he had a whole set of additional senses - senses she didn't have. Jan felt a hand cover hers, turned to meet Kyle's gaze, and saw him smile.

"Are you all right?"

The agent thought about it for a second, realized that she was, and gave a nod.

"Yes, as long as I have you." Kyle squeezed her hand. "As if you could get rid of me... watch that ridge!"

Jan threw the Crow to the right, guided the ship through a U-shaped gap, and both of them laughed. Kyle had noticed that the signal grew steadily stronger as they approached Fort Nowhere. Then, just as the Crow flew over some badly burned ruins, the indicator bar shot upward.

"Let's take another look," Kyle suggested, pointing back over his shoulder. "There could be survivors."

Jan nodded, put the ship into a tight turn, and dumped speed. The settlement, or what was left of it, made a sad sight indeed. There was very little left except for burned-out buildings, tumble-down walls, and blackened earth. A single gra grazed next to the abandoned fort. Kyle gave a low whistle.

"Look at that! Not a building left standing... why?"

Jan knew the question was rhetorical and didn't answer. The imperials had been out to eradicate the settlers or, failing that, to make sure they were reduced to little more than hunter-gatherers.

"All right," Kyle said, "I don't sense any intelligent life forms around here... let's try the landing zone."

Jan, who still wondered about the wisdom of such a move, turned toward the south. It took less than fifteen minutes to reach their destination. It consisted of a flood plain located between two ancient riverbeds. One thing was for sure, there was very little chance of an ambush, since there was nowhere to hide. Jan banked to starboard.

"It looks like nobody's home - what now?"

"Looks can be deceiving," Kyle replied.

"Somebody's watching - I can feel it."

Jan frowned.

"Somebody good? Or somebody bad?"

Kyle shrugged.

"Sorry, I can't tell. Let's put her down, keep the weapons systems on- line, and see what happens."

Jan sighed, wished there was another way, and followed Kyle's suggestion. The Crow swooped in, hovered for a moment, and settled onto alluvial gravel. Jan left the weapons systems on, set the controls for a hot start, and slaved the sensors to a handheld remote. It was then and only then that the agent followed her companion outside. He knelt next to the ship and allowed gravel to sift through his fingers.

Metal pinged as it cooled, and a breeze swept in from the north.

Jan drew the sweet, unrecycled air deep into her lungs.

"Nice, isn't it?" Kyle encountered something solid with his fingers, brushed the gravel away, and broke the object free.

"Hey! Look at this!"

He held up the object for her inspection, and Jan saw what remained of an ancient dagger.

The handle, which might have been made of wood or bone, had decayed hundreds of years before, but the blade was good as new. Then, as if sensitized by Kyle's find, her eye fastened onto something protruding from the plain. The Rebel walked over, toed the object with her boot, and felt it give. She bent over, found a grip, and pulled it free.

"Look, Kyle! A helmet!"

Kyle stood and moved in her direction.

"It looks like we stumbled onto an ancient battlefield... I wonder who won?"

The question went unanswered as something whirred over the agent's head. Jan's blaster was halfway out of its holster when Kyle grabbed her arm.

"No! Let them look."

The device completed a circuit of the ship and returned. It was shaped like a boomerang and equipped with sensors. Jan had never seen anything quite like it - which seemed to suggest the colonists rather than the Imperials. The machine hovered, as if to examine them, turned, and entered the Crow. Wee Gee had remained aboard - and Kyle could imagine the machines examining each other. His thoughts turned to the flyer's owners.

"Cautious aren't they?" Jan nodded. Ànd with good reason."

The flyer, if that's what the device could properly be called, exited the ship, circled over their heads, and darted toward the west. It returned seconds later, ran through the same sequence again, and accelerated away.

"They want us to follow," Kyle said calmly. "Let's crank her up."

The Rebels reentered the ship, checked their sensors, and lifted off. The remote hovered, zipped out in front of them, and sped away. The boomerang- shaped machine made pretty good time for something its size, but it was difficult to maintain visual contact and to fly that slowly.

Jan was relieved when the device lost altitude and prepared to land. Kyle watched a pair of low-lying hills reach up to embrace them and used his recently developed talent to monitor the Force. It was like an enormous lake, calm for the most part, but responsive to the least disturbance. There were sentients up ahead - a number of them.

Were they colonists? Survivors from the attack on Fort Nowhere? Or stormtroopers waiting in ambush? Logic suggested the former - his emotions the latter.

Grif Grawley lay on top of one of two hills that guarded the entrance to the Valley and the ruins beyond. The statue that had occupied the platform off to his left had fallen hundreds of years before.

The remains of it were scattered down the forward slope and pointed toward a skillfully sculpted hand. The palm was blackened where signal fires had burned, beckoning travelers from many kilometers away. It must have been something to see. Carole touched his arm.

"Grif! Look! Here they come."

The colonist looked, grabbed his electrobinoculars, and looked again. It was a ship sure enough - with Fido in the lead. He grinned.

There was no telling who the visitors were, but one thing was for sure, the ship was clean. He had monitored the inspection himself.

"What do you think?" Carole inquired. "Are they Rebels?"

Grif tracked the ship as it passed and descended toward the ground.

"That's a good question, hon. You saw the video - did you recognize the man?"

"No, I don't think so..."

"Well, I could be wrong, but he looked kinda familiar. A lot like Morgan Katarn's boy... the one who left Sulon for the Imperial Military Academy. Question is, am I right? And if I am, what side is he on? Time to find out."

The courtyard was large enough to accommodate a squadron of X-wings. Jan chose a spot between the once-spectacular fountain and the broad flight of stairs that led up and into the temple. A group of humans, all armed, monitored her progress.

The Crow landed with a solid thump. The Rebels assigned Wee Gee to keep watch and made their way down the ramp and out into the increasingly warm atmosphere. A man with a three-day growth of beard came forward, gave his name as Grif Grawley, and pumped Kyle's hand.

"Howdy, son, how's your dad?" Kyle peered into the other man's face, realized who it was, and grinned.

"Citizen Grawley? Is that you? This is wonderful! How's your wife?"

"I'm fine," Carole said, stepping forward. "Thanks to your father... We were in trouble back on Sulon and he brought us here."

Grif cleared his throat.

"Which raises an interesting question, son. We know which side your dad's on, but you're something of a mystery. Drop the blaster and the lightsaber. That goes for you too, young lady... till we sort things out."

The agents looked around, saw more than a dozen weapons pointed in their direction, and did as they were told.

"That's better," Grif said equably. "Now, where were we? Oh, yeah, how's your father?"

"Dead," Kyle answered bitterly. "Remember the spaceport? Well, that's where they displayed his head. On a spike for all to see. That's why I'm here, to avenge his death, but more than that, to stop the Imperials from looting the Valley of the Jedi."

Carole Grawley's hand came up to her mouth, and her husband scowled. Morgan Katarn? Dead?

It might be a lie... but Grif didn't think so. He swore, turned to a group of bystanders, and gave some orders.

"Lasko, Kimber, Pardy - throw some netting over that ship and clear the plaza. The Imps aren't blind, you know... Come on, you two - let's take it in out of the sun. Cold in the morning and warm later on, that's how it is around here."

The Rebels felt naked without their weapons and more than a little nervous with so many blasters pointed in their direction. Grif led them up the stairs and through an enormous entryway. The temple's

interior

was surprisingly well lit thanks to an ancient system of skylights and mirrors. A dozen shafts of light, each arriving from a different angle, converged on the likeness of a man. He leaned forward, his chin supported by a fist.

Grif gestured to the space around him.

"Welcome to our temporary home. Those fortunate enough to survive the attack on Fort Nowhere banded together, collected what resources they could, and came here."

Carole Grawley listened with amazement as her normally tactless husband papered over the fact that the "townies," as he liked to call them, had ignored his warnings, taken terrible losses, and fled into the badlands. An area about which they knew very little.

She would never forget the day they had arrived, setting off the perimeter alarms and interrupting her husband's mid-afternoon nap. The fact that Grif had agreed to help them, and subsequently metamorphosed into their leader, was no less than a miracle.

Or so it seemed to her.

Oblivious to his wife's thoughts, Grif pointed toward a makeshift table and the equipment piled beyond.

"Take a load off and tell us the story. Most things happen at night around here... so we have plenty of time."

Kyle took a seat and tried to ignore the onlookers. He told the story of how he had gone to the Academy, received the news of his father's death, and headed for home. It was during the journey that he met Jan for the second time, learned that his father had been murdered by the Empire, and swore himself to the Rebel cause. The raid on Danuta didn't seem relevant, so he left that out and went straight to events on Sulon.

These were of considerable interest to most of those present, since that's where most of them came from and, in many cases, hoped to return.

Kyle described his battles with Yun, Gorc, Pic, and 8t88 in dry, dispassionate terms, explained how Jan and he had recovered the necessary coordinates, and why they had come.

A settler named Lasko, the same one who had been brought to his knees by Sariss, listened with interest. Could the Jedi in Katarn's story be the same ones who destroyed Fort Nowhere?

It certainly sounded that way.

Jan felt it was a story well told - but at least one of those present disagreed. He was a pugnacious individual with an underthrust jaw and massive shoulders. His name was Pardy, Luther Pardy, and he wore Kyle's weapons as if they were his.

"It makes a nice story, boy, a real nice story, kind o' like the fairy tales the missus tells the young'uns. Why should we believe this dreck? 'Specially the stuff about the Force, Jedi Knights, and all that.

Sounds kind o' convenient to me - sort of like what a spy would say."

Lasko eyed both men, decided to support Katarn if it came to that, and allowed a hand to rest on his blaster. A cloud passed in front of the sun. The light level dropped by twenty percent. The statue seemed to frown, and all eyes turned toward Kyle. Slowly, so as not to startle one of the trigger-happy colonists, he stood.

Pardy, who outweighed the agent by a good thirty pounds, grinned. A quick, easy victory would raise his status within the group. Make Grawley listen more. He licked his lips.

Kyle met the other man's eyes, extended his hand as if ready to shake, and visualized what he wanted. An object whirred through the air, slapped the surface of his palm, and made a popping noise. Energy sizzled as the lightsaber came to life, and Pardy stepped back.

A half-dozen blasters came up but fell when Grif shook his head.

"Well, Pardy, no more questions? I didn't think so. Guess you'd better return that blaster.

Welcome to Ruusan, kid - and you too, Jan. Tell us about that Valley and what we can do to help." Lasko felt a tremendous sense of relief. Only a Jedi could defeat a Jedi. Now there was hope. There was no especially safe time, to move around the planet's surface, but night offered some protection and was the only time when the bouncers ventured out. It had been Grif's idea to meet with the locals and seek their counsel. After all, the bouncers were either native to Ruusan or had been there so long that it didn't make much difference, and they knew the planet better than anyone.

Grif nudged the agent's arm. The two of them, plus Jan and six of the most able-bodied colonists, had taken refuge in a fortress of stone.