Authors: Troy Denning
Kenth and Corran recoiled visibly.
But Kyp Durron smiled. “Well, it’s an honest answer.”
“As much as that is possible for them,” Cilghal said. She turned to Luke. “I don’t like to question their integrity, Master Skywalker, but anything they tell us is suspect. We must assume their judgment has been compromised by the same power that called them away in the first place.”
Tesar glared openly in Cilghal’s direction. “You are saying we cannot be trusted?”
She met his gaze evenly. “You’re not to blame, but yes—that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Tesar looked from Cilghal to Luke to Kyp and back to Luke, then thumped his tail and retreated to his relaxi-chair.
Tahiri took his place. “We don’t deserve this.” She glared directly into Luke’s eyes. “You have no reason to treat us like we’re Sith.”
“Probably not,” Kenth said. “But until those mysterious attacks on Yoggoy and at Qoribu are explained, there’s no harm in being safe.”
“By all meanz,” Tesar rasped from his chair. “This one would not want you to fear us.”
Luke turned to Cilghal. “Perhaps you’d explain your concerns?”
The Mon Calamari nodded. “It’s very simple. The meld always comes from the outside—you
know
you’re listening to someone else’s thoughts and reacting to someone else’s emotions. But this … this
joining
feels like it comes from inside.
The things our Jedi Knights see through it—or hear or smell or taste—seem like things they’re sensing themselves. Even the thoughts they share seem to arise inside their own minds.”
“So they don’t know whether their thoughts are their own or someone else’s?” Mara asked. Luke could sense that she was as concerned as he was, that she was afraid their young Jedi Knights were lost to the Colony already. “They can’t just ignore outside thoughts, like we can in the meld?”
“I’m afraid that’s correct,” Cilghal said. “In all likelihood, it’s impossible to know the difference.”
The Masters studied Tahiri and the other young Jedi in silence, their faces betraying the same disappointment and concern and uncertainty that Luke felt. Cilghal could probably find a way to negate the changes to their brain structure. But the patients were clearly going to be uncooperative, and that would make recovery a long, difficult process.
Finally, Kenth said, “Well, that explains a lot. They certainly haven’t been acting like themselves.”
“Perhapz not,” Tesar admitted. He leaned forward, being careful to remain seated and nonthreatening. “But that doesn’t mean we are wrong about Qoribu.”
“Ask Masters Skywalker,” Tekli said. “They both saw Jwlio.
They
can tell you what the Chiss have done to the moon.”
“Fair enough,” Luke said. “Mara and I weren’t on Jwlio long enough to gather many facts, but it
is
clear the Chiss are trying to drive the Killiks out of the system.”
“And it’s just as clear that the Killiks don’t have the resources to leave,” Mara added. “The way things are looking, the result will be war or extermination, probably both.”
Tahiri beamed, Tesar assumed a reptilian grin, and Tekli brought her ears forward.
Then Corran asked, “Why?”
Tesar rose. “Why what?”
“Why are the Chiss doing this?” he asked, “They’re xenophobic and secretive, but they’re not expansionists. If they’re trying to drive the Killiks away, they must have a reason.”
“They are afraid the Colony will expand into their territory,” Tesar said. “That is what their Joinerz say.”
“There’s more to it,” Mara said. “If all the Chiss were worried about was border security, they’d just wait for a nest to pop up in their own territory,
then
attack.”
“That’s right,” Luke agreed. “Something about the Killiks scares the Chiss so much they don’t want them in the same sector as an Ascendancy system.”
“You’d have to ask the Chiss about that,” Tahiri said.
“We shouldn’t need to,” Kenth pointed out. “Isn’t it the first duty of a Jedi to understand
both
sides of a conflict?”
Tahiri met his gaze with a raised chin. “We were occupied.”
“Saving innocentz.”
“And look what happened,” Kenth said. “Both sides are closer to war than ever.”
“Perhaps,” Tekli said. “But our mistakes shouldn’t condemn the Qoribu nests.”
“And they shouldn’t commit the Jedi to any action the Masters haven’t authorized.” Corran turned away from the trio and addressed the other Masters. “Our first concern must be the stability of the Galactic Alliance.”
“No.” Kyp Durron surprised everyone by stepping to Tahiri’s side. “The Jedi are no one’s mercenaries—not even the Galactic Alliance’s. Our first concern, our only concern, is our own conscience. We must follow it wherever it leads.”
Octa Ramis, who had remained silent until now, spoke up to agree with Kyp, then Kenth agreed with Corran, Kyp repeated his position, and the discussion degenerated into argument. Tahiri, Tekli, and Tesar remained silent, content to let their advocates argue their case. Luke glanced over at Jacen, who was continuing to create elegant swirls of light in his brain holo, and wished he were also free to ignore the argument. What he really wanted to be doing was looking for a slicer who could access that sequestered sector in R2-D2’s memory, but personal business would have to wait. The argument among the Masters was rapidly growing more heated.
Luke eased his way into the middle of the knot.
“Enough.” The tumult began to quiet, and he said, “This isn’t the time for discussion. We’re just here to have a look at Cilghal’s tests and listen to our Jedi Knights’ report.”
An embarrassed silence fell over the room as the Masters contemplated their outbursts, then Kyp flushed and dropped his chin. “I let my emotions carry me away. I apologize.”
“No need,” Corran said, slapping his shoulder. “We were all a little excited.”
“Master Skywalker is right,” Kyle added. “We’re just here to listen.”
“You haven’t listened to
me
yet.”
Jacen sounded as though he were less than a meter from the group. But when Luke turned around, he found only the image of his nephew’s brain floating above the holopad. Jacen himself remained seated in his relaxi-chair, eyes staring blankly out through the viewing window of his scanning hood.
“Okay, Jacen,” Luke said. “We’d be very interested in hearing your report.”
The hologram pulsed in a brilliant show of iridescent color, and the alpha line below it quivered in time to a deep, booming voice that was barely recognizable as Jacen’s.
“Killiks are dangerous friends, but no one’s enemy,” the brain said. “The true danger lies not in
what
the Jedi do, but in their failure to act at all.”
The effect was exactly what Jacen had intended. A thoughtful silence descended on the group, and the Masters’ gazes turned inward as they searched for the deeper meaning in Jacen’s words.
Luke walked over the control panel. “Very funny,” he said, switching it off. “Didn’t I tell you to stop playing with Cilghal’s brain mapper?”
Han and Leia were alone in the cockpit, sitting together in one chair, watching the opalescent nothingness of hyperspace slide silently past. The jump was a long one, and there was no reason for them both to spend it on watch. But the flight deck was the one place on the suddenly crowded
Falcon
to find some discreet time together, and—after the way things had ended with Jaina—Han was glad they had. Somehow, it helped to know that Leia was as frightened for Jaina as he was—that she, too, was determined to find out what Raynar really had planned for their daughter, to return to Qoribu the minute they could, and to put a stop to it.
“You’re in a better mood,” Leia said.
“Talking to you, I guess,” Han admitted. “How’d you know?”
“The humming. You never hum.”
“Humming?” Han frowned. “I’m not humming.”
“Really?” Leia cocked her head. “It certainly
sounds
like you are.”
Han spun the seat around until he was facing the same direction Leia had been, then he heard it—a faint, undulating purr.
“That’s not me.” Han jumped up, dumping Leia onto her feet. “It’s a coolant line!”
“A coolant line?” Leia slipped into the copilot’s chair and began calling up status displays. “What happened to the alarm?”
“Good question.” Han turned toward the back of the flight deck and started down the access corridor. “Disengage the hyperdrive and do a slow cool-down. I’ll see what I can find out back in systems.”
The hum grew steadily louder as Han advanced. By the time he entered the main cabin, it had risen to an irritating drone. He met the rest of his crew and passengers coming the other way. Cakhmaim and Meewalh were wide awake, but still pulling on their sleeveless robes. Alema and Juun were both bleary-eyed and dressed in their sleeping shifts, which, in Alema’s case, was considerably more than she wore when she was awake.
C-3PO was also present and, of course, fully alert. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the
Falcon
make a sound quite like this, Captain Solo. What is it?”
“Boiling coolant,” Juun said through a yawn. He stretched his arms. “The hyperdrive must be—” The Weariness vanished from the Sullustan’s bulbous eyes. “Bloah! The hyperdrive is overheating!”
A loud boom reverberated through the hull as the
Falcon
executed an emergency drop into realspace. The drone in the coolant lines became a loud, bubbling hiss.
Han pointed at Juun, then jerked a thumb toward the cockpit. “Take the navigator’s station and get a fix on where we are. Threepio, take the comm station in case we need to send an emergency hail. Everyone else, with me.”
Han led the way to the rear of the ship, then opened an access panel and peered in at the contorted tangle of valves and radiation-shielded conduits surrounding the unit itself. There was no need to ask for a thermoscanner to determine which lines were overheated. The lower inside conduit was bulging, glowing pale blue, and banging as if there were a profogg inside. Han activated the lighting and crawled into the sweltering cabinet, then traced the pipe up to the dark nook where it passed through the flow regulator. The diverter valve was stuck half closed, but Han could not see what had caused the malfunction—or why the sensor hadn’t sounded an alarm.
“Meewalh, get me some burn gloves and a face shield.”
Before he finished asking, the Noghri was passing the gloves and face shield into the cabinet.
As Han donned the equipment, Juun’s voice came over the intercom. “Captain Solo, I haven’t identified exactly where we are yet—”
“Well, keep working on it. I’m sure you can figure it out.” Han rolled his eyes. “Let me know when you do.”
“Of course,” Juun said. “But I thought I should report—”
“Look, I’m kind of busy here,” Han said. “So unless we’re under attack, hold the reports until you’re done.”
There was a moment of silence, then Juun asked, “Do you want me to wait until we’re
actually
under attack?”
“What?” Han turned, banging the side of his head on a strut. “Blast! What do you mean,
actually?”
“Han, it looks like we’re still in Colony territory,” Leia said, breaking in. “We’ve got a swarm of dartships coming.”
“Rodder!” Han nodded the Noghri toward the cannon turrets, then pulled on the second burn glove. “Okay, forget the cool-down. Recalculate the rest of the jump using three-quarter power and go. This shouldn’t take long.”
“You’ve found the problem?” Juun’s voice was full of awe. “Already?”
“Even better.” Han reached up to the regulator and shut down the damaged coolant line. “I’ve found a fix.”
When Han pulled himself out of the cabinet, Alema was frowning down at him with her lekku crossed over her chest.
“Don’t scowl at me,” he said. “It gives you wrinkles.”
The frown vanished at once. “Are you sure it’s necessary to take this kind of risk?” she asked. “Those dartships are only coming to greet us. Their nest might even be able to help us make repairs.”
“First, not all dartships are friendly.” Han passed her his face shield, then pulled off his burn gloves. “Second, Saba can’t wait for repairs—and maybe not Luke and Mara, either.”
“And third?”
“There is no third.”
“There’s always a third,” Alema said.
“Okay, third.” Han passed her the burn gloves and, as the
Falcon
slipped back into hyperspace, concluded, “I’m the captain. It’s safe if I say it is.”
Alema shrank back. “Okay—just asking,” she said. “Maybe we should check on Saba.”
“You go ahead,” Han said, wondering why the Twi’lek
thought he was needed to check on the Barabel.
Bugs and bug-lovers
, he thought,
you can’t trust either of ’em.
He had a sudden image of Jaina and Raynar rubbing forearms and shuddered. He closed the access panel and started forward. “I need to keep an eye on things in the cockpit.”
Han had barely stepped onto the flight deck when Juun reported, “We have to recalibrate the warp controller. The heat buildup caused a performance spike in the number two nacelle, and we veered off course by seven one-thousandths of a degree.”
“We don’t have time,” Han said. Recalibrating meant days of trial jumps, then he’d have to do it all again when they returned to the Galactic Alliance and repaired the problem. “Just run a compensation program.”
“A compensation program?” Juun was aghast. “But procedure mandates recalibration anytime—”
“It also mandates obeying the captain’s orders,” Han said, slipping into the pilot’s seat. “Just run the blasted program.”
Juun was silent for a moment, then asked in a subdued voice, “Was the malfunction anything I should account for?”
Han softened. “Good question.” He considered for a moment, mentally reviewing the entire coolant system in his mind. An
underactive
diverter could cause another performance spike, but probably not a closed one—especially not if the hyperdrive remained below maximum power. “I don’t think so.”
“You don’t
think
so?” Juun repeated. “Didn’t you identify the malfunction?”