Heirs of the Force Page 10

  Jaina froze, raising her hands in surrender.

  They couldn't possibly hide fast enough.

  Jacen climbed to his feet and stood next to his sister, brushing himself

  off. The TIE pilot took two steps toward them, encased in battered

  armor and wearing an expression of ic@ anger.

  "Don't move," he said, "or you will die, Rebel scum."

  His black pilot armor was scuffed and worn from his long exile in the

  jungles. The Imperial's crippled left arm was stiff like a droid's,

  encased in an armored gauntlet of black leather. He had been severely

  hurt, but it appeared to be an old injury that had long ago healed,

  though improperly. The pilot was a hard-bitten old warrior. His eyes

  were haunted as he stared at Jaina.

  "You are my prisoners." He motioned with the old-model blaster pistol

  that was gripped in his twisted, gloved hand.

  "Put down the blaster," Jaina said quietly, soothingly, using everything

  she knew of Jedi persuasion techniques. "You don't need it."

  Her uncle Luke had told them how Obi-Wan Kenobi had used Jedi mind

  tricks to scramble the thoughts of weak-minded Imperials.

  "Put down the blaster," she said again in a rich, gentle voice.

  Jacen knew exactly what his sister was doing. "Put down the blaster,"

  he repeated.

  The two of them said it one more time in an echoing, overlapping voice.

  They tried to send peaceful thoughts, soothing thoughts into the TIE

  pilot's mind . . . just as Jacen had done to calm his crystal snake.

  The TIE pilot shook his grizzled head and narrowed his haunted eyes. The

  blaster wavered just a little, dropping down only a notch.

  Why isn't it working? Jaina thought desperately. "Put down the

  blaster," she said again, more insistently. But inside the Imperial

  fighter's mind she ran up against a wall of thoughts so rigid, so

  black-and-white, so clear-cut, that it seemed like droid programming.

  Suddenly the pilot straightened and glared at them through those bleak,

  haunted eyes.

  "Surrender is betrayal," he said, like a memorized lesson.

  Jacen, seeing their chance slipping away, reached out with his mind and

  yanked at the weapon with mental brute force.

  "Get the blaster!" he whispered. Jaina helped him tug with the Force,

  reaching for the old weapon in the pilot's grip. But the armored glove

  was wrapped so tightly around it that the black gauntlet seemed fastened

  to the blaster handle. The handgrip of the obsolete weapon caught on

  the glove, and the TIE pilot grabbed it with his other hand, pointing

  the barrel directly at the twins.

  "Stop with your Jedi tricks," he said coldly.

  "If you continue to resist I will execute you both." 8 Knowing that the

  pilot needed only to depress the firing stud-much more quickly than they

  could ever mind-wrestle the blaster away from him-Jacen and Jaina let

  their hands fall to their sides, relaxing and ceasing their struggles.

  Just then a buzzing, roaring sound crashed through the canopy above-a

  wound-up engine noise, growing louder.

  t'It's Lowie!" Jacen cried.

  The T-23 plunged through the branches overhead in a crackling explosion

  of shattered twigs, plowing toward the crash site at full speed, like a

  charging bantha.

  "What's he trying to do?" Jacen asked, quietly. "He doesn't have any

  weapons on board!"

  "He might distract the pilot," Jaina said.

  "Give us a chance to escape."

  But the armored Imperial soldier stood his ground at the center of the

  clearing, spreading his legs for balance and assuming a practiced firing

  stance. He pointed his blaster at the oncoming air speeder,

  unflinching.

  Jaina knew that if the blaster bolt breached the small repulsorlift

  reactor, the entire vehicle would explode-killing Lowbacca, and perhaps

  all of them.

  Lowbacca brought the T-23 forward as if he meant to ram the TIE pilot.

  The desperate Imperial soldier aimed at the T-23s engine core and

  squeezed the firing stud.

  "No!" Jaina cried, and nudged with her mind at the last instant. Using

  the Force, she shoved the TIE pilot's arm and knocked his aim off by

  just a fraction of a degree. The bright blaster bolt screeched out and

  danced along the metal hull of the repulsorlift pods.

  The engine casings melted at the side, spilling coolant and fuel.

  Gray-blue smoke boiled up. The sound of the T-23 became stuttered and

  sick as its engines faltered.

  Lowie pulled up in the pilot's seat, swerving to keep from crashing into

  the Massassi trees. He could barely fly the badly damaged craft.

  "Go, Lowie!" Jacen whispered. "Get out while you can."

  "Eject! Before it blows!" Jaina cried.

  But Lowbacca somehow managed to gain altitude, spinning around the huge

  trees and climbing toward the canopy again. His engines smoked,

  trailing a stream of foulsmelling exhaust that curled the jungle leaves

  and turned them brown.

  "He won't get far," the Imperial pilot said in a raw monotone. "He is as

  good as dead."

  Although the T-23 was out of sight now, far above them in the jungle

  treetops, Jaina could still hear the engine coughing, failing, and then

  picking up again as the battered craft limped away. The sounds carried

  well i@ the jungle silence. The repulsorlift engine faded in the

  distance, its ion afterburners popping and sputtering-until finally,

  there was silence again.

  The TIE pilot, his expression still stony, -----------------gestured

  with the blaster pistol. "Come with me, prisoners. If you resist this

  time, you will die."

  LOWBACCA WRESTLED WITH the T-23, trying to control its erratic flight as

  it lurched across the treetops.

  Thick, knotted smoke trailed in a stuttering plume from his starboard

  repulsor engine. Lowie risked a quick glance to his right again to

  assess the damage. No flames, but the situation was grim enough. The

  lateafternoon air currents were turbulent and threatened to capsize the

  skyhopper.

  The T-23 jolted and dipped. Once, it bounced against some upraised

  branches, which scraped like long fingernails against the ship's lower

  foils and bottom hull, but Lowbacca managed to wrench the T-23 back on

  course. He was a good pilot; he would make it back to the academy and

  bring help, no matter what it took. He didn't know what had happened to

  Tenel Ka-if she was all right, or if the TIE pilot had captured her by

  now as well. For all he knew, Lowbacca was the only hope for rescue for

  his three friends.

  His heart pounded painfully and his eyes stung from the chemical smoke

  that leaked into the cockpit. He noticed a sour, noxious smell, and his

  head began to swim.

  "Master Lowbacca," Em Teedee said, "my sensors indicate that significant

  quantities of fumes have entered,the cockpit."

  Lowbacca gave a growl of annoyance. Did the little droid think that his

  sharp sense of smell hadn't picked that up?

  "Well, no," Em Teedee rushed on, "it may not be dangerous yet, but if we

  begin to lose airspeed, less smoke will be drawn away. The airborne

  toxi
ns could reach potentially lethal levels"-the droid raised his

  volume slightly for emphasis-"even for a Wookiee."

  The., speeder gave a shuddering jolt, scraping against branches again.

  With grim determination Lowbacca pulled up. The T-23 was even harder to

  manage now. He wasn't sure how long he could last.

  But he had to make it. He couldn't leave his friends in danger.

  The T-23 shuddered and dipped. Lowbacca wheezed, laboring to pull air

  into his lungs.

  As if in response to his effort, the starboard engine coughed and

  sputtered.

  And died.

  Using all of his piloting skills, Lowie fought to steady the craft in

  its wobbling descent.

  The thick, deceptively soft-looking canopy rushed up at him, and the

  T-23 came to a crunching halt in a blizzard of leaves and twigs. Like a

  wounded avian, it lay nestled on the treetops, its right lower wing

  buried in the foliage. The left engine still chugged, but smoke

  billowed up from the damaged engine below, pouring into the cockpit now.

  Lowbacca's head reeled with the impact, but he knew he had to get out.

  He fumbled with his crash restraints, trying to unfasten them. His

  vision was blurred from the acrid smoke, and he gagged at the stench.

  Confusion made his fingers clumsy.

  Finally, with a burst of determination he yanked on the straps until,

  loosened by I the crash, they tore away. Two of the restraints came

  free in his hands, and he wriggled out of the remaining webbing.

  Still no flames, Lowbacca noted with relief as he scrambled from the

  cockpit and distanced himself from the smoking T-23. Lowbacca gasped in

  deep lungfuls of the fresh, humid air of Yavin 4. As he worked his way

  across the treetops in the gathering dusk, one knee ached from where it

  had banged against the controls during the crash.

  But he had no time to think about that. His first rescue attempt might

  have failed, but he had not failed yet. There were always options. He

  had to get back to the academy.

  In his hurried scramble through the upper branches, Lowbacca did not

  notice when Em Teedee's clip broke at his waist.

  The tiny droid fell with a thin wail into the forest below.

  Dusk deepened into the full darkness of the jungle night. Swarms of

  nocturnal creatures awakened, beginning to hunt-but still Lowbacca

  pressed on.

  Common sense had forced him to travel below the canopy, descending to a

  level where all of the branches were of a sufficient length and

  sturdiness to support him as he transferred his agile bulk from one tree

  to the next. Sometimes when he began to tire, or when his injured knee

  threatened to give way beneath him, Lowbacca relied on his powerful arms

  instead, swinging from branch to branch, using his keen Wookiee night

  vision in the murky shadows.

  But he never stopped to rest. He could rest later.

  Right now all of his senses were as finely tuned as a medical droid's

  laser beam. The pads of his feet and his acute sense of smell helped

  him to avoid decaying patches or slippery growths on the tree branches

  as he walked. His sharp hearing could distinguish between the sounds of

  wind through the leaves and the rustling of nocturnal animals as they

  stalked the jungle heights. For the most part, he managed to stay clear

  of them.

  Lowbacca did not fear the darkness or the jungle. The jungles of

  Kashyyyk held far greater dangers-and he had faced those and survived.

  He remembered playing late-night games in the forest with his cousins

  and friends: races through the upper trees, jumping and swinging

  competitions, daring expeditions to the dangerous lower regions to test

  each other's courage, and the usual rites of passage that marked a

  Wookiee youth's transition into adulthood.

  As he pushed through a dense clump of growth, a twig snagged Lowie's

  webbed belt, and he yanked it free. The feel of the intricately braided

  strands beneath his fingers reminded him of the night when he had won

  his belt, of his dangerous rite of passage.

  He remembered. . . .

  He felt his heart race with excitement as he descended toward the jungle

  floor that night long ago. Lowie had been down that far only twice

  before, when he had attended the rites of other friends, as was

  customary; there was strength in numbers when they sought to harvest the

  long, silky strands from the center of the deadly syren plant.

  But Lowbacca had chosen to go alone, preferring to meet the challenge of

  the voracious syren plant using his own wits rather than borrowed

  muscles.

  The night on Kashyyyk had been cool and dank. The profusion of

  screeches, chirps, growls, and croaks had been overwhelming.

  When he'd reached the lowest branches, Lowie had cinched the strap of

  his knapsack tighter and began his hunt.

  With every sense fully alert, Lowbacca had moved stealthily from branch

  to branch until he caught the alluring scent of a wild syren plant. With

  sure instinct he'd followed the distinctive odor, feeling a mixture of

  anticipation and dread, until he squatted on the branch directly above

  the plant. He leaned over to study his stationary, but incredibly

  vicious, quarry.

  The huge syren blossom consisted of two glossy oval petals of bright

  yellow, seamed in the center and supported by a mottled, bloody red

  stalk, twice as thick around as the sturdy tree limb on which Lowbacca

  sat.

  From the center of the open blossom spread a tuft of long white glossy

  fibers that emitted a broad spectrum of pheromones, scents to attract

  any unwary creature.

  The beauty of the gigantic flower was intentionally deceptive, for any

  creature lured close enough to touch the sensitive inner flesh of the

  blossom would trigger the plant's lethal reflexes, and the petal jaws

  would close over the victim and begin its digestive cycle.

  Alone, Lowbacca intended to harvest the glittering strands of the plant

  from the center of the flower-without springing the trap.

  Traditionally, a few strong friends would hold the flower open while the

  young Wookiee scrambled to the treacherous center of the blossom,

  harvested the lustrous strands of sweetly scented fiber, and quickly

  made an escape. But even this assistance was no guarantee. Occasionally

  young Wookiees still lost limbs as the carnivorous plant clamped down on

  a slow-moving arm or leg.

  Performing the task by himself, though, Lowie had needed to be extra

  careful. He had removed the knapsack from his hairy back and extracted

  its contents: a face mask, a sturdy rope, a thin cord, and a collapsible

  vibroblade. He'd placed the mask over his nose and mouth to filter out

  the syren's seductive scents. He knew that the pheromones could produce

  an almost overpowering desire to linger or to touch-and he could afford

  no mistakes.

  Working quickly, enveloped by sinister night sounds, he had fashioned a

  short length of thin cord into a loose slipknot, then formed a loop to

  make a sort of seat for' himself in the sturdy, longer rope. Passing

  the free end of the long ro
pe over a branch directly above the syren

  plant, he'd gathered up the slack in one hand, slid off the limb, and

  lowered himself with muscular arms.

  Lowic had positioned himself as close as he dared to the gently

  undulating petals of the hungry syren blossom, an arm's length from the

  tantalizing tuft. He'd gripped the end of the long rope in his strong

  jaws to hold himself in place and free his hands. Then, using the loop

  of thin cord to lasso the tuft of precious fibers, he'd pulled himself

  close enough to slice them loose with his vibroblade. With a triumphant

  growl he'd jerked his prize toward himself, trapped the bundle against

  his body with one hairy arm, and stuffed the fiber into his knapsack.

  In his excitement, however, the rope had slipped from his teeth. The

  trailing end uncoiled, dangled precariously, and then brushed one glossy

  petal of the deadly flower below.

  With a surge of gut-wrenching terror, Lowbacca had grabbed the tied end

  of rope and hauled himself upward as the syren's jaws snapped shut. The

  petals just grazed one foot as they closed with an ominous slurp and a

  backwash of wind.

  He had earned this fiber, Lowie thought, every strand of it, enough to

  make a special belt, which he always wore afterward.

  Exhaustion sank its claws into every muscle as Lowbacca made his way