Star Wars: The Jedi Academy Trilogy II: Dark Apprentice Page 3

  “New Republic shuttle, you are on the wrong course. This is an emergency. You must abort your landing.”

  With a shock Ackbar saw that the displayed coordinates had changed again. The B-wing did not respond as he fought the controls. The Cathedral of Winds grew larger every second.

  Cocking an eye to look through the upper rim of the domed viewport, Ackbar saw that one of the perpendicular wings had jammed at a severe angle, yielding maximum wind resistance. The angled wing slapped against the turbulence and jerked the starfighter to the left.

  His cockpit panels insisted that both wings had deployed properly, yet his own vision told him otherwise.

  Ackbar jabbed the controls again, trying to straighten the wing, to regain control. The bottom half of his body felt cold and tingly as he channeled reserves of energy into his mind and his hands on the control levers.

  “Something is very wrong here,” he said.

  Leia stared out the viewport. “We’re heading straight for the cathedral!”

  One of the aileron struts buckled and snapped from the plasteel hull, dragging power cables as it tore free. Sparks flew, and more hull plates ripped up.

  Ackbar strangled an outcry. Suddenly the control lights flickered and dimmed. He heard the grinding hum as his main cockpit panels went dead. He hit the second auxiliary backup he had personally designed into the B-wing.

  “I don’t understand it,” Ackbar said, his voice guttural in the confines of the cockpit. “This ship was just reconditioned. My own Calamarian mechanics were the only ones who touched it.”

  “New Republic shuttle,” the voice on the radio insisted.

  On the crystalline Cathedral of Winds, multicolored Vors scrambled down the sides, fleeing as they saw the craft hurtling toward them. Some of the creatures took flight, while others stared. Thousands of them were packed into the immense glassy structure.

  Ackbar hauled the controls to the right, to the left—anything to make the craft swerve—but nothing responded. All the power had died.

  He couldn’t raise or lower the ship’s wings. He was a large deadweight falling straight toward the cathedral. Desperately he hit the full battery reserves, knowing they could do nothing for the mechanical subsystems, but at least he could lock in a full-power crash shield around the B-wing.

  And before that, he could break Leia free to safety.

  “I’m sorry, Leia,” Ackbar said. “Tell them that I am sorry.” He punched a button on the control panel that cracked open the right side of the cockpit, splitting the hull and blasting free the tacked-on passenger seat.

  As it shot Leia into the clawlike winds, Ackbar heard the wind screech at him through the open cockpit. The crash shield hummed as he hurtled toward the great crystalline structure. The fighter’s engine smoldered and smoked.

  Ackbar stared straight ahead until the end, never blinking his huge Calamarian eyes.

  Leia found herself flying through the air. The blast of the ejection seat had knocked the breath out of her.

  She couldn’t even shout as the wind caught and spun her chair. The seat’s safety repulsorlifts held her like a gentle hand and slowly lowered her toward the whiplike strands of pale-hued grasses below.

  She looked up to see Ackbar’s B-wing shuttle in the last instant before it crashed. The starfighter smoked and whined as it plunged like a metal filing toward a powerful magnet.

  In a frozen moment she heard the loud, mournful fluting of winds whistling through thousands of crystalline chambers. The breeze picked up with a gust, making the music sound like a sudden gasp of terror. The winged Vors scrambled and attempted to flee, but most could not move quickly enough.

  Ackbar’s B-wing plowed into the lower levels of the Cathedral of Winds like a meteor. The booming impact detonated the crystalline towers into a hail of razor-edged spears that flew in all directions. The sound of tinkling glass, the roar of sharp broken pieces, the shriek of the wind, the screams of the slashed Vors—all combined into the most agonizing sound Leia had ever heard.

  The entire glasslike structure seemed to take forever to collapse. Tower after tower fell inward.

  The winds kept blowing, drawing somber notes from the hollow columns, changing pitch. The music became a thinner and thinner wail, until only a handful of intact wind tubes were left lying on their sides in the glassy rubble.

  As Leia wept with great sobs that seemed to tear her apart, the automatic escape chair gently drifted to the ground and settled in the whispering grasses.

  3

  The polar regions of Coruscant reminded Han Solo of the ice planet Hoth—with one crucial difference. Han was here by choice with his young friend Kyp Durron for a vacation while Leia went off with Admiral Ackbar on yet another diplomatic mission.

  Han stood atop the crumpled blue-white ice cliffs, feeling warm in his insulated charcoal-gray parka and red heater gloves. The ever-present auroras in the purplish skies sent rainbow curtains flickering and refracting off the ice. He drew in a deep breath of crackling cold air that seemed to curl his nostril hairs.

  He turned to Kyp beside him. “About ready to go, kid?”

  For the fifth time the dark-haired eighteen-year-old bent over to adjust the fastenings on his turbo-skis. “Uh, almost,” Kyp said.

  Han leaned forward to peer down the steep turbo-ski run of rippled ice, feeling a lump form in his throat but unwilling to show it.

  Blue and white glaciers shone in dim light from the months-long twilight. Below, ice-boring machines had chewed deep tunnels into the thick ice caps; other excavators had chopped broad terraces on the cliffs as they mined centuries-old snowpack, melting it with fusion furnaces to be delivered via titanic water pipelines to the dense metropolitan areas in the temperate zones.

  “You really think I can do this?” Kyp said, straightening and gripping his deflector poles.

  Han laughed. “Kid, if you can pilot us single-handed through a black hole cluster, I think you can handle a turbo-ski slope on the most civilized planet in the galaxy.”

  Kyp looked at Han with a smile in his dark eyes. The boy reminded Han of a young Luke Skywalker. Ever since Han had rescued Kyp from his slavery in the spice mines of Kessel, the young man had clung to him. After years of wrongful Imperial imprisonment, Kyp had missed the best years of his life. Han vowed to make up for that.

  “Come on, kid,” he said, leaning forward and igniting the motors of his turbo-skis. With thickly gloved hands Han held on to the deflector poles and flicked them on. He felt the cushioning repulsorfield emanating from each point, making the poles bob in the air to keep his balance.

  “You’re on,” Kyp said, and fired up his own skis. “But not the kiddie slope.” He turned from the wide ice pathway and pointed instead to a side run that branched off over several treacherous ledges, across the scabby ice of a rotten glacier, and finally over a frozen waterfall to a receiving-and-rescue area. Winking red laser beacons clearly marked the dangerous path.

  “No way, Kyp! It’s much too—” But Kyp launched himself forward and blasted down the slope.

  “Hey!” Han said. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach, sure he would have to pick up Kyp’s broken body somewhere along the path. But now he had no choice but to blast after the boy. “Kid, this is really a stupid thing to do.”

  Crystals of powdery snow sprayed behind Kyp’s turbo-skis as he bent forward, touching the ground at occasional intervals with his deflector poles. He kept his balance like an expert, intuitively knowing what to do. After only a second of the thundering descent, Han realized that Kyp might be more likely to survive this ride than he was.

  As Han rocketed down the slope, the snow and ice hissed beneath him like a jet of compressed air. Han hit a frozen outcropping that sent him flying, and he somersaulted through the air, flailing with his deflector poles. Stabilizer jets on his belt righted him just in time as he slammed into the snow again. He continued down the slope with the speed of a stampeding bantha.

  He squinted behin
d ice goggles, concentrating intensely on keeping himself upright. The landscape seemed too sharp—every razor-edged drift of snow, the glittering sheared-off face of ice—as if every single detail might be his last.

  Kyp let out a loud whoop of delight as he slewed left onto the dangerous offshoot turbo-ski path. The whoop echoed three times around the sharp-edged cliffs.

  Han began cursing the young man’s recklessness, then experienced a sudden inner warmth as he realized he had expected little else from Kyp. Making the best of it, Han let out an answering whoop of his own and turned to follow.

  Red laser beacons flared, warning and guiding the foolish turbo-skiers along the path. The rippled surface whispered beneath the soft cushioning fields of his turbo-skis.

  Ahead, the icy roadway seemed foreshortened and continued at a different elevation. Han realized the danger an instant before he reached the precipice. “Cliff!”

  Kyp bent low, as if he had simply become another component of his turbo-skis. He tucked his deflector poles close to his sides, then fired up the rear jets of his skis. He rocketed over the edge of the cliff, arcing down in a long smooth curve to the resumption of the trail.

  Barely in time, Han activated his own jets and launched himself over empty space. His stomach dropped even faster than gravity could tug him down. Wind ruffled the edges of his parka hood.

  In front of him Kyp landed smoothly without so much as a wobble and shot downslope.

  Han had time to take only one gulping breath as the plateau of ice rushed up to meet his turbo-skis with a loud crack. He gripped his deflector poles, desperate to maintain his balance.

  A powdery ribbon of drifted snow curled across their path. Kyp jammed down with his deflector poles, hopping up into the air and cleanly missing the drift—but Han plowed straight through.

  Snow flew into his goggles, blinding him. He wobbled and jabbed from side to side with his poles. He managed to swipe a gloved hand across his goggles just in time to swerve left and avoid smashing into a monolithic ice outcropping.

  Before he had recovered his balance, Han launched over a yawning chasm in the rotten glacier that fell out beneath him. For a timeless instant he stared down at a drop of about a million kilometers, and then he landed on the far side. Behind him, he heard a whump as a block of age-old snow lost its precarious grip on the wall and plunged into the crevasse.

  Ahead, Kyp encountered a blocky, rubble-strewn glacier field. More widely spaced now, the laser beacons seemed to give up and let foolhardy turbo-skiers choose their own path. Kyp wobbled as he struck hummocks of ice and snow. He raised the repulsorfield to skim higher over the surface.

  As the crusty glacier grew rougher, clogged with grainy blown snow, Han muttered complaints and curses through gritted teeth. He kept his balance somehow, but Kyp had lost ground. Han found himself breathing the boy’s wake, pushing closer and faster—and suddenly the race meant something to him again. Afterward, while sitting around in a cantina and swapping stories, he would somehow convince himself that the whole thing had been a great deal of fun.

  Feeling a bit of the recklessness he had just cursed Kyp for, Han pulsed the jets, lunging forward in an adrenaline-filled burst of speed that brought him side by side with Kyp.

  A snowfield sprawled in front of them, sparkling white and unsullied by other turbo-ski tracks—even though it had not snowed for more than a month in this arid frigid climate—demonstrating exactly how few people had been foolish enough to attempt the dangerous path.

  Ahead, the roped-off receiving-and-rescue area lay like a sanctuary: communications gear, warming huts, powered-down medical droids that could be reactivated at a moment’s notice, and an old hot-beverage shop that had long since gone out of business. Home free—they had made it!

  Kyp glanced sideways at him, his dark eyes crinkled at the corners. He crouched down and blasted his skis at full power. Han hunched over to decrease his air resistance. Pristine snow flew around him, hissing in his ears.

  The line of laser beacons switched off like metallic eyes blinking shut. Han had no time to wonder about it before the smooth blanket of snow ahead bulged, then sloughed inward.

  A crunching, grinding sound accompanied the straining of massive engines. Gouts of steam erupted from the collapsed snowfield as the glowing red nose of a mechanical thermal borer thrust into the open air. The screw-shaped tip continued to turn as it chewed its way out of the solid ice.

  “Look out!” Han yelled, but Kyp had already veered off to the left side, leaning hard on one deflector pole and jabbing at the air with his other. Han punched his stabilizing jets and streaked to the right as the mammoth ice-processing machine chewed the opening of its tunnel wider, clutching the walls with clawed tractor treads.

  Han skimmed past the gaping pit, feeling a blast of hot steam across his cheeks. His goggles fogged again, but he found his way to the steep ice waterfall, the final obstacle before the finish line. The edge of the precipice flowed with long tendrils of icicles like dangling cables that had built up over centuries during the brief spring thaws.

  Kyp launched himself over the edge of the frozen river, igniting both ski jets. Han did the same, tucking his poles against his ribs, watching the packed snow fly up to strike the bottoms of his skis with a loud slap that echoed along the ice fields in unison with the sound of Kyp’s landing.

  They both charged forward, then slewed to a stop in front of the cluster of prefab huts. Kyp peeled down the hood of his parka and started laughing. Han held on to his deflector poles, feeling his body tremble with relief and an overdose of excitement. Then he, too, began chuckling.

  “That was really stupid, kid,” Han managed at last.

  “Oh?” Kyp shrugged. “Who was stupid enough to follow me? After the spice mines of Kessel, I wouldn’t consider a little turbo-ski slope too dangerous. Hey, maybe we could ask Threepio to tell us the odds of successfully negotiating that slope when we get back.”

  Han shook his head and gave a lopsided grin. “I’m not interested in odds. We did it. That’s what counts.”

  Kyp stared across the frozen distance. His eyes seemed to follow the arrow-straight lines of nonreflective water conduits ringed with pressure joints and pumping stations.

  “I’m glad we’ve had so much fun, Han,” he said, staring into something only he seemed to see. “I’ve done a lifetime’s worth of healing since you rescued me.”

  Han felt uncomfortable at the thick emotion he heard in Kyp’s voice. He tried to lighten the mood. “Well, kid, you had as much to do with our escape as I did.”

  Kyp didn’t seem to hear. “I’ve been thinking about what Luke Skywalker said when he found my ability to use the Force. I only know a little bit about it, but it seems to be calling me. I could do a huge service to the New Republic. The Empire ruined my life and destroyed my family—I wouldn’t mind getting a chance to strike back.”

  Han swallowed, knowing what the boy was trying to say. “So you think you’re ready to go study with Luke and the other Jedi trainees?”

  Kyp nodded. “I’d rather stay here and have fun for the rest of my life, but—”

  Han said in a soft voice, “You deserve it, you know.”

  But Kyp shook his head. “I think it’s time I start taking myself seriously. If I do have this gift of using the Force, I can’t let it go to waste.”

  Han gripped the young man’s shoulder and squeezed hard, feeling Kyp’s rangy frame through his bulky gloves. “I’ll see that you get a good flight to Yavin 4.”

  The whirring hum of repulsorlifts broke the quiet moment. Han looked up as a messenger droid approached, streaking like a chromium projectile over the ice fields. The droid arrowed straight for them.

  Han muttered, “If that’s a representative from the turbo-ski resort, I’m going to file a complaint about that ice-mining machine. We could have been killed.”

  But as the messenger droid hovered over them, lowering itself to Han’s eye level, it snapped open a scanning panel and
spoke in a genderless monotone. “General Solo, please confirm identification. Voice match will be sufficient.”

  Han groaned. “Aww, I’m on vacation. I don’t want to bother with any diplomatic mess right now.”

  “Voice match confirmed. Thank you,” the droid said. “Prepare to receive encoded message.”

  The droid hovered as it projected a holographic image onto the clean snow. Han recognized the auburn-haired figure of Mon Mothma. He straightened in surprise—the Chief of State rarely communicated with him directly.

  “Han,” Mon Mothma said in a quiet, troubled voice. He noticed immediately that she had called him by his first name instead of his more formal rank. A fist of sudden dread clenched his stomach.

  “I’m sending you this message because there has been an accident. Admiral Ackbar’s shuttle crashed on the planet Vortex. Leia was with him, but she’s safe and unharmed. The admiral ejected her to safety before his ship flew out of control, directly into a large cultural center. Admiral Ackbar managed to power up his crash shields, but the entire structure was destroyed. So far at least 358 Vors are confirmed dead in the wreckage.

  “This is a tragic day for us, Han. Come home to Imperial City. I think Leia might need you as soon as she returns.” Mon Mothma’s image wavered, then dissolved into staticky snowflakes that faded in the air.

  The messenger droid said, “Thank you. Here is your receipt.” It spat out a tiny blue chit that landed in a puff of snow at Han’s feet.

  Han stared as the droid turned and streaked back toward the base camp. He squashed the blue chit into the snow with the base of his turbo-ski. He felt sick. The excitement he had just experienced, all the joy with Kyp, had evaporated, leaving only a leaden dread inside him.

  “Come on, Kyp. Let’s go.”

  See-Threepio thought that if his fine-motor control had allowed it, his entire golden body would be chattering with cold. His internal thermal units were no match for the frozen polar regions of Coruscant.