Dark Journey (4 page)

“What do you mean?” he said cautiously.

“Oh, come on. You were there. You heard Jacen obsessing over Anakin’s motives and methods, trying to make him question himself at every step and turn. You saw what happens when Jedi stop focusing on
what
we’re doing to quibble about
how
and
why
.”

A small, humorless smile touched her face. “It’s like
the old story about the millitile who could walk just fine until someone asked how he kept track of all those legs. Once he started thinking about it, he couldn’t walk at all. Most likely he ended up as some hawk-bat’s dinner.”

“Jaina, you can’t blame Jacen for what happened to Anakin!”

“I don’t,” she said quickly. Since this was Zekk, she added, “At least, not entirely.”

“And you can’t blame yourself for Jacen, either.”

That, she wasn’t ready to concede and didn’t care to discuss.

“I was working my way toward a point,” she told him. “Jacen was distracted by this nebulous vision of a Jedi ideal. And you were distracted by your fear of the two Dark Jedi we freed.”

“For good reason. They took off and left us. They hurt Lowbacca and kidnapped Raynar. For all we know, they’ve killed him.”

“They’ll answer for all of that. Can I make my point?”

One corner of Zekk’s lips quirked upward. “I was wondering when you’d get around to it.”

The wry comment was so familiar, so
normal
. For a fleeting moment, Jaina remembered who they’d been just a few years ago—a fearless, confident survivor and a girl who ran toward adventure with heedless joy.

Two more casualties of the Yuuzhan Vong.

“It’s like this,” she said quietly. “For the last two years I’ve listened to Anakin and Jacen debate the role of the Jedi and our relationship to the Force. In the end, what did any of that amount to?”

Zekk leaned forward and rested one hand on her shoulder. She shook him off before he could speak empty words of consolation, or repeat cyclic arguments she’d heard too many times between Kyp Durron and her uncle Luke.

“Anakin started to figure it out,” she went on. “I sensed it in him after Yavin Four. He learned something there the rest of us don’t know, something that could have made all the difference, if only he’d had time to figure it all out. If there is such a thing as destiny, I think that was Anakin’s. He has always been different. Special.”

“Of course. He was your brother.”

“He is—” She broke off abruptly, shook off the stab of grief, and made the necessary adjustment. “He was more than that.”

Jaina took time to consider her next words. She wasn’t introspective by nature; this had been in her mind since Anakin’s exploits on Yavin 4, and she still couldn’t get her hands around it.

“With Anakin’s death I lost a brother, but the Jedi lost something I can’t begin to define. My feelings tell me it’s something important, something we lost a very long time ago.”

For a long moment Zekk was silent. “Maybe so. But we have the Force, and each other.”

Simple words, but with a layer of personal meaning offered like a gift, if only Jaina chose to take it.

“Each other,” she echoed softly. “But for how long, Zekk? If the Jedi keep having ‘successes’ like this last mission, pretty soon there won’t be any of us left.”

He nodded, accepting her evasion as if he’d expected it. “At least we’re going home.”

She managed a faint smile, and privately marked yet another difference between her friend’s perceptions and her own. Zekk had been born on Ennta and was brought to Coruscant when he was eight years old. He made his own way in the rough lower levels of the city-planet. Jaina’s parents had kept living quarters in the city’s prestigious towers for most of her life, but she had spent surprisingly
little of her eighteen years amid Coruscant’s artificial stars.

To Jaina, Coruscant wasn’t home. It was merely the next logical move on the dejarik board.

Within the confines of his XJX-wing, Kyp Durron stretched his lanky form as best he could. He settled back into the groove he’d worn into the seat over the course of two years and more battles than he would ever admit to fighting.

“How many
has
it been?” he wondered aloud.

A light on his console flashed, signaling a communication from Zero-One, the battered Q9 droid Kyp had recently bought cheap from the estate of a Mon Calamari philosopher.

IS THIS A REQUEST FOR DATA OR A RHETORICAL QUESTION?

Kyp smiled briefly and shoved a hand through his too-long dark hair. “Great. Now even droids are questioning my motives.”

NOT AT ALL. IN GENERAL, THE DISCUSSION OF PHILOSOPHY IS READILY DISCERNIBLE FROM A CALL TO ACTION.

“I’ve noticed that,” he said dryly.

TO AVOID FUTURE MISUNDERSTANDING, HOWEVER, PERHAPS YOU SHOULD GIVE DIRECT ORDERS IN SECOND PERSON IMPERATIVE; FOR EXAMPLE, “SET COORDINATES FOR THE ABREGADO SYSTEM,” OR “DIVERT POWER TO THE REAR SHIELDS.”

“How about ‘Report to the maintenance bay for a personality graft?’ ” Kyp supplied helpfully.

A moment passed. IS THAT AN ORDER OR AN INSULT?

“Whatever works.”

Kyp left Zero-One to ponder this and turned his attention to the task ahead. He took point position. On either side of his X-wing flew six pristine XJ fighters. These were Kyp’s Dozen, the newest members of an ever-shifting fellowship of heroes or rogues or villains, depending upon whom you asked.

Kyp checked the navigation screen for their bearings. “Still playing philosopher, Zero-One?”

I FAIL TO COMPREHEND THE UNDERLYING SEMANTIC MEANING OF YOUR QUERY.

“It was what you might call ‘a hint.’ Stop gazing at your … central interface terminal and tend to astronavigation. We should be coming up on our hyperspace coordinates before long.”

AS I AM WELL AWARE. IT IS POSSIBLE TO THINK AND ACT AT THE SAME TIME, the droid responded.

“Apparently you haven’t attended any of the recent Jedi meetings,” Kyp said.

YOU ARE THE ONLY JEDI WITH WHOM I INTERFACE. UNFORTUNATELY, I WAS NOT PROGRAMMED TO EXPERIENCE GRATITUDE.

Kyp grinned fleetingly. “Was that a non sequitur or an insult?”

WHATEVER WORKS.

“I take less abuse from the Vong,” Kyp complained as he switched his comm to the designated open channel.

“Not long now, Dozen. Our primary mission is to protect the ship carrying the Jedi scientists. We’re flying in groups of four. Each lieutenant will name command targets. I’ll assess the situation once we emerge in Coruscant space and revise our strategy as needed.”

“Hard to believe that Skywalker’s Jedi are finally getting off their thumbs,” observed Ian Rim, Kyp’s latest lieutenant.

“You’re forgetting about Anakin Solo,” put in Veema, a plump and pretty woman who was edging into her fifth decade of life. Kyp liked her—at least, as much as he allowed himself to care personally about any of his pilots. Her sense of fun was legendary among certain circles, and her warm, inviting smile had probably started more tavern brawls than a bad-tempered Gamorrean. Anyone who crossed Veema, however, soon realized that she had dimples of duracrete and a talent for holding grudges that a Hutt might envy.

“Last I heard, Anakin went to the Yavin system, alone, against orders from Skywalker
and
Borsk Fey’lya,” Veema continued. She let out a sound halfway between a sigh and a purr. “Young, handsome, reckless, and maybe a little stupid—definitely my kind of man! Care to introduce us, Kyp?”

“Why should I? I’ve nothing against the kid.”

“He’s not the only one taking action,” observed Octa Ramis, the only other Jedi in Kyp’s group. A somber woman whose solid frame spoke of her origin on a high-gravity world, Octa had been shifting to an increasingly militant position for some time. She was the first Jedi to join forces with Kyp—that is, if you didn’t count Jaina Solo’s temporary and Force-assisted cooperation at Sernpidal.

“I heard about a few hotheaded Jedi who take, shall we say, a very proactive approach to the Peace Brigade,” Ian Rim said.

“What if they do?” Octa said, snarling. “Who cares what happens to those Sith-spawned cowards? Jedi for Jedi—I’ve no quarrel with that!”

“But others do,” Kyp observed with a sigh. “I know
the three Ian’s talking about. Maybe I should try to reel them in a bit.”

He switched off the comm and addressed his astromech droid. “What would that make me, Zero-One—the voice of reason?”

I AM NOT PROGRAMMED TO APPRECIATE IRONY.

“Bring on the Vong,” Kyp muttered as he switched back to his squadron.

“Talk to me, Dozen.”

“For highest kill count, I’ve got two credits on Veema,” Ian Rim offered. “No one can go through males of any species like she can!”

The woman’s laughter tinkled, but Kyp heard the edge beneath the shimmering sound. “Better plan on using some of your winnings to buy me a drink.”

“You’re on. Anyone else want to get in on this?”

The chatter flowed over Kyp, fading into perceived static as he reached out with the Force, trusting his instincts and emotions to take him through the coming battle, as they had so many times before.

“You’re pretty quiet, Kyp,” a disembodied voice observed.

“Only on the outside.”

He spoke without thinking. His comment was met with a moment’s silence, then some uncertain laughter. None of the pilots had actually seen Kyp’s darker side unleashed, but all of them had heard stories. No one dared speak of what he’d been, and what he’d done.

But it was always there.

“Five credits on Octa,” Kyp said lightly. “And if you beat Veema’s score by more than three, Octa, I’ll throw in Zero-One as a bonus.”

“I’ll keep the margin down to two,” Octa said somberly.

The Q9 unit let out an indignant bleep. This drew a burst of genuine laughter—partly because Octa’s riposte
broke the sudden tension, and partly because every pilot in the squadron recognized her humor as unintentional.

Most commanders Kyp knew wanted their pilots silent and focused as they approached battle. Kyp encouraged banter. It kept their minds occupied and allowed emotions to rise to the surface. He didn’t know of any pilots—not live ones, anyway—who
thought
their way through a battle. The speed and ferocity of ship-to-ship combat was a matter of instinct, reflex, and luck. No one would ever mistake Han Solo for a philosopher, and he’d been flying longer and better than anyone Kyp knew.

When it came right down to it, what was there to think about? The Yuuzhan Vong had to be stopped: it was that simple. After today’s fight was over, let the dithering old folks debate how the enemy had managed to move on Coruscant. He’d be off fighting the next battle.

Kyp glanced at the navigation panel and gave the order to go to lightspeed. Once the jump was complete, he settled down into the silence and darkness. With a discipline born partly of the Force, partly from long experience as a pilot, he willed himself to snatch a bit of sleep while he could.

He awakened abruptly as sensors announced the coming emergence from hyperspace. Stars flared into existence, and every light on his control panel came alive.

The Jedi glanced at the multitude of flashing icons on his display, each representing an enemy skip. “Trying to tell me something, Zero-One?”

EXPERIENTIAL DATA INDICATE THAT YOU DO NOT APPRECIATE SUBTLETY.

If anything, the droid had erred on the side of understatement. With a surge of dismay, Kyp realized he was leading his pilots into a maelstrom.

The skies over Coruscant strobed and burned. Ships of every size and description hurtled away from the doomed
world. A vast Yuuzhan Vong fleet awaited them. A few escaped, aided more by the general chaos than any coordinated defense. There was no sign of the Jedi wing.

The Dozen swept in, holding their wedge-shaped formation. The only sign of their consternation was the silence coming from the open comm.

One of the Dozen, an early XJ prototype in pristine condition, dipped out of formation and started lagging behind like a distracted toddler.

Kyp frowned. “Five, acknowledge.”

The ship swiftly moved back into place. “Five here.”

The voice was ridiculously young—a boyish growl that had yet to achieve a genuine baritone. The pilot, Chem, was the son of a wealthy diplomat, a collector who’d filled a small warehouse with gleaming, never-flown ships. On his fourteenth birthday, Chem stole his mother’s favorite ship and set out to track down Kyp’s Dozen. He hadn’t asked for admission—just followed the squadron around from one mission to another. After several standard months, and the loss and replacement of more pilots than Kyp cared to count, he’d taken Chem on as a regular. Since then, the kid had vaped seven Vong coralskippers and squandered his inheritance on such frivolous things as new XJs, concussion missiles, and fuel.

“Keep focused, Five. I’d hate to see you get a scratch on that showpiece of yours,” Kyp admonished lightly.

“So would I, sir. Under those circumstances, I’d rather face the warmaster himself than the ship’s rightful owner.”

“Copy that,” Ian Rim broke in. “I used to keep company with Chem’s mother. You thought the Vong were mean and ugly?”

“She speaks well of you, too,” Chem retorted without missing a beat. “Or at least of your flying skills. Says if you’d stuck to it, you could have been the best nerf herder on Corellia.”

Kyp chuckled at the idea of the hotshot pilot sputtering along on a ponderous herding sled—an image that made
nerf herder
such a potent insult. The short exchange broke some of the tension he sensed in each of his pilots. All but one. A deep sense of unease remained in the youngest pilot.

He switched to a private channel. “Problems, Five?”

There was a moment of silence. “The lights are going out, sir.
Coruscant
’s lights.”

The Jedi nodded in understanding. Far below, the eternal, never-sleeping city-planet was fading into darkness, facing its first true night since time out of mind. Yuuzhan Vong drop ships, big as mountains, blotted out vast portions of cityscape as they settled down to the business of slaughter. Blastboat analogs spewed molten rock hot enough to melt the glittering towers into dark slag heaps. Enemy transports spat out coralskippers like obscenities. The rocklike ships whirled in a deadly dance, a meteor swarm choreographed by some unseen, malevolent power.