Dark Journey (7 page)

“You’re the captain,” his sister-in-law replied.

Leia’s face cleared suddenly as she understood the path his thoughts were taking. “Jaina? In that enemy ship?”

“One way to find out.”

Han fired a missile at the frigate, waiting a hair’s breadth longer than he had with Kyp. The Yuuzhan Vong ship rolled deftly aside as if the pilot had been expecting
the attack. Han’s missile struck one of the skips that trailed protectively in its wake. A shielding singularity swallowed the first assault, but Mara finished the job with a quick one–two attack.

“That’s Jaina,” Han said firmly. “Thousands of pilots can get from here to there in an X-wing, but how many could make a hunk of rock twirl like a Twi’lek dancing girl?”

“Han—”

“Two,” he stated, answering his own question. “And I’m the other one.”

Still dubious, Leia turned to the Force for confirmation. Again she reached out to Jaina. Again she perceived not the vivid, impetuous energy she’d always associated with her daughter, but a storm-cloud presence—cool, impending, pitiless.

Leia frowned. Anger led to the dark side. She had heard this so many times. Yet the emotions that rolled off her daughter were disturbingly familiar, and very like Leia’s perception of her own father—not the spectral Anakin Skywalker who had begged her forgiveness, but his earlier, living incarnation as Darth Vader.

Never had Leia considered the possibility that Jaina, the most pragmatic and least complicated of her children, might slip into darkness. She reached for Jaina again, more insistently. Through the Force she sensed her daughter’s rejected pain, her carefully shielded emotions—and her unacknowledged thirst for revenge. It occurred to Leia that ice could be as deadly as fire.

If this insight proved true, then she’d lost another of her children, this time to something more terrible than death.

“Decide,” Han said tersely. “The Yuuzhan Vong could blame that frigate’s maneuver on the scrambled yammosk, but sooner or later Jaina’s gonna have to pick a side.”

She quickly shook off her fears and switched the comm to hailing frequency. “This is Leia Organa Solo aboard the
Millennium Falcon
. The Yuuzhan Vong frigate nearby is under the command of my daughter, Lieutenant Jaina Solo. Her Yuuzhan Vong escort does not realize this. Hold your fire, and we’ll see that the frigate escapes, and the coralskippers do not.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then the pursuing X-wings pulled away.

The intercom crackled. “Leia, are you sure about this?” Mara asked. “I hate to admit it, but I don’t feel Jaina out there.”

She glanced at Han, who nodded. “We’re sure.”

The Yuuzhan Vong frigate, its way clear, shot off in rapid acceleration and disappeared into hyperspace. The
Falcon
followed, taking the short jump Leia had programmed.

Han’s shoulders slumped. His hand found hers, claimed it. “We did the right thing, didn’t we? I mean, letting a potential enemy go?”

The unwitting implication of his words nearly broke Leia’s heart. She met her husband’s eyes and read the rare moment of self-doubt written there.

“That was Jaina,” she asserted, both answering and avoiding his question.

His gaze sharpened. “Then why do you look so worried?”

For a moment Leia was tempted to share her doubts, to see if they might dissipate if given voice. But if she was wrong, planting this seed in Han’s mind would be selfish, even cruel. She would never accuse Han of favoritism, but Jaina had always been the child he understood best, the one who’d taken straight after him in talents and tastes, the kid who’d taken every opportunity to follow him around. Han would grieve terribly if Jaina were taken from them by this war, but he had lost others
in battle and he could come to terms with it in time. This, though—this he could never comprehend.

“Well?” Han prompted. “What’s wrong?”

Leia settled on a partial truth. “Jacen wasn’t with Jaina. I can still sense him,” she added hastily, “but he wasn’t with her.”

Han nodded, taking this in. “Then we’ll have to trust them both to find their way back.”

She blinked, startled again by the unintentional aptness of his comments. “You’re right. They’re grown now, and capable. But it isn’t easy to let them go their own way.”

“No, it isn’t.” He attempted a cocky grin and managed a decent if decidedly one-sided imitation. “Since when did any of us need things to be easy?”

Leia gratefully took his lead. Humor pushed back the numbing grief—if only for the time it took to smile.

“You’ve got a point, flyboy. If I needed proof of that, all I need to do is remember that we’re still married.”

He leaned forward, touched his forehead to hers. “Last time I checked.”

His strength flowed into her, mixed with a sweetness that she’d feared they’d misplaced long ago. Leia lifted her face until their lips were a whisper apart.

“Check again.”

A storm raged outside General Soontir Fel’s viewport, the first of the winter monsoon season. Frozen rain swirled through roiling gray clouds and rattled against the transparisteel ports. Ice coated the duracrete landing pads and hung from the eaves of the Chiss barracks in neat rows, like ready weapons lining an armory shelf. Tall, blue-skinned pilots strode confidently over the slick walkways, aided by their spike-soled boots and their native athleticism.

Despite the steady hum of the room’s heating unit, the cold seeped into Fel’s joints. A phantom ache throbbed in his missing eye, despite the dark patch he sometimes wore. For the first time in his life he felt old and tired, especially when he considered the challenges ahead.

A hard winter was on its way, the general mused, one that could last for several Corellian years. The Chiss base, the latest of many that Fel had established over the years, was set in a particularly harsh environment of an inhospitable world. Most of his advisers had perceived no reason why anyone would choose to place a base here.

Fel only hoped that the Yuuzhan Vong would follow the same logic.

He turned away from the viewport to study the officer standing at stiff attention before his desk. The young man wore the formal black uniform of the Syndic
Mitth’raw’nuruodo’s household phalanx, and the insignia of a colonel. His black hair was cut short, exposing the entire length of the scar that ran up from his right eyebrow well into his hairline. A thin streak of white hair followed the path of that scar, as if to emphasize the maturity that had come too soon, and at great price.

“We have had this discussion before, Colonel,” Fel commented. “This phalanx is committed to the same goals you’ve espoused. We responded at Garqi. We fought at Ithor. The Imperial command recalled Admiral Pellaeon after that debacle, with what they considered to be good reason. Given the outcome of that engagement and the withdrawal of Imperial support, I saw little value in committing phalanx squadrons.”

“I disagree.” The young colonel bowed to emphasize that his words expressed opinion, but not disrespect. “I will concede that no one, not the New Republic nor the Imperial forces nor the Chiss, could counter the biological weapons that destroyed Ithor. The presence of this household’s phalanx had no impact on this outcome. Ithor, however, was the only world utterly destroyed. The invaders have followed more conventional tactics in their subsequent conquests.”

“And therein lies the problem. How successful were you and your Rogue Squadron allies in fending off any of these conquests through ‘conventional tactics’?”

The young man’s lips thinned. “My two squadrons were recalled shortly after Ithor, sir. We had neither the time nor the opportunity to make an appreciable difference. This is not an excuse, sir, but simple fact.”

“Two squadrons,” the general repeated. “Twenty-four clawcraft and a beacon ship. How much difference could this force have made at Ord Mantell? Or Duro? Hundreds, possibly thousands of worlds are under Yuuzhan Vong control.”

“With respect, sir, I was commissioned in this household to serve and uphold the ideals of Grand Admiral Thrawn.”

“Which did not, I might point out, include stupidity,” the general observed coldly. “I expected better of you—a not uncommon dynamic between fathers and their sons.”

Colonel Jagged Fel acknowledged the reprimand with a small bow and a faint, wry smile.

“You were trained by Chiss tacticians,” Baron Fel continued. “Tell me: do we have the ships, weaponry, personnel, or for that matter the knowledge needed to take on these invaders?”

“We do not,” Jag admitted. “Permission to speak freely?”

The baron lifted one hand in a gesture of assent.

“Chiss sages conclude that the Yuuzhan Vong must have spent generations traveling between galaxies. These invaders are not likely to consider the so-called Unknown Regions a daunting prospect.”

“I agree,” Baron Fel said. “The Chiss parliament does not, and neither do the Imperial leaders. The invasion path has swept steadily toward the Core Worlds, leading many to believe that the invaders will bypass both Chiss and Imperial territory entirely.”

As Jag absorbed this, his pale green eyes narrowed and his jaw squared. “This phalanx has never been ruled by the thinking of tradition-bound Chiss senators, or by Imperial politicians whose first concern is personal power. Was a change-of-policy holocube issued during my recent absence?”

The general’s eyebrows lifted. Jag inclined his head in a bow that held acknowledgment of his impropriety, but no apology.

“Chiss society pretends that Snydic Mitth’raw’nuruodo does not exist, but they know quite well that we
are out here. They send their sons and daughters to this phalanx’s academies and bases. They were more than willing to accept the protection and technology that Thrawn’s conquests and alliances offered them, and they are willing to accept what we, successors to the grand admiral’s goals, can do for them.”

“But we could do more.” Jag took a step forward, his expression intense, his formality forgotten. “You know what we have faced out here. The Yuuzhan Vong might have caught Borsk Fey’lya and his ilk unaware, but the Chiss have long expected something of this nature. In fact, we have turned aside foes that might have swept across the galaxy and left little for these new invaders to destroy!”

The baron’s eyes narrowed, and his lips pursed as he considered his son’s passionate words. “You speak of yourself as one of the Chiss. Do you see yourself in that light?”

Jag blinked, put off stride by this seeming non sequitur. “It is difficult to do otherwise,” he said carefully. “I was raised among the Chiss, trained with them. Their rules and standards and expectations became my own.”

“You met and exceeded these standards, and as a result you command your former Chiss peers,” his father continued. “With rank comes responsibility. The course you propose shows little sense of responsibility for the pilots under your command.”

Jag’s face betrayed no opinion on this matter, but his bearing subtly reverted to a formal, military stance. “Sir, may I request that you list my failings plainly, so that I might address them.”

“Do you know how to stop the Yuuzhan Vong?”

A hint of a frown touched his forehead. “No, sir.”

“Then go find out. Report back. Once we’ve a better grasp of tactics and strategy, you’ll have your squadrons back, and more besides.”

Jag’s eyes widened and flicked to his father’s face. “Yes, sir!”

The baron grimaced and tapped a small metal cube on his desk. “You might not be quite so eager to hear this report. This holovid just came in from our agents in the Core. It contains, among other things, a recording of Leia Organa Solo’s exhortation to the defenders of Coruscant. She urged them not to give up, as she has not, despite the recent death of one of her children.”

This time Jag’s gaze shifted fully to the general. “Which one?”

Fel lifted one eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Which of Ambassador Solo’s children fell in battle?”

“Anakin, I believe. The younger son.”

Jag nodded thoughtfully, and there was something very akin to relief on his face. “Was there any news of the other two?”

A speculative gleam crept into the baron’s gaze. “You have met the Solo twins, I take it?”

“Jacen, no. Jaina Solo is a pilot with Rogue Squadron.”

“Ah. I was wondering why such momentous news as Coruscant’s fall went over your head with a meter to spare.”

A faint color suffused Jag’s face, and a faintly puzzled expression flickered in his eyes. Baron Fel suspected that his son was also somewhat unclear on that point. Well, he would learn soon enough.

Jag quickly veered away from his uncharacteristic tangent and back onto a more familiar vector. “Coruscant was not only attacked, but captured?”

“It would so appear. This leads us to your next assignment. In recent years, the New Republic has been characterized by increasing dissent. The loss of their central seat could polarize them for a very long time.”

The baron fell silent. For a long moment, he studied his son. “You will be flying straight into a maelstrom.”

Jag glanced pointedly toward the viewport, and the ice storm beyond. “This is what I was trained to do, no more.”

“Then it’s settled.” Fel rose and handed a single holocube to his son. “This contains the most recent military updates, as well as the specs on the new ships you’ll be flying. I’ll leave the selection of pilots to you.”

“Shawnkyr Nuruodo, my second in command, will accompany me.” When the general began to protest, Jag’s chin came up sharply. “You admonished me about responsibility, sir, and rightly so. I’m honored to scout for Syndic Mitth’raw’nuruodo, but I would rather not risk Chiss pilots needlessly. In all likelihood, we will need every one of them here.”

“What about Shawnkyr?”

A fleeting smile curved Jag’s lips. “Shawnkyr is a true member of a renegade phalanx, sir. She would not stay behind if I ordered her to.”

“I see. A wise leader always tries to give orders that are likely to be followed. Why do you think I’m sending you?”

He extended his hand. They clasped hands briefly, then Jag stepped back and offered a crisp, formal bow.