Part 3 (1/2)

”The Emperor's teams used equipment like this as sort of a Force detector, for his henchmen to read the auras of people they suspected of having Jedi talent. According to the records, the remnants of the Jedi Knights held this thing in great fear--but maybe we can use it to restore the Jedi.”

He grinned, and for a moment he felt like the fresh, excited farm boy he had been back on Tatooine. ”Hold still, Leia. Let me test this on you.”

She stood back, alarmed. ”But what does it do?” Both Wedge and Ackbar had stepped over to watch.

”Trust me,” Luke said. He held the sheet-crystal paddles at arm's length, bracketing Leia. When he tripped the scan switch, a thin slice of coppery light traced down Leia's body from head to toe. Suspended in air above the control pack, a smaller echo of the copper scan-line reappeared in reverse motion, a.s.similating the data and constructing a tiny hologram of Leia.

It looked different from the small holo of Leia that Artoo Detoo had projected for Ben Ken.o.bi. Instead, it was a wire-frame silhouette of her body, with color-coded lines tagged to readings that projected a column of numbers in the air. Surrounding the outline was a corona of flickering blue, faint but definite.

”Can you understand anything from that, Luke?” Admiral Ackbar said, peering closer.

”Let's get another one for comparison.” This time Luke pointed the paddles at Wedge, who flinched as the coppery scan line ran up and down his uniform. When his wire-frame holo appeared beside Leia's, most of the color-coded details were similar--but his image showed no blue corona.

”Now let's try you, Admiral.” He extended the paddles toward the Mon Calamarian, adjusting the control pack to take Ackbar's alien physiology into account. When his scanned image appeared, it too lacked the blue aura. ”Leia, would you do it to me, just so we can be more sure?”

Leia handled the equipment reluctantly, as if uneasy to touch a device that had been used by those who had designed the interrogation droid. But she operated the scanner easily, holding the sheet-crystal paddles on either side of Luke.

His image bore the bright corona.

”This is very valuable,” Luke said. ”You don't need any particular skill with the Force to use this equipment. We can find people with Jedi potential just by scanning them. It will be a great help in finding candidates for my academy. Maybe some good will come of this device after all these years.”

”Very good, Luke,” Ackbar said.

Luke pursed his lips. ”Wedge, I want to try something. Would you relax for a minute and let me do a mind touch on you?”

”Uh,” Wedge said, then saw his team members looking at him.

He straightened. ”Whatever you say, Luke.”

Luke wasted no time, reaching out to touch Wedge's temples, running a mental probe over the surface of his mind, back to the primitive area, the surprising nub in the contour of thoughts--But when Luke touched it, nothing happened.

Wedge probably didn't even know he was being probed. Luke pushed harder, but he triggered no reflexive counteraction, no uncontrolled push as Leia had given him.

”What was that all about?” Wedge asked. ”Did you do anything?”

Luke smiled. ”I just strengthened a theory of mine. We have gotten a lot closer to bringing back the Jedi Knights.”

At least the s.h.i.+p didn't explode on impact.

That was the first thing Han Solo thought as painful consciousness returned. He blinked his eyes, listened to the hissing of atmosphere streaming through breaches in the Millennium Falcon's hull. Somehow they had survived a crash landing. He wondered what planet he was on.

Kessel!

His eyes widened as he saw red splashes across the control panels.

His own blood. His leg felt as if it were on fire, and he tasted liquid tin in his mouth. As he coughed, more blood splashed out. Han had not managed to strap himself in before the crash. It was a good thing he had not stayed up in the gun well. From his skewed vantage he could see that the s.h.i.+p had spun on impact, with the top gun well crushed beneath them.

He hoped Chewbacca had fared better. Turning his head, Han felt as if shards of ground gla.s.s were rubbing his spine. In the copilot's chair, the Wookiee lay motionless, his pelt matted with discolored blood oozing from wounds hidden by his s.h.a.ggy fur.

”Chewie!” he managed to croak. ”Say something, okay?”

Han heard the thud of a small explosive charge on the primary hatch; then someone from outside managed to hot-wire the ramp. The rest of the Falcon's air spurted into Kessel's thin atmosphere. ”Great,” he mumbled. With the shattering pain in his ribs, it had already been hard enough to breathe.

Heavy footsteps marched up the ramp. Han wanted to pull out his blaster or at least knock a few enemies down in a fistfight. But he could barely raise his eyes, expecting to see an orderly column of white-armored stormtroopers. That would be an appropriate end to a day like this.

Instead, the intruders wore a hodgepodge of armor, some parts modified from prison-guard uniforms, other plates adapted from stormtrooper equipment. None of it made any sense to Han, but his mind had already maxed out with things that should never have happened. A TIE fighter and an X-wing fighting side by side? Against him?

The boarding party wore oxygen masks fitted over their faces to let them breathe the thin atmosphere of Kessel. Their voices were m.u.f.fled as they shouted orders to each other.

One man, looking scarecrowish with impossibly long arms and neck, strode into the Falcon's c.o.c.kpit. Han felt recognition stir inside him, but he couldn't pinpoint a name. The scarecrow wore armbands from an Imperial prison, but at his side he carried a modified double-blaster that was patently illegal on most planets. The scarecrow turned wide-set, flinty eyes on Han.

”Han Solo,” he said. Though the breath mask covered his lower face, Han could tell the man was grinning widely. ”You're going to wish you never survived landing on Kessel.”

With a flash of memory, the scarecrow's name came to Han. Skynxnex.

That was it! But Skynxnex had been locked up in the Imperial Correction Facility, barely avoiding a death sentence. Questions had just begun forming in his mouth when Skynxnex brought an armored fist down on Han's head, sending him back into unconsciousness...

Kessel. Spice. His thoughts mixed into nightmares as he fought to come back to himself. Han had always been proud to boast that the Falcon had made the Kessel run in record time, but he rarely recounted the whole tale, that he had actually been fleeing Kessel with a full load of spice in his secret below-decks compartments, when Imperial tariff s.h.i.+ps had tagged him.

Han got the s.h.i.+pment, as always, from Moruth Doole, the froglike man in charge of skimming black-market spice from Imperial production quotas. Doole was some sort of official in the gigantic Imperial prison complex, from which came most of the spice-mine laborers. The Empire maintained strict control over the spice output, but Doole managed to keep quite a little side market of his own. Han Solo and Chewbacca had run spice for him, whisking it past Imperial patrols and putting it into distribution channels run by gangsters such as Jabba the Hutt.

But Moruth Doole had a habit of stringing along his helpers until he decided he could gain bigger favor by turning them over to the authorities. Han had never been able to prove it, but he suspected that Doole himself had tipped off the tariff s.h.i.+ps on the Falcon's flight away from Kessel, providing the exact coordinates where Han planned to enter hypers.p.a.ce.

Han had been forced to jettison his entire cargo of glitterstim spice, worth a fortune, just before being boarded. When Han tried to circle back later and retrieve the floating cargo, the Imperials had given pursuit. During the chase he had desperately skimmed closer to the gravity influence of the immense black hole cl.u.s.ter than the navcharts claimed was possible. One of the tariff s.h.i.+ps had been lost in the swirling maelstrom of hot gases plunging into a bottomless singularity.

But the Falcon had survived, breaking into hypers.p.a.ce and fleeing to safety.

Temporary safety. The lost cargo of spice alone had been worth 12,400 credits and Jabba the Hutt had already paid for it in full. Jabba had not been pleased. ...

The thought of all those months frozen in carbonite, motionless, hanging on Jabba's wall, made him s.h.i.+ver. The cold was black around him, and he couldn't see. His teeth chattered together-- ”Cease your thermal convulsions!” a raspy metallic voice snapped.

It sounded like a plasma saw cutting through rock. ”The temperature in the medical center has been lowered to minimize surgical shock to your metabolism.”

Opening his eyes, Han stared up into the bullet-like face of a medical droid. Most of the metal was a primary green, but a black hooded attachment extended over its optical sensors. Segmented mechanical arms reached toward him, displaying a wide variety of out-of-date medical implements, all of them sharp. ”I am the prison medical droid. I have not been programmed for anesthetics or the niceties of making you comfortable. If you fail to cooperate, your treatment will only be more unpleasant.”

Han rolled his eyes back. This was a far cry from traditional medical droids who were programmed specifically with the patient's comfort in mind. Han tried to move. Around him the prison medical center was white and cold, with gleaming medical appliances and empty bacta tanks mounted on the wall. Han vaguely sensed several guards standing near the doors. When he turned his head, the medical droid reached out with cold metal hands to clamp against his temples. ”You must remain motionless. This will hurt. A great deal. Now relax--immediately!”

Out of sight on the other side of the room, Chewbacca let out a great roar of pain. Han was relieved to know the Wookiee was still alive.

Before treatment, at least.

Han winced as the medical droid began to work on him.

Chewbacca shook him awake with a hairy, enthusiastic, and grateful hug. Han groaned and blinked his eyes, but the room was so dim he had to stare for a few minutes before anything came into focus. His entire body felt as if it had been beaten instead of healed.

Chewbacca groaned and hugged him again. ”Take it easy, Chewie!

You'll send me back to that medical droid!” Han said. Instantly, the Wookiee released his grip. Han mentally a.s.sessed how he felt. He sat up, flexed his arms, then got to his feet. Two, no three of his ribs, as well as his left leg, tingled with the maddening bee stings that indicated where bone knitters had repaired the fractures. Han remained weak, but replacement-nutrient solutions had probably brought him back up to nominal levels.

Chewbacca also looked scruffy and haggard. Patches of fur had been shaved from his body, and Han could discern lumpy scars where medical droids had made quick patchwork with no finesse. After treatment the two of them had been tossed into this dank place. Finally, Han took a deep whiff of the air inside the chamber. ”What died in here?” He suddenly realized that wasn't just a joking comment.