The Force Unleashed (19 page)

would distant governors know about new laws and appointments, or wanted criminals

who Blight stray across their borders?

Data from the Imperial Academy was part of that automatic download. Encrypted, of

course, but Juno knew the keys by heart. She told herself that she was just idly

curious. Callos had been less than a year ago. She had heard nothing about her

former friends and colleagues in all that time. It would be inhuman not to wonder:

The Black Eight Squadron was an elite unit with a reputation for discipline and

ruthlessness. From the outside, she could see how its composition was carefully

maintained by Darth Vader to ensure that both qualities remained unsullied.

Leadership and pilots frequently turned over, a fact obscured by the air of mystique

surrounding the squadron. Those inside never talked about their wingmates or

missions; those outside never speculated. They got the job done. That was all that

mattered.

She had been proud to fly as squadron leader, but her time at the helm had been

brief. That, she learned, was normal. Her predecessor, whom she had flown with only

twice, had lasted barely longer than her. His predecessor had lasted just a single

month before being transferred by Darth Vader to a position she couldn't trace. Both

pilots were now listed as deceased.

She wondered if either of them had flown for Starkiller.

Turning away from that fruitless line of speculation, she investigated the careers

of those pilots she had flown with. A third of them were still in the squadron. A

third were dead-killed in action, she presumed, although only half were listed as

such. The remainder had been promoted.

Reading the list of advancements, her hackles rose. A pilot with the call sign

Redline had been promoted to head of squadron in her absence. Redline was, in her

experience, the coldest, cruelest, least considerate being she had ever flown with.

She had had serious concerns about his mental health, describing him in her flight

logs as psychopathic and consistently penalizing him for using excess force. He was

one of three under her who had complained about the withdrawal from Callos. The

squadron should have stayed, they argued, and finished the job.

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The world had died. She couldn't see what was left to finish. And now here he was,

running the most feared TIE fighter squadron in all the Empire.

She could see how that fit Darth Vader's twisted vision of the galaxy. What she had

once considered a close-knit unit, almost a family, she now knew was utterly

dysfunctional-the product of a tyranny driven by fear and greed. Had she stayed with

the Black Eight, she would have been forced to commit atrocities like Callos over

and over again-as Redline was no doubt doing even now-or she would have resisted

and been shot for disobeying orders.

She understood, but that didn't mean she liked it, not one bit. Other promising

pilots had been completely looked over. The replacement she had recommended, Chaser,

was still flying fourth. And Youngster, the pilot who had followed her into the

squadron, a cheerful graduate whom she had felt sure would pursue her rapidly up the

ranks of enlisted officers, was . . .

It took her fifteen minutes to find out what had happened to him. He had left the

squadron-alive, apparently, one of the few who had transferred while still able to

fly-but from there his progress was difficult to track. He had suffered a change of

heart, it seemed, but not one great enough to result in execution. He had flown

transports for a while and then returned to active duty as a sentry around Imperial

construction sites. He had seen combat in several hot spots, but nothing special.

His latest posting . . .

Juno stared at the answer for a minute before accepting that it could be true.

Youngster was stationed on Kashyyyk.

A terrible mixture of yearning and fear swept through her.

With a Hick of a switch, she could open a comm channel and hail her old wingmate.

His familiar voice would fill the cockpit and for i moment, just a minute or two,

she could feel as though she belonged again. She could roll back time and forget

about betrayals mil the uncertain future stretching ahead of her. She could be

accomplished Imperial pilot again, secure in the knowledge that in ailing could ever

change that.

One switch. She didn't even have to say who she was. They could verbally handshake

and that would be enough. What harm would that do?

She shuddered. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap and >he kept them there

lest they betray her.

She couldn't go back, not even for a minute. Hailing an Impe-11.11 squadron while

Starkiller was on the ground risked blowing everything. Nothing was worth that. Not

even talking to someone she had once called an ally and now considered her enemy,

most likely. If he ever learned that she still existed . . .

Her shaking hands returned to the keyboard. Slowly, she typed in her own name.

Her files were no longer restricted. In fact, they came up immediately. She read the

summary of her career as she would her own obituary. In one very real sense, it was

exactly that.

Spy . . . traitor . . . executed by Imperial command.

There was no room for doubt. She could not go back. She didn't even recognize the

life she was supposed to have had. Her record had been tampered with. All her major

achievements were gone. Even Callos didn't rate a mention. She had been reduced to

an inept fighter pilot who had somehow scraped a lucky break into the galaxy's top

squadron and then let her team down. Worse, she turned on them. The woman in the

record had deserved that fictional blaster bolt. That was exactly what the old Juno

Eclipse would have believed.

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The old Juno Eclipse no longer existed. The new Juno Eclipse was angry that she had

been so easily reduced, even in an official record she no longer cared about. Or

believed. If this had happened to her, how many times had it happened to others

branded traitor-like her own mother?

She wondered for an instant what her father thought. Then she decided she didn't

care.

At least she was believed dead. She clung to that certainty, even as fury seethed in

her. And she was fighting back.

The rasp of Kota's throat made her jump and guiltily clear the screen-before

remembering that he was blind.

"I think the time has come to check on your friend," the general said. "He's been

quiet a little too long."

"You're right. And I'm sure he'd like to know what I've found out." She outlined the

news that Wookiee slaves were going to be ferried elsewhere for an unknown reason.

"Do you think your friend in the Senate knows anything about this?"

"I'm sure of it," Kota said.

"Do you think that's why we're really here?"

"I think it's possible to fix two problems with one solution. Or make the attempt,

anyway."

"I guess we'll see what we will see." She began opening a comm channel, then

realized what she had said. "Oh, I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize," Kota said gruffly. "It's just a figure of speech."

All conversation between them died. From Starkiller's comlink came the sound of

screaming machinery.

JUNO'S WAS TRYING to tell him something, and it sounded like it might be important.

Whatever it was, it would have to wait.

The foot of an AT-ST walker came down right next to him, making every tooth in his

head shake. The apprentice didn't break stride. He had timed his run perfectly,

dodging the concussion grenades and energy bolts fired by the gunner and approaching

from underneath, where the plating was weakest. The bulky head swiveled and turned

above him, trying to get a bead on the unarmored man who dared single-handedly

attack it. He could read the pilot's disbelief secondhand through the movement of

the machine.

The apprentice took a deep breath and executed an acrobatic aerial somersault that

brought his lightsaber into range of both knee joints, three control junctions, and

the drive engine. The AT-ST shuddered midstep as the damage he had inflicted

registered in its complex systems. The endless pounding of its weapons faltered.

The apprentice touched the ground and stopped dead. With a groan of tortured metal-,

the AT-ST managed a half step then dropped nose-forward into the ground. Dust rose

up from the blasted soil. Before it could settle, the apprentice was moving again,

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dodging a stream of blasterfire from a stormtrooper cannon emplacement to the right

of the lodge's main steps. Two more AT-STs were closing on him from either side,

hoping to hem him in.

His smile hadn't faded an iota. The troopers' aim left a lot to be desired. Every

projectile that came within reach he deflected back at either its point of origin or

the lodge's main door, but so many of them were missing completely that the rest

discharged uselessly into the dirt. He ran toward the troopers, deliberate I \

making himself an easier target. White helmets lifted in surprise, then came down in

concentration.

One lucky shot, he imagined them thinking. Just one lucky shot.

He would show that there was no such thing as luck. Not against him, anyway.

A blistering barrage of energy fire encased him. He began directing some of it .back

at the approaching AT-STs, leaving black scorch marks on their forward armor.

Drivers and gunners intensified their charge, knowing that their approach made them

better targets, too. A rain of concussion grenades fell toward him. He deflected

them all toward the lodge's door, careful to avoid anything resembling a guest

quarters.

Sirens wailed. Stormtroopers screamed. The whining of engines grew louder and

louder.

When the two AT-STs were within ten meters of him, forming an equilateral triangle

with the stormtrooper cannon emplacement, he stopped. His lightsaber spun like a

propeller, moving without his conscious thought. The Force streamed through him like

a lightning bolt, fueling his instincts and filling him with strength. For a full

second he closed his eyes and let his arms move in perfect synchrony with the energy

bolts. He wasn't even part of the equation anymore. He was a spectator, a privileged

observer in a deadly but beautiful ballet.

He lowered his head and concentrated. The AT-STs were approaching more slowly now,

their drivers and gunners sensing victory: no ordinary human could survive such a

barrage for long. They were wrong a thousand times over. When the AT-STs started to

accelerate again, their drivers were taken momentarily by surprise. Then they pulled

back on their controls, to no avail. Their In ivy metal beasts steadily picked up

speed, trajectories shifting with each lurching step. Accelerating unstoppably, they

converged on a different point from the one they had originally been aiming for: not

the apprentice any longer, but a patch of empty ground just meters away.

The apprentice spun and opened his eyes a split second before they collided. Raising

his free hand, he sent a powerful bolt of lightning into the buckling armor shells.

The energy raced along wires and cables deep into the cargo bays and ammunition

stores, tripping safeties and triggering detonators. Energy begat energy.

He jumped vertically upward a single instant before the first explosion and was

lifted higher still by the blast of hot air that erupted in his wake. He tumbled and

twisted with the Force singing through him, buoyed by the delicious sense of

weightlessness and a death well avoided.

A ball of red flame spread across the ground, enveloping the cannon emplacement.

White-armored bodies flew everywhere.

He reached the apex of his leap and began to descend. It was almost a shame to come

down to the ground, but he knew he couldn't fly forever. Rolling to shed a slight

excess of momentum, he was up on his feet immediately, surrounded by wreckage and

wreathed in smoke. A quick glance over his shoulder told him all he needed to know.

Only one of the ruined AT-STs was still standing. Thick black smoke poured from its

shattered viewport. The other was in pieces, blown apart by its own weaponry.

The battleground was still. His ears rang for almost half a minute before the noise

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faded. All was silent apart from the ticking of metal as it cooled. The Imperial

resistance had crumbled. Either he had killed them all, or the survivors had fallen

back to another defensive position.

"Now, what were you saying?" he asked Juno as he walked up the steps leading to the

lodge's front door. The armored plating that had once kept it secure hung from a

single melted hinge, destroyed by the shots he had deflected from cannons and

walkers,

"The skyhook," Juno told him. "It's for taking Wookiee slaves offplanet by force."

"That's not important now," broke in Kota's rough-edged voice. "Where are you?"

The apprentice described the lodge as he stepped into its ruined foyer. He kept his