Star Wars - [Dark Forces 03] - Jedi Knight (by William C Dietz)

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Jedi Knight

Chapter 1

The airspeeder, a world-weary affair built from salvage and held together by incessant prayer,

coughed, sputtered, and lurched through the air. It had been yellow once, but that was long ago, and

large islands of rust dotted the sun-bleached paint. An outcropping of rock rose ahead.

The machine's sole occupant had a two-day growth of beard and eyes that peered from skin-draped

caves. He saw the danger, swore, and fiddled with the controls. The repulsorlift engine cut out, caught,

and pushed the machine higher. The top-most spire passed within a meter of the speeder's belly. The

vehicle sagged as if exhausted by the effort, and Grif Grawley patted the console. "Thata girl . . . you

done good . . . real good."

The settler peered over the side — saw the airspeeder's shadow flit across the land — and watched

his gra bounce along the flats below. He knew where they were headed. The wind-sculpted hill, one of

many left to mark the retreat of an ancient glacier, had triggered one of their preprogrammed instincts:

"Look for the high ground when the light starts to fade — and watch for predators."

A survival strategy that seemed natural — but was actually the result of extensive genetic engineering.

Genetic engineering that had proven so reliable that gra sperm and ova were normally sold "by the herd"

and came with an electronic manual. A manual that Grif had memorized during the long trip to Ruusan.

A pile of boulders appeared in their path, and the herd split into two groups, one that followed

Alpha, the dominant male, and one that trailed Beta, his mate.

The hill was closer now, and Grif dumped speed. The speeder was fragile, very fragile, and the

settler didn't fancy a fifty-kilometer walk to Fort Nowhere, the only human outpost on Ruusan.

The speeder slowed, hovered over the summit, and settled onto skid marks left from previous

landings. Grif cut power, ran the check list, and secured the tie-downs. The wind came up at night —

and it paid to be careful.

Then, with the surety of someone who has done something a hundred times, Grif set up camp. The

shelter opened and locked with authoritative "snap." The combination cook chest and food locker

extended its legs and stood beside the tent.

That's when Grif opened a much-abused metal case. Components, each hand crafted from whatever

Grif could beg, borrow, or steal lay snuggled within.

He removed the assemblies one by one, held them up to the quickly fading light, and blew imaginary

grit from their workings. Each unit made a satisfying "click" as it mated with the next. The object, which

Grif called "Fido," was shaped like a boomerang and equipped with an assortment of sensors. The

miniature flyer was designed to stay aloft all night, watch for signs of danger, and alert Grif should any

appear. The machine beeped as it came to life and shivered while its gyro spun up.

The settler checked the machine's readouts, assured himself that all systems were green, and threw

the device off a nearby cliff. Fido propelled itself into a thermal, switched its power plant to standby and

soared into the quickly darkening sky.

Grif checked a monitor, verified the quality of the incoming holos, and returned to his chores. The gra

were halfway up the hill by then, picking their way through the scree, and nibbling on tough, rubbery

plants. A series of cliffs would hold them at that level until morning came.

Half an hour later, with a tumbler of what the locals referred to as "Old Trusty" to keep him company

and a fabulous view of the setting sun, Grif called his wife.

Carole Grawley was expecting the call and smiled as she lifted the handset. "Grif?"

"Hi, honey ... I'm sitting on top of hill 461 ... and everything's fine."

Carole carried the comet set out onto the flat piece of hard-packed dirt they jokingly called "the

veranda." The house, which had been dug into a hillside twenty klicks south of Fort Nowhere, faced

south to take advantage of the winter sun. Hill 461 was southwest of her position, and Carole looked in

that direction. "How's the sunset? It looks marvelous from here."

Grif pictured his wife's face, still beautiful in spite of the heavily ridged scar tissue, and smiled. "It's

gorgeous, honey . . . just like you."

Carole Grawley smiled, knew he meant it, and changed the subject. "The pump's acting up again. I

have drinking water, and enough for the garden, but the irrigation system is dry. The crops have started

to droop."

Grif thought about the fact that the cave farmers had all the water they could use and wondered if

they were right. "Outcropping," which was the name they used to describe what he and his wife did, was

much more difficult than it had been on Sulon. Of course, working down in a cave, using light piped in

from the surface, had its drawbacks, too. Like being closed in. Grif took a pull from his drink. "No

problem, honey. I'll fix ol' Jenny soon as I get back."

Carole Grawley smiled at her husband's propensity for naming machinery and watched the sun

disappear beyond the western horizon. "I know you will, Grif — take care of yourself out there."

"You can count on it," Grif replied. "Be sure to set the perimeter alarms. I'll call tomorrow."

"Love you . . . "

"Love you, too — good night."

With no sun to warm it, the air cooled quickly. Grif was able to see his breath by the time dinner was

over and the first of Ruusan's three satellites popped over the Eastern horizon. The smugglers who built

Fort Nowhere referred to the moons as "the triplets" and swore there were ruins on one of them. Not

that it made much difference to Grif. He had other things to worry about.

The settler tossed back his drink, poured himself another, and checked Fido's scanner readings. The

flyer, which circled the hill at regular five-minute intervals, assured him that everything was under control.

All 136 of the gra were accounted for, no predators had infiltrated the area, and atmospheric

conditions were normal.

In fact, the only anomaly, assuming it qualified as such, was that the planet's network of sixteen

combination weather and surveillance satellites had gone off the air. Not unheard of, but unusual,

especially in light of the fact that the smugglers who had placed the machines in orbit were fanatical about

maintenance. Still, things can and do go wrong, and Grif assumed that the problem would be identified

and subsequently fixed.

The third moon had risen by that time and, with help from its siblings, threw a soft white cloak across

the land. Grif finished the second drink, considered a third, and knew Carole would disapprove.

That being the case, he removed the electrobinoculars from their place in the skimmer and walked to

the highest point on the hill. There was very little chance that he would spot the elusive natives, bouncing

and floating across the land, but he never stopped trying. What some of his fellow settlers regarded with

fear and loathing, he considered beautiful and fascinating.

Grif switched the electrobinoculars to infrared, chose a spot on the southern horizon, and quartered

the area.

Rocks, still warm from the sun, glowed green in the viewfinder. Light streaked across the screen as a

bush runner dashed from one location to another. He moved the glasses farther to the right — and that's

when he saw the bouncer's telltale shape. It was round, like a ball. The settler felt his pulse pound as he

pressed the zoom control. The image grew larger.

But wait, something was wrong, very wrong. The heat signature was too large, too intense, and too

high in the air.

Grif knew how much the indigs loved to roll in front of the wind, bounce into the air, and float until

gravity pulled them down. They got fifty or sixty meters' worth of altitude off a good bounce sometimes,

but this object was a good deal higher than that.

So what could it be? Whatever it was had the capacity to hover —and move against the prevailing

wind. Grif watched the glowing, green globe grow larger, realized it was coming his way, and felt the

bottom drop out of his stomach. Since he could see it . . . it could see him!

Memories flickered through his mind, memories of an Imperial probe droid that drifted through the

mist, memories of energy beams that stabbed the walls of his home, and the knowledge that he had no

way to stop them.

He remembered the explosion, the flames, and the sound of Katie's screams. He remembered how

Carole had tried to enter the house, how he had pulled her out, and how the structure had collapsed a

few seconds later.

Carole had been on fire by then, screaming her daughter's name, kicking and biting as he pulled her

away. All because the family had taken part in a brave but futile protest against the Imperial presence on

Sulon. A Rebel leader named Morgan Katarn had spirited them away — and brought them to Ruusan —

but there was no escaping the memories.

Grif watched the image grow and knew it had locked on to the heat radiating off the airspeeder. The

only question was whether the droid had been launched by an Imperial vessel on its way through the

system — or by a ship in orbit. The first theory was consistent with the way Imperial scout ships were

known to operate, while the second would explain why the weather satellites had gone off the air.

Not that it made a whole lot of difference, since the course of action would be the same. Destroy the

probe, warn the others, and hope for the best. It was all that Grif or anyone else could do.

The settler's heart pounded against his chest as he ran downhill, skidded to a stop, and used his

hunting knife to sever the tie-downs. The speeder creaked as he climbed aboard.

Work-thickened fingers stabbed at the controls, rows of lights appeared, and the repulsorlift engine

whined into life. The machine rocked slightly as it came off the ground, faltered as energy tried to arc

across two badly worn contacts, and steadied as Grif babied the controls.

Then, with Fido still circling above, the settler took off. He stood up in order to improve his visibility

and felt the wind press against his face. Moonlight gleamed off the droid's highly polished skin. He aimed

for the reflection and wished he had a plan.

"When in doubt, improvise," Grif mumbled to himself, grabbed the blast rifle racked along the port

side, and removed the safety. A green "ready" light appeared as he rested the barrel on the top of the

windshield and squeezed the trigger.

The energy pulse blipped outward, missed the probe by a good twenty meters, and disappeared.

Grif corrected his aim, fired again, and saw the bolt hit. The blast slagged one of the droid's sensors, took

the shine off a few square centimeters of alloy skin, and triggered a preprogrammed response.

The probe came equipped with four energy cannons, one for each point of the compass, and brought

one of them to bear. The right side of the windshield disappeared as the energy beam slashed through it.

Grif swore, put the speeder into the tightest turn he could, and saw another beam pass through the air

just vacated. The fight, if that's what it could properly be called, was anything but fair. What he needed

was a way to even the odds.

The settler pushed the speeder down toward the surface. The lower he went, the more energy could

be converted into forward momentum. The fact that the droid would be forced to convert more of its

onboard computing capacity to low-level navigation amounted to a bonus.

Grif knew the territory ahead — and knew the ground would rise. A ridge appeared, and he aimed

for the V-shaped gap at the top. Energy strobed past, struck an outcropping, and sliced it off. The

speeder passed through, banked to the right, and hugged the south side of the ridge.

The droid burst through the gap, lost the flyer's heat signature in the warmth radiating off the rock,

and switched to holo cams.

Grif brought the speeder to a momentary halt, pulled the remote free of the control panel, and

grabbed the blast rifle. Then, praying there was enough time, the settler vaulted over the side.

His knees bent to absorb the shock, the rifle clattered as it hit the ground, and the remote filled his

fist. He thumbed the "on" button, moved the slider forward, and watched the machine accelerate away.

The probe altered course and fired. The bolt missed. So far, so good. Now for the second and most

crucial part of the plan .. .

Grif turned the directional knob to the right, waited for the airspeeder to respond accordingly, and

swore when it didn't. As with so much of his homegrown equipment, the remote had a tendency to

malfunction. He tried again with similar results.

The probe fired, the flyer staggered under the impact of a direct hit, and Grif turned the directional

knob to the left. It worked this time, the next bolt missed, and the machine trailed smoke.

The settler gritted his teeth, twisted the control as far as it would go, and watched the speeder turn on

its attacker. The droid fired, slagged what remained of the windshield, and prepared to finish what it had

started.

The speeder completed its turn. Grif centered the directional control, gave thanks when the vehicle

lurched onto the correct path, and pushed the slider to max. "Sorry, old girl, but there's no other way."

The airspeeder picked up speed, fell as the engine slipped out of phase, and struggled to rise. The

probe fired, missed, and triggered a targeting laser.

Grif stood, willed the speeder to endure another five seconds of punishment, and cheered as it bored

in. "That'a baby! You can do it!"

The droid fired and was still in the process of firing when the speeder hit, and both machines

exploded. A reddish-orange flower blossomed; sent long, fiery tendrils up into the sky; and was snuffed

from existence.

Grif watched the debris tumble toward the ground and felt momentary elation quickly followed by

despair. The Imperials had found Rutisan, and the dream was over. Nothing would he the same again.

Life, difficult though it had been, was about to get worse.

The settler considered his options. The smugglers had designed Fort Nowhere to withstand a

force-one raid. Assuming the probe had been dropped into the planet's atmosphere by a passing ship, or

belonged to a lightly armed scout, they still had a chance. If he could warn them. If they would listen. If

they took action.

His transportation was spread all over the countryside, and Fort Nowhere was approximately fifty

kilometers away. Which strategy should he pursue? Hoof it? Or return to the hill?

The comm set would be where he'd left it, sitting on top of the food locker. But what about the

climb? What if he fell? A distinct possibility given the lack of climbing equipment.

Grif sighed, hoped Alpha would keep the herd together, and grabbed the blast rifle. It made a

comforting weight. He turned toward the north and started to walk. He had a long way to go and nothing

better to do.

The compartment, which was the largest the Vengeance had to offer, was almost painfully Spartan.

No shelves, no pictures, and no keepsakes. Nothing but a standard bunk, a custom easy chair, and a

crystal-clear bowl filled with multicolored touchstones.

Some among the few privileged enough to enter the compartment assumed that the lack of

ornamentation stemmed from the fact that Jerec was blind and presumably uninterested in that which he

couldn't see. They were wrong.

Others believed that the spartan conditions were the result of the severe discipline that the Jedi

imposed on himself. They were wrong as well.

The truth, like the man to whom it pertained, was more complicated than that. Material things meant

nothing to Jerec — not unless they added to his power — for to have power is to have physical objects

when and where you want them.

Jerec settled into his chair, felt it adjust to his body, and allowed Borna's second symphony to flow

over and around him. The composer had been a Rebel — and the dark, moody music the Jedi enjoyed

so much had been a protest against the Imperial government. It was too bad that Borna had died so

young, but art and politics make poor bedfellows.

Jerec smiled and allowed his fingers to enter the bowl. The touchstones came in a variety of shapes,

sizes, and textures. Some were smooth and cool to the touch, while others were coarse and warmed

from within.

The Jedi selected what felt like a star, positioned it under his nose, and popped the casing. The scent

of wild flowers entered his nostrils, formed a counterpoint to the music, and carried him away. He

imagined the future, the throne upon which he would sit, and the power he would wield. All because of

the planet below — and the secret hidden there.

The knock was so soft that Jerec could have ignored it had he chosen to do so. But he knew who it

was and wanted to hear her report. "Enter."

Sariss was young, beautiful, and dressed in black. Her blood-red lips, nails, and collar made the

black seem blacker. She entered the compartment, allowed the hatch to close, and waited for Jerec to

speak. He ran his fingers through the stones, found a triangle, and offered it up. "For you, my dear."

Sariss viewed the tidbit with both annoyance and suspicion. It was his way of maintaining his power

over her. A game to be played. Should she eat it? Pop and sniff? She could ask Jerec, and symbolically

reaffirm his superiority, or take her chances. The Jedi had tried that once before. She remembered the

way the casing had split open, the stench that had filled the air, and Boc's laughter. It had been a

thoroughly unpleasant and humiliating experience.

Jerec, who could imagine her dilemma, smiled. "What? You would refuse my gift?"

Sariss steeled herself, plucked the stone from his fingers, and popped it into her mouth. "Not at all . .

. thank you for the treat."

The stone dissolved, vanilla-flavored syrup flooded her mouth, and Jerec chuckled. "Very good! I'm

impressed! Now, tell me what you learned."

Sariss had a mind like a steel trap. She reeled off the facts from memory. "Phase one of the survey is

complete. Phase two is underway."

Sariss produced a handheld holo projector and pressed a button. A likeness of Ruusan filled the

center of the room. Jerec couldn't see it —but liked subordinates to pretend that he could. It made the

Jedi seem omniscient, which added to the mystique associated with his name. The image started to

rotate, and Sariss used it to focus her thoughts.

"Both the atmosphere and gravity are well within Class Three parameters. Surface mapping is 93.4

percent complete. Surface and subsurface scans reveal significant mineral deposits, including iron,

copper, cesium, iridium, nickel, uranium, and a good many more. Of equal interest are seven

already-exploited mines, all thousands of years old, none in production."

"Are they in or near the target area?"

"No, my lord. In spite of the fact that the subsurface probes confirm an extensive system of caves

within the confines of the valley, they are not associated with significant mineral deposits. And while the

facilities required to process ore might have disappeared over the millennia, the probes found no sign of

tailings."

Jerec nodded. "Continue."

"The planet supports two cultures — the first consists of approximately 20,000 preindustrial

sentients. They seem to be indigenous, although surface artifacts suggest that other species lived here as

well, raising the possibility that they originated somewhere else."

"Yes," Jerec agreed. "The legends speak of many species — and a rich civilization. Tell me more

about the humans."

Sariss shrugged. "There isn't much to tell . . . Space trash mostly, mixed with dissidents. The probes

kept their distance but were able to monitor and record their comm traffic. Content analysis, combined

with call mapping, confirms that most of the humans live and work in the vicinity of a Class Two military

installation."

Jerec's eyebrows shot upward. "A military installation?"

"Yes, my lord. It appears that a gang of smugglers uses Ruusan to warehouse their contraband and

built the fort to protect their property. They call it 'Fort Nowhere.' A rather apt name, all things

considered. Our forces will attack tomorrow."

"No," Jerec said firmly, "they won't. Not without a visit. Take Yun and Boc. See what you can learn.

Report to me."

The fact that Jerec had seen fit to countermand her plans brought blood to Sariss' face. His approval

meant a great deal to her, and she worked hard to maintain it. Making a bad situation even worse was

the fact that she disagreed with his orders. She cleared her throat. "May I ask why, my lord? Wouldn't

such a visit put them on alert? And cause additional casualties among our troops?"

Jerec allowed himself a frown. "You doubt our ability to win?"

"No, my lord. Of course not."

"Good. There are reasons for my orders even when they aren't apparent to you. These people have

lived on the planet for some time. Are they aware of the Valley? And if they are, did they loot the

chambers? And if they did, what happened to the materials found there?"

They were intelligent questions, and the fact that she had failed to consider them brought even more

blood to the Jedi's checks. She bowed, assured Jerec that his orders would be implemented, and backed

out into the corridor.

Jerec waited until his subordinate had left, allowed his fingers to trail through the touchstones, and

found a treat. It was shaped like Ruusan and cool to the touch. He brought it to his lips, popped the

sphere into his mouth, and broke the outer skin. The liqueur tasted of cinnamon and contained a mild

intoxicant. He smiled, thought about the embarrassment Sariss had experienced, and laughed out loud.

Grif was tired, very tired. He was in better shape than most men his age — no, half his age — but

fifty kilometers is a long way to go. The sun had both risen and set since the battle with the droid.

He paused, took a moment to check his back trail, and produced a self-satisfied grunt. The sky was

clear, the triplets were up, and there was nothing to he seen. No droids, skimmers, or speeder hikes

rushing to catch up with him. Perhaps the probe had been on its own. He certainly hoped so.

Mountains had forced the settler toward the west. Assuming he was right, and this was the reverse

slope of "Katarn's Hill," he was almost there.

Gravel slid out from under the colonist's boots. He swore, resisted the temptation to use the blast rifle

as a walking stick, and fought his way upward.

The stench of a garbage-filled ravine confirmed his skill as a navigator. Grif wrinkled his nose, hurried

to put the odor behind him, and crested the hill.

The homes, many of which had been sited with help from Morgan Katarn, were more than half

buried in the soil, a strategy that helped them stay cool during the day and warm at night.

A scattering of yellow-orange rectangles marked the location of windows and hinted at the hospitality

that waited within. Grif passed them by. It was evening, and that meant the majority of the colony's

elected and unelected leaders would be gathered within the Smuggler's Rest, drinks in hand.

Grif licked his lips at the thought, ignored the half-tamed bush runner that lunged at the end of its

chain, and followed the well-worn path toward the fort. He heard a snatch of conversation, the slamming

of a door, and the whine of a multi-tool. Common sounds that he found comforting.

Fort Nowhere was laid out in the shape of a six-pointed star. Blaster cannons had been mounted at

each of the star's points — a strategy that would place attackers in a withering crossfire.

The cannons, plus hidden missile batteries, were a potent threat against anything short of an Imperial

assault, the very thing he had come to warn them about.

A voice called out from the shadows and asked, "Who goes there?" in a voice that didn't seem to

care.

The settler paused. "Grif Grawley."

The sentry, a smuggler named Horley, stepped out into the moonlight. "Grif? Carole called. She's

worried sick."

"I'll get back to her," Grif promised. "Soon as I can. Where's the fat guy who thinks he's mayor?"

Horley chuckled. "Same as always, sitting around the Rest, complaining about the Empire."

"Good. Keep a sharp eye out — or there might be even more to complain about."

The sentry wanted to ask what the comment meant, but Grawley was gone. Horley shivered, blamed

the cool night breeze, and turned toward the badlands. Clouds claimed the triplets, and darkness

obscured the land.

Grif heard the Smuggler's Rest before he actually saw it. The music, popular on Corellia two years

before, was punctuated by laughter and the bong of the drink gong. Someone had bought a round.

Grif rounded a corner, nodded to a passing spacer, and strode the width of the inner courtyard. The

all-too-familiar doors swung open at the touch of his hand, and he blinked in the sudden light. The bar

had been crafted from a damaged fuel tank and lined one side of the room. A dozen mismatched tables

made islands on the seldom-swept floor. The walls, which were covered with an unplanned montage of

memorabilia, had launched many a story. There were fifteen or twenty people present. They turned as he

entered the room.

"Look!" someone exclaimed. "It's Grif Grawley! Hey, Grif! Carole's looking for volunteers. Ya ain't

gettin' any lighter, ya know!"

There was a chorus of guffaws as regulars had a laugh at Grif 's expense. They remembered the night

six months before, on the eve of little Katie's birthday, when Grif had attempted to anesthetize himself

with an entire bottle of Old Trusty. Carole had been summoned and, with help from the regulars had

loaded him onto a skimmer. Anger flared —anger and resentment.

Grif swiveled toward his right, fired from the hip, and watched the sound system explode. Silence

settled over the bar — interrupted only by the drip, drip, drip of liquefied components and the cooler's

monotonous hum. Mayor Devo, his paunch hanging over his belt, was the first to recover. He came to his

feet. A stubby index finger stabbed the air.

"And that will be enough of that! We've had enough from you, Grif Grawley. Place the weapon on

the floor and take three steps backward."

The settler made no effort to obey. He reached under his jacket, found the flat piece of metal, and

pulled it free of his waistband. It clanged as it hit the table.

Devo looked down and up again. He frowned. "And what's this supposed to be?"

"An ID plate. Read it."

Reluctantly, his face flushed with anger, the mayor did as he was told. The words seemed to echo

through the bar. "Imperial Probe Droid PD 4786. So? What's your point?"

Grif allowed his eyes to roam the room. "So, I tangled with an Imperial probe droid, rammed it with

my airspeeder, and hoofed it here. It could have been a loner, dumped into our atmosphere by a passing

ship, or it could be part of something a lot worse. I suggest you pack what you can, load your families on

skimmers, and follow me. There are places where you can hide."

There was silence for a moment followed by complete pandemonium. It seemed as if everyone had

something to say.

"Throw the idiot out!"

"What if he's right? How did they find us?"

"I told you this would happen . . ."

"Grif wouldn't know a probe droid if it was floating in his whiskey .. ."

Grif tapped the gong with a half-empty bottle of Old Trusty. The babble ceased. Grif scanned the

faces before him. "Believe what you want. One question, though. How do you explain the fact that the

weather sats are down? Not just one of them . . . but the whole bunch?"

The settler turned toward a woman named Peeno. She was Captain Jerg's second in command —

and some said more than that. "How 'bout it, Marie? You got those sats up and running, vet?"

The smuggler, a woman with short red hair and a nose stud, shook her head. "They all went down

about the same time. We've been unable to contact them since."

Grif persisted. "How 'bout ships? Got any in orbit?"

Jerg had left more than thirty days before and had taken the shuttles with him. Everyone knew he was

gone, and everyone knew it would be another month before he returned. Peeno shook her head again.

Grif nodded. "Just as I thought. Heads in the sand — butts in the air. Good luck, 'cause you're gonna

need it."

So saying, the settler took a long, hard pull from the bottle in his hand, slammed it down, and tossed

a coin onto the bar. It spun, fell, and landed heads-up.

Grif was halfway across the courtyard by the time the yelling started —and only twenty klicks from

home. It would be good to see Carole.

The sun had been up for some time when the Imperial assault shuttle approached from the south. It

made a series of circles, each smaller than the last, as if those on board were sightseeing, which in a sense

they were.

Sariss released her safety harness, stepped into the cockpit, and peered over the pilots' heads. Fort

Nowhere shimmered in the heat. "What a dump."

Yun, a young, almost-boyish Jedi with a shock of brown hair, moved to join her. Partly because he

was curious — and partly because she was his mentor. "That's for sure. I don't know what they ran away

from, but it must have been pretty bad."

"It was pretty bad," Boc agreed, as he took up a position behind them. "They were running from us."

Peeno's head tracked the shuttle in concert with the fort's energy cannon. She wore a headset, torso

armor, and carried her blast rifle on a sling. The number-three gunner, a colonist named Dinko, wanted to

fire. "I can take her, lieutenant! Just say the word."

The shuttle turned, and Peeno turned with it. "Not a good idea, Dinko. That assault boat didn't come

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JediKnight Chapter1 Theairspeeder,aworld-wearyaffairbuiltfromsalvageandheldtogetherbyincessantprayer,coughed,sputtered,andlurchedthroughtheair.Ithadbeenyellowonce,butthatwaslongago,andlargeislandsofrustdottedthesun-bleachedpaint.Anoutcroppingofrockroseahead. Themachine'ssoleoccupanthadatwo-d...

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Star Wars - [Dark Forces 03] - Jedi Knight (by William C Dietz)

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