Star Wars - Survivor's Quest (by Timothy Zahn)

SURVIVOR’S QUEST

by

Timothy Zahn

THE BALLANTINE PUBLISHING GROUP

NEW YORK

For Vader’s Fist: The Fighting 501st

CHAPTER 1

The Imperial Star Destroyer moved silently through the blackness of space, its lights dimmed, its huge

sublight engines blazing with the urgency of its mission.

The man standing on the command walkway could feel the rumble of those engines through his boots as

he listened to the muttered conversation from the crew pits below him. The conversation sounded

worried, too, as worried as he himself felt.

Though for entirely different reasons. For him, this was a personal matter, the frustration of a

professional dealing with fallible beings and the capriciousness of a universe that refused to always live up

to one’s preconceived notions as to what was fitting and proper. An error had been made, possibly a

very serious error. And as with all errors, there would likely be unpleasant consequences riding in its

wake.

From the starboard crew pit came a muffled curse, and he stifled a grimace. None of that mattered to

the Star Destroyer’s crew. Their worries stemmed solely from their performance, and whether they

would be facing a pat on the back or a boot in the rear at journey’s end.

Or possibly they were merely worried about the sublight engines blowing up. On this ship, one never

knew.

He shifted his attention downward, his gaze leaving the grandeur of the starscape and coming to rest on

the bow of the Star Destroyer stretching out more than a kilometer in front of him. He could remember

the days when the mere sight of one of these ships would send shivers up the spines of the bravest of

fighters and the most arrogant of smugglers.

But those days were gone, hopefully forever. The Empire had been rehabilitated, though of course many

within the New Republic still refused to believe that. Under Supreme Commander Pellaeon’s firm

guidance, the Empire had signed a treaty with the New Republic, and was no longer any more

threatening than the Bothans or the Corporate Sector or anyone else.

Almost unwillingly, he smiled as he gazed along the Star Destroyer’s long prow. Of course, even in the

old days of the Empire, this particular ship would probably have inspired more bewilderment than fear.

It was, after all, hard to take a bright red Star Destroyer very seriously.

From behind him, audible even over the rumble of the engines, came the sound of clumping boots.

“Okay, Karrde,” Booster Terrik grunted as he came to a halt at his side. “The comm’s finally fixed. You

can transmit whenever you want.”

“Thank you,” Talon Karrde said, turning back toward the crew pits and trying hard not to blame

Booster for the state his equipment was in. An Imperial Star Destroyer was a huge amount of ship to

take care of, and Booster never had nearly enough personnel to do the job right. “H’sishi?” he called.

“Go.”

[Yes, Chieftain,] the Togorian called back from the comm board, her fur fluffing slightly as her clawed

fingers touched the keys. [Transmission complete. Shall I begin alerting the rest of the network now?]

“Yes,” Karrde said. “Thank you.”

H’sishi nodded and returned her attention to the board.

With that, Karrde knew, he’d done all he could for the moment. Turning again to face the stars, he

folded his arms across his chest and tried hard to cultivate his patience. “It’ll be all right,” Booster

murmured from beside him. “We’ll be around this star in half an hour and be able to jump to lightspeed.

We can be in the Domgrin system in two standard days, tops.”

“Assuming the hyperdrive doesn’t break down again.” Karrde waved a hand. “Sorry. I’m just—you

understand.”

“Sure,” Booster said. “But relax, all right? This is Luke and Mara we’re talking about, not some

fresh-hatched Neimoidian grubs. Whatever’s going on, they’re not going to be caught flat-footed.”

“Maybe,” Karrde said. “Though even Jedi can be surprised.” He shook his head. “But that’s not the

point, is it? The point is that I messed up. I don’t like it when that happens.”

Booster shrugged his massive shoulders. “Like any of the rest of us do?” he asked pointedly. “You have

to face the facts, Karrde, and Fact Number One is that you simply can’t know everyone who works for

you anymore.”

Karrde glared out at the mockingly cheerful red ship stretched out in front of him. But Booster was right.

This whole thing had gotten completely out of hand.

He’d started out modestly enough, merely offering to provide timely information to the leaders of the

New Republic and Empire so that both sides could be assured that the other wasn’t plotting against

them. And for the first couple of years everything had gone just fine.

The trouble had come when the various planetary and sector governments within the New Republic had

woken up to the benefits of this handy service and decided they wanted aboard, too. After the near civil

war that had broken out over the Caamas Document, Karrde hadn’t really felt like turning them down,

and with permission from his clients on Coruscant and Bastion he’d gone ahead and expanded his

operations.

Which naturally meant expanding his personnel as well. In retrospect, he supposed, it had only been a

matter of time before something like this happened. He just wished it hadn’t happened to Luke and

Mara. “Maybe not,” he told Booster. “But even if I can’t handle everything personally, it’s still my

responsibility.”

“Ah,” Booster said knowingly. “So it’s your pride that’s hurt, is it?”

Karrde eyed his old friend. “Tell me, Booster. Has anyone ever told you you’re truly irritating when you

try to be sympathetic?”

“Yeah, the subject’s come up once or twice,” Booster said, grinning. He slapped Karrde’s back.

“Come on. Let’s go down to the Transis Corridor and I’ll buy you a drink.”

“Assuming the drink dispensers are working today,” Karrde murmured as they headed back along the

command walkway.

“Well, yeah,” Booster conceded. “Always assuming that.”

* * *

As cantinas went, Mara Jade Skywalker thought as she sipped her drink, this was definitely one of the

strangest she’d ever been in.

Part of that might simply have been due to the locale. Here in the Outer Rim, culture and style weren’t

exactly up to the standards of Coruscant and the rest of the Core Worlds. That might explain the gaudy

wall hangings juxtaposed with ancient plumbing woven around modern drink dispensers, all of it set

against a background decor consisting mainly of polished droid parts dating back to before the Clone

Wars.

As for the unbreakable mugs and the heavy, stone-topped table she was seated at, the smoothed-over

blaster scars in the walls and ceiling were more than enough explanation. When the patrons dived under

the tables in the middle of a firefight, they would want those tables to afford them some protection. And

they wouldn’t want to find themselves sitting on bits of broken crockery, either.

There was no rationale at all, of course, for the very loud, very off-key music.

A brush of air touched her shoulder, and a heavyset man appeared from behind her, pushing his way

through the milling crowd. “Sorry,” he huffed as he circled the table and landed his bulk back in the seat

across from her. “Business, business, business. Never lets up for a minute.”

“I suppose not,” Mara agreed. He didn’t fool her for a second; even without Force sensitivity she would

have spotted the furtiveness hidden behind the noise and bustle. Jerf Huxley, master smuggler and minor

terror of the Outer Rim, was up to something unpleasant.

The only question was how unpleasant he was planning for that something to be.

“Yeah, it’s crazy out here,” Huxley went on, taking a noisy swallow of the drink he’d left behind when

he hurried off on the mysterious errand that had taken him away from their table. “ ‘Course, you know all

that. Or at least you used to.” He eyed her over the rim of his mug. “What’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing,” Mara said, not bothering to erase the smile that had caught the other’s attention. “I was

just thinking about what a trusting person you are.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, frowning.

“Your drink,” Mara said, gesturing to his mug. “You go away and leave it alone with me, and then you

just come back and toss it down without even wondering if I’ve put something in it.”

Huxley’s lips puckered, and through the Force Mara caught a hint of his chagrin. He hadn’t worried

about his drink, of course, because he’d had her under close surveillance the whole time he was gone.

He also hadn’t intended for her to know that. “All right, fine,” he said, banging the mug back onto the

table. “Enough with the games. Let’s hear it. Why are you here?”

With a man like this, Mara knew, there was no point in glaze-coating it. “I’m here on behalf of Talon

Karrde,” she said. “He wanted me to thank you for your assistance and that of your organization over the

past ten years, and to inform you that your services will no longer be required.”

Huxley’s face didn’t even twitch. Clearly, he’d already suspected this was coming. “Starting when?” he

asked.

“Starting now,” Mara said. “Thanks for the drink, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Not so fast,” Huxley said, lifting a hand.

Mara froze halfway to her feet. Behind Huxley, blasters had abruptly appeared in the hands of three of

the men who had hitherto been minding their own business at the bar. Blasters that were, not surprisingly,

pointed at her. “Sit down,” he ordered.

Carefully, Mara eased back into her chair. “Was there something else?” she asked mildly.

Huxley gestured again, more emphatically this time, and the off-key background music shut off. As did

all conversation. “So that’s it, is it?” Huxley demanded quietly. In the sudden silence, even a soft voice

seemed to ring against the battered walls. “Karrde’s going to toss us aside, just like that?”

“I presume you read the news,” Mara said, keeping her voice calm. All around her, she could sense the

single-minded animosity of the crowd. Huxley had apparently stocked the place with his friends and

associates. “Karrde’s getting out of the smuggling business. Has been, for the past three years. He

doesn’t need your services anymore.”

“Yeah,he doesn’t need,” Huxley said with a sniff. “What about whatwe need?”

“I don’t know,” Mara said. “Whatdo you need?”

“Maybe you don’t remember what it’s like in the Outer Rim, Jade,” Huxley said, leaning over the table

toward her. “But out here, you don’t split things three ways against the ends. You work for one group,

period, or you don’t work at all. We burned our skyarches behind us years ago when we started

working for Karrde. If he pulls out, what are we supposed to do?”

“I expect you’ll have to make new arrangements,” Mara said. “Look, you had to have known this was

coming. Karrde’s made no secret of the direction he’s been taking.”

“Yeah, right,” Huxley said contemptuously. “Like anyone believed he’d really go straight.”

He drew himself up. “So you want to know what we need? Fine. What we need is something to tide us

over until we can get back in the business with someone else.”

So there it was: a simple and straightforward pocket-shake. Nothing subtle from this bunch. “How

much?” she asked.

“Five hundred thousand.” His lip twisted slightly. “In cash credits.”

Mara kept her face expressionless. She’d come here prepared for something like this, but that number

was way beyond reason. “And where exactly do you expect me to get this little tide-me-over?” she

asked. “I don’t carry that much spending money on me.”

“Don’t get cute,” Huxley growled. “You know as well as I do that Karrde’s got a sector clearinghouse

over on Gonmore. They’ll have all the credits there we need.”

He dug into a pocket and produced a hold-out blaster. “You’re going to call and tell them to bring it to

us,” he said, leveling the weapon at her face across the table. “Half a million. Now.”

“Really.” Casually, keeping her hands visible, Mara turned her head to look behind her. Most of the

cantina’s nonsmuggler patrons had already made a quiet exit, she noted, or else had gathered into groups

on either side of the confrontation, staying well out of the potential lines of fire. Of more immediate

concern was the group of about twenty humans and aliens who had spread themselves out in a semicircle

directly behind her, all of them with weapons trained on her back.

All of them also showing varying degrees of wariness, she noted with a certain malicious amusement.

Her reputation had apparently preceded her. “You throw an interesting party, Huxley,” she said, turning

back to face the smuggler chief. “But you don’t really think you’re equipped to deal with a Jedi, do you?”

Huxley smiled. A very evil smile. A surprisingly evil smile, actually, given the circumstances. “Matter of

fact, yeah, I do.” He raised his voice. “Bats?”

There was a brief pause. Mara reached out with the Force, but all she could sense was a sudden

heightened anticipation from the crowd.

Then, from across the room ahead and to her right came the creak of machinery. A section of floor in a

poorly lit area at the far end of the bar began to rise ponderously toward the ceiling, revealing an

open-sided keg lift coming up from the storage cellar below. As it rose, something metallic came into

view, its shine muted by the patina of age.

Mara frowned, trying to pierce the gloom. The thing was tall and slender, with a pair of arms jutting out

from the sides that gave it a not-quite-humanoid silhouette for all its obvious mechanical origins. The

design looked vaguely familiar, but for those first few seconds she couldn’t place it. The lift continued to

rise, revealing hip-bone-like protrusions at the base of the object’s long torso and a trio of curved legs

extending outward beneath them.

And then, suddenly, it clicked.

The thing was a pre-Clone Wars droideka—one of the destroyer droids that had once been the pride of

the Trade Federation army.

She looked back at Huxley, to find that his smile had widened into a grin. “That’s right, Jade,” he

gloated. “My very own combat droideka, guaranteed to blast the stuffing out of even a Jedi. Bet you

never expected to see one ofthose here.”

“Not really, no,” Mara conceded, running a practiced eye over the droideka as the lift reached the top

and wheezed to a halt. It had arrived fully open in combat stance, she noted, instead of rolled into the

more compact wheel form used to move into position. That could mean it wasn’t able to maneuver

anymore.

Did that mean its guns wouldn’t track, either? Experimentally, she leaned back in her seat.

For a moment nothing happened. Then the droideka’s left arm twitched, its twin blasters shifting angle to

match her movement.

So the weapons could indeed track, though they appeared to be under someone’s manual control

instead of a central computer’s or anything on board the droideka itself. In the dim lighting, she couldn’t

tell whether or not its built-in deflector shield was functioning, but it almost didn’t matter. The thing was

armed, armored, and pointed straight at her.

Huxley was right. Even the Jedi of that era had gone out of their way to avoid fighting these things.

“But of course I should have,” she continued, turning to face Huxley again. “This place is littered with old

droid parts. Stands to reason someone would have scraped together enough pieces to make a

reasonable copy of a droideka to scare people with.”

Huxley’s eyes hardened. “You try something cute and you’ll see how good a copy it is.” He looked over

at the group of casual observers to his right, and his eyes locked on someone in the crowd.

“You—Sinker!”

A kid maybe sixteen years old stepped out from a knot of older men. “Yes, sir?”

Huxley gestured toward Mara. “Get her lightsaber.”

The kid goggled at Mara. “Get—uh—?”

“You deaf?” Huxley bit out. “What are you afraid of?”

Sinker made as if to speak, looked furtively at Mara, swallowed visibly, then stepped hesitantly forward.

Mara kept her face expressionless as she watched him approach, his nervousness increasing with each

step, until he was visibly shaking as he stopped beside her. “Uh. . . I’m—I’m sorry, ma’am, but—”

“Just take it!” Huxley bellowed.

In a single desperate motion Sinker ducked down, unhooked her lightsaber from her belt, and

scampered backward with it. “There,” Huxley said sarcastically. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

“Wasn’t so useful, either,” Mara said. “You think that’s all it takes to stop a Jedi? Taking her

lightsaber?”

“It’s a start,” Huxley said.

Mara shook her head. “It’s not even that.” Looking over at Sinker, she reached out with the Force.

Abruptly, the lightsaber ignited in his hand.

Sinker’s startled squeak was mostly lost in thesnap-hiss as the brilliant blue blade blazed into existence.

Rather to her surprise, he didn’t drop the weapon and run, but held gamely on to it. “Sinker, what the

frost are you doing?” Huxley snapped. “That’s not a toy.”

“I’m not doing it,” Sinker protested, his voice running about an octave higher than it had been before.

“He’s right,” Mara confirmed as Huxley drew in another bellow’s worth of air. “He’s not doing this,

either.”

She reached out to the lightsaber again, making it weave back and forth in Sinker’s grip. The kid wove

back and forth with it, hanging on with the grim air of someone who’s found himself astride an angry

acklay with no idea how to get off.

The rest of the crowd was probably feeling much the same way. For those first few seconds there had

been a mad scramble by everyone near Sinker to get out of range of the weapon bobbing in his hands

like a drunken crewer. They had mostly stopped moving now, though a few of the smarter ones had

decided it was time to get out entirely and were making tracks for the exits. The rest were watching

Sinker warily, ready to move again if necessary.

“Knock it off, Jade,” Huxley snarled. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “You hear me? Knock itoff.”

“And what do you plan to do if I don’t?” Mara countered, continuing to swing the lightsaber even as she

kept an eye on Huxley’s blaster. The others wouldn’t shoot her without orders or an immediate threat,

she knew, but Huxley himself might forget what his goals and priorities were here.

It was a risk worth taking. With every eye in the cantina on Sinker and his disobedient lightsaber, no one

was paying the slightest attention to the droideka standing stolid guard across the room.

Not the droideka, and certainly not the barely visible tip of brilliant green light stealthily slicing a circle

through the lift floor around its curved tripod feet.

“I’ll blast you into a million soggy pieces, that’s what I’ll do,” Huxley shot back. “Now, let him go, or

I’ll—”

He never finished the threat. Across the room, with a sudden creaking of stressed metal, the lift floor

collapsed, dropping the droideka with a crash back into the cellar.

Huxley spun around, screeching something vicious.

The screech died in midcurse. From the direction the droideka had disappeared, a black-clad figure

now appeared, leaping up from the cellar to land on the edge of the newly carved hole. He lifted the short

cylinder in his hand to salute position, and with anothersnap-hiss, a green lightsaber blade blazed.

Huxley reacted instantly, and in exactly the way Mara would have expected. “Get him!” he shouted,

stabbing a finger back toward the newcomer.

He didn’t have to give the order twice. From the semicircle of gunners behind Mara erupted a blistering

staccato of blasterfire. “Andyou —” Huxley added over the noise. He lifted his blaster toward Mara, his

finger tightening on the firing stud.

Mara was already in motion. Rising halfway out of her chair, she grabbed the edge of the stone-topped

table and heaved it upward. A fraction of a second later Huxley’s shot ricocheted off the tabletop now

angled toward him, passing harmlessly over Mara’s head to gouge yet another hole in the ceiling behind

her. Mara heaved the table a little higher, and Huxley’s eyes abruptly widened as he realized she intended

to drop its full weight squarely into his lap, pinning him helplessly into his chair and then crushing him to

the floor.

He was wrong. Even as he scrambled madly to get out of his chair and away from the falling table before

it was too late, Mara kicked her own chair back out of her way. Using her grip on the table edge as a

pivot point, she lifted her feet and swung herself forward and downward.

With a lighter table, the trick wouldn’t have worked, and she would have simply landed on her rear in

front of her chair with the table in her lap. But this one was so massive, with so much inertia, that she was

able to swing under the edge now falling backward toward her, land on the floor beneath where it had

been standing, and get her hands clear before the edge crashed into the floor behind her.

This put the heavy tabletop neatly between her and the twenty-odd blasters that had been trained on her

back.

Huxley, still completely off stride, had time for a single yelp before Mara lunged forward, slapped his gun

hand aside with her left hand, and then grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled him down into cover with

her. Her right hand snaked up her left sleeve, snatched her small sleeve gun from its arm holster, and

jammed the muzzle up under his chin. “You know the drill,” she said. “Let’s hear it.”

Huxley, his eyes on the edge of terror, filled his lungs. “Huxlings! Cease fire! Cease fire!”

There was a second of apparent indecision. Then, around the room, the blasters fell quiet. “Very good,”

Mara said. “What’s part two?”

Huxley’s lip twisted. “Drop your weapons,” he growled, opening his hand and letting his own blaster fall

to the floor. “You hear me? Drop ‘em.”

There was another brief pause, then a dull clatter as the others followed suit. Mara stretched out with the

Force, but she could sense no duplicity. Huxley had caved completely, and his gang knew better than to

try to second-guess his decisions. Keeping her blaster pressed under his chin, she got to her feet, hauling

Huxley up with her. She gave each of the half-sullen, half-terrified gang members a quick look, just to

make it clear what rash heroics would cost, then turned to the man in black as he walked up to her. “So

didn’t you see that droideka before Huxley lifted it up here?” she asked.

“Oh, I saw it,” Luke Skywalker acknowledged, closing down his lightsaber but keeping it ready in his

hand.

“And?”

Luke shrugged. “I was curious to see whether it still worked. Did it?”

“We didn’t get a complete field test,” Mara said. “It didn’t look very mobile, and I’d guess its tracking is

on manual instead of automatic. But it probably fires just fine.”

“Fired,” Luke corrected. “It’s going to need a little reworking.”

“That’s okay,” Mara assured him, sliding her sleeve gun back into its concealed holster. “Huxley’s

people will have some time on their hands.”

She gave Huxley a push away from her, letting go of his shirt. He staggered slightly but managed to

maintain his balance. “Here’s the deal. Before I leave, I’ll credit twenty thousand to your account. Not

because Karrde owes you anything at all, but simply as a thanks for your years of service to his

organization.”

“Karrde’s a little softhearted that way,” Luke added.

“Yes, he is,” Mara agreed. “I, on the other hand, am not. You’ll take it, you’ll be happy with it, and you

will never eventhink about making trouble for any of us again. Clear?”

Huxley had the look of a man chewing droid parts, but he nodded. “Clear,” he muttered.

“Good.” Mara turned to Sinker and held out her hand. “My lightsaber, please?”

Bracing himself, Sinker walked toward her, the lightsaber still humming in his grasp. He offered it to her

at arm’s length; taking it, she closed down the blade and hung it back on her belt. “Thank you,” she said.

Across the room, the door slid open, and a young man darted in. He got two steps before everything

seemed to register, and he faltered to a confused halt. “Uh. . . Chief?” he called, looking at Huxley.

“This better be important, Fisk,” Huxley warned.

“Uh. . .” Fisk looked around uncertainly. “It’s—I just got a signal in for someone named Mara. It was

from—”

“It was from Talon Karrde,” Luke cut in. “He wants Mara to contact him aboard theErrant Venture as

soon as possible at—” He narrowed his eyes as he gazed across the room at the boy. “—in the Domgrin

system.”

Fisk’s mouth was hanging slightly open. “Uh. . . yeah,” he breathed. “That’s right.”

“Yes,” Luke said, almost offhandedly. “Oh, and it came in under the Paspro-five encrypt. That’s the one

that starts out usk-herf-enth—well, you know the rest.”

The kid’s jaw was hanging even lower now. Blinking once, he nodded.

“We’d better get going then,” Mara said. She started to step around the table, then paused. “Oh, and by

the way,” she added, looking back at Huxley. “It’s notJade anymore. It’sJade Skywalker. This is my

husband, Luke Skywalker. The Jedi Master. He’s even better at this stuff than I am.”

“Yeah,” Huxley muttered, eyeing Luke. “Yeah, I got the message.”

“Good,” Mara said. “Good-bye, Huxley.”

She and Luke headed toward the door through a wide path that magically opened up for them through

the crowd. A moment later, they were out in the cool evening air.

“Very impressive,” she commented as they headed down the street toward the spaceport and the

waitingJade Sabre. “When did you start being able to pull details like that out of other people’s minds?”

“It’s easy enough when you know how,” Luke said with a straight face.

“Uh-huh,” Mara said. “Let me guess. Karrde sent you the same message?”

Luke nodded. “I got it in relay from the ship while I was poking around the storage cellar.”

“That’s what I thought,” Mara said. “And so when the opportunity presented itself, you couldn’t resist

Star Wars - Survivor's Quest (by Timothy Zahn)

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