Anja Gallandro prowled around the interior of her guest quarters inside the Great Temple. Her agitation would not allow her to sit or stand still for even a moment. Twice already this morning she had ransacked every corner of her room, every pocket of her clothing, every crevice in the cupboards, every fold of her travel bags. It was time she faced the truth.
She had run out of andris spice and there was no more to be found. Still, her huge dark eyes darted around the room searching for inspiration, never resting on any object for more than a second.
Think, she ordered herself. Think.
So she thought. But the more Anja thought, the more certain she became that there could be no andris anywhere on Yavin 4, even in the Jedi academy’s infirmary.
Anja had insisted to the young Jedi Knights that she was not addicted to spice—that she only used it because she liked the way it made her feel, liked the way it could speed up her reactions and clarify her thoughts. Andris is an enhancement, not an addiction, she assured herself.
Then why, she wondered, were her hands trembling? Why was she close to panic at the very thought that she had no way of getting another dose of andris on this tiny backwater moon? And she needed one now.
She growled and shook her head like a nek battle dog on the attack. Her waist-length hair, highlighted by streaks of honey, snapped like a whip made of silky strands.
What was she doing on Yavin 4, anyway? It had been her hatred for Han Solo and her belief that he had murdered her father that first motivated her to befriend his twin children, Jacen and Jaina. It had all been part of her plan to take revenge on Solo, either directly or through his children. But now she had gotten to know the twins and their friends and, in spite of the fact that she distrusted and despised their father, she had come to the conclusion that she did not want to hurt them. They didn’t deserve it.
Czethros, however, had tried to have them all killed on Cloud City and earlier on the war-torn world of Anobis. Anja no longer trusted her former mentor as she once had.
Still, she wished she could contact him. After all, Czethros had been her main source of spice over the years. He had, in fact, been the first person to show her, years ago, all the benefits andris could provide. He had told her back then that only weaklings became truly addicted. But for the strong-willed, he had insisted, andris was merely a useful tool.
She threaded her shaky fingers through her flowing dark hair and gave it a vicious yank. She had believed Czethros. About everything. But Anja was no longer certain what she believed.
With a groan, she threw herself down onto the sleeping pallet and covered her eyes with one arm, trying vainly to slow the rapid beating of her heart. Czethros had lied about the addictiveness of spice. He had ordered her friends murdered. Perhaps he had lied about Han Solo’s role in her father’s death as well….
This was the idea she found most difficult to accept. Since childhood, her hatred of Han Solo had given her a focus, someone to blame for everything that had gone wrong in her life. Loathing Solo, and knowing that he was to blame for all her problems, had been one of the few constants she had been able to cling to during the turmoil of her youth.
It would be hard for Anja to give up her hatred—every bit as hard as giving up spice. This was one reason why, in spite of the fact that she now cared about the young Jedi Knights, she still found herself snapping at them, even though they’d done nothing to earn her anger.
Unable to stay still any longer, Anja pushed herself up off the sleeping pallet and began prowling her chambers again.
“I’ve got it under control,” she gritted through clenched teeth. “I can handle this.” She reached behind her head and retied the leather band she wore around her forehead to keep her flowing hair in check. Although she hadn’t been doing any real physical activity, perspiration dripped from under the headband and down the back of her neck.
“I can handle this,” she repeated, more forcefully.
But Anja knew she was lying to herself.
2
Alone in a workroom by an outer wall of the Great Temple, Zekk sat next to the table and listened to the rainstorm outside. Old Peckhum had gone to see Master Skywalker, and Zekk was spending some time by himself, working hard. He could smell the spattering droplets of fresh water that moistened the chiseled stone of the rebuilt pyramid’s walls.
Open window slits allowed the calming noises of the afternoon rain shower to drift in along with the wonderful jungle scents, without letting the water leak into the rooms. The huge orange planet Yavin had set behind the Jedi academy, leaving only dim and distant sunlight to penetrate the storm clouds. In the sky above the thick treetops, a fresh crop of kite plants blossomed in brilliant colors, drifting about on the winds and soaking up the falling rain.
Peace … calm … thoughts of the light side of the Force.
After he had recentered his concentration, Zekk turned back to constructing his new lightsaber. Tools lay strewn about on the stone table surface, and bright light spilled down from a single glow-panel to illuminate his efforts.
He had moved to this study room from his own quarters so he could be alone, so he could think. Zekk needed to focus on the important task at hand. Building a personal lightsaber was an assignment reserved for trained and trusted Jedi Knights—and he intended to do his best work. This time.
As he picked up the components, aligned them, tightened connectors, adjusted the power pack, he felt a turmoil in his heart. He had wielded a lightsaber many times in the service of the Shadow Academy. But back then, when the dark Jedi Brakiss had taught him how to use the energy blade, Zekk had never gone through this rite of passage.
The Shadow Academy had manufactured cheap and identical lightsabers by the dozen, presenting them to their evil-trained students during practice sessions and before the attack on the New Republic. Zekk had had a lightsaber given to him—but he hadn’t ever built his own.
Zekk had never felt such an attachment to any weapon before. At the Shadow Academy, the lightsaber with which he had dueled and led the attack on Yavin 4 was simply a tool, interchangeable with anyone else’s. This energy blade, though, would be his own. Zekk would never make the mistake of falling to the dark side again. He understood that everything about this weapon was his responsibility. Building a lightsaber was so … personal.
When he had attempted the delicate task back in his own quarters, though, an anxious Jaina had hovered behind him, looking over his shoulder, making suggestions, and tinkering with the components. Then Jacen had arrived, spouting conversation and the usual string of jokes. Lowie had leaned in, groaning and growling in the Wookiee language, to ask if Zekk needed any assistance. His friends all meant well, but what he needed most was to be alone … to do this himself.
Peckhum’s recent arrival had reminded Zekk of his youth on Coruscant, simpler times when Jacen and Jaina and Zekk had been carefree friends … back before he had betrayed them. Zekk had learned to overcome the guilt from the bad things he had done, but he’d never forgotten. What mattered most was who he was now and who he would become in the future.
Outside, flying creatures swooped high in the air with jaws wide open. They snatched the colorful kite plants from the sky and dragged them down to the treetops to feed, all the while scattering jewel-like spores that helped the drifting life-forms reproduce.
Zekk fitted the last components together, then took the lightsaber apart again, triple-checking the connections and alignments before he snapped the casing closed for the last time. He held the new weapon in his hand, squeezed the polished grip, examined the power studs, flicked the hilt from side to side to test its weight and balance. Somehow he was reluctant to switch on the lightsaber, afraid that he might have done something wrong.