“How are we going to stop him?”
Han grimaced. “We’ll think of something.”
To Be Continued …2
A F T E R W O R D
About this same time twenty years ago, I incorporated Lucasfilm’s final corrections on Heir to the Empire and sent the manuscript to the production department, confident that Tim had delivered a terrific story but completely unaware of what an impact it would have on readers just a few months later. All of us at Bantam Spectra had loved the films, and we were honored that Lucasfilm would allow us to bring a new story to Star Wars fans. But would those fans want to read a new adventure rather than see it played out on the biggest screen possible? We had no way to know for sure.
I remember the day we sat in Lou Aronica’s office to brainstorm which author might be best for the project. We’d made the deal with Lucasfilm, but no book would exist until a suitable author was found and an outline approved. First and foremost we wanted a writer who loved the films and would be excited to expand George Lucas’s vision. We looked initially at people who were already being published at Bantam Spectra, wanting to give our own authors first shot.
Bantam published numerous popular writers at the time, so Tim’s was not the first name to come up. I knew he’d be right for the job but was hesitant to mention him because we’d signed him up only a few months earlier and he was in the middle of writing the first of three novels we had under contract.
Still, I knew Tim was a huge fan. And from working with him previously at Analog magazine—where he’d won a Hugo Award for his story “Cascade Point”—and at Baen Books, where I’d been his editor on several novels including the Cobra trilogy and The Backlash Mission, I knew Tim had the writing skills to handle a big-picture Star Wars plot. Not only that, but he could also re-create the interplay among George Lucas’s beloved characters as well as generate new ones who would capture readers’ interest.
That trust was certainly borne out: In Heir to the Empire, Tim “gave birth” to the unforgettable Mara Jade, Grand Admiral Thrawn, and Joruus C’baoth and was already thinking of names for the twins Leia would bear later in the trilogy. Heir to the Empire hit number one on the New York Times hardcover bestseller list—almost unheard of for a science-fiction novel at that time—and went on to sell millions of copies. Tim and I were invited to Skywalker Ranch in San Rafael, California, and had the pleasure of meeting George Lucas, who thanked Tim for his contribution to the Star Wars universe. (Talk about somebody walking on air! I swear I could have swung a cat underneath Tim’s boots during that encounter.)
It was the publishing experience of a lifetime, and it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, or a better writer. Thank you, Tim!
—BETSY MITCHELL
November 2010
To all the fans of the Star Wars Expanded Universe:
Thanks for letting me be a part of your lives these past two decades. I hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I have.
CRISIS OF FAITH
AN ORIGINAL STAR WARS NOVELLA
TIMOTHY ZAHN
The sky looked odd this morning, Trevik of the Midli of the Seventh of the Red thought as the Queen’s entourage left the residence wing of the palace and began the short walk to the Dwelling of Guests. Perhaps it was clouds, he thought: clouds too high and too thin for his eyes to distinguish through the mists rising from the Dreaming Waters that lay to the north of the Red City.
But he’d seen the sky through thin clouds before. More likely it was something their guest had done, the chief of the thirty beings who had arrived a month ago, creatures with yellow eyes and hair the color of a storm cloud. Had their chief not said he would protect the Red City from the evil forces gathering among the stars over Quethold?
“Drink.”
Quickly Trevik lifted the ornate bowl of nectar that he held clutched to his chest. The Queen leaned toward the bowl, her embroidered robes moving in time with the rhythmic swaying of her canopied litter, her long abdomen stretched out along the litter’s couch—
“Higher,” Borosiv of the Circling of the First of the Red growled tersely from his far less ornate litter behind the Queen’s.
Wincing, Trevik stretched up his arms, raising the bowl as high as he could. The Queen drank deeply and then straightened up again, her mandibles shaking off the last drops of the rich liquid, her eyes flicking impassively across Trevik’s face.
Trevik lowered the bowl again to his chest, feeling the thudding of his heart within his torso. Being selected to act as the Queen’s bowlcarrier was the highest honor any Midli could achieve. It was as if all the Midlis on Quethold stood behind him, just as all the Circlings stood behind Borosiv. The last thing in the world he wanted was to fail, and through that failure to bring shame to his family.
“Straighten up,” Borosiv continued in the same low, grouchy voice. “Watch the Workers. Duplicate their stance.”
Trevik swallowed, a quick flush of shame flickering across his heart. He’d been told all this earlier, of course, but in the heat of the moment he’d forgotten.
Now he looked over at line of Workers carrying the Queen’s litter. There were eight of them, their torsos held nearly vertical despite the weight of the litter on their shoulders. Each Worker’s abdomen stretched out behind him, perfectly level with the ground, with his four legs moving in precise lockstep rhythm.
Swallowing again, Trevik tried to match their stance and movement. The Queen, he’d heard, was willing to give a new bowlcarrier a certain degree of latitude on his first day. But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t try his very best.
Especially since Borosiv didn’t seem inclined to give the new Midli any of that same slack.
The Dwelling of Guests was a circular building situated in the center of the courtyard. It was small, with only a modest central gathering area on the ground floor and ten small privacy rooms on the floor above. Two of the storm-haired aliens stood at the south entryway, their strange weapons held across their shoulders as they watched the Queen and her entourage approach.
It was the closest Trevik had ever been to these particular aliens, and he eyed them curiously as he and the litters drew near. They were upright beings, unlike the Quesoth but very similar to the Quesoth’s allies, the Stromma. They had two legs, a torso with no separate abdomen, and a head topped with flowing black storm-cloud hair. Humanoid, he’d heard such beings called before.
But at least their eyes were proper, multifaceted like those of the Quesoth, though they were a bright yellow instead of Quesoth’s pale blue. Perhaps their eyes were why the Queen had chosen to defy Quethold’s old alliance with the Stromma and accept the Storm-hairs into the Red City as her guests.
Or perhaps it was because of the weapons the Storm-hairs had brought with them. Weapons more compact and powerful even than those of the Stromma.
Trevik focused on the Storm-hairs’ weapons, feeling himself suddenly tensing. Along with the twelve Workers carrying the litters, the Queen’s entourage also included twelve Soldiers, and if the Storm-hairs neglected the proper greeting the Queen might well order the aliens to be disciplined. Trevik hadn’t seen the Storm-hairs’ weapons in action, but he’d heard enough stories to know that he didn’t especially want to. Especially not at close range.