Jacen said, “Uh-oh,” as a familiar ship swung into their field of vision in their front viewports: the Rising Star. Raaba’s ship.
With the Bornaryn fleet holding the Diversity Alliance ships at bay, Han Solo’s choice was clear.
“Chewie, let’s make sure no one else ever gets hold of the deadly stuff down there.”
A voice crackled over the comm speakers.
“New Republic fleet, this is Zekk in the Lightning Rod. Once the Rock Dragon is clear, feel free to use the asteroid for target practice.”
Han strode to the comm panel.
“We copy, Zekk. You’re cleared to come aboard one of the escort frigates. Red and silver leaders, bring your squadrons after the Falcon. You’re with me. We’re going in.”
Raaba pulled the Rising Star into a backward arc to avoid hitting the Rock Dragon.
“Just shoot them,” Nolaa ordered, “then take me to the fleet!” She subsided into a fit of coughing.
Raaba barked a rebuke at her leader. Didn’t she know how many people had died already this day? Neither of them could be certain how many plagues they’d each been exposed to in that chamber on the asteroid. If the two of them returned to the fleet now, they might risk killing every loyal member of the Diversity Alliance—and how could killing all the humans help them now?
“Such sentiments are for fools,” Nolaa gasped, shuddering as much now with anger as with the chills that racked her body. “In every revolution some must sacrifice themselves to overthrow the tyrants and save the rest.”
Just then a voice came over the comm speaker. It was Jacen.
“Raaba, is that you? If you need our help, we can take you aboard.”
Nolaa Tarkona muted the speakers.
“Yes, it’s perfect!” she said. “Accept their offer. That is how we can begin to spread the plague among the humans—with those Jedi as our first victims.”
A rumble of outrage was building deep within Raaba like the boiling of a geyser. Even after all that Raaba had done, these humans—Lowie’s friends—were worried about her. They were willing to help. But Nolaa Tarkona had been right, in a way: in every revolution there must be sacrifices, and Raaba owed her allegiance to the Diversity Alliance. Her leader was dying, and she could not abandon her.
Nolaa toggled the comm speaker back on. Again Jacen’s voice spoke.
“Hey, Raaba, are you there? Are you all right? Do you need our help?”
Below, New Republic ships bombarded the asteroid with a stream of turbolaser fire and proton torpedoes. Pressurized domes exploded just as Raaba wished she could explode to release the pressure building in her.
“Yes, we are coming, we accept,” Nolaa Tarkona hissed. Shaking her head with a low growl in her throat, Raaba came to a decision. Her long Wookiee fingers flew over the controls of the star skimmer, setting a course and sending them sailing out and away from the asteroid. She increased their speed toward the Diversity Alliance armada. Faster, faster. She allowed herself to transmit only one message, not by voice but by a brief encoded burst that she flashed toward the Rock Dragon before starlines stretched out around them.
Together, Raaba and her leader Nolaa Tarkona plunged into hyperspace. Behind them, unable to resist the concentrated barrage of firepower from the New Republic fleet, the Emperor’s weapons depot erupted in a chain reaction of fire and dust, sparkling as it crumbled into nothingness.
Boba Fett sat in Slave IV, rising up out of the plane of the asteroid belt and watching the continuing battle below with some amusement. Tyko Thul had paid him for his efforts, and Fett was once again between bounties. The passion and devotion some people gave to their causes, their sacrifices, never ceased to amaze him. It seemed a terrible waste of energy, and not profitable. But then, it wasn’t his business to understand. Avoiding all contact with other ships, Fett cruised away, setting a new course. It wouldn’t be long before he had another bounty assignment….
28
Over the next few hours the Bornaryn ships and the New Republic fleet rounded up the last remnants of the Diversity Alliance armada. But despite the excitement, the time passed as slowly as a century for Raynar. It would have been a kindness, he thought, if the shock of his father’s death had thrown him into a numbing fog that blurred the hours while he waited for the space battle to end, while he waited to go aboard the Tradewyn and speak with his mother, to explain to her what his father had done and why. Instead, Raynar experienced every excruciating moment as if it were an eternity. How could he break the news to his mother that, after months of searching, after hopes that had been repeatedly renewed, Raynar had been unable to save his father?
In the docking bay of the cavernous Calamarian cruiser, Raynar refused even to get out of the Lightning Rod. He could think of seeing no one but his mother, could think of nothing but her pain—and his own. Zekk came and went, bringing Raynar reports of the final skirmishes with the Diversity Alliance armada. Raynar heard, yet did not hear, Zekk speaking. Even the news that Nolaa Tarkona had escaped meant nothing to him. His mind absorbed little of the information, as his spirit curled into a tight ball of grief. Raynar was only vaguely aware that Lowie had not left the Lightning Rod either and sat somewhere close by, keeping watch but saying nothing.
Later, Jacen, Jaina, and Tenel Ka also came in to see him, one by one. To his great relief, the young Jedi Knights did not try to cheer him up, did not try to talk with him. Each of them simply entered and laid a hand on his back or shoulder, and then quietly withdrew again. But with each touch of a friend’s hand, Raynar felt his pain ease.
Peace flowed into him through the Force, and though his sorrow was not diminished, he found that he could face it now, accept it. By the time Zekk returned with the news that the space skirmish was over and it was safe to take him over to the Tradewyn, Raynar was ready to see his mother.
Aryn Dro Thul and Uncle Tyko met the Lightning Rod in one of the Tradewyn’s docking bays just seconds after pressure and atmosphere were restored to the enormous chamber.
Aryn Dro Thul’s midnight-blue gown clung to her as dignity clings to a queen. One look at her told Raynar that she already knew of her husband’s death. She wore the multicolored sash of the House of Thul tied in mourning about her left arm, rather than in its usual place at her waist, and she carried an air of regal sorrow about her. Tyko Thul’s moon-round face was damp with tears, and he too wore his sash on his left arm. Raynar walked slowly down the Lightning Rod’s ramp. Then, as if in a choreographed dance, he and his mother and his uncle drew together in a tight circle and embraced.
“You were right about your father,” Tyko said in a voice taut with emotion. “He was a good man.”
“I’m so proud of him for what he did,” Aryn added. “And you.” She produced a Thul sash from a fold in her gown and held it out to Raynar. He took the colorful strip of cloth and gravely tied it around the left arm of his Jedi robe, in tribute to his father. Hearing a noise behind him, Raynar turned to find Zekk standing beside the Lightning Rod.
“I guess I’ll just be going now,” the dark-haired boy said. “I think you’re in good hands here, Raynar.”
His mother nodded. “We’ll take him back to the Jedi academy when he’s ready. We have a Ceremony of the Waters to celebrate in honor of his father first. Thank you for your help, Zekk—for everything you’ve done.”