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  Ben had spent only a few days beyond shadows himself, and the brief visit still weighed on him like a sack of rocks on a three-kilometer swim. It wasn’t all bad, of course. He had been happy to meet Anakin in the Lake of Apparitions, and deeply grateful for the chance to speak with his mother one last time. And with every fiber of his being, he intended to honor the promises he had made to her.

  But as for seeing Jacen …how sad it had been to discover him so alone and so lost—not bitter, but completely aware of the monster he had become. Jacen understood the harm he had caused so many, the anguish he had inflicted on the ones who had loved him most. And the thing that really got to Ben—the thing Ben knew would bother him for the rest of his life—was how accepting Jacen had been of it all. Jacen had seemed almost smug about it, as though all of the suffering he had inflicted on himself and others had been the necessary cost of pursuing some far greater end.

  And yet …it had been Jacen who had finally scared Ben back to his senses, who had finally saved both Skywalkers by convincing them they could go no farther without losing all they had come to save. There was a deeper truth buried in there somewhere, Ben realized, but it would probably remain forever just beyond his grasp.

  Ben sensed a stirring in the Force, and he glanced down to find his father’s blue eyes studying him intently.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that, Dad,” Ben said. “It’s kind of creepy.”

  “What?” Luke asked. “Me trying to be available when my son needs guidance?”

  “Not that,” Ben said. “Always knowing.”

  “Sorry.” A familiar Skywalker smile crept across Luke’s lips, and Ben’s heart immediately felt a thousand kilos lighter. “I can’t help it. Sort of comes with the territory.”

  “Yeah.” Ben sighed. After a pause, he asked, “Hey, as long as you’re awake, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  “What are we still doing here, hanging out in the Maw, when we’re completely out of food and medicine?”

  “Naw—I already figured that one out.” Ben traced a finger along the cut across his father’s nose and cheek. “You put a blood trail on that Sith girl. We’re just waiting for her to get her act together and leave Sinkhole Station, so we can follow her.”

  Again, Luke smiled. “Well, then, it seems you have all the answers.”

  “Not all of them,” Ben said, shaking his head. “There’s one question that’s really been bugging me.”

  Luke’s expression grew serious. “You can always ask.”

  “I know,” Ben said. He took a deep breath. “When Jacen asked what you had seen on the Throne of Balance …”

  “I remember,” Luke said. “I told him that I’d seen Allana, surrounded by friends from all species.”

  “Right …,” Ben said. “And then you asked Jacen what he had seen.”

  Luke nodded. “I remember. He told me it wasn’t me.” His gaze grew distant, and he looked away. “I’m not entirely sure I believe him.”

  “Because you know what he saw?” Ben asked.

  “Because I know part of it,” Luke replied, continuing to look away. “Just enough to make me wonder.”

  “Okay,” Ben said, “then here’s my question: what did Jacen see?”

  Luke looked back to Ben. “What Jacen saw on the Throne of Balance doesn’t matter—not to you.” His smile returned, this time filled with equal parts sadness and hope. “And you know what’s really wonderful about that? It never will.”

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Star Wars: ® Fate of the Jedi: Backlash

  by Aaron Allston

  Published by Del Rey Books

  THE RAINFOREST AIR WAS SO DENSE, SO MOIST THAT EVEN ROARING through it at speeder-bike velocity didn’t bring Luke Skywalker any physical relief. His speed just caused the air to move across him faster, like a greasy scrub-rag wielded by an overzealous nanny-droid, drenching all the exposed surfaces of his body.

  Not that he cared. He couldn’t see her, but he could sense his quarry, not far ahead: the individual whose home he’d crossed so many light-years to find.

  He could sense much more than that. The forest teemed with life, life that poured its energy into the Force, too much to catalogue as he roared past. He could feel ancient trees and new vines, creeping predators and alert prey. He could feel his son Ben as the teenager drew up abreast of him on his own speeder-bike, eyes shadowed under his helmet but a competitive grin on his lips, and then Ben was a few meters ahead of him, dodging leftward to avoid hitting a split-forked tree, the recklessness of youth giving him a momentary speed advantage over Luke’s superior piloting ability.

  Then there was more life, big life, close ahead, with malicious intent—

  From a thick nest of magenta-flowered underbrush twice the height of a man, just to the right of Luke’s path ahead, emerged an arm, striking with great speed and accuracy. It was humanlike, gnarly, gigantic, long enough to reach from the flowers to swat the forward tip of Luke’s speeder-bike as he passed.

  Disaster takes only a fraction of a second. One instant Luke was racing along, intent on his distant prey and enjoying moments of competition; the next, he was headed straight for a tree whose trunk, four meters across, would bring a sudden stop to his travels and his life.

  He came free of the speeder-bike as it rotated beneath him from the giant creature’s blow. He was still headed for the tree trunk. He gave himself an adrenaline-boosted shove in the Force and drifted another couple of meters to the left, allowing him to flash past the trunk instead of into it; he could feel its bark rip at the right shoulder of his tunic. A centimeter closer, and the contact would have given him a serious friction burn.

  He rolled into a ball and let senses other than sight guide him. A Force shove to the right kept him from smacking into a much thinner tree, one barely sturdy enough to break his spine and any bones that hit it. He needed no Force effort to shoot between the forks of a third tree. Contact with a veil of vines slowed him; they tore beneath the impact of his body but dropped his rate of speed painlessly. He went crashing through a mass of tendrils ending in big-petaled yellow flowers, some of which reflexively snapped at him as he plowed through them.

  Then he was bouncing across the ground, a dense layer of decaying leaves and other materials he really didn’t want to speculate about.

  Finally he rolled to a halt. He stretched out, momentarily stunned but unbroken, and stared up through the trees. He could see a single shaft of sunlight penetrating the forest canopy not far behind him; it illuminated a swirl of pollen from the stand of yellow flowers he’d just crashed through. In the distance, he could hear the roar of Ben’s speeder-bike, hear its engine whine as the boy put it in a hard maneuver, trying to get back to Luke.

  Closer, there were footsteps. Heavy, ponderous footsteps.

  A moment later, their origin, the owner of that huge arm, loomed over Luke. It was a rancor, humanoid and bent.

  The rancors of this world had evolved to be smarter than those elsewhere. This one had clearly been trained as a guard and taught to tolerate protective gear. It wore a helmet, a rust-streaked cup of metal large enough to serve as a backwoods bathtub, with leather straps meeting under its chin. Strapped to its left forearm was a thick durasteel round shield that looked ridiculously tiny compared to the creature’s enormous proportions but was probably thick enough to stop one or two salvos from a military laser battery.

  The creature stared down at Luke. Its mouth opened and it offered a challenging growl.

  Luke glared at it. “Do you really want to make me angry right now? I don’t recommend it.”

  It reached for him.

  SEVERAL DAYS EARLIER

  EMPTY SPACE NEAR KESSEL

  It was darkness surrounded by stars—one of them, the unlovely sun of Kessel, closer than the rest, but barely close enough to be a ball of illumination rather than a dot—and then it was occupied, suddenly inhabited by a space yacht of flowing, graceful lines and peeling paint. Th
at was how it would have looked, a vessel dropping out of hyper-space, to those in the arrival zone, had there been any witnesses: nothing there, then something, an instantaneous transition.

  In the bridge sat the ancient yacht’s sole occupant, a teenage girl wearing a battered combat vac suit. She looked from sensor to sensor, uncertain and slow because of her unfamiliarity with this model of spacecraft. Too, there was something like shock in her eyes.

  Finally satisfied that no other ship had dropped out of hyperspace nearby, or was likely to creep up on her in this remote location, she sat back in her pilot’s seat and tried to get her thoughts in order.

  Her name was Vestara Khai, and she was a Sith of the Lost Tribe. She was a proud Sith, not one to hide under false identities and concealing robes until some decades-long grandiose plan neared completion, and now she had even more reason than usual to swell with pride. Mere hours before, she and her Sith Master, Lady Rhea, had confronted Jedi Grand Master Luke Skywalker. Lady Rhea and Vestara had fought the galaxy’s most experienced, most famous Jedi to a standstill. Vestara had even cut him, a graze to the cheek and chin that had spattered her with blood—blood she had later tasted, blood she wished she could take a sample of and keep forever as a souvenir.

  But then Skywalker had shown why he carried that reputation. A moment’s distraction, and suddenly Lady Rhea was in four pieces, each drifting in a separate direction, and Vestara was hopelessly outmatched. She had saluted and fled.

  Now, having taken a space yacht that had doubtless been old when her great-great-great grandsires were newborn, but which, to her everlasting gratitude, held in its still-functioning computer the navigational secrets of the mass of black holes that was the Maw, she was free. And the impossible weight of her reality and her responsibility were settling upon her.

  Lady Rhea was dead. Vestara was alone, and her pride at Lady Rhea’s accomplishment, at her own near success in the duel with the Jedi, was not enough to wash away the sense of loss.

  Then there was the question of what to do next, of where to go. She needed to be able to communicate with her people, to report on the incidents in the Maw. But this creaking, slowly deteriorating Soro-Suub StarTracker space yacht did not carry a hypercomm unit. She’d have to put in to some civilized planet to make contact. That meant arriving unseen, or arriving and departing so swiftly that the Jedi could not detect her in time to catch her. It also meant acquiring sufficient credits to fund a secret, no-way-to-trace-it hypercomm message. All of these plans would take time to bring to reality.

  Vestara knew, deep in her heart, and within the warning currents of the Force, that Luke Skywalker intended to track her to her homeworld of Kesh. How he planned to do it, she didn’t know, but her sense of paranoia, trained at the hands of Lady Rhea, burned within her as though her blood itself were acid. She had to find some way to outwit a Force user several times her age, renowned for his skills.

  She needed to go someplace where Force users were relatively commonplace. Otherwise, any use by her of the Force would stand out like a signal beacon to experienced Jedi in the vicinity. There weren’t many such places. Coruscant was the logical answer. But if her trail began to lead toward the government seat of the Galactic Alliance, Skywalker could warn the Jedi there and Vestara would face a nearly impossible-to-bypass network of Force users between her and her destination.

  The current location of the Jedi school was not known. Hapes was ruled by an ex-Jedi and was rumored to harbor more Force sensitives, but it was such a security-conscious civilization that Vestara doubted she could accomplish her mission there in secrecy.

  Then the answer came to her, so obvious and so perfect that she laughed out loud.

  But the destination she’d thought of wouldn’t be on a galactic map as old as the one in the antique yacht she commanded. She’d have to go somewhere and get a map update. She nodded, her pride, sense of loss, and paranoia all fading as she focused on her new task.

  TRANSITORY MISTS

  Jedi Knight Leia Organa Solo sat at the Millennium Falcon’s communications console. She frowned, her lips pursed as though she were solving an elaborate mathematical equation, as she read and re-read the text message the Falcon had just received via hypercomm.

  The silence that had settled around her eventually drew her husband, Han Solo, to her side; his boyish, often insensitive persona was in part a fabrication, and he well knew and could sense his wife’s moods. The chill and silence of her complete concentration usually meant trouble. He waved a hand between her eyes and the console monitor. “Hey.”

  She barely reacted to his presence. “Hm.”

  “New message?”

  “From Ben.”

  “Another letter filled with teenage talk, I assume. Girls, speeders, allowance woes—”

  Leia ignored his joking. “Sith,” she said.

  “And Sith, of course.” Han sat in the chair next to hers but did not assume his customary slouch; the news kept his spine rigid. “They found a new Sith Lord?”

  “Worse, I think.” Finally some animation returned to Leia’s voice. “They’ve found an ancient installation at the Maw and were attacked by a gang of Sith. A whole strike team. With the possibility of more out there.”

  “I thought Sith ran in packs of two. Vape both of ’em and their menace is ended for all time, at least for a few years, until two more show up.” Han tried to keep his voice calm, but the last Sith to bring trouble to the galaxy had been Jacen Solo, his and Leia’s eldest son. Though Jacen had been dead for more than two years, the ripples of the evil he had done were still causing damage and heartache throughout the settled galaxy. And both his acts and his death had torn a hole in Han’s heart that felt like it would last forever.

  “Yeah, well, no. Apparently not anymore. Ben also says—and we’re not to let Luke know that he did—that Luke is exhausted. Really exhausted, like he’s had the life squeezed out of him. Ben would like us to sort of drift near and lend Luke some support.”

  “Of course.” But then Han grimaced. “Back to the Maw. The only place gloomy enough to make its next door neighbor, Kessel, seem like a garden spot.”

  Leia shook her head. “They’re tracking a Sith girl who’s on the run. So it probably won’t be the Maw. It may be a planet full of Sith.”

  “Ah, good.” Han rubbed his hands together as if anticipating a fine meal or a fight. “Well, why not. We can’t go back to Coruscant until we’re ready to mount a legal defense. Daala’s bound to be angry that we stole all the Jedi she wanted to deep-freeze.”

  Finally Leia smiled and looked at Han. “One good thing about the Solos and Skywalkers. We never run out of things to do.”

  CORUSCANT

  JEDI TEMPLE

  Master Cilghal, Mon Calamari and most proficient medical doctor among the current generation of Jedi, paused before hitting the console button that would erase the message she had just spent some time decrypting. It had been a video transmission from Ben Skywalker, a message carefully rerouted through several hypercomm nodes and carefully staged so as not to mention that it was for Cilghal’s tympanic membranes or, in fact, for anyone on Coruscant.

  But its main content was meant for the Jedi, and Cilghal repeated it as a one-word summation, making the word sound like a vicious curse: “Sith.”

  The message had to be communicated throughout the Jedi Order. And on review, there was nothing in it that suggested she couldn’t preserve the recording, couldn’t claim that it had been forwarded to her by a civilian friend of the Skywalkers. Luke Skywalker was not supposed to be in contact with the Jedi Temple, but this recording was manifestly free of any proof that the exiled Grand Master exerted any influence over the Order. She could distribute it.

  And she would do so, right now.

  DEEP SPACE NEAR KESSEL

  Jade Shadow, one-time vehicle of Mara Jade Skywalker, now full-time transport and home to her widower and son, dropped from hyper-space into the empty blackness well outside the Kessel system. I
t hung suspended there for several minutes, long enough for one of its occupants to gather from the Force a sense of his own life’s blood that had been in the vicinity, then it turned on a course toward Kessel and vanished again into hyperspace.

  JADE SHADOW

  IN ORBIT ABOVE KESSEL

  Ben Skywalker shouldered his way through the narrow hatch that gave access to his father’s cabin. A redheaded teen of less than average height, he was well muscled in a way that his anonymous black tunic and pants could not conceal.

  On the cabin’s bed, under a brown blanket, lay Luke Skywalker. Similar in build to his son, he wore the evidence of many more years of hard living, including ancient, faded scars on his face and the exposed portions of his arms. Not obvious was the fact that his right hand, so ordinary in appearance, was a prosthetic.

  Luke’s eyes were closed but he stirred. “What did you find out?”

  “I reached Nien Nunb.” Nunb, the Sullustan co-owner and manager of one of Kessel’s most prominent mineworks, had been a friend of the Solos and Skywalkers for decades. “That yacht did make landfall. The pilot gave her name as Captain Khai. She somehow scammed a port worker into thinking she’d paid for a complete refueling when she hadn’t—”

  Luke smiled. “The Force can have a—”

  “Yeah, so can a good-looking girl. Anyway, what’s interesting is that she got a galactic map update. Nunb looked at the transmission time on that to determine that it was pretty comprehensive. In other words, she didn’t concentrate on any one specific area or route. No help there.”

  “But it suggests that she did need some of the newer information. New hyperspace routes or planetary listings.”