Shadows of the Empire Read online

  Rave reviews for previous

  Star Wars® adventures:

  HEIR TO THE EMPIRE

  by Timothy Zahn

  “CHOCK FULL OF ALL THE GOOD STUFF YOU’VE COME TO EXPECT FROM A BATTLE OF GOOD AGAINST EVIL.”

  —Daily News, New York

  “MOVES WITH A SPEED-OF-LIGHT PACE THAT CAPTURES THE SPIRIT OF THE MOVIE TRILOGY SO WELL, YOU CAN ALMOST HEAR JOHN WILLIAMS’S SOUNDTRACK.”

  —The Providence Sunday Journal

  DARK FORCE RISING

  by Timothy Zahn

  “CONTINUES [ZAHN’S] REMARKABLE EXTRAPOLATION FROM GEORGE LUCAS’S TRILOGY.”

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  “ZAHN HAS PERFECTLY CAPTURED THE PACE AND FLAVOR OF THE STAR WARS MOVIES. THIS IS SPACE OPERA AT ITS BEST.”

  —The Sunday Oklahoman

  THE JEDI ACADEMY TRILOGY

  by Kevin J. Anderson

  “ANDERSON HAS ALL BUT ASSUMED THE TITLE OF CHANCELLOR OF STAR WARS UNIVERSITY.”

  —Starlog

  “DEFTLY PUTS THE STAR WARS CHARACTERS THROUGH THEIR PACES WITH NEVER A SLIP, AND WITH NEVER A DULL MOMENT.”

  —The Sunday Oregonian, Portland

  This edition contains the complete text of the original hardcover

  edition. NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

  STAR WARS: SHADOWS OF THE EMPIRE

  A Bantam Spectra Book

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Bantam hardcover edition published May 1996

  Bantam mass market edition/April 1997

  SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of

  Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc.

  ®, TM & © 1996 by Lucasfilm Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Used under authorization.

  Cover illustration by Drew Struzan. © 1996 by Lucasfilm Ltd.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 95-34660.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

  form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including

  photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and

  retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information address: Bantam Books.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-79634-9

  Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

  v3.1

  FOR DIANNE;

  and for

  Tom “Mississippi” Dupree,

  who put me in the rotation and

  thus let me get a chance to bat.

  Acknowledgments

  I could not have written a book set in such a wonderfully rich and complex universe as this all by myself. I had help, lots of it, and I owe thanks to many people. You should know who they are. My apologies to any I might have missed, and the usual caveat applies: If I screwed up their input, it is my fault and not theirs. If you are a fan of the books, comics, games, or movies, you’ll probably recognize some of these names.

  My gratitude goes to: Tom Dupree; Howard Roffman, Lucy Wilson, Sue Rostoni, and Allan Kausch; Jon Knoles, Steve Dauterman, and Larry Holland; Bill Slavicsek; Bill Smith; Mike Richardson, Ryder Windham, Kilian Plunkett, and John Wagner; Timothy Zahn, Kevin J. Anderson, and Rebecca Moesta; Jean Naggar; Dianne, Danelle, and Dal Perry; Cady Jo Ivy and Roxanne de Bergerac. I’d also like to thank the fans in the Star Wars Forum on America Online—I got some great ideas as I lurked and listened there. And last but certainly not least, thanks to the man who dreamed up, then built this absolutely terrific toy in the first place: George Lucas.

  Appreciate it, gang. Really.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Introduction to the Star Wars Expanded Universe

  Excerpt from Star Wars: Shadow Games

  Introduction to the Old Republic Era

  Introduction to the Rise of the Empire Era

  Introduction to the Rebellion Era

  Introduction to the New Republic Era

  Introduction to the New Jedi Order Era

  Introduction to the Legacy Era

  Star Wars Novels Timeline

  “Face it, if crime did not pay,

  there would be very few criminals.”

  LAUGHTON LEWIS BURDOCK

  Prologue

  He looks like a walking corpse, Xizor thought. Like a mummified body dead a thousand years. Amazing he is still alive, much less the most powerful man in the galaxy. He isn’t even that old; it is more as if something is slowly eating him.

  Xizor stood four meters away from the Emperor, watching as the man who had long ago been Senator Palpatine moved to stand in the holocam field. He imagined he could smell the decay in the Emperor’s worn body. Likely that was just some trick of the recycled air, run through dozens of filters to ensure that there was no chance of any poison gas being introduced into it. Filtered the life out of it, perhaps, giving it that dead smell.

  The viewer on the other end of the holo-link would see a close-up of the Emperor’s head and shoulders, of an age-ravaged face shrouded in the cowl of his dark zeyd-cloth robe. The man on the other end of the transmission, light-years away, would not see Xizor, though Xizor would be able to see him. It was a measure of the Emperor’s trust that Xizor was allowed to be here while the conversation took place.

  The man on the other end of the transmission—if he could still be called that—

  The air swirled inside the Imperial chamber in front of the Emperor, coalesced, and blossomed into the image of a figure down on one knee. A caped humanoid biped dressed in jet black, face hidden under a full helmet and breathing mask:

  Darth Vader.

  Vader spoke: “What is thy bidding, my master?”

  If Xizor could have hurled a power bolt through time and space to strike Vader dead, he would have done it without blinking. Wishful thinking: Vader was too powerful to attack directly.

  “There is a great disturbance in the Force,” the Emperor said.

  “I have felt it,” Vader said.

  “We have a new enemy. Luke Skywalker.”

  Skywalker? That had been Vader’s name, a long time ago. Who was this person with the same name, someone so powerful as to be worth a conversation between the Emperor and his most loa
thsome creation? More importantly, why had Xizor’s agents not uncovered this before now? Xizor’s ire was instant—but cold. No sign of his surprise or anger would show on his imperturbable features. The Falleen did not allow their emotions to burst forth as did many of the inferior species; no, the Falleen ancestry was not fur but scales, not mammalian but reptilian. Not wild but coolly calculating. Such was much better. Much safer.

  “Yes, my master,” Vader continued.

  “He could destroy us,” the Emperor said.

  Xizor’s attention was riveted upon the Emperor and the holographic image of Vader kneeling on the deck of a ship far away. Here was interesting news indeed. Something the Emperor perceived as a danger to himself? Something the Emperor feared?

  “He’s just a boy,” Vader said, “Obi-Wan can no longer help him.”

  Obi-Wan. That name Xizor knew. He was among the last of the Jedi Knights, a general. But he’d been dead for decades, hadn’t he?

  Apparently Xizor’s information was wrong if Obi-Wan had been helping someone who was still a boy. His agents were going to be sorry.

  Even as Xizor took in the distant image of Vader and the nearness of the Emperor, even as he was aware of the luxury of the Emperor’s private and protected chamber at the core of the giant pyramidal palace, he was also able to make a mental note to himself: Somebody’s head would roll for the failure to make him aware of all this. Knowledge was power; lack of knowledge was weakness. This was something he could not permit.

  The Emperor continued. “The Force is strong with him. The son of Skywalker must not become a Jedi.”

  Son of Skywalker?

  Vader’s son! Amazing!

  “If he could be turned he would become a powerful ally,” Vader said.

  There was something in Vader’s voice when he said this, something Xizor could not quite put his finger on. Longing? Worry?

  Hope?

  “Yes … yes. He would be a great asset,” the Emperor said. “Can it be done?”

  There was the briefest of pauses. “He will join us or die, Master.”

  Xizor felt the smile, though he did not allow it to show any more than he had allowed his anger play. Ah. Vader wanted Skywalker alive, that was what had been in his tone. Yes, he had said that the boy would join them or die, but this latter part was obviously meant only to placate the Emperor. Vader had no intention of killing Skywalker, his own son; that was obvious to one as skilled in reading voices as was Xizor. He had not gotten to be the Dark Prince, Underlord of Black Sun, the largest criminal organization in the galaxy, merely on his formidable good looks. Xizor didn’t truly understand the Force that sustained the Emperor and made him and Vader so powerful, save to know that it certainly worked somehow. But he did know that it was something the extinct Jedi had supposedly mastered. And now, apparently, this new player had tapped into it. Vader wanted Skywalker alive, had practically promised the Emperor that he would deliver him alive—and converted.

  This was most interesting.

  Most interesting indeed.

  The Emperor finished his communication and turned back to face him. “Now, where were we, Prince Xizor?”

  The Dark Prince smiled. He would attend to the business at hand, but he would not forget the name of Luke Skywalker.

  1

  Chewbacca roared his rage. A stormtrooper grabbed at him and he knocked the man flying, armor clattering as he fell into the pit. Two more guards came in, and the Wookiee battered them both aside as if they were nothing, a child tossing dolls around—

  In another second one of Vader’s troops would shoot Chewie. He was big and strong, but he couldn’t win; they’d cut him down—

  Han started yelling at the Wookiee, calming him.

  Leia stared, unable to move, unable to believe this was happening.

  Han kept talking: “Chewie, there’ll be another time! The princess, you have to take care of her. D’you hear me? Huh?”

  They were in a dank chamber in the bowels of Cloud City on Bespin, where Han’s so-called friend Lando Calrissian had betrayed them to Darth Vader. The scene was bathed in a buttery golden light that made it seem even more surreal. Chewbacca blinked at Han, the half-assembled droid Threepio jutting from a sack on the Wookiee’s back. The traitor Calrissian stood off to one side like some feral creature. There were more guards, techs, bounty hunters. Vader and the stink of liquid carbonite permeated the air around them all, a smell of morgues and graves combined.

  More guards moved in, to put cuffs on Chewie. The Wookiee nodded, calmer. Yes, he understood Han. He didn’t like it, but he understood. He allowed the guards to cuff him—

  Han and Leia looked at each other. This can’t be happening, she thought. Not now.

  The emotion took them; neither could resist it. They came together like magnets, held each other. They embraced, kissed, full of fire and hope—full of ashes and despair—

  Two stormtroopers jerked Han away, backed him onto the liftplate over the makeshift freezing chamber.

  The words erupted from Leia unbidden, uncontrollable, lava blasted from a volcanic explosion: “I love you!”

  And Han, brave, strong Han, nodded at her. “I know.”

  The Ugnaught techs, not much more than half Han’s height, moved in, unbound his hands, stepped away.

  Han looked at the techs, then at Leia again. The lift-plate sank, lowered him into the pit. He locked his gaze with Leia’s, held it, held it … until the cloud of freezing vapor boiled up and blocked their view—

  Chewie yelled; Leia didn’t understand his speech, but she understood his rage, his grief, his feeling of helplessness.

  Han!

  Stinking, acrid gas spewed up and rolled over them, an icy fog, a roiling soul-chilling smoke through which Leia saw Vader watching it all under his inscrutable mask. She heard Threepio sputter, “What—What’s going on? Turn ’round! Chewbacca, I can’t see!”

  Han!

  Oh, Han!

  Leia sat up abruptly, her pulse racing. The sheets were sweaty and wadded around her, her night garment damp. She sighed, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and sat staring at the wall. The chronometer inset showed her it was three hours past midnight. The air in the room smelled stale. Outside, she knew, the Tatooine night would be chilly, and she considered opening a vent to allow some of that coolness inside. At the moment, it seemed too much effort to bother.

  A bad dream, she thought. That’s all it was.

  But—no. She couldn’t pretend it had been only a nightmare. It had been more than that. It was a memory. It had happened. The man she loved was embedded in a block of carbonite, had been hauled away like a crate of cargo by a bounty hunter. Lost to her, somewhere in the vastness of the galaxy.

  She felt the emotions well, felt them threaten to spill out in tears, but she fought it. She was Leia Organa, Princess of the Royal Family of Alderaan, elected to the Imperial Senate, a worker in the Alliance to Restore the Republic. Alderaan was gone, destroyed by Vader and the Death Star; the Imperial Senate was disbanded; the Alliance was outmanned and outgunned ten thousand to one, but she was who she was. She would not cry.

  She would not cry.

  She would get even.

  Three hours past midnight, and half the planet slept.

  Luke Skywalker stood barefoot on the steelcrete platform sixty meters above the sand, looking at the taut wire. He wore plain black pants and shirt and a black leather belt. He no longer had a lightsaber, though he’d started constructing another one, using the plans he’d found in an old leather-bound book at Ben Kenobi’s. It was a traditional exercise for a Jedi, so he’d been told. It had given him something to do while his new hand had finished final bonding to his arm. It had kept him from thinking too much.

  The lights under the canopy were dim; he could barely see the stranded-steel line. The carnival was done for the night, the acrobats and dewbacks and jesters long asleep. The crowds had gone home, and he was alone; alone here with the tightrope. It was quiet, the
only sound the creak of the syn tent fabric as it cooled in the arms of the Tatooine summer night. The hot desert day gave up its heat quickly, and it was cold enough outside the tent to need a jacket. The smell of the dewbacks drifted up to where he perched, and mingled with that of his own sweat.

  A guard whose mind had accepted Luke’s mental command to allow him inside the giant tent stood watch at the entrance, blind now to his presence. A Jedi skill, that kind of control, but another one he had only begun to learn.

  Luke took a deep breath, let it out slowly. There was no net below, and a fall from this height would surely be fatal. He didn’t have to do this. Nobody was going to make him take the walk.

  Nobody but himself.

  He calmed his breathing, his heartbeat, and, as much as possible, his mind, using the method he had learned. First Ben, then Master Yoda had taught him the ancient arts. Yoda’s exercises had been the more rigorous and exhausting, but unfortunately, Luke had not finished his schooling. There really hadn’t been any choice at the time. Han and Leia had been in deadly danger, and he’d had to go to them. Because he had gone, they were alive, but …

  That hadn’t turned out well.

  No. Not at all.

  And there had been the meeting with Vader …

  He felt his face tighten, his jaw muscles dance, and he fought the anger that surged up in him like a hormonal tide as black as the clothes he wore. His wrist ached suddenly where Vader’s lightsaber had sliced through it. The new hand was as good as the old, better, maybe, but sometimes when he thought about Vader, it throbbed. Phantom limb pain, the medics had said. Not real.

  “I’m your father.”

  No! That couldn’t be real, either! His father had been Anakin Skywalker, a Jedi.

  If only he could talk to Ben. Or to Yoda. They would confirm it. They would tell him the truth. Vader had tried to manipulate him, had tried to throw him off balance, that was all.

  But—what if it was true …?

  No. Leave it. It wouldn’t help to dwell on that now. He wasn’t going to be able to do anybody any good unless he mastered his Jedi skills. He had to trust in the Force and move on. No matter what lies Vader had spewed. There was a war on, much to do, and while he was a good pilot, he was supposed to have more to offer to the Alliance.