{"product_id":"luke-skywalker-and-the-shadows-of-mindor-star-wars-legends-isbn-9780345477453","title":"Luke Skywalker and the Shadows of Mindor: Star Wars Legends","description":"Emperor Palpatine and Darth Vader are dead. The Empire has been toppled by the triumphant Rebel Alliance, and the New Republic is ascendant. But the struggle against the dark side and the Sith Order is not over. Luke Skywalker, Princess Leia, Han Solo, Lando Calrissian, and their faithful comrades have had little time to savor victory before being called on to defend the newly liberated galaxy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePowerful remnants of the vanquished Empire, hungry for retaliation, are still at large, committing acts of piracy, terrorism, and wholesale slaughter against the worlds of the fledgling New Republic. The most deadly of these, a ruthless legion of black-armored Stormtroopers, do the brutal bidding of the newly risen warlord Shadowspawn. Striking from a strategically advantageous base on the planet Mindor, they are waging a campaign of plunder and destruction, demolishing order and security across the galaxy–and breeding fears of an Imperial resurgence. Another reign of darkness beneath the boot-heel of Sith despotism is something General Luke Skywalker cannot, and will not, risk. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMobilizing the ace fighters of Rogue Squadron–along with the trusty Chewbacca, See-Threepio, and Artoo-Detoo–Luke, Han, and Leia set out to take the battle to the enemy and neutralize the threat before it’s too late. But their imminent attack on Mindor will be playing directly into the hands of their cunning new adversary. Lord Shadowspawn is no freshly anointed Sith Chieftain but in fact a vicious former Imperial Intelligence officer–and Prophet of the Dark Side. The Emperor’s death has paved the way for Shadowspawn’s return from exile in the Outer Rim, and mastery of ancient Sith knowledge and modern technology has given him the capability to mount the ultimate power play for galaxy wide dominion. Dark prophecy has foretold that only one obstacle stands in his way, and he is ready–even eager–for the confrontation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll the classic heroes, all the explosive action and adventure, all the unparalleled excitement of Star Wars come breathlessly alive as the adventures of Luke Skywalker continue.Matthew Stover\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eis the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of the Star Wars novels \u003cb\u003eRevenge of the Sith\u003c\/b\u003e, \u003cb\u003eShatterpoint\u003c\/b\u003e, and T\u003cb\u003ehe New Jedi Order: Traitor\u003c\/b\u003e, as well as \u003cb\u003eCaine Black Knife\u003c\/b\u003e,\u003cb\u003e The Blade of Tyshalle\u003c\/b\u003e, and \u003cb\u003eHeroes Die\u003c\/b\u003e. He is an expert in several martial arts. Stover lives outside Chicago.CHAPTER 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe \u003ci\u003eCorellian Queen \u003c\/i\u003ewas a legend: the greatest luxury liner ever to ply the spaceways, an interstellar pleasure palace forever beyond the grasp of all but the galaxy’s super-elite—beings whose wealth transcended description. Rumor had it that for the price of a single cocktail in one of the \u003ci\u003eQueen\u003c\/i\u003e’s least- exclusive dining clubs, one might buy a starship; for the price of a meal, one could buy not only the starship, but the port in which it docked, and the factory that had built it. A being could not simply \u003ci\u003epay for \u003c\/i\u003ea berth on the \u003ci\u003eCorellian Queen; \u003c\/i\u003emere wealth would never suffice. To embark upon the ultimate journey into hedonistic excess, one first had to demonstrate that one’s breeding and manners were as exquisite as would be the pain of paying one’s bar bill. All of which made the \u003ci\u003eCorellian Queen \u003c\/i\u003eone of the most irresistible terrorist targets ever: who better to terrorize than the elite of the Elite, the Powers among the powerful, the greatest of the Great?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd so when some presumably unscrupulous routing clerk in the\u003cbr\u003evast midreaches of the Nebula Line corporation quietly offered for\u003cbr\u003esale, to select parties from Kindlabethia to Nar Shaddaa, a hint as to\u003cbr\u003ethe route of the \u003ci\u003eCorellian Queen\u003c\/i\u003e’s upcoming cruise, it attracted considerable interest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo pertinent facts remained concealed, however, from the winning\u003cbr\u003ebidder. The first pertinent fact was that this presumably unscrupulous\u003cbr\u003erouting clerk was neither unscrupulous nor, in fact, a\u003cbr\u003erouting clerk, but was a skilled and resourceful agent of the intelligence\u003cbr\u003eservice of the New Republic. The second pertinent fact was\u003cbr\u003ethat the \u003ci\u003eCorellian Queen \u003c\/i\u003ewas not cruising at all that season, having\u003cbr\u003ebeen replaced by a breakaway disposable shell built to conceal a substantial fraction of a star fighter wing, led by—as was customary in such operations—the crack pilots of Rogue Squadron.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was approximately the moment that R4-G7 squalled a proximity\u003cbr\u003ealarm through his X-wing’s sensor panel and his HUD lit up\u003cbr\u003ewith image codes for six TIE Defenders on his tail that Lieutenant\u003cbr\u003eDerek “Hobbie” Klivian, late of the Alliance to Restore Freedom to\u003cbr\u003ethe Galaxy, currently of the New Republic, began to suspect that\u003cbr\u003eCommander Antilles’s brilliant ambush had never been brilliant at\u003cbr\u003eall, not even a little, and he said so. In no uncertain terms. Stripped\u003cbr\u003eof its blistering profanity, his comment was “Wedge? This plan was\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003estupid. \u003c\/i\u003eYou hear me? Stupid, stupid, stu\u003ci\u003eYOW—\u003c\/i\u003e!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe \u003ci\u003eyow \u003c\/i\u003ewas a product of multiple cannon hits that disintegrated\u003cbr\u003ehis right dorsal cannon and most of the extended wing it had been\u003cbr\u003eattached to. This kicked his fighter into a tumble that he fought with\u003cbr\u003eboth hands on the yoke and both feet kicking attitude jets and almost\u003cbr\u003ehad under control until the pair of the Defenders closest on his tail\u003cbr\u003eblossomed into expanding spheres of flame and debris fragments.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe twin shock fronts overtook him at exactly the wrong instant and\u003cbr\u003esent him flipping end- over- end straight at another Defender formation\u003cbr\u003estreaking toward him head- on. Then tail- on, then head- on\u003cbr\u003eagain, and so forth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis ship’s comlink crackled as Wedge Antilles’s fighter flashed\u003cbr\u003epast him close enough that he could see the grin on the commander’s\u003cbr\u003eface. \u003ci\u003e“That’s ‘stupid plan, \u003c\/i\u003esir,\u003ci\u003e’ Lieutenant.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“I suppose you think that’s funny.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Well, if he doesn’t,” \u003c\/i\u003eput in Hobbie’s wingman, \u003ci\u003e“I sure do.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“When I want \u003ci\u003eyour \u003c\/i\u003eopinion, Janson, I’ll dust your ship and scan\u003cbr\u003efor it in the wreckage.” The skewed whirl of stars around his cockpit\u003cbr\u003egave his stomach a yank that threatened to make the slab of smoked\u003cbr\u003eterrafin loin he’d had for breakfast violently reemerge. Struggling\u003cbr\u003egrimly with the controls, he managed to angle his ship’s whirl just a\u003cbr\u003ehair, which let him twitch his ship’s nose toward the four pursuing\u003cbr\u003emarauders as he spun. Red fire lashed from his three surviving\u003cbr\u003ecannons, and the Defenders’ formation split open like an overripe\u003cbr\u003esnekfruit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHobbie only dusted one with the cannons, but the pair of\u003cbr\u003eproximity- fused flechette torpedoes he had thoughtfully triggered at\u003cbr\u003ethe same time flared in diverging arcs to intercept the enemy fighters;\u003cbr\u003ethese torpedo arcs terminated in spectacular explosions that\u003cbr\u003ecracked the three remaining Defenders like rotten snuffle eggs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Now, \u003ci\u003ethat \u003c\/i\u003ewas satisfying,” he said, still fighting his controls to\u003cbr\u003estabilize the crippled X-wing. “Eyeball soufflé!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Better watch it, Hobbie—keep that up, and somebody might start to\u003cbr\u003ethink you can fly that thing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Are you \u003ci\u003ein \u003c\/i\u003ethis fight, Janson? Or are you just gonna hang back\u003cbr\u003eand smirk while I do all the heavy lifting?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Haven’t decided yet.” \u003c\/i\u003eWes Janson’s X-wing came out of nowhere,\u003cbr\u003estreaking in a tight bank across Hobbie’s subjective vertical. \u003ci\u003e“Maybe\u003cbr\u003eI can lend a hand. Or, say, a couple torps.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eTwo brilliant blue stars leapt from Janson’s torpedo tubes and\u003cbr\u003estreaked for the oncoming TIEs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Uh, Wes?” Hobbie said, flinching. “Those weren’t the flechette\u003cbr\u003etorps, were they?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Sure. What else?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Have you noticed that I’m currently having just a little trouble\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003emaneuvering\u003c\/i\u003e?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eWhat do you mean?\u003c\/i\u003e” Janson asked as though honestly puzzled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen, after a second spent watching Hobbie’s ship tumbling helplessly\u003cbr\u003edirectly toward his torpedoes’ targets, he said, \u003ci\u003e“Oh. Uh . . .sorry?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe flechette torpedoes carried by Rogue Squadron had been designed\u003cbr\u003eand built specifically for this operation, and they had one primary\u003cbr\u003epurpose: to take out TIE Defenders.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe TIE Defender was the Empire’s premier space- superiority\u003cbr\u003efighter. It was faster and more maneuverable than the Incom T-65\u003cbr\u003e(better known as the X-wing); faster even than the heavily modified\u003cbr\u003eand updated 65Bs of Rogue Squadron. The Defender was also more\u003cbr\u003eheavily armed, packing twin ion cannons to supplement its lasers, as\u003cbr\u003ewell as dual- use launch tubes that could fire either proton torpedoes\u003cbr\u003eor concussion missiles. The shields generated by its twin Novaldex\u003cbr\u003edeflector generators were nearly as powerful as those found on capital\u003cbr\u003eships. However, the Defenders were not equipped with particle\u003cbr\u003eshields, depending instead on their titanium- reinforced hull to absorb\u003cbr\u003ethe impact of material objects.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEach proton torpedo shell had been loaded with thousands of tiny\u003cbr\u003ejagged bits of durasteel, packed around a core of conventional explosive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn detonation, these tiny bits of durasteel became an expanding\u003cbr\u003esphere of shrapnel; though traveling with respectable velocity of\u003cbr\u003etheir own, they were most effective when set off in the path of oncoming\u003cbr\u003eDefenders, because impact energy, after all, is determined by\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003erelative \u003c\/i\u003evelocity. At star fighter combat speeds, flying into a cloud of\u003cbr\u003edurasteel pellets could transform one’s ship from a star fighter into a\u003cbr\u003every, very expensive cheese grater.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe four medial fighters of the oncoming Defender formation hit\u003cbr\u003ethe flechette cloud and just . . . shredded. The lateral wingers managed\u003cbr\u003eto bank off an instant before they would have been overtaken\u003cbr\u003eby two sequential detonations, as the explosion of one Defender’s\u003cbr\u003epower core triggered the other three’s cores an eyeblink later, so that\u003cbr\u003ethe unfortunate Lieutenant Klivian was now tumbling directly\u003cbr\u003etoward a miniature plasma nebula that blazed with enough hard radiation\u003cbr\u003eto cook him like a bantha steak on an obsidian fry- rock at\u003cbr\u003edouble noon on Tatooine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“You’re not gonna make it, Hobbie,” \u003c\/i\u003eJanson called. \u003ci\u003e“Punch out.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Oh, you’d \u003ci\u003elike \u003c\/i\u003ethat, wouldn’t you?” Hobbie snarled under his\u003cbr\u003ebreath, still struggling grimly with the X-wing’s controls. The\u003cbr\u003efighter’s tumble began to slow. “I’ve got it, Wes!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“No, you don’t! Punch out, Hobbie—PUNCH OUT!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“I’ve got it—I’m gonna make it! I’m gonna—” He was interrupted\u003cbr\u003eby the final flip of his X- wing, which brought his nose into line with\u003cbr\u003ethe sight of the leading edge of the spherical debris field expanding\u003cbr\u003etoward him at a respectable fraction of lightspeed, and Hobbie Klivian,\u003cbr\u003eacknowledged master of both profanity and obscenity, human\u003cbr\u003eand otherwise, not to mention casual vulgarities from a dozen\u003cbr\u003especies and hundreds of star systems, found he had nothing to say\u003cbr\u003eexcept, “Aw, nuts.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stood the X- wing on its tail, sublights blasting for a tangent,\u003cbr\u003ebut he had learned long ago that of all the Rogues, he was the one\u003cbr\u003ewho should know better than to trust his luck. He reached for the\u003cbr\u003eeject trigger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJust as his hand found the trigger, the ship jounced and clanged as\u003cbr\u003eif he had his head trapped inside a Wookiee dinner gong at nightmeal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe metaphorical Wookiee cook must have been hungry, too,\u003cbr\u003ebecause the clanging went on and on and kept getting louder, and\u003cbr\u003ethe eject still, mysteriously, didn’t seem to be working at all. This\u003cbr\u003emystery was solved, however, by the brief shriek of atmosphere\u003cbr\u003ethrough a ragged fist- sized hole in the X- wing’s canopy. This hole\u003cbr\u003ewas ragged because, Hobbie discovered, the fragment that had made\u003cbr\u003ethis opening had been slowed by punching through the X- wing’s\u003cbr\u003etitanium- alloy ventral armor. Not to mention the X- wing’s control\u003cbr\u003epanel, where it had not only ripped away the entire eject trigger assembly,\u003cbr\u003ebut had vaporized Hobbie’s left hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe glared at his vacant wrist with more annoyance than shock or\u003cbr\u003epanic; instead of blood or cauterized flesh, his wrist jetted only\u003cbr\u003esparks and smoke from overheated servomotors. He hadn’t had a\u003cbr\u003ereal left arm since sometime before Yavin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf more concern was the continuing shriek of escaping atmosphere,\u003cbr\u003ebecause he discovered that it was coming from his environment\u003cbr\u003esuit’s nitroxy generator.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe thought, \u003ci\u003eOh, this sucks. \u003c\/i\u003eAfter everything he had survived in the\u003cbr\u003eGalactic Civil War, he was about to be killed by a minor equipment\u003cbr\u003emalfunction. He amended his previous thought: \u003ci\u003eThis \u003c\/i\u003ereally \u003ci\u003esucks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eHe didn’t bother to say it out loud, because there wasn’t enough\u003cbr\u003eair in his cockpit to carry the sound.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere being no other useful thing he could do with his severed\u003cbr\u003eleft wrist, he jammed it into the hole in his canopy. His suit’s autoseal\u003cbr\u003eplastered itself to the jagged edges, but the nitroxy generator didn’t\u003cbr\u003eseem mollified; in fact, it was starting to feel like he had an unshielded\u003cbr\u003efusion core strapped to his spine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOh, yeah, \u003c\/i\u003ehe thought. \u003ci\u003eThe other hole.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eHe palmed the cockpit harness’s snap release, twisted, and\u003cbr\u003estretched out his left leg, feeling downward with the toe of his boot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe found a hole—and the rising pressure sucked the entire boot\u003cbr\u003eright out the bottom of his fighter before the autoseal engaged to\u003cbr\u003eclose that hole, too. He felt another impact or two down there, but\u003cbr\u003ehe couldn’t really tell if something might have ripped his foot off.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt had been a few years since he’d had his original left leg.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith the cockpit sealed, his nitroxy unit gradually calmed down,\u003cbr\u003efilling the space with a breathable atmosphere that smelled only\u003cbr\u003efaintly of scorched hair, and he began to think he might live through\u003cbr\u003ethis after all. His only problem now was that he was deharnessed and\u003cbr\u003estretched sideways in an extraordinarily uncomfortable twist that left\u003cbr\u003ehim unable to even turn his head enough to see where he was going.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Arfour,” he said quietly, “can you please get us back to the PRP?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis current position did let him see, however, his astromech’s response\u003cbr\u003eto the task of navigating toward the primary rendezvous\u003cbr\u003epoint, which was a spit of gap sparks and a halo of sporadic electrical\u003cbr\u003edischarge from what was left of its turret dome. Which was slightly\u003cbr\u003eless than half.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe sighed. “Okay, ejection failure. And astromech damage. Crippled\u003cbr\u003ehere,” he said into his comm. “Awaiting manual pickup.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Little busy right now, Hobbie. We’ll get to you after we dust these\u003cbr\u003eTIEs.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. Except, y’know, thataway.\u003cbr\u003eSlowly. Real slowly.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe spent the rest of the battle hoping for a bit of help from the\u003cbr\u003eForce when Wedge sent out the pickup detail. \u003ci\u003ePlease, \u003c\/i\u003ehe prayed\u003cbr\u003esilently, \u003ci\u003eplease let it be Tycho. Or Nin, or Standro. Anyone but Janson.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eHe continued this plea as a sort of meditation, kind of the way\u003cbr\u003eLuke would talk about this stuff: he closed his eyes and visualized\u003cbr\u003eWedge himself showing up to tow his X- wing back to the jump\u003cbr\u003epoint. After a while, he found this image unconvincing—somehow\u003cbr\u003ehe was never that lucky—and so he cycled through the other\u003cbr\u003eRogues, and when those began to bore him, he decided it’d be Luke\u003cbr\u003ehimself. Or Leia. Or, say, Wynssa Starflare, who always managed to\u003cbr\u003elook absolutely stellar as the strong, independent damsel- sometimesin-\u003cbr\u003edistress in those pre- war Imperial holodramas, because, y’know,\u003cbr\u003eas long as he was imagining something that was never gonna happen,\u003cbr\u003ehe might as well make it entertaining.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt turned out to be entertaining enough that he managed to pass\u003cbr\u003ethe balance of the battle drifting off to sleep with a smile on his face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis smile lasted right up to the point where a particularly brilliant\u003cbr\u003eflash stabbed through his eyelids and he awoke, glumly certain\u003cbr\u003ethat whatever had exploded right next to his ship was finally about to\u003cbr\u003esnuff him. But then there came another flash, and another, and with\u003cbr\u003ea painful twist of his body he was able to see Wes Janson’s fighter\u003cbr\u003ecruising alongside, only meters away. He was also able to see the\u003cbr\u003ehandheld imager Janson had pressed against his cockpit’s canopy,\u003cbr\u003ewith which Janson continued to snap picture after picture.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHobbie closed his eyes again. He would have preferred the explosion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Just had to get a few shots.” \u003c\/i\u003eJanson’s grin was positively wicked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“You look like some kind of weird cross between a star fighter pilot and a Bat -\u003cbr\u003eravian gumplucker.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eHobbie shook his head exhaustedly; dealing with Janson’s pathetic\u003cbr\u003eexcuse for a sense of humor always made him tired. “Wes, I don’t\u003cbr\u003eeven know what that is.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Sure you do, Hobbie. A star fighter pilot is a guy who flies an X- wing\u003cbr\u003ewithout getting blown up. Check the Basic Dictionary. Though I can\u003cbr\u003eunderstand how you’d get confused.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“No, I mean the—” Hobbie bit his lip hard enough that he tasted\u003cbr\u003eblood. “Um, Wes?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Yeah, buddy?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Have I told you today how much I really, really hate you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Oh, sure—your lips say ‘I hate you,’ but your eyes say—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“That someday I’ll murder you in your sleep?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJanson chuckled. \u003ci\u003e“More or less.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“It’s all over, huh?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“This part is. Most of ’em got away.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“How many’d we lose?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Just Eight and Eleven. But Avan and Feylis ejected clean. Nothing a\u003cbr\u003ecouple weeks in a bacta tank won’t cure. And then there’s my Batravian\u003cbr\u003egumplucker wingman . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“\u003ci\u003eYou’re \u003c\/i\u003ethe wingman, knucklehead. Maybe I should say, wing\u003ci\u003enut.\u003c\/i\u003e”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHobbie sighed again. “I guess Wedge is happy, anyway. Everything’s\u003cbr\u003eproceeding according to plan . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“I HATE when you say that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Yeah? How come?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Don’t know. It just . . . gives me the whingeing jimmies. Let me get\u003cbr\u003ethis tow cable attached, and you might as well sleep; it’s a long cruise to the\u003cbr\u003ePRP.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Suits me just fine,” Hobbie said, closing his eyes again. “I have\u003cbr\u003ethis dream I really want to get back to . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Good job, Wedge.” General Lando Calrissian, commander of\u003cbr\u003eSpecial Operations for the New Republic, nodded grave approval\u003cbr\u003etoward the flickering bluish holoform of Wedge Antilles that hovered\u003cbr\u003ea centimeter above his console. “No casualties?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Nothing serious, General. Hobbie—Lieutenant Klivian—needs another\u003cbr\u003eleft hand . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eLando smiled. “How many does that make, all told?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“I’ve lost count. How’s it going on your end?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Good and less than good.” Lando punched up his readout of the\u003cbr\u003etracking report. “Looks like our marauders are based in the Taspan\u003cbr\u003esystem.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWedge’s brilliant plan had become brilliant entirely by necessity;\u003cbr\u003ethe usual method of locating a hidden marauder base—subjecting a\u003cbr\u003ecaptured pilot or two to a neural probe—had turned out to be much\u003cbr\u003emore difficult than anyone could have anticipated. Shadowspawn\u003cbr\u003eseemed very determined to maintain his privacy; through dozens of\u003cbr\u003eraids over nearly two months, many deep inside Republic territory\u003cbr\u003eand costing thousands of civilian lives, not one of Shadowspawn’s\u003cbr\u003emarauders had ever been taken alive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis was more than a simple refusal to surrender, though the marauders\u003cbr\u003ehad shown a distressing tendency, when they found themselves\u003cbr\u003ein imminent danger, to shout out words to the effect of \u003ci\u003eFor\u003cbr\u003eShadowspawn and the Empire! Forward the Restoration! \u003c\/i\u003eand blow themselves\u003cbr\u003eup. Forensic engineers examining wreckage of destroyed TIE\u003cbr\u003eDefenders hypothesized that the star fighters were equipped with\u003cbr\u003esome unexplained type of deadman interlock, which would destroy\u003cbr\u003ethe ship—and obliterate the pilot—even if the pilot merely lost consciousness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe brilliant part of Wedge’s brilliant plan had been to conceal\u003cbr\u003ehundreds of thousands of miniature solid- state transponders among\u003cbr\u003ethe flechettes inside Rogue Squadron’s custom- made torpedoes, before\u003cbr\u003egiving the marauders a fairly decent pasting and letting the rest\u003cbr\u003eescape. Unlike ordinary tracking devices, these transponders gave\u003cbr\u003eoff no signal of their own—thus requiring no power supply, and rendering\u003cbr\u003ethem effectively undetectable. These transponders were entirely\u003cbr\u003einert until triggered by a very specific subspace signal, which\u003cbr\u003ethey then echoed in a very specific way. And since the only transponders\u003cbr\u003eof this very specific type in the entire galaxy were loaded in\u003cbr\u003eRogue Squadron’s torpedo tubes, drifting at the ambush point in\u003cbr\u003edeep space along the Corellian Run, and lodged in various parts of\u003cbr\u003ethe armored hulls of a certain group of TIE Defenders, locating the\u003cbr\u003esystem to which said Defenders had fled was actually not complicated\u003cbr\u003eat all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWedge’s holoform took on a vaguely puzzled look. \u003ci\u003e“Taspan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSounds familiar, but I can’t place it . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“The Inner Rim, off the Hydian Way.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“That would be the less- than- good part.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Yeah. No straight lanes in or out—and most of the legs run\u003cbr\u003ethrough systems still held by Imperials.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Almost makes you wish for one of Palpatine’s old planet- killers.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Almost.” Lando’s smile had faded, and he didn’t sound like he\u003cbr\u003ewas joking. “The Empire had a weapons facility on Taspan II—it’s\u003cbr\u003ewhere they tested their various designs of gravity- well projectors—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“That’s it!” \u003c\/i\u003eThe image snapped its fingers silently, the sound\u003cbr\u003eeliminated by the holoprojector’s noise filter. \u003ci\u003e“The Big Crush!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLando nodded. “The Big Crush.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“I heard there was nothing left at Taspan but an asteroid field, like the\u003cbr\u003eGraveyard of Alderaan.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“There’s an inner planet—Taspan I is a minor resort world called\u003cbr\u003eMindor. Not well known, but really beautiful; my parents had a summer\u003cbr\u003ehouse there when I was a kid.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Any progress on this Shadowspawn character himself ?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“We’ve only managed to determine that no one by that name was\u003cbr\u003eever registered as an Imperial official. Clearly an assumed identity.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“The guy’s got to be some kind of nutjob.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“I doubt it. His choice of base is positively inspired; the debris\u003cbr\u003efrom the Big Crush hasn’t had time to settle into stable orbits.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“So it \u003c\/i\u003eis \u003ci\u003elike the Graveyard of Alderaan.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“It’s worse, Wedge. A \u003ci\u003elot \u003c\/i\u003eworse.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWedge’s image appeared to be giving a low whistle; the holoprojector’s\u003cbr\u003enoise filter screened it out. \u003ci\u003e“Sounds ugly. How are we supposed\u003cbr\u003eto get at them?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“You’re not.” Lando took a deep breath before continuing. “This\u003cbr\u003eis exactly the type of situation for which we developed the Rapid Response\u003cbr\u003eTask Force.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWedge’s image gave a slow, understanding nod. \u003ci\u003e“Hit ’em with our\u003cbr\u003eBig Stick, then. Slap ’em good and run like hell.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“It’s the best shot we’ve got.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“You’re probably right; you usually are. But it’ll sting, to not be there.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Right enough. But we have other problems—and the RRTF is in\u003cbr\u003every capable hands.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Got that right.\u003c\/i\u003e” Wedge suddenly grinned. \u003ci\u003e“Speaking of those capable\u003cbr\u003ehands, pass along my regards to General Skywalker, will you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“I will do that, Wedge. I will indeed.”New York Times bestselling author of Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith","brand":"Random House Worlds","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300358476005,"sku":"NP9780345477453","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345477453.jpg?v=1767731965","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/luke-skywalker-and-the-shadows-of-mindor-star-wars-legends-isbn-9780345477453","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}