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“There’s more,” Tirossk said. “The Justice broke up in orbit. General Skywalker tried to land part of what was left. There was … an explosion.”

Han stopped listening after that, amid vivid visions of putting his DL-44 against the forehead of a certain septic-soaked warlord with a made-up dark sider name.

Chewbacca threw one arm over his face, leaned his elbow against the overhead console, and moaned. Han swallowed the knot in his throat—which didn’t make it go away, just added a few new ones in his stomach—and forced a smile onto his face. “Look on the bright side, Chewie.”

“Browwergh.”

“Sure there is,” he said. “At least we managed to avoid dragging Leia down with us. She’s safe. That counts for something.”

The Falcon’s comm crackled. “You do know this is an open channel, don’t you, Slick?”

Han gaped. Chewbacca moaned again.

“While General Solo spits out his foot,” Leia went on, “will somebody kindly cover Rogue Squadron so we can take out that grav projector?”

“Leia—Leia, Luke is—” Han choked, and had to cough his voice clear. “Luke is—”

“Nonsense.”

“You—you said he was in trouble—”

“And he still is.” Even through the static on the comm, he could hear that her conviction was absolute. “Han, do you copy? He’s still in trouble.”

Han found himself grinning. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

ONE LAST ROUNDING OF A TUNNEL’S CURVE, DEEP WITHIN the volcanic dome, brought to sight an archway that glowed with a pulsing red-tinged light. The stormtroopers prodded Luke onward, out onto a tiny arc of ledge high above a vast lake of molten lava.

Behind him in the mouth of the tunnel, the Moon Hat sank to her knees.

Lord Shadowspawn’s throne room had been cut from the living rock: an immense vault whose ceiling and walls vanished into a shroud of sulfurous gases. The vault’s only light came from a river of white-hot lava that fell from the mists above into the lake of fire below, its killing heat restrained by force screens. From the ledge, a long, narrow rock bridge led to a platform of black granite cantilevered out above the lake. The uppermost point of the platform had been carved and polished into a gleaming black throne the size of an Imperial shuttle, positioned so that the long form of Lord Shadowspawn, lounging within it, was shadowed by the lava-fall behind and the pool below into a pall of scarlet gloom.

Luke stopped. This place could have been lifted intact from the climax of Han Solo and the Pirates of Kessel: it was so holothriller theatrical that it was almost funny … but Luke didn’t feel like laughing. In the Force, this place read like a bomb wrapped as a birthday present.

Like a Sith Lord disguised as a kid’s party clown.

Was he supposed to be impressed? Or was he supposed to dismiss all this as some kind of demented practical joke? He shot a disbelieving glance over his shoulder at his stormtrooper escort.

They stood in a shallow arc, carbines leveled at him; the Moon Hat, still on her knees, had inclined her head, his lightsaber balanced on her outstretched palms like an offering.

Luke got it: this wasn’t about him at all. This show was for them.

Looked like it was working, too.

What exactly was Blackhole up to? And was this really Blackhole at all? On Vorzyd V, Blackhole had appeared only as a holoprojection—but the figure of Lord Shadowspawn on the Shadow Throne was no projection. Luke could feel, in the Force, a dark malice of wholly human origin—glittering malevolence and nastily sniggering glee—and it came from the man before him.

The Force smoked with threat. Luke felt some danger here darker than mere death.

“Luke Skywalker.” Lord Shadowspawn’s voice boomed through the cavern, probably using concealed speakers. “Tremble before me!”

“I think you have me confused with some other Luke Skywalker.”

“Kneel, Skywalker! Pledge yourself to me, and I will spare your life, and the lives of your crew.”

Luke said nothing. The shape of Lord Shadowspawn shifted and lengthened, rising from the throne. That odd headgear of his seemed to glow with