Star Wars_ Luke Skywalker and the Shadows of Mindor - Matthew Woodring Stover [76]
He was so rattled by the sudden interruption that he very nearly forgot to restrict his transmission to synthesized audio-only. At the last instant he keyed the proper code, and then had to take several more deep breaths to steady himself again. To let his pet clone commander see, instead of the robust and masterful Lord Shadowspawn, the sunken creases of his ancient face, his slack bloodless lips peeling back from his prominent yellowed teeth, the few tangled wisps of hair that straggled across his wrinkled scalp, to let him hear Cronal’s own weak and wheezing voice—this could have caused considerable difficulty, if not outright disaster.
“Group Captain,” he croaked, his thin wheeze crackling with strain. “Was my order unclear? No interruptions!”
The group captain, of course, could hear only the computer’s synthesized version of Shadowspawn’s sepulchral basso. “My lord, the Rebels are attacking!”
“How do a few fighter squadrons constitute an emergency so dire that you would defy my direct order? Destroy them, and don’t bother me again.”
“More than fighters, my lord. A battle cruiser of Mon Calamari design has initiated orbital bombardment, targeting our ground emplacements, primarily our ion-turbo cannons. We believe it’s in preparation for a surface assault.”
“A Mon Calamari battle cruiser? Impossible. Their sole Mon Cal was destroyed by our gravity slice.”
“Yes, my lord—but this is a new one!”
“Impossible,” Cronal repeated. “No new cruiser could have entered the system so soon—our gravity stations should keep them at least a light-hour away!”
“My lord, the Rebels have opened a temporary jump window.”
“Imposs—” Cronal bit his tongue; clearly none of this was impossible at all. Those bloody Rebels—may the Dark swallow every miserable one!
The group captain went on at some length, describing the battle near the Rebel interdiction ships. Cronal listened in growing disbelief. “Why was I not informed?”
“My lord, your order—”
“Call out every squadron—throw in every reserve! Get every single fighting craft in action now, if you have to draft deckhands to fly them! I want those Rebels so busy they don’t even have time to watch the star flares that will kill them, do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And detail a company of your best commandos to the Election Center entry; they are to hold that door at all costs. No matter what happens with the battle, no Rebel can be allowed to interrupt what happens within, do you understand? See to it personally.”
“Yes, my lord. I will take personal command. No enemy will breach the Election Center while one trooper lives, my lord!”
“Let it be so,” Cronal snapped. “You have complete authority to command this situation, Group Captain—do not disturb me again!”
“It will be done, my lord.”
Cronal stabbed the cutoff. His joints creaked as he tried to find a comfortable position on the life-support chamber’s couch. So close … he was so close … a few minutes more was all he needed to give himself youth, and strength, a Jedi’s power and the name and face of a hero …
He yanked the Sunset Crown back into place upon his head and closed his eyes.
He sucked in a breath as deep as his withered lungs could hold, then sighed it out as slowly as his hammering heart would permit. He did the same again, and again, until gradually his heart began to slow, and his head began to clear, and he could once again drive his will into the Dark.
There he found, winking like glitterflies on a moonless night, the warm comfort of his Pawns, like little bits of himself scattered out into the Dark to point his way. He focused his mind and stabbed downward to a deeper level of concentration, where he could grasp every one of those little bits of himself and squeeze until he was wholly inside them. Then the slow cycle of breath … until each and every Pawn inhaled