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Olmahk drove her to the ground even as the first of the thud bugs were bursting outward from the Yuuzhan Vong’s chest. The sound was not unlike that of corks being popped from bottles of effervescent wine, but accompanying the lively explosions were the pained exclamations of soldiers and hapless civilians who hadn’t heard or heeded Leia’s counsel. For ten meters in all directions, men and women fell like trees.

Leia felt Olmahk’s weight lift from her. By the time she looked up, the Noghri had ripped out the Yuuzhan Vong’s throat with his teeth. Left and right, people lay on the ground groaning in pain. Others staggered about with hands pressed to ruptured bellies, compound fractures, broken ribs, or smashed faces.

“Get these people to the battle dressing station!” Leia ordered.

Yorik coral missiles were continuing to rain down on the embassy and the landing zone, where a dozen soldiers were overseeing the loading of the final evacuation craft.

The crowd had long since pushed through the gates, but stun batons and sonics were keeping many from reaching the waiting craft. Groggily, and with Olmahk falling in behind her, Leia began to move that way herself. She spied C-3PO, whose chest plastron had been deeply dented by one of the thud bugs, just above his circular power-recharge coupler.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He might have blinked if he could. “Thank the maker I lack a heart!”

As the three of them were closing on the evacuation ship a vintage AT-ST limped into view, blackened along one side and leaking hydraulic fluid, its grenade launcher blown away. A lightly armored box perched on reverse-articulated legs, the All Terrain Scout Transport wheezed and clanked to a halt, then collapsed chin first to the permacrete landing apron. In a moment the aft hatch lifted, loosing a cloud of smoke, and a young man crawled coughing but otherwise unharmed from the cockpit.

“Wurth Skidder,” Leia intoned, folding her arms across her chest. “I should have known it was you from the brilliance of your entrance.”

Blond and sharp-featured, Skidder jumped agilely to his feet and threw off his smoldering Jedi Knight cloak. “The Yuuzhan Vong have overrun our defenses, Ambassador. The fight’s lost.” He grinned smugly. “I wanted you to be the first to know.”

Leia had heard from Luke that Skidder was on Gyndine, but this was her first contact with him. She had had trouble with him during the Rhommamoolian crisis eight months earlier, when he had downed a couple of Rodian-piloted Osarian starfighters intent on interfering with her then-diplomatic duties. At the time she had found him to be reckless, insolent, and overconfident in his abilities, but Luke insisted that the Battle of Ithor, and the injury Skidder had sustained there, had changed him for the better. No doubt because he reveled in being able to put a lightsaber to constant use, Leia thought.

“You’re a little late with your update, Wurth,” she told him now, “but you’re in time for the final flight out of here.” She nodded in the direction of the landing zone. “My brother would never forgive me if I didn’t see you safely back to Coruscant.”

Skidder returned an elaborately chivalrous bow, extending his right arm toward her. “A Jedi avoids argument at all costs.” He held her gaze briefly. “Nothing in the Jedi Code about having to answer to civilians, but I’ll comply out of respect for your celebrated sibling.”

“Fine,” Leia said sarcastically. “Just see to it that you get aboard.” Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she twisted around.

“Ambassador, we’re holding space for you, your bodyguard, and droid,” a male flight officer reported. “But you’ll have to come now, ma’am. The New Republic envoy is already aboard, and we’ve received orders to lift off.”

Leia nodded that she understood, then swung back to Skidder, only to see him running toward the embassy gates. “Skidder!” she yelled, making a megaphone of her hands.

He stopped, turned to her, and waved a hand in what at least appeared to be genuine acknowledgment.