"Really?" Meido said. "Many of them were just doing their jobs."

"If their jobs were to run a machine of death, then they deserved to die," C-Gosf said.

"I certainly hope you don't believe that," Fey'lya said. "Because if you do, then logically, any fighter pilot should die as well. The X-wings are star fighters. They were built for that, just as the Death Star was built to destroy planets. That both an X-wing and a Death Star can be used for transport is merely incidental." Leia could barely breathe. She shook her head. The discord in the room felt personal, as if she had caused it.

"Senator Meido has a point. Things are never as simple as they seem. Not even in accusing another member of this Council of sabotage. Have your no-confidence vote. You can put a political spin on anything. But I will stand by my record. Since the Battle of Endor I have served this Republic, and since I was eighteen, I served the Rebellion against the Emperor. And I have served it well. You can play all the political games you want, Meido. You can manipulate things behind the scenes. You can destroy the unity that has marked this body from the beginning. And while that might give you personal power, it will only hurt the New Republic. I hope you understand that. I hope you factor that into what you're doing."

"I know what I'm doing," Meido said. "I don't plan to harm the New Republic. I plan to help it."

"Your methods leave a lot to be desired, " Leia said.

"And so do yours, Princess. So do yours."

Night had fallen on Coruscant. The streetlights were on, but they cast a pale glow over the rubble that still marred the outside of the Senate Hall. 3PO stopped outside the restricted area, but R2 kept going, his headlamp making a circle of light through the gloom.

"I will not go any farther," 3PO said. "That blaster shot damaged your circuits. I'm going to report you to Mistress Leia." R2 blasted a raspberry at him.

"R2, really, this is nonsense. Master Cole is quite an efficient technician, but he is not a droid repairman. He wouldn't know if your memory chips were damaged. You need to have someone professional go over your circuits. You're not acting like yourself." 3PO waited outside the lines marking off the restricted area. R2 cast his headlamp on some of the rubble, then continued forward.

"R2!" R2 bleeped at him.

3PO gasped. "You malfunctioning little twerp! You have no right to call me names, not when I have your own best interest at heart." R2 beeped three times.

"You do not have the Republic's interest at heart. You don't have a heart!" R2 disappeared into the ruined building.

"You can't go in there!" 3PO said. "It's not safe! The roof will cave in on you!" R2 whistled. The sound echoed from inside.

"Found something?" 3PO said. "How could R2 find something when the investigators didn't?" He stepped over the line and into the rubble. "I'm coming, R2!" R2 did not respond. 3PO tilted his body and rested a golden hand against the rubble to brace himself. "R2, wait for me!" R2 whistled again, then beeped.

"I'm going as fast as I can!" 3PO said, and then added softly, "Slave driver." A huge pile of rubble blocked the door. The rubble was made up of parts of the ceiling, permacrete, and masonry that had broken off during the explosion. Much of it was covered with blood.

A faint light shone through the dirt-strewn corridor. Pieces of droids-mostly protocol droids-littered the floor. Hands stuck through the broken masonry. Charred heads stared darkly at the gloom.

R2 chirruped a caution.

"I am being careful of the wires," 3PO said, "although I can't believe they'd still be live. It would help if you came in here and cast a light on my path." R2 beeped.

"No, I am not being unreasonable." R2 beeped again.

"And no, I am not following you. I am keeping an eye on you. Someone has to. You sustained serious damage, and I'm still not certain if you're in your right circuitry." R2 raspberried him again.

"I don't care what you call me. Most droids would need three days of maintenance just to get the carbon scoring off their plates. You go bustling off after a few moments, muttering something about having the solution to the bombing. I don't understand how getting hit with a blaster would give you any kind of solution at all." 3PO rounded the corner. R2 was standing near the rubble closest to the door of the Senate Hall. Most of the dirt had been cleared away, leaving electronic parts, broken metal, and ruined communications devices. Bits of furniture were mixed in: the desks designed for multilimbed senators; the perches made for birdlike representatives; the translators for those who didn't speak Basic.

R2 had his jack in the middle of the pile. His scanner was out, and it was flashing as it moved. His headlamp was trained on the pile in front of him.

"Surely the investigators filtered through that junk," 3PO said. "As usual, you're making too much of all of this. Sometimes, R2, I wonder why Master Luke tolerates you. You've become much too eccentric." R2 beeped.

"No, of course I don't want him to replace you with a new droid. Those new droids are stuck-up." 3PO stopped beside the pile R2 was working on.

R2 moaned softly.

"You were right?" 3PO asked. "About what?" R2 pulled his jack out from the rubble. In it, he held a small detonator of the same type found in the X- wing.

"It has an Imperial signature," 3PO said. "Oh, dear. Mistress Leia isn't going to like this." R2 beeped.

"No, I don't like it much either. Will those Imperial monsters never leave us alone?" R2 didn't answer. He set the detonator on a small patch of bare floor, then began to rummage through the pile again.

"I thought you found what you were looking for. We should leave, tell, someone about this." 3PO started toward the door. When he stepped into the darkness, he turned. R2 was still digging through the pile. "R2, you've done all you can. We need to tell Mistress Leia." R2 beeped long and loud.

"What do you mean I don't understand? I understand perfectly." R2 chirruped.

3PO came back into the room. A bit of rubble fell off the ceiling and he ducked. "It's not safe here. You have enough." R2 beeped.

"There has to be more what? The detonator is all you-oh." 3PO leaned against a pile and then sprang away when it moved. "I see. The detonator in the X-wings worked in concert with the computer. You need to know what this detonator worked with. Move aside, then. We'll both look.

"And," he added softly, "I hope we don't get blown up in the process."

TWENTY-SEVEN.

Luke wrapped his arms around his head as he soared through the air. Bits of flaming shrapnel fell all around him. He had barely opened the X-wing's hatch when the ship exploded. If he had been inside, he probably would have broken his neck against the shatterproof gla.s.s.

It felt as if he fell forever. His skin burned where the shrapnel hit him. He couldn't control the fall. There was nowhere soft to land. He braced himself, using all of his Force strength, but something was interfering. He felt as if he were wrapped in cotton.

And then he landed. Legs first, the bones in his left ankle snapping. He tucked and rolled, the carved pavement biting his back, his shoulders. He kept rolling until he slammed into a building, and he lay there for a moment, unable to breathe from the shock of it all.

The main section of the X-wing had landed near him. More parts rained around him, sparks flying. Curtains in the building beside him burned.

Smoke rose up the mudbrick walls, scorching them. More burning pieces of the X-wing were scattered all along the sandstone street.

The smoke had an acrid smell. Sweat ran down Luke's face. His whole body hurt, and he still had trouble drawing a breath. Sparks were dancing all around him. He peered at them, saw bits of material in the flame, and then swore.

The back of his flight suit was burning.

He rolled over onto his back, trying to smother the flames while undoing the fasteners. His hands shook. He couldn't move fast enough. The heat on his back was stunningly painful. His fingers kept working, working, working, and finally he had the suit loose. He pulled it down to his waist, then twisted and slapped the burning material with his artificial right hand.

The flames went out.

He closed his eyes.

That was close.

The crackling of the nearby fires kept him focused. A bang resounded from far away/as part of the X-wing collapsed.

No one had come to gawk at the explosion. No one had come to put out the fire.

No one had come to help him.

His readings had been right, then. Pydyr was nearly empty.

He opened his eyes, and a.s.sessed the damage. His left ankle was broken and swollen to twice its size. Ever since his experience on the Eye of Palpatine, his left leg had been weak, vulnerable to too much pressure.

His knee ached also, but that felt like a sympathetic injury.

He had a lot of bruises. Too many to count, too many even to allow himself to feel. He didn't want to think about the possibilities of internal injuries. His left hand was slightly burned-he must have touched the flames with his real hand-and his back felt raw. He was thirsty, a bad sign.

But while Pydyr's population was gone, its buildings weren't. He would probably be able to find water.

Maybe he would find some burn cream, too, something to ease the pain in his back and his hand.

Still no one had arrived. The flames burned on in the odd light, the sparks swarming like tiny bugs. He had to get away from here. The flames were spreading, had already spread to the building he had landed against.

The emptiness bothered him. He patted his side for his light-saber, and found it, slightly scorched, but fine.

The artificial skin had burned off his right hand, revealing the mechanical workings. He balled his hand into a fist and braced himself on his knuckles as he rose. The strength in his arm would help him for the moment. He would need a crutch of some kind, but for now, he could limp.

He braced himself on the nearest building and hobbled away from the flames. His thirst was growing. He made himself ignore it, as best he could.

The emptiness appalled him more than the crash did. He a.s.sumed some of that was shock. Yet, there was an eerieness here that he had only felt a few times before. This street was meant to have life in it. These buildings were meant to house families, to hold laughter and conversation and warmth. The street should be full of voices, of vendors, of people going about their business. He should smell alien cuisine, unusual perfume, even unfamiliar garbage.

Instead, the only smell was smoke from his destroyed X-wing, the only sound the snap of flames, and his own ragged breathing.

He ducked into an archway, and leaned against the column. It too was made of mudbrick and decorated with tiny stones. He leaned his forehead on them. Spots danced in front of his eyes. He didn't know the proper burn treatments. He'd always had R2 for information, the medical pak for emergencies, and a whole battery of medical personnel on the inhabited planets.

Here he had no one.

Except himself.

Even on the Eye of Palpatine, he had had Callista.

He pushed thoughts of her from his mind. He couldn't afford to think of her, especially not now.

He caught his breath and went inside the building. The smoke hadn't gotten here yet, and the only acrid scent came from his own clothing.

He was in an entry, filled with brown carved tile. The walls were covered with frescoes, mostly of a humanoid people with oval faces and almond eyes; long, flowing arms; and small mouths that didn't seem to smile. Yet their entire demeanor radiated joy. Wooden chairs stood in the hall. They were covered with dust.

A stand near the door held walking sticks and canes. He pulled one out and leaned on it, thankful that it could take some of his weight.

He had to find a source of water. He was getting dizzy. His back throbbed. He rounded a corner, walking carefully on the long red rugs that covered the flooring. If it weren't for the dust, the house would be spotless. Yet it looked lived-in and cared-for.

What had happened to these people?

He went through two more archways and carefully decorated rooms before discovering a kitchen. It resembled the kitchens he had seen among the wealthy on Coruscant. Modern appliances gleamed from the walls. k.n.o.bs, dials, and keyboards subst.i.tuted for the crude cooking facilities he used on Yavin 4. All the pots and pans here were for decoration. But there was a water recycler and a purifying pot near the cooking pad. He staggered over to it, grabbed a porcelain mug, and turned on the recycler.

It groaned, then hummed to life. In a moment, he had clear, fresh water.

He drank it down quickly. One gla.s.s, then two, then three. He had never tasted anything so good. The dizziness was fading, and his mind was clearing. He studied the keypad. If it was like the ones on Coruscant, it wouldn't have just kitchen information. It would also tell him what supplies were in the house, a family history, and a history of Pydyr. It would also carry news feeds and anything else he needed to know.

He leaned his hips against the counter, and used his right hand to activate the keyboard. His finger was all metal now, except for the charred pieces of synthetic skin hanging off it. He hoped the keypad wasn't activated by fingerprint or retinal scan.

The screen sprang to life.

STRANGER. YOU ARE NOT IN OUR RECORDS.

Luke typed: I AM NEW HERE. YOUR OWNERS ARE GONE.

WE KNOW. IT HAS BEEN SILENT HERE. BUT WE ARE INSTRUCTED NOT TO GIVE.

INFORMATION TO STRANGERS EXCEPT IN CASE OF EMERGENCY.

IT IS AN EMERGENCY, Luke typed. I AM INJURED, MAYBE DYING. I NEED MEDICAL ATTENTION. HAVE YOU A MED KIT?.

WE HAVE A MEDICAL DROID.

Luke started. He had seen no droids.

THE DROIDS APPEAR TO BE MISSING AS WELL, he typed. HAVE YOU MEDICAL INFORMATION IN YOUR STORES?.

CERTAINLY, STRANGER. AND A MEDICAL KIT IN THE CABINET ABOVE THE KEYPAD.

YOU ARE USING.

Luke sought out the medical kit, found it, and removed the burn cream. He longed for a droid, but knew that he had to tend himself. He cleaned off his burns, wincing as he did so, then applied cream and a bandage. When he finished that, he devised a splint for his ankle.

Then he looked up. The screen held a single message.

PLEASE, STRANGER. TELL US WHERE OUR MASTERS HAVE GONE.

Luke shook his head and typed, THE PLANET IS EMPTY.

The screen shut itself off with a slight moan. He felt for a moment as if he were with R2. R2 would have had a similar reaction. R2 would feel loss if Luke died.

How curious. The change had happened so fast that this family hadn't had time to inform its house computer. He remembered the chill and the voices. The Death Star had destroyed the planet. This new weapon left the planet, and destroyed all life.

Or at least all humanoid life.

He felt a flash of a presence again, the same presence he had felt when he had entered the Almanian system. It was watching him.

"Show yourself." he said.

"Show yourself," he said. But no one did.

Han landed the Falcon on the far side of Skip 1's landing strip. He had Chewbacca bundle Seluss off to the infirmary, such as it was, without promising to pay for Seluss's care. Han hoped that Chewie would pay for a bit of care himself. That singed fur worried Han.