Free Star Wars: Crosscurrent by Paul S. Kemp

a mountain range that ran the length of the main continent. To Jaden, it was like watching the slow reveal of a masterful work of art, a sculpture of land and water, wondrous in its lonely, whirling trek through the emptiness of space. He always tried to see a starcrest from orbit before setting foot on a planet. He wasn't sure why—maybe he wanted to see every world in its best light before putting down on its surface.
    Unbidden, he recalled a starcrest over Corellia that he'd seen from a viewport aboard Centerpoint Station as he and his strike force had moved through the metal maze of its corridors.
    He dismissed the memory quickly, pained by the realization that his actions on Centerpoint had polluted even this, one of the small pleasures he had long enjoyed.
    Frowning, he looked out of the cockpit, past Fhost, and into the field of stars that dotted the Unknown Regions.
    "There be dragons," he said, smiling.
    R6 beeped a question.
    "Something Kyle once said to me," Jaden explained.
    What you seek can be found in the black hole on Fhost.
    Fhost's largest population center was Farpoint. He would start there, keep an ear to ground, and try to figure out how something could start in the lightlessness of a black hole. He'd pose as a salvager with old Imperial-era hulks to sell for scrap. The fact that he piloted a Z-95 would add credibility to the claim.
    "Why do I fly an old Z-Ninety-five, Arsix?"
    The droid beeped and whistled in answer, though Jaden needed none. He flew the Z-95 for the same reasons he still bore an old lightsaber in the small of his back.
    "Arsix, set the comm to standard planetary control frequency."
    R6 chirped when it was done.
    "Farpoint control, this is Far Wanderer , requesting permission to land."
    A long pause and the crackle of static answered his request. Before he could repeat it, the planetary control finally answered in Basic.
    " Far Wanderer , permission granted. Coordinates for the yard are being transmitted to you now. What is that, a Z-Ninety-five? How'd you get a hyperspace sled to stay attached to that old girl? We didn't know those antiques still flew."
    "Still flies, Farpoint control. But it isn't always pretty."
    Laughter carried over the channel. "Bring that bird in."
     
     
    Predator settled into orbit over Fhost and Kell took in the planet. It was covered in great swaths of desert; stretches of tan and brown bisected by gashes of reds and smudges of black made the surface look scarred, bruised, wounded. He hovered over it for a time, his ship invisible to the meager scanning technology available to those onworld. He studied the planet's specs on his console a final time.
    Apart from a few isolated settlements on the edge of the deserts, the planet had only one main population center—Farpoint, with a transient population of perhaps thirty-five hundred sentients. He frowned, thinking that he would have to take care to keep his feeding discreet in such a small settlement. On the other hand, the small population limited the target of his inquiry. With his talents, he would be able to gather information rapidly.
    In his mind's eye, he saw the image Wyyrlok had burned into his brain—the icy moon hanging against the backdrop of the blue gas giant, its sky on fire. He stared past Fhost out at the trackless systems of the Unknown Regions. The moon could be anywhere.
    Wyyrlok had demanded that he look for a sign. Kell had another idea. He intended to look for a Jedi. Thinking of the rich soup of a Jedi caused his feeders to roil in their cheek sacs. Thinking of the soup of the one who would bring him revelation caused him to drool.
    He stared down at the planet as the line of night crept across its surface, swallowing the deserts in darkness.
    "I am a ghost," he said.

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    THE PAST:
    5,000 YEARS BEFORE THE BATTLE OF YAVIN
     
    Harbinger 's bridge crackled with activity. "Forty-five seconds to jump," said the helmsman to Dor, then, into his communicator, "Forty-five