Un forumeur on ne peux plus chanceux de TFN s'est procuré un exemplaire de Traitor. Treizième tome du Nouvel Ordre Jedi, écrit pas Matthew Stover qui devrait sortir aux USA ce mois-ci.

Ce petit veinard informe la planète entiere que le livre comprends, comme on le fait souvent chez Del Rey, un extrait du tome suivant de la saga en question : Destinys's Way de Walter Jon Williams (Quatrième Hardcover de la série).

Il annonce de bonnes choses en perspectives.
Le voilà (C'est en anglais bien sur, mettez le texte en surbrillance) :

As she sat in the chair that was hers by right of death, she raised her eyes to the cold faraway stars. Checklists buzzed distantly in her mind and her hands moved over the controls, but her thoughts flew elsewhere, amid the chill infinitude. Searching . . .

Nothing.

Her gaze fell and there she saw, on the controls at the adjacent pilot’s seat, her husband’s hands. She drew comfort from the sight, from the sureness and power she knew was there, in those strong hands.

Her heart leaped. Something, somewhere in all those stars had touched her.

She thought: Jacen!

Her husband’s hands touched controls and the stars streamed away, turned to bleeding smears of light as if seen through beaten rain, and the distant touch vanished.

“Jacen,” she said, and then, at her husband’s startled look, at the surprise and pain in his brown eyes, “Jacen.”


“Are you sure?” Han Solo said. “You’re sure it was Jacen?”

“Yes. Reaching out to me. I felt him. It could have been no one else.”

“And he’s alive.”

“Yes.”

Leia Oragana Solo could read him so well. She knew that Han believed their son dead, but that he tried, for her sake, to pretend otherwise. She knew that, fierce with grief and with guilt for having withdrawn from his family, he would support her in anything now, even if he believed she was delusional. And she knew the strength if took for him to suppress his own pain and doubt.

She could read all that in him, in the flicker of his eye, the twitch of his cheek. She could read him, read the bravery and the uncertainty, and she loved him for both.

“It was Jacen,” she said. She put as much confidence in her tone as she could, all her assurances. “He wanted to tell me he was alive and with friends.” She reached over and took his hand. “There’s no doubt, now. Not at all.”

Han’s fingers tightened on hers, and she sensed the struggle in him, desire for hope warring with his own bitter experience.

His brown eyes softened. “Yes,” he said. “Of course. I believe you.”

There was a hint of reserve there, of caution, but that was reflex, the result of a long and uncertain life that had taught him to believe nothing until he’d seen it with his own eyes.

Leia reached for him, embraced him awkwardly from the copilot’s seat. His arms went around her, inhaled the scent of his body, his hair.

A bubble of happiness grew in her, burst into speech. “Yes, Han,” she said. “Our son is alive. And so are we. Be joyful. Be at peace. Everything changes from now on.”


The idyll lasted until Han and Leia walked hand-in-hand into the Millennium Falcon’s galley. Through their touch, Leia felt the slight tension of Han’s muscles as he came in sight of their guest—an Imperial commander in immaculate dress greys.

Han, Leia knew, had hoped that this mission would provide a chance for the two of them to be alone. Through the many months since the war with the Yuuzhan Vong had begun, they had either been apart of dealing with a bewildering succession of crises. Even though their current mission was no less urgent than the others, they would have treasured this time alone in hyperspace.

They had even left Leia’s Noghri bodyguards behind. Neither of them had wanted any passengers at all, let alone an Imperial officer. Thus far Han had managed to be civil about it, but only just.

The commander rose politely to her feet. “An exceptionally smooth transition into hyperspace, General Solo,” she said. “For a ship with such—such heterogeneous components—such a transition speaks well of the ship’s captain and his skills.”

“Thanks,” Han said.

“The Myomar shields are superb, are they not?” she said. “One of our finer designs.”

The problem with Commander Vana Dorja, Leia thought, was that she was simply too observant. She was a woman of about thirty, the daughter of a captain of a Star Destroyer, with bobbed dark hair tucked neatly into her uniform cap, and the bland, pleasant face of a professional diplomat. She had been on Coruscant during its fall, allegedly negotiating some kind of commercial treaty, purchasing Ulban droid brains for use in Imperial hydroponics farms. The negotiations were complicated by the fact that the droid brains in question could equally well be used for military purposes.

The negotiations regarding the brains’ end-use certificates had gone nowhere in particular, but perhaps they had been intended to go nowhere. What Commander Dorja’s extended stay on Coruscant had done was to make her a close observer in the Yuuzhan Vong assault that had resulted in the planet’s fall.

Vana Dorja had gotten off Coruscant somehow—Leia had no doubt that her escape had been planned long in advance—and she had then turned up at Mon Calamari, the new provisional capital, blandly asking for help in returning to Imperial space just at the moment at which Leia had been assigned a diplomatic mission to that selfsame Empire.

Of course it wasn’t a coincidence. Dorja was clearly a spy operating under commercial cover. But what could Leia do? The New Republic might need the help of the Empire, and the Empire might be offended if its commercial representative were needlessly delayed in her return.

What Leia could do was establish some ground rules concerning where on the Falcon that Commander Dorja could go and where was strictly off-limits. Dorja has agreed immediately to the restrictions, and agreed as well to be scanned for any technological or other secrets she might be smuggling out.

Nothing had turned up on the scan. Of course. If Vana Dorja was carrying any vital secrets to her masters in the Empire, she was carrying them locked in her all-too-inquisitive-brain.

“Please sit down,” Leia said.

“Your Highness is kind,” Dorja said, and lowered her stocky body into a chair. Leia sat across the table from her and observed the half-empty glass of juri juice set before the commander.

“Threepio is providing sufficient refreshment?” Leia asked.

“Yes. He is very efficient, though a trifle talkative.”

Talkative? Leia thought. What had Threepio been telling the woman?

Blast it anyway. Dorja was all too skilled at creating these unsettling moments.

“Shall we dine?” Leia asked.

Dorja nodded, bland as always. “As Your Highness wishes.” But then she proved useful in the kitchen, assisting Han and Leia as they transferred to plates the metal that had been cooking in the Falcon’s automatic ovens. As Han sat down with his plates, C-3PO contemplated the table.

“Sir,” he said. “A princess and former head-of-state takes precedence, of course, over both a general and an Imperial commander. But a commander—forgive me—does not take precedence over a New Republic general, even one on the in-active list. General Solo, if you would be so kind as to sit above Commander Dorja?”

Han gave C-3PO a baleful look. “I like it fine where I am,” he said. Which was, of course, as far away from the Imperial commander as the small table permitted.

C-3PO looked as distressed as it was possible for a droid with an immobile face to look. “But sir—the rules of precedence—”

“I like it where I am,” Han said, more firmly.

“But—sir—”

Leia slid into her accustomed role as Han’s interpreter to the world. “We’ll dine informally, Threepio,” she told the droid.

C-3PO’s tone allowed his disappointment to show. “Very well, Your Highness,” he said.

Poor Threepio, Leia thought. Here he was designed for working out rules of protocol for state banquets involving dozens of species and hundreds of governments, interpreting and smoothing disputes, and instead she persisted in getting him into situations where he kept getting shot at. And now the galaxy was being invaded by beings who had marked for extermination every droid in existence—and they were winning. Whatever Threepio had for nerves must be shot.

Lots of formal dinner parties when this is over, Leia decided. Nice, soothing dinner parties, without assassins, quarrels, or sword fights.

“I thank you again for your offer of transit to the Empire,” Dorja said later, after the soup course. “It was fortunate that you have business there.”

“Very fortunate,” Leia agreed.

“Your missions to the Empire must be critical,” Dorja probed, “to take you from the government at such a crucial time.”

“I’m doing what I do best.”

“But you were head of state—surely you must be considering a return to power.”

Leia shook her head. “I served my term.”

“To voluntarily relinquish power—I confess I don’t understand it.” Dorja shook her head. “In the Empire, we are taught not to decline responsibility once it is given to us.”

Leia sensed Han’s head lifting as he prepared to speak. She knew him well enough to anticipate the sense of any remarks. No, he would say, Imperial leaders generally stay in their seats of power until they’re blasted out by a laser cannon. Before Han could speak, she phrased a more diplomatic answer.

“Wisdom is knowing when you’ve giving all you can,” she said, and turned her attention to her dinner, a fragrant breast of hibbas with a sauce of bofa fruit. Dorja picked up her fork, held it over her plate. “But surely—with the government in chaos, and driven into exile—a strong hand is needed.”

“We have constitutional means for choosing a new leader,” Leia reassured. And thought, Not that they’re working so far with Pwoe proclaiming himself Head of State with the Senate deadlocked on Mon Calamari.

“I wish you a smooth transition,” said Commander Dorja. “Let’s hope the hesitation and chaos with which the New Republic has met its current crisis was the fruit of Borsk Fey’lya’s government, and not symptomatic of the New Republic as a whole.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Han proclaimed, and drained his glass.

“I can’t help but wonder how the old Empire would have handled the crisis,” Dorja continued. “I hope you will forgive my partisan attitude, but it seems to me that the Emperor would have mobilized his entire armament at the first threat, and dealt with the Yuuzhan Vong in an efficient and expeditious manner, through the use of overwhelming force. Certainly better than Borsk Fey’lya’s policy—if I understand it correctly as a policy—of negotiating with the invaders at the same time he was fighting them, sending signals of weakness to a ruthless enemy who only used negotiations as a cover for further conquests.”

It was growing very hard, Leia thought, to maintain the diplomatic smile on here face. “The Emperor,” she said, “was always alert to any threat to his power.”

Leia sensed Han about to speak, and this time was too late to stop his words.

“That’s not what the Empire would have done, commander,” Han said. “What the Empire would of done was build a super-colossal Yuuzhan Vong-killing battle machine. They would have called it the Nova Colossus or the Galaxy Destructor or the Nostril of Palaptine or something equally grandiose. They would have spent billions of credits, employed thousands of contractors and sub-contractors, and equipped it was the latest death-dealing technology. And you know what would have happened? IT wouldn’t have worked. They’d forget to bolt down a metal plate over an access hatch leading to the main reactors, or some other mistake, and a hotshot enemy pilot would drop a bomb down there and blow the whole thing up. Now that’s what the Empire would have done.”

Leia, striving to contain laughter, detected what might have been amusement in Vana Dorja’s brown eyes.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Dorja conceded.

“You’re right I’m right, commander,” Han said, and poured himself another glass of water.

His brief triumph was interrupted by a sudden shriek from the Falcon’s hyperdrive units. The ship shuddered. Proximity alarms wailed.

Leia, her heart beating in synchrony to the blaring alarms, stared into Han’s startled eyes. Han turned to Commander Dorja.

“Sorry to interrupt dinner just as it was getting interesting,” he said, “but I’m afraid we’ve got to blow some bad guys into small pieces.”


The first thing Han Solo did when he scrambled into the pilot’s seat was to shut off the blaring alarms that were rattling his brain around inside his skull. Then he looked out the cockpit windows. The stars, he saw, had returned to their normal configuration—the Millennium Falcon had been yanked out of hyperspace. And Han had a good idea why, an idea which a glance at the sensor displays served only to confirm. He turned to Leia and she scrambled into the copilot’s chair.

“Either a black hole has materialized in this sector, or we’ve hit a Yuuzhan Vong mine.” A dovin basal to be precise, an organic gravitation-anomaly generator that the Yuuzhan Vong used both for propelling their ships and warping space around them. The Yuuzhan Vong had been seeding dovin basal mines along New Republic trade routes in order drag unsuspecting transports out of hyperspace and into an ambush. But their mining efforts hadn’t extended this far along the Hydian Way, at least not till now.

And there, Han saw in the displays, were the ambushers. Two flights of six coralskippers each, one positioned on either side of the dovin basal in order to intercept any unsuspecting transport.

He reached for the controls, then hesitated, wondering if Leia should pilot while he ran for the turbolaser turret. No, he thought, he knew the Millennium Falcon, her capabilities, and her crotchets better than anyone, and good piloting was going to get them out of this trouble more than good shooting.

“I’d better fly this one,” he said. “You take one of the quad lasers.” Regretting, as he spoke, that he wouldn’t get to blow things up, something always good for taking his mind off his troubles.

Leia bent to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Good luck, Slick,” she whispered, the squeezed his shoulder and slid silently out of the cockpit.

“Good luck yourself,” Han said. “And find out if our guest is qualified to take the other turret.”

His eyes were already scanning the displays as he automatically donned the comlink headset that would allow him to communicate with Leia on the turbolasers. Coralskippers weren’t hyperspace capable, so some larger craft had to have dropped them here. Was that ship still around, or had it moved on to lay another mine somewhere else?

It had gone, apparently. There was no sign of it on the displays.

The Yuuzhan Vong craft were just now beginning to react to his arrival—so much for the hope that the Millennium Falcon’s stealth capabilities would have kept it from being detected.

But what, he considered, had the enemy seen? A Corellian Engineering YT-1300 transport, similar to hundreds of other small freighters they much have encountered. The Yuuzhan Vong wouldn’t have seen the Falcon’s armament, its advanced shields, or the modifications to its sublight drives that could give even the swift coralskippers a run for their money.

So the Millennium Falcon should continue, as far as the Yuuzhan Vong were concerned, to look like an innocent freighter.

While he watched the Yuuzhan Vong maneuver, Han broadcast to the enemy a series of queries and demands for information of the sort that might come from a nervous civilian pilot. He conducted a series of basic maneuvers as sluggish and hesitant as if he were a fat, nervous freighter loaded with cargo. The nearest flight of coralskippers set on a basic intercept course, not even bothering to deploy into military formation. The farthest flight, on the other side of the dovin basal mine, began a slow loop toward the Falcon, to support the others.

Now that was interesting. In a short while they would have the dovin basal singularity between themselves and the Falcon, with the mine’s gravity-warping capabilities making a very difficult for them to see the Falcon or to detect any changes in its course.

“General Solo?” a voice on the comlink intruded on his thoughts. “This is Commander Dorja. I’m readying the weapons in the dorsal turret.”

“Try not to blow off the sensor dish,” Han told her.

He looked at the displays, saw the far-side squadron nearing eclipse behind the space-time-distorting gravity mine. His hands closed on the controls and he altered course directly for the dovin basal just as he gave full power to the sublight drives.

The gravity mine was now between the Millennium Falcon and the far-side flight of coaralskippers. The space-time warp surrounding the dovin basal would make it nearly impossible to detect the Falcon’s change of course.

“We have about three minutes to contact with the enemy,” he said into the comlink headset. “Fire dead ahead, on y mark.”

“Dead ahead?” came Dorja’s bland voice. “How unorthodox . . . have you considered maneuver?”

“Don’t second-guess the pilot!” Leia’s voice snapped like a whip. “Keep this channel clear unless you have something of value to say!”

“Apologies,” Dorja murmured.

Han bit back his own annoyance. He glanced at the empty copilot’s chair—Chewbacca’s place, now Leia’s—and found himself wishing that he was in the second turbolaser cockpit, with Chewbacca in the pilot’s seat. But Chewie was gone, the first of the deaths that had struck him in the heart. Chewbacca dead, his younger son Anakin killed, his older son Jacen missing, presumed dead by everyone except Leia . . . Death had been haunting his footsteps, on the verge of claiming everyone around him.

That was why he hadn’t accepted Waroo’s offer to assume Chewbacca’s life debt. He simply hadn’t wanted to be responsible for the death of another friend.

But now Leia believed that Jacen was alive. This wasn’t a vague hope based on a mother’s desire to see her son again, as Han had earlier suspected, but a sending through the Force, a message aimed at Leia herself.

Han had no direct experience with the Force himself, but he knew he could trust Leia not to misread it. His son was alive.

So maybe Death wasn’t following him so closely after all. Or maybe Han had just outrun him.

Stay alert, he told himself. Stay strong. You may not have to die today.

Cold determination filled him.

Make the Yuuzhan Vong pay instead, he thought.

He made a last scan of the displays. The near-side flight had turned to pursuer, dividing into two V formations of three coralskippers each. They hadn’t reacted very quickly to his abrupt change of course, so Han figured he wasn’t dealing with a genius commander here, which was good.

It was impossible to see the far-side flight on the other side of the gravity-distorting mine, but he had a good read on their trajectory, and there hadn’t been any reason for them to change it.

The dovin basal swept closer. The Falcon’s spars moaned as they felt the tug of gravity.

“Ten seconds,” Han told Leia and Dorja, and reached for the triggers to the concussion-middle tubes.

Anticipation drew a metallic streak down his tongue. He felt a prickle of sweat on his scalp.

“Five.” He triggered the first pair of concussion missiles, knowing that, unlike the laser cannons, they did not strike at the speed of light.

“Two.” Han triggered another pair of missiles. The Millennium Falcon’s engines howled as they fought the pull of the dovin basal’s gravity.

“Fire.” The dovin basal swept past, and suddenly the display lit with the six approaching coralskippers. The combined power of the eight turbolasers fired straight at them.

The six coralskippers had also split into Vs of three craft each, the formations on slightly diverging courses, but both formations were running into the Falcon and her armament at a combined velocity of over ninety percent of the warp space defensively ahead of them, and the pilots had only an instant to perceive the doom staring them in the face, and no time to react. The first vic (?) ran right into the first pair of missiles and the turbolaser fire, and all three erupted in fire as their coral hulls shattered into fragments.

The second formation, diverging, was not so suitably placed. One coralskipper was hit by a missile and pinwheeled off into the darkness, trailing flame. Another ran into a burst of turbolaser fire and exploded. The third raced on, looping around the gravity mine where Han’s detectors could no longer see it.

Exultation sang through Han’s heart. Four kills, one probable. Not a bad start at evening the odds.

The Millennium Falcon shuddered to the gravitic pull of the dovin basal. Han frowned as he checked the sublight engine readouts. He hoped the whip around the space mind and exit with enough velocity to escape the dovin basal’s gravity and get into hyperspace before the other flight of coralskippers could overtake him. But the dovin basal was more powerful than he’d expected, or possible the Yuuzhan Vong commander was actually ordering it to increase its gravitational attraction—since there was a lot the Republic didn’t know about how the Yuuzhan Vong equipment worked, that was at least possible.

In any case, the Falcon hadn’t picked up enough speed to be sure of a getaway. Which meant he had to think of something else brilliant to do.

The other flight of six coralskippers was following him into the gravity well of the dovin basal, intent on following him. (?) The one intact survivor of the second flight was in the act of whipping around the dovin basal, and wouldn’t enter into his calculations for the present.

Well, he thought, if it worked once . . .

“Hang on, ladies,” he called on the comlink. “We’re going around again!”

Savage pleasure filled him as he swing the Millennium Falcon around for another dive toward the dovil basal. Attack my galaxy, will you? he thought.

They had doubtless seen the beginning of his maneuver, so he altered his trajectory a second time, just to be safe. If the enemy commander had any sense, he’d be doing the same.

Both sides were now blind. The problem was that the Yuuzhan Vong were alert to his tactics. They wouldn’t just run blindly toward him: they would have their dovin basals propulsor units shifted to repel any attack, and they’d come in shooting.

“Be alert, people,” Han said. “We’re not going to be so lucky this time, and I can’t tell precisely where your targets are going to be. So be ready for them to be anywhere, right?”

“Right,” Leia said.

“Understood,” said Dorja.

“Commander Dorja,” Leia said. “You’ll see that your four lasers are aimed so as to fire on slightly diverging paths.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t readjust. There’s a reason for it.”

“I presumed so. I won’t change the settings.”

A pang of sorrow touched Han’s heart. It was his sun Anakin who had discovered that if he fired three shots into a Yuuzhan Vong vessel at slightly diverging courses, at least one shot would curve around the gravity-warping dovin basal shields and hit the target. The quad lasers had been set to accomplish that automatically, without Anakin’s eye and fast reflexes.

Anakin, who died at Myrkr.

“Twenty seconds,” Han said, to cover both his own rising tension and the grief that flooded him.

He triggered another pair of missiles at ten seconds, just in case he was lucky again and the enemy flight appeared right in front of him. And then, because he had no choice but to trust his luck, he fired another pair five seconds later.

You are not keeping me from seeing Jacen again, he told the enemy.