Ohh okay, thank you so much! I'm very bad with technology so this was really testing me, aaha

With the arrival of John Jackson Millers latest Star Wars novel The Living Force and the 25th anniversary of The Phantom Menace just a few weeks away on 19th May, StarWars.com turn their attention to the Jedi Council, all 12 of whom star in The Living Force as well as in Episode I. Every one of the council are featured in the article, but let's take a look at one of the characters who we may be seeing more of in the future, Plo Koon. Plo Koon Homeworld: Dorin Species: Kel Dor Lightsaber: Blue With his unmistakable physiology and ever-present antiox mask protecting his eyes and filtering out harmful oxygen, Plo Koon is one of the most recognizable members of the Council. A pattern unique to his clan is etched on his mask, a nod to his homeworld of Dorin. Plo Koon is wise, even-tempered, and protective of his colleagues and personnel. He’s also an expert pilot and occasionally drops by the Jedi Temple’s maintenance hangar to lend a hand. Don't forget, you can read our review of the book here, the audiobook here and listen to John Jackson Miller on our newest episode of Canon Fodder below (and check out the cover of the book he's reading in the episode art). [amazon box="0593723430"]

The Living Force will be with us by this time next week, and along with our reviews of the novel and the audiobook we'll have also caught up with author John Jackson Miller on a very special episode of Canon Fodder that will land on the big day, Tuesday 9th April. Here, Gizmodo bring us an exclusive excerpt from the book as the pirate Zilastra makes a find. You can’t have a meeting of the minds if nobody attending has one. Zilastra had coined the saying early in her career, and it had come in handy far too many times in the decade since. But this was the first time she’d thought of it in the middle of a firefight. Blaster shots sizzled through the air in the corridor of the freighter Morleen, bright lines never to be crossed. Even peeking around the corner was death. All Zilastra could see from her side passage was the opening across the hall, where her second-in-command had just noticed her arrival. A Feeorin, Burlug had head-tendrils like hers; his were blue, while hers were Nautolan green. But he was a much bigger target. Burlug yelled over the incoming fire, “Stay back, Zil!” “Luggy, what’s the story?” “Tal and Krins got it. Our surprise guest popped ’em as soon as they started to parlay.” “Saves me from killing them,” Zilastra replied. So much for trying for a peaceful meeting. Her anger grew. A boarding action, in my own port. What a mess! Intake was one of the simplest tasks her crew was expected to handle. In the safety of one of her own landing facilities on Keldooine, newly captured spaceships got the once-over. Valuable cargoes were located and removed, while another team evaluated the vessel’s condition using a checklist that would have been the envy of any Republic bureaucrat. Before all that could happen, however, the ship had to be secured. Capturing and rerouting a large vessel was a hectic affair, and rarely was there time to clear all the occupants while in flight. That tended to just be a formality once in port, where the numbers favored her forces. From there, it progressed as it had since the dawn of piracy. Most captured crewmembers tended to switch sides without much fuss. Joining up was better than unemployment—or a violent death. Even presumably loyal captains of commercial liners would flip once a little pressure was applied. But owners of independent freighters like the Morleen were a different breed: protective of their vessels, and even more in love with their own stories of themselves. One legend-in-his-own-mind after another had refused to give up the ship, some hiding in the ductwork for days, waiting their chance to get taken down by her forces. Or to do a little damage of their own. With shots continuing to crackle past, Zilastra adjusted her gloves first, and then drew her blasters. Thermal detonators would be of no use—they’d damage the freighter. And a gas bomb would simply mean an even longer delay before intake could begin. No, this would have to be done the hard way, before— The shots stopped. Burlug looked back at her. “Don’t. It’s a trap.” “You think?” She heard the cockpit door close—and seconds later the low thrum of the freighter’s engines starting. The owner’s still trying to save the damn ship! Fortunately, there was an option Zilastra had ignored while all the shooting was going on: the intercom, on the wall beside her. She holstered one of her blasters and activated the communications device. “Hey, listen. Up in the cockpit.” Static. Then a husky voice. “I’m not talking to you. Get off my ship!” “Yeah, I hear that a lot. I’m Zilastra.” A pause. Then the speaker sounded. “You’re Zilastra? Of the Riftwalkers?” “I’m glad you’ve heard of me. That means you know what I’ll do.” Silence followed. Burlug shook his head. “I don’t think—” Wait, Zilastra mouthed. It usually took ten seconds. The freighter owner was ready in five. “Let me keep the Morleen.” “The what?” “This ship. It’s mine. Just take the cargo.” Zilastra had heard that one before, too. “What are you carrying?” “Tanks of industrial acid. Four million liters, bound for Introsphere on Gorse.” Ehh. Zilastra’s green mouth crinkled. Still, the engines were really starting to rev. She toggled the intercom. “Okay, you’re in luck. We happen to have a buyer for that right here on Keldooine.” “And?” “I’ll give you one of the tanks. You sell it, you can find your way offworld.” “What?” The owner was clearly caught off guard. “No! I want my ship!” “The offer stands. The Morleen is mine. You want to negotiate, next time get caught by a used starship dealer.” She listened to the engines. “If your ship clears the facility, my people will shoot it down, with me in it.” “What? You’d really order that?” “I thought you’d heard of me before. You’ve got ten seconds.” Zilastra snapped off the device and redrew her other blaster. It took the owner all ten seconds to see reason. The engines died. And when the door to the cockpit slid open, the owner died, too—shot once by each of Zilastra’s blasters set to kill. Burlug stepped out and stared at the corpse, which now rested beside the bodies of Zilastra’s two former henchmen. “Good old Zilastra. Smile and shoot.” “She was wasting time.” Zilastra holstered her weapons. “Get her out of here.” Nearly twice Zilastra’s weight, Burlug had no trouble at all picking up the pilot’s limp body. “Where to?” Zilastra pointed a thumb aft. “She owns one of those acid vats in the hold. A deal’s a deal.” She glanced at the corpses of her fallen henchmen. “Them, too.” “Got it.” Zilastra wanted a bath, herself—if in something a lot less dangerous. Nautolans were at home near water, and while her job kept her in space, Zilastra liked a good soak. But there was more yet to do. “Luggy, where was she hiding?” “Under the heat exchange manifold. Snuck into the cockpit past everyone.” “Just great.” This wasn’t supposed to happen. Zilastra looked from side to side. “Where’s the kid?” She started to reach for her comlink—and decided instead on the ship’s public address system. Her voice boomed through the halls. “Kylah Lohmata! Show yourself!” A metal bulkhead panel behind Zilastra shot outward, landing on the deck with a clang. A dark-haired human girl of twelve slipped out of a space barely a meter tall. Her face and clothing were completely covered in grease smudges—and her wide brown eyes beamed as she saluted. “Reporting, Your Majesty!” Zilastra waved a gloved hand. “I’m not in the mood. I’ve got two dead because of a pilot we missed. Checking crawl spaces is your job!” Kylah got to her feet. “I found something else. I knew you’d want to see it.” “And you thought the way to reach me was to crawl here?” “People were shooting.” Kylah lifted the panel she’d just knocked out. Like most of the corridor, it was pocked with score marks from the pilot’s blaster. The kid smiled wide. “Come on! Follow me down to the hold!” The wiry girl dived back into the maintenance tunnel before Zilastra could grab her. Kneeling, she saw Kylah clambering like a rodent through the tunnel. Unable to fit, Zilastra shouted inside. “What’s the matter with taking the stairs?” “Shortcut!” Seething, Zilastra heard a comment from above. “Smart kid.” The pilot’s body over his massive shoulder, Burlug snickered at his boss. “Saves her from getting chewed out. I’d follow if I could fit!” “Get to the hold before I liquidate the lot of you.” Zilastra watched him pass and turned to follow. The long way to the hold, down the halls. There was no place in Zilastra’s life for children of her own. It had been hard enough starting the Riftwalkers from the castoffs of the four other gangs working this sector of the Slice. Yet somehow she had become a kind of surrogate parent for Kylah. The foundling had been a stowaway on a merchant ship Zilastra had grabbed; with nowhere to go, she’d stayed on. The skinny kid’s talent at getting into places no one else could and finding things no one knew to look for had made her handy to have around. Still, given all the would-be lieutenants wanting to impress her all the time, an incorrigible orphan made for a change of pace. Kylah was all striving, with none of the conniving. Zilastra wasn’t exactly alike in that, but she certainly knew what it was to be on her own—and she respected performance. She’d lately entrusted the stowaway with a very special project, in fact. She was beginning to doubt the wisdom of that when she arrived in the hold. True to the late captain’s word, freestanding tanks stood in the wide area. They were bolted to the deck, and the only way to drain them was at a reservoir facility, using the proper equipment. That was why Zilastra instantly had known the prize was less than useful. “No kid,” Burlug said. “I was sure she’d beat us here.” Zilastra’s blood boiled. “Stowaway!” “I’m up here!” came a voice from high above. Zilastra looked to the top of one of the tanks. Somehow, Kylah had gotten up there and was perched next to an opening in the massive container. “What’s the idea?” Zilastra asked. “You’re going to want to see this,” Kylah said. “I’m not the only stowaway on this ship!” [amazon box="0593597958"]

The first Star Wars novel from John Jackson Miller in quite a number of years arrives 9th April and we'll be bringing you reviews of the novel and the audiobook here to the site, and ahead of that day here's an excerpt from The Living Force as Obi-Wan Kenobi and Qui-Gon Jinn travel aboard a starcruiser. In the past, Qui-Gon Jinn had encouraged his Padawan to use the quieter moments on their journeys to get to know people. To connect with them. It wasn’t that the young man had problems making friends; Obi-Wan had a natural ability in that regard. But the structures that turned younglings into Jedi Knights also tended to isolate them—and that could give them the wrong idea about their places in the galaxy. That was why Qui-Gon often chose commercial transport, such as the inaccurately named Regal Zephyr, one of a dwindling number of pas­senger vessels serving the Ootmian Pabol, once a key route leading from the Slice to Coruscant. A seemingly endless flight aboard a ship that smelled like a trash compactor was both humble—and humbling. Doors opened on Qui-Gon’s right. He and Obi-Wan watched as a haggard man entered from the galley, carrying a squirm­ing child in each arm. Ignoring the two Jedi as he trudged past, the man approached a woman Obi-Wan had spoken with. After passing a tod­dler to her, he displayed a single food pouch, one of the meager rations offered by the galley concessionaire. The reunited family looked ex­hausted but also hungry. They tore into the pouch and emptied it in seconds. Qui-Gon walked down the aisle and approached the young parents. He drew a pair of tokens from the folds of his cloak and got their atten­tion. “Pardon me. You dropped your meal vouchers.” “Those aren’t mine,” the man said, eyeing him. “I just used our last one.” “Then these must have stuck to your shoe. Easy to believe, around here.” He looked to the hungry children—and back to their parents. “Please. They shouldn’t go to waste.” The wary mother stared for a moment before taking the tokens. She rose. Daughter on her hip, she trotted off to the galley. Qui-Gon re­treated to his previous station. Obi-Wan smirked. “We’ll be skipping breakfast, then.” “You wouldn’t have enjoyed it.” “You’re probably right.” He surveyed the surly faces around the cabin. “I’m afraid I lack the common touch, Master.” “There’s that phrase again.” Qui-Gon shook his head. “Every being is your better, Obi-Wan. Remember that, and service becomes second na­ture.” “I never tire of hearing that one.” Obi-Wan spied another open seat, nearer to where the two Jedi stood. He straightened. “Back into the fray.” “Try a bit more energy this time. The galley’s out of caf.” “Done.” Qui-Gon watched as his apprentice gamely stepped over and sat be­side a large huddled figure. The Jedi Master had seen him earlier: a mas­sive member of the Houk species, with leathery blue skin and no apparent ears or nose. None of that was visible now, as he was wrapped in a cape and cowl—odd choices, given the warmth in the cabin. Checking quickly to ensure that the Houk wasn’t asleep, Obi-Wan adopted an antic smile and addressed the passenger. “Hello there!” Beady yellow eyes went wide. The bruiser growled—and abruptly rose to his towering height. The Houk threw off his cloak to reveal a blaster holstered to his chest. Obi-Wan’s eyes widened. “If you wanted to be left alone, you only had to say so.” “Quiet!” The muscular Houk turned to face the rest of the cabin and shouted, “Now!” Two more cloaked passengers rose and shed their disguises. A scar-faced Klatooinian and a horned Devaronian reached for their weapons. The latter had his blaster in his hand first. Golden eyes and sharp fangs flashed as he shouted, “Nobody move!” Qui-Gon saw Obi-Wan start to rise—only to pause. His Padawan looked instead to him. Qui-Gon had his hand near his lightsaber, still hidden inside his robe—but he, too, waited. He shot a look he knew his student would understand. No bloodshed. Not with so many innocents about, with nowhere to go. “What’s the meaning of this?” an elderly passenger demanded. The Devaronian waved his blaster. “Lemme introduce myself. I’m The Lobber—that’s right, that Lobber. This ship is now under the con­trol of the Vile!” The Vile. Qui-Gon knew it as one of several interstellar gangs active in the Slice, the colossal wedge-shaped fan of star systems stretching from the Core Worlds to the Outer Rim. It wasn’t an outfit many from Coruscant would have heard of, and it didn’t sound like a great name for recruiting purposes. But clearly the passengers knew what it was, given their anxious reactions. The name also seemed to unsettle someone else: the Houk standing near Obi-Wan. “The Vile?” he asked. “I thought we were doing this for the Skulls.” “The Skulls?” the Klatooinian grumbled in a low voice. “We talked about this, Ghor. The Filthy Cred gang will pay more than either.” “Shut up, Wungo.” Lobber waved his blaster at the Klatooinian. “Save it until we’re done.” The Staved Skulls. The Filthy Creds. Qui-Gon knew the names. More operations from a regional underworld that was increasingly aboveground. He surreptitiously nudged the metal case he’d been traveling with under a nearby seat. There was a play here, the Jedi Master knew. He just had to find it. “This is madness,” the young father declared, clutching his wailing son. “We’ve got nothing to steal!” “That’s obvious enough.” Lobber gestured to the ceiling with his blaster. “We’re stealing the ship.” He pointed to the Houk. “Ghor, you know what to do.” Ghor grabbed an empty canvas bag from beside his seat and moved into the aisle with it. “Any weapons, give ’em.” He had turned away from Obi-Wan—a stroke of luck, Qui-Gon thought—but it was still too soon to act. Wungo the Klatoonian was in motion, too, with a sack of his own—only he was demanding valuables. “You just said you only wanted the ship,” a Rodian passenger snarled. Wungo snapped, “Shut up!” An elderly traveler began to weep. “What—what’s to happen to us?” Lobber laughed. “We’re going to put you all out at the nearest stop.” “Where?” the young father asked. “What’s for us there?” Flustered, the Devaronian raised his voice. “Quit your moaning. You’re lucky we don’t just space you all!” Qui-Gon had seen and heard enough. The hijackers had no plan or even any agreement on whom they worked for. Amateurism often meant recklessness and the potential for harm—if he didn’t act quickly and smartly. He cast another look he knew his Padawan would recog­nize and took a step from the bulkhead. Putting his open hands before him, he spoke calmly. “My friends, there’s no need for this.” Lobber glowered at him. “Who are you?” “Just someone who wants a pleasant ride.” Qui-Gon crossed his arms. “I don’t want to see anyone get hurt.” “The only person who’ll get hurt is you,” Lobber declared. Ghor pointed his weapon at Qui-Gon. “All right, brave guy. Where’s your blaster?” “I usually do without one.” The giant guffawed. “You’re that good, eh?” Lobber snarled. “Teach the big hero a lesson—then get to the cockpit.” “You’re the one who knows how to fly,” Ghor said. “Just do it!” [amazon box="0593597958"]

It arrives 9th April, with a Barnes and Noble exclusive featuring this stunning poster with a map of Kwenn on one side and an image of the Jedi Council on the other also available, and here is a look at the first excerpt from The Living Force by John Jackson Miller as the Jedi Council look to the past as they try to figure out the future. “I thank all of you.” Qui-Gon bowed. He started to turn to leave the Council Chamber—only to gesture with his hands. “Help one person. A Jedi needs no permission for that.” “It seems we have been given a challenge,” Mace said with no little amusement after the doors closed behind Qui-Gon. “I can’t imagine how improving lives never occurred to us.” Light laughter followed—but not from everyone. “We all respect Master Qui-Gon,” Ki-Adi-Mundi said. “But we have heard this before from him, many times.” He crossed his arms. “The Jedi Order serves society—but it is not a government agency.” Yoda looked up from his contemplation. “Not of the Order does Qui-Gon speak. He means individual Jedi.” Ki-Adi-Mundi nodded deferentially. “It is true—stories of Jedi who are isolated from the Order have always fascinated him. And his master, too, if I recall. They show what good could be done without our cares of state. But members of the Jedi Council are capable of considering the galactic and the local. Indeed, it is our job.” Saesee shrugged. “This is classic Qui-Gon. Nothing new.” “I disagree,” Mace said, pausing a moment as he mused. “This was different. We are different.” The others stared at him in surprise. Depa looked at him searchingly. “Go on, Master.” Mace looked around. “You all know I protect the traditions of the Order. There is wisdom in them. And yet even I can see it: We rarely act as individuals. Our responsibilities mount—but this body remains the same size. Members of the Council are bound to Coruscant more than ever before.” He gestured to the holographic figures. “Just three of us are away—and only Master Billaba is undertaking investigative work.” “And I have spent three hours in hiding attending this meeting,” Depa said. “And forgive me—but only now, near the end, have we come to the productive part.” “A part that was never on the agenda,” Yaddle said. She looked to the center of the room. “Qui-Gon sees our condition clearly. But I am not sure what to prescribe.” Adi Gallia raised her datapad and spoke with hesitation. “I’m reluc­tant to bring matters back to business, but the chancellor’s office pro­vided us this year’s final list of suggestions regarding Jedi assets.” Piell snorted. “Final as a politician’s promise.” Mace waved his hand. All the members had a good understanding of the nature of the Senate, and a healthy skepticism. He quite agreed with Piell. But calling attention to that served no purpose at the moment. “Continue, Master Gallia.” “We covered the locations where the Senate expects growth,” Adi said, “where its requests for Jedi aid are likely to expand. As usual when that happens, we compile a list of outposts that Jedi no longer frequent, either for research or for other activities, to balance the need.” “Our study has been completed?” Mace asked. “Just now.” She read as information scrolled across her datapad screen. “Janaus. Lesser Tontakoh. Barayfe.” Yarael chortled. “Does anyone live in those places?” Adi paused, and her eyes widened. “What is it?” Mace asked. She looked up. “Kwenn.” Stunned silence. Oppo was the first to break it with a half-whispered “No.” His shock was shared by Council members young and old. “That one’s been open for nearly two hundred years,” Piell said. “Almost exactly,” Eeth responded. “This would have been the bicen­tennial of its founding.” “Present, several of us were,” Yoda said. “A symbol, at the edge of Hutt space.” Plo nodded. “A grand gesture. It showed there was no place we would not go.” “And it crowned what was yet another great achievement, on the planet itself,” Yaddle said. “A monumental work that this Order—including one of us here—had much to do with.” Her eyes turned to Oppo—as did those of several others who knew his role. But the holographic figure appeared lost in thought. “Many were involved,” he finally said, before looking away. Even the more taciturn members seemed affected by the news. “I first visited Kwenn as a Padawan,” Saesee recalled. “We have all visited,” Ki-Adi-Mundi added. “Some, many times.” Yarael seemed thunderstruck. “I loved the repertory theater there.” Mace couldn’t argue with the others’ concerns, but he also couldn’t help but notice something. “Our experiences there are many. But how recent are any of them?” “Not very,” Adi said after consulting the study. “The surrounding sys­tems haven’t had active relic excavations in years, and our missions in the area have declined just as trade has. And leaving facilities in unsta­ble regions unattended for too long puts the materials inside them at risk.” Mace nodded. “That’s why we closed Tharben and Keldooine—and just now, Ord Jannak. Those I understood. But has Kwenn changed so?” Adi tilted her head. “Between pirates and taxes, the Ootmian route is out of favor. Traffic at the Kwenn Space Station is down; I suspect the same for the planet below. Corporations leave, then the people. That’s what Master Qui-Gon saw.” Piell raised a holographic finger. “You missed a step. We leave. Then the people leave.” The eye-patch-wearing Lannik spoke about his recent experiences. “Qui-Gon’s not the only one who’s witnessed it. I’ve seen people flocking toward the Core on that route the whole time I’ve been on Yitabo.” Mace was going to ask Depa for her observations when he noticed his onetime student looking behind her. “Is something wrong, Master Billaba?” “I may be called away here at any minute,” Depa said, speaking quickly. “But I fear the closure of the Kwenn outpost may embolden the criminal element there. It happened when we closed the site at Keldooine—and I am seeing the result now.” A beep sounded from her location. “I must go.” “May the Force be with you,” Mace said, but her image disappeared before he finished the sentence. Eeth took a breath. “If we close the Kwenn outpost—” “That has not been decided,” Oppo interjected. “Of course,” Eeth corrected himself. “I simply meant to say that if we agree with the study suggesting closure, it would affect one who is not a Jedi: the caretaker.” Several reacted with recognition, including Yarael. “Ah, the sene­schal. I haven’t seen him in years.” He looked to Adi. “Wait. The site isn’t unattended!” “True,” she said, “but our report finds he is nearly incapable of con­tinuing his duties. And no suitable alternative is likely to be found. It is a solitary existence.” “Voh has been there most of his life,” Yoda said. “Hard news, this would be.” Oppo nodded. “If anyone deserves to learn of it directly, it is Sene­schal Voh.” Yaddle looked to the space vacated by Depa’s image. “So many of our meetings were once face-to-face.” She bowed her head, and a pall fell over her companions. Part of Mace’s mind was still on Depa’s abrupt departure, and what that might portend for her mission. But he had been listening, and struggling with all the issues that had been put before them. His eyes widened, and Yoda saw it. “I know that look, Master Windu. A plan, you have.” “Indeed.” Mace clasped his hands together. “Let us visit the outpost on Kwenn.” The others stared at him. Adi responded by consulting her datapad. “That . . . could be diffi­cult. But let me see who’s available. Maybe someone can get away.” “Not someone,” Mace said, raising his index finger. “All of us.” His words startled many. “All?” Oppo asked. “We will reconvene there, in person. We will meet the people, learn about their lives, and show our support. Both individually—and col­lectively, in public commemoration of the anniversary of the outpost’s founding.” Saesee looked puzzled. “Celebrate the founding of the outpost—just to close it?” Eeth pointed out what he’d just been reminded of—that no decision had been made. “But are we being honest? Closure has been recom­mended by our own researchers.” “People we trust,” Ki-Adi-Mundi said. “Sentiment and nostalgia should not lead us to ignore them. Nor is it right to deceive the people of Kwenn.” “There is no deception,” Yaddle said. “We truly wish to celebrate—and we might learn something that alters our view.” Yoda nodded. “Change, Kwenn’s destiny could.” Adi looked concerned. She spoke tentatively. “The chancellor will have received a copy of our study. It’s a courtesy. You know the Senate wants us committing our attentions elsewhere—and they know we al­ways follow our researchers’ leads. They might not understand why we’re not doing so now.” Saesee snorted. He looked around. “I don’t seem to see the chancel­lor’s seat in here.” Yaddle nodded. “The Senate and the Jedi are allies. But we keep our own counsel.” Mace agreed. “Master Tiin is correct—we can do more than one thing at a time. Even as we meet the people of Kwenn, we can identify the artifacts we need to retrieve in advance of any closure.” “It is a big outpost,” Yarael said. “Room for all of us.” Plo glanced about. “I doubt there will be enough provisions for a group our size.” “No problem,” Piell said. “I’m nearby, remember? Yitabo is the larder for half the worlds around. I’ll stock up here.” Yaddle clasped her hands together in delight. “Answering the call. It feels right.” [amazon box="0593597958"]

Make some space on those booksheles because not only will you want to grab the regular edition of John Jackson Miller's The Living Force on 9th April, you'll also want to get your orders in for two limited editions; from Goldsboro it's their limited edition black-edged edition limited to 500 copies, and from Inkstone it's their limited edition green-edged edition also limited to 500 copies. https://twitter.com/jjmfaraway/status/1759986839723610214 Stay tuned for our review of the book, and keep an eye open for future episodes of our Canon Fodder podcast where we'll be chatting with John about his reurn to Star Wars. [amazon box="0593597958"]

The Living Force is coming our way via author John Jackson Miller and Random House Worlds on 9th April, and John is going to be busy promoting the release with fan sites, magazines and a trio of Barnes & Noble launch events in Wisconsin. https://twitter.com/jjmfaraway/status/1758168157418598707 Stay tuned for our review of The Living Force in April, and be sure to keep checking out our literature podcast Canon Fodder on Fantha Tracks Radio. [amazon box="0593597958"]

North American readers get ready, not only is John Jackson Millers new Star Wars book The Living Force arriving 9th April but you can claim a bookplate signed by John by sending in digital proof of purchase here. No word on whether countries outside of the US and Canada will be offering anything similar, but stay tuned for a review of the book and more. https://www.instagram.com/p/C2ShhpOLSuj/ [amazon box="0593597958"]