Star Wars: The Old Republic: Annihilation

by Drew Karpyshyn

  “Patch it through,” the Supreme Commander ordered, his heart pounding with a mixture of hope and dread.

  “Hey, Aegis,” Theron’s voice came over the speaker. “Any chance me and my Jedi friend here can hitch a ride?”

  Five minutes later Jace, Satele, and Teff’ith were down in the docking bay—along with another twenty members of the Aegis crew—as the escape pod door popped open. Master Gnost-Dural came out first, followed by Theron. Everyone assembled broke into a round of spontaneous applause and cheers. Jace joined in, slapping his big hands heartily together as an unexpected wave of pride and joy he hadn’t felt in years rushed through him. It was all he could do to keep from charging forward and embracing both of the heroes in a fierce bear hug.

  “Welcome back,” he said, snapping off a sharp salute instead.

  “Looks like everyone showed up to say hi,” Theron said, his eyes shifting from the crowd, to Jace, to Teff’ith, and finally to Satele. “And I do mean everyone.”

  “The Republic owes you a debt it can never repay,” Satele said, and Jace could tell she was also struggling to stay reserved in front of the rest of the assembled troops.

  It was the irrepressible Twi’lek who finally said what they were all thinking but didn’t have the courage to bring up.

  “You know you both naked, right?”

  EPILOGUE

  JACE TRIED TO PROJECT an outward display of authoritarian calm as he sat in the chair behind his desk, but inside his stomach was churning.

  This is crazy. You’ve done a million debriefs. This is no different.

  But it was different, simply because of who was involved.

  Satele and Master Gnost-Dural were already there, seated in two of the four chairs that had been set up on the other side of Jace’s desk. The other two seats were empty, reserved for the Director and, of course, Theron. Three days had passed since the victory at Duro. In that time, Jace hadn’t spoken to either Satele or Theron, apart from a few words as he presented Theron, Gnost-Dural, and Teff’ith with the Cross of Glory, the Republic’s highest honor, at a semi-private ceremony attended by several dozen dignitaries and officials. From the other side of the door he heard his receptionist’s cheerful, high-pitched laugh; a few seconds later the door opened and Marcus stepped in, closing it behind them.

  “Where’s Theron?” Jace asked.

  “He said he couldn’t make it,” the Director said, clearly uncomfortable. “He’s given me his report. We can contact him after the debrief if we have any follow-up questions.”

  Jace was stunned. Blowing off the debriefing wasn’t an official act of insubordination; technically Theron answered to the Director, not Jace. Marcus could have ordered him to come, of course, but that would have been entirely counterproductive. Still, Jace had been hoping to see him.

  “Okay then,” he said, covering his disappointment with gruff professionalism. “Let’s begin.”

  The debrief didn’t take nearly as long as Jace would have expected for an assignment of this nature and complexity. He could have blustered about how the entire mission was put in jeopardy because Theron and Gnost-Dural failed to follow orders, but it would have been just for show. Everyone in the room knew the truth, and Jace trusted Satele and Marcus to know best how to handle their people going forward. Instead, they stuck to facts and analysis, and the whole thing was over in less than an hour.

  As everyone rose to leave, Jace said, “Grand Master Satele, can you stay a moment?”

  Gnost-Dural and the Director left quickly, closing the door behind them without being asked.

  “You aren’t the only one who was hoping Theron would be here,” Satele said once they were alone.

  “Is it that obvious?” he asked, coming out from behind his desk to try to pace out some of his frustration.

  “It is to me,” Satele said, standing motionless as she watched him go back and forth. “But I can understand why he wouldn’t be in the mood for a family reunion.”

  “Do you think he still blames me?”

  “You did the right thing. You brought the fleet to Duro.”

  “Does that make up for letting the Empire attack Ruan?”

  “We can’t always fix our mistakes,” she told him. “We can only learn from them.”

  Jace frowned—as usual, he didn’t find the typical Jedi wisdom particularly helpful. He stopped pacing and turned to Satele, standing right in front of her.

  “How do I make this right?”

  Satele shook her head. “You know him as well as I do.”

  “That’s the problem,” he said. “I want to get to know him better.”

  “Then wait for him to come to you,” she said.

  “That doesn’t seem to be working too well for you,” Jace pointed out.

  “The circumstances of your relationship with our son are different from mine,” Satele noted, and Jace sensed a deep regret behind her words.

  “Don’t you ever want to go and talk to him?”

  “There are a lot of things we want that we cannot have,” she answered, her expression unreadable. “It’s the burden of leadership.”

  She reached out and placed a tender hand on his shoulder. She left it there for a long moment, then pulled away and turned to go.

  “Good-bye, Supreme Commander.”

  “Good-bye, Grand Master,” he replied.

  When she was gone, he sat down at his desk and fired up his workstation, determined to lose himself in the endless mountain of reports that always seemed to need his attention. To his surprise, he saw there was a private holorecording waiting for him.

  “Sorry I missed the debrief, Commander,” Theron said to him when he opened the message. “Something I needed to take care of. But maybe later we can go get that drink we talked about. Give us a chance to just … I don’t know … talk, I guess.”

  Jace flicked off the message as it ended with a small, contented smile.

  Hidden in the shadows in the back corner of Teff’ith’s hotel room, Theron watched the Twi’lek pack, listening with amusement to her grumbling complaints as she rummaged through the room in search of anything worth stealing.

  “Stupid Republic gives us a stupid medal! Can’t spend medal. Not even worth it to melt down.”

  “Looking for something?” he asked, stepping into view.

  As if by magic, her blaster suddenly appeared in her hand.

  “How’d you get in?”

  “Believe it or not, these high-class hotels don’t actually have great security.”

  Teff’ith lowered her blaster, but shot him a dirty look. “Never paid us,” she accused.

  “Got your credits right here,” Theron said, pointing to a bag in the corner where he’d been standing.

  “Actual credits? Not a Republic chip?”

  “Ten thousand actual credits. I didn’t think a Republic credit chip would have much value where you’re going.”

  “Ten thousand?” she protested. “What about credits Gorvich stole from us?”

  “That’s between you and him,” Theron said with a shrug.

  “Knew we couldn’t trust you,” Teff’ith said with a scowl as she went over and picked up the bag.

  “I might be able to come up with a couple thousand more if you stick around,” he offered.

  “Not staying,” she said, dumping the credits onto the hotel room bed so she could count them. “Hate it here. Too shiny.”

  I know what you mean, Theron thought. Out loud he asked, “So what’s your plan?”

  “Don’t know. Figure it out. Can’t go back to Old Tion Brotherhood thanks to you.”

  “I bet the Director could find a position for you with SIS as a field agent.”

  “Pass,” she said, scooping up the credits and stuffing them back into the bag. “Not interested in filing reports for a boss behind a desk. We only work for ourselves.”

  She slung the bag over her shoulder and headed toward the door. Before leaving, she turned back to Theron.

 
“No more spying on us,” she said, waggling a finger in his direction. “Don’t need you watching over our shoulder like big brother.”

  Theron watched her go, not saying anything until the door had closed behind her.

  “You might not need me watching over your shoulder, but I’ll be there anyway,” he vowed softly. “That’s what family does.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DREW KARPYSHYN is the bestselling author of Star Wars: The Old Republic: Revan and the Star Wars: Darth Bane trilogy: Path of Destruction, Rule of Two, and Dynasty of Evil. He also wrote the acclaimed Mass Effect series of novels and worked as a writer/designer on numerous award-winning videogames. After spending most of his life in Canada, he finally grew tired of the long, cold winters and headed south in search of a climate more conducive to year-round golf. Drew Karpyshyn now lives in Texas with his wife, Jennifer, and their cat.

  READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT FROM

  STAR WARS: SCOUNDRELS

  BY TIMOTHY ZAHN

  PUBLISHED BY DEL REY BOOKS

  The starlines collapsed into stars, and the Imperial Star Destroyer Dominator had arrived. Standing on the command walkway, his hands clasped stiffly behind his back, Captain Worhven glared at the misty planet floating in the blackness directly ahead and wondered what in blazes he and his ship were doing here.

  For these were not good times. The Emperor’s sudden dissolution of the Imperial Senate had sent dangerous swells of uncertainty throughout the galaxy, which played into the hands of radical groups like the so-called Rebel Alliance. At the same time, criminal organizations like Black Sun and the Hutt syndicates openly flouted the law, buying and selling spice, stolen merchandise, and local and regional officials alike.

  Even worse, Palpatine’s brand-new toy, the weapon that was supposed to finally convince both insurgents and lawbreakers that the Empire was deadly serious about taking them down, had inexplicably been destroyed at Yavin. Worhven still hadn’t heard an official explanation for that incident.

  Evil times, indeed. And evil times called for a strong and massive response. The minute the word came in from Yavin, Imperial Center should have ordered a full Fleet deployment, concentrating its efforts on the most important, the most insubordinate, and the most jittery systems. It was the classic response to crisis, a method that dated back thousands of years, and by all rights and logic the Dominator should have been at the forefront of any such deployment.

  Instead, Worhven and his ship had been pressed into mule cart duty.

  “Ah—Captain,” a cheery voice boomed behind him.

  Worhven took a deep, calming breath. “Lord d’Ashewl,” he replied, making sure to keep his back to the other while he forced his expression into something more politically proper for the occasion.

  It was well he’d started rearranging his face when he did. Barely five seconds later d’Ashewl came to a stop beside him, right up at his side instead of stopping the two steps back that Worhven demanded of even senior officers until he gestured them forward.

  But that was hardly a surprise. What would a fat, stupid, accidentally rich member of Imperial Center’s upper court know of ship’s protocol?

  A rhetorical question. The answer, of course, was nothing.

  But if d’Ashewl didn’t understand basic courtesy, Worhven did. And he would treat his guest with the proper respect. Even if it killed him. “My Lord,” he said politely, turning to face the other. “I trust you slept well.”

  “I did,” d’Ashewl said, his eyes on the planet ahead. “So that’s Wukkar out there, is it?”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Worhven said, resisting the urge to wonder aloud if d’Ashewl thought the Dominator might have somehow drifted off course during ship’s night. “As per your orders.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” d’Ashewl said, craning his neck a little. “It’s just so hard to tell from this distance. Most worlds out there look distressingly alike.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Worhven repeated, again resisting the words that so badly wanted to come out. Of course there were certain basic similarities between inhabited worlds. Those similarities were what made them inhabitable in the first place. But to say that they all looked alike was the mark of either inexperience or blatant stupidity. With d’Ashewl, there was a good chance it was both.

  “But if you say it’s Wukkar, then I believe it,” d’Ashewl continued. “Have you compiled the list of incoming yachts that I asked for?”

  Worhven suppressed a sigh. Not just mule cart duty, but handmaiden duty, as well. “The comm officer has it,” he said, turning his head and gesturing toward the starboard crew pit. Out of the corner of his eye he saw now that he and d’Ashewl weren’t alone: d’Ashewl’s young manservant, Dayja, had apparently accompanied his superior and was standing a respectful half-dozen steps back along the walkway.

  At least one of the pair knew something about proper protocol.

  “Excellent, excellent,” d’Ashewl said, rubbing his hands together. “There’s a wager afoot, Captain, as to which of our group will arrive first and which will arrive last. Thanks to you and your magnificent ship, I stand to win a great deal of money.”

  Worhven felt his lip twist. A ludicrous and pointless wager, to match the Dominator’s ludicrous and pointless errand. It was nice to know that in a universe on the edge of going mad, there was still ironic symmetry to be found.

  “You’ll have your man relay the data to my floater,” d’Ashewl continued. “My man and I shall leave as soon as the Dominator reaches orbit.” He cocked his head. “Your orders were to remain in the region in the event that I needed further transport, were they not?”

  The captain allowed his hands, safely out of d’Ashewl’s sight at his sides, to curl into angry and frustrated fists. “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Good,” d’Ashewl said cheerfully. “Lord Toorfi has been known to suddenly change his mind on where the games are to continue, and if he does I need to be ready to once again beat him to the new destination. You’ll be no more than three hours away at all times, correct?”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Worhven said. Fat, stupid, and a cheat besides. Clearly, all the others involved in this vague high-stakes gaming tournament had arrived at Wukkar via their own ships. Only d’Ashewl had had the supreme gall to talk someone on Imperial Center into letting him borrow an Imperial Star Destroyer for the occasion.

  “But for now, all I need is for your men to prepare to launch my floater,” d’Ashewl continued. “After that, you may take the rest of the day off. Perhaps the rest of the month, as well. One never knows how long old men’s stamina and money will last, eh?”

  Without waiting for a reply—which was just as well, because Worhven didn’t have any that he was willing to share—the rotund man turned and waddled back along the walkway toward the aft bridge. Dayja waited until he’d passed, then dropped into step the prescribed three paces behind him.

  Worhven watched until the pair had passed beneath the archway and into the aft bridge turbolift, just to make sure they were truly gone. Then, unclenching his teeth, he turned to the comm officer. “Signal Hangar Command,” he ordered. “Our passenger is ready to leave.”

  He threw a final glower at the aft bridge. Take the day off, indeed. Enough condescending idiocy like that from the Empire’s ruling class, and Worhven would be sorely tempted to join the Rebellion himself. “And tell them to make it quick,” he added. “I don’t want Lord d’Ashewl or his ship aboard a single millisecond longer than necessary.”

  “I should probably have you whipped,” d’Ashewl commented absently.

  Dayja half turned in the floater’s command chair to look over his shoulder. “Excuse me?” he asked.

  “I said I should probably have you whipped,” d’Ashewl repeated, gazing at his datapad as he lazed comfortably on the luxurious couch in the lounge just behind the cockpit.

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Not really,” d’Ashewl said. “But it’s becoming the big thing among the upper echelon
of the court these days, and I’d hate to be left out of the truly important trends.”

  “Ah,” Dayja said. “I trust these rituals aren’t done in public?”

  “Oh, no, the sessions are quite private and secretive,” d’Ashewl assured him. “But that’s a good point. Unless we happen to meet up with others of my same lofty stature, there really wouldn’t be any purpose.” He considered. “At least not until we get back to Imperial Center. We may want to try it then.”

  “Speaking only for myself, I’d be content to put it off,” Dayja said. “It does sound rather pointless.”

  “That’s because you have a lower-class attitude,” d’Ashewl chided. “It’s a conspicuous consumption sort of thing. A demonstration that one has such an overabundance of servants and slaves that he can afford to put one out of commission for a few days merely on a whim.”

  “It still sounds pointless,” Dayja said. “Ripping someone’s flesh from his body is a great deal of work. I prefer to have a good reason if I’m going to go to that much effort.” He nodded at the datapad. “Any luck?”

  “Unfortunately, the chance cubes aren’t falling in our favor,” d’Ashewl said, tossing the instrument onto the couch beside him. “Our tipoff came just a bit too late. It looks like Qazadi is already here.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “There were only eight possibilities, and all eight have landed and their passengers dispersed.”

  Dayja turned back forward, eyeing the planet rushing up toward them and trying to estimate distances and times. If the yacht carrying their quarry had just landed, there might still be a chance of intercepting him before he went to ground.

  “And the latest was over three hours ago,” d’Ashewl added. “So you might as well ease back on the throttle and enjoy the ride.”

  Dayja suppressed a flicker of annoyance. “So in other words, we took the Dominator out of service for nothing.”

  “Not entirely,” d’Ashewl said. “Captain Worhven had the opportunity to work on his patience level.”