Korsin released the door handle. He hadn’t seen what happened to Harbinger after the collision, but it was a safe bet that Sadow would have the crippled Harbinger already. And Saes, sitting there with only half the shipment of Lignan crystals and unable to deliver, would be bargaining for his life, saying anything about the Omen. He would sing harmonies the Khil would be proud of.
Korsin looked down the hallway. “Back at Primus Goluud. On the station. You met with Sadow, didn’t you?”
Devore shuffled. “To discuss the Lignan operation.”
“You weren’t discussing something else? Like who should command this mission?”
Devore glared at him with bloodshot eyes. That look again.
“You were discussing who should command this mission,” Korsin pressed, surprised at his own calm. “What did you say when he said no?”
The commander’s blood froze. He knew how things always went with Devore—how things must have gone. Sadow had rejected his half brother, and Devore had said something. What? Not enough to offend Sadow—no, Devore was still here in the wreck, drawing labored breaths. But Sadow would have reason to suspect Devore’s loyalty, would have cause to wonder whether his crystals were safe. The one thing Yaru Korsin had was his reputation for playing it straight—but now at a minimum, Sadow would know that Korsin was not the absolute master of his own vessel. And if he wasn’t …
Devore’s hand shook—and his lightsaber flew into it. The weapon that had killed Boyle Marcom ignited in his hand.
“What did I tell you?” Korsin yelled, approaching him anyway. “No games on my ship!”
Shaken, Devore darted back toward the bridge. Korsin followed. “The only way we come out of this is if we’re completely clean, Devore! Sadow can’t think we did this on purpose!” He reached the doorway. “No games on my ship!”
Korsin walked into a hurricane. Devore stood atop the command chair, calling forth all the debris of the bridge like a deity on a mountaintop. Korsin rolled, fragments of transparisteel raking his face and ripping into his uniform. Reaching Gloyd’s station, he mounted his own defense, cocooning himself in the Force against the onslaught. Devore was as strong as any in his family—and now he was riding chemicals Korsin didn’t understand.
A beam slammed against the bulkhead—and Omen shivered. A second strike, and the bridge tipped forward, knocking Devore off his perch. Korsin didn’t let him get up again. The moment Devore’s head appeared behind the chair, Korsin Force-flung him out through the ruined viewport. He had to get this outside, before everything was lost.
Korsin bolted uphill through the hallway to the airlock, huffing as he did. Fighting a spice-crazed assailant on a teetering deathtrap? I must be the crazy one! The step down from the portal was now a leap. His boot sank into a soft patch as he hit, wrenching his ankle and sending him tumbling down the scree-covered slope. Biting his lip, he tried to clamber back from the brink toward Omen’s crushed nose. A shadow was falling on him. He lit his lightsaber—
Suddenly he saw it—or it saw him. Another winged creature, high over the near ridge, circling and watching. Watching him. Korsin blinked sand from his eyes as the creature soared away. It was the same as the one from the descent—almost. The difference was …
Thoom! Korsin felt himself lifted into the air and before he could register what was happening, he slammed into the wreck of Omen. Devore marched into view, pebbles rolling before him as if propelled by a magnet. Trapped against the crumpled frame, Korsin struggled to stand. His father’s familiar look was gone from Devore’s face, replaced by a bleak nothingness.
“It’s over, Yaru” Devore said, raising his lightsaber high. “We should have done this before. It’s been decided. I’m Commander Korsin.”
It’s been decided? The thought flashed through Yaru Korsin’s mind even as the lightsaber flashed past his ear. It sparked against the Omen’s battered armor. The commander raised his weapon to parry the next stroke—and the next, and the next. Devore hammered away. No style, just fury. Korsin found nowhere to go, except along the side of the ship, sliding backward toward the port-side torpedo tubes. Three of the doors had been opened in the descent. The fourth—
Korsin spotted the control box, just like the one he’d remotely manipulated in the descent. He flexed toward it through the Force, and ducked. The firing pin activated, bulleting forward and catching Devore in the lightsaber shoulder. The torpedo door tried to cycle open, but pinned against the ground it only dug into the strata, sending a stream of rocks flooding beneath the ship. Omen lurched forward again, with Devore sliding in front of it toward the edge and the ocean below.
It took a minute for Korsin to get loose from the handhold he’d found on the ship, and another for the dust to clear. Finding Omen surprisingly still, he gingerly stepped away on the crushed slate. Omen’s bow had impaled itself on a razor rise on the promontory, just meters from the edge.
Ahead of it, partially buried in rubble, lay his brother. His golden uniform shredded, his shoulder bloodied, Devore writhed on the precipice. He tried to kneel, shrugging off the surrounding rocks, only to collapse again.
Devore still gripped his lightsaber. How he could still be holding on to it with the whole world falling down, Korsin didn’t know. The commander fastened his own lightsaber to his belt.
“Yaru?” Devore said. It was a whimper now. “Yaru—I can’t see.” His face was tear-stained, but intact. Then his lightsaber rolled free, plummeting out of sight over the cliff’s edge and revealing the oily pink stain on his hand. Red Rage. That was what had been in the vials, Korsin thought. That was what had given Devore his manic power, and that was what was stealing from him now.
The shoulder wound wasn’t bad, Korsin saw, lifting his brother to his feet. Devore was young; with Seelah tending to him, he might even survive out here, presuming he could live without the spice. But … what then? What could be said that wasn’t already said?
It’s been decided.
A helpful hold became a tighter grip—and Yaru Korsin turned his brother to face the setting sun over the ocean. “I will complete my mission,” he said, looking over the side to the ocean yawning far below. “And I will protect my crew.”
He let go.
Chapter Four
It was nearly night when Korsin appeared on the twice-trodden trail, pulling a makeshift sledge crafted from a mess table. With thermal blankets and the remaining foodpaks heaped upon it, Korsin had needed the help of the Force a few times to get it down the mountain. Straps from pouches cut into his shoulders and neck, leaving ugly welts. The single campfire had become several. He was glad to see them.
Ravilan appeared glad to see him, too, after an initial surprised reaction. “The beacon! Is it working?”
“I pushed the button myself,” Korsin announced.
“And?”
“And we wait.”
Ravilan’s eyes narrowed in the smoky haze. “You know where we are? You spoke to someone?” Korsin’s attention had already turned to unloading the packs to anxious crewmembers. Ravilan lowered his voice. “Where … are your Massassi?”
Korsin didn’t look up. “All dead. You don’t think I wanted to do this myself, do you?”
The quartermaster’s crimson face paled a little. “No, of course not—Commander.” He looked back at the summit, fading in the surrounding darkness. “Perhaps others of us could have a look at the transmitter. We might—”
“Ravilan, if you want to go back up there, you’re welcome to. But I’d bring a team with some heavy equipment, because if we don’t get some supports under that ship, the next person who boards could take it on its last flight.” Korsin set down the last pack and stretched his neck. “Where are your Massassi?”
Ravilan stared. “All dead.”
Korsin stepped free, at last, from the cabling he’d used to drag the sledge. The bonfire blazed invitingly. So why was he so cold?
“Seelah.”
“Where’s Devore?”
H
e looked at her coldly. Seelah stood, her tarnished gold uniform flickering in the firelight. “Where is Devore?” he repeated.
“He went up—” She stopped herself. No one was supposed to leave camp. And now, the look in Yaru Korsin’s eyes.
She squeezed Jariad, who woke crying.
The pep talk began as many of Korsin’s did—with a summation of Things Everyone Already Knows. But this speech was different, because there were so many things nobody knew, himself included. The assurance that Naga Sadow still valued their cargo rang true for all, and while they were clearly a long way from anywhere, few could imagine the Sith Lord’s desire exceeding his reach. Even if they were less sanguine about what Sadow felt about them, Korsin knew his crew would accept that someone, somewhere, was looking for them.
They just didn’t need to know how long that might take. It was too soon for that. Sadow, he would figure out later. This place couldn’t be about what was next. It had to be about now.
By the speech’s end, Korsin found himself growing unusually philosophical: “It was our destiny to land on this rock—and we are bound to our destiny. For a time, it looks like, we’re also bound to this rock,” he said. “So be it. We’re Sith. Let’s make it ours.”
He looked toward a satellite campfire and spotted Gloyd and the remains of his gunnery crew bristling against the breeze. He waved them to the main bonfire. It would be another hard night, Korsin knew, and the supplies he’d brought would soon run out.
But he knew something else. Something he’d seen, that no one else had.
The winged beast had carried a rider.
The Force was with them.
Gripping her son, Seelah watched the circle break. Nodding, human Sith set to their tasks, stepping around Ravilan, the master without Massassi. He stood aloof, commiserating with the Red Sith and the few other surviving aliens. Energized and triumphant, Yaru Korsin conferred with Gloyd—keeping his confidences, as he always had, to the huge alien. Too strong to be defeated, too stupid to betray him—and dumb to the Force. The perfect ally.
Turning away from the Houk, Korsin saw Seelah. A new land to be broken to his will, and no one to stand in his way. He smiled.
Seelah returned his gaze coldly. Thinking of Devore, thinking of little Jariad, she made a quick decision. Summoning all her anger, all her hatred, all her will …
… Seelah smiled back.
Devore had underestimated Yaru Korsin. Whatever came, Seelah thought, she would not. She would bide her time.
Time, they had.
Read on for an excerpt from
Star Wars: Fate of the Jedi: Omen
by Christie Golden
Published by Del Rey Books
Kesh
Two Years Earlier
The ocean sighed as it rushed forward and receded in a rhythm even more ancient than what was unfolding on its lavender-sand shores. While the sun was bright and warm, a breeze came from the sea to cool the heated faces of the two figures standing there.
They faced each other, as still as if they were carved from stone, the only motion around them that of their hair and heavy black robes as the wind toyed with them.
Then, as if by some unheard signal, one of them moved. The soft sound of the ocean was punctuated by a sharp snap-hiss. The almost perfectly symmetrical, light purple features of Vestara Khai’s adversary were abruptly cast into sickly green relief. Vestara activated her own weapon with a fluid motion, saluted her opponent with it, settled into position, and waited to see who would make the first move. She balanced lightly on the balls of her booted feet, ready to leap left, right, or straight up. Still her opponent did not move.
The sun was at its height and its light was harsh, beating down on them like something physical. Their heavy dark robes were stifling hot, but Vestara would no sooner abandon her robes than she would abandon her weapon or her heritage. The robes were traditional, ancient, a deep and valued part of who she was, and she would endure the encumbrance. The Tribe valued strength as much as it valued beauty; rewarded patience as much as initiative. The wise being was the one who knew when which was called for.
Vestara sprang.
Not at her opponent, but to the left and past him, leaping upward, turning in the air, and slashing outward with the blade. She felt the blade impact and heard its distinctive sizzle. He gasped as she landed, flipped, and crouched back into a defensive position. The sandy surface was treacherous, and her foot slipped. She righted herself almost instantly, but that moment was all he needed to come at her.
He hammered her with blows that were more of strength than grace, his lithe body all lean muscle. She parried each strike, the blades clashing and sizzling, and ducked underneath the final one. Lightness and agility were her allies, and she used them freely.
Her long, light brown hair had come loose from its quickly twisted braid, and the tendrils were a distraction. She blew upward to clear her vision just in time to block another one of the strong blows.
“Blast,” she muttered, leaping back and switching the blade to her other hand. She was completely ambidextrous. “You’re getting good, Ahri.”
Ahri Raas, apprentice, member of the native—and conquered—species of Keshiri and Vestara Khai’s close friend, offered her a smile. “I’d say the same about you, Ves, except for the fact that that sand-jump messes you up every single ti—”
She interrupted him with a sudden upward leap, landing on his shoulders, balancing there lightly with the use of the Force, and plunged the lightsaber straight downward, aiming for his back between his shoulder blades. He dived forward, Force-pushing her off, but not before she had touched the tip of the glowing red blade to his robes. Ahri arched, his dive thrown off as his body twisted from the pain; even the training lightsabers inflicted a powerful shock.
Vestara leapt as Ahri dived, using his Force push to her own advantage, turning twice in the air and landing surely, facing him. She smirked in satisfaction as she brushed her renegade locks out of the way. Ahri completed his dive and came to his feet, rolling in the sand. Vestara extended her arm with the grace of a dancer. Ahri’s lightsaber was snatched from his hand and flew into hers. She grasped it and dropped into the Jar’Kai stance, ready to come at him with both blades. Ahri looked up and sighed, dropping back into the sand.
“And you get distracted far too easily. Focus, Ahri, focus,” she chided. She gestured casually, just a slight jerk of her chin, and a handful of sand flew toward Ahri’s face. Muttering, he lifted his empty hand and used the Force to deflect the grains.
“It’s just training, Ves,” he muttered, getting to his feet and dusting himself off.
“It’s never just training,” she shot back. She deactivated her training lightsaber, hooked it back on her belt, and tossed Ahri’s to him. The Keshiri youth caught it easily, still looking disgruntled. Vestara undid her hair and fluffed it for a minute, letting the air penetrate to the roots to cool her scalp. Her long fingers busily re-braided it, properly this time, as she continued to speak, while Ahri shook grains of purple sand out of his own white, shoulder-length hair.
“How often have I told you that? Say that in the presence of one of the Masters and you’ll never make it beyond a Tyro.”
Ahri sighed and rose, nodding to acknowledge the truth of what she said. Neither of them had been formally chosen as an apprentice yet, although they had been training in classes under the tutelage of various Masters for years, their strengths and weaknesses in the Force noted and analyzed and pushed.
Vestara knew that, at fourteen, it was still possible, even likely, that she would be chosen by a Master as his or her formal apprentice. But she chafed horribly at the delay. Some Tyros were chosen at much younger ages, and Vestara knew that she was strong in the Force.
She reached out for a flask of now warm water and the canteen resting on the sand floated to her, the lid unfastening as it moved. Vestara gulped down the liquid thirstily. Sparring at the height of the sun was exhausting, and Ahri always mutt
ered about it, but she knew it toughened her. Vestara handed the canteen to Ahri, who also drank.
She regarded him for a moment. He was a nearly perfect physical specimen of a species whose physical strength, agility, and harmony of features and form had become an ideal for her own people. He could easily pass for a member of her own species—he would make a striking human, but a human nonetheless—were it not for the pale purple cast to his skin. His eyes, too, were slightly larger than a human’s; large and expressive. His shoulders were broad, his hips narrow, and there was not an ounce of superfluous fat on his frame. His face, though, was flushed a darker purple than usual because he was overheated, and his hair had far too much sand in it.
“That’s two for two,” she said. “You up for another round?” She gave him a wicked grin, which was exaggerated by the small scar at the corner of her mouth. The scar that the Tribe saw as a flaw. It was plain on her face, right out in the open—there was very little she could do to disguise it. Attempts had been made to heal it and to correct it with cosmetic surgery. Those attempts had been mostly successful and now, to be sure, it was not all that noticeable. But this was a world where any flaw, any scar or deformity, was a strike against one’s potential for advancement.
The scar added insult to injury, as far as Vestara was concerned—because of its location, the thin line almost always made her look like she was smiling, even when she wasn’t. She had hated that about it until Lady Rhea, one of the most respected of the Sith Lords, had told her that deception was actually a very useful thing indeed.
“It mars your beauty,” Lady Rhea had said bluntly, pausing as she strolled down the line of potential apprentices after a formal ceremony. “A pity.” She, whose beauty was only slightly diminished by the cruel ravages of time, reached out a long finger and touched the scar. “But this little scar—it can aid you. Make others think you are something you are not.” She tapped the scar lightly with each of the last four words, emphasizing her point.
Star Wars Lost Tribe of the Sith #1 Page 3
