Star Wars: Darth Maul: Shadow Hunter

by Michael Reaves

  The Sith pressed a wall button. A light glowed green, and the hatch started to open.

  Now. It had to be now. Lorn drew a deep breath, opening his mouth wide so that the Sith wouldn’t hear the intake of air. He exhaled the same way, then drew in another breath and held it.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The shot was true. The stun bolt nailed the Sith squarely in the middle of his back, hurling him forward to slam against the bulkhead. Lorn fired one more, which hit the Sith’s lower back.

  Lorn couldn’t believe it. He shoved himself forward, shooting the length of the chamber toward his adversary, who was now floating limply back toward him in a slow rebound from the impact. Blaster held ready—he had one shot left—Lorn grabbed the Sith’s robes, pulling the latter around to face him. As he was reaching for the lightsaber he noticed a sparkle of reflected light coming from a half-open compartment on the utility belt.

  It was the holocron crystal. Lorn grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket. Then he reached for the lightsaber.

  He was staring directly into the sinister tattooed face when the Sith’s yellow eyes opened.

  Lorn froze, mesmerized by that ferocious glare. He forgot about the lightsaber he was reaching for, forgot about the blaster still in his other hand. Then he was hurled back by a blast, unseen but nonetheless powerful, that left him gasping for air.

  The Sith’s lightsaber leapt into a black-gloved fist, both blades flashing into existence. One of them flickered toward him like crimson lightning. Lorn felt a blow to his right hand, saw the hand, still clutching the blaster, go spinning away in slow motion, a few globules of blood following it. He didn’t feel any pain, did not in fact realize what had happened until he saw the blackened, cauterized stump at the end of his arm.

  And now the Sith was spinning around, using the energy of the last blow to rotate himself into attack position again. The moment stretched for Lorn, unbelievably clear and sharp. The Sith’s teeth were bared in a rictus of animal hatred. The lightsaber started a horizontal arc that would, in less than a second, shear through his neck.

  He was floating in front of the open hatch. His left leg was bent, his foot grazing the side of one of the storage canisters. Lorn kicked against it, propelling himself backwards through the hatch. The energy blade slashed through the empty space his neck had occupied a moment previously.

  He brought his legs up as he sailed through the hatchway. He flipped over in a back somersault, his head coming up and his left arm reaching out for the hatch controls. He saw the Sith hurtling toward him, framed in the opening. His hand slapped the button, and the hatch swung shut in the Sith’s face. A red light glowed, indicating the hatchway was sealed. Lorn raked his fingers over the access panel keypad, scrambling the code.

  Through the hatch’s port he could see the Sith’s face—a sight to chill the blood. Then, faintly, he heard the sound of metal beginning to melt and saw a faint blush of red building in the hatch’s center.

  The Sith was using his lightsaber to melt through the hatch.

  Lorn turned and started pulling himself frantically along the corridor he was in. He didn’t know where he was going, or how he was going to escape the vengeance of the monster behind him. There was no room in his head for anything—not even the pain of his severed wrist as the shock began to wear off—except raw red panic.

  For possibly the first time in his life, Darth Maul had been taken completely by surprise.

  He had felt no warning vibration of the Force before being hit by the blaster bolts. The astonishment this caused him was almost equaled by the shock of realizing that the attack had come from Lorn Pavan. He had been so certain of the Corellian’s death back on Coruscant that awakening to see him alive and looting his utility belt had caused Maul to momentarily question his own sanity.

  It was the combined shock of these two events—plus the confusing fact that, even though he could see Pavan before him, he could not sense his presence with the Force—that had slowed his reaction time just enough to let the Corellian get through the hatchway and lock it in Maul’s face. Now he had to burn his way through the lock mechanism. As soon as the hatch came loose, he savagely hurled it open and shot after Pavan, using the Force to propel his weightless self in pursuit. There was no time to lose. He did not know how Pavan had escaped the explosion back in the storage facility, or how he was able to block his presence in the Force—and he did not care. In a few minutes his master would be at the rendezvous point, and Maul intended to be there, as well, holding the holocron in one hand and Pavan’s severed head in the other.

  This had gone on long enough.

  Lorn hauled himself up another vertical shaft, moving as fast as he could with only one hand to aid him. It seemed he could feel the hot breath of the Sith on the back of his neck; he dared not look behind him in case he actually did see the latter’s demonic face. To look into those yellow eyes one more time would, he felt sure, utterly paralyze him.

  His one hope was to reach the space station’s main section, where he could find some kind of security personnel. Surely, with enough blasters between him and the Sith, he would be safe.

  It seemed impossible now that he had ever seriously intended, even for a moment, to kill the black-robed creature. That he had even managed to take the holocron away from him now seemed a miracle. Not that he would keep it for very long if he didn’t find help fast.

  And then he shouldered his way through one final access port and found himself in a large solarium. As he passed through the entry, Lorn felt weightfulness return with a rush.

  He looked around. Plants and dwarf trees were tastefully arranged in a small garden setting. Half of the domed ceiling was made of polarized transparisteel, affording a magnificent view of the stars and a huge crescent of the planet. And standing in the garden were several people of various species, some of whom were wearing the robes of Republic Senate members, and others dressed in the dark, formfitting attire of Coruscant guards.

  He recognized one of the senators. When he had worked for the Jedi, Lorn had heard him spoken of many times, always as a man of clear-minded practicality, a stranger to corruption and intrigue. If anyone could be counted on to protect the information on the holocron and see it safely reach the sanctuary of the Jedi Temple, it would be him.

  Lorn staggered forward. One of the senators, a Gran, saw him coming and reacted with a bleat of fright. Several of the guards moved in to protect their charges, drawing blasters.

  “Wait!”

  The command came from the senator whom Lorn had recognized. He stepped forward, his expression one of concern.

  “What’s the matter, my good fellow? What brings you here in this extreme state?”

  Lorn pulled the crystal from his pocket and held it out. He saw the other’s eyes narrow as he recognized it.

  “A holocron crystal?”

  “Yes,” Lorn gasped, dropping it into the senator’s outstretched hand. “It must reach the Jedi. Very important.”

  The senator nodded, and quickly tucked the holocron away in a fold of his robe. Then he noticed the stump where Lorn’s other hand had been. “You’re injured!” He turned to one of the guards, summoning him with a quick, imperious gesture. “This man requires hospitalization immediately! And protection from assassins, as well, by the look of it.”

  Lorn sagged into a chair. As the others came forward he risked a glance over his shoulder at the service port where he had entered. There was no sign of the Sith.

  Relief flooded over him. The nightmare was over, at last.

  He felt his consciousness starting to slip away and realized that for the first time in days he could allow himself the luxury of exhaustion. “Make sure … the holocron …,” he mumbled, but was too tired to finish the sentence.

  His benefactor leaned over him and smiled. “Don’t worry, my brave friend. I’ll take care of it. Everything will be all right now.”

  Lorn managed to mumble, “Thank you,… Senator Palpatine.” And
then everything faded.

  When Obi-Wan Kenobi reached the Temple he could tell immediately that something was wrong. It wasn’t just the ominous reverberations in the Force that pulsed invisibly all around him; the Padawans and messengers he passed in the hallways all wore looks of concern and concentration. One of them saw him and stopped.

  “Padawan Kenobi, you are to report to your Master immediately.” Then he continued on his way before Obi-Wan could ask what was causing the palpable air of tension.

  He found the door to Master Qui-Gon’s domicile open. The Jedi was inside, loading his utility belt with field items such as an ascension gun and food capsules. He evidenced relief when he saw Obi-Wan standing in the doorway.

  “Excellent. You have returned just in time.”

  “What’s happened, Master?”

  “The Trade Federation has blockaded Naboo. You and I have been selected as ambassadors to the Trade Federation flagship to settle this.”

  Obi-Wan felt stunned at the magnitude of this news. “Surely the Republic Senate will condemn such an action!”

  “I suspect the Neimoidians are counting on the senate’s past record of being … less than effective in such matters. In any event, we must leave immediately.”

  “I understand. But I must tell you—Master Anoon Bondara and his Padawan, Darsha Assant, are both dead. There is no doubt of this.”

  Master Qui-Gon paused in his packing and looked at Obi-Wan. The Padawan could see the sadness in his mentor’s eyes.

  “And the cause of this tragedy?”

  “I’m still not certain, although I suspect Black Sun involvement.”

  “I want to hear all about it,” Master Qui-Gon said, “and so will the council. But speed is of the essence now. You will make your report to them via holotransmission once we are on our way.”

  “Yes, Master.” Obi-Wan followed Qui-Gon Jinn as the latter strapped his belt around his waist and left the room.

  He would do as his Master said, of course. Obviously this new crisis superseded the events that had taken place in the Crimson Corridor. As he followed Master Qui-Gon, ObiWan wondered if he would ever know the complete story of what happened to Darsha and Master Bondara. She had had the potential to be a good Jedi Knight, and he grieved for her passing.

  The Sith lunged for him, twin energy blades flashing.

  Lorn awoke with a gasp. He stared about him, still feeling for a moment the panic of his nightmare. Then, slowly, as his eyes took in his surroundings, he began to relax.

  He was in a private room in a hotel—nothing fancy, but far superior to what he had been used to for the past five years. His severed wrist had been treated with synthflesh, and he had been told by Senator Palpatine that within a few days a prosthetic replacement would be grafted on. More important, Palpatine had also told him that the information crystal had been delivered to the Jedi Temple and the assassin captured.

  In short, Lorn had won.

  Not completely, of course. He still mourned the death of Darsha. He was also concerned about I-Five’s whereabouts: Apparently the droid had never made it to the Temple. A Pyrrhic victory—but a victory nonetheless.

  He had been given his choice of futures: relocation to a colony world somewhere in the Outer Rim, or a permanent address in a monad on Coruscant. Either way, he had been assured that the bank-fraud charges had been dropped, and he would be awarded a stipend that would allow him and I-Five to live comfortably. He hadn’t decided yet what to do, although he was leaning toward staying on Coruscant. By staying he could possibly reestablish some form of relationship with Jax. The Jedi owed him that much, at least.

  Also, he owed it to himself. It was time he started to live again—a real life, not the empty mockery he had been trapped in for so long downlevels. It might take a long time for the nightmares to subside, but eventually they would. Eventually he would know peace.

  Lorn got out of the bed. In the closet was a new set of clothes, which he put on. He had no place in particular to go, but he felt like getting outside. He needed to feel the sun on his face, to breathe clean air. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed those simple pleasures.

  He opened the door.

  The Sith stood before him.

  Lorn was too stunned to even be afraid. His enemy stepped forward, implacable, unstoppable, and activated his lightsaber. Lorn knew there was nothing he could do. The hotel room was small, barren of weapons, with only the one door.

  This time there was no escape.

  Surprisingly, in that moment—the final moment of his life—he found he was not afraid. Found, in fact, that he was in a place similar to that which Darsha had described when she was deep in the embrace of the Force.

  He was at peace.

  The information about the Sith had been given to the Jedi. The fact that the assassin was able to escape his incarceration couldn’t change that. His death, Lorn realized, was in the service of a higher purpose.

  He was content that it be so.

  The lightsaber’s blade shimmered toward him. His last thought was of his son; his last emotion was pride that someday Jax would be a Jedi Knight.

  Looking into Pavan’s eyes, Darth Maul knew what the man was thinking. Even were he not Force-sensitive, he could have read it clearly in his enemy’s eyes and expression.

  He said nothing.

  Though Maul had no compunctions about killing anyone who stood in his or his master’s way, he was not without a sense of honor. Lorn Pavan had managed, against all odds, to be more of a challenge to Maul than many of the professional killers of Black Sun. He was a worthy opponent and had earned the right to die quickly.

  The lightsaber sizzled through air, through flesh, through bone.

  Darth Maul turned and walked away, his mission at last complete.

  Join Darth Maul

  for another exciting adventure

  as he continues to do

  his master’s bidding,

  laying the groundwork

  for the events to come in

  STAR WARS:

  THE PHANTOM MENACE.

  Previously available

  exclusively in electronic format.

  Darth Maul: Saboteur Short Story

  Nearly every world in the Videnda sector had something to recommend it—warm saline seas, verdant forests, arable grasslands that stretched to distant horizons. The outlying world known as Dorvalla had a touch of all of those. But what it had in abundance was lommite ore, an essential component in the production of transparisteel—a strong, transparent metal used galaxywide for canopies and viewports in both starships and ground-based structures. Dorvalla was so rich in lommite that one-quarter of the planet’s scant population was involved in the industry, employed either by Lommite Limited or its contentious rival, InterGalactic Ore.

  The chalky ore was mined in Dorvalla’s tropical equatorial regions. Lommite Limited’s base of operations was in Dorvalla’s western hemisphere, in a broad rift valley blanketed with thick forest and defined by steep escarpments. There, where ancient seas had once held sway, shifts in the planetary mantle had thrust huge, sheer-faced tors from the land. Crowned by rampant vegetation, by trees and ferns primeval in scale, the high, rocky mountains rose like islands, blinding white in the sunlight, the birthplace of slender waterfalls that plunged thousands of meters to the valley floor.

  But what was once a wilderness was now just another extractive enterprise. Huge demolition droids had carved wide roads to the bases of most of the larger cliffs, and two circular launch zones, large enough to accommodate dozens of ungainly space shuttles, had been hollowed from the forest. The tors themselves were gouged and honeycombed with mines, and deep craters filled with polluted runoff water reflected the sun and sky like fogged mirrors.

  The ceaseless work of the droids was abetted by an all but indentured labor force of humans and aliens, to whom the mined ore served as a great equalizer. No matter the natural color of a miner’s skin, hair, feathers, or scales, everyone was
rendered white as the galactic dawn. All agreed that sentient beings deserved more from life, but Lommite Limited wasn’t prosperous enough to convert fully to droid labor, and Dorvalla wasn’t a world of boundless opportunities for employment.

  Still, that didn’t stop some from dreaming.

  Patch Bruit, Lommite Limited’s chief of field operations—human beneath a routine dusting of ore—had long dreamed of starting over, of relocating to Coruscant or one of the other Core worlds and making a new life for himself. But such a move was years away, and not likely to happen at all if he kept returning his meager wages to LL by overspending in the company-run stores and squandering what little remained on gambling and drink.

  He had been with LL for almost twenty years, and in that time had managed to work his way out of the pits into a position of authority. But with that authority had come more responsibility than he had bargained for, and in the wake of several recent incidents of industrial sabotage his patience was nearly spent.

  The boxy control station in which Bruit spent the better part of his workdays looked out on the forest of tors and the shuttle launch and landing zones. To the station’s numerous video display screens came views of repulsorlift platforms elevating gangs of workers to the gaping mouths of the artificial caves that dimpled the precipitous faces of the mountains. Elsewhere, the platform lifting was accomplished with the help of strong-backed beasts, with massive curving necks and gentle eyes.

  The technicians who worked alongside Bruit in the control station were fond of listening to recorded music, but the music could scarcely be heard over the unrelenting drone of enormous drilling machines, the low bellowing of the lift beasts, and the roar of departing shuttles.

  The walls of the control station were made of transparisteel, thick as a finger, whose triple-glazed panels were supposed to keep out the ore dust but never did. Fine as clay, the resinous dust seeped through the smallest openings and filmed everything. As hard as he tried, Bruit could never get the stuff off him, not in water showers or sonic baths. He smelled it everywhere he went, he tasted it in the food served up in the company restaurants, and sometimes it infiltrated his dreams. So pervasive was the lommite dust that, from space, Dorvalla appeared to be girdled by a white band.