by Claudia Gray
“We have to get back to the ship,” Orla said gently, unsure whether Cohmac could even hear her. “Let me put my arm beneath your shoulders.”
“That wasn’t just a vision.” Cohmac blinked, then looked up at Orla with complete clarity. “It was a warning.”
Reath had thought they were getting to the easy part. Everybody was safe; everybody needed to share space for a while, so they’d all try to get along, right?
He’d been so wrong.
The first pilots to emerge were humans who looked rough and wanted you to know it. “This place is abandoned, huh?” one of them said, stalking right past Reath’s hand outstretched in welcome. “That makes everything on board fair game.”
“Wait,” Reath began. “Everyone should get a chance at the resources they need.”
“Not if they’re mine.” The guy tugged at the red kerchief around his neck as he smirked at Reath. “Anything that’s not bolted down is mine. Anything I can pull loose isn’t bolted down. Come on, men. Let’s start hunting.”
They stalked through the rings, looking for lockers and other storage. Before Reath could decide whether to go after them, another group emerged. These were the Orincans, who appeared to be related to the Gamorreans, only paler and less photogenic. Their captain squealed in outrage at the sight of the humans already plundering the ring, then took off after them.
Reath first went for his comlink. “Master Cohmac, we’re dealing with some, ah, unrest among the refugees. If you could come, that would be a big help.”
No answer came. Reath drew on the Force, summoned his will, and called out, “You want to stop looting the station and return to this place!”
Nobody listened. He breathed out in frustration. Master Jora was so good at bending people’s will with the Force, but it was more an innate skill than one easily taught. Reath might get the knack of it someday, but that wouldn’t do any good in the here and now.
Reluctantly, Reath pulled out his lightsaber. Time to lay down the law.
Which he’d never laid down before. But he’d figure it out.
Smoke in his nostrils.
Roaring in his ears.
Blood on his tongue.
Last to come clear—faint swirling light, clouded with dust that stung his eyes.
Cohmac sat up amid the wreckage of their craft and took stock of the situation. The ship remained more or less intact, which he knew because the temperature remained constant. Through the viewport he could see the planetoid’s surface, salt-crusted, small crystals glittering in the howling winds. They’d made landfall on the slope of a hill, it seemed, because the entire ship tilted perilously to one side. Deep scrapes the ship had left in the surface revealed dark green stone beneath, buried in centimeters of salt.
I must find Master Simmix, he thought. That was his most important responsibility—but that didn’t mean he could ignore those closer to hand. Next to him, Orla leaned forward, bracing her hands against the pilot’s console. Her breaths came shallow and fast. “Orla,” Cohmac managed to say. “Are you all right?”
“. . . Yes.” She sounded as if she wasn’t completely sure.
Cohmac reached out with the Force to find the other two passengers. Master Laret Soveral came clear to him almost instantly—she’d moved away from the cockpit, in pain but focused, and yet her spirit was suffused with sorrow.
Where Master Simmix should’ve been, where his calm powerful centeredness in the Force had always been, Cohmac found nothing.
“Master Simmix?” he called, willing himself not to know what the Force had already told him. For the first time in his life, he pushed the Force away, thought of it as a lie. Cohmac got to his feet and walked up the uneven deck toward the back of the ship. “Master?”
Laret Soveral appeared in the doorway, soot staining her face and robes. She was tall for a human female, with striking features and a commanding presence, even at this confusing, difficult moment. Her golden-brown eyes met his evenly. “I’m sorry, Padawan Vitus. Your master is again at one with the Force.”
Every tenet of Jedi doctrine proclaimed that Cohmac should feel happy for Master Simmix, who had been freed from the illusion of mortality and the weaknesses of the flesh.
Instead Cohmac felt as though his guts had been torn out by a rancor’s claws.
When he shouldered his way past Master Laret, she raised no objection, just let him go. Within a few steps, Cohmac found Master Simmix lying crumpled in one corner. The safety harnesses aboard this shuttle had not been configured for Filithar or any other limbless species; Simmix had laughed about it when they boarded, saying he would take his chances.
Why didn’t I insist? Master Simmix, always cautious with the lives of others, had sometimes been careless with his own. More than once, Cohmac had had to point that out. Generally it pleased Simmix when he did so; he said he’d outsourced his sense of self-preservation to his apprentice. And yet, this time, this one fatal time, Cohmac had let it go.
It was my job to remind him of the risks, Cohmac told himself as he knelt beside his master’s scaly green body and reverently closed his eyes. It had not been his decision alone to take the T-1 shuttle, and yet whatever portion of the blame belonged to him would forever be a heavy weight to bear.
“About time something went according to plan,” Isamer growled. Before him glowed the readouts that showed the location of the crashed Jedi vessel. He motioned to two of the guards. “You, get out there. If anyone survived, make sure they don’t survive much longer.”
This, too, had been foreseen by the Hutts. As they’d explained to Isamer, they wanted the Jedi to travel to that area of space, not merely in search of Force-sensitive infants or on solitary journeys of discovery, but as part of a mission. A mission that would fail terribly. One that would prove to the people of these worlds that neither the distant Republic nor the Jedi could save them. The old hostility toward the Republic seemed to be weakening. The Hutts wanted it strengthened.
Then, if these outlanders wanted to conduct commerce with the greater galaxy, they would have to go through the Directorate. And, by extension, their new overlords, the Hutts, though Isamer thought less about that aspect of it. Their percentage would be no more than a token, an afterthought. He preferred imagining himself seated among heaped riches, wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice.
All he had to do was ensure that nothing stood in the way of the Hutts’ plans for mass enslavement.
In the prisoners’ corner, Monarch Cassel ventured, under his breath, “I suppose those are our rescuers.”
“Were our rescuers,” Queen Thandeka replied. “Now they’re targets. If they survived the crash at all, that is.”
“I’ve heard the Jedi are very strong.” Cassel said, with what sounded like genuine hope. “Perhaps his guards won’t be able to destroy them.”
Queen Thandeka sighed. The two of them had been huddled together for some time—long enough for her distrust of the E’ronoh ruler to dissipate somewhat. “You’re trying to make me feel better.”
Cassel shrugged and gave her a sheepish smile. “Not sure we could feel much worse.”
Thandeka said nothing. It appeared Cassel couldn’t see as far into the future as she could, a blindness she envied.
Because when she projected how this scenario would ultimately play out, every possible track ended with both of them dead.
Orla took Cohmac’s arm as they stumbled out into the frigid, salt-sharpened wind. He had only minor injuries and didn’t need the physical support—but no doubt she felt contact with another person might help steady him within. The frenzy of grief he felt reverberated through the Force; he could tell that both Orla and Master Laret sensed it. If one of them dreamed of correcting him—dared to insist that the Jedi should not feel such sorrow—Cohmac would not be responsible for his actions.
However, at the moment, Master Laret remained focused on their goal. “The caves,” she called over the howling gale, gesturing to the vague outline of an entrance farth
er along the hill. “Let’s go.”
Together they stumbled through the salt dunes. Cohmac breathed a sigh of relief when their party finally staggered into the cave. Inside, the stone seemed to have been polished—scoured smooth by centuries of salt, so much so that the cave walls almost looked wet as they glimmered in the light of the Jedi’s glow rods.
Or maybe not only by salt. As Cohmac’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he recognized carvings in the walls that depicted a large, hooded serpent—not a Filithar, but enough like one that he had to turn his head away. It was as though Master Simmix’s portrait had been etched there centuries before to wait for them.
“The kidnappers will raid the wreckage soon,” Master Laret said. “I regret leaving Simmix’s body behind, but if they find him, they may believe that Simmix traveled alone. If so, that buys us time to find the kidnappers’ lair.”
Cohmac managed to say, “These carvings—Master Simmix said something about them, about serpents playing a large part in the local lore.” He’d been expected to read up on the area’s folklore on their journey there. Simmix had urged him to do so. Even though legend and myth were interests of Cohmac’s, he’d only skimmed through the reading. They had piloting to do. Fighting to anticipate. What were the chances folklore would come into any of that?
Or so he’d thought. At the moment, with the carved serpent staring down at him, Cohmac was not as sure.
Orla straightened. “The carvings feel important. Like—like the Force is trying to tell us something. Should we turn back?”
Master Laret inclined her head, acknowledging Orla’s words without agreeing to them. “To turn back and go elsewhere, we would need somewhere else to go. We have no such place. Our duty is to press forward.”
“But if—” Orla said, her voice breaking off as they all heard it. A strange sound from deeper within the caves, almost a rustling—no, too heavy for that—
She and Cohmac tensed. Master Laret, ahead of them, already had her lightsaber in hand and activated it just in time for its blue glow to reveal the enormous white snake, many meters long and more than a meter wide, slithering toward them with its fangs bared.
Affie hadn’t realized anything was amiss until she was smack in the middle of it.
“Duck!” Reath shouted.
She didn’t ask why, didn’t turn to look, just dropped to the walkway floor. A metal bar whizzed overhead, slamming into the wall with a reverberating bang. Covering her head, she scurried along until she could push herself behind a barrier of leaves. Maybe it had been a counter once, or a bar. Now, thickly tangled with vines, it had become a hedge. Either way, it would hide her from the looters.
Why hadn’t she waited longer to come back down? Too late for regrets.
She was determined to remain low. If she was revealed, they might attack her, seeing her as competition for the few precious goods on the station. Or—if they wanted to gamble on overpowering the Vessel (a pretty safe bet) and a quick clearing of the hyperspace lanes, it was possible they’d steal Affie herself. The Republic banned slavery, but she wasn’t sure they were in the Republic at the moment. She didn’t put it past some of the thugs to make a quick profit by selling her off to someone who’d whisk her over the border.
So, she thought, breathing hard, let’s lay low.
From her vantage point, Affie could peer through the leaves at the fracas. Already the Orincans were ripping through vines on the “ground” level, tearing a hole that would allow them to rummage through anything hidden beneath. Farther up the atrium, two levels above her, the Mizi had dug out something that looked like Amaxine armor. That stuff never rusted or wore out; it was worth thousands. The Orincans would be furious when they saw that their rivals had found such a prize.
Furious enough, probably, to start a fight about it. Affie cast an appraising look upward at the wall. Scover says that back in the day, older space stations used to magnetically seal their entire hulls. If they did that here, just one blaster bolt could ricochet around this station for minutes. For hours, even.
The Orincans didn’t give a damn about history or anything else besides their own porcine skins. So they wouldn’t realize the danger. If a fight broke out, they’d fire off so many bolts that the entire station would turn into a death trap.
Where was Reath? His voice had come from below, but she couldn’t see much of the station’s airlock ring. Were the other Jedi coming to help him? Could they help? Affie had yet to be much impressed by these famed mystical warriors, who as far as she could tell had mostly preached at them before dumping them on an ancient station that was a whole lot of bad luck.
Affie’s brief reverie was shattered when heavy booted footsteps began thudding against the floor panels near her. An Orincan? Her glance through the leaves revealed a red-scarved human instead, but one whose greedy, callous smile would’ve looked at home on an Orincan snout.
“Pricey market out there for little girls,” he said in a singsong. “These ones aren’t too old.”
Did he mean for her to hear him? Instinct told Affie that he wasn’t a slaver; his interest seemed more personal, and even more ominous. Less like she was something he could sell, more like she was something he couldn’t afford to buy.
Slowly, slowly, so as not to rustle her clothing or disturb even one leaf, Affie reached for the blaster strapped to her side. It slipped silently free of its holster.
Yeah, firing into the hull could kill us all, she thought. But only if I miss.
I won’t miss.
Affie looked through her blaster’s sights, aiming them square at the man in the red scarf. If he turned even a fraction of a centimeter in her direction, he’d see her. That is, if he had time to see her before dying, which Affie didn’t intend to give him.
But he didn’t turn. Instead he began to cackle. “Yes, yes,” he called, probably to one of his shipmates, “that one will do nicely!”
He jogged away. Affie felt relieved—more than she should. She’d never killed anyone before and hadn’t wanted to begin. If it’s your life on the line, she scolded herself, you shouldn’t think about that. You shouldn’t think about anything but saving your own life.
Easier said than done.
Then a shriek echoed through the station. Affie couldn’t see who had cried out, but she already knew.
They’d taken Nan.
Reath looked around wildly, trying to identify the ringleaders. If he could take out one or two key players, that might well pacify the others.
A voice shattered his concentration. “Reath—help!”
Orla Jareni struggled through the jungle of the exposed atrium, half supporting a staggering Master Cohmac. Anyone on an upper level would have a clear shot. Reath hurried to help them reach the tunnel that led to the airlock ring.
Just as the three of them arrived at the tunnel, Dez Rydan dashed out, lightsaber in his hands, cloak billowing behind him. He went to help support Master Cohmac, but the older Jedi had already begun to rally.
“What happened?” Dez asked.
“He had a collapse. I think we both did,” said Orla. “Or we both had—an experience, one I can’t easily explain. But it’s rooted in the dark side. Of that you can be sure.”
The station atrium echoed with shouts, bellows, and the clanging of metal. Master Cohmac nodded quickly as he righted himself. “Orla, are you able to fight?”
Her hand went to the lightsaber at her belt. “Always.”
Master Cohmac glanced at Reath, who gave him a quick nod. Then the four of them rushed back into the station. “Orla, take these,” Master Cohmac called, pointing at the second level up. “I’ll clear the top levels. Dez, head to the far side of the station and see what’s happening there. Reath, guard the airlocks.”
Reath nodded. Orla and Master Cohmac jumped at the same instant, both of them soaring meters high. Reath didn’t watch them any longer than that. Instead he ignited his lightsaber. It had been a while since he’d felt its hum, since its cool green light h
ad bathed him in its glow.
But for someone who considered himself much more scholar than fighter, it felt surprisingly good to have the lightsaber in hand again.
A shriek drew his attention to a struggle taking place near another entrance to the airlock ring. Reath’s eyes widened as he saw Nan in the grip of an enormous human man. Her arms were pinned to her sides, and though she thrashed her head from side to side, it was impossible for her to escape. She looked more furious than frightened, though she had to be terrified.
“Hague!” Nan cried out. “Hague, help!”
She had no one she trusted in the whole galaxy to take care of her except one elderly man. Reath didn’t doubt that Hague would hobble out there ready to pummel her kidnapper with his cane. Nor did he doubt that Hague would quickly be beaten or killed for his trouble.
Reath ran several steps toward them, then jumped. His leap took him five meters over the grass, through vines that smacked against his limbs, to a point directly in front of Nan and her would-be abductor. Both of them looked equally astonished to see him.
Another human, one wearing a red scarf, swaggered up behind him. “You here to tell us we’re not being orderly?” he said in a mocking voice. “No law in these parts yet, little boy. That means we can take as much off this station as we can carry. And we can carry her just fine.”
Nan’s eyes were wide. “Reath—what are you—” She lost her breath and could only stare at the lightsaber in disbelief.
He ran the scenarios in his head. There weren’t many. All of them were more violent than he would prefer.
Reath said evenly, “Put her down and walk away, or I’ll be forced to take action.”
“What, you think you can take both of us out with your little twinkle sword?” sneered the thug still clutching Nan in a death grip. “Looks like a toy.”
“It’s not,” Reath said quietly, putting power and intent into his words. “Put her down and walk away.”
