Star Wars

by Charles Soule

  * * *

  Jora Malli strode into the Ataraxia’s primary hangar, Sskeer at her side. She held a comlink in one hand.

  “Avar, we’re going to take out the Vector squadron. The Republic pilots need our help shutting the Nihil down before things get any worse out there. Can you establish your link to all of us, to help to make that task simpler?”

  “I can,” Avar Kriss responded. “I’m already hearing the song.”

  Jora knew that Avar interpreted the Force as music. She didn’t see it that way. To her, the Force was…a force. But you couldn’t deny the effectiveness of what Master Kriss could do.

  All around her, Jedi ran toward waiting Vectors, the Ataraxia’s non-Jedi crew fueling and prepping the delicate ships for flight. She saw Elzar Mann and his friend Stellan Gios, Nib Assek and her Wookiee Padawan Burryaga, the Ithorian Mikkel Sutmani who had been part of the ill-fated mission during which the Order lost Te’Ami…all strong pilots. They’d need to be. She had reviewed the tactical data from the battle, and the Nihil ships seemed willing to go to any lengths to hurt or destroy their enemies.

  “You ready, old friend?” she said to Sskeer as they approached their own Vectors.

  “You should be on the Starlight Beacon,” the Trandoshan Jedi hissed back. “You’re supposed to be dealing with supply requisitions and unruly younglings, not leading an assault on a bunch of pirates. Let me go by myself—there’s no need for you to fly.”

  “You can die in bed just as easily as in battle, Sskeer,” she said, climbing into her ship’s cockpit.

  “That is certainly untrue,” Sskeer called over, putting an oxygen mask over his broad snout and settling into his pilot’s seat. “What if we both just agree not to die?”

  “Deal,” she said as the canopy closed.

  Jora took her lightsaber—a golden cylinder with curved platinum guards swooping back down toward the hilt like wings—and placed it against the weapons activation panel on her Vector’s console. The targeting systems lit up bright white, the color of her saber blade. She had retrieved its kyber crystal, then a bright blood-red, from an ancient Sith lightspear and healed it, purging the rage and pain instilled in it by its original owner. She performed the ritual mainly as an intellectual exercise, to see how it was done, but once the process was complete she found herself tightly bound to the crystal, and now used it as the core of her primary weapon.

  She pushed her control sticks forward and shot out of the hangar into open space.

  All around her, Vectors materialized, flashing out from the Ataraxia.

  “On me, Jedi,” Jora Malli said, and the ships came up around her, creating the tight formation that only the Jedi ships could achieve.

  It was a Drift, perfectly composed, and the only thing more beautiful than seeing one was being part of one.

  The battle lay ahead, and they would turn the tide.

  * * *

  The Eriaduan ships had advanced slow and steady, and were now in visual range, which meant they were in weapons range as well, but they hadn’t started firing. Kassav thought he knew why. The hunters wanted to terrify their prey before they killed it.

  A battle was one thing, but this waiting. It was agonizing.

  The ships were all long, thin, bladelike craft. They looked like swords, edge-on, and they were headed straight for him.

  “Divert a third of our ships to the Eriaduan cruisers,” he ordered, shouting at Wet Bub. “We need them gone.”

  “You got it, boss,” Bub said.

  He sounded dubious. Not surprising. Kassav was dubious, too. They had killed their fair share of Longbeams and Skywings, but the Jedi had finally joined the fight, sending out those blasted little Vectors. Still, whatever. Jedi could die, just like anyone. No one ever said they were immortal.

  But the Nihil were running out of tricks to play, and the Republic was getting smarter, letting the big guns on their cruisers do more of the work. It was time to go. What Kassav really needed was a Path, but the odds of that were—

  “Kassav!” it was Wet Bub, a new note in his voice—hope. “I’ve got Marchion Ro on the comm!”

  “Put him through!” Kassav yelled. “Private channel!”

  Marchion Ro’s voice sounded in Kassav’s mask.

  “Hey, Kassav,” he said. “You ran into some trouble out there?”

  I think you know we did, Kassav thought.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Republic task force, a bunch of Jedi, even some ships from Eriadu. Like some sort of ambush. I know you want to get rid of that flight recorder, but we could really use a Path to get us out of here. We’re getting hit pretty bad, Marchion. My whole Tempest is at risk.”

  “It was just supposed to be a few transports,” Marchion Ro replied. “I don’t know what happened. I’ll get you a Path. Just keep fighting. I’ll say something to your Tempest, too. As the Eye.”

  “Okay, great, but how long do you think it’ll be until you can send a Path, because—”

  The link went dead. Kassav wished he could race back along the transmission line, not to escape, but for the sole purpose of finding Marchion Ro and murdering him in the most savage manner he could dream up.

  Wet Bub spoke again.

  “Another transmission from the Eye,” he said. “Every ship’s getting it.”

  “Put it through,” Kassav said.

  The wreckpunk, still blaring through the bridge speakers, automatically reduced in volume as Marchion Ro’s voice echoed out across the New Elite and all the other ships in the Nihil fleet.

  “I am the Eye of the Nihil, and I see the battle you’re fighting. I see the Republic, trying to take away your freedom, trying to take your hard-won credits, trying to take away your way of life…they want you dead. Just for living. Just for being. Just for walking a path they don’t own.

  “Who are they to tell us how to live? Who are they to come to our territory and try to kill us? The Republic. The Jedi. What gives them the right?”

  Kassav looked across the bridge. Dellex, Gravhan, Wet Bub, and all the rest—all had stopped what they were doing and were very still, just listening to Marchion Ro’s words.

  He suddenly had a bad feeling. A very bad feeling.

  “I will not allow this to happen,” Marchion Ro said. “I have a responsibility to the Nihil, and the freedom we all believe in so deeply. I am the Eye, and I will give you what you need to defeat our enemies. These are the Battle Paths, my friends, and with them…”

  A pause, a held breath, and Kassav knew every single one of his people was ready, waiting, desperate to hear what Marchion would say next.

  “…you cannot lose.”

  The New Elite thrummed, all its surfaces vibrating with a strange new energy, down to its very core. Dellex shouted, looking at her screens.

  “Kassav…the Path engine…something’s happening!”

  * * *

  Sskeer flew as part of the Drift, the connection to the Jedi all around him strengthened by whatever Avar Kriss was doing back on the Ataraxia. And the strongest connection of all was to Jora Malli, her ship just off to starboard, so close that their wingtips almost touched.

  The Vectors had not yet engaged the enemy. The Nihil were still ahead, embroiled in battles with Longbeams and Skywings. He sensed anticipation, all around him, Jedi preparing themselves for the test of combat.

  His own cockpit was bathed in green light, the color of his lightsaber blade. Everything was ready. He would defend, he would protect, he would bring justice. He was a Jedi, and he—

  Something happened.

  The Nihil ships…moved. Shifted. All of them, at once, were in one place, and then they were in another. They didn’t move as one, but in separate jolts and lunges, disappearing and reappearing in varying distances from their original positions.

  It happened again, and there was no r
eason to it, no pattern. The Nihil just dropped from one place and then—

  A momentary impression of something large, solid, too close to avoid, appearing right in the middle of the Drift, and then an impact so gigantic he could not truly comprehend it. A huge flash of light, and his sense of many of the Jedi around him vanished. Then something slammed into the canopy of his cockpit, and through it, some sharp chunk of metal that speared directly into his shoulder, through his body and well into his pilot’s seat, severing his arm at the joint.

  Through the shock, Sskeer thought he understood what had happened. Somehow, the Nihil were entering hyperspace, then dropping back out of it, impossibly short distances away. One had appeared from hyperspace directly in the middle of the Drift, and the ensuing collision had caused a spreading wave of destruction and chaos.

  Sskeer howled, not so much at the pain or even the loss of his limb—he was Trandoshan, and so his arm would regrow in time—but at something worse.

  One of the Jedi he could no longer sense…was Jora Malli.

  Loden whipped his Vector up and away from the disabled Nihil ship, slamming his lightsaber against the control console, the weapons bank lighting up. He powered on his shields, knowing they wouldn’t last for more than a few hits from the armada that had somehow appeared from nowhere.

  The trick, then, was not to get hit.

  “Indeera!” he called, scanning both the threat display on his console and everything the Force was telling him about the endless array of Nihil ships surrounding him.

  A brief moment, a breath, as if the enemy fleet was considering the same collective decision, and then blasterfire. Everywhere, a cascade. Loden banked and wove and tried to be as challenging a target as possible, knowing that with this level of fire coming at him, he was just as likely to run into an off-target bolt as he was to be hit by a Nihil with exceptionally good aim.

  So he stopped thinking about it at all and surrendered himself to the Force, letting it guide his movements. Overthinking the situation would only end up with him getting in his own way. While he wasn’t certain—no one could ever be—he did not believe it was his time to die.

  A blaster bolt sizzled off his front shields, and he reevaluated.

  It is probably not my time to die, he thought.

  “I’m here, Loden,” Indeera said. “What’s happening?”

  “A Nihil fleet dropped in from hyperspace, and they don’t seem particularly happy,” he said.

  “Here? That’s not possible.”

  “Please let them know that.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “For the moment. I’m just staying out of their way. But I can’t do it forever. We need to resolve this now.”

  A brief pause, then Indeera spoke again.

  “They aren’t firing on this ship, or my Vector.”

  “I know. They must want to ensure the family survives,” Loden said, sending out a few blasts from his own cannons, causing one of the smaller Nihil craft to explode.

  “Who are these Blythes? Why are they so valuable?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No…but I can only take one of them with me in my Vector, Loden. The father wants me to take his son first, if I can get him out—but I’m not sure how I get past the Nihil even if I can get back to my ship.”

  “Do that. Take the son. I’ll cover your retreat, then I’ll grab the father and follow you back to Elphrona. Planetary security might not want to do anything about a single marauder crew, but they’ll have to respond to an entire invasion fleet.”

  “All right…but Loden…how will you do that?”

  He put his Vector into a roll, shooting again. This time he missed, but at least he was alive, still fighting.

  “Eh,” he said. “I’ll probably just trust in the Force or something.”

  Nothing from Indeera. Loden laughed.

  “It’ll be all right. Or it won’t, but I’ll do my best. Do me a favor and leave the outer air lock open when you go, Indeera.”

  “That sounds like you actually do have a plan.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a plan. It’s more like five impossible things in a row. I’m just going to hit them one at a time.”

  He flew straight at the largest Nihil ship, briefly evading fire from the nine or ten smaller craft on his tail while opening himself up to laser blasts from the cruiser. But better one attacker than ten.

  “I’m running out of time, Indeera. We need to mix this up. You ready?”

  “Ready,” she said.

  “Go!” Loden shouted.

  Loden slowed his breathing, reaching out to the Force. He pulled his hands back from his control sticks, leaving just his fingertips touching their surfaces. Vectors were responsive craft as a rule—and this particular one was more attentive to its pilot’s commands than most. He had once heard his Padawan—no, his former Padawan, Bell would soon be a fellow Jedi Knight—tell Ember the ship’s name, when he thought no one was listening.

  The Nova. Perhaps Bell kept it secret because he thought it was silly or childish. Loden thought it was beautiful. He wished he’d told Bell that. Next time they saw each other.

  All right, Nova, time to live up to your name, Loden thought.

  With his hands, he flew his ship, and with the Force, he triggered its weapons and moved through the battlespace in a way none of the Nihil had ever seen or could anticipate or, if Loden chose to go for kill-shots, could survive.

  The Nova was a blossom of flame and laserfire, spiraling through the battle, every shot finding a target, every motion either an evasion or a retargeting.

  The Nihil attackers moved from an attacking stance to something like a panicked retreat, the sphere of ships surrounding him expanding and becoming more diffuse, both from the increased distance between the vessels and from his own steady reduction of their numbers. Only the flagship didn’t move, his lasers reflecting off its shields.

  Dimly, his senses told him Indeera’s Vector had taken the opportunity to move out of the shadow of the kidnappers’ ship and speed through a gap in the enemy cordon. As he had suspected, the rest of the Nihil did not give chase. They undoubtedly were monitoring the communications between Loden and Indeera, or had access to cam feeds from inside their damaged vessel. Either way, they knew who Indeera had taken—the boy.

  They didn’t want him, though. They wanted the father, for some reason.

  It was Loden’s job to make sure they didn’t get him.

  He knew how he could get aboard the kidnappers’ ship—but he didn’t quite know what he would do after that. Getting through all of this intact seemed…improbable. At best.

  But then, so was fighting off a massive marauder armada in a single Vector long enough for his colleague to escape, and he’d pulled that off. He’d figure it out.

  Loden angled his ship to head straight for the damaged Nihil vessel containing the last Blythe.

  He approached, then pulled back sharply on the control sticks, slowing his ship to almost zero velocity, feeling g-forces tug him forward.

  In a series of rapid Force-assisted movements, he pulled his lightsaber hilt from the console—it was hot in his hand, almost burning—popped the emergency release on the Vector’s canopy, released his safety harness, and shot forward, out of the ship and into open space.

  Loden had aimed himself perfectly. Almost perfectly. He did indeed make it to the open air lock of the damaged Nihil ship, but one leg nicked the edge of the hatch as he passed, and at the speed he was traveling it was like taking a durasteel hammer to the limb. The bones of his lower leg snapped, and for a moment Loden felt nothing. But only a moment.

  Then pain, white-hot.

  He hit the inner air lock hatch, hard, though at least this he had been anticipating and was able to turn to soften the impact a bit. Loden slapped the control panel to o
ne side of the hatch and the outer door slammed closed. The atmosphere began to cycle, oxygen rushing into the tiny chamber.

  Loden took the moment to examine his broken leg—it was twisted at a bizarre angle, and it seemed like the bone had snapped clean through. Not good.

  Outside the ship, through the air lock, he saw a flash of flame that he knew was his Vector being destroyed by Nihil laserfire.

  Goodbye, Nova, he thought. You were a wonderful ship.

  None of this was unexpected—well, perhaps the leg. That was not ideal.

  Loden brought the pain-management exercises he knew to mind, and while he realized on some level that he was in agony, he was able to bottle it up and put it aside. The trick wouldn’t last forever. You couldn’t fool the body indefinitely. But hopefully, it would see him through whatever came next.

  A soft chime as the air lock atmosphere equalized with that inside the ship, and the hatch opened. Loden pushed himself to his feet, favoring his good leg—no Jedi exercises were so powerful that he could put even a bit of weight on the other one—and pulled himself inside.

  The first thing he saw were the corpses. Several, all Nihil, bearing telltale marks of death-by-lightsaber. All had blasters in their hands. Indeera had been forced to defend herself and the hostages, and these people had brought their deaths upon themselves. The pilot’s body was here too, the unmasked woman Loden had influenced with the mind touch.

  The second thing he saw was a man, his eyes wide, a blaster pistol in his hand. He did not look like a Nihil. He looked like a miner. The last Blythe.

  “You’re the other Jedi,” the man said.

  “You’re the father,” Loden said, his voice a little shaky.

  “Ottoh Blythe,” the man replied. “Before anything else, thank you for saving my family. If there is ever anything I can do for you, just—”

  “I wouldn’t mind a little help with this, now that you mention it,” Loden said, gesturing to his leg.

  Ottoh looked at the injured limb, realized what had happened, and nodded. He shoved the pistol in his belt and moved to a bulkhead, where a square metal container was bolted to the wall. He pulled it down, then opened it, revealing an emergency medpac.