“You have a Mandalorian loose in the palace,” she said, “and you didn’t know about it?”
“He is one of many. They do not like to be watched too closely.”
“Now you know why. Perhaps you’ll think twice about the kind of scum you’re dealing with.”
Yeama stiffened. “And you are—?”
“Does it matter who I am? I’m helping you find the envoy. What are you doing?”
The Twi’lek turned an unhealthy color, even for his species. “Everything in our power, naturally—”
“Good, so hop to it. We’re busy here.”
Yeama retreated and Larin de-scrambled the view she’d been looking at.
“There’s a whole other layer down here,” she muttered, marveling at the intricacies of the system. Either it had evolved piece by piece, as each new development added an extra level to what was already there, or it had been designed by the galaxy’s most paranoid software engineer.
Still no luck with Dao Stryver, however. And Envoy Vii didn’t produce a hit. If either of the two men was moving about in the palace, none of the security system’s pattern recognition systems was tracking them.
Larin was beginning to get desperate. This was the one job she had to do, while Shigar attended to the rest of the mission, and she was failing at it. Proving herself capable wasn’t the issue—she knew she was, or had been, at least, otherwise she would never have been in special forces. Getting a score on the board was the main thing, after so long on the bench.
In desperation, she tried “Jet Nebula.”
Instantly a hit appeared. Not just a location, but a coded tag she recognized as a smuggler’s call for help.
“Got something.” Potannin hurried over. “You said Envoy Vii was with that Nebula character, didn’t you? Well, I’ve found him, at least.”
Potannin clapped his hands together and grinned without humor. “Good work, Larin.”
He turned to the escort squad and rattled off a series of orders. Half would stay; the other half would come with him. Larin had to fight the reflex to obey. Had she remained enlisted in the Blackstars, Potannin would have outranked her.
“I’m coming with you,” she told him as his group assembled, checking weapons and light armor.
He nodded. “I was just about to ask you, Larin. Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it, Sarge.”
“Take point, and lead the way.”
Her face was burning as they hurried through the corridors, the echo of their booted feet preceding them, encouraging the throngs to part. This was too familiar, she told herself—dangerously familiar. She couldn’t let herself think that she was back in the fold. If they found out who she was, they would turn on her, just as the goons on Coruscant had. Better to stand apart, for the future’s sake.
They had almost reached the location on her holopad when an explosion shook the ground beneath them, followed by another a short time later. She called a halt, wondering if they were walking into a trap, but the blasts didn’t come any closer. The lights dimmed for a second, then brightened. The palace’s generators, she guessed—damaged either by sabotage or by accident.
The inhabitants of the palace hurried to find shelter. They didn’t scream or panic. They simply gathered up their valuables and loved ones and went somewhere else. Such things were clearly not uncommon on Hutta, Larin gathered.
“Nearly there,” she said, waving the squad forward again. She moved more cautiously as she approached the flagged location. Just because someone had blown up the power plant didn’t mean there wasn’t a trap ahead.
The map grid correlated with an Industrial-sized but very empty kitchen. Larin fell back and let Potannin take the lead. His squad spread out silently to check every hiding space, communicating solely by gestures. They were well practiced and efficient, yet they turned up nothing but a battered old droid who had taken shelter from the fuss. After scanning it for munitions, they let it alone. It returned to the corner it had been lurking in, watching them silently.
“No sign of Envoy Vii,” said Potannin, stating the obvious. “Are you sure this is the right location?”
“I’m positive. The flag said Nebula was here and in some kind of distress.”
“He must’ve been here at some point, in order to leave that clue, but now he’s been taken elsewhere.”
“There’s no evidence of a struggle …”
A disturbance distracted Larin from the search. The droid had stepped out of its corner and was gesticulating wildly.
“Someone quiet that thing down, will you?” barked Potannin.
“No, wait.” Larin approached it, closely watching every move it made. “I recognize the signals it’s giving. They’re from the civil war. It’s saying …” She searched her memory for the correct translation. It had been a long time since she’d taken The History and Use of Military Languages during her special forces training. “He’s saying he left the flag for us to find. Not us specifically, but anyone who could help him. Reinforcements. He followed his Master—Nebula, I presume—via a transponder of some kind, probably hidden in Nebula’s clothes or body. He’s trying to mount a rescue, but … but he lacks the resources to complete his mission objective.”
The droid nodded, and she addressed him directly. “Who has captured Nebula? A Mandalorian?”
The answer was yes.
No wonder, Larin thought, the droid had been looking for reinforcements. “Is Nebula the only prisoner?”
The answer was no.
“Do you know where they are?”
An emphatic yes. The droid took Larin around to the corner, where he’d scratched a detailed map into the metal wall. She recognized that location from her own data. It was a dining room not a dozen meters away.
“I think we can help each other,” she told the droid, who nodded solemnly. “Weapons ready,” she told the squad. “This Mandalorian is big and dangerous. If you get a shot, take it. But watch out for the prisoners. We can’t afford to harm the envoy.”
The droid tapped her firmly on the shoulder with one square, metal finger.
“Or Nebula,” Larin added.
They took their safeties off and fell in around her. Only when they were moving, with the droid taking the lead, did she realize that she had given the orders, not Potannin, who had obeyed along with the rest of his squad. That made her feel both guilty and pleased, although technically, she supposed, she had no rank now, which meant she had no superiors to worry about. That was the thought she clung to as she ran to face Dao Stryver for the second time.
IT WAS ULA’S turn to have the Mandalorian’s rifle wedged under his chin. He arched his back as far as it went, but the barrel followed him, digging deep into his throat. He was so close to Stryver now that he could hear the whir of his suit’s many mechanisms, even the hiss of air through its respirator as the Mandalorian drew in a breath to speak.
“Answer this question very carefully, Envoy Vii,” Stryver said.
Ula nodded. After his solitary act of defiance, he had no intention of doing anything other than exactly as he was told. His eyesight still sparkled from the dazzling effect of the holoprojector shoved into his face.
“I will.”
“You pointed to a location on the map. Was the vault you indicated the correct one?”
“Yes.”
“It contains the wreckage recovered from the Cinzia?”
“Yes.” He nodded as vigorously as he could to convince Stryver of his sincerity.
The pressure of the rifle fell away. Ula rocked forward, chest heaving. He hadn’t noticed that he’d stopped breathing.
“And you?” Stryver asked Jet. “Do you have any more questions?”
“What, me?” The smuggler watched the weapon closely. It was aimed right at his chest. “Just one. What now? I can’t help commenting that you’ve welded yourself in here with us …”
Something thudded against the sealed door. Stryver and his two captives turned to look at it. T
he thud came again, and a faint voice calling:
“Open up!”
The Mandalorian turned away and busied himself with his suit, stowing his rifle and pushing buttons with swift, practiced movements.
“I can assure you,” said Ula, “that I have very little value as a hostage.”
Stryver said nothing. As a bright red line began creeping across the reinforced door, the Mandalorian stepped away from them and looked up. A rising whine came from his backpack.
“I suggest closing your eyes,” said Jet, turning his head toward Ula and shielding it as best he could with his shoulder.
There was a flash of light. Smoke and debris filled the air. The whine became a roar, and at that moment the door burst in.
Ula ground his eyelids shut on a cloud of stinging particles. He heard shouts and blasterfire, and felt bodies moving rapidly around him. Something crashed into him, and he felt gloved hands working at his bindings.
“It’ll be all right, sir,” said a familiar voice. “We’ve got you covered now.”
Potannin! Ula could have wept.
When he opened his eyes, the smoke had cleared along with the sparkles from the holoprojector, and Dao Stryver was nowhere to be seen. Two members of Ula’s escort stood guard over the door, while two more picked through the wreckage. The droid Stryver had disabled was pulling Jet free. A soldier in scruffy white armor was peering up into a giant hole in the ceiling, her rifle held at the ready.
Stryver had never had any intention of going out the door, Ula understood. His plan had always been to go up.
The scruffy soldier turned to him. “What did Stryver say to you? Did he tell you what he was looking for?”
“He’s gone to get the navicomp,” said Jet, wiping dust from his eyes.
“Why? Are the Mandalorians after the same thing as we are?”
“I don’t think that’s the only reason. The navicomp wouldn’t just show the ship’s origin, would it? It’d show the intended destination as well.”
The soldier’s helmet cocked slightly. “What difference does that make to anyone?”
“Not to anyone, I’m guessing. Just to him.”
The soldier nodded. “Are you Nebula or the envoy?”
“Call me Jet.”
Ula staggered to his feet, freed at last from the Mandalorian’s sticky web. “Ula Vii, at your service. Thank you, all of you, for rescuing us. Both of us.”
“It’s our duty, sir,” said Potannin with a brisk salute.
“Me,” added the soldier, “I’m just here for the fun of it.”
With that, she slipped her helmet off, revealing the most beautiful woman Ula Vii had ever seen.
UNDER A MASSIVE statue of Tassaa Bareesh, Shigar sealed the outer door behind him, using the Force to assist the hydraulics he’d damaged on the way through. He recognized this type of room; the inner door wouldn’t open until the outer door was closed. He crossed the circular expanse of the security air lock, noting but not being distracted by the gentle tinkling of the glass chandelier above. The air stank of smoke, which was odd. The mysterious explosions had been distant, and he assumed the air-conditioning system of the vault was completely independent.
His senses prickled. Moving slowly and silently, he approached the inner door.
It was unlocked.
There was one thing he would say about the Hutts: when it came to protecting their valuables, they didn’t scrimp. The door was a marvelous piece of machinery, precision-tooled to very precise measurements. It might not withstand a Jedi and his lightsaber, but it would keep a horde of safecrackers busy for a month, and would easily withstand a small nuclear blast.
It certainly wouldn’t open itself.
Shigar deactivated his lightsaber and stood still for a full minute. His slow, shallow breathing and steady heartbeat were all he could hear. If there was anyone on the other side of the door, they were being as quiet as he was.
Reaching out a hand, he tugged on the door’s handle. So well balanced was it that it swung smoothly aside, revealing the antechamber he had been looking for. The four vault doors were exactly as Sergeant Potannin had described. None of them had been interfered with. Behind one of them was the mysterious wreckage that consumed so many people.
In the center of the room, a black pit had been burned into the floor, scarring its otherwise impeccable whiteness. That was where the smoke was coming from. He approached cautiously and looked down. Someone had burned into the room from below, presumably to steal the vault’s contents. But how had they avoided triggering any alarms? And where were they now?
He looked around. The antechamber was empty. There was nowhere to hide. None of the vaults appeared to have been tampered with. All four doors were sealed. There was no other way out, except back through the hole, or—
The small of his back itched. He turned to face the door he had come through. Certainty filled him. Activating his lightsaber, he strode into the air lock room.
“You don’t look like a Jedi, but you sure smell like one.” With a tinkling smash, a skinny girl dressed all in black dropped out of the chandelier. Her hair flailed in thick red dreadlocks like the tentacles of a living thing. “You stink of repression. Let’s see what we can do to change that!”
The girl activated a brilliant crimson lightsaber.
Shigar didn’t return her bloodthirsty grin. He kept his heartbeat steady, raised his lightsaber in return, and adopted a stance of readiness.
She came at him in a storm of blows, feet moving lightly across the floor, almost dancing, blade swinging like a propeller. Their weapons clashed with a furious electric sound. He matched her move for move, but doing so sorely tested him. Every block jarred through him like a hammer blow. His opponent was small, but she was strong, and her eyes were full of hate. The dark side flowed through her in powerful waves.
She drove him back to the room’s inner door and, with a telekinetic sweep, slammed it shut behind him.
“Nowhere to run now, Jedi,” she gloated. “Why don’t you stop fighting defensively and show me what you’ve got? I’m going to kill you either way, but let’s at least make some sport of it.”
Shigar ignored her. He knew that some Sith used verbal attacks alongside physical ones, to dispirit their opponent, but he would not fall victim to such a ploy. Neither would he allow fear or anger to dictate the way he fought. His Master had trained him well. He knew how to fight a Sith—and that was the same way he would fight anyone. The key was to make fewer mistakes than your opponent, and to take every opportunity when it came. The element of surprise could make the difference between a drawn-out battle and a decisive early victory.
Smiling calmly, he faced the snarling girl and reached out his left hand.
AX HEARD THE sound of glass tinkling from behind her and ducked barely in time. Hundreds of tiny shards rushed at her, ripped out of the chandelier by the power of the Jedi’s mind and hurled at the exact spot she had been standing. A second stream followed her as she rolled and flipped away, pushing off with her hands and landing on her feet halfway across the room. Recovering her poise, she wrapped a kinetic shield about her and flung the shards away. Only a handful got through, one cutting her arm and another putting a bloody gash over her left eye. She blinked blood away, relishing the sharpness of the pain.
The tall, skinny Jedi was coming for her, green blade foreshortened by a strong, stabbing blow aimed at her midriff. She swept it aside, only to find that the move was a feint. He aimed a kick at her right knee and brought the blade sweeping around for her head. With a grunt, she took the kick on her shin and saved herself from decapitation only by reducing the hold on her hilt to one hand. Their lightsabers met just centimeters from her skin.
They locked there for a moment, his blade pressing down toward her face, her left leg twisted behind her, in a difficult position to use her weight against him. He was physically stronger than she, and wasn’t above taking advantage of that fact. One solid push and his blade would be burn
ing more than air.
He was stronger, but she was more cunning. Whirling his cloak around his face and throat took barely more telekinetic energy than it did to think of it, and the move had the effect she needed. Taken by surprise, he reeled backward, clutching at the flapping fabric. She retreated only long enough to regain her footing and balance before moving in again, while he was blinded.
Even without the use of his eyes, he still matched her. He anticipated her moves and blocked them one-handed. His other hand tore at the cloak, fighting its strangling folds. When he finally threw it away, he faced her two-handed again, lips pursed and bare-shouldered, and she knew that the game was really on now.
They fought back and forth across the room, slashing and blocking and leaping and running, using walls, floor, and ceiling as launching pads for each new attack. Glass crunched beneath their feet and swirled around them in distracting, potentially blinding streamers. He was good—she had to grudgingly admit that—but she was good, too, and she fought to the very edge of her abilities. Her mission wasn’t going to end here, skewered on a Jedi’s lightsaber. If Darth Chratis was going to stand before the Dark Council and admit that he had failed, then she was going to be there to see it.
The end came unexpectedly for both of them. She had tuned out the sound of alarms and the distant aftershocks of her sabotage, but she remained alert for everything in her environment, just in case her sparring partner tried something new. When a noise came from the other side of the air lock room’s inner door, she initially dismissed it as a ploy to distract her. She had sealed her ferrocrete tunnel behind her, so no one could be coming up that way, and there was no other entrance to the vault.
The sound came again—a muffled metallic thud—and this time she caught the Jedi’s reaction to it. He was distracted, too. His eyes flicked to the sealed inner door.
In that instant she struck.
Her ability to produce Sith lightning wasn’t fully developed yet, and she didn’t dare hope that it could overwhelm anyone with Jedi training, but she used it anyway, blasting her opponent with everything she had. He caught it badly, as though he wasn’t used to facing such attacks—and it occurred to her only then that he was an apprentice like herself. Like her, this could be the first time that he had faced his enemy alone. Unlike her, he wouldn’t live to learn from the experience.
The Old Republic Series Page 12