The woman, her slight frame lost in the shapelessness of her deep blue robes, glared through narrow, pale eyes. Her long dark hair, pulled into a topknot, hung like a hangman’s noose from her scalp. The slim human man who sat beside her had the same sallow skin as the woman, the same pale eyes, the same glare. Aryn assumed them to be siblings. His dark hair and long beard—braided and forked into two tines—could not hide a face so lined with scars and pitted with pockmarks that it reminded Aryn of the ground after an artillery barrage. Her eyes fell to the thin hilt of the man’s lightsaber, the bulky, squared-off hilt of the woman’s.
She imagined their parents had noticed brother and sister’s Force potential when they had been young and shipped them off to Dromund Kaas for indoctrination. She knew that’s what they did with Force-sensitives in the Empire. If true, the Sith sitting across from her hadn’t really fallen to the dark side; they’d never had a chance to rise and become anything else.
She wondered how she might have turned out had she been born in the Empire. Would she have trained at Dromund Kaas, her empathy put in service to pain and torture?
“Do not pity them,” Syo said in Bocce, as if reading her thoughts. Bocce sounded awkward on his lips. “Or doubt yourself.”
His insight surprised her only slightly. He knew her well. “Who is the empath now?” she answered in the same tongue.
“They chose their path. As we all do.”
“I know,” she said.
She shook her head over the wasted potential, and the eyes of both Sith tracked her movement with the alert, focused gaze of predators tracking prey. The Academy at Dromund Kaas had turned them into hunters, and they saw the universe through a hunter’s eyes. Perhaps that explained the war in microcosm.
But it did nothing to explain the proposed peace.
And perhaps that was why Aryn felt so ill at ease.
The offer to negotiate an end to the war had come like a lightning strike from the Sith Emperor, unbidden, unexpected, sending a jolt through the government of the Republic. The Empire and the Republic had agreed to a meeting on Alderaan, the scene of an earlier Republic victory in the war, the number and makeup of the two delegations limited and strictly proscribed. To her surprise, Aryn was among the Jedi selected, though she was stationed perpetually outside the negotiation room.
“You have been honored by this selection,” Master Zallow had told her before she took the ship for Alderaan, and she knew it to be true, yet she had felt uneasy since leaving Coruscant. She felt even less at ease on Alderaan. It wasn’t that she had fought on Alderaan before. It was … something else.
“I am fine,” she said to Syo, hoping that saying it would work a spell and make it so. “Lack of sleep perhaps.”
“Be at ease,” he said. “Everything will work out.”
She nodded, trying to believe it. She closed her eyes on the Sith and fell back on Master Zallow’s teachings. She felt the Force within and around her, a matrix of glowing lines created by the intersection of all living things. As always, the line of Master Zallow glowed as brightly as a guiding star in her inner space.
She missed him, his calm presence, his wisdom.
Focusing inward, she picked a point in her mind, made it a hole, and let her unease drain into it.
Calm settled on her.
When she opened her eyes, she fixed them on the male Sith. Something in his expression, a knowing look in his eye, half hidden by his sneer, troubled Aryn, but she kept her face neutral and held his gaze, as still as a sculpture.
“I see you,” the Sith said from across the room.
“And I you,” she answered, her voice steady.
Malgus let his anger build with each step he took toward the Temple’s entrance. The Force responded to his emotional state, caught him up in its power until he was awash in it. He sensed the seed of fear growing in the soldiers’ guts.
“I said stop,” the lead soldier said again.
“Do nothing,” Malgus said to Eleena over his shoulder. “These are mine.”
She let her hands fall slack to her sides and fell in behind him.
The three guards spread out into an arc as they approached him, their movements cautious, blaster rifles ready. The entrance to the Temple, a fifteen-meter-tall opening in the edifice’s façade, loomed behind them.
“Who are you?” the guard asked.
The last word hung in the air, frozen in time, as Malgus drew on the Force and augmented his speed. The hilt of his lightsaber filled his hand and its red line split the air. He crosscut the guard before him, putting a black canyon in his chest, continued the swing through the guard on his left, and with his left hand used a blast of power to drive the third guard into the Temple wall hard enough to crush bones and kill him.
Malgus felt the sudden surge of terror in the two soldiers up on the ledge to his left, felt them take aim in sweaty hands, start to squeeze triggers. He flung his lightsaber at them, guided it with the Force in a flickering red arc that cut both of them down, then recalled the blade to his hand. He deactivated it and hung it from his belt.
The roar of a rocket pack drew his attention. On a ledge above the Temple’s entrance, the Mandalorian rode the fire on her back to a high window on one of the Temple’s upper tiers and disappeared within. He trusted that she would join him for the combat inside.
He checked his chrono, watched the numbers evaporate. Twenty-nine seconds.
Eleena took the station to his right, and they entered the Temple.
The setting sun at their back reached through the huge doorway and extended their shadows before them, giant, dark heralds marking the path ahead. Within the Temple was a stillness, a peace soon to be shattered.
Malgus’s boots rapped against the polished stone floor. The hall extended before them for several hundred meters. Two rows of elegant columns reached from floor to ceiling on either side, framing a processional down the hall’s center. Ledges and balconies, too, lined both sides.
Malgus felt the presence of more guards and Jedi to his right, his left, and before him.
He checked his chrono. Twelve seconds.
Motion above and to his right, then to the left, drew his eyes. Curious Padawans looked down from the ledges above.
Ahead, half a dozen robed and hooded Jedi dropped from the balconies and took station in the hall. Another Jedi descended the grand staircase at the end of the hall. His Force signature radiated power, confidence—a Master.
As one, the seven Jedi moved toward Malgus and Eleena, and Malgus and Eleena moved toward them.
More and more Padawans gathered on the balconies and walkways above, sparks of light-side blasphemy flickering in Malgus’s perception.
The more powerful Force signatures of the approaching Jedi pressed against Malgus, and his against theirs, the power of each distorting the other by its presence.
In his mind, the countdown continued.
The space between him and the Jedi diminished.
The power within him grew.
They stopped at two meters. The Jedi Master threw back his hood to reveal blond hair graying at the temples, a handsome, ruddy face. Malgus knew his name from his intelligence briefings—Master Ven Zallow.
In appearance, Zallow was everything Malgus—with his pale skin, scars, and hairless pate—was not. With respect to the Force, Malgus was everything Zallow was not.
The six Jedi Knights accompanying Zallow spaced themselves around Malgus and Eleena, to minimize maneuvering room. The Jedi eyed him cautiously, the way they might a trapped predator.
Eleena put her back to Malgus’s. Malgus felt her breathing, deep and regular.
Silence ruled the hall.
Somewhere, a Padawan cleared his throat. Another coughed.
Zallow and Malgus stared into each other’s eyes but exchanged no words. None were necessary. Both knew what would unfold next, what must unfold.
The chrono on Malgus’s wrist began to beep. The slight sound rang out like an explosion
in the silent vastness of the hall.
The sound seemed to free the Jedi to act. Half a dozen green and blue lines pierced the dimness as all of the Jedi Knights ignited their lightsabers, backed off a step, and assumed a fighting stance.
All except Zallow, who held his ground before Malgus. Malgus credited him for it and inclined his head in a show of respect.
Perhaps the Jedi Knights thought the beeping chrono indicated a bomb of some kind. In a way, Malgus supposed, it did.
From behind, another sound broke the silence. The whine of the hijacked drop ship’s approaching engines.
Malgus did not turn. Instead, he watched the events behind him by watching the events before him.
The Jedi Knights stepped back another step, looking past Malgus, uncertainty in their expressions. Eleena pressed her back against Malgus. No doubt she could see the drop ship by now as it roared downward, toward the Temple.
Zallow did not step back and his eyes stayed on Malgus.
The sound of the drop ship’s engines grew louder, more acute, a prolonged, mechanical scream.
Malgus watched the eyes of the Jedi Knights widen, heard the shouts of alarm from throughout the hall, then the screams, all of them soon overwhelmed by the roar of the reinforced drop ship slamming at speed into the front of the Temple.
Stone shattered and the Temple’s floor vibrated under the impact. Metal bent, twisted, and shrieked. People, too, bent, twisted, and shrieked. The explosion colored the hall in orange—Malgus could see it reflected in Zallow’s eyes—and the sudden flame drew the oxygen toward it in a powerful wind, as if the conflagration were a great pair of lungs drawing breath.
Malgus did not turn. He had seen the attack thousands of times on computer models and knew exactly what was happening from the sounds he heard.
The drop ship’s enormous speed and mass allowed it to retain momentum and it skidded along the Temple floor, gouging stone, trailing fire, toppling columns, collapsing balconies, crushing bodies.
Still Malgus did not move, nor Zallow.
The drop ship skidded closer, closer, the sound of metal grinding over stone ever louder in Malgus’s ears. More columns collapsed. Eleena pressed against him as the flaming, shredded vessel slid toward them. But it was already losing speed and soon came to a halt.
Dust, heat, and smoke filled the hall. Flames crackled. Shouts of pain and surprise penetrated the sudden silence.
“What have they done?” someone called.
“Medic!” screamed someone else.
Malgus heard the explosive bolts on the specially reinforced passenger compartment of the drop ship blow outward and hit the floor like metal rain, heard the hatch clang to the floor.
For the first time, Zallow looked past Malgus, his head cocked in a question. Uncertainty entered his expression. Malgus savored it.
A prolonged, irregular hum sounded as the fifty Sith warriors within the drop ship’s compartment activated their lightsabers. The sound heralded the fall of the Temple, the fall of Coruscant, the fall of the Republic.
Malgus flashed on the vision he’d seen on Korriban, of a galaxy in flames. He threw back his hood, smiled, and activated his lightsaber.
Zeerid let Fatman fly free and blazed away from Ord Mantell’s surface. He kept his scanners sweeping the area, concerned that the pirates might have allies in another ship somewhere, but he saw no signs of pursuit. In time, he let himself relax.
The pink of Ord Mantell’s clouds and upper stratosphere soon gave way to the black of space. Planetary control did not ping him for identification, and he would not have responded anyway. He did not answer to them. He answered to The Exchange, though he’d never met any serious player in the syndicate face-to-face.
Receiving his instructions through a handler he knew only as Oren, he flew blind most of the time. He got his assignments remotely, picked up cargo where he was told, then dropped it off where he was told. He preferred it that way. It made it feel less personal, which made him feel less dirty.
He took care to return the emphasis on privacy, ensuring that The Exchange knew little about him other than his past as a soldier and pilot. As far as they knew, he had no friends and no family. He knew that if they learned of Arra, they would use her as leverage against him. He could not allow that. And were any harm to ever come to her …
Once again, he realized that he was holding the stick too tightly. He relaxed, breathed deeply, and composed his thoughts. When he felt ready, he plugged in the code for the secure subspace channel he used to communicate with Oren. He waited until he heard the hollow sound of an open connection.
Oren did not waste time with a greeting. “The drop went well, I presume?”
From his voice, Zeerid made Oren as a human male, probably in his forties or early fifties, though he could have been using voice-disguising technology.
“No,” Zeerid said, and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “The drop was an ambush.”
A moment of silence, then, “The purchaser’s agents ambushed you?”
Zeerid shook his head. “I don’t think so. These were men I hadn’t seen before. Pirates, I think. Maybe mercs. I think they killed the purchaser’s men and commandeered the ship.”
“Are you certain?”
Anger bled into Zeerid’s tone. “No, I’m not certain. What’s certain in this work? Ever?”
Oren did not respond. Zeerid lassoed his emotions and continued.
“I’m only certain that the pilot I expected, a fellow named Arigo, was not there. But his ship was. I’m only certain that eight men with blasters and hostile attitudes tried to burn holes through me.”
“Eight men.” Oren’s voice was tight. Not a good sign. “What happened to them?”
Zeerid had the impression that Oren was noting everything he said, filing it away in memory so he could sift it for any inconsistencies later.
“They’re dead. I sniffed out the attack before they sprang it.”
“That seems … convenient, Z-man.”
Zeerid stared out the canopy at Ord Mantell’s star and controlled the flash of temper. He knew that if Oren suspected him of double dealing, or just didn’t believe his story, a word from the man would turn Arra into an orphan.
“Convenient? Let me tell you what’s convenient, Oren. Word is that lots of deals have been going sour because The Exchange won’t play nice with the other syndicates, including the Hutts. And nothing explains lots of deals going sour except a leak. That tells me The Exchange is venting Oh-two.”
Oren did not miss a beat. Zeerid almost admired him. “If one of my fliers thought there might be a leak, he might also think it an ideal time to make a play for some goods himself. Especially if he had heavy debts. Make it look like an ambush of, say, eight men. After all, there’s a ready excuse at hand—this strife with the other syndicates you mentioned.”
“He might,” Zeerid said. “But only if he was stupid. And stupid I am not. Listen, you gave me the drop coordinates on Ord Mantell. Send someone there, a surveillance droid. You’ll see what I left there. But do it quick. Someone is going to clean up that mess before long, I’d wager.”
“So … how did you manage to kill eight men?”
The discussion was about to take a turn for the worse. “They were too close to one of the shipping containers full of grenades when it blew up.”
Oren paused. “One of our shipping containers blew up?”
Zeerid swallowed hard. “I lost it in the escape. The rest of the cargo is intact.”
A long silence followed, an abyss of quiet. Zeerid imagined Oren flipping through the file cabinet of his mind, cross-referencing Zeerid’s story with whatever other pertinent facts Oren already knew or thought he knew.
“This wasn’t my fault,” Zeerid said. “You find your leak, you’ll find who’s at fault.”
“You lost cargo.”
“I saved cargo. If I hadn’t sussed this out, the whole shipment would have been lost to pirates.”
“It would hav
e been recovered. It is difficult to recover exploded grenades. Do you agree?”
“I would have been dead.”
“You are replaceable. I ask again: Do you agree?”
Zeerid could not bring himself to respond.
“I choose to interpret your silence as agreement, Z-man.”
Zeerid glared at the speaker while Oren continued: “At best, you will get paid only half for the job. The amount of the lost cargo will be set against that and added to your marker. It was already in excess of two million credits, if I remember correctly. The note on the ship and some loans against your gambling.”
Oren always remembered correctly. The job would net negative for Zeerid. He wanted to punch something, someone, but there was no one in the cockpit but him.
“This makes me look bad, Z-man,” Oren said. “And I very much dislike looking bad. You will make this up to me.”
Zeerid did not like the sound of that. “How?”
A pause, then, “By doing a spicerun.”
Zeerid shook his head. “I don’t run spice. That was our understanding—”
Oren’s voice never lost its calm, but the edge on it could have gouged armor. “The understanding has changed, contingent, as it was, on your successful completion of assignments. You owe us a large sum of credits and you owe me a large sum of face. You will make up both with a few spiceruns. That’s where the credits are. So that’s where you will be.”
Zeerid said nothing, could say nothing.
“Are we clear, Z-man?”
Zeerid scowled but said, “Clear.”
“Return to Vulta. I will be in touch soon. I have something in mind already.”
I’ll bet you do, Zeerid thought but didn’t say.
The channel closed and Zeerid let fly with a sleet storm of expletives. When he had finally vented, he cleared Ord Mantell’s gravity well and its moons, set a course for Vulta, and engaged the hyperdrive.
“I’m a spicerunner, now,” he said, as the black of space turned to the blue of hyperspace.
The treadmill under his feet had just picked up speed.
Aryn felt dizzy. A rush of emotion flooded her. She could not name it, categorize it. It was just a wash of inchoate, raw feeling. She was swimming in it, sinking.
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