The Old Republic Series

by Sean Williams

  He released Vrath’s elbow, rolled, and bounded to his feet. Vrath, his face twisted in pain, crawled for where the E-9 had disappeared under a crate. Zeerid cut him off, picked him off the floor, and shoved him hard toward the bulkhead. Vrath careered into the metal wall, off kilter. He tried to catch himself with his broken arm but it just hung limp from the joint and he caught the side of his head flush. His eyes rolled and he went down in a heap.

  Zeerid jumped atop him, punched him square in the eye, thinking he was only stunned, but the man stayed limp beneath him. Blood dripped from Zeerid’s head onto Vrath’s face.

  Gasping, Zeerid checked Vrath’s pulse. Still alive.

  All at once the adrenaline that had fueled him during the combat drained out of him. His entire body ached. His breath came ragged and he had no strength. Stabs of pain in his face and head echoed each beat of his heart. The entire fight had taken maybe forty seconds. He felt as if he’d been beaten for hours.

  He stared down at Vrath, wondering what to do with him. He searched the man’s pants, jacket, coat. He found several IDs and other personal items. He also found flex binders. He flipped Vrath over and pulled his arms behind him.

  He felt the bones in the broken arm grind together and Vrath groaned.

  “Sorry,” Zeerid said. There was nothing he could do about the arm.

  Once he had the man’s arms secured, he slung him over his shoulders and carried him on shaky legs through the ship to the cockpit. A Dragonfly had no brig and there was no way Zeerid was letting Vrath out of his sight.

  By the time he reached the cockpit, the ship had cleared the spaceport and angled upward for the atmosphere. Zeerid studied the instrumentation. His face was swelling and his eye was damaged from Vrath’s fingers so he had to squint. He took off his shirt and used it to apply pressure to his head wound. He didn’t want to bleed all over the controls.

  A weapons belt with a GH-22 blaster and several knives lay on the pilot’s seat. Vrath’s weapons, presumably. Zeerid belted them on and sat.

  He’d never flown a Dragonfly-class drop ship before, but he could fly any kniffing thing that tramped the stars. He’d need to get past the Imperial blockade and get into a hyperspace lane.

  “Time to dance between the raindrops,” he said, and disengaged the autopilot.

  He looked down out of the canopy at the spaceport far below, wondering what had happened with Aryn. He’d have paid a lot of credits to have her beside him right then.

  Aryn opened her eyes. Malgus stood over her, his bloodshot eyes fixed on her face. He held the Twi’lek, still unconscious, in his arms. He also held both of Aryn’s lightsabers. His own lightsaber hilt hung from his belt.

  He had not killed her. She had no idea why.

  He stared down at her and she felt his ambivalence. He was struggling with something.

  “Take them and go,” he said, and dropped both of her lightsabers. They hit the floor in a clatter. “Take the shuttle. I will ensure you have safe passage away from Coruscant.”

  She did not move. The lightsabers were centimeters from her hand.

  His eyes narrowed. “Unless your need to avenge your Master requires you to die, you should do as I command, Jedi.”

  She pushed herself up with one hand, took both of the lightsabers in the other. The metal was cool in her palm. “Why?”

  “Because you spared her,” he said, his voice soft behind the respirator. “Were our situations reversed, I would not have done so. Because your presence made me aware of something I should have known long ago.”

  Aryn rose, still cautious, and clipped the lightsabers to her belt.

  “We will be leaving Coruscant, you know,” he said, almost sadly. “The Empire, I mean. All that remains is to sign the treaty. Then we will have peace. Does that please you?”

  “Please me?” She still did not understand. She inventoried her injuries. Lots of bruises and lacerations. Nothing broken. She inventoried her soul. Nothing broken there, either.

  She looked into Malgus’s face. She did not know what to say. “Perhaps we will meet again, under other circumstances.”

  “If we meet again, Aryn Leneer,” Malgus said. “I will kill you as I did your Master. Do not mistake my actions for mercy. I am repaying a debt. When you leave here, it is paid.”

  Aryn licked her lips, stared him in the face, and nodded.

  “Do you know your own Order betrayed you, Jedi?” he said. “They informed us that you might be coming here.”

  Aryn was not surprised, but the betrayal still hurt.

  “I no longer belong to an Order,” she said, her throat tight.

  He laughed, the sound like a hacking cough. “Then we have more in common than anger,” he said. “Now, go.”

  She did not understand and resigned herself to never understanding. She turned, still disbelieving, and headed for the shuttle. T7 emerged from hiding near the ship and beeped a question. She had no answer. Together, they boarded the shuttle. When she reached the cockpit and sat, she realized that she was shaking.

  “Still heart, still mind,” she said, and felt calmer.

  Exhaling, she engaged the thrusters. She had no idea where she would go.

  As the blue of Coruscant’s sky gave way to the black of space, Zeerid started to sweat. He eyed the sensors for Imperial ships. They would have detected him by now. A cruiser showed on his screen, maybe Valor, maybe another one. He wheeled the drop ship away from it, accelerated for the nearest hyperlane. He just wanted to jump somewhere, anywhere.

  A beep from the panel drew his attention. It took him a moment to realize it was a hail. It took him another moment to figure out how to operate it. He slapped the button, opening the channel. If nothing else, he’d curse out the Imperials before they shot him down.

  “Drop ship Razor, you are cleared to leave.”

  Zeerid assumed it had to be a ruse, a bad joke. But he saw nothing on the scanner, and the cruiser did not move to interdict.

  He flew for the hyperlane. He let the navicomp calculate a course and tried to believe his luck. Vrath’s voice startled him.

  “Not bad, Commando. I’m impressed.”

  “Impressing you isn’t my concern, skulker.”

  Vrath chuckled, but it turned into a cough and a wince. “There are pain pills in the medbay. You mind?”

  “Later,” Zeerid said.

  “It hurts pretty bad, marine.”

  “Good.”

  “It’s just business, Korr.”

  Zeerid thought of Arra, Nat, Aryn. “Right. Business.”

  He’d had all he could take of business.

  “We’re done as far as I’m concerned,” Vrath said. “I was hired to stop that engspice from getting to Coruscant. I did that. Which means we’re done. I report back and we never see each other again. I’d like my ship back, though.”

  Zeerid resisted the urge to punch a restrained man. He was behaving as if they’d just had a friendly sparring match, that they’d go out for drinks later.

  “The Exchange probably won’t be as forgiving though, eh?” Vrath said. “I hear they don’t tolerate lost shipments. You and your family are going to have a hard row there.”

  Vrath’s words made Zeerid’s breath hitch. Hearing them changed everything. His knuckles turned white on the stick as options played out in his mind. Adrenaline filled him to his eyes. He stared straight out the cockpit window.

  “They don’t know I have a family.”

  “Not yet,” Vrath said. “But they will. They always do—”

  Too late Vrath seemed to realize he’d stepped on a mine. He tried to chuckle it away but Zeerid heard the fear behind the laughter.

  “Or maybe they won’t. I’m just talking here.”

  “You talk too much,” Zeerid said while he hardened his expression, hardened his mind. The alchemy of necessity distilled his list of options down to one.

  He put himself on autopilot and stood.

  “On your feet, Vrath.”

&nb
sp; When the man did not stand right off, Zeerid pulled him roughly to his feet. Vrath groaned with pain.

  “Easy there, marine. Pain meds now, yeah?”

  He sounded doubtful.

  “Walk,” Zeerid said.

  “To where?”

  Zeerid stuck the GH-22 in his back. “Move.”

  Reluctantly, Vrath let Zeerid push him through the corridors of the ship. The man moved slowly, as if he knew Zeerid’s intent, and Zeerid had to push him along. A few turns, a few corridors, and Zeerid saw an air lock door. He steered Vrath to it, stopped before it.

  “Turn around.”

  Vrath did. His face was blotchy, but whether from the beating or from fear Zeerid could not tell.

  “This is about your daughter, yeah? Well, I already told my people, Korr. They already know.”

  Zeerid heard the high pitch of a lie in Vrath’s tone. “A lie. You already told me you didn’t. You said, ‘Not yet.’ ”

  He moved Vrath out of the way with the blaster and activated the internal doors on the air lock. They unsealed and slid open with a hiss. A red light set into the ceiling lit up and began to spin.

  Zeerid showed him the blaster. “You want this?” He nodded at the air lock. “Or that?”

  Vrath looked at the weapon, the air lock, swallowed hard.

  “It doesn’t have to go this way, Korr. I won’t tell anyone about you or your family. You can even keep the ship.”

  “I can’t take that chance.”

  Vrath tried to smile, but it looked like a death grimace. “Come on, Korr. If I say I won’t talk, I won’t talk. I’m nothing if not a man of my word.”

  Zeerid thought of the promise he’d made to Nat, that he’d take no unnecessary chances. “Yeah. Me, too.”

  Desperation crept into Vrath’s voice. He shifted on his feet. “You’ll have to bear this, Korr. This will make you a murderer. Kill a man with his own weapon. You want that weight?”

  Zeerid knew what he was doing. Or at least he thought so. “I can carry it. And I don’t need a lecture about murder from a skulker.”

  Fear made Vrath’s eyes water. “That was war, Korr. Think about it. Think hard.”

  “I have. Pick, or I pick for you. Just another number, right?”

  Vrath stared into Zeerid’s face. Maybe he saw the blankness, the resolve. “To hell with you, Korr. To hell with you.”

  Zeerid pushed him into the air lock.

  “I could have killed her, Korr. Both of them. Back at the park on Vulta. You know I could have. But I didn’t.”

  “No,” Zeerid said. “You didn’t.”

  He activated the seal and the door started to close.

  “I wish I had killed them now! I wish I had!”

  Zeerid stopped the door, a sudden flash of anger rekindling his strength. He reached into the air lock and grabbed Vrath by the shirt, shook him. “If you had harmed her, this would be coming to you with a sharp blade and a slow touch. You hear me, skulker? Do you?”

  He kicked Vrath in the stomach, doubling the man over with the blow. While Vrath gasped for breath, Zeerid reactivated the door and it sealed shut. Vrath stared at him through the tiny transparisteel window, all wild eyes, snarls, and teeth.

  Zeerid hit the button to evacuate the air lock. The warning alarm wailed.

  He gave one more glance at Vrath, saw the fear there, then he turned and walked back toward the cockpit.

  Murderer.

  That’s what he was.

  The siren stopped and he felt a soft rumble as the external air lock door opened.

  A pit opened in his stomach.

  Emotion, nameless and raw, caused his eyes to water. He wiped them clear.

  He was a murderer, and he felt heavy already.

  But he would carry it—for Nat, for Arra. He expected he’d carry it the rest of his life and the weight would never diminish. He’d killed men before, but not like that, not like he’d killed Vrath.

  For the first time, he understood, really understood, why Aryn had returned to Coruscant.

  He prayed to gods he did not believe in that she reconsidered what she had come to do. She felt things too keenly to feel what he felt. She could never carry it. It would destroy her. Better she should die.

  All of a sudden, he just wanted to sleep.

  He overrode the navicomp’s random course and plugged in the coordinates to Vulta. His hands shook the whole time.

  In moments, Razor jumped into hyperspace.

  He had always flown alone, but he’d never felt alone in the cockpit, not until that moment.

  Sitting back in the chair, he tried to sleep.

  And tried not to dream.

  Malgus watched the shuttle piloted by Aryn Leneer rise on its thrusters. He raised Jard on the comm.

  “A shuttle is lifting off from Liston,” he said. “It is also clear to leave Coruscant’s space.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Jard answered.

  Malgus could have broken his word to the Jedi, could have shot Aryn Leneer from the sky. But he would not. He kept his promises.

  But he realized, more than ever, that the Jedi were too dangerous for him to allow them to exist. They were to the Sith what Eleena was to him—an example of peace, of comfort, and therefore a temptation to weakness. Angral did not see it. The Emperor did not see it. But Malgus saw it. And he knew what he must do. He must destroy the Jedi utterly.

  He knelt beside Eleena, cradled her head in his left arm. He studied her face, its symmetry, the line of her jaw, the deep-set eyes, the perfectly formed nose. He remembered the first time he had seen her, a cowed, beaten slave barely out of her teens. He’d killed her owner for his brutality, taken her into his house, trained her in combat. She had been his companion, his lover, his conscience ever since.

  Her eyes fluttered open, focused. She smiled. “Veradun, you are my rescuer.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Where is the woman?” Eleena asked. “The Jedi?”

  “She is gone. She will never hurt you again.”

  She leaned her head back into his arm, closed her eyes, and sighed contentedly. “I knew you loved me.”

  “I do,” he acknowledged, and her smile widened. He felt tears forming in his eyes, his weakness made manifest.

  She opened her eyes, saw the tears, reached up an arm to put a hand on his cheek. “What is wrong, my love?”

  “That I love you is what is wrong, Eleena.”

  “Veradun—”

  He steeled himself, stood, ignited his lightsaber, and drove it through her heart.

  Her eyes widened, never left his face, pierced him. Her mouth opened in a surprised gasp. She seemed as if she wanted to say something, but no sound emerged from her mouth.

  And then it was over and she was gone.

  He deactivated his blade.

  He could no longer afford a conscience, or a weakness, not if he was to do what must be done. He could serve only one master.

  He stood over her body until his tears dried.

  He resolved that he’d never shed another. He’d had to destroy what he loved. And he knew he would have to do it again. First the Jedi, then …

  Behind him, Kerse and his soldiers were worrying at the landing bay doors, trying to cut their way in.

  Malgus knelt and picked up her limp body. She felt as light as gauze in his arms. He would give her a funeral with honor, and then he would begin.

  His vision on Korriban had shown him a galaxy in flames. But it was not just the Republic that required cleansing by fire.

  Night, and controlled rage, wrapped Malgus. His anger smoldered always now, and his thoughts mirrored the caliginous air. He had taken a ship in secret from the Unknown Regions, where he was currently stationed, and made his way to the planet. No one knew he had come.

  He focused on keeping his Force signature suppressed. He did not want anyone to learn of his presence prematurely.

  A sliver of moon cut a narrow slit in the dark sky, painted everything in grays an
d blacks.

  The stone wall of the compound, eight meters tall, rose before him, its surface as rough and pitted as Malgus’s mien. Drawing on the Force, he augmented a leap that carried him up and over the wall. He landed in a well-tended garden courtyard. Sculpted dwarf trees and bushes cast strange, malformed shadows in the moonlight. The gentle sound of a fountain mixed with the night hum of insects.

  Malgus moved through the garden, a deeper darkness among the shadows, his boots soft on the grass.

  A few lights lit the windows of the rectangular manse that sat in the center of the grounds. The manse, the garden, the fountain, all of it, looked similar to some soft world in the Republic, some decadent Jedi sanctuary where so-called Force scholars pondered peace and sought tranquillity.

  Malgus knew it was folly. Empires and the men who ruled empires could not stay sharp when surrounded by comfort, by peace.

  By love.

  Low voices sounded from ahead, barely audible in the stillness. Malgus did not slow and made no attempt to hide his approach as he emerged from the darkness of the garden.

  They saw him immediately, two Imperial troopers in half armor. They leveled their blaster rifles.

  “Who in the—”

  He drew on the Force, gestured as if he were shooing away insects, and sent both of the troopers flying against the wall of the manse hard enough to crack bone. Both sagged to the ground, unmoving. The black eyes of their helmets stared at Malgus.

  He walked between their bodies and through the sliding doors of the manse, reminded of his attack on the Jedi Temple back on Coruscant.

  Except then Eleena had accompanied him. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  Thinking of Eleena blew oxygen on the embers of his anger. In life, Eleena had been his weakness, a tool to be exploited by rivals. In death, she had become his strength, her memory the lens of his rage.

  He resided in the calm eye of a storm of hate. Power churned around him, within him. He did not feel as if he were drawing on the Force, using it. He felt as if he were the Force, as if he had merged with it.

  He had evolved. Nothing split his loyalties any longer. He served the Force and only the Force, and his understanding of it increased daily.

  The growing power whirling around him, leaking through the lid of his control, made the suppression of his Force signature impossible. All at once he lowered all of the mental barriers, let the full force of his power roil around him.