Time had run out.
Omen had come to rest in a small indentation down a short ways on the other side of a crest. Sky and ocean spread out ahead. The ship had stopped on the incline just in time, and there wasn’t a flat plane left on the vehicle. The sight of his ship, shattered on the alien rocks, moved Korsin only a little. He had known opponents—mainly captains in the Republic—who were sentimental about their commands. It wasn’t the Sith way. Omen was a tool like any other, a blaster or lightsaber, to be used and discarded. And while the ship’s resilience had saved his life, it had betrayed him first. Not a thing to be forgiven.
Still, it had a purpose. Flying again was out of the question, but the sight of the metal tower just above the bridge gave him hope. The receiver would find the Republic’s hyperspace beacons in an instant, telling Korsin his location. And the ship’s transmitter would tell the Sith where to find Omen—and, more important, the Lignan. Maybe not in time for the engagement at Kirrek, but Sadow would want it nonetheless. Walking carefully over loose stones to the airlock, Korsin tried not to think of the other possibility. If the Battle of Kirrek was lost because Omen was lost, he would die.
But he would die having completed his mission.
A vial lay empty in Devore’s open, quaking palm.
Devore had somehow gotten to Omen first—and was sitting in the commander chair. Collapsed in the chair was the more accurate description, the captain saw. “I see your cabin’s intact,” Korsin said. He remembered Seelah returning to the living quarters for little Jariad. In a fire, you go for the thing you love.
“I didn’t go there first,” Devore said, limply letting the vial drop to the deck beside the command chair. There was another container there, particles of glistening spice still beside it. He’s been here awhile, Korsin guessed. He suspected spice was why Devore had gone into mining in the first place; his brother’s love of the narcotic had certainly shortened his naval career.
“I didn’t go to my cabin—I mean, it wasn’t first,” Devore said, pointing vaguely to the ceiling. “I went to look at the transmitter array.”
“Structure looked sound.”
“From outside, maybe.” Slouched in the command chair, Devore watched blankly as his brother clambered over fallen beams to reach the ladder. Above the ceiling panels, Korsin saw what Devore must have seen: a melted mass of electronics, fried when a seam opened in the hull during the descent. The external transmitter stood, all right—but as a monument to its former purpose, nothing more.
Climbing down, Korsin made his way to the comm control panel and pressed the button several times. Nothing. He sighed. The story was the same everywhere on the bridge. He switched the transmitter on one last time and stepped back over the debris. Omen was dead. But Sith had survived death before, and the guts of Omen still held enough spare parts to allow a transplant. His eyes darted to the hallway. Surely, in the workshop—
“Gone, with the armory!” The explosion had vented most of the stores into space. Devore buried his face in his hands, finished.
Korsin wasn’t. “The landing bay. The Blades.” The fighters had been in flight when Omen made its sudden departure, but something in the landing bay might be serviceable.
“Forget it, Yaru. The deck was crushed when we hit. I couldn’t even get in there.”
“Then we will cut the ship down deck by deck and fabricate the parts we need!”
“With what? Our lightsabers?” Devore rose, steadying himself against the armrest. “We’re done!” His cough became a laugh. The Lignan crystals offered the Sith power—just not the kind to operate a distress beacon, a receiver, or even the celestial atlas. “We are here, Yaru. We are here and we are out of action. Out of the war. Out of everything. We are out of it!”
“You’re out of it.”
Korsin climbed into a hallway and began rummaging through cabinets, looking for something that would help those below. Unfortunately, Omen had been outfitted for a deep-space mission. Sith provisioners were sparing. No portable generators at all. Another compartment held clothes. That would help tonight, but they wouldn’t be staying.
“We have to stay,” Devore said, as if he had read Korsin’s thought.
“What?”
“We have to stay,” Devore repeated. Standing alone, a tombstone in the shadows of the hallway, he spoke with a voice that quaked. “It’s been two days. You don’t understand. It’s been two days.”
Korsin didn’t stop his search, passing in front of his brother to another door, jammed by the damage.
“It’s been two days, Yaru. Naga Sadow will think we ran away. To take the Lignan crystals for ourselves!”
“He’ll blame Saes,” Korsin said, remembering. Naga Sadow hadn’t fully trusted the fallen Jedi who captained the Harbinger. He’d asked Korsin to keep an eye on Saes, to report back. When he did—if he did—Korsin fully intended to explain how the Harbinger had lost control, how the Harbinger had struck the Omen. With any luck, Sadow had Harbinger already—
Korsin released the door handle. He hadn’t seen what happened to Harbinger after the collision, but it was a safe bet that Sadow would have the crippled Harbinger already. And Saes, sitting there with only half the shipment of Lignan crystals and unable to deliver, would be bargaining for his life, saying anything about the Omen. He would sing harmonies the Khil would be proud of.
Korsin looked down the hallway. “Back at Primus Goluud. On the station. You met with Sadow, didn’t you?”
Devore shuffled. “To discuss the Lignan operation.”
“You weren’t discussing something else? Like who should command this mission?”
Devore glared at him with bloodshot eyes. That look again.
“You were discussing who should command this mission,” Korsin pressed, surprised at his own calm. “What did you say when Sadow refused to put you in charge?”
The captain’s blood froze. He knew how things always went with Devore—how things must have gone. Sadow had rejected his half brother, and Devore had said something. What? Not enough to offend Sadow—no, Devore was still here in the wreck, drawing labored breaths. But Sadow would have reason to suspect Devore’s loyalty, would have cause to wonder whether his crystals were safe. The one thing Yaru Korsin had was his reputation for playing it straight—but now at a minimum, Sadow would know that Korsin was not the absolute master of his own vessel. And if he wasn’t …
Devore’s hand shook—and his lightsaber flew into it. The weapon that had killed Boyle Marcom ignited in his hand.
“What did I tell you?” Korsin yelled, approaching him anyway. “No games on my ship!”
Shaken, Devore darted back toward the bridge. Korsin followed. “The only way we come out of this is if we’re completely clean, Devore! Sadow can’t think we did this on purpose!” He reached the doorway. “No games on my ship!”
Korsin walked into a hurricane. Devore stood atop the command chair, calling forth all the debris of the bridge like a deity on a mountaintop. Korsin rolled, fragments of transparisteel raking his face and ripping into his uniform. Reaching Gloyd’s station, he mounted his own defense, cocooning himself in the Force against the onslaught. Devore was as strong as any in his family—and now he was riding chemicals Korsin didn’t understand.
A beam slammed against the bulkhead—and Omen shivered. A second strike, and the bridge tipped forward, knocking Devore off his perch. Korsin didn’t let him get up again. The moment Devore’s head appeared behind the chair, Korsin Force-flung him out through the ruined viewport. He had to get this outside, before everything was lost.
Korsin bolted uphill through the hallway to the airlock, huffing as he did. Fighting a spice-crazed assailant on a teetering deathtrap? I must be the crazy one! The step down from the portal was now a leap. His boot sank into a soft patch as he hit, wrenching his ankle and sending him tumbling down the scree-covered slope. Biting his lip, he tried to clamber back from the brink toward Omen’s crushed nose. A shadow was falling on him. He l
it his lightsaber—
Suddenly he saw it—or it saw him. Another winged creature, high over the near ridge, circling and watching. Watching him. Korsin blinked sand from his eyes as the creature soared away. It was the same as the one from the descent—almost. The difference was …
Thoom! Korsin felt himself lifted into the air and before he could register what was happening, he slammed into the wreck of Omen. Devore marched into view, pebbles rolling before him as if propelled by a magnet. Trapped against the crumpled frame, Korsin struggled to stand. His father’s familiar look was gone from Devore’s face, replaced by a bleak nothingness.
“It’s over, Yaru,” Devore said, raising his lightsaber high. “We should have done this before. It’s been decided. I’m the Korsin that should be in command.”
It’s been decided? The thought flashed through Yaru Korsin’s mind even as the lightsaber flashed past his ear. It sparked against the Omen’s battered armor. The commander raised his weapon to parry the next stroke—and the next, and the next. Devore hammered away. No style, just fury. Korsin found nowhere to go, except along the side of the ship, sliding backward toward the port-side torpedo tubes. Three of the doors had been opened in the descent. The fourth—
Korsin spotted the control box, just like the one he’d remotely manipulated in the descent. He flexed toward it through the Force, and ducked. The firing pin activated, bulleting forward and catching Devore in the shoulder of his lightsaber arm. The torpedo door tried to cycle open, but pinned against the ground it only dug into the strata, sending a stream of rocks flooding beneath the ship. Omen lurched forward again, with Devore sliding in front of it toward the edge and the ocean below.
It took a minute for Korsin to get loose from the handhold he’d found on the ship, and another for the dust to clear. Finding Omen surprisingly still, he gingerly stepped away on the crushed slate. Omen’s bow had impaled itself on a razor rise on the promontory, just meters from the edge.
Ahead of it, partially buried in rubble, lay his brother. His golden uniform shredded, his shoulder bloodied, Devore writhed on the precipice. He tried to kneel, shrugging off the surrounding rocks, only to collapse again.
Devore still gripped his lightsaber. How he could still be holding on to it with the whole world falling down, Korsin didn’t know. The captain fastened his own lightsaber to his belt.
“Yaru?” Devore said. It was a whimper now. “Yaru—I can’t see.” His face was tearstained, but intact. Then his lightsaber rolled free, plummeting out of sight over the cliff’s edge and revealing the oily pink stain on his hand. Red Rage. That was what had been in the vials, Korsin thought. That was what had given Devore his manic power, and that was what was stealing from him now.
The shoulder wound wasn’t bad, Korsin saw, lifting his brother to his feet. Devore was young; with Seelah tending to him, he might even survive out here, presuming he could live without the spice. But … what then? What could be said that wasn’t already said?
It’s been decided.
A helpful hold became a tighter grip—and Yaru Korsin turned his brother to face the setting sun over the ocean. “I will complete my mission,” he said, looking over the side to the ocean yawning far below. “And I will protect my crew.”
He let go.
4
It was nearly night when Korsin appeared on the twice-trodden trail, pulling a makeshift sledge crafted from a mess table. With thermal blankets and the remaining foodpaks heaped upon it, Korsin had needed the help of the Force a few times to get it down the mountain. Straps from pouches cut into his shoulders and neck, leaving ugly welts. The single campfire had become several. He was glad to see them.
Ravilan appeared glad to see him, too, after an initial surprised reaction. “The beacon! Is it working?”
“I pushed the button myself,” Korsin announced.
“And?”
“And we wait.”
Ravilan’s eyes narrowed in the smoky haze. “You know where we are? You spoke to someone?” Korsin’s attention had already turned to unloading the packs to anxious crewmembers. Ravilan lowered his voice. “Where … are your Massassi?”
Korsin didn’t look up. “All dead. You don’t think I wanted to do this myself, do you?”
The quartermaster’s crimson face paled a little. “No, of course not—Captain.” He looked back at the summit, fading in the surrounding darkness. “Perhaps others of us could have a look at the transmitter. We might—”
“Ravilan, if you want to go back up there, you’re welcome to. But I’d bring a team with some heavy equipment, because if we don’t get some supports under that ship, the next person who boards could take it on its last flight.” Korsin set down the last pack and stretched his neck. “Where are your Massassi?”
Ravilan stared. “All dead.”
Korsin stepped free, at last, from the cabling he’d used to drag the sledge. The bonfire blazed invitingly. So why was he so cold?
He understood. “Hello, Seelah.”
“Where’s Devore?”
He looked at her coldly. Seelah stood, her tarnished gold uniform flickering in the firelight. “Where is Devore?” he repeated.
“He went up—” She stopped herself. No one was supposed to leave camp. And now, the look in Yaru Korsin’s eyes.
She squeezed Jariad, who woke crying.
The pep talk began as many of Korsin’s did—with a summation of Things Everyone Already Knows. But this speech was different, because there were so many things nobody knew, himself included. The assurance that Naga Sadow still valued their cargo rang true for all, and while they were clearly a long way from anywhere, few could imagine the Sith Lord’s desire exceeding his reach. Even if they were less sanguine about what Sadow felt about them, Korsin knew his crew would accept that someone, somewhere, was looking for them.
They just didn’t need to know how long that might take. It was too soon for that. Korsin would worry about Sadow later. This place couldn’t be about what was next. It had to be about now.
By the speech’s end, Korsin found himself growing unusually philosophical: “It was our destiny to land on this rock—and we are bound to our destiny. For a time, it looks like, we’re also bound to this rock,” he said. “So be it. We’re Sith. Let’s make it ours.”
He looked toward a satellite campfire and spotted Gloyd and the remains of his gunnery crew bristling against the breeze. He waved them to the main bonfire. It would be another hard night, Korsin knew, and the supplies he’d brought would soon run out.
But he knew something else. Something he’d seen, that no one else had.
The winged beast had carried a rider.
The Force was with them.
Gripping her son, Seelah watched the circle break. Nodding, human Sith set to their tasks, stepping around Ravilan, the master without Massassi. He stood aloof, commiserating with the Red Sith and the few other surviving aliens. Energized and triumphant, Yaru Korsin conferred with Gloyd—keeping his confidences, as he always had, to the huge alien. Too strong to be defeated, too stupid to betray him—and dumb to the Force. The perfect ally.
Turning away from the Houk, Korsin saw Seelah. Another new land to be broken to his will, perhaps? There was no one to stand in his way—not anymore. He smiled at her.
Seelah returned his gaze coldly. Thinking of Devore, thinking of little Jariad, she made a quick decision. Summoning all her anger, all her hatred, all her will …
… Seelah smiled back.
Devore had underestimated Yaru Korsin. Whatever came, Seelah thought, she would not. She would bide her time.
Time, they had.
SKYBORN
1
5,000 years BBY
“Heretic!”
“Good to see you too, Mother,” Adari said. “Did the children behave?”
The door hadn’t fully closed when the smaller child was in Adari’s arms, shoved there by Eulyn. Adari’s older boy bounded into the room, hobbling her. Under attack from four pu
rple arms, Adari staggered toward the wall, looking for a spot to drop her nonliving cargo. The canvas bag thudded against the stone floor.
“Heretic! That’s what your uncle says they’re calling you,” Eulyn said. “He was here—and neighbor Wertram, the tailor. And his wife, too—she never leaves the hut for anything! Eight people have been by today!”
“Well, don’t look outside,” Adari said. “More followed me home.” She shooed the gangly older child away and tried to rescue her silvery hair from her toddler’s mouth. Short hair wasn’t the fashion for Keshiri women, but for Adari, it was self-defense. Where her youngest was concerned, it’d never be short enough. “Is the stew on?”
“Stew?” Eulyn yanked her little grandson back, only to see Adari dart into the kitchen. Flushed with aggravation, Eulyn’s skin took on a violet hue that almost matched her daughter’s. “You’re worried about dinner! You don’t have any idea what’s been going on around here, do you?”
“It’s a dinner break. I was working.”
“Working, nothing. I know where you were!”
Adari stared into the clay crock full of boiling meat and vegetables and sighed. Of course her mother knew where she’d been. Everyone did. Adari Vaal, collector of rocks and stones; young widow of the valiant uvak-rider on whom so many hopes had rested. Adari Vaal, enemy of right and order; absent mother and misleader of other people’s children. Today had been her third day of testimony before the Neshtovar. It had gone as well as the other two.
“What is that sound?”
“They’re hitting the house with rocks,” Adari said, returning with a steaming bowl that she set on the table. Standing back, she swung the front door wide and watched as several gifts from the community bounced over the threshold. She slammed the door quickly. A peppery stone under the empty crèche drew her eye. She reached for it with a sinewy, scratched arm. “That’s a nice one,” she said, turning over the rock in her hand. “Not from around here.” She was apparently drawing people from all over. She’d have to look around, later. Who needed expeditions when you had an angry mob to collect samples?
Star Wars: Lost Tribe of the Sith: The Collected Stories Page 3