DAO STRYVER USED a dense, adhesive web extruded from a nozzle on his left cuff to lash Ula and Jet into their seats. The dining room he had led them to was empty, containing nothing but chairs and a table, but as befit the palace of Tassaa Bareesh these were fine examples of precious materials and design, and therefore too sturdy for the prisoners to break.
Ula’s head was pounding with the aftereffects of the Reactor Core, but he noticed the gleam of metal revealed when Stryver welded the door shut. Durasteel, most likely, also befitting the palace of a Hutt. All manner of safety-conscious criminal celebrities might have eaten in this room. And died here, possibly.
Ula tested the bonds and found them to be immovable. His fingers were already going numb.
“You know my name,” said the Mandalorian, standing over him. “How?”
Trying and failing to suppress a stammer, Ula described the report received by Supreme Commander Stantorrs from Grand Master Satele Shan. That was where the Mandalorian had first been identified to him. He had no compunctions about revealing the extent of the Republic’s knowledge, since it would assure Stryver that little else had been uncovered about him or Lema Xandret.
“Will you untie me now?” Ula asked him.
“The only reason you are still alive is because there is no honor in killing you—and no advantage, either.” The Mandalorian towered hugely over him. “That could easily change.”
Ula fell back into his seat and closed his mouth.
Jet sat in the chair next to Ula, staring unflappably up at their captor.
“I assume you know me from somewhere,” he said. “Did I ruin your sister’s reputation? If so, I’m afraid she was quite forgettable.”
Stryver didn’t rise to the bait. “Captain Nebula, I’m told it was you who spoke to the crew of the Cinzia.”
“Who said that?”
“A former crewmate of yours called Shinqo.”
“He’d say anything to get your blaster out of his face.”
“My assessment precisely. Is what he told me true?”
“How do you know I’m any different from him?”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Why you want to know? What’s so important that you’ll go halfway across the galaxy to find it out?”
“Just answer my questions, Nebula. What did they tell you?”
“Do you mean ‘what’ or ‘how much’?”
Ula didn’t understand why Jet was making things more difficult than they had to be. “I’ve heard the recording,” Ula said. “They didn’t say anything to him.”
The Mandalorian turned back to him. “What were their exact words?”
“That they were on a diplomatic mission and didn’t want to be boarded.”
“Did they mention any names?”
“None.”
“Could the recording have been edited?”
“I suppose it might have been, but—”
“Be silent.” Stryver turned back to Jet. “Does the name Lema Xandret mean anything to you?”
“If that’s your sister—”
The butt of Stryver’s blaster dug into Jet’s throat. “Do not play games with me. She was an Imperial droid maker who disappeared fifteen standard years ago. Was her name mentioned by anyone aboard that ship?”
“No,” Jet said. “And there were no survivors, if you think she was aboard. Shinqo told you that, I’m sure.”
“He told me there was wreckage and that you gave it to the Hutts.”
“Why would I do something like that?”
The muffled boom of an explosion rocked the floor, making Ula jump. Dust rained from the ceiling. Stryver pointed his rifle at the door, ready to fire on anyone who burst through it, but the blast had come from much farther away. A second quickly followed the first, and the lights flickered. Distantly, alarms began to sound.
“The palace is under attack,” said the Mandalorian. “There is no time now for prevarication. If you know what survived the explosion, you must tell me.”
There was something in the Mandalorian’s voice, a rising urgency that made Ula speak out of more than just self-preservation.
“I’ve seen it,” he said. “It’s in a vault not far from here.”
“What is it?”
“There are two things, and they’re both for sale. The Cinzia’s navicomp—”
“Intact?”
“So I was told.”
“And the other item?”
“I don’t know what it is.”
“Describe it.”
“Silver, tubular, about a meter high—made of rare metals and some kind of organic component. No insignia. Do you know what it is?”
The Mandalorian fiddled with his armor and projected a tiny holovid of the palace grounds. “There are seven maximum-security vaults in Tassaa Bareesh’s enclave. Tell me which one contains these two items.”
“Why?” asked Jet. “It’s just space junk.”
“You did not believe so,” said the Mandalorian.
“I’ll sell anything, or try to.”
“If you release my hand,” said Ula, “I’ll show you which vault it is.”
“You’re not after this mystery planet as well, are you?” asked Jet, rolling his eyes as Stryver loosened the web restraining Ula’s left hand. “Unless—ah! Yes. Unless you want the navicomp for an entirely different reason.”
Stryver ignored him. “Point,” he said, holding the holovid out to Ula.
“Bring it a bit closer. That one there, I think.”
As the Mandalorian studied the floor plan, Ula slipped his hand into his pocket and produced the hold-out blaster.
He listened to himself speak calmly and without fear, as though he were standing outside his own body, watching what was going on.
“Release my other hand,” he said, pointing the blaster at Stryver’s stomach. “I’d prefer to talk as equals.”
Stryver pushed the holovid into Ula’s eyes, blinding him. Ula squeezed the trigger, but Stryver was too fast. With one sweep of his other arm, he swatted the blaster away. The single shot discharged harmlessly into the ceiling
“Nice try.” Jet chuckled as Stryver reaffixed Ula’s hand to the chair. “You’ve never dealt with his kind before, have you?”
Ula was having trouble seeing the funny side. The fear had come crashing back in. His eyes were still dazzled, and his hand felt like it was broken. “How can you tell?”
“Mandalorians don’t believe they have any equals.”
LARIN SLICED INTO another layer of the palace security program and conducted another search. Dao Stryver’s name still appeared only once: his ship, First Blood, was docked in the palace’s private spaceport. Mentally, she kicked herself for missing something as obvious as that, but she didn’t lose any time over it. The architecture of the palace’s security programs was even more baroque than the palace itself. Even if she had thought to search for the Mandalorian’s name, chances were it wouldn’t have appeared the first time.
“Anything?” asked Sergeant Potannin, who was peering worriedly over her shoulder.
She shook her head. Searches on Ula Vii’s name had turned up nothing as well.
“You’re blocking my light.” Potannin was trying to be helpful, but he was no Shigar. “I’ll holler when I’ve found something.”
Pulling another decryption algorithm from her repertoire, Larin tried another route.
Behind them, the Twi’lek, Yeama, entered the missing envoy’s suite and sketched a bow. The bump on his temple stood out in bright red against the green of his skin.
“My mistress offers her profound apologies. The hunt for the kidnappers and those who attacked your sentries will begin immediately.”
Larin scrambled the holoprojector’s view so Yeama wouldn’t see what she was up to in his mistress’s security infrastructure.
“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. The 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 burning 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.
He staggered away, flesh tortured and smoking. She maintained the surge as long as she could, and followed it with two quick strikes to midriff and throat. He barely blocked them, swinging one-handed, holding his other arm across his eyes as though the light blinded him. Thrilled by his weakness, Ax lunged again and again, driving him backward until he hit the wall. He slid down it, blade raised ineffectually to block the killing blow.
His comlink squawked.
“Shigar, watch out. Stryver’s on his way. He’s after the navicomp!”
Triumph turned to all-consuming hatred. Dao Stryver—here!
It was her turn to be surprised.
With one swift kick, the Jedi, Shigar, knocked the lightsaber from her hand. It skittered away, blade flashing and deactivating automatically. She staggered backward, disarmed, and he came to his feet, eyes bloodshot and full of determination. Not hatred. Not anger. She didn’t even have the satisfaction of that small victory.
She ran backward, Force-pulling her fallen hilt to her even though she knew it couldn’t possibly arrive in time. The Jedi followed her, driving her toward the outer door.
When the door burst in behind her, she didn’t need to look to see who was there. She felt his presence as keenly as a dagger in her back.
Dao Stryver.
Caught between a Jedi apprentice and a Mandalorian who had already beaten her once, all she could do was hit the activation stud and hope for a miracle.
LARIN WAS HALFWAY to the vault when Yeama intercepted her. He was standing in the deserted passageway ahead with his hands upraised in the universal signal to halt. She would have pushed right past him had he not been backed up by five Weequay and a dozen ax-wielding Gamorreans.
“I see the missing envoy has returned,” he said, taking in the group behind her with baleful red eyes. “The pirate, too. My mistress will be pleased.”
Larin didn’t have time to discuss the situation. The thought of Shigar facing Dao Stryver alone filled her with urgency. It might already be too late. Her attempts to hail him on the comlink had prompted nothing but silence in reply.
“Thank her for her concern,” she said. “We’re returning the envoy to his quarters now.”
“Are you? Excellent. You may have heard the, ah, occasional disturbance in the last hour. There is nothing to worry about, I assure you of that, but it would be advisable for you to remain in the high-security wing until told otherwise.”
“Sounds like you’re under attack, mate,” said Jet. “Has Fa’athra made his move at last?”
The Twi’lek smiled tightly. “We have many items of great value stored in the palace, so attacks are not uncommon.”
“It’s not coming from outside,” said Larin, growing impatient. “It’s the Mando I warned you about earlier. He’s after the Cinzia’s navicomp.”
“Impossible. No alarm has been raised in that sector of the palace.”
“That’s bound to change, and soon.”
Hefting her rifle, she went to continue on her way.
“Not so fast.” The Twi’lek sidestepped in order to block her path. The Weequay backed him up. “You are going the wrong direction. The envoy’s quarters are that way.”
“Really? It’s easy to get turned around in here.”
“I don’t believe you’re turned around at all. I believe you know exactly where you’re going.” The Twi’lek wasn’t smiling now. “You are not a registered visitor to this palace. The kidnap was a distraction, giving you time to go about your true business. We found the trail you left in our security systems. The sabotage is another distraction. What is your business now? Are you all in league, or just opportunistic collaborators?”
His cold gaze swept the group before him.
Larin didn’t like where this was heading.
“Look,” she said, “we’re not planning to steal your precious things. But someone else is, and we’re trying to stop them. I’m serious. Dao Stryver will be in and out before we get there if you don’t step out of my way right now. Don’t make me make you.”
The Twi’lek didn’t flinch from her ultimatum. “You admit that you are heading for the vault?”
“That’s what I just told you.”
“And yet you insist that your motives are pure?”
“As pure as they’ll ever be.”
“Then you won’t mind if I advise the Imperial envoy to meet us there?”
“Whatever! Just get moving—that’s all I ask.”
Yeama signaled his entourage, who fell in around her and her companions. Once the way was clear, she set a brisk pace while Yeama growled in his native Twi’leki into a comlink.
Behind them, the Republic envoy put up a sustained display of bluster.
“I resent the implication,” he said, “that this is a conspiracy of any kind. If anything, it is I who should be suspicious. I’m the one who has been kidnapped and had my escort neutralized. I’ve been imprisoned and tortured—under the roof of a host whose servant now calls me a criminal! You’ll be lucky if we stick around at all for this sham auction of yours.”
Yeama ignored him, and so did Larin. Still nothing from Shigar.
“No alarms,” she said to the Twi’lek. “And in the middle of all this fuss, too. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
Yeama looked at her for a full three seconds. His only other response was to pick up the pace and begin barking orders into his comlink again.
ULA MAINTAINED HIS diatribe long enough to ensure that his point had been made. It wasn’t even his point. He was playacting the loyal Republic envoy in a difficult situation. Wasn’t that what one should do?
Ula didn’t know. He was light-years out of his depth and heading farther out by the minute. He wished they really were going to his secure quarters rather than rushing headlong into danger. All that stopped him from asking to be exempted from the coming action was the thought of how Larin Moxla would regard his cowardice. She didn’t seem the type to brook anything of the sort.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Everything about her—from her beaten-up armor to the black tattoos across her cheeks—captivated him.
“Don’t even think about it.”
Ula glanced at Jet. He was also watching the remarkable woman who had come from nowhere to lead their mismatched ensemble.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s no good for you, and vice versa.”
Ula flushed. He’d had no idea his instant fascination with her was so obvious.
“What are you talking about?” he said, lowering his voice so no one could overhear. “You know as much about her as I do.”
“I know she’s faking it. And that’s about the only thing you two have in common.”
Again that sly hint that Jet thought Ula was more than he was saying. Or less, if his tone of voice was anything to go by.
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
“Me? Nothing. I’m just making conversation.”
That rapidly became difficult. Their pace was increasing by the minute. Soon they were jogging alongside Potannin and the security detail, with Weequay loping long-legged beside them and Gamorreans struggling along behind. More palace security personnel joined them, Niktos and Houks mainly, forming an ever-growing caravan heading toward the vaults. It was hard to see what lay ahead past the Twi’lek and Larin, but it looked like there were further guards waiting for them. And more than that, besides.
At the entrance to the security air lock lay a scene of utter demolition. Walls had fallen in; the ceiling had collapsed. Tons of stone and reinforced ferrocrete lay between them and their objective. Evocii slaves and security guards picked at the rubble, getting in one another’s way such was their haste to clear a path. Conflicting orders flashed back and forth. Yeama hurried into the mess, trying in vain to impose order.
“This is outrageous,” announced a high-handed voice over the hubbub. It was a tall, long-nosed man in Imperial uniform, shouldering his way toward the Republic entourage. “If you’ve had a role to play in this fraudulent affair—”
“We’ve as much to lose as you,” snapped Ula, wishing he could take his fellow Imperial aside and reveal to him the secret role he was playing. There was no need to argue, except for appearance’s sake. “And are as much in the dark.”
From the other side of the rubble came an explosion, crisp and floor shaking. Ula put his hands over his ears and backed away. Two enormous dirt-moving droids shouldered forward to plow through the mess.
“Stay here,” Larin ordered him, and he was happy for the moment to obey. She joined Yeama in the wake of the heavy lifters, clearly determined to be among the first inside. The Twi’lek didn’t disabuse her of that intention. Once again, Ula admired her confidence. What on Korriban did Jet Nebula mean that she was a faker as well?
A cry went up. The barrier was breached. A cloud of smoke and dust rolled over those assembled. The sound of combat came to them, fierce and pitched.
Larin yelled something over her shoulder.
“What did she say?” Ula asked Jet.
“Something about a Sith. I didn’t catch all of it.”
Ula glanced at the Imperial envoy, who studiously avoided everyone’s gaze.
Yeama waved for reinforcements. A line of Weequay moved in, followed by Potannin and his opposite number on the Imperial side. There was more confusion as all three columns tried to squeeze through space for one. Ula lost sight of Larin, and craned for a better view.
“Why don’t you go closer?” asked Jet.
“I, ah, don’t think that would be safe. Do you?”
“I think it’s all relative, right now.”
Shamed, Ula headed toward the widening hole. Jet followed, leaving his droid to watch the entrance. Seeing Ula moving in, the Imperial envoy followed, not wanting to be left out. The tunnel through the rubble was crowded with people. What lay at the end of it was not clear through the smoke and dust. Blasterfire cast strange lights into the haze, and Ula distinctly heard the sound of the Mandalorian’s jetpack. On top of that scraped the volatile hum of lightsabers.
They passed a twisted sheet of metal that might once have been the security air lock’s outer door. The smell of ozone was overpowering.
“Down, sir!” cried Potannin on seeing him.
Ula let himself be dragged to a relatively sheltered position behind a wall of rubble. From there he still couldn’t see the action, but he could see the back of Larin’s helmet. She was crouched next to Yeama, sighting along her rifle. Her voice came clearly across the sound of battle.
“Still no alarms, eh?”
Ula didn’t hear the Twi’lek’s reply.
A massive explosion brought down most of the ceiling, deafeningly loud. Ula put his back to the stone shield and covered his ears with his hands. Ash and debris rained on him in thick waves. He closed his eyes tightly.
When he tentatively removed his hands, an uncanny silence had fallen. All he could see were people jostling for position, as pale as ghosts. Rubble continued to fall from the roof. Beside him, Jet slowly inched his head upward to view what was going on.
His expression changed to one of astonishment.
“What the brix is that?”
Before Ula could look for himself, a voice spoke, female and full of rage.
“We do not recognize your authority.”
A chill went through him. He had heard that phrase before.
SHIGAR STOOD AT ONE corner of an equilateral triangle, with the young Sith and Dao Stryver occupying the others. The Mandalorian hesitated, clearly surprised to see them both.
“It’s a small galaxy,” reflected Shigar.
“You know him, too?” The Sith’s hostile façade cracked just for an instant.
“You should both have let it be,” said the Mandalorian. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“You were killing people on Coruscant,” Shigar said. “Of course it was my concern.”
“Stay out of this,” the Sith snarled. “He’s mine!”
“I’ve beaten you once already,” Stryver said. “Being killed won’t honor your mother’s actions.”
The young woman turned a shade of red brighter even than her hair.
The Mandalorian raised his left arm and blasted her with his flamethrower.
Shigar ducked and rolled, wondering about the scene that had just played out. Fate had delivered all three of them to the same place at the same time. They were all after the same thing—whatever it was inside the vault—and they had a narrow window before the Hutts realized what was going on and brought the entire weight of the palace’s security forces to bear on them. Stryver would want to move quickly and decisively. Yet he had stopped to chat to the Sith girl. Why?
It was clear that all the talk of her mother had been a ploy to distract her. Her rage was fully enflamed now, which would make her stronger, if she survived the next few seconds. Shigar juggled several options. Retreating to the vault and leaving them to it was one, but there was only one exit from that position, meaning that he would have to face Stryver eventually. And the Mandalorian had bested him, too. Better to fight now, when there was at least a chance that the Sith might serve as a distraction.
Flames roared after the girl’s cartwheeling silhouette. Shigar came at Stryver from the opposite side, swinging his lightsaber to deliver a crippling blow to the shoulder. Stryver raised his arm to block, and Shigar’s blade skated along the powerful Mandalorian armor, leaving a bubbling welt but not penetrating. A hatch in Stryver’s pack opened and a collapsible shockstave fired into his hand. Shigar came in for another strike, and the shockstave stabbed at his chest, blasting him from his feet.
On Stryver’s other side, the Sith burst from the flames, lightsaber upraised and hatred blazing in her eyes. Her leap took her over the flamethrower’s deadly jet and was timed to deliver a spearing thrust to the Mandalorian’s domed helmet. He ducked with startling speed for one so big and thrust the shockstave up at her. She cut it in half, kicked him off-balance, and returned for another slash.
Shigar was back on his feet, circling to take Stryver when an opportunity arose. Again the flamethrower burned, but the element of surprise was lost. The Sith girl easily batted aside the flames. Instead Stryver cast a razor net at her. She ducked its piercing barbs and attempted to shock him with lightning. His insulated suit took the charge and grounded it into the floor, blackening and buckling it. Shigar took the chance to Force-push Stryver to his knees, but the Mandalorian was as solid as a mountain, and he had other weapons he hadn’t revealed yet.
From a thigh hatch, Stryver produced a stubby pistol. He pointed it at Shigar and fired a single time. Shigar dodged but not so quickly that the fringes of the shot missed him completely. He was tossed like a leaf into the wall and slid to the ground, temporarily stunned.
STRYVER TURNED THE weapon on Ax, who dodged more effectively than the slow-witted Jedi had. She had recognized the weapon instantly and knew how dangerous it was. Disruptors were outlawed in every civilized part of the galaxy. She wasn’t surprised to see one on Hutta, in a Mandalorian’s gloved hand.
Ax also knew that handheld disruptors were effective at short range only and could manage a bare handful of shots. If Stryver kept firing and missing, the weapon would soon be useless. So she kept moving around her enemy, practically running on the walls of the battle-blackened security air lock, goading him on by hurling broken glass at his joint seals. Twice, he narrowly missed her, and even the fringes of the beam sent powerful shock waves through her flesh. Only her rage kept her going. She used the pain to fuel the dark side.
The third time he fired in their little dance—the fifth shot overall—she barely felt its aftereffects. The weapon’s charge was dying. Grinning with triumph, she turned her circling run into a headlong launch. Time to bring the fight back to him.
He met her attack with a vibroblade aimed at the throat. She screamed, trying to drive her blade through his armor with all the strength of her muscles and willpower combined. His buzzing blade was so close it brushed her skin, raising a fine spray of blood, but still she didn’t let up. The Mandalorian was reeling back on his feet from her attack. This was the best shot she’d ever had.
His jetpack activated with a whine. Suddenly they were moving, jerking upward as though lifted by a giant puppeteer. Taken by surprise, Ax lost her grip and fell away. Stryver rose above her on twin jets of fiery exhaust. She rolled to avoid their intense heat and covered her eyes from the glare.
Stryver stopped when he reached the domed recess that had once held the tinkling chandelier, and hovered there, punching commands into his weapons systems. Ax had just enough time to realize that he now had the advantage of height before a strong hand gripped her wrist and dragged her aside.
A stream of missiles struck the ground, exactly where she’d been lying. The Jedi had saved her, and she wrenched herself from him, even as she felt a twinge of gratitude. Surely he hadn’t done it out of the vile goodness of his heart! No, she told herself. He knew he couldn’t defeat Stryver on his own. It was either save her or be the next to die.
Concussion missiles blew her and the Jedi into the security air lock’s inner door. They separated to avoid another round, which blasted the door back into the antechamber, exposing the four vault doors and the hole through which Ax had entered. She had a split instant to note that one of the vault doors was glowing bright red, then a rain of blasterfire came from an entirely different part of the room and she realized that someone else had joined the party. The Hutts, presumably, had noticed that their treasure was at risk.
Before she could take advantage of the shift in the battlefield, the Jedi launched himself at Stryver, deflecting missiles away from him as he came. The missiles exploded into the ceiling, bringing down huge swaths of masonry on all three of them. A large chunk struck the Mandalorian, dropping him from his superior vantage point. Ax dodged a slab large enough to crush a bantha and sought her bearings in air suddenly thick with dust. Shadowy figures danced around her—tasseled Weequay, officers in Imperial uniforms, Gamorreans, and more—but Stryver was nowhere to be seen among them. Either a stunned silence had fallen or her ears were overwhelmed by the most recent explosions.
Red light played across the battlefield, then died. Just light, no concussions. Ax blinked and turned to find the source, remembering as she did the glowing vault door. Not a random hit from the Mandalorian’s weapons systems, as she’d initially assumed. It was clear now that the door had melted entirely away, releasing the vault’s precious contents to all comers.
No one was breaking into the vault, however. That much was immediately apparent from the splatters of molten metal on the antechamber floor. It was, rather, the other way around.