| abstract
| - Stark-white and menacing, the warship knifed through space towards the gas giant, a colossal testament to the might of the Galactic Empire. The angular Victory-class Star Destroyer was crewed by several thousand sentients, mostly male humans. The ship bristled with turbolasers, ion cannons, and laser cannon batteries. Two dozen V-wing fighters, a common model among Imperial craft, were parked in her hangars. Altogether, the ship was an eleven-hundred meter long representative of the Empire’s stranglehold over the galaxy. Corrupter’s master paced up and down the command bridge impatiently, knowing that his lordly existence was increasingly threatened with every passing minute. A career navy man, Captain Jack Nebulax had been in the service since before the Stark Hyperspace War, in the days when it was called the Republic Judicial Force. He had served through the harrowing inferno of the Clone Wars, though most of his service had been in non-combat roles. As such, his rank had not increased as one might have expected from one who had served in the fleet for thirty years. The peak of his military career had been the command of a Carrack-class cruiser during the Battle of Coruscant, helping press the assault on the Separatist flagship. Only a few years over half a century, he was still trim, his khaki Imperial uniform seemingly molded around his fit physique. There was not a misplaced wrinkle or crease on the uniform, nor a hint of softness in his stern expression. He was every bit the image of a hardened old navy spacer, and everyone on the ship knew of the exacting reputation of their testy captain, and exactly what it meant to cross the master of the Corrupter. Nebulax detested his current command. He had only recently been posted to the Corrupter, passed over from commanding the far more impressive Imperial-class. Furthermore, his longtime executive officer Commander Xzine had been posted to the naval academy of Prefsbelt IV. Sourly, Nebulax considered that Xzine just might do well enough to make the transfer permanent. Xzine was a thorough, informed, methodical man, with no grand ambitions or strategic genius, but possessing a penchant for keeping track of myriad things that made him an excellent peacetime officer and aide. His current executive officer ranked merely a lieutenant, and furthermore was precocious. Lieutenant Ait Convarion was everything that Xzine hadn’t been; aggressive, talented, and ready to challenge his superior officer to almost the point of insubordination. Nebulax supposed that an officer like Convarion might be a valuable asset in the relatively untamed and lawless Outer Rim, but the man was irritating, and that had been enough to put a scowl on Nebulax’s already dour expression. However, the true source of Nebulax’s vexation was the rumor he had heard of the Corrupter being used as a sort of heavily armed courier for some higher-up diplomat or official, instead of standard patrol missions. That meant that he would have some self-important civilian making unwarranted demands on him. No, Jack Nebulax was not pleased and he doubted his mood would improve in the near future. Gazing out at the starfield surrounding the gas giant planet of Zhar and its moons, Nebulax watched as the Corrupter headed steadily closer to the resupply base on the moon of Gall where he would receive his new orders. “Captain Nebulax,” said a crisp voice behind him. Nebulax turned to see Convarion standing there, a trace of a smirk hidden in his expression. “Yes, Lieutenant?” Nebulax growled. He did not feel like playing whatever game Convarion had in mind. “We are on a course for Gall, sir. Estimated time of arrival 0721 hours coordinated galactic time. No abnormal contacts on sensors, all systems operational.” “Very well, Lieutenant. Keep me posted. Was there anything else?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, what is it?” “Imperial High Command has sent priority orders to pick up a VIP on Gall. They’ll be carrying further orders for us.” “A VIP? Didn’t the orders specify exactly who we’re picking up?” Nebulax inquired tartly. “No sir, they didn’t. I can recheck if you desire.” Yes, recheck and make me look like a paranoid fool, thought Nebulax. Bristling inwardly, he nevertheless maintained his composure. It wouldn’t do to let Convarion know that he could manipulate his reactions as effectively as he was doing. “That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant. Have an honor guard sent down to the hangar bay. Carry on.” “Aye, sir.” Convarion saluted—sharply enough, Nebulax had to admit—and walked off down the bridge, leaving his superior officer to stew in his own juices. Nebulax remained at the forward bridge as the Corrupter eased into the relatively crowded Imperial base at Gall, a process that took several hours. As routine docking and re-supply procedures commenced, Nebulax noted a small Theta-class shuttle approaching the hangar bay of the Corrupter, escorted by a quartet of V-wing starfighters. He frowned; Theta-class shuttles were limited to high-ranking officials and dignitaries. Whoever this VIP that High Command wanted him to shuttle around, they were impressively high stature for the Outer Rim, and that meant they would be entirely insufferable throughout the duration of their stay on the warship. Knowing that he was expected by naval protocol to meet their visitor, he signaled two of the naval troopers to follow him and walked through the gleaming corridors of the Star Destroyer down to the hangar bay. If Convarion had done his job correctly, an honor guard of the ship’s crew suitable for the arrival of a Sector Moff had already been dispatched to help greet their guest with the appropriate level of formality. All that remained was for Nebulax to journey there himself. As the shuttle set down inside the relatively cramped hangar bay, Nebulax noted that it was lacking entirely in insignia, unusual for a civilian passenger. In fact, his flight controllers noted that, aside from a confirmation of their authority codes, the fighters and shuttle had been entirely silent about their origins. As the boarding ramp on the back of the tri-winged shuttle hissed and slid down to the dull metal deck, Nebulax felt a shiver run down his spine. A quartet of stormtroopers, their freshly minted white armor of a different vintage than the standard armor worn by clonetroopers, walked down the ramp first, followed by a single figure wearing a long, dark cloak. The figure’s face was hooded, yet Nebulax stiffened. For as much as he tried to exude a sense of absolute authority to his crew, this new arrival practically oozed with menace. Steeling himself up, he strode forward to greet the new arrival. “Welcome to the Corrupter,” he intoned formally. “I’m Captain Nebulax. To whom do I have the honor of addressing?” The figure looked him up and down, as if deciding if he was worth addressing. “I am Ajaur,” the man said finally, his voice a raspy growl. “A pleasure,” said Nebulax—it wasn’t, but some things were required—and proffered his black-gloved hand. Ajaur ignored it. After a long pause, Nebulax lowered the outstretched limb and tried again, his confidence shaken as the man somehow managed to look down at him despite barely being taller. “Is there a preferred rank or title that you prefer?” In the highly hierarchical Imperial organization, it was extremely rare for such a high-ranking official as Ajaur appeared to be to lack a title that was constantly used. Nebulax got the feeling that the man wasn’t a moff or governor; his demeanor was entirely wrong. If anything, Ajaur seemed to be an Intelligence or Imperial Security Bureau operative. “You may refer to me as ‘Inquisitor’, Captain. I will require your standard suite for treating with officials of a moff level for my own purposes. There may be further orders later, which will be obeyed. Does that satisfy the required level of curiosity?” Nebulax paled. The Inquisitorius was rumored to be a shadowy group of enforcers who reported directly to the Emperor himself. Accounts of what they might actually be ranged from loyal Jedi Knights to Sun Guard mercenaries to professional torturers. “Or perhaps this will help explain things?” Ajaur continued, not really heeding Nebulax’s reaction. Slowly, he pulled off his black hood, revealing his face for the first time, and Nebulax was astonished by the visage he was presented with. Ajaur was completely hairless, his pale skin stretched, his eyes dark and piercing. Most impressively, a massive angry scar burned across the right side of his face, running from his right temple down across his throat, explaining the man’s rasping voice. Nebulax started at the sheer hideousness of the scar, which was several centimeters wide and repulsive to the eye. Nebulax had his own share of scars, but nothing on the scale of this. “I received it at the start of my service to the Emperor, Captain. It serves as a reminder of what I am. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Set course for the outer reaches of the Zhar system once the ship is ready.” With that, Ajuar swept by Nebulax, his black cloak billowing out behind him, followed by his four personal stormtroopers. As the horribly disfigured Inquisitor strode past, Nebulax couldn’t help but notice the dark-colored cylinder of metal tucked into Ajaur’s belt on his right side. A lightsaber, the weapon of the Jedi Knights. That confirmed some of the rumors of the Inquisitors—they were capable of using Jedi weapons and possibly even their fabled Force powers. Nebulax couldn’t even begin to imagine what Ajaur’s agenda was and he certainly wasn’t about to ask. The arrival of the dark-clad man had considerably discomfited him, and he returned to his quarters, pensive and brooding. Only when the Corrupter prepared to leave Gall did Nebulax return to the bridge, making sure to inform Ajaur of their departure. Zeru Neimoidia The jungle was all around them, but they could not see it. The leafy fronds and broad leaves of the purple zerubis trees were shrouded by a thick mist that interfered with scanners and blanketed hundreds of square kilometers at a time. Visibility was limited down to a few dozen meters. Standing at the perimeter of the Imperial base, only a few zerubis leaves were visible through the hazy morass of the mist. It was the perfect weather for an ambush. Compounding the concealment that the mist provided, some genius in the engineer corps had decided to construct a field base centered around an enormous elevated landing platform that jutted dozens of meters into the sky above the mist and was lit with blinking signal lights to help guide incoming craft—which were all visible from kilometers away. The small prefabricated shelters, barracks, supply stores, and vehicle garages clustered around the monolithic landing platform, dwarfed by its impressive bulk. The dull gray angular architecture of the Imperial structures clashed against the rolling organic forests that surrounded them, a stark juxtaposition of two opposing ideologies. A shield generator protected the landing platform from aerial attack, but gave no such defense against terrestrial assault. Instead, dozens of white-armored troopers patrolled along a perimeter ringed by trenches and defensive emplacements, weapons at the ready. Duracrete barriers had been erected on the outer side of the trenches, providing additional cover. Intermittently, AT-RT single-pilot walkers strode in pairs around the perimeter, their high-mounted searchlights sweeping the misty jungle for signs of trouble. Clone Commander CC-3433 stood at the edge of the perimeter, surveying the misty landscape as two of the walkers stomped by. A veteran of the Clone Wars, the soldier had seen action on numerous worlds. This was simply the latest in a series of battlefields he had been fighting on for over five years. And fighting was literally what he had been born to do. He scowled as his helmet’s magnification systems failed to single out anything—useless in the murk of the mist. “Jungles,” he muttered. “Right up there with lava when it comes to places I’d rather not fight in.” This wasn’t his first tour on an arboreal world, but that didn’t mean he liked them. The rugged terrain gave defenders and guerrillas a notable advantage, particularly since the mist interfered with scanners. Moreover, it smelled foul. Yet another reason to dislike Zeru Neimoidia. Trip, the name he had adopted for informal use, found the entire assignment a depressing waste of time. The Clone Wars had ended over two years ago, yet the Grand Army of the Empire was still conducting mopping up operations, such as on Zeru Neimoidia, against Separatist holdouts. Yet another of the treasonous Neimoidian purseworlds along with Cato Neimoidia, this world had been a secret until recently, and that was why he and his troops had been sent in to secure it. For his part, Trip couldn’t fathom what the Neimoidians would want with a misty, foul-smelling world that was perpetually damp. Whatever the case, someone had certainly wanted to keep their hold on the planet. Trip was the replacement commander for the troops on Zeru Neimoidia—the original commanding officer had been killed by a sniper within a week of landing here. Over the last two months, as Imperial troops had slowly pushed into the thick foliage, the ambushes and surprise attacks had continued, depleting their resources and targeting supply convoys. Whoever was in charge, they had a keen tactical mind and an incredible intelligence network. Trip had been forced to divide his attention and troops between pushing deeper into the wilds of the interior and protecting his ever-lengthening supply line. Bases like this were essential to allowing forward aerial resupply as an alternate to vehicular convoys, since the insurrectionists hadn’t demonstrated heavy-weapons capability beyond man-portable systems. Sooner or later, he would be able to concentrate enough mechanized firepower to plow through the jungle and seek out the bases of the Separatist holdouts that had been plaguing the Empire for far too long. Trip looked up as two of the lumbering AT-RT walkers strode by, each piloted by a single trooper. Suddenly, a streak of hot light slammed into one of the pilots’ helmet, toppling him to the ground and sending the walker careening off, out of control. It stomped off in a single direction until it smashed into a prefab shelter. “Sniper!” the other pilot shouted. Trip drew his weapon and dove into one of the trenches as a whistling sound filled the air. Grenades began arcing down into the base, exploding in magnificent fireballs that illuminated the otherwise darkened base. A hail of blaster fire began pounding the defenses indiscriminately. Several troopers fell in the initial volley. Others scrambled for cover and returned fire with hoarse battle cries. “Send reinforcements to the eastern perimeter,” Trip called immediately over his comlink. “All troops to battle stations!” Dozens of additional troopers sprang to the trenches, leveling their blaster rifles into the jungle. The base was like an insect nest that had been stirred up, its occupants swarming out of their structures to defend it. Grenades continued to rain down, likely fired from mortars, igniting brilliant golden fireballs where they landed. “We can’t see them!” one of the soldiers shouted. “Lay down suppressing fire,” Trip said. The troopers complied obediently, laying down a heavy barrage of blaster rifle fire into the jungle. A mortar grenade hit a crate of something flammable on the top of the landing platform and it blazed with furious light. Blaster bolts hummed and sparked through the air as both sides exchanged fire. Trip watched with growing anger as the second AT-RT was hit by a missile and exploded, leaving only a burning hulk behind. He lined up his rifle and fired into the jungle even though he couldn’t see their attackers any more than the rest of the troopers could. He bit back a curse, hoping that his weapons fire was claiming the lives of their attackers—if their attackers were even living. The attack continued for another minute and then it was over, as suddenly as it had begun. Trip swore under his breath. Just as the defense had started to stiffen, the attackers retreated, content to have inflicted damage and antagonized the Imperial occupiers. “Cease fire,” Trip growled. “They’re gone.” The soldiers complied, their fire slackening off, then finally sputtering out. Only the wreckage of the two walkers and the scattering of white-armored bodies signified that a battle had taken place at all. “Damage report,” Trip called to one of his lieutenants, bracing for the inevitable. “Thirty-one dead, ninety-five wounded, two AT-RT walkers destroyed, sir,” the lieutenant reported a few minutes later. Trip scowled, slamming his fist into his thigh armor plate in frustration. The attackers would hit them unexpectedly, inflict damage, and then melt away before they could be trapped and killed. The mist gave them the perfect camouflage. “Should we send out patrols, sir?” the lieutenant asked him. “It’s not worth it,” Trip replied. “They’ll have left mines or ambushers behind to pick us off once we leave the base perimeter, and this kriffing mist makes it too hard for us to cover any patrols.” “Understood, sir,” the lieutenant replied. “What are your orders?” “Get more reinforcements over here by air,” he said. “Then get me on the comm to the sector command. This situation is getting out of control. We’re being bled dry here.” As much as he hated to admit that he couldn’t contain the situation with the considerable resources at his disposal, Trip had never faced such an infuriatingly evasive and cunning enemy, not even on Castell when he had suppressed the Gossam. For once, he was at a loss with how to deal with the situation, and that thought alone galled him as much as the latest casualty reports. A fire in his eyes smoldered at the stinging his pride had just taken. Surveying the damage, he swore that he would reap reparations in blood and fire before he was done with this world. Near Zhar Selu Kraen sat alone in the bridge of the cockpit of the light freighter Hawk-bat as it drew closer to the gas giant Zhar, a troubled expression on his face. He preferred it this way—it allowed him to dwell on his own thoughts without the others seeing. Either they hadn’t noticed how he hadn’t been the same since Emberlene, or they had felt it better not to intrude. Regardless, Selu was pleased that they weren’t present at the moment. Emberlene. Nine months ago, Selu had watched that world die. He had been carried away by his comrades knowing that he had been responsible for its destruction. Such guilt alone could be crushing enough for any sentient, but for Selu, it was especially burdensome. He had once been a Jedi Knight, a guardian of peace and justice. He had survived the inferno of the Clone Wars, only to be immediately embroiled in the fires of what the Empire had labeled the “Jedi Rebellion”, but was more accurately a Jedi massacre. The resulting purge had slain all his friends and former master and sent him on the run. Only the will of the Force had led him to his biological brother Sarth, the ship’s engineer aboard the Hawk-bat, and helped him survive. Selu had joined the crew of the Hawk-bat, but only a few months later, the Empire had killed the captain on New Holstice. A complicated series of events had pitted him and his brother against Emberlene’s fierce Mistryl warriors. Even more complicated had been the circumstances that had led Jorgesoll Knrr to retire from a spacer’s life to settle down on Commenor, add the runaway mercenary Milya Tayrce and ex-ARC trooper Spectre to the crew along with their Bakuran cargomaster Cassi Trealus, and make Selu the new captain. Yet for all the harrowing memories that had brought him to the captain’s chair of the Hawk-bat, only one constantly resonated through Selu’s mind: the sight of the atomic fireball blossoming above Emberlene’s largest metropolis, detonated by a bomb he had brought to that world. The memory of the day the world had died, its defenses destroyed by the bomb and now vulnerable to an attacking fleet, played over constantly in Selu’s mind. Normally, he considered his near-eidetic memory a gift—now, it was the bitterest of curses, forcing him to relive over and over again the destruction of an entire world at his hands. Yes, the Mistryl had sought to kidnap Sarth by any means possible—but that did not justify destruction of their world, the thousands of civilians who had perished, or the terrible fate of the survivors. And he was responsible. The incident had left deep and lasting scars on Selu. He had lost his purpose, simply carrying on the essential decisions that would keep his ship flying and his crewmates taken care of. Furthermore, he had forsworn his lightsabers and Force skills. If he was capable of using his Jedi training for such horrifying ends, it was better that he avoid using them at all. At any rate, it was hardly safe to advertise one’s existence as a Jedi with the Empire in charge. Selu trusted his crewmates, who all knew of his true history, and gratefully, they had not asked him about his decision to forsake his Jedi heritage. He heard the sound of light footsteps as someone walked up the narrow corridor leading from the main compartment of the ship containing the cargo hold, crew quarters, and lounge up to the bridge. From the barely-there emanation of the footfalls, he knew it was Milya. She halted in the doorway to the bridge. “How much longer until final approach?” she asked him. “About an hour,” Selu answered neutrally. “You sure you don’t want to come back and train with us?” Milya asked. “It’s getting a little boring beating Spectre in hand-to-hand. I’m thirty-eight to twenty-eight. Sarth could watch the ship.” “No thank you,” Selu replied. She took another two steps forward, hesitating before she spoke. “For someone who lives in very tight quarters with the rest of us, it sure doesn’t seem like it,” Milya told him. “You’ve been aloof ever since you became captain—is this some kind of authority complex?” “No,” Selu said curtly, hoping to forestall further advances down this line of inquiry. He had avoided such questioning thus far, except Sarth, whom Selu had revealed just how devastating Emberlene had been to him. However, Sarth was loyal enough to keep it to himself, whereas Milya was merely too perceptive for her own good. “Something in the past then?” she asked. “You always look like you’re seeing a ghost.” Blast, Selu thought. This was entirely too close to home. He swiveled his chair around to face her. She was standing a few steps away. Her dark auburn hair was in a sweaty ponytail, and her loose white pants and snug gray tank-top were equally damp with perspiration—indication that she and Spectre had been training very recently. Her arms were crossed, brown eyes locked onto Selu intently. “What is the rest of the crew doing?” Selu asked, abruptly changing the subject. “You didn’t answer the question,” Milya answered. Selu’s eyes hardened. “We’ll talk about it later,” he said. Milya shook her head slightly and sighed. “Spectre’s cleaning up, I let him have the first round in the ‘fresher. Sarth and Cassi are snuggled up over a holodrama in the lounge. And I’m on the bridge trying to talk sense into the stubbornest man in the galaxy.” “Inform the rest of the crew that we’ll be arriving at Zhar within an hour.” Milya frowned. “You could do that with the ship’s comlink.” “I could,” Selu said. “But I need you to make sure our cargo is secured again, so you might as well tell the others on your way aft.” “That’s Cassi’s job.” Selu pressed his fingers together. “Surely you wouldn’t want to interrupt the happy couple prematurely?” he asked mildly. “Besides, I’d still want you and Spectre to help Cassi regardless. Something tells me that you have more experience with industrial explosives than she does.” Milya chuckled. “Maybe a little,” she conceded as she turned to go. “Offer stands on the training session.” “I’ll keep that in mind,” Selu said, watching just for a second as she walked away. Before Emberlene, he had contemplated feelings for Milya. She was smart, beautiful, witty, and could understand his own troubled background as an orphan herself. Now, he simply brushed those thoughts away, knowing that he could never be in a healthy relationship with the blood on his hands. Besides, the Jedi Code had forbidden such attachments for good reason. Back in the crew lounge, Sarth and Cassi were under no such compulsion, and after watching the last twenty minutes of the holodrama their attention was not so much focused on the holo as each other. “Wow,” Sarth Kraen said as he broke off the kiss with Cassi to get a breath. “I will never get tired of that.” “Glad to hear it,” said Cassi, tossing her blond locks behind her head with a smile. “You know you’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he said to her. Sarth had started his relationship with Cassi shortly after she had joined the crew of the Hawk-bat. His sheltered background on Commenor had led to some measure of awkwardness when he tried to relate to her at first, but somehow, while in hiding from the Mistryl, their attraction had blossomed into a steady relationship that had lasted the past two years. While he had always found satisfaction and fulfillment in his work as a scientist and an engineer, he had since discovered that he would rather spend his time with Cassi more than anyone, even his parents or Selu. While he still enjoyed tackling technical challenges, his relationship with Cassi had opened his eyes to a new frontier of life beyond work. “I know,” she said simply, fixing the collar on his jacket. “You’d be a hopeless mess without me, living in the engine room, obsessing over your work.” “I happen to enjoy obsessing over my work,” he replied. “Mmhmm,” she said, noting something about Sarth. “Are you wearing the cologne I got you on Corulag?” “I am,” he said. “That’s nice of you to notice.” She looked up at him. “You only wear that when you have something special in mind.” “Is that so?” he said. “I know you, Sarth Kraen. Beneath your layer of sophistication and academia, you can actually be quite simple.” “Is that a bad thing?” he asked. “No.” Cassi shook her head. “I find it charming.” “That is to my benefit then, because I doubt I could be anything else.” “Well, thank you for the meal,” Cassi said. “It was lovely—I’m impressed with the programming you must have done to the food preparation units in order to get that much Bakuran cuisine out of it.” “I’m glad you liked it,” Sarth said. “I’m coming onto my duty shift soon. Until next time?” she said. “Indeed, but before you go . . . ,” Sarth said. “Yes?” Cassi asked. “Cassi-,” Sarth said haltingly. “There’s something I wanted to tell you.” “Yes? What’s going on, Sarth? You sound upset.” “I’m—I’m not upset. Cassi,” Sarth began again, sitting down at the table where the remains of a fine repast were scattered and taking her slim, smooth hand in his. “I hope you know how much you mean to me.” “As much as your engineering accolades and accomplishments?” she replied teasingly. “No,” he said seriously, looking into her blue eyes. “You’re much more special to me than that.” Sarth cleared his throat nervously and reached into his pocket, fingering a small, open box and the ring inside it as he tried to form the words. He had gone over this moment dozens of times before hand, to the point of driving Spectre mad. His painstaking rehearsals had formulated exactly how this occasion would go, but now that he had come to it, he just couldn’t get the words out: “Cassi Trealus, would you give me the honor of marrying me.” Was he supposed to get down on one knee? In his anxiety, his entire planned speech sailed out of his memory—an event that only rarely happened. His throat felt dry, and Cassi’s lovely face looking at him expectantly wasn’t helping matters. He opened his mouth to speak, but was suddenly cut off by the blaring of Selu’s voice over the ship’s intercom. “Attention all crew! Report to your stations immediately!” Sarth and Cassi were jolted out of their romantic moment by the call, scrambling out of their seats. Sarth headed for the engine room, while Cassi stood by at the aft crew station. Spectre and Milya darted forward to the ship’s bridge, both now cleaned up and changed into fresh clothes more fit for normal shipboard operations. “What is it?” Milya asked. Selu grimly indicated the wedge-shaped ship approaching ever closer. A voice blared through the Hawk-bat’s ship-to-ship relay. “This is the Star Destroyer Corrupter. Transmit your ship registration information and prepare to be boarded for inspection.” Star Destroyer Corrupter Lieutenant Ait Convarion stared at the report of a sensor contact he had received a minute ago, chewing his lip as he attempted to decide his course of action. If it was a ship, the Corrupter was authorized to board and inspect it as necessary. He considered summoning Nebulax, but decided against it. So far, he had nothing of importance with which to interest the captain. Fetching him now would likely only waste time and draw the ire of the senior officer, so he delayed contacting the captain. First, he needed more information on what exactly he was dealing with. “There it is, Lieutenant,” called the sensor officer in his crew pit. “I’m placing it up on your screen now.” “Thank you, Ensign,” said Convarion coolly. It was a ship, a light freighter, with barely any armament or shielding. There was seemingly nothing wrong with it, and Convarion saw no reason to trouble it. Such ships were incredibly common throughout the galaxy, and there was no reason to single this one out. “What is it, Lieutenant?” Convarion heard the stern voice of Captain Nebulax asked as he entered the bridge. “Just a light freighter, sir. No cause for alarm.” “Indeed,” Nebulax answered. “On the other hand, I would like to see how efficiently the crew can carry out a boarding action.” “Sir, it’s just a freighter. They’re going about their business. Surely it’s not worth—,” Nebulax fixed a cool glare on his subordinate. “Then as citizens of the Empire, I’m sure they will have no problem with a minor inconvenience for the sake of military readiness. Consider this a practice run in case we need to perform such an operation under more trying circumstances. Understood, Lieutenant?” “Yes, sir,” Convarion replied dutifully. “Good,” Nebulax told the chastened lieutenant. “Now contact that ship and tell them to prepare for a routine boarding inspection.” “Yes, Captain,” Convarion answered, toggling the ship’s communications transceiver. “This is the Star Destroyer Corrupter. Transmit your ship registration information and prepare to be boarded for inspection.” “Understood, Corrupter,” a male voice replied. “Transmitting information now.” Convarion observed with clear disinterest as lines of text began scrolling along the monitor. “Freighter Ardent Ray, out of Commenor,” he reported to Nebulax. “Small crew, cargo is bulk processed hydrocarbons for Zhar, approximately ten metric tons. Another three metric tons of foodstuffs. No known criminal record or peculiarities in the ship’s manifest.” “Then this will be a truly routine inspection,” Nebulax remarked drily. “Carry on, Lieutenant.” Hawk-bat “You’re not seriously considering letting an Imperial warship board us, are you?” Milya asked Selu in disbelief as she and the rest of the crew gathered in the bridge behind his chair. “Why not?” Spectre replied. “Sarth says our credentials are vac-tight. The cargo is in shielded containers, covered by a thick layer of naphthalene gel that will foil the scanners. We’re on a perfectly legal cargo run. We sent them our manifest and registration information and nothing came back on it.” “The credentials should check out,” Sarth assured her. “It’s probably just a routine stop.” “I don’t like it,” Milya said. “Too many ways for this to go wrong. Selu?” Selu had been listening to the conversation from the pilot’s chair, but now swiveled around as the small freighter approached the mammoth destroyer. “It should be fine,” he replied, then suddenly stiffened. “Spectre, take the controls.” Even with his diminished use of his Force senses, the aura of darkness emanating from the Corrupter was unmistakable. There was something—or someone—foul aboard that ship, and it was a powerful dark-side Force-user. He stiffened, realizing that he had to mask his ambient Force presence, lest they be found out, just as the Jedi Master Quinlan Vos had taught him on New Holstice months ago. Closing his eyes, he struggled to find the necessary mental clarity. It took more effort than it once had to hide himself and when Selu snapped out of the half-trance state a minute later, his arms were trembling faintly. “What is it?” Milya asked. “You losing it on us?” “I had to hide myself,” Selu told her. “From what?” she pressed him. “From someone on that ship,” he replied grimly. “There is tremendous evil there.” “Then we should get out of here right now,” Milya urged him. “Too late,” Sarth interjected. “We’re already in weapons and tractor range.” “Selu can outfly them,” Milya argued. “No, we play it cool,” Selu cut in. “Sarth’s right. Running now would be foolhardy at best. But we need a backup plan.” He turned to regard Cassi, who had been standing quietly in the back. She looked startled at the sudden attention. “Me?” she asked. “What can I do?” “Milya is going to show you how to rig a timed charge on detonators,” Selu said. “Then the two of you are going to put 100 kilos in each escape pod.” “What?” Cassi exclaimed. “Couldn’t she just do that herself?” “She could, but I want you inside the ship while the rest of us go out to meet the Imperials,” Selu replied. “It’s best for your safety that way.” “Which means that he’d rather not have you in a fight if it comes to that,” Milya put in. “No offense.” “Why don’t we just not fight at all?” Cassi asked. “That’s the plan,” Selu answered curtly. “But it never hurts to have a backup.” “How will I know when to trigger it?” “You’ll know,” Selu said. “Now go.” Selu turned to Sarth. “I assume you have dossiers for all of us?” “Of course,” Sarth said. “Right here with the rest of the Ardent Ray registration information.” He passed a datapad to Selu with a brief synopsis of the identity he would be using. “Looks good,” Selu replied, reading over the information studiously to memorize it, then deleting it once he was done. “Go give Cassi and Milya theirs.” “Understood,” Sarth told him, striding off purposefully. Out of all of them, Spectre did not have one. As a former clone-trooper and particularly a retired Advance Reconnaissance Commando, he was already too distinctive to try and conceal his identity. While he had legally-retired, Spectre also knew that certain factions of the Imperial Navy were biased against the original clone troopers. In truth, the Hawk-bat crew did not really need to use false identities that much since their actual names—except Selu—were in good standing, but Selu had made it expressly clear to them that while individual actions were not necessarily implicating, if someone were tracking them, they could reach potentially incriminating conclusions in aggregate. They didn’t need any more unnecessary complications. As the Hawk-bat settled down in the cavernous hangar of the Corrupter, Selu walked aft once the shut-down sequence was complete to where the rest of the crew was gathered near the hatch. “Remember,” he told them. “Be polite and subservient, but don’t overdo it. We’re just law-abiding Imperial citizens carrying out our business.” Selu reached for the door control then paused. “And no obvious weapons. Just the ones you can put in the defelite pockets of your jackets.” Defelite, a rare material produced by the shadowy Defel people, was known for its sensor-diffusing properties. While not strong enough to completely block out the beams, the metal scattered the beams, preventing a positive scan from being completed, similar to the actual biology of the Defel themselves. The Hawk-bat’s cargo hold was lined with defelite, making it harder for patrol ships to properly ascertain its cargo, and each member of the crew had a spacer’s jacket with defelite-lined interior pockets—a necessary but expensive precaution for some of their cargo runs. “Wasn’t planning on it,” Sarth said. “I was,” Milya remarked curtly, and then noted that Selu’s jacket pockets were empty. “What about you? Don’t you want your lightsaber?” “I have all I need,” Selu answered. To forestall any further argument, he opened the hatch and lowered the boarding ramp, walking down to meet the assembled Imperial boarding party. Sarth, Milya, and Spectre followed him reluctantly, taking in the hangar. It was enormous, capable of holding a ship twice the size of the Hawk-bat. They were landed at the far end of the hangar’s aperture, but across the mouth of the hangar’s expanse, rows of V-19 Torrent starfighters were evident. A pair of turbolaser turrets guarded the mouth of the hangar, and the entire structure seemed to be built out of the same dull gray metal. Various personal in khaki or black uniforms were busying themselves across the expanse. However, it was what was on their side that kept Selu’s interest. A squad of eight white-armored stormtroopers were at attention near them, while a black-clad officer followed by several naval troopers in similarly dark attire and three technicians walked up to them. Aside from the welcoming party, there was little to note on this sparsely-occupied side of the hangar. A thick double-blast door marked the entry point, while there was an observation window one level up overlooking this side of the hangar. Otherwise, scattered stacks of cargo pallets lining the walls were the only other objects on this end of the hangar. Seeing the officer draw near, Selu assumed his most amiable smile and advanced. “Good day,” Selu said, approaching the officer and offering his hand. “What can we do for you?” The lieutenant shook it, which Selu took as a good sign. “Routine inspection,” the lieutenant said affably. “I’m Lieutenant Albers.” “Captain Narachi,” Selu answered. “This is most of my crew. My cargomaster is inside to answer any questions your inspection team might have.” Albers’ gaze swept across the other three, who were arrayed in a loose line behind Selu. “Very good, Captain,” Albers said. “Shall we begin?” Nebulax stood at the observation window, intently observing the inspection process from one level up. Lieutenant Albers seemed dutiful and professional enough, and his well-mannered approach had earned him the complete cooperation of the crew. The scanning team had just entered the freighter. All-in-all, while Nebulax wasn’t overly impressed, his crew seemed to be following proper procedure. The door at the far end of the observation room slid open, admitting Ajaur. As usual, the Inquisitor did not look happy. “What is the meaning of this delay?” Ajaur demanded. “Routine freighter inspection,” Nebulax replied. “Part of our assignment and a good means of ensuring crew efficiency.” “It is not part of my assignment,” Ajaur said. “Inquisitor, your orders were to inform you when the ship was ready to depart. It wasn’t ready yet—have your orders changed?” Nebulax asked with just a touch of petulance. Ajaur glared at him. “You would do well not to push your bounds with me, Captain,” he said. “I will not tolerate any more of these distractions.” He raised a fist and Nebulax felt his throat begin to constrict. “Do I make myself clear?” Nebulax suddenly realized on what thin ice he was treading. Spots began to swim before his eyes, and he now understood the very real danger that Ajaur represented. The Inquisitor clearly had no qualms about killing him on the spot, and was somehow strangling him without so much as laying a hand on him. He hastily nodded. “Good,” Ajaur said, and Nebulax suddenly felt the pressure on his neck abate. Suddenly, the Inquisitor turned his scowl down towards the crew of the freighter. “I sense . . .” he whispered to himself. “I sense an unusual amount of fear in them.” He turned back to Nebulax. “They are hiding something. Have your officer ferret it out.” Nebulax nodded. “Yes, Inquisitor,” he said, retrieving his comlink. “Lieutenant, we have reason to believe that the crew is hiding information. Press them.” “Yes, Captain,” Albers replied obediently. Selu watched as Albers returned from where he had walked off to answer his comlink, and stiffened as he realized the man’s body language had changed. His demeanor was now tense and suspicious. “Captain Narachi,” Albers addressed him, this time with less amiability. “You said your cargo included bulk hydrocarbons?” “Yes,” Selu replied. “Napthalene gel.” “Very interesting,” Albers said, even though it wasn’t. “A perfectly legal cargo on a ship that checks out—but does your crew?” Selu offered him four identichips, still maintaining his honest-spacer pretense. “You’re welcome to look,” he said. “My brother Sinthe and I have been together the longest, but we hired these other three over the last couple years.” “I see,” Albers said. “Quite a large crew for a ship of this size. How do you turn a profit?” “Larger crew allows us to make longer runs with fewer stops,” Selu told him. “We make a living off of bringing important cargos to valued customers faster than other ships our size.” “Like naphthalene gel?” the lieutenant asked skeptically. Selu managed a sheepish smile. “Not every cargo is like that,” he admitted. “Sometimes, jobs like this are the best we can get to make ends meet.” The lieutenant grunted dismissively, walking past each of the crewmembers in turn as he examined the identichips in turn. “Maya Ebernath,” he said as he stopped in front of Milya. “Quite a pretty face for a spacer. It says here that you’re a customer negotiations specialist. What does that make you? Captain’s woman, loaned out to secure deals?” Milya flushed red with embarrassment—and anger. Selu shot her a warning look, but she disregarded him. “More like professional ass-kicker,” she retorted. “Normally I charge for demonstrations, but I’m running a special today.” He barked out a laugh, glancing over at Selu. “You should keep this one on a tight leash, Captain. I bet she bites too.” “Her bite is definitely worse than her bark,” Selu assured him. “I am surprised that you would need a security specialist, with this fine gentleman on your crew list,” Albers continued, stopping in front of Spectre. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen. ‘Spectre,’ formerly Alpha-28 of the Imperial Army. Ex-ARC, and highly decorated too. That’s quite a pedigree.” “I’m retired,” Spectre said. “Just a pilot now.” “Well, the Empire thanks you for your service,” Albers said ingratiatingly. “He’s not as fast as he used to be, and sometimes he has arthritis, but I figured it was the least I could do for a veteran,” Selu said. “Indeed,” Albers remarked, continuing on to Sarth. “And your brother, the engineer. Dropped out of school to work on ships. Your parents must be proud.” “They’re dead,” Selu replied as Sarth stiffened. “Candorian Plague.” “My apologies,” Albers said insincerely, his former cheeriness gone. The scanning crew returned from the depths of the Hawk-bat. “Anything?” Albers asked them. “No, sir, the ship’s clean,” they reported. “Hmm,” the officer mused. “Check it again.” “Lieutenant, is this necessary?” Selu asked. “We have a tight deadline to keep with our customer—this job already has a low profit margin as it is.” Albers glared at him. “Surely a minor inconvenience is a small price to pay for compliance with Imperial law?” he asked rhetorically. “Of course,” Selu muttered dejectedly. Ajaur scowled impatiently at the apparently lack of progress or incrimination. “Your man is incompetent,” he growled at Nebulax. “He seems to be doing his job,” Nebulax argued, having been impressed by Albers’ dedication to his task. “How do you even know that they’re hiding something?” Ajaur fixed his angry glare at Nebulax. “I know,” he said with conviction. “And I will sort the truth out for myself since your officer cannot even recognize a simple lie.” With that, the Inquisitor turned and strode out of the room, heading for the door that led to the turbolift. Selu felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as the double blast door hissed open to admit a tall man clad completely in black. The man was bald, the right side of his face hideously scarred. His garments seemed to include some kind of flexible armor plating on the chest, shoulders, forearms, and boots, and a long black cloak billowed out behind him. However, worst of all was the realization that his man was responsible for the dark-side aura that he had sensed. Selu noted with horror that a lightsaber dangled from the man’s belt, but he had little time for observation as the man strode right up to him, malice evident in his expression. “What is your cargo?” the man demanded, without bothering for pleasantries. Selu gave him a confused look. “Napthalene gel,” he said. “Like it says on the manifest.” The half-truth should be enough to get him past the man’s ability to detect lies with the Force, Selu figured. “Have you ever committed piracy?” the man asked him. “No!” Selu insisted, which was the truth, then turned to Albers, who was pale and clearly in no mood to intervene. “Lieutenant, who is this man?” “I speak for the Empire,” Ajaur replied. “That is enough. Have you ever carried illegal cargo?” Selu stiffened imperceptibly, but, convincing himself that he had not carried any cargo illegal in certain jurisdictions—such as ones where there were no laws about cargo—he was confident enough to answer the man. “No,” Selu said. “We’re a legitimate freighter.” “You’re a confident man, Captain, but your companions are not so assured,” Ajaur told him. “They have betrayed you. I sense their duplicity.” Without warning, he struck Selu with a tremendous blow to the solar plexus, driving the wind out of Selu and doubling him over. Spectre, Milya, and Sarth watched in horror as Selu was suddenly assaulted, but the eight stormtroopers brought their blasters up to cover them, preventing any foolhardy action. Ajaur gestured and two naval troopers hauled Selu to his feet, each one gripping him under one shoulder. “Are you carrying illegal weapons on your ship?” Selu willed Spectre, Sarth, and Milya to have the mental fortitude not to let their thoughts betray them, to not think of the hidden concealed weapon systems on the ship, or his lightsaber, or the military-grade armor and weapons they had acquired fighting the Mistryl. Clearing his mind to the mental state of an innocent freighter captain, he confidently addressed his interrogator. “No.” Ajaur’s fury was kindled, a look of absolute rage clouding his face. “Liar!” he shouted, striking Selu across the face with enough power to snap his head to the side sharply. “Where are the weapons?” he demanded as Selu spat blood out of his mouth onto the smooth metal deck-plating. “I . . . don’t . . . know . . . what you’re talking about,” Selu rasped as the naval troopers held him tight. The response was a vicious punch that landed just under his ribs, followed by another to the temple that left his head spinning. He coughed and gasped for breath, his shipmates wincing with horror and concern. “You’re lying,” Ajaur informed him. “I can sense your companions’ lies. I can sense their guilt.” Milya turned to Spectre, a concerned look on her face. “Shouldn’t we do something?” she asked him in a whisper. “There’s nothing we can do,” Spectre said stolidly, staring down the blaster muzzles leveled at the other three of them. Ajaur backhanded Selu across the mouth, drawing blood and causing Selu’s head to slump. This provided an opportunity for Ajaur to clasp his hands together and bring them down on the back of Selu’s head, nearly knocking him unconscious. “Kriff it, Spectre, he’s going to kill him,” Milya whispered fiercely, concern written across her face. Spectre gave no reply, but shook his head slightly. Sarth flinched with each hit as Ajaur continued to rain punishing blows down on Selu. Milya did her best to remain impassive, but couldn’t help it. “We have to do something,” she whispered, but Spectre gave no reply. It took considerable effort for Selu to bring up his throbbing head to stare directly at Ajaur once the Inquisitor was done pummeling him, blood dribbling from a cut on his lip. Gathering enough breath and managing a defiant scowl at Ajaur, he addressed the black-clad man. “Perhaps they’re scared because a thug in black appeared from nowhere to start beating their captain senseless without a good reason. Even your own men are scared of you—who are you?” Ajaur directed a baleful look at Selu. “I carry the authority of the Empire,” he said. “And I ask the questions.” “An armored fist—sounds like the Empire’s authority all right,” Selu bit out. Ajaur roared in anger, slamming his knee into Selu’s groin. Selu’s vision exploded into stars as pain overloaded his mind. He collapsed limply out of the naval troopers’ grasp and rolled over onto his side, allowing Ajaur to stomp on his chest mercilessly. The crack of breaking ribs was audible, eliciting a stifled gasp from Milya. Selu was left curled up on the deck, coughing and gasping for breath. The naval troopers started to pick him up, but Ajaur waved them off curtly. “Since your captain is indisposed, perhaps one of you will be more forthcoming,” he said, addressing Sarth, Milya, and Spectre. “I advise you to learn from his mistakes. Clone, answer me.” “I have a name,” Spectre said. “And I no longer take orders from the Empire.” “A mistake you will soon come to regret,” Ajaur replied. He started towards Spectre and then thought better of it, turning to Milya. “Take her,” he ordered the naval troopers. “Perhaps seeing her suffer will loosen your tongues.” They started toward her and she tensed, ready to fight. Ajaur strode up to her and before she could react, his arm whipped up to grip around her neck. She was about to fight, but he simply squeezed. “Move and I’ll snap your worthless neck,” he said. Milya felt his strength, knew he wasn’t exaggerating, and complied, standing helplessly. “Know this,” Ajaur intoned. “I am in complete control here. I could have your ship torn apart and simply execute you once proof of your crimes is found, but I find extracting confessions far more . . . pleasurable. You will confess, and then you will die.” “Wait . . .” Selu said as he rose to his knees from his fetal position on the deck. “Let her go. I’ll tell you all you want.” Ajaur released Milya, striding over to plant his boot on Selu’s back, forcing him to collapse on the deck again. “What do you think you could possibly say that would persuade me?” he demanded. Selu gave no reply, but instead closed his eyes and toggled the comlink clipped to his inside collar. “Now, Cassi,” he said, surrendering himself to the will of the Force if Ajaur reacted before the plan went into action. He was at peace, ready to die—then at least his life would have meant something, provided his companions were able to escape. He would finally have rest. “Get down!” he called even as his mind prepared for the escape of death. “Jedi,” Ajaur breathed murderously, reaching for the lightsaber on his belt. Before he could react, the hangar was filled with a thunderous roar as two escape pods blasted away from the Hawk-bat. Ordinarily designed for release in vacuum at high speed, the escape vehicles were impossibly loud when jettisoned in atmosphere. The first one shot across the hangar’s aperture to smash through a row of fighters and skid across the hangar in a shower of sparks before coming to rest embedded half-way through the far wall, a trail of destruction extended behind it. The second one launched directly at Ajaur and only narrowly did the Inquisitor avoid being struck. The shockwave from the launches knocked all of the Imperials off their feet and sent Ajaur, caught mid-leap, tumbling backward into a pile of crates, which collapsed under him. This second escape pod smashed into the blast door, causing the surrounding deck to shake from the impact, but the sturdy construction held. Spectre and Milya sprang to their feet and into action, relieving the naval troopers of their blasters and spraying the downed Imperials with blaster fire. As part of their precautions, they had been wearing self-sealing acoustic earplugs, which automatically sealed to protect them in event of incredible noise spikes, protecting their hearing. “Run!” Spectre told Sarth, ushering him towards the ramp. Sarth complied, scrambling to his feet and racing for the Hawk-bat. By now, some of the stormtroopers had recovered and were beginning to return fire. Scarlet blaster bolts flew past Sarth, Spectre, and Milya as they returned fire. Milya stopped to haul Selu to his feet. “Come on,” she told him. He nodded weakly and half-ran, half-staggered to the boarding ramp. Milya and Spectre slowly retreated, laying down covering fire. Smoke filled the hangar and alarms wailed, intermingled with the constant report of blasters. “I think we overstayed our welcome,” Spectre shouted to Milya as a blaster bolt hit the ship only half a meter from her head. “Then let’s call it a day,” she retorted, backing another half-step closer to the ramp. “After you,” he called. She nodded, diving aside and then sprinting up the ramp into the Hawk-bat. Blisters on the dorsal and ventral surface of the ship folded down to reveal laser cannon turrets, which swiveled and began adding their tremendous firepower to suppress Imperial resistance. If the hangar had been noisy before, the cacophony of the larger weapons doubled the previous volume, flooding the confined space with sound. Milya leaned out from the hatchway to fire several more shots to cover Spectre, who sprinted up the hatchway, chased by blaster bolts. As soon as he was inside, Milya slapped the control and it sealed after him. She raced up to the bridge where Selu already had the ship floating on its repulsorlifts, its shields raised and activated. Blaster bolts were sparking off the shields harmlessly, but Milya saw the turbolaser turrets begin to pivot towards them menacingly. “Selu!” she called, pointing at them. “On it,” he said, triggering a control. A hidden aperture slid open in the nose of the Hawk-bat, and two highly-illegal proton torpedoes shot from the ship’s concealed launcher in rapid succession to smash into each turret, turning them into glowing fireballs. “Five seconds!” Spectre called as he scrambled into the bridge. “Strap in,” Selu advised them grimly as he opened fire with the two legal nose-mounted laser cannons to hit the tractor beam emitters. Satisfied that they were offline when they erupted in gouts of flame, he gunned the ship’s ion engines and banked sharply to plunge them through the magcon shield out into the vacuum of space. Just as the Hawk-bat cleared the hangar, twin explosions erupted from within as the rigged detonite’s timer reached zero. Selu gunned the engines and the Hawk-bat soared away from the wounded destroyer, but he was far from out of the Empire’s reach. “Four fighters, coming in hot,” Milya called. “Man the guns,” Selu replied even as turbolaser fire from the Corrupter began bracketing the ship. Selu toggled a switch and two of laser cannon turrets stayed on automatic fire control using a droid brain programmed by Sarth while letting Spectre and Cassi take the other two. While the shoot-back mode had been useful inside the hangar, in space against fighters was a different story. As the starfighters closed on the freighter, Selu felt the ship shudder from laser cannon bolt impacts and near misses as the four turrets poured purple laser blasts back at the Imperial craft. Unfortunately, the strafing of the V-wings were taking their toll; Selu was forced to either maneuver to avoid their shots or shunt more powers from engines to lasers and shields, reducing their flight to freedom. Slowly, inexorably, the Corrupter was gaining on them. “Selu, they’re going to catch us!” called Milya. “I know!” he shouted back, throwing the Hawk-bat into a steep power dive in a futile attempt to break away from the Star Destroyer. The freighter’s guns found another one of the V-wings, and it veered off trailing sparks and fumes, out of the fight. However, it was too little, too late. A warning beeped on Selu’s panel, indicating that Corrupter was within weapons range. The large turrets on the kilometer-long destroyer rotated to track their target. Once locked on, they burst forth brilliant lances of blue ion energy at the Hawk-bat. The ion cannons on the Corrupter were capable of disabling much larger vessels—one as small as the Hawk-bat didn’t stand a chance. At the last moment, Selu banked and the ion beams, which would have completely disabled every system on the Hawk-bat, seared past the ship. However, the sheer proximity was enough to send skitters of energy across the shields, tearing into their integrity. “That was close!” Milya called. Selu wordlessly clutched the controls with a frenzied grip, precariously dodging and jinking to evade the deadly fusillades of green turbolaser bursts even as he clawed for open space far enough from Zhar’s gravity well to jump to lightspeed. The beams were getting closer. Selu keyed the navicomputer, hoping to plot a jump to somewhere, anywhere away from their assailant. Unfortunately, that particular piece of equipment had yet to be tweaked by Sarth, and precious seconds would be needed to complete the complex calculations for jumping to lightspeed. Seconds they didn’t have. The Hawk-bat shuddered as another near-miss from a turbolaser detonated near the aft quarter of the sleek freighter. The impact of the blow threw Sarth into a wall across from the overheating shield control circuitry he was trying to bypass. From a muffled groan coming from down the hall, he could tell that the hit had had a similar effect on Cassi. He struggled back to his feet, retrieving the dropped hydrospanner and other tools rolling around on the deck. Cursing at the sight of the now burned-out circuitry and the shower of blue sparks it was emitting, he quickly shut off the entire relay before it literally blew up in his face. Keying the intercom, he shouted a message to Selu. “Selu! We can’t take any more hits! The shields are gone!” Up in the bridge, Selu heard his brother’s report; it was not new information, as his own readouts already told him their dire straits. With the Corrupter in hot pursuit and now stripped bare of their protective shields, he had but one option—an immediate jump to lightspeed. Glancing at the navicomputer, he willed it to complete its calculations, but to no avail. Selu had a quick flash of intuition and could almost see the crosshairs of several weapons emplacements on his ship and knew it was time for a desperate maneuver. Throwing the hyperspace lever, he held his breath as stars elongated and the Hawk-bat shot into hyperspace, narrowly evading the final salvo of brilliant green turbolaser bolts. They were safe, but for how long? Blind jumps into hyperspace, performed without the benefit of navicomputer calculations, were eschewed by even the most veteran spacers as nothing less than suicide.
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