• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“That would be our thermal detonator,” Qui-Gon said. “And the tracking device?”

“Affixed to the hull of the shuttle and still functioning, Master,” Obi-Wan reported, gazing at the flashing bezel. “Again, you have anticipated Captain Cohl.”

“Not without help, Padawan. You know what to do.”

Obi-Wan smiled as he reached for the controls. “I only wish I could see Cohl’s face.”

Cohl’s mouth fell open as he watched the pursuing pod burst apart along a midline seam. Inside was a wingless Corellian Lancet, painted a telltale crimson from pointed nose to sleek-finned tail.

“It’s flying Coruscant colors!” Boiny said in astonishment. “Judicial Department.”

“Matching us maneuver for maneuver,” Rella reported as she wove the terrorist’s shuttle through a swarm of cargo pods and clusters of loosed lommite ore.

“Gaining on us,” Boiny updated.

Rella refused to accept it. “Since when do judicials pilot like that?”

“Who else could be piloting?” one of the humans asked. “It sure isn’t Neimoidians.”

Cohl locked eyes with Rella.

“Jedi?” they said in unison.

Cohl considered it, then shook his head. “What would the Jedi be doing out here? This isn’t Republic space. Besides, no one—and I mean no one—knew about this operation.”

Boiny and the rest were quick to agree. “The captain’s right. No one knew about this operation.”

But the uncertainty in the Rodian’s voice was glaring, and Cohl was suddenly aware that everyone was watching him.

“No one, Cohl?” Rella said leadingly.

He frowned at her. “Outside the Nebula Front, anyway.”

“Maybe the Force told them,” Boiny mumbled.

Rella studied the displays. “We might still make the Hawk-Bat.”

Cohl leaned toward the shuttle’s wraparound viewport. “Where is she?”

“Holding at the rendezvous point above Dorvalla’s pole.” When, after a long moment, Cohl still hadn’t responded, she added, “I’ll just keep flying in circles while you make your mind up about what to do.”

Cohl looked at Boiny. “Run a surface scan of the shuttle hull.”

“Surface scan?” the Rodian asked dubiously.

“Now,” Cohl said sharply.

Boiny bent over the console, then straightened in his seat. “We’re hosting a locator!”

Cohl’s eyes narrowed. “They’re hoping to track us.”

“Correction, Cohl,” Rella said. “They are tracking us.”

Cohl ignored the remark and glanced at Boiny again. “How much time before the Revenue blows?”

“Seven minutes.”

“Can you calculate the shape of the freighter’s explosion?”

Boiny and Rella swapped troubled glances. “To a certain extent,” the Rodian said in a tentative voice.

“Do it. Then give me your best estimate of the blast radius and the extent of the debris cloud.”

Boiny swallowed hard. “Even my best estimate is going to be plus or minus a couple of hundred kilometers, Captain.”

Cohl mulled it over in silence, then glanced at Rella. “Come about—hard.”

She stared at him. “It’s confirmed: You’ve lost your mind.”

“You heard me,” Cohl snapped. “It’s back to the freighter for us.”

Just inside the magcon portal of the Acquisitor’s port-side hangar arm, Daultay Dofine crawled indecorously from the barrel-shaped escape pod the freighter’s powerful tractor beam had retrieved.

The navigator and the rest followed him out.

Commander Lagard was on hand to meet them.

“It is an honor to rescue so celebrated a person,” Lagard said.

Dofine adjusted the fit of his robes and straightened his command miter. “Yes, I’m sure it is,” he replied. “Did you do as I asked and contact Viceroy Gunray?”

Lagard indicated the Neimoidian mechno-chair that had probably conveyed him from the bridge. “The viceroy is eager to hear what you have to report. As am I, Commander.”

Dofine pushed past Lagard to get to the chair, which immediately began to move off in the direction of the centersphere—no doubt at Lagard’s remote behest.

A product of Affodies Crafthouse of Pure Neimoidia, the curious and prohibitively costly device had two sickle-shaped rear legs that terminated in single-claw feet, and a pair of double-clawed articulated guidance limbs. The laser-etched