• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

She stopped a few meters from them. There was no one else on the street now, save for the Fondorian cowering somewhere behind her. No one in their right mind wanted to be around when the Raptors were on the prowl.

“That’s my skyhopper,” she said, relieved to find that her voice was not shaking. “Please return the things you stole and move away from it.”

The Raptors looked at each other in astonishment before breaking into the various sounds that constituted laughter for each species. One of the human males—lean and wiry, sporting an improbable mane of green hair standing straight up in an electrostatic field—swaggered toward her.

“New around here, I’m guessing,” he said, causing more sniggering—this time with a distinctly unpleasant edge—to erupt from his compatriots.

Darsha reviewed her options quickly. There weren’t many. She was one against a dozen, and while her knowledge of the Jedi fighting arts improved the odds somewhat, she was still not at all confident in her ability to come out ahead in a battle. She was on their turf, after all, and for all she knew, there might be a dozen more of them lurking in the shadows.

But there were alternatives to fighting. The mind trick she had tried earlier on the beggars hadn’t been completely successful, but it had turned away a few of them. It might serve now to confuse the Raptors long enough to allow her to reach the vehicle. Of course, she still had to get Oolth in the craft with her, but one problem at a time.

She raised her right hand, fanning the fingers in a gesture designed to focus their attention while she reached out mentally for the Force. “You’re not interested in me,” she said, using the soft but compelling tone she had been taught, “or my vehicle.” She could see by their confused and uncertain expressions that it was working, could feel their wills beginning to vibrate in resonance with hers.

Green Hair was either the leader or something close to it, because when he nodded and said slowly, “We’re not interested in her, or her vehicle,” the rest of the gang mumbled the same words in ragged unison.

Darsha took a few steps forward, making the hypnotic gesture again. “You might as well go now,” she told Green Hair. “There’s nothing interesting going on here.”

“We might as well go now. There’s nothing interesting going on here.” The rest of the gang again echoed him.

Darsha kept moving slowly but steadily forward. She stepped past Green Hair and was now in the midst of them, only a step or two away from her craft. She had them now; she could feel their minds, some struggling feebly, others willingly surrendering to her suggestive power amplified by the Force. Another moment and she would be in the skyhopper.

A scream echoed down the dark street.

Startled, Darsha whipped around, staring back toward the source of the cry. It was Oolth the Fondorian, staggering out into the middle of the narrow thoroughfare, shaking and kicking his leg frantically to dislodge a large armored rat that had clamped its jaws onto his shin. Even as she realized who it was, she realized, as well, that her tenuous mind-lock on the Raptors had been shattered by the unexpected sound. Blinking and shaking their heads as if awakening from slumber, the Raptors realized that their prey had obligingly delivered itself right into their midst.

Darsha had no choice now but to fight. She reached for her lightsaber, but before she could seize it they were upon her.

Hath Monchar was afraid.

This was not a particularly surprising state of affairs to anyone who knew the deputy viceroy of the Trade Federation. Even among Neimoidians, Monchar was considered remarkably timid. Which made it all the more amazing that he had done what he had done.

Monchar was afraid, yes, but underneath that was another emotion, one far less familiar to him than fear. This emotion was pride—a nervous and fragile pride, it was true, but pride nevertheless. He had taken a chance—a big chance. He had dared to steer his life in a new and, with