• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

Transparisteel shards from the damaged chandelier rained down on the crowd, and shrieks of surprise and pain joined the noisy confusion behind her. The last of the light died; now the lobby was lit only by glows from the surrounding bars. Alema reached the exit and whipped around the corner, pausing for a moment to retrieve her blowgun from under her left arm and reload it.

The broad corridor where she found herself was well lit, and the panic from inside the lobby had not yet infected the streams of pedestrian traffic here. So she was quick to notice the figure in the distance ahead of her, running toward her with unusual speed and purpose.

It was Leia. Leia Solo, looking straight at her. Alema could feel a flash of anger from her through the Force. It was echoed by a similar flash from behind, down the hallway in the other direction.

Alema grimaced. This wasn’t right. Han should be here. Alema would kill Han, Leia would suffer, Alema would escape.

But now, with two Jedi behind her and one in either escape direction, Alema would have to be instantly, lethally efficient if she was to get away. Getting away was the most important thing at this moment. She would have to abandon justice in favor of practicality. She would have to kill Leia.

Alema raised her blowgun to her lips.

Leia raised one hand.

Alema felt the blowgun twitch—and the dart within it shot backward, straight into her mouth.

Alema froze there for one long, terrible moment.

But she wasn’t dead. The poisoned tip had not come down on her tongue.

With infinite care, Alema turned her head to one side and spat the dart out.

Then, as cold fear clawed at her heart, she ran.

There were too many of them to deal with, and the suddenness of the trap they’d sprung unnerved her. She had to get to a safe place, to recover her bearings.

Fifty meters ahead of her, striding forward with confidence, radiating anger, came Jaina Solo.

Alema cried out, a wordless noise of frustration. She turned leftward, toward a bank of turbolifts, and the door into one opened. She ran through and it closed behind her.

A family of three Duros looked at her, their heads tilted at the same angle of curiosity. The child had a Kowakian monkey-lizard on its shoulder, and the appalling little creature pointed at Alema and cackled.

“Deck, please?” the lift’s automated voice asked.

“Down,” Alema hissed.

But nothing happened. A second passed, and the sense of menace surrounding Alema increased.

She knew what was happening. Her enemies were all around her, had seized control of the Errant Venture, could use even doors and turbolifts to harry and delay her.

She reactivated her lightsaber and plunged it into the floor. The Duros drew back, suddenly afraid.

She took only moments to cut a hole in the floor, then dropped through it into the turbolift shaft.

Minutes later, she was in a cargo hold, hurtling between tall, lashed-together stacks of plasteel containers, continuing to move as fast as she could, certain that the pursuing Jedi were just an instant behind her.

They had to be using the ship’s holocam system. Alema didn’t understand. She thought that her techniques would defeat it.

The enemy must have new techniques.

A door in the bulkhead ahead of her hissed open, and a man stepped through. He wore a full-coverage garment of glistening blue material and a helmet, narrower and closer than a pilot’s. Its faceplate was transparent, and through it she recognized the features of Jagged Fel.

He extended an empty hand. “Alema, surrender. I guarantee—”

She raised her blowgun and shot him.

He pitched forward.

No—he knelt forward. He was drawing his holstered blaster before she’d realized he wasn’t dead, wasn’t dying. Armor, he had to be wearing armor.

He raised his blaster and shot her.

The blast struck her in the left shoulder, spinning her around, throwing her to the ground. Pain lanced through her—pain, and a realization that he’d broken her clavicle, that he’d further mutilated her.

She rolled to one side as he shot again.