Star Wars_ Shatterpoint - Matthew Woodring Stover [122]
We must.
It is bitter, that we last men ofghosh Windu must be enemies. I wish this could have turned out differently, but I did not expect it would. Depa has told me that you do not lose well. "I haven't had much practice."
Vaster bent his head in a regretful nod of respect. Good-bye, Mace, Jedi of the Windu.
A tiny surge of the Force-Just a twitch. A shrug. The slightest nudge, not even directed at Mace; sent off somewhere into the trees below the pass-A signal.
The scene, frozen in time, locked in the amber of Mace's Force-sense: Vaster standing with arms folded, not the slightest hint of threat, his shields pushed high on his arms, those arms still crossed to bury the lightsabers that he held under his massive biceps-Mace beside him, exposed on the lip of the cliff, unarmed-Gunships rippling the jungle canopy far below in shock wakes, silent with distance-Nick behind in the cave, rifle leaning against the rock, one hand yanking the butt of his bolstered pistol in a draw that to ordinary eyes would be blinding-And a man hidden in the shadows of the jungle a kilometer away, smoothly squeezing the trigger of a high-powered sniper's blaster rifle to send one single packet of murderous scarlet energy clawing up toward the meadow from the jungle below-Centered on Mace Windu's heart.
All this Mace kenned in a single instant, effortlessly, and the shatterpoint he found and struck by instinct was Vastor's balance at the lip of the cliff.
Calmly, without any particular haste, Mace put his hand on Vastor's shoulder and gave the lorpelek a shove.
Over the edge.
Vastor's eyes bulged astonishment as he toppled forward and his arms uncrossed to windmill for his balance. His teetering swung his head just far enough in the right direction that the bullet from Nick's slug pistol scorched Vastor's temple instead of blowing his brains out through his eyes; as his arms whirled, his grip on the lightsabers loosened. Mace reached into the Force, snatching them both, triggering them to flaring life and bringing them to his hands with an easy six or seven milliseconds to spare before he needed them to splatter aside the bolt from the jungle below.
Vastor's vine cat reflexes whirled him in the air and latched his hands onto the rock face a meter below the lip of the cliff. His confederate in the jungle poured fire up at Mace to drive him back, while Nick ran out of the cave behind him, shouting "Did I get him? Is he dead1? Is he dead?" until Vaster threw himself back up into the meadow, bringing his vibroshields into fighting position with a surge of the Force.
Nick fired as fast as his finger could jerk the pistol's trigger and bullets clanged off Vastor's flashing shields-And Mace just stood there.
Staring into his blade.
In the Force, the world had turned to crystal.
The purple flame of his blade splintered flaws throughout the planet.
Stress fractures spidered from his blade to Vaster, to Nick, into the mountain behind, into the pass below, and to space above, racing in outrippling waves that joined him with what was, but also with what had been, and what would be.
Triggering his blade here, now: it was a shatterpoint of the Summertime War.
His consciousness splintered along with the world, flashing instantly along the fault lines and vectors of effect: for a single instant, he was in direct and intimate contact with many different times and places.
He saw it all.
As though from some impossible distance, he saw the Balawai prisoners kneeling on the promontory, and how gunships had arrived almost before he'd even lit the wood he'd piled up to make a signal fire.
He saw the gunships arrive at the outpost, only minutes after he had ignited this weapon to defend the children in the bunker from the hasty fire of their own people's weapons.
He saw Vaster below the outpost's ruins, and heard again his growled meaning: My men say you drove them off single-handed,