Star Wars_ The Dark Lord Trilogy - James Luceno [420]
Above him.
Too late, Even realized the other’s tactic. The blast struck the tube at the juncture between the ceiling and the lift, melting and fusing it together into an impassable mass. Even barely managed to stop his ascent in time. A second later the trooper fired again, this time turning the tube’s base below the Jedi’s feet into molten slag.
He could move neither up nor down, Even realized. He was trapped, like a bug in a bottle.
But this bug could sting.
Even Piell reached into his jacket’s pocket and seized his lightsaber. Before the stormtrooper, who was carefully lining up his shot, could fire again, he activated the blade.
With a fierce electronic growl, the energy shaft surged forth, as if eager to be free after all this time. Even swung the blade once, then reversed the stroke, slashing and melting a hole in the tube. He let the Force wash him through it, an invisible cascade that carried him out of the lift and in a long arc toward the floor. The five troopers fired repeatedly, bolts of red lambent energy that Even, guided by the Force, batted away with his own weapon. None came close.
Despite his momentary victory, he knew this battle was far from won. The stormtroopers blocked the exit. Normally even five-to-one odds would pose little challenge for a Jedi Master immersed in the Force. But Even had been on the run for weeks; he’d had little rest and even less food. Despite the energizing effects of the Force, he was still far from his peak fighting form. He had no compunctions about running if possible; the Jedi teachings stressed practicality over bravery. But to flee into the darkness of the ancient chamber in his condition would be futile. The troopers would cut him down like a ripe yahi’i stalk if he turned his back. No, there was only one way out—through them.
The stormtroopers were almost upon him. Even Piell took a fighting stance, raised his lightsaber, and gave himself fully to the Force.
two
Nick Rostu was living on borrowed time.
He knew it; had known it for almost three standard years, ever since that night in the command bunker on Haruun Kal, when Iolu’s vibroshield had opened him up like an overcooked Balawai meatpie. He had held his viscera in, his interlocked fingers the only barrier keeping them from spilling onto the duracrete floor, as he lay in a crumpled heap, only dimly aware of the final battle taking place a couple of meters away between Mace Windu and Kar Vastor. Then even that faint spark of consciousness had faded; Nick had felt the planet crack open beneath him, and he had fallen through it and tumbled toward the stars.
He hadn’t minded, really. As a Korunnai, all he had ever known was war, as far back as he could remember. He was more than ready for some peace.
But peace wasn’t in the cards just yet.
Nick had awakened two days later, on board a MedStar frigate bound for the Core Worlds. He was told that only his connection with the Force had kept him alive long enough to respond to medical aid. He’d asked that the scar across his belly be left unrevised—he wanted a reminder of what it meant to let his guard down, even for a split second.
He’d completed his convalescence at Coruscant Medical, under the best care available—the Jedi Council had seen to that. And Mace made it a point to visit him; often, at first, but as the days went by and the Clone Wars escalated, the Jedi Master appeared less and less. Nick understood why, of course. Things were really heating up. The last couple of times he’d seen Mace, the latter’s face had been creased with worry.
Mace had recommended him for a Silver Medal of Valor, the second highest award given for conspicuous bravery under fire. The ceremony took place after Nick was released from the medcenter. His rank of brevet major in the Grand Army of the Republic was also confirmed, and for the next two years Major Nick Rostu commanded the 44th Division, a unit composed of clone