Star Wars - Lost Tribe of the Sith 01 - Precipice

operate a distress beacon, a receiver, or even the celestial atlas. “We are
here
, Yaru. We are here and we are out of action. Out of the war. Out of everything. We are out of it!”
    “
You’re
out of it.”
    Korsin climbed into a hallway and began rummaging through cabinets, looking for something that would help those below. Unfortunately,
Omen
had been outfitted for a deep-space mission. Sith provisioners were sparing. No portable generators at all. Another compartment. Clothes. That would help tonight, but they wouldn’t be staying.
    “We have to stay,” Devore said, as if he had read Korsin’s thought.
    “What?”
    “We have to stay,” Devore repeated. Standing alone,a tombstone in the shadows of the hallway, he spoke with a voice that quaked. “It’s been two days. You don’t understand. It’s been two days.”
    Korsin didn’t stop his search, passing in front of his brother to another door, jammed by the damage.
    “It’s been two days, Yaru. Naga Sadow will think we ran away. To take the Lignan crystals for
ourselves
!”
    “He’ll blame
Saes
,” Korsin said, remembering. Naga Sadow hadn’t fully trusted the fallen Jedi who captained the
Harbinger.
He’d asked Korsin to keep an eye on Saes, to report back. When he did—if he did—Korsin fully intended to explain how the
Harbinger
had lost control, how the
Harbinger
had struck the
Omen
. With any luck, Sadow had
Harbinger
already—
    Korsin released the door handle. He hadn’t seen what happened to
Harbinger
after the collision, but it was a safe bet that Sadow would have the crippled
Harbinger
already. And Saes, sitting there with only half the shipment of Lignan crystals and unable to deliver, would be bargaining for his life, saying anything about the
Omen.
He would sing harmonies the Khil would be proud of.
    Korsin looked down the hallway. “Back at Primus Goluud. On the station. You met with Sadow, didn’t you?”
    Devore shuffled. “To discuss the Lignan operation.”
    “You weren’t discussing something else? Like who should command this mission?”
    Devore glared at him with bloodshot eyes. That look again.
    “You were discussing who should command this mission,” Korsin pressed, surprised at his own calm. “What did you say when he said no?”
    The commander’s blood froze. He knew how things always went with Devore—how things must have gone. Sadow had rejected his half brother, and Devore had said something. What? Not enough to offend Sadow—no,Devore was still here in the wreck, drawing labored breaths. But Sadow would have reason to suspect Devore’s loyalty, would have cause to wonder whether his crystals were safe. The one thing Yaru Korsin had was his reputation for playing it straight—but now at a minimum, Sadow would know that Korsin was not the absolute master of his own vessel. And if he wasn’t …
    Devore’s hand shook—and his lightsaber flew into it. The weapon that had killed Boyle Marcom ignited in his hand.
    “What did I tell you?” Korsin yelled, approaching him anyway. “No games on my ship!”
    Shaken, Devore darted back toward the bridge. Korsin followed. “The only way we come out of this is if we’re completely clean, Devore! Sadow can’t think we did this on purpose!” He reached the doorway.
“No games on my ship!”
    Korsin walked into a hurricane. Devore stood atop the command chair, calling forth all the debris of the bridge like a deity on a mountaintop. Korsin rolled, fragments of transparisteel raking his face and ripping into his uniform. Reaching Gloyd’s station, he mounted his own defense, cocooning himself in the Force against the onslaught. Devore was as strong as any in his family—and now he was riding chemicals Korsin didn’t understand.
    A beam slammed against the bulkhead—and
Omen
shivered. A second strike, and the bridge tipped forward, knocking Devore off his perch. Korsin didn’t let him get up again. The moment Devore’s head appeared behind the chair, Korsin Force-flung him out through the ruined viewport. He had to get this outside, before everything was lost.
    Korsin bolted uphill through the hallway to the airlock, huffing as he did.
Fighting a spice-crazed assailant on a teetering deathtrap? I must be the crazy one!
Thestep down from the portal was now a leap. His boot sank into a soft patch as he hit, wrenching his ankle and sending him tumbling down the scree-covered slope. Biting his lip, he tried to clamber back from the brink