all else. But here you sit, bickering like a bunch of starkles over which one gets the first and last worm. You know the Lawquanes? Old man Cut, he fought in the Clone Wars. He saw the truth of things: No side in war is the right side. He did the right thing. Settled down. Had a family. Never got drawn back into the muck. But you two. Not good enough for—”
A sound. A pair of screamers. TIE fighters.
The Empire doesn’t come out this way. The realization settles in fast.
“You gave me up,” Dav says, horrified.
Webb looks shameful. “The Empire pays to give up rebel scum.” But his words don’t sound as sure now. Regret and guilt mingle in there.
Suddenly, a stun blast. The air flashes with blue and Webb cries out, dropping face-first into a bowl of mashed chokeroot. Dav goggles. “Pop…”
“You believe in what you’re doing, Dav?”
“I…do.”
“Fine. Good enough for me. I hope you’re right.” He sighs. “Best run now. Go out the back window. Take the speeder bike in the barn.”
“Pop…thanks.”
“Now go.”
“What will you do?”
Pop shrugs. “I’ll tell them the truth. That you overpowered me, shot me, and ran.” He turns the gun toward himself and fires. The stun blast knocks the old man back into his chair. His heels kick up and he moans.
Dav blinks back tears. Then he rushes over, grabs the gun, and heads out the back window just as the front door breaks down.
Above the city of Myrra, a haze. Even the sun, bright and bold and punitive, seems to have to push its light through the thick and gauzy air. Heat vapors rise, distorting everything. The humidity of this place is seen as much as it is felt.
So it takes a moment for Jas Emari to confirm what it is that she’s seeing—there, descending from the heavens as if a divine chariot, a ship glinting in the sun. A yacht, in fact: ornate and opulent, gleaming brass and carmine piping, a ship built as much for its looks as its function.
It is the yacht of Arsin Crassus.
The Galactic Empire is a leviathan of force—a carbon-armored fist crushing those systems that would dare to deny its authority. But such force and such authority could not be conjured out of nothing. Even the Sith could not manage such magic. It was one thing that made the difference:
Credits.
Money.
Crassus is one of the Empire’s main moneylenders. Has been for decades. The story goes that he was once a young man in the Trade Federation, and helped the as-yet-unformed but burgeoning Empire lead the Federation heads to slaughter on Mustafar while then plundering all their accounts to help fund the new government. And that’s where he’s been, since: helping the corporate side of Imperial government.
He’s also a slaver.
And today, he is her target.
Jas clings to the rusted old tower rising high above Myrra’s defunct capitol building. Cables cinch around her waist and her right thigh, belting her to the structure so that she can lean out with some freedom of movement and, more important, freedom to both of her hands. All without falling.
The bounty hunter has been here for some time. Waiting. Barely sleeping. She’s tired. Her muscles ache. But this is the job. (The life of a bounty hunter offers a great deal of watching and waiting—those long stretches accompanied by very short, sharp bursts of action.)
She unbuckles the rifle from her back: a long-range rifle the Zabrak constructed herself. Based on an old Czerka slugthrower, she modified it to fire different rounds according to her needs depending on which barrel and which chamber she brings to the weapon. Jas once heard the story that the Jedi constructed their own lightsabers and she figured, well, why can’t she do the same with her rifle? So she did. Because she can do whatever she wants.
Jas lifts the rifle to her shoulder, then with her left hand pulls down the telescoping unipod that clicks into the D-ring at her waist. (It gives the rifle that little extra stability, especially in
A sound. A pair of screamers. TIE fighters.
The Empire doesn’t come out this way. The realization settles in fast.
“You gave me up,” Dav says, horrified.
Webb looks shameful. “The Empire pays to give up rebel scum.” But his words don’t sound as sure now. Regret and guilt mingle in there.
Suddenly, a stun blast. The air flashes with blue and Webb cries out, dropping face-first into a bowl of mashed chokeroot. Dav goggles. “Pop…”
“You believe in what you’re doing, Dav?”
“I…do.”
“Fine. Good enough for me. I hope you’re right.” He sighs. “Best run now. Go out the back window. Take the speeder bike in the barn.”
“Pop…thanks.”
“Now go.”
“What will you do?”
Pop shrugs. “I’ll tell them the truth. That you overpowered me, shot me, and ran.” He turns the gun toward himself and fires. The stun blast knocks the old man back into his chair. His heels kick up and he moans.
Dav blinks back tears. Then he rushes over, grabs the gun, and heads out the back window just as the front door breaks down.
Above the city of Myrra, a haze. Even the sun, bright and bold and punitive, seems to have to push its light through the thick and gauzy air. Heat vapors rise, distorting everything. The humidity of this place is seen as much as it is felt.
So it takes a moment for Jas Emari to confirm what it is that she’s seeing—there, descending from the heavens as if a divine chariot, a ship glinting in the sun. A yacht, in fact: ornate and opulent, gleaming brass and carmine piping, a ship built as much for its looks as its function.
It is the yacht of Arsin Crassus.
The Galactic Empire is a leviathan of force—a carbon-armored fist crushing those systems that would dare to deny its authority. But such force and such authority could not be conjured out of nothing. Even the Sith could not manage such magic. It was one thing that made the difference:
Credits.
Money.
Crassus is one of the Empire’s main moneylenders. Has been for decades. The story goes that he was once a young man in the Trade Federation, and helped the as-yet-unformed but burgeoning Empire lead the Federation heads to slaughter on Mustafar while then plundering all their accounts to help fund the new government. And that’s where he’s been, since: helping the corporate side of Imperial government.
He’s also a slaver.
And today, he is her target.
Jas clings to the rusted old tower rising high above Myrra’s defunct capitol building. Cables cinch around her waist and her right thigh, belting her to the structure so that she can lean out with some freedom of movement and, more important, freedom to both of her hands. All without falling.
The bounty hunter has been here for some time. Waiting. Barely sleeping. She’s tired. Her muscles ache. But this is the job. (The life of a bounty hunter offers a great deal of watching and waiting—those long stretches accompanied by very short, sharp bursts of action.)
She unbuckles the rifle from her back: a long-range rifle the Zabrak constructed herself. Based on an old Czerka slugthrower, she modified it to fire different rounds according to her needs depending on which barrel and which chamber she brings to the weapon. Jas once heard the story that the Jedi constructed their own lightsabers and she figured, well, why can’t she do the same with her rifle? So she did. Because she can do whatever she wants.
Jas lifts the rifle to her shoulder, then with her left hand pulls down the telescoping unipod that clicks into the D-ring at her waist. (It gives the rifle that little extra stability, especially in
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