Aftermath: Empire's End (Star Wars: Aftermath #3)(42)

Swift trips over his own foot. His shoulder slams hard into the wall as he falls. Above him, he sees the blurry image of Jas Emari vaulting over him—with a pivot-twist of her wrist, she uses the rope to yank two of the Hutt-slaves with her, and both of those freaks collapse into Swift just as he tries once more to stand. Her knee connects with one of their heads—and that head slams into the bridge of Mercurial’s nose with a dull pop. Behind his eyes he sees hyperspace streaks. He roars with rage.

When next he opens his eyes, he sees Jas stab out with a high kick—taking out the last Hutt-slave. The neck snaps. The slave drops.

Jas Emari backpedals. Sawing at the rope with her own horns.

“Emari,” he growls, trying to stand.

She cuts through the rope. “Please don’t hurt me, Mercurial. Please don’t take me to Boss Gyuti.” She makes a gesture at him with her free hands—the backs of each finger swiped along her cheeks as her upper lip twists into a sneer. He assumes it’s a rude gesture.

Then she finds one of the bolt-holes leading up through the Hutt’s temple—she clambers her way up through the space and is gone.

—

Her head hurts. Bad. The horns on her head are bone. Breaking them off meant breaking her bones. Slamming the side of her skull against the unforgiving stone wall of her cell and snapping them off one by one was no easy feat. After each attempt, she had to sit. She tried not to throw up. Once, she passed out. And then it was back up at it again—wham, wham, wham. Blood slicking the wall. Her brain doing dizzy loops. Until she had three of her thornlike horns in the flat of her palm.

Three keys.

She’d had one actual key hidden there—a lock pick concealed in a fake horn—but the Hutt-slaves found it and took it away.

Which left her with one choice: break off the horns.

They were her way out. And she needs it, too, quick as anything, because this vicious diversion paid an unexpected bounty: She knows where Rae Sloane is. She saw her. Here in the temple, working with Niima the Hutt. Going together on some kind of expedition.

She has to get back to Norra. And fast.

She had no idea who was coming for her, but it being Mercurial both pleases her greatly and worries her deeply. Swift is no fool, and he said something about bringing a crew. Him? Working with a team? Mercurial doesn’t play well with others. These are strange days, indeed.

Whoever they are, they’re now a part of her plan.

They came here somehow. A ship, she assumes, if he has a crew with him. And if he has a ship? Then that ship has clearance codes. Clearance codes mean they can take to the air and the Empire won’t shoot them down on sight. It won’t be an advantage they can use forever, but it’s something.

First, though, she has to get to that ship.

And then she has to take it.

The tunnels here in Niima’s temple are a worm-eaten labyrinth—she thinks she’s headed in the right direction, but suddenly the tunnel curves back on itself and goes the other way. Most of the tunnels look the same. Every time she believes she’s figured it out, the tunnels prove her wrong, and she worries suddenly that she’s going over the same area, again and again. Is this mark a scuff mark from her boot?

Fear assails her. I could die in here. I could get lost and starve to death. Or they’ll come for her. She stops crawling and takes a moment just to listen—turning her ear to the tunnel ahead.

Sounds. Scraping. Murmuring. Coming closer.

Jas hunkers down and lies in wait as the sounds grow louder. It’s them. Niima’s mind-wiped acolytes. Can they smell her? Do the Hutt-slaves know their way through this maze?

From an intersecting tunnel, one appears. Pale face. Sharpened teeth. The slave’s mouth widens in alarm, mad eyes flickering, and he comes at her fast—scurrying like an animal, teeth snapping at the air, clack, clack, clack.

She kicks out with a boot, catching him in the mouth. Teeth shatter and her foe gags on them. A little voice inside her says, He’s a slave, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, don’t kill him, but it’s too late for him—there’s nothing there, no mind, no rational thought, just pure feral zeal. Jas has to do what she’s gotta do.

But even taking that time to worry about it distracts her.

Hands come at her from behind. They close around her throat and drag her backward—the back of her skull slams into the stone. Nausea rises in her, threatening to take her insides and send them outside, nearly overwhelming her as the second Hutt-slave draws her back through the tunnels. She kicks her legs and paws fruitlessly at the stone, trying to get her moorings, working hard as hell not to be wrenched away by this gabbling, mind-wiped mutant—but it’s no use.

Instead of resisting, she decides to go with it. Like a swimmer, she pulls herself in the same direction the Hutt-freak is dragging her—it gives her just enough momentum to overtake him and crash into him.

They bowl over. She fights into position. He howls as she crunches an elbow into his trachea. The howl is cut short, stopped by a squeaky gurgle. Jas doesn’t stop and wait. It’s time to move again—and so she does, finding an adjacent channel and wriggling through. Anytime she finds a new borehole, she takes it. Just keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t vomit. She’ll find something. Some way out. Some way forward— Another sound halts her progress.

This time, the sound isn’t coming closer.