Aftermath: Empire's End (Star Wars: Aftermath #3)(43)

It’s distant. Someone yelling.

It’s him. It’s Swift.

(She gets a small thrill from hearing the panic in his voice.) She focuses on that sound, zeroing in on the direction.

That’s the way she heads, now—through tunnels that corkscrew, where the Hutt-slaves have carved mad icons of their mistress, Niima. And then, from an adjoining tunnel she feels it— A faint current of air.

With it, a smell: metal, kesium, ozone. The smell of a starship. That means a hangar bay or landing pad. A new sound arises, too. This sound is musical and discordant in equal measure, and now she knows she’s close, because as they dragged her through Niima’s temple, they pulled her through the Hutt’s throne room—a cathedral-like area shot through with holes that hummed and howled like a wind instrument, like a musical organ formed of ancient stone. Whether that was designed intentionally—lunatic music to appease the slug—or is simply a natural effect, Jas doesn’t know and doesn’t care. It means the way out. It means freedom.

She follows the air and the strange music and starship stink that it brings. Ahead, a smooth borehole dropping down awaits…

The bounty hunter drags herself along it on her belly. She peers through the space, and sure enough, there she sees the prize. A shuttle by the looks of it—an older-model Corellian ship. Flat, short wings. Big, tubby engine. At the fore hangs a blunt nose cone. That’s my way out.

One problem: It’s got a guard. The rest of Swift’s crew, whoever they are, don’t seem to be here—they’re probably off looking for her. Jas isn’t a gambler but she’d bet credits that’s what Swift was yelling about.

One guard, though? She can handle it.

From here, she spies the broad, rimmed hat of a Kyuzo. Familiar. Too familiar. It can’t be…

As he turns, looking around the room, she spies his face and recognizes the bounty hunter who used to run with her aunt’s crew: Embo. It’s him. Even now, she misses him sometimes. He was quiet, and spoke only in his native tongue. But she took the time as a child to learn his language, and as a result they became close. Like family, in a way. (Jom Barell reminds her a bit of Embo. Silent, deadly, but sweet, too. Hard to get close to, but once you do, you see how good he can be.) Of course, if this is really him—then what? Does he know he’s here to hunt her? Does his loyalty side with the job—or with her? And if he sides with the job…mercy. The Kyuzo are capable fighters. Embo is older, now, but if she had to lay credits down, she’d bet he hasn’t lost a step.

She must tread carefully.

Jas centers herself. She’s still dizzy, but she’ll have to push past.

With a fluid, silent movement, she slips through the hole and hangs there, her fingers finding a narrow, smooth groove in the stone to help hold her. Her feet dangle. Below, Embo paces near the shuttle’s ramp—he’s a good way down, but she can handle the jump as long as she doesn’t go straight to the ground. Instead she swings herself forward and— Jas is in midair. Arms out. Legs crouching as she lands atop the shuttle. Whump. She lands as quietly as she can, but still, it makes a noise even as she ducks and rolls. There’s no time to waste as she quickly sidles forward, ducking behind one of the shuttle’s fins and flattening herself against it.

Footsteps. A grunt. Embo is looking…

If I can just sneak past him, this gets a whole lot easier.

Jas whips down along the aft side, jumping from one engine booster to the next, until she’s on the ground and creeping up alongside the ship—maybe, just maybe, if she can dart inside, Embo won’t even see her. Then she can fire up the ship and— A tall shape lurches into the space in front of her. Perfectly silent. A bowcaster points at her—a crossbow big enough to take her head clean off her shoulders at this range.

Embo has found her. Orange eyes glow in the dim half dark of the temple hangar. His breastplate is scarred up, the gold long since worn off, and the red Kyuzo battle-shirt is ragged at the hem.

“Embo,” she says, startled.

The bowcaster doesn’t waver. He tilts his head and in his Kyuzo tongue says: “Old friend. It is you.”

She licks her lips, looking around. Embo could kill her. He could end it for her right now. He’s gone up against bounty hunters, pirates, Jedi, Sith—and he’s either triumphed or survived to fight another day. She swallows a hard lump and feels her palms sweat. “It’s good to see you again, Embo. It’s, ah, been a while. Marrok around?”

“He passed away some years ago.” Marrok: Embo’s pet anooba. A vicious beast to Embo’s enemies, but to her, the long-muzzled hound was ever the diligent cuddle-bug, never failing to roll over and seize a belly-scratching opportunity as the young girl giggled.

“I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good hound.”

“He was.”

“So you’re, ah, you’re working with a crew again?” Her two hearts hammer inside her chest, beating so fast it’s like cannon fire underneath the mantle of her breastbone. If I move, he’ll end me.

“I always work with a crew. It is the Kyuzo way to not be alone.”

“But Swift, huh? I wouldn’t have thought…”

To that, Embo says nothing. He only shrugs.

She asks: “You always know you were hunting me?”

“I did.”