Light of the Jedi(43)

“But you know…” Pan said, setting down his goblet, “we could have done better. There were six freighters in that convoy, and we only took five.”

He affected a dissatisfied air, shaking his huge head.

“We lost one in the attack. One of them blew up just as we were ripping it open, and whatever it had for us…now it’s just hot dust.”

He arced out his arm, sweeping it across the Great Hall.

“Where’s the Storm who was in charge of the crew assigned to that freighter?”

A ripple across the assembly as heads turned, looking to see who would own up to the mistake. A few long moments passed, but eventually the pressure grew too great, and a man stood. Part of Lourna Dee’s Tempest, by the minimalist clothing he wore. His species was hard to identify, but his mask had big, curling horns running down over the ears, little white slits for eyes, and the ever-present filter assembly over his nose and mouth, the better to survive the various chemical weapons the Nihil often used in their raids. He had three jagged white stripes on his tunic, signifying his rank within the organization.



“Huh,” Pan Eyta said, turning to Lourna Dee. “Looks like he’s one of yours, Lourna. You mind if I…”

“Be my guest,” Lourna said, her voice without affect—she never revealed much of what was going on behind her eyes, ice-blue and ice-cold. “His name is Zagyar.”

“Zagyar!” Pan Eyta cried, pointing at the man. “Bring the rest of your crew up here. The Clouds and Strikes.”

Zagyar nodded at the group sitting at his table, and they stood as well. Seven men and women, all masked, all different except that they shared the white, slitted eyes of their leader. The Clouds had two of the jagged stripes somewhere on their clothing, and the Strikes, just one. They walked forward as a group, the other Nihil parting to let them through, to stand before Pan Eyta and the others.

“What happened, Zagyar?” he said. “Why did we lose a sixth of what we went out there to get?”

The Storm, to his credit, didn’t try to dissemble. He just answered, plain and clean. No embellishing or hiding the truth. Marchion Ro respected that.

“One of my Strikes, kid named Blit, miscalculated her harpoon shot. Hit one of the freighter’s fuel tanks. That’s all it took. Boom.”

“I thought it was something like that. Is she here, that Strike?”

“No. Blit died in the explosion. Most of my crew did. I’ve only got these seven left. Couple Clouds and five Strikes.”

Zagyar gestured at his people.

“I see,” Pan said. “But someone has to pay for that mistake. Everyone lost when that happened. I lost.”

He pointed down at Marchion Ro, still seated at his own table, a meter or two below the Tempest Runners.

“The Eye lost. It needs to be made right. For the Nihil.”

Zagyar, again, showed no fear or anger—just responded, clear and honest. Marchion Ro could see how the man had become a Storm, and that was not an easy thing to do. You rose in rank in the Nihil by succeeding, and by doing whatever it took to make sure other people didn’t.



“The Strike who screwed up paid with her life. Seems like that’s something.”

“It’s something…but that Strike isn’t here. You and your crew are all responsible. One of you could’ve given Blit better guidance, could’ve helped her. You didn’t, and there has to be a price, and someone has to pay it. I’ll let you decide.”

Zagyar hesitated, looking at his crew, one after the other, the masks making it impossible to know what they were thinking.

A chant began, at the back of the hall and rapidly moving forward, until every one of the Nihil was saying the same three words.

“Pay the price!”

“Pay the price!”

“Pay the price!”

Zagyar’s crew tensed. Looked at each other, quick little furtive glances, not knowing who would be the first to move. Blasters were forbidden in the Great Hall, but they all had their blades, and hands were reaching toward hilts.

“PAY THE PRICE!”

Marchion Ro turned his head, looking toward the edge of the platform, where a line of glowing blue-white lights marked the border between light and life, and freezing void. He hated the little pageants Pan and Lourna and Kassav put on, pitting Clouds and Strikes and Storms against one another.

The Nihil all worked under the same banner, and all used the Paths Marchion gave them, but that was as far as it went. They were chaos. Everyone out for himself, each Tempest ready to undercut the others. Any Nihil would slit another’s throat at the slightest provocation or opportunity for profit.

The Paths could take the Nihil anywhere in the galaxy, but they refused to see it. The only one who could see the potential of the organization was, inevitably, the Eye. But the Eye was not in control. Each Tempest had its own boss, its Runner, and Marchion Ro had no real influence over what any of them did. He got his share of the payouts of any jobs that used his Paths, by the Rule of Three…but that was all.



The Eye could see…but the Eye couldn’t act.

Sounds of struggle came to Marchion Ro’s ears, but he didn’t turn to look. Someone was paying the price.

He watched—all the Nihil watched—as one of Zagyar’s crew was dragged to the edge of the platform, screaming and pleading about how unfair it all was, how loyal they were. Marchion Ro didn’t know who had been chosen. Maybe Zagyar himself. It didn’t matter. The lesson was clear.