The Perfect Weapon
Author: Delilah S. Dawson
Date: 2015-11-24 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Star Wars
Description: Journey to Star Wars: The Force Awakens with this exclusive ebook short story set shortly before the events of the film, featuring a quick-witted mercenary who takes big risks for bigger rewards—and now faces the challenge that will take her to the edge. There are plenty of mercenaries, spies, and guns for hire in the galaxy. But probably none as dangerous and determined as Bazine Netal. A master of disguise—and lethal with a blade, a blaster, or bare handed—she learned from the best. Now it’s her turn to be the teacher—even if schooling an eager but inexperienced recruit in the tricks of her
Publisher: Del Rey

Star Wars: The Perfect Weapon is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Del Rey Ebook Original

Copyright © 2015 by Lucasfilm Ltd. & ® or TM where indicated. All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Del Rey, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

DEL REY and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

eBook ISBN 9780399177934

Cover design: Scott Biel
randomhousebooks.com
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Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chronology

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

By Delilah S. Dawson

About the Author

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away….

Chapter 1

The night was young, and Bazine Netal was hunting. Curled up on a stool in formfitting black that matched her eyes, lips, and hair, she scanned the room for her contact and found only fools. Clumsy admirers frequently took her cold stare for an invitation. In her line of work, being beautiful was often a boon. But it was also an inconvenience.

“Good evening, my lady.”

She looked up and frowned. She’d noted this witless Devaronian earlier, when he’d suffered a spectacular loss at sabacc. Now, reeking of liquor and overconfidence, he reached for her knee, slurring something about the heat of the desert sands and the curves of her bountiful dunes. Before his filthy fingers could touch her, she snapped his wrist like a twig. He screamed and fell to the sand-dusted floor, calling her all manner of names, but she only yawned and looked away. He clearly was not the man she was looking for. His friends hurried up to him, took one look at Bazine, and muttered dark promises as they carried him out, the man squealing like a Huttlet the entire time. She eased farther into the shadowy corner, swirling the drink in her glass with fastidious, black-tipped fingers.

She hadn’t tasted the drink, of course. She never did.

Drinks could be poisoned at any moment. She’d already poisoned one tonight. The effects wouldn’t be obvious until her mark was safely back home, contentedly sleeping. He wouldn’t wake up again. And then her comlink would bing softly, letting her know her unknown employer was pleased and had deposited creds in her account.

What Bazine needed now was a new job to keep her occupied. She’d been waiting for this new contact for hours and was already bored, and the men could smell it on her. Another one appeared at the edge of her table, fingers stroking his blaster.

“You lonely, sweetness?” he asked, flipping a toothpick with his tongue.

She looked him up and down. The slight human junker presented neither threat nor enticement. Definitely not her man. He looked her up and down in return. High-heeled wedge boots, black leather leggings clinging to shapely legs, tight-fitting jacket that concealed armor and weapons, not that he could’ve known that, nor could he know that the severe black bob was a wig. When his eyes reached her stark, chiseled face again, he leered. “Because you look…lonely.”

“And you look like a diseased mynock. Move along.” She waved a hand at him and scooted farther back in her booth, kicking her legs up onto the table to discourage further disturbances.

“You think you’re too good for me?” he sputtered, reaching for his blaster with a shaking hand.

“Of course not. I know I’m too good for you.”

With one simple but elegant kick, she struck a nerve cluster in his thigh that sent him sprawling onto the rough floor. This man had no friends to pick him back up. He had no choice but to crawl away on hands and knees, cursing her.

That, at least, made her smile a little.

A waitress appeared, wiping a wet rag across the table as she watched the junker’s retreat.

“You keep openly maiming the customers and Suli won’t let you in the door,” the orange-eyed Duros girl said. “They can’t tip with broken bones.”

Bazine tossed a few credit chips on the table. “It’s not my fault Suli’s establishment attracts scoundrels, Ooda.” It was as close as she’d come to an apology, and Ooda nodded and scooped up the creds, which was as close as she’d come to forgiveness. They had an unspoken agreement, these two, even though they’d been in the same orbit for years. It was the same arrangement Bazine had with all her acquaintances: no asking questions and no getting friendly.

“Oh, and Suli said to tell you he’d be here soon.”

Ooda turned to go, and Bazine called after her, “Who?”

The Duros shrugged as she walked away. “Didn’t ask, don’t want to know.”

Bazine had an agreement with Suli, too. He’d send jobs her way, and in return she acted as unofficial bouncer, quietly removing anyone who caused trouble. Even the most violent drunks would follow her outside for the promise of a kiss. Technically speaking, she had told the cantina owner that she’d wait to maim the customers until they were out back in a private alley. She scanned the bar for Suli, made eye contact, and gave the barest nod to indicate understanding.

The night wore on, and her contact didn’t show. She’d gently rebuffed seven more scoundrels and watched twice as many bad hands at sabacc when something clattered in her glass, splashing amber liquid onto the stained table. Her head jerked up, hunting for the source of the interruption. The scenery had not changed. Not a single new pair of eyes watched her; nor were any strangers circling her table as they practiced bad pickup lines under their breath. She knew this bar, and she knew all the other mercs, and she recognized most of these lowlifes, even if they didn’t recognize her, thanks to a rotating gallery of disguises. But she had never before had any suitors attempt to gain her attention by dropping a room key in her glass.

Her eyes cut left and right before her elbow shot out, knocking the drink over.

“Oops.”

She hooked a finger through the key ring, doing her best not to smudge the matte-black rishi eel ink she wore painted on her forefingers to cloak her fingerprints. ROOM 3, the tag read. Could be an invitation. Could be the job. Either way, she was going to find out. Sliding off her stool, she stood and stretched, readjusting her severe but exquisite outfit as she subtly checked her weapons. Snub-nosed blaster: check. Slender blade: check. Small thermal detonators hidden in the wedges of her boots: check. Seven throwing knives sewn into her jacket: check. Whatever the hotel guest hoped to pay her for, he were going to be surprised by her bag of tricks.

She headed for the long hallway that housed the beyond-loathsome toilet and the door to the stairs. She’d never visited the bar’s second-floor lodging area, knowing it was used only by the dancing girls and high rollers, whether together or separately. The stairway was narrow and stank of sweat and worse, and she drew her blaster as she edged upward, careful not to touch the filthy banisters.

Aiming her blaster down each side of the hallway, she found nothing worth shooting. Identical numbered doors marched down the sand-colored paneling, various sounds whispering or thumping rhythmically behind them. She paused beside door number three. Her back to the wall, she leaned an ear against the plasteel and heard nothing within. She knocked twice, quick, and slowed her breathing as she waited, blaster held aloft, for a response. None came.

How inhospitable.

Blaster in one hand, old-fashioned key in the other, ready to run or shoot, she unlocked the door and nudged it open with one boot. She had expected blasterfire, an enemy’s cackle, or the smooth sounds of a jatz band and a fool’s compliments, but what she got was utter silence. Slipping a small mirror from one of her pockets, she used it to scout the room through the open door.

A lone figure sat on the disheveled bed, utterly still. Even in the low light, she could tell it was a protocol droid, and not one of the new, fancy ones. This one was skeletal and missing an arm, the barest sketch of a sentient being. The rest of the room was slightly off, towels on the floor and chairs askew, as if the person who’d left her the key had done so on his or her way out.

“Hello?” she called, voice pitched low to sound inviting.

There was no answer. She didn’t know if she was more intrigued or annoyed. Sure, she’d been bored in the bar and waiting for a mission, but she preferred her work like she preferred her clothes: tidy, no nonsense, a good fit, and ready to burn if she had to run.

She slipped the mirror back in its pocket and took up her blade. Both weapons drawn, she stepped into the room, ready for the worst.

The rusty protocol droid’s head slowly ratcheted up to scan her face.

“Greetings, Bazine Netal,” it said in a dull, heartless monotone. “I have a job for you. Do you accept?”

Chapter 2

Bazine didn’t answer immediately. She was waiting for further details. What she got was a countdown.

“Ten. Nine. Eight.”

She moved closer to the droid and waved her blaster. “Stop. Tell me more.”

The droid stood, a painful, squealing affair.

“Accept or reject. Seven. Six.”

In Bazine’s experience, any countdown that began at ten and ended with zero involved an explosion. She had exactly six seconds to decide which was more dangerous: taking an unknown job from an unidentified source delivered in a singular manner, or waiting to see how much an exploding rustbucket droid could damage the cantina—and just how much of a hit her armor could take.

“Five. Four. Three.”

“Fine. I’ll take the job. I accept. Just shut up with the counting.”

The droid went silent and sat down heavily on the bed as if the act of formulating an answer were exhausting. “Your acceptance has been recorded. Stand by.” With a whir and a shudder, the droid projected a shaky hologram to hover a meter in front of Bazine’s face. The figure was cloaked, naturally, and its voice was so well modulated that Bazine couldn’t guess at its species, age, or gender.

“Bazine Netal. You will retrieve a steel case last possessed by Imperial stormtrooper TK-1472. Human name: Jor Tribulus. Tribulus was most recently documented as a patient at Vashka City Medcenter One. His records are stored in the facility’s data banks under the highest level of encryption. Current whereabouts unknown, but we suspect he remains on Vashka, possibly suffering from psychological instability. Retrieve the case and send an encrypted message on this device using the provided main planetary booster.”

The droid’s arm swung out, rusted fingers creaking open to reveal a comm so slender and high-tech, it would’ve more than paid for the average job, even one that took her offworld. Bazine’s eyes narrowed.

“What’s the pay?”

The holographic figure paused as if it could hear her, even though it was obviously a recording. “You’ll be curious about the payout. Deliver this case, and you won’t have to work again.” She frowned, and the figure chuckled darkly. “But you will anyway, won’t you? Old habits die hard. You may keep the comm.” The hologram ended, and the figure disappeared.

Bazine took the comm, sliding it into place behind her ear.

“One more thing, Ms. Netal,” the voice whispered, sharp and clear through the speaker. “There is another faction hunting for the case. Your adversary will be cunning and likewise well appointed, known only by the code name Narglatch. Remain undetected, and get rid of anyone who opposes you. We’ll cover your tracks. Good luck.” She was about to tell the voice where it could shove its Narglatch, but it added, almost too low to hear, “Oh, yes. And the droid will self-destruct in thirty seconds.”

Considering that Suli’s cantina was the basis of her current operations on Chaaktil, she wasn’t willing to assume that the droid’s self-destruct mechanism would be a small, self-limited affair via EM grenade. Grabbing it by the remaining arm, she spun in a circle, lobbing the pile of rusted metal toward the window with all her strength. The cheap glass shattered as the droid plunged to the dark, empty street. Bazine followed it out the window, scuttled down a drainpipe, and took off.

By the time the explosion lit up the night, she was running full-tilt on her way to the spaceport, leaving nothing behind but a discarded black wig.

Whoever her new employer was, they were very…dramatic.

—

It was easy enough to hop the late-night shuttle to Chaako City, Chaaktil’s biggest cosmopolitan area. The buildings sprawled like a disease spreading ever farther over the planet’s light-colored sands. She hadn’t set foot on those dusty streets in six standard years, and for good reason. Desert heat and city filth made for an uncomfortable combination, and the moment she stepped off the shuttle, she could already feel Chaako settling into her pores despite the night’s chill. She was already sweating beneath her black leather skullcap and neck piece.

Bazine had a talent for sneaking in the shadows, and she slipped through dark, familiar alleys on silent feet. The rag-bundled bum who rushed her from a doorway took a boot to the temple, and the gang that had hoped to corner her behind a trash container found that she’d disappeared like smoke. The city hadn’t changed much, but Bazine had added to her own skill set considerably since she’d been gone.

Soon she stood before a door that had seemed so much bigger when she’d first seen it as a small child. It had terrified her, then: a scarred metal monolith barely masking the sounds of steel slashing against steel and flesh beating flesh to a pulp. KEEP OUT was spray-painted diagonally across it in what looked like dried blood. She had to smile. It was just a regular-sized door, now, and the noises behind it were welcoming. In a way, a small way, she was home.

The door slid open before she could knock.

“Welcome back, Chaakrabbit,” a voice growled from within.

“Nice to see you, too, old man.”

This door, Kloda’s door, was one of the few entrances through which she could comfortably walk without a ready weapon in each hand. Kloda’s school was safe. Even this late at night, fighters were in the cage and working in the gym, grunting and dripping sweat onto the mats and heavy bags. If you wanted to learn combat on Chaaktil, you came to Delphi Kloda, once Tasu Leech’s number two and the most terrifying slab of muscle ever to lead the Kanjiklub raids. After losing his leg and eye, Kloda couldn’t prowl the space lanes anymore with the dignity he demanded, so he taught new kids how to break bones instead.

Underneath the gym, in secret, his real students lived and worked, studying the finer points of espionage under his tutelage. That’s where Bazine had grown up—she was his first success. The day he’d plucked her out of a Chaako City orphanage was the day her real life had begun. She’d hurled a stone at him as he’d walked by, smacking him right in the eye patch, and he’d told her that, in that moment, he’d never been so enraged or amused. For years, he called her his little Chaakrabbit, sending her on errands to fetch this or listen in on that. Now she recognized that he’d been training her all along for the mercenary she would one day become.

Bazine recognized the clomp of his metal leg before she saw him, huge arms outstretched for the hug she didn’t know she needed. The old pirate smelled like sand and sweat and blood and his favorite fat cigarras, and she pounded his back before pulling away to look him in the good eye.

“How’s tricks?” she asked. “Still carving fat into marble?”

“Cut the crap, kid. You don’t visit for six years, and now you’re making small talk? What’s your game?”

Underneath the menace, she could tell the old man’s feelings were hurt, and she gave him a slight, rare smile. “For a half-blind graybeard, nothing escapes you.”

In response, he punched her in the shoulder, or tried to. Quick as he was, she was quicker now, and she knew his tells. By the time his fist hit the place she’d been, she was out of range.

“Shouldn’t have taught you a damn thing,” he muttered. He turned to clomp back toward his office. “Come on. Caf’s hot. Old, but it’s still got some kick.”

She smirked. “Lot of that going around.”

“Know what your problem is? You got no respect for authority.” He shook his grizzled head in mock sadness. “Never did.”

She followed him to the dank closet he called an office and lounged in the same decrepit chair where she’d sat on her first day here. Her feet had dangled off the seat, then. Nothing in this room, this place, had changed. Which is why she’d left in the first place. Kloda slammed the door shut and handed her a hot cup before sitting down in his battered leather chair, leaning back and crossing his enormous arms.

“Out with it, Chaakrabbit.”

“Fine. I need a ship.”

“And you want to borrow the Sparrowhawk.”

Bazine nodded. “You’re not using it.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s available.”

“Name your price, old man.”

One wild gray eyebrow arched. “Well, look who thinks she’s the queen of Naboo. I don’t want your money, kid. But I’ll trade you.”

“I want a clean deal. No questions.”

Kloda laughed until he had to wipe tears from under his eye patch. “You wouldn’t know a clean deal if it bit you in the rump, I bet. Money I’ve got. What I need is a favor. See, I got this student in the basement—Orri Tenro’s his name, or so he says. Nice Pantoran kid. Great slicer. A whiz with tech, can hack into any system. Decent enough in the fight cage, once I busted his nose a few times to break him in. I need him to go on a mission offworld. I got too much going on here to take him myself. He needs to feel hyperspace, survive on ship food, live through a job. You take him with you, you can use the Sparrowhawk. You treat her good, though.” He sipped his caf. “Don’t really care if you treat him good. Kid’s too green.”

“How old is he?”

“How should I know? Grown man. I don’t wipe for him.”

Bazine sighed. Having a shadow on a top-secret mission was far from clean. She needed to focus on her goal, not teach some stuck-up kid how the ship’s toilet worked. Although…

“How good a slicer?”

Kloda nodded slowly. “If it’s a machine, he can get into it, get out of it, or transform it into a weapon without being detected. You need intel, he can find it.”

“But you also said he was Pantoran.”

“Don’t see why that should matter unless you hate the color blue.”

And it didn’t matter, not really. People were people, and they’d double-cross you or die on you no matter where they were from. But Pantora was the moon of icy Orto Plutonia, where narglatches originated, and she was supposed to be on the lookout for an adversary known as Narglatch. It was one hell of a coincidence. Then again, she didn’t have to tell Orri where she was going or why; she could simply treat the adventure as a training exercise on behalf of Kloda. And if he got too curious or aggressive, she had ten different ways to kill him using only her hands. The other alternatives were to steal a ship and make a new enemy or pay for passage on a ship and risk entangling innocent, bumbling idiots in her business. At least in this case, she had complete control over the bumbling idiot in question.

“You in?” Kloda asked. He always got impatient during negotiations.

She made him wait a few more moments, just because she could. Finally, she nodded. “I am. But tell the Pantoran that this trip was designed solely to train him. Don’t let on that I’m running my own job.”

“Pretend you’re just a teacher under my orders,” Kloda said with a chuckle. “Looking at you, nobody would believe that.”

She arched an eyebrow. “People will believe what I want them to believe. They always do.”

“You still won’t tell me your real name, will you? Bazine?”

She stood. “Not a chance. Now, where’s my student?”

Chapter 3

Orri Tenro didn’t show up until Bazine had already programmed the coordinates into Kloda’s gauntlet ship, the Sparrowhawk. As she watched her new inconvenience run up the ramp, heavy pack in hand, she realized that Kloda must’ve planned it this way on purpose. If she’d met Orri first, he never would’ve made it onto her ship.

“Sorry I’m late. I’m Orri. Kloda said—”

“I don’t care what Kloda said. Strap in.” She inclined her head toward the empty seat.

He sat, looking at her in confusion. “Kloda didn’t say you were a woman.”

In response, she fired up the boosters and pulled on the throttle hard enough to cause her new charge to fall backward and bang his head with a satisfying clunk.

“Ouch! What was that for?”

“I sensed you were getting ready to flatter me.”

He rubbed the back of his head and buckled in. First of all, he was too good looking and took no pains to hide it, as she did. Typical blue Pantoran skin, yellow eyes, lavender-white hair pulled back in a ponytail. No facial tattoos, which suggested he didn’t value his family or didn’t have one. He was dressed more nicely than most of the students who trained with Kloda, but at least his shirt, pants, boots, and vest were practical. No flowy robes and silly hats. He wore a blaster slung low on his hip, and she was curious if he knew how to use it.

“How long have you been training with Kloda?” she asked.

“A few years. They say he’s the best.”

“He is. And he says you’re a good slicer.”

That earned a lazy smile. “He’s right.”

“How do you feel about medcenter data?”

“Get me a way in, and I can give you anything you want. I can find out if your favorite senator has any social diseases. Is that what this secret training mission is about?”

Bazine stopped herself before she could chuckle. “Not quite. Now, the thing about working a job is that you have minimal guidance and don’t know the larger game being played—only your small piece. So I’m going to tell you exactly what I need you to do, and you’re going to make sure you have whatever you need to do it hidden on your person. Do you have any less noticeable clothes?”

He scoffed. “Do you?”

“Of course. I can disappear. I can be anyone. Even Kloda wouldn’t recognize me, and he raised me. That’s the foundation of any job—not being noticed.”

“With a face like yours? Sorry, but I don’t buy it.”

Her eyes slashed sideways at him. If he was trying to flatter her, he was failing. She held out her hand and waggled black-tipped fingers. “How much would you care to wager?”

—

Thus began Orri’s introduction to spycraft—and to losing bets with Bazine Netal.

First, she slipped into goggles and a lumpy brown flight suit and told him she was Paf, the gunner. They ate an entire meal at the same table, even talked about what a hard-ass that Bazine Netal was. Then she spent a few hours playing hide-and-seek with him, calling him from the same room of the ship and disappearing before he’d turned around. He was soon out of breath and doubting his own sanity. He didn’t even seem suspicious when he found a half-dressed Twi’lek draped across his bed that evening.

“I’m the ship’s masseuse,” she purred. “Holding any…tension?”

“Does Bazine know about this?” he asked.

“Who’s Bazine?”

He held his hand to his forehead as if taking his own temperature, turned, and nearly fell down the ladder on his way back to the bridge. So much for swagger.

An hour later, Bazine took pity on him and called him down to the cockpit.

“You’re pretty stupid for a smart guy,” she began…in the Twi’lek’s voice.

Orri groaned. “We’re the only two people on this ship, aren’t we?”

She nodded. “I can see why Kloda sent you offplanet. Book-smart, street-dumb. So let’s start by discussing how to detect a disguise. Then we’ll move on to makeup, costuming, and voice modulation.” She held out her hand. “But first, pay up.”

He handed over the credits with another groan.

It was a long trip, after all, and teaching him wasn’t so horrible. He was intelligent, if naïve. In return, he helped her fix some of the nagging problems on the old Mandalorian ship. Flickering lights, sticky doors, that one panel in the cockpit that refused to light up. He had told her the truth: As much as he didn’t seem to understand people, he understood machines. Bazine lectured him on the finer points of spycraft, at least as did not relate to her current mission, and in return he taught her the basics of ship mechanics, wiring, and how to fix any common problems that might arise.

“Keeping an old ship going is all about sweet-talking her before she limps,” he said, handing Bazine a spanner, or trying to. She wouldn’t accept the oily thing until she’d found some gloves. “I worked in a garage on Coruscant for a while. Every mechanic overcharges. They know they’re the only thing between you and a cold death in the middle of nowhere, and they also know that they don’t need repeat business to thrive.”

Bored with the long journey, she learned what she could and stored the information away for later. Her first purchase with this mission’s credits would be an old but nimble ship like the Sparrowhawk, provided her employer paid her as well as they’d promised. On the bright side, when Orri was talking about wiring and datachips, he wasn’t asking about how she knew Kloda or where she was from. The chatty Pantoran couldn’t give up the idea of small talk, no matter how many times she punished him for trying.

She had to keep her distance. Especially if Orri was really Narglatch.

“I would be of more use to you if you let me know what the real mission is,” he said as they were fine-tuning the hyperdrive, preparing for the final leg of the journey. “I mean, looking up an encrypted number in a medcenter data system is child’s play. Where’s the espionage? When do I get to go undercover? When do the secret gadgets and hidden weapons come in?”

Bazine slid out of the hatch and sat up, annoyed with his persistence. “They come in when your only choice is to use them or die. Do you really want to know what it’s like, being a spy? Never sure to whom you’re giving your allegiance, and knowing that most of your colleagues will die gruesomely, often by your hand? Fine. Let me show you. Quit fiddling, initiate the jump, and look.”

Orri clicked the hatch shut, sent the ship into hyperspace, and watched her as she gently, carefully removed the tightly fitted black skullcap she always wore. He almost did a good job of hiding his horror and pity when he saw why she wore it.

“On my first job, Kloda sent me out to steal something from one of his competitors. He told me to cover up and stay hidden, but I thought I’d have better access if I acted the vamp. I was fourteen and so proud, so vain. My mark knew what I was up to almost immediately. And then he showed me his flamethrower.” Her fingers traced over the twisted pink burn marks on the left side of her scalp, trailing over the tufts of shorn black hair. “Luckily, I had a knife in each boot, and I left his body next to what was left of my hair. I got Kloda what he wanted. But from then on, I learned to remain unseen.”

As if sensing the delicacy of the situation, and how harshly she would punish him for pity, Orri looked away. “You know, if you want to be unseen, I heard about this new sensor-jamming baffleweave fabric that will make you virtually undetectable. It’s still in test phase, but it should be pretty easy to find on the black market. Does wherever we’re going have one of those?”

She rolled her eyes. “Every planet has a black market of some kind. Did Kloda teach you nothing?”

He blushed indigo and fiddled with his wrist comlink. “He tried. And then he concluded that I have a bad head for anything that doesn’t have a dataport. That’s why he sent me to you. He said you’d be harsh. And blunt. But I wasn’t quite prepared for this reality. So he raised you, huh?”

She turned away to replace her skullcap. “If you could call it that. My bedtime stories were tales of bloody pirate raids. My friends were grizzled murderers who taught me how to punch. My jump rope was a garrote. But it was better than the orphanage.”

“Sounds rough.”

Bazine flopped into the pilot’s chair and slung her legs over the armrest. In that moment, she decided to kill Orri and leave his body in the wilds of Vashka. That made it easier to talk to him, to accept that she’d already told him secrets she’d never told anyone before. It was like bleeding poison from a wound, really, answering his questions—so long as she didn’t look him in the eyes and see herself reflected there.

“It’s funny. I grew up in Kloda’s combat school. My first year, all I saw were boots and hairy knees. He taught me to fight, sneak, hunt, hurt, and kill. I can steal food, but I don’t know how to prepare it. I can’t even keep a plant alive.” She held up her hand, showing black fingers she repainted every morning. “I don’t just have a black thumb—I’ve got black hands. But I’m good at what I do because of Kloda, and that’s all that really matters.”

“But don’t you have anyone you care about—besides Kloda? People matter, too.”

She watched the stars skim past outside the viewport, feeling as empty as the spaces between them. “No people. You get close to them, and they die or disappear. You kiss them, just for fun, and they tie you to the bed and steal your creds. They’re messy. Stupid. Foolish.” Her head swiveled to focus on Orri, as if she’d just come up out of a dream. “Hmm. Clever, you are. Getting all that out of me. Not that it’ll do you any good.”

“Not everyone you kiss will tie you to the bed and steal your stuff. Unless you’re into that,” he said softly, with just the slightest smolder.

Bazine slipped out of her chair, got on her knees, and leaned very, very close. So close that she knew he could feel her breath on his lips.

“People who kiss me,” she purred, all breathy, “end up on the floor. Some for a few hours, some for a few days. Some never recover. This isn’t black lipstick I’m wearing. So don’t even think about it.”

Before he could respond, before he could even blink, she stood smoothly, brushed hands down her pants, and walked out the cockpit door right as the ship completed the jump and reality descended.

“If it’s any comfort to you,” he called to her back, “I’m terrified of you.”

At that, Bazine actually smiled.

Only later did she realize that she’d revealed more than she’d planned, and he’d revealed…nothing. Nothing about his background, his home, his hang-ups. Kloda told her Orri had no training, outside of slicing and fighting. And yet he was unnaturally deft at manipulating feelings. But was it an inborn talent or one that had been carefully taught and purposefully hidden?

She’d find out soon. Vashka hovered through the viewport. Waiting.

Chapter 4

Before she’d docked the ship at Vashka Station, Orri was ready. And fidgeting. He sat in his chair, leaning forward and dripping sweat, fingers tapping against his bag. Even though he hadn’t known where they were headed until the planet was impossible to avoid seeing, now it was clear that he didn’t want to go at all.

Bazine pointed at his hands. “Rule one: Don’t act worried. People only look worried when they’re scared or doing something wrong.” He swallowed audibly, nodded, and stopped the tapping. “That’s better. At least, considering where we’re going and what we’re doing, they’ll expect you to seem a little scared.”

Still, at this rate, he was never going to be spy material for Kloda’s purposes. He might have the fists and the brains, but he didn’t have the confidence and self-control. On her first mission, Bazine had been cool as ice—and, yes, well, that one had gotten out of hand and ended up with her on fire and covered in blood. But she’d succeeded. And by her second mission, once she’d healed, she’d been even colder.

Orri, on the other hand, was sweating like they were back on Chaaktil, and it wasn’t just because he was from Pantora and accustomed to freezing temperatures.

“Let’s go over it again,” she said, calmly entering in fake docking codes.

As he recited the plan, she brought the Sparrowhawk down with steady hands. Vashka was a boring but lovely planet, a temperate place of lush green valleys, misty purple mountains, quiet, seaside towns, and this one big, disturbingly tidy city. It was where people both rich and poor went to retire in relative ease—and where folks were sent to convalesce so their employers or family could feel they were recovering or dying in peace and comfort, out of sight and out of mind. The New Republic offered privatized care for their old or injured troopers in the Outer Rim, and one of those firms had purchased wide swaths of Vashka for treatment centers. And that’s why they were headed to…

“There it is. Vashka City Medcenter One. Biggest medcenter on the planet and site of the main server room,” Orri said, pointing at the tall white spire. “I know. That part’s easy. It’s the getting in and getting out that worries me.”

“You do your part, and I’ll do mine.” Bazine held up a syringe and gave him a too-bright smile to match her disguise: a bouncy blond wig, gold lips and eyeshadow, and the kind of outfit girls wore in safe, New Republic–controlled cities when they wanted to show off.

“You’re even more terrifying now,” Orri said, wiping his palms on his pants. “Can we please get this over with?”

“We’re going to make a minor detour first. Just act normal.” She watched him for a moment, noticing his dilated eyes and shaking hands. “Normal for someone not about to have a heart attack, that is.”

They headed down the ramp, and Bazine put an extra bounce in her step. Orri stopped to watch the ramp close behind them and had to jog to catch up with her.

“Walk casual,” she whispered. “We’re just in town to visit my grandmother. She was a fearsome stormtrooper. She doesn’t approve of our relationship.”

Orri hiccuped a laugh, and Bazine wound her arm through his and turned a sharp corner.

“The medcenter is over there,” Orri said, pointing.

“But we’re looking for people dealing in the black market, remember? This way,” she answered, guiding him down a series of increasingly darker alleys. “See those graffiti symbols?”

As they walked, she explained what the different symbols meant and how to avoid areas under control of street gangs in favor of common ground. She gave him pointers on posture and what to say to anyone who challenged him, how to ride that fine line between belonging on the streets and asking for a fight. He nodded along, asked the right questions, and listened carefully as she inquired about the new baffleweave technology with a shady Toydarian and drove a tough bargain on a slightly ripped shirt patterned in gray and black. She couldn’t help noticing his smirk as she threatened to gut the merchant if his goods proved to be counterfeit.

“That was thoroughly informative,” he said as they returned to the main roads of Vashka City. “And impressive.”

Bazine tugged on the sleeves of her new shirt and grinned. “That’s the only compliment I’ll accept.”

The main medcenter was easy to find—it was one of the tallest and most prominent buildings in the city, painted gleaming white with the universal red sigil beaming from the top in neon. Orri was walking too purposefully and quickly toward it, though, and Bazine had to constantly stop to window-shop or arrange her hair as a ploy to slow him down. She was pleased to find that the baffleweave did its job—each time she stood in front of a shop’s cam, the feed showed Orri…and a slight waver where she should’ve appeared. But first, she needed to be seen and recorded, so she pulled the shirt off over her head, folded it down to a tiny square, and stuffed it in her purse.

“Getting hot out,” she said brightly when Orri gave her a questioning stare.

When they were just a few blocks away from the medcenter, Bazine stopped at a corner and pretended to read a menu.

“Fancy some nerf steaks and fine Corellian wine, lover?” she asked.

Orri looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “What? Now?”

Giving him a grin, she whisked the syringe out of her pocket, bit off the cap, stabbed herself in the meat of her thigh, and tossed the needle down the nearest storm drain. Within seconds she groaned and collapsed. Orri barely managed to catch her and help her fall inelegantly to the ground. Her muscles went tense, her head thrown back and the cords of her neck standing out.

“Help!” Orri shouted, looking frantically around the busy corner. “Help us! I don’t know…I don’t know what’s wrong!”

They were soon surrounded by concerned octogenarian passersby. An ambulance wailed in the distance, barreling toward them with red lights flashing. Bazine was shaking now, teeth clenched in what looked like a seizure as Orri knelt at her side, acting perfectly helpless and properly scared. A human in a gleaming white uniform leapt out, a white-and-silver GH-8 medical droid hovering by her side.

“What’s wrong?” the woman asked as the droid scanned Bazine’s body.

Orri shook his head. “I don’t know. We were going to get lunch, and she just…collapsed. What is it?”

“Unidentified substance,” the droid said in a calm voice. “Immediate chelation and fluid replacement is recommended.”

The human nodded and pulled a gurney out of the hovering ambulance. “You can ride in back,” she said to Orri, who stood and continued to be useless. Together, the woman and the droid lifted Bazine’s stiff body onto the gurney and slid it into the waiting vehicle. Orri climbed in to sit on the bench beside her, one hand on the gurney but definitely not close to touching Bazine, as if he was terrified of her even when she appeared to be dying. The ride was oddly calm and strangely fast. Moments later they slipped down a ramp and into the cool underbelly of the medcenter.

The back door opened, and they were engulfed in a flurry of noise, sound, and metal. The gurney zoomed down the hall as a trio of medical droids floated beside it, anchored to the rails and performing various tests. Orri jogged alongside, watching as Bazine’s body shook and shivered.

“Was this person exposed to any toxic chemicals or unusual foodstuffs?” a droid asked.

“No,” Orri said, slightly out of breath as they caromed down twisting hallways. “She just fell over.”

“No identichip,” said one droid.

“This is highly unusual,” another droid remarked in almost the same voice.

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” Orri shot back.

Bazine’s body seized, and her hand smacked hard against Orri’s wrist. They were passing by the main reception area and its computer banks, which he should’ve known, because he was supposed to be watching for it instead of watching her. She had purposefully neglected to tell him that she would remain conscious and of sound mind while the chemicals made her body spasm, but the tap got his attention. He looked up, looked back at Bazine, and nodded.

“I think I’m going to vomit,” he said, one hand over his mouth. “I’ll come find you!”

As he hurried back down the hall, a droid called out a room number, but Orri was already gone. The shot wasn’t wearing off as quickly as Bazine would’ve liked, and she was frustrated to feel so out of control. The best she could do was to use what little physical focus she had to kick or smack every instrument one of the droids extended toward her as they took a lift up to the patient area. The gurney pulled smoothly into a private room, all white with bright, warm lights, and the door whooshed shut behind them.

When one of the droids murmured “Restraints are necessary,” Bazine felt the last of the chemical effect drain away. Her body was back under her command.

“Not today,” she said, sitting up suddenly.

Before the droids could react, she’d risen to standing, snatched a scalpel off a droid’s med tray, cartwheeled one-handed off the gurney, pressed the door button, and slipped outside, leaving the droids with no ident information whatsoever. They were programmed to heal, not to hunt or even doubt. She pulled on the baffleweave shirt and walked down the hall like a normal, unhurried medcenter visitor.

While Orri had paid little attention to the medcenter’s layout, Bazine had studied it well. She was supposed to find the nearest exit and return to the Sparrowhawk taking a circuitous route. But she didn’t do that. Instead, she palmed the scalpel and retraced the gurney’s path, heading for the same bank of computers that Orri was supposed to find. On the one hand, she didn’t trust him to get out of the building alive and unidentified. On the other, if he was Narglatch, he might take the files on TK-1472 and beat her to the target using information she couldn’t get on her own.

She made a mental note: Learn how to slice on my own.

On the lift back down to the main level, two doctors and a med droid stepped in with her, and she gave a shy smile and looked away, playing with her blond wig. One doctor smiled back, which made the other doctor frown. While the lift cheerfully binged, she amused herself by calculating the quickest way to kill them both and take out the droid before the door slid open. Not that she would do that—it was simply the way her mind worked, thanks to Kloda’s teaching.

She was the first one out on her floor, and the drone of the servers and cheerful voices of the protocol droid receptionists told her she was near her goal. Creeping around the corner, she watched administrators and nurses typing at the registration terminal as if it were a giant animal in need of constant feeding and cleaning. The humanoid men and women in their loose white jumpsuits and caps paid no attention to the seemingly bored blond girl in the loudly patterned shirt walking around the high-ceilinged hall with all the other patients and visitors. She saw no sign of Orri in the area, and that’s when she began to suspect the worst. He should’ve been there, poking around, doing his magic.

But he wasn’t.

“Where are you?” she whispered into her wrist comlink.

No response.

“Answer me!”

Still nothing.

“I don’t care where you are or what you’re doing, make a noise! Heavy breathing. I don’t care.”

When he didn’t respond, she nearly punched a hole in the closest wall.

There was a possibility that he was lost in the labyrinthine depths or heights of the fifty-story building or behind a comm-blocking area, especially considering how he’d almost jogged right past the massive terminal the first time. And there was also a possibility that he’d already done his work and fled, leaving her high and dry, or that he was waiting for her at the Sparrowhawk with the intel. He might be in flexcuffs, being shipped off for questioning after someone noticed his poor excuse for sneaking. But the one place he wasn’t was here, where he was supposed to be, and the fact that he wasn’t responding on his comlink couldn’t be a coincidence. And that meant Bazine had a decision to make.

Swearing under her breath, she pulled a dastardly computer spike disruptor out of her pocket and leaned against the solid, sea-green-painted counter. With precise timing to ensure that no one would see her, she stabbed the metal instrument deep into the wall of the nearest computer terminal, then immediately withdrew it.

As the first administrator muttered a curse, she disappeared.

The spike’s jolt would spread, and the whole system would be down for at least an hour, possibly longer. Tech droids would soon be swarming the area, probing every chip. No one else would access records today. If she couldn’t get what she needed, no one would.

Bazine was back on the street and headed for the spaceport and the Sparrowhawk before the alarms began to ring.

Chapter 5

At least the ramp was still up, meaning the Sparrowhawk was safe. She’d taken a long route here, constantly barking into her comlink, alternately threatening and cajoling Orri and receiving only silence in return. That’s what she got for trusting someone, even someone recommended by Kloda, the only person she actually trusted.

Vashka City was painfully pristine and orderly, which meant she’d have to dig farther than usual to find someone as dirty as she was. She’d have to wait until after dark to head back toward the sketchy part of town, find the local low-life hangout, and troll the place for a new slicer. And this one would get her what she needed because she’d threaten him instead of warmly instructing him. Losing a day off her schedule put her in a foul mood.

Bazine pressed the button on her comlink to activate the ramp, and the tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose, alerting her to danger. Whipping the stolen scalpel from her pocket, she spun…and nearly sliced Orri’s neck open. He stumbled back, hands up, a tiny prick of blood at his throat.

“Why’d you do that?” he asked, voice trembling.

Bazine repocketed the scalpel and stared at him, cold as ice. “I might ask you the same thing.”

“Following the plan. I got the info, covered my tracks, and came back to the ship. Got lost, though. And somebody jacked my comlink.” He held up his wrist, showing a bruise. “At least it’s easy to find the spaceport, right?”

With a sigh, Bazine walked up the ramp with Orri at her heels. She wanted to believe him…but she never believed anyone. What kind of idiot had a simple comlink stolen in a city as safe as Vashka’s capital? If he was truly that foolish, what could possibly make Kloda believe he might be worth anything as a spy or merc? Orri’s instincts were terrible. The only other option was that his instincts were fantastic and he was an amazing actor. She had to find out.

As Bazine entered the cargo area, she spun suddenly, aiming a high kick for Orri’s head. His arm flew up to block it, quick but unpolished, and he grunted as he took the full force of the strike, bone on bone. She next tried a basic punch combination, jab-cross-hook-cross, and he barely managed to keep up, ducking and blocking inelegantly without taking any real damage.

“What are you doing?” he grunted.

“Testing your reflexes,” she answered, nowhere near out of breath.

After a few more punches, she pulled him into a clinch and tried a simple joint lock, which made him yelp and flail.

“Ow! Ow! Stop! You’re going to break my wrist!” he shouted, legs scrambling for purchase.

She released him. “You’re not very good at this.”

Orri stood, rubbing his arm and throwing her a look of great reproach. “The kicks and punches were part of my training, but Kloda never taught me anything about whatever you just did to my arm.”

Bazine smirked. “He doesn’t teach the Echani arts at his school.”

“Why’d you attack me, though? I did what you asked. Just like you said.”

She smiled, closed the ramp behind them, and headed for her room. “Just trying to keep you on your toes. I’m surprised you let someone steal your comlink.”

Orri followed for a moment, then stopped as she walked through her door and took off her blond wig.

“They had blasters. I had no weapons. I was lost and went down the wrong alley. Not that surprising. But I got the info. TK-1472 was last recorded as a resident at Vashka Valley Retirement Facility Forty-Eight, which has since been shut down. Here are the coordinates.” He held out a torn piece of flimsiplast covered in neat, blocky letters, and she took it. “It’s not that far from here, but there’s no shuttle. We’ll have to rent something, I guess.”

“Why was it shut down?”

He shrugged. “That wasn’t what you asked me to find out.”

“And why do you think we should go to a closed facility?”

“Well, the thing about this guy’s records is that they’re marked confidential, and when I sliced past that, most of the usual information had a code that translated to ‘held on site.’ So whether or not he’s still at Facility Forty-Eight, his records are. I’m guessing that, for whatever reason, they wanted your guy away from the main facility. Maybe he’s dangerous, or maybe they’re hiding something. Even if the place burned down, chances are the server room is intact underground.”

Annoyed, Bazine smacked a palm against the button to shut her door in his face and happily peeled off her disguise, trading it for the clothes she found most comfortable. All black, all fitted, and all riddled with mesh, armor plates, and weapons. The baffleweave shirt fit over her black tank and gear without too much adjustment. As she slipped on her skullcap and boots, she contemplated what she’d learned about Orri Tenro: mainly, that Kloda had been exactly right. The guy had great slicing skills, very poor instincts, and no talent for manipulation or espionage. You couldn’t fake bad reflexes. There was only one thing she could do with him before the next step of her mission.

Poor Orri.

Chapter 6

The sad thing was that Orri Tenro didn’t even present a challenge. There was no elaborate setup required, no ampoule slipped into a fancy drink, no poison-impregnated clothing in a box with tissue. Her approach served as his final test, and he failed brilliantly. Bazine merely walked up behind him, put a warm hand on his shoulder, and stabbed the syringe into his buttock.

“Hey!” was all he managed before falling, facedown, on the ground.

If he’d been a spy, if he’d had any real training other than Kloda using him as a punching bag, he wouldn’t have let her get a needle into his flesh, much less given her time to depress the plunger.

“Sorry, partner,” she said, arranging him flat on his back. “But this next part is a one-woman job.”

She checked his vital signs before leaving the ship and locking him safely within. Just as she’d promised him would happen to anyone who dared to kiss her black-painted lips, Orri would sleep for half a day at least and wake up feeling dizzy and nauseated, as if he had the worst hangover of his life. It was her favorite poison for good reason—it generally left the victim incapable of chasing her.

Her first order of business was suiting up for an unpredictable mission. She wanted clean, and this job was turning out to be anything but. Without knowing what she was up against, she did her best to pack all her favorite weapons and gadgets, now with the addition of her sensor-jamming new shirt. Whatever was going on at Facility 48, there would be no record of a woman known as Bazine Netal infiltrating the building, just a wavering blur where she’d been. So Orri was good for two things, then. Maybe she’d let him live after all.

Her next stop was to steal a two-seater landspeeder from a vast parking garage—all too easy when the owner had left the gate ticket on the passenger seat. The attendant waved to the beautiful woman with her bouncy blond hair, and then, when she was out of sight, Bazine tossed off her wig and sped toward the edge of town and the coordinates she’d long ago memorized after destroying Orri’s flimsiplast notes.

The poor fool didn’t even understand how dangerous it was to leave records behind.

The farther Bazine’s speeder got from the city, the quieter and more beautiful the planet became. Idyllic, even. Long swaths of ornamental, graveled road linked sprawling retirement facilities and medcenters surrounded by lushly manicured grounds. There were no crops or farms; Vashka was reserved for sentient beings and largely absent of industry and agriculture in an effort to keep the climate and ecosystem pristine. The planet’s original megafauna had been cleared out to ensure the safety of its new inhabitants, although the giant ferns, sunburst flowers, and swaying palms had been allowed to flourish—albeit in neat rows. A big waste of meat and leather, in Bazine’s opinion, but the lack of traffic and witnesses made her job easier, so she wouldn’t complain.

The coordinates were farther out than she’d anticipated, and Bazine hadn’t passed a building in hours by the time she neared what had once been Vashka Valley Retirement Facility 48. While she’d been expecting just another New Republic building, all soft lines and gleaming windows, what she saw were jagged peaks and a strange, castlelike form rising over the next hill. She stopped the speeder at the crest and looked down into the valley. It wasn’t often she was surprised and perplexed, but Facility 48 looked altogether wrong, shining a strange, warm gold in the afternoon’s sunlight. When she tracked movement to one side, she realized why.

The building had been colonized.

It wasn’t a government center anymore.

It was a hive.

—

Up close, she recognized the giant insects busily buzzing around their stolen home. Vashkan apidactyls, one of the original megafauna inhabitants of the warm planet. When she’d scanned the Sparrowhawk’s datapad for intel on Vashka, apidactyls, or dacs, had been listed on the “Safety Concerns” page for visiting tourists. No matter what the New Republic did, no matter which poisons they spread or how many hives they burned, they couldn’t completely eradicate the primitive, insectoid beasts. The apidactyls weren’t exactly friendly: They were the size of a small humanoid, coated in armorlike chitin, and blessed with two sets of wings and venomous stingers. No wonder the retirement facility had closed.

Bazine left her speeder concealed under a fallen palm tree, plucked one of its giant fronds to use as camouflage, and crept toward the towering hive. The front doors were open…and being used by insects bustling in and out in two endless lines. Most of the building had been coated with heavy golden wax that glowed, almost translucent, in the sun. Hexagonal cells cloaked the corners and roof, piling upward to partially melted points. What once had been windows were firmly sealed. Getting in would not be easy, but she wasn’t going to leave without finding out what had happened to Jor Tribulus…and that steel case. Orri had said the data servers would be well protected, and she had to hope he was right. Her quarry’s trail was cold.

At each of the building’s four corners, a gigantic pile of trash was neatly stacked, and Bazine ran for the shadow of the nearest one. Up close, she saw a hodgepodge of humanoid detritus, including chairs, keyboards, and droids, all mixed up with chunks of browned wax, bits of sodden white fluff, and the yellow-and-black-striped sawtooth legs and mandibles of generations of dead dacs. A loud hum jerked her attention away from the building and toward one of the insects, zooming straight toward her and clutching an empty eggshell the size of a sleeping bag in its mandibles. Bazine froze, holding the palm frond to block her body, wishing she knew more about how these creatures viewed the world and whether they would see her as an enemy, a food source, or a mere inconvenience.

Experience had taught her that it was usually one of the first two.

The apidactyl, fortunately, didn’t notice her, but Bazine had a brief chance to study its physiognomy as it carefully fit the eggshell into the puzzle of garbage and flew off. Her conclusion was that the dacs were flying death machines, and she wanted to get into and out of the building as quickly as possible without getting close to another one.

She couldn’t remember if such creatures saw more clearly during the day or at night, or if they had any sense of smell, and when she tried to pull up info on her datapad, she found only a cheerful entry on uses for honey and wax. Forced to choose between facing the creatures by light of day or in the dark, where it was possible they’d have the advantage even with her night-vision goggles, she chose day. A pitch-black hive full of killer bugs did not appeal. What she needed was a distraction.

Kicking up one foot, Bazine flicked the catch that released the thermal detonator cradled in the high wedge heel of her boot. She thumbed the button, reared back, and hurled the metal sphere toward an outcropping of glistening wax on the front side of the building. Just as she’d hoped, the blast radius created a gaping spherical hole that dripped honey—and brought the entire hive of angry apidactyls scurrying from every angle in a writhing mass of berserk black and yellow. The moment the front door was clear, she dropped the palm frond and ran, dived through, and rolled to her knees, finally inside the last known home of TK-1472.

—

The eerie silence inside the gold-tinged building wouldn’t last, which meant Bazine didn’t have much time. She took her bearings amid the ruins of a lobby filled with smooth plastic chairs and jogged to the remains of a front desk. Anything that could be carried away by sentient beings or insects had been; only the furniture firmly bolted to the floor and wall remained. The comp screens had all been broken, and gray glass littered the desk. She’d hoped to find a map or logbook, but everything appeared to be digital, which meant there was no way for her to get into the system. For just a moment, she wished she’d brought Orri. But then she imagined a chittering dac catching the back of his vest and lifting him, screaming, into the air. They were better off with him sleeping on the Sparrowhawk.

Bazine had expected to sneak through the darkened halls of a simple retirement facility, jamming the cam feeds as she hunted for Tribulus and passed unnoticed among the staff and patients. She was trained to deal with sentient creatures, whether through deception or force. But she knew nothing of giant bugs and barely more than that about coaxing data out of broken computers. If the hologram in Suli’s cantina had mentioned a hive of apidactyls, she would’ve walked away from the job.

Orri had told her that data servers were often stored in an underground room, ostensibly so their records would be difficult for outsiders to access and safe from any weather or fire issues. That was her goal: get to the data room, find a way to boot up the servers, hope there was an unbroken screen and keyboard, and poke around for what she needed. If nothing else, she would pull the datachips and take them back to the ship for Orri to manipulate with his slicing skills. All they needed to know was when TK-1472 had been evacuated, where he’d been sent, where he was from, or where he was buried. Child’s play, she hoped.

It was kind of funny how Orri had wanted to learn true spycraft, never realizing that most of it had to do with keeping a cool head at a time like this, when the job went south. She needed his skills as much as her own right now.

She checked that the front doors were still empty before bolting down the single hallway. Her heart pounded, her boots skittering over ripped carpet and palm-sized chunks of wax as she hurried past open doors that revealed rooms filled with hexagonal cells. Everything was tinted the same warm, golden yellow, and a sickly-sweet scent rode the still air. Bazine felt as if she were running in slow motion past endless doors full of endless cells. Realizing too late that the hallway took a sharp turn up ahead, she nearly ran into another wall of the meter-wide, tightly packed cells. Face-to-face with one of the chambers, she put a hand to the partially translucent wax. When it pulsated against her palm, she jumped back, just as a hideous white grub pushed up against it, the wax bellying out under its bulk and its alien black eyes roving as if seeking her out.

That just made her run faster.

The next hallway was darker—this side of the building faced away from the sun. Bazine had goggles and a head lamp and flares, but she didn’t want to attract the attention of the dacs, so she’d keep going until she ran out of light. This hall looked more like rooms or dormitories for the retirees, each door marked with a number, some with last names rendered unreadable by a coating of wax. Rails were bolted to the walls, and she passed a series of horrible landscape paintings broken up only by a rusted laundry chute. Just ahead, she saw a closed door marked STAIRS.

As Bazine picked up speed and ran toward the stairs, a fully grown apidactyl exited one of the open doors, wings buzzing inquisitively, and turned to face her. Immediately she knew: Whatever the creature saw, it wasn’t good. Its buzzing took on a dark, aggressive tone, and it barely paused before flashing mandibles and flying right for her.

Spinning away from the door, she ran back down the hall. Dozens of dacs were returning through the front doors, their heads cocked toward her as they heard either her footsteps or the angry buzz pursuing her. With little choice, she yanked open the laundry chute and swung into it, feetfirst, not knowing what she would find at the bottom.

Chapter 7

The slide was brief, pitch-black, and smooth. Bazine steeled herself to a deadly calm as she rocketed downward with her knees instinctively bent, ready to roll and cushion the blow of whatever she landed on. Much to her surprise, her boots sank into near-softness. Somehow, miraculously, a pile of old laundry had been left to rot where it had fallen. Sinking down, Bazine slipped on her night-vision goggles and took in her surroundings before proceeding.

Revealed in shades of black and green, the room took shape. One wall was a bank of washing and drying units, and across from that was a long table that still held folded linens, the laundry droids a row of frozen sentinels bolted to the wall just above it. Much to Bazine’s satisfaction, the room was utterly empty of wax, apidactyls, and signs of destruction. It was as if everyone had left in the middle of the workday and…never come back.

Bazine emerged from the pile of musty fabric and dusted off her pants. Espionage was often a dirty job, but this mission was, unfortunately, proving dirtier than most. As she walked toward the open door, she ran a hand along a line of hanging jackets. The fabric was stiff and white, the uniforms clanking as she brushed past. When she reached the last one, she recognized the truth of it: straitjackets.

No wonder Vashka Valley Retirement Facility 48 was so far away from proper civilization. No wonder their records were confidential, hidden. It was an asylum. A remote, private place for broken soldiers and war victims to live out their days safely and healthfully in peace. Well, until the giant flying insects showed up to stake their claim.

Before passing through the doorway, she drew her blade. Considering how the dacs had reacted to the explosion upstairs, she was going to be as silent as possible. Even if they hadn’t yet discovered a way down to the basement, she didn’t want to give them a reason to explore.

The next space was another hallway, spreading left and right in equal darkness. Nothing moved, and the silence was so profound that she could hear her heart pounding in her ears. Recalling the layout above, she turned right, hoping the data banks would be located directly underneath the check-in desk. If she knew the usual habits of the corner-cutting Outer Rim contractors that did their business this far from the New Republic’s prying eyes, they would’ve planned their construction to minimize the wiring needed to connect the systems.

With her back to the wall, she glanced through the next open doorway and sighed in silent relief. The data room was right where she’d hoped to find it, and all the machines appeared intact, if dusty and abandoned. Tracing the cords, she hurried to the electric box to throw the switch and power up the system. As she reached for the metal door, the hairs on her neck rose, and a blur of motion barreled into her, carrying her to the ground and knocking her goggles off. It felt like an apidactyl, hard and pointy and random in its blitz attack, but instead of buzzing, it grunted. Like a humanoid. Bazine’s mind switched from defense to aggression, and she escaped the thrashing weight, flipping her assailant to the ground and grasping what felt remarkably like wiry human biceps.

“Who are you?” she growled, low and vicious.

“Quiet, fool! You’ll attract the dacs.”

Considering the ragged voice, the weakness of the flailing limbs, and the acrid scent of unwashed flesh and rotten breath, Bazine realized she was dealing with someone older than her grandfather would’ve been, if she’d had one. And she didn’t need to see him to guess that he was most likely insane. Whether he’d been one of the original residents or had taken up shop once the dacs had moved in, this wasn’t a place to inspire confidence and healthful sanity. All that constant buzzing got to a person.

“Stop struggling and explain yourself,” she whispered, albeit more quietly.

The man went very still but remained tense. “Can I at least sit up?” he asked. “Back’s no good.”

Bazine planted one hand on his chest while she searched him, disgusted though she was. Aside from a rough knife, she could find nothing resembling a weapon. He gave a small cry when she tossed the knife far away to clatter against the wall, and the struggle went out of him. When she released him and he still didn’t sit up, she exhaled in annoyance and yanked him by his shoulders, leaning him to sit against the wall.

“Many thanks,” he muttered.

With her hands free again, Bazine resettled her goggles and studied her attacker. He was even more pathetic than she had imagined, a wizened, twisted man wearing rough armor fashioned of apidactyl plates and familiar white plastoid bound together with wire and coated with golden wax. He had a pair of goggles, too, cracked in multiple places and hopelessly old-fashioned.

“Retiree or facility worker?” she asked.

His face twisted with annoyance. “Retired stormtrooper, served at the Battle of Endor.” He snorted and fussed with the armor over his shoulders. “Don’t tell me I’m so far gone you couldn’t tell.”

“Name?”

He settled himself more carefully against the wall and studied her in return. “Woman of few words, eh? Me, too. Once you start talking to the dacs, it’s all over.”

“There’s no one else?”

“Not down here. Most of ’em are upstairs.”

Bazine brought her blade to the old man’s neck. “One more chance: What’s your name?”

He seemed to deflate. “TK-1403. Aric Nightdrifter. Born on—”

“I don’t care. I’m looking for TK-1472, Jor Tribulus. You know him?”

Nightdrifter barked a laugh before catching it behind a hand and clearing his throat. “Of course. My old captain in the service. Good man. Quieter than most.”

Bazine set her jaw and pressed the blade with dark intent against the old man’s withered skin. “Is he here?”

With a reckless slap, Nightdrifter shoved her blade aside and struggled to stand. She allowed him to perform both actions and rose to her feet, hand on her blaster.

“Of course he’s here. Where else is he going to go?”

Bazine shoved her blaster against his belly. “Take me to him. Now.”

Nightdrifter sighed. “Let me get my supplies. You got to do everything I tell you to, though. The dacs get nasty if you don’t know how to handle ’em. And they’re gonna hate that shirt of yours. They only recognize their own hive’s patterns, see?” He pointed to the yellow-and-black-patterned plates of apidactyl exoskeleton strapped to his body. “To them, you look like the enemy.”

With a quiet curse, she shrugged out of her new shirt, folded it up, and stuck it in one of her pockets, leaving her in head-to-toe black. That was the thing about gear: What would save your life on one mission might backfire on the next.

“Let’s go.” She grabbed his shoulders and pushed him toward the door.

“Here’s how it happened,” he began.

Bazine nestled her blaster against his back. “Again, I don’t care.”

After that, he finally went silent and hobbled down the empty hall, around the corner, and to the only closed door, which he slid open manually to reveal an ascetic room lit by a single wax candle. It was a sad echo of a soldier’s bunk, cobbled together of bits and pieces from the asylum above. A stormtrooper helmet sat on a low stool like a shrine.

“They let you keep your helmets?” she couldn’t help asking.

He chuckled as he rummaged through a drawer. “No. They were kept in a locked display case. To remind us of our glory days, I guess, and help us remember what we’d once been. When the workers left, we smashed it open. Divvied up everything we could find in the building. Lockers, drawers, our own confiscated belongings. Found some good stuff, too.” He seemed stronger when he stood again, holding up a green bundle of dried herbs, a lighter, and a ragged silk fan. “I wasn’t going to go up again for another week, but we should be okay.”

Bazine nodded and flicked her blaster toward the door. With a heavy sigh, Nightdrifter led her through the maze of corridors to a set of stairs.

“When that door up there opens, you’re going to be blind for at least a minute as your eyes adjust. Make sure you have your goggles off and your eyes closed. No matter how much it stings, stay in the smoke.”

“Or else what?”

His grin showed, finally, the insanity lurking within. “Or else indeed.”

She stayed close as he limped up the stairs. At the top, he pulled a circular plug out of the door, and white light arrowed down the corridor.

“Goggles off—now,” he whispered.

Bazine slipped her goggles around her neck and pinched her eyes closed, her blaster muzzle pressed against Nightdrifter’s bent back. His lighter clicked a few times, and then the thick, muggy scent of smoke almost made her sneeze. She could picture his movements perfectly: He’d lit the bundle of herbs and was using the fan to waft the smoke through the hole and out into the corridor.

“Doesn’t take much,” he muttered. “Just a little time. Damn things are telekinetic.”

The smoke was soporific, and Bazine had to put a hand against the wall to stay standing. It had been a long couple of days with more than the expected amount of running, fighting, and chemically induced seizures, and something about the heavy scent of the wax and smoke was lulling.

When Nightdrifter said, “That’s got ’em. Eyes closed. Here we go,” she startled awake and pressed the weapon more firmly into his spine.

“Lead on. And don’t do anything stupid.”

Even with her eyes squeezed shut, it was blindingly bright on the other side of the door, and red lightning imprinted on the back of her eyelids. She wrapped one hand in Nightdrifter’s cloak, just in case he should decide to bolt despite her threat. He chuckled and pushed on through the smoke.

As they turned a corner, she was finally able to squint, and what she saw was eerie: All the apidactyls had crouched or fallen, legs crumpled, on the ground. Their wings were still, their mandibles softly snapping as if they were dreaming.

“Are we close?” she asked.

“To what?”

“To Tribulus.”

“Very.”

“Why’s he up here instead of in the basement?”

“Oh,” he said absently. “The basement is mine.”

All the halls and rooms looked the same, the walls coated with golden wax and glowing with late-afternoon sunlight. Nightdrifter led her up a gentle, twisting ramp, past fallen hoverchairs and rusting droids, her blaster never leaving his back. A bright light up ahead suggested a change in terrain, and she drew her blade and made ready for whatever strange new people she might find living in the ruins.

“Here we are,” the old man said. “The Atrium.”

He slid open an ornate glass-and-metal door to reveal a tall, open space filled with light. And wax.

It had once been a cheerful recreation area with couches, games, and telescreens. Now it was the heart of the hive, the ground mounded with twitching, unconscious dacs. The walls rose in intricate hexagons, the light filtering through a three-story-tall bank of clear glass windows. The insects knew well enough to leave room for sunlight, apparently. But still she didn’t see any sign of people.

“Is he on the roof?” she asked with a growing sense of unease, shoving him with the blaster. “I’m done with your games.”

Nightdrifter pointed to a closed door, the twin of the hallway they’d come from. “He’s in there, with the others. The dacs can’t open doors.” A beat later, he added, “Yet.”

“Open it.”

“You’re not going to like what’s on the other side.”

She sighed. “I don’t like any of this.”

He opened the door and walked inside. When she followed, blaster and blade drawn, she came face-to-face with dozens of stormtroopers.

Chapter 8

Or, technically, stormtrooper armor. Empty stormtrooper armor, standing upright and at attention in front of a long wall of golden hexagonal cells reaching from floor to ceiling.

“What is this?”

The old man stood in front of one of the shiny white suits and saluted. “Ah. Here he is. Jor Tribulus. My old captain in the service. Good man. Quieter than most.”

“You already said that.”

“Did I?”

She shoved Nightdrifter aside and grabbed the nearest stormtrooper’s arm to make sure the suit was empty. It rattled. Fury boiled in her veins. Everything about this job had gone wrong. She wouldn’t accept a mission from a self-destructing droid ever again. With one violent yank, the whole suit clattered and fell from the metal IV pole that had been holding it up.

“No!” Nightdrifter cried, crawling to catch it. “Show some respect!”

“Empty armor. Useless. Where’s Tribulus, really?”

With a shaking hand, the old man pointed to the hexagonal cell directly before her. There were three rows: one on the floor, one at chest height, and one along the ceiling. Looking closely at the middle one, she saw TK-1472: JOR TRIBULUS carefully incised in the wax, and horror snicked up her spine, quickly followed by hope.

“He’s in there?”

Nightdrifter nodded.

“His body?”

Another nod.

“With his belongings?”

Nightdrifter’s eyes slid sideways. “Some of them. Most.”

Before he could stand and stop her, she sliced her blade in a smooth circle and levered the sheet of finger-thick wax out of the hole she’d created. It fell and broke in two with a heavy thump. The scent of death and rot came with it, and she immediately pulled on her goggles and stuck her head into the darkness.

The cell was as long as two men, and what was left of TK-1472 was laid out with his arms crossed over his chest at the very back. A promising mound of belongings sat at his feet.

“It’s bad luck to disturb the dead,” Nightdrifter said, but she ignored him.

Crawling farther back, she saw a steel case peeking out from beneath the rotting hand. As she pulled curled fingers of bone away to inspect it, the old man outside started talking.

“They tried to fight the dacs at first, but when you kill one, it does something to the hive. Murderous things can communicate rage, tell one another who to aim for. Once they’re focused, nothing else can get their attention. The doctors and workers left—they could, couldn’t they? No mechno-chairs, no prosthetics, no jackets, no locked rooms. They left us here. Even the women. We moved down into the basement and kept the doors locked, but there’s no food down there, no water. Can’t live if you can’t get outside the building, can you? So we took turns fetching supplies, never knowing if we’d make it back a hero, get stung to death and walled up in a cell with a grub, or get caught outside by the New Republic, damn them. If this is freedom, freedom isn’t worth much.”

She looked up as he leaned into the cell, his face frantic.

“They knew we were dangerous, see? Knew we’d seen things. That’s why they sent us all the way out here, to the edge of nothing. Far away. Locked up. Not for our good. For theirs.”

“I don’t blame them.”

As she traced fingers over the silver metal, her black lips finally gave a real, true, wide smile. This was it. The case. After all that had gone wrong, she had the loot. She touched the device behind her ear and cleared her throat to speak.

“This is Bazine Netal. I—”

There was a loud thump. The old man cried out, and someone newer and bigger blocked the light. She deactivated the comm, smile gone and blaster ready, and looked up. Directly into the face of the last person she’d thought to see.

Chapter 9

“Hello, Chaakrabbit,” Kloda said.

She gently placed the case on the floor of the cell and pasted on a fake smile. Behind it, her body was betraying her. Tears pricked at her eyes as her heart yammered and her nerves buzzed with adrenaline. All she wanted to do was run, because there was no good, safe, well-meaning reason for Kloda to be on Vashka. She hadn’t even told him it was her destination. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t get out of the cell. Not with him outside, blocking it.

“Nice to see you, too, old man.”

He didn’t move, but his grin grew wider. “Let me help you with that case, kid.”

And that’s when Bazine knew for certain.

“Why do they call you Narglatch?” she asked, voice flat.

He didn’t skip a beat. “Because I’m a solitary hunter. Now give me the case.” His favorite blaster appeared, and he winked his one good eye. “Please.” When she didn’t reach for it, he added, “Don’t count on our history, kid. I could just as easily shoot you and take it anyway.”

Her throat went tight as she reached for the metal box.

“Just kick it over. Your weapons, too, including the throwing knives. I know you have at least five hidden on you somewhere. If I see your fingers twitch, you’ll lose an arm. It’s not set on stun.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “It never is.”

With his blaster aimed for her face, she tossed out seven throwing knives and kicked her blaster, her blade, and the case away with her boot.

Kloda swept her weapons to the ground, pulled the case out into the light, and inspected it, just as she had. Her mission, her case, the one she’d pulled from the skeleton hand of a corpse. She’d almost forgotten the body of Tribulus, trapped, like her, in the apidactyl cell. Even as her heart broke to know her savior, mentor, and friend had betrayed her, still her mind was cataloging the contents of the chamber, remembering the shine of a knife in the pile of goods and a carefully wrapped length of rope on the body’s hip. Most of the dead man’s belongings, Nightdrifter had said. There had to be plenty of things here she could use as a weapon if she only had an opening.

“Good job,” Kloda said, and her head jerked up. “I appreciate you doing all the work for me. And taking Orri off my hands, too. Bastard asks too many questions, doesn’t he?”

He was busy with something outside the cell, moving around and bending over.

“Sorry about your friend out here,” he said. “All that armor, and it only took one punch to the skull to put him down. Guess I’ve still got a good right hook, huh? Old, but still has a kick.”

“Can I come out now?” she asked, trying to put worry and vulnerability into her voice. It had worked on him, a little, when she’d been a youngling.

He bent to smirk at her. “Nice try, kid. But I know all your moves. I’m the one who taught them to you. So you just sit tight, and let’s make sure you won’t follow me.”

She knew he wanted her to ask what he meant, and so she remained stubbornly silent. The old man whistled his favorite tune as he used Nightdrifter’s lighter to fire up one of his fat cigarras and puff thoughtfully. With a grunt, he lifted one slab of wax back into place, holding it over the hole with one hand while he melted the edges with the lighter. The warm, cloying smell of wax merged with the rot of death to tighten the ball of dread in Bazine’s stomach.

“Look, kid, don’t blame yourself. You have no idea what’s in this case, do you? This was all part of a long game, playing for the biggest score of all. I needed a patsy, and they’re pretty easy to find in a Chaako City orphanage. You had a decent life, right? I taught you plenty. Let you run wild, right up until this job finally came around and I needed you. Didn’t even know you had a tracker on you, did you? If you were on Chaaktil, I could always find you. And I can always find the Sparrowhawk.”

He bent to pick up the next slab, and Bazine bared her teeth. He wanted her to hurt—she could feel it in every word like a knife in the back. She’d known he was a bit of a sadist, but he’d never shown that side to her before. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of tears, of whimpers, of begging.

He thought he knew everything about her?

She’d teach him something new.

For now, she slit her eyes with rage as he sealed the last slab of wax over the tomb and melted the jagged crack where it had broken. The light filtered through, golden orange, not quite dark enough to merit her goggles.

“You were the perfect weapon,” he said, voice slightly muffled. “Beautiful. Angry. Cold. Damaged. As long as I killed everyone you tried to get close to, you kept pushing yourself harder. Kept you on your toes. That little kid you befriended at the market. That featherweight you let in your bed. They slowed you down.” He thumped the wax with a fist, and it didn’t budge. “So you can understand why I don’t want to kill you myself. This way at least I can pretend that you’re still scrapping.” She heard his bones pop as he bent to pick up her blade and blaster. “You’ll never see me again, but we were never the sort for sappy goodbyes. I hear suffocating’s not too bad a way to go.”

And then his metal stump was clanking down the hall, taking TK-1472’s case with him.

Chapter 10

When she could no longer hear Kloda, she flipped on her goggles and went for the knife, her fingers scrabbling around the pile of decaying fabric and goods. She also took the rope and the dead man’s belt. The knife was a rough thing, probably made by sharpening a spoon, but it would serve to slice open the wax—if her foot couldn’t do it first. She crawled to the newly melted wax wall and put a hand against it, testing where it might be weakest, right at the seam.

That’s when she heard the pew-pew-pew of blasterfire and an answering, furious buzz that built to a maddening crescendo.

So Kloda had woken the stupefied apidactyls, further hindering her chase.

Of course he was smart like that. But even if the old pirate hadn’t taught her all his tricks, he’d taught her enough. When you couldn’t go through the front door, you found a window. When there wasn’t a window, you made one. She’d already slipped on leather gloves and stabbed the knife into the cell’s ceiling when the first dacs flew into the room. Judging by the satisfied sound of their buzzing and the coppery smell and wet splats, they were getting their revenge on what was left of Aric Nightdrifter. Kloda’s right cross was as lethal as it had ever been.

Shadows flickered against the wax wall, razor-sharp legs probing it as if sensing something deeply wrong. She didn’t know how intelligent the insects might be, and she didn’t want to stick around long enough to find out. As soon as her knife had broken through the brittle wax overhead, she began peeling large chunks of it away with her hands.

She’d begun her bolt-hole in the center of the cell, halfway between the insects outside and the corpse within, hoping all the burial cells were set up like this one. That meant that when she crawled upward into the cell nearest the ceiling, she wouldn’t be directly under another rotting body. She could smell it, though, and that was enough. This cell was darker, and she recalibrated her goggles to rummage through the pile of goods, finding a coil of insulated wire, a pair of wire clippers, and another sorry excuse for a knife. Such a shame that the stormtrooper armor was outside with the monsters instead of inside with the men who had worn it. She could’ve put that armor to good use right now.

The buzzing outside grew louder and more frantic, and she could only assume that the creatures were amassing to pull their own hive apart to find the fresh meat of the interloper inside. She hacked at the thick wax on the ceiling, but it was heavier and harder to break through. Her gloves wore through and her knuckles burned and bled. When she did get a good chunk out, she found standard white ceiling tile behind it, which was promising. The insects might have built their home to last, but ceiling tiles were meant to be replaced often enough to keep the bigger galactic corporations in business. She took glee in stabbing the white board until it fell apart in brittle pieces.

Soon Bazine had a proper hole in the ceiling, just wide enough for her and hopefully the wrong shape and size for any hungry dacs who tried to follow. She stood, gathered up her tools, and pulled herself carefully into the thick, hot air of the building’s attic. She hated dust and muck, but never had dust and muck smelled so good. There wasn’t enough room to stand up, but her goggles revealed a latticework of metal girders holding the ceiling tiles in place. Exhaust vents all around the edges of the building let in slashes of sunlight, and that’s what she aimed for.

Kloda’s training came in handy as she sprinted lightly along the narrow metal rail, knowing that any step onto a tile might send her crashing down into the apidactyl nest below. Rage pushed her forward, and she kept her weight on her toes until she reached the nearest duct and slid her goggles down around her neck. She spread her weight over two different girders and used the knife to unscrew the vent’s bolts. As it came loose, she gently let it fall sideways, still dangling by one screw.

The scene outside was beautiful—but terrifying. Smooth green walls surrounded the valley, megaflora bursting from random oases amid the grass. The sky was headed to purple, the golden yellow of the wax spires and walls reflecting red rays of the setting sun. She was under an overhang directly below the roof of the building, three stories up. Which normally would present no problem for her sentiments or her talents. But this time, hundreds of angry insects roughly her own size whirled in tornadoes of slashing rage, buzzing in and out of the doors, hunting and probing, compelled to punish whatever had dared to attack the hive.

She scoped out the deadfall where she’d left her speeder and couldn’t contain a growl. Kloda knelt beside the engine, no doubt disabling it. Beside him crouched a fully grown narglatch bearing a saddle and panniers, its finned tail slashing the air and its claws digging into the grass.

Now the code name made sense.

Getting off the building would be no problem, thanks to the rope she’d found on Tribulus’s body. It was being spotted by the insects that worried her. She didn’t have time to piece together her own armor, as Nightdrifter had, but she did have one disguise up her sleeve. Or, to be more precise, in her pocket. Soon Bazine was rubbing her rishi eel ink on the pale skin of her arms and chest not covered by her black undershirt. She smudged the last of the tube’s ink around her face. If she couldn’t look like a dac, she’d look like a shadow.

Everything she’d taken from the cells above was hidden on her person, along with a few weapons Kloda didn’t know about. The coil of wire and nippers were hooked to Tribulus’s belt, and she unwound the rope and tied the end firmly to the nearest ceiling girder. It wouldn’t get her all the way to the ground, but it would get her close.

Bazine’s hands were now covered in the rishi eel ink, which not only kept her from ever leaving finger- or handprints behind but also would provide some cushion for the rope’s friction—and mask her scent. Reaching down through the hole she’d made in the ceiling, she chipped off some wax pieces and rubbed them between her hands, hoping the wax would provide additional relief to the rope burn.

As she stood at the open grate, tying a knot in the loop of rope around her waist, an inquisitive buzzing in the hole she’d just vacated told her the time had come to jump. She backed out of the narrow hole feetfirst and rappelled down the side of Facility 48, her boots sinking into the warm wax with every jump. Her palms burned hot, but not nearly as hot as the rage in her chest as she glanced over her shoulder and saw Kloda slip the metal case into one of his panniers. She let herself fall faster until she ran out of rope, just before she hit the first story. Releasing the knot, she gave herself a meter of distance before letting go and landing on a smooth slope of wax. It was thankfully the easiest landing of her career, and she slid down the slick incline until she was able to roll to standing where the remaining grass met the edge of the hive. Whether it was their white-hot focus on finding the intruder or her all-black costume, the apidactyls hadn’t spotted her. Yet.

And neither had Kloda.

He was talking on a comm now, one very similar to hers, laughing. She knew how to take him down, but it was going to be tricky. She had to be close, but not too close. And he had to be far away from her speeder and the hive. She had to time her actions perfectly.

Bazine darted behind the trash pile, running all the way around it to the far edge. She waited as Kloda mounted his narglatch and checked his gear. She checked her gear, too, lifting her boot to release and palm her last thermal detonator. As he took off at a lope, she sprinted behind him, depressed the trigger, and lobbed the metal sphere directly ahead of his path.

With a resounding boom, the ground disappeared in a ten-meter-wide depression. The great cat yowled and fell, taking Kloda with it. By the time she’d run to the edge of the crater, Bazine’s mentor and once-friend was climbing over the edge, bruised and scratched up but mostly unharmed.

Which was exactly how Bazine wanted it. Revenge wasn’t as sweet when your enemy was already dead.

He pulled himself to level ground just as she reached striking distance, but he couldn’t get to his blaster in time. She aimed her first kick at his face, then landed a pointed toe in his side. He’d once chided her for her taste in footwear—who spied in twelve-centimeter heels? Let him laugh now, with his broken ribs. Everything she did, she did for a reason. You can’t hide bombs in flat shoes.

The narglatch made a leap at the edge of the crevasse, swiping at her with heavy claws before falling back down again. She danced back just as Kloda snatched for her ankle, taking her down to one knee. He was a dirty fighter, the kind of man who packed poison under his ragged fingernails and had once beaten a man to death with his metal leg. But knowing his ways had taught her to prepare for such a fight, and she knew his nails couldn’t get through her thick leggings. She kicked at him, dislodging his hand, but he had enough strength to make another grab for her leg and pull her back.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he growled.

He wanted a close fight? Fine. She’d give him one. A betrayal as personal as his deserved a death just as intimate, after all.

Bazine changed tactics. Instead of trying to get her distance and regroup, she pounced on him, straddled his chest, and snaked an arm behind his thick neck.

“Gonna kiss me, Chaakrabbit?” he asked with a chuckle, and the shift of his arm told her he was going for a knife.

She put on the choke quickly and mercilessly, cutting off both his breath and his blood. His face went red as she felt a knife repeatedly slam and skitter off the plating and fiber mesh in her undershirt. Her smile was as dark as her lips.

“If I kissed you, it would be too easy.”

“Not…my type…anyway.”

“Give up, old man. You lost.”

“Taught you…everything you know,” he sputtered. “Didn’t teach you…this.”

“I wanted a second opinion,” she answered. “So I trained at some other schools. And I’m keeping your ship.”

He bucked and struggled, but even a man as strong and tough as Delphi Kloda couldn’t live without oxygen. There was something satisfying in the way his knowing, judgmental eye bulged in surprise and fear, and she toyed with the idea of letting him live just so she could taunt him. But she couldn’t help remembering the bedtime stories he’d told her as a child, how he’d hunted men down for betraying him. Leave an enemy alive and you’ll never stop looking over your shoulder, he’d told her. That’s how I lost my eye. Didn’t try it again. He’d tapped the black leather patch and winked, and she’d laughed and swore she never would.

But he just had, hadn’t he?

And now…she wanted to. But she wouldn’t. Because she knew better than anyone what Kloda could do when he wanted something. This man had killed everyone she’d gotten close to, people whose names she’d purposefully forgotten. He might’ve even killed Orri already—she wouldn’t know until she got back to the Sparrowhawk at the spaceport. She had to end Kloda before he found a way to escape. Closing her eyes, she cranked the choke, hard, crushing his windpipe and snapping his neck.

He’d betrayed her. But he’d saved her first.

She closed his eye and stood, tall and proud. Perhaps he’d sought to forge her into the perfect weapon, but the sharpening had been her own doing.

Time to finish the job.

Chapter 11

Bazine didn’t know much about narglatches, but she knew how to kill one with Kloda’s blaster from ten meters away. Like his master, the cat was a predator of single-minded will, and she didn’t trust him any more than she trusted Kloda. When the beast’s chest stopped moving, she skidded down the embankment and flipped open the panniers. Soon she had her blade, her throwing knives, her blaster…and the case.

After climbing out of the crater, she headed for her speeder. Thanks to Orri’s instruction and a dead man’s cache, it was simple enough to fix the wires Kloda had cut and get it back in working order. It was almost funny—he’d taught her to trust no one but him, and yet it was the knowledge she’d gained from other teachers that had allowed her to best him.

When she’d put all the guts back together, she flipped the panel closed and fired up the speeder. Satisfaction washed over her, hearing it hum to life and putting the apidactyl hive far behind her.

She thumbed the button behind her ear.

“This is—”

“Bazine? Is that you?”

She flicked the button back off. It wasn’t the modulated voice of her employer on the long-range comm. It was Orri on her wrist comlink, sounding dazed. She smiled, just a little. So there was one person—someone she maybe liked just the smallest bit—whom Kloda hadn’t gotten around to killing.

“Yes, Orri. It’s me.”

“What happened? I can’t remember. Did you…kiss me?”

She gifted him with a chuckle. “No. I did not kiss you.”

“But you did something. I have this sore spot on my…” He cleared his throat. “Never mind. Where are you?”

“I’m on my way back to the ship. Should be there in a few hours. Don’t try to leave. Just have a cup of caf and some food and don’t do anything stupid.”

There was a long pause. “So you went on the job without me.”

He sounded despondent, like a child who’d dropped sweets in the sand.

“You didn’t miss anything. I’ll fill you in later.”

“Did you find our guy?”

Bazine could only shake her head. Our guy. Like it was something they were doing together. Like they were equals. Like he wasn’t an inconvenience and a fool.

“Yes, I got our guy.”

“How’d the baffleweave work? Undetectable, right?”

“Goodbye, Orri.” She blocked the channel. She had real work to do.

As she steered back toward Vashka City and the Sparrowhawk—now her ship—she turned on the autopilot and pulled the metal case into her lap. It looked like it had been dragged through a war, peppered with dents and scratches and a few black marks that had to be deflected blasterfire. Dark grime was packed into the edges as if it hadn’t been opened in decades. She saw no lock, no catch. She thought about trying to open it, going so far as running her fingers around the rim. What, after all, was so special that Kloda would come out of hiding and betray her to steal it? That he would spend years training her, raising her, just for that payoff? What would he consider “the biggest score”?

Ultimately? She didn’t want to know. She just wanted the money.

She set the case down gently and flicked the comm behind her ear to establish a long-range connection.

“It’s Bazine Netal,” she said. “I’ve got it.”

BY DELILAH S. DAWSON

Star Wars

The Perfect Weapon

Blud Series

Wicked as They Come

Wicked as She Wants

Wicked After Midnight

Hit

Servants of the Storm

About the Author

DELILAH S. DAWSON is a native of Roswell, Georgia, and the author of the paranormal romance Blud series for Pocket, including Wicked as They Come, Wicked as She Wants, and the upcoming Wicked After Midnight, as well as two previous Blud novellas, The Mysterious Madam Morpho and The Peculiar Pets of Miss Pleasance. She is also the author of the YA novel Servants of the Storm.

whimsydark.com

Facebook.com/DelilahSDawson

@DelilahSDawson

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