Star Wars: The Last of the Jedi, Volume 4 (4 page)

Within moments, powerful halo lights began to sweep the dark water.

“We’ve got to swim for it, and fast,” Solace whispered. “Underwater. Oryon, you take Trever and I’ll take Keets.” She handed out Aquata breathers to Keets and
Trever. Oryon had one of his own.

“Nobody has to take me,” Keets protested, but it was clear that he needed help.

“Don’t argue—it gets on my nerves,” Solace said, hooking an arm around his chest. “Ready?”

Oryon hooked an arm around Trever. “Ready.”

Taking a deep breath, they slipped beneath the surface as the lights crisscrossed the water. More and more lights appeared, penetrating the water, and Trever couldn’t see how they would
escape. Solace swam deeper, her powerful legs kicking. Suddenly blaster fire ripped into the water ahead of them. Something exploded behind them. The stormtroopers were shooting into the water
randomly, probably on Malorum’s orders. And they were sending down explosive devices as well.

It was impossible, Trever thought, twisting through the cold water with Oryon. The water was so cold he could barely feel his feet or hands. He knew his body was failing him. Solace continued to
stroke ahead, but he could feel Oryon tiring. Even a Bothan couldn’t keep up with a Jedi. And there were too many lights now to get to Solace’s ship without being seen.

He didn’t know how he found the strength to go on, but watching Solace’s strength somehow helped him. When she felt them flagging, she swam behind them and hooked a line onto
Oryon’s belt, then swam forward, Keets now on her back, his eyes closed. With immense effort, she pulled all of them through the water.

When they finally surfaced, they were far from the scaffolding where the stormtroopers were searching. They could see the lights play on the water far down the tunnel.

Solace stared back at the demolished community.

“I’m sorry,” Oryon said.

“It’s all right,” Solace said. “Nothing lasts. I prepared for this day. If I hadn’t been away, I could have gotten them all out. I had a plan…but they had a
spy. It was Duro. My trusted assistant. It had to be. They got to him—offered him money, threatened him—and he agreed to betray us. He was the only one except me who knew about the
warning system. He must have turned it off.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” Oryon said. “I saw Duro being given a speeder to escape in.”

Solace’s mouth tightened as she stared down at the smoke and fire. She turned back to them, her face now expressionless. “So you see, it was my mistake that killed them. I trusted
him.”

“There is always a reason to have only two to share information,” Oryon pointed out. “Any more and you greatly increase the risk of betrayal. It’s a first rule of a
resistance. Information isn’t shared.”

“I know. I chose the wrong person to trust.”

“Traitors exist everywhere.”

Solace made an impatient move, reluctant to keep the discussion going.

“Keets, are you conscious?”

“Of course I’m conscious,” he growled. “Would I miss all the fun?”

“Can you make it a little farther? You all will have to swim on your own for about twenty meters. I have a duplicate ship hidden underwater, but I have to get there alone. My last resort.
I guess we’ve reached it.”

Keets was able to smile wanly. “If ever there was a last resort, this is it.”

“I’ll help Keets, too,” Oryon said.

Trever made a silent vow that if they made it to safety, somehow he would learn how to swim. He felt like a baby bird, flapping his arms and legs, desperately trying to propel himself. He was
making progress, but at every moment he was certain if he hadn’t been tethered to Oryon, he would sink.

Oryon moved more slowly, more cumbersomely through the water now, saddled with Keets and Trever. Solace had disappeared. Trever saw how Keets was straining to make himself light in the water,
keep himself moving. The effort, Trever saw, was exhausting him. Keets’ skin was so pale it shone like a pallid moon. His mouth was stretched over his teeth in a grimace. He was shaking
uncontrollably. Still, he kept kicking his legs, swimming to safety, pushing his body past his own endurance.

Just when Trever thought he would gladly give up and sink under the cold water, they saw the glint of durasteel and suddenly the starship was above them, hovering. They could see Solace in the
pilot’s seat. The ramp lowered, just above the surface of the water, and Oryon pushed Keets onto it. He managed to crawl forward until Solace slipped down and picked him up easily, gently,
and brought him aboard.

Trever felt Oryon’s push and scrambled up onto the ramp awkwardly, as if he had hooves instead of feet. He tumbled into the cockpit. Oryon followed. He had abandoned his boots in the water
and was barefoot, his furred feet bloodied. They fell more than sat in the cockpit seats. Solace had placed Keets on a bunk.

Without a word, she pushed the engines and they shot out through the cavern. Trever didn’t know where they were headed…and he was too exhausted to care.

Escape would feel good right about now. If only Ferus could figure out how to accomplish it. Without a lightsaber, he would have to be much more resourceful. And that, of
course, was the problem. He was running out of resources, fast. Including his own strength.

Ferus had been here for only two days, but already he was feeling the effects of too little sleep, not enough food, and crushing, repetitive work.

Every day they were marched into a factory. Ferus could see that it had been recently built, perhaps shortly after Palpatine had declared himself Emperor. It had been thrown up hastily, so there
were already cracks in the floor and ceiling, cracks that let in both a stinging rain and a barrage of fat, hungry insects with strong pincers that drew blood. If you flinched, you received a blow
from the guards, so you learned never to flinch. You worked.

Ferus couldn’t tell what they were manufacturing, only that it was a piece of something larger. The inmates were switched day to day from one task to another. Were they working on weapons?
Machinery? Droids? The parts were too small or too obscure to tell. There were murmurs about an “ultimate weapon,” but Ferus couldn’t figure out what it could be.

Every so often prisoners were pulled off the line and taken away, and no one ever saw them again. Ferus knew his days were numbered. He would die at the whim of Malorum. Most likely the
Inquisitor was delaying his execution just to make him suffer.

Everyone avoided him now. His cellmate planned to fake an illness to get into the infirmary. Ferus spoke to him just before lights out.

“But you said that nobody who gets transferred there ever gets out,” Ferus reminded his cellmate in a whisper.

“I’d rather be killed with a shot in the arm by a med droid than be caught in the crossfire with you,” he answered.

“Listen,” Ferus said, “I can handle myself. And I don’t intend to die here.”

His cellmate looked at him, his tired gaze rueful. “You’re one of those who think they can escape. All the more reason for me to go. You’re trouble because you don’t get
it. There’s no way out.”

“There’s always a way out.”

“Well.” The cellmate stretched out his legs and laughed. “You have your way and I have mine.”

His laugh, to Ferus, was the loneliest sound in the galaxy, a winter wind on a world of high deserts. He could hear in that laugh the sound of someone ready to die.

Four guards came and escorted him out roughly. Ferus watched him go with sorrow. He had a feeling that in another life, he would have liked his cellmate’s company. He had never known his
name.

Morning. Or, at least, he guessed it was morning. He hadn’t seen the sun since he’d arrived. Or the moon or the sky. All this duracrete was starting to get to him.
He was locked in a world of gray rock. He could see around him how the skin tones of the others, even the blue or green skin of other species, were all turning gray.

He waited for the sound of the automatic lock that snapped simultaneously on all the cells. They were then expected to file out within three seconds or find the end of a force pike jabbed in
their ribs.

He pulled on his boots and stood by the door, waiting. Today, he decided. Today something had to change. He had to find something—a weak link in the chain, a sloppy guard, an unguarded
door. Today would be the first day taken toward escape.

The locks snapped; the start of another backbreaking day.

Ferus stepped out into the corridor and they were on him immediately. He had felt no surge of danger.

Prisoner 67 and five of his henchmen surrounded him in a bloc and pushed him forward into the lineup. Prisoner 67 slipped immediately behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, Ferus saw that
67’s enormous hands were poised to wrap around his throat. Meanwhile, unseen by the guards, the other four pressed close to Ferus, keeping his arms pinned to his sides. He could feel the
surprising strength of their grip. Obviously stealing food from other inmates had its advantages.

Ferus understood his problem immediately, in a flash that gave him every option, recalling his Jedi training. He had no weapon. He had no means of escape, for if he stepped out of line the
guards would kill him as easily as a slug—he’d seen it happen.

If he fought Prisoner 67—which, of course, he meant to do—he was certain that 67’s henchmen would simply step aside, break up the shield, and watch as Ferus was taken away by
the guards. Attacking another prisoner could yield several different results, all of them bad. You could be hauled away to be tortured or just killed on the spot. It just depended on the mood of
the guards. And they were always in bad moods.

All of this ran through Ferus’s mind in less time than it took for Prisoner 67 to step squarely behind him. 67’s hands came up—big, meaty slabs capable of crushing
Ferus’s windpipe.

Ferus decided to use a Jedi combat method, what one of his instructors had called “attacking backward.” He would reverse an offensive move and fight his attacker without ever turning
to engage him. Fun in a classroom fighting against other Padawans, but somehow in a brutal prison where anything goes…not so fun.

Ferus gave a sudden twist and a hard jab, loosening the grip of the prisoners next to him. But 67 was just as quick. One thick forearm wrapped around his throat. Ferus felt his vision go
gray.

Suddenly out of the corner of his eye he saw something—a flicker, a glimmer—that translated quickly into the sight of a plastoid datacard winging through the air with incredible
velocity and spin. Its speed was so fast it was almost invisible. Ferus ducked and it hit Prisoner 67 in the center of the forehead. His eyes rolled up and he fell heavily.

The guards heard the thump and rushed toward the sound, but by the time they reached it Ferus had already melted forward a few steps. Even the henchmen, though stunned, were able to merge with
the crowd.

The indifferent guards dragged the body away.

Ferus searched the crowd without seeming to look, a Jedi technique. Whoever his rescuer was, he couldn’t see him. He had rejoined the crowd. Ferus could see the other prisoners’ eyes
moving, also searching. No one had seen the source of the silent attack.

Baffled, Ferus marched into the factory with the others. Another day of grueling work.

Another meal of slop.

But he had something now he didn’t have before. There were only a few in the galaxy who had the skill and the knowledge to turn a datacard into a lethal weapon, who could throw it from
that distance without being seen.

One of them was his friend.

It was near the end of the day, as he was standing by a noisy machine, feeding bits of durasteel into it to create continuous sheets and trying not to get his fingers cut off
in the process, when he heard a familiar voice directly behind him.

“Fancy meeting you here, Olin. Thought you preferred classier joints.”

Ferus grinned without turning. “Your kind of place, Flax,” he murmured under his breath.

His rescuer had been exactly who he’d hoped he was. Clive Flax—lowlife musician. Industrial spy. Double agent.

Things were looking up.