Free Star Wars - Lost Tribe of the Sith 01 - Precipice by John Jackson Miller Page A

Korsin’s crew made preparations to jump to hyperspace. Protecting the cargo was paramount—and if they managed to make their delivery before the Jedi turncoat made
his
, well, that was just a bonus. The Blade pilots could hitch back on
Harbinger
.
    Only something had gone wrong. A shock to the
Harbinger
, and then another. Sensor readings of the sister ship went nonsensical—and
Harbinger
yawed dangerously toward
Omen
. Before the collision warning could sound, Korsin’s navigator reflexively engaged the hyperdrive. It had been in the nick of time …
    … or maybe not. Not the way
Omen
was giving up its vitals now.
They did hit us
, Korsin knew. The telemetry might have told them, had they had any. Theship had been knocked off-course by an astronomical hair—but it was enough.
    Commander Korsin had never felt an encounter with a gravity well in hyperspace, and neither had any of his crew. Stories required survivors. But it felt as though space itself had yawned open near the passing
Omen
, kneading at the ship’s alloyed superstructure like putty. It lasted but a fraction of a second, if time even existed there. The escape was worse than the contact. A sickly snap, and shielding failed. Bulkheads gave. And then, the armory.
    The armory had exploded. That was easy enough to know from the gaping hole in the underside of the ship. That it had exploded in hyperspace was a matter of inference: they were still alive. Grenades, bombs, and all the other pleasantries his secondary cargo, the Massassi, were taking to Kirrek would have gone up in a theatrical flourish, taking the ship with it. But instead the armory had simply vanished—along with an impressive chunk of
Omen
’s quarterdeck. The physics in hyperspace were unpredictable by definition; instead of exploding outward, the breached deck simply left the ship in a seismic tug. Korsin could imagine the erupting munitions dropping out of hyperspace light-years behind the
Omen
, wherever it was. That would mean a bad day for someone!
    Oh, wait. It’s already my turn.
    Omen
had shuddered into realspace, decelerating madly—and taking dead aim at a blister of blue hanging before a vibrant star. Was that the source of the mass shadow that had interrupted their trip? Who cared? It was about to end it. Captured,
Omen
had skipped and bounced across the crystal ocean of air until the descent began in earnest. It had claimed his engineer—probably all his engineers—but the command deck still held. Tapani craftsmanship, Korsinmarveled. They were falling, but for the moment they were still alive.
    “Why isn’t he dead?” Half mesmerized by the streamers of fire erupting outside—at least the
Omen
was belly-down for this bounce—Korsin only vaguely grew aware of harsh words to his left. “You shouldn’t have made the jump!” stabbed the young voice. “Why isn’t he
dead
?”
    Commander Korsin straightened and gave his half brother an incredulous stare. “I
know
you’re not talking to me.”
    Devore Korsin jabbed a gloved finger past the commander to a frail man, still jabbing futilely at his control panel and looking very alone. “That navigator of yours! Why isn’t he
dead
?”
    “Maybe he’s on the wrong deck?”
    “Yaru!”
    It wasn’t a joke, of course. Boyle Marcom had been guiding Sith ships through the weirdness of hyperspace since the middle of Marka Ragnos’s rule. Boyle hadn’t been at his best in years, but Yaru Korsin knew a former helmsman of his father’s was always worth having. Not today, though. Whatever had happened back there, it would rightfully be laid at the navigator’s feet.
    But assigning blame in the middle of a firestorm? That was Devore all over.
    “We’ll do this later,” the elder Korsin said from the command chair. “If there is a later.” Anger flashed in Devore’s eyes. Yaru couldn’t remember ever seeing anything else there. The pale and lanky Devore little resembled his own ruddy, squat frame—also the shape of