Into the Void: Star Wars (Dawn of the Jedi) (44 page)

Yoda explained that the dreaded Sith tend to come in twos: “Always two, there are.
No more, no less. A Master, and an apprentice.” But did you know that the Sith didn’t
always exist in pairs? That at one time in the ancient Republic there were as many
Sith as Jedi, until a Sith Lord named Darth Bane was the lone survivor of a great
Sith war and created the “Rule of Two”?

All this and much, much more is brought to life in the many novels and comics of the
Star Wars
expanded universe. You’ve seen the movies and watched the cartoon. Now venture out
into the wider worlds of
Star Wars
!

Turn the page or jump to the
timeline
of
Star Wars
novels to learn more.

5,000 years
BBY

“Lohjoy! Give me something!” Scrambling to his feet in the darkness, Captain Korsin
craned his neck to find the hologram. “Thrusters, attitude control—I’ll even take
parking jets
!”

A starship is a weapon, but it’s the crew that makes it deadly
. An old spacer’s line: trite, but weighty enough to lend a little authority. Korsin
had used it himself on occasion. But not today. His ship was being deadly all on its
own—and his crew was just along for the ride.

“We’ve got nothing, Captain!” The serpent-haired engineer Lohjoy flickered before
him, off-kilter and out of focus. Korsin knew things belowdecks must be bad if his
upright, uptight Ho’Din genius was off-balance. “Reactors are down! And we’ve got
structural failures in the hull, both aft and—”

Lohjoy shrieked in agony, her tendrils bursting into a mane of fire that sent her
reeling out of view. Korsin barely suppressed a startled laugh. In calmer times—half
a standard hour ago—he’d joked that Ho’Din were half tree. But that was hardly appropriate
when the whole engineering deck was going up. The hull had ruptured. Again.

The hologram expired—and all around the stocky captain warning lights danced, winked,
and went out. Korsin plopped down again, clutching at the armrests.
Well, the chair still works
. “Anything? Anybody?”

Silence—and the remote grinding of metal.

“Just give me something to shoot at.” It was Gloyd, Korsin’s gunnery officer, teeth
shining in the shadows. The half smirk was a memento from a Jedi lightsaber swipe
years earlier that just missed taking the Houk’s head off. In response, Gloyd had
cultivated the only wit aboard as acidic as the commander’s own—but the gunner wasn’t
finding much funny today. Korsin read it in the brute’s tiny eyes:
Death in combat’s one thing. But this is no way to go
.

Korsin didn’t bother to look at the
other
side of the bridge. Icy glares there could be taken as a given. Even now, when
Omen
was crippled and out of control.

“Anybody?”

Even now
. Korsin’s bushy eyebrows flared into a black V. What was
wrong
with them? The adage was right. A ship needed a crew united in purpose—only the purpose
of being Sith was the exaltation of self. Every ensign an emperor. Every rival’s misstep,
an opportunity.
Well, here’s an opportunity
, he thought.
Solve this, someone, and you can flat-out have the blasted comfy chair
.

Sith power games. They didn’t mean much now—not against the insistent gravity below.
Korsin looked up again at the forward viewport. The vast azure orb visible earlier
was gone, replaced by light, gas, and grit raining upward. The latter two, he knew,
came from the guts of his own ship, losing the fight against the alien atmosphere.
Whatever it was, the planet had
Omen
now. An uncontrolled descent from orbit took a long time, surprisingly long. More
time to contemplate your destruction, his father had always said. But the way the
ship was shaking, Korsin and his crew might be robbed even of
that
dubious privilege.

“Remember,” he yelled, looking at his entire bridge crew for the first time since
it had started. “You
wanted
to be here!”

And they
had
wanted to be there—most of them, anyway.
Omen
had been the ship to get when the Sith mining flotilla gathered at Primus Goluud.
The Massassi shock troops in the hold didn’t care where they went—who knew what the
Massassi even
thought
half the time, presuming they did at all. But many sentients who had a choice in
the matter picked
Omen
.

Saes, captain of the
Harbinger
, was a fallen Jedi: an unknown quantity. You couldn’t trust someone the Jedi couldn’t
trust, and they would trust just about anyone. Yaru Korsin, the crew members knew.
A Sith captain owning a smile was rare enough, and always suspect. But Korsin had
been at it for twenty standard years, long enough for those who’d served under him
to spread the word. A Korsin ship was an easy ride.

Just not today. Fully loaded with Lignan crystals,
Harbinger
and
Omen
had readied to leave Phaegon III for the front when a Jedi starfighter tested the
mining fleet’s defenses. While his crescent-shaped Blade fighters tangled with the
intruder, 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. The ship had
been knocked off-course by an astronomical hair—but it was enough.

Captain Korsin had never experienced 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 had 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. In normal space, all the grenades, bombs, and other pleasantries,
the Massassi, were taking to Kirrek would have gone up in a 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!

Might as well share the pain
.

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, Korsin marveled. 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
?”

Captain 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!”

Jokes weren’t going to save Boyle Marcom today, the captain knew. Marcom had been
guiding 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 their father. But those eyes, and that
look? Those could have been a direct transplant.

Their father
. He’d never had a day like this. The old spacer had never lost a ship for the Sith
Lords. Learning at his side, the teenage Yaru had staked out his own future—until
the day he became less enamored of his father’s footsteps. The day when Devore arrived.
Half Yaru’s age, son to a mother from a port on another planet—and embraced by the
old veteran without a second thought. Rather than find out how many more children
his father had out there to vie for stations on the bridge, Cadet Korsin appealed
to the Sith Lords for another assignment. That had not been a mistake. In five years,
he made captain. In ten, he won command of the newly christened
Omen
over an accomplished rival many years his senior.

His father hadn’t liked that. He’d never lost a ship for the Sith Lords. But he’d
lost one to his son.

But now losing the
Omen
was looking like a family tradition. The whole bridge crew—even the outsider Devore—exhaled
audibly when rivulets of moisture replaced the flames outside the viewport.
Omen
had found the stratosphere without incinerating, and now the ship was in a lazy saucer
spin through clouds heavy with rain. Korsin’s eyes narrowed. Water?

Is there even a ground?

The terrifying thought rippled through the minds of the seven on the bridge at once,
as they watched the transparisteel viewport bulge and warp:
Gas giant!

Yes, it took a long time to crash from orbit, presuming you survived reentry. How
much longer, if there was no surface? Korsin fumbled aimlessly for the controls set
in his armrest.
Omen
would crack and rupture, smothered under a mountain of vapors. They shared the thought—and
almost in response, the straining portal
darkened. “All of you,” he said, “heads down! And grab something … 
now
!”

This time, they did as told. He knew: Tie it to self-preservation, and a Sith would
do anything. Even this bunch. Korsin clawed at the chair, his eyes fixed on the forward
viewport and the shadow swiftly falling across it.

A wet mass slapped against the hull. Its sprawling form tumbled across the transparisteel,
lingering an instant before disappearing. The captain blinked twice. It was there
and gone, but it wasn’t part of his ship.

It had wings.

Startled, Korsin sprang from his seat and lurched toward the viewport. This time,
the mistake was certifiably his. Already stressed before the midair collision, the
transparisteel gave way, shards weeping from the ship like shining tears. A hush of
departing air slammed Korsin to the deck plating. Old Marcom tumbled to one side,
having lost hold of his station. Sirens sounded—how were they still working?—but the
tumult soon subsided. Without thinking, Korsin breathed.

“Air! It’s air!”

Devore regained his footing first, bracing against the wind. Their first luck. The
viewport had mostly blown out, not in—and while the cabin had lost pressure, a drippy,
salty wind was making its way in. Unaided, Captain Korsin fought his way back to his
station.
Thanks for the hand, brother
.

“Just a reprieve,” Gloyd said. They still couldn’t see what was below. Korsin had
done a suicide plunge before, but that had been in a bomber—when he’d known where
the ground was. That there
was
a ground.

Once-restrained doubts flooded Korsin’s mind—and Devore responded. “Enough,” the crystal
hunter barked, struggling against the swaying deck to reach
his sibling’s command chair. “Let me at those controls!”