[Last Of The Jedi] - 04(10)

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.





CHAPTER SEVEN


The passageways were so narrow they had to abandon the speeder, hiding it behind some trash-compacting machines. They didn’t think they could take another step, but Oryon, Solace, Keets, and Trever kept walking. Trever couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept or eaten. Time was a blur, and fatigue was lead in his bones.

Solace had meandered around the levels of Coruscant, hoping to stir up any possible surveillance so that she could identify it. Only when she was sure they weren’t being trailed did she follow Oryon’s directions to Dexter Jettster’s secret hideout.