And there, a landing platform with a sleek red ship now a smoking ruin. Blown apart.
“The members of the Roshan delegation that fled Samarian jurisdiction were among the first casualties. Bog Divinian’s attempted assassination has been avenged… .”
The words faded against the roaring in Ferus’s ears. Robbyn Sark’s body, crumpled on the platform. Other bodies. Twisted metal. An outflung hand.
Trever . .
“It’s time to go,” Vader said.
Ferus put one foot in front of the other. As he did, something shattered inside him. He had failed. He had miscalculated everything. The battalion had been on alert to invade Rosha, not Samaria. He had sent the delegation and Trever straight into the midst of the fighting.
He had failed them all.
Trever huddled under a blanket. Flame crouched near a fire, warming up a protein meal she’d scrounged from somewhere. There was no power in the capital city, and the Roshans were making do where they could. Fires had sprung up in empty lots around the city and in the parks. Those who had lost their homes in the bombings had gathered what possessions they could and set up camps. So far the Empire had looked the other way.
They both wore hoods, to disguise the fact that they weren’t Roshans. Flame had cleaned her face of the smoke, and now a livid red burn marked her forehead.
He owed his life to her.
She’d dragged him from the burning transport, concealed him in a utility cart, and somehow gotten them both out of the landing platform and away from the blasterfire and the roar of the explosions. She’d made him keep walking when he didn’t want to walk. She’d found cloaks for them that concealed their burned and blackened clothing.
Someone nearby in the park had a portable vidscreen. The HoloNet news was playing. Trever turned away. This was all too familiar. The invasion. The stormtroopers. The blasting of Imperial propaganda on all vidscreens.
He’d seen it all before on Bellassa. He couldn’t bear it again. How could he bear it?
“And today, Bog Divinian took on his official duties as ruler of Samaria,” a voice boomed. “At his side were the Ministers of State, as well as invited guests. The Emperor sent his congratulations.”
Trever looked over. On the vidscreen he could see Bog, in a purple cape made of thick veda cloth. On one side stood Darth Vader. On the other, Ferus.
Trever froze.
“Still trust him?” Flame was standing, looking at the vidscreen, her hands gripping the tray of food.
Trever swallowed. “Sure.”
She crouched down next to him. Her eyes were vivid green underneath the red burn. It would leave a scar.
“Bog is ruler. Aaren Larker is dead. Dinko was arrested. And here, on Rosha they knew we were coming,” she said. “They were waiting for us, Trever. It was an ambush. How did they know?”
His gaze moved from her pale face and blazing eyes back to the vidscreen.
Ferus walked through the cheering crowd. In lockstep with Darth Vader.
It was an ambush. How did they know?
Trever’s eyes burned, and it wasn’t from the smoke.
How did they know, Ferus?