Nick poked his head through the cockpit doorway. “Looks like we’re a go—hey, look at this,” he said with a sudden frown, staring out through the windscreen.

Through the shadows slashing the landing field loped Kar Vastor. His shields flashed eye-stinging highlights from the glowpanel dayfloods that now, with sunset passing, shone upon the ships. He waved as he ran, clearly asking Mace to wait for him.

“What, does he want to fight again or something?” Nick brightened. “Y’know, we could just shoot him—accidentally, like. One of those senseless weapons-check tragedies—”

“Nick.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Without expression, Mace watched Vastor approach. Only moments ago—just before he left the command bunker to come out here—he had pulled aside CRC-09/571 for a private conversation.

[...]

Out on the landing field, Vastor didn’t bother to come around toward the troop bay doors; without breaking stride he burst into a Force leap that carried him up to the Turbostorm’s nose below the cockpit with a clank that must have been his deactivated vibroshields getting in the way of his grab for the nose armor. He climbed up into view, settling himself into a crouch on the nose armor outside the windscreen.

He squatted there for a moment, forearms resting on his bent knees, staring gravely at Mace through the opening.

Mace, Jedi of the Windu. Even his growl was reluctant. Almost contemplative.

“Kar.”

We have not been friends, you and I. If we both survive this day, I suspect that again we will not be friends.

Mace only nodded.

[...]

“Kar, stop this. You have to stop this!”

And I will. Vastor’s lips pulled back from those needle teeth, and there was no longer even the pretense of a smile. When everyone is dead.

“You don’t understand what you’re doing—”

Yes. I do. And so do you.

Mace’s stare burned like the city around him.

He did understand. Finally. Too late.

He had no words for what he felt. Perhaps there were no words.

I called to say good-bye, dôshalo. Depa will remember you fondly. As will we all. It is a hero’s death you go to, Mace of the Windu.

Mace showed his own teeth. “I’m not dead yet.”

Vastor’s blue-imaged head tilted a centimeter to the right. What time is it?

Mace froze.

A metallic clank echoed in his memory.

A clank that might have been deactivated vibroshields hitting the nose armor of a Sienar Turbostorm.

Or—

Not.

“Nick!” Mace’s sudden shout shocked the young Korun like a shot from a stun baton. “Hang on!”

“Hang on to what?” The arming levers on the seat ejectors flipped up; Nick swore and threw his arms around Chalk half a second before the triggers pressed themselves and explosive bolts blew the windscreen up and out and her chair shot toward the rooftops, out of balance and tumbling into the night sky as the time fuse on the proton grenade Vastor had mag-clamped to the Turbostorm’s nose precisely where its shaped charge would blow a dozen kilos of shredded armor plate through the cockpit sideways—

Detonated.

Mace found them by following his Force-link with Nick.

Double-loaded and out of balance, Chalk’s ejector chair had carried them only as far as a black rooftop, flat and sticky with tar, before crashing to spill them across it. Flames from other buildings around lit its walls and cast its square shadow toward the stars.

Nick’s silent silhouette knelt with bowed head beside her. His hand gently stroked bloody tangles of hair away from her face; tears from his eyes fell to her cheeks, as though death had finally allowed this tough girl to weep.

Mace stood at the roof’s rim and looked out across the city.

His chair had carried him a dozen blocks away. He had come here on foot.

The streets were a nightmare.


- Shatterpoint, Chapter 21