They broke out of the trees on a small promontory that ended in a sheer cliff. Jungle swarmed its base a hundred meters below. They had been sidestepping down a long switchback, heading for the canyon floor. Half a klick behind, a ribbon of waterfall steamed down a thousand-meter drop; the far canyon wall was a riot of greens and purples and bright shining red that eclipsed half the sky. The thunderstorm swept to their rear as Mace and Nick broke out from the trees, and in the near distance through the canyon’s mouth ahead, only a klick away—glowing now with afternoon sun blazing red-slanted from a crystal sky—lay the broad bare-dirt curve of the steamcrawler track.

Mace and Nick were both on foot. The feverish Balawai was tied into the grasser’s saddle.

“There it is,” Nick said. His voice was low and grim. “Pretty, ain’t it?”

“Yes. Pretty.” Mace stepped around the grasser. “Pity we didn’t make it.”

Any Force-sensitive could have felt the menace that lay across their path; to Mace, it felt like an arc of forest fire ripping through the trees. He couldn’t feel exactly what was down there, but he knew it was Vastor: whatever forces he had brought after them now sealed the mouth of the canyon.

Nick nodded. He unslung his rifle, checked the clip, and cocked it. “Just couldn’t move fast enough.” He glanced back to where the Balawai were now struggling out to the fringe of the undergrowth. He shook his head. “Only needed an hour. That’s all. One more hour, we woulda been clear.”


- Shatterpoint, Chapter 10