Race day

- Jen Sahara -


The days before the swoop race passed slowly, and the sinking feeling of trepidation sat like a lead ball in my stomach. The idle time was messing with my head, and I found myself snapping irritably at everyone while I second-guessed both my objectives and my own emotions.

What I wanted desperately was to be on my way – finished with the mission and everything to do with the Republic.

The Republic… my feelings were mixed, now. Earlier, I'd been certain I detested the lumbering galactic empire as much as the cruel Sith, but these days having been forced into companionship with Carth – quintessential Republic military, if there was such a thing – had me doubting my feelings. A core part of me believed in the ideals of the Republic, the galactic conglomeration of all different cultures and species working together, doing their best to strive for peace.

A dictatorship is stronger, more efficient, and less corrupt than the Republic Senate.

But it was also crueler. And just plain wrong. The drive for collective harmony – even if it was unrealistic to believe the end-point would ever be reached – was an admirable one.

But an empire with one leader – like, say, the Sith, is more powerful against any threat. The Republic has grown weak. Look how easily the Mandalorians almost conquered the Core.

My thoughts twisted in on themselves, Street Kid versus Evil Bitch, with the occasional cower from Jen Sahara in the shadows. My thoughts jumped around, landing on topics that I couldn't recall, dredging up facts that I couldn't back-up. What did I know about the Mandalorian Wars? It had been a precursor to Malak's rise to power, him and his master both – they'd led a shaky, vulnerable Republic to victory against the invaders that had come perilously close to the vanquishing the largest government in the galaxy. And then- the heroes and half their fleet viciously turned on the Republic.

My mind hurt when I tried to dwell on it, sharp pains digging into the side of my temple where I'd injured it back on the 'Spire. So I'd flinch away, and think about something else.

Bastila. I wasn't scared of her. I kept trying to remind myself of that, but a confrontation with the very Jedi bonded to me, and who likely had something to do with my identity crisis, left me in a state where fear and anger constantly battled for supremacy.

The bond hadn't yet returned. For all I knew, Bastila may have already died. No. I would have felt it. And it would not have been pretty. It was a dark, confident part of me that somehow knew Force bonds weren't so easy to wiggle out of. Which made me consider, again, whether I should just run.

But where would I go? Back to… Deralia? The very thought of Jen's homeworld made me scoff. I need to rescue Bastila, and then I can slip away. Disappear somewhere in space. I'm self-sufficient, I'll survive. But she might be able to help me. Explain things. Jedi were meant to be good, right, so surely I could trust her?

Definitely, she's a Jedi! Jen thought in quiet awe before I harshly quenched it. No. It's safer to run once she's rescued.

But the sinking thought kept returning: Bastila is bonded to me. If she knows something about the fractures in my mind, then will she really be willing to let me just leave? My fists clenched. I will not let some trumped up Jedi brat tell me what to do. I closed my eyes. Some trumped up Jedi brat who has a very powerful control over the mental side of the Force. Why am I rescuing her again?

At least I was starting to get some sort of handle on using the Force. I'd drawn on it to increase my speed a number of times in the sewers, and could almost control it. It was the almost part that had me edging away from experimenting. I slaughtered an innocent when both my fury and the Force pummeling through my body combined.

A deadly combination.

I decided it was time to do something before my emotions transformed into a killing rage. I snuck out the back entrance of the Bek base that Mission had pointed out earlier. Both Carth and the Wookiee seemed averse to letting me venture out by myself. Fortunately, Mission was used to evading overprotective guards, and had for some reason taken a shine to me. I don't know why. But I can't help liking that little street punk myself.

I headed down to the Undercity, using a datapad holo-map that Mission had slipped me as a guide. She'd annotated a couple of her shortcuts, and they were proving to be very useful. It seemed that Mission and Zaalbar had been instrumental in the sonic mapping technology the Beks used, and her maps were second to none in regards to accuracy. Apparently, she made a little profit on the side from selling copies of them – although she complained to me that most of it went straight to Gadon. Considering the maps changed frequently due to ongoing construction in the Lower City and the odd sinkhole, the income was steady. Somehow, I felt that should Mission remain on Taris she'd end up doing just fine.

But Zaalbar was sworn to me now, as incredible as that still seemed. And Mission would follow him. The weight of their lives sat heavy on my soul when I stopped to think about it.

As I neared the dwelling in the Undercity, the villagers spotted me with wide-eyed glances of alarm, scurrying off like insects. For some reason, this increased my irritation. My objective was easy to complete – the half-sane milky-eyed old man, Rukil, who squinted at me as I approached.

"Ahh! Our saviour returns! Have you found success upon your quest for the Promised Land?"

Nice. I will be nice. "I have something of interest to you, old man." I pulled out the two data journals I'd discovered, and dropped them at his feet. Rukil gasped, scrabbling around in the dirt to pick them up. There was a moment's silence as he peered closely at the first journal, and I turned to walk away.

"It is as I feared, then," he mumbled. "Malya is dead. But although I am saddened, there is yet hope in this discovery," he trailed off, and switched on the second datapad. I'd taken three steps by this time, shoulders tensing.

"You have found my father's journal also! It is a miracle!" His voice turned rapturous. "You are truly marked as our saviour!"

I stopped, turned and glared. "I am nobody's saviour," I growled, my voice low and harsh.

He shook his head in disbelief. "You are marked, up-worlder - even my dim old eyes can see the mantle of destiny that cloaks you. There is but one more journal left."

No. No, damn everything to the Outer Rim and back. I will not play at being a hero anymore than I have to. "I've got you two. Get some other champion to find the third. I am leaving and will not be coming back." I snarled the last words and stalked away.

The rage simmered like a fire in my gut, and I could find no explanation for it. Idealistic words like destiny and saviour sat like sick in my stomach and my sleep that night was restless. I'd made my decision and I wouldn't retract it – but thoughts of the loony old geezer and his missing third journal kept me awake all night.

xXx

The day of the swoop race dawned. All thoughts of the Undercity had cleared from my mind, which sharpened in concentration to the day's upcoming events. Finally, action to keep me engaged and focused, and away from the insidious, contradictory maelstrom of thoughts.

The wrist-comm Carth had forced upon me sat heavy on my arm. I had yet to discover exactly how Mission was planning to exchange places with the mechanic Gadon had assigned to me, but I expected she wouldn't let me down.

"(May fortune shine upon you today, Jen Sahara)," Zaalbar farewelled me as I followed the other Bek riders to the swoop track.

"Good luck," Carth said a trifle hesitantly. "I, uh, well. Good luck."

I raised my eyebrows at him. "Got a speech impediment there, Flyboy?"

He shot me an unimpressed look from behind the chestnut hair that kept falling in his eyes. He needed a haircut. "No. Look, I just wanted to say – thank you. For what happened in the Undercity. I- uh, I never acknowledged what you did. I guess I got a bit too- well, annoyed. But you saved my life, Jen. Thank you."

His words came out genuine and heartfelt, even if the man stuttered uncomfortably over them. I didn't need his gratitude, though. I didn't want it. For some reason, the idea of anyone feeling indebted to me felt bitterly unwelcome.

"Forget it," I said in a cold tone.

He frowned at me. "I can't. I'd be dead, if it wasn't for you."

"Yeah, well, you saved my life first. We're even. Let me get you Bastila, and then I'll be out of your life permanently." I strode off.

"Dammit, Jen!" he cursed after me, but I continued walking.

The group of Bek riders reached the mechanic bay, and Anglu lead me to the swoop I was going to race. Anglu was the Beks' prime swoop racer; a tiny Twi'lek whose slight frame concealed a wiry strength. She was the one chosen to ride the experimental bike.

"Gadon will not be here on the track today," she told me quietly in Basic. "He does not wish a slaughter, and his presence may cause one."

I nodded at her, and eyed over the bike.

"So, where's my mechanic?"

"Jaz should be along any minute."

"Thanks, Anglu. And good luck."

She smiled at me, and walked away. A minute later, a short figure in lime green fire-retardant synthetics with a customized matching helmet scampered up to me.

"I'm here, Jen!" the figure hissed. I turned to face Mission, and could not quite still the impish grin that crawled over my face.

"Nice helmet," I said, aware my voice had turned sardonic.

"It's the only way I could sneak in! Quick, let's duck into the workroom so you can change."

"I hope my clothes aren't that hideous colour," I muttered as I followed her.

Mission had acquired me a set of drab, grimy overalls, with a hood to shadow my face. I changed quickly, grimacing at the pungent smell of the worn clothing as I tugged it over my combat armour. Oil stains and burn marks decorated the drab material.

"I thought you were coming as my mechanic?" I asked.

"Nah, too tricky as Jaz was with some of the others. I jus' slipped a lil sedative into his caffa, and then faked a racing entry pass for one of the small gangs."

My brows shot up. I couldn't help but respect the crazy girl. She may be impulsive, but she sure can get results.

"So, where did you get this lovely pair of overalls?" I questioned, as I fastened the front.

"I just found them lying about," she answered innocently. Lying about, eh? I pulled the hood over my face, and my vision dimmed. I had a faint, dizzy sensation, almost like a half-remembered dream, before it dissipated like cigarra smoke in a stiff breeze.

"Let's go, Jen! Oooh, I can't wait!" Mission was practically hopping with excitement. I had to grin at her exuberance. Sometimes she seemed so, delightfully, young.

We headed back out to the swoops, and the minute we were within arm's reach of my competing bike, sitting on standby in the pits, Mission placed reverent hands on the chassis and started gushing over it.

"This is one of those R4 souped-up lithium speeders!" she said in awe. "Did you know, an earlier model of this raced by the Spider Furies won last year's championship?"

I blinked. No, funnily enough I did not. I knew Mission wanted to race, but I hadn't picked her for a fan. She was nodding eagerly.

"Yeah, and the Beks came second the year before on one of these – the debut of the technology! Okay, the Ravager series is considered more superior now but-"

Her effusive display halted at my upraised hand. I smirked. "Okay, okay, it's a good bike. I get it. Even if Anglu got the prototype accelerator."

"Well, yeah, but you can't blame Gadon." Mission shrugged. "He needs to win this year."

The Bek racers were moving out to the front of the track, and we joined them. No one paid us a second glance. As we approached the scene, my eyes flicked over the motley crowd. Vulkars outnumbered everyone, including the Beks, and a wary disquiet filled me. I spotted a number of other smaller gangs, but none were as prominent as the Beks or the Vulkars. Far in the distance, I could make out a large silvery arch that heralded the start of the track.

At the side of the hangar near the podium, a cage gleamed under artificial lighting.

"Whoa, that's the Jedi?" Mission whispered quietly.

I stared at the prone form. Chrome glinted around her throat. Neural disruptor. Blocks the Force. That's why I can't sense her. Even from this distance, I could see porcelain skin, a voluptuous form, and delicately braided dark hair. Tight, scanty scraps of black leather clothed her.

Darkness challenged me, and I was transported.

A door opened, and I stood waiting, expectant. Three Jedi entered the room cautiously, and even from a distance I could recognize the centre figure: Bastila Shan.

"Jen, you okay?"

I blinked rapidly, shaking away the vision. "Yeah. Fine."

So Bastila and I have met before. But as friends, or foes?

Mission had turned back, scanning the crowd. But inside my head, the dark thoughts still spun, tripping over themselves in confusion and anger. Of course I've met her before, bonehead. How else would the bond be created?

My gaze dragged unerringly back to the trapped woman. She looked so powerless, slumped inside the cage, hands bound in metallic shackles that crossed at her front. She should be dead, a voice growled softly. She will be dead!

The heat of anger returned in a surge, threatening to shatter through the calm concentration I wanted- I needed- to get through the damn day. I swallowed, squeezed my eyes shut, and forcibly turned my thoughts back to that old tactical game a part of me had once played.

I will rescue her, and then I will leave. The game board rose like a mirage in my minds-eye, like a focus for calm. I will rescue her, and then I will leave.

"I can't believe a Jedi could be so helpless, though," Mission whispered at my side. "Like, makes you wonder how true all those stories about them really are."

There was something... something foreign edging around the sides of my consciousness. Something I was beginning to recognize all too well.

"She's not helpless," I mumbled through cold lips. The calm in my head shook, but this time with alarm. "Not anymore."

The bond was returning. I snapped open my eyes, staring frantically at the prisoner again. Her hands – which had been restrained, or seemingly so – were fiddling at her exposed neck. Fiddling with the Force-blocking device that kept her helpless – and out of my mind.

I've got to stay calm and collected. I pushed back the anger. The despair. Shoved it all away. I can't let myself lose control, not here, not with Mission next to me. If the kath crap is about to hit the fan, I have to make sure Mission gets away safe.

The Jedi's limbs had dropped back to her front, clasped like they were still constrained by the metallic bands around her wrists. The neural disruptor rested innocently against her creamy skin.

I should have been glad the Jedi had found a way to initiate her own escape. I could have understood if my brief, blazing anger from earlier had returned. But my thoughts were cooling, instead; transposing into a hard-edged wariness, as I dragged my attention away from the semi-bound prisoner and began to survey the area.

"What do you mean?" Mission hissed.

"Stay close," I said curtly. "And wait-"

"Jen Sahara," a gravelly voice at my back interrupted. I tensed, turning in a quick movement to catch sight of a large, armoured mercenary. "We meet again."

"Canderous Ordo," I acknowledged in mild surprise. He recognized me through this disguise? I was impressed. Either he'd been watching me since I entered the pit lane, or he'd had inside knowledge of the Beks racing list. As a merc, I'd lay credits on him working for the Exchange, but I couldn't be sure.

Whatever the Mandalorian was doing, here, I could only hope his objective didn't interfere with mine.

I felt my eyebrow quirk as I eyed him over in obvious appraisal. He was wielding a formidable repeating blaster slung over his shoulder, with blaster pistols holstered on either side of his waist. His helm was raised to reveal a chiselled, weathered face staring hard at me in consideration.

The rest of his large and, no doubt, heavily muscled body was encased in a full set of heavy armour. Not the beskar'gam his clans had prided themselves on, maybe; but the man was formidably attired nonetheless.

Here was one merc I didn't underestimate.

"I didn't pick you for a swoop fan," I said lightly.

As a dig for information, it worked.

"I'm not." His lips curled at the thought. "My employer has an interest in Brejik's little toy." He indicated the caged Jedi.

Oh great, I thought sourly. I'm going to piss off a Mandalorian.

A controlled flow of anger bubbled at the edges of my thoughts – but it wasn't mine. Not this time. Bastila, rousing, and invading my senses over our stars-cursed bond. She was going to act, sooner or later – I could only hope she had the sense to wait for the opportune time.

::The annual Taris swoop race shall now began!:: An amplified broadcast from the race announcer echoed over the hum of the crowd. ::Please collect your tickets from the race controller, and begin your heats when the number is called!::

"Wait!" a loud, aggressive voice sliced through the cheers. I looked up towards the control deck, where the winners podium had been erected on a dais in preparation for the race's completion. An armoured man strode belligerently in front of the control deck, clad in shining black and red armour. His pose was cocky and sure as he scanned the crowd.

Brejik. The disgusted thought scythed through my mind, and it wasn't- it wasn't mine.

I blinked, stunned. Was that Bastila? Was our close proximity making the bond so frelling powerful? Did I really just… hear her thoughts?

"Before this starts, there is one gang here that has illegal equipment, and therefore should be disqualified!" The speaker exuded a combative air of authority, and considering his garb it had to be Brejik. The leader of the Vulkars.

Angry voices muttered from the clusters of swoop racers, loudest from those dressed in Bek colours. They'd been warned by Gadon to expect trouble, but I had the feeling that everyone thought they might actually get a race or two in first.

The armoured Mandalorian next to me looked amused, but his grip was sure on his weapon. He was used to action, and could sense it coming. So could I.

I leaned over to Mission. "Things are about to get violent. You need to get ready to run out of here on my command."

"The Bek racers are cheating!" Brejik hollered over the dissenting crowd. "Investigate that bike, and you will find an illegal accelerator!" An armoured hand raised, and pointed directly at Anglu's bike.

"What? You mean the prototype you tried to steal from us?" a Bek yelled out angrily.

"See!" Brejik demanded. "They admit their guilt!"

Several of the smaller gangs backed away to the edges of the track. Canderous hefted his repeating blaster into a ready position, surveying the scene with interest. My eyes were pinned to the Jedi. Patience. Wait for the right time. Was that my thought, or hers? I couldn't tell.

"You're a liar, Brejik!" A Sullustan in Bek colours was shaking his fist angrily at the Vulkar leader. That decided me.

"Mission, scram. Now," I ordered into her ear.

"But-"

"Get. Out." My voice was low, dangerous, demanding. She backpedalled before turning and dashing out of the pit lane and towards the Lower City exit.

"You lead your people well," Canderous remarked. My hand crept under the overalls to clutch a blaster. I mentally cursed the fact that I hadn't snuck a vibrosword in – but at the time I'd thought that smuggling in two blasters posed enough of a risk, considering the race controllers took perverse delight in searching those who hadn't bribed them enough. The Beks, on the whole, were heavily equipped, but as an independent racing for them I wasn't given quite the same status. Canderous – with whoever his employer was and I'd be putting my credits on the Exchange - had obviously been granted leave to carry in whatever weaponry he desired.

"You dare to question me?" Brejik's face was livid. "You festering scum! Vulkars, attack! Kill the Beks!"

"Everyone, to me! Show no mercy!" one of the more aggressive Beks yelled. I pulled out both blasters, and stood ready. Canderous stood at my side, legs apart and repeating blaster aimed in front. That's been heavily modified. Look at size of the barrel, and that recharge therm sure as stars ain't factory made. I idly wondered which part of me could recognize weapons so readily.

The battle broke out, and many of the smaller gangs on the edge of the pit lane melted away. Some joined in on either side. A Vulkar charged at me with a blade. I sidestepped and shot him twice in the chest. The faint blue of a poor energy shield wearing thin was momentarily visible as he launched a wide swinging blow at me. Jumping backwards, I fired again and again, finger numbing on the trigger as he stumbled and collapsed under the onslaught. The heat of battle pounded through me – an urgent, dark desire for more – and with a snarl I ran forward, shot him in the face, and made a grab for his vibrosword as it toppled from lifeless fingers.

Spinning it slightly in my sword-arm – my off-hand still grasping the second blaster – I only just spotted the grenade as it rolled towards me. I leapt backward as a percussion wave slammed into me, knocking me flat. Rolling with a gasp, mildly stunned, I scrambled to my feet and spotted the Mandalorian, also, recovering. He'd been closer than me to the blast.

"Guess I'm on the Beks side then." Canderous barked a harsh laugh, and it was a dangerous sound. His grey eyes glinted as he rejoined me. "(Today is a good day for someone else to die!)" he yelled in Mandalorian.

"Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur!" I echoed him, and we charged together into a group of three snarling Vulkars. His repeating blaster took two down; the last was still firing at Canderous as my vibrosword slammed into his side. Brittle armour gave way as the blade sank satisfyingly into flesh; the Vulkar gurgled as I pulled the vibrosword back and shot him with the blaster. The Vulkar gurgled as he fell.

Canderous was staring at me intently as I looked up, feeling the battle euphoria humming in my veins. I could feel the red mist descending, and my smile back was feral. Our attention was caught by two gang members charging at us, and it was instinctive to reach out to the Force... only to find it missing. What? The beginnings of the berserker rage fled as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped on my head. What's going on? I thought I'd figured out how to use the Force!

My vibrosword was up just in time to parry a blow, and shakily I pushed back, only to have the offending Vulkar crumble in front of me due to some other injury. Looking up, I saw the angry Sullustan Bek from earlier shoot me a grin above his blaster. Canderous was standing over a second corpse.

A renewed sense of purpose flooded my brain, and it took a second to realize it was originating from Bastila. I jerked my head up to see her stagger out of her cage, and face the closest Vulkar. The determination was there, but she felt woozy, disorientated. I became aware of her scrabbling to hold onto the Force, and somehow I knew it was a feeble attempt.

"No! The prize– get her!" Brejik screamed through the onslaught.

"Sithspit," I cursed.

Canderous' gaze followed mine. "You are after her as well," he said in a low voice.

I scanned the room frantically, and my eyes rested on Anglu's swoop bike. For lack of a better option... I darted away from the Mandalorian, sprinting through the chaos with only the target of the swoop bike in my vision. I ducked to the side of two gang members brawling, dodged under a swinging vibrosword, and ran directly through a blaster fight, trusting on sheer luck to stop me getting hit in the cross-fire.

My hands rested on the solid chrome of the swoop bike.

At least I was bright enough to let Mission show me how to start these fool things, I thought grimly as I swung my legs over the bike, and carelessly threw both the vibrosword and the secondary blaster away. I turned momentarily to pinpoint Bastila. Five Vulkars surrounded her. I could feel her fumble to do something through the bond, and the scowl on her face said it all. She's still weak. Her Force powers are not fully back yet.

I heard Anglu yell in protest as I started the bike. It thrummed a loud vibration under my legs, and I quickly yanked it into gear and squeezed the throttle. The back end threatened to skid out, and my hands gripped the steering column tightly as I aimed the bike directly into the crowded mob, loosing a wild yell that was half-warning, half-crazy.

Sentients jumped out of the way; one was knocked sideways by the bike, and it shuddered in response. A bright flash of a grenade to my right may or may not have been directed at me; I accelerated further and was on the Vulkar mob within seconds.

Braking and pulling the steering column to one side, the swoop bike skidded sideways and knocked two of the thugs momentarily prone to the ground.

"Get on!" I screamed in the direction of the Jedi.

Bastila whirled to face me. Defiant anger melted into shocked horror. I supposed she'd never expected to see me again, but her reaction was hardly complimentary. "You!" she gasped, her cheeks fading to a pasty white. With an admirable amount of self-control, her emotions and expression turned impassive. Her eyes flicked over the scene, and then she ran towards me, leaping onto the bike.

"Go!" she hissed into my ear, her fingers wrapping tightly around my waist and digging in with desperation.

"She's escaping!" The red-and-black clad figure of Brejik was no longer on the dais, but directly in my path, howling. "Stop them!"

I snarled and accelerated. Brejik stood his ground, legs apart, and began to raise his blaster to fire. I opened the throttle as wide as it could go, and pointed the nose of the swoop directly at him. I saw the shocked realization on his scarred face when he understood I wasn't planning on dodging; his expression twisted comically and he lurched to the side at the last possible moment.

Accelerate, an inner voice ordered. I responded, and the engine roared underneath my calves. Up ahead, I saw the glittering arch that touted the beginning of the swoop track proper, and the exit from the mayhem behind us. I heard Bastila stifle a scream, and saw the energy pulse of blaster shots fire past in my periphery.

Dodge. My fingers tightened on the column, and I began to steer from side to side, weaving the bike jerkily as it erupted onto the swoop track. Instinctively, I crouched lower on the swoop, my body leaning in time with the swerving. Up ahead, a flashing yellow light indicated an energy-propelled launch pad.

Jump. The blackened tunnel of the Taris swoop track enveloped us, and I aimed directly for the launch pad. Bastila's arms tightened, and my ribs creaked in reply.

Sun and stars, this was supposed to be Mission's task!

The bike sailed over the jump, and the air whipped through my dark curls. I could feel Bastila pressing her face tight against my back. As the bike descended, the visage of a large obstacle came into view. I jerked the bike to the right in avoidance, and it shuddered under my inelegant control.

How many people did Mission say die in swoop accidents again? The impact-suppression system could only do so much; at full speed against a solid wall, both bike and rider would surely be written off.

"There are bikes after us!" Bastila screamed over the wind. "Go faster!"

I don't know how to ride this stupid thing, and she wants me to speed up? I saw the flashes of blaster fire spin past me from behind, and realized that heeding Bastila was paramount. We had a head-start, but with the weight of two riders we were at a sore disadvantage. I switched gears again, and the bike lurched forwards. My gloved hands felt unwieldy as I strained to retain my grip, and the high-pitch of the swoop engine increased as I left the throttle wide open.

The track turned into a sweeping right bender, and I aimed for the inside line, weaving slightly to avoid a thick metal plate the protruded from the ground. The corner continued, tightening, and the bike leaned into it, almost kissing against the darkened wall.

The track straightened out and us with it, before we flew over a launch pad that thumped us into the air, boosting velocity with an upward thrust. I heard a squeak from behind. A large, dark wall loomed ahead, blocking most of the track's width other than a narrow gap on either side. Red laser bolts spat against it, and I realized with horror that our pursuers were closing in.

I need to find a way out of here. I wrenched the bike to the left, aiming for the slight opening at near-full speed, and slightly misjudged the angle required. As we shot past the barrier, the swoop ground against the outer wall in a shower of electronic sparks before the impact knocked us back onto the track and our velocity dipped. Not good! Sithspit, not good at all! Gasping, I straightened the steering column and accelerated again, but too quickly; the bike jerked and threatened to spin, skidding sideways across the track. I looked up desperately and my gaze rested on an innocent ladder bolted to the opposite wall.

That's a service exit! I slammed on the brakes and pulled hard to the left; our momentum plummeted and the swoop screeched to a stop, gently thudding against the ferracrete wall right next to the ladder. Blood pounded a deafening echo in my head, telling me to move, move, move.

"Quick!" I howled, dismounting the bike in a leap and turning back to face the Jedi. She'd understood my intent, for she was one step ahead – jumping in an impressive Force-induced surge and catching herself hard against the bolted rungs of the service ladder. She swung to the side, and then clambered up inelegantly towards a dark shaft near the ceiling.

A loud, hot thrum whistled piercingly close to my ear, and with a horrified realization I recognized a pursuing swoop racer, having cleared the obstacle wall and sailed right past us. Get a move on, bantha-brain! I lunged for the ladder, and scrabbled up quickly behind the Jedi, feeling the loud swoosh of another bike rocket by. As I pulled myself through the hatch, a deafening explosion rocked the ferracrete foundations and a whirling piece of carnage sailed dangerously close to where my legs had just been.

We were in a dimly-lit tunnel above the track, and Bastila's pale face stared into mine.

"A moment," she murmured, raising her hand beyond me. I heard the ominous creak of metal, and craned my neck to see the roof of the service tunnel fracture and twist before collapsing in on itself and blocking the path behind us.

For a moment, I felt the weaves of the Force as they bent under Bastila's will.

Jerking my head back to face her, I saw her dark eyes fixed on mine.

"I suppose you call this a rescue?" she muttered.

Incredulity swamped any irritation that may have surfaced at such arrogance; I merely gaped at her in shocked surprise.

She shook her head, delicate braids tossing. "No time to argue. Come, we must go." She turned, and moved deeper into the service tunnel.

Stunned at her audacity, I could only follow.

xXx