were to be placed in the blast cage, it would make Jax’s job a bit more difficult, but not impossible. Of even less concern were the sonic devices intended to confuse and distort scanners. In fact, given what he now knew about Force projection, they might be more a help to an invading Jedi than a hindrance.
Much hinged on Vader’s certainty of Jax Pavan’s demise. Presumably, the inclusion of Inquisitors in the Dark Lord’s party was his nod to the possibility that Jedi yet lived who might challenge him, but what if there were more? What if Vader were prepared to turn back a Jedi invader?
Jax bit down on that grim thought. Well, so what if the Dark Lord were prepared for a Jedi? He couldn’t possibly be prepared for a Jedi who had opened Darth Ramage’s Holocron and absorbed its contents.
It was Sacha Swiftbird’s personal opinion that the Raptor, late of Keldabe, Mandalore, could not have drawn a better assignment in Kantaros Station’s cargo bays than the one she’d gotten.
The freighter bays were arrayed in long arcs, two levels deep, that began beneath the manufactured part of the station and ended in a series of caverns that burrowed into the flank of the asteroid. The bay in which the faux-Raptor sat was within the asteroid itself, below the equator. Between her and the so-called Red Zone, there was but one ship—a fat, insectile ore carrier out of the Mimban system.
The ore ship had settled into the hangar bay stern-first, so that her swollen backside hung over the broad interior walkway, putting the smaller Raptor in her shadow and effectively shielding her almost entirely from the view of the Red Zone portal on this level. The portal was broad enough to take three antigrav pallets at once, and twice the height of the two stormtroopers guarding it.
On the other side of that barrier, Sacha knew, were Imperial ships … and the entire Imperial complex.
The exact shape of that complex was hidden, even from the Kantaros maintenance AI. The maintenance system and its automated minions had only sufficient intel on the layout of the Imperial facility that they could perform the most basic of upkeep functions. The various corridors and chambers were viewable only as part of a tactical display; there were no live images or even area designations available. The Red Zone’s internal systems were segregated from those of the main station and operated and maintained from within the zone itself. That meant they had to trust the schematics Jax had gotten from Prince Xizor.
Not a happy thought.
Now, standing at the bottom of the cargo ramp waiting for Stationmaster Cleben and his droids to take possession of the cargo he’d purchased, Sacha kept one eye on the portal and one on Cleben.
He liked to talk. When he talked, he liked to invade her space.
The third or fourth time he leaned into her and tried to put an arm around her waist, she pretended to see Den giving I-Five’s Ducky persona a mistaken order and moved swiftly to intercept.
“Hey! Hey! That crate’s mismarked! It’s not Corellian spice wine, it’s three-oh-seven ale. These guys can’t handle that rotgut! Put it back!” She slipped between the droid and the Sullustan, squatting to inspect the crate and change the label with her inventory handheld.
“This guy takes the biscuit,” she murmured so that only her companions could hear her. “Pushy sleaze. I wish I could get rid of him.”
“You did flirt with him back in his office,” Den observed unhelpfully. “I’m sure he’s just following up on his promise to handle your, em, cargo.”
Sacha glared at him. “I’d like him to keep his hands off my cargo, thanks. Any actual help would be appreciated.”
Cleben had wandered over to them at this point and was standing right behind Sacha as she rose—close enough that she could feel his breath fan her hair. She grimaced. Unruly droids she could handle, unwholesome speeds she could handle, bar fights she could handle. In fact, if this guy were this annoying in a bar, she’d simply deck him. Alas, she was on his territory and he had the authority to toss them all off the station.
She turned on her heel and offered Cleben a smile.
“Leave the crate,” he said, leaning in to put a hand on it. It bobbed gently in the grasp of its antigravity field. “I assure you, there isn’t an ale made that the lads on this station can’t handle … well, my lads anyway. Can’t vouch