The High Republic: Midnight Horizon Read online

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  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Lucasfilm Press, an imprint of Buena Vista Books, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Lucasfilm Press, 1200 Grand Central Avenue, Glendale, California 91201.

  ISBN 978-1-368-07941-9

  Design by Soyoung Kim, Scott Piehl, and Leigh Zieske

  Visit the official Star Wars website at: www.starwars.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue: Coronet City

  Part One

  One: Starlight Beacon

  Two: Coronet City

  Three: Starlight Beacon

  Four: Starlight Beacon

  Five: Starlight Beacon

  Six: Starlight Beacon

  Seven: Starlight Beacon

  Eight: Starlight Beacon

  Nine: Coronet City

  Ten: The Talmadge

  Eleven: The Talmadge

  Twelve: Coronet City

  Part Two

  Thirteen: Gus Talon

  Fourteen: Coronet City

  Fifteen: Coronet City

  Sixteen: Coronet City

  Seventeen: Dol’Har Hyde

  Eighteen: Then

  Nineteen: Coronet City

  Twenty: Coronet City

  Twenty-One: Coronet City

  Twenty-Two: Coronet City

  Part Three

  Twenty-Three: The Star Hopper

  Twenty-Four: Coronet City

  Twenty-Five: Coronet City

  Twenty-Six: Coronet City

  Twenty-Seven: Coronet City

  Twenty-Eight: Coronet City

  Twenty-Nine: Coronet City

  Thirty: Coronet City

  Thirty-One: Then

  Thirty-Two: Coronet City

  Thirty-Three: Coronet City

  Thirty-Four: Coronet City

  Part Four

  Thirty-Five: Coronet City

  Thirty-Six: Hyperspace

  Thirty-Seven: Coronet City

  Thirty-Eight: Coronet City

  Thirty-Nine: Coronet City

  Forty: Coronet City

  Forty-One: Coronet City

  Forty-Two: Coronet City

  Forty-Three: Coronet City

  Forty-Four: Coronet City

  Forty-Five: Coronet City

  Forty-Six: Coronet City

  Forty-Seven: Coronet City

  Forty-Eight: Coronet City

  Forty-Nine: Coronet City

  Fifty: Coronet City

  Part Five

  Fifty-One: Coronet City

  Fifty-Two: Coronet City

  Fifty-Three: Coronet City

  Fifty-Four: Coronet City

  Fifty-Five: Coronet City

  Fifty-Six: Coronet City

  Fifty-Seven: Coronet City

  Fifty-Eight: Coronet City

  Fifty-Nine: Coronet City

  Sixty: Coronet City

  Sixty-One: Coronet City

  Sixty-Two: Corellian Space

  Sixty-Three: Corellian Sky

  Sixty-Four: Coronet City

  Sixty-Five: Coronet City

  Sixty-Six: Corellian Sky

  Sixty-Seven: The Green

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  In loving memory of Baba Craig Ramos

  “I’m going in,” Prybolt said.

  Ovarto shook his woolly horned head. “Client said not to go in.”

  The hounds growled and scanned the empty street, sniffing with those huge nostrils. One of them, Serenata, pulled toward the door, yanking Prybolt forward a step. The others seemed to grumble amongst themselves, then followed.

  The building was one of those weird cylinder-shaped ones that seemed to pop up out of nowhere like mushrooms all around the Syllain District and then disappear just as quickly. This one had been painted bright orange (ugly), had strange metal markings on it (creepy), had no windows (bad), and as far as Prybolt could tell, had only the one door, which Minister Nomar Tralmat—Coronet Father of Finances, the man Prybolt and Ovarto were pledged to protect—had entered exactly twenty-two minutes earlier, with various insistences that they not follow or check on him under any circumstances.

  He had sworn he knew what he was doing, that he was safe, that he just needed them for security to and from the meeting, not during. And no, he wouldn’t tell them what the meeting was about, or who was there; he’d already been explicit about the need for secrecy when he hired them. It was probably some coordination for the upcoming Finance Ball—an annual performance of unvarnished excess that marked the beginning of open-market trading. Didn’t matter, really—and Prybolt knew better than to ask too many questions. But still, to keep someone safe, a bodyguard shouldn’t be kept totally in the dark.

  Nomar Tralmat was a human, and humans, in Prybolt’s experience, were notoriously reckless when it came to getting themselves murdered or horrifically mangled or exposed to ghastly diseases. They just couldn’t be relied on to follow even the most basic precautions; all they did was throw themselves in front of blaster fire or into massive explosions or off cliffs, and no matter how obviously deadly the situation was, it was still the bodyguard’s fault if they died.

  “Crash says sometimes the client doesn’t know what’s good for them,” Prybolt said, “so we have to know instead.”

  “Yeah, well”—Ovarto lit a death stick, even though you weren’t supposed to smoke on the job, and sighed some smoke up into the night—“sometimes even Crash is wrong.”

  That was obviously not true, and it was clear Ovarto didn’t believe it, either. Crash, who was Prybolt’s best friend and ran Supreme Coronet City Diplomat Protection, was no exception to the “humans are reckless” rule; in fact she was the chief example of it. The difference was, she also somehow excelled at not dying and making sure no one around her did, either. And no one could think of a time she’d been wrong.

  The hounds snorfled loudly against the door. They were large, imposing creatures, all white with hunched torsos and beady, malicious eyes squinting out from round protrusions on their skulls. Squirming tendrils dangled from their jaws. All in all, the hounds gave the impression that they could tear someone to shreds without much bother. This was in part because they absolutely could and would. But they’d also been bred to look that way—a handy trick that ensured they didn’t have to actually shred anyone most of the time; people just kept their distance.

  Prybolt loved the hounds with all his heart. They were the truest friends he had besides Crash, and they always knew when something on a job was off.

  Like right now, for instance. The hounds, still at the door, seemed to confer for a moment, and then they all craned their necks and released an eerie keening noise.

  Prybolt appraised the building again. “Okay, yeah, I’m not the only one that doesn’t like it. And to be precise, I hate it.”

  Other things Prybolt hated at that moment:

  —The way his voice sounded like it was pleading

  —The way his long, Grindalid body felt squished into his ridiculous protective suit, every muscle on each of his many arms burning with complaints about the long night they’d had

  —How, between the rows of towering buildings around them, another Corellian dawn teased the edge of the dark horizon

  These types of shenanigans were exactly why his family had pleaded with him not to go into this line of work.

  “Let the humans and their other sun-loving friends devour and destroy each other,” Mother Fastidima had begged in the cool darkness of their underground nesting pool. “Your place is here, away from all that. A whole underground empire awaits you. You don’t need to scrunch up your body into those silly fabrics. You don’t need to live in fear of disintegration in that cruel Corellian sun, my sweet pupalette.”

  But Prybolt had known what he wanted, and it wasn’t to spend his life hiding in the shadows with his hundreds of other nest sibs. “I’m not a pupa anymore,” he’d said, sounding, he knew, very young and ridiculous. “And anyway, you just don’t want me to be in danger all the time because if I die you’ll have to avenge me and that might upset the delicate political balance you’re always going on about!”

  He’d spat out the words with a ferocity he hadn’t realized he felt, and they’d found their mark—Mother Fastidima reared back like she’d been hit. “That’s!” she gasped. “That’s!” Water slopped down her chin tendrils and splashed into the pool below as she stammered.

  But she couldn’t quite deny it, because it wasn’t entirely false.

  The Garavult Clan had protected the underground water systems of Corellia for centuries, and their legacy was one of both honor and vengeance. To strike down a Garavult Grindalid meant incurring the wrath of all seven hundred and forty-eight Garavults, which is exactly why it almost never happened. That blood oath outweighed any of the petty politics of the time, and Prybolt knew it as well as Mother Fastidima did.

  But that wasn’t all there was to it. His nest mother also wanted him close because she loved him.

  Prybolt had sighed, already out of the dark water and heading for the tunnel that led to the surface. Sometimes winning hurt more than losing. “I just want to see
more of the city I live in than the sewers and tunnels. And I want to protect people. I’m good at it!”

  And he was—even Crash had admitted it, and Crash rarely gave compliments. He’d already mastered moving in the protective suit, and he easily grasped the intricate and delicate art of becoming one with a crowd while staying close to a client on the move. He understood violence, the chaos and suddenness of it. Weapons posed no problem—every Grindalid came up studying a variety of defense techniques with different staffs, blades, and blasters. The hounds, of course, adored him, so training and working with them was no problem.

  And, most important, he knew when to trust his gut.

  And right now, as the night ever so gently gave way to dawn around them, Prybolt’s gut was telling him something very wrong was happening on the other side of that door.

  “I’m going in,” he said again, and this time he meant it.

  Ovarto shrugged, flicking away his death stick. “Your funeral.”

  “Beeta, Serenata, Sibak. At ready.” The hounds obediently stopped their investigation and stood on either side of Prybolt.

  He touched the control panel by the door. It slid open to reveal … another door. A muffled beeping went off somewhere inside: alarms. Prybolt hit the touch sensor on the second door, and that one rumbled to the side with a rusty groan.

  Several figures moved through the dim room within. What light there was came from the center, where Nomar Tralmat was on his knees, nose bloodied, face desperate. Above him stood a tall woman with red skin and the long folded ears of an Er’Kit poking out from either side of a strange gas mask. She had a blaster rifle slung over her shoulder; the fierce bayonet on the top glinted in the flickering lantern light. And she looked like she was winding up for another hit.

  Get between the threat and the client.

  That was all there was, all that mattered.

  Prybolt launched forward with a single command to the hounds: “Eat.” The woman raised her rifle just like Prybolt hoped she would—because that meant it wasn’t aimed at Tralmat. Prybolt pivoted to the side, adjusting his stride to accommodate the shift in balance, as blaster fire roared out.

  “Ayeeee!” Ovarto yelled from the doorway, and then all two meters and one hundred kilograms of him crashed noisily to the ground. One of the hounds squealed and fell—Beeta, maybe. The others sprang forward.

  Before either Prybolt or the remaining hounds could reach her, the woman threw something at the floor and it burst with a flash. Sibak and Serenata squealed, and a foul yellow smoke billowed into the room, covering it almost instantly.

  But there was only the client and the threat, the client and the threat. Or, probably several threats, but that woman was the most important one. Some smoke wouldn’t stop Prybolt. It couldn’t get through his breathing apparatus and coverall suit anyway. He crossed the floor in three bounds and hurled himself toward where Tralmat had been just a moment before, shivering on the ground. He felt an arm, a shoulder.

  “Come on!” Prybolt yelled, pulling the man to his feet.

  Sudden, searing pain tore through Prybolt’s thorax just as the woman’s gas-masked face appeared in the mist.

  That bayonet.

  He sidestepped the next swipe, the huge blade swishing through the yellow cloud where he’d just been, then spun forward, allowing his own momentum to power a devastating uppercut. It connected with the woman’s mask, sent her spinning back into the fog.

  Up ahead, a doorway slid open to what looked like a small antechamber lit by the breaking day. This building was full of secrets! There’d been no sign of another entrance on the outside. Didn’t matter. It was a small blessing, and Prybolt would take full advantage of it. He hefted Tralmat, who was coughing and sputtering, onto his shoulder and made for the light.

  Turned out the doorway had opened to let in reinforcements, but Prybolt was counting on that. Two more masked raiders hurried in only to get hit with Prybolt’s blaster bolts. He ran past their squirming bodies and out into the street.

  He let Tralmat down gently—the man seemed mostly okay besides the bloody nose and coughing from whatever that chemical was—and started pulling him along. “You have to come with me,” Prybolt said. “Quickly.”

  Tralmat looked around, wide-eyed. “Come on!” Prybolt urged. Any second, someone was going to burst out of the misty darkness, blaster bolts first more than likely. “We have to go … now!” Why was Prybolt so out of breath? He hadn’t exerted himself that much, and the gas shouldn’t be affecting him with … the suit.

  He glanced down, already pulling Tralmat into an awkward, stumbling run. The woman’s bayonet had torn a serious gash in his protective suit, scraping his carapace. But it wasn’t the wound or the gas that was sapping his energy so suddenly; it was the sun.

  “We have to … we have to go,” Prybolt wheezed, still clutching Tralmat’s arm. “I can’t…” It was the client; it was only the client. All there was was the client. But if Prybolt didn’t make it, no one would be left to protect Tralmat. “I need … shade … darkness … something.”

  A sharp, crackling burn erupted along his left flank as the day grew brighter and a gentle morning breeze pushed the torn fabric of his suit aside. “Come on,” he moaned. “Come this … this way.”

  But when he looked back, Tralmat was gone, probably snatched by one of those raiders, and the masked woman was walking calmly out of the mist toward Prybolt.

  “Client,” Prybolt grunted, as if that would somehow make Tralmat reappear on the street beside him.

  He stumbled around a corner, his gloved fingers wrestling the comlink out of its belt holster.

  “Crash,” he muttered into it, hoping he’d hit the transmit button. “Crash … Crash!”

  She would know what to do.

  “Come in, Crash … I…”

  The Er’Kit woman was probably already behind him; she had to be, raising that rifle for the shot that would end him.

  Prybolt pulled out his own blaster and spun around, firing wildly.

  The street was empty.

  The sun kept rising.

  “Crash!” He pushed forward. Somewhere, there would be an open door, an entrance to the tunnel system that was his true home, the darkness that would embrace him, protect him. Then he could heal and go find his client. He could make this right still.

  “Crash, it’s Prybolt. I … I messed up. There’s…” What were those attackers? They all wore the telltale gas masks of the Nihil, but there was no way the Nihil were on Corellia—that was an Outer Rim problem. They were reckless, sure, but not fools. They’d never risk coming this deep into the Core of the Republic, the heart of the galaxy.

  It had to be imitators, or a cartel of some kind trying to cover its tracks by pretending to be Nihil. That was it.

  “Nihil,” Prybolt rasped into the comm. “Dressed like Nihil. Gas masks, and gas … but … I don’t think…” Didn’t matter. They’d figure it out. Crash could figure out any problem, so she’d work out this one. Prybolt just had to stay alive to help her do it.

  He rounded another corner at a stumble and ran straight into the red woman in the gas mask. She leapt back, too fast to track or attack, then her rifle seemed to come dancing out of the sky toward him as she lunged forward.

  All he could do was fall backward, but he wasn’t fast enough; the blade shredded the whole front of his suit wide open, and then the ground rushed up behind him and he slammed down so hard all the air left his many lungs.

  None of that mattered nearly as much as the sizzling that screamed through his whole torso, though. All his smaller appendages were probably wriggling as they burned. Daylight—that bright, blinding poison—poured through everything, flooded over him and sent frantic searing warnings all through his nervous system.

  “I’ve always wanted to see this happen,” the Er’Kit woman said with what sounded like delight in her voice. She stood over him with one booted leg on either side, and if he’d had any strength left, he would have happily kicked her, blasted her, anything to get that smirk he was sure she was making off her face.

  But none of his body parts were responding the way Prybolt wanted them to, and almost everything was made out of bright, unrelenting light, and then light became the world, and then there was nothing at all.

  “Ram? What’s the matter?”

  “Hm?” Ram Jomaram looked up from the tiny reactor core he’d been taking apart and putting back together for the past … he’d lost track of how long. The flickering hologram of his master, Kunpar Vasivola, blinked back at him, concern in his wrinkled old eyes. “Nothing,” Ram said, and went back to fiddling.