Star Wars: Red Harvest Read Free

news.”
    Hartwig shook his head. “He disappeared.”
    “Shocker.” Jura shrugged, turning back to his food. He was peripherally aware of the other apprentices nearby inclining their heads ever so slightly forward to eavesdrop on the conversation, and wondered if there might be more worth hearing. “He’s probably off someplace feeling sorry for himself.”
    “No, I mean, he literally
disappeared,”
Hartwig said. “The med tech, Arljack, told Scopique all about it. One minute he was at the infirmary getting treated for that cut on his arm. Arl went to check on one of the other patients and when he came back, Nickter was gone.”
    “So he just walked out.”
    Hartwig leaned forward, lowering his voice. “He’s the fourth one this year.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “You know what they’re saying.”
    Jura sighed, realizing where the conversation was going. “You’ve been talking to Ra’at too much.”
    “Maybe so,” Scopique said, speaking up for the first time, “but maybe in this case, Ra’at knows what he’s talking about.”
    Jura turned all the way around and glared at him. Scopique was a Zabrak, and his tribal tattoos and the array of vestigial horns sprouting up from his scalp had always been a source of deep pride. In conversation, he tended to keep his head tilted slightly forward for dramatic effect, and with the light behind him, so that the shadows of the hornscut down over the geometry of his face like daggers. For a moment the two faced each other in tense silence.
    “We’ve all heard the same thing,” Jura said, keeping his voice even. “Thinning the herd, the experiments … What’s your point?”
    Scopique leaned in close. “Lord Scabrous.”
    “What about him?”
    “If he
is
abducting students for his own purposes,” Scopique said, “then someone needs to find out who might be next.”
    Jura let out a dry little laugh, but it didn’t come out as dismissive or scornful as he’d hoped. “And how do you plan on getting that information?”
    “I’m not,” the Zabrak told him, and pointed at him. “You are.”
    “Me?”
    “You’re perfect for the job. Everyone knows you have the survival instincts of a hungry dianoga. You’ll find a way.”
    Jura pushed back his chair and stood up in one fluid motion. Swinging one hand forward, he reached up and snapped his fingers tight around the Zabrak’s throat, clamping down on the windpipe hard enough that he felt the cartilage pop. It happened so fast that, despite the strength and weight discrepancy, Scopique was caught off guard—but only momentarily. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, almost casual, and quiet enough that only Jura could hear him.
    “There’s a saying on my home planet, Ostrogoth. Only a fool turns his back on an unpaid debt. You think about that.” Scopique nodded slightly at Jura’s arm. “Now, because you do still have some value to me, I’ll allow you to remove your hand from my throat voluntarily and save face in front of our peers. But the next time I see you, you
will
tell me what you’ve found out about the disappearances.” The Zabrak smiled thinly. “Or else the rest of the academy will soon see a side of you that I don’t think you want them to see—a very unflattering side. Do we understand each other?”
    Jura’s jaw tightened; he was too angry to trust his voice for a reply. Instead he managed a curt nod.
    “Good,” Scopique said. A second later the Zabrak turned and walkedaway. When he and Hartwig stepped out the door, Jura Ostrogoth carried his untouched meal to the waste receptacle and dumped it in, tray and all.
    He’d lost his appetite.
    Outside the dining hall, back out in the cold, Jura stalked through the snow, fists clenched and trembling at his sides. After he’d gone a few meters from the doorway, where he was sure no one could see, he stepped into a narrow alcove and stared at the stone wall. Fury boiled in his chest.
    Or else the rest of the