Publisher Description

At last in one volume, the eight original installments of the epic Lost Tribe of the Sith eBook series . . . along with the explosive, never-before-published finale, Pandemonium—more than one hundred pages of new material!
 
Five thousand years ago. After a Jedi ambush, the Sith mining ship Omen lies wrecked on a remote, unknown planet. Its commander, Yaru Korsin, battles the bloodshed of a mutinous faction led by his own brother. Marooned and facing death, the Sith crew have no choice but to venture into their desolate surroundings. They face any number of brutal challenges—vicious predators, lethal plagues, tribal people who worship vengeful gods—and like true Sith warriors, counter them with the dark side of the Force.
 
The struggles are just beginning for the proud, uncompromising Sith, driven as they are to rule at all costs. They will vanquish the primitive natives, and they will find their way back to their true destiny as rulers of the galaxy. But as their legacy grows over thousands of years, the Sith ultimately find themselves tested by the most dangerous threat of all: the enemy within.

Author Biography

Author and game designer John Jackson Miller is the author of Star Wars: Knight Errant and the Star Wars: Lost Tribe of the Sith eBook series, as well as nine Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic graphic novels. His comics work includes writing for Iron Man, Mass Effect, Bart Simpson, and Indiana Jones. He lives in Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and far too many comic books.

Excerpt from Book

5,000 years BBY "Lohjoy! Give me something!" Scrambling to his feet in the darkness, Captain Korsin craned his neck to find the hologram. "Thrusters, attitude control--I''ll even take parking jets!" A starship is a weapon, but it''s the crew that makes it deadly. An old spacer''s line: trite, but weighty enough to lend a little authority. Korsin had used it himself on occasion. But not today. His ship was being deadly all on its own--and his crew was just along for the ride. "We''ve got nothing, Captain!" The serpent-haired engineer Lohjoy flickered before him, off-kilter and out of focus. Korsin knew things below decks must be bad if his upright, uptight Ho''Din genius was off-balance. "Reactors are down! And we''ve got structural failures in the hull, both aft and--" Lohjoy shrieked in agony, her tendrils bursting into a mane of fire that sent her reeling out of view. Korsin barely suppressed a startled laugh. In calmer times--half a standard hour ago--he''d joked that Ho''Din were half tree. But that was hardly appropriate when the whole engineering deck was going up. The hull had ruptured. Again. The hologram expired--and all around the stocky captain warning lights danced, winked, and went out. Korsin plopped down again, clutching at the armrests. Well, the chair still works. "Anything? Anybody?" Silence--and the remote grinding of metal. "Just give me something to shoot at." It was Gloyd, Korsin''s gunnery officer, teeth shining in the shadows. The half smirk was a memento from a Jedi light-saber swipe years earlier that just missed taking the Houk''s head off. In response, Gloyd had cultivated the only wit aboard as acidic as the commander''s own--but the gunner wasn''t finding much funny today. Korsin read it in the brute''s tiny eyes: Death in combat''s one thing. But this is no way to go. Korsin didn''t bother to look at the other side of the bridge. Icy glares there could be taken as a given. Even now, when Omen was crippled and out of control. "Anybody?" Even now. Korsin''s bushy eyebrows flared into a black V. What was wrong with them? The adage was right. A ship needed a crew united in purpose--only the purpose of being Sith was the exaltation of self. Every ensign an emperor. Every rival''s misstep, an opportunity. Well, here''s an opportunity, he thought. Solve this, someone, and you can flatout have the blasted comfy chair. Sith power games. They didn''t mean much now--not against the insistent gravity below. Korsin looked up again at the forward viewport. The vast azure orb visi ble earlier was gone, replaced by light, gas, and grit raining upward. The latter two, he knew, came from the guts of his own ship, losing the fight against the alien atmosphere. Whatever it was, the planet had Omen now. An uncontrolled descent from orbit took a long time, surprisingly long. More time to contemplate your destruction, his father had always said. But the way the ship was shaking, Korsin and his crew might be robbed even of that dubious privilege. "Remember," he yelled, looking at his entire bridge crew for the first time since it had started. "You wanted to be here!" And they had wanted to be there--most of them, any way. Omen had been the ship to get when the Sith mining flotilla gathered at Primus Goluud. The Massassi shock troops in the hold didn''t care where they went-- who knew what the Massassi even thought half the time, presuming they did at all. But many sentients who had a choice in the matter picked Omen. Saes, captain of the Harbinger, was a fallen Jedi: an unknown quantity. You couldn''t trust someone the Jedi couldn''t trust, and they would trust just about anyone. Yaru Korsin, the crew members knew. A Sith captain owning a smile was rare enough, and always suspect. But Korsin had been at it for twenty standard years, long enough for those who''d served under him to spread the word. A Korsin ship was an easy ride. Just not today. Fully loaded with Lignan crystals, Harbinger and Omen had readied to leave Phaegon III for the front when a Jedi starfighter tested the mining fleet''s defenses. While his crescent-shaped Blade fighters tangled with the intruder, Korsin''s crew made preparations to jump to hyperspace. Protecting the cargo was paramount--and if they managed to make their delivery before the Jedi turncoat made his, well, that was just a bonus. The Blade pilots could hitch back on Harbinger. Only something had gone wrong. A shock to the Harbinger, and then another. Sensor readings of the sister ship went nonsensical--and Harbinger yawed dangerously toward Omen. Before the collision warning could sound, Korsin''s navigator reflexively engaged the hyperdrive. It had been in the nick of time . . . . . . or maybe not. Not the way Omen was giving up its vitals now. They did hit us, Korsin knew. The teleme try might have told them, had they had any. The ship had been knocked off-course by an astronomical hair-- but it was enough. Captain Korsin had never experienced an encounter with a gravity well in hyperspace, and neither had any of his crew. Stories required survivors. But it felt as though space itself had yawned open near the passing Omen, kneading at the ship''s alloyed superstructure like putty. It had lasted but a fraction of a second, if time even existed there. The escape was worse than the con tact. A sickly snap, and shielding failed. Bulkheads gave. And then, the armory. The armory had exploded. That was easy enough to know from the gaping hole in the underside of the ship. That it had exploded in hyperspace was a matter of inference: they were still alive. In normal space, all the grenades, bombs, and other pleasantries, the Massassi, were taking to Kirrek would have gone up in a flourish, taking the ship with it. But instead the armory had simply vanished--along with an impressive chunk of Omen''s quarterdeck. The physics in hyperspace were unpredictable by definition; instead of exploding out ward, the breached deck simply left the ship in a seismic tug. Korsin could imagine the erupting munitions drop ping out of hyperspace light-years behind the Omen, wherever it was. That would mean a bad day for some one! Might as well share the pain. Omen had shuddered into realspace, decelerating madly--and taking dead aim at a blister of blue hang ing before a vibrant star. Was that the source of the mass shadow that had interrupted their trip? Who cared? It was about to end it. Captured, Omen had skipped and bounced across the crystal ocean of air until the descent began in earnest. It had claimed his engineer--probably all his engineers--but the command deck still held. Tapani craftsmanship, Korsin marveled. They were falling, but for the moment they were still alive. "Why isn''t he dead?" Half mesmerized by the streamers of fire erupting outside--at least the Omen was belly-down for this bounce--Korsin only vaguely grew aware of harsh words to his left. "You shouldn''t have made the jump!" stabbed the young voice. "Why isn''t he dead?" Captain Korsin straightened and gave his half brother an incredulous stare. "I know you''re not talking to me." Devore Korsin jabbed a gloved finger past the commander to a frail man, still jabbing futilely at his control panel and looking very alone. "That navigator of yours! Why isn''t he dead?" "Maybe he''s on the wrong deck?" "Yaru!" Jokes weren''t going to save Boyle Marcom today, the captain knew. Marcom had been guiding ships through the weirdness of hyperspace since the middle of Marka Ragnos''s rule. Boyle hadn''t been at his best in years, but Yaru Korsin knew a former helmsman of his father''s was always worth having. Not today, though. Whatever had happened back there, it would rightfully be laid at the navigator''s feet. But assigning blame in the middle of a firestorm? That was Devore all over. "We''ll do this later," the elder Korsin said from the command chair. "If there is a later." Anger flashed in Devore''s eyes. Yaru couldn''t remember ever seeing anything else there. The pale and lanky Devore little resembled his own ruddy, squat frame--also the shape of their father. But those eyes, and that look? Those could have been a direct transplant. Their father. He''d never had a day like this. The old spacer had never lost a ship for the Sith Lords. Learning at his side, the teenage Yaru had staked out his own future--until the day he became less enamored of his father''s footsteps. The day when Devore arrived. Half Yaru''s age, son to a mother from a port on another planet--and embraced by the old veteran without a second thought. Rather than find out how many more children his father had out there to vie for stations on the bridge, Cadet Korsin appealed to the Sith Lords for another assignment. That had not been a mistake. In five years, he made captain. In ten, he won command of the newly christened Omen over an accomplished rival many years his senior. His father hadn''t liked that. He''d never lost a ship for the Sith Lords. But he''d lost one to his son. But now losing the Omen was looking like a family tradition. The whole bridge crew--even the outsider Devore--exhaled audibly when rivulets of moisture replaced the flames outside the viewport. Omen had found the stratosphere without incinerating, and now the ship was in a lazy saucer spin through clouds heavy with rain. Korsin''s eyes narrowed. Water? Is there even a ground? The terrifying thought rippled through the minds of the seven on the bridge at once, as they watched the transparisteel viewport bulge and warp: Gas giant! Yes, it took a long time to crash from orbit, presuming you survived reentry. How much longer, if there was no surface? Korsin fumbled aimlessly for the controls set in his armrest

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