Crash Course

Disclaimer: This universe and Qui-gon (when he shows up) are the sole property of Mr. George Lucas. I respectfully borrow them with no intent to profit thereby.





Life in a swoop gang is exciting. Don't let anybody tell ya different, 'cuz it just ain't so. It's not all speed and daring do, but we get more of it than your average joe and we like it that way. People give us a kind of wary respect and that's better than a snooty look any day. When we aren't being chased by the cops in an adrenaline rush that just won't quit, or skirmishing with another gang over territory, we stage races, or fix our rides, or just sit around and drink and tell each other lies about the things we've done and the cops we've beat.

Mine is a common beginning, but true for all of that. I left school just as soon as I turned sixteen. I was no longer required by law to attend school, so I quit since there were a multitude of other things I needed to do with my time. Making money was one of them. Learning more practical skills was another.

Don't let anyone tell you that Coruscant is the 'world of opportunity', or that its buildings are faced in gold and that there's plenty for everyone. I can tell you from experience that that's a fairytale, too. My folks worked their fingers to the bone and still couldn't afford more than a three-room hovel in a building in the lower levels that should have been condemned decades ago. They certainly couldn't afford to keep feeding and clothing a teenage girl and themselves, too. All growing up, I watched their clothes get more and more ragged as they got thinner and thinner while I ate enough and dressed decently. They even wanted to send me to a university.

I wouldn't stand for it, being a dead weight on my folks, killing them by inches.

So I left.

I knew they'd argue and try and talk me out of it. I mean, they loved me, after all. But I couldn't give them the chance, long odds though it was, that they might succeed. Besides, it would only have made them worry more. So I wrote a note and left it on the table, packed what I had, and slipped out into the lower levels of Coruscant.

It's easier than one might think to join a swoop gang, and harder too. If you haven't got a ride, or a real useful skill, you gotta know someone. I had a few skills, but they weren't any great shakes. But that didn't matter. I knew Sloan, and he was kid brother to Shael, also known as War, who was the right hand man of the Horsemen. Sloan was just waiting for his birthday too, and was in nearly all of the same classes with me at school. He dropped a word in his brother's ear and I was in, simple as that.

Six months later, I was solid, having proven myself to everybody's satisfaction. I was still using learning tapes in my datapad in my spare time and furthering my education. My talents at slicing and tech skills were being rapidly honed by practical usage under the watchful eye and guidance of my fellow Horsemen. I had lots of friends, some money to spend and mom and pops were doing better than they ever had with the little bit of extra cash I was sending home and not having to feed and clothe me.

There was nothing to regret.

Come to think of it, there are very few regrets in my life and most of them deal with not having visited my folks more often before the earthquake leveled their new apartment building. I certainly don't regret that 'anonymous' message I sent the cops alerting them to the criminal usage of sub- standard materials by the construction company. I also don't regret the day I jumped on a complete stranger's swoop, even though it changed my entire life.

I'm an impetuous, rash, fool-hardy sort of person, or at least those were the words he used when there was time enough to waste so much breath. I'd just say I was desperate, in search of a way out.



It was just me and Bulldog, see? We weren't out for no joy ride, but we didn't have any escort neither. Death, our boss man, he didn't want us attracting any undue attention what with the other gangs all growling and hissing at each other. We were zipping along, doing a good fifty klicks over the limit, dodging in and out around the slower moving vehicles. We were in a hurry to get back home, but not so big a hurry that we wanted to risk the official attention that going any faster was sure to bring us. What we had was too important to the gang to chance losing it to the cops.

I'd just pulled off one of the sweetest slices of my unsanctioned career. It had required getting access to a direct terminal at Zenif Secured Shipping, an adventure in itself. The end result was a fully loaded transport, stocked to the top with both preserved and fresh goods, and it was routed through our territory. As a gang with few legitimate ways to earn credits, we do what we can to stay healthy and look after each other. I don't know about the others, but with what's happened to me and mine, I don't mind lightening the loads of a few cargo haulers. I don't mind at all.

Despite how important this run was, Bulldog and me, we were alone. There were no outriders, no escorts. We didn't even have our regular jackets on, medium gray bantha leather with a scarlet chess knight on the back. We were keeping a low profile. Things were just too tense between the other gangs right then to risk a confrontation in numbers.

The wind of our passage howled around us, muffled by our helmets to a low shooshing sound. The smooth rumble of the finely tuned engine hummed though my legs to the rest of my body, and the faint scent of leather from my jacket collar clung to the inside of my helmet. Important or not, I wasn't going to let a little pressure keep me from enjoying the trip. There's just something about riding the back of a screaming wind, something about the feeling of sheer suicidal speed, that gets the heart beating and the blood racing. It always makes me feel alive and strong and free. Sloan taught me that, first told me about it in the last row of our history classroom. I didn't half believe him, not until he got me a ride behind his brother one day after school. For me there was no going back to normal life and safe speeds after that.

So there I was, just loving the feel of being out and about and having a swoop between my legs. It was then that something caught my eye, an image reflected off the shiny back of Bulldog's helmet. My mind automatically adjusted for the distortion and adrenaline flooded my body at the unconscious recognition of the familiar shape.

Cops.

And they were tailing us though traffic.

Immediately I fumbled for my datapad and chips, more worried about the vital data than warning my driver. I popped the chip containing the all-important data into my pad and downloaded it, then I clawed it out, shoving it down into the waistband of my tight-fitted pants. I slammed a blank into the pad and copied the data onto it, jamming that one down into Bulldog's boot.

The gang needed that information desperately. Even at the risk of making it more likely that the cops might get their grubby mitts on the information, I had to make sure that Roble did.

My heart pounded as I watched the reflection of the police speeder edge nearer and wished desperately that I had thought to make a few false chips just in case. I shoved that thought aside as a lesson for the future and kept an eye on that speeder. It edged ever closer, dodging slowly back and forth across the lanes of traffic and I decided that we could wait no longer. We had to lose them.

I used the chin switch in my helmet to turn on the built-in communit. Almost all the Horsemen had them now. It made communication while in motion vastly easier than trying to shout at each other through sound buffered helmets. A sudden intuition made me turn it back off. Better not to use it and chance the cops with their overpowered scanners overhearing us. Instead, I slipped one gloved hand from Bulldog's waist and beat a quick rhythm on his chest: tap-tap-tap, pause, tap-tap-tap.

Instantly our swoop accelerated, our speed jumping up another fifty kph in barely a second. We began weaving wildly through the traffic, trying to out distance the cops.

As we raced pell-mell through the slalom of slower vehicles, ignoring the outraged honking of the other drivers, it quickly became apparent that we were not going to lose the cops anytime soon. The newer speeders the cops were now using had enough extra power in their souped up engines to give them a solid chance to keep up with a decent swoop, as they were no doubt intended to do. With both me and Bulldog on his ride, there was no way to outdistance the cop before he called in backup to help.

A familiar sight ahead of us sparked an idea in what was posing at that instant as my brain and I pointed. Bulldog nodded, though I could tell from the tension in his shoulders that he wasn't happy with what he knew I now had in mind. I kicked him in the leg, near where I had pushed the datachip into his boot, to remind him of what was at stake.

I chinned the comm on for one brief moment to relay information that was not covered in the gang's elaborate touch code for double riding. "Standard encryption three," I told him. "I'll comm you."

That was all I said as he slowed marginally. I gathered myself, both hands and feet getting solid footing, then I leapt off the swoop into empty space.

My short, unpowered flight came to an abrupt halt when I landed on the back of another swoop. Unfortunately, I had some serious momentum when I hit. My helmet impacted against the one in front of me with a jolting thump and what had been a leisurely cruise became a frenzied scramble. I locked my legs tight around the chassis and flung my arms around the driver's waist while he fought desperately with the controls to stop our madly spinning descent.

The cop, though, was having problems of his own. Bulldog's ride no longer had my extra weight slowing it down and he began to edge ahead again, faster than the cop had been pulling up on us before. The cop had to decide very quickly whether to follow Bulldog or me. If I'd been the betting kind, I would have bet that he would ignore the passenger and go straight for the driver.

I was right. The cop bet on catching Bulldog and ignored us completely as my new driver and I plummeted from the sky.

I knew there was no way the police were going to catch Bulldog once he no longer had to worry about me, so as soon as our flight leveled out and became smooth and controlled once more, I relaxed. Now all I had to worry about was the man seated in front of me. I had no idea how he would react to having me back there behind him.

I laughed aloud wildly, within the confines of my own helmet, at the exhilaration of it all, the rush of adrenaline through my blood making me giddy. And if my laugh had an hysterical edge to it surely no one would have blamed me. I'd seen fellow Horsemen pull some extreme stunts before, but I'd never done it myself, and never with an unsuspecting driver. No one back at Armageddon would ever believe their little slicer had done such a thing.

Still chuckling to myself, I chinned through the various channels available on my comm until I hit acoustic. Pressing my helmet against the one in front of me, I spoke, my comm transmitting the message by touch and using his helmet itself as a speaker. I knew from experience that it would be muffled, but audible.

"It was good for me. Was it good for you?"

My driver simply held up a gloved index finger, pointing to his head and making a circular motion. Crazy. His muscles beneath my arms were still tight with the dregs of surprise and/or fear and jerked a bit from what was most likely not a little anger, but I could also tell that he was trying not to laugh.

"You hungry?" Those muscles relaxed, and I read from the way his head had twitched as if trying to turn and look at me that curiosity was quickly replacing his anger. A noncommittal shrug and marginal nod sufficed for his response. Sure, why not. "My place, or yours?"

*******

He stopped at a drive-through and ordered for both of us, paying with cash, exact change. The guy had to be new in town; no wolves, swoopers not affiliated with a gang, were tolerated in this sector for very long, but he already had the cheapest eateries staked out. This particular one, though outside our territory, was a Horsemen favorite. They gave you the most food for your credits and would take most any form of currency. I approved of his choice.

His voice, when he gave our order, was a mellow, rich, baritone. It was a very nice voice, but one that could become hard and commanding, I could hear that too. That was the most I learned about him until we actually reached his small apartment in the southeastern quadrant of the sector.

He landed the swoop neatly in the middle of a small balcony and shut off the engine. He keyed the electronic lockdown as I climbed off, then reached into the engine compartment and pulled out a mechanical cut-out. No matter how good someone was at hot-wiring their way around lockdowns, that swoop still wasn't going anywhere without that cut-out.

He had to be new to the life, I thought as I followed him into a modest, run-down, but clean apartment. He wasn't in a gang, he had a decent ride, (not top of the line, but not a junker either) and he was still paranoid about losing it. Now, most wolves are paranoid about their rides. They haven't got anyone else around that they can go to for help should their ride be stolen or break down. Gangs didn't bother even with simple lockdowns. Anyone that touched a gang swoop was either terminally stupid or had a death wish.

I watched my host walk across the room and set the bag of food on a plastiform table with a badly scratched top. His movements were loose, easy, he was comfortable, relaxed here in a way that he hadn't been on the swoop. Why was that? Most people joined the life because that was where their comfort zone was. If riding wasn't the foremost goal in his life, why had he bought a swoop?

My host popped his helmet off and set it on a chair, running a hand through his shoulder length brown hair. He was easily one point nine, maybe even two meters in height and built lean. His roundish face was pleasant, with a strong jaw, a straight nose, and a mouth to which smiling would come easily. One of his dark eyebrows, set above blue-gray eyes, quirked at me and I pulled off my own helmet as I walked to the table.

I've been told my face is heart-shaped, and I know that my coal black hair falls to my waist when I'm not wearing it braided, but I personally don't think I'm super-model material. My eyes are too dark a blue, almost black if you ask Sloan. My features are too delicate, my skin-tone too dusky for the current fashion. And then, I just look too dang small and young for my age. Especially since the top of my head barely cleared the bottom of my host's chest. He was easily thirty centimeters taller than me.

He extended his hand to me, a wry smile stretching his lips. "Mason. Mason Cade."

I let his still gloved hand engulf mine in a friendly shake and gave him an answering smile.

"Call me Crash."

"So, is this how you usually meet people?" Mason asked casually as he began pulling our food out of the bag.

"What? Falling out of the sky?" I asked back with mock innocence. "Doesn't everyone?"

"No, not everyone."

"Well, no, but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time," I explained when he raised that eyebrow at me again. I had just been holding out for the smile that always seemed to accompany that eyebrow. It was a very nice smile.

"And why is that?"

"You always ask this many questions?"

"Mostly. Why did you jump on my swoop?"

I gazed frankly at Mason, a slight smile playing at my lips. Two could play at this game and I could truthfully answer his question without telling him everything.

"Because I thought I could." I put a forkfull of grilled nerf and steamed killa leaves in my mouth and quirked a black eyebrow right back at him, daring him to call me out. When he didn't I asked him a question.

"Why'd you buy me lunch?"

"Because I thought you'd eat it."

I couldn't help but laugh. Obviously he thought that he could play the game too. We were a strange pair.

"So, how long you had your ride?"

Mason shrugged. "Only about a month."

"Used?"

"Yes. I couldn't afford new."

"Few can," I murmured. "Most of us simply up-grade and tweak until we die or the swoop does."

"Us?"

"Gang-bangers. Swoopers. Us. The Horsemen." And in ascending order of importance, I thought as I explained. He was really new to all this if he didn't even know that much.

Something showed in Mason's eyes when I mentioned the gang. I saw his interest sharpen, though he hid it well and all sign of it disappeared as he chewed his next forkfull of food.

"So," I said casually, resting an elbow on the table and scooping up more grilled nerf, "you got a gang yet, or are you still looking?"

"Is having a gang important?"

He question sounded innocent, but my eyes hardened anyway, as did my voice when I replied. He needed to know how the wind blew in this sector and the sooner he knew the better off we all would be.

"Very. Around here, if you don't have a gang, you don't stay. Normally we don't mind wolves, but right now things are too touchy. You find yourself a gang, or you move on. I would advise you to do one or the other before the week is out."

"And if I want to stay?" he asked calmly. "Which gangs might take me?"

I liked the way he didn't argue with me, didn't hedge. Most of them argue. Most of them don't like being told join or leave. Mason simply accepted what I told him, so I settled back in my chair to consider the question. The Speed Demons weren't taking anybody in. They were just too paranoid about accidentally letting in a cop, and there had been way too many attempts recently by the cops to infiltrate the gangs for anyone's peace of mind. Velocity might be willing to take him into the Angels. She wasn't afraid of the cops, though no one could figure out why. In fact, she had been the one fingering the cop infiltrators, though she wasn't telling no one how she knew. Wildcards were all family and if you weren't related in some way or another you weren't going to get in, so that was out.

"Hell Hounds and Cloud Reapers might take you. The Hounds claim most of the East Side. The Reapers own a small section in the Northeast corner," I told him finally. "Angels might've taken you, but if you get seen with me that's out. We took a good piece of territory from them a couple years ago, so they ain't too happy with us right now. Wildcards and the Sithspawn are both gearing up for the war everyone figures can't be too far off." I shrugged. "Everyone's edgy. You picked a heck of a time to come to town."

"And what about the Horsemen?"

I looked at him carefully. There was something a little strange going on. He was very interested in what I had been saying, I could see it in the way he was forcing himself to not lean forward, to make himself ask me something innocent. I just wished I could put a finger on it.

"The Horsemen might. Death's been known to take in strays." I tried to make myself sound flippant, casual, but I suddenly very much wanted to keep this strange man where I could watch his every move. //Is he a cop?// As soon as I thought it, I dismissed the very idea. He didn't act like a cop. He didn't move like a cop. He didn't sound like a cop. He had the wrong accent. There was no underlaying hostility in his actions. All cops hated, or at the very least were disgusted by, gangbangers. I could see none of that in his body language and I've been reading body language since before I could talk.

My parents and I came originally from Lorrd. Not everyone's heard of it. There hasn't been anything of note that happened there since the Jedi Knights freed the entire planet from a life of slavery, and that was almost three generations ago. My slave ancestors had been forbidden to communicate verbally with one another, meaning that there was no talking, no singing, no nothing. We became a mute race. But we compensated.

There are other ways to communicate than using one's voice.

Over the course of several generations, Lorrdians developed a complex language based entirely on facial expressions, hand movements and body position. A true 'body' language. We got to the point that we could read every nuance of stance and expression. We are still acknowledged as the galaxy's foremost mimes and mimics.

I could read my host like a book. The problem was part of it was in a foreign language. I could tell he was interested beyond the norm. I could tell that he was ever so slightly nervous. But, I could also tell that he wasn't a cop and that left me confused and interested as well.

"Death?" He half laughed until he saw all trace of smile leave my face.

"Death." I stated it firmly. "Don't mess with him. Don't mess with us."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to joke about it."

"So, you said the cops are trying to get into the gangs?" I simply nodded and turned my attention back to the food. I had the strangest feeling that he was getting more information from me than I intended, though I wasn't sure how that could be.

"How do you know?"

"Velocity points them out to us. Dunno why, though," I said thoughtfully. "She probably has the most to gain if one of the other gangs is taken down."

"And why are they out to get you? I mean, what's so bad about the gangs?"

I stopped, fork mid-way to my mouth, and stared at him. "You don't have a lot of gangs where you're from, do you?"

"No."

"Figures. The Horsemen stay clean. We don't deal drugs, we don't knock over stores, and we don't extort money from the businesses in our area. When we can we run errands, picking stuff up, dropping it off, riding escort on stuff that has to travel through other gangs' territories. It helps keep us fed. We ain't saints, but we're not number one on the cops' hit list, either." I chewed my forkfull and talked around it. "The other gangs aren't nearly so legit. Cops want them stopped."

"Why are you telling me this? I could be a cop."

I snorted. //Way ahead of you pal.// "You're not." He confirmed it a moment later by not denying it.

"What if I'm working for another gang?"

"You'd be asking different questions."

"You're awfully trusting."

"No, just a good judge of character."

"You're awfully confident, then."

"Got a right to be."

He shook his head and grimaced in frustration and I just snickered around my next mouthful of killa leaves. We passed the rest of the meal in companionable silence. Mason didn't ask me any more questions and I didn't give him any more smug or useless answers.

Finally, I pushed back from the table and motioned toward the communit nestled in one corner of the front room. "Mind if I comm someone?"

Mason shrugged. "Be my guest."

We both rose from the table and I moved to the comm while he began clearing the dishes. Quickly punching up the frequency for the main Armageddon comm, I waited patiently for someone to respond. I didn't have to wait long. Roble, Death himself, immediately appeared on the view screen.

"Crash? What happened?" His voice was calm but commanding and I turned down the volume on the control panel before replying in low tones.

"Cops. They must just be trolling to pick up any gang-bangers they see now, 'cuz we weren't going all that fast, or pulling any stunts," I told him. "Is Bulldog back yet?"

"No. We haven't seen him."

I checked my chrono. "He should be back soon. He's got a copy of everything. I've got one, too. Send someone to pick me up-" I glanced over my shoulder at Mason. He seemed to be busy at the sink, washing our few dishes, but his posture was off, wrong. Warning bells rang in my head. Was he listening to us? How could he hear us from clear over there?

"I don't think that's a good idea." Roble's words pulled me from my thoughts. I took a good look at Death and saw the tight lines around his mouth, the tautness in the muscles along his jaw and across his shoulders. Something was definitely wrong. Death was worried.

"Trapper and War had a bit of a mixup an hour ago."

"Shael?! Is he okay?"

"Burned across his ribs, but fine," Death assured me. "We still don't know who paid for it, because they weren't faces we knew and they didn't have any colors. We're laying low. Except for that shopping trip tomorrow, no one's budging from where they are until I say otherwise. Got it?"

I nodded reluctantly since there wasn't much else I could do.

"Where are you?" Roble asked, his almost fatherly concern flowing easily into his voice.

"I'm with a fledgling. I bailed from Bulldog's ride onto his. We're at his apartment, thirty-four or thirty-five high on Globe, a block east from Mi'lesk."

"A fledgling? How new? He a wolf?"

"I'd guess he's been riding less than eight months. Got a decent ride. So far he's a wolf, but I think he wants to hang around," I frowned thoughtfully. "He was making noises like he was looking to hook up with a local gang. I think he wants to know more about the situation before he decides."

Death's voice was tense, all business now. "Cop?"

"No." I shook my head slowly, knowing that Roble would trust Mason with no more backing than my word that he was clean. It was a frightening responsibility, but I'd shouldered it before. "He's no pig."

"Well, if Velocity points her lovely finger at him, he'll be bacon," Roble shook his head. "If you can, stay there. We'll send someone to get you as soon as it's safe. I'll see ya when I see ya."

"See ya when I see ya," I replied softly and the connection died. The Horsemen never said good-bye, that was bad luck. Good-bye was forever.

For a while, I simply stood, staring with unfocused eyes through the balcony doors. The panoramic sweep of sky, the ebb and flow of traffic, the sun glinting off the transparisteel windows of the building opposite, none of it registered. My mind was too busy with one single thought.

Shael was okay.

I wasn't worried about Trapper. No one worried about Trapper. The slow-moving, fast- flying, average-looking man led a charmed life, untouched and untouchable by any form of disaster. The whole planet of Coruscant could suddenly fall into the sun and I was firmly convinced that Trapper would amble out of the flames, calm as you please and with not a single hair out of place. Several of us were discussing changing his name to Juggernaut.

But Shael and me, that was another story entirely. It wasn't love at first sight, more like twentieth or thirtieth. He's the one who sponsored me into the gang and fellow member grew into friend and friendship into something stronger. I think it's his smile I like the most. It's a wonderful full- face, eye-twinkling smile, complete with a dimple in his left cheek. That smile used to flash at me in reassurance or encouragement and it would make me sigh with relief that I'd done something right. Now it makes my heart flip over in my chest and my temperature rise, but it's the exact same smile.

Funny how that happens sometimes.

I loved Shael, and someone had been shooting at him. My mouth went dry at the very thought of him hurt, and my stomach clenched and tied itself in knots. When he was out riding with the others, doing stunts and showing off, I wasn't bothered in the least. I guess what they say about familiarity and contempt is true, besides, Shael was one of the best riders in the gang and it was hard to even conceive of something going wrong with him at the controls. But the fact that someone had deliberately been aiming at him with intent to kill sent a cold, sick fear washing through me and left me shaking.

"What's wrong?"

Mason's concerned tone pulled me from my mind-blank state and I turned to face him, only then realizing that I was chafing at my arms. I felt as cold as though I'd been riding the high lanes without my jacket.

"Crash? What's wrong?" he asked again when I didn't answer immediately.

"Nothing, thank the Force," I murmured and I carefully noted the strange little jolt of surprise that rippled up his spine at my choice of phrase. Now why would that bother him? It was a common enough phrase, at least among Lorrdians, who had learned it from our Jedi saviors, and several of the other gang members had picked it up from me.

"What happened?"

I grimaced as I paced a bit, trying to drain my sudden reserves of nervous energy. "Well, you'll need to know anyway before you decide what gang you want to join, so I might as well tell you. There's already been a minor skirmish. We don't know who, or why yet, so Death is locking things down for a bit. He'd rather hole up and wait, than risk someone else."

"And the other gangs, what would they do?"

I snorted. "Most of them would just pick whoever they have the biggest grudge against and strike back. We can't afford that. One, it's foolish. Two, it just makes things worse. Three, we won't sacrifice anyone. We don't work that way, never have, and never will."

"I'm liking the Horsemen more and more."

"Don't get attached. Death may not decide to let you in."

"Is he that edgy about what's going on?" Mason inquired.

I nodded, stopping next to one of the windows and staring out blankly. "Everyone is," I elaborated, staring over my shoulder at him. "After tomorrow we should be able to hole up for a couple of weeks. Hopefully things will blow over by then."

Mason gave me a single slow nod. I could practically hear the thrusters firing in his mind as he sat down on the threadbare couch and relaxed into the overstuffed cushions. I wished, not for the first time, that I could read the thoughts that made him suddenly silent. I could read most every emotion in the people around me, but once in a while I would come across someone who was so tightly controlled that my ability to read every nuance of posture and expression wasn't enough. And for someone like me that was akin to suddenly being blind.

I turned back to the view out the window just in time to watch a cop cruise past and I silently wished him some sort of accident. Behind me I heard Mason take a deep breath and release it in a frustrated sounding sigh.

"I haven't the money to move on. I have got to find someone here who will take me before they throw me out of here." I heard the creak of leather as he lifted an arm for a gesture that would normally have been wasted on a visitor's back. But I heard the elbow of his jacket brush across the back of the couch and knew from watching him what sort of gesture it was. He would have swept his hand around to indicate the sparse, threadbare nature of the apartment around us. I couldn't help but compare it to the one my parents had been living in when I left. This one was a palace in comparison.

I shrugged, not caring if he wasn't watching and missed it. "Don't sweat it. You'll make it or you won't. There's no sense in worrying about it. Enjoy what you've got while you've got it. Whether you get into the Horsemen or not is out of your hands."

There was a long silence and I spun away from the window to bend a penetrating stare on my host. He seemed to be pondering my words, but a tightness around his blue-grey eyes, a tension in his hand where it hung casually off the arm of the couch, made me suspicious. Why was I suddenly sure that he knew he could change Roble's mind?

"Wise words for one so young," he finally said.

"Not so young as all that," I shot back quickly, a little defensively. "I doubt I'm more than three years younger than you. In fact, I'd bet on it."

"Oh?"

"I'm twenty-seven."

"You'd have won that bet."

I smiled broadly at the surprise plain on his face. I've said before that I look younger than I am, but did I mention that I tend to look a good ten years younger? Nothing helps people underestimate you and your skills better than looking like you're in your late teens when you're really in your late twenties. "Appearances can be deceiving."

He had started to smile back at me, but my last sentence wiped all expression from his face. I couldn't help but frown in confusion. What was up with this guy?

"Yes, appearances can be deceiving," he finally agreed.

A strained silence stretched out between us, neither really knowing what to say. Eventually Mason levered himself off the couch and wandered out to the balcony to fiddle with his ride. The line of his back and the motions of his hands as he removed the cowling practically shouted his wish to be left alone at his task. Contrariness threatened to smother good judgement and I fairly itched to follow him out and lean over his broad shoulders to inspect his swoop. But inertia joined the fight on the side of judgement. I was just too wiped out now that I was coming down from my adrenaline high, and bugging my host would have required entirely too much energy.

Instead, I shrugged out of my jacket and draped it over a chair next to my helmet. Then I flung myself down on the couch and was asleep before I'd even decided if the cushions were more comfortable than the floor would have been.