Author's Note: I do not own Star Wars, just my characters. This is the sequel to The Last Prisoner, which you should read first if you haven't already. I hope everyone enjoys this one as much. Please R&R.

"But I always knew that nothing was worth the investment of my heart, because nothing lasts, and I was right, and so I was always old." King Haggard, The Last Unicorn, Peter S. Beagle

Broken Smile

The undersized Corellian corvette shuddered and coughed as its landing gear settled on the scrubbed durasteel floors of Hanger 1. Above, the skeletal rafters quivered and the walls trembled ever so slightly, greeting the tired ship with distant thunder. The immaculately maintained orbital base was showing its age. The hangar door hesitated, caught, before sliding open.

Second Lieutenant Rick Cortel stepped into the chill hangar with a group of Sullustans. Officially, he was there to oversee the unloading and cataloging of cargo, but unofficially… He squeezed the bundle of Belkadani lilies he held half-hidden behind his back, bruising their long, elegant stems. The delicate white petals, kissed with red on their curled tips, smelled faintly of lemons and roses; slim yellow stamens rose from their milky centers in gentle arabesques. The blossoms glowed against the hard, gray lines of the hangar like wild stars. Rick adjusted the collar of his uniform, rolling his wide shoulders anxiously beneath the starched fabric.

Seeker II was used primarily to return New Republic soldiers home after their tour of duty on the base orbiting the remote planet Belkadan ended. The average length of deployment was 18 standard months—only a skeleton crew and a few squadrons were permanently stationed there. But today the ship carried barely a handful of passengers besides its crew and payload of supplies. The 2nd lieutenant smiled to himself as he pictured a certain dark-haired young woman waiting inside the small capital ship, twirling her ebony curls between elegantly tattooed fingers.

A hiss—the landing ramp descended, but before it could touch the floor, a figure leapt lightly to the ground and dashed across the hangar at him. Rick got the brief impression of ivory skin beneath scrolls of cerulean tattoos and masses of thick black hair before the woman threw her arms around him in a fierce hug. With one arm, he pressed her long, slender body to him, shyly revealing the lilies in his other hand. Her indigo eyes sparkled with mirth.

"Were you so certain I would join you on this backwater swamp?" she asked, leaning back but keeping her arms around his neck.

He shook his head. "Not at all." And he wrapped both arms around her. The lilies trembled against her shoulder. "Thank you, Syri," he whispered against her neck. Syri laughed.

"Thank me later—if you don't get reprimanded for neglecting your duties. I believe your crew has started unloading without you."

The girl stood for an uncertain moment on the edge of the landing ramp, watching them—arms wrapped around each other, the secret smiles, laughter, the way their lips lingered, unwilling to part, and all the while the strange, luminous flowers swayed to some internal melody. The girl's hands clenched; she drew in a shaky breath, but her face remained impassive. There was no one in the hanger for her.

No, she wasn't a girl anymore, Vice Admiral Harris observed from where he stood partially hidden in the doorway, her mouth had lost the softness of youth, the easy smile; her gray-green eyes had hardened into cool jade. Her slim shoulders were tense; her body thin and brittle like metal that's been bent too many times. She crossed her arms against the galaxy. One heartache replaces another…and so she is old. Harris shook his head, stepping through the door into the enormous space. He waved away the startled salute of Cortel and Syri's sarcastic one. I'll have to talk to him about this girlfriend of his. But now…the girl with a broken smile was walking toward him, a strand of long brown hair slicing her cheek.

"Welcome back, Ms. Richards."

Amara sat stiffly in a black leather chair across from the Vice Admiral. Harris found her gaze unsettling—and very little unsettled him. He got the feeling she was trying to crawl inside his skull. He cleared his throat and gestured to the plate of dainty Mon Cal hors d'oeuvres that Lieutenant Cracknar had deigned to set out (with a look of haughty disdain that no creature without eyebrows or a real nose should have been able to pull off), knowing full well how much Harris hated the "delicate fishy crap" as he put it. The bite size pink squares smelled like low tide. "Hungry?"

She wrinkled her nose. "No."

Harris nodded, picked up the plate, and, holding the Mon Calamarian delicacies at arm's length, walked to the other side of the room, opened the door to Lt. Cracknar's office, and tossed the plate in, slamming the door on the Mon Cal's shriek of surprise. "Well, now that the pleasantries have been dispensed with, we can move on to more serious matters." He was gratified to see Amara trying to hide a grin as he sat back down with a whump. In the other room, Cracknar was making it known that he took great offense at the Vice Admiral's immaturity (it sounded like a hundred frogs dying squishy, gurgly deaths).

"I think you hurt his feelings," Amara said.

He rolled his eyes. "He'll get over it."

The frogs weren't dying quietly. She glanced at the door that separated Harris' office from the communication officer's. "Are you sure?"

He snorted, his upturned nose looking more piggish than usual. "Oh, he'll never forgive me. Hell! That overgrown squid hasn't forgiven me for calling him a secretary two years ago." Amara choked on a giggle. "But he'll move on, plot my downfall…same shit, different day as they say." And he twisted his round face into such a look of world-weary resignation that Amara laughed—a true laugh unfettered by bitterness or regret. The laughter transformed her face, easing the lines drawn by eleven months of torture in an Imperial research facility, erasing the dark smudges beneath her eyes.

"Thanks," she said when she could as she looked down at her hands. She remained quiet for a moment. When she looked up, her face was serious, her voice determined. "I need to know where he is."

Harris had expected the question, known she would ask, but now, looking at her, he didn't know what to say. His superiors had seen fit to keep him out of the loop—a fact that rankled him. They were his goddamn soldiers as far as he was concerned. His face grew hot just thinking about the indignity of having his own men ripped out from under him with little more than a 'thank you, ma'am.' The slimy intelligence agents had said it would "compromise the security of the mission" to tell him any specifics. More like they don't want me to get my fat ass involved. Peace was bad enough, but not being allowed to fight… Amara was watching him.

He sighed. "Somewhere around the Spar sector."

"Where?"

"It's on the opposite side of the galaxy, practically in the unknown regions."

"Oh…what's there?"

The Vice Admiral hesitated. He had his suspicions about what the Knights were up against. After Bakura, the Ssi-ruuk had slunk back to their star cluster, but perhaps…perhaps the galaxy's planets (and their inhabitants) were just too tempting. Did she need to know how bad it was? Harris gave himself a mental shake. The girl before him was strong despite her frail appearance. She deserved to know.

The room was Spartan: a bed with crisp, white sheets and thin pillows, a wall of sleek built-ins, a bare glass desk, and a single metal chair were spotted around the room. Everything ordered and sterile—it felt distinctly unlived in. So this is Jonathan's room, Amara thought, taking no comfort in the knowledge. She sank onto the edge of the bed—even the mattress was hard—and rested her head in her hands. Her mind was still trying to digest what Harris had told her. Velociraptors with guns and soul-powered technology—hah! Her stomach knotted just thinking about Jonathan fighting those things.

And there was nothing she could do about it. All she could do was lean back and stare at the ceiling of a room that held little of the man she loved, trying to find answers in the glaring lights.