All right. Well take care of yourself, Han. I guess that's what you're best at, isn't it?

Dantooine's unregulated wind was still giving Mari a lot of trouble. She squinted to guard against airborne bugs and dust as she stared, stony-faced, listening to a lecture on 'gravity-slices' from someone who appeared to be half-man and half-fish.

The creature was shorter than the average human, dressed in a one-piece flight suit and looking at her with enormous eyes that stuck out sideways from either side of its head. In evolutionary theory, she understood this meant he was descended from prey rather than predator. And, evidently, these ancestors had lived underwater. His skin was rough and deep brown, the colour of varnished wood, and his voice was thick and gruff. His mouth was nearly as wide as his face and seemed to be permanently stretched into a smirk, which had made him seem funny once the shock had worn off.

He was a member of the Rebel Alliance and he liked to talk. Thrilled to meet a newcomer, he had been prattling about gravity-slices, 'gravity wells' and 'shadow-generators' for over ten minutes now. Mari had not said a word other than 'hello'. This had been chiefly because of the fish-man's appearance, but it was also because she hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about.

Mari had considered herself a decent pilot and a bit of a gear-head until meeting the young, enthusiastic and proud soldiers of the Rebellion. For the most part they were kids, poor kids who laughed and flirted and jogged from place to place. Each one who encountered had beamed a smile at her and introduced themselves. It was depressing. This one's name was Zaltharis. He had given the name of his species, but she hadn't understood him.

Night was drawing in, now. As she gave up trying to follow the alien's conversation, settling for nods and approving grunts, she worried about Crispin. After the argument that morning he had stormed off with the man guarding him, Thex or whatever his name had been. Her own protector, KN-11, had vanished shortly after that too. She wondered if she had fallen out of the droid's favour. In any case the evening had been pleasant, without anything to do or any of KN's sarcastic comments to listen to.

Cris had taken her opinions on the Force badly, and she had spent an hour looking for him so that she could apologise properly. Eventually it had dawned on her that he was purposefully avoiding her, and she had decided to leave him alone. No doubt poor Thex was now listening to all of the angry tirades he was preparing for her.

When he came back to yell at her, Mari would listen. She hadn't meant to hurt his feelings like that. For the rest of the day, she had been acutely aware of the lightsaber stashed awkwardly in her belt, under the folds of her jacket. She still hadn't given it to anyone. Maybe Cris ought to have it himself.

It would be symbolic, she hoped.

Zaltharis quietened a bit, and wrapped the speech up. 'Of course that's assuming,' he gargled from the back of his big throat, 'that we can get hold of some of that stuff before we need it. Anyway. It was my pleasure. May the Force be with you.'

.

'The ultimate weapon,' Wilhuff Tarkin had once said to Raith Seinar, 'is the weapon that does its job in the first shot. Once you have ensured your enemy cannot reciprocate, then you have no need of further weaponry.'

Raith had nodded smugly, not quite understanding but not wanting to appear beaten, and left the room. A week later he had returned, unexpected, carrying the plans to his 'Mobile Attack Star', what he had earlier been bold enough to call his 'ultimate' terror weapon. An impromptu presentation began, with Tarkin criticising where he could, and disguising envy where he could not. Impressed by the giant battle station's designs but left frustrated by its scope, he began offering his friend suggestions for additional features.

That had been almost two decades ago. In that time, the building work had proceeded as fast as was possible, but it was a monumental effort. Tarkin was an old man, now, and amongst the highest eschelon of the Empire in his own right. His Highness had been kind, supplying the pair with funds, engineers and slaves, but it had taken a long time. Now, finally, the work was finished, and Tarkin sat in his private office at the top of the Command sector, sipping tepid sozhang and surveying reports. The bulk of the administrators were already pouring into the structure, and another battalion of troopers was en-route.

Seinar had been driven off the project many years ago, which was very much in the station's best interests. The Empire believed good leadership came from a single, strong source, and there was no sense occupying two of the Palace's best men with one command. There had been no contest; Raith never did fully comprehend the potential of the weapon. It had been Tarkin's superlaser that had defined it, and his Doctrine that had inspired it.

Yesterday the station had hosted its first executions. Within a year it would be completely armed and ready.

There was no ceremony to celebrate the completion. There were no handshakes or proud speeches. Alone behind his desk, its tired mastermind did not allow himself a smile. His back was a little slouched, but his expression remained rigid. The weapon was built, but had nowhere to aim.

There was nothing to smile about.

The interception of the Rebel ship had achieved little, but there was still that one curious loose end, Mari Dalto. The arrival of a conspicuous, clearly-marked civilian shuttle had not been a part of his plans. Perhaps this was why the shuttle's crew had survived the surprise second attack and escaped the scene. Within ten minutes of learning this, Tarkin had discovered the names of the two staff pilots scheduled to be onboard this Shuttle I-LO, and confirmed that they had left Imperial Centre in its cockpit. Within half an hour he was surrounded by flimsi sheets and on-screen readouts, containing everything he needed to know about the pair.

Now that he had had the time to completely familiarise himself with Mari Dalto and Crispin Koryan's histories, he was still no nearer to locating them. His men had set up discrete but impassable checks at every starport either on an Imperial world, or small enough to be intimidated. But so far, nothing. Either Dalto was still adrift in space, or she had docked somewhere the Empire didn't yet know about. Tarkin imagined that this woman was either a superbly-skilled Rebel spy, or a fool. Either she had failed a rescue but made an impressive escape, or she had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Dalto lived alone in an unremarkable, small accommodation which had been searched comprehensively. It was found nearly empty and sparsely-decorated, lived-in but barely. Like Tarkin himself, she had been doing one job for most of her life, and was apparently dedicated to it. In her case, the job was less grand: simply flying packages and recorded-delivery letters between ports. Her employers said she was good at it, but that she was quiet almost to the point of being anti-social. Only one co-worker, Jinda Telath, had had more than a few words and shrug to give to the investigating officers. Telath had seemed to actively dislike Dalto, but her rambling reports did not extend beyond petty workplace disputes. She had been unable to offer any real insight into the suspect's life or personality, despite the strength of her opinions.

There was almost no-one to question, and Ms. Telath had actually been the most helpful lead until Commander Acys' men had located Dalto's estranged husband. John Dalto was a curious fellow, a human who lived among the Twi'leks and Iridonians of a small ethnic neighbourhood. His appearance was shabby and uncouth, and he had been somewhat resistant to questioning. Immediate imprisonment had made him more co-operative, though it had apparently taken rather more to make him talk about his marriage.

The prisoner's testimony now filled the neat pile of readouts closest to Tarkin's thin hand. This John Dalto had been an architectural consultant and sector planner in the capital, reasonably well-paid and for the most part ordinary. There were dull, repetitive records of their shared lives, none of which turned up anything useful. The marriage had lasted twelve years, after which Mister Dalto had developed his interest in the ethnics. No agreeable terms had been set out for the proposed divorce, apparently due to the wife's insisting on his infidelity as a causal factor. When pressed by the magistrate, she had refused to name the supposed third party, and eventually the whole business had been dropped. That, sadly, was as much as he knew. After a few weeks of legal complications, she had broken off all contact with her spouse.

And then, Mari Dalto had stopped making any sorts of waves at all. Not even ordinary ones, not even ripples. From that day to this, as far as her background check was concerned, she had flown her ship efficiently and speedily, delivered her parcels, and come home to her apartment. No contact with her husband or his aliens, no more trouble with the Judicial office, not even a sick day.

Considering the strange situation in which they had found her husband, and her surprise appearance at the interception mission, her story just seemed… too ordinary.

As for the co-pilot, there was a wealth of information. Thorough interviews with the boy's parents had been conducted quickly, and his tutors and classmates were being questioned today. Every one of these witnesses knew that his or her future depended on honesty, so Tarkin did not doubt the near-identical reports. Young master Koryan was well-liked and was an impressive if lazy scholar. He was repeatedly described as 'bright', 'nice' and 'talkative', and the word 'rebellious' had appeared once or twice, always highlighted by Acys' men. Tarkin had dismissed this, along with most of what he had read. This lad simply did not fit the profile of an Alliance agent, much less a double-agent. Tarkin wondered if perhaps he had been dragged along to the Rebel ship without his consent, even kidnapped. His family was influential after all, and certainly wealthy.

It mattered little. This woman would have to be found. She would slip up again. The subsequent interrogation would reveal her true past, and what had brought her to that broken ship.

If his suspicions were correct, she would tell him a lot more than that. She would tell him where she had fled to. The location of the Rebel base. If she didn't, there was still one more lead. One of them would give him what he sought.

And then perhaps Tarkin would let himself smile, in the last moment of fear, an instant before the ultimate weapon took its first shot.

.

The base was pretty small, only extending a little beyond the old Jedi enclave. Mari had to wonder where Crispin had actually gone, to avoid her so well. Now, on this strange world, she found herself feeling awfully alone. Setting off at a pace, she headed to the sleeping quarters they had been assigned, finding them empty and undisturbed. Assuming he would show up eventually, she lay back against the wall and just waited.

He was probably still exploring, poking his nose into every detail of the Rebel operations. He was considering joining them, she knew it. Crispin was an open book, and Mari could read even between the lines. He wanted to sign-up with the Alliance. He had always wanted to fly, though she hadn't often let him. And he had always wanted to make his own destiny, but his parents always quashed that easily.

The boy's life was about to change so much, and it almost seemed like he was glad of it. He was unsatisfied with the future he had to look forward to on Imperial Centre, and why shouldn't he be, really? It was a cold, grey, nasty future. Much better than most would get, but he would end up in a uniform. His exuberance and joy would be beaten and threatened out of him.

Now he saw himself in one of those orange coveralls, with a blaster hanging loosely at his side. He imagined himself robbing Imperial caravans, escaping TIE fighters in a beat-up but trusty starship, rescuing prisoners. No, he would be dreaming much bigger than that. Crispin wanted a proper hero's journey. Right now in his head, he would be leading battles, defeating the Emperor's finest guards in single combat and freeing whole planets from His rule.

Mari just saw him on the floor of a broken starship, fresh blaster holes in his chest and babbling about the Force with last breath.

And eventually, all the Rebels would end up just the same. It just wasn't going to happen. People like Crispin couldn't just leave home and become legends.

It would not be easy to convince him to leave.

Mari was all he had now, and she was going to look after him. She didn't know what the Rebel command were planning to do with them, but as soon as they were free, they were going somewhere safe. They would start again, run away from this place if they had to. They'd come up with some false names, maybe she could pose as his mother, and they'd fly as far away from the Core as they could.

It sounded pretty good to her. With her back against the hard wooden wall, she closed her eyes and waited for him to arrive.

.

Tarkin's slender right arm reached slowly for the red, circular button on his desk. He had insisted against motion-sensors or voice activation in his office. He had never been a man to indulge himself in home comforts, but he did prefer to push buttons.

Commander Acys appeared, once again, as a small hologram at the centre of the desk. Frankly, Tarkin was sick of the sight of the man.

'Yes?' he asked, expressionless as always.

'We have another message, Governor. From our… man amongst the Rebels.'

This perked the Grand Moff up a little. He felt his fingers tightening as he leaned-in a couple of inches. 'Oh?' he asked. 'What does he say this time?'

There was no need to clarify. Tarkin placed a great deal of hope in the man Acys spoke of. His identity was not known to the Empire, but Tarkin had the measure of him. Whoever he was, he was weak. The contact was a member of the Alliance, apparently one privy to sensitive information, and he knew he was on the losing side. Whatever nonsensical ideals drove and inspired the rest of the Rebellion had died inside this one. He had come to his senses, and knew his only chance to survive the Rebellion's extermination was to leave them.

The Empire had lost more than a few of its soldiers and a couple of its officers to the Alliance. None of these traitors were terribly high-profile. Tarkin's actions at the so-called Ghorman Massacre had led to the first defections, but had also earned him a promotion.

But this was the first time one of the Rebels had defected to the Empire. The early messages from the mysterious agent had immediately fascinated Tarkin. He had taken great care to conceal his identity and his voice, and had simply been establishing communication, trying to judge how he would be received. Curious, Tarkin had ordered the messages relayed to himself, and his men had encouraged the shy fellow.

With vague promises of a pardon, the agent had been convinced to earn a place in the Empire by handing over information. Of course, the man was yet to give them the location of the base, knowing that it would make him unnecessary. He was shrewd, this man. Sensible.

Eventually the agent had been persuaded to give names of Rebel sympathisers. Those who he fingered were captured, but sadly none of them had known enough. The agent was choosing his sacrifices carefully. It was he who had given Tarkin the co-ordinates of the ship they had destroyed. Once again, the prisoners had told him nothing, but these were no mere friends of the Alliance. These were Rebel officers. The agent was growing desperate.

'Rather a good message this time, sir,' said Acys. 'He says the only survivor from the ship is with him. And he names her. Mari Dalto. Well, well, eh?'

Tarkin didn't respond. This was an interesting development. Perhaps the agent was finally about to make himself useful.

'And does he offer to point her out to us?' Tarkin asked, his angular chin cupped in his fingertips.

'Even better, sir. I think he's losing patience. He says he'll deliver her personally to the Allecto, provided he will be allowed to go free and in the IT ship.'

Quite a stroke of luck. One of his leads was about to hand him the other on a plate.

'Agree,' Tarkin said simply. Tell him the Allecto is docked at Imperial Centre. He must meet us in orbit, co-ordinates Treble Zero. In exchange for this valuable service, he will be granted complete protection, and a place in the Army if he wishes.'

'I think he just wants the shuttle and his freedom,' Acys said.

'Very well, then. Tell him he can have whatever he wishes. And make it seem as though you're grudgingly accepting the offer.'

Tarkin wondered if he had overestimated the agent's intelligence. He had finally picked the right side, but he was a fool if he believed the Empire would just let him walk away. One did not make deals with absolute authority. Now he was offering to fly right into a Star Destroyer?

'Silly bugger,' Acys scoffed.

Tarkin switched off the communicator.

Two more prisoners, then.

.

Mari stood outside her ship, thinking that now it really was hers, as much as if ever would be. The neatly-stencilled registration, Shuttle I-LO, bothered her. It was an ugly name, and altogether too Imperial. On the rare occasions she spoke to the ship, whilst pulling a tricky manoeuvre or after a long trip, she would call it Shilo. It was much better suited, she thought.

Maybe she would get the name burned off and replaced. After all, now that the ship was stolen, it would be sensible to disguise it. She'd need to get the signatures changed, too. Quickly. Maybe the Rebels would help with that.

The ship had been set down and hidden in a wide, lashed-together outdoor storage building. From atmosphere it looked like a barn, but the doors were thick and locked down. Two guards were posted outside, but they had let her in without much fuss.

Crispin had still failed to show up at their assigned quarters. She had enquired after him but heard no answer. After worrying about him for a straight hour, she found herself yawning more and thinking less. It had not been a physically exhausting day, but she was dead-tired despite that. Perhaps her body was still trying to deal with the previous day. Perhaps she was just getting old.

No matter how much her body ached, she found it impossible to relax in the room. It had been a long time since she had slept well on land. The hard little bed on Shilo was the only place she felt truly comfortable now. So, eventually, she had forced herself to her feet and dragged those feet outside, to the makeshift hangar.

Just hearing the familiar rusted groan of the door seemed to lift a weight from her mind, and when she reached the cockpit she felt as if the last two days had never happened. Sitting in the pilot's seat, smiling to herself, she looked out at the hangar's rough durasteel walls and tried to kid herself they were the comforting vacuum of space. They seemed safe enough, in any case.

And these were good people. To a man, the silly Rebels were brave, kind and lovably foolish. Perhaps not to a droid, but to a man. She closed her eyes.

In her state of half-consciousness, she knew Cris would never come with her. He was here because he wanted to be, and he'd stay here. He would be happy.

But she had told herself she was going to look after him. So she'd stay, too.

She still had her ship.

There was a distant sizzle but Mari didn't pay it much attention. She was used to sleeping on a starship, so tuning-out background noise came easily to her. When it got louder, she had forgotten it completely. When it became so loud that it was, in fact, the sound of an explosion, she opened her eyes.

The sizzle had sounded a lot like thermal paste, come to think of it. The doors in front of her were blown off and twisted from the centre. Large shards of steel were still clattering and settling on the floor. She saw the body of one of the two guards, mangled and still.

A blaster barrel silently pressed into the back of her head, pushing her thin hair aside from beneath. She breathed as evenly as she could.

'Kayenn,' she said quietly.