Is this not what you wanted, Young One?

Is this not what you asked for?

Knowledge and power seldom come in the way anyone desires.

You did want power, did you not? You did ask for knowledge?

And have I not given you both?

I have, Young One, can you not feel it? I have given you both and more.

Ah, my poor, young, foolish apprentice.

Perhaps I have been unfair.

I, of anyone, should know how it feels to be disappointed, to feel betrayed. I…

No… Calayis. Yes, Calayis once thought of his masters as kind. Once thought they would nurture him, guide him with care.

He thought they would give him gifts.

Like you, my apprentice, he thought they would give him the greatest gifts. Would that Calayis could have the gifts I have given you.

The gifts of the Jedi were as ashes in a child's toy box! As rubble where once stood the grandest of cities.

They promised him everything, but what they gave was less than nothing. They only took from him.

They took away Alyana, took away his love. And they never thought to stop taking.

No, they took more.

By the end, when the fighting was over, Calayis was not able to save Kreytak. He could not save a single villager. In the end he could save only himself.

And only that, because they underestimated him. Four they set against him. Only four.

And when he had struck down those four of his peers in his rage, the only thing left for him that he could do was run.

Run, and hide.

And then, Young One...

Then they took everything. They took everything left there was to take.

* * *

"Pace."

Pace tried his best to ignore the voice.

"Pace. Pace?"

It was so incessant.

"Pace?" It repeated, unrelenting, but he didn't want to hear what it had to say. It was trying to tell him something, he knew. A secret.

"Pace? Pace?" It was getting louder.

"Pace!" The voice changed that last time. It was different, but still familiar. It was...

Then, as comprehension slowly settled over him, the world around began to fade.

"No," Pace said, groggily, still clinging to the final, disappearing thread of his dream. "I don't… don't want to know any secrets."

"That's nice," said a voice. Bee's voice, he realised. "But I didn't say anything about secrets."

He was on his ship. On the Araea. Safe. Home.

Pace had been asleep, dreaming. It was fading now, but elements lingered. He remembered an AT-ST standing over him performing surgery, and Silvier's head floating disembodied above its cockpit. He recalled a pain in his arm. Then the pain had faded away, replaced with an unsteady sense of the world around him spinning, and warping into colours he'd never seen before. Silvier's head had been trying to tell him some ominous secret, but he had wanted the youth to stop. He wanted to tell him about the incredible new colours he was seeing instead. It had all seemed so perfectly normal, all made so much sense a moment ago. He had told Silvier… something. He couldn't recall it now. His grip on the dream was loosening.

Pace gave himself a moment, letting the memories, and the corrupted logic of his dream slip away completely before he tried to answer. "I… Bee?" He said, finally.

"Yes, Pace, well done. Now, can you move? Can you get up?"

Eyes still closed, Pace lay unmoving, focussing his attention inwards. He could feel most of his body, ready to move and respond as it always had, although more stiffly, he was sure. His injured arm he could feel, if only a vague sense that it was there, and not much more. He felt a little dizzy, though, like he had been drugged.

With that thought he was able to make sense of something from the dream. The pain in his arm must have been real, and the medi-feed tubes he was connected to had likely dosed him with adaldamine to dull it. The inhibitive drug dulled his mind a little, too, and made coherent strings of thought tougher to hold and follow than normal. Pace was not fond of anything that got in the way of his thoughts, but he supposed it was preferable to the pain.

He shifted slightly on the bed, awakening itches and sores all along his back and at the base of his legs. His joints were stiff. In fact everything was stiff - his neck, his legs, his good arm, and most especially his back. He ached all over.

But he felt he could walk, if he needed to.

"I think so. If I have to," he finally responded.

"More or less, you do."

Pace allowed himself an indulgent groan. Bee pretended not to notice, or care, or perhaps genuinely didn't care, and he spoke on.

"Silvier is in your bunk, asleep. I gave you as much time to rest as I thought I could, but I didn't really want to wait any longer to wake you. I'm sorry. Can you make it to the cockpit?"

Pace was certain the droid was not at all sorry, but all he said was, "Yes, I think so. Why? What-"

He had barely begun his question when the four thick needles that that were jabbed into his body, connecting the medical tubing to his vascular system, suddenly retracted and pulled themselves out. To match the uncomfortable sensation of the needles withdrawing from his skin, the slanted tips spat a residual trace of disinfectant just below the last few layers as they left his body. A brief surge of intense heat at the last second also helped to cauterise and seal the split surface skin. It left Pace safe against infection, but the sting from both was bad enough in itself that he was forced to wonder whether it was worth the protection. He grimaced at the pain, wincing audibly, and his eyes shot wide open.

"I could have done with some warning on that one, Bee."

"If I'd warned you, you would have only complained before, as well as after it was done."

Pace looked over to his injured arm. It was floating somewhere in the small bacta-unit, the healing fluid doing whatever it could to preserve what was left of his skin, flesh and muscle from outside the limb, while providing whatever his body needed to best heal itself from the inside. He knew without testing it, from the sensations running up the top half of the arm, that he could bend the elbow if he needed to. But that was the extent of what he could feel, and something told him even that was best avoided whenever it could be.

As if reading his thoughts, Bee said, "You'll have to drag that tank around with you for a while, but for now you should probably get to the cockpit while you can. You have messages waiting for you. One is from Deckiss, and the other came from Mandor. There's something else, too…"

When Bee stopped talking, Pace lay confused for a second, processing what the droid had just said, or rather the way the droid had finished. Pace could not imagine anything that Bee needed to say that could possibly make him hesitant.

Bee had never before shown any compunction in saying what he thought. If anything, Bee often relished the opportunity to tell Pace something he knew would irritate, or upset the man. More than that, the only time he ever adopted an air of reluctance was for dramatic effect - a pause, timed perfectly between insults to provide the maximum effect; or some tantalising hint of a revelation that he knew Pace would be impatient to hear the rest of. It was always deliberate, calculated - he was, after all, a droid. But something was different this time. It seemed like Bee was actually deciding whether or not to say whatever it was he was about to say, and how he wanted to say it. Actually deciding...

"Bee?"

For a long moment, the droid said nothing. In that time, Pace forgot all of his superficial pains, as a knot of discomfort softly nestled in the pit of his stomach.

Finally, Bee spoke, "It's… something I need to talk to you about."

"Bee…"

"Just get to the cockpit, Pace. I don't know if we'll get another chance to talk alone, without the kid around."

Pace wanted to ask questions, but he knew Bee too well. He would get nothing more out of the droid until he moved. So the only thing for it was to do as the droid said.

"Pretty pushy for a 'slave-ship program', aren't you?" He said, mostly to disguise his grunts and groans as he started moving.

"Careful there, fleshling. You don't want to test me, not with that delicate body of yours. You're very… killable."

"Hey, it was your idea to tell the kid you were a slave program, not me."

"Would you rather I told him the truth?"

Pace laughed bitterly, "Well now that wouldn't end well for either of us, would it."

"I don't know, I'm resourceful. And I think the kid likes me, anyway. I'm not sure I could say the same about you. Look, just move, would you."

Slowly, gently, Pace lifted his head up. Twisting to raise his good shoulder, he propped himself up on his elbow, pausing briefly to breathe through the pain, and the grogginess.

Then he carefully lifted the tank that housed his injured arm up and out of its cable-sling, using his other hand to support it. He paused again, then limb by aching limb, he dragged himself up from the bed to stand on the cold, durasteel floor.

He looked down, hesitantly, and examined his body. It was bruised all over, mostly in patches, but especially along the left side of his ribs. He took in the single large stretch of black and purple there, and breathed deeply, remembering the moment he had been flung through the air by something powerful, back in the Tomb of the Hutts.

What had he gotten himself into, going down into that deathtrap?

He sighed, and dragged his eyes from the bruising over to his now useless arm. The weight of the tank tugged his shoulder downwards uncomfortably as he let it dangle there. It was not so heavy that he couldn't compensate, but enough that it would sap his strength a lot faster than usual. What little strength he had, that was.

Bending it at the elbow slightly, he raised the arm, pulling it up towards his chest to test it. The sensation of moving his arm was a strange one, partially for the added weight of the tank, but more so because he could not really feel the bottom half of the arm at all, other than the sense that it was there. He imagined clenching his fingers together in a fist, but if anything happened, he couldn't see it through the dark glass of the tank, and the bacta within. And if anything happened, he could not feel it.

Sighing again, and feeling a bitterness bubble softly in the base of his throat, he looked down to the rest of his body, uncovered now that he had left the thin sheet behind on the bed, aside from a small portion of synthesised cotton that covered his lower body from waist to thighs. He hoped strongly it was the medi-droid that had clothed him, knowing he would never have the courage to ask anyone about it.

The sparse hairs on his chest stood on end, as if currents of static ran through him. He stretched out his good arm, and put his palm flat on the metal wall of the Araea's tiny medi-bay, as much to steady himself as to see if the static energy would discharge. There was no spark.

Bee, anticipating Pace's next thoughts, spoke again, "Pace, in the compartment to your left, just below your head. I had Silvier leave some clothes there for you."

As Pace fumbled around in the shelves and drawers, Bee guided him, "No, to the left. Left. No, up. Yes, that one."

Pace had promised himself when he built the Araea, that he would stock the Medi-bay as soon as he could afford proper equipment, hoping to one day make the ship as self-sufficient a home as it could possibly be made into. Looking into a few of the mostly empty storage units now, however, he was reminded that he had never gotten around to it. Still, what little he had collected so far had been enough to take care of him on this occasion, Pace thought. And then again, he did not yet know how much Hiers' medical droid had done to aid his recovery. Either way, he supposed, it was not really the time to worry about it.

Following Bee's instructions, he found the clothes - some loose leather trousers he had forgotten he owned, a pair of stiff leather boots he was sure he had never even seen before, and a baggy, woolen poncho which, thankfully, slipped easily over his head and his good arm, and over the tank that encased his other. Dressing himself, with only one arm and a score of scratches and bruises that seemed to suddenly ache and itch into existence only as he bumped them, was an awkward and painful task. It was embarrassingly long before he was fully clothed and edging his way around the bed, then out the doorway into the ship's lounge. If Bee grew impatient though, he said nothing about it, for which Pace was extremely grateful. He had had enough beatings lately to last him this, and perhaps another lifetime. He didn't need any more from Bee.

Except, he thought, the droid's silence was almost worse in a way. It was unusual for Bee not to take an opportunity to mock him. That he was silent now did not bode well. What could he possibly be computing that it was taking all of the droid's attention? Or did Bee restrain himself because he was taking pity on Pace? It would be the first time ever since their initial meeting, and could herald news of only a very unpleasant, or otherwise drastic nature.

He shook his head, casting off his thoughts, and the walls around him spun from the movement. He turned and started towards the cockpit, and his body protested through various aches and clicking of joints, but Pace decided it felt good to be out of the medi-bay's uncomfortable excuse for a bed, whatever he suffered. The weight of the tank on his arm pulled even more heavily on his shoulder as he walked the distance of the passageway leading from the lounge to the cockpit. Bumping back and forth against his leg as it swayed in time to his careful shuffling, he found himself already eager to be rid of it. Healed or no, he would ask Bee and Silvier in a day or so to take it off of him, whether the ship's medi-bay equipment was enough to handle the procedure effectively or not. He wanted his arm back. Needed it back. He would have to trust his body to fix it as best it could over time, if it could at all. But for now, he just wanted the damn thing back, the cursed tank off of it.

With painful slowness, he shuffled eventually into the cockpit. No sooner had Pace stepped through the hatchway than the blast-door, which he used so infrequently that he had mostly forgotten it was even there, hissed shut behind him. He flinched at the sound, the involuntary jerk bringing a new wave of aches and pains to his attention. He swallowed. Whatever it was that Bee wanted to discuss, he was scarily anxious to be getting on with it.

"Alright, Bee. What is it? What's the emergency?"

As he spoke, Pace crossed the open cockpit space to his generously cushioned chair. He had always liked the idea of spending time in the cockpit of his own ship, despite his knowledge that he lacked any piloting skills, and when he designed the Araea, he made special efforts to construct a cockpit that was as comfortable a living space as the lounge. He had never regretted it once in the last two years and was especially grateful to himself now, slumping his aching body into the comfortable chair.

"It's not an emergency, as such…"

Bee left the statement half finished, and this time, Pace noticed with relief, it was done for dramatic effect.

Rolling his eyes he said, "Ok, so what's the… 'important thing' you have to tell me, then?"

"It's about the kid."

"Silver?"

"Yes. I thought his name was Silvier, though…"

A healthy pause hung in the air.

"Well?" Pace prompted.

"I… I think he's a Jedi."

Pace narrowed his eyes.

"And that's it?" He said.

Not that the revelation in itself had no gravity, but Pace had already suspected the youth's abilities to channel the Force himself. He had seen him, first in the Mos Eisley cantina, and again when they had first entered the Tomb of the Hutts, closing his eyes thoughtfully - too thoughtfully. It was as if he had closed his eyes to look for something, Pace had thought at the time. Looking for a memory, or feeling he had lost. Pace couldn't have been sure that the kid had been calling on the Force, not entirely, but he had only seen one other person with that same look on her face before - the one and only time he had ever met the General, Leia Organa Solo. It was the one time Pace had been invited to a war council. During the session Leia had tried to reach out to someone - her brother he recalled - through the Force. Pace remembered the way she had closed her eyes then. It was the same look of searching.

"You already knew?" Bee asked.

"I had a feeling."

That Silvier could call on the Force also would have explained how the slender youth was able to carry Pace back through the abandoned palace, too. Yes, he had had a good suspicion that Silvier was in some way able to wield the Force. But what he didn't know, he suddenly realised in his still-dulled mind, was how Bee had come to the same conclusion. Coherent thought was challenging, and Pace wished that Bee would just come out and say what he was trying to say.

"How do you know?" He asked the droid. "Did he do something here? On my ship?"

"Our ship," Bee reminded Pace, "And no. Look, he might not actually be a Jedi. But I don't think he's a Sith. I just know he is attuned to the Force, somehow."

Pace's apprehension deepened, "Bee, what do you mean, you 'just know'? Did you see him back in the workshop, did he do something there?"

A laboured silence dragged out in the cockpit.

"No. I didn't."

Pace closed his eyes, and for a moment he wished himself back to the medi-bay, where he could float in a drug induced sleep, full of peace, and whimsical, but simple dreams.

"Pace," Bee continued, "Do you remember what I told you the first time you activated me? What we talked about?"

"You mean after you tried to shoot me? Yes, I remember. What about-"

Pace stopped mid sentence as a semblance of understanding dawned.

"Wait. Do you mean…" Pace trailed off again, and sat up in the chair, ignoring the pain that shot through his body. He did not, could not, accept it. "Bee, that's impossible."

"Yes, I suppose it was, until now. Except I don't know how else to explain it. Pace, I think I can feel his connection to the Force. I don't know. I can feel something, at least. I don't know how to explain it so you can understand. It's as if, with the kid inside, the ship feels… I don't know… Heavier. No, that's not it. It's like, if you can imagine, how a mother feels with her infant inside her."

"Pregnant, you mean? You feel pregnant?"

As he said it, Pace laughed out loud. It sounded even more ridiculous aloud than it had seemed in thought.

"Anytime you decide you don't want to be an idiot," Bee said in response, "I'm happy to try and explain it to you."

"If you haven't figured out how to do that by now, I doubt you can," Pace said, still laughing. He felt mildly hysteric, and realised it was probably another effect of the drugs. He tried to rein his laughter in and offer something of an apology, "Sorry, Bee. It's not that I don't believe you. But what you're saying is crazy. Actually, I still don't even think I know what you're saying."

"Whatever else I am, Pace, I am still a droid," Bee replied, "And for now, I do still have limitations. For instance, my imagination. Normally, I can create a solution for almost any problem, and in the time you take to blink, by applying limitless variations of logic, data calculation, predictive models, and whatever the resources are at hand. What I am trying to do right now, however, is explain an unprecedented phenomenon using very little other than variations, and projections, based on all my existing knowledge and experience. In terms you can relate to and understand. I am trying to learn, Pace. I am trying to be creative."

Pace nodded, "Fair enough. I'm sorry."

He took a deep breath. The drugs were already wearing off, and he could feel the pain of his injuries rising again. His lungs weren't up to much work yet, and he noticed for the first time that it hurt just to breathe. He was more than likely nursing a few cracked ribs. His encased arm sunk heavily into the arm of the chair, and the effort of balancing it, so that it didn't fall off the side one way or the other, was draining what little reserves Pace had remaining. He needed time. Time to rest, time to recover.

Time to consider what Bee was trying to tell him.

"Pace," Bee said, his voice suddenly different, "I think Silvier is stirring. You'd better see the messages while you can, and we'll talk about it afterward."

"Are you sure?" Pace asked. It didn't seem like something Bee was at all happy to put off.

"I don't even know how to explain it properly yet, anyway. Yes, it's fine. Just… just be careful with the kid from now on. I don't think he's dangerous, but that doesn't mean he won't cause trouble."

Pace nodded again, and turned to the holopad. As soon as he did, a blue-tinged, reptilian face appeared within the plastoglass viewscreen. Pace wasn't familiar enough with the Enguihans to know for sure, but he thought he recognised Captain Cordassa.

"Pacccce Averssss," The face hissed out from the screen, confirming Pace's assumption. Cordassa was the only one of the natives on Mandor who had learned Pace's real name while he was there. Everyone else who had heard it back in the temple was almost certainly dead.

Cordassa's message continued, "We are in great need of your assistancccccce. You must return and help ussss to reclaim our home again. You ssstruck a mighty blow, and our people praise the name Avelion to the ssskies. The temple is now a shhrine to honour your great gift of our freedom."

Pace frowned. He had had no intention of becoming an idol for the people of Enguirrlar when he had accepted the job to kill Revitsh. He had only decided, after researching the man's operation, that he could not in good conscience leave the people of Enguirrlar to a worse fate than they were already suffering under the man's occupation. He could not say now if he regretted the choice or not. It would not have been right to leave them under Gajo's rule, but if he had done so, Deckiss would have been paid, and Pace might not be in the mess he was in now.

Either way, he had no intention of going back to rescue them again, whatever their troubles.

Caught in his train of thought, Pace abruptly realised that Cordassa's message was still playing, and he had missed a portion of it. He did not bother asking Bee to skip back so he could catch up, though.

"... and even now they push usss back, until we are left defending our very homes and livessstock," the Captain was saying.

"Bee, skip ahead to the message from Deckiss."

"Annnnnnd, Pace, they ask for you. They asssk for you by your-"

Before Cordassa could finish what he was saying, he disappeared from the screen, cutting the audio off at the same time. For a second, Pace considered asking Bee to play that last bit again, but before he could, Deckiss appeared where Cordassa had been.

"Pace," the visage said, and his normally low, rhythmic voice sounded pressed, almost conflicted, "We could have trouble. I was contacted about a job. He asked for Byler specifically, by name. He wouldn't tell me what the job was, just wanted Byler. I have a feeling about it, though, that I don't like. And I have a tracking device on his ship."

Almost as if the recorded image of Deckiss could sense the dark glare that came across Pace's features, the man quickly explained, "Don't worry, I haven't done the same to your ship. Byler works for me because he's good at what he does, but I don't trust him. He'd skin his own mother if he thought it would bring him in a big enough payment. Anyway, I just pulled the coordinates from where his ship has been, and-"

The image froze, then vanished, the message unfinished. Pace looked around the cockpit, about to ask Bee what had happened, and hoping that wasn't the end of the message, when the door slid open. Silvier stepped through the doorway, rubbing his left eye, and looking around the room to see Pace as he swung to face him in the chair. The youth wore the same, poorly sized and simple clothes as he had the previous day, and Pace wondered if he owned any others.

"Pace," Silvier said excitedly through a stifled yawn, "You're up. Did Bee show you what we found?"

"What you found?" Pace raised an eyebrow.

"It's not much, but Bee told me where to load the Data disk. It's corrupted, he said-"

"Not quite, Silver," Bee interrupted, "I said it's encrypted."

Silvier frowned and sagged his shoulders, reminding Pace of a more young, and petulant child. "It's Silvier," he said.

"I know," Bee replied, "But then Pace called you Silver, and I think he's on to something, it sounds better."

Pace had to work to hold back a smile.

"Whatever," Silvier dismissed the droid, "So, we couldn't get much information off of the disk, but it looks like Hiers had someone work on it, already. We got a name, Pace."

"For the ship?" Pace asked.

Silvier nodded.

Pace leaned back in his chair, wondering if he should have been happier than he was at the news.

"That's great, bud."

Silvier didn't seem to notice Pace's lack of enthusiasm, or he might have assumed Pace was simply subdued with drugs, or weak and tired from his ordeals. In truth, he was both, and he was happy for Silvier to accept that as the reason for his lacklustre reply.

"It's called the Anaxagoras."

"Huh," Pace said. He scratched at the surface of his recollection, feeling the name was familiar somehow.

Bee supplied him with the memory he could not summon, "Anaxagoras the Hutt. He ran the Ignus Crew. He was the first Hutt to take up residence again in Jabba's palace, after everyone else fought and died over it."

Yes, it came back to Pace, Anaxagoras the Hutt. Much like his predecessor, he was feared by any sensible smuggler, bounty hunter, and anyone else he chose to do business with, as well as many of those he did not. And, like his predecessor, he had just as much an appetite for the exotic and macabre. Pace had heard on more than one occasion that he was even more cunning and ruthless than Jabba, and had been quick to establish roots in places where Jabba's own had withered and died along with him, even acquiring large portions of his assets outright, immediately after Jabba's death.

Pace had had a full plate worth of work just to avoid accidentally dealing with Anaxagoras' and his associates, back when he was on Tatooine years ago, so widespread was the Hutt's grasp. Had he and his crew not disappeared, Anaxagoras was expected to have gathered enough influence on Tatooine to build a criminal empire that would have one day overshadowed Jabba's own, within only a few years.

Pace wondered what kind of ship the Hutt had felt was worthy of branding it with his own name. And more mysterious was what Silvier's brother had to do with it.

"He named a ship after himself?" He asked.

"Apparently," Silvier replied.

"So what has your brother got to do with this ship, then?" Pace was surprised when his voice came out sharp, and he looked at Silvier, whose eyes dropped to look at the floor. He hadn't meant to snap, but he was tired and in pain, and growing more tired still, having to work to get answers out of people. His frustration had come out in his voice unbidden.

The more he thought about it, the more Pace was starting to feel like he'd been blindsided by every one thing that happened after another in the past few days. His lack of control at every step was grating badly on his ego. He didn't much like the idea of Silvier and Bee conspiring while he was convalescing in the medi-bay. He did not at all like being in the dark on his own ship, in his own home.

"And weren't you going to tell me how you got the disk?" He continued, still a little more harshly than he really intended. "For that matter, how did we end up at Hiers' base at all? How did we get away from that damned woman who shot me? How did we get away from the Tomb?"

Silvier looked up and met his gaze.

"I told you, Silver. I need to trust you. Or you can't stay on my ship."

"Alright, alright," Silvier said, bringing his hands up in front of his chest. He looked at Pace a second longer, looking besieged, before dropping them again. He cast his eyes around the room, probably looking for another chair, and when he didn't find one, he sighed and began explaining.

"After the walker blew, as you know," he nodded towards Pace's arm nervously, "The woman shot you. She died and we-"

"Wait, wait," Pace stopped him short, "She died? What, just there? For no reason?"

Silvier shuffled from one foot to the other. "Pace, I'll tell you everything I can, I promise. But I can't tell you about that right now. I just can't. Please, I need you to trust me, too."

"I don't know, Silver. It seems like a pretty important detail."

"Please," Silvier pleaded again.

Pace stared at him hard, considering, feeling only a small measure of remorse for being so hard on the kid a second ago.

Holding Silvier's gaze steady, he said, "Tell me everything else, and I'll decide if I need to know it or not."

"Thank you." Silvier seemed to visibly relax then, which made the skin on Pace's good arm prickle. He felt even more concerned about whatever it was Silvier was leaving out. But he kept silent, and let the youth continue anyway.

"So then I dragged you as far as I could, before Hiers and his men came around from the other side of the Palace with a speeder and two speeder bikes. They didn't know where the bikes came from - they thought we had brought them, and I had no idea myself, until we found Repp's workshop and she asked where they had gone. When they asked about the explosion, and the wrecked AT-ST and speeder scraps everywhere, I told them what you said, that it was someone working for Lurderkrit. I told the men that they ambushed us. They didn't believe me at first, when I told them I had no idea what you did to the speeder and the walker. But Hiers said it didn't matter. He said that if you really were an enemy of Lurderkrit, that you were not an enemy of the Rebellion."

Pace snorted, throwing Silvier off balance for a moment.

"Sorry," he said, and not bothering to explain followed with, "Go on."

"Ok," Silvier said, hesitantly. "So… so then I loaded you onto one of the speeder bikes with me, and one of Hiers' men took the other, and I followed behind him while he led me back to their outpost. Hiers and the others followed behind on dewbacks..."

Silvier hesitated for a second, looking unsure. "You know," he said, encouragingly, "Dewbacks. The big, stinky things with-"

"Yes. I know," Pace cut him off, rubbing his forehead impatiently. Only a few days ago, Silvier had seemed wise and mature beyond his years, jaded even. His eyes shone with torments no child should suffer. The more time Pace spent with him though, the more he spoke and acted like the youth he was, doing his best to please an uninterested mentor, and win his attention. Pace was learning not to do or say anything that might encourage Silvier. He had no intention whatsoever of taking Silvier, or anyone for that matter, under his wing.

And a few days ago you had no intention of ever letting anyone else aboard your ship, he chided himself.

"Right," Silvier continued, "Well, they were riding some of those, and they got there a few hours after us. But I had the medical droid there look at you straight away. The outpost…"

Silvier shrugged, as if in apology for what he was about to say, "It wasn't a very big set up. It's just there to keep an eye on things on the planet, and keep an eye out for friends of the Rebellion who still live there, or who visit. Hiers said they feed any information they find that they think might be useful back to the Rebellion sometimes, too, but they hadn't had much contact for a while. They're undermanned, and under-equipped, by the look of the base. Even the droid who patched you up needed repairs pretty badly, I think. Hiers said the unit was a remnant of the old Rebellion. 'Back when the New Republic had as much resources as it did good intentions', he said. They felt they'd struck a blow when they brought down Jabba's enterprise, and they wanted people to think they weren't just going to abandon any planet they visited, after every campaign or mission, to let the natives clean up whatever mess they left.

"Anyway, while I waited for you to recover, Hiers asked me why we had gone to the Tomb, and I eventually told him I was looking for some of the Ignus Crew's ship manufacturing and travel records. It turns out, during their operations here, one of Hiers' contacts lived in the palace and made a living by monitoring the activities of whoever was running the place at any time, and selling information on. He stole the disk for Hiers, amongst other things, and replaced it with a fake. They were holding onto it to give to the rebellion, but they've also had to start finding other ways to make money, to keep themselves running. So they've been holding onto this sort of thing for a while, in the hopes of selling on anything they decided wasn't worth the Rebellion's attention."

"So what, he just gave the disk to you?" Pace asked doubtfully.

Silvier looked across the cockpit and pursed his lips as he met Pace's eyes.

"Not exactly…"

"Silver?" Pace prompted impatiently.

"I bought it from him."

"And?"

"I had to use some of the money that I promised to Deckiss."

Pace swore, and let his eyes drift towards the ceiling. He let them rest there for a moment, examining the metalwork as if for the first time. Following the bumps, and ridges, and pipes, as if he hadn't pored his eyes and hands over it a thousand times before already. Eventually, he looked back at Silvier.

"How much?" He asked.

"Only a bit, not much. Less than a tenth. It's the only money I have left."

Without taking his eyes from the kid, Pace shook his head, then pointed a finger at him. Through his teeth, he said, "I'll get in as much trouble as you do when Deckiss finds out, you know? And he'll take that out of my cut."

"I know, I'm sorry. But what else was I supposed to do? We had nothing else to show from it all."

Pace swore again, softer this time, and dropped his accusing finger. The kid was right. Without the disk, they'd be at a dead end, with even less chance of being able to ever find the ship. Silvier must have offered Deckiss everything he had made from selling the stolen ship, if he was that short on credits. He really was desperate to find his brother.

Pace had no reason to assume Silvier wouldn't disappear with the rest of the money, if he thought Pace was going to give up on the search. And then Pace would have nothing to show for his visit to Tatooine, other than one less arm.

It wasn't ideal, but Pace wasn't capable of doing much else for money right now, so he was not in a strong bargaining position himself.

And if nothing else, whether or not Pace liked to admit it, and whatever the motivation, Silvier had saved his life back on the planet.

Pace let out a half hearted grunt. "One day, you're going to have to pay me that money back, bud. You hear me?"

Silvier nodded, looking abashed.

Pace shook his head and gave the youth one last frown, before turning to look thoughtfully out of the viewport. There, he watched the jagged-edged horizon of an unnamed asteroid spinning slowly against the backdrop of stars.

A day and a half's travel from Tatooine, they were floating in a distant orbit around one of the larger rocks, in a mostly uncharted asteroid field. Away from any well-travelled space, and away from people.

Away from trouble.

Pace sighed. "Well we're probably going to need more than just the name, but I'll send it to some of my contacts to see what they can dig up, anyway. Our best bet, though, is to get as much information from that disk as we can."

He turned back to Silvier. The young man still looked somewhat chastened, but Pace could see the glint of hope in his eyes.

"For that," Pace carried on, "We'll need a good slicer. And lucky for you, I happen to know one of the best."

"Thank you," Silvier said.

The sincerity in the youth's voice touched Pace, which brought a sour taste to his tongue.

"Yeah," Pace replied, in as absent a tone as he could muster, then swung back to the ship's control panel and began flicking switches, "Don't mention it. In fact, I'll tell you what. When we get going, if you're really grateful, you can tell me everything. Tell me what that mess you got us into back there was really all for. From the beginning. Starting with your brother."

He turned his head to see Silvier nod once.

"And Silver…"

The young man arched his eyebrows in silent question.

Pace swallowed down the sourness before saying the words, "Thanks for saving my life back there."

As soon as he had said it, he turned back to the controls, before Silvier could respond, and punched the gear to release the ship's thrusters from their orbital correction patterns. He could have let Bee do that for him, but he needed an excuse to turn from Silvier, and while the kid was on board, he didn't want to let Bee take care of all the flying like he normally would. He didn't want Silvier thinking he was redundant to the flight of the Araea.

"Alright then, Bee," he said, steering the conversation, while pretending to steer the ship, "Plot a jump course for Mak'Leth."

"I had the course plotted hours ago," Bee sighed, as they peeled away from the asteroid field. If the droid had eyes, Pace was sure, he would have rolled them.