Chapter 28: Brave New World

The man once known as Deadeye Duncan listened with a sense of morbid fascination to the debate of his two companions over who was the worst duelist ever to grace the Tarisian dueling scene. Neither one of them recognized him. He looked nothing like his old self, of course—weeks of hard living had taken their toll. His face was gaunt and haggard, with a scraggly and unkempt beard and heavy bags beneath his eyes. Still, it was surreal to listen to them debate the merits of his technique, or lack thereof. And the circumstances, as they huddled on the alarmingly slanted roof of one of the few still-standing skyscrapers while off-shift from guarding the lower perimeter, didn't help much in that regard. They were filthy, exhausted, and pretty near starving, but they were still here.

Duncan looked out in the cool morning light at the handful of other towertops, their lit-up pockets of civilization shining like islands floating in the morning mist. There'd been six of them within sight when he'd made it up here nearly three weeks ago. One of them had gone dark almost immediately, swarmed under by rakghouls. They'd sat there and watched, numb, as the survivors were slaughtered just a dozen or two meters away, separated by an insurpassable gulf. They'd listened as what remained of them cried, groaned, and sobbed while the poison slowly, painfully transformed them.

Nine days ago some sort of fight had broken out two towers over—from what he could make out, it was people fighting to try to get in, not rakghouls, that had finished them. And four days ago, the furthest tower they could see had simply collapsed. They could just barely make out their final screams of terror, and then they were gone.

But, somehow, life went on. Most of the time nobody was dying, and the hours slowly drug on. So they distracted themselves, distracted each other, with little games, daydreams, and meaningless debates. And each of them gave their profound thanks to the remains of the Hidden Beks that guarded the barricaded entrances, that rationed out fairly the food they'd raided from the highest level apartments, and helped them all hang on to their humanity.

And they were, almost entirely, human. Most of the aliens had been trapped behind innumerable locked doors far below as the lower levels sank into chaos and death beneath the ever-climbing waves of rakghouls.

"I'm telling you, Gimped Gilbert could have taken Deadeye. He was actually pretty good with a blade, and even he could limp his way over to Deadeye before the guy could burn through his energy shield. He was a joke!"

"He wouldn't have to be accurate, all he'd have to do is walk in the other direction, hell, walk in circles even, and he could take all day to blaze away at him. And besides, he . . . hey, did you hear that?"

Duncan looked up quickly. That wasn't the regular, if nerve-shredding, groan of strained ceramacrete, it was too high-pitched. It was . . . turbines? And there, swooping down through the clouds like salvation itself, was a Republic relief shuttle. A shuttle! The survivors stood and cheered, waving madly at the slowly circling shuttle while the tears flowed freely.

Two more quickly joined them and settled gently on the battered rooftop.

The ex-duelist grabbed his meager possessions and joined the small crowd scrambling over to them. He managed to slide his way through the crowd and grabbed the gloved hand of a flight-suited assistant that hauled him up into the shuttle. He moved quickly to clear the entryway and let others pile on behind him with a sigh of relief. He sat back on a hard plastic seat and closed his eyes, relaxed for the first time in weeks. It had lasted for all of ten seconds, when the sounds of a dispute, a heated dispute, rose over the crowd.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I must insist. It's totally against protocol to allow weapons aboard Republic Relief shuttles! If we broke that, we'd lose our immunity and couldn't move freely into combat zones."

"And what do you want us to do with them, throw them over the side? We can't do that! This is our livelihood we're talking about here!"

The relief force's CO gave the man a frank stare. "Are you telling me you're criminals? There's a policy about—"

"Damn your policies, we don't have time for this."

"Are you threatening me?"

"No, I'm not threatening you, are you even listening to me?"

It occurred to Duncan that there were a lot more armed Tarisians then there were unarmed rescue workers. In fact, there were a lot more of them . . . was there anybody still at manning barricades? And between the shuttles and all the movement they were making a lot of noise. He reached through the cramped confines of close-packed humanity and tapped the pilot on the shoulder. "Hey, we're full. Let's get out of here."

The pilot half-turned to look at him over his shoulder, hesitating. "I can't lift without permission."

Duncan's eyes hardened. "This tower could collapse at any moment. Each second we wait is a risk to all our lives. Trust me, we need to go. Now."

The man hesitated another second, taking in the absolute certainty in his eyes and tone, then nodded and reached for the repulsorlift controls. They rumbled to life, drowning out the argument that had turned into an all-out shouting match. Others were moving in on both sides to back up their leaders.

The shuttle lifted and turned, taking the rooftop out of the viewport's view, but Duncan could make out a sudden surge of shouting even over the noise, and then blasterfire. Then the main thrusters kicked in with a roar and they were gone.

He wasn't sure if it was a riot, or if all the noise had drawn up the rakghouls, and in the end, it didn't really matter. They were dead, and he was not. He had to keep moving, keep flowing downhill. This part of his journey was through, but the next step was just beginning.


"And in other news, Republic relief shuttles landed on Taris today, successfully rescuing survivors of the Sith atrocity there. Evacuees are being cared for in the neighboring Jebble system. And now, back to the studio for traffic and weather together with Jilepski Sartowski. Jill?"

"Thanks Karen. We're looking at clear skies and beautiful weather for all you beach goers this weekend, so break out your sunscreen and—"

"Hey, the game's on! Bartender, come on!"

The Bith nodded and tapped on the control unit behind the bar and the big viewscreen switched over to a field covered in complicated markings. About half the bar's patrons beamed and turned their attention to the game. One of them brushed up against a heavily armored shoulder. The blast helmet tuned to glance at him and he backed away hastily. "Sorry, sir, so sorry!"

The woman known these days as Calo Nord suppressed a sigh and turned back to the man sitting across from her and leaned in slightly, keeping her voice low. "You can't bring me in. My . . . reputation is clear. I don't associate much with the Republic, and if word gets out, I'll have a lot of people looking very closely at me. And lots of those would be eyes of this planets current . . . benefactors. And don't tell me HQ will keep it quiet—word will get out. It always gets out."

The undercover Republic intelligence officer toyed casually with his pen, which doubled as a highly sophisticated counter-surveillance device, to hide the strain he had to be under leading the Republic's efforts here on Axxila. "Well, you don't want to give me a report, and you don't want to come in to pass it up the line in person. That leaves me in a hell of a spot. Our mutual friends are pretty . . . anxious to hear what happened down there. So, what do you propose?"

"Forget Taris. My report relates to something far, far more important than that."

The spook looked at her skeptically. "Something obviously happened there, and instead of telling us you dangle some new distraction? I find that . . . hard to believe." His tone remained the same calm, reasonable one, but his eyes grew hard. "Need I remind you that playing us isn't a good idea? We know who you are. We know what you've done, where your bodies are buried. There are still those that think turning you was a bad idea. An unreliable asset, they said. You hear me? They want to cut you loose, and you know exactly what that means. Don't give them an excuse by pulling a stupid stunt like this. Give them what they want."

Selven didn't budge. "You think I'm bluffing? Call me on it. Set up a secure line to the top and let them decide if I made the right call." She stared down the man whose name she still didn't know.

He looked away first, grunting in irritation at the polarized lenses of her helmet that gave her an advantage. "So I can go down with you?" He pushed the salad around his plate in silence for a long minute. Finally he shrugged. "It's a serious risk, and there will be a lot of moving parts. I can't make any promises."

"I'm here following up a lead on the girl for Malak, but it's so threadbare I could barely justify coming out here at all, and I know I'm being watched. You have 48 hours to set it up."

She stood and stalked away from the table, a predator moving through prey. The spy waited another two minutes, then rose himself, eyes carefully noting the members of the crowd that noticed his movement. Then he walked calmly out of the bar, whistling tunelessly while he considered the best way to lose his new tails.


And so they were off! And, like a lot of things that sound adventurous and exciting, the reality was underwhelming. They piled on the ship, Carth put them in a standard flight plan, and they smoothly made their way into space, where they leisurely made the jump to hyperspace. And that was that. Tatooine was pretty close to on the opposite side of the galaxy from Dantooine, a two week trip if they were lucky. Kashyyyk was closer, but it was also right on the border Sith space, and frankly had probably been conquered by them in the time they'd been ensconced in the Jedi Academy.

All of which meant that they had time, lots of time, to fill while all mashed together in the confines of the Ebon Hawk. They went about it in different ways.

Bastila cleared out a section of the cargo hold and meditated with Juhani. Carth haunted the cockpit and stripped down and worked on his blaster pistols. Mission got caught up on some of the holovids she'd pirated and hung out with Canderous. For his part, Canderous held an open challenge to anyone on the Dejarik board, and when he wasn't clobbering someone at the game he was in the garage working on the swoop bike. And Zaalbar did . . . whatever it was that Zaalbar did. As best Kyrena could tell, it involved lots of eating and lots of sleeping.


Bastila sat gracefully, legs folded beneath her, the picture of serenity. Unfortunately, that serenity only went so deep. Despite all the excitement, all the stress, all of everything, she was bored. No, bored wasn't quite the right word for it. It was more like . . . restless. Most of her time for the last year or so had been spent on the front lines. Not at the front of the front lines, of course, but nonetheless she had been out fighting, out doing something. She'd been grateful for the break on Dantooine, for the feeling of rejuvenation she'd had, but now she was back outside, and she felt the need to do something.

Well, she had responsibilities. She was supposed to be training Kyrena. Their relationship wasn't exactly a normal Master-Padawan relationship, but it was still her responsibility. On the other hand, she was a little wary of facing down Kyrena with a lightsaber.

Nonsense, Bastila. You've done it a dozen times on Dantooine when she was learning. How is this any different?

It wasn't—except that there were no Masters to supervise. It shouldn't matter. After all, she was supposed to be the Master now. But it did.

Don't be silly. This is your responsibility. She opened her eyes, nodded to herself, and climbed to her feet.


Bastila poked her head around the corner of the dormitory. "Kyrena, are you free for a bit?"

Kyrena put down the datapad she'd been reading the news on and looked up from her bunk. "Sure. At the moment, I've got nothing but time. What's up?"

"We need to . . . I mean, would you be willing to practice sparring with me?"

Kyrena hid a smile, but it was a wasted effort. Her fellow Jedi could feel her amusement and appreciation of her effort to treat her like a partner and not just a subordinate. The woman had promised she would, and she was as good as her word. "Sure. Let's give it a shot." She scooped up her lightsaber and followed Bastila to the cargo hold.

The new Knight had marked out a ring for them and carefully turned down the power of her lightsaber, while Kyrena did the same. "I think I'll start with a single blade, if that's alright with you?"

Kyrena nodded and took a guard stance, igniting her own blue blade. They started slowly, warming up, each strike telegraphed. Then, gradually, they picked up the speed. It came quickly to Kyrena, getting back into the groove of stroke and counter-stroke. They worked at it for a few more minutes, then Bastila broke contact and activated the second blade of her double-bladed saber.

They fought for a few more minutes, feeling the good burn of controlled exercise. They were so focused, in fact, that they didn't realize they'd attracted an audience. They became abruptly aware of it when Bastila landed a snap-kick on Kyrena's shoulder, sending her into an awkward reverse roll, and Mission burst into applause. They both turned to see Mission, Canderous, and Juhani watching them. Their reactions to their little display were varied. Mission looked impressed. Canderous watched them with the intense focus of a professional measuring a combatant. And Juhani looked serene, though beneath it she was feeling . . . something, though Kyrena couldn't quite tell what it was. It was a little jarring not to be able to read her accurately, but she didn't have a bond with her like she did with Bastila.

She stepped forward. "May I join you?"

Bastila eyed her intensely for a moment, then nodded. The cathar ignited her own lightsaber, double checking it to ensure it was turned down to practice settings, then stepped over to join Kyrena. They nodded to each other, then turned and attacked as one.

Fighting two competent opponents at once is almost impossible. Most training aimed at such circumstances is focused on ways of getting out of it by finding ways to deal with them one at a time, or even better, finding a way to escape. It's simply too difficult, too risky, to see, recognize, and react to so many threats at once. That equation changes with the Force. You don't have to see every threat, you simply have to follow the guidance of the Force in dealing with those threats. Which was why Bastila was able to weather their storm, her saber staff twirling rapidly in a blur of yellow to fend off their relentless attacks. After two intense minutes they broke apart again, breathing heavily.

Then Juhani produced a second practice blade and took up a guard position. Kyrena and Bastila glanced at each other, then launched their own attack.

Kyrena had to admit it—she was impressed. Bastila's defense probably looked impressive enough to the uninformed eye, but it truly was a practice match. Her entire attention had been entirely consumed in the defense, leaving no space or time for attack. If it had been a real fight, that was suicide. Her attackers would simply keep hammering away at her until her defense crumbled, through a mistake or simple exhaustion, it didn't really matter, and that would be that.

Fighting against Juhani was different. Most of her focus was on the defense, but she found, or made, openings to attack. They weren't very many, and they weren't particularly dangerous, but Bastila and Kyrena were forced to pay attention to their own defenses, limiting their ability to come after the cathar. She was still mostly on the defense, of course, still reacting rather than dictating the terms of the engagement, but there was a huge qualitative difference between what Bastila had done, and what Juhani could do.

There wasn't much space for conscious thought in the midst of a practice duel, but the back of Kyrena's mind churned over it in concern. Juhani, as she was now, was better than Kyrena, beyond any doubt. It wasn't that much a surprise, considering she had more practice than Kyrena, and she was a Guardian that focused mostly on combat to boot, but it was more than that. The Juhani before her now would have demolished the Juhani she had faced in the grove on Dantooine. In fact, one on one, she could almost certainly take Kyrena here and now. What had changed? She'd been using the Dark Side then, but everyone kept going on about how the temptation of the Dark Side was power. Yet it had made the cathar weaker, not stronger: she had been unfocused, uncertain, even distracted.

Juhani broke apart and called for another rest. Kyrena mulled over the issue as she caught her breath. Did it take long-term exposure to the Dark Side to grant the power everyone talked about? But when the Dark One fought with her, or through her, or whatever it did, she got stronger, not weaker. More violent and frightening, yes, but also more focused, more determined, not the distracted emotional wreck that Juhani had been.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Juhani tossed her practice blade to Kyrena. And then theyw were on her. Kyrena retreated steadily, trying to stabilize her defense. Energy crackled as their blades clashed, then flew apart, only to clash again. She was panting now, trying to keep a growing sense of panic under control. They were just so fast; it felt like their lightsabers were everywhere, closing in . . .

Surrounded. Outnumbered.

The vision flashed before her eyes for a moment, Bastila on the bridge of a capital ship before her.

No, these are friends. This is practice.

She paid for her slip in attention with a sizzling burn to her shoulder from Juhani's blue lightsaber. The Dark One surged, struggling for control.

Bastila felt something angry and violent surge within Kyrena as she took the hit. Her face tightened into a snarl and she tensed to lunge, but just as quickly as it came it was gone, leaving Bastila . . . concerned. What was that? Kyrena backed off, conceding defeat, but she felt the equally deep concern running through Kyrena. Well, if she didn't know either, then at least whatever it was hadn't been intentional . . . right?

She wasn't sure if that made her feel better or worse. Bastila sighed and extinguished her blade. Yet another concern she had no idea what she should do about. She sat down and joined the other two in stretching, and all three of them were lost in their thoughts.

Kyrena quietly snuck into the co-pilot's seat and leaned back, hands clasping behind her head, with a sigh of relief.

"Escaping from one of Bastila's meditation sessions, I take it?"

Kyrena jumped, her eyes darting over to the pilot's seat. It was empty, but only until Carth slid out from beneath the primary control console where he'd been working on something.

"No," she said, just a little too quickly.

Carth grinned. "Hey, I won't tell her if you won't."

Kyrena eyed him fiercely for a moment, then nodded. "Deal."

Carth shook his head fondly and leaned back as well, putting his boots up on the console. They sat that way in companionable silence for a long minute. Then Carth spoke up, his voice almost whimsical, but Kyrena could sense the seriousness behind them. "Well, I suppose we're off on another adventure."

"I suppose." She grimaced. "We can only hope this one ends a little better than the last one."

He nodded. "True enough. On the other hand, we did all get out alive, and that has to count for something. I'm not as optimistic about our chances this time around."

She couldn't fault him for that. She felt pretty much the same way. Especially considering that she was supposed to be half in charge of this mission with Bastila, and neither of them were exactly what she'd call qualified to lead this little expedition. Still, she couldn't just let him stew with that kind of mindset. Fatalism might not be the worst mindset for a soldier, but it certainly wasn't the best, even if it was a bit inevitable in extended wars.

"Hey, at least we're not up against Revan, right? From everything I hear, she was even worse than he is."

Carth shrugged. "No, not really. Oh, she was smarter than he is, sure, but she was never as bloodthirsty. If we put up a strong enough defense, she would back away, figure out a way around, or pressure us somewhere else to force us to redeploy or defenses. Malak just comes straight at us. He doesn't care how many people die on either side. Revan at least had objectives, had ways to work against her, to guess how she'd respond. Against Malak, there is no strategy. He just comes at you with everything he's got until one side wins. I guess that's it's own kind of strategy, if you have enough more ships and soldiers than the other side does. And it's just about crushed our morale. Our people are going out knowing they're all going to die, at least everywhere where Bastila isn't. That's why she's so important, you know; not so much for making us fight better, but because she gives people the hope that they might actually get out of it alive at all."

Kyrena's eyes narrowed. She hadn't realized the morale situation was quite that bad. If that was true (and Carth had been on the front lines a lot more, and a lot more recently, than she had, not even taking into account her hazy memories), then their mission was even more important than she'd thought—the Republic desperately needed some sort of victory just to give the men some hope.

"Well, it is what it is. And at least we're in a position to do something about it, unlike so many of those people grinding it out on the front lines."

Carth considered for a moment, then nodded. "That's true enough. Still, I feel bad about the guys I left behind out there. I know what we're doing is important it's just . . . hard to see that sometimes whenever I get word that one of the guys died and I wasn't there to watch his back. I'm fighting for them, but I'm not fighting with them." He glanced over at her and gave her a lopsided, rueful grin. "And I haven't been great at keeping that frustration to myself."

"Do you regret that? Leaving them for this mission, I mean?"

Carth looked up at the bulkhead above them, heavy-laden with control panels, and his eyes traced the complicated patterns of control runs and power cables behind those panels that lay exposed where he'd pulled off the coverings to make repairs. "Aside from being an ass about it? No, not really. Not about this, anyways. I can only hope that . . ." He let his voice trail off and grimaced.

Kyrena sat up on an elbow and looked at him. "Hope what?"

Carth glanced at her, then sighed. "I can only hope I get another shot at Saul."

"Saul . . . you mean Saul Karath? Malak's flag captain?"

"He's more than that. He's their best admiral, and one of the main reasons we've had such a hard time with Malak—he's good enough to turn Malak's bloody-mindedness into an effective strategy, grinding us away planet by planet, system by system."

Kyrena eyed him critically, both with her eyes and her burgeoning Force abilities. "There's more to it than that."

Carth nodded, his eyes hard with constrained rage, but he didn't clam up again as Kyrena was half afraid he might. "Admiral Karath was a legend in the Republic Fleet. He taught me everything I know about being a soldier, and he was a hero to me. And then he betrayed me, betrayed the Republic. Before Revan and Malak turned on us, before all of this, Saul approached me. He talked to me about how the Republic was rotten, how changes needed to be made . . . and about how I should start thinking of my survival."

He sighed and stared out into the vastness of space, and Kyrena could feel the regret oozing off of him. "I know now that he was trying to recruit me into the Sith, but I couldn't see it back then. I argued with him and he got angry and he left. I never saw him again. I just . . . I couldn't conceive of it. He . . . he couldn't be serious, implying that half the military was going to turn against the Republic. I was wrong, of course . . . he not only left us for the Sith, he . . . he gave them the codes to bypass our scanners. I remember waking up as the first of the Sith bombers snuck past our defenses and began destroying half our docked ships at the Foerost while they stole the other half. I can still smell the burning atmosphere."

He gazed sightlessly into the dark, seeing it all again, then shook his head and returned to the present. "I knew right away what had happened. And that was only the beginning. I told you about my homeworld, Telos. It was Saul that led the Sith fleet there. It was Saul that launched the bombardment that devastated its entire surface. Millions died." Carth clenched his eyes closed, fighting the pain that threatened to choke him up, fighting the tears that threatened to break forth even now, so much later, as he saw it again as clearly as he had that day. "I had . . . a wife and son on Telos. I thought they would be safe there. But my task force . . . we were too weak. It would have been suicide to attack, and it wouldn't have done any good. I know that, and I knew it then. So I . . . so we had to wait. We waited, Kyrena, we waited until they were finished with the planet and moved on before we could even enter the system. Even then, we didn't have enough medical supplies. The colony was burning and the dying were everywhere. I remember holding my wife and screaming for the medics. They . . . didn't come in time."

He opened haunted eyes and stared hard at Kyrena. "I had to sit there and wait while that bastard murdered my wife and son."

The pilot leaned back, looking older and more tired, as he pushed the rage, the powerlessness, the despair back down inside. When he spoke again, he sounded weary, but the anger was buried once more. "I've fought Saul for years now, and if I ever catch up to him . . . he'll regret what he's done. He will regret it."

And then, in almost a whisper, he added, "And I . . . I could have stopped him. I could have stopped it all."

Kyrena opened her mouth to speak, but Carth cut her off. "Oh, I know that's not really true, Kyrena. I know that. But I was there, I was there,he was as close to me as you are now, and I let him turn around and walk away. Whatever logic tells me, I can't forget that, can't forgive that I once had the chance, and because I didn't take it, everyone I love was taken from me. Morgana, Dustil, my mother and father, my brother and sisters, cousins, everyone. Gone. And there's nothing I will ever be able to do about it."

There wasn't anything to say to that. She couldn't empathize, and if she was confident of anything, it was that Carth would not appreciate sympathy. So instead they sat their quietly, each looking out the cockpit window at the endless emptiness of space.


The twelve hour countdown to arrival ticked over at right about noon, shipboard time. It was a little annoying, arriving in the middle of the night local time, but it was just one of those things you had to get accustomed to if you were going to spend much time traveling, and it was far from uncommon.

At that particular moment, Kyrena found herself engaged in a rather bloody duel with Canderous on the Dejarik board. She sat hunched over, her chin resting on interlaced fingers, while she thought. She wasn't certain, but it looked like she might have just managed to . . .

"I've been thinking about the objective of the mandalorians," said Canderous unexpectedly.

Kyrena blinked in surprise. It took a moment to recall their last conversation, but then it clicked. "And?" she prompted.

"And," he continued, "we don't seek strength for any particular purpose."

Kyrena arched an eyebrow. That certainly wasn't what she'd expected to hear. "Oh?"

He nodded, never taking his eyes off the pieces arranged before them. "There is no overall goal to accomplish. When you are strong, you can accomplish whatever you want to accomplish. We seek strength in order to win at whatever we choose to do."

He moved his Kintan Strider forward, threatening her defensive Ng'ok, which sat protecting her mighty Grimtaash.

Kyrena considered his move for a long moment, then nodded in return. "If that were true, then why do the mandalorians put so much focus on military strength over any other kind?" She moved her lowly K'lor'slug forward a single space.

"There is a lot of appeal in the ultimate struggle. Besides, combat is simple. You know who won and who lost. If you're still alive, you won, at least in the short term." He shrugged. "I see your point, however. But if we were all striving to be the best shopkeeper in existence, and the Republic came calling, then none of us would be free to pursue anything.

He punched a command into the board, and his Strider charged forward to tear apart her Ng'ok, ignoring the K'lor'slug that any other piece on the board could squash. "You see? Without someone to defend them, nobody can fulfill their own function."

"Perhaps, but what about when weakness is strength?" She grinned at the puzzled look on his face and moved her K'lor'slug forward, forking both his own Grimtaash and Monnok, which was only possible with his Strider now out of the way.

Canderous stared at the board in consternation. This was an awkward position, to say the least. "Alright, I will grant you that weakness can be an advantage, but that doesn't make it strength itself." He moved the Grimtaash, and winced as her K'lor'slug pounced on the Monnok, the tiny creature locking its jaws on the larger one and slowly sucking the life out of it.

"But if strength is the ability to win, and your only objective is to win, then anything that gives you an advantage must be strength. So that means even cowardice could be strength, in the right situation."

Canderous shrugged uncomfortably, struggling to put his thoughts into words. "That's . . . that's not right. Perhaps there's more to strength than I thought. It's more than just about winning, it's about becoming strong." His Grimtaash squashed her K'lor'slug in a single contemptuous stomp.

"Then 'perhaps,'" she emphasized, repeating his word deliberately, "there's more to this objective of yours than just winning."

The mandalorian had to concede she could be right about that. And his eyes narrowed in suspicion as another of her K'lor'slugs began to advance.

Canderous sat at that table long after the game was over (he lost) and Kyrena had left, staring down at the board in deep thought. Her point had been a good one. It cut straight to the heart of the matter, to things he had never really considered before. He'd always taken his status as a mandalorian for granted; it was who and what he was, as simple as that. But why was a he a mandalorian? What did that actually mean to him? Or to his people, for that matter?

Yet for all his thoughts on their conversation, he couldn't quite get away from the game itself. Tempting you in with a big target to make you vulnerable to a small threat was a brilliant, if risky, tactic. This wasn't the first time he'd seen it, either.

It had been one of Revan's favorites.


Only Carth was awake as they finally dropped out of hyperspace. They'd be landing blind on the planet, so their best hope was to settle down in the biggest settlement on the planet in the hopes that they wouldn't attract as much attention there. And just now, Anchorhead was right in the middle of the dark half of the planet.

They swooped in through atmosphere, keeping a slow enough speed to avoid any of the bumpy unpleasantness of ancient rocket-powered starships. It wasn't like they were in any great hurry to get there. He made his accommodations with what passed for traffic control this far out, and followed their vector in over the city to the indicated docking station.

The Ebon Hawk eased smoothly downward, settling gently onto open-roofed hangar floor with a hiss of released hydraulics pressure that always reminded Carth of a sigh of relief.

At last, they'd arrived on Tatooine.