It was a truism, bordering on cliché, that no battle plan long survived contact with the enemy. When reports starting coming in from Parshoone, Ansion, Marquarra and Alashan, Davek realized even that was optimistic. Before they'd even been able to launch their second thrust into the Unknown Regions, the enemy had struck again.
Word came down as he was returning to Ord Thoden from Bastion. One-third of the Fourth Fleet was still mustered at the border planet, putting its orbital repair facilities to full use while the other two-thirds of the Fighting Fourth was scattered across the border systems for their protection. The moment his shuttle set down on the Afsheen Makati, Davek was swamped with reports from ships that had engaged the enemy and requests for face-to-face conversation.
He did his best to comply, but first he reviewed all the battle reports. These had been fast hit-and-run attacks, none of them as powerful or deadly as the one that had killed his father, but as with Valc VII, the enemy had forgone any pretense of piracy or pillage and focused simply of destroying everything in sight.
As a result, the reports made for grim reading. The lead star destroyer defending Parshoone had been crippled beyond repair, with a reported casual rate of over fifty percent. The task force at Alashan had turned back the enemy at the expense of two Dart-class gunships and one Kontos-class frigate lost with all hands. In addition the Predator-class destroyer leading the complement had taken heavy damage and was even now limping back to safety with heavy causalities aboard. Ord Thoden wouldn't be able to accommodate its needs, which meant it would have to fall back to more extensive facilities. Admiral Grave's Second Fleet was still staging at Yaga Minor, which meant they'd have to fall back to Bilbringi. After reading more reports, Davek saw that two more frigates from Marquarra would need heavy repairs.
This wave of attacks had come swiftly and been repulsed just as fast. That should have made Davek feel better but it didn't; there was no telling when or where the enemy would strike next. He passed on all the battle reports to Admiral Grave, then set on contacting the captains who'd requested a word.
First in line was the main defender at Marquarra, the potent Compellor-class destroyer Tempest under the command of Vice Admiral Farl Renwar. Aside from being one of the Fourth's senior commanders she was a Voidwalker as well, his communications lieutenant turned first officer. Seventeen years and a lot of responsibilities had visibly aged her, adding streaks of grey to her bronze hair and lines to her face, but Davek knew how that went.
After Renwar gave a verbal summary of the report Davek had already read she asked, "I haven't been able to get a response from Bilbringi yet. How long do you think it will take for my frigates to get repaired?"
"I'm not sure, but Captain Klovis needs full repairs on her destroyer, and that will take priority."
"I thought Admiral Mears moved his ships out to clear the yards?"
Most of the Third Fleet had been shuffled out of Bilbringi to patrol Imperial worlds away from the border. They weren't prepared to muster a full defense yet but their twin goals had been to reassure a frightened populace and to leave yards empty for Fourth Fleet ships needing repairs.
"I'll pass word on to Jaeger and make sure he does everything he can," Davek said. Another Voidwalker, former helm chief Devlin Jaeger was in charge of operations at the Bilbringi yards.
Renwar nodded. "I appreciate that."
"Still," Davek sighed, "I can't promise miracles. I'm going to start reapportioning battle groups on the assumption that we've got at least two destroyers and support ships out of commission."
"Two destroyers?"
"The Legation went down at Parshoone. Captain Healy was killed in action."
Renwar sighed. Best he knew she and Healy hadn't been close, but losing another destroyer captain after Verdon, Meleti, and Por Dun was a heavy blow. She asked, "When is the Second going to start throwing its weight around?"
"Grave was going to start mustering ships out toward the border today."
"Then he'd better hurry."
"I'm sure he will."
"I look forward to seeing him in action," Renwar said, sincere but also dry. Grave had risen to fleet admirals thanks to high scores in battle simulations and political connections. Davek wasn't the only one who wondered how he'd fare in a large and real combat situation.
"When you get to Ord Thoden we'll give your ship a look-over and make any repairs necessary," Davek told her. "Be ready for a quick turn-around."
"Are we still planning to go ahead with the offensive?"
"We're not going to let them throw us off-balance. We'll make a few adjustments, that's all."
"Glad to hear it. Thank you, sir. Anything else?"
"Not right now. I'll see you soon, Farl."
She snapped a salute and the holo died. Davek ran down the list after that, speaking with the other captains who's repulsed the latest enemy strikes. At the bottom of the list was a captain who hadn't. Captain Korak's Nightwatch had been stationed at Cantras Gola and thankfully missed the latest round, so it was with curiosity that he sent a responding hail to his former tactical ensign.
"I'm sorry if this was a bother, sir," Korak began. "I know you have a lot on your plate."
"It's no bother at all," Davek said, though in truth he wanted nothing more than a nap right now. "What did you need to talk about?"
"It's not about the new raids, so if you still have to deal with those-"
"I've done that." In addition to tired he was getting annoyed, but also curious. "What is it?"
Korak breathed deep. "I assume you've been in steady contact with Darakon and Avaris?"
"Of course."
"Then I have to ask, sir… And I mean no offense if you didn't, but did you talk to them about Por Dun?"
He should have seen this coming. Weariness was getting to him. "Yes. I brought it up with them both."
"I noticed she didn't make a statement."
"Fleet Command put out a declassified report on Valc VII. To anyone who reads it, it will be quite clear that Por Dun performed her duty bravely and that she was guilty of neither treason nor cowardice. Quite the contrary, we have her to thank for the capture of the Kaleesh frigate."
"And who's going to bother to actually read it?"
Davek sighed. This was turning into his conversation with Avaris in reverse. He'd insisted that Fleet Command or the Head of State's office issue a formal statement clearing Por Dun of the rumors that had been swirling since Moff Veers' INN interview. Avaris had said it was beneath her office to go around correcting gossip and that anyone who cared to know could easily find the truth.
But in the end, repeating malicious rumor was much easier than digging for facts. Avaris had refrained from a statement to avoid putting herself in opposition to Veers and his allies. Davek was still angry about it; Korak seemed even more upset, which wasn't surprising. He and Por Dun had been friends for almost twenty years.
"I'm sorry, Benion. I wish there was more I could do, but there isn't right now."
"People are still calling her a traitor, even people in the military. It isn't right. You know what happened at Karfeddion. If she hadn't figured out how to escape we'd have all died back there. Every last Voidwalker."
"And know. And I promise we'll rectify it one day. But right now I have to defend the Empire."
It came out angrier than intended, but Korak looked cowed. He nodded sullenly and asked, "Understood, sir. Should I hold position at Cantras Gola?"
"Please do. If anything in the battle plan changes you'll get it through normal channels."
"I'll be on the lookout."
They exchanged short salutes and Davek killed the holo. That was it: reports read, calls made. His cabin aboard the Makati was bigger than anything he'd had before and it felt like a long march to his bedroom. Without removing his boots or uniform jacket he let himself fall face-up on the soft cushions and close his eyes.
The days since his father's death still seemed a dreamlike blur. He'd been so busy that it hadn't fully hit him. It was only in moment like this, rare moments when he was neither at work nor passed out from exhaustion that the enormity of it really hit him. His father, Jagged Fel, the man who's raised him and guided him and in many ways been the center of his life, was gone. He'd heard it said that no child can truly grow up until his parent dies and he steps outside his father's shadow. Maybe that was happening now; maybe it was only of those things people said, a hollow slogan. He had a feeling he'd find out only in retrospect.
The comlink clipped to his chest buzzed. He fumbled for it and flicked it on.
"This is the admiral."
"Another battle report, sir. The raiders are attacking Tovarskl."
Davek heaved a heavy sigh and sat upright on his bed. "Understood. I'll be right up."
-{}-
Given that over two million beings made up the regular population at the Bilbringi shipyards, the orbit station had a variety of recreational facilities for singles and family members of all ages. Since the populace slanted toward serving military members there was a particular proliferation of bars and cantinas, and since Homs Malkin's arrival at the yards, Lukas Briggs had made it a mission to introduce his old sergeant to his favorites.
The Rimwalker was one of those standbys. It was a good middle ground for mid-ranking groundpounders in middle age: neither cheap and dirty like the stormtrooper hangouts of old, and nowhere near as posh as Navy officer's clubs. The mood, unfortunately, wasn't what it used to be. Valc VII had been bad enough, but the new wave of attacks was further dampening people's spirits. Lukas himself had just gone off-shift after working late to reconfigure supply chains for the incoming Fourth Fleet ships in need of repair. The attack on Tovarskl had sent another star destroyer their way, Predator-class. Everyone was waiting for word of the next one.
"It will get better once the Second goes into action," Lukas told Malkin as they hunched over the bar-counter.
"It had better," the other man said. Despite the gray in his beard the former sergeant was still a big, fit, strong man. "I've heard good things about the admiral. No disrespecting Prince Fel, but I think Grave could be the one to really turn the tables, you know?"
Lukas nodded after a moment. 'Prince Fel' was what they'd called him back on Voidwalker, when he'd been just a tactical lieutenant before the Senex-Juvex mess happened. It had been mildly derisive more often than not, and it had been years since he'd heard anyone use it.
"Any chance your regiment could get shipped out to fight?" he asked Malkin.
The bearded man shook his head. "We just got here, remember?"
"Obviously. But if they need a lot of groundpounders, say, for a planetary occupation?"
"The troops with the Fourth will handle that. But you're right, we may get rotated out." He shrugged broad shoulders. "Who can say? We don't now a damn thing about the aliens attacking us. That's the scary part."
"They're still a long way from Bilbringi," Lukas said, half to assure himself.
"For now. The bastards move fast," Malkin grunted and took a gulp of ale. "How are the kids handling it?"
"Polaw's getting nervous but he's trying to hide it. Leena's the one who keeps asking question, which I wouldn't mind, except I have no idea how to answer them. Except I can't tell her that because I'm her dad and I'm supposed to know everything." He sighed.
"Sounds fun."
"You're missing out. Not too late to fix that."
"No. Married to the service, that's me." Malkin shrugged again. "There's worse ways to live a life."
"Well as long as we keep living it."
"Come on, don't get damn mopey." Malkin nudged his shoulder. "Once Grave gets into the action we'll start to see a real change. Really take the fight to the enemy."
Lukas took a gulp from his mug and tried to feel assured. The ale helped a little. In retrospect things had been simpler back on Voidwalker. Terrifying as it had been, it had all been about survival. Now he was older and had responsibilities piled up: to the Empire, to the shipyards, most of all to his family. If the crisis worsened and Bilbingi itself those responsibilities might come into conflict. He'd pick his family over his job and day. He'd admitted that to himself long ago, and for just as long he'd dreaded the day when he might have to act on that choice.
"You ever get…." He began, then trailed off.
"What?" prodded Malkin.
"Nostalgic?"
"For what?"
"For how things were… before."
The older man narrowed his eyes. "Are you talking about Voidwalker?"
"No. Well, yes. That whole time… it was simpler. You knew what had to be done."
"Did we? Best I can remember we all followed orders and prayed Prince Fel knew what the hell he was doing."
"He did."
"Maybe. Or maybe we got lucky. We got close to the end back there, over and over. That fact that we did make it out-"
"Is a miracle, I know," Lukas said grimly. Even after so much time he could still remember all the people in Razor Company they'd lost, and the dead far outnumbered the living. "Maybe it is just nostalgia. But things seem like they were… clearer, then. Do you know what I mean?"
Malkin thought about that for a long moment, swallowed a mouthful more ale, and said, "No, I don't. I know exactly what I need to do."
His matter-of-face tone made Lukas chuckle. "Well, good for you, I guess. Maybe one day you'll have to share that with me."
"Maybe I will. But not tonight." Malkin finished the last half-mouthful at the bottom of his glass. "Want another? Next round's on me."
Lukas glanced at his chrono. These nights out with the old sarge were getting later and later, and his wife had commented on it last time. After a day like today, as grueling as it was distressing, Lukas figured he deserved one more drink. And Malkin was paying.
"Count me in," he said with a smile. His old sarge raised a big hand and told the server to keep the drinks coming.
-{}-
In his younger days, Arlen had had difficulty standing still. His mother had commented a few times, always with a wry smile, that he took a little after his grandfather Han with his restless need to be out in the galaxy, doing things, finding adventure. Naturally Arlen had taken it as a compliment, and a soft encouragement to keep going out into the galaxy, doing things most other Jedi- especially Imperial Jedi- did not.
It had been a comment from his father that had altered his view of things. He didn't remember exactly when it was- after Senex-Juvex, after he'd met Tamar, probably before Marin came into the picture- Jagged Fel had told him that who he really resembled was his mother. Young Jaina Solo had wanted to be at the forefront of everything, going places and doing things, but at her core she'd never doubted her fate lay with the Jedi Order. Time, responsibilities, and heavy burdens had gradually weighted Jaina's life; Arlen had gone through nowhere near what his mother had but he'd reached the point in his life where he looked back and wondered where the adventure had gone. It had been happening even before his father's death, but that tragedy- and all the problems assailing the Empire- was making that weight feel omnipresent.
To get a little relief he fell back on hold habits, with new twists. He'd been tinkering with Starlight Champion for twenty years now and he'd been gradually teaching his daughter the ins and outs of the now-very-customized Koensayr Lightskimmer-class scout ship. Tweaking the insides of a starship was rarely simple but it was straightforward; the machinery either worked or it didn't and it was easy to find out which. As was often the case, Vitor tagged along. He and Marin were under the ship's nose and had just opened up the forward sensor package when Arlen's personal comlink went off, telling him a hail was coming through to Champion's main transmitter.
"Who is it?" asked Marin as she hopped off the short ladder she'd climbed to reach the overhang.
"Don't know." Arlen thumbed the 'link to standby. "Let's take a look. Vitor, hold out here. Go through that supply kit and see if you can't find a set of stem bolts."
Father and daughter clambered up the landing ramp and into the ship. Arlen dropped into the co-pilot's seat and Marin into the pilot's chair her dad never let her sit in while the ship was running.
When Arlen turned on the transmission a blue holo-image, one-quarter size, appeared, showing a familiar smiling face.
"Well, well," Chance Calrissian grinned. "Family bonding time?"
Marin rolled her eyes, but Arlen said, "You could say that. How's Brenna and Chareth?
"On vacation to Rathalay, actually."
"And you're not with them?"
"Oh, you know me, I'm in love with my work." Chance winked. "Don't tell them that, though."
"I'll be sure to." Arlen crossed his arms over his chest. "I thought your partnership with good old Volgma would have opened up a little free time."
"I wish. The opposite, really. He's the most workaholic Hutt I've ever met. All he ever wants to talk about is the company."
"Do you know a lot of Hutts?" asked Marin.
"Only slightly more than your dad." Chance's smile finally wilted. They hadn't talked since Valc VII; familiar banter only went so far and they all knew what had to be said. "I'm sorry I haven't commed 'til now. I really have been busy."
"It's not a problem," Arlen said. "So have we."
"You know I'm sorry about what happened. If I can do anything about these raiders, anything to help the Jedi order the Empire-"
"I know," Arlen smiled weakly. "And we do appreciate it."
Chance sighed. With that classic Calrissian smile gone he was starting to look his age. Though the holo mostly hid it, patches of gray had been sneaking into his black curls and dark lines deepened on his face. He was the better part of a decade older than Arlen, already in his fifties. As children he'd been an older brother of sorts, showing Arlen sides of the galaxy nobody on Bastion talked about. As an adult he'd been a friend good enough to follow Arlen into the deepest danger. Now they'd gotten older; both men had daughters and Chance still had a wife. Arlen had his Jedi duties and Chance had his corporation; both were, in a sense, inheritances from their parents. Talking to Chance always brought memories of the freer days, and the melancholy that came with remembering.
Chance glanced at Marin. "How you holding up, kid?"
"I'm okay. Considering."
"Yeah." He looked back to Arlen. "Any word on when you're gonna take the fight to those raiders? Or can you not tell me?"
"I don't know anything to tell," Arlen said, which was mostly true. "The Jedi are sending search teams. Davek and the military are doing their thing."
"And you?"
A part of Arlen had wanted to rush off with Allana, Jodram, and the others into the Unknown Regions, but as one of the senior Masters on Bastion he knew he had a duty here. "When I'm needed, I'll be there," he said.
"Well if you need help in anything, anything at all-"
"What? You'll run off and leave the company to Volgma?"
"He wishes. But as you've reminded me more than once, I do have some unique connections, so if you think any of those might help-"
"I will keep your disgustingly rich friends in mind, but I don't think they can help us against unknown alien invaders. But thanks for the offer."
"You're welcome." Chance looked back at Marin. "Take care of your dad, kid. Don't let him do anything too crazy."
"I'll try," she said.
"That's the spirit. If there's nothing else, I guess I can check in later."
"We'll look forward to it. Thanks for the call, Chance. We appreciate it. Really."
"Least I could do. Be strong."
When the holo winked off Arlen realized he had a small soft glow inside of him. Months passed without him talking to Chance nowadays; it had been over a standard year since they'd met in-person. That was the toll of getting old and having responsibilities, but at least he had warm memories that would never leave.
"Hey, Dad," Marin prodded, "Think Vitor's getting lonely down there?"
"He just might." Arlen pushed himself off the chair. "Lead the way."
She left the pilot's seat with a little reluctance, then hurried out of the cockpit. He wondered what things would be like for Vitor and Marin years from now; whether they'd still be close as siblings or whether their lives would diverge so they'd only see each other every few years. Even then they'd still have memories. That would still be something, a mark of how good things had been.
Marin couldn't understand that, not yet. He hoped that time for her was a long way off. Stifling a little sigh of his own, he followed her out of the ship.
-{}-
Damien Corde liked to think of himself as a well-traveled man who'd seen more worlds inside Imperial Space and out than almost anyone he knew. In the course of his travels he'd heard of a shadowport called Broken Moon, located presumably inside some orbiting body that had been broken by collision with another chunk of space-rock. There were thousands, if not millions of broken moons across the galaxy and the location of this specific one seemed to be a rather guarded secret. He'd never doubted that, if he decided to use his talents, he could discover the system and planet where the shadowport was located, but there'd never been the need. He'd certainly never suspected that he'd get its location handed to him on a datacard from Moff Veers, nor that he'd fly off to the Tolomen System for a rendezvous with his Mandalorian contact. But just as intelligence work abounded with ironies, it was full of surprises too.
Access to the shadowport located inside the airless, smashed-open moon was apparently invite-only, and Damien was lucky to be on the list. He didn't know exactly how, but Veers had swung it. He was traveling under an alias, of course, but it still disconcerted him. He'd have preferred to meet someplace where he wouldn't be noticed at all, but the Mandalorians had insisted.
He was especially wary after he set his ship- now responding to Waste Away- and walked out into the hangar. He'd had to navigate several twisted tunnels into the guts of the moon to get here and knew getting out would be tricky. Nobody asked for identification or checked him for weapons, which was a mild relief. In addition to the BlasTech holstered at his hip he also had a Czerka hold-out strapped to his calf and a throwable knife in his right sleeve. He didn't want to have to use any of them but preparation was key.
Veers had included a brief history on Broken Moon, which made for mildly entertaining reading material on the way here. It had first been used twenty years ago by a crime boss named Modran Krux, who'd broken off from a Hutt syndicate and gotten rich selling glitterstim. He'd been murdered during the Senex-Juvex Crisis; reports varied as to whether the Jedi or an underling was responsible. After a good five years of chaos the place had reestablished itself as a shadowport. The new owner, a former employee of Krux, was more into selling information than spice and liked to keep a lower profile.
He navigated the winding rock-bored tunnels, following pedestrians and the sound of music to what he guessed was the shadowport's hub. When he reached it, it wasn't what he'd expected. Reminiscent of a throne room in a Hutt's palace, the broad domed space had an open floor in the center where a trio of human males performed a series of acrobatic dances. They weren't wearing much and they had the kind of physiques Damien wished he'd had at twenty and knew he'd never get at his age. His eyes drifted to the dais on the far side from the entrance. Sitting enthroned, sipping from a glass of something proffered by a pink-skinned Zeltron servant, was a very attractive Twi'lek woman with blue lekku draped over her shoulders and a gown of opaque shimmershilk over her body. They were a far distance apart but for a moment it felt like her eyes met his across the room.
Damien turned away and found the nearest of several oval-shaped counters from which various drinks were being served. As Veers had instructed him too, he ordered a cocktail called a Serenno Surprise. Damien had never heard of it before and the bartender, a hulking Herglic, blinked tiny eyes in surprise and had to look up how to concoct the thing.
Once it was made, Damien took the drink to a small table at the edge of the chamber. It was milky-white in the glass and had a good smell to it. The dance show was still going on and while it didn't play to his taste, he admired the young men for their endurance and athleticism. He kept his head down and scanned the crowd. It was a mix of humans and aliens, more the latter than the former, either in small clusters or keeping to themselves. He didn't spot any armored Mandalorians and they were typically hard to miss. Idly, he took a first sip of his fragrant Serenno Surprise. It tasted to foul he almost spat it out onto the table.
"That's why they call it a surprise," grunted a voice over his shoulder.
Damien was too professional to jump in surprise; he slowly and steadily looked back, letting one hand slide under the table to his holstered gun. The creature looking down on him had a brown face with dog-like jowls peeling back to show hints of sharp white teeth. It was even uglier than most aliens but in the back of his mind he recalled the species: Kerestian. The ambitious generally became assassins or bounty-hunters, the rest low-life thugs if they left their primitive homeworld at all, which most didn't.
"I just thought I'd give it a try," Damien said curtly. "Next time I'll know better."
The alien stepped round to the other side of the table but didn't drop into the opposite seat. "What's your business here, friend?"
"None of yours."
"You look like you're waiting for someone."
"Actually, I was enjoying the show." He gestured to the floor but the dancers were bowing out.
"Just an observation," the Kerestian said. "Sit here forever and you'll waste away."
Damien felt a fool. He'd been instructed to order the drink, have a seat, and wait for someone to name-drop his ship ID and join him. He'd been expecting either a Mandalorian in full beskar armor or a tough-looking human temporarily outside his suit. He'd known, intellectually, that there were non-human Mandalorians but he'd never expected one. Old Imperial assumptions created blind spots.
"Maybe you can keep me company," Damien said, and the Kerestian dropped into the chair. Still keeping a hand near his gun, he leaned over the table and asked, "Do we get these performances often or am I just lucky?"
"Often enough, but they need a break for now." The Kerestian glanced at the throne, where the Twi'lek woman was speaking quietly with a tall black-robed Anx who must have been a majordomo.
"So," Damien said, almost conversational, "Do you have a name?"
"Call me Galaset. What should I call you?"
"I think you know already. Starts with Halcyon."
"Ends with Blackmor," the Kerestian nodded.
Damien wondered what else Veers had shared besides his false name. "You've been in contact with my employer."
"My employer has. I'm just his messenger."
"And how does your employer have an arrangement with this, ah..."
"Her name is Sherev'ath and to her I'm just a being who gets goods from place to place with no problems and no questions."
"That explains something. Frankly, I was expecting someone in different attire."
"I'm still Mandalorian," Galaset said quietly. "Even when I'm not fully dressed."
"I was told I'd meet with someone who'd speak with the authority of the Mand'alor. Is that you?"
"It is."
Damien was good at spotting lies, at least from humans. He knew all the tells: the sight pauses, the evasive eyes, the subtly upward intonation. Aliens were much harder; he'd never met a Kerestian in his life. Still, his gut told him this Galaset was on the level.
"I need to hire your services. I'm very willing to pay the price."
"What kind of services?"
They leaned close across the table. He said, "I need a team to hijack several ships, then use them in a combat situation."
"What kind of ships?"
"Medium-sized capital ships. I have all the technical specifications on my person. I'll share them fully with your people."
"What kind?"
"Vagaari."
The alien blinked his small gold eyes. "The target?"
He'd planned the evade that question for now and focus on the hijacking, but the Kerestian had an intent and predatory gaze. Damien's gut told him he wouldn't leave until he'd said it. "The Chiss Ascendancy. Not a major assault, but enough to leave a mark."
Galaset blinked again. Something shifted in his face; he understood what was being asked and all the potential ramifications. Damien didn't believe all aliens were stupid; far from it, he'd known some which were dangerously clever. This one seemed to be the latter, which made him even less trustworthy.
"I'll give you all the information I have," he said. "And I will let your people run the mission your way. However, my employer wants me to remain with your people and observe."
"You don't trust us?" Galaset peeled his jowls back a little. Maybe it was his imitation of a human's grin.
"There are details that have to be exactly right. Otherwise the entire mission is a wash."
The alien nodded; he understood exactly what this was about. Damien hated being transparent. "And if at any stage this mission becomes, as you say, a wash?"
"Then you won't get full payment."
"We won't take on this mission unless there's some guarantee of payment."
"I've been authorized to release portion of credits to you in stages."
"When and how much?"
Damien allowed a little smile of his own. "I've also been authorized to negotiate this in part in full. Assuming you're still interested, because if you sign up for one stage you sign up for them all."
"We're not afraid to take jobs, and we finish the ones we start," Galaset said. Professional pride, good. It was finally something they had in common. This relationship just might work after all.
As another group of dancers took the floor, they moved onto haggling.
