For hundreds of years Ghorman has been a planet of peace. Verdant forests stretch for hundreds of miles upon its sprawling continents, their canopies teeming with the chittering and calls of thousands of species of birds. No clearer sky in the Colonies, say the locals. No cleaner air. Even the starry nights seem peaceful here, the cosmos in their brilliant rotations interrupted during the winters by sparkling auroras that put even the finest shows on Coruscant to shame. But now war has come to Ghorman's doorstep, and complementing the stars at night is the dead-machine glint of star destroyers in low orbit.
Peace has its time, and now that time is over.
Commanding the defense force is a man who has not so much as set foot on Ghorman's pristine surface. The gunmetal grey bridge of his command ship, the Venator-class star destroyer Might of the Shield-Bearer, is enough for Jedi Master Taron Malicos. He is no stranger to the fight, and three years of war have made peace feel as alien to him as the motives of the Separatists now seem. Maybe once he could've reasoned with them. Maybe once he could've listened to the debating of the more pacifist Jedi and Senators on Coruscant. But no longer: He is among the Jedi Order's finest commanders, a weapon aimed at the heart of the Separatist thrust in the galactic south. And he will not let the Dark Side wriggle even an inch closer towards the heart of the Republic.
Recently, at least, this front has been quiet. He mulls over the past month's inactivity here on the sleepy bridge, crewed by only the necessary personnel while the fleet waits for orders. Too quiet for his liking. Every report from other fronts is more dire than the last: Republic attacks collapsing, defenses failing, the Separatists growing bolder with each victory. And, bit by bit, the Jedi Order shrinks. A Master and Padawan falling in battle one day. A Knight going missing a week later. Then every now then some truly shocking blow adds to the toll, such as Master Pong Krell's treachery on Umbara. Even when Malicos squints, it is harder than ever to see the light.
This hollowing, this slow dying that chips away at their numbers bit by bit, ceaseless like the proverbial unstoppable force. But he sees no immovable object to stand in its way. Sometimes, he thinks—before he pushes such nihilistic thoughts away into whatever singularities of his mind spit forth such dark ideas—it is as if fate itself, or the Force, is calling for a change.
A clone's voice from the rear of the bridge stirs him from rumination. "General. Intelligence routed us a concerning report, sir. I think you should have a look at this."
Malicos runs a hand through his long, graying hair, grits his teeth, and turns to his clone commander. All the same, these clones. Same personality, even with a cosmetic difference here and there. Same look, same height. Maybe they think and eat and sleep, but they're a far cry from the Republic naval personnel on board, those who grew up on their myriad homeworlds and joined not because they were born to, but because they decided it. It was will and action that brought them to the battlefront, not programming, or whatever the process is the Kaminoans meddle with. If Malicos could crew his entire fleet with those free soldiers alone, he would.
But he cannot. Like the Jedi, their numbers dwindle with every battle, while the clones keep pouring out of Kaminoan vats. Just like the Separatist droids.
"Give it to me, Commander," Malicos murmurs, blue eyes already scanning the datapad the clone hands him.
"Activity from near Muunilinst," the clone, Commander Card—sterling white armor banded with crimson, a face without scars—notes. So dutiful. Not even a hint of question in his words. It's not natural, and it irritates Malicos. He likes the resistance of a good debate, the superior solutions hewn from temper-flaring arguments. A good-natured clash between friends makes both parties better. He's always liked Skywalker for that, even as many of his fellow Jedi Masters raise their eyes at the tactics of the young Jedi Knight celebrated by the Holonet. But he will never get anything like that from this clone. "It's about Grievous."
"General Grievous is half the galaxy away," Malicos muses, looking down the datapad.
Commander Card nods. "Yes, sir. But not for long. Intelligence intercepted a report from Seppie comms. Grievous has issued orders for his personal vanguard fleet to head to Thyferra."
"Right next door. It's about time," Malicos says. Excitement, at last. Then he looks further down the report and scowls. "The signal intelligence picked this up from was barely encoded. It's sloppy."
"Sir?"
Malicos tosses the datapad onto a nearby workstation and growls. "They think that little of me?"
"What is it, General?"
"This isn't an order that our spies cracked. It was intentionally leaked," Malicos spits. "They want us to know he's coming."
Commander Card looks confused. A bizarre, and frankly, ugly, expression for a clone. At least it's some display of emotion. They're not entirely droids. Malicos could stand to see a little more of that. "How can you tell?"
"It doesn't make sense. Thyferra's heavily defended. Our fleet lacks the firepower to crack open any Separatist system nearby. But all of their victories have come far from here—Bandomeer, Agamar. Muunilinst. Why would he come here now and cede that momentum when instead they could strike towards the Inner Rim?"
"The Fondor shipyards are just a short jump from here."
"Fondor is a fortress."
"If it's Grievous's fleet…"
No. Foolish. Grievous is vicious and cruel, but he is a strategic master. He is not so short-sighted as to mindlessly advance towards such an obvious target and engage in a battle that will cost him half his armada. And the Separatists have no way of holding it: Even if they were to throw a huge fleet against Fondor and eliminate its defenders, they would overstretch their lines and make for easy prey for a Republic squadron thundering out from the Core Worlds. No, there is something else in play. Grievous, Dooku—perhaps even the mysterious Sith who the Jedi Council thinks is behind the war—they are plotting something. Perhaps they want him to request reinforcements, leave the Republic lines vulnerable elsewhere. Or perhaps they want him to rush forward and attack Thyferra in haste before Grievous arrives.
Foolish plays for lesser strategists. Malicos will not bite such lifeless bait.
"That is all," he says, walking back towards the front viewscreen of the bridge. "There is nothing to do now but wait. Find me if you need me, Commander."
"Will do, sir."
The Jedi Master looks out into the stars. Peace, they say on Ghorman. All he sees is the coming fight. He hopes his assessment of the intelligence is wrong: All he wants is Grievous to come here, for his fleet to crack open the cyborg's flagship and destroy Dooku's greatest commander in one decisive battle. Let him and his droids spill out into the void like bugs skittering from a burning hive. The Republic has been on the defensive for far too long. It is time for a change.
Come, General. Dooku. Sith. Bring on your unstoppable force. I will hammer the darkness until there is nothing to stop the light from pouring in.
The Twilight is a freighter fit for long-range travel, but it gets awfully cramped with four people taking a journey that so far has gone from a simple jump to Taris to running around a Separatist fleet sitting on the Hydian Way, veering drastically off-course into the fringes of Mandalorian space, taking a whole day to get on back on track, and finally, at last, make it into local Tarisian space. The last thing Anakin needs is for Rex to make a note of this after they've already spent days slaloming around the Rim like a drunken dewback.
"You know, General," Rex says from the co-pilot's seat, "perhaps we should've taken a slightly more anonymous ship than this."
Anakin waves him off. "C'mon, there's thousands of these things all around the Outer Rim. This bucket hasn't blown up yet, has it?"
"Given that the Seppie fleet pinged us as Republic and opened fire—"
"And we're still flying."
Rex shrug and grins. "I guess I can't argue with that."
Ahsoka leans over Anakin's shoulder, resting her elbows on the back of his seat. She looks tired, her eyes heavy, yet her smile is still playful, toying: "He has a point, Master."
"Oh, not you too. We're almost there. Don't make me turn this ship around."
"It's—"
"I will do it."
She smirks. "Okay, you're the pilot. Gonna get mad if I tap into the Holonet and change the music, too?"
He laughs. "I don't even know what's popular these days. But seriously, don't."
"If we're being serious now, then one of these days the droids are gonna figure out we're always flying the Twilight around. Next time we're gonna jump into a system, it's gonna be Grievous saying, 'Hey, there's those two again—'"
"Only two? At least General Kenobi and I are safe, then," Rex says.
"Look, if that happens, we'll just blow them up. Same as always," Anakin says. "Now go wake up Obi-Wan. We'll be landing before too long."
Obi-Wan stumbles out of the rear hold five minutes later, rubbing his eyes and yawning. "Don't tell me you need me to pilot the ship, now," he says, closing his eyes and slumping down into a seat. "You didn't have to wake me if we've hit another Separatist fleet, you know. Dying in the middle of a good dream wouldn't have been so bad."
"Oh, come on Master, what kind of fun is that?" Anakin says.
"Based on your kind of fun—oh, forget it," Obi-Wan says. He stares at the viewscreen, at the scene of urban Taris rushing forward as they close, its lights and duracrete-paved surface growing in a great ball of grey and gold, machines and clockwork, and he sighs. "What a lovely view. It's like we never left Coruscant. I can't wait to breathe in the smog."
"You were the one who wanted to come."
"Yes, well, you know what they say about regrets."
"No. What do they say?" Ahsoka chirps.
Anakin shakes his head. "He just made that up."
"I did not make that up. It's a saying on…it's a saying somewhere," Obi-Wan retorts. He frowns and sits forward, the mirth fleeing his eyes. "The Tarisian's fleet's looking a little thin."
Rex taps the scanner. "That's what I saw. They can't have more than thirty capital ships in orbit."
"That's what I was trying to tell you back at the Jedi Temple," Obi-Wan tells Anakin. "How long do you think that meager fleet would last against a determined Separatist assault? An hour? Half an hour?"
"Eh, they'd probably roll over and surrender, actually."
"And now you see why it's all the more important that we heal the rift between the Tarisians and the Republic. If that means getting these Tath cousins out of the circles of power, so be it. Because the moment Taris slips far enough away that the Separatists think they can come here without repercussions, they will take this world."
"So this plan of yours…" Ahsoka starts, looking at Anakin.
Anakin holds up a hand to quiet her as the Taris orbital authorities transmit a request for identification. It's a far simpler process than he expected: Inside of a minute they are cleared and through, space giving way to atmosphere as they pass the orbital defense stations and plunge towards the cityscape below. Already here in the stratosphere the corruption of the world is clear: Acid rain-spilling clouds bubble up in great thunderheads, lightning blue and purple blasting across the sky. Anakin knows the story of this old planet: Thousands of years ago it fell during the Old Sith Wars, its surface bombed into slag. Yet even after millennia Taris bears its scars, a dirtier, scummier Coruscant that never reclaimed the glory stolen away from it. Like an aging champion spending half a lifetime looking back on better days.
"It's fortunate that Senator Amidala was able to talk to Senator Robb before we left Coruscant," Obi-Wan says. Always-reliable Padme, delivering on Obi-Wan's request to rub shoulders with the Tarisian senator on immediate notice. "Ahsoka, you and I will contact the nobles on Robb's list and see if any of them have closer connections within the Tath estates. Anakin, you and Rex are best off scouting out the Tath holdings in person. Find out whatever you can on the ground—if that's contacts from within, or any vulnerabilities, make note."
"By-the-book infiltration," Anakin says, pulling up on the throttle as the Twilight knifes through the troposphere and clears the cloud cover, revealing the matte grey plain of the world-city below. "Always the fun jobs, huh Rex?"
"Can't wait, General."
Ahsoka leans back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, smugness written all over her face. "How long until this plan blows up?"
"I think we're all right for at least an hour or two," Rex says.
"Come now, it'll be at least a day," Obi-Wan says.
Ahsoka shakes her head. "Anything to add, Master?"
"Five minutes," Anakin says, veering towards a landing pad floating beside a dull, aged skyscraper.
"Anakin, please. Is a bounty hunter going to be waiting for us on the pad?"
The ship settles down with a familiar thud, steel on steel. Already Anakin thinks his guess is the best one: As the others head down the access ramp, he glances back at the viewscreen and spots a speeder veering out of the heavy traffic of a skylane and heading their way.
Great. What a time to be right.
He heads down the ramp and at once his eyes water. Pollutants and chemicals trailing in the air. Acid drizzle sprinkling from rumbling skies. The breeze stinks, rank and industrial, as if they are standing downwind of a whole host of foundries and factories. The colors are muted, the visage of the city all around looking as if some great wind is sucking the brightness and hue from this place and leaving it a blurry, smudged mess, like a painting toppling from the artist's easel and smearing on the ground. So much brown and grey. Billions of people call this world home, and yet Anakin sees so little life.
Obi-Wan looks back at him and nods towards the onrushing speeder. "Company."
"Just as I said."
"Save it for later, Anakin."
The speeder slows as it approaches their platform. It is hideously out of place among the worn surroundings: Garish purple paint accoutremented with stark-white streamers trailing beside the rear engine block. Not a speck of dust on the oblong, organic-looking vehicle, something that defies reality in Anakin's opinion. Everything here is dirty. But the speeder is not, and nor are its occupants: A driver and three passengers, all three of whom step out at once as soon as the speeder sidles up to their landing pad. All three have blinding white hair. At first Anakin imagines that the Taths themselves have come to the pad, but as the guests draw closer he sees he is wrong: These are not Arkanians. Their eyes all have bright silver irises, and they are not so tall as to look nearly superhuman like Ternon Tath did even in death. They are almost human. But there is something just ever so off about them, the graceful way they walk, careful steps, every motion from foot to hip to hand seemingly choreographed.
Anakin recognizes them now: Not humans. Echani. An old race. A dangerous race.
The lead among them, a short man with close-cropped hair draped in a glossy violet-and-gold gown, takes two steps ahead of his companions and bows before Obi-Wan. "Master Kenobi," he says, his voice dripping in its eloquence, without hitch or hesitation. Perfect. He turns to Anakin and repeats the gesture. "Master Skywalker." He glances towards Ahsoka and Rex. Glances away.
"To what do we owe the pleasure?" Obi-Wan says. "We were not expecting reception."
"I am but a mere servant," the white-haired man says. "We were told you would be arriving today. It is my pleasure to welcome you to Taris. And to invite you, as honored guests, to the house of Hosha and Solan Tath. My masters are so eager to meet you."
Anakin and Obi-Wan's eyes meet. Did Senator Robb figure out they were coming? "A surprise, to be sure. But a welcome one," Obi-Wan says.
The Echani smiles. "I am so glad to hear that. You must be tired from your journey. My masters would be most pleased to offer the two of you—" Anakin does not miss the subtle stress the Echani puts on two— "lodgings and comforts for the evening, so that you may experience all the pleasures to offer in the Taris Upper City before convening tomorrow."
"It would be our delight," Obi-Wan says.
"Excellent. Our transport is ready to take you now," the Echani says, spreading his arm towards the speeder. "If you need to confer with your servants first—"
"But for a minute," Obi-Wan says. "Thank you for your patience."
"Of course, Master Jedi, of course."
When the two sides have parted, Anakin turns to find Ahsoka looking ready to explode. "That rude…swamp…rat…" she stammers, her face contorted to the point Anakin thinks it will collapse into a black hole. "'Your servants.'"
"Calm down Ahsoka, this is better than we could've hoped for," Anakin says. "Also, what do I win?"
"What?"
"I said five minutes, didn't I?"
Obi-Wan looks at him as if ready to throw him off of the platform. "Really?"
"All right, all right."
"Listen," Obi-Wan says, eyes flitting to the side to ensure they are out of earshot before turning back to the others, "Anakin is right—this is a stroke of luck. We have an immediate audience with the Taths. No need to waste time finding them. I'm going to activate my transponder and keep it up. Ahsoka, you and Rex track us and follow behind. Unnoticed."
"Got it," Rex says.
"This sounds like a trap, Master," Ahsoka says, still looking angry. "I have a bad feeling about this."
"Of course it's a trap, and we're going to spring it. So it's up to you two to glean as much as you can from the outside of whatever home those Echani were talking about. A fortress, an apartment, a mansion, I don't know. But we need to know the outside just as well as we know the inside. Learn everything you can."
Ahsoka nods. "You can count on us," she says. Then she looks over Obi-Wan's shoulder, narrows her eyes, and adds, "If I find that guy alone—"
"You'll stay unnoticed," Obi-Wan urges. "Good luck." Then he claps Anakin on the shoulder, puts on his best smile, and says, "Meanwhile, we get to be honored guests."
Anakin shakes his head. "Never been more excited in my life."
The welcome at Belderone does not offer any invitations.
The transport shudders. In her jump-seat, Sae grabs hold of her shoulder supports and looks around. Please don't crash. This old orbit-to-ground shuttle is barely strong enough to cut through the upper atmosphere, and landing seems like a daunting proposition. Already the blurry blue overhead lights are flickering. Without any windows, darkness threatens to consume the cramped interior of the hold, where one hundred fellow passengers—all refugees from the recent Separatist conquest of Bandomeer, just as Sae and Tamri are pretending to be—squirm and offer up prayers to a hundred different pantheons. Please don't crash.
"We'll be fine," Tamri says in the seat next to Sae. More to herself than to anyone else. Draped in a ratty grey cloak with an oversized hood darkening her eyes, the Padawan looks like any other unwashed mess. Caked-on dirt paints her cheeks. Mud knotting her blonde hair. Hopefully their intelligence operative contact has a shower.
"Yes we will," Sae murmurs. She certainly hopes so. Here deep in Separatist space they cannot hope for any outside help. The only way out is forward. Just keep going.
An earthquake-like shuddering. A thunderous roar. One giant shake, enough so that Sae's teeth shiver in her gums and her eyes threaten to leap from her sockets. Then the ship is down. Another happy landing. She forces up her shoulder restraints and stands just as the bay's exterior doors burst open and three armed and armored soldiers burst in, pistols at the ready and aimed at the first refugees they see.
"Up! All of you up. Get up," the lead soldier snarls. "Identifications. Now!"
Sae scrambles for her refugee pass. A clever forgery from the Jedi Temple delivered on the morning of their departure. It's gotten her through orbital checkpoints at Mandalore and Phindar so far, along with a transport change at Separatist-controlled Columex. One last success to go, the final stop here on Belderone, and this long journey gets a little bit easier.
One of the soldiers grabs the first refugee, a shriveled-looking Rodian who shrinks in the man's presence. He snatches the Rodian's pass, presses a scanner to it. Green light. "Clear." Then he shoves the Rodian towards the door and moves on.
Another clear. Another. Until he gets to an Umbaran whose pass does not check out. Red light. "Uh-uh," he says. Looks back to his fellows. "Cuff 'im."
"No. No!" the Umbaran wails.
The soldier shoves him against the wall. "Quiet, scum! Cuff him, now!"
In a flash the Umbaran is restrained and pressed back under a jump-seat's harness, his mouth agape. A future cut short in one unfortunate moment. The moment passes and all is clear: That life is a brief and paper-thin thing, and its sound and color, so vulnerable, so beautiful, can plunge into oblivion in no time at all. Sae steadies herself. Resists the urge to reach for the weapon concealed under two layers. She will not let go so easily.
Two more refugees are rejected and restrained before the soldiers get to Sae. She has her pass ready before they ask. Scanner to readout. Green light. "Clear," the soldier says, grabbing Sae's shoulder and shoving her towards the exit. There we go. One down.
On to Tamri. Her pass is ready. Scanner to readout.
Red light. Sae's throat runs dry. "Nope. Cuff her," the lead soldier says.
Tamri's eyes bulge. She glances at Sae. Don't panic, don't panic. "The pass is fine," Tamri says. Wave of a hand. Use the Force, Padawan.
"What did you just say?" the soldier snarls, spinning on her.
Oh boy. Sae will not let this continue. She will protect the girl, even if it means drawing her lightsaber and hacking these troops down in full sight of the others here. As her fingers twitch, however, Tamri regains her composure, straightens up, looks the soldier in eyeslit of his helmet, and says, "I have this pass on authority from the Miner's Guild on Bandomeer to meet with their associates here on Belderone. I have local representation. Scan it again." Where does she come up with these stories?
Another subtle wave of her hand. Use the Force.
This time the soldier bends down to inspect the pass. He doesn't bother to raise his scanner. "I don't have time for this," he snaps, shoving Tamri aside. "Move along. You two, let's keep scanning."
The other two soldiers look between each other. "What?"
"I said keep scanning!"
They glance at Tamri but do not stop her as she sidles up next to Sae. Final hurdle cleared. Even if it took Sae's heart jumping out of her chest to do it. "That was bold of you," she whispers as they move to the front of the bay.
"Sorry," Tamri murmurs.
"Don't be sorry. You did good," says Sae. She wraps her arm around Tamri's shoulders, pulling her closer. Sell the act. That's what she tells herself. Their cover, despite Tamri's improvisation a moment ago, is as mother and daughter fleeing a ravaged zone on Bandomeer's war-torn surface. They look nothing like family, but two humans in a crowd full of twenty different alien species is enough to pass the eye test on an outlaw-infested planet like this.
Just an act. So Sae tells herself as she holds Tamri close, looking back at the soldiers shoving their way through the refugees. Just an act.
And in one more moment she would've killed the three of those troopers without blinking.
No hesitation. No regret. She does not think about it again.
The cleared refugees—maybe eighty-five out of the hundred—bustle like a herd of shaak out of the shuttle bay, through a bleak grey processing hall, and into an industrial elevator that looks ready to fall apart. Already Sae has had enough of Belderone to forget this blight of a world for the rest of her life. The elevator hisses and spits as it descends, at one point lurching and falling into a near-free fall, sparking a cacophony of shrieks as everyone stumbles and grabs for something to hold on to. Then it slows, steadies. Comes to a stop.
The doors open to reveal a trio of battle droids.
The lead droid holds up a monitor. Again Sae is tempted to reach for her blade, slash this abomination in two. She has destroyed so many of them over the last three years. There is nothing to destroying a few more.
"They check out," the droid says to its fellows. To the refugees it adds, "Get a move on. Move along."
Sae eyes the battle droids as she shuffles past and into the wide street outside of the starport. Horrible things. She is used to them from all of these undercover assignments throughout the war, but it will be a good day when all of this is put to rest. Battle droids. War. Deception. This is no way to live.
The main avenue quickly branches off into a spiderweb of narrow alleys as towering industrial centers and processing facilities loom overhead, fifty, a hundred stories. Ashen grey sky. Taiga-borne wind cutting at Sae's face. A great churning in the air: The ceaseless crunching of innumerable mining and refining machines pounding away at this world. Resources. Rubble. One day: Ruin.
A tide of pedestrians surge against Sae. Shoulders, shoves. She loses Tamri in the crowd as she's pushed back, finds her footing and looks around. "Tam?"
A hand reaches through the mass of people. Tamri's blue eyes looking back. The only clear things in this blasted place. "Here."
Sae grabs hold and winds her way forward. When they are together again they do not let go.
"Where are we going again?" Tamri asks her as they wade through the crowd.
"A market nearby," Sae mutters as a Devaronian bumps into her and spits on her cloak. "There's supposed to be a stand with a purple sign on it run by a Sullustan."
"He's our guy?"
"No, he's just some guy. Our contact will meet us there, though."
Tamri nods. Subtle. Small. "Okay."
"You doing all right?"
Another nod. "Fine. You?"
Sae lets out a long breath. There are countless other worlds in this galaxy. Innumerable other moments in time. Until the outbreak of this war, the Republic knew relative peace for a thousand years. The golden age of galactic civilization. Oh, to be born a century ago. To never face this horror. To live with all of life welcoming you with open arms. Instead she looks up—at the rust-speckled skyscrapers, a the hostile sky, at the galaxy beyond—and it is as if she looks upon the ruins of some once-great people who have withered into a shell of their former greatness. As if she stands before a bottomless pit and waits for some great turning to hurl all things into the dark.
"We'll be fine," she says. Muster a smile. That is something you can do.
"Yeah," Tamri says.
Their market turns out to be an immense bazaar, a stadium-like open-air plaza where thousands mill about and countless devils might lurk. Merchant stands litter the sides of the bazaar and scatter about in the middle, everything from storefronts sticking out of the crowd like monuments to poverty-ridden pop-ups that Sae thinks the next strong wind will blow over. Every race across the galaxy seems represented here. One giant melting pot in this hive of misery.
"So, there's at least a dozen purple stands," Tamri says as they work their way through the crowd, "and there's a million Sullustans here."
"I get it, it's not great," Sae grunts.
"How are we supposed to find our man?"
Sae grits her teeth. "I have no idea. Just look at the purple ones."
"Some of these look like they went up yesterday. What if our stand went out of business?"
"I don't know. Given the look of this place, our Sullustan's probably died of poverty by now. Just keep your eyes open. It's all we can do."
By some minor miracle, they find a broken-down swoop—purple indeed—in one corner of the bazaar manned by a Sullustan who breaks into a string of chatter as they approach. "I don't want whatever you're selling," Sae shouts over the masses. "Death sticks or whatever."
"He's not selling death sticks, Master," Tamri says.
"Well, whatever it is."
A rough grip on her shoulder spins her around. She finds herself face-to-face with a Herglic, the alien enormous, twice her height and more than twice her girth, its white-striped cetacean head large enough she thinks it could kill her if it charged. The Herglic blubbers in Huttese and pokes a finger into Sae's chest, its wet, whale-like eyes narrowing. Sae sticks her thumb over her shoulder. "I don't know what you want. That guy's the death stick merchant. Bug him."
"Master, wait," Tamri says.
The Herglic snorts, stomps, and pushes Sae, yammering in Huttese. Sae resists the urge to draw her lightsaber. Just a goon. "Get lost, you sack of—"
A rough-looking human walks up from behind the Herglic. Great. Company. More of a shakedown than a goon. "I don't have any credits for you. Go find someone else to bother."
But the Herglic does not seem to know the human. He turns to the newcomer, still yammering in Huttese and poking a finger at the human. "Relax," the human says. Tall man. Short, rough, black hair. A local's dress, tough worker's pants and a thick, pale green poncho. Something strangely familiar about his face.
The Herglic does not relax. It waves a finger at the human, at Sae. "You're making a mistake," the human says. The Herglic looks down to find a blaster jammed against his torso. He startles, panics, and flees as soon as he's come, his immense form wading through the crowd.
Sae knows that gun. She's seen it before. A clone commando's sidearm. "Huh," she says, nodding to the gun. "Isn't that something."
The human tightens his jaw. He glances at Tamri. "Your belt."
She looks down. The edge of her cloak has slid away, revealing the top of her lightsaber. "Whoops," Tamri says, grabbing her cloak and cinching her waist tie. "Sorry."
"You the one who has a ship for us?" Sae asks the human.
He looks around. "Alley nearby," he says. "With me."
It's a dark and narrow street, home to only a few rats and a granite slug ("Uck, not again," Tamri croaks) feeding on a corpse. Sae looks both ways to make sure they're clear before saying, "Sae Tristess. She's Tamri Dallin. Guessing you're our contact."
"Falco," the man says.
"Hm. One of your clones give you your blaster?"
The man shakes his head. "The intelligence officer we worked with—Rossano Rastic—was nabbed by bounty hunters two days ago. We don't know where he's been taken."
Sae frowns. "So you're—"
"RC-1417. Falco."
"I thought clone commandos worked in teams," Tamri says.
"The other three are nearby. Tau Squadron at your service, Jedi."
Sae blinks. He does not sound anything like a clone—his voice is higher, rougher, like words scraping across gravel—but she can see the resemblance—the tough jaw, the narrow eyes. That war-ready expression, as if prepared for the ground to open up and spill a whole legion of battle droids into the alley. Clone commandos might not frequent battlefields like their soldierly brethren, but Sae has seen them once or twice, and she knows just how valuable their skills at infiltration and sabotage are. "How, exactly, did you lose your intel officer? This Rastic?"
"Bad luck."
"Bad luck?"
"Wrong place and wrong time."
Sae grimaces. "Great. We need a ship. We were promised a ship. The Council sent us here to get to Ossus, and we need to get there, one way or another."
"You'll have a ship," the clone—Falco—says. "We secured a workaround."
"A what?"
"Two mercenaries. We secured them payment. All we need to do now is free their ship from impound and you'll be on your way."
Sae presses a hand to her forehead. "Oh, this is getting better and better."
"What sort of mercenaries?" Tamri asks.
"Effective ones. They'll get the job done. They can fly you to Ossus," Falco says.
"We'll find out," Sae tells her Padawan. To the clone she adds, "Do you have a safe room? A hideout? Anywhere we can meet these mercs, or figure out how to free their ship?"
Falco nods. "All of that and more. Come with me."
Before they've left the alley, Tamri smiles at the clone and says, "It's good to meet you, by the way."
He looks at her. Looks away. Nods. "And you."