If there is one thing that Savage needs to learn above all else, it is patience. Thunderheads build in his eyes as he and Maul enter the Hutt citadel on volcanic Sleheyron, flanked by a quartet of Black Sun and Pyke Syndicate enforcers. Lightning courses in the vein that pulses in his forehead. His right hand clenches into a fist as if to cast down the heavens themselves upon the Rodians and Nikto and other assorted Hutt guns for hire who watch the two Zabrak Sith with narrowed eyes. Maul can hear it: Every thought in his brother's head catches fire, burns, smolders, and ends in the same conclusion, every tongue speaking the same language: Violence. If it were up to Savage, they would be halfway through this base by now with lightsabers aflare.

But it is not up to him. Patience, brother. Patience.

Patience and foresight and strategy. The last time Maul threatened the Hutts to work for him, they scattered like frightened gulls at the first sign of danger as the Separatists hit Mandalore. Now all those Hutt clans—Jabba and his Desilijic cronies, the Besadii family, all of them—cling to their mud-drenched fiefdoms and their irregular armies as if the galaxy begins and ends with Nal Hutta, as if Maul never came to them in the first place—as if no deal was ever struck and nothing has ever changed in Hutt Space. As if nothing ever will change. Maul knows otherwise, however. There is a rising clan among the Hutts that can see beyond the garbage heap of these crime-infested worlds. A clan that might look to stars beyond the dim-bulb glow that barely separates Hutt Space from the background radiation of the cosmos.

That is all Maul needs. One rising tide can swallow up all the rotten cities of so many petty kingdoms, a long-awaited tidal wave clearing out the old and bringing in the new. The new: His empire. His domain. His Sith.

He will have to win them over first if he hopes to use them as proper vassals, not just as minions, however. And from the scowling-faced glares he is receiving from every look in these cramped halls, Maul knows it will be no easy task.

The Twi'lek girl leading Maul and his party brings them into a wide, round chamber with a vaulted ceiling and a hundred or more lights flickering above like stars. The atmosphere is subdued for a Hutt palace: There are no dancing girls, no bands, no libations flowing like rivers. Just half a hundred sentries and a bulbous, squat Hutt on a raised platform along the room's furthest wall. Already Maul can see that it's a deception: The Hutt is little different than any other Hutt: Plump, sluggish, average in size, and holding a half-dead reptile in one hand that he scarfs down the moment he spies the two Zabrak. But Maul can sense another in that dusk behind him. Another Hutt, one much larger lurking in the shadows, and this one exudes an air not of sloth and riches but of power and hunger. The Hutt in front may speak first, but it is the one behind him who is listening.

"May I present," the Twi'lek girl says, bowing to Maul and Savage before bowing to the slothful Hutt, "the Mighty Steno Anjiliac Eurias, scion of the House of Anjiliac, most noble of Nal Hutta."

Steno the Hutt is anything but mighty, particularly as he stares at Maul with one eye closed while digesting his reptile snack. The Hutt points to a chrome-plated protocol droid to his left and gurgles out a command in Huttese. "The Mighty Steno," the protocol droid says as it wobbles forward, "would ask why you have come to seek the wisdom of House Anjiliac. Particularly when you, the Zabrak Maul, previously threatened the Hutt Council on Nal Hutta to force their support into your so-called Shadow Collective."

"I did not come for your wisdom," Maul says, taking a step forward. Steno leans backward in his seat. "I came for your good business sense. I am here to make you an offer."

Steno scoffs—or chokes, Maul cannot tell which—and jabs at the protocol droid. "The Mighty Steno does not see what you can offer him. Your short-lived reign on Mandalore is known. Failure is not the way of the Hutts."

"Mind your tongue, slug," Savage snarls, whipping his lightsaber out and igniting it.

A dozen rifles raise in unison across the room, both among the Hutt enforcers and Maul's own guards. Steno looks on open-mouthed, gargling in Huttese. Then the shadow in the background looms large, slithers forward, and shoves the smaller Hutt out of the way. "Mind your tongue. And put that sword away."

Maul smiles. Now this is the kind of leader he can make a deal with. He can even speak Basic.

The new entrant is a massive Hutt, the largest Maul has ever set eyes on. Not all fat, though: He slithers less like his gastropod ancestors and more like a snake, muscle and sinew rippling along his body as he moves. When he looms up he rises like a tower, draconic, imposing, rearing up almost half his length and perching upon his powerful hindquarters. The Hutt's eyes smolder as he appraises the Sith, and as Savage growls at him he shows not an inkling of backing down. "Do not think for a minute that I let you in here without preparations, Sith," the giant Hutt says to Savage, his Basic guttural but clear. "Now let your better do the talking, or we'll all die here."

Heh. Not even an inflated sense of ego to this one. Not "you'll die." We. He knows the stakes and yet shows no fear. "Patience, brother," Maul says to Savage, pushing his sword arm down. He looks back to the new Hutt. "Perhaps an introduction is in order?"

"Oh my!" blubbers the protocol droid, stumbling forward in the shadow of the Hutt. "If I might be so honored as to present his greatness Gorgosa Anjiliac Medus, clean leader of House—"

"That's enough, droid," the new Hutt, Gorgosa, snaps at the automaton. "Leave us. And my son may leave with you." His eyes flicker at Steno with that last line, and the diminutive, corpulent Hutt shrinks in his gaze and slithers away. "Now. Darth Maul. To business."

"I see you know me well," Maul says, clasping his hands behind him and pacing before Gorgosa. He can feel a chill in the Force as he regards the Anjiliac clan leader. There is a fire of command to this one, but also a frigid rationality, the winter-storm calculus of power and control computing in his brain that pushes aside the typical Hutt sins, avarice and sloth and gluttony giving way to strategy and scheme. If they can come to a deal—if—he will find this Hutt easy to work with. "I have a certain problem I would like your help with, Gorgosa."

The tough old Hutt scowls. "You implied the same thing to the Grand Council right before you killed Oruba on Nal Hutta."

"Yes, I did. And I seem to recall that your house did not have a place on that Council," says Maul. "Which tells me one of two things: Either your house lacks the power to have a presence on the Grand Hutt Council—which is clearly not the case given your seizure of Sleheyron from the Besadii—or House Anjiliac does not get along with the other clans. And if the latter is indeed true, then you would not at all be averse to a changing of the guard, so to speak."

"Enough riddles. Speak clearly."

He does not deny it. So it is true: These Hutts and the other powerful families are at odds. "After my defeat on Mandalore by the Separatists, the other Hutt families disappointed me greatly by running back to their hovels," says Maul. "I am sure a strong leader such as yourself would see the weakness in such cowardice. Perhaps what Hutt Space truly needs, therefore, is a strong leader. A central leader. A single leader."

"You?"

"No. You."

Gorgosa bursts out laughing. "I am not so proud as to be blind to history, Sith," he says. "It has been thousands upon thousands of years since the Hutt Empire last fell. Uniting the clans is a fool's gambit."

"Then it should not be up to fools to do it," says Maul. "The Sith have fallen time and time again throughout history, and still we stand. And it does not need to be the Hutts alone uniting their own. Look to my companions: To you I would offer the services of Black Sun, of the Pyke Syndicate, of Crimson Dawn. The power of the Hutts has always laid with their allies, and yet those allies now follow me. They could follow you, too."

"They could. 'Will' is a far more difficult proposition."

Maul shakes his head. "Not so. My plan is simple. Look to my friends: My allies in the Pyke Syndicate can wield their dominance in the spice trade and the black market to wage unrestricted economic warfare against the other Hutt clans. My friends in Black Sun—" he indicates the menacing-looking Falleen warriors behind Savage—"will use their intelligence network to disrupt the clans' supply lines and information exchanges, blinding and deafening them and leaving them isolated. As their credits dwindle and their weaknesses multiply, we will draw their former allies to our side. And, of course, to any single voice of theirs that may speak against us too strongly, well…" he puts a hand on Savage's shoulder, draws his own lightsaber, and ignites it. "They can be silenced."

"In exchange for what? You don't offer a deal like that without a hefty return."

"Hefty, yes. But a return that could enrich you greatly," says Maul. "I need your soldiers. Your saboteurs, your assassins, your bounty hunters, your warriors. I need fighting men and fighting spirits."

"For what? To fight the Jedi? To retake Mandalore?"

"No," Maul says. "Perhaps in time I will clash with the Jedi, but I am sure one of your intelligence can see which ways the winds blow in the war. The Separatists are winning. The Jedi and the Republic have their hands full, and in turn, the Separatists are focused on the attack. Their border with Hutt Space is only lightly defended." He presses his fingertips together and smiles. "I will lead your men as I set out into Separatist space and set the Confederacy on fire from here all the way to Raxus. And I will send that pretender Dooku a message: That there is only one Lord of the Sith. Me."

Gorgosa turns his head as he considers the offer. Then he grins. "A bold plan. Too bold for most Hutts," he says. "But I like it. You will have your men. Let us burn all our foes to cinders."

And Maul feels it then, the Force awash: The seeds of triumph. Of revenge. Of lordship. Only one can wear a crown. For whatever Gorgosa the Hutt is, he understands this. And so long as he fights, Maul will usher him towards his throne.

It is easy to forget the war on Coruscant. There is no sign of the rationing that has hurt the Republic's Rim holdings. No slowing of the all-day and all-night hustle-and-bustle that electrifies this city-world. Even war refugees do not look out of place. There are so many urban poor on Coruscant, millions upon millions scattered everywhere from the sky-facing upper levels to the lowest, filthiest zones of the cityscape where only devils dare tread and from which the stars shy away. No planet has ever seemed so stagnant, so unmoving in all its movement. It as if Coruscant has always been here, alive, full, equal parts civilized and barbaric. As if it was not settled and built up over ancient eons but instead set down from cosmic firmament, an ecumenopolis out of nothing, no beginning and no end. Yet even here, if one opens their eyes and looks away from the day-to-day business, the war still looms overhead.

In this case it is not so much overhead as in directly ahead as Anakin pilots a civilian airspeeder through the Senate District's leisure zone. Just beyond an aerial intersection rises a ten-story-high floating billboard with a news broadcast (5445 News—trusted from Coruscant to Wild Space!) with the newly-named Grand Admiral Tarkin's face plastered in neon and electric piping for everyone to see. "For too long this war has focused on preventing the worst of the Separatist Alliance's atrocities and engaging for a diplomatic end to the fighting, but the fall of Taris and Mandalore and more neutral worlds declares that diplomacy has failed," Tarkin announces to the news. "In my first order as Grand Admiral of the Republic Navy, I am launching a full invasion of Separatist territories all along the Galactic South. To capitalize on my victory at Thyferra, I will muster our forces and liberate unjustly-occupied worlds held by the Separatists from Yag'Dhul all the way up the Rimma Trade Route to Sullust. We will have victory! The Republic will triumph!"

In the backseat of the airspeeder, Fives scoffs. "Sounds a lot harder than it'll actually be, what with all the Separatist forces concentrated along Galactic North and West after losing Thyferra."

"Fives!" Rex scolds from the passenger seat besides Anakin. "That's a commanding officer you're speaking about."

"Relax, Rex, we're technically not on duty," says Anakin. "That being said, Fives, I think Tarkin's right. Even if the Separatists have pulled most of their fleets out of that area, we need a morale booster right now. A few quick victories will keep our Rim worlds from wavering in their loyalties."

"Why announce it though, sir?" Rex asks. "It's not like the Separatists can't see public news."

"Shock and awe. It'll hit them all the harder when they lose even when they're prepared."

Fives sounds aggravated. "I think it's for PR," he says. "Tarkin has his shiny new title and he's riding the goodwill after Thyferra. Goes out and gets some easy victories while our boys are stuck fighting the real battles. He looks good, we don't. Holonews can talk him up like a hero."

"All right, that's enough, soldier," says Rex.

Anakin shakes his head. He won't bother countermanding him. "For what it's worth, I trust Tarkin. The man had Thyferra in the bag from before the battle even started. Besides, he's not the one downplaying the Jedi and the armies and criticizing us for recent losses. That's the media and the Senate. Blame them if you want someone to blame."

Fives sighs. "If you say so sir."

Anakin veers out of the traffic lanes and breaks over a flashing neon green sign (Death Sticks! Dancing Dianogas! Only at Daruna's Den!) As he dips into the urban canyons of the leisure ward the silver-gloss shine of the Senate District fades and the rough, rusty center of Coruscant grows all around, the nobility and pride diminishing into rivers of free-flowing credits and debauchery. Even senators need to blow off steam. "Tell me about this guy Director Isard's sending us to meet," Anakin says as he pivots over a heavy freighter wandering through traffic like a bantha. "Falco. Clone commando. Or a former commando, Isard said. Didn't know our troops were already retiring."

"Commandos, ah, work a little differently, sir," says Rex. "They train in groups of four from birth. They bond like brothers, and they fight as teams of four. When one dies, they don't replace them; just keep fighting as a smaller team until one's left. Or until none are left."

"And then? If one survives?"

"Then he's phased out of active service. A commando losing all three of his brothers is…well, it breaks him in a way that even our training and our genetics can't hold back. Doesn't help that commandos are bred to have more…flexible…personalities than most of us. Anyway, he's no longer deemed fit for duty, so he's phased out into a desk job or some other non-combat role. Some break so badly they can't even do work—they end up hospitalized after going mad from loss."

"Huh. Dunno if that's harsh or forgiving," says Anakin. "But this guy's working as an intel agent."

"Guess it's at least far from the battlefront," says Fives. "Doesn't have to be reminded of battle droids."

Anakin shrugs as the radar indicates he's nearing Isard's warehouse. "Well, whatever. As long as this Falco points us in the right direction it won't matter."

Isard's warehouse is located behind the gaudiest, flashiest brothel that Anakin is sure can possibly be legal in this part of Coruscant. Half-naked—and that's putting it mildly—employees of several species strut about outside beneath enough electric lightning to make a black hole glow. Fives laughs as they pass. "Wouldn't mind having a look."

"That's the kind of thing I didn't need to know," Rex says.

Anakin chuckles. "Ah, man's gotta let loose somehow. Sorry to disappoint, though, but we're going around the back. Try not to get too distracted, Fives."

The warehouse is a corrugated steel squat building so ordinary that Anakin almost misses it. The inside looks vacant to the point that he considers for a moment if he's come to the wrong place: Inside is only dust and spiderwebs and a few shipping containers scattered about. "Anyone home?" says Rex.

Anakin puts a finger to his lips and concentrates. Reach out with the Force. There—something stirs in a container beside the right wall. He taps it with his knuckles, receives no reply, and puts his hand to the metal. Ah: A lock. Focusing, Anakin loosens the mechanism, sets the door free, and looks inside the container. Greeting him is a door in the floor that slides open with a wave of his hand, revealing a staircase that runs down to an elevator. "Crafty," says Fives as he looks in.

"Guess Isard does do security and privacy for his people who matter," says Anakin, thinking back to the decidedly-ordinary state of the Senate Bureau's headquarters. "Fives, stay out here in cover and make sure no one comes by. Rex, with me. Let's go see if our man's down below. Or wherever this elevator takes us."

The lift closes with a hiss and rumbles down at least three stories, by Anakin's estimation. When it hits the bottom it opens up into a cozy vestibule with a blaster-scarred suit of clone commando armor set up on a display along with a wall-mounted modular commando rifle. A door at the far end of the antechamber opens and a tall, burly man that Anakin instantly identifies as a clone walks out. The usual dark hair, powerful build, strong jaw. Something else, too: A severe burn mark surrounds the man's left eye, and socketed is a bright blue cybernetic oculus in stark contrast to his natural brown eye on the other side. Scars of battle. Of loss. "General Skywalker. Captain Rex," says the clone. "In here. Shut the door behind you."

"You Falco?" says Anakin, following the clone into a larger rear chamber. A cot is settled to the left beneath a potted plant mounted on a wall hanger. At the center of the room is a holoprojector, no doubt needed for communicating with Armand Isard. Beyond that along the rear wall is a series of papers and maps stitched together into an impressive collage, complete with handwritten notes and stickied missives in all manner of bright colors. It's like an art project combined with an intelligence analyst's brief.

"I am," says the clone. "Formerly RC—ah, screw it. Falco. Director Isard said you were coming."

"Been working with him long?" says Anakin, eying the far wall.

"No. Not too long."

"How'd you get into his employ?"

He spots Rex's look of caution a second after he's said the words. Falco's face dips into shadow and he looks away. "Squad got killed on Belderone. I was the only survivor. Had to extract myself," he says. "Command retired me and Isard's people recruited me. I didn't have anything better to do."

"Oh. Sorry. Sounds..."

"Painful. Don't be sorry, Jedi," Falco says with a viciousness to his tone. "Two of your kind got my brothers killed. Jedi Knight and her apprentice botched an exfil and we had to cover for 'em. Hope it did them some good."

"That's not General Skywalker's fault, soldier," says Rex, his eyes glancing to Anakin as if to preach patience with the man.

Falco sighs. "No. Guess not. Apologies," he says. He walks up to the collage of intelligence briefs and taps one of them. "You're here for the Dantooine connection."

"We are," says Anakin.

"Look here then," Falco says, pointing to the tangle of briefs. "Two-ish weeks ago another agent handed off a list of odd bank transactions by a Dantooine senate liaison named Korotono Sem. Big sums going back and forth over the course of months to an account oddly held by the Zaltin Bacta Company. What's Dantooine need bacta for? Well, they've been hit once or twice by Seppie attacks, but nothing crazy. Not enough to need that much bacta."

"That's the account we saw receiving the credits back on Thyferra," murmurs Rex. "The one sending kyber crystals."

Falco nods. "Yeah. Funny thing, though—transactions were going on from here, big ones, before the Zaltin account was noticed. The first transactions date back to shortly after the Second Battle of Geonosis, interestingly enough."

"Almost two years ago," Anakin breathes.

"Right. And there were two worlds that were transacting with this Dantooine account back then—first one was on Jedha, but then it abruptly stopped about six months ago. The second is on Dantooine itself, and it's still active."

"So there might be a Tath installation on Dantooine, too," says Anakin. "Not just Thyferra. Any other accounts?"

"Yeah, one real recent one from Ilum, of all places," says Falco. "Not much activity from that yet, though. Story gets weirder, however. Every exchange received by the Dantooine liaison's account doesn't end there. This guy, Sem, he sends whatever he receives to an encrypted location in the Industrial District. I found the location—it's an old, abandoned transparisteel forge. Old mass-production sort of place. Now I holed up there for a couple days and two days ago saw a couple speeders coming in and out from there. Abandoned, why'd there be speeders? Not construction crew. Nope: There was some sort of clandestine hand-off going on."

Anakin scowls. "Hand-off between who?"

"Couldn't get a good look; they had security. Tight security. But I did intercept a signals transmission from one of the airspeeders immediately after the meeting broke up. When I threw it to our coding boys, they came up with a strange hit just this morning: The Dantooine senator himself. Ranis Sandral."

Anakin swears. "I knew it. I told Isard."

"Hold on," says Falco. "I cross-referenced Sandral's schedule this coming week to his past schedules over the last year. Two days from now, right in the evening, he has a scheduled leave period that curiously is identical to the kind he put in his schedule when I staked out the abandoned forge. Also, yesterday the liaison's financial account had another incoming sell order come in from their Dantooine source."

"So what's your thinking? They're getting ready to meet about another big exchange?" says Rex.

"That's exactly my thinking. You're a Jedi, Skywalker. You can get around what I can't, I'm guessing. And if we go in numbers rather than just me alone, we can coordinate to keep security off our backs."

Anakin is only half-listening at this point. Dantooine. Jedha. Ilum. All worlds with naturally-occurring kyber crystals in droves. Whoever is behind this—what are they using kyber crystals for? It's exactly the same thought as he had back on Empress Teta when breaking into Ternon Tath's estate, and, frustratingly, he has gotten no closer to figuring out the motive here, even as he's followed the trail. "Two days? In the evening?"

"That's what I said," says Falco.

"All right. We're going to be there for this meeting, then," Anakin says. "Give us the coordinates to that forge, Falco, and since you've been there, I want you to come along. Rex, you too. And I might just bring some company on the Jedi front. Either way, I'm not letting this lead run dry. Not when I feel so close to figuring this out."

"Look at what you've done. You're going to ruin everything. Mother's on my case now and she's not ever going to let up."

Tamri grits her teeth as Yurica Tath slaps her hard across the face. There's nothing she can do: After all, she's the one strapped down on an exam table with her limbs hardly functional. "Blame your mother, then, not me."

"What did you say? Don't give me that lip," Yurica snaps as she swats at Tamri again. "Mother takes a sample of your bone marrow, says it's perfect, and then starts yelling at me for not doing my due diligence, or whatever. You're not even a powerful Jedi. You're not that important."

Important enough for Hosha Tath's needs, Tamri supposes. It's two days—Tamri thinks, based on quick glances at computers—since her ominous meeting with Hosha, and Yurica has been nothing if not foul ever since. All the while Tamri has tried her best to find some way out of this mess. Perhaps a letdown period in the drugs they're pumping into her, or a security flaw in her prison's doors, or a way to deactivate the shock drone in her cell so that she can try and use the Force to wiggle out the intravenous line. So far her efforts have come up wanting. But she can't give up; she has to try. Anything's better than giving up and throwing herself to Yurica Tath's mercy, because Tamri doubts that the Arkanian even knows the concept.

Well, at least Tamri can irritate her. The little things. "Got tired of hitting Kesh?" Tamri says as Yurica scowls at a computer. "Switched to me?"

"Next test I'm cutting out your tongue. I need your blood, not your voice," Yurica spits.

"Go ahead. You'll probably mess it up."

The Arkanian growls and grabs a vial full of blood as Kesh enters the room. "Sedate her and take her back to her cell. I have to work on this," she spits at the Selkath. "Hurry up about it. And come back to me afterwards."

Kesh bows her head. "Of course, Mistress."

"Don't 'of course' me. Just do it. Go. Get on it."

Then Yurica is gone, and Kesh looks over her shoulder with huge eyes. Tamri can feel an anxiousness in the Selkath woman, an uncertainty, as if standing on the brink. She's prodded Kesh here and there in her imprisonment, and everything so far tells her she'll have better luck with the assistant than with Yurica. "Better cart me back to my dungeon, then," Tamri yawns. "Wouldn't want your boss to get mad and hit you again."

This time, however, Kesh doesn't answer her. The Selkath taps away at a computer console, throwing furious glances at the door now and then. Tamri frowns. "Hello?"

"Quiet."

"I'm just making conversation. I don't have anything better to do. Knock me out if you don't want to listen. Maybe I can at least have some sweet dreams."

Kesh finishes on the computer. A clunk sounds from the door—a lock activating. Tamri's heart skips, and her heartbeat picks up as Kesh fills a needle and sticks it into the IV line. "Hey, wait," Tamri says. "I didn't mean that. I'll be quiet."

"Stop. Shh," urges Kesh. She tosses the needle away and glances at the computer readouts. "You're a Jedi. Yes?"

"Wha—yeah. Why does that—ow!"

Pinpricks jab at her feet and hands. Heat spiderwebs across her fingers and toes. Tamri looks down, breathing hard. What is she doing? "Hold on," Kesh says quietly as she returns to her computer. "Just a minute."

"What?"

"Just a minute."

"What are you doing?"

Bit by bit Tamri can feel her extremities again. She tries to wiggle her toes, flick her fingers, and as she looks down she can see movement. Not much, but a little—progress. Kesh yanks the IV line out from her collar, bandages it, and runs a hand over Tamri's arm. "Can you move it okay?"

"A little. Now Yurica's going to be really mad at you."

"I don't care what she wants," says Kesh. She looks frantic, her skin looking a particularly pale shade of aquatic blue. "They're going to find me out any day now."

"What? Who? Find what?"

Kesh looks back to the computer. Back to Tamri. "I'm—I'm working for someone else. But they're on to me. My cover's not going to last much longer. A day or two, maybe. I have to leave. But not out the main way. Yurica already barely trusts me, and the guards…can you move? Wiggle your toes."

"I can wiggle my toes. Can you slow down and explain things?" says Tamri. "I'm the test subject, here. I can't do much of anything unless you tell me what you want."

"I—do you want to leave? I have to leave. I have to get out of here before they figure me out. I'm taking you. If you want to."

"Wha—yeah, I want to leave. I don't know anything about this place except that it's on Telos. What's your plan? Why do you want me?"

Kesh blinks. "You're a Jedi; you can do Jedi things. I need someone. My plan is just to go."

Blazes. Just when she thought she was in luck. Tamri sighs. "This is already going as well as Mirial."

"What?"

"Never mind. Is there somewhere like a vent or a garbage chute? Somewhere that leads out of…wherever this is?"

Kesh stalls. "The only unsecured exit is the sewage line."

"The poop chute? Really?" says Tamri. Her hands are working. Her feet kick when she kicks. Good. Maybe Kesh isn't messing with her head. "Stars above. I hope people are holding it today."

"Oh, damn," says Kesh, looking at the computer. "Here, get on the gurney."

"What? Don't tell me you changed your mind."

"No, just get on. Security is coming around. Just stick with me."

"Well, I'm a little concerned…"

"Trust me. Okay?"

Fat load of that. But Kesh looks frantic at this rate and Tamri knows that, the Selkath researcher aside, she'll have no other real chance at escape. She has to take her opportunities as they come, no matter how bad they are. Besides, with how much Yurica Tath wants her blood, the worst they'll do is recapture her, and then she'll be in no worse a position than she already is in. If Kesh dies, oh well.

Still, she consents to letting Kesh drag her back atop the gurney and strap her down. "Just play along. There's a facilities maintenance area on the way to the cell," says Kesh. "Don't say anything. Pretend the paralysis drug is still working."

"Whatever you say. What a fun day this is turning into," Tamri sighs.

Kesh wheels her out of the labs, peeks down the corridor, and pushes her forward when the coast is clear. Down one hall, then the next. Then she stops as an Echani guard armed with a rifle holds up his hand as he looks their way. "Researcher Shurroth," he says.

"Uh—yes?" stammers Kesh.

"Director Tath wants you. She's in the pulmonary research wing."

"Yes, she wanted me to take the Force-sensitive subject back first. I'll be right there."

"See that you do. She sounded impatient. Don't want any skin off my back," the Echani growls, but he lets Kesh past and wanders down the corridor out of sight.

Kesh lets out a long breath. "Bloody hell. Idiots," she mutters. "Just stay quiet, Jedi. A little further."

Kesh wheels the gurney to a sliding door, shoves Tamri in, and locks it behind them. "In here," she says, unbinding the straps that secure Tamri. "Please tell me you can get up."

Tamri struggles to get upright, groaning as she works her hands, arms, legs. "What happens now?" she says, looking around. They're in a dark, dusky room with a number of pipes veering down from a central axis and splitting off into the walls.

"They're going to know what happened in a minute or two on the feeds," says Kesh, removing a panel from the central piping network. "This pipe slopes down into sewage collection. It can lead us out. If we're lucky."

"If we're lucky? Really?"

Kesh bends down the bottom of the gurney and rises with a scalpel in hand. "Here."

"A scalpel?"

"You're a Jedi, right? You fight with laser swords?" says Kesh. "That's the best thing I could find for a weapon."

"By the—I don't know what holovids you've been watching," says Tamri, exasperated. It's something, she guesses. She hops off of the gurney and stumbles, her knees still sluggish as she only just catches herself. "What happens when they find out what happened?"

"They have an artificial intelligence that regulates security," says Kesh, looking into the hole in the pipe made from the panel she removed. "It'll pinpoint our location and they'll send security immediately."

"How bad's the security?"

"The best of them are Echani commandos. They'll kill us."

Great. This was a well-thought-out plan. "Well—amazing," says Tamri. "Don't tell me this pipe is a straight drop. I'd rather not break my legs."

"It's a slope. It ends in the collection chamber near the bottom of the facility."

"So the cesspool. So we fall into a pit of sh—"

"Just hurry up," says Kesh, slipping into the pipe. "Now!"

Of all the escape plans, this has to be the worst Tamri's ever tried. Sae would be laughing at her. "Fine. Great. Here we go. May the Force be with me."

She half-steps, half-lurches into the sewage pipe with her legs only just beginning to come back to life. The slope Kesh described is little more than a slick, treacherous drop that angles only the slightest bit down, however, and as soon as Tamri enters she tumbles onto her rear and hurtles down the pipe, tucking the scalpel Kesh gave her into her palm in fear of stabbing herself. The air rushes around her; the smell intensifies into a noxious wind. Then the pipe vomits her out into a pitch-black opening and it is all she can do to reach out with the Force, slow her descent, and fall, splashing, into a vat of the foulest-smelling liquid she has ever encountered.

"You okay?" says Kesh out of the darkness.

"Oh, stars, no," says Tamri. She holds her nose trying to keep out the smell, the stench so bad it brings her to tears. "Oh, it's wet. This is worse than Nar Shaddaa."

"Come on, Jedi, we need to keep going."

"First off, it's not Jedi, it's Tamri. Secondly, why didn't whoever you're really working for give you a better escape option?"

Kesh doesn't answer. Through the Force Tamri can feel her in front of her, close in the black. "Got it," says Kesh. "Here."

"Where?"

"Here. Right here."

The Selkath pushes open a grate and light slips into the sewage chamber. Tamri scampers out into the open, looks down at herself, and nearly vomits. "I sincerely hope we're going somewhere with a shower."

"There's a speeder garage not far from here," says Kesh. She draws a handheld hold-out blaster from her lab cloak and approaches the door of the maintenance closet they've dropped into. "I might need you to do your Jedi things once we've reached there, though."

"That's the plan?"

Kesh opens the door, peeks out, and quickly closes it. "Guard."

"How many?"

"Just one. His back is turned, but…"

"Let me see," says Tamri. Her body is working again, and she feels strong enough to make a run for it, if that's what the situation requires. She tightens her grip on her scalpel, approaches the door, and peeks out.

Just one guard, as Kesh said. An Echani, tall, white-haired, lithe, a vibroblade strapped to his belt. Tamri sucks in a breath. A blade. It's not a lightsaber, but it's a start. They have to get out of here—if Kesh is right about security, they'll be alerted any minute now. "Don't move," Tamri hisses to Kesh. Then she steps out into the hallway, looks around to ensure she's alone, and approaches the guard.

Immediately the hallway security lights blare. Red emergency lighting takes over as emergency speakers declare, "Subject containment breached. Breach in upper-level containment. Security personnel report to emergency stations."

The guard turns about as Tamri is two steps from him. Their eyes meet. He gasps and reaches for his sword.

Tamri is faster. Her body has wilted in captivity but her Jedi training has not, and she jumps at the Echani with her scalpel raised. Before he can block she digs the blade into his throat, opening his carotid. Blood gushes. The guard opens his mouth. She plants her palm over it, stabbing again, this time at his weapon arm. He quivers. She closes her eyes. She's done this before—killed—but it is never easy. And with a lightsaber it is quick, clean. Just a burn. This is horrid. Brutal. Savage. Uncivilized.

But she hangs on until he stops moving, until he is just another dead body and her arm is covered in blood all the way to her elbow. All her Jedi combat training at work. This isn't the first time in her young life. Killer. Murderer. Would Sae approve? Does it matter?

"Oh, no," says Kesh as she steps out and sees Tamri covered in the guard's blood. "Are you—"

"I'm fine," murmurs Tamri, unstrapping the guard's blade and holding it up. A fine weapon. Razor-sharp. The hilt equipped with a vibration generator to increase its potency, its lethality. She'll carve through man and armor alike. "Where's this garage?"

"It's a few hallway blocks from here," says Kesh. "Just this way, this—"

She stops mid-sentence as another Echani guard rounds the bend with a blaster pistol in hand. He sees his comrade, dead. Sees Kesh. Sees Tamri.

Tamri raises the vibroblade and drops into her lightsaber stance. The emergency lights glint off of the perfect steel. She feels it now, feels it deep in her heart: These people kept her captive, performed experiments on her, took her blood for what reason only the stars know. They treated her like an animal. Like a subject. She should be angry.

And she is angry.