The situation is concerning, to say the least. Bimmisaari is a nothing of a world, a humble dustball flying through the trash-strewn Outer Rim sectors bordering Hutt Space. Still, it is a Separatist world. And Dooku will not tolerate Hutt raiders unleashing nuclear winter upon one of his planets, even the humblest of them. "This is an unprecedented show of force by them," he murmurs as he reviews the after-action reports from Bimmisaari's blasted surface. "Hutts openly attacking our worlds. Brave. Brave, but foolish."

The Separatist Council gathers about him in holographic form, all these corporate leaders and commercial stooges and office-sitters. They know not the sacrifices Dooku must make to keep this war tilted in the Confederacy's favor. They do not understand battle. They do not even care for individual worlds. All they see is profit, credit transfers, arbitrage, risk management—utterly useless beings, if they weren't financing this war. It is their battle droid factories and shipyards Dooku cares about. If not for those, he would've cut them all down long ago.

Now their words grate on him just as much as they did back before this war had formally begun. "Officially, Count, various Hutt clans have claimed Bimmisaari as their own for decades," Passel Argente, the Magistrate of the Corporate Alliance, purrs as he looks over the data from the battle. In Dooku's eyes, the corrupt Argente is as repulsive in holographic form as he is in the flesh, especially given the way the suspicious corporate leader's holo-form flashes and shimmers as he whips his head this way and that to eye his fellow Council members, as if to spot some hidden detail he can use against them in a backroom deal. "The world produces little of value. Should the Hutts not follow this up with any further incursion, what would be the problem if we simply…ignore this?"

"What would be the problem?" Dooku mutters. Ungrateful scum. This is his empire they speak of. Each and every world of it is his, no matter how insignificant. And Argente has the gall to speak as if he holds some commanding position—disgusting. They're even worse than the Separatist Senate, these moneyed slugs. Dooku allows them to speak. He can take that permission away any time he so chooses. "The problem is showing weakness, Magistrate. The Hutts will smell it and grow bold if we do not answer with boldness of our own."

"To be fair, Count Dooku, it is worth it to divert our forces from invading the Expansion Region? The Hutts are known for their cowardice. I surmise that economic force, not physical or military, will put them in their place," Nute Gunray blathers.

Of course he would spout such nonsense. "We cannot keep this in the dark, Gunray. The Separatist Senate already knows of Bimmisaari's fate. The Bimm senator, Okuni Kasi, has already sent me a plea for action," says Dooku.

"One noisy senator is no concern. I could have my people remove him at your word."

It is an appetizing offer. Kasi has been a thorn in Dooku's side for too long, even if Dooku has typically ignored Raxus's motions and legislations. The last thing he can afford is for the civilian side of the Confederacy to grow restless. It's the peace at home that allows him to move his fleets about the galaxy with full confidence that nearly the entire Outer Rim spanning the civilized Galactic North is under his control, save for a few holdouts such as Dantooine. If the thousands of Separatist worlds feel that Dooku will not protect them, then they will throw their lot behind anyone who will—Hutts, the Republic, anyone. The moment Dooku must watch his back is the moment that his ceaseless assault against the Republic's positions comes screeching to a halt.

And if a new front is opening along the border with Hutt Space, he might get that same outcome regardless of what he does. But an even worse possibility comes to mind: If the Republic learns of this and begins using Hutt Space to launch lightning attacks into the Confederacy's soft underbelly, Dooku's entire imperial dream will be imperiled. "No, Viceroy. This time I will answer the Senate's cries," says Dooku. "I will show our own people that we will not tolerate attacks. I will show our enemies that we respond to their own rash actions with indomitable strength."

"Can we really afford this?" Shu Mai, the diminutive Gossam president of the Commerce Guild, bleats. "And for a world like Bimmisaari? Already reports have come in that Yag'Dhul has fallen to a Republic attack."

"Beyond our entrenched positions at Sullust and Sluis Van, we evacuated most of our critical infrastructure from the Rimma Trade Route. It is of no concern," says Dooku. "Let the Republic think they are winning. Let them overextend their fleets into the Galactic South and leave their vulnerable positions ripe for our taking. We will concentrate our forces and strike them where they are not."

Techno Union Foreman Wat Tambor lets out an electronic cry. "But—My Lord—if we will not defend our positions—"

"I did not say that, Foreman, I said that we will allow the Republic worthless victories," Dooku growls. These simpering creatures have spoken for long enough. Time to tell them how it will be—by Dooku's command, not by theirs. "The Rimma Trade Route is under too much pressure to hold. I will redouble our efforts in our current offensives against the Republic. You have my word that I will not pull any of our defensive fleets to deal with the situation at Bimmisaari or to issue the Hutts reprisal."

"Then—"

Dooku cuts off Gunray's protest with his hand. "I will send one of my new apprentices to deal with this threat. Taron Malicos will show the Hutts that the Sith do not bargain with their kind. He will offer them our answer for their attack. You can be assured that your worlds will remain safe, and the Senate will be placated. We will not falter after one attack. The Sith do not fear our lessers."

He does not allow the Council time to answer. Instead Dooku switches off the comm, leans back in his seat, and sighs. The burning of Bimmisaari was sudden, unforeseen. That is what truly concerns him—not that it happened, but that he had no forewarning. He cannot let something like this happen even once more. His empire cannot afford it. Sidious's plan for Sith rule was based on foresight and meticulous planning, and Dooku must be just as adept, just as wise, as his former master. No—he must be better. Far, far better—for all it took was a little foresight of his own to crash Sidious's grand plan in a single bloody night on Mandalore.

And if it is insight he needs, then he knows where to get it. He will see the Celestial again. It is his spear against the uncertain future, and it has the answers he seeks. It will give the future to him, just as it has before. It must.

The quiet of Padme's Naboo courier unnerves Anakin. He is used to the loud, restless sort of hyperspace endemic to the war: The gut-churning groaning of star destroyer reactors, the metallic insect-buzzing of starfighter hyperdrives. The chatter of soldiers and sailors preparing for battle. The conferences with officers and captains, planning attacks, setting strategies. Everything in motion, every minute used. So much alive. This, by comparison, feels so silent, so still. The ship is like a tern gliding into the blue-sky vortex of hyperspace, graceful, even dainty. The hull doesn't so much as vibrate. He wants to swing his lightsaber about if only to shake off his nerves, but even then there's nowhere to do so in such a small ship.

At least he can still shout: "Gah!"

From her adjacent cockpit seat, Padme snaps her head around. "Whoa. Something the matter?"

"No, it's, uh…we're coming out at Dantooine soon," says Anakin, rubbing his neck. Maybe he should've tried meditation instead of scaring his wife. "It's nothing."

"Sounded a little more dramatic than 'nothing,'" says Padme, leaning over on the edge of her seat. "Care to share?"

He exhales slowly. "I'm just…thinking."

Padme chuckles and feigns applause. "That's a good start."

"Stop it," Anakin says, but he says with a laugh of his own. Quickly, however, his smile fades. "Just thinking—if the chancellor wasn't gone—missing, whatever—wouldn't he be able to shut this whole sort of thing down? Corrupt senators, all that. He leads the Senate. There'd be no need for us to come running out here to see what's the matter."

"Chancellor Palpatine's not a magician. He can't point at someone, say 'don't be corrupt,' and make it so," says Padme. Her voice lowers. "Really, though, we need to face facts. We haven't seen the chancellor in some time. That's not normal. With no word about his whereabouts, not even a clue to go by, it's more likely than not that he's gone."

"Gone? So dead?"

Padme looks away. She puts a hand on Anakin's arm and says, "Ani, you were closer to him than anyone. He looked at you like a mentee. If he didn't tell you anything at all about a leave of absence this long, then odds are it wasn't planned. A kidnapper would've issued demands. A terrorist would've used Palpatine to demoralize the Republic. Even the Separatists would've used him in some way if they had him, or if they'd killed him. Instead we have silence. Silence and absence."

"He wouldn't just leave. He was—he is—a good man, Padme."

"I know."

"He's served the Republic faithfully. He's guided us through this war. And it feels like everyone and everything's just going about normally even though he's gone," says Anakin. "It's just not right to me. We should throw everything we have into searching for him."

Padme shakes her head. "People have been searching. His offices, the Senate, all over Coruscant. Nothing. We have nowhere to go. And we're not just going about things normally."

"What do you mean?"

Padme takes a breath. "Senator Burtoni—"

"Oh, not her."

"This time she might be on to something. She wants to put together a coalition of senators large enough to get around Vice Chair Amedda and get a new chancellor into office. Someone who can get the Republic back on track. Maybe even someone who can put us on a path to a diplomatic resolution with the Separatists. End this war with words, not with weapons. That's why I originally told you to get in contact with Armand Isard. We need to know what we're working with."

Anakin scoffs. "It won't work."

"We have to try. We can't just throw up our hands and call it a day."

"Won't be the same," Anakin says. "We're doing badly enough in this war as it is. We need someone strong. Chancellor Palpatine's that. It's like someone stabbed the Republic right in the heart, and we don't even know where to stab back. I'm sorry. It's just frustrating, not being able to do anything but wait." He clenches his jaw and stares out into hyperspace. "Forget it. Just—forget it. We're coming out at Dantooine."

Padme grabs his hand atop the hyperspace lever. "We still have you," she says with a smile. "It'll work out."

He grins. "I guess we'll see."

Then he pulls the lever, draws them out of hyperspace, and plunges them into chaos.

The black of space rushes to meet the little ship, and with it surges forward a hundred laser bolts slicing through the darkness. Ships are everywhere; starfighters, frigates, even a star destroyer pummeling away at a trio of Separatist patrol craft firing at its port battery. From behind Anakin, C-3PO shouts in surprise: "Ah! A battle!"

"Yes, we can see that, Threepio," Anakin says, grabbing the throttle and jamming it forward. "R2, plug into the engineering jack and give me all power to the engines!"

Padme's face is pale. "What? What are the Separatists doing here?"

"How about we figure that out when we're not in an unarmed ship in the middle of the action?" Anakin says.

He throws the thrusters to full power and jets through the combat. Republic and Separatist ships engage in a melee at knife-fight range, the vessels pouring fire on so close that their point defense cannons don't even bother to engage missiles and fighters but instead slam away at their capital ship opponents. Padme's frantic attempt to hail the star destroyer goes without answer. Fat chance of getting through to them, Anakin things—they have a little more to worry about than one diplomatic courier zipping through the fight. He jerks the throttle left and banks hard towards the Venator, jetting along the port hull of its command tower as three starfighters blip on his radar, coming fast along his rear.

"Fighters," Padme says, fingers aglide along the console.

"I know, I know," Anakin says. "Hold on to something. I'm burning for the surface."

R2 whistles as the ship's engines roar. A pair of Z-95s swoop in on the droid fighters, blasting one and forcing the other two into evasive maneuvers. Everything in front of him now. Anakin clenches his hands in a death grip on the throttle as Dantooine rises green and huge. A Consular-class corvette rushes past the viewscreen, dorsal turbolaser unloading on an unseen foe, and it is then that Anakin notices it—the visual that looks just out of place, a blur that shouldn't be for a Republic craft. There's no red. No Republic crimson striping these ships' hulls. Just durasteel grey the lot of them, as if the shipyards at Kuat and Rothana had pumped them out without bothering to paint them.

Stupid thought. He needs to focus. But at full speed he puts the battle behind them in seconds, roaring past the Republic ships that even now are making short work of the Separatist attackers. The Confederate force is little more than a few frigates and missile craft, all of them Trade Federation and older-model. Even the fighters are relics—not vulture droids these, but the Federation's old Scarab starfighters that predate even the Naboo crisis back when Padme was queen. It's nowhere near enough to take on a star destroyer and escorts. Almost as if they weren't expecting that.

And about those. Dantooine was only supposed to have a small picket squadron as an orbital defense. Where did a backwater Rim world behind Separatist lines come up with the credits to afford a star destroyer?

As if reading his thoughts, Padme leans back in her seat once they've passed out of the action, takes a long breath, and says, "I think we're going to have quite a few more questions for Dantooine's governor than I first thought we would."

"You got that right. This doesn't make sense," Anakin says as they hit the upper atmosphere and the viewscreen flares. "Whatever Senator Sandral was up to, it paid well enough to just fend off a Separatist attack. I'd like to know who was paying."

"And who else they've paid," murmurs Padme.

Indeed, thinks Anakin. And he thought this would be a quiet, sleepy trip out to a farming world. Maybe even a chance to get a few days of relaxation with Padme without the galaxy bearing down on him. So much for that. This war is following him everywhere.

It has been too long since Obi-Wan has seen the Jedi Council lively, or even optimistic. That streak is not ending today.

"Tarkin. Who does he think he is?" Master Stass Allie grumbles after Obi-Wan finishes recounting his and Bail Organa's attempted meeting with Orson Krennic. "And for all his talk about the offensive against the Separatists, he lets his men do the fighting and stays right here, safe on Coruscant."

"It is an apparently effective strategy," Master Plo Koon says. "Earlier today his forces pushed the Separatists off Yag'Dhul. They're making headway."

"Only because the Separatists evacuated most of their position."

"Even so, the Holonet is hailing his actions as 'heroic.' News outlets claim he is the 'practical leader the Republic needs in the wake of Palpatine's disappearance.' It's so laudatory, it's repulsive," Master Agen Kolar says. "Not a single Jedi with his fleet. All Sector Fleet and Judicial Forces ships. Not even that many clones. It's as if Tarkin is trying to make a statement."

Obi-Wan scratches his chin. "He was certainly making more than a statement to Senator Organa and me," he murmurs.

"Making a bid for greater power, Tarkin is," Yoda notes. The venerable Master of the Order looks all of his nine hundred years as he frets and places a hand to his forehead. "In a formidable opponent, the vice chair places his trust."

Mace Windu looks to him. "An opponent?"

"The swirl of the Dark Side, I feel," Yoda says, his eyes narrow. "To the precipice, Chancellor Palpatine's absence takes us. Vulnerable, we are. Leaderless. At power, many contenders grasp. The damage this struggle does, we have yet to see."

"Let's hope we don't see it," says Master Koon. "The Senate has contingencies in case of the chancellor's lengthy absence or death. But if Amedda is willing to shortcut protocol and anoint Tarkin with such military power, who is to say he won't offer political power to another? One who might likewise follow his direction?"

Windu shakes his head. "This vacuum of leadership, this void—it's drawing us to a place the Republic hasn't been in over a thousand years," he says. "During the Old Sith Wars, the Jedi took emergency control of the Senate. If the senators can't bring leadership back to the Republic, we may be forced to relive those times."

Master Jaro Tapal winces. "With the way public sentiment's shifting, people will never get aboard with that. They believe the aura being built around Tarkin. Every victory he wins from here on out will only build upon the legacy of our esteemed Grand Admiral."

"An aura, manufactured, might have been," Yoda points out. "But behind this public support, who is?"

"Do you think Count Dooku could be behind this? Manufacturing support as a plot against the Jedi?" Windu says. Without waiting for an answer, he looks to Obi-Wan and adds, "Something tells me that corruption case involving the Dantooine senator might be involved. Have you heard any word from Skywalker?"

"Nothing yet," Obi-Wan sighs. "Dantooine is a ways out on the Outer Rim."

Yoda points to Obi-Wan. "From the Outer Rim, Tarkin too hails. Eriadu, his home."

"And his offensive is full of ships from the Judicial Forces and Sector Fleets, most of which comprised men and women from the Mid Rim on out to the galactic fringe," Plo Koon notes. "Not a coincidence, that. Especially given that this war has hit the Rim the hardest. They are the ones suffering the most. They would be the quickest to rally behind a charismatic figure."

"And even quicker to rally behind one of their own," Obi-Wan says. "Amedda had to have known that when he picked Tarkin for this position."

"Tarkin was also governor of Eriadu prior to the war. He must have significant political connections in addition to his military expertise," points out Ki-Adi-Mundi.

Yoda closes his eyes. "Friends in the Senate, we have. Turn to them, we must. Hold tight to our allies, we must."

"That Director Krennic seemed particularly vulnerable in the minute or so Senator Organa and I had to talk to him. I'd wager there's something fishy up in that Special Weapons Group," says Obi-Wan. "I'll keep talking to him. We might be able to find another source, one who can actually shine light on just what's going in the heart of power."

"It is that heart of power we are shut out of," Yoda notes, "and the most concerning, that is. "Do not wait, Obi-Wan. A disturbance in the Force, I feel. A shift, this war has experienced. Coming, a transformation is."

We're all coming apart, thinks Obi-Wan. The Senate fracturing on its partisan lines. The military breaking into the old soldiers and the new. The public cheering on their new heroes. How many still stand with the Jedi? How long until the Jedi stand alone?

"Well, we have a plan. Sort of. It's the workings of a plan."

Tamri blinks. That doesn't sound promising at all. "A plan, or the workings of a plan?"

Kesh shrugs. "A little of both?"

Oh boy. Tamri leans against the trunk of one of the red-leafed trees outside of the inn and closes her eyes. There's no need to rush. You don't need to have everything figured out right now. You're not going to win the Clone Wars by yourself on Telos, after all. "What was the plan and/or workings of the plan, then?"

"It's like this," Kesh says. She brushes snow off of her shoulder. Precipitation has dwindled since the blizzard of their arrival, but still the snowflakes drift down from the sky in sluggish whirls, the grey-carpet sky ever unchanging here near the northern pole. "We need to get back into the Tath base, and now they know my credentials are shot, so it's not easy as walking in through the front door."

"Yeah, Avea made that clear when she was grousing," says Tamri. This whole deal of Avea trying to snag the Tath artificial intelligence sounds worse and worse every time she hears it—but she gave them her word. They helped her, so she will help them. Even if their plan is only the workings of a plan.

"Technically, there are other ways in," says Kesh.

"We sort of got out through the sewer. That has to lead somewhere. Can't we use that again?" says Tamri.

Kesh scrunches up her face, her facial mandibles pressing together. "I'd really rather not."

"If it's life and death—"

"It's not. There's something else," says Kesh. "The facility gets shipments in from the main spaceports—necessities and the like. Food. Power converters. Necessities. They come in via a maglev train that runs out from the nearest city. Barely a thirty-minute transit time. Thing is, the freight station the train makes its final loading stop at isn't run by the Taths, so it doesn't have their usual heavy security. It's run by the local Separatist authorities."

Tamri scoffs. "I'm sure they'd love to find out a Jedi's slipping into their terminal."

"Well, you…Avea said you didn't have a lightsaber, so they wouldn't know, right?"

Of course that was the first thing the Echani told Kesh. "Never mind. We'll make do, and I've shot at enough Separatist battle droids at this point in my life. Go on."

Kesh tilts her head. "How often are Jedi getting into fights? I know from the Holonet you do the battle-stuff, and all that—"

"I wasn't doing the 'battle-stuff' much. You still get into fights. It's just life. Forget I said anything. Just go on with the plan," says Tamri. It's easy to overlook the way people like Kesh see the Jedi. Force powers are alien to them, and when the only contact the vast majority of people have with the Jedi is via the Holonet's news blasts, it must seem as if every one of them is an Anakin Skywalker on the front lines, saving worlds and making heroics look easy. If only.

Does she even have a side? Manaan, her homeworld, is a Republic planet; Telos is Separatist territory. What does one do when caught in the middle like that? Oh well, thinks Tamri. Perhaps it doesn't matter. Kesh has treated her well so far. Tamri is in no mood to go driving her to the Separatist cause.

Kesh shrugs. "All right, then. The plan, roughly, was to get aboard the train at the station."

"And?"

"And we get aboard, then we get back into the base."

Tamri snorts. "That's it? That's the plan?"

"It works, right?"

"No, not even close. How do you get past the Separatist authorities? How do you evade identification checks? How do you stay hidden?"

"They have live-specimen containers. We can hide in one of those to bypass life-sign checks. As for the authorities, Telos is pretty light on that kind of thing. I don't think it'll be a problem."

Blazes, thinks Tamri. If only the Separatists weren't a problem. "Let's pretend we go along with this plan. When we get to—"

She stops mid-sentence. There—a tremor in the Force, strong enough that even she can feel it. They aren't alone. Tamri looks up towards the hill that rises behind the inn's hot springs and sees a red flash of light. She has just enough experience that she can recognize it for what it is: A targeting laser.

"Kesh!" she screams. She lunges at the Selkath and tackles her to the ground as a sniper bolt clips through where they were just standing.

Tamri tumbles away as another shot sizzles in the snow. "Get inside! Inside!"

"Where?" Kesh says.

"Just get inside, now!"

Tamri lunges forward, two more shots missing her by centimeters. As she runs, an upper-floor window in the inn opens, a rifle barrel sticks out, and a bug-zapper hiss cracks as a purple bolt lances out from the opening. Tamri looks over her shoulder to see a figure atop the hill crumple.

She crashes through a window and rolls to a stop inside as Kesh charges through the back door. From upstairs, Avea snarls, "What the hell did you do?"

Tamri stumbles out into the foyer. At the top of the stairs, Avea emerges with a battle rifle smoking from its barrel. "Jedi? Where's Kesh?"

"I'm here!" the Selkath stammers, stumbling out into the open. "What's going on?"

"Whole bag of baddies showing up. Got one approaching the front before I saw the problem out back while you to were having a nice chat," Avea snaps.

Tamri grabs her knees to catch her breath. "What are we looking at?"

"Tath assassins. Echani commandos. You shits didn't check your speeder bike for a tracker," Avea says. "Screw it, too late now. Listen: They'll focus fire on the inn's rear to draw us towards it while sending a team to storm the front. Then they'll set fire to the place while we're inside."

"Then let's get out of here!" Kesh says.

Tamri shakes her head. "No, they'll shoot us down outside in the open."

"Jedi's right. Get a gun and draw them in," says Avea. "Kesh, get that drone of yours up and have it sit in front of the door. Jedi, hope you can shoot."

"I need a weapon."

Avea beckons her up the stairs. "Right this way."

In a vacant room at the top of the stairs, Avea pries open a trunk and reveals a worn but sturdy-looking sharpshooter's rifle. Sleek, no-frills design. Glinting scope, sight from 2x to 20x, smoke-penetrating and laser-targeted. "No lightsabers, sorry. We ran out."

"I've shot battle droid rifles before. I can make it work," says Tamri, drawing the rifle and checking the magazine. "If they're attacking, why not just bomb the building? They could kill us all just like that."

"You're a Jedi. Rare. They'll be under orders to take you alive. Me and Kesh are expendable, though, so please don't get us killed."

"Sure, fine. Where do you want me?"

"I'll hold the rear. Cover the front. If they get in through the front, pull back to the top of the stairs and cover Kesh's drone. You'll know it when you see it," Avea says. She draws another weapon from the bottom of the trunk. "Here. In case things do get messy."

It's a gleaming vibroblade, thin and whippy, rapier-like. Almost weightless. Not quite a lightsaber, but the next best thing. "I'll make it work."

"You better. Get going. They'll know something's up. I'll hold the rear. Don't bother me unless things are really bad."

Tamri scampers to a lonely room overlooking the front entrance and sights the rifle. She selects for lowest-zoom and highest visibility given the falling snow. Taking up a position beside a wooden wardrobe, she raises the rifle to her shoulder and peers through the scope. Holographic interfaces flash before her eyes. Distance, power—it's not a blaster, she thinks, noting the weight of the magazine, but an electromagnetic mass driver, a coilgun. She's seen them before in the underworld: An assassin's weapon. Black Sun's favorite choice for offing important targets incognito. No brilliant bolt to mark its firing. Avea knows her stuff.

There—motion. The holo-sight targets on a figure moving along a wall across the street from the inn, trying to use the buildings for cover. An Echani man, tall, lithe, short hair, long face. This rifle is a dream—all she has to do is focus on the target and the targeting system locks on to the motion. If she's going hot, now is the time.

Kill or be killed.

Tamri fires.

The internal compensator kicks in; the barrel sighs. The window in front of her shatters as the round blasts through it. On the other end of the scope, the target drops. She barely had to do a thing. That quickly a life ends; that quickly she kills. It's not the first time. Such is Jedi business. Tamri learned just how quickly it all can end on her missions with Sae.

She loads the next round. Keep it up.

More movement. Tamri turns and locks on. Not an Echani this time but a sentry drone. She tunes the scope as it approaches, targets its boxy repulsorlift, and fires. The drone explodes; at the same time, a projectile comes through her window and just misses her head. Tamri drops to the floor. Breathe. In out in out. You're okay.

Behind her, implanted in the wall, is a paralysis quarrel. Avea was right: They do want her alive. The drone was a distraction: Someone is counter-shooting.

She abandons the room and relocates two doors over. Take your time: Set up, set the scope, scan. There: Movement two streets down on the rooftops. She holds her breath. Steady.

Fire.

Another one down. The Echani marksman topples down the alley below. As she loads the next round, however, Tamri spies two shadows moving through the morning fog towards the front door, too fast for her to intercept. Time for phase two, then. She grabs the rifle and her vibrorapier and sprints for the stairs, turning her head only at the sound of Avea lancing a trio of shots at some unseen attacker to the rear.

She can just hear Kesh in the inn's kitchen, talking to only the stars know what. Tamri rests her rifle's barrel on the staircase banister and trains the scope at the door. Just in time: A moment later a shaped charge blows the door apart in a mess of wooden splinters and flame. Two figures hurtle through, followed by a third plunging through the window.

Tamri fires. Once, twice. The first shot misses; the second connects as the internal targeting system guides the round home. The two surviving Echani scatter behind furniture as makeshift cover. Tamri disavows one of that foolish notion as she shoots and blasts straight through the wooden upholstery.

"Go, Shiri!" Kesh shouts from the kitchen. "Go get 'em!"

Tamri looks up to wonder who she's talking to just in time to see a black, octahedral battle drone the size of a small womp rat float in. Its midsection spins and a small hole focuses on the Echani assassin crawling out from behind the couch Tamri shot. A second later and the drone opens fire, spewing laser bolts all over the floor and burning down the assassin. His surviving fellow shoots at Kesh's drone, only for the blaster bolt to bounce off of the durasteel coating. A moment later and concentrated laser fire guns him down.

So much for the first wave.

Tamri trots down the stairs as the drone retreats. Too soon: Another attacker bursts through the broken window, vibroblade in hand. He's burlier than the other Echani, his shoulders broad and muscled. He raises a pistol when he spies Tamri, but upon seeing her wielding her vibrorapier, he tilts his hand, holsters the gun, and raises his blade to his shoulder, shouting at her in the high-pitched, fluidic Echani language.

Honor. Hmm. Something Tamri's not accustomed to from her enemies, but she'll take it and answer in kind. She holds out her rapier and sets into her lightsaber stance, waiting for the attack. Patience. Breathe in, out. Feel the Force as it flows through you. Feel the moment, here, now. This is what you've done so many times before.

The Echani moves like a dancer. His feet are motion, breaths on the wind, breeze in the way he turns one move into another, no wasted energy, no unnecessary flourish. He swipes; Tamri counters. Their blades snap and cry as the vibrating metal clashes. The Echani backs off and sizes her up, switching to a one-handed grip like a duelist. Tamri is taken aback at first, but then she notices—she's seen this sort of stance before. Ossus, Korriban: It's so similar to Count Dooku's fighting stance. And she's seen Sae keep the Sith Lord himself at bay, even if just for a moment or two while she ran away. No running this time. She can do this.

For a moment she thinks to use the Force, hurl something as a distraction and attack, but her opponent is fighting with nobility when he could've just as easily shot her. Whatever his reasoning, she will show him respect.

She rounds; he circles. Blade versus blade. He feints, dips, thrusts. She jumps back, parries. One touch with that vibrating blade is enough to maim or kill. Focus, Tamri. Concentrate. Let the Force guide you.

The Echani ducks and lunges. Tamri darts away and attacks. The Echani counters, but this time it's familiar: It's the same flurry that Dooku used to fight off Sae's attack in the cave on Korriban. Tamri feints as the Echani parries air. In the vacuum she stabs. Her blade makes contact. Flesh, blood. She cuts through her opponent's chest like cutting paper.

He falls. Tamri steps back, her heart pounding. Blood bursts from the Echani's chest. Wet gasps. Tamri takes another step back. That rush, that surging thrill from when she was escaping the Tath facility, that brushing of the Dark Side—it is not here today. Instead there is only the bass drum-thumping of her heart and her blood hot in her veins, her face fire and her legs aching from the fight. This one doesn't feel good. He could've shot her. Took the honorable way, unlike all the criminal scum Tamri has run across in her Jedi work with Sae. And that honor cost him.

It never gets any easier, does it? Tell yourself it does. Remind yourself of all those broken battle droids. Reality spins a different tale. It's either touch the Dark Side and lose yourself in its whirlwind or know the real horror there is in taking a life so viscerally, so brutally. So close. So real. No careful lightsaber burn. No detachment from behind a rifle scope. Just blood and violence and life and death.

It never gets any easier.

Avea emerges from the top of the stairs with her gun resting on her shoulders. "Everyone still alive?"

"Here!" Kesh shouts from the kitchen.

"I'm okay," says Tamri, but her eyes stay on the Echani. He should've just shot me. You honorable fool.

"Place's compromised," Avea says. "Get your things, if you got 'em. We gotta go."

Yes, thinks Tamri. It's time to leave. That's all she wanted in the first place.