No sooner had Giran laid eyes on Torque Highport than he knew that trouble was already brewing. The Force was strong with him and its primal call practically rang in his ears, promising that blood would be spilled there that very day. He didn't bother remarking on it to his partner; Bevel's sense of these things was admittedly just as potent as his, if not more so.
As the pair descended the One-Eyed Whiphid's loading ramp, Giran observed the twin rows of Sith troopers who had assembled to welcome them and nodded in satisfaction. Their posture was perfect, their armor shone, the floor was spotless, and the air was well-cycled. This was where he belonged, not skulking through the dregs of the galaxy's underworld.
The first thing to displease him was the black-uniformed woman who trotted up to greet them with a bow. Her movements were too quick, too rigid, and the smile on her face could have been cut with a knife. "My lords, welcome to Torque Highport. I am Deputy Prefect Vasma Brand. How may I be of service?"
Vasma Brand's mind was unshielded and easy to perceive; however, it was such a tangled knot of anxieties that Giran could not glean anything useful from it. He found it off-putting. This was not the type of awe or fear that he was used to inspiring in his lessers.
He opened his mouth, but Bevel spoke before he could. "We have learned that Republic spies are loose in the Gordian and have targeted this system, perhaps even this station. We must speak with Prefect Olligard at once."
"Republic spies? Are you here with Lady Crysenthia?"
"Lady who?" asked Giran, frowning.
"Lady Taleed Crysenthia, Mistress of the Sith Arts," Brand explained. Giran thought that she put a bit of a sarcastic emphasis on the title. "She arrived with her apprentice less than an hour ago, demanding to speak with the prefect about something urgent and secret. They're in his office as we speak..." She trailed off, her face warping with confusion.
The two Sith looked at each other.
Bevel said, "There is no Lady Crysenthia, is there?"
"I don't know. I've never heard of her."
"Her apprentice's name is Morius...," offered Brand, sounding as if she doubted herself.
Giran ignored her and stretched beyond his conscious self, feeling the flow of the Force through the station and the beings within it, the gravitational pulls bringing them into contact—and into conflict. A conflict that was nothing more than the final act of what had begun on Gulvitch, and whose outlines sharpened even as the moment wore on.
"They're here," hissed Giran, coming back to himself. "The Jedi."
"Call the prefect now," Bevel ordered.
Brand produced her comlink and typed in a code. A long moment passed. "He's not answering, my lords."
"You have been deceived!" Giran declared, loud enough for all the troopers to hear. "The prefect is in danger!"
As Brand stepped away to frantically raise security, Bevel lowered his voice a bit. "We know where two of them are now."
"So?"
"So on Gulvitch there were at least three. Whichever of them aren't at the prefect's office will be keeping their escape route clear."
"And you'd like us to split up again—so you can get the glory for saving the prefect by yourself, is that it?"
"Would you rather have that distinction?" Bevel demanded.
Giran's dismissive glare wandered first to the lightsaber at the Near-Human's belt, then to the ridiculous blaster he carried, and finally back to his tattooed face. Let him soften the Jedi up for me.
He squared his shoulders. "I came here to accomplish the mission I was given, not for glory."
"Then we are of one mind," replied Bevel, not taking the bait.
Giran turned away. "Deputy Prefect! Where is the vessel these imposters arrived in?"