Running the ship through the hyperspace jumps by himself with only a droid for company was another slight and unexpected pleasure for Cole; part of his mind was able to pretend that he was still captain of the Sharp Turn, running cargo.

Still, X-C88 had little in common with his two droid assistants from those days, Moonie and Foreman. Owing to his diligent maintenance, they had never developed much personality and practiced obedience to a fault. By contrast, Ecksee's silence always had a grumpiness about it, and it frequently wandered away from the cockpit between jumps.

Cole shared the droid's lack of interest in conversation. But as they were calculating the last jump to be made for a while, he couldn't help but comment, "You should ask Atton for a memory wipe—done proper this time. He said he screwed up the first try."

Ecksee's manic beeping—expressing a guarded query—carried over the uneven hum of its badly maintained repulsorlift.

"Because you'll be happier afterward. Trust me, droids always are."

The navicomputer gave a promising chirp that mixed in with Ecksee's expletives. Engaging the hyperdrive, Cole flicked on the intercom and said, "Three days until Korphir Trace."

Ecksee hovered off as usual, leaving Cole to lounge in the pilot seat, thinking of nothing in particular as the universe sped past him. When footsteps started coming up the corridor, he pretended not to notice. The half-swaggering, half-innocuous gait belonged to Atton.

"Outta my chair."

"Or what?"

The middle console rattled as Atton planted the bottle of Tevraki whiskey atop it. "Or you don't get any. Now move."

Sighing, Cole went back to being copilot as the living bane of his existence settled in and poured them each a glass. He took an incautious drink, then scrunched up his face as a glorious shudder zigzagged down through his body. It was good stuff—almost worth the wait.

He watched the blur of hyperspace for a long moment, letting the sight tickle his brain. In a distant tone he asked, "The others don't want any?"

Atton chuckled drily. "Never met a Jedi who drank. You?"

"Uh-uh." Cole threw back his glass, spawning a blackish cloud of stars before his eyes. When it had mostly drifted off he reached to the bottle for a refill. "Oh, that's good... Shame. It's not a good habit to have, not drinking. We're gonna need to help Kaevee with that. For sure."

"Well, the two of you still haven't killed each other, so I guess anything's possible. And hey, good work on keeping the Ebon Hawk safe."

Cole's grin stretched from ear to ear. "Hey, no need to thank me. My good friend expects me to take care of his property and not blow it up? Least I could do."

Atton glowered into his whiskey. "This skrag again. It was those pirates and the Sith who blew up your ship, not me."

Cole pointed at him, using the hand that held his glass, and the priceless liquid sloshed dangerously close to the rim. "And you're a Sith too, so same difference."

Vaguely, he was puzzled by Atton's demeanor. Cole expected a guy like him to get less serious from drinking—it'd gone that way the last time—but somehow it was having the opposite effect. "No. I'm just a guy with a lightsaber."

"My point stands. This is a good start. I like the idea of getting paid for missions in booze. But you're still not forgiven." For emphasis, he reached over to give Atton's glass a clink.

"Joke's on you—I don't want to be," Atton said, and they finished killing the bottle in silence.