"Whatever shall I do with you, Bevel Zanatsu?"
Caught on the scan grid in one of Torque Highport's transmission rooms, sheathed in the cobalt glow of the hologram before him, Bevel said nothing. He knelt there as he had on the war-torn landscapes of many an ambush or recon mission, utterly still, waiting for some enemy sentry to look away before making his move. Here, though, he had no move to make.
On distant Thule, the holocam used by Drevveka Hoctu captured a portion of her desk, where the Headmaster pointedly drummed the fingers of her hand as her question lingered in the air. The transmission was sharp and steady, showing a fair, subtly-lined Human face and plain, neat white hair that stopped before the shoulders. Lady Hoctu looked pleasant enough for a Sith Lord of her age—no disfiguring injuries or advanced decrepitude to hide behind a mask or under a cowl—but that familiar, manic gleam in her eyes...
Grateful though he was for his training in her academy, Bevel had never cared much for its Headmaster, and he always took any excuse he could to spend less time on Thule.
Lady Hoctu gazed down at him, shaking her head in mimicry, he supposed, of a disappointed mother. "I had thought that you and Giran would prove adequate to this mission. That you'd be an effective team, in fact, considering your distinct skills. Instead, it seems that your brashness rubbed off on him, and he paid the price for it." Her tone sharpened. "As did Prefect Olligard. Ironic that you came through with only a few scratches."
Indeed, his time in the medbay had been brief; droids and nurses had picked shrapnel from his flesh and administered salve patches and stimpacks for his wounds. Precious kolto was reserved for the tank which would hold the mutilated, comatose form of Korlen Olligard for the next several weeks. As Lady Hoctu had not failed to note, Bevel could hardly be thanked for the Prefect's survival.
Bevel decided, not for the first time, to risk a long shot. "My wounds are nothing, m'lady. I will make things right. I will track down these spies, and—"
"No, you will not. They are no concern of yours."
Finally he looked up, dismayed.
"Vasma Brand supplied me with the station's security footage while you were in medbay. I believe I know who these fugitives are—some of them, at least—and they will be dealt with. You, on the other hand..." Gradually the weight behind Lady Hoctu's words increased until she was practically grinding them through her teeth. Then, pausing, she mastered herself. "You are fortunate that our position is so precarious. The Republic has started the war early and our Master is delayed in coming. Until she does, what Sith adepts we have must be spent carefully. All you have is a mere failure of discipline which another assignment, suitably chosen, should be adequate to correct."
The Headmaster gestured to someone out of view, and presently a hulking saurian figure moved into the transmission grid beside her. Two new eyes glowered down at Bevel: one natural, beady and black; the other, a cybernetic replacement, bore a glowing red point, like a distant star—or, Bevel had always thought, like the beam of a targeting scope. Underneath, an enormous, hinged jaw parted in a daggered smile.
"Hello, Bevel," said a voice like the grinding of rocks.
"You remember my apprentice—Krennel?" Lady Hoctu asked pleasantly. "Come back to the academy, and he will find some use for you."
Bevel did not blink. "I understand, m'lady."
"Do not keep us waiting."
With that the transmission died.
