For the first and perhaps the last time, I saw Sherlock Holmes incapable of saying anything at all. At last he managed a quiet "Oh," and glanced at his brother.

"I know it's difficult to believe," Mycroft replied, "but it's true. All of it."

"But," I sputtered a bit, to my embarrassment. "That's preposterous! Absolute nonsense. You really expect us to believe this?"

Holmes, still leaning against the mantelpiece, said nothing, studying MacEiver and Obi-Wan each in turn. Then he straightened. " 'There are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio…'" he quoted, very softly.

I raised my eyebrows at this. As a general rule, Holmes ignores virtually everything that does not have bearing on his profession. Among these subjects is literature, Holmes's knowledge of which is abysmal. He caught my expression, and smiled thinly. "Come now, Watson, even I am familiar with Shakespeare." He turned his gaze again to the two men. "Though I find what you have told me rather difficult to believe, I also admit that Mycroft is smarter than I, and would never be taken in by a lie—particularly not one that sounds so farfetched. Therefore, if he accepts it as truth, then so must I. You do understand, though, that I have reservations that will require hard evidence."

MacEiver nodded once. "I would expect nothing less from you, Mr. Holmes."

"And I have a great many questions."

"We will answer what we can."

"Good." Holmes rubbed his thin hands together, suddenly looking for all the world like a cat that has just been given free access to the cream jug. "But to business first. We must locate Ben's missing master."

MacEiver tugged at his cravat. "Yes. There is something rather disturbing about all this. However," he added regretfully, "I am not in charge. Though I personally would offer any assistance you and Obi-Wan might require, I must first speak with my superior to determine the impact if we were to get involved in this hunt. Which brings us to the reasons for your presence, Padawan."

Ben sat up in his chair. "Three weeks ago, someone broke into the main research and development labs at CorTech and stole the plans for one of their prototype starfighters, as well as the plans for a new command ship. Master Qui-Gon and I chased him here, and were ambushed and separated not long after we touched ground."

"I have reason to believe that Moriarty has allied himself with this thief," Holmes said suddenly. "The contact I saw last night spoke of new figures in the underworld, and weapons like no one had ever seen. Then he died, rather suddenly and mysteriously before he could go into further detail."

I looked at Holmes in surprise. I had understood next to nothing of what Ben had just said. Where Holmes had come out with connection between Ben's plight and Moriarty was beyond me. "Holmes..."

He shot me a quelling glare. I subsided, but determined to corner him later and, if necessary, beat him into providing me with an explanation.

MacEiver's face was troubled. "I will do what I can to verify that, Mr. Holmes, Obi-Wan. Our group leader will certainly want to hear of this. I have permission to call on you at Baker Street?"

"Naturally," Holmes said wryly.

"Good." The slender man replaced his hat, and all at once became again the small, nervous Scotsman we had first seen. He half-bowed to us. "Th-thank ye for the information, s-sirs. A g-good day to ye."

After he had gone, Holmes finally sank into a chair. "That, Mycroft, was the most singularly unusual conversation I've ever had." There was a faintly stunned expression in his grey eyes, the only indication that he was not swallowing this outlandish occurrence as easily as he pretended.

Mycroft snorted. "You should have been present when I first found out. And I will tell you, Sherlock, that he was rather mild today compared to when he told me. I had no character witness as you did to accept his story. He had to provide a...demonstration...to convince me, and it's a wonder my hair didn't turn white."

"I'm curious, brother mine, how did you find out?"

"That, Sherlock, is a very long story. To be succinct: they felt they needed a native contact. How they found out about me, I don't know, and frankly I don't want to know. There is a great deal more to these Jedi than what MacEiver told you. Abilities that, if I had not seen them firsthand, I would not believe."

"If you're trying to assuage my curiosity, Mycroft, you're failing miserably," Holmes said gently.

"You'll find out soon enough." The huge man heaved himself up from his chair. "Keep me informed, Sherlock. And try not to get sidetracked. I am paying you, after all."

"How could I forget?"

Mycroft ignored that. "Where are you going from here?"

"Home first. I'm expecting some reports from my Irregulars. After that…we'll see."
"Very well. Be careful, Sherlock. I know you're aware of how dangerous Moriarty is, but with an such an ally, with technology we've never even dreamt of…he's doubly so." He glanced at Ben and lowered his voice. "And be careful with these Jedi. They're strange, and though I doubt you'll meet a more rigidly moral group of people, they play a deadly game. Don't cross them, and don't interfere when they tell you to back down."

Holmes looked a little taken aback at Mycroft's urgency, and though I could tell he would continue to do just as he pleased, he nodded anyway. Mycroft, never one to be fooled even by his brother, looked skeptical but said nothing as he nodded to Ben and me, and left the room.

An uneasy silence reigned in the carriage as it clattered its way back toward Baker Street. Though Ben's face remained as impassive as always, I caught him shooting small glances towards Holmes and me. I fancied that he wasn't entirely certain what to make of this afternoon's previous stunning events. I thought I could understand; he'd gone to a great deal of trouble to keep who and what he was quiet, only to have it all thrown wide open in the space of a few moments.

I tried to think of something to say to break the tension, but the only things that came to mind were questions. "How do you find life on another planet?" just didn't seem to fit the bill. I was having difficulty wrapping my mind around the concept. Before, I'd only given the scientific journals that occasionally littered Holmes's study the most cursory of glances; I wasn't particularly interested in those disciplines that had little to do with medicine. I knew that astronomers had identified other planets beyond our own, and that it was possible that the millions of stars we saw at night had planets of their own, but it had never occurred to me to wonder if there might be life on them. The revelation that not only did it exist, but that it was far more advanced and far, far bigger than we could dream of suddenly made me feel very, very small and insignificant. I could only imagine how it might be affecting Holmes, whose self-image was so much greater than mine.

Holmes suddenly stirred, leaning forward from his upright position to lean his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. "Those plans you mentioned earlier," he ventured.

Ben, correctly guessing that Holmes was addressing him, turned his gaze from the window. "Yes?"

"What were they? I believe you referred to one as a 'starfighter,' and another as a 'control ship.'"

The young man nodded. "It…will be difficult to explain, Mr. Holmes. I don't have a thorough grasp on your culture's current…technology." He sighed, absently twirling his cap around on one finger. "I understand that the major means of transport here is by water-going vessels and animal transport?"

"And trains," I offered.
"Ah, yes. I saw those—tracks?—when we were landing our shuttle. So your people have not yet discovered flight."

"Beyond that achieved in hot-air balloons, no." Holmes smiled a little. "Though I understand that many—particularly the Americans—are experimenting."

Ben nodded. "Then much of what I could offer as an explanation will make little sense. In the Republic—where I am from—most of the planets that belong to it have not only learned aerial flight, but also space flight. Our ships can cross millions of miles in the space of a few days, using a means of travel known as hyperspace—"

Holmes held up a hand, cutting short the young man's growing enthusiasm. "I should stop you now before you lose us both," he said gently. "This…is a little overwhelming for me—something that Watson, no doubt, will be eager to record in his annals as a singularly rare occurrence." Before I could protest, he continued. "I will compensate for that by suspending my disbelief, such as it is. I accept that you know how to travel not only from country to country, but also from planet to planet. Am I also correct in assuming that, with this ability, space is also where you wage your wars?"

"Yes."

"And so this… 'starfighter' is such a weapon?"

"It is a small, one-man craft designed for dogfighting—sorry, for close combat."

"Dogfighting seems an accurate and descriptive term. A small craft…" he trailed off, searching, I supposed, through his vast mental resources for a basis of comparison. That was what I was doing, anyway. "Like our Navy's smaller schooners, though they are not by any means 'one-man' crafts."

With a solid reference, I found that I could visualize—poorly, of course—something of what Ben was trying to explain. "And the 'control ship,' you called it?" I asked.

"Much larger. The average control ship is manned by a crew of eight hundred or more, and is capable of a great deal more destruction. It also houses the wings of smaller starfighters and their pilots. Four or more make up a fleet."

"The big warships in the armada," I said, remembering those I had seen in harbor up and down the coast.

"Yes, sounding more like Her Majesty's Navy all the time, eh, Watson?" Holmes sounded amused—and a little relieved, I thought. "So this thief has stolen those plans. To what end?"

"I can only assume he intended to sell them to the highest bidder. They represent the cutting-edge of technology both in design and weapons."
Holmes frowned, leaning back and crossing an ankle over his knee. "But why come here? To a—may I be forgiven for using this term—backwater world, by your standards. I understood from what Mr. MacEiver told us—and from what you have told me of your technologies—that this, ah, planet will not be considered for open contact for a very long time. And, when he arrives here, why does he immediately seek out the most powerful of the criminal world to ally himself with?"

It was now Ben's turn to look worried. "I'm…not certain. I believe Qui-Gon—my master—was contemplating those same questions. If he were here—"

"But he is not," Holmes snapped. "And just now it is your opinion I am interested in, Obi-Wan."

The challenge that rang in his words seemed to galvanize the young man, and his spine straightened. "I will need to think on it, Holmes," he replied. I suppressed a smile as I noticed he had omitted the 'Mr.' Altogether. "We thought he had come here to hide, but I am beginning to believe that he has more in mind than merely selling the plans."

"Very good." Holmes smiled approvingly as the other man rose to the occasion. "There are other forms of payment beyond money."

"Power," Ben said thoughtfully.

"Control." My friend's eyes were bright. It was unnerving. I had the feeling that, if I were to leave these two alone much longer, they would start completing each other's sentences. Though it was unlikely that Ben's intellect matched Holmes's—though that may have been bias on my part—he seemed to have an uncanny clarity and depth of perception that went well beyond anything I'd ever seen. Its presence was what put him on almost equal footing with Sherlock Holmes. That, and a far bigger base of different knowledge and experiences upon which he could draw.

Fortunately, I was saved from further discomfiture by our arrival at Baker Street. It was late afternoon now, and the sun was slanting dusty bars of light through the treetops. The breeze was starting to pick up, bringing with it the promise of another cold autumn night. I found myself fervently hoping that Mrs. Hudson had prepared one of her splendid teas.

The door opened as we approached it from the steps, but it was not Mrs. Hudson that greeted us. It was Mary, my fiancée, and she looked irritated. "Mary!" I summoned up a bright smile. "How wonderful of you to come. I—"

"Perhaps you've forgotten we have a wedding to plan, John?" One eyebrow was raised as far as it would go.

I was uncomfortably reminded of a governess I'd once had. "Uh…"
Holmes, just behind me, poked me in the back with a finger. "You had an unexpected patient last night, remember?"

"Oh—oh, yes. Mary, dear, this is Ben Kenobi. A carriage hit him last night. I believe I mentioned that in my message?" I was certain I had…almost certain.

She leaned around me to see the young man at the bottom of the steps. He'd replaced his cap, and the brown lapel of his jacket safely camouflaged the braid. "A pleasure to meet you, sir," she said politely, then turned a steely gaze back to me. "And he seems to have recovered extremely well. Which makes me wonder, John, why you didn't call on me this morning?"

Behind me, I heard Ben murmur to Holmes: "Perhaps I ought to have a sudden relapse?" My friend's only response was an almost inaudible chuckle. Holmes, damn him, was gleaning far too much enjoyment out of my domestic problems.

"Mary," I said, trying not to sound too plaintive, "do you suppose we could continue this indoors?" And away from Holmes, I added silently. He was going to be ribbing me about this for days, never mind that it was his fault to begin with.

She pursed her lips, and then stepped aside. Holmes, grinning like one of the imps in his Irregulars, tipped his hat to her as he passed. Ben merely shot her a nervous look and retreated toward the kitchen, from which heavenly smells were emanating. Holmes, finally showing some discretion, followed him.

Mary, meanwhile, had crossed her arms, and one foot was tapping. I suddenly reflected that she hadn't acted a bit like this when I'd first met her, on that nasty little jaunt with Holmes I'd entitled "The Sign of Four." No, I corrected myself. I had known she was a strong-willed woman. Even Holmes had commented on it. "Mary, I'm sorry. It's a very long story—"

"I have time, John. We're going to be spending the rest of our lives together. Believe me, I have time."

Not the answer I'd been hoping for. "I can't tell you all of it—it's one of Holmes's cases, one of those that requires confidentiality. I'll make it up to you, I promise."

She still looked irritated, but I could sense she was softening. I tried my most soulful expression. "Please? I'll tell you as much as I can once it's all over."

Mary sighed, and I knew I'd won—this time. "All right." She fixed me with a stern look. "But you will sit down and discuss what is needed for the wedding breakfast, won't you?" It wasn't really a question.

"Of course, dearheart." Feeling that some sort of peace offering was in order, I added: "Won't you join us for tea?" Belatedly, I realized that Holmes might not thank me for that. He no doubt wanted to pump Ben for more information, and could not very well do that while Mary was present. But it was too late to retract the offer now.

"Certainly." She stood on tiptoe to kiss me. "I never turn down one of Mrs. Hudson's teas."

It would be interesting, I reflected, to watch how the teatime conversation would develop, with nearly every subject currently of interest to Holmes suddenly taboo.