Sequel to Deathbed Vigil.
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Alliance Base 37 was a bleak, cold affair somewhere in the Galactic Core. It was exactly the sort of assignment HQ gave to untrustworthy military liaisons, and it was exactly the job Jag loved best. No, it wasn't the easiest place to get all that valuable, delicate information that he wasn't supposed to know, but it was a challenge. Jag liked challenges. Still, this particular challenge was a little harder than most…
After all, his targets usually couldn't read his mind.
That was all right, though, because Jag was good, and he'd always enjoyed getting over the obstacles that this sort of mission engendered. Still…that particular talent of the Jedi was problematic.
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His Jedi attaché was problematic in other ways, most notably for her constant attempts at sabotage. Implanted enemy personality or not, there was something wrong with a girl who spent that much time trying to murder everyone in their sleep. Jag gave her more work to do, in the hopes of keeping her busy, but she always found time to wreak havoc – or at least try to. Jag always found it easy to foil the Shaped Jedi. She thought like the enemy, and by and large, the enemy was not hard to understand.
"Colonel Fel, Knight Veila has been found again," his aide said quietly by his side, and he watched as she adjusted her earpiece, a slight frown marring her face.
"What did she do this time? More explosives from that idiot Tainer?"
His aide shook her head. "Plan B, sir – arsenic in the caf."
Jag rolled his eyes. "Lovely. I assume the quartermaster is checking the rest of the supplies?"
"Yes, sir. No signs of any other tampering," she said, and then paused as the comm. officer relayed more information to the headset. "Knight Veila is currently in the holding cells, sir – the block surrounded by ysalamir."
Jag laughed dryly. "Like that will stop her. She's being guarded by her regular detail, right? I can't imagine Master Skywalker would be happy to learn that his pet Shaper has met with an unfortunate accident…"
A sullen look came over his aide's face as she murmured her agreement. Jag just grinned at her. "Patience, Dal. Haven't you ever heard of giving someone enough rope to hang themselves?"
"We've given her an awful lot of rope, sir..."
"But not enough."
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Despite the ugly bruises and scrapes marring her face, Tahiri was still beautiful. The mottled color of that black eye contrasted against the vivid green of her irises; the maroon of that scab accentuated the golden color of her skin. Her ceremonial scars drew the eye to the shape of her fine, down-covered skull. Flaws enhanced her features instead of detracted, and there was no denying that Tahiri was a lean, elegant woman.
Jag thought it was such a pity she was so very predictable.
She was doing pushups when he entered the holding cells, and she didn't pause as her half-dozen guards saluted him. Nor did she take any notice when he dismissed the guards and deactivated the containment field. When he sat down at the sole table in the cell block and started taking his charric apart, she was on her sixty-fourth pushup.
At a hundred, she jumped up and moved toward the other chair at the table, sliding into it as silently as a snake, and the only sign Jag noticed was how carefully he watched her as he cleaned his gun from memory. He waited a while, but she didn't speak, and Jag rolled his eyes internally. Jedi mystique, indeed.
"Tahiri, if you continue to give into your baser urges, I will be unable to protect you from the anger of others. The five hundred and sixteen people you've been trying to kill over the last month, for example…"
Tahiri just shrugged disinterestedly. "I never mean it, you know, and-"
"-you're always sorry afterward. Still, that's cold comfort to the people you've almost killed a half-dozen times. Good thing you're so incompetent, or someone might have gotten hurt-" Jag didn't even flinch as Tahiri's hands wrapped around his neck and began to squeeze. She wasn't that strong, and it was a simple matter for him to pull a knife out of his sleeve and stab her in the stomach. It was even simpler to push her off him and into the table, pulling the knife out of her as she slid to the floor and curled around the wound, wheezing pathetically.
He kept the knife, though. She was still dangerous, after all.
"See, Tahiri, we're playing the game in two different, incompatible ways. I'm playing to win, and you're playing to assuage one personality's religious fantasies and the other's nihilistic delusions. Those are very predictable. And that's why you keep failing."
Tahiri just laughed a few times, grinning, and he saw that her teeth and tongue were coated red. "You amuse me, Jag. You're the one losing, remember?"
"Says a masochistic girl with two personalities and a penchant for visions of dead people. How's Kyp these days, by the way?" Jag asked mock-politely. Tahiri smiled sweetly.
"Still pissed about the hollow reed I shoved in his throat. He says hi, spy."
Jag gritted his teeth abruptly, and he watched closely as Tahiri slowly got up, pressing one hand against her sluggishly bleeding stomach and using the other to support herself against the wall. He didn't move away, though, as she hobbled the few steps to him, and he didn't flinch when she wrapped one arm around his shoulders and leaned against him.
"It's okay," she said quietly. "I won't tell anyone." And then she kissed him lightly on the cheek before limping through the cell block door. Jag just knelt and picked up his half constructed charric.
"No, you won't," he muttered quietly.
"Sir?" It was Lieutenant Dal, looking down at him worriedly in the mess of the cell block.
"Is the bacta tank prepped?" Jag asked tiredly, the spot where Tahiri kissed him hot and tingling. He was very careful not to touch his cheek. "It is? Good. Help me get there."
"It's not for Knight Veila, sir? I saw she was bleeding…"
Jag just shook his head. "No, Veila can shrug off a stab wound like that in one night – she'll be back to her scheming tomorrow. It's for me," he said, his words beginning to slur. "She's infected me with some kind of paralysis agent."
Dal gasps, but Jag held up a hand to forestall her indignation. "I should be in that tank for about two days – you know these 'vong agents are difficult to heal. I won't be able to watch Veila…"
And sudden understanding lit his aide's face. "I'll…do my best to keep a lid on things, sir."
Jag smiled tiredly. "That's all we can do, Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir."
And Jag fell asleep, content in the knowledge that he had won.