Shattered Knight

by Tim Radley

KoTOR: Eight months on from the fall of the Star Forge the expected peace has not come to the Republic. The news of Revan's return has become a source of schism and conflict within the galaxy, and Revan himself has his own demons to face.

5. Mission Critical

5. Mission Critical

Captain Vorsk Bortha could taste blood. The whine of the smoke extractor units made his head throb, the air still acrid enough that it caught the back of his throat and made it a struggle not to succumb to violent fits of coughing. He didn't want to cough. Right now, his survival instincts told him that he didn't want to draw attention to himself in any way whatsoever. Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth it came away red. His eyes flicked involuntarily sideways.

Darth Malefic sat in the main command chair at the centre of the Excelsior's bridge, slumped forward, his head resting in his hands. It looked almost as if the weight of the crown he wore had become too great for his neck to bear. The only movement that came from him was the slight shifting of his armoured shoulders as he breathed in an out. He looked as if he might have been injured somehow. Unconscious even.

At that moment, Bortha would have sooner dived naked into a Sarlacc pit than venture close enough to find out.

It seemed that Mek Volloon did not share his reticence.

Volloon was one of the Dark Jedi that had come on board the Excelsior with Malefic. From what Bortha had seen, he was utter slime: an obsequious toady and lickspittle, who would do anything to ingratiate himself with those above him in the food chain, while all the time feeding mercilessly on those below.

"My master, can I be of aid?"

Get away from him, you idiot. Bortha's intestines felt as though they were rearranging themselves in interesting and highly complex knots. Even for someone as repulsive as Volloon he did not want to see this happen.

Malefic remained motionless, apparently completely oblivious to his surroundings.

"Master, are you injured?" The wheedling tone of Volloon's voice set Captain Bortha's teeth on edge. Suddenly Volloon was reaching out to touch Darth Malefic's armour plated shoulder. Bortha instinctively flinched away . . .

The instant Volloon's hand made contact with him, Malefic's arm shot out like a piston. His gauntleted hand clamped tight around Volloon's throat, the Dark Jedi's eyes bulging alarmingly – at first in shock, then very quickly, in pain and panic as his windpipe was crushed shut.

Bortha could hear the soft whisper of the servomotors in Malefic's armour, enhancing his strength to truly formidable levels. Although he was slightly less Force-sensitive than the average rock, he could also tell instinctively that the Force was being used somehow.

Volloon's face was purple. Drool spilled from the corner of his mouth, which worked like that of a landed fish, unable to produce sound. His hands clawed ineffectually at Malefic's arm, whilst the Dark Lord's helm swivelled round slowly. The silver light spilling from his visor concealed any hint of an expression, but Bortha's imagination did a very effective job of filling in the detail.

He turned away, feeling sick as he tried vainly to concentrate on the instruments in front of him. He couldn't block out the sounds though.

It seemed to go on for a long time – an impossibly long time. Eventually there was a harsh, splintering crack, Volloon's vertebrae giving way. A moment later came a dull, lifeless thud.

Bortha let out the breath he'd been holding. His heart was thudding percussively, and his face felt slick with sweat: simultaneously hot and freezing cold. Something compelled him to turn his head and look, despite the gibbering protests of his brain.

Malefic's voice rasped, animalistic. "Where. Am. I?"

-s-s-

It brought back memories.

Some of those memories almost made Morrigance Fel envy Revan's total lack.

The patrons of Ronklin's Cantina parted before her, oblivious to both her presence and their own subconscious movements to accommodate it. In five years, the faces had changed, but on some deeper level, they were exactly the same – smugglers; gangsters; bounty hunters; joygirls and hangers on. She suspected that, even if she could have stepped a hundred years either direction in time, she would find exactly the same.

An energy curtain parted to admit her to one of the private backrooms. It was the same backroom as the last time she was here. She hadn't been conscious of that when she'd booked it, and it gave her a moment of pause. If such a detail, small as it was, could slip beneath her notice, it suggested she was not quite as totally in control as she needed to be.

In the end, though, she dismissed the doubt. It was apt enough – even pleasingly symmetrical.

She settled herself smoothly down at one of the tables – the same table, and even the same seat as before. That was natural enough. Five years ago, it had been the best position in the room, and it remained the best position now.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

Morrigance looked up from her seat, not bothering to conceal her annoyance. She nodded at the holdout blaster lying openly on the table in front of her. "I already have all the company I'm interested in."

"A BlasTech P102. Interesting. Personally, I'd take a P104B for preference."

"The P102 has a firing note several decibels quieter. A small difference, but it takes it below the suppression threshold of a sound-dampening stealth field. You can keep your greater power output and recharge rate." She wasn't sure why she explained rather than simply telling him to get lost.

He just nodded. "You give these matters serious thought, I see. Perhaps I will . . . re-evaluate my assessment."

She looked at him more closely, holding her ire in for the moment. He was a big man; six-three, pushing the two-hundred and fifty pound mark, and from the look of it, that mainly muscle. Dark skin, darker eyes, clean-shaven scalp. Handsome enough if that was your thing, she decided, but not the kind of handsomeness that particularly stood out – physically at least. Beyond the physical, there was something else, though. Morrigance eventually decided it was presence. So much presence that he seemed to . . . glow with it, even when he was trying to hide it, as he appeared to be now.

His attire spoke volumes too. It was neither expensive gangster trash, nor grungy spaceport slob, displaying what could even be called restrained good taste. All in all, an individual of an ilk not common on Nar Shaddaa.

But right now, no matter how impressive he was, he was not welcome.

"I think," She enunciated calmly and clearly, "That you would prefer the company of one of the joygirls by the bar. I hear that Oonara – the green skinned Twi'lek there – can do the most amazing things with her lekku."

He just smiled and eased himself into the seat opposite her. "You mistake me. I do not seek someone to warm my bed."

Momentarily, Morrigance was too surprised to speak. Although she'd learned not to use that particular trick against Hutts – most had some kind of inbuilt resistance to it, and got rather bad tempered when you tried it on – she'd generally found it to be very effective against humans.

A Jedi? She wondered briefly, disturbed.

But no, he did not seem much like any of that crackpot order of fusty, be-robed mystics. Neither did he convey the characteristics– the arrogant self-regard and overweeningly ostentatious demonstrativeness – she had come to associate with the Sith.

Her eyes hardened. "Let me rephrase. I have arranged to meet somebody. You are now sitting in his chair. If you are still in his chair when he arrives, then the day is likely to take a decidedly unpleasant turn for you."

Another smile, totally unruffled. "The person you are meeting with is me."

"I think not." She rested her hand on the tabletop, noticeably closer to her blaster.

"Drevon Rae is dead."

It was hard to suppress a jolt. As he spoke, she knew with absolute and irrefutable certainty that he was telling the truth. Inwardly she reeled, struggling with her composure. Outwardly, the only change was that her dark eyes narrowed fractionally. "I find it difficult to believe that such news would reach you ahead of me."

"Normally so would I. But in this case, I have an unfair advantage. You see, I killed him."

"You killed him," she repeated, a fraction numb. She could have her blaster in hand and shoot him in the face or chest within a fraction of a second. Less than three seconds later, a small army of bodyguards would be around her. Suddenly though, such precautions seemed inadequate.

"Nothing personal, you understand. But he stole from me." His tone was still conversational, almost offhand. "Regrettably, I find myself in the position where it is impossible for me to let such . . . slights pass unanswered."

She picked up the blaster and pointed it at him. He didn't look at all perturbed. In fact, the slant of his mouth suggested he was amused. "Okay, you arrogant son of a Hutt, who the hell are you? And what do you want?"

He folded his hands. "I'll take those in reverse order, if I may. I have a business proposition I wish to make to you, Lady Fel. One that I think you might find interesting, should you be willing to hear me out."

She snorted and made a show of tightening her finger on the trigger. "And your name? Speak quickly. My trigger finger is prone to involuntary spasms when I'm bored."

"My name is Xavious."

Xavious? It was annoyingly familiar, but she couldn't for the life of her place it, even though such details were the currency by which she lived. "How about your full name?"

"Xavious Revan."

She gritted her teeth. "You know, I do not appreciate being mocked. Right now, especially, I do not appreciate it."

Suddenly the easy charm vanished, replaced by something cold and watchful. "You asked for a name. I gave you one. Whether you like it or not doesn't concern me."

"What I like should be your single, overwhelming concern right now." She could manage cold too.

"And what do you like? Your job, working for Drevon Rae and the Exchange? All the fascinating people you come into contact with, running their intelligence gathering operations? The sense that you are truly fulfilling your potential?"

She gritted her teeth. "Did anyone ever tell you that it's not smart to antagonise a person holding a gun to your head?"

He spread his hands and smiled. It was a disarming smile, and it was surprisingly difficult not to be disarmed – despite her best efforts. "I apologise. I do not wish to antagonise you. Quite the contrary. I wish to offer you a job."

"I already have a . . ." she started, and then trailed off.

"You're thinking that, with Drevon Rae gone; you're the boss now, aren't you? Normally I'd agree. You are by far the most . . . talented person available to fill that position. His natural heir, even. But there's a snag. Hulas and a number of others found out about Drevon several hours ago, and they've moved quickly. They're scared of you, you know? I suppose that's flattering, in its way, but it also means they've already acted to fatally undercut your position before you get chance to respond. There's one very good assassin already waiting for you to leave this cantina. Where there's one there'll soon be a score. Half your network is likely dead by now."

She looked at him hard. "You're lying."

"Am I? Is that what your . . . special skills tell you?"

He wasn't. It was a struggle to keep her face expressionless. "I think, perhaps, I'll take my chances."

He just nodded. "Yes, you're far from finished, even now. I might even be tempted to place a small wager on you succeeding. Even so, yours is not a position I envy. Moreover, is it truly something you wish to fight so hard for? There isn't a voice in the back of your mind that's been there for months now, wondering if there isn't something more?"

"You don't know me." Her words were clipped and precise. "Don't pretend to know me."

Silence. His gaze remained fixed on her face, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he could see straight inside her to the core. That, to the contrary of her words, he knew her very well indeed. Suddenly it wasn't quite so difficult to believe his claims as to who he was. She still held her blaster trained on him, but it had come to seem almost an irrelevance.

"What is this job you offer?" Even as she spoke, she cursed herself – for so easily succumbing to the bait he trolled with.

"I want you to do for me exactly what you did for Drevon Rae. Run my intelligence networks. They are truly extensive in a way that even the Exchange cannot match, but right now, lacking in that spark of inspiration you would bring. In return . . . well, there are no real limits. Wealth; power; authority. Whatever, particularly, is your thing. And I will help the potential inside you blossom. You are the most powerful self-taught I have come across, but it is the merest fraction of the true strength you are capable of."

Her lips twisted into a sneer. Inside though, a flicker of temptation had taken root. "Is that right? Show me a trick then, fly-boy."

He laughed. "I'm not a performing tauntaun."

"Really? You look like one."

A half smile. "I'm going to reach into my pocket now. Just a warning. I'd prefer not be shot in the head in the meantime."

She indicated for him to go ahead, and a moment later, he laid a keycard on the table between them. Bay 4B it said on it.

"I don't expect an answer straight away, and I don't expect you to believe what I've told you without confirming for yourself. I'll be there for the next 48 hours." He stood up. "If I see you I'll assume you're accepting my offer. If not . . ." He shrugged. "Well, I'll be ever so slightly sad. As a freebie I'll take care of the assassin outside, but I do recommend you watch your step." Turning his back on her, he started to walk away.

"Who are you, really?"

He glanced back, over his shoulder. "Like I said, Xavious Revan."

Morrigance's black-gloved fingertips traced across the pitted surface of the tabletop. Someone had sliced a row of shallow notches with a vibro-knife. They hadn't been there the last time, she was certain.

Idly she found herself wondering how different things might have turned out if she hadn't gone to Bay 4B. She'd waited until the very last moment of the deadline, but she had gone nonetheless. It had been as a compulsion planted in her thoughts, growing and growing until there had only been one possibly answer to it.

"You really are Darth Revan." It was a statement rather than a question.

He looked round at her, his expression slightly strange. Eventually he said: "No. The robes and mask are Darth Revan. He is a convenient shell I sometimes don. I am simply Xavious."

Then he smiled slightly. "I am very glad you made it." He swept her a half bow, gesturing expansively. "Come then, Lady Fel. Follow me. We have much to discuss."

And she had followed.

"I always did think that the rumours of your demise were greatly exaggerated."

Morrigance lifted her gaze slowly at the familiar voice. She'd sensed his approach of course, even if she hadn't acknowledged it.

He hadn't changed much at all, she noted, aside from a slight update to the fashions he chose to wear. He still looked like he was in completely the wrong profession. "Hello Rath." Her voice was cool and calm, completely lacking in humanity. "Please do take a seat."

Rath Gannaya hesitated. She could sense a disquiet in him that belied the smoothness of his tone. If she could have smiled still, she might have done, though that was long beyond her. As she recollected, Rath was not intimidated by much of anything.

"Why the mask?" he asked quietly, lowering himself with a studied, almost prissy kind of grace into the indicated chair. The sense of his discomfiture didn't fade. In fact, it seemed to grow. "I might have missed you entirely, you know. Even with us going back so far."

"Oh, I have my reasons, Rath. I have my reasons."

-s-s-

Mission Vao bit down on her bottom lip and struggled not to cry out in pain.

One of her head tails had gotten trapped, wedged between her body and the side of the narrow conduit through which she crawled. Now she was stuck tight. Panic rose within her, clawing at her throat, and suddenly she was hyperventilating.

She had never been particularly claustrophobic; a childhood spent in large part as a stowaway meant that tight, dark spaces had been part and parcel of her early life. Now though, it was all she could do not to beat her fists against the enclosing metal walls and cry out franticly for help.

As she struggled for control, her heart raced crazily. She tried inhaling deep breaths to calm herself, but succeeded only in drawing clouds of dust into her nose and throat. The inner workings of the Ebon Hawk were hardly the cleanest of places. Suddenly her eyes were watering and she was fighting hard not to succumb to a sneezing fit.

At least it distracted briefly from the panic.

When she had finally regained a modicum of composure – though the occasional silent, stifled bout of coughing wracked her every now and again – she tried to back up a little. More pain, flaring from the trapped head tail, told her in no uncertain terms that this wasn't a good move. Forward, as she had already determined, was equally out.

Okay nerf-herder, now what?

Gradually she made herself relax, exhaling smoothly and forcing every last bit of air from her lungs to try and make herself absolutely as small as possible. Slowly the pressure on her hunched and bowed shoulders lessened a fraction. Her lungs began to burn though, and the need to breathe in grew rapidly.

It was a struggle to remain calm, using her fingers and toes to ever so gently ease herself forward. For a moment, there was resistance, more pain flaring from her trapped head tail. Then abruptly, she moved, and the head tail slid free. She'd made it round the corner, and could breathe again. It was an effort not to pant and suck more dust into her lungs. Her face felt as if it was streaked with tears and glued with dirt, and her head tail throbbed.

When she'd finally stopped herself shaking, she resumed her painstaking – and painful – forward crawl, sliding forward on her belly, inch by inch.

Seconds stretched to minutes. Minutes piled on top of each other. Repeatedly, she told herself that she needed to keep on going: just another few feet; just another few seconds. Except there was always a few feet, and a few seconds, more on top of that.

The pain from her drawn in shoulders gradually intensified – the conduit was so narrow that even like this they scraped both sides. Eventually it became a howling monster, far surpassing that from her abused and abraded head tail. She whimpered softly, clenching her teeth, hissing quietly. Groaning to herself, she started forward again.

Her head nudged against something hard and unyielding.

Tracing ahead, absolutely blind in the darkness, she felt around carefully with her fingers, determining after a moment or two's search that she'd reached the exit panel. Exhaling in relief, she slid the all-in-one tool from her sleeve and went to work on the securing bolts.

She'd snagged the tool when they'd allowed her out of her makeshift cell to use the toilet. When they'd tried to put her back in, she'd thrown a violently ostentatious tantrum, sending the Verpine's toolbox flying, and kicking the tool under the pallet that served as her bed. The big Trandoshan had clouted her one for her trouble, hard enough to make her head spin for several hours afterwards. She considered that a small price to pay though.

The first bolt came loose, and she went to work on the second.

After the tool had been secured, Mission had gone to work on the other elements of her escape plan. She'd stomped around the cell for hours on end, hurling tirades of abuse at anyone and everyone who came near. Afterwards, she'd thrown herself down on her bed, curled up into a ball, and sobbed, before pulling the sheets up over her head and lying completely motionless for hours. When someone – an intimidatingly beautiful Zeltron woman – had brought her a meal and tried to talk to her, she'd started up again with the tantrums and abuse, repeating the whole cycle. The idea was to desensitise anyone watching her, distracting their attention from what she was actually doing.

And there had been times when it hadn't been an act at all. Times when her thoughts had turned to Zaalbar and Juhani, and the darkness had swallowed her whole.

The second bolt came free.

She'd been able to tell when the Ebon Hawk had landed. The familiar sensations of atmospheric re-entry had jarred her from her shallow, dozing sleep. Now everything was still, and the quiet thrumming of electrics – along with the subtle, ever-present vibration that you didn't really notice when it was actually there – were gone.

Doubts had preyed. She had no idea where they were, or if escaping would even improve her position. Being stranded alone somewhere, like Korriban, or Sleheyron, or an isolated wilderness planet such as Dagobah, were not exactly ideal prospects. In the end though, she'd decided that she had to risk it. This might be the only chance that she got.

So she'd arranged the bed to look like she was in one of her silently sulking beneath the sheets phases and eased the wall panel she'd been working on all the way open. The narrow conduit behind it had been a very tight fit. That seemed like hours ago now.

The third bolt came loose and she barely managed to catch the panel as it swung down on the one remaining bolt it was attached by. Suddenly her heart was racing again as she waited for the shout that would indicate the game was up.

Nothing. Absolute silence.

Mission peered out cautiously.

She was just above the Ebon Hawk's exit ramp, exactly as intended. Her ears strained, and she could here faint sounds of activity: distant speeders; mechanical unloaders and refuelers; other noises she couldn't quite place. A spaceport of some kind, though that was hardly news.

It could have been absolutely anywhere. The only thing she could see beyond the lowered ramp was empty, oil-stained plastocrete.

Carefully she began to squeeze herself out of the conduit. Everything suddenly seemed extremely loud: her breathing; her heartbeat; the scraping of her clothing against the conduit's sides. As the pressure on her eased and she was finally able to straiten out she winced. Resumed blood-flow to her extremities paradoxically made all the pain several-fold worse.

For a moment, she leant against the wall, flexing the muscles in her legs to ease the cramps in them. Then she turned, cautiously starting down the ramp.

She froze. Someone was standing, apparently waiting for her, just beyond the bottom of the ramp so that she hadn't been able to see them from the conduit.

"I told Rath we should have kept you on the Shadow Dancer." Kreed's artificial eye glowed bright red in the gloom.

-s-s-

Gently, but firmly, Yuthura disentangled herself from the circle of Tamar's arms and stood up.

His chest rose and fell steadily as he lay there on his back, watching her scarred beauty as she walked across to a storage compartment. The way she moved – the unconscious, effortless grace and poise – was absolutely extraordinary. He'd been aware of it before, of course, but he'd never really just stopped and done nothing but watch her, as he was doing now. It left him awestruck and amazed.

When she looked back, she was holding a couple of plastic water bottles. She flipped one to him, and it ended up nestled in the palm of his outstretched hand. He drank deeply. "Thank you."

A fractional smile touched her lips, although her eyes looked solemn. "You know," she said, voice whisper soft, "That was probably extremely unwise of us. But I'm very glad we did it."

"So am I."

Lowering the back of the pilots chair so it was almost flat, she draped herself across it, lying on her stomach with her chin propped on the back of her hands. Her head tails hung down, flexing languorously.

As some of the blissful lethargy wore off, Tamar became aware of something digging painfully into his hip. He winced, rolling over: one of the armour plates that Yuthura had worn over her jumpsuit. It had left a deep imprint in his skin, as for that matter had the deck – a kind of diamond criss-cross pattern that, as well as being distinctly uncomfortable, wasn't exactly aesthetically pleasing.

He stood up, stretching. He was able to feel Yuthura watching him as he moved to sit in co-pilot's seat beside her. "You know, right now, I think I might kill for a sonic shower. Or at the least perform acts of violence."

Her nose wrinkled. "We both need it." A considering pause. "I wonder how good a Defel's sense of smell is."

He chuckled. "Well, I didn't specify the use we were going to put their ship to. As long as we deliver it back in one piece they shouldn't have too much cause for complaint."

She smiled. Reaching out, their hands touched briefly together.

He trailed his fingers up the back of her arm to her shoulder, where he traced the intricate patterns of tattoos there. Her skin was smoother than a human's, firmer in texture and ever so slightly warmer. Her lekku twitched and coiled in a way that he thought signalled contentment. His hand strayed to the nearest, but hesitated. "Do you mind if I . . .?"

A low, throaty laugh emerged from the back of Yuthura's throat. "You know, after all we've just done together, I think it delights me that you'd feel the need to ask."

Her lekku seemed almost to throb, strong, muscular, and extraordinarily alive as it flexed beneath his touch. "Well, to be honest, I don't really have, um, much experience of Twi'leks and the proper etiquette . . ."

"You're doing fine . . ." A low, murmuring note emerged from her lips. "A little firmer. You don't have to be quite so . . . gentle. They won't break . . . yes, like that. Like that." Her eyes closed and he could sense her breathing quicken. His own quickened to match.

After a time she asked: "Tamar, you're what? Thirty years old?"

"Thirty-one." A slight pause. "At least, I think I am."

"And according to the memories the Jedi Council gave you, you were a career soldier?" Her eyes had opened halfway, heavy-lidded, watching his face.

He smiled fractionally. "Ten years. Infantry, then special operations. According to my memories, I signed up straight out of university on Deralia. Why?"

She gave an ever to tiny shake of her head. "Oh, no reason. It's just . . ." She shrugged. "I think the Jedi must have made you the only ten-year veteran infantry man in recorded history never to have indulged in the company of joygirls whilst on shore leave."

He snorted back startled laughter. "I hardly think that's anything like accurate. I mean, take Carth for instance. I can't see him . . ."

"Not after he was married, maybe. Besides, he's fleet. A pilot. Entirely different species . . ." She reached out – touched his shoulder lightly. "I'm sorry. You're blushing."

"You can tell, can you?" A rueful smile. "I didn't used to drink or gamble either, according to my memories. I guess the Council might have been . . . ever so slightly unrealistic in their interpretation of the average army recruit." There was a long pause and he released his hold on her head tail, grasping her hand instead, their fingers twining together. Her palm was hot and slick with sweat. "Still, they weren't entirely prudish in the memories they chose to give me."

She looked unblinkingly into his eyes. "That must be . . . very, very strange, I think," she said after a while.

At length he nodded. "Yes." He shook his head slowly, struggling to put it into words. "Yes, it is. It's . . . well, they got it wrong. Utterly wrong. I don't know, I almost think it might have blown the deal entirely; I mean, if I hadn't found out the truth by now."

"How so?"

Tamar hesitated, unsure of himself. "Well . . . I have all the broad brush memories of what happened; these women I am supposed to have . . . been intimate with, but . . .." He trailed off, frowning slightly, struggling to put it into words. "The little details . . . they just aren't there. And it's the little details that are most important, at least in this. They're the things that are always going to be with me; that make it so special." A smile strayed across his lips. "The way your skin tastes, damp with sweat; the feel of your pulse, gradually slowing next to mine; the way your lekku move – the way they tickle as they brush across my chest; details like that. A million other tiny things." A pause, smile broadening to grin. "The complete loss of feeling in my arm from where you fell asleep on it; all the bruises on my backside from the armour plate I was lying on. Every last word of this weird conversation."

She laughed, sounding momentarily utterly delighted. Her free hand came up to his face, tracing across his cheekbones, then through each eyebrow in turn, seemingly trying to memorise it by touch. "A bed next time, you think then?"

He smiled. "I think a bed would be good. My buttocks at the least would be eternally grateful."

For a time they lay there in silence together. The lights from the skyrunner's instrument panel reflected in Tamar's face as he gazed out at the blankness of hyperspace.

"Something's troubling you," Yuthura said softly after a while.

He looked across at her.

"Don't say it's not important. I want to know your 'not important'."

"Just thinking more about memories, I suppose." He sighed, shaking his head. "Wondering how the Jedi Masters – Vandar and Zhar and the others – chose those they gave me. Did they select each one carefully, painstakingly designing them to teach me how to be a better person this time? Or is it all just a random collage thrown to together rapidly in desperation, and the hope that it didn't all go horribly wrong? Impossible to tell from this end, and I don't suppose it really matters."

She didn't say anything; just lightly touched his arm.

"I have this one particular memory right now, for some reason. Well, I guess I know the reason. I would be about ten years old, and I'm in class at school. There's this very pretty Twi'lek girl sitting in front of me – Jeela Nal, her name is, I think – and I'm sneaking up behind her. I've been given a dare, you see. And I'm not the kind of boy who's ever been able to pass up on a dare. I reach out, grabbing hold of one of her head tails and yanking on it, but before I can run away, she whirls around and slaps me across the face, so hard that I end up sprawled on my backside in the middle of the class, everybody looking at me. I got into so much trouble . . ."

Yuthura snorted. "Serves you right. If it had been me at that age I'd have done more than just slap you."

Tamar smiled. "I don't know why I have that memory, or if it was meant to teach me anything. For some reason I like to think that Master Zhar gave it to me." He trailed away to silence. "I don't know . . . it just makes me slightly sad that I never really knew a Jeela Nal, and this ten year old me – however much an obnoxious little Bantha-spit he was – didn't ever, truly exist." He shook his head. "Stupid and self-indulgent I know."

She looked very solemn again, all of a sudden. "No, not stupid." Their hands sought each other out again. "Tamar . . . I think, for people like us, the past, real or imagined, is something we have to just accept and then learn to let go off. I don't mean blot it out, or forget – just that the only real hope we have is to live in the present."

He squeezed her hand. "You know that you're extraordinary?"

Yuthura blinked a couple of times, then her gaze dropped.

"And now you're the one who's blushing."

"I'm nothing close to extraordinary." It was scarcely even a whisper, almost drowned out by the murmuring whisper of the skyrunner's controls.

"Yuthura, I know what I see when I look at you. I know what I feel. I . . ."

She made a soft noise that was almost a hiss, then touched her finger to his lips to stay him. "Please, Tamar, don't say that. Not right now." She let out a shuddering breath. "It's not that I don't want . . ." A frustrated shake of her head and she stopped, before starting over again. "For now, can we just leave what happened for what it was? Something that we both enjoyed, and have absolutely no regrets over. Something that was special in its own right, but doesn't have to be more than that."

He met her eyes, then nodded slowly. "Something that was special."

"It's not that I don't want more. That I don't want a future with you. I-I would like that very much indeed, if that's what you . . ." She stopped, baring her teeth in frustration. "Gah, at what point did I turn into a . . . a feeble-brained, weak-willed idiot? Why can't I say what I mean?"

"Friends?"

After a moment, she nodded. "You don't know how amazingly precious and important that is to me." Then she smiled. "Let's just see what happens. Enjoy it how we can."

-s-s-

"I knew you were up to something, blue." Kreed tapped the side of his head, beside his artificial eye. "Too cool, you see."

Mission said nothing. She didn't move, though the Mandalorian could see the tension in her posture. Her eyes flicked dartingly, this way and that. Looking for somewhere to run.

"Your temperature I mean." He took a careful, controlled step towards her, cutting down her options. "You're a good actress, I'll give you that. Might have fooled me, if I couldn't see your body temperature. Your face would have been that much hotter if those tantrums had been for real."

Another step.

"Could've said something, I suppose, but I was curious. Never even considered the conduits; too small I thought. You've got guts, no mistake."

Still she remained utterly silent. If looks could kill, I'd be dead ten times over. A trace of a smile touched his lips. "So if you want to turn around and walk back to your quarters, we can all remain nice and friendly about it."

Finally she did speak: a stream of invective of such venom and imagination that even Kreed was impressed – and learned a few things he hadn't considered before.

"Quite a mouth you've got, girl." He reached out to grab her shoulder with his cybernetic hand.

She moved, darting one way. Kreed went the other way, convinced it was a feint.

It wasn't. Or if it was, it was a double feint. She ran right past with him still flatfooted. His frantic grab closed only on empty air, missing her trailing head tail by at least a foot.

He whirled, just in time to see her diving behind a stack of packing crates. Grimly he started forwards, sending a mental signal to his cybernetic arm and causing a pair of disruptor units built into it to deploy. "Okay, listen up, blue. That was a mistake. I'll give you say, a three count, to rectify it. Then I come get you. Believe me when I say, you don't want that."

Again, he got the silent treatment. He bared his teeth, continuing his advance, watching carefully for signs of movement. "Ever seen someone shot with a disrupter before? Repeatedly, on a low setting, I mean. The pain makes you lose control of your bowels. Even if you're the toughest badass in the known universe. I've seen people thrash so much they break their own spines, or even bite through their tongues. So there we have a one."

He couldn't see any sign of her, even with the infrared from his artificial eye. He walked round slightly wider, on the alert for trouble. "You're thinking perhaps that we need you alive. Here's a news flash, blue. We don't. We need the Hawk. You were just a bonus. If you start being difficult – well, you stop being a bonus and start being a liability. And after one, we get to two. So I was always taught, at least."

He still couldn't pick up even the slightest sign of her, and he'd walked through about a hundred and twenty degrees of the circle he was tracing. "Maybe you're thinking I wouldn't do that; torture and kill such a pretty little girl. Ever thought that maybe I get off on torturing people? Especially pretty little girls. Seeing them writhe in pain and beg for mercy that just ain't coming. After all, with my injuries I don't have many other ways of getting off. Three."

A few more steps. "Last chance, blue. To make this easy on yourself."

She wasn't there. For a moment, Kreed was stultified. There wasn't anywhere she could have gone to that he wouldn't have seen.

Then he spotted the grate. She'd tried to close it behind her, perhaps using the sound of his voice as cover. It wasn't entirely flush to the surrounding plastocrete though.

Kreed stood over it, looking down at the service ducts that ran underneath the landing bay, just too tight for him to fit into. He wasn't quite sure whether he felt anger or admiration.

Then someone shot him in the back.

Let's make that anger.

He whirled, returning fire blind with his disrupters. There was a high-pitched yelp of pain as he hit something – a Rodian from the sound of it. A volley of blaster shots came back immediately, two impacting with the mechanical half of his torso and his legs respectively, but doing little more than melting the surface molecules of the metal. Quickly he scrambled behind the crates for cover.

Why the hell did you think it was a good idea to come to Nar Shaddaa, Rath?

He cursed quietly beneath his breath as he counted at least eight of them. One of them, who looked like an Echani mercenary from his attire, strayed into Kreed's line of sight, and he took a pot shot.

The man went down, rolling. Kreed didn't think he'd managed to penetrate his armour though, so he was far from out of the fight. Any thoughts of finishing him off were quickly removed by another volley of blaster shots that had him ducking back.

Kreed cursed again, more volubly than before. He hit his earpiece, activating the comm. channel. "Shak, gather the brothers and get back to the bay right now! Someone's trying to take the Hawk."

The only answer was a high-pitched squall of static. He was being jammed.

So it was going to have to be done the hard way.

-s-s-

Carth sat on the bunk disconsolately, staring down at the back of his hands. There was a holo-player, with a wide selection of vids, but he'd given up on that about an hour ago. He hadn't been able to concentrate enough for any of them to be more than an irritating background intrusion.

After a moment he stood up and started to pace. For about the forty-fourth time in the last couple of hours.

He'd half expected to end up occupying a cell in the Long and Winding Way's brig, charged as a traitor. That hadn't happened. Instead, the boarding party that had met him and Jolee had been scrupulously polite, using words like 'please' and 'invite' and 'welcome'. It hadn't fooled him into thinking he had any option to turn down their polite 'suggestions' – the heavy weaponry they'd all been toting had quickly removed any thought of that – but it had been interesting that they'd felt the need to bother with the pretence.

The quarters he'd been shown to – these quarters – must have been those normally assigned to visiting dignitaries or diplomats, because they were a damn site better appointed than even the Captain's quarters on any military vessel he was familiar with. In essence he'd been told that he had the freedom of this entire deck, but wasn't allowed anywhere beyond.

Slowly he'd concluded that, when it boiled down to it, this was just a prettified version of the brig he'd been expecting. All his queries had been deflected, politely but emphatically. He'd learned in the region of a hundred new ways to be told to shut up and go away without anyone actually saying the words.

Very quickly he'd become ready to chew the walls.

He supposed he'd grown too accustomed to the war hero bit: people going out of their way for him; falling over themselves to give him what he wanted and keep him informed as to exactly what was going on. Now he was on the outside again, cut-off from the loop, and he found he didn't like it one little bit. A small, not very humorous smile quirked up one corner of his mouth. Face it, Carth; you've turned into a spoilt brat.

A familiar voice intruded on his maundering thoughts.

". . . of hush now, child, please . . ."

"But, Master Bindo, surely . . ."

Carth stepped out of his room. "Master Bindo?" he enquired, half-incredulous. The conversation cut off abruptly. Three pairs of eyes turned his way.

"Run along, run along." Jolee made vague shooing gestures to the pair of – to Carth's eyes – frighteningly young and naïve looking Jedi flanking him on either side. "I have to speak to the grumpy old man, here."

"Grumpy old man?" Carth asked, seething, once they were alone.

"Well, you vetoed young pup, as I recall. And that's what you're turning into, when it comes right down to it. At least I have the excuse of thirty-odd extra years and aching joints."

Carth drew in a deep breath. The counting-to-ten method had never really worked that well with him. Instead of releasing the anger, it tended to focus it. "I'll say again, Master bloody Bindo?"

"Just a figure of speech perhaps? Surprising as it may seem, some young people do know how to speak politely to their elders."

"No, no, no. That's not it at all. They called you Master Bindo, as a title, and they meant it."

Jolee just shrugged.

"I suppose I should be congratulating you. How long have you been part of the Order again?"

"I think it must about five – no, make that six – months now."

"Six months?" Carth struggled to modulate his voice. "And Jedi Master. Wow, that's quite a promotion. I thought you said the Order was dead for you?"

Another disingenuous shrug. "A conversation I had around that time convinced me I was being . . . a bit of an ass."

"A bit of an ass? Well you said it." Carth wasn't sure why he felt so angry and betrayed, but he did.

"I came to the conclusion that I had more chance of changing something I disagreed with by engaging with it rather than running off in a hissy fit. And that in any case, our areas of agreement were slightly larger than those on which we disagreed. Don't say I'm not able to admit it when I'm wrong."

Carth made a snorting noise. "So that would be thirty years on Kashyyyk, would it? You didn't think, maybe, that this was something that you might want to share with the rest of us?"

"Not particularly, no." The absolute blandness of Jolee's tone was infuriating.

"You know, curiously enough, I don't particularly appreciate being lied to by somebody I thought I could trust."

"Oh, come on, I never lied to you. And I wasn't exactly hiding it either. If you'd come out and asked . . . oh I don't know, something like 'Jolee my good man, I was just wondering, but have you by any chance rejoined the Jedi Order' I would have come right out and said, 'Why yes Carth, as a matter of fact I have'. No hesitation at all."

"Right." He almost felt like screaming, and dignity be damned. "Does Tamar know?"

Jolee's expression took on a musing look. "Possibly. I dare say he's not nearly as stupid as he looks. Kind of couldn't be really, when you think about it."

"But you haven't told him either." Suddenly a connection sparked inside Carth's head. "Wait a minute, I get it. You've been given the job of watching him, haven't you? He's still the venomous snake as far as you and the Order are concerned."

"He told you about that, did he?" He sighed and shook his head. "Anyway that's . . . rather a harsh interpretation. I was assigned to help him."

Another connection followed on rapidly behind the first. "And you're the reason the Winding Way was able to find us back there on Suvam's station. You called them there." A faint note of outrage crept into Carth's voice.

"Now why would I do that?" Jolee asked.

"Ha! That wasn't a denial, was it? I'm starting to get the way you Jedi do things."

"There's no fooling you, is there?" Jolee directed a long-suffering look his way. "Now, I got the impression you wanted to ask me something. Before you started having hysterics over trifling little details."

Carth bit down on his immediate response. Finally, he let out a pent up breath. "Do you know where we're going?"

Jolee's response was bland. "We're going to Manaan."

"Manaan?"

"Manaan," Jolee agreed. "Now, was there anything else you wanted? Because otherwise I think I'm going to have a nap."

For a moment, Carth said nothing. Then, echoing Jolee's tone of earlier on: "Jolee, my good man, I was just wondering. Into which of your orifices, precisely, would you like me to shove my blaster?"

-s-s-

"Well?"

Mission looked at the man sitting behind the desk carefully.

He was a human, carrying about fifty pounds too much flesh. His broad face was surrounded by long, dirty-looking blonde dreadlocks, his eyes concealed behind a green-tinted visor that plugged into implant slots either side of his skull. His dress sense tended towards garish leathers and silks, and from the look of things, had no more than a passing acquaintance to the wash. It wasn't exactly flattering to his figure either. As of yet he hadn't looked up from the datapad he was reading.

He fitted the description.

She tried to sound confident and in control. As opposed to lost and scared. "You're Harren, right? I've come about a package. I was told you were the person to speak to."

"A package? I think you're mistaken. Take a look at the sign outside. I'm not in the delivery business." The man didn't bother to look up.

"Yeah? Well Gulthep said you could set me up. The Chuba face was lying, was he?"

Finally, Harren deigned to look up. "Chuba face? I like that. That's Gulthep to a tee . . ." He blinked as he got a proper look at Mission. A slow smile spread across his face, revealing a plethora of gold-capped teeth.

Urgh. Mission couldn't see the look in his eyes, but from the rest of his expression, she hardly needed to. An indrawn breath. Still, if it got her what she wanted, she could put up with this sleaze letching over her. "So, about this package . . ." She managed not to append any of the insults she was thinking.

"And what type of package are you looking for . . . my dear."

"The standard kind." She tried to sound tough, inwardly boiling. And I'm not your dear, Hutt-slug. "Ident that'll stand up to space-port customs."

Harren nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on her. She could feel their gaze like crawling worms. "And you can pay for that, can you?"

"You make a habit of insulting your customers?" She left the insult she wanted to add off, though she didn't succeed in keeping her voice from rising noticeably in pitch. Her head tails writhed indignantly.

He smiled again. "No insult intended. It's just . . . you're slightly younger than my average customer."

"I'm plenty old enough. I'm not just some kid."

"Oh, I can see that." The tone of his voice made her flesh creep.

"Look, I have the money, okay? Five hundred credits, right?"

After escaping from the landing pad that held the Hawk, the first thing Mission had done was break into a number of spaceport lockers. That had netted her a change of clothing, a couple of hundred credits, and – hitting the jackpot on the third locker she tried – a working blaster.

Being street smart on Taris did not necessarily make one street smart on Nar Shaddaa. It did, however, at least give you a start. In many ways Nar Shaddaa was a lot like Taris's lower city made big. Gangs, smugglers, criminals of every order, some of them wearing uniforms and pretending to be police. Everything on a larger, more dangerous, more glossily sleazy scale.

Wandering alone through the rain drenched thoroughfares, Zaalbar's absence had really hit home hard, and she hadn't been able to hold back the tears. At least the rain had made those tears private, despite the crowds around her.

A spacer had tried to mug, or otherwise assault her, right in the middle of the street. He'd been too roaringly drunk to be coherent enough for her to tell which, and he certainly hadn't anticipated her ability to fight back. She'd left him unconscious in a gutter after lifting several more credits and a vibro-knife. It had refocused her mind, and given her an object lesson about the nature of Nar Shaddaa – just because you had several dozen witnesses around you didn't mean you were remotely safe, or could expect any degree of help.

In the third cantina she'd tried, she'd found Gulthep. A drink, a smile, a few flattering words, while biting back her desire to simple pull her blaster on him, had gotten her Harren's name and address.

Lifting purses from drunks was not a particularly dignified activity, and she certainly wasn't something she was proud of. But two hours of it had netted her the extra three hundred she required.

And here she was.

"Five hundred isn't enough. You need another two-fifty on top."

"Hey! Do I look like I just crawled out from under a Roopa Tree? Gulthep told me the price."

"Gulthep told you the discounted price. The price for those who are . . . connected. Something tells me you aren't connected."

She knew what he meant right away. Connected. Part of the Exchange – the galaxy spanning crime syndicate. "Well hey, I think you can see fit to extending that discount to me as well. Don't you?"

"I'd love to, sweetness." Another flash of gold teeth. "But here's the thing. I can't. The Exchange gets a discount. If I give you a discount, and they find out about it, then I have to discount from that figure. Which I just can't afford."

Mission tilted her head to one side, forcing a smile that made it feel as if her face was ripping in two from the effort – trying to appear winsome. "I won't tell them if you don't."

He laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound. "They'll find out. They always find out. Besides, I'm an honest – and honourable – businessman. I don't tell lies."

Right. She glared at him.

"Of course," he went on. "I might be persuaded to accept . . . other forms of collateral in lieu of the extra credits."

As she kept on looking at him, Mission's skin went cold. Like ice. She tried to comfort herself by picturing Zaalbar picking him up by the throat and ripping his arms from their sockets. Except . . . in the circumstances it wasn't much of a comfort.

Finally, she managed another smile. "Other forms of collateral?" She stepped forward until she was standing directly in front of his desk, leaning against it and fluttering her eyes. "I . . . I think I could manage that."

His return smile was truly repulsive, making her shudder inwardly. His face moved close to hers, and she could smell his breath: a flowery and artificial freshener that didn't quite mask the underlying sourness. "I'm glad we understand each other. There's no need for things to be . . . difficult."

"So if, for example, I were to save your life . . ."

"Save my life . . .? What . . .?" Behind the lenses of his green-tinted visor, she saw his eyes start to widen.

She jammed her stolen Zabrak Tystel model blaster – normally her preference was for smaller, more easily concealed weaponry: hold outs; Bothan needlers or even Sith assassin pistols, but beggars couldn't be choosers – up beneath Harren's chin. His jaw clamped shut with a loud click.

"Like right now. When I save that sack of Bantha-poodoo you have for brains from being fried, by not pulling this trigger. Granted, I doubt that anyone would pay you two-hundred and fifty credits for it. But hey, I kind of figure that for you it might have . . . what d'you call it? Added sentimental value."

Harren held his hands up and drew back slightly, as far as her blaster would allow. "Hey, there's no need for that. Just trying to be friendly."

"When I want your 'friendship' I'll let you know." She bit the words out. "Just so we're clear. We have a deal – five hundred credits and me saving your life, like I generously just have, for a standard ident package."

He looked at her resentfully; said nothing.

She gestured with the blaster.

"Yeah, we have a deal," he finally agreed. "Any preference on your new name?" The words dripped with venom.

Before Mission could respond, she heard the shop's door open behind her. "He's closed. Come back in the morning." She didn't look round, keeping her gun fixed on Harren in case he tried something.

"It's not Mr. Harren we're here to see." The slight, warbling note in the speaker's voice told her that it was a Rodian, speaking basic. Uh oh.

"No, it's you we want to talk to," a second voice put in, this one almost certainly human. "Mission Vao."

"Never heard of her."

"Oh, come now. I thought everyone – short of possibly a few hermits on Dagobah – had heard of Mission Vao. One of the heroes of the Star Forge and saviours of the Republic."

"Take a walk, Harren," the Rodian added.

"Hey, this is my shop. No one tells me what . . .."

"Seboba would be very grateful." The human this time.

"In case you hadn't noticed she's got a gun in my face . . ."

Harren's words were cut off by a blaster bolt to the head. He toppled backwards with a resounding crash, his dreadlocks smouldering. Mission couldn't suppress a yelp of shock.

"Now, Miss Vao," the human continued. "Perhaps you'd be so good as to lose the gun and turn around slowly."

"Let me guess. Seboba would be very grateful." With a resigned sigh, she tossed the blaster aside and did as instructed.

"Thank you." The man was dark-haired and leanly handsome. Something about his eyes, and the slightly mocking smile that played across his lips, made her take an instant dislike to him. "This doesn't have to be unpleasant. All that Seboba wants is the chance to meet you. Then he'll arrange passage for you to wherever you might want to go."

"Tell this Seboba that I'm flattered, but I really am quite busy. But hey, it's nice to know I have a fan club and all. I'll let him have a signed holo-print if he likes."

He smirked. "You misunderstand. That was phrased as a request out of politeness. You don't really have a choice in the matter."

Mission's gaze flicked across to the Rodian. He held a pair of pistols trained on her, and the way his antennae kept twitching left her feeling distinctly nervous. She got the impression that she might end up being shot by accident. "So, who exactly is this Seboba then?"

"How about we leave it as a surprise? I often think there aren't enough surprises in life . . ."

The shop window exploded in a shower of glass. Mission got a blurred impression of a hulkingly large form, and blaster bolts started flying. The Rodian went down, shot in the head, but by then she was diving for her blaster and didn't see the rest of it.

When she came up again, the dark-haired man had also been terminally dealt with.

"Hey, blue." Kreed gave her a fractional nod of acknowledgement. Rain poured in through the broken window around him, splashing on the floor. Droplets of water gleamed on his metal limbs, running down in rivulets.

As she aimed her blaster at him, she felt her heart sink. "Back off."

He made no move to comply. "You stabbed me right through the torso with a vibro-sword. How much d'you think that thing's gonna do?"

She lifted it a fraction so it pointed at his head rather than the centre of his chest. "I'm willing to find out."

Kreed smiled; bared his teeth. He nodded towards the two corpses. "Do you really want to do this with about thirty of their friends in the immediate neighbourhood, closing in on this position as we speak?"

"Maybe I'll take that chance." Her jaw clenched, chin thrusting out in determination. The blaster didn't waver even a fraction.

Before Kreed could respond, a volley of blaster shots tore through the broken window, sending them both diving instinctively for cover. They stitched a line of charred holes in the wall directly behind them.

For a short period, the only sound was the drumming of falling rain. Then there was a shout from somewhere close by, outside. A moment later came the sound of running footsteps, splashing through puddles on the plastocrete.

"Least I've got no interest in trying to kill you," Kreed told her quietly.

"Yeah?" Mission's tone was unflinching as she met his gaze. "Well I've got every interest in killing you!"

The footsteps slowed down, right outside the shop. A voice ordered caution. They were close enough that she could hear their breathing.

Her eyes remained locked with Kreed's – real and artificial alike. Finally, Mission let out a breath and nodded once, lowering her blaster.

-s-s-

"What do you think?" Tamar asked.

Yuthura stared at the sensor display in front of her. Every now and then her head tails gave a distracted, twitching flick. "We can still run if we want to. We'll have to make it quick though. Thirty seconds and it'll be in range to establish a tractor lock."

The Republic frigate, Long and Winding Way, had dropped out of hyperspace several minutes ago.

There had been a moment where Tamar had tried – and comprehensively failed – to convince himself that its arrival was a coincidence, and they could bluff their way out. There was no getting away from it though. It had arrived in the exact spot, and within half an hour of the time, of where the Morgana should have shown up if it had left the Ando system immediately on receiving the signal they'd sent.

"I repeat, vessel identifying itself as the Ajunta's Blade, this is the Republic heavy frigate Long and Winding Way. Please respond."

Tamar grimaced but made no immediate move to answer. On the plus side, although the Frigate's shields were up, the Winding Way's posture – and the language it was using – was not overtly aggressive.

"What would we do if we ran, anyway?" Yuthura asked him quietly.

He nodded slowly.

"In the end we went to Dantalus to find intelligence that would get the Republic looking in the right direction. That's not going to happen if we keep running."

"Always assuming we got anything useful," he muttered, mainly to himself.

She smiled. "How about a little optimism, Tamar?"

"I just . . .. You're clear on what the likely consequences of us surrendering are going to be?"

"I'm grateful for the time we had. Nothing can change it. Nothing can take it away." She swallowed heavily, looking away from him, towards the approaching Republic frigate. "But there are superseding considerations."

He opened his mouth, but realised he had no argument to make. "Try and keep beyond the edge of their tractor range while we talk. I want to make sure they'll at least look at what we've got before we give ourselves up."

A tiny, almost inaudible noise escaped her throat. Tamar glanced sideways at her and saw that her teeth were bared in what was almost a snarl. He sensed anger from her, though it was inwardly directed. Swiftly, it was replaced by calm. Something that approximated to calm, at least. They made eye contact. Suddenly her hand sought his out, gripping it fiercely for a moment.

No words were said. Her attention returned fully to the controls in front of her.

"Vessel identifying itself as the Ajunta's . . ."

Taking a deep breath, Tamar flicked a switch to open a channel. "Acknowledged. This is the Ajunta's Blade, Long and Winding Way."

The voice changed from the person doing the hailing. "Captain Frommel Greth speaking." The name was vaguely familiar to Tamar – someone who'd fought at battle of the Star Forge, possibly. "Might I know who I'm addressing?"

"This is Jedi Knight . . ." A slight hesitation as he wondered briefly whether he still had any right to that title. "Tamar De'Nolo, formerly known as Revan. I am in possession of intelligence I believe to be of value to the Republic, and would like to arrange the terms for its handover."

There was a pause of a second or so before a response came.

"Is that so . . . Jedi Tamar?"

"Oh, give it here. Let me talk to them . . ."

Tamar and Yuthura shared a look as Jolee's voice tetchily interrupted the captain and floated across the comm. link.

-s-s-

"So, this Seboba? You know who he is?" Mission flushed, regretting her words even before she'd finished speaking. Her jaw clamped shut, and she turned her face away, heat flaring in her cheeks.

She and Kreed were hiding in the back of a garbage skiff.

They'd spent the past day and a bit desperately fleeing – and when forced, fighting running battles – through the vast, vertical city's multitude of levels. The numbers of Seboba's men were seemingly endless, and they always seemed to be one-step ahead, there waiting wherever they tried to escape to. Local law enforcement, assuming that there was anything of the sort, must have been bought off. They certainly made no move to intervene, despite several lengthy and very public shoot-outs.

After a tense and deadly game of cat and mouse through Nar Shaddaa's sewer system, the two of them had narrowly managed to slip through the rapidly closing net just as it had seemed that this time they would be overwhelmed. They'd been here for the last . . . Two hours? Three? More or less? Crouching in stinking near-darkness, unspeaking; waiting.

Harsh vibrations passed incessantly through the garbage skiff's hull, its engines in urgent need of servicing. Mission's head was throbbing from it, making her already frazzled nerves and temper that much worse. It smelled as if something had died near her – not altogether unlikely; murder and assassination were hardly unknown on Nar Shaddaa, and the bodies had to be disposed of somehow. She hadn't felt much like sorting through the piles of refuse to confirm her suspicions though.

"Finally found your tongue then?"

She didn't say anything – didn't so much as look at him.

He made an exasperated noise. "Listen blue, I understand why you hate me. I shot your friend. The Wookiee. But it's getting in the way. If the positions had been reversed; if it was one of your comrades being threatened, you wouldn't have hesitated for an instant."

She found herself literally shaking with rage, too angry to speak. It took all the restraint she could muster to stop from hurling herself at him and trying to rip out his throat.

"Right now we need to cooperate . . ."

"Unlike, you, you murdering . . ." She was almost snarling. "We don't attack and slaughter rescue teams answering distress calls! So you can take your pathetic self-justifications and shove them straight up your . . ."

"Fine." Kreed's red eye glowed unblinkingly in the gloom. "I'm scum. I'm not arguing. But we need to stay focused and keep co-operating if we're . . ."

"I'm focused just fine. I'm co-operating aren't I?" Right up until the point I get chance to gut you.

"Yeah, so far. But I can see you glowing, blue. And you're getting brighter and hotter by the minute, all that fury winding itself up good and tight. If you keep it up you're going to snap and get both of us killed."

"Maybe I consider that a fare trade." It was scarcely a whisper, though she had come to know that Kreed's enhanced hearing would pick it up easily enough.

He grunted. "Then you're the biggest sucker born, kid. I'm forty-eight. A merc. I'm going to die soon enough. I should've died already, pretty much. You've got an entire lifetime, and you're going to give that up for someone like me? Pure idiocy."

"Just shut up! Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!"

A snorting laugh. "As I recall, you were the one who asked a question."

"Which you haven't answered." Again, she cursed herself for not keeping quiet.

Kreed nodded. "Right enough, there. I haven't." She saw him grimace. "Seboba's a Hutt. Not all that surprising, given our proximity to Nal Hutta. He's part of the Exchange. A very big part, in more ways than one."

"So what does he want with me?" Something moved in the garbage piles, making them rustle and drawing her gaze. They shared the garbage skiff with any number of small, rodent-like vermin.

"You're famous blue. Smart, beautiful, resourceful. Such a sweet and pleasant nature. Who wouldn't want your company?"

She folded her arms across her chest, gritting her teeth in her struggle not to rise to the obvious bait. Her head tails quivered erratically, making her feelings plain enough.

"What d'you think he wants?"

"Revan." Her voice was quietly disconsolate.

"Yeah."

"That's what you want too, isn't it? Did he carve you up like that in the Mandalorian Wars? Or was it just one of his Jedi?"

Kreed didn't answer. He seemed to be staring through her rather than at her.

"So now you want revenge, or to salvage honour by dying at his hand. You Mandalorians are pathetic."

"What would you know about . . ." He trailed off and sighed. "Ah, yes. The great General Ordo. I hear he's working with the Republic these days." Kreed shook his head. "How the mighty have fallen."

"Hey! That's a damn sight better than being a murdering two bit merc."

"I was talking about us Mandalorian's generally, kid. Myself included. Once . . ." He clamped his jaw shut, face going tight. When he spoke again, the subject had changed completely. "Wasn't Revan who carved me up, or any of his Jedi. Do you really think I could have survived these sort of injuries if I'd taken them on the battlefield?"

"So what happened to you then?"

"Why the interest all of a sudden? Thought you didn't want to talk."

Mission didn't answer right away, feeling her cheeks flush again. "Yeah? Perhaps I just want to hear about you suffering."

She saw him shrug. "Fair enough. I used to work for a man called Arven Kodos; he was Exchange, like Seboba. I was . . . muscle."

Mission made a noise. "Are any of you Mandalorians ever anything else?"

He stopped. Then, after a pause. "War is what we are." A shrug. "It's all we have now. I won't claim there's much honour in it, but I won't apologise for it either. Arven managed to make the mistake of getting on Seboba's bad side, so Seboba had him squashed. I killed more than twenty of Seboba's men, including his favourite lieutenant, before they got to Arven. I was knocked unconscious and captured."

Kreed stopped again, staring off at something she couldn't see. Mission began to think the story was over. Her head throbbed in time to the vibrations from the skiff's engines.

"I woke up in a stasis cell. Apparently, Seboba was not best pleased with me. Death by a thousand cuts is what I got. They chopped me up, piece by piece, ever so careful to keep me alive, and I got to watch my flesh being fed to a Rancor cub. That satisfy your taste for my suffering, blue?"

"My name's Mission. Not blue. Or kid." Despite herself, she felt ever so slightly sick. "How'd you get out?"

"That would be down to Rath." Another long pause. "Rath had done a job for Seboba, you see, but Seboba was reluctant to pay the agreed upon fee. Circumstances had changed, or something, and the results of the job were no longer as useful to Seboba as he'd originally thought. Rath, of course, couldn't let that stand. I guess it was just luck that meant he raided the facility where I was being held. He had Ygress rebuild me into something vaguely useful, and I've served him ever since."

"Ygress is the Verpine?"

"Yeah; one crazy ass bug, that one. But useful for building things. Better than new in some respects." She saw him grimace again. "We never should have come here. I told Rath. Seboba has a long memory. Of course, that slime-gulper was going to be watching for us, waiting for an opportunity. Which we've gone and given him."

"My heart bleeds."

A dark laugh. "Yeah. When it comes to it, it might well do."

She bared her teeth; very nearly hissed. "Tamar's going to gut you. And hey, I'm gonna enjoy watching when that happens."

"Tamar . . .? Oh yeah. That's what Revan's calling himself these days."

"If you can't even beat some Hutt crime lord . . ."

"Oh, Rath has his ways. Took care of you're Jedi friend on Taris easily enough, didn't he? People tend to underestimate Rath. Usually only once though."

At mention of Juhani, Mission glared daggers at him. She felt a tight, uncomfortable sensation in her chest; sucked in deep breaths to try to calm herself.

"Yeah, but I agree. Revan's gonna be a different type of challenge altogether. Saw him once, you know? Facing the Mandalore in single combat and winning. We lost the war that day, inside our heads." A sigh, which she thought contained regret. "I was one of the Mandalore's personal guard. The best and brightest, for at least a while."

"Shouldn't you have killed yourself then? I mean, after failing to protect your lord. Isn't that the way it works when a Mandalorian has no honour left."

He directed a long hard look her way, and if she wasn't so thoroughly tired and miserable she might have smiled – able to see that she'd finally managed to get under his skin. "Someone's been paying too much attention to bad holo-novels."

Before she could respond there was a harsh grinding noise, and the garbage skiff jolted to a halt. A pile of garbage started to topple towards her, but she narrowly managed to roll aside.

Kreed was looking down at something on the wrist of his artificial arm. "Looks like we made it then. And two minutes ahead of schedule too."

-s-s-

Tamar looked up as the door to his room – or cell, which was the alternative way of looking at it – opened with a whisper.

A woman stood there, dressed the traditional robes of a Jedi Knight. She was hard and tough looking, stern faced with dark hair scraped back into a ponytail. Very much a warrior. Vaguely attractive, but that came a long way down the list of things people tended to notice about her, and it wasn't something she went out of her way to emphasise.

"Jedi Belaya." He greeted her with a nod.

"Tamar . . . You do still prefer Tamar to Revan?"

He didn't miss the barb, hidden none too subtly, in her words. "Still Tamar," he agreed.

"And still not wearing the robes, or respecting the traditions, I see."

He almost smiled at the reminder of their first encounter, in the courtyard of the Jedi Enclave on Dantooine. "Funnily enough, although Jedi robes do tend to guarantee an enthusiastic welcome among the Sith, it wasn't really the sort I was looking for."

She raised an eyebrow, her nostrils flaring – as near to an expression of humour as he could recall from her.

They'd never really gotten along very well when they'd known each other during Tamar's crash re-education in the Jedi ways on Dantooine. Only her gratitude for his helping of Juhani had kept things relatively polite and civil between them, and even that seemed coloured by its own special flavour of resentment.

And now of course, she had very good reason to detest him.

"Is there something I can do for you, Belaya?" he asked, quietly and politely.

The look she gave him was appraising: not friendly, but not openly hostile either. "I came to return this to you."

Tamar blinked in surprise as he accepted the lightsaber from her grasp. It was his all right. He recognised the scars and dents in the plain metal of its hilt from all the action it had seen. "Thank you."

"Admiral Dodonna gave it into my possession on the understanding that it would be passed onto you at the first available opportunity."

"Does this mean I'm not about to be immediately shipped off to a Republic prison facility?"

Her lips twisted. "I think anyone that way inclined is more likely to simply shoot you on sight at this point."

"And you?" he asked her quietly.

For a time she just looked at him. He got the sense of conflicting emotions beneath the surface, tightly contained. "Juhani trusts and admires you," she said at length. "And I trust in her judgment."

He nodded.

"But if I find any hint of a suggestion that you betrayed us, or had any anything to do with the Council's murder . . ."

"You'll join the back of a very long queue who want to rip their own personal chunk out of me. By the time you get your turn I doubt there'll be that much left."

She made a noise that might have been laughter.

He gestured to the door. "Can I leave here now?"

She looked at him slightly strangely. "As far as I'm aware there have never been any restrictions placed on your movement."

With something approaching startlement, he realised she was right. No one had explicitly stated that he couldn't leave. He'd just assumed. Like an idiot. "Then I'd like to see Yuthura. Do you know where she is?"

"The Sith defector, you mean?"

"The Twi'lek woman who was accompanying me," he corrected firmly.

"I believe she's still being . . . debriefed by Marshall." She gave a disinterested shrug.

"Marshall?" Tamar developed a sinking feeling inside his chest.

"The senior Republic intelligence officer assigned to this mission by Admiral Dodonna. He's somebody quite high up, I gather. He didn't seem at all pleased to learn that she hadn't gone through any formalised eval or threat assessment process."

"You don't like her." That was clear enough from the feelings he was picking up from her.

She shrugged, though her expression looked tight. "We are too lenient on the traitors who joined the Sith cause, accepting them back into the fold with a wave of the hand and an 'all is forgiven.'"

"What would you have us do instead?" he asked, carefully neutral.

"There should be at least some consequences; some punishment . . .. Some justice."

"And you honestly think there is not?" Something flashed inside him. "You think everyone who shows the strength and willingness to come back to us should be carted off to prison, or something?" He stopped, forcing himself to calm down. He wasn't seeking an argument.

Belaya was looking at him strangely. "You know, I think that's the first time I've seen even a hint of anger from you. The first crack in the perfect Jedi façade."

Tamar barely managed to keep himself from gaping; shook his head. "Perfect Jedi façade . . .? You are talking about me here?"

He saw her cheeks colour. "You always made everything look so infuriatingly easy. The things that everyone else takes years of grindingly hard work to even become halfway proficient in, you pick up and master in about an hour flat. And there was never any turmoil, never any . . ."

He laughed. He couldn't help it. "I think you must have been watching someone else. Perfect? I'm about as far from that as it's possible to get. And as for turmoil . . ." He trailed off. "Look, do you know where I can find this Marshall . . ."

"You care about her, don't you?" she said eventually.

Tamar attempted to intuit something from her expression and tone, but failed. "Yes, I do."

Belaya hesitated. "You'd be better off speaking to Master Bindo." She started to turn away.

Master Bindo? After a moment he realised he wasn't actually that surprised.

"Wait," he said as she reached the door. "Have they managed to extract anything from the data core we brought back? Are they making use of T3 like I . . ."

She stopped, turning back. "Look, I don't have time for your questions." It came out as a snap. "I came here to return your lightsaber, and I've done that. Now I have to prepare for Taris . . ."

"Taris?"

Belaya looked annoyed at herself for letting that slip. "There was a raid there. A survey team was attacked. Juhani is one of the missing. I've volunteered to head a scouting mission to investigate what happened. Now if you'll excuse me . . .?"

He just nodded as he digested the news.

Surprisingly she hesitated a moment longer. "You have no idea what it's like to love someone whose heart you know you'll truly never have, do you?"

For a moment, he was too nonplussed by the question to respond. Then he said: "I know that Juhani cares about you."

A snort. "Yes she cares. She feels fondness and affection, and even friendship. But it is not love. Her heart remains sealed to me. Sometimes I think I would prefer indifference. It would be easier to handle."

She looked away again, and he could tell she was furious with herself. "But of course, you know nothing of that. Because you have it. That charm and charisma that makes everyone flock to you, dazzled and compelled. You're the one who's loved. Not the one left alone, forgotten in the shadows. You have everything I don't."

Before he could say anything, she was gone.

-s-s-

Mission flipped sideways, head tails flying out behind her. The pair of blaster pistols she was carrying – the second recovered from the body of a badly scarred Gran who'd tried to ambush them – blazed. She heard the Echani mercenary yelp, falling back down the flight of stairs behind him with a clatter.

She made it to the cover of a thick plastocrete pillar, wincing as the volley of blaster and disrupter fire aimed her way blew chunks out of it. Her breath came short and fast, and she could feel her skin prickling uncomfortably, slick with sweat. The air inside the power station's vast turbine hall was heavy with latent static. Worse, the constant rumbling whine of the turbines themselves covered up the sound of approaching foes.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of movement and span.

Another of the Echani mercs, leaping down at her from above, slender double-bladed sword flashing brightly as it caught the light . . .

She got a close up view as a shot from one of Kreed's disrupters tore through the Echani's personal shield as if it wasn't there, hitting him in the neck. Flesh ruptured and blood flew, splattering across Mission's face. She flinched back, gagging.

"Bunch of prancing fops," she heard Kreed mutter. Then: "Look alive, blue. I can't be watching your back all the time."

Mission gritted her teeth, seething, but before she could retort the Mandalorian had already turned his back on her. She saw the heavy shielding surrounding him flicker and crackle as it repelled blaster fire – in action he was a bit like watching something with the armour and firepower of a heavy assault walker compressed down to human size.

He lobbed a thermal detonator back behind them, the explosion thunderous as it tore through metal like tissue paper. Screams and cries of pain rang out, the air acrid with smoke and flame.

"The roof!" he yelled back at her, but she was already off and running. Intermittently, she fired back behind herself almost blind in an effort to distract as she sprinted up the steps.

They made it to the level of catwalks strung over the vast, baroque, cathedral-like hall, though more of Seboba's men were pouring into the power station by the moment.

"This was a good idea, was it, can-head?" Mission snapped at Kreed as a stray blaster shot ricocheted of the railing beside her. Ducking down, she fired back over her shoulder, the shots crackling of yet another Echani's energy shield.

"This is where I arranged for the brothers to pick us up." His tone was noncommittal. He aimed and fired at a mixed grouping of humans, Rodians and Aqualish several hundred feet below, sending them scampering for cover.

Mission had heard 'the brothers' being mentioned several times before, but unless it was simply the collective name that the mercenaries in Rath Gannaya's employ used, she didn't think she's seen them. Probably they'd been berthed on the other ship – the Shadow Dancer.

She started to ask Kreed who the hell the brothers were, but he was too preoccupied to answer.

He had another thermal detonator in hand and seemed to be preparing to drop it into one of the vast turbines that helped transform Nar Shaddaa's endless supply of garbage into energy.

"No . . ." she started, but Kreed just smiled at her.

"Better run, blue," he said. Then he let the thermal detonator drop.

She was already sprinting hard, trying to keep low as blaster bolts sizzled through the air around her.. Kreed's footsteps were like thunder as they pounded close behind her, making the entire walkway shake so violently that it seemed about to break.

She'd managed to reach a count of five when the thermal detonator went off.

The initial explosion was surprisingly small and restrained, at least by the standards of what she'd been expecting. A moment later, though, there was a harsh, banshee wailing noise accompanied by an ear-splitting screech of grinding metal.

A second detonation followed, vastly bigger than the first.

Mission felt her ears pop at the sudden change of pressure. A wall of hot wind slammed into her back and she had to grab hold of the railing tightly as her feet lifted off the walkway.

When the roaring noise in her ears had faded, and the footing beneath her had become something approximating to stable, Mission realised that the blaster fire from down below ceased – for the moment at least. After a short period of quiet, where the only thing to be heard was the crackling of flames from the turbine hall floor, fire alarms began to blare stridently. Arrays of sprinklers went off overhead, soaking her to the skin in seconds. At least it washed off some of the stink from the garbage skiff.

A door blocked the way in front of them.

Mission started work on the lock immediately, but Kreed barged her aside. Her indignant protest trailed off as he simply looked at a particular spot right above the lock, then thumped it just so with his metal fist. It sprang open immediately.

Another couple of flights of stairs and they emerged onto the power station's roof.

It was nighttime. Or second night, as Nar Shaddaa's odd day-night cycle, tide-locked with Nal Hutta, had it. It was the first time that Mission had glimpsed the sky in hours. Skyscrapers towered above them on every side, twisted metal fingers glowing with neon light. A truly titanic refuelling spire seemed to stretch on up forever. She looked around, but there was no getting away from it; the rooftop was completely deserted. Through a skylight near her feet, she could glance down and see flames still flickering on the power-station floor.

"So, where are these 'brothers' of yours?" Her hands were planted on her hips.

Kreed had produced a number of frag mines from a compartment built into his thigh, and was currently in the process of laying them on the stairs and in the doorway, covering that approach route. "Hard as it may be to believe, after all that crap down below, we're still a couple of minutes ahead schedule." She heard him grunt softly. "Sometimes I guess it pays to be fashionably late."

"Just who are they anyway? The brothers, I mean."

Another grunt. "They call themselves the Quiet Brethren. Least, that's the nearest that it translates into Basic. I think it loses at least a couple of levels of meaning." A pause as he finished setting the last of the mines and stood up. "They're kind of . . . warrior monks I suppose. Got themselves exiled from their home world for some reason they're none too keen on discussing. I don't know what kind of hold Rath has on them, but they've proved damned useful over the years. Really give us an edge, y'know?"

She was going to say something – that he still hadn't really said who the brothers were. But she'd spotted something – a small ship, the size of a patrol boat, approaching their position steadily. "Well, looks like they're here."

His gaze followed her hand to the spot where she was pointing. "That's not them . . ." he began.

Mission was already running when it opened fire. She caught a glimpse of Kreed desperately activating his shields, then threw herself headlong as laser fire strafed across the rooftop.

A short time later, there was an explosion. The laser fire ceased abruptly.

She looked up.

Kreed was lying sprawled on his back, unmoving. Wisps of smoke curled up from his prone body and his shields had been shredded. The only sign of the ship was a thick black trail of smoke descending into the deep canyon between Nar Shaddaa's buildings. Just for a second or so, Mission wondered incredulously as to whether Kreed had managed to shoot it down.

Then she heard the other spaceship approaching from the opposite direction. She stared at it: sleek, black and deadly – just about small enough to fit inside the Shadow Dancer. She came to the abrupt decision that she didn't want to still be there when it landed.

Moving as quickly as she could, Mission picked her way down the mined staircase, back towards the burning turbine hall. None of Seboba's men had tried coming up that way, so she allowed herself to hope they'd given up on that route. Just as she reached the door though, there was another explosion from below.

The entire building shook. She heard the wailing of stressed metal, and a moment later, on the other side of the door, the catwalk broke free of its moorings and dropped into the flames below.

For several seconds she struggled to stop herself breaking down and either weeping or beating her fists against the door. With a deep breath, she turned reluctantly back up the stairs towards the roof.

The spaceship had landed, its boarding ramp lowered. She saw Kreed gingerly lifting himself back to his feet, and numbly wondered what the hell it actually took to put him down permanently.

Something was descending the spaceship's boarding ramp. It took several seconds to make her eyes focus on it. It moved towards Kreed, a fleeting, flitting shadow.

It spoke: "Rath is back from his meeting. He wants to know, and I quote: 'What, in the name of the Force, do you think you're playing at?'"

Kreed just laughed, though the laughter broke down quickly into ragged, hacking coughing. Mission realised then that she probably had seen the brothers before. She just hadn't realised it.

The brothers were Defels.

Kreed was looking at her, bloodied and blackened. She aimed her blasters at him, and he spat, his teeth stained red. "Well blue? What's it going to be?"

-s-s-

A dark hand clawed at her, grasping, trying to drag her back down into the clinging mire of darkness. She fought back, kicking out and thrashing, but the grip just tightened on her remorselessly.

No. No fear. No anger. Just calm. Just serenity. She wasn't sure if the voice was her own – a deeply hidden part of her that still remained untainted – or someone else's, but it made sense. She let go – stopped struggling – and the fear slid away.

The dark hand lost its grip, unable to find purchase. Something distant roared in rage and frustration. Bastila woke up, gasping.

The sudden brightness made her flinch. Someone was standing over her, but it was too painful to focus on. Too bright. Her face screwed up, twisting to one side.

As she blinked rapidly, her eyes gradually adjusted. Her surrounding resolved back into focus. The figure standing over her was a medical droid, elegantly slender and gleaming. She was in the Starlight Phoenix's medical bay.

"Where's . . ." Tamar? No. No. Anger and confusion surfaced briefly. He's not here. I don't want him here. Not after . . .. She struggled to remember where she was. "Canderous . . . Captain Organa . . . Zikl."

"Please lie back, Jedi Bastila." The medical droid's voice was soothing and serene. It leant closer to her, holding a hypospray. "Try to relax. You've been unconscious for several days, and you're still very weak. You need to rest."

"Wait. Wait." Her eyes flickered and darted about wildly. "It's important. It . . . you need to tell them. I . . . I know what he's looking for. I saw."

Unconsciousness reclaimed her.

-s-s-

The Ajunta's Blade sat on its own in the middle of one of the Long and Winding Way's fighter bays. No one was near it, and the surrounding bay was completely still, illuminated solely by the dim glow of pilot lights.

There was a subtle vibration as the Long and Winding Way exited hyperspace. Something built intrinsically into the Ajunta's Blade's control systems reacted to the change and came spontaneously to life. It took a second or so for it to calculate its position.

Then it sent out a very brief encrypted tightbeam burst, back to its point of origin, before switching off again.