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.

6. Smoke and Mirrors

6. Smoke and Mirrors

Bastila paused, leaning briefly against a half-rotten tree-trunk that was thick with moss and pale, bulbous fungi. She struggled to catch her breath, but the air – thick with mist that reduced visibility down to the tens of yards – was like inhaling warm liquid. Sweat rolled down the side of her face and plastered her dark hair lankly to her forehead.

She'd forgone her normal Jedi robes. Wading through knee-deep mud and brackish swamp water in such stultifying heat while weighed down by them hardly bore thinking about. Instead, she was dressed in standard issue Republic fatigue trousers and a plain tank-top that had started out as white. The jacket to go with the trousers was currently tied round her waist. Her bare arms, strong and sinewy, glistened beneath a layer of unpleasant smelling insect repellent.

Wiping a hand across her brow merely served to redistribute the sweat.

Dromund Kaas, the planet was called, and it was like a swampy vision of hell.

The Rapid-class corvette, Knight Errant stood in high orbit, ready to whisk them away if necessary. The Starlight Phoenix and the rest of the taskforce, on the other hand, were nearly a third of the outer-rim away.

This expedition had been the cause of long and bitter arguments, particularly with Captain Organa. With Zikl still deep in some sort of coma, he'd been extremely vociferous in his objections to losing the taskforce's one remaining Jedi, even for a short period. His reminders of her responsibilities as the taskforce's de facto commanding officer, had been particularly strident.

In the end though, she'd insisted, and had gotten her way – although, given the extreme physical discomfort, she was now regretting that just a fraction.

It had been absolutely necessary though. She told herself that again firmly, fighting down the doubts that had started to surface once the initial edge of urgency from her vision faded.

In the brief moment when she'd thrust the spear of Force, combined out of herself and Zikl's strength, into the face of the dark-crowned Sith, the shadows surrounding him had been thrown back. It had taken her unconscious thoughts time to process what she'd seen in that brief instant, but the conclusion she'd reached was undeniable.

He – and it was a he – was seeking to follow in Revan's footsteps.

He wanted to retrace the path that Revan and Malak had first taken at the end of the Mandalorian wars, deep into the unknown regions along with a third of the Republic Fleet. What he hoped to find there was very much open to question – there could hardly be another Star Forge waiting to be discovered – but it was what he was doing nonetheless.

She hadn't been able to determine the next stepping-stone on that path. The one that had, for some reason, caused him to attack Hoth and Manarb. But she had been able to see the previous one. And that was here. Dromund Kaas.

"Got to hand it you, Bastila. You sure know how to pick the choice vacation spots."

She looked round at Canderous sourly, but didn't say anything.

Like her with her robes, he wasn't wearing his normal heavy armour. His black top had glued itself to the sculpted contours of his massive chest and his steel-grey hair stood up in sweaty spikes. Despite those details, he still managed to seem as impervious to the conditions as a granite statue.

"You okay?" he asked quietly, so no one else could hear.

"Fine."

"Only, you look like you should have spent an extra few days in sick bay."

Not, in all honesty, an inaccurate assessment, although the only person she was going to admit that to was herself. "Look, I'm coping. You don't have to worry about me."

He shrugged, as if to say, who's worried.

The others caught up. The pair of Republic science personnel assigned to the expedition appeared to be suffering every bit as much as she was from the conditions. Lieutenant Jansa – a short, mousy blonde human woman and specialist in alien archaeology – was flushed and puffing hard as she struggled to wade through water that came almost to mid-thigh on her. And while Bastila was less well versed on Ithorian physiology, she could sense Velta Laska's discomfort clearly through the Force. Velta Laska was an expert in xenobiology, and theoretically their guide – though since he knew as much about Dromund Kaas as the rest of them, theory was all it was. Bringing up the rear, the three Republic commandos rounding out their number were as apparently untroubled as Canderous.

Of course, it wasn't just the physical conditions that were affecting her. It was the pervasive darkside taint too – a constant, nagging, sapping miasma.

Bastila had only ever encountered an instance once before where an entire planet had felt part of the darkside, and that had been Korriban. Standing on the Knight Errant's bridge, looking down at the dingy cloud-wreathed sphere of Dromund Kaas, she'd realised with something close to dread, that she'd now encountered a second one.

Not that, in any other respect, Dromund Kaas much resembled Korriban.

For starters, it was well outside the formal borders of Sith space, and that had been the case even in the heydays of the likes of Marka Ragnos and Naga Sadow. Odd then, the number of Sith temples that dotted the planet's oozing, swampy surface. It wasn't even that Dromund Kaas was somewhere you could easily stumble upon by accident. Spatial anomalies, similar to those making up the Rishi Maze, surrounded the star system, interfering with hyperdrives and making even getting there deliberately something of a nightmare.

Something must have drawn the Sith here, but she couldn't for the life of her see the attraction. Or perhaps the planet's isolated nature was, in itself, the attraction.

The number of temples had presented something of a problem. Her fleeting contact with the Sith Lord's mind hadn't exactly given precise directions for them to follow, and scouring all of the sites manually would take months. Their initial scans of the surface hadn't helped much either. There was nothing to indicate any energy sources or population centres, and there were certainly no obvious indicators of the presence of any kind of Sith garrison.

Only more detailed and concentrated sensor sweeps had eventually shown up the strange phased-energy field that was almost invisible to a more cursory glance. It covered an area of swampland about nine miles square just south of Dromund Kaas's equator. None of their efforts had managed to penetrate it, or even reveal anything significant about its nature, but it was the only thing of significance they had picked up.

Because of the terrain, the drop-ship had been forced to put them down getting on for twenty miles away from the perimeter of the energy field. While that had suited them in some respects, reducing the chance of anyone who happened to be inside the field receiving advance warning of their approach, it had also made for a very arduous trek.

"Careful. Another of the dart vine clusters. Ten metres ahead on the left," Velta Laska informed them in gurgling but comprehensible Basic.

The twin mouths of an Ithorian, arranged either side of its hammerhead-like skull, meant that Basic was a difficult language for them to master – to the extent that the majority didn't bother with more than learning how to understand it. Velta Laska though, was fluent enough, and apparently extremely proud of linguistic abilities.

They'd seen what dart vines were capable of shortly after setting down. An amphibious creature bearing a faint resemblance to a gizka had hopped too close to a batch, triggering the violent release of a cloud of spores shaped like miniature arrowheads. The spores were obviously highly poisonous, because the gizka-alike had collapsed within seconds of being struck, completely paralysed. Since then they'd all steered well clear.

Ahead, the swamp waters started to get deeper, and forward progress became even slower.

At this rate, they were going to struggle to make the perimeter of the energy field by nightfall, and the prospect of camping out did not exactly fill Bastila's heart with joy. Her head was throbbing; the insufferable heat and humidity; the background buzzing of insects; most of all, the pervasive, ever-present darkside taint.

Suddenly Canderous stumbled, going in up to his armpits. He managed to catch himself, but indicated they should stop with a raised hand. "Ground drops away right here." His eyes surveyed the stretch of murky water in front of them. "Unless there's some way of skirting it, we're gonna need to do some swimming."

Bubbles broke the surface of the pool. There was the fleeting impression of something very big moving just beneath the surface, silt stirring from the bottom in thick clouds.

Everyone fell instantly and utterly silent, staring at that one spot.

Bastila slid the hilt of her duel-bladed lightsaber from her belt. She saw Canderous hefting his heavy repeater, training it on the water in front of him. His expression looked wary; grimly set.

A few moments later, something rose up, slowly and serenely, from the water about four metres in front of them. It was an eyestalk, bearing an eye that was bigger than Bastila's fist, but otherwise disturbingly human looking. Her jaw clenched and she gripped her lightsaber all the tighter.

"A dianoga," Velta Laska stated, breaking the apprehensive silence and sudden, total stillness. "Fascinating. A big one too. They're not native to this . . ."

Before the Ithorian could finish, Canderous made a startled exclamation. There was a tremendous splash and he disappeared from view, dragged beneath the surface.

-s-s-

"So, what you're saying is, we've blown it. All that effort for no return." Shakrill made a noise akin to a hiss and bared sharp canines. The scar down the side of the big Trandoshan's face still hadn't entirely faded.

"No." Ravelasch, spokesperson of the brothers, sounded impatient, which was distinctly unusual. Emotion rarely crept into the Defel's conversation. "I imply nothing of the sort."

Rath folded his hands beneath his chin and let out a very audible sigh. "Gentlemen, please."

Silence descended abruptly. All eyes swivelled round to face him at the head of the table. Through the main window of this conference room on board the Shadow Dancer, the only thing visible was the endless blankness of hyperspace.

When he was sure he had everyone's full attention, he spoke again. "The information I've received indicates that the bounty is still very much on the table. And there has been no whisper to indicate that he's been captured. Given the current political situation, they would want to announce that news at the very earliest moment they were able to."

"Perhaps they are simply waiting for confirmation." That was Theda, a tall, dark-haired Zeltron woman with a voice like poured silk.

"They've had ample opportunity to make such a confirmation by now." Rath shook his head in disagreement. "No, it is too easy to sit back and regard the Republic as a single entity with one unified will. The reality is, it's a nest of a thousand different factions that the Galactic Senate occasionally manages – as much through luck as judgement – to get facing in the same direction. I think we'll find that the Winding Way is made up of personnel who fought alongside Revan at the Star Forge, and bear him some residual loyalty from then – despite the current allegations against him."

"Maybe so Rath," Theda persisted. "But it still presents us with a significant problem. The Republic is unlikely to look too kindly on us hitting a Republic ship, killing Republic military personnel, and then trying to claim a bounty from them. Even if the Winding Way has gone rogue. It sets what they'd probably regard as a dangerous precedent."

"Do you think?" Rath's tone was dryly laconic.

"Stop being so damned smug, and tell us what your plan is," Shakrill all but growled. "And if I hear the word 'patience', I'm going to rips your intestines out and play a game of cat's cradle with them."

"Tsk, so aggressive, Shak." Rath unfolded his arms, leant forwards and pushed a sequence of keys that caused a display screen to pop-up from the tabletop. After a moment spent flicking through menus, he turned the screen round so the others could see. "On the last update we received from the estimable brothers' source." Rath made a respectful nod towards Ravelasch. "The Winding Way was passing through Nam Chorios in the Meridian Sector. Rather a long way out from the core worlds, and surprisingly close to the boundaries of Sith space. It also happens to be right at the heart of the territory Daggart Fett runs."

"Why don't I like where this is going?" Kreed's muttered response was clearly audible to everyone in the room.

"Because you're turning into an old woman?" Shak suggested.

"Ha, bloody, ha."

"Anyway," Rath continued swiftly. "If Mr. Fett and his fellow pirates were to somehow acquire the knowledge that Revan was in such close proximity . . .. Well, I think they'd have far less qualms than us about attacking a Republic capital ship."

Kreed made an impolite noise. "Fett's a paranoid bugger. He's not gonna just leap into action at your say so."

"Give me a little credit, please. I've already sent an encrypted signal, ostensibly to a contact on Nam Chorios. I know for a fact that Daggart more or less owns one of the relay stations the message passes through, and he slices everything. He'll bite. He's too greedy not to."

"Daggart is Cassus's bastard, right?" Theda was looking at Kreed as she spoke. "That makes him a fellow Mandalorian."

Kreed's expression twisted sourly. "It takes more than the blood in your veins to be a Mandalorian. 'Sides, from their respective ages, Cassus would have been fourteen when he spawned Daggart. Not impossible, I suppose, but nah." A headshake. "Far more likely Daggart's just some scumbag trying to play off the name and sound like a toughass."

Rath drummed his fingers on the tabletop sharply, snapping attention back to him. "Whatever the truth of Daggart's ancestry, the fact remains he possesses two fully armed Mandalorian destroyers and a working interdictor, on top of a whole host of fighters and gunships. Enough to comprehensively overpower a lone Republic frigate, even if most of his ships are at least five years out of date and in sore need of spare parts."

"So Daggart does the dirty work and we nip in and snatch his prize? That about the size of it?" Kreed's tone of voice was completely neutral – usually not a good sign.

"Simplified to hell, but it'll do as an overview." Rath shrugged.

"This doesn't sound like crap to anyone else sitting here?" Kreed asked.

Rath winced in mock hurt. "Please Kreed, a little faith. Is that really so much to ask after all these years? When have I ever steered you wrong?"

"He does have a point though, Rath." There was palpable surprise around the table as Theda spoke up – especially from Kreed. Theda always backed Rath up, no matter what.

Rath turned his gaze to her. "Theda?"

"The amount of variables here; the amount of things that could go wrong . . .."

He held up a hand to stop her. "I'll admit we don't have a great deal of control over events, and that's not the way we like to work. But think about it. What is the worst possible outcome for us?"

Theda pursed her ever so perfect lips, but in the end said nothing.

"If our luck is entirely out, Daggart will blow it and the Winding Way will escape unscathed. Our means of tracking them is still in place, and we just have to try something else. We've lost nothing. Revan has got to know already that just about everyone else in the galaxy is after his balls on a silver platter, so we're hardly tipping our hand." He glanced to Kreed, who was glowering – although glowering was pretty much the Mandalorian's natural expression – then back to Theda. "Far more likely, the Winding Way will, at the least, be badly enough damaged in the attack that it has to put into port somewhere. There's even a pretty good chance of Daggart succeeding."

"And if he botches it the other way? Destroys the Winding Way entirely, and Revan with it?"

"Then so be it." Rath's face – and voice – hardened abruptly. "I know someone who's willing to cover our expenses and then some, as long as we can bring proof of his demise. I have that proof, should it occur. It isn't quite the same as the deal for delivering him alive, but I'm sure we'll overcome our respective disappointments in that event."

Eventually Theda gave a nod. Kreed said nothing.

"As far as I can see it, this is a play with no possible negative outcome. How many times, exactly, have any of us been able to say that?" He looked around the table to each face in turn. "So, unless there are any more questions? No? In that case I think we've all got plenty of work that needs doing."

Kreed lingered behind after all the others had gone. "Can I have a word, Rath? A private one, I mean?"

Rath gave the Mandalorian a long, measuring look before he finally nodded.

-s-s-

Bastila's lightsaber ignited with a sharp snap-hiss, twin blades shining yellow in the mist. Instinctively she slashed down blind into the murky water near her ankles, making the water bubble and steam. A moment later, she sensed a sharp flash of animalistic pain, and something as thick as a tree root withdrew from her rapidly.

The spot where Canderous had disappeared from view churned into froth.

There was a sharp retort and a bright flash, lighting up the swamp water – Canderous, firing his heavy repeater. Whether he actually hit anything or not was impossible to tell. Briefly, his head broke the surface, gasping for breath, before he was dragged back under again.

One the commandos – Tasker possibly – fired blind into the swamp, uncomfortably close to where Canderous had just been. Bastila snapped at him to hold fire, struggling in an effort to use the Force to discern what was going on through the churning morass.

Distracted, she was caught unawares as another tentacle snaked round her legs, jerking her off her feet. She managed one last gulp of air before her head went under.

For several seconds it was too disorientating to tell which direction was up or down in the cloudy gloom. She flailed around with her lightsaber, the blade creating weird patterns of shadow and illumination, but failed to connect with anything solid. The grip around her ankle was crushing, and she felt herself being remorselessly reeled in.

She caught a brief glimpse of Canderous as she was dragged past him. A pair of tentacles thicker than her ankle had wrapped around his legs, but he'd managed to hook an arm around the roots of one of the trees and was holding on for grim death – or at least until he ran out of oxygen. She saw that he was trying to grope for something at his waist, but didn't have time to see what . . .

Then she saw the dianoga's spherical central body, looming in front of her. It was at least two metres across, and from the look of it, half of that was mouth. The mouth opened, wide enough to swallow her whole. It was lined with rows of teeth to make a firaxa shark jealous.

She started to thrash franticly, lungs burning. Dimly she was aware of blaster bolts passing through the water around her and making it bubble and boil. The leathery hide of the dianoga's central body seemed to absorb the impacts with little ill effect though.

In desperation, she slashed down around her ankles with her lightsaber. The dianoga's maw was no more than a metre away . . .

One of the lightsaber blades bit into something solid. There was a sizzling sound. Bastila could feel her lungs burning and her vision swam with patterns of red and black.

Suddenly the grip on her slackened. Pain flared in her calf and she realised belatedly that she'd sliced all the way through the dianoga's tentacle and was now cutting into her own boot. She kicked hard as the dianoga's jaws snapped shut on empty water and broke the surface, gasping.

She had the brief impression of Canderous losing his grip on the tree root. She made a desperate attempt to grab him using the Force.

She missed. Dull horror filled her . . .

There was a muffled roaring sound. Chunks of flesh and pale, glutinous ichors went flying, colouring the water in thick clouds. A moment later the dianoga breached the surface, lolling, somewhat resembling a half-deflated balloon, a massive crater blown in one side of it. The few tentacles still attached to it floated limply.

It was several more seconds before Canderous resurfaced, his face purple as he gasped for air. The relief Bastila felt was stunning. Her lightsaber shut off with a snap.

Abruptly all his strength seemed to drain away, and he started to slide beneath the surface again.

"No, you don't." Bastila grunted with effort as she caught him beneath the armpits. Even with the water to help support him he was extremely heavy and near impossible to move. She saw his eyes rolling, unfocussed in a shell-shocked daze.

Then two of the commandos were alongside her, helping her drag him back to the shallows.

He stumbled, legs buckling as there was suddenly solid ground beneath his feat. Suddenly almost all of his two-hundred and fifty odd pounds weight was leaning down on her, and her own injured leg went, dropping her to her knees in the mire. Canderous managed to catch himself against a tree trunk, and doubled over, panting and coughing up filthy water. His broad back shook, wracked by intermittent tremors.

"Are you hurt?" She knew it was a stupid question even as she asked him. Of course he was bloody hurt.

He looked up at her, still panting, apparently not having heard a single word. "Frag grenade," he commented after a few seconds, voice weirdly loud, a savage grin slanting across his lips. "Gave the bastard indigestion."

-s-s-

"So, how's our guest getting on?" Rath asked quietly.

Kreed snorted as he sat down again. "How d'you think, Rath? How d'you bloody think?"

"Still angry then? Still demonstrating that charmingly creative use of language."

Kreed didn't look amused by his flippant tone. "Oh, she's still angry alright. Although angry doesn't really even begin to cover it. But she's not singing any more. Doubt she's said more than four words since Nar Shaddaa. And in case you're wondering: no, I don't regard that as a good sign."

"Oh?" Rath raised an eyebrow, his voice – on the surface – light enough.

"She's plotting our deaths. She witnessed us killing two of her friends, and she's planning on returning the favour, big time. First chance she gets. I think if it comes to a choice between escaping and watching us die she's gonna take the latter option, even if it costs her own life in the process."

"You almost sound like you're scared, Kreed. Of a fifteen year old girl."

Another snort. "And you sound like Shak. That's the type of cheap and clumsy jibe I'd expect from him. And it cuts about as deep."

"I never anticipated she was going to grateful over being kidnapped," Rath observed mildly.

"She's a complication, Rath. A wildcard. You think she's going to make it easier for us to capture and control Revan? Newsflash: I don't. In fact I'm wondering if she'll turn into that fatal uncontrollable variable that ends up blowing the whole deal for us."

Rath favoured Kreed with a long and steady look. "Are you volunteering to kill her for me then?"

"What?" The Mandalorian sounded startled.

"Oh, stop playing dense. We can't let her go, can we? Either we keep her alive as prisoner and hostage, or, if that's too difficult, we have to dispose of her. Is it your recommendation that we dispose her?"

Kreed's teeth gritted tight and he stared hard at Rath. His artificial eye seemed, inexplicably to glow brighter. Rath simply met his gaze in his usual calm, unruffled manner. Eventually Kreed's face twisted in what was very nearly a snarl. "No, that is not my recommendation."

"Funny. I thought it was usually the hostage who ended up developing an attachment to her captors. Not the other way around."

Kreed just glowered.

"So, what did you want to talk to me about? Assuming we haven't already covered it?"

The Mandalorian leant back in his seat and let out a long, calming breath. Briefly, he tilted his head back, gazing up at the ceiling, before meeting Rath's gaze again. "Why are we doing this, Rath? I mean, really."

Rath blinked in manufactured surprise. "Excuse me? This?"

Kreed wasn't fooled for so much as a microsecond. "Don't play dumb Rath. I'm not in the mood for it."

Rath's lips twisted wryly. "I'm guessing you mean the Revan thing."

"Yeah, the Revan thing. And don't give any of that sithspit about it being about the money."

"Well it is a lot of money, Kreed. More money than any of us is likely to see otherwise in a lifetime."

"But this isn't how we do things!" Kreed suddenly seemed genuinely angry, all the calm boiled away in a flash. "What was it you always said about the big, speculative jobs? About them beings fools' errands for those who are tired of life? That you'd never met anyone who'd ever successfully pulled the big, one-off set-yourself-for-life venture with both life and freedom still intact at the end of it. Know your weaknesses as well as your strengths. Don't overstretch your reach. Is any of this ringing any kind of bell?"

"You were the one eager to test yourself against Revan," Rath pointed out.

"As if listening to the wish-fulfilment fantasies of a half-mechanical Mandalorian merc with a death-wish is ever a good way of running things."

Rath threw back his head and laughed. After a moment or two, reluctantly, Kreed joined in, and some of the tension drained away.

Eventually Rath said, "It isn't as speculative as you think, my friend. You're doing what everyone in the galaxy seems to be doing right now – letting yourself get suckered in by the mystique surrounding Revan's name. He's just a man though. A powerful, dangerous man, but in no way immortal or superhuman. We possess all the necessary components to take him." He spread his hands.

"Look at how Taris went. The only thing that Jedi Juhani lacked over Revan is the power of the name. By all accounts she was one of the most able Force users, Jedi or Sith, in the galaxy, battle-hardened and as tough as they come. Yet we took her down without any excessive risk or difficulty. I don't expect Revan to be easy, Kreed, but we've done as hard as this before without an eyebrow raised by any of us. Don't fall so in love with the legends that you start believing in them."

Finally Kreed grunted. "Maybe you're right, Rath."

"Then you're still with me? You're happy?"

Kreed looked at him, long and hard. "No, I'm not happy. Your rationalisations sound convincing enough. They sound like the rationalisations you'd make. But in the end, that's all they are – rationalisations. You're holding something back from us, and I won't have it. This is personal to you somehow."

Rath's quiet chuckle was not convincing. "You think I'm looking for some kind of revenge? Is that it?"

"I don't know. Are you?"

Rath let out an exasperated breath. "You know, Kreed, this is starting to annoy me just a little. Haven't I earned a little leeway; a little in the way of trust."

"Just answer the damned question!"

"Fine. I have no reason to want revenge on Revan. He didn't kill, or otherwise harm, any of my family. He never harmed my homeworld. And I've never even come close to meeting him that I know of. In fact, if we want to be entirely open about everything, I have more reasons to be grateful to him than to hate him."

"Oh?" There was definite scepticism in Kreed's voice.

"I came from Ventara originally. Did you know that? Not the most picturesque of worlds, and I was only too glad to get away from there at the earliest opportunity. But I still bear it a passing fondness. Pah, you've never even heard of Ventara have you? No real reason you should have. Anyway, back near the beginning of the Mandalorian wars, Ventara happened to fall in the path of one the three main Mandalorian invasion fleets. We didn't have much in the way of defences, but you know as well as I do that that wouldn't have saved us. To cut a boring story short, right before the Mandalorians reached us, Revan and Malak joined the war against the wishes of the Jedi Council. The Mandalorians turned aside from their path to meet one of Revan's counter attacks, and Ventara was spared. Probably inadvertent on his part, but there you go."

"So Revan saved your life." It was almost a sneer, filled with open disbelief.

"Oh, don't be unnecessarily thick, please. Of course he didn't save my life. I hadn't been anywhere near Ventara in over a decade. At best, he saved the life of an uncle and a couple of aunts – maybe a cousin or two that I've never even met. Even so, notional as any gratitude of mine is, I have no particular reason to despise the man."

Kreed still didn't look particularly convinced.

"Look, what's it going to take? Blood?" Rath pushed back from chair, stood up, and stalked across to the viewport – where there was currently precisely nothing to see.

"Just a bit of openness and honesty. The real reasons we're all risking our lives. Who you were meeting on Nar Shaddaa, for instance."

"Ah, that's the real reason you're so riled, isn't it? Nar Shaddaa and our brush with dearest Seboba. Perhaps not my finest hour, I'll admit."

"That's putting it mildly," Kreed muttered.

Rath looked back from the viewport. "I was meeting with an old . . ." A rather telling pause as he groped for the correct word. "Friend. One I hadn't seen for years. Pertinent information was exchanged, and quite frankly, that's all you need to know."

"That's not good enough."

Rath turned all the way back, and this time the anger was obvious. His face was tight with it. "No? Well, tough. In case you're having memory problems, you work for me. Not the other way round. I don't think I'm too hard a boss, am I? I listen to your concerns and advice. I make sure everyone's taken care of and gets their proper share. I don't gamble with your lives. But when it comes to it, I am still the boss. And you do what I pay you to do."

Finally, Kreed nodded. "Just don't start breaking your own rules Rath. That's all I ask." He turned and walked out of there.

-s-s-

Nighttime on Dromund Kaas was not a pleasant experience.

Because of their proximity to the equator, dusk was short and the darkness closed in fast. They'd barely had time to find a patch of ground that rose above the surrounding swamp's water level, and with the combination of the ever-present mist and the thick canopy of vegetation, the blackness was near total. Without resorting to the Force – which given the proximity of the darkside she was loath to do – Bastila found herself unable to see her own hand more than a foot in front of her face.

The heat and humidity had lessened only slightly from the day, and if anything, the swarms of insects grew even thicker, forming an incessant background hum to go with the constant dripping and sloshing. Bastila managed only fitful snatches of sleep, and even that was plagued by a variety of bad dreams she could only half-remember.

When it came time for her to take the third watch, she was more-or-less exhausted, her clothing still feeling clammy, sodden, and uncomfortable around her.

She sat with her lightsaber resting across her lap, staring out in the direction that she knew the water to be, listening to the occasional splashes. The darkside energy and twisted life of the place was even more profoundly apparent now she didn't have much in the way of vision to distract her other senses. Her thoughts traced relentlessly through old and uncomfortably twisted paths.

An hour into her watch something large floated past a few yards in front of her. Velta Laska had assured them that there would me no more dianogas in the immediate vicinity, and that one the size they'd encountered would have swept a good four miles square of swamp clean of any other sizable lifeforms. He also gone on to explain, in rather more detail than anyone else was interested in, how the species were propagated through the galaxy in near-microscopic, larval form, carried in the waste systems of starships.

A log, she finally determined, allowing herself to relax again.

By the time Canderous tapped her on the shoulder, she was almost dozing. It was a struggle to keep herself from jolting in surprise, and inwardly she cursed herself for letting her guard drop so far. A proper Jedi would have sensed his approach.

"Time for bed, Princess." His voice was a rough-textured whisper.

"You shouldn't be taking a watch," she whispered back, unfolding herself and standing up. A low-hanging tree branch caught and snarled in her hair.

He grunted quietly. "I've stood watches in far worse condition than this."

"But I'm betting that was before you were old enough to be someone's granddad."

As she started to head back towards her bedroll, she heard him mutter: "Least I don't spend my time talking to myself."

She stopped and turned around slowly. "What did you just say?"

There was a slight delay before he responded. "Just noting your rather . . . verbal sleeping habits."

"I most certainly do not talk in my sleep." Bastila felt heat flaring to her cheeks. Oh, please, say that I don't.

"Of course not." The sarcasm dripped. "But, whatever you were doing, you were definitely keeping the rest of us entertained. I think we're all particularly curious about the identity of the 'Twi'lek slattern'."

The heat in her cheeks became even worse, and she was suddenly very grateful to the darkness. She knew she was flushing bright red. "I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about." Whispered, it came out almost as a hiss. She started to turn away again.

"So that's it."

She knew the words were deliberately calculated to infuriate her. She knew that the best thing to do was ignore him completely. She answered anyway. "So what's it?"

"Your link with Tamar." His tone was so nonchalantly certain that she wanted to scream. "He's found a new special friend I take it. Don't know why you're upset though. I mean yeah, no doubt it's a little uncomfortable, but I was under the impression you were the one who threw him out."

Bastila's mouth worked silently. She clamped her jaw tightly shut.

"Still, can't fault his taste. His sanity maybe . . ."

"You know who she is?" The volume and shrillness of her voice made her want to curl up into a ball and die of shame.

"Oh, come on. You've seen the same newscasts I have. Twi'lek. It's not like I'm . . ."

Before he could finish speaking, a low howl rang out from somewhere disturbingly close by. It trailed off into a cackling bark.

Water dripped.

"You can put your lightsaber on. It's hardly going to be able to see any worse than us, whatever it is," Canderous stated softly after long, tense seconds of absolute silence.

Bastila nodded, before realising he couldn't see her. The sudden, harsh yellow glare made her blink rapidly, eyes watering. It only illuminated a relatively small circle of ground, and the darkness beyond that grew all the deeper.

"What the hell was that?" One of the commandos – Corporal Tasker – had crossed over from the other side of the camp. He gripped his blaster carbine tightly at the ready.

"Local wildlife." Canderous shook his head and turned away. "Big enough by the sound of it, but shouldn't be a threat if we . . ."

The rest of his words faded into the background. Bastila was reaching out into the darkness with probing tendrils of Force, striving to see where her gaze could not penetrate. The sense of fecund life all around her was nearly overpowering – multitudes of it, thronging on every side. There was a kind of sick taint to it all though, where the darkness had taken root in the swamp itself, twisting and warping it over the years and centuries until it was now utterly corrupted.

Then her mind brushed against something that was looking back at her.

Its reaction was instantaneous. She knew immediately that it could feel the contact, and sense her through it. And she felt its fury.

It made her flinch away and draw back rapidly, the reek of madness clinging like the swamp mud.

Something moved in the undergrowth. It didn't howl this time, only the rustling and shifting of undergrowth marking its passage as it shot like an arrow, straight towards her. Canderous and Tasker opened fire together, blasters singing together in symphony.

Both missed.

Bastila received the fleeting impression of a dense, fast moving shadow leaping straight towards her and tried to twist away, bringing her lightsaber across her body in a flashing arc. Something impacted with her shoulder, sending her staggering as it flew past her. One of her lightsaber blades bit into something solid, severing it . . .. There was a cackling hiss of pain.

She found herself facing a creature that resembled a big, heavy-set and extremely bad tempered wolf. It growled, deep inside its chest. Its whip-like tail traced the air, back and forth, foreshortened and leaking blood. Something about the creature told her instinctively that it was being driven by far more than natural animal instinct and hunger. It pounced again.

Her lightsaber swung across to intercept, but it almost seemed like it could read her movements through the Force. Instead of neatly taking the creature's head off, she scored a glancing blow across its shoulder. Fur and flesh sizzled.

Then it barrelled straight through her legs, sending her flying. She rolled on impact with the ground, trying to come straight up to her feet. Her wrist jarred on a tree root, and her lightsaber bounced free of her grasp.

Its paws scrabbled, churning the mud beneath it as it turned back almost double on itself. Ropes of hot saliva fell from the corners of its mouth. Canderous opened up with his repeater, hitting it in the side with at least one shot, but the sheer density of the thing's muscle tissue seeming to absorb the impact with only minor ill effect. Snarling, it launched itself straight at Bastila's throat.

She called on the Force, operating on pure desperation and instinct.

Force lightning shot from her fingertips, striking the creature directly in its slavering jaws and frying it from the inside out.

As its charred, still smoking carcass hit the ground, she simply stared down at it, numb with shock.

-s-s-

Outside the apartment's window, the new Coruscant day was dawning spectacularly. The floor-length window was several hundred feet above cloud level, the rising sun reflecting off the tops of those clouds in a truly dazzling display. The upper reaches of other skyscrapers, rising above the clouds, resembled glowing silver needles.

The towering bulk of the senate complex dominated the skyline in the near distance.

"Are you paying attention, my apprentice? You appear somewhat . . . distracted."

Morrigance carefully held back her annoyance. "Of course, my Lord Auza. You were telling me about the visit you received from Yuthura Ban." She swept an exaggerated bow to the holographic image of the grotesque Sith Lord.

"I was under the impression that I asked you deal with Revan," Auza's voice gurgled, edged by a menace that he normally concealed behind disingenuous affability. So he was angry with her. Quite honestly though, she couldn't care less. "Yet despite your supposed efforts, he still showed up with Ban, in the middle of my palace, and dared to threaten me."

"It seems I must offer my profound congratulations, my lord." Morrigance inclined her head, her voice completely emotionless.

"You offer . . . your what?" Auza sounded incredulous.

"My apologies, master." She struggled to keep her contempt in check. "I just assumed that, since we were having this conversation, yourself and Celyanda must have defeated Revan and Ban. Have I misunderstood? Is that not the case?"

Across the holo-link, she could almost feel him seething. "I was forced to evacuate from my own home! I was stolen from and humiliated. That will not stand, apprentice. That will not stand. Do you understand me?"

She looked at him. Oh, I understand just fine. At the first sign of danger you ran off like a simpering virgin whose date has gotten a little too free with his hands. If you'd stayed to support Celyanda, Revan and Ban would be dead. But you didn't live this long by being anything other than a coward, did you my 'lord'.

"Of course, my lord." Another bow.

"Ban had a number of things to say, my apprentice." Auza's tone became slightly more composed. "Some of it I found quite interesting, particularly concerning your good self."

"Oh, my lord?"

"She implied that it was Revan and herself who slew the Council; that you just opportunistically stole the credit. She also stated that Revan sought to reclaim the title of Dark Lord, rather than being the Jedi lackey that you suggested."

"And you believed her?"

"She was . . . moderately convincing." Auza favoured her with a ghastly, leering smile. "Still, I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, my apprentice. On that much at least." A pause. "Now tell me, Elleste. Exactly what steps are you taking to ensure that Revan is able to be a thorn in my side no longer?"

Morrigance recognised the look in his eyes that said the question was both test and trap. Beneath her mask, she gritted her teeth. She really didn't have the patience for this anymore. "A contact of mine is tracking Revan as we speak," she said smoothly. "I am in the process of arranging a surprise for him at the earliest opportunity. Indeed, I heard from my contact only yesterday, indicating Revan was passing through the Nam . . ."

". . . Chorios system." Auza's voice was patronising. "Yes, I know. As luck would have it, an agent loyal to me intercepted a communiqué to that effect. It is good to know you are keeping at least marginally abreast of events, my apprentice. Concern yourself no further, however. I have decided to take matters personally in hand."

There was a fractional pause before she inclined her head. "Master."

"I have dispatched a portion of my fleet to intercept the vessel transporting Revan. I expect to have positive news immanently."

Morrigance found herself gritting her teeth again. "That is excellent news, Master."

"Isn't it just?" The sarcasm was thick. "I've decided I wish to see you in person, apprentice. It is so much more fulfilling to talk in person, face to face, rather than like this, don't you think? I feel I have been neglecting my role as tutor and guide of late."

"My lord, my work here on Coruscant is reaching a critical juncture . . ."

"I think I'm going to have to insist." Auza's voice turned hard and cold. "You will present yourself to me within seventy-two hours. And that, I think, concludes this conversation for now. I look forward to seeing you in person."

The hologram flickered and vanished. Morrigance drew in a sharp a breath, and for several long seconds she stood stock still, composing herself, honing her fury to tight focus. The usefulness of certain individuals, she suspected, was coming to an end.

Finally, she moved again, shrugging off her cowled black outer robe and laying it to one side. Underneath was a second robe, this one in a shade of earthen brown. She pulled the robe's hood up, over her head, then touched a control inlaid into the side of her mirror-finished mask. A holographic image flickered into existence, showing the face of a severe yet attractive looking woman aged somewhere in her fifties.

The holographic visage wasn't good enough that it would fool a person standing in the same room as her, but across a holo-link . . .

She leant forward, activating a comm. channel. A few moments later, in the same spot Darth Auza's grotesque countenance had previously occupied, the image of an Ishi Tib wearing the robes of a Jedi Padawan appeared.

Morrigance's artificial face smiled warmly in greeting. "Ah, Padawan Chafandra, such a pleasure to see you again. Could I prevail upon you to let Master Tapawan know that I wish to speak with her?"

-s-s-

Velta Laska had identified the lightning charred corpse as belonging to a vornskr.

Bastila knew about the creatures from the Jedi Archives – one of the very few known species that had evolved to be inherently Force sensitive, able to use the Force in order to track and hunt its prey. In past centuries both Jedi and Sith had made largely unsuccessful attempts to domesticate vornskr, as guard dogs and trackers. She supposed that this explained how they came to be here on Dromund Kaas. As Velta Laska had confirmed, they certainly weren't indigenous.

Her gaze flicked sidelong to Canderous, and her lips compressed into a line. She owed him an apology, she knew. She just couldn't bring herself to voice it.

It had been much easier when she'd been able to dismiss him as a brutish, antagonistic boor, useful only for hitting and shooting things. The complex, human Canderous she'd seen of late was more than she wanted to cope with right now.

Snatches of their earlier conversation played back:

So what's the big deal? If you hadn't lost your lightsaber, you'd have cut it down with that. And you wouldn't have thought twice about it. Who cares if you fried it with lightning instead? End result's exactly the same, and I don't think the nice doggy here particularly cares much either way. Canderous had nudged the charred carcass with his boot.

She winced to remember her retort, but the Mandalorian had shrugged it off with a shake of the head and a smirk.

Look, I don't buy it. All you did was use the tools you had available to you. It was a matter of practicality, and you did what was necessary to survive. The alternative was a ripped out throat. Stop being so damned masochistic. Stop searching for things you can use to beat yourself over. That's the only thing stupid I can see here.

But the Force was not simply a matter of practicality. And it certainly wasn't a tool. You never simply used the Force, because the Force had a habit of using you right back.

Instead of trying to explain, she'd shoved him away, hurling a tirade of abuse.

The shame of that burned almost as much as the Force lightning.

It wasn't even as if there hadn't been alternatives. She could have wrapped the vornskr in a stasis field, or shoved it back from her with a wave of Force. But without time to think, her instinctive reaction had been to call the lightning. Her instincts were to fall straight back down and grasp the darkside she was supposed to have abandoned. Silly little girl, playing at being Jedi. Pretending to be what you're not.

Something splashed nearby and her attention jerked back to her surroundings. Her heart thudded inside her chest, but there was nothing immediately to be seen.

They'd reached the perimeter of the energy field about half an hour ago. There'd been no visible indicator of it, and indeed no more sign of any Sith presence than further out in the swamp. Only sensor readings had given them any indication it was there.

As they'd paused, Bastila had reluctantly and tentatively sent her senses deeper into the swamp ahead of them in an effort to get some kind of indication of what lay ahead. The darkness had been near overwhelming, crushing down on her from every side. Part of her had begun to suspect a big part of that darkness originated from herself, amplified and reflected by her surroundings. And that was something she couldn't hope to evade.

Her mind had come into contact with that of another prowling vornskr. The reaction had been identical to the one last night: a surge of maddened, animal fury. Then it was charging directly towards her, leaping from log to log, splashing through the swamp water.

She'd been more ready for it this time, and she'd managed to call out a warning just before it burst from the surrounding undergrowth. Canderous and the three Republic commandos had all been set, guns aimed at it, ready to fire as it appeared.

And at that moment, it had become absolutely apparent what the purpose of the energy field was.

Four triggers were pulled within a fraction of a second of each other. Four guns – blaster carbines and heavy repeaters – had produced near simultaneous spluttering coughing noises and failed to fire.

Luckily, Bastila's lightsaber had still worked properly, brilliant yellow blades flaring to life. As the vornskr leapt at her she'd managed to set herself, side-step out of its path, and impale it neatly through its chest. It had been dead before it splashed back into the swamp waters and sank without a trace.

Further experimentation had simply gone to confirm the truth. They were inside some kind of suppression field. None of their firearms – whether carbines, pistols, or heavy repeaters – was capable of producing anything more dangerous than a despondent beeping noise.

The switch to melee weapons had not exactly done much to calm the growing collective sense of trepidation.

"What do you make of that?" Canderous asked Bastila quietly.

She peered through the shifting patterns of mist, at the spot he indicated, between a pair of trees that resembled gnarled and hunched old women, to a patch of raised ground.

"A statue." A robed and hooded, faceless figure, carved from stained and blotchy dark grey stone, swathed in vines and covered in patches of moss. As she looked at it, Bastila could feel its malevolence, as if the dark side had been absorbed into the stone like a particularly virulent and long lasting form of radiation.

"Really?" Canderous snorted. "Well thanks for pointing that out."

"A statue," Jansa echoed as she came alongside the two them, staring at it intently. "That's about all you can say. If it's meant to be someone specific I've no idea who. I'm obviously not that well up on my ancient Sith Lords."

A wide pool of murky swamp water separated them from the patch of ground and the statue. Very, very tentatively Bastila tried to see through the murky water via the Force, attempting to determine whether anything like the dianoga they'd encountered earlier lurked beneath the surface. She didn't detect anything, but wasn't sure whether that meant there was nothing there or she just didn't possess the talent to see.

Cautiously she started to wade round the pool's edge towards the statue. Tension drew her shoulders in tight and made her skin prickle.

"Funny. You wouldn't really expect to see a statue standing alone in the middle of a patch of swampland like this," she heard Jansa saying behind her. The water was up to her thighs now, and getting deeper by the step.

"Unless, of course, it's not." A note of excitement crept into Jansa's voice, banishing the weariness. Bastila stopped short, consciously noticing something that had been nagging at the back of her mind for at least a couple of minutes now. There were no insects in the air. For the first time since they'd landed on Dromund Kaas, there were no insects. "Look, you see that straight line there?"

"What I see is swamp." Canderous's answering tone was acerbic. "Lots and lots of fraking dismal swamp."

Bastila paused briefly, looking up at the statue's faceless cowl. She had the disturbing impression that it was somehow looking right back. No more than fifteen feet separated her from it now.

"Oh, come on. That line of trees. Right there. It's far too regular to be natural. And there. You see? A slight rise there, running at right angles. It's the foundation of some kind of old structure. It has to be."

Canderous made a noncommittal sounding grunt, which Bastila recognised as meaning he did see something, but wasn't quite prepared to admit it yet.

"I don't see a damned thing," Corporal Tasker muttered.

Jansa made an exasperated noise.

The ground beneath Bastila's feet was much firmer now, the water becoming shallower with every forward step. Then she was standing right before the statue. Trepidation filled her. There was something carved on its base, but it was obscured by clinging mud and a tangle of vines. She leant closer, frowning . . .

And suddenly her vision shifted.

She was able to see right through the statue – inside it – the surrounding swamp a thing of mist and pale ghosts and strange patches of glowing light. It was hollow, a receptacle designed to store something. And right now, it was occupied. The thing that occupied it looked down at her, sentient shadow – pure madness and malevolence – aware of her presence.

Bastila Shan. It spoke her name.

She gasped in shock, flinching back from it sharply, slipping on the wet mud. The living darkness lashed out at her.

It was as if a giant hand had seized hold of her, picking her up effortlessly and throwing her. She found herself flying backwards through the air, unable to stop herself, and hit the water with a tremendous splash. The impact was hard enough to leave her dazed.

As she sank she felt currents beneath the water – currents that, in a stagnant swamp, shouldn't possibly be there – seize hold of her, dragging her deeper. She struggled against them – tried to kick back towards the surface – but the current was too strong to break with her head still spinning. A moment later, everything went dark. She had the brief, disorientating impression of being swallowed by a giant mouth.

It was some kind of underwater passageway, built from stone, she realised after a few seconds. She banged and bounced against the hard walls, trying to find something to grab onto and stop herself being pulled any deeper. All she succeeded in doing was tearing a nail off amid a brief flaring of sun-bright agony. Her head knocked hard against something solid, and her lungs screamed for oxygen. Panic started to grow . . .

Then she felt herself being dragged rapidly upwards again, the grip on her resisting all of her efforts to break it.

She broke the surface, gasping and spluttering, head still spinning in disorientation.

After a while, her head started to clear slightly, and the panic subsided enough for her to be able to take in something of her surroundings. She was inside some kind of derelict structure made from stone. The roof had fallen in at some point, years or even centuries past to judge from all the vines growing down through the gap. Sparse light filtered down through the clouds and mist into the chamber, drawing everything in deep pools of shadow.

Wincing, she grasped hold of the edge of the pool she was floating in and pulled herself out, back onto dry – or at least semi-dry – land. She doubled over, coughing up foul tasting water.

As the coughing subsided, she straightened, all too aware of the eerie quiet. She tried to estimate how far she'd been pulled, but she had no real sense of it. A hundred yards? Two? More. Less. Any of them could have been right. Clearing her throat, she called out, as loud as she could. "Canderous!"

Her voice sounded feeble, echoing wildly from the surrounding walls. She waited, but there was no answer. After a few seconds, she tried again. "Jansa!"

This time she disturbed something roosting. She had a brief impression of something black with wings, flapping past her face, before streaking away through the gap in the broken roof. Slowly her heart subsided back down from her throat.

Her eyes began to adjust to the surrounding gloom. There was another statue, standing in a dark alcove.

It was very similar to the first one she'd encountered: a robed, featureless figure of stained grey stone. This one was in better condition, not so much exposed to the entropy of the swamp. Her immediate and instinctive was reaction was to shy away from it. She struggled to contain rising tides of strangling fear, repeating the Jedi Code over and over inside her head.

The light filtering through the broken ceiling caught on something, gleaming on the far wall. Bastila frowned, peering at it. After a brief, uncertain pause, she started to walk towards it. Her gaze kept shifting sideways to the alcove and the statue, as if waiting for it to come to life and jump down.

As she got closer, she saw it was what looked to be a metal panel set into the surrounding stonework. It was covered by a thick layer of accrued grime, but she could see that beneath that, it was highly polished.

Tentatively she wiped a hand across the metal, revealing a smooth, mirror-like surface. Her reflection looked back at her, pale and wan in the dim light. There was an odd distortion to it, which she found troubling in a way she couldn't quite pinpoint. She peered at it more closely, and of course, her reflection peered back. There was a tight, uneasy feeling in her gut, and her teeth were set on edge.

Her reflection winked at her.

She took a startled step backwards, almost stumbling over in her haste. The reflection didn't. In the mirror, over the reflection's shoulder, she could see the statue began to glow, a humanoid figure forming from the strange light and jumping lightly down from the pedestal.

Lightsaber igniting, Bastila whirled to face it.

-s-s-

"It helps somewhat if I try to view it as a practical lesson in applied anger management." Yuthura smiled, though there was a slightly ironic twist to her voice as she spoke.

They were separated by a layer of humming, shifting forcefield, and inside her cell Yuthura was wearing a neural disruptor collar. The sight of that gave Tamar his own particular set of anger management issues to resist.

"Although it would probably be a better sign of progress when I stop feeling it's an accomplishment when I manage to restrain myself from Force-choking my interrogators, and start viewing it as a failing for even allowing myself to contemplate it."

Tamar just about managed a smile in return. "If this is Marshall we're taking, then believe me, I think even Master Vandar would have struggled to maintain his serenity after a long spell in his company."

Having just gotten out of a lengthy conversation – or to be slightly more accurate, a raging argument – with the man, Tamar had been left fighting down a strong and completely un-Jedi-like urge to pound the Republic intelligence officer's face flat. He let out a breath. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't be in there. I'm doing what I can to get you out, but it's taking rather more time and effort than I'd hoped."

Yuthura shook her head. "Tamar, let's be honest here. We both expected to be occupying prison cells right now. The fact that you're not means the situation is progressing far better than we anticipated. You can't waste your time worrying about me when there so many other more important considerations. And . . . well, I've been in many worse places than this."

But that doesn't make it right. He didn't say it though, not wanting to waste this time by getting into another argument. As well as Marshall, he also managed to end up rowing with Jolee – who'd finished off saying more or less what Yuthura just had.

Look, stop acting like a Wookiee with a sore head and let him have his little victory for now. Let his ego be massaged by getting his way. She's not going anywhere and she's not being mistreated. I already checked that myself. Keep your powder dry until getting her out will actually achieve something other than alienating a man you might soon have need of, unlikely though that prospect might seem right now. Besides, don't you have other things you need to be concentrating on? Hell's teeth, boy, how did you ever get to be a Jedi Knight? Standards are definitely dropping since my day.

"You know, I think this is the first time I've seen you wearing Jedi robes?" she said softly, tilting her head slightly to one side as she looked at him appraisingly. "They suit you, I think; give you an air of dignity."

He touched the collar of the robe slightly self-consciously. "They do? To be honest, I don't feel particularly dignified. More scratchy and uncomfortable. Maybe that's why I don't wear them that often."

"And we both know that's not true at all."

"Perhaps not," he admitted.

The truth of it was that he still didn't think of himself as a Jedi. The few weeks of training that he'd initially received, before going out to seek the star maps, had always been tinged with a sense of unreality – he would do what was necessary; his duty, but afterwards, when it was over, he would go back to being what he really was. The subsequent revelations had, of course, changed everything – on a rational level at least. But even though he'd become more involved with the everyday workings of the Jedi Order over the past eight months, he still always felt detached – like he was pretending to be something he simply was not. And that was before taking into account his objections to the Code, or at least, the way the code was currently interpreted and taught.

His hand lifted briefly from his side, suddenly wanting to reach out and touch her, though of course the forcefield was in the way. He let it drop again in frustration.

She smiled, as if reading his thoughts. "'It is your actions that ultimately make you a Jedi. Not your thoughts or your doubts'. Something my teacher told me on Dantooine a few months ago when I was going through a particularly bad patch."

He nodded. "Jolee said something similar. Although I seem to recall more insults and rambling digressions in his version."

She stifled back laughter. It passed quickly and her expression became serious. "Have they found anything useful from what we brought back from Dantalus yet?"

The knowledge that Marshall would probably have several entire different litters of kittens if he knew this information was being given over to a prisoner with no official security clearance gave Tamar a certain amount of petty satisfaction. "The comm. logs have been decrypted. There's a team of analysts poring over them as we speak. We've already found a few interesting nuggets. There were a lot of conversations conducted between Auza's palace and a place called Berchest in the Colonies."

"I've heard of it. Quite a tourist attract, at least before the wars. Famous for its red-orange seas and crystal cities."

"Well you know a damn sight more than me then. Carth was posted there for a short period after the Mandalorian wars. He's gone along with an intelligence team to take a look. Left about twelve hours ago when we stopped over at Nam Chorios. I think he was pretty much desperate for anything useful to do."

"Is that what's worrying you?"

He blinked, but realised he shouldn't really be surprised by her ability to read his emotions with such apparent ease. Not after what they'd shared. Then he shook his head. "No. No, if anything it's a relief. Not that I want rid of him, but I can't help feeling that away from me is possibly a good thing right now." An exhalation. "No, I suppose it's Taris that has got me worried." He scratched the tip of his nose. "Three good friends of mine are listed as missing after an attack on a survey team their."

"I'm sorry."

He managed a half-smile. "Thank you. It's . . . well I can't imagine them dying like that. Not Mission. Not Zaalbar. Not Juhani. I'm sure they're still alive, and we've sent out another team to investigate what happened . . ."

"And you feel guilty about not going along with that team."

"Even though I know that the most likely reason for the attack was to draw me out of hiding," he agreed.

"I met Jedi Juhani on Dantooine," Yuthura said after a slight pause. "I suppose it would be directly before she joined up with the Taris survey. We talked briefly. I . . ." She hesitated just fractionally. "Liked her." Then, "No, you're right. I can't imagine her dying like that either."

He nodded, frowning – changed the subject. "We've also found reference to the name of Auza's apprentice. Elleste Strine. Although no doubt the name is about as genuine as her apprenticeship."

There was a faint flicker of reaction in Yuthura's eyes.

"That name is familiar to you."

Yuthura's face was pale, her head tails conspicuously still. "She passed through the academy on Korriban under my . . . tutelage. Very strong in the Force, and a perfect poster child for the Sith." Her voice was sad. "The woman we encountered on Coruscant was most definitely not Elleste Strine."

Of course not. "But if our Sith friend had her killed in order to assume her identity . . . it gives us another point along her back-trail to investigate at least."

"There are several very sizable assumptions wrapped up in there, though I don't suppose you need me to point that out."

And the fact it was one of the best leads they had was also a rather crushing indictment of the amount of information they'd managed to discover. He knew that well enough. "It may be slightly more interesting to note that there are several log entries that place Elleste Strine on Coruscant. After our particular encounter."

"That is . . . interesting."

Tamar was more inclined to use words such as disturbing, but simply nodded.

"Was there anything on the data core?"

And there was another bone of contention he had with Marshall. As of a couple of hours ago, the intelligence officer's best slicers – or at least, the best slicers available on the Winding Way – had failed to scratch the surface of the data core's encryption. Yet he'd still refused point blank to allow T3 access to it, muttering about things like evidence contamination and procedure. Tamar suspected his real reasons had more to do with pride.

"It's being worked on," he stated sourly.

Before he was able to expand, the deck beneath him lurched violently, sending him reeling. The lights flickered and there was a decidedly ominous groaning sound from the surrounding superstructure.

Then everything levelled out again. Yuthura winced, rubbing her shoulder where she'd been thrown into the cell's wall. Their eyes met.

They both knew what it meant without having to say anything.

Something had yanked them violently out of hyperspace, and by far the most likely cause was an encounter with the gravity shadow projected by an interdictor ship.

-s-s-

Red and yellow lightsaber blades clashed with a sharp crack, locking together.

For several seconds the two battling opponents vied for supremacy, their lightsabers humming and crackling against each other as their muscles strained. Then, groaning with effect, Bastila shoved back hard, throwing her opponent off.

Her opponent seemed willing enough to go with the move, landing with cat-like grace. The twin red blades of their saber-staff glowed malevolently.

"Very good, my dear. Is that anger I sense? I think it is. Embrace it. It goes very nicely with all that fear." The voice was female: mocking; darkly familiar.

Bastila's opponent was Bastila too.

The two Bastila's circled one another warily, lightsabers ready, each of them looking for an opening.

The second Bastila was robed in black, the robes resembling those that Darth Revan had once worn, though minus the concealing mask. And while she could have been the original Bastila's twin, it was her twin as a three-week-old corpse.

Her skin looked grey and greasy, veins showing at her throat and temple, black where the darkside energies flowing through her had tainted her blood into something tar-like and corrupt. Formerly blue eyes had turned pale and milky, as if cataracts had grown across her irises – though it was apparent enough that she could still see well enough. Her hair, meanwhile, hung lankly, and it appeared that entire handfuls of it had simply fallen out.

Bastila launched another attack, twin yellow blades striking in a rapid flurry, first high, then low. Her dark reflection stood firm, parrying each thrust and countering adroitly.

Deflecting a blow past her shoulder, Bastila pivoted and whipped her lightsaber round at knee height. Her reflection hurdled effortlessly, kicking out and catching her a glancing blow to the side of the head. She staggered, backing off rapidly, desperately parrying the flurry of blows that rained in.

Finally, she managed to stabilize the situation again, locking their blades once more.

For the second time, Bastila's dark mirror seemed content to let herself be thrown back, out of the stalemate.

This time though, Bastila came charging in straight behind her shove, trying to take advantage. Her reflection was ready for her, simply extending her hand, palm outwards, and sending a pummelling wave of Force into her chest at point blank range.

Unable to catch herself, Bastila slammed back into a broken, vine-covered wall hard enough to blast all the breath from her body. She slid down to her knees in the middle of a dirty puddle, shoulders heaving.

Dark Bastila laughed, walking towards her slowly, in no apparent hurry. "Pathetic. Truly pathetic."

Bastila said nothing, ignoring the pain as she hauled herself upright, struggling to catch her breath.

"Is this all you are? Too riven by darkness and turmoil to be a Jedi. Too paralysed by fear and guilt to be a Sith. Honestly, I'm embarrassed to think I could come from something such as you."

Bastila managed to twist away from a slash that would have rent her from shoulder through to hip, spinning towards the centre of the chamber where there was more room to fight effectively. "Yet you still seem to be having trouble killing me."

Her twin laughed. "Trouble, my dear? Not at all. I'm simply . . . having fun – dragging the moment out and savouring. If you were any kind of threat I'd kill you quickly to end the danger, but you're not, so I prefer to make it last. So much more . . . enjoyable that way."

Bastila launched a quick attack, her lightsaber weaving through a series of dazzling patterns, but her twin countered without apparent effort. They broke off from each other, circling slowly again.

"Those saber lessens from Master Zhar are still serving you well I see." Her dark half's tone was slyly mocking. "A pity everything else the Jedi taught you has proved so worthless, now that you've finally fallen from their decrepit order for good."

There was another rapid exchange of attacks and parries, neither of them gaining any advantage.

"I have learnt from my mistakes. I've . . ." Bastila's jaw snapped shut as she cut herself off, flushing in annoyance for allowing herself to be drawn into a verbal response. She blocked an almost lazy saber thrust, but her reflection dodged her riposte with equal ease.

A mocking chuckle. "You've learnt? Please dear. I know you. Much to my disgust, I am you. You haven't even accepted the real reasons that you fell, let alone learnt anything from it."

In response, Bastila launched a flurry of fast, aggressive saber strokes, driving her reflection relentlessly back before her, but failing to breach her guard. Eventually her momentum stalled, and the attack petered out to nothing.

Her reflection looked amused. "Yes, let your anger out. Embrace it. Take strength from it. Try and strike me down."

Bastila let out a shuddering breath and backed off slowly, keeping her lightsaber at the ready, but held defensively.

Her reflection's smile widened. "You still tell yourself that the reasons for your fall are understandable; forgivable even. You take comfort from the fact you weren't in your right mind, warped and twisted by Malak's tortures. You console yourself that it came out of your self-sacrifice anyway, trading yourself to save Revan and the others – even the entire Republic itself. You mitigate your guilt by letting yourself believe that you were weakened by exposure to Revan's taint – that it was therefore as much his fault as yours. You flee from the truth at every turn and wrap yourself in a comfort blanket made from lies."

"No." Then, "What would you know of the truth?"

"Interesting question." Her reflection smirked at her. "I am you, dear. So I know exactly what you do of the truth. Which may be a lot, or may be a little. Who can tell?"

Bastila said nothing. Her reflection swatted aside her attempted attack with almost contemptuous ease.

"The reality is, you didn't sacrifice yourself for Revan or the Republic at all. You sacrificed yourself for yourself. You sacrificed yourself for glory and for vanity. You saw your chance to put aside your doubts and failings and be the Republic's saviour – legend and paragon to inspire future generations for thousands of years to come: Nomi Sunrider reborn, only more so. And in your pride you jumped at the chance the moment it became available."

"No, that isn't true." Her voice sounded weak in her own ears, horribly uncertain.

"Isn't it?" Again, they traded blows to little advantage, perfectly matched. "Look at your memories and tell me again that I lie."

Bastila remained utterly silent this time.

"If they're the same memories that I see, then we have Revan standing in tableau with Malak. Malak is holding Revan trapped in a stasis field, apparently ready to strike him down. But look a little closer this time. Don't just leap straight in. Is that Revan, still protected by energy shields, fresh and barely injured? Is that Malak, wounded and battered, playing his last desperate card? Was it really Revan who needed saving? It matters not. You saw the chance for your big moment, and nothing was going to get in the way. Certainly not reality."

"That is not what happened." Her next sequence of attacks was conducted with such fury that she finally managed to blast a hole in her reflection's guard, slicing through her robes just above the left hip and cutting deep.

Her reflection just retreated a few more steps, seemingly unaffected. There was no telltale reek of cauterised flesh; no indication she'd even connected with anything solid. "Well done. You're so much stronger when you let your emotions feed you rather than cripple you."

She parried the next few saber strokes as Bastila tried to press home the advantage, altering the entire flow of momentum and eventually forcing her back. "So what happened, dear, if not that?"

"I . . . I loved him . . . I couldn't . . ." Her jaw locked tight.

"You loved him? Is that what you call it? Please. The Jedi destroyed your ability to love, or even function as a human being." Their lightsabers locked again, though this time her reflection pushed in hard, refusing to be shoved away like before. Bare inches separated their faces. "Maybe your ego enjoyed the thought that he might love you. What could have been more fitting in a fairytale sort of way? The beautiful princess who saves the life of a ravaging beast, leading him to redemption and transforming him into a handsome prince so they can all live happily . . ."

Bastila head-butted her reflection in the face.

Her reflection reeled back in surprise, but managed to parry an attack that would have cut her in two at the waist. She smiled, displaying bloodstained teeth. "Oh excellent. That's the spirit. Let it all out." She deflected another overeager attack from Bastila, her counter nearly skewering her.

"And as for the taint . . .. That's your biggest, darkest secret isn't it, my dear? The one you never dare to even look at, because what you see there scares you so much."

Bastila's teeth clenched hard, choking down her response.

Her reflection continued smugly. "When you knelt over Revan's body on the bridge of his flagship and refused to let his spirit ebb away you didn't feel any taint, did you? Or rather, no taint that was markedly different to the one already inside you. Here was the Dark Lord of Sith, and what you sensed inside him – all his great and vast darkness – was already oh so familiar from your own heart."

"Lies." Bastila hammered a vicious overhead chop down at her dark twin's head, but she simply caught it and turned it away before skipping back a couple of steps and continuing as if nothing had happened.

"When the Masters spoke of the danger of being exposed to Revan's darkness you nodded in agreement and gave all the responses you'd learned they liked. The ones that earned you pleased smiles and pats on the head. Such a good girl. You couldn't tell the truth, could you? Force no! They wouldn't like that at all, would they?"

Another exchange of blows left Bastila breathing hard, straining to control her anger; straining to ignore her reflection's words, though each one pierced her like a tiny poison barb in her soul.

"You never fell through Malak's torture, did you? Because you'd already fallen to your pride long before that. The torture just gave you the excuse you needed to admit it and embrace it."

"No!"

Listen to her words. The voice that spoke inside Bastila's head startled her back from the edge, jolting through all the boiling shame and guilt and poisonous anger that had built inside her. Don't feel them.

The wild, uncontrolled attack she would have launched faltered and died before it began. Her reflection carried on talking, seemingly oblivious.

". . . And the way your little dalliance ended was so perfect for you, wasn't it? You could go back to being the unfeeling paragon of Jedi ideals, only now with added martyrdom to make you even more special. Falling for love, and then giving it up for the Order. Such a wonderful, inspiring, tragic tale." A peel of gleefully mocking laughter.

"Except now the bastard's gone and spoilt it all, hasn't he?" She intercepted Bastila's next attack and drove her backwards with a sustained flurry that had her defences twisting desperately to try to counter it. "You were fine when you could fool yourself into believing that he was being the perfect, emotionless Jedi too, and that was why he rejected you. In fact, it was a relief, wasn't it? Much easier this way than actually having to deal with a real relationship and all its complexities.

"But of course, now you know that was never his reason. All its taken is a few months for him to move on to someone else. He never did love you. He just played you for an idiot, manipulating your weakness and turmoil to score another notch in his belt."

"You sound utterly ridiculous."

"Do I? Then why does it sting you so very badly? The Republic's sweetheart and hero, glowing poster girl and inspiration for a billion different fantasies. Who wouldn't want you? Of course, once he'd actually had you, he found out that you were far too cold and wet a fish to be interesting any more . . ."

Again, the anger flared. The dark side energies were all around her, so easy for her to grasp. So easy to embrace and strike down her reflection, destroying her utterly – shutting her up. All she had to do was reach out and . . .

Listen to her words. Don't feel them.

A shudder passed through Bastila. She'd heard all these words – or their equivalents – before, inside her own head, many times, over and again. Her guard dropped, leaving herself, just for a moment, completely vulnerable. Her reflection made no move to take advantage, though it would have been easy for her to do so and end the fight there and then.

Of course she didn't. Finally, Bastila started to understand.

Look at her, the odd voice in her head advised, somewhat belatedly.

Oh, shut up. But the brief distraction enabled her let go of the poison burning inside her a fraction more fully. Darkness still throbbed and pulsed all around her like a black tide, but she wasn't part of it. Not wholly. Not yet.

Her choice was still there. Like it had been there before, with Malak.

They're your doubts speaking. However close to the truth they seem cut, they're not. They're . . .

I told you to shut up. For some reason, she suddenly felt like laughing out loud; giddily insane. By the Force, if I was anything like you he must have found me so infuriating . . .

Her reflection started talking again, but this time Bastila wasn't paying attention. "You can't hurt me, can you?" she told her softly. "You're not real. All you can do is make me hurt myself."

Her reflection stopped, staring at her. Briefly, fury flickered across her face, but it was quickly suppressed. "Really?" She arched an eyebrow. "What would you say this is then?" Extending a hand, Force lightning spat from her fingertips, striking Bastila in the chest.

As her nervous system overloaded with electricity, her legs buckled, pitching her to the ground. The pain was excruciating, but her jaw was – like the rest of her – locked too tight for her to scream. Pain was easy though. Pain was concrete.

Pain she could cope with.

Once the lightning subsided, Bastila staggered back to her feet, drawing on the Force with a measure of confidence for the first time since setting foot on Dromund Kaas. A protective sheath of charged particles wrapped around her just in time to absorb and deflect the worst of the next lightning bolt that hit her. The few strands of her hair that weren't completely sodden lifted out on either side of her head, floating.

"I'd say that was pretty much pathetic."

Her reflection for once had no snappy retort. Their lightsabers came together in the same dance of thrust, counterthrust and riposte that they'd been through half a dozen times already. Like before the result was no discernable advantage to either of them.

Dark Bastila aimed an almost perfunctory slash at her counterpart, so easy to block it was almost laughable.

Instead of parrying, this time Bastila drew her own lightsaber quite deliberately out of the way. Her reflection's red lightsaber blade struck her beneath the shoulder, passing across through her torso and exiting up through her opposite collarbone.

Nothing very much happened. "Ooh, that tickles."

Her reflection stopped and stared at her in shock. Bastila simply leant across and rapped her on the forehead with her knuckle.

Her reflection shattered.

-s-s-

The impact made the deck tilt violently beneath Tamar's feet, sending him reeling sideways, his shoulder slamming hard into the wall. Alongside him, Yuthura was rather more nimble on her feet, keeping her balance adroitly.

"How much more of a pounding can we take, do you think?" she asked clinically as she paused to help him upright.

"Oh, these things are pretty sturdy. If you're careful not to hit anything critical." His reply was equally as blasé as the question, though inwardly he was getting old flashes from the Endar Spire.

"And this strikes you as careful does it?"

He shrugged as another vibration, somewhat less violent than the previous, shuddered through the ship. "Well they demanded our surrender. I don't think destroying us is their first preference."

"And isn't that a relief." Her head tails wove sarcastically, before falling flat against her shoulders. They resumed running. Alarms were going off all around them.

As soon as they'd been dragged out of hyperspace Tamar had tried to get through to Captain Greth, but the call had been diverted to Jolee. A quick appraisal of the situation had told him all he needed to know.

He'd been able to see what was happening in his head, without the need for viewports, or tactical displays. It wasn't the Force. It was simply cold, certain knowledge that he suspected came straight from the deep portions of his brain where remnants of the old Revan still lived on. He certainly doubted the Jedi Council would have given him that kind knowledge on the tactical intricacies of space battle. Far too close to the reality to risk.

An interdictor ship sitting at the apex of a killing arc that covered approximately 120° of a circle. Spread out across the arc would be two or three separate battle groups, sitting waiting for the interdictor to pull their target back to sub-light, ready to pound it in a withering crossfire.

Interdictors came in two flavours. First, there were the massive battleships that chose to forgo a fraction of their awesome gun power to install gravity mass protectors – monstrous vessels like Saul Karath's old flagship, the Leviathan. If one of these got you, you were basically doomed, though thankfully this kind of ship was extremely rare. Much more common were smaller vessels the size of a light frigate – basically a mass projector with engines, and very thick armour and shields. It was one of these later vessels, of an old Mandalorian design, that had grabbed them.

On being ambushed, the obvious move was to attack the Interdictor immediately with everything you had, hoping to disable it before you were yourself crippled, then leaps back to hyperspace and away. Unfortunately, though obvious, the tactic was also doomed to failure.

An Interdictor was specifically designed to take a pounding, and inevitably, any ambushed ship would find its own shields stripped away long before the interdictor was more than scratched. At that point, it was all over.

If you wanted to escape the ambush, instead of attacking the interdictor you needed to turn immediately about, every fraction of a second critical, and head directly towards one of the battle groups on the killing arc's perimeter – preferably the centremost one. You needed luck on your side, and strong shields, but if you were quick enough you'd find yourself in amongst the ambushers, with the other groups unable to fire on you for fear of hitting their own ships, and the ships you were flying through wrong footed and unable to turn about and get a fix on you quickly enough. You didn't stop to fight, and as soon you made it past the enemy's lines – hopefully without your engines being disabled in the process – you made the leap to hyperspace.

Most Interdictors tended to be somewhat reluctant to project their mass shadow through their own allies, particularly if you managed to pick the battle group containing their fleet commander.

Even that was, at best, a 40-60 bet.

Captain Greth had gone for the obvious. He'd started pounding at the interdictor immediately, and any chance of breaking the ambush had been lost.

Plan B, which they were now pursuing – if it could be called a plan – was to meet the boarding parties head on and fight them off for as long as possible in the hope that the attackers would make a slip somehow, or some other miracle occurred.

Tamar's inner voice was somewhat scathing about the plan's merits. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be too many alternatives.

The blast doors in front of them, leading down to one of the Winding Way's landing bays, slid open. Four pirates in full Mandalorian battle armour, accompanied by at least half a dozen others, were coming the other way.

His and Yuthura's lightsabers snapped on simultaneously, bathing the corridor in a garish combination of purple and cyan light.

"Jedi!" came the shout. Immediately after it, a volley of blaster fire rang out. Tamar's lightsaber span and danced blocking the shots as the Force guided his movements subconsciously.

Once the initial volley had subsided, he sent a crashing wave of Force through the blast doors to buffet the pirates, knocking those in front tumbling back into their comrades. It was rather like watching a line of dominoes collapsing as they ended up sprawled in a twisted knot of tangled limbs.

More of the pirates came charging up behind them.

He could feel Yuthura reaching grimly into their minds and twisting them with projected fear and confusion. One pirate panicked and shot another in the back. Someone else fumbled a grenade and dropped it at his own feet. After the explosion filled the corridor with smoke and screams, another turned and fled.

Tamar used the Force to guide his lightsaber systematically along the corridor to finish them off, glowing cyan blade cleaving armour and flesh with equal ease. He felt their lives extinguish, one by one.

By the time it was done, Tamar felt sick; hollowed out and empty. Yuthura . . . the feeling he got from Yuthura was much worse, but when he looked across at her she just nodded, lips compressed tight.

Never had the words, there is no emotion, felt quite so much like a curse.

Breathing deeply, he hit his communicator. "Bay three holding firm. Jolee, what's the situation?"

There was a crackling pause before any response came. "Our friendly neighbourhood pirate captain is rather displeased about our continued resistance, and my does he know some interesting language to express that opinion. To be honest he was giving me earache so I switched him off. At least three more landing craft have made it through our defences. One should be coming your way any time."

"Good to know."

"At least HK seems to getting some fun out of this."

Tamar's lips twitched with a tiny flash of humour. "Which is, of course, everyone's primary concern."

"You want a realistic assessment?" Grim weariness suddenly punctuated Jolee's façade of dry humour.

Tamar sighed. "Yeah, why not."

"We're up to our nostrils in Bantha poodoo and someone's getting ready to pour on another couple of sack loads."

The sound of pounding footsteps came from somewhere beyond the blast doors, approaching rapidly.

The second wave of pirates fell just as easily the first. It was brutal, bloody, sickening slaughter as he and Yuthura annihilated them with systematic and merciless efficiency.

Suddenly everything was still. Even the constant pounding that the Winding Way was taking seemed, momentarily at least, to have stopped. "Jolee?" Tamar asked tentatively.

The reply was so long in coming he was about to give up. Then, "Would you like the good news or the bad news?" It broke off into stifled coughing.

Tamar's mouth felt dry. "Um, how about the good?"

"Those nice Mandalorian pirates have stopped attacking us and are turning and trying to run away."

He tried to work out if he'd misheard. That made no sense whatsoever, anyway that he could figure it. "And the bad?" The feeling he had in his chest could better be described as plummeting than sinking.

"They're running because what looks like an entire Sith Armada has just dropped out of hyperspace."

Tamar swore beneath his breath. Yuthura looked at him questioningly. He grimaced. "Are our engines intact enough to make a run for it?"

"Why, I don't believe anyone else here on the bridge has thought of trying that."

Tamar winced, but knew the sarcasm was well deserved. Abruptly the deck beneath them jerked and tilted alarmingly, sending them both tumbling. His head cracked hard against the wall, and the metal of the Winding Way's hull seemed to be twisting and buckling, groaning like a congregation of several hundred banshees with killer hangovers.

Briefly, gravity gave out entirely, and Tamar felt himself floating up in the air, too dazed to think about grabbing onto something to secure himself. Abruptly it came back on again. He fell back to the deck with a heavy, graceless thud.

When his head had finally stopped spinning, and it seemed like they'd levelled out, he picked himself up cautiously. Yuthura was grimacing, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth as she did likewise.

Fires crackled; smoke filled the air. The alarms went on, unabated.

Looking at each other silently, neither of them was quite sure whether they'd made it to hyperspace, or were now simply floating dead in space.