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.

8. A Game for Spies

8. A Game For Spies

"You know that he is going to turn on you," Morrigance stated calmly as the door closed behind Malak's broad back. Tension still crackled on the air like latent static as she stepped into Revan's personal training gym, deep in the bowels of his flagship, the Firebrand

The lights were currently dimmed, leaving deep pools of clinging shadow and reflecting off the displays of weaponry artfully arranged across three walls. She recognised blades of Mandalorian, Echani and Iridorian origin; ancient Sith swords and assassin daggers; scores of other alien designs she didn't recognise. None of this particularly interested her, and, strangely enough, she didn't think it interested Revan either, for all the collection dominated the room. It was merely another trapping. Something that fitted with the image of the great warrior and general, and allowed others to make easy assumptions about the nature of their Dark Lord.

Said Dark Lord turned to look at her. "If I show weakness or complacency. If my attention wanders, or my resolve weakens," he agreed. Although he wasn't wearing his normal regalia, and his face was uncovered, it was still, Morrigance thought, always masked. "Can you think of a more capable executioner?"

"There will come a point when his anger drives him to it, and no matter all of that. Fear checks him only so far."

There was a pause in the conversation as Revan stowed his practice blade away, then picked up a towel to wipe away the sweat gleaming on his brow and sculpted torso.

"So you council me to get rid of him then?" It was perfectly calm. "My oldest friend and confidant? My true right hand?"

She thought that there might be self-mocking in his words, but it was difficult to tell. She had never encountered anyone more difficult to read than him, and even when he did allow something to slip, she could never be entirely sure that it was genuine. "Friendship that gives no advantage has no place among the Sith," she observed neutrally. "It is a weakness and point of vulnerability others might exploit."

"You learn your lessons well. The words, at least."

Her jaw clamped tightly shut. He never lost his temper. He never raised his voice. And, as yet, she had never seen him resort to threats, let alone violence. Yet he still managed to scare her more than any individual she had ever met, simply through a shift in nuance in his voice.

"If I get rid of him without very good reason," he continued, "I confess to weakness. I admit to everyone in the Sith Empire that he is more powerful than I, and that I am afraid of him."

"But those are not your reasons," she observed after a miniscule delay, deciding to take the risk.

If anything, he seemed amused. "Someone once said that, as a leader, it is better to be feared than loved. I don't remember who it was, but whoever they were, they were an idiot. I've come to learn that one without the other is as good as worthless."

"And Malak allows you to be loved as well as feared," she murmured.

A hint of a smile showed. "Indeed. He enables me to keep my hands clean of the more . . . dirty and unpleasant necessities – to retain my aura and mystique." Again, she thought she detected the self-mocking. "And if that is the apprentice, how truly terrifying must be the master?" The smile died away, if it had ever been there. "Those are not my reasons either, but they'll do for now."

He turned his back to her, pulling on a robe. After a second or so, she heard what sounded almost like a sigh. "He always was the better Jedi than me, you know. And now, I think . . ." His tone became musing. "I think that he is the better Sith."

She didn't say anything, knowing that he was probing for a reaction from her as much as he was imparting information. Don't fill silence simply because it is there

"Does that surprise you, my admission?" She couldn't discern anything useful from his voice. "I think what it comes down to, is faith. Something that he has always had and I have never been able to manage. Where he is able to take strength and meaning from the codes – to live and breathe them – I am reduced to coldly dissecting them, questioning and discarding every word until they lose all power and meaning."

A pause. He picked up his mask, and from the angle she stood, appeared to be studying his reflection in its surface. "That is the reason the Jedi first put us together, I believe. That I might learn the value of faith and acceptance from him, and he might learn to question and look beyond the surface from me. That we each be tempered by the other, our fatal flaws corrected. I think it pleased them, initially, when we grew to be good friends. They failed to foresee what they should have done – that he would one day transfer his faith from them to me."

A dry, humourless chuckle. "And look how I have repaid that faith, leading him to this. He is a man with every right to his anger."

Silence fell again. This time he didn't resume speaking.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Finally, he looked back at her. His eyes seemed to pierce right through her. "Didn't you desperately want to know?"

She could find no good response.

He smiled, and his entire attitude seemed to change in a single instant. "How go your lessons with Master Serebos?" He held up a hand. She felt him touch the Force ever so lightly, and a pair of alcoves opened in the wall. From each a drone floated out, hovering on repulsors. "No, don't tell me. Show me."

She eyed the drones with distaste. "I was not aware that you recruited me on account of my potential skill with a lightsaber. I prefer . . . other methods of fighting my battles."

Revan looked at her coldly. "You will not always be able to choose the ground on which you fight, no matter how careful or skilled you are. Now especially, before you establish a reputation, those beneath you will be looking eagerly to usurp your position. I will not do you any favours beyond those done already, and if one of them succeeds in ousting you, all they will get from me are cordial congratulations."

She nodded wordlessly, drawing her lightsaber from her belt. Its hilt was rather unusual, balanced for a single hand, surrounded by a protective basket woven from cortosis fibre. The blade, as it snapped on, glowed orange.

The drones swooped and rolled towards her, spitting blaster fire . . .

The shuttle touched down lightly on the landing pad, its exit ramp lowering with a soft hydraulic hiss. Morrigance strode down confidently, boot heels clicking rhythmically. Almost immediately cold wind caught her robes, flapping them around her body.

They had landed on the battlements of a vast fortress of grey stone, carved into a mountainside and surrounded by snow-dusted forest. Arranged at intervals, bulbous looking ion cannons pointed at the clear morning sky, while the shields that had dropped briefly to allow the shuttle to land were now up again, imparting a strange heat-haze-like distortion to the scene.

She strode imperiously between lines of impassive Sith guards flanking the way, not deigning to acknowledge them.

Ahead of her, Darth Auza awaited, somewhere in the fortress's bowels. Once again, she played at being an apprentice, though this time the game was one of her own devising.

"Enough."

The drones broke off, ceasing fire and retreating into their respective alcoves. Morrigance's breath came quickly, sweat glistening upon her skin. She was unmarked though, having turned every attack aside.

Revan looked at her appraisingly. His expression revealed neither pleasure nor displeasure. "Impeccable. Rarely have I seen anyone learn so quickly and so well." It didn't sound at all like a compliment. "And if you ever have cause to fight someone like Malak, you'll be dead in about ten seconds flat."

She didn't respond, simply waiting for him to continue. "And yes, I know you would never choose to confront one such as him by such crude means." He paused, padding lithely across to a low table and picking up a datapad. He started keying. "Serebos is very good at what he does, but he tends to produce a line of replicas of himself. Sometimes that is fine, but sometimes his style simply does not suit a person, especially one without his reach and brute strength."

He tossed the datapad to her, which she caught reflexively.

"Pay this man a visit when your duties allow. He's an Echani, in his day a firedancer without peer. He'll teach you how to better overcome advantages of reach and strength – remove some of the predictability from your style and give you a cutting edge."

Morrigance nodded, face impassive.

"Tell me," he said suddenly, after a period of silence, catching her by surprise. "Now you have had the time to become more familiar with it, what is your opinion of the Sith code?"

As she hesitated, he added, "It is not a test. Merely curiosity on my part."

Everything is a test, she thought, but didn't say. Except with him, you were never quite sure exactly what the test was, apart from the fact it was rarely what it, on the surface, seemed.

The truth, she decided eventually, and let herself be damned by that. "I think that life is far too complex to boil down to simplistic codes, and those who try are doomed to fail abjectly."

Revan nodded and turned away. She thought that this time he was pleased.

-s-s-

"Thank you." Juhani smiled as she accepted the steaming mug of caffa from Belaya. She was hollow-cheeked; almost wan looking, and the expression appeared somewhat forced.

She turned back towards the gunship's viewport. Her short, velvety fur was a fraction darker than normal, still somewhat damp. She looked ever so slightly silly in a tatty old green bathrobe that was starting to go threadbare.

Belaya touched her shoulder, and Juhani struggled to avoid shrugging her hand off irritably. Since their reunion, Belaya had almost been like a mother hen, fussing around her nearly constantly, touching her as if to reassure herself that she was really there and not just a figment of her imagination, and plying her with anything and everything she might conceivably need.

Juhani tried to tell herself that Belaya meant well, and that her concern was touching. But the reality was, it just felt incredibly wearing. After Taris's undercity, everything felt wearing – too-bright, too-loud, having to talk to other people and interact with them, listening and responding. It all made her headache and her temper fray into tatters. A shudder passed through her. She supposed she just needed time to readjust.

Her thoughts kept straying to Mission, and how she had failed her. How, when the pressure was on, she had cracked.

"Juhani, is something the matter?"

The Cathar shook her head. Admitting anything was wrong would be sure to provoke more fussing, which was absolutely the last thing she wanted right now.

"You still look frighteningly thin. I can feel the bones standing out beneath your fur. Are you sure I can't get you anything else?"

She quickly bit back a sharp and unwarranted retort – she'd heard the same refrain; phrased in numerous slightly different ways, at least half a dozen times in the last hour. "Belaya, if I eat anything more right now I'm not sure whether I'll burst or simply be sick."

And even then, she'd managed to offend her. It was quickly suppressed, but the sense she'd received was clear enough. This time Juhani didn't bother to stifle the sigh. "Look, I'm sorry. It's just . . ." She trailed off, not sure what it was 'just'. She couldn't work out when conversation between them had become such a strain. "How is Zaalbar doing?"

Belaya stroked the fine fur on her cheek. "Grouchy. Like someone else I could mention."

No response was forthcoming from Juhani.

"I know you're concerned about this girl. Mission Vao, right? But there's nothing you can do right now, and worrying yourself sick over it is helping no one. What you need to do right now is concentrate on getting healthy."

"I failed her. I failed all those supposedly under my command. When I suddenly could no longer feel the Force, I went to pieces utterly." She grimaced, cutting herself off. Even to her own ears, it sounded self-pitying and dangerously close to pathetic. "And, yes I know. Take the lessons of your mistakes, but do not dwell on them unnecessarily, or let them paralyse you." The events of the mercenary attack on Taris kept playing in her head every time she tried to rest though. In the undercity, there had been more pressing troubles to occupy her thoughts, simple survival being the foremost. But now . . . patience had never been one of the more notable strengths of her temperament. "I wish I could take that lesson to heart as easily as I can repeat it."

Belaya had stepped back, and was looking at her in concern. "You've changed, Juhani. I can never remember you being so . . ." A hesitation. "Distant."

Juhani managed to swallow words she knew she would regret voicing. Of course I've changed. Life tends to have that affect. She didn't want to start an argument, and she couldn't honestly explain even to herself why she felt so uncomfortable and defensive of her personal space.

She tried to change tack, moving away from the personal onto steadier footing. "How long until we rendezvous with Tamar and the others?"

Instantly she knew from Belaya's reaction – a flash of quickly stifled annoyance and hurt – that she'd made a mistake, though she couldn't immediately fathom what.

"They should reach us in about ten hours." The words were precise – almost chilly. "I'll leave you to get some sleep." She turned towards the door.

Juhani started to call after her and apologise, but the words stuck in her throat and she let Belaya go. After a short time, she moved to the end of her neatly made bunk and sat down, cross-legged. There she tried to meditate and, for a time at least, find some hint of serenity.

-s-s-

A dark orange sea lapped gently against a crystal shore.

It was familiar and strange at the same time, and as he'd walked through narrow streets earlier that afternoon, haunted by vague ghosts of the past, Carth had concluded that the old saying was right: you never could go back.

Every step had brought back old memories of walking similar thoroughfares. Perhaps even some of the same ones. It was difficult to be sure.

It had been sixth months after the armistice at the end of the Mandalorian war. Revan and Malak's disappearance, with a sizable portion of the Republic fleet, had caused anxiety in certain quarters, but generally, despite the lingering chaos, there'd been a mood of cautious optimism in the galaxy, trade and tourism that had almost shut down entirely over the past years of desperate turmoil slowly springing back to life.

The Berchest posting had supposedly been a reward – a cushy number given to a decorated hero while he recovered from the lingering wounds and trauma. In truth, it had felt more like punishment and purgatory, the inaction and endless, lazy days of nothing whatsoever happening gnawing at his soul. When his old friend and mentor, Saul Karath had contacted him, offering a new assignment and a way out, he'd almost bitten the man's hand off in his eagerness to accept.

He hadn't seen – or hadn't wanted to see – the bitterness that had crept into Karath, even back then. Bitterness at being passed over for a promotion that everyone had said was sure to be his; at having his career effectively sidelined for his refusal to play along with the Republic Senate's political games of butt-kissing, petty intrigues and back-stabbing. At that stage, it hadn't yet developed into the full-blown hate and obsession about the Republic's weakness and corruption it would eventually become, but the seeds were there.

And then, of course, he'd had to tell Morgana.

They'd walked along the waterfront, the sun setting over the orange sea and turning the breaking waves into brilliant golden fire. A fresh and slightly chill wind had ruffled her dark, collar-length hair, and as she'd looked at him sidelong, her face had seemed cold and angry. The frown lines showing around her mouth gave no hint of the warm and generous smile that had been one of the first things to draw him to her.

When are you going to be a father and a husband?

Like you promised, unspoken but implicit.

Can you honestly say you're happy here, away from Telos? Now he winced at the memory of those words, and more especially the thoughts that had lain behind them – the implicit emotional blackmail. Only last week you were saying how you didn't think you could live here: that Dustil was missing his friends, and his schoolwork was suffering . . .

Don't you dare try to make this about me and Dustil. Don't you dare, Carth Onasi. This is solely about what you want.

Now wait just a minute!

Only the presence of other people, out walking around them, had kept the argument from escalating catastrophically.

The war is over, Carth. The war is over.

Only in name. Everywhere is still plunged in chaos. How can I sit around doing nothing when the Republic still needs me? Could you really love a man who would do that? I have a responsibility . . .

You have a responsibility to your family!

Weighty and uncomfortable silence had settled in, and the distance between them had seemed to measure in the order of light years. Eventually she'd spoken again, over the lapping of the ocean waves, her tone slightly more conciliatory. Look Carth, I love that you care about the bigger picture, and that you're one of the few men in this galaxy who's willing to stand up and protect the things you believe in. You wouldn't be the man I married if you didn't. But there comes a time when enough is enough. If you don't get out now, you never will. There'll always be an excuse.

He'd hesitated. Morgana . . .

No buts, Carth. Dustil is twelve now. How many of those years have you shared with him? You're turning into a stranger to your own son, and to be honest, you're turning into a stranger to me too. She'd raked a hand through her hair, brushing it back from her face, her lips tight. It's gotten to the point where it feels strange, waking up with you in bed next to me, instead of waking up alone. Is that way things should be? Because if it is, I just don't know how much of more of it I'm willing to take.

In the end, he'd returned to Saul and very reluctantly gone back on his decision. Admiral Dodonna had talked him out of resigning his commission entirely – no great and difficult achievement – and instead he'd ended up taking a year's sabbatical to be with his family.

For most of it, it had not been a happy year, and now he was able to see that that had been largely down to him. Looking back at the man he used to be, Carth saw only an idiot, incapable of recognising the value of those wonderfully precious things he'd had.

And then, of course, Revan and Malak had returned. And he'd gone back to the fleet, this time with Morgana's blessing – though the fear in her eyes when he'd left had been clear to see.

The past melted slowly away, leaving only the present. He let out an unsteady breath.

"You look like you're miles away."

Carth looked round and managed a brittle smile. Force preserve me. "Sindra! How nice to see you again." He wondered if his attempt at enthusiasm sounded as utterly fake to her as it did to him. I'm really not cut out for this.

From her return smile, obviously not. "You didn't think I was going to let such a delectable specimen as yourself slip through my fingers, did you, Valdan?"

He chuckled, though it was a chuckle of thinly veiled desperation. The way she pronounced delectable was enough to provoke the beginnings a cold sweat.

Sindra Taran was a Twi'lek, yellow skinned, graceful, and in some respects probably one of the most beautiful women he had ever laid eyes on. She dripped jewellery, wearing a thigh-split figure hugging black gown that had probably cost as much as a small spaceship, and possessed the kind of predatory air that reminded him of a Krayt Dragon that had just caught the scent of a wounded Bantha.

It hadn't taken Carth long to work out that he was tonight's Bantha. Long enough though that, by the time the realisation sank in, it was already too late to escape. At least without creating the kind of scene he couldn't afford.

"I saw that you'd finished your drink." She proffered the second glass she was holding to him. "So I thought I should bring you another."

He managed another smile as he accepted it – Corellian brandy of a quality he hadn't tasted in years. "You're just too kind."

She leant in closer to him and the cloud of perfume she wore filled his nostrils. It left his head swirling, and he wondered vaguely if there was something narcotic mixed in with it. There was a small part of him – a part that he was trying desperately hard not to listen to – whispering that being predated by her might not be so bad a fate.

Except that he wasn't here to enjoy the party, get drunk and get himself laid. He wasn't suddenly eighteen again.

Except she'd made no attempt to disguise the fact that she was married, to an 'an incredibly wealthy, but incredibly dull man, who just doesn't understand my needs'. And rich husbands tended to be the kind of people who could afford to employ others highly skilled in the art of doing unpleasant things to the kneecaps of those who messed around with their wives.

Sindra leant even closer. So close that he could feel the warmth radiating from her body. She whispered in his ear, "You're Fleet, aren't you? I can always tell."

Carth froze, almost dropping the brandy glass. For a moment, heart thudding, he thought she'd seen through his disguise.

It had been decided before they got here that there was too much of a risk that someone would recognise Carth Onasi, the now renowned – or at least, vaguely known – war hero. Since the events of the Star Forge, his face had appeared in enough newscasts and wildly inaccurate documentaries that it was reasonably well known, even in places he'd never visited before. Somewhere like Berchest, where he'd once been stationed, the risks were even greater. Consequently, his appearance had been altered enough that he'd struggled to recognise his own reflection when he'd looked at it in the mirror earlier on.

His hair was now blond, and for the first time in years, no dark shadow of stubble covered his jaw. Tinted contacts turned his eyes murky green, while his skin was tanned several shades darker than usual. Perhaps the most marked change though, were the overlays designed to change the angles of his cheekbones – one of the two main characteristics, along with the spacing of a person's eyes, that human facial recognition software typically keyed on.

Even his voice had been altered, transformed by a dermal microphone worn over his larynx.

Along with the flash and expensive clothes he was wearing, he hadn't been able to escape the suspicion that he now looked like a sleazy jerk.

"It's the way you stand; the carefully controlled formality and poise, like you're ready to . . . spring to attention." He relaxed ever so slightly; started breathing again as he realised it wasn't him specifically she'd recognised. "Fleet men have always been my favourites." Her voice was almost a purr. "They always know just how to treat a lady. And such stamina . . ." Sindra left the words hanging. Apparently, she went for sleazy looking jerks in a big way.

He tried to pretend he'd missed her meaning. "I'm surprised it still shows. It's been a few years. Now I'm just a simple businessman."

She giggled.

He felt himself blushing, despite his best efforts. It felt like he'd inadvertently blundered onto the set of a holoporn shoot just before the action got underway. Surely no real person acts like this? I mean surely? I'm not that naïve, am I?

"So, how is it that you know our esteemed host?" Rather desperately, he tried to change the subject.

The host of this event was one Jerstyl Daxar. Twenty years ago, he'd been an executive with responsibility for research and development at Aratech Systems, before being ousted in some kind of share dealing scandal. Since then he'd gone freelance, and was now a billionaire who'd made his fortune in the arms trade. He had a reputation for discretion, an ability to meet extremely specialist needs, and a willingness to sell to any side of any given conflict for the right price.

Republic Intelligence had apparently been aware of him for years, though thus far the intricately constructed webs of legitimate businesses he surrounded himself with had prevented any illegal activity being pinned on him. The comm. logs Tamar and Yuthura had recovered indicated that he – or someone inside his organisation, at least – had been consistently in contact with Darth Auza over the past few months.

"Jerstyl you mean?" Sindra gave a desultory shrug. "Oh I don't know him at all dear. Not really. He's some kind of associate of my husband."

Right now Jerstyl was about thirty yards away, further up the spectacularly bizarre crystal garden towards the main house – a startling structure of crystal spires that glowed orange where the sun shone through them. He was in conversation with a pair of Bothans, a tall, elegantly attired woman with hair and make-up to match a Naboo princess at his side.

"Your husband is here?"

She laughed smokily. "Is that why you're being such a shy boy?" One of her head tails brushed against his shoulder.

Carth knew enough about Twi'leks to understand exactly how intimate a gesture that was. Short of sticking her hand down the front of his trousers and giving a firm squeeze, she couldn't have done anything much more forward. He would have backed off, but unfortunately, he was already pressed against a railing with only a ten-metre drop into the sea beyond it.

"You needn't worry dear, hubby's away on a business trip to . . . Kuat I think it is this time." She gave a contemptuous flick of wrist and head tail to indicate she didn't really care. "Besides, I'm nothing more than a trophy to him. As long as I look decorative on his arm when he wants me to, he doesn't care about what I do. No doubt he's sharing his bed with a couple of joygirls even as we speak."

Just for a moment, a kind of desperate, bitter loneliness shone through to the surface, and Carth almost managed to feel sorry for her.

It quickly passed as soon as she opened her mouth again. "But enough about my husband. I'm sure there are much more interesting things we could be discussing." She trailed a fingertip down the front of his shirt, pulling open a couple of the buttons. "Perhaps we can go somewhere more private, hmm? You could show me your . . . tattoos. I know you handsome Fleet boys all have very big ones."

Raised voices, coming from around the area Jerstyl was standing, drew Carth's attention briefly away from Sindra. A blaster shot rang out. Someone screamed.

To his shame, his first thought was actually one of relief.

-s-s-

The heavy iron gates parted smoothly and silently in front of Morrigance as she approached them. As she stepped between them, she was aware, almost subliminally, of being scanned. Over a thousand years old, the Sith fortress was an anachronistic mixture of ancient, over-scaled stonework and modern state of the art defence systems blended into one.

The scans would find nothing out of the ordinary. She wore none of her usual array of implants or micro-droid defence systems, or any of her less conventional weaponry. Her lightsaber was there, hanging at her hip, simply because its absence would provoke more suspicion than its presence. That aside, she would give anyone watching the appearance of walking unprepared into a rancor pit.

Which, all in all, suited her well enough.

"Ah, my apprentice. In all honesty I hadn't expected you to show up today."

Darth Auza's liquid voice greeted her well before she was able to see him, given the bright lights directed deliberately at her eye level so as to dazzle her. She continued to walk steadily forward, footsteps quiet upon the hard, bare stone. Hanging from rafters high above, red and black Sith war banners stirred with displaced air as the gates closed silently behind her.

"My Lord? When have I ever disobeyed your will? I have always extended every effort in your service."

Of course he hadn't expected her to show up, she thought. He'd expected her to run. It was what he would have done, and by extension, what he expected anyone else with a reasonable level of intelligence to do.

So now, he was left wondering: was she stupid, to walk voluntarily into a situation where one of the possible outcomes was her death? Was she simply overconfident, imagining that he had uncovered nothing incriminating about her, and still believing that she could talk her way back into his good graces? Or did she know something he didn't, and had he possibly made another mistake – like the one he had made in inadvertently inviting Revan into his presence?

Paranoia was such a wonderful tool to exploit. If you managed not to misjudge it.

His gurgling chuckle came a couple of beats later than it should have done if natural. "And so much more besides, eh Elleste, my dear?"

She was now close enough to him that she could finally see him properly, the lights no longer shining directly in her eyes. He was seated in what resembled a heavily modified walker, his throne surrounded by a transparisteel bubble and mounted on mechanical legs. As a consequence, he towered over her, bloated visage distorted slightly by the curve of the glass.

Flanking him on either side, dressed in matching uniforms of plain, unadorned grey, was Celyanda – a pair of perfect, almost delicate looking, dolls. There was no sign of his usual entourage of collared slaves, or any kind of formal guard befitting a would-be Dark Lord of the Sith.

But then, Morrigance knew well enough what Celyanda was capable of. Any other guard was more or less superfluous.

"My Lord?" She allowed a note of puzzlement into her voice, as if she didn't quite understand what he was getting at.

He sighed, ostensibly in disappointment. "Elleste, Elleste. How I hoped – nay, how I prayed – that you would offer me some kind of satisfactory explanation for your behaviour of late. Yet here you are, standing before me, being evasive before our conversation has even properly begun."

"I'm sorry, my Lord? I'm still not quite sure I follow you." She bowed her head.

Silence dragged. Auza seemed to be waiting for her to try to fill it, but relented when he realised she would quite happily stand there the entire day. "When I invited you here, apprentice, it was merely out of concern that I had become lax in my training of you, as evinced by the inappropriate attitude you have been showing of late."

"If I spoke out of turn, I humbly apologise my Lord." She kept her head lowered, though her attention was primarily directed towards Celyanda. At the moment, they stood entirely quiescent, though their Force presence was absolutely towering.

A podgy hand made a waving gesture, as if swatting away an invisible fly. "That no longer concerns me so much, Elleste. Especially in light of what I have discovered in the meantime. You see, I was moved to take a closer look at some of your recent activities and movements."

Trust, she thought dryly, a man with such an unpleasant sounding voice to be so tediously verbose with it. "My lord, I was under the impression that the apprentice of the Dark Lord, and supreme ruler of the Sith, was expected to show initiative in carrying out her duties."

The sound of his gurgling laugh set her teeth on edge behind her mirror-finished mask. "Oh, you've shown initiative. I'll certainly give you that much. It's more the direction that initiative has taken that concerns me."

"How so, my lord? Every action I've undertaken has been designed to further our cause."

"You were given the task of disposing of Revan. I fail to see to how any number of your recent activities remotely relate to that goal."

For someone who had been such a high-ranking Sith for so long, you fail to see much of anything, don't you? "In our last conversation you instructed me to leave the matter in your hands, my Lord. Has there been any news on that score yet?"

If she hadn't already known the answer then the abrupt hardening of his expression would have been a dead giveaway. "That is not the subject at hand, my apprentice." Underneath, she got the impression that he was seething.

"Our goals are surely far broader than simply killing Revan, master." Morrigance managed to keep her contempt concealed. For the moment. "Surely the gains that we've made in destabilising the Republic . . .?"

"It is not for you to determine what our goals are!" His voice echoed off the stone walls, and she could hear his breathing, wet and gurgling as he struggled to control it.

So that was that then. Auza would never permit anyone to witness such a loss of control where he intended for them to walk away. He prided himself on his image as a cool manipulator – a bloated spider at the centre of a vast and sticky web. Anything running contrary to that image had to be ruthlessly expunged.

She steeled herself. In all honesty, she had never truly expected that she would be able to talk her way out of this, but it was an annoyance nonetheless.

The Force gathered within him. He had always been strong in that regard, despite the growing weakness of his flesh. Her defences were already up though, subtle and slippery, almost invisible unless you knew exactly what to look for.

He lashed out, enveloping her in the smothering grip of his vast will, squeezing tight. She felt his mental probes attacking her mind, somehow reminiscent of fat, flesh-boring worms, dripping in poisonous slime. For the moment, she managed to keep them from penetrating without giving the appearance of resisting overtly. The effort made her jaw clench. "My apologies, great lord. I did not mean to overstep my bounds," she gritted out.

"Overstep your bounds?" His laughter was black with rage – a bubbling, bottomless tar pit. "You didn't seriously think I wouldn't find out, did you, Elleste? About you siphoning of resources from my fleet. About your secret meetings and communications with Jerstyl Daxar, turning him from my cause and plotting with him to betray me."

And there was the downside to dealing with paranoids, she thought sourly. No matter what you anticipated and prepared for, they always managed to surprise you with their twisted leaps of logic.

"But don't concern yourself about that. I've already moved to take care of dearest Jerstyl. I expect to hear from the Catcher on the matter immanently."

-s-s-

Carth watched events unfolding in the kind of slow motion, adrenaline-dilated timeframe he had come to associate with the more intense kind of space battles, where each individual moment became something crystallised and distinct.

Jerstyl Daxar had crumpled to the ground in a graceless heap. From the brief glimpse he caught of the blaster burn, right in the middle of his face, Carth didn't think he was going to be getting up again. Ever.

Several of those near Daxar had gathered in close around their host, bending over him to see if they could help. The two Bothans, less bravely, but possibly much more sensibly, had dived immediately for the cover of the refreshment tables. The heavily made up woman, who Carth had come to think of as the Naboo Princess, was scanning the crowds of guests. Something about the instant, hair-trigger alertness of her posture brought to mind elements of both startled deer and hunting cat, and suggested she was something a hell of a lot more than just another of Daxar's decorations.

There was no immediate sign of where the blaster shot had originated from.

Abruptly the Naboo Princess reached up, grabbing hold of a pair of six inch long pins around which her hair was intricately sculpted, and yanking them out. In a single, effortlessly smooth motion, she threw them both, hitting a pair of human waiters in the middle of the chest.

The waiters went down, spasming violently, their faces turning purple with a rapidity that suggested some kind of extremely fast acting neurotoxin. Someone else screamed, ear-splittingly shrill.

From that point onwards, everything degenerated into chaos almost too quickly to follow.

A servitor droid dropped the drinks tray it was carrying, one of its arms reconfiguring into what looked like a built in heavy repeater unit. The Naboo Princess was already moving as it opened fire, with the result that it only managed to scythe down those who were still gathered around Daxar's body.

As she darted forwards, her dress flared out behind her, cut in such a way as to minimise impediment to her movements. Carth also noted that, unlike many of the other female guests, she wasn't wearing heels. The rigid edge of her hand took another of the catering staff in the throat. Pulling him into her as if he was a particularly clumsy dancing partner, she caught him before he could collapse, using him as a human shield.

The servitor droid proceeded to pump blaster shot after blaster shot into that shield, failing to hit her even once.

Another 'waiter' had pulled a blaster pistol and was trying to move round to find an angle where he could get a clear shot on her.

Carth was still struggling to work out whether it was the Naboo Princess or the catering staff who were the assassins. Then another of the servitor droids started deliberately and obviously shooting nearby guests. The remorseless efficiency of its targeting reminded him disconcertingly of HK-47, only without the latter droid's dementedly psychotic glee.

That would be the catering staff then. Partygoers ran – a wild, panicked, screaming herd – back up towards the house.

Part of him wondered, rather insanely given the urgency of the immediate circumstances, how the caterers had managed to get the weaponry past Daxar's extremely tight security. He hadn't been able to come up with a way of getting his own blasters inside, and as a consequence, was completely unarmed – not carrying even so much as a vibroknife.

Only a few seconds had passed since the opening shot. In that time, he hadn't moved a muscle.

"Get down, you idiot," a voice hissed at him. It took him a couple of beats to recognise it as belonging to Sindra. He'd almost managed to forget about her entirely for a moment there.

She grabbed hold of his arm, yanking on it painfully. The catering staff had by now given up all pretence of being anything other than assassins, and were firing at the fleeing guests indiscriminately. It looked like they'd decided that massacring everybody was the best way of covering their tracks. Briefly, he caught a fleeting glimpse of the Naboo Princess in the midst of the panicked, milling throng. Then she was gone from his view.

"Valdan," A voice was saying from some close by him. He ignored it.

"Damn it, Carth!" Spoken directly into his left ear, the words jolted through him like several thousand volts of electricity. As he shot Sindra a startled look it finally sank in that almost everything about her – posture; facial set; even her accent – had altered dramatically.

The bored and predatory wealthy businessman's wife was completely gone.

"How the hell do you . . .?"

"Later," she snapped.

A blaster-shot passed uncomfortably close by his head, communicating the message far more effectively than any words could have managed.

Up towards the house the scene most closely resembled something from a slaughterhouse, finery-clad bodies piling up like chopped cordwood as they were gunned down remorselessly. A glance out to sea showed a pair of armoured hovercraft approaching the house rapidly. From the look of them – definitely not Calius city police authority – Carth surmised that they weren't coming to the rescue.

A part of him wondered how he could possibly manage to remain so detached. But he knew the answer well enough from all the countless battles he'd been in. Because there was no choice. The true horror would hit home only later, when the adrenaline stopped flowing and reality descended with a crash.

If there was a later.

"Please . . .. Please, don't. I-I have money! I can . . ." A terrified, pleading voice was cut off abruptly by another blaster shot, this one from uncomfortably close by.

Sindra – or whoever the hell she really was – gave up yanking on his arm and trod on the back of his knee, forcing him to fall forwards. She fell across his back, her weight pinning him to the ground. He cottoned on quickly enough to throttle back his instinctive urge to struggle and throw her off.

Between the screams of the dying and bursts of blaster fire, he could hear the sound of footsteps steadily approaching. He tried to still his breathing and keep himself completely motionless. Lying across him, Sindra seemed to be striving to do likewise. His heartbeat was far too loud: a wildly percussive, frantically escalating drum beat. The back of his throat was too dry, and the urge to cough grew stronger by the passing second.

The footsteps stopped.

Then, after a couple of eternally long, draining instants, he felt Sindra's weight shift ever so slightly on top of him. She was heavier than she looked, he reflected as it suddenly became much easier to breathe.

"Plug your ears." The whisper was so quiet it was mostly subliminal vibration against his skin. A fraction later, he heard something small and hard skittering across the ground

Sindra whistled sharply. Someone else grunted in surprise. "What the . . ."

Belatedly, Carth remembered her warning and clamped his hands over his ears. Even so, the high-pitched sonic pulse-wave almost deafened him. As sharp pain stabbed through his skull, vibrating through his teeth and making his innards feel like quivering semi-liquid jelly, he was dimly aware of her rolling off him, and forced himself to move too.

As he came up, ears still filled by a high ringing note and his balance temporarily shot, he saw Sindra crouching over the body of one of the assassins. He couldn't tell with that one quick look whether the man was dead, or merely unconscious.

Finally, the ground stopped lurching and spinning, and stabilised beneath him. He saw that she'd lost one of her earrings. It was probably a crazy thing to notice in the circumstances. She tossed a blaster pistol his way, which he caught reflexively.

Something moved in the corner of his eye. Carth whirled and fired in a single motion, catching another waiter-attired-assassin straight between the eyeballs a fraction before she could shoot him.

"Come on," Sindra snapped at him.

Right now wasn't the time for the questions and misgivings he had. With a deep breath, he ran after her, trying to block out the sights and sounds of the slaughter taking place around them. The smell of blaster charred flesh, and worse, tugged at his nostrils.

Old flashes of Dxun stirred unbidden, triggered by the smell as much as anything.

He'd been part of the Republic taskforce that had landed on that strange jungle moon after the main battle with the Mandalorian forces there was over. It hadn't been part of his normal duties, but times had been desperate and personnel shortages so severe that anyone accredited to pilot a light freighter or a drop ship had been roped in. They'd discovered a makeshift prison camp. Rather than risk leaving any of the enemy at their back, the Mandalorians had shot well over a hundred unarmed Republic prisoners of war dead to cover their retreat. That day the smell of blaster-charred flesh had been so overpoweringly repugnant that he'd almost thrown up. Several others had gone considerably beyond almost.

Grimly he throttled the past back, where it belonged.

One of the servitor droids fixed and turned on them as they ran. He shot it twice, staggering it, but the energy shields surrounding it held firm. The return fire from its heavy-repeater sent both him and Sindra diving full length for cover behind the same table he'd seen the two Bothans scramble under earlier.

He found himself lying next to the body of a middle-aged woman. She'd been shot in the back of the head, her hair cooked to a crisp. Close by, he could hear someone pleading pitifully, sobbing and obviously in tremendous pain. Another blaster shot cut the sobbing off, terminally.

In that moment, fury blazed. It overwhelmed the thudding, strangling fear; his instincts for self-preservation; everything. He didn't want to escape then. He wanted to kill every single one of them – to make them feel the same fear and suffering they were inflicting.

He glimpsed a pair of uniformed legs walking the other side of the table and shot out the assassin's ankle, bone shattering with the impact. There was a scream of shock and pain, and the man collapsed.

"Carth!" Sindra's voice, directly in his ear finally penetrated the walls of rage. The servitor droid had moved round far enough to very nearly take their cover out of the equation and get a clear shot at them. He fired at its head to make it duck briefly back.

His breath was coming in short, harsh gasps. He shoved the fury back inside its box. After the Leviathan and the Star Forge, and the deaths of Saul Karath and Malak, he'd thought – or at least hoped – that he'd managed to bury that particular box for good. But when something had been such a fundamental part of you for so long, you couldn't get rid of it just like that.

He followed Sindra in rolling beneath the table and out the other side.

Sprinting up towards the house, trying to keep low, the density of bodies increased markedly, impossible to avoid. As a blaster shot fizzed millimetres over his shoulder, scorching through the material of his jacket and scalding the skin beneath, Carth trod on one of them that turned out not to be quite dead yet. The Deveronian male groaned, reaching up feebly . . .

But Carth was already past him, sick to the stomach. Pausing for even a moment would have meant certain death.

They made it inside just ahead of a strafing burst from the servitor droid.

The interior of the house was almost as big a shambles as the crystal garden, Daxar's tastefully expensive belongings scattered and smashed by the frantic stampede that had already passed through. And there were more dead party guests. More assassins too.

It turned into a running battle as they moved from room to room. Carth lost all track of time, the world contracting down to a seemingly endless repetition of gunfire and frantically darting from one bit of cover to the next.

As they reached a set of stairs going both up and down, Sindra immediately started to descend.

"The exit's that way," Carth gestured ahead of them, his voice ragged with fatigue. He paused to wipe away some of the sweat pouring down his face.

Sindra's breath came short and fast as she looked back at him. "And you don't think they'll be waiting for anyone coming out that way?" She stopped, leaning against the banister railing. Tremors passed through her shoulders and her head tails twitched erratically. Her yellow skin looked greasy and jaundiced, and her make-up was smeared and running. "Besides, Daxar has a security barrier. I looked through one of the windows a few minutes back. It's up." A pause for breath. "Generator's this way I think. We need to take it out."

He looked at her, all the myriad questions and suspicions he had flooding back. "Who . . ."

"Not now!" she snapped. Her teeth, he noticed, like those of most Twi'lek's looked very sharp.

Before anything more could be said, another assassin burst through a door at the end of the corridor. Carth's reflexes were slowing with fatigue, and the assassin managed to get the first shot off.

Thankfully, Carth shot more accurately. As the assassin toppled backwards, dying, he looked sidelong at the scorch mark on the wall less than ten centimetres from his head and shuddered.

Before they managed to descend more than halfway down the steps, a low rumbling roar came from somewhere up ahead, vibrating through the walls and floor.

"I'm guessing that's your generator," Carth commented when the commotion had died down again.

Sindra opened her mouth to respond, but abruptly clamped it shut again before any words could emerge. At the bottom of the stairs, looking up at them, was the woman Carth had seen earlier at Daxar's side.

Without the pins to hold it, the heavy coils of her hair fell around her head like a tangled nest of gleaming black snakes. The thick mask of her make-up was a mess, the elegant artistry of it smeared away into bruise-like smudges so that she resembled a clown who had been weeping copiously. It did, however, still make it almost impossible to get a clear idea of what she truly looked like.

She held a blaster pistol, aimed up at them.

"Look, we're not your enemy. We don't mean you any harm." Carth was first to break the silence. Whether or not any of what he said was true, he had no real clue.

"Behind you," she replied simply, after a second or so.

Carth blinked, and then whirled in realisation.

Because of the warning, he and Sindra were able to shoot first. The gunfight was quick and brutal, and when it was over the two of them were both still standing, and three more of the assassins lay dead.

The woman, though, was gone. There was no indication of what direction she'd taken.

After a pause, they both decided that they should follow her lead and make themselves scarce.

-s-s-

"You've done what?" Morrigance's voice was quiet – artificially calm.

For a brief moment, Darth Auza seemed genuinely taken aback by her reaction. Didn't fit with the internal script, she reflected. He recovered quickly. "Is that really any kind of tone for an apprentice to address their master? Especially an apprentice in so tenuous a situation as yourself, my dear Elleste."

She looked up at him – a vast, corpulent mound of pallid, scabrous flesh, encased in a transparisteel bubble, and too enfeebled even to move under his own power. She looked at his small, wet mouth, and dark, beady eyes. She had always known that this moment would eventually come, where all pretence was stripped away.

In truth, she had longed for it.

Her continued silence seemed to infuriate him, reigniting his briefly punctured rage. He still appeared to believe that he had her held fast. "If you seek to defy me, apprentice, know that I can make your suffering truly terrible. Have I not shown you that much already?"

Abruptly the weight of his will clamped down tightly on her – a giant, crushing fist seeking to squeeze the life out of her, inch by painful inch. Her defences held, just barely under the strain, though a strangled groan of effort was torn from her throat in the process.

Apparently, Auza took that effort to be pain, chuckling wetly, like a gurgling drain. He continued to squeeze tighter and tighter for a few seconds longer, before easing back just slightly. She struggled to catch her breath. "Now. Tell me. What were you plotting with Jerstyl? Be quick."

Or be dead. One of old Drevon Rae's favourite sayings. Before he failed to be quick, and died at Revan's hand. That seemed such a long time ago now, more than the simple passage of years.

"Plotting, my Lord?" Her voice was cool and emotionless, though the words themselves were anything but. "I was plotting how to further reduce the Republic to chaotic shambles. To ignite hate and fear and civil war. Where exactly did you think I got the poison to slay the Jedi Council, if not from Jerstyl Daxar, you useless sack of festering blubber? But in your mind everything that takes place in this universe revolves around you, doesn't it?"

For a moment, Auza appeared absolutely apoplectic, too angry to speak. Drool spilled from one corner of his mouth, little quivering tremors passing through him. Then he lashed out at her with everything he had, seeking to squash her flat with bludgeoning waves of Force, brutally dismantling her consciousness and peeling it away one strip at a time until all that was left was a shell.

This time though, she pushed back, hard.

In terms of raw power he was the stronger of the two of them, his knowledge of the Force honed and sharpened by nearly eight decades of experience. But she was not the adversary he expected and had prepared for, and – as Revan had always been at pains to drum into her – raw power mattered far less than the effectiveness with which you could bring it to bear against your opponent. Just the same as with any other form of battle.

Seconds stretched into minutes. The only sounds were those of their breathing; the occasional quiet moan or gasp of effort. There was nothing external to see as their minds clashed, though the air seemed almost to bleed with all of the Force that was being channelled. Morrigance's robes stirred softly around her body in a nonexistent wind, and occasionally sparks of latent static would flash across the metal skeleton of Auza's walker. Eventually they reached impasse, and – by mutual consent – drew back slightly, readying themselves for the next offensive.

He stared at her. "You have grown stronger than I'd imagined, Elleste." The words were ragged as he panted, struggling to catch his breath. Sweat was rolling down his bloated face. "A pity you were foolish enough to try to challenge me. All that potential, wasted so young, before it could truly flower." He gestured, then snapped, "Celyanda!"

Incandescent silver-white lightsabers ignited in stereo. The golden twins strode forward, lithe and graceful.

So that was that. Morrigance could feel the gleeful avidity with which Auza watched her, waiting to see her cut down. She made no attempt either to flee, or fight.

Lightsabers lifted in unison, poised to strike . . .

Then, abruptly, they snapped off. Celyanda fell into step with her, flanking her placidly.

Auza's shock and confusion were palpable. "Celyanda! I gave you an order!"

"You never did truly take the time to try and understand them on anything other than a superficial level, did you, my Lord? They were always just a convenient tool."

His eyes flicked from them to her; back again. "Elleste . . ." His mouth worked, and suddenly she could sense desperation from him. Naked fear. The walker shifted, joints whispering pneumatically as he sent mental commands to it. "My apprentice . . ."

"My name is not Elleste. And I have never – not for a single second – been your apprentice."

Help me free him, my friend.

A passage opened in the seemingly solid stone at Auza's back, ready for him to flee into.

Too late. An ion storm, created out of Celyanda's combined will, crackled around the walker. Its electric systems fried, and its limbs locked tight, rendering it as motionless as a statue.

-s-s-

"Okay, that's enough." Carth grabbed hold of the Twi'lek woman's arm. "We need to talk. Now."

Sindra whirled on him, baring her teeth. "Does this look like a good place for a conversation to you?"

They were in one of the narrow, winding alleyways sculpted out of the single giant crystal that was the city of Calius saj Leeloo. Less than fifty metres away tourists and street traders thronged along a major thoroughfare, though the spot where they stood was quiet and shaded. For the moment, it looked like they'd shaken off their pursuers – at least temporarily.

"Right now it'll do for me." He tried to sound menacing, but it wasn't really his forte. "I want to know who you really are, who you work for, and how the hell you know about me."

She met his gaze steadily, apparently not the least bit menaced. With her smudged and sweat-streaked make-up, she looked rather different from when she'd been playing the vampish seductress. For want of a better word, a lot more innocent. Then, clearly and enunciated with the utmost care, she reeled off a phrase that was so bizarre a non-sequitur it made Carth blink.

He repeated it back before it finally clicked. After a second or so, he added, "And in Hoth this time of year the tauntauns are migrating south."

"That is not the proper response," she stated frostily.

"No it's not, but I'm getting very tired of these Force-damned spy games." Carth sighed and released his grip on her arm. She took a couple of steps back from him. "So, if you're Republic Intelligence, what were you trying to do at the party? It was hardly helping. We're supposed to be on the same side, right?"

The look she directed his way seemed slightly pitying, though not really in a cruel way. "Chief Tray'deya was . . . concerned you might get yourself into trouble."

Section Chief Tray'deya was a rather elderly and extremely distinguished looking Bothan spymaster. Carth had met him a couple of days ago, when he'd first arrived on Berchest. Tray'deya had warned him in no uncertain terms not to get involved in matters that didn't concern him, and to leave the intelligence business to the professionals. As relationships went, it hadn't exactly been love at first sight.

And he'd been damned if he was going to let himself be immediately sidelined again. "So what? Because I stuck his nose out of joint he was trying to sabotage me . . ."

"No Carth," she interrupted. "He was trying to stop you getting yourself killed. Aside from your potential to cause trouble, I don't think he liked the idea of losing a genuine war hero on his watch. Even a Gamorrean-ignorant one who refused to listen to helpful advice. I was assigned to keep you distracted and out of harms way."

He felt himself flushing. It was mainly embarrassment. "Hey, I wasn't doing so badly."

"No?"

The flush deepened. "I got in, didn't I?"

"And that was very nicely done." She smiled, though it was quickly sublimated. "But let's be honest, shall we, Carth? When it comes down to it, you're a pretty hopeless spy."

"Hopeless? Oh, come on. I thought I was slightly better than hopeless. The Corellian accent alone . . ."

She cut him off. "When I mentioned the word 'Fleet' you might as well have held up a big sign saying 'I've got something to hide'. And if you're going to go under an assumed name, like Valdan Mayer for instance, you need to answer to it when someone speaks to you. Even when something slightly unexpected happens."

He grunted, trying and failing to come up with an adequate counter to that.

"Now can we get moving?" Her gaze flicked sideways, back down the shadowy alley. "Just because we can't see any of them right now doesn't mean they've stopped looking for us."

As she started walking briskly again, he followed after her. "Who are 'they' anyway?" There was a grimness to his tone as he spoke, his expression tightly set.

Sindra delayed fractionally before responding, looking around in a manner that suggested she expected to find someone watching them. "Sith. Exchange. Any one of several other rather dubious organisations Daxar dealt with. All of them are ruthless enough to kill him if they thought he'd become a liability."

But the timing, along with utter, ruthless disregard for life strongly suggested Sith. Carth didn't need to be a genius to work that one out.

They made the safe house about half an hour later. It consisted of a couple of cramped rooms located above a boarded-up shop shoved halfway down a narrow side-street in one of Calius saj Leeloo's less salubrious districts.

As soon as everything was locked and secured behind them, the closed-circuit monitoring and alarm systems switched on, Sindra collapsed into an old and shabby chair. After a moment, she let out a long, sighing breath and doubled over. Little tremors shuddered through her.

"Sindra?" He moved across to where she sat. His hand hovered, several inches above her shoulder, unsure and wavering. "Are you hurt?"

"Sorry. Sorry." Her voice was muffled. "It's just . . . I've seen people die before. This is not my first day on the job. But that . . ." She made a hollow sound that approximately aped a laugh, but was nothing remotely of the sort. "That I wasn't ready for."

He did touch her shoulder this time.

She didn't shrug him off, and the shaking slowly subsided. "I suppose from all the things you'll have seen, you're much more used to that kind of thing than me. I don't mean to come over all . . ." She trailed off and shook her head, head tails flicking apologetically.

Carth hesitated over his words. "You shouldn't feel sorry. Quite the opposite. I think if you ever, ever start getting used to something like that then it's about time to consider eating your blaster." Thinking about all the bodies – the screams of the dying; the remorseless cacophony of blaster shots – stirred a kind of dull, nauseated rage. He struggled to push it away.

Sindra drew in a deep, shuddering breath and sat up again. After a moment or two, she gently lifted Carth's hand away from her shoulder and stood up. As she looked round, her face appeared calm, almost as serene as a Jedi's. "Thank you."

"Sindra . . ." he started, before stopping again, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, that's not your real name is it? Any more than I'm called Valdan Mayer."

"Sindra is fine. It's what you're used to calling me. You might as well continue."

The response left him somewhat taken aback. "I think I'd rather know your real name."

"Why? It hardly matters, does it? Besides, I've had so many names that the real one is just another in a long string." She made a vague, dismissive gesture and started walking towards the door leading to the other room. She actually seemed genuinely uncomfortable.

He sighed, exasperated. "Fine. Sindra it is." He realised that he'd completely lost track of what he'd intended to ask. "I'll just assume your real name is something too embarrassing to mention."

She snorted, but the way she did it made him think he'd hit the nail on the head. "Bliss." It was bitten out.

"Bliss," he echoed.

"Laugh and I break your arm. Use it again and I break something a lot more intimate than that." It was very difficult to tell if she was being serious or not.

"So, um, Sindra then. Nice name that." He followed her through into the other room. Immediately she walked across to a wardrobe, selected a plain black jumpsuit, and started to take her dress off, apparently not caring in the slightest that he was there watching her.

He turned away, stifling a choking cough, and beat a hasty retreat. Underneath the dress, there hadn't been a whole lot of anything except naked yellow skin.

Her laughter followed him. "You know Carth, if you don't do something to prove otherwise, I'm going to start thinking you're a prude."

Unaccountably he felt his cheeks warming at the accusation. "I'm not a . . ." he stopped himself. No, no. Not going anywhere near there. "And there I was beginning to think Sindra's personality was just an act."

He heard the sonic shower unit switch on and sat himself down in one of the chairs. After a second or so, her voice floated back to him, "You know, I really was planning to play her a bit more subtly than that, but when I saw the way you were reacting I just couldn't help it. It was just too tempting to resist. The look on your face when I . . ."

"I was wondering if I could push you over the railing into the sea without anyone around us noticing."

Another laugh. "Of course."

"So, what would have happened if I'd let myself succumb to Sindra's charms? For a moment there I was almost tempted." He attempted to tease back.

There was a slight delay before a response came back. "Sindra Taran owns an extremely luxurious penthouse apartment with a truly spectacular view of the Sarybanic Arch. I dare say we'd have spent an exhausting, but otherwise extremely enjoyable night going at it like sex-starved Gizka in mating season, and we'd have parted in the morning, neither of us any the worse for it." Her tone suddenly became more serious, verging on bleak. "It would certainly have been a damn sight more enjoyable than this."

He could hardly argue with that part of her assessment. Something about the rest of her words nagged at him though. "And that wouldn't have bothered you at all?"

The sonic shower switched off – quick, efficient, no time wasted. "It would hardly have been one of the more onerous duties I've had to perform in the service. Put it that way."

"Duties?" He knew it was a mistake even as he said it, but something in him wasn't quite able to let it pass.

There was an exasperated sigh. "Look Carth, you're a good looking man. Even with that ridiculous blonde hair. And it wasn't as though anybody ordered me to go out and seduce you. It was merely a convenient, and potentially fun, way of getting the job done."

"Oh."

"Oh?" She walked back into the room, finishing zipping up the front of her jumpsuit. With the make-up gone, she looked considerably younger than he'd first guessed. Too young. Or maybe he was just getting too old. "This bothers you, doesn't it?"

"No, no. It doesn't bother me in the slightest," he said quickly.

She made an exasperated noise, head tails wriggling in displeasure. "Yes it does. It quite clearly bothers you a great deal. Otherwise, you wouldn't have said anything in the first place. And you wouldn't have that tight-arsed expression you've got now."

He kept his mouth shut, holding back the instinctive denial about the 'tight-arsed expression', and hoping that she'd let the matter drop.

She didn't. In fact, she seemed genuinely irritated. "What it about the thought of two people having hypothetical, utterly meaningless sex? Where's the problem?" Carth had come to know Mission well enough to get a fair idea of what various Twi'lek head tail gestures and postures meant. Sindra's were definitely conveying highly pissed-off. "Do you want to know that I've slept with people for no other reason than because my job demands it from time to time? Because I have. And I'll undoubtedly do so again if the need arises in future. And you know what? I'm not ashamed about it. I don't have any self-esteem issues about it, and I'm still entirely comfortable with myself as a person. If that makes me . . . I don't know, some kind of whore in your eyes, then you're the one who has the problem. Not me."

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I'm not judging you or anything."

She glared at him. "But you are. If I were a man, you wouldn't be bothered in the slightest. It wouldn't even be a question."

"If you were a man I think I'd have found your performance back at Daxar's place even more disconcerting."

Suddenly she laughed, though it sounded slightly forced. Some of the more obvious tension in her had bled away. She walked across to one of the darkened windows, staring down at the narrow side street outside. "I'm sorry. I don't know where all that came from." She shook her head, head tails flicking. "I'm not usually quite so . . . hysterical. Bad day I suppose."

He nodded. "Very bad day. Though a hell of a lot worse for some people than us."

A visible shudder passed up her back. After a moment, she looked back at him, entirely business-like. "You need to change your clothes." Her nose wrinkled as she moved closer to him. "And take a shower while you're at it. You stink."

When he returned a few minutes later, considerably refreshed, Sindra was doing something with the necklace she'd worn as part of her outfit. It was hooked up, via a pair of micro-fine connecting wires, to a datapad. As he looked over her shoulder, he saw that the datapad's screen depicted the face of the woman from the party.

"Do you know who she is then?" he asked.

She didn't look up from what she was doing. The woman's face was abruptly superimposed with a wire-mesh grid that created a three-dimensional mapping. As it rotated, the heavy mask of make-up was stripped away, leaving something that was much more recognisably human looking. Someone Carth might be able to recognise if he saw her in the street. "If you want the straightforward answer, her name is Yolanda Wintour. I was introduced to her briefly at the party, and apparently she's been Jerstyl Daxar's personnel assistant – which could mean almost anything – for the past six months."

"And the non-straightforward answer?"

"Republic Intelligence knows nothing about a Yolanda Wintour – at least as far as they're telling me. I'd never heard of her before the party, and Chief Tray'deya isn't usually lax with his briefings. So your guess is as good as mine."

Which, by Carth's reckoning, probably meant Sith, Exchange, or one of the other organisations Sindra had mentioned implicitly earlier on. Or . . . "She could have shot us, and she warned us about the assassins coming up behind us. Could she be Republic Intel? I mean, if you were assigned to keeping me out of trouble you must be fairly junior, and probably well outside of the need-to-know chain."

"You know, Carth, the foot in mouth thing is endearing enough the first few times, but unlike the Corellian brandy you were drinking earlier, it doesn't age well."

He could probably have phrased it more tactfully, he realised, but didn't feel inclined to apologise.

After a lengthy pause, she added, "It's possible, I suppose. Not being shot by someone is rather a low standard for assuming friendship and common purpose though." She continued working on the image, before making a frustrated noise. "I think I'd find this a lot easier without you peering over my shoulder the whole time."

Fine. Carth turned away and wandered to the window. The street outside looked deserted. Nervous tension filled him, and it was difficult to relax even slightly. "So how does a nice girl like you get into this line of business?"

"You've been out of circulation for a while, haven't you? That line needs carbon-dating." It wasn't said unkindly though. She muttered something that sounded like a curse beneath her breath, apparently directed at the datapad. "I never intended to get involved in intelligence work, if that's what you mean. I was always going to be this big holo star. Rich, famous, beautiful and adored by all." She let out a breath "A silly little girls dream." A grunt of concentration followed, accompanied by more sub-audible muttering. "Can you believe I thought this might be glamorous and exciting when the recruiting agent approached me? It certainly wasn't that I was especially patriotic."

"Get to see more of the big wide galaxy than your humdrum little home world." A half smile touched Carth's lips as he recalled a certain shockingly naïve and wet behind the ears eighteen year old.

"You too, huh?"

"Oh, I got other, much better reasons later on."

Sindra made a satisfied noise. "There. Done. Hopefully our side can pick her up before the assassins if she tries to pass through a spaceport . . ." She trailed off as she tried her comm. unit, eliciting only a squall of static, then swore venomously. "Damn it. We're being jammed."

Which meant . . .

Carth caught a flicker of movement down on the street. Instinct took over, and he managed to duck fractionally before the window next to him exploded inwards in a shower of glass shards.

-s-s-

Yuthura was bent over a workbench. The hilt of a lightsaber was held steady by her cast-covered right arm, while she probed somewhat tentatively at its inner workings with a pair of tweezers held in her left.

She apparently sensed him standing back in the doorway, watching her. "Developing a personal attachment to a lightsaber has to be the height of idiocy, wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh, I don't know. I've done plenty of more stupid things, even in the time I can properly remember." Tamar managed to smile, surprising himself. He had felt much like smiling at all these past few hours.

"I'd had it nearly seven years. You get used to the way it feels. It just seems . . . kind of an ignominious way to lose it, I suppose. This one still doesn't seem quite right somehow."

"And red does clash so horribly with purple," he added, deadpan.

"And there we hit my real reasons for leaving the Sith. Horrible fashion sense." Though he couldn't see much of her face from this angle, and her head tails were completely still as she concentrated on her work, he got the sense that she was amused. "I managed to scrounge a crystal off Jolee."

"And escaped without getting your ear talked off? I'm impressed."

"I never said that now, did I?" She looked briefly round at him. "We had a lengthy conversation, ostensibly on the merits of various forms of dance. He was quite impassioned on the subject of various Wookiee reels."

Tamar winced in mock sympathy. "How are you feeling?"

When they'd found her, she'd looked half-dead on her feet: scarcely able to stand, dehydrated and feverish, repeatedly wracked by coughing that hurt just to listen to, blood misting on her breath. The sight of her like that had left him terrified. His and Jolee's combined healing talents had managed to stabilise her somewhat and ease her breathing, but as soon as they'd gotten her strapped into the co-pilots seat of the Ajunta's Blade, she'd slid into a healing trance and hadn't stirred from it for somewhere over three days. After they'd evaded the Republic cordon, it had been a very cramped and anxious flight for Tamar, watching her unconscious form and wrestling his emotions.

"It's nice to be able to breathe in without it hurting." Her attention turned back to the lightsaber in front of her. "The arm will take a bit longer before the bone knits fully, and I got rather a stern lecture from Jedi Belaya over the permanent damage I could do if I break it again in the near future. Otherwise? Nearly as good as new again."

She still hadn't told him what had happened beyond the sketchiest of outlines. He got the impression though, that it had affected her much more than she was letting on – more than simply the physical injuries. "That's good."

Yuthura made a small, satisfied noise and put the tweezers down. After snapping the cover back into place, she stood up. For a few seconds she appeared to be testing the hilt's balance, then she ignited it, a brilliant violet coloured blade-beam springing forth. She made a few practise swings. "There. Much better, don't you think?"

He laughed. There eyes met, and the brief levity faded.

"I agree with your decision," she said at length.

About Mission. Finding out that Juhani and Zaalbar were still alive, and being reunited with them should have been a relief. With the news they delivered about Mission though, it had almost been the opposite. Before, with only the sketchiest news available, he'd been able to imagine them working together, safe within his head. Now that luxury was gone.

He grunted. "I'm still not sure I do. As a Jedi . . ."

"As a Jedi you've made your choice. And you have no intention of going back on it, right?" Her gaze, meeting his, was unflinching.

"No." His voice sounded flat when he finally answered her.

"Then stop tormenting yourself about it."

Easy enough to say, he thought sourly.

A pair of Republic personal walked in on them. "Let's go somewhere," Yuthura said quietly, after a pause.

The look in her eyes made him slightly uncomfortable somehow, but he nodded. They started walking together, side by side, out of the gunship's repair bay towards the crew quarters.

A couple of minutes later, the door to his quarters slid open in front of them. It was slightly less commodious than the prison cell he'd had on Coruscant, the curve of the hull restricting headroom uncomfortably. The lighting was a seriously unpleasant shade of yellow, and gave off a low electric humming noise, flickering intermittently.

He offered Yuthura the lone chair with a distracted gesture, then perched himself on the edge of the bunk.

Finally, she spoke again. "You wouldn't be the person you are if you didn't do this. I think it's probably the main thing that separates you from the old Revan. To you, the smaller things matter too. Besides, it's not as though you're dropping all your responsibilities to chase blindly after your friend. Until we get the data core decrypted its not as if we have a surfeit of leads to chase down, is it?"

He didn't say anything, so she continued. "Dreya's Bastion is a good play. Even Marshall didn't object to it. Two birds with one stone – that's the saying, right?"

"Except I don't give a damn about the data core right now. Or the Jedi council. Or the Republic. Or her – Morrigance Fel or Elleste Strine, or whoever she really is." What he kept coming back, time and time again, was Mission.

"Damn it, you're annoying."

"Yes," he agreed. His voice was utterly bland and emotionless.

"No one is disagreeing with you here. No one."

"Then maybe they should be."

Yuthura's exhalation was freighted with exasperation. She stood up, the back of her head scraping against the ceiling. For a moment, he thought she was going to walk out, but instead she sat down on the bunk next to him. She didn't saying anything straight away, apparently weighing something up.

Finally, she settled on, "Get your head out of your ass, Tamar. It isn't very becoming"

He blinked, startled as much by the tone of her voice as anything. When he looked at her face, it was stern and unsympathetic – echoes of the headmistress of the Korriban academy prepared to chastise a recalcitrant pupil. It felt almost like he'd been slapped. "I mean, what is it you want exactly? You want someone to tell you all this is your fault? Would that make you feel better – more able to enjoy wallowing in your guilt if everyone else blames you too?"

His first instinct was angry denial – to snap back at her that she didn't know what she was talking about. He didn't though. He said nothing.

Silence lingered. The lights flickered.

"This is pointless. Stop searching for things to punish yourself over." Her voice was slightly softer this time. "Sometimes there are no perfect choices."

Finally, he let out a breath. She was definitely right on one thing. This was accomplishing nothing. He managed a low chuckle. "Okay, Yuthura. Head. Out of ass. Is that better?"

She peered closely at him, and after a moment made a small noncommittal noise. "Possibly. I'll reserve judgement." Her hand lightly touched his though, indicating that he was forgiven.

This time the silence that settled in was considerably less tense.

"Tamar?"

"Yes, Yuthura?"

"A purely academic observation, you understand. But I note that this room appears to have both a bed and a lock on the door."

He looked at her face. It was perfectly impassive. His gaze dropped slightly. "Your arm . . .?"

"Is not essential to the process, as I understand it."

-s-s-

Carth shot his assailant in the face at point-blank range. The man slumped backwards, against the wall, and slid slowly down it to the floor, hair smouldering.

His heart was hammering as he looked around. Sweat ran down the side of his face, and he could feel the muscles in his legs burning with lactic acid build-up. There was no sign of movement and everything was, for the moment, quiet. Four bodies lay sprawled across the narrow street, unmoving.

Up through the narrow gap between the rooftops the sky showed that night had settled in. It was still bright enough to see fairly clearly, the orange lights of Calius saj Leeloo reflecting back off low clouds. It did indicate that they'd been on the run for several hours now, though.

Their flight had come to assume the proportions of a nightmare, their attackers seemingly endless in number, impossible to outrun and herding them relentlessly. Several times, it had looked like they'd gotten themselves surrounded, but each time up to now they'd managed to slip the jaws of the trap just barely. Once, that had involved kicking the door of the nearest house down and running through a family in the middle of eating dinner. Another occasion had seen a mad scramble up a fire escape, followed by a desperate sprint across exposed crystal rooftops, making vertiginous leaps from building to building.

And always the attackers kept coming, able to find and follow them no matter what they tried.

Part of him had struggled to comprehend how this could be happening. The Berchest he remembered had been a peaceful and orderly place, extensively and visibly policed for the benefit of the myriad tourists. That though, apparently, had changed.

When he'd made some breathless comment to that effect, Sindra had given him a rather pitying look and told him that he obviously hadn't been keeping abreast of local politics. They'd been too busy running for any more in depth conversation on the subject.

Abruptly Carth realised that he was alone. Sindra wasn't with him any more.

He hissed her name, but there was no response. Neither was she anywhere in sight, either ahead of him, or back in the direction they'd just come. "Damn it woman." Cursing beneath his breath, he began to retrace his steps, gaze darting this way and that, searching for more lurking assailants. His nerves felt sliced raw.

He found her several minutes later after retracing back about a hundred metres, around a corner in the mouth of an alleyway scarcely wide enough to accommodate two people walking abreast. She was slumped on her haunches, her back pressed against the wall, with her head forward in her in hands. Her head tails quivered intermittently.

At the sound of his approach, she looked up, pointing her gun at him. Its barrel wavered, and her eyes look wild and unfocused.

"It's me," he started, taking a step towards her. "Carth," he added when no sign of recognition showed.

She fired.

He yelped in shock, the blaster shot passing about thirty centimetres past his ear.

Raising his hands, he stepped back, heart thudding wildly. "Easy, Sindra. Easy."

Her gaze still seemed blank. Her finger tightened on the trigger. "Bliss?" he tried.

Finally her eyes focused on his face, recognition dawning. "Told you not to call me that." Her voice sounded shockingly weak and blurred. The gun barrel dropped. "Bloody parents. Should need a licence before you're allowed to name a child."

He hurried across to her, falling to his knees beside her. "What happened?" Idiotic question, he knew even as he said it.

She managed a pained looking expression that was meant to be a smile. "They got me."

As she shifted slightly he was able to see where the left leg of her jumpsuit had been burned through. Underneath, the meat of her thigh was raw and burned, seeping clear fluid. He swallowed as he looked at it – a bad hit, which, from the look of it, had sent her into shock. The leg certainly wouldn't be able to take her weight as things stood.

He started fumbling in his pockets and after a second or so produced a kolto pack. "Here, take this."

"Carth, get the hell out of here."

"Listen, lady." As he helped her inject the kolto, she made a low groaning noise, shuddering. "I've never abandoned anyone on a mission before. I'm not about to start now."

"Not even for someone as irritating as me?" As the effect of the kolto hit, she seemed to recover fractionally, her eyes becoming more alert and the shaking subsiding fractionally.

"Not even then."

She closed her eyes briefly, head tilting backwards against the wall. "I can't walk, Carth."

He started looking round the alleyway. "If we can improvise some kind of splint . . ."

"Carth!"

He looked back at her. She'd shifted position, grimacing with the effort, allowing him to see the second blaster wound she'd taken, this one to the abdomen.

Gut wounds weren't as bad for Twi'leks as humans. He couldn't remember where he'd heard that. He had no idea if it was true, but he clung to it. "You're what, sixty kilos? I can carry you."

Her strangled laugh trailed off into a pained gasp. She tapped her ear. "We're still being jammed. Which means there are more of them still in the vicinity. You can't carry me and run. You can't carry me and shoot."

"Then I'll get you to somewhere we can lie low." His voice held a stubborn obstinacy.

She bared her teeth. They were bloody from where she'd accidentally bitten her bottom lip when she'd been shot. "Get a grip, Carth." She swallowed, obviously struggling, fumbling at one of her pockets. "Take this." She thrust the datapad into his hands. "Get it to Tray'deya, or . . . whatever."

He still hesitated. Something was clenching up inside him.

"Just take it, damn it."

He accepted it numbly. "Sindra . . ."

She lifted a hand to his lips to shush him. "Listen, all that self-sacrifice for the good of the Republic crap? Really not into it, in a big a way. I still want to be a holo star." She groaned, clearly in considerable pain, and it was several seconds before she could continue. Then she tapped something attached to her belt. "I've got this . . . stealth unit. Draw the bastards away from me. I can stay hidden. When you've got them out of jamming range I'll call in . . . get medical help."

His eyes met with hers. Her expression was almost challenging, daring him to argue with her. "If you're ever in the vicinity again . . . feel like helping a bored, neglected millionaire's wife keep herself entertained for a couple of nights . . ."

"I'll look you up," he agreed, managing an approximation of a smile.

She flicked a switch on the stealth unit, fading to nothing than a faint, blurring outline in the air, like heat haze.

"Now get lost."

-s-s-

She heard the footsteps hurry on past her down the alleyway, voices fading as they turned round a corner and away. Finally, she allowed herself to breathe out again. The pain from her injured gut was chronic, making it difficult to think straight. She could feel sweat pouring from her, trickling down her back, icy cold against burning hot skin. The back of her throat felt cracked and parched, and the craving for something to drink – the merest sip of water – was like a form of delirium. The idea of biting into her wrist and sucking up the blood that spilled out – anything to gain to the slightest hint of moisture – was strangely seductive.

An involuntary groan emerged. Her foot drummed against the floor of the alley. The words she'd told Carth began to seem more and more like lies.

She realised that she was scared. Utterly terrified.

"My poor, poor, pretty little bird."

The voice made her freeze, deep and rich in timbre. She looked up and saw a figure standing in the mouth of the alley. Her vision was too blurred to make out more than the vaguest detail – a tall, dark outline. It stepped towards her.

Her hand fumbled for the controls of the stealth unit in confusion, but it was still switched on. She lifted her blaster, trying to stop the barrel trembling – blinked the stinging sweat out of her eyes as she struggled to aim.

Except now there were three identical figures, striding side by side.

She fired. Hit the middle figure. The blaster bolt passed straight on through and out the other side.

The remaining two figures chuckled and gestured. She felt something tugging hard at her blaster, jerking it from her grasp.

"Wait." The word stopped in her throat though. There was only one figure again now, and it stopped in front of her, leaning over.

Its face hovered over her, handsome and dark-skinned, white teeth gleaming as they smiled warmly.

"Please . . ." She reached up, not sure if she was reaching out to him, or trying to push him away.

The pain flared briefly, blotting everything else out. Dimly she was aware of someone – herself – crying out. As her gaze darkened a brief afterimage lingered – a thread of burning orange energy, drawn from the centre of her chest, leaping to his outstretched hand.

"Rest now."

Her eyes glazed over. Everything slipped away.

-s-s-

The Sith assassin, known sometimes as the Catcher, remained crouched over her body for several minutes. If anyone had been around to witness the scene, they would have felt extremely uneasy indeed. Like they were intruding on some kind of strange and darkly forbidding communion.

"Thank you," he murmured, lifting his forehead from where it had been pressed tight against hers, before finally standing up. "You will not be forgotten."

Almost regretfully, he walked away.

Images played behind his eyes. A face. A spoor, leading away into the night.

-s-s-

Korda Drace pulled the dark robe closed over his broad, barrel chest and struggled to assume a façade of composure. Anger thrummed through his powerfully built frame. A heavy, calloused hand scratched back and forth through the short, still damp hairs of his copper-coloured beard, producing a harsh, scraping noise. The tattoos on the skin beneath his eyes glowed like livid bruises, starkly contrasting to the pallor of his surrounding complexion.

The private comm. link beeped again, insistently. He would have simply switched it off unanswered, except for the source tag it carried. Darth Auza.

"One day, you rancid sack of blubber. One day we'll come face to face without your legions and your bodyguards . . ." His expression smoothed over from snarl to stony calm with a chilling rapidity. Only

Drace's faded blue eyes gave the lie to his pretence of impassivity.

He flicked a switch. "My Lord Auza." He bowed his head the minimum possible distance in a shallow pretence of respect. "How may I serve? The hour here on Korriban is late . . ."

It wasn't Auza's grotesquely corpulent visage that looked back at him over the holo-link. Instead, it was a much more slender figure, whose face was hidden beneath a deep cowl.

"Lord Drace." The voice was female, utterly bland and emotionless. "I trust the evening finds you well?"

"It is nearer to morning." His eyes narrowed as he studied the holo-image. "You're Strine. The Lord Auza's current apprentice. Does your master know that you use his private comm. channel?"

"That is an interesting philosophical question. The Jedi Order, for instance, would probably say yes."

"My patience is short Strine. What do you want?"

The cowled head dipped in a perfunctory bow. "My apologies, Lord Drace. However, I thought you would want to hear this news at the very first opportunity."

"What news?" he gritted.

"The news that Lord Auza has sadly passed away."

Drace's surface of impassivity fractured. He stared at the hologram, trying to work out if he was being played. "You're saying that Darth Auza is dead."

"That is indeed the usual meaning of 'passed away'."

"How?" Drace started pacing, a hand coming up to scratch at his beard again. "How did he die?"

"My Lord Auza was an elderly man, in poor health as you know. I'm sure you'll be glad to hear he went peacefully, in his sleep."

Drace's eyes narrowed. The voice was as bland as ever, but he was certain he was being mocked by it. "Precisely how peacefully?"

"I believe he peacefully dismembered himself into twelve separate pieces. Possibly whilst in the throws of a bad dream. At least he led a long and full life, which is something I'm sure we all aspire to."

He grunted noncommittally. His thoughts were suddenly a whirr, tumbling over themselves with the number and scope of possibilities that were presented if this news was correct. If, he reminded himself. "How many others know of this?"

"As of this moment? Myself, one other disinterested party, and now you."

It was too good to be true. Which meant it couldn't be. His lip curled. "Why are you telling me this, Strine? What advantage accrues to you?"

There was a delay before a response came. "My reasons are my own."

"Not good enough." He peered at the hooded figure, but the image in front of him gave nothing up. "And while you're at it, let me see your face. I want to know who I'm really talking to."

"Would you know the face of Elleste Strine, even if you saw it?" The voice sounded amused.

"You are not her."

"Oh, very good. Better than Auza ever managed, at least."

He could hear the sarcasm clearly. "I do not enjoy being toyed with . . ."

"Stow your temper, Drace." All pretence at respect was gone, the voice with an edge like monomolecular-bonded plasteel. "You now have, in your sole possession, information that delivers unto you an entire half of the Sith Empire. Yes, of course I don't do this out of the goodness of my heart. Yes, of course I am manipulating you. But does that honestly matter, given the prize you gain?"

He said nothing. Beneath the surface fury bubbled.

"And yes, if I was standing in front of you, you'd rip my heart straight out from my chest and crush it as I watch. In eight to twelve hours, this information will become public knowledge. I can think of at least half a dozen who will then try to steal Auza's vacated throne. In the ensuing carnage, while the squabbles still go on, Lord Malefic is in by far the best position to take advantage, making himself the sole successor to Darth Malak, and supreme ruler of the Sith Empire. And I know that you above anyone, Lord Drace, cannot afford for that to happen."

"If we ever meet in person . . ."

"There will be a reckoning." She let out a bored sounding sigh. "How very tedious of you. Now, I have said all I have to say. Do with it what you will."

The hologram vanished, the comm. link shutting off.

Korda Drace stood motionless for several seconds, staring away at something that existed only inside his own head. Then he turned away and went to work.