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.

9. The Exchange

9. The Exchange

Outside the transparisteel window a blizzard howled, the hurricane force Hoth winds thick with ice and snow that reduced visibility to the low tens of metres. Inside the battle-scarred Republic base, the temperature may have been have been somewhat warmer, but the atmosphere, Bastila thought, was – if possible – even more chill.

"The news of Jedi Zikl's death is indeed most distressing," Master Mida Tapawan murmured. The colour-drained holographic image of her, possibly even more hunched and frail than the last time they had spoken, flickered erratically as a particularly strong gust of wind moaned mournfully and shook the base's transmission tower. "But we must not regard it as tragic. As you say, he died a hero's death, serving the will of the Force that he has now become a part of. I will be sure to, as you request, pass on your condolences and respects to his surviving family members."

Bastila couldn't escape the disturbing impression that Master Mida was simply mouthing words she could no longer bring herself to entirely believe in. "Thank you, Master."

Or perhaps I am simply projecting my own doubts onto her.

"But, moving on from such solemn matters, as we inevitably must. It is good that you have chosen this time to contact us. One might even be tempted to say that the convenience of your timing is an indication that the Force remains with us, even in these most trying of times."

"Oh?" Bastila managed weakly. She wasn't immediately sure why, but she didn't like the sound of that at all. She suppressed a shiver. The Republic base may have been vastly warmer than outside, but by any objective measure, it was still damn cold.

"Indeed. I was about to try to contact you myself, Jedi Bastila. The Council has decided . . ."

"The Council?" Bastila blurted, unable to help herself.

Master Mida looked distinctly irritated by the interruption. "Indeed, Jedi Bastila. The Council. Even the heinous atrocity committed so recently against our order cannot weaken the Jedi's resolve to serve the Force's will. Nor can it weaken our proud millennia old tradition of service to the galaxy." Her voice fluctuated as another wind gust hit. "It would be an insult to the memories of those who were so brutally slain if we allowed that to be the case. Under the wise guidance of Master Corva-Dey, a new provisional Council of Masters has been gathered to Coruscant."

A pause, lasting several beats.

"That is indeed most heartening news." It should have been heartening, anyway. For some reason that she couldn't pinpoint, Bastila struggled to feel particularly heartened. The name Corva-Dey was naggingly familiar, but she failed to immediately place it. Somehow, it struck a false note.

"Indeed. Master Corva-Dey has been leading negotiations with the Senate, and cautious progress is being made in regard to our differences. For the moment, the bill put forth by Senator Gallavon has been kept off the table." There was a crackle of interference, the Jedi Master's voice distorting.

"Anyway, as I was trying to say before I was interrupted; the Council has decided that you are to be recalled to Coruscant, Jedi Bastila. With immediate effect."

"M-Master Mida?" It felt like she'd just been punched in the gut.

"Is there something you fail to understand, Jedi Bastila? I thought the meaning of my words was clear enough." A querulous note crept in.

For several seconds Bastila struggled to formulate a reply. "You received my report?" she finally managed, rather lamely.

"Indeed I did." The elderly Jedi Master's expression looked suitably grim. "Most grave, if it is accurate. I have passed the matter on to the new Council for urgent attention."

Bastila closed her mouth and swallowed, the legs of the argument she'd been going to use immediately undercut by Master Mida's response. She struggled to find some composure, sure that there must have been some kind of mistake somewhere. "And I am still to be recalled? If Darth Malefic is seeking to follow Revan's path, then surely it must be a matter of highest priority to ensure this is not allowed to happen?" She took a deep breath, all too aware that her voice was rising in pitch in a manner that made her sound more than a little hysterical. "Whatever other difficulties we are facing, surely you must agree we cannot afford to ignore what is going on out at . . ."

"Jedi Bastila," Master Mida interrupted firmly. "The council are giving your report serious consideration. However, you surely understand that they cannot spring into action immediately, purely on your say so."

"Might I know if other Jedi are being sent out to take my place with the taskforce, at the very least?"

Definite annoyance flashed across Master Mida's face. "I'm sure that the Council will do what they determine to be wise. When it is most appropriate."

"But . . ."

"Have you considered the possibility that the information you've received, much of it from the fallen Jedi, Derren Horvath, is a deliberate ruse, to distract the attention of the Order from what is truly important at this time – namely, the matter of our very existence? What could be better for our enemies than to have us distracted by a phantom threat, swallowed unquestioningly by the more credulous among us, chasing after it until we fall into extinction?"

"Master Mida, I am certain this is far more than simply a phantom threat. There is compelling evidence . . ."

"Jedi Bastila, please." Master Mida held up a hand to stop her.

So in other words, that would be a no. No one was being sent to replace her. Bastila felt numb. If she had tried to imagine the worst possible turn that this conversation could have taken beforehand, she wasn't sure she would have been able to come up with anything remotely this bad. "Can you at least tell me the reasons for my recall?"

Bastila saw more annoyance in the old woman's face. She was expected to drop everything and jump in unquestioning obedience to the new formed Council's will. After all, she had always done so before. "The Council have need of the skills you possess, Jedi Bastila. And it has also been decided that we erred in assigning you to such an isolated and unsupervised posting so soon after your . . . rehabilitation. An extended period of training and guidance, conducted closely under the Council's supervision, has been decided upon. We have been neglectful in that regard, and for that we must apologise."

They wanted her to try to trace Revan through her bond with him, she thought. Of course they did. The only usefulness she had was that and her Battle Meditation. And Battle Meditation wasn't going to be very helpful to anyone on Coruscant right now.

That was what they had been negotiating with the Senate. The realisation felt colder than the air by far.

Ironically, prior to the events of Dromund Kaas, she knew she would probably have jumped at the chance of 'an extended period of training and guidance' under close and constant supervision to help correct all her myriad flaws and failings. But that, she now recognised, had simply been the urge to curl up into a ball and hide from the universe – to find herself a nice and cosy prison, where she didn't have to address what she'd done in any truly meaningful way.

She inclined her head, swallowing – resolving herself. "I will, of course, obey the new Council's will. At the earliest opportunity available to me."

Master Mida nodded, apparently not immediately noticing the ambiguity left by her words. "You are currently on Hoth, yes? I assume that you have access to a fast courier to bring you along the trade spine? I will let the Council know to expect your arrival within three days."

"No."

Master Mida looked startled.

"My apologies to the council, but I shall be slightly longer than that." She could suddenly feel her heart racing, and she was struggling not to hyperventilate, teetering on the edge of an all out panic attack. To her astonishment though, her voice actually managed to sound calm, steady and authoritative. "Sector Fleet Command is sending an expeditionary force into the Daragba system, consisting of our taskforce and a dozen reinforcing capital ships. We depart within the next 24 hours, and expect to there engage with Darth Malefic's forces – and possibly the would-be Dark Lord himself. As I recollect, I was assigned command of the taskforce by yourself. I'm afraid it would be impossible for me to back out at this stage." The fact that Sector Fleet Command were sending in the expeditionary force due to strenuous representations by herself and Captains Organa and Vance was probably not entirely helpful to her case.

"The Council's orders supersede your prior arrangements, Jedi Bastila. I shouldn't need to remind you of that."

"No. No, you don't." Part of her still couldn't believe she was doing this. "However, I'm also fully aware that the Council could not possibly intend for me to abandon my duties at a juncture where there are so many lives left at stake. If the fleet expeditionary force intend to face Darth Malefic, and more especially the artefact he has acquired, my Battle Meditation is going to be essential. Even with its aid we barely made it through our encounter at Tylace, and without Jedi Zikl's sacrifice we surely would not have done."

"Then I strongly suggest that you persuade Fleet command to postpone their attack. It is an absolute priority . . ."

"Has any more information been uncovered concerning the Flying Kuat and its cargo?" Bastila interrupted firmly, trying to buy herself a moment's thinking space – trying to get her thoughts fully ordered and under control, and stop her heart from seeking to hammer its way through her sternum.

Slightly to her surprise, Master Mida answered the question. "Unfortunately it seems that the records of that vessel's manifests have been lost from the archives."

Bastila blinked. She'd been partially prepared for the news that nothing had been found yet, but not this. The idea of the Jedi archives as a vast and inviolate record of every detail of Jedi history was something that had been ingrained in her since childhood. Information did not simply become lost from the archives. "That doesn't strike you as odd, Master Mida?"

"I dare say that anyone looking back at our activities from forty years hence will, regrettably, find rather more in the way of lost and missing information than a simple ship's manifest." She sighed heavily. "Such is the way of things in times of chaos and war."

Abruptly the elderly Jedi Master's expression hardened again. The holographic image wavered violently once more under the effects of another prolonged gust of wind, her voice crackling. "Master Corva-Dey has made a determination that your presence on Coruscant is crucial to forthcoming events. We are not recalling you trivially, or out of spite."

Bastila took a deep breath. "And I have already said that I will obey the summons. As soon as I am able to." She could feel her hands sweating as they clenched at her side, despite the cold. "The last time we spoke, you asked me whether or not I was truly a Jedi Knight. Well, you were right to question. I wasn't then, quite clearly. Not even remotely so. I'm not claiming to suddenly have become one overnight, but at least now, I want to be one, and have a better understanding of what it truly means. At least now I can see something of the direction I need to take."

She broke off, trying to moisten her throat, which was becoming dryer by the moment, to the point where she feared it would seize up entirely. "You were right too that a Jedi Knight needs to show responsibility, maturity and personal initiative, rather than blind and unthinking obedience. I have to believe Derren Horvath was utterly wrong when he claimed that all the Jedi Order wants is a legion of unthinking drones to serve its will. So I know you understand absolutely why I will be accompanying the Republic fleet to Daragba. Assuming, Force willing, that everything goes well, I should be delayed in returning to Coruscant by no more than a week or two at most."

Master Mida's lips compressed so tightly they all but disappeared.

Before the Jedi Master could find her voice and issue a direct countermanding order, Bastila exhaled and said, "Good day to you, Master Mida, I thank you sincerely for your wisdom and council. May the Force be with you." Then she severed the comm. link.

She felt giddy; terror and elation at what she'd done filling her in equal measure. Her stomach was turning loops, and an inner voice was asking her if she'd gone insane.

A Jedi Knight has duties and responsibilities that override blind and unthinking obedience . . .

The thought trailed off. With sudden cold and crystal clarity, Bastila knew that Revan had once told himself exactly that too. Suddenly she felt acutely sick, and couldn't stop herself shaking.

-s-s-

Kreed could feel her gaze on him from the moment he stepped through the door. Its ferocity was disconcerting, even to a veteran Mandalorian warrior who'd seen more battles, death and bloodshed than he cared to remember.

He hid a grimace; told himself to get a grip.

"Hey blue, how's it going?" He came to a halt in front of Mission's cell. She folded her arms across her chest and ostentatiously turned her back to him, her head tails held absolutely still.

He grunted softly. "Still sulking then? That'll be fifteen days straight. I'm impressed. Little children have a lot of stamina these days."

No reaction. He smiled. "Though someone who's a bit . . . shall we say, quicker of thought, might have concluded that her chosen tactic wasn't working by now. Perhaps you could try screaming until you're sick? I hear that's popular with the spoilt little rich brats. Should persuade Rath to release you in no time. Either that or muzzle you."

He saw a little shiver pass up her spine. Her head tails clenched. Abruptly she whirled on him, hurling a venomous tirade of abuse.

Kreed waited for her to trail off. "Am I supposed to be impressed by your linguistic skills? Or shocked perhaps? Because to be honest, I've heard most of those words before, and they've lost a bit of their novelty value. Still, I'm sure they'd make mummy proud."

For a long time she just looked at him. He looked right back.

"What do you want?" she finally asked.

"Got some news I thought you might want to hear. Or I can just frak off, like you told me to."

"Unless the news is you've all contracted the Iridian plague and are going to die horrible deaths over the next few days, then hey, I think I'll pass."

He chuckled. Her cheeks flushed darker blue – embarrassment and fury. "Like I said, your choice. I thought you might be interested though. It's about your friends, see."

She bit her bottom lip. He could see her interest though. Literally. Through his artificial eye, he could detect abrupt changes in blood flow and the temperature of her skin. "What about them?" She did a good job of keeping her voice neutral, for all her internal reaction.

"Well, I've kind of gotten the impression that you don't one-hundred percent trust me, and might not believe every single word I say. No, don't apologise blue, the hurt's already done. So I thought you might want to read it from the source rather than have me tell you." He held a datapad up against the forcefield that blocked off the cell entrance.

Mission leant forward, peering at it. He saw her swallow, and her head tails quivered ever so slightly. Otherwise, her reaction was commendably controlled. "You could have faked that." He thought he detected an ever so small note of hope in her voice though.

"No, I couldn't have faked it. Ygress probably could have, I suppose. But ask yourself this – why would we bother, blue?"

"Maybe you're thinking you can get me to co-operate with you if I think . . . if I think . . ."

"If you think your friends are not dead," he finished for her.

She stood glaring at him defiantly, hands on hips.

"Look around you, blue. Why d'you think we need your co-operation? You're not going anywhere. We're not going to get lax with you again. Whether you co-operate or not is just a nicety. Let's face facts."

"I saw them . . ."

"You saw them take wounds and fall into holes in the ground." Kreed grimaced. "In retrospect we were stupidly sloppy, and made assumptions that turned out to be incorrect. I mean, it's not as if Wookiees or Cathar have a reputation for being tough, is it? It's not as if Jedi are known for their healing abilities or anything."

Her mouth opened, then clamped shut again.

"Now, I just thought it was something you should know," he continued. "I hoped you might be able to take some peace of mind from it, and just perhaps, you might like to rethink some of the decisions you've made. Like no longer having quite so pressing a need to sacrifice yourself in a futile act of vengeance, for instance. Up to you though really, isn't it?"

He had to hand it to her, she was really holding her reactions in well. Without the artificial eye, there would have been no visible sign of her inner turmoil. "And this is supposed to make what you did better? You tried to kill them. You thought you'd killed them . . ."

"It makes it better, blue, on account of them not being dead. If you don't get yourself stupidly and wastefully killed in the meantime, it means you get to see them again. Now, I was under the impression you had slightly more in the way of brains than the average Gamorrean. Are you that desperate to prove me wrong?"

Mission didn't say anything. Kreed's still human hand came up to rub at his brow. Part of him wondered why he cared.

Rath had received the news of Juhani's and Zaalbar's survival with his usual unflappable calm.

You do realise that this renders the Ebon Hawk useless to us?

Oh, I don't know, Kreed. It's quite a nice vessel, don't you think? Fast certainly. Say what you like about Davik Kang, he knew spaceships.

Just once it would have been nice to see Rath admit that a plan had failed, rather than his smugly superior 'everything has gone according to one of my contingencies, and isn't at all a setback, oh no' attitude. It was getting to the point where he was starting to wonder if Rath was really anything like as clever as he liked to make out, and not simply a master of self-delusion and denial.

Besides, the Hawk became useless about four days after we captured it. It was always something of a long shot really.

Kreed had gritted his teeth and said nothing at that one. I'm going to let Mission know, unless you have any objections.

He'd nodded. You do that.

The casualness had surprised him. As he'd started to walk away, Rath had added: Some more news you might be interested in. Our source and been in touch again. Looks like it's heading for Dreya's Bastion. Which sort of makes sense, if you think about it. We're moving in. Could be our big chance, and bloodlessly too, if we play it right.

Mission's silence continued, her gaze boring coldly into him.

He shook his head in frustration. "Just think about it blue. Think about what's really important to you when it comes down to the bottom line. Now, I've got preparations to make, and I can't be stopping to chat. I'm sure you'll manage to contain your disappointment."

As he turned his back on her and started to walk away, he heard her let out a tightly held breath, and make a soft noise that sounded like a sob.

-s-s-

Carth got lucky. Doubly lucky, in fact. He saw them before they saw him.

He was approaching the Briny Spray Cantina, down in the Neaptide Marina district of Calius saj Leeloo when he spotted the man, just hanging out on the street. A few days ago, he probably wouldn't have given him a second glance, but in a few days, a lot had changed. Now he'd grown wary to the borders of paranoia, and the slightly awkward way the man's jacket hung, indicating the presence of a concealed weapon, virtually screamed out at him.

Consequently, he was able to keep on going, straight past the man, and the entrance of the Briny Spray without breaking stride, and without giving himself away. He could feel his heart thudding, and the crowds of people enjoying the cool, clear evening seemed to occupy a whole other universe from the one he was currently stuck in. As he walked, he spotted two more of them too.

Anders had been compromised.

That was the only conclusion to be drawn. Part of him wondered what the hell he was meant to do now. The remainder concentrated on getting out of there as quickly as he could.

Anders was one of the intelligence officers who'd accompanied Carth to Berchest from the Long and Winding Way. He'd been out on the mainland, in Navilus, investigating one of Jerstyl Daxar's business fronts. When he'd gotten in touch last night, he'd mentioned that he'd discovered something interesting, and they'd agreed to meet up. They'd chosen Calius as the location, because Carth was positive the ports were being watched, and it would be much easier for Anders to get in undetected than for him to get out.

Apparently, that assessment had been overly optimistic.

Turning up a side street leading away from the Marina district, he lost himself in the throngs of people out to enjoy the nightlife by the seashore. Events of the past few days had gone progressively from bad to worse.

Bliss hadn't made it. Given events, he knew that now with a sick certainty. He'd monitored local hospital intakes for any sign of her, but there had been nothing. And there wasn't going to be anything now.

The guilt he felt over that tormented him. There had to have been something more he could have done.

Except rationally, he knew that there wasn't. He'd barely escaped as it was, and it had taken every ounce of strength, skill and agility he possessed. With her injuries slowing them down, all that would have changed was that they would now both be dead. That knowledge did nothing to make him feel better in the slightest, though.

Rationality was not remotely a comfort.

After evading his pursuers, Carth's first action had been to try to get in contact with Chief Tray'deya. Their first meeting, shortly after he'd arrived on Berchest, had taken place at a small, exclusive antiques store that had been set up as a front. Tray'deya had, as far as his neighbours were concerned, been running that business for close on two decades – nothing more than a genteel and slightly eccentric Bothan tradesman.

When he'd shown up there in the early hours of the morning, the shop had not just been shut down, but gone entirely, everything cleared out of it and even the walls freshly repainted. Of Tray'deya and his assistants, there had been no sign.

He'd fled quickly, losing himself in winding crystal streets.

A cramped room in a seedy hotel had allowed him to take the time to alter his appearance as best he could, then grab a few hours of sleep. Jolting from a nightmare in which a dark, terrifying figure tracked him remorselessly, raised voices from the reception area had alerted him to trouble. A muffled blaster shot had sent him scrambling out of the window narrowly ahead of the door to his room being kicked down.

For a while, he'd entertained the notion of going to the Calius authorities. A glimpse of a newscast had persuaded him otherwise, though. The massacre at Jerstyl Daxar's home was being passed off as a tragic accident caused by the explosion of a faulty generator.

Which meant the Calius authorities had at best been bought off, and at worst, were in on the whole thing. Bliss's throwaway comment about him not keeping abreast of local politics came whispering back.

To make matters worse, it had begun to seem as if his nightmare had somehow managed to follow him into the waking world. Crossing a curving bridgeway over the fast flowing icy river that cut Calius saj Leeloo in two, the crowds had thinned out until there was no one in sight in either direction.

An ominous feeling had grown inside him until it blossomed into full-blown fear – big, oppressive, heart-pounding fear, totally out of proportion to anything that was happening externally. He'd been aware of something terrible and malevolent watching him intently, closing on him fast. Rapid footsteps had approached along the bridgeway, the fear growing exponentially by the second as he listened to them, until it precluded sane reactions. He'd wanted to run, but his legs had rooted themselves to the spot. Instead, his hand had clenched around the grip of his blaster inside his jacket. A long shadow had appeared round the corner from behind him, growing rapidly . . . and a group of laughing, drunken teenagers had rounded the bend from the opposite direction, breaking the spell.

When he'd looked back again, the shadow had disappeared, as if it had never existed.

The incident had left him feeling decidedly shaken. Twice more since, similar sensations – although never quite as intense – had crept up on him when he'd found himself alone. Both times had jolted him into leaving the area as quickly as he could.

And now there was Anders.

His second piece of luck came when he walked past her. Yolanda Wintour, supposed former PA of Jerstyl Daxar, or whatever her real name was.

He was already a couple of paces past her before recognition clicked, her face matching up in his mind's eye almost exactly with the one on the datapad he carried in the inside pocket of his jacket.

If it hadn't been for the work Bliss had done on that face, he would never have had a hope of recognising her. Instead of the elegant, exotically made-up and coiffured woman of a few nights ago, there was a hard, spiky looking figure with dark hair cropped within an inch of her skull, wearing red-tinted wraparound shades and the kind of pseudo swoop-gang chic clothing that was apparently popular with Berchestian youth at the moment. Her skin tone was slightly darker than the image on the datapad, but otherwise the cheeks, nose, and even the shape of her lips all matched up just about perfectly.

He managed not to stop immediately in his tracks and give himself away then and there. Instead, he changed direction as unobtrusively as possible, following from a distance. It was fairly straightforward to keep track of her amid the crowds, as she was both above averagely tall, and had a visible implant socket at the back of her neck that he could key on.

His assumption had been that she would have made it off world by now. That she hadn't was . . . interesting, to say the least.

After about fifteen minutes – the crowds thinning out and making his job distinctly more difficult to do surreptitiously – he was thoroughly lost in Calius's mazelike network of narrow, winding streets and alleyways. Then she stopped.

As Carth slowed his stride, she descended a flight of orange crystal steps leading below street level. It looked to be some kind of club from the purple neon sign.

A massively broad human bouncer stopped the woman, and she passed him some kind of token. He then stepped to one side and allowed her to pass.

Carth hung back, sizing the bouncer up. His neck was broader than his shaven skull, and heavily tattooed bare arms were so heavily muscled that it was impossible for him to hold them flat to his side. In terms of bulk, he managed to make even Canderous seem like a sickly and malnourished child.

Sweet Force preserve me . . .

Taking a deep breath, he started down the steps towards the man. The bouncer's eyes – small, dark and pig-like – bored into him as he approached. He moved across to block the door, his massive arms folding across his even more massive chest.

Half way down, Carth stopped – attempted to smile disarmingly. "Nice evening, friend."

Slowly and carefully, making no sudden movements that could be construed as provocative; he opened his jacket and reached into a pocket, pulling out his wallet. The bouncer still hadn't reacted in any visible way. "You'll be wanting to see my . . ."

The wallet slipped from between Carth's fingers, bouncing down the steps to land between the man's legs. "Oops, sorry about that."

Grunting in displeasure the bouncer bent forward to retrieve the fallen wallet. For a moment, his eyes left Carth.

And Carth moved, hurling himself forward down the remaining steps, straight at him.

As the bouncer started to look up, Carth hooked an arm around his broad neck, twisted round, and used all his concentrated weight and momentum to drive the man's head as hard as possible into the orange crystal wall. There was a very audible crunch, followed by a soft exhalation. The bouncer went down with a heavy thud.

He gave no signs of getting up again.

Standing up, Carth retrieved his wallet, sucked in a deep breath, and dusted himself down. He still wasn't quite able to credit that that had worked. Then he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

-s-s-

Dreya's Bastion was a space station. Nothing overly remarkable about that, except for the fact that it was situated in the middle of the Maw Cluster of black holes near the Kessel system and its infamous spice mines.

The Maw Cluster itself was an impossibility, at least in accepted astrophysical terms, and should have collapsed into itself millions – if not billions of years ago. The chances of such a stable configuration of singularities existing in such close proximity had been calculated as being somewhere in the order of several hundreds of trillions to one, but exist it did.

Tamar looked out of the cockpit of the Ajunta's Blade at the curtains of incandescent gas that blazed around them, spiralling in complex orbits and heated by friction as it plunged into the endlessly devouring gullets of the Maw's black holes. The compact ship's radiation monitors clicked steadily in a background accompaniment from the constant bombardment of deadly x-rays. It was an eerily beautiful – and in several respects, quite terrifying – sight, unique in the known galaxy.

He glanced across at Yuthura, whose gaze was fixed firmly ahead. They'd spent the last sixteen hours painstakingly picking their way through the vast and turbulent gravitational tides of the Maw, knowing that any slight navigational error would result in their deaths. It had been exhausting work, the two of them switching roles from pilot to navigator every couple of hours in an effort to keep themselves sharp and concentrated.

With the Force to guide them, they had never truly been in any vast danger, but Tamar's respect for the pilots who regularly made this trip without any Force sensitivity to fall back on had become immense. Leaving aside for the moment that they're likely all smugglers, criminals or pirates.

Finally, Yuthura let out a long exhalation, leaning back in her seat and briefly closing her eyes, one hand coming up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "Made it."

Around the space station itself, the gravitational tides of the nearest black holes cancelled each other out, creating a neutral zone just under a million kilometres across that allowed Dreya's Bastion to exist. For the moment, they were safe – from the black holes at least.

Tamar nodded. The clicking of the radiation monitors subsided slightly, and he thumbed the comm. unit. "Dreya's Bastion, this is the skyrunner Ajunta's Blade, requesting permission to dock."

For a moment, the open channel wailed thinly. Then a response came back. "Greetings, my Lord Revan. It has been a long time since we were last honoured with your presence. A landing pattern to docking bay six has been transmitted. We look forward to your immanent arrival."

Tamar and Yuthura exchanged a look.

"Well, you could choose to take it as a positive sign," she commented dryly. "If Dreya didn't know who you were, it wouldn't say much for his ability to provide the rest of the information we need."

"Right." A faint smile briefly crossed his lips. "Happy thoughts."

"Happy thoughts," Yuthura agreed neutrally, uploading the landing pattern and letting the autopilot take on the bulk of the work of bringing them in to dock.

"Query: master, I presume that I am not to be included in this requirement for 'happy thoughts'?"

The mixture of dismay and contempt in the assassin droid's voice almost drew another smile. "Don't worry yourself HK. You're exempted. I know well enough where your capabilities lie."

"Gratitude: Thank you, master."

T3 warbled something sarcastic that Tamar didn't fully catch, but he thought it was something along the lines of 'barely capable of thoughts of any description'.

"Advisory: I would not sound so smug if I were in your position, you perambulating trash-can. There was a time when the master would have had you melted down and reconfigured as a toaster for your failure. I still fail to see why he does not."

"Beep!"

Tamar had finally managed to persuade Marshall to relinquish Darth Auza's data core, as much by sleight of hand as anything. He'd got him to agree that using the advanced slicing facilities Dreya's Bastion had to offer was not only a good idea, but absolutely necessary, and even his own idea, then made sure that it would be himself and Yuthura making the trip. The argument he'd used was that they were the known crew of the Blade, and any other combination would raise very awkward questions with Dreya, potentially giving away the fact that sections of the Republic military were co-operating with Revan. There had been a few arguments, but not, honestly, as much as he'd feared. He'd half hoped that T3 would manage to slice the thing on the trip over, but the utility droid had eventually been forced to admit that it simply didn't have enough processing power to do the job.

If anything, Marshall had been easier to persuade than Zaalbar. He'd actually had to bring up the life debt – something he'd quietly been trying to persuade the Wookiee had been fulfilled several times over on the Star Forge. And this was simply a venture designed to find information on Mission's whereabouts.

The Ajunta's Blade settled down lightly in the landing bay.

They had the bay to themselves, Tamar noted as he unsnapped his seat restraints, their surroundings dwarfing their small but heavily armed ship. Depending on your outlook, you could take that one of two ways. Either Dreya was being extra considerate of his 'famous' guest's privacy and comfort. Or he was making it much easier to either expose the bay to vacuum or flood it with nerve gas, should the need arise.

To be honest, Tamar suspected a little of both considerations.

A few minutes later the four of them were walking – or in T3's case, rolling – across the silent and near empty bay. There was no sign of any welcoming committee, which surprised Tamar ever so slightly. From the tenor of their initial communication with the station, he'd anticipated a reception of some kind to be waiting for them on their arrival. Perhaps even Dreya himself.

As they approached the bulkhead doors leading into the rest of the station, they were scanned. Dreya's Bastion had a strict policy that no one was allowed beyond its docking bays with any kind of weaponry – a measure designed to help keep the peace between some of the station's less than salubrious clientele – so his and Yuthura's lightsabers had been left back onboard the Blade. Persuading HK to give up all his multifarious armaments had been somewhat akin to trying to take the toys away from a sulky toddler, but even the assassin droid was now unarmed.

The scan stopped. The bulkhead doors remained closed.

There was an intercom panel. It warbled to life. "Apologies, Lord Revan. Yourself and Lady Ban are most welcome. However, we must ask that the assassin droid remain behind with your ship."

Tamar frowned. "HK-47 is a protocol droid, highly skilled in translation and cultural analysis. Your scans will have shown it to be unarmed. You have my assurance it will pose no threat, and its presence will expedite my stay considerably."

"Nevertheless, we must ask that the assassin droid remains behind."

Fine. "And my utility droid?"

"Your utility droid is acceptable."

Tamar drew in a deep breath. "Well, you heard the man HK."

"Really, master. I must protest at this treatment."

He nodded. "Protest noted, HK. Now get back to the ship and wait for us."

"Supplication: master, I am certain I can convince this impertinent meatbag to change his mind, given the opportunity. For instance, breaking every bone in a human's hand is a very eloquent form of persuasion, I have often found."

Tamar patted the droid's shoulder. "I'll bear your suggestion in mind. For the moment though, get back to the ship."

"Exasperation: as you wish, master."

As HK turned back, the bulkhead doors finally slid open in front of them.

-s-s-

Music was provided by a generically mediocre Bith band, while a bored looking Twi'lek woman gyrated perfunctorily to its strains upon a raised stage. The air was heavy with scented smoke, making Carth's eyes sting and tickling the back of his throat uncomfortably.

He spotted Yolanda – the back of her head at least – seated at a table halfway across the common room from him. Seated opposite her was a hard, wiry looking man with steel grey hair. Crowded round an adjacent table was a group consisting of a Trandoshan, a pair of Klatooinians with flat, vaguely dog-like faces, and another pair of humans, dressed in the same design of flightsuit that the man talking to Yolanda wore and, pretty obviously, with him.

The remainder of the club's patrons seemed to be halfway keeping an eye on this grouping. The atmosphere in general was wary and tense. Waiting for something to spark it off, Carth thought grimly, familiar enough with this kind of dive.

Yolanda's companion looked him up and down, but apparently saw nothing there that interested him particularly, quickly returning to his conversation. Thankfully, Yolanda didn't turn around. He suspected that his attempts at disguising himself wouldn't stand up terribly well to her scrutiny.

Making his way to a free booth near them, he sat down and ordered a glass of the wishy-washy local Berchestian ale – which cost at least three times what it normally should have done.

"That wasn't the agreed price." Carth just about managed to catch Yolanda's voice, raised in anger, over the dreary music.

The man shrugged. ". . . situation's changed . . ." was all Carth was able to pick out. Lying on the table between the two of them, he noticed some kind of plasteel box with what looked like a combination lock on it.

". . . can't alter the deal . . ."

His drink arrived, and he missed the next few lines of conversation as he paid the waitress.

". . . nonsense. I'm offering to pay exactly what we agreed."

"Not good enough." The man's voice was flat and emphatic. Carth could see the five assorted heavies listening intently to what was going on, tensed for action.

"No one else will pay you more than I am." Yolanda's response was chilly and precise, audible through a brief lull in the music.

"Now that's where you're wrong." The man smiled nastily. Here goes. Carth felt himself tensing. "We know someone who's willing to pay a lot more, except what he wants is . . ." The music raised in a limp flourish, drowning out the finish of his sentence. The man's hand reached for something lying on the chair next to him, below the level of the table.

A blaster shot discharged.

From the note of it, Carth guessed it was something small, like a holdout. He was somewhat surprised to see that it was the man whose eyes widened in shock. Then he toppled over sideways, out of his seat.

He'd been shot in the gut at point blank range from beneath the table. A couple of beats later and everything erupted.

The five around the nearby table came to their feet in a rush, lunging at Yolanda. One of the humans blundered into a nearby table in his haste, upsetting several drinks and drawing angry shouts of protest. Yolanda was already up and moving, toppling the table she'd been sat at over and sending the empty glasses on top of it flying.

As her would be assailants broke stride, she leapt up onto one of the chairs, using it to launch herself straight at them.

Her heel caught one of the Klatooinians flush in the side of the head.

It went down heavily, and then she was past them. The Trandoshan made a grab at her, but her other foot connected between his legs with a crunch that was audible even over the music. She evaded easily as he doubled up, stumbling and barging into the back of a seated Rodian.

No one else in the club was shy about throwing themselves into the fray. Within seconds, tables were being upturned and there was a churning scrum of bodies thrashing and flailing around in the middle of the floor in a bizarre parody of frenzied dancing. Apparently, this wasn't an altogether unusual occurrence, even allowing for the blaster shot. The band kept on playing, seemingly oblivious to the mayhem, and the Twi'lek kept on gyrating on the stage, every bit as bored and perfunctory as before.

As Carth tried to rise, someone thumped him in the side of the head. His response was instinctive, grabbing his attacker by the back of the head and slamming him face first into the top of the table, before letting him slide, unconscious to the floor. The artistry of barroom brawling was something he wasn't entirely unfamiliar with, dating mainly from his time just out of the fleet academy.

Trying to follow Yolanda, he barged through the heaving mass of bodies, evading clumsy blows swung his way and ducking beneath the flight path of a hurled chair. The companions of the man she'd shot were attempting to do likewise, with varying degrees of success.

A drunken and rather overweight Rodian, reeking of spirits and cabbagy-scented sweat, tried to grapple with him, proving annoyingly persistent. Finally, he managed to deliver a punch to an area where he hazily thought the Rodian's kidneys might be, then twist and throw him as his grip slackened, over his hip and to the floor.

The Trandoshan, meanwhile, had grabbed a man who'd tried to jump him, holding him kicking helplessly above the floor and using him like a battering ram to clear a space around him.

Carth took advantage, elbow connecting with the teeth of someone who tried to grab him, before breaking for the space that had opened up. He caught a glimpse of Yolanda's back as she disappeared through a service door beside the bar, the second Klatooinian in hot pursuit. Two other nondescript looking individuals he hadn't noticed before this point slipped through after them.

From the periphery of his vision, someone aimed a wildly uncontrolled haymaker in his direction. He managed sway out of the way, doubling the man who'd aimed it over with a sharp punch to the gut. Then he was through the main bulk of it, running close behind the Trandoshan, who'd discarded his broken and bleeding battering ram by hurling him almost casually across the bar.

Both music and the sounds of the brawl faded as he sprinted up a flight of dimly lit stairs. More blaster shots rang out – the same holdout as before, but this time answered by heavier weapons returning fire.

Someone cried out. Then a second person. Carth grabbed at his own blaster, almost surprised to find it still in place in the concealed holster he wore beneath his jacket at the small of his back.

He burst out of a swinging doorway into a narrow alleyway running behind the club. The Klatooinian, and the two men he'd seen chasing after Yolanda were all down, either dead or with disabling blaster wounds.

Yolanda herself was just in the process of spinning to face the Trandoshan, who was charging straight at her like a maddened Ronto, mouth open and growling savagely. She managed to get a shot off, but the problem with a holdout against three-hundred odd pounds of extremely angry reptile was that you needed to either hit very particular areas, or hit several times. She had time to do neither.

The impact was crunching, the Trandoshan's bulk more or less burying her as he slammed her back into one of the crystal walls. The blaster went flying from her grasp.

Carth aimed his own weapon at the struggling figures, hesitating briefly. The Trandoshan was growling at her in his own language, too angry to be remotely coherent, shaking her as if she was a rag doll, saliva spraying from his jaws.

If he didn't do something, she was going to be torn apart.

He fired. Once. Twice. Three times. Unerringly into the Trandoshan's back.

Finally, with one last shudder, the Trandoshan lay still, its bulk pinning her to the ground. She was still moving, albeit feebly, struggling to extricate herself.

Carth walked cautiously across, able to smell charred flesh and scales. Yolanda stopped struggling as she noticed his approach, staring up at him, her face bloody.

"Easy, easy. I'm not going to hurt you." Grunting in effort, he hauled the Trandoshan's limp bulk off her. Immediately she started to crawl back from him, up against the wall. He eyes looked wild, possibly concussed.

He leant over her, concern flashing . . .

The wild look faded, her eyes refocusing instantly. The shaking stopped. Before he could react, she grabbed his wrist, wrenching sideways and tearing the blaster from his grasp. Then she punched him hard, in the mouth.

-s-s-

"You should have sent word ahead." Kemo Dreya smiled. It was a chilly expression that didn't touch his eyes as he paced against the panoramic backdrop of the Maw Cluster, illuminated by the brightly glowing Roche lobe of a binary pair of black holes. "We would have been able to direct you through one of our more stable entry lanes – much less fraught than the rather perilous approach you made."

Tamar watched the man carefully from the comfort of the armchair he'd been offered.

Dreya was very tall, very thin, and very pale, dressed all in black. His hunched shoulders and ragged, salt-and-pepper hair gave him the look of a slightly wild scarecrow, or perhaps a mad scientist who was trying hard to give the appearance of sanity, but not quite managing to pull it off.

He was obviously nervous, but then, Tamar, reflected, having the former Darth Revan – and right now the single most wanted individual in the galaxy – show up on your doorstep was probably a rather nerve-wracking experience. Indeed, a lack of nerves on Dreya's part would have been a lot more worrying.

"I didn't want to compromise your neutrality by announcing to the galaxy I was coming here in advance," he said eventually, voice cool. "I trust in your integrity implicitly of course, but I'm afraid others might be more prone to succumbing to temptation."

Dreya gave a strained laugh. It sounded disconcertingly like that of a little girl, and he strangled it back quickly. His gaze flicked across to Yuthura, then back to Tamar again for about the fifth time in the last two minutes. "You know, Revan . . ." he trailed off, blinking uncomfortably. "You don't mind if I call you Revan, do you?"

"I tend to go by Tamar now. But whatever makes you most comfortable."

He smiled greasily. "Tamar. Hmm yes. Doesn't sound quite right somehow, does it? Anyway . . ." He made a dismissive gesture. "Anyway, what I was saying was that when I first saw you over the internal monitors, I actually thought the stories going round might have been correct. That your mind really had been erased, and a new personality implanted by the Jedi. You looked different, you see? Ha! I mean, you look exactly the same, but your body-language and facial set – totally transformed." He folded his hands together, knuckles cracking. "Now I talk to you though . . . that's all just an elaborate act, isn't it?"

Tamar felt a stab of icy cold. If Dreya had been deliberately trying to put him off balance then he could hardly have said anything better to achieve that effect. It was a major effort to keep his expression calm and unruffled.

"Excuse me?" he asked when he was finally sure his voice would sound vaguely composed.

"Yes, yes. That's it exactly." Dreya's excitement was palpable, topping even the nervousness. "Those conversational nuances. That way you have of using silence, more effective than any interrogative." Dreya stopped pacing behind his blacktopped desk. "You can tell me. It's all just an act, isn't it? The real you is still there, underneath the surface. You fooled the Jedi, didn't you? Tricked them good. You're not really gone at all." His smile was broad, convinced of its cleverness.

Tamar's hands gripped the chair arms tightly. He was aware of Yuthura looking at him sidelong, and although her face was expressionless, he could sense her concern.

He drew in a deep, calming breath. "I assure you, Mr. Dreya, that what you originally heard about me is broadly correct. My brain was catastrophically damaged in an ambush by Malak, and my old personality and memories were lost. Rather than simply allowing me to die – as some would say was the sensible option – the Jedi Order constructed a new personality for me. I have no more than a few extremely fleeting flashes from before that time. Everything else is completely gone."

Isn't it?

Dreya finally sat himself down again, nodding slowly. "Of course. Of course. I'll happily go along with whatever front you wish to present." His tone was conspiratorial, just short of winking knowingly.

The sudden urge to reach across the desk, grab Dreya by the lapels, and shake him was strong. Tamar suppressed it. In the end, what real difference did it make? He was Revan. He bore responsibility for all that Revan had done. Whether he remembered it or not was just a nicety, and what others believed him to be shouldn't matter.

But somehow, it did.

"So, how am I able to be of service to you this time, then?"

Kemo Dreya was an information broker, perhaps the most renowned in that profession in the galaxy. Over nearly three decades, he'd built a reputation as the best in the business, dealing with any party who paid for his services with total even-handedness and confidentiality. Practically, his clientele tended towards the more criminal end of the spectrum, particularly organisations such as the Exchange, but as long as a person abided by his rules, they wouldn't be turned away from his isolated and impregnable fortress.

Not even former Dark Lords of the Sith.

"We've done business before, I take it?"

Dreya nodded. "Oh yes. Three separate occasions, I believe." Once again, his gaze went briefly to Yuthura. He seemed fascinated. "Despite what some say about you, I always found you to be one of my more polite and civilised clients, with a true appreciation of the value of knowledge and information rivalling even my own." He smiled, an uncle speaking fondly of a favoured nephew.

Tamar got the impression that, in Dreya's eyes, being polite and civilised, and having an appreciation for the value of knowledge and information more than excused persecuting a galactic war that had cost billions of lives. "Interesting. Out of curiosity, what exactly did I purchase from you on these last visits?"

"Come now, Revan. You know very well that I would never break confidentiality and divulge that information."

"Not even to the same person who purchased that information in the first place?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Hmm, you raise an interesting question. If, as you insist, your old memories and personality are gone, then can you really claim to be the same person as you were before? If we are not the product of our experiences, what can we truly claim to be?" He smiled thinly. "No, in the circumstances I feel I must be silent."

Trying to draw a confession again. Tamar was aware that Yuthura was looking at him closely, and decided to let the matter drop. It was not, he reminded himself, what they were there for. "I can accept that. What I would really like right now, is to rent the use the use of your slicing facilities."

Dreya looked slightly surprised, and wasn't entirely successful in covering it.

"In my current circumstances, I no longer have access to such facilities of my own."

He nodded quickly. "Of course. That can be arranged. You understand the price? That a copy of any sliced information be filed in our libraries, in addition to the monetary fees."

"I understand."

Another smile, nervousness surfacing again. "Then I do not see there is a problem."

"If you could have my utility droid directed to the facilities, it will take care of the matter." Tamar gestured towards T3.

T3 beeped an affirmative.

Dreya nodded again, distractedly. "That will be arranged."

Yuthura leant forward placing a datapad down on the desk between them and drawing his gaze. "There is another matter." Her voice of was as smooth as oiled satin, shiveringly seductive. Apparently she'd noticed his interest, and was fully prepared to play to it.

"Indeed?" Tamar thought Dreya looked pleased. He smiled at Yuthura in an entirely different manner to his previous smiles.

"We wish to trace a particular group of mercenaries," she continued, returning his smile with apparent warmth. "On here are descriptions and photo-fits of several different members of the group, plus what tactical and equipment analyses we have. I trust this will be enough for you to work with?"

Dreya picked the datapad up, scanning its contents. "I believe so. It may take a while – there are quite a number of such groups in the galaxy, after all. However, I am entirely confident I can attain a . . . positive outcome for you, Lady Ban." He was staring at her a little more intently than was perhaps strictly necessary. "Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"

His visible disappointment when Tamar answered instead of her was almost comical. "I also wish to purchase full intelligence profiles on a couple of individuals." He ticked the names off on his fingers. "Firstly Morrigance Fel, the former head of my intelligence operations when I was Dark Lord of the Sith. I assume you and she have met? As an intellectual exercise, pretend she isn't dead, and see where that leads you. Secondly there is Elleste Strine, originally of Ord Radama, who I believe graduated from the Sith academy on Korriban two years ago."

Dreya finished noting this down. Tamar could almost see the man's thoughts working, trying to work out which out of all that was truly what he wanted, and which was nothing more than smokescreen. "And nothing more? In that case we come to the matter of payment."

Yuthura pushed another datapad across the desk. "This details a couple of credit lines." Marshall had set them up out of Republic Intelligence black budget funds. "I hope that will be satisfactory?"

After a moment, Dreya nodded. "Most satisfactory." He looked back to Tamar. "Since we're still going with the idea that you have no memories, I just want to be clear that this pays for my work. Not for the results I achieve. If I fail to find any information, or any information that you find useful, you still pay me for my efforts in full. Your old self never had a problem with that arrangement, and I trust you won't either?"

"No problem at all."

"Then I suggest this brings our meeting to a conclusion." He rose to his feet, Tamar rising with him and shaking hands. "Now, I'm sure that you're both tired after your trip. The leisure facilities this station has to offer are fully at your disposal."

The doors behind them opened and one of Dreya's assistants – a rather young looking male Neimoidian – entered to escort them out. Just before the doors to the office could close behind them, Yuthura broke off and turned back.

"One more thing, Master Dreya," Tamar heard her saying. "I understand that you maintain a collection of Sith and Jedi texts? I've heard that it's the single largest of its sort currently held in private hands. I'd be most appreciative if I might be given a tour . . ."

Then the doors slid shut between them.

-s-s-

"Damn it, you've knocked my bloody tooth loose." Carth winced as he probed at it with his tongue. Even that small amount of pressure made it wobble in its socket, the taste of blood hot and coppery.

The look he got back wasn't even unsympathetic. It simply passed straight over him as she strode past, footsteps echoing on the plastocrete floor of the darkened warehouse.

"You really don't want to hit me in the mouth."

They reached the door to a small office at the back of the warehouse. Yolanda went immediately to work on its lock with a security spike. "Was that a threat?"

Carth jolted. It was the first time she'd spoken to him since 'behind you,' at Jerstyl Daxar's mansion four nights ago. Even back in the alleyway, with their guns trained on each other, she hadn't said a word.

Then of course, they'd both noticed the shadowed figure watching them from the end of the alleyway. The same shadow from the bridgeway. The shadow from his nightmare.

They'd been running pretty much ever since.

"No, no. Not a threat. More of a warning, really." A hesitation. "The last woman who hit me in the mouth . . ."

He'd been twenty, back on Telos at a big midsummer communal barbecue. Morgana had been standing directly in front of him, talking to a group of her friends. Drink had been flowing freely, and his own so-called best friend, Arran Tuth, had decided, in his rather inebriated state, that it was a good idea to try grabbing at her backside. Added to the fact that Carth had chosen exactly that moment to start laughing at another friend's joke, and two and two had come to together to make five. A second or so later, he'd been sprawled on the grass, wondering why exactly his jaw hurt so much.

And six months later, they'd been engaged.

". . . let's just say that she suffered a fate more terrible than anything you could possibly imagine."

The lights came on, making Carth blink against the sudden brightness. "If that was supposed to be scary, you should know that I've trodden in scarier things than you."

He just shook his head and sighed wearily. As she had her back to him, she didn't notice though.

She moved across the small, untidy office quickly, leaning over a desk and hitting a bright red panel that was labelled, 'Fire Alarm'. Carth opened his mouth to protest, but no alarm went off.

"Get out of here, Republic," she said heavily, still not looking at him. She turned toward a large plasteel safe and began entering a combination in the front panel.

"Republic . . . ?"

It was her turn to sigh, exasperated. "Look, you're obviously not Sith or Exchange from the way you act. I thought you might be local intelligence for a little while, but your accent is what? Corellian? And you certainly don't know the streets well enough. So yeah, Republic. Recently transferred from another branch of the military, right? Looks like their training's got a bit lax recently, but given the war and the personnel shortages I guess you can't blame them for making compromises." The safe clicked open as the combination was accepted.

"Whatever you say, lady." The ease with which she'd pinned him down was rather eye opening. He obviously hadn't improved much from Bliss's initial assessment of his abilities. The fact that she'd apparently bought the Corellian accent as genuine wasn't really a huge consolation.

"What I say is get the hell out of here. Really. You're getting caught up in something far beyond your capabilities, and you're going to end up dead. Quite probably before the night is over. Use your brain for just a second, if you can possibly manage that."

"Look, lady. I just . . ." Carth started, indignant.

"Saved my life?" She turned to look at him. Her face was hard and angular, striking rather than conventionally pretty. Dark eyes seemed to blaze as they looked at him. She let the left sleeve of her jacket slide down to her elbow, revealing a spring-loaded blade secured there. It looked rusty, and it took Carth a moment to realise that that was dried blood. "I'd already stabbed the Trandoshan when you shot him for me. But thanks anyway. It's the thought that counts."

His jaw tightened. "I'm already caught up in this in a big way."

"Then take the opportunity to get out now, while you can." She turned away again, swinging the safe door open. Over her shoulder, Carth glimpsed enough in the way of weaponry to equip a small army.

"So what, I'll draw him away from you, so you can get away in safety?"

"Well, that would be a bonus," she agreed, her back to him as she sorted through the weaponry, selecting what she wanted. "But I hardly think that's likely, do you? It's me he wants. Not you."

Remembering the bridgeway, Carth wasn't so sure of that at all. He saw her selecting a number of grenades from the safe, then something that looked like a collar, which she weighed up a moment, almost put back, before slipping it into one her jacket's voluminous pockets.

"Where's your partner? Sindra Taran, she was going by, wasn't she? She seemed much more sensible than you."

He said nothing, feeling an uncomfortable tightness to his chest.

She looked round. "He got her, didn't he?" Abruptly she swore. "Maybe you're right after all. Maybe it is you he's tracking."

"What do you know about him?" Suddenly Carth's voice and expression were every bit has hard and grim as hers.

A hesitation, before she shrugged. "He's known as the Catcher. He's a Sith assassin, and an extremely powerful Dark Jedi. You understand what that means? Is it finally penetrating through that thick skull of yours the kind of mess you're getting yourself into here?"

He met her gaze levelly. "I've had one or two encounters with Dark Jedi before. I know exactly what they're capable of."

Her mouth opened, then closed again. The skin around her eyes tightened furiously. "Bantha crap. The last thing either of us can afford right now is fraking machismo bantha crap!"

"They die just the same as everybody else." There was a slightly startling moment when he realised he'd heard Canderous once say exactly the same thing, in an almost exactly the same tone of voice.

Suddenly she'd lifted one of the guns she'd taken – a modern, top of the line Aratech pistol – and pointed it at the centre of his chest. "Get out of here. Now."

He raised his hands, taken aback. Her eyes were absolutely deadly serious. "Easy, lady . . ."

"I said get out." Her expression was unyielding. "You're looking to avenge your dead partner. I can see it in your eyes. Well hell, if you cared about her, I'm sorry for your loss. But I'm not getting caught up in that kind of idiocy. So frak off! Right now."

"Look . . ."

"You don't think I'll shoot? I've shot at least four other morons just like you tonight alone."

He held his ground. "If you were going to shoot me, you'd have done it already."

"Really?" He saw her finger tightening on the trigger, knuckle turning white. Yeah, very clever Carth, let's dare the woman pointing a gun at you to shoot.

Then the lights went out.

-s-s-

The Shadow Dancer settled gently down in docking bay three of Dreya's Bastion, alongside a converted pleasure yacht.

Rath Gannaya's hand came up to stroke idly through his beard. He wasn't quite sure how he felt. He'd expected to be excited; tense; perhaps even afraid, but none of that was really there. Instead, there was no more than a vague anticipation of forthcoming disappointment, and the persistently growing sense that he'd made a mistake somewhere. To call it aggravating was an understatement.

Ahead of him, Theda turned around in the pilot's seat, unstrapping herself. He managed a nod and thin smile for her benefit as their eyes met, but looking at her – and what she represented – just made the doubt more concrete in his mind.

Perhaps Kreed was right. Perhaps he was breaking his own rules.

Rath turned quickly to the comms panel, suppressing a self-directed flash of anger. As he reached across to open a holo-link, there was a warbling note indicating an incoming call. Handy.

On opening the channel, a familiar, but not particularly friendly looking face appeared, hovering in front of him. He forced another smile of broad insincerity. "Kemo, my old friend. How good to see you again. I was just going to give you a call and say hi."

Dreya didn't smile back. In fact, his expression looked distinctly forbidding. "Interesting timing you show with this visit, Rath."

"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow enquiringly. "How so?"

Dreya ignored the question. "Tell me, are you still employing that big Trandoshan. Shakra or something, wasn't it? And the cyborg. Kreed. Mandalorian, I seem to recollect?"

Revan was here then. Not only that, he was looking for them. This time the small flash of excitement – the frissance of adrenaline starting to flow – was most definitely there.

Like Dreya had done previously, Rath ignored the implied questions. "I thought you might like to know that you're playing host to a rather . . . shall we say, interesting guest right now. Assuming that you don't already know this."

"Yes, I was speaking to him about an hour ago. A vastly changed man, in many different respects." Dreya's eyes narrowed, the lines around his mouth exaggerated by his frown.

"One would expect so, given what we've all heard."

"Yet in several absolutely critical aspects, still frighteningly similar to the old incarnation."

Rath just smiled blandly. "Is that a warning, Kemo, or simply a threat?"

Any pretence at civility vanished. "Go away, Rath. Whatever game you two are playing I have no intention of getting caught up in the middle of it."

Rath sighed, feigning hurt and disappointment. "Last time I was here, you said that I would always be welcome."

Dreya snorted, nostrils flaring. "We all say things we regret sometimes, don't we?"

"How about I give you an assurance, Kemo? Neither I, nor any of my associates, will breach, or cause anyone else to breach, your precious peace and neutrality. We will take care of our business and be gone from here at the earliest opportunity. Does that satisfy?"

For several long and drawn out seconds there was silence. Finally, Dreya grunted. "If anyone so much as discharges a blaster by accident during your stay, I'm going to hold you personally responsible, find you in breach, and put out a general contract on your head. Are we clear?"

"Crystal, my dear Kemo. Crystal."

Dreya gave another snort. The holo-link cut off abruptly.

"Always a pleasure," Rath said softly, to no one in particular. A moment or two later, he stood up. Time for action.

-s-s-

"Ysalamari." Yuthura's voice spoke over Tamar's earpiece.

"Pardon?"

"Ysalamari," she repeated, as if reading. "A sessile tree-dwelling species of herbivorous fur-scaled salamander-like creatures, native to the planet Myrkr. Adult specimens typically measure in the region of 60 centimetres in length."

"They sound absolutely adorable," he said dryly.

"Don't they just." She matched his tone almost exactly. "Don't worry, Tamar. I haven't decided I want to buy a pet or anything. It relates to the matter that Juhani raised."

Her period of sudden but temporary disconnection from the Force when the mercenaries had attacked on Taris. It had been discussed between them all at considerable length, and he'd had the nagging certainty that he should know something more than he did on the subject. Unfortunately, no matter how hard he'd tried, he'd not managed to dredge up anything more from his memories than that knowledge he should know more. "You know, if you keep being cryptic like this, I'm going to start suspecting that you've been spending far too much time with Jolee."

He heard laughter, quickly choked off.

On raising the subject of Force disconnection with Jolee, the old man's response had simply been, 'hmm, interesting.' Which could have meant he didn't know anything, but didn't want to admit ignorance. Or that he did know something, and for whatever reason, wasn't going to say. Or then again, it could simply have meant, 'hmm, interesting.' Unfortunately – and infuriatingly – it was impossible to tell.

"Have you heard of vornskr?" she asked him.

He thought about it for a moment. "A species of large, vaguely wolf-like predators with long whip-like tails that secrete a mild form of paralysing venom. And I don't have a text book to read from." He felt his heart suddenly skip a beat. "They hunt using an innate Force sensitivity, and in times past have been used by both Jedi and Sith as guard dogs."

"That's them," she agreed. "Like ysalamari, they're originally a native species of Myrkr. The ysalamari, as it happens, are a natural prey species of the vornskr, and have evolved an interesting form of camouflage as a self-defence mechanism."

"Camouflage?"

"They can, via some mechanism that is not properly understood, create bubbles in the Force. Whilst inside the radius of one of these bubbles a person is effectively blinded to the Force, unable to either sense, or connect to it."

After a moment's considering pause, Tamar let out a low whistle. "Well, well. That is . . . interesting." Inside his head, he was picturing the modified assault droids both Juhani and Zaalbar had both described, and the strange tanks they'd said were built into them.

"Quite."

Interesting, but for another time. "You managed to charm Dreya into giving you access to his collection then?"

There was a tiny pause before Yuthura answered. "Well, no actually."

"Ah?"

"No on the charm part." He almost thought that she sounded slightly embarrassed. "Apparently Mr. Dreya's interest in me was entirely of an . . . intellectual nature."

"Intellectual?" A note of puzzlement crept in.

He heard her sigh. "If you must know Tamar, he wanted to make a scan of my tattoos."

"Your tattoos?" The puzzlement wasn't lessening.

"I'm getting some kind of strange echo on the line, Tamar." Exasperation had crept into her voice. "Apparently Kemo Dreya is extremely interested in all aspects of Sith and Jedi culture. Not just the written lore."

"So you let him scan your tattoos?"

Another tiny pause. Very definite embarrassment, he decided. "I thought it was a small enough price to pay, considering."

A moment later another thought occurred. "Did you, er, let him scan all of them? Because you do have rather a lot. And, erm, some of them are located in . . ." he trailed off and let out a breath. "No, I probably don't want to know the answer to that, do I?"

"Probably not, Tamar."

"Well, um, well done," he said lamely.

"Can we drop the subject, do you think?"

"That's probably for the best," he agreed. At that precise moment, his earpiece beeped, indicating another incoming call. "You want to stay connected and listen in?"

"I'll stay on," she confirmed.

He switched over channels. "Yes?" he asked tersely.

The voice that spoke was unfamiliar; male and cultured with a calm, controlled tone. It certainly wasn't Dreya. "I'm speaking to Jedi Knight Tamar De'Nolo?"

"That's correct," he answered after a brief pause.

"Formerly known as Darth Revan?"

"Who is this?" Not Dreya, and not one of Dreya's employees either. They all, irritatingly, referred to him as either Lord Revan, or simply 'my Lord'. Tamar suddenly felt a sense of strong disquiet. This was not going to be good news.

"That's far less important than what I have to say to you."

"But it is so nice to have a name," he drawled. "Polite, if nothing else."

"And we certainly don't want to start off on the wrong foot simply through being impolite." The voice sounded amused. "My name is Rath Gannaya. I don't particularly anticipate that you've heard of me."

He was certainly correct enough about that part. "Well, Master Gannaya, what can I do for you?" Tamar made no effort to make his voice sound even remotely friendly.

A chuckle. "Please, there's no need to be so formal. Call me Rath."

"Rath then."

"Better. Much better."

Tamar bit back his initial response. Antagonising someone simply for the sake of it was practically never a good move. "As I recall, Rath, you were the one so eager to get to the point just a few seconds ago."

"Indeed I was. I think this is going to work so much more smoothly if I show you what I want rather than try to explain. There are four holo-terminals about fifty metres from your position, through the doors directly in front of you and straight ahead. The nearest of the terminals is, conveniently enough, labelled with the number one. Go to it. Do you understand?"

"I think I might just manage to get my head around your instructions. Complex though they are."

"Good. Then I'll expect to talk you again in about a minute's time. I am glad you're not being unnecessarily difficult or obtuse about this." The comm. link went dead.

He switched immediately back to Yuthura. "You catch that?"

"Every last word." She sounded about as happy as he felt.

"I don't suppose the name Rath Gannaya means anything to you?"

"No." Her reply was short and succinct. "Walk slowly. I'm coming over."

"Wait, Yuthura." There was urgency in his voice.

"I'm listening." He took the absolute neutrality of her words as a less than positive sign.

He started walking, straight ahead through the door that Rath had indicated. "If this is some kind of bounty hunter's ambush I want you outside of it when it springs. Not for your protection. For mine," he hastened. "Find Dreya. See if he knows anything about this Gannaya character." See if he's involved, he thought but didn't say.

"I've run out of interesting tattoos, you know."

Tamar managed to laugh at that. "Do your best. We'll keep this line open."

As he approached the holo-terminal, it began to beep, signalling an incoming call. After a brief hesitation – an evaluation of whether he truly wanted to be drawn into this – he answered.

The colour of the image was faded. The person in the middle of it wasn't looking directly at the holocam, and the image quality was less than perfect. Nevertheless, he recognised the person being shown instantly.

It was Mission.

"This is a live feed from the holding cell of my ship." Rath Gannaya's voice spoke to him over the holographic image. "Do I now have your full attention now?"

-s-s-

Carth listened to the footsteps. The sound of his heartbeat, and his breathing, almost drowned the external noises out. His hands clenched around the grips of his twin blaster pistols, and his eyes strained, trying to pick out any sign of movement in the darkness.

The fear was intense, howling in the basement of his being, a black, overwhelming tide. It was far beyond anything that was rational. The urge to break and run was powerful, and he struggled to hold it in check. Only the tiny part of him that was still controlled and rational enough to recognise that the fear was not wholly internal – was not wholly his – managed to keep him from succumbing to it entirely.

The footsteps stopped.

If he hadn't recognised the import of the quiet snap-hiss – and reacted to it immediately and instinctively by throwing himself flat to the floor – he would have been cut in half by the brilliant red lightsaber blade that sliced straight through the shelf full of packing crates at his side.

In desperation, Carth started scrambling forwards on hands and knees. A fraction later and the lightsaber started to chase after him, guided by the Force. He stumbled to his feet as the lightsaber began to gain, breaking into a sprint. The lightsaber blade cast wildly shifting shadows, its tip slicing through the shelves' supports as it span.

Suddenly there was a wrenching shriek of tortured metal, and the aisle of shelves started collapsing around him, the top halves breaking off and concertinaing over against the next aisle. Packing crates began to fall around him in a thunderous cascade, smashing apart on the plastocrete and spilling their contents.

Carth dodged frantically. Something slammed into his right shoulder, staggering him and sending it instantly numb. Something else smashed apart mere centimetres behind his heels. He flung himself forward, full length . . .

And made it clear, just barely, as the shelves collapsed entirely.

He gasped raggedly, back pressed flat to the warehouse wall as the din faded, swallowing hard. The numbness in his shoulder was blossoming into howling pain.

Everything was motionless. Everything was quiet. He realised then that he'd managed to lose track of the Dark Jedi – the Catcher – entirely. The monstrous, irrational fear started to swell once more.

Someone laughed – a rising cacophony that echoed crazily. "Here kitty-kitties. Don't be shy."

The Catcher, Carth had come to realise over the past interminable minutes of cat and mouse, was quite, quite mad.

Yolanda opened fire, brilliant red blaster fire lighting up the air at precisely the spot from which the laughter and voice had originated. There was nothing there. The Catcher, obviously, had been using some kind of voice throwing trick.

Carth heard footsteps, quick and quiet, moving in the direction Yolanda had fired from. Immediately he rolled one of the grenades he'd grabbed blind from the office safe towards the sound. It was only after he'd already released it that he realised he had no idea what sort it was.

An incendiary.

The flash was dazzling. Before he flinched away, eyes briefly screwing shut against the glare, he caught a brief glimpse of the Catcher, lit up in silhouette. The fallen packing crates and their scattered contents caught fire, the blaze spreading rapidly. When his eyes opened again, the Catcher was rolling on the hard plastocrete ground, struggling to put out the flames that had caught in his robe.

Carth took a pot shot at him but missed narrowly. As he attempted to steady his aim, the edge of a Force wave buffeted him, sending him spinning sideways. Then both the fire alarm and sprinkler systems went off simultaneously.

He was drenched to the skin in seconds.

Through the torrents of water, he caught a brief glimpse of Yolanda sprinting for the exit. The Catcher had made it back to his feet, backlit by fire, his lightsaber igniting red. Carth tried to shoot him again, but the lightsaber intercepted this time, deflecting the blaster bolt aside.

Then he too decided that discretion was the better part of valour, sprinting after Yolanda.

-s-s-

"You're going to go through with the exchange, aren't you?" Yuthura asked quietly.

"I . . . have to." It was difficult to look at her.

She grabbed his jaw, fingers cold and strong, pulling his face around until their eyes met and locked.

"Her life is price I'm not prepared to pay." His voice was soft but emphatic. "Her life, above anything, is something I'm not prepared to gamble with."

Yuthura's expression was tight and hard. Her voice, when she finally spoke again, matched it. "And what is to stop them simply killing you the moment they get their hands on you? You trust Gannaya's word?"

"No. But I do trust his greed. I trust the fact that I'm worth over twice as much to him alive as dead. And if you're willing to go up against a former Dark Lord of the Sith simply for the sake of money, greed is a very strong driving Force indeed."

It was obvious from the look in her eyes that she didn't remotely share that trust.

"I'm not giving up, Yuthura. When Mission is safe, the game changes. But until then we play it by their rules. We do what they say, when they say."

"And do you think Mission would agree to what you're doing? Would she want you to trade your life for hers?"

"Of course she wouldn't!" he snapped, frustration bubbling over. "But she isn't being asked."

Yuthura bared her teeth. "You should have tried to play him for more time. With more time we could have . . ."

"We wouldn't have got more time. Gannaya isn't stupid. He knows that it's in his interests to rush this through as fast as possible."

A furious hissing note escaped her throat. For a moment, he sensed the Force gathering around her, dark and swirling. Then it bled away, all at once. She turned away, stalking across to a viewport that gave a spectacular view of the glowing, fluctuating gasses of the Maw. He suspected she wasn't truly seeing it.

"I need you to help me on this, Yuthura."

"You need me to help package you up and sell you down the river to a bunch of bounty hunters." Her voice was curiously mild, none of her anger reflected in it. "You need my help to do the same thing to you that you refuse to contemplate doing to Mission."

"If you want to look at it that way. But she's a fifteen-year-old girl with her entire life ahead of her. I'm a Dark Lord of the Sith responsible for the deaths of billions. In my place, you would make the same choice. You did make the same choice, very recently." He walked up until he stood directly behind her.

"You bastard," she said finally. "Making me feel again . . . making me feel like this."

He touched her shoulder, able to feel the tension in her. "Like I said, I need your help. I need your help to do this. And afterwards I need your help getting out."

Finally she turned back to face him. He hadn't known what he expected to see, but she was utterly blank. Utterly blank and pale, feelings shuttered away.

"I'm sorry."

Something flickered briefly, and was gone again, too fleeting to interpret. He wanted to say something else; to hear her say something else. But they'd already had nearly ten minutes of the thirty under the deadline they'd been given. Time was ticking

"There is one other, unconnected thing." He held a datapad out to her, businesslike, as cold as he could manage.

She glanced down at it, and took it from him reluctantly.

"I need you to take this back to HK – have him interpret it."

She opened her mouth – protestation at such an irrelevancy – but then glanced down. Scanned it quickly, blinking. Then she nodded.

"Thank you." He started to turn and walk away.

She grabbed his wrist, stopping him. "No. We don't part like this."

They stood face to face, neither saying anything. After a brief pause, he leant forward, kissing her. She kissed back hard, almost ferocious, before breaking off abruptly.

Her face set fixedly, she drew away from him and strode off quickly, without so much as a goodbye.

-s-s-

The narrow footbridge vibrated in time to their pounding footsteps as they ran hard, side by side. Beneath them, the icy cold waters of Calius saj Leeloo's lone river ran fast and straight in its artificial crystal bed.

Carth's breath came in thin, wheezing gasps, his lungs straining and his leg muscles burning with effort. The fear was consuming, his heart hammering so hard it felt like it was in danger of exploding inside his chest. He told himself that it wasn't real, over and over again, until it became a kind of mantra and lost all meaning. Neither body nor mind was willing to believe him.

A shadowy figure loomed in front them, clothed in ragged black, blocking the way. A lightsaber dangled from its hand, unignited.

He tried to put the brakes on, almost sliding over as he staggered to a halt. Next to him, Yolanda made a strangled noise that might have started out as a yelp. Their blasters raised and fired nearly simultaneously.

The figure didn't even flinch, blaster shots passing through it as if it wasn't there.

It wasn't. A moment later, it faded and vanished into thin air, nothing more than a phantom. There was a chuckle, directly behind them, caught up with them in that brief delay.

Carth whirled and fired, but the Catcher's lightsaber was already igniting, sweeping across and intercepting the shot. This time it was deflected straight back at him, catching him in his already injured shoulder. He fell back with a grunt, the pain shattering, his blaster skittering from his grasp as he hit the floor awkwardly.

Before the Catcher could move in and finish him, Yolanda opened fire, both of her blaster pistols blazing. The Dark Jedi managed to intercept the first few shots, lightsaber blade whirling, but then one got through, catching him in the side and making him stagger. It looked for a second or so as if he was going to go down, another blaster shot punching through and clipping his hip.

Then he extended his hand. Carth saw incandescent orange energy jag between it and Yolanda's torso, the afterimage imprinting on his retinas. A muffled cry was dragged from her throat and she staggered forwards, dropping to knees.

A second flash of blazing orange energy. She collapsed face forwards, shoulders heaving, her breath coming in harsh, sawing gasps. The Catcher kicked her fallen guns away, into the river.

Carth forced himself to move, crawling for his own dropped weapon.

The Catcher caught his movement, and stepped over Yolanda, straight towards him. A gesture, and the blaster was whisked away, just as Carth's fingers started to close around it. Then pain filled him, more of the dire orange energy flashing. This time it leapt from the centre of his own chest, straight to the Catcher's hand. With it went all his strength, leaving him barely able to breathe.

Another chuckle. The Catcher stepped forward, seemingly gaining in vigour, completely unaffected by his blaster wounds. He planted a foot against Carth's chest and pushed him down, onto his back.

Standing over him, looking down, a brilliant white grin split his darkly handsome, perplexingly human face. "You are Carth." He spoke the words as if tasting them. "I saw you, in her thoughts. She liked you, even though the two of you had only just met."

Carth glimpsed movement behind the Catcher's shoulder; managed to rein the growing fury in. His mouth moved, as if to say something, but the only sound that emerged from his throat was a thin, breathy gasp.

The Catcher's grin became a frown, and he leant closer. "You want to say something to me? I'm listening."

There was more movement behind the Catcher. Carth's lips worked again, producing no more sound than before.

The Catcher sighed, seeming almost frustrated. "Try not to fear. The crossing comes as a relief, no matter how hard a person clings on to life. Death is always more painful for those who live on."

A shadow passed across the Catcher's back. Surprise flashed across his face – realisation that he'd been tricked – and he started to turn . . .

Yolanda snapped the collar from her pocket around the Catcher's neck, switching it on just as Force lightning cracked from him to her. It struck her in the chest, hurling her back against the railings, where she crumpled soundlessly and lay still.

The Catcher reeled, lightsaber falling from his grasp as his hands clawed at his throat. The collar was a disruption collar, cutting off brain from body. He stumbled clumsily sideways.

Carth kicked out hard with both feet, arching his back and connecting squarely with his chest. The Catcher overbalanced, colliding with, and then plunging silently over, the railings. A second or so later there was an insignificant sounding splash.

After a time – seconds rather than minutes – Carth groaned and hauled himself to his feet. He staggered over to where Yolanda had fallen, dropping to his knees beside her. Groggily he groped for her wrist. Fear spiked as he felt nothing. He shifted his grip, trying slightly further up her arm.

There was something, very faint. A pulse.

Weak, but definitely there.

-s-s-

Something moved, swift and stealthy in the otherwise total stillness of docking bay six.

In the soft glow from the bay's dimmed lights, its polished surface gleamed – the dull red colour of dried blood. As it reached the door to a maintenance airlock, the figure stopped, bending over, and carefully removed a wall panel at around waist height.

Quickly and efficiently HK-47 rewired the circuitry connecting the airlock doors to the station's monitoring system, so that when the airlock was operated, it would no longer cause a warning to be displayed in station control. Once the rewiring was completed to the assassin droid's satisfaction, it replaced the wall panel, and operated the airlock's inner doors.

Less than a minute later, HK stepped outside, into hard vacuum and the radiation of the Maw, commencing the long walk round towards docking bay three.

-s-s-

The Force vanished for Tamar when he got within six metres of the bulkhead door leading to docking bay three. He had been expecting it. Indeed, he had been trying to prepare himself for it mentally for the past few minutes. It still came as a shock though.

It made him break stride, the sense of disorientation intense. Even wearing a disrupter collar, or in a stasis cell, you were still dimly aware of the Force around you, even if you couldn't quite manage to reach it. Here there was nothing. It was as if one of his senses had been abruptly cut off, and he suddenly felt almost insanely vulnerable and exposed. Utterly alone.

It was easy to see why Juhani had been so badly affected by it.

He reminded himself that there was a time, and not so long ago, when he had simply been Tamar De'Nolo, soldier, with absolutely no conception of the force, let alone that he might be able to touch it. It helped, slightly. With a deep breath, he continued forward. The bulkhead doors slid open in front of him.

They were waiting for him.

"You must be Rath Gannaya," he said to the neatly attired, bearded figure a step or two in front of the others. Flanking him was a huge looking Trandoshan and a pair of extremely hard looking human mercenaries. Amid these others, Gannaya looked out of place – too refined and civilised by far.

Tamar particularly noted the cylindrical metal tank that was floating on top of a repulsor trolley a few paces behind them.

Rath smiled. It was a politician's smile, and didn't reach his eyes – which were looking him up and down in apparent fascination. "And you're Tamar De'Nolo. Darth Revan. Nice to finally meet you. I'm so glad we could be civilised about all this."

Tamar nodded towards the tank. "I take it that's the ysalamari? Interesting species."

A flicker showed in Rath's eyes – disquiet maybe – but it was quickly covered over. "You know ysalamari then?" His tone was bland.

"Well, not socially."

A dry chuckle. "You're not quite what I expected, even from our earlier conversation. Shall we get down to business?"

"As soon as I get confirmation from Yuthura about Mission." He touched his earpiece. "Yuthura?"

-s-s-

Yuthura stood motionless; feet planted apart, arms folded behind her back, in the middle of the arboretum on the top level of Dreya's Bastion. A transparisteel dome covered a relatively small, but lush garden, bathed in the light given off by the Maw. T3 was completely still and quiet beside her.

She watched the numbers above the turbolift doors ten metres in front of her, shifting rapidly.

The numbers stopped. The lift door slid open with a soft whisper, and three figures stepped out, onto the gravel path in front of her.

On the right was a cyborg. He matched the description that Zaalbar had given for one of the mercs involved in the Taris attack. Yuthura noticed that it looked like he had several bits of the cybernetic portion of his body missing. Locations where there had once been weaponry, she presumed, removed to comply with Dreya's regulations. Kreed, was the name they'd been given.

On the left was a tall and extremely beautiful Zeltron woman with long, dark hair.

It was the smaller figure walking between them that her attention fixed on though. A pretty and extremely defiant looking female Twi'lek in her mid-teens. She looked healthy, if not in good temper.

T3, after finishing scanning her, gave an affirmative beep.

"Yuthura?" Tamar's voice crackled in her ear.

For a moment, she didn't answer. If she embraced the inner darkness – struck down the cyborg and the Zeltron with the power she could call – there would be no need for the trade to go ahead . . ..

But no. She exhaled, letting go of the temptation – you could always let it go – and finally found her voice. "She's here."

-s-s-

The snow speeder garages of the Republic base on Hoth were cold and dingy. They'd been badly damaged – first when the Sith initially took the base from the Republic garrison, and then again a couple of days ago, when Republic forces drove out the token occupying force the Sith had left behind. A portable forcefield generator had been used to close off a huge gap blown in the front wall, and through it, the night sky could be glimpsed. For the first time in days, the hurricane force blizzard had died back, and the weather outside was reasonably clear.

Bastila spotted Canderous, backlit by the light of the fire he'd made on the stained and pitted plastocrete floor. He'd been out hunting earlier, despite conditions that could kill a person in minutes if the heating elements of their environment suit were to fail.

From the look of things, he'd caught himself an ice wompa, its dirty white hide hanging up, in the process of being cured.

At the sound of her approaching, he turned around. After looking at her face for a moment, he grunted. "Your puppy die, princess?"

She snorted, moving nearer to the fire. Her breath left little curls of steam on the air. "No. I've been recalled."

"Eh?"

"To Coruscant." She told him quickly and concisely about her earlier conversation with Master Mida.

When she'd finished he just made another vague, grunting sound. "Idiots. Still, sounds like you're learning how to be a proper Jedi."

Bastila's brows furrowed together. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"'As soon as I am able to'. Nice amount of ambiguity there. Gives you a good degree of leeway." He leant forward, lighting an object she couldn't quite make out in the fire. "The Jedi always were the best liars in the galaxy. Absolute masters of deception, able to tie the truth in knots without ever muttering a word that isn't – from one twisted perspective or another – completely factual. 'Course, most of the time the people they're lying to are themselves. But still, credit where credit's due."

As he straightened, Bastila saw the object was a cigar. He drew on it deeply, exhaling smoke. She decided not to let herself be drawn on the obvious attempt at provocation. "They want me to help them track down Revan, I think."

"Well, that's a given." He tilted his head back letting out a long, contented breath. "So, now you're torturing yourself about not jumping immediately to attention like a good little toy soldier. Right?"

"No, actually I'm not." A pause. "I'm sure that, on this one thing, I did make the right choice." She sighed, her gaze drifting to the crackling flames. "I just wish . . . I wish it wasn't a choice I had to make."

He looked at her more closely, frowning. She could tell he was perplexed, her response not falling within the expected parameters.

"The right choice can lead to wrong choices further down the line." She wasn't sure if she was trying to explain to him, or herself.

He laughed abruptly – gravel rasping against broken stone. "You're thinking too much again, princess. Ought to watch that. I hear it does terrible things to a person's complexion."

"Can you ever manage to be serious?"

"I'm always serious. Us Mandalorians aren't noted for our sense of humour." He exhaled another puff of smoke.

This time it tickled at her nostrils, making her flinch and cough. "Do you have to do that? It smells awful."

A contemptuous snort. "You're standing next to the carcass of a butchered wompa, and you're complaining about the smell of my cigar?"

"They do awful things to a person's lungs," she added tartly.

Canderous tapped the side of his neck. "I figure my implant takes care of that. And if it doesn't . . ." A shrug. "Well I never figured on dying of old age anyway. Besides, I only smoke 'em on the most special of occasions."

She looked around at the abandoned, battle-scarred garage. "And this is your idea of a special occasion, is it?"

He turned his gaze away from her, out towards the forcefield-covered gap in the wall, and the endless fields of ice that stretched beyond it. "Now, let's see. I'm alive. Weather's fine. And tomorrow we go to war. Yeah, I think this qualifies as special."

-s-s-

"Yuthura Ban?" Kreed asked.

The Twi'lek gave a single sharp nod.

Interesting looking woman, the Mandalorian reflected as her eyes bored into him. If you were into the deeply scary. "Shall we get this done then?"

Yuthura opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted before she could say anything.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Mission twisted round in his grasp, her voice strident. "You said I was going to be traded back to my friends. She's . . ."

"Quiet, blue. This is the arrangement. Mess it up and Rath'll feed you through the Shadow Dancer's garbage disposal."

"But she's a Sith!" A pause, before Mission amended. "Was a Sith. I don't know. She's not my freaking friend though. Where's Tamar? Where's Zaalbar?"

"Mission, I know this is probably difficult for you," Yuthura started. "But Tamar asked me to do this because Zaalbar and the others aren't here right now. You'll be reunited with them as soon . . ."

"And I should believe you because?"

Kreed let out a loud sigh of exasperation. "Because the alternative to going with her, is coming back with us. And Rath will kill you. You're cleverer than this blue. You don't have to play stupid here."

Thankfully, the utility droid chose that moment to roll forward, beeping.

"Tee?" Mission's attention suddenly snapped away from Yuthura, fixing on the little droid.

"Beep-woo-bop-beep."

"Having problems?" Rath's voice came acerbically over the comm. link in Kreed's ear.

"Just an over-emotional reunion," he responded dryly. "I'm sure now that emotions have calmed down we're all ready to proceed." He looked at Yuthura as he said this.

"Mission?" Yuthura asked quietly.

Mission eventual gave a nod.

Finally.

-s-s-

"Happy?" Rath asked, eyebrow raised.

In response, Tamar simply nodded. He hadn't expected to feel this calm.

A gesture from Rath sent the two humans and the Trandoshan advancing on him. He stood his ground, extending his arms out from his sides, waiting peaceably.

None too gently, his arms were dragged behind his back, manacles snapping shut around his wrists. A second or so later a disruptor collar clicked into place around his throat. One of the humans patted him down, searching for hidden weapons.

"Can I trust you enough to leave that thing turned off?" Rath asked. "It'll be far easier for all of us if you can walk under your own power."

Again, Tamar just nodded.

"Everything's done here, Kreed. Release the girl."

-s-s-

HK-47 reached the maintenance airlock that led into docking bay three.

Exposed to vacuum, the radiation levels coming off the Maw Cluster were fiercely intense, but it would be at least another couple of hours before HK started to take any kind of truly debilitating damage to its circuitry from the exposure. The process of re-wiring the airlock's monitoring system was quickly completed, just as it had been on exiting docking bay six.

Once inside, HK started to make its way stealthily towards the sleek bulk of the Shadow Dancer's hull. The assassin droid was enjoying itself. For once, it had a level of work truly appropriate to its talents.

Ahead of it, back turned, what to human eyes would appear nothing more than a slightly elongated shadow stood sentry duty. HK ghosted soundlessly up behind it, but the Defel's communicator beeped at that precise moment, and it started to walk away, talking softly, never for a moment realising the threat it had just avoided.

HK went back to gliding silently towards the Shadow Dancer.