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.

18. Questionable Judgment

18. Questionable Judgment

Night on Coruscant wasn't remotely dark. The illumination simply came from the city itself rather than from the sky.

An endless vista of artificial lights formed a dazzlingly bright backdrop as Senator Oris Gallavon paced back and forth in front of the windows of his apartment. Briefly, he paused his perambulating, his gaze moving back to the centre of the room and the hologram projected there.

"So, Judge Ikaasa, do you have an answer for me yet?"

The hologram showed a rather aged Caamasi, tall and stately, elegant in formal robes despite the late hour. "I have, Senator, although I suspect it is not the answer that you are looking for from me."

"Oh?" Oris's expression remained neutral, though not without considerable effort.

He felt his wife's touch as a soothing phantom of a caress; heard her whisper in his head as something other than words, reminding him of the need for clarity. The tightness of anger in his chest reluctantly unwound a notch.

Judge Ikaasa's expression was grave, although that hardly constituted a surprise. Grave, solemn, or serene seemed to encompass a Caamasi's normal emotional range.

"I am minded to find that the arguments presented by the late Master Vrook Lamar on behalf of the Jedi Council are substantiated by legal fact, and to let that be an end to the matter." Ikaasa's words were strangely distant and nebulous to the Senator's hearing.

At the quiet but insistent urging of his wife, Oris put the glass he was holding down on a nearby table before his convulsively tightening grip could shatter it. Pressure throbbed behind one of his eyeballs, as if something was trying to force its way out. "You're telling me that you seriously believe that shambolic mess of dissembling, evasion and arse-covering, Judge Ikaasa? Or did I mishear you somehow?"

There was a noticeable pause.

"I suspect from your reaction, Senator, that you heard me perfectly well."

Oris started pacing again, more rapidly than before. The pressure behind his eye was getting worse, and his wife's calming presence seemed to be fading just when he needed it most. "Explain your conclusion."

The Caamasi made a noise that might have been a sigh. Oris looked round at him sharply. "A draft report will be delivered to you first thing in the morning, Senator."

"Nevertheless, I would still like to hear it from you now."

After a marked hesitation, Ikaasa finally inclined his head. He seemed decidedly unhappy. "I will take this on a point by point basis, if I may." He raised a hand, grasping one fingertip and looking rather like a lecturing schoolteacher as he did so. "Firstly – currently waylaid Senate Bills not withstanding – it is absolutely undeniable under both Republic civil and military law, that for the period in question, sole jurisdiction over the matter under discussion belonged the Jedi Council of the time."

Oris glared at him. There was a steady throbbing in his temples, and he could tell already that it was going to be a bad one. The thought terrified part of him. "I think you'll find that the actions of Darth Revan and Malak had a rather wider impact than simply upon the Jedi Order, Judge Ikaasa."

"I am aware of this, Senator." If anything, the Judge's expression managed to look even more grave. "Nevertheless, I must restrict myself to matters of law, and not to emotive responses. And here the law is absolutely clear and unambiguous. Jurisdiction over matters of the Jedi and the Force belongs to the Jedi Council. Not to either the Republic civil or military authorities."

Oris felt his teeth grinding together. His entire skull was pounding now, and he wished profoundly that his wife could be there in person. It was becoming increasingly difficult to think straight on even the most basic issues without her to guide him gently towards the correct path.

It was easy enough to see the correct path now, of course, but he would feel so much stronger and calmer with her at his side. "But if the Jedi Order refuses to use its jurisdiction appropriately in this matter, as is clearly the case here . . ."

"That brings me onto point two, Senator." The Caamasi held up a second finger alongside the first. "According to the detailed submissions made by the aforementioned Master Vrook Lamar, one Xavious Revan was formally tried by a gathering of the Jedi Council, and found guilty of multiple counts of crimes against sentience. It is, as I'm sure you're aware Senator, a fundamental tenet of Republic law that an individual may not be sentenced for the same crime twice."

Oris struggled to keep himself from snarling at the judge. This man we are talking about is a monster. A rabid animal, which needs to be tracked down and destroyed . . .

If the law could not see that, then the law needed altering . . .

When he did speak again, he heard his own voice as if it belonged to a third person. "I believe there are clauses in the legislation you mention. Clauses which state that a trial can only be considered valid if it is heard before an impartial, legally recognised court, and that any sentence resulting from such trial must be fully commensurate and appropriate with regards to existing Republic statutes."

Increasingly, legal subtleties made Oris's head hurt. In fact, pretty much everything made his head hurt. Right now, it was spinning out of control, the brilliant lights of Coruscant's skyline blurring into a single, amorphous glowing blob.

Where are you, Maura? I . . . I need you.

A third finger was raised. Oris struggled to focus on it.

"In this instance, Senator, I am entirely satisfied that all of the relevant provisos have been met. Xavious Revan was found guilty, and a capital sentence was handed down and carried out."

"A capital sentence?" Oris echoed, nearly stupefied.

"Full mind wipe. A measure that still technically exists upon the statute books, even if in practice it is not applied." The tone of the Judge's voice made his distaste clear. "Do I need to add that a mind wipe is regarded under law as being exactly equivalent to the death penalty, and that as a consequence, Xavious Revan no longer exists as a legal entity? The persona of Tamar De'Nolo documented as occupying that particular body is regarded as an entirely different person under current Republic legislation, and therefore cannot be held legally accountable for any actions carried out by the prior personality."

Oris let loose a harsh and barking laugh that was nothing at all to do with humour. "Please tell me you're joking, Judge Ikaasa. Because that has to be the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

From the abrupt stiffening of his posture and flattening of his ears, the Judge definitely wasn't joking. "You asked me for legal advice, Senator. I have given it. There is absolutely no legal basis for charging the man now known as Tamar De'Nolo for the crimes of Xavious Revan. Not in person, and especially not in absentia, as you are seeking. By my assessment, they are legally separate individuals, regardless of any public perception on the matter."

Oris snorted, struggling for composure. "Judge Ikaasa." He paused, swallowing hard to lubricate his throat. "It is common knowledge that Revan suffered brain damage in an assault by his former apprentice. No mind-wipe ever took place, and certainly not as any punishment ordained by the Jedi Council. Do you remotely believe that they would allow such a punishment to be inflicted upon one of their number given their stance on the death penalty? You have been fed a stream of lies and misinformation. No shred of justice has occurred here."

Judge Ikaasa's voice became decidedly chilly. "Senator, I do not deal in matters of common knowledge. I deal in matters of legality and fact."

"And by your own words, you are clearly not in full possession of the facts of this case."

"I assure you, Senator, the events as you describe fit satisfactorily with events as described in the Jedi Council's submissions. It is simply a matter of interpretive semantics, and I am happy that the Jedi Council's interpretation stands up to full legal scrutiny."

"This is utterly ridiculous."

"I am sorry you feel that way, but even in your own words, you acknowledge that Revan incurred catastrophic brain damage. As a consequence, a new personality with new memories was created in his body. Unusual, to be sure, but whether that was done as punishment, or out of some sense of either need or compassion, is to my mind largely irrelevant. Whatever the Jedi Council's motives, even if they are not solely as stated, I would still maintain that Tamar De'Nolo stands squarely as a separate legal entity to Xavious Revan."

"This new persona is simply a convenient fiction, invented by the Jedi Order as a belated sop to gloss over their heinous errors of judgement. Are you truly saying that you are satisfied by what they say?"

"I am as satisfied as I can be, given the lack of available firsthand witnesses." Judge Ikaasa sounded decidedly impatient now, his greying fur bristling visibly. "The Jedi records of the procedure are nothing if not extensive, and have been independently assessed – as my report will cover."

How the hell can you be so blind, you pompous idiot? Oris stopped pacing again. "Let us say that you're correct. Have you even considered the possibility of Revan's old personality re-emerging? What then?"

The Judge continued to look exasperated. "I have spent some time looking into the historical records regarding mind wipes, Senator. I have also sought out much expert advice. And I have yet to find any recorded instance of a mind recovering from the kind of damage we are talking about in this case. Any failures of this procedure – of which historically, there were many – always left the recipient of the mind wipe in a permanent and irretrievable vegetative state."

The pressure was almost unbearable now. It made Oris want to scream. Dimly he listened to himself speaking, wondering how he even shaped the words. "Pardon me if I am more inclined towards scepticism, Judge Ikaasa. Unlike you, I have seen firsthand the likely consequences if any part of your assessment proves to be incorrect. I don't know about you, but I for one am not willing to gamble with that amount of lives again."

He realised that his breath was coming far too quickly – that he was sweating – and tried to calm himself.

"Senator, I understand your very personal interest in this matter. Honestly I do." The placating tone was maddening. Oris could feel his teeth grinding together again. Every single heartbeat was like a hammer blow pounding into his skull.

"And you have my profoundest sympathies," Ikaasa continued. "But would not the Republic's interests be best served by laying this matter to rest? Those with direct involvement in the bombing of Telos are now dead, and those with overarching responsibility are, legally speaking, also dead. Would we not all be better served by seeking to draw the poison from the situation rather than further inflaming it?"

"Not while that thing still walks and breathes." The words came before Oris realised what he was saying. He saw Ikaasa flinch.

"I am sorry Senator, but I truly think we should end this conversation. Emotions are becoming rather fraught, and it isn't doing either of us any favours."

Fraught, you bastard? Fraught? He felt the phantom caress of Maura's hand again then, briefly easing the pressure in his skull. For once, he didn't allow it to totally soothe him though, concentrating on maintaining his rage. The rage was right; necessary. "I wonder what the judiciary is coming to. All I have heard from you is a string of legal niceties, with nary a mention of justice. If the law does not serve the will of the people it is designed to protect, then what is it truly worth?"

That bit home. Oris almost smiled to see the Judge's discomfort.

"The law is not simply a tool you can manipulate to gain the outcome you desire, Senator. And justice and . . . retribution are not to be confused for the same thing."

Oris's retort died as he heard Maura's voice again – felt her presence, close to him. There is more than one way to skin a Cannock, my love.

Yes. Yes.

He coughed; cleared his throat. "So you say there is no legal basis for trying Tamar De'Nolo for his crimes as Revan. Perhaps, you are correct. Perhaps there isn't." His tone there made his own thoughts very clear though. "But there remains ample basis for trying him on the basis of the crimes he most definitely has committed in his . . . current guise."

It tasted like ashes to give way even that much. Maura's feather-light caress stroked across his brow. It was a struggle to hold back visible shakes.

Judge Ikaasa frowned. "Undeniable. However, I have certain reservations about the conduct of the investigation surrounding the killing of the Jedi Council. In the current climate I am definitely not minded to further provoke things by ordering a trial to in his absence."

"He's a fugitive from justice, damn it . . ."

"As, sadly, are a lot of other people. Usually we try to catch them before moving on to the trial stage. I suggest that you pay more mind to apprehending him, Senator. Or come back to me when he is still a fugitive in six months time, when I might be moved to reconsider the proposal."

Oris almost growled. The pain in his skull was near to blinding now. "Need I remind you, Judge Ikaasa, that you are appointed to your position by the Senate? You can be removed from that position just as easily, and someone more inclined towards cooperation selected in your stead."

The Caamasi's fur flattened. "That is your prerogative, I'm sure Senator. I think you will find my Supreme Court colleagues of like mind, however. Now, I will bid you good night, and hope that next time we speak may be in rather cooler temper."

With that, the hologram vanished.

Abruptly all the strength seemed to depart from Oris Gallavon's body at once. He barely made it as far as the nearest chair before folding up. Distantly he could hear his wife's voice, though the pain in his skull was getting worse and worse rather than better, as it usually did in her presence.

Don't be disheartened, my love. As he closed his eyes, he tired to imagine her smile, gently reassuring. He couldn't manage it though. All he could see was a burned, near fleshless skull. He could feel tears sliding down his cheeks.

We both knew that he was likely to prove . . . uncooperative. I'm sure things will work out for the best. In fact, I'm sure circumstances are arranging themselves even now.

"If . . . if you say so . . . my dearest one." Maura had always been an optimist. The pain was too bad for him to smile.

I do say so. Now, I'm sorry Oris, I know you don't like me doing this, but I must leave you again for a time. I know I can trust you to do what's necessary without me.

"Wait . . . Wait!" Suddenly he was frantic – terrified by the prospect of being alone again. He could feel her dwindling and struggled to rise and pursue her; persuade her to stay with him.

Except his body failed him, and he collapsed weakly onto his hands and knees in the deep-pile carpet.

Her presence dwindled entirely away to nothing.

It was as if she had taken a part of him with her – the only part that was worth anything anymore. Violent shudders wracked him as he cradled his head in his arms, rocking gently back and forth.

The pain and pressure didn't subside though. It didn't relent. In fact, it intensified.

After a time Senator Oris Gallavon began to scream.

-s-s-

"I thought I should get in touch. There are circumstances you need to know about."

The Tukata class fighter-bomber had dropped out of hyperspace after its initial frantic leap to escape Kamari Station. Now it sat somewhere in the middle of the interstellar void, systems powered down to present the minimum possible sensor signature to anything that might have been out there looking for them.

It was probably an unnecessary precaution. Probably.

As she spoke, Yolanda's hands darted rapidly across the control surface in front of her, programming the navicomp with their next destination. Compartmentalising and splitting her thought processes was something that had, over the years, become second nature.

"Speak," the response eventually came, crackling and distorted. There was no hint of emotion in it, but then, there hardly ever was. Not now.

"You asked me to keep an eye on Valden Mayer. Well, like we both thought, his name's not Valden."

"No. It's Carth Onasi."

The movements of Yolanda's fingers faltered almost imperceptibly.

"Your suggestion of running his holo-scan against Republic fleet personnel records paid off," the voice continued. "Appropriate contingencies have been arranged."

Whatever that means. As she continued to type, Yolanda suddenly felt deeply uncomfortable. "Well, that's just by the by. The meat of my news concerns the Catcher. He's on his way to Coruscant. I thought you'd appreciate a heads up."

There was a pause where all Yolanda heard from the other end of the commlink was static.

Then: "Do you have any idea as to why?"

Yolanda found herself hesitating. "If he is to be believed, he's looking for Onasi's son." As she spoke the words, it felt curiously like an act of betrayal.

"Dustil."

Something about the tone of the voice caused Yolanda to stop typing altogether, the compartmentalisation process completely breaking down. One of the aforementioned contingencies, at a guess. Briefly, she closed her eyes.

She should never have allowed Kamari to happen. It was just more complication, when there was complication enough to begin with. Grimacing, she shook her head. "I have a recording of the message that the Catcher sent to Carth. At the moment Carth's still unconscious and hasn't heard it." Her voice remained carefully neutral.

"Play it for me, please."

Yolanda did so. It was a struggle to maintain any hint of calm and composure as that creepily mellifluous voice repeated its all too familiar words. This time, she had the uncomfortable feeling that there was an undertone of mocking laughter there, and that somehow the laughter was directed specifically at her.

Idiot.

The recording finished. After a moment, the voice asked, "Who is this Dr Ellas mentioned?"

"A former Jedi, grown disillusioned with the Order, I believe. Somewhat dead now, I'd imagine." The cold cynicism in Yolanda's voice didn't match up to her inner landscape in the slightest. She found herself suddenly gritting her teeth together, almost snarling. She was getting too involved.

"'Somewhat', being a particular apposite choice of phrasing in this case," the voice noted.

"What would you like me to do with the message? Delete it?"

The sense that she was betraying him was back. Inwardly, she told herself to get a grip. This was her job. This was where her loyalties had always lain. Nothing had suddenly changed.

"No. Let him hear it." Again, there was a short delay. "Bring him to Coruscant."

The word 'bring' being entirely redundant there, Yolanda thought as her lips twisted in sardonic bitterness. Short of shooting Carth, there was likely going to be no way of her stopping him from that course once he heard the message, even if she'd wanted to.

"Try to intercept the Catcher and keep him occupied," the voice said, almost as if it wasn't asking her to do the equivalent of turning back the tide. "The timing of this is . . . unfortunate. It will be several days at least before I can intervene in person. I'll make available what resources I can in the meantime and alert the network to your needs."

Just fraking great. She could feel her nails digging into the palm of her hand as her fist clenched tight. The whole idea of voluntarily putting herself in that freak's line of fire again . . .. Suddenly a career change was looking a more and more appealing option. "Acknowledged."

"Was there anything else?"

"No, that's all of it." Yolanda found herself almost laughing as she said this, though any humour in it would have been venomously tainted.

"Then you have my thanks, and I wish you luck. I'll be in touch." With that, the commlink went dead.

Yolanda sat back and sighed, and tried to arrange the details of the conversation she'd just had inside her head – pick out any hidden meanings and subtleties she might have missed the first time through.

She gave up quickly.

Strange really. They'd known each other for more than fifteen years now, since her early days on Nar Shaddaa, when both of them had worked together for Drevon Rae. They'd even been close friends once, until Rae had finally and inevitably managed to get himself killed. Yet for all that, it seemed like she now knew her less well than she ever had.

Perhaps it really was time for a career change.

Yolanda shook the thought away, and went back to plotting the pattern of their hyperspace leaps. First, she had to concentrate on seeing this through to its end.

-s-s-

Zaalbar caught the guard a moment before his unconscious, armour-plated form could clatter to the floor. Scooping him up as casually as if he was a child's discarded doll, the Wookiee slung the limp Nikto easily over one immensely broad shoulder.

"Over here, Zee," Mission hissed back at him from a nearby doorway. She cast a semi-frantic glance down the length of the corridor. The security cameras would be coming back on line any second . . . "Hurry!"

Yellow lights flickered as the power supply fluctuated. It was something that happened roughly every half a minute or so – each time the randomly nested security circuits switched over to a new pattern, she knew. The surrounding matt-black durasteel appeared to absorb the illumination entirely and there was a profoundly claustrophobic sense of millions of tons of ultra dense metal pressing in from every side. Even she could feel it.

C'mon, c'mon . . .

The door closed behind Zaalbar's back with a mechanical murmur. He dumped the Nikto's body in the corner.

Less than half a second to spare. Far too close.

"Damn it, Zee. This is supposed to be a stealth mission." Mission didn't manage to keep the frustration out of her voice, her arms folding tightly across her chest. Dangling free, her lekku curled distractedly. She could feel her heart thumping against her ribcage.

The Wookiee made a quietly mournful noise. "What else would you have had me do, little one?"

She felt so distracted and on edge that, for once, she allowed 'little one' to pass unprotested. "I don't know Zee. I just . . ." She trailed off with a shake of her head.

I just don't want to screw this up, y'know. Not after all the trust Tamar had put in her.

"This place is not for me," Zaalbar was murmuring as he set about securing the unconscious Nikto. It was directed as much at himself as anyone, Mission recognised from the tone. "I do not fit these tight metal confines. I feel them squashing in on me all the time." Something that was perhaps a sigh, either of longing or regret. "It has been too long since I felt the wind in my fur. Too long since I felt the rains . . ."

"You're telling me," Mission muttered. In an enclosed space like this one, he was definitely getting rather on the ripe side. "Hold in there, big guy."

Her attention shifted swiftly to T3. The utility droid had already interfaced with the computer terminal built into the far wall and was busily whirring away.

"How we doing?" she asked. It was a struggle to keep the edginess out of her voice.

"Woo-wee-bop," came the rapidly beeped response.

That, at least, was moderately encouraging. The codes that Tamar and Yuthura had retrieved from Darth Auza's data-core still worked. If they hadn't, the game would have been up before they'd even started. "Yeah, well. Keep me up to date, Tee."

Even as the words came out, she was wincing at the tone of her own voice. Far too stressed. Far too strident. Damn girl, keep this up and you're going to be sounding like Bastila before you know it. Middle-aged by the time you're twenty . . .

Her lekku flexed and twitched with the pent-up nervous tension. That was the thing you tended to forget, cooped up for days on end on a spaceship and slowly going insane with boredom. The fun stuff tended to seem that bit more fun retrospectively. After the fact, you tended to gloss over the tense, stressful and downright scary bits.

And being in charge was turning out to be a lot less appealing than it looked from the outside . . .

Pushing those distracting thoughts away, she touched her earpiece, activating her commlink. "Hey there, gramps. Thought you'd like to know. We're in."

"About time," a familiar voice grumbled in response.

There was a brief pause, before Jolee belatedly added: "Gramps? When this is over, you and I are going to have words, girly."

Mission smirked. "Hey, whatever. Gramps."

T3 beeped at her impatiently.

"Erm, anyway, you and Tammy might like to kind of hurry things along a bit at your end. Zee had to take out a guard, which means we've got, say, 'bout half an hour tops before they're onto us."

"Noted. Gramps out."

"Woooo . . ."

Uh-oh. The low note T3 let out sounded decidedly ominous. Mission felt something inside her lurch abruptly, then plummet. "What is it, Tee?"

"Woo-beep-woo . . ."

Her returning sense of optimism had just died, stone dead. She hurried across to the utility droid's side, peering at the terminal screen intently.

"Beep-beep-beep!"

It amounted to the equivalent of droid machine code swearing. Mission could feel all of her stomachs turning slow, simultaneous loops. "Here. Let me take a look." Her fingers blurred across the keyboard in front of her.

"Damn. Damn. Damn." She barely heard herself as her eyes flicked across the information displayed in front of her, ignoring Zaalbar's growled query. "Nerfing, nerfing frak."

No matter how many ways she tried to get round it though, she kept running against the same inescapable barrier. There was another security level, below the ones T3 had initially bypassed with the codes.

Unfortunately, the information extracted from the data-core made no mention of this whatsoever. Which presented them with a problem.

"Beep!"

"Yes. Yes, I know you told all me that already," she muttered. Her vision seemed to be doing strange things, and there was a highly unpleasant crawling, skittering sensation inside her. "Frak it!" It was a struggle to keep from lashing out and kicking the console in front of her in sheer frustration.

"Mission? What's happening?"

"Okay, okay. Deep breath. Let's try to stay calm here, everyone." Mission lifted her hands away from the console and tried to breathe normally. "Tee, can you bypass it?"

"Bee-beep-woo."

A breath hissed between her teeth. "I could brute-force it Tee. That wasn't what I meant." She bit down on the rising frustration, struggling to think of something. Anything.

The problem was, this whole ship was effectively a high-security vault. By its very nature, it was wrapped in layer upon layer of interconnected protective systems. And as soon as they attempted to brute-force slice their way in, audit logs would trigger enough telltales to light up a Coruscant skyscraper.

Then they'd all be right in the poodoo. "There's got to be something."

"Woo-wee-wop."

"Hah! Wiseass tin can. This isn't funny, you know that?"

"Mission, if there's a problem and we need to tell the others to abort . . ."

Abort. Fail.

Damn it.

"No, no. I just thought of something." There was a jittery, almost light-headed sense of excitement as something occurred to her. Her fingers were suddenly darting across the keyboard again, moving almost too quickly to see. Please, please, please. The information on the screen changed rapidly in response.

Yes! "Tee, go ahead and do the brute-force."

"Woo?"

She bit back on her initial, more snappish response. "The codes still give us access, right? Just not quite to what we want yet. So . . ." Her fingers continued to move at speed. "I'm going to make sure everyone here has so much to occupy themselves for the next half hour or so that they're not going to have chance to pay attention to a few security log warnings."

"Bee-bop-beep." There was a certain amount of not-exactly-veiled scepticism in the droid's response.

"Yeah, but the guard there's going to give us away anyway. It doesn't matter if they find out what happens afterwards. Just so long as none of us are still in the vault when they do."

"Wooo. Wee-beep-woo-beep."

"Hey! What do you mean, 'not too bad for an organic'?"

"Beep."

Before she could make any retort, a voice spoke in her ear, making her jolt violently. It was Tamar. "Hey there, Mission. Jolee says you're in and good to go. Say in twenty seconds? We're about to move on the target."

Mission swore beneath her breath as she mistyped something and had to go back a couple of steps. Panic surged hard inside her again. "Hey, hold onto your headtails there, big guy. What happened to all that Jedi patience stuff, anyway?" The attempted lightness in her tone fell decidedly flat.

There was a brief silence.

"Problem?"

-s-s-

"Problem?" Tamar asked. His voice was almost sub-audible, lips barely moving.

The grand lobby of Eredine Secure Storage's premium vaultship stretched out in front of him in all its harshly angular, militaristically black-durasteeled splendour. Prominently visible, heavy gun-emplacements and sensor pods bristled, swivelling to track anything that moved even a fraction in their vicinity. If it was meant to intimidate, then it did a very good job. If it was meant to assure customers or potential thieves of the facility's impregnable security, it was likewise successful.

It certainly wasn't the sort of place where you wanted to hit any last minute snags.

"Everything's just peachy now." The over bright tone of Mission's voice triggered further alarm bells in his head. "Perfectly under control. We just need about another, say, minute or so . . ." There was what sounded like an interjection from T3 at that point, followed by a hastily muffled curse from Mission. "Erm. Tee says better make that two minutes."

Tamar strangled back the urge to demand to know what was going on and simply said, "Will do. Keep me posted."

Crap. As the communication broke off, he sent a thread of Force ahead of him to Jolee and Yuthura, warning them to slow down.

Inside, the tension wound another notch tighter. He'd known this was a bad idea right from the beginning. The fact that it was entirely his own bad idea, on balance, didn't help much.

This 'vaultship' had once been a Mandalorian destroyer – part of the lightning invasion force that had struck Eres III at the height of the wars. Its wrecked hulk had silently orbited the planet ever since, in death part of an entire graveyard of shattered warships: Mandalorian, Republic and Eres defence force alike.

How anyone had ever come up with the idea of giving those dead vessels a new form of life, Tamar couldn't say. But they had, and now this slowly spinning accumulation of space hulks formed one of the more exclusive secure storage facilities in the known galaxy.

Ahead of him, he saw Yuthura apparently catch her heel in a grate on the floor, reeling sideways until Jolee caught hold of her arm to steady her.

Entirely manufactured of course. Nothing she did unconsciously would ever have been so clumsy or lacking in grace.

His gaze lingered on her briefly. She was dressed up to pass herself off as a Coruscanti mogul's executive secretary, and perhaps his mistress; sleek, elegant, almost fatally sexy. As looks went, it was light years away from anything he'd seen on her before, and it was certainly . . . arresting.

He drew a deep breath. Now was definitely not the time for those kinds of thoughts. The difference in Jolee was even more profound. The old man actually looked distinguished instead of disreputable: steely, silvered, and authoritative. Amazing the difference that an expensive suit, an elegant wroshyr wood walking cane, and a subtle alteration of body language could make.

Pulling his gaze away from them both, Tamar shifted his attention to the reception committee waiting for them at the far end of the lobby. As yet, the curiosity that he sensed on their part didn't seem to have hardened into suspicion. How long that would remain the case, he had no idea.

Yuthura finally freed her heel from the grate and straightened, smoothing down her skirt. He heard her muttering something in rapid-fire Twi'leki, amid which the word 'schutta' was sharply audible, pitched to carry to the other end of the lobby.

As Jolee extended an arm to her, a picture of a perfect refined old billionaire gentleman, Yuthura accepted with a haughty coiling of her headtails. Together, arms interlocked, they started walking smoothly and unhurriedly forward again, between the aisles of gun turrets that swivelled to track them.

Altogether, that had gained maybe an extra thirty seconds.

As he followed in their wake, a grimly silent shadow playing at being bodyguard again, Tamar hid a grimace. Why was it always in situations like this that time seemed to flow about as smoothly as attempting to pour treacle up hill?

As they crossed the lobby's halfway point it was like some kind of prearranged signal was tripped. One of the waiting figures detached themselves from the others and stepped forward. She was a Falleen, slender, golden-scaled and sheathed in immaculate white – slinky and serpentine.

"Mr Harbrom." Her smile of greeting was dazzling, both in its whiteness and its complete insincerity. "Such a pleasure to finally meet you face to face."

Jolee took her proffered hand and bowed low to kiss it. "And you must be Naeva. Even more lovely in the flesh than I had already deduced from hearing your voice. Please, to you I shall always be Erlan."

Tamar struggled to keep his face straight.

"Erlan then." She sounded slightly bemused. Wondering if she'd overdone it with the pheromones, Tamar thought dryly.

"And my delectable associate here," Jolee added smoothly, "is Mintera. Although come to think if it, the two of you have probably met already, when you were first setting this delightful little arrangement of ours up."

Don't overdo it there, old man.

The answering thought was formless, but decidedly rude.

Naeva was looking at Yuthura askance. "I don't believe so . . ."

"I understand that it was Elleste who took care of all the arrangements at this end," Yuthura corrected smoothly.

"Ah yes. Dear Elleste." Jolee manufactured a sigh. "So very sad that." He slowly shook his head.

"Am I to understand that your colleague has . . . passed on? If so, you have my sympathies." Tamar could suddenly sense palpable uncertainty from the Falleen, but there wasn't the kind of reaction to the name that they'd feared.

"Passed on? What? Oh, goodness me no. Did I give that impression?" Jolee's expression was startled. "I am sorry. I merely meant that she has recently moved on to new employment. But we're a close run organisation. Almost like one big family, you might say. Parting ways is never easy."

Naeva tried to steer the conversation back in the direction of current business. Tamar could sense a kind of contemptuous boredom from her, carefully masked behind the façade of polite sincerity. "I understand that you're wanting to make a withdrawal today, Mr . . . Erlan?" She steered him and Yuthura towards the main desk. HK, for once managing to blend into the background and resemble the protocol droid he was supposed to be, followed close at their heels.

"Indeed so, my dear."

"You understand our procedures, Erlan?" Naeva inquired.

"Mission?" Tamar murmured, hanging back. The pair of Echani making up the rest of Erlan Harbrom's supposed bodyguard followed their employer more closely, leaving him to bring up the rear.

"Nearly there. Nearly there. Just another minute," came the response. There was a hissing exhalation, then: "Okay, two at the absolute most."

It was two minutes about two minutes ago. "I don't know how long we can stall here, Mish. If we have to abort we need to know now."

"Hey, we're going as fast as we can, you know." A brief, stifled curse. "Look, we'll get it done. I'll let you know."

The comm. cut off again. Still need to stall, Jolee, he sent. He could feel his heart rate picking up as he tried to gauge their chances if all the surrounding turrets were to open fire.

". . . take a biological sample to confirm you are who say you are. Just a formality, you understand."

Jolee grunted in response to Naeva's words. "Hmph. Minty, dearest, did I provide these people with a biological signature for them to measure against? I certainly don't recall doing so."

"Elleste would have taken care of that when we first rented the storage space," Yuthura explained. Her voice contained just the right mixture of weary indulgence and put upon boredom.

He frowned, looking rather disgruntled by the whole business. "If you say so."

"So, if you'd like to place you thumb on the pad here?" Naeva prompted. "It'll just take a second to confirm."

Not ready yet.

So you keep saying.

Jolee drew back, looking up sharply at Naeva's exquisite golden-scaled face. "There aren't any needles involved in this, are there?" He peered at the Falleen owlishly. "One thing I just won't abide is needles."

"No needles." The Falleen smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "It's just a scan. I assure you, you won't feel a thing."

"That's exactly what my doctor always says," Tamar heard him mutter. He could feel his palms sweating as the tension built. Damn it, Mission, get a move on.

His gaze moved past Naeva to the phalanx of black clad figures lurking behind her, silent and immobile. Very, very capable, was his instantaneous assessment.

But still, those they could probably take care of – should the need arise. It would be more the complete lockdown, which would be initiated within a fraction of a second of an alert being triggered, that caused the problem. That, and the fact the gun turrets could probably lay down enough covering fire to shred an entire legion in seconds flat.

Abruptly, Jolee whirled away from Naeva and jabbed with his walking cane in the general direction of one of the aforementioned turrets. Tamar jolted hard, his heart leaping up into his throat as the turret in question, and its three immediate neighbours, immediately swivelled round to draw a bead on him. Damn it, old man . . .

"These are Aratech, right? They look like Aratech to me."

For a moment, Naeva seemed totally nonplussed by the sudden turn in the conversation. Her expression smoothed over quickly. "I'm sorry, Erlan, but I'm really not at liberty to discuss the details of our security measures . . ."

Jolee made an airy, dismissive gesture. "No, no. That's not what I meant at all, dear. Of course I don't expect you to tell me anything like that. That wouldn't do at all, would it? It's just . . . I've been getting the occasional, well not to sound melodramatic here, but death threat of late. Tedious business, and hence the three lunks standing behind me today. What are their names again, Minty? I know you've told me before, but I keep forgetting. Memory like a sieve these days."

"Gare, Shilom and Ribas," Yuthura supplied.

"Ah, yes, yes." A frown. "Are you sure that's Ribas? I thought Ribas was the big blond one. No? Ah, never mind." His hand came to scratch his chin musingly. "Anyway, sorry, what was I talking about? I'm getting sidetracked here aren't I? Ah yes . . . the deaththreats. Bloody environmentalists . . .. It's all a bit of a drag, but my insurance people do insist I take it seriously, tedious buggers that they are. So, my point is, I'm looking to upgrade the security on my various estates, and I just now had the thought: you people are really the experts here, aren't you? I mean, your whole job is built around having the best security systems money can buy, hmm?"

She's getting suspicious. Tamar could feel it. It was all about to go horribly, horribly wrong, and he didn't even have his lightsaber.

I know she's getting suspicious, Jolee shot back. Now shut up and stop being such a panicky ass.

"I'm afraid that's not really my area." Naeva's voice had turned a touch frosty. "Perhaps I could arrange a meeting with our security chief though. He could go over the major issues you would need to consider."

Jolee smiled at her broadly, seemingly entirely oblivious to the rather ambiguous phrasing of her words. "Oh, could you do that? Thank you. That would be absolutely wonderful. You're an absolute darling. A total star . . ."

"We're in. We're in." Mission's voice suddenly came over Tamar's headset, near hyperactive with excitement and relief.

Okay, Jolee. Go. His own sense of relief right then was near shattering too.

Abruptly, Jolee stopped. "Ack, I'm being a tedious old bore here, aren't I? You're on a schedule, aren't you? You really should tell me when that happens. I won't be offended, you know. I just tend to get a little carried away sometimes." He stepped forward and pressed his thumb down on the scanner.

The Falleen smiled thinly. "That's quite all right, Erlan." Then, after a moment's pause. "Well, everything seems to be in order here. I told you that this was just a formality, didn't I?" She gestured towards one of the black clad men lurking behind her. "Maneras here will show you the way."

-s-s-

Juhani listened to the myriad overlapping flows of burbling water and strove to find calm amidst them all.

Whenever she visited the Jedi Temple on Coruscant – which in truth wasn't often; perhaps four times in a span of ten years – she always took the opportunity to visit the Room of a Thousand Fountains and meditate there for a time. Always before, it had been a place of solace for her – one of the few places where she had ever been able to find tranquillity and centre herself just through being there.

Except . . . not now.

Indeed, as she sat cross-legged on the floor of polished stone, those flowing waters seemed to bring the exact opposite of tranquillity.

Instead of finding peace, the turmoil inside her seemed to become amplified, each flow of water a thread of laughing chaos, pulling her thoughts in another completely contradictory direction. In the midst of it all, images of Quatra's body – laid out on the mortuary slab, icy pale as the sheet was pulled back, save for where the lightsaber burns marred her flesh – span and twisted. The images mingled with the interrogatory voices of the Jedi Council. Hundreds of questions – thousands – bombarding her from every direction. Strident; accusing; demanding – mingling together into one incoherent roaring mass of sound that overwhelmed all her attempts to block it out, until all she wanted was to curl up into a protective ball and plug her ears . . .

Someone moved behind her. Drew her back.

A hand touched her shoulder lightly; its touch calming. "Easy, Juhani. Return to me."

She blinked. The background roaring faded to just the burbling of water again. Her breath was coming raggedly. Patterns of dappled sunlight made her head spin.

The face peering back at her was pale blue, delicate looking, surrounded by a mass of feathery brown down.

"Master Kwex." There was a slight stammer to her voice and she felt her skin heat beneath her fur. She swallowed. To be caught amidst such an obvious loss of control, right at the sacred heart of the Temple . . .

Unfolding herself, she rose hastily to her feet.

The Omwati Jedi Master's expression was grave. To her surprise though, he made no mention of her slip. "I feel that I must apologise to you, Juhani. It would be . . . presumptuous of me to do so on behalf of the entire Council, so I will restrict those apologies to personal ones. But you should not have had to go through that."

Her gaze dropped away from his. "I-I understand the urgency of the situation, and that these are trying times."

He stepped alongside her, small in her shadow. "Nevertheless . . . it was hardly an edifying display on our part, and certainly not something you should have had to endure. Especially at such a time."

He was referring to the four-hour plus interrogation session before the Jedi Council she'd not long emerged from. And interrogation wasn't, she thought, too strong a description of what had taken place. The sheer vehemence and almost accusatory nature of the questioning had been the thing that had left her most shaken, feeling like she had somehow done something terribly, terribly wrong, without quite knowing what.

And then there was the fact that Quatra's murder seemed almost to have been forgotten, everyone far more concerned by the fact that she'd been in contact with Revan . . .. In others, she would have called what she'd seen fear and hysteria, but these were Jedi Masters . . .

". . . my condolences for Master Quatra," Kwex continued. "I understand that the two of you were close."

Juhani inclined her head. "I think that Belaya is taking it harder than I am right now." The grief that she had expected to feel hadn't hit home yet. There was still a sense of almost unreality about it, despite having seen the body with her own eyes. "But thank you."

"She will be missed. She will be missed much more than some of us, I think, have realised yet."

Juhani shot him a sidelong glance, not missing the quiet edge of bitterness in the words. The top of his head barely rose above her shoulder and he looked almost fragile in his plain brown robes. He had been one of the masters who spent considerable time in and around the Dantooine enclave, and although she didn't know him that well, he was a familiar figure to her. He had always seemed a quiet, peaceful man, his soft-spoken serenity touched by a lingering ghost of old melancholy.

After a moment, she drew a breath and began cautiously: "The last time that I spoke to Master Quatra, she claimed that there was a darkness at the heart of our Order. An obscuring darkness that threatened to consume us all, was how she put it. I-I have never before heard her speak in such terms."

Kwex simply nodded. He didn't appear at all surprised. "Some would call her sentiments overly melodramatic, perhaps. But . . . I do not think I would argue with them."

Despite the warmth of the sunlight, Juhani suddenly felt decidedly chilled. "Perhaps I am mistaken, but . . . it does not seem that either her concerns, or her death are being treated . . ." She hesitated over the words, grappling with a quiet and growing anger inside. "As seriously as they might be." A grimace. "My impression is that the Council are currently preoccupied by perceived external threats and not prepared to look beyond them."

She heard Kwex sigh. "Not a wholly inaccurate assessment, much as I wish I could say otherwise."

There was a brief period of silence and Juhani stepped away from him, trailing a hand lightly across the surface of one of the pools, watching the spread of ripples.

Kwex continued quietly: "The new formed Council . . . some feel that they do not adequately represent the full spectrum of viewpoints within the Order, and they are drawn from too narrow a band of experience. There is grave disquiet in certain quarters about the direction in which the Order is being steered, and the potential for disastrous division if matters continue along in this vein . . .." He stopped. "Except that is not really what we are talking about, is it? Just to say that Quatra's murder is being treated with due seriousness in some quarters, and you do not stand alone in this, even if it might feel that way to you now."

Juhani turned and looked at him again, her sense of unease growing. "Quatra was killed using lightsabers." As she spoke, the unease hardened, becoming dangerously close to rage.

"Yes. And from the pattern of her injuries, she faced at least two foes, and was able to put up a fight before she fell. The implications of that . . .. She was a very strong and experienced warrior, with an affinity for the Force that few of us could match. There are few among us who would be capable of killing her that way."

The words shocked her, both in their quiet steeliness and implication. Many considered Kwex to be too timid a man for his rank, Juhani knew. He didn't seem at all timid now though. "You . . . you truly think another Jedi would be capable of murdering a fellow like that, Master?"

He grimaced. His eyes looked sad. "It would not be the first time one of our number has . . . struck down another. But no, a pair working in unison, in such an apparently calculating and premeditated manner . . . that would be unusual."

"Unless of course, it is Sith," Juhani noted quietly.

Kwex nodded. "At least two Sith. In the heart of our temple, amongst us even now. Some would find that a difficult possibility to even entertain."

She would have once. She wasn't sure if she still didn't. "Tamar believes that the old Jedi Council were murdered by a woman by the name of Morrigance Fel. His former spymaster." And lover, she didn't add out loud. "He says she was able to walk into the heart of this Temple, unchallenged, then out again just as easily, having successfully accomplished her goal."

"And too many of us preferred to believe that the old Revan was back than seriously entertain that as a possibility." He sound pained as he said this, to a degree that surprised Juhani for a moment until she remembered, and realised the cause.

"You were Yuthura's master."

He nodded slowly; didn't speak.

"She seemed . . . well the last time I saw her. She's with Tamar and Jo . . . Master Bindo."

A fleeting smile touched the Omwati's pale blue lips. "I heard you say earlier. But thank you. That is . . . reassuring news. It is perhaps wrong to have favourites, but she has always had a special place in my heart."

"I am certain she played no part in . . . in what happened. That neither of them did."

Another silent nod. He moved to sit, perched upon the edge of one of the fountains. To Juhani's eyes, he looked strangely bird-like, in both form and movement. "I think that . . . that your friend got a couple of things wrong, however." Kwex's voice sounded strange and distant as he spoke.

"What's that?"

"About this spymaster of his getting out again. About her getting in alone."

Juhani's heart seemed to skip a beat as his meaning sank in. "A Sith could remain hidden among us for so long?" Not just a Sith, if Tamar was correct. The Dark Lord of the Sith.

She saw his lips purse. "What did you feel when you were trying to meditate, Jedi Juhani?" he asked finally.

She hesitated over her reply, and he carried on as if the question had been rhetorical in any case.

"I do not think the turmoil that you felt originated purely inside you, Juhani. The peace of this place has been disrupted, and all of us have felt the same of late, to some degree or other. Besides, the darkside is not always easy to see, even for those you would think were most adept at spotting it. It does not always take the form of a ravening monster, and it is present in all of us all of the time, in some form or another. Because we are Jedi, we sometimes make the mistake of thinking that it is something separate from us – something other, which we are able to hold at arms length through vigilance and discipline. You, for one, surely know as well as anybody here that it is not."

"We cannot see it because it is always here?" It sounded almost sacrilegious as she voiced it. The sound of the water almost seemed to resemble mocking laughter then.

"We claim there is no place where the light doesn't reach, and no one and nothing is beyond salvation. It would be folly to assume that the opposite isn't just as true. The oracles have been clouded for months now, and you stood before the newly revived Jedi Council. You felt that full force. We have enough darkness and tumult of our own to deal with, I think. A little more, hidden away amongst it all doesn't seem so far fetched."

An instinctive part of her wanted to deny the words and point out the flaws in his logic.

Except . . . she couldn't see the flaws. "And Master Quatra was killed because she . . . she discovered evidence of the Sith amongst us? She was onto something?"

"Look at the timing," he murmured. "So soon after you and Jedi Belaya contacted her."

After a moment, Juhani nodded firmly, reaching a decision. "Can I see Quatra's quarters? Her possessions? Perhaps I . . ."

"Jedi investigators have already been over everything with a fine tooth comb," Kwex told her softly. "Nothing out of place, or the slightest bit suspicious, was uncovered."

She started to open her mouth to protest, but the Omwati Jedi Master cut her off again. "But yes. It does seem a sensible proposal. You knew her more personally than almost any of us did. Perhaps that will enable you to see things we are blind to."

"Can you take me to her quarters now?"

At length, he nodded.

-s-s-

Sleek and gleaming, the starship – a heavily armed and armoured hyperspace capable yacht – started its serene descent from Eres III's orbit. From one of the viewports, Morrigance watched the cherry red glow of the vast fires burning on the xoxin plains directly beneath their flightpath.

Those fires had been ignited during the Mandalorian Wars, and had been burning ever since. According to estimates, there was enough fuel still locked beneath the plains to keep them going for another two-hundred years at least.

Her gaze touched one of the huge gleaming metal citadels floating high in the planet's stratosphere. It was more than two-hundred kilometres outside the path of their descent, but even at this distance, it managed to seem awesomely majestic.

That majesty belied a rather mundane, but critical function. It was an atmospheric processing plant. One of a number, designed to extract the sulphur dioxide given off by the fires from the air and prevent it blanketing the entire planet, where it would reflect the sun's rays back into space, resulting in dramatic surface cooling and potentially triggering a new ice age. Despite the processing plants' best efforts though, Eres III's polar ice caps had already begun a slow and inexorable expansion.

It struck her as an odd paradox. Burn a world to freeze it.

Old friend. Morrigance directed the thought to Celyanda, who stood flanking her. Might I have a moment alone?

Alone? The echo came back. It seemed perplexed, grappling with a concept no longer part of its world view

She stifled a sigh as she looked at the perfect golden twins. I am still prey to human weakness and frailty, my friend. The occasional need for solitude is one vice I still cling to.

It didn't understand, but she felt Celyanda acquiesce nonetheless. Our offer to you still stands.

Morrigance nodded, turning back to the viewport. The honour you do me is amazing. And one day, if the offer remains, I will accept it gladly. For now though, until we have accomplished our immediate goals, the perspective of singulars is something we still need. And I must therefore remain as I am.

The offer will always remain open to you. Morrigance sensed Celyanda step back from her and walk away.

I understand the sacrifice that you make. Those parting words echoed in her head.

Once she was alone, she refocused her gaze on the glow of the fire far below. Eres was a clever choice on Revan's part, she had to concede.

During the wars, he had personally led the Republic force that had met and repelled the Mandalorian invasion. It hadn't been enough to stop the xoxin plains going up in flames, but the world had been saved by his hand from worse calamities. Worse immediate calamities, at least.

In the years since the end of the Mandalorian war, Eres III had seceded from the Republic entirely, angry that – from its perspective – it was being abandoned and ignored, simply left to burn and slowly die whilst the Republic's major rebuilding efforts were prioritised towards other worlds closer to the core. There had even been a certain amount of Schadenfreude among the local populace when Revan and Malak had turned on their Republic masters, and it remained one of the few places in the galaxy where Revan was still regarded almost unconditionally as a hero. There were actually entire streets named after him, or so she'd heard.

She almost laughed then, the glow of the fire glinting in the surface of her mask. Do you know I'm coming, my other old friend?

There was a soft judder as the ship touched Eres III's atmosphere. She would have to head for one of the re-entry couches soon, but for the moment made no move to do so.

I think you must. You would scarcely have let yourself be so careless with Arathor otherwise.

And, when it came to it, Eres III was an attention-grabbing choice for other reasons too. She had interests of her own here as well – or, at least, she had interests in the planet's orbit. For a moment, she considered the possibility that this aspect was just coincidence.

But no. Not coincidence. With him, even in the state he was now, you never dared to assume coincidence. So, another lure. Another goad to catch her attention and draw her here, into whatever trap lay prepared.

Descending towards the inferno . . .. As good a place as any for the end to come. Strangely appropriate, in fact.

A more violent shudder passed through the ship and she turned abruptly from the viewport, walking rapidly to rejoin Celyanda.

"I think you're making a mistake."

Revan stood with his back to her on the balcony, bathed by the light of the twin moons. The red gas giant – the blood-eye of Nagslim, the apocalyptical giant who would devour the world and end the final battle, as local legends held – wasn't visible for tonight at least.

"Really?" If he didn't exactly sound amused, he at least seemed to be in an indulgent mood. His sculpted torso gleamed with their mingled sweat and she could see the lines her fingers had left down his back, not quite faded.

Watching him, she felt something stir within her. A small, self-mocking smile touched her lips.

After a brief, reflective pause, he lifted the glass of Alderaanian wine to his lips and took a sip. Tonight he was trying to be Xavious rather than Darth, she thought. He seemed to be finding the transition more difficult of late though, as if the line was becoming more and more blurred. "And what mistake would that be?"

She didn't answer right away, disentangling herself from the mess of sheets and pulling on a thin, loose-fitting robe. The floor was cold beneath her feet and she raked a hand through the tangled mass of her hair, pushing it back from her face. "You know that I have just returned from the Star Forge." It was a statement rather than a question.

"Ah, so this is about Malak again." He bared his teeth in something that was a smile only by approximation. "You're turning into a nag, you know that Morrigance?"

"You told me that you wanted me to make sure your eyes were always open and focused in the right direction. He is your blindspot."

Revan snorted. "Have you ever thought that he is your blindspot too? He is not stupid, and if you continue to let yourself think that, you will deserve whatever you get from him because of it."

An involuntary shudder passed through her shoulders. When she spoke again, her voice was barely louder than a whisper. "Believe me, I have long disavowed myself of that notion. I am not the slightest bit worried about his stupidity. Quite the reverse."

He raised an eyebrow, sliding a second glass along the broad stone balcony railing to her. "Try it. It's very good."

It was, though she didn't feel inclined to admit it. "I think I prefer Ord Mantell grapes."

"That, my dear, is because your tastes are downright weird." He smiled again, and made a much better job of it this time. "So, what specifically, is the problem with good old Mal?"

Better to get straight to the point. This close, his presence made it difficult to think entirely straight. "I think you should recall him from the Star Forge. Appoint someone else in his place."

"And why would I want to do that?"

She turned away, taking another sip from the wineglass, and tried to order nebulous fears into something she could vocalise. He wouldn't, she knew now, accept any of the Bantha-crap reasons she'd rehearsed, however convincing she might make them sound. "The Star Forge . . . it fuels his rage and hate. Warps it, and him with it."

There was no response right away, and she glanced at him sidelong. What she saw in his expression she couldn't immediately put a name to, but it left her feeling . . . scared.

At length he said: "His rage is an asset. It gives him so much of his strength. And me control."

"Well he is certainly strong now." She almost laughed as she spoke those words – loud and bitter. "And getting stronger all the time."

Just being in the same room as Malak, able to feel the immensity of the dark Force energy flowing through him, had left her worrying that he was in imminent danger of entirely forgetting any broader concerns and simply gutting her where she stood.

"And you are worried that he has grown stronger than I am, perhaps?"

She didn't say anything, but if she was honest, she worried absolutely that.

He spoke softly; musingly "I have never been stronger in the Force than he is. More skilled, more controlled, more subtle, perhaps. But never truly stronger." She could feel him looking at her and her head was pulled round until their eyes locked. It wasn't the Force. It was simply the sheer force of personality, imposing itself. "Except in this one way." A hand came up, touching to the centre of his forehead. "The only way that remotely matters."

Morrigance pulled her gaze away from his, and stared out at the distant mountains – a dark purple stain along the horizon line. In her mind she was back on the Star Forge, reviewing the reports of Malak's latest battles, and growing more and more aghast at what she read – the sheer wasteful lunacy of the tactics he was employing. It had beggared belief, that he could be so utterly incompetent . . .

Except . . . the more she'd read, the less it had looked like incompetence.

If you shifted perspective slightly and redefined his goals . . . if you stopped looking at what he was doing in terms of trying to win victories, and instead viewed it purely from the perspective of creating carnage and death and disruption in the Force . . .. Well, viewed like that, it ceased to look quite so stupid, and began to take on a perversely twisted logic.

A genius even.

If you stopped viewing it in human terms, and tried to look at it from the mindset of a vastly ancient and sentient battery of dark Force energy, seeking to grow and consume and devour . . ..

A shudder passed through her, and she pulled herself back to the here and now. Revan was looking at her intently.

"I think," she said quietly, "that his goals and ours are no longer even remotely compatible."

There was a pause. Birdsong could be heard from the forest below.

"The Star Forge can only be controlled by someone of iron strength and will. If I cannot do so – and right now, I cannot, because this war demands that I be elsewhere – then it must be Malak. It is as simple as that." For all that his tone was mild it brooked no possibility of argument.

She gritted her teeth. "Surely there are others in your employ with the kind of ability you describe?"

"Are you volunteering for the job?"

Morrigance opened her mouth, then closed it again quickly.

"No, I thought not."

"What of Serebos?" she asked, struggling to stay calm and neutral.

"What of him?" The dismissal in the words was plain.

Fine. "Then Uthar Wynn. He is capable. Experienced. Intelligent. Overdue a promotion, perhaps."

"The academies are crucial to our efforts, as well you know. I need to be sure they are in competent hands."

"Then promote his apprentice to take his place. You've said yourself how much potential she has."

He smiled. "She will promote herself when she is ready for the responsibility. Of that, I am certain. But the Star Forge needs far more than capable, experienced and intelligent. I think you know that too."

Morrigance bit back a frustrated snap. Even in her position, that would be taking things too far.

"This truly worries you, doesn't it?" He stepped closer to her and she felt him touch her shoulder; gently stroke her hair. Even that much contact was enough to cause something to ignite inside her. The smell of him filled her nostrils, and part of her hated herself for feeling the way she did. Part of her hated him for making her feel that way.

"It concerns me, yes," she admitted slightly shakily.

"I am not blind to it, if that's what you fear. When I'm able to, I will relieve him personally for a time. But for now there are other matters I must attend to." He eased one shoulder of her robe lower; kissed the juncture of her neck.

It was like liquid heat spreading beneath her skin. Damn him. "You still intend to join up with the fourth fleet tomorrow?"

"I'm not sure I trust them to lose properly without my direct guidance." He sounded almost gleeful as he said it – delighted by the idea of a defeat. "Besides, I need to experience the effects of Battle Meditation first hand if I am to factor it properly into our plans."

And Malak was dismissed like that. Dimly Morrigance felt a creeping sense of unease that she couldn't get rid of, but mostly she simply felt his presence – a darkly blazing star, drawing her inexorably in. The worst thing was, she didn't want to pull away. "Throw away six entire sectors to gain two. I'm sure there's some level where that makes a kind of sense."

He chuckled: amused, indulgent. "Six sectors of no strategic worth, that I never wanted, gained by over eager admirals looking to impress me. Controlling them is a drain on our resources."

Morrigance murmured as his lips moved up her neck to her ear. "It still seems . . . wasteful somehow."

"Six sectors that will represent the Republic's first major victory of the war. Think of the propaganda. The boost to their morale. Think what a huge deal they will make of it. Darth Revan thrown back, the entire tide of the war reversed! Maybe even total victory by year end."

"Hmm." The feel of his breath against her sweat damp skin made it impossible to think entirely rationally. Her head filled with images that left her breathless. "And that's good for us, is it?"

Another soft laugh. "Those six sectors will kill them by inches. After making such a big deal of their recapture, they'll be forced to hold onto them no matter what. The local populace will demand constant protection after their taste of Sith occupation, and the Republic will be forced to oblige. Just imagine the public reaction if they were to lose them again. Six strategically worthless sectors, draining their resources and sapping their will, a constant millstone round their neck"

"And you will waltz straight past them while they're occupied defending something worthless. Ignore them entirely." She was starting to figure how his mind worked; the cold, remorseless calculations.

His arms slid around her waist from behind; drew her in close to him. She let herself be drawn. "They'll need to draw their forces from somewhere. It will weaken the entire spinswise portion of their lines."

"And they'll take the bait?" She made a small, stifled sound as his hands slid down her flanks – a different kind of advanced tactical manoeuvre. "Dodonna won't spot what you're doing? You said yourself that she was good."

"As a tactician she is the best. I can't think of a commanding officer I've ever known more capable of running a battle than she is." He nibbled at her earlobe. "But she's not just running battles. She's running an entire war, and for that . . . for that she just doesn't have the broader vision. Karath should be in charge. I wouldn't dream of trying this against Karath. But right now, he's more ours than theirs."

If Malak was to be believed.

He buried his face in the hair at the nape of her neck. Against the better judgment of the rational parts of her brain, she allowed herself to succumb entirely.

"Besides, once they realise I am there, conducting the battle personally . . . They'll bite so hard you won't be able to prise their teeth apart again. For a time, I imagine that evading them will prove quite . . . entertaining."

She felt his hands on the belt of her robe and twisted lithely round in his grasp so that they stood facing each other.

Their eyes locked. She traced the side of his face with a fingertip. Her breath was coming very quickly. So was his. "And if they were to catch you?"

A smooth tug on the belt and her robe fell open. "Now that would be a shame, wouldn't it?" His hands moved inside – drew her tight against him. "But in that event, I'm sure that I can trust you to see things through. Right to the end."

And with that, things moved beyond the point of words, and Morrigance allowed him to pull her down – all the while knowing that now, more than ever, she had to find a way out.

-s-s-

Judge Eccol Ikaasa took a sip from the glass of water.

"I almost didn't recognise him. We've known each other for years. Not friends exactly, but I've always thought of him as one of the more reasonable Senators I've encountered. Someone that I respected. A man of integrity. Even after what happened to Telos and the awful business with his wife, that reasonableness and compassion still shone through. But now . . ."

The intercom crackled. Judge Ikaasa winced, the sound inducing a pain in his skull entirely out of proportion with the effect.

"Well you have to admit, Eccol, he has very good cause for being the way he is." The voice from the other end of the commlink sounded weirdly loud and distorted too. Ikaasa frowned – drained the rest of the water.

"The point is . . ." His voice had a weird croak, barely audible. He tried again, "The point is, for all that he may have cause, he's never been this way before. And . . ." Damn, his head hurt. ". . . you'd think his . . . his grief and anguish would lessen with time rather than the other way around."

"Human psychology is a messy thing, Eccol. It doesn't necessarily work like that, and it isn't neat and tidy. They aren't logical like Caamasi."

Judge Ikaasa blinked. His vision seemed to be blurring. He put the empty glass down, though he was suddenly so clumsy that he almost missed the table entirely.

"Have you considered . . . compromising your position slightly?" The voice now sounded distant rather than overloud. There was a strange rushing noise in Ikaasa's ears.

"Compromising?" He blinked again. "This is the law we're talking about here. Not a consumer commodity to be bought and sold. Besides, the situation is bad enough as it is. The last thing we need right now is the circus of a show trial. And we . . . we both know that it isn't the trial part that everyone wants. It's the public execution. The verdict has been decided on already . . ."

Ikaasa trailed off. He needed to sit down. Suddenly his head was spinning and it was difficult to breathe.

"Maybe you're right, but you can't say he doesn't have it coming, can you Eccol? I mean, not seriously."

"Has it coming?" Ikaasa staggered, panting. "Has it coming?"

"Are you all right Eccol? You sound . . . weird."

"Let's just string him up and forget about any other considerations because 'he has it coming'. Yes, that would be just perfect . . ." His voice dwindled with each word until Ikaasa couldn't hear himself at all, even as his mouth still moved.

Abruptly he swayed alarmingly, took a couple of short, stumbling steps, then toppled over full length, crashing straight through the tabletop.

"Eccol? Are you still there?" the voice from the intercom demanded.

And quietly, almost unnoticed, half a dozen particular individuals across Coruscant died within the space of a few hours, all of them from natural causes.

-s-s-

"So, did you actually find anything after all that?"

Tamar took the breath mask off before trying to answer Bastila's question. He didn't miss the definite sharpness to her tone. He didn't miss the seething irritation either, for all that she was obviously trying hard to mask it.

Outside the hotel, Eres III's sky was a shade of red-gold to match the most spectacular sunset imaginable. Except sunset wasn't due for another four hours. Even separated from the burning xoxin plains by more than a thousand miles of ocean, the air here was so full of pollutants and carcinogens that it was dangerous to breathe unfiltered. One statistic he'd heard had it that since the fires had started, infant mortality on Eres had increased by more than a thousand percent.

Yet despite that – and despite temperatures more than ten degrees lower than they should have been this time of year – Eres didn't appear to be dying. In fact, in an odd way, it was actually flourishing.

The reason it was flourishing was tourism. Millions of sentients came each year to see the fires first hand, taking chartered flights over the vast plains of burning crystal and gawping at the seeds the Mandalorian war had sown.

"Droids," Tamar said finally. "An entire vault full of droids."

In a space of around nine-hundred squares metres there had been somewhere over three-hundred of the things, ranging from top of the line battlefield assault models to a pair of strangely familiar looking prototype assassin droids. HK-47 had reacted rather violently to seeing these, and the galaxy was now sadly two HK-48s short.

Bastila just snorted. "Well, that was definitely worth it then."

He didn't argue with her assessment, but inwardly wasn't nearly so sure of it. As well as the droids, there had been weaponry – enough in the way of small arms and munitions to run a planetary scale revolution for a year. Tied to the fact that Darth Auza's records identified more than thirty similar sites to the one orbiting Eres III, all set up by Elleste Strine, and it was certainly – at the very least – a disquieting find. How it might fit in to Morrigance's broader plans though, he struggled to fathom.

Perhaps in the end it didn't. Perhaps it was simply something she genuinely had done on Auza's behalf. Whatever, the thought of say, thirty civil wars igniting simultaneously in and around Republic space – especially given the current state of Republic affairs – was not exactly a positive one.

He hid a grimace. "Look at it this way. We're now the proud owners of more than three hundred heavily armed battle droids." On top of the Echani mercenaries. The thought left him cold. Almost by accident, he was acquiring what amounted to an army.

The look Bastila shot his way communicated her thoughts on the matter far more effectively than any words could have.

And he didn't, in all honestly, blame her.

"How's Canderous doing?" he asked quietly in an effort to change the subject.

She looked away from him, walking across to the window. The fleeting sense of discomfort he got from her suggested that even that, somehow, had been the wrong thing to ask.

"If everything's gone to schedule, the operation should be finishing just about now."

Which meant Canderous should be the proud owner of a brand new cybernetic arm. The idea of that made Tamar wince slightly, though he wasn't entirely sure why. "That's good to hear," he said after a moment.

"Yes."

He could still feel something across the bond between them. It was akin to a prickling itch beneath the skin. Eventually, as the silence between them dragged, he gave in to the inevitable. "You still think it was a mistake to come here, don't you?"

There was no answer right away.

Eventually she said: "Even if you're right about this Morrigance; even if you manage to draw her out into the open here and stop her, it doesn't change the fact that Darth Malefic has over two-hundred living ships under his command. Whether he is being manipulated or doing it entirely of his own initiative makes no material difference. Nothing we do here can affect that."

They'd had had this discussion at length on the Rancorous. The words used had been slightly different, but in essence had been the same.

"You're right," he said simply rather than go through it all again.

Bastila looked back at him. "I'm right?" There was an edge of incredulity to her voice.

"But the fact is, we don't know where Malefic is, or what he's doing. For all that he now has in his sole possession the single biggest, most dangerous fleet in the galaxy, there hasn't even been a whisper of it over any channels we have access to. No unexplained attacks. No contact lost with systems. No suspicious sightings. Nothing."

"He can't just have disappeared."

"So he's in Sith space, where we aren't hearing about it. Unifying the Sith and establishing himself as the one true Dark Lord."

The explanation made sense on one level. It was quite simply the logical next move on his part, whether he was being manipulated or not. Except . . . Tamar hid a grimace. Something just didn't feel right at all.

"All the more reason we have to act now," Bastila insisted. "While the Republic still has a chance to prepare and ready itself."

He stifled a sigh of exasperation. They were retreading it all yet again anyway, it seemed. "We are acting. Here."

"No, you're acting." And it was clear enough from her tone that she thought he was acting more or less entirely stupidly.

He walked past her, taking her place at the window and looking down at the plaza twenty floors below – the crowds of breath-masked people, going about their daily business as their world burned. "So what should I do, if not what I'm doing now?" His hand came up, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Honestly, I'd be grateful for any suggestions."

It didn't come out sounding at all the way he wanted it to. It never did with her.

Silence dragged. That's what the entire level of their interaction seemed to have come down to now. Uncomfortable silence punctuated by argument and accusation.

"You think I should turn myself in, don't you?" He said finally. "That I'm making excuses."

Again, she didn't say anything right away, but he felt her react to his words across the bond – a whole conflicted tangle of emotions.

"I think," she said finally, "that you and Jolee and Yuthura should return with me to Coruscant, and we should go before the Jedi Council together and convince them about the nature of the threat they face. Convince them that they and the Republic need to stand squarely together and prepare for Malefic's coming. If the four of us stand firm, they can't simply ignore what we say. Not all of us."

Tamar didn't vocalise his response, but apparently, she sensed it anyway.

She made a small sound that was half laugh and half not. "I was once so absolutely certain that you were utterly and unambiguously wrong when you and Malak defied the Jedi Council and went to fight the Mandalorians. Yet now . . . I seem intent on trying to put myself in the same position, and . . . it's not clear at all anymore." A sigh. "I don't know at all what I'm going to do, if it comes to that."

He looked back at her and their eyes met, silent communication passing between them.

She smiled shakily. "We just have to make sure we're much more convincing this time, won't we? They can't ignore the threat. The urgency . . ."

She trailed off as he kept on looking at her. They could ignore the threat, and maybe it was a sign that he'd been infected by a near terminal case of cynicism here, but Tamar was fairly certain that they would ignore it. At least until the Living Fleet showed up on their doorstep and started knocking.

"I'm sure they'll eventually agree to anything that Jolee says, just to get him to shut up." His tone was light on the surface, belying his inner thoughts.

But they'd stopped being able to fool each other with surface some time ago now.

She swallowed. "They need you. They need all that you are. If we're going to repel Malefic we need . . ."

"No they don't," he said gently, cutting her off.

Bastila jolted visibly.

"I am him. Revan. I can't escape that, but in one fairly crucial way, I'm also not. The me my memory says I am has never led more than a dozen men into battle. That me never fought and won the Mandalorian wars. Even if they were insane enough to want that part back, I'm not sure I could be that again."

Even as he spoke though, he couldn't help but wonder if he was lying. He stopped; shook his head.

He could feel her searching for something else to say; feel her discomfort. "You could try."

"I could try," he echoed. So simple, it sounded.

Eventually he nodded. "After I've seen this through to its conclusion here on Eres, one way another, I'll do as you ask. We'll go and stand before the new Jedi Council together and try to make them listen. I won't speak for Yuthura or Jolee, but I will promise you that."

He could sense that she wanted to say something else – to argue further, but she stopped herself. Neither of them said any more.

A short time later, with them both still groping uncomfortably for something to say, Tamar's comm. unit beeped in his ear. It was Yuthura. He felt relief, when he knew well enough that he should probably feel the opposite.

She came straight to the point. "The message we were waiting for has arrived."

Something clenched inside his chest; excitement and anxiety at once. "Hulas?"

"No." He detected a sardonic, halfway-amused edge to Yuthura's voice. "Not directly, anyway. One of his lackeys, apparently. A Bothan. He knew all the pre-arranged code phrases though."

"This is bad news, isn't it?" He could tell.

"For some reason you don't sound surprised there, Tamar." The sardonic amusement had, if anything, intensified. He felt it too, he supposed. In a black and twisted sort of way. Barely at the first step, and it was unravelling. "Hulas wants to change the meet. Both place and time."

"I do hope you told him to frak off."

Yuthura laughed. "Oh, I did far more than that. I think I offended the poor Bothan's sensibilities slightly." A pause, then casually. "He had Dashade bodyguards, by the way. They stayed stealthed throughout our meeting, but I recognised the smell."

Tamar swore beneath his breath, attracting a sharp look from Bastila. But it did indeed genuinely suggest that this unnamed Bothan really was Genoharadan. There weren't many who could employ Dashade these days. "So, what's the situation?"

"Allegedly out of concern over 'security', your Rodian friend now wants us to go to Bay 6E of Xavex spaceport at 1900 hours. A flyer will be waiting for us there to ferry us to an unspecified destination. The Bothan, incidentally, claimed to be nothing more than messenger, with no power to either negotiate on Hulas's behalf, or conduct messages."

"Take it or leave it, in other words." His voice was heavy.

"That's about the size of it."

Just great. "So what's your opinion?"

"It's either a trap, or he's found some other way to screw us. Either way, it does a very good job of blowing a gaping hole in our plans." Yuthura's voice was neutral, and across the commlink, he couldn't gain any kind of underlying sense.

"What's happened?"

Tamar shook his head distractedly in response to Bastila's query. He was surprised to find the beginnings of a smile creeping up on him. "I say we go with it." His mind was working rapidly then, going over the angles.

"How did I know you were going to say that?" Yuthura's tone was dry.

"Perhaps it's all that meditation you've been doing with Jolee paying off. Allowing you to glimpse the future."

"Very droll."

"Right, can you contact the Rancorous and have it brought into close orbit? Set things up so they can track our position down to the nearest millimetre." Tamar's words rattled out. "I'm going to call Tee. Arrange a few last minute contingencies. Did Hulas place any limitation on numbers for the meet?"

"Apparently the flyer waiting for us will take two passengers. I suppose that means you can come with me." Her tone was light, but even without being able to see the set of her headtails he could tell that there wasn't going to be any arguing with it.

"I'll see you there then."

"Don't be late." The comm. link cut off.

Bastila was looking at him intently. There was more than a hint of resignation to her expression. "I take it things are starting to happen."

And that they aren't going to plan: that was implicit in her words.

He nodded. "I need to go. Make arrangements."

She nodded in turn. It all felt so strange between them now, he thought. Not quite real. "Unless you need me, I'll be at the hospital. Seeing how Canderous is recovering. Seeing if I can do anything for Captain Organa and the other casualties."

He nodded again.

"I'd say be careful, but I know you won't be. So . . . I hope you know what you're doing, and may the Force be with you." With that, she turned around and left.

-s-s-

"I know that your real name is Carth Onasi. I know that you're that Carth Onasi. And I know that for durasteel hard fact. So you don't have to start with any of that Valden bantha crap."

He blinked slowly. His pupils were hugely dilated, and he seemed to be struggling to focus on her face. His lips moved, but the only sound that came out was a whisper soft breath.

He looked . . . well, he looked a lot better than when she and Ellas had found him, but that wasn't exactly saying a lot. A Tukata class bomber wasn't large enough to have anything resembling a functional sickbay, so he was simply strapped securely down on one of the acceleration couches, hooked to drips that fed a combination of kolto and painkillers into his system.

After a moment, he tried to speak again, and this time succeeded in producing a slightly louder, but still entirely incomprehensible sound.

Yolanda exhaled. "Oh, stop trying to talk and concentrate on lying on your ass and healing. It's the only thing you're any good for right now."

Third time seemed to the charm as he ignored her and tried again anyway. "Burnt?" It was hoarse, but recognisable as speech.

A pause. "You got lucky. Those facial prosthetics of yours absorbed enough of it that you still just about manage to qualify as a pretty boy, and your armour managed to protect you from the worst of the rest. Ellas managed to patch you up pretty well." She managed to force a smile that made it feel like her face was in danger of splitting in two. "Pity about your hair though. I don't know, maybe it'll grow back? You'd better hope so. Bald looks even worse on you than blond did."

"Thanks," he croaked.

"Don't mention it."

She looked away from him, ostensibly studying the monitor attached to one of his drip lines.

"He . . ." A rasping cough as he tried to clear his throat. "He's gone. I can't feel him anymore."

Yolanda grunted. "It was his choice to make, you know. Not ours. We might not have made it away from Kamari if it wasn't for him."

"W-What?" Carth's hand caught hold of her wrist. Despite his apparent weakness, his grip was painfully tight, too strong to simply pull away from.

She looked back at him, meeting eyes that suddenly seemed feverishly bright. Inwardly she winced, realisation hitting her. "Who were you talking about?" Not Ellas, she was suddenly willing to bet.

"I . . . I was . . . the Catcher. The link between us . . . it's gone. He's . . . not in my head anymore."

He must have seen her reaction; the surprised flinch she didn't quite hide in time. He was frowning. "That means . . . that means he's dead, right? That you and Ellas finished him. That we won?"

She looked away again.

"Where's Ellas. I . . . I need to speak to him."

Firmly, she pried free of his grip. Carth didn't resist. "He . . . didn't make it. We didn't win, Carth." It still seemed strange, calling him that. "The Catcher . . . the Catcher killed the doctor. Not the other way round."

"But . . . why can't I feel him then?"

Yolanda shook her head, almost asking him if he was sure, before remembering the Catcher's own words. "Maybe Ellas was able to do something to break the link," she said quietly. "To block it. I don't know."

He swore, his head smacking down against the pillow. "Damn it. You . . . you should have stopped him. You should have stopped him doing that. He . . . the Catcher. Revan . . ." The words stopped dead.

"Revan?" Her head snapped back round and she stared at him. His jaw was clenched tight, and he seemed to be gazing off into the middle-distance at something that wasn't there. His skin suddenly looked almost grey. "You know him, right?" Her voice was whisper soft.

There was no answer.

Something clicked. "Frak. That's why the Catcher wants you so badly, isn't it? Not just because you're you. He wants Revan, and thinks you can give him to him." She shivered. The air suddenly seemed very cold, and she began to wonder just what the hell she was really caught up in. "Saviour. Destroyer. Messiah. Everyone wants a piece of Revan these days. You know there's a cult out there who worship him as a god? Entire holoNet channels devoted to sightings of him? That's what I heard, anyway."

Carth didn't say anything, apparently lost in a world of his own. From the outside, it didn't look to be a particularly pleasant world.

She started back towards the cockpit, before stopping again abruptly. There was a reason she'd come to see if he was conscious, after all. "What I came to tell you Carth, is that we're heading for Coruscant."

That seemed to penetrate. "Coruscant?" The surprise in his voice was clearly audible. Then, a moment later. "Why?"

"Well, I was thinking I could sell my story to the tabloids there. My night of sordid passion with the Republic's greatest living war hero. Got to be worth a fair few credits, don't you think? Maybe I can make enough out of it to retire from this stupid Bantha-fraking career and buy a farm somewhere. Deralia perhaps. Some out of the way backwater where nothing ever happens, anyway."

"Huh?"

She made a small, quiet noise. "I was joking, Carth." Though the words, as they'd come out, had felt closer to bitterness than humour.

After a moment, he cleared his throat again. "Yolanda, why are we going to Coruscant?" The clearly, precise enunciation obviously took considerable effort.

Briefly, she closed her eyes. "Because you want – you will want to go there."

He seemed to miss a couple of beats. Obviously not the answer he'd been expecting. "Why would I want that?"

The moment seemed to last an eternity. After it passed, she leant across a control panel and activated the Catcher's recorded message so that it played back over the ships intercomm.

"Warm felicitations to you, Carth. You seem in quite the hurry to get away . . ."

Then she did walk back into the cockpit. It felt like something inside her was dying.

-s-s-

"You are Morrigance Fel."

Morrigance stopped, looking at the speaker – a Bothan – carefully. She noted the dully-gleaming metal circlet he wore, indicating clearly that he had known enough about her to come prepared. She lifted a hand in a calming gesture to Celyanda. Not yet. "And who might you be?"

"Profoundly unimportant in comparison to you," he was saying, though she wasn't more than a quarter focused on his words.

There was someone else there. Someone very good at hiding. Good at shielding themselves from the Force.

Four of them, Celyanda projected into her head. The nature of the flows change around them – makes it difficult to see. But they are there.

"And who else is here, eavesdropping, Unimportant person?"

The Bothan shrugged, then snapped something in a language that surprised her. It was a language she'd thought was dead.

A moment later, four stealth fields flickered off, and four exceedingly heavily armed and dangerous looking Dashade appeared, flanking him.

"My bodyguard." His tone was smooth and cordial. "Just as you have yours." He indicated Celyanda with a casual gesture. "A matter of simple prudence on both our parts."

"What do you want?" The presence of the Dashade made it unlikely he was affiliated with Revan – at least in his current incarnation. Hulas on the other hand . . .

"I bring a simple gift of information." With an exaggerated flourish, a small egg-shaped object appeared in the Bothan's hand. "May I?"

"Go ahead."

He placed the object – a holo-projector – down carefully on the rough plastocrete floor between them. Immediately it hummed to life, an image appearing, floating in the air between them.

"This shows landing bay 6E at Xavex spaceport, 600 kilometres north of here, as of about seven and a half minutes ago."

There were two craft visible in the landing bay, one a small atmosphere bound flyer capable of holding a maximum of four passengers. The second was a compact, stub-nosed shuttle of a type Morrigance recognised dimly from Nar Shaddaa – Hutt designed, she realised.

It was the three people in view that caught most of her attention though, to the extent that she realised after a moment that she'd stopped breathing.

Strange, she thought, how someone could look physically exactly the same as they always had, yet at the same appear so utterly, utterly different to the man she'd once known. As she watched him, she could taste the bile rising in her throat.

Ban stood at his side, looking lean and elegant. Anger briefly flared in her before she throttled it back ruthlessly. Idiot. Blind, naïve idiot. I tried to warn you. Do you share his bed now, too?

Morrigance sucked in a breath and her gaze moved briefly on to the third figure, dressed in a pilot's coveralls, before returning swiftly to Revan. There seemed to be some kind of an argument going on as to whether the flyer or the shuttle should be used. And there she saw a ghost of a familiar expression briefly on his face, a glimpse of the real man lurking somewhere underneath the Jedi's flesh puppet. Something icy touched her heart.

The pilot spoke something into a comm. unit. The picture quality and angle of the camera meant she wasn't able to fully read his lips.

When the hasty call finished, the pilot nodded to Revan with obvious reluctance. The three figures stepped towards the shuttle. And the image faded . . .

"The holo-projector also contains details of their destination."

As the Bothan stepped back, Morrigance bent to pick it up. "And what, may I ask, do you seek to gain through this?"

"Gain? I am simply a messenger," the Bothan demurred. "As I said, a gift. What you choose to do with it is absolutely none of my concern." He swept her a politely formal bow. "Now, if you'll permit me, I will take my leave. A pleasure to have met you, Lady Fel."

Abruptly the Dashades' stealth fields snapped on again, the four hulking monstrosities fading into thin air. The Bothan turned and started walking away, seemingly not possessing a care in the world.

She let him go. Despite a brief, compelling urge to lash out, she let him go.

A brief gesture to Celyanda – Come – and she started walking rapidly. In her head, all she could see was Revan's face, as if it had been branded into her thoughts.

-s-s-

The shuttle docked with its target with a quiet thunk.

"Ready?" Yuthura asked quietly from beside him.

"Ready," Tamar agreed, unsnapping the safety harness. He could sense the nervous tension in her. It was reflected at least two-fold in himself. When all was said and done, they were taking a massive leap into the unknown.

The final destination of their flight was a vast, v-shaped flying wing, nearly two-kilometres from wingtip to wingtip. It flew slowly in broad, perpetual loops over the xoxin plains, half-gliding on the constant hot updrafts from below and half-powered by a series of huge, bizarrely anachronistic looking propellers.

The strange vessel apparently functioned as a flying hotel, half a dozen gleaming gondolas slung beneath it designed to house somewhere upwards of five hundred guests in luxurious comfort. It was to one of these gondolas that they'd just docked. According to the pilot, extensive renovation work had recently been completed and the flying hotel hadn't reopened to the public yet, so it was currently empty even of staff.

Somewhere, for good or ill, that they wouldn't be disturbed.

As he stood up, Tamar leant across the pilot, hitting a key combination to lockout the controls.

"Hey . . ." the pilot started to protest, but a rather pointed look cut him off.

"I don't suppose," Tamar told him quietly, "that your continued presence here will dissuade your employers from trying to arrange some kind of accident for us. But I think it's still worth a shot on the off chance."

With that, he and Yuthura headed for the airlock.

Beyond it, the gondola was every bit as deserted as they'd been told to expect. The absolute silence and stillness were distinctly eerie, only the very slight and distant vibration from the ship's propellers intruding even slightly. As they walked, patterns of lights on the walls formed directional arrows to guide them towards their destination. Wordlessly, they allowed themselves to be led.

A short time later, they were descending a flight of stairs leading to a viewing gallery right at the gondola's front tip.

He glanced across at Yuthura. She bared her teeth in a tight smile. Since boarding, neither of them had said a word.

The walls and floor around them were made of transparisteel, giving completely unrestricted – if somewhat vertiginous – views. Thousands of metres below, through a broken covering of coal-black cloud, the fires themselves could be glimpsed like a window into a traditional vision of hell. Occasionally, vast outcroppings of blackened and soot stained crystal could be spied, rising hundreds of metres above the surrounding inferno.

In the distance, lightning flickered near constantly. The quantities of ash in the air above the plains encouraged thunderstorms on a truly enormous scale.

"Interesting spectacle," Yuthura commented after a time, headtails stirring in something that Tamar recognised as profound disquiet. "Though not something I'd really like to try and crash land onto."

"The thought had occurred," he murmured softly.

Separating the viewing compartment down the middle into two halves, was a sheet of transparisteel. As he slowly walked the length of the divider, it became apparent that it was entirely seamless and thick enough that even lightsabers wouldn't cut it quickly. It didn't, no matter how he figured it, seem like it could possibly be an intended and original part of the hotel's design.

"It looks like Hulas doesn't entirely trust us," Yuthura said softly as she noticed the target of his scrutiny. Tamar didn't look round at her, but sensed her step up to his shoulder.

"No, it doesn't, does it." On the other side of the divider his gaze had fixed on another flight of stairs identical to the ones they'd so recently descended.

"And he's late too. Very impolite for a supposed host."

Tamar just nodded. His attention was suddenly somewhere deeper in the ship.

"Someone's coming." She voiced his thought.

Again he didn't do anything more than nod. There was a Force presence. A massively powerful, near-overwhelmingly strong Force presence that felt almost like an ambulatory tornado as it homed steadily in on them. Something about it was horribly familiar.

He heard Yuthura's breath hiss – sensed her drawing her lightsaber smoothly from her belt. She'd obviously reached the same conclusion he had.

Three pairs of booted feet came into view at the top of the steps, descending steadily towards them.

The three figures finished their descent and stood opposite them, separated only by the transparisteel sheet. They stared at one other in silence. Something clenched inside Tamar's gut. Sometimes, it wasn't until you got exactly what you wanted that you realised that you'd never truly wanted it at all.

Be careful what you wish for, indeed.

He took a deep breath – looked at his own face, reflected in her mask. "Hello, Morrigance. Celyanda."