Chapter Sixteen

If Han's Millenium Falcon was a set of battered and scuffed athletic shoes that fit just right, the Wild Karrde was a comfortable pair of business-casual brogues with a surprising amount of traction. Her exterior was just battered enough to give her character, but each interior addition was well thought-out and comfortable. More importantly, everything worked, all of the time. Wild Karrde was larger, of course, intended to move bulk cargo and as the roving headquarters of one of the galaxy's foremost traders, which explained the refined appointments, larger crew, and why Karrde clearly went out of his way to make sure his crew was comfortable: consideration (and lucre) bred loyalty. Not the sort the Isards or Palpatines commanded, but something more lasting.

He and Artoo continued their tour, passing by the medbay. Wild Karrde had a medical facility, but a ship her size, with so much internal volume dedicated to cargo, had only so much space to spare, so it was quite compact. The last time he'd been aboard Wild Karrde had been after Wayland, when they'd all been bruised, burned and exhausted after the final fight with C'baoth. Mara had come out the fight the most badly hurt. At the time he'd had no time to appreciate the furnishings and had practically haunted the medbay on the trip back to Coruscant, sitting snug between her bed and the bulkhead in the only free space in the room.

For as disreputable as he looked, Chin made a surprisingly adept medtech and while Luke never did get around to asking him where he found his expertise (he'd been too busy watching Mara), the Myrkr native had made a quick assessment and left Luke to watch over Mara while she slept.

Unconsciousness had eased the usual harsh set of Mara's face into an expression more relaxed than he'd ever seen her, but a lack of any of her usual vivacity left Luke colder and more worried than he had been in a long time. He'd completely ignored his own lingering wounds. He'd had worse.

Her former master had given her worse and then hung around in her own head to haunt her.

It had taken Mara a long time to come to after the fight, and Luke had been exhausted himself. A gentle pressure on his hand had woken him from the chair at her bedside; his eyelids fluttering, haze with sleep, to stare into her brilliant gaze. Luke wished, in hindsight, that he'd had something clever to say. But she'd caught him off guard, as she always did, and all he'd managed was an awkward: "Hi, Mara. I'm glad you're alright. Are you alright?"

She'd rolled her eyes at him, before smiling in a manner that left him quite unable to breathe. "I'll live, Farmboy."

He smiled at the memory and continued on past the medbay into the main cargo hold, deploying his tremendous personal experience to detect the traditional sort of practical jokes that could lie in wait in such a place. The Rogues had perfected that art years ago, but Luke had no doubt that Karrde's smugglers could show Wedge's merry band of scoundrels a thing or two, if even half of what Mara told him about them was actually true.

Luke carefully circled and avoided the forward cargo area where the ysalamirs slept and made the area a void in the Force, something no sensation or premonition could escape. In all of Luke's travels, it was this rare and seldom-seen forest dwelling creature alone that made it impossible for a Force-sensitive to draw upon its power.

It didn't bother him exactly, but he didn't like it either.

"Don't worry," Karrde said as he approached from behind him. "They aren't here for you. I believe in being prepared and—" he paused for a moment, peering back the way he'd come for a moment "—Mara appreciates having them aboard. There were times before Wayland she would take sanctuary in a bubble. Sometimes sleep in that section."

Luke hesitated before nodding, reassured by the 'before Wayland' caveat in that statement. He wasn't sure how much Karrde knew about Mara's past, exactly, and while Karrde was her employer and her friend, that didn't mean it was Luke's place to discuss her personal life with him. "At this point, I wouldn't trade it for anything, but for some sensitivity to the Force can be a burden, as well as a gift," he said instead. "I remember Master Kenobi was attuned enough to feel Alderaan from sectors away."

Karrde winced. "I think your perspective has been good for Mara. In the last year it appears to have been far more the latter than the former."

Luke smiled. "Good, I'm glad."

"I thought you would be." Karrde glanced sideways at him. "Are you comfortable with what I'm asking of you on Rendili?"

A year or two before Luke would've been less confident. But he had more experience with manipulating perceptions now, and Karrde wasn't asking him to do anything that would cause permanent damage. "Yes," he replied calmly. "It's a good plan, but I'll need a disguise."

"As will I," Karrde agreed. "You wouldn't know it, but Chin is a master of them. I know for a fact that he's been looking forward to seeing what you look like with a Froffli-style haircut."

Luke blanched. "If it's absolutely necessary, but I'd rather not go that far."

"A pity," Karrde said. "I believe Dankin was hoping to sell holos afterwards."

"I would think that with the Smugglers' Alliance operational a few credits from sludgenews would be beneath him."

"More for in-network favor trading than anything else, but still, I'd wager you underestimate your worth," Karrde chuckled. "And you overestimate the Smugglers' Alliance. Perhaps it will be worth so much in the future, but for now it is still very much a new endeavor. Smugglers do not turn down free credits, leverage, or favors—and we remain smugglers still—even if our business is now technically on the legal side." They stopped in the small lounge, comfortable if compact. It had a few comfortable chairs arranged around the walls, and quick exits to both the bridge down the hall and engineering and Karrde poured himself a cup of caf which wafted a rich, enticing aroma upward, before gesturing at Luke, who accepted with a welcome smile. "The organization has a great deal of potential of course, but what it will be when all is said and done is impossible to know. It will depend on what the New Republic needs, what our smugglers eventually decide they want, and on the actions of a few vital people."

"People like me and my friends and family, I'd imagine," Luke said as he sipped his caf. It was quite good, significantly better than anything the Rogues had ever had while he led the squadron. For starters, it didn't have a thin film of machine oil on top of it, a seeming standard for all hot fleet beverages. Still, it wasn't quite as up to the level of the artisanally-spiced caf that Leia kept in her office, but Leia probably was one of the only people in the galaxy who sought to impress guests even more than Karrde did. "Including yourself."

Karrde shrugged. "Perhaps. I certainly will serve as a… fulcrum, of sorts. My reputation and the size of my organization will draw the Fringe closer than it might otherwise be willing to come. But I will not be the one performing the day to day work on Coruscant, or attempting to persuade the Senate to reduce tariffs or deregulate controlled items, or attempting to soothe them when things inevitably go wrong."

"So you mean Mara."

"For now," Karrde confirmed. "She is one of the few people who I trust to be capable, but it's hard to say whether she will want the position a few years down the road."

Luke could feel Karrde's eyes on him. "I haven't given her my recruitment pitch to join the Jedi Order," he said calmly. "I don't even have one. Or an Order for her to join at this point."

"But you will, eventually. And you will want her to join you."

"I only know of a few people with Force-talents, and of them Mara is the only one who received training other than myself," Luke said. "So yes, of course I would want her help. But what she chooses to do will be up to her." He paused, holding his warm cup of caf in his hands, before taking another sip. "The Force has been used against her for most of her life. I don't want to—no, I won't do anything that puts pressure on her."

Karrde sipped his caf, his expression neutral.

"I'll keep teaching her, if she wants to be taught. But there is a galaxy of difference between learning how to use the Force, and choosing to become a Jedi." Luke shrugged. "The Force chooses us as much as we choose it, but not every Force-strong individual chooses the life of the Jedi. That was true before Palpatine wiped us out, and it will likely be even more true after." He sighed softly, remembering his own winding, slow, precipitous path down the road to becoming a Jedi Knight. "If she decides that she never wants to take that path, then we'll walk another."

Karrde's lip twitched. "I'm sure," he said finally. He put down his cup, washed it out, and placed it on the rack to dry. "I look forward to more fruitful discussions in that vein over the years."

"Raise," said Dankin, nonchalantly tossing another credchit into the smaller pot in the center of the table. The ysalamiri attached to the tree hanging above them blinked slowly, almost entirely still from where it was wrapped around the long tree branch that jutted out over the hastily-arranged table and chairs.

Luke examined his cards, his gaze flicking from them to the ysalamiri five feet from his head. The lizard's eyes were closed, its scaly length remarkably camouflaged with the bark of the tree it was attached to, and camouflaging the Force just as well to the Jedi Knight. It was an odd sensation. When Luke focused, it made him mildly nauseous.

He focused on his cards instead.

"Oi, the Jedi can't be using any of his Force powers to cheat, can he?" asked Chin, tossing in a matching amount.

"That's what Karrde says," replied Dankin. "Not with our little friend here at the table. Right, Skywalker?"

"Right," Luke said. "But you do realize I'm Han Solo's brother-in-law, right?" He put his own ante into the hand pot.

Faughn quietly added her own credchit, watching the others without contributing to the conversation much.

"Solo's got skill," Dankin conceded. "He was one of the best, before he went respectable. But just being taught by one of the best doesn't make you one of the best." He put down his hand, showing a hand that summed a solid twenty-one. The others showed their hand, and Dankin smiled coyly and collected the hand pot. "See? Sabacc takes natural talent."

They started the new hand, collecting cards and putting credchits into the hand and sabacc pots.

"So, Skywalker," Dankin said. "Had any—" he wiggled his fingers in the air "—Force intuitions lately? Mara's been having more and more of them of late; they came in handy a few times on our trip out around the Outer Rim."

"Really?" His lips curled into a smile, "I'd like to hear about that later if you've got time," replied Luke, thinking of Mara. "Every time I've meditated of late I've had the same vision," Luke said.

"Oh? Not of us in danger I hope?" asked Chin cautiously.

Luke shook his head reassuringly. "No. I would have told Karrde already if it were. I've been having a vision of a Jedi and a student doing lightsaber training. One of the practice katas. The student is having trouble performing them properly, and the master is encouraging him to listen to the Force." He sat up in his chair. "'Stretch out and feel the Force. We will show you the way'," he quoted the master from the vision, before chuckling. "He seems less intense than Yoda was."

"Yoda?"

"Picture a small green Nala-frog of a barve, speaking in riddles and whacking you about the knees with a stick." There was a ripple of laughter and surprise that went around the table. "But that seems to be the only vision the Force is showing me," said Luke. "Maybe I'll see more of it as time passes. The Force clearly is trying to tell me something, I'm just not sure what it is yet." He shook his head. "I feel like I'm missing something obvious, to be honest."

"Maybe you are," said Chin. He drew a card, exchanging it for another. "Or maybe there's another piece you're still missing that you need to put it all together." He nodded at Dankin, who anted up and exchanged a card of his own. "I bet Mara could figure it out," Chin added. "Never seen a puzzle she couldn't solve with brains, beauty, or brawn. Usually brawn."

"Probably," Luke laughed, feeling his lips twitch into a fond smile. "Maybe when things with the Smugglers' Alliance are more stabilized I'll see if I can get her help with it for a while." He paid the requisite fee to continue the hand and exchanged cards, drawing one of the Idiots in the deck.

"What do Jedi do, anyway?" asked Dankin.

Luke considered that. "I've been asking myself that question a lot lately," he said.

"Well, you and Mara killed that C'baoth scuzzer," Dankin said. "So really all I know about Jedi is that you've got mind powers," he wiggled his fingers, "and fight bad guys who also have daaaark—" Dankin wiggled his fingers again "—mind powers."

"Nah," said Chin. "Jedis is about finding ways to solve disputes when no one else can. Resolving disagreements without violence." He used his free hand to wave an expansive circle in the air. "Being able to see the big picture, that other people can't, and find a way to go forward. And when for they can't," he continued slyly, "they have a laser sword."

"Older smugglers have stories about Jedi," added Faughn. "Back before the Empire. You wouldn't have any trouble with them as long as you weren't hurting anyone, even if you were doing things that were illegal. But if you hurt someone and a Jedi was around…" she plucked a card from the deck and tossed one of hers away, "you would have trouble. They said Black Sun and the Hutts weren't so strong under the Old Republic, because of the Jedi."

"Personally," said Karrde from the doorway, standing just out of the radius of the light illuminating the table. They all jumped, even Luke—without the Force, he hadn't had forewarning of Karrde's presence. "I always heard the Jedi were the guardians of the Republic, but to be honest when asked people didn't usually know what that meant. By the end, most only remembered seeing them on the front lines of the Clone Wars."

The bet had come back to Luke again and, finally liking his hand, he was in. "I've heard all these stories too, and ones much less complimentary," he said, getting rid of the Idiot and drawing another card. "I imagine they are all true, from a certain point of view."

"What is yours?" asked Karrde.

"I haven't decided yet," said Luke. "I'm still trying to figure that out. I hope, though, that in the end the answer is we're all of the good things and as few of the bad as possible." He glanced over at Karrde. "I'm not foolish enough to think there won't be any bad. As Leia's told me over and over, good intentions aren't enough for good outcomes."

His cards glittered, and everyone at the table took a breath as the characteristic element of sabacc—the possibility that all the cards could randomly change to any other card at any time—took hold. Luke found himself holding a pure twenty-three and flashed it to his now-disheartened tablemates, grinning a Solo-taught smirk as he raked up both the hand and the sabacc pots, adding them to the growing pile of credchits next to him.

"Speaking of outcomes, did I mention I used to play quite a bit with my squadron?"

Chin glared at the ysalamiri. "Oi, Thrawnie the Useless, you're lettin' me down out 'ere," he complained. The ysalamiri ignored him, but pivoted its head towards Luke and gave a long slow blink.

Karrde pulled out the free chair and sat. "Deal me in. I want to see if I can out-bluff a Jedi."

"Are you sure this is absolutely necessary?"

"I remember what you looked like coming out of the forest on Myrkr," Chin replied, applying the last touches on Luke's makeup. "Terrible disguise, that was. Far worse than this. And it had to hurt."

"Mara took as much delight in applying it to me then as you're taking now," Luke grumbled.

"Whatever works," Chin laughed. "We all think she needs a little more fun in her life." He gripped Luke's cheek and pulled on it, then stepped back and admired his work. "There. You look nothing like Luke Skywalker, Jedi Knight." He drew his arm out with a flourish. "B'hold, and weep, the galaxy's noble 'ero has a new face."

Luke glared at him, then stepped over so he could see the floor-length mirror that rested along the wall of Chin's quarters. "Huh," he said, tilting his head to the side. The touches of makeup shifted his features enough that his resemblance to Luke Skywalker could plausibly be overlooked as a coincidence, and with the colored lenses and hair dye, combined with the slight change in the pigmentation of his skin, it might just work.

"Here," Chin said, handing him a uniform. "One junior Lieutenant in the service of the Corporate Sector Transit Authority." He also handed him a datapad. "And the rest of your identity packet. Ghent's work, but I made a few tweaks for realism and dramatic effect."

"Dramatic effect, huh," Luke muttered. He examined the datapad, reading quickly. It had been a while since he'd been sent on an infiltration—not counting the mission he and Iella had done for Cracken on Corellia six months before—and this reminded him of nothing more than a last-minute briefing before an ill-conceived intelligence op.

"And I should warn you, the Capt' likes to improvise." Chin leaned in. "He's got more dramatic flair than the rest of us put together, though Dankin tries real hard."

"Great," Luke replied with a sigh. "Anything else I should know?"

Chin held up a comlink, then a datapad, and then finally Luke's blaster. "Well, this is a blaster," he said, gesturing at the weapon. "The trigger is here, and this is the safety—"

Luke scooped the blaster out of his hands, checked the charge and gas canister for damage, and holstered it. He was particularly careful to make sure that Mara's electroscope was firmly attached and undamaged. "Do you give all your guests such sterling personal service, or do they have to pay extra?"

"Can't rightly say. We don't have many." Chin adopted a thoughtful expression. "But we haven't locked you up yet this time." He patted Luke's arm reassuringly, abruptly becoming more serious. "Karrde doesn't usually do these missions himself, but on this one he feels a certain personal obligation to take the risks. We're not gettin' paid by NRI, this is pure charity—Karrde is trying to repay his debts to Gillespee, and this is his way of doing that." He lifted an eyebrow. "That's another way of saying bring him back safe, hee?"

Luke adjusted his new comlink and slid the datapad into its spot on his belt. "I get it, Chin. He may not be my boss, but I consider him a friend too. And I know Mara does. If anything happened to him, she'd find ways to make me miserable." He offered a confident smile he'd learned to use before ordering the Rogues into battle. "We can handle it. This one's not so tough, I've done worse."

"I remember," Chin nodded. "Also, when you get back we're definitely messing with your hair. We'll give you a share of the profits and everything. You did win the sabacc pot, so you owe us."

"You and Janson would get along like an orphanage on fire," Luke muttered. "Vultures, all of you. I'll think about it, but I'm not promising anything." He finished adjusting the outfit, looking himself over in the mirror. He looked like a moderately-incompetent, too-young security officer from the Outer Rim. Perfect. "How long until we reach Rendili?"

The Wild Karrde gave a smooth jolt common to the drop out of hyperspace. "My Smuggler senses tell me just about now," Chin said with a grin.

The Rendili system was one of the oldest shipbuilding systems in the galaxy. It wasn't the oldest—that honor belonged to Kuat, where Kuat Drive Yards had been founded 25,000 years ago. But the Rendili Hyperworks were nearly as old, some 20,000 years old. During the Old Republic, the system had been the heart of the shipbuilding industry, out-competing Kuat and acquiring multiple extremely lucrative contracts, including the contract for the Katana Dreadnaught, which had been exclusively produced at the Hyperworks. It continued to be vital under the Empire, but the largest contracts inevitably went to other shipbuilders, leaving Rendili back in its traditional role of Kuat's little brother.

But Rendili was nonetheless still one of the busiest systems in the galaxy, and the Hyperworks—which consisted of thousands of dispersed construction platforms that stretched through the entire system, mostly clustered where the system's asteroid belt (long since mined to exhaustion) had once been—were busy, even if they weren't Super-class Star Destroyer busy.

Colonel Demetrius Mendelholm was, like most of the station's staff, a Rendili native. Technically he was a part of the Imperial military, but that was only a technicality—he had been recruited, trained, and served in the Rendili Military Services Committee's Designated Task Force, under the direct command of the Arch-Provost. Which was Rendili's unnecessary cumbersome way of saying the Rendili System Defense Forces. At some point, Mendelholm suspected, the last of Hyperworks' Imperial contracts would expire—they no longer built as many Victory-class Star Destroyers as they used to, and the design was approaching obsolescence—and Rendili would simply dissolve its formal ties with the Empire.

Until then, he had to deal with the actual representatives of the Imperial military constantly hovering over his shoulder. Colonel Farwell, the Imperial commander and overseer of Station 51X-9525, walked into the station's security center and nodded at him. "Colonel," he greeted.

"Colonel," Mendelholm echoed. "How's the caf this morning?"

"Terrible."

"Is it ever not terrible?"

"Not in my experience."

Farwell's clipped, aristocratic Coruscanti accent was outrageously annoying, and Mendelholm hated his guts. The Empire insisted on having oversight over 51X-9525 starting about a year or two ago, although why they bothered he had no idea. Once upon a time, the facility had been at the cutting edge of research and development, but the bevy of scientists and researchers and technicians and engineers down in the guts of the station hadn't produced anything in ages, and all Farwell ever did was make his life miserable, drink their station caf, and carry around an undeserved, smug sense of superiority.

Mendelholm couldn't wait until Rendili finally declared its independence. "We've got a freighter scheduled to pick up some cargo today," he said. "An Action IV. I've sent the specs over to you for review."

Farwell picked a datapad up off his station, then tabbed through his messages. "What are they here for?" he asked without looking up.

There was the slow alert sound that indicated an arriving ship. Mendelholm turned to his right, looking out the observation window over the bay as the freighter came slowly into the hangar, settling to the deck with a neat, skillful landing. He looked back to his own datapad. "Says here they're picking up a variety of spare parts for Vicstars. Must be a ship out in the Corporate Sector with a sudden shortage."

"Why are they picking them up here?" asked Farwell with a frown, paying full attention to him for the first time that day. For the first time in a month, Mendelholm thought sourly. "There are at least a hundred other platforms in the system they could pick up those parts from."

"Yes," Mendelholm explained slowly, trying to keep his contempt out of his voice and not quite succeeding, "but we build some of those components here, and we'll have to ship them out sooner or later. The Vice-Provost's office assigned this freighter to us."

"I don't like it," Farwell muttered.

Mendelholm wanted to put his face in his hands. Farwell never liked anything that made life easier. "Look, they're only sending two people to help with the loading process," he said, trying to sound soothing. "Our people will load all the packages onto the conveyors, and they won't go anywhere sensitive." Not that there's anything sensitive left on this worthless hunk of spinning metal. "It will be fine."

"I still don't like it," Farwell repeated, and Mendelholm wondered how badly a murder conviction would set his career back. It couldn't be that bad. Besides, maybe he'd find ten to twenty years on Kessel relaxing. At least there wouldn't be any Imperial stooges floating around his office, chirping at him like the most annoying of Candorian magpies. "They can come aboard, but I insist that they stay here with us for the entire duration of their stay."

"Fine, fine," sighed Mendelholm. "I'll have them brought here as soon as they arrive. We can make smalltalk with them." I'm sure they'll be better conversation than you. But I've had better conversations with Threepio droids. He lifted his comlink. "Trooper GX-106, please have our guests brought to Security once they've passed their contraband checks." He very carefully did not scowl at Farwell. He did start considering new careers. I always wanted to be a chef when I was a child. Is it too late to go that route now? I know there's a decent culinary school in Ervinger. But what's required for admission to culinary school? I bet—

His train of thought was interrupted by a loud, robust conversation. "Well, my boy, that was quite a good performance on the landing," an older man, greying at the temples was saying energetically. He had an odd accent, distinctive yet not quite placeable, and wore a Corporate Sector Security uniform. "You landed the ship without so much as a scratch! It was a perfect performance. I daresay you performed even better than expectations." The man stopped and offered Mendelholm and Farwell an enormous grin. "You two must be in charge of this station and its security! It's my pleasure to meet you. My name is Captain Nail Dokket, and this here is my new helmsman Derek—"

The younger man, perhaps in his early twenties, with dark hair and eyes, looked horribly embarrassed. Mendelholm couldn't blame him, and he would've said something in greeting except that he couldn't get a word in.

"—Derek is from Belderone, but I picked him on Corellia on our way out from the Corporate Sector," the older man was going on, seemingly losing none of his enthusiasm. "I didn't think much of him at first, but my niece seems to like him so I decided to give him a chance."

Mendelholm almost laughed at the suddenly frozen expression on the younger man's face. Sheer, unadulterated terror had crossed his expression and his cheeks had started to turn quite red. Mendelholm glanced over at Farwell, who was watching the exchange with a sort of dazed, distracted disbelief. Mendelholm understood—he was having a hard time looking away himself.

"It turns out he can really fly! Not surprising, everyone from Belderone is a born pilot, that's what my Uncle Drayvan says anyway. I wouldn't really trust Drayvan, though, he's a crook. But in this case he's right! Derek is quite a pilot, if our trip on this run is any indication. I decided to take him in to see what it looks like to pick up cargo—and speaking of," the man handed Mendelholm a datapad, "here's the list of the items we'll be picking up. Serial numbers and designations."

Amused, Mendelholm took the datapad and started inputting the codes into the system. There was movement out of the corner of his eye and he looked up but… no, there was nothing important there. He shook his head a bit and resumed his work.

"And that's it!" Captain Dokket was saying, with enthusiastic gesticulation. "You just tell them what you're here to pick up, you should have a full manifest prepared—Rendili is much more precise and competent than most of the rest of the galaxy, and you can count on your manifest to be valid when you arrive. It's not like cargo transfers in Corellia, which are very hit and miss—some runs it'll be smooth as Ottegan silk, other runs it'll be as tough as Athiss rough-grass." The older man turned towards the younger, putting one of his hands on both of Derek's shoulders. "Now, tell me." He leaned in, and Mendelholm again found he couldn't look away from the unfolding drama. "Young man, what intentions do you have towards my niece?"

The sheer terror that had been on Derek's face earlier redoubled, and all the color drained out of his face. "Is … now really the best time for us to discuss this?" he managed. "Shouldn't it wait until we're back on the ship?"

"On the contrary. When else will we get the chance to talk alone without one of the crew listening in? They're born eavesdroppers, every one of them." Dokket jerked his thumb towards Mendelholm and Farwell. "These two probably don't care, and they'll forget all about us by mid-afternoon."

That was unlikely, thought Mendelholm, grinning. He leaned back in his chair, caught Farwell also unable to turn away. He was quite sure they'd be talking about this for years. They'd probably even be interested in hearing about it in culinary school.

Through the observation window, the conveyor belts were now rolling, and large cargo boxes were being brought across the floor of the hangar and into the Action IV's cargo bay. It's large, mouth-like cargo door was dropped open, and the large packages of spare parts were being mechanically moved from the floor conveyor onto one that lined the cargo door, which took each of the large packages and ushered them into the freighter's maw. For other deliveries, Mendelholm would more diligently watch the process unfold, but the drama of Captain Dokket was not to be missed.

Derek didn't answer, looking away and visibly trying to come up with an answer. His expression was pinched with fear and embarrassment and focus, and Mendelholm had to lean in to hear. "Well, Captain…" the young man started slowly, finding himself quite trapped in the older's gaze. When he did speak there was a bit more strength to it than Mendelholm had expected, and he found himself rooting for the young man. "I think that is up to her."

"But it is something you want." Dokket's tone was confident and certain, and his gaze bored into Derek with a calm certainty that ought to have made the shorter man melt. To his credit, Derek didn't back down or look away—or deny the accusation. Dokket nodded once, as if his suspicions were confirmed, and then turned back to the two Colonels. "My apologies for the drama, gentlemen, but this was the only time the young man and I could have this conversation without interruption."

There was a loud buzzer and all four of them looked up. The cargo transfer was complete. Mendelholm took the datapad which had listed the ship's requisitions manifest and handed it back to Dokket. "It appears you've paid in advance for the cargo, and it should all be loaded now."

Derek's expression was pinched with concentration and worry, and Mendelholm offered him a reassuring smile. "Safe journey."

Dokket threw his arm around Derek's shoulders and they turned towards the door.

Mendelholm turned to Farwell. "That was strange."

"Think the kid will survive the trip back to the Corporate Sector?"

The question was so out of character for Farwell that Meldelholm gave him a second look. The Imperial Colonel had a stupefied expression, but there was a hint of fondness to it, and Meldelholm thought that perhaps Farwell hoped young Derek would survive the trip back. And maybe even survive dating Dokket's niece. It was, Mendelholm thought, probably the first time he'd ever been in agreement with Farwell since the nerf had been assigned to his station. "I don't know, but I wish him luck."

Karrde leaned towards Luke, huddling near him and pretending to murmur something as Artoo-Detoo wheeled—as quietly as the little astromech could manage—around in front of them. The two Colonels still seemed not to have noticed the droid, and he and Luke were so close to getting back out of the security office.

They'd had to come in here. There was no way for them to simply steal the package they sought, not with all the security mechanisms between the hangar bay and the secret research facilities in the deeper levels. But they didn't have to—they simply needed to requisition it through the Empire's own main station computer. Thanks to Karrde's informant, they knew exactly which designation they needed to requisition, they just needed to make the requisition from an authorized terminal. That had been Mara's final contribution to this little mission of his—computer access codes to the Imperial computer mainframe, which had allowed Artoo-Detoo to slice into the system, tell the computer to ship a classified piece of technology up from its location in the system's deep storage system, and deliver it to the hangar where the Wild Karrde was patiently waiting. After that, the automated loading system, which would have no way of knowing that the perfectly legitimate instructions it had just been given were anything more than what they appeared to be, would do the rest.

So far, Luke's mind-trick had kept the droid out of their awareness. If they moved fast enough, maybe it would stay that way. He triggered the door and the droid wheeled out, Karrde and Luke following, Karrde's arm still thrown around his shoulders.

"That wasn't what we rehearsed," Luke hissed once they were outside, heading down the corridor back towards the Wild Karrde.

"True," Karrde admitted quietly. "But you said the distraction would work best if there was real emotion involved. This worked much better than anything we discussed." They walked along the corridor behind Artoo, Luke depressing the awareness of the various Imperial personnel in the facility, allowing them to focus on him and Karrde, but keeping Artoo out of their awareness. As far as they were concerned, the little droid wasn't even there, and as most people paid little attention to droids in the first place, it wasn't that hard to push their awareness fully away.

Luke spared enough of his attention to continue the conversation, his tone accusing. "You wouldn't have done that if M—if your niece was here."

"You'd be surprised. She's quite adept at dramatic improvisation. Though, usually with some sort of weapon for additional punctuation…"

The crew of the Wild Karrde stood outside the large container that they had managed to secret out of Rendili Station 51X-9525. The Wild Karrde had managed to slip out of the system and back into hyperspace as quietly and innocuously as it had entered it; the entire visit had taken less time than a usual cargo run. There are benefits to collaboration with New Republic Intelligence, Karrde thought with a smile.

Dankin hefted a large mechanical crowbar, and he and Chin went to work opening the box. They pried off the security latch first, then went to work on the box itself.

"Are you sure you don't want me to just cut it open?" Luke asked.

"No, that's all right. I don't want to risk whatever is inside being damaged, and we don't know how far it is from the inside of the container," Karrde said.

Luke had never quite stopped glowering at him, but he'd get over it. It wasn't as if Karrde really needed confirmation that Luke had feelings for Mara, that was plain to anyone who saw them together for more than five minutes. Well, anyone except Mara apparently. But he had certainly enjoyed watching the normally completely calm and controlled Jedi twitch like a marionette when confronted with it. Besides, Mara was one of his people. That made her happiness one of his priorities.

With a grunt, Dankin and Chin finished opening the box. "Oh no," said Faughn, groaning and covering her mouth.

Dankin and Chin shared an unhappy expression, then both looked to their boss. "It's empty, Capt'," said Chin. "There's nothing in here."

"Is that right?" Karrde asked calmly, peering into the box. It was, indeed, empty. "Excellent."

His crew stared at him in confusion, and Karrde produced a remote that he and Mara had retrieved in the Corporate Sector from a certain disgruntled Rendili StarDrive employee. Smiling, he pressed the button with flourish.

A panel on the side of the box beeped in response, and an enormous contraption abruptly appeared in the empty box. Faughn yelped in surprise, and Dankin and Chin both jumped back, Dankin holding the crowbar like a battleaxe. Sadly, Skywalker didn't seem at all surprised. "A working cloaking device," the Jedi said.

"Yes," Karrde said smugly. "A working cloaking device."