Chapter Nineteen

Vorru jerked back in surprise as Eliezer cursed. "I just lost the connection to the HoloNet!" the Drall exclaimed, his beady eyes searching out the holocomm on the floor above. He started in his chair as he saw what Vorru and the Tevas-kaar had already seen: the blue lightsaber now carving down through the wall one floor above. "Oh, sithspit," the Drall breathed in horror.

The Tevas-kaar was the least surprised. His body position shifted and he drew his lightsaber, igniting the blue-white blade with a snap-hiss. "Get behind me," he said, his resonant voice echoing under the mask he wore.

Eliezer was still scrabbling out of his chair while also trying to do something on the terminal when a foot kicked in a door that had been camouflaged into the wall, cut open by the lightsaber. The hidden door slammed against the interior wall with a horrendous, echoing bang. For a moment all was silent, and then a flicker of motion on the floor above drew Vorru's attention. He squinted, trying to see in the dark, and stepped back involuntarily as the slim, feminine figure rose from the floor, a blue blade extending from the lightsaber hilt held securely in her hand, the hum of the weapon filling the silence of the room.

He'd snapped off a shot before he'd even realized he had, survival instinct and fear both screaming at him to strike first. It was a mistake. The woman's lightsaber caught the blaster bolt with an economical movement, tilting to the side to intercept it. The bolt ricocheted back towards them, blowing a hole in the computer terminal just inches above Eliezer's head. Sparks and flame ignited and Eliezer's gasp of agony and frantic matting at his fur told Vorru that firing a second time would be another mistake.

"Prepare for evacuation," the Tevas-kaar said firmly, one of his hands pulling the flailing Eliezer behind him, then pushing both Eliezer and Vorru towards the spiral stairs down to the first floor of the safehouse, never taking his eyes off the woman.

Vorru got his first good look at her and had no idea who she was. She had striking red-gold hair—a relative rarity, but hardly distinguishing—and youth. One of Isard's, Vorru guessed, although the idea of Isard training a Force adept was almost too ridiculous to seriously contemplate. But who she was and how she'd come to be there were questions for later. Eliezer had gotten at least some of the funds in Isard's black account, and even a fraction of the credits would be more than enough to serve his immediate needs, which meant now they just had to survive.

Hurry, Roeder, he thought as the woman stalked down the spiral staircase after them, her lightsaber held in a comfortable, confident defensive grip. His only reassurance was that the Tevas-kaar looked equally confident. Who knows, Fliry, he thought almost casually. Maybe you'll finally find out if that armor of his is purely for show or actually serves a purpose.

Mara kicked through the emergency exit she'd carved free with her lightsaber, hearing the heavy metal slam into the wall on the inside, the bang sending trembles through the building. She held up a hand to Madine, telling him to wait, paused two seconds, and then rolled into the room, confident she'd avoid any blaster fire. She came up in a crouch, rising as she re-ignited her lightsaber, and it was then she heard the echoing hum of the equally blue blade one level down.

There were three people down there. The sight of a Drall was surprising; the small alien was clacking at a computer terminal with a distracted expression. Standing behind the Drall there was an older human holding a blaster in his hand; he actually looked familiar, though she couldn't immediately place him. The barrel of his weapon was snapping up towards her and snarled, sending a bolt zinging towards her. She casually deflected it back, sending it through the computer terminal's interface.

Her focus was on the third figure. He was very tall and clearly powerfully built, wearing bronze armor that covered him from head to toe. It was a light armor, not appearing particularly protective, but appearances weren't always indicative of usefulness. Most distinctive was the white mask, carved to give a furred appearance, and the calm brown eyes that gazed through that mask at her. He held a lightsaber, blue blade looking quite like her own, comfortably in his hand.

Skywalker had told her he thought it was important that they practice lightsaber sparring, but hadn't been sure why. She was pretty sure that she now knew why.

She stepped onto the staircase, not saying anything, her gaze on the tall figure. He ushered his two companions behind him—the one armed with the blaster didn't try shooting her again—and hurried them down the spiral stairs towards the first floor. Beyond the spiral staircase, framing his back, was an enormous Imperial emblem, which hung three-stories high along the external wall.

Dozens of times Mara had stalked after her prey. All those corrupt governors and administrators, crooked nobles… She had been the Emperor's Hand, and when she approached, her slow and steady and purposeful step had carried justice closer. Some had bartered, others begged; justified or cowered. Occasionally—rarely—they had even fought. They had known, all of them, that the game was up. But she was not the Emperor's Hand anymore, and none of her previous targets had ever held a lightsaber in his hand.

"New Republic armed forces!" she heard General Madine yell from the floor above as he took up a sheltered position at the top of the stairs. "Throw down your weapons!"

The armored man didn't seem inclined to obey; the other two figures continued to hurry down the stairs. Madine took a shot at them, the stun blast charring the Imperial iconography behind them. They hit the floor, ducking behind a heavy table; the older, armed man fired back blindly, sending two shots into the ceiling. Dust glittered in the air as it descended from the damage done by his wayward fire.

Mara never even noticed. Her focus had narrowed to the Force adept before her; as blaster fire continued between Madine and his two elderly foes, she gazed solely at the very tall man before her. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to surrender peaceably," she asked sarcastically.

Unsurprisingly, the tall man didn't reply, but she could feel a sort of grim, sympathetic amusement hovering between them.

He didn't feel like Vader or Palpatine had; there was no persistent sense of menace, no suffusive chill. But neither did the other man have Skywalker's calming presence, his warmth or light, purity tempered by pain and experience. Skywalker was the child of Tatooine moisture farmers at heart, one who had never stopped dreaming even after all the pain and uncertainty; one who'd had the temerity to hope and dream even more because of it.

The man who stood before her was no Skywalker. She wasn't sure what he was.

But there was no time for her to ruminate. Harsh tongues of blaster fire licked between their companions, and the bronze figure's lightsaber reached out and deflected one of Madine's bolts back towards him, sending the General dodging to the floor with a grunt. Mara stepped forward and the blue-white blade flicked towards her, humming with purpose. She caught the blade with her own, deflecting it away, shifting her footwork to keep his attention on her and away from Madine.

They faced each other, twinned blue lightsabers humming, gleaming in the dark as the Imperial crest hung from the ceiling beyond them. The Force sang, empowering and encouraging, and warning her that time—for whatever reason—was not on her side. She struck.

Their lightsabers buzzed and hummed, blue-white blade clashing with blue-white blade. He was taller than she was, and stronger, and he was well aware of both facts, his blows endowed with more pure power than she could hope to produce. But she was faster, more nimble, and power was wasted (and indeed, could be dangerous to the wielder) if it did not find a target.

Against Skywalker, when they had sparred, she had been aggressive almost to the point of recklessness, taking advantage of her physical conditioning to put him under siege. But Skywalker had merely deflected her advances and snuck in occasional blows, light taps really. They had all healed by the next day, but if they'd been using lightsabers she would've lost a limb. That lesson firmly learned, she now fought more like Skywalker; reserved, focusing on her positioning, making sure she was aware of not just where she was standing but of where she would be standing next.

He came at her with a potent downward slash; she flowed backwards, shifting her weight as she dodged the blow and sent her lightsaber clashing against his. His strength prevented her from batting his blade aside for a quick lunge, and their blades screeched as they ground against one another, his forcing her back. She spun away, feet moving with a dancer's grace.

Above them, Madine was back on his feet, his custom blaster spitting fire at the other two intruders. The Imperial banner standing on the three-story wall had caught fire in two places, flames licking dangerously upwards, curling the hard edges of the Imperial crest. She could hear the white-haired human hiding with the Drall talking on a comlink, but she didn't have the time or attention to spare enhancing her senses to listen; Madine was also shouting in his comlink, no doubt calling the commando reinforcements he'd promised would be available.

Mara dodged left, avoiding another powerful downward slash. Her opponent's lightsaber carved through the chair that the Drall had been sitting in, tip of the blade catching the computer terminal and splitting the monitor in two. A crash of electronics equipment sent a cascade of sparks down over her, and Mara rolled away, coming up on her toes and springing forward for a daring attack. He was ready for her, blocking her lunge with the center of his blade and using his strength to physically push her back. If not for years of dance training she might've fallen, but she caught her balance and dodged his retaliatory stroke, hearing his lightsaber buzz alarmingly close.

Her foe backed away, taking slow steps down the spiral stairs to the first floor, never turning fully away from her. She pursued, and with a leap she landed on the first floor of the apartment. She deflected a blaster bolt back towards the old man as she landed; he didn't try shooting at her again.

Her danger sense was screaming now, but she already knew there was danger—and then she saw it. The armored Force adept had made a mistake as he swept at her and she reacted to the offered opening, thrusting forward with a lunge and flicking the tip of her lightsaber up to sever his sword arm at the elbow—

Her lightsaber made contact with the man's bronze armor and its blade abruptly vanished, its hum dying with a sickening mechanical spasm.

The moment of sheer shock and disbelief at the abrupt betrayal of her weapon mingled with sudden, intense melancholy, because she was finished. She was extended, defenseless, and within easy reach of a skilled swordsman with a lit blade.

It was odd, she thought in the heartbeat between moments. Serving as the Emperor's Hand she'd always expected to die in his service, had known it could happen at any moment, but since she'd been freed from his voice she'd come to believe that she would have more time.

The redheaded Jedi—for that was what she had to be, she was too skilled and too well trained to be a mere padawan learner, as he had first assumed—slipped her lightsaber through his defenses. It carved up to catch his elbow, and ought to have ended the fight right there.

But the Tevas-kaar's armor was spun with cortosis ore. His order, tied to Tavira through debts of fealty neither he nor they would easily break, had mastered its secrets a century before. When he had first come to the Jensaarai, when they had found him, his soul mangled by the competing teachings of his fallen Master and his subsequent keepers, they had not trusted him. But he'd earned their trust, joined their order, taken a title appropriate to their ways. They had taught the secret of their armor, the importance of their anonymity, and the vital truths that they held so dear.

A lightsaber would not pierce his armor. At least, not without repeated strikes. Clearly, the Jedi had not known his armor for what it was.

They hovered in that moment; she had extended in her vital lunge. His blue-white blade hummed, a simple stroke away from cleaving through her shoulder and chest. She had brilliant green eyes and he could see both in them and in her Force sense that she knew as well as he did that she could not get out of his reach faster than he could bring the killing stroke. Her moment of frozen horror would not hold her for long; it being useless did not mean she should not try. After all, there was always a chance he would make a mistake. She was already starting to twist away, moving in a futile attempt to perhaps sacrifice an arm instead of her life.

Her Force sense sang with regret.

He hesitated, and that hesitation cost him. His focus so inerrantly on the Jedi, he had forgotten her companion. His blade moved without thought to intercept the blaster bolt aimed at his head, deflecting it back; he deflected a second, and a third, taking a step back to improve his body posture—

The Jedi had rolled away. A double-tap on the stud of her lightsaber and it sprang back into existence to her obvious relief. Instead of his blade carving through her, she caught the killing stroke and batted it back, then retreated towards the stairs, covering the man who had just saved her life; she reflected Vorru's blaster fire back towards the Moff, bolts leaving embers in the apartment's furniture, each one slowly stoking greater flames.

Mara reached Madine's side in two quick steps. He was sprawled on his back, using one of the apartment's comfortable lounge chairs for cover. His armor had absorbed a lot of the energy of the blaster bolt that had saved Mara's life, but not all of it, and his pained expression and blood-soaked tunic told the rest of the story. He offered her a painfully wry, genuinely amused smile, gasping as she peeled off his armor to put pressure on the wound. "T-this is why Mon Mothma doesn't let me have any fun," he bit out as she fumbled. "You never know when you're going to run into a lightsaber," he hissed as she applied a compress, taking a hitching breath. "How bad is it?"

"You'll live," Mara replied shortly, risking a glance from behind the chair. She pulled out her blaster pistol and fired a few quick shots in the direction of the now huddled trio on the other side of the living room, who were hiding behind a table turned over onto its side. She put a few more shots into it for good measure, making sure they kept their heads down. "But I think you're out of the fight for now." She paused, holding the pressure on the wound, wishing the Force had more convenient tools to offer for healing than the healing trance. "Thanks," she muttered, her eyes flicking to meet the General's. "For saving my life."

"Oh, that," Madine gasped, his hands squeezing tight, gritting his teeth. "What happened to your—" he flailed as she applied more pressure to the wound "—ooof… t-to your lightsaber?"

"I don't know," she grated. "I hit him and it just vanished on me." Memories of the Imperial Palace, of the material that Palpatine had used to line the walls around his most important working and living spaces, material that would prevent a lightsaber from cutting through it… she didn't think she'd ever learned its name. "His armor must protect against lightsabers," she said, trying not to reflect on just how close she'd just come to death. There would hopefully be time to be philosophical about it later.

"Reinforcements… should be here soon," Madine assured her, his expression slackening a bit.

Indeed, outside Mara could hear the sound of sirens. Airspeeders from the Coruscant Constabulary, probably… they would've been dispatched when the neighbors started reporting the sound of blaster fire, and maybe called automatically by the building's fire detection system. Flames had now fully consumed the banner with the Imperial crest, sending embers down in a mockery of a Tanaabian firelight show. Other, smaller fires were burning elsewhere, a legacy of errant or deflected blaster bolts. "Sounds like that's them now," she said, leaning out from behind the chair to fire a few more shots over the table the trio of enemies were hiding behind.

Except they weren't there anymore. The three of them had moved as one, dodging away from the large wall and its blazing, hanging Imperial banner, ducking into the apartment's bedroom. She frowned, staring after them in confusion. There is no way to escape the apartment from there, so why?

The sounds of sirens were louder now; she could hear them screaming just on the other side of the apartment wall. It sounded like at least three airspeeders; the vibrations from their heavy repulsorlifts shook the entire building at this proximity—

She reacted without thinking. Grabbing Madine, she dragged him and threw him down in the kitchenette, protected by the heavily reinforced island counter, then hit the ground next to him and covered her head. There was a moment's pause, the only sounds the hum from outside and Madine's labored breathing, and then a barrage of energy fire tore the apartment apart.

Three airspeeders, each one armed with vehicle-mounted anti-personnel cannons, opened fire as one. Red lasers burned through the exterior wall, blasting through the apartment and vaporizing what was left of the furniture. The smell of fresh night air and burning ozone came in as one as the wall shredded under the barrage, lasers ripping through transparisteel and the table and the chairs, through even the apartment's far interior wall. Mara could now see the three airspeeders—marked in Coruscant Constabulary colors—hovering over the deep chasm that separated the towering apartment building with the adjacent ones, flickers of starlight and windows across the urban canyon as every person in a kilometer radius woke up as one.

Clearly, they did not actually belong to the Constabulary. Either that, or the Constabulary had been bought. Both were real possibilities.

The barrage stopped, leaving the apartment fully aflame. Mara poked her head up higher, saw the trio of intruders heading towards the newly made void in the wall; a nondescript airspeeder had approached, avoiding the falling permacrete and transparisteel to sidle up with the building, its side door gaping open. They were helping the Drall into the vehicle—he looked worse for wear—while the bronze armored Force adept held his lightsaber up protectively. She took a shot at them; the armored figure deflected it down into the floor.

Madine was recovered enough to be on his comlink. "Coruscant Control," he gasped painfully as he held his link up to speak into it, his breathing labored. "This is… General Madine… require immediate military support and lockdown—"

Then Madine's comm cut in over his transmission; a steely female voice with a Corellian accent: "Authorization Vermillion-Niner-Four. Friendlies attempting main entry. Keep your heads down."

The apartment's front door burst open and the thump of combat boots resounded from the hallway. A human woman in light armor and a combat helmet entered, sweeping the room with a blaster rifle while a red-skinned, sharp-horned Devaronian came in hot on her heels lugging a nasty heavy-barreled repeating blaster. While the human posted up on the side of the large hole and began laying down sharp bursts of covering fire, the Devaronian leveled his cannon at the center of the gaping hole in the apartment wall, took careful aim, and pressed the firing stud. Four heavy bursts drilled into the rightmost airspeeder, punching holes in the canopy, the heavy turret, and the vehicle's gunner. Mara focused through the Force, sensing other New Republic forces arriving, and a loud panicked buzz from the civilians scattering through and out of the building.

Out the window, two tiny forms suddenly leapt from the third story landing platform, trailing slender wires, and landed on the middle airspeeder. They were small, little larger than Jawas, but the ferocious aliens had nimble balance and incredible strength. Noghri, Mara realized.

The airspeeder's gunner was gutted before he could react; the Noghri who had killed him heaved his corpse into the urban canyons below and commandeered the cannon, swinging it to bear on the other speeders. His partner had blasted a hole in the vehicle's canopy, popped it open, and slaughtered the three men inside with a vibroblade almost before they had realized he was there. The airspeeder swayed, twisting as the Noghri fought for control.

The third airspeeder opened fire again, and the heavy blaster bolts forced the woman to spin back and drop to her belly while the Devaronian hustled into cover next to Madine. Mara grabbed Madine's heavy blaster and swung it over the counter, firing back.

The old man, the Drall, and the bronze-armored Force adept had vanished along with the nondescript airspeeder. Mara wasn't even sure how long it had been since they'd made their escape.

"Hey General," the Devaronian said to Madine casually. "Been a while since I last saw you in the field. Looks like you had a blast."

"Shut up, Kapp," Madine coughed, wincing and holding a hand to his wound. "I thought you were detailed to Intelligence."

"Still am," Kapp replied with a devilish grin that faded when he noted the extent of Madine's injury. "You don't look so good. Should we call the medics?" He stripped a bacta patch off of his belt and slapped it on Madine's chest, covering the wound.

"Already did," Madine groaned. "My shock troopers should… ugh… be arriving any minute now. But… thanks… for the backup," he wheezed exhaustedly, taking long breaths between words.

"Anytime," Kapp said half-cheerfully, easing the heavy gun around for a few more shots. The fire in the apartment still raged, and out the now open wall Mara could hear additional sirens, these from the planetary fire and rescue service.

Mara finally started to come down from her adrenaline high when she heard the booms of twin Novaldexx engines. A pair of A-wings screamed by outside, rattling every window in a three kilometer radius. The fact that Rebel ships could evoke a sense of ease in her was not something Mara wanted to unpack just then.

She watched with a rattled detachment as the airspeeders tried to make a run for it, but with A-wings around there was no chance they could get away. Mara just hoped they could down the vehicles without sending them into any inhabited buildings. The Noghri who now controlled the middle airspeeder brought it to land above them.

Finally Madine's commandos arrived, two entire tac-teams of some of the most dangerous-looking sapients Mara had ever seen, some carrying fire suppression gear, and one carrying a medpac who rushed over to Madine. None of them looked visibly concerned, but all of them took up positions around Mara and the general, shielding them both with their bodies and heavy armor.

This, Mara thought with fierce appreciation, is service you can't buy or instill through fear. This is years of pure unadulterated respect and professionalism repaid instantly. And it wasn't earned through lies.

"Clear?" It was the woman who led the first insertion, crouching with her rifle held low—ready and finger off the trigger.

"Clear," Kapp replied confidently. He waved one of the commandos to search the apartment; they fanned out carefully, blasters sweeping the dark corners as lights from the far side of the urban canyon and the sound of sirens peeked through the now gaping hole in the apartment.

Fresh night air swept in, sending a chill over Mara's skin.

The woman rose slightly to look around her, then safed and slung her rifle before moving over, still low, through the smog between them to the nearly indestructible cover the three of them were hiding behind.

Streaks of grime and soot accentuated her fine, pale features, while a wisp of blonde or light brown hair (Mara couldn't tell with all the smoke), emerged from underneath the helmet. She brightened with relief when she saw Kapp with Madine and Mara.

"Hey, Iella," Kapp waved her over, gesturing to the supine Madine. "Look who decided to go on a field operation, and at his age!"

Iella? Mara thought, surprised and giving the woman a second look.

Madine himself didn't even have the grace to look abashed, "Excellent timing… you're Agent Wessiri, correct?" He grimaced, pushing the bacta pack against his wound again, "ouch—remind me to… have Colonel Dendo spend a few months doing budget analysis. I think that's the agreed-upon penalty… for quipping about a General's age…"

The Devaronian grinned, but didn't say anything more as the woman, apparently Mara's partner-in-waiting, the storied Iella Wessiri, finally gave Mara her undivided attention. She had kind eyes, which clashed with her focused expression. "You must be Mara Jade," she said, her gaze meeting Mara's. "I hear we're going to be working together." Iella extended her hand.

Mara took it. Wessiri was younger than she had expected, without the perpetual hard-bitten expression or sinewy age she'd guessed the woman would possess. She certainly looked nothing like Ysanne Isard. "Agent Wessiri," she replied, trying to keep the still aching anxiety from just how close she'd come to death out of her voice and expression. Get it together, Mara. You've come close to death before. "Thank you for the help. I've heard a lot about you."

"All of it good, I hope."

Mara thought about how complimentary Karrde and Cracken had sounded, and of the warm affection she'd heard in Skywalker's voice when he'd talked about the woman who now, finally, stood before her in well-worn tactical gear. "All good," Mara agreed. "From a truly remarkable range of people."

Kapp was taking Madine's vitals; the General looked pale, but his breathing was steady. "Sure you're not a little old for field work, Crix?" Kapp teased him, though his tone didn't quite match the lighthearted words.

"Sure you don't want to spend a month doing the military's budget reports?" Madine grimaced, his breathing growing steadier. "But, ugh, maybe Mon has a point." He shifted uncomfortably; the screaming of engines and the rattling of windows had subsided, so if there was any fighting ongoing, it was more distant now. "I think that was Black Sun," Madine added absently.

Iella's eyebrows both rose. "Black Sun? I didn't see any markings or characteristic tactics."

"I recognized one of the men who was here." Madine sighed, his breathing becoming more relaxed as the bacta soothed the pain from the wound. "Oh, that's better… I doubt there's any Corellian my age who wouldn't recognize Moff Fliry Vorru."

Wessiri's kind eyes went cold and her tone even colder. "Vorru? Are you sure?"

Madine nodded seriously, his expression still pained. "I'm sure. I met him once, before Palpatine removed him as Corellia's Moff, and saw him in plenty of news bulletins when I was younger. He looked older, but it was him, or a damn near likeness. Or a clone, I suppose."

The combat haze started to fade from Mara's mind. She'd never met Vorru—Palpatine had taken him out of circulation before she'd been fully active as the Emperor's Hand—but she knew him by reputation. The Imperial Moffdom had been of two minds about him; either he was a genius, a real rival for the likes of Grand Moff Tarkin, or he was a lowlife criminal whose only success had been the product of playing with the Fringe. Either way, Vorru was someone the Emperor's Hand had been predisposed to distrust.

The fire in the living room was still burning; outside the window, a fire suppression speeder was starting to spray large amounts of anti-fire foam into the room, putting out the flames around the building's open wound. It gave the air a heady, humid weight.

Iella seemed not to notice; her expression tight. "Last time I saw Vorru I was throwing him back on Kessel. I hoped he was smart enough to stay there, or maybe just escape to quiet retirement." She shook herself, then nodded slowly. "Okay. So Fliry Vorru's out and involved. That makes a certain amount of sense. It also presents some new avenues for investigation." She nodded at her partner. "Kapp, Hospital is five minutes out. Comm Cracken, let the authorities clean this up, and tell him to send a team of techs to toss the computers here to figure out what they were up to." She gestured at the melted wreck of the apartment. "Assuming there's anything left to find."

Mara barely heard her. The burning Imperial tapestry on the wall had been extinguished, but not before the crest emblazoned on it had been burned half away. She heard Iella and Kapp discussing objectives, answered direct questions when asked, but she remembered that tapestry. Remembered the little girl she'd been, determined, fierce and obedient, brought to this apartment with an Imperial General who'd tutored her in infiltration and commando tactics.

She also remembered the white-masked Force-wielder, a blue lightsaber in his hand. She remembered the moment of desperation when her lightsaber died. And she knew that despite Madine's intervention, she was only alive because her foe had hesitated before delivering the killing blow.

"Miss Jade?"

Wessiri was peering at her, with an expression that bore a mixture of concern and curiosity.

Mara shook herself. There would be time to think about it later, when the mission was done. Recalling many a post-mission debriefing, she began her recitation of what had happened.

It took Vorru, Eliezer, the Tevas-kaar, and their pilot six hours to circle back around to their ship, once they were very, very sure that it hadn't been given away.

Vorru had no idea how the Republic had found out about his presence on Coruscant and his operation in Argosy District, but it was obvious that it had, somehow. General Crix Madine did not just appear on a whim, and the Republic had sent not just him, but also a Jedi. They'd been keeping the fact that they had more than one very quiet. It was evident, though, that he had not been fully betrayed; the timing of the intervention, combined with the lackluster amount of men who had been accompanying Madine, suggested that whatever they'd done to give away the game, it was a mistake they'd made relatively late.

The hangar holding Lefler's Rose was not particularly busy at this hour in the morning, so they were able to return to the freighter without further incident. The pilot immediately headed for the cockpit, getting them ready for departure, while Eliezer settled into his normal seat in the lounge and started clacking away at his terminal.

The Tevas-kaar was quiet, as usual, but Vorru thought he saw a bit of additional stiffness in the man's stance. His face was revealed, his helmet sitting in his lap as he sat on one of the other chairs in the lounge, staring into space. Vorru couldn't even begin to guess what the man was thinking, but he had saved all their lives with his skilled confrontation of the female Jedi. Vorru hadn't seen much of it, distracted as he'd been with communicating with Roeder to make sure the reinforcements served their purpose and trading blaster fire with Madine, but he'd seen enough.

Eliezer made a satisfied sound and Vorru looked over. "How much did we get?" he asked. The question had been churning in his gut ever since the Jedi had plunged her lightsaber through the apartment's holocom. How much they had gotten of Isard's black accounts, of Xizor's seized fortune, would determine how ambitious they could hope to be…

The Drall's beady black eyes focused on Vorru. "Sixty-five percent," he said with satisfaction. "And we still might get more, depending on if the Republic manages to find all my pre-programmed credit transfer requests. I've got the credits stashed away in two hundred different accounts all across the galaxy for easy access no matter where we end up."

Sixty-five percent. Sixty-five percent. The number bounced around in Vorru's head, avarice and joy and ambition ballooning in his head. That would be enough. That would be more than enough. "Transfer half of the agreed-upon sums into the accounts of our Black Sun colleagues," he said, barely hearing the words as he spoke them. "Save the other half for now; a taste will assure loyalty. We'll wait until we're back at Linuri to give Tavira her cut," he added, glancing at the Tevas-kaar. While the armored man didn't react to their conversation, Vorru suspected he heard every word. "In the meantime, let's get clearance to depart and get off this rock before the Republic tracks us down."

Eliezer nodded, his expression gleaming with the same success-driven adrenaline that Vorru felt. Sixty-five percent, his inner voice echoed. It's not a hundred, but it's still more than enough.

Fliry Vorru was now one of the richest men in the galaxy. And he knew exactly how he would use that wealth.

Their departure was delayed.

Eliezer sat at his computer terminal, working away to ensure that their hidden freighter would not be discovered. He'd scrambled their escape in a dozen different ways, each designed to ensure they couldn't be tracked, and was currently working his way through the traffic control computer network to make sure their exit would be clear.

Vorru watched him, a ridiculous combination of giddy and paranoid. Sixty-five percent. That would give him a hefty financial foundation to work from. Not quite forty billion credits, give or take, depending on exactly how much had been let in Isard's black budget. It wouldn't compare to the fortunes of the Kuati aristocracy—not even close—but it was nonetheless an ample sum, and one that on the Fringe would give him real, tremendous power.

Or he could use it to try to buy his way into the domain of polite politics again. A donation to a Senator here, a sector governor there, and just maybe he'd be accepted into the edges of the New Republic's political society. Once entrenched, he could steadily grow his influence.

Options, options. Of course, he was inclined to go where he saw the most potential for growth, and that meant there was really only one option. He'd have to remind Eliezer to resume his tracking efforts, once they were safe. If they were safe.

Eliezer's nails ceased their steady clacking on the keyboard, and Vorru looked up in response to the silence. "We're going to have to wait to leave," Eliezer said. "Not very long. Maybe half a day. The New Republic's intelligence agencies are scouring the system right now, they must have a small army of droids doing data collection, taking down the information on every ship that tries to leave the system, and their customs enforcement has ramped up just a bit to get a closer look at outgoing ships." He coughed, rubbing his mouth with the back of his furred hand, looking utterly exhausted. "I can make sure we blend in with the crowd, but I think we should wait."

"Is waiting safe?"

"Yes," Eliezer nodded weakly but confidently. "I've covered our trail thoroughly, and the mess Roeder made should keep the local authorities very busy for at least that long."

That raised a different issue, and Vorru frowned. "Do you have any idea who that was who attacked us? The Jedi?"

Eliezer shrugged. "I assumed you would have some idea."

He didn't. Vorru didn't like that, either. It was one thing to know your enemies, to anticipate their countermoves. If it had been Cracken's men, he would've understood; it would have meant he underestimated NRI. There was always a risk of that. But General Madine and a Jedi? Alone? "I don't," he admitted. "I can try looking into it, but only once we're off Coruscant. I don't want to risk reaching out to Black Sun and leaving open a communications vulnerability that might be traced back to us."

Eliezer stood, sliding from his chair and onto the deck of the freighter. He walked gingerly across the lounge, pressing on a button on the wall underneath the freighter's original name, Lefler's Rose. The lounge window—previously sealed—slid open slowly, with a grating, cranking sound, letting the morning sun cast through it and over his dark fur.

Vorru walked over to join him at the window. Outside, Coruscant glittered. Even Argosy District, which was a shadow of the glory of the Palace District, cascaded with shining light. "It reminds me of Coronet City back home," Vorru said.

The Drall scoffed, coughed, and shook his head with disgust. "No. Coronet is a wonder and deserves to be known as one. For all this planet has a gaudy name and reputation, it's a pit. The bright center of the galaxy," he said sarcastically, "is only bright because it steals the light from the rest of the galaxy, like an Anzati sucking the life from a victim." He scowled out at the urban canyons, the rows of airspeeders above their landing pad, and the carefully controlled clouds of the sky above. "The Empire is dead, and nothing has changed," he said with a pained, contemptuous grimace. "Nothing at all."