Chapter Five: The Value of Service

"Interesting."

Darth Baras had laid the thin fabric of the attacker's armor over his desk. Arkarix Krell stood by silently, watching as his Master attempted to scan the garment.

"Put it on," Baras ordered.

"It's a little small for me," Krell replied.

"Don't be impertinent, apprentice," Baras growled. "It doesn't need to cover you. Simply place one of your arms in the sleeve."

Baras's harsh tone left Krell hurrying to obey the modified order, thrusting his left arm into the sleeve.

Baras focused on him. "As I suspected. It blocks biological readings only. When it lays on my desk, my Force senses detect the desk effortlessly. But right now, despite what I can see visually, the Force tells me that your left arm does not exist. The fabric over the eyes creates an impediment. Once that is resolved, however, armor such as this would enable any competent assassin to strike against even the most powerful Sith Lord. I doubt I need to tell you the implications."

Krell agreed. Had his attacker had an unobscured visual, had he been able to shoot to kill, Krell would not have survived.

"Why only one assailant?" he wondered.

"I would surmise that our adversary has only a limited supply of these," Baras replied.

"They must have considered your package an important prize."

"Indeed." Baras ran a gloved hand over the suit. Then he clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing the room. "The package you retrieved is a prisoner, frozen in carbonite before transport to Imperial space. His importance cannot be overstated."

Baras stopped at his desk, staring again at the Force-defying fabric. "I have felt a disturbance," he intoned. "A grave and mysterious threat that can bring down my entire power base. The prisoner you retrieved, the one my unseen enemy tried to intercept, is a Republic agent. He was captured while investigating my most deeply embedded spy on Nar Shadaa. One of my Invisibles!" Baras sounded outraged at this. "The Force grants me a vision of doom, and immediately my untraceable spy – who has left no footprints, no trace – is almost exposed!"

Baras's already deep voice lowered to a growl, and Krell sensed murderous anger from him.

"Even the most competent man can make a mistake," he observed cautiously. "Perhaps he did something, however small, that attracted notice."

"I considered this," To Krell's relief, Baras sounded collected again - still angry, but in control. "But my instincts tell me that some power is plotting against me."

"Darth Jadus?"

"I suspect not. Oh, I have no doubt that Jadus is at least aware of the attack. Even as we speak, he is meeting with his pet Intelligence agent a second time – a summons he issued immediately after the attack. But even if he is behind this assault, neither he nor today's attacker are the source of the threat. They merely seek to exploit it."

"To destroy you?"

Baras did not reply. He closed an angry fist around the fabric, then released it and resumed his pacing, faster and more fervent than before.

"The prisoner is the key," he declared. "My servants have already begun thawing him from the carbonite. He will require medical treatment; I need his information too badly to risk him expiring under interrogation. Once he is healthy enough, however, I will siphon every morsel of knowledge he possesses."

"How long until you can question him?"

"A few days, no more than that. He will be kept under guard by my most trusted agents until then."

Krell nodded, glanced again at the strange garment. "What of that?"

"It must be kept secret," Baras said. "I will have a team of my best scientists study it. They will not be allowed to leave until they finish their work. Once they have finished, I will liquidate them. Put the existence of that suit from your mind. Is that understood?"

Baras was staring intently at him, gauging him. Just as the scientists could be eliminated, Krell knew that he could be as well.

Krell bowed. "I understand, Master."

Vette had to admit that Arkarix Krell's residence was impressive. He had possession of the entire top floor of a complex in the most upscale part of Kaas City Central. The building's other residents included Sith who chose not to reside in the Sanctum, high-ranking politicians, and successful businessmen.

It was a building of the elite – and Krell resided above them all. His family's wealth must be enormous, Vette thought. Then again, as a Pure Blood, his line stretched back to the old Empire. Little surprise that wealth and influence went along with that.

She was in the kitchen, carefully arranging the ingredients for the Blood Worm Stew. It was too early to begin cooking, but if she laid everything out in advance, there was less chance she would make a mistake. She studied the worms Dario Tullyn had given her. They were wriggling healthily enough. She dumped them out into a large container and snapped a lid on top. A slotted one, to allow air in. The last thing she needed was for the stupid worms to asphyxiate.

Krell's house droid, 2V-R8, entered the kitchen. Vette had known the droid for less than two days, and she already hated him. He was annoyingly obsequious around Krell. Once the Sith wasn't around, however, he became haughty toward her, like a barghest marking its territory, making sure she knew that he considered her - a mere slave - to be lesser than him.

The penthouse's buzzer sounded, and 2V-R8, spoke.

"Lon Darro is here from the Imperial Science Bureau to adjust your collar. He has clearance from Master Krell."

Vette frowned. "He didn't say anything to me," she complained.

"Master Krell made the arrangements after he left for the Citadel," 2V-R8 stated. "You were out shopping at the time."

"And after I got back?"

"The appointment is non-discretionary. I did not deem it necessary to interrupt your meal preparation. I will let Dr. Darro in."

The door slid open even as the droid spoke, and Lon Darro entered.

If asked to provide her mental image of an Imperial scientist, Vette would have described someone with bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair, and probably a scar or two. Basically, the garden variety mad scientist.

Lon Darro looked less like a scientist than a bureaucrat. His uniform was immaculately pressed, and his hair and nails were groomed to perfect uniformity. He held a toolkit in one hand that looked almost like a businessman's briefcase. When he looked at Vette, there was neither sadism nor kindness in his eyes. She was just an assignment he was here to complete, doubtless immediately followed by the filing of some type of report.

"You are Vette?" he asked mildly.

"Yes."

"I am Lon Darro," he said. "I'm sure the droid let you know that I would be coming."

Vette glared at 2V-R8. "Actually, this is the first I've heard of it."

"Oh." Darro glanced at the droid. "I will report as much to your Master."

Though 2V-R8's metallic face was incapable of expression, something in his posture looked deflated and even frightened. As much as Vette disliked the droid, she couldn't help but feel pity for him.

"I have been busy with... my Master's dinner," she said, having to force the word "Master" out.

"Just so," 2V-R8 said eagerly. "I did not wish to disrupt her preparations."

Darro smiled thinly. "Very well. It's a mild enough irregularity. I will ignore it." He looked at the Blood Worms and the carefully organized spices. "I will follow your droid's example. Let us go to the living room so that we don't disrupt your process in here."

Vette saw 2V-R8 react to being called her droid, and almost smiled.

Darro set his toolbox on a table and opened it. Vette recognized a few of the devices inside, but most were foreign to her, sets of clamps and probes. Her eyes fell on what looked like a row of thin drillbits.

"Those will only be necessary if the needles are improperly aligned." Darro's clipped voice wasn't reassuring, but his tone did indicate this was unlikely. "Sit, please."

He indicated a stool near the toolbox. Vette sat.

Darro ran a health monitor over her. "Young. Strong and healthy for an inferior species." No malice in his tone, just reciting Imperial dogma. "That's good. The reason for this visit is to deactivate the location safeguard. Your collar is designed to explode if you and your Master are not within the same planetary area. Your Master anticipates that his work will take him off-world, and believes this tether will be an inconvenience." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Darro picking up something that looked like a cross between a drill and a spanner. "Remain still, please. This will not hurt."

She heard a mechanical sound, and felt something shift within the collar. It didn't feel looser, exactly - but it was as if there was a fraction less weight against her neck.

Darro switched the large tool for two small metal picks. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to move as he inserted them into the collar. She heard a few low beeps. Then the mechanical noise came again, and the weight returned.

"There," Darro declared. "No more location restriction. The tracker will, of course, remain active."

"Of course." Vette couldn't quite suppress the bitterness in her voice.

Darro began to pack his tools away. "The collar's pain level seems high," he observed. "Was that your Master's choice?"

"No," Vette said. "That was the jailer on Korriban. He... liked to cause pain."

"Ah. Well, your Master made no mention of it, so I can't adjust it today. But I will mention it to him. Shocking the nerve to that level could have ill effects. Does he shock you often?"

Still no inflection or emotion. Pure business.

"Only a few times so far," Vette said. "When he... thinks he has reason." Or when he needed to look stern in front of his own Master.

"Then I would advise not giving him reason. A fair Master is the best thing a slave can hope for. Not everyone I see is so fortunate."

Vette bit back a retort. She knew that her life expectancy was a lot longer with Krell than if she had remained on Korriban. Still, "fortunate" was the last word she would use to describe her situation.

Darro seemed to guess her thoughts. "I was born a Republic citizen," he said. "My world was one of many given to the Empire as part of the Treaty of Coruscant. The young me was directionless. I had skill in science and with computers, but no particular interest. I just drifted. The Empire gave me purpose. I contribute, mostly in small ways but in tangible ones. In time, I believe you will also see the value of service."

After checking in with Keeper, Cipher Nine left the Citadel for the second time that day.

Her mind raced as she walked to the speeder station, analyzing her conversations with Darth Jadus. What was he up to, and what role did he intend her to play? He had provided clues, but too few, and she was too shaken to properly sort them at the moment.

She slowed as she approached the speeder. A Sith waited, arms clasped lazily in front of him. Darth Baras's new apprentice, the Pure Blood from this morning. Waiting for her.

She bowed. "My Lord."

"Arkarix Krell," he said, introducing himself. "You are Cipher Nine, correct? I understand Darth Jadus called you to meet with him. Two audiences with a member of the Dark Council in one day. A rare honor."

"As you say, Lord."

Krell smiled thinly. "You are very careful with your words." His tone was flint, and she recognized the shrewdness in his eyes. This was not a Sith to be underestimated.

His smile broadened slightly, in a manner that made his face look even more demonic.

"You haven't asked how I know that you met with Jadus," he said. "Are you an un-curious spy?" She remained silent. There was no answer that was safe. "Well, I'll tell you anyway. Darth Baras knew. But as much as I respect my Master's information network, I believe Darth Jadus wanted him to know. It is entirely possible that he summoned you only so that my Master would know he was meeting with you. What do you think of that, Agent?"

This was a question that demanded an answer. Cipher swallowed nervously.

"You may speak freely," Krell said. "I have no will will toward you. Even if I did, I have to consider you as being under Darth Jadus's protection."

"That's hardly a position to be envied," she snapped, her temper momentarily getting the better of her. "I'd rather avoid Sith games entirely."

She gasped as soon as the words escaped, and took a breath as if to reclaim the statement. Too late. Two lapses involving the Sith in a single week. When had she become so careless?

She bowed quickly and added: "My Lord." She braced herself, expecting an immediate and probably painful reprimand.

Instead, Krell laughed. "I suppose I can't blame you for that... though I would not advise repeating that statement."

She felt herself relax. There would be no punishment this time. "No, My Lord," she agreed.

"What are you to Jadus, exactly?"

That question, at least, was an easy one. "A pawn."

"In what game?"

She shook her head. "Pawns are rarely privileged to see the board. They just have to hope they don't get sacrificed."

Krell evaluated her answer, gave a satisfied nod. "True enough, I suppose." He stood aside, opening the way to the speeder. "Be mindful, Cipher Nine. I doubt I need to tell you how treacherous Sith games can be."

Cipher made no reply, walking past him to board the automated speeder. She leaned back against the worn, upholstered seat as the vehicle began its preprogrammed flight to the center of Kaas City. Though the temperature was warm, her body felt frigid, and she was aware that she was shaking.

Reyenna was on her fifth lap around Kaas City, and she could no longer feel the muscles in her calves and thighs. Zain Quelrak, her trainer and tormenter, levitated at her side, keeping pace effortlessly with her run. Every so often, he would have her stop to take some water… Usually, at the exact moment that she no longer wanted to.

He called such a break in the middle of the Market District. It was only when she stopped that she became aware of the level of her exhaustion.

"Two sips, with sixty seconds between them," Quelrak said brusquely.

Reyenna wanted to deliver some sarcastic barb, but her mind was too tired to come up with one. Too tired to even take the prescribed drink right away. She had to calm her breathing before she could take the first of the two sips.

"Yes." Quelrak sounded pleased. "That is control. In the face of your exertion, you had to slow your breathing before you could take the water. In the same way, you must learn to slow your anger before acting. Don't let it go entirely – Just calm it enough to allow you to consider and visualize an action before committing to it."

"The Sith Code doesn't say anything about calm," Reyenna gasped.

"No, but it does speak of gaining power to break your chains – to attain freedom. How can you be truly free if you are a slave to your own passions? Take your second sip, please."

Quelrak never raised his voice, Reyenna noticed. A subtle inflection of his tone would say whether he was pleased or displeased, but his calm never wavered. That very calm seemed to illustrate his point: His stillness made him far more formidable than if he had been shouting.

She raised the bottle to take the second sip. Then she froze.

"Sip," Quelrak said a second time.

Reyenna barely heard him. Her blood was frozen in her veins. She stared across the market at a man emerging from a spice shop. There was nothing remarkable about him. He was paunchy, middle-aged, and smiled cheerfully as he greeted one of the street vendors.

The same smile he had given to her, on her first day at The Pit. When she and the other slaves fresh off the transport had been lined up for inspection. One line for the men, one for the women. A harsh-looking Overseer with heavy facial scars had inspected the men. She remembered her relief when this avuncular man had gone to her line, looking at each slave in turn, making soft-spoken comments to several of them.

"My name is Overseer Parcam. You know where you are, of course, but this doesn't have to be torture for any of us. Cooperate, and I'll do what I can to look after you." His eyes fell on Reyenna and her mother. "You're the two from Balmorra? Ahlora and Reyenna Desme? So unfortunate, what happened. We'll find something special for you."

He had smiled, right at Reyenn. It was only when she saw the absolute coldness in that smile that she had realized that she'd have been better off with the scarred Overseer.

Zain Quelrak's hand fell on her shoulder. She jumped, and felt Force energy building inside her.

"Stop," Zain said, voice little more than a whisper. "Control it."

Reyenna trembled with the urge to lash out. The grip on her shoulder did not tighten, but it remained there - a physical embodiment of Zain's voice, urging her to control herself. She closed her eyes and concentrated until the energy dissipated.

She opened her eyes, looked back at Parcam. The fat man had purchased a snack from the vendor and was chomping merrily at it.

"Who is he?" her trainer asked.

"My first Overseer at the Pit," she said.

She was brought to Parcam's quarters. With a nod, the guard who had escorted her exited. Parcam smiled genially, reached out to stroke her cheek. When she pulled away, his smile vanished and he slapped her – hard.

"He mistreated you?"

Metal shackles, cold against her wrists and ankles. The shock stick, glowing in Parcam's hand.

"Shall we begin?" The bizarre gentleness of his voice. Then the shock stick, electrifying her.

Reyenna's fist tightened. She felt her nails, cutting into her skin. She clenched harder. The pain helped – Kept her in the present.

"He taught me," she said flatly. "Other slaves he 'selected' killed themselves, or shut down so that they didn't care about dying. The rest of us learned that we wanted to live – and after that, none of us died easy."

"Let's hear you scream." Voice still so gentle. The shackles tightening. The glow of the shock stick, and the implements he'd laid out on the table behind him. "Louder. Scream!"

"You cannot kill him here," Quelrak's voice was practically a whisper in her ear.

"I thought Sith could kill who they liked."

"You can. But only with discretion and control. We are in the middle of the Market District that forms the economic hub of the Empire. The city and the market thrive because our people feel safe. If Sith were to start killing people openly and publicly here of all places, then that sense of safety would disintegrate. Businesses will go offworld, where there are fewer Sith. New businesses would avoid coming here. The economy would suffer, and the Empire would suffer. And I promise you, the Sith responsible would end up suffering too."

"So I'm supposed to leave him be?"

"Definitely not. You are a Sith, and he is nothing but a worm, a mid-level bureaucrat so weak that he has to dominate slaves to feel strong. You can take your revenge. Just do it discreetly."

He floated to her other side, so that he could whisper in her other ear.

"Reach out with your mind. Find out where he lives. Pluck the address from his brain without him sensing it."

"How?"

"Reach out, as you would with your hand. Use the lightest of touches. I've sensed your power, you have the ability. All you need to do is control it."

Reyenna narrowed her eyes, concentrating on Parcam. She started to reach out.

He turned, and she saw his eyes. He wasn't looking at her at all, but she still could not control her terror. She took two rapid steps back.

"Control!" Quelrak urged. "Reach out and take what you want. Or are you still just a weak, cowering slave?"

She glared at Quelrak. Then gritted her teeth and focused, using her anger to swat back her fear. A light touch, Quelrak had said. Focused and controlled, and she could take the information without Parcam feeling it.

The image of a house flashed in her mind. A small cottage near the outer wall. She needed an address…

17-S, Omega Sector, Lower Tier.

Her temple throbbed from the effort, but even so she felt herself grinning.

"I have it," she declared.

"Good." Quelrak glanced back, toward the Citadel. "We'll run back. Then we'll stop for the day and pick up with sword training at 0600 tomorrow. Make sure to arrive on time. Beyond that, what you do with your night is up to you."

His eyes strayed back toward Parcam. The paunchy bureaucrat was shuffling away, oblivious to the lethal attention he had drawn.