Interlude II: Mutual Assured Destruction (Theron)
He deserved the administrative leave- he did borrow the entire Sixth Line for an off-the-books mission that ended up getting half of them killed, so he's in no place to argue- but he'd definitely underestimated how angry Chancellor Saresh really was.
Eleven weeks in, he's still on travel restriction and going stir-crazy in his little apartment. Physically he's healed, his shoulder nearly good as new after a dozen sessions of therapy, and his mission debriefs all submitted, and with nothing to do it's easy to remember why he's never home. Coruscant's all city, even the so-called park outside the Senate tower with its paved promenades and granite statues no substitute for real open space; no matter how many laps Theron runs around the plaza he can't quell the restless urge to keep moving, to keep rattling at the bars of an invisible cage.
(For so long after he'd met his mother he refused to believe they were anything alike. On days like these, he almost understands why she did it- left his father, left him, removed her need to choose by leaving only one viable choice.
Satele had it backward, though. Even with the door open, she chose the cage.)
After another week, Trant starts forwarding him current ops reports.
He only gets through two before he shoves the screen aside in frustration, pacing back and forth along the length of his apartment. Two reports, seven SIS fatalities: two on Corellia in a building collapse, and their entire team on Alderaan dead in a Killik attack. Corellia might have been an accident; the infrastructure's been crumbling since the war restarted and buildings come down all the time, but as near as he can tell they'd been dead for hours and the computers wiped before the ceiling collapsed. But Alderaan? There weren't any hives within a ten-kilometer radius of that safehouse, so a Killik swarm would be unlikely-
-except for a Cipher whose diplomatic attaché just happens to be a Joiner.
Twelve weeks of leave and she's taking his entire damn division apart.
And even then, even knowing that, he still dreams about her- fragments and flashbacks of battles, mostly, where she's long been a feature in the usual fashion of his dreams, but his subconscious is getting creative lately, mixing memory and desire until he can almost feel her and he wakes, aching, in desperate need of a hard fuck or a cold shower.
Twelve weeks make for a lot of cold showers.
With judgment like that, it's no wonder he's still on leave.
In the month that follows they lose their undercover agent on Dromund Kaas (throat cut and dead drop looted) and two informants (poison, both) before he's finally recalled back to HQ. Advisory capacity only- that's the official word from Director Trant, at least.
"Unofficially," the director sits down behind his desk, pulling up a file on the console in front of him, "I don't know what you did to piss off the Chancellor, Agent Shan, but she's not budging on the travel ban. The Imps bloodied her nose on Ziost, but I get the impression she's somehow holding you responsible."
He shrugs. "Her mole got himself shot and her invasion failed. If she wants to try to pin that on me, fine, but you've read my report. I made a mistake, yes, but-"
"We'll talk about that later. Right now I need you to tell me about Cipher Nine. You're the only agent I've got who's survived her, and you've managed it twice. How?"
"You're joking, right?" He folds his arms across his chest, ignoring the chairs because he really, really does not want to talk about this, not now. "I was working with her the first time, and on Ziost she decided she needed my help more than she wanted me dead. If I'd been anyone else, she'd have dropped me before I turned around."
Fingers laced together, Trant eyes him speculatively. "Hm. We might be able to use that. Do you think you could draw her out again, given appropriate circumstances?"
"Yes. Can't guarantee I'd survive, though." He wouldn't, and he knows it, but she might not, either. (They've got metaphorical guns to each other's heads now, enough secrets confided to put unsurvivable targets on both their backs if they pull the triggers. Drinks and a firefight isn't a bad way to go, all things considered, compared to running from the Dark Council for the brief remainder of his life.) "With a few hours' prep time, maybe, but on even ground... I watched her go toe to toe with Master Surro. She'll take me apart."
"Not an option, then. We need her out of commission, but I'm shorthanded enough without risking you getting killed." Trant sighs. "Any other suggestions?"
"Wherever she's going, get there before her. Otherwise?" Turning on his heel toward the door, he looks back over his shoulder. "Either send someone expendable or stay out of her way."
Trant does neither, of course, and they lose four more people before anyone starts listening, even when he writes "DO NOT ENGAGE" on every mission briefing that has anything to do with Cipher Nine.
It isn't sentiment. They just can't afford to lose anyone else.
(It mostly isn't sentiment.)
SIS data archive:: enter search parameters::
ardun kothe. cross-reference: taris OR hoth OR quesh AND legate.
3 files located. download?
yes
download complete. enter search parameters::
personnel files. cross-reference: chance (codename) AND taris.
1 file located. download?
yes
download complete. enter search parameters::
log out.
user "TShan" logged out. thank you for using the SIS data archive.
If he hadn't been looking, he would have barely noticed the other man's limp.
"You asked to see me, Vice-Director?"
He waves him in. "Have a seat. Chance, right?"
"Haven't heard that one in a while- not much use for codenames now that I'm out of the field. But yeah, that's me. Can I ask what this is about?"
"Legate says hello."
"How the fuck-" Chance's face goes ghost-white, and he slumps into the chair nearest the door. "If you're going to kill me, make it quick."
(That wasn't the response he expected. What did they do to her?)
Theron shakes his head. "Not that kind of hello, agent, but she also told me to tell you that you owe her one. For Taris. And I need some information from you."
"Yeah." He swallows. "Yeah, I do. What do you want to know?"
He sits down across the table, setting a holorecorder between them, and flips the switch on. "Tell me about Castellan restraints."
No wonder she didn't want to talk about it.
When Korriban falls they celebrate.
He doesn't- he remembers the last time Korriban fell, when Tython lay in ruins beside it, and it's hard to believe they all forgot so fast- but at least they get a moment's rest. Sith Intelligence withdraws almost completely to Dromund Kaas, a protective ring around the Council, and for a month it's quiet.
When the unknown enemy hits Ryloth, the party ends, and one by one the planets of the Outer Rim fall silent. Darth Marr vanishes into Wild Space with a small fleet; two days later, three Republic ships leave Tython, heading in the same direction. He sends Satele a message that goes unanswered and waits for a skirmish report that doesn't come.
The Nightshrike leaves Dromund Kaas, its destination undeclared. They track it past Rishi before it, too, disappears.
"Hey, Theron? Can you come take a look at this?"
He's half-asleep at his desk despite four cups of caf, but when Riah calls over from her console he shakes himself awake and pads across the workroom toward her. "Something up?"
"Not sure. I'm getting a weird signal, but I can't exactly tell where it's coming from and this channel's been quiet for years until-" she stops, her lekku twitching. "It's gone."
"Were you recording? Try playing it back." He pulls up a chair, reaching for the spare headset.
She nods, flipping a few switches. "Will do. It's a few hours old, I think. It's relaying off Kaon, but it originated somewhere way past that."
Something catches deep in his chest. "Wild Space?"
"Maybe. Right quadrant, at least."
It's definitely a weird signal, almost like- "Split the signal. Play me just the right channel."
Her hand's still on the console when her eyes go unfocused; he snaps his fingers in front of her face.
"You alright there?"
She blinks. "Did you hear that? Like an engine, but growlier. Makes my teeth hurt... see, there it is again. You don't hear it?"
"I didn't hear-"
(Master Zho used to talk about the Force that way, like a vibration just on the edge of hearing.)
He runs to his office, fires up the holocomm in the corner, and calls Tython.
He can't quite bring himself to close her file.
Marr's dead. The Emperor's dead. How could she possibly have survived? He's seen the propaganda coming from the Eternal Empire. She must be dead.
As a compromise with himself, he edits it instead.
Reported KIA, 16 ATC, Zakuul. Unconfirmed.
Two years later they are prisoners on their own planet.
They watched the blockade form and they did nothing. The Star Fortresses went up and they did nothing. Three-quarters of the Jedi Order are dead and they did nothing, even when Satele disappeared after Tython fell. Every month he submits mission requests against the invasion- reconnaissance, strike teams, anything at all- and every single one comes back to him- REQUEST DENIED, straight from the Chancellor's office.
When the Republic finally surrenders it's almost a relief.
With the blockade eased, he waits for orders; Trant sends his team to Balmorra.
He almost quits right there.
She died three years ago today, and he still owes her a drink.
Given she isn't here, though, he drinks for both of them. He doesn't think she'd mind.
It's late, but he hasn't slept well in years, so he's in his office at two o'clock in the morning when his holo rings. Might be someone on the Taris team- another futile mission, like all of them these days, but he probably should answer. He squints at the ID screen.
Incoming call: Lana Beniko.
He shakes his head, looks at it again. Not possible. Somebody's fucking with him.
He answers it anyway.
"Theron?" Lana's thinner than when he saw her last, her cheeks hollow. "Oh, thank the Force. I didn't think you'd answer. No one else has."
He downs the rest of his glass in one long swallow. "Whatever it is you want, Lana, I'm pretty sure I'm the wrong person to ask. You've got ten seconds before I hang up."
"She's alive, Theron." Her eyes glitter like stars. "Cipher Nine's alive. I need your help."
It's not even a decision. "You've got my attention. Tell me where."
Author's Note: This runs in parallel with Interlude I. With apologies to Fisca, who requested Theron's POV.
Coming soon: Battle Scars (in which we fast-forward.)