A week later Donos found himself on Coruscant contemplating murder, and he was at the point where he didn't particularly care who'd be introduced to the business end of his blaster.

What a Krayt and Bantha show, he thought gloomily as he stood on the automated slideway that would bring him to the Headquarters of the New Republic Intelligence Service. Horn, you better be right about this or I'll show you just how good a sniper I am.

The very things that were annoying him so much had started innocently enough. Kirney had ordered a custom-made jumpsuit for him just like the one she was wearing herself. "If you're going to play the role of an employee of Slane Transports then you've got to look the part," she'd said. He hadn't minded since it had made sense.
When he'd gone back to Horn to pick up the datacard and the package with the plants and DNA codes Horn wanted to register with the Galactic Association for Horticulture Kirney had lent him her speeder and had even slapped some hastily made company logos on the doors. It had made sense so he had't minded.
Then she'd sliced some quick counterfeit documentation saying he was an employee of Slane Transports. "In case some overzealous clerk at the Spaceport decides to have some fun at your expense," she'd explained. It had made sense so he hadn't objected.
The last suggestion, however, had been the notorious last straw that broke the Bantha's back. His mother had suggested to pack a parcel full of Corellian delicacies, all of which were difficult to obtain outside Corellia, and address it to Garik Loran for delivery to add to the cover story.

He scowled at the parcel as he clutched it in his hands as if it was to blame for his problems. He'd never enjoyed the Cloak-and-Blade nonsense Intelligence was so fond of, in fact the little sojourn to Storinal as part of Wraith Squadron had put him off that profession for life, and he felt he was rapidly approaching his saturation point for this kind of Hutt droppings.

As he was transported past a towering wall of transparisteel he took a look at his own reflection and consciously suppressed a sigh. He looked very much like one of the millions of courier pilots who came to the city planet each day - washed-out bantha leather jacket over a black jumpsuit with yellow trim and red seams, stylish sun visor to protect his eyes and a parcel under the arm.

Get used to it, he told himself sternly. That's you for the rest of your life.

He hadn't talked to anyone about his plans for the future, yet, since he hadn't been sure what he wanted himself. But the idea of joining Kirney's shuttle business was enticing, not as employee but as her partner for he wanted to maintain the kind of independence only freelancers or enterprisers knew. He couldn't see himself as a regular employee or nine-to-five clerk sitting at a shabby desk. That wasn't him and he knew he wouldn't be happy in such an occupation. Force, he hoped Kirney would agree with his plans. He wouldn't know what to do with himself otherwise.

He forced himself from his musings as the towering edifice of the NRI headquarters came into view. He left the slideway and stumbled for a second when his equilibrium organ attempted to compensate the sudden lack of forward movement. He cast one last glance at the office tower stretching upwards until disappearing in a cloudlayer half a klick above, took off his visor and entered the building. As he approached the reception desk manned by a human female and a Quarren he remembered Kirney's last instructions for this situation.

You're a courier pilot, remember, her voice instructed gently. Think 'bored civilian'.

"Delivery for Captain Garik Loran," he said and placed the parcel on the counter.

The Quarren hit a few keys on a console and stared at the monitor. "Captain Loran ... Captain Loran ..." Two of the alien's face tentacles curled up and straightened again. "I'm sorry, Sir, but Captain Loran is not on planet at the moment."

"Blast it." Why wouldn't things go smoothly and as planned? Just once? Was that really too much to ask for? "Any idea when he's going to be back?"

The Quarren shook his, or her, head. "I don't know, Sir. I'm sorry. You could leave the parcel here and we'd ..."

"No, sorry," Myn interrupted. "It's marked private so I have to hand it over personally."

"I'm afraid Captain Loran will be unavailable for several weeks," a new voice said from behind.

Myn turned around and felt his guts compress into a ball of ice. The voice belonged to a person he knew, and who knew him, and he hoped she wasn't going to blow his makeshift cover. He gave her a pleading look and a minuscule shake of the head and hoped she understood what he was trying to tell her.

There was a spark of recognition in her eyes, but apparently she'd caught his subtle gesture and decided to play along. "I'm Commander Wessiri. Captain Loran is my subordinate. Couldn't you leave the parcel with me?"

Myn struggled to keep the relief from showing on his face and put up a frown. He dug out a datapad and began tapping on it as if reading a document. "I'm not sure. There's nothing in my instructions concerning such a situation. What did you say about Captain Loran being available again?"

Iella arched an eyebrow. "I'm afraid this is confidential. Would contacting your employer help?"

Myn shrugged. "I don't know. I'd have to ask her."

"Then we'll contact her from my office," Iella said and gave the two people behind the counter a nod. "Give him a visitor's pass. I'm taking responsibility for it."

"Yes, Ma'am." The human female handed him a card which he clipped to the front of his jacket. "You need to deposit your ID card, Sir. When you return the visitor's pass you'll receive it back."

Myn gave a sigh of mock exasperation and handed over the document. "Anything else?"

Iella pointed at the weapons detector and a small conveyor. "Put the parcel on the conveyor and step through the weapons detector. Security measures, I'm afraid. Are you armed?"

"No," he returned lightly and moved to comply with her order. "My employer's got a no weapons policy for the delivery itself. I left my blaster on the ship."

The conveyor took the parcel into a closed box, a scanning device for weapons or explosives, and stepped through the oversized frame that was the weapons detector. No chime came to report a finding so he picked up the parcel as it came out of the box and followed Iella who'd begun to move towards a cluster of turbolifts.

The ride upwards was silent as they weren't alone in the cabin. They left at level eighty and Iella led him down a long corridor. She opened a door and ushered him inside, closing and locking the door behind her.

Myn turned to look at her and saw her open her mouth to speak. He lifted a finger to his lips, waved a circular pattern to enclose the room and tapped his ear. You sure nobody's listening?

She frowned and moved over to a massive desk in front of a large transparisteel window. She hit a switch and a mild buzz filled the room. "I've activated a microphone scrambler so noone's listening. What the kark is this about Myn? I know you're not a fan of this Cloak-and-Blade nonsense."

"I'm sorry, Commander Wessiri," Myn began but he was interrupted when she lifted a hand.

"It's Iella. We went over this months ago, okay?"

"Sorry," he muttered contritely and sat down in a chair in front of her desk. "You're right. I don't like this playacting, but I had no choice."

She frowned. "You're not making sense. What is this about? And why are you pretending to be a courier? You could have walked in and gotten an appointment."

He pushed a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly. "I'm afraid it ain't that easy."

The look she shot him was utterly uncomprehending. "You're not making sense, Myn. Why don't you start at the beginning?"

He took a deep breath and calmed his fluttering nerves. "Okay. You know I've resigned my commission a few months back."

She gave him a slow nod. "Yes."

"I've gone back home, to Corellia," he went on and watched her eyes widen.

"That's a gutsy move, Myn. There are some people who'd love to get their hands on a former rebel."

"I was aware of that," he retorted. "I thought if I kept a low profile nobody would bother me."

"I take that didn't work as planned."

"Not really. But not in the way you think." He took a deep breath. "A week ago I was contacted by Rostek Horn. He asked me to do him a favor and that is the reason why I am here."

Iella stared at him in confusion. "I can't follow you."

"You know how the political situation on Corellia is. Gallamby has isolated the planet from the New Republic and some very influential Imp supporters are backing him." He snarled in disgust. "But now, after Thrawn's death, the infighting among the imperial factions is threatening the Corellian economy and the Diktat's afraid a crunch would provoke a revolution. So he's looking for ways to open trade routes to the New Republic, but he's also afraid that his Imperial friends would dispose of him if they caught wind of his plans." He patted a pocket of his jacket and continued, "I've got a datacard which contains a personal message from Daclif Gallamby to Doman Beruss. Since the content of the message, and the mere fact that such a message exists, is highly confidential Director Horn was most insistent that nobody was to notice my being here."

Iella was sporting a wide-eyed expression of surprise now. "And why are you telling me all of this? I thought it was confidential."

"It is." Myn flashed her a world-weary smile. "I know I can trust you not to pass on what I just told you and I need help to get an audience with Doman Beruss which doesn't involve a full background scan by Intelligence or a waiting period of several weeks."

Iella was massaging her temples as she was beginning to feel a headache forming. "I think I'm beginning to understand," she muttered. "But I'm still not sure all this playacting isn't over the top. Why the pretense of being a courier? Why didn't you ask for an appointment with General Cracken?"

Myn's eyes hardened to durasteel. "Because I don't trust Intelligence, or rather the General himself, not to think of me as someone who could be exploited as informant or asked to do the odd job for NRI, Iella." He let his anger surface. "I went back home because I wanted to live my life as I saw fit. I don't want to be bothered by governments, Intelligence agents or anyone else who thinks I have skills I should put at their disposal just because I've once flown snubfighters for the Republic."

Iella was taken aback by the heat in his words. "Aren't you a bit unfair?"

Myn stretched out his arm and pointed westwards, towards Rogue Squadron HQ. "Go ask Wedge what he thinks about Cracken. I'm guaranteeing he'll tell you the same. The General doesn't see people as living beings - he sees them as resources to be exploited. I don't want this and I most certainly don't want my parents drawn into any of this, either. I've done my duty for the Republic, Iella. I don't owe it anything else."

"Then why are you doing it for the Diktat?" The question was blunt but delivered without any accusatory undertones.

He snorted. "I'm not doing it for the Diktat. I'm not doing it for Horn, either. I'm doing this to be able to wake up in the morning not wondering if today was the day I'd be arrested. I'm doing this to get a modicum of immunity from the Imp parts of our home's society." He took a deep breath and choked down the rising tide of his fury. "I'm sorry, Iella," he muttered quietly. "I shouldn't be taking this out on you. It's just … " He trailed off and pushed a hand through his hair.

"It's just what?" Iella asked patiently.

"I'm just so angry," he sighed. "I'm angry at Horn for asking me in the first place, angry at Gallamby for not solving his own issues and angry at NRI for making me go through this Cloak-and-Blade eopieplay 'cause I can't trust it to leave me alone when this is over and done with."

"So what exactly do you want from me?"

He sought her gaze and held it. "I'd like you to arrange a private audience with Doman Beruss for me and then remove all electronic traces of my being here at all. I know you can do that."

Her eyebrows rose towards the hairline. "That's a tall order and you know it."

Myn sagged in his chair and muttered, "I know. I'm sorry, Iella, but at the moment you're the only person I can ask."

"What about Wedge?"

He gave her a weary smile and shook his head. "He'd help me in a heartbeat, but he's got enough to deal with at the moment. Being a General and all that. Not to mention that Rogue Squadron is of interest to the celebrity holoshills and I couldn't risk being observed entering Sivantlie Base for that reason."

"Ah." She tilted her head and gave him an odd look. "What has the Republic done to you, Myn, for you to become so angry at us?"

He deflated yet again. "Politics."

One of her eyebrows rose. "Could you be more specific?"

He gave another sigh, one of vexation. "I think that I'd finally woken up and saw the New Republic for what it is and not what I hoped it would be.
"I left the Corellian Forces because I couldn't square what I had been ordered to do with my conscience. Intellectually I knew that all the people I had been ordered to kill were about to maim or kill innocent people, but on the emotional plane I considered my task to be little more than legalized murder. It wasn't fair for these people never got a chance to stand trial for their crimes, they never got a chance to redeem themselves. When I moved away and joined the New Republic Starfighter Corps all these worries about honor and fairness went away for every pilot I shot down had the chance to do the same to me. I didn't have issues with my orders anymore since I knew I was fighting the Empire." He hesitated, wondering how he should express his misgivings about the campaign against the Ciutrian Hegemony.

"So what changed?"

"Ciutric." He shook his head. "As long as we were fighting the Empire we had a clear military mandate. Thrawn attacked the New Republic and we defended it. But when the Inner Council drafted up plans to assault and conquer the Ciutrian Hegemony I was … irked for want of a better term. It was a political campaign directed at the more powerful warlords which targeted worlds which were neither involved in the struggle nor wanted anything to do with the New Republic. It wasn't about freeing planets suffering from Imperial yoke, Iella. It was a pointless demonstration of military strength in order to enter negotiations with other warlords from a position of strength. And the foundation for all of that, the excuse the Inner Council used to justify the use of military force, was murder and usurpation of control over the Ciutrian Hegemony." He shrugged, a gesture conveying unease and helplessness at the same time. "It just didn't have the same moral authority as self-defense or liberation of truly suppressed people had. It irked me since my own homeworld could become target for a similar campaign under a similarly weak smokescreen. And once the seeds of doubt had been sown I just couldn't justify my own service with Rogue Squadron anymore. How could I risk my life for something that I was beginning to doubt on such a fundamental level? And the more I pondered these questions the more I felt as if the Republic had betrayed me."

Iella remained silent but he could see she was disturbed by what he'd told her. The slight frown and the puzzled look in her eyes were telling enough. Had he sown doubts in her mind as well? Would she be forced to make a similar decision? But then her face slackened into an expression of weariness and she rubbed her eyes.

"I need a little time to set up things," she told him. "Don't know how long that will take. Where do you stay?"

Myn took a sheet of flimsi and a stylus from her desk and scribbled an address onto it. "I'm staying in a cheap hotel near Westport. This is the address and contact frequency."

She looked at the flimsi and another frown crept on her face. "That isn't a personal comlink frequency." She looked up and shot him a wounded stare. "Don't you trust me?"

"I'm sorry, Iella," he said apologetically. "But do you know exactly who might be looking over the data you collect and process?"

She opened her mouth ... and hesitated. The frown deepened. "No, I don't," she finally admitted. She heaved a sigh and muttered, "Damn, Myn, you've got a serious case of paranoia."

He gave a not so delicate snort. "Like you don't? Who's working in the Trust-nobody-but-yourself business?"

Iella sent him a glare and pointed at the door. "Out with you or I'll forget I promised to help you."

Myn stood hastily and placed the parcel on her desk. "Thank you. I owe you one."

"Damn right, you do," she ground out but it lacked bite. "And take your parcel with you."

"Keep it," he said lightly and winked. "It's just my personal smokescreen and although it was for Face I think you'll be able to appreciate it better. Or maybe," he said and let a touch of slyness creep into his voice, "you can share it with Wedge."

"Huh?"

"My mother sends her compliments," he added. "The ryshcate is fresh, made only the day before yesterday, but I suggest you put it in the conservator before it becomes dry. As for the rest of the parcel ... You're free to decide what you'll do with it although I suggest to keep Wes away from the Whyren's Reserve." He gave her one last glance before he turned around and left the office.

Iella remained in her seat and stared dumbly at the parcel on her desk. Then she buried her face in her hands and groaned.