Disclaimer: I do not, and will not ever, own Star Wars: The Force Unleashed.

Note: On with the plot! Thanks to reviewers. readers and subscribers alike! Another big thank you to my beta Liisiko, also.

CHAPTER 27 - Guidance

Location: Corellian Shipyard / Teyr

"You ever ridden one of these before, kid?" The greasy mechanic asked. He was a short man; round and pug-faced with arms as thick around as Galen's waist. He tapped the handle of the swoop bike and glared up at him as if expecting to find the answer written there on his face.

"Short answer: no."

The man gave a loud, displeased snort. "Let's hope you're a quick learner then." He jabbed a thumb down at the seat. "Sit."

Galen did as he was told without a single word, trying to get comfortable, which – he soon discovered – was practically impossible. The swoop bike was clearly an old, beat-up model that should have been dumped long ago. A huge dent in the bodywork told of a bad crash in its past. He wondered if the rider had survived it.

"Please tell me I'll get something better on Nar Shaddaa."

The man's heavy brow lowered over his eyes, clearly displeased with Galen's remark. "If you mean faster, then yeah, you will. Figured you wanted practice first, though, yeah? Else you'll end up dead. Professionals die all the time, kid, so shut up and pay attention. I've only got an afternoon to teach you everything you need to know."

Galen bristled but set his jaw to keep himself from saying anything else that would only prolong the lesson. Besides, the man had a point. If he messed this up he could end up dead. It was almost like his childhood lessons, except back then, instead of a quick death (as it would be if he crashed the bike) it had been the threat of prolonged, agonizing pain.

Why were his lessons never easy? If he failed, there was no: 'Oh dear, never mind, it's no big deal. Just get up and try again.'

His mood darkened. No. When he failed, people tended to die. Good people. There were no second chances.

"Are you listening?"

He snapped back to attention and met the mechanic's eyes.

"Okay. First off, you need to know what does what."

As the mechanic began to explain the process of operating a swoop, Galen couldn't help but think that it seemed relatively simple. If it was operating at a slower rate it would no doubt be a breeze. However, as he listened, he quickly arrived at the conclusion that it was the high speeds that made things difficult—well, mostly.

As the speed increased, steering became difficult, sharp turns easily throwing a bike out of control. Many of the modified racers lacked any brake system at all so as to make them lighter and faster. No brakes meant high speed collisions and that, of course, usually meant death.

"You've got two hand levers." The mechanic explained, pointing to each of them in turn. "One here. And one here. That one there is the accelerator. The other is your brake. Just bear in mind that most of the time the racing models don't have brakes."

"So how exactly do I slow down?"

"Take your hand off the accelerator." The man replied in a tone that suggested the answer was obvious. "Without that they do slow down relatively quickly." He shifted to one side and lifted a huge arm to point down to the other side of the lengthy shipyard. "Take it for some trial runs. This bike doesn't go faster than one hundred kilometres per hour. You know what that means?" He didn't bother to wait for an answer. "It means it's slow. Some of these swoops can go over six hundred. I'll leave you to figure out just how fast that is."

Galen fixed him with a bored stare. "So… I can try it out now?"

The mechanic took a few steps back and gave a curt nod.

Trying not to look as if he was looking forward to this, Galen started up the bike and felt the rise of the repulsorlifts fixed beneath. His fingers squeezed the accelerator and the swoop bucked forwards like a startled Ronto, giving a few unhealthy coughing sounds. A moment later, much to Galen's relief, the shaky start smoothed out, accelerating with a surprising swiftness.

After a few circuits, the mechanic called him back in. "Don't look too smug. You didn't do all that great. We've still got two more areas to cover before the day is out."

"Well, if they're all as quick as the first, there shouldn't be a problem."

"Don't kid yourself. That was the most basic tutorial I've ever given. Want the full version? Well, cancel everything you've got planned for the next couple of weeks."

"As exciting as that sounds, I'll have to decline."

"Right, so let's get a move on, shall we? Next we'll look at posture. Swoop bikes are not comfortable and after you've been in a few races, you'll likely feel the toll of it. The trick is to relax but doing that is easier said than done."

"And the last?"

"Gaining the edge over your opponents. They tell me you have that Force thing to help. Well, I have no idea how that works, but I can teach you some ways to shift the balance in your favor by using the bike well." He gave a low grunt. "Right, let's start with something relatively simple."

The Apprentice was somewhere cold and dark, his wrists shackled so tight that his hands tingled from the restricted circulation. The wall against his back felt damp, carrying a chill that lingered in his chest, making breathing strangely difficult. He coughed to try and clear his lungs but it was to no avail. The chain binding his hands clinked softly, almost masking the sound of a stone skittering against the floor. It drew his attention; looking up to see a dark swish of movement only a few paces away. A curtain…? No. Not a curtain. A cape. There was more movement and the clone could just about see a dark figure shifting against the shadowy backdrop.

For a terrible moment he thought it was Vader looming over him, until he realized that there was no horrible, grating breath. The stature was all wrong, too: too short and the shoulders not broad enough. The figure didn't move towards him either.

"Who are you?" The clone asked, trying to keep his tone steely. "Where am I?"

The figure remained standing silently in place; motionless except for the slight rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. The hood of his cape was so deep that it shadowed his face entirely.

The dark clone shifted again and his shackles clinked sharply together, reminding him of his current predicament—his vulnerability. He tried to concentrate, tried to remember what had happened to him before he had blacked out. Had he been beaten in battle? Had there not been someone with him? The more he tried to think the more his head ached and, after a moment, he gave up trying altogether.

He looked up at the figure and glowered. "If you're here to kill me, you had best get on with it."

The reaction was immediate; a deep, throaty laugh that echoed unnaturally all around them. The echoes seemed to go on forever and ever, unwilling to be forgotten. Unwilling to fade. And even when the figure knelt and spoke, the clone could still hear that echo as a faint ringing in the back of his head.

"I have not come to kill you."

The dark clone jerked his arms more forcefully, as if attempting to break the shackles with brute strength alone. The Force, strangely, appeared to be eluding him.

The laugh came again, driving through him with flashes of vibrant pain, joining with the earlier echoes still repeating over and over and over. "I am merely an observer."

"Then happily observe as I end your life." The dark clone hissed, trying to get himself to his feet.

The figure loomed closer still, but the darkness still masked the features beneath that hood. "I would like to see you try." With a sweep of his hand, he unshackled the clone; beckoning for him to stand. "Show me your superiority, dark clone. Sate my curiosity."

With all the unrestrained rage of an unbound animal, the clone got his legs under him and lunged.

There was a blinding light and then he struck the floor. Hard. And, when he opened his eyes, it was not a floor of cold, damp stone, but smooth pale-grey panels that reeked of disinfectant. He blinked, almost blinded by the glare of the harsh lights and then coughed violently, arching his back to try and clear his lungs. In the same movement he tried to gather himself to stand, hearing the sharp crack of broken fragments – brittle and sharp – beneath him.

He could still hear the echo of that laughter in the back of his mind and then a high-pitched cry of shock—somewhere to his right—dominated his senses.

He jerked to his feet and staggered back, aware of the splash-crack of his feet on the floor. The clone cast a disorientated look around him but the room seemed to contain nothing more than vibrant white walls. He twisted, landing back on his knees and then there were voices; startled and panicked.

He pushed himself up onto his feet again and whirled to face them, preparing to defend himself. Five men and women flooded into the room, their pale faces seeming almost as white as the walls. Their uniforms were white, too. That crisp, pristine white that reminded him of the lab coats of scientists.

Scientists…

They were talking at him, one pair of hands reaching towards him. He staggered back and, with a roar of rage, sent a wave of Force that knocked them all toppling to the floor. Some groaned and attempted to get up. Others were motionless. Badly wounded. Dead, maybe. He sneered at their weakness, at how easily they were broken.

In front of him, a pair of large doors snapped open revealing a wide-eyed, nervous looking Cerean. The clone lifted his arm to lash out with a strike that would have sent him sprawling when a bolt of memory flashed through him; stalling him.

A Cerean?

The alien's worried expression seemed to increase; his hands lifting up in a gesture that was probably supposed to be comforting. "You—you're awake!" His eyes flashed across the room, completing a quick scan of the area and a moment later, his face fell. "Oh dear, what have you done? You can't have been awake long and you're already causing trouble. This place is a mess."

"What the hell is going on?" The apprentice snarled, his lungs still aching, drawing him into another violent coughing fit. Still gasping, he added: "Where are we?"

"Calm down." The Cerean replied hastily. "We're in a hospital." He gestured at the clone who peered down to find himself mostly bare, wearing nothing more than a pair of white shorts. "You've been in a bacta tank to heal for the past couple of days."

"No…" He started, lifting a hand to touch the pink lines of almost healed wounds in his sides. "That can't be…where is the robed man?" He blinked. "Where is he?"

"Robed man?"

The clone gritted his teeth. He could still hear the laughter in his head. The Cerean, who clearly read anger in the clone's face, took a short step back.

"He was right here!"

"A doctor?"

"Where are my things?" The clone snapped, abruptly changing the subject. He cast his eyes about angrily, noting the badly damaged bacta tank.

"I have them."

"Where?"

"They're safe. Please, keep your voice down. Shouting won't help." The Cerean bounded nervously across the room and dragged a gown off of a hook. Like everything else in the room, it was horrible, clinical white. "Here, put this on." He shoved the offensive garment at the Apprentice and then hastened back to the door to check to see whether the coast was clear.

Still coughing, the Apprentice shrugged into the gown and tied it at the waist.

He needed to get out of the room. The sweet scent of the spilled bacta seemed to be growing stronger by the minute, clogging his senses and suffocating in its toxicity.

And then, suddenly, the Cerean gave a nervous exclamation and the Apprentice drew to a halt a couple of steps behind him.

"Is there some sort of problem here, Alin-Fa-Liir?"

It took a moment for the Apprentice to realize that 'Alin-Fa-Liir' was the Cerean's name.

"Oh, no. No. It's all fine. No problem here." The Cerean was many things, but a good liar, he was not.

"Then would you mind moving? I've got some things I need to do."

"Oh, uh, could I…trouble you for just a minute?" The Cerean took a step forwards, though was careful to keep in the doorway. "It won't take too long."

"I'm sorry, but I have—"

The clone snapped forwards impatiently, grabbing the Cerean by the shoulder and shoving him rudely out of the way. The man who he had been speaking with straightened in surprise, his brows hiking. He clearly had not expected the badly wounded patient to be awake so soon.

"What are you doing up and about?" And then his surprise turned to suspicion and he gave a sharp inhale, clearly having caught the scent of bacta flowing out of the room. With surprising vehemence, he pushed past them, freezing on the spot as he absorbed the scene of devastation before him.

The bacta tank had smashed from the clone's somewhat violent wake-up call, the facemask dangling, pieces of broken tank sparkling on the floor.

"How…how did this happen?" The doctor whirled to face them both, his expression barely able to contain its fury. "I don't know what's going on here, but someone needs to be held responsible. Equipment like this does not come cheap. This patient is your charge, Alin. Compensation will be expected."

"You're right." The Apprentice replied, curling a lip in distaste. "This does need to be dealt with." And with no outward sign at all, the clone twisted the Force into the doctor's mind, driving horror and fear and madness into his thoughts. The doctor's face transformed instantaneously; eyes bulging, skin paling. Then, a moment later and the pain struck him with crippling intensity. He staggered away in horror until he was pressed against the wall, gibbering terrified nonsense.

"What did you do? Stop it!" The Cerean ordered, though his demand sounded somewhat weak.

The clone's eyes snapped back to the scientist and narrowed dangerously. "Show me to my things, Cerean, or you'll be next." There was a sudden movement in the corner of his eye; a swish of dark robes accompanied by a faint echo of laughter. He whirled to defend himself only to see nothing there but stark, white walls.

His mind playing tricks on him?

Erupting into another fit of coughing, the Apprentice turned from the room and stepped out into the corridor, giving the Cerean a hard shove when he paused to glance back. He just needed to get as far away from this place as possible.

The laughter still echoed.

"What are you doing in my chair?"

Juno looked across at Galen; hiding a small smile behind her hand. He was standing in the entrance of the cockpit, glaring across at Sia who was sitting in the co-pilot chair. And Sia, in turn, had shifted to look at him, all bright-eyed innocence. Unlike Juno, however, Sia didn't bother to hide her amusement from him.

"Surprise!" She chimed teasingly. "What's wrong? I'm your new co-pilot, remember? This is the co-pilot chair, isn't it?" She leaned backwards, arching a questioning brow at Juno.

"It's my chair." Galen snapped. "This is my ship."

Juno cleared her throat.

"Our ship." He hastily amended.

"Technically speaking, isn't it the Alliance's ship?" Sia poked good-naturedly.

Galen's steely gaze only darkened further. "Who the ship belongs to doesn't come into it. Anyway, you're not here to play pilot. You're here to spy on Imperials."

Sia, with a small shrug, hopped out from the chair and stepped aside. "Fine. Fine. Sit there, then. I'll go keep the droid company. He probably has a better sense of humor, anyway."

PROXY turned his head to regard the woman. "On the contrary. I find your species' humor to be rather incognizable."

"See?" Sia slapped the droid on a shoulder. "What did I say? Such wit for a droid!"

Now even PROXY was starting to look harassed.

Galen, still looking chagrined, dropped into his chair and cast Juno a brief look. There was no need for words when she could understand that expression so clearly. He was uncomfortable with having someone else with them, particularly someone as outspoken and blunt as the flight officer was. He was not happy having someone intruding on what had been theirs. Likely, he was also unhappy with having another life to be responsible for.

Juno wanted to remind him that this was not going to be a particularly dangerous mission, especially in comparison to what they were normally involved in. This was probably nothing more than a test by the senators to see how they got on with obeying orders. She also wanted to tell him that being surrounded by different kinds of people would be good for him and that they could have ended up with someone a lot worse. Someone like Lieutenant Hayes, for instance. Juno felt her blood boil just thinking about that woman.

"Your co-ordinates look good, Captain." Sia called out. "By my calculations, we should reach Hutt space by thirteen hundred hours – local time. That'll give us plenty of time to get ourselves organized."

"That's the plan." Juno replied. She never made mistakes, not when it came to navigating and she was not about to start now. She was good with detail. She always had been and she prided herself on it.

Giving the data on the displays one last look over, she flicked a series of switches on the control panel above her head and powered up the engines. The reverberation juddered through the ship like the stirring of a dragon after a long slumber.

Over the com-link, the confirmation came: "Rogue Shadow, you are now clear for take off."

More eager than she outwardly showed, Juno – quite effortlessly – guided the ship out of the docking bay and up into open expanse. Her palm dropped down to cradle the accelerator paddle and seamlessly drove it forwards, feeling the shift of pressure and the comforting weight of acceleration on her chest.

The ship felt eager and fresh; responding to each tiny shift with an enthusiasm that told Juno the recent repairs had truly made a difference. For a while now, the ship had felt sluggish and old, the damage to the wings and the bodywork all affecting the handling and the increase of velocity; further hindered by quick repair jobs. The Corellian mechanics had certainly given the ship a new lease of life.

And then the darkness of space opened its arms and the ship sailed leisurely for a moment, gifting them with a beautiful view of the planet turning steadily below. A planet teeming with life, natural beauty and culture. And then, with one last check, Juno sent the ship surging into hyperspace.

The Cerean's nerves were fraught as they navigated their way down out of the complex structure of the hospital building. Only once did he dare to pause and consider their route, only to have the clone shoving him roughly and ordering: 'get us out of here' in a tone that was…most unkind. That, in turn, earned them suspicious looks.

"We need to slow down. People are beginning to stare." He forced his pace to slow and the mad man ran into his back, almost sending him flying.

"Shut your mouth and keep moving."

A strong hand gripped his shoulder and shoved him forwards. After that, he gave up trying to look 'casual'. Picking up the pace again, he led the way down half a dozen similar corridors and took the elevator down to the ground level to give him a chance to catch his breath. He was not as young as he had once been and exercise had never been his strong point. He thought, secretly, that the Sith was grateful, too. His breath still came in great, wheezing pants.

The doors snapped open in one smooth motion and closing the distance, Alin veered off to one side, trusting the Sith to follow him.

"Where are you going? The exit is that way." 'Superior' snapped, trying to divert him back.

"Your belongings are this way." Alin insisted.

They crossed the hall and through into a room with wide, sweeping doors. The room was bare except for one long bench surrounded by lockers from floor to ceiling. The scientist, patting his chest in an attempt to correct his breathing, crossed to one of the lockers and fumbled to open it.

"I managed to salvage some clothes off of the shuttle we escaped on."

"What?"

"The shuttle. You remember?"

The young Sith growled. "Of course."

"I left the droids there, too. I made sure to shut them down but…I'm worried about them. They're not the type of droids you want to leave just hanging around." The locker swung open and the clone impatiently reached in past the Cerean to gather his things. The clothes were not his own and had probably belonged to a dead crew member but they were a good enough fit – perhaps only one size too big. Alin was pleased, at least, that the boy uttered no complaint. What he didn't like, however, was the strange glow that came into his eyes when the duel sabers were clipped into place at his belt.

No, he didn't like that look at all.

Shoving away the surge of fear as best as he could, he added in a slightly worried tone of voice: "We need to take an airspeeder to the ship. But how we're going to do that without getting—"

"—Let me deal with it."

"I've seen your way of 'dealing' with things. It's not very pretty." He pointed out.

"Doing things my way kept you alive, Cerean. I'd urge you to remember that before I have second thoughts about that particular decision."

"I don't know why I even brought you here." Alin huffed, his tapering brow wrinkling with concern.

"Well, why did you?"

Alin stuttered, trying to come up with a response. Thankfully, the Sith didn't seem to care much for the answer as he changed the subject with another question. One that he could answer far easier than the former.

"Where is 'here' anyway?"

"A hospital on Teyr."

"Teyr?"

"Closest place I could find to Fondor. It's safe—for now, at least."

"There's no such thing as 'safe'." The clone hissed. "Enough talk. Let's get out of here."

The Cerean felt himself grow suddenly weary. "Of course, Superior, follow me. We'll need to see if we can negotiate a deal to get an airspeeder to take us to the ship. I'm almost out of credits and I know you don't have any."

"Leave the negotiating to me. I can be…persuasive." His golden eyes seemed to gleam and Alin took a step back, bumping against the lockers. There was nothing good in that look and it made him wary.

"Killing people will only draw attention to us."

The Sith smiled back. "You know nothing of the Force and that, Cerean, is why you will always be an inferior being."

They had managed to hire an airspeeder for free (thanks to some not-so-gentle persuasion from the Sith) and now Alin-Fa-Liir was guiding it down towards the bay where their ship was waiting for them.

His thoughts wandered.

He thought, firstly, of home. Of his beautiful, beautiful Cerea with its temperate climate and expansive natural habitat. It had been almost three years since he had stepped foot there but it felt so much longer than that. It felt like a lifetime ago.

It wasn't that he'd never left the planet before. His research and profession meant that he had often taken trips off world to further his knowledge. He'd found great pleasure in it, too. He had loved seeing new places and found real enthusiasm in focusing on numerous different and difficult tasks. His life was short in comparison to a lot of sentient beings and he'd wanted to live it in the best way he possibly could. Before, however, his trips from home had been only a month here and a month there and when he returned it had been like he'd never even left.

But three years…

Beside him the Sith stirred in his seat. His face was hard and unreadable. He didn't seem calm, exactly, but he also didn't appear on the verge of a complete meltdown. Perhaps being free of pain had helped somewhat – Alin had hoped that it would, though he wasn't sure if that was just wishful thinking.

To be truthful, Alin-Fa-Liir was beginning to question why he had even stayed in Teyr. He could have dumped the Sith somewhere and taken his leave. He could even have been home right now, free of this burden. His wives would—would, what, exactly? Welcome him home with open arms? Take away all the hurt that the Imperials had impressed on him since his capture all that time ago? What was to say that they hadn't already forgotten him and moved on? It wasn't an impossible notion. It had happened to a cousin of his, after all.

Alin sighed.

What if he got home to find his beloved wives had gone their own separate ways? Found new husbands to provide for them? He couldn't blame them, exactly. Good Cerean men were hard to come by. They were shorter lived than the females and in far fewer number. It was only right that they had moved on after all this time. They probably thought he was dead.

But if they had…could he truly think of his home as home anymore? He was getting on in years now. No Cerean woman in her right mind would want to partner with him now.

And what of his children? Some had been young when he had been taken from them. What if they didn't even recognize him? The past few years had been…unkind. He wasn't even sure if he would recognize himself.

But if he didn't go home. What then?

How ironic that his greatest hope had now become his greatest fear. Every day during his imprisonment he had thought of home and used it to keep his spirits up. He'd had something to live for and conjuring memories of his family had brought him great strength. Now…now he wasn't sure about anything.

The airspeeder had started to drift and he hastily straightened course, glad that the Sith hadn't seemed to have noticed. That in itself was unusual. He seemed an observant type, particularly when it was a fault.

So, why was he here? Why was he still traveling with this unhinged man?

He supposed he was partially responsible for the Sith now. Responsible for the damage he would wreak now that he was free of imprisonment on that damned moon. He had set the monster loose and if he was not there to help prevent disaster was he not partly accountable for those lives the Sith could destroy?

He cast the young man another look and felt a shudder run down his spine. He was smiling, but it was the smile of a wolf before it bites off your head.

"You will pilot the ship for me."

"Oh yes, what a grand use of my skills!" The Cerean replied, hiding his fear behind sarcasm.

"Whilst you have purpose your life is useful."

"I know. I know. I've heard it before. If I'm useful you'll spare my life." Alin sighed, breaking away from the lane of traffic to head down towards the ship. Somehow he couldn't help but think he might be better off dead.

To be continued...

Next update: 7th April