It has been exactly two years to the day since I posted the first chapter of this story. Thank you all so much for sticking with me and reading and commenting even though it's been taking so long. I really appreciate it! :)


The half-doze that Hunter had fallen into faded and returned and faded again. Most of the time, he was able to hear everything going on around him. Once, despite not realizing that his eyes were open, he found himself watching distantly while Wrecker wrangled a barely coherent Tech into the upper bunk. Then Wrecker turned around and told him to go to sleep, so Hunter closed his eyes.

That had been some time ago. Now, he breathed slowly, trying to lure himself into a relaxed state. Every so often, purple and white flickers of light would flash against the backs of his eyelids, accompanied by a tight, crawling feeling through his muscles.

By the time Hunter woke up again, the soreness had faded, and everything was quiet except for Wrecker's snoring. Closing his eyes, Hunter listened for the others. Wrecker and Tech were in their usual places; but it was Quinlan's breathing, not Crosshair's, that he heard from the bunk above him. The sniper must still be on guard – surely it was past time to swap out with him.

Of course, it was only after Hunter tried to get up, and after a pulsing, bone-deep ache pervaded his entire body, that he remembered Crosshair's warning. Pushing his arms under the pillow, he jammed his forehead against them and started listing off every kind of blaster in the GAR's vast arsenal as he waited for the pain to subside.

At one point, he must have slept deeply. He heard the faint beep of the chronometer marking the hour, and then, what felt like only a minute later, he was glancing at the faint glowing red of the chrono to see that nearly a full hour had passed since then.

It was strangely quiet in the Marauder. For a few moments, he couldn't even hear his teammates breathing. Hunter stared at the chronometer again, completely disoriented. Was it the same day, or had he slept for a full twenty-four hours? How long had it been since they escaped the palace? How long had Zenaya had to recover? Was she somehow . . . following them, present in the Force?

No – that wasn't possible. If Zenaya was able to leave Malachor, she'd have left centuries ago. But Hunter couldn't convince his less rational side that she was gone. He kept remembering how confidently she'd behaved, how coolly she'd spoken, sure that she could get Quinlan to obey . . . and she had. Or had she? All Hunter knew was that, when Zenaya summoned true lightning, Quinlan's eyes had blazed a furious gold – and they'd stayed that way until Hunter stabbed Vythia. When the Jedi had killed the leviathan, it hadn't been so strange – his eyes had changed color, but they'd still retained his expression. With Zenaya, though . . . when Quinlan attacked her, it was like there was something dark and wild in his place. Thinking back to it, Hunter felt almost afraid.

Midnight came and went, and he didn't hear the quiet beep of the chronometer again for a long time. When he finally did, it felt as though four hours had passed, but it had only been one.

After that, he hovered between sleep and wakefulness, incapable of moving or speaking. Despite the bacta spray, his throat was swollen and it felt like he'd been swallowing sand. Not talking was definitely a good idea right now. Not being able to move, though. . . that was dangerous. After the initial realization, he couldn't bring himself to care. They were in hyperspace.

The realization that he didn't actually know where they were headed made him wake up a little. He had the vague idea that they were going back to Nar Shaddaa. Maybe they were? As he thought about it, he realized that it didn't really matter where they went, as long as it wasn't Malachor, or Separatist space.

Time drifted. Light, quick footsteps sounded – Tech, leaving the bunkroom. Quiet voices came from the cockpit, and then Hunter felt Crosshair approaching; he couldn't hear his footsteps over the hum of the engines, but he knew it was the sniper, because no one else walked that silently.

He drifted again, feeling the miniscule vibrations of the ship in hyperspace until he slipped into an uneasy sleep. A disorienting jumble of disconnected dreams slid through his mind for some time, and then, abruptly, his throat stung and the fleeting images drew solidly together. A black hand was closing around his neck as he looked up to meet the gaze of a familiar figure. It was Vythia – but her skin was as black as her eyes, her face was absolutely expressionless, and she was wearing a hooded robe like the four-armed statues had worn.

When Hunter stared up at her, Vythia said, "You killed me."

"I had to," he answered, surprised he could talk when he couldn't breathe. "You wanted it. You helped me."

"Yes. But why did you not kill Zenaya?"

"We – tried." Hunter tried to pull away, but she only squeezed tighter. "Vythia, we tried!"

"You failed," she said, voice clearly Zenaya's although her eyes were her own.

When he tried to breathe past the pressure in his throat, she smiled mockingly and said, "Is something wrong?"

"Vythia –!"

"Well? What is it, Hunter?"

"I can't – breathe!"

Raising an unconcerned eyebrow, she leaned closer. "Well . . . Neither can I."

Hunter twisted away, but knowing it was a dream was not helping him to wake up. The Vythia-statue watched him, hand still around his throat even as she drew back. Suddenly, the image didn't make sense. She was too far away to reach him. . . wasn't she?

For the first time, Hunter noticed that Vythia had three other arms. Her lower two arms were clutching at her chest, where he'd stabbed her, but her upper left still gripped his throat, while her upper right reached forward with clawed fingers. Lightning sparked in her palm.

Hunter jerked back. "No!"

Her head tilted, eyes almost invisible against the pitch-black of her skin. "Then stop me, Quinlan Vos."

"I'm not – Quinlan!" he protested, throat burning as she leaned closer. "Don't!"

The lightning glittered in her eyes as she shrugged, utterly uncaring. "If you don't want me to do it, then find a way to stop me."

"Vythia! I'm not Quinlan!" Hunter tried to break away again as the lightning approached, but then fell still as he began to return to some level of consciousness.

Vythia, or Zenaya, or whatever that thing had been, faded away before his eyes even as the lightning came slowly closer. When it hit, the pain was sluggish and aching rather than piercingly sharp, but it was there, and it stayed even after the images vanished. Something was pushing on his back, restraining him. He struggled, but the weight only increased until he could hardly move. No –

"No!" he snapped hoarsely, trying to fling off whatever it was. "Get –"

"Hunter . . ." The pressure vanished, only to reappear against his arm. "Hey, calm down, buddy. I'm just trying to help you."

Instantly, Hunter stopped trying to shove him off. "Q'nl'n," he mumbled, lifting his head with an effort. "She's – Zenaya – she's –"

"Don't talk," the Jedi interrupted, wincing. "You're making my throat hurt."

"She's not dead," Hunter choked out, a sense of urgency overcoming his unwillingness to move. He sat up halfway before freezing, aching in every muscle. "She's –"

Quinlan studied him for a moment, then shook his head and hauled him into an upright position, muttering an apology at Hunter's gasp.

The sergeant was still catching his breath when he caught sight of the chronometer yet again. How could it possibly be only two fourteen? It hadn't even been twelve hours since they escaped Malachor?

Belatedly realizing that the Jedi had said something, Hunter stiffly turned his head to look at him. ". . . What?"

Quinlan sat on the edge of the bunk. "I said: is that why were you calling me?"

"I – wasn't."

"Were," the Jedi argued, and frowned at the wall.

Hunter was still thinking about the strangely realistic dream. "Zenaya wanted you – to stop her." He hesitated, then coughed. "I think she still does. You think – she can reach us?"

When Quinlan just looked at him, Hunter shook his head once, then tried to explain further. "Quinlan? Zenaya's not dead."

"Uh, yeah, Hunter . . ." The Jedi leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose exhaustedly. "We knew that when we left Malachor."

Oh.

Suddenly feeling ridiculous, Hunter said, "I . . . know that."

"Yeah." A few seconds later, Quinlan hummed and pulled a capped needle out of his belt. "Uh, anyway, reason I came in is, Tech said I should probably give you another hypo."

That definitely sounded like a good idea. Tilting his head sideways to let Quinlan inject it, Hunter muttered, "Thanks."

"No problem." The Jedi handed him a water bottle. "And here. You sound like you seriously need a drink."

For some reason, Hunter's half-asleep mind found that statement hilarious. "More'n one," he said, and laughed until he made himself cough again.

"You and me both," Quinlan admitted. "Guess we could always hit Rimmer's Rest and hope they don't recognize us."

It only took a minute for the pain to dull enough so that Hunter could actually drink. He downed half the bottle. Then, abruptly more awake, he sat and tried to piece together the fragmented impressions he'd gotten after the team had boarded the Marauder. He remembered Tech piloting them out, Crosshair snapping an order, Wrecker helping with stitches, Quinlan nervously pacing. . .

Hunter glanced at Wrecker's and Crosshair's sleeping forms. "You thought Zenaya was here," he pointed out.

"Yeah. I didn't know how she couldn't be." The Jedi shifted. "But she's not here, I'm sure of that now. It's just, I was, am, worried about the fact that she let us go so easily."

"So easily? Quinlan, that –" Hunter coughed, Crosshair stirred in his sleep, and the sergeant lowered his voice to a whisper. " – that was not easy."

The Jedi grimaced. "I meant after you killed Vythia."

"Oh." Hunter didn't remember much from after they left the tower room. The only things that stood out particularly were almost falling down the stairs, and then seeing his teammates near the Marauder.

"And before that." Quinlan fidgeted with the bandages on his left wrist and forearm before looking up. "In the tower – that . . . I still don't know what she was trying to do, Hunter."

At the memory of the vicious pain, Hunter had flinched involuntarily. To cover it up, he shot a wry look at the Jedi and said, "You don't?"

"Not the why."

"I thought you said . . ." Hunter looked down at his hands. "Earlier, you said something about her wanting an apprentice."

"I know. It's still my best guess. But – Hunter, if I had obeyed her, she would have let us go. Sith don't let apprentices go."

"Do you really think Zenaya would've kept her word?"

"Uhh . . . Not . . ." There was a long pause before Quinlan muttered, "I'm sure she was telling the truth about letting us go."

Hunter glanced at him. He didn't answer aloud, but he couldn't help but wonder, Then why didn't you do what she wanted?

"I almost did," Quinlan said quickly, right into his thoughts. "After you woke up, when she was going to start again . . ."

He trailed off.

Another long silence followed. Hunter finished his water and stared at the opposite wall. Normally, when the team was in hyperspace after a mission, everyone was relaxing, taking a short break between one burst of action and another. This time, though, it felt more like they were waiting helplessly. But for what? Zenaya had no way off Malachor.

Unless she's already off Malachor because she's on the ship. But Hunter was sure she wasn't. The Jedi would know if she was anywhere around, especially now that he wasn't surrounded by the Dark Side.

Beside him, Quinlan rubbed at the back of his neck and sighed. "Look – I'm sorry, Hunter. I know that probably doesn't mean much, but . . . I'm sorry about what happened."

Hunter studied him for a couple of seconds, then transferred his gaze to the empty water bottle. He wasn't entirely sure why the Jedi was apologizing – for using the Dark Side, or for not using it before Hunter was tortured?

It was easy enough to figure things out in those tests officers took before being given their rank on Kamino. In a given situation, who was the priority? Who could be sacrificed, and who should be sacrificed, if the need arose? What was acceptable collateral damage – what wasn't? A sergeant could risk his squad for the mission, or a general, but could he risk it for a single trooper? In the tests, it was simple to come up with the right answer.

Not here, though. Despite everything that had happened, he still didn't understand what was so horrible about using the Dark Side. He'd barely even thought about it before meeting Quinlan; he'd just assumed that the Jedi Order didn't use the Dark Side because the Sith did, and the Sith led the Separatist armies and had been enemies of the Jedi for millennia.

Hunter frowned, irritated that he'd ever thought about it that simplistically, then leaned forward to rest his forearms against his knees. The Sith used the Dark Side for evil things, but Quinlan didn't. A Separatist could fire a gun as well as a clone trooper, but that didn't make the weapon evil. . . Except somehow, Hunter had the feeling the Force was different than just a weapon.

His head spun.

"Guess the mission comes first," he said at last, still thinking vaguely about long tests printed on sheets of flimsi.

"The mission," Quinlan said blankly, twisting to face him. "Yeah . . . Hunter, that actually wasn't – ah, never mind."

The sergeant frowned, not sure what he'd missed.

Sighing, Quinlan got to his feet. "You should try and get some actual sleep."

What exactly do you think I've been doing? Hunter thought, irritation tinged with amusement. Lying down, he dragged the blanket over himself and was about to close his eyes when he realized that Quinlan was standing in the middle of the floor, his expression distant.

Whenever the Jedi did that, it made Hunter restless – more so now than before. A quarter of a minute later, Quinlan still hadn't moved.

Hunter picked up the empty water bottle and flicked it through the air at his head, but he missed and hit the Jedi's arm.

Quinlan took a couple of seconds to register the hit, but when he turned back to Hunter, his eyes were focused. "Oh – yeah," he said. "I was gonna say, you've spent half the night thinking so loudly it's keeping me up. You want me to help?"

"No," Hunter answered, for some reason, and shut his eyes. Then, not liking the idea of more hours of half-sleep, he sighed. "Yes."

"Okay, then."

The last things Hunter was aware of were a brief touch on his forehead and the Jedi saying, "Sleep."


Wrecker sat at the galley table, watching as Crosshair tried to build a house out of cards. The Marauder was quiet, there was nothing Wrecker wanted to do, and everyone else was sleeping, even though it was close to thirteen hundred. Boring. Wrecker was feeling so restless that he'd spent an hour cleaning his armor and weapons, and taken care of unpacking and putting away his stuff. He'd even made his bunk.

Tech had stumbled out of the bunkroom a few hours ago, paused long enough to steal a piece of Crosshair's ration bar – fussily breaking it off from the unbitten end – and then gone into the cockpit to check everything. He never seemed to be able to function until he'd gone over all the ship systems. But he'd only been in there for a few minutes when he promptly fell asleep again, this time in the pilot's seat, and he'd been sleeping ever since.

Wrecker sighed, and a triangle of cards fell over.

"Quit breathing all over the place," muttered Crosshair, so intent on the third triangle that he didn't even get mad. "Actually . . . just stop breathing."

Wrecker dragged in a huge breath, froze in position for about six seconds, and then let it out in a gusty sigh. The second and third triangles joined the first, but Crosshair just picked up the cards and started over.

"Aw, come on," mumbled Wrecker, slumping with one elbow against the table. He really wanted to smash something right about now, and Crosshair was being contrary. They couldn't even have a quiet fight, because no matter what Wrecker did, Crosshair just kept ignoring it and starting over.

"How long are they gonna sleep?" he asked.

"Go ask them," Crosshair said, balancing a card horizontally against two peaks.

"I can't! They're sleeping!"

"Then shut up," was Crosshair's friendly advice.

Wrecker leaned his forearms on the table and rested his chin on his hands as he watched the chronometer. The numbers changed a couple of times before he said, "You think Hunter's okay?"

"Yeah." The sniper didn't even look up.

"What about Tech?"

Crosshair just raised an eyebrow and went back to his project.

"Well, what about Quinlan?"

"Wrecker, they're all fine."

Wrecker leaned forward, sighed heavily, and watched as the upper story of the card house collapsed and slid off.

This time, Crosshair gave him an absent-minded kick. "Would you stop."

The chrono number changed again, and Wrecker slouched even more. "They've been sleeping for . . . I dunno, a whole day or something."

"Twelve hours. And you slept almost that long."

"Yeah, but I've been up for a while," he complained dramatically.

The sniper finally looked at him, annoyed. "What's the problem, Wrecker, you bored or something?"

"Yeah," Wrecker whispered as loudly as he could, and watched another card slide off the tower. "There's nothing to do until we get back to Nar Shaddaa."

Crosshair rolled his eyes and went back to work.

Wrecker slouched even further against the table, then leaned forward and knocked the card house into Crosshair's lap.

"Wrecker!" Finally, Crosshair reacted. Shoving at Wrecker's arms, he hissed, "Get off the table, you big lummox!"

"Y'know what?" Wrecker whispered back with a grin. "NO."

Crosshair flung the handful of cards down onto the floor, marched around the table, grabbed Wrecker's arm with his right hand, and tugged with all his strength. Wrecker slid a few centimeters towards him, then jumped up, got his arm around the sniper's neck, and dragged him to sit back down. "Gotcha!"

"Let me go! What is wrong with you?" Crosshair's elbow jabbed him hard in the ribs, so Wrecker pinned him in place. "Wrecker! If you weren't injured I –"

"You'd what?" Wrecker teased, feeling more cheerful than he had in a while. He'd been worried that something was wrong, Crosshair had been so quiet. "You'd what, Cross? Arm wrestle with me? We're both kinda, uh, handicapped right now, so I dunno how that would work. . . Oh yeah I do! I'd win, like I always do!"

"I'd – ugh, let me go or I'll make you eat those cards –!" Crosshair twisted abruptly, and Wrecker couldn't keep his balance. They fell off the bench with a crash, with Wrecker landing on top.

"Oops," he said, over Crosshair's muffled yelp.

As footsteps sounded from the cockpit, the sniper lifted his head from the floor and announced, "Now you've done it."

Feeling chastened, Wrecker got up just as Tech wandered into the room. The youngest commando observed them for a moment before saying, "I thought you ordered us to be quiet."

"I did," Crosshair grumbled, and got up. Shoving Wrecker aside, he started to pick up the cards.

"Uh, yeah, he did," Wrecker agreed. "Sorry, Tech. Didn't mean to wake you."

"I have been awake." Tech looked around the galley, squinting a little. It didn't look to Wrecker like he'd been awake at all.

"Crosshair," Tech said. "Given this persistent headache and my inability to focus, I believe I am in definite need of caf."

"Same here." Crosshair tilted his head to one side. "You think it'll work?"

"It is worth a try. Is Hunter safely asleep?"

Tiptoeing to the open barracks door, Wrecker peered in. He couldn't see Hunter's face from here, but he was completely motionless. In the upper bunk, Quinlan was turned towards the doorway, and his eyes were closed. Giving Tech a thumbs-up, Wrecker backed carefully away. "They're both asleep," he whispered.

"Ah. Good." Tech put one foot on the lowest shelf and hopped up to reach the stash of caf packs, which Hunter thought he'd hid so well. Wrecker grinned.

"Crosshair?" Tech asked. "Wrecker?"

"Not me," Wrecker answered. "Too bitter."

"Let's split a pack," Crosshair decided, then shot a wary look towards the bunkroom's open door. "And don't brew it in here."

They ended up bringing the hot water to the cockpit and shutting the door before carefully splitting the dissolvable caf grounds between the two cups.

While his two younger brothers drank their illegal caf, Wrecker sat in the co-pilot's seat, turning it restlessly one way and then the other. Then he stopped moving in order to watch the streaking light of hyperspace rush by as he realized that it had been a while since he'd last seen it. "Hey," he said slowly. "Tech . . . How long were we on Malachor, anyway?"

Tech lifted a finger and drained the last of his caf, then said, "Approximately nine days."

"That was it?" Wrecker demanded, surprised.

"Yeah . . . feels longer," Crosshair muttered into his cup.

"Indeed. I believe this mission went on longer than any of us anticipated. The original idea, at least when we first met with Quinlan, was simply to gain Vythia's confidence so that we could, in turn, gain the Prince's and discover the Sith lord." Tech tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Hmm . . . I should go run some diagnostics."

Crosshair nodded and closed his eyes, looking almost relaxed. As Tech went off to do his scanning and clicking thing, Wrecker fidgeted. He wished he was as good at being still as Crosshair was, or that he had something useful to busy himself with, like Tech did. After missions, it took Wrecker a long time to calm down enough to focus on anything without feeling jittery. He did a lot better in the field, destroying droids and stuff.

On Malachor, they'd done a lot of running and some fighting, but mostly just walking around in Trayus Academy, and then in Aantonaii. "Too bad we didn't get to destroy Zenaya's palace," he mused. "Hey, Tech – how do you think she disarmed all those mines we set? You think the Sith all knew how to use 'em?"

"I am sure they had some manner of explosive devices. Perhaps they functioned in a similar manner." Tech rotated the pilot's seat back and forth a couple of times. "More likely, however, Vythia knew how to disarm them and Zenaya simply used her knowledge."

Wrecker nodded, not feeling cheerful any more. He knew Vythia had been an enemy, at least mostly, but he still wished they could have killed Zenaya without killing her. Of course, it was Vythia's fault that Zenaya was even free, but still.

Unable to sit still any longer, Wrecker got up and wandered back into the galley. There was something he'd dreamed when he was on the mountainside – he didn't really remember what he'd seen, but he'd known that Zenaya was trying to do something awful and Vythia and Quinlan were fighting her. And – it had worked, somehow.

Wrecker was glad he hadn't seen Vythia die. Actually, he kind of missed her.


It wasn't until nearly fifteen hundred hours that all five of them were awake and alert and once again in a state that Hunter called 'at least half human' and Crosshair called 'almost half alive'.

Tech, who had picked the lowest number and therefore gained access to the sonic shower last, listened to the murmurs of conversation from above him as he fastened the top of his clean blacks. He climbed up the ladder one-handed and closed the trap door behind him, then paused to evaluate his teammates.

Everyone looked a good deal better than they had the previous evening. Wrecker was a bit somber, but he seemed to have recovered – with the exception of his left arm, of course, which would take another two days to heal. Hunter was moving stiffly, but he'd lost the pale look around his eyes. As Quinlan had put it, the sergeant no longer looked 'like death'; a phrase Tech found amusing, given the skull tattoo. As for Crosshair, he was still rather on the pale side, and Tech supposed he himself was as well, but another day of rest and proper nutrition would deal with that issue.

"Hey, Tech."

Tech twisted to face the Jedi, who was perched on a nearby crate. "Yes?"

"Just saying hi."

". . . Oh. Hello." Tech adjusted his goggles thoughtfully. He was glad to observe that Quinlan's eyes were in the present, instead of constantly drifting to some distant, invisible thing. "You appear to feel much improved."

"I do. Guess I didn't even realize how much that planet weighed on me until we were away from it." He smiled a little. "You know what – after Malachor, Nar Shaddaa's gonna feel like home."

Tech eyed him dubiously. "I should hope that is not the case. I have always heard the Jedi Temple was peaceful, not to mention free of assassins, thugs, criminals, and general lowlife."

"Oh – see, uh, that's called a common misconception . . ."

"He's back," Crosshair said wryly.

There was a short pause in the conversation. Wrecker, who knelt nearby, had finished laying out all the pieces of a dummy explosive and was busy reconstructing it. Balancing a toothpick precariously in the corner of his mouth, Crosshair stood and leaned an elbow against the supply closet. Tech got his datapad and climbed onto a crate to sit next to the sergeant, who was leaning back against the wall.

When Hunter glanced at him, Tech felt a brief a surge of gratitude that everyone was safe. He had felt like that several times today; interestingly, the first time had been when he heard Crosshair and Wrecker bickering in the galley. Now there was something he had never considered feeling grateful for. . .

After a few moments of quiet, Hunter straightened, frowning thoughtfully. "Tech."

"Hm?"

"Do you think I'll have full mobility by the time we get to Nar Shaddaa?"

"I am sure of it. In fact, I believe you will be back to normal within the day – physically speaking, at least."

"What," Hunter said with a smirk. "It'll take me longer mentally or something?"

"Potentially, yes." Ignoring the sergeant's apprehensive look, Tech scrolled through a couple of articles to locate the one he'd marked earlier. "For example, you may suffer nightmares for a few days."

"Tech. . ."

"Also, it would be wise to limit your exposure to sudden flashes of light –"

"Tech."

Tech blinked at him, nonplussed. "– and to ensure that you maintain a regular pattern of sleep, insofar as that is possible.

"Tech." Hunter rolled his eyes. "Come on."

With a dismissive huff, Tech sat cross-legged and went back to his research. "If you did not want an answer, then why did you ask?"

"Just – making conversation, I guess. Long as I'm able to move properly, I'm good."

With a sniff of disagreement, Tech went back to reading the article. He only looked up again when Crosshair spoke.

"So. What exactly are we going to do on Nar Shaddaa?"

"Finish our mission, I guess," Quinlan said.

"Yeah?" Looking completely unimpressed, Crosshair switched his toothpick from the right side of his mouth to the left. "What gave you that idea?"

The Jedi ignored him.

Wrecker picked up the half-assembled device and shook it near his head as though listening for a broken part. "We're gonna go after the Prince?"

"That's the idea." Quinlan tapped his fingers against one knee. "Our primary objective will be to trace his contacts and discover the identity of the secret Sith lord . . . if possible. . ."

"And then what?" Crosshair asked.

"Well, if we somehow find the Sith lord's identity while we're still on Nar Shaddaa, we'll get off as fast as we can and notify the Council. They can handle it from there."

"If the Prince doesn't warn him first," Hunter added.

"Yeah – well, hopefully, even if he does the Council can still handle it."

"We could'a just stolen Vythia's codes right off," Wrecker said. "Maybe not without being caught, though."

"Pretty sure we'd have been caught," Quinlan said, shaking his head. "And we'll see if we even use the codes as it is."

"Why wouldn't we?" Tech asked.

"We might not need 'em, if we can just walk in. You know what, the weirdest thing about this whole mission has been the decisions we made – well, the decisions I made, anyway."

"Not just you." Hunter shifted uneasily. "The way Zenaya was talking . . ."

"Yeah." Quinlan pushed himself back on the crate until he could lean against the corner where the walls met. "I think she was involved. A lot. In, uh, what we decided to do."

Tech blinked, surprised at the chill that swept over him. "You do not think she is influencing this part of our decision, do you?"

"I guess there's no real way to tell." Quinlan rested his chin on one hand. "But I don't think she is. This . . . Well, she needed us, or me at least, to go with Vythia, but I have a feeling the Prince wasn't involved there. Well, I say that – but we've all seen exactly how reliable my Force-intuition has been lately."

"Hmm." Crosshair flicked his toothpick aside. "Seems we'd figured earlier that Vythia was the driving force behind our little expedition to Malachor."

"We had assumed that," Tech said. "And, given that Vythia knew Quinlan was a Jedi from the beginning, and that we were never attacked by the Prince's men, it is a logical assumption that she had not told him your identity. Vythia was the one who needed a Jedi, after all."

"Yeah," said Crosshair, straightening. "Vythia needed one. Strangely convenient that a Jedi went to Nar Shaddaa at that point in time, isn't it."

There was a short silence before Quinlan said, "Grakkus – the Hutt Council requested a Jedi be sent there –"

"But I wonder what gave him the idea," Hunter said slowly.

Quinlan hesitated. "The Jedi Council almost never gets involved in the affairs of the Hutts, and they haven't sent a Jedi to Nar Shaddaa in centuries. We only got involved because of the Sith artifacts."

Hunter nodded. "So, you're saying that if you hadn't known about those artifacts, the Jedi would have ignored the cartel's request."

"Yes . . ." The Jedi stood, then wandered to the wall and back. "But how did Grakkus know about the Sith artifacts, and how did he get proof that the Prince was dealing in them?"

"Vythia," Wrecker suggested.

"Yeah." Quinlan folded his arms. "But – why?"

"The Prince and Grakkus are enemies," Tech pointed out. "They will not even hire someone who has previously worked for the other person. Surely you do not think Grakkus would have obliged Vythia by sending for a Jedi."

"No, I don't. I don't think she'd have risked even showing up in his territory. But someone definitely supplied the information that got the Jedi Council involved. And I'll bet it was Vythia . . . but she probably didn't give it to Grakkus directly."

"Then who was Vythia's contact in Hutta Town?" Tech said. "She has Cad Bane and Embo and Dengar working directly for the Prince, which most likely excludes them from – oh."

"Aurra Sing," Crosshair and Quinlan said together.

"Precisely."

"Is that going to affect us?" Hunter asked.

"Um . . . I hope not." Despite his words, Quinlan did not actually sound hopeful. "Of course, we've got no idea what the situation on Nar Shaddaa is right now."

"You don't think the Prince has left, do you?" Wrecker asked. "He and Dverik and Grakkus were going at it when we left, weren't they?"

"More or less, yeah. But the Prince had some of the galaxy's top talent guarding him, and probably a couple hundred guards. Even Dverik wouldn't be stupid enough to go up against that without at least three times the number."

"Well, he did have a bunch of guys." Wrecker said around the piece of wire he was holding between his teeth. "Course, it sounds like they were busy fighting with Grakkus, so maybe he doesn't anymore."

"Probably not," Quinlan agreed. "We've got a couple options, though. Using Vythia's codes and trying to get into the warehouse without announcing ourselves is one of 'em. Of course, we might not have to sneak in. After all, the Prince is probably expecting us with his expensive artifacts – which we do not, in fact, have for the most part."

"That, and we'll have to explain Vythia's absence," Crosshair said, then gave an unamused smirk. "Hm. I wonder if the truth would be more believable or not."


The clusters of lights across the surface of the ecumenopolis glowed brightly, casting a blue gleam through the atmosphere of Nar Shaddaa. Leaning against the viewport, Crosshair tried to pick out Dverik's territory from five kilometers. He didn't have much success – when they flew there for the first time, he hadn't been paying attention. And of course their altitude had been much lower, then.

Now, Wrecker was piloting, while Tech and Quinlan went through a series of maps, trying to pick a landing zone that would put them close to the Prince's territory, but not in it, while at the same time avoiding the 'official' cities. They didn't want to deal with airspace control. In a planet of cities, Hutta Town was an official city, apparently. Crosshair wasn't really sure how that worked. Maybe on Nar Shaddaa, 'official' meant they had to pay taxes instead of protection, or something like that. Or maybe Grakkus ignored the occupants as long as they ignored him.

Hunter leaned past him to glance out the viewport. "Seems like a long time since we first saw this place," he commented. "But it's only been a couple of weeks."

"Seventeen days," Tech piped in.

Crosshair and Quinlan shared an eyeroll at his expense.

"Well, pretty soon we can put this whole sector behind us," Hunter said. "Come on, Bad Batch . . . Let's go check our gear."


It's not over yet . . .