Vythia hadn't contacted the Marauder once since they'd entered hyperspace, a fact which both intrigued and concerned Quinlan. The Nautolan woman was apparently disinterested in conversation, casual or otherwise . . . at least for now.

The past day and a half had been busy enough. The commandos had gone through every piece of equipment they owned, making sure it was in prime condition for the upcoming mission. After finishing that, they'd moved on to the ship itself, fixing and repairing wherever they could. Quinlan had helped out, since, as he told the Bad Batch, he'd become quite handy with an arc welder due to a couple of unfortunate instances with vehicles during his teenage years.

He was a little insulted that not one of them had looked in the least surprised.

By the end of the first day, things had been as ready as they could get, so everyone had scattered to work on their own projects. Tech mostly tinkered in the cargo hold, and sometimes commented on what he was working on to whoever else was in the room at the time. Usually, this was Crosshair. He spent a lot of time maintaining the literal arsenal of weaponry the Batch had at their disposal, but sometimes he read. Once – much to Quinlan's amusement – the Jedi saw him building a house out of sabacc cards.

Wrecker hung around the cockpit a lot, reading up on various explosives and materials while lifting a crate with one hand. He also busied himself by pestering his teammates and arguing with Crosshair about inconsequential things. As for Hunter, he seemed to enjoy his space. When he wasn't on watch, he was on the lower deck practicing with his knife – and sometimes Wrecker's – or in the galley with his datapad, keeping up with reports on the war.

Quinlan mostly kept to himself, as well, using the extra time to finish up some loose ends on his previous missions . . . such as actually writing the final official report. Before, he'd always reported to the Jedi Council in person, but once the war began he had to give them 'official' reports as well, so they could file them or show the absent Council members later or whatever.

Now, halfway through the second day, Quinlan was in the lower hold, working his way through lightsaber forms again. He was forced to move slower than usual, since not even bacta and meditation could heal cracked ribs in two days; still, had no intention of missing out on a perfectly good opportunity for lightsaber practice. He didn't get to use his saber much when he was undercover, which was most of the time. In fact, on most missions, it was dangerous to even have it with him. He tried to make up for lost time by practicing with it between missions whenever he could.

Fortunately, here he could do katas to his heart's content. After making his way through Ataru, with both a forward and a reverse-grip, he moved on to Jar'Kai, leaning a little harder into each stroke. Maybe I should get another lightsaber and work with both . . . Quinlan glanced at the walls. Then again, Hunter would probably kill me if I damaged his ship. Or Tech would.

At that moment, footsteps sounded on the ladder behind him. As he finished the form, Quinlan turned to see that Hunter was standing on the bottom rung, hanging off the ladder with one hand as he watched.

"Look," Quinlan said, gesturing defensively to the walls. "I'm being careful."

The commando sergeant raised an eyebrow. "I didn't say anything."

"Not yet, you didn't . . ." As the Jedi's gaze fell on the lightsaber that hung from Hunter's belt, an idea hit him. "Hey, you up for a spar?"

Hunter stepped off the ladder, eyeing Quinlan's glowing blade cautiously. "I'm not shooting at you so you can practice blocking lasers."

Quinlan lowered his blade with a blink of surprise. "First of all, how do you know that goes on."

"Commander Cody's worked with several Jedi."

"Oh . . . Yep, that explains it. It doesn't explain why you think I'd do such a thing."

Hunter shrugged. "If other Jedi do something crazy, you probably definitely do it. You said yourself you were completely crazy."

"Yeah . . . I did, didn't I." Quinlan sniffed, then pointed his saber at Hunter. "So. You up for this, or not?"

"Sparring?" Hunter cast him an uncertain look. "I thought you were joking."

"Nope. Why would I be?"

". . . It's a Jedi's weapon."

"Well, a gun is a soldier's weapon, and I use one."

"Tech would argue that," Hunter pointed out, but then he removed the hilt from his belt and studied it before looking up. "One of us is going to lose an arm."

"I won't attack you," Quinlan said. "Not at first. You attack, and don't worry – I won't let you get past my guard."

Hunter pressed the activation stud and gave a couple of practice swings. "I use knives all the time, Vos. I'm an expert at getting past people's guards."

"Yeah, but you can't use the Force to see an instant into the future, can you?"

Hunter tilted his head to one side, then lunged, slashing at Quinlan's neck. His blade hadn't even met Quinlan's when he was pulling back to aim a second blow at his leg, then his arm.

Quinlan blocked the last two strikes without giving ground. "What do you think, is this better than a knife?"

Hunter converted the momentum from his next swing into a spin. To Quinlan's surprise, the sergeant reversed the blade as he turned, aiming it in a backwards stab at the Jedi's torso. "Well, you can't throw a lightsaber."

Quinlan batted that blow aside. "Yeah, you can. It just won't go as far."

"It doesn't have the same weight, either." Hunter took a step back, spinning the hilt expertly from one hand to the next. "Good balance, though."

"Be careful," Quinlan cautioned, reaching out. "You're gonna cut your own hand off doing that."

"Vibroblades are a lot sharper," Hunter said with a smirk, but he stopped. "Probably not a great idea to practice with a live blade."

"Not like that," agreed the Jedi. "Okay – want to be on defense?"

"Fine by me." Hunter shifted his stance.

Quinlan channeled the Force more deliberately, so that he could sense when Hunter was about to move – he didn't want the sergeant to dodge one strike only to be hit by a second – then launched himself into a series of attacks.

Hunter gave ground rapidly, ducking around Quinlan and toward the back of the hold, using his own lightsaber to block only when he couldn't dodge one of Quinlan's strikes. His reactions were swift and precise, but he was quickly running out of space.

Taking advantage of that, Quinlan lunged forward and locked blades with him, forcing him back until Hunter's heel hit the wall. Then, catching the sergeant's wrist in one hand to keep him from taking a retaliatory swing, Quinlan shut off his own lightsaber and mimed holding it across Hunter's throat. "See, here's where I normally demand for my opponent to yield," he said.

"Yeah?" Smirking, Hunter deactivated his saber. "Here's where I normally do this."

The commando yanked his arm free and lashed out, left hand catching Quinlan's right wrist, then took a step forward and spun beneath it, ducking outward as he kept the Jedi's arm pinned. Before Quinlan could use the Force to call his lightsaber across to his other hand, Hunter finished turning. Keeping his grip tight, he brought Quinlan's forearm down across his knee, twisting the Jedi's lightsaber free as he did so. Hunter held it up, eyeing him almost tauntingly.

"Point taken." Quinlan glanced sideways at him. "Um . . . you can let go now."

Hunter stepped back and returned his lightsaber.

"I gotta admit, good move," Quinlan said. "Dangerous, though."

"Not when the opponent has broken ribs and isn't taking the spar seriously."

"Is that right?" The Jedi tossed his lightsaber hilt and caught it absently behind his back. "So what you're really saying is that you want to go another round."

Meeting Quinlan's raised eyebrow with a challenging look of his own, Hunter raised his blade.

It was on their fourth round that the proximity alert beeped and Tech called, "We are nearing the Chorlian system! Two minutes until we exit hyperspace."

Quinlan heard, but didn't acknowledge him. He was too busy fending off Hunter's increasingly aggressive attacks. So far, the sergeant hadn't won once – unless one counted the first round, which Quinlan didn't, because technically he'd already beaten through Hunter's guard – but that wasn't stopping him from trying.

Both of them were at a disadvantage because of the relatively small area they were sparring in. Quinlan had seen Hunter's fighting style during their headlong escape from Dverik's stronghold, and the clone seemed to favor acrobatic attacks. As a matter of fact, to Quinlan's mind, Hunter's attacks were more reminiscent of a Force-user's than those of a commando wearing full armor – or even those of a commando wearing civilian clothes, as Hunter had been at the time.

"Some time, we'll have to try this in a larger area," he panted, slashing three quick blows from the same direction.

Hunter blocked the first two without shifting his blade, then spun to catch the third blow over one shoulder. "We have to stop," gasped. "Coming out – of hyperspace."

Despite the intense Force-healing he'd focused on the past two days, Quinlan's side was burning. He gulped in another breath and struck again. "Okay, go ahead and stop."

The sergeant huffed in amusement despite his own breathlessness. "Not likely."

"Hunter!" Tech shouted down the hatch. "We are coming out of hyperspace!"

"Hey!" That was Wrecker. "It sounds like they're using lightsabers!"

"Uh –" Hunter's gaze flicked briefly to the ladder. "We should stop."

"Yeah, you should." A thud sounded behind Quinlan, but he didn't have the focus to turn away. Hunter was pressing his attack.

Locking blades with him again, Quinlan shoved upward, spinning beneath the crossed lightsabers, and slammed his free elbow into Hunter's side. The commando took a step back and kicked Quinlan hard in the back of the knee, sending him staggering. Quinlan dropped to one knee and spun around in a stab. Hunter dodged, slashing at his head.

They froze at precisely the same moment, staring at their lightsabers. The tip of Quinlan's was buried in the wall, while, a meter above it, Hunter's blade had scored a deep burn at least twelve centimeters long.

They exchanged silent, guilty glances and deactivated their weapons together.

"Draw?" suggested Hunter.

". . . Draw."

Only then, as they turned back toward the ladder, did they realize that Hunter's three squad mates were standing in the lower hold. Tech stared wide-eyed at the damaged wall, his thumb and index finger on one lens of his goggles as he adjusted them. Wrecker gazed in awe at the lightsabers, while Crosshair lounged against the wall and chewed consideringly on his toothpick.

"Hey, guys," Quinlan said, with a casualness he did not feel. "What's up?"

Tech stared from the Jedi to Hunter and back. "Did those have safety settings?"

"Uh . . . You mean the lightsabers?"

"No," said Crosshair, gesturing with his toothpick. "He meant the wall. Nice job with that, by the way."

"Ha!" Wrecker grinned. "Guess I'm not the only one who damages things with weapons, huh, Sarge?"

Resting his forehead on a convenient ladder rung, Hunter let out a dramatic sigh.

Tech glared at him, then at Quinlan. "I cannot believe . . ." Elbowing Hunter aside, he climbed the ladder in a huff.

Quinlan straightened his tunic. After a relatively calm day, Tech seemed to have returned to being grouchy. Though to be fair, two of his teammates had just sparred with potentially lethal weapons and damaged the ship . . .

"So," Quinlan said loudly, casting a look up at the hatch. "What do you suppose he's more upset about: the fact that we just scored the perfectly repaired walls, or the fact that we could have killed each other?"

"Definitely the walls!" Tech shouted from the cockpit. Then the ship comm clicked on, and his voice came through at perfectly normal volume. "Exiting hyperspace in twenty seconds."

After giving the damaged wall a final judgmental look, Crosshair flicked his toothpick away and climbed the ladder. The others followed silently, gathering in the cockpit just as Tech pulled back the lever.

The hyperspace lane resolved into star-streaks, and the ship slowed to a halt, leaving them drifting in the endless black of space.

"Incoming signal," said Tech, and flicked the comm switch. "This is the Marauder."

"Tech," greeted Vythia's calm voice. "Are the others nearby?"

"Right here," replied Hunter, pulling up a hologram of the sector. "I'm seeing two fully mapped routes which could take us through Zyggerian space. Are we taking one of 'em?"

"No. I am sending you the next set of coordinates now. We will make another hyperspace jump which will take us around Zyggerian space and to the edge of the Malachor system. After that, we will be flying manually. There are no recent records of the system, and the ancient records report strange gravitational inconsistencies."

"Got it," said Hunter, watching as the coordinates from the Phoenix appeared on the navicomputer. "Far as I'm concerned, slow is better."

"Where's your sense of adventure?" Quinlan asked, in a falsely cheerful voice since he'd just remembered he was supposed to be a passenger. "Those inconsistencies were probably caused by out-of-date interdictors. I'll bet they shut down years ago."

"Hm," said Hunter. "You want to fly around on your own later and get yanked out of hyperspace, be my guest. For now, this isn't your ship, so quit piloting over my shoulder and sit down."

Quinlan, of course, didn't even glance at him.

"Inputting coordinates now," said Tech, rolling his eyes a little – probably because of their unnecessary acting.

"I will give you our next instructions once we near Malachor Five," Vythia said, and cut comms. The Phoenix flew past the Marauder and vanished into hyperspace.

As they entered the lane after her, Wrecker turned off the comm panel with a huff and folded his arms. "Man, I sure hope this isn't a long flight!"

"It should not be," said Tech, checking the ship chrono. "Flight time remaining: four hours, fifty-four minutes and thirteen seconds."

Quinlan grinned and leaned forward to watch the chronometer. "Flight time remaining now: four hours, fifty-four minutes and nine, eight, seven . . ."

Slumping a little, Hunter pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand. "Vos."

"Not a number. Four, three . . ."

Hunter lowered his hand, narrowing his eyes pointedly.

The Jedi trailed off with a grin, then gazed at the ceiling and reflected on the wisdom of Master Yoda's speech to his youngling self about silence. He didn't remember much of the speech, but he was pretty sure it had been wise – and aimed directly at him.

He definitely remembered Master Yoda ending the lecture, quite seriously, with the words, "Forget, you must not, young Quinlan: silence . . . golden, it is."

The ancient, wise and revered little gremlin had then hobbled off, chortling to himself, probably delighted that he'd left behind a confused youngling who would spend the next ten minutes trying to figure out the relationship between sound and a color.

Hey, yeah. . . Quinlan pursed his lips. Come to think of it, I should probably try that line on a few younglings next time I'm at the Temple.

Quinlan woke suddenly from his healing meditation and opened his eyes to see that the bunkroom was empty, apart from himself. After turning on his chrono to see that it had uselessly reset set to Coruscant time, he got up and marched into the galley to check the chronometer there.

Wrecker was standing in front of one set of storage shelves, chin resting in his hand as he stared suspiciously at the top shelf. The image was made funnier by the fact that the top shelf, for Wrecker, was at eye level.

Grinning, Quinlan leaned on the doorframe. "Looking for something?"

"Yeah." Wrecker glanced at the ration bars he held. "I just got off watch, so I'm starving. Want some breakfast?"

"Sure." Quinlan caught the ration bar Wrecker tossed him. "We left hyperspace at twenty-one hundred or thereabouts – where in space are we now?"

"Still flying through the Chorlian sector," said Wrecker, and took a bite of his ration bar, which looked strangely small in his hand. "I guess this is early breakfast because it's, I dunno, oh-three-hundred or something."

"Hard to keep a normal schedule in space," Quinlan agreed.

The big clone groaned cheerfully enough. "No kidding."

The Jedi sat at the table and watched as Wrecker continued to poke around the shelves and small compartments. "Oh-three-hundred," he mused. "Where's everybody else?"

"In the cockpit. Tech's fooling around with something . . . Hunter's sleeping in the pilot's seat . . ."

"Uh –" Quinlan nearly choked on the bite he'd just taken. "Wait, then who's flying?"

"Crosshair, I think."

"I assume he's awake, at least?"

"Last I checked," Wrecker muttered absently, his focus on a stack of boxes he was pushing to one side. He clattered around for a few more moments before suddenly letting out a shout of triumph. "HA! I knew it!"

Cautiously, Quinlan looked up from the table. "Knew what?"

Shaking a small packet, Wrecker grinned, a manic gleam in his eyes. "That Hunter had caf in here!"

Quinlan snorted. "What, he hides it?"

"Yeah, the rest of us aren't allowed to drink it." Wrecker put some water into the heating unit and turned it on. "Hunter isn't really supposed to, either, but he says he's allowed to drink it because he's got to deal with us."

"Makes sense." Quinlan poured a few crumbs from the wrapper into his hand. "If I was a sergeant, I'd need caf too. Why aren't you supposed to have it, anyway?"

Wrecker pulled out the hot water and added the pack of caf grounds. "Me? Probably because I get really clumsy. I don't even like the stuff, though, unless it's got a lot of sugar."

The Jedi grinned. "I don't like it much either, but Obi-Wan always says he dreads the day I became an addict. Whatever that's supposed to mean."

"I dunno." Wrecker edged toward the cockpit, carefully balancing the cup. "Come on, Quinlan. Get ready to stop Tech."

"Wait, what?"

But Wrecker had already left, so Quinlan shoved the wrapper in his pocket and followed. The big clone led the way to the cockpit, stepped soundlessly in, drew a deep breath, and roared, "TWENTY MINUTES!"

Hunter didn't even twitch, but his lack of reaction was more than made up for by Crosshair. The sniper jumped violently, spun around in the co-pilot's seat, and fixed Wrecker with a poisonous glare. "Stop screaming like that!"

"I wasn't screaming," Wrecker said, deflating a bit. "I was just – shouting."

"Uh, I don't see Tech," Quinlan interjected. "Why am I supposed to be stopping him?"

Wrecker held up the steaming cup and gestured to it. "Because –"

"Hang on," Crosshair said. "Is that caf?"

"Ye –"

"No," murmured Hunter. His eyes were still shut.

Quinlan and the two commandos exchanged glances, and Wrecker leaned forward to study the sergeant. "Hunter?"

No answer.

Shrugging, Quinlan turned back to Crosshair. "Yes, it's caf."

"Good," said Crosshair, reaching towards it.

"No," said Hunter.

This time, Quinlan stepped closer to the sergeant to observe him. He appeared to be asleep – no expression, his eyelids weren't moving . . . "Does he talk in his sleep?"

Wrecker frowned. "Don't think so."

"It is most likely an automatic response," said Tech from the doorway. He'd pushed his ever-present goggles up onto his head and was rubbing the bridge of his nose. "More precisely, an automatic response to subconsciously registering Crosshair refer to caf in any way, shape, or form."

"Huh." Quinlan eyed Hunter, then cast a sideways look at Tech. "What about someone apart from Crosshair?"

"Let's test that." Tech smirked. "Wrecker, give me the –"

"No," said Hunter.

"Hm," said Tech, tugging his goggles back over his eyes. "It would seem he also responds to the idea of my drinking caf."

Quinlan nodded wisely. "Wrecker – we Jedi have a saying: action follows belief."

Wrecker's eyes widened in understanding, and he laughed. "Okay! Here, Tech, have some caf."

Smirking, Tech reached for the cup.

Hunter materialized between them, eyes still lightly shut. He intercepted the caf, took a sip, wandered back to the pilot's seat, and sat down without ever opening his eyes.

"Hm." Quinlan scratched his jaw. "I have literally never seen anyone move that fast."

"Action follows belief," quoted Tech. "I like that saying."

Crosshair sent an amused look from the sergeant to Quinlan. "You're saying that Hunter acted because he really believes that Tech drinking caf would be a bad thing."

"Tech or you," Hunter said, finally deigning to open his eyes, and took another sip.

"Uh-huh." Wrecker looked suspicious. "So, were you awake or weren't you?"

Hunter gave him a bland smile. "What do you mean?"

With a sniff, Tech said, "Translated, Wrecker, that means 'you'll never know'. How long until we reach Malachor Five's orbit?"

"About twenty minutes," Hunter answered.

Quinlan looked out at the distant planet, a black, unevenly edged circle against the backdrop of the pale star that was its sun. He extended his mind toward it, then recoiled at the slippery touch that responded. "Oh, man," he muttered.

"What is it?" Tech asked.

"Malachor feels dark even from here."

"Is that going to be a problem?" Crosshair asked.

Quinlan frowned at him. "Darkness is always a problem."

"Easier to hide when it's dark," returned the sniper.

Yeah, except for the fact that I'll stand out like a beacon there . . . Quinlan paused, raising an eyebrow as he belatedly realized that Crosshair was being purposefully literal again. "You know what I mean."

Hunter shook his head. "I don't think any of us do. That spirit urn was enough of a problem, and now we're going to a planet full of . . . dark energy, right? How's this even going to work?"

"I can shield my mind," Quinlan said. "When I smashed that urn, I wasn't prepared for how strong the darkness in it was and I wasn't careful enough. Believe me, I've got no intention of destroying artifacts while we're on the planet."

"Hm." Hunter turned his attention back to the controls. "You sure about that?"

". . . Much as I can be, anyway." Quinlan continued to stare at Malachor. "At least for the destroying artifacts side of things. Vythia's probably going to keep all the ones we find."

"What about the shielding?" Tech asked, looking up from his datapad. "Given that you can feel the dark from Malachor all the way out here, I assume the dark energy on Malachor is stronger than whatever was in the spirit urn."

"Yeah, but I don't exactly have a choice." Quinlan glanced at him. "Or do you have some way of shielding the darkness from your mind?"

"As I am not Force-sensitive, I do not need it and have never thought about it," Tech pointed out. "Though I suppose you are correct that you do not have a choice."

"Exactly."

Crosshair hummed. "And what if you can't manage?"

"I can." When all four of the commandos looked at him, Quinlan huffed. "Look, I don't know what'll happen. What do you want me to say?"

"I have read some legends," Tech said. "Given that they are legends, I had not been concerned with them initially. But according to them, there have been Jedi who go insane when confronted with an especially large concentration of dark energy."

"That . . . has happened," Quinlan admitted. "But it's mostly when they're confronted with an overwhelming concentration, all at once. Those Jedi who invaded Malachor before the Great Scourge didn't go insane, and they were there for months."

Hunter did not look particularly reassured. "Why didn't you mention that before?" he asked, glancing between Tech and Quinlan.

"Because I thought it was a legend," said Tech.

Quinlan sighed. "I didn't realize exactly how dark Malachor would be, and even so it shouldn't be too much of a problem. It'll probably have a physical effect, but I doubt it'll have a mental one."

When Hunter gave him an unamused look, Quinlan added, "Besides, if worst comes to worst, you can stun me and lock me in the lower hold until we're back at Coruscant."

"Oh, good," said Crosshair. "Might be hard for us to tell if you go insane, though."

"Fair point." Quinlan smirked, then rocked back on his heels and stretched his arms out to either side. "I'll try to give you some warning before I completely lose it." Catching sight of Hunter's brooding frown, he added, "Sheesh, Hunter, lighten up. We won't even be there that long."

"It wouldn't need to be long." The sergeant looked up. "Based on what already happened, it'll take only one mistake for this whole mission to go up in flames."

"That's true of a lot of missions," Quinlan told him. "Besides . . . I already told you, the thing with the urn was because I was being an idiot. I knew we were safe, I didn't bother building up extra shields – and, when someone destroys a Sith artifact, the energy that gets released tends to attack that person."

"So it might not attack directly if you do not destroy any artifacts?" Tech asked. "Hm, that is fascinating."

"That's one way to put it," Quinlan allowed. "Anyway, I'll be a lot more careful on Malachor. We don't need Vythia guessing I'm a Jedi."

"That's for sure!" Wrecker stood behind the pilot's seat and leaned on it. "That would ruin the whole mission!"

Hunter didn't say anything, instead glancing at Crosshair, who replied with an unconcerned shrug.

"Quinlan," Tech said, adjusting something on the scanners. "How long do you expect this mission to take?"

"I don't know. We don't know how many artifacts Vythia's after. If she knows where they are, it might only take a couple of days. If not, we might have to spend several days or a week looking for them."

And Vythia seems to think my psychometry will be key to finding the artifacts, Quinlan thought. Oh, joy. This is going to be such a wonderful mission . . .

He turned to look at Malachor again. Apart from the occasional, red-tinged swirl of clouds, the foreboding planet was grey and featureless. Despite his words to Hunter, Quinlan had no real way of telling what it would be like there. He could only guess, based on what he'd read about the Jedi who had invaded the planet – some physical reactions to the Dark Side, but nothing particularly debilitating.

Of course, that was thousands of years ago, he thought, then shook his head. He'd find out soon enough, one way or the other.

Wrecker, who had been squinting at the planet, elbowed him. "Hey – why does it look so weird?"

Tech finished his scan at the same moment. "Malachor appears to be surrounded by a vast amount of debris. It must be from the space battle that ended with the activation of the Mass Shadow Generator."

"What?" Hunter swiveled in his chair. "That was thousands of years ago. Orbital decay wouldn't take that long, would it?"

Tech shook his head. "Remember, the gravitational pull exerted by the generator vanished as suddenly as it appeared. While things within a certain radius would have fallen to the surface within one or two centuries, the rest is so far away that it may have been moved only a few meters. Theoretically, graveyard orbits are capable of lasting for millions of years."

"Graveyard orbit," repeated Quinlan with a humorless smile. "Well, isn't that a strangely appropriate term . . ."

As the two shuttles entered the floating graveyard of twisted and destroyed ships, Hunter cut speed, guiding the Marauder between what appeared to be two halves of a single cruiser. Each half was relatively intact near the stern and bow, but the center had been torn completely open and was exposed to the cold vacuum of space. He could see each individual deck as they flew past. It looked as though two enormous hands had taken the cruiser at either end and twisted it until it tore apart.

"I have never seen that kind of damage before," Tech murmured. He didn't sound excited by the discovery.

Not five seconds later, Crosshair hissed and pointed. "What is that?"

Tilting the shuttle to starboard, Hunter approached the object. It was a complete suit of silver Mandalorian armor, and the sergeant knew why Crosshair had been so startled. It looked alive. The helmet had been removed and was clenched in one metal gauntlet, and the opposite arm of the suit was raised, as though to shield the wearer's face. There was no face to shield, though; only a battered humanoid skull that was missing its jaw.

Behind Crosshair, Quinlan shifted. "He's not the only one."

Hunter slowed the ship to a near standstill and gazed around. He had assumed that most of the objects he was seeing were pieces of ships, but as his eyes adjusted to the glow reflected from the planet's cloudy atmosphere, the sheer scope of what he was seeing made him catch his breath. "Tech . . ." he whispered. "How many?"

Tech shook his head once, then got to work adjusting his scanner.

Hunter increased speed, guiding the ship through the field as a silent five minutes passed. No one spoke until Tech looked up from his work. "I keyed our sensors to enumerate all objects which are both within a certain range of size, and which contain a high percentage of biomolecules. The results are still compiling . . . I am only scanning our current sector."

"How big is the sector?" the Jedi asked quietly, stepping between the two pilots' seats.

"I am scanning one third of the area in this hemisphere of the graveyard orbit," replied Tech. The scanner beeped once, and he leaned forward. "First sector: four million, nine hundred seventy thousand, six hundred and eight matches . . . Should I scan the others?"

"No," replied Quinlan. "There's no need to."

Hunter nodded his agreement. Assuming that the numbers averaged out, that meant there were close to thirty million dead in the graveyard orbit alone. A huge number of people had presumably died closer to the planet as well, and all of them had perished within the few minutes that the shadow generator was active. He looked away from the field of destruction for a moment to catch the Jedi's gaze. "Darth Tanis and his own superweapon – that was after this battle, right?"

"Yeah . . . The Sith settled on Malachor again after it stabilized. Got to wonder why they left all this."

"Maybe there was nothing to do about it." Wrecker stared at an ancient, black-painted cruiser which looked as though it had been crumpled by a vast collision.

"There are too many to bury," said Crosshair. "A fleet of retrieval ships would spend decades gathering them all."

"I know." Hunter shook his head. "But they could have at least gone through and blasted everything."

Tech cast him an uncertain look. "That . . ."

"It would have been better than leaving this," agreed Vos, folding his arms. "How many times did they go through it, flying on and off the planet?" His voice trailed off as he remarked, almost to himself, "If it's the same all the way around Malachor, it probably blocks a lot of sunlight."

No one spoke again until they had left the massive, drifting graveyard behind them and were in clear space once more. Tech cleared his throat, and Wrecker relaxed visibly.

"I'll comm Vythia," said the Jedi, moving to the communications panel. "Marauder to Phoenix. Vos here."

"Excellent timing," the Nautolan woman answered. She sounded completely unflustered, despite what they had just left behind. "I was just about to call you. I have our destination marked and will lead the way to the surface."

"Copy." He shut off the comms, and they all watched in silence as her shuttle soared past, increasing speed as it went.

Hunter matched her speed, trailing fifty meters behind. Within minutes, they were entering the atmosphere. Thick, ash-colored clouds surrounding them drastically reduced visibility, but Vythia didn't slow down.

When visibility decreased to seventy meters, Hunter glanced at Tech, who was focused on his scanners, then decided to match Vythia move for move. That way, if Tech somehow failed to see a mountain or tall building in time, Vythia would hit it first. The sergeant glanced briefly at the altimeter. One thousand meters – at this point, any buildings would have to be pretty darned high. Mountains were the more immediate concern.

Within three hundred meters, though, they broke out of the clouds and Malachor extended before them.

"Oh . . . wow," Wrecker whispered loudly.

The surface for miles in all directions was cracked and jagged, as though something immensely heavy had slammed into it and then vanished. At the epicenter, which was at least a few hundred feet below the rim of the pit, a shadowed crevasse vanished into the depths.

The two shuttles continued to descend, soaring past the pit and out above an open plain. As far as Hunter could see, the ground was flat and utterly devoid of life. If there were any plants or animals, they must be grey or black, like the ground itself, because there was no life visible. The plain was broken only by a single crashed ship that looked like a cruiser, at least in shape. It was hard to tell much about it – apart from the obvious facts that it was ancient and had burned before crashing.

"Must be a lot of wind or rain here," Crosshair said. "That thing looks free of dust."

"Good point," agreed Quinlan, a little vacantly. "I . . . Yeah, I think our destination's just up ahead, guys."

"The crashed ship?" checked Hunter. Vythia didn't look to be landing yet.

"No," said Crosshair. "She's headed for that pillar."

"What pillar?" muttered Wrecker under his breath.

The sergeant, who had been about to ask exactly the same thing, shut his mouth, then said, "Straight ahead, I presume?"

"Yeah," said Vos, suddenly more alert. "Tech, what can you tell us about it?"

". . . It is a large stone pillar," said Tech. "There seems to be nothing – wait. There is nothing special about the pillar itself, at least not that I can determine from this distance, but there is a series of caverns beneath it. I cannot get a clear reading on anything yet."

So, it is a labyrinth. Hunter glanced at Crosshair, who hadn't moved a muscle; then back at the other shuttle, which was descending more rapidly.

A few minutes later, they reached the pillar, and Hunter set the Marauder down on the ground with a gentle crunch.

Across from them, the Phoenix's boarding ramp unfolded, and Vythia moved quickly down, her wide black eyes taking in everything around her.

Hunter put on his helmet and signaled for Wrecker to open their own door. One after the other, with Quinlan trailing last, the commandos left the shuttle and joined her.

Their footsteps crunched strangely on the gritty dust. It looked like ash, but bigger – too light and flaky to be sand, too small to be gravel. Hunter scuffed a boot against it. That sound's going to get really annoying, really fast.

Vythia stopped in front of them, rested one hand on the hilt of her knife, and made a sweeping gesture with the other, guiding their eyes out toward the lonely expanse of grey stone and ash that surrounded them as far as the eye could see. Despite the dim lighting, her eyes glittered, and her lips tilted upward in a smile of controlled exhilaration. "Gentlemen," she said in a low, eager voice. "Welcome to the ancient homeworld of the Sith. Welcome to Malachor."

I spent about half an hour researching orbital decay - mostly because I got distracted and went from geostationary orbits to the speed of orbital debris. So have an interesting and irrelevant fact: in low Earth orbit - below 1,250 miles - the average impact speed of debris with another space object is about six miles per second . . . or 21,600 miles per hour. Ouch.

As for the relevant fact: graveyard orbits are real, and could theoretically continue for millions of years.

I'm sure you wanted to know all that. :D