"Welcome to the flagship Independence."

Even weeks after the events on Dathomir, Kyle was so absorbed in his thoughts that he walked right past the security desk, the droning recitation of the protocol droid empty and meaningless in his ears. As he approached the Starbird-emblazoned door, though, the blaster rifle snapping to ready position nearby was enough to set him right. The rifle's holder, Kurggan, was stone-faced as his combat suit was stone-gray, but his understated eagerness for a scrap was as plain as glowing holo-sign.

"You must register!" he commanded, barely even opening his mouth.

Spreading his hands, Kyle went back and entered in the proper codes. He could never figure out why the security desk had to be twice the height of a regular human.

"You may proceed," the droid hummed. Nodding, Kurggan stood aside as Kyle marched through the little door and finally stepped back into the main concourse of the Independence, back into the rest of his life. It was the same as before, bustling and clean and more or less well-ordered.

Meters away, a parked hoversled honked at him. As he sauntered over, the R2 unit driver cheerfully beeped that all his possessions had been cleared by security. When the droid offered him a ride most of the way to his room, he politely declined and accepted the key card, slung his bags on, and trudged away across the mirrorchrome deck.

As always, a few people recognized him here and there, saying hello, waving, or merely glancing his way as they passed. Kyle moved among them, alert but no longer on edge, no longer bracing himself for an attack from every conceivable angle. There was a darkness in the Rebel Alliance, but as was so often the case with such foes, they did not strike in the open, nor did they take the sort of direct approach that he was used combating from the Empire.

"Achuta! Katarn! Happy you of return!"

Kyle stopped and turned as a male Twi'lek with grass-green skin emerged from the crowd. He read the uniform: sublieutenant, Alliance Intelligence. Probably one of those new guys.

"Katarn, my name Tayuni, Rebel Intelligents. New intelligents, of Klatooine."

"Nice to meet you." Kyle shook his hand and smiled lightly.

The Twi'lek's grin was wide, showing several missing teeth. "Tagwa," he agreed, "tagwa. Katarn, hey: we intelligents, hear of you and Shaparo. Nobata rokwa Shaparo, bad man. Very sorry we hear."

"Uh, tagwa. Okay, thank you, but I'm doing all right."

Tayuni nodded gravely. "Tagwa, good. I want you know, we all hear, very sorry. Hey, nobata rokwa Shaparo, you see him, you go tell we." He smacked a fist into his other hand. "We fix him good, hey?"

"Oh, tagwa, tagwa. For sure, Tayuni. Thank you."

"Ha ha, very good! Very good Katarn! Gooddé da lodia!" With that, Tayuni slapped him on the back and disappeared into the throng.

Kyle Katarn traveled light, so it didn't take him long to unpack once he finally reached his quarters. After checking the chrono and seeing that he still had some time to kill, he plugged in his portcomp and spent a few minutes clearing out his e-mail. Most of it was space-flotsam, but there was also something from Molindi:

Commander Katarn,

I understand youa re on leave so who knows when you will read this. I was very touched to hear that yuo asked after me in the Independence medical bay. I am tsuck on the Redemption for now they say this therapy course will last 2 standard months. I 'would much more like to spend my time fixing some thing but they tell me I have to focus son my mental health & this is for the best. I am sorry I was not brave enupgh to warn you about the intruders in the hangar but you are tough enoughto get through it & I hope you forgiven me. I ennjoyed fixing your ship & getting to know you & hope you are satisfied w/ it. I hope wecan speak again & when I am better because I see you as a true fren.

May the Force be w/ you,

Molindi

Kyle shook his head at the typos, then wrote back:

Molindi,

Don't blame yourself for what happened. You're not a soldier. You weren't prepared for that situation.

Sorry you're stuck on the Redemption. I don't care for the medical protocols either but it's just more of the usual bolshit we've got to put up with in the Rebellion. Can't let those assholes in Personnel feel like they're not serving the cause, right? Hang in there.

The Moldy Crow is fine. You did a great job on it. Hope you'll get better soon. We'll talk again.

Kyle

He only spent a few minutes on FleetNet. There was a quiet Rebel outpost on Tierfon with some nice scenery, and while on furlough there with Jan, they both had been able to closely follow the latest developments, which were... interesting.

Apparently, the Moldy Crow had not finished its first hyperjump away from Dathomir when High Command made the announcement: Crix Madine had precluded any further interrogation, not to mention his trial, by hanging himself in his cell. They didn't mention a Code Red being declared in the base at the time of his death. Kyle'd had a hunch they wouldn't.

General Cracken closed his investigation four standard days later, stating that, "We have found no substantive evidence implicating additional Alliance personnel in Madine's crimes, whether at Kolaador Base or any other installation."

The rank and file was not entirely satisfied with this report, or so Kyle had concluded from the supernova that consumed FleetNet in response. It dwarfed everything he had seen on the network up to that point—he could imagine the mouth-foaming behind the accusations and loaded questions. What had they found on Madine's portcomp and datapads? Why was no more data being released? How was this not a cover-up? What about all the rumors and testimonies that had been shared in the nodes? The connections that people had pointed out between Madine and Cracken and other high-ranking Rebels? Where were the clarifications and reassurances?

How were the Rebels on the ground supposed to believe that it was really over? That things could go back to normal?

The deafening silence of High Command showed that it was either unwilling to answer these questions or didn't care to—though that was not to say they were taking a hands-off approach. One thing for sure was that the Alliance's technicians had finished upgrading the monitor droids, because they were out in force. Kyle had never seen so many nodes and subcomments deleted, or so many accounts locked, so quickly. It was like a droid army marching through the network, neutralizing all resistance and skepticism.

This transmission violated the FleetNet Terms of Use.

Threatening, intimidating, or harassing behavior is absolutely prohibited.

Defamatory and threatening messages will not be tolerated.

Those bold-fonted, durasteel-hard warnings cut node after node into pieces, until after a day or two people started to get the message and calm down, or at least make like they had. The overall tone of the conversation shifted from inquiring to commiseration, sympathy for the victims and so forth. There remained some holdouts who agitated for more answers and speculated when High Command continued to ignore them. Quite abruptly, they found themselves pilloried by the regular FleetNet users for trying to stir up trouble, but for the most part the monitors let them be.

As the days passed, the entire discussion died down, the relevant nodes sinking first to the middle, then toward the bottom of the FleetNet main page. By the end of two standard weeks, the crimes and the fate of Crix Madine, the scandal which seemed to have rocked the Alliance from top to bottom, was shrinking away on the aft radar screen. Old news. The rank-and-file of the Rebellion was moving on. Kyle had suspicions about whether the same was happening behind closed doors with the Chief of State, the Advisory Council, High Command, and the rest of the beings who steered the Rebel Alliance.

Thus, between the silent powers that were, the scoffers who wanted to move on with their lives, and the suddenly hardballing monitors, a wall was quietly built to hide away the truth. The truth which so many Rebels, now locked out of their accounts, had repeated first in suspicion, then out of ignorant conviction, while many also did so in jest.

Kyle Katarn was the only man in the Rebel Alliance who had peeked over the wall and glimpsed that truth with his own eyes. He hadn't witnessed the deed being done, but everything else, all the circumstances, could only point to one conclusion.

Crix Madine didn't kill himself.

And there was no one Kyle could tell except Jan. He could finally break his skulker status on FleetNet and share what he knew there, but what would that accomplish? All he'd do was get his account locked and, more than likely, a target painted on his back.

That one wasn't there already was something he felt safe enough to bet on, at least for now. There was no telling if Rebus had made good on his threat to rat him out to the Rebels on Dathomir. If he had, though, there was no sign that he'd been taken seriously (a good thing, considering how much unearned trust he'd already been given). Kyle had been waiting for Intelligence or Naval Security to take him in for questioning, but through the lengthy process of being cleared to return to the Alliance fleet, he got no sudden visits, no summons, nothing.

There was only the message that had come in while he was still on Tierfon with Jan. Far from something he would dread, it was what he had wanted all along since Talus—before Dathomir, before Shaparo, before the news, even before the Redemption.

After half a standard hour, he closed the portcomp and went about his quarters, getting all his stuff situated and ready. Halfway through, the door chimed and he answered it.

"Glad to see you're still in one piece," said Jan as she slipped inside. Because of some arbitrary Intel regulations, they'd had to be cleared to return to the fleet separately. "I was afraid about letting you out of my sight for a while."

"Well, I got ambushed out in the concourse, but I took care of it," answered Kyle.

Jan raised an eyebrow at him.

"Just a joke. Someone called Tayuna said hello."

"Well, that's nice of him. You got anything to drink?"

"Nothing good," said Kyle apologetically. "Let me see, though..."

He went to the beverage synthesizer, produced two mugs of bitter espcaf, and joined Jan at the table. For a few minutes they talked, sidestepping around the varactyl in the room, but there was no avoiding it in the end.

"You did a hell of a job getting us off of Dathomir without a hitch," Kyle began.

"You told me that already."

"Like always, I owe you big."

"Yes, you do," Jan agreed. She held her mug close to her chin. "So, have you made up your mind yet?"

"About what?"

"About whether you believe it was worth it. Everything we did, breaking into Dathomir Base, when it was all for nothing."

Kyle leaned forward. Couldn't help himself. "It wasn't for nothing. Because we went there, I know what happened. I know that Crix Madine didn't kill himself."

"You're probably right. He probably didn't. But what good does it do, knowing? We don't know who did it, and there's no one we can prove it to."

"We don't have to be able to prove it, not yet. Just having the truth, that there's a beginning. The truth can be ugly, it can hurt, but lies are a lot worse. Being in the dark is worse."

Jan took a measured sip of her espcaf. "I'm not so sure of that, these days."

"Really, Jan? You? You'd rather not know?"

She blew out a sigh. "I didn't mean that. I know you're right, it's just... this is hard. Going back to Intel, looking at all these people and not being able to see them the same way as before. Realizing there's this... this darker side to the Rebellion that I never knew existed. And that there's so much there that we still don't know about."

"It is hard," Kyle agreed, "but you're not alone in this... and I think there's a chance we're not alone either."

"You think we can wait on Shaparo?"

"He said he would reach out to me again. I think it's inevitable. I'm still not sure I trust him, but the next time we meet, I'll be ready and..." Kyle shrugged. "We'll see where it goes from there."

"And in the meantime?"

"In the meantime we keep our heads down and our ears open, be good little soldiers. The Empire's still out there, and it needs to be stopped, but that'll be impossible if the Alliance rots from within." He bit his lip. "We'll need to stick together, going forward, as much as we can. Watch each other's backs until we figure out who else we can trust—and who we should fear."

Jan's face quirked a half-smile. "Stick together? Well, as long as you find a way to pay me back for that stunt on Dathomir, that doesn't sound too bad."

"Don't worry—I'll think of something," Kyle promised.

"Just pretend you've got blasters trained on you. You always think fast when that's going on..." Jan trailed off, scrutinizing him closely. Her eyes lingered on the lower half of his face. "Kyle, what's up with that?"

He set his mug down, then touched his chin somewhat self-consciously. Though he had let the stubble collect for the past few days, he was keeping it carefully trimmed now, instead of it letting it go wild. "What, this? Nothing, just thought I'd grow it out. Try something new. You don't like it?"

"No, no, it's okay," said Jan quickly. "It's— Well, I thought you didn't like it. It seemed like you were shaving twice a day for a while, when we were asking around about Crix Madine. I thought you said beards reminded you of him."

"Well, I was wrong. The fact is, most of the men on Sulon grew beards, and so did my father. I thought I'd do this to remember him, since he did so much for me."

"Oh... Well, he was a good man. That's a very decent thing for you to do."

"Yeah, I hope so." Kyle stared into his mug for a moment, then looked up again. "Do you really like it?"

"It's all right," said Jan, tipping her head. "Grow it out for a while, then ask me again."

Before either could drink again, Kyle's chronometer beeped. "Well, there's my appointment," he sighed. He chugged the last of his espcaf, hid his discomfort as the half-boiled stuff burned down his throat, and stood. "See you real soon."

Jan winked at him and left her mug on the table. "You're the boss, Kyle."

"Commander Katarn, thank you for responding on such short notice. I hope you and Lieutenant Ors had a very relaxing leave of absence."

Kyle fixed his face the way he always did for these briefings: hard like gratenite. Mon Mothma's aristocratic reserve was a mask for the feelings that lay beneath—and, Kyle was willing to bet, a great deal more than that. It was impossible to forget their last meeting, with the Chief of State's blithe unconcern for the Madine scandal, her peculiar eagerness to placate Kyle and give him everything he asked for.

Well, two could play at that game.

He sat down in the offered chair like he owned it. "We did," he said. "Thanks for asking. Now, let's talk business. Your transmission said the Alliance has a big job for me?"

The Chief of State smiled, genial as always. "We do, at long last. High Command has taken note of your eagerness to continue serving the Rebel cause directly, and the payment offered for this mission will be amplified—to compensate for the inconvenience you've undergone on our behalf."

"Maybe the Rebels know how to keep me happy after all," said Kyle, knitting his brows. "Before we start, though, I'll tell you up front: I want Jan working with me on this one. She knows how I operate better than anyone else in Intel."

"Indeed she does. You may consider it done." Mon Mothma glided to the nearby holoprojector and tapped a key, which summoned a ghostly replica of the galaxy, zooming in fast on a sector in the Outer Rim. "Now then, if you'll turn your attention to this. A disturbing report has come in from Rebel agents in the Gelgelar system..."

Kyle Katarn folded his arms and listened closely as the woman in white briefed him, describing this newest threat from the Empire, the enemy without. Slowly, inexorably, a smile chiseled itself onto his hard face as he relished the promise of challenges ahead. More than Imperials, though, there were other foes, equally sinister, that he now knew to be lurking in the shadows of the Rebellion, the enemy within. It was only a matter of time until he found his way to them, or they found their way to him. There was no way to know how it would all end, but it was enough that Jan would be at his side, and when they finally met the enemy...

Well, like Morgan Katarn had said, good and evil weren't known by uniforms. Whichever enemy it was, without or within, Kyle knew his bryar pistol was good enough for both kinds.

You think you've gotten rid of us, schutta, he thought smugly, looking into Mon Mothma's kindly, subtly beaming face. You think you've thrown us off the trail, but we're back. We are so kriffing back.

Author's note: I'd like to thank the faithful few who have stuck with the story. To be clear though, there's still the epilogue remaining. It will come in three or four parts, and if you've read this far, you won't want to miss what's coming.