Ichtose, Mid-Rim

Day Seven, evening

The unexpected explosion from close to the hidden base had just started to die away when Delta Thirty-Eight activated his comm. Staying low to the ground, he said, "Delta Four-Oh, report. What's your status?"

His only reply was static.

"Fixer," Boss said, louder than before. "Fixer – report in, Delta! Scorch, Oh-Seven, do either of you have eyes on Fixer?"

"Negative, sir," replied Sev. "Want me to make my way around?"

"No," Thirty-Eight told him. "Stick to the objective. Scorch?"

"Locked on to Fixer's location," replied the explosives expert. "Creeping towards his position now, sir. . . Gimme a sec. . . Oh. I found him."

Boss waited, keeping half his attention on the tracking device that showed their quarry's location. If Fixer's situation had been dire, Scorch would have immediately notified him.

"Hang on, Fixer," Six-Two was saying, and Thirty-Eight heard the faint beep of the bacta injector. "Help's on the way . . . See? I told you I should have taken care of this bit. At least I'd have seen that trap."

"Ugh – how," Fixer groaned, and Boss relaxed.

"Because that's exactly where I'd have set a trap," Scorch said cheerfully.

"Delta Lead," said Fixer groggily, apparently choosing not to respond to the unarguable logic of Scorch's remark. "All remote data was successfully retrieved before the trap went off. I recommend that Six-Two and I pull back and try entering from a different direction."

"Fall back to the gorge entrance," Boss said, turning into the westward canyon they'd already cleared. He glanced at his tracking device. "Target's on the move again. I think our droid friend is finally going for the entrance. Sev?"

"In position, sir." Sev paused, then added, "Again."

"This time, it had better come out and let us shoot it," Scorch announced. "We've been circling this rocky racetrack for over eighteen hours."

Oh-Seven snorted. "Rocky racetrack?"

"Yeah. Didn't it look like a racetrack to you? I mean, it's this big, flat, circling path encased by walls. That's literally all a racetrack is, right?"

". . . I guess."

"Let's not get distracted, Deltas," said Thirty-Eight, before Fixer could order the other two to keep the comm channels clear. "Forty, hold position. Six-Two, make your way towards my position. I'm at the secondary exit."

"Roger that."

Once again, the sergeant settled in to wait, watching his datapad and the little dot that showed the Deltas' target. By the time Scorch reached Boss, eight minutes later, the droid had walked close to the exit three times and then back into the base, but never actually started to leave. Hm. Either the droid had pinpointed the commandos' locations and was waiting for them to leave, or it was carrying various items to the door. Quite likely, it was trying to escape with valuable cargo – or, to destroy it.

"Fixer," Boss said. "The target appears to be moving objects. Any idea what they might be?"

"No, sir. One moment, I'll calibrate for a scan."

Boss waited. Scorch pulled a thermal grenade from his belt and fussily brushed it clean of the rocky dust that covered everything in this place.

"Scan complete," Fixer said, the faintest hint of urgency in his voice. "Sir, you might want to back away from that door."

"More explosives?" guessed Thirty-Eight.

"Affirmative."

"Explosives," Scorch said, crawling back a few meters. "That's a little weird, isn't it, Boss?"

"How so?" asked Boss immediately, because when Scorch said there something weird about a situation with explosives, there generally was.

"Well, what does the droid need them for?" Six-Two asked.

"Destroying itself," said Boss.

Scorch tilted his head just-so, in the way that implied Boss was being just a little bit obtuse. "No, Boss. All tactical droids are built with the ability to self-destruct. They don't need explosives for droid-icide."

Thirty-Eight huffed, amused. "Droid-icide, Scorch?"

"Which means," Fixer said, ignoring Scorch's new vocabulary word, "that this tactical droid is presumably trying to take the base out as well as itself."

"The base, or us," Boss agreed. "And either way, we can't let the droid blow itself up. We can't retrieve that data rod without a semi-intact droid."

"We were ordered not to enter the building," Fixer reminded him doubtfully.

"I know, Forty. But we were also ordered not to risk the data."

"Yes, sir."

"Scorch," Boss said. "It wouldn't be sensible of us to enter through that back door, would it?"

"You read my thoughts, Leader-man."

"Then I guess you need to make us a new door, don't you?"

"With pleasure, sir!" Keeping his head down, Scorch ran to the base wall and slapped a piece of detonator tape horizontally across one segment. "This'll take just a second."

No matter how many times Boss had seen Scorch place explosives in the past, at random and – by all appearances – with a complete lack of discrimination, Boss never found it easier to watch. He focused on the exit door instead.

"Ready when you are, Boss!" Scorch took cover in the nearest canyon passage.

"Sev," said Thirty-Eight. "Give me a distraction."

There was a delay of barely two seconds, followed by a sharp explosion from the other side of the canyon that could only have been caused by an anti-armor round.

On the tracking device, the droid froze suddenly, then raced towards the front entrance.

"Stay ready, Sev," warned Fixer.

But once again, the droid didn't exit the building. Holding back a sigh of irritation, the sergeant ducked behind the nearest boulder, hefted the detonator, and clicked it.

It resulted in a very satisfying explosion. As the clattering metal and rock died away, Boss said, "Let's relieve this droid of its explosives, shall we?"

Whooping, Scorch rushed forward and into the building. Boss was right behind him, gun at the ready. Leaving his younger squad mate to 'ooh!' and 'aah!' over the small crates of grenades that had been stacked near the exit, the sergeant moved a farther into the building.

"Sarge," Oh-Seven all but growled. "Target's headed your way. AGAIN."

"Is it." Pulling an EC from his belt, Thirty-Eight stalked forward to meet the tactical droid. "I think it's high time I put a stop to this little game of escape-and-evade."

"Please do," Fixer said dryly. "I'm covering the roof exit. Again."

"Understood." The clanking footsteps of the droid drew closer – closer –

Boss flung the grenade.

Fizzling blue streaks of electricity scorched up all the walls in the immediate vicinity, and the droid's vocabulator audibly went on the fritz. As it made garbled, incomprehensible sounds, Boss walked around the corner, glanced down at the spasming hunk of metal and the data rod attached near its neck, and put a dozen or so shots through its chassis.

"Target down," he said, when it finally stopped twitching. "Delta Forty, data rod's all yours. Let's wrap up here and get back to the Predator. We have to make the rendezvous with the fleet."

Coruscant, Senate District

Day Seven, evening

There was less than an hour remaining before the new senator for Telos Five, a middle-aged woman named Senator Alita, would arrive. Bail Organa had reviewed all the security precautions twice, and still he did not feel ready. If the murderer of Senator Hilt decided to target Alita, the perfect time to attack would be when she got off the ship, and the landing platform was entirely exposed.

Lieutenant Inspector Divo and the CSF would ensure that the airlanes in close proximity to the landing pad would be completely cleared once her shuttle entered the atmosphere, a precaution many people would feel to be excessive. Senator Alita certainly felt it was excessive. But Bail – and, surprisingly enough, Inspector Divo – had insisted. This criminal had proven to be capable of operating in many different situations with equal results, and the police had not been able to discover a motive apart from, possibly, vengeance.

But if it were vengeance, why would his secretaries and servants be targeted, when they had not been involved in Hilt's dubious rise to power? Or had they been involved?. . . No, surely not. They had no power themselves, were not in the least related to Hilt, and none of the background checks done by the officials had turned up any evidence of blackmail or bribery. The secretaries and servants had been just that.

And yet, Bail had no doubt that the few members of Hilt's retinue who had not been murdered would be, had they not been sent back to their home planet. At least they were safe now.

Or, most of them were safe. One man had insisted on remaining behind: Lane Tarr, a quiet, loyal bodyguard, who was sixty years old and had served on Coruscant as the head of security for the last ten senators from Telos Five. Of those whom he had served, not even the most particular and entitled senators had never made any kind of complaint against him. He did his job, and he did it extremely well.

In fact, as far as Bail was concerned, Lane did his job a little too well. He wished that Lane had gone back with the others, but the man would not be persuaded.

"The murderer has targeted Senator Hilt's people," he'd told Bail in his easy, quiet way, when the senator had tried to convince him to leave with the others. "That means I'm on a hit list, Senator."

"Yes," said Bail. "But nonetheless –"

Lane hadn't let him finish. "It's a death sentence, whether I hide or not. If the security forces don't find the murderer, I'll be dead within the week."

"I know," Bail said. "Which is why –"

"I appreciate your concern, Senator" Lane had answered, with a quiet smile. "But I'd rather face death while doing my job than get killed in my sleep."

Bail hadn't been able to argue with him after that, except to say that he sincerely hoped Lane was wrong about the other servants still being in danger. Lane also said he hoped he was wrong; and yet, the look in his eyes was the look of a man expecting to die at any moment – a man who had been afraid, but no longer was. Lane Tarr refused a security escort, because he would not risk anyone's life but his own.

Bail Organa respected his decision, and proceeded to join him on the landing platform anyway. As he walked up the steps to the landing pad where Senator Alita's shuttle would land, he saw that Lane Tarr was already on duty.

"Any news, Lane?" Bail asked, joining him.

"No, Senator," said the security officer, one hand resting lightly on his blaster as he watched the traffic. "You're here early, sir."

"I am aware."

"You don't have to be here for nearly an hour."

". . . I am aware of that, as well."

The grey-haired man turned to him. "Senator, I must insist you go back inside until you have to come out. It's safer."

Bail smiled politely and stayed where he was. "And yet here you are, quite early too, I might add."

"Senator –"

"I hear you have an escort of clones ready for Senator Alita," Bail interrupted.

Lane seemed to consider continuing the argument for a few seconds, but at last he gave in. "Yes, Senator. They'll be here half an hour before she lands."

"Ah, good."

The bodyguard adjusted his hat to shade his eyes as he peered out towards the sunset. "The police are currently in position to clear the traffic lanes, and Clone Captain Thorn will also be on duty with a squad of his men."

"Excellent," Bail murmured. "Perhaps the sheer numbers will discourage any potential attackers."

"Perhaps," Lane said. He was silent for a few moments before saying, "I received word from the shuttle the others left on."

"Have they arrived?"

"No, Senator; they're still in transit. . . And all three of them are suddenly ill with violent fevers. The cause is unknown. The ship medic has tried everything. She can do nothing for them now, except keep them comfortable."

"So the murderer got to them before they even left," Bail said, and sighed despite himself. He and Lieutenant Divo had been so sure that the servants would be safe, and now there was nothing anyone could do to help them. Those poor people must lie there and wait for death.

Bail looked worriedly at Lane. "Please tell me you have not been poisoned."

"I am in perfect health, sir," the security chief told him. "The others must have been poisoned before they boarded the shuttle, or maybe even as they boarded."

"Then I am thankful I did not convince you to leave." Sighing again, Bail shook his head. "I trust you informed Lieutenant Divo?"

"I did. He was even less happy about the news than I was, if that is possible."

"I can imagine," Bail said grimly.

Lane Tarr turned to scan his surroundings again. "He suggested that perhaps the food supplies on the shuttle were poisoned. But none of the other passengers are sick."

"Which means that the servants were poisoned while they were with the clone guards," Bail said. "And even they noticed nothing wrong. These assassins are highly skilled . . . But we already knew that. If only we could find some kind of solid lead!"

Lane nodded. "Even the two Jedi investigating the murder scenes found nothing."

Frankly, Bail was surprised that Lieutenant Divo had asked for the Jedi's assistance at all. It was a sign of how serious the situation was. Divo didn't hate the Jedi the same way he hated senators, but he also had no qualms about criticizing them, loudly and frequently, whenever he thought they should be doing something that they weren't – like keeping the peace on Coruscant, or taking crime and crimelords much more seriously.

Lane Tarr's comm beeped, and Bail heard the pilot informing him that Senator Alita's shuttle was waiting for clearance to enter the atmosphere. The estimated time of arrival was forty minutes.

Above them, the air lanes slowly began to clear as CSF men swooped around on their speeders, redirecting traffic and setting up a perimeter. On the level below the landing pad, Captain Thorn and his men were already working to secure the area before coming up to escort Senator Alita.

Thirty-five minutes before the shuttle was supposed to arrive, Lane Tarr contacted the Senate guards to ensure everything on their end was going according to schedule. It was. There were no signs of anything unusual. Somehow, that only put Bail more on edge.

Two minutes later, Captain Thorn commed. "Landing pad's secure from below, Officer Tarr," he said. "We've removed the ladders and sealed all access vents to your level. The senate guards are down there now, keeping an eye on things. My men and I are on our way to your location."

"Understood," said Lane, glancing down at his chrono. "Shuttle ETA is twenty-seven minutes."

"We'll reach you in three," said Thorn, and ended the call.

Lane turned in a full circle, his gaze flickering around to encompass the platform, the airlanes, and the CSF officers who were swooping back and forth on their speeders, maintaining a perimeter of five hundred yards.

Bail peered into the distance, but unsurprisingly, Senator Alita's shuttle wasn't in sight yet. It wouldn't be long before she was being escorted inside – but even once she was safely off the platform, there was no guarantee she'd be safe. Bail himself wasn't safe, and hadn't been for many years. At least, though, when assassins were sent after him, he almost never had any warning. More often than not, he had survived only because of others around him.

For Senator Alita, though, unless there was some clear indication that she was not in danger from the Hilt murderers, it would be different. She would have to live knowing that every hour might be her last.

Of course, that wouldn't be so different from how Bail himself lived, even without an active bounty on his head, but it could be very hard for senators who weren't used to that level of danger.

Bail watched Lane Tarr, who was now walking towards the edge of the landing pad. The senator was just trying to determine how much of the coming week he could devote to aiding Senator Alita when something sailed through the air and clinked to the ground right between himself and Lane.

Jumping aside, Bail reached for his blaster. At the same time, Lane reached him, grabbing him by both arms and throwing him towards the shelter of the doors. "Get down!" he yelled, kicking the grenade away.

As Bail slammed shoulder-first into one of the marble supports, he caught sight of a second grenade. He opened his mouth to warn Lane, but the grenade exploded in a cloud of cloyingly sweet smoke that enveloped him and made everything waver. He felt an almost irresistible urge to close his eyes, until he saw Lane stagger back in response to the smoke.

Swaying, Bail dragged himself upright and drew his blaster, stumbling forward to get out of the smoke cloud. When he caught sight of several figures in black climbing up onto the platform, he fired.

After only two shots, everything shifted and warped so badly that Bail dropped to his knees, barely managing to keep his gun hand raised. Lane was next to him again, almost in front of him, somehow on his feet as he shot at the attackers while yelling into his comm.

"We need backup! Thorn, get Organa to safety, now!"

The attackers were getting closer. Bail knew he had hit two of them, and saw Lane stumble again – had he been hit? – but his vision was blurring so badly by now that he couldn't tell anything for certain. He could hardly make out his enemies' forms.

"Senator," gasped Lane, grabbing his elbow to pull him upright. "You have to get inside!"

Bail couldn't locate the door through all the spinning and tilting. Switching his gun to his left hand, he clutched at Lane's wrist to steady himself and fired again in the general direction of the attackers. "We have to get to the door!" he cried. "Where –"

"Can't make it," Lane gasped, and Bail heard the agony in his voice as he tried to bring his gun up again. "They hit me – get inside, sir –"

He collapsed to the pavement, his blaster hitting the ground next to him.

Bail dragged himself upright against the pillar, firing shot after shot at the blurry forms of the enemy, but the attackers were now running from the fight. Bail kept shooting, but only managed to injure one more as the assassins left, dragging their fallen member with them.

As they vanished, Bail fell to his knees and reached for his comm, "Senate guards!" he said. "Attackers headed for you, going under landing platform three!"

Then he crawled over to Lane and felt around until he located his neck. The bodyguard had a pulse still – his heart was beating horribly fast and hard, and his skin was covered in sweat.

Frantic, Bail fumbled at his comm again as darkness slowly encroached on his vision. "Medic team to landing platform three," he managed, mouth as numb as his hands. "Lane – Lane! Can you hear me?"

There was no answer, and Bail was struggling to form the words, to tell the medics to hurry, when the bodyguard seized violently and started choking. His right hand fumbled desperately at Bail's, and the senator clutched it in both of his own and held on, as if he could keep the man alive through sheer force of will.

Footsteps pounded on the pavement behind him, and Bail heard Thorn shouting for his men to secure the area. The clone medic threw himself to the ground beside them with a clatter of armor against duracrete, but Bail didn't look up at him. He was watching Lane's face, though he could hardly see it through the fog that pressed against his eyes.

Lane struggled, seized again, grip tightening until he was half-crushing Bail's fingers – and then he abruptly relaxed. Hesitantly, Bail released him and leaned forward to feel for his neck again.

The clone medic said something, which Bail didn't hear. Through the sharp tingling in his fingertips, the senator could feel that Lane's pulse was gone.

Then, the last hints of light faded from his vision and he felt himself falling.