ALLIANCE FLEETNET DISPATCH 9423225-J11-18-09

Alliance Naval Security Communications is grieved to report the deaths of Assistant General Overseer Utric Sandov, Alliance Security Task Force, and Private First-Class Sarli Bavo, Alliance Naval Security, who were killed in the line of duty Taungsday aboard Alliance Hospital Platform BW-1.

It is suspected that the deaths of AGO Sandov and PFC Bavo are connected with an alleged infiltration of the platform by Imperial agents, which has since been resolved. High Command has directed General Cracken of Alliance Intelligence to conduct an investigation of this incident. High Command is not prepared to release further details at this time, pending the investigation's completion.

A native of Kothlis, Utric Sandov served as Central Oculator of the Alliance System Spynet on the planet Krant before being named Assistant General Overseer of the Alliance Security Task Force, headquartered at the Hospital Platform.

A native of Abregado in the Outer Rim Territories, Sarli was born 9:3:22 to Dodge Q. and Aliura Guagoa Bavo. After graduating from Zirias-Pearson Secondary School in Nadder, he attended Raithal Academy and graduated with honors before joining the Rebel Alliance in Year 33. In 37:3 he accepted his final posting at the Hospital Platform, where he was assigned to Special Sentient Needs in the Medical Ward. Well-liked by his colleagues, he was noted for his exceptional alertness as a guard, as well as his compassion for the troubled younglings under his care. He also loved to watch shockball, boasting that he was the Bonadan Blasters' biggest fan.

Memorial services for AGO Sandov and PFC Bavo will be held this Primeday aboard the Calamari Cruiser Liberty in Hall No. 2 at 06:00. Personnel across the Alliance Fleet will be able to pay their respects via holotransmission.

Kyle Katarn still frequented Alliance FleetNet as a skulker—always reading, never transmitting. The Rebellion's main forum of communication had only gotten stupider and more banal over the past standard year, and the events of the Madine scandal (and the role that these comm networks had played in it) made it even harder to stomach. He would have had more fun trudging through the rubbish-clogged waste-tunnels of Anoat City's subterranean sewer system, shooting it out with murderous guard droids and wrestling with slimy dianoga. But as part of the Bryar Force, it was more important than ever to keep his finger on the pulse of the Rebel Alliance.

It felt like he was waiting in anticipation of a heart attack.

The Moldy Crow was almost back to Orion IV when news started to spread of the incident on the Hospital Platform—spun, of course, by High Command and its variously tentacled subordinate institutions. General Cracken's goons being sent in was alarming, but not a surprise. After all, it was Alliance Intelligence that had investigated Crix Madine's predations at Kolaador Base, then closed that investigation after the disgraced major general's death. They'd declared his death a suicide and that there was "no substantive evidence implicating additional Alliance personnel in Madine's crimes".

The differences between that incident and this one were starkly shown as standard days passed. For one thing, there was nothing sluggish about the release of official statements and information. In fact, Cracken's investigation of the Hospital Platform was declared over almost as soon as it began.

The way they told it, Assistant General Overseer Utric Sandov was murdered in his quarters by an Imperial covert agent who had infiltrated the platform. This nebulous Imperial then tried to poison the hospital's bacta supply, destroying Superintendent Versch in the process before being discovered by Private Bavo. The guard finally neutralized the saboteur at the cost of his own life. At no point did the official account reference the disappearance of a girl from Special Sentient Needs, the first people to discover Sandov's body being unaccounted for, or anything being stolen from his office.

"It's not like with Madine at all," Jan commented. "They've gotten out ahead of it."

Sure enough, she was right. Because the deaths on the Hospital Platform had been the beginning of the public incident rather than the end, High Command's explanation only needed to be plausible within the context of the war against the Empire—which was, after all, the reason for the Rebellion's very existence. In the grand scheme of things, the charade was as mundane as it was palatable: just another fiendish, faceless Imperial saboteur, foiled by a lone, valiant Rebel. The touch of self-sacrifice really sold it; most of the transmissions Kyle saw focused on Private Bavo, extolling his virtues and what a tragedy it was that the Alliance had lost him, though his sacrifice had surely saved hundreds if not thousands of lives.

I met Sarli back in boot c amp, read one subcomment by FrenlyFirepower, whose avatar was a proton torpedo schematic. Funniest barve I ever met, always joking around, but yo u knew he would always have your back. The Alliance lost a real one. [Bravo Private Bavo!]

Stooma_11523 added, Started crying as soon as I saw his picture! He looks just like my little brother back on Corulag! So young! Give him a medal, he kriffing earned it! [Bravo Private Bavo!]

The day before Primeday it was announced that the guy would posthumously be awarded the Medal of Bravery and the Corellian Cross at his funeral. And that silly tag was all over the place on FleetNet: [Bravo Private Bavo!] Kyle understood why: people loved heroes, needed them, most of all when locked in a struggle against a brutal, tyrannical regime like the Empire. This story was giving people hope, which was a most precious commodity, especially since Hoth.

But it turned Kyle Katarn's stomach like a case of Idolian indigestion, knowing that Sarli Bavo had not died in a case of noble self-sacrifice, but rather brutal betrayal at the hands of a psychotic droid. At least the superintendent wasn't getting any false fanfare.

He wasn't the only one. There was no hint (either on FleetNet or anywhere else) that Deena Demarakesh was a being of interest with regard to Sandov's death. In fact, when the inner circle looked into it, Alliance records stated that the Bothan was currently on leave, visiting family on Kothils—despite the fact the war had heated up in that part of the Mid Rim.

Finally, the horrific actions of Sandov and Demarakesh, aided and abetted by Superintendent Versch, went almost completely unremarked. In far corners of FleetNet, R2-Q8 identified a few transmissions referencing rumors of youngling sexual abuse that had been occurring on the platform, but these were always squelched by the monitors in short order. Among other advantages that the enemy had, the children in Special Sentient Needs—most of them orphans like the Arranda kids—were significantly more isolated and vulnerable than the ones on Kolaador.

All in all, unlike with the Madine incident, this scandal was thoroughly contained. Utric Sandov's death was near-inexplicable; Shaparo refused to consider that the enemy had been tipped off by a mole, as he had chosen his personnel too carefully. More likely, Demarakesh's disappearance had spooked the enemy, but if Sandov had been killed to prevent his being questioned, that seemed premature, given he had successfully avoided public suspicion. And based on the team's description of the room, it had looked neither like a clean murder nor the scene of a struggle.

As before, the Bryar Force—despite all their efforts—had more questions than answers. They might well have exposed themselves to their invisible enemy. And until they cracked the devices stolen from Utric Sandov's office, MIMIC returned, or Tash Arranda recovered, they would not have enough information to make their next move.

The girl they had rescued sat with her back to the far corner of the patient room in Searchlight's medical bay. Tangled in blankets she had pulled from the bed, knees drawn to her chest, she stared out at the universe with eyes as deep and empty as black holes. A thin drool line crept down from her lower lip.

Kyle could only bear the sight for a few standard time parts before turning his back to the patient room window. It was too much—remembering the abominable images from Deena Demarakesh's datapad, what those Bothans had done to this poor girl and her brother, and what it had now reduced her to.

"I'm afraid her...injuries were worse than yours, Young Master Arranda," Ktrame Zaposug said from atop his stool. "For that reason, a bacta tank is being readied as we speak."

"Huh."

The Ruurian doctor was nervously twiddling his digits together, while Zak Arranda stared at his sister with an indecipherable expression. Zaposug's cursory examination of Tash aboard the Moldy Crow had shown her to be recently drugged; her bloodstream contained trace amounts of the same mysterious substance they had found in Zak. Kyle had suspected that it was responsible for her more-or-less catatonic state, but the group's spirits (not particularly high in the first place) sank when the doctor reported that the drug's sedating effects had worn off.

The state Tash was in now was simply what her abuse had reduced her to.

She would eat, drink, and so on with a bit of help. If you stood her up or sat her down, she would stay that way for a while. A few times she had glanced at Zak when he spoke to her, but beyond that she was unresponsive to people. She was locked in a place far, far away, trapped inside herself. The bacta would tend to her physical injuries, but it could not heal the mind.

It could not make her forget.

It could not take away what had been done to her.

And it couldn't make Kyle forget that they had been too late. All of them, too late to stop these monsters from infesting the Rebel Alliance. Too slow, too ignorant, too complacent, too stupid. He felt like an overloaded disruptor rifle, ready to explode, knowing that no matter what missions he accomplished, no matter who he killed, he could never erase what had happened.

He hadn't given Zak Arranda that promised haranguing. He couldn't even be mad at the kid for his idiotic stunts. Not now, not with Tash in front their eyes, a hollowed, used, worn-out husk of the fun-loving and innocent and unbroken child she must have once been.

The stricken looks on Jan Ors and Wade Vox showed that they understood the direness of the situation all too well. Their gazes hovered over Zak Arranda, flighty and uncertain, desperate to offer comfort but withering in the knowledge that any such words would only be lies. They had done their best...and look what they had to show for it. The moment felt like hours; the moment was torture.

Torture, Kyle repeated within himself desolately. I don't know what torture even means. I've never gone through anything like that. Any second now, it'll hit him like a maglev car. And then...

Zak Arranda shrugged and turned away from the patient room window. "She'll be all right," he said.

Kyle's jaw nearly fell open. Jan's lips pursed. Wade cocked his head. Dr. Zaposug went still.

"Really. I, uh... I know it looks bad—I mean it is bad, like really bad—but I'm saying, I'm telling you it's okay. Tash's gonna be okay."

Kyle and Jan's eyes met. She looked as sick as he felt. It was as bad as they'd feared.

"Zak, you...probably need some rest," Jan hazarded.

The boy scoffed. "What for? The doc already checked me out, and I'm fine. I've been knocked around before, worse than I was on that station. Let me tell you..."

He trailed off, his look wandering from one adult to the next. Begrudgingly, Kyle had to give it to him: Zak Arranda was sharp. He had to know what they were thinking. All this waffling and equivocation was useless with him. They were trying to work up the nerve, searching for the right way to speak aloud what was unbearable: to tell him that Tash was not all right, and likely would never be all right. That if she ever recovered from what the Bothans had done to her, it would take many long years.

Zak's brow furrowed. "It...it's not like that!" he cried. "She is going to get better! Look at me: those—those crick-licking freaks put me through the vacuum, and I'm still here! I bounced back! So she's gonna bounce back too, just you wait and see."

Heads shook slowly, sadly. How could they tell him? How could they say it out loud?

But I have to. I have to, Kyle realized, and he began. "Zak, listen to me. Your sister's been through something horrible. And people, especially children, they don't just bounce back from things like that. She's...it's going to be very difficult to—"

The arrogant look on Zak's face as he listened was infuriating, like he was being forced to endure a lecture from a youngling half his age. "No—she's going to be a Jedi someday," he blurted.

Kyle, Jan, and Dr. Zaposug blinked.

"Jedi?" Wade's echo was a whisper.

"She's always trying to find out more about them, whether on the HoloNet or wherever else. She's gonna be one because she—she has the Force. It's this, this mystical power that the Jedi used to—I'm telling you, you people have no idea what my sister can do." Zak could hardly keep still as he went on. "Ever since Tash and me were kids, she could finish my sentences for me, like she always knew what I was gonna say—and that's only the beginning.

"Sometimes she stays up all night, staring into space, not looking bored but—but peaceful or something, says she's meditating. She can hold her breath for ten standard minutes—it's no joke, I've timed her myself—and even—I've even seen her move things, like with her mind, without touching them, a few times. And she sees things before they happen, usually dangerous things, like—"

The boy snapped his fingers. "Like Jaykay! That nutso crab-droid thing back on the platform! Remember that? None of us knew it was there, but then Tash told us to hide and it passed by? That's because she sensed it through the Force! So don't go telling me that Tash can't do something!"

Kyle traded several uncomfortable glances with Jan while the boy ranted. What was the right thing to do? Let him just tire himself out? Play along?

The doctor cleared his insectile throat with a high-pitched hum. "Young Master Arranda, please try to calm down. You must listen—"

"No, you listen." Zak backed away a few steps pointed urgently at his still-catatonic sister. "What she's doing right now? She's just meditating again. She tells me that helps her when she's tired or stressed out or something really bad happened, that she goes away into the Force or something to pull herself back together. That's all this is. When she's done, she's gonna snap out of it, and she'll be all right, just like I am right now."

"You—you mean that," Wade said dreamily. "You really mean it, don't you?"

Zak's anger vanished like a wisp of ion exhaust, replaced with pure childish excitement. "Of course I do. We didn't know this about Tash for a while, I mean, maybe we suspected, but we didn't really know until Dagobah. It's this—this swamp planet, we got trapped there with Uncle Hoole and a bunch of smugglers. You see, Boba Fett was chasing us, and we ran into these cannibals—"

"Fett!" exclaimed Wade with nearly as much enthusiasm as the teenager. "Boba Fett was after you? I ran into that guy on Tatooine, and—hell, Kyle beat him in a shootout once on Coruscant!"

"Woah—really?!"

Kyle was almost pushed over by Zak's goggle-eyed stare. "Um, yeah. Fact is, though, I barely made it out alive."

"Wow, that's prime! Boba Fett's got to be the most dangerous bounty hunter in the galaxy! The Empire sent him after us and Uncle Hoole, and when we were running from him we got stuck on Dagobah, and there was—there was this strange alien, really short guy, but it turned out he was a Jedi Master. He said his name was Yoda and...and that Tash had a destiny, and it meant maybe she could be a Jedi too someday." The boy stopped to breathe. "You don't...you don't believe me at all, do you?"

Jan started to say something, but broke off—Wade was a lot louder. "No, I—I believe you. I mean, I believe in the Force. Don't think there's much chance I'll ever become a Jedi Knight, but I think I can feel it, maybe. Sometimes."

"How do you know about the Jedi?" asked Zak with new light in his face.

Wade swallowed, hesitating, cutting his gaze toward Kyle, Jan, and the doctor. They, however, were looking at each other, exchanging their confusion and dismay at the new turn this conversation had taken.

"Well, you see—on Alderaan, when I lived there, there was this friend of mine. More like an acquaintance, kind of mysterious. He called himself Fess. Seemed mostly to mind his own business, but for some reason Imperials came and took him away one day, and I never saw him again. I read on the NewsNet they executed him for rebel activity and, uh, unnatural crimes with another man, but I never believed a word of it." Wade twisted his lip. "The Imps ransacked his apartment, but I went there after I was gone. I found pieces of a journal, where it turned out his real name was Ferus, and he wrote some about the Force. So I think he was actually a Jedi."

"Wow...wowwwwww."

Dr. Zaposug announced that he needed to make sure the bacta tank was ready for Tash's treatment, but the two boys hardly seemed to notice as he excused himself.

"You said this alien named Yoda was a Jedi? What was he like—"

Kyle Katarn decided then that he'd had enough. "Wade, I need to talk to you right now."

Wade started like he'd forgotten Kyle was there. A few seconds passed. Kyle conveyed with his expression that he was prepared to drag the other man from the medbay, but Wade got the message and followed him out, leaving Jan to keep Zak company.

The corridor outside was slate-colored and starkly lit, like most of the base: harsh gray and harsher white. Kyle made sure the medbay door was shut, then took Wade a good ten or fifteen meters down to make sure the kid couldn't overhear them.

"Alderaan's ghosts," Wade griped, hustling to keep up. "What exactly is your malfunction?"

Kyle spun on him. "This is how it's gonna be. You're gonna keep your exhaust port shut and stay away from Zak Arranda."

"Uh...sorry, but did I do something wrong?"

It was hard for Kyle just to get his jaw unclenched. The kriffing sight of this guy—his damned faux-Corellian pants, the faux-Skywalker haircut, that stupid look on his face, like he actually couldn't understand—

"Zak is in shock. In denial. He's retreating into a fantasy world to escape the reality of what's happened to him and his sister. That's what all these ridiculous stories of his are, this Jedi—it's all a cope, because he can't deal with this trauma. When it finally hits him, when he realizes that Tash isn't going to be the same, it—it's going to crush him. Destroy him."

Kyle had to control his breathing; he couldn't believe this needed to be explained. He had seen enough civilians marked by the careless destruction which the Empire inflicted: homes razed, families and communities ripped apart. He had seen it reduce beings to a state like Tash's, shell-shocked ghosts and hollow bodies, alive but desolated. He had also seen people like Zak: hiding in realms of unreality, smiling and shrugging and laughing even as the ruins of their world surrounded them.

"And the absolute last thing he needs," Kyle growled, "is for us to feed that cope, to string him along. He almost got himself killed, stowing away with us and sneaking onto that platform! If the adults around him add to the fantasy, he'll only keep acting out more—and if he lives long enough, the—the worse it's going to be when the fantasy breaks."

"Okay, you do have a point there, Kyle. It was pretty stupid of him, tagging along like he did, and we're gonna need to keep a closer eye on him than before, but...but I don't think he is living in a fantasy world. I think these kids are special. They're a lot tougher than they look."

Oh, Chaos take me, thought Kyle, shaking his head.

Wade must have read the look on his face. "Think about it. Zak almost got his sister out of Special Sentient Needs without our help! Who's the last kid you ever met who'd be smart enough or brave enough to even try that, let alone get as far as he did?"

"Tash Arranda," Kyle growled, straining out every word, "is in that room now in a catatonic state."

For a standard time part Wade's mouth was ajar, but then he rallied. "Zak got raped by two Bothans too, and it didn't put him into a catatonic state. I think he really is tough enough that he bounced back, so maybe Tash is, too."

The gray corridor was tinted red. "You are a kriffing manchild. You're listening to a disturbed, traumatized kid, taking his delusions as truth because—just because it fits with your spirituality."

"I think the Force actually is guiding us—all of us," said Wade, and right then he did it again—slipped out of his characteristic slouch into a tall, solemn poise that was as fake as everything else about him. "It can't be a coincidence that those kids' path crossed ours the way it did. Especially if they've had run-ins with Jedi, too, and...and Zak is not simply making up stories about his sister.

"Don't you remember on that platform, that crab-droid in the maintenance tunnel? It's like he said: Tash was in that stupor like she is now, but she woke up for a minute and warned us about that droid before any of us knew it was coming. How do you explain that if the Force wasn't involved?" Wade bit the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. "In fact, I know it was involved, because I felt something for a second, when we were hiding from that thing. Something weird, like when I'm about to make a perfect shot. Didn't you—?"

It was too much: the image of Tash in that other room, lost in the voice; the images of them both on that datapad, burned forever into Kyle's memory; the blood-spattered office; and this idiot, talking with his stupid flapping mouth about the Force again. Kyle merely thought the words, Shut up, and then a blood-colored flash dazzled his eyes, stabbed energy into his body like a power coupling surge. The wall boomed as Wade Vox's back struck it hard. The front of his collar crumpled up in Kyle's right fist felt good, but not nearly as good as his left one would when buried in his face—

A hard jab to Kyle's midsection froze him in place. As the red began to fade from the world, he looked and found the barrel of a DL-44 XT blaster pistol digging into his gut, a gloved finger just off the trigger.

The two men's eyes met, their vicious breaths echoing each other.

"Katarn...I've gotta tell you, I'm getting real sick of you pushing me around."

After two or three tries Kyle got his throat clear. The words, "Sorry, Wade," came out like sand strained through a landspeeder's turbofan as he let go and shrank back a meter.

Wade eyed him sidelong and holstered the blaster, which looked strangely heavy in his hand.

"Yeah, I'm stupid sometimes," Wade said dully. "But it's real, Kyle. You know it's real. What's this really about?"

The question was useless. As if Kyle could explain, even if he wanted to.

"Stay away from Zak," was all he could manage. "The Force isn't going to come and save him and make everything all right, so stop encouraging him and filling his head with false hope. I'm gonna keep an eye on you, so leave him alone."

Wade only stared back at him—angry, confused, almost pitying.

There was nothing more to say. Kyle turned and stalked off, not caring where he ended up, his shock boots hitting the floor with savage thumps.

Zak grinned widely as a Geniserian sand monkey as he zoomed over Orion IV's landscape. Rosh had taken good care of the skimboard; all it had needed was a fresh power cell, and it was good to go. A lot of Zak's time lately had been spent in cramped buildings, starships, or space stations, waiting to get someplace or for something to happen; and when it wasn't boring, it was too exciting—getting spooked or chased or attacked. Some healthy excitement, a happy compromise between tedium and terror, was exactly what the doctor had ordered. Literally, too.

The skimboard had multiple height settings, but right now it was carrying him along two meters off the ground. In terms of speed it couldn't compare to, say, a swoop bike, but Zak had been doing daredevil stunts with this thing since he was a kid (an actual kid) back on Alderaan. In fact, on more than one occasion he'd saved Tash's life thanks to his skimboard prowess. Not to brag, or anything.

With knees bent and arms spread for balance, he took it along as fast as it would go. The foot controls allowed him to control the height of the repulsors in addition to acceleration. A store-bought skimboard was meant to hover just an arm's length above the ground; thanks to some special modifications, though, Zak could kick his up to a good eight or nine meters. Orion IV's landscape had plenty of character to it—rolling hills, small gorges, piles of rocks, even some wreckage from a recent battle—and it gave a perfect opportunity to get back into his groove. He deftly cut between obstacles, skirted their edges, or rode over them as he pleased.

Squinting through the visor of the cybervision helmet he'd borrowed, he spotted the row of humanoid polyplas mannequins they had set up. Zak was not used to having a heads-up display and simply looking directly at the rangefinder endangered his balance. It put the targets at thirty meters' distance—counting down fast.

Twenty meters.

The harsh sun and the rushing winds beat on Zak, threatening a wipe-out.

Thirty meters.

Slowly as possible, he extended his arms forward, left hand braced over the mechanical gauntlet on his right wrist. It was an energy slingshot, the same one Wade Vox had saved his life with. Zak fought to line up his aim without wobbling. If he didn't know better, he'd almost believe he could feel the stun weapon's power source sizzling in anticipation, understand its orientation as though it had a targeting system linked up with his visor. He ignored the sensation; it had nothing to do with him. You've got the wrong kid.

Ten meters. He flicked his finger rapidly. Crackling yellow orbs streaked like comets, but there was no telling if Zak's aim was true; he was already blurring past, heart pounding like a Karmova drum as he recovered his flagging balance. Tapping the foot controls, he eased off the accelerator and brought the skimboard back around. When he came to a stop by the dummies, his new friends had emerged from behind the nearest rock pile.

"I would have loved having one of those when I was your age!" Came the shrill call of the first. He was a Nautolan, green-skinned, with tress-like tentacles dangling from his scalp in place of hair. "But of course, I probably would have broken my neck."

Zak laughed and pulled off the cybervision helmet. "It's not as dangerous as it looks."

The Nautolan was named Polio Jode. A Teräs Käsi artist, he boasted that all four his limbs were registered as deadly weapons under Imperial law. With him were Maxis Makinene, the lagomorph who had shown Zak his room, and a pair of humans named Able and Mort. Those two were veterans of the Clone Wars, and while the former had introduced the latter as his older brother, to Zak they looked about the same age.

Some days ago, not long after Tash's rescue, Zak had been ushered into Shaparo's office for a "talk". For the most part it was exactly what he expected, the typical finger-wagging routine about putting himself in danger that he and Tash always got from adult strangers in authority. To his surprise, though, the leader of the Bryar Force had not only lectured him, but also asked questions and seemed to actually listen to the answers. Mostly it was about how exactly he had made it as far into the Rebel Hospital Platform as he did. Zak's story had some embarrassing parts to it—he could admit that not all of his decisions had been the smartest—but something about Shaparo curbed his impulse to lie. It wasn't fear, though. More like this man (contrary to most of the Arrandas' experiences the past few years) could actually be trusted.

When the interview finished, Zak had then been introduced to Polio, Max, Able, and Mort, who explained that they were supposed to keep him company for a while, make sure that he had things to do. Zak wasn't thrilled about being baby-sat. These people quickly made a good first impression, though, by taking him to the hangar and showing him the Bloodshark, as well as the Imperial shuttle that the others were hard at work rebuilding. They even let him poke around inside the ion engines a bit.

After noticing that they actually seemed favorable toward him, Zak had started suggesting other activities. While they wouldn't take him to the firing range, Polio got permission to let Zak take his skimboard out for a spin, as long as he was supervised. Setting up the targets like this was Able's idea.

"Oh, this is no good, Zak. No good at all," chittered Max, hopping from one foot to the other as he circled the mannequins. "Just look at that."

Zak looked, and his face turned glum. All of the dummy targets were unscathed except for one; a grayish oval was left along its shoulder by a passing stun charge.

The lagomorph went on. "You know what your problem is? You didn't shoot enough times."

"Really?"

"Of course!" Max stretched his little white arms toward the heavens, trying mightily to reach beyond his tall ears. "Get enough bolts flyin', and it won't matter how lousy your aim is! You're bound to hit something!"

"Word of advice, don't listen to him," Able cut in. "Hitting a target while passing on a skimboard is no easy task."

While Max griped and started to bicker with the veteran, Polio Jode put a hand on Zak's shoulder. "Practice and focus, persistence—these are your best tools. Remember that."

Their conversation fell silent as a shuddering roar fell over the landscape. Easy to ignore at first, the sound rose gently, deceptively, until it reached a crescendo of power. All of them recognized it—ion engines in atmosphere.

All turned puzzled looks skyward except for Mort; his look was uniquely a glare. His stance spread, and a blaster pistol appeared in his hands.

Max regarded the cyborg veteran, one ear bending over sardonically. "Flashbacks, old timer?"

Mort ignored the gibe, while Able scowled. Zak scanned the horizon, shielding his eyes with one hand, as the sound continued to build. As it began to taper off, they found it: a flight of three X-wings, their quad-sublights bleeding a rosy glow as they crossed the violet sky.

Polio Jode grinned and put his hands on his hips. "That would be Diamond Flight—our friends in the sky."

"Damn good thing they're up there," Mort grunted. His blaster clicked back into its holster. "Even with them, Searchlight's too exposed."

None of the other adults had any comment to make, and Zak did not welcome the reminder of what this place really was and why he was really here. Something as dark as the Emperor himself had wormed its way into the Rebel Alliance and inflicted terrible evils on many innocent people. People like him and Tash—Tash, who was still recovering.

Who was going to recover, he reminded himself, like he had. Maybe it'd take longer, but it was going to happen. She'd gotten it worse than him, but she had the Force, and she had always been the tougher Arranda.

He put the cybervision helmet back on and headed for his skimboard. "I'm gonna try again."

Aside from monitoring Alliance communications, the inner circle was busy with the items Kyle had taken from Utric Sandov's blood-spattered office—the datapad, the image caster, the data tape. The latter was damaged and all three were encrypted and, of course, neither Troomis nor anyone else had a timetable for when they'd be readable.

Kyle himself found enough to do, tinkering with the Moldy Crow, talking with Jan, visiting the firing range, and so on—but there was no way around it. Searchlight Station was little more than a prison to him.

Every day he checked in with Dr. Zaposug, who dourly reported that Tash Arranda showed no signs of improvement. At first, he often caught sight of Zak heading to or from the medbay, or else hanging around with Polio Jode and some of the other Bryar Force operatives. Kyle gathered they had been tasked with keeping the boy company—and keeping him from thinking too much about his sister. As the week wore on, though, Zak stayed in his room more and more often, and when he did come out, he was quieter. More brittle. He would smile, play, roll his eyes, scratch himself, act like a kid...but Kyle knew the pain and dread was inside him, chewing away at his brain like Korunnai fever wasps.

It drove Kyle to double his visits to the firing range. He had to get it out—the anger, the hopelessness. It was only a matter of time before Zak finally broke, and there was nothing that could be done to hold him together. When the fever wasps finished hatching, his skull would crack like an eggshell.

Kyle and Jan made their way into the semicircular presentation room, careful not to step on the heels of those preceding them. They took a spot in the middle of three tiers of seating beneath colorless glowbulbs that shone like c-beams. Though modestly sized, the chamber felt enormous—perhaps because the entire Bryar Force was present. Blinking and sniffling against a blizzard of dust motes, Kyle looked from one end to the other, knowing he'd seen all these beings before but feeling like they were strangers. There was Payvees, chatting with former Alliance Intelligence colonel Hantor Loftus. Beside them were Able and Mort, inseparable brothers as usual. A stone's throw down from Kyle lounged Rianna Saren, boots planted on the desk ahead of her, cybernetic lekku curling suggestively under the wandering gaze of Wade Vox. The latter man, Kyle had barely seen since their argument in the hall—and was entirely satisfied with that fact.

Most of the front tier belonged to Shaparo, sans R2-Q8. The little droid was plugged into the holodisplay table on the central dais, its various lights blinking excitedly. Standing beside the astromech with a surprisingly dignified air was MIMIC, who had made a discreet return to Orion IV after a standard week of comm silence.

"This should be good," Kyle said out the corner of his mouth. "It better be good."

Jan only glanced sidelong at him. He wasn't annoyed. She came from Intel, and she'd been his mission officer besides; to her, briefings were no place for meaningless chitchat.

Shaparo stood up and, as if in response to the gravity of his mere presence, the scattered conversations of the room all scurried away. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "I believe I speak for all of us when I say we are gratified and relieved by MIMIC's safe return. The information he managed to retrieve while on the Rebel Hospital Platform is, I have judged, significant enough to warrant a meeting of all our personnel. I thank you for your patience. Now, if you'll all give your full attention to MIMIC."

He sat down and the room's glowbulbs dimmed except for the one over the dais. R2-Q8 tootled, and a diagram of the Hospital platform rose from the table's holoprojectors.

"Thank you, sir," said MIMIC in his usual unflappable tone. "After the rest of my team departed the Rebel Hospital Platform, news of Utric Sandov's death spread quickly, and an investigatory team was soon dispatched by General Cracken. However, I managed to avoid detection by disguising myself as various members of Alliance Naval Security, the Medical Corps, and even Cracken's operatives themselves. In this way I was able first to gather information undetected, then to extract myself and eventually make my way back to Orion IV. My thanks go to operative Cody Darklighter for providing speeder transport from the local spaceport."

Kyle rolled his eyes. Why's he got to be so exact and polite? Even Imperial briefings didn't ramble this much.

The holodroid continued. "I'm happy to report that, between operative Jan Ors's slicing work and my own, we managed to erase all direct evidence of Bryar Force members being present on the platform. Though there is little that can be done about eyewitnesses, this should help to cover our tracks for a time.

"With that being said, I proceed to the centerpiece of my presentation, which will be made available to all of you for individual examination. As you are no doubt aware, the death of Assistant General Overseer Utric Sandov of Alliance Security was officially ruled a homicide. He was assassinated by an Imperial covert agent. The official autopsy report which was released reflects that official truth."

No one in the room could miss the subtle emphasis placed on the word official. Involuntarily, Kyle experienced a fleeting recollection of the scene—the shredded bed, the strewn articles and knickknacks, the bloody remains in the bathroom. The details in his mind were painfully vivid, all the more because it had been so unexpected...though, of course, it was nothing compared to the other horrors he had seen in recent days.

MIMIC paused, straightening himself—quite a feat, considering he was habitually as vertical as a moisture vaporator—before announcing, "The official autopsy which has been made public is, of course, a lie. Before taking leave of the platform, I managed to acquire a full copy of the original report, which I will summarize for you now."

Raising a spindly arm, the holodroid glanced at R2-Q8. "Be advised, this information may be...disturbing to those of organic constitution."

At his gesture, the astromech beeped once and switched the holodisplay to...a new series of images.

No one exactly gasped, but several beings (Jan among them) made sounds of inarticulate disgust and confusion.

"Utric Sandov's body was disintegrated in accordance with his will," MIMIC explained. "Or rather, I should say, the body we found in his office was. That body belonged to a female human who underwent extensive surgical and biochemical alteration to mimic the appearance of a male Bothan."

Kyle realized that his jaw was hanging open.

Utric Sandov...wasn't a man? Wasn't even Bothan?

"One small example, as you can see from these biometric scans: here on both forearms, the flesh there is Bothan, taken from an unknown donor—whether willing or unwilling, we can only speculate—and grafted on with a combination of of plethyl nitrate paste and kolto resin. Of course, we can still see that the underlying bone structure is undeniably human. But even if that were not the case, we would still be able to see that the bonding was imperfect and, indeed, unsustainable. Several portions of this grafted flesh were in advanced stages of necrosis."

"By all of Alderaan's ghosts," hissed Wade Vox. Sneaking a glance, Kyle noticed that the guy's face was as white as a Nagai's; Kyle thought his own might not be far behind.

Murmurs of disbelief spread, died off...and came back renewed intensity at the next holoimage.

"The absolute kriff is that?!" exploded Cody Darklighter.

MIMIC's droning answer came with terrible, terrible calm. "This...for lack of a better word, this implant was found in 'Utric Sandov's' body. Most of the flesh is also grafted from an unknown source, but some portions are synthskin of the kind often seen in prosthetic limbs. Its apparent purpose is to simulate the appearance of the male Bothan reproductive member—though, of course its ability to function as such..."

Tuning out the rest of the explanation, Kyle shut his eyes and felt like never opening them again.

It wasn't as horrible as what Sandov and Demarakesh had done to the Arranda children and to their other victims, or what Crix Madine had done to the ones on Kolaador...but it was a new dimension of horror and madness, no less inexplicable.

MIMIC's voice continued. "As the unredacted autopsy report shows, this unidentified woman had massive quantities of antipsychotics and painkillers in her system at the time of her death—as well as the spice-like drug which was also found in the bloodstreams of Zak and Tash Arranda."

"Tooweetoo-zee tooweetoo-zoo-eee!"

"Yes," the holodroid added, "and R2-Q8 assures us that he is still doing everything he can to identify that substance. In any case, it is clear that 'Utric Sandov' was using these substances to manage symptoms of the bioengineering procedures to which she was subjected. Some of those procedures appear to have been performed mere weeks ago, while others—the implant foremost among them—seem to have been done as long ago as a standard year."

Kyle opened his eyes, then immediately shut them. The hologram was still showing the kriffing faux-genital implant.

"The Hospital Platform's coroner concluded that these drugs lost their potency, triggering a psychotic break that drove the woman to suicide. Thus disproving our first assumption about the situation: unlike Crix Madine, 'Utric Sandov' did, in fact, kill herself."

Whispers of dismay and confusion flooded the room. Eyes still closed, Kyle shook his head as he vainly grappled with the enormity of it all. So Sandov had not been silenced like Madine on Dathomir...and in fact, 'he' might not even have been Utric Sandov at all!

The tumult rose for a full minute before Shaparo's voice stilled the room. "Continue, MIMIC...and if you would, please proceed to the next graphic."

"With pleasure, sir."

The hum of the table's holoprojector changed cadence. Kyle looked again and was relieved to see the field was blank.

MIMIC said, "What you are now about to see is something I managed to record by slicing into one of the platform's holocameras. The onboard coroner, Pesto Ubohn di Katathos, was escorted to a private communications room by Alliance Intelligence personnel immediately after he finished compiling the original autopsy report. He then was personally briefed via holotransmission by General Cracken, Chief of Alliance Intelligence. Though I was only able to record a fragment, I believe you will all find this quite enlightening.

Kyle's pulse began to race. He looked at Jan to see her lovely face taut, her body rigid, one armrest creaking in the grip of her cybernetic hand.

With a flash and a gargle of static, two wavering forms took shape over the table. One was particularly indistinct, choppy and flickering, but the barrel-chested frame and bull rancor face of Airen Cracken came through as clear as a concussion missile. The other figure was a Nubian walking stick blown up to super-humanoid proportions. It took Kyle a moment to place Pesto Ubohn di Katathos' species—a Muun—hairless and pale, almost comically tall and thin, though there was nothing amusing about this exchange.

"—to do what the kriff you're told to, man."

Kyle flinched before he could check himself. General Cracken had made hundreds, probably thousands of holodispatches that were sent across the Rebel Alliance. Hearing him use that sort of language, speaking with a tone of such naked contempt, was jarring.

"I—G-g-g-general, I'm afraid I-I simply don't believe I un-understand," stammered the coroner.

"You don't understand, huh? You really don't? Like I'm not speaking Basic? Maybe you'll understand this, stick-man. One transmission from me to the Secretary General of the Advisory Council, and your Alliance Medical License is space dust. Another transmission to Alliance Security, and all your clearances are suspended."

Pesto Ubohn di Katathos's narrow mouth flapped and flagged, his thin body wavering like a spindly Toprawan vine-tree in the winds of a gale. "Y-you—G-general, sir, sure you can't be—"

"And another transmission, this one to the Resettlement Corps on Bulwark, and those wives and kids of yours? Suddenly they're not refugees anymore. Someone else needs those quarters and rations. Do you get the holopicture now?"

With a pitiful gurgle, the Muun's elongated head bent like a snapped tree branch.

"Look." General Cracken's tone was abruptly soft and conciliatory. "This isn't anything to feel bad about. Nothing to bother your conscience over."

"I...I am going to lie on an official report," said Pesto Ubohn di Katathos with the voice of a dead Muun. "Utric Sandov killed herself."

"Himself. He killed himself, but as far as you are concerned, it was an Imperial that did him in. Yes, it's a lie, but it's a necessary lie. The Alliance isn't ready for these kind of ideas. It's not ready to acknowledge that people like him exist among us. Not yet. If it came out now, there would be hysteria and persecutions and spacings and Chaos-knows what else. Do you want that? Do you want more senseless deaths? Do you want the Alliance to tear itself apart?"

"N-n-no..."

"Of course you don't. I knew that. You want to do right by the Alliance. That's why your final report is gonna say exactly what I told you. Isn't it?"

"Yes, sir...yes it is."

"Good man." General Cracken cleared his throat, gave the lapels of his command jacket a good shake. "I won't keep you from your duties any longer. Just remember: I know where the kriff you sleep, stick-man. You and your family."

The two holograms unraveled, and the silence that followed seemed like it would never end.

Back on the ship, Kyle asked Jan if she was okay—and of course she wasn't.

"It was easier before, when I could only suspect, could only imagine," she fumed. "That always gave me a way out. Gave me room to hope that he was only being used or deceived, but—but that's gone now. He's deep in this. Whoever our enemy is, he's in league with them. He's one of them, and he—he gave me half my medals. It makes me sick, Kyle. Just sick."

Kyle nodded, saying nothing, knowing no words would help. He felt sick too, watching Jan like this: pacing in helpless, furious circles through the Moldy Crow's galley. Even if he could totally separate her feelings from his own, this would have felt like a Talon vibrodagger between the ribs. Besides being Jan's boss in Alliance Intelligence, Cracken was a tremendously respected figure in the Rebellion. Seeing him acting like he had in that holorecording, turning over its implications...it was Crix Madine all over again.

And it's going to happen again, he thought to himself grimly. Because a lot of them are in on it. We knew that from the beginning, but...somehow it was impossible to be ready.

Blast it all, when are we going to hit them good? Hit them where it'll hurt?

It seemed like the more time passed since the Hospital Platform, the emptier that victory became. Not only was Tash Arranda still a shell of sentient presence, but even MIMIC's return, with all the information he had gathered, served only to muddy the waters. Now they had a thousand unanswered questions instead of a hundred.

Obviously Utric Sandov had not been what she appeared to be...but when had that become the case? Officially, the Bothan was a known master spy, with most of his career being classified by the Rebellion. Meanwhile, this human woman whose corpse they had found—she had obviously been part of the conspiracy, but how had this all worked out? Had she killed Sandov and assumed his identity at some point (if so, when?) or had she been Sandov all along?

And why had it been her, anyway? If the Bryar Force's enemy, this dark network which had apparently included and then silenced Crix Madine—if they had disposed of the original Utric Sandov and replaced him, why not use an actual male Bothan for that? What was the reason for those...those freakish surgeries? Who else had been altered in such a manner, and to what end?

How deep did this black hole of depravity reach?

And what was on the other side?

Though eating at first seemed impossible, Kyle and Jan shared dinner at the former's insistence. The Moldy Crow's replicator wasn't exactly top-notch, but he'd programmed it to synthesize iridium mountain gorg eggs; with Klatooinian radish and some leftover Jawa spice, he was able to make some decent omelets. It couldn't compare to what Kyle's mother had been able to make back on Sulon, but it reminded him of home, and that was good enough. Jan herself seemed calmer after she'd wolfed down her potion.

"What?" she asked when she caught Kyle chuckling.

"Nothing. It's just, usually you're the one who's got to cool my repulsor modulator down."

"Yeah, well...seems like everything's backwards these days. Or upside down."

"Seems like it. But I'm glad to return the favor for once."

Jan tried to smile.

Kyle was loading the sonic dishwasher when the wall terminal gave a whistle. He recognized the tone: new transmission via the hyperwave receiver. He heard Jan walk over to the terminal, power it on.

"Hey, Kyle—come over here. You'd better see this."

With brows beetling, he joined her in front of the screen, which showed his e-mail inbox, with a new message at the top, flagged with "High Command" priority and no less than four Alliance Starbird icons. That could only mean...

FROM: CofState

TO: katarn_agent

CC: jan_strange_agent

SUBJ: HIGH-LEVEL MISSION OFFER; TIME-SENSITIVE PLEASE READ ASAP

Kyle said, "Mon Mothma. Think it's anything urgent?"

Sure enough, the Chief of State's official portrait underlaid the entire message when they opened it: regal in white, icy but gentle, calm and assuring.

Dear Commander Katarn,

Wherever you are, I hope this message finds you well. Allow me to convey the gratitude of Chief Tamaron for your role in the Airam sector campaign. He assures you of the Airami Clans' undying gratitude.

Rebel High Command has need of top-level agents for a new operation of extreme importance and delicacy. Naturally, when I was informed of this, you and Lieutenant Ors immediately came to mind. I wish to give you the first offer for this mission.

Operational security protocols forbid me from giving any details on this assignment via transmission. However, I can say that the Alliance is offering 25,000 credits for the job, in addition to an advance of 8,000 to be paid upon confirmation.

If you are interested, please reply to this e-mail immediately, then proceed with all haste to Sanctuary and speak your liaison there. He will arrange for your return to the Alliance fleet, where you will be briefed aboard the Calamari Cruiser Home One.

Be advised, this operation is highly time-sensitive. If no freelance operatives claim it within two standard days, I will have no choice but to pass it along to Special Forces. If you are unable to accept this assignment, please reply to inform me, so as to avoid unnecessary delay.

I eagerly await your response. May the Force be with you.

Cordially,

Mon Mothma

Chief of State

"Thirty-three thousand credits," Kyle whistled. "When's the last time we saw a number that big?"

Jan eyed him, saying nothing—because nothing needed to be said. Their last job for the Alliance was in the Airam-Elrood campaigns, sabotaging Imperial ground campaigns launched from the Super Star Destroyer Vengeance—and it hadn't paid half as much. Neither had Restuss, Talus, or even the Arc Hammer. It would set them both up for an easy year. Just thinking of that much money made Kyle's mouth water...

"Hey, you remember our last job?" Jan was facing him squarely now. "The first week of it, on Mylok—how we almost got killed?"

"Which time?"

"You know which time."

Kyle's watering mouth dried up like the den of a Glee Anselm sand-mynock. "Yeah, I know. That skyhopper they gave us had a bad power coupling, shorted out—"

"—and almost dropped us forty klicks into the Tampastian lava fields," Jan finished. That was no accident, was it?"

He shook his head. They'd felt the same way at the time, watched each other's backs extra-close for the rest of the operation. There'd been a few other incidents, nothing quite so obvious, but they took it as a message that they were not off the sensor grid, when it came to the Crix Madine incident. Mon Mothma knew firsthand about Kyle's skepticism at how High Command and the Advisory Council handled it. Someone knew he'd been poking around...and they weren't happy about it.

Did they also know about the rogue mission to Dathomir—how Kyle had almost gotten Crix Madine out of prison before he was silenced? It was possible. Rebus had threatened to rat him out...

"So what do you think about this?" Jan asked.

There was no hesitation. "It's a trap. A trick. Send no reply. Send no transmissions of any kind. We're not gonna see Mon Mothma ever again—unless it's to drag her in front of a tribunal. It's like Shaparo said: we've crossed over. We're finished with the Rebel Alliance."

Jan bit her lip, then shut down the wall terminal. "Only for now. When we win this thing, when we finally get these people, these—these monsters—the Rebellion will be back to what it's supposed to be, and then we can go back. Force willing, it's not gonna be long. Until then, we've got to have faith in what we're doing."

That struck the wrong note for Kyle Katarn. "I'm holding off on that until what we're doing starts to have results."

Briefly, a curtain of silence separated them. It dawned on Kyle that his remark had not been appreciated—and that he and Jan were already resuming their usual roles.

"Kyle, what is it about you and the Force lately?"

"Huh?"

She held up a placating hand. "First off, you're right—Wade is kind of an idiot, and I'm glad you told him to leave Zak alone. That kid doesn't need any false hope. But anytime someone brings up the Force around you, it's like your deflectors come on."

Kyle kept his mouth shut. Jan looked off to the side as she went on, musing, thinking out loud.

"I know I wasn't there on the platform, but that droid in the tunnel—it sounds like Tash really did save you there, that she sensed it coming. And you've pulled off some pretty incredible stunts in yourself, things you'd have a hell of a time explaining if it wasn't the Force guiding you."

She gave him a disarming smirk. "So what's the matter, huh? You can't be a believer if Wade's one too? Is he that annoying?"

With a deep breath, Kyle dispersed the heat that had been gathering in his heart and lungs. His partner wasn't at fault for any of this, so he wasn't going to take his frustration out on her.

"I forgot to tell you before," he began, "but it happened on Nar Shaddaa. I almost got brained by a garbage hauler while chasing that Bothan, but I knew it was coming before I could even hear it. Got out of the way in time. So I know the Force is real—whatever it is. Maybe Wade's got it. Maybe even that girl Tash has it, too. It's possible.

"But my perspective, just because it's real doesn't make it reliable. I've had lucky shots or glimpsed a few seconds into the future, but it's nothing I can control. It's not something I can do by trying. Well and good, if it bails me out of trouble once in a while. You tell me, though: would you rely on this ship if the engines or the maneuvering thrusters or the navicomputer would only activate ten percent of the time—or less, and you could never predict when they would?"

"Of course I wouldn't. We've all heard those stories about the Jedi Knights, though. They say they trained for years to harness the Force, so that they could rely on it."

Try though he might, Kyle couldn't restrain a snort. "And what good did that do them in the end? They're all dead now, or scattered over the galaxy—and don't even bring up Skywalker. When I see him do the impossible, then I'll believe the Force is with him."

That seemed to get Jan annoyed enough to cross her arms. "The stories also say the Force isn't just a set of...of powers that Jedi had, like tools or weapons. It's supposed to be something mystical, something that's guiding the whole universe. Something we can listen to and learn from."

"Now that is where your maglev and mine split off onto different tracks. Whatever this Force is, it's not guiding and directing and watching out for everybody. Shaparo's a believer, but he lost his son. The Force didn't protect him, just like it didn't protect all those kids at Kolaador, or on the Hospital Platform. We're not walking on some path carved by destiny, Jan. We're on our own out here."

Again his mind went back to the medbay, to that little room where Tash Arranda was still sitting alone in an empty universe, where even her own brother couldn't reach her.

"No mystical energy field is going to save the Rebellion—or avenge those kids. That would be me—and you—and these." He tapped the holsters on his belt. "There's no one else I trust."

CHAPTER COMPLETE

PASSWORD: RAGNOS