A Veneer Over Savagery

"Master Windu. I take it General Grievous has been destroyed, then. I must say, you're here sooner than expected..."
"In the name of the Galactic Senate of the Republic, you're under arrest, Chancellor."
"Are you threatening me, Master Jedi?"
"The senate will decide your fate."
"I am the senate."
"Not yet."
"It's treason, then."

- Supreme Chancellor Palpatine and Jedi Grand Master Mace Windu




“The visibility of space is infinite,” was something pilots were fond of saying, but Senior Captain Tier of the Eight-Six-Eighty-Sixth Imperial Recon Line always felt that looking out at space was like looking at so much nothing.

And, standing on the starboard bridge of the Imperial Venator-class Star Destroyer 6222 and getting his first impressions of the Silken system, he felt that the word ‘nothing’ was the most fitting description of the system anyone could come up with. It contained no planets, moons or planetismals, no gas giants or terrestrial worlds, no sentients of any kind. Just a small blue sun and endless fields of asteroids, roiling and tumbling through space.

Nevertheless, the Imperial Survey Corps, in its infinite wisdom, had deemed it worthy of further study, and Chrome Shield Command at Vogel had offered them a two-Star Destroyer recon line to not only survey and thoroughly document the system, but also assess whether or not it would be a suitable location for a naval outpost.

Quite frankly, though, Tier could not imagine for the life of him what in Kad Ha’rangir’s name the Emperor could want with this place. The 6222 and its sister ship, the gleaming new Victory II-class Star Destroyer Condemnation, had departed Svivren, the last bastion of civilization in this corner of the rim, two days ago, and were now officially in Wild Space. There was precious little between Silken and the extragalactic void; about a sector’s worth of uncharted, dying stars, the odd pulsar, maybe; but otherwise, nothing.

“Reversion completed; sublights at optimum. Welcome to Wild Space, Senior Captain. Is this your first time?” With his jet-black hair, cool blue eyes and agreeable face, Captain Orverly could easily have been handsome enough for a recruitment poster, were it not for the perpetual laconic smirk on his lips, and slight layer of baby fat that he could never get rid of.

“Yes, Captain. Can’t you tell by my excitement?” Tier said, grinning lopsidedly. Orverly’s answer was an acerbic snort.

The man and the clone had served on the 6222 for nearly five years now. Before that, they had served together on two Acclamators and a Dreadnought, surviving the destruction of all three in first year of the Clone Wars, with the 6222 herself taking a serious drubbing over Coruscant at the end of the war. It had been repaired in time for what would be its proudest moment under Tier’s command, when it single-handedly destroyed the Providence-class fighter carrier Lucid Voice at Farstine two years ago. The young officers had weathered it all together, and the fact that Orverly had not risen through the ranks quite as speedily as Tier never seemed to bother the privileged young Novorian.

“Report from Condemnation, Senior Captain. Sensor sweep commencing; should they deploy their ARC-170s for better sensor coverage?” the young communications officer, Ensign Voljed, called from the portside crew pit.

“Negative, Ensign. We don’t know how they’ll affect the sweep. If a Victory II’s sensors are anything like an Imperator’s, cleaning up efflux noise from the ComScan readouts could take days.” The officer nodded and relayed the instructions to his counterpart on the other ship.

This was the Condemnation’s first combat jump after her launch at Rintonne three months ago, and, despite having the superior sensor system known as ComScan needed for their mission, she was, as far as Tier was concerned, an unknown quantity. He regarded the ship where she hung, off of 6222’s starboard bow, nine hundred meters of white metal against the emptiness. Tier may have had his misgivings about the mission, but he was at least thankful for the opportunity to shake down the new heavy cruiser in a peaceful environment.

“You know, we have to call them Imperial-class now. The Imperators. In fact, we have for the past three years,” Orverly pointed out quietly. When he received no answer, he looked up to find Tier staring at the Condemnation, lost in his thoughts.

“Worried she might lose her sheen?” Orverly quipped as the deck officer brought the two officers datapads linked to the 6222’s battle computer.

“It’s the sheen that bothers me,” Tier said. “I’ve half a mind to order Jellis into the asteroids with his shields down just to scuff her up a bit.”

Orverly chuckled. “She’s like you were at Geonosis. I could’ve eaten my dinner off your face.”

“You were fairly antiseptic yourself, as I recall. I believe the term is ‘Prefsbelt green?’”

“Something like that. At least I shaved the moustache,” Orverly mumbled softly, running his gloved fingers over his clean-shaven upper lip.

Voljed piped up again. “The Condemnation scans are being uploaded to our battlecomp. The asteroids are composed mainly of iron and carbon, with trace elements of ore and nova crystals.”

“Nova crystals,” Tier remarked. “That’ll make the tech boys happy.”

“The larger asteroids could be classified as dwarf planets, with trace atmospheres in the eight hundred millibar range,” the ensign continued. “Nitrogen, methane… some oxygen. Should I log a report for the Grek-Resh-Aurek on Koaan?”

“Go ahead, Ensign,” Tier said, nodding toward Voljed. The astro-cartography professors at the Galactic Research Academy on Koaan were still attempting to compile a complete database of every planet in the galaxy, inhabited or not, and Tier was more than happy to indulge them.

“Type II?” Orverly said, eyebrows raised. By human standards, a Type II atmosphere would be breathable, but not comfortably so.

Teir snorted. “Type III, at best. I wouldn’t walk on it without a bucket, anyway,” he grumbled, referring to the sealed helmet worn by Stormtroopers. A Type III atmosphere would not be breathable by humans, but if the pressure readings were correct, at least a full environment suit would not be necessary. He turned to the ensign. “What’s keeping all the oxygen free?”

“Lichen, according to the Jee-Ayes,” Voljed said after a pause, referring to the GA-series analysis droids in the 6222’s combat intelligence center, whom he was evidently conferring with as the data compiled.

“The gen-engineered Arkanian sort?” Orverly said, nervously fondling his collar. “Out here? Could that mean space slugs?”

“Here be dragons,” Tier said, not taking his eyes off the datapad. It took him a moment to realize he had no idea what the maxim meant, or how he’d learned it; he’d simply reflexively felt it appropriate.

He shrugged it off; probably an inherited memory from his clone template. Tier had long since become accustomed to the fact that carrying a lifetime’s worth of the instinctive mental and muscular reactions of a dead bounty hunter would forever have its awkward moments.

“Lack of heavier minerals would make these asteroids an unlikely, but not impossible, habitat for exogorths, Captain,” Lieutenant Murel, the executive officer, explained from her post at the weapons station. “A high concentration of nickel, or nickel analogues would be required-“

A sudden flash of movement caught Tier’s eye. “Hold that thought, Lieutenant. Who authorized a shuttle launch?”

Tier pointed out the viewport, and, sure enough, a Nu-class attack shuttle was speeding away from the 6222, evidently launched from the ventral hangar.

“You did, sir,” came the reply from a speaker set into a bulkhead. Tier recognized the Ciutric-accented voice of Commander Juradson, speaking from starfighter flight control in the port bridge. “A day out from Svivren you said you’d want ground surveys of the largest terrestrials in-system upon reversion.”

Tier’s brow furrowed. “Does that sound like something I’d want, Commander?”

Juradson was silent for a heartbeat. “No sir, but-“

“Never mind, just comm them and get them home.”

“Shuttle Ryloth, you were not cleared for launch. Come about and return to ventral hangar,” Juradson’s voice rang out, assured and officious.

There was no answer. The shuttle continued its relative ascent from the 6222, curving to port.

“That’s an escape vector,” Orverly said, eyes glued to the shuttle. “Nus have hyperdrives. He’s trying to jump.”

Lieutenant Keesa spoke next, from the sensor station. “Senior Captain, the Ryloth is initiating jump prep, most likely somewhere on the Sanrafsix, judging by its vector.”

Tier cursed under his breath. The Sanrafsix Corridor was a well-travelled and easily navigable forty-six-hundred-parsec long trade route that ran through five sectors and countless systems; if whoever was on the shuttle jumped, they would not be found quickly.

“Tractors?” Tier asked Lieutenant Murel, and was not surprised to see she had anticipated his order; her screen clearly showed energy readouts from the 6222’s tractor beam array.

“Still charging, sir,” Murel said.

“Krolp on a krusp! We’ll have to zap him! Commander Juradson, do you have launch-ready Y-wings?” Tier said. They were the only ships they had which were armed with ion cannons, which just knocked out a ship’s electronics, rather than causing any kind of permanent damage.

“Purples Five and Six are fueled and ready, sir,” came Juradson’s reply.

“Get them up there and have them ionize the murglak,” Tier growled.

“They’ll never make it. With the time it takes the dorsal bay to open-“ Orverly began.

“I know, I know, but I’ll be kriffed if I let some deserter go AWOL from our ship without at least letting him know how I feel about it.”

“Senior Captain?” came a new voice from the bridge speakers. It was Captain Jellis on the Condemnation. “I’ve been monitoring the situation, and I believe we can be of some assistance.” Tier’s eyes snapped to the other ship…

…and all along its port side, blue lances of fire ripped out towards the shuttle, striking it several times in the central hull. The Nu sparkled and flashed, blue lightning playing over its hull. Its engines and its retros fired simultaneously before burning out completely, one after the other, leaving it spinning slowly in space.

It took everyone on the bridge a moment to register what had happened. Orverly was, as usual, first to recover.

“So. Kuat have decided to start putting ion cannons on their new Star Destroyers. That’s good to know.”

“Indeed,” Tier mumbled. “Excellent shooting, Captain Jellis.”

“Didn’t do much myself,” Jellis said over the speakers. “I will pass your compliments on to the gunnery crew, though.” There was a faint rustle on Jellis’s side of the conversation, and Tier smiled when he realized it was the Condemnation’s bridge crew cheering. ‘Prefsbelt green,’ indeed.

“Can we tractor them in now?” Orverly asked Murel.

“Negative, captain. Still charging.”

“Well, how long can it take to recharge one tractor beam array?”

“Sorry sir, but the new shunts we got after the Kath subjugation were designed with an Imperial-class vessel’s power system in mind. We have to shut them down while we’re not in combat, or risk burning them out.”

“Well, what in the nine hells are we doing with Imperial-class power shunts?”

“Sir, Kuat are discontinuing the Venator. All spare parts are now made for Imperial-class ships, and all other ship classes will have modular constructions enabling them to use those parts.”

“Well, we’ll have to get whoever’s on that shuttle back on the Six-Two somehow. With no recyclers, heaters or rad-shields, they’ll be dead within the hour,” Tier said. Noticing the dorsal bay doors were now open, he spoke into the bridge audio pickup.

“Commander Juradson, are any of your fighters equipped with harpoons and tow cables?”

“Yes, the Incom ones,” came Juradson’s reply.

“Launch one and have it tow the shuttle back home.”

“Yes sir.”




In the cockpit of her NTB-630 bomber in hangar two-starboard on the 6222’s flight deck, Flight Lieutenant Aless Trabat felt less than thrilled at the idea of having suddenly become a tow truck driver, and wondered idly if Shea Hublin was often sent to harpoon bluelined shuttles. Aless mechanically completed her preflight check-up and fumed quietly, but not quite quietly enough.

“Fangs-out for a furball, Leth-Trill?” came the voice of Flight Officer Wode “Stick” Jeboli, her weapons officer, seated above and behind her. He addressed her as he usually did, with the aurebesh acronym for her rank.

“I’m not ‘fangs-out,’ Stick, I’m just a little frisky. I’d rather shoot something with my blasters than my mag-grapple. Sure didn’t think I’d ever be using that again after I got my flight ribbons.”

Stick laughed. “Leth-Trill, you are spoiling for a fight badder than any other pilot I’ve ever met, and I wouldn’t backseat with you if it was any other way.”

Aless smiled in spite of herself just as the bomber’s astromech droid, R2z-DL, reported diagnostics complete.

“Got it, Toozy. Okeedokee. Stick, are you ready to party?”

“Sure am, Leth-Trill.”

“Frecker?” Aless asked, addressing the last human member of her crew, the clone tailgunner.

“Copy,” the clone responded, terse as ever.

“Control, this is Blue Nine. I have full Dorn-Senth-Wesk, I repeat, I am green on all boards, requesting clearance for skids-up.”

“Blue Nine, this is Senth-Forn-Cresh,” came Commander Juradson’s voice over the comlink. “You are go, I repeat, go for launch. Bring me back something shiny.”

The NTB-630 designated Blue Nine glided gently out of two-starboard, and then past the retracted dorsal hangar doors and into space. Aless surprised herself by still feeling the same exhilarating sense of freedom as she did on her first skids-up at the Folor academy. She gently gyrated the stick as Blue Nine reached maximum acceleration, and the bomber spiraled almost imperceptibly as it arced toward the blackened Nu-class shuttle.

It felt good, like wiggling her toes in grass after a long day in flight boots. Aless decided she would enjoy today, no matter how determined Holy Mugg, Holy Bron and Holy Pula were for her not to.

The target grew larger in her sights.

“Full scans, Leth-Trill,” Stick said as the sensor data compiled on his screen. “The Ryloth reads neg on all elecs, and course is consistent with retrofire from a top-down burnout.”

“Must’ve slagged the power plant. That’s eighty-five-thousand out of someone’s pocket,” Aless said absently. Stick chuckled.

“Fire control primed,” Frecker said, his voice parade-ground stiff as always. “Calculate center-mass as being ventral hull, ‘tween the struts.”

“You sure you don’t wanna aim further fore? All these Cygnus buckets are pretty front-heavy,” Stick asked the clone.

“Negative. Center-mass for a flight-approved combat Nu would be the troop bay,” Frecker said, not exactly arrogant, but not terribly respectful, either.

“With a full or empty troop bay, Flight Officer?” Aless asked, a slight edge to her voice.

“Full, ma’am,” Frecker replied an instant before he caught his own mistake.

“I may not be the sharpest tool in the locker, but I think someone on the flight deck might have raised a flag or two before letting thirty people jump on an unauthorized launch, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.”

“It’s not all in the regs, Frecker. Sometimes you have to use your head.”

She was careful to admonish him as if he were a junior pilot, and not what he technically was: a two-year-old. Still, there was something about these new Centax clones that Aless hadn’t seen in the original Kaminoan clones. Not stupidity, exactly, but a kind of blind adherence to regulations that bothered her. What would have happened if no-one had been there to catch Frecker’s mistake?

Academic. The shuttle’s nineteen-meter bulk was now less than half a kilometer away, and Aless pushed her stick forward. Within seconds, Blue Nine’s nose was dipping under the ionized shuttle. Aless waited a half-second or so for it to appear on her rear proximity sensor display before giving the order.

“Activate harpoon.”

There was a pause.

“Can’t, ma’am.”

“Say again, Frecker?” was her automatic reply. The bomber rushed away from the shuttle, and was out of range by the time Frecker replied.

“It shifted, ma’am. The vector was wrong and I…”

Frecker trailed off, a distinctly unnerving experience; it had never happened before.

“And?” Aless barked, in no mood to mess up a blue milk run with thirteen and a half thousand crewmembers on two star destroyers watching.

“And it was just… wrong. Like I shouldn’t have fired.”

“Well, it kriffing well better be right when I come around again. You will follow my order, and you will not mess up again. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The acceleration compensator couldn’t catch all of the excess G-forces in Aless’s bootlegger turn, and her stomach protested. Blue Nine bounded back towards the Ryloth at just under twenty-five-hundred Gees. Aless centered the shuttle in her sights once more, and prepared to dip under it. The bomber’s nose was now oriented in-system, toward the distant cerulean orb of the Silken sun, and, more immediately, the twin daggers of 6222 and Condemnation; it became difficult for Aless not to think of her superiors’ impatience as the mission clock ticked away.

“Steady, Frecker.”

“Copy.”

Blue Nine bobbed gently under the Ryloth for the second time.

“Activate harpoon.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Aless thought she heard Stick exhale through gritted teeth. And then came Frecker over the comlink:

“Copy that, initiating self-destruct protocols.”

“What?!” Aless and Stick screamed in near-unison.

“Hot seat primed; reactor feedback loop initiated. Estimate detonation in eighty seconds or less.” Frecker’s voice remained maddeningly calm, and Aless was further perturbed by the sight of every power gauge in front of her steadily begin to shift from green to yellow.

“Frecker, you will stop what you’re doing and screw your head on straight right now, or I will personally ship your diced remains back to Centax so the cloners can screw it on for you.”

“I… understood, Lieutenant. Aborting self-destruct.”

The gauges remained yellow. In fact, some of them turned red.

“Bron damn it, Frecker! Abort the self-destruct, now!”

“I… can’t. I…”

Aless lost her patience. She unbuckled her flight harness, and twisted around in her acceleration couch to reach the access panel behind and above her head. She risked a glance at Stick as she pried the panel loose. He said nothing, but his lips were pursed and behind his trusting brown eyes there hung a hint of intense panic.

“Still here, Leth-Trill.”

“Good to hear, Flight Officer,” she replied, eyes on her work as she located the transmission wiring that led from the tailgunner’s console to the bomber’s energy systems. She got out her multitool and was about to cut the wiring, when…

…it washed over her in a placating wave, and her priorities were suddenly very simple. No, of course. We’ll destroy ourselves.

A voice came over the comlink, the voice of Senior Captain Tier. His coarse barks were once the voice of all her gods personified, but now they seemed hollow and unimportant, what he was saying contrary to everything she believed in.

“Blue Nine, this is 6222 actual. What the nine hells is going on in there? Your reactor reads near-critical! Cold-shutdown right kriffing now!”

“Yes,” she said. “No. No can do, Six-Two. That’s an order I can’t follow.”

She meant it. And yet…

…what? What was she doing? Killing herself, Stick and Frecker? Why? It had seemed so important a moment ago…

…of course, that was it. Yes. The shuttle, the blackened, ionized shuttle she had been sent here to tow back to the 6222, it had to remain safe.

“Leth-Trill!”

The voice was Stick’s, and Aless looked up to see him reaching for the cold shutdown switch, locked beneath a transparisteel cover just starboard of the sensor console.

There was something wrong with him; his teeth were gritted, his face clenched in agony, and his arm moved like it was attached to a firmacrete block. He managed only the occasional grunt of exertion.

She knew there was no stopping him, somehow, and she found herself reaching for her sidearm, a shiny new DH-17 to replace the DC-15s she’d had since Folor. She was going to shoot Stick. She was going to kill him. She had to, to protect the shuttle. Stick’s eyes were bloodshot, and blood poured from his nose and between his teeth. His hand reached the shutdown switch and popped the cover; despite how important she knew it was to kill him, she found herself hesitating…

And then, it was like it all disappeared. She dropped her blaster and a severe, dizzying confusion clouded her mind. She dissolved into a stupor that must only have lasted a second, but felt like hours.

The stupor was broken by Stick’s blood-curdling scream as he finally reached the shutdown switch. Instantly, every display screen and diode in Blue Nine went black and the thrum of the engines died. Silhouetted against the stars behind him, Stick contorted in agony, thrashing spasmodically before finally slumping forward against his harness, only to be gently flattened against his couch as the acceleration compensator wound down.

Ah, yes. The a-comp. Methodically, Aless sealed her flight helmet, slipping the blast shield in place, before turning right-way-round again and closed her eyes. Her last thought before unconsciousness claimed her was of Shea Hublin, and weather or not he liked to close his eyes before blacking out as well.

***

The Ryloth hung prone in the Condemnation hangar’s grappling claw. The claw shifted to the bay’s portside rim, and low-powered repulsor beams helped the claw guide the ruined shuttle to the deck with a loud clack. The claw held the shuttle in place as the gravity in the bay was returned to normal, and then receded into the bay’s ceiling among the fighter racks and crew walkways.

The shuttle had been tractored into the Condemnation’s hangar after the Star Destroyer had moved close enough; Senior Captain Tier had wisely decided not to attempt another harpoon-and-tow after the Blue Nine debacle. The Senior Captain now stood next to Captain Jellis in the docking control room, and the two officers watched as a platoon of Stormtroopers deployed themselves around the shuttle. A grey-uniformed deck crew arrived with cutting gear to burn through the hatch.

“Incidentally, I apologize for the state of the shuttle. I guess I didn’t realize what a capital-class ion cannon could do to a ship that size,” Jellis was saying.

“No-one did. I don’t think I’ve had time to watch a Krill-Dorn-Yirt equipment training holo since… well, ever,” Tier admitted. Jellis chuckled.

“Well, in any case, I’ll take full responsibility for it. We have a couple of those new Zeta-class long-rangers from Telgorn, if you want a replacement.”

“Might do,” Tier conceded, nodding. “Might take you up on that, too.”

“What happened to Blue Nine?” Jellis asked.

“Cold shutdown doesn’t exactly do wonders for a five-year-old snubfighter. She may be out for good,” Tier answered, never taking his eyes off the shuttle.

“Um… I was referring to the crew.”

Tier glanced at him uncertainly, as if trying to ascertain whether the middle-aged Kalarban was making fun of him or not. He then looked back to the shuttle with a chuckle.

“Right. Well, that was a bad business. Pilot made it, but the Wesk/Osk had some sort of massive aneurysm, like his brain was put through a soup strainer. It was so big that the med-droids didn’t even recognize it at first, thought it was a hemorrhage of some sort. His flight suit’s life-support gives Trill-Osk-Dorn as oh-point-four-two, perfectly consistent with the fighter shutdown.”

“Three Peaks,” Jellis swore. “And the tailgunner?”

Tier took a deep breath.

“He… asphyxiated. After the cold shutdown, the atmosphere recycler stopped functioning; the gunner’s capsule is only about two-by-one-by-one, and by the time they were recovered, he’d breathed all the air and died.”

“Dweezer must’ve forgot to seal his helmet. What kriffing flight academy did he graduate from?”

“Centax-Two.”

“Ah. Oops. Sorry.”

Jellis was not exactly sure why he considered this a sensitive subject; Tier was cloned and trained on Kamino, not Centax-2, and it was commonly acknowledged, especially among the Kaminoan clones, that the Arkanian facility there was churning out massively inferior soldiers. Still, he was a clone, and Jellis did not want his superior to think that he had anything against clones in general.

Tier broke the silence.

“Nothing to be sorry about. It was a stupid mistake, and I’ve already found out how it happened. The Centax clones are flash-trained on Vee-Wings only, as all of our other fighters are being phased out for the new TIE ships. Cost-cutting measure, I assume. The Vee-Wings and the new ships don’t have a life-support system, and the new clones are only qualified on ships that require them to wear a sealed suit all the time. I think Blue Nine’s tailgunner must not have fully understood that life-support would stop functioning after a reactor shutdown.”

“How could he not know that?”

“How could he? He was two years old, and bred not to ask questions.”

Jellis blew out a bewildered breath. To live your whole life on board a starship, and not even know how its most basic systems functioned…

“Is that what you think made him activate the self-destruct system? Some sort of… ‘clone madness’ resulting from being grown in a Spaarti cylinder and flash-taught?”

“No, captain. I have my own theories on that.”

“And these, ah, theories of yours, do they also go towards explaining how a perfectly hale combat pilot suddenly suffered a fatal brain aneurysm on a routine mission?”

“Could do,” Tier said tersely, furrowing his eyebrows enigmatically. The silence that followed made it clear that the Senior Captain was not willing to elaborate.

“Looks like they’re almost through,” Jellis offered weakly, gesturing towards the deck crew and their industrial-grade fusion cutter.

“We should get down there.”

“Down there? Do I have time to put on a blast vest, at least?”

“Don’t be such an old woman. You can stand behind a Stormtrooper, if you like.”

***

The docking bay smelled as docking bays usually smelled, of thruster lubricant and exotic propellants, and Jellis wrinkled his nose. He’d drawn his blaster, a trusty old SoroSuub ELG-3A he’d gotten for his thirtieth birthday from his Lower Wife. His Higher Wife had not approved, saying that anyone who gives you a gun on your birthday is implying you use it on someone, but she’d never really understood Klevin Jellis, anyway.

Born on Kalarba to first-generation Adumari migrants, his father had pioneered a way to grow Chartash on Hosk Station, and used it to brew the liquor locally and export it to the Mid Rim’s Trailing Sectors at a quarter of the price of having it shipped all the way from Adumar. Jellis Liquors soon had regionwide distribution, with offices and breweries from Churba to Enarc. He had consequently become quite wealthy, and a close friend of Senator Wena’s, who represented Kalarba and all of Hevvrol sector in the Galactic Senate. As a result, Klevin had been sent to the Prevsbelt Naval Academy, mostly to curry favor with the young senator, and to give the family some prestige.

“Don’t think of it as manipulation, old son,” Matchtis Jellis had told his son some thirty-odd years ago. “Think of it as a confluence of fortuitous events. You’ll get a proper education and a good career, and then when I die and you inherit the company, you can retire from the Judicials and watch the creds roll in. You don’t even have to run the company; your own children can do that. Hells, with your military record, you could even run for office.”

So young Klevin had hastily taken a Higher Wife, the heiress to a New Covian microbiology firm, and gotten her pregnant before leaving for the academy, returning briefly to name his daughter and take a Lower Wife, a Coruscanti debutante, before leaving for his first posting on Santarine, all the while studying the intricacies of corporate management and the galactic stock market to prepare for his assuming control of Jellis Liquors.

But Wena had conspired with the Banking Clan to drive Jellis Liquors to bankruptcy, and Matchtis Jellis had committed suicide in disgrace, after protesting his innocence on the HoloNet as the media transformed him, over the course of just three short years, from corrupt pariah to master manipulator to derided buffoon.

Klevin had stayed on as the Judicial Department became the Republic Navy, and the Republic Navy became the Imperial Navy. And here he was, on the front lines at an airlock breach on his own Star Destroyer. At least he was the envy of those beings that craved a life of excitement; his postings may have been grueling, but they had certainly never been dull. At least he’d taken part in handing the Banking Clan their own posteriors during the war and it aftermath at Ywllandr, Vinsoth, Binquaros and Bimmiel. Served those Muun dweezers right.

Senior Captain Tier had drawn his own blaster, a DC-15s heavy. The deck crew finished their work, and the airlock door clattered to the deck with a resounding crash. The Stormtroopers were at the ready, E-11s trained on the ‘lock.

Jellis could not see through the smoke the burn-through had generated, but he knew that if there was anything to shoot at, the Stormtroopers would be shooting it. Their helmets were equipped with not only state-of-the-art Holographic Vision Processors, but the brand new experimental Multi-Frequency Targeting and Acquisition System. Their accuracy was already legendary. Gradually the smoke cleared, and Jellis himself could see that there was no-one to meet them.

“Proceed inside,” Tier ordered. The Stormtrooper platoon commander, identified by his orange shoulder pauldron, nodded and turned to his troops. Jellis could not hear what transpired, but evidently an order had been issued over their private comlink net; a four-man squad stepped up to and inside the shuttle ‘lock, covered by a second squad.

Tier and Jellis moved closer, covered by another eight Stormtroopers. Jellis turned to the Stormtrooper commander.

“Lieutenant, could a human passenger still be conscious at this point? What’s it been, forty minutes since the shuttle was ionized?”

“According to BattleComp, the Condemnation’s ion batteries were fired at oh-point-three-eight, sir. That’s forty-two standard minutes ago,” the Stormtrooper replied after a pause.

“If they’re human, they’d have passed in twenty,” Tier said, not taking his eyes off the hatch.

“I’ve got a live one!” came a Stormtrooper’s com-filtered yell from within the shuttle. Then: “Ah- no, wait!”

There was a confused split-second, then the staccato burst of a blaster rifle firing followed by the distinctive clatter of Stormtrooper armor hitting deck plating.

“Fierfek!” Tier barked, and rushed past the Stortrooper officer and into the shuttle. The lieutenant and three other troopers swarmed in after him. Jellis swallowed and stayed put, wondering what he should do or say, but it was all over in a few short seconds. He heard the sounds of a scuffle, Tier grunting, and a sound so unfamiliar to Jellis that it took him a moment to place it, but when he did, it was unmistakable: it was the tortured wail of a human woman in pain.

“Hold! Secure fire points! Even spread! Then wait for my signal!” Jellis heard himself yelling at the Stormtroopers, who reacted instantly, filling the hole in the formation left by Tier and the lieutenant, never taking their aim off the shuttle’s hatch.

There was another uneasy silence, then the clank of boots on deck plating inside the shuttle. Clank. Clank. Clank…

…until Tier emerged, uniform slightly scuffed, breathing fast and hard.

He paused in the hatchway, as if taking stock of the situation. The Stormtroopers, deck officers and Jellis himself watched him carefully, as if in awe. The Stormtrooper platoon commander was dimly visible behind Tier in the still-dissipating smoke. At that moment, there could be no doubt who was in command.

Finally, Tier exhaled heavily and spoke.

“Move in, secure the area. We’ve got an unconscious human female in the cockpit against the starboard-stern bulkhead; she’s to be considered highly dangerous nonetheless. Captain Jellis?”

“Yes sir?”

“What’s your most secure holding facility?”

“Ah, that would be the flank isolation cells, sir.”

“Have her taken there.”

“Right,” Jellis said. “Right! Lieutenant, stun-and-cuff. Take her to Portside Detention for processing, then to Cresh-wing Isolation. I want reports at thirty second intervals, then every five minutes once transport is complete.”

“Copy that,” the commander said from behind Tier, then disappeared back into the shuttle.

Tier walked over to Jellis, then uncharacteristically slumped down on a crate. Instinctively, Jellis offered him the flask of Chartash whiskey he always carried in his hip pocket. Tier eyed the flask for a second, then accepted it and took a swig. He then stared off into space for a moment, still breathing heavily. Behind them, two Stormtroopers carried a prone human form between them through the shuttle hatch. The woman was clad in a pilot’s flight suit, but her long, blonde hair gave her away as anything but a pilot. It hung and swayed over her face, obscuring it as the troopers marched toward the main hangar blast doors.

“You’d better send a priority message to Coruscant, Captain. And put your ship on full alert.”

“Coruscant? Full alert? For a lone ship thief stupid enough to try to rob the Imperial Navy?”

By way of response, Tier tossed something at Jellis, which he caught reflexively. It was a small, handheld electronic device that Jellis hadn’t noticed Tier was carrying, but now that he saw it, he recognized it instantly.

“By the Three Peaks,” Jellis mumbled, turning the lightsaber over in his gloved hands.

***

The Condemnation’s captain’s quarters were rather more spacious than those aboard Jellis’s previous posting, the Venator-class Star Destroyer Courageous, but Jellis felt that they lacked that certain old-galaxy charm that had made the Venator’s feel like home. Perhaps it was just the fact that Jellis was the Condemnation’s first commanding officer; some of the upholstery still had its plastic covering, and the faint smell of disinfectant still permeated the quarters. Much of Jellis’s personal effects were still in neatly stacked crates by the forward bulkhead of the foyer.

One thing that Jellis had unpacked was his personal bar. More vintage Chartash from his father’s distillery sat in regally decorated bottles next to Ithorian Mist, Menkooroo whiskey, and even some Old Janx Spirit, atop a mirror-adorned cabinet of genuine Kriin wood that Jellis had received as a graduation present from his mother. Jellis poured himself a Menkooroo on the rocks as Tier and a half-dozen of the Condemnation’s senior staff made themselves comfortable in the sitting area.

“Got any Abrax?” Captain Orverly asked, appraising Jellis’s collection thoughtfully.

“Ah, no, but I have some lovely Oseon. You’re from that neck of the woods, aren’t you?” Jellis replied, opening the cabinet and fishing out the bottle.

“Yes,” Orverly said with a chuckle. “Novor 23, on the Salin Corridor, in the Periphery. Have you been there?”

“No, but I was posted on a civilian aid/resupply frigate over Saleucami during the start of the war; then they transferred me to Bright Jewel Command for the Outer Rim Sieges. Met a lot of Novorians heading for the Trans-Hydian as the war escalated, and I thought I recognized your accent,” Jellis said, pouring Orverly his drink. Orverly snorted.

“Bound for private estates in the D’Astan sector, no doubt, leaving the proles to burn.”

“I take it you weren’t born to such privilege, then,” Jellis said, handing Orverly his glass.

“On the contrary. My father was probably on one of the yachts you fueled. The kriffer’s probably still drunk, sunbathing somewhere on Rathalay as we speak.”

And with that, Orverly’s demeanor clicked into place for Jellis. They were more alike than he’d suspected.

“So you felt that military service was the perfect antidote to your upbringing,” Jellis said. Orverly nodded. “Well then, we have much in common. Here’s to fathers: may they be perpetually in a state of disappointment.”

They raised their glasses. Orverly chuckled, drank, and winced.

“Ugh, what is this, Oseon?”

Jellis, still in the process of swallowing his swig of Menkooroo, nodded, confused.

“I said I was from near there; I never said I liked the stuff.”

The two captains laughed.

“I hate to break up your chat, gentlemen, but we’re trying to run a Star Destroyer here,” Tier called from the sitting area. Orverly and Jellis sat with them.

“Right. Well, in light of today’s events, as the commanding officer of this ship, I see no pressing need to complete our mission,” Jellis said, adjusting his uniform as he made himself comfortable in the chair. “At your order, Senior Captain, I can have the Condemnation ready to depart for Coruscant with the prisoner within the hour.”

“Pardon me, Captain,” began Lieutenant Wellox, the Condemnation’s legal officer, “but wouldn’t sending an entire Star Destroyer home to ferry one prisoner be, well, overkill? A shuttle would do just as well.”

“Wrong, Lieutenant. If you’d ever seen a Jedi in action, you’d know that the crew of a single shuttle is not enough to hold them, not by a long shot.”

“What if we filled it with Stormtroopers?” That was from Lieutenant Colonel Korinor, the 8686th’s ground force commander, recently transferred from 6222 to Condemnation due to the latter’s greater troop capacity.

“Or better yet, pull an Achtnak Forfeit on it,” said Flight Captain Reedus, who was representing Starfighter Command while Commander Juradson was busy debriefing Blue Nine’s pilot on the 6222.

“Excuse me, Captain?” said Lieutenant Ostney, the Condemnation’s executive officer.

“An Achtnak Forfeit. See, back on Tepasi, where I’m from-“

“I know what an achtnak is, Captain. How is it relative to what we’re discussing?” Tier grumbled.

“Well, we’d put the Jedi on board a stripped shuttle with a skeleton crew or, better yet, a droid crew. The shuttle would have preprogrammed jump coordinates for Triple Zero, and I could have my best pilots escort it on a flight of those new gunboats we just got from Cygnus. We dial down the atmo-cycler to keep the Jedi sedated, and if we get the slightest inkling that anything is going wrong on the shuttle, the gunboats frag it with a conc missile, end of story.” Jellis grinned in spite of himself, and took respite in the fact that Orverly had to wince through another sip of his Oseon to hide his own grin.

“There are a thousand-and-one ways to lose a ship in hyperspace, Captain,” Tier said. “The Jedi could mind-trick the skeleton crew or hotwire the droids to drop it out in a blank sector, and then the Jedi would disappear. And it would just kill your Stormtroopers,” Tier added to Korinor.

“But if we deprive it of oxygen-“

“It’d find a way, Captain, believe me,” Orverly sighed. “No, the best way to ensure it stays in our hands is to keep it on a ship with so many people on board that an unassisted escape would be impossible, or at the very least impractical.”

“I wish we had the Mescue, or the Kala’din,” Ostney said to no-one in particular, referring to two of the 8686th’s support ships, which had been left behind at Sluis Van for refitting and repairs after being deemed “nonessential assets” by Chrome Shield Command.

“Wouldn’t that just be forfeiting responsibility to someone else? Keeping it in a secure environment until some poor rear-echelon sap from Ivory Fang gets stuck with the transport duty?” Wellox asked. “It’s going to have to be transferred at some point to… well, wherever it is that the Emperor wants them kept now, and it’s either going to be our crew or someone else’s that does it.”

Agent Dezix of the Imperial Security Bureau cleared his throat gently, and spoke for the first time.

“The Emperor has recently established a branch directly under his authority that has the necessary tools and know-how to safely transport and contain Jedi. Though it ostensibly falls under the jurisdiction of the Ubiqtorate, they are far more sophisticated than other divisions of ImpIntel and operate independently of its command structure. We would only need to ensure the Jedi is kept captive and safe until they can assume control.”

“Safe?” Major Forrynq, the Condemnation’s chief detention warden, barked in disbelief. “Didn’t those animals try to murder the Emperor on Coruscant? Since when does he want them alive?”

After waiting for the major to finish, Dezix seemed to consider the older man’s outburst for a moment before replying.

“The Emperor, in his infinite benevolence, wants to grant every Jedi the chance to reconsider his or her allegiance to sedition and tyranny, and the opportunity to rejoin society as a productive servant of the Empire. He might even grant them a pardon.”

Orverly and Reedus snorted almost simultaneously. Forrynq just sat back in his chair, eyeing Dezix as if he were prey.

“Spare us the COMPNOR propaganda, Agent Dezix,” Tier drawled. “Why do we have to keep it safe?”

“Honestly?” Dezix said, eyeing the other officers uncertainly. “I’m not sure. But rest assured, I have my orders from the Emperor himself, as well as the Inquisitorius. No Jedi is to be harmed, but taken alive and unhurt to Coruscant.”

“Inquisitorius?” Ostney said, furrowing her brow.

“The, ah, aforementioned recently established branch who have express authority and experience to deal with Jedi,” Dezix explained. He had an unnerving habit of averting his eyes when he spoke, making everything he said sound rehearsed and dishonest.

“And they take them to Coruscant?” Reedus asked.

“At first, yes,” Dezix replied enigmatically.

“And they just keep them there, unharmed?” Ostney asked.

“At first, yes,” Dezix repeated.

An uncomfortable rustle went through the room. Jellis could have sworn he saw the corners of Dezix’s mouth curl upwards slightly.

“Well, then it would seem the only option would be to contact this… ‘Inquisitorius,’ and have them come and pick up our ‘guest’ here,” Wellox sighed.

“Already taken care of,” Dezix said. “I sent a holonet communiqué to Grand Inquisitor Lord Torbin an hour ago notifying him of the capture; a reply should be forthcoming within the hour.”

Tier bristled visibly. “Alright, Dezix, I’m going to overlook this breach in chain-of-command for now, as your response was correct and time is of the essence, but next time, you notify me, and I will send all ‘communiqués’ myself. Understood?”

“Very well. I did not notify you, as I felt I would have little to report once I had received my reply from Lord Torbin.”

“Which brings us to the next point,” Jellis said. “If you think that you’ll get a reply from Coruscant in two hours, you’re sorely mistaken. We’ll be waiting for six hours, at least.”

“Firstly: the Citadel Inquisitorius is on Prakith, not Coruscant. Secondly: optimal transmission time was authorized automatically, as my transmission was a preemptive confirmation order for an LAACDoc, and thirdly: due to the Inquisitorius’s status as a division of Imperial Intelligence, the transmission is being routed through the new S-thread booster stations at Eriadu, Yag’Dhul, Kelada, Gandeal and others.”

“Meaning?” Jellis asked, barely keeping up with Dezix’s technobabble.

“Meaning that once the holonet transmission reached Eriadu, transmit time to the Core and Deep Core would be near-instantaneous.”

Korinor whistled. Forrynq snorted.

“I’ll be kriffed. Warthan’s Wizards at work, no doubt,” Reedus said.

“No doubt,” Orverly said quietly.

Jellis’s comlink beeped. He put it on datafeed-mode and read the aurebesh on the display.

“The prisoner is still secure, and still unconscious,” he read to the other officers.

“Well, gentlemen, I’ll take that as my cue,” Major Forrynq said, standing up. “Senior Captain, with your leave, I’d like to return to my post. I know I’m supposed to be off-duty, but we have a high-priority prisoner on board.”

“Agreed,” Tier said. “Dismissed. Captain Jellis, have your Xesh-Osk place the Condemnation on alert status, and notify all crew as to the nature of your prisoner. We will then complete the ComScan survey of this system in record time.”

“Well, you heard the man; to your stations,” Jellis said, and Wellox, Korinor, Reedus and Ostney all rose from the table in unison. “Xesh-Osk, you have the bridge.”

“Aye, sir,” Ostney said, straightening her cap with both hands.

But Dezix did not rise. “I… beg your pardon, Senior Captain, but do you think that’s wise? Regulations state that-“

“I know full well what the regs state, Agent Dezix, but I will not have a Jedi prisoner on board a ship under my command and not have the entire fleet know exactly what she looks like, where we’re keeping it and what its powers are,” Tier said, standing up himself. “Which reminds me, I want a full dossier on it. Its service record, who it trained under, any padawans it may have had, documented holos of it in combat, anything you can dig up.”

“That’s restricted,” Dezix replied quietly.

Tier balked, at a loss for words. Jellis found them for him.

“Well, then you’d better take a holocam to Cresh-Wing Iso and take some holos for distribution, and type up your own threat assessment!”

“Can’t,” Dezix said simply. “Ubiqtorate regulations completely restrict the authority to document confirmed or suspected force-sensitives unless it’s on direct orders from, well, from the Ubiqtorate itself.”

This time, Forrynq could not restrain himself.

“I’ve had it with you ISB rodders telling me what I can and can’t do to my own kriffing prisoners, Dezix! I’ll access the files my own Jaf-damned self and have COMPNOR or the Ubiqtorate or whoever-the-kriff sort through the paperwork afterwards!” the major yelled, spittle frothing the underside of his moustache.

“Very well,” Dezix replied calmly, staring up at Forrynq as he absently worked his gloved hands together. “But I’d have to submit a report to ISB, of course. You might be targeted for a prolonged investigation as a result.”

“Upon your recommendation, of course,” Orverly said scornfully.

“Of course,” Dezix said, nodding. “Certain other individuals might also be mentioned in my report, if I felt their behavior too dissenting for naval standards.”

Dezix did not intone his voice in the slightest to indicate he was making any kind of threat; he sounded as if he were discussing his dinner plans. Tier pressed his lips into a line, and Jellis arched his eyebrows at the ISB agent. Orverly smiled sarcastically at Dezix, but said nothing this time.

“There’ll be no need for you to break regulations, Major,” Tier said, rising from his seat. “I will make my own report on the Jedi and draft a communiqué to ISB headquarters, explaining why I was forced to access secure files due to the precariousness of our situation out here. I’d appreciate it if you gave my message a once-over before I send it to Coruscant, Agent Dezix. I’m aware of your agency’s vigorous standards where reports are concerned.”

“Of course,” Dezix said, mildly fazed at Tier’s announcement. “Of course,” he repeated, his gaze distant.

Jellis frowned at Dezix for a moment before realizing he hadn’t stood up when his superior officer had, and neither had Orverly. The two men stood almost in unison, with Dezix following a split-second later.

“Alright: we all have jobs to do. Now, I suggest,” Tier began, his emphasis implying it was anything but a suggestion, “that we all access every single debriefing we can find on Jedi Knights escaping shipboard captivity, be they Imperial, Republic, Separatist, Hutt, Alsakan or whatever else you can think of. Stay vigilant and alert. Any and all suggestions on how we can increase security can be forwarded to my comlink.”

The officers began filing out, but Jellis quickly found that something rather prohibited him from leaving: he had nothing to do.

“I, ah, beg your pardon, Senior Captain, but… if my Xesh-Osk is to run my ship, then what am I to do?”

Tier grinned a distinctly predatory grin.

“Have you forgotten your promise so soon, Captain?”

***

“He can’t be serious!”

Orverly tried to contain his amusement at Jellis’s indignation, but it was impossible; he chuckled around the braised bahmat in his mouth. The two men sat in Orverly’s quarters on board the 6222. After Orverly had learned of Jellis’s misfortune, he couldn’t help but invite him over for dinner. The Novorian had had his COO droid hydrate the best beef and best wine he could dig up, and decided he would risk playing his favorite Ovido Aishara sound slug on his quarters’ internal comm as they ate.

“Well, you only have yourself to blame, Jellis. You did take responsibility for slagging that shuttle.”

“But I didn’t know he’d order me to tow it to Sluis Van for a refit assessment!” Orverly wiped at his lip with a napkin, and took his glass of ’26 Alderaan in hand.

“You must see that he’s just trying to make a point to the shipyards. You’re lucky he’s not sending you all the way to Rintonne and back,” Orverly explained and sipped his wine.

“Making a point to the shipyards?” Jellis said, incredulity personified.

“Yes. He’s trying to show the shipyards that they can’t just slap some beefed-up ion cannons on a capital ship to make them more appealing to the Admiralty, and not make them usable on a practical level. He’s sending you because he trusts you to make the complaint heard… and I mean, you are the ship’s captain. If anyone’s entitled to complain here, it’s you.” Jellis sighed, conceding the point with a shrug as he sipped his own wine.

“I suppose. But good luck getting Rendili or Kuat to listen. With those fancy new contracts, I doubt they can even remember what the words ‘consumer feedback’ mean.”

Orverly chuckled at that. He decided he would like this man.

“Of course, there is another reason he’s sending you,” Orverly admitted, deciding he liked the older Kalarban enough to ruin Tier’s subtle mind games for once. “He wants you to understand the kind of recon line he’s running.” Jellis perked up at this, listening intently as he poked at the last of his luilris mushrooms in blue sauce.

“Oh yes? And what kind of recon line is that?”

“The kind of line where officers still take responsibility for their commands, rather than desperately trying to get new posts. The kind where a man’s word still means something. The kind where action and initiative are still regarded as strengths in an officer, rather than weaknesses. The kind where your actions,” Orverly continued, gesturing with his glass. “are what define your standing with your fellow spacers, not your… political views.” Orverly swigged the final sip from his glass and swished it around in his mouth a little. He then decided he was slightly drunk. Oh well.

If Jellis noticed the tipsy bitterness in Orverly’s voice, he paid it no mind.

“Other than what that dweezer Dezix believes,” Jellis said, forking a mushroom into his mouth. “If you ask me, internal affairs investigations should be conducted if and when a transgression is believed to have occurred, not… during an operation, just in case someone slips up. I mean; we have all kinds of droids and computers with flawless memories and impartial judgment recording stang near everything we say; why do we need these ISB kriffers anyway? If you’ll pardon my Rodian.” Jellis smiled in an I’m-just-joking kind of way, but Orverly did not share his mirth.

“The Republic is gone. We’re not a navy keeping the peace anymore, we’re dust-mice in a wheel, keeping the Empire running smoothly. They need people like Dezix to make sure the wheel keeps turning at the right speed and in the right direction.” There was a short pause as the men eyed each other, uncomfortably aware of the fairly seditious turn their conversation was taking.

Finally, Orverly broke the silence.

“Besides, I’ve had worse than Dezix. He seems agreeable enough, so long as you don’t step on his toes.”

“Hear hear,” Jellis said, raising his glass. “To the Isk-Senth-Besh. May it continue to mildly complicate our careers, if only so it doesn’t ruin them completely.” Both men smiled, but only Jellis could drink, Orverly’s glass being empty.

“You leave tomorrow then?” Orverly asked. Jellis nodded in response as he chewed a mushroom.

“Yes, on his Imperial Majesty’s Super-Seven Transport, the Impasse.” Orverly winced at the name and ship class. KDY’s Super Transport VII was a notoriously slow and unreliable class of container ships. Rumor had it that the navy’s newfound preference for non-hyperspace capable starfighters resulted from pressure to develop a dedicated starfighter carrier that would phase out the Super VII.

“Have you met your crew?”

“Yes, both of them.” Orverly laughed.

“I was under the impression that a Super-Seven had to be crewed by at least… fifteen spacers.”

“It has a skeleton crew of twenty, to be exact,” Jellis said around his last mushroom, dabbing at his lip with a napkin. “Extenuating circumstances, Captain Orverly. The jump’s been preprogrammed by an R3 astromech; all we have to do is man the helm and the communications,” Jellis grumbled, emptying his glass and leaning forward conspiratorially.

“Well, I’m stuffed. If you’re done eating as well, then you, ah, wouldn’t have any of that Abrax you mentioned tucked away somewhere here, would you?”

“Why, Captain. I thought you’d never ask.”



“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Aless still felt sore through her hips, ribs and shoulders from the twenty-odd minute ride in her un-G-comped bomber, but she had spent a good four minutes in front of the mirror in her quarters affirming that she looked no worse for the wear. In fact, she looked resplendent in her black officer’s uniform, her hair cleaned and combed under her cap as she held her salute.

“At ease. Come in, Lieutenant. I wasn’t expecting you up and about so soon. Have a seat.”

Senior Captain Tier’s duty office aboard the 6222 was as spartan as those of most clones Aless had served with, but she was surprised to find Tier with his feet on his desk and listening to sound slug of a gravelly and resonant voice reading proverbs in basic.

“’The Sayings of Uueg Tching’, read by Deebo Chak,” Tier said, muting the sound slug as Aless sat in the chair opposite his. “It drew a scarlet from COMPNOR a few weeks ago, but I noticed the versions read by human actors weren’t censored, so if you have to tell people I was listening to it, just tell them it was Harlan Ottekvar or somebody.”

“Or Ahric Korownosek, sir?” Aless asked, grinning. Tier scowled abjectly.

“I’d rather you tell the Emperor himself I was listening to a Rodian reading Uueg Tching than to have anyone think I was listening to Ahric Korownosek read anything at all,” Tier said. Aless grinned even wider.

“I thought I recognized the syntax. My academy instructor could quote Tching ad verbatim.”

“Who was this?”

“Uh, my primrary naval tactics instructor, a Lieutenant Danos, sir. He insisted all of Tching’s sayings applied only to naval combat… you’d like him, sir.”

“Yes, “Deep-Space” Danos,” Tier said, putting his hands behind his head and gyrating his swivel-chair. “I’ve heard Reedus griping about him once or twice.”

“Danos taught Captain Reedus, sir?”

“Sure. He’s a Morellian; he’s a lot older than he looks. And besides, Reedus is probably only about five years older than you.” He fixed her with an appraising look. “You’re good, Lieutenant. You’ll make Captain in no time and transfer out of here. I’ll probably be saluting you in a few years’ time.”

“Is that what you asked me up here to say, sir?” Tier’s look became slightly firmer.

“No, Lieutenant. Tell me, do you remember Uueg Tching’s most famous saying? About the three ways to destroy your enemy?”

“I… think so sir. Something along the lines of ‘destroying him by force, letting him destroy himself, or destroy him from within,’ with the last one being the most effective’”

“In a manner of speaking. ‘There are three ways to destroy your enemy. The first, and most obvious, is to better him in a trial of force. The best way is to have him destroy himself; few enemies are so obliging. The middle way is to destroy your enemy from within. Judicious application of the middle way shall make your blows more effective if you later take the way of force. From the middle way it is also possible to push your enemy onto the path of self-destruction.’ Would you care for a drink, Lieutenant?”

“Uh, yes sir.”

“What would you like?” Tier asked, getting up and moving to a supply cabinet.

“Whatever you’re having, sir.”

“Hah. I doubt that, unless you’re a fan of water.”

“You don’t drink, sir?” Aless asked, genuinely surprised. She’d pegged Tier for a Whyren’s Reserve man, or at least Ithorian Mist.

“None of us do, I’m afraid. I had some of that bilge Jellis drinks a few hours ago, and my stomach's still griping about it. We were designed that way… but I believe I know a Whyren’s Reserve girl when I see one.” Aless cringed at her mistake, but smiled in spite of herself.

“You have me down cold, sir.” Tier poured himself some water from an expensive-looking glass bottle, before fetching a corked flagon of Whyren’s and pouring a glass, handing it to Aless before sitting back down.

“What happened today, Lieutenant,” Tier said. “Was a Jedi Knight exercising Uueg Tching’s principles near-flawlessly. She was cornered and left without a weapon, so she stretched out with the Force, into the minds of you and your crew and turned you against yourselves. You were pushed, from within, onto the path of self-destruction.” The truth hit Aless like a slap in the face.

“A Jedi mind trick. Of course. That’s what was happening to me.”

“Yes, and your tailgunner. As for your Wesk-Osk, I have a hypothesis on that. I think he was mildly force-sensitive, and managed to ‘push back’ somehow, but because of lack of training, he overtaxed himself, dying as a result.”

“Huh,” was all Aless could say. She thought about Stick, her vague recollection of everything that had transpired aboard the bomber. She seemed to recall an agonizing scream, and shuddered. She sipped her whiskey, biting her lip after swallowing. “You don’t think… you don’t think the Jedi could have done it, somehow? Somehow killing Stick with her mind? I mean, Flight Officer Jeboli?”

“No, I don’t think so, for three reasons. First, if she could kill him that easily, why not kill all of you like that? And why start with the weapons officer? Second, she’s a Jedi Knight. Say what you will about their political ambitions and aspirations, but they’re essentially pacifists. Anyone with her level of training would be firmly schooled in using violence as a last resort.”

“And thirdly?”

Tier swallowed.

“Thirdly, if a Jedi wanted to kill you with her mind, she would have been a lot quicker about it than that. Captain Orverly and I served directly under one during Operation Durge’s Lance, and the things he could do… the things he could do.” Tier’s expression was cold and vacant, distinctly unlike him in every way.

“I… suppose it’s a relief so many of them are dead now, then. And that we’re hunting the stragglers down.”

“So you don’t believe what some of these rogue senators are saying, Organa, Mothma, Atanna and Beruss and the rest? That if they had been given a chance, the Jedi would have gone into exile?”

“I don’t really follow politics, Senior Captain. I’ve never heard of any of these senators, but… begging your pardon, sir, but I think they’re all idiots if they really believe that. The Jedi were just like everybody else: scared of becoming redundant.” Aless paused to take a drink, unsure if she should continue.

“Go on,” Tier beckoned. Aless cleared her throat uncertainly.

“Well, the Emperor is a Force-user, isn’t he? And that cyborg, Vader? And a bunch of other executive-branch people?”

“Yes, Advisors Aloo, Greejatus, Moore and a few others.”

“Well, the way I see it, the Emperor couples political power with… well, with whatever advantages the ‘Force’ gives you. The Jedi said they didn’t want political power, but had some sort of weird authority within the system… I don’t know. Point is, what use is a big government and a big group of Force-users, when you can have both of those in the same, compact package? A small, Force-sensitive government? You see what I’m saying?” Aless said, and, remembering whom she was talking to, hastily added “Sir?”

“So you’re saying is that that we’ve always really been under a Force theocracy, but that the Emperor’s just made it official and more streamlined?”

“Exactly,” Aless said, hoping the word ‘theocracy’ meant what she thought it meant.

“And that… and that this made the Jedi obsolete, resulting in a power grab?”

“Pretty much. People don’t take too kindly to becoming obsolete, in my experience. They’d never have surrendered, ever. Sir.”

There was a silence. Tier broke it.

“Well, then I’m glad we have pilots like you with us, Lieutenant. What did you say your Wesk-Osk’s name was?”

“Ah, Wode Jeboli, sir. He went by “Stick” in the mess hall, though.”

“And my ‘brother’ on your tailgun?”

“Cresh-Trill-8349/6825, sir. Frecker.”

“Well, then here’s to Stick and Frecker. Ni su’cuyi, gar kyr’adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum, Stick, Frecker.”

“What does that mean, sir?”

“It’s mando’a; it means ‘I’m still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.’”

Aless thought of Stick again, but not the screaming man who’d died behind her, but the loyal, patient weapons officer, with his friendly jokes and easygoing manner, never a show-off, never brash, always trusting. That made her smile.

But then she thought of Frecker, a two-year-old in a man’s body, with a man’s responsibilities, with no friends or family, never having done anything. He’d never shared a drink, never had a hobby, never fallen in love, and now he was lying frozen on a slab in the Level Fifteen morgue, and despite Tier’s words, she could not imagine anything less eternal than that. This made her intensely sad, and she sipped her whiskey. Her vision fogged, and she felt a wetness in her eyes; it must have been the Whyren’s Reserve. Had to be.




A good number of nightcaps later, the captains of the 6222 and the Condemnation sat near-comatose on Orverly’s faux-nerfhide couch, boots, insignias and rank cylinders neatly stacked on the transparisteel table, uniforms unbuttoned.

“What do you suppose Palpatine will do to that Jedi woman?” Jellis slurred, barely able to clutch his snifter of Abrax.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Orverly said, hunched over the bottle, the remains of his snifter long since reclaimed by his carpet-sweeping MSE droid. “Send her to Kalist VI, I suppose, or Akrit’tar. Maybe even Oovo IV. Somewhere where they let criminals rot, and they don’t notice when the prisoner count is a little lower than it should be. Why?” Jellis shifted his bulk, staring intently at something only he could see.

“Not sure. I just- I know how this is going to sound, but I can’t help but think: the Jedi order numbered, what, four thousand beings? Five?”

“Something like that,” Orverly mumbled, swigging the bottle.

“And Palpatine decrees they’re all guilty of conspiracy. Every single one of them,” Jellis said, shakily depositing his snifter on the table so he could emphasize his point with his hands.

“That’s right.”

“That’s a pretty wide-reaching conspiracy, Orverly. That’s like… that’s like those people who think the lottery is a government conspiracy.”

“What’s your point, Jellis?”

“My point is: they can’t all be guilty. So Mace Windu and Ki-Adi-Mundi and a few troublemakers decide to overthrow the Chancellor and take over the senate. Does that mean that every Jedi everywhere was in on it? Every far-flung researcher? Every AgriCorps member? Every thirteen-year-old padawan serving in some desolate outer rim hellhole?” Orverly picked up Jellis’s snifter and emptied it, swigging the contents around in his mouth before swallowing it.

“They are capable of some amazing things,” Orverly said.

“Don’t I just know it. You know, I served under Plo Koon at Ywllandr in the Outer Rim Sieges. He was killed at Cato Neimoidia, I heard. They caught him trying to escape to Coruscant to help take part in the coup… apparently, he murdered a sentry and managed to shoot down a few of our pilots before they got him. When I heard, I’d… I’d… I’d never felt more betrayed.”

There was a small silence. Orverly pursed his lips together and began shaking; it wasn’t until he opened his mouth and bellowed schoolboy-like guffaws over the Maxa Jandovar in the speakers that Jellis realized he was laughing.

“What? What are you laughing at? What’s so Peaks-damned funny?” Jellis demanded.

“Escaping to Coruscant? What a riot!” Orverly could barely contain himself, rocking back and forth, tears streaming from his eyes. Jellis decided he’d had enough, and rose up, upending the table, which tilted to the deck with a resounding dang.

“Orverly, you’re talking about a Peaks-damned war hero, here! You’ll explain yourself right now!”

Orverly finally stopped his giggling and stared up at Jellis.

“Kriff it, Jellis, you’re not my superior officer, you know,” he said, grin still plastered on his face as he wiped the tears from his eyes. Auto-stabilizing gimbals in the table’s spherical legs tilted it back to its original position, with its mild antirepulsor keeping everything on it as neatly stacked as it was before the tilt. “But whatever. I promise I won’t tell Dezix you called a Jedi a war hero, if you promise not to tell him what I’m about to tell you.”

Jellis felt that had a more than slightly ominous tinge to it. He said nothing, continuing to stare down at Orverly.

“I was at Cato. The 6222 was in dry-dock after Coruscant, and I’d been temporarily reassigned to the Aggressor. The last bridges on Cato were still fortified, and General Koon had two flights of the One-Twenty-Seventh with him doing strafing runs, hoping the Neimies would evacuate before we’d have to start bombing civilians from orbit.”

Jellis could do little but listen.

“Plo Koon,” Orverly said, gripping the neck of the Abrax bottle, “was leading an air-support dive on a Trade Federation munitions base when comms received an executive order, to be relayed exclusively to field commanders. As you can probably guess, it was Order Sixty-Six.”

Jellis fell into his seat.

“The One-Twenty-Seventh shot him down from behind as he was leading the bombing run. The gun-cam holos were relayed back to the Aggressor; it was clean, efficient. An ARC-One-Seventy nicked him in the starboard stabilizer, and his ‘fighter lasted long enough to plow into a staging area, but the bolt probably packed enough power to burn through the reactor bulb. Jedi Master or not, no-one survives that kind of explosion. Plo Koon was killed without remorse or hesitation in an incident that lasted maybe three seconds.”

The men were silent. Maxa Jandovar’s vandfill crooned and blared in the speakers. Orverly emptied the last of the Abrax bottle, coughing and sputtering. Jellis wrung his hands.

“Tell me, Captain: did you ever serve with a Jedi? Personally, I mean?” Jellis asked quietly.

“Yes. I was at Kaikielius with Taj Junak during the Durge’s Lance Campaign.”

“And how did he strike you?” Orverly thought for a while, clearly wishing there was more Abrax.

“Calm,” Orverly finally answered. “Decisive. He never said anything without thinking it through first. A bit of a martyr at times, but no more so than the average zealot. Why?”

“He didn’t strike you as an idiot, then?”

“No,” Orverly chuckled. “Look, where are you going with this?”

“Because Plo Koon certainly struck me as a lot of things, but he was no idiot, I knew that much,” Jellis affirmed, suddenly feeling a bit more sober.

“So?”

“So what kind of being initiates a takedown of the most powerful political entity in the galaxy while his cohorts are spread out across the Outer Rim, surrounded by soldiers fanatically loyal to their enemy? And if all those Jedi, Luminara Unduli, Ki-Adi-Mundi, Obi-Wan Kenobi and the rest of them knew that the coup was about to take place, what kind of being would be out fighting sorties while it was happening?”

“…an idiot.”

“Exactly.”

Orverly stood up, pacing his quarters and gesticulating drunkenly as he spoke.

“But, but… that’s extrapolation. You’re assuming that what’s true of one Jedi is true of another. So Plo Koon and Taj Junak were smart, but they weren’t the ones who tried to assassinate the Emperor.”

“Ah, but then why did we kill them for it? And do you seriously believe that Mace Windu was stupid? That Kit Fisto was?”

“Well… I don’t know about Windu, Fisto and Kolar, but Saesee Tiin saved my life at Coruscant. We were trying to land the Six-Two at Spaceport Nine for repairs when we came under attack from a couple of frigates, and all of a sudden they started taking fire… from a Separatist carrier! Turns out, Tiin had evacuated nearly the entire trooper complement of the Impavid onto the carrier, and taken it over. I’ve seen some crazy stunts in my time, but stealing a Providence-class cruiser with a handful of marines in the middle of a high-orbit skirmish takes the ryshcate. I wish I could have seen the look on the frigate commanders’ faces. If Saesee Tiin was anything but a hero, you can space me right now.”

“Yes… yes,” Jellis said, staring into space, lost in his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Orverly agreed, doing some staring into space of his own.



Dezix of ISB sat alone in his office on Level Eighty-Two of the 6222. He had no quarters aboard the Star Destroyer, but instead kept a small collapsible bunk in the office, which he folded out on the floor at night. He had not made the bed yet, but felt the time was close at hand. His eyelids had begun to sag as he pored over today’s report before sending it to Chrome Shield’s ISB Internal Affairs headquarters.

His living conditions were at his own behest; Dezix had felt it wasteful to give himself two living spaces when one was perfectly sufficient. He showered and ate with the junior officers two decks down. He had initially tried a similar arrangement with the starfighter pilots, then the starfighter mechanics, then the ship’s engineers, but had found them all gruff, coarse and, most importantly, rather tight-lipped when he was about. In his short history with the ISB, Dezix had found crew gossip to be immensely helpful in determining the targets of his investigations.

His immediate superior, Director Florren of ISB IntAff-Local on Vogel, had refused Dezix’s request to install listening devices to monitor crew gossip, so he had decided to spend every meal with the junior officers, finding them talkative and friendly. Of course, he would trade his white ISB uniform for the navy’s standard olive grey when he ate, leaving the other officers to assume what they wished. It was considered bad form in the Imperial Navy to ask an officer his post, for it implied a lack of knowledge about one’s fellow officers, and therefore a sign of weakness.

But tonight, the day watch had said precious little as they ate their late dinner. Dezix had tried to strike up a casual conversation with a midshipman about the Jedi, but had gotten nothing but shrugs and terse, monosyllabic replies from him. It seemed Tier’s announcement about the Jedi prisoner had left them, well, not exactly scared, but fiercely vigilant and determined not to let their guard down. Even off-duty, their steps had been sharp and their backs straight, as if they were still at their posts. Many of them had kept their sidearms in their gun belts even as they ate, instead of turning them in to the quartermaster.

Dezix sighed and rubbed his eyes. Tier was competent, no doubt, and his loyalty was beyond question, but his constant willingness to eschew military protocol on favor of maintaining high morale in the line often made things complicated for Dezix. He envied some of his colleagues in Internal Affairs, who could openly ask for – and receive – assistance from the commanding officers of their postings in the apprehension of suspect crewmembers. Dezix wouldn’t dare ask such a thing of Tier, even if the spacer in question was burning effigies of the Emperor and singing Separatist war anthems over the intercom.

He filed a duplicate of his report in the encrypted section of Level Eighty-Two’s local datacore, triple-encrypted the original and sent it to central comms in the Star Destroyer’s conning tower, where it bypassed outgoing message approval and disappeared into hyperspace, speeding its way towards Vogel. Then, he switched his datapad to standby, stretched and begun the process of unpacking the collapsible bunk. He had made the bed, and was in the process of removing and folding his uniform when his datapad beeped succinctly.

Dezix took a moment to regard it before picking it up and reading the display.

ATTN M.E.R.O. “KEYN”
CALNIS CENTRAL DIVISION “UBIQTORATE:”
MESSAGE RECEIPT ACKNOWLEDGED
REQUEST FOR ASSISTANCE APPROVED
ASSETS DIVERTED FROM INTUCI, ABRION SCTR
ISD VENGEANCE & LDS MORNINGSTAR EN ROUTE
EXPECT INQUISITORIUS OF HIGH-MID AUTONOMY LEVEL OR ABOVE
YOU HAVE MADE YOURSELF KNOWN TO US

Despite its inherent vagueness, there was a heavy finality to the last line of the message. ISB did not usually coordinate with Imperial Intelligence due to the bitter jurisdictional rivalry between the agencies, and he had taken a sizable risk in contacting them; if ISB command ever found out, his career would be over. He had, of course, completely omitted any mention of contacting the Ubiqtorate in his report. Alternately, if he could discreetly utilize ImpIntel to rise through the ISB’s ranks, then his methods would be beyond reproach. In the First Galactic Empire, the ends always justified the means. Always.

He was fairly certain ImpIntel would exercise discretion as far as his identity was concerned, as he was doing them a massive favor, but if this was their idea of welcoming him into the fold, they had a lesson or two to learn as far as choice of words was concerned. Dezix was a light sleeper, though he rarely had any difficulty falling into dreamless, restful sleep. Tonight would prove to be in direct opposition to that rule; he tossed and turned, unable to sleep until he found himself dreaming of corruption, rot and eyeless beings who saw everything.

***

“Captain on deck!”

Captain Jellis heard the announcement as he entered the bridge of the Super Transport VII Impasse, and the two spacers already in it, an officer and a noncom, snapped to attention.

“At ease. So, Lieutenant, will we be ready to leave on time?”

The two men relaxed. Lieutenant Leaver, the twentysomething who had so crisply announced Jellis’s presence a moment ago, turned to face Jellis.

“It shouldn’t take more than forty minutes or so to confirm the systems checks. As they’re running, I took the liberty of devoting a third of the navicomp to reconfirm the coordinates.” Leaver handed Jellis a datapad as he approached the junior officer.

“Very good,” Jellis said, finding the datapad display an itemized pre-flight checklist for the Impasse. “And have you hypercommed Sluis Van to confirm our docking slot?”

“I drafted the message and stored it in the outgoings to deposit in the Sluis Sector Plexus for forwarding and confirmation,” Leaver replied, referring to the standard procedure for a repair request at an Imperial shipyard.

“Stored it? Don’t they need longer to process the request?” Jellis asked, furrowing his brow. Leaver seemed confused.

“Thirty hours ahead of arrival is considered optimum, sir.”

“Thirty hours? I thought it only took twenty-five hours to get to Sluis Van.”

“Sir, travel time to Sluis van is estimated at three standard days.”

“Three days!?”

“Yes, sir. The Impasse carries a Class-Three hyperdrive only, sir,” Leaver said, swallowing. Jellis closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, and felt his hangover intensify.

“Lieutenant, get me some caf. Now,” Jellis said without opening his eyes.

“Yes, sir,” Leaver complied, and marched out through the hatchway towards the galley. Jellis opened his eyes and turned toward the noncommisioned officer, Ensign Khurgee.

“And you are to be my helmsman, I take it?”

“Yes sir,” Khurgee said, slightly too loud and officious. “I am qualified in every design in Imperial use from an Eta-Two-Actis all the way up to a Praetor-Mark-Two, and recently rehearsed docking exercises for parking a Super-Seven in a Vev-Four-Seventy-Five of the type in operation at Sluis Van.” Jellis nodded as he scanned Khurgee’s profile on his datapad.

“And I see that you never specialized at Carida, staying with the general curriculum until your final year.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Most who make such a choice tend to go freelance once they graduate, Khurgee.”

“Yes... sir,” Khurgee said, slightly uncertain, no doubt wondering what Jellis was implying. Jellis smiled, which seemed to put the young man at ease.

“That’s good, Ensign. I can see why you were selected. A jack-of-all-trades is just what a skeleton crew needs.”

“Yes, sir. You’ll see that I’ve already volunteered for any and all security and maintenance tasks that may require completion on our mission, sir.”

“Indeed. Good man. Now, where’s Lieutenant Leaver with my caf?”

***

“The Impasse has just jumped, sir,” Lieutenant Murel reported from the portside crew pit of the 6222’s bridge, standing over Lieutenant Keesa and his station.

“Understood, Lieutenant. Ensign Voljed, if you’d be so kind as to inform Condemnation she can resume scanning the system,” Orverly said from the walkway, hands clasped behind his back.

“Aye, sir,” Voljed said. Orverly turned to the viewport, and, using the controls set into the railing, called for a magnification of Silken’s outermost ring of asteroids on the viewport pane closest to him. His duties for the day were pretty much over, and he gave in to the numbing effects of his hangover, feeling a sense of profound detachment wash over him. He watched the rocks glide silently through space three billion kilometers away, hypnotized.

“Good morning, Captain... what are you doing?”

Orverly turned to find Dezix of ISB standing behind him, casting a queer eye on the magnified asteroid belt.

“Um. Just performing some routine reconnaisance, Dezix. I find that by studying ejecta patterns on airless surfaces, I can make reasonable guesses to the age of the planetoid, and determine estimates of their mineral value,” Orverly lied confidently, gesturing toward the display.

“I see. Can you evaluate the approximate worth of that one right there?” Dezix asked, pointing at a particularly large asteroid.

“That’s... classified.” Orverly dismissed the magnification, and the pane returned to standard view mode. “What did you want, Dezix?”

“Erm, nothing terribly important. Where is Senior Captain Tier? I have news for him regarding the prisoner.”

“He transferred his flag to the Condemnation this morning, seeing as how her captain is temporarily reassigned, and the Senior Captain wanted direct supervision over the Jedi.”

“Why wasn’t I notified?” Dezix asked. Orverly blinked.

“Why should you be? Isn’t it your job to know what we’re doing?” Orverly said, arching an eyebrow at the young agent.

“Quite,” Dezix said after a tense silence. “I’m afraid I’ve not read the night shift’s report yet, as I had some difficulty sleeping, and only just awoke.”

“You know, they have these amazing things called alarm clocks now.”

“It appears I slept right through mine. I have not determined the cause yet, but rest assured it will not happen again. I have already directed the medbay’s EmDee-Three to perscribe an appropriate drug regimen to regulate my sleep.”

Orverly snorted. “I’ll bet,” he said sardonically. An ISB agent was a rare sight on a warship bridge during the standard duty shift, and Orverly suspected they rarely got up before noon unless there was a very good reason to.

“I mean that, Captain,” Dezix said, deadly serious. “I may not fall under your command, but I aspire to maintain the level of professionalism required by an officer serving under you. I have nothing but respect for you and the Senior Captain, and I am reliably informed that the level of discipline in this recon line is far above the normal level for an Outer Rim command. You have my profound apologies for my lapse.”

Orverly eyed Dezix curiously, but nodded his consent.

“No apology necessary. At least not to me and the Senior Captain. What were you going to tell him, anyway?”

“Only that I received my reply from the Ubiqtorate last night, and a departure confirmation from the Abrion Major Sector Plexus. Apparently, they’re sending a Star Destroyer and a support ship to meet us and collect the Jedi. They should be here in a day or so, I think,” Dezix said, handing Orverly a datapad displaying the departure confirmation for the Imperial-class Star Destroyer Vengeance.

“An Isk-Senth-Dorn and a support vessel?” Orverly asked, seeing the ship designation.

“Yes. I believe the support ship is mission-specific to these kinds of operations,” Dezix said, and Orverly’s eyebrows went up when he saw the designation for the other ship.




“A Lictor-class dungeon ship?” Tier’s quarter-sized holographic image said, not long after Dezix had left. Orverly sat in the 6222’s hologram pod, just off the main bridge’s security foyer.

“Yes, I thought you might like to know that,” Orverly said. Tier rubbed his chin.

“I’ll bet they’re not telling the senate about that,” Tier said quietly.

“What’s the deal with these ships, anyway? All I know is war stories, legends from the Mandalorian Wars. They tortured Jedi on them, right?”

“Right. There was a mando in the war called Demagol. We have a word in mando’a, ‘demagolka,’ that comes from his name. It translates roughly to a noun for someone who commits atrocities or war crimes, if that gives you some idea of how he liked to party.”

“Alright, go on.”

“Legend has it, he perfected some sort of weird torture method that worked specifically on Jedi, and could only be performed on starships with beskar hulls,” Tier explained, referring to the valuable and durable Mandalorian iron used for making their unique armor and starship hulls. “Theories run the gamut from trapping a force-user in a beskar cell inducing some sort of psychic feedback loop, to the ships being able to trap Jedi ghosts that would then drive the living ones insane.”

“Oof,” Orverly said.

“Indeed. So anyway, Demagol has a few dozen of the ships built, and they basically sail around Mandalorian space with captured Jedi.”

“And what happened to them?”

“The ships, or the Jedi?”

“Both,” Orverly said softly. Tier sighed contemplatively.

“The ships were all captured and destroyed by the Revanchists, or at least that’s what I thought, which leaves us with two choices: either MandalMotors has started making them again, either as commissions or on their own initiative...” Tier trailed off.

“Or?” Orverly asked, eyebrows raised. Tier grinned his wolfish grin.

“Or, we’re about to receive a visit from a four-thousand-year old dungeon ship.”

“Hm. And the Jedi?”

“What Jedi?”

“What happened to the Jedi they kept on the ships?”

“Well... I only know the stories Sergeant Ward used to tell me on Kamino, okay?” A wistful look came into Tier’s eyes when he spoke of his drill instructor, Llats Ward, but there was a grimace to his face, a strain in his voice as he spoke.

“Okay,” Orverly said. Tier took a very deep breath.

“According to the sergeant, most of the Jedi they found when they captured the ships were barely sentient anymore, drooling lunatics, most of them. They’d find Jedi who had clawed their eyes own out, Jedi who’d been fed their own body parts after they’d been sliced off with lightsabers. They’d find severed Jedi heads that were being kept alive for experimentation, and strange machines that Demagol was attempting to power with Jedi blood. They’d find Jedi whose bodies had been liquefied with sonic weapons, packed into storage containers the size of a holopad, or spread out over the floor of a six-by-six cell, with droid organs keeping them alive. They’d find Jedi brains crudely grafted into droid bodies, most of them begging for death.”

“By Mog,” Orverly said.

“I don’t know what it is Palpatine intends to do with the Jedi, but if he’s using Lictors to transport them, you can bet he’s not being too sentimental about it.”

***

The Ryloth was, simply put, a mess.

Crouched on the floor of the cargo bay of the Impasse, the Nu-class shuttle was covered in black charring from its skids to the top of its stabilizer. Much of its forward viewport was obscured by smoke coloration from the inside, as well as mild fusing of the outer layer of transparisteel from the outside. Its crimson-and-off-white markings, a holdout from before the end of the war, had never been replaced with the new ‘Imperial white’ color scheme, and it was doubtful it ever would be, now; most likely, it would be cheaper to strip the hull completely and replace it with a fresh one, considering the amount of damage the plating had taken.

The worst damage was to its porstside midsection, where the Condemnation’s overpowered ion volley had struck home. The hull there was cooked completely black, with a flaking black sheen that looked disconcertingly like charred flesh.

Jellis stood on the otherwise empty deck, a cavernous expanse that could hold up to two-and-a-half million metric tons, and sipped his caf carefully as he viewed the shuttle, absently drumming his fingertips on his datapad with his other hand.

The Impasse had finished the first leg of its journey in thirteen hours, dropping briefly out of hyperspace at Ma’ar Shaddam to align itself along the Sanrafsix Corridor before jumping again. The next stop would be Kabal, the junction between the Sanrafsix and the Sharlissian Trade Corridor, and then to Triton and onto the well-travelled and well-maintained Rimma Trade Route, which would take them to Sluis Van.

Most of the Impasse’s journey, however, would be spent traversing the first two routes, which, while well established in their own right, were torturously slow going compared to the arterial Rimma. There was little for Jellis, Leaver and Khurgee to do, so Jellis had decided to go and assess the damage to the shuttle, if only to kill some time. He tucked his datapad awkwardly under his arm and activated his comlink.

“Ensign Khurgee, this is Captain Jellis.”

“I read you, sir. What is it that needs doing?”

“Could you forward the Condemnation deck chief’s report on the Ryloth to my datapad, please?”

“Yes, sir. One second, sir.” Jellis’s datapad beeped softly.

“Thank you, Ensign,” Jellis said, deactivated the comlink and brought the datapad up again. He walked absent-mindedly to the shuttle’s hatchway as he read the report.

“...central ion accelerator caught in ion stream loop resulting in polarisation of unspent fuel; capacitor fried from attempted switchthru to secondary fuel slug...”

“...thermal/neutrino radiator in portside stabilizer completely fused to wingframe struts as heatsinks rendered inoperative by total electrical failure...”

Amazing, Jellis reflected. Every backup, safety system and redundancy on board the shuttle had been destroyed as efficiently and thoroughly as its primrary defences had been, and with a single ion volley. In a way, he was glad that the obviously obsolete shuttle had been eliminated in a relatively harmless incident, rather than taken out with a full company of troops on board by a hostile in a real combat zone. Hopefully, she’d be rotated to a rear-echelon unit and be replaced by a more recent design. Word had it that Telgorn Corporation was developing a new class of assault transport specifically intended to ferry Stormtroopers into combat, with Novaldex shield generators and Krupx’s new MG7 proton torpedo launchers; Jellis hoped that the 8686th would be receiving them soon.

He walked through the shuttle’s hatchway, carefully stepping over the singed edge where the Condemnation deck crew had burned through the hatch yesterday. The inside of the shuttle was dark, and the smell of smoke still hung in the air, an acrid tang of scorched plastoid and metal that was still strong enough to sting Jellis’s nose and throat if he inhaled too deeply. He broke open an emergency locker on a cockpit bulkhead and retreived a glowrod, which he clicked to life.

The interior of the shuttle was cramped and uncomfortable, as was the case with most combat shuttles, and Jellis realized he’d never asked how in the nine hells Tier had managed to stun a Jedi Knight into submission, or even bothered to read the report. He doubted anyone had had the foresight to upload Tier’s report to the Impasse’s computer; it would have to remain a mystery for now. Jellis could barely walk comfortably down the central passageway to the troop bay, never mind handle himself in a fight.

The troop bay was seemed mostly intact in the beam of Jellis’s glowrod; perhaps the shuttle was not a total write-off. He scanned the flight couches, arrayed in six rows of five each. All of the restraints were locked in place, and-

...scratch that, one of them had been flipped up to its retracted position, jutting out from its bulkhead pivot like a pair of outstretched limbs. Jellis pondered it for a second, and ambled over to it, locking it into the ‘secured’ position. He stood there for a while, letting the glowrod beam play over the other seats. In the deep quiet of the dead shuttle, he heard nothing but the distant basso thrum of the Impasse’s hyperdrive, but something was out of place. Something was off, a sound, or maybe there was a sound missing that should be heard. Jellis closed his eyes and let his ears take over...

...but there was nothing. He couldn’t place it. Maybe it was just the fact that he was unused to being inside such a small ship and not hearing its engines running.

He sighed, and opened his eyes. He’d never been a terribly observant man, even in his youth, and he was getting old; the synapses were not firing as they once did. He clutched the glowrod, silently wishing that he was back with the line, or that Tier or Lieutenant Ostney or even that dweezer Dezix were here to assuage his nagging doubts. He made his way toward the exit.

It wasn’t until he stepped back outside and into the cargo bay that he realized it, and froze in place for a second before bounding back into the shuttle to make absolutely sure of it. He had to go all the way aft into the troop bay, but sure enough, there it was: a smell. An unfamiliar, earthy, yet mildly acidic odor, distinctly unpleasant and unquestionably organic. He sniffed the air like a rodent, trying to trace its source, but it seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. At one point, he took the scent too deep into his lungs, making his stomach heave. Jellis placed a sleeved forearm over his mouth as he fought the impulse to vomit.

How odd.

Oh well. Perhaps the ion blast had fused a plastoid sealant into some kind of organic compound, or maybe a mold had been growing in the air recyclers for months, which no-one had been able to smell before. It wasn’t out of the question.

Jellis grunted to himself, and walked back out of the shuttle. He’d make a point of mentioning it to the refit crew at Sluis Van, that was for certain.

***

Tier had not slept since the 8686th’s arrival in Silken, and by the afternoon of their third day in-system, he had begun to feel that heavy, dragging drowsiness that no amount of caf could cure. He had to sleep.

Halfway through the evening watch, he commed Lieutenant Ostney in the gym, and notified her that her watch would be starting early. He then had the quartermaster assign him one of the Condemnation’s guest staterooms, and was in bed and sound asleep by the time the stateroom’s bulkhead comm beeped him awake. He sat up in the dark, furiously trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes.

“Yes?” he said, loud enough for the comm’s voice recognition system to detect.

“Senior Captain? This is Lieutenant Wellox, the legal officer. We met two days ago, at the meeting in Captain Jellis’s quarters,” said a cautious, mellifluous voice with a Northern Core accent, Velusian, perhaps, or Shawkeni.

“Right. What is it, Lieutenant?”
“Well... it’s Major Forrynq, sir. He’s dead.”

“Dead? How?”

“He... ah, he was shot in the back by one of the detention guards.”

“One of his own guards? Where is he now?”

“In the morgue.”

“The detention guard, Lieutenant; not the major.”

“Oh. Well, we locked him in a cell in Aurek-wing Detention.”

“Is he under supervision?”

“Yes sir, by a guard droid.”

“Put a live guard on him right away, preferably someone he hasn’t served with himself,” Tier said. He didn’t know if it was premeditated or an accident yet, but in either case, there was a serious chance that a soldier who killed his superior officer might commit suicide, and that a close friend might actually help him do it.

“Right, sir.”

“I’ll be right up there.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll meet you in the starboard detention foyer.”

Tier dressed hurriedly and adjusted his uniform in the mirror. Five years ago, he could stay up for days at a time fighting sieges and skirmishes alike with no ill effect; now, he looked in the mirror and saw a tired, unshaven man who couldn’t keep himself up for sixty hours in a non-combat situation, and was developing a slight paunch. But, of course, five years ago he was ten years younger, and in another ten years, his accelerated age rate would render him unfit for active duty, a decrepit old man at twenty-five.

He combed his hair and adjusted his cap. The least he could do was make the most of the good years he had left. He practised his stare for a few seconds, and left the room.

Wellox was, as promised, waiting in the starboard foyer, nervously shuffling his feet as he stood by the turbolift bank. When he saw Tier exit the lift, he fell in step with the clone effortlessly, and they marched to the security desk where they surrendered their sidearms to a dark-skinned lieutenant before he cleared them into the hexagonal detention corridor.

“When did it happen?” Tier asked as they strode down the corridor, boots clanging on the rifled durasteel deck.

“At about oh-five-hundred. Security holos show Forrynq on the morning watch over at Cresh-wing, doing snap-drills and weapons tests with the laser grid. The guard-“

“The guard’s name?”

“Ah...” Wellox consulted his datapad. “Kyarin, Trooper Edid Kyarin. He was calibrating the grid after a test when Forrynq suddenly leaves, heading for one of the cells. Kyarin pulled his sidearm, and there seems to have been an altercation, before Kyarin shot the major.”

Tier snatched the datapad out of Wellox’s hand and quickly found the holovid in question. “There ‘seems’ to have been an altercation, Lieutenant?”

“Ah, yes sir. There’s no audio accompanying the holo.”

“What?”

“Yes sir, an unfortunate oversight by the shipyards. We have recording rods, but it seems the actual recording circuitry was never installed. I’ve already sent a notification to Rintonne-“

“Stow it, Lieutenant,” Tier growled. “Let me at least watch this.”

“Right, sir. This is the cell,” Wellox said, indicating a hatchway on their left. The two officers stopped, with Wellox waiting uncomfortably as Tier watched the holo on the datapad.

Forrynq and a black-suited naval trooper, presumably Kyarin, were in a security foyer identical to the one Tier and Wellox had just left. Tier could make out their lips moving. Forrynq retrieved a DLT-19 light repeating blaster from a recharge rack and made for the corridor. Kyarin pulled his DH-17 from his holster aiming it at Forrynq’s back. Forrynq froze. From the angle of the holo, Forrynq’s face was clearly visible in close-up at the bottom right of the frame. Tier could see his lips move under his bushy moustache, and thought he could make out Kyarin responding. Then the major took one step towards the corridor, and Kyarin’s blaster went off, the bolt catching Forrynq square in the back. He dropped out of frame, a strange serenity on his face.

“Kriffing hells,” Tier cursed quietly. Wellox could only purse his lips and wait for Tier’s order. “Well, let’s see just what Trooper Kyarin was thinking when he decided to shoot his superior officer, then, shall we?”




With the Impasse’s ship’s chronometer being on Imperial Center time, much like that of the 6222’s and the Condemnation’s, Captain Jellis was also trying to sleep at that time.

He was having a decidedly horrid and graphically explicit nightmare about having his brain removed and his organs liquefied when he woke, panting, still feeling the strange curved knife eviscerating him. He sat up panting in the bed, nightshirt drenched with sweat as he tried desperately to regain his composure.

Then he realized how alone he was, and was struck by the absurdity of it all. He was alone with two other men on a mostly empty ship, and the three of them were still a standard day or so away from Kabal, somewhere in the sparsely inhabited Tamarin sector. In short: he was in an empty room on an empty ship in an empty region of space, which was already pretty empty to begin with. He decided a small nightcap would be just the ticket, and got up out of bed.

He’d been assigned the captain’s stateroom, such as it was. The Impasse had clearly not had a captain for some time, being used mostly to ferry mineral deposits and mining equipment for the 8686th’s frequent survey missions. An unfortunate department head or executive officer usually received the task of ‘commanding’ the old hulk on its short hops, and consequently never had the time or the inclination to get stowed away.

The stateroom seemed cavernous in its emptiness, with Jellis’s bare feet causing mild echoes to chatter off the rounded bulkheads. Nothing hung on the walls, and there was a faint but distinct smell of mildew. Jellis wrinkled his nose as he rummaged through the small crate of private posessions he’d had his FA-5 droid deliver before departing Silken.

Locating his Chartash bottle and an engraved cup, he poured himself a little and tucked the bottle away again. With no furniture in the cabin, he sat on the floor and drank.

The first sip was always the best, and he smacked his lips and cleared his throat. Something seemed familiar... yes. Something did. A sound. A noise. Why...

...yes. That’s it. Liquid. Feeling he was on the verge of something important, he took another sip and cleared his mind... a dripping. There had been a dripping sound... inside the shuttle. Yes. Yes.

Jellis emptied his glass and made for the cargo bay, still in his nightshirt and long johns. He made a point of putting on his gun belt and officer’s cap, though, for reasons he would not be able to recall later.

The cargo bay’s lighting strips came on automatically as he entered; the shuttle sat in its place, oblivious. He rushed through the hatch and into the troop bay.

Jellis stopped in the bay, trying to listen, fighting to quiet his own breathing, and through his sharp inhalations, he became aware that not only was the smell still there, but it had actually gotten worse. He placed his bare forearm over his nose and mouth, focussing, trying to locate the sound again, the dripping.

There.

An overhead compartment intended for infantry support weapons, set against the aft-port bulkhead. The rearmost flight couch on the portside doubled as an auxhilary shield console, and the dripping was caused as some mysterious liquid plip-plopped out of the compartment and onto the console. He slowly, softly made his way over to the bulkhead.

He drew his sidearm. He took a deep breath.

His hand seemed to move of its own accord, activating the compartment’s hatch release; the compartment was deeper than he’d expected it to be. A rivulet of something watery ran from its deepest, unlit recesses, and the smell was unbelievably foul. He switched on his gun lamp and saw...

...a girl. Not human, near-human, perhaps, but definitely not completely human, with strange growths on her skull and big, luminous eyes that stared directly at him, begging. She was scantily clad, and if Jellis didn’t know any better, he would have mistaken her for a dancing girl or shockball player. He knew he'd seen growths like that before, somewhere, but couldn't for the life of him place the girl's species. Therefore, he had no idea how old she might be, but in human terms, she appeared no older than a teenager. No older than my daughter, he thought grimly.

She was lying in the compartment, apparently in great pain, clutching her side and chest. If there was a wound there, it did not appear to be bleeding, and Jellis realized, much to his revulsion, that the liquid was waste; she must have been lying there for days.

Of course she has, he thought. She must have been in here since the shuttle had made its ill-fated escape attempt three days ago.

Uncertain of what to do or say, he collapsed into a flight couch. Once he’d turned his gun lamp away from the girl, all that was visible of her was a clawed, five-fingered hand that extended into the lit part of the ISW compartment.

“Please... water... please...” an almost imperceptibly weak and scratchy voice said in a flawless Coruscanti accent.

“Well, I’ll be a ten-wattled son of a chobbick,” Jellis mumbled weakly.





Rather than being assigned the traditional hexagonal ‘single’ cell and left to lounge on a durasteel bench, Trooper Edid Kyarin had been placed in a more spacious interrogation room and chained to a floor grate with binders. His helmet, gloves and breastplate had been removed. Two guards, their uniforms identical to Kyarin’s except for his missing armor, stood at attention on either side of the hatchway.

Tier didn’t like this kind of cell; the lack of furniture and the rifled floor grates always gave him the impression that he was in a room solely made to torture and kill people in, as opposed to the smaller, barrack-like cells. Whereas they always gave off a vague feeling of efficiency, boredom and discipline, this room smelled like fear and murder, plain and simple.

Kyarin himself did not do anything to contradict this assessment. He sat cross-legged on the floor, chin trembling and eyes roving in what was either nervous anticipation or the remnants of an adrenaline rush.

“Who put those on him?” Tier asked, gesturing to the binders.

“I did, sir,” Lieutenant Wellox said bemusedly.

“Get them off,” Tier growled. “Now.”

Wellox gestured briskly to one of the guards, who moved swiftly to Kyarin and undid the binders with a code cylinder. Kyarin rose cautiously to his feet and nodded subserviently to the officers while rubbing his wrists.

“Lieutenant, why don’t you go and get us some chairs?” Tier asked, glowering at the legal officer.

“Yes, sir,” Wellox mumbled, swallowing as he activated the door and left the room. The guards stayed where they were, on either side of the hatch.

“How old are you, son?”

“O-only eighteen, sir. I flunked at Raithal, and was told the only way I could get a combat commission was by volunteering for naval duty. S-sir.”

“’Only’ eighteen? Well, I’m ‘only’ sixteen; I hope that won’t be a problem for you, Trooper.”

“N-no, sir. Not at all, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Stow it. Relax. I’m just messing with you. Where are you from, Kyarin?” The trooper smiled weakly before answering.

“Ord Vaxal, in the Inner Rim.”

“Never heard of it,” Tier said, truthfully. “Nice place?”

“N-not really, sir. P-prison planet, run by the Hutts.”

“Well, then I’m glad you’re seeing the galaxy.”

“S-so am I, sir. Well, I was, uh...” Kyarin trailed off nervously. Wellox picked that exact moment to re-enter with a pair of sixty-by-sixty plastoid equipment crates of the sort Stormtroopers used to carry sensitive tech into combat situations. He deftly positioned them behind Tier and Kyarin before retreating to a corner of the room, where he leaned against a wall, arms folded in front of his chest. Evidently, he had accepted that Tier himself would be conducting this interrogation. The senior captain sat, but Kyarin hesitated.

“I may be sixteen, but my body’s closer to thirty-five, and I’ve slept five hours in the past sixty,” Tier said matter-of-factly. “If you don’t want to sit, fine, but I’m tired, and when I have to look up at people who are standing over me when I’m tired, I get annoyed. When I get annoyed, I like to find reasons to discipline crewers for any infractions they may have commited, and as far as infractions go, shooting your superior officer in the back rates pretty high.” Kyarin took the hint and sat. “Why’d you do it, Edid?”

“I, ah... he was going to shoot the prisoner, sir,” Kyarin blurted out.

“What?”

“He, uh, I mean, Major Forrynq, sir. He was on his way to the isolation cell to shoot the Jedi, and I...” he trailed off again, eyes flicking between his boots and the black bulkhead to his right.

“Go on,” Tier said, noting Wellox’s perturbed expression out of the corner of his eye.

“H-he said we had to give her justice, we had to shoot her, and that it was the only way we could make sure she wouldn’t kill everyone on board, and...” Kyarin seemed at his breaking point, eyes watering as he spoke.

“And?” Wellox asked, his tone more curious than interrogative.

“And he said she’d be pardoned, that they’d let her loose and she’d just go and kill someone else and he threatened to kill me to get to her and I...” Kyarin’s voice cracked, and he sobbed. “And I shot him, sir. I shot him in the back and I killed him and he died and I think...”

“Shhh, calm down. You did the right thing. Wellox?” Tier asked without taking his eyes off Kyarin. “Can any of this be verified?”

“Yes, sir. An analysis droid could have the entire recording lip-read in about ten seconds.”

“Get it done. You see, Trooper? It’s all fine.”

“B-but what about the major? I still killed him, I... And even if I survive the court-martial with my citizenship intact, no-one will want me under their command, sir. No-one. I’m washed out, I’m done...”

“I will, Trooper,” Tier said, trading glances with Wellox as Kyarin wiped at his tear-streaked face. Wellox surreptitiously shook his head; Kyarin was right, as Tier had suspected. “I’ll still want you on my ship.”

Kyarin finally found the courage to look into Tier’s eyes.

“Really, sir?”

“Absolutely, Trooper. In fact, if it were up to me, I’d have you report to your duty sergeant immediately for your next assignment,” Tier said, and meant it.

“But it’s not up to you, is it, sir?”

Tier regarded the young soldier, realizing he’d probably never legally hold a weapon or wear a uniform again. He’d face a court-martial, and the only thing that would save him from execution would be the fact that Forrynq had been on his way to commit a capital crime of his own when Kyarin had shot him. In fact, when he thought about it, Tier realized that even that might not be enough. You kriffing idiot, Tier thought. Why didn’t you set your blaster on stun?

Tier let out the longest sigh of his life, and realized he was no longer young.

“No, Trooper Kyarin, it’s not. I will fight for you, and so will Lieutenant Wellox, if he knows what’s good for him, but I’d be a sadist if I got your hopes up even a little bit.”

“What’ll they do to me?”

“I surmise they’ll discharge you and sentence you to a few years of hard labor. Milagro, probably, or maybe Crseih. You’ll make some friends on the inside, and if you play your cards right, you’ll land on your feet. Even if you dropped out, just having gotten into the academy will get you a job somewhere in the private sector.”

Kyarin seemed somewhat placated, his brow furrowing as he considered something. He was no longer a young man either, Tier realized.

“O-okay,” Kyarin stared at his hands for a moment. Tier was about to stand up and leave when Kyarin spoke again. “S-senior Captain?”

“Yes, Trooper?”

“Can you promise me one thing?”

“Maybe... what is it?”

“Promise me they won’t send me to Ord Vaxal?”




“Poor sod. Is there really nothing we can do for him?” Tier asked Wellox moments later as the dark-skinned lieutenant retrieved their sidearms at the security desk.

“I’m afraid not, sir. If it hadn’t all been recorded, we could theoretically have maintained that he hadn’t had time to set his Dorn-Herf to stun, but the way it happened, with plenty of time to react...” Wellox didn’t have to finish. The lieutenant handed the officers their sidearms. There was a moment’s silence as they replaced their power paks and holstered the weapons self-consciously; Tier had to fight the urge to activate the stun setting. They sauntered over to the turbolift bank, and Wellox called for a lift, which came promptly.

“So, that wasn’t all bluster after all,” Wellox said, stepping into the lift car.

“What?” Tier asked, following Wellox in and hitting the button for the Condemnation’s command bridge and sighing quietly. Sleep would have to wait a few more hours.

“At the meeting. Forrynq wasn’t just peeved at Dezix; he must really have hated that Jedi to have decided he was worth throwing away his career,” Wellox said as the turbolift sped upwards.

“Who?”

“Sorry, sir?”

“That who was worth throwing his career away?”

“Him. The Jedi. The prisoner.”

“The prisoner is a woman, Lieutenant.”

“Is she? You never mentioned that,” Wellox said squinting as he pieced something together in his mind. "So that's who Kyarin meant."

The two men stood in the turbolift for a moment, silent. Something about what Wellox had just said was ringing a dull warning klaxon at the back of Tier’s sleep-deprived brain. The turbolift arrived and they stepped out into the bridge security foyer. They were almost at the bridge proper when Tier stopped.

“Lieutenant... I never mentioned the Jedi was a woman at that meeting the other day?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, positive,” Wellox said brightly and patiently, apparently oblivious to Tier’s confusion.

“And I didn’t mention it in my announcement either?”

“No, sir. My mistake, sir; I just assumed she was a man because you didn’t mention her gender. Rather misogynist of me, actually. Sorry about that.”

Then it hit Tier like a lightning bolt. He spun around and made back for the turbolift bank.

“Sir! Where are you going?” the lieutenant yelled.

“To Cresh-Wing Iso! That kriffing Jedi was messing with Forrynq’s mind! She pushed him into trying to kill her to get him to open the door to her cell!”

“What?! Are you sure, sir?” Wellox said, breaking into a brisk, undignified jog to catch up with Tier. The senior captain slapped the turbolift control impatiently.

“One hundred per cent, Lieutenant. I never told Forrynq she was a woman either, and still Kyarin kept calling her ‘she.’ There’s no other way they could have known, what with Dezix’s intel blackout.”

"But what good will talking to her do?"

"I don't know, Lieutenant, but I don't want the witch to kill any more of my people without at least letting her know how I feel about it."

“Well... alright, sir,” Wellox said as the turbolift arrived and Tier stepped inside. “Should I send you a copy of the message to Forrynq’s family?”

“What?” Tier said, placing his arm in the hatchway to stop the ‘lift from speeding back down to the detention deck.

“The message to Forrynq’s family on Rendili, sir,” Wellox explained. “Ordinarily, his commanding officer would be the one to send it, but the legal officer is authorized to send the message in an emergency.“

Tier pondered that for a moment, keeping his arm in the hatch. He’d quite forgotten that at the center of this whole fiasco lay a dead man, a man Tier had spoken with and respected.

“No, Lieutenant... I’ll do it. I’ll do it after I’ve talked to the Jedi.” He was about to lower his arm when Wellox spoke.

“At least that way, we might gain some insight as to why he died before we sent the message. If I were to make any kind of educated guess as to the mentality of Forrynq’s family based on having known the man himself, I think they’d like to know that he gave his life rather than help a Jedi prisoner, willingly or unwillingly,” Wellox said somberly. “I know that’s what he’d want them to hear.”

Wellox’s words rang in Tier’s ears in the silence of the turbolift as it zipped downwards into the depths of the Star Destroyer, and Tier found that he was greatly disturbed by them, for some reason.





In a state of shock, Jellis only managed to rouse himself when he felt something uncomfortable jabbing at his backside. Shifting in the flight couch, he reached under himself to retrieve... a glowrod. He turned it over a few times before realizing that he must have left if there himself when he was poking about in the troop bay a day ago.

He took a breath and made a decision.

“Um... can I... can I get you anything?” he managed. The offering felt as weak as it sounded, but the girl had to understand what a massive concession it was for him to offer her help. Protocol dictated he report her at once. Of course, there was a sizable chance that the Jedi woman had kidnapped the girl, but Jellis found this highly unlikely, although he could not say exactly why.

“W... water,” the girl croaked.

“Oh, right. Sorry. Water. Erm...” Jellis remembered the emergency locker in the cockpit, and rose with a groan. His foot had fallen asleep while he sat; he must have been sitting there longer than he realized. He hobbled awkwardly forward, and returned with the water canteen from the locker.

He gingerly reached into the ISW compartment, but the girl was so weak that she couldn’t raise her arm to take a drink. Jellis gently lifted her outstretched hand and tried to place it on the canteen, but the girl mewled in pain at the effort, contorted breath coming through her sharp teeth in staccato hisses.

Jellis instinctively shushed her and replaced her hand, patting it consolingly as he carefully poured water on her very humanlike lips. She closed her eyes as she lapped at the drops with a darting tongue, and Jellis realized she hadn’t been staring at him with those big, azure eyes; she was so dehydrated she’d been staring off into space.

“There, there,” he mumbled, transfixed by the girl as she drank, slowly at first, but some vigor seemed to creep into her eventually. After a dozen or so darts of that strange little tongue, she began to drink from the canteen in earnest. She had only managed three or four sips when Jellis remembered that if she was mammalian, which her chest seemed to indicate was indeed the case, giving her too much water in her present state might cause a cerebral edema. He removed the canteen from her lips, and the girl moaned plaintively in protest.

“If you drink too fast, you’ll die,” he explained. Her display had made Jellis quite thirsty himself, and he took a sip himself before sealing the canteen.

This is insane, he thought. This is a child, a starved, dehydrated child. There’s no way she could be a threat of any kind to anyone. Then he remembered seeing holos of Jedi padawans in action at Nadiem and Vandos, and realized his folly. This girl was a warrior, trained from infancy by the greatest warriors in the galaxy.

But right now, she’s just a little girl.

“Look, I... I’m going to go and see if I can get you some rehydrators and some sort of Isk-Vev, a nutrient drip or something. Don’t go anywhere, okay? Drink some more, but slowly,” Jellis said in hushed tones. Leaver and Khurgee were asleep eight decks above him, but he was taking no chances.

He backed out of the troop bay, slowly, unsure of why he was being so cautious. He gave the child one last look from across the bay, and as he watched, she raised a hand, gesturing at the door to the ISW compartment. He was beginning to wonder what in Tharen’s name she was doing, when the compartment slid shut, seemingly of its own accord.

Oh, right. Well. That confirms two things, Jellis thought to himself in the darkness. She’s definitely a Jedi, but not the one who killed those pilots. He had, by this point, come to the conclusion himself that the two pilots on Blue Nine must have been killed by the much-vaunted Jedi telekinesis that they all posessed. If there’s any justice left in this empire, she’ll hang for that. Then he remembered Dezix’s ‘friends’ in the Inquisitorius, and realized she had far worse than a hanging in store for her.

He’d spent a few weeks on Prakith once, shortly after the end of the war. During the transition between his command of the Courageous and his current one, he’d had the misfortune of being temporarily assigned to a Vigil-class corvette whose captain had apparently come down with a case of temp-flu. The mission to Prakith had been his only one in command of the ship.

The mission had been relatively mundane: ferrying a Fleet Intelligence commission investigating precisely how General Grievous had managed to jump from Abregado to Coruscant, a dangerous route that took one through the roiling, unstable stellar phenomena of the Deep Galactic Core.

Prakith had seemed a dismal hellhole even from orbit, a long-dead volcanic world covered in ash and reddish-brown dust orbiting an unusually stable star not six-hundred-and-fifty parsecs from the supermassive black hole at the galaxy’s center. As the commission did its work, he’d had little to do but run drills, and had become well acquainted with the black hole. Its accretion disc had burned purple in the night sky, far brighter than Prakith’s two moons put together, outshining even the huge, ancient, disintegrating stars in the Deep Core, casting stark shadows. It was even visible in daytime under the right conditions.

He shuddered, imagining a prison on the world’s surface. He’d been a free man on Prakith, and he’d still hated it, basked as it was in the massive, chaotic evil emanating from the Galaxy’s center. He felt a new imperative: whatever became of the girl in the ISW compartment, she must never, ever go to Prakith.







The Jedi woman was not being kept in an interrogation cell.

On a Victory II-class Star Destroyer, the isolation cells were deep within the ship, nestled by the warship’s mighty power cells, just aft of the crew living section. They were accessible only via twin two-hundred-and-fifty-meter long corridors, which ran from the detention center proper under the conning tower.

The power cells were not pressure-sealed, and therefore gave off no sound, but Tier imagined he could feel them vibrating, even through the meters-thick durasteel plating between him and them. He stood alone in front of an equally thick transparisteel viewport, staring into a darkened, spherical chamber about five meters in diameter.

Lt. Colonel Korinor had insisted on having Tier accompanied by Stormtroopers, but Tier had felt that, in light of the woman’s obviously advanced psychokinetic abilities, sending more men into her proximity would just be exacerbating the problem.

Tier knew she was in there, but could not see her. The chamber was lit only by the weak overhead on Tier’s side of the glass, and there was much shadow in the cell. He knew he could easily activate powerful, blinding floolights and find her instantly, but decided against it.

That would be admitting your power, even with you in a cell and me standing outside it, Tier thought before catching himself, realizing she might be able to hear his thoughts. He swallowed, and switched on the intercom.

“How did you do it?”

No answer.

“I’ve seen Jedi use mind tricks before, but not like that. Not between starships when one of them is doing thousands of gees, or singling out the only person holding the key to this cell on a ship with more than six thousand people on board. You must be very powerful.”

There was a long silence, and Tier focused his mind on the question, trying to project honest curiosity. How do you play mind games with someone who can see through your mind?

Then came the voice, as audible inside his head as it was over the intercom:

“Perhaps. Power is out there, for those who would touch it.”

It was a smooth, lilting voice, haughty and pinched and unmistakably Coruscanti but, with an almost-imperceptible hint of an Outer Rim accent, somewhere in the Northern Territories, maybe; Garqi, or Borosk.

“That doesn’t sound very Jedi-like,” Tier replied after a contemptuous snort, eyes still scanning the darkened chamber for the woman. “Did your master teach you that?”

“Ask your brothers; they killed him on Coruscant.”

“Did they, now? And how many of them did he rape with his mind before they gunned him down?”

And, like a gate had been opened, she appeared, gliding forward out of the shadows into the center of the chamber. A null-grav field generator kept the room at zero gravity, and her hair billowed around her like tendrils of cloud as her green eyes bored into his through the viewport. She floated there for a second, silent.

“None,” she said simply.

“Oh, you were there, were you? Nice of you to run away and leave him to die; saved the Five-Oh-First the trouble of killing you too.”

“I was not,” she replied. Her voice was still calm, but her eyes wavered. For all her power and wisdom, she suddenly seemed uncertain and overwhelmed. Tier realized she was only in her early twenties or so, barely older than Edid Kyarin. You’re just a little girl lost, aren’t you? She met his gaze once more.

“But I felt his death. And I know he did not enter anyone’s mind; we couldn’t do that during the war. None of us could. It is a talent... I have only recently acquired.”

“Osik," Tier swore in mando'a. "I saw Jedi do it all the time during the war.”

“Yes, but never in a battle. Never like that,” she said, distant and thoughtful again.

“No, I suppose not,” Tier conceded.

There was a silence.

“Is that what you meant, about the power being ‘out there for those who would touch it?’ That it wasn’t there before, but now it is?”

“Yes,” she said, and smiled. She had full lips and high cheekbones, distinctive and beautiful, even with the rapidly receding bruise on her forehead from her fight with Tier in the shuttle, with a slim, attractive figure to boot. Why is it you never see ugly Jedi?

“Before the war ended,” she continued, “there was a haze over the Galaxy. A mist, a fog that you couldn’t see through, but now...” She trailed off.

“Now?”

“Now, the mist is gone, but there is only darkness, darkness everywhere. But the kind you can reach out and touch. It’s a darkness like freedom, a darkness that connects everything. It connected me to the pilots on your bomber, and the young trooper in the detention block. It’s connecting us, now, but that doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Why not?” Tier asked, mesmerized, and she turned to face him again.

“Because the darkness is coming to find me, and I am going to let it.”

***

After a few hours of uneasy sleep, Jellis had showered and shaved hastily and stopped by on the Impasse’s bridge.

“How are we on emergency rations, Lieutenant?” Leaver had given him a funny look.

“For just the three of us, sir? I think we could probably last over a century,” he’d answered, brow furrowing in confusion.

“Oh, good. Had a nasty dream last night; just making sure... where, ah, where are the consumables located?”

“Well... the main storage locker is on three-deck, just forward of medbay, sir.”

“Very good. Just wanted to be sure,” Jellis had said, nodding absently, as if reassured. “What’s our Esk-Trill-Aurek to the Sluis Van jump point?”

“About eighteen hours, sir,” Leaver had said, clearly happy to convey information whose purpose he understood. “Ensign Khurgee is at the forward tech station, running diagnostics on our main docking rungs. Wouldn’t want this old tub getting in an accident with the biggest shipyard in the Western Reaches just because our umbilical calibration is off by a decimal.”

“Quite,” Jellis had mumbled before ambling off the bridge.

As soon as he’d been out of Leaver’s hearing range, he’d picked up his pace, striding to the emergency locker before grabbing a ration bar and taking the lift back to the hangar.

In the shuttle’s troop bay, the alien child ate slowly, lying on her stomach in the ISW compartment. She seemed a bit more energized than last night, eyes darting about as she nibbled at the ration bar.

She realized Jellis was staring at her, and shifted self-consciously, only to wince in pain and clutch her side, dropping the ration bar to the deck.

The wince echoed loudly in the empty troop bay, and Jellis held his breath for a moment and listened, spooked and paranoid. After a tense moment, he crept forward and picked up the ration bar, handing it back to the girl, but she was holding her side with both hands, eyes and teeth squeezed shut.

Jellis felt foolish and useless as she rolled onto her back. Her eyes fluttered and rolled back into her head, and eventually her breathing slowed and evened.

“Are... um, are you... alright?”

In reply, the girl opened her eyes and gave him a very human look of contemptuous indignation.

“Never better,” she said, closing her eyes, teeth still gritted. “I think I’m bleeding internally. You’ll have to get me to a medbay soon.”

So there it was. Tacitly, calmly, and without any hint of obligation, she had just made Jellis a conspirator. A traitor, even, considering that the girl or her cohort had murdered two pilots.

He swallowed.

“We’re going to Sluis Van. We should be there in about eighteen hours... do you think you can hold out that long?”

“Maybe. Maybe if I... can get enough nutrition... a healing trance might get me through it,” she mumbled, suddenly exhausted.

“Well, then eat more, and sleep.”

Jellis placed the ration bar by her side, and she took another bite, swallowing awkwardly. He was about to leave when the girl spoke again.

“Hey,” she said, eyes still closed.

“Yeah?”

“Wake me in about four hours. I’m going into a healing trance, and I’m going to need to give you a password to get me out of it.”

“A password?”

“Yeah.”

Jellis was about to offer his name, or ask hers, but thought better of it.

“Ayo,” he said, offering his daughter’s name.

“Ayo?” she said, opening her eyes. “Someone you know?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

“Good. You can call me Ayo, if you like,” she said, and closed her eyes.




“What in Mog’s name were you talking about in there?”

Tier was surprised to find Lieutenant Colonel Korinor pacing the detention foyer and smoking a cigarette when he completed the four-minute walk down the corridor from the isolation cell.

“Nothing terribly important,” Tier assured him. “You messaged me?”

“Yes, three hours ago! Ostney called from the bridge. Our Inquisitorius friends are calling us on the hypercomm, they wanted to speak to you.”

“Three hours?" Tier hadn't realized how much time had passed; it had felt like a half-hour, at most. "To me? What in blazes could I tell them that you or Ostney or Orverly couldn’t?”

“Actually, I believe they wanted to speak to you because you were the one who took down the Jedi, and that you were currently speaking to her.”

“Well, how in-“ Tier was about to ask how they’d known about that when he realized the obvious answer. “Dezix.”

“You’re kriffing right, Dezix. You can’t even pick your nose around here without that little chobbick calling somebody about it.”

“He’s only doing his job,” Tier said, sighing and running his hand along his unshaven jaw.

“What are you going to do?”

“Well, I guess I’d better go and speak to the rodders. You staying down here?” Tier asked over his shoulder, calling a turbolift.

“Yeah. Wouldn’t do to have the bridge officers see me smoking.”

“You could always just put that out, you know,” he said as the turbolift arrived, the doors opening with a ping.

“Believe me, Tier; after speaking to this guy, you’ll need a cigarette.”



The man from the Inquisitorius was indeed an unsettling image, if indeed he was a man.

Even from the quarter-size holo in the comm booth, Tier could tell that Imperial High Inquisitor Jerec was balding, tall and thin with a distinguished bearing and a heretofore permanent scowl. He wore what appeared to be a strip of dark cloth over his eyes, and Tier had a nagging certainty in his gut that the being in fact had no eyes. The holo, hypercommed as it was from hundreds of parsecs away, was monochromatic, but Tier was very confident that this was a man who dressed only in black. He spoke in a gravelly rasp with an accent somewhere between that of Captain Reedus and Count Dooku. Lieutenant Ostney stood nearby, listening silently.

“How did you do it?” Jerec asked.

“Well, it was simple, really. Gut reaction, with a little luck thrown in. I threw a grenade at her without activating it, then as she was using the Force to deflect it, I threw my sidearm in her face. She was distracted long enough for a Stormtrooper to blast her; thankfully, he missed, but hit my blaster. The power pak exploded and knocked her unconscious.”

Jerec furrowed his brow, as if concerned, then smiled and chuckled. Tier decided he liked him better when he was frowning.

“Good work, Captain. Initiative like that would have been most useful in our last mission.”

“Anything I’d be interested in?” Tier asked, arching an eyebrow. He wanted to get a better picture of what kind of man he was dealing with, and felt like this might be someone who liked the sound of his own voice enough to get chatty.

“Perhaps,” Jerec conceded. “A nasty business, really. A local warlord decided that with the Hutts retreated and the Separatists gone, he could start raiding the Abrion Sector agriworlds to finance his own little empire.”

“You don’t say,” Tier said matter-of-factly.

“Normally a matter left to the Navy, but I had a feeling the raids might inspire the locals to show their true colors. That perhaps a... special individual might make himself know in the conflict.”

Ah, Tier thought. “A Force user.”

“Precisely.”

“And did one?”

“As luck would have it, he did. I offered him a job with the right side, but he didn’t see things our way, unfortunately.”

“Oh dear,” Tier offered, regarding the hologram.

“Yes. Led a short rebellion, but we dealt with that. And with him,” Jerec said, casually brushing something off the shoulder of his tunic.

“I see. And how did you think I would fit into all this?”

“A man with your... practical understanding of the Force might have come in handy. Nothing specific.”

“Mm.”

“I understand you spoke to the woman... did you get a name? A master? Anything of interest?”

“No, not really, although I’m not much of an interrogator, truth be told. I can tell you that she’s human, about twenty-two or twenty-three, blonde hair, green eyes, hundred-seventy centimeters, and her lightsaber has a blue crystal. Her master was killed by Clonetroopers on Coruscant, or at least that's what she said.”

Jerec cocked his head, clearly unimpressed.

“Well, that narrows it down by exactly nothing.”

“My thoughts exactly. But I’m sure you’ll be able to do a more thorough job than I did.”

“Yes,” Jerec said, smiling again. Tier had to look away. There was something eerily wrong about this man, like his very existence imbalanced the universe. He met Ostney’s eyes as he looked over his shoulder. She swallowed, her lips set firmly in a subtle and surreptitious show of repugnance.

“Listen, um, Lord High Inquisitor...”

“Jerec, please,” he mewled.

“Jerec. Since we obviously have such a good rapport, you and I, I was wondering if you would be okay with me speaking to the woman again. You know, pump her for some additional info.” Jerec seemed to consider this.

“No,” he finally said. “That would be unwise. She could try to influence your mind... inflict who knows what kind of damage to you and your ship. Let us handle her. Please.”

***

Some time later, Tier still sat in the same chair, gnawing his forefinger as he considered something. He had just sent his personal condolences to Major Forrynq's family on Rendili, and the man's life weighed heavily on his shoulders.

“Caf?”

He looked up to find Ostney standing over him with two steaming mugs in her hands, offering one to him.

“Thanks, yeah,” Tier said after a pause, accepting the cup. He took a sip, but remained silent and distant.

“What do you suppose all that was about? That little spiel about the agriworld raids?”

“Hmm? Oh, he was just showing off. I was baiting him, trying to get him to tip his hand. I just want to know what we’re dealing with here.”

“I pulled the file on the raids. This Bomoor character really did a number on Hefi, Intuci, Molavar and a bunch of other places. Seems like Jerec and his buddies really are the lesser of two evils here," Ostney explained. When it became evident that no reply was forthcoming from Tier, she continued. "You know, we are all on the same side, sir. Us, the Inquisitorius, ISB, ImpIntel... we’re all after the same thing,” she said, leaning against a transceiver console as she cradled her caf. “You don’t have to scout them out like you’re fighting Seppies in some skirmish.”

“And what is that?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“What is it that we’re all after?”

Ostney paused to think about that, pursing her thin lips.

“Peace? Stability? I don’t know, sir. Personally, I think we’re all just trying to make a living. I doubt Jerec enjoys having to fight Jedi and throw them in dungeons any more than you do.”

Tier turned to face Ostney, eyes suddenly hard.

“Do you really believe that, Lieutenant?”

“No sir,” Ostney said after a pause, swallowing hard. “No sir, I don’t.”

“That’s what I thought,” Tier said, and they sipped their caf, unable to look each other in the eye.


***


Paranoid as he was, Jellis had completely forgotten to make note of the time when ‘Ayo’ had told him to wake her in four hours, but realized he could calculate when to wake the girl using the reversion countdown. He ate hastily, suddenly realizing he was starving, and waited for the countdown to read fourteen hours. He then walked gingerly back into the shuttle, and opened the ISW compartment.

He regarded the girl for a moment as she slept, her full, sensuous lips slightly parted and her chest rising and falling intermittently, and realized she was quite beautiful. Why is it you never see ugly Jedi?

“Ayo,” he said quietly, and instantly, her eyes fluttered open and darted around, finding his. She gave him a kind smile, one of trust and thankfulness. He had no idea how the girl could have trusted him to do as he said he would, but somehow, she did.

“Good morning,” she said. She looked and sounded better, but when she tried to move, it was obvious the stiffness and the pain were still very much present. She tried to brace herself against it, but fell limply in surrender.

“Any luck?” he asked.

“N-no, I... don’t think so,” she managed weakly. “I never was much good at healing trances.”

“I’m sorry,” Jellis offered.

“You are?”

The question took him somewhat aback, for one reason or another, but after consideration, he found that he could tell her the truth.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry that this whole damn thing had to happen the way it did, and I’m sorry the Jedi tried to kill the Chancellor, and that we had to kill you all, and that you ended up here, instead of escaping. I’m sorry my ship had ion cannons, and I’m sorry you couldn’t jump to hyperspace before we caught you, and...” Jellis found there were tears in his eyes, and he had to stop before his voice broke.

He put his hand over his eyes, then over his cheeks, then over his mouth, gripping his face hard as he shook his head. The tears welled out of his eyes and onto his hand.

“...and I’m just really, really sorry, Ayo. I am.”

But the girl just smiled.

“Shh, it’s okay, it really is. I’m sorry, too, but there’s nothing we can do. It’s the will of the Force.”

He slumped against a bulkhead. They waited in silence for a good minute or so.

“How old are you, anyway?” he asked.

“N-not sure,” Ayo said, thinking. “I was born nineteen years ago, but a lot of the... ships we used during the war had... experimental hyperdrives that never had time to get recalibrated. We’d jump and arrive months before we left, or months later, though only hours passed for us. When I first met my master, it was weeks after Geonosis, but he’d been fighting the war for two and a half years... I lost track. I could be fourteen, or I could be twenty-four. I have no idea.”

“You guys did flit around quite a bit. I don’t think I ever saw the same Jedi on the same planet twice.”

She managed a weak laugh, which devolved into a cough. Jellis felt guilty; every cough wracked her with pain.

“It was... miserable,” she said, voice full of wonder and confusion. “Why did we do it? It all seems so strange now. They wanted to secede, then we were spying on them, and they were executing Jedi, and we had to resuce them... it’s like... there was no beginning, and then an eternity – a whole lifetime! – of fighting came and went in... what, three years?”

“And one day.”

“Three years and one day,” she said, eyes distant, and Jellis could not help but marvel at the insanity of it all. “With no-one in control, and no-one able to stop it... the entire Galaxy, fighting itself. And how many died?” Jellis shuddered at the thought.

“Billions... trillions. Quadrillions.” There had been no official casualty assessment of the entire war, or if there was, it had been suppressed, but simple math usually put the estimates at several quadrillion lives, with a few particularly pessimistic Givin and Siniteen mathematicians placing the number as high as ten quadrillion or so.

“Looks like there’s about to be one more,” Ayo said softly.

Jellis rose to his feet and walked to the ISW compartment. He looked Ayo in the eye. She offered him her hand, and he gripped it silently.

“I would very much have wanted to fight beside you,” Jellis said.

“No... no,” she answered. “This is better. No fighting. Please. I’m so tired of fighting,” and he stayed with her until the end.

***

Tier was uncertain why it was he countermanded Jerec’s ‘request’ and went back to see the Jedi again. Maybe it was the fact that he’d never quite gotten an answer to his original question, but the more he thought about it, he realized that not only had his first chat with her just prompted more questions, but that he also had no idea what the original question was.

In the end, he supposed he was just curious. He’d never spoken to a Jedi before about anything other than warfare, and had a feeling he might never get the chance again.

The Jedi’s hair wafted around her head in the zero gravity, obscuring her face, save for her full, pale lips. They glistened in the half-light, parting occasionally to show perfect teeth.

“You came back,” the woman said.

“You know us clone boys. Couldn’t get enough of your heady perfume.”

She actually smiled.

“Good. I was enjoying our chat,” she said. Her hair danced about, suddenly changing the speed and general direction of its waft. Tier realized that an air recycler on her side of the viewport must have kicked in. The blonde locks spun and tumbled across her forehead, revealing her emerald eyes and her bruise, which had almost disappeared entirely.

“Tell me more about this darkness that’s coming for you,” Tier asked.

The woman closed her eyes.

“I have known it for some time, now. I have seen a great man coming to take me and reshape me, to mold me into what I have always been. A great, eyeless shadow of a man with a thirst for conquest and knowledge.”

“And what is it you think he can give you? Or gain from taking you?”

She opened her eyes and smiled again.

“Give me? Everything. Life. Myself. Gain from me? Hmmm.” She closed her eyes again. “I don’t know,” she said finally, opening her eyes. “A gateway, perhaps, a door to a new way of seeing things. I don’t know, but I think I have chosen not to know at some point, and forgotten.”

“You chose to forget?” Tier asked, incredulous. She smiled sensually, her eyes in a near-narcotic haze.

“Don’t you find that good things are so much better when you don’t know they’re coming?”

“I suppose,” Tier conceded. “But you haven’t gotten a look at your new boyfriend yet, and I have. He’s not ‘good things;’ in fact, he’s the kind of thing you’d like to forget and never remember. He lets pirates kill innocent people on the odd chance that one of the innocents will be crazy enough to join him. He wipes out entire planets because one person wouldn’t do him a favor. He kidnaps and tortures people for a living, and talks about it like he’s mulling over his lunch order.”

“We all serve the darkness one way or another,” she said, still smiling. “No-one can be expected to perform perfectly.”

“So what you’re saying is that what I just described to you isn’t evil enough?”

“Well, you serve the same darkness, do you not?”

Tier had no answer to that.

“Don’t worry. I won’t hold it against you that you have yet ascend to his level, just as I will wait patiently for him to become truly worthy,” the woman said, calm and content. “In fact, I would not dare deem him worthy if he did not even consider asking you to join him.”

***

Tier was halfway down the corridor when his comlink beeped.

“Yes?” he asked.

“It’s me,” Orverly’s voice said. “I thought you might like to know, our loyal comrades from the Imperial Inquisition are here.”

“They’re here?”

“Yes, and seem rather anxious to have a bit of a chinwag with our guest. Speaking of which, how was your date?”

“Oh, alright. We talked about our jobs, mostly. She seems to have this thing for powerful men, though; I can’t see us working out.”

“I’d love to hear all about it sometime later. Orverly out,” and the comlink beeped once more.

Tier stood alone in the dark corridor for a moment. Then, he took a deep breath, held it, and let it out before continuing on towards the detention foyer, hastening his pace without breaking into a run.



A Theta-class shuttle sat crouched in its landing configuration on the Condemnation’s hangar deck when Tier arrived, and a small delegation consisting of Ostney, Wellox, Korinor and a squad of Stormtroopers stood at attention in front of its ramp. The ramp was already down, and Tier broke into a brisk jog to take his place abreast of the three officers.

“Glad you could join us, sir,” Ostney said out of the corner of her mouth.

“What kept you?” Korinor asked, fidgeting nervously.

“Keep your kriffing socks on, both of you,” Tier said, slightly out of breath. Wellox and Ostney snickered.

But the beings that emerged from the shuttle brought an abrupt end to any jocularity among them. The first two were huge, hulking humanoids, clad in swaths of maroon cloth and bearing vicious-looking vibro-axes that looked big enough to cut a Stormtrooper in two with a single swing. They both wore spiked helmets over gauntlet-like face masks that completely concealed their features, save for pitch-dark recesses with glowing red points where their eyes should have been.

Following them came three ugly, arrogant-looking beings, one Human, one Tynnan and one Twi’lek, all of them wearing a hodgepodge of esoteric-looking armor, cloaks and robes and prominently displayed lightsabers on their belts.

For all of the first five beings’ exoticism and pomp, none of them had half the gravitas possessed by the last being. Jerec strode gently, almost effeminately, down the ramp, his black cloak dragging against the plating. He took a deep breath, as if smelling the air.

And then he smiled.

“Did it just get colder in here?” Ostney whispered.

“Senior Captain Tier!” Jerec called across the ten meters or so between the men. The hulking mutes with the vibro-axes and the lightsaber-wielding beings parted to make way for the middle-aged man as he strode toward the four officers. He stood less than a meter from them, appraising them somehow.

Then, much to Tier’s surprise, he extended his hand to Tier. Tier shook it without thinking.

“So that is what the hand of a man who can take down a Jedi Knight with nothing but two blunt objects feels like,” he said, shaking vigorously. “I would have use for you,” he said quietly to Tier, and to the clone’s disgust, he licked his lips.

“Thanks for the offer, friend, but I’m quite happy to stay here with my crew.”

“That is as I surmised,” Jerec said, and Tier’s world exploded into pain.

He fell to his knees as roaring waves of pain plowed through his muscles, and through the shock he felt a ripping sensation cut into his flesh. He crumpled awkwardly and was aware of a sickeningly warm wetness all over his torso; he looked down and realized his uniform was absolutely sodden with his own blood.

The sleeve of his tunic hung heavy with blood and the muscles of his upper arm and forearm, which he realized had been ripped clean off his bones by an invisible force. There was an awful crackle as his ribs and spine shattered, suddenly brittle, and blood shot through his nose and mouth as his skull collapsed into his mostly liquefied torso.

Somehow, he lived just long enough to see Jerec let go of his hand, and look around at the others in the hangar bay, totally ignoring him. His eyes were dissolving, but he could still hear dimly through his ruptured eardrums. Jerec was speaking.

“Let no man here think that a Jedi can be felled easily. We do not fall... unless we wish to be felled.”

***

“Was it quite necessary to kill the senior captain?” Dezix asked Jerec over the comlink. He sat in his office; Jerec’s face was on a screen in front of him. The screen was the only light in the room.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. There aren’t many of us left in the galaxy; a dedicated insurgency could easily take down the Emperor and the rest of us if the hardline loyalists in the military think we’re easy to kill or capture,” Jerec explained from on board the Morningstar. The Jedi woman was already aboard, and the Inquisitorius ships were almost ready to jump into hyperspace.

“Believe me, it wasn’t easy. She did kill three people, you know, as well as injuring a fourth,” Dezix countered. Jerec seemed to mull this over.

“There are... other reasons. The Emperor needs to send a message: Jedi are dangerous, and should not be approached or confronted unless it is by one of us. We need to make this common knowledge. Also, there are... concerns that the first batch of clones could prove too independent-minded in the long run. Frankly, any convenient oppurtunity to kill a first-generation Tipoca City clone cannot be passed up at this point.”

“Mm. I just wished you hadn’t had to liaison with me quite so much. I’m half-afraid someone’ll cut my throat while I sleep; everyone thinks he was killed because of me! My job is pretty much impossible at this point. I’ll have to sleep with my door locked ‘til we get back to Vogel, and even then, I’ll have a hard time getting another assignment.”

“You could always go back to Prakith. With us,” Jerec said, and as Dezix watched, an ornate-looking, floating, glowing cage was pushed into view by one of the Inquisitor’s mysterious travelling companions. The Jedi woman lay crouched within, naked and shivering, clearly scared out of her mind.

“No thanks,” Dezix said.

“Very well; we shall be in touch. I’m told the Emperor is looking for loyal minds to crew Tarkin’s new battlestation, with Yularen in charge of the Security Bureau complement. I’ll see that your name floats to the top of the transfer list,” Jerec said, and turned over his shoulder. “Helmsman, jump the ship,” he called, and the image fizzled and distorted until the hyperspace jump tore them out of comlink range, dissolving the image altogether. The screen went black.

Dezix sat alone in the dark, brooding.





At Sluis Van Shipyards Umbilical Dock Senth-Nine-Eight-Aurek, Captain Klevin Jellis stood and handed the deck officer a datapad.

“That’s the report, is it?” the officer said.

“Yes,” Jellis responded dimly. The officer scanned the report.

“No way. A total write-off?”

“Afraid so,” Jellis said, looking back as a docking crane retrieved the scorched shuttle from within the Impasse, telescoping back through the massive umbilical to place the shuttle on a maintenance platform.

“Really? Not a single salvageable item?”

“That’s what the deck chief said,” Jellis said, hoping the forged holosignature would stand the other man’s scrutiny.

“Wow. Well, I guess we’d better put it in one of the matter detonators, then.”

“I guess you’d better.”

Jellis stared at the shuttle for a long time before the officer broke his reverie.

“You seem tired. Long flight?”

“Yes. Exhausting, really,” Jellis said, and holding back the tears was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.