Force Exile V: Warrior/Part 5

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Ariada walked slowly through the featureless white halls of one of Haxares’ corridors, making sure to keep her eyes directed towards the white floor tiles. The guards’ attire was also white, and beyond the heavily-secured confines of the compound, the landscape was nothing but the endless icy white wastes. The overload of that single color was enough to give her a headache. In contrast, her jumpsuit was a bright red, meaning that she and any other prisoner held at Haxares stood out at all times. The incessant saturation of white was a sensible security measure but it was also disturbing to the eye. Even the food tended to be white. Metaphorically, it was as if Haxares sought to cure those interned there by submerging them in light, both the glaring ubiquitous white of the surroundings and counselors trained in the light side of the Force.

She’d passed six weeks in this miserable location. Six wretched weeks. Her only interpersonal contact had been with counselors and guards—the prisoners were kept carefully separated such that she hadn’t had a glimpse of any of the others. Another security precaution. She’d endured counseling session after counseling session where she was encouraged to express herself and evaluate the merit of her actions. She’d been reminded of the contentment she had once had in her service to the light side of the Force and how her life had been ruined after deserting that devotion. Ariada had been openly defiant at first, but the constant grind of the sessions and the omnipresent white had worn down her resistance to the point where she just nodded glibly when the counselor started pontificating and pretended like she cared.

The only thing that made the counseling sessions bearable was the ability to use the Force. Granted she was monitored by at least three counselors who could subdue her without moving a muscle—and would if she tapped into the dark side—but it was the Force. Most of Haxares was under the influence of Force-repelling ysalamiri, making the detention area a Force-free bubble. Ariada knew what it was like to be inside a ysalamiri zone, but to be submerged in it for prolonged periods of time was crippling. For that reason, many of the Haxares guards were not Force-sensitive so they did not have to endure the torment of being Force-blind. She couldn’t decide which was worse: the incessant barrage of white or the inability to call on the Force at will.

The door hissed open, admitting her and the two guards flanking her into a large round room that served as the main counseling area. It was constructed to vaguely resemble a garden and gave an appearance of being outside thanks to a clear transparisteel dome that served as the ceiling. The sparse potted plants with their pale violet leaves and the cloudless azure blue of the sky were a relief to Ariada’s color-starved eyes. As she walked into the open area in the middle, she felt herself step free of the Force-damping radius of the ysalamiri. A wave of joy swept over her as she felt her contact to the energy field return. She would never take color or the Force for granted again after this place.

“Welcome, Ariada,” Counselor Trilvillai told her. “How are you today?”

A tall stately Quermian, Trilvillai was also an experienced Jal Shey Mentor. His species’ natural diplomatic manner and telepathy had been honed by years of studying the Force, making him hard to deceive and quick to rebuke any trace of rebellion or defiance. At the same time, he displayed concern and regret for her. If Ariada had wished to be cured of her dark inklings, she could have asked for no better guide than Trilvillai. As it was, she thought he was wasting his time. He knew that she scorned his efforts, yet still held out hope for her reform.

“Nothing new,” she replied curtly.

“Have a seat,” he told her, gesturing to one of the benches that were solidly anchored down to the ground to prevent them from being snatched up with the Force and hurled.

She complied, sitting at a bench near a table that was built into the stone flooring. Not far away, a bubbling fountain splashed and gurgled; the sound of the water was supposed to be soothing. The Quermian sat across from her on a bench opposite the table and Ariada waited for him to start yet another boring counseling session she endured only because it allowed her to obtain brief snatches of color and the Force.

“I am not going to ask you questions today, Ariada,” Trilvillai told her. “Nor am I going to engage you in debate or ask you to contemplate yourself.”

Ariada was puzzled, but didn’t ask him what he had in mind. No need to play along with whatever little game he’d concocted.

“I simply want you to express yourself,” Trilvillai told her, placing a lightweight plastic sphere too flimsy to be used as a weapon on the table. “Use the Force if you want to. Use your hands. Use whatever you see fit. You may even use the water if you desire. That is all I ask of you today, that you simply enjoy the act of creating something solely for its beauty.”

Ariada gave him a skeptical look, but decided to humor the Quermian. If he’d let her get off with a little arts and crafts instead of psychoanalysis, she certainly wasn’t about to turn it down, so she picked up the storage sphere. Opening it, she saw that it was filled with pale golden sparkleflower blossoms and the sight brought a faint smile to her face. She’d always liked the delicate five-petaled blossoms, how the tiny crystals in the petals could catch sunlight and make the flower glitter.

“They are from my garden,” Trilvillai told her. “I’m surprised at how effective they are at cheering me after a hard day.”

Ariada nodded, then extended a hand. A stream of the delicate flower blossoms rose out of the sphere into the air. She twitched a finger and they formed themselves into a halo of golden sparkling flowers. Ariada spun the halo around, expanding it as she used her mind to pull more of the blossoms into the ring. It was gorgeous, how they caught the sunlight as she manipulated them with the Force.

“They’re beautiful,” she said.

“I remember you mentioning that you liked sparkleblossoms in our last session when I was discussing my garden,” he answered affably.

She found herself wanting to see the most beautiful thing she could make with the sparkleflower blossoms, in spite of herself. It had been weeks since Ariada had done something purely for the sake of doing it and now she was willing to indulge herself in a little fun. She walked over to the fountain and splashed water droplets into the ring of sparkleflower blossoms. As she’d hoped, her telekinesis allowed her to mingle the water droplets in between the sparkleflowers such that the water caught the reflected sunlight and glittered.

As enjoyment swept through her, Ariada let herself go. Her mind weaving complex patterns, she formed the mixture of water droplets and flower petals into geometrical shapes and fractal patterns, intricate creations of beautiful symmetry and dazzling creativity. There was beauty in the art. After weeks of being deprived from anything she would consider beautiful, it was there in front of her and the sight was almost overwhelming. The pure splendor of what she was making evoked a sense of awe and despite herself, she was enjoying it.

Then she looked over and saw Trilvillai sitting there watching her contently. The Quermian had accomplished his goal; she was enjoying herself in the joy of creation, separated from her ambitions, schemes, and festering anger. He’d distracted her. Indignation at being manipulated and subtly tricked into setting aside her drive filled her. Cursing herself under her breath, her smile vanished instantly. She froze the ring of flowers and water droplets in place so she was looking through it at Trilvillai.

“What happens to these blossoms now?” she said. “They are going to die, because you have separated them from that which sustains them. Within a few hours, their beauty will fade and diminish. They will cease to fulfill their intended purpose.”

“What if their intended purpose was simply to bring a smile to your face and a brief release from that which imprisons you?” Trilvillai replied calmly. “If they can achieve that good, they have done more than they would have if they had remained on the stem for another week.”

She shook her head as the old resentment swept back into her spirit.

“The blossoms were cut off before they could reach their prime and repurposed for a plaything for an insolent prisoner. That is what the Yuuzhan Vong are doing to civilizations—cutting them off and using them for their own malicious purposes. They are destroying the galaxy to suit their whims.”

Trilvillai sighed, then extended a gray four-fingered hand. The blossoms funneled down into the storage sphere.

“They will not be wasted, Ariada. I will dry them and use them to prepare a fragrance. I had hoped they would bring you joy, and for a little while, they did. Since they bother you, though, they will not return on our next session.”

Ariada hesitated. Her point aside, the sparkleflowers had been beautiful. Using the Force to create art, to form beauty in a place otherwise devoid of it had been a euphoric release. While it was a distraction from her purpose, she couldn’t see the point of denying herself a simple pleasure when she could do little to enact her plans at the moment anyway.

“I would not like to be the cause of your flowers’ despoiling,” she said stiffly. “Though they are beautiful.”

The Quermian inclined his long, slender neck slightly, then fixed her bulbous eyes on her.

“Then I shall bring only those which fall off the plant,” he said. “There will be fewer, but they will be more precious and will not detract from the plant’s wellbeing. Would that be acceptable?”

Ariada nodded and Trilvillai gave her a broad smile. His hand gestured towards the sphere and four sparkleblossom flowers floated up to nestle in her hair.

“They are a gift,” he said. “Treasure them while they last, but do not spare your regret on them when they pass. They are doing what they were meant to do.”

Ariada dipped her head in acknowledgment, then rose to go. Trivillai smiled after her.

“Until next time, Ariada,” he told her.

She looked over her shoulder at him and actually smiled back, the first time she’d done so.

“I don’t think I have any other engagements,” Ariada replied.

He took her answer in good stride, seemingly cheered just by the simple smile. Trilvillai was no doubt pleased just to see her smile again without being sardonic, and the fact that it stayed on her face as she was escorted back to her quarters, gently cradling one of the delicate sparkleflower blossoms in her hand, probably elated the counselor further.

Of course, while he could read minds and emotions fairly well, the Quermian could not read the intent behind them. To him, her happiness stemmed from being able to experience the beauty of sparkleblossoms and to have something that wasn’t white or red in her possession. While that was part of the cause, Ariada had yet to reveal her mind fully to the Quermian about anything. She wasn’t about to start now.


 * Ord Pardron

Cassi watched as a column of tattered, despondent refugees trudged out of the camp. They were the lucky ones, those who had found passage offworld. While she doubted they would be better off elsewhere, she was ashamed to admit her relief as there was now about nine hundred fewer mouths to feed. The supply deliveries were as erratic as ever and her workers had been foregoing their own meals to help sustain the desperate refugees with a bland but nourishing gruel made of enriched starches and water. The filtration and sanitation systems, meager as they were, had quickly been overwhelmed, such that the current drinking water was coming dangerously close to contaminated. Efforts to maintain hygiene had been hampered at best—all signs of the difficulty in maintaining a refugee camp without sufficient logistical support. For that reason, Open Hands had been trying to shuttle people out of this camp as quickly as possible. It would be down to a reasonable amount of occupants within a few weeks, freeing her up to go home to rest for a bit—or more likely, to another trouble spot where she was needed the most.

I can’t just go home back to my easy life on Yanibar with all this suffering out here, Cassi thought. ''I can’t just leave them behind. ''

She wrapped her jacket around herself tightly as she trudged back to the compound where the Open Hands workers stayed. Night was falling and so was the temperature. A stiff breeze whistled through the camp, chilling her even through her garments. She shivered, then suddenly noticed a faint shadow behind her, but she sensed nothing in the Force. Worry crept through her—if it was an enemy, she had left her lightsaber in her office. At last, she could bear it no more.

Cassi turned to see the comforting outline of J7’s silhouette illuminated by his twin photoreceptors. She exhaled a sigh of relief, expelling her anxiety with it.

“Goodness, J7, you scared me,” she said. “Why not just get my attention?”

“I beg pardon, Mistress Cassi,” the droid replied. “You looked deep in thought and I did not wish to interrupt your concentration.”

“It’s fine,” Cassi told him, dispelling any remaining tension. “What do you need?”

“There’s a man here looking for someone, but not by name,” J7 answered. “He asked to speak with the one who already believes without seeing. He mentioned something about the one who sees the hope of the future. None of the other workers have any idea what he is talking about—do you?”

Cassi’s face paled. That had been the description that several Force ghosts had given to her decades ago on a distant planet. Either somebody had done serious research on her and learned of history only known to her immediate family, or the knowledge had been granted to this person by the Force.

“Take me to him,” she instructed J7.

The droid nodded.

“I’ll bring him to your office,” he said. “Please be careful, Mistress. He seemed very mysterious.”

Cassi stared off into the distance, lost in thought, and gave no reply as she walked into her office. Her earlier visions made her wonder if the mystery man was the one she had seen. As she entered, she retrieved her lightsaber and clipped it onto her belt—better to be safe than sorry. Sitting behind her desk, she tried to steel herself against whatever entered her door, without much success. A few minutes later, she sensed a powerful Force-sensitive approaching. As he reached the door, Cassi heard a metallic knock from J7.

“Come in,” she said.

The door slid open to admit J7 and a tall, brawny man, the man from her vision. He was wearing the same flowing trousers and armored vest that she remembered and his gray hair was braided into a long ponytail. His face was craggy and weathered, but while there was an intense gleam in his silver eyes, she sensed no malice from him.

“I’m Cassi Trealus,” she said, using her maiden name as an alias for security. “Would you care to sit down? J7 tells me you are looking for somebody.”

“No,” he answered, his voice a raspy baritone. “I have found who I am looking for.”

“Excuse me?” she replied, one hand twitching towards her lightsaber hilt.

“It is you,” he said, locking his eyes onto hers. “I have traveled the stars looking for you, following the trail of the Force.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Cassi answered cautiously.

“Do not deny it!” he protested. “You have seen visions, haven’t you? Visions of me, perhaps?”

Cassi hesitated, but she could sense no hostility in the man, just a burning intensity, a purpose almost to the point of obsession. He was the man in her visions and unless he had somehow instigated them, there was no way for him to know that she’d been having them—she hadn’t even told Sarth or Milya.

“Yes,” she admitted. “But I don’t know what they mean. Each time, you appear in the midst of ruin on my homeworld and tell me to seek of a place called Atlaradis. What does that mean? Where is that?”

She leaned in closer to look searchingly at him.

“Most importantly, who are you?”

The man met her gaze and returned it.

“My name is Mithunir,” he said in his oddly flowing accent. “I am a Master Shaper of Kro Var, a wielder of what you would call the Force. For months now, I have been following visions which led me here.”

“Visions of what?”

“Of a gate in the sky,” Mithunir responded. “A passageway to Atlaradis.”

“Which you still haven’t told me what that is,” Cassi said.

“It is a legendary planet among my people,” Mithunir explained. “The first elders saw visions of it centuries ago and passed them down. It is a planet of peace, rich with life and protected from harm. Some say it is the cradle of the Force itself. Others say that the voices of our ancestors beckon to them from it.”

“How do you know it exists?” Cassi asked.

Mithunir looked wistful as he replied.

“Two years ago, I saw my father in a vision. He was walking on Atlaradis. He told me to meet him there and to seek the one who believes. He showed me what you look like and told me you were the only way to finding it. That is how I know.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Cassi said, frowning.

“Cassi Trealus, my father has been dead for nineteen years now,” Mithunir elaborated, his voice thick with emotion. “It is said among my people that Atlaradis is the final destination for my people, for all who use the Force for good. Will you help me find it?”

“I would if I could,” Cassi replied regretfully. “But aside from the visions, I don’t even know what the planet is.”

“The planet does not exist in any galactic registry currently available,” J7 interjected. “I have performed a thorough search.”

Mithunir looked scornfully at the droid.

“Of course not,” he answered sourly. “It is a hidden planet. What would be the point of looking for it if the government already knew where it was?”

“I wish I could help,” Cassi told him. “But while I appreciate your confidence in my. . . ability to assist you in your search, I wouldn’t have any idea where to begin. And I am needed here.”

“Cassi Trealus, you must listen to me,” Mithunir told her gravely. “I am not looking for Atlaradis just for me or my people. It is for you and your people as well. Haven’t your visions told you that?”

“The future is in motion,” Cassi said. “My people have weathered many storms already.” “So you will not help me?” Mithunir asked.

“I’m not sure how I could,” Cassi told him. “If there’s anything specific I could do to help, let me know, but I can’t just leave my responsibilities here and wander the stars with you.”

“Nor would I allow that,” J7 put in.

Mithunir nodded curtly.

“I understand. You are not ready yet,” he said. “I have wandered months to find you; I can wait a few more days.”

“Until what?” Cassi asked suspiciously.

“Until your responsibilities are lifted from you,” Mithunir told her. “It would be best if your people, as well as any you wish to save, would leave here as soon as possible, while you come with me.”

“That’s just not possible,” Cassi told him. “For a number of valid reasons.”

Mithunir shrugged lightly.

“Valid for now,” he said. “I am in no hurry.”

“What are you getting at? What are you going to do?” Cassi questioned him.

“I will do nothing, nor will I cause anything to happen,” Mithunir replied. “I have foreseen that you and I will search for Atlaradis—but how that comes to pass is not something I can influence.”

“We’ll see about that,” Cassi said matter-of-factly. “The future is in motion and visions can be misleading. You are welcome to stay here and share what provisions we have—but I won’t tolerate any trouble.” “Of course,” he said. “I will not be a disturbance.”

He rose to leave and headed for the door, but stopped short before leaving.

“Visions are not the only thing that can be misleading, Cassi Trealus,” he called back to her over his shoulder. “Trusting in safety and security can be as well.”

With that, Mithunir swung the primitive metal door open and strode out into the windy night.


 * Rishi

“No thanks, I don’t need a new speeder,” Ryion said dismissively, brushing off the pushy Chadra-Fan salesman who’d been accosting him. “Or an almost-new one either.”

The alien chattered an insulting reply after him, but Ryion ignored him and moved on purposefully. He had other business to attend to.

The narrow streets of Rishi’s towns were normally crowded, but now, in the late evening, they were even more swollen with people trying to find ways to spend their leisure time. In Ryion’s three weeks on Rishi, he’d managed to pass himself off as a fairly humble toymaker of modest means. His limited knowledge of the subject was passable, and he blamed wartime supplier disruptions for his extremely limited variety. His disguise had also allowed him access to the refugee camps after some explaining to the local authorities. By treating both his refugees and Rishian customers well along with donations to many Chalactan children, he’d earned a reputation for being a fair and honest salesman, which had opened a surprising number of doors for him.

For now, though, he wanted to leave that clean reputation behind and be a little more furtive. He’d been careful his first few weeks on Rishi, making sure he wasn’t being followed or under surveillance. Satisfied that nobody was keeping persistent tabs on him, he was now ready to avail himself of a YGI contact that had been pre-positioned on the planet before he’d arrived.

Ryion stopped and checked the coordinates he’d been given, scowling with dismay at the location where the contact had arranged to meet him. He’d arrived at a seedy-looking multistory building, the masonry crumbling and dirty. Even from ten meters away, the sour smell of intoxicants mingled with the stuffy fragrance of perfumes. A flickering pink neon holo listed the establishment’s name as the dubious-sounding “Fleshly Tales.” Ryion frowned, then pulled his cloak tighter around himself and walked in.

The lobby was dark and the smells only intensified as soon as he stepped inside. He looked around as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, which was punctuated only by muted, flickering pink glow panels placed strategically to catch the silhouettes of dancers gyrating suggestively on elevated stages. Ryion could have used the Force to sense how many people were inside, but in this cesspool of sentient existence, he preferred not to absorb or sense the auras of the occupants.

“Hey good looking, what can I do for you?” a sultry female voice startled him out of his introspection.

Ryion turned to see a pink-skinned female Zeltron looking at him expectantly. She was wearing a sheer low-cut poncho slit to expose most of her thigh.

“I’m looking for someone,” he answered.

She smiled vivaciously and strode forward, her mane of curly black hair swaying as she sidled up next to him.

“Well, you found me,” she whispered into his ear as she ran one pink hand down his chest. “My name’s Ellaya.”

Ryion rolled his eyes and gently removed her arm from his chest.

“That’s very nice, but I’m here on business,” he said, trying to disengage himself from the bold Zeltron.

“Me too and your pleasure is my business,” Ellaya replied, tracing a fingers down his arm. “Speaking of pleasure, what’s yours?”

Ryion reddened in spite of himself. While he’d heard stories about the infamous licentiousness of Zeltrons, this was his first actual exposure to one. He was weighing his options on how to remove the Zeltron from his arm without causing a commotion when suddenly a loud male voice bellowed raucously from the depths of the dance area. Ryion breathed a sigh of relief. That must be his contact.

“Matrik Tenzor! What are you standing there for? Come on in and get a drink!”

The call drew both his and Ellaya’s attention and Ryion was quicker to react, slipping away from her before she could cling onto his arm.

“Not today,” he whispered to her as he left her behind and made his way over to the source of the voice.

Or ever, he thought.

“Over here,” a burly four-armed Besalisk called, beckoning him to a booth in the same hideous shade of bright pink as the rest of the place.

The alien was dressed slovenly and his light brown skin smelled of intoxicants. Ryion gave him a dubious look but sat down next to him reluctantly. The Besalisk belched, then nodded at him.

“I’m Jervnik. You look worn. Get you a drink?”

Ryion shook his head.

“I’d have to be a lot thirstier before I drank something from here,” he replied curtly.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” the Besalisk assured him with a wink. “Ellaya over there makes a great Eyeblaster. That’s not all she makes, either.”

“The information,” Ryion cut him off. “I’m here for information.”

“Of course,” the Besalisk replied. “We should go somewhere a little more private.”

The hulking Jervnik lumbered to his feet unsteadily, then made his way out the door, calling compliments and obscene remarks to the scantily-clad dancers in the club or alternately roaring insults at other patrons. Once they were in the alley behind the dive, the Besalisk immediately abandoned his gregarious mannerisms. Instead, he checked around to make sure no-one was eavesdropping, even activating a distortion bubble generator to guarantee no electronic snooping was occurring.

“You want to know I am who I say I am?” the alien surmised.

“That’s right, and the answer had better be cleaner than a Naboo starship,” Ryion said, uttering one of several pre-arranged statements where the Besalisk had to reply properly in order to prove his identity.

“Is that before or after the Gungans are done with it?” Jarvnik chuckled, scratching his scraggly whiskers. “Satisfied?”

Ryion touched the alien with the Force, but sensed no deception, so he nodded.

“All right. I’ve already met with the other members of your team and given them their black cases. Their covers are intact and they are executing their missions. I have to say, I was expecting someone else for your fourth member.”

Due to the Ariada’s sudden expulsion from the team, there hadn’t been time to assign a fourth person to the team, and Selu had not liked the idea of sending Ryion and his team out down one member. Instead, Selu had assigned Morgedh to journey to Rishi with them, but left Ryion in charge as the leader. While it felt weird to order around his superior, Ryion also suspected that Morgedh was there to monitor him and the others.

“Things got complicated back home and people were shuffled around,” Ryion answered vaguely.

“Need to know, I got it,” he said. “Speaking of that, what do you need to know?”

“I need a brief on local sentiment and the possibility of Yuuzhan Vong agents here,” Ryion said.

“Tensions are high,” Jarvnik told him. “The arrival of those Chalactan refugees has strained resources and reminded people of the galactic war going on. As if it wasn’t crowded enough already. The government is trying to keep the people calm and get their help in taking care of the refugees, but that’s not easy. The fact that a bunch of military-type volunteers who are sort of guarding the Chalactans are here also means that it’s hard to get an idea of who might be Vong or Peace Brigade.”

“Do you think the Vong have found them already?” Ryion asked.

“I couldn’t tell you,” the Besalisk said. “I haven’t seen any of the usual indicators of an underworld leak, like certain smugglers disappearing because they know the place is about to be pounded. Security’s pretty porous though.”

Jarvnik shrugged his massive shoulders.

“It’s only a matter of time before the Vong get here and they’re practically defenseless. I can’t tell you if there’s a leak in the government, either.”

Ryion frowned.

“I thought you had connections.”

“I do,” Jarvnik assured him. “But my government connections are either very low with the easily-corrupted or very high. I don’t have much reach into the middling bureaucrats where a leak could happen and people would stand to gain enough from it to make it worth their while. But don’t worry about that.”

“Why not?” Ryion asked.

“Because you now have that reach,” Jarvnik said, slipping something into Ryion’s hand.

“What is this?” Ryion asked, examining the slim datacard.

“The governor is having a charity ball soon. This is a pass to that ball. The governor’s chief of staff owed me a favor and I told him there was this selfless offworld toymaker going around giving away toys who really ought to be invited. It’s in two days.”

“What?” Ryion protested. “I don’t have anything that I could wear to a ball.”

“Relax, lad. I’m a tailor by trade. Come by tomorrow and I’ll have something ready. The next day, the alterations will be done. This isn’t Coruscant; it doesn’t have to be immaculate.”

“They’re not having balls on Coruscant any more,” Ryion reminded him.

“Heh, good point,” Jarvnik commented, losing some of his cheeriness at Ryion’s sobering reply.

“Also, you expect me to go to a ball alone? How awkward will that be?” Ryion asked. “My otherwise eligible associate is. . . undercover for the next few days and she can’t help.”

Jarvnik grinned widely at him.

“You humans and your weird social rules. Hmm. Well, I could ask if Ellaya is available,” he offered. “I bet she might even give you a discount. . .”

Ryion rolled his eyes.

“Never mind,” he said. “Just get me the coordinates to your shop. I’ll stop by tomorrow evening.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Jarvnik teased as he handed him a piece of flimsi with numbers scrawled on it.

“It never starts that way,” Ryion mumbled.

Without giving the Besalisk a chance to reply, he swept his cloak around him and strode off down the narrow street into the twilight gloom.


 * Yanibar

The simulator hatch hissed and slid open, allowing Jasika to scramble free from its cramped confines. The back of her uniform jumpsuit was stained with sweat and her hair was matted and tangled beneath her helmet from hours of training, and she slowly shook free the tension in her arms as she climbed out. It had been a good exercise, but exhausting. Her squadron had been tasked with flying an assault on a Yuuzhan Vong boarding action, defeating the Vong frigate and its attendant coralskippers without damaging the captured transport.

Around her, the other pilots were beginning to emerge from their simulator cockpits that were positioned in two rows along a lengthy training hall. Each simulator was actually an old cockpit from retired Yanibar Guard starfighters, removed from the fighter and retrofitted with the appropriate instrumentation for simulations, which afforded a more realistic training environment. There were two dozen simulators in this hall alone, enough for two full squadrons to train simultaneously, and all of them were the distinctively sleek canopies of YGF’s workhorse fighter, the Sabre. An elevated walkway separated the two rows and strategically-placed holo-projectors allowed instructors to view the performance of several pilots either via viewing the simulation or by watching a holocam built into each cockpit.

Jasika sat on the side of the cockpit and pulled off her helmet in order to run her fingers through her hair. As expected, it was in total disarray. She’d have to see about getting it cut. Distracted by this thought, she lingered before following the rest of the pilots towards the briefing room where their performance would be graded.

Overall, her unit had done well, though her numbers had been lackluster, missing out on several kills and taking additional damage in order to protect fellow pilots in danger. They had accomplished their mission, though with less-than-stellar performance. Individually, her score would be less than its usual high marks.

Suddenly, she realized that a shadow had fallen over her and she looked to see a stern-looking officer, a stocky male Zabrak, watching her intently. Startled and abashed, she stood up straight and saluted.

“Sublieutenant Knrr, sir. Can I help you?”

The Zabrak looked amused.

“Quite possibly,” he said. “Are you currently occupied?”

“I’m supposed to be heading to debriefing and review,” she replied.

He waved it off, and Jasika realized that he was ranked a commander. A squadron commander’s rank. Curiously, he had no namepatch to identify him.

“I watched your performance during the sim. We can discuss that on the way and you’ll get the same information you would have gotten from instructors in half the words.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, not sure what he was talking about or who he was.

“Come with me,” he ordered, his tone polite, but firm. “I think we have a great deal to talk about.”

Jasika obediently scrambled out of the simulator area and followed him as he set off at a brisk pace out of the training hall.

“Your performance was better than the numbers showed,” he commented. “You gave up some kills and tactical opportunities to cover some of the other pilots.”

She said nothing, which prompted the Zabrak to look over his shoulder at her. When she still gave no reply, he shrugged and continued.

“Good work with that,” he said. “It takes a lot of situational awareness to show that kind of discipline. Good quality to have in a flyer.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jasika answered, still following him doggedly as he led her out of the training facility and across the base.

“You also deliberately drew the attention of the enemy fliers away from your squadron when they were making their assault runs. Very selfless, not to mention risky. Your tactic allowed your squadmates enough time to disable the frigate.”

“It wasn’t a perfect tactic, sir. I lost my wingmate and the coralskippers went back to engage the squad as they finished their assault runs, which cost us another three pilots.”

The Zabrak chuckled as he ushered her into a large dimly-lit hangar, beckoning towards a staircase on the interior that led up to a row of offices overlooking the main floor. Jasika saw that the landing surface was fully occupied by a dozen starfighters, but in the darkness could not make out their type from the silhouettes. She waited for the officer to explain his mirth as they ascended the staircase, but no answer was immediately forthcoming.

“What’s so funny, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?”

The Zabrak turned back to give her another amused smile as he reached the top of the stairs.

“I should hope that those coralskippers cost you heavily,” he said. “They were my pilots, and that was the least they could do after taking the bait you gave them.”

Jasika looked startled as he accessed the office door with a retinal scanner.

“I thought it was just a sim, that we had computer opponents.”

“Our coralskipper simulators aren’t an exact replica when it comes to the true characteristics of the Vong craft,” the commander admitted. “Analysis shows that they still have room for improvement, but they are a decent simulacrum.”

Jasika frowned.

“I didn’t even know YGF had coralskipper simulators.”

“You’ll find that we can be full of surprises,” he said cryptically.

The commander opened the door and admitted them into the office. It was fairly spacious, with a window that overlooked the hangar floor. A mammoth desk consumed one corner of it, with a refrigeration unit occupying the other corner. The walls were laden with decorations, commendations, and various starfighter pilot memorabilia. A flag with an unfamiliar squadron insignia was draped on the wall behind the desk as a backdrop for the officer as he sat down behind his desk. Jasika also noticed that, aside from a typical-looking datapad, there were wooden models of a Sabre and a B-wing on the commander’s desk.

“Speaking of surprises,” she said. “Can I ask what I’m doing here, sir? Or at the very least, who you are? Or is that classified?”

“It is, but you have the appropriate clearance level,” he said.

“Sir?” she replied, confused.

She hadn’t been notified of any particular upgrade in her clearance-status by YGF’s central personnel computer.

“It’s not a mistake,” he assured her. “I put in the approval myself about ten minutes ago.”

By this point, Jasika had had about enough of his secrecy. Commander or not, she was tired of being led around by this enigmatic officer.

“Sir, could you just skip to the point of all this? I didn’t sign up for YGI, so I’m not interested in all the secrecy.”

“Have a seat, Sublieutenant,” he replied.

She complied, frowning at him.

“You’re here because the squadron voted to consider you.”

“Squadrons don’t get to vote who gets assigned to them,” Jasika countered.

“You’re right, in most cases,” the Zabrak said. “But not in my outfit.”

Jasika was nonplussed.

“And exactly what outfit is that, sir?”

He gave her a knowing smile.

“Paladin Squadron.”

Jasika paled. Paladin Squadron was rumored to be the most elite starfighter unit in the Yanibar Guard Fleet. While it existed in the YGF database, there was no unit contact information, list of members, or recent unit history there. A subject of considerable debate among younger pilots, some trainees had suggested that it was a myth or it had been disbanded or it was an all-Force-user unit separate from YGF’s structure. There was no way to confirm that such a squadron existed without actually knowing one of its members, as Jasika now did, apparently.

“I’m Commander Jarshek Mada, Paladin Lead.”

He slid forward an identichip emblazoned with the YGF seal that listed his credentials and identifiers.

“We do actually exist in the system, just in a part that’s off-limits to most everyone, for security reasons,” he assured. “And as for your other question, you’re here because we voted to offer you a slot in the squadron.”

“This is a joke, right?” she replied. “I’m barely out of advanced flight school and I still have another five and a half months with the training squadron, sir. Not exactly a prime candidate for the Paladins.”

“You’re already an experienced flyer,” Mada noted. “You have twenty years experience flying small freighters, including combat experience against both pirates and the Yuuzhan Vong, isn’t that right?”

“Correct, sir, but—,”

“You also graduated from the Yanibar Civil Spaceflight Academy with the highest marks in every subject, didn’t you?”

She sighed.

“Correct, sir, but—,”

“And lastly, your primary flight instructors were your mother, Sheeka Tull Kraen, and Master Selusda Kraen, weren’t they? In fact, you actually graduated from basic starfighter training after being covertly enrolled at the age of seventeen, didn’t you?”

Now Jasika looked shocked.

“How did you know about that, sir?”

“I told you we were full of surprises,” replied Commander Mada. “I’ll be blunt, Jasika,” he said. “We’ve been watching for a new pilot to fill our ranks for quite some time, but most of the ones we’d be interested in are quite happy where they are—they’re on track to become squadron commanders within a few years, and most of the elite pilots are already well-placed in units of their own. We needed a pilot with very special qualifications, ones that you match.”

“Namely, combat experience against the Yuuzhan Vong,” she inferred.

“That’s a high priority, yes,” Mada said. “We know that you’re new to starfighters, but we’ll be doing intense training over the next few months due to some major changes that we can work you into. You’re under no obligation to say yes, but what I’m offering you is a slot in literally YGF’s finest. We all think you’re good enough, despite the lack of experience and your relative age. We’ve been quietly watching and flying against you for several weeks now.”

“So you guys are like the Cresh Squad of YGF,” she said slowly. “I’ve been around that kind of environment and the intensity of that unit is something I don’t think I’ll be able to match. It’s not just the skill of the pilot, it’s their drive, sir.”

“You joined YGF because you wanted to hurt the Vong, because you wanted to defend the people you love,” Commander Mada said flatly. “I’m offering you a chance to be on the frontlines of that defense and actually fight them. Somehow I doubt intensity will be a problem.”

“I see you’ve read my psych eval, sir,” Jasika remarked drily.

“Is that a surprise?” he asked.

“I suppose it really shouldn’t be by now,” she answered remorsefully. “Thanks, but I’m still not convinced. I’ve seen the mentality that these elite units have to have in order to perform the way they do, and it changes you.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to make the assumption that YGF functions the same way that YGA does,” Mada replied. “Don’t judge us based on your husband’s unit.”

“Of course not, sir,” Jasika said insincerely.

“You have a few days to consider the offer,” Mada told her. “But before you go, do you know what a Maelstrom is?”

“A weather phenomena, sir?”

“Not exactly what I had in mind,” Mada answered.

Hitting a switch on his desk, he activated the main glowpanels in the hangar, illuminating the floor of starfighters.

“Those are the Maelstroms I’m talking about,” he said. “Second-generation fighters. These came out of the factory about a year ago.”

She turned and got her first good look at the unfamiliar starfighters. At first, they bore a vague resemblance to the aged Shotos, with their forward double-prongs, bubble canopies, twin rear-mounted engines, and blended lifting bodies, but there were significant differences. The Maelstroms were much larger, for one, about fifty percent larger than the diminutive Shoto, and its contours more resembled a double-pointed teardrop than the wedge-like Shoto.

“Would you like to fly one?” he asked. “The ones you see here are two-seat trainers.”

Jasika was still somewhat undecided about this mysterious officer and his abrupt offer to join the Paladins, but the idea of flying a brand-new starfighter most pilots hadn’t even heard of was appealing.

“I could go for taking one up for a spin, sir,” she replied, giving him a crooked grin.

A few minutes later, she was seated in the forward seat of the Maelstrom, taking in the updated cockpit displays of the new fighter and in awe of all it possessed. Recharging shields, a sensor suite that made the Sabre’s look like an optical telescope, laser cannons, proton torpedoes, an ion cannon, an anti-missile warning system and countermeasures, hyperdrive, triple-axis vector plating—just about every feature she could have wanted in a starfighter and more.

Mada ran her through the checklist, then gave her the go-ahead to start the engines. The starfighter throbbed as its main reactor activated and her displays lit up. Jasika brought the craft up on repulsorlifts to a hover half a meter above the ground. Mada hit a control on his datapad and the massive hangar doors slid open. She rotated the fighter around and eased it out of the hangar onto the tarmac as he handed her a helmet. She slid it on, noting that it displayed several important values and symbols from the Maelstrom on the visor.

Jasika slid the canopy closed and then slowly lifted the Maelstrom into the sky. It transitioned to ion engines smoothly as she cut them in over repulsorlifts. On an impulse, she pointed its nose toward the sky and punched it. She wanted to see what this thing could do.

The Maelstrom shot into the sky like a two-pronged dart. Jasika experimented with rolling the craft even as she climbed and found that it handled well. The vector plating and rudder pedals took some getting used to, but Jasika suspected that a skilled pilot could make the Maelstrom dance in combat with impressive agility.

“Go ahead, try a few maneuvers,” Mada told her from the back seat.

Jasika took his offer at face value and whirled the craft into a hard power dive, followed by sudden twists, rolls, and jinks designed to throw off hostile pursuit. At first the smile on her face happened subconsciously, but as she became aware of it, Jasika allowed it to spread further. Flying the Maelstrom was fun. The starfighter handled beautifully, even if it was tiring work controlling the combined rudder and vector pedals. The level of focus she needed to concentrate on handling the craft was definitely higher than required for the Sabre she was used to, but the difficulty came with its advantages.

“How does it compare to the Sabre II in a dogfight, sir?” she asked.

“It’s faster, more agile, and more heavily armed,” the commander replied. “I haven’t lost to a Sabre II in one of these since my first three months flying them.”

“Impressive,” Jasika said as she rolled the Maelstrom over itself and brought it into a steep dive from 20,000 meters altitude. “But how are the aerodynamics?”

“It’s somewhat less aerodynamic than the Sabre at supersonic speeds in atmosphere, but makes up for it with a higher atmospheric speed and climb rate.”

“I see,” Jasika replied conversationally as the ground raced up at them.

Judging it to be close enough, she immediately reversed the vector plating and shunted power to the repulsorlifts while pulling up out of the dive. The Maelstrom responded to her demands without complaint, leveling out without incident.

“If I’d tried that in a Shoto, I’d probably be dead. In a Sabre, I’d have had to pull out of the dive sooner,” she remarked as she cruised the Maelstrom in for a landing.

“The vector plating configuration takes some getting used to, but it certainly has its benefits,” Mada agreed.

The starfighter wound down as she completed the shutdown cycle, sliding back the cockpit canopy to look back at Commander Mada.

“They’re nice ships,” she said. “I’d love to fly one, but I can’t just say yes to your offer immediately.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “You’re on leave for the next three days for ‘administrative reasons.’ If you accept, come back here before three days are up. All my pilots know who you are; they’ll point you to me. If I don’t hear back from you, I’ll assume you decided against it.”

He shook her hand.

“Force be with you, Sublieutenant,” he said.

11
Ryion slipped under the natty blanket of his rented apartment gratefully. Though the grimy interior and sagging walls were unimpressive, the rent was cheap and the room was far from any others. The walls were also solid duracrete, providing a measure of security, and the doors came with a thick reinforcing bolt and strengthened hinges that could resist an assault longer than a typical door. The duracrete walls, cracked and moldy as they were, also damped most of the sound from his apartment, allowing him to operate in privacy.

What a long day, he thought.

Besides going to Jervnik’s shop to try on his formal wear for the ball tomorrow, he had also spent most of the day visiting a refugee hospital with a bag of toys. The scared and pained looks on the faces of the Chalactan children who had been injured haunted him, their gaunt expressions staring lifelessly at him in his mind’s eye. Ryion rolled over, trying to blank the suffering from his mind. The refugees had brought so much pain with them—now he understood why Depa Billaba had urged him to investigate and protect the Chalactans. He’d been to enough of the refugee camps to know that they were all but defenseless, and the New Republic volunteers were underequipped and unable to fend off even a small Yuuzhan Vong incursion.

As Ryion tossed and turned, he found himself thoroughly unable to sleep. Sighing, he realized his insomnia would not be cured by wishing it away. Rising out of bed, he sat down on the floor and began a calming routine. He needed to be at peace—to find the balance between emotion and duty. Closing his eyes, he began compartmentalizing his varying thoughts one at time.

He had to be in touch with his emotions and convictions to give him the drive he needed to perform his mission. His empathy for the injured Chalactan children would incite him to serve them and the rest of the people on Rishi. His sense of justice would allow him to take the lives of enemy combatants, if it came to that.

Concurrently, he needed to remain logical, controlled, serene. He could not allow his emotions to cloud his judgment. Ryion also knew that he was not primarily obligated to the people on Chalacta. While he would do whatever he could to protect them, it would have to be within the parameters set by his father and Morgedh. His job was primarily to evaluate the status and safety of the Chalactans and Rishi in general, then report and await further instructions. Morgedh, Zeyn, and Qedai were canvassing the spaceports for Yuuzhan Vong infiltrators or Peace Brigade collaborationists.

The simple act of reminding himself where his priorities were and how his emotions interacted with his rational side helped calm him. Slowly, the images of the children faded from his mind, and he had peace. Ryion opened his eyes and groggily staggered to his feet, making a beeline for his bed. Lumpy and probably dirty, it would still give him a better night’s sleep than sitting cross-legged on the harder, dirtier floor. He had just thrown back the blanket when he sensed her again.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Ryion turned to see the transparent apparition of Depa Billaba standing behind him.

“Greetings, Ryion Kraen,” she said gravely. “I come to you with a matter of grave importance.”

“Like what?” he asked. “As you’ve probably noticed, my team and I are on Chalacta, looking into the defense of your people. For now, they’re reasonably safe.”

Depa shook her head mournfully.

“They are safe only because their enemies do not know they are here—and that knowledge will soon make its way to them.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Ryion said, still miffed about delaying his evening respite.

“The defense of my people cannot rely on secrecy, Ryion,” Depa said. “You know that. Soon, their only protection will be the arms of those who defend them.”

“That’s not a lot of arms,” Ryion told her.

“Then those that exist will need all the strength they can get,” Depa informed him. “I have something for you that may aid you in your quest.”

“Are you talking about that dangerous gift you mentioned earlier?” Ryion inquired.

“I am.”

“Well, what is it?”

“It is a lightsaber form known only to a few and only ever mastered by one,” she told him. “There is no other way of fighting that can match its sheer ferocity, speed, and lethality.”

“I’m listening,” Ryion said slowly.

“It is called Vaapad,” Depa explained. “I learned it from one of two Jedi Masters who created it, and I am willing to teach it to you. It may aid you on your quest.”

His interest overcoming his drowsiness, Ryion extended a hand, and his lightsaber shot from its concealed location behind a small nightstand to his hand.

“Okay,” he said. “Where do we start?”

“With a warning,” Depa cautioned him. “Vaapad’s ferocity requires intense focus. You must withstand tremendous emotional pressure. You must accept and embrace the darkness you battle, only to turn it against your adversary.”

“That sounds risky,” Ryion answered, his enthusiasm curbed somewhat.

“It is,” Depa answered solemnly. “I was unable to maintain that balance. The darkness overwhelmed me. It consumed me and led me down a fallen path, Ryion, a path marked by bloodshed, betrayal, and atrocity. Knowing this, do you still wish to learn?”

Ryion contemplated her admonition, but nodded his head in response after ruminating on the matter.

“I’ve already experienced betrayal. I’ve already seen bloodshed. I already know the atrocities of the Yuuzhan Vong. None of them have been able to break me. Teach me what you know.”

“Very well, Ryion Kraen,” Depa said.

A ghostly lightsaber appeared in the hand of the apparition and quickly swept up into a half-guard position as her lip twisted in a half-smile.

“Let us begin.”


 * Ord Pardon

Cassi was startled awake from a fitful sleep by the piercing sound of shorn metal. She rolled out of bed and onto the floor behind it, scooping up the lightsaber she had once hoped to never use again. The door to her room burst open and Cassi peeked over her bedside to see a tall, lithe humanoid silhouette standing there, grasping some kind of sinuous, undulating object in one hand. Terror filled her upon seeing the intruder and she tried to get a sense of her attacker with the Force, but to no avail. The intruder snarled and peered around and Cassi knew that she was the object of its search.

She was facing a Yuuzhan Vong warrior, she realized, one of the bloodthirsty savage killers whose very bodies had been altered to make them better at killing. She’d heard stories of their endurance and strength as well as their ruthlessness, and now she was cornered in a room with one. As adrenaline pumped through her veins and her mind snapped to full awareness, Cassi realized that the metallic sound she had heard earlier must have been the Yuuzhan Vong taking down J7. Regret filled her over the loss of the droid, but she was more worried about her own survival at the moment.

The warrior advanced, weapon held at the ready, and then suddenly leapt up onto her bed while striking downwards with the amphistaff. Cassi responded with a counter-charge, igniting her lightsaber and springing up with a two-handed uppercut that clashed against the serpentine weapon in a shower of sparks. The Yuuzhan Vong was much stronger than her, though, and her cyan blade was forced back, her shoulders and arms jarred from the impact. Remembering her training, she turned the momentum into a swift slash at the Yuuzhan Vong’s ankles, but the warrior kicked out first, catching her on the side of the head with a spiky boot.

“Jeedai!” the warrior hissed venomously and Cassi realized that the voice sounded vaguely female.

Stars burst into Cassi’s vision as she vaguely registered the back of her head hitting the wall. Groggily blinking back the concussion, she managed to swing her lightsaber in a desperate block that just barely parried the scything downward point of the amphistaff that would have otherwise plunged into her neck. The Yuuzhan Vong swung again, hissing angrily, and Cassi desperately batted away blow after blow even as her defenses were slowly beaten down. In her collapsed position on the floor, she couldn’t mount an effective defense, while the Yuuzhan Vong was free to rain down amphistaff swings on her. Another power strike from the hissing amphistaff crashed into her lightsaber, sending painful vibrations along her wrists and up her arms from the force of the impact. Against a normal opponent, Cassi could have tried to anticipate their moves using the Force, but for some unknown reason, the Yuuzhan Vong did not register in the energy field.

Then suddenly, the amphistaff’s tip slashed across the hilt of her lightsaber, ripping the weapon from her hands and sending it clattering across the room before Cassi could call it back to her hand. Terrified, she looked up to see the Yuuzhan Vong raising her amphistaff high for a killing blow. Helpless to act, Cassi threw up an arm in a vain attempt to stop the lethal plunge when a stuttering of magenta light blasted into the back of the warrior. She lurched forward from the impact and Cassi rolled aside. Unable to see where her lightsaber was, she grabbed a shovel from her tool rack and smashed across the side of the Yuuzhan Vong’s skull even as the warrior collapsed down beside her. To her surprise, the badly wounded warrior growled at her and snapped the amphistaff out at her head-first. Cassi reacted instinctively, whacking it with the shovel just as the living weapon spit a stream of venom. The poisonous liquid splattered on the shovel, bubbling and hissing and Cassi threw it aside even as she scrambled to her feet and jumped over to the other side of her bed. Incredibly, the warrior was trying to rise, but Cassi had the advantage now and she was not about to let the Yuuzhan Vong get within arm’s reach again. Calling on the Force, she telekinetically shoved her bed at the Yuuzhan Vong as hard as she could. The warrior was crushed between the wall and the metal bed frame.

“Mistress, behind you!” J7 shouted.

She turned to see the droid on the floor behind her. He was missing an arm and a leg, but he had hauled himself into her room to shoot her assailant—the source of the blaster fire she had seen earlier. However, her eyes quickly snapped from the crippled droid to see the silhouettes of three more humanoids stalking into her quarters. Fear gripped her—she had just barely fended off one warrior with J7’s help and now there were three more.

Locating her lightsaber in the dim light, she telekinetically summoned it to her hand just as the warriors spotted her. Thankfully, the cyan blade snapped back into life when she pressed the activation stud. “Jeedai!” one of them howled as they hurled dark projectiles at her.

Cassi stood her ground, slashing away at the sudden onslaught of winged bugs. She hit several of them, popping their exoskeletons and sending their charred remains to the ground, but those that she missed swung around to attack her again and she was soon fending off attacks from all directions. Something told Cassi that it would not bode well to be struck by one of them. J7 was trying to pull himself around to fire at the warriors even as one of them was battering away at him with an amphistaff.

As the bugs swarmed around her, Cassi grew increasingly terrified. One zoomed directly at her crown and she whipped her blade through an overhand chop to slash it in two, then immediately followed that with a hasty downward redirection to intercept a bug before it slammed into her thigh. Her danger sense tingled and she arced her lightsaber behind her, but it was too late. A fiery pain blossomed in her lower back, staggering her forward. A thud bug had finally breached her guard and Cassi knew instantly that the injury was fairly severe. She staggered forward, managing to pick off another two bugs with wild swings, as the Yuuzhan Vong closed. Cassi looked up at them helplessly from her bent-over position, knowing that she would be easily killed or captured in her injured state.

Just as they advanced, a burst of fire exploded in their midst, sending them to the ground in flames. Even as they tried to beat off the flames engulfing them, another shadowy figure raced into the room and Cassi sensed it was a powerful Force-user. Small glowing orbs of fire floated centimeters from his palm, which were quickly fanned into streams of burning flame that soon smothered the Yuuzhan Vong, searing and scorching them. They cried out with harsh alien words as the flames consumed them even as the new arrival dashed forward to Cassi. From the illumination generated from the lingering flames, she realized it was Mithunir.

“I am sorry it took me so long to come to your aid,” he said. “You did well to hold them off.”

Unable to speak from the pain exploding in her back, Cassi grimaced and nodded.

“We have to warn the others!” she gasped as she suppressed the urge to scream and instead focused on mouthing coherent syllables. “We have to evacuate the camp.”

“Do you not hear the other screams?” Mithunir asked her. “The entire camp is under attack!”

As Cassi listened, she realized that she could indeed make out the sounds of battle, though screams seemed to predominate over the report of blasters.

“You are being overrun,” Mithunir told her as gently as he could. “Your people are all but defenseless—they and the refugees here will not escape.”

“Then we’ve got to buy them some time,” Cassi bit out.

Gritting her teeth, she tried to stand up straight. An immediate burst of pain flared to life and she cried out in agony. It nearly caused her to pass out and she quickly doubled over again, gasping for breath against the pounding hurt that was racing up her spine to explode in her skull.

“You are in no state to do battle,” Mithunir said. “And I cannot hold off the Yuuzhan Vong alone—there are dozens of them. They must certainly have a ship nearby as well. We must flee while we can.”

“I’m not leaving them here to die,” Cassi groaned as she swayed and tried not to collapse on the floor.

Something internal had been ruptured and her body wanted to curl up on the floor in a ball and will it all away. Only by the force of her will and her Jedi training was she still standing.

“Cassi Trealus, listen to the Force. Does it tell you that you can accomplish anything by dying here alongside others who are already dying as we speak? There is nothing you can do for them except to live.”

“I. . . I can’t just abandon them,” Cassi said weakly. “It’s my responsibility to take care of them.”

“They are beyond your caring,” Mithunir said. “We must escape while we can, or we will die with them.”

“Then that is our fate,” Cassi announced even as her face was contorted from the pain.

“Please, Cassi Trealus, we can do nothing for them,” Mithunir protested.

“Mistress. . . listen to him,” J7 called from the floor. “You can accomplish more by living and making sure this never happens again by your words of warning than if you die here. If you die, the dream of Open Hands dies with you—you are irreplaceable to the organization.”

“That’s not true,” Cassi countered. “And I can’t just leave these people—or you—here to die.”

“Then I apologize, Mistress,” J7 told her, “but my programming will not allow that.”

“What are you talking about, J7?” Cassi asked.

“Emergency Preservation Protocol is now active,” J7 announced in a deeper voice.

His photoreceptors, normally a subdued yellow, now glowed bright orange. Lifting his one good arm, he fired a blue stun blast at Cassi before she could react. She slumped to the ground unconscious with a shocked expression on her face even as J7 swiveled his arm to target Mithunir.

“I assure you, I am on your side,” the man said disarmingly. “I mean neither of you any harm.”

“Normally, I would simply extract her myself,” J7 announced in his new baritone voice. “But I have calculated the odds of successfully reaching and taking off in an Open Hands spacecraft to be excessively low. Survival is also unlikely to result from attempting concealment without knowing the detection capabilities of the hostile force. Do you have transport?”

“I do,” Mithunir replied. “My ship is in the woods about a kilometer from the camp.”

“Then you will take us there,” J7 instructed. “My mission is to escort her to safety over all other priorities—do not attempt to hinder that mission.”

“You will get no argument from me,” Mithunir replied, “But how do you intend to reach the ship?”

If J7 could have smiled at that point, he would have. Hidden repulsorlift boosters appeared from his back, lifting him off the ground to float so his crippled leg was just barely off the ground.

“That eventuality is prepared for,” J7 said. “I will take her. You lead the way to the ship.”

Mithunir nodded, still somewhat cowed by the droid’s sudden transformation. Then he carefully picked up the unconscious Cassi and helped position her over J7’s shoulder so that the droid’s good arm could secure her in place.

“Let’s go,” J7 said, gesturing with his arm stub.

On the way out, Mithunir noted the severed arm and leg that J7 had lost in the initial assault. He stopped to pick them up, shoving them into a long pouch strapped to his shoulder.

“You might find these useful later,” he commented.

“Appreciated,” J7 said curtly, then pointed in the direction of the woods. “Now to the ship.”

As screams from the stricken echoed through the night and the Yuuzhan Vong rampaged through the refugee camp, the droid, his unconscious cargo, and their mysterious guide slipped off into the night, heading for a ship hidden in the woods. Cassi stayed unconscious through it all as J7 carried her on their desperate flight. With the droid burdened, it fell to Mithunir to defeat the few Yuuzhan Vong they came across, but the Shaper’s Force-powers allowed him to hurl rocks and spew fire at the aliens, eliminating the threats at each encounter. An hour later, the three had arrived at his diminutive vessel.

Behind them, the Yuuzhan Vong swiftly overcame the last vestiges of resistance among the refugee camp. Those that weren’t slain immediately were secured with immobilizing blorash jelly and prepared for an unpleasant trip back to the Yuuzhan Vong vessel in orbit to await interrogation, enslavement, or sacrifice.

Another task that fell to the warriors was the retrieval of their injured and dead. The Yuuzhan Vong did not believe in allowing the slain to lie on the field of combat, and warriors could always be healed and given new implants, though at the cost of considerable pain and suffering. Not that any true warrior would have minded such a thing.

This concept of excruciating pain was one experienced by Yiu Shac as she slowly shoved the metal bedframe away from her with her broken leg. The infidel jeedai and her machine abomination had thought her slain, but she had simply been concussed and trapped. While she might have been able to rise and attempt combat, the death of her other warriors had required her to remain alive and report her finding instead of engaging in honorable combat—if such a thing could be had against infidels and their perverse creations. The fiery pain exploded through the crushed limb, but she persevered anyway until she could pull herself to a standing position. The entire limb below the knee would likely be replaced anyway, no sense in maintaining the current ruined one.

Another of her warriors found her limping to the door of Cassi’s ruined quarters, looking down at the charred bodies of the warriors killed by Mithunir.

“The camp is secure,” he announced.

“Get me a villip,” Yiu Shac said, her eyes still fixed on the corpses and ignoring his words.

“At once,” he replied, then paused inquisitively. “What did you find, if I may ask?”

“Jeedai,” she spat, “and another like a jeedai, but different. Have the refugees prepared for questioning. I want to know everything there is about the two we encountered here.”

“Did they escape?” the warrior asked.

Perturbed by the implication that she had somehow allowed them to escape, Yiu Shac strode forward, heedless of the stabbing pain shooting up her leg, and backhanded the burly warrior with such force that he nearly fell over.

“Yes, unless our perimeter caught them, you fool, which I doubt because you are here asking stupid questions instead of gloating over them,” she snarled. “There were not supposed to be jeedai and their machine abominations used for fighting here. If we had been prepared for that, they would not have escaped. Now are you going to bandy words with your superior all day, or do her bidding?”

It was the closest that Yiu Shac had ever been to admitting that she had been surprised, and the warrior counted himself lucky she hadn’t inflicted a more serious wound—it would have been well within her rights as a commanding officer. Straightening only to quickly bow submissively, he then ran off to carry out her orders. Yiu Shac stalked off to attend to her wounds with a temporary application of neathlat creatures before she made her report to Tsaruuk. He would be very interested in what she had to say.
 * Rishi

Ryion checked behind him as he walked into Jarvnik’s hole-in-the-wall tailor shop. The crowded nature of Rishi streets had worn on him after several weeks, giving him a distinctly claustrophobic feel. While he generally enjoyed getting to see other worlds, he promised himself to enjoy the open plains and highlands of Yanibar when returned.

“Welcome! I got your alterations done,” called the effusive Besalisk as Ryion walked up to a wide counter with numerous scratches and peeling finish.

“Good,” Ryion said dryly as he took the package. “Maybe the trouser legs won’t go down past my boot heels now.”

“Of course not,” Jarvnik said, ignoring the acid remark. “That’d impede your ability to dance and we can’t have that. Are you going with anyone?”

“No,” Ryion answered curtly. “I’m going to collect information and having an unaffiliated escort to attend to would hinder that mission.”

“Nice excuse,” Jarvnik replied with a leer. “You just couldn’t win a local girl’s affection even for a night, could ya?”

Ryion gave him a tight smile.

“Unlike you, I’m particular about which schuttas I take up with,” he said. “Your idea of affection sounds more like a great way to get an infection.”

“Speaking about being particular with your company, I got a tip from your friend at the spaceport,” Jarvnik told him.

Ryion perked up. If it was important enough for Zeyn to have passed it along, it was worth paying attention to.

“What did he say?”

“Two new arrivals, a Human man and a woman, came in yesterday and were immediately escorted to the governor’s palace. They tried to arrive anonymously, but your friend recognized them from intelligence briefs.”

“So, who are they?” Ryion asked.

Jarvnik grinned broadly.

“It’s your mommy and daddy come to chaperone you for your first offworld dance, of course!” he chortled.

Ryion rolled his eyes, then gave him a withering look, and drummed his fingers on the table impatiently—all at the same time. It was a talent unfortunately honed by numerous experiences in situations similar to this one.

“That might have been funny, once upon a time,” he said. “Now you’re just making me consider how bad I can make your post-mission evaluation.”

“Okay, fine, no need to be grumpy,” Jarvnik answered defensively. “Your friend says it’s a Jedi Knight named Kyle Katarn and an intelligence type named Jan Ors.”

“Are you sure?” Ryion asked.

“That’s what he said,” Jarvnik said with a shrug. “Pretty sure they’ll also be at this ball as well if they’re staying as guests in the governor’s mansion.”

“Fantastic,” Ryion muttered.

“Do you want a change of plans?”

“No,” Ryion replied shortly, “it’d be too hard to suddenly explain my absence. The timing would be too odd to be coincidental—a trained intelligence agent would definitely notice that. We just proceed with the plan and hope that I’m better at my job than they are at noticing me.”

“Are you?”

“That remains to be seen,” Ryion said. “Be alert. Things could get very messy.”

Sweeping up the package with the formal garments inside, he walked swiftly out of the shop without giving Jarvnik a chance to reply. Events were already complicated on Rishi. Adding in a long-dead Force ghost teaching him a new form of lightsaber combat while quietly urging him to defend her people and a New Republic Jedi and his intelligence consort would only make things even trickier.

Two hours later, Ryion was freshly shaved, groomed, and dressed in his attire as he walked up to the large antechamber of the governor’s palace. The long burgundy jacket that composed the outer layer of his garments was, despite Jarvnik’s claims, a bit tight and the coattails that draped down to the back of his knee felt unusual every time they lapped against his leg. The high-collared shirt and high-waisted pants were similarly uncomfortable. Jarvnik had obviously been recruited as first and foremost an intelligence asset and not for his skills as a tailor. Tugging at the sash tied around his neck that Jarvnik alleged was high fashion, Ryion walked in and presented his invitation to the attendant at the gate.

“Ah, Mr. Matrik Tenzor, welcome,” the man pronounced, ushering him into a large ballroom filled with people. “Allow me to express the governor’s welcome. Please, enjoy our hospitality.”

Ryion nodded politely and moved into the expansive room. While far from refined by Core World standards, it was lavish by Outer Rim standards, possibly even surpassing the hall on Yanibar where formal occasions such as dances were held. The wood-paneled walls were covered with portraits that varied between images of Rishi’s cities and countryside and expansive starscapes. Ryion quickly noticed the perimeter of the room was lined with tables on three walls. The two sets of tables parallel to the side walls were set up with chairs for attendees to sit and chat, while the near tables were laden with trays, basins, and warming dishes loaded with various comestibles and beverages. The back wall was highlighted by giant wooden fans that glowed gold from lights placed near the base and directed upward. Seated around the fans was, impressively enough, a live string quartet accompanied by a lone Duros percussionist conducted by a dignified-looking Zabrak currently winding its way through an energetic Mantooine Minuet.

Tugging again at the necksash, Ryion stepped into the midst of a throng of partiers. The governor had apparently decided to spare no expense in his charity ball, wanting to show his Chalactan guests as much of his hospitality as possible. The display would also encourage his people to be equally generous in dealing with the new arrivals, which Ryion decided was an especially altruistic example for the governor to set.

Although there were at least forty couples on the dance floor whirling away to the minuet, Ryion instead made a beeline for the food and drink tables while he scoped out the guests. Many of them he instantly identified as local businesspeople or dignitaries. A few, in patched-up uniforms that had seen better days, were obviously New Republic volunteers. He noted a middle-aged tan-haired man standing next to a slim dark-haired woman, and by his stance and bearing, recognized that the man was an officer of some kind with extensive combat experience—definitely one of the New Republic offworlders. Then there was a handful of Chalactans, distinguishable by their long saris and flowing robes in contrast to the predominance of more modern outfits among most of the attenders. And, of course, Ryion soon spied out the Jedi Jarvnik had warned him about, Kyle Katarn, dancing with a dark-haired woman he recognized as Jan Ors. Though the Jedi and intelligence agent looked totally at ease and relaxed, Ryion doubted it was anything but a charade—they were almost certainly vigilant, on guard for any trouble.

Though Ryion could have used the Force to scan the crowd for any possible Yuuzhan Vong infiltrators, the presence of a New Republic Jedi complicated that idea. Normally, Ryion was used to having a total monopoly on Force-usage—with Katarn present, he was not to reveal his true powers unless absolutely necessary. The last thing he wanted was to put the Jedi back on Yanibar’s trail after years of a carefully-negotiated non-interference agreement that he himself had facilitated.

As Ryion stood off to the side, watching the crowd with feigned disinterest while picking at his plate of fried crispics and tomo-spiced ribenes, he allowed himself to sway slightly to the infectious music of the string quartet accompanied by the rhythmic drumming of the Duros. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched the revelers smile, laugh, and socialize. At least for now, even among people fleeing the darkest invasion ever to hit the galaxy, enjoyment and happiness still existed.

“You look like you’d rather be out there on the floor,” a cool female voice with a lilting accent said, tugged him out of his self-absorption.

Ryion turned casually to see a young Chalactan woman standing beside him, looking at him with a pair of big brown eyes. Evidently she’d been watching him without his realizing it—his awareness without the Force was obviously not what it should have been. Ryion did not reveal his perturbation, though, maintaining a simple, unassuming expression as befitting a humble toymaker.

“Oh?” Ryion asked, arching one eyebrow in surprise.

“Would you care to dance?” she asked. “Forgive my boldness; it seemed like you were just waiting to be asked.”

Cornered, Ryion had no socially acceptable excuse that gave him any other recourse but to accept her offer. Smiling politely, he consented.

“I’m not very good, though,” he told her.

“Neither am I,” she said with an amused smile as she slid her slender hand in his and led him out to the dance floor to the vibrant, milling cluster of dancers that were stepping through the elegant, precise progressions of the minuet.

Belying his words, Ryion had actually danced the Mantooine Minuet on many occasions, and it was difficult for him to disguise his practiced ease by interjecting a clumsy turn or unpolished step. His partner also seemed comfortable with the dance, but if she identified him as more skilled than his earlier testimony, she did not call him on it.

She was petite and delicate, her youth evident by her unlined skin and smooth features even through a tasteful amount of coverup. Her pale yellow sari had flowing sleeves extending to her elbow and decorated with golden spangles, and while it was pinched at the waist, her skirt was flowing and whirled and floated with the turns of the minuet. Over top of her dress she sported a thick sheer sash of turquoise blue decorated by golden embroidery wound from the top of her left shoulder down to her right hip and then around her back. Her black hair was collected into two golden haircombs positioned at the back of her head and fell down her back to sway as she danced. Judging by the relative finery compared to the other Chalactans he’d seen, she was someone important.

“My name is Shara. What’s yours?” the woman asked, once again catching Ryion off-guard and interrupting his analysis of her based on her attire.

“Matrik,” he replied even as he carefully arranged a stumble to just barely avoid stepping on her toes. “Oops, sorry.”

The motion did give him a chance to notice that her brown open-toed shoes were far from formal—obviously she hadn’t escaped Chalacta with a full wardrobe.

“What do you do for a living, Matrik?” she asked, speaking to him for the third time when he wasn’t looking at her.

Ryion was now becoming exasperated with himself and feeling distinctly ridiculous. Here he was, dancing with a perfectly attractive woman, and he couldn’t even manage to keep his eyes on her face. Three times now, she’d caught him with an averted gaze—on top of that, she’d been the one to ask him to dance. Look at her eyes, Ryion, he told himself. Just focus on those big brown eyes and make conversation.

“I’m a toymaker,” he said. “It’s far from the noblest or most lucrative trade, but I do all right.”

“To put a smile on the face of a child is a noble thing indeed,” she told him. “You should not belittle that. There are many times I feel the galaxy would be a better place if looking after the needs of the young ones was a greater priority.”

If she only knew my real job, Ryion thought, maintaining eye contact with Shara. She was indeed striking, her features combining both elegance and gentility. The caf-brown skin of her face dimpled as she smiled at him, though Ryion felt her most noticeable feature were her eyes. Perhaps it was just her coverup that accented their inviting roundness. Even her lilting accent sounded elegant and refined to him, but her voice was smooth and gentle, untouched by harsh or shrill undertones. At that point, Ryion realized that an awkward silence had fallen between them—he’d been too busy analyzing yet again to make the proper reply. Thankfully, Shara filled the silence even as he spun her through a six-step turn.

“You are not much of a talker, Matrik,” she said. “And yet I have heard stories of how you have made many visits and donations to the children at the refugee camps.”

“Just my nature,” Ryion replied.

“No,” she said, with a shake of her hair that set her black tresses swaying. “I have seen you from afar talk excitedly with a child. It is only now that you are subdued.”

“Well, I guess it’s always been easier for me to interact with children,” Ryion told her with an affable smile, inwardly displeased with her open perceptiveness. “I suppose I’m still a child at heart.”

“The things that you have seen as an adult trouble you,” Shara observed. “You wish life was as simple as it was when you were a youngling.”

“Sometimes,” he said. “It’s a hard galaxy out there.”

Her lips pursed together in a sad smile that nevertheless evoked those cute dimples again.

“It can be,” she told him. “But that does not mean you must carry its weight.”

As they spoke, Ryion felt the music of the minuet slowly fade away and even the babble and ambient noise of the partygoers around them seemed to dissipate so that it was only he and Shara present, carefully weaving their way through the elegant patterns of the Mantooine Minuet.

“That’s a rather abrupt observation,” he said.

“But an astute one,” she replied. “You do not deny it, nor could you if you wanted to. It is written on your face, in the way you use your hands, in the way you walk. You are a man who has seen much and regretted it, Matrik Tenzor.”

Ryion scrambled to find a response to stem her tide of perceptions which she evidently had no inhibition toward sharing with a man she’d met less than a few minutes before. Moreover, her observations were hitting too close to home.

“And you, what are you?” he asked her.

She gave him a tight smile.

“My father says I am a flower reflecting droplets from the spring rains, but I am worried that the rains will simply sweep me away instead.”

“Very poetic,” Ryion commented even as he extended his hand to signal her to cycle into a complicated rotating turn that swept them between two other rotating groups of dancers.

The minuet crescendoed and both Ryion and Shara were kept too busy stepping through the final rapid progression even as the song swelled into an emotional high before ending triumphantly with a flourish. As the last notes rang out, Ryion drew Shara close to him and dipped her low until her back was nearly parallel with the floor.

“Thank you for the dance,” Ryion told her as he straightened up, his hand supporting her as she did the same. “My pleasure to meet you, Lady Shara.”

He was breathing heavily from the exertion of the frenetic conclusion of the minuet, and noted she was as well.

“And you as well,” she said. “Peace be with you.”

An odd way to bid farewell to a dance partner and certainly not a wish that would come true any time soon, Ryion reflected as he slipped away into the crowd and found his way back towards the refreshment table. Before he could reach the beverage line, though, he was intercepted by a pair of older men, one clearly a Chalactan and the other the governor of Rishi.

“You are Matrik Tenzor, yes?” the governor asked him.

“Yes,” Ryion answered. “Thank you very much for your hospitality, governor. This is quite grand. I’d toast you, but I haven’t made it to the drinks yet.”

“The pleasure is mine,” the governor assured him. “This is Ghavasa Berecca, the viceroy of Chalacta. You were just dancing with his daughter Shara earlier—he’s been wanting to meet you.”

''I was dancing with the viceroy’s daughter. Great. Should have seen that one coming'', Ryion thought sourly to himself. ''Let’s hope she doesn’t get any funny ideas. ''

“To what do I owe that distinction?” Ryion asked Ghavasa, noting the familial resemblance between the wizened man and Shara.

“My daughter tells me of your charity towards our children, how you’ve giving your time and toys visiting our camps. I wished to thank you for your selflessness—it is something revered in our faith. You show the ideals of a true Chalactan Adept.”

“Thank you,” Ryion answered. “I’m just glad that my trade can have a use here.”

Ryion wasn’t actually talking about toymaking, but he wasn’t about to reveal that little detail. While he did actually enjoy visiting the children and passing out toys he’d made or been supplied with, his actual trade would be of far more use in helping the Chalactans in the long run.

The governor started to say something, but suddenly something caught his eye across the room.

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, there’s a trivial matter I must attend to,” he said. “Do enjoy the rest of the ball.”

“An honor to meet you, Viceroy,” Ryion said. “May peace one day find your people.”

Ryion then nodded politely and slipped off to the drink table to pick up another Corellian Merlot. While he sipped the wine, his eyes slid over to where the governor was standing aloof from the rest of the crowd, talking in hushed tones with Kyle Katarn and the New Republic officer. Ryion could have used the Force to listen in on them, but not without Katarn noticing. Instead, he plucked one of the buttons from the sleeve of his jacket and nonchalantly rolled it across the floor where it came to a stop a few meters from the three. Ryion pulled out his comlink and slid in his earpiece, giving him an excuse to stand off in a corner as if he was receiving an important call.

“Yes, Farleigh, I understand that deliveries are interrupted. What’s the soonest you can get me my next shipment?” Ryion said aloud even as he activated the listening device built into the button.

“Yes, I’m sure, there are no Yuuzhan Vong here,” Katarn was telling the governor. “I can sense every person in here, more or less, though I was worried about the toymaker for a bit.”

“That doesn’t mean there aren’t Vong agents, though,” the officer pointed out.

“You’re right, Colonel Klivian,” Katarn agreed. “I know it’s not very helpful, but I have an extremely bad feeling right about now. It’s not immediate, but I definitely sense a threat.”

“The Jedi’s wisdom and abilities are renowned,” the governor acceded. “We will tighten security. Colonel Klivian, if you’re willing to coordinate, I’d like you to meet with Commander Shakras again to discuss a defense, should it come to that.”

“Governor, I’m afraid it will come to that,” Katarn told him. “I’ve never been wrong when it comes to sensing trouble. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but the Yuuzhan Vong are looking for your Chalactan guests and they’ve become rather good at poking their noses around our galaxy into places where they shouldn’t have otherwise.”

“We’ve held off invasions before,” the governor said. “When I was a lad, we defeated the Separatists in the Clone Wars. Our people know how to defend themselves. Can we count on your help, Master Katarn?”

The bearded Jedi hesitated.

“Since the fall of Coruscant, there has not been much direction for the Jedi Order. We are on our own for now, but I cannot guarantee how long until Master Skywalker or another one of our leaders attempts to regroup.”

“Would you be willing to stay in the meantime?” Klivian asked. “It’d mean a lot to my people, too, knowing that the Jedi were behind us.”

“I’ll stay until the Order absolutely needs me elsewhere,” Katarn said. “For now, this is where I can do the most good.”

“Glad to hear that, Master Jedi,” the governor said, relief evident in his voice.

“Jan also said she’ll help with keeping tabs on intelligence-gathering and espionage attempts if you want,” Katarn said. “She’s pretty good at it and to be honest, secrecy is a better defense against the Yuuzhan Vong than the defenses here—no offense.”

“None taken,” Klivian replied, then he took a quick look around. “We’re a bit conspicuous standing here, quietly talking apart from everyone else. Maybe this should be taken somewhere a little more privately.”

“We can meet in my office,” the governor said. “Nobody will notice our absence as long as we are not gone too long.”

“Good idea,” Kyle Katarn agreed. “I’ll get Jan.”

The Jedi disappeared into the crowd to retrieve his companion, who was milling with the others, for once trading her utilities for a simple green dress. He returned a minute later with Jan at his side and the four headed off towards the governor’s office. Ryion retrieved his listening device and followed discreetly at a distance, mindful of possible surveillance. When he’d gone as far as he dared without making it obvious that he was trailing them, he summoned the Force and wrapped it around him in a concealing blanket that would hide him in the visible, infrared, and ultraviolet spectrums, as well as muffle the sounds of his motion. Now hidden from sight, he could approach the office and eavesdrop without being detected, as long as he maintained his concentration on the Force camouflage technique.

Ryion was almost to the door to the governor’s office when he sensed something wrong coming from a nearby air vent. Instantly wary, he pulled a collapsible glowrod from his inner jacket pocket and peered into the vent. He quickly spotted the object that had tripped his senses and Ryion recognized it as a listening device. The duct must lead to the governor’s office, he figured, and whoever was on the other end of the device could listen in on the conversation.

Well, now this is a golden opportunity, he thought. Time for a little counter-espionage. Extending his camouflage bubble around the device, Ryion removed the air duct cover with his multi-tool. He then twitched a finger and the listening device rose from the bottom of the air duct to float over to him. Ryion extracted a wire from his comlink and plugged it into a diagnostic port on the listening device’s transceiver, a small hard-to-detect burst model. In seconds, the communications frequency used by the burst transmitter was read and stored into his comlink. Ryion then floated the device back and left it there, refastening the duct cover. No sense in tipping off whoever was on the other end of it.

Suddenly, the office door opened and Ryion flattened himself against the wall, even though they couldn’t see him. Katarn, Klivian, Jan Ors, and the governor emerged and headed back to the ballroom. Ryion followed, waiting to drop his camouflage until after they had re-entered the party, and only doing so when he could inconspicuously rejoin the ball. Ryion stayed for another hour to be sociable, then left the ball.

On his way back to his tenement, he pulled out his comlink, an unsecured model without most of the toys packed into his YGI one since he hadn’t been sure about security at the charity ball. He couldn’t contact his team directly, but he did have the means to arrange a relay.

“Jarvnik, the buttons you put on this jacket fall off way too easily,” Ryion complained into it once his call was received.

“Is that so?” came the indignant Besalisk’s reply, though he knew Ryion was speaking in code since he’d sewn the listening devices there just in case Ryion needed them. “Maybe you think another tailor could do better? Just name them.”

“I think I know a Twi’lek who does pretty good with that sort of thing,” Ryion retorted.

“Let me connect you,” Jarvnik said.

A few seconds later, Ryion was talking with Qedai.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I’m going to send you a signal frequency for a burst transmitter I found inside a listening device in the governor’s mansion. Do me a favor and hunt it down.”

“Beats sitting around here watching incoming ships,” Qedai replied as Ryion sent her the frequency he had downloaded from the listening device. “I’ll take a friend or two and check it out pronto.”

“Good luck,” Ryion said, hoping that her idea of “friend or two” meant Morgedh or Zeyn. “And good night.”

“Same to you, let you know when we have something.”
 * Ord Pardron 

Cassi awoke to find herself lying on her stomach on a bed inside a room or spaceship. Her head throbbed and her back was very sore. She felt weak and her memory was slow to remind her of her circumstances leading up to her unconsciousness. Cassi reached back to touch the site of the injury and found a thick bandage anchored there. She remembered now, being stunned by J7, who’d been babbling about something about emergency protocol. She remembered the camp, the Open Hands volunteers and refugees who’d been left behind to face a Yuuzhan Vong onslaught.

She closed her eyes, blinking back tears at the thought of the innocent blood shed at the camp and how powerless she had been to prevent it. She heard the hiss of a door open and opened her eyes to see Mithunir enter the room.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“You’re on my ship. We’re hidden in the forest two kilometers from the camp.”

“We should have stayed,” she insisted, attempting to sit up.

“No, no, don’t get up,” Mithunir told her. “You have a ruptured kidney and several torn muscles from the Yuuzhan Vong weapon. You need to rest.”

“I’ll be fine,” Cassi said resolutely, sitting up and grimacing at the pain evoked by the motion. “I want to talk to J7.”

“Of course,” Mithunir deferred.

He walked out and returned a minute later dragging the droid in.

“It seems to have depleted its power from using the repulsorlifts,” Mithunir explained.

“’It’ is more aptly described as a he,” J7 corrected. “Would it kill you to use the proper gender?”

“As I was about to say, he can still talk,” Mithunir commented.

“That’s fine, just set him down,” Cassi told him.

Mithunir complied, then walked out.

“J7, you deliberately disobeyed me,” she began. “I want to know why.”

“I had no choice, Mistress,” the droid told her regretfully. “Unlike biologicals, I must obey my programming.”

“And what programming is that?” Cassi inquired.

“To protect you at all costs,” J7 explained. “It is similar to the function that I had while assisting Mistress Rhiannon. In grave situations, I am programmed to do whatever is in my power to save your life, with virtually no inhibitions on the means.”

“I suppose I should be thanking you,” Cassi admitted. “But I can’t stop thinking about those poor people in the camp.”

“A distress signal was sent, Mistress,” J7 told her. “The Yanibar Guard should be aware of our predicament and react appropriately.”

“Who knows how many Yuuzhan Vong ships are here or will come, though?” Cassi asked.

“This is deep in territory uncontrolled by them,” J7 said. “And a major incursion so soon after the assault on Coruscant would be unlikely, given the strategic unimportance of this world. They stand to lose far more than they would gain.”

“The Yuuzhan Vong clearly have different priorities than us, J7,” Cassi observed. “They throw themselves willingly into death and would rather target defenseless refugees for sacrifice and enslavement than actually seize important worlds. Their weapons are cruelty and terror.”

“Their actual weapons are dangerous enough,” J7 pointed out. “I have been unable to repair my damaged limbs yet and my power levels are dangerously low. You also are far from recovered.”

“I know,” Cassi said.

“Mithunir said that he would not take off if the Yuuzhan Vong still have ships in orbit and we remain undiscovered here.”

“That’s probably a wise decision. The Yanibar Guard may be able to help soon.”

“It is at least a full day from Yanibar to here, Mistress,” J7 reminded her.

“Then we’ll use this time to heal and repair,” Cassi said. “But whenever we can, with help or without it, I want us off this rock. If we can’t help the others at the camp, we at least need to go back for help.”
 * Yanibar

Selu had just turned off the glowlamp and snuggled under the covers beside Milya when the comlink at her bedside beeped.

“Leave it,” he said, luxuriating in the warmth under the blankets insulating them from Yanibar’s winter chill. “It can probably wait until morning.”

“Probably,” she said, reaching over to the nightstand to flick it off.

He kissed her cheek and settled deeper under the blankets, preparing for sleep after a long day of work.

“Good night, love,” Selu told her breathily, closing his eyes.

Then both of their comlinks started beeping. And not just their normal ones—this was the distinctive chime of the black planetary defense models given only to a few high-level officials in case of emergency. Both of them immediately sat up while Selu groped for the glowlamp switch.

“I guess it couldn’t wait,” Milya quipped as Selu abandoned his quest for the glowlamp switch and fumbled around in the dark for his pants instead.

She activated the comlink.

“This is Director of Intelligence Kraen,” she said. “Authentication code Besh-Enth Nine-Eight.”

Selu did likewise.

“This is Master Kraen,” he spoke into the comlink. “Authentication code Aurek-Mern Eighty-Eight. What’s the situation?”

“We’ve just received a distress signal with possible VIP implications, sir,” a voice that Milya recognized as the ranking officer of Yanibar Guard Intelligence at this hour replied.

“Where from?” Milya asked as she pulled on her uniform blouse.

“Ord Pardron,” the officer answered. “The Open Hands camp there has come under Yuuzhan Vong attack. No mention of ships or heavy vehicles, but no doubt there’s plenty of warriors involved. No mention of Mrs. Kraen, sir.”

“Are you still in contact with them?” Selu asked.

“No sir, we never got a chance to reply before the transmission died.”

“All right, we’re on our way,” Selu told the man. “Keep us updated if you hear anything and issue a high-level alert to all forces.”

Selu turned to Milya.

“I’ll drive, you see if you can sense anything in the Force.”

She nodded as they dashed to their speeder. Selu powered it up, opened the garage doors and gunned the repuslorlifts, driving them out in the furious snowstorm blanketing the Tusloni Basin.

Ten minutes later, they were at Yanibar Guard Headquarters situation room, listening to the transmission. While Milya had been unable to see or sense much in the Force, she at least perceived that Cassi was still alive.

“We’re under attack!” the audio-only transmission began. “They’re everywhere! Yuuzhan Vong! They’re killing anyone in their path, overrunning the camp. It’s a slaughter.”

There was a sound of something slamming on metal, possibly some object smash against metal.

“Oh kriff, I think they’re here!” the voice continued, sounding frightened. “This is the Open Hands camp on Ord Pardron. We are under attack!”

Something splintered and broke in the background and a feral growl could be heard.

“No, sweet stars above, no. . .” a frightened whisper emerged. “I’m a volunteer, a humanitarian. I’m not a soldier or a—,”

A bloodcurdling scream cut off the transmission, accompanied by the familiar squelching sound of someone being stabbed. Then there was a smashing sound, followed by static.

“That’s all,” the duty officer explained.

“We understand,” Milya said pensively, turning to Selu, who was standing at a holotable looking at symbols. “What are our options?”

“We’ve got one fleet squadron that can launch within four hours,” Selu told her. “That gives us a decent force to work with, but we don’t know what Yuuzhan Vong assets are at Ord Pardron. If we delay another four hours, I can see about pulling some ships from the escort branches and possibly the main battle fleet. I’ve already got hyperspace-capable covert probes en route to the system.”

“And for groundside operations?”

“We’ve got the marines on the ready fleet group,” Selu told her. “I can have additional special ops units called in and we could probably put them on a Shii-Cho with a medical response team.”

“I’m worried that one fleet squadron might not be enough,” Milya said. “If there’s a capital ship with support there, we’ll be outgunned.”

“I know,” Selu answered. “Most of the main fleet is being resupplied and won’t be ready for nearly a week. I’ve already sent out a priority signal to all the ship captains on the main fleet to see if any of them could have their ships in fighting order for outsystem deployment in under four hours. Still waiting on replies.”

A hologram of the Yanibar Guard Fleet symbol popped up above the table, indicating an incoming message. Selu hit the button to accept the transmission. The hologram transformed into a middle-aged human woman in a fleet officer’s uniform, standing with her arms clasped behind her back.

“Sir, I understand you need ships for a fight in another system ASAP,” she told him.

“That’s right,” Selu said.

“My ship can be battle-ready in three hours,” she informed him. “The pilots are already on alert and we’re warming engines now.”

“How about escorts?” Selu asked her.

“I’ve talked to the other captains of the escort vessels in our command and we have two more Makashis that can escort us. None of the other ships are battle-worthy right now. Myself, Captain Silvaris, and Captain Oanar will be pushing it as it is. What are your orders?”

“Prepare for space,” Selu answered. “Rendezvous with Squadron One at rally point one-one-seven. I’ll meet you there as well.”

“Yes sir,” she said. “Just so you know, we’re a couple squadrons short on starfighters.”

“I’ll transfer some from groundside,” Selu promised. “I’ll see you in eight hours, Commodore.”

She saluted and then the hologram winked out.

“Who was that again?” Milya asked.

Selu gave her an askance look.

“Look, it’s late at night, I’m tired, and I don’t have a holographic memory,” she groused.

“That was Commodore Lana Arystek,” Selu explained. “She’s in command of the Vigilant Refuge.”

“Ah, that’s right, the first female flag officer who wasn’t Force-sensitive,” Milya recalled. “And that’s a Jar’Kai-class carrier you just added to our little rescue party.”

“Both correct,” Selu affirmed as he manipulated symbols on the holodisplay. “Her escort is a bit light, but I’m going to pull two more Nimans from the home fleet and add some starfighters to fill out her complement.”

Selu finished what he was doing and closed out the command deployment display, securing the interface that allowed him to rapidly task and manage Yanibar Guard assets against unauthorized access.

“The fleet assets should be ready to go in seven hours if Commodore Arystek was correct in her assessment,” Selu told her. “Time to get our own gear.”

“And if we’re lucky, catch a catnap once we get up to the Refuge,” Milya added. “Don’t count on sleeping in hyperspace if we have to analyze data from those probes.”

“At this point, I’m not counting on much of anything,” Selu said grimly.
 * Elsewhere on Yanibar

Jasika awoke with a start even as exhaustion immediately swept through her as her body protested being awoken prematurely. She glanced at the chrono—she’d only been asleep for an hour and a half. Jasika looked around for the source of what had woken her up and realized it was under her pillow. She retrieved her comlink from its position there and squinted irritatingly at it. This idea of being at the beck and call of the Yanibar Guard military had been hard enough when it was just Bryndar—having it apply to her also would take more adjustment.

“I’m on leave, dammit,” she groaned at the comlink, which stubbornly kept beeping at her.

Jasika sighed and activated the device and a miniature holo of Commander Mada materialized.

“Sublieutenant, I realize you had until tomorrow to make your decision, but that deadline passed twenty minutes ago anyway,” he said. “I’m being asked from the very top if my squadron can be ready for an immediate deployment. We can’t deploy without a full roster and three of my pilots are either unreachable or sick, so I’ve already pulled all my reserve pilots.”

“You want me to just jump into an elite squadron I’ve never flown with on a combat mission?” Jasika asked him. “Are you insane, sir, or just desperate?”

“A bit of both,” he answered. “Don’t let this go beyond your ears, but the mission is covering a VIP rescue.”

“How important?”

“Important enough that you’re probably related to whoever it is. They’re not even telling me who, where, or what, except it’ll likely be dangerous and it’s outsystem,” Mada remarked grimly. “Is that sufficient motivation?”

Jasika’s priorities immediately changed upon hearing that. While she had been tempted to decline, the idea of not being there to help another member of her family out of a dangerous situation flew in the face of every reason why she had joined the Yanibar Guard.

“I’m in, but for the record, I think this could screw up royally, sir,” she said as she rubbed sleep from her eyes.

“I know, but I’m more worried about that if another squadron is sent in our place. The Paladins have always been at the tip of the spear, Jasika, but we can only be there this time with your help.” “You can count on me, sir,” she told him resolutely. “I won’t let you down.”

“Good to hear it. Meet us at the base ASAP and we’ll get a Sabre II ready for you, along with some food. Bring a go-bag—you do know what that is, right?”

“Already have one packed,” Jasika replied. “My husband taught me a few things, sir.”

“I thought he might have,” Commander Mada said. “I’ll see you at the base.”

The transmission ended and Jasika scrambled into her flight suit, grabbing the compact black service bag filled with essentials and ready to go in case of a rapid deployment. As she exited the bedroom, she noticed that Bryndar was similarly awake in the living room and had his go-bag out also.

“Congratulations on your new unit,” he said flatly, without looking at her.

There was no emotion in his words, though. Her joining YGF had created a rift between them, and the two rarely saw each other. Bryndar had been on a number of night exercises that kept him away when she was home and vice versa. Moreover, he had been sleeping on the couch in their living room since his return from wherever he’d been on his last mission. Jasika doubted that they’d exchanged more than an hour’s worth of conversation in the last month, and a kiss or any other form of affection had been utterly out of the question. Whenever she entered the room, Bryndar seemed to chill at her presence where he had once warmed upon her entry. None of her attempts at apologizing had had any effect on his iciness toward her, and she ruefully realized she had just made another career decision without asking him.

“You got the same call I did?” she asked him.

He slid open a drawer and retrieved his blaster, custom-fitted with a special grip and sights. The commando checked the energy level, then slid it into a tuck-away holster on the back of his belt.

“No, I’m sure it’s a mystery call from my superiors in the middle of the night on a completely unrelated secret mission,” Bryndar answered, his voice laced with biting sarcasm.

With that, he snatched up his go-bag and strode out the door towards his speeder. Jasika had been about to ask him if they wanted to drive together, but his response killed that impulse prematurely. Something told her it would have been an awkward, silent, tension-filled trip anyway. Grabbing her own go-bag, she followed him into the garage just as he was loading his bag into his speeder.

“Are you going to be mad at me forever?” she asked him as he climbed into his vehicle.

“No, of course not,” Bryndar replied without looking at her. “Nobody stays in the Yanibar Guard forever.”

With that, he sped out of the garage and into the driving snowfall. Jasika sighed, put her own bag into the back of her speeder and followed suit.