Force Exile V: Warrior/Part 4

8
“All rise.”

The quiet command echoed through the solemn courtroom and two dozen people rose in a muted rustle of fabric. Their eyes focused on a single person sitting at the witness stand, who was flanked by a pair of Elite Guardians standing vigilant guard and whose sentence was about to be pronounced.

Ariada stood quietly, her eyes locked straight ahead. She had a sense of foreboding about the outcome of her trial. She’d read the relevant regulations before her ill-fated attempt to crack the data files from Psykith. She had been denied contact with anyone other than her legal counsel or her superiors, until now. However, even though the members of her team were present, she did not look to them for strength now. She could expect scarce support from that direction. She had sensed they did not sympathize with her rash actions. Then she considered Ryion and Ariada’s resolve almost faltered at the thought of what she had inflicted upon him. She had deceived him, used him, and shut him out of her plans. He was deeply wounded even if though wanted to help her—his testimony had conveyed that much earlier, how resistant he’d been to detailing her full involvement—but it was pointless to justify her actions unless he understood the gravity of her mission.

She already knew she was guilty; she had admitted as much in her questioning. It had been a short trial and an even shorter deliberation, so it was beyond a remote chance that the jury had somehow been swayed by her justification of achieving a greater good through her various crimes.

“Has the sentence for the defendant been reached?” asked the presiding officer, a distinguished female Falleen Elite Guardian named Xlora, one of the senior members of the entire order.

“It has,” announced one of the jury members.

“Then let it be read.”

“We find Ariada Cerulaen guilty of three counts of insubordination, one count of assaulting an Elite Guardian, two counts of breaching a secure facility without authorization, two counts of misappropriating Elite Guardian equipment for personal use, and an elevated count of computer misconduct. We find her state of mind to be unrepentant and judge that she is no longer fit to continue serving as an Elite Guardian after abusing the trust placed in her.”

“What is the recommendation of the panel?” Xlora asked.

“We recommend that she be held at Haxares Station for at least five years without rank or privilege. We recommend that she be placed under constant supervision and regarded as a renegade Force-user until she has successfully proven that she has reformed her behavior and defeated the darkness within her.”

Haxares Station. Ariada knew what that was, too. It was a polar monitoring station operated by the Yanibar Guard set in the middle of a frozen ice field with nothing else around for hundreds of kilometers. It also served as a special prison for Force-users, complete with guards trained in disabling such prisoners, Force-repelling ysalamiri, and powerful counselors well-trained in identifying and assisting troubled Force-users. It was much a prison as a reform center, but one either learned their lesson, or spent the rest of their days in an icy, desolate wasteland isolated from everything they ever knew before. Nobody had ever escaped, either, because there was nowhere to flee to and nowhere to hide. In that, Haxares was brutally effective.

“The court approves your recommendation,” Xlora pronounced. “So it shall be done.”

Then the senior Elite Guardian directed her reptilian gaze down to Ariada.

“Does the defendant have any further words?”

“I do,” Ariada replied calmly, making sure to sweep her eyes across the courtroom, though she skipped over Ryion. “You sentenced me for breaking all of the ordinances listed above. I’d like to add one more: of doing whatever I can to save this refuge and the galaxy from the threat of the Yuuzhan Vong. While you feel that justice is being done by shipping me to Haxares—and maybe you’re right—remember that the real enemy is still out there. Justice be done.”

She was rewarded to see several people in the audience—including her teammates—shift uneasily at her words. They’d had the desired impact.

“So noted,” Xlora said crisply. “Escort the prisoner to a holding area and prepare her for transport to Haxares. The court is dismissed.”

The others gathered in the room mulled around before dispersing completely, and again none of them made eye contact with her. Ariada lowered her gaze to the floor and followed her two guards through the hallway that led to the holding area. As she walked through the heavily monitored security corridor, she heard a familiar voice.

“Five minutes alone with her, that’s all I’m asking,” Ariada’s ears heard Ryion plead distantly.

“I have specific instructions to keep all members of her team away from her, sir. Especially you,” she heard a guard reply.

“I outrank you,” Ryion protested.

“Which is irrelevant, as you have no authority here, and my superior directly ordered me not to listen to you. The only thing you’re getting from me is the ‘sir,’ sir.”

“I can call my parents and have you demoted down to my personal janitor if you keep this up.”

“Oooh, the young gurrcat is making threats,” the guard snickered nastily. “Go ahead, call mommy on me, sir.”

“Dammit!” she heard Ryion shout, obviously frustrated, then his tone softened as he realized that petulance would be futile in obtaining his request. “That is my partner and my girlfriend we are talking about here. Five minutes, please! I agree to whatever conditions you want, just let me talk to her this one last time. You’d want someone to do the same thing for you!”

Ariada kept her eyes locked on the tile even as she was marched along.

“Fine,” the guard said with a sigh. “You’ll be alone, unarmed, and monitored. You’ll also be in a room equipped with ysalamiri so don’t try anything cute. Five minutes, no more. Starting now, sir.”

“Thank you, thank you very much,” Ryion replied gratefully.

The Wroonian prisoner looked up to see Ryion gesture and his lightsaber hilt flew blindingly fast from his belt to land in the guard’s hand, such that if Ryion had wanted the burly Twi’lek dead, he’d have had his head severed before he realized he was decapitated. Ryion then unbuckled the rest of his utility belt and allowed himself to be scanned thoroughly. By that point, the guards had already ushered Ariada into a small room bereft of any furnishing save a table and two chairs. A dizzying thickness swept over her mind as she entered, the nauseating sensation of a ysalamiri bubble. The alien creatures, imported from Myrkr, repelled the Force in a small region around them, making them extremely useful for controlling rogue Force-users. She’d been exposed to them before, in training, and so resisted the gag reflex that swelled within her throat. Still, it felt like she’d been blinded as the comforting currents of the Force were severed from her mind. Ariada sat in one of the chairs and kept her gaze on the dirty floor, steeling herself against the inevitable painful conversation. A minute later, Ryion entered and sat down in the other chair, dragging it up closer to her. He looked haggard and tired, and she wondered if the emotional burden of the past weeks was weighing on him too heavily, or if there was some other reason he wasn’t sleeping well.

“Hey,” he said.

She gave no response initially, though Ariada knew her hands were trembling. She hadn’t spoken a word to Ryion in the two weeks since her arrest and now here he was, doubtless with a hundred questions. He’d ask her if she’d lost her mind, if she hadn’t valued their relationship or her oaths to the Yanibar Guard. If he was feeling vindictive, he’d say he never wanted to see her again.

“Hey,” Ryion said again, taking her slender hands in his own callused ones and lifting them up. “It’s me.”

Ariada slowly brought her gaze up to meet his, a blank expression on her face.

“Talk to me, Ari,” Ryion urged quietly. “We don’t have much time, but I’m listening.”

“I had to do it,” Ariada whispered fiercely, choking up with emotion upon seeing him, upon touching him again after deeply hurting him. “There was no other way, Ryion.”

“You saw that in a vision?” Ryion asked.

She shook her head.

“I just know. The Vong are going to destroy everything, Ryion, unless we do something to stop them. Something drastic.”

“I promise you, I won’t let that happen,” he answered quickly. “We’ve fought too hard for that.”

“Don’t make a promise if there’s no hope of keeping it,” Ariada said forlornly.

“We’ll handle the Vong,” Ryion reiterated. “They haven’t won yet.”

She shrugged hopelessly, knowing that he would never understand, that he’d keep fighting and believing he could win until there were a dozen amphistaffs stabbed through him. There was no point discussing that matter further and both of them knew it.

“What about us?” Ryion asked gently.

That startled her—she’d been operating under the assumption that he’d already considered the relationship over when she’d lied to him, stolen from him, and betrayed everything he held dear.

“I thought—I thought. . .” she mumbled.

“It’s not over until we say it’s over,” Ryion said flatly.

“I hurt you,” she said, in a quizzical manner that conveyed a question beyond just the simple statement.

“Yes, yes you did,” Ryion answered and Ariada knew that the admission alone pained him to say as much it pained her to hear. “But I’m willing to overlook that if you are. So, what about us?”

Her gaze dropped as she considered the words she was about to tell him. Ryion was at heart an idealist, and unwaveringly loyal to people or ideas if he thought they were worth preserving. This time, though, Ariada knew that he was chasing an ethereal dream long since bereft of fulfillment. She had to stop him from wasting his life.

“I think I made that decision two weeks ago,” Ariada said slowly. “Ryion, I am sorry. I know you won’t understand. . . and I’m so sorry.”

The tears flowed freely from both eyes, while Ryion stared at her with a mixture of horror and confusion on his face.

“I think it’s over between us,” Ariada choked out against the thick feeling in her throat and tightness in her chest that threatened to constrict her voice. “It’s been an honor, Ryion Kraen.”

“No,” Ryion said resolutely. “No, it’s more than honor. It’s a dream come true.”

He reached up to brush the tears from her face, his fingers gently caressing her cheek affectionately.

“At one point, we shared everything with each other. We had something special. We can still have that.”

Ariada bit her lip, steeling herself against the words she had to say. Her heart shattered anew with each word she spoke, each tone of the death knell for their relationship that she was sounding. Even without the Force, the Wroonian knew that Ryion would experience the same torment and she hated herself for grieving him like this. The fact that she had broken all those rules was nothing to her, but hurting Ryion felt like stabbing herself.

“Sometimes, Ryion, people change. Relationships can change as well,” she answered disconsolately. “What we had before is gone. The woman you fell in love with is gone.”

“Why?” he asked, his face contorted with raw pain. “I know you, Ariada. Come back to me.”

There was a pleading look on his face and Ariada averted her gaze, unsure if she could maintain her resolve while witnessing the destruction her words were causing reflected in his eyes.

“It’s over, Ryion,” Ariada said bluntly. “You can’t just leave your responsibilities to chase me and I can’t just wish away what I’ve done. I’m sorry—I wish it could be different—but it’s not.”

He fixed his eyes on her, boring deep into her as he asked her slowly.

“If you had a chance to do it all again, would you still have done it?” he asked in a low voice.

Ariada knew he was searching for some thread of hope, some vestige of penance. She knew she could lie to him with a straight face, but he deserved better than that. He deserved the truth. She shook her head slowly, mustering the courage to face him and deliver the last thing he wanted to hear.

“You loved me, Ryion Kraen, and I loved you back, and at one point, that was enough for me.”

He looked at her hopefully, anticipating a sign of repentance, but a simple gesture warned him to let her finish.

“But if I don’t do my utmost to fight against the Yuuzhan Vong, I don’t think I could look at myself in the mirror knowing that I hadn’t done everything I could to stop them from enslaving another city, from burning another world, from sacrificing another thousand people. One day, you’ll understand that threat as I do.”

“Are you saying I don’t already?”

“No,” she answered flatly. “Unless you’ve faced the distinct and likely possibility of your entire species being wiped out like I have, I don’t think you can ever understand.”

He nodded slowly, wiping all emotion from his countenance.

“So I take it that the answer to my original question is yes.”

A fresh tear dripped slowly off Ariada’s cheek as his words hung between them, but she had come this far. She had to press on—she had to, so that they both could move forward. Ariada had accepted her fate and now the best thing she could do was help Ryion do the same.

“Yes,” she said, burying her face in her hands. “Damn me to the Nine Corellian Hells, I would.”

She looked up at him, her face twisted into a miserable visage as she uttered the words, loathing herself for saying them. He had never done anything to deserve her actions and now here she was stabbing him with a lightsaber and twisting it around his heart.

“I’m sorry, Ryion,” Ariada sobbed.

“Don’t be,” he said coldly. “You made your point and you made it honestly.”

He stood up abruptly and a sense of harsh, bitter rejection washed over her, a feeling she had already deluged him with. Ryion turned stiffly and walked out of the room. As the door opened, he turned back to her and she finally saw a flicker of something—maybe grief, maybe remorse, maybe longing—in his eyes.

“Goodbye, Ariada,” Ryion told her softly. “May the Force be with you.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving Ariada alone. Within the hour, she was on a transport, heavily guarded and bound for Haxares.


 * Rishi 

Hobbie Klivian almost had a smile on his face as he walked through the crowded corridor to the conference room on the bulk cruiser where the viceroy and his officers spent most of their time. As the doors slid open, he noted that General Undukjavi and Colonel Previthevi were also there—good, he wouldn’t have to repeat himself.

“Gentlemen, for once, I don’t come with bad news,” he said. “The planetary government of Rishi was very sympathetic to our plight. They’ve agreed to harbor us for as long as we need.”

“That is excellent news,” the viceroy replied, his weathered face lighting up with happiness.

“And what about the Vong?” General Undukjavi grumbled. “What happens when they track us here? Is Rishi well-defended?”

“If the Vong are going to chase us across this many sectors, well, there’s not much we can do anyway, General, unless you know of a nearby sympathetic fortress world or battle fleet. Fact is, supplies are running low and a lot of people are sick. The people of Rishi have opened their arms to help us—we just have to tell them our decision.”

“Tell them that we accept,” the viceroy instructed. “I cannot let the suffering of our people continue as we wander from system to system in light of their generous offer. Give them our humble gratitude as well.”

“I’ll give them the short version,” Hobbie replied. “The governor said he’d be honored if you and your family were guests at his home, and he said that his people are setting up refugee camps for the rest of the Chalactans.”

“I do not see why I should get special treatment over the rest of my people,” the viceroy said humbly. “Tell him that I must decline, but that his invitation is very hospitable.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” Hobbie answered regretfully, wishing he didn’t have to deal with these diplomatic intricacies. “The governor said that by taking you in, he’d be setting an example to the rest of Rishi as congenial hosts. Rejecting him would probably be seen as a snub.”

Great, now I’m a diplomat, Hobbie thought with disgust. He’d never been one for that kind of subtlety—he was a fighter pilot, not a negotiator. Shoot the bad guys, save the good guys, do it again the next day if you were lucky enough to survive. Now he’d been thrust into mediating between two planetary leaders.

“Of course, how thoughtless of me,” the viceroy conceded. “In that case, tell the governor that we accept his invitation and that we will abide by all the pertinent statutes while we are here.”

Couldn’t he just go up to the bridge and tell him that himself? Hobbie considered, but outwardly, he nodded obediently.

“I’ll get right on it,” he answered. “In other news, our patrols have seen no sign of Vong. We may have actually lost them, but then again, I doubt that given our luck thus far.”

“Thank you for your report, Colonel,” the viceroy said with a nod.

Understanding that he’d been dismissed, Hobbie turned and left. As he exited the conference room, Anja Gallandro fell in beside him, her lanky stride easily matching his. He turned and gave her an arch look.

“You weren’t eavesdropping, were you, Gallandro?”

“Me? I’d never do a thing like that, boss,” she replied lightly. “So, what do you think about setting down on Rishi?”

“It’s isolated enough,” Hobbie replied. “And far from the current battle planes, which means if the Vong come for us, we’ll be dead before any kind of reinforcements can arrive.”

“And the defenses?”

“Rishi is sparsely populated and most of the people are peaceful,” Hobbie answered. “Probably a few tough local pilots, maybe an old starfighter squadron or two. Nothing particularly worth mentioning.”

“So why are we landing here then?”

Hobbie shrugged fatalistically.

“We have nothing better to do and nowhere better to go. It’s as good a place to die as any, Gallandro.”

“What kind of answer is that?” she asked.

He gave her a long face.

“A truthful one.”

“A depressing one, more like. Those are the only reasons?”

“Well, it is a fairly comfortable world and they did offer to let us stay there,” Hobbie admitted. “It saves us from a death by starvation, heat exposure, or carbon dioxide poisoning. That won’t help much when it comes to the Vong, though.”

“What makes you so sure that the scarheads are going to chase us out here?”

“Pride.”

“Sir?”

Hobbie shook his head regretfully.

“The Vong think they are so superior to us that any insult to their conquest—for example, snatching a few thousand people off a planet that had surrendered to them—has to be repaid ten times over. Their only response to defeat thus far has been doubled aggression. I have every reason to think they’re coming after us right as we speak.”

“Then I hope there’s still a few things that we don’t know about the Yuuzhan Vong mindset.”

“We’ll see, now won’t we? Get going, go help coordinate the landing effort. It’s going to take some effort to get all these ships down and people unloaded without causing a riot.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Gallandro said, throwing him a casual salute as she sauntered off.

Once she was out of view, Hobbie leaned heavily against the wall. He wasn’t particularly confident that landing on Rishi was the best course of action, despite his recommendation to the viceroy. There was too much at stake for him to err in judgment now, not with so many lives hanging in the balance. Had he just doomed the people of Rishi to suffer a Yuuzhan Vong invasion that almost certainly crush them? By allowing the Chalactans to land on Rishi, was he just keeping them in position for the aliens to come and enslave them again?

Life had been a lot easier when he was merely an ace fighter pilot and eternal pessimist, who did his job well and tried to avoid being shot down. The responsibility of his current position weighed on his shoulders. Looking at his reflection on a mirrored porthole, Hobbie was dismayed to see how quickly he’d aged in the last few months, how many worry lines and wrinkles now creased his face. This war was taking a toll on him, on all of them. In that sense, death at the hands of the Yuuzhan Vong would at least end his slow degeneration from anxiety and overwork. With these dour thoughts swimming through his mind, he sighed and headed back to work. At this rate, he could work nonstop for ten years and never be finished.


 * Borleias

The officer’s mess in the newly recovered biotics facility had not been located in a room originally intended for that use, but it was serviceable enough, albeit cluttered and noisy. The food was nothing to celebrate—mostly prepackaged rations—but Lando Calrissian had done an admirable job in assembling it with the time and resources available to him. Not that Tycho Celchu had much interest in the ambience or gourmet food at the moment. For him, meals were mere sustenance for another day of the New Republic’s re-capture of Borleias from the Yuuzhan Vong, a move that was sure to draw the ire of the invaders.

A shadow fell across his table as Wedge sat down in the chair across from him. It was the first that Tycho had seen him since Wedge’s wife and children had been retrieved from Coruscant and ferried to Borleias, and the general looked much more energetic, hopeful even.

“Good morning, General,” Tycho greeted him. “Sleep well?”

Wedge gave him a small smile.

“Best since Coruscant fell,” he replied affably.

“What’s on the agenda today?” Tycho asked his superior.

“I want a full update on where our defenses stand,” Wedge said. “The Vong are coming for us. We knew that when we took this place from us. I want to be ready for them. We need our defenses to hold long enough.”

“Long enough for what?” Tycho inquired bluntly.

The two had been friends and partners in the military long enough that they could discuss such matters openly without the need for protocol. It was rare that Wedge would hide something from Tycho, and since the two had practically strong-armed the interim ruling council of the New Republic into sending reinforcements, there was no doubt of their unity on the defense of Borleias.

“Long enough to make a difference,” Wedge said slowly.

Tycho nodded, his eyes keenly focused on Wedge.

“What’s that mean? Give me some specifics,” Tycho replied.

“We need to focus the Vong’s attention on Borleias so that the rest of the New Republic can regroup. That means the government needs to re-establish itself and the military needs to be unified and able to act.”

“That could be a long time, given the current situation,” Tycho remarked, leaving it unsaid that the provisional council had basically hung the entire Borleias garrison out to dry.

“Then we do what we can from here to influence those factors,” Wedge answered. “We bleed the Yuuzhan Vong out here on Borleias, give our troops something to rally around, and then we find a way to kick-start the government back into breathing again.”

“Maybe Leia could be persuaded to accept office again,” Tycho mused.

Wedge shook his head. He’d seen holovids of Leia Organa in the Senate, seen her in person and knew there was no way she would accept that responsibility again. The recent loss of at least one of her children on a deep strike mission would make her even more distanced from an official leadership role.

“I doubt it,” Wedge answered. “This isn’t her war any more than it is ours.”

“Yet we’re all fighting it together,” Tycho commented pointedly.

“Play the hand you’re dealt,” Wedge said curtly, waving off his friend’s remark. “We stay alive and fighting here long enough, maybe even the government can sort itself out without our help.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Tycho remarked cynically. “The New Republic may not have that kind of time.”

Wedge shrugged remorsefully.

“I’m fresh out of miracles,” he said. “If I find a spare one, I’ll let you know. Until then, we’re stuck doing things the Rogue Squadron way.”

“Impossible is our stock in trade,” Tycho said as he took a sip of the hot caf. “I understand.”

“Good,” Wedge replied, standing up. “I have a meeting with Danni Quee in a few minutes that I need to head off to. She’s going to brief me on the yammosk jammers she and her team have developed. Want to come?”

“I have other duties,” Tycho said. “I’ll have that report to you by 0700 tomorrow, though, and you can fill me on the details.”

Wedge nodded, then shook Tycho’s hand.

“Good luck, Colonel.”


 * Yanibar

Sleep did not come easily to Ryion these days, haunted as he was by thoughts and regrets over Ariada. There was no one he dared confide his emotional difficulties with, and he didn’t think he could discuss losing her anyway. He’d been lonely and confused, his turmoil resulting in unresolved emotional strain burdening his mind. Meditation and Force-usage had also been encumbered due to an inability to properly concentrate on the Force. So when he finally drifted off, he tried to prolong the scant hours of slumber in order to rejuvenate his body and mind so he could continue his normal duties. However, even asleep, he’d trained his mind to have a minimal awareness of his surroundings as part of his Elite Guardian skills. That was how he sensed her, a female presence stealing quietly into his room. He couldn’t tell if it was Ariada or not—he did not recognize her immediately—but Ariada could have easily been disguising her presence.

Ryion woke with a start, the sheets falling away from his bare chest as he sat up quickly. His eyes darted around the room, seeking out the disturbance that had interrupted his rest. Then he saw her, the same ghostly blue outline of a woman that he’d seen many times over the last few weeks, in his dreams, sometimes waking him up, sometimes even when he was awake. Just as before, she was dressed like a Jedi, her dark hair in braided loops around her head. She turned and looked at him with a serene expression, then started to walk off.

Immediately, Ryion got out of bed, trying to reach out to her with his mental senses. He wasn’t exactly sure why the apparition had visited him, but her repeated appearances had only stiffened his resolve to decipher her identity and purpose. The woman paid him no heed, but simply kept walking away.

Ryion swept up a cloak from the dresser, threw it over his shoulders and followed her out from his apartment. She led away from his quad of apartments in the Jedi enclave, across the courtyard and away onto one of the winding paths intertwined throughout the vicinity. He followed her for nearly a quarter kilometer, seeing no one else, down to a secluded circular garden marked by a ring of stones and shrubberies surrounding a small bubbling pool. The moons’ light shone off the stones, illuminating the circle with an eerie glow and casting silver sparkles on the water. Ryion was unsure if the woman would vanish, as she often did, but she finally stopped to float by the edge of the pool, her head down as if gazing into its depths.

“Who are you?” he asked as he too came to a stop a few meters away from her.

She turned back to look at him mournfully. “I am She Who Damned Herself,” she told him.

They were the first words he’d heard the apparition speak.

“You were a Jedi?” he asked.

“I have been many things to many people,” she told him. “What do these labels matter to one who is dead?”

“If it doesn’t matter, why are you wearing Jedi robes?” Ryion countered.

“I appear this way to draw your attention,” she said. “Were I garbed otherwise, you might not have noticed.”

“You have my attention,” Ryion answered. “What do you want from me? Why do I keep seeing you?”

“Because you are the only one who can possibly help me,” she told him solemnly.

“What are you talking about?” Ryion asked. “Who are you?”

“I told you, I am She Who Damned Herself,” the woman replied.

“And who were you before that?” Ryion inquired.

She heaved a sigh, looking even more mournful than before.

“My name is not important. And yet, years ago, when I still trod among the living, they called me a Master among the Jedi.”

“What happened?” Ryion asked.

Her tone turned bitter, yet laced with sadness and regret.

“I fell, young Jedi. I fell into a darkness that words cannot describe. A darkness that not even my closest friend and master could retrieve me from.”

She shuddered at the painful memories.

“Is that how you were damned?” Ryion asked.

The woman gave no answer, but the look on her face was enough.

“Never give in to it,” she said bluntly. “No matter what.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Ryion asked. “To warn me about the dark side?”

“Not for that reason alone,” she told him. “I am here to seek your help.”

“What can I do?” Ryion asked. “I mean, you’re uh. . . dead and all.”

She fixed him with a serious facial expression.

“You can save my people, and in doing so, allow me a measure of rest, Ryion Kraen. I am damned to wander the stars, tormented by memories of the destruction I wrought, of the lives I ended, until that all I have done is answered for.”

“Who are your people?” Ryion probed.

“They are the last remnant of those who were once my people,” the apparition told him, “hiding on Rishi, defenseless against the powers arrayed against them.”

“And why me?” Ryion asked. “You could have gone to my father, or any of the more powerful or influential Force-users here.”

“Because, you are the only one with enough power and will to influence the situation and yet would also consider my request with pure motives,” she said. “And because you, especially, might benefit from a gift I can give you.”

“What kind of gift might this be?” Ryion inquired.

She transfixed him with a direct stare that seemed to bore right through him, a penetrating look designed to evaluate him and focus his entire attention on her.

“The only kind of gift one might expect from the dead, Ryion Kraen. One powerful and perilous, terrifying and treacherous, magnificent and malevolent. Such is the gift I offer you.”

Ryion took a step forward, his dark eyes searching deeply as he gazed intently at the woman.

“Tell me more,” he said.

She shook her head.

“Not yet,” she answered. “There is still turmoil flowing within you, and you cannot use my gift with such conflicting emotions. It would consume you, as it did me.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” he asked.

“Prepare yourself,” the woman said simply. “As a proper Jedi would. Your heart and mind must be ready before you can face the trials ahead.”

“Ready for what?” Ryion asked. “What does that even mean?”

“You must be at peace, Ryion Kraen. Peace with yourself, with your actions, with others, and with how things have come to pass. Seek serenity.”

The apparition started to sink into the bubbling pool as she spoke.

“Wait,” Ryion told her, but she continued to dissolve into the water. “How will I know?”

“I will return. . . if there is still hope,” she said with finality even as her ghostly head slipped under the water.

Ryion dashed up to the pool to see if he could still see her, but the Jedi’s ghost had been consumed by the water and vanished.

He ran a hand through his unkempt hair and blinked his eyes, trying to clear his mind and decipher what he had just experienced. However, the mental clarity he relied on as a Jedi eluded him yet again, hindered by fatigue and emotional loss. Dejected and defeated, he stumbled back to his quarters to attempt slumber yet again. Whatever the woman had just told him in their strange conversation, it could wait until he was revivified.

9

 * Two weeks later

Ryion watched the waves roll into the sandy shore, their crests peaking and crashing in small eruptions of white spray. He sat on the edge of the beach, letting the water lap around his feet as he stared over the sea and the giant orange globe of the setting sun that tinted the water with a golden gleam. The pinkish sky was tranquil and peaceful with only scattered clouds—a stark contrast to the emotional storm whirling inside his mind. His brow furrowed as he gazed over the water, knowing that the solace he sought was gone. Sleep had remained elusive and he had been utterly exhausted over the last two weeks—ever since Ariada had been convicted and banished to Haxares and so he’d journeyed here, to the beaches just east of Saqua, only to be tormented by the ghosts of the past.

Ryion, I love you, the wind seemed to whisper to him as the balmy zephyrs swept over him. We could be together forever.

It was Ariada’s voice, yet he knew that she was lost to him forever. His subconscious tried to tell him otherwise, but he was resolute. The woman he had loved was gone. However, that decision left him at a loss emotionally. He couldn’t bring himself to be angry with her, nor was he willing to acquiesce to any faint hopes of reviving their relationship. So he sat there, nursing a gaping emotional wound, a void in his spirit that had hitherto been satiated by Ariada. Having been sidelined from normal duty until he was judged fit for deployment again left Ryion almost entirely without a purpose and he hated it.

Ryion clenched a fist, smacking it into his palm. Everything had gone wrong for him over the last month, ever since Ariada had broken into the data facility to steal those files. He blamed himself for that—partially for his inability to stop her and partially for having been so emotionally invested in his relationship with Ariada that losing her felt like having the ground removed from under his feet.

Suddenly, his introspection was interrupted by the arrival of another. He first heard rather than sensed his father’s arrival—Selu must have been hiding his presence to approach unannounced. Ryion shifted uneasily, unsure of what his father wanted with him. He’d distanced himself from others recently, at least until he achieved some kind of emotional equilibrium.

“I thought I might find you here,” Selu said mildly, walking up along the beach to sit beside his son.

Ryion kept his gaze firmly fixed out over the ocean’s waves, watching the sunlight glint off the water and shower golden spangles through the rollers.

“What can I do for you, Father?” he asked stiffly.

Selu considered the request for a moment.

“I’m not here because I need something, Ryion. I’m here for you.”

“And you think I want your help?” Ryion shot back, a sullen edge to his voice.

“I don’t know,” Selu answered in the same mild tone. “But I’m here if you do. So is your mother. I just volunteered to make the trip this time.”

“Thanks, I think,” Ryion said, frowning—and still keeping his eyes fixed out over the horizon.

They sat there quietly for a minute.

“Do you want me to leave?” Selu asked.

“Yes,” Ryion said quickly, then reversed his statement. “No. I mean. . . I don’t know.”

Selu waited for further explanation, knowing that it was better for Ryion to express himself rather than rely on inferences or intuition.

“Everything’s really confusing,” Ryion admitted at last. “I don’t know what to think.”

“Tell me about it,” Selu prompted.

“Things were going well. I was serving in the Guard, helping fight against the Vong and the dark siders. My teammates and I were united and we were completing missions. At home, I was fairly close to the rest of the family and Ariada and I had. . . something. A stable relationship at least.”

“And that’s gone now?”

“Part of it is,” Ryion said. “Ariada’s gone. Not just physically, but emotionally, she’s different. Something changed in her for the worse, and I can’t tell what it is. She wouldn’t let me help her either. That broke our team, and I think that might have broken me as well.”

Ryion finally turned to face his father, heedless of the tear slowly snaking its way down his face.

“We were that close, Dad, and now that’s completely torn away. That’s why I came back here. We spent a weekend leave on this beach once, just the two of us, and it was the best three days of my life.”

“You came to see if there was any trace of that bond left to recapture, any memory that might give you a reason to pursue her,” Selu suggested.

“Something like that,” Ryion said with a shrug. “I wanted to remember what it was like, the two of us, in love, in each other’s arms, when nothing else mattered. I wanted to feel that again.”

“Did you find it?” Selu asked, though he knew what Ryion’s answer would be.

“No,” Ryion said bleakly. “Just ghosts of the past—voices in my head and reminders of what I lost.”

“I see,” Selu answered neutrally. “So now what?”

Ryion turned away as another wave crashed up on the shore, sending a layer of foam streaking up the sand to envelop their boots.

“I sit here for awhile longer and try to straighten out my life.”

“Are you expecting some kind of mysterious revelation?” Selu inquired.

“Perhaps,” Ryion said cryptically. “You’re familiar with Force ghosts, right?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, I think I’ve been seeing one. She finally spoke to me last time we saw each other.”

“Did she say anything of personal significance?”

“I’m not sure, but if she did, it wasn’t immediately apparent. She implied that she needed my help, but she also said that I wasn’t ready to face whatever it was. Said I needed to be more serene.”

Ryion figured he didn’t exactly look serene, what with his bedraggled, fatigued appearance. The dark bags under his eyes from exhaustion, combined with his mussed hair, worry lines, and unshaved stubble didn’t exactly exude tranquility.

“She was probably right about that,” he remarked ruefully, tossing a stone into the water and listening for the plop sound it made when it broke the surface.

“Do you know who she is?” Selu asked.

“No idea,” Ryion answered. “I was going to look her up, see if we could match her face in the database, but I’ve been. . . distracted recently. She’s not a Jedi I recognize, but I never did pay too much attention to Jedi history.”

“A shame,” Selu commented. “There are many valuable lessons from Jedi history.”

“I’m sure,” Ryion replied dubiously. “But now’s hardly the time for a history lesson.”

“Perhaps,” Selu said noncommittally. “Tell me about your ghost. What did she look like?”

“Human, or at least near-human,” Ryion said. “Trim build. Long dark hair, braided in loops around the side of her head. She was wearing Jedi robes. There was one other thing, too.”

He cocked his head to one side and looked up, trying to recall. Finally, his sleep-starved mind summoned the appropriate memory.

“She had a dot of some kind between her eyebrows—maybe jewelry, maybe a scar—maybe a tattoo.”

“Really?” Selu said, his eyebrows shooting up as he realized who Ryion was talking about.

“You know something about this Jedi?” Ryion asked.

“I believe I knew her once,” Selu said. “If she’s who I think you’re talking about, her name was Depa Billaba, a Jedi Master of the Old Republic.”

“What happened to her? Was she killed by the Empire?” Ryion inquired.

“Probably, though I doubt she knew it when it happened,” Selu answered. “When the Empire attacked the Jedi Temple, Master Billaba had been comatose for months. She was on a mission to a planet during the Clone Wars when she. . . fell. When Master Windu went there and brought her back, she was in a coma.”

“What do you mean, she fell?” Ryion asked.

“We were told that the horrors of war took their toll on Master Billaba,” Selu reminisced. “The dark side consumed her, twisted her mind, and she turned against the Jedi. Her master was forced to fight and subdue her in order to stop her reign of terror and insanity.”

“That’s quite a story,” Ryion said.

“It’s not just a story,” Selu warned him. “It’s true. I was there when she was brought back to the Jedi Temple. That’s one of the reasons why we’ve tried to be mindful of the effects of war on the minds of our Guardians. What happened to Master Billaba could happen to any of us.”

“She warned me about the dark side.”

“I would listen to her.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Ryion asked suspiciously.

“It could mean anything. On one hand, she’s something of an expert on the dark side, particularly slipping into it during wartime. On the other, it’s an occupational responsibility of elder Jedi to warn the younger ones about the dark side incessantly,” Selu said, his tone carefully neutral to avoid aggravating or conveying an unwanted message to his son.

“That’s very reassuring,” Ryion remarked sarcastically. “That’s not all she said.”

“Oh?”

“She wanted me to help her people, said they were on Rishi. She suggested I was their best chance of survival.”

“I see,” Selu answered blandly. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Ryion replied honestly. “I can’t figure out my own life or save my girlfriend, much less save an entire population.”

“Are you interested in what Master Billaba had to say?”

“Yes,” Ryion admitted. “I’m not sure what to do, though. Rishi is a long way from here and I’m not sure I’m capable of going on a mission.”

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t send you to Rishi in the state you’re in,” Selu told him. “But if we both felt you were ready, I would consider it.”

“Really?”

“Ryion, I’ve watched you grow up into the man you are today and you’ve never given me reason to doubt you,” Selu said, gently laying a hand on Ryion’s shoulder. “You’ve withstood every trial you’ve faced, even the loss of Ariada. Your mother and I are very proud of you. I know these past few weeks have been hard for you—but we’d like to help.”

“I need to refocus. I need to determine what’s important in my life and then pursue it,” Ryion mused, half to himself. “I need to be doing something. Or else I’m just going to keep thinking of her.”

“Come stay at our house for a week,” Selu told him. “Recover your strength and rest. Talk to us if you need to talk.”

Ryion considered, then nodded slowly.

“Okay,” he said. “Thanks, Dad.”

“As long as we are able, you have our support,” Selu reassured him warmly. “We don’t want to lose you.”

“I know,” Ryion told his father. “Once I’m back on course, we will talk about Rishi, right?”

“Yes,” Selu said lightly. “Far be it from me to ignore what Master Billaba is saying. Come on.”

Selu rose, beckoning Ryion to follow him. Ryion followed dutifully, feeling immensely relieved after being able to talk to his father. It was refreshing to be able to finally share what had been troubling him, and Selu’s more or less open acceptance had been soothing as well. Ryion had known that his parents were supportive of him, but the reminder was more than welcome. While Ryion knew that his regret over Ariada would plague him for some time, he at least had a possible mission to Rishi to focus upon so his mind would no longer be idle. He could concentrate on what Master Billaba was leading him toward.

For his part, Selu was glad that Ryion had been receptive. He did not want an emotional barrier to foment between them. Having already lost one child—his daughter had left the refuge to marry an Outsider and been exiled as demanded by law—Selu was fearful that he’d lose his son emotionally. Selu had known how deeply the loss of Ariada had affected Ryion, even as he’d been forced to watch the proceedings that had condemned her. As a father, his heart had broken for Ryion even though his duty as an Elite Guardian and a Jedi told him to steadfastly ensure that Ariada’s misdeeds were properly disciplined. He’d reached out to Ryion, in part because he wanted to reconnect with his son, but his mind’s pragmatic half-reminded him of a need to keep a close eye on Ryion and help him excise his emotional turmoil as quickly as possible. The skeptical, vigilant Jedi within Selu knew that as powerful as Ryion was, it was not healthy to let his mind wander or wallow in confusion and sorrow. While as a father Selu wanted Ryion to recover for his own sake, as a Jedi, Selu had a duty to watch over all the Jedi and Elite Guardians and keep them focused on pursuit of the light side and protection of the refuge. And he would see that duty fulfilled.


 * Yuuzhan Vong grand cruiser Bloodthirster

Tsaruuk stood motionless on the bridge of his cruiser, observing all that occurred within the compartment. He could see the villip attendants in their quadrant of the spacious organic chamber, tending to the living communicators used by the Yuuzhan Vong. His eyes—narrowed to vigilant slits—observed the navigators poring over the navibrain that guided the Bloodthirster through the trackless mazes of darkspace.

The Yuuzhan Vong warrior was incredibly attentive to every happening on the ship, categorically observing everything while betraying no sign of thought or activity. He counted it as a sign of personal pride that he could control his body to stand rigidly still for hours on end, then immediately spring into action, ignoring the cramps and aches in his muscles. Tsaruuk was not oblivious to the discomfort that such actions brought him. Like any true Yuuzhan Vong warrior, he reveled in the pain. It reminded him that he was still alive, still challenged, still had more to come before he was truly the master of everything—even his own body. His mind was focused, sifting out various tactical details from reports brought to him by other ships in his command, by other Yuuzhan Vong flotillas roving Hutt Space. However, he did not have enough information, yet to track where the Chalactans had gone.

Their evasion was proving to be a most stimulating exercise. Yuuzhan Vong ships had found places where they had stopped. Keldooine, for one, had hosted the refugees, and for that, its inhabitants had been properly punished. Even now their blood flowed freely from the sacrificial altars and smoke rose from the immolation pits to appease the Yuuzhan Vong gods. However, Tsaruuk had yet to determine where exactly the refugees were after weeks of searching had led him through the labyrinth of worlds inside Hutt Space. He had, however, netted several Hutt convoys apparently trying to escape the wrath of the Yuuzhan Vong. They had been swiftly and efficiently crushed, with not a single ship surviving the onslaught of his fleet. They were mere appetizers, though. Tsaruuk was confident that as he spread his net of sentry ships around worlds like Toydaria, Nal Hutta, and Circumtore, that the fleeing infidels would be caught. And then he would crush them.

“Though you are superior to me in wisdom and strength, I request a word with you, Commander,” he heard Kroi Taak say from behind him.

Tsaruuk turned slowly to face his aide, who was properly bowed in obeisance.

“What is it?” Tsaruuk asked.

“Yiu Shac has returned, Commander,” the subaltern said. “You told me to inform you when that happened.”

A wicked smile creased the ritually scarred lips of Tsaruuk.

“Yes, indeed I did,” Tsaruuk mused. “That will be all, Kroi Taak. Keep watch on the bridge until I return.”

The reticent Yuuzhan Vong warrior stalked off away from the bridge, ignoring the stiffness in his joints and throbbing aches in his leg muscles from having stood stock-still for hours. He wandered through a maze of bio-illuminated passages that wound through the interior of the massive ship until he reached his personal chamber, a sparsely furnished hortium compartment. As the hatch sphincter irised open to admit him, Tsaruuk saw a single dark silhouette seated on the hau polyp bed inside the nestbunk, just outside of the light emanating from the lambent pylon on one side of the room. Only the iridescent sheen of the bioluminescent fungus plastered to the ceiling shone on the solitary figure.

“You have returned,” Tsaruuk said as the sphincter cycled shut behind him. “My mate.”

The other Yuuzhan Vong arose, stepping forward into the light to reveal a shapely female Yuuzhan Vong, dressed in the attire of a warrior. She was tall and relatively slender, her black hair extending down past her shoulders and with two pleasingly blue eye sacs complimenting her dark eyes. No longer young, her face bore the marks of advancement, the scars and tattoos of the warrior caste, but an element of youth lingered on her features. Her chitinous vonduun crab armor was sleek and black, the typical spikes carved down and less prominent, as befitting one who spent much time wearing an ooglith masquer disguise in order to rove undetected amongst the infidels.

Yiu Shac was not only Tsaruuk’s mate, she was his closest confidante and his best operative. She was considered very beautiful by Yuuzhan Vong standards, but she was also extremely deadly. Her particular advancements had equipped with her poison-talon fingernails, replacing her former digits with retractable venomous claws. She was the perfect combination of virtues for a Yuuzhan Vong warrior—beautiful, faithful, lethal, and fierce.

Their matching was odd, given that a female of Yiu Shac’s beauty, poise, and talent could have been picked by any of the prominent males in the warrior caste. Many blood duels had been waged over her, years ago, to no avail. When pursued too aggressively, Yiu Shac had challenged and defeated several suitors, saying she would only be the mate of the most gifted warrior. In a slap to the prevailing thought among the warrior caste, she had rejected all of the obvious candidates. Instead, she had chosen a more thoughtful, insightful warrior, the one who seemed to see beyond mere appearances. The selection had earned its blessing from both of their families though, as it strengthened Tsaruuk’s standing in his domain, and so they had been afforded that support at least.

“Commander,” Yiu Shac said, bowing in accordance with the proper protocol. “You are the superior—it is an honor to be in your presence again.”

“When we are alone, there is no need for such formality or abasement,” Tsaruuk told her, placing his hand on her arm. “I am yours. You are mine.”

“It is good to see you again,” Yiu Shac replied with a broad grin, stepping forward. “A delight after months of enduring the infidels.”

“We will celebrate our reunion then,” Tsaruuk answered. “I will bring yanskacs for a proper dinner.”

“A welcome change after the rubbish the infidels serve as nourishment,” Yiu Shac said with anticipation as she sat down. “I can taste them already.”

Tsaruuk nodded and left the chamber, returning twenty minutes later with a container filled with freshly roasted yanskacs and the appropriate wounds on his arms that one received from sticking a hand into a tank filled with live yanskacs. He set the meat between them and they ate, savoring the prized meat.

“Tell me, what have you learned from your mission?” Tsaruuk pried.

“I have learned much about the ships you seek, as well as the infidels who seized them off Chalacta,” Yiu Shac said smugly, licking the juice from the yanskacs off her lips.

“And?”

She regarded him for a moment, then digressed.

“They are not official emissaries of the New Republic. Instead, they are independent volunteers who dare to throw themselves against the Yuuzhan Vong. Their leader is a human named Derek Klivian.”

“What of him?” Tsaruuk asked.

“He is a former war hero from years earlier,” Yiu Shac explained. “A starfighter pilot with considerable reputation among the infidels. His volunteers attacked Chalacta while most of our forces were at Coruscant.”

“And?”

“From what I could gather of their history, he is a clever tactician and familiar with moving small units to hide from a larger force. He did much of that in their last great war.”

“I could have surmised that. Tell me something of use.”

“I suggest that you spread your net farther, Tsaruuk,” Yiu Shac told him. “If this Klivian is that crafty, he may have already fled Hutt Space.”

“We keep a close watch on Bothawui. If he heads for that planet, we will know.”

“That is the obvious destination,” Yiu Shac said, her lip curling with disapproval. “He will not go there and risk battle. Burdened by women and children, by the weaklings these infidels die to protect, he will seek somewhere he can find refuge without a fight.”

“A coward’s solution,” Tsaruuk remarked. “But a pragmatic one, if he seeks to protect the defenseless ones with him. What else?”

“His force numbers fewer than one thousand, his ships are aged, and the New Republic and the Jeedai do not support him. As weak as he is, he will not fight you in an open engagement. If you attack him, you must completely trap him, or he will seek to flee.”

“The trouble will first be finding such an elusive quarry,” Tsaruuk replied. “If he knows the space around here well and does not wish to engage, it will be difficult to trap him without first closing on his ships.”

Yiu Shac smiled confidently.

“Give my infiltrators more leeway to rove the spacelanes. We will find your missing ships by stealth and guile.”

“Take whatever resources you need, my beloved. Just find this Klivian and his refugees swiftly. Our success will bring glory to the Yuuzhan Vong and to the two of us.”

“I would do whatever was necessary to bring you success,” Yiu Shac whispered in his ear, as she leaned close to embrace him. “I have not stood by you all these years for nothing.”

“I am undeserving of your support and dedication,” Tsaruuk answered thickly, his voice approaching something as close to tender as a Yuuzhan Vong warrior’s could.

“Shall I depart at once, to continue seeking the refugees?” Yiu Shac asked.

“You need not leave immediately,” Tsaruuk answered mildly. “It is not good for a warrior to be deprived of the sanctity and provision of the Yuuzhan Vong for too long. You must maintain your strength and be rejuvenated by being with your people for a time.”

“And by a lover’s embrace?” Yiu Shac asked, a seductive smile spreading across her face.

“If the time permits and other obligations do not interfere,” Tsaruuk said obligingly, running his hand through her hair.

“Then we shall savor these moments together and thus return to the hunt all the stronger,” Yiu Shac pronounced.

“As the gods will,” Tsaruuk said.

“They have already blessed us by giving us each other and the opportunity to slay and subdue those who violate them,” Yiu Shac commented. “How could they deny us this?”

She shed her vonduun crab armor and the living protection peeled itself away from her body in vibrant agony as the crab’s anchors yanked themselves from her pores. Standing before him in just a loincloth, she looked radiant to Tsaruuk.

“It has been weeks since I have walked unarmored,” she commented, savoring the thousand stings caused by its removal.

“Then we shall make this moment something to remember,” Tsaruuk said, his eyes fixated on her.

The idea of love was not unknown to the Yuuzhan Vong. For all their alien ways, their love of conquest and pain and hatred of technology, they were not so removed from the rest of the galaxy to have no concept of love. Theirs was different, enwrapped in obligations to the gods, to the Yuuzhan Vong caste system, and to their religious dogma, but the core quality endured. The Yuuzhan Vong possessed emotion but they felt it in different ways and revered different sentiments than the prevailing human thinking that dominated the galaxy.

Tsaruuk would rather have died a coward’s death—the ultimate disgrace for a Yuuzhan Vong warrior—than to lose Yiu Shac. The gods had favored him with a beautiful and faithful mate of ten standard years and he had done all in his power to see her advance and be escalated alongside him, to provide all he could for her so that she would be well-provisioned and protected. She had reciprocated, giving him her utter devotion, her support even amidst his unpopularity and disfavor among the other ranking warriors, and three sons she had borne to be raised by the crèches.

As a member of the warriors, Tsaruuk venerated Yun-Yammka, the god of war, to be the most revered deity of the Yuuzhan Vong pantheon. He was indebted to the slayer for his success and skill in warfare, but a close second in his mind were Yun-Txiin and Yun-Q’aah, the lover gods. They had favored him with Yiu Shac and for that, he would always honor them as second only to the slayer. Tsaruuk was an oddity among the Yuuzhan Vong warrior caste, but as long as he retained the ability and skill to lead warriors into battle and as long as Yiu Shac stood by his side, he considered himself as favored by the gods.

When he caught up with Derek Klivian and his Chalactan refugees and was watching the survivors be sacrificed just before his escalation, then, and only then, he would consider himself as one of their favorites.


 * Deep space

Colonel Bryndar Knrr slowly eased around the corner, peering through the infrared sights on the top of his S-2FG rifle at the pair of Peace Brigade guards on the ship he and his Cresh Squad commandos were boarding. They were both Human, both heavily armed, and both completely unaware of the danger posed to them. Excellent. Bryndar ducked back out of sight, waiting for his teammates to check in.

"Got two live ones," he murmured into his comlink.

He waited for the other seven armored commandos, safely ensconced in the newest model of Battlesuit52 power suits, to report in on their status. Upon hearing that everyone was in position to breach the engine room, he leaned around the corner and put two blaster bolts into each man, dropping them to the ground with lethal blasts of energy.

"Got two dead ones," he murmured again.

Several similar acknowledgments followed as Cresh Squad quietly dealt with most of the engine room personnel. Unfortunately, though, one foolhardy Peace Brigader managed to pull an alarm before being permanently silenced by the squad's sniper. Bryndar heard the hissing sound of an opening door directly behind him.

"Tahk!" he barked in the Echani battle-language that his suit used to distinguish his commands from his normal speech.

The word, which meant "jump" or "evade," would immediately boost the microrepulsors in his suit and allow him to leap at least five meters. The suit reacted instantly and as Bryndar sprung away from the opening door and the bloodthirsty mercenaries behind it, his natural motion boosted to send him rolling away down a hallway to the safety of cover.

And that's when it happened. The worst thing that could happen to a Yanibar Guard infantryman in the middle of combat.

All of his suit's displays and systems—the advanced targeting optics, the shield generator, the microrepulsors that made it easy to move around in a eighty kilo suit, the wrist computer, the tactical artificial intelligence—all went dead. Some kind of mechanical glitch or power overload or whatever technical bug caused this sort of thing was responsible, but to the infantry and commandos who had to deal with it, it was simply “armor lock.” Bryndar had heard rumors that the new suits were prone to this failure but had thought that had been ironed out.

Obviously not, and the pounding sound of combat boots and angry yells told him that the mercenaries weren't about to offer to service his malfunctioning equipment for him. He gritted his teeth, slotted a fresh power pack into his rifle, and then hauled himself to one knee to brace for combat, knowing that he’d be almost incapable of moving from this position once the lightfight started. The Peace Brigaders rounded the corner with blasters raised, sending a blistering but inaccurate hail of blaster bolts at Bryndar. Behind him, Cresh Six, the unit medic, returned fire with a three-bolt burst, dropping a Twi’lek to the floor twitching as his life expired. Bryndar waited until three of the Peace Brigaders had made it through the door, then rolled a concussion grenade into their midst. The resulting detonation, only five meters away, hurled him backwards several meters to crash painfully into a wall and left his ears ringing, but it was far more violent in its treatment of several Peace Brigaders, slamming into bulkheads and corridors with enough force to break bones. Cresh Six scythed fire through their ranks, dropping several, but still more of them poured through the door.

“Dammit!” Bryndar heard from behind him.

He turned to see Cresh Six lying supine on the ground. The medic pushed his helmet off so he could talk.

“Armor just locked up, One!” he shouted. “Probably the whole squad’s gone down.”

“Kriffing wonderful,” Bryndar muttered to himself.

Bryndar heaved himself up, sitting back against the wall he’d been smashed into, and painstakingly brought his rifle up, the motion noticeably slower due to significantly heavier weight of his now-unpowered armor. Peering through the weapon’s natural sights, he took careful aim and let loose.

Blaster bolts ricocheted around Bryndar as he started firing his S-2FG in three-blast bursts, picking off individual Peace Brigaders. A red lance of energy sizzled into his chest plating just under his fourth rib. The reinforced armor there ablated most of the energy, saving him from lethal injury, but the searing pain of burned tissue told him that some of the bolt had still reached his epidermis.

“I’m hit!” he called, then cursed under his breath as he realized that Cresh Six couldn’t hear him with his comlink inoperable.

He slapped his left hand over the wound and then pulled the hand away, but there wasn’t too much blood and the pain didn’t feel debilitating. Normally, his suit would have already injected him with stimulants, anti-shock medications, and self-sealed to cover the wound, but none of those systems were working either. Bryndar swore again, then whacked the manual injectors that Yanibar Guardsmen insisted be included into the suit, pumping the medicinal cocktail into his veins. He was grateful for that, at least.

There was nothing else to do but keep shooting until they eventually got him. He couldn’t move except at a crawl and getting up to walk would be extremely difficult in his current position The Guard trained for this sort of thing, but typically the idea was to defend and wait until help arrived or the suits came back online. Bryndar had no way of calling for assistance and no inkling if the suits would even work again. All he could do was use the skills that had been drilled into him by ten years of service in the Yanibar Guard.

Tightening his gloved finger on the trigger of his rifle, he switched the selector over to full auto and sprayed purple light at the mercenaries. They staggered and fell back against his barrage, taking cover and sniping at him in return. Detonators would have been helpful, but with his sitting position and the weight of his armor, he doubted he could hurl one far enough to be useful now that the mercenaries were being more tactical. Another blaster bolt crashed into Bryndar’s kneecap, punching through the reinforced protection there to boil away the skin with a fierce scorching. And that was when Bryndar saw them—five Yuuzhan Vong warriors complete with amphistaffs and vonduun crab armor—approaching at a dead run from the end of the corridor he was facing.

Bryndar swore again, a foul street curse he’d picked up on Nar Shaddaa. Yuuzhan Vong warriors were difficult foes when he had fully operational equipment. As encumbered as he was, he’d be lucky to kill one of them. As they closed, one of them hurled an object at him.

Thud bug, he thought, as he lit up the space between him and the insect with coherent light. With the aid of his helmet sights and a proper firing stance, Bryndar could have easily shot it out of the air, but as hampered as he was, every one of his ten bolts missed it. The bug bashed the front of his helmet into his face, crushing his optical display and stunning him temporarily. Bryndar tasted blood, probably from a bloodied lip or nose. He was blinded and his head was ringing from the concussion, but he refused to go down without a fight.

Pulling off the useless helmet, he braced himself to activate two of his remaining detonators and hurl them at the oncoming Yuuzhan Vong, knowing that he’d likely perish in the process. Hopefully Cresh Six could eliminate the remaining Vong from his position farther back and then escape with the others. Bryndar had no desire to die as some kind of martyr, but he was indefensible. He had already fatalistically resigned himself to his fate—as he did before every mission. Grabbing the detonators, he clenched them in one hand as the Vong approached. They were ten meters away when suddenly the section of corridor they were running along exploded.

The blast blew a sizable portion of the wall into the Yuuzhan Vong, throwing them into the opposite wall to impact limply. Through the fire and smoke burst several dark silhouettes with weapons already blazing away. As Bryndar blinked away the lights that had flared in his vision from the explosion, he noted the energy bolts were purple, the signature color of Yanibar Guard weaponry. The new arrivals made sure to pump additional fire into the already-badly wounded Yuuzhan Vong, preventing them from making any last ditch suicide attacks such as the one he’d considered.

Bryndar slowly pulled himself up to a more upright sitting position as the armored figures ran to him, sweeping the area around them with their blaster rifles. Behind him, two droidekas in their signature firing stance blasted away at the remaining Peace Brigaders, dropping them with streams of blasterfire while their hazy energy shield bubbles deflected the sporadic return fire. As they approached, Bryndar recognized by their older armor, colorful insignia, and aged S-2FE blaster rifles that they were Yanibar Guard Marines. Finally a stroke of luck.

“I think he’s okay,” one of the marines said as he knelt by Bryndar. “His armor’s breached, but the wounds aren’t serious.”

“Typical army, always lying down on the job,” the other, a sergeant, remarked caustically.

“I can hear you, you know,” Bryndar fired back. “And that’s ‘always lying down on the job, sir.’”

“Aww, did the army colonel fall down and go boom and get his pride hurt?” replied the second marine with a snicker, then added as an afterthought. “Sir.”

I’m Captain Jorgos Nassea, this is Sergeant Arel Danski,” the first marine said. “What happened, sir?”

“Armor lock,” Bryndar answered curtly as the two marines helped him up. “I’m going to take that up with whoever made this stuff when I get back.”

Nassea nodded sagely.

“Rumor has it that those new suits are prone to all kinds of glitches,” he said, then shrugged. “Won’t matter to us, by the time we get them, they’ll have fixed all that.”

“That’s the marines,” Danski said proudly. “We get more done with less. Like taking this ship, for example. Six of us and four droids are taking it with less equipment than your squad had, sir.”

“Machismo points duly noted,” Bryndar remarked acidly. “Which brings me to ask, what are you guys doing here?”

“Pulling army fat out of the fire, looks like, sir,” Danski replied pertly.

“Commander saw that your comms had come down. Your entire squad locked up,” Nassea explained. “We microjumped the Vos closer and we punched in. We were already on standby in our boarding pods, just waiting for the call, sir.”

“So that’s what those were,” Bryndar said. “Those pods punch you through the outside of the ship pretty kriffing fast.”

“Didn’t want you to start crying, sir,” the smart-mouthed Danski said and Bryndar imagined he was grinning quite thoroughly.

“I’ll have to make sure we get some training time on them,” Bryndar commented. “What’s the plan now, gentlemen? I might outrank you, but I’m not exactly equipped to command.”

“Two of my marines got the rest of your squad back together at the port airlock,” Nassesa said. “My other two marines and the droidekas are taking the bridge now, then we’ll get a shuttle to dock and take you back to the Vos, sir.”

“You’re taking the bridge with just two marines?” Bryndar asked with some amount of surprise.

“Do you think that’s being unfair to the Peace Brigade?” Danski inquired with mock concern.

“Your squad had already taken down most of the resistance—there’s fewer than ten of them on the bridge, probably not their best fighters either,” Nassea said with a shrug. “I’ll put my boot up my marines’ rears if they can’t handle a few measly Peace Brigaders, sir.”

“Right,” Bryndar answered curtly. “Well, I suppose we should head to the airlock then.”

The two marines supported him and Six as they staggered down to the airlock, leaving Bryndar to shake his head at their attitude towards combat. Bryndar had heard stories about the legendary bravado of the Yanibar Guard Marines, though he’d only met them in passing.

Originally created to provide some measure of boarding capability and defense on Yanibar Guard warships, they were disdained by both the Yanibar Guard Army and Fleet as belonging to neither organization. They lacked the heavy equipment and logistics of the Yanibar Guard Army, despite using much of the same tactics, training, and structure. Instead, they served as a quick reaction force, specializing in shipboard combat and relying on the fleet for transport and support personnel. There was no such thing as a marine support company—they were only organized in combat units up to the battalion level. And from what Bryndar had witnessed moments ago, there was a level of ego and machismo about them that was rivaled possibly only by ace starfighter pilots.

In contrast, Yanibar Guard Army soldiers were taught to be deadly serious and calm, particularly during missions, but these marines seemed much more casual, and exhibited more personality even in the thick of combat. Their personalized armor décor also was evidence of the looser mannerisms exhibited by the marines. Bryndar wasn’t sure if he approved of those decisions, but he wasn’t in charge of the marines. Whatever the case, he was at least grateful for their intervention—they had saved his life.

Nassea and Danski left him at the port airlock where he and his squad waited in a defensive formation until the marines returned ten minutes later.

“Got them all,” Nassea reported cheerfully. “We’ve pulled their datafiles and manifests for the spooks to look at and set some charges to make a mess, so let’s get out of here.”

Cresh Squad and the marines boarded a waiting Javelin shuttle that had docked with the Peace Brigade ship, departing as it exploded behind them. They arrived at a waiting Yanibar Guard cruiser-carrier, the Quinlan Vos, to find a sizable party waiting for them, including the ship’s commanding officer, Captain Vena Styrial.

While a pair of technicians helped him and his squad out of their cumbersome, inoperable armor, the naval captain approached Bryndar.

“Yes, captain?” Bryndar asked as she approached.

“I apologize for being unable to get this to you before your mission,” she said regretfully. “It came in just after you and your squad left.”

Something in her voice made cold strings of worry coalesce inside Bryndar.

“What is it, ma’am?” he asked.

“I understand congratulations of sorts are in order,” she said. “Your wife, Jasika Knrr, was commissioned as an officer in the Yanibar Guard Fleet very recently.”

Bryndar’s first reaction was that this was some kind of joke, but the expression on Captain Styrial’s face held no mirth. But surely this was some kind of mistake, his perplexed mind considered. Jasika had been virulently opposed to joining the Yanibar Guard and she was far too old for military service, anyway. He knew he’d been gone for just over four months on this deployment, but this was far too drastic of a change for him to absorb at once.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” he asked.

The captain appeared puzzled by the question.

“I’m not sure how else to put it. Your wife is now Sublieutenant Jasika Knrr of the Yanibar Guard Fleet. She passed her three-month basic training two weeks ago and was commissioned.”

“We’re talking about the same person, right?” Bryndar growled.

“Perhaps it’d be better if you talked to her, after you’ve been debriefed and attended to,” the captain said diplomatically. “I’ll contact Fleet Command once we’re out of hyperspace and arrange for a holocomm call.”

“Thank you,” Bryndar said absently.

This was really all too much for him to process at one time, so he banished the questions from his mind temporarily and focused on finishing up the last details of his mission.

Two hours later, Bryndar was cleaned and changed into a fresh uniform, sporting fresh bacta bandages on his knee and chest. His face still bore the lacerations and bruises from the thud bug impacting on his helmet and he wore a non-standard beard that he’d grown over the last few months, but otherwise, he felt back to normal. He’d already submitted his report on the operation, absent some rather profane comments about the reliability of the new armor systems. A young naval crewman met him at his quarters, then escorted him to the communications suite where Captain Styrial was waiting for him.

“Holocomm link is ready,” she said, flipping a switch on a console.

A quarter-size holographic image of Jasika appeared, showing her from her waist up, and Bryndar could see that she was wearing a fleet uniform.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” Captain Styrial said.

Bryndar nodded his thanks as she departed, then refocused his attention on the holo of his wife.

“Hello, darling,” Jasika said brightly.

Bryndar scowled.

“Don’t ‘hello, darling,’ me,” he said. “Seems to me I deserve a bit of an explanation.”

Her face fell.

“I was hoping you’d understand,” she replied, crestfallen.

“It might help if I knew what I was supposed to understand,” Bryndar answered. “We were going to slow things down when I got back from this mission. You know, I’d take a staff position, you’d stop flying all over the place—we were planning on getting serious about kids. Remember?”

“I know,” she said soberly. “A lot has changed since you left.”

“Obviously,” he answered bluntly. “Your clothes shopping has taken a new twist and I suspect the last three months weren’t filled with a normal exercise regimen.”

“Hey, I lost two kilos during primary training,” she told him teasingly. “And I gained a lot of muscle mass. You should see me without the uniform.”

Bryndar refused to smile, scowling again.

“How about you tell me what caused you to sign up for the Yanibar Guard Fleet without even talking to me about it?”

“I’m sorry,” she said earnestly. “I tried to call you, but the unit said you were away and we both know that you never know when you’ll be back. Even if you did, you couldn’t tell me when you’d be available.”

“I know,” Bryndar replied curtly. “But I’m here now and I’m still waiting on that explanation.”

Jasika breathlessly told him about her incident with the Yuuzhan Vong and how Jorge and Annita had nearly died, how it had inspired her to join the Yanibar Guard. Bryndar stood expressionless as the tale spilled from his wife, though his frown only deepened when she finished.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked, noting the unpleasant look on his face.

“Yes,” he said straightforwardly; there was no point in dodging that unpleasant fact.

Ordinarily, Jasika might have caved and become apologetic, but something in the way he’d answered so bluntly stirred her spirit to fire back defiantly.

“Well, you’re just going to have to get over it, Bryndar Knrr,” Jasika answered hotly.

“This commission doesn’t get undone just because you say so and besides, you’ve been doing the same thing to me for almost ten years now. You make your decisions and go on all these missions, while I’m left here clueless to accept and cope with it. Now it’s your turn.”

A cold fury swept over Bryndar, but he clamped down on the emotion, forcing the words out through gritted teeth.

“I have always considered our relationship in every decision I’ve made,” he said. “I have always asked you before every major career choice and I have always done what I could to support you. What you’ve done is completely different. Don’t make excuses for that.”

A fierce light ignited in Jasika’s eyes and her voice was seeped with anger.

“Why do you get to be the only one who goes out and fights to defend those you love? I saw your parents lying there on the deck, bleeding and broken, and you expect me to sit at home or fly about the galaxy ignoring the people who did that to them? They’re my family too, Bryndar Knrr, and it’s about time you got that through your thick skull!”

“You told me that you’d never join the Yanibar Guard, that you’d already lost too many loved ones to it,” Bryndar countered.

“And not a day goes by that I don’t worry about you, but I almost lost two more people I love in spite of avoiding the Guard,” Jasika shot back. “At least in the Guard I get to shoot back at the murglaks!”

Her voice softened as she continued, not wanting to escalate their argument.

“There’s a real chance that we could lose everything we live for,” she said earnestly.

“I’ve seen what the Vong can do up close and personal, and it’s not pretty. This is the best thing I can do to stop them from ever reaching Yanibar.”

“I’m pretty familiar with the Vong myself,” Bryndar said, still irked. “And the Yanibar Guard is no place for a forty-year-old woman who was supposed to be thinking about starting a family.”

“If the Vong aren’t stopped, we won’t have to worry about family,” Jasika told him flatly, her ire provoked again. “We’ll be dead or enslaved. Oh, and don’t you ever try to use my age as an excuse to tell me I can’t do something. I am not forty and you know that. I’m also the best pilot in my training class, thank you very much.”

“So you’re in flight school,” he surmised.

“Advanced pilot training,” Jasika said smugly. “There’s a few things I’ve had to pick up that I missed by skipping flight school, but I’m ahead in a lot of others.”

“Flying what?”

“Starfighters. And don’t you dare say that I’m too old, too slow, not ready, or that it’s too dangerous. Just keep that thought to yourself.”

Bryndar heard the iron in her voice, saw the determined look on his face, and knew that she would cling to her decision resolutely.

“I see your mind is made up then,” he said, disguising his anger at how she’d completely disregarded him in her plans and decisions.

“That’s right. I’ll see you when you get home,” she said. “We can talk more then.”

“Sure,” Bryndar answered emotionlessly.

He was battened down, no longer contributing anything sincere or meaningful to the conversation. Any further attempts to talk would be futile, and Jasika knew it, so she sighed and ended the call. Bryndar hadn’t wished to terminate their discussion so abruptly, but he also was in no mood to prolong their argument, particularly from this location. Both he and Jasika could be incredibly stubborn when their minds were made up, and he suspected that this was no exception. The commando regretted not being able to finish with something more sentimental like “I love you” or “I missed you,” like he normally did, but right now, the indignation and outrage simmering within him were smothering his typical affection towards his wife. One thing was sure—it would be a very long trip back to Yanibar.