Force Exile V: Warrior/Part 2

4
Deep space was ordinarily a forbidding destination for spacers. Dark and isolated, with no sign of shelter in the starry void, it offered no comfort, no refuge in case of a system failure. No indications that civilized life had ever passed through those particular coordinates. Of course, Hobbie reflected, that was a positive if you were on the run from an enemy that was apparently intent on destroying said civilized life.

The tattered convoy of refugee ships from Chalacta floated in the midst of interstellar space. They were a ragged convoy of perhaps twenty-eight ships in all, the remainder of the people that Hobbie and his volunteers had managed to rescue from the doomed planet and its Yuuzhan Vong overseers. All of them bore evidence of battle damage.

“Storm Leader, this is Recon Six,” came a Devaronian voice that sounded diabolical to Hobbie even through the comm distortion. “All wing pairs have finished reporting in.”

“And?” Hobbie asked.

“Transmitting results now,” Recon Six replied.

Hobbie frowned as the display screen in his X-wing lit up with lines of glowing green text. His frown deepened as he scrolled down.

“Just great,” he said mournfully. “I suppose I’d better go tell the viceroy.”

After obtaining permission to dock from the largest ship in the fleet, a bulk cruiser that had been repurposed as a refugee hauler, Hobbie soon found himself out of the cramped cockpit of his X-wing where he’d been assisting with standard patrols and walking through the cramped corridors of the cruiser, trying to avoid stepping on the refugees sitting or leaning against the walls in groups.

His initial relief at being out of the rank confines of his fighter, which hadn’t had much of a chance to air out since they’d blasted off Chalacta, was soon suppressed at the realization that packing hundreds of people into a ship in close quarters and little to no opportunity for hygiene created a similar odor intensified ten times over. At least in his cockpit, the noises had been comforting, reassuring, familiar—here, they was the raucous din of a dozen conversations taking place at once, complete with squalling kids. If he wanted that kind of noise, Hobbie figured, he’d have gone to the Senate.

Finally, he managed to make his way to a large room that had been set aside as quarters cum conference room for the viceroy, his family, and his closest advisors. As he entered, Hobbie saw that General Undukjavi, Colonel Previthevi, and Storm One were already there, clustered around a holotable while the viceroy and his daughter watched from their seats across the room. All five heads popped up as he strode into the room.

“We’ve received reports from the wing pairs that surveyed Chalacta,” Hobbie announced.

“And?” the general asked.

“As expected, not good,” Hobbie admitted. “There’s a sizable Yuuzhan Vong fleet in orbit around the planet, along with several slaveships. They’ve probably started enslaving the remaining populace.”

“This is your fault, offworlder,” thundered General Undukjavi. “You and your meddling have brought this upon us!”

From her position by the holotable, Storm One, better known as Anja Gallandro, snapped a quick retort.

“You think it wouldn’t have happened to you eventually, General?” she shot back. “Seems to me that the Yuuzhan Vong aren’t exactly known for keeping their word. How much longer do you think you could have avoided that fate?”

Gallandro crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the Chalactan military officer. She was tall and lanky, her attire decidedly non-military, her long brown hair tied into a ragged ponytail. Her posture bespoke defiance, but the well-worn blaster belt and the hardness around her eyes conveyed toughness and pure grit.

General Undukjavi didn’t deign to look her way, keeping his focus—and his ire—fixed on Hobbie.

“You let your subordinates speak so boldly, Colonel?” he asked.

Hobbie crossed his arms and returned the general’s stare. Anja Gallandro, originally an employee of Tendrando Arms, a defense company run by Lando Calrissian, had impressed him when he was first putting the Storm Riders together. She’d originally been his liaison to the company, but her prior combat experience and some natural talent made her a good fit for his ground unit. After some coaxing of Lando and a short chat with her, Hobbie had managed to lure her over to his volunteers. She’d proven to be a capable leader of half of his ground complement, and if she voiced an opinion about something, however heated, he generally listened. Especially if, like now, he agreed with her.

“I think you’re ignoring the fact that she’s right,” Hobbie tossed out casually. “And General, might I remind you that she and her team were on the ground buying time with their lives for all of us to get into space?”

“A sacrifice that would have been unnecessary were it not for your misguided attempt at invasion,” blazed General Undukjavi.

“Peace, General,” interrupted the viceroy.

He’d been sitting quietly to the side; as aged and revered a dignitary as he was, Ghavasa Berecca had no military experience to speak of. However, he was the one person who could command utter respect from the irascible head of Chalacta’s defense forces.

“Colonel Klivian and his volunteers did their best to help us and our people,” he said in his oddly lilting accent. “They do not deserve ingratitude, given all they sacrificed in their attempt.”

“Yes, viceroy,” General Undukjavi grumbled.

“We should not dwell on the past; in such a dire situation, our concern should be the present and what is to come,” spoke up his daughter, Shara.

Hobbie glanced over at her, surprised that she would offer an opinion. Just like her father, Shara had no military experience and everything he’d observed about her in their brief and distant interactions had indicated to him that she’d lived a sheltered life, sequestered in the palace for the most part. She was striking, certainly, her long black hair flowing down her shoulders, with large, deep brown eyes that seemed piercing and yet perpetually sad. Hobbie found her comely on a surface level, even though he knew he could have nothing but a passing interest in a woman so obviously cultured, refined, and insulated from the real galaxy.

“She’s right,” agreed Colonel Previthevi. “We should consider our next move.”

“And quickly,” put in the viceroy. “I understand that supplies are limited.”

“That they are,” Hobbie said. “We have food and water for less than a week, but the air supplies are a greater concern. Most of the ships are dangerously overloaded. We’ll need to make landfall within a few days before we all start dying.”

General Undukjavi started to protest, but the viceroy cut him off with a hand gesture.

“Colonel Klivian, is there any world near here where we could land and replenish our supplies?” he asked.

He considered, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

“The easiest friendly planet to get to would be Kashyyyk,” he said. “It’s in the New Republic, reasonably well-defended, and the Wookiees are good allies to have. Not to mention close. It’s where we staged from, in fact, but there is a problem.”

“Oh?” Undukjavi inquired, one eyebrow arching up fiercely.

“To get there, we have to make a layover at Yitabo,” Hobbie told him. “Which is under Vong control. Coming to Chalacta, we used a secret hyperroute to bypass their minefields and get us into the Yitabo system and transited out to Chalacta too fast for them to react.”

“So, can we not use this hyperroute again?” the general inquired.

“We could,” Hobbie admitted. “If there wasn’t a giant Vong fleet waiting in the Yitabo system to introduce us to some very unfriendly people. That route is the logical course, the easy course. It’s almost certain that they’ll be watching us.”

“What do you suggest, then, Colonel Klivian?” Colonel Previthevi inquired.

Hobbie’s eyes narrowed.

“If you’re stuck between getting eaten by a rancor and jumping across a canyon to escape it, you take the jump,” he said. “My navigator says we can use a partial route to get from here to Keldooine. We can put down there to get air, if nothing else.”

“Keldooine?” protested General Undukjavi. “That’s inside Hutt Space.”

“What used to be Hutt Space,” Anja corrected him. “Seems the Hutts have been more or less overrun by the Yuuzhan Vong.”

“Where would you go from there, Colonel?” Ghavasa asked. “If Hutt Space has also been invaded, we will find no refuge there.”

“No,” Hobbie admitted. “We’ll have to keep moving. My navigator, Ryrlacca, says that if we can stop off at Keldooine, we can keep skirting the edge of Hutt space and get into the Oktos Nebula. From there, our best bet is to try and get onto the Kaaga Run and make it to Bothawui.”

“Reaching Bothawui could take weeks,” General Undukjavi rumbled. “Weeks of creeping through Vong-patrolled space. All the major hyperroutes will be mined.”

“Which is why we don’t use them,” Hobbie countered. “I’m not promising it’ll be easy. I’m not promising it’ll be fast. But if you ask me, it’s better to crawl our way to safety than to run our way to death.”

“I disagree,” General Undukjavi countered. “Viceroy, we should attempt to skirt Vitabo and return to Kashyyyk. It will be safer and faster. The offworlder’s route is perilous and unknown. We at least know that Vitabo is a hazard and can act accordingly.”

“Viceroy?” Colonel Previthevi asked.

The viceroy stroked his chin thoughtfully as he considered, glancing at the two leaders standing in front of him. He had known General Undukjavi for years, had detailed knowledge of the man’s competence, whereas the offworlder in front of him was largely an unknown quantity. Still, it had not been the general who had attempted to liberate his world from the Yuuzhan Vong. Nor did the general seem to understand how to fight the Yuuzhan Vong as the offworlder did. It was that factor that concluded his decision-making process.

“We will proceed to Keldooine,” he said. “Colonel Klivian is right; we cannot risk the remnant of our people by flying into a known trap at Yitabo.”

“As you wish, Viceroy,” grumbled a clearly unhappy General Undukjavi.

Hobbie said nothing, but inclined his head in a slight bow, then turned and strode out of the meeting room, Anja falling in behind him.

“Well, that went better than expected,” Anja said.

“If by that you mean we’re not dead, sure,” Hobbie said gloomily. “The Vong aren’t going to let us go, Anja. They’ll hunt us from planet to planet until our heads decorate a bunch of amphistaffs.”

“Maybe flying through Hutt Space will throw them off our trail. It’s the last thing I’d expect my enemy to do if I were them,” she suggested.

“Temporarily,” Hobbie said. “But last I heard, the Hutts were offering considerable resistance to the Vong. We’ll probably run into one of a Vong pacification group and then it’ll be over for us.”

“We’ll just have to be sneakier than that,” she persisted with faint optimism.

He shook his head, his customary dour appearance becoming even more hopeless.

“With a convoy full of refugee ships in tow?” he reminded her. “Get some sleep, Gallandro. You’re not thinking straight.”

“Just trying to look on the bright side, sir,” she told him. “And for what it’s worth, you look like you could use some sack time, too.”

“You’re probably right,” Hobbie admitted. “But instead I’ll be up in astrogation with Ryrlacca plotting crazy courses that nobody else could devise so we might have a chance at escaping this one.”

“Sounds even more tiring,” she pointed out. “When are you going to rest, sir? This convoy needs you.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” Hobbie answered grimly. “And given our current situation, that might not be too far away.”

He strode off, leaving a bewildered Gallandro behind, unsure if her boss was just exuding his usual pessimism or if his words conveyed some deeper meaning.


 * Naboo

“Welcome to our humble establishment,” the aged Human attendant intoned as the two cloaked figures entered the gambling establishment.

They stood at the entrance, surveying the dark, smoky room. It was well-furnished, with a casual luxury evident in the adornments, yet not obtrusive. Dark browns and reds predominated in terms of décor; even the ceiling was a muted ochre. Soft music tinkled through the room, emanating from an Ortolan nargolan player in one corner. Situated oddly off-center from the room was a round sabacc table, where three other individuals were seated, holding sabacc cards in their hands as a somber-looking Umbaran dealer stood by, watching.

“Pass,” said the farthest figure, an elderly Human male dressed elegantly, his voice resonant and rich.

“I’ll take a card,” said the next sabacc player, a rumpled-looking Sullustan.

He accepted a card from the dealer as play progressed to the final player, a distinguished-looking Gotal. Just as the Sullustan picked up his card, the randomizer activated, changing the values of all the cards still in the hands of the players. When the cards had finished fluctuating, the Gotal spoke, his voice was sibilant but reserved, projecting a quiet tone of power.

“Sabacc,” he announced, laying down his cards to show a Four of Flasks, Demise, and Moderation.

The Four of Flasks, combined with the two face cards, totaled to an impressive negative twenty-three, a winning hand that would earn him both the hand pot and the sabacc pot. The Gotal had just won, and judging by the credit chits on the table, he had won several thousand credits. The others looked disgruntled, but threw down their hands and surrendered the winnings to the victor, who merely favored them with a thin smile.

“Good game, gentlemen,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “Care for another?”

The portly Sullustan shook his head.

“I’m out,” he said. “I’ve lost enough for one night.”

“Just bad luck, I’m sure,” replied the Gotal smoothly. “You’ll do better next time.”

The Sullustan shook his head, then headed out by the only corridor that led into the room. On his way, he stopped by a sizable rack, where the attendant handed him a dark hooded cloak that he swept around his form before departing.

The Gotal turned to regard the newcomers, welcoming them with an opportunistic leer.

“Excellent timing,” he said, a dark gleam twinkling in his eye. “Lord Morri, you arrived just in time to inject some new blood into a game that is in need of some variety in participation.”

“I think I have time for a game or two,” admitted the newcomer.

“Then, please, leave your cloaks on the rack and stay awhile,” the Gotal said with a smirk.

The two newcomers shucked their cloaks and handed them to the waiting attendant, who placed them on the rack.

Zeyn Kraen, wearing a stylish four-piece suit that included dark purple coat, vest, trousers, and a gray high-necked shirt complimented by a burgundy waist sash, returned the cold smile of the Gotal as he advanced towards the sabacc table. Putting his arm out, he felt Ariada’s arm interlock with his as she fell into step alongside him. For her part, the Wroonian had also dressed for the occasion in a sheath dress that alternated between black, purple, and dark blue patterns accented with silver spangles. She was wearing heavy coverup, particularly dark eyeshadow, and her hair was bobbed to create a boyish appearance enhanced with large amounts of jewelry. She appeared decorative, her expression blank as she fell into step with Zeyn. Both the Gotal and the other Human turned their eyes on her as Zeyn and Ariada approached the table.

“Might I say, Lord Morri, that you show particularly good taste in your companionship?” the Human commented.

“Thank you,” Zeyn answered, his own understated dress diminished in light of Ariada’s very conspicuous appearance.

“Shall we deal?” the Gotal asked with a wave of his hand towards the table.

“Of course,” Zeyn said with a polite nod as he and Ariada settled in at two chairs that were there waiting for them. “Just one question before we begin. You see, you have me at a bit of a disadvantage, given that you know my name and all, but I don’t know yours.”

“I apologize for my rudeness,” the Gotal answered. “I am Sh’aalam Psykith and this Human fellow over here is Zarzex Hariscon.”

“Pleased, I’m sure,” Zeyn said insincerely.

This was all part of the familiar formality regarding a friendly game of sabacc. However ruthless the game ended up, a façade of politeness was always maintained at the beginning. Zeyn kept a broad smile on his face even as he turned to order drinks from an attendant, knowing the perils of what he was about to get himself into.

“Shall we begin?”

“Of course,” Sh’aalam replied. “Let’s start the ante at one thousand credits, shall we?”

Nodding amiably, Zeynn tossed two credit chits each worth one thousand credits out from his vest pocket, one to the hand pot and one to the sabacc pot. It was a lot of money, but every gamble demanded some risks be taken, and he had no qualms about doing so. The other players followed suit.

“Go ahead, dealer,” Sh’aalam prompted.

The stony-faced Umbaran turned and dealt three cards to each player. Zeyn immediately began contemplating his hand. He had been given the One of Coins, the Queen of Air and Darkness, and the Ace of Staves; a disappointing hand whose total ended up as only fourteen in a game where twenty-three or its negative counterpart were the winning values. He shifted slightly as he looked over his cards, knowing they could randomize at any time.

“I’ll take a card,” he said to the dealer.

The Umbaran handed him the Mistress of Flasks, which brought his total to twenty-seven, a busted hand. Disgusted, he threw down his cards.

“I’m out of this hand,” he said.

“I’m sure your luck will turn next time,” purred Sh’aalam.

Zeyn remained impassive, his smile barely diminished. In a game like sabacc, appearances were everything and losing one hand was hardly enough to break his composure. Instead, he stroked Ariada’s arm idly while watching the rest of the hand play out. Zarzex won a few exchanges later, his cards only worth twenty, but better than Sh’aalam’s eleven. About that time, the attendant returned with his drink, an Antakarian Fire Dancer, strong liquor that Zeyn detested. His choice of such a noxious beverage was deliberate; he’d be less likely to consume something distasteful and have his senses dulled by the intoxicants.

He threw down another credit chit casually as he was dealt into the next hand, relaxing into the familiar rhythms of the sabacc game. Zeyn was playing to win, but he was also fishing for something more valuable—information. For now, though, he played it cool, the role of the gambler ensconced around him. The fickle luck of the cards ebbed and flowed, but remained recalcitrant in giving a winning hand to any of the three players. Sh’aalam took one hand, then Zarzex the next two, but Zeyn persevered. Part of sabacc was knowing when to stick your cards and when to fold, and he wasn’t done with this house yet.

Everything seemed to flow around him in slow motion, his eyes and ears taking in the slightest details. He noted the way each player held their cards, the way they almost imperceptibly moved based on what hand they held, the slight gestures that were unconscious in most sentients. For example, Zarzex had a tendency of just barely rubbing the tip of one card with one finger when he had a good hand. The Human probably didn’t even notice it, but Zeyn’s Lorrdian heritage and years of training had instilled in him a keen observation and understanding of body language.

Simultaneously, he had to maintain a calm, relaxed, amiable appearance. He could not use the Force to sense the other players; the presence of Sh’aalam meant that the Gotal could possibly detect Force-usage. Additionally, Gotals were supposed to be empathic, capable of sensing emotions in others, so he and Ariada had to remain calm and composed. In his case, that meant focusing on the game and perhaps thinking of a midnight speeder jaunt across Naboo’s plains as befitting a talented young noble’s whims.

“Gentlemen, I suggest we stop wasting our time with this one thousand credit ante. Let’s make things more interesting—how about ten thousand minimum?” Sh’aalam suggested.

Zeyn smiled broadly, showing a flash of white teeth as he did so.

“Now we’re talking,” he said.

“Bold words from someone who has yet to win a hand,” Zarzex commented.

Zeyn took the retort in stride, not missing a beat.

“Perhaps my luck is about to turn,” he returned smoothly as he counted out the credit chits and tossed them onto the table.

It didn’t that hand, and Zeyn lost again when he received the Ace of Flasks and the Mistress of Staves, along with a Ten of Coins, which created another busted hand for him. He’d almost had a winning hand, but his Endurance card and its negative eight had shifted to the Ace of Flasks unexpectedly courtesy of the randomizer. Zarzex took that one also with a minus twenty-two that for him was clearly a disappointment.

“I should have locked in my cards,” he said with a scowl. “Could have had a sabacc and cleaned you all out.”

“Perhaps,” Zeyn remarked. “Luck of the deck.”

It was a remarkably offhanded remark from someone who had already thrown in 28,000 credits into a game where the first one to claim sabacc would gain a handy 42,000 credits. Still, Zeyn seemed unruffled by his series of bad luck, despite the fact that he only had enough credits for one more hand. He took a sip of his Fire Dancer and grimaced against the foul taste of the liquid in his mouth.

“Deal me in,” he said to the Umbaran, tossing in two more ten-thousand credit chits onto the table.

The silent alien acknowledged him by placing three cards in front of him. Zeyn picked them up to reveal the Master of Coins, a positive fourteen, Endurance again, and the Eight of Sabres. Not a great hand, but Zeyn decided that he wanted to keep Endurance around. He tossed it into the interference field, face down, locking its value and preventing it from changing. Sh’aalam passed and Zarzex smiled as he placed two cards in the interference field, but Zeyn noted that he hadn’t seen fit to thumb the edge of his cards.

Zeyn returned his smile and took another card, picking up an Eight of Staves. This put him a positive twenty-two, an excellent position as long as nobody had a pure sabacc up their sleeve. Sh’aalam passed yet again, and Zarzex seemed poised to up the ante.

“I’ll bet ten thousand credits that this hand is mine,” he pronounced.

Zeyn was not so easily coerced. Tossing all his remaining cards into the interference field, he crossed his arms.

“Match and call,” he said, sliding forward his last ten thousand credit chit.

The Human’s lip twitched as he threw down his cards to reveal the Queen of Air and Darkness, Demise, and The Idiot, a hand worth only negative fifteen to Zeyn’s positive twenty-two. Since he was closer to twenty-three, he won thanks to having called Zarzex’s bluff. The thirty thousand credits he’d picked up would go a long way to keeping him in this game. He smiled coolly back at Zarzex, whose sabacc face was clearly beginning to tire. For his part, Sh’aalam gave Zeyn a carefully evaluative look that Zeyn pretended to not see.

The dealer started the cycle again, but now Zeyn felt confident enough to initiate some conversation.

“So, what led you two to invite me and my companion back to this private room?” he asked. “Looking for another easy mark, or simply wanting a fresh face?”

“Curiosity,” Sh’aalam replied. “You seemed to be doing quite well against most of the locals in the main casino rooms, but perhaps this game is bit too much of a challenge for you.”

“Not at all,” Zeyn answered lightly. “I’m just getting started.”

Zeyn won that hand also, knowing that Sh’aalam was playing into his hands. He’d casually used the Force in the earlier hours of the evening, just barely enough for the Force-sensitive Gotal to detect him without betraying his true nature. His relatively amoral act of cheating at cards would belie any chances of him being a Jedi and he knew that Sh’aalam would eventually invite him back if he sensed another Force-user whom he could possibly subvert.

Now it was time for him to get cocky and to clean Zarzex out. He sensed that Sh’aalam would probably help him, especially if Zeyn let slip a few tendrils of Force energy. It was a dangerous game, though, particularly since the Gotal might detect his true nature. He had to seem sloppy and untrained in his use of the Force even while hiding his light side presence. Zeyn was confident that he could accomplish it, though. It was a risk he was willing to take.

Four hands later, he and Sh’aalam had utterly collapsed Zarzex’s winnings like a house of cards. The Human was sweating profusely, his face red. Zeyn had won four more and Sh’aalam twice. The ante was now twenty thousand credits, enough to buy a small starship and all three players had been playing conservatively, avoided raising in the middle of a hand, content to wait for the perfect hand before doing so. That had gone on long enough, Zeyn figured. It was time for one last hand to finish off the elder Human.

Zeyn took one more sip of his potent drink as the dealer handed out the cards. It was time to go all-in, to throw everything he had out there to conclude this game. Beside him, Ariada stirred restlessly even as she’d been watching with a bored expression that Zeyn knew concealed a keenly observant mind.

Accepting his cards, Zeyn saw a One of Coins, a Two of Sabres, and a Six of Flashs, a disappointing hand. Based on his read of Zarzex, the other Human’s hand wasn’t much better. Sh’aalam had been difficult to read based only on body language, obviously a skilled enough player to avoid giving out much. His own Force talents had no doubt told him that Zeyn was relentlessly scrutinizing him for the first sign of a tell and the Gotal had reacted accordingly.

This time, he went first and Zeyn took another card, landing Balance and its negative eleven, worsening his hand. Just as he did, though, they shimmered and changed, giving the players drastically different hands. Zeyn now had a Commander of Sabres, Endurance, the Ace of Staves, and the Two of Coins, which gave him a positive twenty-one. It was close, very close, but he had to know if it was close enough. Stretching out with the Force, he found that Sh’aalam was very alert, using the Force and his own empathic abilities to monitor his opponents. Zeyn’s clumsy probe discerned little before the Gotal closed off any attempts to sense information from him, but he did sense confidence. Glancing over at Zarzex, Zeyn didn’t even need the Force to tell that the Human had a weak hand. He held off for now, hoping for a better hand.

Sh’aalam stood pat, throwing two of his cards into the interference field, while Zarzex picked up another card. Now it was his time to choose. Just as play passed to him, Zeyn saw the cards shimmer again as the randomizer altered their values. Now he was staring at The Star, Endurance, the Ace of Sabres, and Balance, which left him at minus twenty-one. It was a good hand, but not unbeatable.

Broadening his incessant smile slightly, he turned to Ariada.

“Would you select a card for me?” he asked her.

“Certainly,” she replied, the first words she’d spoken all game.

She turned to the Umbaran dealer, who silently handed her a card for her to pass to Zeyn. Zeyn looked at it, realizing she’d given him the Queen of Air and Darkness, which brought his new total to negative twenty-three. He had an almost perfect hand. Quickly, he slid all five cards into the interference field to protect them, but paused before calling sabacc. Instead, he gauged his opponents’ reaction with the Force. From Zarzex he sensed despair, a realization that he was probably about to lose, to the tune of about one hundred thousand credits. From Sh’aalam, Zeyn caught the hint of that same quiet confidence, which was not the reaction of someone who knew his opponent was almost certainly holding a game-winning hand.

That meant that Sh’aalam had the Idiot’s Array. Composed of only three cards, the Idiot, and a two and three of the same suit, it was the ultimate trump in sabacc. Zeyn had two options. He could fold and take his winnings, or could lose in an attempt to win Sh’aalam’s attention. But if the Gotal was sensing his emotions, he knew that Zeyn probably was aware of his predicament and would disparage him for knowing he was facing a superior hand and yet blazing forward recklessly in spite of it. Zeyn took the smart choice, knowing that he’d earn more respect from the Gotal for making a wise, patient, decision. He’d ended up winning money anyway, a scarce two thousand credits, but a profit nevertheless.

“Gentlemen, I think I’m out of this,” he said calmly as he collected his meager winnings. “Thank you for a prolonged and enjoyable game, though.”

Zarzex frowned at his unexpected move.

“What in space were you hiding then?” he protested.

Zeyn froze in the middle of standing up, then leaned slightly over the table.

“You pay to see the cards,” he said. “Now, if you want to see my hand, then put some money down, or make it more interesting and bet yours against mine.”

Zarzex scowled at him, then shook his head.

“I believe it’s your move, Sh’aalam,” the Human told the Gotal.

“Indeed,” the Gotal said flatly as he flipped his cards over. “Sabacc.”

Zarzex slumped as Sh’aalam revealed the Idiot’s Array that Zeyn knew he’d been holding.

“Confound it, this was an expensive evening,” Zarzex muttered, obviously exasperated. “I would have thought you were the weaker player tonight, Sh’aalam. You only won three hands out of twelve.”

“But he won when it counted,” Ryion pointed out, which earned him a glare from the irked Zarzex. “Sleep on that.”

“I’m almost of a mind to suspect you of something,” Zarzex scowled. “You had five cards in the interference field and walked away from it, almost as if you knew what Sh’aalam was holding.”

Zeyn gave him a hard stare.

“We’ll never know, now will we?” he asked. “I gave you the option of calling my hand for the usual bet and you decided not to take it. It was my decision to fold, and my reasons are my own, unless you’re willing to provide sufficient motivation in the form of another twenty thousand.”

“You’re a dirty murglak,” Zarzex replied irritably.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” Zeyn said, brushing off the insult. “If you can’t handle losing in sabacc, you really shouldn’t play. Oh, and don’t worry, that advice was free. Take it to go, in fact.”

An irate Zarzex tried to muster the words to retort to Zeyn, but came up empty, leaving him there to fume. Sh’aalam said nothing as he collected his winnings, but Zeyn saw his cold, gleaming eyes dart over in his direction more than once. For his part, though, Zeyn had to act casual.

“Come, dear,” he said to Ariada. “The night is young and I’m sure this town has many more diversions for us to enjoy and I have some drinking money.”

She smiled demurely and rose to join him. Zarzex stormed huffily past them, snatching his cloak from the attendant, leaving Zeyn, Ariada, and Sh’aalam temporarily alone.

“Lord Morri, do you play pazaak?” Sh’aalam asked him just as he was about to exit.

“I enjoy many kinds of games of chance,” Zeyn said, emphasizing the word chance a bit too much. “Pazaak is one of them.”

“I’m sure you do,” Sh’aalam answered. “Would you be interested in a game of pazaak, tomorrow evening at my estate?”

“Sure,” Zeyn said. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me too,” the Gotal told him evenly. “I think we have a great deal to discuss as well.”

With that, he turned to collect his own cloak while Zeyn and Ariada pulled on their cloaks and filed out of the casino. They sauntered across the street, strolling past various venues as they took in the nightlife on Theed. Their conversation was hushed, muted, with Zeyn whispering things into her ear and Ariada smiling coyly and replying in lowered tones meant for him alone. It was very typical for a young, rich, aristocrat and his companion, and very convincing.

It was also an act. After half an hour of wandering down a few streets, Zeyn and Ariada bought a pair of pannien sandwiches from a vendor, then headed over to a sizable parking garage where Zeyn’s luxury speeder was parked. As they approached, Ryion, serving as chauffeur, stepped out of its fully-enclosed interior to open the door for them. Once they were all inside and confident of not being followed or observed through the tinted windows, Zeyn and Ariada abandoned their pretense; Ariada immediately released Zeyn’s arm and he sat away from her.

“Well, that was fun,” Zeyn commented, mopping sweat from his brow.

“Maybe for you,” Ariada said. “This dress isn’t exactly comfortable and looking bored and decorative for two hours is less than stimulating.”

“The price of beauty, my dear,” Zeyn answered, his sultry tones a momentary return of his Lord Morri persona. “You looked ravishing.”

“I don’t understand why you wanted me to serve as the escort—,” Ariada started before Zeyn cut her off.

“Arm-candy,” he interrupted.

She gave him a look, then acquiesced.

“Fine,” she said. “Why was I the arm-candy instead of Qedai? She actually likes sabacc, for one.”

“Can you imagine her sitting still for two hours?” Ryion asked from the driver’s seat as he pulled the hoverlimo out of its parking place. “I didn’t think so.”

“Guys, I’m right here,” Qedai reminded them from her position tucked away into the back seat, clad in a black outfit that had allowed her to quietly lurk near the casino as backup.

“Besides, Qedai is a bit too aggressive, too deliberate. She probably would have started flirting with the other players, trying to draw their focus off, and that wouldn’t have gone over well for our mission,” Ryion continued, seemingly oblivious to her remark.

“Keep it up, Ryion Kraen, and I’ll show you just how aggressive and deliberate I can be,” Qedai retorted. “I am still here, you know.”

“Oh, are you? My mistake,” Ryion answered facetiously.

“Guys, there’s no need to get testy,” Zeyn cut in. “We’re all back, safe and sound. Ariada and I have a meeting with Sh’aalam tomorrow at his estate, and best of all, I have drinking money. Everything’s going well.”

He held aloft the two thousand credits he’d won.

“See? We can enjoy a night of irresponsible reverie and good cheer tonight and attend to business tomorrow.”

“Or we can plan out how we’re going to handle getting you into Sh’aalam’s mansion and back out tomorrow,” Ryion answered. “Preferably with some snatch-and-grab included.”

“That sounds like far less fun,” Zeyn said. “Are you sure we can’t put that one off until tomorrow and just party tonight?”

Ryion knew his cousin was only half-serious, but as team leader, he had to keep things in perspective.

“That depends,” Ryion replied. “How would you like to be seated in front of a dark-side-using Gotal in his house where he’s got weapons and servants at his disposal with your life on the line, telling him that he’s under arrest when we’re tired and have no plan for dealing with all his nasty little surprises?”

Zeyn winced.

“Well, since you put it like that, I suppose we can do mission planning instead. Just this once.”


 * Yuuzhan Vong Grand Cruiser Bloodthirster

He sat in the corner by a blaze bug display, watching as the insects whirred and floated around, representing ships during a space battle. Some of the blaze bugs conglomerated in the shape of Yuuzhan Vong warships, others were clumped in imitations of New Republic warships. He was the only warrior there; the others had shown no interest in standing by him while he studied the conflict.

That was fine with him. He didn’t need the philosophies and opinions of many of the latest generation of Yuuzhan Vong warriors polluting his study. They were many skilled tacticians among them, but they were too aggressive, wasteful in their employment of ships and resources that were best used in the service of the gods when intact and capable, not smashed against fortifications.

His name was Qad Skell, but he was more commonly known by another name, Tsaruuk. Translated into Basic, it meant “The Efficient One,” which many Yuuzhan Vong warriors misinterpreted as a derogatory term, designed to imply cowardice and a lack of fervor in pursuing his duty. However, it was rare for anyone to deride him to his face; Tsaruuk was known for his skill with an amphistaff and had already killed five who’d dared accuse him of cowardice or dishonor. He bore neither and for him, the moniker was a compliment bestowed on one who preferred to preserve the implements of Yun-Yammka, the Slayer God, instead of needlessly sacrificing them.

None of his subordinates dared approach him; save for those from his own domain who believed as he did, most other Yuuzhan Vong warriors were loathe to befriend one with such seemingly unorthodox views. So Tsaruuk stood by himself, engrossed in his study, his arms crossed in front of him as his brow furrowed in concentration.

Like most Yuuzhan Vong, he was taller and broader than a standard Human and his spiky vonduun crab armor gave him a fearsome appearance. Scars and disfigurements showing his advancement to the rank of Commander lined his face and exposed hands, and the tattoos of his domain had been carved into his face. However, unlike most Yuuzhan Vong, he retained his hair and had grown it out so that it hung down on either side of his head in lanky tresses. Furthermore, his vonduun crab armor was specially grown, fed with compounds peculiar to his domain, so that instead of its usual dark hues, it was tinted more like amber.

He remained motionless, watching the blaze bugs shift and reposition themselves as the battle progressed. Of course, this was no real battle. It was a recording that the ship’s brain had preserved for future study. Otherwise, he would have been surrounded by subordinates awaiting his every word, listening for his commands. In this environment, Tsaruuk could soak in the knowledge of the battle, allow his mind to focus solely on the representation of the conflict.

However, he was not so focused that he was oblivious to the other Yuuzhan Vong warrior marching up to him and bowing deeply in his direction, arms crossed over his chest. The other warrior was thinner, his face and skin less marked by tattoos and signs of advancement. Tsaruuk knew him; it was his second-in-command, Subaltern Kroi Taak. He gestured for his subordinate to straighten.

“What is it, Subaltern?” Tsaruuk asked.

“You are required for an audience,” Kroi Taak told him.

“With whom?”

“The warmaster.”

Tsaruuk kept his facial expression placid. He had anticipated something like this happening after the overwhelming attack on Coruscant that had cost so many warriors and ships to take. Any subsequent action would have to be taken conservatively while losses were replaced and that meant that his services would most likely be needed even though he was normally spurned.

“So, Tsavong Lah needs Tsaruuk now. What a surprise,” he murmured aloud.

Then, as if reminded that Kroi Taak was still there, the commander turned back to his subordinate.

“You may go,” he said. “I may have further orders for you later.”

Kroi Taak bowed and headed away from his superior, while Tsaruuk stalked over to the villip choir. Turning to the villip officer, he barked out a curt command.

“Bring me the warmaster’s villip.”

The order was carried out swiftly and soon Tsaruuk was stroking the creature, causing it to evert, showing a representation of the hideously scarred and mutilated head of the Yuuzhan Vong warmaster, Tsavong Lah. Whereas the infidels of the galaxy used their profane technology to communicate across long distances, their methods were inefficient and susceptible to disruption or interception, not to mention blasphemous. Villips communicated with each other across infinite distances telepathically, projecting a representation of the correspondents. They were impossible to disrupt, intercept, or jam.

Tsaruuk bowed deeply, his arms crossed in front of his chest in a show of fealty as he waited for the warmaster to beckon him. Unsurprisingly, Tsavong Lah allowed him to remain bowed for several minutes, no doubt to reinforce his own superiority. A needless display, but it was not his place to argue with the leader of the Yuuzhan Vong warrior caste.

“Rise,” the warmaster uttered at last.

Tsaruuk straightened, still silent as protocol demanded him be until the warmaster spoke.

“It has been long since you have had a command of your own,” Tsavong Lah commented. “Perhaps too long.”

Still no response.

“Would you like to command ships and warriors in battle once more, Qad Skell?”

“I would, Warmaster, but only if that is where the Yuuzhan Vong need me the most.”

Lah sneered at him.

“You have no thought of personal advancement, of seizing glory for your victories? What kind of warrior are you?”

“One who serves the gods and the Yuuzhan Vong first, Warmaster,” Tsaruuk replied evenly. “I hear the call of Yun-Yammka, but whether that call is best answered by my serving here as an analyst or in glorious battle is not something I concern myself with.”

“Then you would rather stay back and play with your blaze bugs?” Tsavong Lah asked, his voice laced with contempt.

“I thirst for battle, as does any true Yuuzhan Vong warrior,” Tsaruuk told him, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. “But I do not seek to place my own goals before those of the gods, or of yours.”

“Very good,” Tsavong Lah said with a thin smile. “You will have your command, a small one. Prove faithful in this and you will be rewarded.”

Tsaruuk bowed again.

“I am honored,” he said. “What would you have me do?”

“A group of infidels recently landed on one of our worlds, Chalacta, and attempted to seize the world from us.”

Tsaruuk looked surprised but made no reply. Chalacta was fairly deep inside Yuuzhan Vong-held space. That the infidels would attempt something so daring after the fall of their capital was a surprise indeed.

“They were crushed, of course, and while we were lenient in our treatment of the planet before, our intendants will not be so sparing this time. The Chalactans will embrace the gift of the gods. However, some of them escaped, along with those who invaded the world. You will hunt them down.”

“As you wish, Warmaster.”

“I have sent you the knowledge you need about their last course after escaping Chalacta and the ships you will be given. They appear to be hiding in Hutt Space. Your thoughts?”

That was also a surprise. Hutt Space had been taken by Supreme Commander Nas Choka and, despite pockets of resistance, was more or less subdued as a threat. The gastropod aliens and their minions still resisted full occupation, but the Yuuzhan Vong fleets roamed virtually at will through the space that had once been dominated by the Hutts.

“It is an unexpected move, Warmaster,” Tsaruuk replied. “Far more difficult to retreat from, and into space we mostly control.”

“Apparently they seek to escape the fleets we mobilized to cut off their obvious escape routes,” Tsavong Lah said. “We cannot afford to waste our warriors chasing a few thousand refugees, but this sacrilege must also not go unpunished. Hunt them down and sacrifice every one of the infidels you do not kill.”

Tsaruuk smiled in anticipation of doing exactly that.

“I obey, Warmaster,” he said simply, not wishing to betray the enthusiasm coursing through his veins at a chance to command in battle once more.

Tsavong Lah gave a curt nod, then the villip reverted, leaving Tsaruuk to contemplate his new assignment and prepare his plans to capture those who had so boldly defied the gods.

5
Jasika Knrr reclined in the cockpit of her YT-2400 freighter, Spindragon II, her boots up on the forward console. There was nothing but the twisting dimensions of hyperspace out the viewport, which quickly lost its scenic appeal to any spacer who’d spent more than a few hours in hyperspace. However, thankfully for her, she wasn’t alone on this cargo run. Seated in the chairs behind her were her parents-in-law, Jorgesoll and Annita Daowot Knrr, whose company she worked for. Typically, Jasika just flew the Yanibar-to-Bespin route, ferrying cargo, but they’d requested her to make a short hop to Manda carrying a special unmarked shipment.

“So, what exactly were you guys doing on Manda?” Jasika asked conversationally.

“Well, if we could have told you before, we would have,” Jorge replied evenly. “Unfortunately, we couldn’t. And we can’t now.”

The Corellian was blunt in his assessment, but there was no malice in his words. The aged businessman with his short-cropped gray hair and stylish civilian clothes had been like a father to Jasika since her mother had died a few years ago, but he also knew when to compartmentalize his business and personal lives.

“Oh, I get it,” Jasika said sagely, her hands placed behind her head for maximum comfort, her spacer’s cap sitting high on her crown. “Top secret stuff.”

“Something like that,” Annita admitted from her seat at Jorge’s side.

She was about the same age as Jorge, but unlike her husband, still kept her hair long. Its silvery lengths hung down past her shoulders, though she typically kept it in a ponytail. Despite being into their seventies, though, both of the elder Knrrs were still as active in the day-to-day operations of Bexpress Shipping as they had been two decades earlier, with no sign of slowing. They also had shown no sign of diminishing their activity as agents of Yanibar’s intelligence service, Yanibar Guard Intelligence. Their reticence about the mysterious cargo run to Manda had no doubt been another covert assignment of some sort, disguised as a normal freighter flight.

“So it was a YGI assignment,” Jasika surmised.

Annita arched one eyebrow quizzically.

“If you think you’re going to successfully fish for information from two intelligence agents whose previous occupations included smuggler and detective, you’re mistaken,” she pointed out.

Jasika shrugged nonchalantly.

“It was worth a try. Besides, I could always try and exploit your connections to your family.”

She affected an attempt at a sinister voice, glaring at Jorge and Annita in a crude imitation of a cheap holodrama villain.

“Fe haf fays of making you talk!”

Jorge looked bemused at her antics.

“Thankfully, real spy work isn’t that melodramatic,” he said. “At least, not most of the time.”

“Is that so?” Jasika asked. “Care to tell me about it?”

Annita shook her head.

“No can do,” she replied. “Not unless you’re willing to join YGI and get the necessary clearances and assignments.”

Jasika laughed at the idea.

“Me? A spy?” Jasika said, rolling her eyes. “Do I look like I belong skulking around in alleys and eavesdropping on secret conversations?”

“Maybe,” Annita said. “You’ve never tried it, have you?”

“Not unless that one time on R’alla counts, and I think that was more Akleyn and Bryndar anyway. Besides, you both know that I decided a long time ago that the Yanibar Guard wasn’t for me.”

The words were spoken without resentment or edge, but they were decisive. The deaths of her father and her step-brother in the Battle of Yanibar had led Jasika to shun any kind of military career. Even though her nephew Zeyn had opted to enter the Elite Guardians and she’d married a Yanibar Guard Army soldier, Jorge and Annita’s son Bryndar, Jasika had clung to her resolution to avoid military service. She had been polite but firmly opposed every time any suggestion of her joining the Yanibar Guard was made. She’d seen the sacrifices required of Yanibar Guard families and even though she and Bryndar didn’t have children of their own yet, she wanted to be there to raise them, not called away by orders or missions.

“We know, and we’re not trying to pressure you,” Jorge said amiably. “Though we’ve got some great costumes that I think would fit you very well.”

Jasika recognized that his last words were spoken in jest, so she played along.

“Like what?” she asked. “I pretty much dress like every other spacer out there, except that I actually wash my clothes regularly.”

“We’ve got some stunning stuff in leather that would fit you,” Jorge decided.

“Unless it’s a jacket, no way,” Jasika replied with a chuckle. “I might be in pretty good shape, but I’m also over forty. Not quite as young as I used to be.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Bryndar asked. “I didn’t start working in intelligence until I was well over thirty.”

Jasika tried another role from the holodramas, the captured hero facing imprisonment at the hands of a nefarious foe. Assuming an indignant, confident, defiant tone, she turned to regard her father-in-law.

“You’ll never convince me to betray my loyalty,” she said melodramatically. “No matter what you do.”

“And which loyalty is that to?” Jorge asked.

Jasika grinned, dropping her affected person and slapping the console in front of her affectionately.

“To flying,” she said. “To wandering the spacelanes, hopping from planet to planet. I couldn’t give that up to go skulk in some smelly alley like you did.”

Jorge pretended to be indignant.

“Are you calling me a traitor?” he asked.

“You did give up spacefaring,” Jasika reminded him.

“There were some extenuating circumstances,” Jorge explained, not elaborating that it had been the death of his captain, R’hask Sei’lar, that had caused him to abandon spacefaring. “Not to mention some added incentives to staying grounded.”

He looked fondly at Annita, squeezing her hand affectionately.

“I suppose,” Jasika said as a chime sounded on the console in front of her.

“Looks like we’re coming up on the navigational stop. We’ll just drop out of hyperspace, cruise through the system, calculate our jump and be on our way.”

She dropped her feet down to the decking and took the controls. A gentle but sure hand on the hyperdrive line caused the Spindragon II to revert from hyperspace. Jasika deftly flew the freighter through the outskirts of the desolate, uninhabited system. There was nothing special about their destination, three frozen iceballs of planets orbiting billions of kilometers from a small red dwarf that had long since fused all its hydrogen and helium. It was just a waypoint on their return trip to Bespin and Jasika would only keep them in realspace as long as they needed to in order for the navicomputer to recalculate their course and adjust their heading appropriately.

“Hmm,” she said as something popped up on her sensors.

“What’s that?” Jorge asked lazily.

“Picking up a meteor cluster or some asteroids or something,” Jasika said. “There aren’t usually any in this system. It’s kind of odd.”

“Why’s that?” Annita asked.

“That star, for one,” Jasika pointed out. “It’s barely larger than a gas giant; not much gravity to keep asteroids or meteors around. The three planets in this system don’t have that much gravity either, and back when that star was a decent size, it should have swallowed any asteroids or meteors that were around before. It could be a recent formation, or else one that takes millions of years to make a complete cycle, but I kind of doubt it.”

“Check their orbit trajectories,” Jorge suggested.

Jasika did so, punching in the appropriate commands on her sensor boards.

“Now that’s strange,” she said. “I don’t know what they’re orbiting, but it’s certainly not that star.”

“That’s because those aren’t asteroids,” Jorge explained with a calmness that belied the menace his words conveyed. “They’re Yuuzhan Vong ships.”

“Wonderful,” Jasika said sarcastically.

Hauling on the pilot’s yoke, she threw Spindragon II into a sharp break turn away from the cluster of Yuuzhan Vong vessels.

“Do you think they saw us?” Annita asked.

“Probably,” Jasika said. “Given that we did sensor sweep them and now we’re running like mad.”

“Not to mention the half-dozen ships moving to intercept us,” Jorge pointed out.

“Yeah, that’s a good point,” Jasika said. “How much longer before you think they’ll reach us? Maybe we can jump to hyperspace before they hit us.”

“At their current speed, less than two minutes,” Jorge answered.

“I need at least four more before we can jump,” Jasika replied with a scowl. “Looks like we’ll have to hold them off.”

“Already on it,” Jorge said as he and Annita arose from their seats. “Don’t worry, we know where the gun turrets are.”

“Don’t forget your earpieces,” Jasika told him. “Only if you want to hear me, of course.”

Her aft visual sensors soon showed a wedge formation of six coralskippers closing on her YT-2400 rapidly. She watched as two of them broke to her port, with another pair doing the same to starboard, hemming her in. Then, as one, all six craft swooped in on her freighter.

Jasika sideslipped as streams of molten lava and plasma cannon balls criss-crossed the viewport in front of her. She sent her ship into a skittering cyclic stutter-hop that made it bounce and stumble its way through space instead of flying smoothly. Her shields lit up as a few of the Yuuzhan Vong projectiles found their mark, but most of their fire was thrown off by her jinking.

“Watch out for the shield strip!” Jorge warned her. “Two of those skips will come in close and use their dovin basals to suck all your shields away. Expand the inertial compensator to surround the whole ship to stop it.”

“Okay,” Jasika hollered excitedly as she cut to port just in time to evade a long volley of plasma cannon fire.

Two of the coralskippers soared across her bow, unleashing magma shots that Jasika was hard-pressed to evade. The Spindragon II shuddered from the impacts that she couldn’t avoid and Jasika lurched in her chair as one of the shots ricocheted off the shields near the cockpit. She heard the muffled whump-whump-whump of Jorge and Annita’s firing in the turrets, saw the stream of purple laser bolts chase one of the coralskippers. However, the alien pilots were crafty, each pilot covering the other with their dovin basals to soak up the fire. Jasika wished she had some other weapon, but her craft was lightly armed, as befitting an intersystem hauler.

“Karking skips!” she swore as her beloved ship shuddered from the impacts.

“Hang on,” Jorge barked. “They’re coming around again!”

Jasika heeded his warning, rolling the ship over its left side, then dancing the freighter from side to side in an attempt to shake her pursuit. Alarms started blaring on her console, lighting it up with amber and red warning lights as the plasma fire started breaching her deflector shields. A thin wisp of smoke began emanating from overheated deflector circuitry that she’d been shunting too much power into and Jasika shut it down. There was no point in blowing out shield controls when the shields were practically down anyway.

One of the turret gunners finally managed to get in a good shot, chewing away at the hull of a coralskipper with laser blasts. However, the sturdy coral starfighter quickly imposed a dovin basal singularity to absorb the damage while vectoring away.

“Tough ships,” Annita commented.

Jasika threw the ship into another wrenching turn to evade the next salvo. Two coralskippers weren’t fooled, though, strafing her ventral hull tenaciously. They knew that her laser turret couldn’t punch through their defensive voids, and so they attacked at will. Jasika gritted her teeth as her precious starship took more punishment, counting down the seconds until she could jump to hyperspace. Crunching some numbers in her mind, she realized that at the rate Spindragon II was taking damage, they’d never make it.

Instead, she settled on a back-up plan. Grabbing the hyperdrive levers, she oriented the ship on an outbound heading and pulled them. The stars elongated as the ship went to hyperspace, but Jasika only held the lever for half a second, reverting them back into realspace not far away. Her risky microjump had served its purpose only to get them out of the immediate engagement zone so they could plot a longer jump to safety.

“Everyone all right back there?” she asked.

“We’re fine,” Jorge said. “You know, that was pretty risky.”

“Not really,” Jasika replied. “We use this stop often enough that while we’re in system, we calculate possible escape routes in terms of microjumps. Pretty handy for situations like the one we were just in.”

“More or less,” Jorge told her. “Except for the fact that we’re close enough to the system for the Yuuzhan Vong to detect us and get here before we jump to hyperspace again. Do you have a microjump ready from this point?”

“Not exactly,” Jasika admitted. “We’ll just have to get out of here as quickly as possible.”


 * Naboo

Zeyn stepped out of the hoverlimo as Ryion held the door for him. A second later, Ariada emerged as well. Zeyn looked around, taking in the palatial mansion in the countryside outside of Theed where they were now parked. A long semi-circular drive had led up from the gate to the fenced perimeter to the mansion. Its front was dominated by four columns and a high vaulted archway that soared all the way to the top of the mansion’s three stories. A broad set of stairs led up to the main entrance, adding to the looming, intimidating appearance of the mansion. The building was backlit by the rays of the setting sun, shining through scattered clouds even as it bathed in the mansion in a dusky glow. The gray stone of the mansion shone faintly, casting a long shadow over the carefully manicured lawn and its strategically placed trees.

Taking Ariada’s hand in his, Zeyn ascended the stairs that led to the front door of the estate, feeling just a bit nervous about this whole affair. It was all very well to play sabacc with a Force-sensitive Gotal with an unhealthy interest in the Sith, but walking into his estate unarmed was a bit further along on the stupidity scale. And, based on the security droids and guards he’d seen protecting the perimeter, the Gotal wasn’t exactly the type to surrender quickly.

Zeyn blotted his apprehension out quickly, schooling his features into a dignified expression. He walked up to the door and waited, unwilling to lower himself to knocking. To his surprise, the door opened to reveal Sh’aalam himself standing there, flanked by a pair of impressive-looking Zabrak guards.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, his broad smile not altogether friendly.

“I was honored to accept your invitation,” Zeyn answered courteously.

“Please, come in,” Sh’aalam told them. “Would you care for anything to drink?”

“Not right now,” Zeyn said. “Perhaps later. You said we had much to talk about.”

“Very well,” Sh’aalam replied smoothly. “You want to get down to business and that’s admirable. Right away.”

“Either business, or pazaak,” Zeyn said with a grin. “Though I think you know which I’d prefer.”

The Gotal regarded him smoothly.

“Yes, I think do,” he answered. “And yet perhaps not. If you’ll follow me, I have something of possibly even more interest to discuss with you.”

Every fiber in Zeyn’s body screamed that it was a trap, that he shouldn’t follow Sh’aalam. With conscious effort, he suppressed those self-preserving instincts and fell in beside Sh’aalam as the Gotal led him through a lavishly furnished hallway with an impressively high ceiling to a pair of dark wooden double doors.

“I’m afraid your. . . companion will have to wait here,” Sh’aalam told him. “What we have to discuss is just between the two of us. She’ll be fine here, don’t worry, and if she desires a drink or anything else, it’ll be made available to her.”

Zeyn looked at Ariada, then at the two huge Zabrak guards. He shrugged nonchalantly.

“You’re the host, it’s your house rules,” he said affably. “So, what’s next?”

The Gotal gave him that same half-sinister smile that sent a chill down Zeyn’s spine.

“Come in and see,” Sh’aalam answered.

After unlocking the retinal scanner protecting the chamber, Sh’aalam opened the doors, admitting them into a dark chamber. As Zeyn entered and his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he saw that it was a large open room with a stone table in the middle. Large statues dotted the periphery of the room, along with display cases and shelves on which what appeared to be a variety of artifacts were resting.

“What is all this?” Zeyn asked. “Your private pazaak room?”

“Not quite,” Sh’aalam said as the doors closed behind him. “What do you know of the Force, Lord Morri?”

“Not that much,” Zeyn lied. “The Jedi profess to use it to pull off their magic tricks. Some people claim they can use it to foresee the future, but I didn’t get as rich as I am by relying on superstitions. Something available to so few people is useless anyway.”

“Oh, the Force is no superstition,” Sh’aalam assured him. “It’s very real, and very powerful.”

“Really,” Zeyn said with feigned disinterest.

“The Jedi claim to use a pure form of it that rewards a senseless altruism, but the real power of the Force lies in exploiting its power to the fullest,” Sh’aalam explained. “They’ve missed out on so much potential.”

“Is that so?” Zeyn commented drily.

“You are skeptical,” Sh’aalam said. “Understandable, but unfortunate. Perhaps a demonstration will cure that, though.”

He gestured with a flick of his fingers and a small knife, more akin to a table utensil than a weapon, hurled from its shelf to pierce Zeyn’s boot and puncture through his foot. Zeyn gasped in pain as the blade bit through his skin.

“Kark you,” he said, reaching for the knife.

“Telekinesis is merely one aspect of the Force, and a rather rudimentary display of its power,” Sh’aalam said conversationally.

“What the hell was that for?” Zeyn said.

“Does it hurt, Lord Morri? Do you feel anger towards me?” Sh’aalam asked. “Does the injustice of your wound make you want to hurt me? To take revenge?”

"Of course it hurts,” Zeyn snapped irritably as he looked down at the rivulet of blood emerging from the rip in the top of his boot. “You tossed a knife into my foot.”

Sh’aalam grinned wickedly.

“Good,” he said. “Use your anger against me. Channel it through yourself and unleash your potential in the Force.”

“What the kriff are you talking about?” Zeyn demanded.

“You have the power to use the Force within you,” Sh’aalam explained. “You could become strong in the ways of the dark side of the Force. Together, we could unlock its secrets. Together, we could become Sith.”

“You might have thought about whether it was a good idea to knife me if you were going to suggest something like that,” Zeyn retorted. “And what in space are the Sith?”

“The Sith are masters of the dark side of the Force,” Sh’aalam told him. “The Emperor was a Sith Lord of unparalleled power. So was Darth Vader. They are the most powerful beings in the galaxy. I have sought to find my way to their path for years.”

“So what do you need me for?” Zeyn asked.

“Every Sith needs an apprentice,” Sh’aalam answered. “And you have much potential, as well as much anger. I sensed it in you when you were wounded. That anger can be turned into power.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Zeyn said through gritted teeth.

“Don’t be so naïve,” Sh’aalam shot back. “Who are your enemies, Lord Morri? Other nobles? Perhaps the Empire—I sensed how you reacted when I mentioned Darth Vader. Or is it the Yuuzhan Vong? It does not matter. With the power of the dark side at your command and the Sith knowledge I have gathered, you can defeat them all.”

“Then how come Vader and the Emperor aren’t around anymore?” Zeyn asked.

“Having command of the dark side does not make one infallible,” Sh’aalam replied. “But join me, and you will see its strength. Remember, they dominated the galaxy for years.”

“I don’t think so,” Zeyn said, plucking the knife from his foot with a sickening squelching sound.

He winced at the pain, but did not let it master him.

“I’m not about to join anyone whose idea of an introduction is chunking knives at people. I’m certainly not going to become your apprentice or any such nonsense.”

Sh’aalam sighed.

“You are stubborn, Lord Morri, but I can sense the longing within you to destroy me. You can use that anger, but only if you accept my help. Only if you embrace the dark side.”

“I don’t think so,” Zeyn replied. “In fact, you’re under arrest.”

Sh’aalam laughed mockingly.

“Do you take me for a fool, Lord Morri? Don’t you think I would suspect any kind of Force-user I led into my mansion? Do you think I would be dumb enough to let a Jedi or a New Republic agent in disguise into my inner sanctum? I have not survived as long as I have by being as foolish as you.”

“Your opinion of yourself doesn’t change the fact that you’re under arrest,” Zeyn said, allowing his full Force presence to suffuse his body.

“Ah, you are powerful indeed,” Sh’aalam exalted. “You have even more potential than I thought.”

“Yes, and you have plenty of potential to be carried out of here bloodied and bruised instead of quietly,” Zeyn countered.

“So go ahead and arrest me, young Jedi,” Sh’aalam spat. “Unless your foot is bothering you.”

Zeyn frowned, then realized that he’d lost feeling in his right foot, a feeling that was spreading up his leg.

“You sense the poison, don’t you?” Sh’aalam asked him. “It’s an ancient Sith poison designed to debilitate your enemies for future breaking.”

He grinned evilly at Zeyn.

“Whether you join me and embrace the dark side now or after weeks of imprisonment and torment is the only question you have left to answer. I am quite willing to wait.”

“Except that you don’t have that kind of time,” Zeyn answered. “This party’s over.”

Schelas leered at him discomfortingly.

“I have nothing to fear from you, little Jedi,” he said. “Once again, I’m not so rash as to let you in here without appropriate precautions. You are alone, poisoned, and unarmed. You pose no threat to me, only potential waiting to be tapped and manipulated.”

Zeyn’s eyes narrowed, but he smirked back at his captor.

“One of the first things I learned in my training is to never underestimate my opponent. Do you really think I would have come here and put myself in this situation without any kind of backup?”

Sh’aalam started to voice a reply, but was interrupted by an explosion tearing through the ceiling in a fiery ball of rubble and smoke. Simultaneously, a bright orange outline appeared around the doorframe Zeyn had entered through, slicing a sizable chunk out of the durasteel door. From the newly created rupture in the ceiling, two figures in dark garments dropped down, while Ariada quickly stepped through the hole created by the recently removed door. One of the figures tossed her a pack, from which she extracted two shotos, lightsabers with short, dagger-like blades. The Wroonian quickly moved beside Zeyn, her two short lightsabers lit and ready to defend him.

Encircling the Gotal were Qedai and Ryion, the former with a pair of discblade throwing weapons and the latter armed with a lightsaber and a metal shield strapped to his other arm.

“You!” spat Sh’aalam at Zeyn, who looked indifferent.

“Your guards were amusing,” Qedai offered. “It took us less than five minutes to evade or disable all of them.”

Sh’aalam offered no counter-retort. Instead, he pulled back his robe to reveal a long vibrosword. He drew it quickly, and it gleamed with a faint malicious green glow.

“An ancient Sith poison blade,” he announced. “Even a graze can prove fatal.”

Ryion, Qedai, and Ariada began closing in on the Gotal methodically, wary of other traps. The Force flowed through them, joining them together as they advanced. Sh’aalam stood ready, his blade at low guard, a duelist’s stance. Both sides seemed passive, cautionary, observing their opponents keenly for indications of stance and style, strength and weakness.

Then suddenly Qedai and Ariada exploded into action, hurling two discblades and a dark blue lightsaber at Sh’aalam. He reacted calmly, a quick, efficient defense that deflected all the weapons. He made no attempt to use the Force to break their telekinetic locks, relying on his skill with his blade. That marked him as less confident in his Force abilities, as well as a more conservative duelist, given that he did not attempt a counter-attack immediately. Nor did the three Yanibar Guardians give him time to mount one.

On the heels of the thrown weapons, Ryion leapt towards Sh’aalam, lightsaber raised high above his head for a powerful strike. The Gotal lunged forward, poison blade flicking up in a quick stab attempt that would slice Ryion’s leg, but Ryion deflected it on his shield and rolled over Sh’aalam’s shoulder. He kicked out backward as he landed, shoving Sh’aalam forward even as Ariada challenged him with her remaining shoto, her blade seeking his throat.

Sh’aalam blocked close with his blade, but his longer reach was mitigated by the close quarters. Ryion was also recovering, his purple lightsaber blade threatening the Gotal’s back. In response, Sh’aalam ducked low under Ryion’s blade, sidestepping a follow-up blow by Ariada and whacking the side of her head with the pommel of his poison blade in lieu of being able to strike her with it. She staggered, but turning with the blow lessened its impact. To forestall a more lethal strike, Ariada kicked out sharply at his heel and was rewarded as he gasped in pain. Furthermore, his lack of defense was punished by Ryion lashing out with his lightsaber, scoring the Gotal along the back even though Sh’aalam rolled away from most of the blow. Ryion, Qedai, and Ariada advanced quickly, but Sh’aalam came upright with his blade ready even as he revealed a new weapon.

Sliding back his left sleeve, he fired a quick spray of eleven razor-sharp metal disks at the Yanibar Guardians at them from a concealed Sith lanvarok. Their unpredictable pattern made them hard to deflect and they simply ricocheted off lightsabers instead of being destroyed. Ariada took a hit on her leg and stumbled back even as her remaining short blade batted away the four that had been seeking her. For his part, Ryion advanced past the four disks homing on him, alternately jumping over them and using his shield and sword to ward them off. Qedai was the least troubled by the sudden appearance of the disks. As a Zeison Sha, she was highly skilled at telekinesis. Channeling the Force and the air around her, she formed a shield of pure Force energy, even as she hurled a whirlwind at Sh’aalam.

His concentration disrupted, Sh’aalam was battered by the winds as Qedai leapt to attack him from the side. There was nothing he could do about it, as Ryion was thrusting his lightsaber at his chest. The Twi’lek landed with incredible force, delivering a punishing punch to the Gotal’s left shoulder blade that elicited an audible pop from that joint. She landed nimbly, first sweeping out Sh’aalam’s feet from under him and then using her other foot to plant a tremendous snap kick to his back. The Gotal flew backward, through the hole in the door that Ariada had carved, landing out in the hall in a heap.

“Ariada, stay back and help Zeyn,” Ryion ordered. “Qedai and I can handle this.”

Qedai summoned her discblades back to her hand and dashed after Sh’aalam, Ryion not far behind as they advanced on their wounded opponent. Bursting through the whole, they confronted Sh’aalam, who was struggling to rise.

“Surrender,” Ryion demanded. “No need for you to be hurt further.”

“Pain is nothing to a servant of the dark side,” Sh’aalam gasped, wiping away a trace of blood from his mouth. “And I have built far too much into this to let you stop it now.”

He seemed unconcerned about the two unharmed Yanibar Guardians flanking him, which began to set off warning sirens in Ryion’s mind. No competent swordsman would tolerate being surrounded like that, but Sh’aalam was unconcerned about the danger.

Sure enough, the Gotal pressed a button on a remote he’d been hiding and four laser turrets emerged from the archway outside the inner sanctum. They deployed quickly, spraying blaster bolts at Ryion and Qedai. Ryion swore under his breath, using his shield to good effect even as his lightsaber intercepted the most dominant streams of blasterfire. Over to his left, Qedai was having a harder time of it, as her discblades were not as suited to deflecting blasterfire, though she was able to use her Force shield to block some of the lethal energy. The concentration needed to employ the technique left her vulnerable to Sh’aalam charging with his poison blade.

Qedai managed to block the blade stroke, but was forced backward. With Ryion pinned down by three of the turrets, Sh’aalam was left an opportunity to duck back into his sanctum. A quick touch of another control on his remote and a giant slab of two-meter thick rock slammed in place behind him, sealing him off from them.

“Kriff!” Ryion swore as he stood in front of Qedai, defending her with shield and saber. “We certainly fell for that.”

“I know,” she replied irritably. “It’s almost like he wanted to be knocked out here so he could turn his toys on us.”

“He’s not the only one with toys,” Ryion said. “Do you think can take out those turrets and that wall?”

“Does a Gungan skloob in the sea?” she retorted. “Just give me a second.”

Closing her eyes now that she was protected from the turrets by Ryion, she focused on the Force. Her discblades hurled through the air, smashing away at the turrets, guided by her will.

Ariada had not been idle while Ryion and Qedai dealt with Sh’aalam. She’d quickly made her way to kneel at Zeyn’s side, using the Force to identify and bolster his attempts to flush the poison from his veins. Her perceptions of Ryion and Qedai kept her apprised to the state of the duel, which she was confident would be over soon.

“Is that better?” she asked.

“Much,” he said as she adjusted the belt he’d tied around his leg as a tourniquet. “I think I can handle it from here.”

“All right,” she said. “But you need to rest first. Healing takes a lot of effort. You should rest unconscious while we clean up around here.”

“Okay,” Zeyn said. “Just wake me before we leave.”

“Of course.”

A simple Force technique allowed him to slip into unconsciousness in a few seconds. Ariada smiled at him, then reached for a bandage from the medpac which had been in the pack Ryion had tossed to her earlier to stem the bleeding from her leg. Just as she reached for it, though, something screamed in a warning to her. She whirled, grabbing and igniting one of her blades to block high from the powerful blow that Sh’aalam unleashed at her. Her blade crackled against his poison one as he slowly forced her weapon back in a saberlock that would end poorly for her.

“Your friends are cut off, little Jedi,” he said with a sinister leer. “And you are not as strong as they are.”

“We’ll see about that,” she said, stretching her other hand out to recall her other lightsaber.

With her grip momentarily weakened by only using one hand, Sh’aalam was able to press down further. She shoved her blocking lightsaber backwards laterally, preventing his blade from descending on her head or neck. Instead, it nicked her left shoulder even as her second lightsaber returned to her fingers.

“You’re dead!” he crowed triumphantly. “The Sith poison will turn your blood to liquid fire inside your veins. The wound from my lanvarok will only make you die faster.”

“Perhaps,” Ariada returned coolly.

Crossing her blades in front of her, she countered his next blow. All the while, her mind was only half-focused on the fight. Instead, Ariada channeled most of her energy into an aggressive Force technique that stemmed from her knowledge of biology and genetics and her own skill as a healer. It scoured the poison from her veins, breaking it down into harmless compounds and diffusing the malicious Force energy infused into it. Sh’aalam’s secret weapon was powerless against her understanding of her own body chemistry and her healer’s talents. She did not have to beat him; all she had to do was hold him off and defend Zeyn until Ryion and Qedai arrived. Not that that would be easy. She couldn’t move well in her dress and defending Zeyn and the wound in her leg hampered her further. Ariada had no means to get inside Sh’aalam’s longer reach, allowing him to batter away at her defenses. Moreover, she was not the strongest duelist on the team. Still, Sh’aalam had to beat her and quickly, if he was going to escape.

Only three blows later, the sound of the turrets blasting away at her companions was silenced, instigating a worried look from Sh’aalam that Ariada didn’t have to be a master of body language to interpret.

“They’re coming back,” she warned him as she parried a horizontal slashing attack. “And they won’t be particularly happy.”

“Then I’ll have to defeat you faster,” he glowered. “A pity, really. You’re full of potential.”

“Potential to defeat you,” she said.

“No,” he gloated. “Potential to be a servant of the dark side. There is much anger in you.”

Ariada didn’t deign to reply even as a thundering sound began echoing through the inner sanctum, indicating that Ryion and Qedai were breaking through the slab separating them.

“You even want to use it,” Sh’aalam said, extending the probing tendrils of his mind into hers. “You seek ways to use your anger. There is no denying it.”

Ariada still gave no answer, blocking another powerful overhand strike with crossed blades.

“Come with me,” he tempted. “I will show you the means to develop that power.”

He twisted his blade around her counterstrike, forcing her to duck back as it sliced off part of her long, flowing sleeve.

“If only you knew how the dark side could empower you,” he gasped. “How it could let you strike down those who do evil. You are hampered and hindered from realizing your true capability.”

Their series of blows brought them to face to face, blades locked down low. Sh’aalam stared balefully at her.

“Free your mind from its shackles,” he whispered. “You’ve been blinded by the chains of the Jedi.”

“And you’ve been blinded by my forehead,” she countered, slamming her head into his face.

He staggered back but maintained his defenses, using the Force to block her counter-attack.

The door shook again and cracks began to show, causing Sh’aalam to redouble his efforts. He hacked away at her, and given that she was weaker than him in both strength and mobility, she began to tire.

“It’s futile, girl,” Sh’aalam warned her. “You cannot stay alive until your friends arrive unless you surrender to the power of the dark side. I deserve it, do I not?”

Ariada fought against the lull of his words, words she could not ignore no matter how much she tried. He was trying to coax her into doing something against her being, but there was an element of something attractive in his speech, an allure of strength to defeat those who dared inflict harm on others.

“You could do it, just this once,” he said. “End my life and then begin your own tutelage using the power of the dark side. There are others whom you could learn from and eventually dominate. Seek out the Thisspiasian. He can give you the means you need, the power you desire deep within your soul to stop injustice from—,”

Ariada smiled as he was cut off in mid-monologue by a sudden and unexpected injury. Sh’aalam looked down to see a third deep blue lightsaber blade protruding from his stomach. His eyes shot back to the two lightsabers still in her hands, then to her face, giving her a confused look.

“I can stop you without using the dark side,” she pronounced coldly. “No more of your lies.”

Instead of helpless rage or sudden pain, though, Sh’aalam’s features schooled themselves into a blissful smile even as he fell to his knees, the poison blade clattering on the floor.

“You. . . are even. . . more powerful than I imagined,” he said. “Seek the Thiss. . . he can make you strong enough. . . stop the Vong. Stop them all.”

Then he gurgled and collapsed lifelessly on the ground. Behind him, the door suddenly blew into a dusty cloud of debris as Ryion and Qedai stepped through the whole, weapons at the ready. Ariada pulled her third lightsaber’s hilt from his back telekinetically, de-activating all three of her blades and sliding them into her pack.

“About time you guys got here,” she commented.

“Is he. . . ?” Qedai asked.

She nodded.

“He’s gone. It was him or me.”

“Job's done then,” Qedai replied.

“Not exactly,” Ryion reminded her. “We need to collect all the data off his computers, take anything important, and then destroy this place. We wouldn’t want anyone else getting their hands on all this dark-side stuff.”

“Tell me about it,” Qedai said. “This place gives me the creeps. How’s Zeyn?”

“Napping on the job, but otherwise he’s fine,” Ariada replied lightly as she fished some bandages out of the medpac for her shoulder and arm.

“Here, let me,” Ryion said, taking them from her. “Are you okay?”

“Flesh wounds,” she answered dismissively. “Just get that secured and I’ll get to work on the computers.”

Within minutes, Ariada had sliced through the computers while Ryion secured the perimeter and Qedai planted explosives at strategic locations to destroy the mansion. For a slicer of her skills, penetrating the electronic defenses that Sh’aalam, apparently much less adept in that area, was little difficulty and soon she was downloading information at will from his personal files. Twenty minutes after she started, Ryion and Qedai re-entered the sanctum to check on her status.

“Find anything interesting?” Qedai asked.

Ariada nodded.

“His security was weak. I’ve gotten pretty much everything.”

“Like what?” Ryion asked.

“All kinds of fascinating stuff. Catalogs of his relic collection. Formulas and incantations. Old Sith teachings and mantras. Plans to take over the galaxy. You know, that sort of thing. I could spend weeks reading all this.”

“And you probably shouldn’t,” Qedai reminded her. “Spending too much time with creepy Sith stuff isn’t exactly good for the mind.”

“Of course not,” Ariada said agreeably. “But some of these formulas and techniques could be very. . . useful against difficult opponents. For example, the Yuuzhan Vong.”

Qedai gave her a hard look.

“You aren’t seriously suggesting we use Sith poisons against the Yuuzhan Vong, are you?” the Twi’lek asked her. “Because that just screams bad idea.”

“You tell me,” Ariada replied offhandedly. “I’m not the one whose father was the first Elite Guardian killed by the Vong.”

Qedai gritted her teeth, glaring at Ariada sternly.

“You leave my father out of this,” she glowered. “He died as a hero, serving the refuge and the light side of the Force. If he was here, he’d never condone using Sith knowledge to fight anyone, especially not in his name.”

“Your loss,” Ariada answered coolly, her reply laced with a double meaning that implied Qedai’s father Kacheen would still be alive if the Yanibar Guard had had access to such weapons.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Ryion interrupted. “We don’t get to decide what happens with this data anyway. That’ll be up to our superiors. Ariada, make one download on a sealed datapad and give it to me—no copies. Qedai, get ready to blow this place.”

“And what are you going to do? Watch us work?” Qedai asked sarcastically.

“I’m going to wake up Zeyn and get the speeder for our magnificent escape,” Ryion answered.

Kneeling by his cousin, Ryion tapped him lightly on the shoulder even as he nudged him in the Force. A second later, Zeyn’s eyes fluttered open.

“Have a good nap?” Ryion asked him.

“I did,” Zeyn said, smiling contentedly. “It was going just fine until you intervened. I had this great dream. She was almost in my arms, about as close as you are to me. Except that she was prettier. By a lot. And softer. And she had better hair.”

Ryion rolled his eyes.

“I get the point,” he said. “I think it’s safe to say you’re recovered.”

Zeyn sat up slowly.

“More or less,” Zeyn answered. “I can feel my right leg again, which is good. Unfortunately, it kind of hurts from being knifed, which is bad.”

“Can you walk?” Ryion asked him.

“If I have to.”

“Good,” Ryion said lightly. “You have to.”

Nevertheless, he helped his cousin up and let him lean on one shoulder, supporting Zeyn as the four Elite Guardians made their way out of the estate. Piling into the speeder that Ryion had parked out back, they sped away. As the mansion receded into the distance behind them, Qedai retrieved a detonator and hit a button. Five seconds later, the entire building was engulfed in flames, collapsing under its own weight as key support columns were destroyed by her charges, ruining its structural integrity.

“Oooh, that was pretty,” Zeyn commented. “Since I got hurt, can I say it this time?”

“If you want to,” Ryion replied, focusing on the road they were speeding along back to the spaceport.

“Yes!” Zeyn crowed exultantly. “Mission accomplished!”