Force Exile IV: Guardian/Part 6

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The small frigate reverted from hyperspace with a flicker of pseudomotion. Once it returned to realspace, the craft, emblazoned with the markings of the Zann Consortium, set a course towards the silent floating orb known as Carida, making its solitary way towards the Imperial planet. It was time for a long-awaited deal to go down, one where Tyber Zann would sell to the Empire, using Black Sun as an intermediary, an artifact that he in turn had stolen from Jabba the Hutt-and one that would mark the start of his grand scheme. Leaning forward to get a better view of the space they were flying into, Tyber Zann gazed out towards the planet.
 * “Here we are, Urai,” he said. “Scenic Carida.”

From the corner of the viewing room where the hulking figure of Urai Fen sat, the henchman made his reply.
 * “Indeed,” the Talortai warrior agreed. “An unusual place for Xizor to meet us, given the Imperial stormtrooper academy on the planet.”
 * “Which is exactly why I don’t believe that we’re meeting Xizor,” Zann countered. “There’s been an awful lot of furor on Coruscant recently, and I haven’t been able to get all the information I need yet, but I have my doubts. If the sale of this artifact wasn’t so important, I wouldn’t have come myself.”
 * “Hence your preparations for this meeting,” Urai said.
 * “Precisely,” Zann said with a thin smile. “Although given how much I trust Xizor, I would have done the same thing even if I thought we were actually meeting with him.”
 * “Lord Zann,” the frigate’s pilot called through the intercom. “We’re at the rendezvous point.”
 * “About time,” Zann said, crossing over to the communications display. “Let’s see what we have here.”

Activating the console, he pulled up the sensor readings. For a moment, there was nothing. The angular frigate continued on its course towards Carida, its 150-odd meter length cruising through the deep void of space.
 * “It’s quiet,” Zann noted as he began pacing the room. “Too quiet.”
 * “Should we leave?” Urai asked.
 * “No, not yet,” Zann answered, but it was clear he was disquieted. “We’ll give Xizor a few more minutes and then head out.”

There was nothing for another three minutes. Then, the frigate’s sensor officer delivered the news they had been waiting to hear.”
 * “We have multiple sensor contacts heading towards us.”

Almost unsurprisingly, there were no Black Sun freighters approaching them. Instead, the distinct wedge-shaped forms of several sizable Imperial warships, including two Imperial-class Star Destroyers were rapidly approaching them.
 * “What a surprise,” the crime lord remarked drily. “It was a trap after all.”
 * “We’re receiving a transmission,” the pilot informed them through the intercom.
 * “Put it through,” Zann ordered.

A second later, the holographic image of an Imperial officer shimmered into view. However, unlike most Imperials, he was neither human, nor dressed in the typical khakis of the Imperial Navy. Instead, this was a nonhuman with deep blue skin and glowing red eyes, wearing the white uniform of a Grand Admiral. It was Thrawn.
 * “Tyber Zann,” the hologram said. “I've come to collect your artifact for the Emperor. Comply with my demands, and I promise a swift and reasonably honorable death.”

The alien’s voice was filled with iron and there was no doubt in Tyber Zann’s mind that Thrawn would attempt to carry out his threat.
 * Star Destroyer Admonitor

Standing beside and a little behind Thrawn, relegated to a secondary role, Delvardus could only fume as Thrawn contacted Zann and informed the criminal of his impending demise. He, Delvardus, had sorely wanted to tell Zann something similar himself. The annoyed admiral straightened an almost invisible wrinkle out of his uniform while he waited for Zann’s reply. As expected, Zann was defiant.
 * “Of course I knew you were still lurking in my shadows,” the crime lord replied haughtily. “Don’t tell me you were the contact Xizor arranged.”

Grand Admiral Thrawn smiled thinly at the hologram of Zann. The human was nothing if not confident. Thrawn was far more aware about the tendencies of Tyber Zann than either sentient acknowledged. In preparation for this battle, he had had Delvardus’s men supply him with holograms of architecture and artwork seized from Consortium holdings. Those pieces, combined with Thrawn’s own unique intuition, had allowed him to assemble an understanding of Zann’s likely moves, like being inside the man’s head. It was something that, almost sadly, only he had a talent for, but Thrawn knew that it was why he had proven so valuable to the Empire. That and his tactical brilliance. The Chiss Grand Admiral wasn’t arrogant about it. He was simply the best out of the Grand Admirals, whether they—or the sullen Delvardus—acknowledged that or not. Thrawn knew about the disdain he received from officers like his xenophobic second-in-command, but couldn’t understand it. Didn’t they see that he was working for their own good? To defeat the enemies of the Empire? However, Thrawn, ever the professional, had no more time to waste contemplating the many injustices and oddities of human xenophobia in the Imperial military, though his entire thought process since Zann’s reply had only expended perhaps half a second. A thought, a simple crisp mental command, was enough to clear his mind to focus on the upcoming battle. For there would certainly be one, if Thrawn’s intuition about Tyber Zann was correct.
 * “In a manner of speaking,” Thrawn returned to the hologram. “Xizor is dead. The evidence you planted convinced Vader but I recognized your unique signature. You've overstepped your bounds for the last time, Zann.”

There was a slight reaction from the normally unflappable Zann. Some might not have detected the subtle shock written across Zann’s face, but Thrawn had already zeroed in on it. The Grand Admiral smiled again, but inwardly this time. Zann had no doubt already heard something about Xizor’s demise—in underworld circlesmit was no secret that the two had hated each other—but Thrawn’s knowledge of the Zann Consortium’s role in the downfall of the Black Sun head certainly came as a surprise to the crime lord. How delicious. Still, the man was used to thinking on his feet and recovered quickly.
 * “Really? You don't think I came unprepared, do you?” Zann replied with a tone almost of mock incredulity.

Thrawn toggled off the communications switch so Zann couldn’t hear or see them and turned to Delvardus.
 * “Admiral, order the Aitch-Vee cannon to target that frigate and fire on my command.”
 * “Yes, sir,” Delvardus replied stiffly. “Sir, if I may?”
 * “Go ahead, Admiral,” Thrawn replied. “I welcome suggestions, if they’re put forward properly.”

Delvardus ignored the subtle sting and continued on.
 * “Sir, it is quite unlikely that Tyber Zann does not have additional ships heading to intercept. I recommend that you wait to fire until he brings his other forces in.”
 * “An excellent recommendation, Admiral,” Thrawn said with a small smile. “And noted. Thank you.”

The Grand Admiral turned back to the communications display. His flagrant xenophobia aside, Delvardus wasn’t a bad officer. Too bad Thrawn had already thought over his idea several hours ago, but there was no point in letting Delvardus know that and exacerbate the man’s bad attitude. Thrawn returned to business, reactivating the communications relay.

Just as he reached for the control, the sensor officer called out a report, his voice laden with urgency.
 * “Grand Admiral! Sir, we have multiple contacts reverting from hyperspace! I’m detecting at least sixteen ships-frigates, gunships, cruisers, everything. It’s a full war fleet!”
 * “Calm yourself, Lieutenant,” Thrawn said. “Zann’s reinforcements were not unexpected.”
 * “Yes, sir,” the chastened junior officer replied.

Thrawn toggled the communications relay again, but did not resume conversation with Zann. Not yet. Instead, his transmission was to a ground-based weapon that Thrawn had ordered installed on the surface of Carida and deployed in record time.
 * “You may fire when ready, Commander,” Thrawn ordered.

Then he switched back over to Zann. He had just enough time for one last jab to rile the human before he destroyed Zann’s ship.
 * “Well done. For a petty criminal. Of course, I would've have expected you to anticipate the hypervelocity gun on the surface.”

At the largest Imperial garrison on Carida, a massive anti-orbital cannon pointed its muzzle towards the sky. Its pre-firing sequence completed, the weapon let loose with a thunderous salvo of solid rounds accelerated to hypersonic speeds that transcended Carida’s high escape velocity. Their trajectories carried the slugs straight into Zann’s Interceptor IV frigate. Hypervelocity guns could inflict serious damage on a Star Destroyer, and the tiny frigate was nearly torn in half by the impact. “That does it for him!” Delvardus said with glee, unable to contain himself. “Not likely, Admiral,” Thrawn replied smoothly. “Not likely at all.”
 * Merciless

Urai and Tyber Zann watched the frigate explode into a glowing fireball with cool detachment. The Interceptor IV, while it had long been a valuable part of his fleet, was no longer one of their strongest vessels, thanks to the new shipbuilding initiatives of the Zann Consortium. Indeed, the aging frigates were now one of the smaller ships in his armada, which was why Zann had seen that ship as expendable enough to sacrifice. He had figured on a trap, and so had routed his transmission through the frigate in order to play out the pretense on being aboard the ship. In actuality, that was far from the truth.
 * “All that display just to take a pawn. I really hope Grand Admiral Thrawn doesn’t think he’s killed me that easily,” Zann said to his Talortai henchman.
 * “Perhaps you should dissuade him of that notion,” Urai replied.
 * “I plan on it, Urai,” Zann agreed, then activated the ship’s intercom. “Drop us out of hyperspace and charge the plasma cannons. We should have long enough before their cannon is recharged to give our Imperial friend a little surprise.”

Then, he switched the communications device back over to Thrawn and waited.

As the Imperial and Consortium fleets began closing, it was obvious that while there were far more Consortium ships, they were smaller and less well-equipped. And unlike a typical Rebel squadron, there were no neat formations of X-wing or A-wing fighters. Instead, Zann’s fighter units included older types such as CloakShapes and Z-95s, with a smattering of more advanced Skipray Blastboats and StarViper-class attack platforms. However, in terms of sheer firepower and overall strength, no ship in Zann’s fleet could even match a Victory-class Star Destroyer in a one-on-one engagement, not to mention an Imperial Star Destroyer. That is, until the Merciless arrived.

At 1.5 kilometers long, it was nearly the length of an Imperial Star Destroyer, but considerably narrower. Unlike Imperial designs, which favored a main battery of ten or twenty large turbolasers and ion cannons backed up by dozens of secondary weapons, the main firepower of the Merciless was concentrated in two massive plasma cannons. It was these weapons that Tyber Zann turned loose on his Imperial foe now. Just before firing, though, he decided to continue his verbal sparring with Thrawn.
 * “Well, I would expect an Imperial officer to be arrogant enough not to be ready for my surprises,” Zann replied coldly, hoping that Thrawn would be surprised to hear his voice.

The Merciless let loose a giant blast of plasma, which tore through space to slam into the shields of a Victory-class Star Destroyer, utterly disabling them. It was followed by another plasma bolt the size of a gunship, which smashed into the hapless Imperial ship. Imperial officers watching the scene would later report the utter shock and surprise they felt as they witnessed the Merciless tear a 900-meter warship in half with one shot.
 * “Well. This may actually prove interesting. Why don't we begin?” Thrawn returned smoothly, and Zann noted with some pleasure that the alien hadn’t expected the Merciless to possess that type of firepower.
 * “Agreed,” Zann replied. “For an admittedly brilliant strategist, one thing you've never been, Thrawn, is boring.”

With that last jab in, Zann turned off the communications relay and directed his attention towards the battle. Thanks to the Merciless, the scales had decidedly tipped in his favor. Now, all he had to do was exploit his advantage. Zann knew that the Grand Admiral was far more skilled than he was in terms of tactical prowess, but he dearly wanted to exact revenge on the Empire for this betrayal. Plus, his plan needed some time to put into motion. He cracked his knuckles and moved over to the battle boards. Things were just starting to get exciting.
 * Star Destroyer Death Hammer

The bridge was a cacophony of people calling orders, reports, updates, and another battle communiqués. Delvardus, who had returned to his own ship via shuttle upon seeing the Merciless appear, was right in the thick of it, trying to stay as full abreast of the unfolding battle as he could.
 * “Squadron of Skiprays closing in on the port flank! Prepare antifighter batteries!”
 * “Sir, TIE Squadron Six is down to two ships. They report that those Crusader-class gunships are deadly to fighters!”
 * “Turbolasers are firing on the Vengance­-class in Sector 41! Sir, those ships have no shields, but we can’t penetrate their hull!”
 * “Tell them to concentrate fire on the engines! I want that ship dead now, dammit!”
 * “We’re losing Squadron Six! Squadron Six is gone!”

These and other reports flooded over Delvardus faster than he could respond to all of them, as he tried to direct the Death Hammer in combat. Ordinarily, he would have delegated many of these responsibilities to the ship’s captain while he controlled the overall battle, but with Thrawn’s taking of command, Delvardus had tried to involve himself as thoroughly as possible in running the ship. He and his executive officer Captain Marquart were both doing the best they could. Adrenaline was pumping through his system and between the voices calling out reports and the beeps, chirps, and wails of various consoles, it was a wonder he could concentrate on anything. This was a Star Destroyer bridge in the midst of a pitched battle. Or at least, his Star Destroyer bridge. As he had left the Admonitor, Delvardus couldn’t help but notice that Thrawn’s crewmen were the epitome of professionalism and didn’t even raise their voices, even after the destruction of the Victory­-class Star Destroyer. Whoever the kriff Thrawn was, he certainly had his crew singing to the same cool tune that he himself followed. Delvardus wouldn’t have been surprised if there was ice water running through the alien’s veins underneath that blue skin. Speaking of that kriffer. ..
 * “Sir, Grand Admiral Thrawn wishes to speak with you.”
 * “Yes, Lieutenant,” Delvardus said. “I’ll take the transmission at my command chair.”

Leaving the crew pit area where all the real action was, Delvardus made his way to the command chair at one edge of the bridge. The view through the transparisteel panes from the chair was excellent but since he wasn’t running the larger battle, Delvardus had yet to use it in this battle. He activated the console and a quarter-sized hologram of Thrawn shimmered into view.
 * “Yes, Grand Admiral?” Delvardus asked, forcing the proper amount of respect into his voice.
 * “Cease your fire on the Vengeance-class frigate in Sector 41.”
 * “Sir, with all due respect, we’ve nearly disabled it and . . .”
 * “That’s an order, Admiral,” Thrawn cut him off, his voice filled with quiet command. “You are to concentrate fire on the two Interceptor frigates in Sector 6. And stay where I can reach you.”
 * “Yes, sir,” Delvardus said sullenly, relaying the order to his gunnery crews.

Then, he saw why Thrawn had ordered him to cease fire. The hypervelocity cannon had finished its cool-down period. Another salvo of slugs ripped through the Vengeance-class frigate in a pulsing streak of white-hot metal, tearing the ship apart. So the Grand Admiral did have a mind for tactics after all, Delvardus thought, somewhat mollified but still fuming.

Outside, the battle raged on. The Death Hammer’s turbolasers inflicted grievous damage on the pair of audacious Interceptor frigates that were closing on its starboard bow. One frigate rolled as if to present its fresh starboard shields to Death Hammer, spitting turbolaser bolts and concussion missiles at Imperial ships as it did so, when a squadron of TIE bombers from Admonitor suddenly vectored in on it, putting a dozen torpedoes in the ship’s weak side. Another Imperial kill. However, that was not to say the battle was one-sided. Eager TIE squadrons, ready to tear into the Consortium’s motley fighter squadrons were surprised by the agility and durability of the StarVipers that were the elite fighter of the Zannists. The flower-petal shaped ships tore through TIE squadrons, quad lasers leaving the shattered remnants of solar panels, ball-shaped cockpits and twin ion engines floating through space. Those TIEs that survived ran straight into the lethal Crusader­-class gunships, which packed enough laser cannons to shred the fragile Imperial ships. Fighter casualties climbed abruptly among the Imperial squadrons.

A maelstrom of turbolaser fire, so thick that it came almost in sheets, slammed into another Vengance-class frigate from the combined fire of the Death’s Hammer and an accompanying Victory-class Star Destroyer. The two Star Destroyers pummeled the ship, tearing deep into its hull. In return, the frigate opened up with a combination of brilliant green turbolaser fire and heavy mass-driver cannons that spit streams of hyper-accelerated metal slugs across space to slam into ship and shield. Suddenly, the ship disappeared out of sight, and all targeting locks were lost.
 * “What the kriff was that?” Delvardus swore as the damaged ship eluded his gunners.
 * “Cloaking device, it appears,” Thrawn informed him.

Delvardus jumped. He forgot that the communications channel to Thrawn was still routed through his command chair.
 * “Aye, sir,” Delvardus growled in an attempt to mask his surprise.

At that point, the Merciless unleashed another devastating volley from its recharged plasma cannons. Once again, a Victory-class Star Destroyer was its target and the results were much the same as before. Delvardus glared as the constantly-updating threat board marked the craft as lost with all hands. His scowl only deepened when he saw that one of the little Tartan-class patrol cruisers that proven so effective at fending off the Skipray Blastboats had been consumed in the explosion as well. Delvardus wondered why Zann had been foolish enough not to try and cripple Thrawn’s flagship. Surely the man had known which ship to target and that Thrawn was the biggest threat to him in the Carida system. However, a closer study of the battle board revealed the answer. The cunning Grand Admiral had carefully interposed an Interceptor IV frigate between the Admonitor and the Merciless, timing the maneuver to coincide with the firing of the plasma guns. Just how the kriff did Thrawn pull off stunts like that? No point in wondering now. Delvardus shook his head in silent disbelief and returned to the melee.
 * Merciless 

Tyber Zann almost smiled as he watched the second Star Destroyer explode. The gunship had been a neat prize too, but that was bonus. As he had planned, Thrawn’s ship hadn’t caught but the edges of the shockwave, but its shields were failing. As were those of the Merciless, he reminded himself as a few stragglers from a TIE squadron strafed his ship, splattering messy streaks of green laser fire across his shields. Then, his intercom crackled with an urgent report.
 * “Bossk has stolen the artifact! He's headed toward Thrawn's ship! All fire on the Hound's Tooth!”

Zann nodded knowingly. It was no surprise that the hulking Trandoshan bounty hunter who’d helped him retrieve the artifact would eventually betray him for the Empire. Bossk had worked for them before, and they had very deep pockets. In fact, though, Zann had counted on the betrayal and destroying Bossk’s Hound’s Tooth would ruin his carefully devised scheme.
 * “No! Let him go! Let him go,” he ordered.

His crewmembers were obviously puzzled, but they obeyed the order. The tiny Hound’s Tooth crossed the dizzying fields of turbolaser, ion cannon, and plasma fire unmolested. No concussion missiles or proton torpedoes were fired at the bounty hunter’s ship from either side and it arrived safely in the hangar of the Admonitor.
 * “Lord Zann, transmission for you,” he was informed.
 * “Send it up here,” he replied, then turned to Urai. “It’s no doubt Thrawn. Calling to gloat.”
 * “I would not have thought that his style,” Urai replied.
 * “Well, we’ll see, won’t we?” Zann replied.

Star Destroyer Admonitor Thrawn was still in his command chair, quietly observing the battle, giving occasional orders when the need arose, when word reached him. In seconds, he was looking over a highly sensitive transmission that had reached him from Darth Vader himself. One of incredible urgency regarding treason in the highest ranks of the Imperial Navy—one of its admirals. Zaarin, you fool, Thrawn thought as he clenched his fist. You ambitious, idiotic fool.
 * “Sir, Bossk’s vessel is aboard. He has the artifact.”
 * “Excellent,” Thrawn replied, returning his mind to the battle at hand.

He examined the threat boards. They were still outgunned and outmatched, and he had other priorities. The size of Zann’s fleet had been something of a surprise, and while Thrawn might have soundly defeated them if his full concentration was here, the transmission he had just received meant that he was needed elsewhere. It was time for one last parting jab before he quit the field.
 * “Send a message to Tyber Zann,” Thrawn said coolly.

Despite his anxiety, he was careful to let none of his need for haste show.
 * “I'm sure you are now aware I have what I came for,” Thrawn informed the criminal. “Goodbye Tyber. For the last time.”
 * “The great Admiral Thrawn is running away from a fight?” Zann replied in a vain attempt to instigate him.

Thrawn was not the least bit ruffled by the taunt. No true warrior would eliminate retreat as an option-no matter what some die-hards in the Imperial Navy said. Hopefully, with proper training but no doubt after some painful lessons had been learned, that sort of fanaticism would be carefully culled. But later. He had other things to worry about and Zann was an unneeded distraction.
 * “Unlike you, Tyber, I never considered retreating an act of cowardice - it's an option, like any other. In my case, my skills are needed elsewhere and I've kept you busy long enough,” he told Zann.
 * “Are you sure you're not just saving your own skin?” the crime lord continued to goad him.

The Grand Admiral, still unperturbed, betrayed no emotion as he gave one final reply. In fact, his voice had the faint hint of a confident smirk in it.
 * “If I were you I'd be more concerned about my own security, as you would soon discover. Farewell.”

He took in the puzzled look on Zann’s face for one brief second before closing off the channel. It was a pity he wouldn’t be able to see Zann’s reaction when the crime lord discovered how Thrawn and Delvardus had sent the rest of Delvardus’s command to attack now-undefended Zannist holdings in other systems. The drama was almost enough for the theater. However, he had other more urgent matters to pursue.
 * “Helm, prepare to make the jump to lightspeed,” Thrawn ordered calmly. “Set course for Imperial Center, maximum speed.”
 * “Aye, sir,” the navigation officer replied.

At his command, the Admonitor vectored on an outbound course as its massive engines built enough velocity to jump to hyperspace. For the first time, Thrawn got up from his command chair and walked over to the bridge viewport to stare out of it at the battle he was about to abandon. He was pensive as he looked across the vista of green and red energy bolts being exchanged between the various warships, displaying emotion for the first time. The turbolasers and ion cannons were still blazing away as the mighty Star Destroyer knifed through the battle. The deflectors overloaded, the Admonitor’s hull took a beating in the final minutes of the battle and small explosions dotted the ship as the ship was breached in a dozen places. A compartment was opened to space, and Thrawn winced as several hapless crewers were sucked out into vacuum. However, that was nothing compared to the devastation that the Star Destroyer inflicted in return. Shattered hulks of ships and debris were left in its wake as gunners tried to get in their last shots on Zann’s fleet.
 * “Sir!” the communications officer informed him. “Admiral Delvardus wants to speak with you immediately!”

Thrawn did not answer the man for a moment, but continued to stare out the viewport. How could Zaarin do this? Vader’s report had been blunt and to the point, and there was no room for alternate interpretations. Admiral Zaarin had betrayed the Empire and taken the Emperor captive over Imperial Center. While Thrawn had no doubt that the Dark Lord of the Sith was capable of some convoluted schemes, he was certain this was no trick. Vader had contacted him because Thrawn was loyal to the Empire, and because Vader needed him to help save the Emperor-right now. The fate of the Empire might be at stake.

Thrawn closed his eyes and silently swore to hunt down Zaarin for this. The other admiral had been a colleague of his, and a good officer in his own right, but now he was as good as dead. He would hunt him down if the chase took him into the dark depths of the Unknown Regions, and there was only one punishment fit for the man. Thrawn knew he would have to damp down on his anger during the flight through hyperspace. He needed his mind clear, and preferably engrossed in some artwork of Zaarin’s, so that he could understand the human’s mind, pick it apart with his tactical intuition. The Empire could not afford to come apart at the seams now, with so much at stake in the war against the Rebellion, the Zannists, all the other factions, and now Zaarin that were trying to incite chaos into the order that was the Galactic Empire. He, Thrawn, would help bring back that order.
 * “Sir,” Captain Silthsorn said quietly from where he’d walked up beside him. “Admiral Delvardus insists on speaking with you.”
 * “Yes, Captain,” Thrawn said, returning to his normally emotionless expression and neutral tone. “Put him through to my command chair.”

Thrawn walked back over and sat down. He knew Delvardus would not understand his reasoning and would see this as a betrayal. Thrawn regretted that, but he could not afford to stay, and he could not afford to let Delvardus in on his plans for security reasons. It was unfortunate indeed.
 * “Sir,” Delvardus grated angrily. “With all due respect, what are you doing?”
 * “I have the artifact,” Thrawn said. “That is what I came for. Zann’s forces are under attack across the galaxy thanks to our planning. I leave this battle to you to finish, and the rest of my fighter screen as well, since yours is rather depleted.”
 * “You’re abandoning us, sir?” Delvardus asked incredulously.
 * “There are other matters that require my attention, Admiral. Urgent matters,” Thrawn said flatly, almost wishing he could tell Delvardus how much he regretted doing this, wishing there was a way to save the lives that would be lost here by his departure.
 * “This is inexcusable!” an enraged Delvardus roared, abandoning all sense of propriety. “What kind of admiral are you?”
 * “One on a very important mission,” Thrawn said icily. “That will be quite enough, Admiral. My orders come from the very top. Carry on, and good luck with your command.”

With that, Thrawn de-activated the terminal.
 * “We’re ready for hyperspace,” the navigation officer reported.
 * “Make the jump,” Thrawn said, then turned to Captain Silthsorn. “Captain, are you armed?”
 * “Sir?” the man asked, confused.
 * “Are you carrying your blaster?” Thrawn asked, knowing full well that he was.

Before attaining fleet command, Captain Silthsorn had been on the Imperial target shooting team and was an expert shot with a blaster pistol.
 * “Yes, sir,” the man replied.
 * “Good. You may need it,” Thrawn said calmly, then toggled on the ship’s intercom. “As commanding officer on this vessel, we are now on a Level Five security lockdown. All transmissions will be monitored and recorded. Stormtrooper commander, station squads at all sensitive areas of the ship immediately. That is all.”
 * “Admiral Thrawn? Is something wrong?” Captain Silthsorn asked with obvious confusion.
 * “Yes, Captain, I’m afraid there is,” Thrawn said quietly. “After the stormtroopers arrive on the bridge, I’ll discuss the matter with you privately.”

With that, the Admonitor jumped to hyperspace, heading off on a mission of utmost importance to the Empire. However, that left behind the remnants of Delvardus’s fleet to contend with the Zannists. The battle was not yet over.
 * Merciless 
 * “If I were you I'd be more concerned about my own security, as you would soon discover. Farewell,” Thrawn said before closing off communications.
 * “What did he mean by that?” Urai asked.
 * “I’m not sure,” Zann replied. “But it’s giving me a bad feeling.”
 * “We are picking up alarm codes from our bases on multiple planets!” reported a bridge officer to the crime lord.

Realization flooded through Zann’s mind. Not only had Thrawn lured him here into this trap of a battle, he’d also dispatched other portions of the Imperial fleet to strike at his various other holdings while they were undefended. This was bad news. Quite bad news.
 * “I want that Imperial fleet destroyed! We have to find a way through!” Zann ordered.
 * “Yes, milord,” the crew responded in unison.

The Merciless shuddered as another wave of turbolaser volleys swept over it. The new warship was taking quite a beating in her first battle, Zann noted.
 * “Are the shipyards still secure?” he asked the communications officer.
 * “Yes, sir,” the officer, a Sullustan, replied after a minute. “No alarm codes from either Hypori or Mandalore.”
 * “Good,” Zann said, musing. “Are the plasma cannons ready to fire again?”
 * “Another thirty seconds,” replied the weapons master.
 * “Fire as soon as they’re ready,” Zann said. “Target the Imperial Star Destroyer, then prepare to withdraw to Hypori. We’re done here.”
 * Star Destroyer Death’s Hammer 
 * “Sir,” the sensor officer reported. “Admiral Thrawn has made the jump to lightspeed and the Zannists are falling back.”
 * “No,” Delvardus replied angrily. “They’re not getting away from me this time! Concentrate all firepower on their flagship! Lock tractor beams!”
 * “Admiral,” Captain Marquart protested. “The fleet’s fighting strength is down sixty-seven percent. If we focus only on the flagship, we’ll take more casualties.”
 * “Do it, Captain!” Delvardus roared, turning angrily on his subordinate. “Tyber Zann must die! Right here! Right now! Or all the kriffing sacrifices that we’ve made thus far in this battle are for nothing! Do you understand me?!”
 * “Aye, sir!” Captain Marquart replied ashenly, ignoring the spittle that Delvardus had sprayed on his face.
 * “Good,” Delvardus said, a touch calmer. “Focus fire on their engines.”

The crew dutifully did as ordered, even as return fire from the Zannists found its mark on the hull of the Death Hammer and the few attending ships. Imperial fire concentrated on the Merciless, pouring green turbolaser blasts and blue streams of crippling ion energy into the stern of the ship. Invisible tractor beams reached out and gripped the Zannist ship, arresting its motion and slowing its escape. As the rest of Tyber Zann’s fleet continued to withdraw, the Merciless was being held back.
 * “Tractor beams are operating at maximum capacity,” Marquart reported. “The enemy ship is coming about.”
 * “Coming about?” Delvardus wondered. “Why would they turn around if they’re trying to flee . . . ?”

Then it hit him and his eyes widened in horror as he realized what Zann was about to do.
 * “All power to deflectors!” he screamed. “Divert all power to forward deflectors!”

Not five seconds had passed since he gave that command then the Merciless finished coming around, pointing its two lethal plasma cannons straight at the Death’s Hammer. The two weapons let loose their giant volleys of plasma fire before the Imperial ship could react. The first shot hit the hastily-reinforced deflector and smashed through. However its energy had been sorely depleted, and so the plasma shot only tore through one or two decks of the Star Destroyer’s underside. Then the second blast hit. The resulting explosion tore straight through the Star Destroyer’s belly and the mammoth vessel lurched as it strained to absorb the impact. The upper hull exploded in flame as the plasma shot ripped through the forward sections. Debris was forcibly ejected from the battered hull and the entire ship shuddered. Fires, fueled by oxygen from breached compartments, leaped into space and were just as quickly extinguished once the oxygen was depleted. A man on the bridge cried out as his console overloaded and exploded in his face, while the rest of the crew was hurled forcibly out of their chairs. Delvardus staggered to his feet, ignoring the crack he’d heard and painful sensations shooting up his left arm where he’d driven it into a console. His arm was probably broken, but he didn’t have time for that.
 * “Damage control!” he called through the suddenly smoke-filled bridge.
 * “Working on it, sir!” a crewer answered. “Forward compartments are hit bad. I’m not receiving anything from forward of the hangar. Shields are offline, forward weapons and tractors destroyed or disabled . . . we’re losing power, sir.”
 * “Understood,” Delvardus said quietly as he watched Tyber Zann’s entire fleet jump to lightspeed.

Rage built within him as he looked over the shattered remnants of his once-mighty task force.
 * “You will pay for this, Tyber Zann!” he shouted impotently at the departing Consortium ships.

But empty threats were all that he had. Tyber Zann had fled. While heavy losses had been inflicted on both sides, the battle was more or less a draw unless the raids on the other Zann Consortium holdings were considered. The Empire had gained the artifact yes, but at a heavy cost. Delvardus looked at the casualty reports disconsolately, hoping to blink the numbers away, but they stared back at him, reminding him of bitter facts. Two Victory­-class Star Destroyers, two Tartan­-class patrol cruisers, and over a hundred TIEs of various types had been destroyed, and severe damage inflicted on the remaining ships. In return, Zann had lost two Vengeance-class frigates, a smattering of the smaller frigates and corvettes, and maybe seventy fighters. A heavier blow on Consortium fleet strength to be sure, in the form of lost ships, but the Empire had definitely lost more men. A single Victory-class Star Destroyer carried five thousand crew, and two of them had been lost with all hands. Not much of a victory indeed, especially since Zann had escaped. Delvardus clenched his fast and swore that, if humanly possible, he would see the crime lord dead. As for Thrawn, Delvardus would find some way to deal with that arrogant alien. His treachery and desertion at Carida would forever be seared into his mind. This was not over.

13
The Imperial diplomatic shuttle carefully wove its way through the crowded skylanes of Coruscant traffic with almost negligible ease. From the passenger cabin, Milya sat quietly, holding Rhiannon against her. She had a decent view of the Coruscant skyline, but her mind was elsewhere. Unconsciously, she had been slowly wringing her hands for the past hour or so, ever since the shuttle’s reversion from hyperspace into the Coruscant system. Looking down, she noticed her nervous foible and silently thanked the Force that her cover as an Outer Rim dweller would account for some level of excitement and trepidation upon seeing the galactic capital, to which she could attribute her hand-wringing if it were noticed.

Sitting across from her in the cabin was Taelros Bac, looking as disheveled as ever. He glanced down, saw her hands and her seeming fixation with staring at the crowded skyline, and smiled.
 * “First time on Coruscant?” he asked.
 * “Yes,” she said quietly.

That much at least was true. Being around Colonel Hagrek was bad enough-being around Bac was almost like being around a psychologist. As an actor, Bac would be naturally good at picking up on any less-than-perfect pretense that she employed, and she did not want the man to formulate any questions about her identity in his overactive mind.
 * “Don’t worry,” Bac said. “You’ll get used to it.”
 * “It’s just so big, so many buildings,” Milya replied. “Even more than Eriadu.”
 * “Well, it is the galactic capital,” Bac said with a chuckle. “And the whole planet is just as built up as this part is-it’s all one big city.”

Even though she already knew that, Milya played her part.
 * “Wow,” she said. “There must be billions of people on Coruscant then.”
 * “The figure I’ve heard is closer to trillions,” Taelros replied.

Milya feigned quiet astonishment for a minute, then changed the subject.
 * “You said we’ll be staying at the hotel with the rest of the actors?”
 * “That’s right,” Taelros said. “The Empire has uh, graciously, provided the housing for all the cast and crew, as well as protection and facilities. Can’t be too careful in these times.”
 * “Indeed,” Milya agreed. “And the music? When will Rhiannon see the song she’s going to sing for your opera?”
 * “Well, it’s mostly finished,” Bac said. “Let me see . . .”

Fishing out a datapad from a dilapidated carry bag that was his constant companion, he closed his eyes and began keying something into it with one hand. The other hand he waved around in what appeared to be an imitation of an orchestra conductor, and he hummed little bits and snatches, a few bars at a time of some kind of music.

Milya cocked an eyebrow at his unusual behavior, but said nothing. Taelros was eccentric and strange mannerisms were expected from him. In fact, this was yet another instance where she’d had to stifle a laugh at his oddities. Several minutes later, though, the man’s eyes shot open triumphantly. He slid a datacard into the datapad’s slot, transferred something over to it, and then ejected the card before handing it to Milya.
 * “There,” he said triumphantly. “It’s called Anigrisotto Ves Liguiglioso in Besh Minor. That’s what Rhianness will be singing. There’s also a copy of the rehearsal schedule on there-I’ve highlighted the ones she’ll need to be at.”
 * “It’s Rhiannon,” Milya corrected. “And thank you.”

She made a mental note to record an audio version of the song. While she didn’t want to bother Bac any more than she had to, it should have been obvious to the man that written music was not going to help Rhiannon very much.
 * “Also,” Bac continued, as if oblivious to her words. “Make sure she talks to the costume mistress so they can size her and get her costume made. And the coverup mistress as well. We also have a vocal coach to help with her voice, but with only a week until the show, she’s been extremely busy.”
 * “Don’t worry, Mr. Bac,” Milya replied. “It’ll be taken care of.”
 * “Good, good,” he said.

Now he appeared to be the nervous one, but at least he stopped talking. Even more thankfully, the shuttle arrived at their hotel not long afterward and Milya noted that it had its own shuttle pad. A waiting valet took their luggage, then showed them to their room. It was certainly more luxurious than their accommodations had been on Eriadu, and had all sorts of perks and comforts that Milya had heard of but never actually seen in a hotel room-including, she noted with piqued curiosity and a promise to enjoy later, a spa chair. For the moment, though, both Milya and Rhiannon were completely exhausted, so rather than eat at the hotel restaurant, they simply ordered room service and ate a quick meal. After cleaning up, they were so tired that they simply went to bed, knowing they had a long week ahead of them.
 * Tierfon Base
 * “So,” Hasla said conversationally to the dark-haired human sitting across the table from her. “Since your last mission is a secret matter of vital importance to the Rebellion, tell me more about this other amazing experience you promised to share before we sat down.”

Janson and the other Rogues had been called off on some urgent mission for something, but had recently returned from wherever they’d gone. However, they’d all been very good about not leaking where they’d been, which was too bad. YGI would no doubt be very interested in the latest activities of the Rebel Alliance. Still, Janson had asked her to have lunch with him for some reason, so it wasn’t all bad.
 * “The mission is, unfortunately, secret, which means I can’t brag about it. As for the other thing . . . there I was,” Janson said, “In a fancy restaurant, savoring the delicious food, sipping expensive wine. You should have been there.”
 * “Why do I get the feeling this is another one of your tall tales?” Hasla said with a knowing smile and a chuckle at the ostentatious pilot.
 * “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Janson replied with mock indignation. “Anyway, there I was, savoring the wine, but you should have seen who I was with.”

Hasla rolled her eyes. “Who was she, Wes? Your mother?”
 * “No, not my mother,” Janson replied. “She was talented and quick-witted, not to mention attractive. That’s always a good combination, if you’re taking notes.”

He reached one hand across the table to lightly run his fingers across her arm. His eyes, however, remained firmly fixed on hers as he spoke, his tone now lowered, devoid of mischief.
 * “She was beautiful,” he said. “Silver skin, deep eyes you could lose yourself in forever, and a vibrant quality about her life that the most die-hard fighter jockey would trade piloting for in order to experience.”

Hasla started as she realized what Janson was saying. Making matters worse was that she, too, felt some sparks of affection for the witty pilot, ones which she had been trying her hardest to repress for the sake of her mission. Her ersatz role in the Alliance was difficult enough without succumbing to the charms of every dashing Rebel pilot. She quickly recovered her composure, hiding her initial surprise with wit.
 * “Well, she certainly couldn’t have been me just now. The setting is all wrong,” Hasla said, hoisting up the tumbler of homebrewed lum that was the best the mess hall had to offer. “And this certainly isn’t expensive wine by any stretch of the imagination.”

Janson shrugged.
 * “I’m stretching the experience a little. I’ve found that by exaggerating or embellishing certain parts, I can make something far better than what it actually is.”
 * “You do that often?” Hasla replied.

Janson snorted.
 * “How do you think I survive mission briefings?”

They both shared a short laugh at his remark.
 * “About this experience,” Hasla said slowly while she pulled her arm away from his fingers. “You tell this same story to every girl you get the chance to, don’t you?”
 * “Only the pretty civilian females who have no idea how truly gallant I am,” Janson said flippantly. “I tell the fighter pilots a different story.”

Hasla slugged him in the arm.
 * “Hey, nerfbrain, I am a fighter pilot, in case you forgot.”
 * “Ow,” Janson replied, rubbing his bicep. “I knew that. I just didn’t think I’d convinced you of you truly gallant I am. I still think that needs some work, too.”
 * “Spare me,” Hasla said. “What do you usually tell the fighter pilots?”
 * “Well, it depends on the pilot,” Janson said. “If she’s ugly, I wish her good luck on the next mission. If she’s pretty, I suggest that we sleep together since we might tragically perish tomorrow.”

Hasla rolled her eyes.
 * “Why does that not surprise me?”
 * “It works,” Janson replied lightly. “And I notice that you’re still here and not really all that angry at me.”
 * “That’s because you’re denser than a black hole,” Hasla shot back. “What should I do to convince you that you’re wrong? Break your arm?”
 * “That won’t be necessary,” Janson said breathily, leaning across the table. “There’s this simple little test . . .”

With that, the pilot leaned a little farther forward to kiss her long and hard. Her eyes shot open with surprise. A wave of euphoric sensation surged through her as his lips met hers, and in spite of herself, she savored the tingling feeling that ran down her spine. Involuntarily, Hasla relaxed into the kiss. She hadn’t been kissed in quite some time, she reflected, and she’d preferred to remain single during her time with the Yanibar Guard. As it was, she’d almost forgotten just how enjoyable a kiss could be. One second passed, then two, and she felt like time was passing incredibly slowly. Janson’s arm reached up to cup the palm of his hand around her head and pull her more fully into the kiss. She started to mirror his gesture, starting to bring her own hand up, then reality hit and she suddenly broke off the kiss, staring incredulously at him.
 * “What the kriff were you thinking?” she demanded.
 * “See?” Janson said, his eyes twinkling with merriment. “You weren’t really mad.”
 * “Oh really?” Hasla replied.

Indignant and lacking any other kind of barbed remark to fire back with, she slapped him across the face.
 * “Ow,” Janson said. “Okay, maybe just a little bit mad.”
 * “You’re insane,” she said, shaking her head.
 * “I’ve been told that before,” he said lightly. “I almost take it as a compliment these days.”
 * “I-I can’t believe you did that!” Hasla spluttered. “I hope you don’t do that to every girl you eat lunch with!”
 * “I notice you’re not complaining,” Janson said mildly.
 * “You-you impossible man!” she raged impotently.
 * “Nope, still not complaining,” Janson replied. “See you in my quarters tonight? Maybe in a slinky black-,”

She slapped him across the face again, reveling in just how good that felt. Standing, she gave him her coldest look and modulated the tone of her voice to the average surface temperature on Hoth.
 * “In your dreams, laserbrain.”

Then, she spun on her heel and stalked off.

Janson rubbed his face and watched her go, marveling at how good she looked even in a dirty work shirt and grease-stained flight pants. And, being who he was, he couldn’t let her go without a last parting remark.
 * “At least they’ll be sweet, sweet, dreams, filled with lots of-,” he trailed off.

Janson had left the last words of the comment unsaid, but even the mere implication was enough to get to her, as Hasla threw an offensive hand gesture back over her shoulder as she stormed out of the mess hall. He grinned stupidly as she left. She’d come around. Women like her always talked tough, but they were hopeless romantics inside.

Hasla was shaking by the time that she returned to her quarters and thoroughly fuming. For one, she was entirely unsuccessful in blotting out the memory of his impulsive kiss, and for another, she was having difficulty merely forcing herself to be mad at Janson. Despite his impudent behavior and incessant wit, the roguish pilot had managed to worm his way into her thoughts and refused to be easily removed. In other words, she was falling for Wes Janson-No! Hasla blotted that treasonous thought out before it had any time to grow. She had enough to worry about, with her work for YGI and the Alliance and all without adding a carefree daredevil pilot who’d no doubt sleep with anything that looked good in a dress. No, Hasla decided firmly-she would not be beginning a relationship with Janson, one that would no doubt be shallow and short-lived. No matter how much she might want to. . . Hasla sighed exasperatedly and buried her concentration in her datapad, trying her best and failing to repress these and other thoughts for the next few hours.
 * Yanibar

The sound of his own measured footsteps echoed quietly through the room as Selu walked through the empty chamber. He was in one of his favorite places on all of Yanibar-the Hall of Remembrance. The cavernous hall had been built a few years ago as a memorial of sorts, and-on more somber occasions-to hold funerals for fallen members of the Yanibar Guard. One wing of the hall was devoted to the Matukai, another to the Zeison, and another to the Jal Shey, and the last to the Jedi. It was to this one that Selu now turned, his eyes slowly wandering from sculpture to sculpture, from one floor to another. As he moved through the length of the building, his feet carried him to a familiar place. Once he arrived at his destination, he paused and knelt down in a meditative stance. Just before his eyes closed, Selu stopped to take in the sight of the statuary that was clustered around this particular nook. There were statues of all sizes throughout the room, but these ones had a special meaning for him. Here, in this wing of the hall, there were figures and busts of people that had once been special to him, back in the days of his youth, when he had been a Jedi Padawan. The likeness of his old Jedi Master, Plo Koon, stared down at him from one corner, while other nearby statues included old friends like the Tynnan Padawan Skip, or Serra Keto, who had died literally in his arms after professing her love for him. Seeing them again in their stone recreations brought back numerous and vivid memories from years earlier, but while some measure of grief still existed within him and always would, Selu had eventually been able to come to grips with the loss of the Jedi Order and move on. Now, their likenesses served as a reminder for him, a link to his past, but no longer a focal point for sorrow or despair.

Inhaling deeply, Selu closed his eyes and drew upon the Force, letting its power flow smoothly into him as if he was taking a deep draught of a strong wine. Its essence filled him, and he was open to its power, directing and being directed by it. However, today his focus was not inward, and he allowed his thoughts to be carried to a galactic plane. Though he was not naturally gifted with foresight like his wife, Selu attempted to reach out and perceive possible futures. Over the past few days, the Force had been silent during his meditations, almost brooding, but with faint ripples of imbalance and upheaval. The galactic war certainly had its effect on what Selu was able to glean from it, but there was something else, a feeling almost of anticipation. Selu allowed his mind to be carried where the Force would take it, but found few answers in the turbulent perceptions he received. There was one constant and very clear premonition he did get, though, and that was of danger, of peril. Everywhere his mind’s eye turned, he could not shake the sensation of a growing threat-no, growing threats-and even for one as inured to reading the Force as he was, Selu was disquieted. The veil of the dark side of the Force continued to cloud his vision, but that feeling-it was certainly the source of at least some of what he had been sensing. Moreover, the fact that he could not obtain even an inkling of what it was did not soothe his worry in the least.

Then, intruding-albeit in a manner that was entirely inadvertent-Selu sensed another being approach. It was someone only vaguely familiar to him, and he opened his eyes and turned his head to see the diminutive silhouette of Morgadh clan Kel’nerh standing behind him.
 * “I apologize, Master Kraen,” the Noghri said. “I did not intend to intrude.”
 * “Don’t worry about it,” Selu said. “What brings you here?”
 * “I have completed my exercises for the day,” Morgadh replied. “I had never been here before, and one of the training masters recommended that I visit.”
 * “It’s worth seeing,” Selu answered. “At least for me it is.”
 * “Do you come here often, Master?” Morgadh asked.
 * “I do,” Selu said. “When I can manage to. It’s quiet and peaceful here, but that’s not the main reason that I come. It’s a remembrance, Morgadh, a reminder of what we have to give up in the service of our cause, and why we make those sacrifices.”
 * “I do not understand.”
 * “Look at the statues and sculptures,” Selu said, gesturing towards them with one hand. “Each one of them was a Jedi Knight-a guardian of peace and justice in the galaxy. Each one of them, to my knowledge, fell when the Empire turned on them.”
 * “Are those the sacrifices you speak of?” the alien asked quizzically.
 * “In part,” Selu answered. “There is no greater sacrifice than to give up one’s life. For me, the statues also serve as a reminder of a life I once had years ago, one that I never dreamed would land me here. Even those Jedi who survived, Morgadh, have made great sacrifices. Yet, I would rather give up this entire life than stop being what I am.”
 * “The cause you mentioned,” Morgadh mused. “To serve the light side of the Force and provide justice for those who cannot obtain it otherwise?”
 * “Yes,” Selu said. “More or less. Our role has changed over the years-we’re less in the justice business and more into providing refuge while he bide our time. For now at least, our primary concern is survival.”

Morgadh was silent for a moment.
 * “Survival. I know what it is like to worry about that constantly,” he said, his obsidian-black eyes glinting in the dim light. “My people are only alive through the good will of the Empire.”
 * “I know,” Selu answered. “That’s why I decided not to recommend launching a larger mission to Honoghr.”
 * “You were considering such a move?” Morgadh asked with a surprise.
 * “I was,” Selu replied earnestly. “I would gladly do any number of things to help your people—or any other group of people—escape the oppression of the Empire. But, because of my role on the colony, our safety has to come first. If I took the Yanibar Guard to Honoghr, even with you there, the Noghri would not accept our word as truth. But even if they did, we could not protect them, and the Empire would destroy any gains we made, possibly even the entire fleet and this refuge as well. I’m sorry, Morgadh.”
 * “I understand,” Morgadh said gravely. “It is something I, too, have wrestled with.”
 * “In time,” Selu reassured him. “In time, the Noghri people will be free from the lies of the Empire.”
 * “Yes, but how long?” Morgadh asked. “The Empire is very strong. Toppling it will not be easy.”
 * “I don’t know,” Selu said. “For now, the best thing you can do is to continue your training-learn the ways of the Force. Only by knowing how to harness its power will you be able to stand against the Empire.”
 * I see,” the Nogrhi replied, though to Selu, he seemed somewhat skeptical.
 * “Trust me, Morgadh,” Selu said solemnly, laying a hand on the alien’s shoulder. “I’ve seen glimpses of your potential, and I’m sure that with the proper training, you can become one of the most powerful warriors on all of Yanibar. This is my promise to you-if you remain loyal and faithful to Yanibar and complete the training given to you, I promise that you will be on the frontlines, striking the Empire and helping free others from its oppression. Maybe even your people, one day.”
 * “I accept your promise,” Morgadh replied seriously-though Selu knew that the Noghri rarely displayed any other tone. “However, I would ask something of you.”
 * “Yes?” Selu replied.
 * “Teach me,” Morgadh asked him. “The training is challenging, but it has not reached the limits of what I can endure, nor what I can do. Will you help me?”

Selu regarded the diminutive alien standing before him for a moment, took in the quiet sincerity of the request. While he couldn’t quite explain it, he sensed honesty in the Noghri warrior and knew that Morgadh could be trusted. The more he thought about it, the more Selu felt that it was up to him to cultivate their relationship further, to develop Morgadh into a true Yanibar Guardsman.
 * “I would be happy to,” he said. “It’ll give me something to do besides reading war reports anyway.”

And so Selu began his lesson right there on the floor of the Hall of Remembrance, starting with the basics while his attentive pupil hung on every word he said.
 * Wild Space

The Discblade armed transport reverted from hyperspace in the midst of a particularly bright sector of space, the bright smattering of light from the starfield surrounded by a corona of glowing light and gas from a nearby nebula. The ship, at a response from its handler, vectored towards the multicolored hue of shimmering gas, plunging into the expanse of the stellar cloud. Heading towards a small rocky planet that hung like a rough pebble in the iridescent background, the small ship skimmed over the surface of the barren planet. Approaching a particularly deep crater, the transport banked and dipped beneath the rim of the crater, where suddenly, a towering spire that had not been visible from higher altitudes materialized, and the crater walls glowed with radiance not previously evident. It had arrived at its destination, a hidden nexus of the Force carefully concealed from all but a handful of people.

The ship set down near the tower with a whine of repulsorlifts as its landing gear made contact with the smooth stone. A few minutes later, the boarding ramp was lowered, and a lone figure descended from the craft.

Spectre took in the familiar sights again as he approached the tower. He hadn’t been here in nearly twenty years, but it still looked much the same as it always had, preserved from the ravages of time by the Force illusion enclosing the entire crater. It was here that he, Sarth, Selu, Cassi, and Milya had met with the spirits of ancient Jedi before and where he had first gained understanding of the true nature of the Force.

He felt apprehensive about this-he’d resisted Selu on this idea for so long because he was afraid that the Jedi spirits would merely confirm that his gift of Force sensitivity was waning permanently, and Spectre dreaded hearing those words. However, he also knew that finding out what information he could was his objective here, so he continued forward resolutely.

As he walked forward towards the tower, the glowing blue figure of a Force ghost shimmered into view, bringing back a hazy outline of the Jedi who had once been known to the galaxy as Revan over three millennia prior. The aged Jedi’s face was much the same as Spectre remained it-Force ghosts did not age-lined with scars and careworn, but not unfriendly.
 * “Welcome back, Spectre,” the elder Jedi’s spirit said. “What brings you here?”
 * “Answers,” Spectre replied flatly. “I’ve been having a problem.”

Revan sighed, as if the Force ghost had known this moment was coming. Then again, he probably had.
 * “I’ll do what I can, Spectre. I promise nothing.”
 * “My sensitivity to the Force-it’s weakening,” Spectre said. “It’s unreliable at best, and I can’t trust something that’s unreliable.”
 * “Spectre,” Revan chided. “The Force isn’t something that can be drained like a power cell. It has its own purposes and plans-simply looking at it like an energy source is far too simplistic.”
 * “Let me rephrase the question, then,” Spectre replied. “Why would the Force almost completely abandon me in the middle of battle, when I need it the most?”
 * “That is . . . unusual,” Revan’s ghost replied. “It could be that the Force is telling you that your time of warfare is done, that it’s time to put down your weapons.”
 * “Perhaps,” Spectre said. “But if that were so, then it should be leaving me in battle every time, or on any occasion when I’m near a combat situation. It doesn’t-I was on Nar Shaddaa, surrounded by criminals and thugs, ready to defend myself at any instant, and the Force was with me. It guided me, kept me aware of my surroundings.”
 * “Who am I to discern the will of the Force?” Revan said with a shrug. “I don’t have an answer to everything, Spectre.”

The clone sighed.
 * “Then this trip was a waste of time. I told Selu that it was,” Spectre said disconsolately.
 * “Even Jedi Masters have their limitations,” Revan reminded him.
 * “Yes,” Spectre said, his tone growing increasingly heated with frustration. “But I cannot afford to not be able to use the Force when I’m fighting the Empire. I lead my men from the front, Revan, but I’m not sure how well I can do so without the Force.”
 * “I understand your plight,” Revan said sympathetically. “Long ago, I too had to make hard decisions regarding how I led others in wartime. Tell me more about your problem.”
 * “I first noticed it while leading a special operations unit on a raid on an Imperial supply convoy,” Spectre explained. “I was boarding an Imperial ship when we ran into a group of stormtroopers. I couldn’t concentrate, and was nearly killed. I had to turn over command of the mission. I explained the incident away to the other soldiers, but they look up to me. I thought it was isolated, but it happened several more times-all in battle against the Empire.”
 * “Interesting,” Revan said, contemplating the matter.
 * “What?” Spectre asked, noting his expression. “What do you know?”
 * “It’s just a theory,” Revan said. “One that I’ve never tested or had a chance to test, but it was something that was discussed briefly during the Mandalorian Wars a long time ago.”
 * “And how does that relate to my problem?” Spectre asked.
 * “I seem to recall that an Arkanian scientist approached us when the wars were at their worst,” Revan said. “Offered to clone large numbers of soldiers for the Republic very quickly-and he wanted to use Jedi as the template for doing so.”
 * “Did you?” Spectre inquired.
 * “No,” Revan said. “The Jedi Council was against it, for one, and at that point in the war, I was still somewhat respectful of their decrees. By the time I later considered it, the Arkanian had been slain by a Mandalorian hitsquad.”
 * “So why mention this?” Spectre asked.
 * “Patience,” Revan said. “I remember that one of the members of the Jedi Council, an Ithorian Jedi Master, told us that cloning Jedi was impossible, because of the reverberation it would cause in the Force-like some sort of mental echo that interfered with one’s use of it. If cloning Jedi was possible, it certainly couldn’t be done very quickly.”
 * “A mental echo?” a confused Spectre replied.
 * “Yes,” Revan confirmed. “A disturbance in the Force caused by two identical minds, two identical presences trying to draw upon it at the same time. That’s what Master Tor’chal referred to it as.”
 * “So, the disturbance in the Force is caused by . . . being near other clones of Jango Fett,” Spectre mused.
 * “It very well could be,” Revan said.
 * “I had no problem fighting them years ago,” Spectre said. “On the Griffin, on Ord Cestus . . .”
 * “Yes, but you were less attuned to the Force then,” Revan answered. “It influenced you less, because you weren’t used to its presence. I think that were you to relive those events again now, you would notice a significant drop in your receptiveness to the Force.”
 * “Well, I have an explanation now,” Spectre said. “Thank you for that.”
 * “I’m glad I could help,” Revan said. “But there’s still a question that remains on your mind, isn’t there?”
 * “Yes,” Spectre admitted after a moment’s hesitation. “That still doesn’t tell me what I should do to avoid these effects while still leading my men.”
 * “That I certainly don’t have the answers to, Spectre,” Revan said. “I’m afraid that, on this matter, you will have to follow your own path and trust the will of the Force.”
 * “I know,” Spectre replied gravely. “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”

He was silent for a minute longer, reflecting on the revelations he had just received, then turned back to Revan’s glowing apparition.
 * “Say hello to the others for me,” Spectre said. “Thank you again for your help, Master Revan.”
 * “Leaving so soon?” Revan asked. “I sense you’re tired, Spectre. Stay here a few days, let yourself rest and rejuvenate so that you can return ready to meet the challenges you face.”
 * “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Spectre answered. “There are things I have to do that just can’t wait.”
 * “May the Force be with you then,” Revan said. “Safe flight.”

There seemed to be some measure of remorse in the apparition’s facial expression as Spectre turned and headed back to the transport. Behind Revan, the other ten spirits materialized and waved farewell to Spectre, though he only barely caught the gesture as he boarded the ship. He replied with a curt wave from the cockpit, then took off, heading for space. While Revan had answered the source of his problem, Spectre knew that the Jedi spirits would not be able to help him find a solution for dealing with it, and there were things that demanded his attention-his work and his family-back on Yanibar. He could wrestle with the issue during the flight back. With his mind set, he cleared the nebula, entered in the coordinates for a couple of decoy jumps in case he was being followed, and then pulled the lever, sending his small transport hurtling into hyperspace.

14

 * “Prepare for reversion in five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One. All craft, revert from hyperspace.”

Captain Gavin’s voice crackled through Hasla’s comm board, and, since he was the senior Rebel pilot in the convoy, through that of every other Rebel pilot from Tierfon Base. On his command, she pulled back the hyperspace lever on her B-wing. Her new B-wing dropped out of hyperspace along with another thirty or so starfighters. Hasla gasped at what she saw floating in front of her against the backdrop of the planet Sullust.

A massive flotilla had been assembled and it seemed like every fighting ship in the entire Rebel Alliance was there. Hundreds of ships were present, from a hundred different worlds, from frigates to transports. The fleet ran the gamut from aging cruisers of Clone Wars vintage to brand-new Corellian gunships and Mon Calamari torpedo boats fresh out of the yards. The largest ships in the fleet, long, lumpy Mon Calamari cruisers, each one unique, occupied kilometers of space at a time. There were well over a dozen of them, the most she’d ever seen at one time. Combat patrols of X-wings and Y-wings flew out to greet them as the small group of fighters approached.
 * “Form up, Tierfon Group,” Captain Gavin ordered. “We’re late to this party. Starflare, you’ll be stowing aboard the Liberty. Thunderfist, your ship is the frigate Yavaris. Ice Squadron, we’re going somewhere special. Head for Home One.”
 * “Sir, that’s Admiral Ackbar’s ship,” piped up Ice Twelve.
 * “You are correct,” Captain Gavin replied with good humor. “We’re going to be berthing on the flagship. Now close it up, and cut the chatter.”

The nine fighters of Ice Squadron formed up on their leader’s craft and cruised silently into one of the cavernous hangars on Home One, like a school of small fish entering the maw of a giant whale. No sooner had the pilots of Ice Squadron, tired after a grueling twelve-hour trip through hyperspace, climbed out of their cockpits then several high-ranking Alliance officers came running through the crowded hangar, their boots clattering loudly on the grease-stained deck.
 * “Captain Gavin,” one of them said. “Glad you could make it. The general wants to talk to you and the rest of your squadron immediately. Follow us.”
 * “Thank you,” the captain replied. “Come on, Ices.”

They followed their captain, who in turn followed the other officers through a twisted maze of corridors into a stark white briefing amphitheatre already filled with pilots. Standing at the foot of the amphitheatre near a holoprojector was a smiling dark-skinned man in a general’s uniform sporting a rakish mustache and a cape.
 * “Captain Gavin,” he said affably. “Glad you and your pilots could make it.”
 * “We are too, sir,” Gavin said, straightening to attention. “Congratulations on your promotion, General Calrissian.”
 * “And on yours, Commander Gavin,” Calrissian said with an easy smile, offering his hand, which held a commander’s rank pips, to Captain Gavin. “You’ve earned it.”
 * “Thank you, sir,” Captain Gavin said, taking the rank patch and then saluting.
 * “Have a seat,” Calrissian said, gesturing for the officer to join the rest of his squadron, who had already found chairs of their own. “I’ll have more commendations and goodies to pass around after I finish.”

Captain Gavin did as he was told, and soon as all the pilots were seated and reasonably quiet, General Calrissian gave the order to dim the lights, except for one floor light which illuminated the lower half of his face, giving him a sort of sinister and mysterious look. He stood there for a moment, looking at each pilot, one at a time, and Hasla was pretty sure he was milking the anticipation in order to build up whatever theatrics he had planned.
 * “My name is General Lando Calrissian,” the general said in a low voice, his former good nature having vanished. “I am now your commanding officer, and the commanding officer of hundreds of other people in this fleet. Together, we are about to do the most significant thing anyone in this galaxy has ever done.”

A chill ran down Hasla’s back at the deadly serious tone in his voice as the general continued.
 * “Some of you, I have had the pleasure of serving with before. Some of you I have not. I suggest you get to know the people sitting next to you if you do not know them. Your life may be in their hands in a few short hours. You may never see them again. They may not see you again.”

He paused for dramatic emphasis.
 * “Ladies and gentlemen, what you are about to hear is classified. Not a word of it leaves this ship.”

Another pause.
 * “In approximately two hours, this entire fleet will be departing Sullust for the Endor system. There, we will engage this.”

He pressed a button on the holoprojector and the projection of an unfinished-looking red sphere appeared above it. Its shape, even though it looked incomplete, was unmistakable. Hasla gasped. It was a Death Star, another one of the awful planet-destroying superweapons that some twisted mind in the Empire had created. The Rebels had only destroyed the first one four years earlier at great cost to themselves-and only after it had destroyed the planet Alderaan.
 * “That’s right,” Calrissian said. “It’s the Empire’s new battle station and word has it that the Emperor himself is gonna be on it. This is the last hand in the game, and we’re going for broke, ladies and gentlemen. All of the fighters under my command, we’ll be making an all-or-nothing assault on this monster, and there is no convenient target on the surface to hit.”

Calrissian paused, his eyes darting from one pilot to another.
 * “We’re going to fly into its middle.”

There was quiet murmuring and muffled disbelief from the pilots upon hearing that. Hasla was silent, but her eyes were as big as thermal detonators as she sat in wonder.
 * “I don’t think I need to tell you that the very survival of the Alliance is at stake. We’ve already lost a lot of lives getting this far, and it’s not over yet. Your commanding officers will receive simulator packages within the hour. The rest is up to you.”

He paused and grinned.
 * “Oh, and before you go, Command wanted me to pass out some awards.”

The pilots chuckled at the irony of passing out awards right before a major engagement. Grim humor was better than nothing at softening the mood.
 * “Flight Officer Seirla Trasani,” Calrissian said.

Hasla stood up, coming to attention by reflex.
 * “Come on down,” Calrissian said, beckoning her with a wave of his hand and a small smile.

She did as ordered.
 * “For your bravery, ingenuity, and courage under fire over the skies of Bespin, on behalf of the Rebel Alliance, it is my privilege to present you with the Kalidor Crescent.”

Hasla’s eyes remained rigidly fixed on the general as Calrissian draped the medal’s ribbon around her neck.
 * “Try not to lose it,” he joked, then he took her hand and kissed it like some kind of gallant prince.

She nodded, threw a quick salute, and then returned to her seat over the clapping of her squadmates. Several other pilots were decorated by Calrissian, but she barely even noticed. Hasla sat in a daze, though she vaguely remembered clapping as her fellow pilots received their awards. As soon as the group was dismissed, she headed off by herself, tucking her new medal into her uniform. Since they hadn’t been issued quarters aboard Home One yet, Hasla returned to her fighter. Though there were people, mostly mechanics and pilots, milling around the crowded hangar, nobody seemed to notice her slipping into her cockpit, which was just as she preferred it.

Once the hatch was dogged mostly shut behind her, Hasla dropped the emotional mask she’d been wearing as she pulled out her new medal. The Kalidor Crescent was only given to pilots who had performed beyond the call of duty, displaying both skill and bravery in combat for the cause of the Rebel Alliance. Here she was, a recipient of this award, and yet a spy in their midst. She had to be the most undeserving person ever to be given the Kalidor Crescent, and it was impossible for her to take pride in the achievement when she knew that sooner or later, she would have to leave the service of the Rebellion. Sooner or later, she would be required to leave, to return to Yanibar. While she did love and miss her home and her loyalty was to the Yanibar Guard, Hasla had no desire to leave the Alliance. A single tear dribbled down her silver cheek, and then another, as she clutched the medal. She had no fear of death and was not concerned about the upcoming battle. In many ways, it would be easier for her to fall in combat. At least that way, her name would never be tarnished. The Rebels would never think of her as a spy, a traitor in their midst. These and other similar thoughts wove through her head for some time; and Hasla was unaware of how much time had elapsed since she’d been sitting in the cockpit. Her introspection was such that she didn’t notice the shadow fall over the transparisteel canopy or the figure looking down at her.

However, the knock on the cockpit was enough to catch her attention. She quickly wiped her face and looked up to see Wes Janson standing there. Hasla quickly turned her head away, but Janson was not easily dissuaded and opened the cockpit manually before she could seal it shut. The Rogue Squadron pilot dropped down and sat on the edge of the cockpit.
 * “Forgot how roomy these things are. Hey, your squadmates and some of the Rogues have been looking everywhere for you,” he said good-naturedly. “Have you been hiding here all along?”
 * “Just go away,” she said, trying to hide her face.
 * “That’s . . . not what I was expecting to hear,” Janson said, a bit taken aback. “Look, if you’re sore about what I said back on Tierfon, I was kidding. Flirting. It’s what I do.”
 * “No,” Hasla said, suppressing a sob. “I’m fine. I’d just prefer you left.”
 * “Is something wrong?” Janson asked, then immediately corrected himself. “No, stupid question, Wes. She’s sitting her crying in her cockpit and you ask her if something is wrong. So-what is wrong?”
 * “Nothing,” Hasla forced out.

Janson gave her a dubious look.
 * “Look, Seirla-I’m not going away until you tell me what’s wrong, or you push me off this cockpit and I break a leg landing on the deck. So you might as well tell me.”

She considered pushing him, just to see how serious he was, but decided not to test him.
 * “You wouldn’t understand,” she muttered at him.
 * “I doubt that,” Janson said, scoffing at the notion. “I’m a fighter pilot. You’re a fighter pilot. We speak the same language. I’m sure I can understand.”

Hasla glared up at him, but he returned her gaze evenly until her resolve crumbled. Silently, she held up the medal and tossed it to him. Hopefully it would distract him so he either left or she could come up with a suitable cover-it was obvious that she couldn’t tell him the real reason for being upset. She could at least try to salvage her professionalism.
 * “Hey, look at that,” Janson said, feigning surprise. “A Kalidor Crescent! Pretty nice stuff. Congratulations! So . . . what’s the matter?”
 * “I . . . I don’t deserve it,” she said, stumbling for words.
 * “Sure you do,” Janson said. “General Calrissian obviously thinks you do, and he’s been occasionally known to be right about some things.”
 * “No,” Hasla said, shaking her head. “Here’s the person who deserves it.”

She pulled out her datapad and activated a holoprojector. An image of a short, smiling dark-haired man in a Rebel flight suit shimmered into view.
 * “This is Vectod Torvalis. Ice Seven. He was my wingman. Now he’s a collection of carbon being sucked into Bespin’s core. He’s the one who deserves this medal. He drew fire away from me and the others. Guess what? He paid for it with his life.”

She turned angry and looked up at Janson, whipping the unruly strands of hair that covered her face off to the side with one swift brush of her hand.
 * “We didn’t even have a memorial service for Vectod. There wasn’t enough time. He died unremembered, unsung, and if we all die at Endor, nobody will ever know what he did for me. For the Alliance.”
 * “It’s a good thing we’re not all going to die at Endor then,” Janson said flippantly.
 * “Well, I’m so glad we have the assurances of Wes Janson, master of premonitions, to give us assurance of survival,” Hasla said with biting sarcasm. “Why didn’t you kriffing say so in the first place?

She was mad now, and it didn’t even take any effort for her to rail at him.
 * “What are you so worried about?” Janson asked quietly.

Her face fell as she realized she had no call to take out her anger at him. Yet here he was, managing to listen to her without being a total jerk about it. There was no jibe on his normally merry face, and she could sense genuine concern in him through the Force. And. . . there was something else, too. He wasn’t even aware of the mental probe; she was sure of it. But deep inside him, she picked up hints of attraction. Of love. Something with more authenticity than his usual flirting. The man cared for her, returned her feelings. Hasla was shocked-she wouldn’t have guessed that-but she managed to cover her astonishment. Her epiphany gave her new words, and she fixed her blue eyes squarely on Janson’s face as she replied in a faint whisper of a voice.
 * “I’m worried that if this all ends, the whole Alliance dies tomorrow, that I’ll have left something undone. That I won’t have said the right words to someone. That . . . that someone might never find out how I felt about them.”
 * “Why don’t you do it, then?” Janson asked. “Write a letter to your parents, if you need to. Or your lover, if you have one. Tell them what you need to. A bunch of the Rogues already did that. Some of us will do it right before we get into the cockpits and take off. But whatever you need to do, go ahead and get it done instead of moping about it.”
 * “Is it always that simple to you?” she asked, glaring vibroblades at him.
 * “Not always,” he replied with a shrug. “Just this time. Think about what I said.”
 * “Oh, I have,” she assured him. “And let me just tell you one thing, Janson.”

He arched one eyebrow expectantly, but was completely caught off-guard when she grabbed his collar and pulled his face down close to hers.
 * “I love you,” she whispered hoarsely, then kissed him fiercely.

She was rewarded to see Janson as surprised as she had been when their roles had been reversed on Tierfon, but the man was too accustomed to female attention to remain surprised for long and he relaxed into the kiss.
 * “Well,” he said. “That was a pleasant surprise.”
 * “Oh?” she replied archly, not quite sure how to proceed.
 * “I was right on Tierfon all along,” he said with a smile.
 * “Don’t push it, Wes,” she said, but it was an empty threat and he knew it.
 * “Tell you what,” he said. “Your squadmates and some of the Rogues are organizing a brief celebration for you before we hit the sims-no alcohol, I’m afraid-and you should at least go for a little bit. Then after some sim practice, I’ll get the cook to make you something special for your last meal. He’s an old friend. How does that sound?”

She nodded quietly, and allowed him to help her out of the cockpit. However, whereas before, she had been disconsolate, she felt buoyed by elation now, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Suddenly, the pending battle fear and her anxiety had evaporated. She could function again, could enjoy the revelation that Janson returned her affection. Hasla took his hand and smiled up at him as he led her out of the hangar. Suddenly, she understood why he could be so optimistic about everything, even in the midst of danger.
 * Mandalore

Sarth and Cassi were walking down yet another one of scenic Kedalbe’s streets in search of another information broker to try. Though they’d brought a decent amount of cash, the few thousand credits they’d shelled out to one purveyor of information had thus far been money wasted. To their dismay, this particular street was even narrower and more dimly lit than others they had been down. Sarth reached into the concealed folds of his cloak to feel for the S-5XS silenced pistol he was carrying, but suddenly realized that it wasn’t there. He was sure that he brought the weapon with him. Someone must have stolen it.
 * “What is it, Sarth?” Cassi asked sensing his unease.
 * “My pistol’s missing. So is my wallet,” he whispered. “Apparently there are some good pickpockets in this neighborhood.”
 * “What should we do?” she replied.
 * “I think we should turn around and walk back to the ship as inconspicuously as possible,” he said evenly. “Before those gentlemen I sense following us give us any trouble.”
 * “Good plan,” she said.

They hadn’t gone three steps towards the spaceport when Sarth and Cassi saw the shadows lurking in the dark alleys. The game was up-they had made their departure too late.
 * “Well, well, if it ain’t Skart and Cassi Kraest,” said the first figure to emerge into plain sight.

He was a greasy-looking Dug, a short alien species that walked on their forelimbs and was known for their foul temperament. In the grasp of one of his limbs was Sarth’s pistol; his other one held his wallet.
 * “Yes, that’s us,” Sarth said defensively, putting in arm in front of Cassi as if to shield her from danger. “What do you want?”
 * “A little chat,” the Dug said, gesturing with the barrel of Sarth’s pistol. “Let’s go.”

Sarth and Cassi had no choice but to go where the Dug and his hooded companions, who were humanoids of some kind, directed them. They couldn’t tell who the people were, nor did they know their intent. At any rate, they were directed into the back entrance of some small little dive. The room was, like the rest of this part of town, dimly lit and dank. It smelled like stale alcohol mixed with refuse and the stained wall had obviously not been cleaned in some time-and to add to that, it was cracked and molding. When all of their escorts-in the light of the ceiling’s lone flickering glowpanel, Sarth could tell there were five of them-filed in, the small room was quite crowded. A few ramshackle chairs were strewn around the room, but aside from that it was devoid of furnishings. In the background, they could hear the din of a boisterous low-class cantina.
 * “Welcome ta Mandalore,” the Dug said grandiosely, though Sarth and Cassi didn’t trust his conniving smile for a minute.
 * “What do you want?” Sarth asked again.
 * “Now, such suspicion isn’t very nice,” the Dug replied, handing Sarth his wallet back while holstering his pistol. “Here, sit. Would ya like a drink?”

From a hidden cabinet, he reached up and produced a bottle of liquor and a few dirty glasses, offering one to Sarth.
 * “No thank you,” Sarth replied.
 * “Suit yourself,” the Dug replied, pouring himself a drink. “We identified ya as Skart and Cassi Kraest when ya first landed on Mandalore, and your identicard confirmed it. Pretty impressive, head of Kraechar Arms and all.”
 * “That’s no secret,” Sarth said. “We’ve had no reason to conceal that.”

Well, Sarth reflected, at least not their identities as Skart and Cassi Kraest. Their true identities were an entirely different matter.
 * “Don’t get worked up, now,” the Dug said. “What I’m sayin’ is that we have some mutual interests.”
 * “Oh?” Sarth asked skeptically. “I rather doubt that.”
 * “Hehehe, ‘course ya do-fine upstanding citizen like yerself,” the Dug chuckled evilly. “Here, do ya recognize this?”

He tossed Sarth a glass with a metal base. Sarth held up the glass to the dim and light and saw that the insignia of the Zann Consortium was etched on the bottom of its metal base.
 * “Yes, I do, and now I see the connection,” Sarth said evenly. “That still doesn’t tell me what you want.”
 * “Want? We don’t want nothin’ from ya,” the Dug said, grinning at him. “We’s here to help ya. My name’s Zloskiba.”

With that, the Dug flipped out Sarth’s pistol and offered it back to him handle first. Sarth took the weapon back, all the while glaring suspiciously at the diminutive alien.
 * “Our boss recognized ya-he handled part of the first package from Kraechar Arms,” Zloskiba explained. “When he saw ya were here, he assigned me and the boys to keep an eye on ya.”

The Dug spread his lower limbs out in a grandiose, welcoming gesture.
 * “So, is there anythin’ we can help ya with?”

Sarth considered for a moment. On the one hand, the Zann Consortium was a lawless organization that was not to be trusted any more than Black Sun. They were downright dangerous. On the other hand, it was exactly that sort of organization that might know where to find the Magrodys. With nothing better to do, Sarth decided to accept the alien’s offer.
 * “We’re looking for a pair of Arkanians,” he started.
 * “Ahahahaha,” Zloskiba cackled. “Yarr on the wrong planet for that. Arkanians live on Arkania!”
 * “We believe they were brought here,” Cassi interjected sharply, silencing the Dug’s laughter. “Against their will.”
 * “Hmm,” Zloskiba said. “What else do ya know?”
 * “Their names are Elizie and Shenna Magrody,” Cassi explained. “We believe they were brought here by a Corellian named Jos Teklevi.”
 * “Hmmm,” Zloskiba said again, scratching his chin. “We’ll see what we can find and get back ta ya tomorrow.”
 * “How will you get in touch-,” Sarth started, then noticed the comlink that had been discreetly pressed into his pocket while he wasn’t looking.
 * “Don’t look for us, we’ll find ya,” the Dug said with a wry grin.

One of the others let them out, leaving Sarth and Cassi to find their way back to where the Silent Surprise was parked. The two were rattled by their encounter with the strange Dug and his Zann Consortium henchmen. The Dug and his buddies had identified them, tracked them, and practically nabbed them off the street without any warning. To add to their discomfort, Selu’s warning about not trusting the Zann Consortium kept reverberating through their minds. Whoever the Zannists were, they were not to be trifled with. Though he’d been resolute throughout their search, Sarth suddenly began considering the idea that he and Cassi might be in over their heads.