Force Exile III: Liberator/Part 4

7

Ajaur gazed down at the smoking corpse lying on the ground by his feet in disgust, and then deactivated his lightsaber. The whelp, while possessing marginal skill, deserved to join the other bodies strewn around the small compound in which Ajaur now stood. All of them, regardless of sex or species, had one thing in common—the lightsaber marks burned through them by the Inquisitor. Some of them couldn’t have been more than ten standard years of age, but Ajaur didn’t care. They were traitors to the Empire and had thus invoked the death penalty. When it came to carrying out his orders, the Inquisitor was utterly merciless and remorseless. The dark side filled his nostrils with its invigorating power, fueled by the slaughter around him.

Grinning triumphantly, he continued forward as a quartet of V-19s screamed through the scattered clouds overhead. The smell of smoke was in the air, and a tall plume of smoke could be seen rising in the distance, probably from the capital city of Yumfla. This moon, Susefvi, was largely temperate and covered with grasslands, with settlements scattered across the surface. There had been no resistance to the arrival of the Corrupter. Captain Nebulax had deployed his troops in a direct assault on the capital to overwhelm any central defense force before they even had a chance to respond, and Ajaur figured they had been successful. Though he would never achieve true power without mastery of the Force, he admitted that Nebulax was a cunning officer in his own right, if obstinate and surly.

Upon landing, he had come here alone. The Force had told him the location of this refuge and he had brought the Empire’s judgment. Several of the inhabitants had tried to plead with him for clemency, but Ajaur had had none. By the time a few of them produced lightsabers of varying hues with which to battle him, he had already cleaved through half of them. The few that were left had fallen quickly, demoralized by the sight of their dead comrades and possessing little skill to match against Ajaur’s blade. A pity, really. The man he had just slain had only lasted as long as he had out of luck, not because of any particular skill. As a reward, he had been able to witness the death of his friends. How delicious, thought Ajaur. His mind, surging from the adrenaline rush of battle, was full of malice, his will seeking out any further victims to satiate his thirst for vengeance. With each kill, he envisioned the death of Vader as he lopped off limbs or opened gaping wounds, his red blade thrusting and slashing at will.

Ajaur looked around the compound one more time, extending his perceptions to see if any more of these people remained. They were apparently called Jensaarai, but the lightsabers in their hands and the pitiful Force powers that they wielded were enough to condemn them as enemies of the Empire and thus worthy of death. There had been a surprising number of them, and their unusual armor had marked them as clearly not of Jedi origins, though. Perhaps he would make note of that in his report to Lord Vader.

Suddenly, Ajaur stopped. His senses had detected one person left, their signature through the Force faint, but distinctly individual. His lightsaber immediately found his hand. He turned in the direction of the remaining life form towards a darkened doorway. A hand and arm could be seen lying on the floor, protruding from the body of a woman inside. She had been unarmed, easily slain, Ajaur recalled. Strange, he had not detected anyone else in the small duracrete building at the time, and the reminder of the limitations of his power stung.

Then, he saw the focus of his senses. Out from the doorway walked a young Human girl, perhaps twelve standard years ago. She was dirty, her stringy blond hair ragged and unkempt and her face unwashed. She was only wearing a homespun shift loosely tied around the waist with a belt, its tattered edges not even reaching her knees, and lacking the most basic of footwear. She was completely unarmed, with not even a rock to throw at him. Her expression was strangely curious, confused.

“Why? Why have you come to do this?” she asked, her voice plaintive.

“Because you were all traitors,” sneered Ajaur down at her, one part of him unsure why he even bothered to speak to this little spawn. “You all deserve to die.”

The girl’s gray eyes turned from Ajaur’s face to focus on something else, as if looking past his shoulder.

“You will die soon also,” she said, her voice no longer pleading, but curiously steady and certain. “And you will pass into unending torment for your crimes.”

She turned back to regard him with a level gaze.

“I don’t think so,” said Ajaur. “You don’t stand a chance.”

“Neither do you. Your time has come,” she said.

With an angry roar, Ajaur leapt forward and cut her down, his crimson lightsaber opening a gash from throat to abdomen in the girl’s torso, the massive wound instantly cauterized by the searing blade. She fell wordlessly to crumple in a heap and died, her mouth gaping in an unvoiced scream.

“Some seer you turned out to be,” Ajaur addressed her corpse.

Yet, even as he walked away to where his speeder bike was waiting, Ajaur could not completely dispel the chill that had run down his spine at the girl’s words, so confident even in the face of her death. What if she had foreseen his imminent death through the Force? Ajaur tried to put the thought out of his mind as he climbed aboard his speeder bike and sped back to the capital.

Yumfla

Lieutenant Ait Convarion stood amid the ruins of some recently demolished piece of statuary near the main entrance of a Susefvi government building. The capital city—if Yumfla could indeed be called a city—had fallen easily. Captain Nebulax had deployed twelve hundred Imperial Army soldiers and stormtroopers in an astonishingly effective surprise attack that had quickly overwhelmed the few meager stands that some foolhardy locals had chosen to make. Supported by overwhelming air, walker, and ground vehicle support, Yumfla's milita had little chance of repulsing the Imperials, and many had fled after the initial volley of blaster rifle fire. A brief skirmish had occurred around the government complex, but the stormtrooper commander had called in airstrikes and armor support that had quickly sapped the will and numbers of the resistance, in addition to causing significant damage to the structures. With the center of government taken, the rest of the city had quickly been surrendered by some minor official. Yumfla had fallen in under three hours. By now, the troopers had taken up defensive positions around the complex in preparation for the rapidly approaching nightfall while other detachments went out to take the surrounding settlements. Convarion heard the distant crackle of blaster fire, but it quickly died out. No doubt some local had decided to push an argument with the Imperial troops and had paid for his foolishness with his life—yet another example of the stupidity of contending with the Empire.

Convarion felt no particular sympathy for these people, despite having been born and raised on an Outer Rim world not too unlike Susefvi himself. The fact that they hadn’t immediately surrendered to the Empire had marked them as too stupid to survive its arrival. As he paced around the complex, half-heartedly observing the efforts of the Army troops, Convarion felt nothing but disgust for people who couldn’t appreciate what was happening to them. Imperial rule would do them good.

As impressed as he was with the efficiency in which the town had been taken, Convarion resented being sent down here to supervise the occupation as much as the Army troopers around here resented his presence. He was out of his element here, and he expected that was precisely why he had been ordered to supervise the occupation. As his comlink chirped, Convarion pulled it out of his belt, fully expecting it to be Nebulax, safe and comfortable aboard Corrupter. As he activated the device, he was not disappointed.

“What is the situation down there, Lieutenant?” asked Nebulax.

“The town of Yumfla has fallen, Captain. The locals barely put up a fight. I’m standing in what was their center of resistance right now, sir.”

“Casualties?”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Convarion, irked at Nebulax’s question. “Probably light.”

If the captain had really wanted to know about the casualties, he would have contacted the Army commander. Instead, by showing him up in front of the Army troopers composing his honor guard, Nebulax was only seeking to bait and discredit him.

“Then I suggest you find out,” said Nebulax smoothly. “A good commander looks after his troops.”

“Yes, sir. If you were down here personally, I have no doubt that you would have the entire situation firmly under your control.”

Convarion smiled at the brief pause in Nebulax’s litany of questions. No doubt the captain was trying to determine if Convarion’s carefully worded and spoken statement was an insult over his refusal to inspect Yumfla himself, or a compliment on his tactical abilities. It had been worded specifically for the purpose of ambiguity. However, Convarion had to admit that it didn’t take Nebulax long to recover, and the senior officer largely ignored the hidden jibe.

“Consider it a part of your training, Lieutenant. Where is the Inquisitor?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” said Convarion.

“Do you care to explain that, Lieutentant?” Nebulax asked.

This time Convarion was ready. As soon as he had touched down on this miserable excuse of a moon, he had made sure to ask the ground troop commander about Ajaur's whereabouts for his own personal benefit. “Inquisitor Ajaur appropriated a speeder bike and set off by himself shortly after landing on the planet, sir.”

“I see,” Nebulax said. “I wonder how his mission went.”

It was a silent opportunity for Convarion to offer to inquire, but he let it pass. The last thing he wanted to do was talk to Ajaur. Suddenly, the roar of a speeder bike engine grinding to a stop informed him that the subject of their conversation had arrived.

“Tell the captain that I have been successful thus far,” said Ajaur, dismounting from the vehicle and walking towards Convarion.

“Captain Nebulax, Inquisitor Ajaur has just arrived and he reports that—”

“Yes, yes, I heard him myself, Lieutenant,” broke in Nebulax’s voice. “Inquisitor Ajaur, will you require a shuttle back to the Corrupter? I have one on standby if you need it.”

“No,” said Ajaur dismissively. “I will remain here until my work is finished. Lieutenant, how long did the troop commander say until this world is fully occupied?”

“Not more than a week,” said Convarion, somehow managing to get the words out. “However, we may need to stay here as an occupation force for several more months until a garrison force can arrive.”

“I see,” said Ajaur. “Captain Nebulax, immediately inform the nearest sector base that we require a garrison force for this world. While my master may have other missions for me, this moon must not be left unguarded.”

“As you wish, Inquisitor,” said Nebulax, who then deactivated the comlink transmission.

As Ajaur moved off to attend to some unknown business of his own, Convarion was left to do little but stand around. While he was grateful for an opportunity to be rid of the fearsome Ajaur, babysitting a bunch of Army troops and bullying locals was not what he had in mind. He longed to be back in space, engaging the real enemies of the Empire in this sector—the smugglers and pirates who defied the New Order’s control of space. For now, all he could do was wait for Nebulax to get bored with his little lesson and call him back up to Corrupter. Unfortunately, it appeared they would be in this miserable system for quite some time on pacification and occupation duty. What had started as a promising tour to clean out the sector of space scum had turned into an obnoxiously easy takeover of a backwards world that likely no one would ever care about.

Convarion wondered what Ajaur had seen that was so important that they had needed to urgently come here, but Nebulax assured him that the orders were important. Better not to know, he supposed. The only way to find out the reason would likely be talking directly to Ajaur, and Convarion relished the idea of that about as much as he did shooting himself in the foot. Though judging by the look on Ajaur’s face, such an incident would likely be less deadly than incurring the Inquisitor’s wrath. Convarion had never seen him so grimly pleased—no doubt the man had been relishing the destruction he had wrought.

As night fell, so did the Susefvi’s freedom. Powerless to resist the troops and Imperial might deployed to its surface by Nebulax, and its Jensaarai defenders slain or scattered by dread of the Inquisitor stalking them, the moon’s inhabitants slowly submitted to Imperial rule. They had no choice. Anyone who resisted was summarily executed. Whole villages, nestled away in remote river valleys or lying as a speck amidst the vast grasslands, were punished with utter destruction by the slightest hint of organized resistance to the Imperial takeover.

Convarion was left with the thankless duty of supervising. However, from the Imperial standpoint, all was progressing as it should. The populace had been taken by surprise and any resistance met with overwhelming force. Order was being enforced in the cities and the outlying settlements were being pacified. Acceptance of Imperial rule was widespread, and fewer than a dozen casualties had been sustained thanks to the complete air and ground supremacy enjoyed by the Imperials. The few pathetic attempts at defense had been piecemeal and uncoordinated, the defenders ill-trained and equipped to contend with well-trained and equipped soldiers. After the devastation wrought on the government complex, the backbone of the meager militia had been broken, and most of the moon was now under Imperial control, or would be soon. Victory was guaranteed and that, combined with not having any further contact with Ajaur, allowed Convarion to spend far less miserable of a time on the surface than he had anticipated.

Revan's world

Cassi groaned softly as she made her way out of the training arena and across the courtyard of ruined statues. Selu had been dutifully rigorous in his lightsaber lessons and Cassi wasn’t sure she could ever master the weapon, much less if she even wanted to. Her clothes were still damp with sweat and her arms ached from trying to control the unfamiliar weapon. Selu hadn’t even allowed her to use a real lightsaber yet, training her with a long metal pole instead, and swinging it around for hours was exhausting.

She shivered at the thought of actually wielding the Jedi weapon. She had never actually seen Selu use it, but she’d seen the holos of Jedi in the Clone Wars as a teenager. Cassi had no desire to possess such destructive power. In fact, over the past three weeks, ever since the run-in with the Imperial warship, she had been hiding something deep within her—guilt.

Every night, she dreamed of the Imperial crewmembers that had died when she had launched the explosive-rigged escape pods. She would see their faces coalesce into her vision, only to be blown into a thousand bloody pieces. Cassi had never before taken a life—she had fired at Mistryl that had attempted to kidnap Sarth and kill Selu, and had seen combat on Emberlene, but she’d never been directly responsible for the death of another—and now she had killed possibly dozens of people. She knew that Sarth probably hadn’t had to kill anyone either, but he’d seen more combat than she had. Maybe he was okay with the concept of killing people, but even though she occasionally carried a blaster, the thought of using it lethally was something she had always shied away from.

Making her way through the sculpture garden, Cassi saw Milya sitting quietly, legs crossed underneath her, eyes closed in what appeared to be a meditation position. She looked glacially calm and peaceful.

On an impulse, Cassi altered her direction and headed over to Milya, trying to sense the other woman in the Force. Nothing at first. Cassi closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind—difficult with the lingering images of the explosion still in her head. However, remembering what Selu had taught them about a calming technique, she was finally able to silence all the voices, images, and thoughts buzzing in her mind. To her delight, she was able to sense Milya. From what little her mind could tell, Milya was projecting serenity on top of a very tightly-controlled emotional barrier. Just as Milya herself was often hard to read in terms of expression or body language, Cassi got the sense that her shipmate was equally enigmatic emotionally. Still, she was at least satisfied that she had been able to access the Force and sense another person without prompting from Selu or one of the apparitions. She opened her eyes to find that Milya was now looking at her.

“Something on your mind?” Milya asked Cassi pointedly.

Cassi started in surprise. “What? I mean, how did you know?”

“Not hard to read,” Milya told her. “It doesn’t take Selu to sense that something’s bothering you.”

“I guess,” Cassi said. “Or maybe there’s something to this seer business.”

Milya’s eyebrows arched upward.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she said with a wry smile. “You reached out with the Force; I was able to sense your thoughts when you did.”

“Oh,” Cassi replied a bit sheepishly. “I didn’t realize I was so . . . easy to read.”

Then she frowned. “But you’re not, or else I’m a lot worse at this sensing thing.”

“Part of that is control,” Milya answered. “Part of it is choice. You can have both, if you want.”

Cassi suddenly wondered if Milya would have a good answer for how it felt to take another’s life. She knew that the other woman had had a rough life—and had certainly seen her share of combat and had slain others before. Selu had demons of his own to excise on that front, and she hadn’t wanted to bring it up with him, while Spectre had been literally born to fight and kill; he wouldn’t understand her dilemma, and Sarth probably wouldn’t understand either. She wavered, unsure of how to react. She and Milya had never really had deep conversations—they lived and worked together, but it wasn’t like they were best friends. Their disparate backgrounds and Milya’s tendency to isolate herself emotionally had precluded that. Despite knowing Milya for over a year, Cassi still knew relatively little about the other woman’s past.

“You’re still in turmoil,” Milya remarked. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Cassi sighed. Maybe it would be good to obtain her perspective. “I keep feeling like I’m holding myself back in my training. Intentionally. I’m not sure I want to do this.”

If Milya was surprised by the admission, she betrayed no evidence of it. “Why not?”

“I’ve never really seen Selu use the Force or a lightsaber, but I’ve seen the holos. I’ve heard the stories,” Cassi replied. “I don’t think I want that kind of power.”

“But you accept the prophecy.”

“That’s to help people,” Cassi explained. “And even this whole healing thing—I like that idea. What I don’t like—”

She faltered momentarily, collecting her words and thoughts, mentally reassuring herself that this was something she could share with Milya.

“I don’t like the idea of training to kill people,” she confessed bluntly.

Milya silently nodded for her to continue, and the words poured out of Cassi as if released from behind a pent-up dam. “I’ve been in dangerous situations before, even fired a weapon in self-defense, but I never had to kill anyone—at least, not until that Imperial warship. I launched two bombs at dozens of people I’d never met and watched them die in explosions I caused. Now I can’t stop seeing their faces—at night, when I sleep, or even when I close my eyes. I see them staring silently at me, judging me, blaming me for their deaths, and I don’t know how to react. They had probably had families, people who cared for them—and now they’re dead. Because of me.”

Cassi looked bleakly at Milya. “That’s why I don’t think I can do this.”

Milya listened intently, letting the words hang unanswered for a brief moment. “I was seventeen when I made my first kill. I had trained in the Echani martial arts as a girl and was a capable fighter, but I had never had to kill someone.”

“What happened?” Cassi asked.

Milya took a deep breath. Cassi sensed her resolve flicker, then harden. When she spoke, her words came tersely, matter-of-factly as if she was deliberately curtailing all emotion from her voice.

“My foster parents were killed in a duel and I was sold as a result. The slavers chained me up on their ship and were going to sell me to the highest bidder.”

Cassi shuddered. On her homeworld of Bakura and even on Coruscant where she had studied, slavery was considered a barbaric practice. Apparently Milya had grown up on a world where such things were openly tolerated, a horrifying thought.

“I wasn’t going to let that happen,” Milya continued. “I broke free and killed all of the slavers. Then I took their ship and used it to avenge my parents. Then I struck out on my own. I’ve put down a few others since then—mostly people who tried to attack me, and then some Imperials and Mistryl after I linked up with the Hawk-bat.”

“How do you handle that?” Cassi asked. “How does it come so easily to you?”

Another moment of silence, then finally, Milya answered.

“It’s not easy at all,” Milya replied softly. “I still think about the people I killed, too. I don’t think it ever leaves you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put it that way,” Cassi amended. “It just seems like you don’t let it bother you. How?”

“You think about why you took those lives and never take one if it can be helped,” Milya said. “And you never, ever let yourself enjoy it—take it from someone who’s been there.”

“The people who killed your parents?” Cassi asked quietly.

“Yes,” Milya said tersely. “And the slavers. I enjoyed every vengeful moment—and I’ve regretted it ever since. Not killing them—they deserved that—but the ugliness it spawned inside me. That . . . that I regret.”

“I don’t think I could live with something like that hanging over me,” Cassi said. “Maybe this Jedi thing isn’t for me.”

“You can,” Milya told her. “Because you have to. Because you were killing people that deserved it.”

“They were just doing their jobs,” Cassi pointed out.

“Cassi, that’s what the people in the Kanz Disorders said,” Milya replied. “That’s not an excuse. Those Imperials you killed were going to torture and execute all of us. If they weren’t, they were at least complicit in that they weren’t doing anything to stop that from happening.”

“I suppose,” Cassi said hesitantly.

“You didn’t see him,” Milya added, thinking back to the dark-robed Imperial man who had beaten Selu. “You didn’t see the pure evil in his eyes. We were all dead from the moment he appeared. I just hope he died in the blast.”

Milya shook her head as if to clear her mind of the foul memory.

“I can’t promise you any resolution,” she told Cassi. “You may carry those faces and names with you for the rest of your life. But I can give you this—every time you see those faces, think about the lives you saved. You and Sarth wouldn’t be engaged right now if you hadn’t acted. You’d both have died a very painful death on that Star Destroyer. He’s alive because you intervened.”

“And does that make it worth it?” Cassi asked softly.

“It does,” Milya answered. “Eventually, the memory will fade some. It’s sharper now because it’s fresh, but when it comes back, just remind yourself of why you did it, and who was saved as a result.”

“It’s a harsh thing, knowing that you decided who lived and who died,” Cassi reflected.

“The galaxy is a harsh place,” Milya said. “Don’t regret having to kill someone to defend yourself or another person. If that happens, it means they were probably going to kill you first.”

“I can’t just accept that,” Cassi replied. “I can’t just be fine with killing another person. That’s not who I am.”

“That’s your choice,” Milya answered. “But I don’t think that would stop you from doing the training, as long as you can defend someone when you have to.”

“I . . . I’m not sure,” Cassi answered hesitantly.

“Cassi, you were strong enough to save us on the Star Destroyer. You were strong enough to help fight against the Mistryl. You can do this,” Milya told her firmly. “You’ve already done it. You don’t have to like it, you just have to be ready when someday my life or Sarth’s life or your own life depends on you taking action, even if that means killing someone. Can you do that?”

Cassi considered the statement, then nodded slowly.

“I can do that,” she said. “I don’t see anything wrong with defending yourself or another person from attack. It’s living with the consequences that I’m not sure about.”

Milya rose and placed an arm on Cassi’s shoulder.

“You remind yourself of the people who are alive because you acted, the people who are counting on you,” Milya encouraged her. “Then you keep moving forward day by day with those people, happy to have another day to spend with them.”

“If you say so,” Cassi answered doubtfully.

“Look, I never said it was easy,” Milya said. “You may feel guilt about those lives you took—and any that you take in the future—for the rest of your life. But when you see those accusing faces, just remember the other ones.”

“What other ones?” Cassi asked, puzzled.

“The ones who are thankful that you saved them,” Milya answered earnestly. “Thank you, Cassi. You saved all of us on that ship.”

Cassi hugged Milya, surprising the other woman, who still wasn’t used to spontaneous displays of affection. A single tear slid down Cassi’s face as she realized the sincerity and gratitude in Milya’s voice in recognition of what Cassi had done on their behalf.

“Thank you,” Cassi told her as they separated. “I needed you to say that.”

Milya nodded. “Any time. And if you ever need to talk about this again, you know where to find me.”

“I appreciate that,” Cassi said.

Wiping the tear away, she shook her head.

“Well, I should probably go,” she said. “Need to get cleaned up before dinner. But Milya?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks again.”

8

The lightsaber flashed in coruscating arcs of light as Milya swept it through a series of defensive velocities. She stood blindfolded in the middle of the training arena that Selu and Spectre had set up when their training had begun.

“Five! Six! Nine! Eight!” Selu called from where he was standing.

Milya instantly reacted, weaving the blade through the blocks that Selu called. To an untrained observer, she had executed the moves with passable precision and speed, but Selu knew better. She was still a fraction of a second behind the superhuman speed that the Jedi had displayed thanks to their precognition.

“Focus,” Selu said soothingly. “Don’t over-control the lightsaber. Feel, don’t think.”

Milya gritted her teeth and nodded, snapping the blade back to a guard position and settling her stance. “I’m ready.”

Selu reached out to touch her mind and found that she had retreated to her Echani battle discipline, recognizing the state of mind from many sparring sessions.

“Wait,” Selu told her. “You’re falling back to your Echani training to calm you.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Milya asked.

“It’s useful,” Selu admitted, “but right now, you’re too tightly-controlled to perceive the Force properly.”

The crease of Milya’s forehead wrinkling as she frowned was just barely evident over the upper edge of the blindfold.

“What do you want me to do?”

Selu hesitated, knowing that this next instruction would go over about as well as a Star Destroyer at a shadowport.

“Try . . . letting go emotionally,” Selu suggested. “Don’t focus on the weapon or on your control. Just feel the Force and open your mind.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Milya growled.

“Just try it,” Selu said mildly. “Nobody else is around. Nobody else is going to intrude into your mind. It’s just you and me.”

Milya heaved a sigh. “All right.”

She stood still for a moment and Selu could feel the mental tension in her as her desire to learn battled against the self-preserving urge to always conceal her emotions, to protect herself by always keeping others at arm’s length—from truly knowing her.

“What will you sense?” she asked him.

“Milya, I won’t look into your mind or try some kind of mental intrusion,” Selu assured her. “For one, I could actually hurt you by trying, and two, I would never do that to you. I’ll only go where you want me.”

“Okay,” she said uncertainly. “Here goes.”

Selu felt her emotional barriers slip away, temporarily lowered as she sought the mental clarity and receptiveness to the Force that he had spoken of. He carefully withdrew his senses so he would not pose any kind of mental intrusion, as he knew she was projecting a lot of her inner emotions through the Force. His heart swelled a little as he realized how much she trusted him if she was willing to be this emotionally vulnerable in front of him, but he damped down on that emotion. He had a student to teach and a trust to avoid the slightest hint of betrayal. He waited until she was sufficiently open and no longer withholding her mind behind a layer of control.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“I am,” she said.

“Eleven! Four! Ten! Five! One!” Selu barked out suddenly.

This time, Milya’s response was much faster, almost impossibly fast. Her reflexes were good and now, triggered by the Force instead of by her mind or her ear, they displayed the anticipatory response that only the Force could provide.

“Excellent!” Selu told her.

He ran her through the exercise a few more times until he was satisfied that she could maintain the flow state she had tapped into to access her new Force senses.

“Good job,” he told her. “I’m sure your . . . other trainers will have more to say on that.”

“Thanks,” she replied tiredly, pulling off the blindfold. “That’s exhausting.”

“It gets better with practice,” Selu answered. “That’s enough for today. You did extremely well.”

“Good teacher,” she answered with a smile, making her way out of the training arena. “I’m getting dinner after I clean up. Care to join me?”

“Sure,” Selu replied. “I’ll run through a few exercises and then meet you in the lounge.”

Selu watched her leave the arena, smiling to himself. Milya was progressing well, and she seemed to be warming up to him as well. There was definitely a spark of chemistry between them. During training sessions, he tried to be as dutifully professional as his own instructors at the Jedi Temple had been, but outside of the sessions . . . that was a different story. The Jedi Order had forbidden relationships, fearing that they would lead to their students prizing that attachment above their commitment, but Selu had also learned from a Jedi Master named Quinlan Vos, who had also survived the Empire’s purge. Vos had a wife, and he hadn’t seemed fazed about violating that stricture. From his lessons, Selu also recalled that Revan and Bastila had been married, producing a long and famed lineage of descendants. Perhaps he and Milya did have a future together.

“That’s a dangerous path you are contemplating,” Revan’s voice said suddenly beside him.

Selu jumped. He hadn’t sensed the apparition approach, much less detected the spectral Jedi’s reading of his emotions.

“What’s dangerous about it?” Selu asked.

“Attachment can be dangerous,” Revan replied. “Sometimes, it helps us prioritize correctly for the sake of the one we cherish. Sometimes, it leads to sacrifice everything else to save that person.”

Selu shot a sharp glance at the apparition.

“Seemed to work out fine for you and Bastila,” Selu pointed out.

Revan frowned. “I never saw my son, Selu. I left on a mission deep into Sith space shortly after learning Bastila was pregnant. I saw visions of a growing darkness . . . and I had to stop them, for his sake.”

Selu was taken aback; the histories had omitted that detail.

“But you succeeded,” Selu pointed out, recalling his histories. “You stopped the Sith threat, and your son lived in peace.”

“That’s a long story,” Revan answered. “But yes, my sacrifice was ultimately rewarded—at great cost. I bore the pain of never seeing my wife or son again until the day I died, Selu. It never left me.”

Selu stared piercingly at the apparition. “Why are you telling me this?”

“There is another part to the prophecy,” Revan informed him ominously.

“And you’re just now mentioning this?” Selu asked darkly.

If Revan noticed Selu’s sudden shift in demeanor, he didn’t react. “It speaks of the leader. The leader must face a choice. He will either sacrifice everything he holds dear and strike a great victory against evil . . . or he will choose to save that which he cherishes and never risk confrontation for fear of the loss.”

“What are you saying?” Selu asked suspiciously.

“If you allow yourself to fall in love with Milya, you will be forced to choose between saving her life and dealing a staggering blow to the Sith,” Revan warned him. “It is not a decision to be made lightly.”

Selu paled.

“And you are sure of this?” he asked.

“The prophecy speaks of it,” Revan answered simply. “I myself lived through a similar scenario.”

“You chose the sacrifice,” Selu pointed out.

“And I lived a miserable existence ever after, even if I did help bring down my adversary,” Revan answered. “As the heir to our legacy, you too must make that same choice.”

“I don’t think I can watch Milya die,” Selu replied. “Not if it is within my power to save her.”

“Then you must let her go,” Revan answered. “Or else forsake the battle against the galaxy’s evil.”

Selu’s brow furrowed with concern and turmoil. He knew full-well what his duty as a Jedi was—he was a guardian of peace and justice. He had no higher calling. He stared at the ground, his eyes darting back and forth as he weighed Revan’s words.

“You could have told me this earlier, or not at all,” he observed. “Why now?”

Revan’s own countenance fell. “I saw my own choice laid out before you, Selu. I wanted you to know what you were facing. Dark times lie ahead of you—all of you.”

“Just when I was beginning to think—,” Selu started, then shook his head. “I suppose we never really had a chance, anyway.”

“I tell you this for your own good,” Revan told him soothingly. “To spare you the pain I went through and to keep your efforts focused.”

Selu stared sorrowfully in the direction Milya had gone. He knew deep within him that Revan was right—that directly opposing the Empire carried a great deal of risk, and that leading any opposition was sure to draw the ire of the Empire onto him and anyone connected with him. As a fully-trained Jedi, he at least had a chance of surviving long enough to rally others to his cause. Milya, who had barely tapped into newfound Force-potential, wouldn’t be as well-provisioned. Knowing what lengths he was already willing to go for her sake, deepening their relationship would only multiply the risks he would take to save her. Risks that could—and now Revan was telling him would—be fatal to the leader of a resistance movement.

Of all the words Selu had heard since Emberlene, this was the bitterest. Yet he realized that this was his burden to carry. Revan was correct—if he separated himself from Milya now, he would experience less pain later. Perhaps he could even save her by doing what Revan had done, and leave her behind while he confronted whatever enemy he was supposed to face. With one last longing look back in the direction Milya had departed, Selu clenched a fist. So much for what might have been. He reluctantly toggled his comlink, calling Milya’s number.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it to dinner,” he said thickly. “I have more training to do.”

Just saying the rejection hurt, but Selu knew that Milya might not take the hint immediately. Knowing that he would still have to teach her made this even more difficult, but Selu also knew that she could never know the reason for his decision. She would insist on trying to find some way around it—but there was no other way. This was his choice.

9

Selu sat quietly inside the venerable Ebon Hawk, poised over an ancient workbench. Parts and materials lay before him, strewn across the bench. Slowly, he fit each component together, relying on the Force to guide his hands. Days of strain had eaten away at his reserves of strength and endurance, but Selu had stoically persevered. He had been locked away inside the old freighter for nearly a solid week now, living in a trance-like state that placed him in deep focus, tapping heavily into the Force for sustenance and guidance. He’d only brought a few bottles of water with him and those were now empty. He licked his parched lips and then returned to the task at hand.

Three other training lightsabers were already assembled on the workbench, each with hilts of varying sizes. Selu had built one for each of his companions on Revan’s advice, as the apparition had told him that his companions would need to practice with weapons of their own. While Jedi Padawans constructed their own lightsabers, as younglings they were trained with low-powered lightsabers that could not inflict serious injury that the Jedi Order provided. Now it was Selu’s turn to provide the training weapons for his friends.

Revan also provided him with the specifications on how to build the training lightsabers. While Selu had constructed his lightsaber years ago, along with a shorter-bladed shoto, he hadn’t known how to incorporate the electromagnetic confinement field that would prevent serious injury until the apparition had shown him. It had taken him another week to assemble the components, scavenging parts from the Hawk-bat and crystals from a cache Revan had revealed was stored on the derelict freighter. Then, while the ancient Jedi instructed his friends, he had disappeared into the Ebon Hawk to complete his work.

Now, as his fingers deftly slotted the pieces together, he focused his mind into the necessary concentration to properly fuse the lightsaber together with the Force, subtly adjusting the elemental bonds in each molecule to produce the Jedi weapon. He held the lightsaber in his hands. It was smaller and slenderer than his own, a lithe weapon suited for someone with smaller hands. This last one was for Milya. As he gripped the hilt, Selu saw her face in his mind’s eye and he envisioned her wielding the weapon. The Force flowed through him as he subconsciously altered the structure and alignments of materials in the lightsaber on a molecular level. Milya’s lightsaber would need to be as strong and determined as its wielder, well-suited to an agile style of combat influenced by her Echani upbringing. Selu had provided for this in her saber’s construction, creating a slender grip and tapered pommel. He had carved tiny tracings of Echani symbols into the haft, copied from what he had seen on her prized vibroblade. Selu completely lost track of time as his mind bonded with the weapon, completing its creation with incredible telekinetic precision, a hallmark of the Jedi lightsaber creation ritual. At last, he felt a sense of certainty wash over him. The weapon was finished.

Rising, he stood up, opened his eyes, and experimentally brushed his thumb against the activation button. If improperly constructed, a lightsaber could explode in the user’s hand. Selu had stayed conscious for nearly one hundred fifty hours now, or at least in a semi-conscious trance state. If he had erred due to fatigue, the consequences could be catastrophic. However, he sensed that he had built the lightsaber correctly. Triggering the stud, he was rewarded to see a silver-white blade spring to life with a snap-hiss.

“Excellent,” he said.

Selu lifted the blade and very gently brushed it against a metal post. The blade sizzled, but the metal remained solid, unaffected by the tightly-confined lightsaber blade. Selu swung the lightsaber a little harder into the metal, but still no damage was done. There was one last test, perhaps the most dangerous of all. With a sharp inhalation of apprehension as he did so, Selu brushed the weapon against his arm.

He felt the slight burning sensation and quickly withdrew it. If he had been using his own lightsaber, the contact would have left angry, severe burns just from the slight graze. However, the low-powered training lightsaber barely turned the skin pink. As far as he could tell, it was safe.

All of the lightsabers were now done and had been tested. Selu nodded to his satisfaction, collecting the weapons and hanging them on his belt. Then he rose tiredly to his feet and left the ancient freighter, collecting the bottles on the way out.

To his surprise, Milya was waiting for him, arms folded as she stared at him.

“You look like hell,” she said bluntly.

There was a hard edge to her voice which told Selu she still wasn’t taking his tacit distancing from her well.

“I feel like it,” Selu answered. “But I was able to complete them. How did you know I was going to be done?”

She smirked. “Sensed it in the Force.”

Selu’s eyes widened. That would have represented a sizable leap in her precognitive abilities if she had been able to sense or predict his completion, particularly since Selu had had no idea how long the process would take.

“Really?” he asked.

“Of course not,” she answered, smirk widening. “Brianna told me. Pretty easy for a ghost to watch you work and then tell when you’re about to finish.”

Selu suppressed a scowl. So much for amazing progress. Instead, she was choosing to unload her sense of sarcasm on him when he was too tired to even think straight.

“Here,” he said, extracting the training lightsaber he built for her and handing it to her pommel-first. Milya accepted the weapon, activating it and giving it a few experimental swings.

“This isn’t going to accidentally cut my head off, is it?”

“No,” Selu replied. “Training lightsabers can only leave a bruise or a welt if you are struck particularly hard with them. Nothing more.”

“Let’s see,” Milya said, lashing out with the lightsaber at Selu.

He winced, anticipating the blow, but he forced himself to stand still and not flinch. The Force hadn’t lied to him; the lightsaber was constructed properly.

It struck his shoulder with a painful smack, but with none of the burning sensation that Selu would associate with serious injury.

“Seems to work,” Milya commented, extinguishing the blade. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Selu answered, still irked that she had risked giving him at least a deep cut; even if the weapon was safe, she hadn’t necessarily seen that confirmed firsthand.

Jedi did not strike other Jedi on a whim, even with training weapons. At least, they weren’t supposed to. At the very least, it was careless of her. He stood silent for a moment, a rebuke springing to his lips, but he let it die unsaid. If Milya wanted to vent her unspoken hurt and resentment via martial training, he could take it, as long as it did not fester within her. He would have to talk with Visas and Brianna to make sure any emotional issues did not hinder her training or lead her astray.

“Well, I guess I should get these to the others,” Selu said.

“Probably a good idea,” Milya answered neutrally.

Something in her eyes glinted as Selu started past her. He was a few meters beyond her when she called out over her shoulder, “Are you ever going to explain why you’ve been avoiding and snubbing me at every turn for the last week?”

Selu froze. He already knew he could never tell her the true reason. It pained him to not immediately throw himself at her with a desperate apology, saying his rejection had been a foolish mistake. But he knew better. He had to be as implacable as the stone walls of the ancient tower, for both of their sakes. If only she hadn’t confronted him about this when he was near-collapse from exhaustion and lack of food.

“I . . . I had a change of heart,” Selu told her regretfully as he turned to face her. “It was nothing you did or said, but I can’t be involved—with anyone—now. Especially not with a student. There’s not much else to say.”

Milya’s expression was icy cold.

“No, I suppose there’s not,” she said. “I have training to attend to.”

Walking briskly forward, she strode past him and Selu sensed her redoubled emotional barriers. He sighed, cursed himself for a fool, and then headed down the stairs to go deliver the new training lightsabers. Then it would be time to an abbreviated recovery period before he returned to training. Hopefully those couple of days would give Milya a chance to cool off. Then again, after seeing the look in her eyes, he doubted it.

Zeru Neimodia

Agent Taskien was waiting at the landing pad as the sextet of gunships emerged from the overcast skies, swooping down like hunting avians returning to roost. Two of them were trailing wisps of dark smoke and all of them looked like they had had chunks gouged out of them. Black blaster scorches betrayed that all six ships had seen heavy combat recently. As their repulsorlifts whined down to a halt, the doors slid open, allowing dozens of white-armored troopers to exit.

Commander CC-3433 was among them—she picked him out by the built-in binoculars and communications gear that his helmet included. He walked stiffly out across the landing pad as medics rushed over and began ferrying casualties out of the gunships. Maintenance crews also joined the swarm, bringing tools and equipment to begin repairs on the stricken vehicles.

“Agent Taskien,” Trip greeted her. “Haven’t heard much from you these past couple of months.”

It was true. She had been off with a small team of analysts over in some of the abandoned Neimodian mansions, collecting whatever intelligence she could on the former occupants, the people who were now leading and fighting in the intransigent resistance.

“I’ve been busy,” she replied. “Good hunting?”

“We got some of them,” he said. “They got some of us. No real progress.”

“Casualties?” she asked.

She knew that Trip wasn’t obligated to answer that and he could have claimed that it was an unimportant operational detail. However, she had genuine concern for when his troops sustained losses. That had apparently left an impression, as he volunteered the information with only a slight hesitation.

“Fifteen killed, twenty-six wounded,” he said. “We estimate slightly less for them, but we did recover six bodies.”

“I’d like to have my team examine them,” she replied.

He nodded curtly.

“They’re offloading them now,” he said, gesturing to where a group of troopers were unloading bodies on a stretcher.

Agent Taskien glanced over and noted with surprise that one of the corpses was a Human woman, who appeared to have died from a knife wound to the torso. There hadn’t been many Human females in the records—perhaps she would be able to match the woman to some of the personnel files she had recovered from a mostly-destroyed mainframe. “Any further leads on the main rebel base?”

She could almost see him frown inside his helmet.

“No,” he answered curtly. “Weren’t you working on that?”

Taskien didn’t allow the reply to ruffle her. “We’re all working on that, Commander.”

Trip abruptly changed the subject. “I’ll take another party out in the next week or so, once I can round up the men.”

Something in the tone of his voice told the agent that he wasn’t operating with the strength he needed for this kind of operation.

“Imperial Center denied your request for reinforcements,” she surmised aloud.

“They expect me to carry out my mission with greater efficiency,” Trip groused. “And so it will be done.”

Taskien glanced back at the bodies that were now loaded onto repulsorcarts and being ferried to her laboratory, thinking about how she might dig up some useful information from the corpses. Then, suddenly, an idea struck her, a wild, dangerous idea that was somewhere between reckless and insane. And then she knew how she was going to break the resistance on Zeru Neimodia.

Commenor

Jorge was already worn out by the time Annita had arrived. At least the crowds had cleared out, he reflected as he dried a stack of dripping wet mugs one by one. His arms and feet ached from hours of tending bar for dozens of boisterous patrons and the floor-cleaning droid was still working over the floor with a patient whirring an hour after the place had closed. A big swoop race outside Munto City had brought in a raucous late-night crowd, and while Jorge, Marsden, and the rest of his employees had been up to the task of keeping the food and drink flowing and the commotion at a quasi-manageable level, it had been quite demanding. Still, he was bound to rake in a hefty profit from this evening’s business, and if a little soreness and staying an hour later was the price to be paid for that, he figured that was okay, as long as it didn’t turn into a daily routine.

Leaning on the polished hardwood bar, he worked his towel around the mug’s rim, sweeping up the water droplets left there from the dishwasher. As the door opened to admit his fiancée, Jorge had enough energy just to catch her eyes.

“Hey,” he called.

“Hey.”

Even as tired as it was, it didn’t take long for him to notice the worried expression or the lack of enthusiasm in her greeting. Something had disturbed her and she had come to see him about it—not call him about it, but see him in person. That meant she felt it was serious and Annita was not prone to overreacting. Jorge put down the towel and the mug, coming around to the other side of the bar. He pulled out one of the stools for her and she sat down as he took an adjacent one.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I was going through our list of friends, thinking about who to ask to be in the wedding,” Annita told him. “And of course Sarth and . . . the rest of the crew came to mind.”

“Sure,” Jorge replied easily. “So did you call them?”

“That’s just it,” Annita said worriedly. “I haven’t been able to reach them.”

He shrugged. “Maybe they’re in hyperspace.”

“For two months? With no check-in?” Annita replied. “I tried calling them the night we were engaged. Haven’t even caught a message.”

Jorge shifted uneasily.

“You know, Annita, it’s possible they’re in a corner of the galaxy where it’s not safe or easy to send long-range hypercomms,” he said, recalling all too well some of the shadier cargo runs he had accompanied as a member of the Hawk-bat’s crew.

“I’d believe that too—except for one thing,” Annita answered. “I ran a search on Gauntlet transports to see if any had been involved in recent accidents or distress signals, just in case.”

“And?”

“Nothing on the distress reports,” Annita said.

“It’s a fairly uncommon ship class and known for being reliable,” Jorge replied.

“You didn’t let me finish,” Annita cut in. “There was one mention on the Imperial networks of a Gauntlet freighter.”

She paused her a moment, collecting her thoughts as if she was a doctor about to deliver the diagnosis of a terminal illness. Jorge could see her weighing the gravity of her words—she clearly didn’t want to tell him.

“There’s a Gauntlet freighter under Imperial warrant,” she told him at last, her voice brittle.

“That could be any ship,” Jorge said. “There must be hundreds of those ships.”

“The charge was assaulting Imperial personnel,” Annita told him.

“Again, that doesn’t mean anything,” Jorge pointed out.

“I’m worried that it might be them,” Annita said. “You know how they could easily run into such a situation.”

Jorge’s expression soured. As one of the few people who was aware of Selu’s true identity, he knew all too well that it was possible that the Hawk-bat had run seriously afoul of the Empire. And he knew what happened to people who ran afoul of the Empire—they had killed Captain Sei’lar, the former master of the ship, nearly a year ago, and would have killed Jorge if Selu hadn’t intervened. Still, there was no guarantee that his friends were in trouble, and he didn’t want to jump to conclusions.

“Let’s not worry just yet,” he soothed. “Can you look into the case, maybe find out some more about the freighter?”

“I’ll try,” Annita said uncertainly. “It’ll be hard to do it without arousing suspicion. The last thing I want is Imperial liaison Norres poking his condescending nose into my office and looking over my shoulder.”

“For now, I think that’s all we can do,” Jorge said gently. “Don’t worry, Annita. Selu and the others are survivors, and for all we know, it’s not even them that’s in trouble with the Empire.”

He took her hands in his, drawing her close for an embrace, but Annita hesitated momentarily, staring off to one side into space.

“I hope you’re right,” she said before surrendering to his comforting arms.

Zeru Neimodia

Trip’s face was frozen in an expressionless mask as he stormed into the room where Agent Taskien was wrapping a loose tan cowl around her head as she sat on a box that served her as a chair. She was otherwise garbed like an insurgent—a tatterdemalion gray cloak was layered over nondescript pants and tunic, with a cowl, sturdy boots, and battered but serviceable black gloves to cover the rest of her infrared signature. A wide shoulder belt was laden with various accoutrements that one might need in the wilderness, while another belt around her waist held a blaster pistol, vibroblade, and a small set of electrobinoculars.

Trip made his way across the room, pushing past assorted technicians to stand pointedly a few meters away from where an intelligence officer was briefing her. Trip knew she had observed his arrival—he hadn’t exactly been subtle about it—but she deliberately disregarded him while the man continued explaining whatever he was saying. Finally, after the briefing was over, she nodded at her subordinate to withdraw and turned to face Trip, brushing an errant lock of hair out of her eyes.

“Yes?”

“This plan is ridiculous,” Trip said gruffly. “There’s no chance of success.”

“My projections say otherwise, Commander,” she informed him flatly, standing up to examine her appearance in a mirror that someone had placed on top of a nearby stack of crates.

Trip noted that she looked slightly different—it appeared she was wearing prosthetics on her face to help soften her chin and give her the appearance of lower cheekbones. She bore more than a passing resemblance to the female corpse his men had brought in several weeks back.

“Infiltrating a resistance movement without a solid cover identity is pointless,” Trip glowered. “They’ll shoot you on sight.”

“Then I’ll no longer be your concern,” she shot back over her shoulder angrily.

“This isn’t wise,” Trip told her. “You may have been able to convince your superiors that this insanity has a chance, but we both know better.”

Finally, she turned to face him.

“It’s my decision,” she said flatly. “You have no command authority over me. As for my cover identity, I’ve studied everything in the files about the woman your forces killed, including voice recordings. Her psychological profile indicates that she was a loner—she was a communications specialist. I know enough about her and her speech patterns and her background to pass as her, as long as I avoid anyone who knew her too closely.”

“And when that happens?” Trip asked.

“Then I improvise,” Taskien said. “If I can get back to their stronghold, I’ll have access to communications gear. That will give me a means to send some kind of signal. When that happens, be ready to move—we don’t want them getting away.”

Trip frowned. She was carrying on the conversation as if his words were barely registering in his mind—not what he’d had in mind. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why this approach?” Trip asked.

She stiffened.

“It’s not your place to question my methods, Commander,” she replied icily. “You are dismissed.”

Trip stood his ground for a minute longer. “Do you feel guilty, Agent Taskien? Guilty that we’re losing men out there and you haven’t been able to stop it? Or has your pride taken too big of a blow to accept failure, so you attempt something risky.”

Agent Taskien fixed a deathly stare on him for several long seconds. Then she lightly cleared her throat. “Gentlemen, the room please.”

Her tone was pleasant enough, but carried a forceful edge that immediately sent the rest of the intelligence analysts and operatives quickly out of the door. Only once the door had sealed behind her, leaving her and Trip alone, did she reply.

“Commander, I could have your career ended for insubordination,” she said. “Your service record isn’t glorious enough to make you immune to infractions such as this.”

Trip stood his ground, but said nothing. If she really intended to do that, she wouldn’t have cleared the room. She stalked around the room, but Trip noticed her discreetly withdraw a small device and begin sweeping the room. “Commander, I don’t want to have this conversation again. You have no place to contradict my methods or my orders.”

“You still didn’t answer the question,” Trip answered.

“I’m not going to,” she replied. “I don’t answer to you.”

“If it was guilt, then you need not be concerned,” Trip said, clenching his fist. “The life purpose for every single soldier in the Imperial Army is to fight and die for the Emperor. If we die accomplishing our mission, then it is an acceptable loss.”

“But the mission isn’t being accomplished and people are dying for no reason.”

“A foolish choice will not correct that.”

“Commander, if nothing, it’s a breath of fresh tactical air. After everything we’ve shown the insurgents, this is the last thing they’ll expect. It’s too subtle.”

“And you’re the only operative who could do this?”

“It was my idea and I will carry it out.”

“Or die trying.”

“If it comes to that. Why all this concern, Commander?” Agent Taskien gave him an evaluating stare. “You were ready to ship me back to Imperial Center when I first landed. Now you’re questioning my decision to risk my life on a mission that if successful will accomplish the Empire’s goals on Zeru Neimodia. Why?”

Trip stiffened. “I literally have one purpose, Agent. I was created to fight, conditioned to follow orders, and expected to end my life as a bloodstain on some distant world. That is why I exist.”

“Go on.”

“You’re different,” he said. “You have other ambitions. Other purposes. Other goals and things you want to accomplish in your life. Men like me bleed and die so people like you can have those things. This isn’t your job.”

“But it is,” she said, and for a second, her expression softened. “Because sometimes even men like you need help—help doing things that you can’t accomplish. This is one of them.”

“Getting yourself killed isn’t particularly helpful,” Trip retorted quickly.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he had said the wrong thing. Her eyes narrowed to slits and the tone of her voice dropped to an icily smooth register. “Your concern is touching, but I am a loyal officer of the Empire as well. And my ambition right now is to defeat the Empire’s enemies on Zeru Neimodia.”

“As is mine,” Trip replied. “But not at unnecessary loss of life.”

“Good,” she countered. “We agree.”

Trip’s expression darkened. “You could have had someone else take this role. You’re either trying to prove something or you have a death wish.”

“I’m the best choice,” she said. “I’m not going to explain myself every time, but I’ll make an exception this once. One, it was my idea. Two, out of all the operatives on Zeru Neimodia, none of them are objectively better at acting or more closely resemble a body we’ve recovered. Third, I’m confident I can pull this off. If you’re right, nobody else even thinks that. A scheme you don’t believe in isn’t much of a plan.”

She gave him a thin smile. “And there’s one last thing.”

“What’s that?” Trip asked, frowning.

“The last thing the insurgents would expect is a woman in Imperial service trying to infiltrate them.”

“Or maybe they just blast people they don’t recognize and ask questions later.”

“If they’re operating in cells, there’s no way that everyone will know all of the others,” Taskien pointed out. “That uncertainty will work to my advantage. The instructions are on this datapad.”

She handed him the device and suddenly, any shred of familiarity she had exhibited earlier was gone, replaced by snappy professionalism; she was back to her confident, in-charge, authoritative atmosphere. It was ironic that given how fond Trip normally was of snappy professionalism that her exuding it now bothered him.

“Commander, I appreciate your concern and your objections are noted, but I’m committed to this plan, and you will follow orders. Will that be all?”

Trip hesitated. She gave him that evaluating stare again.

“What if you’re captured?” he asked. “They could interrogate you and learn about our operations.”

“I’m trained to resist interrogation,” she replied. “Not as good as you, but you aren’t nearly as good at not getting caught.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Commander, don’t prize my life too highly,” she warned him. “Just be ready when I signal you and we’ll take these rebels down.”

“Fine,” he said, perusing the datapad. Trip still didn’t like the plan, but she’d given him no other alternative but to accept it.

“Good,” she replied. “No more objections, please, Commander.”

“Understood,” he answered.

“One more thing, Commander,” she told him. “I’m ordering you to hit me.”

“Excuse me?” Trip asked.

“Side of the face, hard enough to leave a mark, but preferably not enough to render me unconscious, if you can manage it.”

She stood back, arms folded across her chest, waiting for the blow. For a split-second, Trip considered questioning the order, but then decided that she could be testing his willingness to see harm inflicted upon her—or his willingness to simply follow orders. He had already half-questioned this one, so he decided that compliance was the best choice.

The blow to her temple was enough to rock her head back. She put her hand to her head and blinked to clear her vision.

“Are you okay?” Trip asked, worried that he’d struck her too hard.

“I’m fine,” she said, steadying herself.

Recovering her balance, she laid an arm on his wrist.

“You did exactly what I asked,” she said softly. “Now let me do my job, please.”

Trip knew that he should prize this moment of familiarity—so rare in his life as a soldier—so he didn’t disrespect it. “Understood, ma’am.”

“Good,” Agent Taskien said in her professionally polite authoritative voice, heading for the door. “The operation commences in two hours. Have your troops ready.”

She strode out of the door, leaving Trip behind wondering if she really knew what the kriff she was getting into. Then he shook his head, realizing it wasn’t his problem, and then headed out, flexing his knuckles a few times. He had work to do.

Revan's world

Sarth Kraen awoke from a deep dreamless sleep to find light streaming from the lounge of the Hawk-bat far above the muted fashion that they preferred for their unconscious hours. Some twitch of his subconscious had roused him from his rest, and he looked blearily around the room in an attempt to determine its cause. Rubbing his hand across his eyes, he realized someone else was awake and something about that person had apparently woken him.

Having made that observation, he rose from his bed, glancing at his chrono as he did so. It was approximately three hours before they usually arose. Sliding his bare feet into his boots, Sarth eased his way quietly across the cabin and out into the lounge. The privacy screen in the refresher was open and nobody was inside, eliminating his first guess as to where the person was. Then, Sarth stretched out with his newly acquired sixth sense, the arcane energy field known as the Force, searching for someone. It was not hard to find her presence; to Sarth’s senses, Cassi shone like a luminescent being. Sarth noted that she was in the lab, so he padded out of his cabin towards where his senses indicated she was, taking care not to wake Spectre. Concentrating a little more, he detected that she wasn’t scared or threatened, just focused and anxious. He made his way back to the cargo hold.

Peeking inside, Sarth saw Cassi seated with her back to him at a sizable desk lit by her glowrod, with small pieces of metal and machinery scattered in front of her, along with a set of tools, some of which Sarth recognized as being from his utility belt. She looked intent and focused, still wearing her nightrobe, but utterly focused on what she was doing. Sarth stepped into her alcove to examine what she was working on and noticed that some of the components were from the Hawk-bat. His eyes ran over them, identifying each piece in turn as power cells, emitter matrices, power conduits, lens assemblies, recharge sockets and other items that she had raided from the freighter’s supply of spare parts. At the moment, Cassi was focusing on trying to persuade a spare ship’s datapad to release its recharger port. She was focused on applying the bit of her multitool to pry the recharger port out of its housing, and Sarth could sense her exertion through the Force. Quietly, he walked up and sat down next to her, saying nothing as she continued to work at the prying loose the stubborn recharger port. However, it ultimately resisted all her efforts to detach it, and she stared at the datapad and its open back panel in frustration, rubbing her hand from where she had been gripping the multitool.

“Love, what are you doing?” he asked, reaching out to take her sore hand to gently massage it.

“Oh, that feels good, Sarth,” she said, not answering the question at first.

Sarth didn’t pursue the matter, instead focusing his efforts on smooth, soft palm that he held in his hands. He sensed her apply the Force to the tender appendage, focusing the Force into somehow persuading her nociceptors to relax and calming her nerves while causing her cells to regenerate from any microscopic damage or strain they had sustained. It was an area of the Force that Sarth did not understand well, having only learned a basic technique for briefly shunting aside discomfort or pain. It was simply something she was good at doing.

“Thanks, I’m fine now,” she said.

“Okay. What were you doing?” he asked.

“Oh, just working on something. Jolee got me thinking about this the last time we were training with the lightsabers.”

“What’s that?”

She turned to look at him for the first time, and Sarth couldn’t help but notice how beautiful her blue eyes were.

“We’re all going to need to make real lightsabers, right? To become Jedi?”

“Us becoming Jedi is something that is a long way off, according to Selu. We have considerable training ahead of us.”

“Maybe so. But it doesn’t hurt to at least have some things ready.”

“Like what?”

“I’ve been working on collecting the necessary parts that Mical said went into a lightsaber. Most of them are already here, but I can’t just seem to get these recharge ports out of the datapads. I’ve already broken one.”

“Can I see?”

“Sure.”

Cassi passed him the partially disassembled datapad, much of its rear paneling and several internal segments removed. Sarth fiddled with it for a bit, focusing his own mental senses on examining the datapad’s construction. While Cassi had a gift for healing and a natural empathy with others, Sarth’s talents in the Force were more in the area of understanding mechanical and electrical constructions. In many ways, Sarth’s and Cassi’s strengths in the Force were natural extensions of the talents that they had grown up developing, but allowing them to gain a more instinctual, indescribable aptitude in their disciplines. However, while Cassi had always been one of the more empathetic members of the Hawk-bat’s crew, she had never displayed such an affinity for healing or empathy on the level that she now did. Sarth, while a talented engineer, had never been able to decipher complex puzzles so easily or innately understand the reason for the failure of a piece of equipment to function as it should. The prophecy that Revan told them they were a part of was coming true, and Sarth theorized that, just as he and Cassi were transformed into a better thinker and healer respectively by gaining access to the Force, the others were affected in similar ways.

“Here it is. This lever has to be held down, or else this latch tries to keep the recharger port in place. I suspect the designer did this intentionally to prevent the port from jostling while still allowing access for repairs.”

Sarth held down the switch and pushed on one end of the recharger port with his other hand. The port popped out of the place, only a few wires holding it in place. After clipping and crimping the wires with the multitool, Sarth had the recharger port free.

“I believe you wanted this,” he said gallantly.

“Thank you, Sarth,” she beamed.

“How many more of these do you have?”

“I figured I’d get six of them out. That way we would have spares if we need them.”

“Would you like me to get the rest of them out for you?”

“That’d be wonderful.”

“Sure thing.”

Sarth worked in silence, intent on the datapads, as he deftly laid bare the inner workings of each component to retrieve the recharger ports from their housings. His natural skill and years of experience with machinery made the work appear effortless, though Cassi could attest that it had taken her considerably longer to accomplish similar tasks. In less than a standard hour, Sarth had laid all the ports on the desk in front of her.

“Is there anything else?” he asked with a smile.

“No, that’s it,” she said, yawning. “But I’m awfully tired.”

“It is fairly early,” he said. “I’ll walk you back to your cabin.”

Putting her arm around him, Cassi walked dozily back through the passage to their cabins. Though she only stood perhaps four centimeters below him, Sarth noted how much smaller she seemed compared to him, or at least more delicate.

“What woke you up?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Something just clicked in my mind, telling me that I was needed.”

“Maybe it was because of how close we are.”

“That is intriguing. That means our minds move at the same pace, on the same frequency. In a sense, we’re attuned to each other.”

“Attuned to each other? I like the sound of that. Are there any other benefits to this attunement?”

“It stands to reason that you can deeply sense how I feel when I say ‘I love you,’ on a level perhaps nobody else can,” Sarth said, turning to regard her seriously. “And Cassi, my beloved, I do love you.”

Cassi heard him say the words, but her mind’s eye saw something else—an image of Sarth hugging her tightly, never wanting to let her go, never wanting to be anywhere without her. His was a deep and abiding love, one which came with devotion and passion. And it was hers to accept and cherish.

“You’re right,” she said, feeling the warmth in his statement like a soft, fleecy blanket wrapped around her. “I love you too.”

He kissed her briefly, as they reached the cabins, before she released him to walk back towards her bed. Re-entering his cabin, Sarth slipped off his boots and rolled back into his bed. He fell asleep quickly, dreaming of Cassi and her bright blue eyes.

Zeru Neimodia

The muffled crump of an explosion several meters away reverberated through Agent Taskien as she pressed herself into the ground, seeking to avoid its deadly radius. The damp mists clung to her, wreathing her in their smoky tendrils. She scrambled to her feet and scurried away through a clump of zerubis trees.

“There she is!” a voice called out from behind her.

The whine of a blaster bolt issued behind her and she threw herself forward as a zerubis trunk splintered from the impact. She lay still for several more seconds, then scrambled to her feet once more, ignoring the mud caked on her hands and clothes.

“Got her!” the voice repeated.

She flung herself behind a tree trunk as several more blaster bolts sizzled past her position, burning score marks through several leafy fronds. The acrid smell of burning plants filled her nostrils, but she dared not move. Her heart was pounding inside her chest from terror and exertion. Drawing her blaster pistol, she pivoted around the trunk, laying down a barrage of covering fire. Satisfied that her pursuers had ducked under cover, she took off running in the opposite direction.

It didn’t take long for them to find her and soon she was racing as fast as she could in an evasive pattern as blasts cratered the trees and ground around her. Just a few hundred more meters and she would be safe. However, even the mists weren’t solid protection when her pursuers were this close. She leaped forward as a scarlet energy bolt lanced into the ground where her ankle had just been. With a sickening realization, she understood that they were aiming low on purpose—seeking to cripple rather than kill.

Rolling behind another tree trunk, she let the gray bark absorb several punishing blasts. The mists were beginning to sweep over the forest, concealing her from sight, and she allowed herself the luxury of catching her breath. Peering around the left side of the zerubis trunk, she scanned the forest for any sign of her pursuit. Perhaps she had come far enough that they were no longer chasing her? Unfortunately, if the mists concealed her from view, they also afforded the same benefits to her assailants. Drawing her blaster, she started to ease around the other side of the zerubis tree to check that side.

Suddenly, the hard tip of a blaster dug into her ribs. Taskien froze.

“You should have kept running,” said a white-armored stormtrooper. “Drop the weapon.”

Taskien complied, dropping her blaster. The stormtrooper started to kick it away. Even as he did so, she took advantage of his momentary distraction to suddenly bring both her arms up into the crook of the man’s right arm, dislodging his grip on his own weapon. Hooking her leg inside his, she grabbed him by the shoulder plates and dumped him on his back. In a flash, Taskien pulled her blade and slashed downward, catching the man across his chest. Then, scooping up her blaster, she sprinted off again even as more blaster bolts began to rain down on her position.

She grimaced as she did so. If her aim had been true, Techaust should live. The slash had only lightly punched through the armor—a deep, but not life-threatening wound. He would walk away with a scar and a medal—if her plan succeeded. However, if she had missed, she had just killed one of her own operatives and that was a disturbing thought. In the heat of the moment, she couldn’t necessarily trust herself.

A searing pain suddenly shot up her left calf as she realized that even the slightest distraction had subtracted from her awareness. The blaster impact caught her offguard, sending her tumbling to the ground. Per her instructions, her operatives were to attempt to shoot and capture her—the chase seemed authentic because it was.

Grabbing at her leg, she felt a flash of pain, but the bone didn’t seem to be hit and the wound wasn’t large. It was just a graze, but even a graze could be hobbling in a chase. She drew her blaster and gritted her teeth, hoping she was right about the insurgents’ surveillance of Imperial facilities and their rules of engagement. Otherwise she had just gotten shot and Techaust slashed for nothing.

She could see a pair of white-armored figuresapproaching when suddenly blasterfire from behind her starting raining on their position. One of them went down and the other immediately dropped to a prone position behind a tree, trying to lay suppressing fire.

In the face of a furious barrage, the stormtroopers wavered, then backed off. Taskien tried to fight off a wave of regret. Kohwi, the first man hit, had been struck in the chest. He was likely dead or about to be. Another life sacrificed for the mission—and this one her fault. The intelligence agent quickly cleared her mind of that thought—he had known the risks and had carried out his orders. Now it was time for her to do her part.

Taking particular care to keep her head down, she slowly began crawling through the undergrowth away from the stormtroopers. The branches and leaves rustled as she eased herself farther from the firefight.

Then suddenly, she froze, transfixed by a pair of blaster muzzles pointed directly at her face. A gruff-looking man and a Twi’lek woman garbed in gray-and-tan clothes similar to her own had appeared from the mists and had leveled the weapons at her.

“Do you know her?” the man asked his partner.

“No,” the woman replied in a low menacing voice. “It would be safer to shoot her.”

“Please,” Taskien gasped, genuine fear injected into her voice. “My name’s Daiya. I’m a comm-listener.”

“Then how’d you get this far out here alone? I know everyone who operates in these parts,” the Twi’lek asked.

“I was separated from my group during an Imperial attack,” Taskien said. “I’ve been on the run since—almost two months now.”

“The stormies were trying to kill her,” the man mused. “If she’s not one of us, we can always shoot her later.”

The Twi’lek woman glared at Taskien one last time. “I still say it’s too much of a risk.”

The man suddenly smiled and holstered his blaster, much to Taskien’s relief.

“Don’t mind her,” he said to Taskien. “She always wants to shoot everyone she doesn’t know.”

He turned to his partner. “She’s one of us. And if she’s not, we’ll have a prisoner to interrogate.”

“Pah, more than likely she’s an Imperial spy,” the woman answered dismissively.

“You of all people should know that the Empire doesn’t have women in its ranks,” the man replied. “Certainly not its combat arms. We’ll find out soon enough. The decision is final.”

“Thank you,” Taskien stammered. “I don’t know how much longer I could have lasted.”

The man ran a scanner over her.

“She’s not wearing any transmitters except for her commo gear.”

Then he noticed her leg.

“Are you hurt?”

“Just a graze, I think,” Taskien said. “I can still walk on it, as long as it’s not too far.”

“Then let’s be on our way,” the man answered softly. “This area is no longer safe.”

“The Empire tends to get annoyed when one of their precious stormtroopers gets killed,” the woman added. “They often express that annoyance through artillery.”

Taskien nodded and clambered to her feet, allowing the two to lead the way. Her heart was still pounding in her chest, but thus far, things were going about as well as could be expected. They hadn’t shot her—in fact, they were most likely taking her to their camp. It wasn’t likely to be the main stronghold, but for now, she took solace in the simple fact that she was still alive to contemplate her next move. She was in.

Revan’s Tower

Though it was late, Selu doubted he would be able to rest any time soon. The long hours after the rest of the crew retired were the best time for him to train. He spent most of the day working with the others and the late-night sessions were his time to hone his own skills. He stood atop the monolithic tower, staring at the glowing crystal in the middle of the floor.

“You can do this,” the apparition of Revan told him.

Selu frowned. The technique Revan spoke of was incredibly draining. His own master had trained him somewhat in its use and he had even made use of it occasionally. But what the apparition spoke of doing now was going far beyond that.

“Size matters not,” he muttered to himself. “Surface area, on the other hand, is a real pain.”

Closing his eyes, he stretched out his hand and concentrated. The Force flowed within him and he envisioned the floor he was standing on, then the rest of the tower. Allowing himself to serve as a conduit for its power, he wrapped the tower’s roof in a concealing blanket of Force energy. His hand trembled as he sought to harness more power, enveloping more of the structure. Scrunching his eyelids tighter in exertion, Selu imagined himself and the entire tower surrounded by a bubble of Force power. Raw Force power cascaded from his hands to wrap around the tower. Selu felt a strong burning sensation within him, as if his body was being overheated by some kind of internal flame.

“You control the power,” Revan said. “You master the inner flame. Not the other way around.”

Selu gritted his teeth and sought to dispel that painful sensation by pouring out even more of the Force through him, manipulating the environment around him with such precision and power that light itself was warped and hidden within the concealing cocoon. He felt the bubble of Force energy teeter on the edge of collapse and he quickly bolstered the weak points with more energy. Finally, he felt that it was stable, drawing power from the ambient environment rather than from him.

“Open your eyes,” Revan told him.

Selu did so. To his mild surprise, nothing seemed different. The tower, the crystal, the barren crater—they were all the same. His shoulder slumped as he felt utterly exhausted and drained—and apparently for nothing. Had he failed?

“The illusive technique is one-way,” Revan told him. “From the inside out, everything appears the same, but no light, sound or transmission can escape.”

“Can anyone see me?” Selu asked.

“No. Your illusion works much as the ones that protect this refuge do,” Revan replied. “It does not hold air and will be disrupted by a touch from a larger object, but otherwise it will remain indefinitely stable.”

Selu felt a wave of satisfaction wash over him. He had done it. He had hidden the entire tower from view.

“How do the ones that protect this refuge hold air and remain stable even when we passed through?” Selu asked.

“They are multi-layered,” Revan answered him. “And use a technique that creates a molecular mesh of Force energy capable of resealing any breach.”

Selu’s head spun as he tried to fathom the complexity of the technique. “That sounds incredible.”

“It does indeed require mastery,” Revan replied. “But you will reach that—in time. You have a talent for the skill, for manipulation within the eddies and whorls of the Force. You can shape its currents—a rare gift.”

“Well, I’d only ever used it to hide myself, and then only briefly,” Selu said. “Merging it into those other disciplines you showed me was what allowed me to hide an entire structure.”

He stretched out with his perceptions, walking over to the edge of the tower, and poking where he perceived the limit of the Force camouflage to be. He sensed the concealing cocoon collapse in upon itself and dissipate.

“Impressive,” he said.

“In time, you will learn to make larger ones,” Revan told him.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Selu said, checking himself with a small medisensor. “Just making that last one caused cellular damage.”

“I will teach you to draw more from the environment than yourself,” Revan said. “You must be the conduit, not the capacitor.”

Selu was silent for a moment, absorbing the words of the apparition.

“Content yourself for now,” Revan advised. “You have made considerable strides.”

“But you keep telling me that our time here is going to end sooner than we think,” Selu replied. “Yet there’s still so much to learn.”

“There is always more to learn,” Revan reminded him. “One day, you will use your power to hide the followers of the light side from great evil, and you will succeed.”

Selu frowned.

“Maybe from scanners and sensors,” he said. “But not from the Sith. If I can detect these illusions, then so can they.”

“That is why you must be willing to sacrifice everything to stand against them,” Revan reminded him. “You cannot protect them if you choose to confront the Sith.”

“I know,” Selu replied heavily, his shoulder slumping again from the burden of that knowledge.

“It is not an easy path, but you are not the first to walk it,” Revan said. “Look at floor. What do you see?”

Selu looked down. “Looks like stone to me.”

“Don’t just use your eyes,” Revan chided him. “See.”

Selu augmented his vision with the Force, squinting as he sought to pierce beyond just what his eyes could reveal and look deeper. At first, he saw nothing but ornately carved stone . . . and then he saw something else—a hidden chamber in the floor revealed by the microscopic tracery of a seam in the otherwise stone floor.

“There’s a hidden hatch,” Selu realized aloud.

“Open it,” Revan told him.

The lid was a solid stone panel that probably massed a hundred or so kilograms, and Selu knew that he would be unable to lift it physically, particularly in his tired state. Instead, he called on the Force, levitating the piece of masonry into the air. It slowly floated upwards with a groan as the tight-fitting stone slid free, wobbling slightly as Selu fought for control. He shifted it aside gently, revealing a chamber about two meters long, a meter deep, and a meter wide.

Inside, lying on a slab of stone, was an archaic set of armor in hues of dark gray and a faded crimson. It was largely made of a dark metal, with an imposing metal mask that seemed reminiscent of Mandalorian design. Selu recognized it from his history lessons back at the academy.

“This was yours, wasn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes,” Revan told him. “This armor was what I once wore, thousands of years ago. The Revanites found it and collected it, piece by piece, and stored it here. One day, they expected a new champion to rise and rule the galaxy in my name.”

“It’s in surprisingly good shape for something this old,” Selu noted, running a hand over the metal breastplate.

“You should take it,” Revan told him.

“Me? Why?” Selu asked in surprise.

“Because it is a symbol,” Revan replied. “The armor possesses no special power, but it stands as a symbol of justice and unity against evil.”

“It wasn’t always,” Selu pointed out. “You wore this mask as a Sith Lord.”

“And I was redeemed,” Revan told him. “I stood against the greatest evil of my time and sacrificed everything to help stop it. You can do the same—and this armor symbolizes that commitment.”

Selu picked up the mask, turning it over in his hands.

“This isn’t just ceremonial armor,” he said. “It’s built for battle.”

“Just as you are being prepared for what is to come,” Revan observed. “You can be the Revan of your days—uniting the galaxy to stand against the Sith. You can be that symbol.”

“I don’t have your power,” Selu pointed out.

“You can still bear this armor and serve as a beacon of light,” Revan answered. “The power is secondary.”

“All right,” Selu said, collecting the pieces. “I’ll take it.”

“Wear it well,” Revan told him. “It has been many years, but there are still those to whom this mask will mean something.”

Star Destroyer Corrupter

Ajaur sat in quiet meditation, brooding on the dark side of the Force. Channeling his hate, he saw in his mind’s eye over and over again the same image: the Jedi-turned-smuggler who had dared defy him, had even defeated him with deception and cunning on this very ship. His fury burned within him at seeing the man—his visage seemed to be mocking the Inquisitor as he defied him even after being savagely beaten. Ajaur had never known such hatred for anyone else besides Darth Vader.

Vader. His ire now shifted to his dark master. Vader had sent him on an errand to this miserable world of Susefvi, a satisfying one to be sure, but one that had kept him from executing his vengeance on the Jedi. Ajaur knew that by now the trail for the Jedi was long-cold, but he was an Inquisitor. He would find the Jedi and he would crush him.

As his thoughts simmered with rage, a vision coalesced in his mind. He saw the Jedi he hated, standing among dozens of students, showing them a lightsaber. His lip twisted into a sneer as he contemplated the sight. It soon shifted, showing that same Jedi now with arm around a woman who was holding an infant, blissful smiles on both of their faces. A touching scene, but one that only evoked disgust in Ajaur’s mind. The Jedi were not to take families and he would be damned ere he let this particular Jedi enjoy such prosperity and happiness.

His mind snapped back to consciousness and he realized that the dark side had shown him how to attack the Jedi: if he had walked away from the Jedi dictums on attachment, he would have friends and family. Even if Ajaur could not find the Jedi himself, he could draw him out by threatening those he held closest. And when that happened, Ajaur knew he would take great pleasure in killing them all.

The Inquisitor rose, striding over to the holocomm terminal and keying in a complicated sequence of numbers. Within minutes, the armored visage of Darth Vader materialized over the projector. Ajaur knelt subserviently—an indignity he was beholden to . . . for now.

“Report,” Vader rumbled.

“The Force-users on Susefvi are destroyed,” Ajaur said. “I have slaughtered them in their homes and enclaves. Three months of pursuit have left them all but destroyed. The population is under our control, the world garrisoned.”

“You have done well,” Vader answered. “I sense your anger, Ajaur. You seek the Jedi who defeated you?”

“I do, my lord,” Ajaur replied through gritted teeth.

Vader paused, reflective for a few seconds, with only the rasp of his respirator breaking the silence.

“Revenge is a powerful motivation, Inquisitor,” Vader told him. “Do not overstep your bounds.”

“The Jedi is a dangerous enemy of the Empire, my lord,” Ajaur said. “Should he not be hunted down?”

Vader regarded him a minute longer.

“Find him and destroy him,” Vader commanded, then his normally-menacing tone grew an even more hostile edge. “If you fail me, you will no longer be of use.”

Ajaur knew all too well what happened to beings whom Vader no longer had any use for. But he also knew he was up to the challenge—his thirst for revenge would drive him to great lengths in order to succeed.

“Lord Vader, I request the use of this Star Destroyer and intelligence assets to carry this mission,” Ajaur said.

“Granted,” Vader answered. “Destroy the Jedi, Ajaur, but care that you do not disrupt the peace that the Emperor has created for the galaxy. He is less . . . forgiving than I am.”

Ajaur swallowed hard. He had only been in the presence of the Emperor once, but that had been enough. As powerful and ominous as Vader was, the Emperor was more a soulless void than a human, the very avatar of darkness.

“I understand, my lord,” Ajaur replied.

“See that you do,” Vader warned him. “Your effectiveness thus far has kept you alive; do not disappoint me.”

Vader disconnected from the conversation without any pleasantries; he had no time for such things. Ajaur rose, chastened, but his face soon twisted into a scowl as he strode across the room and headed for the bridge. Captain Nebulax would not like being ordered around thus, but the Inquisitor was not about to give him a choice in the matter.

A few minutes later, he entered the bridge, stalking over towards where Nebulax stood at the far end. Crewers visibly blanched or shrank away as he passed, eliciting a sadistic pleasure in Ajaur, who relished the intimidation he exuded. These simple fools were tools for him to use, nothing more.

“Captain, you will return this vessel to the Zhar system,” Ajaur grated out. “And I want every piece of information that has been collected about the vessel that escaped.”

“Another mission from Lord Vader?” Nebulax asked.

“The mission is mine,” Ajaur snapped, barely tethering his rage. “And it should suit you, Captain.”

“Why is that?” Nebulax asked stiffly.

“I’m going to hunt down that Jedi and kill him,” Ajaur replied. “You will help me.”

A small smile played across Nebulax’s face.

“A chance for revenge,” Nebulax said softly. “A chance to finish what was started.”

“I leave nothing to chance,” Ajaur replied irritably.

“Of course,” Nebulax said. “I already have the information collected. It’ll be sent to your quarters.”

“Have your men dig deeper,” Ajaur told him. “I want to know everything about the known associates of that ship. If the Jedi wants to hide, I’ll hunt down every person he cares for and kill them one by one.”

“I understand,” Nebulax said, though he appeared slightly discomfited—not that Ajaur cared. His mission was far more important than the squeamishness of a mediocre Imperial officer. “Believe me, Inquisitor, I’m as invested in this as you are.”

Ajaur’s dark eyes glittered. “I should hope so, Captain. I expect the utmost from you and your crew—anything less will not be tolerated.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Nebulax answered. “There is a debt to be paid.”

“And it shall be paid in blood,” Ajaur said before turning and stalking off of the bridge. “One more thing, Captain. Prepare my shuttle.”

“Are you leaving, Inquisitor?” Nebulax asked.

“For now,” Ajaur replied tersely. “I will meet with you in the Zhar system when I am ready.”

“What if we find the Jedi before then?” Nebulax continued.

Ajaur glared at him, but knowing the captain had a point, gave a reasoned reply. “I will provide you with the terminal address of a relay station. Send an encoded transmission if you find the Jedi.”

“Are you going to assist us on that mission?” Nebulax inquired, pushing his luck somewhat and privately hoping the answer was no.

Ajaur’s eyes gleamed evilly.

“Indeed,” he told him. “But not in any way you could understand.”

The Inquisitor stalked off. To the crew around him, he was still the imposing, threatening figure he had always represented, exuding an aura of intimidation and malice. However, his fist was clenched tightly not with anger, but with tension and fear. For Ajaur knew where he had to turn to obtain help in hunting a single Jedi amidst the trackless voids of the galaxy, and the very thought of that source was enough to send a chill down his spine amidst reminders of painful memories.

However, he had wrestled with this conflict long enough and his hatred for the Jedi had surpassed his reluctance to seek out the assistance that could find him. His decision had been made—not an easy one, but one that he told himself was necessary. Only those with terrifying insight into the dark side of the Force could help him hunt his prey, and so Ajaur would return to the place where he had been trained.