Force Exile III: Liberator/Part 6

13

Commander CC-3433 had never been one to pass up golden opportunities that delivered his enemy’s base right into his hands, but the timing couldn’t have been worse. Many of his airmobile assets had either been destroyed by the unexpected baradium missile attack or were responding to those situations. A storm had caused further delays. It wasn’t until after he had already sent them that his techs were able to parse together the fragmented message that the rogue Vulture droid starfighter had sent. Trip wasn’t a betting man, but he would lay good odds that he knew who had launched that fighter. What he wouldn’t bet on was the safety of that individual.

So it was nearly eighty hours after the initial message had been received that he was leaning out the expansive side hatch of an LAAT/i gunship as its engines rumbled through the perpetually overcast sky of Zeru Neimodia. His ship, along with twenty other similar craft, was tucked away inside the thick cloud cover for safety’s sake, hoping to evade hostile eyes inside the cloudbank. Even launching the attack had been risky—this entire stretch of the continent was blanketed by thunderstorms and high winds. The gunship rocked as the winds buffeted it and rain beat against its metal hide. Privately, Trip hoped that the pilots were up to the challenge of flying purely on instruments across rugged mountainous terrain. He had no desire to make a permanent impression on Zeru Neimodia’s landscape.

“Coming up on the attack point in one minute,” the pilot told him.

Trip was pleased to hear the voice was the brusque voice of a fellow clone. He had always felt more comfortable around other Fett clones—a sort of mutual understanding and trust that came from their shared heritage and training. That alone in his mind improved their odds.

“Descending in three, two, one. Accelerate to attack formation.”

Trip held on to an overhead grip as the gunships banked and dove out of the cloud cover onto a tall mountain. It seemed innocuous enough from altitude, a craggy peak wreathed in mist, its upper slopes crowned with moss and whatever scrub brush grew on Zeru Neimodia. Its roots were covered by stately groves of zerubis trees. From the air, there was no sign of hostile activity—but Trip knew looks could be deceiving.

The gunships shed altitude, swooping into a narrow valley between two of the peaks. Torrents of rain and wind lashed at the ships, but they all made the turn, though some just barely. They passed through another strand of mist, momentarily blinding Trip. When they cleared it, he saw what he had been expecting: a tall blast door nearly six meters high and at least three times that wide, tucked away underneath a rocky overhang. Its front surface had been painted to mimic the natural stone, but this close, there was no mistaking it. Trip didn’t stop to admire it too long, though. Twin laser cannon turrets were swiveling to bracket the gunships that had suddenly swooped out of the downpour.

“Lock targets and fire,” he ordered.

Missiles leapt from the gunships’ rackets, arcing out on streams of fire to smash into the turrets, destroying them before they could get a shot off. Trip smiled grimly. Good. They caught them by surprise.

“Blow the door.”

More missiles jumped away from the gunships, pounding into the sturdy door. A second later, the gunships’ laser cannons added to the punishment, sending dozens of energy bolts tearing into the door. It didn’t take long. The door was built to withstand a few hits and keep out the weather, not resist prolonged bombardment. With a shudder, it collapsed and fell backward. The gunships continued laying down fire, sending hot light and missiles into the hangar to suppress the guards that had congregated inside.

“Move in and begin landing troops,” Trip said. “Take six ships and form a perimeter—don’t let anyone escape. Take as many prisoners as possible—I want their leader alive.”

The lead three gunships charged into the cavernous hangar, their turrets and lasers still paving the way even as they came to a halt inside the mountain. Return fire quickly found them, charring pits and scorches in their plating, but the ships were armored against small arms fire. Their side hatches slid open, disgorging dozens of white-armored soldiers. The defensive fire quickly shifted towards the troopers, but though the first few went down, the rest began adding their own blasters to the gunships’ heavier weaponry.

Trip checked his blaster and hung on as his own craft started forward into the hangar entrance. The first three ships had already unloaded their troops and were backing out, leaving the thirty-odd soldiers they had just unloaded frightfully exposed for a few seconds. Trip winced as several of them were cut down by guards who were firing from behind cover. Then the first three gunships were clear, heading out to join the patrol perimeter, and his next wave of ships were starting forward. Trip lurched as the pilot suddenly banked, a move that nearly clipped the gunship against the hangar. Yet he was grateful the pilot had done so; the white contrail of a missile plume visible from the side hatch was the only evidence of a near hit. A second missile streaked out from the depths of the hangar to hit the gunship on Trip’s right. The warhead was effective, exploding into the cockpit with devastating impact. The stricken gunship plunged downward and slammed into the mountain wall just below the hangar entrance.

Trip had time to slam his fist against his thigh plate in frustration. Then the gunship set down and he was jumping free of the ship, laying down blaster fire for the men following him. The cacophony of battle echoed through the hangar as his troops fought for every centimeter of the hangar. The heavier weapons of the gunships screamed and thundered inside the confined space, adding to the staccato chatter of small arms.

The location of the rebel base might have been given to him, but it was clear from the fierce resistance that the rebels were going to make him and his troops pay for it in blood. Sighting in, he fired several more times and then dashed for cover on the far side of the hangar. Blaster bolts scorched the floor where had just been. They were in for a fight—but Trip was fine with that. No more mist to hide behind. No more sniping and running. Just a plain old-fashioned storm-the-base operation. He had been seeking such a battle for nearly six months now and Agent Taskien had delivered it to him. Even as he blazed away at the resistance, he breathed a silent thanks to her, wondering if she was even still alive.

---

Her mind barely registered the sound of approaching footsteps. There wasn’t much she could do about it anyway. Suspended by her wrists, battered and hurt more than she ever had been before, she was only faintly conscious. A distant rumble bespoke considerable activity—perhaps the starfighter attack was launching.

Painfully, opening one swollen and bruised eye, Agent Taskien saw Arthos standing there, his face a rictus of anger and betrayal. As far as she could remember, he hadn’t been one of her torturers over the last few hours.

“So you’re still alive,” he said.

She coughed and nodded slightly as he looked her over.

“The Empire is attacking the mountain,” he told her. “Your doing.”

For the first time in what seemed like eternity, Taskien let the faintest hint of a smile creep across her mouth.

“That’s right,” she croaked, the labored sound all she could manage.

“Why?” he asked. “Why would you do that to us?”

Taskien closed her eyes, focusing on just continuing to breathe, and wheezed, “Your resistance is a cancer. Must be destroyed before it can spread and endanger the Empire.”

“We’re a cancer?” Arthos raged. “We’re not the ones oppressing people and enslaving entire populations. We just want to be free.”

“Freedom is an illusion,” she replied. “And Romierr doesn’t care about your freedom. He’s here for personal gain.”

Arthos gave her a stricken look. “You lie. He said that you were an Imperial agent. I couldn’t believe it until I saw for myself.”

“And what do you see?” she asked him.

“I see they were not gentle with you,” he replied.

“The first group just used their hands.” She coughed again. “The second group brought needles. The third had stun batons.”

He shook his head.

“Do not look to me for pity,” he answered harshly. “You lost that when you betrayed us.”

She mustered up the strength to glare defiantly at him. “I don’t need your pity. All I need you to do is die for your cause.”

“Ironic—I’m here to make sure that very thing happens to you.” He produced a blaster from his coat. “I will give you the mercy of a swift death—a blaster bolt to the heart.”

He raised the blaster and Taskien braced herself for a sudden burning sensation and then nothing, when suddenly the door blew in. The force of the explosion, secured as she was, shook her around like a fish on the line while Arthos was flung to the ground. A pair of white-armored stormtroopers burst in, weapons sweeping the room. One of them kicked away Arthos’s blaster while the other pulled out a vibroblade and cut her down.

“Sir, we’ve found her,” the man reported, sawing away at the last of the restraints.

Her legs unable to bear her weight, she collapsed onto the floor.

“Need a medic!” he called over his comlink, then turned his attention back to her. “Lie still. Help is on the way.”

“Not yet,” she replied. “Help me up.”

Grasping at his arm, she painfully pulled herself up, leaning heavily on the stormtrooper. The other trooper had subdued Arthos, who was kneeling on the ground, his hands bound behind his back. He glared furiously at her as she swiveled to face him, scooping up his blaster.

“You traitor!” he shouted.

“I was never one of you,” she replied, leveling the blaster at him. “I will give you the one mercy you would have given me.”

“Do it!” he snarled. “I die free!”

“You die for your cause, just like I said,” she retorted.

“I should have shot you in the heart when I had the—”

The loud report of a blaster echoed in the small chamber, accompanied by the tang of ozone and burning flesh. Arthos stood frozen for a second and then collapsed forward lifelessly, a smoldering hole between his eyes.

“Professionals shoot for the head,” she quipped.

Then suddenly, her legs buckled under her and her vision swam. The stormtrooper lowered her to the ground as two more troopers entered the room. One of them pulled off his helmet and knelt over her while the other, a medic, went to work.

“You completed your mission, Agent Taskien,” Trip informed her. “The mountain is ours.”

“Good,” she whispered faintly as she felt her consciousness slipping away. “Contact my team and report anything you find in the mountain—my superior must be informed.”

The medic started to sedate her, but she gripped his arm with surprising strength. “Don’t. I need to be conscious for this.”

“You’re badly injured,” the medic replied. “You need to be medevaced for treatment.”

“Not until the mountain is secure,” she protested, turning to Trip. “You’ll need me.”

Trip looked her over, obviously evaluating her determination against her catalog of visible injuries, and then shrugged. “We can secure the mountain without you. You can debrief later.”

He nodded at the medic, who injected her with a powerful anesthetic.

“Kriff you!” Taskien snarled, but the sedative was fast-acting and that was all she could manage before she slumped back, rapidly losing consciousness.

Dromund Kaas

Ajaur had spent three days learning the Quey'tek technique, practicing his form. It didn’t have to be perfect—just enough mastery to get him close to Theros would suffice. He had drank rainwater that he collected in a small container and stretched his meager supply of rations until they ran out. The Force would sustain him until he could return to his ship. Finally, though he was tired and hungry, Ajaur felt he was adept enough in the technique.

He had drawn upon the dark side nexus that occurred in the cave and his convictions were stronger than ever. The Inquisitor would challenge Theros and his passion would grant him the strength he needed, strength that would lead to power and thus to victory. And when he had defeated Theros, that set of chains would be broken. Ajaur savored that thought, allowing the anticipation to whet his appetite for the coming confrontation.

When the Inquisitor left the cave for the last time, he used the Force to collapse its entrance. He had gleaned the knowledge he needed from this place; there was no point in leaving it for someone else to find and use. The power he had gained here was his alone to wield.

He made his way through the marshes of Dromund Kaas back to his ship, where he ate and rested—and recharged his new lightsaber. He had to make a few modifications to the weapon to allow it to charge, replacing the power cell and energy conduit, but they were minor modifications that posed no difficulty. The lightsaber ignited with a satisfying snap-hiss to reveal a meter-long blade of crimson. Ajaur smiled grimly. Theros was about to experience the revenge he had earned.

Scout ship Observant

“Preparing for drop out of hyperspace in two minutes, sir,” Warrant Officer Terena Jasnan said smoothly from her position at the helm as the ship’s commander, Lieutenant Almos Terthbak, took his chair facing the forward viewport.

“Very well, Warrant Officer,” Terthbak replied.

As the reversion timer counted down, Jasnan threw the lever and the swirling vortex of hyperspace resolved itself into first starlines, then individual stars. Ahead of them, consuming most of the forward viewport, was a sizable nebula. Its magnificent colors, dominated by tawny, crimson, teal, and viridian, sprawled across the space before them, pockmarked by brilliant orbs of light that were fledgling stars absorbing gas and dust from the nebula.

“Impressive,” Jasnan said. “Fleet Command sends us to somewhere pretty for a change.”

However, she knew that to Almos Terthbak, that information was all irrelevant. Their ship, the Observant, was not in the system to conduct a diplomatic mission or even to make contact with the people there. Their sole purpose in the system was to conduct scans and search for any possible traces of the treasonous Jedi Knights. They had been at this job for the better part of a year now, their only other Human contact being with a supply ship; that had been three months ago, and it had only been a tiny junkpile of a craft. And for the duration of the mission, they had yet to locate any trace of the Jedi, save for an old abandoned starfighter which was now strapped to the scout ship for further investigation at a later time. They had tried to at least unload the derelict craft on the supply ship captain, but he had refused—his ship was barely bigger than Observant—and all arguments about how it greatly expanded their sensor profile fell on deaf ears, much to the exasperation of the crew. Instead, the Observant had had its mission extended yet again and dutifully cruised the little-traveled spacelanes of the galactic Outer Rim until but a week ago, when a priority transmission from Imperial Command had sent them scrambling out to this distant sector of space to sweep for a Jedi enclave.

Despite the seeming urgency behind their sudden course change, the crew largely had taken it in stride, well familiar with the routine jumping at shadows practiced by some in the upper echelons of the Imperial admiralty. Their mission and tasks would be the same, no matter what system they were sent off to. Her captain was the one exception and his highly-strung antics had frequently amused the rest of the crew. By and large, the other crewmembers considered Terthbak to be the same tense, officious, inexperienced lieutenant that had tripped over his own feet when boarding the ship for the first time, though Jasnan tried to hold out some hope for him.

“Sensors, prepare for primary scanning sequence of the target world,” ordered Terthbak. “We wouldn’t have been sent to this world for nothing, and I want a good scan of this place.”

“Aye, sir,” said Warrant Officer Neach from his seat in front of the various sensor consoles, and while his voice was carefully modulated to conceal his skepticism at the lieutenant’s words, Jasnan knew from prior conversations he thought their mission was pointless.

In his opinion, it would be just like High Command to send a scout across the galaxy for no reason. She admitted to herself that the scouting routine, having been repeated for the forty-third time on this cruise, was mind-numbingly boring: Bring the ship in close enough for the sensors to be useful. Scan the world or object. Report no findings. Set an outbound vector and jump out to the next destination. Start over. It had been the same on forty-two of the forty-three locations, and the crew, minus Terthbak, expected nothing less.

“Contact,” said Neach, perking up and sitting more straightly at his chair. “I’m getting a significant reading from the black box. Tracing it now, sir.”

The black box, a mysterious cluster of sensors of some classified nature, had been specially installed on Observant and its findings had been declared of utmost importance. Until now, it had never done anything, and some of the crew suspected it was a sham.

“Is it working correctly?” Terthbak demanded tersely.

“Aye, sir, just finished a diagnostic on it,” said Neach. “The array is fully functional.”

“Run a double-check,” Terthbak said.

Neach didn’t reply, instead engrossing himself in operating the delicate sensor equipment and focusing it on the nebula. For several moments, he waited as the sensor boards whirred and beeped at him. Eventually, the results came through.

“Still positive contact, sir,” Neach reported.

“That means, Warrant Officer, that we have found them: The Jedi Knights, sworn enemies of the Empire. This information must immediately be sent to Imperial High Command,” said Terthbak in the officious manner the others had rapidly come to detest.

Before she could react, though, an alarm lit up on her diagnostics board.

“Sir! Something is wrong with the port docking station!” called out Jasnan, her hands flying across her console.

“What is it?” Terthbak asked.

“I’m not sure, sir, but some of the systems are activating!”

“How is shield integrity?”

“Shields are holding, except on the port side, but the airlock is cycling. I can’t explain it; running a diagnostic now, sir.”

“I want answers!” demanded Terthbak.

The crew all focused their attention to their consoles, engrossed in determining the cause for the docking station malfunction, or scanning the surrounding space for hostile craft.

“It might be an exotic form of radiation triggering the circuits. Prepare to seal off the bridge,” said Terthbak.

“Yes, sir!” Jasnan responded.

“Don’t worry, it’s not a radiation breach,” said a calm voice.

Every member of the crew save Terthbak turned from their stations at the sound of the voice; it was not one they were familiar with. To their astonishment, a man in full clone trooper armor and a woman wearing a hood that obscured her features were pointing blasters at them. Terthbak did not budge a centimeter, clearly paralyzed with fear from the blaster barrel lodged firmly against his temple.

“Hands up,” said the man in clone trooper armor, who was holding the blaster to Terthbak’s head.

“Get up slowly, and unbuckle the blaster belts,” said another armored man standing behind Terthback. “Make a false move and you’re dead. You too, Lieutenant. Nice and easy.”

Again, Neach and Jasnan complied, with Terthbak following suit as well. The utility belts clattered on the deck, along with the blasters.

“Take them to the cargo hold and lock them up,” ordered the armored one. “If they give you any trouble, shoot them.”

His accomplices acknowledged him silently and marched the Imperials back to the cargo hold, blasters at the ready.

---

As soon the Imperials were clear, Selu Kraen sat down in the Imperial captain’s former chair as he looked around the bridge. Like the other members of the Hawk-bat’s crew, he had taken great care to disguise his appearance. While the rest of them, aside from Spectre in his katarn-class commando armor, had donned cloth masks and robes, Selu was wearing Revan's armor. It didn’t fit all that well, but the concealing helmet with its T-shaped visor covered his face and gave him an intimidating countenance. Furthermore, it also helped disguise his vocal inflections. From the little he had observed of the Imperials, Selu didn’t think they had too much to worry about from them, but there was no harm in being cautious. Then again, the fact that Selu had managed to dock the Hawk-bat with their ship without raising an alarm spoke to their general incompetence.

Selu had once again surprised the others by casting a Force illusion over the Hawk-bat to conceal its approach, planning on boarding the Imperial vessel rather than simply destroying it. While the scout ship was certainly larger than the Hawk-bat, it was also lightly armed and crewed, and Selu had figured that between the Force illusion and the concealment of the nebula, they had a good chance of boarding the ship without detection. When they had burst into the airlock, they had been prepared for a firefight, lightsabers held at the ready. However, no one had been wise to their approach, so Selu had changed tactics, sending Milya and Sarth to secure the aft compartments while he, Spectre, and Cassi dealt with the bridge crew and gunner. They had been instructed not to hurt the Imperials if at all possible; aside from a bruise on the engineer’s head from the butt of Milya’s blaster, they had achieved that goal. The other two soon returned from their errand in the aft of the ship.

Looking over, Selu saw Sarth poring through the ship’s computer, trying to pull information from it. Milya and Spectre were scouring the ship for any further crewmembers or security systems. Cassi, with little else to do, had taken control over the pilot’s station and sent them on a course that lazily looped around the nebula while the new crew members examined the prize.

“Find anything, Sarth?” he asked.

“Mmhmm,” mumbled Sarth, not bothering to look up from the computer.

“What did you find?” Selu pressed. However, his comments, addressed to a thoroughly engrossed Sarth, failed to evoke a response and Selu waited several more moments for Sarth to finish with what he was doing. There was simply no point in trying to get his attention or speed him along when he was concentrating on something.

“Hey Sarth, care to share?” asked Cassi finally.

“Hmm? Oh, sure,” said Sarth. “The ship we’re on is called the Observant. It’s a specially modified scout vessel on a secret mission from Imperial Command, Lieutenant Almos Terthbak commanding.”

“What kind of mission?” asked Selu.

“Well, I’m working on that,” said Sarth. “Some things are more difficult to slice into than others, and that—” he indicated the screen, “—happens to be one of them.”

“Fair enough,” said Selu. “By the way, good work on the takeover, you two.”

“Thanks,” said Cassi. “I’m glad it didn’t take very long; it was nerve-wracking. I mean, piracy isn’t our usual job description.”

“Not just piracy,” Selu reminded her lightly. “We’ve also stolen Imperial property.”

“Albeit ugly, worn-out property. This ship has been flying for at least six months.”

“How do you know that?”

“Just smell the air,” Cassi said, wrinkling her nose. “It has that stale, recycled smell that you get when the ship has been journeying for a while.”

Selu couldn’t find anything to dispute her reasoning, so he left it at that. He found it unusual that he hadn’t noticed the smell of the ship until Cassi had made her remark, but now the sour odor was quite noticeable.

“Got something!” said Sarth suddenly.

“What did you get?” Cassi asked.

“The log,” said Sarth. “Well, sort of. I cracked the lieutenant’s personal log.”

“Let me see,” said Selu, rising from his seat to stand behind Sarth and peer down at the screen.

“It was pretty easy. His password was ‘Admiral Terthbak,’” said Sarth. “And the encryption was rudimentary at best.”

“Well, at least he can dream big,” remarked Selu dryly. He read the screen for several minutes before giving Sarth a bewildered look.

“This is some of the worst writing I have ever seen,” he said. “It doesn’t even tell us why the ship is way out here. Their mission is some kind of Jedi-hunting exercise, but beyond that, this isn’t very helpful.”

“I never said it was,” Sarth replied lightly, shrugging.

Shaking his head, Selu returned to reading. As he forced his eyes to read the egotistical mental meanderings of the mind of Almos Terthbak, an idea began coalescing in his head.

“Bring Lieutenant Terthbak to the bridge,” Selu said to Spectre. “I’d like to have a little chat with him. We're going to have do this very carefully.”

“Is that so?” said Spectre, an amused tone creeping into his voice as he quickly deduced Selu’s plan. "What's your play?"

“We're going to play on his suspicions and ignorance of the situation and take advantage of my memory. If you can bring me Terthbak and just give me enough information to get started, I'll see what I can do with him, but we'd like to avoid divulging the whole Jedi thing. Try and act menacing but don't go overboard. Sarth, Milya, Cassi, you might want to leave for a while.”

“Why?” Sarth asked.

“It’s going to be a bit intense in here, and I’ll need to focus.”

“Okay,” Cassi said. “If that’s what you want. Come on, Sarth.”

With that, the two of them rose and left, leaving Selu sitting alone in the captain’s chair. A few minutes later, Terthbak was half-walked, half-dragged into the bridge of the Observant by Spectre, who deposited him in a heap at the foot of the commander’s chair occupied by the still-armored Selu. Then, the ARC took up station behind the petrified Terthbak, towering ominously over him in stony vigil. Selu silently regarded Terthbak for several moments, letting the silence sink in and the fear build in Terthbak’s eyes. With the Force, reading the flow of Terthbak’s emotions was easy as reading a screen of text, and Selu wanted to let the maximum amount of terror settle into Terthbak’s psyche to make him more likely to slip up. The officer was clearly weak-minded, and most Jedi would have had no difficulty in applying a simple mind trick to persuade Terthbak into spilling all he knew.

Unfortunately for Selu, he had never been able to successfully mind trick anyone. His natural lack of aptitude for the skill, along with the forced needs of training during wartime had prevented him from developing the ability, and his tutelage under Revan had done little to help him directly influence minds.

“Who is this?” Selu asked Spectre with an air of affected boredom.

"Lieutenant Almos Terthbak, Imperial Service Number—" Spectre started, but Selu cut him off.

"Tee Kay One One Three Eight Four Two One, yes, I know. Why have you brought him here?"

Terthbak stayed frozen on the floor as Selu glared at him through the helmet’s opaque visor.

"He owes you an explanation of his mission," Spectre said.

“Very well. Explain yourself, Imperial," Selu inquired, leaning towards Terthbak slightly, his tone dripping with disdain.

Terthbak stared in stark terror at the enigmatic armored and cloaked figure seated in front of him. The negligent ease with which they had seized the Observant, coupled with the fact that they had not bothered to bind his hands, spoke to their utter contempt for him as a threat. Still, he was an Imperial officer, and there were specific protocols for behavior in the event of capture by a hostile force, which this most certainly was. Swallowing hard, he looked at the visor of the being in front of him, doing his best to sound defiant.

“I am Lieu-Lieutenant Almos Terthbak, operating number Tee Kay One One Three Eight Four Two One,” he said.

“Don’t play games, Terthbak,” Selu replied forcefully. "I already know all of those things."

“We are . . . members of the Imperial Navy. You'll pay for attacking our vessel,” said Terthbak haughtily.

"I believe your priorities are misplaced," Selu told him. "Don't waste my time, and I won't waste yours . . . or Warrant Officer Jasnan's."

By the way Terthbak’s eyes widened, he knew he had hit his mark. It had not been a blind guess. Terthbak’s puerile and vapidly written memoirs had indicated his feelings towards Jasnan and, armed with that information, Selu had figured that using her as leverage would be the easiest way to obtain information out of Terthbak.

"If you don't want to explain yourself, that's fine," Selu said. "I am commandeering this ship. I have no need of your services, but I would like to know what this ship's purpose was. It'll help me appraise it for any potential buyers."

"You're stealing Imperial property. That is a capital offense," Terthbak blustered.

"You're strangely bellicose for a prisoner with no leverage," Selu replied, as a thought struck him. "What kind of man are you, Almos Terthbak? Perhaps you are a true believer in Imperial justice. Or perhaps you're hoping to put on a brave show for the rest of your crew, trying to impress them. Trying to impress . . . her."

Terthbak straightened his chin as Selu recalled the details from the man's logs, trying to glean through the vapid ramblings for some deeper meaning.

"The truth is, you have dreams of grandeur but you're too foolish to realize you've already lost them. Your unimpressive service record has just been further tarnished by the loss of your ship and neither the Navy nor Jasnan will want anything to do with you after this sorry incident. It's over for you, Terthbak. Even if you survive, you'll rejoin your parents as an unskilled laborer, one of the faceless masses--forgettable, unnoticed, and insignificant."

Terthbak snarled, but Spectre held him fast.

"You have no idea what it's like!" he said. "You're nothing but a common criminal. You know nothing of clawing your way up from nothing, trying to succeed with a woman for something beyond just money, or making a name for yourself for the greater good."

"I do," Selu told him evenly. "Which is why I am going to offer you a route where you can at least hope to save some measure of your self-respect and you'll take it because that's all you care about. You have two choices here. If you do not cooperate, I will throw you back in the hold with your crewmates and I will tell them that you spilled everything, that you cried like a coward, and you pissed yourself. It'll be easy enough to make the latter two happen at least. Not only that, but I will give them your personal logs and let them mock you richly for the contents of your pathetic ramblings for the duration of your stay on this ship until eventually I dump the miserable lot of you somewhere inhospitable and far from Imperial space."

Terthbak said nothing, but his face paled.

"In the other version, you tell me what I want to know and I shall return you to your subordinates with a muttered tale of your resistance and bravery. I will withhold your personal logs and release you somewhere where you have a reasonable chance to escape back to your precious Empire. You might even escape with a career and some shred of respect from your subordinates."

"Sir, we could just airlock them," Spectre said. "You're being far too kind to these Imperial scum. I say we space them all, starting with what's-her-name--Jasmin."

"Jasnan," Terthbak corrected automatically. "And she's braver than you are!"

"I doubt that," Spectre replied, but Selu lifted a hand, forestalling any further exchange from Spectre.

"What guarantee do I have that you'll follow through?" Terthbak said.

"You're in no position to negotiate," Selu stated flatly.

"We could leave them on Qat Chrystac," Spectre suggested. "It has radioactive lava and a toxic atmosphere. Or a shadowport like Abregado-Rae, see how long four Imperials last."

Selu turned back to Terthbak.

"What do you say, Lieutenant Terthbak? Do we have a deal?"

Half an hour later, Selu had obtained all the information he needed from the lieutenant, who had caved like a folded sheet of flimsiplast. Spectre and Milya had returned the Imperial to the hold, sealing it tightly behind them, and gathered Sarth and Cassi back into the bridge for a brief conference. With all five of them in the ship’s bridge, it was rather crowded, but there was no helping that; the scout ship clearly wasn’t built for comfort.

“Whew,” Selu said, pulling off the ancient helmet to reveal his face glistening from perspiration. “Spectre, I know your armor is like a second skin to you, but this stuff is uncomfortable.”

Spectre shrugged in response.

“What did the lieutenant tell you?” Cassi asked.

“Plenty,” Spectre replied. “All it took was the proper application of pressure.”

“Speaking of that,” Selu cut in with a frown. “But we probably should tone down the threats about leaving them on places where they'd be dead in minutes. That's as bad as killing them. Couldn’t you pick that up through reading my emotions?”

“It’s not as easy to use the Force out here.”

Selu gave him a rueful chuckle.

“The rest of the galaxy is pretty much like that. If you want to keep using the Force, you’ll have to learn to focus it a little more.”

“All of that aside, what did this Terthbak tell you?” asked Sarth.

“As Spectre said, the lieutenant was very forthcoming after some initial difficulties. First off, this ship is a specially-equipped scout ship designed to find Force-sensitives so the Empire can destroy them,” Selu said.

“How?” Sarth asked, intrigued.

“Apparently the Empire has devised a way to detect the Force technologically,” Selu told him. “The lieutenant didn’t know how it worked and I doubt the schematics are in the computer.”

“Why were they out here?” Milya asked.

Selu frowned. “Apparently somebody found old records about the Order of Revan. It has nothing to do with us that I can tell.”

“Well, that changes things a bit,” said Sarth.

“They’ve been at it for several months, and thankfully haven’t been very successful. They have three or four dozen more destinations left on their scouting run before they finished, but they already found one location,” Selu added.

“Where?” asked Cassi.

“Planet called Haruun Kal. It was a battleground during the Clone Wars,” said Selu. “I suspect that any Jedi there have already come under attack or have fled already.”

“Perhaps,” said Spectre. “But Revan mentioned other groups also. The Zeison Sha, the Matukai, and the Jal Shey. Can we tell if any of them are at the locations the Observant was supposed to investigate?”

Selu looked over the list, comparing it with what he remembered from the Jedi archives.

“The Zeison Sha were rumored to be based on Yanibar,” he said. “But that was a long time ago.”

“Why not have Milya try and see if she can sense them?” Cassi asked. “I mean, she is the seer, right?”

Selu turned in surprise, then glanced at Milya. “If you want to.”

“You mean by trying to see it with the Force? I’ll give it a try,” she said, somewhat nervously.

“No,” Selu said firmly. “There is no try, do or do not.”

“Of course,” she said.

“Just relax,” Spectre said reassuringly. “You’ll be fine.”

Milya read over the destination list, tracing her finger down the names on the screen, mouthing them quietly and frowning in concentration. She let a moment pass, then two, but then shook her head in frustration.

“I’m not getting anything,” she told them.

“Try closing your eyes,” Selu said. “Let the Force guide you to the proper name—don’t try and see it.”

“If you say so,” she answered without much confidence.

She closed her eyes, and Selu sensed that she was falling into a meditative stance as her mind wandered across the timeless expanses of the Force, seeking information. She placed a hand tentatively near the display screen, her finger slowly panning the list down. Milya did her best to silence her doubts and any attempts at guessing, allowing the Force to guide her hands. Suddenly, her finger darted out almost reflexively, coming to rest on one of the names on the list.

“I . . . I think this might be something,” she said, an eyebrow twitching in surprise. “Is that a planet?”

“That’s the ENTER command,” Spectre remarked dryly.

Milya opened her eyes.

“It’s no use,” she told Selu. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he told her gently, then a thought struck him. “Try not thinking about the list at all. Just see if you can reach out and sense where we need to go.”

“Okay,” Milya answered dubiously, closing her eyes again.

At first, all she saw were the random splotches of color that marked her vision when she closed her eyes, then, as she became more attuned to the currents of the Force, she received a second sight beyond normal ocular perception. Her mind left her body and launched through many parsecs, leaving her sitting there motionless, barely breathing.

She saw a harsh, desertish world, alternately baked by a scorching heat and drenched by furious thunderstorms that scoured the plains and hills. There were people there; living in scattered settlements, some of them armed with small, round, blade-shaped objects. They were independent and stubborn, fighting the land to eke out an existence, but the Force ran strong in them. There was strength and gentleness, determination and desperation intermingled as they struggled daily to survive. She saw a man hurling his weapons with great strength only to later gently put his arm around a woman, his wife, cradling a newborn that had to be their daughter. It was an unusual contrast that she didn't know how to reconcile.

Then her vision blurred and darkened, and she was catapulted off through unknown dimensions to another place. It was humid and misty, filled with chaotic tangles of living things engaged in the frantic cycles of life and death, growth and decay. The world was tumultuous, and the sentients that lived there were in as much conflict with each other, if not more, as the flora and fauna were. Yet, hidden in the swamps, was an enclave of people who were different. They were harmonious and focused, with strict discipline and long polearm weapons. Milya found herself impressed by their balance and focus even as they subsisted in their sparse setting. Even as she tried to get a better sense of them, she could sense her perception fading away from the world. Like the other one, this vision didn’t last either, and soon she found herself looking at one last place.

The last place was more peaceful and tranquil than the others had been. Milya saw broad forests stretching on from lighter colored, broad-leafed trees in the lowlands into species with darker and narrower foliage as the elevation increased. Rather than a standard green, though, Milya saw a variety of colors, ranging from rust brown to tawny gold, to a deep red in the lowlands. Higher up, the plants were more evergreen. The riotous tangle of color and life caught her eye and the sheer bliss of the scene sent a pang of longing through her heart. However, her vision was drawn beyond the forests. One mountain range in particular caught her perception’s interest, and she was drawn to it like a piece of durasteel to a magnet. The trees gave way to outcroppings of boulder and lichen as she reached the summit, only to find a snowy enclave where it appeared several dozen people lived in caves hollowed out of the mountain slopes. Though they bore no lightsabers, Milya sensed the Force flowing through them, guiding them as they studied and learned of it. Then, her mind’s eye began clouding over again, bringing her back again slowly to the realm of what most humans referred to as the five senses, which she had not left so much as ignored during her vision.

“What did you see?” asked Selu as her eyes opened.

“Three worlds that have Force-sensitives on them,” she said firmly.

“Could you tell anything about them?” Selu asked.

“The first was harsh, a planet of extremes, with people as equally hardened and strong to stand against such an environment.”

“That’s probably Yanibar,” Cassi said.

“What were the people there like?” Spectre asked.

“They were warriors, with metal blades that they threw and guided with the Force, but they also prized their families,” Milya told him.

“Those are the Zeison Sha,” Selu said. “Revan told me about them. They have a long and unpleasant history of disliking Jedi.”

“And the second planet?” Spectre inquired.

“It was darker, more conflicted,” Milya answered. “Swampy and humid, but with an aura of conflict and struggle about it.”

“If we go by this schedule, that matches Darlyn Boda,” Cassi pointed out. “It’s fairly lawless, and it has plenty of wetlands.”

“There was a group there, living mostly on the edges of the city. They were different, more balanced, more focused. They knew how to harness their bodies and minds with the Force,” Milya said.

“What kind of weapons did they bear?” Selu asked.

“Polearms of some type,” Milya replied.

“That confirms it; they’re Matukai. Another group long estranged from the Jedi,” Selu stated.

“So how about that last planet?” Cassi asked.

“It was more peaceful, and more beautiful, even if it was remote. There were lots of forests, and a mountain range. At the top, there was an enclave, a place of learning.”

“That makes them the Jal Shey by default, and the world is Tokmia, if Revan and this ship’s itinerary are believable,” Spectre noted. “It’s the only one that matches the description.”

“Were they armed?” Selu asked.

“No,” said Milya. “I didn’t sense any hostility in them at all.”

“Then they do sound like the Jal Shey,” Selu affirmed.

“So, who do we visit first?” asked Cassi. “Tokmia sounds good so far.”

“It’s not simply a matter of who do we visit first,” Spectre said. “There have to be priorities. And whoever we do go to, what are we going to say?”

“The man has a point,” Sarth agreed. “What are we going to say? Selu?”

“They have to know the truth,” Selu told them. “About the danger they face, about our purpose, and about the need to join together.”

“But where?” Milya asked. “I doubt they’re just going to uproot everything and pile onto the Hawk-bat.”

“I’m still working on that,” Selu said. “But I’ve seen things of my own, and one of them is that Revan was right; only by setting aside their differences and uniting can any of them be saved.”

“Too bad we couldn’t just bring them here,” Cassi observed.

“It would take more than that to convince them,” Selu said.

“Well, we can work on that on the way,” Cassi replied. “So, who do we visit first?”

“All of them,” Spectre said.

“What?” Sarth asked, surprised. “That’s physically impossible.”

“Why all of them, Spectre?” Selu inquired.

“Revan mentioned the need for haste,” Spectre explained. “Traveling to each of these worlds will take time. And I suspect that we don’t have that time.”

“He’s right; I don’t think we do,” Milya said.

“You’ve seen something?” Selu asked.

“When I sleep, I . . . occasionally have dreams. I can’t explain it, but I know that there’s not much time before the Empire attacks,” Milya told him haltingly.

“So you’re suggesting we split up?” Cassi asked. “What about ships? We only have one.”

“Two,” corrected Spectre.

“Actually, three,” Selu added. “The ship’s log revealed that they happen to have a hyperdrive-equipped starfighter that they salvaged.”

“Three ships. Three planets. You’d think the Force was at work or something,” Milya said facetiously.

“After all we’ve seen, nothing surprises me anymore,” Cassi answered with a droll smile.

“So, if we’re actually considering splitting up, who goes where?” Sarth asked.

They all looked to Selu, but he was lost in thought, so Sarth spoke up.

“I’ve also studied a little bit about these groups that we’re supposed to contact. Logically, we all have strengths that will help us relate to certain aspects of their group personalities.”

“Care to share?” asked Cassi.

“Well, for my part, I think I’d be better suited to talk to the Jal Shey than you would be, Spectre. They’re diplomats and intellectuals, and you’re, well . . . ”

“Neither diplomatic nor intellectual?” Spectre said with a chuckle. “I’d agree with that.”

“Only because you haven’t seen his charming gentle side,” Milya teased.

“If you’re going to the Jal Shey, then I’m going with you,” Cassi said. “You get into too much trouble on your own.”

“I was hoping you would say something like that,” Sarth replied.

“Well, then logically, Milya and I should go to the Zeison Sha,” Spectre said. “We both have backgrounds as warriors. They’ll appreciate that, and Selu shouldn’t come if they dislike Jedi.”

To say the least, Selu, who had been largely silent during this part of the conversation, was displeased by that suggestion, and for reasons that he did not care to admit. The idea of Milya and Spectre gallivanting off together, as much as he tried to deny it, did not sit well with him, and it had nothing to do with the logic behind Spectre’s suggestion and everything to do with the dull ache in his chest. Such was not his path though, and he forced the thought from his mind with considerable vehemence.

“That would leave you with the Matukai, Selu,” Spectre pointed out.

“But they don’t like Jedi either,” noted Cassi.

“No plan is perfect,” Spectre said, shrugging.

“I need to go to the Zeison Sha,” said Selu. “It’s time someone from the Jedi Order tried to redress the wrongs that have been between us and them.”

“So Milya and I will go to the Matukai,” said Spectre. “That works, too.”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Milya. “Selu will need help on Yanibar. It’s a harsh world, and the Empire has a foothold there already.”

“So you’re going with him?” asked Spectre, the faintest hint of suspicion and jealousy creeping into his tone.

“No, you’re going with him,” corrected Milya. “It makes sense, especially if Yanibar has Imperials crawling all over it. I can handle going to the Matukai alone, trust me.”

“Are you sure about that?” asked Spectre.

“I’m sure,” she said. “I can take care of myself. And you’re not exactly an inconspicuous partner.”

“So now we get to choose which ships we take,” said Sarth. “Dibs on the Hawk-bat.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Selu interrupted. “There’s only one way to divide up the ships.”

“How’s that?” Spectre inquired.

“Milya has to take the starfighter, because that’s the only one-person vehicle. Spectre and I should fly the Observant, since there’s already an Imperial presence on Yanibar, and we can disguise ourselves as the crew if need be. It also has the fastest hyperdrive, which is good since Yanibar is remote. That leaves the Hawk-bat to Sarth and Cassi.”

“Makes sense,” Cassi agreed.

“Well, let’s get a move on, then,” Spectre said. “Draw provisions from the Hawk-bat. We’ll want to be in hyperspace as soon as possible.”

Selu nodded, taking off the helmet and starting to unstrap the armor.

"Don't you want to bring that with you?" Milya asked. "Revan seemed to think it had significance."

Selu frowned.

"Revan said it might have an impact for some people and it was an okay disguise. However, I'm not Revan. I'm not his heir and I don't have his legacy to live up to . . . which was complicated to say the least. It won't mean much to the Zeison Sha if my understanding of their history is correct and it also doesn't fit me well. Maybe if someday we had an expert armorsmith adjust it so I could wear it and fight at the same time, I could use it, but not this time. I'll stow it on the Hawk-bat before we go."

"I suppose," she said. "Any other parting words?"

“May the Force be with us,” Selu offered. "We're going to need it."

"Relax, Selu," Cassi replied. "At least we can now all feel if it is."

14

Trip flattened himself against the wall as a stormtrooper rolled a detonator into the room. A second later, a loud explosion paved the way for the three troopers on the other side of the doorway to burst in, blasters at the ready. Short drizzles of blaster fire told him that most of the resistance had been cut down by the detonator. Stepping over two black-uniformed corpses, Trip advanced into the next room. It appeared to be a control room of some kind—which was odd since his men had long ago secured the main hangar and its droid starfighters. Most of the room was occupied by console banks and sensor screens, with a broad window dominating the far wall. Trip made his way over to the window and his eyes widened with horror.

He was looking into a broad cave that had been hollowed out. It clearly led to the surface, its entrance screened with camouflage and what looked like holoprojectors. Inside the vast chamber, Trip saw a sizable warship, perhaps a hundred meters in length, firing its engines as it prepared for launch. The cranes and connections that had held it to its berth were already falling away. He could also see that the far side of the chamber featured several enormous rail launchers, two of which had missiles strapped to them. One of the missiles was steaming. Trip held his electrobinoculars up to his face for a closer look. Sure enough, the missile was bolted to the rail and the distinctive outline of an explosive charge was visible on its fuselage.

Trip swore under his breath. The leader was about to make good his escape and attempt to bury them under the mountain with what appeared to be another one of his baradium missiles.

The troopers that had accompanied him burst out onto an observation platform and begin firing the blaster rifles at the warship. It shrugged off the blasts, which barely dented the hull armor and rose on repulsorlifts, heading up the launch tunnel.

Trip immediately activated his comlink. “This is CC-3433. All perimeter gunships to Sector Cresh-Four. Engage hostile warship immediately.”

“Copy that,” came the reply.

Trip knew he had no choice but to send them, even though the gunships lacked the heavy ordnance needed to bring down something that size. With any luck, they could catch the warship with its shields down and inflict crippling damage.

Meanwhile, there was still the matter of that missile. He weighed his options. He could call for a demolitions team. Assuming nobody was left in the launch chamber and they weren’t ambushed on the way, they could reach the missile in five minutes and disarm it in probably another five. Or they could run like hell and hope that the blast didn’t bring down the whole mountain around them. Trip placed himself in the shoes of the enemy leader. Thus far, he hadn’t given them much margin for error and had displayed considerable knowledge of Imperial procedure. It would be uncharacteristic of him to leave an explosive charge with enough time for the Imperials to disarm it.

“Run!” he shouted to the other troopers. “Fall back!”

He put action to words and began sprinting away. With dismay, he heard the excited shouts and mayday calls as the gunships he had ordered to intercept the warship were quickly eliminated. They hadn’t been so lucky; the warship had apparently anticipated the aerial challenge and swatted it aside easily. Those gunships were designed to carry troops and fight infantry and light vehicles, not warships large enough to carry them inside. Trip gritted his teeth and kept running, adding those lives and vehicles to the long account he owed this particular rebel leader, whose name, according to Taskien’s encrypted message, was Ardo Romierr.

They were several hundred meters from the chamber when the missiles detonated. The entire mountain shook and Trip could hear the thunderous roar of the explosion behind him. He and the other troopers were flung to the ground. The wall collapsed behind him as the stone splintered and shook. A thick cloud of dust roiled through the passage, turning his vision brown.

“Report!” he called over his comlink, scrambling to his feet.

“The entire northeast side of the mountain has collapsed, sir,” one of his remaining gunship pilots reported. “We’re receiving reports of some of our columns being buried alive.”

“Get more reinforcements here immediately,” Trip snapped as he formed up the remaining troopers and fell back to the hangar bay, where they had set up an impromptu forward command area. “I want every available transportable medical asset brought in as well.”

He arrived back at the hangar within two minutes. Wreckage and bodies still littered the expansive room, testament to the earlier struggle. One side had been dedicated to a mobile surgical unit and Trip could hear the screams from behind the canvas screen that had been erected. He shuddered, knowing that the medical personnel would be swamped with the dead and dying, and kept moving to where his subordinate officers surrounded a holo-projector showing the mountain and surrounding area.

“What’s the status on that warship?” Trip asked as he drew close.

“Sir, you’ll want to see this,” one of the other troopers said, waving him forward.

Trip made his way over to the holoprojector and started in surprise. If the tactical holo was correct, then some major developments had happened while he had been down in the tunnel. Peering out of the wide hangar door, he looked up to confirm what the holo had shown. Sure enough, a broad, rectangular ship was floating in the clouds. It size clearly dwarfed the small gunship that had fled the mountain.

Trip looked back at the holo. The new arrival was hovering over the would-be escapee, which had apparently been forced down, and broadcasting Imperial signals. Ten smaller craft—fighters no doubt—were buzzing around the grounded ship in a show of force while a trio of transports headed down to the warship’s location, no doubt to take the surrendered crew into Imperial custody. A final transport headed towards them—Trip looked up to see a Lambda shuttle swoop into the hangar, heading for the open patch that was designated for new arrivals, its two escort fighters breaking off and heading back to their mothership. Trip turned as the shuttle set down on extended landing gear, its braking thrusters outgassing as it set down.

Within minutes, the main boarding ramp lowered and a quartet of stormtroopers debarked, weapons at the ready. Behind them came a man—a civilian by all appearances—and a small, petite woman who was dressed in some kind of medical smock.

Trip walked up to meet them, unsure of what was happening here.

“Are you the commanding officer here?” the man asked, his voice full of authority.

“Who are you?” Trip asked brusquely.

The man stared at him haughtily.

“I am Kinman Doriana, special advisor to the Emperor,” the man replied frostily. “Do you need to check my code cylinders too?”

Trip glanced at the tactical holo. Sure enough, the shuttle bore high-level administrative codes that marked it as carrying an important dignitary. Apparently, this Doriana carried the same authority as an Imperial Moff. Trip stiffened to attention.

“CC-3433 reporting, sir,” he said.

“Oh, spare me,” Doriana replied irritably, waving him off. “Please tell me you have a real name.”

Trip was struck at the man’s flippant attitude, but replied slowly nonetheless. “Some of my comrades know me as Trip.”

“That’ll do,” Doriana answered, checking his rank. “Commander Trip it is then.”

He stared at Trip for a second longer. “Commander, I understand that it’s quite common for you to wear it, but would you mind removing your helmet unless the situation absolutely demands it?”

“As you wish, sir,” Trip replied, removing his helmet.

“Much better,” Doriana said approvingly. “What is your status?”

“My troops are securing the mountain, starting with the exits,” Trip told him. “Reinforcements and additional medical assets are on the way. Resistance has been heavy thus far, but we will prevail.”

“Once my troops are done securing that warship, I’ll have them assist,” Doriana told him. “What have your troops found so far?”

Found? It was a strange question. Apparently, the advisor had been expecting something valuable inside the mountain, but Trip didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for. Puzzled, he did his best to reply.

“Large amounts of supplies. About two hundred Vulture droid starfighters with parts and control interface to run them, some baradium missiles . . .” He trailed off, wondering what Doriana was angling for.

“An awful lot of hardware for a ragtag band of fighters, don’t you think, Commander?” Doriana asked pointedly.

“Their average fighters aren’t particularly well-equipped,” Trip replied. “Here, though, the core group has been carrying some of the latest designs.”

“Precisely,” Doriana told him. “There’s more here than meets the eye, Commander, and you haven’t found all the mysteries yet. Still, you’re in the middle of a great accomplishment here.”

Trip started to thank the advisor and take credit for the success, but he knew better. Plus, after all she had been through, the least he could do was give Taskien the credit she deserved.

“It wasn’t all my accomplishment, or my troops,” Trip said.

“Ah, you refer to Agent Taskien,” Doriana answered knowingly. “How is she?”

Trip’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t act surprised, Commander,” Doriana chided him. “I am her superior after all. I understand she was recovered, with some injuries?”

“An understatement, sir,” Trip replied. “She was captured after disclosing the location of this base. She was barely alive when we found her.”

“Which is why Doctor Rothery is here,” Doriana answered, nodding at the petite woman.

“My medics are doing the best they can,” Trip replied defensively. “She is being treated.”

Doriana sighed impatiently. “Commander, your medical staff likely has their hands full with all the casualties, especially after being stretched thin with the baradium attack, correct?”

“Yes,” Trip admitted, not liking where this was going.

“And while you would never admit it, it’s more likely that they would prioritize military personnel over an Intelligence agent,” Doriana added.

Trip stiffened. “Sir, I—”

Doriana cut him off.

“Let me ask you one more question, Commander. How many women have your medics treated in the last sixty days?”

Trip opened his mouth to say something and then shut it again.

“Doctor Rothery is the personal physician of numerous retired female officers,” Doriana told him. “She’s also a licensed psychologist with experience in handling post-traumatic cases. She spent the Clone Wars as a surgeon in a RMSU. Are there any other objections you’d like to make, or can you escort us to Agent Taskien now? I’d like to see my agent.”

“This way, sir,” Trip answered obediently.

He led them to the cordoned-off medical area, navigating through the different triage wards. A quick query to one of the medics gave him Taskien’s location and soon Trip, Doriana, and Rothery were standing at the bedside of the unconscious agent. Removing a handheld scanner from her pocket, Rothery ran it over Taskien.

“This woman is dying, Advisor,” Rothery told him matter-of-factly, showing him the scanner. “She’s been tortured almost to death.”

“Then it appears your services are needed, Doctor,” Doriana told her. “Requisition whatever staff and equipment you need.”

Trip followed the advisor as he turned and left. “Sir, I apologize for any poor treatment of the agent. That was not my intent.”

Doriana leveled a warning finger at him.

“That agent is a war hero whose service record makes yours look like Hutt slime,” he said. “I sent her here because she’s effective and loyal. I’m not about to let incompetence kill her off.”

Trip stared blankly at the abrupt rebuke.

“I’ve been monitoring the situation on Zeru Neimoidia for some time,” Doriana reminded him. “When I learned of Agent Taskien’s plan, I decided to bring the Griffin—that’s my ship—here, along with Doctor Rothery. Yes, that’s right, I anticipated needing her.”

The surprise and consternation must have been evident on Trip’s face.

“Let’s just say that I’m well familiar with both the medics in the Imperial Army as well as Agent Taskien’s occasional risk-taking,” he told Trip dryly. “If she survives and I find what I was looking for, you will be commended for seizing this stronghold before the rebels could flee. If not—expect to be transferred to garrison duty on Kessel.”

Doriana’s comlink crackled.

“We have captured Ardo Romierr.”

“Good,” Doriana said. “Transfer him to the Griffin. I’ll speak with him later.”

He turned back to Trip.

“About time we caught that bastard,” he told him. “Ardo Romierr has been a thorn in the Empire’s side long before it was the Empire.”

“I read his file, sir,” Trip replied.

Suddenly, it was Trip’s turn to receive a comlink call.

“Sir, we’ve encountered . . . something,” one of his squad leaders informed him.

“Specifically?”

“A holding area,” the man told him. “Or a factory. And it’s occupied, sir.”

“More fighters?”

“No, sir,” came the reply. “We’re looking at hundreds of Xi Charrians.”

“Are they offering resistance?” Trip asked.

“No, sir,” the squad leader answered. “As far as we can tell, they’re not making any threatening gesture.”

Doriana cut in. “We’ll get a protocol droid down there and make sure. I’ll have one sent down from the Griffin.”

He turned back to Trip after relaying the order to his ship, a thin smile on his face. “Congratulations, Commander, you seem to have found what we were looking for.”

Trip frowned, confused. “You knew there were Xi Charrians here?”

“We had accounted for most of the groups that made it off of their homeworld,” Doriana informed him. “This was the last one. And we didn’t know. We just suspected something—at least, Taskien did. She felt that the resistance here was too well-supplied, but most of Imperial Intelligence felt that they were operating off a large supply cache. It’s not the first time we’ve heard of Xi Charrians being taken to Neimoidian purse worlds.”

The enigmatic insectoid Xi Charrians had been responsible for many of the weapons systems used by the Confederacy during the war. Treating engineering as a religious exercise, they had been largely duped into designing lethal weapons that had ravaged the galaxy. Xi Charrians were known for their apathy towards politics—if it did not concern engineering or design, it did not concern them. However, they were devoted to fulfilling a contract or obligation and were masterful perfectionists, if on the xenophobic side. No doubt the Imperial advisor would take credit for discovery of the Xi Charrians; it would be a considerable feather in his cap beyond just quashing the resistance.

“And you believed her theory, sir?” Trip asked.

“I’ve worked with her before,” Doriana replied. “She contacted me after her superiors stonewalled her. I arranged for her and a small team to come here and investigate their theory.”

“That’s what she kept referring to,” Trip mused. “I certainly didn’t know.”

“It was just a hunch,” Doriana answered. “But it panned out.”

“What should I do with the Xi Charrians?” Trip asked.

“Secure them,” Doriana told him. “We’ll transfer them aboard the Griffin once it’s safe to do so.”

“Yes, sir,” Trip replied.

“That will be all,” Doriana told him absently.

---

With the clone commander dismissed and the securing of the mountain in his relatively capable hands, Doriana returned to the relative safety of his shuttle and mused on the discovery.

Most of the Xi Charrians that had comprised the renowned Haor Chall Engineering Corporation that constructed much of the Confederacy arsenal during the war had fled into unknown depths on their homeworld, and no one in the Empire had been foolish enough to propose sending troops in to root out brilliant weapons engineers who were already backed into a corner. A find of workers like this, so brilliant and willing to work on whatever challenges were ahead of them, was a tibanna mine for the Empire. Doriana considered his previous mission and its objectives, and then decided that they converged.

Doriana’s original mission had been to take the Griffin, a new experimental craft, along with Jedi artifacts, a private collection of the Imperial archives, and other such trinkets that the Emperor had deemed fit, to his private storehouse on a remote world called Wayland. Doing a little research into the origins of the Griffin, a rather ungainly sixteen-hundred meter long box of a vessel that was designed to set down on a planet’s surface and churn out supplies of Imperial war machinery, Doriana had found that it had been a prototype of an experimental weapon expected to be reaching Imperial service in several years, part of a series of terrifyingly powerful weapons projects. The Griffin was equipped with four molecular furnaces, giant chambers that altered matter into new vehicles and weaponry to fit various blueprints programmed into the ship’s central computer. However, the furnaces lacked an efficient means of harvesting raw materials, and so the flawed prototype had been discarded in favor of a return to the drawing holo for the warship. The Emperor, never forgetting a thing, had instructed him to convey the vessel to his private storehouse on Wayland. Doriana had also been ordered to stop off at Despayre to check on the Emperor’s latest project, a mammoth battlestation known as the Death Star. Perhaps the only thing in the galaxy even larger than the Navy’s new dreadnaughts, the Death Star project had been rumored to be behind schedule, and the Emperor was taking no chances with its supervisor, the ambitious and cunning Moff Tarkin.

This trip to Zeru Neimodia to monitor Taskien’s progress had been a diversion en route to Wayland, but it had yielded great dividends. The discovery of the Xi Charrians changed that equation. Were three thousand highly motivated, highly skilled workers dispatched to the construction of the Death Star, Doriana knew that the work would be hastened greatly. He could take the credit, and Palpatine would reward him for his diligence. Taskien and Trip would be rewarded for their accomplishments, and the Empire would prosper. Doriana smiled.

He had had some difficulty in convincing the Griffin’s captain to divert here for the past two weeks after receiving Taskien’s final report before she went behind enemy lines. It had been something of a gamble—the Emperor normally gave him considerable leeway in his assignments due to Doriana’s long service, but only as long as he obtained results. Contemplating what three thousand Xi Charrians might do for the Death Star project, Doriana reflected that he had certainly been rewarded for his trust in the ambitious young agent.

Commenor

Annita Daowot carefully pulled the last strands of her dark brown hair back behind her head in her typical working fashion as she briskly walked into her office. Exchanging pleasantries with the secretary, she breezed through the Investigator headquarters with practiced and habitual cheeriness, stopping only to grab a steaming cup of hot caf from the break room. It was an old routine. Annita was looking forward to the day. She had had a wonderful time on a date with Jorge the previous night and had been filled with more vigor and enthusiasm for life than she could remember in quite some time.

Glancing at the relative inactivity around the buildings, no major incidents had happened during the night, as the characteristic tension that filled the building during a fast-paced manhunt or high-profile robbery or murder was missing. The other Investigators seemed largely at ease, occupied with routine tasks. However, there was something that she couldn’t quite place her finger on, something amiss. A few people had given her subtle sidelong looks as she paced by. Annita’s intuition had served her well throughout her career and she wasn’t about to start ignoring it now. Something was definitely up.

Taking a sip of the hot and incredibly strong caf—just the way she liked it, though a bit more sweetener was even better—Annita strode into her office. However, to her surprise, someone was sitting at her desk casually reading some papers. Someone whose presence was certainly not welcome there. Certainly not with his boots up, scuffing her desk. That was her prerogative to do with her desk, and the act seemed like usurpation in some strange corner of Annita’s mind.

“Sergeant Daowot, please come in and sit down,” purred Imperial Intelligence liaison Norres.

“I think I will, Captain. In my desk,” said Annita, the iron clearly evident in her voice. “Who let you in anyway?”

“Your chief did. And don’t blame him at all for this; it was my idea,” said Norres.

“I’m sure it was. Well, if you wanted my attention, you got it. Once you vacate my desk,” she replied.

A trace of vexation crossed Norres’s face at her insistence, but he concealed it behind his oily, smooth demeanor as he rose from the desk and stepped to the side.

“Of course. What was I thinking?” said Norres, not quite apologizing.

“Let’s get to business. What can I do for you at this fine hour, Captain?” asked Annita a bit more pleasantly, settling in behind her desk.

Annita’s comment about the early hour did little to rankle Norres, who merely smiled. “I’d like to talk with you about a few things. It’s very important.”

“What sort of things?” asked Annita, clearly confused as to where he was going.

“Do you recall participating in the Kraen-Mistryl case?”

“Recall participating? My life revolved around it for the better part of a month. And that was before I was kidnapped.”

“Yes, indeed. I’ve read the reports, you know.”

“Then what do you want to know about the case? I was already debriefed exhaustively. The case was closed a year ago after what happened on Emberlene.”

“Precisely,” said Norres. “I merely want to ask about a few pertinent details of the case.”

“Okay,” Annita replied. “I’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”

“In the initial Mistryl attack on the Kraen residence, which you investigated, a relative of Sarth Kraen was said to have repelled the Mistryl. Almost single-handedly.”

“That’s right.”

“Your report states that he was Micor Kraen, a long-lost cousin of the Kraens who served the Republic during the war as a pilot.”

“Correct.”

“Sergeant, I’ve seen the kind of training Republic pilots underwent during the Clone Wars. There’s nothing, even with a focus in hand-to-hand combat, that would indicate an ability to survive, much less defeat, an attack by two Mistryl Shadow Guards.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly interview this person. He was in critical condition and was sent to New Holstice for medical attention. So I don’t know his actual background.”

That was a clear lie. Sarth had told her the truth after the attack. The whole Micor identity was a fake, as was his background. The truth was that Selu Kraen had been the one to defeat the Mistryl Shadow Guards. Annita had agreed to conceal his identity as a Jedi Knight to protect Sarth and his family from Imperial reprisals. She never guessed that that decision might return to haunt her, as it now was.

“You never once bothered to question a key witness?”

“I planned on it,” she said reasonably. “However, Micor Kraen returned to Commenor only shortly, while I was in Mistryl custody. Shortly after that, he was taken prisoner by the Mistryl and was never heard of again. Then Emberlene was . . . attacked, and we put the record into the cold case files.”

Annita wasn’t exactly sure if that statement was entirely true. It was probably close enough. Selu had undoubtedly found a different alias to cover his tracks. Possibly more than one if he had gotten into smuggling. That, like Jorge’s past, was an area that she had agreed not to ask about. What she didn’t know, she couldn’t use as evidence to obtain an arrest warrant.

“You filed the incident report after that first attack, right?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And you reviewed the autopsy on both of the Mistryl, right?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I have the report in front of me. It says that one of them died from severe trauma to the chest resulting from a throwing knife, and the other from broken neck and other injuries consistent with falling backwards off of a roof.”

“If that’s what the report says. I review a lot of autopsies. It’s sort of my job.”

Norres favored her with a thin smile that promised some further unpleasantness, ignoring her sarcasm. “And the other injuries on the victim’s arm, those were consistent with a vibrobade?”

“Look, if you’re staring at the report I wrote, why are you asking me about the minute details of a case that happened two years ago? As extraordinary as the case was, I certainly don’t remember every injury on every body in every report I read—especially since there were so many of them. Check the court logs from my testimony if you don’t trust the report. What’s the point of all this?”

“Sergeant Daowot, I’ve run a search in Imperial records for a Micor Kraen. He never existed. If he did, he was never paid, and the Treasury Department keeps close tabs on who they’ve given money out of their tight-fisted hands to. In fact, I broadened the query in case the Republic got his name wrong. I found one name listed from Commenor: a Selusda Kraen. He was a Jedi Knight, Sergeant. According to my own sources, I learned that Selusda Kraen is a blood relative of Sarth, Lena, and Samtel Kraen, taken from them as an infant as was the standard practice. Does that mean anything to you, Sergeant?”

“It means that the Kraens were robbed of their son many years ago,” said Annita. “I didn’t know about this beforehand. Nor did I have access to Imperial records to check into that. As you may recall from the report, I was busy dodging blaster bolts shortly after I encountered Micor Kraen.”

“Well, Sergeant, I pulled some strings and found that Selusda Kraen was found dead on Coruscant, an obvious member of the Jedi Rebellion. However, there was one problem: his body was that of a female, according to the autopsy report.”

“Is that so? If you can get accurate information from Coruscant law enforcement, I’m impressed.” The capital world long had a reputation for caring more for high-profile cases and publicity than evidence, thoroughness, or minor details.

“Sergeant, I’m this close to being terribly disappointed in you.”

“And why is that? Because I don’t have a huge piece of evidence for you to make a case out of?”

“No, though that would be most convenient. It’s because you expect me to believe that you not only grew up attending the same school as Sarth Kraen, but also had considerable contact with Sarth Kraen and his family, and never once recalled hearing of a child taken by the Jedi.”

“They didn’t talk about it much. I don’t blame them.”

“I see,” said Norres, his tone belying his obvious suspicion.

“Is there anything else I don’t know that you’d like to ask me about?”

“Not at the moment, Sergeant. I believe we are done here—for now. But be forewarned: you cannot afford to let your personal relationships interfere with your duty. If I find proof that you are protecting the Kraens, the consequences will be most . . . severe.”

“I’m sure they would be,” said Annita irritably. “Luckily for me, I’m innocent.”

“So you say, Sergeant. I hope so, for your sake,” replied Norres, a sadistic gleam in his eye.

“If you’re done with the Jedi conspiracy theories, I have evidence reports to compile, Captain.”

“Understood. I can take a hint, Sergeant. I take it this means that I won’t be invited to the wedding?”

“Take a guess,” she said. “Or even a theory. You seem to be good at it. Maybe you’ll guess right this time.”

“Amusing,” Norres said as a parting shot before he disappeared out the door. “Until next time.”

“Yeah, right,” Annita muttered after him.

As soon as he was gone, she closed her door and lowered the privacy curtains installed for when her focus was on topics of a more grisly nature. Not all evidence was testimony. After running a quick check to make sure she wasn’t being observed by any spy devices, she returned to her chair. Gripping the arm rests until her knuckles stood out white against the pale tones of her skin, she sat there trembling quietly for some time. The worms of fear rumbling through her midsection mocked her, warning her of impending doom for covering up for the Kraens. All of her tough exterior vanished as she thought about how close Norres was to finding out the truth. He had been more than just in the right direction with his hunches—close enough to terrify her to the core. She had heard of what happened to those remotely suspected of aiding the Jedi via unofficial channels and it wasn’t pretty. There wasn’t a lot that could rattle a woman whose daily companion was death and whose job regularly dealt with danger and dead bodies, not to mention having survived a kidnapping and near drowning, but what had just transpired in her office did. She wanted to cry, wanted Jorge to be holding her in his strong arms, but she couldn’t afford either of those things. People would notice, and if Norres was suspicious before, her disappearing suddenly would only serve to corroborate those suspicions. She sat there hugging herself quietly for several minutes, but then finally composed herself. She would make it through this day somehow. At least until lunch, when she could see Jorge. And to think that this day had started off so well.

Dromund Kaas

It was late at night when Ajaur slipped into the dark side temple. The overcast sky had briefly broken to allow a few scattered moonbeams to peak through, but otherwise, he had had good cover. Secure in his Quey’tek meditation after snooping around the structure for the better part of the day without being detected or even sensing alarm, Ajaur was ready for his mission.

He entered through a drainage pipe. The foul water trickling at his feet didn’t bother him. It was a simple matter to slip through the rudimentary security systems that the temple had in place. The Prophets of the Dark Side relied heavily on their Force senses to protect them, and hardly anticipated a challenge. They were secreted away on a hidden Sith world and were secure in their fortress. Tonight, Ajaur would shake that confidence.

The Inquisitor made his way into the lower levels of the temple, following the trail in the Force that his former master left. A hunger for revenge rose within him, but he tamped it down temporarily. He would need to rely on cunning and guile before he could turn his rage loose. Ajaur was confident he could defeat Theros. Facing off against all of the prophets was an entirely different proposition. One day, though, he promised himself that he would have that strength.

The Force led him down to a lower dungeon, an isolation ward where prisoners were kept for interrogation. There was little light here, just a few dim glowlights mounted on otherwise-featureless stone walls near the ceiling. It was a dark and foreboding place and Ajaur was well aware of the horrors that befell the occupants of these cells. Ajaur paused by a heavily-secured cell door—he sensed that Theros was inside.

He leaned over and slid an ear up to the door to listen. Even through the thick metal, he could hear a woman’s voice alternately pleading and then screaming. The sounds of her cries pitched higher and louder, occasionally mixed with the muffled thump of blows. Ajaur was unmoved—if she was here, she no doubt deserved her imprisonment and treatment. However, what he didn’t hear was the sound of Theros’s voice asking questions, and that disgusted him. The prophet had no object to his affliction other than to satiate his own brutality. Finally, the woman’s cries died down to whimpers. Sensing Theros approach, Ajaur backed away, lurking in the shadows. The door creaked open and Theros emerged, looking immensely pleased, a cruel smile creasing his face.

Ajaur stiffened as raw hatred coursed through his veins, waiting until the man had closed the door behind him. Then, he rose from the shadows to face Theros malevolently.

“Is it truly mastery of the dark side if you only use it on your inferiors?” Ajaur asked him.

Theros started in surprise, but recovered quickly, crouching down into a defensive stance, hands ready to conjure some kind of Force technique.

“And why does that piece of filth matter to you?” Theros asked, but his eyes bespoke puzzlement as to how Ajaur had returned.

“She doesn’t,” Ajaur answered. “Once, the suffering you caused had a purpose. Now you simply strike because you can. Your lack of discipline is weakness.”

“Such is my right,” Theros replied. “As is my right to strike you down. Your weakness has tainted this place long enough.”

“As always, your words are venom,” Ajaur said in a low, menacing voice. “But that is all you have now, prophet.”

The last word was spat out as an insult. Theros’s face contorted in an angry grimace.

“You fool,” Theros replied angrily. “I will break you, Ajaur. I have before and I will do so again.”

The prophet conjured lightning, the bolts pouring forth from his hands. However, this time, Ajaur was prepared. In a flash, he drew his new lightsaber and ignited it, interposing it between him and the electrical energy. The bolts caught on the humming blade, absorbing them harmlessly.

Theros gaped in surprise as Ajaur deflected his assault. Switching to telekinesis, he tried to hurl the Inquisitor away from him. Ajaur stood his ground, anchoring his feet with the Force. He no longer believed that Theros could stop him, that he was powerless against his former master.

Rage filled him, buoyed by the thousand memories of his merciless training at the hands of Theros. He had not originally returned to Dromund Kaas to relive those experiences—he had come seeking insight that would help him find the Jedi. If Theros would not help him, he was an obstacle, and Ajaur had only one response to obstacles.

Ajaur bull-rushed the man as Theros blasted out lightning again. He held his lightsaber in front of him as Theros backed away—but he was trapped against the door where he had just emerged. Ajaur brought the lightsaber closer and the bolts arced from the blade to sear Theros instead. Some of them caught Ajaur painfully, but his rage armored him with the Force, allowing him to temporarily endure the torment and seek his revenge.

“It has been too long since you have suffered your own methods,” Ajaur told him. “It has made you weak.”

Theros screamed in agony as he suffered from his own malice. Finally, weakening, he ceased the lightning, realizing he was punishing himself more than the foreboding Inquisitor.

“How?” Theros asked in horror. “You were never this strong.”

Ajaur clamped a gloved hand around Theros’s throat.

“I was always this strong,” he said. “Your lies hid my true strength, made me believe I could not defeat you. I see through them now.”

He squeezed tighter and Theros gasped for breath.

“I should thank you,” Ajaur told the prophet. “If you had not thrown me out into the wilderness, I never would have found the conviction to challenge you, or the weapon and technique to defeat you.”

He slammed the prophet into the door as hard as he could, releasing his grip to allow Theros to crumple to the ground, the breath knocked out of him. No doubt the prophet was hoping for a brief respite to launch another Force attack, but Ajaur was not about to give him that chance. He rolled Theros over with his boot and then planted the imposing black sole on Theros’s throat.

“Now, prophet,” Ajaur said mockingly. “Share your insight and I may let you live.”

He did not need to add an additional threat. The lightsaber blade humming just a few centimeters from Theros’s chest was sufficient warning. The injured prophet looked up at him with a disturbed expression, as if still in shock that his former apprentice had proved so formidable.

“You have seen those who I pursue, haven’t you?” Ajaur demanded.

“Yes,” Theros admitted.

“And?”

“You will find . . . what you seek,” Theros told him hoarsely.

“The Jedi,” Ajaur answered tersely. “Where?”

Theros shook his head. “That is hidden. But you will face him.”

“How do I find him?” Ajaur asked.

Theros closed his eyes in concentration and Ajaur pressed his foot slightly harder into the man’s neck.

“You must destroy that which he loves the most,” Theros revealed after a minute.

Ajaur thought back to his brief encounter with the freighter crew and their incognito Jedi companion. He recalled sensing concern from the crew when he had attacked the Jedi—but from one in particular, a woman. He remembered that threatening her had obtained the captain’s temporary compliance until they had executed their real plan.

“A woman,” he said, his lip twisting into a sneer.

Theros nodded slightly. “You will find her in a world much like this. She will be a light in a dark place—impossible to hide even from you.”

Ajaur took the insult in stride. “Bold words from a man who couldn’t even foresee his own demise.”

“That you know of,” Theros retorted softly, grimacing.

“That demise will be immediate if you cease being useful,” Ajaur threatened him. “What else have you seen of my quarry?”

“The one you hunt is more dangerous than you realize,” Theros told him. “Only through her can you stop him.”

Ajaur scowled. “I defeated you effortlessly. A single Jedi will pose no threat.”

Theros chuckled.

“You do not face a single Jedi,” he informed his apprentice. “There are five—and they are much stronger than when you faced them.”

Ajaur was aghast. “All of them are Jedi? I sensed no such thing.”

“It is true,” Theros answered. “Their escape from you led them on a pathway to great power. The woman you seek now sees as I do.”

“Do not toy with me,” Ajaur warned Theros.

The prophet shook his head. “You must succeed, or the consequences will be dire.”

“Explain,” Ajaur demanded, removing his foot from Theros’s neck.

“Should you fail, the light of the Jedi will endure until it rises again,” Theros said.

Ajaur ground his teeth.

“I will destroy all of them,” he replied fiercely.

“You will try,” Theros answered. “For all your strength, you lack vision.”

Ajaur snorted dismissively.

“And see what your vision has achieved matched against my strength?” he replied, kicking at Theros and then stepping back. “But I will let you live.”

Theros slowly pulled himself to his feet, looking warily at Ajaur, who still stood with lightsaber at the ready. Theros glowered balefully at him and Ajaur sensed the malice roiling off of the man. His own desire for revenge screamed within him to go back on his word and take the man’s life. Ajaur’s fist tightened around the lightsaber and he wrestled with the temptation to plunge it into his tormenter, to achieve the final victory against one who held him in bondage for far too long. Theros blinked, and started to slip away.

Just then, a thought came to Ajaur and he immediately acted upon it. Theros had broken him before, had intended to do so again, and Ajaur had seen his cowardice on display when he exercised his malice only on those who could not challenge him. It was time to repay the abuse the Inquisitor had suffered with an enduring lesson in purposeful cruelty.

His hand caught Theros by the arm and turned him toward the door. Ajaur’s hand gripped the back of the prophet’s neck, slamming him face-first into the metal surface. Theros let out a strangled cry as Ajaur suddenly assaulted him.

“You have what you came for,” Theros hissed. “Let me go!”

“Not everything,” Ajaur ground out ominously, gripping tighter to hold Theros in place. “I will have my revenge, Theros. You inflict cruelty for its own sake, never seeking to challenge your superiors, only those who cannot defend themselves. You are a spineless coward and now I will make your body match your spirit.”

With deliberate slowness, Ajaur brought his lightsaber up to the man’s back. Starting at the base of his shoulder blades, he carved a furrow straight down the middle of Theros’s back, burning through his vertebrae and searing his spinal cord in places. Theros screamed, a piercing, inhuman sound that mirrored the one he had evoked from the hapless prisoner earlier. Ajaur dragged the tip of the lightsaber down its destructive path from shoulder blades to coccyx over several seconds, taking care not to penetrate too deeply and kill Theros. At a certain point, Theros stopped struggling, and Ajaur knew he had inflicted severe damage on the man’s nervous system. The smell of burning flesh befouled the air, but it was the smell of victory to Ajaur.

He dropped Theros to the cold stone floor, who lay there in shock, barely able to breathe. Ajaur stood over him with his lightsaber in hand, just as he had foreseen in his vision.

“My chains are as broken as you, Theros,” he said. “Never again will I call you master.”

The Inquisitor stormed off, leaving the temple and the broken, paralyzed Theros, who would suffer for the rest of his days from the wound. He had lingered on Dromund Kaas long enough. His time had been useful—he had learned much and had defeated the first of his hated enemies with his newfound strength. Now it was time to build upon this victory. It was time to return to the hunt and seek out the Jedi and the woman that was his vulnerability. He would return to the Corrupter and make use of the ship provided to him. The same hatred that he had borne for Theros and burned into the prophet was now directed at the Jedi who had dared defeat and scar him. Soon, he would feel the Inquisitor’s wrath.