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| - He wasn’t awake; he was sure of it. Everything was black and dark, and there was pain. That meant he wasn’t dead, since dead men felt no pain. He couldn’t move though, couldn’t throw off the webs of bewilderment and spears of red-hot pain that coursed through and around him. Then a question of frightening urgency filled his mind: who am I? Confusion gripped him and nothing had ever seemed as frightening as the loss of identity with no way of regaining it or breaking free. Then his memory began to return. He saw a group of children climbing up a row of ropes hanging from a high stone ceiling, urged and encouraged by a wizened old green instructor, and recalled being one of them. He remembered hanging from the rope, its dry fibers burning into his hands as his legs slipped and scrabbled on the smooth surface in search of a foothold. He had been younger then, still growing, and with a braid of long black hair hanging down from the side of his head. Sweat had poured down him, the droplets falling off his arms and boots to splatter on the floor below as he and the other apprentices had struggled up the side of wall in an attempt to reach the balcony at the top. Others around him were already ahead, swarming up the wall easily, while he struggled. Then he looked down at the dizzying distance below him and he remembered being startled and shocked by the great height he was dangling from. Suddenly, his hands seemed to let go of the rough carbon rope on their own accord and he was falling through thin air, arms flailing, his hand finding and just as quickly losing hold of the rope. He realized that he was doomed and prepared to have his body parts scattered all over the hard stone floor, wondering if this particular form of death would hurt much. His flight had slowed and then been gently arrested as he floated in the air. He had turned around in midair to see the aged Master looking at him. “I’m sorry, Master. I’ll try again,” had said his little boyish voice, filled with shame and weariness. “Do or do not, youngling. There is no try,” the Master had admonished him. “You can do it, Selu.” The memory faded, replaced by another one, but the fact that he had received his name cheered him He was standing in a different room, his eyelids scrunched shut tightly, but not in concentration. He was sitting in a room, clutching a bloody nose to staunch the fleeding. He was several years older now, with the awkward gawkiness of adolescence and utterly disheveled, his body marked with burns from a training lightsaber. He was shaking and sweat was pouring down his face and body. There was a light knock at the door to his dormitory. Selu blearily waved a hand and it slid open with a hiss, admitting a slim figure silhouetted against the dim lighting of his room. “Are you all right?” the person asked, their voice clearly identifying the visitor as a young human female. He tried to respond, to speak to the girl, but once again the memory faded and the words died unsaid. The memories flowed more freely now and he recalled swimming on a distant planet called Chandrila with a small furry being, a Tynnan named Skip, enjoying the sparkling sunlight and the strong flow of the water as he propelled his body through its cool, all-encompassing expanse. While their masters had stood on the shore, no doubt discussing weighty matters such as the state of the Republic or punishments for irresponsible Padawans, the two had simply regaled in the joys of being in the water. Skip had told him a joke about a Bothan and a cantina and he had laughed long and hard when he heard the punch line. He recalled sitting in the crystal caves of Ilum, clad only in a simple pair of pants despite the cold, meditating on the parts of a lightsaber floating a few centimeters away from his hands, sliding them into place one by one as he was guided by the Force. As the final component locked into place, he had focused the Force energies swirling around him, bonding the weapon together and to himself. Standing and holding the hilt out in front of him, his breath visible in the chilly air, he had lit the weapon and a fountain of green energy had poured out of the emitter nozzle for the first time. Images of the multitude of Jedi leaving the temple for Geonosis swirled around and past him, the uncertainty of seeing his master board the craft and leave, his senses choked by the dark side of the Force. The war came back to him in a multitude of images of death and destruction and once again he battled droids of all types and sizes on Rendili, on Boz Pity, and on Coruscant, his youthful face now rugged and worn from the rigors of battle, the hum of his lightsaber barely noticeable now, so accustomed had he become to its deadly sound. Grief entered his life, grief for the loss of friends and grief for the millions of broken hearts and lives created by war. Then there was calm, a peace washing over him as Master Yoda severed his Padawan braid and proclaimed him a Jedi Knight. That calm had come crashing down not long afterwards, though, in the form of helmeted soldiers raining death in a hail of azure blaster fire, their leader the very harbinger of the dark side. There was betrayal, there was abandonment, and there was shame, and he would have screamed until his throat was raw had he been capable of the action. Then he remembered feeling better—someone had come into his life? Saved him? Visions of a family drifted in front of him and images of a light freighter also. He was one of them now and he clung to that thought, even as a light began forming in his mind’s eye, coaxing him out of the darkness. Lying on a medcenter bed, Selusda Kraen’s eyes shot open, and he was instantly blinded by the sudden glare of the overhead panels. He threw up one hand over his face and thrashed about, uncertain of where he was. Then he felt a hand grabbing his arm and turned. Rolling over, he squinted through the harsh light to see a light-blue Twi’lek female wearing some sort of light green garment holding his arm, a slightly concerned expression on her face. “It’s all right. You’re fine,” she said, her brain-tails, more properly called lekku, twitching behind her nervously. “Where am I?” asked Selu, his voice hoarse. “You’re in the New Holstice Medcenter. I’m a nurse here,” she replied. “You’ve been here for six hours so far. We had to sedate you earlier for treatment, but you should be fine now.” Selu sat up groggily and the Twi’lek relaxed and released his arm. Now his memory finally caught up. He remembered the Mistryl attack and the injuries he had suffered at their hands and trip here on the Hawk-bat. Experimentally, he raised one arm and looked at his hands and then wiggled his toes. Everything seemed to be in working order. Selu rolled out of the bed onto his feet in one smooth motion without the slightest impediment. He did, however, notice an odd feeling on his backside. Twisting his torso, he glanced over his shoulder and noticed that his medcenter gown was completely open in the rear, giving a great view of the fresh scar ten centimeters above the small of his back . . . and everything else up and down. Looking up, he noticed the Twi’lek nurse giving him an amused smile and his face flushed red as he realized that she had a pretty good view too. “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” she said. “Me too,” Selu answered, pulling the two loose ends of the gown together. “Would you mind telling me where my clothes are?” Thirty minutes later, he was fully dressed and signed out of the medcenter, impressed by the swiftness of the healing he had received. However, he was eager to be out of there, as the sterile smell and sight of medical implements reminded him of being shot down on Coruscant and the subsequent trip to the Temple’s healing wards during the Clone Wars. Upon checking his comlink messages, he learned Captain Sei’lar didn’t expect him back at the Hawk-bat until later that evening, so he decided to wander around the city and explore, as he still had several hours to burn. As he walked through the streets of New Holstice, Selu considered his visions, many of which had come from his time in the Jedi Order. He had not used the Force much recently, and his abilities and control had diminished over several months of inactivity. Ceasing his daily meditations and immersion into the Force’s currents had kept him from feeling the pain and grief he carried, but it had also robbed him of a powerful ally. Selu knew that the Mistryl would have stood little chance against him had he been as conditioned as a full Jedi Knight. Selu decided to try an experiment and, while still walking through the streets, opened himself partially to the Force, letting it warp and guide his path. While his eyes and ears registered all the sights and sounds around him and his stomach growled in protest, Selu ignored them for now, as if they were mere suggestions rather than biochemical perceptions and compulsions. He was sure he looked somewhat dazed to the other people on the street, but as long as he didn’t crash into any of them no one paid him any attention. Striding through a maze of streets, his footsteps slowed. Relaxing out of the flow-state he had placed himself in, he found himself on the outskirts of Holstice City in a magnificent garden filled with plants, trees, and flowers of all kind. Even in the light of the afternoon sun, there was a brilliant blue glow rising from the center of the garden. Selu cautiously made his way along the paths towards the source of the glow, though the hair on the back of his head began standing on end and his skin prickled with apprehension. The path was well worn, though, and didn’t appear hazardous. For some reason, the blue glow captivated his attention and he wanted to learn more about it. Rounding a corner past a grove of trees, Selusda looked up to see the source of his fascination. A giant transparent cylinder, filled with glowing bluish insects of some kind, jutted into the sky, thrusting out of the landscape and surrounded by much smaller pylons bearing lamps. Selu hadn’t seen anything this beautiful in quite a while, and it was absolutely dazzling. A small crowd of people had gathered around the cylinder, staring at it. Selu pushed forward into them slowly, trying to get closer to the marvelous light. Leaning over to a nearby spectator without taking his eyes off of the swirling tube, he asked a question that had been on the tip of his tongue since he first seen the object. “What is it?” The human he had addressed, dark-skinned and dressed like a commoner, snorted. “You must be an offworlder. How could you come to the memorial and not know what it is?” “Memorial? Of what?” “The Jedi Knights,” replied the bystander, an elderly human. “Our ancestors built this long ago to honor the Jedi for their service to the Republic. A lot of good it did them, or the Republic for that matter.” “What creates all that light?” “They’re memory moths, offworlder. Each one whispers the name of a single fallen Jedi over and over again. They’re immortal, so they’ll keep glowing and repeating those names forever.” “It’s amazing,” Selu said. “Too bad it won’t be here much longer.” “What?” “The new government doesn’t like the Jedi much. Something about them trying to take over Coruscant. You came at a good time, offworlder. In a few days, this’ll be so much slag.” Selu was speechless, finally turning to look at the man standing next to him. “You can’t be serious,” he said. The other man gave him a strange look, his brow furrowing with confusion. “Of course I’m serious. Why would I joke? That’s why that warship is in orbit. It’s got enough firepower to compel the populace to obey and handle the task of melting this cylinder. Hey, are you okay there fella?” Selu was horrified and, stammering his thanks to the man for the information, backed away slowly, his eyes glancing around nervously, expecting to see shiny white armor. It was hardly a good idea to hang around an area that would soon be visited by the Empire when he was considered a public enemy, but he couldn’t just let the ageless monument be destroyed without some record of its existence. Perhaps he could get a holorecorder inside the cylinder, create a file of the memory moths and their whispering, and then retrieve the recording. Moving towards the front of the crowd, he pulled the compact datapad Sarth had given him from its place on his belt. He devoutly wished he had his lightsaber, but that was back on the Hawk-bat. He would do the best he could with what he had. Casually, he strolled up towards one of the portals by which the memory-moths were introduced into the cylinder, his datapad’s holorecorder programmed to be activated by a burst from his comlink. Even as out of practice as he was the Force, a simple telekinetic trick like opening the portal by triggering the panel required very little effort. Selu purposefully tripped over a Zabrak’s feet and, as he fell forward, sent his datapad on a curving arc towards the suddenly open portal. In mid-fall, he sensed a flicker from the Force and a small dark object came out of the portal. Selu, startled by the faint disturbance, lost control over levitating the datapad and it clattered against the portal’s pylon. Ignoring the grumbling of the Zabrak about clumsy offworlder humans, he scanned the gathered people with the Force, looking for a particularly strong presence. The object that had flown out of the portal had not been large enough to have repulsorlifts and the burst of Force activity he had picked up had precisely coincided with the movement of the object. Strangely, he didn’t sense any significant concentrations of the Force, which was odd because his subconscious should have registered anyone that strong in the Force. Slowly standing, he looked around the crowd of mostly humans to see if he recognized anyone, relying mostly on his eyes and memory to provide him with a flicker of recognition. There was a distinct possibility that the individual was a Jedi. Dark-side users serving the Empire would have no need to disguise themselves, or would they? Selusda suddenly noticed him, a tall dark-skinned Kiffar with yellow markings under his eyes. He was wearing street garb and a long coat, with a hood pulled over his dreadlocked hair. Selu probed him with the Force and had no sense of the Force in the man, though one of his eyes briefly flickered. However, Selu recognized the Kiffar from the Jedi Order: Quinlan Vos, renegade Jedi Master. Vos had turned sides more than once in the wars, but had most recently been aligned with the Republic. It was odd that Selu had no sense of him in the Force—a Jedi Master’s presence in the light side of the Force should have rippled through the area, unless Vos had learned to hide his presence somehow. Selu knew—or had once known—how to camouflage himself with the Force, but had never managed to hide his Force presence beyond merely diffusing and dampening to hide his exact location. Selu moved around the ring of people that circled the monument, following Vos as the Kiffar had recovered his object and turned to stride back towards Holstice City. Selu tried to maintain a discreet distance from Vos, but it was difficult. He wasn’t sure if his best efforts to avoid detection would work, especially on a Jedi Master skilled in infiltration and stealth, as Vos was. Fortunately, the tall Kiffar and his shaggy hair were distinctive enough that he didn’t need to get too close. Following Vos into a seedier section of town, Selu watched as Vos walked into a narrow alley. Knowing that Vos would certainly detect him if he continued after him, Selu drew on the Force to camouflage himself and diffuse his presence as best as possible. The effort and headache it created nearly doubled him over, but he placed one foot in front of the other, muffling the sound of his boots on the stresscrete pavement, though that little action caused beads of sweat to break out across his brow. Being out of practice was definitely not conducive to using the Force, Selu decided. Cloaking himself had never been this hard before. The alley was dark enough and littered with smashed furniture and other detritus, so Selu relaxed his concealing bubble of Force energy somewhat. He would only appear as a faint blur, so the natural cover of the alley could do some of the disguising work instead of his own mind. He was about a quarter of the way down the alley now, his progress slow, but steady. Looking up, he noticed that where a tall Kiffar had been an instant ago, now there was empty space. He stopped. Where had Vos gone? Selu attempted to track him through the Force, but the queasiness in his stomach told him what trying to add an additional use of the Force to his already full plate of abilities in use would do to him. Suddenly, a dark hand grabbed his collar and hoisted him into the air. The surprise alone caused Selu to lose his concentration, and he found himself staring into the eyes of an angry-looking Quinlan Vos. Selu swallowed hard, hoping that the reports of Vos’s reliability were true. “Who are you and why have you been following me?” growled Vos, hoisting the much smaller Selu into the air. Selu, still recovering from Vos’s grabbing him, lost his Jedi reserve and hung speechless, his mouth working but no words coming out. “Answer me,” snarled the Jedi Master, and his arm muscles bulged as he increased the pressure on Selu’s collar. “Master . . . Master Vos . . . I’m Selusda . . . Selusda Kraen.” Vos frowned, confused, as if thinking, then shook his head. “Jedi Order . . . I was a Jedi Knight. Plo Koon was, was . . .” At the mention of the Kel Dor Master, recognition dawned in Quinlan Vos’s eyes and he released Selu, who collapsed on the ground coughing. “He was your master,” said Master Vos, the suspicion gone from his voice. “I remember you from Rendili.” “Yes, I was there,” Selu admitted. He had been there, as had Vos, after the Kiffar had been rescued from Asajj Ventress by Obi-Wan Kenobi. “I’d love to stay and chat, Serrasda, but we’re not safe,” said Vos, helping him up and turning to walk off. “It’s Selusda,” Selu corrected. “And I agree, Master Vos.” Vos turned back towards him. “Using that title also isn’t a good idea. Call me Quinlan.” “Okay. I’m Selu, then.” The Jedi Master led Selu through the alley into a rundown apartment building, where he apparently lived, to a small, squalid room, as equally dilapidated on the outside as the inside. “Welcome to my humble abode, Selu. For now, we are safe.” “Thank you.” Quinlan waved him to a small chair, while he remained standing. “I sense your curiosity,” said the Kiffar. “I, too, have questions for you, but go ahead.” Selu, having recovered his composure, looked at Quinlan Vos and decided to cut directly to the heart of the matter. “How did you survive?” Quinlan’s eyes darkened as he considered the question. “I was burned and badly injured on Kashyyyk by the clones. A Devaronian . . . friend of mine helped me get off the planet and got me here, where I’ve been hiding and recovering from my injuries. It’s been a long seven months.” “Are you still a Jedi?” Quinlan Vos laughed at Selu’s next question. “How could I stop being one? It’s not as simple as leaving the robes, temple, and lightsaber, Selusda. I may have walked in the shadows before, but I have overcome the darkness. Being a Jedi is something on the inside, and it is who I am.” “Well, I’m not a Jedi anymore,” Selu said. “Every time I’ve used the Force in combat, I’ve slid towards the dark side.” “What?” Vos’s eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean by that?” Selu was taken aback by the sharp tone and harsh look he was receiving from the Jedi Master. “I know the dangers of the dark side,” said Vos. “I’ve been close to it, toeing the very line it represents. I’d be doing your departed Master a great disservice if I let you fall to the dark side. Now tell me—what happened?” Selu’s resolve initially hardened and he prepared to ignore the Jedi, but the idea of letting Plo Koon down broke through his walls of stubbornness. Slowly, he told Vos everything, about the attack on the Jedi Temple, about the deaths of Serra and Skip, about being led to Sarth by the Force, about the Hawk-bat and his family, and about the Mistryl. By the time he finished his tale, his voice was cracking as he relived each painful experience in his mind as he told the Jedi Master of the story. He knew how poor his choices had been, but admitting them to a Jedi Master reinforced the feelings of inadequacy and failure. He was sure Vos would lecture him sternly and he knew he deserved the berating. He tried to hide the tears of shame and hurt sliding down his face but couldn’t even succeed at that. “I see,” said Vos. “You felt your control slipping, so you cut yourself off from using the Force.” “That’s right,” said Selu. “And look at me—some Jedi I am, can’t even stop a couple Mistryl thugs without nearly getting killed. I was only promoted to Jedi Knight because the Order needed more knights desperately because of the war. Now it’s clear: The council made a mistake. I’m no Jedi, just a silly Padawan.” “Your problem isn’t that you can’t control the Force,” said Quinlan. Selu looked surprised. “What?” he said. “Your problem is that you can’t control you,” replied the Jedi Master. “Your fear of failure and rejection, your anger at the loss of your friends: those are what have caused you to slip. You’re stronger than you think, young one. The council had a purpose behind choosing you as a Jedi Knight. You were ready. Now, you have to face up to your duty.” “What is that?” said Selusda. “To be the best Jedi you can be. If that means protecting your family, so be it. I have a family, a wife who is with child, and I would do anything for them. I was even going to leave the Jedi Order for them, but that didn’t mean abandoning the light. Too much is at stake.” “How do I be a Jedi when the rulers of the galaxy have tried to kill us?” “You don’t have to go around waving a lightsaber and being a guardian of peace and justice all over the Galaxy—not right now, anyways. It’s a mindset, a way of life. It’s using your power for the light side, for justice, in the service of others. It’s preserving the Order—who knows? You and I might be the last two Jedi left. If we die, who will grow the Order again?” “What should I do now?” “You should start using the Force again. You already know it can help you, and once you control yourself and your emotions, be a powerful ally in battle.” Selu hung his head again, full of shame and self-pity again. Now he would have to explain his true weakness to Quinlan Vos and once again be humbled by his failure. The fact that he should have been more willing to admit his weakness was also not lost on him either, and he was sure that Vos would remind him of it. Well, there was no point in delaying the inevitable. “I remember everything I see and hear, but this is beyond me. I don’t know how to grow and foster my connection to the Force on my own.” “You’re relying on your senses too much. Perhaps you should just feel—” Selu cut him off. “What I mean is, Master Vos, will you instruct me more in the ways of the Force? I was never one of the more talented knights and now I’m out of practice and with no guide. I have no way to point me back to the light.” “That’s not true,” said Quinlan. “You have those holocrons you told me that you took out of the Temple.” Selu realized he was right—he’d disregarded the holocrons completely in his self-pity. “However, some things are better learned through a teacher. I will teach you for now,” Vos continued. “When we part ways, though, you will be responsible for your own destiny.” Elsewhere on New Holstice Jorge and R’hask were walking alongside a fountain on the outskirts of Holstice City, waiting around impatiently. The sun had begun to set and they had yet to meet their contact. “Are you sure this is the right place, Cap’n?” asked Jorge. “It’s where we told to wait for him in the datacard that Neeves gave us on Commenor,” replied the Bothan. “I think that’s him now,” said Jorge, indicating a Gungan wearing a loose red robe walking towards the fountain and them. “Are you Skoors?” asked the captain, once the Gungan was close enough. “Dassen meesa,” said the Gungan. “And yousa?” “R’hask Sei’lar and Jorge Knrr. I believe we have a mutual friend. A friend with a hat, right?” The Gungan nodded. “Dat wat meesa wass thinken. Yousa comen’ with meesa now, okeydey?” After exchanging looks over the Gungan’s mangled Basic, the two followed the lanky Skoors as he walked back into the city, his periscope eye-stalks bobbing and long ears flapping as he walked. Both crewmen were vigilant, with R’hask keeping an eye on Skoors while Jorge checked their surroundings. It was an old routine for them. You watch the customer, and also watch to see where the customer is going and who he brings to talk with. In a business deal like this, there was a very real chance of things going sour fast. R’hask had a blaster scar on his hip from a shady business deal gone bad before, and he and Jorge weren’t taking any chances. He led them to a fairly well-sized warehouse where a flinty-eyed human was standing guard, his coat hiding the blaster tucked away on his belt. The Gungan waved his hand at the guard, who opened the door to the warehouse without a single word, just merely acknowledging them with a nod. As far as locations for business deals went, this was definitely on the lower side of the scale for R’hask and Jorge. Water dripped from the leaky ceiling and stains covered the walls and floor. Containers and storage lockers of various sizes were strewn helter-skelter around the dimly lit warehouse and they appeared to be the only occupants. The two spacers weren’t terribly surprised. In this type of activity, their customers were unlikely to use the well-kept, open to the public type of location that would attract legitimate customers to what was, in fact, a front. “Do yousa have what weesa be needin’?” asked Skoors, once they were safely inside the building. “Yes,” said R’hask. “We have a full load that we picked up from Duro. Jorge, the list?” Jorge handed over a datacard to the Gungan, then recited the major contents from memory. “One hundred E-5 blaster rifles. Forty DC-15 blaster rifles. 300 concussion grenades. Fifteen E-5s sniper rifles from BAW. Two PLX-1 rocket launchers with four missiles for each. Assorted blaster packs and maintenance kits for all of it.” The Gungan whistled, impressed. “No-one saw yousen taken all dat, right?” “Of course not. We acquired it through small arms dealers on Duro, salvaged from the planet’s surface, with that cash we were provided with.” “Goodgood,” said the Gungan. “Let ussen get dat offen yousa’s hands and we be gettin’ outa heresa.” “My thoughts exactly,” said R’hask. “The sooner this is over with, the better.” “We’re businessmen. We need to be off to search for other cargoes,” Jorge explained.” The Gungan bobbed his head in another approximation of a human nod, and led them back out of the warehouse. “Wesa be goin to yousa ship now, okeydey? Yousa be given de goods to ussen and we besa gone muy muy quickerly.” “Sounds good,” said Jorge, though he barely understood the Gungan’s speech. The two climbed aboard a rickety hoversled that Skoors had retrieved from a small garage adjoining the warehouse and headed back towards the spaceport. Arriving at the Hawk-bat, they quickly transferred the crates and their highly illegal cargo to Skoor’s hoversled, covering them with smelly old tarps that had been lying in the cargo bay of the hoversled. Each container was enough to get them in a lot of trouble with the law and the entire lot would certainly earn them the death sentence if they were caught. As they and the ship’s two loadlifters placed the cylinders and crates on the sled, R’hask couldn’t keep his fur entirely free of anxiety-laced rippling and Jorge kept looking around suspiciously. Both men were experienced spacers, but to pull off a gunrunning scheme of this magnitude without getting caught was rare in the Mid Rim. There were enough officials, law enforcement, and regulations to make them more than a little nervous. Of course, the sheer gall and audacity of the smuggling job was what gave it a chance. No one in their right mind would try and smuggle this much weaponry into New Holstice. R’hask and Jorge were counting on that to keep them from scrutiny. Once the sled was loaded, Skoors waved them back into the crew compartment of the hoversled. Somewhat confused, they boarded the craft to see what the Gungan wanted, but didn’t have a chance to ask Skoors what was going on before he revved the engine and sent the hoversled off at a fast clip away from the ship. As they left the docking bay, they noticed three descending shuttles flying in, and particularly that they were emblazoned with the new Imperial insignia. A flight of four starfighters, probably V-wings, screamed over the spaceport as they flew cover for the shuttles. “Uh-oh,” murmured Skoors. Gunning the sled, he got them out of the spaceport quickly, driving them back in the direction of the warehouse. “Why did you bring us along?” said R’hask irritably. “We could have been on our way by now.” “I don’t think so,” said a tight, cold voice on their side. R’hask looked over to see Neeves with a blaster aimed at them. “You’re not going anywhere until we’re safely off the planet.” “Now Neeves,” R’hask said. “That’s no way to treat someone who brings you expensive and illegal weapons for your little security force. “Probably not,” Neeves answered. “We’ve run into a little snag, though. Imperial troops have landed and they’ll soon be crawling through Holstice City. So we’re going to keep you safe until they leave.” “Are dey after ussen?!” asked Skoors, a bit panicky. “I don’t think they are, but I’m not taking any chances,” said Neeves. “I didn’t like the way we were attracting attention on Commenor, so I brought the other two members over here. Captain Sei’lar, I’m sorry to inconvenience you like this, but I know you’re a firm believer in our cause and the necessity of being our guest for a little while is but a small sacrifice to make for you.” “Well, since you put it that way,” R’hask said dryly. “Let me call my other crewman and let him know we’ll be off on an extended business deal.” “Does he know about the cargo?” demanded Neeves. “No,” said R’hask, his fur indignantly rippling along his back. “But he’ll be wondering where we are.” “Fine,” grumbled Neeves. “But nothing funny.” As R’hask made the comlink call, the hoversled made its way back to the warehouse. The two were “escorted” back by Neeves and Skoors, both with blasters in hand, into the warehouse and then to a dingy cluster of offices and living quarters located along one side of the warehouse and shown into a smallish room with a couple bunks located at the end of a hall. “Refresher’s down the hall on the left,” said Neeves. “We’ll try and make this as pleasant as possible, but don’t do anything foolish. Once the Imperials aren’t so active, we’ll be out of here and you can be to. I’m not sure what they want, but we’re not going to take any chances.” “Thanks for the tour,” said Jorge. “Always nice to have a pleasant host lock you in.” “No problem,” said Neeves, ignoring the sarcasm. “Oh, and hand your weapons over also. I’d hate for you to hurt yourselves accidentally.” Jorge and R’hask hesitated, but the blaster in Neeves’s hand brooked no argument. They both unbuckled their blasters. “The holdout and vibroblade also,” Neeves continued. “You know what I do for a living and you still tried that.” He shook his head, as if disappointed in the two. R’hask glowered, but the two handed over the requested items to Skoors, who dropped them into a cloth sack with their blasters. “Later, gentles,” said Neeves. Closing the door behind him, Neeves left their little end of the hall and Jorge heard the door lock after him. He looked at his captain. “Not good,” he pronounced.
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