| abstract
| - Drums and strings resonated through every tympanic membrane in the amphitheatre as a thousand musicians played the anthem of the New Republic. A throng of sentients from around the galaxy crowded the stands encircling the open floor below, watching the proceedings. There were towering Herglics, sinister-looking Devaronians, horned Zabraks, serene Ithorians and more all gathered in the complex watching as the carefully choreographed ceremony unfolded. From where she sat quietly in the highest place of honor at the peak of the amphitheatre’s crowned rim, New Republic Chief of State Leia Organa Solo couldn’t help the sudden emotion that welled up in her at the sight of so many people gathered together to celebrate the New Republic that she and countless others had fought to create. She was dressed in fairly elaborate robes of state as befitting the occasion, surrounded by her friends and family. Off to her left, she could see Han fidgeting uncomfortably in his formal wear, sitting by her three children, Jacen, Jaina, and Anakin. The towering brown Wookiee Chewbacca loomed over Han as always like a furry pillar. Standing solemnly behind them was her brother, Luke Skywalker and his wife Mara. Everything was as it should be. The glowing readout in front of her told her when it time for her to stand and officially open the event. A timer counted down the seconds, then it flashed red when it reached zero, her cue to stand and deliver her brief address. With regal dignity instilled in her during her youth on Alderaan, Leia rose solemnly and walked up to the podium that stood on a balcony protruding from the enclosed seating where her friends, family, and select members of the government sat, looking over the crowds as spotlights illuminated her booth. She waited just long enough to catch the attention of everyone there, then began her speech. “Fellow citizens of the New Republic, honored guests, I bid you welcome. You are all witness to the re-emergence of a tradition began years ago, one that the Empire rejected and ended, but that we have brought back as a show of unity.” She paused, reflecting on the events that had threatened to shatter the New Republic—Kueller’s uprising, the Yevethan War, the Corellian Insurrection, the Death Seed threat, most recently the Caamas Incident. Somehow, even though sometimes barely by a thread, the New Republic had managed to hold itself together through the worst of times. It was moments like these that reminded Leia that it was all worth it—all the infighting and threats and war. “Our New Republic is stronger than ever before and now we come together as one to revive a centuries-old tradition of the Old Republic that once was neglected. Today, we mark the start of the 1979th Galactic Games after a 50 year postponement, a celebration of our unity and prosperity. For the next few weeks, we will share in the hopes and dreams of our champions as they take to the competitive events that have painstakingly been planned out. For the next few weeks, we will all reach to the stars with them and be reminded that we are all in this together, that all stars burn as one. And with that, I now inaugurate this session of the Galactic Games. I welcome all the competitors from across the galaxy to begin the opening processional.” Leia raised one hand in salute as the gates on the amphitheatre floor slid open, admitting the first teams of athletes clad in their planet or sector’s chosen garb to begin a slow march around the track that encircled the lowest level of the amphitheatre. She turned a gracious smile for the holocams as thunderous applause sounded from all the spectators. It was clear that some of them had been moved by her words, while others were simply being polite, yet she didn’t care. It had finally happened, after months of meetings and bickering, the greatest show of New Republic unity was finally here. The musicians picked up the soaring score again as pyrotechnics displays bursting in starflares of every color marked the end of the pre-games pageantry and the processional began. The spotlights swung away from her booth back down to the amphitheatre floor, but Leia stood a minute longer, taking it all in. Then, her part complete, she sat and observed as the applause slowly died down and the immense stream of athletes began their march around the track, one team at a time. This part would take hours, and though Leia knew her teenaged children and Han would probably get bored long before it was over, she had asked them to stay for it. For once, it felt good to have all her family here with her. She turned back to Han, leaning towards him. “How was the speech?” she asked him quietly. He gave her a roguish smirk. “Not bad, Princess,” he said teasingly. “I would have just said ‘Let the games begin’ and be done with it.” “No, really,” she persisted. He took her hand in his rough callused one and kissed it gently. “You did just great,” Han said. “Couldn’t have been better.” “Thank you,” she said. “Can I go now?” he asked, half-serious. She gave him an arch look. “You said you’d stay the whole time,” she said. “I just said that so you’d feel sorry for me and let me leave early,” he replied glibly. She shook her head subtly. “Not this time, flyboy,” Leia told him. “I’m sure some of your favorite shockball players will be in the teams anyway. Just try and enjoy yourself.” “Okay, I guess,” he said, slumping back into his chair, obviously skeptical. “Just remember,” she replied. “I endured all those late meetings and political arguments for this.” He cocked an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Congratulations,” he said with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “Was it worth it?” “Han!” she hissed at him. He relented. “All right,” he said. “It looks great. I know how hard you fought for this, to make this dream come to life, and you pulled off. I’m happy for you.” “Thank you,” she said, mollified. Sitting back, she relaxed and took in all the sights and sounds, her left hand gently held in Han’s. Despite all the debate, the accusations from various political factions of double-dealing, of favoritism, of xenophobia, of wasting money, of influencing the selection of sports and rules, of just about anything, she was finally here, presiding over the Galactic Games. They were never something she had experienced; she was too young for that, but her adopted father had told her stories about them, about the pageantry and glory of the Old Republic on display. And now she was seeing their return come to fruition, a dazzling show of the relative prosperity of the New Republic and the unity of its people. Of course, not everyone in attendance was there to celebrate the prosperity and unity of the New Republic. Many of them were competitors, who even as they made their way around the track looking happy for the crowds, were already thinking over their practice regimen for the next day. And even within the competitors, there were some who had ulterior motives behind attendance. Even as he smiled and waved, Ryion Kraen’s brown eyes shot quickly from point to point, taking in everything he could. The young Human male looked around as much as possible, never ceasing his ocular motion. This wasn’t solely out of curiosity and wonder—though both of those elements were present. His glances were the trained looks of a professional intelligence agent, taking in volumes of pertinent information in quick sweeps. He and his teammates from the remote world of Yanibar were on a secret mission at the Galactic Games, which is why out of all the competitors, winning their events was a secondary objective to them. Their primary job was to remain undiscovered, unquestioned, and most importantly, unrevealed for who they really were. Like many of the Outer Rim and Wild Space worlds that had bothered to send delegations, Yanibar’s team was small, only four athletes and seven trainers. Their attire seemed plain and rustic—sand-colored tunics and pants with only a dark green shoulder cloak and a silver brooch in the shape of a star to brighten the outfit. In comparison to some of the brighter and flashier costumes, they appeared plain, nondescript. Few in the crowd had even heard of Yanibar, which was how they wanted it, because of the great secret that Yanibar held. For the past three and a half decades, Yanibar had been home to a refuge of Force users, exiled during the rise of the Empire. It had been founded by Ryion’s father, a Jedi Knight of the Old Republic named Selusda Kraen, and had carefully concealed hundreds of Force-users from the evil grasp of the Empire. With the rise of the New Republic and a new generation of Jedi Knights under Luke Skywalker, Selu had been reluctant to reveal Yanibar, though. After seeing dozens of Jedi slaughtered by Anakin Skywalker years earlier, Selu was loathe to trust the care of all he had fought to create into the hands of someone so powerful and haphazardly trained, not to mention one with so many brushes with the dark side of the Force. So now Ryion and his team were here, both to compete and to participate in a little intelligence-gathering mission about the New Republic. It was risky, naturally. Ryion and his team were all trained Force-users, and there were plenty of Jedi in attendance tonight, including Luke Skywalker himself. They had gone through extensive training in shielding their presences in the Force from view and also learned various intelligence techniques for covert operations and infiltration; to the point where they had spent almost as much as time in that aspect they had in practicing for their actual events. Selu himself was here, along with Ryion’s mother Milya and his Uncle Sarth and Aunt Cassi also, all masking their Force-sensitivity even as they watched from the stands. Ryion knew that if his father was to fully open himself to the Force, any Jedi on Coruscant would sense the burning star that his father seemed to be in the Force when he revealed himself. He glanced over at the dark-skinned young man to his right, his cousin Zeyn Kraen, just six months older. Zeyn was taller than Ryion by eight centimeters, his shaven head towering over most of the other members of the Yanibar team. Zeyn was carrying the team’s banner, propping it against one shoulder as he marched along, a wide grin across his face. “Enjoying yourself?” Ryion asked him as softly as he could over the noise of the boisterous crowd. “Sure,” Zeyn replied easily. “Might as well.” Ryion nodded, then glanced to his left, where a blue-skinned Wroonian woman marched along, much more subdued than the outgoing Zeyn. Her name was Ariada Cerulaen, an orphan rescued by his parents years ago on R’alla. Slight of stature and slender, training had been a lot harder for Ariada than any of the others. Her introspective nature made her difficult to approach, but Ryion knew her well enough to know that while she was wearing a pleasant face, something was bothering her. He made a mental note to ask her about it later. Behind them walked the oldest member of the team and its leader, Qedai Sherum. The daughter of a famous Zeison Sha warrior on Yanibar, Qedai was a red-hued Lethan Twi’lek and a stunning beauty as far as most Human and Near-Human males were concerned. Qedai strode confidently around the arena, her dancer’s grace and poise showing as she smiled and waved back at the crowd. Indeed, they were finally here. Literally years of training had gone into this mission, ever since those few months after Chief of State Organa Solo had announced the reinstitution of the Galactic Games. His grandparents had told Ryion about what it was like when they used to be held every five years on Coruscant, and he had been exhilarated to learn of the plan to get them here on this mission. Ryion wasn’t sure how the rest of the team felt, but he was absolutely thrilled just to be here and compete, even though none of them were expected to win their events or even place. That was okay with him; he had no problems with shattering expectations. He and the rest of his relatively young team had already survived a grueling selection process on Yanibar to determine which team would go the Games. They filed out of the amphitheater in turn, heading to their quarters. The suites were comfortably furnished, though the furnishings were a bit too white-themed for Ryion’s tastes. There were two rooms set apart for the athletes and four more for the trainers; Ryion’s parents and relatives would be staying at a hotel elsewhere, doing other missions for the most part. Exhausted after the day of pageantry, Ryion plopped down on the large bed and its thick white coverlet gratefully to take off his boots. It had been a long day for him, the culmination of months of training to get him and his teammates here. There were still some issues with them—Qedai had been particularly tense recently, but they were here. Just being on Coruscant, marching through the arena in front of the crowd, had exhilarated him, thrilled him to a depth he hadn’t experienced in a long time. He knew that he and his team were expected to maintain professional composures, but they were still novitiates at this type of mission, even with their training. Now, of course, he was drained and tired, his alacrity depleted by the stress and exertion of the day. Ryion was looking forward to getting some sleep; he and his teammates had a big day tomorrow. “I’m glad that’s all over,” he said. “Nothing is over, young Ryion,” mewed a soft gravelly voice. Ryion jumped; without the Force, he couldn’t detect approaching beings as easily. Though he had trained himself to be more observant without the Force, he couldn’t usually detect the approach of the diminutive Noghri warrior and his trainer in hand-to-hand combat Morgedh clan Kel’nerh. Morgedh was less than a meter and a half tall, but between his Noghri training, Yanibar Guard commando skills, and Force powers, he was one of the most intimidating and dangerous beings Ryion knew. The Noghri moved around Ryion’s and Zeyn’s room carefully, methodically sweeping it for listening devices. Ryion watched him attentively, not knowing what the typically stolid alien would say or do next. “In fact,” the Noghri growled softly as he finished his sweep, “it is just the beginning. Practice begins at 0500 tomorrow. Do not be late.” The look in his eye was enough to convince Ryion and Zeyn that they would not enjoy the consequences if they were even ten seconds tardy. “Understood, Master Kel’nerh,” Ryion replied. “Guess we better get some sleep.” Coruscant Lower Levels Deep in the underbelly of one of Coruscant’s seedier districts, a shady deal was being made. Credits were traded for a slender black polymer case. For one party, it was the result of an expensive and exclusive deal which promised a handsome payoff. For the other, it was the means to execute a plan that had been two years in the making. The recipient of the case opened it and checked its contents, running a specialized scanner over it. “Congratulations, Lakshak,” he said smoothly. “You and your partner here got us exactly what we needed. And in record time, too. Impressive.” “It’s been a lot easier to get shipments in with the peace and all, and a lot of extra surplus like that lying around just waiting to be . . . uh . . . picked up and used,” answered the burly Snivvian who had procured the items in the case. “Told you I could get it for you.” “You did well, Lakshak,” the customer answered soothingly. “Quite well, indeed. Here’s your payment and a little something extra.” Lakshak took the money, examining the quantity. Something caught his eye, though, and he frowned. “Hey, these are Imperial credits! I can’t use these!” he protested. “And what’s this about something extra?” “Of course they are. What did you expect?” the customer replied flatly. “And as for your bonus . . .” From beneath his long overcoat, he whipped out a small holdout blaster. “It’s exactly what you deserve,” he told the two buyers that had procured the item he needed. He pulled the trigger twice before they could stammer out a protest or plea for their lives, and that was all it took to silence them. The customer holstered the weapon and left the area, the black case tucked away inside his jacket. He’d take it apart and tinker with it back at his place, now that he was sure there would be no witnesses to what he had just acquired. Dead ones like the two he’d left face down in the alleys told no tales to Coruscant’s security forces, not this deep. Now that he had what he needed, his job was as good as done. There would be no one to stop him now. Coruscant Ice Complex, Day One Zeyn Kraen carefully adjusted the tinted goggles over his face, tugging them into place so they fit snugly over the form-fitting ski suit he was wearing. He glanced down at the turbo-skis his feet were strapped to, then checked the deflector poles to make sure they were properly polarized. Once he was satisfied with their status, he did one final check of the slope below him. It was cold and dry, a light wind blowing through the complex, chapping his exposed face. He could see his breath and it was plenty cold, but his suit kept him insulated from the cold and especially the wind. Zeyn carefully wrapped his gloved hands around the deflector poles and steadied himself as the repulsors activated. Then, he pushed himself off from the gate as his turbo-skis hummed to life. Before him stretched a vast snowy expanse dotted with the dark shapes of trees and rocks. Zeyn quickly picked up speed as he headed down the fairly straight lane carefully marked by two wide blue lines. In no time, the combination of gravitational acceleration and the turbo-ski’s engines had raised his velocity to over one hundred kilometers per hour. He could hear nothing but the wind and the engines of the turbo-skis roaring in his ears as he expertly crouched forward, tucking the deflector poles under his arms as he shot down the slope. The transparent roof let the sun shine brightly on the artificial azure backdrop inside the enormous complex, but it was realistic enough to Zeyn, especially the carefully generated wind blowing down the slopes. He picked up even more speed, but this event was not a simple downhill run, and too much speed could prove hazardous. A crosswind could make his attempts at steering far more complicated than they needed to be. The chilly wind whistled all around him as left the straightaway and moved into the serpentine segment, so named because of its many winding turns. He was in his element now, the feeling of speed exhilarating him as the adrenaline coursed through his veins. It was a test among expert skiers to see how long they could manage without extending their deflector poles. Zeyn held out as long as he possibly felt he could manage, but saw a sharp ninety degree turn coming up. He was tempted to relinquish his pole tuck and use them to maneuver around the turn, then decided against it. Instead, he opened himself to the Force, allowing it to guide how much he leaned to control his balance, what micro-slopes he rode over to make the turn. Even as he veered into the turn, leaning over so sharply that he thought he’d fall over, his turbo-skis kicked up a sharp spray of fine snow powder. And yet, somehow, he’d managed to stay upright even with his deflector poles still tucked under his arms. Zeyn kept them that way for another two seconds until a hairpin turn forced him to use them for maneuvering. They made the going a lot easier and much less nerve-wracking, but they also cost him speed. Still, Zeyn felt confident as he wove through the twisting expanses of the serpentine section, zooming over some of the low jumps on a thick cushion of air greater than the normal repulsorlift distance. His heart was pounding but he couldn’t slow down, not now. Though he wasn’t nearly as familiar with it as he was with the course back on Yanibar, everything was going smoothly and he’d held his pole tuck longer on that run than any other today thus far. He sped through the last segment of the serpentine section, shooting into the gated section with a trailing spray of powder pluming out behind him. Now, even finer maneuvering was demanded of him as he was required to zigzag back and forth through a series of carefully staggered gates. Touching one would cost him a point; missing one would be nearly enough to disqualify him. He kept his mind focused on the task, accepting with gritted teeth the almost painful amount of speed he had to bleed off in order to make it through every gate. Last run, he’d touched a gate, so he was taking it careful this time. The snow blown up from his skis was enough to nearly blind him if he wasn’t constantly observant, but the Force was his ally. Relying on it for guidance, he was able to weave through the maze of gates without incident other than being far too slow for his liking. The next stage was the obstacle section, yet another maze filled with bumpy moguls, snow bluffs, and trees that would challenge his ability to find the most efficient path down the slope. As one of the last riders of the day, he followed the track blazed by previous skiers, sticking to a safe route. He wasn’t familiar enough with the obstacle section yet, but he would be. On Yanibar, his trainers had placed the obstacles randomly, changing them daily, so he was wise to the possibility of a sudden barrier to his progress. His going was slower still, more restrained than he was used to; he’d tripped in this section earlier, a beginner’s mistake that still made him flush with embarrassment. Zeyn swore under his breath as he barely clipped a tree, forcing a quick touch of the deflector poles to keep on touch. That had probably cut his time by two hundredths of a second, an entirely unnecessary mistake caused by his focusing on his previous mistake. He locked his focus back on the treacherous alpine slope, his eyes always on the slope, never on his skis. He would trust his legs to communicate any possible issues to him as he bounced up and down, knees correctly locked together, through a particularly bumpy set of moguls. Then finally he was out of that tricky section and into the double-jump section. Here, the slope had featured two banks about fifty meters apart. He had to ramp off the first bank, perform an aerial maneuver, then land, recover, and perform another one just fifty meters apart down. And in a hurry, too. He took the first jump with confidence, launching himself into the air. As he did so, he crossed one of his turbo-skis across the other and threw one arm out—a move that could ruin his landing by affecting his turn if he wasn’t careful. While his skis were crossed and arm was extended, he pulled off a full 360 degree rotation of his body around its long axis. Then the icy slope was before him again, and he quickly uncrossed his skis as he landed. Even though the repulsor fields kept him from actually contacting the slope, all the air left him as the force of impact crashed down on him. He wobbled on the landing, taking four touches of the deflector poles to regain his balance, then it was time for the second jump. This time, Zeyn threw himself into the aerial equivalent of a backwards somersault for his maneuver, an easier jump that allowed him to land with fewer difficulties. Then he was leading into his second favorite part of the run, the long jump. A two hundred meter straightaway preceded that, allowing Zeyn to regain that precious speed he had shed to navigate through the control segments. The slope practically flew past him as he accelerated down, ditching the deflector poles along the way for a droid to retrieve. And then abruptly, the slope gave way into nothing as Zeyn was abruptly catapulted into thin air. He folded his arms down at his sides, forming his skis into a V with the point at his ankles. Leaning forward, he soared through the air for 50, 100, then 150 meters. There he was, hanging in the sky with nothing around him but thin air. Zeyn felt weightless as he glided down, his skis keeping him aloft for a grand total of 183 meters before the snow rushed at him suddenly. He stuck the landing, allowing his bent knees to take the shock of the impact as he carefully slid to a stop in yet another spray of powdery white snow. For the first time, he was aware of how hard his heart was pumping, of how heavy his breathing was, and of how much sweat was streaming down his face. He was thoroughly exhilarated, and while it hadn’t been a perfect run, he hadn’t made any glaring errors except for the tree on the obstacle section. As he pulled himself over to the side railing to unstrap his skis, his instructor came over and gave him a quick whispered rundown on what to improve on. By and large, though, the old Matukai was complimentary, clapping him on the back, and the affirmation pleased Zeyn. Then, he saw his Uncle Sarth and Aunt Cassi, who had apparently come to watch him. “Did you see me ski?” he asked breathlessly. “We did,” Sarth told him. “You did very well. Best I’ve seen from you on this course.” “Thanks,” Zeyn replied. “Master Pietrev liked it also.” “Your father would have been very proud,” Cassi said warmly, “and so would your grandparents.” Zeyn nodded, his lips pursed tightly together as he did so. His father, Nate Kraen, and grandfather, Spectre Kraen, had died defending Yanibar nearly twenty years earlier, saving Sarth and Cassi from an evil crime lord. His grandmother had just died last year from an aneurysm bursting in her brain. In their absence, his mother had tried to fill that gap as best she could, and the other Kraens, especially Sarth, Cassi, and Ryion, had also been supportive. “Thank you,” Zeyn answered appreciatively. “We wish they could be here too, Zeyn,” Sarth told him sympathetically, placing one hand on his shoulder. Despite his Lorrdian heritage from his mother’s side, which gave him incredible skill at reading and controlling his body language, being reminded of his bereavement was always enough to silence the normally cheerful, effusive Zeyn. For the most part, he tried to go through life as mirthfully as possible, seeking the next thrill, the next good time, the next challenge. It helped him keep his mind off what was behind him—what he’d lost. “I appreciate that, Uncle Sarth,” Zeyn said as picked up his turbo-skis and hefted them on his shoulder. “Are you hungry?” Cassi asked him. “We were going to invite you to dinner with us.” “I’d like to,” Zeyn told them, his good nature returning somewhat, “but I only have time for a quick bite then it’s on to more practice for my other event.” “Oh, well, then we might stop by to watch, if you don’t mind,” Sarth offered. “Uh, I’m not sure about that one, Uncle Sarth,” Zeyn said hesitantly. “We’re still working on our routine and . . . well, I appreciate it and all, though.” “That’s fine,” Cassi told him amiably. “We understand; you don’t want to be distracted while you practice.” Zeyn flashed her an understanding smile. “Thanks,” he said. “We’ll have it down for the actual performance, but Qedai and I just need to do some polishing of our routine.” “We’ll look forward to it,” Sarth said, then, linking his arm inside his wife’s, they headed off. “I’ll look forward to it too,” Zeyn muttered under his breath, “Look forward to it being over. And look forward to the day I no longer have to wear that ridiculous costume.” Thirty minutes later, though, he was seated at the edge of the wave pool, wearing that ‘ridiculous costume’ and strapping a much slimmer pair of repulsorskates. His attire consisted of tight gray pants and a frilly bright cyan shirt with a deep v-neck that plunged to the bottom of his sternum. He hated it profoundly and out of the entire wardrobe that the Yanibar athletes had brought with them, this was perhaps the flashiest. At that point, Qedai walked into the room where the wave pool was, having just left her scoopball practice with Ariada. As she sauntered in, Zeyn noticed she was still wearing her scoopball outfit. While it was fairly modest compared to some of the scoopball “wear” he’d seen, its lack of coverage meant that he was wrong about his costume being the flashiest thing that the Yanibar team had brought. “Nice costume,” he remarked flippantly. “I thought so, too,” Qedai replied. “But not quite right for wave dancing. I’ll be changed in just a minute.” Zeyn shook his head. If it were him, he wouldn’t exactly be eager to show that much of himself off in public, but then again, he wasn’t a Twi’lek female. She looked good in it anyway. Brushing the thought away, he began working through his warm-up stretches, making sure he was fully limber and relaxed. A few minutes later, Qedai emerged, in shorts and a halter top in the same design and color scheme as his pants and shirt. She worked through the same warm-up routine as he did, stretching carefully to avoid injury. Then she too strapped on her repulsor skates and glided out onto the calm surface of the wave pool. “Ready?” she asked him. “I’m coming,” Zeyn replied evenly as he finished up, a little slower than she was at stretching. He pushed off and soon found himself standing in front of her, the repulsor skates keeping him floating a couple centimeters off the ground. Zeyn took a deep breath as he ran through their routine quickly in his mind. Then, he put on a performer’s wide smile and held up his hand in salute to her as the music commenced. She followed suit as the first few notes of the pseudo-classical strings arrangement “Luminescence” wafted through the ambient system. Once the music started, Zeyn’s irritation with his costume, Qedai’s tardiness, the very art of wave dancing, all of it—vanished a wave hitting the shore, leaving only trace ripples behind as evidence of its presence. The opening chimes signaled him to flourish his extended hand and take hers in his even as they began the first few passes and rotations, an intricate exchange of positions and turns accentuated by leg kicks and arm flourishes. With each pass, he and Qedai approached closer and closer, brushing against each other and yet not losing control. Finally, on the last pass after coming so close to each other that they were practically intertwined, they broke away from the infinity loop their paths had formed and glided across the water in a smooth double helix pattern, allowing their wakes to cross back and forth even as the waves began to build. Around the pool they glided, dancing around each other with grace and poise, taking dramatic leaps into the air. The waves built around them, intensifying from steady ripples to half-meter rollers. And yet they mattered not to Zeyn and Qedai. They skated with the waves, gently cresting them even as they glided across the water. Constantly in motion and wearing blue and gray, they almost seemed to be creatures of the water, flowing with its currents and with the dynamic melody of the musical arrangement. No, they were more than just creatures of the water, they seemed to be part of the water, always in motion, always streaming from one point to the next, their arms and legs mirroring the spray their skates kicked up on sharp turns and kicks. Zeyn took small skittering steps backwards, kicking up spray like a breeze on the water while Qedai glided forwards steadily along a wave as if she was its personification. And yet, they were off, not completely synchronized. Their timings were that fraction of a second off that made them look uncoordinated. Even as the music built up to its climax and their maneuvers were supposed to become more elaborate, the obstacle remained, as if someone had placed a rock in between them, constricting the flow of the water and the dance. Zeyn felt vexation build within him as they grew increasingly off-kilter. He was supposed to leap up and do a triple turn on his jump, but his growing frustration impeded his concentration and he only managed to pull off a double. By now, the waves had risen to well over a meter and a half tall, crashing tumultuously around them, dousing them with spray. Zeyn felt the same kind of intrinsic conflict as he and Qedai tried to dance. They were both going through the correct steps and motions of the intricate pattern, but not together. He heard the shift in music as the piece approached its final notes and carefully closed the distance between him and Qedai until they were skating practically side by side as the biggest wave yet formed and began working its way across the wave pool. Zeyn dropped back behind her just a little bit even as the wave began cresting from left to right. It was time for the hardest part of the dance. He planted his hands on her waist and lifted as she leapt up until she was up and over his head, her knees resting on his back as he skated across the cresting wave. The maneuver made it appear like she was rising with the wave, an artistic display of style and poise. It also took incredible balance to pull off a maneuver like that, given that he couldn’t use his hands for anything but holding Qedai aloft for the next three seconds. The wave pool was only one hundred meters across but it seemed like forever until she boosted up and planted one foot on his shoulder, standing aloft with just his shoulder and one of his arms gripping her calf for balance while he struggled to stay upright. He could finally use one hand to steady himself now, but as the giant three meter wave crested, he found himself gliding at an angle rapidly approaching perpendicular to the floor. The pressure on his shoulder and neck from her foot combined with the sheer angle was too much for him to bear and he collapsed even as the wave washed over them, burying them in a deluge. Zeyn was the first to surface—thankfully that was the last of the waves, he reflected as he swam over to the side of the pool, gagging against the tang of whatever purificants had been dissolved in the pool. Qedai surfaced in an angry geyser, wiping droplets of water away from her eyes. “What in space was that?” she spluttered agitatedly. “In layman’s terms, that was a wipe-out,” Zeyn answered coolly. “Obviously, things didn’t go as planned.” “Just like they didn’t the last three minutes of the dance,” she fired back. “You were off-step.” Zeyn heaved himself up onto the side of the pool and shot her a glare. “Why don’t you reconsider that one?” he retorted. “Given that nine times out of ten, I can read your body language just fine and I’m perfectly capable of following the music, I’m obviously not the one with an inconsistent sense of timing.” She returned the glare. “Inconsistent?” she replied. “I’ve been dancing since the time I could walk. My timing is just fine!” Their argument was about to grow more heated but was suddenly cut off by a cool voice rippling out from the side of the pool. “Enough,” said a calm voice. “This is no way for partners and teammates to treat each other.” They turned to see their instructor, the Jal Shey Mentor Harper Steriol, a blue-skinned Duros, standing in the shallows at one end of the wave pool. Zeyn ducked his head quickly. “I apologize, Master,” he said. “I lost my temper.” “I saw that,” the Duros answered. “Both of you.” His last remark was designed to prompt a response from Qedai and it was successful. She averted her gaze, ducking her head against the rebuke. “I’m sorry also,” she muttered. “When you are dancing on the waves, you must work together,” Mentor Steriol chided. “You must flow together in harmony as if you were two halves of the same being. If you don’t, you will just splash and splutter.” “Yes, Mentor, it’s just—,” Qedai began, but one upraised blue finger from the Duros was enough to stop her. “Hold that thought, Qedai,” he interrupted. “I sense much negative emotion in you—both of you. I cannot teach you anything when you are frustrated and irritated like this and certainly not an art like wave dancing. We will practice no further today.” “What?” Qedai exclaimed. “The first round is just two days away and we’re not going to practice? Surely you’re joking.” “I am serious,” the Duros responded in the same calm voice he’d been using throughout the duration of the conversation. “Which do you think is more important Qeda’isherum, learning to work with your partner in a proper and mature manner, or agitating both of you solely to get a marginally higher chance at a medal you will most likely not win?” “Fine,” Qedai grumped. “What do we do instead?” “I suggest you find a quiet place to meditate and relax your mind,” Mentor Steriol returned. “Clear yourself of distractions and negativity, talk with your partner if there is some issue you need to resolve, but don’t come back to practice until you are ready to be patient and willing to learn instead of expressing your frustration like a pair of younglings.” “Yes, Mentor,” Qedai replied curtly, storming off. Zeyn shook his head. Things had been this way ever since he’d told Qedai that he didn’t particularly care for wave dancing or their costume about two weeks ago. His partner had immediately taken that as an insult and become even more demanding than she normally was. When he had questioned her about it, she had replied that she was trying to make up for his apathy. Zeyn recalled how offended he had been, a hot flare of indignation coloring his words as he reassured her that he was just as committed to doing well at the Galactic Games as she was—in both of his events. “Zeyn,” Mentor Steriol’s calm voice interrupted his introspection. “You were right, her timing was inconsistent, but you should have adapted to that.” “I know,” Zeyn admitted. “I was distracted.” “Clear your mind of distractions,” the Duros Jal Shey told him. “Only then can you succeed.” Zeyn nodded and headed for the locker room to change out of his ridiculous costume. Once back in the Yanibar team’s exercise jackets and loose pants, he took one of the white-and-red speeders available for the use of the competitors back to his team’s complex which besides their sleeping quarters also contained two locker rooms, refreshers, a small lounge, and a weight room. Zeyn stopped off at his sleeping quarters to retrieve a fresh set of clothes, then headed for the refresher, intent on grabbing a sanistream before doing any kind of meditation. “Hey, I thought you were at wave dancing. What happened?” he heard Ryion ask him. Zeyn frowned; he’d been too self-absorbed to even realize the other young man was even in their room. “No practice today,” he called over his shoulder. “Mentor Steriol finally got tired of the rift between Qedai and me; told us to take a break and cool off.” “Is everything all right?” Ryion asked. “It will be once that event is over,” Zeyn answered sharply, his usual good humor momentarily vanishing. “That has to be one of the most—,” “Don’t say something you’ll regret,” Ryion cut him off from the next room. “Look, I’m not saying she’s right, but at least consider it from her point of view.” “I’ve tried that, Ryion,” Zeyn said as he peeled off his clothes and stepped into the steaming spray of water. “I know why she’s frustrated, I mean, I did tell her that I didn’t enjoy this event less than two weeks ago. She’s worried that I’m not going to do my best.” “And?” Ryion asked. “She has nothing to worry about,” Zeyn retorted, “I said I’d do my best at it, and I will.” “You know, that probably didn’t mean as much as you thought it would,” Ryion remarked from the next room. “Coming from the guy who can manipulate his body language at will.” “Well, thanks for noticing,” Zeyn said sarcastically as he lathered up. “Hence my dilemma.” “Have you tried apologizing?” Ryion asked. “For what?” “For giving her the wrong impression, for approaching the matter so clumsily, for being your usual nerf-brained self?” Ryion suggested, half teasing. “Thanks for that vote of confidence,” Zeyn shot back. “And no, I haven’t.” “You might give it a try,” Ryion said, “and then maybe spend some time doing something with her that isn’t just practice or training.” “And why would I do that?” Zeyn asked. “I’m not sure she wants anything to do with me right now.” “If you haven’t asked her, how could you know that?” Ryion inquired, “And don’t use the Lorrdian thing as an excuse. You’re on the same team, Zeyn. All I’m asking is that you act like it.” Zeyn sighed as he stepped out of the sanistream, wrapping a towel around his midsection. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Then again, you’re sounding awfully mature for Ryion Kraen. Who are you and what have you done with my friend? The one who purposefully looks for the fastest speeder he can find and tries to set speed records on it at night.” Ryion chuckled. “I guess training for this has made me grow up a bit,” he said. “My parents also said some things that made an impression on me.” “Like what?” Zeyn asked. Ryion snorted. “You know, little things like every eye on Yanibar is watching you, be careful, girls are fun but dangerous, don’t cut your own body parts off when using your lightsaber.” “Act your age, not your boot size?” Zeyn added. “Pretty much,” Ryion said. “So, what are you going to do about Qedai? You can’t perform with both of you acting like you’re ticked off at each other.” “I know,” Zeyn said heavily as he finished dressing and stepped back into the lounge where Ryion was reclining in one of the form chairs there. “I guess I’ll go talk to her.” “And?” Ryion pressed. “And I’ll see if she’s interested in some Force meditation and teamwork drills like we used to do back at home. That should help us coordinate and understand where we’re coming from.” “Better,” Ryion said. “I’ll even ask her nicely,” Zeyn finished, eyeing Ryion with look of mock irritation. “Good plan,” Ryion told him. “I think it’ll work well.” Zeyn kept his glare fixed on Ryion. “You know, you’re almost as bossy as she is,” he said. “Me, bossy?” Ryion replied incredulously. “I didn’t give you a single order or tell you to do anything. I’ve just made suggestions and asked questions. You made all the decisions about what to do.” Zeyn wasn’t convinced, continuing his glare. “You tricked me,” he said finally, but in good humor. “But I’ll get you next time!” Ryion shook his head as Zeyn contorted his face into a melodramatic expression of anger for one final glare. Then, his cousin relented and sauntered off, looking for Qedai. “Hey,” Ryion called after him as he was reminded of something. “Do you know where Ariada is?” “Yeah,” Zeyn replied, “Last I checked she was in her sleeping quarters, resting. Do you two have practice or something?" “Not for another half-hour,” Ryion said. “I just need to do some team-building of my own.” Zeyn nodded and walked off, leaving Ryion to locate Ariada. There was something that was bothering the Wroonian girl, he knew, but he wasn’t exactly sure how to respond. In truth, he was concerned for her, because Ariada was the type of person who wouldn’t reveal she was suffering if she thought it would affect the team, even if her leg was falling off. He walked over to the room where she and Qedai were staying and rang the door chime. No response, but his Force senses told him that she was in there, very withdrawn into herself, but still there. He rang it again. “I know you know who it is,” he said, “and I’m not leaving until you let me in or give me a good reason to come back later.” Ryion projected determination in the Force, filling himself with a steely resolve, and it had the desired effect as the door slid open. To his surprise, she wasn’t sitting on the bed or in the room’s single chair. In fact, she was completely hidden, but Ryion used a small tendril of Force energy to locate her, sitting on the floor on the other side of the bed near the window, out of view. He walked around and immediately noticed that her head was bowed and he thought he caught a glimpse of a tear falling down her face. She turned her head away quickly, her loose black hair screening her face from his view, but Ryion was not so easily sent away. He sat down in front of her, mimicking her cross-legged posture. Ryion sat quietly for a minute, studying her and deciding how to best approach the situation. “Want to talk?” he offered finally. “No,” Ariada said quickly. “Want to talk later?” he pressed. “No,” she replied. He paused, only momentarily stymied. “Do you want me to find somebody else for you to talk to?” he asked. She shook her head, unable to stop a tear from trickling down her chin. “Do you want me to go away and pretend like this never happened so you can maintain an appearance of permanent professionalism?” Ryion continued. She nodded slowly. “I could, but that wouldn’t accomplish much in the long run,” he elaborated. “That’s not what teammates do. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on. If it’s something that I won’t understand, let me know that at least, and I can find someone else who will.” “I don’t think you could ever understand,” she replied sorrowfully. “Try me.” She looked up at him, brushing half of the curtain of shimmering ebony hair away from her face so only part of her face was obscured. “Do you know what it’s like to be so afraid of failure that you can’t move? Is your every waking moment plagued by the thought that you’ll let your team down?” “Not exactly,” Ryion admitted. “Then you have no idea what I’m going through,” she said flatly, turning away from him again. “I do know what it’s like to be afraid,” Ryion continued, “and I do know what it’s like to be worried about your teammates.” She gave no answer. “I’m afraid that one of my friends is slipping away from the rest of us,” Ryion told her. “I’m worried that she’s closing herself from the ones who will accept her no matter what.” Ariada snorted softly under her breath. “You don’t believe me?” Ryion asked. “You think that somehow this mission is going to interfere with how we work as a team?” “It already has,” Ariada countered bitterly. “You’ve seen how Zeyn and Qedai are so touchy around each other. I doubt you’ve seen how you’ve become.” “And how have I become?” Ryion inquired. She shook her head gently. “Ryion, anyone who looks at you can see how driven you are to do well here. It’s like you have something to prove to the galaxy and it’s taking you over. You’ve changed since we’ve gotten here and I don’t like it. I’d rather have Ryion Kraen, my friend, back instead of this Ryion Kraen, the wanna-be galactic champion.” That set Ryion back a bit. He gave that idea a minute to sink in, to test its mettle. A moment’s consideration told him that she was probably more right than not, to his consternation. He had been too focused on winning or at least performing exceptionally here, at the expense of his teammates. “Okay,” he said, “that’s a fair point. I’ve been leaning towards unbearable these past few months.” Ariada sniffed. “I remember you taking care of me during that prisoner simulation training,” she said. “You found a way to send me notes, even when they used the ysalamiri to cut us off from the Force and kept us isolated. Once we were together again, your first priority was making sure I was okay.” “I remember that also,” Ryion said, reflecting back on the three week prisoner training that his team had endured as part of the preparation for this mission. It had been a difficult, challenging experience. His trainers had turned him over to a group of ruthless mercenaries who thrown them into a dark, dank hellhole of a prison. The betrayal had been startling enough, but their use of ysalamiri to block out the Force and being isolated from his teammates had startled them, disorienting and weakening them. Ryion remembered the discomfort, the lack of food and sleep, the intense questioning, and especially the pain-simulator. The mercenaries would lock him into a machine that caused his mind to think it was experiencing all kinds of torture without actually inflicting harm on him. Without the Force, it had been surprisingly hard to armor himself against it and even the knowledge that it was only a simulation had only helped so much. He had been worried for his teammates, though, and the thought of disappointing them, of being the weak link, was what had kept him strong. The mercenaries had let him hear the screams of the others and it had taken every milligram of emotional control to not slip into a dark rage or sullen depression. He had focused his efforts into slipping notes to Ariada to keep her strong as well as escape attempts, making no less than five. Later, they had learned that the mercenaries were actually pledged to serve his parents and the entire episode had been planned to provide training for if they were captured. “At the time, I thought of how considerate a team member you were,” Ariada said, “but now I wonder if you only did that because I’m the weak link in the team.” “Ariada, that’s not true,” Ryion said, shocked. “Is it?” she challenged him, “So why are you always looking out for me, Ryion? Do you pity me? Do you feel the need to baby-sit me? Are you on some kind of special mission for the Yanibar Guard to watch over me?” “What is this about?” Ryion asked her. “What brought this on?” “I was glad when you helped me through all the training, but at the time, I thought it was because you were a good friend,” she told him. “Now I just don’t know if you were doing that because you needed me to help you get here.” Ryion swallowed hard, a lump rising in his throat as he considered what she had just told him. His lack of immediate response was interpreted as a cue for Ariada to continue. “I don’t know if you even trust me anymore, Ryion Kraen,” she told him. “Or what you really want. All you do is train and when we’re not training, you’re still in that practice session in your mind, especially when you talk to me.” “You thought I felt you were too weak to be on the team, that I had to look after you to make sure you did your part,” he finished for her. She nodded as the tears started filling her eyes again. “I thought I’d let the whole team down,” she said. “Thank you for being honest with me,” Ryion told her. “I know it was hard for you to tell me that.” Ariada looked at him expectantly, waiting for what he said next. “Ariada, there are a lot of expectations on me, on us,” he continued. “Since before I was born, my life has already been compared to that of my parents. It got worse since I entered training and even worse when we were handed this mission. So, if I act like there’s a lot riding on me right now, I’m sorry—but it’s true. This mission will speak volumes to all of the people on Yanibar who are waiting to see if I actually have any potential or if it’s all a lie.” “So why—?” she began, but Ryion held up one hand, silencing her momentarily. “Hang on,” he said, “I think I can answer that question. All those things I do to try and encourage the team, to watch out for you, they’re for a reason. I can’t do this by myself. Just ask Zeyn sometime how sorry I’d be if I didn’t have you three watching out for me, and I need you all to be strong for me so I can be strong for you. That’s why this team is so important to me.” “But why me?” Ariada probed. “It’s like you’re on some kind of mission to keep an eye on me, to protect me. I know it was you that interrupted all those pain-sim sessions by causing trouble, and I know you knew exactly what you were doing. I know it was you who asked for me to work with you on the low-gee gymnastics program when you could have picked Zeyn.” “It’s . . . complicated,” Ryion said slowly. “So you don’t trust me?” she inferred. “That’s not it at all!” he protested quickly. “Then explain it to me, Ryion,” she said. “I have to know, or else I can’t look over my shoulder without wondering if you’re there, waiting to see if I screw up. I need to know if you trust me enough to work with you.” Ryion hesitated before speaking. He had kept the true reasons for his protectiveness of Ariada hidden for a long time; the only people who knew about it were his sister Rhiannon and Zeyn. Even his parents didn’t know the reason he’d always kept a surreptitious eye on the introspective Wroonian, and now here she was asking for an honest answer. He winced. This could be difficult, particularly in the midst of an intense competition. “Ariada, you will always be my friend for as long as you want to be,” Ryion told her. “Never doubt that.” She looked at him dubiously, not sure of what to make of his reply. “Now, before I answer your question, you need to know you’re getting the truth. The whole truth,” Ryion said. “Use the Force if you need to.” “Okay,” she said. He felt a feathery tingle in his mind as she stretched out with the Force to sense him. Ryion returned the gesture, extending his senses to gently brush her mind. Once they were mentally linked, as if her small blue hand was resting in his own, Ryion knew it was the moment of truth. He had to tell her, he had said that he would. Steeling himself against the impact that his words would have on her, Ryion managed to temporarily clear the lump in his throat to force out what he had to say. “There are two reasons to be protective and concerned for someone else,” Ryion began. “The first is a lack of trust in their abilities. That’s not the one we’re dealing with here.” Ryion carefully and deliberately lowered the mental shields and blocks he maintained as part of his daily routine, letting her into a part of his mind that only a very few people knew about. It hurt, at first, to make himself that vulnerable, and the pain was almost on a physical level, judging by the ache in his chest. On the other hand, it was a relief to finally be open about it. He sensed her mind tentatively find its way into the well of revelation he had uncovered, felt her shock when she comprehended what it meant. Her eyes widened as she realized what he had just revealed to her. Shock was written all over her face as she stared incredulously at him. “You—?” she started. “That’s right,” Ryion assured her, taking her hand and laying it on his. “Truth is, I’ve felt that way about you for awhile now.” “How long is that?” she asked him. “A long while,” Ryion answered coyly. “When were you going to tell me?” she asked him seriously, her eyes boring deep into him. “Eventually,” Ryion told her, reddening as he did so. “Do you feel safe right now?” she pressed, an inquisitive yet grave look on her face as she questioned him. His face reddened even more; he was sure he was as crimson as a Togruta at this rate. “Ariada, I didn’t want to compromise the team,” he said. Finally, to Ryion’s great relief, Ariada’s serious, probing expression gave way to a small smile and a shake of her head as she wiped the tears from her eyes. “You would put what you feel for me behind the mission?” Ariada asked him. Ryion knew he was treading on dangerous ground here, but he couldn’t lie to her. She deserved better than that, and he would be lying to himself also. A lump formed in his throat, but he managed to eke out his admission. “All my life, my parents and mentors have taught me to make hard decisions,” he said thickly. “To place Yanibar and my team before my own desires. I can’t turn my back on that, even for you.” “That’s very noble of you,” she said, then cocked her head to one side and gave him a pitying look. “I would expect nothing less from you.” “It’s the truth,” Ryion insisted. “So that’s why you were so protective of me,” she said. “That’s why,” he returned ruefully, then grew serious. “So now what?” “Now we should . . . go to practice,” Ariada told him evasively. “That’s it?” Ryion asked incredulously. “I just told you how I’ve felt about you for a long time. I’d at least like to know where you stand on that.” “Ryion . . . I . . . I’m going to need some time to sort this out,” she said. “I’m not like you, I can’t just take everything you revealed to me just now and immediately respond. I need some time—this mission, everything, what you just said—it’s kind of a lot to absorb at once.” She was rambling, she knew, trying to make him understand and no doubt failing miserably. She was too confused, too many thoughts buzzing around her mind like a swarm of flitnats, to know how to respond properly, to even know how she felt about what he just said. “I understand,” he said flatly, trying to keep his composure and easing off on her. “That’s why I wasn’t going to tell you, not yet. It’s too distracting and we need to be professional. I’ll see you at practice.” He rose stiffly at the tacit rejection and headed out. Had he seen the miserable look on Ariada’s face as she watched him go, he might have stopped, but he did not look back. The door closed behind him, leaving her there with precious little time to contemplate the emotional nova that had just flared up inside her. She thought about what he said, running his words through her mind over and over again even as she got dressed and did her hair for low-gee gymnastics practice. However, the clarity of mind she sought did not come to her, leaving her with no choice but to sigh and head out the door with questions still unsettled in her mind. It was going to be a long day. VIP executive guest suite It was going to be a long day at this rate, Leia Organa Solo reflected as she looked at the packed agenda on her datapad that her staff had laid out before her and all the meetings she still had planned. At least she was alone, not crowded around advisors and politicians and the hundred other hangers-on that came with being the Chief of State. The throbbing beginnings of a headache began to surface in the base of her skull, a natural consequence of dealing with the ever-growing bureaucracy of the New Republic. Then, her three children burst into her with a prissy-looking golden protocol droid close behind and her headache flared up like a chorus of Ewok drummers beating on the inside of her head. “Mommy! Mommy!” eleven-year-old Anakin shouted excitedly as he ran inside, the twins not far behind him. “I’m terribly sorry, Mistress Leia,” Threepio nattered on. “I gave the children specific instructions that you were not to be disturbed today but they simply paid me no mind. Oh, if only Mistress Winter was here to help mind them, because as much as I have tried to serve in the role of their—,” “That’s fine, Threepio,” Leia cut off the prattling droid, whose synthesized voice was not doing anything better. “I’ll handle it. Just wait outside.” “Yes, of course, Mistress Leia, you are perfectly qualified to handle the situation if I may say so—,” “Threepio!” Leia interrupted. “Out for a minute!” The droid stopped in mid-monologue and headed out, his servomotors whirring softly as he left to go dither to himself. Leia turned to look at the three faces staring expectantly up at her from the side of her desk. Faces that had inherited many of her physical traits, Leia saw, as she remembered the many times she interrupted her father—Bail Organa—during his Senatorial business as a rambunctious little girl. If he could see her now, dealing with three of her own. Then again, it was a reminder for her that she would never have that opportunity again, so Leia buried the thought down in the deep place in her spirit where she kept that sort of thing so it couldn’t rise and poison her. Instead, she schooled her features into her well-practiced mother-is-busy-so-this-had-better-be-important face. “Well,” she said, starting with a small politic smile. “What terribly important news do my three children have for me today? Has Coruscant’s star gone nova? Are the galactic supplies of bubblezap dwindling? Come on, speak up, I’m sure this is important for all three of you to burst in here like that when you know I’m busy. What crisis have you discovered?” Thirteen-year-old Jacen and Jaina had the self-consciousness to stare at the floor, obviously embarrassed at the subtle chastisement. Anakin had no compunctions, though, staring back at her with ice-blue eyes. “We want to know when we can go to the Galactic Games,” he said bluntly. “Oh, is that all?” Leia asked, arching an eyebrow. “Why didn’t you ask your father or Chewbacca?” “They went to go watch smashball with Lando,” Jaina spoke up. “Said it would be a little too rowdy for us.” “He’s probably right,” Leia agreed, having gone to a smashball game with Han in the seedier parts of Corellia—once—and lived to regret it. Suffice to say that the experience was not one she would want to ever expose her children to, much less at their age. “So, can you take us?” Anakin asked. “Or at least send Winter?” Leia paused and tapped her chin with one finger. “Anakin, what does it mean when I’m in this office?” she asked. His brow wrinkled. “It means you’re busy,” he said, the last word spoken as if it was an imprecation of some kind. “That’s right,” Leia admonished gently. “And Winter is attending a meeting for me and taking notes, so she can’t go either. Do you see where I’m going with this?” “Yeah,” he admitted sullenly. “And you two,” Leia said, indicating the twins. “You should know better than to try and get Anakin all worked up for nothing. I know you two put him up to it. If you’re going to be training at the Jedi Academy with your Uncle Luke later this year, you’ll need to show a little maturity.” “Yes, Mom,” Jacen said, his eyes still downcast. “I should be home with dinner, barring interference from Borsk Fey’lya,” Leia told them. “We can watch some of the holocasts of the games then. Now, head back to your rooms.” The children nodded and dejectedly prepared to file out. At that point, the buzzer on her desk sounded. Leia threw up her arms in exasperation. “Apparently, the Force has decided I will get nothing done today,” she remarked to herself, then poked the buzzer. “This had better be good,” she said with less than her usual good nature. “I asked to not be disturbed.” “Yes, ma’am,” came the reply. “There’s a man here to see you, says he’s your brother.” “Is he?” Leia asked, perturbed. “Uh . . . yes, ma’am,” the sheepish secretary replied. “Lightsaber and all. He, uh, slipped by and is headed up to see you.” “That’s fine, don’t worry about it,” Leia said, closing off the conversation and kneading her pounding temples with both hands. Her children had somehow contrived to stay in her office while she talked, and Leia only noticed them when the door chime rang. She hit another button on the desk and Luke Skywalker walked in. The distinguished Jedi wore a plain gray tunic and pants, with a cloak that was a few shades lighter. He immediately saw the look on Leia’s face. “Hello, Leia,” he said. “I see I’ve come at a bad time.” Leia looked up at him from where her elbows were propped on the desk while she massaged her pounding skull. “How could you possibly tell?” she asked him facetiously. “I think I could sense that headache from across the planet,” he said impishly, then his tone softened to a compassionate one. “I was wondering if you needed any help.” “You could have just commed if that was all you needed,” Leia replied, but there the edge had left her voice. Luke diplomatically said nothing, then glanced at the three Solo children, who were standing by the door, fidgeting. “Perhaps I could do something with the children,” he offered. Leia looked over to see her offspring looking at her expectantly, hopefully even. If they couldn’t occupy her time, they seemed perfectly willing to occupy Luke’s instead. “I think that would be an excellent idea,” Leia said. “Thank you.” Somehow she suspected that Luke had deduced or intuited that she would have her hands full and had come by specifically to make that offer. It was so like him, always quietly volunteering to shoulder whatever burden needed carrying, and it was one of the many reasons she loved and respected her brother; he did what was needed willingly. In this case, he was helping both her and her bored offspring. “You’re welcome,” Luke answered simply, then turned to the children. “Did you three have any particular ideas on what to do?” Anakin wasted no time in volunteering. “We want to go see the Galactic Games,” he declared. “I suppose that’s fine with me, as long your mother approves,” Luke said, glancing back at Leia. “Fine with me,” Leia answered. “Just no smashball.” Luke looked shocked that she would even feel the need to make that stipulation. “I’m not really a smashball fan anyway,” he said, “though Mara enjoys it. I think she went to watch it with Han, Chewie, and Lando.” “Somehow that’s not surprising,” Leia said, managing a wry smile. Luke smiled back, then beckoned to the children. “Come on,” he told them. “Get your VIP passes and we’ll go down to the complex and see what events are happening.” They exited amid squeals and hoots of excitement, along with an admonishment from Luke to Anakin to not run down the halls. Leia shook her head and instantly regretted it as her headache intensified from doing so. Scowling and envious of Luke’s freedom to enjoy the competition while she was cooped up in the office, she returned to work. Coruscant underbelly “Well, so far it’s clean,” the tech specialist said. “I’ve run it through every weapons scanner that I can think of, and none of them have been able to detect it.” “Good,” the taller, leaner man said. “I’d hate to have wasted all that money for nothing. Now work on disguising it as a holocam.” “Okay, I’ll get to it,” the tech specialist told him. “You know, you don’t have to be so serious all the time.” The tall man speared him with an irritated glare. “In case you’ve forgotten, I outrank you. That means you do what I say and you don’t give unsolicited advice,” he glowered. “Do I make myself clear?” “Abundantly,” the tech specialist said, bending over his work. “Good,” the tall man said again. “Now just focus on doing your job. Every single piece of that Nightstinger has to work exactly right if we’re going to pull this off.” “Speaking of that,” said the tech specialist, “do you mind telling me what we’re going to use this for? It’s not like I’m not going to know if you pull it off. Who’s the target?” “Certainly,” the tall man replied. “I’m going to assassinate Leia Solo.” “You’re what?!” the tech specialist said incredulously. “I suggest you return to your work, Viavo,” the tall man said contemptuously. “Don’t get excited by things that don’t concern you. All you need to know is that that rifle had better work perfectly or I will have you cut to pieces.” Viavo swallowed nervously and went back to work adjusting the Nightstinger blaster. “Yes, sir,” he said. The tall man smiled malevolently down at his companion. He had no problems telling his naïve partner about the target simply because he planned on keeping him locked here until the rifle was complete. Viavo wasn’t going anywhere until it was done, and once he was satisfied with the weapon, the tech specialist would join the growing number of unavoidable casualties necessary to preserve operational security. Soon, the tall man reflected, he would have his revenge on the New Republic in a way that they would never forget. That thought was enough to widen his malicious smile a little more. When he smiled, it usually meant that someone was about to die. With any luck, he would be smiling a lot more in the days to come. Coruscant Ice Complex, Day Three “Be careful out there, kid,” growled the grizzled veteran who had long been retired and now served as an official. “It’s pretty slick out there from all the people wearing it down.” Zeyn nodded, not really heeding the warning, as he ran through a final check of his equipment. He needed one more good run to put him into the group stage, the top thirty-two competitors. He’d already made it through the first three rounds over the past few days, skiing pretty well. Today, he’d been on fire, though, scorching through the last two runs at top speed and better form than he’d had all day. After a couple hours to rest and eat, he was ready for another great run. He’d been skiing better than he thought he would and now he was out to eclipse all of his previous runs thus far. His week had improved since the near-disastrous wave-dancing practice earlier. Zeyn had been scoring highly on the slopes and his argument with Qedai had been mostly settled with a little bit of apology, even if there was still lingering tension. That didn’t matter at the moment, though; he was out to dominate the snow and it was on that that he focused his attention toward. He pushed off from the gate as hard as he could, rocketing out onto the slope. His turbo-skis soon reached full power as he sped down the straightaway, a cloud of snow powder billowing out behind him. Zeyn did note that the snow was wetter than it had been the previous runs, no doubt the result of not having enough time to dry after being freshly laid. It was slippery and treacherous, nowhere near as forgiving as it had been earlier. One slip could cost him his entire run and that would be disastrous. Everything but the course in front of him was a blur as he sped down the slopes. Again, the wind and the turbo-skis repulsors drowned out all other sounds as the frigid air whipped around him. Zeyn smiled broadly as he shot into the serpentine section, his poles still tucked under his arms. The first few turns were gentle enough that he could probably handle them without breaking the tuck and losing speed. The first one he handled with no problem, but as he leaned into the second turn, his left turbo-ski pressed down into the too-soft snow, nearly toppling him over onto his side. His eyes widening at the problem, he immediately stabbed out with a deflector pole to upright himself, but he knew his speed had dropped for sure. The smile vanished as Zeyn fought his way through the increasingly sharp turns of the serpentine section. The snow seemed like his enemy now, mocking him with its treacherous slickness and the wetness that threatened to pull at his turbo-skis, slowing him further. His precognitive senses saved him from falling again and again, but just barely. His pole technique was sloppier than expected, not executed with the fine precision that allowed him to keep his balance while maintaining his speed. The gated section was no less menacing since the sharp zigzags were even more taxing. Zeyn’s arms began to grow heavy and aching as he fought to keep from slipping. The constant back-and-forth of the turns wore away at his stamina and he was soon gasping for breath. The cold air that he forced into his lungs burned his throat, but he pressed on. There was no other choice. “Stang!” Zeyn swore as one of his poles clipped one of the gates. That would cost him and his frustration began to cloud his mind, limiting his effectiveness at sensing the next obstacle. He knew it was a vicious cycle, but it wasn’t like he could stop and clear his mind. He had to finish this run strong. Despite all his efforts, though, the course continued to defy him. He struggled through the obstacle section, sliding over a rock that nearly sent him flailing into the sidebank. His turbo-skis seemed to sink right into the wet snow of the moguls, impeding his progress. Zeyn fought to control the shaking skis, his tired leg muscles protesting thoroughly. Pain raced up and down his appendages even as he made into the double-jump. Normally one of his favorite sections, the extra friction from the wet snow was making it difficult for him to get the velocity he needed out to pull off his jumps. In order to keep going, he had to rely on the Force even more than before, sinking deeply into it. Zeyn accepted the consequences of that choice as time seemed to slow down all around him. He could process every sound, every sight, every sensation now. The light scrape of his deflector poles against the ground as he pushed off, the dull roar of the turbo-skis, the thudding of his heart inside his chest, the individual granules of snow kicked up by his approach—he could sense and interpret all of them. He heard a faint whoosh as he soared up one bank of snow, kicking out his turbo-skis behind him and rotating on his side for 480 degrees. The Force allowed him to perform the full rotation and Zeyn felt its subtle cue when to plant his feet for a smooth landing. He came down, knees properly bent, stuck the landing, and then was back up, gliding down towards the second jump. Whereas beforehand, the second jump had always been his hardest, he now felt invincible due to his immersion in the Force. As approached the jump point, Zeyn knew he could pull off his hardest jump yet, one he had only attempted once and never landed successfully. Of course, never before had the Force been flowing through him right now. Up he shot into the clear blue sky, crossing his skis as he rotated about his body’s long axis twice, then tipped his head over to flip head over heels in a giant arc that brought him back towards the snowy slopes. While in mid-air, though, Zeyn tossed his deflector poles aside as he leaned over his body’s third axis, twisting in mid-air as he did so to pull a two-degree rotation that would place him facing down the slopes again. He wouldn’t need them for the remaining straightaway and it would add some points to his difficulty score. Too soon! The Force guided him for a landing, prompting when and where to plant in order to conserve his downward velocity. What it could not do, though, was allow Zeyn to master control over his own body. His arms flailed as he slid over an icy patch in the snow and with no deflector poles, the increasingly uneven snow was incredibly hard to ski over. Zeyn was forced to rely on his arms for balance, his eyes wide and heart pounding as he zigzagged down far too choppily down the straightaway. He knew he’d botched an already bad run by discarding the deflector poles, but he had to finish. Zeyn managed to make it down to the long jump and cleared it, but it was far shorter of a jump than he was used to making, landing him only 144 meters down the length before he came down hard. He slid to a stop, out of breath as his score was posted on the holo-boards for all to see. Zeyn pounded a fist on the railing in frustration as he unstrapped his turbo-skis with the other hand. He was well below the leaders already, and with a run like that, there was no way he would even be in the next round. Thirty minutes later, his breath still visible as he stood on the sidelines watching anxiously, he knew it was over. Zeyn bowed his head as he realized that he’d placed in the lowest four skiers because of his long jump, then walked off quietly after a few words from his instructor. He couldn’t help but think that if he’d taken the warning of the old retired skier and been a little more careful, a little more centered, he would still be in. His precious few seconds of Force clarity had allowed him to pull off two incredible jumps, the second one which wouldn’t even be attempted by any other competitors that day. There was nothing for it, now, but to head out to the scoopball arena and hope that Qedai and Ariada were doing better at their event. Coruscant Arena Sports Complex “Match point,” announced the Devaronian referee as the ball settled back down again. Qedai gritted her teeth as she settled back on her haunches, getting ready to return the serve. Just ahead and to her right, Ariada similarly set herself, wiping sweat off her face onto her outfit, a much more conservative one than Qedai’s. They were down by four points and she had no intention of giving up now. Her booted foot kicked up against the shiny surface of the court, squealing slightly as it did so. She bored her eyes directly into those of the Zabrak server. Qedai knew she liked to serve it low and hard across the court, and dropped down, sliding one leg out so she would have a good base to steady herself against the force of blocking or setting the serve. The serve came up, spinning erratically in an arc across the court, just barely skimming above the floating net. Qedai thought about shooting it back harshly under the net as it came towards her, but the topspin on the ball would make it difficult to aim and the other Zabrak was also splayed out low, ready for such a maneuver. “Pass,” Qedai shouted to Ariada, knocking the ball up. Because of the topspin, the ball didn’t quite follow its intended arc, forcing Ariada to leap up and knock it back towards her with a double-armed overhead pass. “Set!” came the reply as Ariada’s momentum carried her near the edge of the court. While the pass hadn’t been well-delivered, Qedai saw that the set was as good as she could hope for. Leaping up, she cleared the net and spiked the ball downward as hard and fast as she could, expecting an easy point. No such luck. Even as she landed, Qedai was surprised to see that the other Zabrak had dropped on her back, and low-passed the ball to her partner, who hit it with both arms into an under-shot that would just let it clear the tolerance point and score the winning point for them. She was still alighting when the ball slid over the point line, too low for her to stoop or drop and pass it. Suddenly, a blue blur slammed into the court in front of her, punching the ball back across the line from the other side of the net, but unfortunately in an upward angle rather than the harder-to-return downward angle. Realizing that Ariada had bought them time at the expense of position, Qedai scrambled back for the inevitable high shot return. Just as she expected, the server sent the ball right back with that same irritating topspin, forcing her to leap up and return it instantly with the same double-hand overhead motion Ariada had used earlier. Lekku whirling around her, Qedai sent the ball arcing over the net with a downward trajectory, but it was too slow. The Zabrak forward easily went down on her back again, repeating that very low pass Qedai had seen too many times already. The server got the ball just how she wanted it, punch-spiking it again right back into Qedai’s zones, always at the opposite boundary of where she had just been, forcing her to cover the back and flanks of the court. Her height and training had prepared her for that style of play, but it was quite another thing to be still in a game well into its second hour. The angles forced her to leap and dive to block and pass to Ariada, who sent it back over as best as she could, but without the force and precision necessary. The way that scoopball was supposed to be played was that the server would pass to the forward, who would then set it up for the server to hit back over the hovering net, either under or over within a certain zone. But with Qedai forced to dive and leap, she couldn’t take any set-ups, forcing Ariada to hit it right back over. The Wroonian was holding on, taking good shots, but the Zabraks were too disciplined to be caught off-guard. They replied with a rapid volley of spikes and shots, always just into Qedai’s zone. Five solid minutes of constant leaping and diving was enough to cause sweat to pour down Qedai’s face and back until she knew she was severely dehydrated, even for a Twi’lek used to desert conditions and in excellent shape. They were in overtime, with no chances for breaks or recesses, so all she could do was keep going and fight off the dizziness and the pounding of her heart inside her chest. She could vaguely hear the cheering of the crowd as they watched the Zabraks slowly pummel their opponents into submission with a blistering array of carefully placed shots designed to tire Qedai out. They had singled her out for this punishment, but while she desired to go on the offensive, the Twi’lek was having a hard enough time just passing the ball to Ariada. Qedai passed off a wild carom shot that had just barely clipped the net, then stopped to dash the sweat from her eyes that was obscuring her vision. Just as she turned back to the match, her danger sense tingled a warning. It was too late, though, as the ball hit her right in the side of the head near where her lekku joined her head. A jolt of pain flared into existence in her temple as she staggered back. Qedai was vaguely aware of Ariada hurling herself into the court in an attempt to deflect the ball that had bounced off Qedai’s head across the net boundary for a low shot. She actually succeeded, but the Zabraks merely returned the shot with a return low spike away from where Ariada was rising to her knees to play it back. Qedai lunged for the ball, intending to punch it back below the net, but it was too late. She landed on her face, arm swishing through the air uselessly a few milliseconds behind the ball hitting the court. The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the match as the Devaronian referee declared the Zabraks the winners. Qedai scowled, then looked up to see a blue hand in front of her. She took it and Ariada pulled her up. The two exchanged pleasantries and congratulations with their opponents, then headed for their bench. No sooner had Qedai sat down then Ariada was at her side, peering at her head. “Is your head okay?” Ariada asked her. “Do you hear any ringing in your ears?” Qedai realized she was just trying to do her job—out of the four of them, Ariada was the most medically savvy and served as the medic and computer slicer when on tactical missions—but right now, she didn’t want any sympathy or attention. “I’m fine,” she said snappishly, jerking her head away. “Other than bruised and sore and tired and having just been knocked out of the scoopball competition.” Ariada wisely retreated after handing her a bottle of electrolytic fluid, using a hand towel to dry off the oily sheen of sweat clinging to her body. Qedai downed half the bottle in a single gulp, then grabbed a towel of her own to attack her own layer of perspiration. “Hey,” she heard a voice from behind her. She turned to see Ryion leaning over the railing that separated the court from the coaches and trainer’s lane. “Hey yourself,” she replied irritably. “You both looked great out there,” Ryion told them. “That’s the costume, dummy,” Qedai shot back. Ryion reddened satisfactorily; the tight-fitting, abbreviated costume that Qedai had worn and Ariada’s more conservative version had indeed caught his eye—and that of every other humanoid male in the crowd, though that wasn’t what he had intended to express by his remark. “I wasn’t referring to that,” he said. “You both played well.” “In case you didn’t notice, we lost,” Qedai said flatly. “No, I saw,” Ryion told them, “but you still played well. They were projected to win by at least eight points.” Qedai poked him in the chest. “Hey, ow!” Ryion protested. “Those projections don’t include any number of pertinent factors,” she said sharply. “All they have is some holo footage from our qualifiers and best guesses of some so-called experts who haven’t set foot on a scoopball court in twenty years. Don’t think for a minute that I’m going to feel better that we beat some random idiot’s projection of how we did.” “But—,” Ryion tried again. “Not now, Ryion,” Qedai silenced him, shoving a sharp fingernail in his face. “I’m tired, dehydrated, and aching, and I just got pummeled into the court by those Zabraks over there. So, if you have any sense of timing, please reconsider.” “Okay, okay, sorry,” Ryion said apologetically, backing off from the aggravated Twi’lek. He looked over at Ariada to see if she was feeling any more conversational, but the Wroonian had already gathered her sports bag and strode out of the arena. “That went over just great,” Ryion said. He had already heard from Zeyn and had been surprised to learn that his cousin had been eliminated from the turbo-ski competition after skiing well all morning. Zeyn had been disconsolate and melancholy, unusual for him. As the only member of the team who had yet to compete, there was little he could do but watch and encourage his teammates, but after a disappointing day for the others, it was clear that they preferred their own company at the moment. In the end, just thinking about their rejection of his attempts at conversation made him irritated to the point where he decided he’d be better off going back to the training ring and beating the stuffing out of the training dummy. The galactic octathlon was tomorrow and he could use the extra training, provided he didn’t overexert or injure himself. Later that evening Qedai knew who it was knocking at the door to hers and Ariada’s room before she even opened it. With an exasperated sigh, she opened it to see Ryion standing there, wearing his team jacket and warm-up pants. “Ariada in there?” he asked. “Yes,” she said curtly. “Listen, about earlier, I’m sorry about—,” He held up a hand to silence her. “Later,” he informed her. “Right now, we’ve got a team meeting.” “A meeting?” she said. “I wasn’t informed.” “I know,” Ryion told her sympathetically. “It was called at the last minute by Morgedh and you know how he is about people being late.” Qedai sighed. “I’m coming,” she said. “Let me get Ariada.” A few minutes later, both of the women emerged from their quarters. They were in casual wear suitable for light exercise or sleeping; it was fairly late at night. “Where is this meeting anyway?” Qedai asked him. “And why didn’t Morgedh use the comlinks?” “Why does Morgedh do anything?” Ryion answered helplessly. “As for the meeting, it’s apparently at the training section.” “I hope he doesn’t have a long meeting in mind,” Qedai said. “I’m bone tired.” “If he does, we won’t accomplish anything by dragging it out,” Ryion answered. He led them down to the training section where Zeyn and Morgedh were standing in the lobby waiting for them. The room was filled with the sharp tang of sweat lingering over its sizable array of exercise equipment and weight racks. A large central arena suitable for sparring dominated the middle of the arena, but the short Noghri led them past it to the back of the room and through a small door tucked away in one corner. Inside was a small room with a round pool sunk into the floor that featured a ring-like bench around its circumference. There was water inside it, steaming hot, and it reflected and refracted the dim light coming from the ceiling glowpanels. “In, all of you,” Morgedh ordered, gesturing with one steel-gray hand. The four young people all waded into the water, which was comfortably warm but not too hot. “Sit,” he said. They complied, sinking into water until it came up to their shoulders. Its soothing warmth enveloped them as it soaked into them. “It has come to my attention and to the attention of others watching you that you have not been unified,” Morgedh said softly, his dark eyes glinting in the dim light. “We have sensed disunity, sensed arguments. Is that why we brought you here?” “No, Master,” Ryion said. “Are you here to compete against each other?” Morgedh asked. “No, Master,” Qedai said. He hissed softly. “And what about dishonesty and isolation?” Morgedh continued. “Did those things suddenly become acceptable once we reached Coruscant?” “No, Master,” Ariada answered quietly. “Then they should not be happening,” Morgedh said softly but with an edge on his voice that informed his listeners that he was deadly serious. Pacing back and forth, the diminutive Noghri rasped out his instructions. “You will sit here in silence for ten minutes. Say nothing, do not reach each other with the Force. Just consider those who are around you. Then, whatever differences you have between you, settle them peacefully.” “What if they can’t be resolved that easily?” Qedai asked. Morgedh stopped and glowered at her, as if offended she was asking that question. “Then myself and all the Masters who trained you and allowed you to come here have made a grave error in judgment of your characters,” he said. “If you cannot work as a team amidst difficulty, then perhaps you should not serve Yanibar offworld.” With that, he turned and stalked out, shooting one final glance back at them as if daring them to speak before ten minutes were up. They all knew that Morgedh was somehow observing them to see if they followed instructions, so none of them dared talk. Instead, they sat their quietly, allowing the hot water to work its relaxing effect on them as the warmth gently worked the tension out of tired and aching muscles. The muted sound of the water lapping against the side of the pool was peaceful, and just having silence after the cacophony of the crowds and the venues and training facilities was somehow blissful. They had no other demands on their time, no events to rush to, no practice sessions to hammer out, just a requirement to be still and relax. To some extent, it was difficult for them to remain silent and do nothing, as constant motion had been their companion for months on end. They had skipped leave sessions in favor of training and had learned Force-enhanced skills for sleeping deeply so as to cram a larger amount of rest into a mere six hours at most. The endless cycle of train-practice-train-sleep-train had worn away at them, but now they had become so inured to it that being still seemed almost foreign. Slowly, the seconds ticked away and slowly the combination of water and time drew the tension out of them. Reflecting over the people around them, all the shared memories and qualities they possessed, served to effectively blunt the edge of all the negativity that had risen to the surface over the past few days. Their stress diminished as they were able to relax and introspect. Finally, ten minutes passed by. “Okay,” Qedai said, glancing at her wrist chrono. “I think we’re safe. And, as team leader, our first order of business is to vote on getting one of these for our training facility back home. Any objections?” As anticipated, there were none. “Good,” she continued. “I’m glad we’re all agreed on that. Now, before anyone says anything else, I’d like to apologize. I’ve been under a lot of pressure recently and I’ve projected that negatively on the rest of you. I’m sorry.” The other three quickly murmured offerings of forgiveness. “I’d like to make my own apology too,” Zeyn said. “I’ve been out of line, too. I’m sorry for acting so stand-offish and arrogant.” “Forgiven, of course,” Ryion assured him as Qedai and Ariada nodded. “Now, before we continue our chorus of apologies, I have something I’d like to share.” “Go ahead,” Qedai said. “We had a hard day today,” he said, resting his arms back on the lip of the pool as he spoke. “All of us. I know it’s easy for me to say—I haven’t competed yet—but I watched all three of you and I could see the frustration on your faces. Now, tomorrow, I’m going into the galactic octathlon and I’m going to feel a lot better about it knowing that my teammates are united.” “Of course we are,” Qedai said quickly. “Look, I know we’re united in the mission,” Ryion told her. “But I want us to be united around each other, not just united because the mission demands it. We should be united because of the relationship we have with each other, not because of the circumstances we’re placed in.” Ariada almost missed the short glance that Ryion directed towards her when he said “relationship.” She was sure the others hadn’t seen it, or that if they had, they wouldn’t infer any significance from it. Of course, that wasn’t incredibly likely, given that Zeyn was in the room, but she could hope. “Is this another one of your team-building speeches?” Qedai interrupted. “Because, really, Ryion . . .” “I actually want to hear this,” Zeyn piped up. “Where are you going with this, Ryion?” “I’m just tired of us not getting along, not being able to talk to each other because we’re so wrapped up in this competition,” Ryion said. “Don’t get me wrong, I want us to do well, but the team comes first.” “I thought you were the one who was telling us that the mission came first,” Qedai replied. “I used to think that,” Ryion admitted. “But that was before I saw what happened to us, before . . .” He trailed off, but Zeyn saw something in his body language that left no doubt in his mind that Ryion was omitting key details. “Before what?” he asked. Ryion hesitated, which practically confirmed that he was hiding something. Zeyn instantly read his averseness to answering, but Ryion knew that the others would have discerned his ambiguity as a sign of hiding something. He had no choice to admit it, even though his cause for concern was something so abstract and vague that he barely trusted it. “I had a premonition last night,” he said. “Of something bad happening. Soon.” “Is that it?” Zeyn asked. “Pretty much,” Ryion confessed. “I don’t have any specifics.” “So you’re reacting to a dream you had that gave you an ‘I have a bad feeling about this,’” Qedai asked skeptically. Ryion glared at her for a minute, a flash of anger shooting through his mind as a sharp reply almost escaped it. Then he clamped down on that emotion, channeling his voice into a more conversational tone. “No,” he said. “I’m reacting to a sensation in the Force that speaks of incoming trouble. Now, I don’t know what kind of trouble that could be, or if it’s even related to us, but whatever it is, I want to make sure that we’re covering each other’s backs.” “Was there any doubt of that?” Qedai asked him. “I don’t know,” Ryion answered evenly. “I didn’t think there was, but with everyone snapping at each other every time we speak, I figured it would be a good thing to settle now.” Qedai’s eyes flashed with anger as she prepared a scathing comeback, but Zeyn intervened before she could splutter her outrage. “Hang on,” Zeyn said, leaning forward. “You asked Morgedh to call this meeting, didn’t you, Ryion?” “Uh . . . guilty as charged,” Ryion admitted, caught by surprise at his cousin’s surmise. Qedai threw up her hands. “Why am I not surprised?” she said sarcastically. “Ryion Kraen went off and did something impulsive without informing the rest of the team. I’m astonished.” “That’s enough, Qedai,” Zeyn said, coming to Ryion’s defense. “Ryion might be headstrong and impatient, but he’s not usually wrong and his motives are good.” “Fine,” Qedai sulked, “I see how it is.” “Stop!” interrupted Ariada before the argument could get more heated. She had been quiet the entire time, listening to the others talk, but now she finally spoke up. “Can’t you see?” she said. “It’s starting again, the bickering. Every time we argue, we just bear that bit of a grudge towards the other person and over time it separates us and we become weaker. So just stop it!” They all stared at the normally soft-spoken Wroonian. “We’ve been approaching this problem all wrong,” Ariada said. “We come together and say ‘this is my view, here’s how it can help you, listen to me.’ We should be saying ‘this is my team, how can I help it, I’m listening.’” “You’re right,” Ryion agreed, “I’ve been lecturing and acting self-righteously like I have some kind of Force-given talent for being right and that’s just utterly untrue.” “Don’t worry, we figured that out awhile ago,” Zeyn told him lightly. “At least we knew that you had good motives.” “Just not tact,” Qedai offered. “Or humility,” Ariada finished with a wry smile. “Well, I think I’m earning my fair share of that last one right about now,” Ryion remarked drily. “It’s about time,” Qedai drawled, then added, “for all of us.” “So, do we put the team first, or the mission first?” Zeyn asked. “If I may?” Ryion offered after several minutes of silence. “I’ve been thinking about that while exercising my new-found humility.” “Go ahead,” Zeyn said. “We have to put both of them first,” Ryion explained. “If the mission succeeds, but we all can’t stand each other or, Force forbid, one of us falls to the dark side, then we’ve done damage in the long run. If the team succeeds, but the mission fails, then we have to answer to the people that we’ve sworn to protect and serve. It has to be both.” Zeyn whistled appreciatively. “Now that is a good answer,” he said. “So, what can we do to look out for both each other and take care of the mission?” It was a question that left all four of them pondering the matter for some time. Slowly, ideas bubbled to the surface of their minds, though, as they considered all the areas in which they personally fell short within the team. “We can be open with each other,” Ryion said at last in a low voice. “Deal with issues quickly and don’t let friction build up.” “We can encourage,” Qedai said, “and encourage each other to encourage.” She flashed a rueful smile. “That last one especially for me.” There was a brief chuckle from the others at the sharp-tongued Twi’lek’s self-deprecatory jest. “We can be humble,” Zeyn commented. “Admit that we’re wrong, be open-minded.” “We can listen,” Ariada offered. “Be there for each other.” “We can be positive,” Zeyn said, “and not let circumstances or adversity slow us down.” “We can be disciplined,” Qedai threw out. “Adhere to what we trained to do and keep doing it.” “Great ideas,” Ryion finished. “Now, let’s get out there and do them.” “Right now?” Zeyn asked. “We’re soaking wet and it’s getting late.” “You’re not being negative, are you?” Ryion teased. “I was just thinking that a little late night fun run would bring back fond memories of our training on Yanibar.” The others groaned as their aching muscles and fresh bruises reminded them of their competitive events that day. “Let’s wait until tomorrow night,” Qedai suggested impishly. “We’ll see if you feel that way after the galactic octathlon.” “Hey, Ryion, remember our agreement to ‘admit that we’re wrong?’” Zeyn remarked. “You might want to reconsider that idea.” “Okay,” Ryion said, grinning mischievously. “Go ahead and admit that you’re wrong.” “Oooh, we’d better deal with this issue quickly,” Qedai said. “At least we’re being open about it.” Zeyn rolled his eyes. “We probably sound incredibly cliché right now,” he observed. “Like a long list of team-building dictums and platitudes that a bunch of the stuffier Masters would call ‘sage wisdom of the Force’ and throw at us. If they could only hear us now.” Zeyn looked around at the rest of his friends, but they had suddenly gone silent—and turned a couple shades paler. “Indeed, Zeyn clan Kraen,” he heard a soft gravelly voice mew from behind him. “It would make a very interesting experience if that were so.” “Master Kel’nerh,” Zeyn said, glancing over his shoulder to see the foreboding Noghri standing behind him. “How good of you to join us.” “I’m glad you feel that way,” Morgedh said with what passed for amiable for him. “I trust you were able to resolve your lack of unity with that long list of team-building dictums and platitudes?” “Yes, yes, in fact we did,” Zeyn answered nervously, like a schoolboy caught red-handed in the act of mischief. “Good,” Morgedh told them. “I’ll make sure to include that in my report to Master Kraen. And as for the rest of you—if your meeting is done, I suggest you dry off and sleep. Tomorrow will be another busy day.” With that, the Noghri disappeared as silently as he’d come. “Am I the only one who hates it when he does that?” Zeyn asked. “No, but at least he has good motives,” Ryion deadpanned in exact mimicry of Zeyn’s comment earlier. In response to the imitation, the hot pool room was filled with the laughter of all four young athletes as they stepped out of the soothing warmth of the water and headed for the respective locker rooms. They lost a half-hour of sleep and they would suffer for that at practice tomorrow, but at least they would do so unified and without any negativity or lingering frustration between them—except the unanswered questions between Ryion and Ariada, which neither had spoken of since their conversation, all other barriers in the team had dissipated. They were a team again. Coruscant Underbelly The tall man’s contract with Viavo had expired and had been paid in full. It was too bad the partnership had to come to an end, the tall man reflected to the body lying facedown on the permacrete a few meters off. The tech specialist had been useful and skilled, doing his task with an alacrity that had surprised the tall man. Viavo had been a rare find, someone with his skills and yet so few scruples lurking this deep in Coruscant’s entrails, a veritable gem mine waiting to be found—and exploited. Doing so had been a privilege, one to be savored. Thanks to Viavo, the tall man now had everything he needed for his mission. His equipment was laid out on the table in front of him. It was all here, after years of preparation. Stylish clothing in the latest fashions. A head-set holocam with a disguised targeting sensor. A scanner spoofer tucked away inside a battery pack. A datapad with the media access routes and security layout. The all-important media pass to get through the outer layers of security. A gimmicked earpiece comlink that would let him eavesdrop on the security channels. And, the piece de resistance, the disguised Xerrol Nightstinger sniper rifle, carefully built into a heavy-duty panoramic holocam. The tall man checked each item thoroughly, then slipped the scanner spoofer, the Tibanna cylinders, and the small vibroblade he’d brought in case he needed a quick getaway into hidden compartments inside a journalist’s bag. Burying the contraband under a small pile of cables, spare parts, flimsipads, and credentials, the tall man made sure that everything was disguised thoroughly. It would be a shame to waste all those years of preparation on a bungled insertion attempt. As far as the lives he had already taken to get here, the tall man gave them no thought. He was doing the galaxy a favor by removing that scum. He smiled as he gathered up all his equipment into a pair of bags, then left a small round gray sphere in the middle of the floor inside the dank room before he left. A red light atop the sphere began blinking in increasingly rapid succession as he left. There would be no body left, no trace that the tall man had ever been there once the thermal detonator went off, nothing to connect him to any kind of assassination attempt. His trainers in Imperial Intelligence and Director Isard would have been proud of him. The tall man shouldered the satchel with his equipment in it and headed out into the dank, shadowed alleys of Coruscant’s lower levels. There was faint crackle as the detonator exploded, then he vanished into the night to await the proper time.
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