| abstract
| - Trip sat by himself at a table in the Griffin’s mess, sipping a hot cup of caf. He was wearing his full armor, save for the helmet, but per ship’s regulations, had stowed the blaster when not on duty. The room was otherwise empty and its spartan furnishings left little for him to observe. Even the viewports were closed, battened down while the mammoth vessel was in hyperspace for the crew’s safety. He sighed, taking another long pull of the steaming liquid. He sensed someone approach from behind him and tensed. To his surprise, Agent Taskien made her way past him to the other side of the table and sat down across from him. She was in uniform again, the first time that Trip was aware of since embarking on her fateful mission on Zeru Neimodia. “Agent Taskien,” he said, stiffening. She waved a hand at him. “We’re both off-duty,” she replied. “Call me Roxana.” Trip had not expected the invitation to use a familiar name, but didn’t ask what had prompted her to offer it. “Off-duty and still in uniform,” he noted. “So are you,” she replied. “All for the big ceremony.” “Advisor Doriana had me completely rework the shift schedule so that all of my people could attend,” Trip told her. “Bureaucratic nightmare. I’d almost rather be fighting insurgents.” “That’s the military,” she replied with the first trace of humor he’d heard from her in quite some time. “I would just as sooner not attend the ceremony,” she confided to him after a moment’s pause. “Why not?” Trip asked, surprised. Then again, nothing about this conversation had matched the normative behavior he had come to expect from Agent Taskien. “The honors, the awards they’re giving out—they’re reminders of what we lost,” she told him. “The people that didn’t survive, and the scars left on those who did. I don’t need that reminder.” “You of all people deserve the recognition,” Trip replied. “Remember what you told Romierr: you brought him down.” “At great cost,” she said. “That’s the part I don’t want to remember. I’m glad Romierr is gone, but . . .” She shuddered visibly. “I’d be fine with never reliving some of those memories.” Trip understood where she was coming from. Having seen combat on many battlefields, he knew all too well about the trauma of war, even to those who survived it physically unscathed. “You don’t have to,” Trip advised her. “Whenever one of them comes up, remember that you survived and overcame it. Then think about what you’re doing next.” “Is that how you deal with it?” she asked him. He nodded. “Those memories are just another battle to win,” he said. “A battle in your mind.” “I suppose,” she answered. “You’re part of a greater purpose,” he observed. “You sacrificed for the good of the Empire. That’s bigger than any of us. That’s what makes it worth it—all the trillions of people we protect.” She glanced at the chrono on the wall. “It’s almost time for the ceremony,” she said. Trip sighed and drained his mug of caf. “Between us, I don’t see the point of having everyone be honored at once,” he said. “Different services have different cultures and traditions. Mixing isn’t necessarily good.” “Does that mean you don’t want to walk with me to the ceremony?” she asked him. Trip started, caught off guard at how she had taken his remarks. “Not at all,” he recovered. They made their way down to the large cargo bay where the ceremony was to take place. Rows of chairs split into two sections occupied most of the room, enough for a couple hundred people. The company of troops Trip had selected was there—many of them were receiving awards as well—along with several dozen Imperial Army, Navy, and Intelligence personnel. Imperial flags were in place at the far end of the bay along with a table piled with decorations and a small podium. Doriana stood at the far end of the room, and waved them forward when he saw them. “These seats are for you,” he indicated at two seats at the front of the room on either side of a central aisle. “Senior officers in front.” Trip nodded. “Thank you, sir,” he told Doriana, parting ways from Agent Taskien and heading over to the army side of the chair. “We’ll be starting in just another minute,” one of Doriana’s aides, a dark-skinned man in a black Imperial Intelligence uniform advised Taskien as she found her seat by Doctor Rothery. “And you’ll get the reward you’ve earned.” She managed a smile and nodded politely, trying to school her features into the confident professional mask she had once habitually worn. The fact that she was once again in uniform made that feat much easier, as the clothing lent itself to the attitude. As the time drew closer, the assembled personnel found their seats. Doriana and his aide made their way to the podium at the front of the room. Doriana started to speak, but his aide whispered something in his ear. Doriana frowned, then waved him forward to the podium, waiting off to the side. “Soldiers, officers, and agents of the Imperial military, my name is Agent Sarwas, and it is my pleasure to address you today,” the aide said. “We are gathered here today to recognize the contributions and sacrifice that were made over the course of the Zeru Neimodia campaign. Our guest of honor today is Imperial Advisor Kinman Doriana, who will give a few remarks and present the awards.” There was a smattering of polite applause, but Sarwas wasn’t quite ready to vacate the podium. “First, I do have one quick request,” he said. Quick as a flash, he drew a small vibrodagger that had been tucked away under his formal uniform and grabbed Advisor Doriana, holding the blade to his throat. “I’m going to ask that nobody make any sudden moves,” he said, his voice suddenly transformed from congenial and welcoming to icy and threatening. “Or else Advisor Doriana’s going to make a mess on this freshly polished floor.” The doors at both ends of the cargo bay slid open and a cadre of two dozen Imperial Intelligence agents toting blaster rifles filed in before anyone could react. They had the assembled soldiers and agents bracketed, a death trap for any mass, desperate charge. “What is the meaning of this?” Doriana demanded. “It’s called a takeover,” Sarwas informed him coolly. “You are no longer in control of this vessel.” Trip silently thumbed on his comlink. “Security to cargo bay four,” he said softly. He received nothing but a hissing sound. Trip swore under his breath, reaching for the blaster pistol that wasn’t on his hip due to ship regulations. He swore again. Some of the soldiers tensed, clearly planning on making some kind of move. Sarwas saw the motion. “Don’t try anything,” he advised. “We have no intentions of hurting you—but we are in command.” “You traitor,” Doriana hissed. “I’ll see you dead for this.” “Save your threats, Advisor,” Sarwas told him, toggling his own comlink. “Cargo bay four secure. Send reinforcements.” Trip mentally calculated the odds and realized that they had a chance to take down the treacherous agents, particularly with the help of the armored clone troopers. They had all trained together, and if he acted, the others would respond swiftly. Many of them would die, but the survivors would be able to seize their weapons and possibly reclaim the ship with the aid of the crew, depending on how many traitors there were. It would be worth it. Then, the doors slid open again and a dozen droidekas rumbled in, unfolding with blasters at the ready. All of Trip’s desperate mental calculations went right out the exhaust port right there. The lethal droids would burn down even armored soldiers before they could overpower the agents. He glanced at Taskien, who was pale even as she tried to keep her composure, and she shook her head. Behind the droidekas, two more blaster-wielding agents entered the room from the forward doors, followed by Ardo Romierr. Trip sat stunned at the man’s sudden appearance—apparently the entire ship must have been overthrown if he could travel freely after being plucked from the most secure sector of the ship. “Thank you for delaying the ceremony until I could arrive,” the insurgent leader said amiably, making his way to the podium and its sound amplification system. Flanked by his guards, he stood behind the podium to address the group. “I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans,” he announced. “However, none of you will be harmed if you do not resist. You have my word.” He was met with hostile stares from each and every one of his captives. “Believe me, I understand your desire for vengeance and your willingness to die for the Empire,” he said. “After all, you are the Empire’s best, about to be decorated for acts of valor. But there is no point throwing your lives away. We only want the ship.” Trip glanced at Taskien again, expecting to see fear or terror in her eyes. Instead, all he saw was burning hatred and defiance. “My men will now escort you, one row at a time, to the detention areas,” Romierr advised them. “Back row, if you please.” Nobody moved. Romierr sighed and drew a blaster pistol, pointing it directly at Taskien. “Cooperate, or I’ll shoot this woman,” he said. She stood up defiantly. “I’m an Imperial agent,” she told him. “Do it.” “Belay that,” Trip barked suddenly. There was no sense in throwing her life away—Romierr would just keep killing people if they didn’t comply. Better to have as many resourceful minds available to think of a way out of this. “Do what he says,” Trip ordered the soldiers at the back of the room. “They win for now.” “That’s the spirit,” Romierr said agreeably as the unhappy soldiers at the back row stood up and allowed themselves to be ushered out under guard from the traitors. “How long have you been planning this?” Doriana asked Sarwas through clenched teeth. The aide smiled at him. “We’ve been planning seizing this ship ever since I learned about it,” he said. “The original plan didn’t involve you capturing Romierr first, but we were always going to take the ship.” “Enough,” Romierr said. “The advisor is a clever man. Let him figure the rest out for himself.” Trip was one of the last to leave, followed by several other soldiers, and then Taskien and Rothery and a handful of senior intelligence agents with Doriana last. They were marched through the bowels of the ship. There were no signs of the crew, save for the occasional dead body. The guards took them down to the most secure cell block, where Romierr had formerly been incarcerated. They didn’t bother with the force cage, but the maximum strength shock field that hummed to life once they were inside was more than enough to dissuade an escape attempt. “Why did you do it?” Taskien asked, moving over towards Trip. “Do what?” he asked, examining the wall for a possible weakness or seam they could peel away. “Stop him from shooting me.” “You’re more useful in an escape attempt alive,” he told her. “Dying there would have been symbolic but pointless.” Taskien took his words in stride. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do to make myself useful.” Trip started to say something, but his words were forestalled by approaching footsteps. He looked through the hazy blue shock field to see Ardo Romierr approaching, a lazy smile on his face and two guards following close behind. “What do you want?” Doriana demanded. “Under the circumstances, my biggest temptation should be to execute all of you with as much painful satisfaction as I can obtain,” Romierr told them. “Especially you, Agent . . . Taskien, is it?” She started to say something, but Trip put his hand over her mouth. Antagonizing their captor further wouldn’t get them very far. “You said we would be allowed to leave the ship if we cooperated,” Doriana said. “Another lie?” “No, I was sincere,” Romierr assured him. “As befitting your senior rank within the Empire, all of you are too valuable to simply kill for no reason.” He smiled wickedly. “You have information in your heads that would be quite valuable to certain parties.” “Good luck getting it,” Doriana told him. “All of us are trained to resist interrogation.” “Believe me, I know,” Romierr said. “Agent Taskien is living proof of that. Extracting useful information from any of you would be most time-consuming and messy—and I’d hate to dirty up my new ship. However, there are other people with more time and less . . . gentility on their hands who would pay quite handsomely for the chance to try.” Doriana scowled. “Who would even consider such a trade knowing the Imperial consequences?” he said. “Oh, I can think of a few candidates,” Romierr told him. “Black Sun would love to know what you know, Advisor Doriana, or perhaps the Hutts. Or the Bothans. Any of those people would have some miserable dark hole for you and the Empire would never find out. It doesn’t matter to me—whoever offers me the best deal is who will get you.” “You’re a clever man, Romierr,” Doriana admitted. “You managed to turn a significant number of Imperial Intelligence agents to your cause, even my aide, and arranged for them to be gathered on my ship where you could be easily freed and take over. That’s not easy.” “Impressive deduction, Advisor,” Romierr said. “Though my getting captured worked out better than we planned. As for turning your agents, that was hardly difficult. The Emperor made that happen with his draconian policies.” “You might be clever,” Taskien spoke up. “But it’s going to make bringing you down again that much more satisfying.” “I’m so glad to see you’ve recovered your spirit,” Romierr told her. “I hope you feel that way in the tender embrace of this Falleen crime lord I know of. I hear they have remarkable effects on women.” Taskien shuddered. “The auction will be on Darlyn Boda in a couple weeks,” he announced. “May the highest bidder win.” Tokmia Sarth made his way across the snow-covered landscape back to the Jal Shey refuge as the sun began sinking below the mountain-tops. A chilling wind was blowing across the rocky trail and he wrapped his coat closer around him to ward it off. It had been a long and arduous three-day hike to and from the ship, and he was tired and missing Cassi. Three days was the longest they had been apart since their engagement and her absence was telling. At the forefront of his mind was apologizing for his behavior at the end of their hearing, now that he had had plenty of time to reflect on his actions. As he walked up to the metal gate, the Whiphid sentry S’vollke met him, unbarring the heavy gate and admitting him to the Jal Shey compound. Sarth was mildly surprised to see that Cassi wasn’t there waiting for him. He tried sensing her with the Force, but couldn’t get a sense for her. He wondered if his exhaustion made it difficult to use the Force, but he had no issue sensing S’vollke or the other Jal Shey. Maybe she was practicing a technique that had her hide her presence in the Force. “The Jal Shey would like to speak with you in the audience chamber again,” S’vollke informed him. “Now?” Sarth asked. “I have just returned from a long journey.” “Yes,” S’vollke answered gravely. “It is important.” Something in the tone of his voice disturbed Sarth. Despite his weary limbs, he set out at a brisk pace across the enclave until he reached the main meeting hall. He was admitted, not even stopping to shed his thick coat and gloves, and quickly made his way to the floor where he and Cassi had previously addressed the Jal Shey. They were waiting for him, several dozen of them, just as they had been during his and Cassi’s appeal. Once again Sarth found himself on the floor of the circular room with the Jal Shey seated at the concentric tables looking down on him. He did note that the Balosar woman who had been there previously was missing. “We welcome you once again, Jedi Kraen,” the Muun Frelix told him. “Thank you,” Sarth said, still wondering at the back of his mind where Cassi was. “I bring news—we have successfully found a world for our refuge, a remote planet called Yanibar.” He decided not to include the minor details of an Imperial garrison and a harsh, inhospitable climate, at least not for now. “That shall be considered,” Frelix told him. “We also have news for you.” “What is it?” Sarth asked. “And where is Cassi?” “That is what we must discuss.” Sarth looked around impatiently. “What happened?” he asked. “While you were away, we showed your companion one of our meditation areas, a cavern filled with ice and crystals, where many Jal Shey have found clarity and peace. She found it relaxing and often went there,” Frelix informed him. “At first, she always went with someone else, but by the second day, needed no escort. Yesterday, while returning from the cavern, she . . . fell. We did not learn of this until hours later.” Sarth felt as someone had just torn out his heart as Frelix delivered the news. He gaped in horror and shock—how he had not sensed this? Why had he not been here to keep her company, to prevent such a thing from happening? His mind was spinning from the sudden revelation, thinking too fast for his conscious self to keep up. “Where is she?” he blurted out. “She is at Mentor Shiga’s house,” Frelix informed him, referring to the Balosar. “Shiga is one of our best healers. If anyone could save someone who nearly froze to death, it would be her.” “Let me go to her,” Sarth said quickly. “That would be unwise,” Frelix told him. “The healing ritual is delicate and easily disturbed. Any intrusion could disrupt it—with severe consequences.” “I can’t just stay here,” Sarth replied. “Not if Cassi is hurt.” “You will endanger her further if you do so,” Frelix advised him. Sarth glanced around the rest of the room, but the Jal Shey all wore impassive expressions that betrayed nothing. He felt desperate, frantic, and above all scared. Knowing that Cassi was in danger and being told he couldn’t go to her was anathema to him. Still, he couldn’t just let his emotions run amok in front of the Jal Shey. Cassi wouldn’t want him to do so again, so for her sake, he tried to calm himself. “What do you want me to do?” he asked. “Wait here,” Frelix told him. “And trust that Mentor Shiga knows her craft.” Sarth struggled to contain an outburst that likely would have cost him any credence he had with the Jal Shey. Still, he managed to stifle it, taking a deep breath before speaking again. “You are asking me to trust my companion to your care, without even being able to see her?” Sarth asked. “That is a hard thing to ask.” “It is for the best,” Frelix answered. “It is the best thing you can do for her.” “According to you,” Sarth countered. Frelix was undeterred by Sarth’s retort. “According to the wisdom of the Jal Shey. Choose for yourself, Jedi Kraen; we will not stop you. But you must live with the choice you make.” Sarth closed his eyes, clenching and unclenching his fist. He couldn’t just leave Cassi. She meant too much for him to not be at her side when she was hurt. Yet that was what they were asking. He wanted nothing more than to be right there, holding her hand, telling her that it was going to be fine, that she had to get better. His rational mind pointed out that the Jal Shey had been nothing but hospitable, and if their best healer needed space to work, then it was best to give it to her. At the same time, what if something happened to Cassi and he never was able to speak to her again? He would never forgive himself. He wasn’t sure if he could forgive himself for leaving her only for this accident to happen. These and a thousand other thoughts, worries, and fears whirled through his head. However, one consideration rose above the others, superseding them and guiding his thinking. What would Cassi want him to do? What would she have done in his place? The more he thought about it, the more he knew that his place was here, that Cassi would have trusted the Jal Shey to take care of him, that she would want him to be patient and not endanger her further. Despite all the yearnings of his heart to immediately rush over to her, Sarth knew that was exactly what he shouldn’t do. His rational mind told him to stay here, his emotions told him to go—but when he listened for the Force, he sensed that he should stay. “Very well,” he said. Kneeling down, he closed his eyes and began to meditate. He couldn’t help but have his thoughts focused on Cassi, but at times he managed to achieve a state of peace where he was open to the Force, not attempting to sense or touch anything. It was strangely restful, an island of calm amid an ocean of worry, and though his moments on its shores were fleeting, they granted him assurance that he was doing the right thing. He didn’t know how long he stayed in that state. From time to time, his meditation faltered and he returned to conscious reality, but it seemed that nothing in the room changed—the Jal Shey largely stayed there, though some came and went. So he would close his eyes, shift his position to something more comfortable, and return to the meditation. Often his thoughts would just be of Cassi—he would see her face, her smile, hear her laugh. He would reflect on memories they had shared, all the dreams they had together for their future, dreams which were now in jeopardy due to this horrific mishap. At those times, the fear would attempt to twist his thoughts to a darker place, but Sarth rejected that idea, instead enshrining his thoughts and memories of Cassi in a place in his mind that would not accept pessimism or despair. In his mind, she was above those things and so he kept her segregated from his worries despite that they were indelibly linked in reality. Sarth did his best to quiet his awareness of his physical senses—he wouldn’t need them in the meeting hall. If he was less attuned to them, he might be able to reach out and touch Cassi’s mind with the Force. However, he sensed nothing despite all of his efforts. Wherever she was, her mind was in a place inaccessible to him, and that made the waiting all the more difficult. But for her sake, he continued. He wasn’t aware of how much time had passed. His senses dulled, he didn’t notice hunger, thirst, or tiredness. He didn’t even hear the creak of the door every time somebody came or went. It was just him and the Force, and it stayed that way for hours. As Sarth was trying for the thousandth time to seek out Cassi’s mind, he suddenly a door open in his mind and a new, familiar, loving presence enter his awareness. A wave of affection burst forth from his heart, extended out towards her, and he felt her mind reciprocate. He felt a touch, at first mental, and then physical, followed by a single word. “Sarth.” Sarth opened his eyes to see her standing there in front of him, her hand resting on his shoulder. She looked radiant, more beautiful than he could find words to describe. Surprise, astonishment, and above all relief filled him. He scrambled to his feet, still at a loss for words, as she looked on expectantly. Unable to speak, he hugged her close and kissed her passionately, heedless of all the people watching. He wanted to hold her tightly and never let her go, to tell her how much he loved her and that he had been so worried for him. He cupped her head in his hands as they kissed, thumbs gently stroking her cheek, willing the moment to never end. However, Cassi parted from him after several seconds. “Missed you too,” she said with an amused smile. “But couldn’t this wait until later?” Sarth kept his arms around her, not wanting to let go lest he lose her again. “Not after what I’ve been through,” he said. “I almost lost you.” “Lost me?” she asked with a frown, genuine confusion rippling off of her. “You fell in the cave . . .” Sarth said, his turn to frown now. “They said you nearly froze to death, that they had to use a Jal Shey healing ritual to bring you back. Do you not remember?” Cassi looked askance at him. “I fell in the cave—and bruised my knee,” she said, gesturing to a bulge on her pant leg around the knee. “I didn’t realize I’d hurt it until a few hours later, and Mentor Shiga was kind enough to treat it—but that was yesterday. What are you talking about?” “Perhaps I can explain,” Mentor Frelix offered. Both Sarth and Cassi turned to see him standing now with steepled fingers as he paced back across the room like a lawyer giving an argument before a court. “I’m afraid I may have mislead you, Jedi Kraen,” Frelix said. “Admittedly with the unwitting help of Jedi Trealus.” Sarth shot the Muun a sidelong glance. “What does that mean?” he asked. “It means that we put you to the test—and Jedi Trealus agreed to assist in the test, though she was not privy to the details.” Sarth turned back to Cassi, one arm still around her. “I don’t understand a thing he’s saying,” he said, still completely baffled. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?” “I had a chance to talk with the Jal Shey while you were gone,” she said. “One of them suggested that you be put to the test, to see if you would trust them with me as much we were asking them to trust us. They said you wouldn’t be hurt and it would only be for twenty-four hours, so I agreed. All I had to do was not be there when you came back and wait with Mentor Shiga to prove you could trust them for that long. Since you didn’t charge after me, you passed. The rest you know, aside from the bruised knee—but that wasn’t even a big deal.” “You mean you trusted that I wouldn’t come after you based on the Jal Shey saying so?” Sarth asked. “It’s a simple request,” Cassi said with a shrug. “All you had to do was wait for me for a day—I knew you could do that.” “Which is where the part about me misleading him comes in,” Frelix cut in. “You see, Jedi Trealus, what you weren’t aware is what we told Jedi Kraen about your condition when he returned.” “My condition?” Cassi asked. “The account we gave him was designed to lead him to think you had been severely injured in the fall and were close to death.” “You lied,” Sarth pointed out, annoyed. “I did no such thing,” Frelix replied, taken aback at the accusation. “All of the things I said were true in context. Your companion did fall in the cave by herself, and we didn’t learn of it until later. She was at Mentor Shiga’s house and Shiga is a talented healer who can use the healing ritual to heal people suffering from severe exposure. The ritual is easily disrupted. What we didn’t say that was that Jedi Trealus had nearly frozen to death, or that Shiga is also an expert at damping Force presences.” “That’s very deceptive,” Sarth remarked. “And subtle.” Shiga chuckled. “It’s not much of a test if the person being evaluated knows it’s a test,” she said. “That explains why I couldn’t sense much in the Force at her house,” Cassi realized. “It was like a wet blanket over my senses.” “A necessary precaution that has served us well in dark times,” Frelix told them. “I apologize for the deception, but we needed to know if you were as trusting as you expected us to be.” “And?” Sarth asked. Frelix gestured around the room. “We have observed you while you waited. We have put your sincerity and trust to the test and you passed. You showed wisdom and prudence even when the life of someone who means much more to you than we were led to believe was on the line.” Cassi reddened, recalling their kiss from a minute earlier. “So where do we stand on our proposal?” Sarth continued. “With the news that you have secured a world, and in light of the demonstration of your trust and your warning of the Empire coming here, the Jal Shey agree to join your refuge,” Frelix told them. “It won’t be easy,” Sarth warned. “We are used to difficulty,” Frelix replied. “We will do our part to preserve a light in these dark times, and use our talents to benefit this new community.” A grin spread across Cassi’s face as she heard the words. Hugging Sarth close, she kissed him again with surprising passion, her turn to ignore the gathered Jal Shey. When they finally parted for air, broad smiles on their faces, Cassi leaned in close to him. “We did it!” she whispered triumphantly. Sarth stroked her chin fondly as their heads bowed together. “That we did,” he said, his own excitement less overt but just as genuine and fully-encompassing. “That we did.” Yanibar With a sigh of relief, Selu left the aft refresher where he was keeping Lieutenant Terthbak. A wave of nausea swept over him and he leaned heavily against the wall, trying to keep his gorge down. The Imperial was as nauseating as he had been last night, but Selu doubted that the lieutenant was the cause for this sudden unease. He entered the cabin he had appropriated and sat down, rubbing his stomach and taking deep breaths. Spectre entered. “Just heard from Sarth,” he said. “The Jal Shey are proving reluctant. They want to know if we even have a refuge location selected before they consider the idea.” “Did you tell them the good news?” Selu asked, wincing in pain. “That we have a world . . . admittedly an inhospitable one with an Imperial presence?” “Something like that.” “I told him,” Spectre answered. “He said he’d inform the Jal Shey and contact us when he had another update.” “Good,” Selu said, drawing on the Force to try and soothe his discomfort. “Are you okay?” Spectre asked him. “Too much rashani curry last night?” “Maybe,” Selu replied hesitantly. “I don’t usually have problems with spicy food though.” He leaned back against the wall, enjoying the feel of the cool metal on his neck. “Anything from Mil—,” he started to stay, abruptly doubling over in agony. A spike of pain hammered through his head, and then suddenly, he saw images through the Force—scattered, quick. Selu closed his eyes again, concentrating on the murky vision and sensation he had just felt, trying to sift through the conflicting feelings and perceptions he had received. There, floating amidst the other strands of information in the abstract depths of the Force was something, someone he recognized. He saw Milya’s face, frightened, hurt. He saw stormtroopers and blasterfire, burning fires and bodies floating in the water. Slowly, he came back to consciousness to find himself lying in a fetal position on the bed, Spectre leaning concernedly over him. “That doesn’t look the after-effects of curry,” Spectre said. “Let me get the medpac.” “No need,” Selu managed as the pain subsided. “It’s Force-related.” “You can get sick through the Force?” “It’s possible,” Selu admitted. “Massive loss of life or prolonged atrocities can affect a Jedi on a physiological level. So can disturbing visions.” “What happened?” Spectre asked. “I only felt like something was . . . wrong. Or about to be.” “Close enough,” Selu remarked. “I sensed that Milya is in trouble, or about to be. I saw an Imperial attack.” “Then we need to help her,” Spectre said quickly. Selu nodded. “Can you talk to the Zeison Sha council? Let them know what we need to do,” Selu asked Spectre. “Of course,” Spectre replied. “I’ll get the ship ready for lift-off,” Selu told him. “Gear up in fifteen.” “Are you sure you’re up to that?” Spectre asked. Selu smiled weakly. “I’ll be fine—but I’ll have a space-sickness bag ready just in case.” Spectre returned fifteen minutes later with Daara in tow to find Selu at the bridge, the space-sickness bag noticeably absent. The ship’s engines and main reactor had been brought online—they were minutes away from lift-off. “Did the elders agree to it?” “I put it in the context of needing to look after a family member,” Spectre replied. “That seemed to resonate with them. They were very understanding, as long as we return before the next Imperial supply ship arrives—the garrison is cut off until then.” “We’ll do our best,” Selu said. “Did you make use of that bag? I don’t see one.” “That’s one way to put it,” Selu replied. “But I feel much better now.” He turned over his shoulder to see Daara. “What is she doing here?” he asked. “I want to help,” she replied. “I’m a good fighter.” Selu shot a look at Spectre. “She was insistent,” he answered with a shrug. “Plus, I think it’s the council’s way of keeping tabs on us.” “You could be in danger,” Selu warned her. She rolled her eyes. “And what do you think I face here?” she asked sarcastically. “Besides, you saved my life. I owe you this much.” Selu thought about it a minute longer, then nodded. “Strap in,” he said. “We’re leaving in a hurry.” “That bad?” Spectre asked, referring to the urgency of his vision. “Isn’t it always?” “We’re not exactly 100 percent here,” Spectre pointed out, referring to his own injury and Selu’s recent sickness. “Not good conditions for thwarting an Imperial attack.” “We go with what we have,” Selu answered simply. “Try to rest and heal while we’re in hyperspace.” Spectre nodded. “I understand,” he said. “Just pointing out the situation.” “I know,” Selu replied. “But Milya’s in trouble.” That was enough to forestall further debate. As the Observant cleared Yanibar’s gravity well, Selu fed Darlyn Boda’s coordinates into the navicomputer. A minute later, it chirped back at him with the desired course, which Selu laid in before pulling the hyperdrive lever. The stars elongated and then twisted into the tunnel of hyperspace as the Observant transcended the standard spatial dimensions and achieved superluminal velocities. Darlyn Boda Milya sat cross-legged around a low brazier filled with glowing embers in a circle, staring into the flickering tongues of flame. Also sitting around the fire were the Arkanian Jahlel, Milya’s roommate Xlora, and Hasla, Jahlel’s sister. The four of them had been assigned to work together since Milya’s arrival, and Milya had spent virtually all the waking hours of the two weeks she had been here in their company. They had been sitting here since the crack of dawn, honing their focus and bodies to not move at all. It was an exercise in control over oneself, and, much like other aspects of Matukai training, one that Milya had found difficult. She had thought that her history as an Echani mercenary and her more recent training in the Jedi arts would make the basic precepts of the Matukai easy; however, that had not proven the case. In her first sparring match with a Matukai polearm, a training version of their signature wan-shen weapon, she had gone up against Xlora and lost badly. Since then, Jahlel had put her through the paces of beginner-level Matukai training. Much of the drills had combined strenuous physical exercise with mental exercises. While Milya was certainly in good physical condition and had reasonable control over the Force, the Matukai viewed them as something to be done together, using physical activity as a form of meditation. The result had been grueling; Milya hadn’t sweated this much since her basic Echani training as a teenager, and even now she was glistening with sweat. The warm, damp air of the swamp hung around her even as she concentrated on keeping her protesting leg muscles from quavering. It had been mid-morning, and she already been put through a ten kilometer trek through the swamp that involved as much shimmying up tree trunks, crawling across branches, and swinging from vines as it did running—all before dawn. Jahlel, the most experienced among them, had pushed them hard, as he always did, citing the Matukai principle of the Force being the fire of the forge and the body being the raw metal. He had certainly put her through fire, all right. Finally, when she thought she could take it no more, Jahlel called a halt to the exercise. Slowly, the four of them stood, rubbing sore muscles. “What did you see in your meditation?” Jahlel asked. “I saw the fire of the brazier, how it survives and persists in spite of the water all around it,” said Hasla. “What about it?” “It knows that it is outnumbered and that it won’t last, but doesn’t burn any less brightly for that knowledge.” “And how does that relate to the Force?” “The Force burns within all of us, regardless of how weak we might feel.” “Good answers,” said Jahlel, and Milya sensed the wave of pleasure and appreciation roll off of the younger Arkanian in response to his compliment. “And you, Xlora?” “I, too, saw, the fire,” said Xlora. “What did you see in it?” “I saw how fire has potential for good, but must be placed under control in order to be used properly.” Jahlel said nothing, so the Falleen continued. “Fire provides warmth and light, but it can also destroy unless we keep it in the bowl. And then even when we do, there’s a possibility of an outside force disturbing that order.” Milya didn’t let her features betray her understanding, but the very subtle glance that Xlora had shot at her made it very clear that the last comment had been indirectly pointed at her. Xlora, the most talented of the trainees behind Jahlel, had lost patience with Milya after the first few days of her training and often stopped to watch as the less-experienced Hasla and Milya struggled to keep up with her and Jahlel. “How does this relate to the Force?” Jahlel asked in a low tone. “The Force is something that each Matukai must control and bend for their own, constantly on guard against temptation.” “Perhaps it might be better to say that each Matukai must control herself and her use of the Force rather than control the Force,” Jahlel admonished mildly. “The Force is far too large for any of us to completely master.” “I stand corrected, Jahlel,” said Xlora, a hint of resentment seeping into her contrition. “And you, Milya of the Jedi, what did your meditation show you?” Jahlel turned to her. “To be honest, I spent a lot of time simply concentrating on controlling myself. I didn’t worry about looking for anything in the Force. I just let it find me.” “And what did it tell you?” “I sensed a great disturbance in the Force, coming here.” “Would you mind explaining to rest of us what that was?” “It was vague. I’m not sure what it means yet, but I know what I felt.” “You’re just making it up,” Xlora scoffed. “Trying to cover up the fact that you were too busy hiding your discomfort to meditate.” “I’ve already shown that I don’t care about discomfort,” Milya said. “I’m still doing the exercises, and I still listen to you, don’t I?” The sharp retort caught the Falleen off guard, as she was used to Milya quietly taking whatever corrections or stinging comments she made. “How dare you. . .” Xlora began. “Peace, Xlora,” Jahlel said softly. “Milya, look at me.” Milya looked into the Arkanian’s pearlescent eyes. “Tell me what you felt.” Meeting Jahlel’s intense gaze, Milya began collecting her thoughts, pulling up the memories and sensations she had felt during the exercise and organizing them into cohesive thoughts. “There was the dark side,” she replied slowly. “I’ve never run into it much before, but it was described to me as palpable evil, a concentration of malice and greed. I sensed death, and then . . . I was in the swamp, in the water. I was running for my life, and I didn’t know why. Someone screamed. Then, the water started steaming, boiling. It was hot, burningly hot. That’s all. That’s all I can remember.” “That’s fine,” Jahlel answered. “That’s plenty.” “Why do you ask?” she said. “Because I saw the same thing,” he told her grimly. “I think we need to talk to Templar Grysloth.” “When?” “Right now.” “Now?” Milya asked in clear disbelief. “Yes,” Jahlel said, his voice deadly serious. “Follow me. While we’re gone, Xlora, work with Hasla on the second through eleventh defensive stances.” “As you wish,” Xlora said with obvious discontent as Jahlel strode off through the complex, Milya following gamely in his wake. His pace was firm, and Milya’s cramped leg muscles were contorting in pain as she followed him to Grysloth’s dwelling. She knew techniques for limiting physical discomfort thanks to Selu’s training and from Matukai exercises, but was still not fully adept in their practical use. By the time she caught up with Jahlel at the Talortai’s dwelling, he had already knocked on the door, forestalling any attempt by her to discuss the impending conversation. “Come in, Jahlel,” came Grysloth’s deep voice. “Bring Jedi Tayrce in as well.” “Thank you, Templar,” Jahlel replied. “Please, sit down. Would you two like some kopi tea?” Grysloth asked, waving at a tray and kettle resting on a hook over a larger version of the brazier which had been the focus of their earlier exercise. The two gratefully accepted earthenware mugs filled with dark steaming liquid. Milya took a sip of her tea and found its warmth refreshing as it made its way down her throat. “Must be something important to interrupt your training, Jahlel. What is it?” “We were performing the Statue Meditation,” Jahlel explained. “When we finished, both Jedi Tayrce and I had the same experience through the Force. One of danger and death.” “In this day and age, that is not a surprise,” Grysloth returned. “Much death occurs in the galaxy right now.” “This wasn’t just in the galaxy,” Milya spoke up. “It was here. This place was destroyed.” “Did you see that also, Jahlel?” the Talortai asked. “I did, Templar. I sensed the dark side of the Force, saw it engulf us.” “Interesting. I will meditate on this; see if I can discern it for myself.” “Templar—,” Jahlel began. “Enough,” interrupted Grysloth firmly. “I said I will consider it. You two should return to your training now.” Though she heard the words the Talortai was saying, an undercurrent of heavy skepticism cut through his words, conveyed to her through the Force. He had no intention of acting swiftly. “You don’t believe us, do you?” spoke up Milya. “You think you would have seen the vision too if it was actually imminent.” “Explain yourself,” Grysloth said, a light glinting in his eyes, and Milya knew she was walking a thin line here. “Are you the only one who can sense danger?” Milya asked. “Jahlel and I saw the danger—it’s coming.” “Why should I believe that?” “If the danger that we’re sensing is the Empire, you’ll all be destroyed,” Milya responded. “What about the offer I made? To unite with other groups of Force users? You said you’d consider that, too.” “Do you mean to spell out the depths of your impudence, Jedi?” growled Grysloth. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll show you,” she said with sudden conviction. “In the sparring circle.” “Do you intend to challenge me?” Grysloth asked. According to Matukai custom, a disagreement between two adepts could be settled with sparring with wan-shens, governed by a series of ancient codes. It was a rare occurrence, and Jahlel had told her that one hadn’t happened in at least thirty years. Most often, Matukai were encouraged to settle their disputes in peaceable manners. The challenge of the ring was only for when one party believed the other’s position would place the whole order at risk. “I do,” she replied. “Jedi Tayrce, you cannot be serious,” said Jahlel. “You haven’t the skill with the wan-shen to best me, much less Templar Grysloth. Don’t let her do it, Templar.” “She’s made her challenge, Jahlel,” answered Grysloth. “She’ll get her match.” “I’ll just have to trust that he’s good enough to beat me and noble enough not to kill me doing it,” said Milya. “Meet me there in ten minutes, Jedi,” intoned Grysloth. Taking that as their signal to leave, Milya and Jahlel thanked the Matukai leader for his time and made their way back to Milya’s residence so she could retrieve her wan-shen. “You don’t have to do this,” said Jahlel, concern in his eyes. “Yes, I do,” she replied, refusing to meet his gaze. “I have taught you. You have potential and talent, but you are no master with the wan-shen. Templar Grysloth has decades of experience.” “It doesn’t matter.” “Milya, the duel goes until there is a clear victor or one side concedes defeat.” “I won’t be conceding defeat.” “You’ll lose horribly, you know that.” “Only if winning is the point.” “What do you mean by that?” “You’ll see,” she told him with firm confidence that she hoped was actually sincere and not just false bravado. “If you’ll excuse me.” Jahlel took the hint and let her go, standing outside her quarters. He had been impressed with the young Jedi, even if she had struggled to adopt the Matukai disciplines during her time here, but he knew that a match with Grysloth would leave her humiliated and injured, possibly killed. It saddened him to think of that, but even more chilling was the last part of his vision earlier, the part he hadn’t told Grysloth or Milya. The last thing he had seen before the premonition had ended was himself lying dead in the water. Ten minutes later, Milya walked calmly into the sparring ring, holding the wan-shen she had borrowed, the axe-bladed end up, as she had been taught. However, while it was similar in weight and make to the one Jahlel had her using in practice, this was no training weapon. The blade was sharp and she knew Grysloth would be using a real wan-shen also. Gathered around the dark green circle drawn on the gray stone of the floor were several other clusters of Matukai, some of whom she recognized. Jahlel and Hasla were standing off to one side, looking worried. Xlora was there, and Milya recognized the amused smile she received from the Falleen, who anticipated her receiving a painful and humiliating lesson from Grysloth for challenging his authority. The Talortai strode into the other side of the ring, clad in battle garb that consisted of a gray armored vest, metal lined boots, and a flexible set of leggings that Milya knew were reinforced with armorweave fibers. Grysloth was carrying a wan-shen also, if it could be called that. A four-meter ebony staff ten centimeters in diameter, its blade was larger than Milya’s head and gleamed faintly in the muted lighting of the sparring circle. Now that it came down to it, Milya was nervous, the idea of that enormous blade separating her head from her shoulders in one clear sweep running through her mind. Though it had been sunny earlier, the sky was now overcast and a deep gray, promising imminent rain. “Step into the ring,” ordered Templar Grysloth. “State your challenge.” Milya swallowed hard, focusing on what she was about to do. Walking deliberately into the ring, her wan-shen held across her body, she stopped short of Bolfwé Grysloth. The enormous Matukai warrior towered over her and she knew her head didn’t even come up to his chest. Rain drops began to fall, splattering on her robes and skin and dotting the surface of the ring with water. She had known it was coming; now she had to hope the duel didn’t get her killed. Thoughts of her friends swam in her mind, but so did an image of Brianna, the Echani handmaiden whose spirit had guided her through her training. The idea of making her guide proud stiffened her resolve, enabling her to find her voice. “I, Milya Tayrce, challenge Bolfwé Grysloth. I charge that his pride has kept him from seeing threats to the Matukai, endangering all in the Order of the Matukai.” “Do you accept the challenge, Templar?” asked Xlora, acting as ringmaster. “I, Bolfwé Grysloth, accept the challenge of Milya Tayrce. This contest between us shall decide.” “Let the Force be your judge,” Xlora said. With that, Milya swung her wan-shen in an overhand strike meant to cleave Grysloth’s shoulder. The Talortai easily batted her blow away with the pole of his wan-shen, then, quick as a striking snake, knocked her legs out from under her with the flat of his axe-blade, dumping her to the ground. She quickly rolled aside, her already sore legs stinging from the impact, as Grysloth’s blade came around for a follow-up blow. She managed to recover her wan-shen in time to block his strike in a pole-to-pole parry, but the sheer force of his strike bore her down again and left her wrists quivering. Milya’s eyes widened and she knew that a prolonged duel with Grysloth would result in her being reduced to a battered mess. Fighting him was like fighting Spectre, she decided, albeit a Spectre twice as large and with considerably more skill than her. However, she didn’t necessarily have to win. Her duel with Grysloth would tell her everything she needed to know about him. For the Echani, fighting was not just the physical representation of disagreement or ill will, but a form of communication, and how Grysloth used his weapons, how he moved, they all spoke volumes to Milya. By the end of the duel, she would be able to read his emotions and intentions as easily as if reading a book. If she was right and Grysloth was willing to admit he was wrong, she would be able to convince him. If not, then she was in trouble. Of course, that was an entirely moot point if she didn’t survive the end of the duel, which was not a foregone conclusion. Desperate to get off the ground, she exerted all her strength to redirect his next thrust, the spearpoint above his axeblade driving first at her neck then over her head as her pole pushed his weapon away. Then, grabbing onto the rapidly rising shaft of his wan-shen, she pulled herself up to her feet. Once again assuming her guard, she circled Grysloth slowly, his movements matching hers as the two combatants studied each other. His wan-shen thrust out, seeking an opening in her guard with a lunge as fast as lightning, but this time Milya went with the thrust, turning her body to side to let his weapon slide past her. Taking her right hand off of the wan-shen, she drove a quick elbow jab to his flank before he swept his pole back, sending her flying through the air. She was ready for it, though, and turned the maneuver into a Force-assisted somersault, landing at the edge of the ring easily. “Your audacity is admirable, Jedi Tayrce, but it will not help you here,” Grysloth said as Milya saw his next attack coming. Advancing on her, he closed in with wan-shen whirling and Milya found herself hard-pressed to counter or avoid all his blows. Mixing everything Selu and Brianna had taught her about Soresu with Jahlel’s wan-shen training, she fell into an improvised defensive routine, seeking to redirect Grysloth’s jabs and swings rather than block them; she would lose a strength to strength contest badly. The rain, which had rapidly risen from a sprinkle to a steady downfall to a driving torrent clouded her vision and made the floor slick, but she fought on against the Talortai’s relentless onslaught. To her surprise, she not only avoided being hit by his seeking axe-blade and spearpoint, but managed to land a few glancing blows with the butt end of her wan-shen on Grysloth, but they didn’t seem to slow him down in the least. Bringing her pole up over her head to divert a high thrust, Milya failed to see the subtle motion that indicated Grysloth’s feint. Diving on the opportunity, he whirled his wan-shen and drove the blunt end of the staff into her midsection. An explosion of pain filled Milya’s vision with stars and she fell to her knees breathlessly, coughing and choking on something. She thought she heard a shout of surprise from Jahlel. When her eyes cleared, she was staring at a small pool of blood that she vaguely remembered spitting up. Grysloth stood back, wan-shen at the ready, waiting for her to rise. The pain burned through her and she could feel her chest heaving as she struggled to breathe, her diaphragm spasming in protest. Then the thought of why she was in this ring, to save the Matukai, flashed through her mind. All of them—Jahlel, Hasla, even Xlora, would die if she didn’t convince Grysloth of the danger, and she knew this with crystal-clear certainty. Gritting her teeth, she summoned the Force to her until it felt like her cells would burst from the stored energy and then struggled to her feet, still short on breath. Grysloth was fast, swinging his axe-blade in a short overhand chop that would split her open like a butchered nerf. However, the precognition afforded her by the Force let her see the blade fall before it actually did. Dropping back to her knees, she hooked her pole laterally under his axe blade and twisted it abruptly. The surprise of the move caught Grysloth off-guard and his massive wan-shen slid from his grasp for a moment. The onlookers gasped as Milya seized the opportunity and rammed the spearpoint at the head of her wan-shen into the Talortai’s right shoulder, seeking to deliver a blow that would end the match, but not kill or permanently injure Grysloth. From the force of her thrust, she would have expected the wan-shen to be well lodged within Grysloth’s flesh, but to her complete amazement, the spear point slid off Grysloth’s skin. A torn vest and faint scratch marked where she had attacked, but otherwise, no mark. “We of the Matukai do not fall so easily,” barked Grysloth. “With the Force as my ally, my skin will not yield to your attack.” Not yet bothering to retrieve his weapon, Grysloth flicked his clawed fingers and Milya shot into the air, floating helplessly in his telekinetic grasp, her wan-shen falling from nerveless fingers. “Most Matukai cannot use telekinesis well, but I am not like most, Jedi Tayrce. You have fought well, better than most I have faced throughout my long years. It is a rare person who can disarm me, and it is no shame to admit defeat. But now, you must yield,” he said commandingly. If she was a fully-trained Jedi with Selu’s command of the Force, she could have no doubt broken his grip easily and countered his skill and size with the power of the Force. But Milya was no Selu, and he was not here to save her this time. Still, she could not give up. “Not . . . yet,” she said. “So be it.” Milya saw the drenched stone of the ground rush towards her rapidly and felt the jarring impact as Grysloth slammed her into the ground and lifted her back up, once, twice, three times. Exerting herself to break free of his grip, she managed to take the third impact half on her side instead of face-first, saving her a broken nose and ribs, but sending massive jolts of pain running up and down her left side. She attempted to stand back up, but her left knee buckled under her weight and she went down again. “You would do well to admit your folly,” said Grysloth. “Not . . . yet,” she managed, spitting out more blood from her mouth, which mixed with the rain pouring down her drenched face to splatter on the pavement. Milya saw him walk forward until he was standing straight over her and tried to sweep his ankles out from under him with an Echani foot hook. She might as well have been trying to fell an ancient tree with her foot; it had no effect on his massive leg. Instead, he stomped on her stomach. Milya’s vision again exploded into brilliant stars as her already injured midsection had further damage inflicted upon it. She felt as if her eyes would explode out of her sockets and if her stomach had contained anything, she knew that it would have been vomited out. Gagging violently, Milya stared helplessly into the green alien eyes of Bolfwé Grysloth as he summoned his wan-shen back to his hand with a gesture and a small exertion in the Force. “Yield,” he said, glowering at her, and she saw no mercy in those eyes. “Not . . . yet,” she managed, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Then you leave me no choice,” he replied and she closed her eyes, bracing herself for the next blow. Would he simply kill her right there with a blow to the chest or head? Would he sever her arm, leaving her disfigured? Or would Grysloth simply beat her until she begged for mercy or lay in a bloody heap at his feet? She didn’t know. But the next blow never fell. The shrill clang of metal on metal rang through the ring and Milya opened her eyes to see Jahlel standing defiantly over her, his wan-shen blocking Grysloth’s axe-blade from descending. “Enough,” said Jahlel. “This duel is not over, Jahlel,” Grysloth replied, cold fury glittering in his eyes. “I will brook no interference from you.” “She is unarmed and helpless,” Jahlel countered. “She knew what she was doing,” Grysloth answered. “I gave her three chances to yield. Now back down.” “No,” said Jahlel. “I’ll take her place.” “Will you?” growled Grysloth. Hooking his blade inside Jahlel’s, the Talortai yanked Jahlel up close to him, bringing him in range to deliver a tremendous head-butt. Jahlel collapsed on the ground, his face a rictus of pain as blood poured from his nose. Grysloth didn’t stop there, though, and delivered a strike to the back of Jahlel’s neck with the staff of his wan-shen that landed with an audible meaty thwack. The Arkanian collapsed, going limp on the slick stone floor. “No!” screamed Hasla, running into the ring herself. “Stop,” said Milya. “You won’t do any better than Jahlel did, Hasla.” “Have all of you gone mad?” rumbled Grysloth, parrying Hasla’s hasty thrust and twisting his wan-shen to spill her to the ground. “Hasla,” Milya called, louder this time. “You don’t have any chance against him. None of us do. He’s too strong, too skilled. The only way we could stand up to him is if we all worked together, at the same time.” Hasla and Grysloth stared mutely at Milya, who gestured pointedly at the foreboding Talortai warrior, who stood with weapon at the ready. “Look at us. Even when we knew what we were up against, it didn’t help. We’re all lying on the ground, hoping that Templar Grysloth will be merciful because we know we’ve lost.” Then, understanding replaced the aggression in Bolfwé Grysloth’s eyes and he lowered his ebony wan-shen, leaning in slightly towards Milya, who was still lying on the ground weakly propping herself up on her right arm. She could tell that he had realized that the whole duel had been an extended metaphor. “You were right, Milya Tayrce,” he said softly. “We will heed your warning and join with you.” Then, in a louder voice, he proclaimed, “Hear me! I, Bolfwé Grysloth, yield the duel to Milya Tayrce and proclaim her to be the victor. Let it be!” A murmur of surprise and confusion rippled across the audience, but Grysloth ignored them. As Hasla reached down to help Jahlel up, Grysloth bent down and scooped up the human he had been trying to beat to a bloody pulp seconds earlier, picking her up like a small youngling, and carrying her to the healer’s dwelling. He felt no remorse for what he had done; that concept was foreign to the Talortai, but he knew she was right. They were allies again and he treated her like he would any other Matukai. She bobbed faintly in his arms in time to his stride, and Grysloth knew from long experience with humans that the paleness on the normally bronzed skin of her face did not bode well for her health. “Be at peace, Jedi Tayrce,” he said. “You accomplished your mission.” Though her eyes stayed closed, Grysloth thought he saw a faint smile cross her lips, an expression that he recognized as one of pleasure, but one his physiology would not let him reproduce. As he strode through the walkways, he pondered the danger that Milya and Jahlel had warned him about and the conviction it required to entire a battle heavily outmatched, knowing that one would lose, all on something as ephemeral as a vision. It was a quiet, solitary walk for Grysloth as he strode through the rain cradling Milya, the two Arkanians trailing behind him.
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