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| - “My my, this is quite the collection,” muttered an awestruck Uan Dardelli, the Bith who ran Military Antiquities of Drev'starm. “Most of the pre-Empire artifacts I get date from the century prior to and including the Clone Wars, and rarely is it functional...” His black eyes once again pored over the large table in the back room, which was laden with the vast majority of the contents of Laera and Silas's duffel bags. Carefully arranged, the many plates of their Marine-issue assault armor and their two Aratech DL-3 blaster pistols shared the space with their armor's utility belts and their contents, a variety of datapads of both Republic and Sith origin, as well as a number of spare power packs and Tibanna gas canisters designed for the DL-3. Though neither were very good at reading Bith body language and facial queues, it was clear to both that Dardelli was working feverishly to ascertain the value of what they had presented him with. “We don't have any more use for it,” Laera said after several moments of silence, broken only by the shuffling of inexpensive shoes as the proprietor moved about to inspect the tableau from various angles. “We just need enough credits to get back on our feet.” “Oh yes quite so, quite understandable,” Dardelli babbled absentmindedly. He picked up one of the blasters, examining it as though it were the most fragile of crystalline artwork. “You are quite certain that these are in working condition? I mean, if they're not, they're still very valuable, but if they are...” “They'll fire, and fire well,” Silas assured him. “You wouldn't happen to have an indoor shooting range, would you?” “Naturally, naturally, you can't deal in military equipment unless you can test it,” the Bith replied happily, easing the blaster he had picked up back onto the table. He then picked up Laera's left shoulder plate, turning it over in his long, thin fingers. “Hmmm, seems to be damaged,” he muttered. “Blaster shot at medium range, perhaps? Ablated by the armor enough to wound only lightly, and patched with...interesting. Has this armor seen actual combat?” “Both sets have,” Laera said in a monotone, recollections of the firefight which had inflicted the wound to her shoulder replaying themselves unpleasantly in her mind's eye. “Does the damage to this plate lower the value?” “To collectors, yes, but not to museums,” Dardelli replied. “I must confess that this collection is worth quite a lot, particularly once functionality of the weapons and battle helmets is established. There is just one problem...I don't think I can pay you the full worth of this collection all at once.” “Do you have a total amount in mind?” Laera asked, standing at attention and fixing the Bith with a smile that was somewhat forced. He responded by naming a figure, which nearly caused Laera's jaw to drop—even considering that neither she nor Silas had any idea what inflation had done to the standard credit over the years. “As I said, I can't pay that all at once, but I would very much like to have your business. How does half now, half in three days sound to you?” Laera and Silas traded guarded looks, deliberately taking their time to mull over the offer before accepting, which they had decided to do anyway regardless of how many credits were put forward. This was just icing on the cake; the first installment alone would get them to Kothlis and pay for their accommodations for months, provided one wasn't particularly choosy about quality of lodgings or food. And the second half would be enough to start a life there, if they so chose. “We accept,” they said together, discreetly holding hands. “Excellent!” Dardelli nearly cried, clasping his hands together with joy. “Now, let's get back to the firing range and then see about those helmets—they'll never fit me, obviously, but I have some diagnostic tools and a specialist droid...” — — — An hour later Laera and Silas rendezvoused with HK-47, who had hidden himself behind the refuse bin in a nearby alleyway. They had done this for several reasons: firstly, Laera was worried that Dardelli would try to buy the droid as well—though Laera still felt a bit uncertain about the assassin, he had proven himself to be quite useful. Secondly, Silas had wanted to make sure that they weren't tracked to the antiquities shop and ambushed as they left, so he had had HK-47 keep his photoreceptors and blaster carbine alert for just such an event. Lastly, Laera didn't want the droid's sarcastic personality to offend their buyer. With their duffels virtually empty and their pockets considerably heavier with high-denomination Galactic Alliance-issue credcoins, Laera and Silas made their way back to the city center and the Bank of Bothawui. Since HK-47 had been such a pain to get through customs—the agent had in fact come very close to confiscating the unit at one point—they told him to provide covert overwatch and theft discouragement. “Query: Am I to use lethal force, Master?” the droid had asked. “Addendum: Forget that I asked, Master, for you would most likely say no.” he added before Laera could chide him. “Resignation: Yes, Master, I will provide...non-lethal...theft discouragement. Cautionary: However, I advise you to let me use lethal force if my efforts to keep potential bushwhackers at bay prove ineffectual.” “Fine, fine, have it your way,” Laera had shot back. “But if it gets that far, you better make yourself scarce; we don't want any trouble with law enforcement.” “Better to have him deal with it than you having to scramble for your lightsaber,” Silas muttered in Laera's ear as they continued onward. “I know,” Laera replied with a irritated sniff. “It's just...he's so insufferable sometimes...” “Laera, maybe it's time you just accepted the fact that you have an assassin droid who absolutely worships the ground you walk on, and will gladly kill for you at the drop of a hat.” He paused, then deftly ducked another head-slap from Laera. “Hey now, it could be worse. We could have been stuck with a prissy protocol droid that wouldn't know which end of a blaster makes the bright light...” Laera nearly choked. “Oh please, don't even think that—the T'lessian situation would have ended in disaster if we'd had one of those bumbling Czerka units to deal with!” She glared at him then. “You're starting to turn into Thedus Bimm, you know. And I'm not sure what to make of it.” Silas grinned, bearing his teeth. “Nah,” he said dismissively. “I could never have come up with the idea of testing your abilities by throwing pebbles at you...” — — — The Blue, it seemed, was far more complicated than had been previously thought. Upon this world it was shattered into the entire spectrum both of color and luminosity. It was to have been expected, certainly, but not to this degree; no amount of forewarning could have possibly prepared anyone for an experience such as this. Hundreds of thousands of globes of light, ranging from dim to bright and contained within all manner of fleshy shells, roamed the streets of this city that was so remarkably similar—and yet so different—to the norm. Every entity had its own complex pattern of thought, of experiences, of wisdom, and none of them gave even the slightest hint of resistance to the stroking of their mental selves. The last half-day had been quite informative indeed. It was certainly easy enough to keep track of their movements, the azure blur had discovered. However, divining their intentions was proving to be next to impossible. A vague idea had begun to coalesce, however; they seemed to be intent on acquiring funds for some purpose which remained a mystery. Each guess seemed to be as good as any other, so any attempt to anticipate was quickly dismissed. Instead, the blur would observe and continue to gather data, perhaps learning yet more about these new dimensions of being, and how to manipulate them. Another possibility lay in the other pair, whose presence had been picked up upon at the indoor eating establishment. The blur was intrigued by the extraordinary incandescence contained within the chitinous carapace of the slouched one, and the hard, experienced edge to the furred native who had accompanied it. They, like the original targets, shared a bond, though it was of an altogether different nature. Onetime comrades-in-arms? Likely. Close friends? Most definitely. Companions? Not of a romantic sort. They were both world-weary, their spirits bent low, burdened with an overabundance of emotionally-charged memories. These memories were easily peeled from within their minds, though lack of context significantly reduced their impact. The blur mused about this as it kept its vigil, deciding that when the Starborne Ones entered the large, well-secured building and left their fighting machine outside, that it would leave them for now and move on to the other pair of aliens... — — — The main lobby of the Bank of Bothawui was positively gargantuan. The floor was a rich obsidian that reflected light like still waters at night, and the walls were fashioned of rose granite tiles three meters on a side. The high ceiling was white marble, shot through with streaks of pale pink so that it matched the pigment of the walls. Ebony moulding ran across the perimeter of floor and ceiling as well as encasing every door frame, branching out over the upper surface to form a grid which matched the mosaic of the walls. At every intersection was hung a cut-crystal chandelier, held aloft by a gold-plated frame and cabling. Occupying the main chamber were several different types of cubicles, all made of dark, polished and expensive-looking wood, and most occupied with busy-looking Bothan workers and their customers, who were mostly natives as well. The long wall to the right of the entryway from the atrium was lined nearly its entire length by a single huge wood-paneled desk, which rose a meter off the floor with artfully fogged transparisteel privacy barriers, themselves a meter apart and extending another meter. The overall impression given off by the ensemble was of order, of artful symmetry, and above all, prosperity. “Good skies, the floor space alone could probably fit two entire squadrons of Aurek fighters,” Laera said in amazement. “And that's without any of them having to fold their wings.” “It's a main hub of the Bothan financial network, of course it's huge,” Silas replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “The main office of the Bank of Coruscant is just as large, I seem to recall, but they don't know proper aesthetics like my people do.” “I may not know art, but this is damn impressive,” Laera said, still dazzled by the enormity of the main floor and its décor. She was by no means ignorant of banks and finances, but this place could have comfortably housed every other bank that she had ever set foot in. “Let's go, before they decide we're here to rob the place.” The pair made their way down the lobby, looking down each desk section for a free attendant, but most seemed to be busy punching data or interacting with customers. After several dozen paces they finally found one, occupied by a middle-aged Bothan whose chocolate-colored fur ruffled slightly as he tapped idly at a computer terminal. His official-looking uniform, which clashed with his fur, was pressed to a knife's edge, and the subtle hint of metal polish lingered about the double row of brass buttons that ran down his front. “How may I help you, sir and madam?” he asked in an unctuous tone of voice, the clanking of Laera and Silas's temporary ID cards and money pouches onto the marble surface of his desk finally rousing him. “We would like to open a joint account,” Laera replied, managing to keep the irritation from her voice. “However, I don't think that we're in the Galactic Alliance's identification system. Is there someone we can talk to about that?” The attendant blinked at his new customers, his copper eyes raking them and their credit pouches before he took up the two cards for examination. “Do not be concerned, sir and madam,” he said rather nonchalantly. “The Bank of Bothawui accepts new customers no matter their status or political affiliation. Let me begin by extending a hearty welcome to the both of you. If you would be so kind as to fill out these forms, I shall go and verify your identification. You may take a seat over there.” He produced a trio of quite thin datapads seemingly from nowhere, pointed out to a nearby cluster of plush-looking seats, then vanished. “Oh, this brings back memories,” Silas muttered blithely from his seat as he scrolled through the first pad. “Setting up false accounts for use by operatives in the field was one of my specialties before climbing the ladder. Just let me handle this.” “Suit yourself,” Laera replied with a small chuckle, leaning back and enjoying the feel of real nerf-hide leather. “Just make sure you're being truthful this time.” As Silas tapped away at the first pad with a stylus he had drawn from a slot in the clerk's desktop, Laera let her gaze wander about the lobby. The auras of its occupants revealed nothing out of the ordinary; some were tinged with the excitement of a deal in the making, while others bore the apprehension common among those awaiting the results of a major financial decision, or else bored clerks filling their time with seemingly pointless datawork. She also caught the essences of a few obvious high-rollers as they left the facility, happy thoughts of buying large and expensive items foremost on their minds. As she turned about to glance at the other end of the place, however, Laera began to feel the same tingling from before, which as far as she could determine seemed to indicate another being's heightened interest in her. It wasn't the same thing as the standard-issue Jedi danger sense, which represented threats of physical harm directed either at themselves or those around them, but a new and intriguing sensation that she had not felt before their arrival on Bothawui. In addition, she could not recall having met anyone who could pick up on such a distinction; therefore she decided that this new sense must have had something to do with the powers inherent in Sense Aura combined with having spent so much time amongst the Sa'ari. Whatever the source it had already proven useful once before, and she wasn't about to doubt it this time. Oblivious to her concerns, Silas finished up the last of the datawork and returned to the still-empty attendant desk. Placing the three datapads where the attendant would easily spot them, he returned to his seat and joined Laera in her people-watching, occasionally shooting glances back at the desk in case the clerk came back. A minute or so of silence later, he cast a meaningful look at Laera. When she didn't immediately return it, he reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. “What is it?” “That cosmic alarm again, probably,” Laera bit out, then released a sigh to flush the anger and confusion from her mind. “Someone else is interested in us, but there's not a whole lot we can do about it this time, so I'm going to meditate until that clerk decides to come back.” Today was proving to be exciting enough without her emotions getting the better of her, or succumbing to any other impediment to her focus. Ever since they had become stranded on the Sa'ari homeworld, she had been neglecting the self-control exercises that she had learned from Master Vrook Lamar, as well as her daily meditations. Taking a deep breath and resolving to get back onto the proper path of a Jedi Knight and would-be teacher of the Force, she relaxed and began to center herself. Ten minutes of sitting meditation later, she felt solid enough to proceed with events. They weren't long in coming. Within seconds of having drawn herself back to reality with her focus renewed, Laera spotted a trio of armed and armored guards whose helmets hid their faces. They were accompanied by a Bothan of significant age, whose formal attire seemed fitting for a senior-level manager or corporate executive. She wasn't surprised to notice that they were making their way discreetly toward where she and Silas sat, and made sure to subtly point this out to him. “Looks like I was right,” she whispered. Silas let the meanest hint of a growl creep into his voice. “Just so. Let's not be too eager, shall we?” The manager and his retinue took their time, finally approaching from Silas's side and stopping about two meters before them. “You are Laera Reyolé and Silas Dan'kre?” the manager asked in clipped tones. “We are,” Laera said as she and Silas stood to regard the quartet of Bothans. Like the rest of the natives, they were all distinctly shorter. “Are you of any relation to one Liska Dan'kre?” the manager asked Silas, his ears flicking dubiously. There was a pause before Silas, whose fur had begun to ripple with confusion, replied. “I think I had a second cousin named Liska, but I have never met her. Please, allow me to explain—” The manager held up a placating hand, his voice softening significantly. “No, there is no need,” he said reassuringly. “My name is Botello Hul'selru, executive vice president of the Bank of Bothawui Central Branch Office. Over the years, we have maintained a number of records relating to a human and a Bothan pair matching your descriptions and using your identities. I can assure you, all we need is a simple DNA test to confirm who you are, and you will be presented with what has been left in our care for you.” Blank shock shone like a beacon on both Laera and Silas's faces as they looked at one another and then back at the manager and his guards. One of them produced a small device, about the size of a datapad, and indicated that each in turn should place their thumbs onto the scan-slot in the middle of the sleek black frame. Still utterly nonplussed, the two did as they were asked, the scanner giving two positive-sounding beeps. The manager looked over the readout, then nodded at the guard, who pocketed it. “As I suspected, you both match our records,” Hul'selru said, offering a satisfied nod and smile. “Please, if you will follow me, we will take you to our off-site vaults and explain everything. Oh, and don't forget your credits—I have no doubt you will still wish to deposit them as well.” Snapped out of their mutual reverie, Laera and Silas hastened to comply, hoisting the moneybags from the floor and stuffing them into their duffels and throwing them over their shoulders. Possibilities tumbled head over heals through their minds as they followed the manager with vacant expressions. Though Laera had a sneaking suspicion that Revan had had a hand in this, she had no idea how he could possibly have known that she and Silas would even be together, never mind how he postulated that they would come to Bothawui to claim their prize—whatever that might be. Who knew what the ex-Sith Lord might have thought valuable enough to seal away for millennia, in the hope that some day she would come to claim it? The holocron's message she understood, but not this... So tumultuous was this shared maelstrom of thought that neither of them took in where they were going. Their gazes glued to the back of Hul'selru's head as they followed in his wake, the couple did not notice that they had crossed through the back rooms of the bank until they had passed through the durasteel-clad entrance to a massive, secure-looking speeder truck garage. All of the vehicles held within appeared to be armored, probably shielded as well, with some of the larger airtrucks mounting dangerous-looking weapons in rooftop turrets. Bothan guards in the same livery as the manager's escort were everywhere, attending to their trucks and either making deliveries or piling casks and bags of credits and valuables into them for transport elsewhere. Therefore it should have been no surprise when the manager and his retinue beckoned Laera and Silas to join him in a landspeeder that, for the hidden armor plating, looked like any other luxury model. Adjusted for four thousand years' worth of evolving tastes and technical standards, of course. Whatever focus that Laera had managed to acquire during her meditations might as well have left for Coruscant at lightspeed. — — — For more than thirty years she had lived as a dead woman, ever in the shadows, trying her best to help in changing the predatory and highly mercenary nature of her species. The choice she had made so long ago was not so painful these days as it had once been, but not by much, and she didn't often take the time to dwell on it. Witnessing from afar how he had become so successful in his military career provided some small comfort, and she knew as well that this last war would have been much harder on the both of them had they still been together. That conflict might even have destroyed their relationship, so divisive it had been. Nevertheless, she missed him terribly. Ooryl was proving to be a surprising source of comfort, however. His original communiqué, delivered to her private account and scrambled with an old Rogue Squadron encrypt that had somehow never been deployed—and thus, never cracked—had at first caused her to be wary. However, meeting him at the spaceport upon his arrival had immediately washed away all doubt. After so long, she finally had one of her old squadron-mates—a friend from the old days who remembered what it had been like to fight injustice—back in her life. Even if it was only for a short time, this chance to reconnect with her past was welcome; it provided her with an emotional anchor point. She had made the most of this opportunity by spending the morning treating him to the sights and delights of her homeworld's capital city and reminiscing about their time with the galaxy's most celebrated starfighter squadron. That was, of course, before they had gotten around to the real reason for his visit. “You are preoccupied,” the Gand said matter-of-factly as the two of them perused her widescreen datapad, checking over the last few days' worth of starship departures and arrivals. On a hunch the two had been pursuing a possible lead, passed on by one of her contacts in the anti-smuggling bureau. Sometime earlier that day, someone had sold off two whole sets of genuine Jedi Civil War-era Republic Marine-issue combat gear along with a pair of DL-3 blaster pistols of similar vintage as well as various other Republic and Sith artifacts from that time period. The martial equipment was, apparently, fully-functional and battle-worn, and had been purchased for a considerable sum of credits. Such transactions were reported to and monitored by the Department of Criminal Discouragement as a matter of course, as a way of preventing sales of so-called “military surplus” items from being used to cover up illegal weapon and armor shipments being routed through Bothawui. If they could tie the sale to any recent arrivals, they might be able to track the seller and, from there, possibly find the two Marines that the Gand had been tracking. Asyr Sei'lar twitched her ears and her facial fur shifted slightly in response to Ooryl's statement. She scowled at the list, then set the datapad down onto the bench between where they sat. “Yes,” she said softly, avoiding his gaze and glancing at a nearby copse of trees. “You could say that.” “Ooryl apologizes if he has brought back unpleasant memories,” the Gand said in his own version of a sympathetic reply. “Qrygg knows that you and Admiral Darklighter were very close. Qrygg wishes that he could help to make things better.” “You already have, Ooryl,” Asyr assured him, looking back at the old pilot and nodding meekly, suppressing the urge to sniff audibly. She knew that his use of given name and then surname meant that he did indeed feel remorse, which only made her feel worse. “It's just...it's been so long since anything came along to remind me of that old life. I am glad that you are here, but...” Her voice trailed off as she brushed away at a tear that threatened to roll down her cheek fur. “Ooryl thinks he understands,” the Gand replied, inclining his head apologetically. “So tell me truly, what is it about these people you're looking for that has you coming all the way out here?” Asyr asked after a few moments of quietly pulling herself back together. “You never talked much about your people while we were with the squadron, and even when we visited Gand for your janwuine-jika, the natives weren't all that forthcoming. It seems to me like you're looking for a quark in a mole of deuterium, to use Corran's old aphorism.” To her surprise, the Gand actually chuckled—or rather, made a sound that was as close to a humanoid chuckle that his physiology permitted. “Corran was probably the only one who understood back then,” he said, opening his mouth parts in his version of a smile. “I am Findsman, which to your understanding would approximate the roles of both a bounty hunter and a Jedi Knight.” “So...you can use the Force?” Asyr said, scratching absently at her chin to cover her momentary confusion. “I never realized that; it would certainly explain your flying skills.” “In a manner of speaking,” Ooryl replied hesitantly, shifting his posture slightly. “It is...difficult for Ooryl to explain, however; he wonders where to begin. Suffice it to say that Ooryl's methods and those of Luke Skywalker's Jedi are sufficiently different that compatibility is questionable. As to your original query, this is to be Ooryl's last great hunt before he returns to the mists; his usefulness is nearing an end.” Asyr placed a hand on Ooryl's shoulder and gently squeezed it. “Come now, Ooryl,” she admonished mildly. “We may be getting a bit on the old side, but we both have plenty of years yet to give.” “Ooryl is grateful for your assurances, Asyr,” he said after a beat. “These last ten years have been hard on Ooryl; perhaps finding these Marines will offer a new path.” “You were always good at finding the squadron's lost socks,” Asyr replied with a chuckle of her own. “Ah yes, especially when we were stationed on Noquivzor...” The two shared a smile as they returned their attention to the list of arrivals. Finally, after several minutes of wading through names and ship registries, they arrived at the entries for that morning. “Oh, now this is interesting,” Asyr said, her facial fur fluffing slightly. “Speaking of the Skywalkers, it says here that the Jade Shadow received clearance to touch down in Docking Bay 10-65K not five hours ago, departing soon afterward.” “What sort of errand were they on?” Ooryl inquired, some of that vitality she remembered from so many years ago returning to his voice and countenance. “The record doesn't say,” Asyr answered ruefully, a surly look on her face. “This was the best that my contact in the spaceport could come up with. I'd have gotten the names of those sellers by now if Detective Sergeant Porsk'ley hadn't called in sick. Of all the rotten luck...”
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