| abstract
| - Ariada walked slowly through the featureless white halls of one of Haxares’ corridors, making sure to keep her eyes directed towards the white floor tiles. The guards’ attire was also white, and beyond the heavily-secured confines of the compound, the landscape was nothing but the endless icy white wastes. The overload of that single color was enough to give her a headache. In contrast, her jumpsuit was a bright red, meaning that she and any other prisoner held at Haxares stood out at all times. The incessant saturation of white was a sensible security measure but it was also disturbing to the eye. Even the food tended to be white. Metaphorically, it was as if Haxares sought to cure those interned there by submerging them in light, both the glaring ubiquitous white of the surroundings and counselors trained in the light side of the Force. She’d passed six weeks in this miserable location. Six wretched weeks. Her only interpersonal contact had been with counselors and guards—the prisoners were kept carefully separated such that she hadn’t had a glimpse of any of the others. Another security precaution. She’d endured counseling session after counseling session where she was encouraged to express herself and evaluate the merit of her actions. She’d been reminded of the contentment she had once had in her service to the light side of the Force and how her life had been ruined after deserting that devotion. Ariada had been openly defiant at first, but the constant grind of the sessions and the omnipresent white had worn down her resistance to the point where she just nodded glibly when the counselor started pontificating and pretended like she cared. The only thing that made the counseling sessions bearable was the ability to use the Force. Granted she was monitored by at least three counselors who could subdue her without moving a muscle—and would if she tapped into the dark side—but it was the Force. Most of Haxares was under the influence of Force-repelling ysalamiri, making the detention area a Force-free bubble. Ariada knew what it was like to be inside a ysalamiri zone, but to be submerged in it for prolonged periods of time was crippling. For that reason, many of the Haxares guards were not Force-sensitive so they did not have to endure the torment of being Force-blind. She couldn’t decide which was worse: the incessant barrage of white or the inability to call on the Force at will. The door hissed open, admitting her and the two guards flanking her into a large round room that served as the main counseling area. It was constructed to vaguely resemble a garden and gave an appearance of being outside thanks to a clear transparisteel dome that served as the ceiling. The sparse potted plants with their pale violet leaves and the cloudless azure blue of the sky were a relief to Ariada’s color-starved eyes. As she walked into the open area in the middle, she felt herself step free of the Force-damping radius of the ysalamiri. A wave of joy swept over her as she felt her contact to the energy field return. She would never take color or the Force for granted again after this place. “Welcome, Ariada,” Counselor Trilvillai told her. “How are you today?” A tall stately Quermian, Trilvillai was also an experienced Jal Shey Mentor. His species’ natural diplomatic manner and telepathy had been honed by years of studying the Force, making him hard to deceive and quick to rebuke any trace of rebellion or defiance. At the same time, he displayed concern and regret for her. If Ariada had wished to be cured of her dark inklings, she could have asked for no better guide than Trilvillai. As it was, she thought he was wasting his time. He knew that she scorned his efforts, yet still held out hope for her reform. “Nothing new,” she replied curtly. “Have a seat,” he told her, gesturing to one of the benches that were solidly anchored down to the ground to prevent them from being snatched up with the Force and hurled. She complied, sitting at a bench near a table that was built into the stone flooring. Not far away, a bubbling fountain splashed and gurgled; the sound of the water was supposed to be soothing. The Quermian sat across from her on a bench opposite the table and Ariada waited for him to start yet another boring counseling session she endured only because it allowed her to obtain brief snatches of color and the Force. “I am not going to ask you questions today, Ariada,” Trilvillai told her. “Nor am I going to engage you in debate or ask you to contemplate yourself.” Ariada was puzzled, but didn’t ask him what he had in mind. No need to play along with whatever little game he’d concocted. “I simply want you to express yourself,” Trilvillai told her, placing a lightweight plastic sphere too flimsy to be used as a weapon on the table. “Use the Force if you want to. Use your hands. Use whatever you see fit. You may even use the water if you desire. That is all I ask of you today, that you simply enjoy the act of creating something solely for its beauty.” Ariada gave him a skeptical look, but decided to humor the Quermian. If he’d let her get off with a little arts and crafts instead of psychoanalysis, she certainly wasn’t about to turn it down, so she picked up the storage sphere. Opening it, she saw that it was filled with pale golden sparkleflower blossoms and the sight brought a faint smile to her face. She’d always liked the delicate five-petaled blossoms, how the tiny crystals in the petals could catch sunlight and make the flower glitter. “They are from my garden,” Trilvillai told her. “I’m surprised at how effective they are at cheering me after a hard day.” Ariada nodded, then extended a hand. A stream of the delicate flower blossoms rose out of the sphere into the air. She twitched a finger and they formed themselves into a halo of golden sparkling flowers. Ariada spun the halo around, expanding it as she used her mind to pull more of the blossoms into the ring. It was gorgeous, how they caught the sunlight as she manipulated them with the Force. “They’re beautiful,” she said. “I remember you mentioning that you liked sparkleblossoms in our last session when I was discussing my garden,” he answered affably. She found herself wanting to see the most beautiful thing she could make with the sparkleflower blossoms, in spite of herself. It had been weeks since Ariada had done something purely for the sake of doing it and now she was willing to indulge herself in a little fun. She walked over to the fountain and splashed water droplets into the ring of sparkleflower blossoms. As she’d hoped, her telekinesis allowed her to mingle the water droplets in between the sparkleflowers such that the water caught the reflected sunlight and glittered. As enjoyment swept through her, Ariada let herself go. Her mind weaving complex patterns, she formed the mixture of water droplets and flower petals into geometrical shapes and fractal patterns, intricate creations of beautiful symmetry and dazzling creativity. There was beauty in the art. After weeks of being deprived from anything she would consider beautiful, it was there in front of her and the sight was almost overwhelming. The pure splendor of what she was making evoked a sense of awe and despite herself, she was enjoying it. Then she looked over and saw Trilvillai sitting there watching her contently. The Quermian had accomplished his goal; she was enjoying herself in the joy of creation, separated from her ambitions, schemes, and festering anger. He’d distracted her. Indignation at being manipulated and subtly tricked into setting aside her drive filled her. Cursing herself under her breath, her smile vanished instantly. She froze the ring of flowers and water droplets in place so she was looking through it at Trilvillai. “What happens to these blossoms now?” she said. “They are going to die, because you have separated them from that which sustains them. Within a few hours, their beauty will fade and diminish. They will cease to fulfill their intended purpose.” “What if their intended purpose was simply to bring a smile to your face and a brief release from that which imprisons you?” Trilvillai replied calmly. “If they can achieve that good, they have done more than they would have if they had remained on the stem for another week.” She shook her head as the old resentment swept back into her spirit. “The blossoms were cut off before they could reach their prime and repurposed for a plaything for an insolent prisoner. That is what the Yuuzhan Vong are doing to civilizations—cutting them off and using them for their own malicious purposes. They are destroying the galaxy to suit their whims.” Trilvillai sighed, then extended a gray four-fingered hand. The blossoms funneled down into the storage sphere. “They will not be wasted, Ariada. I will dry them and use them to prepare a fragrance. I had hoped they would bring you joy, and for a little while, they did. Since they bother you, though, they will not return on our next session.” Ariada hesitated. Her point aside, the sparkleflowers had been beautiful. Using the Force to create art, to form beauty in a place otherwise devoid of it had been a euphoric release. While it was a distraction from her purpose, she couldn’t see the point of denying herself a simple pleasure when she could do little to enact her plans at the moment anyway. “I would not like to be the cause of your flowers’ despoiling,” she said stiffly. “Though they are beautiful.” The Quermian inclined his long, slender neck slightly, then fixed her bulbous eyes on her. “Then I shall bring only those which fall off the plant,” he said. “There will be fewer, but they will be more precious and will not detract from the plant’s wellbeing. Would that be acceptable?” Ariada nodded and Trilvillai gave her a broad smile. His hand gestured towards the sphere and four sparkleblossom flowers floated up to nestle in her hair. “They are a gift,” he said. “Treasure them while they last, but do not spare your regret on them when they pass. They are doing what they were meant to do.” Ariada dipped her head in acknowledgment, then rose to go. Trivillai smiled after her. “Until next time, Ariada,” he told her. She looked over her shoulder at him and actually smiled back, the first time she’d done so. “I don’t think I have any other engagements,” Ariada replied. He took her answer in good stride, seemingly cheered just by the simple smile. Trilvillai was no doubt pleased just to see her smile again without being sardonic, and the fact that it stayed on her face as she was escorted back to her quarters, gently cradling one of the delicate sparkleflower blossoms in her hand, probably elated the counselor further. Of course, while he could read minds and emotions fairly well, the Quermian could not read the intent behind them. To him, her happiness stemmed from being able to experience the beauty of sparkleblossoms and to have something that wasn’t white or red in her possession. While that was part of the cause, Ariada had yet to reveal her mind fully to the Quermian about anything. She wasn’t about to start now. Ord Pardron Cassi watched as a column of tattered, despondent refugees trudged out of the camp. They were the lucky ones, those who had found passage offworld. While she doubted they would be better off elsewhere, she was ashamed to admit her relief as there was now about nine hundred fewer mouths to feed. The supply deliveries were as erratic as ever and her workers had been foregoing their own meals to help sustain the desperate refugees with a bland but nourishing gruel made of enriched starches and water. The filtration and sanitation systems, meager as they were, had quickly been overwhelmed, such that the current drinking water was coming dangerously close to contaminated. Efforts to maintain hygiene had been hampered at best—all signs of the difficulty in maintaining a refugee camp without sufficient logistical support. For that reason, Open Hands had been trying to shuttle people out of this camp as quickly as possible. It would be down to a reasonable amount of occupants within a few weeks, freeing her up to go home to rest for a bit—or more likely, to another trouble spot where she was needed the most. I can’t just go home back to my easy life on Yanibar with all this suffering out here, Cassi thought. I can’t just leave them behind. She wrapped her jacket around herself tightly as she trudged back to the compound where the Open Hands workers stayed. Night was falling and so was the temperature. A stiff breeze whistled through the camp, chilling her even through her garments. She shivered, then suddenly noticed a faint shadow behind her, but she sensed nothing in the Force. Worry crept through her—if it was an enemy, she had left her lightsaber in her office. At last, she could bear it no more. Cassi turned to see the comforting outline of J7’s silhouette illuminated by his twin photoreceptors. She exhaled a sigh of relief, expelling her anxiety with it. “Goodness, J7, you scared me,” she said. “Why not just get my attention?” “I beg pardon, Mistress Cassi,” the droid replied. “You looked deep in thought and I did not wish to interrupt your concentration.” “It’s fine,” Cassi told him, dispelling any remaining tension. “What do you need?” “There’s a man here looking for someone, but not by name,” J7 answered. “He asked to speak with the one who already believes without seeing. He mentioned something about the one who sees the hope of the future. None of the other workers have any idea what he is talking about—do you?” Cassi’s face paled. That had been the description that several Force ghosts had given to her decades ago on a distant planet. Either somebody had done serious research on her and learned of history only known to her immediate family, or the knowledge had been granted to this person by the Force. “Take me to him,” she instructed J7. The droid nodded. “I’ll bring him to your office,” he said. “Please be careful, Mistress. He seemed very mysterious.” Cassi stared off into the distance, lost in thought, and gave no reply as she walked into her office. Her earlier visions made her wonder if the mystery man was the one she had seen. As she entered, she retrieved her lightsaber and clipped it onto her belt—better to be safe than sorry. Sitting behind her desk, she tried to steel herself against whatever entered her door, without much success. A few minutes later, she sensed a powerful Force-sensitive approaching. As he reached the door, Cassi heard a metallic knock from J7. “Come in,” she said. The door slid open to admit J7 and a tall, brawny man, the man from her vision. He was wearing the same flowing trousers and armored vest that she remembered and his gray hair was braided into a long ponytail. His face was craggy and weathered, but while there was an intense gleam in his silver eyes, she sensed no malice from him. “I’m Cassi Trealus,” she said, using her maiden name as an alias for security. “Would you care to sit down? J7 tells me you are looking for somebody.” “No,” he answered, his voice a raspy baritone. “I have found who I am looking for.” “Excuse me?” she replied, one hand twitching towards her lightsaber hilt. “It is you,” he said, locking his eyes onto hers. “I have traveled the stars looking for you, following the trail of the Force.” “I’m not sure what you mean,” Cassi answered cautiously. “Do not deny it!” he protested. “You have seen visions, haven’t you? Visions of me, perhaps?” Cassi hesitated, but she could sense no hostility in the man, just a burning intensity, a purpose almost to the point of obsession. He was the man in her visions and unless he had somehow instigated them, there was no way for him to know that she’d been having them—she hadn’t even told Sarth or Milya. “Yes,” she admitted. “But I don’t know what they mean. Each time, you appear in the midst of ruin on my homeworld and tell me to seek of a place called Atlaradis. What does that mean? Where is that?” She leaned in closer to look searchingly at him. “Most importantly, who are you?” The man met her gaze and returned it. “My name is Mithunir,” he said in his oddly flowing accent. “I am a Master Shaper of Kro Var, a wielder of what you would call the Force. For months now, I have been following visions which led me here.” “Visions of what?” “Of a gate in the sky,” Mithunir responded. “A passageway to Atlaradis.” “Which you still haven’t told me what that is,” Cassi said. “It is a legendary planet among my people,” Mithunir explained. “The first elders saw visions of it centuries ago and passed them down. It is a planet of peace, rich with life and protected from harm. Some say it is the cradle of the Force itself. Others say that the voices of our ancestors beckon to them from it.” “How do you know it exists?” Cassi asked. Mithunir looked wistful as he replied. “Two years ago, I saw my father in a vision. He was walking on Atlaradis. He told me to meet him there and to seek the one who believes. He showed me what you look like and told me you were the only way to finding it. That is how I know.” “I’m not sure I follow,” Cassi said, frowning. “Cassi Trealus, my father has been dead for nineteen years now,” Mithunir elaborated, his voice thick with emotion. “It is said among my people that Atlaradis is the final destination for my people, for all who use the Force for good. Will you help me find it?” “I would if I could,” Cassi replied regretfully. “But aside from the visions, I don’t even know what the planet is.” “The planet does not exist in any galactic registry currently available,” J7 interjected. “I have performed a thorough search.” Mithunir looked scornfully at the droid. “Of course not,” he answered sourly. “It is a hidden planet. What would be the point of looking for it if the government already knew where it was?” “I wish I could help,” Cassi told him. “But while I appreciate your confidence in my . . . ability to assist you in your search, I wouldn’t have any idea where to begin. And I am needed here.” “Cassi Trealus, you must listen to me,” Mithunir told her gravely. “I am not looking for Atlaradis just for me or my people. It is for you and your people as well. Haven’t your visions told you that?” “The future is in motion,” Cassi said. “My people have weathered many storms already.” “So you will not help me?” Mithunir asked. “I’m not sure how I could,” Cassi told him. “If there’s anything specific I could do to help, let me know, but I can’t just leave my responsibilities here and wander the stars with you.” “Nor would I allow that,” J7 put in. Mithunir nodded curtly. “I understand. You are not ready yet,” he said. “I have wandered months to find you; I can wait a few more days.” “Until what?” Cassi asked suspiciously. “Until your responsibilities are lifted from you,” Mithunir told her. “It would be best if your people, as well as any you wish to save, would leave here as soon as possible, while you come with me.” “That’s just not possible,” Cassi told him. “For a number of valid reasons.” Mithunir shrugged lightly. “Valid for now,” he said. “I am in no hurry.” “What are you getting at? What are you going to do?” Cassi questioned him. “I will do nothing, nor will I cause anything to happen,” Mithunir replied. “I have foreseen that you and I will search for Atlaradis—but how that comes to pass is not something I can influence.” “We’ll see about that,” Cassi said matter-of-factly. “The future is in motion and visions can be misleading. You are welcome to stay here and share what provisions we have—but I won’t tolerate any trouble.” “Of course,” he said. “I will not be a disturbance.” He rose to leave and headed for the door, but stopped short before leaving. “Visions are not the only thing that can be misleading, Cassi Trealus,” he called back to her over his shoulder. “Trusting in safety and security can be as well.” With that, Mithunir swung the primitive metal door open and strode out into the windy night. Rishi “No thanks, I don’t need a new speeder,” Ryion said dismissively, brushing off the pushy Chadra-Fan salesman who’d been accosting him. “Or an almost-new one either.” The alien chattered an insulting reply after him, but Ryion ignored him and moved on purposefully. He had other business to attend to. The narrow streets of Rishi’s towns were normally crowded, but now, in the late evening, they were even more swollen with people trying to find ways to spend their leisure time. In Ryion’s three weeks on Rishi, he’d managed to pass himself off as a fairly humble toymaker of modest means. His limited knowledge of the subject was passable, and he blamed wartime supplier disruptions for his extremely limited variety. His disguise had also allowed him access to the refugee camps after some explaining to the local authorities. By treating both his refugees and Rishian customers well along with donations to many Chalactan children, he’d earned a reputation for being a fair and honest salesman, which had opened a surprising number of doors for him. For now, though, he wanted to leave that clean reputation behind and be a little more furtive. He’d been careful his first few weeks on Rishi, making sure he wasn’t being followed or under surveillance. Satisfied that nobody was keeping persistent tabs on him, he was now ready to avail himself of a YGI contact that had been pre-positioned on the planet before he’d arrived. Ryion stopped and checked the coordinates he’d been given, scowling with dismay at the location where the contact had arranged to meet him. He’d arrived at a seedy-looking multistory building, the masonry crumbling and dirty. Even from ten meters away, the sour smell of intoxicants mingled with the stuffy fragrance of perfumes. A flickering pink neon holo listed the establishment’s name as the dubious-sounding “Fleshly Tales.” Ryion frowned, then pulled his cloak tighter around himself and walked in. The lobby was dark and the smells only intensified as soon as he stepped inside. He looked around as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, which was punctuated only by muted, flickering pink glow panels placed strategically to catch the silhouettes of dancers gyrating suggestively on elevated stages. Ryion could have used the Force to sense how many people were inside, but in this cesspool of sentient existence, he preferred not to absorb or sense the auras of the occupants. “Hey good looking, what can I do for you?” a sultry female voice startled him out of his introspection. Ryion turned to see a pink-skinned female Zeltron looking at him expectantly. She was wearing a sheer low-cut poncho slit to expose most of her thigh. “I’m looking for someone,” he answered. She smiled vivaciously and strode forward, her mane of curly black hair swaying as she sidled up next to him. “Well, you found me,” she whispered into his ear as she ran one pink hand down his chest. “My name’s Ellaya.” Ryion rolled his eyes and gently removed her arm from his chest. “That’s very nice, but I’m here on business,” he said, trying to disengage himself from the bold Zeltron. “Me too and your pleasure is my business,” Ellaya replied, tracing a fingers down his arm. “Speaking of pleasure, what’s yours?” Ryion reddened in spite of himself. While he’d heard stories about the infamous licentiousness of Zeltrons, this was his first actual exposure to one. He was weighing his options on how to remove the Zeltron from his arm without causing a commotion when suddenly a loud male voice bellowed raucously from the depths of the dance area. Ryion breathed a sigh of relief. That must be his contact. “Matrik Tenzor! What are you standing there for? Come on in and get a drink!” The call drew both his and Ellaya’s attention and Ryion was quicker to react, slipping away from her before she could cling onto his arm. “Not today,” he whispered to her as he left her behind and made his way over to the source of the voice. Or ever, he thought. “Over here,” a burly four-armed Besalisk called, beckoning him to a booth in the same hideous shade of bright pink as the rest of the place. The alien was dressed slovenly and his light brown skin smelled of intoxicants. Ryion gave him a dubious look but sat down next to him reluctantly. The Besalisk belched, then nodded at him. “I’m Jervnik. You look worn. Get you a drink?” Ryion shook his head. “I’d have to be a lot thirstier before I drank something from here,” he replied curtly. “Oh, it’s not so bad,” the Besalisk assured him with a wink. “Ellaya over there makes a great Eyeblaster. That’s not all she makes, either.” “The information,” Ryion cut him off. “I’m here for information.” “Of course,” the Besalisk replied. “We should go somewhere a little more private.” The hulking Jervnik lumbered to his feet unsteadily, then made his way out the door, calling compliments and obscene remarks to the scantily-clad dancers in the club or alternately roaring insults at other patrons. Once they were in the alley behind the dive, the Besalisk immediately abandoned his gregarious mannerisms. Instead, he checked around to make sure no-one was eavesdropping, even activating a distortion bubble generator to guarantee no electronic snooping was occurring. “You want to know I am who I say I am?” the alien surmised. “That’s right, and the answer had better be cleaner than a Naboo starship,” Ryion said, uttering one of several pre-arranged statements where the Besalisk had to reply properly in order to prove his identity. “Is that before or after the Gungans are done with it?” Jarvnik chuckled, scratching his scraggly whiskers. “Satisfied?” Ryion touched the alien with the Force, but sensed no deception, so he nodded. “All right. I’ve already met with the other members of your team and given them their black cases. Their covers are intact and they are executing their missions. I have to say, I was expecting someone else for your fourth member.” Due to the Ariada’s sudden expulsion from the team, there hadn’t been time to assign a fourth person to the team, and Selu had not liked the idea of sending Ryion and his team out down one member. Instead, Selu had assigned Morgedh to journey to Rishi with them, but left Ryion in charge as the leader. While it felt weird to order around his superior, Ryion also suspected that Morgedh was there to monitor him and the others. “Things got complicated back home and people were shuffled around,” Ryion answered vaguely. “Need to know, I got it,” he said. “Speaking of that, what do you need to know?” “I need a brief on local sentiment and the possibility of Yuuzhan Vong agents here,” Ryion said. “Tensions are high,” Jarvnik told him. “The arrival of those Chalactan refugees has strained resources and reminded people of the galactic war going on. As if it wasn’t crowded enough already. The government is trying to keep the people calm and get their help in taking care of the refugees, but that’s not easy. The fact that a bunch of military-type volunteers who are sort of guarding the Chalactans are here also means that it’s hard to get an idea of who might be Vong or Peace Brigade.” “Do you think the Vong have found them already?” Ryion asked. “I couldn’t tell you,” the Besalisk said. “I haven’t seen any of the usual indicators of an underworld leak, like certain smugglers disappearing because they know the place is about to be pounded. Security’s pretty porous though.” Jarvnik shrugged his massive shoulders. “It’s only a matter of time before the Vong get here and they’re practically defenseless. I can’t tell you if there’s a leak in the government, either.” Ryion frowned. “I thought you had connections.” “I do,” Jarvnik assured him. “But my government connections are either very low with the easily-corrupted or very high. I don’t have much reach into the middling bureaucrats where a leak could happen and people would stand to gain enough from it to make it worth their while. But don’t worry about that.” “Why not?” Ryion asked. “Because you now have that reach,” Jarvnik said, slipping something into Ryion’s hand. “What is this?” Ryion asked, examining the slim datacard. “The governor is having a charity ball soon. This is a pass to that ball. The governor’s chief of staff owed me a favor and I told him there was this selfless offworld toymaker going around giving away toys who really ought to be invited. It’s in two days.” “What?” Ryion protested. “I don’t have anything that I could wear to a ball.” “Relax, lad. I’m a tailor by trade. Come by tomorrow and I’ll have something ready. The next day, the alterations will be done. This isn’t Coruscant; it doesn’t have to be immaculate.” “They’re not having balls on Coruscant any more,” Ryion reminded him. “Heh, good point,” Jarvnik commented, losing some of his cheeriness at Ryion’s sobering reply. “Also, you expect me to go to a ball alone? How awkward will that be?” Ryion asked. “My otherwise eligible associate is . . . undercover for the next few days and she can’t help.” Jarvnik grinned widely at him. “You humans and your weird social rules. Hmm. Well, I could ask if Ellaya is available,” he offered. “I bet she might even give you a discount . . .” Ryion rolled his eyes. “Never mind,” he said. “Just get me the coordinates to your shop. I’ll stop by tomorrow evening.” “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Jarvnik teased as he handed him a piece of flimsi with numbers scrawled on it. “It never starts that way,” Ryion mumbled. Without giving the Besalisk a chance to reply, he swept his cloak around him and strode off down the narrow street into the twilight gloom. Yanibar The simulator hatch hissed and slid open, allowing Jasika to scramble free from its cramped confines. The back of her uniform jumpsuit was stained with sweat and her hair was matted and tangled beneath her helmet from hours of training, and she slowly shook free the tension in her arms as she climbed out. It had been a good exercise, but exhausting. Her squadron had been tasked with flying an assault on a Yuuzhan Vong boarding action, defeating the Vong frigate and its attendant coralskippers without damaging the captured transport. Around her, the other pilots were beginning to emerge from their simulator cockpits that were positioned in two rows along a lengthy training hall. Each simulator was actually an old cockpit from retired Yanibar Guard starfighters, removed from the fighter and retrofitted with the appropriate instrumentation for simulations, which afforded a more realistic training environment. There were two dozen simulators in this hall alone, enough for two full squadrons to train simultaneously, and all of them were the distinctively sleek canopies of YGF’s workhorse fighter, the Sabre. An elevated walkway separated the two rows and strategically-placed holo-projectors allowed instructors to view the performance of several pilots either via viewing the simulation or by watching a holocam built into each cockpit. Jasika sat on the side of the cockpit and pulled off her helmet in order to run her fingers through her hair. As expected, it was in total disarray. She’d have to see about getting it cut. Distracted by this thought, she lingered before following the rest of the pilots towards the briefing room where their performance would be graded. Overall, her unit had done well, though her numbers had been lackluster, missing out on several kills and taking additional damage in order to protect fellow pilots in danger. They had accomplished their mission, though with less-than-stellar performance. Individually, her score would be less than its usual high marks. Suddenly, she realized that a shadow had fallen over her and she looked to see a stern-looking officer, a stocky male Zabrak, watching her intently. Startled and abashed, she stood up straight and saluted. “Sublieutenant Knrr, sir. Can I help you?” The Zabrak looked amused. “Quite possibly,” he said. “Are you currently occupied?” “I’m supposed to be heading to debriefing and review,” she replied. He waved it off, and Jasika realized that he was ranked a commander. A squadron commander’s rank. Curiously, he had no namepatch to identify him. “I watched your performance during the sim. We can discuss that on the way and you’ll get the same information you would have gotten from instructors in half the words.” “Yes, sir,” she said, not sure what he was talking about or who he was. “Come with me,” he ordered, his tone polite, but firm. “I think we have a great deal to talk about.” Jasika obediently scrambled out of the simulator area and followed him as he set off at a brisk pace out of the training hall. “Your performance was better than the numbers showed,” he commented. “You gave up some kills and tactical opportunities to cover some of the other pilots.” She said nothing, which prompted the Zabrak to look over his shoulder at her. When she still gave no reply, he shrugged and continued. “Good work with that,” he said. “It takes a lot of situational awareness to show that kind of discipline. Good quality to have in a flyer.” “Thank you, sir,” Jasika answered, still following him doggedly as he led her out of the training facility and across the base. “You also deliberately drew the attention of the enemy fliers away from your squadron when they were making their assault runs. Very selfless, not to mention risky. Your tactic allowed your squadmates enough time to disable the frigate.” “It wasn’t a perfect tactic, sir. I lost my wingmate and the coralskippers went back to engage the squad as they finished their assault runs, which cost us another three pilots.” The Zabrak chuckled as he ushered her into a large dimly-lit hangar, beckoning towards a staircase on the interior that led up to a row of offices overlooking the main floor. Jasika saw that the landing surface was fully occupied by a dozen starfighters, but in the darkness could not make out their type from the silhouettes. She waited for the officer to explain his mirth as they ascended the staircase, but no answer was immediately forthcoming. “What’s so funny, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?” The Zabrak turned back to give her another amused smile as he reached the top of the stairs. “I should hope that those coralskippers cost you heavily,” he said. “They were my pilots, and that was the least they could do after taking the bait you gave them.” Jasika looked startled as he accessed the office door with a retinal scanner. “I thought it was just a sim, that we had computer opponents.” “Our coralskipper simulators aren’t an exact replica when it comes to the true characteristics of the Vong craft,” the commander admitted. “Analysis shows that they still have room for improvement, but they are a decent simulacrum.” Jasika frowned. “I didn’t even know YGF had coralskipper simulators.” “You’ll find that we can be full of surprises,” he said cryptically. The commander opened the door and admitted them into the office. It was fairly spacious, with a window that overlooked the hangar floor. A mammoth desk consumed one corner of it, with a refrigeration unit occupying the other corner. The walls were laden with decorations, commendations, and various starfighter pilot memorabilia. A flag with an unfamiliar squadron insignia was draped on the wall behind the desk as a backdrop for the officer as he sat down behind his desk. Jasika also noticed that, aside from a typical-looking datapad, there were wooden models of a Sabre and a B-wing on the commander’s desk. “Speaking of surprises,” she said. “Can I ask what I’m doing here, sir? Or at the very least, who you are? Or is that classified?” “It is, but you have the appropriate clearance level,” he said. “Sir?” she replied, confused. She hadn’t been notified of any particular upgrade in her clearance-status by YGF’s central personnel computer. “It’s not a mistake,” he assured her. “I put in the approval myself about ten minutes ago.” By this point, Jasika had had about enough of his secrecy. Commander or not, she was tired of being led around by this enigmatic officer. “Sir, could you just skip to the point of all this? I didn’t sign up for YGI, so I’m not interested in all the secrecy.” “Have a seat, Sublieutenant,” he replied. She complied, frowning at him. “You’re here because the squadron voted to consider you.” “Squadrons don’t get to vote who gets assigned to them,” Jasika countered. “You’re right, in most cases,” the Zabrak said. “But not in my outfit.” Jasika was nonplussed. “And exactly what outfit is that, sir?” He gave her a knowing smile. “Paladin Squadron.” Jasika paled. Paladin Squadron was rumored to be the most elite starfighter unit in the Yanibar Guard Fleet. While it existed in the YGF database, there was no unit contact information, list of members, or recent unit history there. A subject of considerable debate among younger pilots, some trainees had suggested that it was a myth or it had been disbanded or it was an all-Force-user unit separate from YGF’s structure. There was no way to confirm that such a squadron existed without actually knowing one of its members, as Jasika now did, apparently. “I’m Commander Jarshek Mada, Paladin Lead.” He slid forward an identichip emblazoned with the YGF seal that listed his credentials and identifiers. “We do actually exist in the system, just in a part that’s off-limits to most everyone, for security reasons,” he assured. “And as for your other question, you’re here because we voted to offer you a slot in the squadron.” “This is a joke, right?” she replied. “I’m barely out of advanced flight school and I still have another five and a half months with the training squadron, sir. Not exactly a prime candidate for the Paladins.” “You’re already an experienced flyer,” Mada noted. “You have twenty years experience flying small freighters, including combat experience against both pirates and the Yuuzhan Vong, isn’t that right?” “Correct, sir, but—,” “You also graduated from the Yanibar Civil Spaceflight Academy with the highest marks in every subject, didn’t you?” She sighed. “Correct, sir, but—,” “And lastly, your primary flight instructors were your mother, Sheeka Tull Kraen, and Master Selusda Kraen, weren’t they? In fact, you actually graduated from basic starfighter training after being covertly enrolled at the age of seventeen, didn’t you?” Now Jasika looked shocked. “How did you know about that, sir?” “I told you we were full of surprises,” replied Commander Mada. “I’ll be blunt, Jasika,” he said. “We’ve been watching for a new pilot to fill our ranks for quite some time, but most of the ones we’d be interested in are quite happy where they are—they’re on track to become squadron commanders within a few years, and most of the elite pilots are already well-placed in units of their own. We needed a pilot with very special qualifications, ones that you match.” “Namely, combat experience against the Yuuzhan Vong,” she inferred. “That’s a high priority, yes,” Mada said. “We know that you’re new to starfighters, but we’ll be doing intense training over the next few months due to some major changes that we can work you into. You’re under no obligation to say yes, but what I’m offering you is a slot in literally YGF’s finest. We all think you’re good enough, despite the lack of experience and your relative age. We’ve been quietly watching and flying against you for several weeks now.” “So you guys are like the Cresh Squad of YGF,” she said slowly. “I’ve been around that kind of environment and the intensity of that unit is something I don’t think I’ll be able to match. It’s not just the skill of the pilot, it’s their drive, sir.” “You joined YGF because you wanted to hurt the Vong, because you wanted to defend the people you love,” Commander Mada said flatly. “I’m offering you a chance to be on the frontlines of that defense and actually fight them. Somehow I doubt intensity will be a problem.” “I see you’ve read my psych eval, sir,” Jasika remarked drily. “Is that a surprise?” he asked. “I suppose it really shouldn’t be by now,” she answered remorsefully. “Thanks, but I’m still not convinced. I’ve seen the mentality that these elite units have to have in order to perform the way they do, and it changes you.” “I wouldn’t be so quick to make the assumption that YGF functions the same way that YGA does,” Mada replied. “Don’t judge us based on your husband’s unit.” “Of course not, sir,” Jasika said insincerely. “You have a few days to consider the offer,” Mada told her. “But before you go, do you know what a Maelstrom is?” “A weather phenomena, sir?” “Not exactly what I had in mind,” Mada answered. Hitting a switch on his desk, he activated the main glowpanels in the hangar, illuminating the floor of starfighters. “Those are the Maelstroms I’m talking about,” he said. “Second-generation fighters. These came out of the factory about a year ago.” She turned and got her first good look at the unfamiliar starfighters. At first, they bore a vague resemblance to the aged Shotos, with their forward double-prongs, bubble canopies, twin rear-mounted engines, and blended lifting bodies, but there were significant differences. The Maelstroms were much larger, for one, about fifty percent larger than the diminutive Shoto, and its contours more resembled a double-pointed teardrop than the wedge-like Shoto. “Would you like to fly one?” he asked. “The ones you see here are two-seat trainers.” Jasika was still somewhat undecided about this mysterious officer and his abrupt offer to join the Paladins, but the idea of flying a brand-new starfighter most pilots hadn’t even heard of was appealing. “I could go for taking one up for a spin, sir,” she replied, giving him a crooked grin. A few minutes later, she was seated in the forward seat of the Maelstrom, taking in the updated cockpit displays of the new fighter and in awe of all it possessed. Recharging shields, a sensor suite that made the Sabre’s look like an optical telescope, laser cannons, proton torpedoes, an ion cannon, an anti-missile warning system and countermeasures, hyperdrive, triple-axis vector plating—just about every feature she could have wanted in a starfighter and more. Mada ran her through the checklist, then gave her the go-ahead to start the engines. The starfighter throbbed as its main reactor activated and her displays lit up. Jasika brought the craft up on repulsorlifts to a hover half a meter above the ground. Mada hit a control on his datapad and the massive hangar doors slid open. She rotated the fighter around and eased it out of the hangar onto the tarmac as he handed her a helmet. She slid it on, noting that it displayed several important values and symbols from the Maelstrom on the visor. Jasika slid the canopy closed and then slowly lifted the Maelstrom into the sky. It transitioned to ion engines smoothly as she cut them in over repulsorlifts. On an impulse, she pointed its nose toward the sky and punched it. She wanted to see what this thing could do. The Maelstrom shot into the sky like a two-pronged dart. Jasika experimented with rolling the craft even as she climbed and found that it handled well. The vector plating and rudder pedals took some getting used to, but Jasika suspected that a skilled pilot could make the Maelstrom dance in combat with impressive agility. “Go ahead, try a few maneuvers,” Mada told her from the back seat. Jasika took his offer at face value and whirled the craft into a hard power dive, followed by sudden twists, rolls, and jinks designed to throw off hostile pursuit. At first the smile on her face happened subconsciously, but as she became aware of it, Jasika allowed it to spread further. Flying the Maelstrom was fun. The starfighter handled beautifully, even if it was tiring work controlling the combined rudder and vector pedals. The level of focus she needed to concentrate on handling the craft was definitely higher than required for the Sabre she was used to, but the difficulty came with its advantages. “How does it compare to the Sabre II in a dogfight, sir?” she asked. “It’s faster, more agile, and more heavily armed,” the commander replied. “I haven’t lost to a Sabre II in one of these since my first three months flying them.” “Impressive,” Jasika said as she rolled the Maelstrom over itself and brought it into a steep dive from 20,000 meters altitude. “But how are the aerodynamics?” “It’s somewhat less aerodynamic than the Sabre at supersonic speeds in atmosphere, but makes up for it with a higher atmospheric speed and climb rate.” “I see,” Jasika replied conversationally as the ground raced up at them. Judging it to be close enough, she immediately reversed the vector plating and shunted power to the repulsorlifts while pulling up out of the dive. The Maelstrom responded to her demands without complaint, leveling out without incident. “If I’d tried that in a Shoto, I’d probably be dead. In a Sabre, I’d have had to pull out of the dive sooner,” she remarked as she cruised the Maelstrom in for a landing. “The vector plating configuration takes some getting used to, but it certainly has its benefits,” Mada agreed. The starfighter wound down as she completed the shutdown cycle, sliding back the cockpit canopy to look back at Commander Mada. “They’re nice ships,” she said. “I’d love to fly one, but I can’t just say yes to your offer immediately.” “That’s fine,” he said. “You’re on leave for the next three days for ‘administrative reasons.’ If you accept, come back here before three days are up. All my pilots know who you are; they’ll point you to me. If I don’t hear back from you, I’ll assume you decided against it.” He shook her hand. “Force be with you, Sublieutenant,” he said.
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