| abstract
| - It was over. The shattered hulks of dozens of warships-Rebel, Imperial, and Zannist littered the aftermath of the battlefield. The Kuat system was devoid of combatants aside from the crippled Imperial fleet that had been protecting it until forced to withdraw to the far side of the system. Its defenses sorely battered, the valuable shipyards would be operating on reduced production capacity while the damage was cleaned up and repaired. Thousands had perished in the grueling battle, and those that were left, entrusted with picking up the pieces, were demoralized and defeated. While they retained control of the system, they had lost much. In fact, if it was a victory, there wasn’t a single member of the Imperial Navy in the Kuat system who would agree with that statement. Their ships just now moving back to retake shipyards so recently seized and then abandoned by the Consortium, to pick up the pieces of the ravaged defense force. Admiral Delvardus was not immune from the effects of the battle. His fleet, hastily scavenged together from his command, had been ravaged, though not as badly as the late Admiral Gaarn’s or the other ships stationed at Kuat. He could not have anticipated that the Rebels and the Zannists would attack at Kuat simultaneously and initially allied. That temporary truce, though it had been broken in the middle of the raging fleet engagement, had allowed their combined fleets to destroy three powerful stations and given the Zannists the opportunity they needed to briefly board and capture the partially-completed Eclipse, one of the newest and largest vessels constructed for the Empire. They’d used its devastating firepower to obliterate warship after warship, only to strangely abandon the ship and flee Kuat with the remnants of their armada. Moreover, after wiping out a significant portion of both the Rebel and Imperial fleets, the Zannists had escaped his grasp once more. The worst part of it was that Imperial High Command seemed to be in complete chaos. Previously, such a defeat would never have been remotely possible, but over a quarter million Imperial personnel were now reduced to collections of letters on a casualty report. Impossible. Unthinkable. Delvardus was frustrated and tired. His uniform was sweat-soaked and dirty from having been on the bridge so long, and now his superiors were incapable of something as simple as communicating to him with new orders. Surely they should be mounting a full-scale fleet effort to hunt down Tyber Zann and make him pay for this slaughter. Sure, there were dozens of destroyed Zannist ships lying around, but the criminal had bloodied the Empire and was seemingly getting away with it! The lack of response from the highest tiers of the Imperial hierarchy was infuriating and kept feeding a thought that had been growing in his own mind, that the Empire was falling apart. The loss of the Emperor and the subsequent power vacuum that had set in was tearing it apart. The only news that Delvardus had received from above was that Moff Kaine was supposed to be moving his forces to defend the New Territories out towards the Rim. Delvardus considered that a fool’s errand; it was obvious that Seswenna Sector, High Admiral Vey’s command, was far more important strategically due to the Hydrian Way and Rimma Trade Route running through it. Given the current fractured state of the Empire, Delvardus wondered how much retribution he would experience if he simply stayed in Seswenna. Perhaps he could even establish his own authority there—his homeworld, Eriadu, was in Seswenna, and if anyone could seize control from Vey over Eriadu and the sizable fleets in the sector, it was him. Once he’d dealt with Vey by arranging the admiral’s death in some accident, he would have command of the entire sector and could deal with the Rebels from there. The desire to reach the top, to accomplish his goals was ingrained deeply inside Delvardus, and he knew that the Empire could no longer help him accomplish those goals. Not after seeing the carnage at Kuat, when one of the Empire’s leading shipyards was ravaged by a bunch of scruffy Rebels and lowlife criminals. The Empire was irrevocably lost without effective leadership to marshal its forces and deal with such threats. It was time for their paths to separate. “Captain Marquart,” Delvardus called softly. The man was loyal and unflagging in his dedication to him. He was also, Delvardus knew, a good judge of the crew’s sentiments. “Sir?” Marquart responded, approaching and throwing a weary salute. “How is the crew’s morale?” Delvardus asked. “We’ve suffered a setback,” the captain replied. “They know it wasn’t your fault, though. You weren’t properly supported, just like what’s happened for the past several months, sir. They’re with you, Admiral.” “The Empire as we know it is gone, Captain,” Delvardus said wistfully. “We have lost our way.” “Sir?” the puzzled Marquart answered. “This chaos, this utter disarray of Imperial forces would never have been tolerated before,” Delvardus said, gesturing at the wreckage floating past the viewport. “The Empire as we knew it is gone.” “We can still rebuild,” Marquart insisted. “We can recover.” “Only with a strong new leader,” Delvardus said. “Which does not seem to be forthcoming.” “What are you saying, sir?” Marquart asked. “I’m saying that we have been victimized for far too long, Captain!” Delvardus said heatedly. “It’s time we take our fate into our hands.” “Sir, that’s treason,” Marquart said. “The only rule I recognize is one that can be upheld by force. I am done with the Empire, and if anyone is going to protect our worlds from the Rebels and the Zannists, it might as well be me,” Delvardus said coldly. “Are you with me, Captain?” Marquart took in the resolute expression on Delvardus’s face, the iron determination within the man. He had served under Delvardus for years now and knew that though the admiral could be temperamental and vain, that he was also a leader who gave him some measure of confidence, which was more than he had in the Empire in general right now. The more he thought about it, the more he knew that Delvardus was right, and that his own thoughts and goals were more in line with the admiral than with the Empire in general, which had recently been utterly incompetent. “I am, sir,” he said. “Good,” Delvardus said, grinning with evil pleasure at the thought of ruling his own empire. “Muster the fleet. We are leaving.” “Are you going to tell them, sir?” Marquart asked. “I will, Captain,” Delvardus said. “But first, you and I have some things to discuss.” “Where will we go?” the captain inquired. “We are going to pay a visit to Eriadu, to Admiral Vey,” Delvardus said. “I think it’s time he had an unfortunate accident in which I’ll be forced to assume command after his demise.” “Is that wise, sir?” Marquart asked, risking an angry outburst from Delvardus. “Vey will fall, Captain,” Delvardus said. “And his fleet will join us, strengthening our numbers. If an idiot like Zaarin can go rogue and survive for months while Palpatine was still alive, we are in no danger. . Moff Kaine is headed to the other side of the galaxy; that fool can’t touch from there—he’ll be too busy with his own dreams and Vey is a dead man. Come, Captain.” With one hand on the other officer’s shoulder, Delvardus headed off to the briefing room to plot his new vision of conquest and independence. Little did he know that by becoming one of the first Imperial warlords, he was only fracturing the already reeling Empire further. Such concerns were beneath him, though. He had made his decision to stand apart from the Empire rather than continuing to throw away lives in a vain quest to stamp out the enemies of a government that ceased to function effectively. Now, he would create his own miniature empire, one filled with order, one that embodied the true ideals that the Empire had once stood for. The Zannists and Rebels would not be tolerated in his new domain—he would stamp them out even as other discontented Imperial fleets and worlds joined him. The galaxy needed a strong new leader and while Delvardus didn’t think his position strong enough to try and seize Coruscant and claim the mantle of galactic rule, he was certainly capable of starting a new regime centered in the Seswenna Sector with more capable leadership and enforcement. His service to the Empire as a whole was done; Delvardus sought to see it reborn in his own image. The line had been irrevocably crossed, and Delvardus’s ways had split from the greater tale of the Empire. From now on, Sander Delvardus would tell his own story. Endor system The starboard auxiliary hangar bay on Home One was as crowded as it ever had been. This time, it was with personnel, not with the starfighters that often occupied the deck space. Hundreds had gathered for the long-delayed Endor memorial service, to commemorate those that had fallen in the Rebel Alliance’s costly and desperate but ultimately successful attempt to destroy Palpatine. In fact, this wasn’t even the main event, but a smaller ceremony dedicated only to Gold Group. Still, hundreds of Rebels, some fighter pilots, but many crewbeings from Home One and other officers had assembled to pay their last respects to the fallen. General Calrissian, again wearing his dress uniform and cape, stood at a small podium at one end of the hangar. Behind him was the starfield and occasionally another ship of the Rebel fleet, giving a perfect backdrop to his speech. Unlike most occasions, he was solemn and subdued, his easy smile nowhere to be seen. After a glance at his chrono to check the time, he leaned against the podium and began addressing the assembled personnel. “We are assembled here to remember those who we left behind at Endor, those who sacrificed their lives for the sake of freedom,” the general began. “In this ceremony, we are also here to commemorate several others of our number who saw our ultimate victory at Endor but perished in the defense of freedom at Bakura and Endor.” The general hadn’t had a chance to continue when a junior officer strode up to the podium and whispered something into his ear. The general’s face took on a concerned expression and a brief, hurried conversation ensued. When it was over, the officer dashed off again, leaving Calrissian standing there looking like he’d been struck in the stomach. “And it has come to my attention that another name needs to be added to this list,” he said slowly. “A brave pilot who was gave her life for the sake of freedom at Bespin.” Those words echoed quietly across the room, reinforcing the grief carried by all of the Rebels. A ripple of sadness traveled across the assembly, but for one man, it was if he’d heard his own death knell. Wes Janson stared horrified at the podium as Calrissian uttered the words, feeling his heart sink down to his feet. He opened his mouth to shout, to demand an explanation, but no words came. Janson remained in that same catatonic state all through Calrissian’s speech, through the roll-call of the names of Gold Group’s fallen, even though the unit had been temporary. Even when Hasla’s name was spoken, confirming his fears, he did not react. He couldn’t. He was paralyzed, not even at the stage where he could deny what he’d heard. The ceremony continued with a salute to the fallen and a launching of the few caskets they had into space. Hasla’s body was not present. Janson vaguely recalled his hand moving automatically up to salute, but not much else. After they were dismissed, most of the pilots headed to the forward lounge for drinks and toasts in honor of the fallen. Not Janson. Instead, he headed back to his quarters by himself. His strange behavior was certainly noticed by his squadmates—Janson was normally the life of the party—but he ignored their calls, escaping to the physical sanctuary of his quarters before one of the others could flag him down. Plopping down on his bed, Janson was still unable to even voice or express how he was feeling. His normally merry demeanor had deserted him and he was, to say the least, choked up. Even several long pulls from the flask of Taanabian brandy couldn’t lighten his mood any. He wasn’t depressed, wasn’t going crazy—he knew that, and knew he would survive, but that did not diminish the feeling of being shot through the heart. He’d even felt his chest to make sure that wasn’t the case. However, no solution, no means to make the pain of Seirla’s death disappear presented itself through his mind, which seemed to prefer flashing images and memories of her through his subconscious instead, intensifying his grief. Janson took another swig of the brandy, letting the fiery liquid slowly trickle down his throat. Maybe the alcohol would dull his emotions, let him slip away from the freshly inflicted wound of her death. The door chimed. Janson looked up at the door, then ignored it in favor of more brandy. It chimed again, persistently and Janson glared at it, irritated. No doubt it was Tycho or Wedge or even Hobbie come to check on him. Well, he’d come out when he felt like it. Right now, he was hurt and surly, nursing a perfectly good flask of brandy, and didn’t feel like talking to anyone. “Wes, open up,” a voice said. He arched one eyebrow. That was impressive. Apparently the others had been so concerned about him that they’d managed to scare up Luke Skywalker himself to talk to him. Reluctantly, he staggered to his feet and hit the door control. The sandy-haired Jedi, clad in black, walked in, followed by Wedge. “I look that bad that I rate both of you, eh?” Janson asked in surprise, swigging more brandy. “You’re not exactly your normal self,” Wedge said. “Mind if we sit down?” “Hehe, that’s a good one, Wedge,” Janson replied bitterly, a hint of the intoxication starting to set in. “Sure, I don’t care. What can I do for you?” He threw himself on his bed again, sitting there limply. “We’re here to see you,” Luke said reasonably. “I know Seirla’s death is fresh and very painful, Wes. If you want to talk, we’re here for you.” “You know, I appreciate that, Commander,” Wes said sarcastically to the Jedi. “Out of curiosity, can the Jedi raise the dead?” “No. Believe me, I’ve wished a thousand times that I could.” Luke said earnestly. “My aunt and uncle . . . Biggs . . . Porkins . . . my father.” “That’s too bad,” Wes said. “I’m afraid you can’t help me a whole lot right now then, unless you have more brandy.” “Wes,” Wedge said. “She left something for you.” The dark-haired Corellian pilot leaned forward, pulling a datapad from his flight suit pocket. “Commander Gavin turned it over to me just a few minutes ago on our way to see you.” Janson sat up instantly, taking the datapad from Wedge, setting it on the dresser next to his bed. “If you’d like us to leave . . . ,” Luke offered. “You can stay,” Janson said hoarsely, activating the device. A hologram of the woman he knew as Seirla flickered into view, the low-quality projection filled with static and rough at the edges. Still, it was her, and a sob almost escaped his throat before he clamped down on it. She was in her flight suit, her helmet tucked under one arm, and though it was nothing special, Janson thought it was among the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. “Wes,” she said slowly. “If you’re seeing this, we’re either having a good laugh together while watching this message, or I’m dead.” Janson stared blearily at the hologram as she paused, collecting her words, sipping more brandy. “You encouraged me to write this letter before the battle, when you sought me out. I have no family, but you’re the one person that I want to leave a few words to. I want you to know that I love you, Wes. Never forget that. I don’t know if I was just another girl to you, but you weren’t just another fighter pilot to me. Every memory, every laugh, every time I slapped you—it was all worth it. If given the choice to do it again, I would do it. I’m going to do myself the honor of thinking you’ll be saddened by my death, but I don’t want you to stop serving the Alliance because of that. I want you to keep on going, to keep flying for the cause of liberty. You can’t stop because I’m gone. The Alliance needs you and someday, when it’s all over, we’ll meet again in the next life and nothing will ever take us apart. If I’m gone, you need to keep going, Wes, to move on with your life.” She paused again, as if blinking back tears, but covered the motion by brushing back an errant lock of her silvery hair. “I don’t want to waste your time, Wes, and I’m not very good with words. Remember me and cherish what we had, but keep your head forward. And know that you carried this fighter girl’s heart inside you, however short our time together was. I only regret we could have had more time to spend together, laughing, flying, anything. You’re a great pilot, a great lover, and a great man. I love you and the may the Force be with you as much as it has been with me.” She smiled at him, that secret smile he’d never seen her give anybody else, the one that sent an electric thrill down his spine, then the message ended. Janson couldn’t help it now; the tears were falling freely down his face. Wedge leaned forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Wedge,” Janson said. “She was just another girl, right?” “No,” Luke replied. “And you don’t believe that.” Janson looked forlornly at the Jedi, but words nearly failed him. “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t, and now she’s dead.” He buried his face in his hands, trying to keep the others from seeing his moment of weakness. Tomorrow, he would be fine, and he’d probably even be able to drink to Seirla’s memory in a few hours, but right now, he needed this emotional release. His friends, one a Jedi and one a fighter pilot, stayed by his side the whole time. They said nothing, just let him weep, but their presence meant more to Janson than he was willing to admit. They’d both seen him saddened before, and he knew that they were there for him in the midst of his loss. He had to get through this—for her sake. It took an hour before he was in control of himself again, but though his eyes were red-rimmed, he could speak, barely, and could keep from embarrassing himself further. Lifting the brandy flask, high, he pronounced a toast. “To Seirla,” he said miserably. “And to the memories of her and others like her who have passed on in the cause of freedom.” He took a long pull on the brandy, then passed it to Wedge and Luke in turn so they could take a sip. “It’s going to be okay, Wes,” Wedge said, trying to comfort his friend. “It’s going to be okay.” Somehow, though, looking at the bleak expression on Janson’s face, he doubted that it would be anything like okay for awhile. “If you want,” Luke said. “You don’t have to go to Corellia with us, or even on ground patrol for the next few days. Take some time off if you need it.” “Thanks,” Janson replied. “I’ll take a day off, but I’m going to Corellia.” “Are you sure?” Luke asked. “I’m sure,” Janson said, reminding himself that it was what Seirla had wanted him to do. “I can’t let the Rebellion go on without me. She wanted me to keep going.” “Okay,” Luke said. Wedge cleared his throat. “There’s a group of us in the forward lounge. We’ll probably be toasting the memories of the fallen for some time. You’re welcome to stay here, but if you’re feeling up to it, come join us.” The two other pilots rose and left, leaving Janson there for a moment. He closed his eyes and swallowed, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat. The ache in his stomach was still there, but he knew that if he stayed, he’d just wallow in despair and replay her message over and over again. She’d told him to keep going, so he would, despite how much it hurt. He’d do it for her. Then he rose to his feet, pulled on his jacket, and stopped the door from closing behind them. “Wait for me,” he said. “I’m coming, too.” Orbital defense station Yanibar’s Helm Selu was startled out of the temporary guest quarters that had been given to him while he was on the space platform by a shrill ringing alarm. Instantly awake, a quick brush of the Force across his groggy mind cleared the fogginess of sleep from his head. He snatched up his comlink, threw on his uniform tunic, and as soon as his feet were back in his boots, took off down the corridor to the bridge. “What’s going on?” he asked as he entered. “Unauthorized transmission, sir!” the lieutenant on duty replied. “We’ve already tried to cut it off.” “Jam it,” Selu ordered. “Manually override and terminate all external communications.” “Done, sir,” the lieutenant replied as the order was carried out. “What was the source of the transmission?” Selu asked. “Looks like someone sliced into the ghost terminal, sir,” the lieutenant replied, scanning the reports scrolling up to him on his command chair. “They were trying to pulse off a hypercomm message.” “Isolate the source and dispatch security,” Selu said. “Already done, sir,” the lieutenant replied. “We traced the origination point to a terminal near the medical wards. Two squads of troopers are moving in now.” Selu’s face paled as he heard about the medical ward. Milya was still there, as was Rhiannon, as the medical staff had wanted to keep them both under observation one more night. Moreover, they were in separate rooms. Not good. "Get me the security team commander now,” he said tersely. “Aye, sir, patching it into your comlink,” the lieutenant replied, but Selu was already out the door of the bridge, headed down to the medical ward. “This is Master Kraen,” Selu barked, folding out an extension from his comlink and sliding it into his ear. “Report.” “This is Lieutenant Kalbasi,” a young-sounding male voice, probably human, replied. “What’s going on, Lieutenant?” Selu asked. “Sir, the whole medical ward is locked down. I have teams at all the entrances and exits. Wait . . . we have a situation, sir.” A chill ran down Selu’s spine as he heard those words. Dread filled him and his hand reached for the lightsaber at his belt. Fear, lots of it, accompanied by several needles of anger and aggression stabbed through him via the Force, but the emotions only caused him to barely break stride. He was a man on an urgent mission and wouldn’t be slowed. A new voice came over his comlink. “I’ve superseded Lieutenant Kalbasi and taken over the situation,” a cool female voice said. It was Hasla. “Talk to me, Elite Almani,” Selu said as he approached the medical ward, referring to her by her rank in the Elite Guardians. “What do we have?” “One intruder, cornered. Twi’lek female, armed. I’m pretty sure she’s the source of the transmission,” Hasla replied. “She has a hostage.” “Understood,” Selu said. Hasla looked over at the dim silhouette of the Twi’lek intruder. The ship’s lighting in the medical wards had been switched over to dark red lighting, in order to make intruders stand out better in the infrared vision carried by the Yanibar Guard. The medical ward was completely locked down, the airtight blast doors sealed. There was no escape for the Twi’lek, and the computers had been likewise rendered inaccessible by a single command. She had to know she was trapped; she’d be desperate, like a cornered animal. The sight of the two Yanibar Guardsmen in their battlesuits, S-2C rifles raised, would only unnerve the intruder further. Still, attempts at dialogue had to be made. Hasla reached out with her Force senses to touch the Twi’lek’s mind and that of her hostage, who seemed to be a Human female. “Let her go,” Hasla called. The Twi’lek answered with a storm of profanity. That was obviously a negative. Hasla pulled up her infrared goggles and saw that the Twi’lek was armed with a pilfered S-1 blaster pistol. It almost certainly wasn’t set on stun. “Let the hostage go,” Hasla said, taking a measured step forward past the Guardsmen. “We can talk about this.” “Stay back,” the Twi’lek called fiercely. “I’ll kill her!” Hasla zoomed in on the hostage and what she saw took her breath away. Numbly, her fingers found her comlink. “Sir, hostage’s identity is confirmed. It’s your daughter.” No sooner had she said that than both Milya and Selu appeared behind her, both looking worried and angered, lightsabers in hand. Both looked as if they’d just woken up and were dressed rather like it, too. Hasla knew that they wouldn’t want to hear what she had to say, but there was no point in leaving them out of a loop they would be ultimately responsible for handling. “There’s a gun to her head, sir,” Hasla told him. “I see,” Selu said tersely, peering through the reddish glow of the low lighting. “Keep negotiating.” His heart rate had jumped tenfold as soon as he and Milya had heard the truth about their daughter. Selu knew that his wife had to be equally worried, especially after her harrowing ordeal on Coruscant. They were both concerned for her and Selu’s promise to himself to never knowingly place her in danger rose through his mind. However, he knew he would need to concentrate, to be calm. Shunting away his anxiety, he focused on the situation at hand, because it was the only thing he could do to help Rhiannon. “What do you want?” Hasla called to the Twi’lek. “We can cut a deal.” “Sure,” the Twi’lek snarled. “I want off this station and out of the system. Then I’ll release the girl.” “Let me talk to my superiors,” Hasla pleaded. “I’ll need to get their approval.” “Do it fast,” the Twi’lek cackled. “My trigger finger’s itchy.” Hasla turned to Selu and Milya, but not to relay the request. They had heard well enough on their own. “Sir, I have an idea,” she said. “Let’s hear it,” Selu replied, tension thick in his voice. “I’ll take Rhiannon’s place,” Hasla said. “She can have me.” Selu and Milya exchanged looks, but it was clear that both of them preferred that idea, however loathe they were to admit it. “I’ll do it,” Hasla insisted. “I want to do this. Trust me.” “Okay,” Selu said, nodding. “Be careful. No tricks.” “Hey,” Hasla called, turning back to the Twi’lek. “I want to negotiate a hostage swap.” “But why?” the Twi’lek replied mockingly. “Me and this little schutta are having quite a fun time.” Hasla swallowed nervously. “Take me instead,” she said. “I’m a high-ranking officer in the Yanibar Guard. I’m worth more to you than she is.” “Quit stalling,” the Twi’lek scoffed. “I’m not stalling,” Hasla said. “Let me take her place.” The Twi’lek considered, and Hasla unbuckled her utility belt, dropping it to the ground, and then raised her hands. “Look, I’m unarmed,” she said, taking a step closer. “And I’m a more valuable prisoner.” The Twi’lek said nothing, so Hasla took another step. “I won’t struggle,” Hasla said. “Just let the girl go. She’s just a child, she has nothing to do with this. Leave her out of it.” “Fine,” the intruder spat from where she was huddled in the corner, her body crouched down behind Rhiannon’s. “You’ll make a better shield, anyway.” “Okay,” Hasla said, trying to placate Rhiannon’s captor. “I’m coming, nice and slow. My hands are raised.” “Keep ‘em that way,” the Twi’lek ordered. Slowly and steadily, Hasla made her way over to where the Twi’lek was holding Rhiannon tightly. A bead of sweat trickled down her face as she watched the muzzle of the intruder’s blaster track her approach. However, she made it down the hall to the Twi’lek without incident. “I’m here,” Hasla said. “Now let her go.” “Fine, fine,” the Twi’lek sneered, shoving Rhiannon away roughly and whipping an arm around Hasla’s neck. Hasla gasped, but did not struggle as the Twi’lek kept one arm encircled around Hasla’s neck, constricting her air supply somewhat. The Twi’lek momentarily lowered the blaster and slapped a pair of purloined stun cuffs on Hasla’s hands, tucking them behind her back, keeping her from doing anything. “There’s just one problem with your little noble gesture,” the Twi’lek hissed harshly in Hasla’s ear. “What’s that?” Hasla asked, afraid of where this was going. “There’s nothing to stop me from killing the girl anyway,” the intruder replied wickedly. Hasla’s Force senses prickled as she received a precognitive flash. Two vague haze marks that had been following her, hidden by her walking up to the Twi’lek seemed familiar, and she knew what to do. The Twi’lek’s blaster came up, sighting in on Rhiannon’s back, and Hasla knew that the woman’s finger was cracking the trigger. She had to act, and hope her hunch was right. The blaster discharged, sending a brilliant purple bolt of energy lancing out at Rhiannon. Hasla had suddenly launched herself into motion. Quick as chain lightning, she simultaneously stomped on the Twi’lek’s foot as hard as she could while wrenching her neck and head out of the Twi’lek’s grip. Hasla ducked down in time to see a brilliant green lightsaber blade appear out of nowhere to intercept the blaster bolt, deflecting it into the floor as Selusda Kraen shimmered back into view, crouched down, his body and lightsaber defending Rhiannon. Standing straight behind him was Milya, a pistol in her hands. The startled Twi’lek had just started to swear when Milya fired. The stun bolt knocked the intruder backward into the wall away from Hasla, drilling deep into her shoulder and leaving her unconscious. “Get her to the brig,” Milya ordered. “Interrogation is in one hour.” Several Yanibar Guardsmen rushed forward to secure the prisoner. One of them stopped and deactivated the stun cuffs and they fell from Hasla’s wrists. “Who is she?” Selu asked as Milya holstered her pistol and began walking Rhiannon away from the scene. Hasla took a look at the Twi’lek’s tattooed arms and deduced the answer. “One of our freed slaves was a plant, sir,” Hasla said. “She came in on the shuttle with the others.” Selua grimaced. “The Zannists figured out the pattern of the raids and set one of the slaves up. They were counting on us to take her back with us, and we did exactly what they wanted.” “I’m afraid so, Master,” Hasla said. Her comlink chirped and she saw it was the bridge. “Go ahead,” Hasla replied. “Please, please, tell me we stopped her transmission,” Selu said. “Most of it, sir,” Hasla told him, a sinking feeling filling her gut. “The bridge tells me that 2.24 seconds got through.” “And what did those 2.24 seconds contain?” Selu asked, dreading the answer. Hasla looked him squarely in the eye. “The spy must have known we’d intercept the transmission pretty fast, sir,” Hasla told him. “All of the important information was first.” “What was in it?” Selu asked again. “A data transmission containing a recorded conversation between you, General Kraen, and Director Kraen,” Hasla said. “Along with the coordinates of the planet, a recent sensor log of the surrounding space, and two words.” “What two words?” Selu inquired. “They’re here,” Hasla told him. All of a sudden, that sinking feeling in her stomach had gotten a lot worse. Selu leaned heavily against a wall, suddenly weary and devoid of energy. He stared listlessly down the hall. Hasla’s report had driven a dagger through him. Yanibar was now in mortal danger. The Force exile refuge he’d so carefully built and defended for nearly twenty years was imperiled by a ruthless foe. He closed his eyes and tried to wish it all away, hoping beyond hope that this was all a nightmare he would soon wake up from. But he knew that wasn’t true. “Sir,” Hasla said, walking up to him. Selu opened his eyes fractionally. “Yes?” he asked her. “They won’t get us without a fight,” Hasla told him earnestly. “If you’re still willing, sir, I accept the command.” A trace of a smile creased Selu’s face. “Thank you, Hasla,” he said. “You’re right.” Then he was back on his feet again. Hasla’s words had reminded Selu that he had no time to mope about worrying about how close his daughter had been to dying or worrying about how the security of Yanibar had been compromised. The Yanibar Guard would need strong leadership in order to withstand the incoming assault that would surely follow. He would have to provide it and the thought that there were still matters of vital importance to the defense of the colony galvanized him into action, driving out his momentary despair. “You’re now in command of Paladin Squadron, effective immediately,” Selu told Hasla. “They’re stationed here. Head down to the hangar bay as soon as possible.” “Aye, sir!” Hasla said, snapping smartly to attention. They exchanged salutes, then she strode off. Selu pulled out his comlink and activated it. “Bridge, this is Master Kraen,” he informed them. “I want this entire ship swept for listening devices or other spying devices our visitor might have left behind. Then place me on the emergency Yanibar Guard command channel.” “Aye, sir,” the lieutenant replied. In a moment, Selu’s order was carried out, and his comlink was routed to the secure command channel used only by high-ranking members of the Yanibar Guard in emergencies. “This is Master Kraen,” he said into the speaker, taking great care to enunciate his words. He would not be repeating this message. He would not have time to. “At this time, we are now at Impending Threat Level,” Selu said, referring to the second-highest level of threat rating ordered by the Yanibar Guard. “The security of the colony has been compromised and our location divulged to the Zann Consortium, along with sufficient reason for them to attack this world. We can expect a general attack in the next week or two, though it could come at any minute. All leave is cancelled until further notice. All forces are to prepare for an attack and all communications monitored and restricted. No ships will be permitted to leave the system without authorization.” Selu paused, trying to come up with some more appropriate words to communicate the gravity of their predicament. “Our very existence is at stake here. May the Force be with us all.” Selu clicked off the comlink and thrust it back into his belt. He would meet with Spectre and Admiral Slayke and begin setting up a defense plan immediately. For the foreseeable future, he was through with being idle. Merciless The setting was more familiar, its subdued bronzes and golds welcoming him back to his private sanctum on the mighty destroyer. The Merciless was a relief after all that stale, angular Imperial architecture and stench. With the data from the Eclipse loaded into its memory banks, the warship was several parsecs from Kuat, surrounded by the remnants of the Zann Consortium Fleet. Here, at a safe distance, the fleet would lick its wounds and wait for a contingent of Mandalorian warriors and their two valuable prisoners to arrive. Now that he was back aboard his own flagship, Tyber Zann was feeling more pragmatic. The intoxicating headiness of seeing the foundation for his organization’s future growth and expansion had faded somewhat, though he could still see that splendidly extensive list of the vault’s contents when he closed his eyes. However, for the moment, there was one other item on his mind, one that filled him with anger. Standing in his usual conference room, Zann paced around the table, occasionally looking at a holographic report floating in transparent blue hues above the table from a projector mounted in its middle. “Are you sure about this, Urai?” he asked at last. The Talortai emerged from his corner of the room. “I’m sure,” he said. “Our agent managed to get several valuable pieces of intelligence to us before her transmission was cut off.” He pressed a control and the hologram flickered, starting an audio playback. “No. We prefer selling our products to blowing them up. Better for business,” Zann heard the voice of Matrik Tenzor say. “See that it stays that way,” Zann heard his own voice. “I’d hate for this partnership to come an unpleasant end.” “This is the conversation I had with Matrik Tenzor not two days ago,” he said. “It is,” Urai agreed. “This is from a listening device placed in the next room. You’ll be interested to hear what was said after the conversation.” Zann leaned in to hear the garbled and scratchy audio feed better-the listening device had only managed to pick low-quality sound, but it was better than nothing. His eyebrows furrowed with anger as he listened intently. “What a charming fellow,” Tenzor remarked. “I think every other word out of his mouth was a threat of some kind.” “Probably a force of habit,” another male voice said. “In the crime world, threatening people is probably some kind of art form.” “The good news is that he didn’t mention Sarth and Cassi,” Tenzor stated. “Which means he doesn’t have them, or know they were on Mandalore.” “Or he just hasn’t heard from his underlings on Mandalore yet,” a female voice suggested. “The Consortium has a pretty extensive network there, but depending on where Sarth and Cassi were and what they were doing, word might not have reached Zann’s ears yet.” “I hope you’re wrong,” the other male voice said. “I don’t even want to think about Zann getting his hands on them.” It was this next statement, though, that elicited a reaction from Tyber Zann. Up until now, he had been perfectly calm as he listened to the transmission. Now, his eyes bulged with rage, his hands forming two tightly-clenched fists. “Especially if he finds out we sent him into a panthera trap at Kuat,” Tenzor said. “He’ll be quite angry to know that we led the Rebels and the Empire to meet him there.” There was a loud bang as Zann slammed his fist down on the table and swore profusely. “There is more,” Urai said. “Force willing,” the female continued. “He’ll be free-floating atoms the next time we hear of him.” “That is a Jedi expression,” the Talortai pointed out. “There are others who use it, but it was once common among the Jedi. It appears that Kraechar Arms is in league with some remnant of the Jedi and that they were plotting your demise.” Zann remained in stony silence for some time, staring at the hologram. When he straightened, his face was dark with wrath. A terrible scowl was etched across his face and Urai could sense the urge for revenge emanating from the furious crime lord. Out of all of his enemies, he had never suspected, or been so abused, by a pathetic arms company like Kraechar Arms, nor been played so easily before. The treachery was a slap in the face to him, an insult to his reputation and his organization. He could not rest until it was avenged, nor the perpetrators killed. He could not believe they had had the audacity to attempt to destroy him in such an underhanded way, or that they could have thought him that easily defeated. “They will pay for this treachery,” he said icily. “Our agent also enclosed a sensor log and the coordinates of the planet Yanibar,” Urai added. “That was all we got before we lost her transmission.” “What kind of defenses?” Zann asked. “Nothing our fleet could not handle,” the alien warrior told him. “We would have better chances if our ships had time for repair and reinforcement.” “No!” Zann thundered sharply. “We are leaving as soon as the Mandalorians get here with more soldiers and those two Jedi prisoners. Instruct all available troops and any warships we can spare to meet us at . . . this planet. Set up a rally point, Urai, and get it done quickly.” “As you wish,” intoned Urai Fen, not daring to brook an argument with Tyber Zann when he was in this state. “The prisoners are being brought onto the Merciless now.” “Good,” Zann said. “They’re no doubt the same Sarth and Cassi referred to in the transmission. That similarity is no coincidence.” “Indeed,” agreed Urai Fen. “Also, Silri left on a mission of her own.” “Did she?” Zann mused. “She didn’t say what?” “No,” Urai Fen confirmed. “I suspect she plans a betrayal. She found something on the Eclipse.” “Hmm. Let me know when she gets back, and keep an eye out for a trap. In the mean time, I’m going to pay our Jedi guests a visit,” Zann said evilly. “Those treacherous idiots on Yanibar didn’t want to think about me getting my hands on them, did they? I’ll certainly prove them right on that account!”
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