| abstract
| - Spectre stepped into the ring slowly. It was illuminated barely from above and he was barely more than a silhouette to his opponent, who stood on the other end of the ring. He wore only a pair of light pants, and his hard, muscular torso was evident even in the dim lighting. As he moved, muscles rippled, highlighting the scars etched across his sturdy frame. Every step was purposeful, every motion determined. He stared resolutely across the ring at his opponent, boring his coal-black eyes into them. However, whether deliberately or not, his opponent refused to face him, refused to acknowledge his presence or the threat he posed. At an unspoken signal, he darted forward, metal slapping into flesh as Spectre’s hands wrapped around the silvery hilt of a lightsaber. The golden blade sprang into existence, the sizzling energy blade scything through the air as he ran up to cleave his opponent from shoulder to spine. At the last instant, though, she turned to present a thinner profile to him, her dark auburn hair billowing out behind her. Instead of slicing through her, his blade narrowly grazed her back as she struck at the nerve cluster in his arm. He absorbed the hit and slid past her, whirling for a quick horizontal slash at her midsection. She folded in on her own spine, collapsing so again the humming lightsaber missed her by centimeters. She was not prepared for combat, he saw, wearing a long, flowing dress of some light blue, silky material that clung loosely to her body, and she bore no weapon. Spectre landed lightly on the balls of his feet, recovering from his second stroke, and saw that she had backed off a few meters, set in a combat stance despite the cumbersome clothing she wore, but still unarmed. Her face, beautiful of appearance, was set resolutely, and he realized that his surprise assault had failed. Instead, he opened his mind to arcane powers, drawing on what most people might consider unnatural. Tendrils of power wove from his mind around her, seeking to lift her, hurl her across the room, but they met with a steely defense from her own mind as she channeled her own abilities into deflecting his attempts to use telekinesis. However, he poured Force energy into the attack, slowly breaking down her resistance. He could sense her trembling vaguely with the exertion and her left foot, planted behind her, started slipping. Suddenly, he broke through her will, strong though it was, and she flew back to tumble head-over-heels and skid roughly along the ground. The Force was with him once more, and he continued the attack, only to find she had somehow slipped out of the telekinetic grasp he had on her. Changing tactics, he once again rushed her, blade at the ready, only to find something blocking the way: a silver-white lightsaber blade. Somehow, she had produced a lightsaber of her own, this one glowing at both ends with a pair of radiant pearlescent beams to form a deadly saberstaff, and blocked his blow again and again. The counter-attack came quickly, viciously at him, but he planted his feet and batted it away. For all her speed, he had more power, and he rained blows down on the whirling saberstaff, always driving her back, always on the attack. The Force guided his movements and he saw where she was going before she actually made the movement, and he welcomed its insights, its aid to his already formidable combat prowess. He pushed her back into a solid stone wall, his blade seeking her flesh, but always denied as the two lightsabers clashed, gold on silver, with the characteristic humming, crackling, and crashing sounds of lightsaber combat. She was infinitely cool, infinitely calm of expression, appearing almost distant, and that control was what he sought to break. He had to see into her mind, to understand how she thought, to defeat that unflappable defense, and suddenly, he knew how to do it. Even as their blades locked again, he released his left hand and gestured off into the distance. Out of nowhere, a small pottery fixture hurtled out of the darkness towards her, aimed at her head, but Spectre had left him open. She disengaged and worked her blade through a complicated Form III defensive velocity that would whip across his right wrist, except for one thing: Spectre had anticipated her move. Even as she went into the velocity, Spectre had already dropped his telekinetic focus on the pot, and it fell to the ground with a clatter as it rolled across the ring. At the same time, he transferred his lightsaber to his left hand, held in a back-hand grip, and slashed it ever so lightly across her midsection. She gasped with pain and surprise as the heat of the blade hit her flesh, even the simple exhalation laden with disappointment and shock. Spectre backed off and thumbed his blade switch, causing his blade to disappear back into the hilt. “You lose,” he said simply, sweat pouring down his glistening body. “That I do,” the woman said, clutching at the wound. “But a good match nonetheless, for both of you,” said a third voice out of the shadows. A slight mental exertion later and glowpanels recessed into the stone ceiling flickered on, revealing the full training area and the equipment it held, as well as the previously hidden speaker, Selusda Kraen, as well as Sarth and Cassi, who had watched the duel silently. “Are you hurt, Milya?” Selu asked. “No, not at all,” she said. “Just a slight burn from the training saber, and not even that bad of one anyway.” “I’ll be the judge of that,” Selu said, reaching through the rent in his dress to lay his palm on the burn. The Force flowed through his fingertips, exploring and sensing the injury, but though it ran from hip to navel, it was less severe than he burns from the training sabers sometimes were-barely second-degree, he figured. It would heal quickly. “No, nothing serious,” he said. “It’ll just sting for a little bit.” “I told you,” Milya said, brushing a sweat-soaked strand of hair out of her face. “It’s just a slight burn. Just be a little gentler until it heals, okay?” “I think I can handle that,” Selu said. Straightening back up, he turned back to the others. “Good match overall,” he said. “All things considered, I think you both did well.” “Well?” Milya asked incredulously. “He beat me into a wall and then sucker-sliced me.” “True,” Spectre said. “But don’t forget that you started unarmed, your back turned to me, and in a ridiculous piece of clothing.” “How could I forget?” Milya said with mock indignation, holding up the shred of dress that had used to cover her belly before Spectre’s slice. “You utterly ruined my dress.” “Good thing it’s scrap then,” Cassi put in wryly. “He’s got a good point,” Selu said. “You were put at a dramatic disadvantage from the start, and you did okay. There is one thing that puzzles me, though. Spectre, this entire training session, you’ve been able to use the Force, but you told me otherwise during the battle.” Spectre sighed and wiped his hand across his brow, looking around for an answer. However, the weights, gymnastics apparatus, and shelves of training equipment that lined the practice room did not offer up an answer to the perplexed ex-ARC. Given a problem, he would normally study it, break it down, and find its weak spots before attacking its source. However, this problem was intermittent, elusive, and seeming incorporeal, as he lacked a basis from which to commence his study of it. It was an enigma to him, and no amount of thought had afforded him any insight into it. “I can’t explain it,” he said. “On that Star Destroyer, I felt like there was a blanket, a buzzing in my head, preventing me from touching the Force-but here, here I can use it without a problem.” “Maybe it was the disturbances in the Force caused by the deaths that occur in battle,” Cassi suggested. “That could be it.” “Possibly,” Sarth remarked. “But it could also be because of the generally stronger ambient Force aura on Yanibar.” “I know,” Spectre said. “There just aren’t any clear answers to the problem. But this is what I know-if I can’t use the Force in combat, it’s not going to do me much good.” “Nonsense,” Selu countered. “The Force is more than just a tool-,” “Yes, yes,” Spectre said wearily. “What I meant is that combat is when I rely on it the most, for better or for worse. That’s when it comes down to life or death, to me catching the blaster bolt on my lightsaber or in the chest. I just don’t know.” “It is a mystery,” Sarth admitted. “But we’ll figure it out.” “I hope so,” Spectre said. “I’m not sure what else to think. I’ve placed myself through grueling Matukai training since we got back in hopes of reinforcing my connection to the Force, and if anything, I feel stronger in it than ever. I can lift objects with my mind as easily as I ever could.” “That’s for sure. You owe me a flower pot,” Milya interrupted jokingly. “I think you cracked it.” “Put it on my tab,” Spectre said with a wry smile, but then his expression and voice returned to their earlier grave natures. “But on that Star Destroyer, on certain other times when we’ve discreetly fought the Empire, I’ve felt almost blind to it, or at least smothered.” “Cassi and Sarth could be right,” Selu said. “Or there could be some other explanation. There’s still Revan’s tower. You haven’t been back yet.” “I know,” Spectre said. “I haven’t had time for that.” “Is that all?” Selu asked. “I sense some unease in your response.” “Leave it to you to not let the issue rest,” Spectre said with a sour look. “I just don’t want to go all the way out to Wild Space to hear ‘Sorry, your gift is leaving you slowly.’” “That might not be the answer,” Cassi countered. “She’s right,” Selu said. Milya walked up to Spectre and laid her hand on his arm. “Please,” she said. “Make the time. Talk to Revan and the others. Find out what’s wrong. For all of our sakes.” He looked at her for a minute, and then relented. “All right. I’ll go-but only after you get back from the trip,” he said to Milya. “Don’t want most of the Guard’s hierarchy to be gone and have Selu mess everything up.” “Funny,” Selu replied, smirking at Spectre’s joke, but then he joined the others in laughing good-naturedly at the teasing. “How long will you be gone?” Sarth asked. “I haven’t been keeping up with all the planning.” “We’ll be gone for two weeks,” Milya said. “I know Rhiannon can’t wait to go.” “It’ll be good for both of you,” Cassi said. “Mother and daughter, spending some alone together.” “Yeah,” Milya replied. “Force knows I never have time for that around here, especially with Selu running me into the ground with all this training for the trip. You know, Selu, we’re not going on the trip to practice being assaulted.” “Hey,” Selu answered. “I’m just trying to make sure you’re prepared in case anything does happen, Force forbid.” “Nothing wrong with precautions,” Spectre remarked. “Indeed,” Selu said. “Let’s go ahead and stretch down.” Slowly, he led the five of them through a series of cooldown exercises and stretches designed to transition them from the high-intensity workout and sparring they had been doing for the past two hours, down to the normal heart rate and muscular activity of their day-to-day lives. They didn’t often get to train like this due to their schedules, but they had specially made time to make their way to the large training room underneath Selu’s and Milya’s house, connected to all of their houses by underground passageways. Once they bid farewell to the others, Selu led Milya back up the staircase and through the thick blast doors-another security feature-back into their bedroom. A ten by six meter room, it was dominated by their sizable bed, but also contained wall-mounted storage units, a single dresser and a pair of desks, one for each of them. A small refresher station adjoined the room, as did a decently sized closet that contained a secret escape panel. Milya had decorated it after they had moved in, and Selu had had no objection to that. From his time in the Jedi Order, he had little use for personal possessions, with the few things he did possess resting largely on his stone desk. “Strange,” Selu mused as he closed the door behind Milya. “Spectre had no problem using the Force. Did you sense anything differently about him during your match?” “No,” Milya said. “There wasn’t anything unusual at all about him. He’s a little older and out of practice, so that might weaken him some, but he seemed as strong as ever, stronger since he started working with Adept Tashbed on those Matukai drills even.” “I know,” Selu said. “That’s what’s odd. Yet he seemed so weak on the Star Destroyer . . .” “We’ll figure it out,” Milya said as they entered the refresher station adjoining their bedroom. “How’s your stomach?” Selu asked. “Oh, it’s fine,” she replied flippantly. “Are you sure?” Selu said, layering his voice with innuendo. Coming behind her, he wrapped his arms around her slim body in a lover's embrace and buried his head in the disheveled mass of curly dark auburn locks as he spoke softly into her ear. “If you like, I could make it feel better.” “In that case,” Milya said flirtatiously. “I think I’m in considerable anguish and anything you could do to relieve that pain would be greatly appreciated.” “Well, first, I’m going to have to take a look,” Selu said, sliding his hands around her waist. He pulled her close, pushing her hair out of her face as he did so. Their lips met of their own accord, and nothing in the galaxy could tear them apart. Milya’s arms snaked around Selu’s neck as they prolonged the kiss as long as possible. Her eyes closed with sheer pleasure as she savored his taste. Finally, they broke. “How was that?” Selu asked softly, his lips still barely brushing hers. “Pretty good,” Milya said. “I think I might need another dose, though.” And then they kissed again, the expression of the pure and fully reciprocated love between them. Their marriage had endured for years but they still found new ways to express the passion that the other brought to their life. Milya had fully relaxed into the kiss, her eyes still shut, when slowly something started shimmering in her vision. She was vaguely puzzled at first, but refused to be distracted from the sensation of Selu’s lips against hers. However, the image swam more strongly into her mind, no matter how hard she tried to push it from her. Suddenly, involuntarily, she forgot all about Selu, all about their romantic moment, as her conscious mind was swept away to an entirely different setting, one that starkly contrasted with the intimacy she had been experiencing only minutes prior. She was standing alone on a grassy plain that stretched as far as the eye could see. The slender brown stalks of grass were up to her waist and the landscape appeared largely desolate. The sky was a pretty blue color, but she knew it wasn’t Yanibar. It didn’t smell or sound like that world. It didn’t feel like Yanibar. She walked forward uncertainly, unsure of her surroundings, unsure of how her consciousness had been transported here. The wind blew gently across the endless steppe and rippled across the fields, tugging at her hair as she walked. It was strangely quiet otherwise, but Milya had the sense she was not unaccompanied. Acting on instinct, she turned to see a diminutive gray-skinned alien standing before her. “Who are you?” she asked. The creature said nothing, but gestured at her hand, as if wanting to see it. Milya looked uncertainly at it-him?-and again the alien gestured at her hand. The look in his eyes was one of curiosity, but yet she felt vaguely uneasy with him. Finally, as if perplexed by her refusal, the creature hissed, and then turned to look over his shoulder behind him. Milya’s eyes followed his gaze to find that the ominous black-armored figure of Darth Vader, the Dark Lord of the Sith and Palpatine’s main enforcer, had materialized to stand behind the alien, stretching out his gloved fist to offer an ebony-hilted lightsaber to the alien. As Milya watched, the alien bowed before Vader and then accepted the weapon. Vader, silent as a stone except for his artificially filtered stentorian breathing, then pointed in her direction. Horrified, she watched as the alien turned on her, its dark eyes glinting. The lightsaber blazed to life as he lunged, the crimson-red blade stabbing through her-and then everything began spinning into a vortex of darkness. Milya saw stars faintly and then total darkness. When she awoke, there was something dark, warm, and heavy on her head. Fluttering her eyes, she looked up and realized it was Selu’s hand. She was lying on her bed and Selu was standing over her with an alarmed look on his face. “What happened?” he asked. “I’m not quite . . . sure,” she said, slowly at first as her mind tried to reorient itself from her dizzying experience. “I think it was a vision.” “What did you see?” Selu inquired. “I was on a planet, somewhere I’ve never been before. There was grassland as far as I could see, dull brown grass. And then there was this alien there . . .” “What species?” “I don’t know,” Milya said. “It was small, maybe a meter and a half, with gray skin. Bipedal for sure and probably predatory, but I can’t say beyond that.” “What did the alien do?” “He just stood there at first, gesturing at my hand. I couldn’t tell what he wanted. I don’t know how long he stood there, but then Darth Vader appeared behind him.” “Vader?” Selu said sharply. Having been at the Jedi Temple when Vader had begun his reign of terror as a Sith Lord, the name did not conjure up pleasant recollections for him. “Yes. The alien looked at Vader, who gave him a lightsaber. He took it and charged me and then-then everything went black.” “Was that all?” Selu asked gently. “Yes, that was it. I’m sure,” Milya said. “How long was I out?” “Just a few seconds,” Selu said. “I figured something was wrong when your eyes rolled back into your head and you went limp. You had me worried for a minute. Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” she replied. “Just a little dizzy. More worried about what that vision means.” “So am I,” Selu affirmed grimly. “Please, please tell me this wasn’t Force-related. That it was just something you ate, or that it’s in the distant future.” “I wish I could,” Milya said, shaking her head. “But we both know that’s not true. Why do you ask? You haven’t had problems with my visions before.” “Well, you usually don’t see impending doom,” Selu replied. “And more disturbingly, while the future might not be fixed, you’re pretty good at sensing it. Must be that whole seer thing.” “Is it that bad?” Milya said. “It could be,” Selu said worriedly. “How urgent did your vision feel?” “I’m not sure, Selu. It all happened rather fast.” “It’s important. Could you get a reference time?” he said doggedly. “No, I . . . no. I wasn’t wearing a chrono or anything and there wasn’t anyway to tell.” Selu sighed, a hint of exasperation creeping into his voice. Exhaling deeply, he tried again. “How did it feel? Did it feel urgent?” he said. “Don’t focus on the vision itself. Focus on how it made you feel. We know it’s in the future. The question is, how far?” Milya closed her eyes again, trying to tap into the Force for insight. The threads of energy began weaving together in her mind, crisscrossing and interconnecting to form a complex pattern of emotion related to the vision. Her senses stretched out to sample the subtle flavors and currents of the Force, investigating and probing for more information, reaching out to reconnect to the sensations she’d felt during her vision. Then suddenly, she had it-the feelings she had experienced during her premonition-and what she felt sent a chill down her spine. “It felt urgent,” she said slowly. “Very urgent.” “That’s what I’m afraid of. That’s what I’m afraid of.” “What does it mean?” Milya said, sitting up and sensing the worry in Selu’s voice. “What’s wrong?” “It means we have to find that alien soon-before Vader does,” Selu said staunchly. “I’m sure of it.” “Hold on, Selu,” Milya interjected. “The future isn’t fixed. I could be wrong about this. Maybe Vader won’t ever find this being. Maybe he won’t join Vader.” “Maybe,” Selu replied slowly as he turned to look her directly in the eyes. “But I doubt it.” “Why?” The look in his face changed as he considered his answer; to Milya, he seemed to grow ashen, as if preparing to deliver news of an impending catastrophe or had been completely horrified. When he spoke, his voice was but a hoarse whisper. “Because I saw the same thing not two days ago.” Somewhere in the Outer Rim, near Bespin The war fleet glided through the mottled starry blackness of deep space with quiet menace, seventeen ships in all. The formations lacked the rigid precision of that of the Galactic Empire, but this was no Rebel fleet either. No, idealistic vagabonds fighting against a tyrannical government were not to be found in their hard-bitten crews. The ships themselves were largely smallish affairs, but armed to the teeth and emblazoned with the same insignia. The thousands of tons of metal and machinery of those ships were instead guided by a mind devoted almost fully to selfish ambition, to the subtle twisting of worlds to suit his purposes. That mind was filled with grand schemes and ruthless determination. It was known for undertaking suicidal missions with a cool air, and for an absolutely merciless attitude. Its owner was well familiar with the arts of persuasion, bribery, and fully appreciated the beauty of a subtle knife-stroke into an unsuspecting back. While its owner hadn’t always luxuriated in such a large and overt war machine, that mind had been strengthened, made more resourceful, by the hardships and challenges of lacking brute strength. It was a devious mind, a cunning mind, a mind seeking nothing further than to invisibly extend its threads of influence across the galaxy in a web of durasteel. That mind belonged to Tyber Zann. The leader of the Zann Consortium, Zann had styled himself as the reigning criminal of the galaxy for some time now, backed by his hulking Talortai lieutenant Urai Fen and, more recently, the Nightsister witch Silri, skilled in use of the dark side of the Force. Having secured his release from a miserable Kessel prison some time before, the crime lord was now secure in his power. With the aid of Fen, he built the Zann Consortium into an organization that rivaled the size of a Hutt cartel and even challenges Prince Xizor’s Black Sun organization. Since his release, he embarked on a quest of galactic domination-yet domination is not the right word, for Tyber Zann did not style himself as the next Palpatine. He did, however, wish to make sure that his organization is the biggest akk dog in the underworld. Now, aboard a heavily modified Corellian Engineering Corporation Interceptor-class frigate, Zann plotted his next conquest from his sequestered lair on the cramped ship. The room was small, quiet, and dimly lit, filled with consoles that linked the crime lord to various databanks and operations across the galaxy. A simple rattan leather chair was sufficient to let him pore over his operations in silence, allowing him to concentrate. His holoscreen flickered as he scanned over hundreds of files, looking for the next daring raid for the Zann Consortium to undertake. His dark eyes, surrounded by long locks of silvery hair, darted back and forth across the display. At the moment, his mind was preoccupied with his chief rival: Xizor, the Falleen head of Black Sun. In Zann’s mind, any next step for the Consortium must include a way to somehow discredit or destroy Xizor and weaken Black Sun-preferably without looking obvious. Entranced to the point of being fully engrossed by the display, he didn’t notice the entrance of a sizable alien warrior; not even the opening and closing of the door averted his attention. “What is our next move?” the new arrival asked in a low rasp from the shadowy doorway. His name was Urai Fen, a vastly experienced and talented warrior of the Talortai race and for reasons that nobody knew or dared divulge, utterly loyal to Zann. He was Zann’s chief lieutenant and stood by the crime lord’s side when no one else would. Their understanding, and even friendship, was such that they did not bother with honorifics, nor did they need to. Such things might be the way of hierarchical societies like the Empire or the despotism of Black Sun, but Zann had little use for them. Having been rejected by-or rejecting-the Empire years earlier, he had no love for them. Nor did he have much love for anything. That would take room away from the ruthless pragmatism thrumming inside his skull tirelessly. “Xizor, in his never-ending cunning, has hired us for a little jaunt to Bespin,” Zann replied smoothly. His voice was roughened with age and a hard life, but there was iron in it, an unquenchable resolution in all his words, coated with a smooth register that was deceptively innocuous. “He hired us?” Urai inquired quizzically. It was no secret among the elite of the underworld that Zann had no great love for Black Sun, and the feeling was mutual. In fact, Zann and Xizor, the Fallen prince of Black Sun, were constantly scheming against the other. “No doubt it’s a trap,” Zann replied nonchalantly. “Or else, he is far too distracted playing power politics with the Empire to see our true nature.” “That would be most unlike him. He has proven talented in the past,” Fen observed. “Indeed, but not quite talented enough. Regardless of what his motives are, we’re going to set a trap for him this time. All we need to know is what he expects.” The crime lord sat quietly, concentrating, and Urai gave no reply. The Talortai warrior knew from long experience that Zann would share his thoughts when he was ready to. He shifted his weight from one foot to another, patiently waiting. “I have it,” Zann said, smiling with pleasure. “I know what Xizor’s plan is.” “What is it?” Urai asked. “He wants us to harm the Empire’s operations, so his own company, Xizor Transport Systems, will be asked to transport tibanna gas from Bespin while the Empire tries to recoup its losses. We’ll take the fall and subsequent Imperial retaliation, and he’ll take both the Empire’s business and the tibanna we steal.” “How do we turn on the tables on him?” Urai asked, his eyes glittering in the dim light. “Simple,” Zann answered after a minute more of thought. “We do exactly what Xizor once, except that we frame him for it. That way, when the Empire goes after him, we get the tibanna, and our payment. That’ll give us enough credits to acquire some real ships, not this undersized barge. Maybe our Mandalorian friends on Kedalbe can come up with something adequate.” “What of Xizor?” “In return, he gets the wrath of Palpatine.” The Talortai chuckled. “I suspect that he will know all too well what happens to those who cross the Emperor directly.” “Indeed. I would imagine that, if his species experiences dread, he will cross new thresholds when he discovers what has happened.” “If he finds out at all,” Urai remarked. “Of course,” Zann said, smiling thinly. “Prepare a small force to head down to Bespin. We won’t need the fleet. Just a few soldiers, some vehicles. Make sure they can fit inside a few disguised shuttles.” “It will be done. The Empire will have no idea we’re there until it is too late,” Urai replied, giving his longtime partner the Talortai equivalent of a smile. “By the time you’ve finished picking the assault force, I’ll have come up with a plan for accomplishing all our objectives. We’ll need to be careful with this, Urai. One slip-up, and both the Empire and Black Sun will know what we’ve done.” “Have I ever failed you before?” “We both know the answer to that.” “Then success will be ours.” The Talortai gave Zann a curt nod and headed out the door. Once he was gone, though, Zann returned his focus to the glowing screens, pulling up details of Bespin’s Cloud City, formulating and fomenting ideas of conquest for hours at a time. By the time he was finished, he knew exactly how to approach the challenge. He smiled. Thoughts of victory always brought that expression to his face. In only a few short days, Black Sun would be utterly discredited and the Zann Consortium’s rise to power would be a few more vital steps along. Tierfon Base Hasla Almani gingerly eased her cramped and aching body out of the confined spaces of the simulator cockpit. An Arkanian in her mid-twenties, Hasla’s average height and slim figure helped pass her off as several years younger, but gave her looks occasionally described to her as attractive. Not that she cared right now. Having just finished a harrowing three hours in the sim, she was looking forward to a nice hot shower to remedy her disheveled appearance and then maybe find something to eat. Her stomach rumbled at her. Make that definitely something to eat. Exiting the simulator, she pulled off her flight helmet to reveal her silver skin and pale gray chin-length hair, which was currently tied in a small ponytail behind her head. She loosed the tie holding the tangled mass together and her hair fell down loosely around her face, damp with perspiration. Hasla headed back to her quarters-reasonably spacious since her usual roommate was in the infirmary with a mild case of the Balmorra flu. She walked purposefully through the pilot’s lounge, a moderately-sized room filled with tables and chairs for off-duty or soon-to-be-on-duty pilots to relax and wait. One end was dominated by a small bar manned by a pair of service droids where starfighter pilots could get various forms of liquid refreshment once they were done with flying for the day. The walls were covered with bright posters to offset the dull gray walls. One of them had a pilot in full flight regalia superimposed on an image of Alderaan with “We Remember Alderaan!” splashed across it in red letters. Another had a grim-faced picture of the Emperor staring at a hologram of an X-wing, with a caption that read “He’s not laughing now!” on it. It was a place of camaraderie, of escape from the grueling and death-defying life of a starfighter pilot in the Rebel Alliance, on a base where quite often someone “didn’t make it back” and funerals were all too common. As she walked, Hasla heard someone whistle loudly and conspicuously at her as she walked by. It wasn’t the first time someone had done that to her-female pilots were rather rare on Tierfon Base-but for some reason, she decided to play along. Somewhat bemused at how anyone would find a shapeless orange flight suit and utterly mussed hair attractive, she turned to regard the whistler, a Human male with dark blond hair wearing a flight suit and what he imagined was a suave expression on his face, flanked by a pair of his friends, also male Humans and evidently starfighter jockeys as well. “What’re you whistling at, flyboy?” she asked casually. “I couldn’t tell quite tell,” the man replied. “All I know was that it was beautiful and moving fast.” “Is that so?” she answered, cocking an eyebrow at him and planting a gray-skinned arm on her hip. “It is,” he replied seriously, before continuing in a conspiratorial tone. “However, if I could just get a little closer look, I’d probably have a much better idea of what it was.” “I’m sure you would,” Hasla replied smoothly. “But then I’d be able to tell all the areas in which you’re lacking. Can’t say for sure, but it’s probably a lot of important ones.” The pilot stopped and stared at her in shocked disbelief, as if he wasn’t prepared for or used to the sudden rejection and insult. Then, one of his companions, a fair-skinned man with a handsome, youthful countenance and dark hair grinned and offered his hand to her. “Assuming you won’t bite it, I’m Wes. Lieutenant Wes Janson. This,” he said, indicating in turn to his two companions, a blond-haired man with a somewhat stern countenance and the dark-haired flirt, “is Tycho Celchu. We call him Tycho. And this ugly brute who’s still coming to grips with being insulted by a woman yet again is Derek Klivian. We call him Hobbie. Or ‘Hey, ugly!’ Don’t worry about him, he’ll get over it in a minute.” Hasla took his hand in the proffered handshake, giving him a firm handshake. “I’m sure it’s not the first time,” she said, referring to Hobbie. “I’m Seirla Trasani. Nice to meet you.” She shook each of their hands in turn, even Hobbie’s, who grinned good-naturedly at her, taking the jesting in stride as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. “Got a few minutes to waste with some poor X-wing pilots who’ve been wandering out in deep space and simulator missions for too long?” Janson asked. Hasla thought about it for a minute, then smiled and sat down at their table. “Sure,” she said. “But only if you cover the pretty girl’s lomin-ale.” “Hobbie’ll get her tab,” Janson replied merrily. “He’s obliged to, since you’re making up for his homeliness.” “Hey,” Hobbie retorted. “Speak for yourself.” “So, you’re not going to buy me a drink?” Hasla interjected, her blue eyes sparkling merrily. “There goes your chances.” Hobbie flushed red and ducked his head. “I’ll cover it,” he muttered, signaling the waitdroid to bring her a lomin-ale. “Good man,” Janson crowed. “At least some of the time. I take back all the mean things Tycho ever said about you.” Hobbie shot Janson a betrayed look, but had no ready reply for that. “What outfit are you with?” Hasla asked, accepting the foam-topped glass of lomin-ale from the service droid. A smirk creased Janson’s face, as if he had been waiting for her to ask that question. “Rogue Squadron,” he said, enunciating each syllable as if they had sacred importance. “Rogue Squadron?!” Hasla said, choking on her ale and sending foam flying. “No way.” From their laughing, she suspected it was a common reaction and that Janson had timed his response to perfectly coincide with her drinking in order to elicit precisely that reaction. “The one and only,” Janson said gleefully. “Just got back from a classified mission to Koth-,” Tycho shot Janson a warning look and the merry-faced lieutenant quickly altered his story. “-somewhere else.” “Sounds fascinating,” she replied, aware that he had been within microns of saying Kothlis. She filed the factoid away for future reference; it might be useful. “Oh, it was,” Hobbie answered. “We only came within micrometers of death a hundred times.” “Is that all?” Hasla replied casually, belying how impressed she was. To say that Rogue Squadron was a famous starfighter unit was only a mild understatement. The group had been formed by Rebel heroes Luke Skywalker and Wedge Antilles out of the survivors of the pilots who took down the Death Star, and had gained acclaim at numerous engagements across the galaxy with tales of their derring-do and accomplishment in the fight against the Empire. They were emblems of courage for the entire Alliance, and, Hasla admired them. Envied them sometimes, even. “It was nothing,” Janson said. “How about you? Who do you fly with?” “Ice Squadron,” she said. “B-wings.” “Ah, that was you in the sim we were trying to kill,” Hobbie said merrily. “The proper word being trying,” Hasla shot back automatically. “Wait. Were you flying the TIEs?” “He and Tycho were,” Janson said. “Sometimes the planners like us to play the opposition and give us inferior craft. Helps keep us sharp even without all of our usual advantages. See the mission from the other perspective.” “So, then all of you’re going on the mission tomorrow?” Hasla asked. “That’s what it’s looking like,” Janson said. “We’re supposed to be flying cover assuming we don’t get sent off on some other mission.” “Oh good. Then you can get shot at while we do all the real work,” she answered impishly. “If you only knew,” Hobbie said dourly. “Is it true that you’ve flown with Commander Skywalker?” Hasla said, excitement glimmering in her eyes. Tycho and Janson exchanged looks. “Yeah, we’ve both flown with him.” Janson answered. “Is he at Tierfon Base now?” she asked. Another exchange of looks. “No, he’s not,” Tycho said. “He does a lot of special assignments and things.” Hasla knew she wouldn’t be able to keep her obvious relief at that answer from being evident on her face, but managed to pass it off as disappointment. “Too bad,” she said. “I would’ve liked to meet him.” “Huh. Yet another Rebel heart falling for Luke Skywalker, Hero of the Galaxy,” Hobbie said, rolling his eyes. “No,” she corrected him tritely. “I need to ask him how he puts up with you.” Hobbie shot her a surprised and hurt look, but he had no ready reply. Tycho chuckled softly and Janson gave a low whistle, a gesture of admiration. “Her, I like,” Janson said. “We should go ask Wedge if he can con her into our ranks.” “I dunno,” she said. “I’m rather attached to Ice Squad. And the B-wing.” Tycho snorted. “What’s so funny?” she asked. “Don’t you have them in the Rogues?” “Sometimes,” he said. “They’re not that great, though. It might look fancy, but it’s slower than a cargo barge. You were Ice Eight, right?” “That’s me,” she admitted. “I saw you fly,” Tycho said, leaning in to fully join the conversation. “You have the reflexes for something much faster. You should try an A-wing or X-wing. You’ll fly circles around TIE fighters in an A-wing.” “That’s our Tycho,” Janson chuckled. “A speed maniac to the end. But seriously, we could talk to Wedge-uh, that’s Commander Antilles, I guess-for you. He’s an understanding guy every once in awhile.” It was, she understood, an invitation into their ranks, a welcoming into their elite circle, and she almost regretted having to decline it. Even her kidding with Hobbie was only in jest and she inwardly wished she had the freedom to take them up on their offer. However, she had other obligations, to her squad and elsewhere. “I’d love to take you up on that,” she said. “But my squadron needs me. They’d be broken-hearted if I abandoned them for some dashing X-wing jockeys.” “Oooh, so we’re dashing now?” Hobbie said, perking up somewhat. “Well, Tycho and Janson are. They make up for you,” she fired back good-naturedly. They all had a good laugh over that one, except Hobbie, who ducked his head and grinned at the ribbing directed his way. Hasla glanced at her wrist chrono, and was startled to see that nearly twenty minutes had passed. “Look at the time,” she said, draining her ale. “I’ve gotta run.” “Aww,” Janson grumbled facetiously. “But you were doing so well with Hobbie here.” “Maybe some other time,” Hasla replied smoothly, but with a tinge of genuine regret. “See you around,” Tycho put in. “May the Force be with you.” “It has been so far,” she said with a light shrug. “Same to you.” With that, she sauntered off back towards her quarters. Inwardly, though, she was chuckling at the irony of her last statement. If they only knew. Once she had made her way through the dizzying maze of corridors back to her quarters-conveniently near the starfighter hangars and placed underground to minimize damage from bombardment-she quickly ditched her pleasant-but-tired Rebel starfighter pilot demeanor and ran a quick but thorough sweep of her room for listening devices, cameras, or other surveillance techniques. Satisfied that there weren’t any, she turned on the shower just in case, in order to confound any audio scramblers. As it turned out, Hasla Almani, alias Seirla Trasani, was not in the sole employ of the Rebellion. In fact, she was a member of the Elite Guardian, a small body of highly versatile, highly trained Force-sensitive individuals that operated outside of the generic Yanibar Guard structure. Trained in the ways of the Matukai since she was a child, her Force powers were not as strong as the Jedi had once been reputed to have been, but granted her a significant edge in combat and a natural acting ability had made her a natural for undercover missions. She had been attached to Intelligence for some time, owing to her friendship with the director and had volunteered for this mission, and although some sense of camaraderie had developed between her and the Rebels, she was still first and foremost an Elite Guardian. The mission came first. Pulling up her datapad, she entered several random combinations of characters onto the screen, which pulled up a menu flashing “Insert key.” Carefully, she focused her mind on the Force, concentrating as hard as she could on a particularly incongruous patch on the inside of the datapad, a patch that could only be opened from the inside. It popped open, revealing a small wafer that she slid into a slot on the datapad. The device beeped, allowing her to access previously concealed information. Her eyes browsed over various categories of information: schematics, general intelligence, journal . . . She highlighted the journal entry and pulled it up, entering in her activities and findings for the day. Once she was away from Tierfon Base, the analysts would go through it to see if there was anything interesting to be gleaned from her findings. Once she was satisfied with the entry, checking it over to make sure it was somewhat coherent, she decided to indulge in the shower and meal she had promised herself, but doubts about the next day’s mission plagued her. Oh, sure, she’d been to the briefings. She knew how flawless it was supposed to be-a quick shoot ‘em up raid on the Imperial ships guarding the Abridon shipyards. Their distraction would be enough to allow the Rebels to land additional reinforcements in support of local partisans fighting against the Empire on the ground, and would hopefully cause some damage. Two squadrons of X-wings were supposed to fly cover for Ice and Giant squadrons, B-wing and Y-wing units respectively, while three or four larger Rebel ships launched assaults of their own in hopes of paving the way for capture of the shipyards. They wouldn’t be doing that tomorrow, though-just softening things up. They’d hit the Imps, distract them so the transports could land, and get out of there. There was one catch, though. Hasla wasn’t supposed to be at that battle. Her mission had been to successfully retrieve the full schematics and technical readouts of the B-wing fighter, as well as get a pilot’s opinion of it, and she had done a good job of that over the last six months. Only a few days ago, she had managed to find a copy of the manufacturing model used to produce the starfighters, which was bonus, and get a full set of prints. The fact that she was now flying in one meant that she was supposed to disappear en route to a mission, allegedly due to a navicomputer error, and return to a rendezvous point to meet up with Yanibar Guard units for debriefing. It was a simple plan, and entirely negated her risking her life in battle. However, the more and more she thought about it, the less she liked the idea of abandoning the Rebels and her unit. Sure, they weren’t on the same side entirely-at least not openly, and she had no love for Luke Skywalker after hearing about what his father had done and become-but they were people fighting for a cause they dearly believed in. Their determination was infectious, and moreover, these were people she had laughed with, cried with, and fought alongside. She’d been decorated twice for valor by the Alliance, but at the cost of several people she’d come to regard as friends. Leaving all that, admitting that it was all a lie, would be . . . difficult. Hasla recalled that one of the first instructions for an intelligence agent in deep cover was not to get emotionally involved and she ruefully realized she had broken that rule some time ago. How would her squadron react? They’d be surprised, confused even. Without her there, some of them might lose their nerve in combat. The mission might fail as a result-but it was not her mission. The fate of the Rebellion, of these people, was not supposed to be her concern. Hasla continued to wrestle with the question through the shower, through her belated dinner and all through the night. She was thankful she had solo quarters-Tierfon Base was light on pilots right now-so she could argue with herself in peace. She finally decided that she should probably get some sleep for the next day’s flight, she managed to slip under covers and, after some time, drifted off to a sleep plagued with dreams of fallen Rebel pilots and comrades looking accusingly at her, all whispering the same word: “Faithless.”
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