| abstract
| - A lone individual stared out of the rear viewport of the massive warship’s bridge, disconsolately surveying the receding scene. Despite commanding all the firepower and majesty of a powerful, relatively new Star Destroyer, itself surrounded by dozens of other warships also under his flag, he felt vulnerable, wounded, drained. The Mon Mothma’s bridge was no comfort to him, not when he considered what had been lost, what had been left behind. Though to the rest of the crew, he kept his features appropriately heavy, yet schooled behind rigid emotional restraint, that mask now slipped. His brows were knitted together in anguish as he gazed back at the location of the New Republic’s latest defeat. Age and stress had made their mark on his face, and he bore the strain on every battle, every tense engagement visibly. The slight graying at his temples was accentuated now by the ruffled state of his mostly dark brown hair, and his brown eyes were filled with mourning, the dark circles around them indicating sleep deprivation and battle stress. His New Republic Defense Force officer’s uniform was sweat-stained and rumpled, but he scarcely noticed his disarray. Normally, his stamina and optimism kept him buoyed even in the most strenuous of situations, now, something had snapped inside of him—something deep. To those who knew him, it was obvious he was suffering, that his heart was bereaved, and it took the greatest of efforts for him not to slide all the way past the event horizon of his grief into an abyss of despair. As he looked back at the receding view, a tall, blond-haired man also wearing an officer’s uniform silently slipped up to his side, his own countenance similarly melancholy. The first man, a bit shorter than the new arrival, slowly turned to regard the new arrival, then returned his gaze to the viewport. When the first spoke, his voice was soft, his tones muted, filled with regret, but not loud enough to convey that message beyond earshot of his companion. “How did it come to this, Tycho?” he asked. The other joined in looking back at the viewport, making no reply for a moment. The two haggard men stood there quietly, taking it all in. “We’ve come from behind before,” the other replied, a bit more resolve in his voice. “It won’t be the first time.” “I’m not sure I can do it anymore,” the first man said slowly, carefully weighing each of his words. “They just keep coming. No matter what we do-no matter how many we battles we fight-there’s always more.” “You’re worried about Iella, aren’t you, Wedge?” Tycho mused. Wedge turned back to regard his fellow officer, former wingman, and longtime friend even as his thoughts went to his wife, whose whereabouts and those of their two daughters, were completely unknown to Wedge. “Yes,” he said, a haunted look in his face. “I am.” “She’ll be fine,” Tycho replied firmly, laying a reassuring hand on Wedge’s shoulder. “Her and the girls.” “I wish I could agree with you,” Wedge said with a small shake of his hand. “But I can’t shake the image of them being captured-or worse.” “Then don’t think about it,” Tycho urged him. “You’ll see them again soon. Right now, we need you. You’re one of the few people who can pull us out of this mess.” “Am I?” Wedge asked. “What a great job I’ve done so far.” “You should listen to yourself,” Tycho said. “You sound like a squadron leader who just lost his first engagement.” “It’s not just a battle, Tycho,” Wedge countered quietly. “Look.” “I know,” Tycho said. “And I know I have no room to talk—Winter’s safe on Mon Calamari. If I were you, I’d be eaten up with grief right now, too. But, if I were you, then you’d be me. And if you were me, you’d be urging to get my head back into the fight. To do what only you can do best and rally us behind you.” “Yeah,” Wedge agreed eventually, his spirits lifting a little. “I suppose you’re right.” “Out-of-the-box thinking,” Tycho said. “A Rogue Squadron specialty,” “Impossible’s our stock-in-trade,” Wedge added, the smallest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he remembered the old cocky motto. He glanced back out the viewport. “We’re going to need to pull off the impossible, if we’re going to survive,” Wedge said, a hint of steel slipping into his voice. “I’ve got your wing,” Tycho said. “What’s our next move?” Wedge mused quietly, contemplating the matter. His eyes stayed fixed on the scene that lay behind them, calculating the next possible strategy. Then, something flickered in his eyes, the spark of an idea. It was the same glow that had fueled his determination in the darkest days of the Rebellion. He smiled grimly, rubbing at the stubble on his chin that he’d not had the time to shave off in who-knew-how-long. “We’re about to take another lesson from the Rogues,” Wedge said. “Which one is that?” Tycho asked, curiosity evident in his voice. “We’re going to Borleias,” Wedge said. “It was the Vong’s staging point to assault Coruscant. Now, we’re going to use it to regroup.” “And there probably won’t be much of a garrison there,” Tycho said, reflecting on the choice. “Not to mention that it’s close enough for us to see some action, fight back some, while giving us room to run if they come at us with overwhelming numbers. I like it.” “I’m glad you approve,” Wedge said, nodding gratefully to his comrade. “Just one favor.” “What’s that?” Tycho asked. “Write up the order for me,” Wedge said. “I’ll authorize it, but I . . . need some time.” “Certainly, General,” Tycho said. “Take all the time you need.” “Thanks, Tycho,” Wedge said quietly. Tycho walked off to carry out his superior’s orders, while Wedge remained motionless, continuing to stare at the scene, as if wanting to make sure it was etched in his mind’s eye for weeks to come. He maintained that gaze even as the New Republic vessels around his ship, the Mon Mothma, began to make an orderly jump to hyperspace, bound for Borleias. Only when the Mon Mothma itself reached lightspeed did he turn away, focusing his eyes and mind on other things. Behind them, Coruscant burned. Socorro “In position,” came the muted voice through Ryion’s earpiece comlink. “Acknowledged,” he murmured in reply. “Stand by.” A fairly average-looking Human with little to distinguish him save for his sharp, restless eyes and shoulder-length auburn hair, Ryion Kraen was crouched on the rooftop of one of the numerous sandstone buildings dotting the city of Vakeyya. He was peering through the scope of an S-5X silenced sniper rifle, gazing intently at a door tucked away in a particularly unsavory alley. He was garbed like the natives in loose, dark robes that allowed him to blend in, and to keep his rifle case hidden underneath them without it showing obtrusively. He was also the mission leader for a covert operation, and one that showed no signs of catastrophe as of yet. He decided to proceed with the next step of the operation, keying his comlink with one hand while he kept the other on the resting on the trigger guard of the rifle. “Go ahead,” he told her. As he watched through the scope, a red-skinned female Lethan Twilek in a delivery girl’s costume sauntered up to the door with a large parcel. She rapped lightly on the metal door built into the stone walls, then stepped back, waiting for an answer. After a second, the door hissed open to reveal a pair of surly Humans, one of whom had his hand shoved deep into his robe, probably on the grip of a blaster. Ryion watched the brief exchange of words, then the Twi’lek handed over her package, stamped with the logo of a popular local quick food vendor. One of the men rummaged around inside it for a moment, then grunted and took it inside. The other tossed the Twi’lek a credcoin, then the door hissed closed. Ryion smiled. Qedai had done her job perfectly. Though she was the team’s weapons and demolitions expert, Qedai also knew how to use her lithe body to attract attention when she needed to. In this case, her conversation had apparently distracted the two men long enough for her to ‘accidentally’ slip a small listening device inside the room. “We have a feed,” came another female voice through his comlink. That was Ariada Cerulaen, the blue-skinned Wroonian who specialized in medicine and electronics. She was also Ryion’s girlfriend, though that wasn’t allowed to interfere with their missions by mutual accord. “I hope they’re talking about more than just those tomo-spiced ribenes,” Ryion replied. “Anything interesting?” “Oh, not yet,” Ariada replied dismissively. “You’ll probably have to wait for another three hours to hear anything good.” “That’s fine, I don’t have any other engagements tonight,” Ryion answered flippantly, though inwardly he was groaning at the thought of three more hours on the roof. Even at dusk, Socorro’s heat was oppressive and though nightfall would bring some relief from the warmth, Ryion was miserable in his long robes. He knew they would keep him from burning in the sun and conceal his identity, but they were far too cumbersome for his liking. And there was always the chance that he would be spotted. As it turned out, Ariada’s prediction was just about right. It was two and a half hours after the listening device was planted that their targets began to talk about anything interesting. “Heads up, Lead,” Ariada told him. “Finally something better than a bunch of gossip about someone’s girlfriend’s sister.” “What, they’re talking about their mother-in-laws?” Ryion asked. “Not quite,” Ariada answered. “Even better. I’ve got a nice recording of Peace Brigade plans and exactly how they’re going to turn over this planet to the Yuuzhan Vong.” “Dirty collaborationists,” Qedai chimed in over the comnet. “I’ll never understand them.” Ryion couldn’t either. The Peace Brigade was a loose organization of mercenaries, traitors, and general riffraff who pursued a collaborationist policy with the Yuuzhan Vong invaders. They were no friends of Jedi either, and while Ryion and his team couldn’t technically classify themselves as Jedi, he doubted the Peace Brigaders would share the perspective. Or the Yuuzhan Vong. Now came the tricky part of the operation. “Do you have enough incriminating evidence?” Ryion asked. “Got it,” Ariada said. “Get set for phase two,” Ryion told the rest of the members of his team. As far as he could tell, the men inside the building were the central Peace Brigade cell on Socorro. While there were others scattered around, these were the planners here, based on the intelligence they had acquired. If they could be neutralized, the Peace Brigade operations here would be set back significantly. What bothered Ryion, though, was how small the group was. His lifeform scanners hadn’t picked up more than eight people inside the building, which was low. They had to have support somewhere else, or the Peace Brigade was either understaffed or overconfident. Ryion hoped it was either of the latter two possibilities. “Lead, I’ve got two people approaching the front door,” Qedai informed him quietly from her position around the back where she’d swapped her food service disguise for a beggar’s robe. “I think they’re disguised Yuuzhan Vong. I can’t get a sense for them.” One of the most mystifying things about the invading Yuuzhan Vong had been their utter invisibility in the Force. Force-users like Ryion and his team could not sense or affect them using the Force, and the Yuuzhan Vong had shown a particular antipathy towards Force-users in kind. Of course, their presence here indicated Vong interest in this world and answered the question as to why there were relatively few Peace Brigaders here. “Got him,” Ryion said, dropping the aiming reticle onto one of the two aliens. The Yuuzhan Vong had biotechnology for everything, including form-fitting disguises that made them appear Human, but the fact that Ryion couldn’t sense them in the Force meant they were certainly Yuuzhan Vong. Large even in disguise, they walked slowly over to the building he had been observing, clearly checking for surveillance. Too bad for them they didn’t look up, he thought, though he doubted they could have seen him in the murky darkness of twilight. “Change of plans,” he said, sighting in. “We take them down, then go in before they can reseal the doors. Same entrance vectors.” A trio of comlink clicks told him his team had acknowledged the order. Ryion checked his sights and windage one last time, then planted the aiming reticle right on the base of the Yuuzhan Vong’s neck. He hadn’t actually fought Yuuzhan Vong before, but reports from other agents indicated they were much harder to kill than the average Human. Ryion wanted to make sure he dropped this one with the first shot. His finger cracked on the trigger and the sniper rifle let loose with a soft whirr-chirp, shooting a tungsten-durasteel slug at subsonic speeds into the Yuuzhan Vong. The alien was knocked forward as black blood sprayed from the wound, but somehow managed to catch himself on the doorframe. Simultaneously, Ryion saw Ariada burst from cover in an abandoned cellar, firing her silenced S-5XS at the other Yuuzhan Vong. At least four smaller metal slugs hit the alien, but though he staggered, he remained upright, reaching for a weapon. Ryion didn’t waste his time firing again, though. The metallic slugs that were capable of punching through most bone and soft tissues, apparently weren’t as lethal against the Yuuzhan Vong. Instead, he pulled a disk-shaped weapon sporting four lethal blades on its outer rim and hurled it down at the Yuuzhan Vong, guiding its flight with the Force. The discblade caught the alien Ariada had shot across the neck, dropping him to the ground. By that time, Ariada had finished off the other one with a tight cluster of shots to the back of the head. Unfortunately, the Peace Brigaders had managed to reseal the door, though that wouldn’t be much more than a temporary obstacle. More dangerous was the possibility that they would sound the alarm or get away. Ryion alighted quietly next to the door, then touched his comlink while Ariada deployed a breaching charge. “Go,” he said. Ariada pressed a button and the door exploded inward. Ryion heaved a stun grenade inside, waited for the bang of its detonation, then moved into the building, lightsaber in one hand, S-5XS silenced sidearm in the other. Ariada was right behind him, her pistol also at the ready. However, none of the Peace Brigaders were up for a fight. Most of them were on the ground, clutching their ears, obviously dazed. Across the room, Ryion saw Qedai enter similarly armed and nodded. Together, the three silently checked the few rooms for any sign of resistance but all the Peace Brigaders had gathered in the main room and had thus all been hit by the stun grenade. “Clear,” Ryion announced, returning his weapons to his belt. “Good work,” Qedai said. “Bring the Yuuzhan Vong bodies inside,” Ryion told her. “Ariada, stand guard while she does it. Don’t want anyone to notice.” “What about the bloodstains?” Qedai asked. “Throw some sand on it for now,” Ryion answered. “I don’t want to try a dispersant when we don’t even know what their blood chemistry is like.” She nodded and the two women moved out to carry out the task while Ryion set up a ylannock kit and disarmed the Peace Brigaders. He set up the injectors with practiced ease, finishing just as Qedai and Ariada finished their grisly assignment. “Any sign of trouble?” he asked. “No,” Qedai told him. “The people who picked this place wanted somewhere out of the way and they got it. Haven’t seen anyone.” “Good,” Ryion said. One of the Peace Brigaders groaned and began to stir. “They’ll be awake pretty soon,” Ryion said. “Masks on.” All three of them pulled on hoods and masks, leaving just their eyes exposed as the Peace Brigaders woke up. Lightsabers were discreetly hidden away; it wouldn’t do to inform the Peace Brigade that their captors were apparently Jedi. Ryion set his jaw firmly, knowing that even though he had no intention of harming them further, he couldn’t let them know that. His face hardened as he mentally steeled himself for what he had to do. “Did you have a good nap?” he asked. One of them sat up, rubbing his head, then reached for his blaster as he realized what had happened. Of course, it wasn’t there, which was a good thing for them since he was looking down the barrel of Qedai’s pistol. “I’ll take that as a no,” Ryion commented wryly. “No need to get antsy. Just tell us what we want to know and you’ll be fine. Who’s your leader?” A particularly pudgy Peace Brigader had already recovered some of his surliness even as he sat up. Sticking his jaw out defiantly, he spat out a quick retort. “The kriff we’ll tell—,” he began, but Ryion took the retort as an invitation to intensify the questioning with this particular volunteer. Glowering fiercely behind his mask, he returned his sidearm to its boot sheath, then reached down and hauled the man up bodily, slamming him into the wall. “This is how this works,” Ryion said with the same affable manner as before, belying the ferocity in his expression. “I don’t have time for your stupidity, so if you’re not going to tell me anything, you’re useless to us. And if you’re useless to us, you end up like them.” He briefly removed one hand from the man’s collar to point at the two Yuuzhan Vong corpses crumpled in the corner. The Peace Brigader’s eyes widened as he identified the bodies. “Friends of yours?” Ryion asked flippantly. “Well, they won’t be saving you any time soon. They went down with barely a fight, so don’t think you’ll do much better. Now, who’s your leader?” “He is!” stammered one of the Peace Brigaders, pointing to a tall lean Human with long greasy hair dyed bright green. Ryion dropped his unfortunate prisoner and whirled on the indicated man. “Shut up!” replied Green Hair, but it was too late. “You should thank him,” Ryion told him with false politeness. “He just saved your lives, at least for now.” “I got nothing to say ta you,” Green Hair spat out. “How did you get to be the leader with such terrible decision-making skills?” Ryion demanded with forced patience. The pistol was back in his hand now and pointed right in the man’s face. “You’ll kill us anyway,” Pudgy broke in. “Don’t tell him anything.” “The manner in which that death occurs has yet to be decided,” Ryion said, his mask of reasonability slipping in light of their obstinacy, “and it is possible that you get to leave here alive and with all your body parts, but only if I hear some extremely truthful answers to all of my questions right kriffing now!” The last words were roared full-force at the startled Peace Brigaders and they finally seemed intimidated. “All right, all right, what do you want to know?” Green Hair asked. “That’s much better,” Ryion encouraged them. “How many Peace Brigaders are on Socorro?” “About-about fifty,” he answered sulkily. “And Yuuzhan Vong?” “Just the two that I know of.” “Oh come on,” Ryion scoffed. “A world in their invasion corridor with only two agents? Do you think I was born yesterday?” “No, no, they’re not planning on invading any time soon, at least they haven’t told us anything about it,” the man pleaded. “The invasion isn’t headed here, at least not yet!” “And so then why are you fine gentlemen here?” Ryion asked. “We’re trying to secure spice deliveries, maybe check on a few things locally.” The man’s deception was easily caught and sifted through the Force, as if his body language wasn’t enough. “Do you take me for a fool?” Ryion shouted, projecting annoyance into his voice. “You have two Yuuzhan Vong and fifty Peace Brigaders to deliver spice and investigate a world that’s not going to be invaded? You have to be more incompetent than the Senate if you expect me to believe that.” “Okay, okay, we were going to try and persuade the Socorrans to surrender without a fight. If that didn’t work, we’d report all the important defensive positions to the agents,” Green Hair said, spilling the information as quickly as possible to avoid further remonstration from his angered captor. “Better,” Ryion said, but then pointed his S-5XS at them again. “I have just one last question. Where are the Yuuzhan Vong headed next?” “I-I don’t know that,” Green Hair protested. “We couldn’t possibly know that!” “I don’t believe you,” Ryion said blandly. “Perhaps you need some additional persuasion?” “Wait, no!” Green Hair called as Ryion lifted his weapon. “I heard them ask if this world would help flank Bothan space. They’re trying to encircle Bothawui, cut it off completely! I don’t know any more than that!” “Very good,” Ryion told him. “And now, here’s why you shouldn’t have tried lying to us. Receive your freedom.” A wave of his gloved hand and eight injectors floated from the table, levitating at Ryion’s mental command. “Jedi!” one of them whispered hoarsely. “Something like that, but not quite,” Ryion countered off-handedly. “We don’t play by the same rules.” “You said-you said you wouldn’t kill us!” Green Hair exclaimed. “I did,” Ryion answered evenly. “I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to knock you out, erase the last six months of your memory, and leave you here for your Yuuzhan Vong masters to discover. Wait until they discover your amnesia and the bodies of their agents; I’m sure they’ll be thrilled.” Before they could voice any further complaints, Ryion gestured as an outward extension of his telekinetic control and the ylannock injectors shot forward to land in the necks of each of the still-woozy Peace Brigaders. They soon slumped over, all except Green Hair, who managed to pluck his injector out before it could finish emptying. “Hush,” Ryion said, striding over to him and snatching the injector. The man tried to fight back, but Ryion quickly overpowered him with a swift wrist lock. Standing behind the man while immobilizing his arms, Ryion used one hand to stab the injector into his neck and finish the ylannock injection. “Don’t worry,” he said soothingly to the man. “It’ll all be over soon. Ignorance is bliss.” The man struggled for a few more seconds, then his eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he sank to the ground. “Well,” Ryion said disapprovingly, dropping the edge from his voice, “that’s over with.” “Let’s get out of here,” Qedai suggested. They did so, taking care to first sanitize the building of any DNA traces or fingerprints they left using a special solution and a modified scanner that Ariada had brought along. Then, the three Yanibar Guard agents quietly slipped out of the building to the speeder where the fourth member of the team, Zeyn Kraen, had been waiting for them while surreptitiously watching over the intrusion. After a quick stop to retrieve Ryion’s rifle, they headed back to the spaceport to their ship, having successfully accomplished their first mission that involved actual Yuuzhan Vong. Ord Pardron The tarnished silver protocol droid whirred into the crowded, litter-strewn office bearing another tray of datacards to the room’s sole occupant, a short Human woman whose blond hair was now streaked with gray. Not that she would have cared; just like the rest of the dingy temporary room that served as an office, she was dirty and bedraggled. Her clothes were stained and worn, her hair unkempt, her face smudged. Nor did she even seem to notice the droid’s entrance; her attention was otherwise occupied by the datapad she was slouched over. “Are all the prefab shelters set up, J7?” she asked the droid without even looking up. “Yes, Mistress,” the droid replied tiredly. “How about the grain distribution? Is it underway?” “Not yet, Mistress,” J7 told her. “The primary unloading mechanism was damaged during transit and the mechanics estimate that it’ll be ready by tomorrow morning at the earliest.” “Are they working on it now?” she asked, a bit snappishly. “Of course they are,” the droid soothed her gently. “They have rotating shifts trying to repair it even as we speak.” “Sorry for snapping at you. It’s not your fault that the distributor broke.” “The apology is unnecessary, Mistress,” J7 reassured her. The woman ran her hand through her tousled hair, noting ruefully how tangled and stringy the locks were. She stood up quickly, then immediately regretted it as a starburst of pain exploded in her temple. She clasped a hand to her head, grimacing as she tried to stem the pounding in her skull. “Mistress Cassi, are you okay?” J7 asked her. “I’m fine,” she managed. “Just a bit of a headache from the thin air.” “Hmm,” the droid frowned. “You seem to be dehydrated and fatigued. Might I suggest—,” Cassi cut him off before he could finish. “I’ll be fine, J7, but thank you,” she said politely but firmly. “There are ten thousand refugees in this camp alone that have far more pressing needs than a little thirst and a headache.” “Yes, of course,” J7 demurred, “But you cannot do anything to assist them if your own needs are not met.” “I’ll get a good night’s sleep tonight,” Cassi assured the droid. Cassi Trealus Kraen flopped back down in her creaky, worn chair and began poring over another distribution list for the next Open Hands transport due to arrive. She had founded the Open Hands charity three years after the Galactic Civil War had ended, seeking to provide food, water, and medical treatment to inhabitants of the Outer Rim and Wild Space between the Corellian Run and the Rimma Trade Route whose homes had been ravaged by the war. The New Republic had largely neglected those regions, just like the Empire and the Republic before it had, and Cassi had been the driving force behind securing some of Yanibar’s prosperity for charitable causes. After a few Council meetings, her plan had been approved, though her assets were admittedly limited. Yanibar was relatively prosperous compared to the impoverished nearby worlds, but it could not provide enough food and materials to fully assist dozens of other planets. It was a struggle just getting regular shipments of food to colonies that were experiencing shortages and bacta was prohibitively expensive to buy even in small sums. All that had been before the Yuuzhan Vong War. With the influx of millions of refugees fleeing the invasion corridors, Open Hands had tried to set up makeshift refugee camps and provide food to some of the unfortunates who had escaped the Yuuzhan Vong with just the clothes on their backs. Donations from corporate sponsors and planetary governments had also fallen sharply in light of significantly increased defense spending, leaving Cassi and Open Hands with more mouths to feed and less to feed them with than ever. Such a bleak situation might have broken lesser people, caused them to give up the staggering task, but Cassi only became more resolute with each new obstacle. One unfortunate side effect was that she was often offworld to coordinate new refugee camp constructions. She had at her disposal a small fleet of sizable transports that used to belong to the Yanibar Guard and the ships were capable of ferrying food, medical supplies, and enough building materials and construction droids to set up a refugee camp that could hold a few thousand. However, the ships were ancient and ate up maintenance time and spare parts—two of them had had to be cannibalized for spare parts. Moreover, due to communication protocols, Cassi could not coordinate more than a single site at a time and finding other skilled dedicated volunteers was difficult. Thus, she spent a week or so on each new planet setting up camps, in between meetings and conferences with various leaders to try and solicit more aid. It would have been easier if Cassi had allowed the Yanibar Guard Intelligence to station its agents inside Open Hands. The Council had been prepared to grant her access to two engineering teams—a full 120 individuals trained and equipped to handle tasks like setting up and provisioning camps—but only if she let YGI insert its agents into the charity. She had refused to allow Open Hands to compromise its integrity and become a front organization for YGI, which already had several others scattered throughout the Outer Rim, but the extra manpower and equipment, not to mention training, would have been very useful. She sighed as she read another letter of regret from a Ryloth-based company apologizing for not being able to supply any more credits to Open Hands due to their own suffering in business. It was typical; as soon as trouble hit, charitable donations were the first item to be cut from corporate budgets. Cassi knew it was selfish to expect companies and worlds facing annihilation to keep doling out donations, but at the same time, she was sitting on a planet surrounded by need with precious little to alleviate the suffering. There was a clatter beside her as J7 slid a tray loaded with a protein packet, some kind of crunchy ration bar, and several other comestibles that Cassi was sure had been packaged, processed, and stored for far too long. The meal, like many others she’d eaten recently, was almost certainly devoid of good taste, but it would give her sustenance. The droid set a bottle of water down next to the tray, waiting expectantly for her to start eating. Ever since she’d started accompanying Open Hands ships to dangerous refugee camps near the frontlines of the war, Selu and Milya had insisted that Cassi accept J7’s services—the protocol droid was an able assistant and had been programmed and equipped to defend her if need be. In truth, he had been a valuable aid and constantly concerned about her welfare even when she was too distracted to do things like eat or sleep. Eventually, Cassi acquiesced and nibbled away at the bland meal. When she was finished, J7 collected her tray and whirred off, leaving her to her datapad work. She continued incessantly, trying to allocate resources properly. Her fatigued eyes burned from dryness and she could barely keep herself from succumbing to the insidious whispers of her body urging her to sleep. Cassi didn’t know when she nodded off, but the next thing she knew, she was snapping awake. Sitting up abruptly in her chair, Cassi discovered that she was back on Yanibar, sitting up in a grassy highland field. What had happened? Had she become ill enough to merit being transported back to Yanibar? If so, why was she in a field instead of in a medcenter or at home? “J7?” she inquired, looking around for the droid to no avail. She surveyed the picturesque, tranquil landscape around here, noting that there wasn’t a sign of sentient life anywhere in the distance. This couldn’t be real; she supposed it was a Force vision. Cassi stood up, attempting to orientate herself unsuccessfully. Suddenly, the sky grew darker around her and a smell of sulfur began emanating from the ground, trickling unpleasantly into her nostrils. The wind changed from balmy zephyrs to raging gales almost instantly, ferrying an ominous wall of clouds with its gusts. A wave of heat slammed over her, hurling her to the ground, which trembled and danced as if something inside it was trying to tear it apart. She watched helplessly as the grass ignited around her, saturating the air with an acrid reek. Above her, the thick roiling plumes of smoke intermingled with furious dark thunderheads. Forks of lightning split the sky as a fierce, acidic rain lashed the burning ground. She threw her hands over her head, trying to protect herself from the two-pronged assault of rain and fire. A swirling, dirt-laced deluge swept over her, carrying her along none-too-gently. Battered by rocks, she fought against the burning hot water, but her efforts were futile. She was soon half-dragged, half-carried towards a deep set of cracks where the muddy torrent was being sucked into crevasses. Letting out a partially stifled scream of terror, Cassi redoubled her efforts to avoid being forced into the crevasse, but the current was too strong. Then, she heard a voice, calm and unconcerned, with an oddly flowing accent. “Why do you worry?” the voice asked her. “It does not have to end this way.” Struggling to keep her head above the muddy water, Cassi saw a man standing on a rock amid the flow. He seemed older and his placid appearance belied his precarious perch. He seemed unconcerned about the devastation around her, the burning fires, the rain, the fierce wind, the muddy deluge. “Help!” she managed. The man thrust out his hand and pulled her sodden, muddy self from the raging current that continued on its course to disappear into the crevasses. For the first time, Cassi had a chance to look on her rescuer as she scrambled up onto the rock. His accent was that of an offworlder’s, and his clothes seemed strange. He wore loose, flowing trousers anchored in place by a wide sash around his middle and a vest that seemed to be more like armor than clothing, while his long gray hair was braided into a ponytail that swept down to his stomach. “You must look to the stars,” he told her. “You must seek Atlaradis. It is key.” “At what?” she asked him. “What is that?” He smiled and placed one gnarled hand on her shoulder. “You are the one to deliver your people out of exile,” he said benevolently. “You are the one to save them.” By now, the escalating darkness and smoke had all but surrounded him until he disappeared. She felt another hand on her shoulder and whirled. The smoke was stinging her eyes, making her blink back tears as she turned to see what it was this time. “Mistress Cassi? Mistress Cassi, are you okay?” Cassi heard the familiar synthesized voice of J7-A0 ask her. Blinking her eyes again, she looked up to see she was back on Ord Pardron and J7 was shaking her gently to see if she was okay. Cassi looked around; she seemed to be back where she was before the vision. Breathing a sigh of relief, she relaxed and then turned to assuage the concerned droid. “I’m fine, J7,” she said. “Just fell asleep at the desk.” “If you say so, Mistress,” J7 told her doubtfully. “You were convulsing. What is your blood sugar level?” “I ate the food you gave me, remember?” Cassi answered. “Just relax; I had a bit of a nightmare, that’s all. Probably due to stress.” That last remark was a blatant lie, but Cassi wasn’t even sure what she had just experienced, or what it meant. She surmised that it was a Force vision, but she couldn’t decipher its meaning, nor did she recognize the mysterious man who had appeared in it. Rubbing her eyes wearily, Cassi knew she would need some time to sort this one out. “Do you require any further assistance, Mistress?” J7 asked her as he hovered off to one side. “No, just some time alone and some caf if we have any,” Cassi told him. “It’s going to be another long night.”
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![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)