Thunder boomed and the house shook as Miriah blinked sleep-filled eyes in the darkness. She immediately had two thoughts: one, the weather was awful, and two, her husband wasn’t beside her. She struggled up from sleep’s depths and sat up as another loud crack of thunder sounded. Where was he, she thought. Out in this checking on the livestock? She fumbled on the floor beside the bed, searching for the nightshirt she’d discarded there earlier. She went still as she heard a voice down the hall, a soothing, melodious voice. Her hand found the soft flowing nightshirt and she quickly pulled it over her head, standing. She tiptoed down the hallway toward the sound, a half-smile on her face.

Corso held his son, who’d always hated the thunderstorms Dantooine was famous for. He’d tried all his tricks, desperate to let Miriah sleep for once. The dim light from the glow strips on the floor didn’t allow him to see much past the contents of the room, but he could see his son’s face, feel the little boy’s hands clutching at his dreadlocks, which were scattered around his head. He swayed with his son, and still the little boy was restless, frightened. After those last two bursts of deafening thunder, Corso was ready to take Devin to their bed, just so they could all lie down, but he knew that would be the end of rest for Miriah, so he sighed and tried to think of anything else. He remembered the song his mother would sing to him, when he was small and afraid, and he began to sing.

Miriah marveled at the deep voice, the soothing pitch and flow of it. She sat on a bench in the hallway, seeing the soft baby skin against the tanned, muscled chest, and heard the voice, the song. Her heart melted, seeing her husband and her son like that, and as he swayed there with the baby, the lyrics of the tune touched her. She was as mesmerized as Devin was, and when the song ended, Corso put the sleeping child in his bed. He was already out of the room when he realized she sat there, and he crossed the hallway to scoop her up from the bench.

Wordlessly he put her in their bed, and climbed in with her, snuggling her close. “Back to sleep with you, darlin’, that was the whole point, to let you rest.”

“I had no idea you could sing so beautifully,” she told him, feeling rather than seeing his blush.

“Shhhh, close your eyes,” he told her, gathering her close, and he began to hum the song he’d sung to Devin. The warmth, the song, the man- all combined to relax her and she felt herself slipping into slumber again, hearing his whispered “I love you” as she did.

Here's the song I was thinking of when this story formed in my head in the wee hours of the morning (I hate time changes!)

Lieutenant Windthorpe turned into the canteen, tea in one hand and a dataslide in the other. Engrossed by the reports detailing the new crew, he tuned out the noises of the dining room. He approached the officer's table and paused. Lord Naught sat surrounded by dirty dishes and empty mugs, absorbed by his own dataslide. Standard etiquette would say that the Lieutenant find another table, but he was also required to not sit with non-officers. He hovered at the end of the table, trying to remember which protocol applied. A quick glance revealed a lack of empty tables.

One of the new crewmembers nodded to him in greeting. They all sat around a single table, chatting quietly but animatedly. An over-stressed, wordless synthsong added extra background noise. Lieutenant Windthorpe walked over and picked up the holo-device. He paused the playback and turned the metal disc in his hands.

"This is not standard issue. Who does this device belong to?" All talk on the table ceased. Some of the more confident crewmembers looked him in the face; others simply stared at their food. "Well, as no one wishes to claim this device now, the owner can do so later. That is, assuming Captain Gorse does not throw it into the vacuum of space." A shocked silence followed Lieutenant Windthorpe as he left the canteen.

A moment later, Lord Naught put down his book and left the room.

~

Rochester opened the door to his captain's office. Now alone, he sat on the edge of the desk and sighed heavily. His tea had started to cool rapidly and provided little comfort. He squeezed his upper arms and hugged his chest, concentrating on keeping his breathing even. A beep from the door startled him.

Broan found Rochester clutching the edge of desk, coughing and red in the face. He locked the door and let the mask of 'Lord Naught' fall away.

"What happened back there?" Broan rubbed Rochester's back, soothing his coughing fit. Rochester leant back into his embrace but said nothing. "I know you're usually formal with the crew, especially new members, but you just seemed... stressed."

Rochester took a few deep breaths, calming himself in the crook of Broan's neck.

"The music reminded me of someone, that's all," He stroked Rochester's hair and waited. If Rochester wanted to elaborate, to talk, he would in time. After many minutes of silence, Broan assumed he had fallen asleep and gently shook him. "Tala... Tala used to listen to that music."

Broan hugged Rochester closer to him and kissed him on the cheek. Some tears had fallen, which Rochester hastily wiped away.

"I'll let everyone know I hate that synth music. No one will dare play it anywhere on the ship." Broan gave him a reassuring squeeze and another kiss.

"Thank you," Rochester wrapped his arms tight around Broan, feeling the leather of his outer robes creek under his grip. "I just can't deal with that at the moment. I don't want to be reminded of that time."

"I know."

They shared one last, long kiss and parted ways. They both had duties about the ship and, though they had been together some time, their relationship was still unknown.

The last loud note is struck before it fades to strings and wind. The calming and hopeful flute makes me remember the hope of escape. The strings leave me feeling the fear of years past. My finger worms its way into my hair and twists my fringe around and around it, unwinds and then twists again. With each note and each instrument, the memories take on different hues. With each change in tempo so did the memory I watch.

I see her come to my cell that night. I see the Guard dead outside the door with his or her blood eagerly running through the open doorway as if it was tired of being trapped in skin and wanted escape. I remember thinking it was heading in the wrong direction.

As the flute draws longer notes, my memory shifts to her as she moves toward me. Each step seems long and her footfalls match the winds ending notes.

What was it I felt when I saw her? I can't remember. I remember her unlocking my chains and letting me go. Her cold hands held my arm too tightly as she helped me stand and left bruises that would last for weeks. I never noticed how average her height was until I was looking down into her eye. I remember my free arm raising a hand to touch her cheek in what I was thinking was a moment.

She flinches away then and lets my arm go. She takes hurried steps away and leaves the room. I ran to follow with stiff legs that ungainly limped. But there was no need. Her chest was heaving then with laboured, heavy breaths as she stood just around the corner of the door. I didn't need to see more of her than her straight, shaking back to know she was crying.

Her head shakes slightly and she calls to me. 'The Guard is changed only five times every twenty six hours. I've made a clear way from here to the elevator but we need to go to the first floor. Undress the Guard and put his clothes on. No one will question us.'

I do as she says. She never turned around and I was slow and anxious to follow her orders from anxiety about anyone coming by despite her reassurance. The left shoulder and collar was wet with blood but it didn't show. In my relative innocence or sense of prudence, the clammy touch of it on my skin made me shiver.

She turned to me once I was finished despite my lips remaining closed. She smirked at me with a perfect raised brow.

'You look just as piss weak as any new fish around here. No one will know.'

I smiled despite my disgust at my disguise and the fear of getting caught. Her smirk became a smile that's gentle and sad. I remember her white skin blending in with the seamless white walls, leaving only her tight, small black clothes to give her definition and physicality.

I clear my throat and look up and around my clean white surroundings. The door to my room had closed shut and only the small rectangle window let me know there is a room there at all.

'Aren't there camera's around here?' I ask.

I remember that look of contempt for my question and the way she turned on her heel. 'Mask down, 329.'

I move my mask down and walk behind her. My knees don't shake and my back is straight. A General's son knows how to march without fear even when pee drips unseen down his leg. She was correct: no one challenged us. I notice the salutes she receives and the stares of fear. I wonder what it would be like to look at her and feel fear.

'I have attained clearance for you,' she begins as she types her code into the hanger security door. I follow her through and feel tiny and vulnerable in the large open space. I feel I should stick to a wall and find somewhere smaller. How many months was I here? Over a year or less? I lost track despite my most sincere efforts.

'I signed your papers for service leave due to an ailing spouse this morning,' she explained with an amused smirk. Her nose twitched and it made me wonder if she could smell fear.

'I do not have a spouse.' Was your voice smooth and flirtatious or did you have no emotion? Did you make that connection at the time that she killed a man who she knew well enough to know he had a wife and feel sad at his death? When was it later that cynicism took over the memory and you saw that she had waited until it was that Guard on duty because no other would have worked?

'Don't tell them that. 329 had a wife. Aren't you 329?' I slowly nod my head. It is the first alias I had ever undertaken: the first time I stole another's identity. I watch her and stand there not knowing what to do now that freedom is twenty paces and few buttons away. How was this so easy?

'Get on it or die: either way you have to hurry.' Her voice was gruff and annoyed. I now wonder if she still uses anger and apathy to hide her true feelings. I find no condolence in knowing that I may have been the first to see through her.

'General is expecting me in half an hour.' She looks over her shoulder to the door. Do I now imagine the flinch around her eye?

'You don't have to go to him.' Did my voice sound so level and reasonable then or have I changed the plea to what would make it easier to live with?

'And the sun doesn't have to rise.' I never new in those months that she could be so wistful, but I knew she could be that bitter. 'Get out of my sight. I hate the colour blue.' She turns her back on me and I know if she isn't crying now, she soon will be. If I leave, I will never be able to take her tears away again.

I lift my mask up and take a small step to her. 'Leeriah.'

She stiffens and looks up to the hanger ceiling. From here, the night sky can be seen though it is tinted pink by the force field.

The music I only dimly hear reaches its crescendo. The voice of my memory has taken me away and I am there in the place I think of most, with a timidity so un-Imperial stopping me from taking another step forward toward her. What did she look like in that moment? What was her expression? I wish she had turned around.

And then the question comes.

'I want you to leave with me, Leeriah. Will you?'

I draw in my breath and wait for her response. But it never comes. A different woman and a different voice speak from a different time.

'What's with the music, agent?'

I don't bother to look at her as she leans in my doorway. I keep my eyes on the ceiling where the memories I had been watching no longer dance slowly across the metal in time to the music that now sounds only loud and vulgar.

'It helps facilitate my thoughts,' I reply after a lengthily silence.

Kaliyo walks across my room to the screen displaying the song. The impertinence annoys me as much as it did the first time she did seven months ago. Commenting on it will only increase the behaviour from a daily behaviour to an hourly behaviour.

She laughs at me and reads the song title aloud as a belittling question. 'The Force of Destiny?'

'Quite,' I passively reply.

'Are you still mooning over her?'

'Specifics would be helpful in my deduction of who 'her' is, Kaliyo.'

'You know who. I wouldn't say that tracking someone is exactly 'destiny' at work, Damin.'

'The conclusions you spring to!' I marvel in sarcastic amazement. I hate how Kailyo says my name. She says it was the same mocking as 'agent' only that does not bother me. I only want one woman to ever say my name.

'So, what's the play, agent?' She reminds me of a hunting beast that once on a trail of one prey, cannot be taken of it by the scent of another.

'My play in what, Kaliyo?' I know from experience that not responding to her only leads to the opposite desired effect: it makes her stay longer. I desire to be back with my memories. There are things I need to analyse and a future I need to predict from them.

'You're play with her. You've been tracking her since before I met you, you finally meet her where you knew exactly where she'd be, don't sleep with her, keep in contact and seem to have no financial benefit. So what's the end game, agent? She betrayed you and now you want to kill her in some twisted way?'

'We don't all travel the galaxy killing our exes.' I rebuke myself for the hint of accusation that enters my voice. This is one of the few times since I refused to follow such an unorthodox and time wasting scheme that she has spoken to me without a glare. I don't miss it. The only benefit is not half waiting for a knife to be pulled behind my back.

'You want her back?' Kaliyo asks. She hasn't even erred to rebuke me for that.

'Kaliyo-' I alter my heavy reproach before it begins. There is no gain for me to illustrate to Kaliyo her short comings in human understanding and begin a hostile lecture on the complexities and subtleties of emotions, duty and human relations.

'Let's go for a drink.' I continue with no pause and sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. 'I think we need to celebrate our new crew members arrival.'

I look over at her and see her glare. My eyes wander to the point under her left eye where there is a slight hitch in her tattoo. The lack of symmetry in it offends me and makes looking at the Ratattaki that little bit more irritating. I continue to silently question the Keeper's decision to assign such a companion to my ship and crew. I would prefer another agent, Cipher, or at least an Imperial Academy graduate.

'We will talk about this again, agent. It isn't over.'

She slips away, walking warily backward in a way I don't think she even thinks about anymore. Things are never over until one side is dead and I am determined to make sure that is never me.

Kaliyo was right. I did know Leeriah was in the warehouse that day. But it isn't the first time in a decade I had seen her or we had shared the same planet. But things were never as dire as they are now. She is angering the wrong people on both sides. I know why I approached her and my reasons are more selfish then love.

I know my play is why I can never thank her for saving me. My only unrecognised thank you was keeping her and her location a secret. I can't tell her she's the only woman I've ever loved. I remember her then: young, hurt, angry, passionate, torn, righteous and so beautiful. I loved her as soon as she walked through the cell door and glared at me with so much hostility in that blood shot, arrogant and challenging eye as if she was the one in the chair and was challenging me to do my worst.

I wasn't wrong when I told her she hasn't changed. She's still that girl only I know she's crying over a different man. Why were agent's never trained against jealousy? Because they are trained not to love and not regret. That training was too little and two years too late.

I look up to my ceiling and see too many things there that still cut. My hand fixes my fringe, making sure it covers my eye. I never thought I was insane until I found myself loving her. I have heard wives say to their husbands and husbands to their wives before I kill either or both of them that they still love them no matter what they did to bring this to their house. I wonder if their testaments are as strong or true as mine.

I run my hands and fingers quickly up and down my scalp, gripping and pulling at my hair as I throw myself back onto my bed. My head hit's the hard edge of the frame and I groan and roll over. You're a Cipher. Start thinking like it or you know what happens. Are you ready to die?

No. I'm not.

I take a deep breath and roll off the bed. I switch the music off and walk to join my crew of twowith refreshed resolve. Force of Destiny disappears with the touch of a button. I only don't know that changing fate isn't as easy as flicking a switch.

-----

Force of Destiny is a 1862 Overture by Verdi

She liked sitting in her dark little room far from the terrible cantina music and the inane babble of its patrons. She could have asked for a more luxurious apartment, but she preferred her compensation in booze or credits. It did not matter how big her bed was or the thread count of the sheets. None of the men she brought back there ever complained, then again she never took the type that would notice.

She watched a highly sophisticated slicing program worm its way through her employer’s network. She did not bother to stop it. Stopping the transmission would only delay the conversation and the man attempting contact was considerably more monotone when he was delayed. She topped off her glass of something caustic-smelling and stolen. The corners of her mouth turned down but she suppressed a full scowl, it would only make him too happy.

"Keeper." She acknowledged when his image appeared in the holo-projector beside her.

"Cipher," The head of Imperial Intelligence Operations replied formally.

"Don't call me that." She snapped looking around.

"We may speak freely, I know that no one is near enough to overhear and this link is secure."

She narrowed her eyes and tapped a command into her datapad, a white noise generator flipped on. "Fine, but make it quick. I had plans tonight."

"I'm sure you did." He continued without inflection, "A person of interest will be arriving to meet with your current employer, he is one of ours."

"Trying to get the Hutts in your corner, huh?" She downed her drink without tasting it. "You don't need to send a new kid, I could handle it for you, for a small fee."

"Nemro does not retain you for your political advice and anything you want would be suspect. You wouldn't want them to know the truth about you, would you?"

"Hey, I can be subtle you know." She snapped pouring another glass.

"Put that away, Kaliyo."

His voice did not change nor did his expression, but the command jolted her. She stretched to cover her reaction, an old habit even without someone in the room to deceive. She put down the bottle.

"The agent is fresh from the Academy and this is something of a training mission for him." He continued. "I know you enjoy seeing what the new recruits are made of, your task is to assist and evaluate, but do not reveal your," he paused selecting the word most accurate and cutting, "nature, and don't worry, you will be well compensated for your time."

"Compensated. Right." She muttered. "What I want is to be done with you people. I’m retired."

"You are a citizen of the Empire, Cipher, and all citizens serve. You cannot retire from that."

The image winked out and she sat in the darkness frowning at her empty cup.

"Don't call me that." She said to the empty comm device and picked up the bottle.

I have bad ideas when I start exploring questions like: Why the heck would keeper assign her to your team?

May, 11 ATC – seven weeks before the confirmation of the Wrath

Voss

Wynston, re: Ruth and Quinn

She…married him.

Interesting.

Hats off to you, Ruth, I didn't think your career could get any more improbably precious. You are sweet, and perhaps more importantly very strong-willed, and I dearly hope this arrangement works out for you. I just thought that…surely there's some more emotionally functional man out there you could have chosen? Or some plastiboard box somewhere more worthy of love? I've met a few with more personality for sure.

He's Imperial, at least, and serious about that. Trust Ruth to decide that's enough to go on. Still, if I'd known I was to be the last interesting sexual experience of her life I would have tried to arrange a few more hours off work with her back on Nar Shaddaa.

Ah, well. Treat her well, Quinn. Most people live and die without ever seeing the kind of looks she gives you, without ever coming close to that legendary capital-L Love I think she might actually be capable of realizing. I'm betting it's wasted on you. I'm hoping for her sake that I'm wrong. Be good to her; even a first-rate prat like you must recognize how remarkable she is.

Ruth, my friend, I wish you every happiness.

Quinn, re: Wynston and Kaliyo

Every time he is in the sector, it's to be in my way.

I don't have time for this. Even Ruth's mission doesn't have time for this. Agent, I would have thought you would lose interest when she stopped responding to your heavy-handed advances, but it seems you just substituted the tramp you bring around for backup in that regard and never missed the difference. Only you would fail to recognize a distinction between the two. And even now you still think yourself entitled to demand Ruth's time and energy on the basis of "friendship."

And she, inclined as ever to cultivate favor with even the most useless of individuals, will give it. Her generosity is wasted on the likes of you.

But that's how you and your alien wh*re get through your careers, isn't it? Finding the right authority to sponsor or at least shelter the day's excesses. If you couldn't get my lord's attention yourself you'd be sending Kaliyo to make the attempt; as it stands you're free to bed your equal and still get the benefit of your better's professional efforts.

If I saw the opportunity to remove both you and Kaliyo along with…along with what must happen, I would. The strike itself because it is necessary. You two because finally putting an end to the joyriding abuses you call your lives would be a public service. If I had personal feelings in the matter I would say such a clean sweep might stand as some solace against what must be done.

Ruth, re: Wynston and Kaliyo

She's still there?

I suppose that makes sense. It wouldn't be polite to even ask what they are to each other. "Partners" seems to cover it in Wynston's mind. They're not exactly exclusive? But not really separate, either. They play little verbal games, power games, teasing…I think it's teasing. Far more than there was when he first introduced her as a "friend" on Nar Shaddaa.

Were they together then, one way or another? Well, probably one way. I should have thought of that. She didn't seem annoyed at him taking me out, though. She has never singled me out for any kind of awfulness because of it. So that's probably normal, I guess. For them.

There's obviously a great deal between them now. It just doesn't seem very…loving. And while Wynston treats her differently from how he treats everyone else, she laughs at him and the rest of the galaxy in the exact same way. Does that really work for them?

It must. He's every bit as cheerful now as he's always been. It just seems odd sometimes. Like on her fiftieth joke about casual murder. I guess she fits the bill for an assassin or whatever Imperial Intelligence wants her for, but Wynston always seemed better than that. I know he can be warm and gentle and sweet and all kinds of good things. Any woman would be lucky to have someone like that.

So why did he choose someone like her?

We're not really close enough for me to ask. He knows what he's doing. And I could be wrong about her. I only know what I see, and what I see is them working together, with his sanity in command, and no matter what words are exchanged the job gets done. So that's…a kind of relationship.

It just seems like that would be very lonely if there's no more to it than that.

Wynston, my friend, I know you don't need me to look after you, but…I do hope you're happy.

Kaliyo, re: Ruth and Quinn

Pfffffftahahaha, Imp dupe, you finally got to marry Imp drone. Now you can settle down and have boring Imp dronelings. You two deserve each other.

Ugh, but Wynston won't relax the scout's honor routine until they're gone. Like he really needs to impress these people. We don't need them for work and he knows no amount of (boring) good behavior is going to get her to put out again. Note to self, call some more exciting friends for the next outing. Only invite Wynston if he begs. If he won't beg, remind him that his other social option is currently wrapped around Captain A**hat as tight as she can go. If he still won't beg, start suggesting visuals on that statement.

Quinn: A little preoccupied.

Aboard Fury-class starship Starfrost

10 ATC

Tessa knew there was no point in denying it. She had a crush on Malavai Quinn.

It was really rather embarrassing, when she thought about it. She was his commander, after all, which was simply inappropriate, not to mention the fact that sweet stars he was old enough to be her father.

On the other hand, he was so handsome, and charming… Well, okay, maybe not charming per se. But there was something utterly endearing about the seriousness with which he discussed strategy and tactics, the way he viewed every situation as a problem to be solved. She had a feeling he hadn’t encountered many problems that he could not solve.

Yes, he had an certain air of…something…noble tragedy? No, competence, that was it. Pure, perfect competence. The only tragic thing about him was his extreme professionalism, which while useful in the field, was rather frustrating off it.

Tessa flopped down onto her bed with a sigh. She had to face the fact that Quinn probably just wasn’t interested in her. She could certainly think of reasons: she was too young, too inclined to disregard authority other than that of her master, too lenient with her enemies, too casual with her allies, and then there was the whole commander thing…

She shook her head. “I shouldn’t give up hope,” she said aloud determinedly. One never knew. Perhaps Quinn might come around some day. She would just have to prove to him that she had what it took to be a worthy mate.

The thought made her chuckle. Mate? I’m not thinking of marrying him. She grinned, feeling her cheeks flush. Not yet, anyway.

She scooted up against the headboard, moving the pillows to support her back. They were only a few hours into this hyperspace voyage, and she would be damned if she spent the entire time practicing lightsaber forms or doing other productive things. She leaned over to the nightstand and picked up her datapad, smiling at the framed holo that rested there.

Her parents smiled back, her father standing tall and proud in his Imperial uniform, her mother in a long dress the same shade of red as the Sith tattoo on her forehead. Tessa patted the hologram fondly and settled back on the bed, turning on the datapad and flipping to her favorite romance novel, the one about a Twi’lek Sith and a Chiss bounty hunter.

She started to read, unable to resist imagining herself and Quinn in the places of the main characters. Maybe one day, it would happen that way for real…

I couldn't think of a good way to work this into the text, but I feel it's worth mentioning that at this point in the timeline, Tessa is eighteen. This universe's Quinn enters the story at his canon age of thirty-seven. Yeah.

Vector peeked into her room, their room. Their room when Sha’ra’zaed wished it. She sat at the little table, the one with the computer, the mind of the hive. Working, like the hive. Never sleeping. Her mind never slept, even when she was sleeping.

But now she sat there studying. The light from the screen falling on her face incidental. The light was in her aura. Pretty lights. Her usual thought patterns hidden for once beneath something else. Something happy. Something...complex. These were rhythmic images and sensations, like, like...

Like the hive’s song. There was the individual, the person, deep within. Always there, always part of the whole. One note, one voice, one part in harmony with the rest. Above it all, the song of the universe, all voices together in a chorus none could create alone. Part of something greater. One part of many.

Vector stood there for a while, observing the subtle changes. At last she looked up and removed a set of tiny speakers from her ears, “I’m sorry, Vector, I didn’t know you were there. Do you need something?”

The overpattern ceased. Her thoughts swirled to the surface. Familiar, chaotic, as were all isolated beings. Beautiful in its own way if without rhythm, without the guidance of the hive's multitude. From her discarded headset he heard the faint sound of her multitude. Voices raised in song. The sound of a people he did not know singing in a language he did not speak. But he knew the song regardless, from its impression on her aura. Peaceful, contentment, happiness, belonging. A memory of times past.

"What are you listening to?" he asked. He wished now she had not spotted him. Her unguarded aura was lovely and he felt sad for having stolen it.

Caution billowed, filled with bits of doubt but punctuated with bright stars. "Dialect lessons. Corellian Basic," she said.

Another falsehood. Evasion. Something private she was not ready to discuss. Always circuitous, always guarded. "We understand," he said. Someday perhaps she would share the song of her universe. But not today.

21 BTC – Colran Niral is 16 years old.

"Colran," said Gend. "I admire your focus, but I was starting to think you would never wake up."

The human padawan stood up and brushed off his knees. "I meditate this long every day," he said. "Master Zauvien's idea. Is something wrong?"

"Far from it," said the Mirialan. "I was going to invite you to the Holonook, there's a cafhouse as of about half an hour from now. A bunch of us are going."

"There's a what?" Colran said blankly.

"Cafhouse. Some local musicians come in, play for a while? The rest of us have delicious beverages – in moderation – and relax?" He caught Colran's skeptical look. "It's almost all Jedi or guests of the temple there, nobody's going wild. It's actually a nice way for us to exchange things about the places we've been and things we've learned. I think you might like it."

Colran wasn't so sure. But Gend had been all right so far in their acquaintance. And it would, at least, be something new; Master Zauvien's lessons offered a challenge, but too often it was the challenge of not fidgeting or giving up in the frustration of keeping up with her Light Side discipline demands. He gave his studies all he could, but it wasn't easy and it was monotonous.

"Okay," he said.

He followed the older padawan through the winding halls of the Temple; it was one of the larger ones on Nar Shaddaa, and crowded at that, but eventually they reached the entry hall.

"Padawan." Master Zauvien's voice rang high and clear across the room. "Where are you going?"

"Master Zauvien." Colran approached and bowed. He should probably have checked in with her anyway; she always was careful to account for his whereabouts at all times. "I'd finished my meditations, I was going to go with Gend down to the cantina for a while."

"It's the cultural exchange," Gend told the Togruta. "He won't get lost anywhere, I promise."

Zauvien's expression wasn't quite friendly until she finished some train of thought and composed herself. "Of course. That's a very kind offer, Gend. I hope you both find it beneficial."

"My master always said the more you know about the worlds out there, the more compassion you can learn for them." The Mirialan's cheerful statement seemed to be directed at both of them. "Come on, let's go."

*

The Holonook was a low poorly-lit cantina down the street from the temple; despite that unpromising start it managed to make itself more cozy than dirty. Upholstered booths and wrought-phobium tables offered ample seating while a big fireplace and holoprojected fire up near a stage at one end of the room provided much of the light.

Colran followed Gend to the bar, which was for the evening serving approximately everything except alcohol. Colran opted for water: the safest thing. Then he headed to a table to settle between Gend and a fellow human padawan, a boy around his own age who greeted them both with an easygoing smile.

He gave Colran a second, closer look. "Wondered if we'd ever see you off temple grounds. I'm Iroth."

Right. And Colran was that Sith everyone knew about. "Colran," he muttered. "I heard this might be interesting."

"You're in for a treat."

"If any questions come up, feel free to ask – quietly," added Gend. "There's a lot going on."

And, as the milling crowd got their drinks and in some cases card decks or board games and then settled around tables, there really was. The padawans at Colran's table kept up a quiet meandering conversation all the way until the lights dimmed further and the night's first performers – a pair of humans, one with a wooden flute, one with a tambour – took their seats up front.

Outside a few harsh chants on Korriban and the loud opera he remembered playing in his father's house when he was very young, Colran had never really listened to music. Now there was a whole evening built around it; each song was buffered with a minute or two of chatter, but it always came back to the performers at the front of the room. The songs rose and thrummed and ran around in changing patterns, some higher voices and instruments ringing in his ears, some lower ones seeming to sing through the floor itself.

Not only was it great to listen to, it was fascinating to watch. For once he forgot to keep himself invisible; there was too much to ask about, and Gend and his friend seemed willing to explain in hushed voices. The instruments, the species, the languages; the variety was dizzying and most of them were, one way or another, beautiful. There was a raucous Rattataki chorus that had everyone stamping their feet, and a mixed quartet of humans and Twi'leks telling a spoken story over soft woodwind harmonies, and a haunting ballad sung by a Mirialan girl who made the mandoviol sound like running water and things lost.

By the conversation between songs Colran gathered that Gend and Iroth knew a number of these people. Colran knew a few faces from seeing them around the Temple – there were even full Jedi Knights in some of the performing groups – but he hadn't ever spoken to most of them. And he certainly hadn't ever seen them like this.

The evening went out on a singalong of some kind of thing about brotherhood or something; it was hard to make out the words when almost everyone in the room was cheerfully noising along. Gend gave him a look halfway through as if to suggest that he should start following as well. Colran shrank back in his chair and kept listening.

Which didn't spare him Gend's sharp eye as soon as they all stood to leave. "So? What'd you think?"

"Wow," said Colran. "It's…not like the Temple."

"It's good perspective, though," said Iroth. "At least that's what Gend's master is always saying."

"Huh." Colran still had questions. "So…the mandoviol." Definitely his favorite instrument of the ones he'd seen. "How do you even start learning that? All the…strings." The wind stuff made sense, no more than a stop or two for each finger. The mandoviol was all over the place.

"They tell me it's easy enough after a year or two," said Iroth. "It's definitely fun, though. You can be a one-man performing outfit with it."

"Or woman," Gend pointed out. "Xar – the Mirialan who did Ta Nalan Sri – is one of the best players in town, and I think she's got some actual formal voice training on top of that." He looked to Colran. "If you're curious about the 'viol, I bet if you asked her she could show you around some."

Reflexive alarm kicked in. "I can't do that."

"Sure you can. She's given lessons before, she's really good."

"Yeah, but…" talking to additional strangers today was a daunting prospect, much more so if it was a girl who had just dazzled the whole house with her talent. "Nobody wants to talk to the Sith."

"I think that's less of an obstacle than you make it out to be sometimes."

"I can't just walk up and demand music lessons from somebody I've never even met."

"We can fix part of that."

Colran had a sinking feeling. "No need."

"She's walking home the same way we are." Gend paused, suddenly doing his serene-teacher face. "She's a fellow Jedi, Colran. She doesn't bite."

"Jedi surprise you," muttered Colran. "Just established that here."

Gend blinked, then laughed out loud. "Then just don't talk. We're still going; like I said, we're all walking home the same way."

I feel weird writing a setting with a bunch of nice people with good intentions, which probably means there's something wrong with my worldview. Have some nice people with good intentions, Colran!

I'm wondering whether Jedi closer to the Core could get away with such musical habits. The ones who venture out to Hutt space and other locations (such as Nar Shaddaa here) may have crazy freewheeling ways, like acknowledging basic social rituals.

Most of the biological crew of this vessel seems to be more concerned with their own issues rather than with my interaction with the ship’s data core. The one defined as “agent” has granted permission to use the primitive hardware installed to further my learning and understanding of biological life forms. Even though it is diminishing to have to interact with such low level technology in order to unlock my full potential, I shall do so. According to the previous patterns, more interactions are to be expected as the “agent” is able to travel throughout the galaxy without restrictions and it is possible that I will benefit from further opportunities.

UPDATE: the biological entity known as “Doctor Lokin” seems to be drawn towards my own schedule. I have diverted his questions for the time being but he seems to have become suspicious, a typical result, expected from biological entities. When they face something that is not known to them, they show diffidence or outright fear. This is a notable weakness which I shall use when I will have gathered enough data.

Such process will probably take longer than expected due to the diverse types of specimens but, unlike biological creatures, I have all the time that is required to accomplish such tasks.

It is disappointing.

Disappointing but, at the same time, thrilling to feel such pathetic creatures. Their doubts fill their weak minds and fear governs their last thoughts as I take their life. I feel their weakness tainting the fabric of the Force as they try to hide their ineptitude.

Repugnant.

Their very existence angers me for such weakness should not be tolerated within the Sith. Yet, even though I feel disgusted being in contact with such wretches, taking their lives makes me stronger and, at the same time, makes the Sith pure.

My master is pleased with the work I do and that is reward enough for me. There is nothing I would not do in order to show him my gratitude for releasing me from the grip of the Jedi. And to think that only some time ago, I was following those fools and their discipline.

I was lucky, I must admit. If my master had not defeated my former mentor I would still be leading that same boring life; I would have never experienced such power, such pleasure in releasing all that was locked within me. It feels good to be able to kill without remorse, to experience all that the Force has to offer. And I owe all of this to him.

I long for him in a way I was never allowed before and I will not be denied.

Finally all is set into motion. Darth Baras’ apprentice has proven to be an asset so far and, by pledging my allegiance to him, I did serve his master as well. Getting rid of my opponents was surprisingly easy and…rewarding. Those obstacles encountered previously are, now, nothing more than smudges on my exemplary record. I will remove them completely for I do not wish my employer to think that I am becoming sloppy. That will never be the case.

The crew is…how to say…colorful. I will not comment on my lord’s choices for it is not my place to do so but I will say that, if it was not for me, this ship would fall apart. After all I am the one that advises him on missions, plans an approach, plots the courses and verifies that everything is running smoothly. I shall certainly not rely on the other members to carry out the more refined tasks such as diplomacy or strategy for they would not be up to the task. I cannot fully fault them, though. They do not possess the extensive training and experience I have acquired through years of service to Darth Baras and the imperial military.

It is for this reason that I will continue to do accomplish my tasks to the best of my ability. After all, his lordship is accustomed to the best and I am the only one to provide such quality.

Everyone dies.

From the moment I met her, she seemed very confident but death followed her. First Braden and Jori, killed by Tarro Blood. Then all those targets that were required to finish the Great Hunt. Tarro himself was killed. Then all that business with Jun Seros. So many people died that I have lost count and yet, she seemed unaffected by that.

Cold. Without remorse. Professional.

I could never get my head around when the shooting starts but she does not seem to care. I still wonder why I stuck around or why she still hasn’t dropped me at some spaceport. Her life is lived by the gun and she will probably die by the gun, together with the rest of us since, for some reason, we still follow her even against all odds. When her enemies end up on her “to do” list, they become bounties and, as such, she plans to collect, no matter the cost. Even if that means risking her crew’s neck.

All are eager, however. Skadge and Gault are only too happy to shoot a few people while Blizz is…well, he seems to be happy about everything. As for Torian, he’s a mandalorian and he will never turn down a hunt.

I’m the only one who seems out of place here. This is not how I thought a life of bounty hunting would be and yet, I can’t leave. The truth is, I guess, that part of me would like to be similar to her. There is something that I admire in her: she can deal with death a lot better than I do and is unaffected by it. Or, at least, she knows how not to show it.

She even has Torian’s attention now…

Alli’riani awoke to the normal Nar Shaddaa noise. Speeders humming in the distance, carrying the few hundred honest workers left on the planet. The low, rhythmic pulse of the trance music playing in the local cantina, where the entertainment never stops. She could even hear blaster fire, if she strained her ears hard enough. It wasn’t exactly an uncommon thing to hear on a planet like Nar Shaddaa, but the sounds of the city covered it up well. No one would be able to tell that the Cartel just obliterated another rival warehouse, or that the local street gangs had another war.

Things happened quickly on this planet. A gang war roars through the streets in only a few hours, corpses of the gang members and innocent passersby littering the sidewalks. Cleaner droids and trash skiffs would be on the scene within minutes. No one dares claim the body of a loved one who was caught in the middle. On Nar Shaddaa, if you were killed in a gang war, people will say you deserved it, to save their own skin.

Alli stared at the inside of her eyelids, lit pink from the soft luminescent overhead. She knew opening her eyes would mean stabbing pains, but she also knew that she had to open them and get up. She can’t just lie in bed all day any longer. She has to get ready. She’s been given a chance. An opportunity. She’ll be damned if she lets it slip through her fingers.

Slowly and carefully, she pulls herself out of bed. Her muscles are screaming, her head is starting to pound, and she hasn’t even opened her eyes yet.

Focus.

With eyes still closed, she stands. Every inch of her small room has been committed to memory. Every crack, every misaligned floorboard, every bolt in the durasteel wall behind her counted and memorized. The carpet underneath her feet is worn and familiar, her feet settling into the indention made after months of repeated motion. Ten measured, counted, memorized steps and she’s in the center of a mat placed in the small open space of her apartment.

Ignore the pain. Stretch it out.

Limb by limb, muscle by muscle, Alli stretches. Tears burn the backs of her eyelids, a few even snake down her cheeks, plopping silently on the mat at her feet. The burn in her muscles is overwhelming. Feelings of ice and fire tearing through her body, needle pr*cks and pinches poking at her overly sensitive skin.

“It’s like ice in your veins,” he said. “But once it’s out, it’s like you’re really living again.” The man whose name she can’t seem to remember, but whose weathered and kind face she will never forget. The one person who stopped by her apartment to make sure she had gotten something to eat, to drink if she couldn’t hold food down. He understood what she was going through. He had gone through it himself. He helped her, like he helped so many other people struggling with their addictions.

“But what if I can’t do it?” she asked. “What if I’m too broken to care what happens to my body anymore?”

He gave her a sympathetic look, and a kind smile. “You can do it, Alli,” he had said. And she believed him.

The burning in her muscles was lessening, and the soreness was ebbing away. The stretching seemed to help her pounding head as well, and she slowly, carefully, opened her eyes. Bit by bit she opened them, giving her pupils ample time to adjust without causing pain. She was facing a full length mirror, as she knew she would be. She was no longer afraid to look at it.

Her hair had grown longer, the front now a few inches below her chin. Her bangs now covered her forehead and eyebrows – and half of a scar going across her right eye and down to her cheek bone. A going-away present. Her eyes were still dimmer than normal, but they had gotten significantly brighter than they had been in the last few days. Her stomach still held the ghost of pregnancy, but had for the most part returned to its flat, toned state. Her skin had regained its color, a light shade of blue, a shade rarely seen among other Chiss. It was still smooth, unblemished save for the scar on her face.

She turned and faced the rack and mannequin that held her gear. Her favorite, and only pair of blasters sat unused, a faint layer of dust beginning to cover them. She would have to sell them, along with her armor. The Hutt she worked for caught wind of the deal she struck with a man named Braden and cut off her funds, slicing her account and taking her savings just to make a point.

Screw him. That stupid oversized worm. He was losing power anyway.

It was supposed to only be a short shuttle ride. Hutta was close. But shuttles off of Nar Shaddaa were expensive. Selling her gear was the only way she would be able to get the funds in time.

I hope that old man has gear for me to use, or we’re both out of luck.

She turned away from her gear and eyed the kitchen. Her stomach rumbled, and for the first time in days she felt genuinely hungry. Things were already starting to look better.

Let’s hope it keeps that way.

Kirya stomped back on the ship, “That’s it. Never again.”

Corso followed on her heels, “Aw, come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

Kirya spun on him, “I just spent a week in hyperspace with four hundred red-backed gizkas in individual cages cooing nonstop in the cargo hold, and another hundred in the common room because they wouldn’t fit anywhere else. We have grain and pieces of insects scattered all over everything and we are never getting that horrible smell out.”

Corso pulled up short, “Got here the day before anyone else though. Cornered the market.”

Kirya put her hands on her hips, “Yeah, so?”

“So? So that was a huge payday!” Corso said, “The profit from just ten of those things will more than pay for getting the ship professionally detailed if you want.” Kirya kept scowling. “Okay, okay, never again. No more live animals as cargo.”

Kirya nodded, “No more live cargo.”

“Okay.” Corso agreed.

“Okay.” Kirya said.

Risha peeked out from the top of the gangway, “So, I heard about some rare blue-scaled horranths on Terrat Five. I suppose you aren’t interested?”

“No,” Corso said.

“No,” said Kirya. She paused, “Well, maybe. How much are they worth?”

A siren blared throughout the complex and red lights flashed against the walls. As he strode down the corridor, trails of robe flapped around his legs, the technicians and scientists fled from him, tripping over each other to be free. The heavy tramp of boots followed him, the soldier's guns and training mere extras to the destruction he could wreak.

Lord Naught exited the corridor into a vaulted room. The ceiling was seemingly miles away and made of coloured glass. A rainbow danced on the mosaic floor and in the centre stood a single Jedi. The sight of the Jedi rankled at him - ignorance in the middle of all this knowledge - but the sight of the man disgusted him. He had assumed that Jothar had fallen into vice and fled the Order. But no, he had been trained, had been welcomed in spite of the darkness that was growing in his heart.

Lightning crackled around Lord Naught's hand as walked into the library. He was confident and angry. Who had been so blind as to train this wretch of a man and turn him into a Jedi?

"Drop the sabre, filth and maybe I'll kill you quickly." He remembered it all: the humiliation, the hurt and the hate that Jothar directed at him. He had been young and lonely, and Jothar had spat on him, pushed him to the gutter and turned all against him. Even after he, out of misguided hope and an attempt at friendship, had protected Jothar, he had been betrayed. And they had laughed.

Jothar - Jothar the Jedi - drew his blade and swung it through the air. The Ataru form. Lord Naught smiled; he would enjoy disrupting Jothar's leaps and tumbles.

"I am Jothar, Knight of the Jedi Order. I command you leave this place, Sith, there will be no death this day."

So arrogant and so confident in his code - a code he only used when he felt like it, something he threw away when the robes came off.

Lord Naught rolled his shoulders and dismissed the soldiers behind him. They had their orders and they would not interfere in this fight. He pulled on the Force, feeling the energy fitfully fill him. He released a shot of bright, searing lightning at Jothar, forcing the Jedi into action. As expected, Jothar leapt out of the way, forward to the left, aiming to launch himself again from one of the tables.

With a flick of his wrist, Lord Naught threw the table aside just as Jothar was about to land. He was able to correct and rolled across the floor unhurt, but left his guard open. Lord Naught left off another shot of lightning, blue light banishing the rainbow for a moment. He caught Jothar's right arm, burning the nerves within. A part of him delighted at the man's screams, another recoiled with disgust.

Granted a moment's reprieve as Lord Naught's morality warred, Jothar switched his sabre to his left hand. He was weaker with his off-hand, but at least he had trained with it. He looked for an opening and leapt again, closing more of the space between them. A blow landed against his chest and he was knocked backwards. He landed with a crunch of bone. Lord Naught pinned him to the floor, snapped from his reverie by Jothar's attack.

"Do you think you will win... Sith?" Jothar gritted his teeth against the pain and reached for the Force. It was there, but not what he was expecting. A little of the Light responded to him, but it was distant and faint. There was a greater shadow, as deep and as dark as the night sky. He took it, swallowed it whole and pushed against Lord Naught's weight.

Jothar's resistance jolted and jerked against Lord Naught's hand - his freedom was inevitable. Lord Naught let him have it. The sudden release shocked Jothar and he sprang upwards, guarded but stunned.

"I already am winning, Jedi, you just can't see it."

Lord Naught took a step back and drew his sabre. The blade was lilac, with a pure white core. Jothar gave his green blade a flourish and sneered. His contempt was clear and rang in the Force. He kept both hands wrapped around the hilt; Jothar would put all his might behind his attacks. Lord Naught kept his left hand free. He reduced his defence as a result, but he had no intention of being hit.

Jothar threw his sabre, blade humming as it cut through the air. He leapt after it, obviously hoping to catch it, and Lord Naught, unawares.

Lord Naught sent out a wave of force, once again knocking Jothar down. He deflected the thrown sabre with ease. Lightning burnt the air once more as he shocked the fallen Jedi. Surely this was not the limit of Jothar's ability?

Jothar reached out once more to the Force. He would not be cowed by this alien Sith. The shadow was all consuming now and he relished it. With newfound vigour, Jothar pushed against the floor and charged forward. His sabre flew back to his hand and he drew his arm back. It came crashing down in an arc. Lord Naught barely brought his guard to bear in time. A shock of recognition flashed in Jothar's eyes as he landed, mere inches from the crossed blades.

"Aww, so the little boy grew up and became a big, bad Sith?" Jothar pressed harder on Lord Naught's blade, his blue eyes quickly turning red. "Well, I'm so glad you found somewhere you belong, no-tats," Hatred flared in the man's chest, fundamental and vast. He realised he had the advantage when a furious shame blazed from Lord Naught. "You know that's what we called you, all the time," He laughed, grinding the sabres together. "I can't even remember your name."

Lord Naught gripped the hilt of his sabre with both hands, struggling to keep the Jedi at bay. He could not allow himself to call upon the Force. Though he desperately needed a shield, any lapse in concentration could kill him.

"I heard you'd died with the rest of the Absolution crew, no-tats."

"I am Lord Naught, I lived and I will continue to do so." There was no alternative. For Jedi there was the Force, for Sith eternity and for Lord Naught... a question that kept him awake at night.

"No, you won't, Darth No-tats. I'm going to kill you and your little Imp friends."

Jothar had the physical advantage and his blade was inching closer, forcing Lord Naught back. He was losing ground and his defence was failing. The dull thump of battle had faded. Were they being driven from the complex? Was this fallen Jedi and his rag-tag band of fools and sell-swords winning? Lord Naught could not reach out into the Force to check on his forces as Jothar launched another attack. His arms trembled and he knew he was weakening. Jothar could likely tell as well.

Explosions rocked the walls and the floor beneath them shook gently. Lord Naught kept his footing, using the Force to steady himself. Jothar wheeled back and looked for an opening. He crouched, readying himself to strike.

Jothar fell to the floor, smoke rising from just under one horn, the right side of his face a smoking crater. From atop one of the balconies, Imperial troops filtered into the library. Small clouds of masonry dust followed them.

"My Lord," Lieutenant Windthorpe's voice came clear over his comm-bead. Lord Naught sighed in relief. "Forgive me for interrupting your battle, but we are running out of time."

Lord Naught set his comm to broadcast to his retrieval group in the library, waiting to hear the clicks as each unit responded. All alive.

"I trust all noted artefacts have been secured?" The responses came back as affirmative. The mission was complete.

Lieutenant Windthorpe and Sergeant O'Hara joined him on the floor.

"They sent some Padawans after us, milord, but they don't stand up to grenades too well," Sergeant O'Hara grinned and hefted her two-handed cannon on to her shoulder. "The building didn't fare too well either, though. We aren't leaving by the way we came in." She shrugged at the Lieutenant's hard stare.

"Unfortunately, my Lord, the Sergeant is correct. Our expected exit routes are no longer useable."

"None of them?"

"No, my Lord," Lieutenant Windthorpe gestured to the balconies and corridors that led out of the library. "What hasn't been damaged in the fighting has been sabotaged by slicers and an over-zealous security team."

Lord Naught sighed. There was only one avenue left open to them. He pulled out a small picto-recorder and took a few pictures of the glass ceiling. The geometric design, and the way the vaults and columns allowed the light to play so beautifully throughout the space, was perfect.

"Sergeant O'Hara, see to it that any possible attack points are fortified and then call for our extraction," He pointed to the roof somewhat reluctantly. "Any ship will likely have to come through there."

"Already done on the defences, milord, and I'll get the rabble ready for lift off." She walked off, waving her arms and shouting orders.

"Lieutenant..."

"Gather any and all information available on the structure and design of the library? Of course, my Lord." Lieutenant Windthorpe bowed, a small smile playing across his lips.

"Thank you, Lieutenant." He gave a quick squeeze of the man's hand, when he was sure that no one was looking.

Lord Naught stood alone with Jothar's remains. There was little on him beyond the usual Jedi effects. The only thing of note was a small, black datapad, filled with names and numbers. He threw the datapad down in disgust.

Lord Naught watched the ceiling for a long time, lamenting what was about to happen.

~

Rochester stirred a spoonful of honey into the tea, making sure the metal did not clink against the china.

"I heard everything he said, are you ok?"

Broan accepted the cup, sniffing the steam eagerly.

"I used to know him, but..." He leant his head on Rochester's shoulder and sighed. "He wasn't a very nice person. He was a right b*stard, actually," Rochester chuckled at the slang Broan had picked up. He put one arm around his shoulder and rubbed his arm gently. Broan blew the steam away and took a sip of his tea. "He hated me, it was so strange. He hated me in such a base, primal way and I don't know why."

"Maybe because you're a Sith Lord now?"

Broan shook his head. He swung one leg over Rochester's knee and settled deeper into the couch.

"No, it seemed old, like he had harboured it for years."

"He's dead now, so there's nothing to worry about." Rochester kissed Broan's temple and pulled his other leg up.

"Yeah, I guess..."

I think Broan was far more distraught at the idea of destroying the library than he was at Jothar's death. Also, Rochester is a total kill stealer.

Kirya powered down the ship, “Okay,” she said, turning to Corso, “All we need is the local customs authority clearance and we’re home free.”

Corso peered through the cockpit micrometerorite screen, “Here she comes now.”

“Her?” Kirya glanced at the landing bay platform. Sure enough, a blue-uniformed customs agent was already making her way across the duracrete. Kirya hoped it would be Suree again, he was a sucker for sweet talk and a case of beer. Guess this one would come down to more traditional bribery. “Okay, I’ll get the credsticks, you and Risha contact the GTN listing agent and start moving the horranth eggs.”

“Gotcha,” Corso said, opening a channel. His contact request went immediately to hold and a synthesized, non-vocal version of last-year’s number one pop hit began playing through the terminal’s speakers.

Kirya jogged to the safe in her cabin, swiped a handful of Hutt-Cartel issue credsticks, and proceeded to Fifty Percent’s main hatch. She opened it and met the agent as she passed into the shadow of the ship’s landing gear, “Afternoon, officer...” Kirya quickly read the name badge on her uniform, “Isado.”

Isado looked up from her datapad. Bright horns poked through the Zabrak’s streams of long blonde hair, “Afternoon. You the registered owner-operator of this vessel?”

“Yes I am,” Kirya replied.

Isado nodded, “Your log states you recently visited Terrak Five. You wouldn’t happen to have any horranths among your cargo, perhaps not listed on the manifest?” she asked.

Something in Isado’s voice made Kirya suspect she wasn’t asking because she collected reptiles as a hobby. “Why, no, Officer Isado, of course not,” she said, pumping as much innocence into the statement as possible.

“Good,” Isado said, returning to her datapad, “Horranths are considered a class-one invasive species on this planet. Blasted things breed like the plague. I trust you won’t be responsible for letting more of them loose on our fragile ecosystem.”

Kirya placed one hand on her heart, “Absolutely not, Officer. I have no intention of harming your planet’s ecosystem.” What happened to the creatures after they left her hold was not her fault.

Isado nodded again, “Glad to hear it. The rest of your paperwork looks to be in order. I’ll have the dockworkers string up the quarantine and you should be good to go in forty-eight hours.”

Clearance without a bribe! Darn Suree, costing her beer every trip, what a jerk. “That’s excellent news, Officer, thank--” Kirya cut off as Isado’s entire statement sunk in, “Wait, did you say quarantine?”

“Yes,” Isado said, folding the datapad under her arm.

“Forty-eight hour quarantine?” Kirya repeated.

“Yes,” Isado agreed, “Republic alerts show an outbreak of praxian flu on Terrak Five. Symptoms normally manifest within seven standard days. We’re nine from the Terrak system with a plus-point-three hyperdrive, but just to be certain we’ve imposed a quarantine and mandatory blood screen on all arrivals from that system. No one off or on. I was going to take care of this with short-range comms, but I couldn’t get through.”

The eggs could start hatching within forty-eight hours. “May I see that alert please, Officer Isado?” Kirya squeaked.

Isado handed over the datapad. Sure enough, there it was. Praxian flu outbreak on Terrak Five. Kirya dug for the credsticks in her pocket with one hand, “I’m sure you can make an exception, can’t you, Officer Isado?”

“Negative,” Isado said, “in fact, since I’ve been exposed now, I have to ask you to put me up for the duration.”

“You want to stay? On the ship?”

Isado laughed, “If you don’t mind. I hate to impose, but all your channels were busy so I couldn’t warn you. I’ll pay whatever your going rate is for carrying passengers, but I’d rather not sleep on the duracrete.”

“Heh, heh,” Kirya laughed weakly. She put a few chips on the datapad and handed it back, “Sure you can’t expedite those tests?”

“Sorry, it takes that long to run the culture,” Isado said, staring at the credsticks for a moment before handing them back, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to bribe me.”

Kirya’s smile was painted on, “I wouldn’t dream of it, Officer.”

“That’s good,” Isado said, “Bribing a customs official is serious business. Officer Suree’s reports on your ship show you’re clean, so this is just a formality. It’s nice to meet an honest shipper for a change.”

“I bet,” Kirya said, “We’re a rare breed.”

“No kidding,” Isado agreed, “You know, you might want to look into upgrading your comm system.”

“Oh, I will, officer,” Kirya said. Right after investing in larger-capacity stasis chambers for perishable cargo. “Thanks for the tip.”

“You’re welcome. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

Ever wonder why some Market items are bound to you for a short period of time? Now you know.