Corso lay in the dark, dank cave. His leg, where the vorantikus had grazed him with its horn before he’d managed to shoot it, had stopped bleeding but his entire body was on fire. Stupid, I’m so stupid, he thought. He’d been furious at Miriah when he’d stomped off into the Voss wilderness, furious at the nerve of the guy who’d been spouting poetry at her. Rather than pull Torchy on him, he’d stalked off, muttering to himself. No holo, no ration bars, just him and Torchy. He groaned and tried to get comfortable, making as little noise as possible since there were many more of the beasts he’d been injured by milling around outside. Maybe when it gets dark, they’ll all leave, he mused. Then I can try to get back to the outpost. He found a small indentation in the back wall of the cave, and curled up as well as he could there, his teeth chattering and the feeling of being towed under putting him into a fitful sleep.

Miriah and Risha were pacing. It had been twelve hours since they’d seen Corso go stomping across the compound, and they’d searched in the general direction he’d taken until darkness fell without seeing any sign of the Mantellian. “Just relax, Miriah, he’s fine. Probably just off pouting somewhere. You know he can’t stand the thought of you talking to another male,” Risha smirked. They both turned as Bow entered the tent, shaking his head. He’d not seen his friend, either.

“I don’t know, Rish, he was pretty kriffing mad. So mad that he left his pack here, so he’s out there, somewhere, without food or water. And, not sure why, but I have the vague idea that he’s injured or he’d be back here by now.” She turned to pace again, the uneasy feeling in her gut intensifying. Why would he go off like this, when he knows I’m falling for him hard?

Corso woke with a start, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. He could still see a couple of animals outside the cave entrance. Great, he thought. He was still in pain, still feverish, but the sleep had helped. Wish I had some water, he sighed to himself. Wish I had Miriah. His mad had fizzled when he’d faced the huge beast that had gored him, and now all he really wanted was her. He thought of the rings he’d had made the last time he was on Carrick, the ones he had tucked into his workbench on the ship. He still hadn’t worked out the best way to ask her, but he would, he vowed. He drifted back into restless sleep, still thinking of her.

“I don’t care if it is dark, I can move under the stealth generator. I AM going to find him.” Miriah was gearing herself up with kolto and stims, knowing there was something wrong.

“Well, well, Captain. I think you love the farmboy after all,” Risha drawled, grinning at Miriah’s blush. “We can’t let you go alone, though. How will you get him back here if he’s hurt?”

“Akaavi is going with me,” Miriah said, just as the Mandalorian joined them from outside. “Let’s go, we’ll be back soon. I hope.” With that, the two set off in the general direction they’d seen Corso take that afternoon, moving quietly under stealth. They’d been making good time, and were about three kliks out from camp when Akaavi touched Miriah's shoulder, pointing in front of them at what was unmistakably blaster fire scorches along the ground, and a hulking dead vorantikus. Miriah went a little pale at all the blood a few feet away from the beast.

“A blood trail will allow us to find him, Captain.” Akaavi saw Miriah’s weak nod, and they set off again, Miriah practically running, but the blood trail vanished not much further up. Well, at least he got it stopped, she thought. They skirted around a group of vorantiki milling around, taking a short rest on a small rise above the herd. “He wouldn’t have gotten too much further, Captain. The vorantikus wound would have made him very ill.” She crouched and built a small fire, and saw the worry on Miriah’s face by its light. “He should have sought shelter, but I believe he is not far away.”

In a fit of temper, Miriah stood and threw several thermal grenades into the herd of vorantikus directly in front of her, scattering the uninjured and killing a few. She walked to the edge of the rise, using her blaster to finish one of the great beasts who lumbered around in a circle with an injured leg. Only then did she see the cave entrance, and her heart rate increased. Maybe, he found this, too, she thought. She jumped down to see dried blood in her lamp’s light, and gingerly stepped inside the small cave. “Corso?” she called, then spotted the gleam of his armor reflecting her light.

Corso heard explosions, but wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or just so sick he was hallucinating. He thought he heard her voice, but he knew he was alone. In his dream, he felt hands moving him, heard Miriah crying, and Akaavi’s voice, but couldn’t figure out what she was saying. Then he felt cool air over his skin, making him shiver, and the shivering making him cry out in pain. Miriah’s voice soothed him, her touch relaxing him, and then he didn’t dream anything else.

He woke back aboard the Stardancer, slowly opening his eyes in the medbay. It was dark, only a little amount of light from the standbys giving any clue as to where he was. He turned his head slowly, afraid to move too much, and saw her, sitting on a small stool near the bed, her head lying near his hand, asleep. He reached his fingers out, smoothed the hair on her forehead, and thought about the best way to tell her he was sorry. He was about to close his eyes again when he heard movement and saw Risha tiptoe up to him.

“She was worried crazy, you fool. Do something like that again, and I’ll take you out myself,” she hissed close to his ear. He nodded, knowing she was justified in her anger, and when he opened his eyes again, she had gone.

Yoshi (Why He Joined) - It's an interesting idea - a Mandalorian becoming a Republic soldier. In other news, Tormen is among my most hated characters in the game. I actually stopped playing my bh during Corellia for a month because I was so frustrated with that whole situation.

bright (Health and Confessions) - I love the way Vierce and Elara interact. It's just...sigh-worthy. Love it

kabe - (Myth, Legend, Hero) "it was as if his entire existence was one of joyless paranoia." Lol, that's so accurate. And I loved this story. For its length, I was really really impressed with how much story was there. The two Mandalorians, Remi, and Scourge, the Hutt...and it all worked together beautifully. Loved it!

Mrtwo - (New Beginnings) Ah, that spot farthest from the bright center of the universe I do love Tat and all it's grittiness...maybe that's just the sand.

Mags - (Hide and Seek) An earlier peek at their budding relationship, I liked it a lot

Rock scr*ped against his back; sharp teeth dulled down to fingernails due to his armour. He shuffled along, dirt clinging to his chest, lungs pressed almost flat. There seemed no end to the little tunnel he was in - nothing but blackness ahead. His shoulders were cramped up to his chin, but he could still move, still pull himself forward. He kicked, each lunge sending him further into the rock, just to crash back to the dirt. A few inches of difference that now felt like miles. The space was so tight he could not move his head; he could not see behind him. There was no way for him to judge time or how far he had travelled. The claustrophobia was maddening and more than once he had stopped and lain in the dirt, waiting.

He continued. There was no other option. To give in to despair would be to die and while he still moved, there was hope.

The tunnel stretched on and he tried to focus. There were no forks and the floor remained level, of course, he remembered, the tunnel was artificial. It had been hewn from the bedrock by centuries-dead prisoners, drawn by the whisperings of freedom - or so he had been told. The whisperings had been something else, though, and they were leading him now. On and on he followed the wordless promise, through the darkness and insanity. The dirt and the dust caked his breathing unit and he started to choke and gasp.

A pinpr*ck of light ahead nearly blinded him. The end, the blessed end of this damned tunnel. He wanted to scream and to cry; to run toward the light and never look back. He scrabbled and scrambled faster, fighting against the confines of the tunnel. The promise of space and life and hope, it had been so true.

He reached the end, fingers prodding against the opening and the cool, clean air. Then a primal jolt of fear gripped him: air. There was no ground at the end of this tunnel. The cliff dropped away and far beneath him, he saw the source of the light.

He tried to reach his commbead and, upon finding his shoulders wedged, reached out to the Force. It flowed to him easily, warm and comforting and it filled him, making him feel weightless. The line crackled and hissed in his ear. The white noise made him wonder how far away was the surface... would anyone find him?

"L--- --ugh-, -ow g--- to hear ---- you. I trusssss -....- going well?"

"I've found it, the source. The Force is strong here."

His slowly eyes adjusted to the light. The floor was some fifteen metres away, close enough to reach, if he used the Force to cushion his fall. He was happy to wait a little while. He pulled off the mask on his face, leaving it to dangle from his neck. He breathed deep. Even so far underground, the air was fresh.

This cavern was a little resting place of the Lightside. It seemed almost as if the Force lived here and Broan would enjoy it, while it was still unspoilt. He would meditate on the mystery and beauty, before he was forced to render them scientific. It was almost too much, the want to hide it all away.

Vette lingered at the entrance of the grungy alley, trying to look inconspicuous. Usually that wasn’t much of a challenge, but this neighborhood was nasty even by her standards. If one more drunk person propositioned her, she was going to deck them and tell Varrel the guy didn’t show. He’d understand. Lord Umrahiel was pretty understanding for a Sith. Most of the time.

That last one was kind of cute. Except for the smell. Sheesh, was it too much to expect beings to wash clothes and maybe take a vibe-shower?

“Hey, doll, lookin’ for a good time?” a rough male voice came from behind her.

“All right, that’s it. For the last time I am not--” Vette spun around, little hand balled into a fist, aiming for a nose or at least a face and froze. Vette hadn’t seen anyone from Lord Umrahiel’s homeworld before. Varrel didn’t like to talk about Atresia, which was a shame, because what he had said sounded exotic and interesting. But she had no doubt this man was from the same world. He had long dark hair, straight like Varrel’s. The same small, wiry build and sharp chiseled features. He wasn’t a relative, but the similarities were obvious. Vette knew it like she might know a Twi’lek who came from the same part of Ryloth that she did.

Vette dropped her arm, “Heh, sorry. Bazej?”

“That’s Captain Bazej to you,” he said, chewing on a thin green stick, “You don’t want this, I can dump it.”

“I thought you were someone else,” Vette said.

Bazej grunted, “You Vette, then?”

“Yes.”

“Got my trade?” he asked.

“Right here,” Vette said, holding up a yellow gem.

Bazej took it and slid it into a autoloupe. The device warbled softly then chimed. He checked the readout, “Fair enough,” he said. He removed a package wrapped in coarse fabric from beneath his long coat, “All yours, doll, he said.

Vette took the package. It was about half the size of a compact datastation and surprisingly heavy. “Hey, how do I know this is what--” she looked up. Bazej was gone. Vanished into the maze of alleys and shadows where the street’s patchy lighting didn’t reach. Vette turned the bundle over. Whatever it was, it was hers for the time being.

Back on the rented shuttle, safely in hyperspace on the way back to Dromund Kaas, Vette sat at the table, staring at the package. The rough wrapper was gone, revealing not a datastation but a small, portable controlled-environment chamber. The lights on it blinked and it emitted a constant low hum. Varrel gave specific instructions that she should leave it alone, just deliver it to him. She couldn’t help but wonder what was inside.

And at the same time, she didn’t want to know.

Curiosity won out. Vette unsealed the chamber. The lid slid back and a damp white vapor drifted out, accompanied by an earthy aroma. Vette sniffed. Damp, earthy, peaty, reminiscent of...she backed away from the box. Like an old tomb. What did Lord Umrahiel want that had to be delivered unofficially and picked up by a trusted servant rather than delivered to the estate? That smelled like rot and had to be kept in an environmental chamber? She really didn’t want to know.

Except. She did. Vette approached the open chamber with trepidation and peered inside. One quick glance and she drew back, a lump in her throat. It was red and slimy and horrible, like blisters or pustules on the severed limb of some...Vette risked another look.

They were mushrooms. Bright red, long-stemmed mushrooms with little button caps, packed together on a section of lichen and moss-covered wood. Attached to the log was a slip of flimsiplast with old-fashioned aurebesh calligraphy, “It is our pleasure to serve the glorious Empire. Complements of Todash Traditional Mushroom Collectors.” Mushrooms. Just mushrooms.

Vette closed the chamber with a laugh. Just mushrooms. Maybe Varrel would share. She liked mushrooms.

Merok cocked his rifle and stared down the scope into the Exchange warehouse. His wife, Raina Temple, knelt beside him, her hip holsters unstrapped and her pistols off safety. On the street north of the warehouse, Lokin was monitoring the entrance from the cockpit of the Phantom, hovering a hundred meters over the buildings. On the east, Scorpio and Vector prepared for infiltration.

"Everyone in position?"

They checked in. Merok resumed staring down the scope, focusing on the third floor. Inside, Kaliyo was tied to a chair, surrounded by Exchange guards. The Exchange boss, a Quarren, slapped her, and when his hand came away her left eye was blackened and her nose was bleeding.

"Blast them, they're hurting her," he murmured.

"Since when do you care?" Raina asked.

"Kaliyo's a friend," he snapped. "An insane, murderous, unstable friend, maybe, but a friend."

Raina nodded. "I understand. I really do."

"Good. All right. Scorpio, Vector: go."

He waited thirty seconds after the command was given and then leapt down to the street. Raina followed him, her pistols instantly out of their holsters. Merok kicked down the side door and moved in. Two guards, a human and a Zabrak, saw them and pulled their blasters. Merok fired twice, killing them both.

"Clear," he said.

Temple stepped forward into the next room, her pistols trained inside.

"Clear," she said.

Nodding, Merok entered the room. He glanced around and then swiftly motioned to the stairway leading to the third floor. He moved up with Temple on his six. When they reached the top, they found Scorpio and Vector in a firefight with a squad of Exchange enforcers. The Quarren boss was ducking behind a computer console. Kaliyo was struggling feebly against her restraints.

Merok zoomed in across the room, found the Quarren, and grinned. He fired. The shot ripped through the Quarren's thigh, and the aquatic alien fell, his leg torn to shreds. Kaliyo grinned around the blood running into her mouth. Scorpio, Vector, and Temple swiftly finished off the Exchange killers.

"You three get to the Phantom," Merok said. "I'll get Kaliyo."

Temple led them out. Merok pulled out his blaster pistol and blew a hole in Kaliyo's restraints. She sagged to the floor, panting.

"You all right?" he asked.

She nodded. "Thanks for coming, Agent. I–"

Abruptly she vomited all over the floor. Merok winced and left her to it while he moved over to the Quarren, who was struggling to cling to the last moments of his life while blood leaked out of his leg.

"I can save you," Merok said. "Give me information and I'll bandage your leg, make sure you get a fair sentence in prison, maybe even get you a cybernetic leg. But I need you to talk."

"Wh-what...do y...want...know?"

"Why did the Exchange want Kaliyo kidnapped?"

"Owed...money...and she...couldn't pay."

"That's it? You almost killed one of my men because of a kriffing debt?"

"You...help...?"

Merok sighed. He'd given his word. He knelt and tied a bandage around the Quarren's leg...and abruptly the alien slammed its fist into Merok's jaw. He fell back in surprise.

"Reinforcements...coming," the Quarren said weakly. "Too...late..."

As the Quarren died, Merok knelt, grabbed Kaliyo, and sprinted down the stairs.

"Temple! We've got enemies coming. Get a visual?"

"Affirmative," she replied. "They'll be on you in thirty seconds."

Merok set Kaliyo down and pulled out his rifle.

"Give me a gun..." Kaliyo said.

"No. You're nauseated, have a black eye, probably a concussion. Out of the question."

"Blast it, let me fight!" she snapped.

Merok sighed. He knew she'd never relent. He tossed her his sidearm and sighted up. Three Exchange enforcers charged in firing. Kaliyo tucked herself down and rolled under cover and fired at the first in line. Merok knelt beside her and opened fire, quickly killing three more.

"Temple!" he called. "Pickup, now!"

Abruptly the back wall blew. Merok sprinted across the room and leapt up the ramp of the Phantom. Kaliyo staggered in behind him. She sat on the floor, panting.

"Thanks," she said.

"You'd do it for me," he replied. "Don't mention it."

The gizkas in Kirya's story were no relation to Mako's comment. Someone had one on fleet the other day and it must have come from a pack or the GTN. I wanted a small, birdlike animal, preferably one that existed in-game, and the red-backed gizka fit the bill.

This has to be some f*cked up joke. Twice. Twice in one lifetime I’m set upon by Trandoshans. They’re looking for something. I can’t decipher their guttural, bone chilling language. I focus on one thing, the most important thing: getting my son out of this place. He doesn’t need to see his father die as well. I get him down the escape hatch and into the tunnels before the damn lizard catches up to me. My arm is up in self-defense then it’s gone. There’s pain. Pain and blood. Damn lizard is grunting something again. I spit in its face. I’m about to die anyway.

Hearing goes first then numbness sets in. Never felt it like this before. It’s final. The end is really here. Before everything goes black, I see the lizard’s head explode into a mist of blood and viscera. Can’t even feel it splash against my skin.

Last thought: About time, HK.

Wasn’t expecting to wake up. Don’t know where I am or how long it’s been. Can’t really think.

“Assessment: You are regaining consciousness, Master. Query: How do you feel?”

Numb. I feel numb. I can’t feel my right arm. It must be gone. I’ll need a replacement. My son. Where is my son?

I open my eyes and look toward HK’s voice. “Where is my son?” Sweet stars, is that my voice? I sound old. Tired. Dead.

“Statement: I do not know, Master. After liquidating the undesirables, the estate was set ablaze. Prideful statement: I ceased deleting undesirables to save your life, Master. Solemn assessment: The young master did not make it out alive.”

No.

No.

NO!

Not him. Not my son. I should have died protecting him like his mother did. My son. I can feel my throat constricting. My eyelids burn.

This has to be some sick f*cking joke.

And it’s not funny anymore.

A bit depressing. He's unnamed in this bit, but this is my Bounty Hunter, Ucles. He has a rather interesting back story that continues to unfold despite my resistance to such matters.

Characters do what they want.

"No."

"Come on, Vierce."

"No."

"It'll–"

"No."

"But–"

"The answer is no, Lyr."

"You don't even know what I was going to do."

"It falls under 'no good,' I bet."

"But–"

"No."

"You are–"

"No."

Dep clattered in from the street and dragged in a chair to push close to Illyris's. "Vierce, you in for pranking Kirsk tonight?"

"What? Of course I am, just tell me where to be."

Lyr''s eyes went round. "That's what I was trying to tell you!"

"Well you didn't say it was Kirsk."

"You didn't let me get that far into the sentence!"

I looked at Dep. "She's a terrible negotiator."

Dep shrugged. "She really is." He just grinned as she elbowed him and stomped my foot under the table. "We love you anyway, Lyr. Now c'mon, both of you, there's planning to do."

And we were off.

“Cipher?”

Wynston turned away from Headquarters’ big galactic map to see Fixer Eighteen. Thoughtful sort of girl, charmingly plain, olive skin, black velvet voice, liked her drinks strong and her men assertive. Damn good at her job, too.

“Songbird,” he said. He kept his body language neutral; this was Headquarters, after all. But he did smile. “I was sure they’d have you working on the Havoc situation.”

“Taking my half-minute break for the month, sir.”

“Ah. I’m not sure what I can do for you in half a minute but I’m certainly willing to try. I was actually just finishing here–” finishing blanking out, really, recalling the ordeal of the past three months and its bloody end – “and about to go looking for mischief. Seeing as you’re the one with up to date local information, maybe you could tell me where to start.”

“I’m glad I was the first to catch you,” she smirked. “Walk with me.”

“There’s no place worthwhile within walking distance. What would you say to the Black Command in an hour or so?”

She gave a low whistle. “High class tonight.”

“Only the best for you. Will an hour do to get ready? I think I’d like to see you in red.” He gave her a quick obvious once-over and, as ever, had no problems with what he saw. “It doesn’t have to be showing right away.”

She had a truly amusing outraged face. “You are a pig, Cipher.”

“So say no, songbird. Or meet me at the Black Command in an hour.”

*

Wynston himself was feeling more thoughtful than usual, and had been since the time when his thoughts were all he had. He played with Fixer Eighteen over dinner – she didn’t have anything red visible but she carried herself with a sly self-satisfaction that suggested she hadn’t ignored his suggestion– and they were almost finished with supper when she surprised him.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” she said in a lull, “are you all right? You’ve seemed distracted.”

“Oh.” Damn, he rarely let that slip. Perhaps he hadn’t fully recovered from the brainwashing debacle after all. “It’s no fault of yours, songbird, I’m sorry. Matters have been complicated lately.” He didn’t like admitting it, but it was clearly too late to hide. “Believe me, your company is the best antidote I could ask for.”

“It’s not going to get any easier, is it. Now that we’re at war.”

“No,” he admitted. “It’s not.” It would be stressful in different ways, but stressful just the same. “I suppose you’ve been as busy as I have.” Commiserate: it was the next best thing to deflecting attention entirely.

“Which is why I was more than happy to come out with you tonight. You’re…not quite like most of the others, you know.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“I just mean, you…care. Most people around the Citadel who have an opinion are excited there’s a war on, but you haven’t been talking like it’s a good thing.”

“It’s not. The war is imperative but I’ve no intention of celebrating the process.” He sipped his drink. “Why, are you not excited at the prospect of massacring fat Republic nerfs?”

“I don’t see the appeal myself. Were…were you around for the last war?”

“Is that a dig at my age, my dear?”

“Would I be here if I didn’t like older men?”

“Ouch. I should hope so. Yes, I was active in the last war.” And it had been ugly on both sides. “The best possible thing for this one to do is end, quickly.”

“You know when we win, the Empire’s going to hold more than we’ve ever had before.”

“We’ll finally have the Core Worlds. There will be border skirmishes and a few insurgencies, but for the first time it won’t be a fight for our very existence. That prospect I’ll admit excites me.”

"Do you think the Sith will let us finish it this time?"

He dimmed his smile, just enough so he was sure she would notice. “Not here, my dear. Though it’s an interesting historical question.” One he preferred to ignore for the simple reason that thinking too hard on it could do no good. He would deal with that order if it came, that was all.

She eyed him over her drink. “Would you like to go someplace after? I just…I don’t get to talk often with someone who knows the history. Or I do, it’s just that it’s the same dozen people. It’s nice to chat with someone who gets out and about.”

“Talking could certainly be arranged.” He smiled knowingly. “Anything you like.”

“And here I thought you might like being appreciated for your mind.”

“Sooner or later everyone wants me for my experience. I can oblige either way.”

They finished their meal. He paid. She settled into the crook of his arm and hummed some popular tune in the taxi, which pleased him no end. She really did have a marvelous voice.

His temporary accommodations were far superior to the barracks the permanent staff lived in. He turned to her as soon as they were inside, was a little forceful in kissing her. Enough to suit her tastes. Enough to taste.

“Now, then,” he murmured. “Shall we leave the heavy subjects behind?”

“That’s not what we agreed on.” She smiled, backed away, took his hand, and headed for the couch.

“You really are in it for the history lesson, then?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind.” He was much better at the other thing, but he could adapt. “You might get sick of me talking, that’s all.” He crossed the room to activate the little noise generator by the desk, then came back to settle beside her; he was pleased to find that she was willing to tolerate his arm around her shoulders while she turned in to face him. “That brings up an idea, actually. You should see if you can get a transfer to a Watcher designation; I wouldn’t mind taking orders from your voice all day long.”

“Ha! No, thanks. We need all the Fixers we can get right now, I won’t leave the rest of my people high and dry.”

He grinned. “That expression bothered me for the longest time. I trained on an iceberg on an ocean world; high and dry was exactly where everyone wanted to be. But, if you don’t want to leave me there I’ll defer to your judgment.”

“I’ll keep things running. It must be mad out there. It’s nice I could catch you while you’re in town; like I said, it’s good to chat with someone who gets out and about.”

“You should ask about a field assignment yourself sometime. There are a few zones safer than the front itself that could use a Fixer’s touch.”

“I prefer the work hours here. Long, maybe, but regular.”

“You owe it to yourself. If only once. Get off planet, see what’s out there. See something of the galaxy we’re fighting for.”

“You do like the travel, don’t you?”

“Very much.”

“Oh.” Something seemed to occur to her. “I suppose…Dromund Kaas must be hard for you. Relatively speaking. We aren’t generally kind to aliens.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That? It's not really an issue. Besides, it’s the same on any Imperial world. That’s one element that Dromund Kaas culture has successfully exported to its holdings.”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

He shrugged. “Not really. One learns to manage.” It was the only safe answer.

“Things are changing now, anyway. With the war we need aliens just to fill the ranks, whether the conservatives like it or not.”

“Very true. I’m doing my part to prove we can cut it. In another generation an alien may not attract notice at all on Imperial worlds.”

“If the Empire’s going to expand, including other species will be inevitable. Which is why…I was going to ask, when you shushed me back at the restaurant. I just wondered.” She eyed the desk. “Would it really have been that sensitive to ask whether they explained the order to pull back?”

“It may be,” he said. “Always err on the side of caution, Fixer. Now, to you, I will say that we’ve never received an explanation.” He tried to keep his manner neutral. He had never understood why the Emperor didn’t want the war ended decisively then and there while they had the advantage. No explanation was forthcoming. “We prepared Coruscant. The Sith offensive broke a number of things on Coruscant. Then we were all ordered away.”

“And nobody’s gotten to ask the Emperor since then.”

“With Sith at that level it’s unwise to question orders.”

She crossed her arms and gave him some kind of Look. “That’s not what they say about your operation with Darth Jadus.”

When he had refused the Dark Council member outright, wrecked his mass-murder plan and, somehow, for the time being at least, driven him from the field? Even now preparations were in place against Jadus’s return; the monster Sith wouldn’t have an easy time of it. “I can’t get into that, songbird.” It was classified well beyond her level. Beyond everyone’s, even if the rumors among the lower staff were never quite silenced. “With Sith at that level it’s unwise to question orders. Perhaps–” he eyed the generator once more just to emphasize that this was sensitive material – “you arrange circumstances and promotions such that the orders coming down are sane, or you find creative ways to fulfill orders, but it’s no use walking up and challenging the order itself. That’s just a quick way to die.”

“Can you really live like that?”

“Of course I can. We all do. And Intelligence does adjust matters, slowly, subtly. I don’t know how much you see from your vantage point, but one of the ways we minimize internal threats is in helping the worthwhile powers to get and stay powerful.” They didn’t have as much material to work with as Wynston would have liked. But the effort was there.

“I was hoping you as a Cipher would have some more, I don’t know, invulnerability tricks.”

He laughed. “No. All I have is a lot of persuasive skill. Along with the faith that we can make the Empire even more than she currently is. You and I, we may not have the influence right now, but we can make the contacts that do.”

“So how would the Empire be ‘more’ in your book?”

“It’d take its place in the middle of things,” he said, retaining a half smile. “What would you wish for?”

“Stability,” she said at once. “With a ruling body that isn’t always cutting off its nose to spite its face and then promoting in unstable new noses. And just…a kinder place. You know?”

He nodded. “There are good Sith out there. And some who are perhaps harsh but who know how to keep things running.” The harsh ones were needed to stop chaos and he knew it. Still. “It’s enough to go on.”

“Maybe. You think it’s a closer starting point for a perfect system?”

“Closer? There’s a comparison with something?”

“Empire or Republic. Or the cartels, but I think we can count them out.”

“Are you seriously asking me whether I think the Republic is a more usable starting model for a government?”

“I’m just curious. From someone with your experience.”

“Check our uniforms, songbird, what conclusion do you think we’ve come to?”

“But in terms of inclusiveness, and…kindness, I expected…you have to admit they’ve made a bit more progress than we have.”

“This is one of the reasons I say you should try traveling. Broaden your horizons. The Republic is hideously flawed. So if neither system is perfect, ask yourself what’s easier to reform: a meritocracy that only requires a few strong arms on your side, or a bureaucracy where you have to beg, borrow, or bribe a fifty to sixty percent majority on every, single, detail, of every, single, imaginable, change, across a thousand worlds?”

“I know. They’re slow, I’m not saying that system is the best one possible we can do. But if things are that simple for us, how come we never seem to have enough strong arms to do what’s right?”

“I work on that part. It’s not included on the quarterly progress reports, but it’s there: we try to arrange the right strength in the right places.” Ruth came to mind, her and a dozen others; Wynston’s contacts, his projects. His hopes.

“The right places might not be the ruling bodies as such. You know, the Jedi are chartered to serve the Republic instead of the other way around.”

“The Jedi are an utterly different culture. No one would ever housebreak the Sith to that degree and it wouldn’t be prudent to try. Are you aware that during the Mandalorian Wars the Jedi Council declined to participate? The leaders of potentially the greatest military force in the galaxy chose not to defend their own Republic because their Light Side commanded it so. That kind of ‘service’ is worthless.”

“But the Jedi don’t spend their spare time chewing up normal people.”

Maybe true. Still. “Bird, this is dangerous territory.”

“I know.” Her eyelashes fluttered as she looked at the floor. “I don’t mean I’m supporting their side. I just wonder. Isn’t it strange to think about a civilization that won’t enslave normal people but keeps its Force users as servants?”

“Slavery exists in the Republic.” He would know. “It’s just better hidden.”

“They don’t collar people there,” she said. “Or split up families because somebody saw an especially pretty slave they wanted to keep.”

He hesitated. It was a hard image to disregard. “This is personal to you, isn’t it.”

She shrank a little into the crook of his arm. “No. I just think about it every time I see some Sith abusing their slave in public for some reason. Or no reason. You know? Can’t we do better than that?”

“There are some things we can’t change. I prefer to concentrate on changing what we can.”

“So it’s still the starting point you would pick. Even though it means trying to fix the laws and the culture both.”

He looked at her. She looked back, earnest and plain. “You have a very high opinion of the Republic, don’t you?” he said slowly.

“I just wonder what we can take from their system while we work to improve the Empire.” Her eyes were asking for agreement.

She wasn’t subtle about it. And this conversation had long ago left the limits anyone else would allow. It wasn’t good for her. He sobered even further. “Did I ever tell you what happened to my first partner? A slicer taking on Coruscant during the first war, remarkable young man.” And one he very, very rarely talked about.

“No. What happened?”

“He decided the Republic’s ways were better. Gave our entire operation to the SIS, or tried to.”

Her black eyes widened. “And? What happened then?”

“I killed him.” He let his smile fade and his voice ice over. “I tell you this because I think you’re a good agent and a decent person. You are entitled to your thoughts – you must know I’m in the minority in that policy, and perhaps that’s why you came to me. You are entitled to your thoughts, but in action you’d better be bloody sure. It isn’t just my life and the lives of your comrades that you'd be throwing away if you were to go astray.”

She stood, staring at him as if she had never seen a threat here before. “Oh,” she said weakly. “You’ve made your point, sir.”

He let her go then, and resigned himself to wondering whether she had been wearing red after all. Irrelevant. Her questions mattered more. It might have been prudent to play along all the way, let her confide in him, but that was a double-edged act. To let her believe that his loyalties were in question meant that she could end him with a single report just as easily as he could end her. It would be only sensible for Headquarters to send someone to probe, to test his loyalty after his time in Republic space – as if anything he had seen there could sway him. Perhaps they feared that the Empire’s application of the brainwashing would wreck his faith, as if he would fail to forgive the leash that had saved him from the noose. It would be prudent of them to check.

And if Fixer Eighteen’s doubts were honest? She was a good girl. She respected him. She would heed his warning. Another decent person in Intelligence could only be a good thing, so long as she didn’t get any untenable ideas.

He hated losing people to untenable ideas.

He turned on his console and flicked six or seven files through the address book, then shut it down again. For once he wasn’t in the mood for company.

I have the same difficulty with Wynston as with Vector: He must ignore so much about his Empire, or else ignore a lot about his principles, when it comes to the uglier things about society. People with decent motivations must have existed in all societies throughout history, no matter how twisted; can such people ever really take a clear look at the system that made them?

I’ve never gone through Jadus’s dealings with Wynston; there’s a lot to think about in the way the story played out and I haven’t yet felt like I can do it justice. But surely rumors about the showdown have spread. As for leash vs. noose, if you ask the Minister why the brainwashing was applied he’ll indicate that the Dark Council insisted you be either controlled or killed after you [defied the Dark Lord Jadus | joined the maniac rogue element Jadus]. The Minister found a creative way to fulfill the 'neutralize Cipher Nine' order.

As for getting the right Sith in power: Wynston has always been somewhat guilty of idealizing eighteen-year-old Ruth; as time goes by one of the reasons he is so angry over what she becomes is that he had such hopes of what she could have become. But he lost her to the idea that no trust can be worth the risk.

Republic Infantry Academy, Corulag

I wouldn’t say that the Republic Code of Conduct was something near and dear to my heart, but there were worse things to be doing than taking notes on it. Like listening to my buddy Dravis Tallin, currently across the room selling some other of his karked-up ideas.

“Trust me,” he was telling some fresh-faced girl who didn’t know any better, and was charmed enough by that smile of his to not care even if she did. “You grab that data off the terminal and nobody’ll be the wiser. Except you and me, of course, but who’s counting, darling?”

He glanced across the room at me and winked knowingly, then slowly made his way over. My stomach churned. Dravis was a good friend, but he’d also gotten me into more trouble than I’d have liked. Not all his fault – not like I wasn’t capable of saying no – but I knew to be wary when he had that gleam in his eye.

“Ayrs, my old chum,” he said smoothly, keeping his Cheshire-like grin plastered on his face as he sat down across from me. “The rest of us are ready, it’s time to give our fishy friend a farewell he won’t forget”.

I grunted. Unresponsiveness was probably my best hope for avoiding the scheme he’d cooked up. Ortola had been a pain to us all, but I wasn’t particularly keen about doing anything more spectacular than our usual pranks. Too much of a risk for too little a payoff. It wasn’t like the Mon Calamari would give much of a reaction anyway. Ortola was a cold fish in more ways than one.

“I know you’re nervous, buddy, but we’ve scoped it out. All of us can survive the ten demerits , and that Calamari bastard has it coming. I heard he was even ragging on Rissa to the instructors the other day, you okay with him doing that to your girl?”

Cheap shot.

Rissa Harvin wasn’t anyone’s girl, certainly not mine. I felt lucky enough to be on the same planet as her, ever since that day during my first year, when I’d won the championship game for our intramural huttball team. She’d smiled that bright, wonderful smile at me and between that and the sparkles in her eyes….well they'd left me damn near speechless. Hell, she still had that effect on me, leaving me with the unfortunate habit of stammering in her presence and an even more unfortunate nickname, Ayayay.

I shook my head at him. “Drav, I’d love to stick it to him, but I’ve got my Regulations final coming up soon, and you know how karked I’ll be if I don’t do well on it. I’m not a living regulations manual like Mori or Ton.”

The grin on his face told me all I needed to know. Somehow, I’d already lost this battle; it was just a matter of the terms of surrender.

Two hours later

The op was a simple one, and the objective was clear.

Ortola, when not blustering around campus like the nerf-herder he was, enjoyed rubbing in the fact that his connections with the administration meant he could occasionally use one of the training shuttles for personal use. Today, he apparently had decided to impress some of the newly-arriving potential cadets by running the Adogan course before landing at the pad outside the mess hall. Unfortunately for him, one of my associates in the administrative office had been more than happy to let me know about it.

We were prepared.

Drav had managed to gain access to the traffic tower – I didn’t really want to know how – and Mori, bless her heart, had gone above and beyond the call of duty as well, securing a healthy amount of Alderaanian dreamwine. They’d even managed to scrounge up about three squads worth of first-years and lined them up in proper formation next to several of our co-conspirators from the marching band, highlighted by the kloo-master himself, Dravis’ brother Bail.

At long last, we heard the rumble of the incoming shuttle. It roared overhead, then set itself down on the landing pad. For once, Ortola hadn’t gone for anything flashy with his routine; as per procedure, the hatch popped open with a snap-hissss, and he strode out with his chest puffed forward. Behind him was another Mon Calamari – an older one in civilian dress but clearly with a military background – and one of the secretaries from the administrative office. Collateral damage.

Dravis spoke into his comm, his signal broadcasting through the speakers throughout the commons.

“Cadet Ortola Gahan. You have been tried in absentia before the Corulag Cadet Union Tribunal and found guilty of excessive brown-nosing and conduct unbecoming of anyone not seeking political office. Have you anything to say in your own defense?”

The band started playing a dirge, and time began to slow as the xanthas kicked into gear.

Ortola, for once ruffled, looked around with those big eyes of his, and began shaking his head vigorously and waving his arms around in some sort of frantic, mute, plea for mercy. Dravis continued, more amused now.

“In lieu of any verbal response, we accept the guilty verdict. Sentence; soaking by Alderaanian dreamwine.”

Mori and Dravis leaned the large container out of the tower and tilted it forward, releasing the gallons of dreamwine in a purple torrent. Ortola and the two others barely had time to register what was happening before they were drenched. As the kloo players picked up where the xanthas left off, I strode forward to gloat.

When I reached the shuttle, I clapped the second Mon Calamari on the back and gave him a cheerful grin. Probably Ortola’s cousin or something. “Hey, pal, sorry for the mess, but all in good fun.”

He favored me with the kind of glare I hadn’t seen since the one I got from Ariel the day I told her I’d decided to enlist in the Republic military. Hmm. I looked a little more closely at his clothing and noticed an ID badge.

“Suthra?”

His voice was gravelly and in control. “Var Suthra. General, Republic Army. Your kloo section was entirely off key.”

Kark me.

instead of [spoilers].

Miriah snickered softly as she maneuvered the freighter out of the space dock. She recalled last year, and the pranks that had abounded on the ship. Her entire galley was rearranged while she slept, which given her obsessive organization tendencies, had driven her crazy until she’d restored order. Then there’d been the “theft” of her socks—ALL her socks. Her special, very ultrasoft, padded boot socks! She wasn’t the only victim, either. Corso woke one morning to find his spare blaster parts scattered in drawers all over the ship. He was furious, stomping around for days locating all his precious parts and pieces.

They’d gotten off relatively light compared to Bowdaar. Poor Wookie. It had taken months for the pink hair dye to finally grow out. He’d gotten in so many cantina fights during that time, Miriah had put aside an account just for bail money. He still growled when Risha walked too close to him. Guss was merciless to him, too. Guss had been gone during that time, and walked away unscathed by Risha’s pranks.

That’s alright, Miriah thought. They should be able to keep each other company, there on Quesh. Miriah had stopped there, ostensibly to refuel and rest before travelling on to Makeb, and had sent them down to the planet for some treasure hunting. They’d be able to find transport off by sometime next week, she laughed to herself. She set the navcomp for Makeb and padded, in her new comfy socks (thank you very much, Cor!), back to her quarters.

“She’s gonna be furious,” Corso said when she joined him in their bed. “But probably not as much over being left as her fancy bed linens and pillows being spaced.” Miriah chuckled as she thought back over last night, when she had indeed sent the future queen’s bedding out of the airlock.

“She’ll be okay. Besides, I bought her new ones, but she’s not getting them until she apologizes to Bow again for last year.” Miriah snuggled to him and sighed.

Corso watched her fall asleep, and worried. Worried about what would happen next year, about being down two crew members going into a new conflict. Most of all, he worried that Miriah would figure out that it had been he, not Risha, who’d taken her socks.

Scourge sensed the swelling of power coming from one of the ancient temple's ritual chambers. He smiled darkly and made his way to the room. He pushed open the heavy doors, the chamber's many pillars obscured his view of the throne. He passed the fried shell of the droid, T7-01, it would be salvaged for its data then reprogrammed to serve the Empire.

"Master," he called, "Your plan worked, I lured your errant drone and the Republic fleet here. She and her Council believed my story, the Jedi are always so gulli-" he stopped mid-sentence, confronted with the impossible. Remi knelt over the swiftly cooling body of the Emperor. Scourge felt the presence of his master recede as his body expired. The Jedi looked up at him, her face blank with shock.

"Well," He said as her expression transformed from shock to outrage. "This is awkward."

First, Ruth? Yeah. He’ll couch it as personal concern and indeed personal concern was involved, but Wynston’s outrage has a heavy degree of “This could have been the most powerful kind Sith of our generation, she could have done so much that I and others like me can't do, and some jack*ss wrecked it for a pat on the head from his idiot manager.”

It was weird hearing Wynston admit that there are limits to what he can accomplish...when he's cowboying it up in the field he can be as brave as he likes, but coming home to Kaas City and talking to people who aren't as powerful or resourceful as he can be he really has to acknowledge that the limits are there. First rule of heroism as a career path: Don't get yourself killed. (I also wonder whether it’s easier to love the Empire in theory when he’s at or outside its edges, largely exempt from its day-to-day strictures, fighting for the ideal instead of living in the heart of the implementation?)

Also weird to hear him expressing any concern over things HQ might send his way. He's on good terms with Keeper and the Minister but I'm sure that doesn't grant him invulnerability from observation and from the inquiries of Sith.

It's a little sad and a lot Imperial that Fixer Eighteen should like all the playful dominant gestures and then discover she doesn't at all like the real-life dominant gestures. I guess some Imperials might like Wynston more for having offed a disloyal partner; Eighteen isn't that kind of person.

I’ve lost everything. Everything I’ve worked for, everything I treasured. Everything taken from me. Items I can replace, some can be replicated from memory. I can replace my arm. It was cybernetic up a bit past the elbow. I can’t replace my son.

HK is little comfort. He’s not supposed to be. He’s a bloody droid. He keeps going on about searching the HoloNet for information and I can’t see why he’s bothering. Can droids feel guilt? Maybe. Maybe he’s just defective.

Lanniter Droge is a funny little man. He’s upset the arm was destroyed. He could have fixed it, he says, could’ve extended it. I don’t much care. I just need an arm.

He makes the arm in less than a week. Looks just like my old one. Minus the glove. Beggars can’t be choosers. Well, that’s not true, they can, but it’s rude. I am not a rude man. Then again, I’m no longer a man. I’ve been erased. My family has been erased. All because of a vengeful Darth’s bloodlust.

He’ll get his.

And I’ll be there when he does.

HK gets a lead on where my past belongings are. It’s weird to think of him as a belonging. My son. A child. A boy. He’s barely eight years old. He should be on Korriban instead he’s here on the selling block. And I can’t afford him. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic. The only thing to do now is manipulate the sale. And I can do that.

No one pays any mind to the scruffy looking, dirty bastard looking at slave trades. Probably think I’m here for unsavory purposes like the rest. If I can get the boy purchased by a no or low kill slave fighting pit… I’m taking a gamble. On my son. On the chance his training will kick in, no matter how insignificant it seems. I can barely keep the bile down where it belongs as I do this. As I take a chance.

I find a name, Lister Scro, and get him priority bidding. I know the name. Seen it on a few listings for pit fights and job opportunities. It’s my only in. If he wins the bid.

I’m taking a gamble with both our lives. And my son is completely unaware.

Forgive me.

Ucles is terribly conflicted. On the one hand, that's his damn son. On the other, he doesn't have an identity that's safe to use just yet.

I’ve changed how I look as much as I can without surgery. A simple visual interface covers my eyes, hiding their color. Sophisticated little thing. Gives me a rundown of the local area, optional speech paths to take, projects an image of a scarred visage and manipulates an implant in my neck dropping my voice an octave or two.

I let my hair grow out. It’s all grey now. Nothing for it. I chalk it up to stress and experience. Long at the top and slicked back, but trimmed around the edges. Professional sleazebag. Let my face get scruffy, let my eyebrows get bushy. No finely trimmed Bounty Hunter would be taken seriously.

That’s the last change there. The title. I’ve already picked a name.

Ucles is my name. Targets are my game.

People who get that joke always laugh.

Lister Scro is a slimy son of a b*tch if I ever met one. I knew he would be going in, but talking to him face to face, listening to his keening voice as he mewls over his slave girls. I want to bash his f*cking skull in.

I’m a bodyguard for the pit fighters. Some of ‘em are Force sensitives. I ask him first chance I get how he’s able to keep these sensitives under the Empire’s nose.

“Hutta is neutral,” he says.

“Don’t explain how you keep ‘em here without getting raided,” I say. He must think I’m worried about my life. He gets this weirdly calm look on his face and tries to comfort me with his voice. It’s not going to work.

“I release the ones who survive at sixteen. From there, they go to Korriban.”

I hate his f*cking voice. “How many survive?”

“Enough to keep it profitable.”

F*ck you. F*ck you with a rusty lightsaber hilt, you scum pile. “Nice.” I hate my voice.

“I’m glad you agree.” He leans to one side and reaches for one of his girls. She barely flinches. When I get the chance, this man is dead.

I’ll make the f*cking chance.

Ucles is a very angry man...

Kinka awoke gradually, the panel of dim lights in her quarters growing slowly brighter to ease the transition to day. The warmth beside her was a pleasant change, one she had finally started to grow accustomed to over the past few weeks. She smiled to herself and rolled to one side, surprised to see Vector completely awake and gazing at her serenely.

“Good morning, agent,” he whispered softly, leaning in to kiss her cheek and brush a wayward strand of dark hair from her face.

“You watched me sleep,” she said with a stifled yawn.

“We hope you don’t mind, but we have never seen you look so peaceful. Your aura is comforting when you dream.”

Kinka smiled. She loved when he said things like that. She didn’t always understand his words, but she appreciated them just the same. Quiet moments with Vector had been few and far between, and she relished any chance to share time that was theirs alone. Every time they’d started to get close, some crisis would divert their attention elsewhere. Perhaps now that her mind was free and the Star Cabal had been dealt with, they could finally make a solid start.

“Agent, we have been wondering about something.”

“Hmmm?” Kinka had nestled closer to him, resting her head on his chest to listen to the sound of his heart.

“We don’t wish to pry, and we know there is much you have to keep private, but we hoped you might tell us more about yourself when you’re comfortable.”

“I’m completely comfortable with you, Vector. What would you like to know?”

“We can start at the beginning, if you like. Something from your childhood?”

Kinka thought for a minute before settling on the one thing she held closest — and the one thing that would mean the most to give him — her name. No one was privy to that information in this world, save for Keeper and the

Minister of Intelligence (and perhaps anyone else who had access to her personnel files). She had presented herself to all of her contacts as Cypher Nine. For one thing, it was safer —for them and for herself — if no one knew those details. For another, she hated her name. It sounded too severe, cold. But the more she thought about it, it just seemed silly for Vector to keep calling her “agent” in private, especially when they’d been so intimate with everything else. If anyone had earned that nugget of truth, it was him.

“Alright, Vector. I’m going to tell you something that few people know about me, something I would only trust you to know.”

A smile lit up his features. “You can trust us to keep your secret.”

“You and everyone else call me ‘agent’ or ‘cypher.’ And I like that, but you should know who I really am. My name is Kinka Stormaggedon.”

She cringed at the sound of it, an old reflex.

“My mother had a flair for the dramatic,” she explained. “She told me once that she wanted to give my sister Vekkz and I tough sounding names so that we’d be more inclined to embrace our warrior nature, be less likely to get taken advantage of. That’s what happens when your mother is a half-crazy Sith lord. I spent my entire childhood hating the sound of my name. When I was given the designation Cypher Nine before I left Dromund Kaas, I was thrilled. It wasn’t the prettiest name by any means, but it was the one thing that made me feel like I could finally leave behind my old life.”

“Your mother was Sith? We had no idea.”

Kinka nodded. “The Emperor’s Wrath, she was once called. We’ve spoken exactly once since I joined Intelligence. She was not the most affectionate mother a kid could have. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again — truthfully, I don’t know if I want to. But I guess if nothing else, I’ll always carry the name she gave me.”

Vector’s face grew thoughtful. “In the hive, those names are not so important. We used to be called Vector Hyllus, but now we are known as Dawn Herald. And although it is not an official title, the hive knows you by another name as well.”

Kinka was taken aback. “They do?”

Vector stroked the flesh of her warm hand, a proud smile growing at his lips. “We call you our Silent Star. Though your voice is soft in the Song of the Universe, your actions shine brightly throughout the galaxy.”

Kinka shifted her weight to look at him, suddenly feeling the need to blink back tears. It was the first time anyone had ever made her feel like her work made a difference. And after all that she’d suffered, she needed exactly that.

“That’s without a doubt the loveliest thing anyone has ever told me, Vector,” she said softly. “Thank you.”

He leaned forward to kiss her softly. “We love you, Kinka. Always.”

The agent smiled. On his lips, her name sounded like the most beautiful melody in the universe.