Aboard Fury-class starship

11 ATC

The universe, K’hera reflected, worked in mysterious ways.

When she had first joined Malavai’s crew, she had never thought that she might actually come to like him. She’d definitely never thought that she might develop feelings for him. And she had certainly never in her wildest dreams imagined that she would wake up in his bed one morning.

She raised her head to look at him where he slept soundly beside her, a small smile creeping across her face. No, she had never anticipated this. Even as recently as the previous morning, it had seemed impossible that she might ever know such happiness.

Glancing over at the chronometer next to the bed, her eyes widened. It was considerably later than she had expected. The others would be up by now, they would be bound to comment when they saw her leaving Malavai’s quarters…

But I don’t care, she thought, laughing inwardly. I’m a proper Sith again, and I’ll do what I please. Force-blinds’ opinions don’t have to matter to me anymore.

K’hera sat up slowly, careful not to disturb Malavai, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. He probably wouldn’t take it personally if she snuck out before he woke; he knew that she had things to do around the ship, and—

“Leaving so soon?” Malavai’s voice murmured.

She started in surprise, twisting around to see him watching her. “I didn’t realize you were awake,” she said softly. “I’m sorry if I bothered you.”

“You didn’t,” he assured her. He looked over her body, his expression darkening.

“What is it?” K’hera asked, suddenly nervous.

Malavai reached out and touched her bare back, tracing the edge of the symbol branded onto her skin. “That’s the Imperial crest,” he said grimly. “I didn’t notice it before.”

K’hera turned her head away and looked down. “It’s what they do to traitors,” she whispered, feeling ashamed.

“You’re not a traitor.”

She shrugged. “I was close enough, as far as the inquisitors were concerned.”

Malavai’s anger flared hotly in the Force. “I swear to you, K’hera, I will find the ones who did this, and I will make them pay for their senseless acts. Torture for the sake of torture is both excessive and despicable, and the thought of such things being done to you, of all people...”

She hunched her shoulders awkwardly. “It doesn’t matter,” she muttered.

“Yes, it does,” Malavai said grimly.

She could think of no response to that, and sat there in silence for several long moments. He continued tracing the brand on her back, his fingertips brushing lightly over the thick burn scars.

“Did it—did it hurt terribly?” he asked quietly, abruptly.

K’hera swallowed hard. “More than you can possibly imagine.”

Malavai edged towards her and slid his arms around her waist, drawing her down towards him. When she was flat on her back, he pushed himself up over her and looked intently into her eyes.

“I will never let anyone hurt you again, K’hera,” he said in a low voice. “I promise.”

She pursed her lips. “I almost believe you.”

“I’m serious,” he said, frowning.

K’hera smiled. “I know.”

“You mean a great deal to me,” Malavai told her. “Can you blame me for wanting to protect you?”

“I hardly need protection,” she said dryly. “I am a Sith, after all.”

“Humor me,” he said lightly, and bent down to kiss her.

Belsavis

11 ATC

K’hera and Malavai crept through the undergrowth as quietly as they could. Belsavis was a dangerous planet, and discretion was key.

“Almost there,” Malavai whispered. “I can sense the life-forms in the cell block just ahead.”

“Right,” K’hera whispered back.

Malavai stopped abruptly. “Are you ready?” he asked her. “Ekkage’s assassins will probably put up quite a fight.”

K’hera smiled. “Together, we can handle any enemy.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he murmured wryly.

“My passion strengthens me,” she said seriously.

“You’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever met,” Malavai told her.

“Only one of the strongest?” she joked.

“You haven’t met my mother.”

K’hera raised a brow-ridge. “Is she a Sith?”

Malavai shook his head. “She’s in the Imperial Guard.” He smiled faintly. “I should introduce the two of you, when all of this is resolved.”

K’hera grinned. “Do you think she’ll approve of me?”

“Knowing her,” Malavai said dryly, “she’ll probably berate me for falling in love with someone of your lineage—“

“Hold on a minute,” K’hera interrupted. “Did you…did you just say that you’re in love with me?”

Malavai looked at the ground awkwardly. “I, uh, I suppose I did.”

K’hera smiled gently. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

He looked up at her, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “It’s not a very Sith-like sentiment.”

She rolled her eyes. “For once in your life, stop worrying about what’s right and proper. If you love me, just say so. I won’t be offended.”

He frowned at her.

K’hera sighed. “Do I need to go first?”

“What do you—“

She cut him off by stepping forward and laying a finger against his lips. “I love you,” she whispered. “Now, your turn.” She lowered her hand.

“I love you,” Malavai echoed. He paused. “That felt…strangely normal to say.”

“You’re silly,” K’hera said fondly. “It’s perfectly normal.”

Aboard Fury-class starship

11 ATC

The ship moved swiftly through hyperspace towards Voss.

It was quiet, save for the rumble of the engines. The lights had been dimmed for the sleep cycle. Everything was still.

K’hera sat on a chair in the common room, her datapad on her lap. Malavai had already gone to bed. She planned to join him shortly; first, there was a fascinating article on the Jedi Civil War that she wanted to finish reading.

The notification light on the datapad blinked suddenly. K’hera frowned and went to her messages, wondering who had her frequency that would be sending her—

Her eyes widened. The sender was Darth Baras. Hesitantly, she opened the message.

She felt the blood drain from her face.

Aboard Fury-class starship

11 ATC

K’hera did not think that she had ever felt such hatred.

It seethed through her veins like liquid fire, worming its way through her body, caressing her brain with burning tendrils. It stung at her insides, tearing at her with an almost painful intensity. It curled up in her throat, making it difficult to keep her voice steady.

All this hatred was directed inward at herself.

Malavai did not understand; he could not understand, for if he did she would not be having these feelings. When she woke up screaming from a nightmare born of reality, he did his best to soothe her. When her self-control frayed thin and finally snapped, he comforted her awkwardly as she broke down in tears.

He did not know what lay ahead. She wished that she did not know either.

Transponder Station

11 ATC

K’hera’s boots sounded unnaturally loud to her own ears as she walked down the corridor. It was taking every last scrap of willpower that she possessed to hide her emotions. The fear and the guilt chased each other around and around in circles, threatening to overwhelm her.

She had made her decision. It was too late to turn back now.

Malavai walked a few steps ahead of her, as usual. She closed her eyes as he walked into the large, empty room, then slowly followed him.

It’s not too late, a small part of her mind whispered. You don’t have to do this.

Love warred with fear, a fresh, shining memory of Malavai’s face pitted against the omnipresent, lurking echoes of pure agony.

She did not know if Malavai could win this conflict. Baras was wily, strong, firmly entrenched within the Sith power structure. Unseating him would be no easy feat. They had been mostly successful thus far, but who knew how long that would last?

If we lose, and I stand against Baras, he’ll send me back to that place, she thought, shivering. Even if we win, he’ll find a way to strike at me if I don’t do this.

Despair crashed over her in a tide, drowning out all other emotions. K’hera reached out with the Force and closed the chamber door.

Malavai had reached the center of the room by then. He stopped as the door slammed shut, turning around to face her.

“K’hera?” he asked, frowning. “What’s wrong? You’ve been on edge ever since we arrived here.”

She swallowed hard. “It seems that our paths must now diverge.”

“What are you talking about?” Malavai demanded.

K’hera sighed. “This entire scenario has been a ruse. There’s no martial law, and no special signal emitter.”

Malavai’s expression darkened. “If you knew that this was a trap, why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

K’hera was numb, now. Distantly, as if hearing someone else speak, she said, “Darth Baras ordered me to lure you here and kill you.”

Malavai’s face lost its color. “Baras…” he whispered. “You’ve been his agent this whole time?”

K’hera nodded. It wasn’t strictly true—she had not sent Baras any reports since his betrayal on Quesh, but she did not feel like going into detail. Besides, she wanted Malavai to hate her, to despise her like she despised herself for betraying him. She could not have borne the weight of forgiveness.

Fortunately, Malavai was far from the forgiving kind. She could feel the fury radiating off him in poisonous waves as he looked at her.

“How could you do this to me?” he asked, his voice quivering with rage. “I loved you! I trusted you!”

“I know,” she said quietly.

Malavai drew his lightsaber. “You will regret this.”

“Yes,” K’hera murmured, too softly for him to hear. “I suspect I already do.” She ignited her own blades and leaped for him.

It was a short-lived battle.

In terms of raw power, she was slightly stronger, but she was weighed down by her anguish. She hardly bothered to try as they dueled. What would be the point of fighting? Even if she won, she could never make herself kill Malavai. Better that she died here, un-mourned and unremembered. She knew him well enough to know that he would come to terms with her death soon enough.

And so K’hera did not even care when Malavai knocked both her lightsabers out of her hands and forced her to her knees.

“How could you do this to me?” he said again, staring at her with an expression of anger and grief.

“I’m sorry,” K’hera whispered.

Malavai extinguished his lightsaber and replaced the hilt on his belt. Then he lifted a hand, and she flew across the room, colliding painfully with the wall before she fell unnaturally fast to the floor. The impact dazed her, but she was upright again within moments as he lifted her up to her knees and choked her.

Instinctively, her hands started to move towards her throat, but she forced them back down to her sides. She would not struggle. She had betrayed him, and now she would pay the price. It was the Sith way.

The Sith way—to put one’s own wellbeing above that of others at all costs, and to punish all transgressions. Some part of her mind found that vaguely amusing as her vision turned gray, then black.

Aboard Fury-class starship

11 ATC

K’hera was quite surprised that she woke up.

She was lying on her side, her hands tied tightly behind her. Judging by what she could see of her surroundings, she was in the cargo hold. She could feel the vibrations of the ship’s engine through the floor; they were in hyperspace.

“Well, look who’s finally awake.”

K’hera looked up to see Vette perched on a crate, watching her.

“Malavai told us some rather interesting things,” Vette said coolly.

“Did he?”

Vette frowned. “He said you tried to kill him, and that you’ve been working for Baras all along.”

“It’s true,” K’hera whispered.

Vette’s frown deepened. “K’hera, I… I liked you, I really did. For a Sith, you weren’t bad. But this… This is just low.”

K’hera closed her eyes. “I know.”

She heard a thump as Vette jumped off the crate.

“I don’t know whose side I should be on,” the Twi’lek said. “I’m not that fond of Malavai, but I definitely don’t like Baras, either… I don’t know what to think.” Her footsteps receded into the distance.

K’hera managed to maneuver herself into a sitting position, then slumped back against the nearest crate, keeping her eyes closed. Why had Malavai let her live? What was he planning do to with her? It wasn’t like him to let an enemy escape his full wrath, particularly not one who had crossed him as she had.

Some time later, she heard heavy footsteps enter the room. She opened her eyes to see Pierce crouching in front of her.

“I don’t have much time,” he said softly. “Lord Malavai’s keeping a close eye on all of us, and he’s never really trusted me. But I just wanted to say that I’m on your side.”

That wasn’t what she had been expecting. “Why?” she asked, feeling confused.

Pierce shrugged. “Because I know you wouldn’t do something like this out of the blue. There had to be a reason.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mumbled.

Pierce nodded. “That’s all right. Just letting you know that you have an ally.”

Try as she might, K’hera could not make herself smile. “Thanks,” she said quietly.

Pierce grinned at her and rose to his feet. “With the right motivation, I’d shiv that bastard too.”

He turned and left the room, moving with surprising stealth for such a large man.

A few minutes later, the lights dimmed for the sleep cycle, and K’hera was alone in the half-darkness. She felt a few hot tears slip down her cheeks.

Why did I do it? she wondered miserably. Why did I have to let my fear get the better of me?

She could think of no answer to console herself as the artificial night wore on. At one point, she wondered about Jaesa. Surely the young woman would not miss an opportunity to torment her. Where was she?

Her question was answered by the smudge of purple on one corner of Malavai’s mouth when he strode into the cargo hold early the next morning. K’hera had not thought that she had it within herself to feel any more pain, but that sight sent a new wave of bitterness searing through her.

He stepped over to her and dragged her to her feet, then untied her wrists, clearly making an effort to touch her as little as possible. She winced faintly as blood rushed back into her hands.

“Move,” Malavai snapped, and nudged her towards the doorway, pressing the hilt of his lightsaber against her back.

K’hera stumbled forward, her stiff legs protesting the movements. Malavai guided her with prods from the lightsaber until they reached the airlock.

She shivered faintly as they stopped. So this was to be her fate. He was going to space her.

Malavai walked in front of her and moved very close, looking down at her grimly. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said softly, “and I’m afraid that you are very much mistaken.”

K’hera frowned. What?

“You see,” Malavai said coldly, “decompression is a relatively quick process, and a quick end is the last thing that I want for you.” He gestured towards a spacesuit that had been placed by the airlock door. “Put that on.”

She obeyed numbly; what else could she do?

“The suit’s oxygen tank contains enough air for twenty-four hours,” Malavai informed her. “That should be plenty of time to reflect on your actions before you start to suffocate.”

He walked towards her as she strapped herself into the suit. “And when your air has run out,” he said in a low, deadly whisper, “when your lungs start to burn as you choke on your own carbon dioxide—think of me.”

Malavai bent down and picked up the space suit’s helmet, then placed it over her head and fastened it securely into place. “Think of me, K’hera,” he said softly, his eyes filled with the pain that his voice was careful not to express.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, knowing he couldn’t hear her.

He opened the airlock and shoved her inside with a Force push, then closed the hatch. There was a loud click as the room sealed.

The next thing K’hera knew, the exterior doors had opened, and she was sucked out into the vacuum of space.

She tumbled away from the ship, the empty blackness pressing in all around her. So this is how it’s going to end, she thought. All alone in the night.

The ship shot forward, then vanished into hyperspace, leaving her behind.

It was difficult not to panic then as the reality of her situation sunk in. She didn’t want to die, not like this, slowly suffocating as she ran out of air. The prospect of that fate horrified her. But what could she do? She was trapped, suspended in an emptiness vast beyond all measure or comprehension.

K’hera closed her eyes; looking out through the faceplate at the void made her feel dizzy. She did her best to relax, calming her breathing, and slowly drifted into a trance.

Almost unconsciously, she immersed herself in the Force, reaching out within her mind along a long-neglected and nearly forgotten channel. Once forged, such a connection could never be severed, and this one had been with her since the day of her birth.

Help me, she thought distantly, desperately. I don’t know if you can hear me, but… Help me, K’saria. Please.

In this universe, as in "Afterimages," K'hera's sister K'saria is indeed a Jedi.

in which Jesp Rixik discovers he loves Kirya and doesn’t leave her, and she decides to give him a chance.

Curses echoed through Sirocco’s ventilation systems. More muttering, a profane running commentary on the idiocy of starship designers and their penchant for burying vital systems just out of reach. Or behind other, non-removable systems. Or both.

“Risha! Your pwusko ‘upgrades’ overloaded the starboard heat exchanger! Again!” Rixik’s disembodied voice reverberated through the ship.

Risha started to rise, “I should help—“

Kirya put a hand on hers and motioned her back to the pazaak game, “Let him be,” she whispered.

“But—“

“He’s fine. He likes fixing the ship,” Kirya said, laying down another card.

Corso glanced at the upper bulkhead, wincing at the foul language coming from the vents, “Think he knows you ladies can hear him?”

As though in answer, they heard a grunt, the squeal of protesting metal, then a sharp metallic klang and a yelp of pain. More cursing. The screen fell off of the intake by the main airlock and crashed to the deck. A hydrospanner fell with it, bouncing on impact.

“E-chu-ta!” More complaining metal, and the sound of something worming its way through a too-narrow space. An orangish hand, streaked with grime, poked out of the vent, “Babe, can you pass me the hydrospanner? Half these karking bolts are on the Old Corellian measure and that’s the only spanner set that fits.”

Kirya rose and retrieved the hydrospanner, “Frekyaa, you’re a bit ah, blue right now.”

His head popped into view, “Loud?”

Kirya glanced over her shoulder, “Loud enough,” she said, trying not to grin.

A bead of perspiration dripped off Jesp’s nose, “I have it on good authority that machines work better when you curse at them.”

“I’m not sure Kelka was such a good authority,” Kirya replied.

Jesp reached for the hydrospanner, “Hey, she could make a insta-caf extractor fly with the right tool and a good hour of obscenity.”

Kirya handed it to him, “You’re scaring the crew,” she said.

Jesp looked at Risha and Corso, both paying explicit attention to their pazaak hands and ignoring the conversation down the hall. “So it works for organics, too,” he said.

“Jesp!” she scolded.

“Okay, okay,” he conceded, “How about obscure profanity? Can I stick to Rodian?”

“You’re missing the point,” she said.

“That’s not a ‘no.’”

“Did Kelka specify volume?”

“No,” he conceded. “Quiet cursing, okay, loud cursing, not okay. Got it.” He ducked back into the ventilation access.

“Jesp!” she called. Cupping her hands she yelled back into the duct, “You’re incorrigible!”

“Am not!” he yelled back. A thunk as something slammed closed.

Snickering, Kirya returned to the three-way pazaak game in the lounge.

AU in which our intrepid Chiss Sith (try saying that five times fast), Ukaita, and the smexy Emperor's Wrath, Lord Scourge (who is a bit more emotional than his "real" universe counterpart as well as still being employed) attempt to stop the Emperor from Destroying All Life in the Galaxy (really, what's one galaxy between friends, eh?). Bonus Mission: Fill power vacuum and take the throne for her...his...um...someone's own!

"For the Empire!"

Ukaita laughed in delight at the droid's cheerfully patriotic ramblings. "Awww, it's so CUTE!" she crooned, patting its turrets, "Can we keep him?"

Scourge leaned against the holoterminal. "It will do," he said, eyeing the battle droid. The paint job was sloppy - a red Imperial symbol spraypainted on the black painted chassis.

"Sir! I stand ready to serve! Those Republic scum will not threaten tyranny and oppression again!"

Scourge raised an eyebrow. "Strange conversation protocols indeed."

"You really think this will work?" Ukaita asked, hopping up to sit on the edge of the holoterminal next to the Sith. The dancer costume she still wore did little to contain her curves.

"The Emperor feeds off the emotions of those he fights. Droids have no emotions. This tool will reduce his advantage," Scourge said, looking steadily past the Chiss.

"And what about the Emperor's Wrath? Does he have emotions? Or is he just a really good kisser?"

He looked down at her with a scowl. "Don't push me."

"Just sayin," she said as she bounced off the holoterminal and leaned into his chest, "three hundred of years of experience - would be a shame to waste it." She grinned cheekily up at him.

Scourge glared at her.

"You clearly feel irritation," she said thoughtfully, tapping her chin, "and frustration...or is frustration the reason for the irritation? That must really mess with your focus, trying to be all Jedi and crap. Probably explains why you suck at combat...all that pent up EEEK!!!..." She squealed as he picked her up with a growl, slung her over his shoulder and headed for her quarters.

A faint giggle was heard and then a door slammed shut, leaving a very excitable droid all by his lonesome.

"Thus to all who threaten galactic enslavement!"

I'm sorry, 4X. So sorry.

"It's pink." Scourge's voice was completely flat.

Ukaita grinned and swung her new lightsabers a few times, enjoying the flash of blinding magenta. "Yep! Isn't it gorgeous?"

"And you expect to instill fear into the hearts of your enemies with a lightsaber that is...pink." Disbelief dripped from his voice.

"Nope!" she said sending one of her sabers on a spinning throw that was almost blinding. "I expect my dazzling display of skill to do that!"

Scourge closed his eyes and shook his head as he left the training area.

"Hey!" she called after him, "I got one for you too!! With added purple!"

Kirya fiddled with the last datacard. The first held accounting records. She recognized some of the accounts as the ones that she shared with Jesp. But a number of them were unknown. Valuable. Clearly Jesp’s. The account numbers and access codes were all here.

She could take them all if she wished.

The second was an identity file for her husband. Before he became her husband. Someone named Shen. The first recorded event in the file was a transaction, a deed of ownership of a male Twi’lek child by the Cold Gold Corporation (defunct) on Naos III (DNA file attached). The last event, some six years ago, was the young man’s death in the Sevarcos II penal colony. Estimated age 19. In between, a litany of sales of his person and petty crimes, culminating in the sentence for spicerunning. She had no doubt that the male Twi’lek in this file was her husband, Jesp Rixik.

She could send him back to Sevarcos if she wished. Or worse.

So now she fiddled with the last datacard. Her stomach was already full of acid. She didn’t want to view it. But Jesp, the rotten, lying bastard, had left it for her. He wanted her to see it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see it.

Finally, she put the card in the viewer. The initial menu showed merely a series of dates and times, spanning a roughly six-month period. And the Twi’lek’s name, Jesp’s old name. The dates were after his recorded death.

She selected the first date, the earliest file, and accessed it. A submenu rose, with an odd list of prompts: Ceiling, Right Forward, Left Forward, Right Rear, Left Rear, D3 Remote, and Composite. She chose composite.

The meaning of the prompts became clear as the terminal displayed the images. They were camera positions. They showed an opulent bedroom decorated in purple and red. A male Twi’lek in a hideous dirty green uniform and a clunky shock collar entered from a hallway at the rear, followed by a bright protocol droid. Jesp, who wasn’t yet Jesp. He was so young, barely older than Kirya was now. Haggard, tense, his lekku shifting with those repetitive twitches he got when he thought a deal was going bad. He took in the room. He was in a tight situation and he knew it. Kirya could practically see the wheels turning in his head.

He stepped down into the sunken center of the room and crossed to the bed. He ran a callused hand over the silken bedspread.

A female voice, its owner unseen, called, “DeeThree, are you here?”

“Yes, mistress,” replied the droid, “Your guest is with me.” Jesp looked up at the sound of her voice, his face a calculated blank. Lekku stilled. The tension shifted to his shoulders instead, where it was harder to read.

A Human woman glided into the room. She was average height with a curvaceous figure. Yards and yards of electric blue shimmersilk draped perfectly around her, forming a complicated filmy dress. She dyed her long hair golden yellow at the top, copper red on the bottom third. Her skin was a neutral light tan.

She paused at the head of the stair, “Excellent, DeeThree. You have the stop switch?” She looked the Twi’lek over and her lips widened in a lecherous grin.

“Of course, mistress,” it said.

“Monitoring Protocol One,” she ordered.

“Yes, mistress,” it replied. The droid backed against the wall, and stayed still.

The woman stalked forward, “Well, I know you don’t understand me,” she said, drawing close to the Twi’lek, “but I don’t think we’re going to need words.” She reached out and groped him. The Twi’lek gasped in a mix of shock and pleasure. Then he seized the woman and growled in Huttese. The crudity of his words made Kirya blush.

She froze the playback and scowled. What was Jesp playing at here? He wanted her to watch him with another woman? That wasn’t going to gain him any points. And what was he doing here besides the obvious? Was he an unskilled domestic? A laborer? Or was this some kind of failed p*rnogr*phy venture? The costumes and the set were almost familiar.

Kirya isolated the uniform and set the computer on a search. If he was a rental slave, it ought to return the stable that owned him. There had obviously been some shenanigans at the penal colony. Or else he had simply been shipped off as property; sold to pay for his prosecution and incarceration.

Much as she wanted to hate him, she felt a pang of sympathy. She still despised slavery. Even his. He’d been a slave. He really had been, that part of his story was true. So how could he turn around and sell others?

The computer chirruped. Search complete. Kirya’s stomach balled up in bigger knots when she viewed the results. The computer had cross-referenced the uniform with the visible room and inhabitants. The monitor was full of old headlines:

“Scandal on Sevarcos”

“Vice-Administrator’s Wife Head of Colony Murder-Sex Ring”

“Spice, Sevarcos, Sex, and Murder: An Analysis of the Case”

There were just as many hits from holoporn publishers, purportedly selling ‘genuine footage’ from the scandal. Even with ‘seals of authenticity’. ‘Verified by Experts’.

Kirya vaguely remembered hearing something about the scandal, but she’d been only eleven or twelve when it broke. A quick scan of the articles refreshed her memory. That’s why she knew the background. That’s why the woman looked familiar. But Jesp wasn’t part of the scandal. The last one was a Zabrak, killed about the time Jesp supposedly died. He’d never been named, even as a suspected victim.

Yet, here was evidence. Kirya looked back at the frozen holo, a very young Jesp in the embrace of the woman at the heart of the scandal. Then her stomach knotted again. The dates on Jesp’s holos occurred after prison records showed his death.

He’d been the last victim. And he’d managed to escape, taking evidence of the prison officials’ wrongdoing with him while erasing his own involvement. And with such evidence in hand, what had he done with it?

Sold it to the p*rn industry.

He didn’t alert authorities. He didn’t contact reporters. Didn’t testify against the women who’d used him and the system that let them. Didn’t try to stop it. He made money on it. Even after the scandal broke, and that purely by chance, he made money on it.

Somewhere along the line, he changed his name and made himself a new identity file.

Tears welled in her eyes and ran unheeded down her cheeks. This was the man she married. A lying, cheating, rotten bastard who couldn’t be more unlike her if he tried. She wanted to vomit. To purge him from her system like a poison or a bad meal. The thought that she’d kissed him, held him, loved him, made her physically ill.

He must be laughing at her. At the naïve girl who believed his every word. Laughing at her with his friends down in the cantina. Probably bought himself another woman already.

She ripped the datacard out of the viewer and threw it across the room.

The safe thing to do was get over him. Let him go and get over him. She couldn’t possibly trust him again, not after this. Kirya kneaded the bridge of her nose. When she and her sisters had gone on and on about the worst thing that your man could do, what would make you leave him, something this ugly hadn’t even been a blip on the scanner.

So. Now what? Throw his crap into the recycler?

Kirya scooped up datacards from where she’d left them and shuffled to the front door to check the hall-cam. He was still out there, sitting on the floor opposite their flat, knees pulled up against his chest, arms propped there, head down.

Kirya looked over the cards in her hand. They gave her leverage over him. She understood this kind of game, even if she despised it. He’d left her these things and put himself in a vulnerable position. He was either trying to prove his honesty or was ramping up his con. Probably the latter. She couldn’t fathom what he hoped to gain. If he’d wanted to hurt her, he didn’t need to leave the datacards. And he sure didn’t need to hang around in the hallway.

“Get the hell out of my life, Jesp Rixik,” she hissed under her breath. Why was he still here? Her finger hovered over the emergency-call button. She should call the authorities. Any of several. They’d come and collect him. Gone. Dusted. Done.

But. Why. Was. He. Still. Here? Just sitting. Doing nothing. The only reason she could imagine was that he didn’t want to go. Why didn’t he want to go? What could she possibly have that he might want? What was worth the kind of power he left in her hands?

Love? Her love? This power-play crap wasn’t love.

I love you, Kirya, and I can’t lie to you anymore.

Maybe it was the closest thing to love that he could understand. What was on the datacards wasn’t important. Oh, it was, but that wasn’t the point. It was never the point. He said he couldn’t lie to her anymore. He told her what he’d done with the slaves they’d ‘rescued’. Then he showed her who he really was. Knowing—and he had to know—that she’d hate him for it. That she’d throw him out—and she had—because of it.

He left them trying to make good on his promise. No more lies.

Kirya looked at the cam image again. Was it at all possible that the man she thought she married was in there somewhere, hidden in the trash? Did she dare trust him enough to find out?

She stuffed the damning data into her pocket and punched the entry on the door, “Can you get them back?” she asked when the door slid open.

Jesp’s head jerked up, “What?” he croaked.

“The people you sent to Leegstra. Can you get them back?”

“I—“ he stammered. Jesp off-guard was something new, “I don’t know. Maybe,” he said.

“Get them back,” Kirya ordered.

Getting to the cave was not a problem. The prisoners here were poorly armed, starved, and half-mad. Having spent most of her life in a war-zone Coremi expertly avoided the worst of the rioting and efficiently dispatched the few prisoners who threatened her.

She battled her way inside the cave deflecting turret bolts while trying to minimize damage. She rounded a corner escaping the last of the defenses still wary of more traps. The faintest surge of emotion was her only warning, twisting sideways she narrowly avoided the tranquilizer dart. She leaped forward trusting to instinct. The act of firing the dart broke the stealth field her assailant was using. Colliding with the figure she deactivated her saber and caught the man under his chin with a fist full of metal. His head snapped backward temporarily stunning him, he fell to his knees. She placed the hilt of her saber against his neck.

“Your control is better, your Sith has brought you far.” Watcher X remarked studying her from his kneeling position.

Coremi held the saber against his neck a moment longer then stepped backward. “Do you have something for me?” She asked not wanting to talk about her Sith.

“A lover’s quarrel?” he asked always testing, always observing.

She pushed down a surge of irritation and the urge to hurt him. Neither would gain her anything. The man before her cared nothing for emotions nor he did believe in the power they invoked. “The answer to that question is valuable.”

His eyes brightened with interest. “Indeed, it might be,” he stood and escorted her to the main area of his laboratory, “but I hope you have something more to offer me, I have much to offer you.”

“I do,” she replied looking around at the remnants his various experiments, “I have something you want and another interesting problem for you to study if you wish.”

“And what is it that you think I would want?”

“My body.” She replied evenly.

His expression changed to one of amusement and curiosity. “Interesting, are you certain?” She nodded mutely only a small tightening of her jaw betraying her emotions.

"You asked if there was a way to override mind control. Imperial Intelligence has made many studies into the subject, though mostly from the standpoint of implementation not prevention." He turned on a monitor and played a recording. It showed a group of humans standing in a room, a few seconds into the recording the room was flooded with a green gas. The entire group began fighting amongst themselves, except for one. One figure seemed immune to the effects of the gas and was able to disable the dispensers before they managed to kill each other. “This was captured two days ago. The gas in those tanks is an SLV compound used for mind control, that one in particular would focus aggression. This person appears to be immune, a singular individual, wouldn’t you say?” He adjusted the display until it zoomed in on the figure. “And familiar to us both.”

“Anna.” The venom in her voice was palpable.

“Your name for her, among countless more, I knew her as Cipher Nine.” He rubbed the back of his head, a tiny scar marked where the bomb that kept him prisoner had been removed. “I have followed her exploits in the past year, I believe her immunity can be reproduced.”

“How?”

He eyed her speculatively. “All I need is a sample of her blood. Surveillance shows she’s still planetside, deep within the oldest part of the prison complex. How you choose to obtain it is up to you.”

Corso entered Sirocco's minimalist galley and glanced around. No one here. He set the fridger-bag on the counter. Retrieving a single plate from the mismatched collection in the cupboard, he removed his prize from the bag. Three pale, rubbery lumps about the size of his fist, and a single sourfruit.

How to cook them, though? After some deliberation he turned on the tiny IR grill, letting it heat while he dug out the box of freeze-dried, packaged seasonings that expired…before he came aboard. Fresh food was a luxury on a small ship like Sirocco, enjoyed for a day or two after leaving a planet before going back to shelf-stable, long-storing, semi-edible substances. He shouldn’t have been surprised. The radioven was the only appliance that saw much use.

With a grimace he selected salt and whole pepper. Salt never went bad and whole pepper lasted a long time. Probably even this long. The burned-dust smell from the grill was gone and its temperature indicator showed well over 250 degrees. Perfect. He sprinkled salt over the lumps and placed them on the grill, crowding a bit to fit them all on. The overhead vent switched on automatically. They sizzled as they hit the heat and a strong gamy odor rose from the grill.

Bowdaar poked his head into the galley and growled. Corso jumped and slammed a drawer shut, “Oh, hi Bowdaar,” he said, looking guilty, “I, uh, I thought everyone was planetside.”

Bowdaar stepped into the galley and grumbled in Shyriiwook. “Really?” Corso replied, “You want some?” Bowdaar nodded emphatically. “You might not after I tell you what they are—“

The airlock hissed open. Corso heard two sets of footsteps on the deckplates and Kirya’s voice as she entered the ship. Oh no.

“…They're trying to thank us,” Kirya said, “Besides, the food ought to be stellar. I’d kill for a real vegetable right about now.”

“You did,” Rixik complained, “Kirya, I don't want to dress special and try to make nice with these people. You’re the one they ought to thank. I was all for killing the guy. Way I saw it, he was going to kill the hostages anyway, and the only people willing to pay money for any of us are bad. Baron Bigshot probably had Rogun on the other channel—stars above what is that smell?”

Kirya sniffed the air, “Smells like those herders we ran into the other day.”

“At least that was outdoors. Bowdaar!" he shouted, "I asked you to keep your stuff in the chiller!” Bowdaar roared a denial from the galley. “Well, who else likes stuff that smells like…like…” Rixik trailed off, for once at a loss for words.

“Someone burning a genuine souvenir nerfskin highland-herder hat?” Kirya suggested, wrinkling her nose.

Corso blushed with embarrassment. The one time he didn’t really want to see Kirya, and here she was.

Kirya looked in through the open door, “What are you cooking? Some kind of meatball?”

“Uh, kind of—“ Corso stammered. He fished pair of grabbers from a drawer and quickly flipped the grilling meat. They hissed and spat. The membrane on the charred side split and juice ran onto the element, flashing to funky steam. Bowdaar inhaled greedily and roared approval.

“Look more like sausages to me,” said Rixik.

Corso set the grabbers down on the counter, “They’re grazer t*stiicles, all right? Go ahead and make jokes now.” He turned back to the spice packet and started pounding the peppercorns into powder with the bottom of a heavy, shatterproof tumbler. A little harder than necessary.

Bowdaar growled noncommittally. Rixik blinked a few times, “Did you say t*sticles?”

Corso sliced the sourfruit in half, “Yes, t*sticles.”

“People…eat those?” asked Rixik, “On purpose? Ow.” Kirya elbowed him in the ribs.

Corso set the fruit beside the pulverized pepper, “Yeah,” he sighed, “Every year, back on the farm, early summer was when we gelded the male ronto calves. Keeps ‘em docile, and the meat sweet. Just us boys, me and my Dad, my uncle and my brother. Every year, Dad would build a fire and we’d roast ronto knobs right there in the field. Sometimes, if there were a lot, he’d bring them back and grandma would fry them up for the whole family, but not often. We only ever had them once a year. When we passed by those grazer herders doing the same thing,” Corso shrugged, “It made me think of summer on the farm. All of a sudden I missed my Dad, my family, Ord Mantell, everything, as if I’d lost them just yesterday. Hurt worse than a blaster, like.”

Corso poked the meat on the grill with a finger, then removed the cooked organs to a fresh plate. “So this morning, when the bigwigs called you in about some kind of reward, I asked around, got a line on some local grazer herders, borrowed a speeder, and went for a visit. They were real friendly. Kinda surprised about what I wanted, but then I guess I woulda felt the same if some hotshot spacer pilot showed up on the farm asking for ronto knobs.” Corso sprinkled pepper on the t*sticles, then squeezed sourfruit juice over them. “I know they’re not what you’d call a delicacy. Fancy, special plate kind of stuff. Ronto knobs is farmer food,” he said. In truth, he’d lost his appetite. As much as the dish reminded him of home, it also reminded him of how far he was from it. That, and he was sure everyone was going to mock him for actually wanting to eat something so base as grazer knobs. “I didn’t figure anyone would be here. I feel stupid now.”

Kirya moved into the galley and peered at the dish, “Why? For making something you like?” she asked.

“You probably think it’s disgusting,” Corso said.

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” Kirya said, “My favorite treat when I was a kid was puffed reiso grubs. We’d search for the cocoons in the garden then fry them in oil until they popped.” Kirya grinned at the look on Corso’s face, “they really are tasty.”

Bowdaar grumbled and pointed at the plate. Corso pushed it in his direction, “Sure, they’re getting cold anyway. Go ahead and try one.” He passed the Wookie a set of scratched utensils from the drawer. Bowdaar dug in with relish, then snarled in appreciation. Corso wasn’t sure that endorsement from a Wookie helped sell the idea that grazer knobs were good eats. For Humans.

“Go ahead and enjoy your appetizer now, Corso,” Kirya said, “we need to be back at the Organa main house by local dusk. And we have to find everyone appropriate attire.”

“Appetizer?” Corso asked. “And what’s going on with the Organas?”

Rixik, leaning against the galley door, answered, “They’re throwing a party because we got their people back.”

Kirya turned around, “Don’t sound so enthusiastic about it,” she said, sarcasm clear in her voice. She headed for the door.

“I like being anonymous,” Rixik said, “Credits are fine. Or a gift, like an expensive statue. I don’t want a party.”

“Tough. You’re getting one,” Kirya said, shooing him into the hallway, “think of it as a way to cultivate connections.”

“It’s a way to have someone spit in my drink.”

Kirya put her hands on her hips, glaring at an unseen Rixik further down the passage, “These are the Organas. No one’s going to spit in your drink.”

“You haven’t been in the back room for one of these things then.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Kirya said, their voices growing hollow as they moved off down Sirocco’s hallway, “You need to check your wardrobe for anything remotely appropriate.”

“Babe, there’s not a chance I have anything these snobs wouldn’t laugh at,” Rixik groused.

“Then we’re all headed for the shops this afternoon, like it or not,” Kirya replied. Corso heard the door to their cabin whisk closed.

Bowdaar growled again, bringing Corso back to the present. There was only one knob left. Bowdaar pointed at it with a questioning whimper. Corso looked at it. The aroma still hung in the air. Maybe not pleasant, but achingly familiar. “Let me see how they came out, Bow,” Corso said. The Wookie pushed the plate back, more than a little disappointed.

Corso savored a slice. The flavor wasn’t quite the same, but it didn’t matter. He was home.

Cipher Nine glanced warily over her shoulder, the ancient droid still followed no longer showing any signs of menace. It was a mistake to take it intact, she believed it in her gut, but the advisors in the Vault insisted the SCORPIO intelligence would be useful and her restraining protocol would hold her. Still, she did not like the way the droid studied her and she certainly did not like having to guard her back from her own ally, it almost made her miss Kaliyo.

“Welcome back, sir.” Watcher Three said looking up from the console. “Keeper is waiting for you.”

Cipher Nine walked to the office of the head of Intelligence and found an unfamiliar face. “Keeper, you’ve grown hair.”

“Cipher Nine. I’ve heard about your so called sense of humor.” The man who rose to greet her was middle aged, fit, with a neat moustache and keen eyes that missed nothing. “After Darth Jadus’s defeat and escape there was a great deal of chaos. The Dark Council decided to make changes. My predecessor was elevated to Minister of Intelligence that made me the new Keeper. Before this, I was known as Watcher One.”

“A pleasure to meet you, I have heard of your success on behalf of Darth Angral. Congratulations.”

“And you, I understand I owe my promotion to you directly. Now that we have the introductions out of the way we can discuss your next mission.”

“Where’s Kaliyo?” She had not seen her crewmate since arriving on Dromund Kaas. She had assumed the woman found the nearest cantina and was throwing herself a party on Imperial Intelligence’s tab.

“Ahh yes, Kaliyo Djannis. I’ve read her file and the Minister’s briefing on her. While I understand his reasons for recruiting her, my style of running this agency will be a bit different. As a result, Ms. Djannis’s services will no longer be required. Watcher Two is debriefing her,” he studied the agent’s face carefully as he imparted the information, “and terminating her contract.”

“I’ll kill you,” Kaliyo screamed as she fought against her bonds.

Watcher Two circled slowly and placed a precisely calculated blow in the woman’s midsection. Most men would have hit her face, but she preferred to leave faces intact, it made it easier for her subject to speak.

“We know you began selling Imperial secrets as soon as we recruited you. We were hoping that following the information would be one way to uncover the Eagle.” Watcher Two continued almost conversationally, “Your friend, Wheezer, was a dead end and the Eagle’s organization has been dismantled.” She paused to watch the woman thrash uselessly on the interrogation table. The angle of the table was set just steep enough so that gravity pulled her against the restraints. Her efforts to free herself had resulted in cuts and bruises but otherwise nothing. “All we need to know is if he was planning anything.”

“Ask him yourself,” the rattataki spat on the Watcher’s spotless uniform. Watcher Two looked down at her sullied coat and pulled out a handkerchief to remove the offending slime.

“I’m afraid that is no longer possible.” She replied without inflection.

Kaliyo stopped struggling and looked up at Watcher Two, her face a twisted mask of rage. With a scream she wrenched her hand, made slippery by her cuts, from its bonds and lunged. Watcher Two calmly stepped forward catching her arm and drawing a vibroknife. With a swift motion she buried the blade in the rattataki’s chest, slipping between her ribs, into her lung. Red foam bubbled up on Kaliyo’s furious lips as drowned in her own blood.

“I hate aliens.” Watcher Two whispered as she pushed the woman back on to the table. She cleaned her knife on the same handkerchief she used for Kaliyo's spit. She considered the square of linen for a moment before tossing it onto the rattataki’s corpse. Sheathing her weapon she exited the interrogation room. A Fixer waited in the hall just outside the doorway. “She didn’t know anything." Watcher Two rubbed her hands together as if brushing off something dirty. "Have someone clean up the mess.”

Cipher Nine made her way to the clearing the daylight temporarily blinding her, as her eyes adjusted the small sound of a dart hitting her new companion force her to turn. A blinking light sprouted from the end of the dart that protruded from SCORPIO’s chassis.

“Primitive,” the droid mused just before the explosion.

Coremi slid down from the hunting blind. A sharp squeak announced that Watcher X had sliced into her headset.

“That was a bit of an overkill wouldn’t you say?” he sounded almost irritated. “You can’t retrieve a blood sample if you obliterate the body.”

“How much blood did you draw from her when you fought face to face?” She asked calmly. The former Watcher did not reply. Truthfully she had heard of the Cipher’s uncanny ability to defeat enemies who should have bested her, she would take no chances. The Cipher Agent’s body was mostly intact though no longer breathing. She collected as many blood and tissue samples as her kit would store while trying to ignore the person the samples belonged to.

Finally, she looked into the former agent’s blue eyed empty stare. She had hunted down all of the parties responsible for her mother’s death out of loyalty, but she never expected to find the last one, the woman responsible for replacing Gray Star. She hoped whatever reason the agent had for doing so had been worth it. She closed the woman's eyes and approached the remains of the strange droid. Its limbs had been severed in the blast but its core was well shielded and the communication unit still functioned.

“Interesting,” the droid said in a strangely feminine voice. “When I create the next iteration of my form I will kill you.”

Coremi did not want to spend time interrogating strange droids in an open clearing. The explosion was sure to attract creatures and other curious intelligences in the area. She nudged the melted chassis, it was too heavy to transport. She grabbed the core processor and memory modules, ripping them out with her multi-tool.

“I have the samples,” she reported to Watcher X, “I’m on my way back.”

“Excellent.” He replied, “How much do you weigh?”

After the explosion of the Dominator you can have a conversation with her where you ask her how she's doing. She'll say the Dominator shook her and then she says:

"How is it that I could torture a colleague without feeling a thing but three thousand dead strangers is too much to handle?"

The way she and Watcher X talk about each other makes me think he's the one she tortured.