Everything could be broken down into numbers, variables, probabilities. Everyone could be dissected and analyzed by a critical mind. Introduce this setting and the subject acts accordingly. Introduce this tidbit and the subject’s response is predictable. Ald was an exception to the rule. You can’t take the square root of a negative number unless dealing with imaginary numbers – the exception to the rule.

Ald’s strength in the Force varied with his mood. Happy Ald was relaxed and strong, angry Ald was tense and stronger, and sad Ald was loose and weak. A string of numbers and letters filling pages upon pages for three of the simplest moods. Calculations. Variables. Percentages.

He didn’t pick up this post on a whim. This was all a calculated move. Watch the apprentice, appraise his abilities, when he became a viable threat eliminate him. Standard infiltration and enemy removal. Standard undercover op. Non-standard target. Non-standard variables. Always calculating, even in his sleep. It tore at him, on some level, as the personality of the Sith he was sent to monitor shone through. But he had a mission to complete and the mission was the priority.

He went back to his calculations, his charts, his graphs. Ald’s happiness had been on a steady rise, but now he was fluctuating between angry and sad. Hm. Strange.

Rochester sat on his bed, glass of whiskey in hand. Broan watched him as the glass was drained and then refilled.

"You remember what Keeper said?"

Broan nodded. He was concerned by the amount of alcohol Rochester was drinking, but was unsure whether to say anything. Rochester emptied the glass a second time, refilling it.

"She was right, I did an affair with that Admiral bastard," Swig, half empty. Refill. "I thought I was doing my duty. Working for the betterment of the Empire. Do you know what that bastard did to me?" His hands shook and some of the liquid spilled down his chin. "That lie was the only thing that kept me going. When I went to bed at night. When I was bruised and my back was black from the whippings I got for apparently 'not being a good typist', that lie, that imagined worth, was all I had," Whiskey spattered over the floor as he missed the glass. "I knew that it was test, that it was something I needed to pass to become a fully fledged Agent. I had to be able to take whatever punishment or humiliation that could to be dealt to me because there was worse out there in the big, wide galaxy," His shoulders slumped. "Keeper took all of that away from me."

"I'm sorry, Rochester."

"Why are you sorry? You didn't do anything."

Broan shifted, pushing himself off the wall. He halted for a moment and then corrected the bottle before it leaked too much into the carpet.

"I was angry at you. I insisted on finding out the truth behind 'Minder 41:12' and your apparent involvement with Intelligence. I arranged the meeting with Keeper." Broan sat down on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. Usually... in times from before, this would have been a comfortable distance; now it felt awkward.

"Yeah, you did that," Rochester rolled the glass in his hands, looking at the remains of the liquid left inside. He reached out and gently touched the lip of the glass against Broan's temple. "But..."

"Don't tell me I had a right to do that."

"No. No... But you did have a right to find out. I mean, everyone has a right to know if they're being spied on," Rochester sighed and drank the last of the whiskey. "It was... yeah. I needed to stop living in a dream world. Cipher Agent and Dark Lord of the Sith in a whirlwind love affair, criss-crossing the galaxy, fighting the Republic." He leant back across the bed, bending his neck awkwardly as his head met the wall.

"Maybe not something so dramatic," Broan smiled, peering over the edge of the bed. He gently squeezed Rochester's knee, daring to test their boundaries once more. "Maybe something more... cosy?"

"Like what?"

"Naval Officer and Scholar discussing boring work and filling out tax forms together?"

"That sounds like it might be nice."

"I think it sounds like it might be too."

"Can the Officer get a hug?"

"Yeah, he can."

Laundry day.

It was Jurial’s turn this week. There were droids to take care of things as basic as laundry, but the masters thought having the padawans do it was a lesson in humility and service. To help them remember that even Jedi clothes get dirty, and that someone had to take care of them. That no one was above laundry.

As Jurial pulled a very lacy, very feminine undergarment out of the pile and quickly passed it down the line to one of the female padawans to be folded, he was not at all sure this was such a good idea.

Andalar’s holo crackled to life. But nothing resolved, the image remained blue static. He tried adjusting the picture, then heard a voice through the distortion, “Don’t bother tweaking settings. Or trying to trace the signal, I won’t be on long enough.”

Male voice. “Jesp Rixik, I presume?” Andalar asked. He didn’t really need to ask. A voice that cynical and smarmy could only come from one person.

“Got it in one,” Rixik replied, “You’ve been shadowing me for a while now. Figure you got a contract. How much is it going to cost me to buy it out?”

“I don’t work that way,” Andalar said.

“Andalar Greyson. Sometimes called ‘The Honorable’. Yeah, I do my research too.”

“Then you’d know I can’t be bought off.”

“I know no one’s tried hard enough.”

“You’re not my client, Rixik. Even if I were so inclined, I’d never accept a bribe from someone like you.”

A cold laugh came through the holo’s speakers, “Oh, that’s rich. A bounty hunter with standards.”

“Some of us have them,” Andalar said, bristling. He wondered if his image was being blocked to Rixik as well, and decided to assume he was visible. He leaned forward, menacing the vid-cap cam, “It’s what separates people like me from the unscrupulous bastards.”

Another cold laugh, “People like you keep us unscrupulous bastards in business. You don’t really think a job goes away just because you won’t do it, do you?”

“That’s not my concern,” Andalar said. He was not going to get into a philosophical argument with a target. Especially this one.

“It should be,” Rixik said, “Simple supply and demand. Hunting, slaves, spice, all the laws in the galaxy won’t stop any trade so long as someone is willing to pay for it. Your refusal just makes my services all the more valuable. Eliminate me, someone takes my place. So. How much to make you go away?”

Andalar shook his head, “I don’t work that way, Rixik.”

“Last chance. I get a DNA-matched clone, you give your client whatever body parts they asked for, I’ll pay you half again over your contract. Your reputation’s intact and you get paid twice.”

“No deal.”

“Thought so. Give my regards to my wife and junior husband,” Rixik said. The blue snow vanished in the holoprojector’s emitters. Andalar checked the auto-trace program. As Rixik said, the transceivers bounced all over. No lock. No idea where the signal originated. Slippery little eel.

Andalar sat back in the chair. Kirya’s was a private contract. There was no way Rixik could be certain she was his client. A guy like that had a lot of enemies. And one lucky guess. Andalar scrolled through his list of holofrequencies. His brother first, or his client?

Andalar punched up Valden’s frequency. Normally, the client deserved first notice, but an autocannon backed up by a squad of the Republic’s finest was a better early-warning system.

Differential Calculus provides mathematical models for rates of change, mathematically represented as the equation of a line tangent to a specific point on a curve. In this case, how soon before the Empire declared war depending on what happens with Darth Jadus and the Eradicators.

“And you chose to defy Darth Jadus,” Keeper asked.

“That is correct, Keeper,” Sha’ra’zaed said.

“And deactivate the eradicators,” he continued.

“Correct, Keeper,” Sha’ra’zaed said.

“You could have infiltrated his organization, Cipher Nine. That is well within your training,” Keeper pressed.

“At the cost of civilian lives, Keeper,” Sha’ra’zaed stated.

“You have no decisive proof that Darth Jadus would have used the eradicators, nor that the targets he chose would be of strategic value to the Empire,” Keeper countered, “Only Sith can predict the future.”

………..

Sha’ra’zaed stood before the console. There was no chrono on it, but she felt the steady march of time regardless.

“Enter your half of the code, Agent,” Darth Jadus repeated.

15

The eradicators, firing blind, cause destruction on a massive scale. The Empire is not prepared for a disaster of this magnitude. The casualties are varied, both civilian and military. Propaganda mills spin the story of a Republic sneak attack. The Republic denies the claim. Propaganda plays well with the Imperial public, but civilian morale still suffers as the eradicators continue to function erratically for months. There is no Republic follow-up attack. Persistent rumors that the disaster was in fact a Sith weapon prove impossible to put down. The Republic, seizing on the Empire’s internal turmoil, moves to a more wartime footing. Seeing this, the Sith attack first, before the Republic is fully prepared.

14

Prognosis: Open war. Timeframe: between six months and one standard year. Casualties: High, immediate and continual. Value of Casualties: varied.

13

Survival probability: Once eradicators activated without control, personal value to Darth Jadus is nil. Value to Intelligence, nil. Non survivable.

12

Enabling the eradicators gives Darth Jadus control over their targets. He chooses targets designed to induce the maximum fear from the Imperial populace while sparing its military preparedness. Targets of symbolic value are prized. Casualties are largely civilian and nonvital infrastructure. Imperial civilian morale plummets. Military uncertain. Darth Jadus reclaims seat on Dark Council. Propaganda mills spread stories of Republic sneak attacks. Republic denies attacks. Despite propaganda, rumors circulate of a Sith superweapon. The Republic, seeing the Empire’s weakened position, strikes first.

11

Prognosis: Open war. Timeframe: Between three and six standard months. Casualties: High, immediate and ongoing. Value: Low in initial analysis, becoming steadily higher as war progresses.

9

Survival Probability: Personal value to Darth Jadus once granting control of the eradicators is moderate. Alternative: Accept offer to serve Darth Jadus and continue to report to Intelligence as an infiltrator within his organization. Survival probability upgrades to high.

8

Disadvantage: Darth Jadus’ true purpose unknown. Darth Jadus’ aura skews normal thought processes. Long-term personal outcome less predictable.

7

Alternative: Refuse service to Darth Jadus. Disable or sabotage ship, disrupting Darth Jadus’ ability to direct eradicators. Prognosis: Open war still within three and six standard months. Casualties: High-moderate, growing higher as war progresses. Value: Low initial, growing higher as war progresses.

6

Survival probability downgrades to very low.

5

Disabling the eradicators eliminates immediate threat to Imperial populations. Darth Jadus discredited, unable to reclaim seat on Dark Council. Propaganda emphasizes the Dominator’s destruction as the responsibility of Republic-funded terrorists. Emphasizing Republic and Jedi involvement in Balmorra conflict embarrasses Republic. Releasing details of Alde/Organa involvement through Cortess proxy with Eagle’s network further weakens Republic public position. Imperial position strengthened.

4

Prognosis: Status Quo. Timeframe: Open war averted for minimum one standard year. Predictions past one standard year depend greatly on future Dark Council actions. Casualties: very low to nil. Value: not applicable.

3

Survival probability: Possibility of service to Darth Jadus eliminated. Once eradicators disabled, personal value to Darth Jadus is nil. Value to Intelligence presumably high.

2

Immediate probability of survival is very low. Possibility of permanently eliminating Darth Jadus as a threat to the Empire likewise low.

1

……….

“I took the action I deemed best for the Empire as a whole under the circumstances,” Sha’ra’zaed said.

Keeper leaned forward on his desk, “You defied a Sith Lord and member of the Dark Council.”

“Begging your pardon, Keeper, but Darth Jadus was not acting in the capacity of Dark Council member at the time,” she said.

“Semantics, Nine,” Keeper said. He took a deep breath, “And you were unable to apprehend him.”

Sha’ra’zaed blinked once, slowly. It would take Darth Jadus a long time to rebuild enough strength to be a credible threat to the Empire. “A single ship escaped the Dominator’s second destruction. It is likely Darth Jadus was aboard,” she said, repeating Watcher Two’s conclusion.

Keeper scratched his nails on the desk and stood, “Watcher Three will continue your debrief, Cipher Nine.” He left the room.

Sha’ra’zaed watched his reflection retreat on the situation report monitor behind his desk. Keeper did not seem entirely pleased with her solution. She could not shake the feeling she had been considering the wrong set of inputs and outcomes.

Miriah woke slowly, at first only hearing sounds. She heard the ping of metal, the thrum of engines, the air circulators kick on. She was very still, not sure yet what the cost of movement would be. She felt herself drifting, and her brain argued with itself. You are an idiot. You shouldn’t have been drinking with him if you don’t want to pursue a relationship. I don’t. Yes, you do, you’re just afraid. I have reason to be. Has he ever caused you any doubt at all? Doesn’t matter, he doesn’t know everything I am, everything I’ve done. Do you really think he cares? He should, he will.

She sighed, and moving with great care, rolled on her side toward the door. My door is open, she registered, then remembered Corso. She’d woken up at one point and realized she was holding his hand, and rather than let go and leave her, he’d propped himself up, sitting on the floor, gently holding her hand in both of his, his head resting on the bed beside her. Her heart thumped hard in her chest, and she knew that whatever it eventually cost her, it was too late to pull away. Warmth enveloped her, and for the first time in a very long time, she allowed herself to hope. She sat up on the side of the bed, taking inventory of her body, and made her way to her refresher. She showered, and realized she was moving faster and faster, anxious to join her crew. See him. She made herself slow down, and when she was drying her hair she saw herself in the mirror. The happy look in her eyes startled her, and the resulting grin had her moving faster again.

She emerged from her quarters and stopped. The smell of something very good permeated the hallway, making her mouth water. She could hear someone in the galley, and made her way toward the delicious fragrance. She peeked her head around the hatch, and saw Corso, a towel slung over one shoulder, cooking. Risha and Guss were sitting across the room, in animated conversation while they ate. Corso caught her movement out of the corner of his eye and called to her.

“Morning, Captain. Come on in here, you need breakfast too.” He turned to her with a plate in his hand. “Come on now, these’ll get cold.” She moved forward, unsure how her feet were working. “I’ll join you in a second,” he told her, his warm brown eyes smiling at her. She took the plate and sat, looking in wonder at what he’d given her. Pancakes. With tiny chocolate chips. Only my favorite things. Well, he wants to show you he’s been paying attention. She took a long sniff and sighed. Two of her favorite foods, combined. A little bit of perfect, she thought, as she took a bite and closed her eyes.

“These are amazing. Wonderful, “ she told him, and his smile made her smile back. “Thank you, for these and for last night.” She blushed and looked at her food, taking another bite, but feeling his eyes on her.

“Figured you’d need a bite of food after all that. At least you slept.” He was trying to be nonchalant, but she could feel the undercurrent of concern, as well as the hesitancy in his voice.

“I did, and I’m so sorry that you spent the night on the floor.” Get up, get up, get up, move! NO!

He shrugged, “I’ve slept in worse spots.” He took another bite, and she watched, the familiar lines of his face making her want to touch him. Instead, she stood, and took the plate of half eaten pancakes to the sink. Every dish he’d used was already washed, and she fumbled the utensils in her hands as she started to put them away. She reached up to put a plate away when she felt him behind her. “Cap’n, you didn’t finish. Want me to make you something else?” She shook her head, no, but didn’t turn to face him. “Want something cold to drink? Water?” She shook her head again. “Well, then, what do you want?”

She turned to him then. “You,” was the only word she could think of, and his kiss pushed even that from her mind.

Risha smiled as she saw them from the hallway, and turned to Guss. “Better get used to doing the dishes. I think our cook just got promoted.”

Technically, this doesn’t qualify as Home Ec in the strict sense, since it really deals with removing an unwanted crew member, as opposed to say, unwanted odors or stains. Even Rixik can’t stand Skadge.

Rixik pulled the scrambler circuit off the holoterminal feed and stuffed the trailing wires back in their compartment.

“That didn’t sound like it went well,” Gault said, safely out of reach on the catwalk overlooking the cargo bay.

“About what I expected,” Rixik said, kicking the compartment closed, “Hey Skadge!” he yelled, “Getcher face out of the chiller, I want to talk to you.”

Gault winced, “You actually want to talk to him?” he asked.

“For this I do,” Rixik said.

Skadge clumped up the stairs, bulled his way past Gault and marched straight up to Rixik. He glowered down at the smaller Twi’lek, “You got a lot of nerve.”

“Stuff it. I got a job for you,” Rixik said.

“I ain’t your gopher, puny Twi’lek,” Skadge grumbled.

Rixik stepped in closer, poking one finger in the middle of the Houk’s massive chest, “You got a problem? I can turn around and dump your *ss back on Belsavis. That was the deal, in case you’ve blinked since then.”

“Yeah, yeah. Maybe I’ll strike out on my own. I know people.”

“There’s the airlock. Go for it,” Rixik growled.

Skadge glowered some more, then laughed, a phlegmy, choking sound, “Funny. Alright, what’s yer job? I’m bored around here anyway.”

Rixik crossed to the data console and retrieved the holocap from his conversation with Andalar, “Want you to kill this guy. Andalar Greyson.”

Skadge tried to push past Rixik to the console, but the Twi’lek refused to give ground. “Heh,” Skadge said, looking over Rixik’s shoulder, “Just a human. No problem.”

“Glad you think so.”

“So you want anything special for this guy?” Skadge asked, “something fun?”

Rixik glared up at the mountain of Skadge, “Dead. Don’t get fancy. He’s a hunter so he knows the business.”

Skadge laughed again, “Ooo, I’m scared.”

“Don’t get fancy, Skadge,” Rixik warned, “It’s not going to be like popping the heads off scientists.”

“Heh. That was fun.”

“Gonna drop you at the next port with an expense chit. You blow it all on girls and booze and you’re walking back,” Rixik said, “then I shoot you in the face for being an idiot.”

“All right, I get it,” Skadge rumbled, “I’ll kill this Andalar guy for you.”

“Good. Get your gear,” Rixik said. Skadge stomped off, shouldering Gault aside again as he headed for his bunk in the crew quarters.

Gault snuck back into the main room, “Are you insane?” he hissed, “Andalar will eat him!”

Rixik snorted, “That’s the point,” he said, “Meatwalls do have their uses.”

“Oh, stars, you’ve gamed this all out haven’t you?” Gault said.

“Of course,” Rixik said, listening for a moment to make sure Skadge was still rummaging around in his bunk, “I’m not going to miss him. If he succeeds, great. Meanwhile, we take out Andalar’s client. No client, no contract.”

Gault seized Rixik’s shoulder, “What if Kirya isn’t his client?”

Rixik shook him loose, “Then I use the bounty to bankroll a search to find out who is.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, boss,” Gault said.

“Game’s no fun without risk,” Rixik said with a sharp-toothed grin.

Senate Plaza spaceport, Coruscant. 0 BTC.

When the Far Horizon arrived on Coruscant, Captain Breslin left the bay doors open, trusting the offload of his cargo — refugee relief, he explained when Maneera had asked — to a clutch of scruffy-looking dockhands who looked like they couldn’t find “reputable” with both hands and an unabridged dictionary. Maneera objected — “You need to keep an eye on your freight, Captain. And besides, I can deal with this on my own.” — and the Captain blithely ignored every last word. With an arm across her shoulders, he guided her out of the hangar and into the central concourse.

The line coiled through what had been, in less stressful days, the checkpoint for customs and immigration. A harried-looking woman in a rumpled planetary security uniform stood behind the only open window. Silence hung over the room, broken only by the faint buzz of voices at the window and the whispering shuffle of feet as the line inched forward, one tragedy at a time. Once in a long while, someone would leave the front of the line with a look of profound, joyous relief, but smiles collapsed quickly under the weight of fellow survivors’ grim resignation, and the fortunate few scuttled away with all the speed courtesy allowed.

Captain Breslin nudged Maneera forward, and she was faintly surprised, after hours in the line, to find herself finally in front of the open window. “I’m... I’m looking for my family,” she stammered. “My kid brother and sister, and our parents.”

“Names?” the security officer intoned.

“Sindri. Family name, Sindri. Given names, Zeezee...” She shook her head. “Sorry. Zhara and Alendar, Jerec and Irialle.”

“Last known whereabouts?” The woman’s fingers were already jabbing at the keyboard.

“Umm...” Maneera wasn’t quite sure what she’d been expecting, but this was definitely not it. “In the Temple. Jedi Temple.”

More keys tapping. A bright red box popped up on the monitor, surrounding stern white capitals: NO MATCHES FOUND.

“What does that mean?”

“Search and rescue hasn’t yet recovered anyone with those names,” the officer answered, her voice still tonelessly flat as she recited her script. “If you would be willing to submit a genetic sample, we can begin checking unidentified recoveries for familial correlation.”

“Do it.” The woman held out the sampler. Maneera settled a finger into the indent, drew it back after feeling the sharp sting of the needle.

“I’ll need your name and contact information.”

“Maneera Sindri.” She wondered if that would turn up any records of a missing persons report. If there even was a missing persons report. Had they wondered where she had gone? Had it been a relief to be rid of the ugly not-Jedi duckling?

“Contact information?” the officer repeated, breaking Maneera’s train of thought.

“Far Horizon,” the Captain replied, taking Maneera’s woolgathering for uncertainty. “Hangar bay 33, berth 6.” The officer nodded, typing again. As the Captain led her away, Maneera could feel the distant, itchy longing for little vials of red and gold.

Next morning, Maneera was up bright and early, beelining for the main concourse. Captain Breslin met her at the bottom of the gangway, a steaming hot cup of caf in each hand; she sprinted past him, waving distractedly. The line had already filled half of its allotted space. Hours later, she stood in front of the same exhausted officer.

“Names?”

“Family name — Sindri. Given names — Zhara, Alendar, Jerec, Irialle.”

“Location?”

“Jedi Temple.”

The bright red box with its stark white letters covered the screen.

“Sample for cross-matching?”

“I gave you one yesterday.”

“Contact information?”

“Maneera Sindri. Far Horizon, bay 33, berth 6.” And that was that. Maneera wandered back to the ship, wondering what the Captain had done with her emergency stash, and if she could find it without him finding her.

Next morning, Maneera was up at zero-dark-thirty. A pot of caf had just finished brewing, but she ignored it in her rush to get to the concourse. The line was already beginning to form, and she scrambled to secure a place before the first bend. Within moments, the officer arrived to take her place, and the line began its slow march forward.

“Names?”

“Sindri. Zhara, Alendar, Jerec, Irialle.”

“Location?”

“Temple.”

The red box and white letters glared back at her.

“Sample?”

“On record.”

“Contact?”

“On record.” Rather than returning to the Horizon, Maneera stayed in the concourse until the officer packed up her equipment and closed the window. Once the last few hopeful inquirers were gone, Maneera huddled beneath the window, ready to trade the world away for her lost spice.

Maneera woke with a start to the smell of fresh caf. When the haze of a fitful sleep cleared from her vision, she saw Captain Breslin standing over her, cups in hand. She accepted one with a sheepish grin and murmur of thanks, watching the line fill in behind her. By the time she finally caught up to being awake, the officer had arrived and taken her place.

“Sindri,” Maneera stated, not waiting for the prompt. “Zhara, Alendar, Jerec, Irialle. Last known to be at the Jedi Temple. My genetic sample and contact information are already on record.”

Red box, white letters.

“Come on, Mans.” The Captain put his arm across her shoulders, guiding her out of the line. “Let’s get you some breakfast, and then we’ll figure out what we’re gonna do about —” His comm unit chimed. He unclipped it from his belt and thumbed on the display; a tiny labcoated figure stood in his hand. “This is Breslin, go ahead.”

“This is Doctor Lears Ohlmak.” He paused a moment, looking down at something in his hands. "I was hoping to reach a Maneera Sindri.”

The Captain tilted the comm toward her. “Here. Uh... that’s me. I’m Maneera.”

There was another brief pause as the doctor gave Maneera a puzzled once-over. “I understand you submitted a sample for genetic matching.” At her mute nod, Ohlmak continued, “We believe we’ve found one of your family, but we’ll need you to make a positive identification.”

“Who is it, who did you find?”

“Given the age and shared markers, I believe she’s likely your mother, but, as I said, we’ll need you to confirm or deny that.”

“Is she...?”

“Critical but stable. She’s in a tank now; we expect she’ll be up and about in a day or so.”

Maneera felt her knees wobble beneath her; Captain Breslin shifted his arm down to her waist, holding her upright. “Thanks for the heads-up, Doc,” he replied for her. “We’ll be there soon as we can, just need to know where we’re headed.”

“We have a field hospital established near the crash zone; sending map data now.”

The captain watched as text scrolled in across the bottom of the image. “Got it, Doc. Thanks again.” He closed the channel and resettled the comm unit onto his belt. Once Maneera managed to get her legs solidly back underneath her, he took his arm from her waist. “Come on, Mans,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Let’s see if we can’t scare ourselves up a cab.”

22 BTC

Colran joined in line with the other padawans to bring in the dormitory and guest quarters' clean linens and start making beds. He hated this particular chore because supervisors demanded that everyone work in pairs, the better to deal with large sheets. He disliked dealing with the other padawans nearly as much as they disliked dealing with the Sith.

He was assigned to work opposite a green alien named Gend. Mirialan, he reminded himself. Gend was a few years older than Colran, brown-haired, friendly-looking. Colran mumbled an introduction - it wasn't like anybody in this temple didn't know who the kid from Korriban was - and got going.

They grabbed a basket and brought it upstairs to one of the guest rooms, stripping the old sheets, laying down the new, arranging the blanket and pillows in quick perfunctory motions. This exercise struck him as infinitely less important than learning or working or practicing or watching plasticoat dry, but Master Zauvien said the padawans did chores, so Padawan Colran did chores.

A room or two later Colran caught Gend half-smiling at him. "Not your favorite thing," said Gend.

"No," said Colran, tugging his side of the blanket straight.

The Mirialan smiled the kind of smile that indicated he was trying to come up with another way to charm Colran out of his supposed shell. "No regard for the venerable profession of sheet-straightening?"

Anyone smiling like that wouldn't be satisfied with short answers and unfriendly hints; Colran had tried. Repeatedly. This time he still avoided eye contact, choosing to concentrate on getting his work done right, but he elaborated. "I never did this before I came here. What's the point? You're going to mess it up again in a few hours, practically no one sees it anyway, and it takes up time you could spend doing worthwhile things."

"It's supposed to be a devotional exercise as much as anything," said the Mirialan. "This is service, something calm and simple to do that contributes to the greater good. It's the Jedi ideal in a nutshell."

"Our ideal is arranging blankets on things?" He would have to run that one by Master Zauvien. Times like this he wondered what was so bad about Sith ambition; Jedi simplicity had its charm, but sometimes it felt really, really underwhelming.

"Our ideal is doing all things well in service of the whole and are you actually fluffing that pillow?"

Colran stopped. "What? It was all flat. It'd be uncomfortable."

"You're pretty dedicated to detail for someone who thinks it's a waste of time."

"I'm making the temple look good here," he said defensively. "Nobody wants to stay someplace without comfortable pillows."

"See? It matters after all."

The guy had clearly done his homework in the "Jedi tracking and reversal of the opponent's idea" department. Sooner or later Colran would get the hang of that himself.

Gend carried on cheerfully. "You work good. Partner up next time, too? Assuming we're not lost in the mob next time we both pull housekeeping duty."

"Yeah, I guess. Lost won't be a problem, just look for the Sith." Odd, that the conversation had run for so long without that term coming up.

Gend grinned. "I don't know any. Sith don't waste their time making beds."

Wow, I'm actually very bad at figuring out how people first get acquainted/start non-flirty friendships. It's just not a skill I'm great with myself, not unless I'm meeting over a common task. Sorry if that's awkward, Colran! I'm trying to get you friends, really!

I believed I would be a Jedi as long as I lived. I'm no longer Jedi, I'm no longer Remi.

Grey wandered the streets of Nar Shaddaa hidden behind the safety of her armored suit. As a Jedi she was always conspicuous, the robes and lightsaber were well recognized throughout the known galaxy, generating hostility and hope in equal measure. Now she sparked no particular interest, bounty hunters were common and many aliens wore full armored suits.

What does that mean? Being a Jedi should mean being a good person, but not all Jedi are good. History has shown that.

She stopped to buy a small boxed meal from one of the food vendors. Most people passed over his stall in favor of the flashier ones. She walked on heading for a quiet corner while fiddling with her meal she dropped the box seemingly by accident. Shaking her head she left it where it landed and sauntered off pretending not to notice the two children who eagerly picked up the abandoned food. The little girl was showing early signs of the Ardroxian Flu, she did not know the food was laced with medicine. She would be fine, the virus would be contained.

Jedi should guard the peace, defend the innocent, respect life, serve others, improve themselves in mind and body.

She followed a pair of teens into a small shop. The shopkeeper did not have much, he was old and near blind. They surveyed her armor and weapons and waited for her to leave. She walked around slowly examining each item, ignoring them, taking her time, she found a red music box that played a tune that seemed familiar. She brought it to the shopkeeper and asked about it. He smiled fondly at the music box telling her stories of how he used to be a tinkerer when his eyes were better. The teens grew impatient and left. Remi left the shop a while later with a carefully wrapped music box.

Isn’t that what I should live for? Not the title or the Council.

She left the music box at the front desk of a rundown building. The head matron of the orphanage would find it later, she would use it to help lull the babies to sleep. She walked down the ramp to the Slippery Slope Cantina signaling to the bartender that she was waiting for an agent. Within a few minutes a waitress escorted her to a back room where she waited for her SIS contact.

I'm Grey now and I may not be a Jedi but I can still live as one.

If Remi then Jedi.

If not Jedi then not Remi.

A person who guards the peace, defends the innocent, respects life, serves others, and seeks to improve themselves is living as a Jedi should live.

Grey can do those things.

Grey can live as a Jedi should.

Skari opened her eyes. Naps. She'd been reduced to taking naps. She swung her feet off her too-large bed and leaned over, looking for her ship shoes. The room was, in many ways, untouched from its former occupant. Spare, slightly shabby, like the rest of the ship. She pulled on a short-sleeved shirt, slid into a pair of loose cargo pants, belted her blasters on, and wound up her hair by habit. She pinned the spiral with an extra sharp hair pin, checked that the Nantellan was tucked away, and unlocked the door. Across the stairwell, she could see Mako and Gault working away on the bridge computers. The two of them glanced at Skari as she walked into the space.

"Look who's finally up," Gault said with smirk.

"You could have slept longer," Mako said, "We have things covered."

Skari waved away the suggestion. "I'm fine," she said as she examined their set up. Mako and Gault sat side by side on the bridge. The slicer had taken over two of the consoles, leaving the con man with only one. The fourth still flipped continually through the ship's security feeds. "What are you looking at?" she said to Mako.

"Crae mentioned that Quisoto's main moon had an abandoned Imperial base on it. I'm checking to see if there are any remaining satellite feeds to tap into."

Skari glanced over at Gault who was frowning as he flipped through files. "That piece of sh*t we ran into on Nadra's estate isn't out of the ordinary for this guy. His crew is dirty, and coming from me, that's saying something. I've been running through the files on people who have been on and off Quisoto in the past year. The who's who of people nobody else will work with show up on a pretty regular basis."

"What do you think?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. Could be he doesn't care who he keeps on his payroll. Could be no one else will work with him. I'll keep looking." He grinned up at her, "Some of these guys even rival what we've got camped out in the hall. Speaking of which..." He flipped over to the security monitor and switched through cameras till he found Crae emerging from Blizz's space. "When did he..."

"Sh*t." Skari turned and left the room, half running down the stairs, past where Torian was working on his techstaff expercises.

"What is it?" he asked as she moved past him.

"Crae came through here?" she asked, vaulting the steps to Blizz's space.

"Yeah..."

She started breathing again when she spotted the little Jawa happily digging through his pile of scavenged pieces and inventions.

"*Hi Boss!*"

Skari waved at him. "Blizz, did Crae come in here?"

"*Crae worried about plan. Crae no think Blizz can fight! Blizz show him!*" He pulled out his rocket launcher and mimed a couple shots.

Skari smiled tighlty. "I'm sure you did." She left the room. "Did you see where he went?" she asked Torian.

"Kitchen. Guy's always in the kitchen," he muttered as he went back to his exercises.

Skari nodded and took the steps two at a time and then headed for the kitchenette. The room was empty, although the mug steaming on the counter showed he'd been here recently. She looked around more closely. There were new spices in the rack near the stove, small pots of herbs under a growing light. Skari jumped as she felt a rough finger stroke the puckered scar on her upper arm. She jerked her head around, heart pounding. Crae dropped his hand, his eyes intensely bright, the light reflecting off the gold.

"Don't touch me," she snapped, hating the slight shake in her voice, "And wear a damn collar, would you?"

A slight mocking grin twisted his lips. "I didn't scare you, did I?" He stepped closer, his eyes bright as they slid down her body. "I wouldn't want to do that."

She felt her cheeks go purple at his intimate tone, her stomach twisting into knots.

"Where did you get that mark?" he asked, his eyes shifting back to hers. He tilted his head slightly to the side.

"None of your f**king business," she snarled, taking a step back.

He frowned a bit, reached out towards the scar again. She jerked away. "What were you doing in Blizz's room?"

Crae leaned back again, that slight frown still on his face. "Haven't seen a Jawa fight unless cornered. They're scavengers and builders, picking the meat off metallic carcases and constructing new creatures. Fleeing animals."

"Blizz is different," Skari said, watching him carefully as he moved around her, picking up his tea.

"So I saw," Crae said. His lip quirked, "A bit of a puzzle, like his boss." He took a sip of tea.

"I don't like you bothering him, okay?" she said sternly, edging towards the door.

He smiled fondly at her and took another sip of tea. "You're awfully cute when you're protecting your cubs."

"You're really messed up, you know that?" she growled at him in frustration, leaving the room much faster than necessary.