TALES FROM THE EMPIRE

By: Peter Schweighofer

fiction star wars

Synopsis:

Culled from the pages of the Star Wars Adventure Journal one of the
most popular Star Wars magazines in the field today, comes this
exciting new short-story collection.  Here are stories from such
award-winning and New York Times bestselling authors as Timothy Zahn,
Michael A, Stackpole, and Kathy Tyers as well as exciting newcomers,
including Erin Endom, Laurie Burns, and Patricia A. Jackson.  From the
desperate flight of a civilian mail courier carrying vital Rebel
intelligence through an Imperial blockade, to a suicidal commando raid
on an impregnable Imperial prison, to a Corellian smuggler mysteriously
hired by an actor turned Jedi Knight turned Imperial assassin for one
final transformation, these tales capture all the high adventure,
imaginative genius, and nonstop action that are the hallmarks of the
Star Wars saga.

What's more, the centerpiece of this magnificent collection is the
short novel Side Trip, the first-ever collaboration between Timothy
Zahn and Michael A. Stackpole, in which a freighter smuggling arms for
the Rebels is commandeered by an Imperial Star Destroyer led by a
mysterious helmeted figure who claims to be the notorious bounty hunter
Jodo Kast.  It is all part of a devious plan that includes Hal and
Corran Horn, who are working undercover to nail the infamous Ceilian
warlord Zekka Thyne.  But one slipup can get them all killed.

BANTAM

New York Toronto London Sydney Auckland 

For Mom, Dad, and David, who caught me when I stumbled, encouraged me
when I struggled, and smiled when I succeeded.

Contents

Introduction: A Galaxy Filled with Stories 	Peter Schweighofer

First Contact

	Timothy Zahn

Tinian on Trial

	Kathy Tyers

The Final Exit

	Patricia A. Jackson

Missed Chance

	Michael A. Stackpole

Retreat from Coruscant

	Laurie Burns

A Certain Point of View

	Charlene Newcomb 	Blaze of Glory

	Tony Russo

	Slaying Dragons

	Angela Phillips

	Do No Harm

	Erin Endom

Side Trip Part One

	Timothy Zahn

Side Trip Part Two

	Michael A. Stackpole

	Side Trip Part Three

	Michael A. Stackpole

Side Trip Part Four

	Timothy Zahn

About the Authors

INTRODUCTION

A Galaxy Filled with Stories by Peter Schweighofer Behind every book
there is a story--one contained not in the words on the pages but in
the events that occurred as an imaginative spark grew to become a pub
lished work of fiction.

The cast of characters include writers, editors, original ideas, and a
lot of work.  This anthology is no exception, but the real story has
much deeper origins.

Not so long ago, a blockbuster film brought a new generation back to
the silver screen.  George Lucas combined cutting-edge special effects
with exciting characters and themes, capturing the collective mythic
consciousness of movie-goers.  Once again viewers were treated to the
Saturday-matinee experience: swashbuckling chapters, edge-of-your-seat
cliffhangers, spaceship dogfights, the forces of good battling the
minions of evil.  The film was Star Wars: A New Hope, and nobody had
seen anything quite like it before.

In homes across America, the Star Wars universe became real.

Children of every age returned from movie theaters with dreams of
becoming Han Solo, Luke Skywalker, or Princess Leia.  They bought
action figures that allowed them to invent their own stories,
continuing the war against the evil Empire.  Kids dreamed of what they
would find in Mos Eisley and wondered what the spice mines of Kessel
were like, or what creatures lurked in the Massassi temples on Yavin
4.

They pretended to be brave Rebel pilots flying X-wing starfighters or
dashing smugglers blasting through Imperial blockades in the Millennium
Falcon.

The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi continued to fuel
America's imagination.  Novels and comic books explored events that
occurred before and between the films.

In their imaginations, kids turned their basements into the Death Star,
where they battled with lightsabers like Ben Kenobi and Darth Vader.

They built fortresses in the snow and refought the Battle of Hoth with
snowballs.

Children romped through the park with toy blasters, pretending they
were fighting scout troopers on Endor.

Nobody was sure whether Star Wars was just another fad or something
truly original.  Despite their popularity, the films drifted off into
the haze of American society's collective memory in the mid to late
1980s.  The Kenner action figures of Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader
were stored away in closets, basements, and attics.  Sound tracks,
scratched from numerous hours of play, were packed away with other old
records.  Novelizations were shelved with other science-fiction
paperbacks and forgotten.

Other pursuits soon took the place of playing with action figures,
reading comic books, and visiting the imaginary Star Wars galaxy.  Fans
grew up, went off to college, and entered the "real world" of career
and family.  The kids inside them were still there, but they were
hidden in the deep closets, basements, and attics of the spirit.  Sure,
fans were glued to their television sets when the Star Wars films were
broadcast on cable or the networks; for the most part, though, the
wonder and excitement that had been Star Wars passed into little more
than a fond recollection.

Then something amazing began.

New Star Wars stories appeared.

Timothy Zahn led the charge with Heir to the Empire.  He enthralled
fans in a tale packed with powerful villains, new worlds, mysterious
aliens, massive starship battles, and, of course, everyone's favorite
heroes from the movies.

He brought back the magic that was Star Wars.

Timothy Zahn's popular books were followed by Dark Horse Comics series
and more novels.  Suddenly Star Wars was again on everyone's lips.

Fans stormed book and comic stores looking for the latest releases.

There were rumors of new action figures.  Star Wars trading cards
returned with vivid original artwork.  People realized there was even a
role-playing game that would allow them to return to the days when they
pretended to be Rebels battling stormtroopers and bounty hunters.

This new vision of Star Wars attracted new fans and reawakened that old
Star Wars spirit--that kid who played with the action figures and
wanted to become a Jedi Knight reemerged.  Suddenly all the memorabilia
was pulled out of storage, resurrecting the fond memories and dreams of
a galaxy far, far away.  Adults gazed longingly at the Magic Marker
sketches of the Death Star battle they had drawn when they were
children.  They proudly displayed their collection of action figures.

People reminisced about the first time they saw Star Wars and
speculated about the fascinating territory a new trilogy would
explore.

For twenty years, the fans kept the dream alive in their
hearts---without a new trilogy or numerous reruns of television
episodes.  Star Wars is larger than the movies, greater than the
fans.

Star Wars is proof that spirited individuals can make a difference
against seemingly insurmountable odds.

We are all part of this phenomenon.

The example of West End Games illustrates the nature of the Star Wars
phenomenon.  During the lull in Star Wars interest, this small game
company decided that the ultimate space fantasy offered the perfect
subject for a role-playing game.  At the time West End Games---then
based in New York City--had produced a fair share of war games and
role-playing games.  The company had only tested the waters of licensed
properties with Star Trek: The Adventure Game and a Ghostbusters
role-playing game.  West End contacted Lucasfilm Ltd.  and a licensing
agreement was arranged.

Trying to create a successful game based on a ten-year-old film was a
major risk.  But the West End design team went to work, and soon
produced a rule book and sourcebook packed with information on
characters, star-ships, weapons, aliens, and droids.  The Star Wars
Role-playing Game was born.

At first, West End produced several game products, which the Star Wars
role-playing market gobbled UP' There were plenty of obstacles to
overcome.  Deadlines were missed and production schedules were
lengthened by authors who delivered projects late and editors who were
forced to rewrite manuscripts.  Working with the Lucasfilm approvals
staff, West End quickly learned what subjects were off-limits: for
instance, the Old Republic, Clone Wars, and how the Emperor and Vader
rose to power.

Since then, West End has helped expand the Star Wars galaxy and
maintain continuity through the release of more than seventy-five
sourcebooks, adventures, and supplements, including twelve Galaxy
Guides, fourteen Star Wars Adventure Journals, and ten sourcebooks
based on best-selling novels and comics.

The company's hard work and perseverance has paid off.  Thanks to Star
Wars, West End established itself as a leader in the role-playing-game
industry, acquiring other popular media licenses; it has since produced
role-playing games based on the Indiana Jones films, Tank Girl, Tales
from the Crypt, and Men in Black.  Today it continues to be the most
successful licensing role-playing company in the world.

But West End's work with Star Wars hasn't been confined to the
role-playing-game field.  The company has coordinated its efforts with
Lucasfilm and other Star Wars licensees to guarantee the continuity and
retain the spirit of Star Wars in its products.  West End editors have
offered assistance to authors, answering questions, providing game
books for reference, and even reading over rough drafts of novels.

Game sourcebooks have provided technical data used in creating toys and
other products based on starships and vehicles.  West End staffers
helped guide the creation of Decipher's Star Wars Customizable Card
Game and Parker Brothers' Star Wars Monopoly.  When the information
contained in different products all fits together seamlessly, the Star
Wars universe seems much more real.

Several West End designers have even moved into the greater Star Wars
publishing universe.  Bill Slavicsek updated Raymond Velasco's Guide to
the Star Wars Universe, incorporating many new additions that maintain
continuity with Timothy Zahn's novels, the new comic books, and West
End Games sourcebooks.  Bill Smith wrote the Essential Guide to
Vehicles and Vessels.  Other West End editors have contributed articles
to Topps's Star Wars Galaxy Magazine and other periodicals.

Like the movie heroes, these dedicated fans rose from humble
beginnings to help shape the Star Wars galaxy.

Although the role-playing game might not be as popular or well-known as
other Star Wars licensed products, a dedicated team of writers still
works diligently to guide the role-playing adventures of fans as they
explore the galaxy.  · Some of you might be wondering exactly what a
role-playing game is, and why Star Wars is so well suited to its
purposes.

Simply, a role-playing game is just a more sophisticated version of the
children's game "Let's Pretend."  Most fans remember when they used to
create their own Star Wars adventures, using action figures, a few
vehicles, and the living-room furniture.  Role-playing games are based
on those same creative and imaginative processes.

Role-playing games involve interactive storytelling.  A group of
friends assumes the various roles of characters in the story, and their
choices and actions affect the tale's outcome.

One of these players, the "gamemaster," tells the others what their
characters see and hear, and portrays any "supporting cast members" the
heroes encounter.  Sometimes maps, game pieces, props, and miniature
vehicles are used, but most of the action takes place in the
participants' imaginations.  The outcomes of blaster fights, speeder
chases, and other conflicts are decided by simple rules involving the
rolling of dice: the better the player rolls, the more successfully his
character completes a particular task.  Whether a character succeeds or
fails at these challenges can dramatically change the story's
outcome.

Since the participants are creating their own Star Wars stories, they
don't play the actual characters from the films--instead, they create
someone like them.  Players might choose to be smugglers and Wookiees
like Han Solo and Chewbacca.  They can be starfighter pilots like Biggs
or Dutch, or they can pretend to be aliens like Admiral Ackbar and Bib
Fortuna.  Since they're not using the movie characters, players may
visit places and do things "offscreen."  The Star Wars Roleplaying Game
allows fans to explore fascinating areas only hinted at in the films:
those other back alleys in Mos Eisley, the white corridors of Cloud
City, the Forest Moon of Endor.  It lets people create their own Star
Wars adventures, complete with heroes and villains, planets, starships,
and aliens.

The aim of the Star Wars Adventure Journal is the same: to explore the
offscreen characters, planets, conflicts, and stories that fill the
Star Wars universe.

When West End started publishing the Journal in 1994, the goal was to
create a periodical to support the role-playing game with exciting new
stories, game adventures, and Star Wars source material.  Under the
careful supervision of Lucy Wilson, Sue Rostoni, and Allan Kausch in
Lucasfilm's licensing department, the Journal quickly grew into a forum
for both established and up-and-coming authors to continue visiting the
fascinating Star Wars universe.

Before the Journal, Star Wars publishing was very exclusive.

Only established authors were invited to contribute to a Bantam novel
or anthology.  Most had solid contacts in the publishing industry.

Writers who had never published a science-fiction novel or two were not
considered.

Novels focused on the major heroes, though the anthologies developed
some of the background characters from the films more fully.

Everyone wanted stories about Luke, Han, and Leia, but the concept of
basing a novel on new characters without the main Star Wars heroes in
the spotlight was risky.  Would readers buy it?

Authors were permitted to introduce original characters to interact
with the major heroes, but once their works were published, the events
they narrated became a part of Star Wars continuity.

Writers who created new characters had no other opportunities to
develop them unless they were specifically assigned to write future
novels.  Some authors longed to return to play in the fascinating Star
Wars universe.

The Star Wars Adventure Journal began to change all that.

Over time, the Journal became a place where qualified writers from all
backgrounds could publish original Star Wars fiction.  Every author's
bibliography and fiction samples were scrutinized by West End and
Lucasfilm--only those whose work was approved received invitations to
contribute.  Not every submission was accepted.  Every article had to
live up to West End's and Lucasfilm's high quality standards.  The
Journal was never a fanzine, although some of its authors had
experience writing for such publications.  It was a showcase for the
best new Star Wars material available.

At first the Journal didn't emphasize short stories---they shared the
288 pages with game adventures and source material.  Such regular
features as "GalaXywide News-Nets," "Smuggler's Log," and "Wanted by
Cracken" introduced new characters, starships, planets, aliens, and
conflicts in the Star Wars universe, and offered ways to use them in
the role-playing game.  At the time of their publication in the
Journal, all fiction pieces contained game information and sidebars
offering tips for integrating elements from short stories into the
game.

Subsequent issues unveiled the works of more polished authors and a
rising level of excellence.  At Lucasfilm's encouragement--and due to
the increase in the quality of short-story submissions--the number of
fiction articles grew.

The Journal became a source for Star Wars short stories inhabited by
characters other than those familiar to fans of the movies.  It was one
of the few places where authors without a novel under their belt could
officially write new Star Wars fiction.  A generation of new writers
created their own heroes: CorSec agents, cynical smugglers, rogue Dark
Jedi, Rebel commando teams.  Established authors returned to their
favorite characters and created new ones.  Everyone had a chance to
roam around the universe they knew and loved.

The Journal created a whole series of Star Wars stories that set off
into unexplored territory.  It gave authors a special opportunity to
write for their favorite film setting and expand the scope of the Star
Wars galaxy.

I spent my childhood playing with Star Wars action figures, listening
to the sound tracks, collecting trading cards, and reading novels and
comic books.  These kept the characters and myths of the movie alive in
my imagination at a time when household VCRs were still rare.

The Star Wars records--which appealed to my love for music--sparked
images of the film in my mind.  The trading cards brought movie scenes
and characters back to life.  Comic books developed plots and
characters beyond the end of the film.  The action figures helped me
tell my own stories.  My interest in Star Wars survived through the
long years of waiting for The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the
Jedi.

As I grew older, though, I soon found other pursuits to occupy my
time.

One of those was a strange new hobby called "role-playing games."

Several kids in my neighborhood started playing something called
Dungeons and Dragons.  I watched them play once and it didn't seem too
hard.  Instead of wondering where I could buy a copy, I created my own
fantasy role-playing game for my friends.

It wasn't particularly ingenious, nor did it capture the complexities
that were to appear in current role-playing games--but it was fun.

Eventually I bought Dungeons and Dragons, the first of many
role-playing games in practically every genre: fantasy, science
fiction, historical.  These provided an outlet for my creativity.  I
enjoyed running games for friends and creating my own adventures.

The Star Wars films fostered an interest in science fiction and fantasy
literature that followed me into high school.  All my spare money was
used to purchase sciencefiction novels in the local bookstore.  I read
Moorcock's Ebic series, Tolkien's Lord of the Rings, and anything by
Larry Niven.  All this reading inspired me to dream up my own
characters, worlds, and technologies, which eventually appeared in my
own (admittedly mediocre) sci-fi stories.

I combined my role-playing-game and science-fiction hobbies by creating
my own simple science-fiction board games, complete with intricate
maps, counters, and cards.

My friends and I played them often, though we didn't think they'd
amount to much in the long term.  How often does having fun develop
into a lucrative career?

When I reached college age, I was determined to hone my writing skills
and put them to use penning science-fiction epics of my own.

Throughout my years at Hamilton College, I dabbled in science
fiction--reading a lot of it and writing some of my own (better by
now).  I broadened my writing and publishing experience by reporting
and typesetting for the college newspaper.  My creative-writing
professors encouraged me to explore other areas, such as poetry and
historical fiction (which eventually became another hobby of mine).  I
even tested my organizational skills by coordinating the Hamilton
College Writers Society.

During one summer vacation, I discovered treasure buried in the
science-fiction shelves of the local bookstore: the Star Wars
Role-playing Game.  Two of my favorite hobbies--Star Wars and
role-playing--had been merged.  I bought the book on the spot.

Over the next few years, my friends and I occasionally explored the
Star Wars role-playing universe during game sessions.  We created our
own legendary characters--he-roes like the outlaw Dirk Harkness, and
villains like the mysterious bounty hunter Beylyssa.  Through our
imaginations, we explored strange planets, escaped carefully laid
Imperial traps, and blasted stormtroopers at every turn.

For a few nights between semesters, Star Wars lived again in the minds
of our gaming crew.

The Star Wars Role-playing Game was just that: a game, a pleasant
pastime to fill college breaks, a hobby left over from childhood.  Most
childhood diversions, however, eventually crumble under the
intimidating weight of the "real world," and with graduation from
college, I was prepared to succumb to the inevitable nine-to-five
drudgery of the workplace.  No matter how much I loved Star Wars and
role-playing, they could never provide me with a viable career.  Not
that I didn't try, mind you.  I sent a few resumes out to game
companies, including West End, but, as is often the case, most
companies required a few years' experience in the industry.  I had to
start at one of the lower rungs on the publishing ladder.

As a recently graduated creative-writing major, I was well suited for a
job in journalism: reporting for my hometown weekly newspaper was the
only publishing job I could find.  I spent two years reporting on town
meetings, school events, and interesting people in the community.

While this doesn't sound glamorous, I absorbed things every writer and
editor should know.  I learned how to meet deadlines, how to revise my
writing to make it clear and exciting, and how to choose words and
organize paragraphs to express my ideas clearly.

After two years, I was promoted to editor in chief when the previous
editor stepped down.  This new job quickly taught me how to be a team
leader.  Now I was critiquing reporters' stories, working with them to
produce great articles.  I got a crash course in public relations as I
was forced to deal with the innumerable publicity seekers who plague
small newspapers with their personal agendas, political crusades, and
town-government conspiracy theories.

Although I was living at home, I was close to my Star Wars gaming
friends.  We continued our fantastic adventures through the Outer Rim
Territories, freeing aliens from despotic slavers, infiltrating secret
Imperial research bases, and escorting undercover Rebel agents on
luxurious starliners.

We soon discovered we were not alone in our passion for Star Wars.  A
new novel called Heir to the Empire seemed to herald the dawn of a new
Star Wars age.  New comic books also began to appear.  As soon as we
heard that another Timothy Zahn Star Wars novel had been published, we
ran to the bookstore.  Our gaming crew scanned the new comic-book
releases for Star Wars material.

We were not alone in the universe---Star Wars fans everywhere were
emerging from their slumber.

Change was in the air, and I began to think that if I could find the
right job in the gaming industry, I'd be able to realize my dream of
combining Star Wars, writing, and role-playing games.

With a year's worth of editing experience under my belt, I decided to
try breaking into the gaming industry again.  My first choice was West
End for two reasons: the company was only three hours from my home in
Connecticut, and it possessed the license for my favorite film-related
role-playing game.

After I mailed my resume and made a few phone calls, I was invited to
meet West End's senior staffers and managers in their nondescript brown
warehouse/office in rural northeastern Pennsylvania.  I walked into the
interview carrying a folder with my resume and a few samples of my
newspaper work.  I also brought along a positive attitude and my love
for Star Wars .  . . and when I left the office, I was editor of the
Star Wars Adventure Journal.

Since that day four years ago, I've worked with many authors.

Some proved to be up-and-coming writers, others were New York Times
best-selling Star Wars authors.  Most suffered through my long,
meticulous critique letters and rambling phone conversations.  I hope
some have learned to become better writers through our work.

Many of the new authors could have been viewed as risks.  A beginning
writer's work often needs more polishing than a story by an experienced
author, but the end result is often well worth the effort.

The Journal is proof that these risks have paid off.  Those who made it
through the months of writing, waiting, and revision have added their
names to the growing list of published Star Wars authors.

In this anthology, you'll meet some of them.

My first mission in establishing the Journal was to find a New York
Times best-selling author to create a story for the premiere issue.

West End had developed a good rapport with Timothy Zahn, whose novels
were already the inspiration for two game sourcebooks.  I contacted
Tim, who turned out to be extremely friendly and willing to help.

At the time, he was not scheduled to write any more Star Wars
novels--this story assignment would be a chance for him to return to
some of his favorite characters.

Though he wanted to develop his archvillain, Grand Admiral Thrawn, Tim
decided to write a background story for Talon Karrde.  (Tim would
investigate bits of Thrawn's past in subsequent Journal stories--"Mist
Encounter" in Journal 7 and "Command Decision" in Journal 11.) "First
Contact" revealed some of Talon Karrde's activities before the time
covered by Heir to the Empire, confirming the smuggler's penchant for
cleverly naming his starships along the way.  The story is a brilliant
display of Tim's ability to lead readers through a complex and devious
tale packed with surprises.

After "First Contact," Tim contributed to other West End Games Star
Wars products, including the DarkStryder campaign.  Although he'd never
worked on role-playing games before, Tim participated in several
charity games where he has portrayed Talon Karrde and Grand Admiral
Thrawn.  He proved to be just as devious and scheming in role-playing
games as he is in his fiction.

Convincing Timothy Zahn to write for the Journal was the first
challenge.  The next was to encourage other mainstream authors to
contribute.  Kathy Tyers was an obvious choice.  After The Truce at
Bakura, she had stayed active in Star Wars publishing through the
various anthologies, just finishing a short story for the
then-unpublished Star Wars: Tales of the Bounty Hunters anthology.

She wanted to do more with a character she created for that story:
Tinian I'att.

While "Tinian on Trial" was characteristic Star Wars fare, with its
aliens and stormtroopers, Kathy's fiction treated many deeper emotional
themes involving sacrifice, love, and freedom.  Readers were also
treated to a sneak peek at the story to come in Tales of the Bounty
Hunters, which wasn't published until all three Tinian stories appeared
in the Journal.

Michael A. Stackpole also offered the Journal a preview of his upcoming
Star Wars fiction--' 'Missed Chance" appeared six months before Rogue
Squadron went on sale.

Mike's X-Wing books showed that characters other than the main heroes
could support an entire novel.  Mike has been combining game worlds and
fiction for many years working in the role-playing-game industry since
it began in the 1970s.  Besides writing numerous game adventures, he's
authored several novels based in role-playing settings for the Dark
Conspiracy and BattleTech games.  He's a good example of an author with
promise making it in the major leagues of publishing.

While working with mainstream science-fiction writers was exciting,
discovering talented new authors was truly rewarding.  They were
struggling to balance career and writing, hammering out short stories
in their spare time.

These people were the Star Wars fans who could be the notable
science-fiction writers of the future.

I first met one of these, Patricia A. Jackson, at Sci-Con, a
science-fiction convention in Virginia Beach, where she was rather
outspoken during a panel discussion on freelance writing, and she later
turned up when I ran a Star Wars role-playing-game adventure.  Two
weeks later, a manuscript turned up on my desk: a Star Wars story
patched together from the characters and events of our game.  I quickly
learned that role-playing-game adventures--though they're fun while
you're playing them--do not automatically make good short stories.

But Patty would not be discouraged.  Her next story had a solid first
draft, and was revised until it was fit for publication.

It was the first of many fiction submissions.  She was particularly
proud of "The Final Exit," a story whose foreboding atmosphere closely
matches the personality of Dark Jedi Adalric Brandi.

Patty has become one of the Journal's regular contributors.  We still
see each other at gaming and science-fiction conventions, and the two
of us run a small writers workshop every year at Sci-Con.

Charlene Newcomb had contributed to every Journal when "A Certain Point
of View" appeared.  Up to then, all her stories had focused on a
character she created called Alex Winger, the daughter of an Imperial
Governor who was secretly working to free her planet from the Empire.

Before "Point of View," Charlene finished the latest Alex Winger story
and was wondering where to go from there.

To help inspire her, I sent her a copy of a painting that had once
adorned an old Star Wars game adventure.  It showed a ship's officer
and several aliens playing a hologame.

I told Charlene to write a story involving this scene so I could
feature the color artwork in the Journal.  She went to work and
submitted "A Certain Point of View," in the plot of which she managed
to highlight several elements of the painting.  Framed by a large
viewport, the picture reveals a greenish nebula swirling in the
distance: a hazardous section of space called the Maelstrom.  One of
the aliens represented in it holds a large goblet--the helmet of an
approaching stormtrooper is reflected in its glassy surface.  In her
story, Charlene even integrated source material about the Maelstrom and
the starliner that originally appeared in the game adventure.  The
story provides a nice bridge between short fiction and previously
published game material.

Most Journal authors concentrate on one area: source material, game
adventures, or short stories.  Tony Russo covered all the bases.

His source articles have taken readers to Sevarcos, a world of Imperial
prisons and swash-buckling spice lords, introduced them to an elite
mercenary commando team, and explored the tyrannical holdings of the
Pentastar Alignment.  In his adventure, players had to try to free a
frontier colony from the iron grasp of a crime lord.  His story "Blaze
of Glory" successfully combined the excitement and character
interaction of a game adventure with source material about a commando
team, all in the form of a short story.

Erin Endom, who practices and teaches pediatric emergency medicine,
merged her medical knowledge and the drama of her job in a Journal
story.  "Do No Harm" is a good example of how new fiction can focus on
and explore facets of the Star Wars universe otherwise glimpsed just
offscreen.  While many stories focus on Rebel commandos making
desperate raids against Imperial forces, few contemplate the emotions
of normally peaceful people who injure and kill others in battle.  By
demonstrating the conflict within a combat medic charged with saving
lives, Erin brought a different perspective to the war between the
Empire and the Rebel Alliance.

Angela Phillips also provided a new perspective on the Star Wars
universe with her story "Slaying Dragons."  Her young heroine, Shannon,
has ambitions similar to characters in the Star Wars films--to rise
from humble beginnings and make a difference in the galaxy.  Her story
is notable for its merging of the medieval theme of dragon slaying and
the movie mystique of the noble Jedi Knights.

Laurie Burns started by using her experience as a newspaper reporter in
her Journal story "Kella Rand Reporting."

By the time she submitted "Retreat from Coruscant," she had moved on to
integrating her characters into the more significant events in the Star
Wars chronology.

She chose to involve her independent courier in the New Republic's
flight from Coruscant that occurred just before events in Dark Horse
Comics' Dark Empire series.

In writing, Laurie did her homework--while fitting her fiction into
existing continuity, she included appearances by Garm Bel Iblis, Mara
Jade, and Colonel Jak Bremen, characters Timothy Zahn created in his
Star Wars trilogy.

That is perhaps one of the most exciting parts of working on the
Journal: expanding the breadth of the Star Wars universe.  Since it's a
licensed publication, all the material becomes an official part of the
continuity.  Where else could a kid with a wild imagination and dreams
of writing science fiction create stories based on the most popular
films of all time?  Stories that unfold in a galaxy where two bantering
droids deliver plans for an Imperial super-weapon, where a scoundrel
smuggler becomes a selfless hero, and where a simple moisture farmer is
transformed into the last Jedi Knight.

This anthology is the culmination of four years of adventure.

Like the throne-room scene at the end of Star Wars, it is certainly not
the end of the saga, only a momentary triumph before we return to
work.

As Journal editor, I do not stand alone; I've been blessed to work with
some very talented individuals from across the Star Wars licensing
universe.  Like any epic adventure, we meet important people along the
way who help us achieve our goals.  The Journal owes a lot to those
heroes working behind the scenes.  West End's Richard Hawran, Jeff
Kent, and Daniel Scott Palter have provided support and much-needed
encouragement as the Journal grew from an idea to an illustrated,
288-page quarterly magazine.  None of this would have been possible
without the imaginative vision and perseverance of George Lucas.

Lucasfilm's Sue Rostoni helped guide the Journal's initial format and
content, while Allan Kausch continued his meticulous patrol over
continuity and quality.  Timothy Zahn, Kathy Tyers, and Michael A.

Stackpole have delighted readers (and editors) with stories in which
they return to the characters and galaxy they love.

Up-and-coming authors have contributed stories that expand the Star
Wars galaxy's scope and still live up to Lucasfilm's standards of
excellence.

The Journal has been a place where writers can realize their Star Wars
dreams.  These authors have risen from their humble beginnings to make
a difference--however small in the grand scope of the Star Wars
universe in the galaxy far, far away they love so much.  They all have
stories to tell, tales that began as playful musings and imaginative
romps through George Lucas's Star Wars playground.

You're about to read some.

First Contact by Timothy Zahn With a last sizzle of jittering
repulsorlifts, the space yacht Uwana Buyer settled down into the
landing field that had been hacked out of the Varonat jungle.

"What a fine, civilized-looking place this is," Quelev Tapper
commented, peering out the cockpit canopy.  "You sure we didn't
overshoot and land in someone's weed dump?"

Talon Karrde looked out at the pale yellow trees encircling the field
and the thirty or so dilapidated buildings nestled in beneath them.

"No, this is it," he assured his lieutenant.  "The Great Jungle of
Varonat.  Home of a handful of third-rate trading depots and a few
thousand colonists who haven't the brains to pick up and go
elsewhere."

"And an ugly Krish named Gamgalon," Tapper said.  "I don't know,
Karrde.  I still think we should have brought in the Wild Karrde and
Starry Ice and had some decent firepower behind us.  We're kind of like
sitting mynocks here."

"We're here to observe, not make trouble," Karrde reminded him, popping
his restraints and standing up.

"Gamgalon wouldn't be bothering with these private Morodin-hunting
safaris if there wasn't some big profit involved.  I just want to know
what he's up to, and whether we can carve a piece of it off for
ourselves."

"All the more reason to have backup along," Tapper grumbled, checking
the draw of his blaster as he followed Karrde to the hatchway aft.

"But you're the boss."

"How very true.  You ready?"

Tapper took a deep breath, exhaled it noisily.  "Let's do it."

Karrde punched the control and the hatchway slid up into the hull.

Sniffing at the exotic aromas, he and Tapper walked down the ramp and
headed across the field toward a building with a faded Port Facilities
sign hanging on it.

They were no more than halfway there when two men lounging beside
another of the buildings peeled themselves away from their wall and
moved casually to intercept the newcomers.  "Howdy," one of them said
as they got within earshot.  "Welcome to Tropis-on-Varonat.  Here for
the sights?"

"That's very amusing," Karrde complimented him.

"No, we're here for the hyperdrive mechanic we very much hope you
have."

"Ah," the other said, glancing back at the Uwana Buyer.

"Yeah, I'm not surprised.  The flashier the hull, the more crumbish
the innards."

"Save the colorful language for the tourists," Tapper growled.

"You have a hyperdrive mechanic here or don't you?"

The other eyed him a moment, then turned back to Karrde.  "Your
friend's a little short on manners," he said.

"He makes up for it in ability," Karrde said, pulling a handful of
high-denomination coins from his pocket and sorting ostentatiously
through them.  "And in the understanding of schedules.  We have some
highly important business waiting for us on Svivren."

"Sure, I understand," the other said.  "No offense, ah--?"

"Syndic Pandis Hart of the Sif-Uwana Council," Karrde identified
himself.  "This is my pilot, Captain Seoul."  He chose one of the
coins, held it up.  "And we're rather in a hurry."

"Hey, no problem," the man grinned, jerking a thumb toward the port
facilities building as he deftly took the coin from Karrde's hand.

"Buzzy, go tell 'em they've got a customer.  Rush job."

His companion nodded silently and loped off toward the building.

"Name's Fleck, Syndic," the man continued.

"Offhand, I'd say you're going to be stuck here for a few days.

Got any plans?"

Karrde glanced pointedly around.  "Would there be any plans worth
having?"

"Matter of fact, there would," Fleck said.  "Fellow here runs a pretty
neat safari out into the jungle--got a trip heading out first thing
tomorrow morning, in fact.  Ever hear of Morodins?"

"I don't think so," Karrde said.  "Big game?"

"The biggest," Fleck assured him.  "Giant lizard-slug things, ten to
twenty meters long.  Make great wall or hallway trophies."  His lip
twitched sardonically.  "They're not too fast or mean, either.  Good
way for a beginner to start."

"That's comforting to hear."  Karrde looked at Tapper.

"What do you think, Seoul?"

"Doesn't sound too dangerous, sir," Tapper said with just the right
note of concern.  "I trust you wouldn't be going alone?"

"Naw, there's four other hunters signed up," Fleck said.  "And the boss
always takes a couple of escorts along as guards.  Safe as in a
snuggy."

"I'd still recommend I accompany you, sir," Tapper persisted.  "I used
to be pretty good with a BlasTech A280."

"Let's find out first how much it costs to be as safe as in a snuggy,"
Karrde said dryly.

"Hardly anything," Fleck sniffed.  "Not to a gentleman of your means.

Only twelve thousand each."

Karrde smiled.  "A man of means doesn't stay there by throwing money
away.  Fifteen thousand for the both of US."

Fleck grinned.  "Hard bargainer, huh?  Make it twenty."

"Experienced businessman," Karrde corrected.  "Make it seventeen."

The other's forehead wrinkled, then cleared.  "All right.

Seventeen it is."

"Very good," Karrde said.  "When do we leave?"

"Five-half tomorrow morning," Fleck said.  "Just be here I'll tell the
boss you're coming.  Don't forget to bring the seventeen."  He pointed
across the field.  "You can get outfitted over at that building over
there, and get a room for the night in the hotel next door.  It's, uh,
nicer inside than it looks."

"One would hope so," Karrde agreed.  "I trust no one will be offended
if we pass on the accommodations.  The outfitters will know what
equipment we'll need?"

"Sure," Fleck nodded.  "Like I said, the boss runs these safaris all
the time."

"Very good," Karrde said.  "Come, Seoul, let's go see what they have to
offer."

Varonat's sun was beginning to settle down behind the jungle by the
time Karrde and Tapper finally made it back to the Uwana Buyer with
their purchases.  "I hope we gave them enough time," Tapper commented
as they climbed up the ramp.

"I'm sure we did," Karrde said.  "It doesn't take long for a
professional to search a ship this size.  And I'm not expecting
Gamgalon to be employing amateurs."

Abruptly, Tapper touched Karrde's arm.  "Maybe he is," he said,
dropping his voice.

Karrde frowned.  Then he heard it: a muffled clank from the aft section
of the ship.  "Should we take a look?"

Tapper murmured.

"It would look suspicious if we didn't," Karrde said, grimacing.

If this whole thing fell apart through the incompetence of Gamgalon's
own people .  . . "Nice and easy."

Moving quietly, they headed down the central corridor to the engine
room, hearing another clank as they reached the door.  Karrde caught
Tapper's eye, nodded.

The other nodded back, lowering his bundles to the deck and getting a
grip on his blaster.  Karrde touched the release, and the door slid
open-The woman sitting on the floor beside the open access panel was
young and attractive, with a cascade of red-gold hair tied back out of
the way behind her head.  Her face was calm and controlled as she
looked up at their abrupt entrance; beneath her jumpsuit, her figure
was slim and athletic and nicely formed.

And in her hands were a hydrospanner and one of the power flux
connectors from the Uwana Buyer's hyper-drive.

"Can I help you?"  she asked coolly.

"I think you already are," Karrde said, the brief moment of surprise
passing into relief.  Gamgalon's searchers had not, in fact, fouled
up.

"I take it you're the hyper-drive mechanic."

"Cleverly deduced," she said.  "Celina Marniss.  You have any
problems?"

"Only with the hyperdrive," Karrde said.  "Why, were you expecting me
to?"

Celina shrugged, returning her attention to the power flux connector.

"I've known some men in my day who didn't think a woman could be
decorative and competent at the same time."

"Personally, that's my favorite combination," Karrde told her.

She favored him with a look that was slightly amused, slightly
strained-patient.  "So you're Syndic Hart.  Buzzy was most impressed
with you."

"I'm ever so pleased," Karrde said.  "I won't ask which way he was
impressed."  He nodded at the access opening.

"Any idea yet what's wrong?"

"Well, for starters, your flux connectors are all about four degrees
out of sync," Celina said, hefting the one in her hand.  "They have to
have been ignored for a long time to drift that far off."

"I see," Karrde said, his favorable first impression of this woman
moving up another notch.  Chin had assured him that the flux connector
gimmicking would take an average hyperdrive mechanic at least a day to
find.  "I'll have to speak to my maintenance man."

"Personally, I'd fire him," Celina said.  "I'll get these readjusted,
then we can see what else is wrong."

"Good," Karrde said.  "As Buzzy may have mentioned, we're in something
of a hurry."

"Funny way to go about it," she said, nodding toward the packages in
the corridor behind them.  "Gamgalon's safaris usually take upwards of
four days."

"It's been my experience that a failed hyperdrive normally takes at
least six to ten days to fix," Karrde said.

"Possibly another reason to fire your mechanic," Celina grunted.

"I'm guessing I can do it in two or three."

"What makes you think we're going on a safari?"  Tapper asked
suspiciously.

"The packages, for a start," Celina told him.  "Besides, you're
obviously well-off, and you talked to Fleck.  He's Gamgalon's chief
come-up flector-does his job pretty well."  She shrugged, turning her
attention back to the flux connector.  "Besides, what else is there to
do around here?"

"Cleverly deduced," Karrde said.  "You're wrong about my personal
wealth, though.  I'm merely chief purchasing agent for the Sif-Uwana
Council."

"I'd call that a marginal distinction," Celina commented.

"Certainly given the casual way Sif-Uwanis approach management and
money."

"Really," Karrde said, his estimation moving up yet another notch.

He would have bet heavily that there wouldn't be a single person on
Varonat who'd ever even heard of Sif-Uwana, let alone know anything
about it.

"Have you ever been there?"

"Once," Celina said.  "It was a few years ago."

"Business or pleasure?"

"Business."

"What sort?"

She lifted an eyebrow at him.  "I don't recall an invitation to play
Questions Three with you, Syndic."

"No offense intended," Karrde said.  "I merely find your presence here
intriguing.  You seem too skilled and well-traveled to be stuck out
here in the backwater of the Ison Corridor.  Not to mention your other
obvious attributes."

He'd hoped to spark some reaction, to shake up that calm facade of hers
a bit.  But she refused to turn to the lure.  "Maybe I just like the
peace and quiet," she countered.

"Maybe I'm trying to raise a stake to get out."  She locked eyes with
him.  Green eyes, Karrde noted distantly.

A very striking green, at that.  "Or maybe I'm hiding from
something."

Karrde forced himself to meet that gaze.  There was a smoldering,
almost bitter fire behind those eyes, driven by a turbulent swirl of
emotion.  He'd been right: she was no simple backwater hyperdrive
mechanic.  "You certainly instill me with confidence," he managed.

The corner of her lip twitched upward in a sardonic smile; and abruptly
the fire vanished as if it had never been there.  Or had been nothing
but an act.  "Good," she said briskly.  "Maybe next time you'll stay
out of your hyperdrive mechanic's way and leave well enough alone."

"I take your point," Karrde said, bowing slightly.

"We'll be in the forward living areas if you need to know where
anything is.  Good evening."

He gestured to Tapper, and together they backed out of the engine room,
gathering up their packages again as the door slid closed.  "What do
you think?"  Karrde asked as they headed forward.

"You're right, she doesn't fit here," the other agreed.

"One of Gamgalon's people?"

"Probably," Karrde said.  "Backup for Fleck, perhaps, or else just a
general snoop.  Mechanics and other service-people tend to be
invisible."

"Maybe."  Tapper glanced down the corridor behind them.  "If you ask
me, though, someone of her talents would be wasted in straight
surveillance."

"Agreed," Karrde said, pursing his lips.  "Could be she doubles as
saboteur."

"Or as ship thief," Tapper said grimly.  "Gamgalon's covering up
something with these safaris."

They'd reached the yacht's lounge now.  "Well, he can't steal this one
without considerable effort," Karrde reminded him as he dumped his
packages on the lounge couch.  "As to sabotage; well, we should be able
to ungimmick the hyperdrive in twenty minutes if we have to.  And the
Wild Karrde can be here in four hours if we need it."

"I take it that means you're still planning to bring a comm-relay
along?"

"Very definitely," Karrde assured him.  "But I'm not expecting we'll
have to use it.  My guess is that we're going to find the safaris are
just Gamgalon's way of setting up clandestine smuggler meetings, and
that Fleck and company are here to screen out any Imperial officials
who might object to the proceedings.  Come on, let's get this gear
organized.  Five-half is going to come early enough as it is."

The rest of the safari was already assembled by the time Karrde and
Tapper emerged from the Uwana Buyer just before five-half the next
morning.  "Eclectic bunch," Tapper commented as they walked toward the
group and the three Aratech Arrow-17 airspeeders waiting on the field
beside them.

"Agreed," Karrde said, looking them over.  A Thennqora, a Saffa, and
two Duros, all resplendent in outfits and equipment as obviously fresh
out of the box as the gear he and Tapper were wearing.  Slightly off to
one side, dressed in outfits that had just as obviously seen
considerably more use, were a Krish, a Rodian, and Buzzy the laconic
Human.  "The group matches the escort," he added.

Tapper nodded toward the Krish.  "That's not Gam-galon, is it?"

Karrde shook his head.  "One of his lieutenants, I think.  I doubt
Gamgalon himself will be coming along."

"Ah," the Krish called, beaming about as cheerfully as it was
physically possible for a Krish to manage as he beckoned toward Karrde
and Tapper.  "Welcome.  You must be Syndic Hart.  I am Falmal; I will
lead your expedition."

"Pleased to meet you," Karrde nodded.  "I trust we're not late?"

"Not at all," Falmal said.  "The rest were merely early.

May I present your fellow hunters: Tarnish--" he gestured to the
Thennqora "mHav and Jivis--" the Duros "mand Cob-caree" the Saffa.

"Gentlebeings: Syndic Hart and Captain Seoul of Sif-Uwana."

"Pleased to meet you," Karrde said, eyeing each of the others.

None of the names were familiar, but of course that didn't mean
anything.  He and Tapper weren't using their correct names, either.

"We waste time," Tarnish growled.  "Get on with the hunt, Falmal."

"Certainly," Falmal said.  "If you will all find seats aboard?"

Karrde and Tapper chose one of the airspeeders and strapped in.  A few
minutes later Falmal climbed in beside their Krish pilot, and they were
off.

"You run these safaris often?"  Karrde asked as they flew low above the
rippling yellow jungle.

"Only a few times per season."  Falmal threw him a speculative look.

"You were fortunate indeed to have arrived when you did."

Karrde gestured toward the rack of BlasTech rifles in the back of the
airspeeder.  "I'll consider it fortunate only if we catch something,"
he said.  "I'm spending far too much money here for just a round-trip
tour through a jungle."

"You will be successful," Falmal promised.  "All are.

Rest assured of that."

They flew for an hour before putting down in a hilltop clearing.

A small, semi-permanent looking camp had been built there, four
buildings grouped around a burned-off landing area.  "You must use this
place a lot," Karrde commented as they settled to the ground.

"It is the base camp for all safaris," Falmal said.  "Here the pilots
and airspeeders will wait while we continue on foot.  Take your packs
and weapons, please.  We will move out immediately."

Ten minutes later they were all tromping along a barely discernible
path through yellow trees, yellow-green bushes, and a pale violet
ground cover that looked disturbingly like masses of fat worms.

Falmal was in the lead, with Tarnish, Karrde, and Tapper behind him.

Buzzy was next, followed by Have and Jivis and Cob-caree, with the
Rodian bringing up the rear.

They traveled for nearly an hour before Falmal called a break in a
small clearing that opened off beside the path.

"Bit out of shape for this kind of exercise," Karrde puffed as he got
out of his pack and dropped it to the ground.  "How far are we going
today, Falmal?"

"Wearied so soon?"  Falmal asked, throwing a sharp-toothed smile at
him.  "Not to worry, Syndic Hart.  Three hours more, perhaps four, and
we will be at the main hunting area."

"Morodins have been here," Tarnish grunted from behind him.

Karrde turned to look.  The Thennqora was crouched down at the edge of
the clearing, prodding with a lofife at a patch of dark discoloration
cutting across the ground cover.  "Morodin slime was here," he said.

"Several weeks old."

"Well observed," Falmal said approvingly.  "It was two months ago that
one of our safaris hunted Morodins through this region.

Unfortunately, their migration pattern has since taken them further
away."

"Wonder why we didn't land closer to begin with, then," Tapper
muttered.

"Perhaps airspeeders spook our intended prey," Karrde suggested,
frowning.  A meter behind Tarnish, along one edge of the slime mark, a
neat row of short pinkish shoots was coming up from beneath a group of
yellow-green bushes.

And in the shadows behind them was a glint of metal.

Stepping around behind Tapper, he started over for a closer look--"Time
to go," Falmal called, slapping his hands briskly.

"Packs on, all.  We must continue if we are to reach our destination
with enough time to begin a hunt."

Karrde considered checking out the metal thing anyway, decided against
it, and returned to where he'd left his pack.  "You are a botanist,
Syndic Hart?"  Falmal asked.

"No," Karrde said as Tapper helped him into his pack.

"Why?"

"I saw you looking at the Yagaran aleudrupe plants there," he said,
pointing a long finger at the pink shoots.

"You will see many such non-native plants in the jungle, I'm
afraid--leavings of previous visitors to the Yaronat jungle who were
less than careful with their provisions."

"Provisions?"  Tapper asked as he got his own pack on.

"Aleudrupe berries are considered a delicacy on many worlds," Falmal
said.  "Some of those who join our safaris insist on bringing their own
provisions.  A few carelessly dropped seeds" He gestured elaborately.

"We can only trust that the jungle itself will deal with such
intrusions.

Come, we must depart."

They didn't spot any more slime remnants before they reached Falmal's
chosen camping spot, at least none that Karrde could identify as
such.

There were no more aleudrupe plants, either.  Perhaps after that first
time the careless visitors had been warned.

"So," Tapper said, bringing two cups of steaming liquid over to where
Karrde had propped himself tiredly against a tree beside their tents.

"What do you think of our fellow travelers?"

Karrde looked over at the others, still struggling with the escorts'
help to pitch their own shelters.  "From the level of complaining
during this last hour, I'd say they're exactly what they seem: bored,
wealthy beings looking for excitement and somewhat annoyed they're
having to work for it."

"Hardly your typical smuggler, in other words."

Karrde shrugged.  "Maybe these are semi-legit businessmen Gamgalon
wants to make deals with."

"There are a million places in the galaxy he could set up private
meetings without this much trouble," Tapper pointed out, sipping at his
cup.

"True.  Incidentally, did you notice that piece of metal stuck in the
ground behind those aleudrupe plants at our first rest stop?"

"Yes," Tapper nodded.  "Looked to me like a transpond marker.

Probably there either to mark the path or else to Keep track of the
Morodin migrations."

"Perhaps," Karrde said.  "I can't help thinking, though, that Falmal
reacted rather strongly when I started toward it."

"You think it's something less innocuous?"

"Could be," Karrde said.  "Possibly part of a sensor array to" He broke
off.  Through the trees, from somewhere nearby, came a deep, rumbling
growl.  Across the encampment, Falmal straightened up as Buzzy and the
Rodian unslung their blaster rifles.  "This could be it," Karrde
murmured, snagging his own weapon and levering himself to his feet.

"Falmal?"

"Shh!"  the Krish hissed.  "You will frighten it.  We will break into
the same groups of three as in the air-speeders."

He hurried over to Karrde and Tapper as the others collected into their
own groups and headed into the jungle.

"Come.  Quickly and quietly."

They headed out, blaster rifles at the ready.  "How can the Morodins
get through these trees?"  Tapper asked.  "I thought they were big."

"Morodins are long but slender," Falmal said, peering carefully through
the trees.  "They can move easily about the jungle.  Ah--look!"

Karrde swung his blaster rifle around; but Falmal was only pointing at
the ground.  "Fresh slime trail," the Krish said.  "You see?"

"Yes," Karrde said, eyeing the wide silvery line cutting across the
ground cover and disappearing off into the trees.  A remarkably
straight line, too, veering only to get around an occasional tree.

"A large one, too," Falmal said.  "Come.  We will follow it."

"Doesn't seem very sporting," Tapper grunted as Falmal led the way
through the trees.

"The trail will not last long," Falmal said over his shoulder.

"It appears and disappears."

Karrde frowned off to his' right.  It was hard to tell through all the
bushes, but--"Is that another slime trail over there?"  he asked
Falmal.  "Paralleling ours about three meters away?"

"Yes, they usually move in pairs," the Krish said.

"Quiet now.  See, the trail is turning."

Ahead, the slime trail had turned sharply to the left.

Karrde craned his neck; sure enough, the other trail was turning to
remain parallel.  "That's a pretty sharp angle," Tapper muttered.

"You suppose something scared them?"

"Quiet," Falmal said again.

In silence they continued on along the trail.  It changed direction
twice more in the next few minutes, turns as sharp and precise as the
first had been.  And then, to Karrde's surprise, it split into two
different directions.

"How did it do that?"  he asked.

"A third Morodin has joined," Falmal said.  "Quiet.  It could be just
ahead."

"Maybe a third, fourth, and fifth," Tapper said, nodding to the
right.

The paralleling slime trail there had split into three lines, two of
them angling off three meters farther along the ground ahead of it.

Swallowing, Karrde lifted his blaster rifle and took another step-And
suddenly, there it was: fifteen meters long, rearing the front of its
rounded body three meters up off the ground, a mottled yellow creature
with spoonbill snout, stubby legs, and wide teeth.

A Morodin.

"Shoot it!"  Falmal yelped.  "Quickly!"

Karrde's rifle was already against his shoulder, the barrel tracking
the huge creature in front of them.  The Morodin reared another meter
off the ground, giving out the same deep growl they'd heard back at the
camp.

Karrde squinted down the barrel .  . . "Wait a minute," he told
Tapper.

"Hold your fire.  It's just standing there."

"It is Morodin," Falmal snarled.  "Shoot before it's too late."

But it was already too late.  From their right came a sudden sputtering
volley of blaster fire, catching the Morodin solidly across its
flank.

Tarnish and Cob-caree, with the Rodian behind them, had arrived along
one of the lines of the other slime trail.  The Morodin growled once
more, then toppled to the ground with a thunderous crash.

"Well shot," Falmal all but crowed.  "We will summon the airspeeders,
and the pilots will prepare your trophy.

Let us return to camp now; the noise will have driven off the
others."

He looked speculatively at Karrde.  "Perhaps tomorrow, Syndic Hart,
will be your day for a kill."

"Perhaps," Karrde said, looking at the downed Morodin.  So that was
that.  The big, dangerous Morodin safari .  . . and it had turned out
to be no more challenging than shooting a bruallki in a net.  "I can
hardly wait."

The pilots arrived within an hour, and for nearly two hours afterward
the encampment was busy as they shuttled slabs of Morodin meat in from
the kill and held interminable conversations with Tarnish and Colycaree
as to which would get which part of the head and their preferences in
trophy mount and framing.  Karrde stayed out of the activity,
retreating back to his seat by the tree with a portable melodium and
leaving Tapper to handle their share of the work.  He overheard one or
two rather finely honed comments about poor sportsmanship directed his
way, but he ignored them.  Leaning back against the tree, eyes half
shut, he let the music from the melodium envelop him.

And, surreptitiously, fiddled with the settings of the comm-relay
concealed inside the device.

The sun was dipping low over the forest by the time the pilots finished
their work and the airspeeders took off back toward base camp.

"I trust you've been enjoying yourself," Tapper commented, sitting
down beside Karrde and wiping his face with the sleeve of his no longer
sleek hunter's outfit.  "Some of the others think you've been
sulking."

"I can't help what they think," Karrde said.  "Don't get comfortable;
we're going for a walk."

"Wonderful," Tapper groaned, hauling himself back to his feet.

"What's the drill?"

"I've been playing a little with the comm-relay," Karrde said, standing
up and slinging the melodium's strap over his shoulder.  "If Falmal and
company have been planting transpond markers in the vicinity, we should
be able to pick them up with it.  Nice and easy; let's not attract any
attention."

They slipped out of camp and headed into the jungle.

Karrde's hunch was right: almost immediately the rigged comm-relay
found a signal, coming from the direction of the Morodin kill.

Following the slime trail again, they soon reached what was left of the
carcass, already busy with scavengers.

"There it is," Tapper said, pointing to a group of bushes a few meters
away.  "It's a transpond marker, all right.  And right by one of the
slime trails again."

"Yes," Karrde said, kneeling down for a closer look.

The ground at the edge of the slime had been freshly turned, he saw.

Almost as if something had been planted there .  . .

He looked up sharply, catching Tapper's eye.  The other nodded: he'd
heard the faint crunching noise, too.

"Coming from the camp," he murmured.

The sound came again.  "Let's take the long way," Karrde murmured back,
pointing to the section of slime trail Tarnish and Cob-caree had
arrived along earlier.  Explaining to Falmal or his cohorts why he was
carrying a melodium on a walk through the jungle could get awkward.

Especially if they found the gimmicked comm-relay inside it.

They heard the crunching sound once more as they left the site, but
after that it seemed to fade behind them.

Which was just as well.  No more than fifteen meters into the jungle,
the slime trail broke off; and when it reappeared three meters farther
away, it had suddenly sprouted three more branches.  "Uh-oh," Tapper
muttered.

"Which way?"

"I'm not sure," Karrde said, glancing behind them.

The thought of a whole herd of Morodins prowling around was not an
especially pleasant one.  "Let's try this one," he said, pointing to
the rightmost of the two trails.

"We'll mark one of these trees first so we can backtrack if we have
to."

Tapper was staring off into the jungle.  "Let's try going a little
farther in first," he suggested slowly.  "We can always come back."

Karrde frowned at him.  "Something?"

"A hunch," Tapper said.  "Just a hunch."

Karrde pursed his lips.  "How far in do you want to go?"

"About three hundred meters," Tapper said.  "I remember a ridge in that
direction on the map that overlooks a sort of wide depression in the
ground."

Karrde grimaced.  Three hundred meters into an unfamiliar jungle was
nothing to be taken lightly.  But on the other hand, Tapper's
infrequent hunches were nearly always worth following up.  "All right,"
he said.  "But no farther than the ridge.  And we head back sooner if
our trail ends."

"Agreed.  Let's go."

The slime trail split again a few meters along, and twice more made one
of those short, three-meter breaks with new branches going off in
different directions when it resumed.  For a while Karrde tried to keep
track of the number of lines, hoping to figure out how many animals
they were dealing with here.  But he soon gave up the effort.

If the Morodins decided to get nasty, the difference between six and
sixty of them would be largely academic.

"There's the ridge," Tapper said, pointing ahead at a last line of
trees that seemed to open onto blue sky.  "Let's take a look."

They stepped forward and between the trees.  There, stretched out
perhaps 100 meters below them, was the wide valley-like depression
Tapper had described.

And gathered together at one side of it were upwards of fifty
Morodins.

"We've found the crowd, all right," Karrde muttered uneasily.  The
slope down from their ridge into the valley was mildly steep, but he
doubted it would bother something with the size and musculature of a
Morodin.  In fact he knew it wouldn't; the slime trail they were
following rounded the ridge and continued down without a break.

"Don't look at the Morodins," Tapper said.  "Look at the slime
trails."

"What about them?"

"Look at them," Tapper urged.  "Tell me you see it, tOO."

Karrde frowned, wondering what he was getting at.  The whole depression
was full of the lines, that was for sure, clearly visible between the
trees and over the trampled bushes.  Lots of lines, showing the same
bends and branches as the ones they'd encountered up here .  .

.

And then, abruptly, he got it.  "I don't believe it," he breathed.

"I didn't either," Tapper said.  "Look--one of them's trying it."

One of the Morodins had detached himself from the group and into the
three-meter channel between two of the trails.  Waddling quickly on
those short legs, it moved to the first bend and turned to the left.

Into the first section of the elaborately constructed maze.

"Let's get back," Karrde said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I have a feeling we don't want Gamgalon's people finding us here."

"Too late," a soft voice said.

Carefully, Karrde looked over his shoulder.  Two meters behind him
stood Faimal and two of the Krish pilots, all three with blaster rifles
at the ready.  Behind them stood a fourth Krish, gazing thoughtfully at
him.  "Indeed," Karrde said, lowering the muzzle of his own rifle and
turning around to face them.  "Well.  At least we shouldn't have any
trouble finding the way back to camp."

"Whether we return to camp directly has yet to be decided," the fourth
Krish said in that same soft voice.  "Put your weapons down, please.

And tell me what you are doing here."

"We were looking for Morodins," Karrde said as he and Tapper lowered
their blaster rifles to the ground.  "In the process we stumbled on the
fact that they're more than just simple animals."  He cocked an
eyebrow.

"They're fully sentient beings, aren't they, Gamgalon?"

The Krish smiled.  "Very good," he said.  "On both counts.  You know my
name; what is yours?"

Under the circumstances, there didn't seem to be much point in
continuing the masquerade.  "Talon Karrde," Karrde identified
himself.

"This is my associate, Quelev Tapper."

Falmal hissed.  "Was it not as I said, my liege?"  he snarled.

"Smugglers.  And spies."

"So it would appear," Gamgalon said.  "Why are you here, Talon
Karrde?"

"Curiosity," Karrde said.  "I've heard stories about these safaris of
yours.  I wanted to find out what was going on."

"And have you?"

"You're hunting sentient beings," Karrde said.  "In violation of
Imperial law.  Even in these days, I imagine what's left of the Empire
would deal rather harshly with you if they knew that."

Gamgalon smiled again.  "You imagine wrongly.  As it happens, the
Imperial governor in charge of Varonat is fully aware of what is
happening here.  His portion of the earnings are quite adequate to
insure that there are no such questions about the hunts."

Karrde frowned.  "Surely you're not bribing an Imperial governor with
scraps from safari tickets."

"Indeed not," Gamgalon said.  "But as the safaris provide ideal cover
for our planting and harvesting operations, it is in his best interests
to allow them to continue."

"You're not bribing him with aleudrupe berries, either," Tapper put
in.

"You can buy those things on the open market for thirty or forty a
packload."

"Ah-but not these aleudrupe berries," Gamgalon said smugly.  "This
particular crop is grown in soil saturated with Morodin slime .  . .

and during their' growth, these berries undergo an extremely
interesting chemical change."

"Such as?"

Falmal hissed again.  "My liege--?"

"Do not worry," Gamgalon soothed him.  "Consider, Talon Karrde, a
merchant ship carrying three cargoes to a politically tense world:
rethan-K, promhassic triaxli, and aleudrupe berries.  All harmless, all
legal, none worth so much as a raised voice from either Imperial
customs or officials of the New Republic.  The ship is sent on its way
to the surface, where it is greeted enthusiastically by its
customers.

"Who, a scant hour later, will be launching an attack on their
political or military enemies.  With weapons utilizing a blaster
formulation fully as powerful as spin-sealed Tibanna gas."

Karrde stared at him, a hard lump forming in his stomach.

"The berries are a catalyst?"

"Excellent," Gamgalon said approvingly.  "Falmal was right--you are
indeed clever enough to be dangerous.  To be precise, it is the pits of
the berries that create this new gas from the rethan and promhassic.

The fruit itself is perfectly normal, and can stand up to any chemical
test."

"And the safaris mask both the planting and the harvesting," Karrde
nodded.  "With the transpond markers there to help you find the crops
again after you've planted them.  All the profits of weapons
smuggling, with none of the risks."

"You understand," Gamgalon beamed.  "And thus you must also understand
why we can't allow any hint of this to leak out."

He gestured, and one of the Krish pilots stepped forward, bending
awkwardly down to pick up the blaster rifles Karrde and Tapper had
dropped.  "Certainly I understand," Karrde said.  "Perhaps we could
discuss an arrangement?

My organization--" "There will be no discussion," Gamgalon said.

"And my arrangements are my own.  This way, please."  The pilot
straightened up, gestured to the side with Karrde's rifle-And suddenly
Tapper's hands snapped out, plucking the rifle from the pilot's hands
and jabbing the muzzle hard into the Krish's torso.  Diving into the
cover of the nearest tree, he swung the' rifle back toward Falmal and
Gamgalon-And dropped spinning to the ground as a pair of blaster bolts
slashed through him from down the ridge to his right.  A single
shuddering gasp, and he lay still.

"I trust, Talon Karrde," Gamgalon said into the brittle silence, "that
you will not be so foolish as to similarly resist."

Karrde lifted his eyes from Tapper's crumpled figure, to see the third
Krish pilot step out of concealment along the ridge, his rifle steady
on Karrde's chest.  "Why shouldn't I?"  he demanded, his voice sounding
ugly in his ears.  "You're going to kill me anyway, aren't you?"

"Do you choose to die here?"  Gamgalon countered.

"This way, please."

Karrde took a deep breath.  Tapper dead; Karrde himself unarmed and
alone.  Completely alone--even the Morodins down below had vanished,
apparently scattering at the sound of the blaster fire.

But, no, he didn't wish to die here.  Not when there was any chance at
all that he could live long enough to avenge Tapper's death.

"All right," he sighed.  Two of the pilots stepped forward and took his
arms, and together they all set off.

Karrde hadn't expected them to take him back to the encampment, and
they didn't.  From the direction Falmal was leading them, it looked
like they were heading toward one of the other clearings they'd passed
just before setting up camp.  Undoubtedly where Gamgalon's airspeeder
was waiting.  "What sort of distribution setup do you have?"  he
asked.

"I have no need of assistance," Gamgalon said, looking back over his
shoulder.  "As I have said already."

"My organization could still be useful to you," Karrde pointed out.

"We have contact people all over the--" "You will be silent," Gamgalon
cut him off.

"Gamgalon, listen--" And from behind him came a deep, rumbling growl.

A growl that was echoed an instant later from both sides.

The group came to a sudden halt.  "Falmal?"  Gam-galon snapped.

"What is this?  Why are there Morodins here?"

"I do not know," Falmal said, an uneasiness in his voice.  "This is not
at all like them."

The growls came again, from what seemed to be the same positions.

"Maybe they've finally gotten tired of being the prey," Karrde said,
looking around.  "Maybe they've decided to hold a safari of their
own."

"Nonsense," Falmal bit out.  But he was looking around, too.  And he
was starting to tremble.  "My liege, I suggest we move on.

Quickly."

The roars came again.  "Falmal, take the prisoner," Gamgalon ordered,
his voice suddenly grim as he pulled a blaster from beneath his
tunic.

"You others: to the sides and rear.  Shoot anything you see."

Warily, the three pilots spread out into the jungle, blaster rifles
held high.  Falmal stepped to Karrde's side, closed a tense hand around
his arm.  "Quickly," he hissed.

Gamgalon stepped to Karrde's other side, and together the three of
them hurried forward.  Ahead, through the trees, Karrde could see the
glinting of sunlight from an airspeeder.  Another chorus of Morodin
roars came, all from behind them this time.  They reached the last line
of trees, stepping into the clearing-And with a gasping sigh Falmal
suddenly released Karrde's arm and stumbled to sprawl on the ground, a
knife hilt protruding from his side.  Gamgalon snarled and spun around,
his blaster searching for a target.

He never made it.  Even as Karrde reflexively ducked to the side, the
Krish's tunic erupted in a brief burst of flame as a quiet blaster shot
caught him neatly in the center of his torso.  He fell backward to the
ground and lay 'still.

Karrde turned; but it was not one of his fellow hunters whom he saw
emerging from the cover of the tree they'd just passed.  "Don't just
stand there," Celina Marniss growled, lowering the tiny blaster in her
hand as she passed him and headed toward the airspeeder.  "My
air-speeder's too far away--we'll take theirs.  Unless you want to be
here when those other Krish catch up."

"Nicely done," Karrde commented as the Uwana Buyer cut through
Varonat's upper atmosphere toward deep space.  "Nicely done indeed.

Though I must confess a certain disappointment that it wasn't actually
the Morodins finally taking their vengeance."

Beside him, Celina snorted under her breath.  "Considering that they
probably can't tell a Human from a Krish, let alone one Human from
another, you should count yourself lucky it wasn't them.  They'd have
ground you into the dirt along with Gamgalon and his crew."

"Most likely," Karrde conceded.  "Where did you get the recordings of
Morodin growls?"

"Gamgalon took me along on one of his safaris once," Celina said.

"Back when he still thought he might have a chance of recruiting me
into his organization."

"So you weren't working for' him.  We'd wondered about that."

"I don't like Krish," she said flatly.  "Even honest ones can't be
trusted very far, and Gamgalon hardly qualifies as honest.  Besides,
all he wanted me to do was play space-port spy for him.  Not much
future in that."

"Not anymore," Karrde agreed.  "So as long as you were out in the
jungle anyway, you went ahead and recorded some Morodin growls?"

She shrugged.  "I thought it might be handy to have something like that
on file.  Turns out I was right."  She threw him a look.  "You owe me
for those three recorders, by the way.  Those things don't come
cheap."

"I owe you for considerably more than that," Karrde reminded her
soberly.  "Why did you follow us out there, anyway?"

"Oh, come now," she scoffed.  "Hart and Seoul?  Not to mention a ship
called the Uwana Buyer?.  It was all just a little too cute; and I
remembered hearing about a smuggler chief who had a fondness for cute
wordplay.  So I took a chance."

"And it paid off," Karrde said.  "You've earned a considerable
reward.

Just name it."

She turned to look at him with those green eyes of hers.

"I want a job," she said.

Karrde frowned.  It hadn't been the response he'd expected.

"What kind of job?"

"Any kind," she said.  "I can pilot, fight, play come-up flector--"
"Hyperdrive mechanic?"

"That, too," Celina said.  "Anything you've got, I can learn it."

She took a deep breath, let it out.  "I just want to get back into
mainstream society again."

Karrde cocked an eyebrow.  "You have a strange view of smuggling if you
consider it mainstream society."

"Trust me," she said grimly.  "Compared with some of what I've done,
it is."

"I don't doubt it," Karrde said, studying her face.  A very striking
face, with a striking body to go with it.  Decorative and competent
both; his favorite combination.  "All right," he said.

"You've got yourself a deal.  Welcome aboard."

"Thank you," she said.  "You won't regret hiring me."

"I'm sure i won't."  He smiled slightly.  "And since we're now
officially working together--" he held out his hand.  "You can call me
Talon Karrde."

She smiled tightly as she took his hand.  "Pleased to meet you, Talon
Karrde," she said.  "You can call me Mara Jade."

Tinian on Trial

by Kathy Tyers Tinian I'att, the granddaughter and heiress of I'att
Armament's founders, wrinkled her nose and tried not to breathe too
deeply.  The factory complex's demonstration room smelled like scorched
meat and chemicals.  She could identify five... no, seven formulas by
their odors, a potentially catastrophic witch's brew.

Occasionally, the demonstration explosives detonated harder, faster, or
earlier than anyone anticipated, and even quadruple transparisteel
didn't provide full protection.

Standing beside Grandfather Strephan, Daye Azur-Jamin rested his hand
on a waist-high blast barricade.

Daye's I'att's Armament gray tunic accentuated his air of authority.

So did the management comlink he wore on his belt.  A prematurely gray
streak marked the center of Daye's left eyebrow.

"There's nothing patently wrong with stormtrooper armor, your
excellency," he said, and Tinian admired his self-control.  She knew
how Daye felt about Grandfather's Imperial connections.  "But a good
marksman--or an idiot with a high-powered blaster--can pick out weak
spots.  Our field makes it invulnerable."

Imperial Moff Eisen Kerioth slapped a polished ebony swagger stick into
one palm.  Tall and lean, Moff Kerioth held his head thrust forward
over an astonishing array of red and blue rank squares.

Tinian, Daye, and her grandparents had expected tech advisors for this
demonstration, and maybe a few army troopers, but never a Sector
Moffwith stormtrooper escort.  Kerioth limped, favoring a stiff left
leg and occasionally leaning on the swagger stick.

"Sounds wonderful, boy.  So why did your demonstration employee turn
coward?"

Grandfather Strephan's old black Imperial service uniform set off his
thick white hair.  Grandmother Augusta fiddled with a side hem of her
long green robe.  She'd recently developed a rare degenerative
syndrome, and Druckenwell's top bioimmunal specialist gave her only
months to live unless she sought treatment.  It wasn't available here
in Il Avali, or at any other city on Drucken-well .  . . and it was
expensive.  Behind Grandmother Augusta, the I'att family's Wookiee
bodyguard Wrrlevge-bev lounged against a pebbly gray duracrete wall.

Wrrl rumbled a quick comment under his breath that only Tinian--who'd
studied his language--could translate.

She didn't, but she shared Wrrl's disdain for cowardly employees.

She fiddled with a collection of paraphernalia in herjumpsuit pocket:
neka nut shells, droid adjustment tools, and her secret good-luck
piece.

She would need all her good luck today.  If I'att Armament sold its
new armor-protective field, then her grandparents could retire, and she
and Daye would take over the factory.

Kerioth straightened his shoulders and neck, then poked Grandfather
with his swagger stick.  "Well, I'att?

Who's going to get into that armor?  We came a long way to see this."

Evidently Grandfather had known the Moff years ago.  Each man had
chosen his own way to serve the New Order: Grandfather by protecting
Imperial might, Kerioth by wielding it.  Kerioth crooked a finger at
Wrrl.

"You.  Wookiee.  Come down here."

Wrrl curled back his lips from huge teeth and let out a punctuated
howl.  Kerioth had demanded that the I'atts disarm their Wookiee during
his visitation, and Wrrl was already irritated.  A red-blond stripe
crossed Wrrl's face, fur almost the same shade as Tinian's
shoulder-length hair.  It was odd coloration for a Wookiee.

"What did he say, Tinian?"  Grandfather's business acumen showed in the
way he measured and accommodated the Moff.  By comparison, Kerioth
seemed .  . .

Tinian tried to emulate her observant grandfather.  Ker-ioth seemed
blunt.  And condescending.

She glanced at the shell pieces on the arming table.

Eighteen white units lay beside the limp halves of a two-piece black
body glove.  Wrrl wouldn't fit inside the body glove, let alone the
field.  "Your excellency, he's too big," she translated.  "The field
nodes maximize at one point eight six meters of height and one meter of
width."

Moff Kerioth lifted a narrow black eyebrow.  "I'att, tell me again why
your grandchild attends classified demonstrations."

Tinian bristled.  She might be small and thin, but she was no child.

Hadn't Kerioth noticed her company jump-suit?

Grandfather laid a warm hand on her arm.  "Your excellency, Tinian is
an invaluable team member.  She has amazing instincts for
explosives."

One stormtrooper stood at the center of the second seating row up.

"Sir," he said through his helmet filter, "if the Wookiee's too tall,
what about her?"

Tinian blanched.  Her .  . . demonstrate?  Stand in the wave trap and
get shot at?

"From one extreme to the other," quipped Kerioth.

"Invaluable team member, is she?"

Grandfather backed toward a code panel.  From this wall, he could lower
two quadruple-transparisteel blast walls between the wave trap and the
four broad rows of retractable shielded seating.  "Ah .  . .

yes, but Tinian is not our demonstration volunteer."

Kerioth shifted his weight.  "She would fit.  Are you totally confident
that your armor is impervious to blaster fire?"

"Totally," murmured Grandfather.

"Then prove it."

"But .  . . no.  I shall call for a line droid."

"I perceive a certain lack of confidence."  Moff Kerioth directed the
taunt at his stormtroopers, but Tinian took it in the gut.

Grandfather and Grandmother must reach that offworld health care
facility.  Love focused Tinian's courage, and so did her hopes.  The
field worked.  She'd seen it tested.

"Grandfather?"  She raised a hand.  "I'll volunteer."

Grandfather, Grandmother, and Daye stepped forward, speaking
simultaneously: "Wait--" "Tinian--" "No--" Wrrl blinked huge blue eyes
and suggested under his breath that Daye was built more like a
stormtrooper than she was.

Tinian fixed Moff Kerioth with her stare.  She was betting he'd act
like a BlasTech Company bureaucrat she'd once met at a party--once he'd
suggested something, no other idea would suit him.

Kerioth's smile spread slowly from his thin lips to cold, dark eyes.

"Very good, ah, Tinian.  A true trial of I'att Armament's
excellence."

Before Tinian could change her mind, she dragged Wrrl to the arming
table.  "Help me," she ordered him.

Her jumpsuit would easily fit inside the black body glove.  She also
selected the upper-body corselet, the carapace and the breastplate,
which armorers dubbed the Body Bucket when worn together.

She shoved them at Wrrl.  Rear-mounted on the carapace, in place of the
usual instrument pack, I'att Armament droids had installed a heat
dissipator and the field transmitter.  A single new control stood out
on the breastplate.

She slipped off her shoes and slid one leg into the body glove.

She'd never heard so much silence.  "Grandfather," she suggested,
"explain how the body glove enhances the field."

"Tinian," Grandfather pleaded.

The glove's leggings sagged on her with wrinkles all down their
length.

She yanked her narrow jumpsuit belt out of its loops and secured the
heavy black fabric.  "I've memorized the speech," she insisted.

"Should I deliver it?"

Moff Kerioth rested his swagger stick on one shoulder.

"Please do," he purred.

Suddenly she disliked him.  Daye had always insisted that he'd rather
die in a noble cause than earn his living from an ignoble one, and she
hoped this was only her nerves, whining out from the spot where she was
stuffing them (to keep Daye from trying to stop her), that made Kerioth
look suddenly sinister.

Daye was sensitive to an energy field he called the Force.  He claimed
that Force-sensitive was not a healthy way to be in Emperor Palpatine's
New Order, and he'd cautioned Tinian and her grandparents that the
Empire had stooped to violent repression in other parts of the galaxy
.

. . but Tinian didn't believe it.  I'att Armament had supplied the New
Order for years, profiting handsomely.

She shrugged into the body glove's top.  As she smoothed loose black
fabric over the floppy mess at her waist, she drew a deep breath.

"The protective field produces anti-energy bursts just out of phase
with blaster fire," she began.  "Zersium flecks that we've bonded into
the advanced body glove--" Tinian pushed up one slack sleeve and ran
the back of her hand over the other forearm "mamplify the field.  We
see that as a key element of this new system--" "The entire system has
too often proved vulnerable."

Kerioth's voice rose.  "Eight years ago, I had a storm-trooper escort
shot to pieces around me.  I've dragged this ever since."  He whacked
his left leg with the swagger stick.  "Are you comfortable in there,
child?"

I'm not a child.  "I'm fine."  She squared her shoulders.

"I'm sorry about your leg.  May I finish?"

He swung the swagger stick.  "By all means."

"We have thus eliminated weak spots," she said, "long known to
insurrectionist elements.  I'm ready, Wrrl."

Her Wookiee lifted the breastplate and carapace.

Grandmother Augusta folded trembling hands in front of her long green
robe.  Daye took up a position behind Tinian.  If she hesitated or even
flinched, she guessed he'd demand to wear the armor.

She hefted the carapace.  "There is insulation and a heat dissipator
built into this piece," she explained, raising the back protector so
Moff Kerioth and his escorts could see inside it.  A black sleeve
flopped down to cover her other palm.  She pushed it up, bunching
fabric back toward her elbow.  "For the microsecond it takes for the
field to reach full efficiency, the armor itself handles heat
absorption.  Insulation, plus this dissipator, almost eliminate thermal
discomfort."

"Allegedly."  Kerioth sounded sarcastic.

Tinian decided that she'd never please him except by demonstrating the
product.  Then he'd be impressed.

Then he'd grant I'att Armament the most lucrative contract it'd ever
earned.  Thousands of stormtroopers would need this coverage.

"Help me, Wrrl."

Wrrl fitted the corselet to Tinian's back and front, clamping it
together at her shoulders.  Tinian trusted Wrrl completely.  Five years
ago, she'd spotted him being beaten by a slave dealer.  Bloody bunches
of fur had littered the ground around the huge alien.  Tinian--barely
twelve--had dashed forward, disregarding Grandmother Augusta's protests
(she could always move faster than either grandparent).  She'd saved
the creature's life.  Little had she known that in rescuing Wrrl, she'd
bought loyalty-to-the-death.

The shell pieces hung out over her shoulders.  Tinian wriggled until
they balanced.

Daye picked up the shoulder pauldrons, clasping them between long,
sensitive hands.  "Put these on, too," he murmured..The gray streak
arched higher than the rest of either of his eyebrows.  According to
Druckenwell's strict population laws, she and Daye were too young to
marry until they proved financial independence.  Slender and
bookish-looking with lively brown eyes, Daye had come to Il Avali to
make a life for himself.

He was now officially Tinian's Second Undersupervisor and the very
center of her life.  She let him attach the pauldrons over her
shoulders.  They dangled to cover her elbows, enclosing her upper body
with a loose, ill-fitting box.  Field conduits clacked against each
other when she turned toward Daye.  If only she could reassure him-"I
know why you're doing this."  He leaned close and stared down at her.

"I don't like it, but I understand.  No one ever calls you a coward and
gets away with it."  He squeezed her forearm.  "Force be with you,
love."

As he backed away, Tinian rotated a control on the breastplate.

The first time she'd seen this field demonstrated, she'd worried at
this point.  The field didn't hum, buzz, sparkle, or even glimmer.

"Grandfather?"

As if awakening from the dead, he raised a small luma.

Tinian held out her arm to one side.  He switched on the luma.  No
bright spot appeared on her sleeve.

"As energy encounters the anti-energy field," Grandfather said,
regaining his voice, "the field responds and cancels it.  We're now
certain the field is operating."

"Ready, Tinian?"  the Moff asked.  His voice was as bland as if he
were inviting her to sit down for lunch instead of ordering her out in
front of a firing squad.

Tinian stalked to the wave trap, feeling ridiculous inside the enormous
bucket, pauldrons, and body glove.

Built like a pocket at one end of the spacious demonstration room, the
wave trap's baffled duracrete walls and floor angled together to absorb
unthinkable bursts of energy.

Tiny shadowed pits in its walls gave evidence of past demonstrations.

At least she couldn't smell the room anymore.  Even without a helmet,
the odor had stopped registering several minutes ago.

Daye stood close to the barricade, frowning.  She drew up tall--for her
height--and barely smiled across at him.

Wrrl edged toward the code panel.

Kerioth swept his swagger stick toward three storm-troopers.

"You three.  Rifles," he snapped.  They marched forward.  Daye held
both hands down at his sides.  Usually, he kept one or both casually
tucked in a pocket.

Tinian stared at the blast rifles.  Those weren't the shiny new factory
items she generally dealt with.

Daye glared at the nearest stormtrooper.

"Ready," snapped the Moff.  Three rifles lifted.  "Aim for weak
spots."

Kerioth turned to eye Tinian.  His lip curled.  Evidently he enjoyed
watching the I'att contingent sweat.

She knew that the armor worked.  But staring down three rifle shafts,
she momentarily lost control of her panic.

Instantly, Daye's face reflected her fear.  He spun toward the trooper
and tentatively reached for his rifle.

"Now," Kerioth ordered.

Three vermilion energy beams whizzed at Tinian's chest.  She flinched,
but she couldn't dodge quickly enough.  Heat flashed over her back and
shoulders despite the bucket's extra insulation.  Daye froze and
stared, stricken.

"Cease fire."  Kerioth twirled his swagger stick.

Tinian straightened back up, let out her breath, then smiled weakly at
Daye.  The sale was as good as made.

She'd done it, though she wished she hadn't tried to duck.

Daye thrust a hand into his pocket and frowned.  Her momentary panic
had probably jabbed him deeper than it'd frightened her.

Kerioth slipped a comlink out of his belt sheath.

"Squads three, four, and five: seal entrances.  No traffic or
communication off grounds."

"Excuse me?"  Grandfather stepped forward, obviously as confused as
Tinian abruptly felt.  "Sir, what is the meaning of this?"

Moff Kerioth tapped Grandfather's shoulder with his swagger stick.

"Congratulations, I'att.  I am buying your product."

"You sealed our entrances."

Kerioth clasped his hands at the small of his back.  "It would be
unfortunate if insurrectionist elements learned that we'd found a way
to make stormtrooper armor invincible, would it not?"

We found a way?  Tinian silently protested.

Grandmother Augusta glided forward, rustling her robes.  "Our security
has always been unparalleled, Moff Kerioth.  You need have no fear
concerning our--" "Naturally, then," continued Moff Kerioth, "you
understand that everyone who has worked above certain levels on this
project must return with me to the Doldur system.  This item must be
manufactured under strictly regulated conditions.  The New Order
controls Doldur right down to food prices.  It is the safest world for
advanced military manufacturing."

It's your turf, Tinian realized.  You want this manufactured where you
can watch.

Grandfather's eyes narrowed.  "I am sorry, but this family cannot
travel.  Augusta needs medical care."

Tinian fingered the black body glove's sleeve selvage.

"After all these years of hard work, they deserve peaceful
retirement," she protested.  "Daye and I are prepared to run the
plant.

We'll .  . ."  She hesitated, then plunged on.  It was the only way.

"We'll go to Doldur with you.  But Grandfather and Grandmother are
retiring to Geridard."

"No," said Kerioth.  "You will return to Doldur with me.  All of
you."

"Sir," Augusta spoke up, "I apologize for making things difficult, but
our application for the Geridard Convalescent Center has already been
processed.  We've advanced them 90,000 credits for life care."

Kerioth turned away.  He tilted his chin as if rereading the I'atts'
requests off the ceiling.  When he pivoted back around, his
condescending smile had returned.  "You will not travel to Doldur?  I
cannot convince you?"

"Unfortunately, sir, it's impossible."  Strephan folded his arms over
his black uniform's decorated breast.

"Perhaps not so unfortunate.  That enables me to dispose of your
retirement and health worries simultaneously."

Kerioth swung his swagger stick at the nearest stormtrooper.

"Take them both."

Before Tinian understood, the stormtrooper whipped up his blast rifle
and fired twice.  Grandfather Strephan tumbled to the duracrete.

Augusta gasped before she collapsed over Strephan.

They didn't move again.  Too shocked to protest, Tinian covered her
mouth with both hands.  Daye bent his knees, ready to lunge.  "Why did
you do that?"  he whispered.

Kerioth angled his swagger stick like a weapon at Daye's chest.

"I'll let you youngsters in on a secret," he announced.

"I have been sponsoring research into this type of anti-blaster energy
field on Doldur.  Emperor Palpatine will be most grateful when I
present this invention as my own .  . . with all the uncooperatives out
of the way.

"You do wish to cooperate?"  he asked blandly.  Grandfather!

Grandmother!  Stunned by her grief and horror, Tinian had to survive
.

. . to avenge them.  She nodded.  Say yes!  she mentally begged Daye.

He straightened slowly, but he didn't speak.

Kerioth shrugged.  "Binders for the boy," he ordered another trooper.

"How long and how comfortably you live, boy, will depend on how well
you cooperate."  He stressed the word again.

Daye adjusted his stance, turning both feet out slightly.

One trooper reached into a utility-belt compartment.

Tinian glanced from the trooper to Daye.  Daye eyed the trooper.

Daye had learned some self-defense from Wrrl.

He could move faster than anyone expected.

She must create a distraction.

"Wrrl!"  she cried.  "Help!"  She spun around and dashed for the
door.

Wrrl's roar frightened even Tinian.  He slammed the code panel with one
gigantic paw.  A transparisteel blast wall plunged out of the ceiling,
trapping Kerioth and two stormtroopers on the inside.

But four troopers remained.  Wrrl rushed the pair blocking the exit,
lifted each by a shoulder, and bashed their helmets together.

Tinian sprang through.

"Go left!"  Daye shouted behind her.  "Wrrl, stay with Tinian!"

Tinian whirled left and tried to run.  One of her loose leggings
tripped her.  Blaster fire whizzed over her head.

Wrrl tried to scoop her up with long shaggy arms.  Fur shriveled where
he touched her.

"Don't!"  she cried.  The field unpredictably damaged living flesh that
touched it.  Tinian scrambled to her feet.  Wrrl sprinted past a
bewildered-looking service droid.  She caught a' whiff of burned fur.

"Daye?"  she cried.  "Wrrl, where's--" Wrrl shrieked something about
separating the storm-troopers.

They reached the lift tube.  Tinian jumped onto its floor grid.

It didn't activate to carry her upward.  "They've shut it oft" she
cried.

Wrrl stepped in front of her, clearly inviting her to climb onto his
back: There was no other way out of this bottleneck.  Tinian switched
off the armor field, vaulted up, and clenched her hands in front of
Wrrl's throat, hoping nobody shot at them.  Singed, matted fur brushed
her face.  The stormtrooper-sized breastplate dug into her stomach.

Wrrl leaped up the shaft wall, catching enormous claws-she hadn't even
known that he had claws!--in its duracrete sides.  Powerful muscles
rippled under Tinian's hold.  She clenched her knees around his sides,
trying to keep her weight from choking him.

He dragged his weight and hers up to the main floor.  A security droid
rolled toward them, four claw-mounted blasters and scanners installed
atop a perfectly balanced sphere.  It endlessly repeated, "Halt!  Drop
all weapons!

Halt--" Tinian gulped a deep breath.  "Recognition," she shouted over
Wrrl's shoulder.  Her voice ought to shut it off...

"Confirmed."  The droid spun in place.  It retreated, still
broadcasting.

Daylight shone through the southeastern service door.

Another pair of stormtroopers crouched beside it, obviously alerted
over Kerioth's comlink.  "Freeze," ordered one.

Tinian slid off Wrrl's back and slapped the field control back on.

Then she dashed at them, too full of adrenaline to cower or even flinch
this time.

While the troopers fired at TinJan, Wrrl sped past her on long, shaggy
limbs.  He reached them before she did and bodily flung them aside.

She'd never seen a Wookiee's full strength before.  He terrified her.

Outside the service door, two energy-fenced conveyors connected the
entry with I'att Armament's main receiving area.  Wrrl howled
encouragement at her.

Tinian leaped onto one conveyor and dashed toward the open spaces and
freedom.  Fabric flapped around her feet, dangling but giving her feet
some protection.  She grabbed a fistful of loose fabric above each knee
and pulled up.  That helped a little, but she couldn't bend her elbows
far enough to do any real good.

She jumped off the conveyor onto gray duracrete.  A three-meter wall
surrounded the complex, surmounted by a catwalk with heavy gun
emplacements.  When Tinian glanced up, her heart sank.  Five
stormtroopers dashed along the top of the wall, three from the north
and two from the west, converging on the corner ahead of her and
Wrrl.

Then she remembered her good-luck piece.  "Wait!"  she cried.  She dug
down through layers of clothing and extricated a small hunk of
chepatite impact explosive.

She'd picked it up the first day Grandfather (her mind spasmed in pure,
illogical grief: Grandfather!) had let her work a full shift.  A silly
souvenir and dangerous, maybe, but she couldn't fling it hard enough to
set it off.

Wrrl could.  "Take this," she exclaimed.  "Throw it--there."

She pointed at the big corner gun.  Two troopers aligned its sights on
her and the Wookiee.  "Then duck."

Wrrl bared his teeth, seized the explosive, and hurled it.  Sweat
trickled down Tinian's chest.  She was roasting-Dust, grit, and
duracrete boulders blasted in all directions.

A gap appeared beneath where the gun had been.

Tinian sprinted toward it.  Her shoulders and back flashed hot again.

More troopers must have rushed in behind her.

The rubble pile was almost two meters high.  Wrrl urged her to hurry.

Tinian yanked the bunched fabric and scrabbled upward.  "How
bad--are--you hurt?"  she gasped.

He growled defiance.

"Wrrl--you need--a medic--" He tossed his head and kept running.

Tinian scrambled over the top.  A laser blast whizzed off her right
pauldron.  That blast came from outside the wall!  She flung herself
backward into Wrrl's arms.

Wrrl yipped surprise.  Had she singed him again?

He shoved her aside, grabbed a duracrete boulder, and heaved it down at
the outside trooper.  Then he woofed gently at Tinian, urging her
out.

A blast from behind struck him.  He howled.

"Are you all right?"  Tinian cried.

He gurgled and pointed outside the wall.

"Not without you!"

Disregarding the armor field, he cuffed her with a huge paw.

Tinian jumped down the rubble pile, spun around, and glanced up.

Wrrl stood framed by the gap.  Another bolt caught him in his side.  He
screamed and turned full around, then lurched toward the stormtroopers
inside the enormous guard wall.

Grief-stricken and stumbling with every other step, Tinian dashed
across a weedy field that surrounded I'att Armament.  This was a secure
area, maintained in case of internal disaster .  . . and to enable
guard wall staff to watch incoming traffic.

Why weren't they chasing her?  Had Wrrl stopped all of them?

Wearing heat dissipation armor, she'd shine like a beacon to IR
sensors.  It would be easy to tag her with heavy weaponry.  Moff
Kerioth was probably calling over to IL Avali Spaceport right now.

How could she have been so wrong about the Empire?

When had it changed?

At the weed field's edge, dilapidated duracrete buildings formed a
toothy perimeter.  Tinian slapped off the field projector and stumbled
toward an abandoned warehouse.

Its door hung askew.  Two maybe-Human derelicts scrambled deeper into
shadows inside.

Tinian tried to imagine what they'd seen: the top half of an armless,
unhelmeted stormtrooper?  She pushed away from that warehouse and ran
two more turns around bends in the alleys, but didn't find any better
cover.

She shoved the flapping armor pieces up over her head, then shed the
black glove like an old reptile skin.

She was about to abandon it when a thought bigger than fear struck her:
Moff Kerioth wanted this protection field badly enough to kill for
it.

She must use it to hurt Eisen Kerioth.

She dug her utility vibro-knife out of another jumpsuit pocket.

Painstakingly she sliced vital components off the breastplatemthree
electronic c-boards, controls, conduits--then the carapace--insulation,
plus the projector itself.

Overhead movement snagged her peripheral vision.  A silent
repulsorcraft sped over the warehouse row.

Tinian shrank into the nearest building's shadow.  She stuffed
everything small into her pocket along with her vibro-knife.  Then she
bundled the rest of the vital parts together.  Dashing barefoot around
the next corner, she stepped on something sharp and almost fell into a
rubbish heap ready for droid pickup.

That gave her another idea.  Limping, she hurried back to the debris
she'd left.  She scooped shell fragments into the body glove and flung
them behind the rubbish, safer from detection.  Then she limped deeper
into IL Avali's bad quarter.

Happy's Landing must be nearby.  She and Daye had visited the ale house
several times, thinly disguised in working-class coverails, looking for
good music and flamingly spicy food.  Luck and adrenaline got her there
after only one wrong turn.  She paused in the doorway, then plunged
into its dark interior without giving her eyes time to adjust.  It
sounded nearly vacant.  Late afternoon had never been Happy's busy
hour.

She tripped over a bench.  Nobody protested, so it must be vacant.

She sank down, exhausted and ashamed.  She had to get off Druckenwell,
the only world she'd ever known.

But how?  And .  . . alone?  Daye would meet her here, if he could.

She swallowed on a parched throat.  Mustn't use her credit account.

She dug into a third jumpsuit pocket and found a few credit tokens
worth a cold glass of Elba water.

She dropped them onto the table.

Then she pillowed her sweaty forehead on her arms and tried to think.

She couldn't've gotten this far unless Kerioth had sent most of his
troopers chasing Daye.

Therefore, Daye must be a prisoner.  (Her mind writhed again: Daye!

Wrrl, oh, Wrrl!) On second thought, she'd worn the invaluable armor.

They'd've all chased her.

No, he'd co-developed the anti-energy field.  They needed Daye alive.

Kerioth was undoubtedly tracking them both-Daye Azur-Jamin flattened on
the floor of a narrow service tunnel, scarcely breathing.

During his first moments of flight, he'd been clipped by blaster fire
halfway down his left thigh.  It'd stopped throbbing several minutes
ago.

Now it simply felt dead.

Three pairs of white boots scurried past, outside the shaft's access
panel.

They'd find him sooner or later.

Daye dragged himself past the panel, deeper toward the center of I'att
Armament.

Using his tiny comlink, he'd monitored Eisen Kerioth's command
frequency.  Poor Wrrl had paid off his life debt in full, and enabled
Tinian to elude pursuit, but Keri-oth--who'd escaped his transparisteel
cage by talking a trooper through code permutations--had ordered
repulsorcraft.

They'd catch Tinian quickly unless he could divert them.

Daye's comlink also let him follow stormtrooper teams as they hunted
him.  Kerioth had ordered all personnel off factory grounds---he meant
to use IR scanning, and fewer warm footprints inside the factory would
help.

It would be a race, then.  I'att Armament's power grid lay under a
force shield, open to the sky; the plant was built around it like a
vast open square.  In half an hour, Daye could crawl to the main power
station.  In two minutes more, he could backfeed the force shield into
the power grid.  That would take out the whole factory.  Daye had
hesitated to endanger innocent bystanders, but Keri-' oth was clearing
bystanders away.

He probably wouldn't escape.  But at least Eisen Kerioth wouldn't steal
I'att Armament's anti-energy field--Daye and Strephan's own
brainchild--and get away with it.

No one would ever know what Daye had done, either, except Tinian.

She knew him too well.

The thought made him smile.  He crawled on.

"Why, hello, Princess Tinian."

Momentarily terrified, Tinian flung herself upright.

She breathed again when she saw two familiar people standing over
her.

Happy's Landing's current torch singer, Twilit Hearth, wore a
scandalous, shimmering sap-phire-blue gown.  Twilit's mate, Sprig
Cheever, sported a short, neat goatee and nondescript clothing.  He set
a glass of Elba water in front of her.

Tinian dashed tears away from her eyes and guzzled it.

Twilit touched her shoulder.  "Hey.  Hey, what's wrong?"

"I" Tinian gulped.  She needed allies, and Daye--deft reader of
strangers' intentions had liked these two.

(Where was he?) "I've got to hide.  I'm in big trouble."

"Hey, it couldn't be that ba--" "Stormtroopers.  They've shut down the
factory."

"No," whispered Twilit.  "Where's .  . . you know, your prince?"

"I don't know," Tinian groaned.

Twilit seized Tinian's elbow.  "Come with me.  There's no time to
lose."

Twilit pulled her through a dark, cluttered hallway behind the kitchen,
then up one flight of stairs to a cramped little dressing-sleeping
room.

"Twilit, thanks," Tinian objected, "but they'll search up here."

She laid her valuables under an old boot rack, then startled.  She'd
sliced three c-boards off the control panel.  Now she had only two.

"We'll hide you in plain sight."  Twilit grabbed a shimmering red
gown.

"But we've got to move fast.  Put this on."

She'd dropped one c-board!  Concentrate, Tinian.  First you've got to
survive.  Tinian eyed Twilit's curves, then glanced down her size-one
jumpsuit.  "Twilit, it won't--" "You've only got minutes," said the
singer.  "Are you going to walk into their gunsights wearing that
uniform?"

Tinian skinned out of her jumpsuit and yanked up the extravagant
gown.

To her shock, padding slid into position over all the right places.

The singer was no more voluptuous than Tinian, not in the flesh.  She
glanced into the room's only mirror.  Her face and someone else's body
looked out.

"Not bad," said the singer, "but we can do better."

She spun a pair of shoes across the floor toward Tinian and rummaged in
a tattered duffel.  "I assume you can sing."

"Not like you."  Tinian gratefully pulled on one shoe.

Too big, but it would protect her throbbing foot.

"Most Imperials wouldn't know a song sparrow from a cloud crupa.

You know all my songs, I've watched your lips move."  Twilit opened a
jar and smeared something onto Tinian's face.  Tinian submitted to
several layers of paint and a rapid, hair-pulling fluff job before
Twilit announced, "Break's over, Princess.  Get down there and show
your stuff."

Tinian eyed the mirror again.  Only the stranger looked out at her
now.  "Why are you doing this?"  she asked.  The stranger's lips moved
when she spoke.

Twilit's face appeared beside the stranger's.  Fire blazed in Twilit's
blue eyes---the same shade as her own, Tinian realized.  "The Empire
and I had a disagreement four or five systems ago," Twilit answered.

"Now get down there."

"But you--" "I'm deathly ill.  Couldn't sing another note for at least
an hour.  Go.  Cheeve and Yccakic'll help."

Tinian tottered down the steps.  Now that her eyes had adjusted, she
could make out the ale house's interior.

Two Human customers sat at one table, a lone Devaronian at the bar.  On
a clear, triangular stage raised above table level, Sprig Cheever
crouched cracking his knuckles over the black, white, and green keys of
a KeyBed that almost enclosed him.  The other sentient band member, a
Bith named Yccakic, plucked his Bottom Viol's five strings as he
adjusted buttons along its tall upright neck.  Redd Metalflake, the
group's self-contained droid sound system, sat behind them audibly
tweaking his circuitry.

"I'm... singing?"  Tinian croaked.  "Twilit feels poorly."

Cheever grinned down through the stage at her.

"That'll work."

Tinian climbed up to stand beside him.  He played two chords she
recognized, and she launched into "All I Can Ever Do" with all the guts
she could muster.  Now that she'd slowed down, she could only think of
Daye.  How could she sing, with Daye in terrible danger .  . . if he
was alive?

Without warning, two stormtroopers sprang through Happy's front door.

Tinian gulped.  She covered the beat she'd missed by ad-libbing a
lyric.  One trooper glanced at her.  Immediately he swiveled away.

She felt relieved .  . .

and hurt, too.  Was she that unattractive in real life?

The troopers bustled from table to table.  Just as they vanished intO
the kitchens, a seismic rumble rocked the ale house.  Patrons slid
under tables.  Tinian flailed, trying to grab something, and connected
with Yccakic's arm.

"Off the stage!"  Cheever commanded.  Yccakic laid down his Viol and
towed her down clear, narrow stairs, then out into the dusk-darkening
street.

Three gargantuan fireballs lit the northern sky, rising under low
clouds precisely where I'att Armament had stood.

Both stormtroopers dashed out of Happy's Landing.

Passing without a backward glance, they sprinted up the street.  A
customer who'd followed Yccakic outdoors saluted the fireballs with a
raised fist.  "Down the rich!"  he hooted.  "Down the Empire!  Up
anarchy!"

"Hey," burbled Yccakic.  "You okay, kid?"

Tinian's ears sang.  Her vision blacked out from the edges inward.

She collapsed in a heap.

A beefy stranger stumbled into Happy's Landing near dawn.  Tinian,
still masquerading as Twilit, drooped on a bench close to Cheever.  The
stranger demanded a TrooperBreath, downed the chartreuse glassful, then
looked around for company.  Spotting Tinian and Chee-ver, he wobbled
over.  "That oughta help.  I've been hunting and lifting all night," he
declared.

"What's up?"  Cheever set a hand casually on Tinian's shoulder.

"I just spent four hours slaving for the Empire.  The head trooper
rounded up all the muscle he could find out on the streets."

"What for?"

"He had us searching I'att Armament... or the crater that used ta be
I'att Armament .  . . for survivors."

The ale house spun around Tinian.

"Find any?"  Cheever squeezed her shoulder.

The bulky newcomer shook his head.  "The Big Moff's speeder was the
smallest wreckage we could identify.

Other than that, nothing.  Totality.  Looked like an inside job to
me."

He burped, then grinned toothily.  "Some brave, suicidal lunatic musta
wanted to take it away from the Empire pretty badly."  He raised a
glass in wordless tribute.

Tinian stared.  Daye, gone?  All that promise .  . . broken?

Not only Daye, but Grandfather, Grandmother, and Wrrl.

All her life.

She lost track of time after that.  Some hours later, the band held
council upstairs over the kitchens.  "Time to leave Druckenwell."

Cheever draped his long legs over a packing crate.  "This place is too
hot for me."

"Me, too," put in Twilit.

"We'll never get away," lamented a metallic monotone.

Cheever had lugged Redd Metalflake upstairs and set the boxy sound
droid on a stretch of floor.  "Everyone picks on musicians."

Twilit folded her arms.  "We'll go," she said firmly.

"The last time we ignored Cheever, we nearly lost our instruments in an
apartment fire.  Is somebody onto us, Cheeve?"

"Not yet."

Tinian barely listened.  She was in shock.  Nothing will ever touch me
again.  Nothing.  No one.  Ever.

Yccakic flicked a series of folds around his tiny mouth.

"Has anyone looked up outside?  We've got a blanket of repulsorcraft
sitting over IL Avali.  Security will be double; at customs, triple.

And we promised Tinian--" "We'll make it," Cheever predicted.

Twilit cleared her throat.  "Fix my ID for her.  I'll lie low here for
a few days."

Cheever raised an eyebrow.

Twilit shrugged.  "If Comus can make my ID cover Tinian, he can run me
a dupe, easy.  I'll be okay."

Cheever stroked his short beard.  "That'll work.  But Princess, about
that .  . . luggage of yours.  I don't think we can risk taking it out
through Imperial Customs."

That cracked Tinian's introspection.  Even with a c-board missing,
those pieces might help someone recreate the anti-energy field.

"Wait," she begged.  "The customs people will have no idea what your
instruments are supposed to look like .  . . right?"

Twilit shrugged.  "They're musical morons," she agreed.  "What are you
driving at?"

"It's already in pieces," Tinian answered.  "Attach them to your
instruments."

Cheever stroked his goatee.  "Yeses," he drawled.  "I can fit most of
it to look like it's part of the KeyBed's insides."

"I'm good for a c-board or two," proclaimed Redd.  A touch of reverb
added confidence to his voice.

Tinian wondered if she were going crazy.  She didn't care if she lived
or died, but she must get that field transmitter out through customs.

"Couldn't you get it off Druckenwell safer without me?  If they catch
me trying to pass Twilit's ID, it's the spice mines for all of us."

Affectionately, Twilit mussed Tinian's hair.  "We know good people
offworld," she said.  "People who can use that stuff against the
Empire.  They'll want to talk to the I'att Princess.  Guaranteed."

A door slammed.  "She was there, all right," declared Woyiq.

Daye shuddered.  The huge, beefy man's voice jabbed daggers through his
injured head.

The other Human--or was he a Gotal?  Daye's eyes wouldn't
focus---turned to shush Woyiq.  "Hey, keep it down!"

"Sorry."  Woyiq slunk toward Daye's bedside.  "Sorry."

The huge Human had dragged Daye out from between jagged duracrete
slabs, laboring in near-total darkness at the bottom of IL Avali's deep
new crater.  "Really, I'm sorry-Daye squeezed his attendant's hand.

"Did you--" "Wait," said the .  . . yes, with horns like those it had
to be a Gotal.  "Get over here, you big battlewagon."

Woyiq shuffled even closer.

"You found her?"  Daye whispered.  "She's all right?"

The beefy man laid a hand on Daye's synthflesh-bandaged shoulder.

Both of his legs had been crushed, too, and one hand .  . . and they
didn't dare carry him out to a medic.  "She was at Happy's Landing,
hanging out with the band.  You guessed it right."

Daye swallowed.  Even that small movement hurt.  "Did you" "I told her
we found no survivors.  She--" "Thanks.  Thanks, both of you."

Daye shut his eyes.  He couldn't bear to hear how Tinian had taken the
news of his alleged death, not yet.  He half wished he could dissolve
his body into nothingness and turn Woyiq's fatal pronouncement into
fact.

But evidently the universe had spared him .  . . most of him .  .

. for a while.  He couldn't drag Tinian into the furtive existence he
meant to lead now.  Woyiq and his Gotal accomplice promised to sponsor
him straight to the Rebellion as soon as Il Avali calmed down.  The
Rebellion needed his talents.  They might be able to fix him up, too
.

. . somewhat.

In the meantime, he had decided it had to be kinder to let Tinian think
him dead.  She'd leave Druckenwell.  Witty and capable, she'd make a
new life.

He would never love anyone else, though.  "Good-bye, Tinian," he
murmured toward the wall.  "May the Force be with you."

Customs bustled, quadruple anything Tinian had ever seen--but they
passed, just as Cheever predicted.  Tinian followed him up a stale
passageway into the transport's fourth-class hold.  They found seats
close to Yccakic's.

Redd rode in the cargo hold, guarding the doctored instruments.

Tinian slumped down, glad this hold had no viewport.

No last glimpse of Druckenwell would linger in her memory.

Alone in the galaxy except for two virtual strangers and an armload of
illicit electronics, she'd find some way to help bring down the New
Order.  Every time she hurt Palpatine's Empire just a little bit, she'd
dedicate that small victory to the memory of Daye Azur-Jamin and the
life they could have had.

Force be with you, love.  Leaning back, Tinian squeezed tears out of
her eyes and braced for takeoff.

The Final Exit

by Patricia A. Jackson A Planet of interminable extremes, Najiba
existed in a state of perpetual spring, delineating seasons in terms of
electrical disruptions and torrential rainstorms.

Ross stared into the maturing squall, intrigued by the erratic veins of
lightning which arced across the obscure, night skies.

Sheltered beneath his YI-1300 light freighter, the Kierra, the
Corellian searched the turbulent atmosphere above the open flight pad,
following several amorphous shapes that loomed above the heavy cloud
cover.

Clipped with military precision, soft spikes of blond hair glistened
with the rain as miniature drops accumulated in the longer length above
his ears.  Yawning, the smuggler leaned against one of the support
struts.  His sleepy, blue eyes stared from the shadows, regarding
several natives who were huddled beneath the storm eaves of Reuther's
Wetdock.

"1947" Pressing the comlink against his cheek, Ross responded, "194."

Alluring, a feminine voice replied, "What's the deal, Ross?  We've been
sitting here for over an hour."

"Are you bored, darling?"  he teased, grinning handsomely in the dim
light.

"Do you want an honest answer or just my opinion?

Come on, flyboy," she pleaded, "let's get moving."

"Don't get your circuits in a bunch."  Affectionately he brushed a hand
over the lower turret, wondering in what section of the onboard systems
she was hiding.  Fondly named after his ship, the feisty droid
intelligence had a tendency to focus on the optical sensors, possessed
by an unusually feminine curiosity.

"Ol'val, Ross," a voice greeted from nearby.

Despite the familiarity of the Old Corellian dialect, Ross tensed,
casually thumbing the restraint from his blaster.  Propping the heavy
pistol against the holster, he stared into the closest shadows and
focused on the stooped silhouette.  "Reuther?"

The aging Najib bartender stepped into the rain, humbled beneath the
onslaught of cold drops.  Sheltered below the Kierra, he straightened,
staring into the young Corellian's face.

Vivacious with old-world charm, his eyes were discerning and
perceptive, contemplating Ross from head to toe.

Meeting the smuggler's mischievous eyes, a proud smile played across
his lips.  "I see where you made the billboards in Mos Eisley last
week.  The Imperials are offering 5,000 credits for your head."

"Is that all?"

"Indeed," the old man chuckled.  "Not nearly enough for a rogue with
your credentials."  Billowed red sleeves ballooned from Reuther's frail
shoulders and arms, clashing with an oversized native tunic.

Dampened by the rain, thinning gray hair was tightly braided against
his freckled scalp.  "It's good to see you, boy," Reuther whispered.

Uncorking an intricately carved bottle, he poured a generous portion
into a crystal goblet and handed it to the smuggler.

"Corellian whisky?"  Ross questioned, sniffing the bitter aroma.

"What's the occasion?"

"Growing old," Reuther croaked, nervously glancing over his shoulder,
"and to having the strength to face tomorrow."

Suspicious, Ross followed the bartender's anxious eyes.

"Quiet night, Reuther?"  he asked, cautiously moving a hand to his
blaster.

Sadly, the old man shook his head.  "This is a desolate place when the
Children of Najiba come home."

Familiar with the Children of Najiba, Ross scanned the night skies,
well acquainted with the peculiar asteroid belt that had mysteriously
claimed an orbit around the small planet.  As ominous as the shattered
rock moving above their heads, Ross discerned the somber tone of
Reuther's voice.  "Your message said it was urgent."

Muffled by the warm bodies crowded at the narrow blast door, a
strangled scream suddenly erupted from the bar.  The despondent cry
fluctuated, a cacophony of sobs, which peaked above the violence of the
storm.

"Just watch, my boy," Reuther cautioned.  "I brought you here for a
reason."

The crowd broke ranks, scattering away from the bulkhead frame.  A
Najib man, wearing the clumsy beige uniform of a port control steward,
staggered from the bar, collapsing in the street.  Cradled in his arms,
he carried the slender, motionless body of a Twi'lek woman.  Her pale,
blue skin glistened with rain, faultless and smooth despite the
cruelty of the shadows.  With the delicate poise of a dancer, elegant
arms swayed above her head, exaggerating the gentle arch of her neck
and shoulders.  Scantily clad in a faded tunic, her frail form
convulsed in the steward's arms.

"That's Lathaam," Reuther began, "our port official, and that," he
hesitated, "that used to be his woman, runa."

Ross shrugged the tension from his chest and shoulders, massaging a
pinched nerve in his neck.  "What happened?"

"Adalric Brandl happened," he replied evenly.  "He blew in about 10
hours ago, demanding a ship with a pilot who could shoot as well as
fly."  Sighing, he added, "Well, you know the rule, Ross.  When the
Children of Najiba are home, no traffic on or off the planet.  Lathaam,
being the choob-head he is, made the mistake of informing Brandl of
that fact."  The anxious Najib rubbed the narrow ridge between his
eyes.  "Lathaam always did lack diplomacy skills."

"So Brandl killed the girl?"

"I ain't saying what he did."  From the safety of the shadows, Reuther
watched the lurid scene.  Dubious, he averted his eyes, throwing his
hands up with exasperation.

"Truth is, Ross, Brandl never touched her.  Never laid a hand on her,"
he puffed, "yet there she lies, dead.  And there ain't nobody on the
planet, not even you, who can tell me Brandl didn't do it."

"You've been living with the natives too long."

"I know what you're thinking, boy," Reuther scoffed.

"Remember, I was once a bounty hunter, too.  Brandl never pulled a
blaster.  Doesn't even have one."  The bartender cleared his throat
noisily, spitting into the wind.

"His kind don't need blasters to kill."  Shuddering visibly, he
mumbled, "He's a 10-96 if I ever saw one."

"A 10-967" Ross whispered.

"If you don't know, you better look it up," Reuther snorted.

"Your life may depend on it."

Ignoring the patriarchal cynicism, Ross crossed his arms over his
chest.  "Where do I fit into all of this?"

"Brandl wants a pilot who can handle himself.  I told him I knew a
dozen or more suicide jocks who would come through the asteroids just
to make an easy 1,000 credits .  . . then I told him about you."

"Come on, Reuther," Ross snorted musically.  "One man comes along and
has the whole town running scared?  Whatever happened to your
militia?"

"Is that what it's called?"  Reuther scoffed.  Staring at the backs of
the prying mob, he spat, "Farmers!  All of them!  Eager to bite every
stranger, but afraid of stepping on their own tails.  Look at them!"

He stared into the small assembly gathered around the body.

"It's easy to look into another man's misery and do nothing."

Grumbling among themselves, the crowd abruptly retreated into the
street as a shadow moved from the back of the bar.  Eclipsing the dim
light radiating from the bulkhead, the stranger faltered in the
doorway.  "That'll be him," Reuther whispered.  "I'll pay you 2,000
credits on top of whatever he offers you.  Just get him off the
planet!"  Stepping back into the rain, he hesitated.

"There's a bad noise about this one, Ross.  Watch yourself."

Captivated by the peculiar events surrounding this outsider, Ross
cautiously observed the reaction of the locals as Brandl swept past
them, drawing the shadows in his wake.  Struck by the unusual beauty of
the stranger's face, the smuggler found it difficult to believe that
such a man was capable of violence.  Handsome, almost cavalier by
appearance, Brandl's nose and chin were chiseled with stony nobility,
polished by a quiet arrogance that aroused the smuggler's suspicions.

Faded laugh lines framed a narrow mouth and thin lips.

Thick, dark waves of hair glistened with rain, interspersed with
strands of white, which ran from his temples to the nape of his neck.

As foreboding as the shadows of Brandl's face, the robe draped from his
shoulders seemed to absorb the darkness about them, concealing any
weapons and his hands from view.  "Captain Thaddeus Ross?"

Wincing with mention of his first name, Ross brushed his duster aside,
revealing his blaster and his hand poised over the heel.

"Adalric Brandl?"  he replied curtly.

Cordial, a genteel smile played across Brandl's pale lips, drawing a
sharp angle over his prominent cheekbones.

"I'll be brief, Captain.  I need transport to the Trulalis system."

"Trulalis?  You could catch the local skipper for half of what I'm
likely to charge.  Private transports don't come cheap."

"Integrity comes without price, Captain Ross.  The bar owner assured me
that you were a man of integrity."

Squaring his shoulders, Brandl probed the smuggler's calculating
eyes.

"I'm offering 5,000 credits for transport to Trulalis, where you will
accompany me to the Kovit Settlement."

"I don't leave port for less than 6,000," Ross countered, narrowing his
eyes.  "If you want company, it'll cost you extra: 1,500 credits."

"Agreed," Brandl whispered.  Graceful, his long fingers retrieved a
sealed credit chit.  "Three thousand now and the rest on completion of
my business."

Eyeing the sealed chit, Ross gushed, "Right this way."

The smuggler extended his arm toward the freighter's lowered ramp.

"Kierra, prepare to raise ship."

"Well it's about time!"  she hissed.  "I thought my docking struts were
going to take root here."

Ross cast a final glance to the bar, saluting Reuther and the others
who were watching from the sanctuary of the shadows.

Confidently pocketing the credit chit, he flashed a reassuring smile
and jogged up the ramp.  Initializing the hatch seal, he moved along
the familiar corridor toward the flight compartment.  The Corellian
grinned impishly, listening to Kierra's vindictive voice, as she
engaged their peculiar passenger.

"Who the hell are you?"  she demanded.  "Never mind where I am.

I'm where I belong, but you--" "Kierra," Ross whispered, "meet our new
client."

Seething with the brunt of Brandl's initial arrogance, Kierra
vehemently blustered, "Halle metes chun, petchuM" "Koccic sulng!"  Ross
scolded, shocked by the scathing Old Corellian insult.

Pleasantly, Brandl returned his thanks for the rude statement and
offered a challenge.  "Onna fulle guth."

Before the droid intelligence could recoup for the invitation, Ross
glared into one of her optical lenses.  "That's enough!"  he fired at
her.  "Open the power coupling and charge the main booster," he
ordered.  "Now, Kierra!"

Discharge static hissed over the internal comm, similar to the
indignant gnashing of teeth.  "Affirmative, boss," she replied.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Ross leaned against the interior hull
wall, listening for the ignition of the ion engines.  Focused on
Brandl's insidious eyes, he whispered, "There aren't too many people
who remember the Old Corellian dialect."

"In the course of my career, I've had to speak many languages."

Cautiously, Brandl added, "I was .  . .

am .  . . an actor."

"I don't usually transport passengers," Ross confessed.

Stepping through the low bulkhead, he activated the interior corridor
lamps.  "You're welcome to use my quarters."

Brandl's gaze swept the length of the modest passenger cabin.

Hesitant to enter, he paused in the bulkhead frame.  "How long until we
reach Trulalis?"

"An hour?"  Ross shrugged dubiously.  "I'll notify you when we
arrive."

"Thank you, Captain, your hospitality is appreciated."

"Yeah, I bet it is," the Corellian mumbled under his breath.  As the
hatch automatically sealed behind him, he retraced his steps to the
flight compartment.  "Kierra, set the astrogation system for
Trulalis."

"Check."

Sitting down in the acceleration chair, Ross quickly glanced over the
flight console.  "Okay, darling, bring up the emergency auto-pilot
program we installed this morning."

"Not today, Ross," Kierra pouted.  "I have a headache."

Observing his reaction from several optical lenses, she dampened his
fury, whining, "You forgot to cut the restraint servos, flyboy.  So
don't blame me for the glitch."

A hushed snicker translated across the internal comm.

"By the way, where'd you dig up the spook?  He gives me the chills,
Thadd."

"I told you not to call me that!"  Ross hissed.  Glaring into an optic
sensor, he roughly booted the throttle, causing the freighter to
shudder and slide on the pad.

"Gently, gently," Kierra cooed.  Vexed by his dark mood, she added, "I
hate it when you get this way.  Your manners--" "Never mind my
manners!"  Curbing his temper, he flipped a series of flight
switches.

The freighter shifted beneath him, resisting the planet's gravity as it
rose from the external dock.  "You just think about minding your
manners," he scolded.  Checking the data readouts for the latest
asteroid activity, the Corellian grumbled, "Brandl's paying 8,000 creds
for this trip, that's almost half a load of spice.  You could at least
try to humor him."

"Whatever you say, boss."

"And while I have your attention, run a code check on a 10-96."

"That's easy.  It's listed by Imperial enforcement protocol as a
mentally imbalanced person."

"No, there's got to be something more to it," he contemplated.

"There must be something else.  Research the dead files on all 10-codes
with that designation."

"That could take some time."

"Good!"  he snapped.  "I want every description for a 10-96, everything
from Imperial databases to Old Republic records."

Resistantly, Kierra replied, "Affirmative, boss."

Accompanied by a low hum, the hyperdrive cue flashed intermittently,
recalculating the jump to hyperspace.

Checking the onboard systems, Ross observed hyperactiv-ity in the
library programs, where Kierra was researching the peculiar 10-code.

"Stand by, hyperdrive engaging," he announced, piping into the
ship-wide intercom.  Bracing himself against the acceleration chair,
Ross activated the motivator, propelling himself, his passenger, and
his ship into the multicolored explosion of hyperspace.

In the lower cradle of the ship, Ross sat in the swivel gunner's chair,
swinging side to side, absently strumming his fingers against the
turret firing controls.  He closed his eyes and massaged a muscle spasm
in his shoulder, wincing as the clenched tendon tightened then
released.

Oblivious to the spectacular display of light and color beyond the
narrow viewscreen, he relaxed against the cool leather brace, drifting
into the serenity of sleep.

"You know," Kierra whispered, "you make the cutest faces when you're
asleep."

"I wasn't asleep," he lied, suppressing a yawn.

"Well heads up, flyboy!  I have some intriguing data for yOU."

Ross sat up, rubbing the circulation back into his ears.

"Let's hear it."

"Well, it seems that your mysterious 10-96 dates back long before the
10-code setup even existed.  Now, according to the description, and I
must admit I'm perplexed, the 10-96 came from an Old Corellian word,
ke'dem."

Staring into the hyperspace vortex, Ross mentally mouthed the word.

"Go on."

"Go on?"  Kierra snorted.  "That's it!  Since before the Empire, a
10-96 has had two definitions, an imbalanced person and a ke'dem."

Hesitant, she whispered, "Now without over-inflating your ego .  . .

what's a ke'dem?"

"It's a variation of Old Corellian that means condemned or fallen."

"Well that would explain the modern terminology."

"Yeah," he whispered, "it would also explain what happened down there
on the planet."  The smuggler cupped his hands together, supporting his
head and neck.

"Kierra, darling, Adalric Brandl is a Jedi Knight."

"A Jedi?  That would explain a lot of things."  Momentarily, her optic
sensor dimmed.  "Stand by.  Hyperdrive about to disengage.  Three .

.

.

two .  . . one."

Leaning against the gunner's panic bar, Ross felt the vibration of the
ion drives, set to ignite once the transition was complete.  "Easy on
the drive coils, Kierra."

"Aren't you coming to the bridge?"  she asked.

"On my way," he replied, "but first I have to collect our unusual
guest."

Blanketed by a protective cloud layer, the planet Trulalis was richly
embellished with a spectacular landscape of verdant green.  A mosaic of
rolling grasslands, sprawling forests, and spacious oceans stood as an
invitation to paradise for the space-weary traveler.

Crisscrossed and separated at irregular intervals by feral wilderness,
Trulalis offered innumerable flat fields for small transports to
dock.

Ross made a mental note to mark this planet as a potential checkpoint
on his smuggling runs.  A brief sensor scan pinpointed the closest
suitable landing field.

Compensating for the subtle shifts on the ground surface, he set down
near a small hamlet.

On the surface, Ross shouldered his travel tote and secured an extra
power pack to his holster.  From the top of the ramp, he hesitated in
the corridor, glimpsing Brandl from the corner of his eye.

The eccentric Jedi was waiting for him outside on the trail, shadowed
by the towering visage of the black trees.  A seemingly invincible
statue, the strange man stood with solemn conviction, staring into the
hazy silhouette of the late afternoon sun.

"Kierra, I'm still not sure what Brandl's up to.  Keep your eyes
open."

"Keep your comlink open," she replied.  "You know how I worry."

"That's my girl," the Corellian chuckled.

Testing the soft earth beneath his boots, Ross strolled up to the
familiar silhouette of his passenger.  For the first time since leaving
Najiba, he noted that both of Brandl's hands were visible, one of them
swathed haphazardly in a black bandage.  Through gaps in the makeshift
dressing, he saw the tender pink of raw flesh and yellow seepage
draining into the thick fabric.

Before Ross could question him, Brandl turned and started along the
trail.  "What did the Najib tell you about me?"

"He said you killed a Twi'lek girl," Ross blurted.  After a moment he
pressed, "Did you?"

The Jedi's reply was abrupt and forthright.  "Yes."  Brandl hesitated
as the Corellian snorted reprovingly.

"Please Captain, your contempt is small reward for a repentant
pilgrim."

"You call murder a penance?"  Ross spat.

"When it has become the least of one's crimes," the Jedi paused
dramatically, "yes."

Brandl's apathy toward the woman's death was chilling, sending shudders
throughout the Corellian's body.

"How?  You never touched her."  Ross grasped Brandl's sleeve and
pulled.  "How did you do it!".

"I asphyxiated her."

"She suffocated?  In an open room?"

"A sophisticated talent," Brandl sneered, "not meant for the faint of
heart."

"You sound proud of yourself, Jedi!"  Ross spat with contempt.

"Makes you feel good to kill an innocent woman?"

"Evil springs from weakness and weakness from ambition; by this grand
order every ambitious man is undone!"

Deliberately, the Jedi challenged, "Tell me, Captain, you too are an
ambitious man.  Which of us is truly innocent?"

"Should I applaud now?  Ross taunted.

"If you wish!"

"Well before I hand over your accolades, tell me something.

Was that a real line or just something you made up to ease your
conscience?"

Petulant with the smuggler's indignation, Brandl turned on him.

"If it's retribution you wish for me, Captain Ross, then I suggest you
stay close at hand."  Scowling furiously, he stared down his long
nose.

"You may yet have your satisfaction."

Provoked by the sinister edge in Brandl's voice, Ross drew his
blaster.

The Jedi apparently heard him, and spun around to face the blaster.

Ross fired a three-round burst at the Jedi.  Honed by several seasons
as a bounty hunter, he centered the bolts to explode in the square of
Brandl's broad shoulders.  Before the deadly energy could land its
mark, Brandl deftly snatched a cylindrical object from his belt.

Momentarily, a narrow shaft of white brilliance ignited from the base,
feinting and parrying with the precise motions of the Jedi's wrists.

Deflected by the lightsaber, the blaster bolts were harmlessly shot off
into the field.

Aghast, Ross could only watch as the destructive rounds dissipated into
oblivion.  Abruptly, he felt the crushing pinch of invisible fingers
clenched against his throat, constricting his airway and lungs.

Choking, the smuggler dropped to his knees as the serene landscape of
Trulalis blurred before him.  Gradually, the sensation faded, leaving
the Corellian gasping to catch his breath.

"There is one rule of theater that applies to real life, Captain Ross,"
Brandl declared.  "Only heroes die.  Villains and cowards are left to
suffer."  Turning his back on the panting pilot, he snarled, "Now come
along."

Ross shook the haze from his vision.  "Is that another line?"  he
slurred lethargically.

Brandl trembled, visibly drained as he disengaged the lightsaber with
required effort.  "Not just a line, Captain, but an astute warning to
the less-than-humble pilgrim."

Securing the lightsaber to his belt, the Jedi momentarily scanned the
pale skies.  "The settlement is less than a kilometer away.  We had
best move along.  It will be dark soon."

Swearing off bruises, Ross bitterly wedged his pack against his
shoulder and jammed his blaster into the holster.

Quickly brushing past Brandl, he hissed, "Can't imagine why you'd be
afraid of the dark."

Nestled within the dominant embrace of a mountain range, Kovit was
well-protected from the harsh weather conditions of the northern
highlands and the windswept plains of the coastal region.  Staring down
the mound into the modest farming community, Ross could vaguely discern
movement in the dusty streets.  Drawn by diminutive banthas, wagons
creaked through the wide avenues.  Dozens of people walked the streets,
pausing to chat with a neighbor or to haggle over the local street
merchant's wares.  From a side alley, three boys grunted and sweated
behind a battered landspeeder, coaxing the vehicle's engines to briefly
ignite.  Nearby, above the sporadic choke of the repulsorcraft,
laughter betrayed a trio of children playing with an obsolete astromech
droid.

Brandl hesitated at the crest of the mound, staring down into the
settlement, as if reconsidering his options.

Wilted, the Jedi's shoulders exposed a reluctance to continue.

"Where are you from, Captain Ross?"

Startled by the abrupt question, Ross stammered, "CoreIlia
originally."

"Do you find returning there difficult?"

"Homecomings are always hard."  The Corellian shrugged, pursing his
lips doubtfully.  "At least for some of US."

Without further reply, Brandl continued down the trail, deliberately
slowing his stride.  Vacillating, he stepped through the settlement
gates, as if expecting some invisible force field to bar his path.

Nostalgically passing through the prudent rows of farm cottages, the
Jedi admired the mastery of native architecture, as sculpted from the
indigenous lumber.  Herb gardens and prized flower beds adorned the
private lawns, each tenderly manicured and maintained with fastidious
care.  As they approached the dry, dusty oval of the settlement common,
Brandl covered his eyes, protecting them from the fading sun, as he
stared into the rich, agricultural outback of the settlement, which
extended far beyond the limits of the community to the base of the
mountains themselves.

From the near center of Kovit, a macabre specter of architecture loomed
above the rustic rooftops.  Flyaway buttresses supported the main
construction of the theater, unfurling like stony wings from the
base.

Packed with chalk-white limestone, the obelisk was unequivocally
straight, seeming to elongate into the obscuring skies.  Established
intentionally in the heart of the settlement, the theater captured the
waning rays of the sun, momentarily stealing the glory from the
picturesque village.  There was a somber sense of belonging that drew
Brandl toward the structure, ignoring the startled glares of the
settlement denizens.

As they passed through the outskirts of the community, Ross nervously
observed a makeshift hangar and the crude snout of a Z-95 jutting from
the narrow bay doors.

The starfighter appeared operational, though crowded by its diminutive
shelter, and eager for a skirmish.  Distracted by the presence of
strangers, several men gathered just beyond the shadows of the small
livery, watching intently.

Thumbing the restraint from his blaster, Ross cautiously whispered,
"Your adoring fans?"

"Neighbors, patrons, old friends."  Brandl abruptly paused in the
street, as if awakening from an illusion.

"But that was another lifetime."

"Where do they stand in this lifetime?"  the smuggler growled.

"Strangers."

Weaving through the haze of the fragrant gardens surrounding the
theater courtyard, a woman and a young boy moved along the grainy,
stone paths.  The echo of their voices Chimed with laughter as a
private joke was shared between them.  Brandl watched intently as they
walked through the haze and into the dusty streets.

Fiery, auburn spirals cascaded from the woman's head, crowning her oval
face.  Unusually pale skin flushed in the faded brilliance, betraying
an 'aversion to excessive sunlight.

Tall but gangly, the boy was no older than 11 or 12 years.  Broad
shoulders framed his upper torso, seemingly too heavy for his slender
form.  Coordinated and rhythmic, his long legs showed nothing less than
the promise of sharp, steady growth.

Startled by the dark apparition of Brandl, the woman hesitated and
stood motionless in the street, meeting the Jedi's friendless eyes.

The smile parting her full lips was quickly forgotten.  Puzzled by her
peculiar behavior, the child swept his gaze from her stony face to
Brandl.  Registering nothing more than a stranger, the boy leaned over
his mother's arm and whispered something in her ear.

Obviously distraught, she pulled the child snugly against her and
hurriedly continued their trek across the common.  Brandl sighed
remorsefully, then without explanation, resumed his walk toward the old
theater.  Beyond the archaic gate a decade or more of wild flowers had
claimed the inner recesses of the theater yard, staggering the once
straight path to the massive bulkhead doors.  Residing over the
darkened antechamber, bronze statues and sculpted metalwork lined the
interior corridor.

Adalric Brandl moved gracefully into these familiar shadows,
intuitively stalking the darkened corridors and spacious hallways
beyond.  The hollow shell of his memories traced the outlines and
silhouettes of each molded tapestry, a display case of tarnished prop
swords and shields, and finally the grand hall, where past audiences
had come to experience the stage productions.

Ignoring the Corellian behind him, Brandl quickened his steps, moving
into the immense auditorium.  Deafening, the familiar resonating of
applause and encouragement thundered and echoed inside his ears; but
this illusion was short-lived.  There was no audience to applaud, no
actors to bow, no stage settings, nor props as he remembered them.  The
yawning mouth of the stage was disgracefully bare.

"Who is there?"  a voice whispered from the darkness.  Brandl faltered,
supporting himself in the elaborately carved doorway.

A thin, frail figure emerged from the darkness of the inner aisle.

"Come closer," he gently commanded.

From the shadows along the back wall, Ross scanned the theater for
other signs of movement.  Thumbing the restraint from his blaster, he
waited quietly in the musty wings of the chamber as Brandl continued
into the hall toward the shadowy form.

"Adalric Brandl, is that you?"  the old man croaked pleasantly.

"Master Otias," Brandl whispered, kneeling at his mentor's feet.

"I am ashamed that you care to remember me."

Otias ignited a glow rod, casting a warm beam of light across his
scaling face.  He was dressed in a faded gray tunic, stained with lamp
oil and sweat.  The veins and muscles of his arms were pronounced and
defined, built up from a lifetime of toil and lean with age.  Clouded
gray eyes were nearly imperceptible against a splash of dark spots and
freckles.  "Since when did shame ever come between an actor and his
task director?"  Brushing a trembling hand through his thinning silver
mane, Otias whispered, "It's been 12 long years, Adalric.  What brings
you back to this stage?"

"Master O--" Brandl fell silent, cutting himself short.

"Come, come lad .  . . there is nothing more obvious than an actor with
a need to confess."

Abruptly, Brandl cowered beneath the glow rod.

"I .  . . I live my life .  . . in a whirlwind!"

Dignified, Otias beamed proudly, recognizing the famous line.

"Old Soveryn's final words of the fourth act.

How closely you've come to rivalling his life."  Resigned, the aging
taskmaster sighed, a lifetime of exhaustion evident by his labored
breathing.  "Actors are granted license to live a thousand lives,
Adalric; but you, you chose to live a thousand lies.  If you have come
to me as your advocate then speak from your heart, not from the void of
a tragic character who has never been born."

Spittle flying from the corners of his mouth, Brandl raged, "I
cannot!"

"Every tragic figure is tainted by a flaw, possessed by a need to save
the world or himself from some unpardonable crime.  No man can set
himself before humanity and judge it, not without himself being
judged."  Otias gently unwrapped the makeshift bandage swathed about
Brandl's left hand, wincing at the severity of the burn.

The lightsaber's cauterizing bite was undeniable.  "When we pursue
shadows, we are destined to find the darkness."

Staring into Brandl's face, Otias whispered, "And as you well know, the
dark side has always had its price."

"What happened to me?"  Brandl implored.

"You stared into the collective pith of all beings and judged it,
without first looking into your own heart.  Frustrated, you went
looking for the tragic flaw without much success.  When the Emperor
came calling, you couldn't resist!"  Otias whispered, "No one knows
darkness better than a Jedi Knight, and no one was more suited to play
such a role than you."

"I killed a woman!"  Brandl gasped.  "Suffocated her!  I could feel her
heart in my hand .  . . in my mind!  And I squeezed and squeezed--"
"You've killed many," Otias accused.  "The Emperor has no blood on his
hands; but he keeps an army of others who do."

"Otias, please, help me find the way."

"The way of the Force brings balance to the anarchy of life; but you
Adalric," he shook his head reprovingly, "you didn't want balance.

Your pride was so great and despite my warnings, you went in search of
the unatoneable crime, which inevitably separates the hero from the
indigent masses.  And you found it, didn't you?"

Gasping for breath, Brandl croaked, "Yes!  It was within me, within my
black heart the whole time."

"It lies within all of us," Otias whispered, "if we dare to see."

Exhausted, he sighed bitterly, again brushing a hand through his
thinning hair.  "I cannot vindicate you of the evil that you have
brought upon yourself, an evil that you have wielded in the name of the
Emperor for so long.  I've spent the last decade watching, waiting for
your return, rehearsing what I would say to you."  Sadly, he whispered,
"What you ask, I cannot give you.  There can be no redemption for your
crimes.  The dead cannot forgive."

Extinguishing the lamp, Otias turned his back on the distraught Jedi
and moved away toward the stage.

Brandl slowly turned from the familiar silhouette, stung by the reality
of Otias's words.  Pressing the damp bandage against his wounded palm,
he stepped into the outer arena, moving into the darkened wings in the
rear of the theater.  Without comment, he retraced his steps through
the spacious corridors, past the archaic displays, and into the
courtyard beyond the doors.  Steeling himself against the violent
images sparking through his mind, the Jedi surrendered to Trulalis's
last waning sunlight, imagining that the impotent rays had the power to
burn into his flesh.

Angrily, he fumbled beneath his robes, producing a large cylindrical
object.  Ross flinched momentarily, traumatized by his encounter with
the Jedi's lightsaber.  With recovering confidence, he noted that this
object was much larger and was covered with minute control levers and
data screens.  As if wrenching the neck of an invisible foe, Brandl
twisted the object before replacing it within his robes.  Lightly, he
heard the smuggler's footsteps behind him, moving with guarded
discretion, as if to avoid disturbing his troubled thoughts.  "I prefer
your contempt, Captain," he whispered, his eyes flashing with
violence.

"Your pity disgusts me."  Extending his long stride, he stormed out of
the theater yard, unhindered by the thickened dust at his feet.

Framed by the dark cowl of the forest canopy, the Kierra's ivory hull
gleamed, a smooth, round tooth jutting from the heath.  Guided by these
moonlight reflections, Ross stumbled through the rutted trail, twisting
his ankles against unseen rocks.  "Kierra, lights!"

Squinting into the brilliant array of search beacons, the smuggler
shivered, pulling the collar of his duster across his neck.  A potent
wind was descending from the high country, bringing with it the promise
of rain.  Inside the cramped corridor, Ross brushed a hand through his
hair, reassured by the warmth flooding the freighter's interior.

"Pump up the main boosters," he ordered with distraction, noting that
Brandl had not followed him onto the ship.

Growing accustomed to the Jedi's erratic mood swings, Ross peered from
the protection of the ramp door.  Below him, standing at the foot of
the ramp, Brandl stood motionless staring into the darkness as pale
mists crawled over his shoulders and beneath his feet.  "Brandl?"  With
his smuggler's sense aroused, Ross ordered, "Kierra, kill the exterior
lamps."

"You can come out now," Brandl whispered, as the austere beacons were
extinguished.  "No one will harm you."

Ross pressed himself against the interior hull wall, propping his
blaster and steadying his arm and shoulder to draw a clear shot.

Hearing him, Brandl stared up into the darkened passage, disarming the
Corellian with his sharp gaze.  As the lanky figure of a boy emerged
from the heath, Ross could feel the tension fade and stepped off the
ramp, recognizing the child from their brief encounter in the
settlement.  Dressed in dark green clothes to match the forest at
night, the child's face was flushed and sweated.  Cautiously, he
approached the two men and the freighter.

Awed by the sight of Brandl, enshrouded by darkness, yet haloed by the
moon, the child moved gingerly toward the ship, compelled by an
insatiable curiosity.  He made no effort to shield his wonder, noting
every measure of the figure before his eyes, as if committing his mere
presence to memory.  "It's true," the boy whispered.  "You are a Jedi
Knight."

"Who are you?"  Brandl demanded, but there was no strength in his
words.  Even Ross could detect the half lie of denial trembling in his
voice.

Handsome, the child grinned, turning his face up to meet his father's
eyes.  "Don't you know me?"  he asked.

Staring intently at the lightsaber swinging from the Jedi's belt, the
boy angrily cried, "You named me!  Jaalib, remember?"

Recovering his manners, he rubbed the toe of his shoe into the yielding
earth.  "My last name is Brandl tOO."

Gently, Brandl caressed the boy's hair and cheeks, feeling the smooth
skin beneath his fingertips.  It was a peculiar sensation, which fired
every nerve across his body.

Despite the tenderness of that caress, Ross felt a sense of unease
crawling into his belly.

"Is that a real lightsaber?  I've never seen one."  Chatty, the
youngster added, "I've seen props for the stage, but .  . ."  His soft,
tenor voice fluttered, prey to the silence as Brandl handed the weapon
to him.  Staring at it, Jaalib reached hesitantly for the lightsaber,
then dropped his hand.

"Don't be afraid," Brandl urged.

"I'm not afraid," Jaalib said with confidence, taking his father's
hand, rather than the lightsaber.  A thin film of tears glistened in
the corner of his eyes.  Swallowing the emotion, Jaalib whispered,
"I've come to warn you.  I heard Menges and the others talking.

They're angry that you came back to the settlement.  Mother doesn't
think they'll do anything; but I know that Menges has a ship."

Overhearing the boy, Ross snapped, "Kierra, check the sensors!"

Abruptly, the interior corridor lights went dark.  "I suggest that you
all duck!"

A tremendous explosion erupted near the aft of the ship and forest
perimeter, accompanied by the afterburn blast of an outgoing star
fighter.  Dodging churned up roots, debris, and stone particles, Ross
slid under the ramp, diving for cover beneath the freighter's hull.

Sparks and molten debris scattered about his head and shoulders,
singeing his clothing and hair.  Thrashing wildly, he swiped the heated
material from his skin.

Nearby, Brandl was helping the frightened boy to his feet, whispering
encouraging words to the traumatized child.

"Damage report."

"They got us, boss," Kierra pined.  "Concussion missile."

There was a brief pause as she analyzed the incoming data.

"Shields are out.  Engines are at 70 percent.

There's a good chance the ion coils may seize if we push them too
far."

"Can we lift off?"

"With you at the reins, flyboy," she chuckled, "anything's possible."

Protectively embracing the boy against him, Brandl whispered, "As long
as we don't make ourselves known, he will pass."

"Look," Ross barked, "this is all very touching, but that last pass was
just to get an approximate location.  Next time--" he snorted
anxiously, "forget it, I'm not waiting around for next time.  Let's
scratch gravel, now!"

Agitated by the sudden turn of events, Brandl cupped the boy's face in
his hands.  "Does your mother know you're here?"

"No."

"Then .  . ."  Brandl stammered, "how did you know?"

Playfully holding his father's hands, Jaalib smiled, "Otias told me the
truth a long time ago.  He let me watch the holos of your stage work.

Mother didn't like it at first, but she came with me and she cried the
whole time."

Sadly, the boy glanced away, avoiding Brandl's eyes.

"When we saw you in the settlement common, as soon as we got home she
started to cry.  So I knew it was you."

Staring at Ross, the boy frowned, knowing the inevitable parting was
soon at hand.  "Will you ever come home?"

Brandl cradled Jaalib's smooth cheeks and gently kissed the child's
forehead.  "I can make no promises."

Jaalib forced a smile.  "I understand.  Otias said that you had other
important roles to play, parts that a small world like Trulalis could
never offer."  Clinging to his father's presence, the boy whispered,
"When I'm old enough, I'm going to act offworld too.  Otias said that
he would help."

He hesitated.  "I want to be as great as you are, Father."

The thin film of tears returned, threatening to spill over his
cheeks.

"I won't ever forget you."  Using the thick canopy of the forest as a
shield, Jaalib sprinted down the trail and vanished into the night
shadows.

"They never told him the truth," Brandl swallowed desperately, fighting
back his emotions.

"Why didn't you tell him?"  Ross snarled, sealing the outer hatch.

"You give me credit for courage?  A man of courage is a man of
conviction, Captain Ross."  Brushing past the Corellian, the Jedi
whispered, "I lost mine the moment I chose to believe in old
legends."

Throwing himself into the acceleration seat, Ross frantically began
throwing the flight controls.  His hands moved diligently across the
console with consummate skill.  Roused by the threat of a hostile
starfighter swinging in on the sensor scope, he initialized the booster
ignition, cradling the crippled ship in his hands.  A low whine
engulfed the flight cabin in static echoes and vibrations as the ion
drive labored to lift the freighter.  The metallic rattle of the deck
plates reverberated through every corridor and in the spacious cargo
bay.

"Oh," Kierra groaned, "that sounds bad."

"Never mind how it sounds, get started on bringing the shield
generators on line!"  Struggling to maintain control of the freighter,
Ross brawled with the partially ionized throttle, maximizing the power
output through the damaged engine.

"The hard part will be getting through the atmosphere," Brandl
whispered, glancing over the readout screens.

"We may never get off the ground!"  Ross grumbled.

"Kierra, where is he?"

"One Z-95 Headhunter, headed right for us and according to my readings,
the ship exceeds the normal weight ratio for its class."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning more concussion missiles.  He's fully loaded."

"Power up the main sentry turret," Ross mumbled, concentrating on the
hampered freighter.  "When will the shield generator come on line?"

"Give me five more minutes.  Hydraulic pressure is building to
functional levels."

"Well hurry it along.  At this rate, we won't even get into space
before he catches us."  Ross stared into the underlying blanket of the
lower atmosphere, shrouding his departure in the frenzy of night
mist.

"What can you do about fixing the ion drive?"

"Think happy thoughts," Kierra replied.  "We have no cargo.  We have no
surplus material.  And," she added with a hint of feminine pride, "this
ship has always been under its weight ratio.  We're lighter than a
Gamorrean brain sack."

"How long before he intercepts us?"

"Let's just say I'm putting up the shields now."

Abruptly, the modified light freighter shook with the impact concussion
of another direct hit.  Bucking beneath the.  powerful blow, the Kierra
drifted beneath the cloud cover as the destructive energy ricocheted
over the aft shields, dissipating harmlessly against the hull.

"Damage?"  Ross panted.

"The shields took it," Kierra replied wearily, still accessing the
information from her multiple systems.  "But the hydraulic level is
already dropping.  We won't survive much more of that."

Angling across the stratosphere, the Headhunter aggressively continued
its pursuit.  Hampered by the thickened atmosphere of Trulalis, it
swayed from side to side, approaching for another strafing run.

Arming the lower turret, Kierra interfaced with the sentry gun, timing
a sporadic burst across the forefront of the attacking ship.

Not expecting retaliation from the crippled freighter, the fighter
stuttered through the atmosphere, its left wing section erupting into
flames.

Avoiding the turret's deadly accuracy, the Z-95 dropped back,
barrelling out of range.  "That should keep his head down for a
while."

"Not long enough," Ross argued.  Eluding Brandl's cautious eye, he
grumbled, "If there's something in your Jedi survival book, now's the
time to spring it."

Brandl nodded, his face notably drained and haggard.

Reaching inside the fold of his robe, he again produced the peculiar
capsule.  The cylindrical-shaped device was cleverly fitted for
concealment as a hydrospanner or mechanic's tool.  Staring at the
object, Ross recognized it from their brief excursion at the theater.

As he watched, fascinated, the control head flashed intermittently from
a hidden power cell.

"What's that?"  Kierra crooned.  Intrigued by the odd unit, her optical
orb brightened, extending the focus on the transmitter.

"It's a transponder," Brandl replied.  "And it's been transmitting for
nearly an hour."  The Jedi sighed with effort, leaning against the
broad back of the acceleration chair.  In the harsh light of the flight
cabin, his arrogance could not hide the gaunt cheeks and stress lines
that had begun eroding the handsome visage of a once proud man.  The
morbid signs of resignation and surrender were easily read in his noble
face.

Without warning, the Headhunter broke off the chase, banking sharply
toward the planet.  Its aft engines betrayed haste, glowing with the
throttle thrown full open as the fighter vanished into the dense cloud
cover above the planet.  Suspicious, Ross glared at Brandl, feeling the
constriction of fear in his throat.  "What's the catch?"

"You had better prepare yourself," Brandl whispered.

The proximity alarms blared, sending a deafening echo into the
freighter's corridor and accessways.  Exploding with tactical data and
imminent warnings of ship-to-ship collision, the sensors closed on the
gigantic structure of the massive Imperial Star Destroyer, newly
emerged from hyperspace.

As the Star Destroyer moved across the viewscreen only a scant 100
meters from him, Ross slumped against the back of his chair, defeated
before one shot could be fired.

Slowly, scores of turbolaser batteries turned on them, targeting his
freighter.  Still hampered by a faulty ion drive, the Kierra bucked and
lurched toward the Star Destroyer.

"Have they got us?"  Ross moaned, massaging his eyes and forehead.

Kierra snickered nervously.  "Does Boba Fett enjoy his job?"

"Could we outrun them?"

"We couldn't even out-think them at this point, flyboy.

They've got us locked in tight."

Resting his head and arms against the flight console, Ross sighed,
accepting the inevitable.  "You've managed to sign my death warrant!"

"On the contrary, I've guaranteed your reprieve."  The Jedi's mouth
hinted at a sly grin.

"I have a price on my head!  An Imperial bounty!"

"You are about to discover that the Emperor is quite generous,
especially when one of his citizens sees fit to return his property."

"You're one of the Emperor's freaks?"  Ross argued.

"What were you doing on Najiba .  . . You were running!"  Staring at
the Imperial Star Destroyer, he gasped, "You were running from the
Empire?  Why?"

"It no longer matters," Brandl whispered.  "The time has come to
confront the darkness and forsake it for what it is .  . . just so many
shadows."

"Well some shadows can kill!"

As they passed into the outer docking field, the freighter was engulfed
in darkness.  "Then let all be perfected in death."

Prying the forward deck plate from the flight console, Ross quickly
unbuckled his blaster, stashing the belt inside with a hidden cache of
thermal detonators and other illegal weaponry.  Motivated by Imperial
penalties for unauthorized equipment and arms, he retreated to a
general utility closet in the corridor beyond the command cabin.

Retrieving a small stash of blaster power packs, the flustered
Corellian returned to the bridge to find Brandl peering curiously into
the hidden compartment.  "Kierra, make certain the shield housing is
intact.  I don't want them finding your power cell."

"A girl's got to have her privacy," she quipped.  "Good thinking,
boss."

Closing the hidden panel, Ross tripped the contamination seal.  If the
Imperial sensors went over the ship, they would bypass this area for
contaminated mechanic's tools.

Abruptly, the interior lights fluctuated as the power levels dropped,
shifting to auxiliary mode.  "All clear," Ross hollered.

"I've switched over my power couplings to a subordinate cell.

Even if they do find my main generator, they won't know what it is.

But," she teased, "that means I can't eavesdrop over the comlink or
scan the perimeter!"

"For your own safety," Brandl began, "I advise you not to mention
Trulalis."

Remembering Brandl's wife and son back on the planet, Ross nodded
pensively.  "Kierra, sweep all records and logs since we left Najiba,
input data from a previous job.  Where does that put us?"

"We dropped that baby tris off on Tatooine, remember?"

"Don't remind me," Ross replied wistfully.  "Just erase the reasons and
submit an addendum about engine trouble above Trulalis."

"Right, boss."

"And Kierra?  Lose yourself.  They'll probably go over every centimeter
of this ship."

"Is that a hint of concern in your voice, flyboy?"

"Yeah," he grumbled.  Shrugging the tension menacing his shoulders, he
walked through the corridor to the hatch and deactivated the seal.

Before the ramp could fully lower two Imperial storm-troopers charged
aboard the ship, leveling their weapons at Ross, shoving him against
the hull wall.  The force of the blow knocked the wind from his lungs
and the Corellian doubled over, coughing desperately to catch his
breath.  Twenty or more stormtroopers were staggered outside the
freighter, their weapons pointing into the ramp lift, trained on the
dark Jedi.

Undaunted by the show of Imperial might, Brandl scanned the parade of
white-on-black armor, until he met the familiar face of an Imperial
officer beyond the periphery of armed soldiers.  Stepping aside, the
Jedi allowed three stormtroopers to rush past him into the ship.

"I trust you will cooperate," the officer announced.

Pompously, he adjusted the brim of his black cap.  "If not for your own
sake, then for the sake of your companion."

Disguising a hint of defeatism with dramatic poise, the Jedi
proclaimed, "How can I cooperate?"

"Think nothing.  Do nothing.  Say nothing until you are told."

Offering a hand to the panting smuggler, Brandl grinned slyly, his back
to the Imperial entourage.  "Captain Grendahl, you'll find that I do
nothing very well."

Grendahl's face was menacing.  "We're scheduled to rendezvous with the
Interrogator within the hour.  Inquisitor Tremayne is eager to see you
again, Lord Brandl .  . .

very eager."  Pointing to Ross, Grendahl demanded, "Take him to the
isolation area for questioning."  Changing his demeanor with obvious
fraudulence, Grendahl tipped his hat with mocking respect, "Please,
Lord Brandl, your quarters have been prepared."

Massaging the bruises swelling on his chest and arms, Ross leaned his
head against the antiseptically clean wall of the holding cell.

Several hours had slowly passed, marked with isolated sessions of
routine questioning.

Abruptly, the door opened, admitting two stormtroopers and Captain
Grendahl, who he recognized from the hangar bay.  Pleasantly, the
Imperial officer sat down across from him, setting a large datapad on
the table between them.  "Do you recognize this gentleman?"  he asked,
keying up a picture on the small screen.

Ross laughed softly, recognizing the distinguished curves of his own
face.  "Would it help if I said I didn't?"

Grendahl smiled generously.  "No."  Folding his hands against the table
top, he sneered, "Interfering with an Imperial investigation is a crime
punishable with imprisonment."

"An Imperial investigation?"  Ross jeered.  "It was a fight, and not a
fair one," he argued.  "Two storm-troopers against a Jawa, come on!"

"Never mind the odds," Grendahl replied evenly.  "You still interfered;
however .  . ."

"However?"  the Corellian scoffed, mocking the insipid officer.

"However, I am authorized to extend a generous amnesty if you will
cooperate and answer a few questions."

"Amnesty?"  Ross chuckled.  He scratched his head, agitated.

"Imperial amnesty is about as valuable as a Wookiee dwarf with no
hair."

Grendahl frowned, covering his dismay with shrewd professionalism.

"You have the Emperor's guarantee, Captain Ross.  Help us with one
short investigation and you will be cleared of all charges."

Stalling, Ross demanded, "He owes me money!"

"I can't promise you will get it," Grendahl countered, "but you are
entitled to 10,000 credits."  Grinning malevolently, he watched the
smuggler's startled reaction.

"That's 10 percent of the bounty offered for Brandl's safe return."

Intrigued, Ross leaned over the edge of the table.  "You mean to say
Brandl's worth 100,000 credits?"

Anxious to keep the smuggler's attention, Grendahl silently
acknowledged the query.  "You're lucky to even be alive, Captain
Ross.

Adalric Brandl is highly unstable, capable of inconceivable
atrocities.

However, his value to the Emperor makes him an essential resource.

Where did you find him?"

"Najiba."

Grendahl's face darkened, perplexed.  "Najiba has stringent ordinances
restricting traffic through the asteroid belt."

"By the time I got there," Ross explained, "no one cared about port
control penalties.  They just wanted him off the planet."

"Was there trouble?  Was anyone harmed?"

The Corellian shrugged casually.  "I never left my ship," he lied, "so
I can't really say."

"And where were you going?"

"Mos Eisley, but," Ross laughed, "considering my last visit, I only
planned to take him as far as Anchorhead.

After that, he was on his own."

"Did he ever mention his connection with the Emperor?"

"Not until you had us in the tractor beam."

"The damage to your ship?"

"We were attacked by pirates," Ross replied rhythmically.

"My hyperdrive failed and we just barely managed to arrive here."

Grendahl hesitated.  "You keep accurate ship records, Captain Ross.

Your flight log and manifests substantiate your story."

"Call it a throwback to my bounty hunting days," Ross offered.

"If you wanted your expenses, exact documentation was a necessity."

Tentatively peering into the room, a junior-grade lieutenant saluted
Grendahl, ignoring the prisoner with him.

"Captain Grendahl, sir, Admiral Etnam requests your presence on the
bridge immediately, sir.  Lord Brandl has been given the task of
escorting the civilian to his ship."

"What!"

Ross concealed a sly grin behind the collar of his duster.

Feigning surprise, he rose from the chair and leaned against the glossy
table, pondering how Brandl managed to arrange this escort.

"Captain Grendahl," the lieutenant whispered, appalled by the
outburst.

"Admiral Etnam's instructions were quite specific.  He is anxious to
rendezvous with High Inquisitor Tremayne."  Being Etnam's personal aide
and fearing no reprisals from Grendahl, he nodded to the nearest
stormtrooper and whispered, "Retrieve the prisoner."

Grendahl struggled to retain his composure, chafed by Brandl's
influence, which despite his moment of dishonor to the Emperor, still
held weight, even with the intrepid character of Admiral Etnam.

Nostrils flared, he hissed between gritted teeth, "Very well."  Then to
eestablish his ego in the company of those under his command, he
straightened his hunched shoulders, erasing the sour scowl from his
face.  "You're free to go, Captain Ross," he growled.  "The Emperor's
clemency can be bountiful and far-reaching; but the next time you
meddle with an Imperial investigation," he paused, "you may find
yourself at the wrong end of Imperial justice."  Folding his hands
behind his back, Grendahl started up the corridor.  "Remember that the
next time you consider beating the odds."

Over the polished shoulders of several stormtroopers, Brandl watched
Grendahl's retreating back.  Sneering behind the Imperial officer, the
Jedi sniffed disdainfully as he led the smuggler into the corridor.

"Are you a superstitious man, Captain Ross?"

Preoccupied by the armed escort behind them, Ross whispered, "My
grandfather used to say that superstition was the foundation of a weak
mind."

"Then we are surely doomed, for the basis of our civilization lays in
the hands of high priests, shamans, and monks."  Brandl laughed with
genuine good nature.

There was a spark of emotion betrayed by the brilliance of his eyes and
Ross noted the deepening of the laugh lines framing his mouth.

Adalric Brandl was in good spirit.

"Your grandfather was a wise man."

Ross shrugged off the compliment.  "Just another smuggler who found
himself on the wrong end of Imperial justice."  He sniffed, recalling
Grendahl's threat.  "That's why I became a bounty hunter, hoping to
avoid what happened to him."

"And then?"

"And then I got bored.  Guess it wasn't meant to be."

"We spend nearly the whole of our lives searching for the appropriate
role that will mark the end of our existence with some moment of glory,
ignoring the fact that fame and reputation are but mere perfumes of
virtue.

They never last."

"Is that another line?"  Ross teased.

"Acting is a profound education in human nature and that is why I
became so obsessed; but as my intellect improved, my morals failed and
I became the very thing I most despised."

"And what was that?"

"Human.  I was not a king, not a hero, not a god.  Just a man trapped
in the passion of the play."

"So what happens now?"  Ross probed.

"My life has been one continuous drama," Brandl whispered, "a tragic
one, I'm afraid.  And I have stumbled through it, scene by scene, act
by act, like some terrified neophyte.  Tonight, Fortune calls for the
final exit.  I can no longer live the lie."

"You're going back to the Emperor, aren't you?  After what he's done to
you?"

"He did nothing but point in a general direction.  I chose to go and do
his bidding."

"What about your family?  Your boy?  What if the Emperor ever found
out?"

"I assure you; no harm will befall them."  Euphorically, he sighed,
"They will be safe."

Ross believed him.  There was a certainty about the Jedi that went
beyond the sinister shadows that had once kept the two men at odds with
each other.  But the smuggler's conscience demanded a bit more for
security.  "How can you be sure?"

"I've never been more certain in my life."  Placing a credit chit in
the smuggler's hand, he closed Ross's fingers over it.  Ross noticed
another object in Brandl's hand, one which the Jedi tried to conceal
when he folded his hands together over it.  "The chit is the remainder
of what I owe you and the Emperor's compulsory fee for capturing a
dangerous renegade."  He grinned malevolently, amused by his own
sarcasm.

Slipping the chit in his duster pocket, Ross noticed the spherical,
metallic shape beneath Brandl's hands, and noted the raspy acid erase
etched into the explosive where the serial trace markers had been
removed.  Eyes wild with the revelation, he stared into Brandl's
tranquil face.

"Consider all debts paid," the Jedi whispered.  Turning curtly on his
heels, he retreated in the hangar corridor with the escort in tow.

Ross hurried up the ramp, rush sealing the corridor hatch.

"Kierra!"  he hissed, sprinting through the access tunnel into the
flight cabin.  "Kierra, wake up!"

"What do you mean wake up!"  she snapped.  "The engines have been on
line and waiting for the last hour.  I even managed to knock one of the
ion coils in place by popping the shield housing."  She snorted,
causing an erratic hiccup over the comm.  "What's the rush?  The main
databanks were clean and according to this little as-tromech they had
on board--" "Never mind!"  Ross shouted, strapping himself into the
acceleration chair.  "Brandl has one of my thermal detonators and I
think he plans to---" A muffled explosion reverberated through the
docking corridors, blowing smoke and debris into the auxiliary bay.

Piercing, high-pitched alarms began to blare, alerting medics and
technicians to the area.  Amid the chaos of shouting voices, the
klaxons, and the sound of armored feet rushing to secure the area, the
Kierra momentarily hovered above the flight pad.  Several smaller
explosions echoed from the passage, rattling TIE fighters and shuttle
craft in the nearby racks.

Bewildered, Kierra gasped, "What would ever possess him to pull such a
stunt?"

"He had to protect his family," the smuggler replied wearily.

"But with him dead, there's no guarantee the Empire won't find them.

Then again," she mused aloud, "there's no guarantee the Empire will
even look for them."  Flustered by the infinite innuendoes, she
quipped, "I'm just glad it's over."

"But it's not," he whispered.  Banking sharply over an array of TIE
fighters and ejector racks, Ross guided the Kierra out of the launch
bay, repeatedly throttling the labored engines.  "Brandl might have
made his final exit; but the play is far from over .  . . for us .

. . or his family."

The Corellian grinned nostalgically.  Mesmerized by the verdant face of
Trulalis, he watched the planet rotate before him, physically unmarred,
innocently unaware, momentarily unchanged.  He sighed, his smuggler's
sense oddly at peace.  There were no more shadows.

Casually resetting the astrogation system for Najiba, he braced himself
as the Kierra stuttered across the open void and then vanished into the
translucent brilliance of hyperspace.

Missed Chance

by Michael A. Stackpole Corran Horn smiled broadly as the R2 droid's
muted warble came to him from back in the darkened interior of the
temporary hangar.  "Yes, Whistler, you have done a good job of
disguising this place."  In his absence the droid had busied himself by
strewing all manner of debris inside the abandoned vehicle shed.

Between that and the growth of the purple djorra vine across the front
of the shed, no one would guess that the structure hid the only X-wing
fighter on Garqi.

Corran swung under the ship's sleek nose and squat-walked back to
where the little green and white droid stood.  Things had been moved
around since he'd last visited Whistler and Gorran suspected he was
only seeing the latest in a long line of decorating schemes.  "I'm
sorry I haven't visited sooner, but the whole city is going quite
insane about Rebel activity.  The way everyone is being watchful, you'd
think some slicers grafting New Republic slogans and graphics onto
computer screens and public data displays was the same as murder."

The droid extended his I/O jack and plugged it into the port on a small
datapad resting atop a can oozing an oily gray substance.  The screen
flicked to life and displayed the blade assembly for an X-wing's
centrifugal debris extractor.  A chirp ran from low to high as the
droid's head swung from the image around to Gorran.

The pilot blushed, then shook his head.  "No, I haven't figured out how
to get the part out of the Imperial Guards' possession.  With the Rebel
activity around here they've not slackened their security the way they
normally would.  Finding the spare parts and those proton torpedoes on
the Star's Delight was the biggest thing to happen to Imps on this
backwater, and it got Prefect Barris all hot to root out the Rebels
here.  I don't know who he thinks that will impress--the Emperor is
dead and there's enough infighting on coruscant that we even get word
of it out here."

The droid's whistle scolded corran as the image of the debris extractor
faded into the crest of the New Republic.

"No, it's not a question of joining the Republic or not--and we've gone
over this before.  There is no Rebel activity here.  The 'Rebels' they
think they have are kids---students at Garqi Ag University, They
couldn't help me get those parts away from Imps if I gave them months
of instruction.  Moreover, they'd get killed in the attempt."  corran
shook his head adamantly: "Look, this is my problem.

Gaptain Nootka brought those torpedoes because he thought he could sell
them to me, or move them to his Rebel contacts elsewhere.  They got
him caught, got his crew arrested and his ship impounded.  I might owe
it to him to try to spring him, but doing that without having this ship
up and flying is not going to work."

As he spoke, Corran reached up and ran a hand along the side of the
X-wing.  It shared the green and white color scheme of the droid,
though both of them could have used a few paint touch-ups.  The fighter
had been Corran's during his time with the Corellian Security Force,
and Whistler had been his co-pilot and partner in countless missions to
stop smugglers and other trouble-makers from disrupting life in the
Corellian system.

Whistler let the datapad's screen go dark, producing a mournful tone as
he did so.

"I know, Whistler, I miss taking those night flights, too."  When
Imperial entanglements made remaining in CorSec impossible, he took off
with the ship and the droid.  His purpose in coming to Garqi had been
to lie low and avoid drawing Imperial attention to himself.  Despite
the fact that flying the X-wing put his life in jeopardy, he could no
more refrain from flying than he could refrain from breathing--though
he did make all of his flights at night to make it more difficult to
locate him and his ship.

And dodging the local troops was simplicity itself.  If I'd not sucked
a rdava-bird into the starboard engine on that last flight, I'd still
be flying and no one would think Garqi was a hotbed of Rebel
activity.

He sighed.  "Now I'm stuck here because rich kids who have decided they
want to shock their parents have started playing Rebel.

It's all a game to them."

Again the droid scolded him with a sharp whistle.

"You're right, Dynba Tesc probably doesn't think of it as a game, but
it's her own fault that she got caught last night.  The Imps around
here are not exactly storm-trooper caliber, but she left a trail that
even our old Cor-Sec Imperial Liaison officer could have followed."  He
reached out and patted the droid gently on the head.

"She'll spend some time in the local jail, then get kicked loose.

Yes, she'll be interrogated, but they'll see she knows nothing and let
her go.  I'm sure of it."

Whistler tooted another question.

"Yes, if she were in danger, I would do what I couldbut not because
she's a Rebel.  I've got nothing to do with the New Republic and just
because the Empire hates the both of us doesn't mean we're allies."

Corran frowned heavily.  "The Rebels might have killed the Emperor, and
they're saying they have the last living Jedi on their side, but
they're still a far cry from having the Empire down and out.

My priority is to lay low while they attract more attention than I
do.

The Rebellion, such as it is, has come to Garqi, and that means it's
time we're out of here."

He held a hand up.  "No, no more protests.  In fact, I don't want to
hear any more Rebellion squawk out of you, got it?  I'll be spending
all my time working to maintain my cover and to keep my eye on the
extractor.  I'll figure out a way to get it, then we're on our way."

Corran started to turn away, but the droid caught hold of his sleeve
with his pincer attachment.  "What is it, Whistler?"

The droid hooted derisively at him.

"Yeah, well maybe back on the job I wouldn't have been so blase about
Dynba Tesc's problem, but now we're running from the law, not working
for the law."  He pulled his arm free, but looked back at the droid and
hung his head.  "Okay, no promises, but I will see what I can do.  I
look to take care of us first, though, right?"

Whistler's head spun around as he crowed triumphantly.

"Yes, saving her and her friends would look good in my datafile."

Corran nodded to the droid as he headed back out of the hangar.  Unless
the Empire is the one to put the notation in it, but they'd have to
catch me first.  With that extractor, I can avoid them--and that is the
notation in my data file I most want to see.

Prefect Mosh Barris sat back in the overstuffed chair that he decided
was almost as deep and as black as the depression in which he found
himself.  He felt old and tired, as if he were at a point in the
universe from which any other direction was up.  The only thing Garqi
had to recommend it as a post had been its utter isolation and
insulation from the Empire, and even that shield had worn thin in his
year's tenure as the military prefect under the current--and seemingly
ever-absent Imperial governor.

"You see, Eamon," he began, "I had not expected her to make it easy for
us, but this Tesc woman's ability to resist narco-interrogation is
incredible.  She steadfastly claims she knows nothing of the Rebellion
and claims no connection with Lai Nootka or his Star's Delight.  Even
so, she seems to have an encyclopedic understanding of the phantom
X-wing's flightswhich she claims is because studying it was a hobby for
her--and full knowledge of her crime.  Of this 'Xeno' she claims is the
ringleader of her slicer circus we have no record, and her speculation
that he is a member of the Delight's crew that eluded capture is one
more black mark against us."

Eamon Yzalli nodded slightly as he slid the silver tray with the
refilled snifter of Cassandran choholl.  "Regrettable, sir.  On the
whole, one could be led to believe by all this that she knows nothing
beyond what she has already revealed."

Barris took the glass and warmed it in his hands for a moment.

"Looks can be deceiving, Eamon.  Looking at her I see a woman who is
more a child than adult but that is standard among the adults here.

This damned world is so fertile that the great agri-combines need
nothing more than droids to tend the crops and accountants to tend the
profits.  The people of Garqi are pampered and unrealistic, hardly
fodder for the Rebellion."

He drank in just enough of the Cassandran liquor to fill the hollow of
his tongue, and let it pool there for as long as it took for the
fragrant, fruity vapors to fill his sinuses.

"Of course, that is what she wants us to believe."

"What is, sir?"

"That she is too innocent to be part of the Rebellion."

Barris looked up at his green-eyed aide.  "I cannot and will not be
tricked by her.  A long time ago I did nothing in a situation that
called for action.  I was deceived and I have paid for it since.  It
was a long time ago .  . . but I have told you of it before, yes?"

The blond man returned to the sideboard and replaced the tray before
turning and nodding to his master.

"I do recall having been told something of the alien incident, sir."

"Yes, the alien incident."  Barris stared darkly into the depths of the
amber liquor.  An alien--both humanoid and intelligent had run him and
his men around in circles on a planet that was--if it were
possible-even more of a backwater than Garqi.  This alien had killed
his men, had brought down a TIE fighter and had even slain two
stormtroopers using technology he stole from the Imperials in
combination with native plants and animals.  I advocated a planetary
bombardment to rid us of this menace, but Captain Parck invited this
murderous creature to join the Empire.  The Emperor chose that time to
forego his normal xenopho-bia.

He advanced Parck's career, gave this Thrawn a career, and started me
on the long road from one humiliating post to another.

Barris had hoped the Emperor's hatred for him would die with the man,
but the Imperial institutional memory seemed to cherish the idea of
taking him lower and lower.

The man who had ousted Barris from his last post had been disciplined
for having allowed the last Jedi Knight to' escape Tatooine and murder
the Emperor.  That man's punishment had pushed Barris even further from
the Galactic Core to the mottled red and purple world that was Garqi.

"I swore, Eamon, I swore that I would never let an opportunity to act
decisively and forcefully slip away without redeeming myself.

Uncovering and smashing the Rebels here on Garqi would allow me to do
that."

"If I may be permitted, sir, you have an abundance of time in which to
learn from Dynba Tesc what you need to accomplish this end.

You have only had her for two days.

She will break."

Barris tossed back the choholl and gritted his teeth against the fiery
feeling it ignited in his throat and gut.

"Would that what you say was true.  I just received a priority message
via a courier droid that indicated Kirtan Loor, an Intelligence agent,
is being sent here by Coruscant to investigate.  He will brief me on
his arrival as to what his mission is, but we both know he is coming
here to investigate me.  He will find me deficient in some way and I
will be sent to some other world that is even more wretched than
this."

"I understand your alarm, sir."

"I think you do, Eamon, for we are alike, aren't we?"

"How so, sir?"

"We are both unhomed.  I am hounded from post to post, with no claim to
any world.  You, on the other hand, are an Alderaanian, and without a
world to call your own."

Eamon stiffened a moment, then nodded.  "As you say, sir, neither of us
has a home."

Barris' eyes sharpened for a moment.  "I have a question I have to ask
you, and I intend no disrespect.  I've often thought of it, but I have
said nothing because you have been so valuable to me.  Had my
predecessor not left you behind, and had you not made my arrival here
so easy, I should have despaired of making any headway.

Now that I will probably be gone from here soon, I think I have little
to risk in asking it."

"Sir?"

"The Empire destroyed your world.  How is it that you are content
laboring for the servants of the Empire?"

Eamon's head came up and his hands disappeared at the small of his
back.  "Sir, Alderaan was a peaceful world.

We were unarmed and our people believed in pacifism.

Our leaders chose to rebel.  I, and I was not alone, revered order as
much as I revered peace and left the planet.  As this Rebellion robbed
my people of peace, it also robbed them of life.  Even so, I am at
peace and I still revere order.  You, my lord, represent order on this
world, therefore I am content and honored to be in your service."

"Well said, Eamon.  I understand your feelings completely."

Barris sat forward and rested his hands on the edge of his black
lacquered desk.  "The time has come for me to take action.  To the
Empire, failure to do something is seen as inability to do anything.  I
cannot afford that, not with Loor on his way.  Though reminiscent of
what the Death Star did to your world, I find myself forced to make an
example of Dynba Tesc and publicly execute her.

Once I do that her companions will scatter in terror.  They will know I
would have only killed her if she was of no more use to me, which means
she gave me their names.

We will learn who they are when they flee."

The military prefect smiled coldly.  "Let Coruscant deny that is
decisive action!"

"Indeed, sir, it is decisive, however .  . ."  Standing over by the
sideboard, Eamon looked somewhat perplexed.

Barris reined his smile back in.  Eamon Yzalli's perspective on Garqi
had often proven useful and, not a few times, had steered Barris away
from various faux pas that would have made his tenure more difficult.

"You have an idea?"

"I do, sir, but only because of the question you asked before.  It
strikes me that if the local Rebels do have a way to defeat
narco-interrogation--as the lack of success with Miss Tesc
indicates--they may be sophisticated enough to wait out your action.

More importantly, sir, I think it would be preferential to draw her
confederates together, instead of scattering them, as making a martyr
out of her would certainly do."

"Yes, I see that, but how, Eamon?"

"Make your declaration about her execution public, my lord.

Schedule it for a week from now.  This will agitate the Rebels.  I will
visit her covertly and tell her that I cannot abide seeing her die.  I
will arrange for her escape."

Barris' black brows collided in the depths of his frown.

"You work for me.  She will not believe you."

"But she will, sir, for even the most cynical Of the Rebels would
believe that I, an Alderaanian, have had a change of heart and wish to
make amends for not acting against the Empire sooner.  In addition, as
they say, sir, actions will speak louder than words.  I will arrange
for her escape and prepare the way for her and her confederates to free
the crew of the Star's Delight.  We will even return to them their
cargo of X-wing parts and munitions.

The Rebels will all get together in the ship and prepare to leave.

Your four TIEs will go after them and end the Rebel threat to Garqi in
one dramatic fireball."

The military prefect tipped his snifter up and let the last drop of the
choholl drip into his tongue as he considered the plan.  "Are you sure
my pilots can bring the ship down?"

"They will be able to if we render the shield generator inoperable."

The ghost of a smile drifted across Eamon's bearded face as he started
to pour more liquor into the empty glass.

"We will disable their blaster cannon, too."

"No, sir."

"No?"

"They need to be operable to provide verisimilitude, sir."  Eamon
inserted the cut-crystal stopper in the decanter.

"If one of your TIEs were shot down, its loss would prove the danger
the fleeing Rebels represented to Garqi.  Of course, the fact that the
Rebels were running away and were destroyed will be a lesson here to
any who would seek to emulate them."

"I see."  Barris admired the way the light shifted and glowed within
the choholl.  "Then should we not keep the X-wing munitions to prove
the Star's Delight was smuggling things in the first place, or is this
more verisimilitude?"

"We have the initial scans to show the smuggling, sir, and piecing
together debris from the destroyed freighter will give this Loor
character a great deal to do, occupying his time fully."  Eamon smiled
weakly.  "Finally, sir, I will use delivery of the contraband to secure
my passage aboard the ship.  This way I will know when it is to leave,
so our fighters can be prepared to sweep it from the sky."

"But you will not be on it?"

"No, sir.  You will plant a report in our computer system here for one
of their codeSlicers to ferret out.  It will indicate you had me
executed for crimes against the Empire--unspecified, of course, but
they will take it to mean I was found out.  They will leave the moment
that message is accessed, so they will tell us when they are
leaving."

"And I alert our fighters to go."

"Exactly, sir."  Eamon's face darkened for a moment.

"The only difficulty with all this is that we cannot have any trace of
what we are doing entered into our computer system here."

"Yes."  Barris nodded solemnly and sipped the choholl.

"Since their slicers can put stuff into our databases, we know they can
pull it out again.  Were they to find any indication of our operation,
all would be lost."

"Precisely, sir.  I shall make the arrangements, sir, if you have no
objections."

"Objections?  No.  I will want reports, however."

"Of course, my lord."  Eamon smiled briefly.  "For your ears only,
until it is time to reveal what you have accomplished in service to the
Empire."

Dynba Tesc felt cold and achy, or at least she thought she did.

Curled up on the steel cot, with her back pressed against the rough
stones of the cell wall, she knew she should feel uncomfortable.  Her
body definitely was giving her all the sensory input to tell her she
was, in fact, not feeling very good at all.

The problem is that with all the stuff they've pumped into me to pump
irformation out of me, I'm not certain what I know and what I don't
know, what is real and unreal.  She coiled a blond lock around her
right index finger, then sucked on the ends of the hair.  A sense of
security washed over her briefly, then she angrily flicked the hair
away.  I am not a child, I can't retreat into childhood things to find
comfort.

But retreat she really did want to do, because she had never been more
scared in her whole entire life.  There was no question in her mind
about that-clear of drugs or dosed to the top of her cranium.  The
terror of being arrested and tossed into jail had been enough to make
her tell the authorities everything she knew.

The problem was she didn't know anything.

To her the Rebellion had been a distant conflict, one full of romance
and heroism.  The last True Jedi fighting the monster that destroyed
his predecessors and a rogue of a smuggler winning the heart of a
princess from a dead world these were the things she knew about the New
Republic.  They had destroyed the Death Stars and the Emperor, but
other than a change Of the military prefect, those events had no effect
on her or her friends at the university.

Then the Star's Delight had come to Garqi and had been taken for
smuggling supplies to Rebels.  She and others she met on the computer
comnetsin temporary areas they sliced open and let close after the
conversations were done had mentioned suspicions that the New Republic
had agents on Garqi.  Dynba had found that prospect thrilling and not a
little scary.  People speculated about all sorts of things concerning
the Delight, and a natural linkage was made between it and the phantom
X-wing that had been reported flying at night all over Garqi.

Then she met Xeno.  He sliced his way into one of the covert
conversations--marking him as being better at codeslicing than anyone
in the Imperial Security outfit on Garqi.  Though he never said it,
from his name and the fact that he only showed up after the Delight's
capture, Dynba concluded he was one of the Delight's crew that the
local authorities had failed to pick up.

Xeno organized her and her byte-friends, keeping them all anonymous.

She never knew what she'd find on her datapad once she linked into the
planetary network, but it was always an adventure.

Xeno showed her and the others how to graft slogans and graphics into
the system, so datapad screens everywhere in the cornnet would get New
Republic messages at random intervals.

The shock and the outrage, as voiced by her parents and their friends,
was wonderful.  Dynba had struggled numerous times to maintain a
straight face when some atrocity was being described to her by her
apoplectic father, all the while knowing she'd composed the slogan and
aimed it to hit his computer first.  Doing things like that marked the
highest point in her personal rebellion against his authority, and she
found planning and executing new code assaults rather cathartic.

Dynba had long held the opinion that Xeno was grooming her and the
others for something bigger--possibly the liberation of the Delight
even--but she wanted to do something more.  Abandoning the virtual
realm of computers, she went out and bought a can of paint.  In big,
sloppy red letters she wrote "The death of a Tyrant is the triumph of
Justice!"  on the side of the Imperial Court building in the heart of
the capital, Pesktda.

It had not occurred to her until later--about the time the local
constabulary was putting her in binders-that having the store mix up a
precise shade of red and charging the purchase to her personal account
was not exactly the way to maintain her anonymity.  The constabulary
seemed to think her boldness meant she was dangerous and the
interrogation to which she was subjected had been ruthless and
efficient.  Her lack of substantive answers angered her questioners and
she knew she was in very serious trouble.

The door to her cell hissed open and the lights came up slowly.  A
small man with blond hair and beard entered and descended the
metal-lattice steps to the floor.  He turned back and gestured toward
an unseen guard.  The door clanked down, leaving her alone with this
man wearing the uniform of the prefect's personal staff.  She thought
she recognized him, but she could attach no name to his face.

Dynba drew her legs up and tried to wedge herself more deeply into the
corner of the cell.  "I don't know any more."

The man nodded.  "I know, child."  He sank down in a squat, bringing
his eye level down to hers.  "It is my sad duty to tell you that
Prefect Barris has decided to have you executed for your crime."

"What?"  Dynba gulped air.  "He can't."

"Oh, but he can."  The man's green-eyed gaze flicked down toward the
floor, giving her a moment to recover herself, then he looked back
up.

"I, on the other hand, cannot stand by and let this happen."

"What are you saying?"  She thought she heard sincerity in his voice,
and read it in his eyeS, but the clothes he wore and the fact that a
guard had followed his direction argued against any compassion on his
part.  The fact that he was there and talking to her at all made her
wary of a trick.  "You work for him.  You won't help me."

The man broke off his stare and color rose to his cheeks.

"Please, this is difficult for me as it is."

"Were I not here I might be more considerate.  You work for a
monster."

"I know."  His hands balled into fists.  "I am his personal aide."

"You!  You are Eamon Yzalli!"

"I am."

"Then you are here to trick me."  Dynba let her anger flow fully into
her voice.  "You should be ashamed of yourself."

Eamon sighed loudly.  "I am."

"What?"

"I am ashamed."  He swallowed hard.  "I should have seen sooner that
to which I have chosen to be blind--the Empire corrupts people.  I
denied this truth and my denial is a crime that makes me complicit in
the death of my homeworld, Alderaan.  I came here and served here in
hopes of forgetting.  Then, when Prefect Barris was installed, I made
myself a buffer between his capriciousness and the people of Garqi.

Even now I tried to get him to moderate your punishment, but to no
avail.  I cannot allow your death to be upon my head, so I have chosen
to act against him and for you."

Dynba shook her head tO clear her brain of the buoyant hope bubbling up
into it.  "What can you do?"

A broad smile split Eamon's beard and in that moment Dynba thought him
just a little bit handsome.  Like a hero of the New Republic.

"What I can do and will do is this: I will arrange for your
liberation.

You will have approximately two days in which to execute a rescue of
the Star's Delight crew.  You and your confederates will board the ship
and leave with it.  Garqi is no longer safe for you."

His eyes narrowed.  "Captain Nootka will need things to trade if he is
going to resupply the ship and get to the New Republic.  I will arrange
for the contraband he smuggled here to be placed aboard I can tell the
workers we want the evidence replaced in the compartments to show an
Imperial Intelligence agent how we found it.  They will believe that
and it will save us having to move it ourselves."

Dynba's blue eyes widened.  "You're coming with us?"

Eamon nodded solemnly.  "I can cover your escape, but once the ship
gets away there would be no concealing my part in all of this.

When you are set to go, have one of your slicers get into the Imperial
comnet and leave me a message as to where and when I should meet
you."

"I'll do it myself."  Dynba swung her legs over the edge of the cot and
her toes touched the cold floor.  "What you're doing, the people you
lost on Alderaan would be proud."

Eamon closed his eyes and nodded.  "It is my hope you are correct."

He reached out and took her hand in his, gently stroking warmth back
into her flesh.  "You only have to endure this prison for a few hours
more, then you shall be free."

She gripped his hand tightly.  "And soon after that, we shall be
free!"

Barris raised a nearly empty glass in Eamon's direction.  "I salute
you, Eamon.  It seems as if everything is going perfectly."

"Yes, sir.  Dynba Tesc is secreted away, bringing her confederates
together to free the Delight and its crew.  She is also altering her
appearance so she can claim to be Kirtana Loor, Imperial Intelligence
agent, and take the Delight's crew from custody without having to
notify you for authorization.  Several landspeeders have been organized
for transport."

"And the Delight is ready?"

The small man nodded solemnly.  "Using TIE pilots as workers was
difficult, but once I explained the necessity of limiting knowledge of
the operation to them, they agreed they were the best people for doing
the job.  The X-wing munitions are on board the Delight, though the
spare parts appear to have been pilfered.  As a skilled technician can
convert them to work in Incom's T-47 landspeeder, my assumption is that
someone in property storage gave himself a bonus.  I have a few leads
in that regard."

"We will deal with him, later."  Barris snorted, drank and set his
glass down.  "The shields on the ship are disabled?"

"Yes, sir.  We replaced a duplex circuit with its triplex
equivalent."

"But a codepatch will allow them to bring the shields "Yes, sir, but an
initial diagnostic run on the ship will report the circuits as
complete.  Only when they discover the failure will they begin to look
for the triplex.  At that point slicing the proper sequence out of it
will take approximately an hour."

The Prefect tapped a finger against the empty rim of his shifter.

"An hour they will not have."

"Precisely, sir."  Eamon refilled the glass with choholl.

"While you have been busy, Eamon, so have I."  Barris winked at his
man.  "I have composed the report about your execution."

"Not on the system, sir?"

Barris smiled in response to the urgency in Eamon's voice.  "No, of
course not."  He tapped the fingers of his r ight hand against the side
of his white-haired head.  "I have it all up here.  You were terminated
for 'anti-Imperial activity."" "Very good, sir."

"I may modify it.  I want it to be perfect."

"I am certain it will be more than suitable, sir."

"I thought I would enter it into the computer just around sunset
tomorrow.  Things should be ready by then?"

"Yes, sir.  Agent Loor will be arriving then, so he should see the
pursuit and how you handle it."

"Excellent."  Barris hefted the glass and raised it again in a
salute.

"The destruction of the Delight should make for great entertainment.  I
think I will have some friends in to watch."

Eamon nodded solemnly.  "Very good, sir.  I had already requested the
kitchen prepare suitable refreshments for a gathering of ten.  Will
that be sufficient, sir?"

"Quite, Eamon."  Barris sipped his choholl and smiled.

"You anticipate my desires as well as my needs.  What would I do
without you?"

"A hypothetical question, sir."  Eamon's expression became placid.

"One hopes there is never need to answer it."

Her now-brown hair pulled back into a tight bun at the back of her
head, Dynba stepped from the first land-speeder and tugged at the hem
of her uniform jacket.

She marched crisply to the door of the local detention center and drew
from the jacket's breast pocket what looked to be an ordinary rank
cylinder.  She touched it against the I/O port beside the door.

Somehow, above the thundering of her heart, she heard a click and the
door withdrew upward.  At the other end of the short corridor she saw a
guard standing behind a transparisteel shield look at her, then at the
image on the screen of his datapad and back again.  As he did so the
blood drained from the man's face.

His clear anxiety gave Dynba a chance to conquer her own fear.

Eamon had assured her that the rank cylinder he had given her would
identify her as an Imperial Intelligence agent sent out from coruscant
to inspect Garqi.  It made her Kirtana Loor and made her answerable to
no one on the planet.  A word from her and anyone could be sent to
Kessel to mine spice while awaiting interrogation.

"You will be someone they fear as much as you fear them.

Use it and you will dominate them," he had told her.

And use it I shall.  Keeping her steps crisp, and relishing the click
of leather on stone, she approached the guard.

"Are the prisoners ready for transfer?"  She let the lilt of the common
Coredweller accent enter her voice, and underscored her words with
impatient indignation.

The man's lower lip started quivering.  "Transfer?  I know nothing of
.

. ."

"Of course you don't."  She drew her black leather gloves off by
tugging on each finger in succession, then slapped them against the
palm of her left hand.  "The inefficiency of Rim-world officials should
not surprise me, should it?"

"Well, I .  . ."

"You were not going to venture an opinion, were you?

What is your name?"

The man smiled weakly.  "Which prisoners were those, my lady?"

"The crew of the Star's Delight."  Her eyes became slits and she forced
her nostrils to flare.  "Returning them to the scene of the crime--you
do know about using that investigative technique, don't you?"

The man furiously punched keys on his datapad.

"Well, I .  . ."

"Of course you don't--the technique predates the Emperor's murder by a
year, so it hasn't gotten out here yet.

You probably think he is still alive."

"Yes, my lady, I mean, no .  . ."

Dynba barked a harsh laugh.  "You don't know what you mean.  Why the
Rebels would strike at this witspare compost heap, I do not know."

"No, my lady."

The door to her right buzzed and slid into the ceiling.

Three bedraggled figures, a small female Sullustan, a morose giant of a
Duros and a Devaronian with several missing teeth and a broken horn
shuffled through the doorway.  They wore binders on their wrists and
had another pair hobbling them.  Each individual looked away from the
dying sunlight pouring through the open doorway to the street.

Dynba looked up at the Duros.  "Captain Lai Nootka, you and your crew
are charged with treason.  I am a representative of Imperial
Intelligence and the resolution of your case is in my hands.  Come with
me."

She led the prisoners from the detention center and waved the
landspeeders forward.  Each prisoner was secured in a different
speeder, then they headed off toward the hangar where the Star Delight
had been kept in impound.

The vehicles followed one after the other all the way to the
spaceport.

Dynba regretted not being able to tell the crew they were safe and with
friends, but doing so would have put the mission in jeopardy.  If the
crew did not look scared and defeated as they rode through the streets
of Pesktda, someone could note their happy demeanor and that would
attract attention to them and the operation.

Eamon had pointed out that people tended not to pay too much attention
to those who appear to be doomed because they might attract attention
in doing so.  Even before he'd said anything, she'd known that was
true.

In keeping with her role as Loor, she met the gazes of the curious and
held them until the others turned away.  I don't like making people
afraid, but it is the only way to save these people and Eamon.  And
myself and my friends, too.  She kept her stare hard and terrifying
throughout the ride until the speeders slid into the shade of the
hangar.

The second her landspeeder stopped, she loosened her hair and shook it
out over her shoulders.  "Open the binders."  She pointed at Nootka.

"The ship is ready to go, complete with your X-wing munitions.

Start pre-flight.

The only thing on this world that can stop us from getting out of here
are four TIE starfighters.  Is that a problem?"

The Duros rubbed at his wrists as his driver tinkered with the binders
on the starpilot's ankles.  "We are matched for speed.  We have
hyperdrive, they do not.  We have a blaster cannon, they have lasers.

We have shields, they do not.  I think we are not far from freedom."

"Dynba, you did it!"  A Twi'lek woman came running down the gangplank
of the long CorelliSpace Gymsnor-3

Freighter.  With her head tails twitching excitedly, she brandished her
datapad.  "No alarms, no traces.  We're clear.

"Good."  Dynba looked past Arali Dil's shoulder, then frowned.

"Are Eamon or Xeno here?"

Arali shook her head.  "No one has been here except Sihha and me."

Dynba frowned.  Prior to departing for the prison, Dynba had left a
message with Eamon telling him when they planned to leave, and another
to Xeno inviting him to reunite with his crew and escape.  She had
expected both of them to be present when she returned and she had
especially wanted to see the look on Eamon's face when he realized his
plan had worked perfectly.

"Arali, link into the comnet and see if you have anything from Xeno or
Eamon."

"Right."

The Twi'lek and a Bothan had turned out to be the only non-Humans in
Xeno's circle.  The circle itself only had seven members, not counting
Xeno, and all of them had thought it funny that even being so few in
number, they had caused enough trouble for the Empire to send an
Intelligence agent out from the Core to Garqi to deal with them.

Dynba had briefed everyone on their role in the Great Evacuation.

Because of the Empire's xenophobic bias, neither Arali nor Sihha, the
Bothan, would pass for Imperial officers, so they had remained with the
ship while the five Humans used the speeders to get the prisoners.  Now
back in the hangar, everyone hurried aboard the Delight and prepared
for departure.

"Interesting."

Dynba glanced away from the hangar opening and toward Arali.

"What is?"

"Message to all of us from Xeno.  He says his work here isn't done.

He'll catch up with us later and we will all laugh about this."

"I'd prefer it if he came with us.  I hope they don't need him to run
the ship."

"Sihha can fill in--he was an astrogation student here."

"Right."  Dynba felt a heavy darkness begin to spread from her stomach
out to her limbs and stab straight up into her heart.  "Nothing from
Eamon."

"By the foul hearts of the Sith!"

Dynba whirled at the sound of Arali's voice.  "What?"

The Twi'lek held her datapad out and Dynba snatched it from her
trembling hands.  "By order of Prefect Mosh Barris, at the conclusion
and in resolution of his personal investigation into the actions of
Eamon Yzalli, ordered and carried out the discreation of an enemy of
the state."

Her voice dropped to a whisper as she read.  "He's dead."

The datapad slipped from her hands, but the Twi'lek deftly caught it,
then started pulling on Dynba's arm.

"Come on, we have to go."

Dynba pointed back toward the doorway.  "Maybe it's a trick."

"The Empire doesn't play jokes, Dynba.  Eamon's dead."  Arali pulled
her friend up the gangplank.  "Let's get out of here.  We'll mourn
Eamon on the trip, then when we get to the New Republic, we'll find a
way to get even with the Empire."

Barris felt the comlink clipped to his belt vibrate like the Warning
scales on a Gorgarian buzzadder.  He opened his arms to take in the
whole of the crowd in his reception room, then pointed them toWard the
eastern balcony.

"My friends, I have just been informed that the Rebels have taken the
bait in the trap that had been set for them.

If you will join me outside, I think you will find their end a
spectacular disaster."

Pulling the comlink from his belt, he thumbed it on.

"Garqi Eagles, you are clear to intercept and destroy your target."

Arali got Dynba into one of the jumpseats in the cockpit and strapped
her in.  "Barris got our last passenger, Captain.

You better move now."

The Duros nodded to his mouse-eared pilot.  The Sullustan chittered her
way through a checklist.  The low hum of the repulsorlift drives filled
the ship, then a gentle tremble ran through it as the sublight drives
began to push it forward, up and out of the hangar.

The nose of the ship came around to the east, facing the ship away from
the sun and on a course that meant they would be moving away from the
star's mass as they left the planet.

That would permit them to enter hyperspace faster, and everyone on the
ship knew speed was a virtue when escape was the object of the
exercise.

Through the forward viewport Dynba got a spectacular look at the lights
of Pesktda.  She found the city where she grew up quaint and even
beautiful, with lights winking on and off as gentle breezes stirred the
dark, leafy canopy that covered everything.  Part of her felt the loss
of leaving the place of her birth, but that regret was nothing compared
to the pain she felt over Eamon's murder.

The Star's Delight picked up speed and shot out of the spaceport.

The Sullustan pilot kept the ship at a steady angle of ascent.  As they
broke above the shadow of the world, sunlight lit the sky.  It passed
quickly as the atmosphere thinned, then the stars above stopped
shimmering and just hung there like distant jeweled sparks on the
inside of a vast black bowl.

Captain Nootka hunched forward over a screen.  "We have four
starfighters in our wake.  Shields to full in the left arc."

The Sullustan hit a button on the console, but it remained dark.

She hit it again, then shrieked.

Nootka reached over and hit the button himself.  "Saricia, we have no
shields."

"Invert and give me a shot."  The Devaronian's bass voice came from
above the companionway that led into the cockpit.  Dynba looked back
and saw an open hatchway that allowed access beyond the passage's
ceiling.

Arali tightened down her restraining straps.  "The blaster cannon
turret is up top.  We have to invert for him to shoot at targets coming
from behind and below, otherwise he'll hit the cargo pods."

"Not a good design, is it?"

Nootka turned around and gave Dynba a hard stare.

"This is a freighter, not a warship.  Saricia is good."

"How good?  Good enough to stop them?"

"Are you sure?"

The Duros shook his head.  "If I am wrong, I will not live long in
regret."  He hit some more switches on the console.  "You said the ship
was in working order."

"That's what I was told.  Eamon said .  . ."  Dynba's jaw dropped
open.

"He's not here."

The tips of the Twi'lek's head tails shook with a start.

"We were set up, Dynba, set up to die by Eamon Yzalli."

She flashed sharp peg-teeth.  "I hope part of Xeno's work on Garqi is
killing him."

Nootka glanced at his screen, then shook his head.  "I would have hoped
the situation would not get worse.  We have a fifth ship closing
fast."

The ship shook violently and sparks shot through the companionway,
while the thrummed rumble of Saricia's return-fire filled the
cockpit.

"Our armor will hold them back for a little while, but not long."

"Can we make the jump to lightspeed?"

"In the time we have left?"  Nootka asked.  "Not even if I knew where
we were going and had the course already plotted into the nav
computer.

It looks now that where we are going is to the grave."

Corran Horn eased the X-wing's throtde forward and his speed started to
climb faster as he left Garqi's atmosphere."  You should have told me
sooner, Whistler, that's all I'm saying.  It doesn't matter now,
though.  We can talk about it later.  Now we have to get those TIEs."

The droid replied in a muted whistle that Corran found almost as
depressing as the four-to-one odds on the fight.  Not how I wanted to
do this, but I have no choice.

Corran hit the thumb-switch on the X-wing's stick.  The proton torpedo
targeting system came up and painted a big yellow box around the
slowest of the TIE starfighters.

"That's target one.  Give me the next closest one and mark it as target
two."

Whistler complied instantly, then keened a question.

"Yes, if they're in range, get me comlink contact."  Corran heard the
hiss of static from the speakers in his helmet, then a clear channel
opened up.  "Star's Delight, the key-code for your shields is 349XER34,
repeat 349XER34."

"Who is this?"

"Someone who just gave you your shields back.  Eamon Yzalli sold you
out.  He's dead.  What he knew, I know."

In the background he heard a voice excitedly shout, "It's Xeno!"

The deeper voice, the one he decided belonged to Lai Nootka, overrode
the shout.  "349XER34 is the code."

"Exactly."  corran smiled.  "Tell your gunner not to shoot the X-wing
and I'll make his life easier.  X-wing Ollt."

Whistler tooted triumphantly.

"Not yet, buddy, not yet.  Give me target one and lighten my
acceleration compensator.  I want to feel it when I move around."

Nudging the stick over and back, he settled the box around the lagging
TIE.  The droid beeped intermittently as he tried to get a target
lock.

The target box went from yellow to red at the same moment Whistler's
tone went solid and Corran hit the trigger.

The proton torpedo shot away from the X-wing and curved only slightly
to port before it slammed into the TIE's ball-cockpit.  The explosion
shattered the star-fighter's hexagonal solar panels.  It sent their
shards spinning away from the roiling, red-gold plasma ball spreading
out from where the cockpit had once been.

"Acquire two."

Brief beeps melded into an uninterrupted tone as Corran hit a pedal and
the etheric rudder brought the X-wing's nose around to port.

He hit the trigger again and saw a proton torpedo burn into and through
the second TIE.  The torpedo hit it solidly on one of the solar panels
and blasted through.  The projectile glanced down, crushing the
fighter's ion engine exhaust port and clipped the far side solar panel
before exploding.  The TIE whirled off on a wobbly course before
exhaust pressure from the engines tore the ship apart from the
inside.

"Two down."  Corran flipped his weapons control over to laser fire and
linked the lasers for dual-fire.  "Whistler, even out the shields."

The droid complied with the order as Corran brought the X-wing up in a
quarter snap-roll.  The maneuver stood the fighter on its port
stabilizer foils.  Tugging back on the stick, he brought the nose up
and cruised onto the tail of one of the two remaining TIEs.  It had
broken left while its wing man had gone right--a strategy that was
usually discouraged and went a long way toward confirming Corran's
opinion of the Garqi garrison.

Whistler's excited hooting made Corran look up at his rear sensor
monitor.  Coming in behind me.  Not as bad as I thought.  "I see him,
Whistler.  Now you know why I didn't want to fight them at all."

The TIE in front of him began a slow loop to starboard.

The move was slow enough that Corran was tempted to follow and light
the ship up, but he knew giving in to temptation would have a price.

In this case it will be the TIE back there shortening the loop and
melting my ship's tail.  Not for me.

Corran chopped his thrust back and pulled the stick to his
breastbone.

He looped the X-wing, then punched the throttle full forward and rolled
out to port.  That dropped him in on an attack vector to the TIE that
had been following him.  Tightening up on the trigger, he tracked ruby
laser bolts across one solar panel, through the cockpit and into the
other solar panel.

The TIE didn't explode.  It rolled slowly to port, little blue tendrils
of energy playing over its myriad surfaces.

The X-wing overshot the ship, so Corran rolled and dove down through a
loop to keep an eye on it.  The TIE did not react and just continued
spiraling along on its previous course, bound for a fiery collision
with Garqi's atmosphere.

Pilot's gone, ship's running on momentum.  Corran shivered, imagining
for one second what it was like to spend your last seconds of life in
pain, in a breached cockpit with all the atmosphere leaking out while
cold poured in.  Not the way I want to go.

Whistler's indignant yowl and the hiss of laser fire splashing against
his aft shields shocked Corran.  He immediately hit the right rudder
pedal, whipping the X-wing's tail to port and out of the line of
fire.

Pushing the stick hard left, he rolled out to port, then pulled back a
nd brought the ship's nose up and around in a loop.

Halfway through that he rolled right and dove, but his sensors showed
the TIE was still with him.

Why are the best guys always the last?  Corran smiled at his own
question.  "Because the pilots who are bad die first.

They were all probably daydreaming just like you."  He sideslipped the
X-wing to the right and the TIE followed him.

"Whistler, get me the Delight again."

"Nootka here, X-wing."

"Captain, this guy on me is good.  Kill your shields and tell your
gunner to shoot high."

"We just got our shields back."

"I know.  Kill your shields."

"I do not understand."

"You will."

Corran rolled the fighter out to port, then kept a light hand on the
stick.  Nudging it left and right, up and back, he made the X-wing
dance almost unpredictably.  After every third or fourth move, when the
ship had drifted to port, he'd push the stick down, then up right and
right again.  He'd level out and fly straight for a couple of seconds,
then after that the random pattern would begin again.

When he saw the TIE begin to anticipate his pattern, corran pulled the
X-wing back through a big loop and dove straight in on an intercept
course for the Delight.  "Full shields aft, Whistler."  Corran dipped
and jerked the fighter through its pattern.  Laser fire came in from
the Delight, passing over his ship, but only by a margin of
decimeters.

The TIE kept to Corran's tail as the X-wing turned and swooped down
into a run that took it from bow to stern on the Delight.  The TIE came
in tight and sank below the level of the ship's fire.  He's low enough
to strike sparks!  This Imp's very good.  Corran smiled.  I gotta hope
I'm better.

As Corran's pattern ended, the X-wing drifted into a gentle glide along
the Delight's spine.  The TIE dropped in behind him and lined up for a
shot.  The first laser blasts hit the X-wing's aft shield and rocked
Corran in the cockpit.  Now or never!

Corran killed his thrust and cut his repulsorlift drives in at full
strength.  Acceleration jammed him down in the cockpit couch as the
X-wing bounced up and away from the freighter's mass.  The TIE
starfighter shot through beneath the X-wing, pulling up abruptly to
miss the freighter's engine cowling.

Punching the throttle forward and killing the lift drives, Corran
sailed in on the TIE's aft.  His targeting box went green.  He pulled
the trigger and filled the last TIE with laser fire.

The scarlet energy darts shredded the ship, puncturing the cockpit and
melting their way through the twin ion engines.  The TIE exploded
brilliantly.  The glittering plasma sphere burned like a star going
nova, then im-ploded, leaving the void in its wake.

"X-wing, this is Delight.  May we put our shields back up?"

"Affirmative, Delight."  Corran smiled.  "Captain Nootka, have you got
a course plotted out of here?"

"We have a course, X-wing."

"If you don't mind, I'll slave my navigation to yours and tag along.

After all, I still owe you for the debris extractor."

"Consider the debt paid, X-wing, but come on along."

Corran heard gratitude in the Duros captain's voice.

"This adventure will be a tale to tell, and I would have you there
when I first tell it."

Prefect Mosh Barris bowed graciously amid the applause from his
guests.

The series of bright explosions and the spectacular light show of
debris streaking through the upper atmosphere had been far more than he
expected.  If you arranged that on purpose, Eamon, I shall give you
rewards in excess of what I had already planned.

He held a hand up.  "Thank you, thank you all.  I am pleased you have
enjoyed how we have eliminated the Rebel threat to Garqi."  Bards
smiled proudly.  "I was the architect of this event, but another
carried it out.  My aide, Eamon Yzalli.  Eamon, where are you?"

"Indeed, where is he?"

Bards' head came up as a sharp voice asked the question from the
balcony doorway.  "Who are you?"

A tall, hatchet-faced man stooped slightly to make it through the door,
then fixed Bards with a harsh stare.  "I am Kirtan Loor, Imperial
Intelligence.  You have been expecting me?"

"Of course."  Barris gestured up at the sky, spraying choholl from the
glass in his hand.  "You came too late to see what happened to the
Rebels."

"Oh, I think I already know what happened to them."

The Imperial officer's lip curled in a sneer.  "As I came into the
system, I was sent a report by this Eamon Yzalli.  It indicates you
arranged for the escape of the local Rebel organization on the Stars
Delight.  The report indicates this action was the preliminary gambit
in your bid to usurp Governor Tadfin and transfer Garqi to the Rebel
Alliance."

Barris' stomach slowly wriggled into a knot.  Kirtan Loor reminded him
of a young Grand Moff Tarkin, and the resemblance did nothing to stop
the fear flooding Barris' mind.  "This is wrong.  This cannot be.

Eamon must have planned this.  Ask him, the accusations are not
true."

"I would ask him, but I cannot find him."  Loor's blue eyes
narrowed.

"An appendix to his report said he feared for his life at your hands.

When I arrived here I read that you had ordered and carried out his
elimination.  That message came from you, directly, I've checked."

"Yes, but it was all part of the plan, don't you see?"

Kirtan Loor shook his head solemnly.  "I don't see what you want me to
see.  What I do see is a Rebel collaborator with much to tell me about
the enemy."

"But I know nothing about them."

"I doubt that very sincerely, Barris."  Loor smiled with a cold
superiority that weakened Barris' knees and sent his glass crashing to
the floor.  "By the time your interrogation is barely started, you will
wish you knew even more, so you could tell me everything.  You will be
surprised how much information there truly is in your nothing---and you
will learn to dread your punishment whenever you seek to feign
ignorance as a shield."

Corran had fully expected the look of surprise on Dynba Tesc's face
when she first saw him.  "Greetings, Dynba.  I'm glad you made it.

I apologize for the rough time the Delight had."

The war between horror and joy in her expression even proved
entertaining, though the ultimate victor in the struggle proved to be a
stunned look.  "Y-you're dead .  . . at least you said you were dead.

You're Eamon Yzalli, but you can't be."

Corran winced as hurt entered her voice.  He scratched at his beard for
a second, then shrugged.  "I'm sorry for the deception.  I intended for
you to assume Barris had killed me and take off.  I knew the TIEs would
head out after you.  I wanted to use you as a diversion one more time,
so I could get away while the TIEs were busy with you."

A Twi'lek walked up behind Dynba and draped a head tail over her
shoulder protectively.  "The TIEs almost did us in because you
disabled the shields.  You tried to have us killed."

"Not my intention at all."  Corran sighed.  "I meant to have a message
sent to you that would give you the code to bring the shields back
up.

I wanted to blame the shield tampering on Burris and have you
protected, but the old fool went and deactivated my message account
when he entered his death declaration about Eamon."

Dynba dug a gentle elbow into the Twi'lek's midsec-tion.

"Arali, if he wanted us dead, he'd not have come after the TIEs and
given us the code.  He still could have gotten away."

"Right."  Corran nodded.  "Exactly."

"So what did you mean about using us as a diversion 'one more time'?"

"Setting up the Star's Delight's escape allowed me to get the spare
parts I needed for the X-wing.  I told Barris they had been stolen from
storage, but I really just had the guys who helped me load the things
put them in the back of my speeder.  They were the TIE pilots, so now
we're the only ones who know where the parts ended up."

Dynba smiled.  "The parts, of course.  The phantom X-wing flights ended
about a month before the Delight showed up and was taken."

"I needed a debris extractor."

"So, then, you're Xeno.  You got us together to eventually steal those
parts for you."

"No, I'm Corran Horn, late of the Corellian Security Force."  He smiled
as Whistler came rolling up and patted the droid affectionately on the
dome.  "The droid here was Xeno."

Arali's head tails twitched with surprise.  "A droid organized our
little group?"

Whistler chirped emphatically and corran beamed.

"He worked with me in CorSec.  In addition to astrogation programming,
he's a fairly good codeslicer and had a facility for putting together
sting operations.  He was grooming you to get the parts for me, but he
didn't mention it because he knows I don't really want anything to do
with the Rebellion and the New Republic."

"It is a little late for that."  Captain Nootka came walking over with
two Republic officers in tow.  "Helping us escape will lead Barris to
figure out who you were, and you will be branded a Rebel."

"I don't think so.  Barris is in plenty of trouble himself."

Corran smiled broadly.  "I once worked with Kirtan Loor, the Imperial
Intelligence agent heading in to Garqi.  This beard and dye job
wouldn't have fooled him, so I had to move.  That's the reason this
whole operation got put together and involved you and your friends,
Dynba.  I would have kept you out of it, but I couldn't."

She shook her head.  "You may think that, Corran, and may even want to
believe it, but I think you couldn't leave us behind to face Barris'
wrath if you weren't around to moderate him."

Maybe you're right, Dynba, but there is no true way of knowing.

He nodded slowly.  "Loor isn't the brightest of Imperial agents, but he
can solve a case when it's handed to him in a package, and the package
I left behind neatly implicates Mosh Barris in treason and Eamon
Yzalli's murder.  I should be clear."

One of the New Republic officers pointed at the X-wing.  "That fighter
just burned down four TIEs?"

Nootka tapped Corran on the shoulder.  "He had the kills, Captain
Dromath."

The other Rebel whistled.  "They never got through your shields."

Corran shrugged.  "Recharging shields is easier than finding paint to
match."

The first officer nodded.  "Look, Horn, I heard you say you don't want
anything to do with the Rebellion or New Republic, but we need fighters
like you."

"I'm not a joiner, Captain."  corran shook his head, then frowned down
at Whistler when the droid jeered.

"All I want is to be left alone.  Your fight isn't my fight."

Dromath shrugged.  "Perhaps not, but you're smart enough to know the
Empire won't leave you alone.  You will fight them, just as you did in
getting these folks out of Garqi.  If you have to fight them, doing so
with allies is a lot better than doing it alone."

"He's right, Corran."  Dynba reached out and gave Corran's left hand a
squeeze.  "The New Republic needs yOU."

"I don't know."

"Not an easy decision to make, true."  Dromath smiled.

"Think about this, though--orders came through letting us know Rogue
Squadron is being reformed and brought back to active duty.  Any pilots
who think they're good enough to join are encouraged to apply.

From what Nootka said, you're good enough to at least look into it."

Whistler squawked derisively.

Corran rapped a knuckle on the droid's dome.  "I'm better than that,
and you know it.  I could be one of the hottest pilots they've got.  Of
course, I'd need a new R2 unit."

The droid's blatted reply prompted laughter from everyone.

Corran suddenly realized, as he heard their voices all mix together,
that he'd not heard good, honest laughter in all the time he'd been on
the run and in service on Garqi.  Among the Imperials and their
citizenry there was always something held back, a hedge against
self-betrayal.  People couldn't let themselves go for fear someone
might think ill of them and report them to the authorities.

He thought for a moment.  He knew all he really wanted was to be left
alone, but Dromath had been right--the Empire would never leave him
alone.  Even if they were not there directly, even if Loor wasn't hot
on his tail, the Empire's shadow would touch him except in places where
it could not survive.

Among the Rebels.

In the New Republic.

"As being left alone isn't an option, I guess I might as well choose
the folks with whom I have to co-exist."  Corran slowly smiled and
extended his hand to Captain Dromath.  "If I heard you correctly, I
think Whistler and I just might have an interest in joining Rogue
Squadron."

"It won't be easy, Mister Horn."

"From what I've heard, Captain, it wouldn't be Rogue Squadron if
joining was easy.  But easy I don't want."  Corran winked at Nootka and
smiled at Dynba.  "Remember, I've just left a backwater world where my
droid led a Rebel cell and I helped evacuate enemies of the state, all
the while plotting to bring down the military prefect.  After that, the
only place I'll find enough excitement to suit Whistler here is with
the folks who have two Death Star kills to their credit.  If I were
willing to settle for anything less, I'd be joining the Imperial Navy
and thinking it was a good career move."

It occurred to Barris, as guards dragged him toward the interrogation
chamber, that his ears had been as deaf to Dynba Tesc's protests of
ignorance as Loor's would be to his.  It struck him as ironic that his
descent had begun when he had done nothing on a world far away, and it
would end because he knew nothing on a world far away.

He sought to share this insight with the men beside him, but it would
only leave his throat disguised as hesitant laughter, punctuated by
sobs.

And, somehow, he knew they understood.

Retreat from Coruscant

by Laurie Burns Taryn Clancy idly watched a comm clerk notarize
acceptance of the datacards piled on the repulsorlift cart beside
her.

Suddenly, the background murmur of the old Imperial Palace's message
center disappeared under the hooting of alarms.

The clerk looked up, face draining of color as she identified the
warning tones.  "Oh my skies," she said, sounding stunned.

"Coruscant's under attack."

Taryn's eyes widened too, but she moved fast.  "If you'll sign that
off, I'll be on my way," she said, swiveling to push the cart closer to
the clerk's counter.  "There's your mail," she added, pointedly holding
out her hand.

The clerk blinked, looked at her datapad, punched a few keys, and
mutely handed it over.  Taryn swiftly inspected her authorization,
keyed in her own code, then jerked the clerk's copy out and tossed it
on the counter.

"Thanks," she said over her shoulder, already three steps toward the
door.

Out in the corridor the alarms continued at an urgent pitch, but as she
squeezed aboard a turbolift, Taryn was relieved no one seemed
panicked.

Though the New Republic had made the transition from military force to
galactic government, the former Rebels obviously hadn't forgotten how
to react to an Imperial attack.  She bit her lip, knowing her hopes of
leaving were optimistic at best.

If Coruscant really was under attack, the planetary shield had probably
been raised, and she and Del were stuck for the duration.

But she had to try.  After all, who wanted to be stuck on the palace's
landing pads like a clipped mynock while the Empire tried to reclaim
its former capital?

Not me, she thought, emerging onto the bright, windswept platform and
blinking at the brilliance of the midday sun.  Reverberations from
half-a-dozen ships' engines thrummed around her, and ahead, the
Messenger added its throaty roar to the mechanical chorus.  Del 'had
the ramp down and waiting, and as she dropped into the pilot's seat, a
quick scan of the displays showed they were nearly ready to lift.

"Heard the alarms," Del said, already strapped in at the co-pilot's
station.  "What's up?"

"Us, I hope," Taryn said shortly.  Another look at the displays, and
she flipped on the comm and hailed palace flight control.  Her heart
sank as her request for liftoff was curtly denied.

Too late--the planetary shield had been raised.  The Empire was up
there, the New Republic was down here, and she and the Messenger were
stuck in between.

Taryn slumped back in her seat.  It wasn't just that she had a schedule
to keep.  The Core Courier Service promised prompt service among the
Core Worlds, and with crates full of communications still filling half
her hold, she didn't want to get too far behind.  But late deliveries
were nothing compared to what Taryn feared was about to happen--an
all-out war for possession of Coruscant.

Port gossip had predicted that the Empire, despite the recent loss of
Grand Admiral Thrawn, was gearing up to strike at the heart of the New
Republic.

It looked like they'd been right.

"Well, heck," Del said, staring out at the platform where a
transport--apparently in defiance of the controller's orders--was
lifting off.  "What're we gonna do now?"

Taryn watched the transport fade to a pinprick in the sky.  If the
Messenger belonged to her, she'd be tempted to do the same.  But a
smart captain didn't take chances with company property.  "We wait,"
she said, reluctantly keying off the engines.  "At least until help
arrives."

If it ever did, she added silently.  The Imperials would've knocked out
the comm relays first thing, cutting off the New Republic's ability to
call for help from its fleets scattered through the galaxy.

They had orbital defenses, of course, but A tiny flash caught her eye,
and she leaned forward to squint out the cockpit's transparisteel
viewport.  "Blast," she whispered.

Del followed her gaze and saw the almost indiscernible flashes of
turbolaser fire high in the sky.  "We're stuck now," he said.

They watched in grim silence for a while before Taryn abruptly
wondered, "How long can the planetary shield hold up?"

"I dunno," Del said.  "Depends on what they throw at it, prob'ly.

Couple of days, maybe .  . . or a couple hours."

She glanced at him.  Under his gray mustache, her first mate's mouth
was right.  And no wonder--after three decades with the courier
service, he was just days away from retirement.  Studying the lines on
his face, Taryn mentally contrasted his years of experience to her own,
and suddenly felt overwhelmed with her fledgling status as captain.

It was only her fourth run at the helm of the Messenger.

And it was up to her to get them out of this.

For a second she felt a niggling of the old fear; the one with her
father's voice that said she flew for the courier service because she
didn't have the guts to do anything else.  All through her childhood,
Kal Clancy boasted of his own bravado at the helm of his freighter,
then he'd spent her teen years trying to mold her in his image.  He
hadn't bothered concealing his disappointment when she hadn't lived up
to his expectations.

She looked at Del again.  He'd been delivering mail longer than she'd
been alive,and hadn't ever made captain.

That said something for her, didn't it?  Didn't it?

Stop it, Taryn ordered herself.  So being captain of a courier isn't
very challenging.  That doesn't mean I'm not competent.

Shaking off her father's image, she tried to think what to do next.

Does it?

After a few hours passed with no sign of Imperial ships slipping down
from the sky, Taryn's nerves began to ease.

Seven hours after the alarms first sounded, full night had fallen, and
she was starting to get annoyed.

"Well, that's it," she declared after another request for information
from flight control was politely sidestepped.

"We can't leave, they won't let us move, and they won't tell us
anything.  I'm going in there to find out what's going on."

"Who you gonna ask?"  Del asked.

"Mon Mothma herself, if I have to," Taryn said.

Del snorted, but getting into the palace proved unexpectedly easy.

After an initial hassle with two New Repub-lic-security officers, once
they discovered she captained the freighter on the platform, Taryn
found herself ushered into a turbolift.  One of the guards poked his
head in after her and punched a button on the call panel.

"Good luck," he said, giving her a mock salute as the doors slid
shut.

That was easy--too easy, she thought, wondering what that salute thing
meant.  She was still puzzling over it when the doors opened on a
corridor clearly far removed from the service section of the palace
where she'd made her delivery earlier.  Same basic decor, but this
section had an unmistakably brisk military air.

As did the two armed troopers standing against the wall across from the
turbolift.  They eyed her alertly as she stepped out, then she saw the
other two, standing on each side of the lift.  Trying to ignore the
four pairs of eyes trained on her, she glanced down the corridor.

At one end, a blast door slid open and a froWning officer stalked
toward her.  Halting a meter away, he gave her a quick once-over.

"I'm Colonel Bremen," he identified himself.  "And you're?"

"Taryn Clancy, captain of the Messenger."

He nodded curtly.  "If you're armed, you'll have to leave your weapons
outside," he said, producing a hand-held weapons scanner.

"I'm not," Taryn said, but Bremen ran the device over her anyway.

"All right," he said, apparently satisfied.  "Follow me."

A guard fell in line behind her as Taryn followed Bremen through the
blast doors into another corridor.

She glanced curiously into open rooms as they passed, feet faltering as
a face she thought she recognized from the holovid flashed into view.

Was that really Mon Mothma?  And if it were the New Republic's Chief of
State, just where was this Bremen taking her?

There was no time to speculate, as he stopped beside a door and
gestured for her to enter.  Taryn stepped into the small office and
looked at the man seated behind the desk.  Good-looking and about the
same age as Del, he looked vaguely familiar but she couldn't place
him.

That is, until Bremen shut the door and brushed past her.  "Got another
one for you, General Bel Iblis.  Captain Clancy of the Messenger," he
said, and Taryn tried not to stare.  She'd expected to be pawned off on
some palace flunky, not brought to the man in charge of Coruscant's
defense!

"Captain Clancy."  Bel Iblis nodded to her courteously as Bremen folded
his arms and took up a position against the office wall.  "I understand
you'd like an update on the situation."

"Yes, sir, I would," she said, making a conscious effort to relax and
not stand at attention.  "What's going on?

And when will I be able to leave?"

Bel Iblis studied her silently.  Just as Taryn began to fear she'd been
too brash, he grimly answered.  "Coruscant is surrounded.  Our defenses
have been forced to retreat, and we estimate the planetary shield will
fail by morning."

Taryn forgot not to stare.  "What'll happen then?"

"We're not waiting to find out," he said.  "We'll be pulling out
tonight."

"You're leaving?"

"We have no choice," Bel Iblis said heavily.  "There's no way to get
word to our fleets in other sectors, and even if we did, they couldn't
get here before the shield fails."

"But, what about the New Republic?"  she persisted.

Was the fledgling government really going to crumble that easily?

"The New Republic will survive," he said.  "Only its headquarters will
move."  Something like old pain briefly shadowed his eyes.  "We don't
want Coruscant destroyed too, when all the Empire wants is to destroy
us.  Once we're off the planet, the populace ought to be safe
enough."

Bremen abruptly unfolded from the wall and opened his mouth, but
subsided at a look from Bel Iblis.  Taryn glanced from one to the
other, suddenly aware of the tension between them, then looked back at
Bel Iblis.

"Where will you go?"

"Good question," he said.  "That's where you come in."

"Me?"  she said, warily.

"We need all the lifting capacity we can beg, borrow, or steal for the
evacuation," he said, watching her intently.

Taryn got it, right away.

"The Messenger's not that big," she protested.  "Not that fast,
either.

Besides, I work for the Core Courier Service, not for you.

The New Republic can't just hijack my ship!"

"Actually, we can," Bel Iblis said.  "And will.  But not for what you
think."  He leaned forward, looking grave.

"We've got to get word to the sector fleets that the New Republic has
evacuated Coruscant and will regroup at a new base.  Secrecy is
absolutely vital--we can't take the chance of the Empire tapping into
any transmissions and overhearing the location of our rendezvous
point.

So," he spread his hands suggestively, "we send out couriers."

Taryn remained silent.  She suspected he hadn't said "courier" by
chance.

"Usually, we'd send out a messenger in an unmarked Intelligence ship,"
Bel Iblis said.  Bremen opened his mouth, and again, the general shot
him a warning glance.

"But we need everything we've got for the evacuation."

"What if I refuse?"

"You're welcome to remain here on Coruscant," Bel Iblis said.  "Or
leave on one of our transports.  We'll recompense the courier service
for use of the ship, of course."

Some choice, Taryn thought sourly.  Stuck here waiting for the
stormtroopers, or on the run with the New Republic.

She sighed.  "So, when do we leave?"

Once she'd thought about it, Taryn had to agree using the Messenger
for cover was actually pretty clever.

For one, the datacard--with its report on the retreat from Coruscant
and the rendezvous location--was nicely anonymous, tucked in a crate
with thousands of other datacards; communications bound for other Core
Worlds.

And that crate was just one among dozens exactly like it, stacked one
on top of the other in the Messenger's hold.

For another, the prospect of trying to sneak past an armada of Star
Destroyers was almost made bearable by the sight the bulky Colonel
Bremen made, stuffed into a spare uniform they'd scrounged up that was
at least two sizes too small.  Tugging at the too-tight collar, he
stood in the cockpit doorway with the slight frown that never seemed to
leave his face.  Taryn didn't have to look away from her engine
displays to know the uniform's pant legs ended somewhere above his
ankles.  Her mouth quirked slightly before she remembered Bremen was
here to keep an eye on her and Del, and there was nothing funny about
the situation they were in.

Her hands tightened on the controls.  "Go strap in," she ordered
Bremen.  "We're almost ready to lift."  When he didn't move, she
glanced over her shoulder questioningly.

"What?"

"I'll stay here," he said.

She shrugged.

"Do what you want."  Del snorted.  He and Bremen hadn't exchanged half
a dozen words since the New Republic officer had come on board, but
they clearly hadn't hit it off.

"You should let me pilot," Bremen said, again.  "This isn't some simple
mail drop, you know."

"No," Taryn said adamantly, as if this hadn't already been covered in
Bel Iblis' office.  "We made a deal.  The New Republic can use my ship,
but no one's flying it but me."  Considering they were basically being
shanghaied, she'd been surprised Bel Iblis had agreed.  As it was, she
half suspected the general had assigned Bremen to this mission just to
get rid of him.  The two clearly didn't get along.  She glanced at
Del.

"Ready?"

"Ready," he confirmed.

She eased in the repulsors.  Below, the comforting lights of Imperial
City dwindled to pinpricks as they gained altitude.

Bel Iblis had said the gaps between the surrounding Star Destroyers
were guarded by smaller capital ships, so each pilot would have to pick
their own escape route and make a run for it.  "We got a course yet?"

she asked Del.

"Nav computer's working on it," he said.  She threw a quick look at
Bremen, balancing himself in the cockpit's doorway, then checked the
sensors.  Nothing close enough to worry about, but she'd have to stay
sharp.  Bel Iblis wanted as many ships as possible in the air and
moving when he dropped the shield.  With the whole swarm fleeing at
once, they hoped to at least create a little confusion as they tried to
sneak past the waiting Imperials.

Flashes of light danced where the planetary shield was still getting
blasted, the opalescent haze shifting and rippling as it was hit.

Taryn changed course slightly, aiming for a clear spot, then checked
her chronometer.  Almost time.

Del flipped on the comm, already tuned to the escape frequency, and as
Taryn stared at the shield, she wondered what the people left below
would face.  Would the Empire be content to simply retake Coruscant and
leave its citizens in relative peace?  Or would it feel the need to
punish them for not repulsing the New Republic in the first place?

Either way, she was out of it now.

"Ought to be down any time," Bremen said from behind her, where he too
was watching the shield flash under the Imperial assault.  "Too bad
this thing doesn't have much in the way of weaponry."

Taryn's mouth tightened at the slur to her ship.  As she'd already
pointed out, mail freighters weren't prime targets for anyone, even
pirates.  There was no need to go around bristling with
armament--usually.  At the moment, she conceded a little more firepower
might come in handy.

Several large masses started to register on the scopes, indicating the
gauntlet ahead.  Taryn had never seen so many Star Destroyers in one
place, and another wave of self-doubt assailed her.  She'd never done
anything like this before, except in her imagination.  Maybe she should
let Bremen take the controls-And then, it was too late.

"It's down," Bel Iblis' voice rang out over the comm.

"Clear skies, people, and may the Force be with you!"

The planetary shield was down, and the scramble was on.

Far to port, Taryn was aware of a planet defender ion cannon being used
from the surface to clear a path for some of the fleeing ships, but she
kept to her own vector as they cleared the atmosphere and the waiting
Imperial ships came into sight.

There it was--her path to freedom--straight between two Star Destroyers
flanked by five smaller Dreadnaughts.

They looked like two ferocious Dorax dogs surrounded by feisty puppies,
and she swallowed, edging the drive up to full.  Even at top speed, the
Messenger couldn't be called fast, and she could only hope they'd be
overlooked in the swarm fleeing from the surface.

And for a while, her hopes seemed answered.  Aiming for a gap between
the two Dreadnaughts furthest away from the Star Destroyers, the
Messenger pelted along in the wake of another freighter, a transport,
and a sleek starfighter.  Alongside and slightly behind were two heavy
transports.  The Dreadnaughts fired, but with so many small targets,
the shots were erratic and for the most part simply sizzled into
space.

Their shield indicators were still green, they were nearly past the
Dreadnaughts, and Taryn was beginning to think they just might make it
unscathed when a sudden sharp lurch of the ship threw her and Del
against their restraints, and sent Bremen tumbling forward to sprawl
unceremoniously over the sensor scopes.

"Get off!"  she gritted, then clenched her teeth as another hard thunk
spilled him to the deck.  With a jolt, she saw a lot more ships around
them than had been there a moment ago.  Identification was easy as a
TIE fighter roared past, firing at the transport ahead of them driving
for deep space.

"Del?"  she said.  The grizzled first mate needed no further urging,
loosing a volley of laser fire at the TIE fighter harassing the
transport up ahead.  Behind them, a dull clunk indicated another hit,
but Taryn kept going.  Their course was calculated and set; if she
could just get the Messenger a little further away from the planet,
they could make the jump to lightspeed, and safety.

One of the transports off to their side suddenly exploded in a fiery
flash.  Wincing, Taryn changed course slightly to steer clear of the
twisted metal and spared a quick glance at the shield indicators.

Only to wish she hadn't.  The indicators had gone from green to red,
and they flashed with each hit.  A diagnostic message was forming on
the panel, the sensors showed another of those blasted TIE fighters
swooping up behind them, and Taryn didn't think the Messenger could
take too many more hits.

"Hang on," she warned Bremen, still on the deck, and threw the
freighter into a dive.  The TIE fighter shot past overhead, and as she
brought the ship's nose back up, Taryn saw the starfighter ahead had
circled back to help.

The X-wing's laser cannon flashed as it screamed toward them, and on
the scopes, one of the dots behind them disappeared.  The X-wing turned
its attention to the TIE fighter she'd shaken while Taryn swiped at the
sweat on her face and put the drive to full again.  Up ahead, the
freighter and transport were nowhere to be seen.  Either they'd already
made it to safety--or they'd been destroyed.

Del cursed as the Messenger shuddered from another series of hits to
the rear.  The shield indicators flashed red, then went black, and the
diagnostic message began to blink.  "We've lost the deflectors," Taryn
shouted.  Swallowing back the metallic taste of fear, she was poised to
plunge the ship into another dive when the console pinged, indicating
they'd reached their hyperspace point.

Wrapping a hand around the levers and acutely aware of the TIE fighter
closing in on them, she gently pulled back, and was rewarded by the
sight of stars streaking to starlines, then fading into the mottled sky
of hyperspace.

Hurtling through hyperspace toward Coriallis, Del and Colonel Bremen
had plenty of time to firmly establish their mutual dislike.

Bremen didn't hide the fact that, as civilians, he didn't trust Taryn
and Del to be competent.  He made it clear he thought Bel Iblis should
have commandeered the Messenger, kicked off her regular crew, and used
an all-military crew to complete the mission.

Taryn tried to shrug it off, but Del retaliated by offering up barely
concealed barbs concerning the New Republic's ignominious retreat from
Coruscant, while Bremen grew tighter-lipped with each crack.  She
thought the game childish, but as long as Bremen was busy with Del, he
wasn't breathing down her back, so she didn't say anything about it.

The two had disappeared into the hold more than an hour ago, and she
stood in the wardroom, wiping grease off her hands.  They would be
changing course at Coriallis in a few hours, and she wanted to try out
the newly repaired deflector system before it was actually put to the
test.

She never got the chance.

As she strode toward the cockpit, the Messenger seemed to hesitate
underfoot, then gave an awful shudder as stressed hull metal squealed
in protest.  Caught mid-step, Taryn grabbed at the bulkhead for
balance, then got thrown to the cockpit as the ship seemed to slam into
some immovable force.  Clattering crates and a yelp sounded from the
hold, while in front of her, the mottled sky of hyperspace unexpectedly
became starlines, and then, with a final sickening lurch, coalesced
into the starfield of realspace.

They'd been forcefully yanked out of lightspeed, and Taryn didn't even
have to check the scopes to know why.

Straight ahead, filling the transparisteel port, was an Imperial
Interdictor cruiser.

Nor were they its first catch.  A transsport with New Republic markings
drifted nearby, linked with an Imperial shuttle.  Taryn wondered if it
were one of the many that had so recently fled Coruscant.

"What happened?"  Bremen demanded, pounding up th e corridor.  she got
to her feet.  On his heels, Del sported a fresh gash on his forehead.

No answer was necessary.  the comm crackled to life and a brisk voice
from the cruiser requital ordered them to prepare to be boarded.

Taryn sank down in the pilot's seat, mind racing.  The datacard was
well hidden, and unless the Imperials were determined to read each and
every nissive in the hold, she didn't think they'd find it.  The
thoroughness of their search would probably depend on how suspicious
they were.  Her and Del's identification was in order; Bremen might be
harder to explain, but she'd think of something.

Should she admit that they'd just come from Coruscant, or--?

"I'll do the talking," Bremen announced, interrupting her thoughts.

"You two keep quiet and let me handle it."

He held out a hand, apparently expecting Taryn to hand over the
captain's bars pinned to the front of her uniform.  She stiffened.

"No, I do the talking," she corrected him with some as perity.

"You looked in a mirror lately?"  Clad in that il fitting uniform, the
Imperials would never believe he was captain of the Messenger.

Ignoring Bremen's flush of outrage, she told Del, "Go back to the
airlock.  and wait to assist the boarding party."

"Yes, ma'am," he said crisply, backing out of the cockpit.

"Cooperate with them, fully," she called after him warningly.

Outside, a shuttle from the Requital was approaching, but they still
had a few minutes.  Looking at Bremen, she raised an eyebrow.  "Now.

You were saying--?"

"Do you have any idea how serious this is?"  he snapped back.

"What do you think they're going to do once they're on board?  Take a
look at your permits, tell you to have a good day, and just leave?"

"I certainly hope so," Taryn said.  "That seemed to be General Bel
Iblis' idea behind using us as the courier.

Look, I'm the captain here, and I have the proper ID to back it up.

You have any better ideas?"

His resistance was plain, but she did have a point.

"Okay, then," Taryn said.  "You don't talk unless you're spoken to, you
do everything the Imperials ask, promptly and courteously, and if
you're carrying any weapons, you lose them now, before they come on
board.  Understand?"

Bremen's face looked as stiff as a droid's and his eyes glittered, but
he managed a short nod.  "Good," Taryn said, releasing a breath she
hadn't realized she'd been holding.  "Let's go back and meet our
guests."

While the Imperial shuttle pulled alongside, she dug out the
Messenger's permits datapad.  She just had time to get back to the
airlock and straighten up authoritatively before it slid open and five
Imperials strode in.

The lead, a middle-aged man balding under his naval officer's cap,
halted just inside while the other four troopers, all armed, fanned out
in the corridor.  "Commander Voldt," he briskly identified himself.

"Who's in charge here?"

"I am."  Taryn stepped forward.  "Captain Taryn Clancy, of the Core
Courier Service.  This is my crew."

Voldt eyed her, gaze lingering on the curves of her uniform, then slid
a glance over Del and Bremen.  He noted Bremen's exposed ankles, then
flicked pale eyes back to her.  "Courier service?  This a mail ship?"

"Yes, sir," Taryn said.  "En route to Coriallis."

"Where from?"

She'd already decided there was no sense lying.  The vector on which
they'd been yanked out of hyperspace pretty well spelled it out.

"Our last scheduled stop was coruscant," she told him.  "But we dropped
into the system, saw what looked like the entire Imperial fleet around
the planet, and decided to give the place a pass.  Didn't want to get
mixed up in anything, you know?"

He nodded slowly, not looking entirely convinced.

"You didn't deliver your shipment?"  he asked.  "Don't your employers
promise prompt delivery?"

Taryn allowed herself to look slightly taken aback.

"Well, yes," she said.  "But they frown on dropping in on a war zone
even more."

Voldt stared at her, then snorted.  In amusement, or disbelief, she
couldn't tell.  At his casual hand gesture, two of the troopers
disappeared to search the ship.  "Let's see some identification," he
suggested.

"Certainly."  Taryn passed him the permits datapad.  He transmitted the
ship's license and registry information to the Requital to be checked
out, then inspected their identification, raising an eyebrow when
Bremen failed to produce an ID.  Bremen managed to look both
embarrassed and earnest as he muttered, "Sorry, sir.  Got robbed in
port."

Voldt flicked that speculative glance over his uniform again.

"Looks like that's not all they took," he commented.

"How inconvenient for you."

Bremen nodded.  Voldt stared at him a moment longer, then glanced at
the two troopers returning from searching the ship.  "No one else
aboard, sir," one reported, while the Other stepped up holding two
blasters.

"Who do these belong to?"  Voldt asked.

"That one's mine," Taryn said, indicating the blaster she kept hidden
under the sleep pad in her cabin.  She looked at Bremen and Del.

"Whose is this?"

"Mine, Capt'n."  Del stepped forward.  "I know you don't like us
carryin' on board, so I had it stashed in my bunk.  Sorry," he added,
looking sheepish.

"We'll discuss it later," she said repressively, wondering where Bremen
had "lost" his weapon so it wouldn't be found.

Voldt gave her an unfathomable look, then nodded to the trooper, who
stepped back, still holding both blasters.

He handed the datapad back to Taryn.  "Captain, I'd like to see the
contents of your hold, if I may."

Despite the phrasing, it wasn't a request.

Taryn led the way, trying to gauge how suspicious the Imperials were,
and how complete they might insist on making this search.  So far,
Voldt's manner hadn't given anything away.  Casually, she looked over
her shoulder.  "If you don't mind me asking, sir, why were we
stopped?

Is this some sort of checkpoint?"

There was no mistaking the amused snort this time.

"You could call it that," Voldt said dryly.  His eyes were fixed on the
sway of her dark hair against her back.  "It could be considered a
checkpoint for traitors."

"Traitors?"  she echoed, carefully.

"Traitors to the Empire," he said, finally looking up as they reached
the hold.  "Rebels, fleeing from Coruscant.

We've driven them off and rescued the populace from their terrorist
ways, but now, like the cowards they are, they're scurrying off to
wherever they think they'll find safety."  His thin lips turned up in
an unpleasant smile.

"We don't intend to let them run too far."

Taryn wondered if Interdictor cruisers were sitting along all of the
most well-traveled hyperspace lanes leading from Coruscant.  If so, a
good many fleeing ships had undoubtedly fallen right into the
Imperials' trap, including that transport she'd spotted earlier.

Perhaps even themselves.

She shook off the thought.  No, so far we're doing fine.  The only
thing to worry about was the datacard, and that was well hidden
somewhere inside the crates that filled the hold.  Reassured, she keyed
open the door and gestured for Voldt to step in.

He did, glancing around the room and then stepping over to peer at the
stacks of sealed crates.  "These are bound for Coriallis," he noted,
studying the labels on the outermost crates.

"Yes, sir, that's our next stop," Taryn confirmed.

"But where's the shipment you didn't leave on Corus-cant?"

He swung to face her, one eyebrow raised in query.

Where was it, indeed?  Taryn's stomach clenched as she considered the
question.  Not only had they delivered the mail bound for the Imperial
Palace, but they'd off-loaded the regular Coruscant mail, too.

There was nothing here to back up her assertion that they hadn't landed
on the planet.

Excuses vied for space on the tip of her tongue, but before she could
blurt any of them out, Del stepped forward.

"I moved 'em out of the way, Capt'n," he said, and indicated three
crates piled haphazardly in the far corner.

Each was labeled bound for Coruscant, and she held her breath as Voldt
insisted on opening up all three.  But randomly picking out datacards
to inspect, he found them all properly labeled with Coruscant
destinations.  Relieved, Taryn slanted a glance at her first mate,
wondering whose mail had been borrowed to pull off this masquerade.

Clearly, Del and Bremen hadn't spent all their time back here
bickering.

"Hmmph," Voldt grunted as he replaced the last crate's lid, and looked
around the hold as if hoping to find Mon Mothma herself hiding among
the load lifters.

Pointing at two of the troopers, he ordered all the crates examined.

But the search was cursory, with the troopers merely opening them up
and confirming there was mail inside.

Brusquely ordering the crates resealed, Voldt motioned for Taryn and
crew to follow him, and strode back down the corridor to the airlock.

Calling the Requital, he confirmed that the Messenger's permits were in
order and then, looking somewhat disappointed, told Taryn the were free
to go.

Trying not to let her relief show, she had to work harder to keep from
shooting a told-you-so look at Bremen.  The four troopers rejoined
them, and after an unexpected handshake from Voldt, during which he
held on a tad too long for Taryn's liking, the Imperials headed back to
their ship.

She got the nav computer busy recalculating their course, then turned
the freighter around and drove for the stars, trying to grab enough
distance to jump to lightspeed.

Glancing again at the captured New Republic transport, Taryn wondered
what fate awaited its occupants.

When the console finally pinged, she cupped her hand around the
hyperdrive levers, gently pulled them back, and gratefully left that
particular'problem behind.

Not that she didn't still have problems, she thought in exasperation
nearly a week later, staring out at the empty expanse of space before
them and acutely aware of Bremen looking over her shoulder, as usual.

The rest of the trip to Coriallis had been uneventful, and once there,
Bremen had programmed the nav computer with a new course.  Since then,
they'd dropped in and out of hyperspace a dozen times on their way to
intercept one of the New Republic's battle fleets, somewhere in the
Borderlands.

At least, Taryn thought it was the Borderlands.  She didn't recognize
the majority of the places they popped 'in on, and Bremen saw no reason
to enlighten her--about their location, or anything else.  He curtly
informed her she'd get control of the Messenger back once they
intercepted the fleet and delivered the message.

Well, here they were at the intercept point.  So where was the fleet?

"They might be a little late," Bremen said, and Taryn glanced over her
shoulder to see a furrow creasing his brow.  "They are scheduled to be
here," he added at the expression on her face.

"If they don't know we're coming, what are they scheduled to meet?"

she asked.  Bremen ignored the question; clearly, this was yet another
bit of information that mere civilians couldn't be trusted with.  Since
they'd dropped into the outer edges of a system and were skulking
around like thieves instead of getting closer to one of the planets,
Taryn figured the New Republic had an outpost here that its fleet was
checking up on.  Bremen just didn't want to get close enough for her
and Del to take a look.

She sighed.  Despite a week of close quarters living, or perhaps
because of it, Bremen wasn't any easier to get along with.  She'd
finally had to order Del to stop his nee-dling--if only she could order
Bremen to knock off his condescending manner, as well.  His attitude
reminded her far too strongly of her father.

Because it was possible the fleet had been delayed, and because they
really had nowhere else to go, the Messenger simply drifted for the
next several hours.  Taryn was sitting in the cockpit staring out at
the stars and trying to recall astrogation charts of the Borderlands
region when Bremen came in and dropped into the co-pilot's seat.

Mildly surprised, she glanced over as he studied the long-range
sensors.  He'd finally stopped hovering over her, apparently reassured
she wasn't going to break into the nav computer to find out where they
were if he didn't keep an eye on her every minute.  Naturally, she had,
only to find that all records of their past several jumps had been
erased.

So it wasn't so much a matter of trust, as that it simply didn't
matter.

"You don't think much of us, do you?"  she said.

He took his time looking up.  "Pardon?"

"It's not just you and your New Republic on the line here, you know.

It's me and Del, too," she said.  "If you're caught, we're caught.  You
think we're going to do anything to mess this thing up?"

"Not deliberately, no," he conceded.  "But accidents happen.  What
about when Voldt wanted to see the Corus-cant mail--you hadn't thought
of that, had you?  What if there hadn't been anything to show him?"

"That cloak and dagger stuff is your department," she retorted, but the
comment stung.  He was right; and instead of getting defensive, she
should admit it and learn from the experience.  "That doesn't justify
treating us like dimglows, and keeping me in the dark about where we're
going.  I have a right to know."

He folded his arms and gave her a level stare.  "Captain Clancy, it's
no secret I don't think you or Del Sato should have been allowed on
this mission.  You're civilians, and more of a hindrance than a help.

You can't be expected to make the kind of split-second decisions needed
to keep us out of trouble."

Taryn flushed, and concentrated on keeping her temper as he
continued.

"But you're here anyway, so consider being 'kept in the dark' as your
protection.  If you don't know anything, you can't give it away."

"What do you take me for?"  she asked, affronted.  "If I wanted to give
you up, I would've done it when Voldt was aboard.  You'll notice I
didn't."

"No, you didn't," he agreed.  "But it's better to be prepared than be
sorry."

Taryn was debating whether it was even worth discussing any further
when she was saved from a decision by a sudden blip on the sensors.

A ship, emerging from hyperspace about 30 kilometers away.

She reacted before Bremen did, flipping switches to start bringing the
engines on line.  "Del!"  she yelled down the corridor, trying to
maneuver the sluggish Messenger around to face the oncoming ship.  As
it came into view, Taryn identified it as a slightly battered-looking
Skipray blastboat, with no markings indicating who it might belong
to.

But it clearly wasn't the fleet.

Great, she thought grimly even as the comm light flashed, indicating
the starfighter was hailing them.  She flipped it on as Del arrived,
noting the engines were only up to point three-five power.

They wouldn't be able to run, just yet.

A cool female voice came over the comm speaker.  "Unidentified
freighter, do you need assistance?"  it asked, as the Skipray slanted
to the side a bit, putting it just out of line with the Messenger's
laser cannon.  Taryn kept the freighter turning to face the potential
threat as she answered.

"This is Captain Clancy of the Messenger, and thanks, but no, we're
fine," she said quickly, before Bremen could jump in.  He got out of
Del's seat and stood in the small space between them, frowning out at
the blastboat.

"Captain Clancy?  You're just who I'm looking for," the voice said as
Taryn took another look at her displays.  Up to point six-five power;
at least they could start moving.

She started the ship sidling away as the Skipray's pilot asked, "I
wonder if I might speak with your guest?"

An unexpected request, and there was a slight inflection on the last
word that made Taryn glance up at Bremen.  To her surprise, he appeared
to 'be gritting his teeth.  "This is Bremen," he said shortly.

"Ah, Colonel.  This is Mara Jade," the pilot identified herself.

"I see you made it off Coruscant in one piece."

She sounded vaguely amused.

"Get to the point," Bremen snapped.  Taryn and Del looked at him in
astonishment.  Even at his most supercilious with them, he'd never been
downright rude.

"The point is that your rendezvous with the Borderlands fleet is off,"
she said, clearly unruffled.  "They took a detour, and won't be through
here for days.  High Command's already sent a new courier out to their
location, so you're off the hook."

"I wasn't notified of any change," Bremen said.

"You're being notified."

"Why'd they send you?"  he shot back.

"Because word of the fleet's location came through one of my contacts
in the smuggler's coalition," she said.

"Information is what we're getting paid for."

Now Taryn thought she understood Bremen's animosity.

If this Mara Jade were a smuggler, Bremen's law-and-order stance
wouldn't allow him much in the way of tolerance.  "Do you have any
confirmation of that?"  he was asking.

"Just the fleet's new location," she answered coolly.  "If you're
ready, I'll transmit it to you."  A data feed light on the panel lit
up, and a series of numbers scrolled past on the display.  "Not that
you need it," she added.  "High Command said you could go on home."

"Thanks, but maybe we'll just stick around here a while longer," Bremen
said, clearly still suspicious.

There was a pause from the Skipray.  "Suit yourself," Mara finally
said.  The comm light winked out as the ship swung around and started
heading away.  Before Taryn could ask Bremen how long he planned to
wait, another ship suddenly dropped into space ahead of them.

Bremen swore viciously even as Taryn recognized the distinctive shape
of a Carracks-class cruiser.  "Go, go!"  he barked at her as the comm
light lit up again and a harsh voice ordered them to stop or be
destroyed.  Taryn turned the freighter away from the cruiser's ominous
bulk and slapped at the thrust.  She and Del were slammed back in their
seats as the Messenger leapt forward, Bremen somehow managing to hang
on as they drove for deep space.

Out of the corner of her eye, Taryn saw the Skipray had turned and was
coming back to their position, and a moment later, the sensors told her
why.

The cruiser had launched TIE fighters.

"Oh blast it, not again," she muttered.  Luck had seen the Messenger
through its first encounter with TIE fighters; she doubted it would be
any match for them this time.

"Del, get us a course out of here," she snapped, trying to gauge how
soon the two fighters would overtake them.

"I can't--I don't even know where we are!"  he snapped back.

"What about those?"  Taryn indicated the coordinates MaraJade had
transmitted, still displayed on the console.

"No!"  Bremen objected.  "She could have set a trap.

That cruiser didn't just show up by chance."  He lurched as a thump to
the Messenger's rear indicated that the TIE fighters had caught up.

"Now she's back to finish the job," he added bitterly, glaring at the
Skipray as it headed towards them.

Lasers flashed as it neared, and Taryn wondered if he were right.

But the Skipray zipped past overhead, and a moment later one of the
dots on the sensor scopes blinked out.  "I wouldn't hang around, if I
were you," Mara Jade advised, and Taryn decided it was time for one of
those split-second command decisions Bremen thought beyond her.

"Use 'em," she ordered Del, who was already busy with the nav
computer.

Bremen protested, but before he could intervene another hit rocked the
ship, sending him stumbling.

By the time he'd clawed his way back up to position behind Taryn, the
Messenger's shield indicator flickered an ominous red again.

Hands tense on the controls, Taryn tried to avoid the laser fire which
peppered their aft end.  But the old freighter simply wasn't a match
for the faster starfighter.

If it weren't for the Skipray harassing the TIE and forcing it to split
its attention between two targets, the Messenger would've already been
blown to bits.

They still might be.

Another hard lurch threw Bremen against the back of Taryn's chair.

Clinging to the seat, he looked over her shoulder at the sensors and
shouted something.  Just as she glanced down at the displays and
realized with a jolt that the cruiser's remaining two TIE fighters were
on their way to join the attack, the nav computer finally pinged.

She pulled back the levers, and they escaped into the blessed emptiness
of hyperspace.

It turned out to be a rather short hop.

Barely an hour after their escape from the cruiser, the proximity alarm
clanged, indicating a minute to breakout.

Bremen had spent most of the trip threatening to abort the jump, but
even he was unwilling to risk stressing the Messenger with a second
unexpected emergence.

Despite Taryn pointing out that the Skipray had aided in their getaway,
he remained convinced that Mara Jade had sold them out to the
Imperials.  He saw no other explanation for the cruiser's appearance.

"A panther doesn't change its stripes," he said darkly, but declined to
explain the comment.

The console pinged again, and Taryn eased back the hyperdrive levers.

Mottled sky became starlines, which became stars.  They'd arrived.

There was nothing nearby, but the long-range sensors showed a number of
ships some distance off their port side.  Within moments, they were
close enough to identify.

It was, indeed, the New Republic fleet.

She let Bremen do the talking when the Mon Calamari cruiser Hope hailed
them.  Its captain confirmed a messenger from the New Republic had
already arrived.  "But we're still glad to see you," Captain Arboga
added in his gravelly voice.  "The datacard he brought us appears
damaged, and we'd like to compare it with yours to fill in the
blanks."

The only thing left to do was drop Bremen and his datacard off.

Greatly relieved at the prospect, Taryn headed for the Hope.  They were
still several kilometers out when Bremen stepped into the cockpit
holding a small circular object.

Her eyes widened in horror when she saw it.  "Where did that come
from?"

"The hold," Bremen told her grimly.  "Ironically, in the same crate the
datacard was hidden.  The Imperials must have planted it when they
restacked the crates."  The card in his other hand indicated that it,
at least, had escaped Imperial treachery.  "That must've been how they
found us," he added grudgingly, a half-hearted concession that the
cruiser's appearance hadn't been Mara Jade's fault, after all.  Leaning
past Taryn, he flipped on the comm.  "Captain," he reported, "we've
found a homing beacon--" "And we've found who's tracking it," Arboga
cut him off.  "Take a look aft."

Taryn glanced at the scopes and stifled a groan.  The cruiser they'd so
recently escaped had appeared behind them.  Jabbing the drive up to
full, she mentally cursed as the sudden thrust shoved her back in her
seat.  She and Del had been so close to going home.  Now here they
were, stuck in the middle of another battle between the Empire and the
New Republic.

"It's no match for the entire fleet," Del said, sounding surprised the
cruiser continued to follow them.

"But it's more than a match for this scow, if we don't get out of
range," Bremen added tightly.  He glared at Taryn.  "Can't you get a
little more speed out of this thing?"

She clenched her teeth.  Enough was 'enough.  "Just shut up," she
gritted.  "If you'd done your job and found that damn beacon when they
planted it, we wouldn't be in this mess."

Bremen opened his mouth, but a thunk to the rear cut off whatever he'd
been about to say.  The deflector indicator flickered weakly, and
Taryn glanced down to see a diagnostic message scroll across the
display.  She looked at Del.  His face was tense as he, too, summed up
the shields' sorry state.  The Messenger shuddered with another hit,
and the diagnostic message turned red and began to flash.  Del looked
grimly resigned.

Leaning forward, Taryn tapped a button and a previously dark section of
the board lit up.  "The backup shield generator," she said shortly at
Del's astonished expression.

"I finished it while fixing the main after we got away from
Coruscant."

"But, we didn't have all the parts," he said.

"You just have to know where to look," Taryn said, thinking of how
she'd cannibalized the main generator to jury-rig the backup.

Redundant shields were a precaution she'd learned from her father, and
she'd installed a backup generator in every ship she'd worked on.

Seldom needed, she hadn't hurried to get the Messenger's up and
running.  But the retreat from Coruscant had changed her mind.  "It
won't hold up for long," she added, as another hit rocked the ship.

"But maybe it'll last long enough."

Nursing all the speed out of the freighter she could, but still
painfully aware it wasn't enough, Taryn drove for the distant safety of
the Hope's bulbous bulk.  Lured into finishing off the tempting target,
the cruiser followed.

It followed too far.

Just when the shields' diagnostic message was scrolling past in red
again and Taryn despaired of lasting much longer, suddenly, they were
there.

The Hope's turbolaser punch was joined by two other Mon Cal cruisers,
and the Carrack cruiser abruptly gave up the chase as its commander
realized they'd strayed within firing range of the New Republic
fleet.

Flames danced along scorched sections of its port side, and a small
explosion briefly illuminated the hull above one of its dorsal exhaust
ports.  Apparently deciding retreat was the prudent course of action,
the cruiser banked away, its powerful sublight engines driving for deep
space.

But it wasn't fast enough.

The brilliant flare from the exploding cruiser lit up the Messenger's
canopy.  Out her port window, Taryn caught a glimpse of fast-moving
specks--X-wings, returning to escort formation around the fleet after
pumping deadly proton torpedoes into the ship's damaged areas.  The
fireball began to fade as she approached the Hope's hangar bay.

Behind her, Bremen was silent.  Cycling back the repulsors and gently
setting the ship down on the deck, Taryn waited expectantly for a
critique.

"You didn't tell me we had extra shields," he said instead.

"You didn't ask."

"Yes, well--" He hesitated so long that Taryn half-turned to look up at
him.  The habitual frown was still there, but his eyes were direct as
he admitted, "When the main generator went, I figured we were done
for."

"We almost were," she said.  "Credit my father--he's the one who taught
me how to get things up and running on practically nothing but hope and
air.  After Coruscant, I thought we could use an extra set of
shields."

"They certainly came in handy," Bremen agreed.  He paused again, even
longer this time.  "Look," he finally said, "I know I objected to you
two being on this mission, but .  . . all in all, it's worked out
okay."

Okay?  Taryn stared at him, disconcerted.  They'd been shot at, yanked
out of hyperspace and boarded, and had eluded an Imperial cruiser to
successfully deliver the data-card.

Was this his idea of a compliment?

Bremen flushed slightly at her expression, but added, "We're always
looking for good pilots, and if you've a mind for a career change, the
New Republic could use someone like you."

She didn't know what to say.

"Think about it," he said.  "I'll leave you some contacts to get in
touch with, if you're interested.  You, too," he told Del.

"Not me," Del said.  "I'm retiring."

Taryn glanced at him in surprise.  That's right; after 30 years of
hauling mail to the same old ports along the same old route, once they
finished this run his piloting days were done.

Was that really what she wanted to look forward to?

"Thanks for the offer," she told Bremen.  "I'll think about it.

But right now, I've got a route to finish.  Not to mention, figure a
course back to Coriallis."

Bremen leaned over Del's shoulder.  "This ought to help," he said,
punching up a chart on the nav computer.

Before leaving, he handed her a datacard and urged again, "Think about
it."

As Taryn cleared the Hope's hangar bay and headed toward the first of a
short series of hyperspace hops that would take them back to the Core,
she tried to imagine what her father would say if she gave up
delivering mail and started flying for the New Republic instead.

Would he say something patronizing---or would he be pleased?  She
considered it a minute, then shrugged.  Gazing out at the stars, she
realized she no longer cared what he said.

Taryn smiled as she pulled back the levers and the stars streaked, then
faded to the swirling sky of hyperspace.

She was back on course.

A Certain Point of View

by Charlene Newcomb Heh, heh, Lieutenant, I think he's got you this
time!"  engineer Dap Nechel chuckled.

Lieutenant Celia Durasha ran her hand along the barrel of her blaster
and glanced at Nechel.  She knew how much the short, bearded alien
enjoyed these ritual match-ups between the Kuari Princess' navigator
and Detien Kaileel, the security chief.  Their banter enlivened the
luxury liner's routine passage along the Relgim Run between Endoraan
and Mantooine.

"Just wait a minute now, Dap," she said, holstering the blaster and
leaning across the holo gameboard to study her farangs and waroots.

Celia frowned, her emerald-green eyes narrowed.  The chief's last move
had indeed given him the advantage.

Seated across from her, Security Chief Kaileel wore a grin--at least
Celia thought she detected a grin.  The Kabieroun's long snout hid most
of his mouth.

"Come now, my dear crimson-haired friend," Kaileel said, his Basic
heavily accented, "shall we try another game?"  Dark intelligent eyes
twinkled, reflecting the yellowish-green light of the gameboard.  He
sat back, his giant frame obscuring the overstuffed pillows that
decorated the sofas on the Kuari Princess' observation deck.

Shaking her head, Celia rolled her eyes.  "Why is it, Dap," she kidded
the engineer, "that I seem to lose every time you're around?"

Dap smiled at her mischievously, then winked at Kaileel.  "I bring the
Chief good luck!"

"I don't think I'm going to invite you to any more games!"  Celia
laughed, falling back onto the sofa.  Sighing, she stared out the
viewport at the mottled lights of stars rushing past them as the ship
travelled through hyperspace.

"Wish I had time for another game, Chief.

We'll be coming up on Mantooine soon, and I'm supposed to be on the
bridge."

Chief Kaileel nodded, muscles rippling along his elongated neck.

"I imagine the captain would appreciate the presence of his best
officers at their respective duty stations."

"Indeed," Dap agreed.

"I'll have some free time after we make orbit.  Shall we get together,
say, at 19307" Celia asked.

"No good," the Chief replied.  "I have some things to take care of on
Mantooine.  I won't be back until much later."

"Things to take care of, eh?"  Celia kidded him, picking up her nav-aid
datapad from the seat.  "All right, Chief, when do I get to meet this
new girlfriend you've been harboring on Mantooine?"

"And what about the ones on Aris and Vykos?"  Dap added.

Kaileel blushed a darker shade of green than normal and straightened in
his seat.  "No girlfriends," he told them, tugging at the earhoop
hanging from his left lobe.

"Just .  . . friends."

"Okay, if you say so," Celia replied, a sly smile tugging at the corner
of her lip.  Standing up, she brushed a stray red hair off the silky
white sleeve of her uniform and carefully adjusted the blaster
holstered around her hips.

"Well, time for work, gentlebeings."

Dap took one last gulp of his drink and bounced down from the sofa.

"Ah, yes," he said, "an engineer's work is never done.  Vetoosh,
friends."

"Vetoosh," Celia replied as Dap headed down the corridor.

"Chief I" "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Any progress on finding those missing blasters?"

Kaileel swung his massive head.  "No," he said.  "I'm afraid the
captain will be unhappy with my report.  I've been over this a dozen
times with my security people.  It's hard to believe one of them might
be lying.  But this is the third incident.  All those blasters were in
secure lockers in our offices.  I just don't see how anyone else could
have taken them."

"And they haven't turned up anywhere on the ship?"

"I've had scanning teams searching every centimeter of the Princess,
though I don't expect to find them here," he said.  "No, I'm afraid
this last batch may have been smuggled off the ship at one of our port
stops and will turn up in Rebel hands like those the Imperials
discovered on Mantooine."

"You sound worried, Chief," Celia observed.

"This will not look good on my record, Lieutenant," Kaileel reminded
her.

"Chief, your record is impeccable!"  she told him.

"You've got the best security team this side of the Rim!"

"With a dozen weapons missing?"  he grimaced.

"Thank you for your vote of confidence, little Crimson."

Nodding, Celia watched him rise, his huge form towering far above
hers.

"I'll talk with you when you return from Mantooine."  She started to
walk away, then turned back to face him.  "I want my rematch!"  she
called.

"You're not going to win again!"

The decks were crowded with passengers boarding the Kuari Princess in
Mantooine for the return trip through the Maelstrom Nebula to
Endoraan.

Celia nodded politely to a group of Ithorians and three Corellian
businessmen.

She smiled at a young couple, still dressed in their wedding finery.

Obviously on their honeymoon, they didn't seem to notice anything
around them, only each other.

"Ticket, please," hostess Kelsa Vilrein asked a very wealthy-looking
female passenger.

"Miss," the woman asked, "can you tell me where the observation deck
is?  I don't want to miss our entry into the Maelstrom.  I've heard so
much about it."

"That's on the Lido Deck," Kelsa told her.  "The captain will announce
our approach.  Of course, you realize we won't enter the Maelstrom for
15 hours."

"Yes, thank you, my dear."

Kelsa tipped her head toward Celia.  "Good evening, Lieutenant."

"How are you, Kelsa?"  Celia asked the dark-haired woman.

"Ticket, please," she replied, glancing down to check another
passenger's accommodations.  "Hornthor Deck.

That's up two levels."  She winked at Celia.  "I'm fine, Lieutenant."

"Has Chief Kaileel come back on board?"  Celia asked.

"He returned about a half hour ago.  Ticket, please."

"Thanks, Kelsa."

"Celia?"

The voice was familiar, but one she hadn't heard in a long time.

Looking around, Celia stared wide-eyed.  Her heart skipped a beat.

"Adion?  How in the worlds--" "I'd recognize that red mane anywhere!"

he exclaimed, reaching out to take her hand.  "Celia Durasha.

Good skies!  What are you doing so far from Inkashiir?"

"I'm the Kuari Princess' navigator.  And look at you--" "What do you
think?"  he asked, tugging at his tunic to straighten any part of the
uniform that might dare to be out of place.

"Lieutenant .  . . hm," she said, eyeing his tall muscular frame.

Adion Lang looked more handsome than she remembered.  Maybe it's the
uniform, she thought.  "I like it."

"Celia, you look absolutely ravishing," he told her.

"Shh!"  she replied, turning her head as the heat rose in her cheeks.

"You're not allowed to embarrass the ship's navigator."

"All right, I'll try not to."

"I'm good friends with the Security Chief, Lieutenant Lang.  Any
misbehavior and I'll have him throw you in the brig!"

"Yes, ma'am," he grinned.  "You haven't changed at all, Celia."

"Not one little bit!"  She laughed.  "Now, c'mon.  Let's get out of the
line of traffic."  Leading him through the ship's corridors toward the
observation deck, Celia couldn't help but notice the two white-armored
shadows that followed them at a discreet distance.

"Friends of yours?"  she asked.

Adion glanced back.  "Oh, them?  Don't worry about them.  Just a couple
of guards who were lucky enough to accompany me," he replied
nonchalantly.  "Tell me, Celia, how long has it been?"

She thought for a moment.  "Seven years, I guess."

"A long time," he said.  "Tell me about you, your family.

I'm afraid I've lost touch with your brothers."

"Well, Jak is still in the Navy, stationed on board the Relentless.

Bern is a lieutenant with an armored battalion in the Generis Sector,
and I just spoke with Raine last week.  His unit was preparing to ship
out to Ralltiir--some kind of local trouble, I suppose.  I miss them
all terribly, but especially Raine."

"I guess that's natural--he is your twin brother, after all," Adion
said.  "But what happened to all your grand plans?  I thought you would
attend the Academy like your brothers."

Celia frowned, unable to ignore the incoming tide of emotions that were
attached to that subject.

Adion stopped in the middle of the corridor, obviously aware that he'd
touched on a sore spot.  "I'm sorry," he told her, taking her hand into
his.  "I can tell something's wrong."

"It's okay," Celia said as old feelings of anger flooded her senses.

"My application was never forwarded past Sector."

"What!  Who would do such a thing?"

Staring Past Adion, her voice trembled, full of bitterness.

"Commander Reise Durasha."

"Your father?"

Nodding, Celia walked away from Adion.  She ran her hand along the gold
handrail that lined the ornately decorated corridor.

"But why?"  Adion asked, taking two giant strides to catch up with
her.

She stopped, planting her arms across her chest, and looked him
straight in the eye.  "I believe his words were, 'No daughter of mine
is going to attend the Academy.  It's no place for women," or something
to that effect."

Adion lowered his eyes, shuffling his feet on the ship's polished
marble flooring.  His silence stung louder than a thunderclap.

"You, too?  You agree with him?"  she asked, trying to temper her
anger and hurt.

"Celia, you would have been remarkable at the Academy.

But do you know where most women end up after graduation?"

She glared at him.  She knew all right.  Backwater worlds, crummy
assignments, with little chance to prove yourself, or to ever see a
promotion.  But it never mattered to her.  She had longed to wear the
uniform, to proudly serve as others in her family had done for
generations.

"Your father was only thinking of your well-being," Adion said.

"My well-being?  Excuse me, why would he be so concerned about a
daughter he barely knew."

"And yet you wanted to follow in his footsteps!  See your family every
three or four years, if it was convenient?

Celia," he admonished her gently, "how can you still be upset with him
after all these years?"

"He interfered with my life, Adion.  He had no right to make that
decision for me."

"Perhaps you're right."

"Can we drop this subject?"  she asked.  "You haven't told me what
you're doing on the Kuari Princess."

Adion looped his arm through hers.  "Show me your ship," he said, "and
I'll tell you about my assignment to Aris."

"Aris?  Sector HO eh?"  she smiled, leading him up the grand staircase
to the Lido observation deck.  "I'm impressed.

A plush job, no doubt."

"You are looking at the new assistant of the Moff," he told her.

"Congratulations, Adion!  That's wonderful."  She stopped, turning to
look out one of the viewports.

Mantooine loomed ahead of them, the glare of sunlight illuminating the
horizon as the ship's orbit took them across the terminator into day.

"It's so beautiful up here," she sighed.  "But just wait until we enter
the Maelstrom Nebula."

"I've heard about it," he said, his voice softening.  "But it can't be
as spectacular as the lovely red hair I used to tug on from my seat in
physics classes."  He pushed a loose curl away from her face then
touched her lightly on the cheek.  "I've missed you, Celia."

Celia blushed and looked away from him.  Adion reached out to turn her
face back toward his.  Putting his arm around her waist, he pulled her
close.  Slowly, his lips met hers.  For a brief moment neither one
noticed the curious on-lookers who passed by.

Trembling, Celia pulled away from him.  Old memories rushed in upon her
senses.  There may have been a time, years ago, when she would have
followed him to the ends of the galaxy.  But then he'd left their
homeworld to attend Raithal Academy and she hadn't seen or heard from
him in all these years.  Did he expect to pick up right where they'd
left off?.

Her eyes fixed on his.  There was something different about him,
something in those piercing blue eyes that she couldn't quite put her
finger on.  "I've got to go, Adion.

We'll be leaving orbit soon and I'm supposed to be on duty now."

"May I see you later?"  he asked.

"I--I'll check with you in the morning," she said, turning to leave.

Confused by emotions he'd stirred deep within her, emotions she thought
she'd left behind in the past, Celia hurried away.  She needed time to
think.  Some safe harbor.

And she knew exactly where to find it.

The door slid open into a modestly decorated office.  A hologram on one
wall displayed a cross section of the Kuari Princess.  A dozen monitors
occupied another wall to the right of a desk that was littered with a
half dozen datacards.

Chief Kaileel was hunched over his computer terminal.

He glanced up at Celia, a momentary look of annoyance vanished
quickly, replaced by a gentler expression.

"Good evening, dear Crimson.  May I help you with something?"

"I, uh, thought I'd get a brief update on those missing blasters,
Chief," she said unconvincingly.

Kaileel's large dark eyes frowned at her over the top of the monitor.

"I have nothing new to report, Lieutenant," he replied, eyeing her
suspiciously.  "Was there something else I might help you with?"

Celia's eyes wandered around the room.  "I've got the bridge watch for
another hour, then I'll be ready for our rematch."

Kaileel drummed his long green fingers on the desk.

"It is rather late, you realize."

"You're not trying to get out of this game, are you?"

"Of course not, Lieutenant.  I shall be off duty in two hours."

"Good," Celia replied, glad she'd have the game to keep her mind off a
certain handsome Imperial lieutenant.

"Then I'll expect you to meet me on the observation deck."

The edges of Kaileel's mouth curled upward behind his snout.  "Oh, my
dear little crimson-haired friend, I would not miss the chance to beat
you again for all the spice on Kessel!"

"Beat me?"  she smiled, her mood suddenly lighter.

"Don't count on it, Chief!"

"Get to your bridge, little one.  Drive your ship!  Steer us a straight
course!"

Leaning over the desk, Celia's face grew serious.  "You look tired,
Chief," she said.  "Is everything all right?"

Kaileel leaned back into his chair.  "Yes--well, no," he admitted when
he saw the frown on her face.  "I had some disturbing news on my visit
to Mantooine."

"Chief?"  another voice called from the doorway.

"Sorry to interrupt, Lieutenant."

"What is it, Raban?"  Kaileel asked the security officer as Celia
walked behind the desk to stare out the viewport.

"We've got a report of a fight between two passengers at the Galleria
Shop."

"Who's on it?"

"Brankton.  And we've sent in a backup."

"Keep me posted," Kaileel told the man, then turned to smile at
Celia.

"This may turn out to be an exciting cruise."

"We haven't even left orbit yet!"  Celia marvelled.

"And you thought your job was interesting."

"Chief, what were you about to tell me--the news you got on
Mantooine?"

"Later, my dear.  I'll tell you later."

Celia eyed her old friend.  There was something bothering him.

But before she could probe for more information the captain's voice
sounded over the intercom.

"Chief Kailecl, is Lieutenant Durasha with you?"

"Yes, Captain," Kailecl said.

"I was just on my way to the bridge, sir," Celia added.

"Lieutenant, I need to speak with you privately.  Will you meet me in
my office right away?"

"Of course, sir.  On my way.  I wonder what that's all about," she said
as Kailccl clicked off the intercom.  "I'll see you in a couple of
hours, Chief."

"Captain Glidrick, you wanted to see me?"

"Please, Lieutenant, sit down," he said.  Stenn Glidrick was a
middle-aged man with brownish hair that was just beginning to streak
with gray.  Like Celia, he was dressed in blue trousers with a gold
stripe down each leg.  Medals decorated his white tunic--a reminder to
everyone of his service in the Imperial Navy.

"What is it, sir?  What's happened?"

"I received a message from your father--" Celia stood up abruptly, her
face reddening.  "My father sent you a message?"  she asked, the anger
in her voice unmistakable.

"Please, Lieutenant--" "I want nothing to do with him--" "Lieutenant
Durasha, sit down!"  the captain ordered.

He took a deep breath.  "Your father sent word through me, because he
knew what your reaction would be.  It's about your brother--" Celia
paled.  "What?"  Her hands trembled as she grasped the edge of
Glidrick's desk and collapsed into the chair.

"He's been killed," the captain told her.  "I'm sorry."

Closing her eyes, Celia chewed on the inside of her lip, trying to
force back the tears.  "Captain, I have three brothers.  Which one--"
Glidrick glanced down at the datapad.  "It's Raine," he said.  "Your
father said there are more details on this holo that accompanied the
message I received.  Take all the time you need, Celia.  I'm truly
sorry."

"Thank you, sir," Celia replied numbly, taking the holo from him.

She rose slowly from the chair and somehow managed to find her way to
her quarters.  Alone, Celia listened to the message.  When it ended,
she paused it, staring at her father's frozen holo image.  The small
room seemed tO close in around her.

Unconsciously, Celia ran her hand back and forth across her holster,
then downward, brushing against her soft leather boot.  She unsheathed
the knife hidden there.

It had been a special gift from Raine, one he had given to her the
night before he'd left for his last term of service.

Sitting beneath Lankashiir's star-filled skies, they had reminisced
about the good times they'd had exploring the forests of their
homeworld.

She turned the knife over several times.  Light from the holo image
touched the steel gray blade and cascaded across the desk.  Her small
hand melded perfectly around its handle which was carved from rare
ebon.  She studied the flaming red jewel embedded just above the
blade, watched it sparkle brilliantly even in the dimly lit cabin.

Good memories seemed no more than a distant echo now.  Celia set the
knife down, rubbed her hand wearily across her brow and clicked on her
father's message again.

"Your brother Raine has been killed by Rebel forces on the planet
Ralltiir," the figure in the holo said.  Reise Durasha looked much
older, and much thinner than when she'd seen him last.  His gray-green
Imperial Army uniform seemed to hang loosely on his bent frame.  Dark
shadows ringed his eyes.  "I know how close you and Raine were .  .

."

Celia buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.

Emotionally exhausted, numb with grief, sleep finally ended her pain.

When the cabin intercom buzzed more than an hour later, she awoke
suddenly.  Slowly, she reached over and clicked it on.

"Durasha here," she said wearily.

"Celia, I thought we had a game this evening."

She stared blankly at the comm panel.

"Celia?"  the Chief called again, more insistently.

"Oh, Chief," she finally said, "I forgot."

"Is everything all right?"  he asked.  "We don't have to play
tonight--" "No, just give me a few minutes."

When Celia arrived on the observation deck, the holo gameboard was
darkened.  A tall glass of some exotic beverage sat on the edge of the
playing table.

"What's this?"  Celia asked, pointing toward the drink.

"Zadarian brandy.  You sounded like you could use a good stiff drink,"
Kaileel told her.

Celia blinked a tear from her eye.  She picked up the brandy, swirled
it around the glass thoughtfully, and finally took a long sip.

The brew trickled down her throat, but its warmth did nothing to
diminish the chill she felt.

She could feel the Chief's eyes upon her.

"What has happened?"  he asked.

Staring out at the stars blurring past them in hyperspace, Celia
didn't seem to hear him.

"Celia?"  He stood up, placing his hand lightly on her shoulder.

Trembling, Celia turned toward Kaileel and looked up into his eyes.

"My brother--" she cried, burying her face in his chest.

Kaileel wrapped his long scaly arms around her.  He held her tightly.

"I'm so sorry, my dear little Crimson," he said.

When her tears dried, Celia told her old friend how Raine's unit had
been ambushed by Rebels at the space-port on Ralltiir.

Kaileel shook his head sadly.  "So many will die," he said quietly.

"On both sides."

Celia's eyes grew wide.  "You don't support the Rebel cause, do you?"

"Let's just say I disagree with the Empire's methods of resolving this
conflict," he told her.

"What do you mean, Chief?"

Kaileel gazed out the viewport.  "Think of the Maelstrom Nebula,
Celia," he said.

"What about it?"

"From Mantooine--how does it appear?"

"It's barely a speck," she replied.

"True," he nodded.  "what happens when we enter the Nebula?"

She threw him a puzzled look.  "Is this a class in astrophysics,
Chief?"

"Please, follow along with me," he said.

"All right.  When we enter the Nebula our communications don't work
well.  And our sensors are blinded.  But what does that have to do
with--" Kaileel held up one long green finger.  "From a great distance
we can only surmise the hazards the Nebula may present to us.  Why is
it that until we're close, until it touches us, we don't recognize the
danger?

"The Empire is like that, little Crimson.  From a distance, we may not
feel the danger--we're too far removed from its touch.  But once it is
upon us, we will hear and see only what the Empire desires."

"My family serves that Empire, Chief.  My brother died fighting for it,
too," she reminded him.  "You'd better not let others hear you speak
like this.  They might suspect you were the one who stole those--" She
stopped mid-sentence, sitting up abruptly, and leaned over the holo
gameboard.

Kaileel eyed her, then thoughtfully swirled the reddish liqueur in his
own glass.

"You gave those blasters to Rebels on Mantooine?"  she asked quietly.

"Was that the business you had to attend to?"

Before the Chief could answer, Dap Nechel bounded into the room.

"Why didn't you tell me you were playing?"  he asked, his voice filled
with an exaggerated anguish.

Celia fell back onto the overstuffed pillows.  She looked from Kaiteel
to Dap, then turned away.  Kaileel straightened in his seat and took a
long slow sip from his drink.

"I'm sorry," Dap said.  "I seem to have interrupted a private
conversation.  I'll go now."

"No, it's okay, Dap," Celia said.  "Stay.  We were just setting up the
board."  She pressed a button on the side of the game table.  A
greenish glow lit their faces and a dozen warriors appeared, standing
at attention, weapons held at right-shoulder arms, on each side of the
holo board.

"Celia, we don't have to play--" Kaileel began.

"It's all right, Chief," she said.  "Your move."

As Dap climbed onto the sofa next to Celia, Kaileel positioned his
waroot.  Celia moved one of her farangs.

Chief countered by advancing another one of his warriors.

Celia studied the gameboard.  Sitting up, she pulled her blaster from
its holster and rubbed her hand along the barrel contemplatively.

"Hmm, Chief," she said, "that was not a wise move."

"Really?  I believe it all depends on your point of view," he
replied.

"My point of view?"  she frowned.

"Open your eyes, dear Crimson.  Look at what is happening all around
you."

Dap eyed his two friends.  "What are you two talking about?"  he
asked.

"Will one of you please tell me?"

Celia looked away.

"Celia's brother was killed by Rebels on Ralltiir."

"Oh, dear.  That's terrible, Lieutenant.  I had heard about the
insurrection there on the holo newsvid.  But the Empire is dealing with
those Rebels," he said.  "And the ones on Alderaan.  Yes, indeed.  They
won't be giving the Empire any more trouble."

"Alderaan?"  the Chief asked.

"Good skies, have you not heard the news--well, no, I guess not if
you've been sitting here the last hour."

"What has happened on Alderaan?"  Celia repeated.

"The Emperor's servants discovered that several of the leaders of the
Rebellion were from Alderaan-Bail Or-gana himself, and his daughter,
the Princess Leia.  Our forces have made an example of that world."

"What do you mean?"

"Alderaan has been destroyed."

"What!"  Celia exclaimed.

Kaileel shook his head sadly.  "Did I not tell you this?"

"The whole planet?"

"It's nothing but billions of particles of dust now," Dap said.

"Millions of people, like pawns," Kaileel said, pointing at the
characters on their gameboard, "for the Emperor to do with what he
will."

"But, Chief" "I fear the game is up," Kaileel said softly.

Frowning, Celia leaned over the gameboard to check their warriors'
positions.  "You're not giving up that easily," she said, suddenly
catching Dap's startled expression out of the corner of her eye.

Chief Kaileel exhaled deeply, letting out a big sigh.

Celia looked up.  Two stormtroopers had blaster rifles aimed at her
friend.

"Indeed, Rebel spy," Adion Lang's voice rang out men-acingly.

He stepped out from behind the stormtroopers.

"The game is up."

"Adion!"  Celia exclaimed, carefully holstering her blaster.

"What's the meaning of this?"  She made a point of standing slowly, not
wanting to alarm the storm-troopers.

"Chief Kaileel is no spy."

"Please, Celia, don't try to defend this traitor.  We know all about
this," he paused, searching for the right description, "creature's
activities.  We have proof that he has supplied weapons to Rebel agents
on Mantooine.  And considering the conversation I've just overheard--"
"You've been spying on us!"  Dap exclaimed.

"That is my job.  I'm sorry, Celia, that this...

thing .  . . has cultivated your friendship.  Just remember what his
friends have done to your brother," Adion said.

"Raine would still be alive if it weren't for traitors like him."

His cold words cut into Celia's heart like a vibroblade.

She'd lost her brother to the Rebels.  And now she was losing her best
friend to the Empire.  She looked at Kaileel--she would never blame him
for Raine's death.

She hoped he could see that in her eyes.

"It's all right, dear Crimson," Kaileel told her.  "I am only one.

But the Empire will soon learn that the ones will multiply by the
hundreds of thousands.  And one day, we shall not be put down."

"Take him away," Adion ordered the stormtroopers.

"Excuse me, Lieutenant," Dap said.  "If you'll not be needing me, may I
go?"

"Yes, Chief Nechel," Adion told him, "though I may ask for a statement
from you later."

"I see," Dap replied.  "Yes, indeed, whatever you require.

You know where I'll be."

Celia watched them put binders on Kaileel's wrists.  His strong
muscular arms twitched nervously as he stood up.

Towering above them, he would have been an intimidating sight if it
weren't for the blaster rifles they had trained on him.

"Move it," one stormtrooper ordered Kaileel, shoving his rifle into the
chief's chest.

"Take him to ship's security and keep a close eye on him, Sergeant,"
Adion ordered.  "Remember, he knows that place better than anyone on
this ship."

"Yes, sir."

As they led Kaileel away, Celia stared after them.  "What will happen
to him, Adion?"

"Dear Celia, don't concern yourself with these details," he replied,
reaching out to take her hand.

"I don't understand this, Adion.  I thought you were an administrative
aide."

He shook his head.  "I'm sorry I had to lie to you, Celia.

I'm with the Imperial Security Bureau.  We've been watching your
security chief for several months now."

"I thought I knew him so well.  I never suspectedre" she said, covering
her face with her hands.

Adion took Celia into his arms.  "There, now," he said, "everything
will be all right.  Come, sit down with me."

"Gentlebeings," a voice rang out over the ship's intercom.

"This is Captain Glidrick.  In approximately 30 minutes, the Kuari
Princess will emerge from hyperspace to enter the Maelstrom Nebula.

You won't want to miss the spectacular view from the Lido Deck's
observation ports.

It will be a sight you will never forget."

"The Nebula--" Celia sighed.  Kaileel's comparison of the Empire and
the nebula filled her mind .  . . until it touches you, you may not
realize the danger it presents.

"Forget what that old creature said to you, Celia.  His thoughts are
dangerous."

Celia looked up into Adion's blue eyes.  They seemed cold and
vacant.

Who was right?  Empire?  Rebel?  She'd been hurt by both of them.

Could she ever embrace one or the other?  She didn't know what to think
anymore.

"I've got to talk to him, Adion."

"That's not a good idea, Celia."

"Please--just for a few minutes."

"I will have to question him first, but before we reach Aris, I'll let
you see him."

Nodding weakly, she rested her head on Adion's shoulder.

The cell door slid shut behind her.  Celia stood rigidly, staring at
Kaileel.  After more than 10 hours, she was finally able to talk to
him, just as Adion Lang had promised.

Shaking her head, she placed her nav-aid datapads on the chest just
inside the door and began pacing back and forth across Kaileel's
cell.

Her hand nervously fingered her empty holster.

"You admitted it!"  she finally shouted at Kaileel.

"What else was I to do, Lieutenant?"  he asked her.

Stopping dead in her tracks in front of him, Celia rolled her eyes in
disgust.  "Lie!"

Kaileel stared past her as if looking out some nonexistent viewport.

"To what end?  My dear little Crimson," he said, turning to look into
her eyes, "I know you are not that naive."

Celia clenched her fists and pounded Kaileel's muscular chest.  "I just
don't understand, Chief!"  she cried.

"What has the Empire done to you?"

"Nothing."

"Then why did you get yourself mixed up with these Rebels?"

"What the Empire is doing is wrong," he told her, "it's immoral.

Remember what I told you--that certain point of view--stop looking at
the Empire from a distance.  Take a look up close, Celia.  You will
see.  All freedom-loving beings know this is true."  He took her hand
into his, pressing it closely to his chest.  "And I know, deep in my
heart, that one day you will understand."

Staring up into his huge black eyes, Celia pushed down the lump in her
throat.  "I just don't know, Chief--" The door into the cell slid
open.

"Time's up, Lieutenant.  I'm afraid you'll have to leave."

"But it's only been a couple of minutes.  Can't I stay a little while
longer, Sergeant?"

"I've got my orders, Lieutenant."

The stormtrooper motioned her toward the door.  Celia frowned at
Kaileel.  She finally walked away from him, stopping to glance back one
last time.

"I still want my rematch with you, Chief!"  she told him, reaching for
the datapads on the chest.  "I won't let them take you off this ship
until I get a rematch!"

The datapads slipped from Celia's hands, clattering to the floor.

She bent down to retrieve them, inconspicuously withdrawing the knife
from her boot.  Standing abruptly, she drove the knife under the
stormtrooper's helmet and into his neck.  He 'screamed in pain as she
forcefully pulled him out of the doorway, bashing his head against the
wall.  Her hands shaking, she twisted the blade one last time as the
trooper collapsed to the floor.

"C'mon, Chief," she said, re-sheathing the knife in her boot, "we've
got to get out of here!"

A second stormtrooper appeared in the doorway.  Diving to the floor,
Celia recovered the fallen trooper's blaster rifle and opened fire.

Her shot nicked the wall as the stormtrooper backed away from the
door.

Jumping to her feet, Celia scrambled to the doorway and blasted him as
he ran down the corridor.

"Let's go, Chief!"  she shouted, throwing the blaster rifle back to
him.

Following her, Kaileel stepped over the two dead storm-troopers.

"Tell me, dear Crimson, do you really expect us to get out of here
alive?"  he asked.  "Where's the rest of our security people?"

"Dap arranged for a little problem on the Bazaar Deck," she said,
retrieving the second blaster rifle.

"Good old Dap.  You think the turbolift's the best way down to the
hangar bay?"

"Should be all clear, Chief."

"Amazing."

"You've got a lot of friends on board the Princess, old man!"

"Is there a barge--" "Already prepped.  I disconnected the robot pilot
and did a little rewire job so I could fly it out of here."

"And into the Maelstrom," the Chief added.

"We'll be safe there."

Thirty seconds later the turbolift doors opened onto the luxury liner's
dimly lit hangar.  Two barges which were used for piloting passengers
to and from the ship occupied the high-ceilinged room.

Peering into the bay, Celia motioned for Kaileel to follow her.

They were halfway across the bay when Adion Lang walked down the ramp
of the nearest barge.  His blaster was pointed toward Chief Kaileel,
but his eyes were transfixed on Celia.

"Put your blasters down," he ordered them.

Celia stared at the blaster in her hand.  "Adion, please," she said,
her voice trembling, "let Kaileel go."

"I was afraid you'd try something like this, Celia.  You always were
rather impetuous.  But I think you know I can't let him go," he told
her.  "Now, please, put your blaster down.  You don't want to kill
me."

Celia searched Adion's eyes.  There was no emotion there, no spark of
life.  It can't end like this, she thought.  There's got to be
something I can do.

Chief Kaileel moved slowly to lower his blaster.  "I'm sorry, little
Crimson," he said, suddenly jerking the rifle up to fire at Adion.  His
first shot went wide.  Half a heartbeat later, a blast from Adion's
rifle caught him across the chest.  Kaileel managed to get off a
second shot, but it ricocheted wildly, bouncing off the hull of the
barge.

Kaileel collapsed, mortally wounded, onto the cold metallic floor of
the hangar bay.

Celia dropped her blaster rifle and rushed toward her fallen friend.

"You didn't have to kill him!"  she screamed at Adion.  Tears
threatened to blur her vision.  But she forced them away as she knelt
beside Kaileel's body.

Adion approached her cautiously, kicking both blaster rifles across the
hangar floor.  "Why, Celia?  Why were you helping him escape?"  he
asked her.  "You're no Rebel."

"He was my friend," she said quietly, ignoring the contempt she heard
in Adion's voice.  She wondered what had happened to the young man
she'd once admired, the man she had loved.

"You'll have to come with me, Celia," Adion said.

"Don't make me, Adion," she told him, her eyes still fixed on Kaileel's
body for fear they might betray her true feelings.  "Won't you let me
leave?"

"It's my duty, Celia," he said coldly, his blaster trained on the back
of her head.  "You're under arrest for treasonous acts against the
Empire."

Celia picked up Kaileel's limp hand, tenderly running her fingers
across it.  "Looks like this game's going nowhere, Chief," she told
him.  "How will I ever get my rematch?"

Adion moved a step closer, his tall frame casting a dark shadow across
Kaileel's face.  His leg brushed up against Celia's back and she
cringed at his touch.

"Get up, Celia."

A tear trickled down her cheek.  Slowly, she turned and looked back at
Adion.  Her hand slipped unnoticeably toward her boot.  Her fingers
clamped around the handle of the knife.

"Get up," Adion repeated, grabbing her left arm, dragging her up so
that their faces were barely centimeters apart.  He shook his head, and
for one brief moment Celia thought she detected a hint of regret.

Then his blue eyes narrowed.  Blinded by his own hatred, Adion never
noticed the flash of steel until Celia slashed him across the arm.

His eyes grew wild as he cried out in pain.  The blaster slipped from
his hand and skittered across the floor as Celia lashed out again.

Trying to protect himself from the attack, Adion lost his grip on
her.

She fled across the hangar and up the ramp of the barge.

As the hatch slid shut she could hear Adion shouting her name.

"Celia, don't do this!"

Seconds later, the barge lifted off the floor of the hangar bay.

The small transport slipped quietly outside into the swirling Maelstrom
Nebula.

From the viewport, Celia watched the Kuari Princess fade as the barge
moved away from the luxury liner and deeper into the nebula.

"Stalemate, Chief," she nodded to herself.  A bitterness crept into her
voice.  "Nobody wins this round."

Blaze of Glory

by Tony Russo "Every mercenary wants to be remembered."  Lex "Mad
Vornskr" Kempo paused a moment as the jungle browns and greens of
Gabredor III rose up toward their diving freighter.  With a sardonic
smirk, the spacer twisted around in the pilot's seat and gazed at
Brixie.

"A mercenary doesn't retire gracefully.  There's no such thing as an
Old Mercs Home either.  What a real mercenary wants is to go out .

. . in a blaze of glory."

"Really?"  Brixie Ergo shifted around nervously in one of the
acceleration chairs situated behind the co-pilot's station.  Space was
tight in the modified Corellian light freighter, especially up front.

The craft rattled and shook as the vessel plunged deeper into the
planet's atmosphere.  Kempo smiled a toothy, wicked grin.

"Absolutely."

What sounded like a cross between an order and snarl came from the
fur-covered being currently occupying the co-pilot's seat beside
Kempo.

"Leave the rook alone."  Sully Tigereye was a Trunsk, a stout alien
species well known for their fighting ability and equally legendary
short temper.  Bristly brown hairs covered the length of Tigereye's
body except for his face and the palms of his hands.  As if emphasizing
his displeasure with Kempo, two shiny, sharpened tusks protruded from
his lower lip.  Brixie recalled stories her parents had told her as a
child, about Trunsks being the showpieces of many a carnival show as
gladiators and ring fighters.

If Sully Tigereye had ever been part of such a show in the past, he
never let on.  What she did know was that he had once been a highly
decorated member of an elite New Republic infiltrator unit.  No longer
with the New Republic military, he continued to serve with his former
colonel in a band of mercenaries called the Red Moons.  It was Tigereye
who had been appointed as team leader for this mission, and it was
Tigereye who had chosen Brixie to come along as combat medic, although
it was for a mission that Brixie still did not quite understand.  JUst
sitting close by Lex Kempo and Sully Tigereye made the former medical
student uncomfortable, as if she was part of a group she did not truly
belong to.

The mercenaries' target was a Karazak Slavers Guild operation lurking
in the jungle swamps and dense foliage on Gabredor III.  Like the few
Red Moon operation files she had a chance to study during her training
period, any further information on the exact target and their reason
for assaulting it would not be explained in detail until they landed.

That protected not only the Red Moons, but those who hired them.  All
of this secrecy just didn't make any sense to Brixie.  What could they
hope to accomplish against an entire camp of slavers?  Who thought up
this brilliant strategy, anyway?  Then again, she chided
her-self--joining a mercenary force like the Red Moons so she could
find her parents was not exactly a brilliant strategy either.

Tigereye continued to berate Lex Kempo.  "I didn't ask her to be part
of this team to keep you entertained.  Just fly this junk pile, if you
don't mind."

Unlike Sully Tigereye, who looked naturally forceful yet showed a
surprising concern for others, "Mad Vornskr" Kempo easily looked like
he had just fallen out of a grim entertainment holo.  He claimed to
have served with over a dozen different private armies and militias,
even a brief stint in the Imperial Army as a scout, as evident from the
customized suit of scout trooper armor he wore.  The normally
eggshell-white armor pieces had been carefully dulled and
therma-painted with a camouflage scheme that matched Gabredor's jungle
environment.  Extra holsters and pockets hid a variety of throwing
blades, holdout blasters, power packs, grenades, medpacs, glow rods and
other necessities.  With his closely-cropped hair, thin blaster scar on
his right cheek and gray eyes, Kempo acted a lot like the intimidating
walking arsenal he appeared to be.  Still, Tigereye had touched a
nerve.  Kempo turned defensive as the ship shook again.

"I'm just trying to let our combat medic in on the mysteries of the
merc psyche, oh fearless leader."

Brixie sensed almost immediately that Tigereye simply hated that
expression.  The Trunsk settled for turning his baleful face on
Kempo.

Trunsks were not known for their cordiality, especially under stressful
conditions.

"Can we have a little less talking please?"  The fourth member of their
group spoke up in a whiny voice.  Of all who called themselves members
of the Red Moons, Hugo Cutter was the last person Brixie would probably
think of as a mercenary.  An escapee from a psychotrauma ward maybe,
but never a soldier.  Cutter's hair was as wild and unpredictable as
the stares that came from his eyes.  Before the start of the mission,
Lex Kempo had remarked to her that Hugo Cutter had once been enrolled
in the prestigious Imperial Engineers Academy, only to be disbarred
after he found it more interesting to blow things apart than put them
together.  Then again, Kempo always did have a knack for
exaggeration.

Especially when he talked about himself.

The ship dipped again.  Cutter, sitting beside her, inhaled sharply.

She reached out a hand to calm him.  Cutter reacted by clutching the
satchel bag in his lap even t ighter.

"Don't touch me!"

"I'm sorry," she faltered out an apology.  "I just thought .  . ."

"Thought what?"  He began to laugh hysterically.

"That I would need help from the likes of you?"

"Don't knock it," Kempo murmured quietly with a twisted smile.

"Quiet.  All of you."  Tigereye warned as he checked the pocket
navigator he carried in a special pouch as part of his weapons
harness.

Huge yellow eyes glanced up and caught the reflection of the Human with
the unkempt hair in the forward cockpit screen.  They locked on Cutter
like targeters.  "Especially you.  Stop fidgeting.  We're almost
down."

Cutter's nervousness was wearing even his own patience thin.

Their craft shook again.  He closed his eyes tightly.

"You know how much I hate insertions!"

"Relax.  You clutch those shaped charges any harder and you're likely
to set them off."

"Doubtful."  The freighter dipped sharply in the thickening atmosphere
of Gabredor III.  He gulped.  "It takes a detonator firing at triple
frequency intervals to properly set off a Mesonics focalized
explosive."

"I'll make a note," the fur-covered Trunsk growled as he glanced over
at Kempo.  "How much longer till we reach the landing point?"

Kempo checked the navigational readings as they flashed by almost too
quickly for Brixie to keep up.  "A few more minutes.  Sensor masking is
holding up so far.  A Z-95 patrol upstairs didn't even bother to sniff
our con-trail."

"I'll feel better when we're down.  Brixie, get your gear ready to
go."

"Right" she tried to keep her voice steady as she unfastened her
restraint harness.  The freighter suddenly lost power and began a steep
dive.  Brixie was immediately thrown into a wailing Cutter, who was
positively revolted by her close proximity.  Kempo wrestled the
controls back.

Regaining her footing, Brixie tried to ignore Cutter's expression and
his tightly closed eyes.

"What was that?"  Tigereye asked.

Kempo shook his head.  All business now, he was fighting to bring the
ship back under control.  Red lights broke out all over the engineering
panels.  Alarms hooted noisily.

The freighter abruptly rolled right and pitched down hard.

Tigereye began flipping switches--the ship's starboard maneuvering
thrusters were not responding.

Kempo quietly cursed between clenched teeth.  "Where did procurement
pick up this piece of Corellian crud anyway?  I've seen better hulks
from Socorro!"

"Can you land?"

Kemp looked directly at Tigereye.  "You want an honest opinion?"

Brixie could tell that, this time, Kempo was no longer joking.

Systems were failing all over the vessel.  Beside her, she overheard
Cutter whimpering.  Some mercenary he made.

Tigereye unsnapped his own seat belts.  "All hands to the lifepod
now!

This is no drill!"

The others spilled out of their chairs, rapidly grabbing equipment and
supplies in emergency order and tossing them into the lifepod.  For
only a moment during the chaos, Brixie found herself watching Lex
Kempo almost curiously.  The Corellian pathfinder was still standing
before the controls of the battered, falling freighter, gesturing with
his hands locked together in an odd sort of way.  Perhaps it was a
ritual known only to spacers and their ships, she thought.  The last
thing she saw before the interior lights failed was him grinning at her
as he usually did.  Their fates and the ship's were about to part ways
in a most violent fashion.

"Hope you signed up for the duration, Lady Brix.  From now on, it gets
nothing but interesting!"

Ten thousand meters later.  Straight down.

"You know," said Hugo Cutter.  "If you were Han Solo or Wedge Antilles
or any one of a hundred other pilots I know, we wouldn't be here right
now."

"Shut up," Lex Kempo snapped back.  "I didn't see you help land the
pod."  Of course, it was difficult for the pathfinder to make an
argument considering that the Red Moon assault team was dangling inside
an escape pod caught in the thick canopy of Gabredor's jungle.

"Would it help if I did this?"  Brixie's voice called from deeper
inside the pod.  A secondary hatch blew off, slicing vines and
branches.  Without means of further support, the pod fell the remaining
40 meters until it landed in the thick bough of an ancient swamp
tree.

Tigereye scratched his bruised head as he and the others spilled out of
the pod and hit the dirt.

Kempo was the first to pick himself up off the jungle floor.  He
quickly checked the small arsenal of weapons he carried.  Content, he
turned and mock-saluted Sully Tiger-eye.

"The Red Moons have landed."

"Thanks for the update.  Brixie?"

"Yes?"  The rookie pulled herself over.  She had joined the Red Moons
only two months ago, training at a distant unforgiving world, enemies
all around them.  No relief forces.  No help.  No remorse.  She shook
her head slowly.

The shriek of a snubfighter engine high over the tree canopy suddenly
broke the silence.  After a tense moment, it finally passed.

Creatures and other tree dwellers began to slowly hoot and call again
through the dense foliage.

Kempo's expression turned grim.

"They found the crash.  We better start moving."

Tigereye immediately agreed.

"I can re-triangulate the coordinates of the slaver camp from our
position here.  I'll take the point.  Kempo, you take the rear.  Make
sure you have your survival kits and critter repellents.  The slavers
chose this moss rock for a reason, and that's probably because these
jungle worlds can be downright hostile.  All right.  Move out!"

The slave master Greezim Trentacal relaxed in his chair aboard the
transport freighter Atron's Mistress, fanning his face with the
elaborately decorated hide of a lexiaus beast.  His darkened quarters
aboard the large freighter were filled with decorations and trinkets
from a hundred different worlds.  Trentacal sighed, letting his jowled
complexion rest on his palm as he propped his head up with an elbow.  A
lithe, sparsely dressed Human girl moved around him, her gestures as
light as the spice-laced air.

She offered him a cup of wine.  Annoyed, he brushed her offering away
as he looked to the shadow hiding there in the darkness.

"Just how long is this going to take, Vex?  You know how I hate sitting
here in this humid jungle."

In reply, a voice slithered back.  "We await another shipment of slaves
from the last expedition near the Rim.  By dawn tomorrow, the ship
should be completely filled."

"Good," Trentacal yawned.  Details.  Minor little details.

The slaves down in the cargo holds of his ship were just tiny portions
of merchandise compared to the credits he could be making.

It was one of the problems of doing business with the Pentastar
Alignment.

To suggest that the Pentastar Alignment was just another Imperial
warlord faction, just another pale pretender to the mighty former
Empire, was a foolish assumption.  The Alignment perceived itself as
the Empire reborn.  Led by a Grand Moff named Ardus Kaine, the
Alignment had ignored Grand Admiral Thrawn's attempt to consolidate
Imperial forces, carefully waiting until it could mount its own
campaign against the New Republic.

Unlike other warlords, the Alignment was extremely organized and
well-equipped thanks to the corporates, powerful companies formerly
allied with the Empire.  Now that one of these corporates, specifically
the PowerOn Conglomerate from Cantras Gola, was secretly threatening to
bolt and join the New Republic, the Pentastar Alignment was doing
everything it could to prevent it.  So the Alignment had turned to the
Karazak Slavers Guild to solve its New Republic problem.

How completely ironic, Trentacal mused, that the children of the
Cantras Gola ambassador had been kidnapped by his slavers.  The note
left in their place made the ambassador's situation quite clear.  As
long as the ambassador held off any further talks with the New
Republic, the children would remain alive.  The delay would be long
enough for agents from the Alignment to completely sever the ties
between Cantras Gola and the New Republic.

In the end, Cantras Gola would remain loyal to the Pentastar Alignment
and, in turn, the Karazak Slavers Guild would continue to conduct its
operations on Gabredor III unhindered.

There were some benefits to this type of business
arrangement--Trentacal had decided to keep the children as payment for
his work.  The Alignment had no opinion on the matter; the ambassador
himself would be experiencing a most unfortunate accident and be
quietly replaced .  . . with a more reliable Alignment official.

The slave master glanced sideways at the ambassador's children chained
to the cabin's far wall and admitted that they would make fine
additions to his household.  Still, everything had its price.  What, he
wondered, would be the price for keeping these two?

Trentacal motioned to the slave girl at his side and took the cup of
wine from her delicate hands.  His thick palms caressed her
expressionless cheek.  The girl had been mute since a child.  She had
been among the first of the slaves he had kept for his own.  He cupped
his fingers under her chin and turned her head so that she could see
the frightened children.

"Soon you will have others to instruct in the fine art of caring for
me."

The shadow stepped forward, barely discernible in the darkness of
Trentacal's private cabin.  Trentacal watched his bodyguard and
confidant, a Defel, as he stood before the stateroom's viewports.

Vex's thick body was completely covered in layers of rippling black fur
that absorbed all surrounding light.  In his right hand he held a
comlink close to an attentive ear, his head bobbing slightly as he
listened to what sounded like little more than static.  Outside the
viewports lurked the tangled jungle growth of Gabredor III and the
surrounding clearing that comprised the staging camp.  Lookout towers
armed with heavy repeating blasters rose from the jungle floor.

On either side of the bulbous freighter, slaves were being led into the
ship under the scrutiny of Karazak thugs.  It was a fabulously
efficient operation, Trentacal assured himself.  After all, it was
his.

"What is it, Vex?"  The Defel was responsible for not only his master's
security, but for the entire slaver operation on Gabredor.

When summoned to the defense of his master, very few survived to tell
about his rage.  Trentacal did not mind the fear surrounding his kind's
fearsome reputation either.

Vex thumbed the comlink off and turned slightly, not liking to stare
too long at the pool of light that bathed his master.  "One of the Z-95
patrols has spotted the wreckage of a light freighter some distance
from here.  The ship had come in low and fast, using some type of
countermeasures to elude long-range sensors and our patrols.

Whoever they were, it appears they did not want any attention."

"Was it a ship from the New Republic?"  Trentacal asked cautiously,
suddenly alert.

The wraith's eye slits narrowed as he explained.  "I do not think so.

They would not risk coming so deep into Alignment territory.

Doing so could mean an all-out war between them.  That is something the
New Republic is not willing to risk.  The only way to know is to
interrogate the survivors.  But the main lifepod from the ship was not
found in the wreckage.  My trackers are still searching for it."

Trentacal slammed a meaty fist down on the armrest of his sumptuous
chair.  The serving girl sprang back in terror.

"Then it must be the Alignment.  They've crossed us!"

The black head shook slowly.  "I do not think it is the Pentastar
Alignment either, Master Trentacal.  Their resources are vast.  They
have no need for small strike teams.

If they wanted to, they could attack with an Enforcer-class picket
cruiser or something similar."

"Then who?"

Vex's eyes slid toward the far wall and the two figures chained
silently there.  The slovenly slave master sharply inhaled,
understanding immediately.  Whoever these intruders were, they were
coming for them.

"Vex, I think you should activate the security perimeter."

"It has already been done, master."

"Get it off of me!"  Lex Kempo, the mercenary's mercenary, whined like
a bantha calf as he pulled at the slimy, multi-folded creature that had
fallen on his head.  Brixie was trying her best to pry it off with her
vibro-knife.  Sully Tigereye just watched them.  If the situation had
been different, he might have been amused.

"Get it off of him, Brixie," the Trunsk unsheathed a combat vibro-axe
from his weapons harness.

"I'm trying!"

"Can we go home now?"  Hugo muttered as he sat on a dead log, tired and
agitated.

"I'm sorry we're boring you!"  Kempo snapped.  He had the creature by
both hands and was forcibly pulling it off when the little beast
whipped out a tail appendage and squirted a powdery jet in his face.

Coughing and sneezing uncontrollably, Kempo knocked Brixie into the
brush.

Cutter laughed.

Tigereye swore, his patience exhausted.

"That does it.  Exobiology class is now over!"

Tigereye grabbed the thing by its now-extended tail and swung.

The vibro-axe removed the flailing appendage.  A greenish fluid
squirted over everyone.  The creature flopped off Kempo's head and
expired at their feet.

Humiliation forgotten, Brixie immediately snapped open her medkit and
examined the grumbling path finder's head for puncture marks or other
lacerations that would indicate a bite.  She used a water jet to clear
off his face.  A quick spot test of the creature's blood revealed that
it was not inherently dangerous.  Unfortunately, there was little she
could do for their wallowing morale.  They had been trudging through
the jungle for almost a day now.  Tempers were as short as grenade
timers.

"I feel like a droid with a bunch of haywire receptors and a bad servo
creak.  Thanks kid," Kempo wiped at his face with the moisture cloth
Brixie had given him.  "What was that thing?"

Tigereye considered for a moment.  "I don't know, but you're lucky it
wasn't poisonous.  I suggest the next time you hear a noise, you might
want to look up as well as around."  Kempo fell quiet as he poked
sympathetically at the growing welt on his forehead.  Cutter continued
to chuckle.

Tigereye turned his ire on the squatting demolitions expert.

"I don't recall giving any order for a rest break, Hugo."

"Well, you guys looked so busy fooling around with that thing that I
didn't want to disturb you."

"Time's short.  You're on point.  I want you to scout ahead and make
sure there aren't any more surprises waiting for us."

The frazzled-haired engineer pointed at his own chest, startled.

"You want me to .  . . scout?  Sully, you know I don't scout.  I blow
things up into itty-bitty pieces.  Everyone in the unit says I make a
poor scout."

"Consider it a valuable life lesson.  Brixie's gotta finish checking
out Kempo, and someone has to watch over her."

Hugo rose angrily to his feet, the charges still rattling around in his
camo bag.  He drew a blaster pistol from a holster.

"Fine, but who's going to watch over me?"

"Enough complaining.  Scoot!"

Hugo vanished over the dead log he had been sitting on, still
complaining loudly as he walked off.  Tigereye shook his tired,
grizzled head.  Removing the map pad, he checked their current
coordinates with the expected slaver encampment.  They should be
reaching their security perimeter soon.  He looked up momentarily to
watch Brixie dab a medicated ointment on Kempo's head.  She was also
looking at him.

"Problem?"

"No, I was just wondering," she stumbled over her words.  "I mean,
everyone spends so much time arguing and insulting.  You don't act
exactly like what I've seen.

You know .  . . like professionals."

She stopped, believing she had somehow completely insulted them.

Now it was Kempo's turn to laugh.  Even Tigereye, surprisingly, was not
offended.

"You've been watching too many entertainment holos, Brixie.  Not all
of us pretend to be the master merc like Kempo."

"Who's pretending?"  Kempo interrupted, still rinsing his eyes.

"Don't let our sparring fool you any, kid.  We go back a long way.  Far
enough back to hate each other's guts and still be the best of
chums."

"Hugo's your best friend?"  Brixie looked confused.

"But you don't act like best friends."

Tigereye pursed his lips.  "Everyone in this company, everyone in the
Red Moons that is, comes with a story.

Your parents for instance.  You don't like the way the Alignment is
treating them, do you?"

"My parents were both taken from their clinic and forced to work for
the Alignment military as combat surgeons.

It's almost as if they've been locked up.  I just want them back."

"Hugo's parents were Imperial nobility.  He lived on a corporate world
during the reign of the Emperor.  His parents tried everything to keep
him under control, including locking him up.  I was treated like an
animal once.

I know what it's like to be caged.  When you go through life like that,
sometimes you need someone to keep you in check.  Hugo minds over me
like I mind him."

Kempo pulled himself to his feet and handed the salve back to her.

"Remember kid, the first rule of soldiering is to not let appearances
fool you.  Tigereye didn't choose us for this team just because of our
singing voices.  Tigereye's got more combat experience in his little
right toe claw than most Imperial generals.  Hugo can make an AT-AT
dance a jig and explode with just a spanner and a thermal detonator.

My job is to make sure we survive to brag about this little tale.

And in case we do fall apart, Lady Brix, your job is to put the little
pieces back together so I can collect my finish fee."

Brixie felt completely embarrassed.  What she had mistaken for open
hostility among the three veterans was actually their way of dealing
with yet another impossible situation.

Hugo Cutter's heard suddenly appeared over the log.

"Excuse me.  I don't want to interrupt your talking about me, but I
think I found something."

From a distance, the sensor mast appeared like a metal chrome ball
mounted on a pole slightly taller than the surrounding vegetation.

Others just like it rose approximately 20 meters to either side.  They
positioned themselves almost 30 meters away from the distinct-looking
sensor fence.

"Looks like we found their perimeter," Kempo muttered quietly to
Tigereye, not anxious to trip any possible acoustical pickups.  Behind
them, Cutter and Brixie waited anxiously.

"Or we tripped over a buried, outer perimeter line already."

Tigereye checked his own detection instruments.

Despite his concern, the possibility of an outer barrier was unlikely
here.  The everpresent moisture and local lifeforms would make short
work of almost anything made of metal or complex circuitry buried in
the humus.

He glanced back.  "All right Hugo, you're on."

Cutter took off his service jacket and dumped the contents of his bag
of tricks on to it.  Shaped charges, broken datapads, anti-vehicle
grenades, droid parts and bits of c-board and chips spilled
everywhere.

Kempo eyed the strange assortment with some disdain.

"You're carrying enough junk to supply Industrial Automaton."

"Spare me," Cutter snapped back as he set to work.

Brixie watched the entire process with interest as Kempo and Tigereye
took up sentry positions close by.  Not even realizing she had been
recruited to assist him, Cutter was asking her for tools from the tech
kit and bits from the scrap pile.  In minutes, a truly strange
conglomeration of sensor boards, probe droid chips, scanners and
communication jammers was taking shape.

"Is this going to work?"  she asked.

Cutter took a moment to sit back and admire his creation with a small
sense of satisfaction.  "They banned me from the Imperial Engineering
Academy.  They laughed at me.  Well, does this look like the work of a
madman to you?"

Brixie stared hard at the device.  Cutter looked up at her, perhaps
sensing the thoughts crossing her mind.  A crooked little smile formed
across his lips.

"Don't bother answering that."

A crashing sound from the nearby bushes startled all of them into
silence.  Kempo growled over to them, "Keep down.  Someone just set off
one of my door bells."

Tigereye pulled out a set of macrobinoculars.  Keeping his view on the
trail they had just come from, he waited for several long moments.

He saw a brief movement and focused.  Through the viewfinder, he saw a
scaly head sniffing the ground.  Moving the binocs slowly, he finally
caught the rider wearing a camosuit to blend against the jungle
backdrop.  The rider was clenching a long force pike in his free hand
as he examined Kempo's "door bell," a tree limb tied across the trail
with thin cord.

"What is it?"  Kempo whispered.

"Looks like a tracker.  Riding some kind of two-legged reptoid."

Kempo used the targeting sight on his stormtrooper rifle to watch the
newcomer.

"I see him now.  Another might be close by," he whispered.

"Another won't make any difference.  All it takes is one report to
bring the whole slaver camp down on our heads."

"Those odds are good enough for me."  Kempo un-snapped the scabbard on
his back and handed Brixie a very sharp vibrocutlass, its blade and
edges blackened for military duty.  She dubiously took the weapon in
her hands.

"What's this for?"

"You get to watch my back for a change.  I've had enough of this mud
crawl."  Kempo started running toward the trees.  "The rest of you take
down the fence.

I'll handle the bad guys!"

"Kempo!  I didn't .  . ."  Tigereye snarled at him just as the
pathfinder took off.  Brixie and Cutter looked to him for guidance.

"Don't just sit there!  Hugo, disarm the fence.  Brixie, you cover
him!"  No sooner had he said that when he too had disappeared through
the thick growth.

Kempo dropped to one knee as he sprang through the trees, startling the
tracker and his mount.  He fired the blaster rifle at short range, but
missed the rider.

The rider spurred the trained reptoid and.  charged.

The creature snapped at the open air just by his head, then tried to
cleave him open with serrated feet claws.

Kempo fired back, his stolen set of Imperial scout armor taking the
brunt of the beast's charge as it sent him sprawling.  The impact
knocked the blaster rifle out of his hands.

Poised above him, the tracker raised his force pike to strike.  A
howling, fur-covered missile burst from the trees, turning the
tracker's attention away.  Sully Tigereye crashed against both tracker
and beast, his vibro-ax swinging and connecting against the creature's
thick hide.  The reptoid screamed from the terrible injury and bolted
away, carrying its rider reluctantly along with it.  With the tracker's
back turned to them now, Kempo picked up his fallen weapon and fired.

A screaming burst of energy struck the tracker square in the back,
killing him before he struck the ground.  The injured reptoid, now
riderless, kept on crashing loudly away through the foliage.

Tigereye brandished his vibro-ax at Kempo.

"I should have let that thing take a bite out of you, if only to teach
you a lesson."

"I was doing just fine before you showed up."

"Let me guess--you had him exactly where you wanted him," the Trunsk
snorted as he caught his breath.

"Check the body.  If we're lucky, he didn't have a chance to report
in."

"We're never that lucky," Kempo retorted as he headed over to the body
of the dead tracker.

Hugo got to his feet, holding up the contraption.  Brixie looked on,
eyeing him and his spontaneous invention dubiously.

He began to move slowly toward the sensor mast, fumbling for the power
switches that would activate the united parts.  He suddenly stopped in
his tracks.

"What's wrong?"  Brixie half-whispered to him, trying to watch him and
their surroundings at the same time.

"Something about this type of sensor mast."

He took another step.  A whine came from the ' datapad's power
coupling.  The device was not used to handling the power requirements
of the other components.

The two and a half meter tall mast loomed over his head as he slowly
approached.  An expression of recognition came over Cutter.  He stopped
in his tracks, making quick adjustments to the components in his
hands.

"Now I remember!"

"Remember what?"  Brixie sputtered: An intense beeping came from Hugo's
contraption.  Before Brixie's eyes, an alternating pattern of light
began to phase from the sensor mast.  She gasped as the solid-looking
ground before their feet suddenly evaporated, exposing a cargo
speeder-sized ditch trap.  Explosives and mines lay at the bottom of
the excavated pit.  Hugo smirked.

"A holographic trap.  Very sneaky.  Very expensive.

These slavers have better security than I thought.  Did you see how I
set the multiphase emitter to turn off the hologram?"

Brixie had been watching Hugo so intently that she almost did not hear
the sound of dead leaves and underbrush being crushed behind her.

She spun around, Kempo's vibrocutlass in her hands.  A second tracker
and his reptoid leered at her like predators about to pounce.

A threatening rumble echoed in the sharp-toothed beast's throat as the
tracker leveled the point of his force pike at Brixie's throat.

"Ah, Hugo?"  she gulped.

The sound of a female scream cut through the jungle air like the edge
of Sully Tigereye's polished vibro-ax.  The Trunsk plunged through the
jungle, back toward the sensor perimeter.

Tigereye stumbled into a clearing in time to see Lex Kempo drop from
the trees and fall on the tracker.  The reptoid bucked underneath them
as the pathfinder slapped a now familiar-looking organism on the
tracker's head.  The tracker, his eyes completely covered by the filmy
creature, knocked Kempo off as he swung the force pike wildly.

The whole scene looked completely ridiculous until the blinded tracker
spurred the reptoid forward.  A shot from Tigereye's own heavy blaster
brought the tracker down, but the creature still charged into and over
a shrieking Brixie.

"Brixie!"  Tigereye bellowed, leaping forward.

The beast suddenly became quiet and rolled away from the startled girl
in a heap--Kempo's vibrocutlass buried up to its hilt in its scaly
chest.  She looked more terrified than hurt as Tigereye ran up to
her.

"Are you okay?"

She gulped once and fought to bring her fear under control.

"Yes yes I'm fine."

Even Cutter was stunned as he looked up at the tree branch where Kempo
had jumped from.

"And I thought I was crazy," he muttered.

Kempo had gotten to his feet.  Brixie watched him for some time, trying
to think of some way to thank him without sounding petty.

Shrugging the incident away, the pathfinder turned his back to her and
retrieved his vibrocutlass.  He then moved to the body of the fallen
tracker, switching off his comlink.  Exhaling hard, Brixie collected
her medkit and gear, not desiring to look on the scene anymore.

In the meantime, Cutter and Tigereye had turned their attention to the
disarmed sensor mast and the exposed pit trap.

"Can we go around it?"  Tigereye had exchanged his vibro-ax for the map
locator.  Cutter triumphantly held up his device.

"No problem.  Those slavers are probably scratching their heads,
wondering how we did it."

"If the slavers stick around long enough to wonder."

Tigereye interjected.  "We have only one shot at this.

Karazak slavers aren't stupid.  Once they figure out we bypassed their
perimeter, they will probably leave their paid guns behind to pick us
off while they jump planet with their valuables--including the
children."

"Sully," Brixie slung a medical pack over her shoulder.

"Before we go any further with this, I have to know who these children
are.  The least you can do is tell us why their lives are more
important than ours."

"The kid's right," Kempo added as he sheathed the vibrocutlass in its
carrier.  "I'm deliberately jumping out of perfectly good trees for
these pups.  You owe us that much."

Tigereye sighed.  "They're the children of the ambassador to Cantras
Gola."

"Cantras Gola is a corporate world."  Brixie found herself getting
angry.  "An Alignment world.  What's so important about that?"

"Everything," Tigereye silenced her.  "Kempo is right, Brixie.

We're soldiers.  We don't ask questions.  We supply answers.  With an
entire corporate world about to sway over to the New Republic, and the
New Republic unable to openly confront the Pentastar Alignment, you
need someone else to fight the battle.  We are that someone else."

"But I thought the reason why the Red Moons broke away from the New
Republic was because the New Republic wasn't doing enough.  Now we're
fighting their battles for them!"

"Helping the New Republic win Cantras Gola helps everyone.

Like it or not, returning these kids alive to the Cantras Gola
ambassador is crucial.  We need to take that slaver ship before it gets
away.  It's the only way to save those kids and for us to get off this
planet.  Now are there more questions from the ranks?"

The four of them looked at each other, the faint odor of ozone from
blaster fire still in the air around them.

"I suppose it's too late to request a transfer?"  Kempo remarked.

The longer he waited, the more Greezim Trentacal nervously paced about
the deluxe stateroom aboard Atron's Mistress.  The trackers sent out to
investigate the crashed freighter's missing escape pod had not reported
in for several hours.  There was more to the mysterious, downed vessel
than even Vex had anticipated.

"They must be soldiers.  Or worse.  Mercenaries."  He shuddered at the
thought.  The incentive of credits and personal fortune that drove
beings to enslave other beings also drove them to fight for foolish
causes.

"Well?"  He looked to Vex, still poised like a dark statue beside the
stateroom's viewports.  He dropped the comlink from his ear.

"The tracker team is still not responding.  In addition, one of the
perimeter sensors seems to have malfunctioned, although I do not know
why yet."

"They're here!"  Trentacal put a hand over his mouth, completely
alarmed now.  "Lords of Atron!  They're here already!  Give the order
to debark.  Immediately!"

"As I pointed out earlier," the Defel spoke quietly but firmly, "we
have not loaded the latest shipment of slaves."  He gestured at the
large prefabricated building that served as a temporary clearing-house
for the newest arrivals.  "They have to be tagged and medically
scanned.

Many slaves from this shipment are to be sold to the Hutts.  You know
how displeased the Hutts become when they are sent inferior wares."

"You can medically scan them after they have been loaded.  Do as I
command!"

Vex's expression did not change.  He bowed slightly.

"I will give the order personally, master.  We shall depart
immediately."

Trentacal rushed out of the stateroom to his own sleeping quarters.

The Defel wraith looked upon the ambassador's children, still chained
to the cabin wall.  Expressions laden with fear and loathing gazed back
up at him.  The girl, several years older than her brother, tried to
protectively shield him from Vex's penetrating, awful stare.

Suddenly, the wraith was gone.  The girl blinked, uncertain whether or
not to believe her eyes.  She had not imagined the disappearance.

Abruptly, the cabin door bolts clanged solidly shut, locking them in
darkness again.  Her brother whimpered.  She held him a little tighter,
silently wondering what would become of them.

Something touched her shoulder.  The girl gasped loudly, if only long
enough for a hand to clamp down over her mouth.  She recognized the
pained expression of Trentacal's favorite slave girl.  How long had she
been hiding here, waiting for Vex to leave?  The slave pressed a key
into her hand and made a gesture with her finger to her lips.

Before she could say a word of thanks, the door to Trentacal's private
chamber was suddenly shoved aside, the slave master's bulky outline
filling the doorway.  His face was masked in shadow.

"What's going on in here?"

Lying prone in the foliage ahead of the assault team, Lex Kempo aimed
the macrobinoculars at the clearing in the jungle growth before him.

"What do you see?"  'Brixie whispered beside him.

The slaver camp consisted of several watchtowers, a few prefabricated
buildings and a currently vacant landing pad for a snubfighter-sized
craft.  In the middle of the camp, the jungle's heavy humus had been
pressure-formed flat to provide room for the large cargo transport
situated there.  Beings of all origins were being rushed into the ship,
which was not a good sign.

Kempo chewed slowly on a bit of protein survival wafer as he continued
to sight the camp through the binocs.

"Looks like we're outgunned maybe seven to one.  There are four
watchtowers armed with blaster cannons: two close to us, two past the
freighter.  The camp is crawling with thugs.  See that bunker right
beside the ship?  Looks like their command center.  All sensors,
communications and defensive controls are probably housed in there."

"Are those hatches on the side?"

Kempo frowned as he zoomed the binoculars.  "You've got laser eyes,
kid.  Those are definitely gun ports.  It doesn't matter, that bunker
might as well be half a light year away.  We'll get cut down before we
even reach the freighter."

"Not if I can keep them occupied," Cutter's voice murmured behind
them.

Kempo and Brixie looked around in unison at Cutter and his bag of magic
tricks.  In his hands he had one of the oddly concave Mesonics
focalized explosives, the kind used to demolish structures.  Squatting
beside Hugo, Sully Tigereye made a hand gesture, fingers spread open
wide which he turned into a fist.  Kempo snorted derisively, but still
nodded in agreement.  Confused, Brixie poked at Kempo.

"I'm not familiar with that hand signal," she whispered to him.

"What does it mean?"

The pathfinder smiled grimly as he switched the safety off on the
grenade launcher mounted to his storm-trooper blaster rifle.

"It means hang on to your pretty head.  We're about to make some
noise."

The slave girl lunged at Trentacal, a slender metal object in her
hands.  Despite his size, the slave master could move quickly if he
wanted to.  In seconds, he had the girl's arms pinned.  She strained
silently against his grip, trying to bite his hands.  Trentacal held
her long enough for him to press the emergency call.  The wraith and
several armed guards appeared in moments, just as Trentacal pushed the
slave girl roughly to the cabin floor.

"Fools!  All of you!  You're supposed to protect me!"  He held up the
knife he had taken and pointed it at the slave girl.  "I want you to
vaporize this insolent thing and get us out of here!  And pray that my
next wish is not all of your heads on a serving platter!"  The guards
drew their energy weapons; aiming them at the slave.  The ambassador's
daughter cried aloud, trying to shield her brother from the cruel
scene.

A muffled explosion rattled the huge.  transport.  Trentacal's eyes
bulged in mute surprise as he watched two of the guard towers tip over
and collapse in perfect unison.

Kempo and Brixie had made it only as far as the makeshift landing pad
for the camp's snubfighter when the snouts of several huge blaster
cannons appeared from slits in the command bunker.  The heavy weapons
were laying down a withering curtain of fire, pinning them there.

"Hold still!"  Brixie was still trying to apply a medical wrap to
Kempo's singed right leg.  The pathfinder had unexpectedly been the
first target of the heavy blaster attack.

"Look at the size of those guns!"  Kempo clucked his tongue in a
tisking manner.  "They probably ripped them out from some capital
ship."

"Who cares!  Can you see Hugo and Sully?"

Kempo poked his head slightly around the corner and shot a slaver guard
in the torso, dropping him instantly.

He spotted Cutter's familiar tousled mane of hair as he hid from the
energy fire coming from the command bunker.  The prefabricated
structures he hid behind would not last for long.

"Hugo's trapped over by those buildings."  He tapped his comlink switch
twice, but there was no reply.  He shook his head.  "I can't raise
Sully, but I think he made it to the freighter."

When Kempo looked around the corner again, the bunker's weapons were
aiming once again for Cutter.  Energy beams mined down all over the
demolitions expert, burning away huge chunks of the prefabricated
structures.

Kempo shouted over the din back to Brixie.

"Hugo's gonna be a little smoking pile of nothing unless we do
something to shut those guns up!"

Surprised by his words, she looked over at the impregnable command
bunker.  "But shouldn't we be going for the freighter?  That's our way
out of here!"

"Leaving teammates behind is not in my employment description."

Kempo took a step back and jostled something.  The niche where they
were hiding served as a storage shed for the landing pad.  He
disappeared for a moment inside and returned with a grav-cart and a
half dozen large cylinders with prominent warning labels plastered over
them.

"I think it's time we extended a warm Red Moon greeting to our slaver
friends."

Two guards armed with sun prods stood by a secondary boarding ramp of
the cargo transport, shoving as many of the enslaved beings as they
could into the ship.  Many of the slaves, panicked by the explosions
and screaming beams of energy fire, had taken this opportunity to
run.

The guards were in no place to argue.  One by one, the other loading
ramps were closing as the ship began its final 'preparations for
takeoff.  A message crackled over the guards' secure comlinks.

Relieved to be as far away from the shooting as possible, they began to
climb the ramp.  As one of the guards turned to follow the slaves in,
he noticed a slave without a restraint collar.  He growled to his
partner as he seized the Trunsk by the arm.

"Hey!  They forgot to put a pain collar on this one."

Sully Tigereye turned around.  Sharpened fighting claws seized the
startled guard by his chin.  In his other hand, he aimed a heavy
blaster pistol at the second guard and shot the sun prod right out of
his hands.  The guard spun and ran.

"There will be no more pain collars.  Not as long as I live."  He
clenched the first guard by the jowls of his neck and swung his face
close.  "Now that I have your undivided attention--where's your
boss?"

Working quickly, Kempo and Brixie stacked the cart with the fuel
cylinders they had found as well as the explosives and grenades they
were carrying.  The cannon fire around them was getting closer and
closer.

"Come to think of it, there's one small problem with this plan," Kempo
muttered half-aloud.

"We don't have time for problems!"  Brixie replied, wincing slightly as
a piece of the nearby landing pad was blasted apart by a bunker
weapon.

"One of us is going to have to pilot this thing up to their
doorstep."

They both looked at each other, eyes frozen.  A tight little grin
began to form across Kempo's face.  He took Brixie's hand and kissed
the back of it.

"Don't worry kid, I just volunteered."  The pathfinder climbed aboard
and took up a position by the cart's steering controls, trying to
hunker down low.  He handed her the stormtrooper rifle.

"Keep them occupied long enough for me to get up close."  He activated
the cart's repulsorlift controls.  The cart surged slowly forward as he
smirked back at her.

"Just don't let people forget about me, right?"

She shook her head.  There was something about his expression that she
had never seen before.  There was so much she wanted to learn about him
and no time left.

As the grav-cart emerged, Brixie took up a position to the side of the
landing pad.  She fired the rifle's grenade launcher, spitting
concussion explosives at the hardened outer shell of the command
bunker--for what little good it would do.

The grav-cart zigzagged across the clearing.  For what felt like an
eternity, the bunker's blaster weapons clumsily tried to follow him,
just barely missing.  Just as the grav-cart reached the bunker, Brixie
could see the pathfinder time his leap--only to stumble on the cart's
side railing.

His foot caught, he was dragged relentlessly along until...

The next second, she was looking up at the failing light of the evening
sky.  The shock wave had knocked Brixie flat on her back.  She
staggered to her feet.

Where there had been a command bunker, there was now only the jagged
remains of a permacrete foundation.

Even the sides of the cargo transport had been scorched by the blast.

Slavers were running wildly in all directions.  She moved to the edge
of the heart of the fire, shielding her face as she looked for a
familiar form to stagger out.

Kempo had to come out.  That's the way the holos always ended.

The hero always walked out.

Nobody did.

Hugo grabbed her by the arm and began pulling her over to the ship.

"No!"  she screamed at him.  "We won't leave a teammate behind!

We can't!"

He had to drag her away from the inferno.

The explosion was so huge it shook the cargo transport violently on its
landing legs.

The transport bridge's accessway popped open.  Tiger-eye shoved the
guard into a few of the crewers standing there.  Several reached for
weapons, but they were not fast enough.  Energy beams ricocheted across
the bridge.

When it was over, Tigereye waved the blaster pistol at the survivors.

"Everybody in the escape pod!  Now!"

They filed into the bridge's lifeboat pod.  Tigereye sealed the
hatchway behind them, locking them inside.

After securing the bridge, he then tapped his comlink.

There was no need.  Brixie and Hugo Cutter appeared at the bridge's
accessway.  The demolitions expert's shoulders were sagging.

Brixie was crestfallen, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Tigereye understood immediately.  Kempo.  The explosion.

His hands balled into fists, Tigereye wanted to scream.

He wanted to tear the bridge apart..He grabbed the guard he had taken
prisoner and slammed him against one of the control consoles so hard
the impact dented the panels.  He shoved the datapad before the guard's
eyes, pictures of the ambassador's children flashing on the tiny
screen.

"They're not among the slaves held down below.  So where are they?"

The guard gestured at another doorway on the bridge.

"They're in the master's quarters!  In there!"

Tigereye tossed the heavy blaster pistol to Cutter as he unsheathed
his vibro-ax.

"Set weapons to stun.  We need those children alive."

"I'm coming too," Brixie stepped forward, shaking, still clenching Lex
Kempo's stormtrooper rifle with whitened knuckles.  Tigereye gestured
at the guard.

"No.  You have to watch him."

Brixie pivoted and shot the guard using the blaster rifle's stun
setting at point-blank range.  The guard slumped over into
unconsciousness.

"He's going nowhere," she replied tersely as she inserted two stun
grenades into the rifle launcher.

Tigereye and Cutter regarded each other, surprised.

Muffled blaster fire erupted from somewhere behind the door, followed
by a painful scream.  Tigereye gestured to Cutter at the door
controls.

"Open it.  Now!"

The well-appointed domain of the slave master was almost completely
dark.  The slave master himself was dead, slumped over in his
lounger.

Brixie immediately took a step toward the young girl and her brother
still chained to the wall, but Tigereye held her back.

From the way they were cowering in silence, he could tell something was
not right.

"Someone else is in here," Tigereye whispered.

"That is correct," a voice from the dark declared.

Crouching low, the mercenaries separated as they made their way into
the cabin.  As she moved past the lounger, Brixie's foot grazed
something soft.  She inhaled sharply as she saw the torn throat of a
dead slave girl lying on the floor, a hold-out blaster still clutched
in her tiny hands.  The slave master's guards lay dead close by.

"She saw an opportunity to escape," the voice explained
matter-of-factly.  "I had to convince her otherwise.

Take a good look, mercenaries.  Your fate will be the same as hers."

A shape lunged at Cutter, sending him sprawling across the floor.

In just moments, the shape appeared again, claws burying deep inside
Brixie's protective vest.  The thing shoved her into the wall, knocking
her senseless.

The stormtrooper rifle clattered to the floor.

Holding her injured head and side, she heard more fighting.

Trying to focus, she saw their attacker stand against the dim light of
the cabin's viewports for only a moment.  She immediately recognized
the shaggy, black-furred creature from her medical training at the
university.  No wonder the lights were out!

"It's a Defel!  A wraith!"

Tigereye found the cabin's lighting controls and flipped them to their
maximum setting.  Glowspheres filled the room with brightness.

The terrifying creature screamed in agony, trying to shield its eyes
from the powerful lights.

Surrounded and blinded, the Defel spun around wildly.

Brixie had picked up the stormtrooper blaster rifle.  Hugo Cutter was
back up on his feet, blaster pistol in hand, his face badly bruised.

Sully Tigereye's gaze narrowed to a chilled yellow as he took a step
forward, vibro-ax in hand.

"The only fate you should be worrying about .  . . is your own."

The cargo ship, almost fully laden with freed slaves, climbed slowly
into the sky above Gabredor III.  Below on the night-eclipsed surface
of the planet, the destroyed slaver camp burned with a vengeance.

Tigereye had made it a point that they should leave plenty of Red Moon
marks for all to find there.  Knowing they had been targeted, the
Karazak Slavers Guild would have to look long and hard for another
place to conduct its business.

And with the children of the Gola ambassador safely aboard the ship,
the Pentastar Alignment had lost as well.

In Brixie's heart, it was a hollow victory.  They had tried to search
the wreckage of the command bunker, but the fire was simply too hot.

She sat in a chair on the transport's bridge keeping to herself as
Tigereye and Cutter familiarized themselves with the ship's astrogation
controls.  She finally thought about taking the helmet off her head.

With a tired sigh, she undid the straps and let the helmet fall to the
deck beside her feet.

Tigereye looked over at the sound.  During her training, it had been
difficult for her to judge the Trunsk--to separate reputation from
reality.  The same clawed hands which had so eagerly torn the Defel to
pieces were the same hands which gladly unlocked the pain collars of
dozens of slaves.

She finally realized why he had chosen her for this mission.

There were some things that cannot come with training or preparation,
they must be experienced and felt.  Brixie had experienced the
camaraderie and the fear, seen the violence and death that was all part
of the life of the blaster-forhire.  For a brief moment, Tigereye's
expression softened.  He and Hugo would mourn the loss of their
lifetime friend in their own ways.

Her gaze fell upon the bridge's visual screens.

Gabredor III was falling slowly away.  She found herself wishing Lex
was here, wondering what his reaction would have been to her
realization.  He probably would have just winked at her.

Then she saw the remains of the slaver camp on the screens.  A chill
ran down her spine--there was something familiar about the shape of
fires down there.  Kempo's voice echoed in her mind.  In his own words,
the path finder had indeed gone out in a blaze of glory.

From hundreds of kilometers above, the explosion that had flattened the
command bunker appeared like a fiercely glowing crescent .  . .

A red moon.

Slaying Dragons

-by Angela Phillips Improper Passcode---Access Denied .  . . Improper
PasscodeAccess Denied .  . .

Improper PasscodeAccess Denied .  . .

A plume of smoke from the end of the canyon heralded the approach of
the dragon.  Veni drew closer to his elder sister as Vici activated her
light-saber."

"Veni trembled at the sound of 20 powerful reptilian legs plunging
toward him in deadly synchronization.

But Vici was not afraid.  Though only 16 years old, she held the mighty
power of the Force tightly in her hands.  The dragon drew closer."

Vweep!  Access Granted .  . .

Shannon Voorson set her story platform aside and turned back to the
monitor.  Finally, she muttered.

This code had taken longer to slice than usual.  Still, she reflected,
any code one computer can generate, another can imitate.

First Law of Slicing.  Now, she thought, let's see if we've found
anything interesting .  . .

"Oh, yuck," she sighed when she saw the contents of the file she'd
entered: a register of six new Star Destroyers nearing completion at
the nearby Kuat Drive Yards.  What stupid names they have, she
thought--the Impervious, the Penetrator, the Inflexible, the
Indomitable, the Inexorable, and the Exterminator.  If I were naming
Star Destroyers, she thought, I'd give them names like the Iron Hand,
the Raptor, or the Titania.  Still, what do you expect from people with
so little imagination they let computers come up with their access
codes?

Shannon heard voices through the thin pre-fab walls of her room;
someone had entered the apartment, and her parents were greeting the
visitor.  Deciding to investigate, she saved the Star Destroyer files
under the password "dumbnames" and shut down her computer's code
program.

The Voorson family had been techs at Kuat Freight Port for
generations.

Most of them had spent their entire lives aboard the station--they were
born in the company Wellness Center, educated in the company school,
apprenticed to and then hired by Kuat Port Support Services.

They married co-workers, raised their families in company housing, and
rarely left the station, even to go so far as the planet Kuat itself.

There was no reason to leave--the company stores on the station
provided everything they needed, the pay and benefits for KFP workers
were among the best in the system, and they had the pride and
satisfaction of knowing that, as members of the Kuat Engineering
conglomerate, they were helping build the finest starships in the
galaxy.  Still, every so often a Voorson would look beyond the
comfortable walls of a station apartment to see what the rest of the
thousand-thousand worlds had to offer.  Shannon's cousin, Deen, was one
of these wandering Voorsons.

"Deen!"  she squealed excitedly at the sight of the · young man
embracing her father.  "Oh, Deen, it's you!

You're finally here!  Where have you been?  What have you been
doing?"

Shannon leapt at the guest.

Her cousin turned to catch her.  "Hey, Little Bit, I've miSSed you!

Oof!"  He 'grunted, as he tried to lift her off the floor.

"You've grown, Little Bit let me look at you!

You're so tall now, and your hair is so long--when I left, you were a
baby, with braids only to your ears, and Aunt Nell had you sleep with a
scarf on to keep them from standing straight up in the morning!"

Nell Voorson nodded, and smiled wryly.  "Now I have to keep her from
chewing the ends."

"Oh, Deen," said Shannon, "I've missed you so-come and see my room!

It's all different now and I have my own computer and everything!"  She
tugged on his hand.

Deen smiled indulgently at the child.  "I've missed you, too, Little
Bit, but don't you think your parents want to talk to me too?"

"Oh, go with her, Deen," said Nell.  "You can talk while Johan and I
get supper on."

"I can't believe you're really here," said Shannon, hopping up and
down in the center of her room.  "It's been four whole years!  What
have you been doing?"

"Slaying dragons."

Shannon laughed.  "No, Deen, really!"

"Really!  Well, sort of.  Helping to slay artificial drag-ons--I've
been working as a tech."  He took a seat next to Shannon's computer.

"Where?"

"Oh, different places," he said.  His dark eyes wandered over the
room.

"Are you still reading those old stories grandmother gave you?"  he
asked as he spotted the story platform on her computer.

"Yep," said Shannon, "even though Mother says I should outgrow them,
like dolls."

"I don't see many dolls here," said Deen.

"Yep.  I like computers now.  I'm a slicer.  I can slice into
anything."

"Anything?"  Deen asked, chuckling.

"Anything.  So who do you work for?  What kind of work do you do?

Do you get paid a lot?  Do you fix droids, or ships, or what?"

"Hey," said Deen, "one question at a time!  I work for some friends I
made, right after I left here.  They're good friends.  I don't get paid
a lot, but I like what I'm doing.

Mostly I work on ships .  . ."

"What kind?"

"Small starcraft, mostly, but some larger ones, and anything else that
my friends need fixed.  I have to be flexible."

"What's the hardest thing you've ever had to fix?"

Deen paused.  "Well," he said, glancing at the closed bedroom door, "a
few months ago, I had to adapt some airspeeders to operate at 20
degrees below freezing .  . ."

"And did they work?"

"Well enough .  . . That's Vici of Alderaan, isn't it?"  he asked,
pointing to the story platform on the computer.

"Yup, it's still my favorite.  Vici is so brave."

"One who has the Force need have no fear," Deen murmured.

"That's what Vici's grandfather tells her.  Say," Shannon asked, "did
you get a chance to visit Alderaan?  Before .  . ."

Deen shook his head.  "No.  I never did.  I wish I could have.

But I never had the chance."

"It's not fair," said Shannon, settling on the floor.

"That I never got to Alderaan?"  asked her cousin.

"That they blew it up.  Stupid Empire.  Why'd they do it?

Grandmother always said Alderaan was a planet of peace and beauty.

There weren't any weapons there.  Why'd they do it?"

"Because of that," said Deen, pointing.

"Because of my story platform?"

"Because of that story," said Deen.  "That story, and others like it.

The stories of Alderaan were more dangerous to the Emperor than any
weapon."

"How can a story be more dangerous than a weapon?"  asked Shannon.

"Because of the ideas in it.  On Alderaan, people still believed in the
Force.  On Alderaan, people remembered the Jedi Knights and the Old
Republic.  The people of Alderaan remembered the way things were in the
galaxy before the coming of the Empire, before the days of hate and
fear.  And their stories, libraries and universities held all of the
ideas that can destroy the Emperor--that love is stronger than hate,
that people are stronger than weapons, that combined together the
people in this galaxy have a strength the Emperor can never oppose."

Deen's eyes were shining.

"So the Emperor," said Shannon, "destroyed Alderaan to destroy all
these ideas?"

"He tried," said Deen, "but he didn't succeed.  He can never succeed.

The only way for him to control all the ideas in the galaxy would be
for him to kill or enslave everyone in the galaxy, and that's
impossible.  He can't win.  The more crimes he commits, the more
people will stand up to fight him .  . ."

"Deen," asked Shannon, "are you a Rebel?"

Deen put a hand to his mouth.

"It's all right," Shannon added, "I won't tell anybody.

Not even Mom and Dad.  Here," she said, switching to the computer,
"look what I found today.  Just before you got here.  I'll give you a
copy if you want .  . ."

"How did you access this?"  Deen asked, staring at the list of Star
Destroyers.  "Do you have any idea .  . ."

"It's easy to slice into Imperial files; they have computer-rigged
pass-names.  I make up my own codes myself.  Usually animal names, like
'nerf,' or 'bhillen,' or even 'dog."" "I can't believe this," Deen
said, still reading the data-screen.

"Do you know what this is worth--do you know what will happen to you if
someone catches you at this?"

"No one's ever gotten past my codes," said Shannon proudly.

"Maybe no one's ever considered investigating the files of a
nine-year-old girl," said Deen.  "You've got to stop this--you'll get
yourself killed!"

Shannon bit her lip.  "Does that mean you don't want copies of the
files?"

Mistress Voorson called them to dinner, cutting off D een's answer.

Gathered around a pot of stewed bhillen, the family discussed the last
four years: Shannon's schooling, Nell's promotion to senior docking
supervisor of Kuat Freight Port, Johan and Deen's work as techs.  Johan
complained about impatient starship captains expecting miracles.

Deen told horror stories of combatting heat, cold, humidity, dust, ice,
offensive flora, fauna, microbes, and every other threat to machinery
on backwater worlds he neglected to name.

"You actually found moss growing in the ships' coolant coils?"

asked Johan.

"Yep," said Deen.  "Two hours before launch."

"Did you get 'em cleaned up in time?"

Deen grinned.  "Skin of our teeth."

"The Force was with you," his uncle said.

Nell frowned slightly.  "It's good to have you home, Deen, after so
long.  I was beginning to think you'd left us for good.  And now," she
said, "here you are.  Are you in trouble, Deen?  Do you need
anything?"

"Nell," her husband protested, "can't a boy fly in without an ulterior
motive?"

Deen stared at his plate.  "Actually," he said, poking his custard with
a spoon, "I was wondering .  . ."

"Ah, here it comes," said Nell.

"My friends," Deen continued, "the ones I work with .  . . They've had
some problems lately, lost a lot of equipment .  . ."

"Lost?"  asked Nell.

"Uh, yeah, damaged.  Beyond repair."

"How?"  asked Johan.

"Well .  . . there were a lot of asteroids, and---it's a long story,
but the point is, we need a Colony Class 23669 power generator, and .

. ."

"Why don't you contact the factory, then?"  asked Nell.

"If you put your order in now, you could have the generator in six
months or less, barring rush orders from Imperial Procurement."

"We need it sooner than that, and we've heard a generator's being
shipped out of here to an Imperial outpost within two weeks."

"I don't see what that has to do with you," said Johan.

"Well, see, Aunt Nell, you control the docking stations, and we figured
if we could arrange docking clearance, you could slip in our barge
driver in place of the Imperials' .  . ."

"I cannot believe," Nell said, "that YOu are sitting at my dining table
talking about hijacking 25 million credits worth of power generator as
if you were asking to borrow a speeder."

"But Aunt Nell .  . ."

"You're talking about stealing that generator, aren't you?"

"But .  . . we could pay you .  . ."

Nell's mouth fell open.  Johan found his voice.  "Deen, do you hear
what you're saying?  This isn't just another prank, like the time you
sliced into the school comm-system with phony evacuation drills .

. ."

"This is treason," Nell finished.  "Deen, I don't want to hear another
word about these so-called friends of yours.

Now, because you're my nephew, I'm not going to turn you in and we're
all going to pretend this conversation never happened.  Is that
perfectly clear?"

The meal ended in silence.

Shannon couldn't sleep that night.  Hearing voices from her parents'
room, she crept to their door to listen.

"The Alliance is desperate for equipment, Nell!"

"Do you think I care?  Johan, that Alliance will never feed my family
or give Shannon an education that'll get her off this station?

"But the Empire .  . ."

"... Owns this system, and everything in it.  Including us.  And they
have ways of disposing of traitors.  Accidents.  Johan, do you honestly
believe it was a coincidence your brother died in that reactor
malfunction less than a week after he'd repaired those Rebels' ship?

Nothing is worth the safety of my family, Johan, nothing.  Not the
Alliance, not Alderaan .  . ."

"Not even Deen?"

Shannon didn't stay to hear her mother's answer.

Deen left the next morning after a tense, silent breakfast.

"If you change your minds," he began.

"We won't," his aunt said.  "Now drop the subject."

"But if you do," Deen persisted, "I'll be in-system for a few days.

Here's a signaller you can use to contact me," he said, dropping the
hand-held electronic device on a table near the door.  "May the Force
be with you."

"Destroy that signaller," said Nell after the door had closed.

"I'll do it, Mom," said Shannon, snatching up the device and darting to
the reclamator.  The appliance disposed of the morning's trash with a
satisfying "crunch"--but the signaller remained hidden in Shannon's
pocket.

The elder Voorsons behaved as if Deen had never come; if Shannon
mentioned his "friends" or his request for aid, she was sent to her
room without discussion.

"I can't understand it!"  she said to herself on one such occasion.

It's not as if the station doesn't mix stuff up all the time, she
thought.  Mother's always complaining about this-or-that going
missing.

Bugs in the station net--that's what she always says.

If she gave Deen that generator, everyone would just think it was
another computer mistake .  . .

Rolling out of her bed, Shannon flipped on her computer.

A few minutes and slices later, she had the list of upcoming exports
scrolling across her screen.  There it is, she thought, a CC-23669
generator, to be picked up at loading dock 42, at 1430 hours, five days
from now.  All right, she thought, if I change the pickup date, Mother
will surely notice and stop us.  Can't change the dock number either,
that would make a huge fuss.  But if I changed the time .  . . How long
does it take to link a driver to a barge?  Daddy says he can do it in
less than an hour--would two hours be enough?

She changed the pickup time to 1230 and hoped her mother wouldn't
notice.  Then she pulled Deen's signall'er from under her pillow.

"Who are you?"  asked the security guard.

Shannon gulped and tried to look cute and harmless.

"Shannon Voorson, ma'am," she said.

"Oh, Shannon," the woman said, recognizing the child, "why aren't you
at school yet?  What're you doing here?"

Shannon knew that "I'm running away to join the Rebellion," would not
be a popular answer to that question.

Fortunately, she had come prepared with a lie.

"My daddy forgot his lunch, so's I'm bringing it to him before I go.  A
bhillen sandwich--see?"  She set her portable computer down and opened
the thermabag to thrust it into the guard's face so that she was sure
to catch the aroma of Bestinnian tang-root.

"Oh, ah, yeah, sure," said the guard, pulling back and blinking.

"Go find your daddy.  I'm sure he'll love it."

"Thanks," said Shannon.  She bolted off, thinking that raw tang-root
was pretty stinky, but there was no way that guard was going to dig
past it and find Deen's signaller.

She continued down the corridor toward her father's work area for a few
more steps, ducked into an alcove, peeked out to see that the guard was
gone, and then doubled back toward dock 42.

The techs hadn't arrived at the dock yet that morning, so Shannon had
no trouble slicing her way into the cargo container with a few
connecting cables from her portable computer.  After a surprisingly
long crawl over, under, and around the generator to the front of the
container, she settled down with her book-chips to wait for Deen.

"You sure this'll work, Deen?"  said Boo Rawl, captain of the Rebel
barge driver Long Run.

"For the thousandth time Boo, yes!  My aunt is the docking supervisor
at this port.  She wouldn't have signalled for us to come if she didn't
have everything at this end arranged.  I didn't live through the
evacuation of Echo Base just to get blown out of the sky by my own
family."

"I'm not nearly as worried about your family as I am about what you've
done to my sublight engines," said Boo.

"I didn't do a thing to your precious engines, Boo," said Deen, "all I
did was add an ST box so the port will read our transponder signal as
the Imperial driver's.  Standard Operating Procedure, straight out of
Cracken's Field Guide--I do it all the time."

"Yeah, well, you seemed to be getting pretty close to my cobulators
with that hydrospanner .  . ."

"Oh, quit griping and hail the port--we're practically on top of
them."

Boo Rawl shrugged and opened a channel.  "Kuat Freight Port, this is
Drive Craft 36DD, requesting permission to link with the barge in .

. ."  Boo paused to check a datapad.  "Loading dock 42."

"Drive craft, your transponder signal is unclear, "said a cold voice
from the station, "Please transmit clearance code to confirm your
identity."

Boo gave Deen a pointed stare as he sent out the code.

"Uh, sorry about the transponder, Kuat," he said, "new tech on board
was tweaking the sublights, obviously got a little carried away."

"Identity confirmed," answered the controller, uninter-ested in Boo's
explanations.  'Driver DeeDee, you are early.

Link techs will be at dock 42 at 1430."

Boo turned again to Deen, who gestured innocence but said nothing.

"Ah, are you sure about that, Kuat?"  asked BOo.  "My orders say pickup
at 1230."

"I will check, DeeDee," said the controller.

Boo shut off the comm.  "Isn't that one of your aunt's people?"

Deen nodded.

"Then what's the problem?"

"I dunno .  . ."

Kuat hailed the driver: "It seems you are right, driver DeeDee," said
the controller.  "You are listed for 1230 .  . ."  Deen smirked at
Boo.

"However, there will be a slight delay--the techs' orders say 1430.

They will be back on duty within the hour."

"No problem, Kuat, I'll wait," said Boo.  He shut down the comm
again.

"Now what?"  he asked Deen.

"We wait for the techs to finish lunch, like you said."

Boo rolled his eyes.  "What if Security decides to visit us while we're
waiting?"

"Boo, you worry as much as my friend Voren," said Deen.

"Security'll be on break too."

"Yeah, off playing Whack-a-Bothan, or Bobbing for Calamari."  Boo
sighed.  "I hate waiting," he said.

"Finally!  I thought they'd take forever!"  said Boo as they received
the signal that the last of the linking clamps had secured the cargo
container to the barge driver.  "Kuat, this is driver DeeDee," he said,
cutting off the latest scarlet-rated offering of Billi B and the
Paradise Gang and hailing the station.  "I've linked up to the barge
here, and I'd like to check the cargo before I leave."

"Go ahead, DeeDee."

"All right, Deen," Boo said as he cut the comm.  "She's all ours.

Let's take a quick peek and vanish before the real barge driver DeeDee
shows up."

Deen entered the airlock connecting the access hatch on the cargo
container.

"Is the generator all right?"  asked Boo as Deen entered the hold.

"The generator is huge--you don't really want me to spend two days
inspecting .  . . Wait a .  . ."

"What?"

"I saw something move .  . ."

"Hi, Deen!"  said Shannon, popping into view.  "Is this the generator
you wanted?"

"Shannon!"

"Who's the kid?"  Boo asked.

"My cousin .  . . Shannon, does your mother know you're in here?"

"Of course not.  We'd better get moving."

"We?"  said Deen.  "What do you mean, we?"

"I'm joining the Rebellion," she answered, hauling out her portable
computer.  "Now come on, we've got to go," "Absolutely not," said
Deen.

"You are going straight back home."

"How?"  said Boo.  "The dock's been depressurized, and I'm not too
thrilled with the idea of calling the techs back, having them unlink us
and re-pressurize the dock, explaining the kid to Security, and then
waiting to get linked up again.  I'm not crazy about dragging some poor
kid into danger, but we have no choice.  She's on for the haul."

"He's right," said Shannon, climbing into the driver cab.  "Close those
hatches and let's go!"

"But .  . ."  Deen began.

"The Imperial driver will be here in .  . . less than 30 minutes," said
Shannon, checking her chrono.  "Set our coordinates for hyperspace,
comrade," she told Boo.

"Name's Boo.  Now keep quiet, kid, I gotta talk to your mom's folks."

Shannon nodded.  Deen stood in shock.

"Kuat, this is barge driver DeeDee.  My cargo is secure and I'm ready
to go."

"Affirmative, Driver DeeDee," said the controller.  "You may leave port
when ready; thank you for choosing Kuat Engineering and please be
careful of repair drones on your way out."

"No problem, Kuat," said Boo, "and thanks for everything."

He began piloting the barge away from the dock.

"This is almost too easy," he said.  "Deen, your aunt is the best .

.

."

"What did she have to do with it?"  asked Shannon.  "I set the whole
thing up!"

"What do you mean, you set it up?"  asked Deen.

"Mom was too scared to help you--you knew that, Deen," Shannon said.

"So I changed the pickup time."

"And Aunt Nell .  . ."

"Doesn't know a thing."

Boo was astonished.  "The kid set this up?  I'm impressed.

Great cousin you got here, Deen.  Though it would've been nice if she'd
gotten the techs here sooner."

"Sorry, Boo, I, uh, sort of forgot to change their orders," said
Shannon.  "How long 'till we can jump?"

"We've just cleared tractor beam range--let me get past that one drive
craft .  . . Aw, no, I don't believe it!"

"What?"  asked Shannon.

"See ahead?  That's the real barge driver 36DD, come to pick up the
generator."

"You sure?"  asked Deen.

The comm light flashed.  "Unknown Driver," said the controller, "return
to dock immediately."

The three Rebels looked at each other.

"Keep going," said Deen.

"Repeat," said the controller, "unknown Driver, return your barge to
dock and you will not be harmed."

"Yeah, right," muttered Boo.

The Imperial drive craft positioned itself between the Rebels and the
spacelane.

"Get around it!"  said Shannon.

"How?"  said Boo.  "The Long Run ain't no snub-fighter linked to a
loaded barge, it moves like a drunken Hutt .  . ."

"What's its shield tolerance like?"  asked Deen, pointing out the
viewport, where at least a dozen TIE fighters were converging on
them.

"Oh, beautiful," said Boo, "I knew this was too easy."

The comm light blinked again.  "Unidentified Driver," said a familiar
female voice, "this is Senior Controller Voorson with your final
warning.  Reverse your heading and return to dock 42, or our security
forces will open fire."

"Lovely," Boo muttered.  "Deen, take the guns.  Blast anything between
us and freedom."

"Wait," said Deen, "I have an idea--Shannon, follow my lead," he said,
slapping the comm panel.

"Controller Voorson," he said, "call off your attack.  We have your
daughter."  He nudged Shannon.

"Mom, Mom, it's me!  Don't shoot!"  she said.

The comm panel was silent.

"You think that'll stop 'em?"  Shannon asked.

Laser blasts bounced off the driver's shields.

"There's your answer," said Boo.  "Take the guns, Deen!"

Deen hit the firing buttons.  The small turbolasers managed to hit two
oncoming TIEs, and three more were disabled by flying debris.  Deen
kept firing.

"Rebel Driver," said Nell Voorson, her voice touched with panic, "turn
back now.  Security will not permit you to escape."

"We ain't askin' for permission!"  shouted Boo, continuing to plow
forward.  A TIE's solar panel clipped their shields; the TIE flew
apart, colliding with one of its fellows.

"Boo, the shields are gonna go any second," said Deen, still blasting
at their attackers.

"Rebel barge driver," said Nell Voorson, "this is pointless.

Stop now or be destroyed .  . ."

"Sorry, Auntie, there's no going back now!"  said Boo.

"Rebel .  . . Deen!"  Nell pleaded.  "Deen, think of what you're
doing--think of Shannon --Security won't listen to me!"  she shouted,
"they won't let you go!"

"I'm sorry, Aunt Nell," Deen began.

"Watch the TIEs!"  Boo warned; the stream of tiny fighters continued to
pour at them.

"We're gonna hit that driver!"  Shannon cried as the Imperial barge
36DD loomed before them.

"Not if they're smarter than we are," said Boo.

Deen bit his lip and Shannon covered her eyes as the drivers
converged.

Nell Voorson's voice continued to beg for' sanity over the comm
panel.

A bead of sweat rolled down Boo's face.  "I don't think they're gonna
.

. ."

At the last moment, the Imperial driver ducked beneath the Long Run.

Their shields brushed, buckled, and collapsed as they zoomed past the
other ship and into clear space.  Four laser bolts from four different
TIEs burst past the Long Run just as Boo pulled the jump levers; all
three Rebels held their breath as the starlines merged into the blur of
hyperspace.

"Are we safe now, Boo, are we safe?"  asked Shannon.

"Depends on two things," said Boo.  "First, whether or not your mother
called ahead to Venir or Renegg for Interdictors .  . ."

"And whether or not we hit somebody," Deen finished.

Shannon crept into her cousin's lap and laid her head on his
shoulder.

All three Rebels remained tense, silent, waiting for either a fatal
crash or a jerk out of hyperspace into Imperial custody.

The minutes dragged on.  Shannon realized that, whether she lived or
died, she would never see her parents again; she began to cry.  Deen
held her close, wiping her tears and rocking her.

"Hey," said Boo softly, "it's been 30 minutes.  We're clear."

"We're away?"  said Shannon.

Boo nodded.  "Free and clear, kid welcome to the Alliance."

"Little Bit," said Deen, "I'm sorry I got you into this .  . ."

"I'm not," said Shannon, putting on a smile.  "Come on, now,
Deen---let's go slay some dragons."

Do No Harm

by Erin Endore It all seemed pretty straightforward the day I was
called into Commander Briessen's office.  "Temporary detached duty," he
called it.  Naturally I wondered what kind of detached duty a
hospital-ship medic warranted, but I didn't have to wonder very
long--only until Lieutenant Haslam showed up: I have to say he didn't
look like a topnotch commando.

A couple of centimeters taller than I, light brown hair thinning on
top, pale blue eyes, roundish face, slender build; he looked like an
accountant.  But everyone in the Rebellion knew his reputation by
then..What could he possibly want with me?

I found out in short order.  Gebnerret Vibrion, the political head of
another Rebel cell, had been captured by the Imps and was undergoing
interrogation on Selnesh, a notorious prison planet in the Irishi
Sector.  He knew too much to be left in custody; he had to be either
broken out or killed quickly.  Okay, I could understand that.  I hadn't
been with the Rebellion very long, but even I knew that given enough
time, anyone could and would break under interrogation: physical
torture, drugs, threats to loved ones--everyone has a breaking point.

So where did a medic come into the picture?  It turned out Vibrion was
a rather elderly human male with Zithrom's syndrome, a kidney problem
requiring him to take continuous doses of Clondex in order to stay
alive.  It was a pretty sure bet the Imps wouldn't be taking tender
care of his medical problems.  Even worse, before he died he'd go into
delirium.

And who knew what secrets he'd give away then?

So I reported to the mission briefing with no small amount of
apprehension.  I hadn't joined the Rebellion for a life of adventure;
I'd signed on to save lives.  (Skies, that sounds pompous.  It's more
accurate to say I'd signed on for a steady job doing what I'm good at,
for the benefit of the Good Guys.) I felt even more out of place when I
met the other team members, commandos all: Melenna, a tiny, cheerful,
exquisitely beautiful woman with a cap of loose golden curls and the
coldest blue eyes I've ever seen; Gowan, a big dark guy, definitely the
strong silent type; Enkhet, a tall, skinny, pale kid whose appearance
fairly screamed "slicer"; Liak, a (relatively) small Wookiee with long
golden-brown fur and an almost palpable aura of calm about him; and
Haslam, regarding us all with his coolly analytical gaze.

"The plan," he said after a long moment, "is to get in, get Vibrion,
and get out as quietly as possible.  We're not going to take down the
Interrogation Center; we're not going to slaughter Imps; we're not out
for glory.  We're gonna get Vibrion.  Period."

His tone of voice was making me uneasy.  "Get him in what sense?"

I asked.

"In whatever sense we have to," Haslam replied calmly, "If we can
evacuate him, fine.  If we can't, we can give him a quicker and easier
death than the Imps will, and we can keep him from talking.  Have you
got a problem with that, Doctor Leith?"  He stressed the title just a
little.

Actually, I did.  I could see his point: burdened with a nonambulatory
rescuee, there was almost no chance the team would make it out
intact.

On the other hand, I was a doctor, and my job was to do everything I
could to save my patient.  I kept my mouth shut for the moment, but the
twisting sensation in the pit of my stomach was picking up
considerably.

"So," he addressed the others.  "Basic very-dumb-orphan
scoop-and-run--you've done it a hundred times.

We infiltrate the center incognito--Melenna, Liak, you're the
prisoners; standard smugglers-suspected-of-Rebel-sympathies scenario.

Gowan and Enkhet are storm-trooper guards, I'm the officer in charge.

Aurin--" he turned to me, "you'll have to be another prisoner.  You're
taking passage with Melenna and Liak to Sestooine, you've been picked
up by mistake, and you don't know anything about anything.  Just keep
your mouth shut and you'll do fine.  How much equipment will you need
to bring?"

Luckily I'd had the foresight to think this out ahead of time.  "I can
manage with one medpac," I replied a little shortly.  "I'll need to
pack it with extra Clondex and some special equipment."

"Good.  We'll get to the prison sector, find out where he is, then get
rid of the guards and break into his cell.

Once we get in, your job is to get him alert and moving quickly if at
all possible.  If you can't, we'll have to .  . .

break out without him."  The others nodded casually; I had the feeling
his hesitation was entirely for my benefit.

"Once he's up, we get back to the shuttle.  For this part, we'll take
the repair access tunnels."  He touched a button on the tabletop
console, and a holographic schematic of an Imperial-style installation
leaped out of the center of the table; another adjustment, and a series
of passages were outlined in red.  The route from the prison cells to
the docking bays was long, tortuous, and confusing.

Melenna chuckled.  "This is where Liak comes in.  His people are
tree-dwellers; he can find his way through any strange maze of branches
with never a wrong turn.  For some reason it works on space stations as
well.  We don't understand it, but we don't argue with it."

"The tractor beam's just a single," Haslam continued.

"Weak design--says they don't think anyone can escape.

Gowan, you'll break into the main computer and disengage it while our
medic here is fixing Vibrion.  At full power and with some of Enkhet's
fancy ship-handling, we should be able to break free long enough to
make the jump to hyperspace.  Questions?"

If anyone else had any, they weren't admitting it; the only response
was a series of crisp nods from the other team members.  I had one, and
it was bothering me enough that I didn't even react to the interesting
fact that Gowan and not Enkhet was the computer jock.

Haslam looked at me sharply, but only said, "Okay, dismissed.

We'll meet outside the shuttle at 0600 tomorrow, bay 36.

Get some sleep, everyone.  Aurin, stay a moment, please."

Once we were alone, I said, "You left something out of the briefing.

What if I can't get him moving?  I don't think you mean for us to just
go off and leave him alive.  Who gets to do the dirty deed?"

"Frankly, I'd rather have a medical droid along," Has-lam said
coolly.

"Put a glitch in its programming, and it does exactly what the mission
calls for and it doesn't develop any moral scruples at the last
minute.

Unfortunately, Emdees are expensive.  Human medics are a lot cheaper
and easier to replace."

"Nice to know I'm expendable," I murmured under my breath.

Haslam ignored the comment, but after a moment some of the coldness
faded from his face, leaving a look of almost--helplessness.

"Aurin, I don't get any thrill out of killing.  I've got a job to do
here, just like you.  The fact is, we can't leave him to die at the
hands of the Imperials, or of his disease.

And it's not just because of the information he'll spill.

Interrogation is .  . . well, not a pleasant way to die.  I want to get
him out as much as you do, but it may not be possible.  The question
is, if it comes to that--can you give him something to make it quick
and easy for him?"

"You're asking me to kill him.  I can't do that."  If I was sure of
nothing else in this confusion, I was sure of that much.  Apart from
any other considerations, I'd sworn an oath before they let me out of
the Byblos Academy of Medicine: boiled down, it consisted of "First, do
no harm."

Haslam wasn't surprised.  "Okay," he sighed, "it's my responsibility.

I'll take care of it."  Then, in a whisper, "Blast it, I wish they
wouldn't do this to me."

I hesitated.  I didn't like the train of thought developing in my mind:
Look, if the guy's gonna die anyway, isn't it your job as a physician
to make sure it as easy as possible?  If we can't get him out, Haslam
is gonna shoot him.  If you can't Square your conscience enough to
overdose him with potassium and make it fast and painless, can you at
least sedate him enough so he sleeps through it?

But that means I'm helping Haslam kill him.  I'm being dragged along on
this mission to save his life if it's at all possible, not to help end
it.

You're on this mission to serve your patient as best you can, whether
it means saving his life or helping him die as easily as possible.

Skies, I hate this!

"I can give him some conergin," I heard myself saying abruptly.  I was
dimly surprised to hear that my voice was flat, steady; my insides
certainly weren't.  "It won't kill him, but it'll put him down deep
enough to let you do what you have to."

Haslam looked up sharply.  "You'll help me?"

"I'll help you.  But only after I've tried everything I can to get him
moving and out of there.  And this is a medical problem, not a military
one.  It has to be my decision.  Not yours."  I held his eyes with my
own, feeling sick.  "If that's not acceptable, you and the Rebellion
can find yourselves another medic.  Or a droid."

"Done," Haslam replied, grasping my wrist as if closing a business
deal.  Which, of course, we were.

The flight to Selnesh was relatively short, only four days in
hyperspace.  Of course, four days with the dilemma I had hanging over
my head is an eternity and then some.  I spent them packing and
repacking my medpac for greatest efficiency, mentally reviewing the
resuscitation plan, and getting used to the weight of the hold-out
blaster up my left sleeve.  Melenna had handed it to me just after
boarding as a matter of course.

"Wait!"  I'd blurted.  "I don't want this.  I don't even know how to
use it."

"Real simple."  Melenna shrugged.  "Point and shoot."

"But I don't want it!  I'm a doctor!  I don't shoot people!"

"This go-around, you may have to."  Disgustedly, Melenna pushed up my
tunic sleeve, fastened-the little holster around my forearm, and
snapped it down with a final-sounding click.  "If you can't, don't.

Just try not to shoot any of us, okay?"

We popped back into normal space over Selnesh about the mid-afternoon
of the fourth day.  If I'd set out to build a prison planet from the
core outward, this would have been it: a gray rocky ball in the middle
of nowhere, its sun no more than a bright bluish star.  "Bleak" did not
even begin to describe it.  The surface was totally bare of color or
vegetation.  The sterile white plasteel dome of the prison sat like a
fungus directly below us as we descended.

There was literally nowhere else to go on this world that would
support life for more than a few hours.  I could see why nobody escaped
from here.

While Enkhet, already in his stormtrooper armor, exchanged code strings
and pleasantries with the docking bay, the rest of us lined up in
preparation for deception.

Melenna wore free-trader's gear, Liak only his fur, and I a plain
civilian tunic and trousers; the precious medpac was fastened around my
waist under the loose, long tunic.  All three of us wore wrist
binders.

Gowan, also in armor, held a blaster rifle carefully pointed at the
floor.  Haslam was in a gray officer's uniform and looked, at least to
me, thoroughly official and intimidating.

The jar of landing in the bay was slight; evidently Enkhet was as good
a pilot as everyone said he was.  I clenched my fists tightly, the cut
of the binders into my wrists announcing, I don't like this.  I want to
go home.  Right now.  I'm not cut out for a life of adventure.

Somehow sensing my nervousness, Liak turned around and growled
something incomprehensible but reassuring-sounding.

"Pretend you're in a holovid," Melenna suggested brightly.

"Playing the part of a prisoner.  That's what I do.

Just don't say anything.  Let the Lieutenant do the talk-ing-it's what
he's here for."

"Thanks," I muttered.  Nerves always take me in the stomach, and mine
was turning somersaults just then.  Better the stomach than the hands,
anyway--a doctor had better have steady hands, whether she's nervous or
not.

Enkhet joined us from the cockpit.  "All clear," he announced
casually.

"No challenge.  They sound bored."

"Good enough," observed Haslam.  "Let's move out."

Getting past the docking bay was a lot easier than I'd expected.

Haslam, doing a perfect imitation of an Imperial officer---clipped
speech, formal stance and all--identified himself as one Lieutenant
Grailant, operating number 13398247, and us as smugglers and possible
Rebel sympathizers.  The base commander, who looked as if he'd heard
it all one too many times before, waved us tiredly back toward the
passage I figured had to lead to the holding area.

We filed down the gray hallway, ending up in a large bay with
cell-lined hallways branching off at regular intervals.

The central computer bank was inhabited by four stormtroopers holding
blaster rifles at least as big as the ones Enkhet and Gowan wielded,
and a crisply pressed officer type wearing captain's insignia who
looked a whole lot more alert than his commander.  The officer glanced
up as we came in, and the troopers all shifted slightly to aim their
rifles not precisely at us but definitely in our direction.  I suddenly
found it harder to breathe.

Part of my brain was seriously considering saying "Count me out,
thanks, I don't want to play anymore," turning around and walking back
to the ship.  Since this would have ruined Haslam's pretty scenario,
and I was too frozen to move anyway, I kept still and silent.

Haslam repeated the name-rank-and-operating number business for the
officer, who (thank the skies) didn't seem inclined to be
challenging.

Instead, he helpfully fired up the computer and assigned the three of
us cell numbers.

Prisoner processing apparently took place inside the cells, rather than
in the open area--to reduce the incidence of breaks, I guessed.

Since a break was precisely what we had planned, I didn't find this
information encouraging.

Enkhet pressed the muzzle of his blaster into my back, pushing me
forward.  Captain Whoever stepped forward to help get us hardened
criminals into cells for processing.

Haslam stopped him with an upraised hand.

"I'm going to have to ask you and your men to leave for a few
minutes."

"What?"  the captain asked blankly.

"I need you and your men to leave the area temporarily."

Haslam spoke even more quietly, with an air of complicity.

"I'm with Intelligence.  We suspect these prisoners have had access to
top-secret information about the movements of various Rebel cells.

It's not that we don't trust a loyal Imperial officer, but the
presence of these prisoners here has to be kept absolutely top secret
until interrogation is complete.  I'm sure you understand."

"Does Commander Caton know about this?"

"No, and it's important to the war effort that no one knows just now.

I can't tell you any more.  I shouldn't even have said this much, The
reason I brought them here is because I know the reputation of this
base's officers and men.  There's no more secure place in the
galaxy."

"I understand," the captain said gravely, and motioned the troopers to
follow him out the door.  Evidently flattery went a long way.

"I'll also have to disable the security cameras temporarily.

Just until they're processed, you understand.  No one must know of
their presence here."

"Understood."  And it was as easy as that.  The Imps simply walked out
and closed the doors behind them.

Gowan, helmet off, was already slicing into the computer; after a
moment, the cameras mounted around the ceiling went dark.

Haslam moved lightly around the room checking for I didn't know what,
while Enkhet removed our binders.

Melenna stretched her arms and hands forward to remove the stiffness.

"You didn't have to tighten them quite so much," she complained
mildly.

"My hands are asleep."

"You're the one wanted to be convincing."

Liak growled an admonishment, and the squabble--probably the latest
chapter in an ongoing saga--ceased.

Meanwhile, I was digging into my medpac again, assuring myself one more
time that none of the precious equipment or drug vials was damaged.

The ticklish clenching of my muscles, the usual prelude to a full-bore
resuscitation, was beginning to push through my fear.  "Where is he?"

I demanded.

"I'm looking," Gowan replied absently, his attention entirely occupied
by the flashing images on the screen.

"Okay, here it is.  Cell 2826."

"Well, come on, let's go[" "Aurin," Haslam spoke quietly.  "I'm in
command of this mission.  We go when I say."

"Haslam," I said in the same tone, "you got us past the Imps.  Now it's
a medical mission.  That's my department, remember?  There's a man
dying in one of these cells.  I've got work to do.  Let me do it."  The
words "or else" hung in the air.  I didn't know quite what "or else"
would involve, but Haslam realized I was serious anyway.  He
half-laughed, half-sighed, and gave the move-out signal.

The cell was at the far end of the center hallway.  While Enkhet stood
guard near the hall entrance---Gowan had stayed behind to compute some
more Haslam entered a complex code into the keypad at the side of the
door.  It slid open to reveal a thin, gray-haired human male lying on
the pallet at the far end of the small room.  He rose half up on one
elbow, eyes widening at the sight of us.  I absorbed details as I moved
quickly to his side, unstrapping the medpac from around my waist: he
was very pale, his eyes sunken and his lips dry, indicating
dehydration, but he was awake, alert and aware.  I'd been prepared for
a patient at death's door, and was surprised at how relatively good he
looked.

"Is this the rescue party?"  His voice was soft and hoarse, but held a
hint of wry humor.

"That's us."  Melenna had followed close behind me, and gave him a
dazzling smile I suspected would get any man off a deathbed in short
order.  She'd probably intended it that way.  "Anything to make the
mission a success," she'd commented briefly during the ride in.  If
flirting with the rescuee would help, she'd do it.

"I wasn't .  . . expecting you."  He had to breathe in the middle of
the short sentence; yes, he needed some help.  During the exchange I
had been rapidly unpacking my equipment; now I placed the IAU
Intravenous Access Unit--on his upper chest and pressed the activation
switch.  While the catheter burrowed through his skin in search of the
large subclavian vein leading directly to his heart, I opened two
ampules of Clondex, one of endogenous steroid, a cordine patch, and a
liter of serum-replacement solution, and laid them down ready to
hand.

Liak crouched beside me, ready to help if needed; Has-lam stayed alert
at the door.

"Hey," Melenna remarked, "never underestimate the power of a woman,"
"You're in better shape than I thought you'd be," I commented as I
worked.

"I had three vials of .  . . Clondex when I got here .  . . been
underdosing myself.  I only .  . . ran out two days ago."

"How'd you get them past the body search?"  Melenna demanded.

"Swallowed them."  Weak as he was, Vibrion winked at her.  Melenna
followed this statement to its logical conclusion and grimaced; funny,
I wouldn't have thought her the squeamish type.  I ran the scanner over
his body, noting the small heart--another sign of dehydration--and the
shrunken kidneys and adrenals, which went along with the Zithrom's.

Blood pressure was a little low, heart rate a little fast, but
otherwise everything looked pretty normal.  I allowed myself a sigh of
relief.  This isn't going to be as bad as I thought, thank the skies.

And remember, the next time Briessen wants to send you out on one of
these things, say no.

The IAU clicked, and a backflow of darkish venous blood appeared in its
access chamber, indicating the catheter was in the vein.  I injected
the first unit of Clondex and the steroid rapidly, then started feeding
in the serum solution as fast as I could.  I had to be careful here;
giving a large volume of fluid too fast could tip him over the other
way into lung and kidney failure.

"How're we doing?"  Haslam asked.  "We've gotta move out soon."

"I need a few more minutes.  Have they caught on to US?"

"No sign yet," he said, "but let's not push our luck.

Liak, go open the access tunnel entrance and stand by."

Liak lumbered up from my side and out the door, ruffling my hair with
his big paw as he passed.

The fluid bag was nearly empty; I squeezed it to get the last few drops
into my patient, then disconnected it.  Already Vibrion was looking
better, his eyes less sunken and color coming back into his face.  I
gave him the second round of Clondex, then slapped the cordine patch
onto his neck.  He flushed red, a hand going shakily to his forehead as
the stimulant took hold.

"The headache will pass in a minute," I said.  "This'll help you keep
up.  We need to get out of here.  Can you sit up?"

Vibrion nodded, wincing as I helped him to a sitting position and
rechecked his blood pressure; it was holding steady.  So far, so
good.

"Liak's got the tunnel open," Haslam said, calmly but with a note of
underlying urgency in his voice.  I hauled Vibrion to a standing
position, Melenna stepping in to get a shoulder under his arm for
support, and rechecked the scanner's readings; his pulse had gone up 10
beats per minute to compensate for the change in body position, but
blood pressure remained stable.

"Okay?"  I asked him.

"Okay."  He smiled wanly.  "Let's go."

The access tunnel ran parallel along the hallway, a brightly lit, dusty
passage just tall enough to stand up in (Liak and Enkhet had to slouch)
and just wide enough for one.  Melenna, Vibrion and I, linked in the
tail position, shuffled sideways.  Liak led, followed by Enkhet and
Gowan; Haslam was in the middle, where he could monitor everyone at
once.  It was slow going, with a couple of back-up-and-start-over
maneuvers at first.  I hadn't the slightest idea where we were going,
and wasn't sure if I cared.  I'd done what I came to do, and the
post-code ebb of unused adrenaline had left me drained, flat, and
hungry.  Melenna, on the other hand, was looking keyed-up and
nervous.

"This is taking too long," she hissed at Haslam, just ahead of her.

"How long do you think it'll be before the Imps figure out something's
up?  They're not all idiots, you know."

"I'm aware of that, Melenna," Haslam said with careful calm.

"It's only been eleven minutes.  We have time."

Eleven minutes?  How could it only have been eleven minutes?

It felt like hours since I'd walked into that cell.

Liak grunted something from the head of the line, and we kept shuffling
along.  I glanced repeatedly up at Vibrion, reassessing his condition;
after a few minutes he was dripping sweat--it was hot in the tunnel and
noticeably paler as the cordine flush wore off, but he gently squeezed
my shoulders and kept moving.  It occurred to me that fragile as the
old man appeared, anyone who--at his age, and burdened by chronic
illness--could found and run an entire cell of the Rebellion had to be
tougher than tempered titanium.  He was certainly proving it now.

After a long few minutes more of this business, we all stopped at a
signal from Liak: we were nearing the docking bay.  The plan was to
throw a concussion grenade into the bay while we remained under cover
in the tunnel; with the guards incapacitated and the tractor beam
hopefully deactivated, we would scurry to our stolen shuttle, take off,
and evade pursuit long enough to complete the run-to-jump for
hyperspace.

At least, that was the theory.

We all crouched down on the dusty floor of the tunnel, except Vibrion,
who sat down rather suddenly, as if his legs would no longer hold
him.

Melenna propped him up against the wall while I scrabbled in the medpac
for another cordine patch.  I wasn't sure of the wisdom of giving him
another round it might send him into heart failure but I wanted it
handy if he did need it.  A flash of white caught the corner of my eye
at the far curve of the corridor, and I glanced up.

A stormtrooper, flattened against the curving wall, was just edging
around the corner, blaster up and pointed directly at me.

Ambush, I thought, very coldly and clearly, as time slowed to a halt
around me.  I couldn't seem to get in a breath--the nauseated stunned
emptiness was almost exactly what I'd felt at age six, after falling
off a balcony flat onto my stomach.  But my mind, trained to function
logically in a crisis, kept clicking right along: There isn't time to
warn Haslam.  You're blocking the others--they can't shoot around
you.

If you fall, Vibrion's next in line.

You've got a blaster.

My right hand pulled the little hold-out blaster from its holster under
my left sleeve, leveled it at the trooper, and fired.  The shot angled
upward just enough to pass between the breastplate and the bottom of
the helmet; it took him square in the throat, and he let out a choked
gurgle and dropped to his knees.  His helmet flew off as he went down,
allowing me a brief glimpse of a very young man, light brown hair damp
with sweat and clinging to his skull, clear gray eyes wide in
amazement, before he toppled flat onto his face.

I had just time to be amazed that I'd actually hit him before I was
surrounded by blaster shots: Haslam and the others had caught on to the
fact that something was going on behind us, and were shooting over my
head in a perfectly choreographed blast-and-duck pattern that said
they'd been in situations like this before.  The rest of the troopers,
their cover blown, had moved around the corner into the open and were
blasting away at us.  I started to turn back, with some confused idea
of shielding Vibrion with my body, but Melenna hissed at me, "Stay
down!"

Her statement was punctuated by a dull, but extremely loud, explosion
from the direction of the docking bay that shook the walls around us.

I swallowed to equalize the pressure in my ears and got off a couple of
random shots toward the troopers, at the same time groping behind me
with my left hand for Vibrion's wrist.  His pulse was rapid and
slightly irregular, but strong; he squeezed my hand in weak
reassurance.

During all this, I'd forgotten to try to breathe again.  I gasped, and
air rushed into my lungs, making me suddenly dizzy.  I dropped my
forehead onto my wrist; curled awkwardly in a semi-fetal position on
the floor, there wasn't much else I was capable of.  I stayed there,
clutching Vibrion's hand, until someone sharply wrenched at my
shoulder.

"Come on!"  a voice shouted roughly.  "We're going!"

I looked up to see Gowan bending over me, helmet off and a charred
crease of blaster burn slanting across his forehead where a bolt had
winged him.  He grasped my wrist, hauled me to my feet, and slung me
forward toward the docking bay.  Behind Us lay only a heap of white
armor, the gray-eyed boy hidden beneath his comrades.

The floor of the bay was similarly littered with the limp bodies of
troopers and officers, all knocked unconscious simultaneously by the
blast of Liak's concussion grenade.

Haslam, at the entrance waiting for us, grabbed my arm and dragged me
up the shuttle ramp just behind Melenna and Vibrion; he was leaning
heavily on her shoulder, knees buckling and plainly on the verge of
collapse.

Gowan, following us in, hit the door latch and headed for the cockpit
at a dead run; the engines were already roaring in startup sequence.

Haslam dumped Vibrion and me onto the passenger seat, rapidly strapped
us in, then turned to follow Melenna aft.

"Where are you going?"  I gasped.

"To man the guns," he flung back over his shoulder, not missing a
step.

"Guns?  I thought shuttles didn't have guns!"

No answer but the jolting rise of the craft; then we were flung
backwards by the steep drag of acceleration as the shuttle shot
forward.  The next few minutes were a rough approximation of a whirling
repulsorlift ride I'd gone on once during a Coruscant Fete Week: moving
straight up, down, sideways, in a corkscrew, and several
less-conceivable directions, all at breakneck speed, in pitch darkness
(the cabin lights had gone out during the second high-speed maneuver),
and this time with the added thrill of people shooting at us.  I could
dimly hear Haslam and Melenna's casual crosstalk as they shot back;
evidently this shuttle did have guns.  Vibrion was too far away for me
to reach, but sat crumpled in his restraints, his eyes sunken again
into his head but sparkling.  People say emergency medics are
excitement junkies, but this was getting ridiculous.  Haslam was right
about Enkhet's piloting, though; even I could tell he was doing a
superb job of keeping us in one piece.  Finally the ride turned into a
high-gravity Aurin sandwich, pressing the breath out of my lungs as the
shuttle made the star-stretching jump to hyperspace.

The next few minutes were a blur, as I got Vibrion settled more
comfortably and gave him some more fluid and another half-dose of
Clondex.  Haslam had taken a blaster shot to the left shoulder, which
had managed to miss the great vessels and nerve plexus; I cleaned and
dressed his and Gowan's wounds.  Melenna, who'd been in plain view of
the troopers and without armor or any other form of protection, didn't
have a scratch on her.

"That's why we keep her around," Enkhet quipped cheerfully, strolling
into the common room from the cockpit.  "She's our luck."

Melenna thumped him lightly on the top of the head with a derisive
chuckle, and Enkhet tugged teasingly on a curling golden strand.

I finished Haslam's dressing and was halfway through repacking the
medpac, thinking a hot drink sounded like a good idea, when the shakes
hit.  I always get a little trembly after a code; usually it passes off
after a few seconds, but this time it got steadily worse.  I knelt on
the deck-plates in the 'corner of the common room, face turned to the
wall, while the ugly, jeering thoughts crawled around in my brain.

You shot that trooper.  You killed him.  I thought you were supposed
to be a doctor, remember?

I had to!  It was him or us.

Yeah, right.  All that pious moralizing about your oaths, and do no
harm, and the sanctity of sentient life--and none of it really meant
anything, did it?

It wasn't just me, not just my own life.  I had a patient to protect.

I had the whole group to protect.

Oh, come off it!  You had to protect them?  Who appointed you Hero of
the Universe?  Face it--you can mouth off all you want to about
morality, but when it comes right down to it, you took a 'life.  You're
not a healer, you're a killer.

"Aurin?"

A hand touched my shoulder, and I turned.  Gowan knelt next to me,
looking tired and battered and absurdly young, open concern in his dark
eyes.  I just looked at him, unable to get any words around the
hessa-ball that had suddenly taken up residence in my throat.

"You know," he said slowly, "you did a good job in there."

"I killed him."  A deep breath let me speak, but couldn't keep the
tremor out of my voice.

"I knoW.  And I'm sorry you had to .  . . but I can't say I'm sorry you
did."  His voice was even, quiet.  "Listen to me.  Aurin .  .

. this is a war.  The point of war is that if you can kill enough of
the people on the other side, they'll quit.  That's a hard thing to
live with.  What's even harder is, sometimes people get caught up in
the killing who don't really belong there.  And I think you're one of
those people."

"You can say that again."  A shaky half-laugh, half-sob escaped me.

"I'm supposed to keep people alive, not... this."

"Exactly.  And that's what makes what you did today so valuable.

The Rebellion doesn't have anything like as many troops as the Empire
does.  If we can't stay alive long enough to win this war, we've thrown
our lives away.  Look at it this way: you helped keep all of us alive a
little longer to fight this thing.  And you kept Vibrion alive, and
that's even more important, just because of who he is.  Because he can
bring in others who believe what we're doing is right."

I hadn't expected such gentleness, such eloquence out of this dark man
who had barely spoken during the entire mission.  The hard knot in my
throat promptly dissolved into tears.  Cowan put an awkward arm around
my shoulders as I cried, hot tears of shame, of self-recrimination, of
grief, and of sheer reaction to the events of the day.

The tensions and pain gradually drained out of my body along with the
tears.  After a few minutes I simply stopped crying and slumped
exhausted against the wall, dashed my sleeve across my eyes and smiled
shakily up at Cowan.

"I'm okay now.  Really," I added at his doubtful look.

"Sorry I cried all over you.  I'd just .  . . like to be alone for a
while."

He nodded and stood up.  "Do you want anything?  A drink?"

"Not now, thank you."

He nodded and moved forward toward the cockpit.

"Cowan?"

He turned.

"Thanks."

He nodded again and walked away.  I just sat there for a while, eyes
closed, mind drifting.  For the most part, I'd done what I came to
do.

I'd gotten Vibrion out of the prison alive; I'd made it out myself, and
so had the rest of the team.  And if all that was partly due to my
having violated my oath to do no harm .  . . well, maybe allowances
could be made for having done a wrong thing for a right reason.  Maybe
the pretty rules of medicine don't hold up as well in war.  Either way,
there was nothing I could do about it now .  . .

except to wish that gray-eyed boy oneness with the Force that binds us
all, and to go on with my life and my job as best I could.  I sighed,
got up--aching like the aftermath of a stun blast--and went in search
of that hot drink.

They gave me a medal when we got back--the Field Achievement Award, the
one they give all the field operatives who make it back from their
first mission.  I still have it.  I threw it in a drawer and haven't
looked at it since.  But like a half-healed wound, I always know it's
there.

Side Trip Part One

by Timothy Zahn The hazy edge of the planet was just disappearing from
beneath the Hopskip's control room viewport, and Ha-ber Trell was
trying to nurse a little more power from the ship's as-always finicky
engines, when his partner finally reappeared from her tour aft.  "Took
you long enough," Trell commented as she dropped into the copilot seat
beside him.  "Any trouble?"

"No more than usual," Maranne Darmic told him, digging a hand
underneath the silvered clasp tying her darkblond hair back out of the
way and scratching vigorously at her scalp.  "The cargo straps managed
to hold through that classic signature liftoff of yours.  I'd say we
didn't get rid of all the itch mites in the hold, though."

"Never mind the vermin," Trell growled.  Next time they had a
twenty-grade unbalanced cargo, he promised himself darkly, he'd make
her do the liftoff.  See how smoothly she managed it.  "How about our
passengers?"

Maranne sniffed.  "I thought you didn't want to hear about vermin."

"Watch it, kiddo," Trell warned.  "They're paying good money for us to
smuggle these blasters out to Derra IV."

"And obviously don't trust us ten centimeters with them," Maranne
countered.  "They wouldn't be babysitting them like this if they
did."

Trell shrugged.  "Can't say I really blame them for being cautious.

Ever since that big defeat or whatever it was out in the Yavin system,
the Empire's been spitting fire in · fifteen directions at once.  I've
heard that some of the independents hauling Rebellion stuff decided it
was safer to take the advance money, dump the cargo, and burn space for
better havens."

"Yeah, well, I don't like hauling for desperate people," Maranne said,
shifting the focal point of her scratching to a spot farther down the
back of her neck.  "They make me nervous."

"If they weren't desperate, they wouldn't be paying so well," Trell
pointed out reasonably.  "Don't worry, this'll be the last time we have
to deal with them."

"I've heard that before," Maranne said, sniffing again.

The proximity-sensor alert began to warble, and she leaned forward to
key for a readout.  "Sure, this'll pay for the engine upgrades you
want; but then you'll want sensor upgrades, and--" She broke off.

"What?"  Trell demanded.

"Star Destroyer," she said grimly, activating the weapons section of
her board and keying in the power boosters.

"Coming up fast behind us."

"Terrific," Trell growled, checking the nav computer.

If they could escape to lightspeed .  . . but no, the ship was still
too close to the planet.  "What's their vector?"

"Straight toward us," Maranne told him.  "I suppose it's too late to
dump the cargo and try to look innocent."

"Freighter Hopskip, this is Captain Niriz of the Imperial Star
Destroyer Admonitor," a gruff voice boomed from the speaker.  "I'd like
a word with you aboard my ship, if I may.

The last word was punctuated by a single gentle shiver running through
the deck beneath them as a tractor beam locked on.  "Yeah, I'd say it's
definitely too late to dump the cargo," Trell sighed.  "Let's hope
they're just on a fishing expedition."

He keyed for transmission.  "This is Haber Trell aboard the Hopskip,"
he said.  "We'd be honored to speak with you, Captain."

"Well," Captain Niriz said, his voice echoing across the vast emptiness
of the hangar deck as he eyed the four beings standing in front of
him.

"Most interesting.  Our records show the Hopskip as having two crew
members, not four."  His gaze paused on Riij Winward.

"Newly hired, are you?"

"Our previous ship had to leave Tramanos in something of a hurry," Riij
told him, striving to keep his voice casual.  The fake ID the Rebellion
had provided him was a good one, but if the Imperials decided to dig
past it they would undoubtedly come up with his recent connection with
the Mos Eisley police on Tatooine.  That wasn't a connection he was
anxious for them to find.  "We needed a ride to Shibric," he continued,
"and since Captain Trell was going that way, he was kind enough to
offer us passage."

"For a hefty fee, I imagine," Niriz said, his eyes shifting to the
muscular Tunroth standing at Riij's right.  "Rare to see a Tunroth in
these parts.  You're a certified Hunter, I presume?"

"Shturlan, "Rathe Pairor rumbled, his voice almost sub-sonic.

"That's a twelfth-class Hunter," Riij translated, trying to draw
Niriz's attention back to him.  Palror's distinguished service with
Churhee's Riflemen would raise even more eyebrows than Riij's own
record if the Imperials found it.

"Excellent," Niriz said.  "A Hunter's talents may prove useful on this
mission."

At Riij's left, Trell cleared his throat.  "Mission?"  he asked
carefully.

"Yes."  Niriz gestured, and a lieutenant standing beside him stepped
forward and offered Trell a datapad.  "I want you to take a cargo to
Corellia for me."

"Excuse me?"  Trell asked carefully as he took the datapad.  "You want
me to--?"

"I need a civilian freighter for this job," Niriz said.  His voice was
gruff, but Riij could hear a distinct undertone of distaste.  "I don't
have one.  You do.  I also don't have time to locate someone else to do
the job.  You're here.

You're it."

Riij craned his neck to look over Trell's shoulder at the datapad, his
earlier trepidation about their IDs and cargo giving way to cautious
excitement.  For a Star Destroyer captain to ask for help of any
sort---especially from a scruffy civilian freighter pilot--was
practically unheard of.

It implied urgency and desperation; and anything that bothered a senior
Imperial officer that much was definitely something a good Rebel agent
ought to look into.

"What do you think?"  he prompted.

Trell shook his head.  "I don't know," he said.  "It'll throw our
schedule all to blazes and back."

Riij ran a series of highly vulgar words through his mind, making sure
the frustration didn't show on his face.  Trell, unfortunately, was not
a Rebel agent, good or otherwise, and he clearly wanted nothing to do
with any of this.  "It wouldn't take all that long," he cajoled
carefully.

"And all good citizens have a duty to help out."

"No," Trell said firmly, offering the datapad back to the lieutenant.

"I'm sorry, Captain, but we just don't have time.  Our cargo's due on
Shibric--" "Your cargo consists of six hundred cases of Pashkin
sausages," Niriz interrupted coldly.  "I presume you're aware that the
governor has recently decreed that all foodstuff exports now require an
Imperial license."

Trell's mouth dropped open a couple of millimeters.

"That's impossible," he said.  "I mean, the inspectors didn't say
anything about that."

"Just how recent was this decree?"  Maranne asked suspiciously.

Niriz gave her a thin smile.  "Approximately ten minutes ago."

Riij felt his stomach tighten.  Urgency and desperation, indeed.

"off-hand, I'd say we've been set up," he murmured to Trell.

Niriz's eyes flicked to Riij, returned to Trell.  "I am, however,
prepared to waive that requirement this one time," he continued.

"Provided you're prepared in turn to deliver your sausages a little
late."

"As opposed to not delivering them at all.>" Trell countered.

Niriz shrugged.  "Something like that."

Trell looked at Maranne, who shrugged.  "It's a two-day round trip to
Corellia from here," she said.  "Add in delivery time, and we're
talking three days, tops.  It'll be a scramble, but our schedule can
probably absorb that."

"Not that we have much choice in the matter."  Trell looked back at
Niriz.  "I guess we'd be delighted to help you out, Captain.  What's
the cargo, and when do we leave?"

"The cargo is two hundred small boxes," Niriz said.

"That's all you need to know about it.  As for departure, you'll leave
as soon as your sausages are offloaded and the new cargo put aboard."

At Riij's side, Pairor rumbled again, and Riij had to fight to keep
his own face expressionless.  If some bored Imperial took it into his
head to poke around beneath the top three layers of sausages in each
box .  . .

"Don't worry, we'll keep them cool," Niriz promised.

"There won't be any spoilage."

"I'm sure they'll be safe," Trell said.  "Where does this cargo of
your's go?"

"Your guide will fill you in on those details," Niriz said, gesturing
behind them.  Riij turned to look-And felt the breath catch in his
throat.  Stepping around the stern of the Hopskip toward them, his
stained Mandalorian armor glittering in the overhead light--Trell swore
under his breath.  "Boba Fett."

"It's not Fett," Niriz corrected.  "Merely, shall we say, an admirer of
his."

"A former admirer," the armored figure corrected, his voice dark and
muffled.  "The name is Jodo Kast.  And I'm better than Fett."

"Not that that means much," Niriz said, his lip twisting.

"I've always found that a competent stormtrooper could handle any three
bounty hunters without working up a sweat."

"Don't push it, Niriz," Kast warned.  "Right now you need me more than
I need this job."

"I need you less than you might think," Niriz retorted.

"Certainly less than you need an Imperial pardon for that mess you left
on Borkyne--" "Gentlemen, please," Trell jumped in hastily.  "I'm a
businessman, with a schedule to keep.  Whatever your differences, I'm
sure you can lay them aside until this job is finished."

Niriz was still glowering, but he gave a reluctant nod.

"You're right, Merchant.  Fine.  You and your crew can rest in the
ready room over there until the cargo's been transferred.

As for you're" He leveled a finger at Kast.  "I'd like to see you in
the bay control office.  There are a few things I want to make sure
you understand."

Kast nodded gravely.  "Of course.  Lead the way."

Niriz stepped into the bay control office, the armored figure striding
in right behind him.  The door slid closed; and at long last Niriz
could let the unnatural stiffness drain out of his posture.  "I'm
afraid I'm not very good at this, sir," he apologized.  "I hope I did
all right."

"You did just fine, Captain," the other assured him, reaching up to
twist his helmet free and pull it off.  "Between this armor and your
performance all four of them are completely convinced that I'm Jodo
Kast."

"I hope so, sir," Niriz said, his stomach tight with concern as he
gazed at those glowing red eyes.  "Admiral .  . .

I have to say one last time that I don't think you should do this.

At least not personally."

"Your concern is noted," Grand Admiral Thrawn said, running a
gauntleted hand through his blue-black hair.

"And appreciated, as well.  But this is something I can't delegate to
anyone else."

Niriz shook his head.  "I wish I could say I understood."

"You will," Thrawn promised.  "Assuming this plays out as anticipated,
you'll have the entire story when I return."

Niriz smiled, thinking about all the campaigns he and the Grand Admiral
had been through together out in the Unknown Regions.  "When hasn't
something you planned gone as anticipated?"  he asked dryly.

Thrawn smiled faintly in return.  "Any number of times, Captain," he
said.  "Fortunately, I've usually been able to improvise an alternate
approach."

"That you have, sir."  Niriz sighed.  "I still wish you'd reconsider.

We could put one of my stormtroopers in the Mandalorian armor, and you
could direct him by comlink from somewhere nearby."

Thrawn shook his head.  "Too slow and awkward.  Besides, Thyne's
fortress will certainly have a full-spectrum surveillance set up.

They'd pick up any such transmission and either tap in or jam it."

Niriz took a deep breath.  "Yes, sir."

Thrawn smiled again.  "Don't worry, Captain, I'll be fine.  Don't
forget, there's an Imperial garrison nearby.  If necessary, I can
always call on them for help."

He slid the helmet back over his head and fastened it in place.

"I'd better go supervise the cargo transfer--we wouldn't want Merchant
Trell's precious sausages to be damaged.  I'll see you in a few
days."

"Yes, sir," Niriz said.  "Good luck, Admiral."

It was called Treasure Ship Row, and it was billed as the most exotic
and eclectic trading bazaar anywhere in the Empire.  Dozens of booths
and shops of every size and description ran its length, with hundreds
more nestled up against its edges, weaving in and out of Coronet City
proper.  Humans and aliens sat at open-air counters or stood beside
doorways, hawking their wares to the thousands of beings jostling their
way through the narrow streets.

A vibrant, exciting place; but for Trell, a bit intimidating as well.

The merchant part of him was intrigued by the range of merchandise
available, as well as by the variety of potential customers an
enterprising dealer could sell those goods to.  But at the same time
the part of him that had driven him into the isolation of space in the
first place felt distinctly ill at ease in the middle of such crowds.

Maranne, walking beside him, didn't seem to feel any such discomfort.

Neither did the two Rebel agents, striding along behind him.  As for
Kast, in the lead, he doubted any of them could tell what he was
feeling.  Or cared, for that matter.

"Where exactly are we going?"  Maranne asked, taking an extra long step
to get in close behind Kast.

"This way," Kast said, veering through the crowd toward the side.

The others followed, and a moment later all five were standing in the
narrow walkway between two shuttered booths.  "Here?"  Trell
demanded.

"The booth you want is five ahead on the left," Kast told them.

"Curio shop--owner's named Sajsh.  You--" he pointed a gloved finger at
Trell "--will tell him you have a cargo for Borbor Crisk and ask for
delivery instructions."

"What about the rest of us?"  Riij asked.

"You'll go out first," Kast said.  "Stay out of the conversation, but
watch and listen."

Trell looked out into the flow of the crowd, a shiver running down his
neck.  Something about this didn't feel right, but it was too late to
back out now.  "Maranne, make sure you're where you can cover me," he
told her.

"There will be no shooting," Kast assured him.

"Glad to hear it," Maranne said.  "You don't mind if I cover him
anyway?"

Kast's invisible eyes seemed to bore into hers through the helmet
visor.  "As you wish," he said.  "All of you: move."

Wordlessly, the others filed out into the crowd, Kast bringing up the
rear.  Trell gave them a count of fifty to find their positions, then
followed.

The curio shop was easy to find: a small, somewhat dilapidated open-air
booth with an enclosed back room that had been inexpertly added on long
enough ago to look almost as moldering as the booth itself.  A
lizardine creature of an unfamiliar species was leaning on the counter,
watching the crowds passing by.  Taking a deep breath, Trell stepped
over to him.

The lizard looked up as Trell approached, his alien expression
unreadable.  "Good day, good sir," he said in adequate Basic.  "I am
Sajsh, proprietor of this humble establishment.  May I be of
assistance?"

"I hope so," Trell said.  "I have a cargo for someone named Borbor
Crisk.  I was told you could give me delivery instructions."

A three-forked tongue darted briefly from the scaled mouth.  "You have
been misinformed," he said.  "I know no one by that name."

"Oh?"  Trell said, taken aback.  "Are you sure?"

The tongue flicked again.  "Do you doubt my word?"  the alien spat.

"Or merely my memory or intelligence?"

"No, no," Trell said hastily.  "Not at all.  I just .  . . my source
seemed so sure this was the place."

Sajsh opened his mouth wide.  "Perhaps he was only slightly
incorrect.

Perhaps he meant the shop to my kill-hand."

He pointed to his right, to an equally dilapidated booth that was
currently closed up.  "The proprietor will return at the seven-hour.

You can return then and ask him."

"I'll do that," Trell promised.  "Thank you."

The lizard snapped his jaws together twice.  Nodding, Trell turned and
pushed his way back into the stream of pedestrians, face hot with
embarrassment and annoyance.

"Well?"  Maranne demanded, sidling up beside him.

"Kast had the wrong place," Trell growled, glancing around.  But the
bounty hunter was nowhere to be seen.

"Where are the others?"

"We're right here," Riij said, coming up through the crowd behind
him.

"Kast said to head back down the street and he'd meet us."

"Good," Trell said tartly.  "I've got a few things to say to our
esteemed bounty hunter.  Let's go."

ajsh and the unknown man finished their conversation, and the latter
moved away back into the mass of browsers and shoppers.  Two booths
over, Corran Horn set down the melon he'd been examining and eased into
the flow behind him.

The stranger didn't seem to be trying to lose himself in the crowd.

Though any such effort would have been quickly negated by the company
he linked up with: a hard-eyed, competent-looking woman, a young man
about Corran's own age, and a yellow-skinned alien with several short
horns protruding from his chin.  For a moment the four of them
conversed; then, with the contact man leading the way, they continued
on down the street.

At the edge of Corran's vision, a heavyset figure stepped to his
side.

"Trouble?"

"I don't know, Dad," Corran said.  "You see that foursome up there?

Tooled brown jacket, blondish woman, white-spiked collar,
yellow-skinned alien?"

"Yes," Hal Horn nodded.  "The alien's a Tunroth, by the way.

Fairly rare outside their home system; most of the ones you run into
these days work with high-stakes safaris, mercenaries, or bounty
hunters."

"Interesting," Corran said.  "Possibly significant, too.

Brown Jacket just waltzed up to Sajsh's booth and tried to make a
delivery to Borbor Crisk."

"Did he, now," Hal said thoughtfully.  "Have Crisk and Zekka Thyne
patched up their differences while I wasn't looking?"

"If they did, I wasn't looking either," Corran told him.

"Either Brown Jacket and his pals are incredibly stupid, or else
something very odd is going on."

"Either way, I doubt Thyne will simply pass on it," Hal said.

"Did Brown Jacket happen to mention where they could be contacted?"

"No, but Sajsh has that covered," Corran said.  "He said they might
want the owner of the booth next to his and suggested they come back
about seven."

"Where they'll be asked to have a quiet conversation with a group of
Black Sun heavies."  Hal stretched his neck to peer over the crowd.

"Well, well--the plot thickens.

Look who our innocents have hooked up with."

Corran rose up on tiptoes.  There was Brown Jacket and his friends; and
with them-"I'll be shragged," he breathed.  "Is that Boba Fett?"

"No, I don't think so," Hal said.  "Possibly Jodo Kast, though I'd have
to get a closer look at the armor to be sure."

"Well, whoever it is, we've definitely moved into the big time," Corran
pointed out.  "Mandalorian armor doesn't come cheap."

"When you can find it at all," the elder Horn agreed.

"This is getting odder by the minute.  I take it you've had some
thoughts already?"

"Only one, really," Corran said.  The group was moving off again, and
he and his father set off to follow.  "Thyne wouldn't be stupid enough
to kill them out of hand, certainly not until he knows who they are and
what their connection is to Crisk.  That probably means bringing them
to the fortress."

"And you think you might be able to invite yourself along?"

"I know it's risky--" "'Risky' isn't exactly the word I had in mind,"
Hal interrupted.  "Getting into the fortress is only the first step,
you know.  You think you'll be able to simply march up to Thyne, slap
the restraints on him in the name of Corellian Security, and march him
out?"

"We do have the legal authority to do that, you know," Corran reminded
him.

"Which means nothing at all inside his stronghold," Hal countered.

"You have any idea how many CorSec agents have gone after top Black Sun
lieutenants like Thyne and simply vanished?"

Corran grimaced.  "I know," he said.  "But that's not going to happen
this time.  And if getting into the fortress is only the first step, it
still is the first step."

The elder Horn shook his head.  "'Risky' still doesn't begin to cover
it.  For starters, we don't even know what game Brown Jacket and his
Mandalorian friend are playing."

"Then it's time we found out," Corran said.  "Let's stay close and see
if we can find an opportunity to introduce ourselves."

They had gone perhaps two blocks--though where Kast was leading them
Trell hadn't the faintest idea--when they heard the shout.

"What was that?"  Riij demanded, looking around.

"There," Pairor rumbled, pointing his thick central finger to the
left.

"Argument starting."

Trell craned his neck.  There was an open-air tapcafe that direction,
with a long serving bar at the rear and perhaps twenty small tables
spread out in the open space in front of it beneath a wide,
Karvrish-style woven-leaf canopy.  A slightly built man wearing a
proprietor's apron was standing in the middle of the dining area, a
half dozen large and rough-looking men wearing mercenary shoulder
patches looming in a threatening circle around him.  The chairs from a
nearby table were scattered back or lying on the ground, indicating a
quick and unruly departure from them.  "I think the argument's over,"
he said.  "It's gone straight to trouble now."

"Come on," Riij said, angling that direction.  "Let's check it out."

"Leave it alone," Kast ordered.  "It's none of our business."

But Riij and Pairor were already heading off through the crowd.

"Blast," Trell growled.  Stupid idealistic gornt-brained Rebels--"Come
on, Maranne."

A line of onlookers had started to form at the edge of the tapcafe by
the time he and Maranne broke through the stream of pedestrians.

Riij and Pairor were already to the mercenaries, who had opened their
circle around the tapcafe proprietor in order to face this new
distraction.

And now Trell could see something he hadn't been able to before.

Standing beside the proprietor, clinging tightly to his waist in
terror, was a young girl.  Probably his daughter; certainly no more
than seven years old.

Trell hissed a curse between his teeth.  It took a particularly vile
form of low-life to threaten a child.  But that didn't mean he was
going to follow Riij's lead and charge in blindly like a mad Jedi
Knight on Cracian thumper-back.

"Backup left," he murmured to Maranne.  "I'll take right."

"Right," she murmured back.  Dropping his hand casually onto the grip
of his blaster, Trell started drifting behind the ring of onlookers to
the rightw And with a suddenness that startled him, the fight
started.

Not with blasters, which had been his main fear, but 'with hands and
feet as the two closest mercenaries lashed out at Riij and Pairor.

With three-to-one odds on their side, the mercs must have felt weapons
to be unnecessary.

They got a shock.  Riij had clearly had some good training in unarmed
combat, and Pairor was a lot faster than Trell would have guessed from
the alien's bulk.  Riij's counterattack sent his opponent reeling back;
Palror's threw his merc slamming back with a horrendous crash into one
of the other tables, sending it spinning and scattering its chairs
across the floor.

Someone swore viciously.  The downed merc scrambled to his feet and
rejoined his comrades, their former casual semicircle now reformed into
a deadly, no-nonsense combat line facing their attackers.  The
proprietor had taken advantage of the distraction to hustle his
daughter back across to the bar; heaving her up and over to the
relative safety behind it, he turned back to watch.

For a long moment the combatants stood motionless facing each other.

Trell kept drifting toward his chosen backup position, his eyes on the
mercs, his hand tightening on his blaster.  Would they draw now, in
which case Riij and Pairor were probably dead?  Or would sheer pride
dictate they beat such insolent opponents bloody with their bare
hands?

The watching crowd was obviously wondering the same thing.  Trell
could feel their tension, their excitement, their bloodlust .  . .

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement to his
left.  The mercs caught it, too, anger-filled eyes shifting that
direction-Their expressions changed, just slightly.  Frowning, Trell
risked a look of his own.

Jodo Kast had stepped forward out of the ring of onlookers.

For a moment the bounty hunter just stood there, gazing silently at the
scene.  Then, stepping to one of the tables at the edge of the tapcafe,
he pulled out a chair and sat down.  Crossing his legs casually beneath
the table, he folded his arms across his chest and cocked his head
slightly to one side.  "Well?"  he asked mildly.

And with that one word the decision was made.  No mercenary with a
speck's worth of professional pride was going to use weapons against
outnumbered opponents who hadn't themselves drawn.  Not with a bounty
hunter like Jodo Kast watching.

Roaring obscure and probably obscene battle cries, the mercs waded
in.

At that first exchange Riij and Palror had had the element of
surprise.

This time they didn't.  They did their best, certainly--and still
better than Trell would have expected given the odds--but in the end
they really had no chance.  Less than ninety seconds after that battle
roar, both Riij and Pairor were on the floor, along with two of the
mercs.  The remaining four, not all of them looking all that steady on
their feet, were grouped around them.

One of them looked around, jabbed a finger toward the proprietor
cowering at the bar.  "Them first," he snarled, breathing heavily.

"You next."

"No," Kast said.

The merc spun around to face him, almost losing his balance in the
process as a damaged knee tried to buckle under him.  "No what?"  he
demanded.

"I said no," Kast told him.  His hands were in his lap now, concealed
under the table, but his legs were still casually crossed.

"You've had your fun; but I need them alive."

"Yeah?"  the mere snarled.  "What, you got a bounty to collect on
them?"

"You've had your fun," Kast repeated, but this time there was frosty
metal glittering in his voice.  "Leave it and go.  Now."

"You think so, huh?"  the mere spat.  "And who do you think's gonna
stop---?"

And abruptly, right in the middle of his sentence, he dropped his hand
to his blaster and yanked it from its holster.

It was an old trick, and one that had probably given the mere the
desired edge in many a facedown.  Unfortunately for him, it was a trick
Trell had seen used countless times before; and even before the other's
hand had reached his blaster grip Trell was hauling out his own
weapon.

At the other side of the ring of bystanders he spotted Maranne also
drawing-The mere had good reflexes, all right.  In that split second he
froze, his weapon not quite cleared of its holster; staring from
beneath thick eyebrows at the four blasters suddenly pointed at him
from the circle of people around the tapcafe.

Trell blinked as it suddenly registered.  Four blasters?

Four.  Two people down from Maranne, a bulky middle-aged man also had a
blaster trained steadily on the mercs.  . . and out of the corner of
his eye, Trell could see the fourth blaster sticking out from his side
of the crowd.  Held with equal steadiness.

The merc spat.  "So that's how you want to play it, huh?"

"We're not playing," Kast said icily.  "As I said: leave it and go.  If
you don't--" Trell never saw the warning twitch he was watching for.

But Kast obviously did.  Even as the merc started to haul his blaster
the rest of the way free of its holster there was the brilliant flash
of a blaster bolt from the direction of the bounty hunter's table, and
a roar of rage from the merc as his holster and the blaster muzzle
behind it shattered.

"--I promise you will regret it," Kast finished calmly.

"This is your final chance."

The merc looked like he was about two seconds short of a complete
berserk rage.  But even furious and with a burned gun hand, he was in
control enough to know when the odds were stacked too high against
him.

"I'll be watching for you, bounty hunter," he breathed, straightening
up from his combat crouch.  "We'll finish this some other time."

Kast bowed his head slightly.  "Whenever you're tired of life,
mercenary."

The merc gave a hand signal.  The others helped their two casualties to
their feet--one groggily starting to come to, the other still in need
of basic portage--and the group straggled their way through the
onlookers and out into the crowd.

Kast waited until they were out of sight.  Then, pushing back his
chair, he stood up, the blaster he'd used on the merc's weapon already
secreted back in whatever hidden holster it had been drawn from.  "The
show's over," he announced, looking around at the bystanders.  "Stay
and buy a drink, or get moving."

The proprietor was already beside Riij and Pairor, helping the former
to a sitting position, when Trell and Maranne reached them.

"You all right?"  Maranne asked, offering Pairor a hand.

The Tunroth waved it away.  "I am not hurt," he said, rolling to his
feet and flexing an elbow experimentally.  "I was merely temporarily
disabled."

"You're lucky the condition wasn't permanent," Trell reminded him.

"You should have left it alone like Kast told you to."

"Yeah," Riij said, holding his stomach as he got to his feet with the
proprietor's assistance.  "Thanks, Kast.

Though I wouldn't have minded if you'd stepped in a little earlier.

Say, before they started pounding on us?"

"Six mercenaries wouldn't have backed down in front of three blasters,"
Kast told him.  "I needed you to take some of them out first."

He half turned.  "If I'd known it would be five blasters instead of
three, I might have moved sooner."

Trell turned to look.  The two men who'd drawn with them were standing
there watching.  "Thanks," he said.

"I wouldn't have counted on getting that kind of help in a place like
this."

"No problem," the older man shrugged.  "The Brommstaad Mercenaries have
always had a tendency to consider themselves above the bounds of normal
civilized behavior.  And I've never liked it when children get
threatened."

"Besides which," the younger man added, "we were starting to get
thirsty anyway."

"Drinks?"  the proprietor asked eagerly.  "Of course; drinks for all of
you.  And meals, too, if you are hungry--the finest I have to offer."

"We'll take the long table in the back," Kast said.  "And some
privacy."

"Yes, good sir, immediately," the proprietor said.  Giving them a quick
bow, he scurried off toward the table Kast had indicated.

"My name's Hal, by the way," the older man said.

"This is my partner Corran."

Trell exchanged nods with them.  "Pleased to meet you.

I'm Trell; this is Maranne, Riij, Pairor, andB" "Call me Kast," Kast
cut him off.  "Son or nephew?"

Hal blinked.  "What?"

"Is Corran your son or nephew?"  Kast amplified.

"There's a family resemblance about the eyes."

"People have mentioned that before," Corran spoke up.  "Actually, it's
just coincidence.  As far as we know, we're not related."

Kast nodded once, slowly.  "Ah."

"The table seems ready," Hal said, pointing in that direction.

"Shall we go sit down?"

"Oh, sure," Hal said, taking a sip from his second drink.

"Everyone around here has heard of Borbor Crisk.  Fairly small-time
criminal, though, as criminals go---strictly local to the Corellian
system.  Of course, if you're looking for impressive intersystem
criminals, we've got some of those, tOO."

"We're not interested in impressiveness," Trell pointed out.

"Criminal or otherwise.  We've got a cargo to deliver to this Crisk
character, and then we're out of here."

"Yes, you mentioned that," Corran agreed, eyeing the other and trying
to read him.  It was hard to believe these people were really the
simple errand boys they appeared, especially after the incident with
the mercenaries.  But if this was some kind of deeply clever plan, he
was blamed if he could figure it out.

At least, not from the outside.  It was about time he made his pitch to
get a little closer to the middle.  "The thing is this," he went on,
looking around the table.

"Two things, actually.  Number one: considering who Crisk is, your
cargo is probably illegal and certainly valuable.

That means that you not only have to worry about Corellian Security
coming down on you, but also other criminals who might try to take it
off your hands.  And number two--" he hesitated, just slightly "the
reason Hal and I came to CoreIlia in the first place was hoping to find
jobs with Crisk's organization."

"You're kidding," Riij said.  "Doing what?"

"Anything, really," Hal said.  "Our last job went really sour, and we
need to recoup our losses."

"That's why we were following you, see," Corran said, trying for the
proper balance of assertiveness and embarrassment.  "I overheard Trell
talking about Crisk, and thought--well--" "We thought maybe we could go
with you when you went back to see him tonight," Hal took the plunge.

Trell and Maranne exchanged glances.  "Well---" "We don't actually know
we're seeing him tonight," Riij pointed out.  "That other booth owner
may not know anything more about Crisk than Sajsh did."

"That's a good point," Trell agreed, throwing an odd look at Kast.

"This could be nothing but a blind alley."

"Well, in that case, you'll need help finding him," Hal said with a
wonderfully genuine-sounding eagerness.

"Corran and I are locals--we have all sorts of contacts around the
area.  We can help you find him."

"One of you can go," Kast said.

Corran looked at the bounty hunter, blinking in mild surprise.  It was
the first time he'd spoken since they'd sat down at the table.

"Ah--good," he said.  "Just one of us?"

"Just him," Kast said, nodding toward Hal.  "Trell and the Tunroth will
go with him.  I'll be behind as rearguard."

"What about Riij and me?"  Maranne asked.

"You two and Corran will go back to the ship," Kast told her.

"You'll transfer the cargo onto the ship's land-speeder so it'll be
ready for delivery."

Trell and Maranne eyed each other again, and Corran could see neither
was particularly happy with the arrangement.

It was equally clear, though, that neither was all that eager to argue
the point with the bounty hunter.  "All right," Trell said with a
grimace.  "Fine.  What happens if no one at that other booth knows
where Crisk is either?"

"That won't be a problem," Kast said.  "Trust me."

"Interesting person, Jodo Kast," Hal commented as the three of them
headed back toward Sajsh's booth.  "Have you worked with him long?"

"This is the first time," Trell told him, looking around uneasily.

There were far fewer shoppers at this hour than there had been earlier,
and despite his innate dislike of crowds he found himself feeling
unpleasantly exposed right now.  "Actually, we're not working with him
so much as we are working for him.  Pairor, can you see where he's
gotten to?"

"No, don't turn around," Hal said quickly.  "We might be under
observation, and we don't want to tip them off that we've got a
rearguard."

Trell threw him a sideways look.  There was something in his voice
right then that emphatically did not belong in a down-luck drifter.  A
tone of authority, spoken by a person who was used to having his orders
obeyed .  . .

Pairor rumbled.  "Trouble," he said.

Trell craned his neck.  He could see Sajsh's booth ahead now, closed up
for the night.

The booth beside it, the booth they were headed for, was also closed.

"Great," he growled, stopping.  "Still no one there."

"No, don't stop," a soft voice came from behind him.

Trell felt his heart seize up.  "What?"

"You heard the man," a different voice said, this one coming from
behind Hal.  "Keep walking."

With an effort, Trell got his feet moving again.  "Are you with Borbor
Crisk?"

There was a snort.  "Hardly," the first voice said with obvious
contempt.  "Keep it casual, and don't try to be clever.  We'd prefer to
deliver you in fully working condition."

Trell swallowed hard.  "Where are we going?"

"For now, behind Sajsh's booth," the other said.  "After that .  .

. you'll see."

"I'm sure," Trell murmured, heart pounding in his ears.  Still, there
was one thing the kidnappers didn't know.  Jodo Kast, one of the finest
bounty hunters in the galaxy, was somewhere behind them.  Any minute
now he would jump out from wherever he was hiding, blasters blazing
with micron accuracy, and flip the tables completely on them.

Any minute now, and they'd hear the roar of blasters.  Any minute now
.

. .

He was still waiting for that minute as the kidnappers herded the three
of them aboard a speeder truck, sealed the doors, and drove off into
the gathering dusk.

Side Trip Part Two

by Michael A. Stackpole Corran Horn's feeling that something was wrong
got a big boost from his first glimpse of the Hopskip.  The freighter
looked as if someone had taken a stock Corel-lian Yr-1300, split the
disk along a line running from bow to stern, flopped one half on top of
the other, then patched it together with whatever scrap metal was
conveniently at hand.  Corran had seen uglier ships, but none that were
supposed to be operational.

He waited for Riij to close the gateway to the hangar bay before he
made a comment.  "I guess smuggling doesn't pay what it once used
to?"

Maranne's hard eyes flashed angrily.  "We're traders, not smugglers."

Corran raised his hands.  "Call it what you want.  With Imp rules and
regs out there, what starts as a trading trip could end up as a
smuggling run."

Surprise played through Maranne's dark blue eyes, then she turned away
and scratched at the back of her neck.  "I'll get the landspeeder."

Her surprise at his comment made her statement come a bit too fast, and
Corran thought perhaps he caught a hint of fear in her words.

Definitely more here than meets the eye.  The second he saw the ship,
Corran abandoned any suspicion that these people were hard-edged
smugglers coming to deliver supplies to Borbor Crisk.  The things Crisk
needed to wage his little war with Zekka Thyne and Black Sun for
supremacy in the Corellian underworld weren't the sorts of things that
would be entrusted to the crew of the Hopskip.  Actually, for Crisk to
depose Thyne would require a Star Destroyer, which this ship isn't, and
a legion of stormtroopers, which isn't hidden here.

Corran saw Maranne disappear through a hatch in the freighter, so he
turned his attention to Riij.  "Shipping with her can't be too rough.

She's pretty easy on the eyes.

Known her long?"

The slender man shook his head, then ran a hand across his short, spiky
white hair.  "Just along for the ride.

If I do some work, I get some pay by the time we reach our
destination."  Riij smiled carefully.  "You been working with your
partner long?"

"Off and on."  Corran shrugged.  Riij's quick questioning of Corran
about his background played to most people's tendency to want to talk
about themselves, It's a technique you learn to exploit when fishing
for information from suspects.  Either Riij has had training, is very
private, or both.  "Known him for a long time, but started running
together recently.  Bonded through bad times, you know?

Like you and the Tunroth."

"You recognize him as a Tunroth?"

"Hal and me, we might be locals, but that doesn't mean we've not been
around."  Corran took a step back as Maranne lowered the rear loading
ramp on the Hop-skip.  "He got a life debt toward you or something?"

"Life debt is a Wookiee thing."  Riij frowned, then started up the ramp
to the freighter's hold.  "Rathe and I are just traveling on the same
ship.  No connection beyond that."

"Got it."  Corran kept an easy smile on his face while cataloguing the
information Riij had just supplied him.

Corran knew life debts were a matter of Wookiee honor, but he only knew
of them because of the Imperial warrants and advisories about Han Solo
and the Wookiee working with him.  Most folks don't know Wookiees exist
or, at best, know Imps use them for slave labor.  Folks who know more
about Wookiees are usually Rebel sympathizers.

He followed Riij up the ramp and started looking around for clues to
what the Hopskip's crew was doing in Coronet City.  As a member of the
Corellian Security Force, Corran had access to most information about
the Rebellion and its connections to CoreIlia.  At least I have it when
that worthless Imp Intelligence liaison officer isn't around.

While it was true that two of the Alliance's heroes were from CoreIlia,
the Emperor's tightening of his grip on CoreIlia and the placement of
forces on the world had kept the Rebel presence down.  Corran knew
there were Rebel cells in residence, and he'd gladly have run any of
them in, but he didn't see them being so bold or so desperate as to try
to hook up with Crisk.

Corran slid past the battered nose of the old land-speeder--like the
ship, it looked as if it had been cobbled together from parts.  It only
had two seats, like a fancy speeder, but had a flat bed grafted on to
the back.  Except where dents let silvery metal show through, an even,
dirt-brown coat of primer covered the vehicle.  Not fast, not strong,
but beats hauling this stuff on my back.

The bank of boxes that Maranne and Riij were freeing from cargo-net
tie-downs immediately attracted his attention.

They were uniform in size and non-descript, but that struck Corran as
odd.  All of them had exteriors formed out of green duraplast that was
a couple shades darker than his eyes, yet none of the rectangular boxes
bore the streaking and scarring common on duraplast boxes.

None had holographic tags, scuff marks or other signs of use, yet all
had been bound with duraplast cables and fixed with a holographic
seal.

As he lifted the first one from the top of the pile he felt nothing
shift inside the boxes, nor was there a need for him to locate the
box's balance point.  He shook his head.

"Where did you guys get sleight boxes?"

Maranne and Riij both stopped as Corran set his box down on the
landspeeder's bed.  The woman frowned.

"What's a sleight box?"

"If you don't know what a sleight box is, maybe you aren't
smugglers."

Corran tapped a finger on the top of his box.  "It looks ordinary, but
it has a low-power repul-sorlift coil matrix and power-supply built
into the casing.

It neutralizes the weight of whatever is inside.  These boxes could be
full of thermal detonators or air, and we'd never know.

Smugglers developed them to trick customs officials, but most
customs-droids know what to scan for now."

Maranne set her box down next to his.  "Interesting story.  Seems
you've done more smuggling than we have."

"Maybe, or maybe I just know more about smuggling than you do."

Corran gave her a sly smile.  "For example, I know no one smuggles a
cargo that's made up of unknown items.  What's in these things?"

The woman shook her head, her dark blond queue lashing her from
shoulder to shoulder.  "Don't know.

Don't want to know."

"I find that hard to believe."  Corran frowned at her.  "I don't know
what kind of game you're running here, but these sleight boxes won't
fool CorSec's droids.  If this is stuff being hauled for the Rebels,
they'll find it and you'll be in serious trouble."

Riij slid his box onto the flat bed.  "If we were Rebels and we knew
what was in these boxes and it was meant for the Rebels, we'd be a lot
more worried about the Empire than we would their puppets here on
CoreIlia."

"You think CorSec's people are Imperial puppets?"

Corran flicked that suggestion away with a wave of his hand.

"CorSec's concerned with the integrity of the Corellian system, nothing
more.  If they tolerate Rebels here, the Imperial presence increases.

Who wants that?"

Riij's brown eyes flashed dangerously.  "What you're telling me is that
CorSec's people are willing to repress the enemies of a vicious regime
so they don't get Vader's boot across their own necks.  If I was a
Rebel, I'd find it very difficult to tell the difference between CorSec
agents and the Imps."

Corran forced himself to go over and pick up another box so he wouldn't
immediately snap back at Riij.  The smuggler's arguments had been heard
often--and loudly--on CoreIlia.  Corran, whose father and grandfather
had both preceded him into CorSec, had long believed that CorSec could
do the most good by keeping the Imps out of its solar system security
problems.  If CoreIlia could take care of itself and set itself up as a
neutral party in this civil war, the citizens of CoreIlia would
benefit.

While that position made perfect sense, and was defensible, it was also
a position made at the top of a very slick slope.  CorSec's directors
had already forced the local divisions to accept Imperial Intelligence
Liaison officers to monitor and coordinate operations with Imperial
Garrisons.

Kirtan Loor, the liaison officer his division had been saddled with,
had proved thoroughly arrogant and barely functional.  He and Corran
did not get along at all.

Corran hefted another box.  "I think, from CorSec's view, they have a
hard time telling the Rebels apart from' honest criminals like me.  I
don't, but that's because I've got the right perspective.  The Rebs
aren't honest criminals at all."

Maranne smiled.  "'Honest' criminals?"

"Yeah, honest.  I know that what I'm doing violates the law, but I do
it because that's what I do.  I take the risks, I make some money, or I
get sent to Kessel.  It's all very straightforward."  Corran placed his
box on top of the first one he'd set down.  "The Rebels, they do
everything I would do, but they say they are entitled to do it because
the law is wrong and the Empire is wrong.  They're really just making
excuses for their actions so they can feel they're noble when they're
really no better than I am."

"What an interesting perspective."

Corran spun at the sound of the faintly echoed voice.

Jodo Kast stood in the cargo hatchway, blocking most of the view of the
docking bay.  Corran ducked and dodged his head to try and see past the
bounty hunter, but with no success.  "Where's Hal?"

"I would expect, right now, he is very nearly at Zekka Thyne's
fortress."

"What!"  Riij's shout of surprise filled the cargo hold.

"You were there to protect them.  What happened?"

Kast stepped into the cargo hold, then leaned rather casually against
the bay's internal bulkhead.  "Thyne's people were waiting for Trell
and the other two.  There were seven of them--including the Brommstaad
Mercenaries.

I waited until they'd headed off east, then I returned here."

Corran slammed a fist down on top of a sleight box.

"East is where Thyne has his little palace."

Kast nodded.  "Hence my assumption about their destination."

"And you did nothing to stop them?"  Corran jabbed a finger in Kast's
direction.  "You're some hot bounty hunter in this Mandalorian armor
who can shoot the blaster from a man's hand while sitting down, and you
didn't stop them?"

"There were seven of them and only one of me.  I already did the math
for you on that match-up--I might have gotten them, but they would have
killed your people."

Riij shook his head.  "Rathe could have taken his share of them."

Maranne nodded.  "Trell would have been good for at least one."

"And Hal could have popped a couple .  . ."

"A couple wouldn't have done it."

"... Or more, if he'd been given a chance."  Corran looked from Riij
and Maranne to the bounty hunter.

"Are all three of you so naive you don't know what's going to happen to
our people?  Thyne's going to ask them about their connection to Crisk
and, if they know as little as you do, he's going to have to work real
hard to get answers he trusts.  I'm not too wild about him going at Hal
like that."

Kast shrugged his shoulders.  "You can always find yourself another
partner."

"If you think I'm going to abandon Hal, I'm going to have to shuck you
out of that armor and beat some sense into you."

Kast's head came up as he moved away from the wall, silently
emphasizing just how much bigger than Corran he truly was.  "Hardly the
reaction I'd expect from two criminal associates.  Out of proportion,
really.  You're acting as if there is a closer bond between you."

Corran gave Kast as cold a glare as he could.  He did resemble his
father a bit, around the eyes and through the face, but otherwise he
was a compromise between his mother and father.  She'd been tiny and
had the bluest eyes Corran could ever remember having seen.  His green
eyes were a midpoint between her eyes and his father's hazel eyes, as
his brown hair was a match between her blond and his father's once
black hair.  Even his height formed a bridge between that of his mother
and father.

"It wouldn't matter if Hal was my clone--he's my partner, which means
I'm responsible for him."  Corran jabbed a thumb back against his
breastbone.  "I actually understand what that sort of responsibility
means, Kast, and what it means is that I'm not going to leave Hal to
Thyne's untender mercies."

Kast folded his arms across his armored chest.  "You'd dare take on a
Black Sun crime lord?"

Maranne paled.  "Thyne is Black Sun?"

"Claw-picked by Prince Xizor, if the rumors are true."

Corran leaned on one of the green boxes.  "He's crazy, cruel and wholly
nasty, but he does operate with a profit motive in mind.  This cargo
may have been for Crisk, but we could offer it to Thyne and ransom our
people."

"I don't think so."  Kast produced a datacard from a pouch on his belt
and flipped it over to Maranne.  "That card has the location and time
for a new meeting with Crisk.  Deliver the cargo there, then come back
here and prepare to take off."

Maranne caught the card.  "We're not going anywhere if Haber isn't
here."

"I know."  Kast gave her a quick nod.  "It's my intention to head out
to Thyne's fortress and secure the release of your friends."

Corran barked out a sharp laugh.  "You balk at taking on seven
guttersharks, but you'll free our friends from Thyne's fortress all by
yourself?.  Better check that math, Kast."

"The odds are substantial, but I anticipate success."

"Yeah, well, this is Corellia!  and Corellians have no use for odds.  I
think I'd trust in your success if I was along to enhance it."

"I work alone."

"Ha!"  Corran jerked his head toward Riij and Maranne.  "You work with
them, you can work with me."

Corran shook his fists out.  "Save us both some trouble and just say
yes now."

Kast hesitated and silence stole over the cargo bay.  The mercenary
studied Corran and even though he could not see Kast's eyes, he could
feel the man's hard stare raking him up and down.  Corran forced
himself to look at the helmet's black slit, inviting a challenge and
ready to react to Kast's next move.

The bounty hunter's arms slowly unfolded.  "I will go find us a
landspeeder."

"Good."  Corran realized, as he replied, that he'd been holding his
breath.  Hal's going to go crazy when he hears what I did.  Facing down
a bounty hunter like Kast.  It had to be done, but it could have been
done better.  I'd never run away from a fight with a guy like that, but
there's no virtue in picking one, either.

Darkness swallowed Kast's form, then Corran turned and looked at the
other two.  "You're in way over your heads, aren't you?"

Riij shrugged.  "I'm not sure what's going on, but I don't like Rathe
being captured by a Black Sun crime lord."

"Well, Borbor Crisk isn't much better.  We're caught in the arena
between two Cyborrean battledogs.  Neither of these guys plays well
with others, as you've seen."

Maranne brandished the datacard.  "What are we going to do?  We're
supposed to meet with Crisk and give him this stuff."

"The first thing we do is find out what this stuff is."

Corran looked at the seals on the boxes already loaded on the
landspeeder's bed.  "Good, here's one that's junked.  See if you can
find another."

Riij started looking at new boxes while Corran fished in his pocket for
a small hydrospanner.  "This ought to do the trick."

Maranne came over and frowned.  "What do you mean the box is junked?"

"Not the box, the seal-tab used to bind the duraplast strips."

Corran pointed to the round tab that connected the crisscrossing
straps.  "See how the hologram imbedded in it doesn't fully line up.

Look at it from the angle here.  The corona on the suns here don't
match up."

"I found another one," Riij announced.

"Good, bring it over."  Corran hooked the edge of the spanner under
the lip of the seal.  "When they don't set up right you can pop them
apart with a little shove and a twist."  He lifted up, then twisted his
wrist.

The seal popped apart, freeing the strips that secured the box.

"Get both parts and we can reseal this thing once we've peeked at
what's inside."

Maranne bent to recover both halves of the seal while' Corran attacked
the other one.  It came apart easily, then he reversed the spanner and
used a flat-bladed attachment to pry the box's lid up.  "By the
Emperor's black heart!"

Even before the lid came up fully Corran caught the sharp sour scent of
spice.  The box held seven single-kilogram bricks that had been wrapped
up in heavy cello-plast.

They'd been dipped in a waxy coating to seal them, but the job had been
done hastily.  One of the packets had split open and spilled a
low-grade spice compound inside the box.

"What is that?"

Corran looked at Maranne.  "You're joking, right?"

"Like I said, I'm a trader, not a smuggler."

"This is spice.  It's a really lousy grade of glitterstim--the real
stuff is crystalline, long fine fibers, not a powder like this.

Dose up with this and you get really happy, at least really happy until
you need more and the craving flows through your veins like plasma.

Not a pretty thing."

Riij curled a lip distastefully.  "You know from experience?"

"Just hearsay, and watching a guy try to sell a lung to get more
glit."

"Sell a lung?"  Maranne shivered.

Corran shrugged.  "Wasn't his.  Belonged to some passerby.

Like I said, not good stuff."

Riij pried the lid off the second sleight box.  "Sith-spawn!"

He reached a hand in and withdrew a crystal spike the thickness of his
thumb and a good hand-span in length.  Purple filled the stone's core,
running from light at either end to dark in the middle.  As Riij held
the stone up the light it trapped filled it with orange, yellow and red
lightning bolts.  All three of them fell silent in response to the
brilliant display.

corran stared at the stone, then shook his head.  "Is that a Durindfire
gem?"

"I think so."  Riij's voice-box bounced up and down as he swallowed
hard.  "My father bought a ring with a Durindfire for my mother on
their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.  Wasn't until the thirtieth
that he had the debt paid off, and that was just a little stone."

"Not too many of those stones make it off Tatooine, and very seldom
unworked like that finger there."

Maranne took it from Riij and weighed it in her hands.

"This would be enough to buy us a new ship."

Riij turned.  "Let's find out what else is in these other boxes."

"No, stop."  corran held his hands up.  "We don't have time enough to
check them out.  Put the stone back, we'll reseal these two boxes and
set them in the landspeeder's front seat."

Maranne reluctantly returned the stone to its box.

"What do you have in mind?"

"Look, we're going to need some insurance here if we're going to get
off Corellia in one piece.  We can reseal these boxes and no one will
ever know they've been tampered with.  You'll take those two boxes to
Crisk and let him know you have, what, 108 more for him.  He won't make
a move against you until he has them."

Riij frowned.  "He can come here and take them from US."

"Yeah, but they won't be here.  We load the rest onto the speeder and
take them to a storage facility."  Corran frowned as if thinking hard
about something.  "Okay, I have it.  There's a Dewback Storage
Warehouse on the main road back into the center of Coronet City.  You
can rent a storage shed there and dump the other boxes.  You go to your
meeting and let Crisk know you'll give him the location of the other
boxes when you're certain your friends are safe.  Kast and I will go
off to see Thyne and if we're not back in due time, you use Crisk to
try to effect a rescue."

Maranne slowly shook her head.  "I don't like the sound of this."

"Look, we've got a veritable fortune in those boxes.  If Crisk doesn't
want to help you, set up a meeting with Thyne and ransom us."

"How do we get in touch with Thyne?"

Corran smiled.  "You did that back at your first stop on Treasure Ship
Row, remember?"

"Right."

"Okay, let's get loading."  Corran resealcd the first box and then the
second.  "I know you don't like the way this is going, Maranne, but
you're the one who said she's a trader.  If things go badly, you're
going to have to trade for our freedom and, speaking for myself, I hope
you strike a super bargain in the process."

Colonel Maximillian Veers glanced down at the chair offered to him, but
refrained from sitting.  "Thank you for your kindness, Agent Loor, but
I do not anticipate being here very long.  You have looked at the
message I had sent over to you."

The long, slender man sat forward in his chair, a motion that nearly
tossed him sprawling up over the top of his desk.  Loor caught himself
with his hands, then brushed the lank of dark hair that had fallen over
his face back into place.  Veers felt certain the man wore his hair the
way he did to accentuate his resemblance to the late Grand Moff
Tarkin.

I served under Tarkin.  Anyone who would think this Loor is at all
similar to Tarkin should realize the similarity goes no deeper than the
skin.

"Something wrong with the springs on your chair, Agent Loor?"

The liaison officer snarled.  "I have saboteurs who delight in finding
ways to annoy me, and adjusting the chair is their latest form of
expression."

He reached over and hit a button on his desktop datapad.  "And yes,
Colonel Veers, I studied the message you sent over, as requested.

I can't comment on its accuracy beyond saying it is true that Zekka
Thyne maintains a little fortress east of Coronet City."

"I already know that, Loor."

Loor's head came up.  "You do?  I wasn't aware that Thyne's
headquarters would have been something you studied, Colonel Veers.  I
was unaware the Imperial Armed Forces had been given cause to consider
Black Sun facilities potential targets."

Veers' nostrils flared.  The only thing he hated more than having to
deal with arrogant intelligence agents was turning a blind eye to the
activities of the Black Sun.  He assumed the Emperor's tolerance for
the criminal cartel was based on reason, but Veers thought that
tolerance was truly a detriment to the Empire.  Allowing any outlaws
undermined the rule of authority.  If people could see Black Sun as
somehow more malevolent than the Rebellion, then they could justify
joining the Rebellion all that more easily.

"It is incumbent upon me, Agent Loor, to view any stronghold that is
filled with armed individuals as a potential target.  In this case I am
told that Thyne is meeting with elements of the Rebel underground."

"Yes, but I am uncomfortable with your source.  Who is it?"

"You saw the verification code.  It is valid."  Veers frowned
heavily.

"There is no reason to distrust the information.

It is accurate and I plan to act on it."

"So you mean you don't know who your source is?"

"I don't need to know."

With a superior smile slithering over his face, Loor eased himself back
in his chair.  Veers hoped it would overbalance and spill him to the
floor.  "If you believe in this intelligence source, why come to me?"

Veers restrained himself from reaching out and slapping Loor.  "I came
to you, Agent Loor, because you are the Imperial Liaison Officer and
you liaise with the Corel-lian Security Force in this administrative
sector.  I want to know if they have any operatives working in or
around Thyne."

"Are you looking to use their extraction as a pretense for your attack,
or were you worried I would lodge a protest over collateral damage?"

Veers narrowed his eyes.  "There is no reason for good people to
die."

Loor shrugged lazily.  "If they do die, they die heroes.  If you get me
Zekka Thyne, you can be a hero, too."

"I believe, Agent Loor, I can find my own way to be a hero."

Veers spun on his heel and stalked from the office.  With Imperials
like you, Loor, I often wonder why the Rebellion has not yet succeeded
in overthrowing the Empire.  If things are left in the hands of people
like you, can the Empire possibly survive?"

Corran took one look at the SoroSuub X-34 Landspeeder Kast was piloting
and sighed.  "Buy or borrow?"

The bounty hunter looked up at him from behind the wheel.  "Does it
matter?"

"If I'm going to get arrested for traveling in a stolen landspeeder I'd
kind of been hoping it would be something newer and sportier, like an
XP-38."

"You can always walk, Corran."

"Good point."  With his left hand on the windscreen, Corran hopped up
and into the passenger seat.  "Punch it."

Kast spun the landspeeder's wheel, fed power to the repulsorlift coils
and eased the throttle forward.  "How did the loading go?"

"Loading?  It went fine."  Corran shifted around in the cramped seat.

"They should be ready to make their rendezvous."

"Good.", Corran heard the correct emphasis and inflection given to the
word, but somehow he thought Kast was being something less than genuine
in his response.  Corran tried to put his finger on it but couldn't,
and that bothered him.  In the past he'd had an almost sixth sense
about hardcases like Kast, but he didn't seem to be able to read the
armored mercenary.  The fact that my father has been captured by a man
who will fillet him is destroying my concentration.

Kast piloted the landspeeder in toward the center of town.  The bright
lights and raucous sounds of Coronet City and Treasure Ship Row all
started to press in on Corran.

As a member of CorSec he saw Dirtdock---CorSec slang for Treasure Ship
Row--as a dangerous place.

While the fringes might not be that bad--and plenty of respectful folks
dabbled in minor transgressions at some of the flashier places--there
were locations there where even Darth Vader would fear to tread.  Most
of those establishments were controlled by Black Sun.

Corran's grandfather had lamented the changes in the criminal class
since the rise of the Empire.  Rostek Horn had been in CorSec back in
the days of Moff Fliry Vorru, back when flouting the law had been an
art.  In those days, Corran had been told, criminals only made war on
criminals.

The abduction of Hal and Trell never would have been tolerated back
then-civilians would have to get involved with criminal activities a
lot more deeply before they were considered fair game.

Then Prince Xizor and his Black Sun organization had come to the
fore.

Xizor had betrayed Vorru to the Emperor, in one step eliminating Vorru
and gaining favor with the Emperor.  Xizor had used CoreIlia as
training ground for some of his lieutenants.  The most recent and most
brutal of them was Zekka Thyne.

Corran glanced out of the landspeeder as the Dewback storage facility
flashed past.  As he turned to look back in the direction they were
traveling, he caught Kast watching him.  "Something the matter?"

"You seemed to find something interesting out there."

"Yeah, I did."  Think, Corran, think of something good.  "It was the
street art on the walls."

"Art?  You think the defacement of buildings is art?"

Corran shrugged.  "It's not the work of Venthan Chassu but it beats
peeling Star Destroyer-white for holding my interest."

Kast studied Corran for a second or two.  "How does someone like you
know the work of Venthan Chassu?"

"I could lie to you and tell you that my mother used to take me to
museums, but you'd see through that."  Corran forced himself to stare
straight forward as he abandoned the truth and started fashioning a lie
from a wild tale a thief he'd once collared had started spinning for
him.  "I knew a guy who said he had a client who would buy anything in
the fine arts from CoreIlia.  He said he'd already lifted and sold a
handful of paintings, some sculpture and a couple of holographic
dioramas.  The client seemed impressed, but wanted more.  He was
spending credits like they were made of free-floating hydrogen atoms,
so this guy said he wanted to plan a heist to hit the Coronet City
Museum of Fine Art.  He wanted me in on the crew, so I cased the
place."

Kast nodded slowly.  "Who was the clienO" "Don't know.  My man talked
to a broker, then he got tractored by CorSec and caught a shuttle to
Akrit'tar.  He died there."

"So what did you think of Chassu's work?"

Corran frowned.  Why would a bounty hunter care about art and care what
I thought about art?  "It was interesting.  The Selonian nude studies
were what I liked the best--but not because they were nudes.

Selonians have fur, so can they ever really be nude?  And if it were
nude Selonians I wanted," Corran held his hands up above the
wind-screen, "I could find plenty of them here in Treasure Ship Row."

"Why did you like them?"

"Chassu caught the two essential elements of Seloni-ans: their sensual,
sinewy forms and, because their faces were always obscured, their
desire for privacy."  Corran shrugged.  "Some of his other work was
fine."

"What did you think of Palpatine Triumphant?"

"The throne being built of bones gave me nightmares."

Corran shivered, knowing the nightmares had not come from the skulls
and shattered bones, but the homicidally gleeful expression of joy on
the Emperor's face.  "As a final masterpiece it does the job, but I
would have liked to see him return to Selonian studies."

"His loss was a pity."  Kast's helmet turned toward him.

"There would appear to be more to you than meets the--" "Oh?"

"Indeed.  The last time Chassu's Selonian nudes were on display at the
Fine Arts museum was ten years ago."

Corran covered his surprise with a smile.  "Not exactly.

New Year's Day, two years ago, they were displayed for a private
reception for Museum patrons.  Four hours, ten thousand credits per
person."  Corran tapped Kast on the shoulder of his armor.  "You would
have loved it, but you'd have had to get a new paint job on the armor
first."

"And you were there."

"I was."  So was Hal.  My mother had volunteered with the museum for so
long that when it came to hiring additional security for the reception,
the administration brought us on board.  "I'll let you know when they
throw another of those get-togethers, if you want."

"Please.  I'll have to see if I can obtain an invitation to it."

Corran laughed.  "If you can do that, perhaps you can get us an
invitation to visit Zekka Thyne.  How are you planning to get us in
there?"

Kast's voice echoed from within his helmet.  "I thought I would appeal
to Thyne's sense of justice."

"You'd have an easier time finding the Katana fleet."

Corran shook his head.  "Zekka Thyne is a human-alien mongrel with big
blue blots all over his pink-white flesh.

His eyes are blood red except for black diamond pupils that are
outlined in gold.  He's got sharp ears, sharper teeth and the sharpest
sense of retribution you've ever run into this side of a Wookiee
bearing a grudge.  I heard he shot a spice courier because the courier
told Thyne she'd borrowed credits from a payoff, but had already repaid
the momentary loan, with interest.".

"What would Thyne have done had the woman not told him?"

"Killed her more slowly.  He's a real artist with a vibroblade."

Corran frowned heavily.  "What Patches lacks in brains he makes up for
in feral viciousness.  What would you charge to kill him?"

Kast's head came up just a centimeter or two.  "Are you asking me to
murder him?"

Corran hesitated for a second.  "No, I guess I'm not.  I was just
wondering.  I thought maybe if I did it I could consider the amount
you'd get paid as some sort of charitable deduction on my taxes.  If I
paid any, that is."

"I would not be averse to seeing Thyne eliminated, but that is outside
the purview of my immediate task."  Kast looked over at him.

"I believe, however, I can get us in to see him.  I think the
diplomatic approach would be best."

"I agree.  I prefer diplomacy."  Corran tapped the blaster holstered
beneath his left armpit.  "I'm also ready in case we have to be
undiplomatic."

"which means?"

"which means I go low, you go high."  .

Kast nodded solemnly.  "That shall be our backup plan, then."

The bounty hunter piloted the landspeeder with ease through the
darkened hills outside Coronet City.  Thyne's estate had once belonged
to a shipping magnate who was arrested and sent to Kessel for smuggling
spice.  Thyne had obtained the deed at auction, after which rumors
started through the Corellian underworld suggesting Thyne had provided
the evidence that got the magnate convicted.  Corran always suspected
that bit of subterfuge had actually been planned and executed by Prince
Xizor, since Thyne had not since shown himself to be that clever.

As they crested the last hill and came down into the broad valley in
which the estate had been built, Corran pointed at the main building.

"It doesn't look like much, but those rolling hills serve as great
revetments and channel an assault force in toward areas where he has
mines in place.  Up in the towers he's supposed to have E-webs capable
of sweeping any soldiers off the grounds.  Thyne is even supposed to
have a bolthole ready to let him get safely away if trouble starts,
which isn't likely.  Double-thick walls, double-paned transparisteel
windows, complete electronic sensoring systems and forty to fifty
blaster-boys make this a pretty tough nut to crack.  I've heard CorSec
has an open warrant to search the place, but without the Imp garrison
to back them up, no one is stupid enough to try to deliver it."

"You weren't joking about the sensors."  Kast directed the landspeeder
toward two men coming out of a side entrance, catching them in the glow
of the ridelamps, then turned the speeder to the left and let it settle
to the ground.  "I'll go speak with them.  You be ready in case things
go badly."

"You'll give me a sign?"  Corran watched the bounty hunter unfold
himself from the driver seat and mentally catalogued the weapons he
could see.  "Dumb question.  If they fall I'll come running."

He watched Kast approach the two men.  The bounty hunter held his hands
open and out away from his sides, but not up in any sign that could be
taken as surrender.  He wants them to know he doesn't intend to kill
them, but that he's capable of doing just that given sufficient
provocation.  The trio met and Corran could hear the buzz of voices,
but could make out no words.  One of Thyne's men spoke into a comlink,
then Kast raised his left hand and beckoned Corran forward with a
casual flutter of fingers.

Corran left the landspeeder and approached the three men, aping Kast's
open-handed posture while doing so.

One of Thyne's men came toward him, clearly intent on taking his
blaster, but Corran frowned at him.  What, you think I'm stupid enough
to try to shoot my way in and out of here?

The blaster-boy hesitated, then sunk his hands into his pockets.

The other Black Sun hireling pointed at Corran.  "Go ahead, take his
blaster."

"You think he's stupid enough to try to shoot his way in and out of
here?"  The first gunman shook his head.

"Let's take them to the boss.  We don't want to keep him waiting."

"True.  Follow us."

Their guides conducted them to the main entrance and into a foyer that
Corran thought might have once rivaled that of the Coronet City Museum
of Fine Art for splendor.  Rose granite and black marble had been inset
into the floor in a complex and chaotic pattern.  A stone staircase
spiraled up to the second and third floors, and drew the eyes upward to
the holographic representation of the night sky above them.

Small alcoves in the walls housed statuary and huge goldenrod wall
panels provided ample space for the display of a vast array of
paintings and original holographic works of art.

It's amazing how something that could have been so beautiful can so
easily be made so .  . . vulgar.  It seemed as ifThyne's definition of
art was intimately wrapped up with the concepts of nudity, excess and a
color scheme that relied heavily on pinks, purples and an irritatingly
vibrant shade of green.  Some of the statuary--what little of it
actually could have found a home in the Museum of Fine Arts--had been
garishly corrected by application of this color scheme, with excess
paint having spilled down the walls.

The paintings showed Corran a view of models he thought more
appropriate for xenobiological textbooks and the holographs seemed the
visual equivalent of a high-pitched scream.

"How much were you going to offer me to kill him?"

Kast whispered.

"Not enough."

They followed their guides through the foyer and a huge set of double
doors into Thyne's office.  Here the clash of artworks had a new
element added to it: a war between style of furnishings.  Thyne's desk
had been carved from deep brown vweliu tree wood and was in itself a
work of art.  Surrounding it were other pressed-form duraplast and
fiberplast chairs and tables--the sort of things that could be left out
in a glen because weather would not hurt them.  A few stainless steel
tables topped with transparisteel sheets completed the decor and a riot
of lamps---no two matching--provided illumination for it all.

Corran looked over at Hal and caught a brave nod from him despite the
twin lines of blood dripping down from his nose.  Haber Trell looked in
worse shape, with a rapidly swelling eye and an inert vibroblade stuck
into the seat of his chair between his thighs.  The Tunroth's yellow
flesh had greyed up a bit, and a dollop of bluish blood trickled from
one nostril, but Rathe otherwise looked alert.

Zekka Thyne smiled at Kast and Corran found the expression nothing
short of obscene.  "Ah, Jodo Kast, finally we meet.  Normally I do not
retain an individual I have not met, but your reputation precedes
you.

I decided the credits were well spent."  Thyne's scarlet gaze
sharpened.

"Don't disappoint me."

"I have no intention of doing so."  With a swift, smooth motion, Kast
drew a blaster in his right hand and jammed the muzzle against Corran's
left temple.  "Haber Trell and the Tunroth are assassins who were hired
by Borbor Crisk to eliminate you.  Their partners are even now
arranging for Crisk to fill a couple hundred sleight boxes with the
price for your head."

"That's not true!"  Haber Trell snarled angrily.  "He's lying."

Thyne silenced him with a backhanded slap.  "So who are these other
two?"

Kast grunted what almost seemed to be a laugh.  "They hired these two
locals to help them get around and as camouflage.  With these two in
tow, who would think they are galaxy-class assassins?"

Corran started to raise a hand to massage his head, but Kast kept the
gun pressed hard against his skull.  Corran wasn't certain which hurt
more: his head or his pride at having been fooled by Kast.  He played
me very well, just like he played the rest of us.  Better I was in my
father's place because Kast never would have fooled him.

Corran glanced sidelong at Kast, then nodded toward Thyne.  "You know,
you really can't trust the word of a bounty hunter."

"True, but I am more willing to trust him than some assassin's local
fetch-and-carry."

Kast reached over and relieved Corran of his blaster, then lowered his
own gun.  "My story is fairly easy to check out.  You should dispatch
some of your people to the Mynock's Haven.  It is the cantina where
Trell's partners are meeting within the hour with Crisk to finalize the
payoff details.  You'll find the sleight boxes at the Dewback storage
yard near the spaceport.  You can send other of your people there and
wait for Crisk and his men to come and fill the boxes."

Corran rubbed at his temple.  "You figured that out from my look at the
place?  You're good."

"That's why people retain me."  Kast looked over at Thyne.  "I take it
you have detention cells here?"

"Wine cellar is empty.  You can put them in alcoves down there."

"Good.  I shall do that while you prepare the ambush for Crisk."

Kast motioned with his blaster for Corran to head toward the door.

"Once your people report back, you'll know who you can trust."

"Yes."  Thyne hissed the word.  "And those who are lying will pay the
ultimate price for daring to deceive me."

Side Trip Part Three

by Michael A' Stackpole propelled by a poke in the kidneys with a
blaster carbine, Corran Horn stumbled into the makeshift cell.

He got control of himself fast enough to avoid bumping into his father
and turned back quickly, but Jodo Kast swung the wrought-iron gate
shut.  That effectively sealed the two Horns in a small, dusty grotto
that had once been home to a fine collection of wines from throughout
the Empire.  At least that's the impression I get from all the broken
bottle bits on the floor.

Corran skewered Kast with the nastiest stare he could muster.

"This isn't over between us Kast."

The bounty hunter regarded Corran placidly, but the trio of Zekka
Thyne's henchmen forcing the other man and the Tunroth into a second
grotto across the cellar laughed out loud.  Their leader, the beefy;
red-haired man who had given Corran the shove, sneered at the
undercover Corellian Security Force officer.  "You're strictly small
time, pal.  The boss isn't going to give you a crack at this guy.  I'll
be the one to take care of you."

"Oh?"  Corran gave the man a fetal grin.  "I didn't realize Thyne was
into doing favors for the hired help.  You're welcome to try me any
time."

"He won't get the chance."  Kast's voice came low and cold.  "I've put
up with your prattling and bragging and threats, Corran, and I am not
of a mind to let someone else eliminate annoyances from my life."

The armored mercenary pointed a finger at the redheaded man.

"Touch him and I will consider it a matter of honor to turn you inside
out."

The redhead paled.  "Yes, sir."

Another of Thyne's Black Sun underlings closed the other gate and
secured it.  "They're in.  Wanna threaten any of them, Nidder?"

The redhead frowned.  "Suck vacuum, Somms.  You think you're so funny,
you can think up jokes while you stand guard on these clowns."

Somms' blond brows arrowed down toward his nose.

"They're in here secure, they don't need guarding."

Kast shook his head.  "No, not in here, of course not, but outside the
room, on the first stair landing.  There you can hear commotion from in
here or the main floor and be able to respond."

Nidder shoved his blaster carbine into Somms' hands.

"You heard him."

Corran smiled.  "Just what I expected, Kast.  You want someone
stationed between you and me."

Kast grabbed the grate's iron bars and shook it once, hard.  The metal
rattled loudly and, startled, Corran involuntarily took a step back.

Nidder, Somms and the third Black Sunner started laughing, but their
mirth didn't stop corran from hearing Kast's reply to his remark.

"I've no fear of you, Corran.  I look forward to you getting out of
here because with Thyne sending.  his blaster-boys off to ambush
Maranne and Riij, I'm pretty much assured that I'm all that stands
between you and your freedom.  You may be good--you may even be better
than I give you credit for being---but I'm still better."

Corran's left temple throbbed from where Kast had jammed his blaster
pistol against it.  "Keep thinking that, Kast, and don't be surprised
when I prove you wrong."

"Come see me, Corran, when your boasts are not idle."

Kast turned and herded the rest of the men from the small room.

An old wooden door closed behind him and clicked shut.

Corran stared after him for a moment then spun on his heel and swore.

"Sithspawn!  That son of a rancor played me for an idiot."  He looked
up at his father.  "I'm sorry, Dad.  I really made a mess of things."

The elder Horn's hazel eyes narrowed.  "How do you plot our predicament
being your fault?"

"I should have known there was something wrong."

Corran scrubbed his hands over his face.  "Their ship, the Hopskip, is
a piece of trash that Crisk wouldn't use to haul dead bodies, much less
valuable merchandise.  The others had no idea what was in their cargo
hold and it turned out to be full of sleight boxes."

Hal frowned.  "Sleight boxes are hardly state of the art for smugglers
these days.  It's almost as if they wanted to be caught."

"Right, exactly."  Corran leaned against a fiberplast wine rack built
into the grotto's wall.  "Kast told Thyne the boxes are empty, but I
found some with junked holo-seals and popped them.  One box had
spice--strictly joy-dust grade, but spice nonetheless--and the other
had a fortune in uncut Durindfire gems.  Even if we figure that one
box of gems is it and the other 199 are spice, Crisk can use the gems
to buy an army and use the spice to flood the market and kill Black
Sun's profits."

Hal Horn turned a wooden wine-box over and sat.  "So what you're
telling me is that we have non-smugglers bringing in two hundred
sleight boxes and they have no idea what's in them.  You find gems and
spice in two and the shipment is headed for Crisk.  Crisk himself can't
put together that sort of shipment, so he has a backer.  Who?"

Corran frowned.  "The gems come from Tatooine.  Isn't there a Hutt out
there working the spice trade?"

"Jappa or Jadda or something like that, yes.  He's powerful there, but
expanding into CoreIlia?  That's too bold a move."  Hal's mouth opened,
then he shook his head.

He motioned his son aside and looked past Corran toward the other
cell.

"Haber Trell, how long have you known Jodo Kast?"

The Hopskip's pilot stood and grasped the bars of his prison.  "I don't
know him.  He's along for the ride."

"Yes."  Hal leaned back against the wall and laughed lightly.

"That's it."

Corran shook his head.  "You're saying Kast is behind the shipment
going to Crisk?  But that makes no sense since he's told Thyne's people
where to find the boxes with the spice and gems."

"No, Corran, Kast isn't the mastermind, he's what's being smuggled into
CoreIlia."

Corran's jaw shot open.  "It doesn't make any sense."

"No?"  Hal gave Corran an appraising glance--of the sort that in the
past had warned Corran that his father thought he was being lazy in his
thinking.  "What do you make of Kast's last remark?"

Corran thought back.  "He was taunting me."

"Agreed, but what did he tell us by taunting you?"

The sigh came up all the way from Corran's toes.  "He told us that he
was all that stood between us and freedom--that Thyne's guys are all
gone.  He told me to come find him when we got free."  Corran slapped
his forehead with the heel of his hand.  "I should have seen that."

"You did."

"Yeah, but it took you to point it out to me."  Corran shook his head
and toed the neck of a broken bottle.

"There are times when my brain just doesn't work."

"No, Corran, your brain works fine."  Hal kept his tone even, but
pointed a finger at his son.  "You just need to focus your thinking.

You're angry because of how Kast tricked you, and I think you were a
bit afraid for how I was doing."

"Right on both counts."

"It's understandable, son, and appreciated in the case of your concern
for me, but you can't let your emotions and incidental things deflect
you."

"I know that, Dad.  I really do."  He smiled at his father.

"I try to follow your example, but you're better at it than I am."

"I have a few years on you, Corran."

"It's more than just the years, Dad."  Corran winced.  "I never would
have read Kast's message right the way you did."

The elder Horn's eyes twinkled.  "I have to admit to you, Corran, I
cheated this time out."

"What?"

Hal pointed past him.  "Up there, on the bars Kast shook, see what that
little thing is, will you?"

Corran turned and looked closely at the bars.  Where Kast had grasped
one in his right hand, Corran saw a small black cylinder about a
hand-span in length and about the diameter of a blaster-bolt.  He freed
it from the bar with a tug, leaving an adhesive residue on the
wrought-iron, and felt a small button beneath his thumb, near the
cylinder's tip.

"Be careful with that, Corran."

The younger man nodded and hit the button.  All but invisible in the
half-light, a delicate monomolecular blade slid from the cylinder.

"I know what it is, and I remember what happened to Lefty Dindo."

Corran cut carefully down with the blade and through the lock's bolt.

He retracted the stiletto's fragile blade and swung the door open.

"Freeing us from this cell is a bit easier than Lefty trying to use one
of these to free himself from binders."

Hal Horn paused in the door cell's doorway.  "You might want to cut us
a couple of the bars to use as weapons.

Somms might not be the brightest of Black Sunners, but I think he's
going to take some convincing before he lets us out of here."

"Agreed."  Extending the blade again, Corran cut a pair of
50-centimeter-long bars from the bottom of the grate and handed one to
his father.

Hal swung the club against his left hand with a meaty thwack.

"This will work.  Now how do we lure Somms in?"

Corran squinted at the room's closed door.  "You figure Somms as
someone who will raise an alarm immediately, or will wait to report
success?"

"After Nidder's giving him the duty?  He'll act, then report."

"That's my read, too.  The landing was ten steps up and we're far
enough away from the office that if we make some noise, no one will
notice, I think."  Corran smiled.

"I'll do the hard work if you want to do the yelling."

"Yelling works for me."  Hal Horn smiled.  "Be careful."

"Right."  Corran walked over to the wooden door and set the length of
the blade to a half-centimeter shy of the door's depth, then cut very
cautiously.  He scored a circle in the center of it.  Once he had the
circle taken care of, he cut lines heading out from it as if a child
drawing a sunburst.  Lastly he carved little semicircles around the
hinges and the lock.

He closed the blade and handed it to his father in exchange for one of
the clubs.  "Okay, here goes nothing."

"Wait!"

Corran looked over at Haber Trell.  "What do you want?"

"Don't leave us in here.  If you're busting out, we want to go,
too."

"I don't think so, Trell."  The flesh tightened around Corran's eyes.

"Even if you're twice the fighter that you are a smuggler, you'll still
be in the way."

Hal nodded in agreement, but tossed them the molecular stiletto
anyway.

"Corran's right, you won't want to come with us.  We'll head out and
deal with Thyne.  Give us a couple of minutes, then go fast.

Steal one of Thyne's airspeeders and fly.  Head back to your ship and
get out of the system."

Trell nodded.  "Thanks."

Corran frowned at his father, then pointed at Trell.

"And, listen, don't put that cargo back on your ship.  You don't want
to be shipping spice around."

Trell shivered and Corran took that to be an eloquent answer to his
caution.

"Ready, Dad?"

"All set."

Corran smiled and ran backward at the door.  He leaped up and hit it
smack in the middle with his back.

The door exploded into fragments around him, spraying large chunks of
wood into the narrow corridor outside the makeshift prison.  Corran
crashed down amid it all, yelping involuntarily instead of letting
forth with a great oof as he had planned.  No jagged edges, but the
debris sure is tumpy.

Hal's voice flooded through the dying echoes of the door's crisp
crack.

"Keep that Tunroth away from me!"

With his eyes nearly shut, Corran saw Somms come flying down the stairs
to the landing.  The man kept his back to the stone wall as he crept
toward the cell, then he brandished the blaster carbine and prepared to
rush into the cell.  To do that he prepared to pivot on his right foot,
fill the doorway, then go in.

As Somms' left foot came around in the pivot move, Corran caught it in
his left hand.  Letting Somms' momentum pull him up into a sitting
position, Corran brought his metal truncheon down on the top of the
man's pelvis.  Somms started to cry out, more in surprise than pain it
seemed, when Hal appeared in the doorway and clipped him with a fist in
the head.

Somms collapsed to the floor and did not move.

Corran frowned at his father.  "Why cut the club if you aren't going to
use it?"

"Didn't need it."  Hal snaked the blaster carbine from beneath Somms,
flicked the selector lever over to stun, and pumped a blue bolt into
him.  The Black Sunher twitched once, then lay gently still.  "I expect
he'll still feel the blow you dealt him when he wakes up."

"We can but hope."  Corran rolled him over and unfastened his blaster
belt.  Donning it himself, Corran pulled the blaster from it and
checked the power pack.  He glanced up at his father.  "You going to
leave that set on stun?"

"I haven't noticed that killshots fly any more true than stunbolts."

"True, but there's just so many more forms to fill out when we bring
them back alive."

"Don't even joke about that, Corran."  His father gave him a reproving
glance that made Corran feel about as big as a hologame piece.  "Set it
on stun and you won't regret accidentally hitting a friend."

"Yes, sir."  Corran flicked the pistol's selector lever to stun and
stood up.  He waved his father toward the door.

"Time to get Thyne.  Age before beauty."

"Brains before impudence."  Hal tossed a quick salute to Haber Trell
and Rathe.  "Luck to you, but keep your heads down and get out of here
fast.  If Thyne doesn't react well to our refusing his hospitality, you
don't want to be in the blast radius."

Arl Nidder matched Jodo Kast's long-legged stride as best he could.

The bounty hunter impressed him, but the armor impressed him more.  Now
if I had a suit of that Mandalorian armor I'd be pretty tough.  I'd be
able to get a lot of light-years between me and the rest of the
Bromstaad boys.  Maybe I hire out to do wetwork for some Moff, or
maybe even Prince Xizor.

His ruminations ended abruptly as they reentered Thyne's office.

Nidder liked the office because it seemed like a museum to him.  He'd
never been in a real museum, but he knew they were places where old and
valued things were collected.  He took it as a mark of pride that Thyne
kept him close enough to protect the crime lord's prized possessions.

Surrounded by beauty though he was, Thyne did not look happy.  The
holoprojector plate built into his desk showed a view of Thyne's
fortress and the surrounding valley in translucent green detail.

Moving around the area were small orange icons that Nidder had seen in
security simulations, but only when they were running worst case
scenarios to scare the wits out of new recruits.

Nidder's jaw dropped.  "Are those really storm-troopers?"

Thyne nodded, then snapped a comlink on.  "All personnel report to
battle stations.  This is not a drill.  We have hostile deployment to
the north and east.  Move it, I want all defenses reported as
operational in thirty seconds."

Nidder and Deif started toward the room's partially ajar doors, but
Thyne stopped them with a snarl.  "Not you two.  Not that I don't trust
you, Kast."

Kast raised his hands.  "But you don't trust me.  I'll remind you of
this next time we negotiate a price for my services."  The long, tall
bounty hunter pulled a chair around where he could watch Thyne on the
right and the doors at the left, but did so in such a casual way that
it took Nidder a moment or two to recognize exactly what he was
doing.

Kast looked directly at Nidder, then calmly crossed his right leg over
his left.

Nidder shifted uncomfortably and got the distinct impression that the
only way he'd get a suit of that armor was to be lucky enough to be
around when someone else killed Kast and peeled him out of it.  Of
course, the thought didn't form itself exactly that way in Nidder's
brain.  He just knew he didn't want that suit of armor, just one like
it.

His momentary feeling of inferiority vanished as he realized Kast
wasn't as smart as he thought himself to be.  If the mercenary had
turned his chair around he still could have watched the desk and doors,
but also could see the painting of frolicking nudes on the wall.  As it
was, Nidder could fully appreciate it--though he was at a loss to
explain why the artist had included gardening implements in the
painting--and smiled to let Kast know what he was missing.

The hologram shifted to a schematic of the house, with the corridor
outside the door rendered in yellow light that blinked on and off.

Thyne hissed furiously.  "Someone is in the hall.  The Imps have
already infiltrated the building."  He pointed Nidder and Deif toward
the door: Kast started speaking in a loud voice.  "Of course, handling
things in a diplomatic manner works best."  The bounty hunter pointed
toward two spots along the wall where the Bromstaad mercenaries could
cover the doorway with a murderous cross fire.  "Then again, there are
times when one has to be undiplomatic."

Nidder marveled at how Kast's voice covered the sound of his approach
to the door.  He stopped exactly where Kast wanted him to and drew his
blaster pistol.  He set it to kill and waited, but shot Kast a wink and
a nod.  When the nod was returned, Nidder even began to imagine that
Kast might take him on as an apprentice, or even a partner.  He's seen
how good I am.  He knows what he'll be getting when we work together.

The exploding of the lower half of one door interrupted Nidder's
fantasy.  Through the smoke and spray of fiery debris came the smallest
of the prisoners they'd left below.  Coming up into a crouch from the
somersault that carried him through the hole, the brown-haired man
raised a blaster pistol and triggered two shots.  The first blue bolt
missed, but the second caught Deif in the stomach, wreathing him in
azure energy.

Nidder brought his pistol in line with the little man.  He doesn't see
me.  He doesn't know I'm here.  His mistake.  Nidder started to tighten
his finger on the trigger when he felt himself moving backward.

He felt his shoulders hit the wall, then his head rebounded from it.

Through the exploding stars he saw a second bolt flash out from the
blaster built into the thigh of the Mandalorian armor.

In the nanosecond it took for the scarlet bolt to sizzle through his
chest, Nidder realized Kast had positioned him so carefully and
precisely because the bounty hunter wanted to kill him.  Nidder did not
feel outrage at having been so easily betrayed and slaughtered, nor did
he, in his dying moment, grant Kast a modicum of respect for having
worked so coolly to slay him.  No, for Arl Nidder, dying as he slid to
the floor, there was only one final thought.  Now if I had a set of
that armor ....

corran saw the red bolts burn by on his left and swung around in that
direction as his target flopped to the ground.  At the back of the
room, Corran saw Thyne running for where a wall panel slid back to
reveal a black recess.  He started to track the fleeing crime lord, but
pulled his pistol back as Kast's head and shoulders eclipsed Thyne.

He's getting away.

Corran glanced back at the door.  "All clear."

Hal stepped through, looked at Nidder's body, then at Kast.

"That's another round of drinks on me by way of thanks."

The bounty hunter uncrossed his legs and stood.  "Pest control."

Corran pointed at the dark opening in the wall.

"Thyne went out through there."

Hal approached it cautiously.  "Looks clear."

Corran appropriated the blaster carbine the man he'd shot had been
carrying and set it for stun.  "Let's go find him."

He turned to Kast.  "Come along.  We could use your help.

There's a bounty on Thyne.  We're going to get him, but the bounty can
be yours."  Corran looked around the room at the garish decorations and
horrific art.  "It might even be sufficient to buy some real art and
offset memories of this place."

"You tempt me very much."  Kast shrugged.  "However, someone with such
inferior taste in art should not be hard to catch.  I would join you,
but I'm a simple bounty hunter and I still have a job to do."

Despite having no read on Kast, Corran knew he was lying.  He raised an
eyebrow.  "I don't believe you're a simple bounty hunter."

"Nor do I believe you and your father are simple hoodlums looking for
underworld employment."  Kast crossed to the desk and punched a button
on the holographic display unit's control panel.  A view of the
surrounding area came up and Corran saw small orange icons moving in
swarms over the terrain.  "These are Imperial storm-troopers.

They're likely to make things uncomfortable if you don't get going.

You don't want to be caught here."

"Neither do you."

"I won't be."

Corran nodded.  "Another time, then."

"Perhaps."  The finality in Kast's voice told Corran there never would
be a next time, and somehow he didn't find that prospect cause for
anything but relief.

Corran rejoined his father just inside the entrance to Thyne's escape
passage.  The narrow corridor had been melted through the native stone
with a gentle slope downward.

Every fifteen meters or so it cut back on itself, forcing the Horns to
advance carefully.  The brevity of the passages meant any firefight
would be at close quarters and extremely deadly.

Corran clutched his blaster carbine in both hands and snuggled it
against his right flank.  It had been modified slightly after its
arrival from the factory by the inclusion of a pinpoint glow rod
attached to the left side of the barrel, and more work had been done on
it to make it what was known in street parlance as a hotshot.  The
trigger guard had been cut away, leaving the trigger free and the
weapon liable to be fired when the trigger caught on clothing or was
otherwise jarred.  Using a hotshot was supposed to indicate how tough a
person was, but it only took one view of the results of an unsafed
hotshot pistol being tucked into a waistband to convince most folks it
was a foolhardy modification.

Of course, no one is going to tuck a carbine into his pants.

Corran smiled slightly, then nodded as his father signaled him to come
forward.  Remaining low, Corran came around the corner of the corridor,
then dropped to the ground as a red blaster bolt sizzled through the
air above him.

He shot back twice, but neither blue bolt hit anything but stone.

"Corridor widens out into a natural cave.

We're probably at the rear of the property."

"Okay, take it slow.  Lose the light."

Corran flicked off the pinpoint glow rod and closed his eyes.  He
waited for a count of ten for his eyes to get adjusted to the darkness,
then opened them.  Biolumines-cent lifeforms--lichen and the things
that ate it-gave off a purplish glow that allowed Corran to make out
shadowed shapes.  Some were regular and appeared to be duraplast boxes
of varying sizes, while the larger, more menacing ones were curiously
hunched and gnarled stone formations.  There seemed to be little
physical modification of the cave; the floor remained uneven and boxes
had been wedged in various places where space allowed.  Corran assumed
the previous owner had kept the cave in its natural state and Thyne had
stored in it precious or vital cargoes that he did not trust to have
any place else.

Corran crept forward, remaining low.  He reached the first box and in
the faint glow made out the stenciled Imperial legend proclaiming it to
be full of blaster carbines.

He would have opened it, but the scent of spice lingered strongly
enough in the immediate area that he knew what it really contained.

Either Thyne is just storing spice in this, or Black Sun has some
backdoor Imperial connections that are allowing them to ship this stuff
in past Customs.

I'll have to ask Loor about that.

Corran whistled short and sharp, then heard his father close the gap
between them.  For an older man, and one as big as he was, Hal moved
pretty quietly.  I felt his presence before I picked up that slight
scuff of his sole against the stone.

Oh, Thyne, you don't know who you're messing with.

A return whistle sent Corran forward.  He moved slowly and carefully,
wending his way from one dark rock to another.  He did his best to
avoid those that were glowing because he didn't want to silhouette
himself against one.

He took great care to make as little noise as possible, and smiled as
he hunkered down behind a large black rock.

Corran looked back toward his father and was set to whistle when he
heard the scrape of metal on a rock.  He glanced up and triggered one
shot from the blaster carbine.

The azure bolt streaked past Thyne as he leaped down from a large
dolmen, then Thyne's right heel caught Corran in the shoulder and spun
him to the ground.  His blaster carbine bounced away, firing off two
random shots.  He felt Thyne's left arm tighten around his neck and
then he was hauled to his feet as the alien straightened up, his body
shielding Thyne from fire.

The muzzle of a blaster pistol ground in under the right corner of
Corran's jaw.  A glow rod lit up, bathing the right side of Corran's
face with light.  The muscles on the arm around his neck bulged,
constricting his breathing and killing any thoughts of struggling.

Thyne growled loudly, sending angry echoes of his voice throughout the
cavern.  "Your partner is dead if you don't show yourself in five
seconds."

Those five seconds took an eternity to pass for Corran, and he filled
it with an unending series of if-onlies.  If only I had tucked the
blaster pistol into my waistband when I took the carbine.  If only I
had the stiletto.  If only I'd been more quiet in my advance ....

Self-recriminations clogged his mind and fed the despair slowly
creeping into his head.

Then his father stood up and the glow rod on his carbine burned to
life.  Illuminated by its backlight, Hal Horn stood twenty meters away,
the carbine held steady in his right hand.  He presented Thyne with a
profile--offering him a target other than Corran.  The expression on
his father's face bore a gravity Corran had not seen since his mother's
funeral.  Hal's eyes seemed purged of anger and fear, but full of
intent.

"It is my duty to inform you, Zekka Thyne, that I am inspector Hal Horn
of the Corellian Security Force and you are under arrest.  I have a
valid warrant for your apprehension for violations of smuggling laws.

Let your hostage go and stop making things more difficult for
yourself."

Thyne's chuckle came low and ringing with contempt.

"No, this is the way it's going to go.  You're going to remove your
finger from the trigger and lower your blaster."

"I can't do that."

"You will do that."  Thyne tightened his hold on Corran's neck.

"My eyesight is good enough even in full darkness here that I can tell
if your finger so much as twitches toward pulling the trigger.  And my
reflexes are good enough that I'll pump three shots through your
partner's head before you complete that move.  You may get me, but your
partner will be dead.  Do it, now!"

Hal frowned.  "Okay, don't do anything rash."

"Don't, Hal!  Shoot him ...."

Thyne jammed the gun harder into Corran's jaw.  "You were stupid enough
to join CorSec, let's not be stupid enough to die for it."

Hal's left hand came up.  "Okay, I'm doing what you said.  I'm pulling
my finger off the trigger."

Corran tried to shake his head to tell his father not to comply with
Thyne's order.  He has to know that the second he disarms himself,
Thyne will shoot me and then shoot him.  I may already be dead, but no
reason for him to die, too.

Hal Horn's right index finger slowly unhooked itself from the blaster
carbine's trigger.  As it did so the glow rod's backlight washed all
color from the digits.  The finger straightened and Corran saw bones
pointing at him.  It's over.  We'll both be skeletons left here to
molder forever.

Then the blue bolt shot from the carbine's muzzle.  The air crackled
and Corran's hair stood on end as the bolt sizzled past him and hit
Thyne.  The blue nimbus resulting from the shot sent a tingle through
Corran's body and weakened him enough that he fell to his hands and
knees.  Behind him Thyne's body hit the ground with a heavy thump
accompanied by the light clatter of the blaster pistol dancing off into
the darkness.

Hal dropped to one knee beside his son, then pumped another stun round
into Thyne.  "Are you okay, son?"

Corran sat back on his heels.  "I will be."  He rubbed at the side of
his neck with his right hand.  "He gave me a bruise to balance the one
Kast gave me.  Having blaster bruises on my head and neck is an
experience I could have done without."

"Beats having the bolts hit home, as our friend here discovered."

Corran looked at Thyne in the light from Hal's carbine.

The area around Thyne's right eye had begun to swell indicating where
the bolt had hit him.  "How did you .  . .?"

Hal smiled.  "The little gold diamond in his eye gave me a great
target.  I just focused on it--setting aside my concerns for you so I
could--and hit him."

He frowned at his father.  "No, not that.  You had your finger clear of
the trigger and the gun fired anyway.  How did you do that?

The spice vapor back there give you some sort of telekinetic power or
something?"

"Me, move something with the power of my mind?"

Hal shook his head and brandished the carbine.  "This is a hotshot.  At
the same time I pulled my index finger off the trigger,-I was able to
bring my middle finger up and stroke the trigger.  Nothing special or
unusual, just sneaky."

Despite the smile on his father's face, and the cold logic of his
answer, Corran couldn't shake the feeling that his father wasn't
telling the entire truth.  He probably doesn't want me to know how
chancy his move was, but at least he had the guts to make it.  I
wouldn't have wanted to be in his boots for all the spice in the
galaxy.

Hal handed Corran Thyne's blaster pistol, then hauled Thyne to his feet
and tossed him over his shoulder.  "I can feel a breeze from ahead.

We're almost clear."

Corran retrieved his own blaster carbine and carried it by the
pistol-grip in his left hand while using the blaster pistol in his
right hand and its glow rod to light their way out.  "I see something
up ahead.  Stars and Selonia out there."

The two CorSec agents got clear of the cavern fairly easily.  The mouth
of it had been blocked with a lattice of iron bars with a door in it
similar to those of the prison they'd escaped earlier.  Corran shot the
lock open then led the way out into a small grassy clearing.

Hal laid Thyne out on the ground and brought his blaster carbine to
hand again.  "Check him for a comlink.

We can call for transport to come get us."

Corran knelt over the body and began to search it when a vaguely
mechanical sounding voice snapped an order at him.

"Drop the weapons, hands in the air."  The first of eight stormtroopers
emerged like ghosts from the trees surrounding the clearing.  Their
armor bone-white in the reflected moonlight, they made themselves very
easy targets.  The fact that each of them brandished a blaster carbine
prompted Corran to raise his hands.  I can't imagine any of them has a
weapon set on stun.

Hal lowered his carbine to the ground carefully.  "I'm Inspector Hal
Horn and this is my partner, Corran Horn.

We're with CorSec.  We've just apprehended Zekka Thyne."

The leader of the stormtroopers approached Hal.

"Looks as if you are trying to help Thyne escape and are lying to
me."

Corran frowned.  "What a stupid conclusion to draw.  I don't know why
you've got that big helmet to protect your head because there clearly
isn't anything you're putting to good use under it."

The stormtrooper swung his gun to cover Corran.  "On your feet, Black
Scummer."

Corran glanced at his father as he stood.  "I guess we're their
prisoners."

The stormtrooper shook his head.  "Who said anything about taking
prisoners?"

Hal's voice came low and calm, but full of intensity and power.

"I think I would want a specific order from a superior about shooting
us.  I think to operate otherwise would seriously jeopardize our
career, and possibly your life."

The stormtrooper reoriented himself toward Hal and Corran thought for a
moment he'd have to jump the man to prevent him from shooting Hal.

Corran would have gone for him, too, because he'd seen countless bodies
that had ended up dead for making remarks that were no where near as
confrontational.  What held him back was the way the man's movements
slowed as he watched Hal.

The stormtrooper wasn't reacting to the tone or challenge in the words,
he was clearly considering their full import.

Will wonders never cease?

A comlink clicked inside the man's helmet and the murmurs of
conversation hummed into the night.  Corran smiled and shrugged at his
father.  Hal winked back and allowed himself the start of a grin.

The stormtrooper's head came up.  "It'll be a minute or two wait."

Hal nodded, then jerked a thumb back toward the cave mouth.

"You'll want to have your squad secure that cavern.  It leads back
into Thyne's office.  Your people can get inside and hit the towers
from below because if shooting starts, your people are going to die
taking that place."

The stormtrooper thought for a moment, then sent half his squad
forward.  The remaining trio set themselves up to watch the clearing
perimeter while the leader kept his blaster on Corran and his father.

The night air had become a bit chilled and the fact that he'd been
sweating earlier became readily apparent to Corran.

"Mind if I lower my arms?  I'm getting cold."

The stormtrooper shook his head.  "You can get colder."

"Nice night, isn't it?"  Corran gave the man a toothy grin and hiked
his arms up higher.

A soldier in the olive drab uniform of the Imperial Army broke through
the brush, flanked by two more stormtroopers.  The eight bar box with
rank cylinders on each side worn (in his chest proclaimed him to be a
Colonel.

His dark-eyed gaze flicked between father and son, then lingered on
Thyne's body.  "Zekka Thyne.  You may put your hands down.  I take it
you must be the CorSec agents."

Hal nodded.  "Hal Horn.  This is my son, Corran.  I have a disc that
identifies me in my shoe.  It also contains the open warrant CorSec has
for searching this place and arresting Thyne.  I can dig it out for
you, if you wish, to prove who we are."

"I'm Colonel Veers and I believe you are who you say you are.  My
source indicated you would be coming out somewhere in this vicinity and
even suggested we might want to backtrack you."  He glanced at the
stormtrooper who had threatened to kill them.  "Apparently my reasons
for dispatching this squad around here were not fully understood."

Hal shrugged.  "No one got lit up, so no problem."

Corran pointed to Thyne.  "We've gotten the nastiest of them out of
there.  There aren't many people left in there and, by now, they should
all be Thyne's people."

Hal nodded.  "You can safely consider it a free-fire zone."

"I'll remember that if they give us a reason to go in."

Veers smiled.  "You didn't happen to notice any signs of Rebel agents
or Rebellion supplies in there by any chance?"

"No, but as a CorSec Inspector, I do believe it is within my discretion
to ask for assistance in serving a warrant and apprehending
suspects."

Hal looked at the hillsides on either side of the valley.

"I should check with my liaison officer, but calling back to Crescent
City from here would be impossible, so I guess I'm on my own."

Veers shook his head.  "Pity."

"Indeed."  Hal waved a hand toward the cavern.  "Colonel, if you and
your squad would care to assist me, I would be most appreciative."

"We always like working closely with local officials."

Veers gave Hal a nod and pointed his stormtroopers at the black hole.

"You heard him.  No waiting for them to shoot first, we're clear to
go."

The stormtroopers jogged forward in a clatter of armor.

Veers handed Hal a comlink.  "Your transit code word is
'masterpiece."

At our perimeter just commandeer one of our landspeeders to get your
prisoner out of here."

"Thanks."  Hal, looking back toward the cave, pointed at a stream of
green laser bolts coming from one of the mansion's towers toward the
ground.  "Looks like your war has started."

"Then we'll get in quickly and end it."  Veers gave them a brief salute
and ran off with his men.

Corran looked after the Imperial officer.  "I thought Imps believed in
leading from the rear."

"Not all of them, it seems."  Hal grabbed Thyne's hands and hauled the
man up onto his back.  "Get the ankles there, will you?"

"Sure."  Corran grabbed Thyne's ankles and trailed behind his
father.

"So, is this the end of Black Sun on CoreI-lia?"

"I doubt it.  Two CorSec agents, a handful of smugglers and a bounty
hunter who isn't a bounty hunter aren't going to be enough to bring
Black Sun down.  Even if the Colonel and his people level that place,
Prince Xizor still has enough power and the resources to restore it to
what it was before, and you have to know there are countless
individuals willing to take Thyne's place."

Corran shivered.  "Yeah, I'm afraid you're right.  How depressing."

"Depressing?"  Hal turned and looked back at his son.

"It's not depressing.  As long as there are Horns to catch criminals,
Prince Xizor is welcome to send all he cares to in our direction."

"And you don't find that prospect depressing?"  Corran frowned at
him.

"If it isn't depressing, what is it?"

"I think it's obvious, son."  Hal's hearty laugh blotted out the whines
of blasters being fired back and forth.  "It's job security.  It may
not be easy work, and it's dangerous quite a bit of the time, but it's
work that holds evil at bay and there's nothing better you can devote
your life to doing."

Corran nodded and recalled a bit of conversation he'd had with Riij
Winward.  "And what will we do when the only evil left in the galaxy is
the Empire?"

"That's a good question, Corran, a very good question."

Weariness seemed to creep into his father's voice.

"It's one that each person must answer for himself.  I just hope, when
the time comes for me to answer it, I'll have the wisdom to choose the
right answer and the strength to act upon it."

"Me, too."

"You will, Corran, no doubt about that."  Hal gave him a wink and a
nod.  "When the time comes, you'll see the light and those wallowing in
darkness who move to oppose you will regret that decision throughout
what little remains of their lives."

Side Trip Part 4

by Timothy Zahn Zekka Thyne's airspeeders were stored on the low end of
a split-level section of the fortress roof, inside a bunker-like
structure with a single entrance from the stronghold proper and a
single hangar bay-style exit.  Two guards were on duty, but their
attention was turned outward, toward the distant blaster fire coming
from the woods around the fortress, and neither noticed the shadowy
bulk of Rathe Pairor moving quietly up behind them.

A pair of deceptively gentle-looking hand movements from the Tunroth,
and both guards temporarily lost the ability to notice anything.

"I'll have to get you to teach me that trick," Trell commented, ducking
down to peer through the window of a likely looking airspeeder.

The vehicle looked ordinary enough, but in the dim light he could see
the add-on weapons control board tucked coyly away under the main panel
on the passenger side.  Perfect.  "We'll take this one.

You still have that molecular stiletto?"

"Here," the Tunroth rumbled, pausing in his task of stripping the
guards' weapons to dig the slender cylinder from his belt.  "Should we
not take one of the armored vehicles instead?"  he added, pointing his
chin horns toward one of the three KAAC Freerunners parked near the
wide exit opening as he lobbed the weapon in Trell's direction.

"They're a little obvious for in-town driving," Trell told him as he
caught the stiletto.  Extending the almost invisible blade, he began
carefully cutting around the air-speeder's lock mechanism.  "This one's
got some hidden firepower--means it's probably got some hidden armor,
too."

By the time pairor joined him, he had the door open and was sitting in
the driver's seat.  "Yeah, this'll do just fine," he said, pulling the
weapons board out for a closer look.  "Are you hunters any good with
non-traditional stuff like light laser cannon and concussion grenade
launchers?"

"A shturlan can work with all weapons," Pairor said, dropping his
appropriated blaster rifles onto the rear seat and peering in over
Trell's shoulder.

"Good--you're hired," Trell said, starting to strap himself in.

"I'll drive."

Trell wasn't sure what exactly was happening out in the woods
surrounding Thyne's fortress.  But whatever it was, it definitely
seemed to be getting worse.  The forest was alive with the muted
flickers of multiple blaster fire, the light peeking coyly out through
gaps in the leaf canopy on at least two sides of the stronghold.  "I
sure hope they're too busy out there to bother with us," he muttered as
he eased the airspeeder through the opening and onto the landing pad
just outside the bunker.  "Corran and Hal are going to have their hands
full getting through all that."

"But less trouble than it could be," Pairor said.  "Do you not
remember?  Thyne has dispersed many of his people on errands."

Trell grimaced.  "Yeah, I remember.  One group to go grab our cargo,
the other to snatch Maranne and Riij."

"But at Jodo Kast's recommendation," Pairor reminded him.  "If Kast is
truly here to oppose Thyne, then he will not allow harm to come to our
companions."

"I don't buy that," Trell growled.  "Even if Corran and Hal were right
about that, it doesn't mean he cares slork droppings about the rest of
us.  And that assumes they were right, which we don't have any proof
of.  Personally, I'd say there's an even chance that Thyne and Kast
cooked up the whole thing together to expose a couple of undercover
CorSec agents and lure 'em into a trap.  In which case, they're
probably already dead."

"If so, then we should be likewise," Pairor pointed out.

"Who are we that Kast would allow us to escape."

"Yeah, well, we haven't exactly escaped yet," Trell reminded him
tartly, eying the open air off the edge of the landing pad with
stomach-churning apprehension.  But procrastination wouldn't gain them
anything except increased odds that someone inside the fortress would
notice they were missing and raise the alarm.

And besides--thanks to Kast Maranne and Riij were walking into a trap
out there at the Mynock's Haven can-tina.

Had possibly already walked into it.  Riij he wasn't so much worried
about--the guy was a Rebel agent and not his responsibility.

But Maranne was his partner, and he was shragged if he'd abandon her to
Thyne's thugs.

"We waste time," Pairor rumbled at his side.  "I will not leave Riij in
danger."

"Likewise," Trell said, keying in the repulsorlifts and throwing power
to the drive.  He wouldn't leave Maranne, and Pairor wouldn't leave
Riij; and as the fortress roof dropped away beneath them he realized
with hindsight's usual clarity that Kast had probably set up the
various groupings with precisely those different loyalties in mind.

Though to what end, he still didn't know.  And wasn't sure he wanted
to.

He was still mulling over the question thirty seconds later when the
two TIE bombers dropped neatly into formation beside him.

They'd been sitting in the Mynock's Haven for nearly half an hour; and
in Riij Winward's opinion, it was yet another bust.  "They're not
coming," he said quietly to the woman on the other side of the small
table.  "Whoever we were supposed to meet here, they aren't coming."

"I think you're right," Maranne Darmic growled back, scratching
viciously at the nape of her neck.  "Score another big fat zero for the
great and marvelousJodo Kast."

"The greatly incompetent, you mean," Riij said, looking with distaste
at the yellow and redjebwa flower in the center of their table.  Kast's
datacard had specified the flower as their identification marker, but
so far none of the cantina's other patrons had given it a second
glance.

Considering the clientele, most of their first glances had been
humiliating enough.

"Yeah," Maranne agreed.  "It makes you seriously wonder about his
chances of getting Trell and Pairor and the others out of Zekka Thyne's
place."

"It makes me wonder if he even wants to get them out," Riij countered
darkly.

Maranne eyed him closely.  "You think this whole thing was a setup?"

"It's looking more and more that way," Riij said, scowling as he
glanced around the cantina.  "Look at the series of events.  First he
sends Trell to the wrong booth in Treasure Ship Row, which apparently
tips off Thyne and his people that we're looking for Borbor Crisk.

Then he sends Trell, Pairor, and Hal back and lets them get
snatched.

Finally, he goes there himself with Corran and sends us off on this
idiot's errand.  Someone in Kast's business can't possibly be that
incompetent and have survived this long."

"You think it's someone else posing as Kast?"  Maranne suggested.

"I mean, all we've ever seen is his armor."

"Possibly," Riij said.  "But now remember where this whole mess
actually started: aboard an Imperial Star Destroyer."

"With us squeezed into running an Imperial captain's errand."

Maranne swore gently.  "You're right.  How stupid can one group of
people be, anyway?"

"We're in line for some prizes, all right," Riij agreed.

"The only question is what exactly the game is that the Imperials are
playing."

"I vote for them trying to stir up trouble between Thyne and Crisk,"
Maranne said.  "Maybe looking for an excuse to come down hard on both
sides."

"Using the spice and gems as bait," Riij said.  "Still, whatever Kast's
going for, there's one thing he doesn't know."

Maranne smiled tightly.  "That the cargo isn't aboard the Hopskip
anymore."

"Exactly."  Riij dropped a couple of coins on the table and stood up.

"Come on, let's get out of here.  Crisk's people aren't going to
show."

"So what's our next move?"  Maranne asked, standing up beside him.

"Kast's Plan B, I guess," Riij said, turning toward the door and
elbowing them a path through a pack of loiterers.

"We take our sample boxes to Thyne's fortress and see if we can make a
deal to buy Trell and Pairor out."

Maranne caught up to his side.  "You're going to follow Kast's plan?"

she asked incredulously.  "What are you, crazy?"

"No, just desperate," Riij conceded grimly.  "Aside from the two of us
storming the place, I don't see any other options."

"What about your--" Maranne threw a quick glance around and lowered her
voice.  "What about your friends?"

Riij grimaced.  His friends: the Rebel Alliance.  A reasonable enough
request, he supposed, especially since the only reason he and Pairor
had been aboard the Hopskip in the first place was to baby-sit the load
of blasters Trell and Maranne had agreed to smuggle to the Rebels on
Derra IV.  Unfortunately--"They can't help us," he told her
regretfully.

"Even if the leaders agreed, it would take too long to gather together
enough of a force to take on Thyne, Corellian Security, and the local
Imperial garrison."

"You sure they just don't want Prince Xizor and Black Sun mad at
them?"

Maranne asked nastily.

"You have to pick your fights carefully, Maranne," Riij sighed.

"Personally, I think we've already bit off more than we can swallow."

"I suppose you're right," Maranne muttered.  "Fine.

Let's give Plan B a try."

They had reached the door now, sliding their way through the middle of
an incoming group of Duros and heading out into the muggy night air.

The Hopskip's dilapidated landspeeder was parked in the small lot to
the left-"Excuse me?"  a hesitant voice called.

Riij turned, his hand dropping automatically to the butt of his
blaster.  A heavyset man had emerged from the cantina a handful of
steps behind them, their jebwa flower clutched in a meaty hand.

"Yes?"

"You forgot your flower," the man said, lobbing it through the air
toward him.  Automatically, Riij reached up to catch And suddenly there
was a small blaster in the heavy man's fist.  "Nice and easy," the man
said.  "Selty?"

"I'm on it," a voice said from somewhere behind Riij.

There was a. quick set of approaching footsteps, and Riij felt his
blaster being lifted from its holster.  Another moment, and Maranne had
been disarmed as well.  "Got 'em."

"Now just keep moving," the first gunman said, gesturing Riij and
Maranne in the direction they'd been going.

"Let's go take a look at your landspeeder."

The parking lot was dark and deserted.  But it wasn't going to stay
deserted for long.  Even as Riij led the way toward the landspeeder he
could see shadowy forms drifting in from all directions.

Whoever had gotten the drop on them didn't seem interested in taking
any chances.

"You want to tell us which one's yours?"  the heavyset man asked.

"You want to tell us whose side you're on?"  Riij countered.

The other's eyes flashed.  "Don't push it, scum," he warned harshly.

"You're in enough trouble with us as it is."

"Must be with Zekka Thyne," Maranne said ruefully.

"Must be," Riij agreed, his heart pounding a little harder.  So it was
definitely to Plan B now.  "It's that dirt-brown one over there."

Two of the approaching thugs veered toward the land-speeder, the rest
forming a loose but competent enough guard circle around the prisoners
and their two escorts.

A double-sided circle, Riij noted with interest, with as many of their
members facing outward as inward.  Expecting trouble, maybe?

The thugs had the storage compartment open now and with grunts of
satisfaction hauled out the two sleight boxes.  "Got 'em, Grobber," one
of them said.  "Couple of sleight boxes, just like the man said."

"All set to fill up, huh?"  the heavyset man said, throwing a dark look
at Riij.  "I guess Kast wasn't blowing smoke rings after all."

Riij threw a glance at Maranne, got the same look in return from her.

They'd been right; Kast was definitely playing some crazy double- or
triple-edged game here.

"Kast told you about this?"  he asked.

"Sure did," Grobber assured him.  "So what were these for, the first
payment?"

Riij shook his head.  "Sorry, but I can't help you.  We were hired to
deliver the boxes and that was it."

"Sure," Grobber growled.  "Just deliver the boxes: And if Criskjust
happened to fill them up while your back was turned--well, hey, that's
none of your business, right?

Promk, what the frink are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"  one of the men at the land-speeder
retorted.

He had carried one of the boxes around to the hood and was in the
process of popping the seal with a knife.  "A couple of wise guys, a
couple of empty boxes; I figured it might be fun to send 'em on to
Crisk with their heads inside."

Riij was suddenly aware of his collar pressing against his throat.

"I don't think that would be a good idea," he said, striving to keep
his voice even.  "You don't know where the rest of the boxes are."

"We don't, huh?"  Grobber sneered, digging out a comlink and thumbing
it on.  "Skinkner?  Hey, Skinkner, look alive."

"Funny, Grobber, funny," a twisted voice came back.

"What d'ya want?"

"You at the Dewback Storage Warehouse yet?"

"Yeah, 'course we are.  If you were hoping to report us to Thyne for
slogging off, you're out of luck."

"Wouldn't think of it," Grobber said, sending another sneer toward
Riij.  "Still think we don't know where the rest of the boxes are,
hotshot?"

Riij felt his stomach tighten.  So much for Plan B. So much, too, for
any leverage they might have had against Thyne and his mob.  Any chance
of rescuing Pairor and Trell was now squarely in his and Maranne's
laps.

Assuming they were able to find a way out of this, their own private
mess.  Carefully, keeping his movements casual, Riij looked around the
ring of thugs, trying to formulate some kind of reasonable plan-"Mother
of smoke/" Riij jerked his head back around.  Standing beside the
landspeeder, Promk had finally gotten the sleight box open .

. . and even in the faint light Riij could see the stunned look on his
face.  "Grobber--you gotta--what the frinkingm?"

"Have you gone dust-happy?"  Grobber demanded, striding toward him.  He
got two steps, and then suddenly his face changed, too.  "What the--.>"
he gasped, all but leaping the rest of the distance to Promk's side.

Riij sniffed the night breeze carefully, caught the faint odor of
spice.  "You were saying something about empty boxes?"  he asked.

Grobber ignored him.  "Get the other one open," he ordered, pulling out
a knife of his own and probing delicately into the spice.

"Selty, get over here.  The rest of you, watch for trouble."

Seltyjoined his boss as Promk brought around the second box and set to
work, and for a moment the two thugs conversed in low voices over the
spice box.  The debate was interrupted by the crack of breaking
duraplast, and the two joined Promk by the second box.

Someone whistled in awe.  "Grobber--are those--?"  "Durindfire gems,"
Grobber said, lifting his eyes like twin turbolasers to Riij's face.

"Let's have it, pal, and let's have it straight and fast.  What the
frink kind of game are you playing, anyway?"

"I told you before: we're not playing any games," Riij told him.

"We were sent to deliver the cargo, and that's it.

If there's a game going on, someone else is running it."

"Kast," one of the other thugs snarled.

"Or Kast and Crisk," Grobber snarled back, yanking out his comlink
again.  "Skinkner?  Wake up, Skinkner."

"What d'ya want?"  the other's voice demanded.  "Frink it all,
Grobber--" "Shut up and listen," Grobber bit out.  "You looked in any
of those boxes yet?"

"'Course not.  Thyne said to just watch them until Crisk's blaster-boys
came to fill them with--" "You idiot--they're already full," Grobber
snapped.

"Which means the contract's already been filled."

The voice on the comlink swore.  "Kast."

"That's my bet," Grobber said.  "Start getting your boys together--I'm
going to raise Control."  He keyed the comlink again.

"Control?  This is Grobber.  Control?"

"Grobber!"  a new voice half barked, half gasped.

"We've been trying to raise you for half an hour--where the frink are
you?"

"At the Mynock's Haven," Grobber said.  "Listen--" "No, you listen,"
the other cut him off.  "We're under attack here, skrag it--you've got
to get back right away."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Grobber said.  "What attack?

Who's attacking?"

"Who do you think?  The frinking Imperials, that's who."

Grobber threw a startled glance at selty.  "The Imperials?"

"Started out as some anti-Rebel operation," Control said.  "At least,
that's what they told us.  Then someone took a shot at them, and
suddenly here they are, burning their way through the east wall."

"Skrag!  Where's Thyne?"

"I don't know--we can't find him."

"Must have gotten out," Selty muttered.

"Or ducked into some private bunker," Grobber said.

"All right, Control, we're on our way.  Skinkner?"

"We're packing up, too," Skinkner's voice confirmed.

"You want us to do anything with these other sleight boxes?"

"To blazes with the boxes," Control snapped.  "We need you here."

"No, pack 'em up and bring 'em along," Grobber said.

"Grobber--" "They're worth a fortune," Grobber growled.

"Thyne'll have our heads if we leave 'em behind.  Come on, how much
trouble can a few Imperials be?"

Faintly over the comlink came the sound of a distant explosion.

"That answer your question?"  Control snarled.  "Get the frink back
here."

And with a sudden hiss, the comlink went dead.

"They're jamming it," Grobber growled, shoving the cylinder back into
his belt.  "Selty, you take Promk and Bullkey and get these two and
their landspeeder back to the fortress.  Everyone else, back to the
airspeeders.  Move it!"

The others scattered.  "Don't get any ideas," Grobber warned softly,
glaring from under creased eyebrows at Riij and Maranne.

"We're a long ways from being done with you two yet."

With that he stomped off after the rest of his mob, disappearing just
as they had appeared back into the shadows again.  "Get over here,"
Selty snapped, Waving Riij and Maranne forward.  Somewhere in the
distance an avian or insect whistled, sounding strangely out of place
in the urban setting.  "Bullkey?"

"I'm on 'em," a deep voice came from behind Riij, the confidence backed
up by a blaster nudge in the back.

"Com on, move it."

Riij started forward; and as he did so, Maranne veered slightly toward
him and nudged him with her elbow.  "Get ready," she murmured, just
loud enough for him to hear.

At the landspeeder Promk, under Selty's direction, had picked up the
box containing the Durindfire gems and was carrying it back toward the
storage compartment.

The strange avian whistled again; and suddenly, inexplicably, one of
the bottom edges of the box split open, spilling the gems out onto the
ground.

"Promk!"  Selty squeaked, aghast.  "You stupid idiot."

He jumped forward, grabbing at the box as Promk tried to turn it upside
down.  For a moment they both fumbled with it, the prisoners
temporarily forgotten-And from behind Riij came a short gurgle and a
muffled thump.

Beside him, he sensed Maranne preparing to charge.

"Not yet," he muttered, touching her warningly as he lengthened his
stride.  Preoccupied with the spilled gems, Selty and Promk hadn't yet
noticed what had happened over here.  Another four paces .  . .

three .  . . if they'd just fight with the box another few seconds...

one ....

"Now," he murmured; and jumping forward, he put his left palm down on
the landspeeder's hood and leaped over the vehicle to slam both feet
hard against Promk's chest.

The thug didn't even have a chance to gurgle as he hit the ground, the
sleight box spinning out of his hands into the darkness.  Selty did
have time for a startled curse and a grab for his holstered blaster
before he went down with Maranne on top of him.  A savage jab with her
knee, and he went limp.

"Are you injured?"  Pairor rumbled from behind them.

"No, we're fine," Riij assured him, regaining his balance and turning
around.  Behind the Tunroth, the third thug was lying in an unnaturally
crumpled heap.  "Nice job with Bullkey," he added.

"Not to mention the box," Maranne added, retrieving their appropriated
blasters from Selty's belt and tossing Riij's back to him.

"How'd you manage that one?"

"That was mine," Trell said, stepping out from behind one of the other
parked landspeeders and crossing to them.  "Just an exquisitely
well-thrown molecular stiletto."

"A whistle code and a molecular stiletto," Riij said, shaking his head
wonderingly.  "You two are just full of tricks, aren't you?"

"The stiletto was a gift," Trell said, crouching down beside the
sleight box.  "Blast--the blade's broken."

"Never mind the blade," Maranne said, crouching down beside him.

"Get the gems."

"Forget the gems," Riij told her, peering off in the direction Grobber
and the others had gone.  The rescue had been remarkably quiet, but if
Grobber took it into his head to fly over this spot on the way back to
Thyne's fortress, the four of them could still end up fertilizing a
patch of razor grass.  "Let's just get out of here."

"But--" "No, he's right," Trell said through clearly clenched teeth.

"If whatever's going on back at Thyne's place dies down fast enough we
could still find Grobber's buddies camping out in the Hopskip's cargo
bay.  Just grab the box and whatever's still left inside."

Maranne hissed something vile sounding, but she nevertheless stood up,
the now half-empty box in her hands.

"Fine," she said bitterly.  "What about the spice?"

"Leave it here," Trell told her.  "Corran said we wouldn't want to get
caught shipping spice, and I'm rather inclined to agree with him."

"We can call CorSec on the way and tell them where to pick it up," Riij
added.  "Now let's go."

They all piled into the landspeeder.  "Speaking of Corran and CorSec,"
Trell commented as he spun the vehicle around and kicked power to the
engines.  "Turns out they're one and the same."

"Corran's with Corellian Security?"  Maranne asked, frowning at him.

"You're joking."

"That's how he and Hal were talking, anyway," Trell said.  "Last we
saw, they were heading off after Thyne."

Riij winced.  "In the middle of Thyne's fortress?  They haven't got a
chance."

"That was also our estimation," Pairor agreed.  "But counting the
number of Thyne's warriors here and those fighting the Imperials
outside his stronghold, it seems likely the core areas within may have
been nearly deserted."

"'Nearly' might not have been good enough," Maranne said.  "And what
about Kast?  He was still there, wasn't he?"

"I've given up trying to guess what kind of game Kast is playing,"
Trell said, twisting the landspeeder hard to get around a
Herglic-parked speeder truck.  "All I know is that he's the one who
gave Corran the molecular stiletto that got us out of there."

"And we do not believe it was merely a trap," Pairor added.  "We were
challenged by Imperial TIE bombers as we left the stronghold; yet upon
identification, we were permitted to pass."

"That had to be Corran and Hal's doing," Trell said.

"CorSec's supposed to be working pretty closely with the Imperials
these days."

"Yes," Riij murmured, thinking back to the brief argument he'd had with
Corran about the Rebellion.  And now to find out Corran was actually
CorSec.  Could he have guessed Riij's true loyalties from that
conversation?

"We were both permitted to pass," Pairor reminded him softly.

"I understand," Riij told him.  "I also understand that the way
everything else here's been going, that doesn't mean a whole lot.  If
we get to the Hopskip without running into an ambush--from any of the
sides of this crazy powerplay--then maybe I'll believe we've gotten
away with it."

"Gotten away with what?"  Maranne asked.

Riij spread his hands.  "With whatever in blazes we did here."

There was indeed no ambush poised outside the Hop-skip.  Nor were any
of their former companionsCorran, Hal, or Kast--waiting there.

What was there was a single datacard.

"Looks like the same stuff that Kast used to stick the molecular
stiletto to Corran's cell bars," Trell commented, poking experimentally
at the bits of adhesive residue that had been left on the datacard.

"Should we read it here, or inside?"

"Inside," Riij said firmly, taking the datacard from him and glancing
around.  "And not until we're out of here.

You and Maranne get the pre-flight started; Pairor and I'll check to
make sure no one left us any surprises."

Trell had the engines nursed and sputtering to life, and Maranne had
the nav computer working on their course, when Riij and pairor returned
from their tour of the ship.

"Looks clean," Riij told the others as the two of them took their
seats.  "Or at least, there's nothing obvious.  You talked to the tower
yet?"

"We're third in line to leave," Maranne told him.  "You want to read us
a sleepy-time story now?"

"Sure," Riij said.  From behind Trell came a faint rubbing sound--Riij
getting the last bits of adhesive off the datacard, probably--and then
the brief scraping as he slid it into his datapad.

"It's from Kast," Riij said.  "'To the crew and passengers of the
Hopskip: well done."

"Well done!"  Maranne growled.  "What in blazes--?"

"Shh," Trell cut her off.  "Go on."

"'You have adequately completed the mission that was assigned you,"
Riij continued."  'You may return now to the Admonitor and retrieve
your cargo.  This datacard will serve as proof to Captain Niriz that
you have fulfilled your side of the bargain and may have your cargo
returned to you."  Then it's signed with his name and what looks like
some kind of ID mark."

"So he's not going back, huh?"  Trell said, an odd feeling stirring in
the pit of his stomach.  "I'm not sure I like that."

"He must have arranged his payment to be delivered somewhere else,"
Maranne said.  "It didn't look like he and Niriz got along very
well."

"Perhaps his payment is in the remainder of the sleight boxes," pairor
said.

"I wouldn't count on it," Riij said.  "There's a postscript: 'Do not
return to the Dewback Storage Warehouse for the other sleight boxes.

They are empty."

"What?"  Trell growled, half turning to glare back at Riij over his
shoulder.  "Come on, now, that's just crazy.

You're telling me the two boxes you happened to take to the Mynock's
Haven were the only ones with anything in them?  What are the odds of
that happening?"

"Not too bad, really," Maranne said grimly.  "Not when you consider
that they were the only two we knew we could open and then reseal
again.  They were leading us around by the nose the whole way, weren't
they?"

"The whole way," Riij agreed."  'And don't bother with either the
Durindfire gems or the spice.  Both are counterfeit."

Trell looked across the cockpit, to find Maranne looking back at him.

There didn't seem to be anything to say.

There was another faint scraping behind him as Riij pulled the datacard
from the datapad.  "Look, we got in and out again alive," he reminded
them, reaching over Trell's shoulder to hand him the datacard.

"My instructors used to say that no mission you walked away from was a
complete failure.  Maybe we'll meet Corran and Hal someday and find out
what this whole thing was all about."

Trell turned the datacard over in his hand.  "I doubt it," he said.

"I'd say chances are good that neither of them knew what was going on,
either."

He slid the datacard into a storage slot on his board.

"Come on, Maranne.  Let's get out of here."

"I know this sort of thing embarrasses you," Captain Niriz said as he
poured his guest a glass of aged R'alla mineral water, "so I'll only
say it once.  When I heard the reports of military action on CoreIlia,
I was concerned for your safety.  I'm glad to find out my fears were
unfounded."

"Thank you, Captain," Grand Admiral Thrawn said, accepting the
proffered glass and taking a sip.  He was still wearing his Jodo Kast
armor, though without the helmet and gauntlets.  "You're wrong, though,
about expression of concern and support being an embarrassment.  On the
contrary, loyalty is one of the two qualities I value most in my
subordinates and colleagues."

"And the other?"  Niriz asked, pouring a glass of R'alla water for
himself.

"Competence," Thrawn said.  "Has the Hopskip's cargo been reloaded
aboard yet?"

"It's being done, sir," Niriz said.  With most people, he thought
distantly, the addition of Mandalorian armor would instantly create a
powerful air of strength and mystery.

With Thrawn, in contrast, it almost seemed to detract from the sense of
authority that was already there.

"The bridge has orders to let me know when they leave."

He cocked an eyebrow.  "Which reminds me: you promised to let me know
what all this was about when you returned."

"And I intend to do so," Thrawn assured him.  "I'm waiting for one
other person to join us here first."

Behind Niriz, the door slid open.  Niriz turned, opening his mouth to
reprimand whoever this officer or crewer was who would dare enter the
captain's private office without permission-And an instant later was
scrambling to his feet, the harsh words dying in his throat as if
they'd been choked to death.  The armored figure striding with casual
arrogance through the door-"Ah; Lord Vader," Thrawn said, rising more
easily to his feet.  "Welcome aboard the Admonitor.  We're honored by
your presence."

"As we are with yours, Admiral Thrawn," Lord Darth Vader said, a
distinct edge of challenge in his deep voice.

"You're nearly six hours late."

"I know, my Lord, and I apologize for keeping you waiting," Thrawn
said, nodding his head deferentially.

"As it turned out, I was forced to significantly modify the plan I
originally outlined to you."

"But the objective was achieved?"  Vader demanded.

"It was indeed," Thrawn said.  "Zekka Thyne and the Corellian branch of
Prince Xizor's Black Sun have been effectively eliminated."

Niriz looked at Thrawn in surprise.  "Zekka Thyne?  But I thought--"
"You thought the Emperor had an arrangement with Xizor?"

Vader demanded, turning that grisly mask toward him.

Niriz swallowed.  Vader's reputation concerning flag officers who had
displeased him .  . . but on the other hand, Thrawn demanded absolute
honesty from his subordinates.

"Yes, my Lord," he said.  "I did."

Vader's stiff posture seemed to ease slightly.  "For the moment,
perhaps, that is true.  But such arrangements are made to be
altered."

He turned back to Thrawn.  "Yet I understood there was Imperial action
against Thyne's stronghold."

"A small battle only," Thrawn assured him.  "And the battle was
instigated from Thyne's side, as both sides' recorders will bear out.

The record will also show the Imperials were in the area solely because
of information their commander received suggesting a Rebel force was
gathering in the forest there."

"Information which you supplied, of course?"  Vader asked.

"Of course," Thrawn nodded.  "And since there can be no possible link
between the verification code I used and any of your forces or
contacts, Prince Xizor will be unable to create any connection between
you and the mysterious informant."

"Yet Imperial troops were involved," Vader persisted.

"His first thought will certainly be of me."

Thrawn shook his head.  "In fact, my Lord, the marginal Imperial
involvement will actually tend to exonerate you in his eyes.  He would
expect you to launch either a full-fledged Imperial attack which he
could easily trace back to you---or else to scrupulously avoid Imperial
forces entirely, relying perhaps on your quiet bounty hunter or
mercenary contacts.  The ambiguity of the actual event will leave him
confused and uncertain.  Which, I believe, was one of your key
objectives."

"It was," Vader said, sounding a little uncertain.  "But as you say,
Xizor knows of my bounty hunter connections.

Even though Jodo Kast is not among them, your assassination of Thyne
while disguised as Kast will again lead his attention to me."

Thrawn smiled.  "Yes, but I didn't assassinate Thyne.  I was able to
leave his fate in the hands of a pair of undercover CorSec agents."

Vader cocked his head slightly to the side.  "I don't recall Corellian
Security ever being mentioned in our discussions, Admiral."

"The two agents attached themselves to my group," Thrawn said.

"And it was obvious right from the start that they were in Coronet City
for the specific purpose of getting to Thyne.  It presented such a
perfect opportunity that I decided to modify the original plan so that
they would be the ones to deal with him."

"Then Thyne isn't dead?"

Thrawn shrugged.  "At the very least he's out of power," he said.

"Actually, having him in CorSec custody would actually serve your
purposes better than a quick death.  It would leave Prince Xizor
wondering if the Corellians were digging any dangerous secrets out of
him.  A major distraction; and distraction, I believe, was another of
your key objectives."

There was a tone from the comm.  Stepping to the console, Niriz keyed
it on.  "Niriz," he said.

"Hangar Bay Control, sir," a voice said.  "Reporting as per orders that
the Hopskip has just left."

"Thank you," Niriz said.  "Signal the bridge to watch its vector when
it jumps to lightspeed."

"Yes, sir."

Niriz keyed the comm off.  "I gather the smugglers and their Rebel
friends performed their part adequately?"  Vader asked.

"Quite adequately," Thrawn assured him.  "They provided the necessary
excuse for me to move Thyne's men out and clear the way for the CorSec
agents."

The unseen eyes behind the black mask seemed to bore into Thrawn's
face.  "And the other part of your plan?"

Thrawn cocked a blue-black eyebrow at Niriz, "Captain?"

"Yes, sir," Niriz said.  "A homing device has been installed inside
each of the hidden blasters they were smuggling."

"And the boxes repacked exactly as they were?"

"To the millimeter," Niriz confirmed.  "They'll have no way of knowing
the boxes were even opened, let alone tampered with."

The Dark Lord nodded.  "Excellent," he said.

The comm pinged again.  "Captain, this is the bridge.

The Hopskip just jumped to lightspeed.  Their vector's confirmed for
the Shibric system."

"Thank you."  Niriz looked at Thrawn, lifted his eyebrows.

The Grand Admiral nodded.  "Have them prepare a course back to the
Unknown Regions," he instructed.

"Our task here is finished."

"Yes, sir."  Niriz gave the order and keyed off the comm.

"Unless," Thrawn added, looking at Vader, "you'd like me to deal with
Prince Xizor directly for you."

"It is indeed a tempting thought," Vader said, his voice dark with
veiled menace.  "One alien against another?  But no.  Xizor is mine."

"As you wish," Thrawn said.  "Incidentally, I doubt that Shibric is the
final destination for those Rebel blasters.

From their vector, and other bits and pieces I gleaned along the trip,
my guess is that their ultimate collection point will be somewhere in
the Derra system."

"The homing devices will show us for certain," Vader said.  "But the
Derra system is rumored to have a strong Rebel presence.  I'll make
sure to have some forces waiting there."

"Very good," Thrawn said.  "One final suggestion, and then I suspect we
must both be on our separate ways.  I understand the general in
command of the Executor's ground forces resigned suddenly a month
ago.

I was able to watch the battle outside Thyne's stronghold for a while
as I waited to make sure the smugglers escaped; and in my opinion the
Imperial officer in command is being wasted in a garrison
assignment."

"Your opinion carries considerable weight," Vader said.  "As I'm sure
you know.  The officer's name?"

"Colonel Veers," Thrawn said.  "From the level of his tactical skill,
I'd also say he's long overdue for a promotion.

Perhaps his political connections within the command structure leave
something to be desired."

"Political connections do not concern me," Vader rumbled, stepping to
the door.  "I will see what I can do with this Colonel Veers.  Thank
you, Admiral."

"My pleasure, Lord Vader," Thrawn said with a respectful tilt of his
head.  "One favor for another.  Perhaps we'll have the chance to work
again together."

Once again, the hidden eyes seemed to probe the Grand Admiral's face.

"Perhaps," he said.  "Farewell, Admiral."

And with a swirl of his long cloak he was gone.  "An interesting
exercise," Thrawn commented, crossing to the R'alla bottle and
refilling his and Niriz's glasses.  "I don't know though.  I sense that
this Rebellion is more powerful and better organized than perhaps Lord
Vader realizes.  I hope our activities here will allow him to deliver a
crushing blow against it."

His glowing red eyes glittered as he took a sip from his glass.

"But that's not our concern, at least for now.  Our concern is the
Unknown Regions; and it's time we were getting back."

"Yes, sir."  Niriz hesitated.  "If I may be so bold, Admiral .  . .

your last comment implied that you received something in return for
helping Vader against Thyne and Black Sun.  May I ask what that favor
was?"

"A very personal gift, Captain," Thrawn said.  "Which was why I felt
the need to personally orchestrate Thyne's destruction.  Lord Vader
has turned over to me command of a group of alien commandos who have
proven themselves highly valuable to him over the years.  While I won't
have much use for them in the Unknown Regions, I have no doubt I'll
eventually be returning to the Empire proper.  At that time--well, we
shall see what they can do."

"I never heard of Vader employing aliens," Niriz said doubtfully.

"Are you sure he's telling--well--" "The truth?"  Thrawn smiled.

"Indeed he is.  Mark their name well, Captain: the Noghri.  I guarantee
you'll be hearing more of them."

He drained his glass and set it down.  "But now to the bridge.

The Unknown Regions are calling; and we have a great deal of work yet
to do."

About the Authors

After nearly ten years as a newspaper reporter and editor, Laurie Burns
combined hobby with profession to start a West Coast horse magazine,
now in its seventh year of publication.  Branching out into writing
fiction, she's had several short stories published in the Official Star
Wars Adventure Journal and is currently at work on her first novel.  In
her spare time, Laurie likes to ride horses, climb rocks, and belly
dance--though not all at the same time.

Usually.

Erin Endore practices and teaches pediatric emergency medicine at a
major Southwestern medical school.  Most of her previous writing has
been for medical journals.  She took a break from writing about the
infectious complications of animal bites and how to recognize child
abuse to create "Do No Harm," her first story for the Official Star
Wars Adventure Journal.

Patricia A. Jackson is an administrative assistant at Jackson (Really!)
Elementary School in York, Pennsylvania.  A veteran freelancer with
nine published credits in the Official Star Wars Adventure Journal, she
has learned much in the pursuit of the dark side.  In the grip of a
particular love/hate relationship with Jedi Knights--particularly dark
Jedi--she enjoys exploring the sinister, less traveled roads of the
Force with individuals who are no less heroic than their light-side
counterparts.  When not furthering the cause of the Empire, she rides
and trains show horses.

With a master's degree in English, she enjoys the complexities of
language and has invented Old Corellian, a rare dialect used among
smugglers and Socorran pirates.

Her first game sourcebook, The Black Sands of Socorro, was published by
West End Games in June.

Charlene Newcomb grew up in South Carolina, then joined the navy to
"see the world."  Working as a communications technician/interpreter,
her "world" turned out to be Orlando, Monterey, San Angelo, and Fort
Meade--her last assignment: working at the National Security Agency.

After a five-year stint in the navy, and one year as a civil servant,
Char moved to North Carolina, where her linguistic abilities were
clearly not in demand.  But the move led her to her second profession:
as a librarian.

Many years of procrastination (and three children and a move to
Florida) later, she finally enrolled in graduate school.  In 1996 she
completed her master's degree at the University of South Florida in
Tampa, and now works as a serials cataloger in Kansas.  She began her
freelance writing career while in grad school.  Her first short story,
"A Glimmer of Hope," appeared in the premiere issue of the Official
Star Wars Adventure Journal.  Since then she's written or cowritten ten
stories for the Journal.  The world she created for "Glimmer" Garos
IV--will be featured in The Essential Guide to Planets and Moons,
forthcoming from Del Rey in 1998.

Angela Phillips works as a substitute teacher in her hometown of
Hampton, Virginia, but hopes eventually to make a living as a
novelist.

She began studying writing at Duke University in the summer of 1982 at
the age of thirteen.

"Slaying Dragons" was her first short story for the Official Star Wars
Adventure Journal.  Her subsequent story in Journal #9, "The Most
Dangerous Foe," told the tale of Vici of Alderaan and her final test
before becoming a Jedi Knight.

As a high-school student, Anthony Russo was writing Star Wars stories
long before it was considered cool (or profitable enough to be claimed
on IRS Form 1040).  He was heading down the dark path as your typical
computer consultant when he published his first short story in
Aboriginal Science Fiction magazine.  Looking for alternative markets
to break into, a friend directed him to the Official Star Wars
Adventure Journal.  He has since appeared in the credits of a number
of West End Game products, including the Star Wars Live Action
Roleplaying System, where you can play Imperials or Dark Lords and
still wake up in the morning not hating yourself.  He is currently
pounding away on his first full-length novel and trying really hard not
to give in to his son's pleas for a full-sized Millennium Falcon for
Christmas.

Michael A. Stackpole is The New York Times best-selling author of the
first four Star Wars X-Wing novels in which he chronicled some of the
later adventures of Corran Horn.  "Missed Chance" embodied three
firsts: the first story about Corran, the first published story about
Corran, and the first of Mike's efforts sharing characters with Timothy
Zahn.  In addition to Star Wars novels, Mike has worked on and has been
scripting the Dark Horse Star Wars X-Wing Rogue Squadron comic
series.

In his spare time he writes BattleTech novels, fantasy novels, such as
Once a Hero, Talion: Revertant, and A Hero Reborn, plays soccer, and
still forces himself to ride his bicycle for exercise.

Kathy Tyers has contributed six short stories to the Star Wars
universe, in addition to the novel Star Wars: The Truce at Bakura
(Bantam Books, 1994), and several vignettes in The Truce at Bakura
Sourcebook (West End Games, 1996).

Three stories follow Tinian and Daye after "Tinian on Trial," including
"To Fight Another Day" and "Only Droids Serve the Maker" from the
Official Star Wars Adventure Journal (May 1995 and May 1996), and "The
Prize Pelt" in Star Wars: Tales of the Bounty Hunters (Bantam Books,
1996).  In Tales from the Mos Eisley Cantina and Tales from Jabba's
Palace, she published "We Don't Do Weddings, the Band's Tale" and "A
Time to Dance, a Time to Mourn, Oola's Tale."  Kathy's other Bantam
Spectra novels include Firebird and her 1996 release, One Mind's Eye.

Kathy lives with her husband and son in Southwestern Montana, where she
juggles science-fiction writing, vegetable gardening and orchard
tending, Bible study performing folk music with her husband, an
occasional pit-orchestra gig, and developing a contemporary novel for
the Christian Booksellers Association market.  Someday she'll get
organized.

Timothy Zahn is the author of Heir to the Empire, Dark Force Rising,
and The Last Command, all New York Times best-selling Star Wars
novels.

The first book of his two-part Star Wars saga, Specter of the Past, is
currently available in hardcover; the second part, Vision of the
Future, will be published next year by Bantam Spectra.  Tim has been an
avid supporter of the Journal and West End Games--his contributions to
The Official Star Wars Adventure Journal include "First Contact" in
issue #1 and "Mist Encounter'' in issue #7.  He also helped design and
lend support to the DarkStryder game campaign.