Jace looked down at the green goo. It was chunky, slimy-looking and the smell didn’t exactly appeal to him. But what did or did not appeal to him was of no consequence. This was something that had to be done. Taking a deep breath, he plunged. . .through the door into Reno’s cabin, carrying the bowl of soup on a tray.

     “I smell desa-bean soup,” Reno’s voice could be heard saying, his tone slightly grouchy.

     Jace looked around the main room. Reno was nowhere to be seen.

     “Yes, Master, that is what you asked me to bring you,” Jace said calmly.

     “No!” Reno said loudly. Jace could now discern that Reno was in the refresher. “I told you to bring me ketstalk soup!”

     “Of course, Master,” Jace said, still calm. “While I go retrieve your ketstalk soup, would you like to come out and prepare to eat?”

     “I’m taking a bath,” Reno said.

     “Again?” Jace said, shaking his head. “That’s the third today, Master. With all due respect, I think you are clean by now.”

     Reno exited the refresher. Jace flinched, but relaxed when he saw that Reno was fully clothed.

     “You were not taking a bath,” Jace said.

     “Of course not,” Reno said. “At least not in the conventional sense. No, I was bathing my soul. Wiping clean the blemishes of sins past. But then I came upon a paradox. For how could someone like me have committed iniquities unmentionable? It isn’t possible. Therefore, I’m a man who stands on that hazy border between perfection and flaw. I’m the balance between those two forces. Perfect flaw. Or flawed perfection.”

     “I will. . .just go get your soup. . .”

     Reno raised an index finger. “My—“

     “Ketstalk soup,” Jace said simultaneously with Reno. “Yes, I know, Master.”

     Jace exited the cabin and stood next to the cart where several dishes sat, ketstalk soup among them. This had become something of a daily routine, so Jace was well prepared. Reno’s eccentricity concerning food and other things had only increased day by day after his rescue, but it had eventually reached a peak and was now declining. His obsessive/compulsive behavior still included insisting that his meals be cooked fresh, not prepared with the autochef. Jace had made the mistake of putting some of the SSD’s crew on KP duty to prepare Reno’s meals. But their skills in the culinary arts proved not to match their combat proficiency, so Jace had gone to Benny Nedran. One of his band’s members, the Ithorian Tomok Deniv, just happened to enjoy cooking as a pastime and had been more than willing to prepare food for Reno. And the stuff wasn’t bad at all—some of it Jace would go so far as to call great. He had dined on the unwanted dishes that Reno had shunned. He had even sampled the dinners Reno had approved, as Reno had forced him to taste everything before he ate it. Not because he didn’t trust Jace, but because, Reno had told him, there were those that craved power and prestige, and creating vacuums of those two things was the first step in attaining them.

     There are also those who crave for revenge like a bloodthirsty Krayt Dragon on the hunt. . .

     Another strange new aspect to Reno’s personality was his tendency to go off on elaborate lectures on nonsensical subjects, as he had just done with the speech about bathing his soul. It was something he must have picked up from Zarin. Perhaps it was something Jace could ask Reno about, in a subtle kind of way.

     Jace picked up the ketstalk soup, figuring he had waited long enough to make Reno believe he had actually went all the way to Benny’s place to have it made, and reentered the cabin. Reno had taken his seat at a small dining table, which was ornately set with shiny silver utensils, a folded napkin and even a red candle. Jace had an SE-4 servant droid handle such minutiae, as he had better things to do with what free time he had, one of them being training.

     Reno was sitting rigidly upright, staring straight ahead when Jace set the soup in front of him. Only moving his eyes, Reno looked down at the bowl. He glared at it for a long time, as if silently saying a prayer of thanks for the meal. Finally, he looked up at Jace.

     “This is ketstalk soup,” Reno stated.

     Jace picked up a soupspoon from the table and sampled it. “Yes it is, Master.”

     “Not what I ordered, but it sure smells good,” Reno said. “What the hell?”

     Jace almost had to bite his tongue. He took a few moments to relax, then spoke.

     “Master, I have been told that the others are preparing a celebration in honor of your return,” Jace said. “I think now would be a good time to come out of the den, so to speak. They need you, Master. You were their leader and teacher before you were taken by TOS. You were kidnapped so long ago and returned to us almost three weeks ago. You have been cooped up in here for as long as half the time you were missing. Some of the Siths are starting to wonder. . .”

     “Wonder what?” Reno asked, spooning the soup into his mouth.

     “Well, wondering if you are still. . .Baron Reno.”

     “What do you mean?” Reno asked, wiping the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

     “It has been a few weeks since you have been back,” Jace reiterated. “A few weeks since they have been expecting to hear from you. None of them have even seen you for a month and a half, aside from myself and Star. Master, I think they ask amongst themselves ‘Where is the Baron Reno who loves to slam down the Whyren’s?' Where is the man who will lead us to greatness as our leader in Sith Squadron and as our leader in the Force?’ While you were gone, who do you think filled that role?”

     “Thunder,” Reno said simply, back to eating his soup.

     Jace winced. “I think you misunderstood me, Master. I mean. . .who do you think was there to lead everyone in so-called ‘Whyren’s brawls?’”

     “Jen,” Reno said even more simply.

     “I think the point I am trying to make is that nobody could fill your boots in your absence. Not Thunder, not Jen, not me. There is only one Baron Reno, and that is you. You embody what Sith Squadron is and what it has the potential to be. Think of it, Master. You have a Super Star Destroyer under your command. You have several Sith apprentices under your tutelage. The potential is incalculable.

     “I know that you went through a terrible ordeal with Zarin—and believe me, nobody sympathizes with that more than I do—and I know that you have to deal with the effects of it, but. . .it is time to take the reins. With all due respect, Master, being a leader means doing things for the good of your followers. You may not be ready to go out there, but they are ready for you. And let us not forget what you told me: ‘A vacuum of power and prestige is fertile ground for the planting of seeds of sedition.’ Only you can fill that vacuum, Master. Only you have the power, the prestige, the charisma, the expertise to lead this squadron. So I humbly ask you as your apprentice, please. . .come back to us.”

     Reno set down another spoonful of soup he’d raised halfway to his mouth and stood. He stared at Jace long and hard, his expression unreadable. He could have been sleeping with his eyes open while standing up. Was he angry? Hurt? Coming to the realization that Jace was right? With the state of Reno’s mind, there was no way to be sure of anything. Finally, he nodded.

     “When is this party?”

     Jace only stared back at Reno.

     Reno met his stare, then looked down in thought. “It’s when. . .I wish it to be.”

     “Yes, Master, it is,” Jace said, nodding.

     “Then we can have it right now,” Reno reasoned.

     Jace was surprised by Reno’s hasty decision, but he revealed none of that surprise. “If you deem it so, Master.”

     Reno shook his head. “No. Not now. Perhaps. . .soon.”

     “Understood,” Jace said.

     “Now, for a matter of slightly less importance. . .” Reno started. “What happened to your vest?”

*  *  *

     Ryvo grinned as he left Skate’s quarters.

     He felt great, and rightfully so. He had his parents back. He was learning to use the Force more and more every day. His parents would soon be safe on Dubder, free to live out their lives in peace. He had Skate.

     He really owed Skate everything, and not just for rescuing his parents, but for being there for him when nobody else was.

     While there were obvious differences in the circumstances, Prestin Frosto had also been there for Ryvo more than a year ago when he had left the Alliance. Prestin, being a man who had a deep respect for those who fought in the war—more specifically, on the Rebels’ side of the war—had taken Ryvo under his wing and given him a job as a freighter pilot. Within weeks, Ryvo had been promoted to a fleet captain, and then to chief negotiator. Soon enough, he had accumulated enough credits to buy his own ship and go independent soon after that. He had remained friends with Prestin and his wife Reema, even doing special jobs for them when needed and when the price was right, of course. And so Ryvo felt a certain loyalty to Prestin, an obligation. It was unfortunate that Prestin’s obsession with anti-Imperialism and disdain for anything remotely piratical sometimes blinded his good judgment. Case in point: his little ploy on Reuss VIII. But Ryvo was certain that he could iron out any problems. After all, Jace had released Reema when he could have just as easily killed her or kept her as a prisoner. That in itself was reason enough for Prestin to at least listen to Ryvo.  Or should be reason enough.

     As he neared the bridge, he adjusted his coveralls so that his ID badge would be more visible. When he rounded the final corner, he was surprised to find the two guards flanking the bridge doors wearing white, unpainted stormtrooper armor. They admitted him and he passed through the doors to become even more surprised. Everyone on the bridge was clad in full Imperial uniform, olive tunics and caps and all. Ryvo looked around, confused, then moved further into the bridge.

     “Excuse me,” he called to a female officer, her hair braded down her back under a cap.

     A third wave of surprise hit him when the woman turned, revealing herself to be Thunder.

     “My, don’t you look handsome,” Ryvo said.

     “Shut up,” Thunder said bluntly.

     “What’s going on?” Ryvo said, indicating the Imperial garb.

     “We’re here to get repairs,” Thunder explained. “The parts we need are just too big to pick up and haul back to the SSD, so we had to bring the SSD here. But we can’t go in as the SSD. So I came up with an alternative. Last year, immediately after Endor, an Imperial Admiral named Drommel went on a rampage with a small fleet, razing several Alliance worlds. He was finally defeated at Tantive V, but escaped with his Super Star Destroyer, the Guardian. Neither he nor the ship have been heard from since. Rumors abound that it either made its last hyperspace jump, that it is somewhere in hiding, or that the Alliance actually captured it and are keeping it under wraps. But nobody knows anything for sure.”

     “So we’re the Guardian,” Ryvo said.

     “Yep,” Thunder confirmed.

     “This isn’t exactly a private place,” Ryvo pointed out. “What if somebody drops the decicred on us? We’ll have the Imps and Rebels on us in no time.”

     Thunder shook her head. “The repairs won’t take that long. At least the repairs that will take place here won’t. Don’t worry, I’ve thought this all through.”

     “You’re the leader,” Ryvo said.

     “For now,” Thunder clarified.

     “And who’s going to talk to them?” Ryvo asked. “Captain Vanicus?”

     “No,” Thunder said. “Most of Drommel’s crew was young. We’re going to play it that he died.”

     “Then who’s gonna be his successor?”

     Just then, the doors to the bridge hissed open and Seven entered in a black, Imperial cut uniform. It was a bit fancier than the Imperial norm, with gold piping and an array of awards on the left breast, and he wore no cap. The young man approached Thunder and stood before her.

     “You’re late,” she told him.

     “You try getting into this thing,” Seven said, shifting uncomfortably.

     “They’ve been hailing us for just a few minutes, so it’s not a big deal,” Thunder said, waving a hand. “Answer and play it by ear. They knew we were coming, so it shouldn’t be too difficult. Ryvo, get out of here. You stick out like something to be circled on the back of a Highlights.”

     “What?”

     “Never mind. Just go.”

     “I came to find out where we were so I could go use a public hypercomm to call Frosto,” Ryvo said. “I need to deal with that sooner or later.”

     “We’re going to be docked on one of the modular docking arms, but they’re not going to have tubes long enough to reach us,” Thunder said. “Anyone going over there will have to do so by ship.”

     “Fine by me,” Ryvo shrugged.

     Thunder nodded. “Go to your ship. By the time you get there we’ll have our clearance. But don’t get into any trouble over there, all right?”

     “I won’t,” Ryvo reassured her.

     “Hey,” she called as he headed for the doors.

     He spun back around.

     “Maybe you should take a shuttle.”

     Ryvo pointed at her. “Good idea.”

     He left the bridge, brought a comlink to his mouth. “Hangar nine, this is Ryvo Lorell, authorization code nine three one seven three. Prep a shuttle for a short intra-system trip.”

     There was a short pause. “Check that authorization code.”

     “Oh, sorry, I forgot that it was changed,” Ryvo said. “Try seven eight zero zero zero.”

     “Your shuttle will be ready in twenty minutes,” the technician said.

     Ryvo switched channels and sent. A few seconds later, he got an answer.

     “This is Meltdown.”

     “Melt, you still up?”

     “Well, if I hadn’t been, I would be now.”

     “Good. We’ve arrived at a shadowport for repairs and I’m going over to use the hypercomm,” Ryvo explained. “The station looks pretty big. Can you bring a repulsorlift disk to hangar nine for me?”

     “What, you too lazy to walk around over there?” Meltdown asked. “It’s a great chance to get some exercise.”

     “What, you too lazy to bring it to me?” Ryvo countered. “Besides, I don’t need any exercise.”

     Ryvo could almost hear the wince on Meltdown’s face as he ignored the two-pronged remark.

     “I think I’ll swing over there with you, if you don’t mind.”

     “I don’t mind at all,” Ryvo said. “You bored?”

     “Well, yeah, but I wanted to call Havoc and see how he’s doing now that he’s in charge on Kiffu,” Meltdown said. “Those Hellions are a wild lot to control and you know Havoc. . .he can be a pushover at times.”

     “No kidding,” Ryvo said. “I’ll see you in hangar nine.”

     Ryvo switched his comlink off and pocketed it. At least he was going to have some company. It would be just like old times.

*  *  *

     Meltdown rode his repulsorlift disk down the corridor toward the designated hangar, Ryvo’s disk in tow. He felt more than a little silly riding along on the small vehicle, which was essentially a meter square platform with a handgrip control and safety rail attached to it. Considering his size, he equated his appearance on the disk to a harlequin on a tiny bicycle in a three ring circus. Apparently, the analogy didn’t occur to any of the other crew walking down the corridor, as they didn’t give him so much as a second glance.

     Meltdown entered hangar nine and spotted the shuttle being prepped by a small crew. He cruised over and waited at the bottom of the entry ramp for two technicians to debark, then steered the disks up into the shuttle. Casting a glance into the cockpit, he saw a tech sitting at the controls, going through preflight. He walked over and stuck his head in, the pilot turning to look at him.

     “We almost ready to go?” Meltdown asked the tech.

     “Yeah, just running through the. . .”

     But Meltdown didn’t hear the technobabble as something caught his eye through the cockpit viewport. A woman was walking across the flight deck toward the shuttle, a switch in her stride. He grinned and ran back down the ramp, exiting the ship just in time to meet the woman at the bottom of the ramp. She looked good. She was tall, thin, had a pale complexion and long, dark braided hair. Her dark eyes shone like pools of crude oil reflecting a moon in the night sky. The clothing she wore only accentuated her beauty: a black, tight fitting long-sleeved sweater and an equally tight pink knee-length skirt with black short boots. She was one of the most gorgeous women Meltdown had ever seen. She always had been.

     “Jalia.”

     “Hey, Meltdown,” she said, smiling and displaying her white teeth. “You’ve been on board for a few weeks now and you haven’t even come to see us. Benny knows you don’t like jizz, but. . .”

     Meltdown stretched his neck. “Well, I’ve been busy. Tell him it’s nothing personal.”

     “It is to me,” Jalia pouted. “You haven’t taken the time to so much as say ‘hello.’”

     “I didn’t know it was that important to you,” Meltdown said. “If I had known, I would’ve given you a call the first day I got back.”

     “Given me a call?” she asked. “You could’ve come by.”

     Meltdown tried not to sound baffled by her pseudo-flirtation. “I could’ve. But like I said, I’ve been busy. Besides, I can always visit it you twice this week to make up for the last three weeks.”

     “No,” Jalia said, shaking her head. “Three times. Once for each week.”

     Meltdown feigned disappointment. “So you’re saying I can only visit you once a week?”

     “No, not at all,” Jalia said. “I need the company.”

     “What’re you doing up this late, anyway?”

     “Well, believe it or not, we just closed,” Jalia explained. “Wild crowd.”

     “And you’re not tired?”

     “Not really,” she said. “I know you’re always up late and I thought this would be a good time to find you. I was right.”

     “Well, good and bad time to find me,” Meltdown amended. “Me and Ryvo are headed over to the station we’ve just arrived at.”

     “Where are we?”

     “I don’t know,” Meltdown said. “Oh. . .did you want to come with me? With us? It won’t be a long stay. We’re going to make a couple calls.”

     “Sure, I’ll go with you,” Jalia said. “I need to make my own call.”

     “Great,” Meltdown said, smiling. “Ryvo’ll be here any second. Let’s get aboard. Hey, you’ve been here for almost a month now. What does your man think of it?”

     “Funny you should ask that,” Jalia said, her mouth twisted.

     “You can tell me about it on the way over,” Meltdown said, waving a hand. “After you.”

     He watched her walk up the ramp and grinned. It was his lucky day.

*  *  *

     Prestin Frosto adjusted his collar. He wasn’t used to buttoning his shirts all the way up. He was wearing one of the Vosse Technologies uniforms designed for executives. Forest green slacks and a collared, long-sleeved gray shirt with a VosseTech logo on the left breast made the uniform look sharp. Made him look sharp. Sharp enough to appear on holovision across an eighth of the known galaxy, at least. But it wasn’t the uniform’s appearance that kept him from going beyond “sharp enough.” He knew he wasn’t the best looking guy in the galaxy, to put it lightly. He was short, his muscles were not well defined—or defined at all, for that matter—and to top it all off, he had what some people had described as a “unibrow.” Prestin kept telling himself that he needed to hire a professional eyebrow plucker. That was the kind of thing most people did when they had as much money as Prestin did, after all. But even with all the money he had accumulated over the years, he was tight when it came to spending it on personal wants. When he would take his wife Reema on their semi-monthly getaways, he’d always scour the HoloNet for the best price.

     His wife Reema. Now she was on the opposite end of the scale when it came to physical attractiveness. Although she was in her early forties, she looked to be ten years younger. Her body, maybe fifteen years younger. When she woke up in the morning, she looked just as beautiful as she did when she was fully made up. She was about twenty centimeters taller than he was, too. While most men of his diminutive stature would seek out women shorter than they were, he had done just the opposite. With such a tall woman at his side, he felt that it showed he had accomplished something in that she was so tall and he was so short. Of course, he would never make her privy to the theory.

     He looked down at his shirt and pulled it straight, better displaying the pins that adorned the right side of his chest: a VosseTech Edge Fighter Project pin, an old Alliance Starbird symbol, the newer New Republic Starbird encircled by stars, and the medal awarded to him by the Sova-Hurah Allied Republic Ruling Council for his part in the system’s liberation from Imperial forces. He spotted a spec of lint on the VosseTech logo—a gray “VT” in the form of a triangle with a perpendicular bisector running down the middle against a black background—and pinched it with his index finger and thumb.

     “Your impeccability is admirable!” said the being sitting across from him, in a tone that hinted of mock sincerity. It was a Mon Calamari male, dressed in an ugly olive-colored robe, tied at the waist in a way that displayed his chest. Several healed scars ran across the chest, the sickly furrows forming an asymmetrical pattern. Beads hung from his chin tentacles and his nostrils were pierced in several places.

     Prestin eyed the Mon Calamari for a second and averted his eyes back down, this time to his prep sheets. Sitting on his right side was a typically smug Bothan from New Republic Intelligence, apparently deeply entrenched in his own papers. A few moments later, a man wearing a suit that was unmistakably—and uncomfortably—cut in a style reminiscent of those worn by members of COMPNOR walked up. The Commission for the Preservation of the New Order was set up after Palpatine declared himself emperor, and was staffed with thousands of fanatical, even brainwashed agents. There were departments in COMPNOR that covered anything and everything—education, art, commerce, justice, military, and of course, the media. During the height of the Empire, close to nothing on holovision—large scale or local—was shown without COMPNOR’s review and approval. Aside from the discomfort in the man’s COMPNOR-esque suit, Prestin also felt something else: irony. Irony not that the pro-Imperial broadcast journalist was having not one, not two, not three, but four people that were or had been involved with the Alliance on his show, but irony in himself for what he was about to argue. He shook the feeling off, knowing it was almost time for the cameras to roll.

     “Gentlemen,” the man said, smiling. “Taking into account the highly significant underpinnings and the grand scale of this issue, the producers have been kind enough to give the segment a full fifteen minutes, with only one short break.”

     “Most gracious,” the Mon Calamari said, this time sounding genuine.

     The man looked at the Mon Cal, and his smile stayed in place, but somehow changed. “I will forward your thanks to the producers.”

     A director clapped his hands together. “We’re on a ten minute delay, so if anyone is planning on getting out of hand, don’t even think about it. Okay, you’re on in five, four, three, two, one.”

     “Good evening, I’m Faustin Langor,” the man in the suit said, his voice different than before. “Welcome to Galactic News Tonight.”

     Prestin winced as a quasi-Imperial tune blared and the man pretended to arrange the papers on his desk. After several seconds, the music subsided and the man looked back up at the camera.

     “The Rebel Alliance, now the self-proclaimed ‘New Republic,’ has experienced several setbacks in its attempt to wrest control of the galaxy from the Empire. Despite erroneous claims made by several other media outlets that the Empire is crumbling from within, our first story of the night suggests that the New Republic is having its own internal struggles. The most prime example of these inevitable squabbles is a measure proposed by some to crack down on suspected Imperial infiltrators and spies within the New Republic political, military and civilian structures. Here with me in the studio I have Oljelam, former anti-Imperial activist on his homeworld of Calamari. Trell’yar from the Bothan spynet and member of New Republic Intelligence, Prestin Frosto, CEO of Vosse Technologies, who aided in the ouster of Imperial oversight in the Sova system, and via holocomm, Tred Hewaq, professor of military history at the University of Elom.”

     Prestin nodded at the holocam as Langor introduced him.

     “Okay, gentlemen, what we have here is a proposition made by a vociferous faction to investigate all former Imperial officials, their families and anyone even remotely tied to the Empire in the interest of security. Is this a wise safeguard or is it simple discrimination? Oljelam?”

     “It’s discrimination!” Oljelam said as if the answer were obvious. “You do something like this, you’re no better than the Empire.”

     “You don’t do this, then there will be no chance to be better than the Empire,” Trell’yar countered. “This is a sensible step in the process of weeding out potential spies and saboteurs who pose a serious threat in the early stages of our new government.”

     Oljelam clucked. “What were the results of Palpatine’s declaring emergency powers, all in the name of security?”

     “It’s not the same—“ Trell’yar began.

     “It is!” Oljelam said. “We let it happen once and we’re not going to let it happen again!”

     “With all due respect for what you went through during the war, Oljelam, the situation was entirely different then,” Prestin said, speaking for the first time. “The Old Republic had no true military to speak of—that was known, I should say—so there was no way to keep Palpatine and his subservient clones from doing his bidding. The New Republic has its own military, growing every day in size and skill, and if somebody like Mon Mothma were ever to make a bid for power, she wouldn’t last one second.”

     Oljelam shook his head. “Did you know she is firmly against this measure?”

     “I was speaking hypothetically,” Prestin said, trying to remain diplomatic.

     “Of course,” Oljelam said. “If somebody in the Inner Council were to make a grab for power, it would have to be Fey’lya.”

     Trell’yar jabbed a finger at the Mon Calamari. “Fey’lya does not—“

     “Gentlemen,” Langor said, raising his hands. “Let’s not get personal here. Professor Hewaq, what does history say in terms of the argument that the other three gentlemen have presented?”

     “No matter what scale of government,” the rigid Elomin began, “is the subject, be it continental, planetary, galactic. . .the first thing that must be established is order. Without that, the government is vulnerable to collapse, and more often than not, collapse from within. Had the Jedi taken a more active role in this, the Old Republic may never have fallen.”

     “And they would have sold their souls and thrown their values out the window in the name of security,” Oljelam added.

     “Look,” Prestin cut in, “to run my company, I need safe and reliable space lanes. If I keep getting hit by pirates, then stockholders will lose confidence. The New Republic is the same way. They have to protect their assets to ensure the safety and in turn the faith of the people. We’re not talking midnight raids and torture here, but random checks of communications, transfers of credits, stuff like that. Drastically innocent to some of the stuff the Empire practiced. The two can’t even be compared.”

     “Mr. Frosto, I’ve read a lot about you, and not just in preparation for this news segment,” Oljelam said. “I admired you. I said, there is a man who put his business, his life on the line for what is right. You had millions of credits worth of ordnance and supplies smuggled onto Sova for the purpose of overthrowing the Imperial influence. Without your help, the resistance never would have succeeded. I must add that you were paid generously, but you did what was right! Now you want to throw all of that away! Why? Do you want another brutal regime to rise so you may profit from them, too?”

     “You listen here—“ Prestin began, his voice raised.

     “No, you listen!” Oljelam cut him off. “After all of the blood that has been shed on both sides during the war, it is time to stop. Stop! Did you know that in eleven years as an activist, I never once raised a weapon?”

     “Maybe that’s why you have those scars on your chest,” Prestin said, throwing tact to the wind.

     “And while I was getting these scars, what were you doing? Sitting high in a mansion somewhere as one of the galaxy’s premier war profiteers! More violence isn’t what we need! How many people died on the Death Stars alone? We must bridge the gap of understanding between the Republic and Empire. Once we learn why we do what we do, then everything will come into perspective and make sense. Only then can we all live in galactic harmony.”

     “That is so. . .asinine,” Prestin said. “What do you do when your enemy won’t cooperate in bridging the gap of understanding? Huh? Do you just roll over and play dead, hoping he won’t kick you as he steps over you? I’m sick and tired of idiots like you! We’re winning the war, and we can’t let up! To do so would be to spit on the sacrifices made by so many! You think the Empire can understand, then why don’t you go live with them?”

     Prestin got up from his chair and stormed off the set. Four armed New Republic agents and four VT troops flanked him. He could hear Langor making some apology typical of a reporter for what had just happened. As Prestin passed through the studio’s doors into the hallway, Reema met him.

     “Did you hear that?!” he asked her.

     “I heard it,” she said.

     “And the way that idiot introduced the segment, with his thinly veiled pro-Imperial wording.”

     “I noticed it,” Reema said. “But Prestin, did we ever have a doubt as to how this would turn out?”

     He stopped, panting. “I guess not. But. . .it’s just hard to sit there right in front of him.”

     “Who? Langor or Oljelam?”

     “Does it matter?” Prestin asked. “Let’s go.”

     The guards marched them to the nearby hangar bay where Heavy Debt, the most heavily armed and armored light freighter in the VosseTech shipping fleet, waited. Two more VT troops waited at the base of the ramp, their rifles held across their chests. The four New Republic agents peeled off and headed back for the studio as Prestin and Reema entered the ship, the six VT troops following them. Wiggin, the pilot, sat at the lounge table reading something off of a datapad.

     “Back so soon, sir?” Wiggin asked in his thick Core World accent.

     “Just get us out of here, Wiggin,” Prestin said.

     “Right-o,” the pilot said, jumping up from the couch and heading to the cockpit. “Oh, I almost forgot, sir. While you were gone, you received a call from Ryvo Lorell. He’s awaiting your call at public hypercomm system. The codes are on that datapad there.”

     “Thanks, Wiggin,” Prestin said, sitting down in Wiggin’s place and burying his face in his hands. Reema took a seat next to him.

     Of all the things that could happen to him at that moment, a call from Ryvo Lorell wasn’t rated very highly. For a moment Prestin wondered if Ryvo had simply seen the Galactic News Tonight piece somewhere and had decided to call, but then he remembered the ten minute delay. He didn’t have any particular desire to call Ryvo, but he figured the sooner he got it over with, the better. Prestin powered up and punched the code into the comm system panel built into the lounge table.

     Several moments later, Ryvo’s voice crackled through the speakers.

     “Prestin, how are you?”

     “I’m fine, all things considered,” Prestin said in not the most affable tone.

     “You mean the news thing?” Ryvo asked sympathetically.

     Prestin was one step short of shocked. “How did you know. . .”

     “I watched it on an overhead monitor over the comm booths here,” Ryvo said.

     “But. . .they said it would be on a ten minute delay. . .”

     Ryvo chuckled. “You must be getting old if you can’t figure that one out.”

     Prestin thought about it, maybe too hard, for when the answer finally came, it was so simple. “The feed from Elom!”

     “Yeah, there are always slicers working for these shadowports,” Ryvo said. “They’ve probably got five hundred channels, all free of charge. Whoever did it just sliced into the line from Elom and patched it throughout a system, and the slicer here was already a subscriber to that illegal feed. That’s why these people don’t go for that crap, Prestin. They know that stuff’s on a delay and they know when something goes against the standards because they see it live. The Imps are hurting themselves more than helping with delays and censoring.”

     “I know,” Prestin said. “It’ll be interesting to see what they actually show. I have someone making a recording of it back home. We met the news team on a neutral world, thought it might be a good chance to get some of our side of the story out to their citizens. Probably wasn’t a good idea. So is that why you called?”

     “No,” Ryvo said. “I called to talk about Reuss.”

     Prestin sighed. “What about it?”

     “Prestin, what in the hell were you thinking? Or were you even thinking?”

     “Do you know how many of my people were murdered?” Prestin asked viciously.

     “I know some were killed,” Ryvo said. “But did they die because they wanted to risk their lives or did they die for a paycheck from an overzealous boss?”

     “How dare you?” Prestin roared.

     “Wait, calm down,” Ryvo said. “You knew what you were dealing with. You were paid your fee. You could have just walked away. Should have just walked away. What is it with you, Prestin? Building a multi-billion-credit company isn’t enough for you? Do you feel you have to prove you’re not a typical ‘rich guy?’ Tell me.”

     “Ryvo, people judge you by the company you keep, and quite frankly I think my company is much more laudable than those lowlifes you run with. I had to dig deep into NRI’s files to find out who they really were. I’ve exhausted all of my favors at NRI. Aside from a select few in the uppermost echelons, nobody even knows your friends exist and those that do consider it a rumor, a bunch of hooey. In a hundred years from now, it’ll be a myth, if anybody remembers it at all. How did you get hooked up with them, anyway?”

     “Let’s just say my crossing paths with them was not coincidental,” Ryvo said flatly. “But look, all things considered, Prestin, it could’ve all turned out for the worst. You know what I mean.”

     Prestin felt Reema squeeze his arm. “I know.”

     “And all I ask is that you let bygones be bygones. Consider the matter closed. And if you no longer consider me your friend, I understand. Just leave this alone.”

     “I don’t know if my conscious will let me do that,” Prestin said slowly. “I’m sorry Ryvo. I have to go. We’re about to take off.”

     “Prestin. . .” Ryvo said, his tone clearly indicating that he was disappointed.

     “As for that part about you not being my friend,” Prestin said, “that is your choice, not mine. If and when I do anything, it’s for your own good, whether you see it or not.”

     “Prestin—“

     “I have to go, Ryvo. See you around. One way or another.”

     And he ended the connection. Probably in more than one way.

     “Is everybody strapped in?” Wiggin’s jovial voiced called over the speakers. “Well, I hope so!”

     The Heavy Debt lifted off the deck, its repulsorlift engines wining. The repulsors from the four Edge fighters could be heard, as well. But while Prestin’s ear acknowledged the sounds, his brain didn’t, as he was lost in thought. As the freighter and its escorts shot from the hangar bay, something rated much higher than a call from Ryvo Lorell happened to him as Reema began massaging the tension from his neck.

*  *  *

     Xanthis sat in his chair reading intelligence data and waiting. He had summoned General Lorstai some time ago, but she had not yet arrived. He could only assume she was busy with some matter that required her personal attention, as nobody in their right mind made Xanthis wait longer than was absolutely necessary. Because of her strange fetish with asphyxiation, he had been forced to resort to other methods of causing her discomfort and pain, and they worked. So what was taking her so long?

     He heard footsteps clacking on the ground and she rounded the corner into the room. “I’m here, Lord Xanthis.”

     “You made me wait,” Xanthis said. “Why?”

     “I apologize, Lord Xanthis,” she said. “I was in the middle of preparing my new look for AOL.”

     “New look?” he asked, looking up from his screen.

     “Yes, my lord,” she said, and her footsteps clacked again across the room to the large mirror on the wall.

     Xanthis reached into her mind and saw the image of herself in the mirror. The first thing he noticed was the fact that she was bald, save for a small topknot protruding from the very top of her head. Her clothing—or lack thereof—was quite noticeable, as well. She wore a black skin-tight, see-through body suit, strategically darkened in all the right places, along with thigh-high boots of the same color.

     “What is this?” Xanthis asked ponderously.

     “It’s my new look,” Lorstai said.

     “And what a nice look it is,” Xanthis said. “Now, on to business. In going over your plans, I recognized some flaws, but that is to be expected. Human error is something that will never be corrected. But the biggest change I am making has nothing to do with any error on your part. I have chosen somebody else to act as our puppet leader. In light of some information that came my way via one of your contacts, I believe this will be the best course of action to take.”

     “What kind of information?” Lorstai asked.

     “In time, General,” Xanthis said carefully.

     Lorstai jumped up and down, her boots clacking on the floor. “Please, please tell me, Lord Xanthis!”

     Xanthis raised a hand and the jumping stopped. “There is no time for such tomfoolery. We must act quickly.”    

     “What are we going to do?” Lorstai asked, her head tilted to one side.

     “That question brings me back to why I changed the AOL front man,” Xanthis said. “And to answer it, we must go somewhere.”

     “Where, my lord?”

     “Kiffu.”

*  *  *

     It was a warm morning. Brettu Lorell had made the mistake of wearing a jacket on his way to city hall. He had wound up taking it off in the speeder during the trip. Doing so required him to violate at least three safety regulations, not the least of which was taking off his restraining straps. But he was the prefect-commissioner. He didn’t follow laws. He enforced them, and he enforced them as he saw fit.

     He punched in his code and entered the near empty building. A guard sat at a desk near the main lift, but other than that the building was devoid of sentient life. Brettu always arrived early so he could get situated and review news item and such, all in an effort to catch his political opponents off guard.

     Brettu took the lift to the third floor, which was the topmost floor and biggest in the building, which looked like a pyramid that had been dropped from the sky point down into the ground. The doors to the lift opened and he walked down the hall to his office, located on one of the corners of the building. The corner office’s windows—made of reinforced transparisteel—afforded him a grand view Wytai’s cityscape and beyond. He punched a code—different from the one to access the building—into the keypad next to the door and it slid open. The office was dark, as dawn still hadn’t broken at that time. As he hung his jacket on the rack next to the door he almost jumped at the sound of a voice.

     “Close the door,” the voice said in a rich, Core World accent.

     He did as instructed and continued facing away from the voice, which sounded like it was coming from his desk. If he got out of this alive, he’d have that guard’s life.

     “What can I help you with?” Brettu asked diplomatically.

     “Ironically, Mr. Lorell, I came here to tell you exactly that,” the voice said. “You can turn around.”

     Slowly, Brettu turned to face the voice. Indeed, the man was sitting at his desk, the silhouette outlined against the window by the dim light from the city beyond. And next to the man stood another figure, obviously a woman by the lithe shape of the body. His observations were confirmed when a small desk lamp was turned on. Brettu almost gasped. Whether the instinct was brought on by the sight of the man or the woman he didn’t know, as they both made individually frightening images.

     “We have the opportunity to accomplish something great, but only if we work together,” the man, long-haired and with empty eye sockets, said. “Do you enjoy being prefect-commissioner of this city?”

     Brettu paused. “Yes.”

     “Don’t think I am going to threaten that you do my bidding or face being prematurely removed from office,” the man said. “Rather, I am going to offer you an opportunity to expand your power. How would you like to rule a large slice of the Inner Rim and Expansion Region?”

     “Well. . .I’d like that, but—“

     “It’s fairly simple, Mr. Lorell,” the man said. “You do as I ask and I will grant you the power over hundreds of systems. Of course, it won’t be right away. For now, I can solidify your position as prefect-commissioner and eradicate all of your enemies. All you need to do is agree is to help me.”

     “Sir, I don’t know what this is all about, but—“

     “We’re going to rule the galaxy!” the woman dressed like a high-class harlot said maniacally.

     The man raised a hand and the woman sobered. “Quite frankly, it’s a deal you can’t afford to pass on. Whom do you want to die?”

     “A lot of people,” Brettu said.

     “Whom more than anyone would you like to see die a slow and torturous death?” the man asked.

     Brettu knew the answer to that question. “This bastard nephew of mine.”

     “Oh, the one who killed your son,” the man said, as if he should have already known the answer.

     “What?” Brettu demanded. “My son. . .killed?”

     “Yes, almost one month ago,” the man said. “By Rvyo Lorell.”

     “How. . .I mean I knew he was out of prison. I arranged for him to escape when the Imperial forces retreated. He never contacted me. I’ve been waiting. I assumed he was just lying low until the time was right. But dead. . .”

     “Your son Pawl came to us through contact from a man who was in my employ—also dead—named Veego,” the man explained. “Pawl had found Veego after searching for Ryvo Lorell’s whereabouts, evidently to exact revenge. Ryvo had done a few jobs for us, running this here and that there. Your son was hired as a plant to infiltrate my enemies’ ship. With his natural charm, he was able to get promoted to first officer under an assumed name. He also gave us advice on how to lure the enemy leader into a trap. Using your brother and his wife as blackmail, we forced Ryvo Lorell to play a part in the trap. Unfortunately, we underestimated your nephew’s ability. Ryvo infiltrated one of our bases and rescued a captive. That was when Pawl showed up with the enemies’ ship under his control. We’re not sure how, but Ryvo wound up killing your son by stabbing him in the throat with a sword. He also had several broken bones and bruises, very suggestive of a struggle.”

     Brettu, who had fallen to his knees, his mouth wide open, knew exactly what had happened. The sword, the bruises. . .they had dueled under the rules of the Reddal Challenge. For whatever reason, Pawl had answered Ryvo’s challenge. Brettu had always taught his sons that you should fight to win, even at the cost of fairness and sportsmanship. And honor. Then again, he may not have had a choice.

     “The bastard. . .”

     The man leaned forward on the desk. “Do you want him dead?”

     “Yes,” Brettu whispered.

     “Do you want him to suffer?”

     “Yes.”

     “Do you want him to die slowly, experiencing the very definition of agony?”

     “Yes!”

     “Then join me!”

     “I will,” Brettu said, not quite believing what he was saying.

     “I have but one question,” the man said.

     “What’s that?”

     “Why didn’t you attempt to have your other son released?”

     Brettu stood back up. “I could only do one and make it look like it an random escape. I chose Pawl. Varrel never wanted to listen to me. He always asked too many questions. But Pawl. . .he just wanted to learn. He was mine to mold. My legacy. Varrel was too much of a mama’s boy. Perhaps a few years in an Imperial prison will change that.”

     The man nodded slowly, looked up at the woman and gave an indecipherable yet unmistakable signal.

     “I’m going to have to ask you to do some uncomfortable things to accomplish our goal,” the man said.

     “What is our goal?”

     “We’re going to—“

     The man raised a hand and the woman’s voiced stopped. She appeared strained. Brettu stared, confused.

     “We’re going to bring justice to this galaxy,” the man said. “It will be slow coming, but the road to true freedom is a long one, and not without obstacles.”

     “I feel flattered for your choosing me,” Brettu said, and somewhat meant it. “But who are you?”

     The man lowered his hand and the woman gasped.

     “We’re the Agents of Liberty,” the woman said, raising her eyebrows. “I’m Yenene.”

     “And I am Xanthis,” the man said, rising and heading for the door.

     “Well. . .where are you going?” Brettu asked, pivoting to keep his eyes on Xanthis.

     Xanthis stopped at the door and turned to face him. “To set the first stage of our plan into motion.”

     “What is the first stage?”

     “The destruction of our enemies,” Xanthis said, his voice chilled. “The death of your son’s killer. First we must accomplish these things before we embark on our grand journey, else they will hinder our efforts.”

     “But how?”

     Xanthis stared at Brettu for a moment. “I have my sources.”

     “Well, what do you want me to do?” Brettu asked.

     “You will now face the first of the uncomfortable things I will ask of you.”

     With that, Xanthis exited the office and the doors closed. Brettu turned back around. Yenene had come around to sit the front of his desk, her legs spread suggestively. She held up a device. It was a laser hair trimmer. She smiled crazily and curled her finger, beckoning him to come to her.

*  *  *

     Rick threw the ball at his own face, and it bounced back to him. He repeated the process, over and over again, heaving the rubber ball at the mirror—more specifically, at his own reflection. He was in one of the gymnasiums aboard the SSD. The gyms were stocked with the best exercise equipment, physiological systems monitoring devices and even obstacle courses modified to challenge Sith apprentices. Yet he threw a ball at the mirror.

     He found that it helped him maintain control of his frustration. The rhythmic thud of the ball rebounding from the wall implied a sort of order and he took solace in it. Because his life was in anything but order.

     It had been almost been three standard weeks since Baron Reno had returned from his captivity. Three weeks. And Rick—nor anyone else—had heard anything from him. Rick was sure TOS had done some horrendous things to Reno, but he was a Sith Lord, a master. Surely he should have recovered by now. Star had been visiting Reno’s quarters on a daily basis when he had first arrived back on the SSD, but now those visits were occurring a lot less frequently, maybe twice a week. This must have meant that Reno was doing better, if not good. Still, though, he remained behind closed doors, unseen by anyone but Star. . .and Jace. Rick knew the man from Tatooine had been in Reno’s quarters for most of the day every day. Was Jace helping to heal Reno, by way of the Force? No, because if that were the case, then Star would be present during all that time, as she was more skilled in healing than Jace. At least she was supposed to be. Besides, if Force-assisted healing were the top priority concerning Reno, then Thunder would be brought in for the task, not Jace. Rick felt that she was stronger, her skills more honed, than any of the other Siths, including Jace. There was just something about her that struck Rick as powerful. Maybe it was just because he had begun his—so far half-assed—training with the squadron under her.

     No matter who was the stronger of the two, he was currently put out by the both of them. Jace, for paying no heed to his warnings about Narska. To Jace, those warnings were just suspicions, and far-fetched ones. No matter how many times Rick brought the subject up, Jace would brush him aside before he could even finish telling the story. So Rick had begun telling the story backwards. When Jace had finally heard the part about he Rebel Starbird insignia tattoo on the dead assassin, he had stared at Rick. Rick, thinking he had finally convinced Jace, had simply smiled. But that smile had fallen apart when Jace had asked him why a tattoo proved anything. He had asked Rick why the assassin couldn’t have been an ex-Rebel or just somebody that supported the Alliance. But Rick was convinced that Narska was traitorous scum. He smelled of treachery. He exuded it. He hadn’t bothered to tell anyone else about the tattoo because if Jace didn’t believe him, then nobody else would, either. And then he would look like an idiot. The reason he had chosen to tell Jace in the first place was not because Jace had been in command at the time, but because he knew Jace was recluse, unfriendly to others. He wouldn’t go off and gossip about Rick’s out of control paranoia. And word wouldn’t reach Narska. For now, the matter was tabled, because Jace wouldn’t listen and he didn’t trust to tell anyone else. Not even Thunder.

     Thunder. . .he was mad at her because she had flat out neglected his training in favor of Ryvo. Ever since Reno had returned, she’d been training with the tall man several days out of the week. Rick knew that Ryvo had been training under Skate, but for some unknown reason—at least to Rick—he was now mainly under the guidance of Thunder. Ryvo had come to know Sith Squadron barely one month ago, so who had died and made him more important? Apparently, Rick had.

     This was the kind of thing that really angered him. Thunder had recruited him, had given him a place to fit in. She had told him that while their master had been taken prisoner by their nemesis, she would begin his training and get him started. Rick had been assured that Baron Reno would complete his training once he was rescued. Only a master could bring Rick to his full potential, to the status of a full Sith Lord. But beyond that, it was his duty to fulfill his destiny to be the greatest Sith ever. No matter how much drive and determination he had, he could never reach that point without his training. Sith Squadron and Baron Reno were but stepping-stones on the path of his destiny, but that path was now uncertain, obstructed. He needed to begin his training. Hell, he hadn’t even met Reno.

     “Hey.”

     Rick, startled, turned to voice and the rubber ball sprang back from the wall and nailed him in the head.

     “Now you know how your reflection feels,” Jen said. “Do you enjoy playing catch with yourself?”

     “Didn’t really have a choice when I was a kid,” Rick said, shrugging. “Besides, it find it very relaxing.”

     “Well, you’ll have to continue this fine tradition in your quarters,” Jen said. “It’s time for the daily Echani class. Unless you want to join in.”

     Rick laughed. “Me? Echani?”

     Echani was a martial art used by the Imperial Guard; difficult to master, excruciating to try.

     “I’m sorry, you’re right,” Jen said. “You? Echani?”

     She laughed as Tyros Dakon, the ex-Imperial Guardsman, and his so-called Red Fangs entered, fully suited in their red and black combat suits, sans the helmets. The Red Fangs were an elite group of SSD troopers whom Tyros had chosen to undergo the rigorous training equivalent to that which he had experienced in the Guard. They had taken all the glory on Reuss VIII by saving the day, not to mention Jace and Jen. . .while Rick, Narska and Fox had trudged through filthy sewers as decoys.

     “Hey, I can do Echani.”

     Jen looked at him hard for a moment, seemingly sizing him up. “Um. . .no.”

     “Damn it, I can do it!” Rick said. “I have been through some major stuff in my life. If I can survive that, I can do some hits and kicks.”

     “Tyros,” Jen called and the blond man came to stand at her side. “Rick here says he can do Echani.”

     “Rick,” Tyros said, slapping him on the shoulder and chuckling in a patronizing tone.

     Feeling stupid, Rick tried to change the subject. “So why are they training with all that armor on? Doesn’t it get hot?”

     “When they use the stuff in action, they will be wearing their armor,” Jen said. “So it only makes sense to train with it on, to get used to it. If you train in shorts and a tank top, you will get used to the feel. If you train in the armor, you’ll find your feet, so to speak, and you’ll learn to do it now, instead of in the heat of battle.”

;     “Makes sense,” Rick said dejectedly. He was about to ask another question when Jen’s comlink beeped.

     She unclipped it from her belt and hit the button. “This is Jen.”

     “Celebration in the bar right now,” Jace’s voice came from the comlink without preamble.

     “Uh. . .huh?”

     “Reno has fully recovered and is ready to see us,” Jace explained in a tight voice. “The bar. Now.”

     “Well—“

     The comlink’s connection clicked off.

     “Kriffing prick,” Jen said, staring at the comlink. “You hear that?”

     “Yes,” Rick said. “I guess we go to the bar.”

     Jen smiled, seemingly to herself. “This is perfect. This is pure luck. The Fangs are suited and ready to show off to Reno on his first day out. Tyros! We’re going to have to cancel the training.”

     “Jen,” Tyros said, approaching her from across the gym, almost groaning. “It’s already been three times today—“

     “No,” Jen said, shaking her head. “Party in the bar. Reno’s returned to normal society.”

     “Or as normal as it gets on this ship,” Tyros said.

     “This is great, though!” Jen exclaimed. “We can lead the Red Fangs in as a sort of ceremonial thing!”

     “Yeah,” Tyros said, nodding in understanding.

     “Yeah!” Rick yelled, clapping his hands together. “We can do this!”

     “Uh, Rick?” Jen said, raising her eyebrows. “Do you have a vrelt in your pocket?”

     “Huh?”

     “This is an A-B conversation, so C your way out of it?”

     Rick looked down. “Sorry.”

     “Nothing personal,” Jen said. “It’s just that. . .well, you’re not with the Red Fangs—well, neither am I, really, but Tyros is my personal assistant and I oversee his duties onboard the SSD—and it’d just be better if you entered before or after us. Hell, Reno doesn’t even know you!”

     “Yeah,” Rick said, shaking is head. “I know.”

     “After us would be best,” Jen said.

     “Well, no hard feelings,” Tyros said, clapping Rick on the shoulder.

     “Let’s go, we can pick up the helmets on the way to the bar,” Jen said.

     Rick watched Tyros order his men to follow him from the gym and they exited in single file, orderly and precisely. Jen, taking up the rear, stopped at the door and spun around to face Rick.

     “Hey, Rick?” Jen said, looking down and putting her right palm to her forehead. “I’m sorry. I might’ve been wrong.”

     Rick smiled at her expectantly.

     “On your best day, you just might be able to do Echani,” Jen said.

     With that, she exited the gym, leaving Rick alone.