The three days spent at the station on board the SSD had been three days spent well. It had given Ryvo time to train more with Thunder as she had more free time on her hands while the ship underwent repairs. Although was learning more about concentration and tapping into the Force, but his ability to use it was still limited. He couldn’t so much as move a feather with telekinesis, or magnify his senses enough to hear a pin drop on the other side of the room. Thunder had told him that it was still early in his training and that his skills may take some time to develop. But Ryvo thought otherwise. He felt that his postcognitive ability and that of sending commands through the Force were the limits of what he could use the Force to do. And he was fine with that.

     When he wasn’t training with Thunder, he was spending time with Skate when she wasn’t training. Everyone took shuttle trips over to the station, checking out the shops, restaurants and whatever entertainment was available. Everyone but Baron Reno and Jace, who were nowhere to be seen. Ryvo had given Meltdown a few calls, seeing if he wanted to take a trip over to the station to check out a custom swoop shop that was there, but was surprised when the ex-gang leader had turned him down. When he’d gone over to the station three days ago with Meltdown and his cousin Jalia, he’d felt like the third wheel, as the two had been like two peas in a pod. Apparently, Jalia had called her longtime boyfriend from the station and dumped him. Ever since them, she and Meltdown had stuck together like they were magnetically sealed. Ryvo was glad for them. If they were both happy, then more power to them. But one thing puzzled Ryvo, kept creeping up in the back of his mind. Jalia had been friends with Meltdown almost as long as Ryvo had been friends with him. He had made overtures to her before, especially when they were all younger, but she had always turned him down. Meltdown had finally given up, tired of hearing the “you’re a good friend” speech that no man of any age wanted to hear. So why the sudden change of heart? Perhaps his departure from the DarkStar Hellions had something to do with it. Ryvo knew Jalia never had liked that aspect of Meltdown. He had always thought it was the swoop thing in general: the long hair, the beard, the denim, the leather...but Ryvo also knew that Jalia was a wild girl. She liked swoops, drinking, partying, just not with members of a notorious swoop gang. In a way, Meltdown’s severing ties with the Hellions could be the best thing that had ever happened to him up until that point in his life. Just as Ryvo’s coming into contact with Sith Squadron had been turned out to be the best thing that had ever happened to him. And it was just the beginning.

     It was wrestling night, so he was in his own quarters, as Skate despised watching the male adrenaline-pumped shows. As the show started and the PWG logo flashed on the holopad, Ryvo had a tall bottle of Fozbeer, a bag of snacks and his feet up. The comm pinged. He cursed for not being able to learn telekinesis, got up from his lounge chair, stomped over to the comm panel and hit the button.

     “Yeah?”

     “Ryvo, are you busy?”

     It was Jace. Of all the people and of all the times.

     “No, I’m not busy,” Ryvo said. “What do you need?”

     “Reno has decided to come out of his solitude,” Jace explained. “He wants to have a celebration. I think you should be there.”

     “Of course,” Ryvo said. “Who wouldn’t want the man who set him up to be captured by his worst enemy at his big party?”

     “Better to face the sandstorm now than to let it grow in strength,” Jace said.

     “I hate when you get me with the Tatooine metaphors,” Ryvo said. “Where is it?”

     “In the main bar,” Jace said. “Room five oh five.”

     “I’ll be there.”

     The connection broke. He put his boots on and set the holopad to record the PWG program. It didn’t look like he was missing anything, as the show was starting out with a standard twenty-minute interview segment involving nobody that was an actual wrestler.

     He made it to the proper room within minutes, and couldn’t miss it, what with the helium-filled inflatables framing the doorway. Walking into the room through the open door, he found pretty much everyone already assembled. Notable absentees were Jen, Tyros and Rick. Not that Rick was notable, though. Of course, Jace and Reno were obvious in their absence. Not inconspicuous, however, were more of the inflatables decorating the room.

     Everyone present stood around, speaking in quiet tones in small groups. Not exactly the type of atmosphere one would expect when their leader was about to return from his self-imposed isolation. Mostly, everyone was gathered around Star, including Skate, so Ryvo gravitated that way.

     “You’re the only one who knows anything,” Palin was saying.

     “I’m not the only one,” Star pointed out.

     “The only one approachable,” Palin amended.

     “I could approach you,” Seven told Palin.

     “I could gut you with a can opener,” Palin responded.

     “Come on, Star,” Seven said, shrugging off Palin’s remark. “Did he get all burnt up or something? Inquiring minds need to know!”

     “I will maintain confidentiality,” Star said. “He’s my patient and he’s my master. If Reno feels the need or desire to tell you anything, then so be it, but you won’t learn anything from me.”

     Seven shook his head. “Poopin’ the party before it even starts.”

     “Go play in an airlock,” Star told the young man.

     “So what’s with all the balloons?” Ryvo asked, looking around at the assortment of inflated elastic.

     “Nobody knows, apparently,” Skate said. “We all just showed up and it was already decorated.”

     Thunder, who had been talking with Fox, moved over to the group.

     “Where’s your hat?” Ryvo asked.

     “Bend over and I’ll show you,” Thunder said. “Do you realize something? We’ve got decorations, we’ve got food, we’ve got a reason to celebrate. What’s missing here?”

     “The Whyren’s,” Skate said. “I shared my last bottle with Ryvo a few weeks ago.”

     “I have very little,” Thunder said. “And Jen...well, nobody’s getting to her legendary stash. A party just isn’t a party without an unhealthy dose of Whyren’s Reserve. Or healthy, depending on how you look at it.”

     There was a gasp from Fox, who had been conferring with Narska, and everyone turned. Reno stood in the doorway, his arms crossed. Ryvo had never really seen him in person, but the Sith Leader looked pretty much the same as he remembered from images. Long, white hair, pulled together at the back. Chiseled features that seemed to be from strain more than natural development—a face that seemed to have a perpetual shadow over it, eye sockets full of gloom and the lines in his face darkened like veins of black blood. But through all of that he carried an air of...something. It wasn’t exactly charisma, nor was it arrogance. Perhaps something in between.

     Everyone in the room stared at Reno, nobody knowing what to say or to do. He simply looked around at each and every one of them, his face not betraying any signs of his failure to recognize the people in the room he was not previously acquainted with. Fox, who’d been inducted in his absence. Ryvo, whom he had spoken with over holocomm, but had never met in person and had never seen his new look. Most likely, Jace had updated Reno on all of the events leading up to his rescue and all of goings on during his absence.

     “I want to thank,” Reno began, startling a few of the Siths, “each and every one of you on a job well done. I was on the verge of death, on the verge of losing everything, but the one thing that kept me going was thinking of this. My Sith Squadron. As long as I kept the dream alive, I could stay alive.”

     He stepped further into the bar, and Jace slipped into the room behind him. Reno approached Thunder, put a hand on her shoulder.

     “Thunder, thanks for being such a strong leader while I was gone,” Reno said. “You exemplify what it means in being a member of Sith Squadron. You are a role model for all to follow. Except me, of course. And Skate...”

     Reno stood before Skate. “I’m told you launched a personal rescue mission aimed at retrieving me from the clutches of our foe. I’m flattered that you would embark upon such a noble undertaking for my benefit. I’m also surprised you’d do such an irrational, stupid thing.

     “Palin,” Reno continued, stepping over to the Corellian woman. “You fought in every battle in the operation to rescue me. You flew your B-wing into those battles. That is heroic in itself.”

     Reno pointed at the Bothan Narska. “Wonderful job in keeping the others, particularly Thunder, on their toes! Proof positive that you have more brain than skull in that big head of yours.”

     Stepping in front of Fox, Reno looked him up and down. “And Fox, isn’t it? Well, you...uh...”

     Jace quickly leaned over and whispered something into Reno’s ear.

     “Oh,” Reno said. “You went EV during a battle. Good job, kid.”

     Reno stared hard at Seven for a long time, and Seven met the stare, not flinching.

     “Seven, you didn’t do much of anything while I was gone. You’ll have to get in gear. And Ryvo Lorell...everyone should thank you, for if you had not done what you did, nobody would have had the chance to accomplish any of this. Then again, if anyone does thank you for the chance to capitalize upon my capture, then I might become quite angry with them, for if you had not done what you had done, I wouldn’t have gone through what I did. But if the old axiom that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger is true, then what you did is good for me and them, then it is okay to thank you. Is that old axiom true, Ryvo Lorell?”

     “I’ve always believed that the truth is in the mind of the deliberator,” Ryvo answered cautiously. “What one holds as truth may not be the truth for another. If you ask one person what color the sky is, they will most likely say blue. But what color is the sky at night? Somebody else may answer black. While both are the truth, they are different versions of the truth. If one survives a great ordeal, they become stronger for it by knowing in their mind that they can withstand such an ordeal. But in a way, they become weaker by losing some of their innocence. But what does innocence have to do with strength? The more you are exposed to a malady, the better your immune system can fight it off.”

     Reno looked at Ryvo and sighed. “A simple yes would have sufficed. This isn’t philosophy class.”

     Ryvo exchanged a look with Skate as Reno moved on.

     “Star, the doctor who nursed the fallen warrior back to health—“

     Reno was interrupted by a loud slam in the corridor outside. It was followed by another identical slam. And then another. It  sounded like it was getting closer. Reno stared curiously at the door. Everyone stared curiously at the door. Then, appearing in the doorframe was a figure clad in a black-and-red combat suit with a black Imperial snowtrooper helmet on. A single-file line of the troops filed through the door, breaking off alternately left and right to form a salutation line. The troops stood at attention, facing each other, ten on each side. Then Jen walked down the aisle they had formed, Tyros in tow. Reno was still in a state of shock, from the look on his face.

     “I...I can’t believe this...” Reno uttered.

     Jen wore a big, toothy smile full of pride. “Lead, let me—“

     “You interrupted my commendation to STAR!” Reno bellowed.

     Jen mockingly bit her lip. “Well, now that we have that out of the way I can—“

     “Reno!” Rick said, stepping around Jen and Tyros. He planted his feet, crossed his arms, held his chin high.

     There was an uncomfortable moment, and Ryvo didn’t know if Reno would simply grab his lightsaber and cut the presumptive kid in half. Reno’s expression went from anger to contemplation and finally, it settled on total confusion.

     “Who the hell are you?”

*  *  *

     Rick sat at a table all by himself. Everywhere around him, the other Siths and their affiliates were partying. Drinking, eating, dancing, yelling, telling stories. But he sat by himself. Something just didn’t feel right. He felt out of place. Out of his element. He was nursing a drink, some unidentified hard liquor, but it just didn’t taste good. Even his love for Whyren’s was forced, a front. The taste was okay, but not something he craved like the rest of the Siths. He was the odd man out, and in an assortment like Sith Squadron, that was saying something.

     Something caught his eye past Seven and Fox, who were sucking helium and talking in high-pitched voices. Well, Fox talking in an even more high-pitched voice. It was Narska, leaving the room inconspicuously. Nobody really noticed, and those who did were too drunk to care. Rick jumped up and went out the door. A turbolift down the corridor was closing. Rick charged down the corridor the opposite way to another turbolift. He jumped in and hit the close switch.

     Hitting another switch, he spoke. “Computer, recognize Rick, Lieutenant, Sith Squadron. Locate turbolift car that just left shaft Eight-V, deck five and stop on the same deck as its destination.”

     The turbolift pinged confirmation and whirred to life. The trip was short. He poked his head into the corridor but didn’t see Narska or anyone, for that matter. But the shaft 8-V door was closing. He ran down the corridor cautiously, but still not one person was in sight. Then he noticed a large door, with the words “CARGO LIFT 2-V” over it. And it was active. He hit the panel on the nearby 8-V door and it opened. Stepping into the lift, he accessed the computer again and ordered it to follow the cargo lift. Seconds passed. The second stretched into a minute as Rick’s lift changed shafts and direction. From what Rick could tell, the cargo lift car was heading for the Super Star Destroyer’s bow, where some of the repairs were being done. That bastard Narska was going to sabotage the repairs so his New Republic buddies could jump in and make short work of the big ship! No time to call the Siths...that would only alert Narska to his presence. He had to deal with it himself. Then Jace would believe him. And everyone would respect him. Rick unclipped his lightsaber and prepared himself. His lift car stopped on a deck deep in the ship’s bow. He stepped out and was in front of the cargo lift door before the bigger door had finished opening. He held his silver blade high, ready for any resistance...

     ...put up by a stack of crates? Furious at Narska’s absence, Rick tore into the crates with his lightsaber, cutting through them, and anything that was in them, maybe like a hiding Narska. But he only found bath tissue, and lots of it. Cursing, Rick ran to a panel on the wall. He entered his authorization codes and tried to locate Narska. The computer couldn’t respond, no doubt due to Narska’s work. So instead Rick accessed the internal sensors and searched for any Bothan life forms. He found one, and it was in the auxiliary bridge! Running back to the turbolift, Rick took rode it to the auxiliary bridge. The doors opened onto the rear of the command deck and he ran in, found Narska at the controls adjacent to the doors. Across from the controls was a hologram pod, which seemed to be powering down.

     “Come with me,” Rick ordered, igniting his lightsaber.

     “Or what?”

     Rick waved his blade around in the air to make his point.

     “You won’t kill me, boy,” Narska said slyly. “You won’t even maim me. Need I remind you of who I am, of what I have seen? I know kids like you. I’ve served right beside them. They have a certain look on their face. They join the military, they pass the tests, they think they’re ready. But they’re not. You performed well on Reuss, Rick. You did better than I could have expected.”

     “Or wanted, seeing as how I foiled your plans?”

     Narska looked down in thought. “My plans...how did you know I wanted to die?”

     “You know what I’m talking about!” Rick snarled.

     “No, truthfully, I don’t.” Narska clasped his hands behind his back and pursed his lips in thought. “But back to the subject. You did what you had to do on Reuss because your life was on the line. There are several types of people in war. The type who love violence and enjoy killing. The type who hate violence but take part in it because they are genuine heroes. The type who snap and can’t even fight to save their own lives, much less other people’s. And then your type. You killed because you were fighting for your life. I don’t think you could have done it—killed—in any other conditions. Because you have that look.”

     “Are you ready to test that theory?”

     “No,” Narska said in a regretful tone.

     Rick put on a mocking aspect to his snarl. “Not much faith in your deductions, eh?”

     “Just not a gambler,” Narska said. “Besides, there is a much easier way to get out of this.”

     “No talking, Narska,” Rick said firmly. “Let’s go.”

     “I’m not talking about talking,” Narska said.

     “Huh?”

     And Rick fell to the ground from the shot as Narska revealed a gun in one of the hands he had placed behind his back.

*  *  *

     Captain Vanicus leaned on the counter in the refresher of his cabin suite. It was one of the biggest living spaces on the SSD, rivaled only by some of the Siths. It had been made from two adjoining suits, so it was twice the size of any suite an Imperial captain. That is, unless that captain had been bold enough to enlarge his suite, like Vanicus had.

     He stared at his visage, reflected in the steamed up mirror. Once he had returned to the SSD three weeks back and after a short stay in sickbay, he had gone to the ship’s barber, a Wroonian named Tom, and had his hair cut. As usual, the haircut’s duration had been quite long, as Vanicus had made Tom cut his hair with a precision that any obsessive/compulsive would have been impressed with. He had then gone to his quarters and shaved—something he liked to do himself—and changed into a pressed uniform. Since then he had all but slept in uniforms. It was the only time Vanicus felt comfortable, perhaps because it brought meaning to his life. Spending time in a TOS prison had shown him what it was like to lose that meaning. But staring at himself, he found that he had somehow changed. There seemed to be more lines in his face...or something. He went into the bedroom and donned an olive uniform, pulled on his boots. As be combed his hair, the door chime sounded.

     Vanicus ordered the door open and found Garien Lorell and his wife, Karisa. The couple had been his prison mates during his stay with TOS. He waved them in.

     “Your timing is perfect,” Vanicus said. “Have a seat. Can I get you a drink?”

     Garien smirked as he sat on a couch with his wife. “How about some of that Whyren’s?”

     “You know we haven’t had any on board since we came back.” Vanicus shook his head. “Everyone had unofficial private parties, and drank all of it up. Even Lord Pilot Thunder and Jeni Violet’s impressive stock have been exhausted, or so rumor has it.”

     “Eltrar,” Garien said, “let’s have some Whyren’s.”

     “Is their sound coming from my mouth?” Vanicus asked.

     “Where have you been?” Garien asked. “The party started hours ago and you are what? Sleeping?”

     “That would be correct,” Vanicus said.

     “Why?”

     “My employers have been known to get a bit wayward in their celebrations,” Vanicus said.

     Garien laughed. “’Get a bit wayward?’ Man, you crack me up. Well, if you’d been at the party, you’d know that we have Whyren’s! While me and Karisa were over on the station, somebody approached me with a message for Ryvo. So I came back immediately, just in case it was something important. It turned out to be a gift. A full crate of Whyren’s Reserve. So Ryvo went to the station and picked it up.”

     Vanicus sat up. “And everyone knows about this?”

     “Well, yeah,” Garien said. “They’re drinking it as we speak.”

     “Who is this gift from?”

     “It was signed as ‘an old friend,’” Garien said. “But Ryvo thinks he knows who sent it. It‘s a peace offering.”

     “It means this ‘old friend’ knows that Ryvo is here,” Vanicus cautioned. “Did anybody think of that?”

     “Are you kidding?” Garien said. “They were all too drunk by that point.”

     Vanicus stared at Garien.

     “Okay,” Garien sighed. “A couple of them may have pointed it out. Thunder, Jace...”

     “And they were all right with it?” Vanicus asked skeptically.

     Garien shrugged. “I only know what I heard them say. The repairs will be done soon. And if this ‘old friend’ wanted to blow us all away, why would he warn us that he knows where we are? That would kind of throw off his surprise attack.”

     “I suppose you’re right,” Vanicus said.

     “But that’s not why I came by,” Garien said. “I came by to have a drink of Whyren’s, and to say goodbye.”

     “Leaving so soon?”

     “Well, our new home is not too far from here, and Ryvo wants to take us now, before you guys jump off to the other side of the galaxy,” Garien explained.

     “I hate to see you go,” Vanicus said. “So where is the Whyren’s?”

     Garien smiled and hit a button on his comlink. Soon after, Vanicus’ door chime sounded again.

     “Enter.”

     A light orange protocol droid walked in carrying a tray with a bottle and three glasses on it. The droid set the tray on the low table, cracked open the bottle and filled the glasses. Vanicus and Garien took their glasses, but Karisa only stared blankly at the table. Ever since Vanicus had met the couple while in the TOS dungeon, Karisa had proven herself to be a quiet, despondent woman. But had she been that way before the nightmare had come to her out of nowhere one day?

     As Garien was about to take a drink, he stopped, looked over at his wife. “Come on, Risa. Take a little sip. It might make you feel better.”

     She simply shook her head and spoke in a small, sweet voice. “No thanks.”

     “All right,” Garien said, shrugging. “More for me and Eltrar, then!”

     “Actually,” Vanicus said, “I was just about to go on duty, so one drink will be have to be my limit.”

     “What? They don’t have designated skippers on this thing?”

     “Unfortunately, no.”

     “Of course,” Garien said, “nobody can take your place.”

     “I wouldn’t go that far,” Vanicus said.

     Garien waved a hand at him. “Oh you’re just trying to be humble.”

     “I assure you, my humbleness is genuine.”

     “Then why don’t you take some time off? You can come with us and relax at our new home. It’s an out of the way place populated by a simple folk. You could use a vacation after what you’ve been through. What we’ve all been through.”

     Vanicus was slightly amused. “I can’t.”

     “You can,” Garien argued. “Hey, you might even meet a little farm girl half your age.”

     “I can’t,” Vanicus said, chuckling. “The vacation I need is here. Doing this is what relaxes me. You don’t know how much I’ve missed it.”

     “Come on, Eltrar,” Garien said. “Two weeks.”

     Vanicus shook his head. “I can’t.”

     Garien seemed disappointed, but brightened up. “That’s okay. I just wanted someone to help me move, anyway.”

     “Ah, so that was it,” Vanicus said. He drained his glass. “Well, like I said, I have duty. I hate to be rude, but...”

     “Yeah, we know when we’re being kicked out,” Garien said. He got up, proffered his hand. “You take care, Captain.”

     “And you,” Vanicus said, meeting his hand. He bowed his head to Karisa. “Lady.”

     She gave a slight smile and the couple headed for the door. Vanicus bade them farewell one last time before closing the door and heading back to the mirror. He stared at himself for a moment, checking his hair. He grinned. It had been a long time since he’d had Whyren’s Reserve.

*  *  *

     Brettu Lorell ran a hand over his newly bald scalp. Well, newly completely bald scalp; He had been losing hair since his early thirties, but had always kept the sides and back grown. He never went for the comb over, though. He had too much pride to look like an idiot. When Yenene had not so gently shaved his head, he kept telling himself that he was going to look like an idiot, however, when he looked at himself in a mirror, he found that the new look gave him a sort of power and dignity that he had lacked before. The only tough part had been coming up with a story to tell his wife, Marsilla. Not about the new hairstyle—or lack of hairstyle, rather—but about the bite marks from Yenene. But it had all worked out in the end.

     It was now two days later and hours upon hours of indoctrination later. The fact was that Brettu didn’t care what the Agents of Liberty believed or wanted to achieve. As far as he was concerned, and as long as they carried out their end of the bargain, they could be working to outlaw ice cream because it was unhealthy to consume. And somehow, he believed this Xanthis had the power to carry out his goals, whatever they may be.

     “Ready?” Yenene asked, startling him.

     “I wish you wouldn’t do that!” Brettu snapped.

     “What do you wish I would do?”

     Brettu looked her up and down. “You dress weird.”

     “Is this not ‘weird’ enough for you?” she asked, hooking her thumbs in the silver belt around her waist.

     “I was just pointing it out, not telling you to.”

     “Very good,” Yenene said, nodding her head. “Very good, indeed.”

     Brettu narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

     “When you go out there,” she said, turning serious, “you must not tell them what to do. You must point out what they need and already should know to do.”

     “I can do that,” Brettu said, nodding. “Where is Xanthis?”

     “He left,” she said, turning sultry again. She walked around Brettu, traced a finger down his head. “He had some things to take care of elsewhere. Once I make sure you are on track here, I will be leaving, as well.”

     “Off to the next world to set up another pawn?” Brettu ventured.

     “Oooh, so bold,” Yenene said. “You imply that we are simply using you. It’s more than that. You were handpicked. Don’t forget that we know a lot about you. About your strained familial relations. We want to help you achieve your goals. How many ‘pawns’ do you think we can possibly know so much personal information about? I assure you, we fully plan to meet our end of the deal. Pawns are to be used as cannon fodder, but since that is not our intent, you are much more than a simple pawn.”

     “So what’s going to happen, then?”

     “Once you are successful in winning over a sizeable support base and setting up a leader, you will come with us to the next target,” she explained.

     “And how long will that take?”

     Yenene giggled. “You tell me.”

     “Let’s get this over with,” Brettu sighed.

     As he started to rise from his chair, Yenene grabbed him and got in his face, flashing her crazy smile. Brettu recoiled at the sudden action, staring at the contrast between her ivory-white teeth and black lipstick. He didn’t know if she was going to bite him, kiss him, or even swallow him. Just as suddenly as she had grabbed him, she released him roughly, waved to the curtain.

     Brettu carefully stepped past her and walked out onto the balcony. About a thousand people surrounded the building, waiting for his public address. He could barely see their faces, but there was a buzz of confusion in the air. Yenene stood off to the rear of the balcony, like an overseer or a bodyguard. Either way, her presence had to be eerie for the audience. It was eerie for him. Several holocam droids hovered around the balcony. He had alerted the press to his impending address. The wider his speech was circulated, the better.

     “In my many years as leader of this city,” Brettu began, quieting the crowd, “I have done some things that I am proud of and some things that I am not so proud of. Such is the way with all leaders. Hindsight is perfect! Foresight is muddled by the countless outcomes of one decision. It’s not hard to be a post-game quarterback. Ask any honest journalist. Wait, is that an oxymoron? Probably as much as is the term ‘honest politician.’ But there is one difference. I have come to you today to freely admit and apologize for the dishonest portion of my past. At the same time, I point out that one prefect-commissioner in one small city on one planet in a galaxy of billions is not even a chink in the armor of eradicating corruption and thinly veiled tyranny. The power belongs to the people! Who pays the taxes?”

     The crowd was silent.

     “Who pays the taxes?” Brettu asked louder.

     “WE DO!” the crowd roared, catching on.

     “Who dies in wars?”

     “WE DO!”

     “Who builds the infrastructure?”

     “WE DO!”

     “Who does the power belong to?”

     “US!”

     Brettu cupped his ear. “Who?”

     “US!”

     “Time had come for a change. Not just here in Wytai, but all throughout the galaxy! And I don’t mean a New Republic. An empire is an empire by any other name! We need true freedom! We can only attain true freedom by strength in numbers! If you are interested in this, come to the first floor of this building. We will show you the way. Thank you for—“

     Brettu was cut off by the sizzle of laser bolt burning flesh. It was his flesh. Everything seemed to slow down. He couldn’t hear anything. But he could smell. He put his left hand over his wounded right shoulder, showing that he could feel, as the blood felt warm on his fingers. Through the blur in his vision, he could see Yenene drawing a blaster from her thigh holster and firing at an unknown target. This wasn’t part of the plan.

     Those were his last thoughts as he passed out from the pain.

*  *  *

     Rick stamped down the corridor to Jace’s quarters and pounded on the door, forgoing the door chime. He pounded on it until the man opened the door. He looked tired. The party had gone on until early in the morning. Rick had checked a chrono on his way. Narska’s stun bolt had put him out for at least eight hours.

     “Do you know what happened to me?!” Rick asked.

     Jace looked unshaken, but angry for being awakened. “Star said even she can’t figure it out. Sorry.”

     “Very funny,” Rick said. “If you need proof, I have it! The son of a bitch shot me!”

     “Oh, so he followed my orders,” Jace said. “Good.”

     “You’re just full of the jokes today,” Rick said. “He took off from the party and I tailed him. He was using the holocomm in the auxiliary bridge! Don’t you think that’s even worth looking into, much less wiping him out for good?”

     Jace stared hard at Rick, making the kid feel uncomfortable. With a jab of the thumb, Jace gestured him to enter.

     “You have five minutes,” Jace said, pointing to a computer terminal.

     Rick wasted no time and sat down at the screen, logged in with his access codes. He breezed through the system to the security sector, attempted to access the security cams in the auxiliary bridge. But they didn’t come up. He traced the records back in time ten hours until he found something. The records had been erased.

     “Somebody tampered with the data,” Rick said, shaking his head.

     “Somebody tampered with the data,” Jace repeated. “Somebody that might like to implicate Narska in some ridiculous conspiracy?”

     “It’s not ridiculous,” Rick said, but didn’t sound convincing, not even to himself.

     “It is ridiculous, coming from somebody like you,” Jace said. “Somebody with a mental problem.”

     “What are you talking about?” Rick asked, getting angry.

     “I was called by security during the party,” Jace said. “They told me that you were completely destroying an entire lift full of refresher tissue. Not so strange behavior around here, but coupled with your paranoia about Narska, very telling. You have had a rough life and no doubt it is catching up to you. Look, you are still new around here, so I am going to give you a break. We as Siths must maintain solidarity. And your actions have not been conducive to that end. Stop now, or I will stop you, and it will involve breaking the cohesion of the squadron in ways other than accusations. Am I clear?”

     Rick swallowed. “Yes.”

     “Then, if there is nothing else—and I suggest there not be—get the hell out of here.”

     As Rick got up to leave, he hit the logout button on the keypad, but not before noticing a message for him. He would look at it elsewhere, as Jace was already angry enough. He all but jogged from the quarters without further comment. As he walked down the hallway to his own quarters, he realized that what made him angry wasn’t that Jace was too stupid to take Rick’s advice. No, what made him angry was how Jace was so condescending, so disrespectful. So what if Jace was a charter member of the squadron? So what if he was Baron Reno’s main apprentice? They were colleagues, teammates. If Jace wanted to ignore his warnings and let Narska take down Sith Squadron from within, then so be it; Rick had done his duty in informing a senior member. But Jace should have at least acted like an adult and thoughtfully considered Rick’s information. But no, he had treated Rick like a goofy kid, and that was getting to be a very old story.

     As he entered his quarters, he tore off his boots, grabbed a bubblypop and turned on holoanimations. Why did everyone treat him like a kid? He had lived on the streets, alone, for years. He had survived by any means necessary, including lying, stealing, and in cases of self-defense, even killing. At 1.83 meters tall, he was even taller than most human male adults. So why didn’t anyone take him seriously? As he took a sip from him bubblypop, he remembered that he had a message. He jumped up from the sofa and sat down at his access terminal. He logged in and found that the message was located on a server he hadn’t used in a long time. In fact, it had been one of the first accounts he’d set up. Since then, under many different assumed names and handles, he’d used no less than fifteen other services—legit, shadownet, or otherwise—so for a message to come to him via that medium was a surprise, if not a shock.

     He shrugged, logged onto the secure server and waited several seconds for the authorization process to complete. When it did, he found that the message was untitled. He opened the message. It was one line:

  Go here: NS38474583903

     Rick ground his teeth together. Was he going to have to go all the way back to his mother’s womb to find this message? He went to the indicated location to find yet another login prompt. But this one was different. It asked for a handle, but instead of requesting a password, as was the norm, it posed a question:

     Why is an A-wing called an A-wing?

     Sitting back and taking another sip of his bubblypop, Rick considered the question. Quite sure that he knew the answer, he filled the handle field with the name he’d used to log onto the secure server and the moved to the answer field. He typed, “It’s roughly shaped like an A” and pressed enter.

     Incorrect. Why is an A-wing called an A-wing?

     Five incorrect responses later, Rick was beginning to get frustrated. Annoyed, he ran a search for the question and came across infonets from all across the galaxy with message boards discussing the question at hand. Unfortunately, he found that most of the conjectural discussion was about the same failed guesses he’d already made, some even more erroneous. It was said that great minds think alike, but he doubted that so many people had great minds, so was it also true that dumb minds think alike? He thought about that for a second, realized the implications and shook the thought off.

     So why was an A-wing called an A-wing? Granted, it did roughly look like an A, and the older Y- and X-wings were apparently named after their corresponding wing configurations—and a case could be made, too, that the wings also resembled A’s—but maybe that line of thinking was too one-dimensional. It was the fastest production starfighter out there, so maybe “A” meant that it was the top of the line. But that didn’t make too much sense, because if and when Alliance engineers came up with a faster starfighter, what would they call it? That was it! What would they call any fighter that they would subsequently design? The B-wing! The Y-wing and X-wing fighters were not Alliance snubs per se, but aftermarket buys and a gift from a defecting Incom team, respectively. The A-wing and B-wing—which also didn’t physically live up to its name, at least in the minds of sane people—were the first original Alliance fighters, so they were named in sequential order, beginning with the first letter of the alphabet.

     Rick quickly typed that answer into the field and sent. Instantly, the message opened.

     Crookie, I need your help! I was kidnapped! You’re the only one I still know that can find me in this city! I hope you know who this is. I have no clue where I am.

     And that was it. The path was scrambled, so there was no way to know where the message came from. At least by that method. There was only one place in the galaxy that he was called “Crookie” and that was on his homeworld of Sluis Van. After his parents died, he began living hand-to-mouth, stealing and pickpocketing his way to money and food. He wasn’t a natural at it, to say the least, so the band of street urchins began calling him Crookie: crook and rookie. So that narrowed it down to about fifteen people, maybe more. But did it matter? He had been close with all of them, and would do almost anything to keep any one of them from harm. Many of them had taught him the tricks of the trade: how to snag wallets unnoticed, how to hotwire speeders, how to hack into spaceport terminals, and so on. If he hadn’t met them, it was highly probably that he wouldn’t have survived his pre-teen years, Force-sensitive or not. He couldn’t let them down. He couldn’t let them die, whichever one of them it was.

     On the other hand, it could be a trap. And the timing was perfect for such a trap, after the events on Reuss VIII. Jace and Jen’s report on the Prestin Frosto guy had been proof positive that the New Republic was interested in Sith Squadron’s capture. But despite this, Jace still didn’t even want to consider that Narska might be a plant whose goal was to bring down the whole squadron. It was pure arrogance and blind faith on Jace’s part. If Baron Reno cleared Narska, then he must be okay! It was quite possible that Narska had figured out that Rick was onto him, and had made a plan to get rid of him. Eliminating threats to his cover would be a prime concern. Rick’s DNA was on file on Sluis Van, having been arrested more than once, so if the Bothan had figured out who he was—or, rather, who he had been—it wouldn’t have taken much effort to set up a trap using any personal information garnered from a cross-reference investigation. And it wouldn’t be hard to get a sample of Rick’s DNA on board the SSD. Getting Rick off the ship would be the best way to deal with him, too, as a spontaneous death in the squadron would raise eyebrows. That was why Narska hadn’t killed him on the auxiliary bridge.

     But again, while it could be a trap, it could also be one of his old friends in trouble. He was bound by a informal honor to those who more or less helped raise him, who he helped raise. Besides, even if it were a trap set by Narska and his buddies from the New Republic, Rick was confident that he could handle anything they threw at him. After all, he was Sith Rick.

     The time posted on the forwarded message to his private server account was dated about twenty-two hours ago. It sounded urgent. He should leave immediately, but realistically that might not be possible. The SSD was in a system with enough traffic to increase the likeliness of somebody spotting an A-wing fighter leaving a Super Star Destroyer. When he thought about it, he realized that he couldn’t take his A-wing, anyway. Showing up in a major system aboard a restricted military vessel was an invitation to disaster. Taking a shuttle was more sensible, in terms of both ensuring safe passage into the Sluis Van system and avoiding raising red flags at the space station. That brought him to his next problem: obtaining authorization from Baron Reno to leave the ship, and permission to take a shuttle.

*  *  *

     Meltdown laid in bed, puffing on a hookah, his arm around the bare back of Jalia. Her equally bare leg—which he noted was as smooth as silk—slowly moved up and down his leg. The way the covers were arranged, her calf and foot of that leg were visible, and they even looked like silk. She was like an angel.

     He let her take a hit from the hookah and then set it on the nightstand next to his side of the bed. She blew the sweet smoke from her mouth, and then kissed him briefly. When she did, she made a face, and for a moment, he panicked, wondering if he had B.O. or something. Jalia pressed her lips to his face again, this time in a more experimental manner, then sat up on an elbow, not bothering to pull the covers up with her. Meltdown appreciated that.

     “You’re warm,” Jalia said, concern in her voice and on her face.

     “If I’m warm, then you’re scorching hot,” Meltdown replied.

     She put her slender hand to his forehead. “I’m serious!”

     “It’s just body heat,” he said, shrugging.

     “If so, you must be in close proximity to a stellar body,” she said.

     “I am,” Meltdown confirmed, looking her up and down.

     “Stop it,” she scolded, and rolled out of bed, again not bothering to stay covered.

     She crossed the room to the ‘fresher and returned with a thermometer. Sticking it in his ear, she hit the button on the device and it beeped.

     “One oh one,” she said. “Pretty high.”

     “I’m fine,” Meltdown said.

     “You need to go to sickbay,” Jalia said, putting her hand on his forehead again.

     “I’ll take some aspirin,” he said. “It’ll go down. It’s probably normal, given the situation.”

     “Just go,” Jalia insisted, ignoring his comment.

     “It’s just a fever,” he said. “I’ll take a few aspirin and it’ll be fine.”

     She stared at him with her obsidian eyes for a moment. “Okay. But promise me you’ll go if it doesn’t drop to at least a hundred.”

     “I promise.”

     “Okay,” she said, looking at him for a moment before getting up to go retrieve the aspirin.

     “Walk real slow,” Meltdown said, eyeing her.

     She turned her head around and gave him an admonishing smile as she made her way back to the medicine cabinet in the ‘fresher.

*  *  *

     When he woke up, Brettu screamed. That is, he attempted to, but couldn’t find his voice. His failed bellow had been triggered by waking up in total darkness, restrained. Had that Xanthis guy betrayed him? It was obvious that the man had at least a rudimentary talent in the Force. At least. Had he and his apparent majordomo, Yenene, only used Brettu for some reason unbeknownst to him, and if so, what? More importantly, where had they taken him?

     His head groggy, Brettu tried to recollect what could have possibly led him here. The last thing he remembered was...making a speech to the Wytai residents. That was it. He was making a speech about rights, stirring up the audience. Then he was shot. He recalled pain, the smell of blood, and...Yenene, viciously firing away with a blaster. At who, he didn’t know, and didn’t care at this moment. He wanted to know where he was.

     Suddenly the room flooded with light, and he slightly flinched; Kiffar eyes were not as sensitive to light changes as some other species. Two dark silhouettes against the bright rectangle of a doorway entered, speaking.

     “The painkillers shouldn’t have put him out for this long,” one voice said.

     “It’s just mental, shock, I guess,” the other replied, a woman. “Mr. Lorell, are you awake?”

     “Y—“ Brettu tried to answer. “Wh—“

     “Don’t try to talk,” the man said. “We’re going to get you some water.”

     Two more figures entered the room and a dim light came on next to his bed—he was in a medical facility. The two newest entrants came to either side of his bed, one taking vitals, the other offering him water from a small cup. He drank a little, licked his dry lips.

     “Where am I?”

     “You’re under our care,” the man said. “I’m Dr. Appla.”

     “Why am I being restrained?”

     “You’re weak,” the woman said. “It would be better not to talk right now.”

     “Why?” Brettu reiterated, albeit in short form.

     “We didn’t want you to hurt yourself,” the woman answered. “You were shot in the shoulder. You lost you right arm, Mr. Lorell. You could have died from the blood loss. We have fitted you with an artificial limb. Until you learn to use it, it’s best to keep you restrained, especially while sleeping.”

     “Especially while sleeping when you don’t even know that you have the cybernetics,” Dr. Appla added. He looked to person on Brettu’s left side. “How does it look?”

     “Vitals normal for Kiffar biology,” another female voice said.

     “When you’re able, we’ll run you through a program on how to use the arm,” Dr. Appla said. “Like Dr. Crentzhew said, you lost a lot of blood. The only thing you can do now is rest. Give it a few days.”

     The nurses cut the lights off and the quartet turned to leave. Dr. Appla stopped halfway to the door.

     “Oh, Yenene will be by to see you before then. When you wake up, I’ll have the nurses turn some holovision on for you.”

     When I wake up? Brettu thought. I just slept for hours.

     Dr. Appla gave one last nod and left the room, closing the door behind him, sending the room back into darkness.