Darkness. Several loud thunderclaps and flashes of red light. Two people dead. More than people; familiar people. People that meant something, people that loved and were loved in return. Parents. Loving, nurturing, caring parents. Taken out like yesterday’s trash for the mutated vrelts to scavenge. Mutated vrelts that lived on Kwenn Space Station.

     Home.

     “Mom! Dad!”

     Andell sat up in bed, breathing heavily. He jumped out and pulled his boots on, grabbing his blaster on the way out the door.

     The sniper trudged through the murky waters in the sewage conduit. It was dark, but he carried no light source in his hand. There was nothing to run into. There was no problem in finding the way, given that it was an essentially clear path with few turns and no drops. Still, he wore infrared goggles, for when he came across his prey, he wanted to see them at least as soon as they saw him. But the goggles lent no advantage in the walk, given the fact that there were not many differential heat sources in the tunnel. No heat sources except for a thin line stretching across the tunnel before him.

     The sniper stopped.

     He moved a bit closer and knelt, taking an analytical look. It was a very weak heat source, like the heat from a cooling autochef meal left on the counter slowly drifting away. If some waste were recently…discharged, then this would make sense. But the area surrounding the heat source was dark and cold, and there were no adjunctions of smaller waste pipes for dozen of meters. And, if the three-quarter meter long line of heat were…excrement, then the sniper wondered what kind of food that person was eating. The analysis suggested that this was not anything natural. It was a booby trap.

     Now, how to get around it? He could return to the manhole he had entered after paying off the Reussi police to leave the fugitives to him (and at a cheap price, too, showing Vorne’s flunkies were indeed money hungry) and move ahead to the next manhole, past the trap. But that would take time. Time that would allow the prey to exit the tunnel and escape into the bustling cityscape. He could spring the trap, but if it was an explosive device, it could damage the tunnel to the point of impassability. If he tried to creep past the trap without setting if off, he would run into myriad difficulties. Gently padding over and past it might not work if the trip was set to go off on the slightest vibration. He couldn’t crawl across the top of the tunnel with magnetic gauntlets, because the trap was set on the tunnel, and any vibration would travel down the curve of the round pipeline.

     The sniper actually grinned, and with only a hint of malevolence. His quarry had presented him with an interesting challenge. And that presentation was most likely in an inadvertent fashion; they were probably counting on Reussi police to come down the tunnel with glowrods and blasters at bear. They had not counted on a professional killer wearing infrared goggles to follow them.

     The sniper folded his arms and stroked his chin in thought. There was only one solution that, if it worked, would keep him on their trail and forgo blocking his passage through the tunnel. He walked back towards his point of entry…but not far. Just far enough. He removed his goggles and slid them back into their pouch on his belt, snapping it shut. Nice and snug, just like all of the equipment he wore. He felt the tunnel with his arms stretched out, getting a sense of the space around him. Crouching down, he puts his hands on his knees. Then he sprinted. Sprinted as fast as he could in the waste, counted his steps, then leapt. It was a horizontal jump at first, with his legs close together and his arms flat at his sides. Halfway through the jump, a handbreadth away from the top of the tunnel, he tucked his knees in and hugged them, throwing his weight forward. After going through a full somersault, he extended his legs for the landing and hit the slimy tunnel floor, and bounced forward as far as he could, resuming the sprint even as the explosion sounded behind him. It wasn’t as big as it could have been, but shrapnel did hit him in the back. Luckily, his plasteel polymer suit deflected the bits with little effort. He buried his exposed head in his arms as he continued to run down the tunnel.

     When the sound and vibration from the blast had finally settled, he stopped and went back to inspect the damage. A few small fires burned around a deep pit where the bomb had exploded. Where the explosion had blown out to the sides, the tunnel had been pushed out and punctured, the jagged edges of the flaps of metal hanging out from the wall. The now elliptical area of the tunnel was navigable even with its barricade of twisted metal, but barely. The sniper had made a wise and justified decision, in his mind. It could just as easily have been worse, and he could be trapped on the other side, or worse, aboveground rushing for the next manhole while his targets escaped.

     He thought it very probable that they had heard the explosion. Was that a good thing? He had to think it was, because hearing the explosion might lull them into a false sense of security and make them think they had bought time, which could perhaps lead to the decision to slow down their pace. But he would increase his own pace.

     He had them. Just a little while longer and they would all be dead. Except for one that was to be left untouched. Well, at least left alive. He had to remember that.

     Jace slowly paced in the small curtained area he had been assigned as a changing room in the recesses of the Broken Tusk that serves as the backstage area of the arena. Jen sat in the only chair, watching him go back and forth. He finally got annoyed and turned to her.

     “Are you trying to hypnotize yourself?”

     Jen grimace-smiled. “I was about to ask you if you were trying to hypnotize me.”

     “I am.” He put his hand out in a wizard-esque manner. “When I count to three, you will stop staring at me.”

     “What’s the problem?” she asked, not acknowledging his quasi-joke. “You have been at this for thirty minutes now.”

     “I don’t know,” he said.

     Jen narrowed her eyes. “You don’t have a guess?”

     “If I did, why would I share it with you?” he said, trying not to put too much edge into his voice. Jen was being Jen, and he didn’t care too much for it.

     “Because you can.”

     Jace stopped and turned to her. “Look…I don’t know why you always try to…what is it? Console me? Comfort me? Whatever it is, I don’t know why you do it. Maybe you’re being a nice person. We’re fellow squadron members, after all. We’re all one big happy family. Or maybe you’re just trying to get into my head. Before you call me paranoid, let me just remind you that I am speculating and I don’t know why you do it. Nor do I care. Heh, thanks for the effort, whatever your intentions are, but no thanks.

     “Jen, I am the loner of the group. The introvert. But I come off as the reclusive snob. I am a cynic, but I come off as the asshole. Maybe I am an asshole, I don’t know. What I do know is that I don’t need your soothing, your advice or anything else but your loyalty. Loyalty not to me, but to Reno. Stick to Tyros and you’ll do just fine.”

     Jen stood at this. “You self-important, son of a kriffing—“

     A human wearing a headset stuck his head into the cubicle. “Your interview is in five minutes!”

     Before Jace could respond, the man was gone as quick as he had appeared. Jace turned to Jen, who was still fuming.

     “Interview?”

     She folded her arms. “That’s what he said.”

     “This is not good. Has it occurred to you that I will have to fight with this cap and these shades on?”

     Jen shrugged. “If someone is looking for us, they won’t keep you disguised you for too long, anyway.”

     “When I came up with this disguise, I never thought I have to be center stage in front of a thousand people. Damn. We should have brought some troops with us in plainclothes. They could have fanned out and kept an eye out for any activity. I guess you will have to do that yourself. Keep your danger sense on high and be ready for anything. I’ll be too busy fighting. Let’s get to that interview, whatever it is.”

     They asked a bustling ring crewmember where the interviews were conducted and he told them at the gorilla position. Jace had to ask him what and where in the hell that was, and it turned out to be the area right behind the curtains to the ramp leading to the ring. As soon as they got there, the man that had stuck his head in the dressing room waved them over.

     “Cam Revyg, right? You and your valet over here, please.”

     Jen laughed without humor. “Valet?”

     Jace leaned in close to her ear. “Do it. Easier to keep an eye on the audience.”

     He grabbed her hand and moved to the indicated spot.

     The man with the headset, who Jace assumed was either the director or producer stood with his hands on his hips. “We’re just going to ask you a few questions and you answer them as naturally as you can, okay?”

     “What’s the camera for?” Jace asked.

     “This is entire tournament is being taped to air on local NovaNetwork affiliates all throughout this side of the Rim.”

     “To air when?”

     The director waved a hand. “Not anytime soon. Our entire week’s programming is being preempted by women’s shockball games.”

     Jace looked at Jen. “Okay. Roll’em.”

     “Action!” the director bellowed unnecessarily through a loudhailer, prompting everyone in the room to cover their ears.

     With that, a tall, blonde woman with tight clothes and overly tanned skinned waddled around a corner holding a microphone. The director handed her a small card as she walked up to Jace and Jen.

     She smiled into the camera with teeth that looked like they were made of platinum. “Here we have Cam Revyg, a man that you could say didn’t have the luck of the draw today. Cam, you will be facing Tull Raine in the qualifying round of the Rimma Spinward Outer Rim Supreme Personal Combat Tournament. As we all know, Tull Raine is the longest reigning Dool Arena champion, having only lost the belt less than a year ago. Cam, do you have a strategy in this tremendous challenge?”

     Jace shrugged. “To beat him.”

     The blonde woman clucked. “Um, Cam, Tull Raine is of course not only the former Dool Arena champion, but a former galactic shockboxing champion. He was once thought unbeatable.”

     “Well, he can’t be too great if he has ‘former’ before those titles.”

     “Okay,” the blonde said, inserting a phony friendly laugh. “Let’s switch wavelengths. Where are you from?”

     “Oh, out on the Rim.”

     “The Rim Territories are a big region…”

     Jace looked down at her cleavage. “Yes, they are.”

     “So what brought you to compete in the Rimma Spinward Outer Rim Supreme Personal Combat Tournament?”

     “Let me ask you something, brainy. What is the answer you usually get to that question?”

     The blonde frowned. “Prize money is a popular answer.”

     Jace chuckled, then dropped his voice into a hiss. “Well, I am not here for the prize money. I am not here to make friends. I am not here to get famous. I am here to cause pain. And pain is what all my opponents will feel as I move through them…one by one…leaving nothing but broken bones and empty brackets in my wake.”

     “Cut!”

     Everyone covered their ears again.

     The director jumped in front of Jace and threw his arms up. “That started out as the worst interview I have ever seen, but that last part was fantastic!”

     “You told me to be natural.”

     “But what did you mean by empty brackets?” the director asked.

     “You know, the brackets in the tournament?”

     The director purred femininely. “Whatever the case, your match starts in fifteen minutes!” The director pointed off to the right. “The warm-up area is over there. Oh, and Mr. Revyg? Are you going to fight in that?”

     He moved his finger over to point at Jace’s attire.

     “Is there a problem with it?” Jace asked.

     “I suppose not,” the director said, returning his pointing hand to his hip. “But the shades are just too much.”

     “My eyes are very sensitive to light,” Jace said. “I was born that way. Unfortunately, the cost of corrective surgery is in the six figures.”

     The director snatched a datapad from his pocket and scanned through several pages. “Your application doesn’t list that ailment.”

     Jen smiled. “He’s so used to it that he forgets about it sometimes! Besides, he’s fine as long as he wears the shades, so it isn’t exactly an ailment.”

     The director slammed the datapad down on a table and sighed. “I guess I’ll have to tell the referee. He’ll make you remove them, otherwise. What you must do is this: make sure those things are snug on your noggin. We can’t have them falling off in the middle of a fight!”

     Jace smiled facetiously and waggled the croaky strap.

     The director sniffed. “Very well. Fourteen minutes until show time.”

     Jace and Jen moved off without another word.

     “Those were the dumbest questions I have ever heard,” Jace said.

     “Asked by the dumbest woman I’ve ever met,” Jen added.

     Jace turned to her, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “I meant the fruitcake. But she was dumb, too. I think we are beginning to see a pattern. Now for the question that isn’t dumb. Who is Tull Raine?”

     Jen winced. “There are no weight classes, so he could be some five hundred pound behemoth.”

     “It doesn’t matter. I can take out whoever they throw at me.”

     “Maybe you can, but you can’t make it look too easy,” Jen said.

     Jace knew Jen was right. He hated when she and Thunder were right about anything.

     “Or someone will begin to wonder why a medium-sized human is beating Wookiees and Houks and whatever other giants I go up against.”

     Jen nodded.

     “I’ll take care of that. You just stand there and be vigilant.”

     “I will,” Jen said.

     Jace knew she was still mad about what he had said in his tirade back in the changing room. Good. That would serve to drive her further away. She wasn’t trying to come on to him in a romantic sort of way; no, it was more of comradeship, a concern for a peer. She had done it a few times since Reno had been kidnapped, most notably in sight of some of the other members of SS as they were filing out of the conference room on the SSD after an intense meeting several weeks back. Up until now he had tolerated it in the interest of keeping morale at an acceptable level. No more.

     He had laid it on real thick to her so she would get the message that he didn’t welcome nor want her help. Besides truly being an introvert, he had other reasons that he couldn’t allow anyone to get too close to him. For if they did, they might learn of his master plans, the plans that were his future. Plans that would be ruined if anyone got an idea that he even had them in mind. Plans that required suspicious people’s deaths. It was in Jen’s interest as well as his to keep it professional.

     Jace began stretching for his match.

     Garien Lorell sat with his back against the wall. He was long since past worrying about whether or not his clothing got dirty. Once of the main reasons for this was the fact that he couldn’t see his clothing, or anything else, for that matter. He couldn’t see the food he hate, the scrapes and bruises on his body, not even his wife’s face. She was sleeping now. But he couldn’t.

     Sleep was something he did when his body gave in. He simply had too much to think about to sleep, and even if he wanted to, his mind wouldn’t allow it. On the outside, he was the defiant, facetious prisoner whose high spirits you couldn’t keep down. But on the inside, that wasn’t exactly the case. Sure, he tried to keep a positive outlook. That was his way. But it was kind of difficult to maintain that perception when you were locked in a cell in complete darkness with little chance of escape. What had eased Garien’s suppressed sense of despair was the man who had moved Karisa to his cell. And brought them real food. He had even brought Garien a small container of liquor. It hadn’t been Garien’s favorite—in fact he couldn’t identify it—but it had been something to drink.

     The thing was, Garien didn’t understand why the man had done these things. More than that, he didn’t even know why he and his wife had been taken. It had to have something to do with rival competitors; maybe even one of the Trade Consortiums in Celanon City was responsible. Whatever the case, it wasn’t going to last much longer, one way or the other. Someone would start looking Garien and Karisa—probably Ryvo once he learned of their missing—or they would die. The conditions of the captivity were not ideal, even with the generous man’s relief effort. And Garien and Karisa were not young. Both were on several medications, none of which were available and hadn’t been taken for many weeks since their kidnapping. At this point, Garien was almost ready for either escape.

     Getting up, he moved the cell door.

     “Hey!” he whisper-yelled. No answer. “Hey!”

     “Sorry,” a voice with a Coruscani accent answered, “I was going to call over to you, but I didn’t want to wake you from your precious sleep.”

     Garien grunted. “It is precious these days. So what do you think, captain?”

     “Sullustan gin,” the voice said. “And I told you, call me Eltrar.”

     “Hmm. Sullustan gin. I knew it had a familiar taste. I have an associate in SoroSuub that sent me a case once along with the items I ordered. I guess I’m losing my sense of taste.”

     “Well, you’ve been locked up longer than I have, so it’s understandable.” Eltrar cleared his throat. “By the way, thanks for the gin. It’s not Whyren’s Reserve, but it’s something to drink.”

     Garien shook his head. One of the other things that had eased the confinement was making friends with Captain Eltrar Vanicus and a mechanic from his command. He had thrown the tankard of liquor over to them, more to get their help in identifying the concoction than to share it with them.

     “Is that stuff really so good that you raid ships for it?” Garien asked in a good-natured suspicious tone.

     “You haven’t had Corellian whisky—or any whisky—until you’ve had Whyren’s Reserve.”

     Garien laughed. Eltrar and Gimmer’s stories were outrageous and entertaining, but were not easy to believe. Siths and pirates and Rogues and Super Star Destroyers.

     “You know, you should put this stuff in writing someday,” Garien said.

     “I hope you mean—“

     A series of rapid footfalls cut Eltrar off. Light flashed around the cell bank, obviously the light source in the hand of the unknown runner. Garien stepped back from the door and kneeled next to his wife.

     “Mom! Dad!”

     Garien’s heart stopped. “Ryvo!”

     “We’ve got to get out of here.”

     Garien smiled. Smiled so hard that his face hurt.

     “Karisa!” He tapped her shoulder. “Wake up!”

     She stirred and sat up. He hooked her under her shoulders and lifted her to her feet.

     “What? What is it?”

     “Ryvo,” Garien breathed.

     Karisa didn’t say anything, but she gasped in joy. Garien grabbed her arm and they ran for the creaking door. It opened before them…

     And it wasn’t Ryvo. It was a short, olive-skinned man.

     “You bastard!” Garien snarled. “This isn’t funny!”

     “Let’s go,” the man said. Now Garien recognized his voice. It was the young man that had been bringing them food.

     “Are you nuts? Are you sick in the head?”

     The man ran down the cell bank and waved his arm. “Let’s go! Now!”

     “Garien?” Karisa said with concern in her voice. “What’s going on?”

     Garien nodded at the man. “He called us ‘mom ‘ and ‘dad.’”

     The man’s jaw dropped and he blinked rapidly. “You are my mom and dad! I’ve…got to save you!”

     Garien walked up to the young man and slapped him right in the face. The man’s head snapped back and he looked back at Garien with the same, maniacal look. Garien slapped him again.

     “Get a hold of yourself, kid!”

     “I’ve…got to save you…”

     “If he wants to save you, don’t argue!” Eltrar called from his cell. “Let us out, too!”

     “Not now, Eltrar.” Garien looked at the man, who held a luma and a blaster in his hand. “Kid, look at me. I am not your father. I don’t even know who the hell you are!”

     The young man slowed his panting and looked at the blaster in his hand, as if he didn’t know why it was there. “I’m Andell Kovares. And I suppose you’re not my father.”

     He raised the blaster slowly and pointed it at Garien and Karisa. “Please…back into your cell.”

     Garien stared at Andell right in the eye. Perhaps it hadn’t been a sick joke. This young man had been treating them better any other prisoners that Garien knew of. When Garien had asked him days before why he had treated them so, Andell had avoided the question. There was something here. And it just might lead to a chance for escape. But not now. Garien was strong, but too old and weak from malnutrition and lack of his medication to overpower a much younger man armed with a blaster aimed at his chest. Even if he could, what then? There could be hundreds of similar men with much larger weapons to get through. Best to wait it out and see what this little episode meant. It was a businessman’s way of doing things, and that’s what Garien was.

     He backed up toward the cell door, not breaking eye contact with Andell. Karisa entered the cell behind him and he followed her. Andell kept the blaster up, as he cautiously moved to the door. Grabbing it, he slammed it shut and locked it in place. The luma in his hand lit the bottom half of his face, visible through the small, barred window set in the door. Andell held his gaze for a few moments more.

     “I’m sorry,” the young man said as he walked off.

     “You’re not sorry yet,” Garien whispered to himself. “But you’re going to be. As will I.”

     Across the cell bank, Eltrar stirred. “You know, that was the worst strategic decision you could have made.”

     “Maybe so, captain, but it was the best decision business-wise.”

     “What?” Eltrar gasped, baffled.

     “Drink your gin,” Garien said, moving off to go comfort his wife.

     “We’ve got to get out of the sewer,” Fox said, running behind his larger compatriots.

     Rick rolled his eyes. “No, we don’t.”

     “Why?”

     “Because we will be seen. Then we will be chased. Then we will be caught.”

     “But we’re already being chased!”

     “I think Narska’s bomb might have bought us some time,” Rick said.

     “You think?” Narska asked defensively. “It did buy us some time, and we’d better use it wisely. So kids, shut up and keep running.”

     “What we need to do is find a large intersecting pipe,” Rick commented.

     Narska looked at him. “Why?”

     “So we can set up an ambush,” Rick said.

     “For who?” Narska asked. “Four squads of S.W.A.T.’s?”

     Rick shrugged, more to himself since the other to Siths couldn’t see him. “Maybe if we take out four squads they’ll think wiser of hunting us down.”

     “Maybe,” Narska said in an agreeable tone. “Or, they’ll think we’re a mass-murdering threat that must be eliminated and they’ll send half the precinct after us and hire bounty hunters and who knows what else.”

     “Wow. Now that you put it like that, maybe an ambush isn’t such a bright idea.”

     “No, Rick it isn’t,” Narska said, sighing.

     Rick sighed himself. “Sometimes I forget your past.”

     “What?” Narska asked sharply over his panting.

     “No, no,” Rick placated. “I mean…how much experience you have in these things.”

     “Ah,” said the Bothan.

     “In fact, I—“

     Rick’s next statement was cut off by a blaster bolt hitting the pipe wall to their left, providing a wink of illumination to the pitch-black path. That split second was enough for Rick to see the scorching where the shot had hit the tunnel. Big blaster. He sped up his pace, and evidenced by the elevated tempo of furry friends’ footfalls, so did they. Rick grabbed his blaster, but refrained from igniting his lightsaber, as it would become a beacon of their destruction. But, that wouldn’t matter if their pursuer had a simple pair of infrared goggles. Still, he kept it unlit, but ready to use in a millisecond’s notice.

     Narska or Fox—or both—took a few return shots.

     “How did they survive the bomb?” Rick asked over the ruckus of blaster fire and stomping feet. “We fused every manhole from that point on. Didn’t we?”

     “Doesn’t matter,” Narska said. “There is such a thing as a fusion cutter. Or they just went through, knowing it had already been tripped.”

     “But…I thought we agreed they’d be wary after the first bomb.”

     Narska grunted and took a few more shots. “We didn’t know we were dealing with psychos.”

     “Or droids?”

     “This is not good,” Narska said.

     “No, sh—“

     “It gets worse,” Fox said. “My ears are starting to pick up echoes.”

     “So?” Rick asked, not seeing the significance.

     “We’re coming to a dead end.”

     Rick shook his head. “Maybe, maybe, it’s just the intersecting pipe I was wanting.”

     “No, this echo is too direct.”

     Finally, the pursuer took a second shot, narrowly missing Rick. In retaliation, he fired a shot back.

     As they rounded a slight curve in the tunnel, Rick asked, “I wonder how far it—“

     He slammed into something. One of the other Siths joined him, probably Narska. The third slid to a stop before impacting the obstruction. Hesitantly, Rick turned on his blade.

     “Not good,” he said, demonstrating a bit of hypocrisy, as only seconds earlier he had started to apply the Olie Amendment to Narska’s similar statement before being cut off by Fox.

     A chain-linked fence stood before them, behind which some kind of apparatus large enough to fill the tunnel blocked the way. At the bottom of the fence, a small drain tapered into a pipe connected to the machine. A filter or processor or something of sorts.

     “Dead end,” Narska said.

     Rick didn’t laugh. “Yep. But not for us.”

     He turned and raised his lightsaber in a defensive stance, handing his blaster to Narska or Fox or whoever would take it. Beyond the blue glow of his lightsaber, there was only darkness.

     Jace stood before the black curtain split down the middle, Jen at his side. He peaked through the crack to find the amphitheater darker than it had been. It clicked in his busy mind that he hadn’t heard any of the cheers or jeers that were associated with these kinds of events. Then it hit him: he was in the opening match. He looked over to the director, who was otherwise busy directing an interview with a large human.

     Jace turned back around when he heard the soft tread of athletic shoes on the ground behind him. A smallish Gran stood there wearing a striped shirt. It made sense to Jace. Gran triocular eyesight would greatly enhance a referee’s ability to…to what? When Jace had filled out the forms and signed the wavers, he hadn’t even bothered to read the regulations in this tournament. He knew he would win. Had to win. As long as he didn’t do anything that would result in a disqualification—and that was a wide canyon to crash in—he would be fine.

     “Ready to go?” the Gran asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

     “Uh, sure,” Jace said.

     “Hey, it’s my first big tourney, too,” the triocular alien said.

     “Glad to know it,” Jace said.

     The Gran moved his eyestalks in a gesture and moved through the curtains. He was met with boos from the audience, who were still rustling into their seats. Jace shrugged and looked at Jen. Without a word, they stepped through the curtains and walked down the aisle in the dim arena. The booing that the referee had garnered multiplied tenfold. Jace heard curses from hundreds of worlds, and some he didn’t recognize. He heard racial slurs. He heard death threats. But nothing serious, no malicious intent other than irrational sports fan gusto. Surprisingly he actually heard a few shouts of support from well-wishers.

     He got to the ring area and saw the stairs leading up to the apron. Like a gentlemen, he let Jen ascend the steps first. At this action, he was booed louder. So when he climbed the stairs and stood next to her, he pointed at the ropes on the octagonal ring, indicating he wanted her to separate them for his entrance. This got a burst of cheers from the crowd. Jen opened her mouth in shock, but opened the ropes for him. He stepped into the ring and planted his feet in one corner, facing the referee and ring announcer. Jen stood next to him and they waited. When the lights came on a few moments later, Jace wondered if his first opponent—Tull Raine—had no-showed.

     “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer, a short Reussi with thinning hair and a bushy mustache bellowed over the public announce system, “welcome to the second annual Rimma Spinward Outer Rim Supreme Personal Combat Tournament!”

     Cheers.

     “This event is authorized by and dedicated to the ruling sovereign of Reuss Eight, Torel Vorne!”

     Louder cheers, as if they were being forced to at gunpoint. They probably were.

     “This tournament is single elimination and consists of one fall matches with thirty minute time limits. Here are the participants of the first contest. In the ring to my right, wearing the camouflage trunks, from the parts unknown, weighing in at one hundred and four kilograms…Cam Revyg!”

     Boos. Loud ones. Jace made no gestures. He simply stood in the corner, his face made of stone.

     “His opponent…”

     There was a short pause, then loud music exploded from the speakers throughout the place. It was a bizarre combination of what sounded like tribal drums and, electric string instruments and krayt dragon howls. Jace wanted to cover his ears.

     “Being led down the aisle by his manager, Verl Cojaro, from Barab I, weighing in at one hundred and seventy-two kilograms…Tull Raine!”

     Jace’s jaw dropped. The biggest Barabel Jace had ever seen stepped through the curtains behind a wimpy looking human male. The reptilian towered over his manager, wearing a robe and hood. Judging from an estimation of the wimp’s height, Jace guessed his opponent’s height was over two and a half meters. The duo slowly crept down the walkway, paying the audience no mind.

     “TULL! TULL! TULL!”

     The Barabel stepped onto the apron without using the steps. This was no small feat, but paled in comparison to Tull’s step over the top rope into the ring. The music continued and Tull stood in his corner, looking down. Suddenly, he thrust his arms up, throwing the hooded robe off, and began a fast, alternating series of lefts and rights, dancing around the ring. The crowd went crazier.

     What did Jace care? He wasn’t here for adoration. He could give a rip less what the fans thought of him and this showboating nonsense.

     After Tull’s energetic display, the music died and the ref signaled the two fighters to the center of the ring. Jace nodded to Jen and she exited the ring. He turned back and slowly approached Tull, who bared his needle-sharp teeth in a sadistic grin. The Gran held his arms up between Jace and Tull.

     “The rules are simple, gentlebeings: No leaving the ring. If you do, automatic disqualification. That means anywhere outside these ropes. If you attempt to throw the other from the ring, also a DQ. To win, one must make his opponent submit, knock him out, or pin him for a three count. After the twenty-minute mark, your manager may throw your towel in the ring and yield the match for you. Got it? Return to your corners.”

     Jace stepped back to his corner, not taking his eyes off of Tull. He sized up the monstrous alien. An arm’s length taller than Jace. Natural body armor. Clawed hands big enough to palm Jace’s head. The needle sharp teeth. Nowhere in the punctilio did the referee say anything about biting being prohibited. Or scratching.

     Or using the dark side of the Force…

     Jace fed on its shadow. It blanketed the room, created by the audience and employees, amplified by their unchecked emotions. Soon, Jace was filled with rage. As if stuck under the surface of an ocean and needing desperately to breathe, he wanted to unleash the dark energy.

     The Gran signaled to the beings at the ringside table and a bell rang. Jace immediately crouched into a combat stance. Tull stood with one hand on his hip, showing what appeared to be a sneer. Jace read the facial expression more through the Force than by simple observation; to the untrained eye—and Jace was no cultural anthropologist—a mouthful of teeth was a mouthful of teeth. Needle sharp teeth.

     Finally, the Barabel shook his head, and began circling Jace, jumping from foot to foot. They circled for more than thirty seconds. It was clear what Tull’s intentions were; he wanted Jace to attack first. It made sense. It would allow Tull to size up Jace’s speed, method and skills. Jace harvested that from simple common sense. What the Force revealed was much more interesting. Tull wasn’t attacking partly because he wanted to see if Jace had the twin suns to make the first move. In Tull’s mind, if Jace did not attack, then he would look weak in front of the crowd, thus putting Tull over as a fearful opponent. If he did attack, then the Barabel would knock him down in no more than a few punches, making him look like an invincible force and Jace just a guy from the crowd who bit off more than he could chew when he signed up. Jace found it ironic that it was an invisible Force that would prove Tull’s preconceived notion of a no-win situation for Jace completely wrong.

     Without waiting another second, Jace charged in, dropped to the mat feet first, and let his momentum carry him between Tull’s legs, like a smashball player sliding into base. As he passed under the reptilian, Jace used his right arm to elbow and punch Tull’s knees in one smooth motion, like that of a well-oiled machine in one of the manufacturing plants on Reuss VIII.  Using his feet to bring the slide to an abrupt stop, he rolled onto his back and gave Tull a double-footed kick to the crotch. Before Tull’s reaction to the kick, Jace hadn’t known where a Barabel’s genitalia were located. Cultural anthropology and alien sex education. This was turning out to be an enlightening experience.

     During Tull’s roar and subsequent thrashing, Jace went through the roll, coming up on his feet in front of him. The infuriated Barabel swung a left hook at Jace’s head, which was dodged before Tull even knew he was going to throw it. A right hook followed up. Also ducked. A third alternating hook was parried by Jace’s right forearm, but on the outside of Tull’s. Jace pushed the arm along its path, leaving his opponent’s left flank wide open. A right-legged snap kick to Tull’s breadbasket almost caused Jace to screech. Barabel scales felt harder than durasteel, especially when toes hit them at high speed. But Jace covered up the pain and instantly delivered another kick, this time to Tull’s left knee. It had been hit twice now, so Jace decided it would be his focus for the rest of the match.

     When Jace went for a third kick, to the left knee again, he found he had gone to the moisture vaporator once too often. Tull spun away from the kick and went through a three sixty, bringing his huge left fist around in a roundhouse punch that nailed Jace in the chest. Luckily, Tull’s aim had been thrown off by his imbalance, or Jace might not be standing. Clutching his chest, Jace quickly backpedaled, using the Force to help him bring in air. Tull advanced on him, unable to hide a slight limp in his left leg as he did so. Jace put his hands up as if to exchange blows with Tull. He feinted a left jab, which Tull blocked, and Jace went for another kick to the left knee. But Tull caught Jace’s foot with his other hand. The crowd went wild as Tull looked to them, essentially getting their approval for whatever idea he had in mind.

     Their approval was insignificant. Jace’s wasn’t.

     Jace faked a left kick, and Tull instinctively flinched. That was all the distraction Jace needed. It gave him a chance to make another kick with his free left leg, this time a genuine one. Instead of a front kick, he jumped up and rolled to his left, bringing his leg around in a roundhouse kick that caught Tull square in the face. And this time, he put some Force power behind it. Jace landed on his back and Tull released his right leg. The Barabel stood there dazed, head lolling around, then fell to his knees, then to his face. Jace flipped the giant onto his back and made the cover. The Gran dropped one hand, two, three—no Tull managed to get his shoulders up. In the process, Jace was thrown halfway across the ring.

     The crowd exploded. Jace winced. Tull snarled.

     Jace jumped to his feet and leapt at Tull, who was a still in a sitting position. Grabbing the Barabel’s calf with one arm, Jace assailed the knee, slamming his fist into it at lightning speeds. He rolled out of the way just in time to avoid Tull’s attempt to lock his other leg around Jace in a scissor-like maneuver. Still, Jace’s skull was nicked by a punch from Tull’s colossal arm. He shook away the pain and darted in at Tull again, who was rising to his feet. The former shockboxer sidestepped and pushed Jace along with his momentum. Jace slammed into the ring ropes and shot back towards Tull like a rock from a slingshot. Tull went for a lariat that might have decapitated Jace had he not ducked.

     As Jace fell into the ropes on the opposite side of the octagonal ring, he fell deeper into the Force. Everything slowed. Tull’s limping movements, the crowd’s cheers and catcalls, Jace’s rebound back towards Tull; all a blur. As if watching a holovid in slow motion, searching for Easter eggs, Jace sized up the situation. Tull’s left knee was hurt, that much was clear. Tull liked using his left arm for punches, which Jace took as meaning he was a southpaw. Some would argue that he was using the lefty more because to use the right would mean to lean forward on the injured left leg. But Jace remembered that Tull had started out his strikes with the left arm. And the lariat Jace had just evaded was a left.

     And in that millisecond of time, it all came clear to Jace. Tull’s injured knee, his predisposition for using his left arm, the intent of his next move. As if the Force had given him the answer to a complex mathematical equation, Jace suddenly knew exactly what he had to do.

     Time sped up in his mind and he was flung by the ropes at Tull. As predicted, the scaly behemoth went for another left-handed lariat. Jace dipped his head under the blow and went into another slide like the one he had used at the start of the match. He threw his right arm out and hooked it around Tull’s massive leg. Using the momentum from the missed lariat, Jace rolled Tull over onto his stomach, winding up in a seated position on his back, looking away from the Barabel’s head. Pulling back on the left leg he had hooked his arm around. Using the Force to enhance his strength. Causing a lot of pain.

     Tull hissed and roared, but would not submit. And he had plenty of chances, as the Gran ref was in his face, asking him every few seconds. From Jace’s vantage point, he could see Tull’s manager, Verl Cojaro. The scrawny man was livid, covering his head with his hands, jumping up and down yelling at the top of his lungs for Tull to get up. Jace pulled back harder, and he swore he heard Tull’s tendons stretch, even over the roar of the crowd, who had gone absolutely feral. More than a minute passed and still Tull would not submit. Tull’s manager wasn’t stupid. He wanted desperately for Tull to win, obviously, but for the big Barabel to refuse to tap out meant that a permanent injury might occur. Cojaro threw Tull’s white towel in the ring. The Gran referee shook his head and mimicked tapping his watch; they hadn’t reached the twenty-minute time limit. They were nowhere near it. Jace looked back and saw Tull’s head shaking, but not in refusal anymore. Shuddering was more like it. Finally, his head fell to the mat and the ref jumped to his feet and grabbed Tull’s thick wrist and raised it. It thumped as it hit the mat.

     “One,” the crowd yelled unenthusiastically.

     The arm was raised again, the arm fell again.

     “Two,” the crowd said disbelievingly.

     The ref raised the arm and the crowd almost died, killing its shouts of encouragement to Tull to get up. The Gran let go and of the arm. It fell. A bomb went off. That bomb was the audience. Instead of yelling “three”, they burst into an unintelligible hodgepodge of curses, threats and jeers.

     Jace dropped Tull’s leg and stood up. Jen rolled into the ring and patted him on the back, which he barely noticed, as the ref grabbed his arm and led him toward the side of the ring facing the aisle. The director was running at the ring with a half dozen event staff. He waved Jace to follow him. Jace twisted his face into confusion and looked to Jen in time to see a plastic cup of an unknown beverage hit her in the back of the head. More followed, accompanied by half-eaten food. The director had produced his loudhailer and was hollering Jace and Jen to come immediately. The event staffers fanned out around the ring and pushed the crowd back from the barriers. A half dozen more came through the curtains and lined the aisle. Jace hopped over the top rope to the floor and jogged up the aisle, avoiding the incoming cups, plates, bowls and papers. He went through the curtains and found Jen right on his tail.

     The director was standing in front of him, hands on hips, tapping a foot and looking at the sky. “This is not good. First match and there is rubbish all over the arena! Why do you think that is?”

     Jace shrugged. “They’re upset.”

     “You bet your ass they’re upset!” The director covered his face with his hand. “Because the match was an upset! They’re going to think it’s fixed! Nobody manhandles Tull Raine like that!”

     Jace shrugged again. “He lost the Dool Arena title, didn’t he?”

     The director looked up at Jace. “That’s different.”

     “How?”

     “It…was a long match. And he lost by decision. And his opponent was Leko Akude.”

     “Who’s that?”

     The director raised a shaky finger and Jace turned. A man stood behind Jace, towering over him. The man smiled, muscles rippling down his neck as he did so.

     “Me.”

     Jace looked in the man’s eyes and fear flooded into the open depths of his heart.

     Seven crouched behind the swiveling chair on the command walkway for cover. He studied his target, took aim and pulled the trigger…on the loudhailer he held.

     “You’re pushing a button, you’re pushing a button!” Seven hollered through the voice amplifier. “You’re turning a dial! You’re pushing another button!”

     The tech looked back up at him, a puzzled look on his face.

     The sound of a female voice clearing came from the other crew pit. Seven looked over to find the pit officer standing at attention.

     “What is it, Ensign?” Seven asked, dejectedly tossing the loudhailer on the chair. He was so bored.

     “We’ve received a coded transmission,” the woman answered. “I believe it is from Lord Pilot Thunder. She wants clearance to land.”

     Seven waved a hand. “Well, give it to her.”     

     The bolts came. They were red. They were thick. They were fast.

     They were deflected.

     Rick didn’t simply repel the bolts; he sent that right back at the shooter. He wanted them all to hit the unknown assailant, preferably down his throat. But the shots kept coming. The enemy was taking cover behind the last curve in the tunnel Rick had taken before hitting the fence. There was only one thing he could do. He had to advance.

     Sending his intentions through the to Narska and Fox—and not sure if either sensed or understood—he moved forward. His arms were an extension of his mind, deflecting the bolts as they received signals from his sight. Step by step he neared the corner until he could barely make it out. The barrel of a large blaster rifle resting a meter off the ground. The attacker was in a kneeling firing position.

     Continuing to ward off the energy packets, Rick took another step and pushed the blaster barrel wide with the Force, than swung his blade down at a dizzying speed. The weapon was sliced in two before the shooter had a chance to bring it back around. But he didn’t waste any time. A fragmentation grenade flew around the corner. Rick again pushed with the Force, sending the grenade back the way it came. It exploded. The blue light of his blade made the blood on the tunnel wall look purple.

     Keeping his blade up, as there could have been more assailants further down the tunnel, he looked around the bend. And almost lost his last meal. The grenade had done its job.

     “Guys,” Rick called, not taking his eyes off the carnage, “you can come out. I got him. Warning to the squeamish.”

     “I am a pyroman,” Narska said, warily moving forward. “I’ve probably seen worse.”

     “Fox?”

     “That stuff doesn’t bother me,” Fox said, but gasped as he rounded the corner.

     Rick sighed. “I guess we won’t be able to identify him.”

     “You don’t think he’s Reussi Police,” Narska stated, looking at him.

     “Do you?”

     “Nah. He was too good. He got past the bomb, somehow. Those cops are a bunch of bumbling idiots. Always are on these kinds of planets. Either he got past it or let them trip it for him before entering. Either way, he’s smart. Probably a TOS agent.”

     Rick looked at Narska. “Well, if he is, and he found us, then I wonder how Jace and them are doing.”

     “They can take care of themselves,” Narska said with a wave of his hand. “The only question is, are there more of them around here? We’d better get out of here. The sewer isn’t safe anymore.”

     “Maybe we can split up once we go up top,” Fox suggested, still staring at the butchery before him.

     “No,” Rick said. “Jace wanted us to divert attention from them. We’re doing that. If we split up, our stalkers—I am sure there are more—might lose us and give up. Then they’ll go after Jace.”

     “Let’s go find the last manhole,” Narska said, setting off back down the tunnel.

     Fox followed, walking backwards for a few seconds, still looking at the remains of the assailant.

     Rick started after them, his lightsaber shifting the shadows in the tunnel as he walked. As he navigated through the body parts, something caught his eye. He knelt, squinting. He brought his blade closer to provide more light. It was a patch of skin, from what part of the body Rick couldn’t even begin to guess. But clearly visible on the skin, under a few small globules of blood, was a black tattoo, cut off at the bottom left where the skin had been torn ragged. It was the Starbird, the symbol of the New Republic and its predecessor, the Rebel Alliance.

     As sick as it was, Rick pocketed the skin.

     “Hey, we could use some light up here,” Narska said.

     Rick stood and continued after the. “Why? You’ve got your guide dog there.”

     Fox growled.

     Skate opened her eyes to a dimly lit room. It felt familiar, yet strange. Familiar in the sense that she felt safe and secure. Strange because she didn’t quite remember where in the hell she was. The soft green glow came into focus and against the wall she saw a cylindrical structure with a smooth—glass, it looked like—surface. A bacta tank.

     She was in the main sickbay on board the SSD.

     She was high on at least two different drugs Star had administered to her.

     She was sober.

     Star had forbidden her from Whyren’s Reserve, since it could interact harmfully with the psychotropic drugs in her system. The drugs were supposed to help her, but Skate found it illogical that anything that stopped the imbibitions of Whyren’s could help.

     Despite now remembering her location, she still felt uneasy. Like she wasn’t supposed to be here, but not for the obvious reasons of her claims of innocence. As if… something would happen if she were to remain. Her muddled brain spat out an answer like a slow-processing ancient computer. It was her danger sense. Someone was watching her. She looked up at the walls, checking for cameras, the world shifting in focus as she did so.

     “You’re awake,” came a voice from behind her.

     She spun around, ignoring the blur in her vision. “No shit, Olie.”

     “And already quipping. Not bad.”

     Her sight cleared slowly like the auto-focus on a holocam. “Ryvo.”

     “How are you?” he asked from the chair next to the wall.

     “You could probably tell me more on that than I could tell you,” Skate said, settling on her back and looking at the ceiling.

     Ryvo shrugged. “You’re the one who’s feeling it.”

     “I feel…dizzy.”

     “I can imagine. Star’s got you pumped up with A Vrassa and Pleezer. Hopefully that will keep you dizzy enough to prevent any…incidents.”

     Skate twisted her lip. “I want some Whyren’s. All I want right now is a drink.”

     “Aren’t you getting the same effect now?”

     “Not the same,” Skate said, shaking her head.

     Ryvo shifted. “I know. But it will taste that much sweeter when you do get the chance drink it again. Trust me. I know. Once you taste something good, but have to wait to taste it again…it’s even better than the first time.”

     Skate turned to look at him again, her stomach hot. “I’m sorry.”

     Ryvo leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees and looking at the ground. “I know. There is an explanation. There has to be. Star hasn’t found any implants, any drugs, or any kind of incisions that would indicate microsurgery. But there is an explanation.”

     Skate sighed, looking up again. “I’m glad someone believes that.”

     “Hey,” Ryvo said, moving to her bed. “They’re your friends. They might be shocked and maybe a little hurt by what happened, but they know it wasn’t you who did it.”

     “The look on Jen’s face,” Skate said, shaking her head, blurring the ceiling. “On Thunder’s. Jace is an asshole, so that’s normal. But them…”

     “They’ll come around,” Ryvo said, taking her hand and looking in her eyes. “Nobody said so much as a word about it and I was with the three of them for a while. Damn it. Why did I have to leave that information on Sova. If I hadn’t, then things wouldn’t have turned out like this.”

     “No,” Skate said slowly. “They wouldn’t. Things happen for a reason, Ryvo. Let’s not play the guilt game. I think all of us have had enough of that. I made a stupid decision. I had delusions of grandeur. I’m not trying to rationalize what I did, but don’t you think some good has come from it? I aimed for the bantha and I hit the nerf. Either way, we’re going to eat.”

     Ryvo smiled. “That’s what I love about you. You have a way of making things make sense.”

     Skate returned the smile. “Except this.”

     Ryvo lost his smile and just stared at her.

     “Hey,” Skate said in a raised voice. “You…you cut your hair.”

     “Uh, yeah. I thought you knew that when I showed up on the flight deck in disguise.”

     “No, no, no,” Skate said, shaking her head. “I guess it didn’t occur to me. Maybe I assumed you had a bald cap on, I don’t know.”

     “Nope. It’s gone.”

     Skate ran a hand over his head. “I like it. Back to its normal color, too.”

     “Yeah, as soon as we got here, I had to get out of that disguise.”

     Skate tensed a bit. “Who’re we?”

     “Myself and Thunder,” Ryvo clarified.

     Skate relaxed. She wasn’t in the condition or mindset to deal with Jace.

     “Why did you two return?”

     “We’re headed to Celanon,” he said. “To make a long story short, we got a tip from someone who said a Nalroni smuggler named Drolen Antig may be a TOS contact. Obviously a prime suspect in the kidnapping of my parents.”

     Skate nodded, taking it all in. “Jace and Jen and everybody else?”

     “They’re still in the Reuss system. Jace has to…well…the peculiar Devaronian who gave us the info on Antig forced Jace to fight in a hand-to-hand combat competition to win more information. The Antig tip was a show of good faith”

     “Either you’re joking or these drugs are telling me something other than what’s leaving your mouth,” Skate said.

     “I know how it sounds,” Ryvo said. “It’s a clusterkrif, but it’s true.”

     Skate watched him looked around the room. She had come to learn that this was something he did when he was nervous or anxious. When he didn’t say anything, she spoke up.

     “Something wrong?”

     He sighed. “I just want to say sorry for the way I acted in the sickbay over there.”

     “I would have acted worse had the situation been reversed,” Skate said plainly. “But what I said earlier, about Jen and Thunder’s looks. Yours was worse. Way worse. Here I was training you, spending time with you, telling the other Siths what a great guy you were and that we could trust you. Then I betray them and you, sending your credibility right down the commode. You looked…hurt. More than hurt. I don’t know.”

     “I was hurt,” Ryvo said. “But not about losing whatever trust I had earned from them. It was…that second taste I had on the shuttle. I mean, was that real or was it part of whatever possessed you? I had to wonder. I still wonder.”

     Skate looked at him, expectation in his eyes. Anticipation. Like a true gambler, he had rolled the dice and was waiting for the outcome. Had it been real? She didn’t plan on kissing him on the bridge of the Poetry In Motion. It had just happened. Just like she hadn’t planned on being captured on the TOS prison planet and subsequently being rescued by him. Just like she had told him…things happen for a reason.

     “It was real,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Whatever force—no pun intended—is inside my head…that was me.”

     Ryvo didn’t respond. He just leaned down and hugged her. It felt good, like a metric ton weight had been lifted from her chest, allowing her to breathe. Not just because she knew he cared for her, but because she knew she cared for him. She embraced him and patted his back, pushing her cheek against his head.

     He pulled back and looked at her. “We have to shove off soon.”

     “Don’t let me keep you,” Skate said.

     “What are you talking about?” Ryvo asked. “You’re coming with us.”

     Skate huffed. “I am in no condition to go anywhere. It could happen again.”

     “Well, I have an idea that may help us get to the core of the problem,” Ryvo said confidently.

     “Sure,” Skate said, laughing. “Star ran all these tests and couldn’t find it, but you, Ryvo Lorell, will? I didn’t know you went to medical school.”

     He blushed. “I didn’t even finish high school.”

     “Then what do you intend to do?”

     “Let’s just say it’s a visionary idea,” he said, smiling roguishly.

     Skate glared at him. “Are you sure about that?”

     “Yes,” Ryvo said. “Didn’t even think twice.”

     “But wait,” Skate said, sitting up on her elbows. “I thought you could only do it in the nexus on Trinta.”

     “That’s where Thunder comes in. She said she thinks she has a way to solve that.”

     Skate shrugged. “I’m ready when you are.”

     “I’ll call for her, then. Let’s get this done so we can get you back where you belong…in the thick of the action.”

     “Dead?”

     The chamber was dark this time. As were Andell’s chances of getting out of this one.

     “Yes, my Lord.”

     “How?”

     That was the question Andell had hoped wouldn’t be asked.

     “I had to kill him, Lord Xanthis,” Andell said slowly, hoping his vague answer would help him dance around the truth.

     “How?”

     Andell inwardly slouched, and then braced himself. “With a blaster.”

     He was thrown to the ground.

     “I MEAN WHY?” Xanthis roared. His voice lowered a bit. “What led you to using a blaster to kill Uts?”

     Andell groaned in pain. It was only partially an act. He was buying time, trying to think of something. That wouldn’t be hard. In most ways, he was smarter than Xanthis. Andell had been taught as a child by a private tutor, as there were no reliable schools on Kwenn Space Station. He had gone on to the University of Obroa-skai, passing all the entrance exams with flying colors. Four years there, with a degree in both psychology and biology. As a postgraduate, he had studied neurology for two years before being recruited by TOS. In those two years, he had three thought-provoking papers on brain function published, which were acclaimed by experts in the field. He could calculate mathematical equations in his head most humans couldn’t do on paper. He could analyze things—almost anything—and though logic and reasoning could come up with viable conclusions. By all standards and tests, he was a sub-genius.

     Andell had witnessed Xanthis use this skill of command on many a being and how it succeeded. But those people were run of the mill, average people. They offered no resistance to Xanthis’ whims. Andell did.

     At least he depended on it that he did. Hoped on it.

     If his mind was strong enough to resist Xanthis, then it was strong enough to lie to him undetected.

     But had Xanthis ever controlled Andell’s mind before? Perhaps Andell simply didn’t know or couldn’t have known…

     “Answer me,” Xanthis began quietly. “NOW!”

     “My Lord…Uts attempted to free some prisoners. He had gone so far as to get their cell door open and allow them to exit when I arrived on the scene. Uts didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t act as if he was innocent. I saw too much. So, he went to kill me. Even if he didn’t release the prisoners, he could claim that they attempted escape and killed me in the confusion, after which he got them back in their cell. He’d save his own ass, but couldn’t free the prisoners.”

     “But you killed him first.”

     “Yes, my Lord,” Andell confirmed.

     Xanthis didn’t say anything or make any sounds at all for several moments. During that time, Andell hoped desperately that placing Uts in his place in his mind’s eye did the trick. It had to. Andell was smarter than Xanthis.

     “Uts was old,” Xanthis finally said. “His mind was going to snap sooner or later. And it did. But you killed him.”

     Andell shifted his weight. “I killed him for his treachery, Lord Xanthis. Such behavior is unacceptable.”

     “But you better than anyone should know that mental illness is not controllable. You shot to kill, not to maim or incapacitate. So did you kill him for his treachery or because you made a mistake?”

     Another test. This was actually in Andell’s favor.

     “I didn’t make a mistake,” Andell said, in as least a defiant tone as possible. “Treachery is not acceptable in Terrors of Space. Treachery, for any reason, has the same effect, whatever the reason. One individual—or ten—is not worth the security of the entire group.”

     “You say that as if you were reading from a handbook,” Xanthis said.

     “I can write one if you’d like, my Lord.”

     Xanthis let out a breath of air. “You are correct. Uts was expendable. He served his purpose and he was disposed of, and rightly so. You have done well, again.”

     “Thank you, my Lord,” Andell said, wishing the meeting was over.

     “What of the Reuss situation?”

     “The agents I hired through the Shadow Phantoms have been killed.”

     “Killed?” Xanthis asked suspiciously.

     “Yes, my Lord.” Andell sighed. “They sent out two experienced bounty hunters with a backup team each, and all are now dead.”

     “They sent out or claimed to have sent out?”

     “They dare not defy us, Lord Xanthis,” Andell said with poise. “I made sure of that.”

     “Is Sith Squadron responsible?”

     “No,” Andell said. “Not directly, anyway. The only members seen on the planet were being watched during the time of the deaths. It is possible that they hired someone to watch their backs.”

     “Or that they sent more people in another ship,” Xanthis added.

     “Respectfully, I don’t think so, my Lord. My contact has been monitoring incoming ships for the entire day. They could have sneaked someone in a day or a few days before, but that seems unlikely. And my source now tells me that the ship they came in on left the planet hours ago. He doesn’t know how many persons left, but they claimed their destination to be Umgul, but that obviously can’t be trusted.”

     Xanthis said nothing, probably thinking it all through. “It’s possible somebody found out about the bounty and wanted to make the catch first. Eliminating the competition would make a good start.”

     “It’s possible. While my contact has lost Sith Squadron’s locations on the planet—two teams—he is sending out feelers to pick up a lead and is preparing more hunters to—“

     “No,” Xanthis said. “Have them locate the prey and wait for our ships. This time, we will do it our way.”

     “Yes, my Lord,” Andell said, anticipating his dismissal.

     “General Kovares,” Xanthis called, as if it were time for dinner. “Why is your contact still alive?”

     Andell almost shook his head in disgust. If he had killed his contact, then they’d have no way of knowing the information he had just relayed to Xanthis. Besides that, his contact was the only one he had on Reuss. At least that he knew how to get in touch with in a speedy manner. How was he to have him killed? Instruct him to put his blaster to his head? Of course, through several channels, he could hire a hitman, but those methods would take weeks. So Andell had planned on using the droid detachment on its way to Reuss to kill Teno.

     “It would take longer to hire somebody to do the job than for our forces en route to do the job,” Andell explained.

     “Hmmm.” Xanthis moved in the darkness. “Repeal my orders on that matter. Make this contact of yours a full employee of TOS. We will have him under control and his death will not be necessary. He may prove further useful.”

     Andell swallowed, but nodded. “I will do so, my Lord.”

     “You may leave,” Xanthis said, as if he knew what Andell wanted.

     As he turned to leave, Andell thought about what Xanthis had ordered.

     Make this contact of yours a full employee…

     Andell didn’t know if Teno had family, but if he did, then they were dead. But even if Andell wouldn’t be the one to carry out the massacre himself, could he order somebody to do it? Of course he could. After all, they could always refuse, right? Even if he ordered them to do it, they were the ones choosing to pull the trigger. Ultimately, it was their fault.

     Even if they were droids.